Punishing The Slave Girl (2 page)

I nod. 'Carry on', I say.

Kenrick smiles nervously. 'Really, they are outnumbered on all sides. It's very unlikely that-'

'
Enough', Henry orders. 'What else is there?'

'
The hunt', Osborne says.

'
That's more like it', Henry agrees. 'Something worth getting out of bed for in the morning.'

My husband was a handsome man when I married him. He was a strong warrior, a man to be feared, a fierce tactician. Somehow, over the last five years, that has all been lost. Looking at him now, the bloated drunk who can barely fit into his own throne, the blatant womaniser, makes me wonder if what I remember ever existed at all.

'
We can't afford it', Osborne says evenly. It is not what the King wants to hear.

'
What do you mean we can't afford it?' he barks. 'I'm the King. If I want a hunt, we have a fucking hunt.'

Osborne waits patiently until the King has calmed down.

'
Well?' Henry asks, his cheeks red with indignation.

Osborne snorts a little before he continues. He is a tall man with a firm, square jaw, pointy elbows that push the fabric of his gown out into little cones, and a perfect hairline. It would be impossible to guess his age if you didn't know it.

'
We've run out of money', Osborne says.

'
I thought you sorted that', Henry says, rising out of his chair.

'
A debt of two million crowns is not such a simple matter to sort', Osborne says, defending himself.

'
Do you want me to find someone else to do it?' Henry booms, his manner threatening.

Osborne pauses again before he answers. 'If we spend money on the hunt, we can't use it elsewhere', he says. 'Your army needs paying, the roads in the capital need fixing, we are two ships down after last years adventure to the southern shores, and we still owe Lord Wynne for the lands you took to the north.'

'
I thought we gave Lord Wynne one of my sister's', Henry says. 'The fat one.'

'
We need more money', Osborne says, 'and as far as I recall, you don't have any more sisters.'

'
Then fix it', Henry says. 'That's your job isn't it?'

'
My King, with all due respect, I am trying to.'

'
The hunt stays', Henry barks.

'
Perhaps that's not such a good idea', I say.

'
Did I ask your opinion?' Henry says. 'One more word and I'll send you out of here.'

He turns back to Osborne. 'The hunt stays. It's my fucking hunt, it's what the Kingdom needs, it stays. Talk to Mercer about money.'

'
I already have', Osborne says.

'
Then talk to him again', Henry commands, his cheeks as red as apples.

Osborne hangs his head. Kenrick looks like he is about to say something, but he doesn't. I catch his eye and he smiles at me nervously. I half expect him to dart a forked tongue into the air, and hiss me away.

'
You know what he wants', Osborne says. 'He won't budge until you give it to him.'

'
Then talk to someone else.'

Osborne casts a glance over to me. It's a mix of desperation and pleading. I nod, as if to tell him I understand, that I'll talk to my husband, that we'll find a solution, but I know I won't. This Kingdom has been crumbling ever since he took over from his father. Ever since he set his ass on the throne and let himself go.

Henry calls someone over to fill his wine. The bottle is right next to his goblet, but he calls someone over anyway, and then chastises them for not having the presence of mind to fill his glass before he needed to ask.

'
What else?' Henry asks. These meetings are trivial affairs to him. Before I was interested in coming, he never used to show up. Now that I insist on being here, he won't miss a single one, in case I do or say something stupid.

'
We've had word from Milner', Froome says.

Edgar Froome acts as a kind of correspondent to the King, in charge of monitoring communications in and out of the realm, either from within our walls or outside of them. He is a sturdy man with messy hair and bad body odour. I don't think he bathes, drinks or enjoys the company of either men or women. Milner is the King's cousin, who still maintains he has a rightful claim to the throne. For the last five years, he has been planning a way to take what is rightfully his, and according to the communication we get from time to time via Froome, building up quite a considerable army for an attack.

'
Anything important, I meant?' Henry says dismissively.

'
Well', Froome says, nervously. They are all afraid of their King. All, it seems, except for Osborne. 'He seems to be giving you an option to turn the throne over to him.'

'
Ha!' Henry remarks. 'Can you believe this?' He turns to me for solidarity. 'The runt.'

I nod, because he wants me to.

'
This throne never was his. It was my father that was on here, not his.'

'
I think he believes it was his father who should have been', Osborne says.

The King almost can't believe his impertinence. For a moment, he is silenced. Froome laughs nervously, and Kenrick breaks in.

'
What does he have?' he asks.

'
A few thousand men as far as I can tell', Froome says.

'
As far as you can tell, or as much as you know', I ask.

I look at the King and he nods. 'Well?' he says to Froome. 'What's he fucking got?'

'
A thousand men', Froome says. 'Two ships.'

'
It's no match', Kenrick says.

'
What about the barbarians?' Osborne says.

'
Fuck the barbarians', Henry shouts. If his goblet didn't have wine in it, he would have thrown it against the wall already.

Osborne holds up his hands. 'Fuck the barbarians', he says in agreement.

'
Find him', The King says. 'Send a team, a whole fucking army if you have to. Find him and stop whatever it is he's thinking of doing.'

'
I'm not sure-', Kenrick begins.

'
Just fucking do it', Henry orders.

Osborne rolls his eyes. I put my hand on my husband's arm to try and comfort him.

'
Fucking useless, the lot of you', he says, pulling it away. 'This should have been sorted five years ago at Guller's Landing.'

