Vrasha's time in the cell

For the rest of that week, Prestor kept her in the cell. As far as the rest of the kingdom knew, their princess was about on a diplomatic errand of great importance. As duke, Prestor ran the city and made sure that things continued to go as they should. He was a smooth talker, but with an iron core as befitted a soldier. The nobles were never totally at peace with him, for they felt - correctly - that he did not hold them in much regard. Prestor was a man who despised the idea that some people were automatically better than others, which perhaps made his current career path a bit strange. But at least Vrasha had fought and bled for her people. Many of the nobles who sat and sneered hadn't even done that.

He despised them with a sort of cold, clinical fury. He knew that the kingdom needed them, that they performed a vital function. As long as they continued to do so, he would not bother them much. But if they turned to corruption, or abused their power, then the former captain of the guard would certainly fall on them with the full weight of his newfound royal authority.

But none of that mattered to Vrasha. Prestor kept her in a cell in the dungeon, the same place where her father the corrupt king had kept his concubines and slaves. Each day, she was fed and watered by Prestor himself, and then she would be led back out to the chair and strapped. Her legs would be spread, her arms pinned to the armrests. Prestor would then examine her body, running his hands over her skin. It was intoxicating; the helpless arousal which would rage within her as she was led out. The feeling of his fingers touching, prying, probing her body. He would test her piercings, making sure that she was healing well. At first, he merely examined the skin around them but as the week progressed, he began to pull on them. Gently at first, but then harder as he became more sure that they had took.

Vrasha could only moan in pain and pleasure, feeling herself being manhandled by someone who should have been her servant. All the while, Prestor would play into their game.

"If the people above only knew that their princess was such a whore," he said. "I wonder what they would do or say? Would they give you up? Demand that I lock you in the deepest, darkest pit? Forget that you had ever existed? Or maybe they would ask me to bring you forth? To make you march along the street, naked and ashamed. Your breasts pierced and your womanhood glittering with a metal stud."

As he spoke, his fingers rubbed the rounded mound of her vulva, making her body shudder and her breath catch. Waves of pleasure and shame rolled through her, and Vrasha found that she couldn't even bring herself to respond. Her body shook, her hips grinding themselves against his fingers. Prestor chuckled.

"So eager, are we? Do you really like to give up control that much? Do you really live to play the whore?"

He reached out and flicked her clitoral piercing with one finger. Vrasha's face paled and her body spazmed. The moan which emerged from her lips was tortured and lustful, and as soon as she was able to, she cast her gaze to the ground in shame. The humiliation of being played like that, of having her power stripped away, it set her off and made her feel so hot. Her womanhood had grown tight and wet, and heat flowed like an ocean through her body.

"Let's see now," Prestor said. "I am sure we can find some of the old king's tools for you to enjoy, my dear."

This whole dungeon had been designed by her father, the former king whom she had overthrown. It was designed for but one purpose; to contain and break his favourite slaves. To render them willing allies to their own degradation. Vrahsa knew she should have destroyed it. As soon as she had first laid eyes on it, she knew that it was bad.

But it also called to her, a beguiling siren which refused to die away. Each toy, each tool of degradation and shame and humiliation that she saw resting there, Vrasha pictured being used upon herself. To her people, she was an avenging hero. A royal princess who had faced off against her father and brought him low to save her people.

She had done that, it was true. But Vrasha knew also that she was far from perfect. Just as her father had had an apatite to control, to **** and to humiliate, Vrasha wanted to be degraded and humiliated. Though she was a hero, she was also a woman and had such carnal needs. Never before had she dared to speak to another about them. Never had she dared to think she could live them out.

Then she met Prestor and she had realised the truth, seen a spark of kinship within his soul. That was the moment she had truly realised just what the two of them could do together.

Now she was bound to a chair, her hood and breasts had been pierced. Her pussy was soaking and her body throbbing with heat and desire.

As Prestor disappeared from view, Vrasha could only sit and wait, wondering what toy or tool would be used upon her now. Fantasy it might have been, but then and there, it felt so very real. Like her duke truly had risen up and overthrown her, like she really was being made an example of. The heroic queen brought low with shame.