From Princess To Slavegirl
by Fiona Florence
Copyright 2012 Fiona Florence
Smashwords Edition
Princess Isadora sighed, resting her chin in cupped hands, long red hair hanging straight down either side of her face, looking out across the fields and rolling hills from the window of the high tower. Her husband, Prince Frederick, had been gone long months, heading to the lands of the East to smite the unbeliever and bring Christianity to the masses on an interminable Crusade. Before she had married him, her mother had explained that sometimes men would do this, vanishing for years at a time to fight wars and right wrongs, but her mother had left out the most important part, the exquisite frustration of being left alone. Pulling up her flowing velvet dress, Isadora slid her slim hands over her pale thighs, then moaned with tortured frustration as her fingertips yet again brushed the unyielding cold steel of her chastity belt.
“This will keep you safe and pure until I return,” her husband had said, just two weeks after their wedding, and the few nights of heated passion in their marital bed, “And it won't be too long, I promise!” After six months, Isadora wanted to tear aside the steel and plunge her fingers into her aching pussy, but the hard metal, sturdy straps and cold chains kept her sex locked away, and only her husband had the keys to the locks at the front and back of the belt.
The chastity belt had a curved shield that fitted closely over her sex, trimmed with soft leather so that she could not even slip a slender finger under the edges. With a strategic grating so that she could relieve herself, the shield was attached to a stout leather belt, trimmed with functional steel chains to keep it doubly secure. The most humiliating parts of the chastity belt were the two narrow chains that ran from the back of the belt, between the cheeks of her bottom, to join the base of the shield between her legs. Running between her buttocks, the two chains forced her soft cheeks wide apart, which led to an almost erotic discomfort when she sat, and a noticeably jaw-dropping effect on men if she wore a close-fitting gown.
From somewhere far below in the tower, she could hear raised voices and the sound of sword on shield, but it was most likely just the fat and lazy guards that Prince Frederick had left behind attempting to train once again, so Isadora paid little attention, resuming her tapestry work, focussing on the fabric in front of her, trying to ignore the constant presence of metal between her thighs as always. Lost in the busywork, she ignored the noises that gradually grew louder, completing stitch after stitch, until the sound was loud enough that it was distracting her from the work. The noise was almost outside the wooden door of her room, and she frowned, wondering what an earth could be going on, before gasping as she heard the clash of steel on steel and a choked scream from right outside her door.
With a splintering crash, the door burst open, smashed from its hinges, and two burly men staggered into the room, wearing chainmail shirts and carrying bloodied swords. As Isadora screamed, the two men glanced at her, then snapped to attention either side of the doorway, clutching theirs words to their armoured chests.
“Ah, the beautiful Princess Isadora, I have awaited this moment for so long!” The speaker was standing in the doorway, wearing a quilted red tunic, black leather breeches and high boots, a gleaming sword in his hand. His blue eyes flashed with confidence, his blonde hair tied back in a pony tail. Isadora recognised him instantly as Duke Gunther of Bavaria, one of Prince Frederick's sworn enemies, and a man that Frederick had told her never to trust. He smiled, looking at her as she leaped up from her stool, cowering back against the wall. “Your husband foolishly left you all alone, so I have come here to claim you for my own!”
“I'd rather die!” Isadora spat the words, glad that the long sleeves of her gown hid her trembling hands, glaring at the Duke. “If you lay a hand on me, my husband will hunt you down when he returns, and kill you like the beast you are!”
“Well, we'll have to be sure that he never finds me, won't we?” Gunther gave a wicked grin, then motioned to his guards. “Men – take her!”
Ignoring Isadora's screams of outrage, the two burly guards stepped closer, one of them lifting a large hessian sack. She flailed at them, but they were far stronger than her, pulling the sack down over her head, then lifting her bodily off the ground, the sack covering her completely, tied closed beneath her feet, leaving her to thrash and wriggle inside the scratchy material. She sobbed with desperation, trying to claw at the thick hessian, but it was no use – she was completely trapped. Bumped and jerked across the men's shoulders, she felt herself being carried downstairs and then laid on wooden planks. Within moments, she heard the neighing of horses and the wooden surface she was lying on started to tilt and jerk, making her realise that she was on a cart, presumably headed for Gunther's stronghold and far away from anyone that might rescue her.
After long hours trapped in the sack, struggling for breath in the stifling small space, the cart stopped, and Isadora felt herself being lifted again, carried for a short distance, down stairs, and was finally deposited on what felt like straw, before the sack was untied and unceremoniously removed. She blinked in the flickering torchlight, which seemed bright after hours in darkness. When her eyes adjusted, she could see that she was in a small stone cell with a single steel doorway, lying on a bed of straw, Duke Gunther standing over her.
“Ah, the beauty awakes,” laughed Gunther, eyes gleaming with bright cruelty in the torchlight, stroking the pommel of his dagger with a leather-gloved hand. “And how do you feel, my lovely?”
“Let me go!” Isadora pushed herself into a more upright position, sitting with her back against the wall, legs drawn up against her chest, the fabric of her gown pooled around her. “You can't do anything to me – I'm a Princess!”
“Ha!” Gunther crouched down in front of her, running his gloved fingertips across Isadora's face, making her shiver with fear. “I can do anything I like in this cell, dear Isadora. It will be a very long time until your husband returns from his Crusade, if the infidels do not kill him.” Taking hold of the neck of her gown, Gunther yanked at the velvet, tearing the fabric apart, not stopping until Isadora's dress and thin cotton shift lay in shreds around her, leaving her naked against the straw, the remnants of her clothing strewn around her. As she sobbed, Gunther looked over her nude body, his gaze running appreciatively over Isadora's red hair, porcelain skin, her full breasts with their large deep pink nipples. When he saw the gleaming steel covering her sex, he gasped, then smiled, meeting Isadora's fearful eyes with his stern gaze. “I had no idea the Prince was so old-fashioned,” he said, “Chastity went out of style years ago, after the First Crusade!”
“It was not my choice,” said Isadora primly, trying to ignore the burning shame that she felt at being naked and exposed before the brute, “But I was happy to be locked away for my husband's peace of mind.”
Gunther laughed sharply, “Don't lie to me, Princess. No woman is ever happy in chastity. But you are going to be especially unhappy.” He reached out, stroking his fingers down across her throat, then between her breasts and across her stomach. Forcing her trembling legs apart, he lightly tapped his gloved fingers against the steel of her chastity belt. “You are going to be my pleasure slave, Princess Isadora. Whether you like it or not.” He looked into her eyes, tugging idly at the taut chains that kept the chastity belt in place. “And poor Prince Frederick's plan to keep you pure will only serve to keep you all the more frustrated, and make it torture for you.”
Isadora sobbed, humiliated by the touch of the Duke's fingers against the steel between her legs, and the import of his words. “Never!” she sobbed, “I'll never be your pleasure slave!”