'
Yes your majesty', Froome agrees. Kenrick nods too. I see Osborne interlocking his fingers and looking down into the knots of wood on the table below him. Looking for answers in the same way I have from time to time. I want to tell him there aren't any there, but he already knows it.

'
Are we done here?' The King barks.

There is a murmur of agreement. 'Good', he says. 'And don't fucking forget my hunt.'

Chapter 2

Sometimes I walk at night time. I leave Henry snoring in the chamber, and I take to the hallways and hidden rooms of my palace. I like the silence that night brings. I like the other things it sometimes brings too. The things I'm not meant to see.

There are a hundred or so staff members here under orders from their king. Half of them I haven't properly been introduced to. I walk past their rooms, my hand stretched out to the wall, my ear to the door as I pass. I hear conversation, noises of sleep, grunts of sex more times than I can count. There is a world beyond these four walls, and a culture existing within it that I'm not even part of.

I go to the gardens and sit for a while on the patio looking out towards the sea. I imagine a long boat coming ashore, tall men with thick blonde beards holding hammers into the sky, coming for me. Savages, barbarians, Vikings.

The moon leaves triangles of carved light on the rippling surface. Tree tops sway in the ethereal mist above me. I hear a crow call. A distant wisp of shadowed sound, falling away into the calm of night. I see a shooting star light up the sky above me and I make a wish. I speak it into my hand, hold it close to my heart and then throw it towards the darkness in front of me, releasing it to the sea. When the wind picks up, I head back inside.

I hear the noise echoing down the corridor long before I see who is making it. Warm and earthy, guttural, like a pair of caged animals, reunited after a long time apart. I'm on the way to the kitchens, not because I'm hungry, but because of the warmth I know I'll find from the open fire there, because of the memories it brings of my childhood. The kitchen isn't usually the place for a Queen, which is why it's somewhere I go to often. I know I'll never be found.

I creep, partly not to disturb them, partly so I'm not heard coming. At the very edge of the doorway, I peer in and see them. She is bent over the preparation table, arms flat, face down. He is behind her, red faced, his hands gripping her hips tightly, working himself quickly, thrusting hard. There is something deeply private about what is happening, something deeply animalistic too. I know I shouldn't look, but I can't take my eyes away. These are the secrets of the night that I always hope to find. These are the moments that make my life measurable.

I adjust my position slightly so I can see him entering her. It involves crossing the open doorway, like a shadow passing. I do so on the very tips of my toes, my night dress gathered together in my hands. If they notice me, they don't break rhythm.

She has the folds of her skirt rucked up across her back, which she has arched like a cat. Her right leg is bent at the knee, lifted slightly so, like a dancer, she takes what little weight she has on the ball of her foot. Her head is turned to the side too, rested on the back of her outstretched hand, her eyes closed, as though swimming through a dream. Her panties have been lowered and left to cling to the skin below her knee, resting there like forgotten laundry.

The tips of his fingers turn white where they grip tightly onto her skin. He moves his other hand over her back, caressing her with loving strokes, before he moves it up to her hair. Wrapping her curls around his wrist, he gathers her up in his hand and tugs gently. She moans, her mouth opening slightly as he pulls.

On the rare occasions my husband wants to have sex with me, he insists I go on top. While I rock myself back and forth on his semi thick cock, hoping that this time he'll last long enough for me to orgasm, he pretends to look interested, reaching from time to time for my breasts to convince me he is.

From here I can see his thick cock parting her pussy lips and driving inside her. I have never seen sex from this angle before. I've seen my husband enter me, and I've seen him enter several of the other women that come to his chamber when he thinks I'm not around to find out about it, but I've never seen it like this. It's turning me on. I want to touch myself, but know I can't risk it. If anyone caught me here, with my fingers in places they shouldn't be, the King would be the first to issue my punishment.

It's not just what I can see either. It's the noises they are both making. At once loving, and purely animalistic. The wet sucking sound of his cock sliding in and out of her pussy, the slapping sound of his balls smacking against her pussy lips on each thrust, the deep guttural gasps he makes, as the pleasure binds its way inside him, and the high pitched trills that end her short breaths, speak of nothing but stolen passion, of deep love and need and rough, primeval union.

I want to be fucked like this. I want to be bent over the kitchen work surface and fucked hard by a big, strong man. I want to have my hips held like that, my ass cheeks slapped, my ass-hole toyed with. Licked, stimulated, penetrated.

They are rising together, his pace increasing. This is a stolen midnight fuck by two people who aren't allowed this pleasure. I'm stealing it too, piggybacking on their prurient show. Tingles break out across my skin. I notice I'm up on tip toes too, mirroring her stance, clung tightly to the door frame, wrapped around it only so much that I can see, hidden still in shadow, close as I can allow myself to be. I lick my lips when I see her lick hers. I reach up for my tits when I see her reach down for hers. I want to be her, spread out, forced like that, taken hard. I can feel my pussy crave it. I can feel the ache deep inside me, the throbbing need to be fulfilled.

'
Oh fuck', she says, her breath peaking. 'Oh fuck, that's it, harder. Fuck me harder.'

He grits his teeth, raising sinewy muscles from his neck. His biceps bulge as he grabs her tighter. She rockets against the hardened surface, his thighs crashing into hers. At full stretch, she holds on.

I can't help myself. Before I realise it, I'm pressed up against the door frame, gyrating into the knotted wood. I lift one leg and let my fingers search for the calls my body refuses to stop making. I feel fire sweep out across my skin, spasms dart up my spine. With deft movements, I lift my nightdress.