from The Dark History of Castle Montenegro...

The current Count of Montenegro frowned at the platter before him. In an instant, he grabbed up the leg of mutton in one hand and the heavy wooden plate with the other and pushed his chair back from the oak table. He snarled at the shaking cook standing next to him, holding the plate an inch from the man’s nose and pushed it closer.

“This still has last night’s stain on it, idiot! Why aren’t the kitchen slaves doing their work properly?” He swung the mutton leg against the cook’s face and sent him crashing to the floor.

“Count, I beg your pardon, they…” the cook managed to mumble before the plate came hurtling toward his head.

The Count tore off a chunk of meat from the bone and chewed it thoughtfully for a long moment, then kicked at the cook. “Get up, you lout. Tell the stable scum I want my horse readied and to bring my hounds. I will hunt. And I’ll bring back someone who will clean those plates with their tongues if necessary!” Another kick sent the cook scurrying away to the Count’s ringing laughter.

The lands of the Montenegri -- the black mountains -- bordered on several small holdings of other nobles who had lived in terror of the depredations of the various Counts for almost a century. With impunity, they had ridden where they pleased, taken inhabitants as prisoners and slaves, and no law ever dared to interfer. Rumors and tales abounded about their cruelty and hinted at even darker secrets which were held within the great stone walls of Castle Montenegro.

Thus it was no surprise that three days later, the Count returned with not one, but three young women, each chained by the wrists to one of his huge hunting hounds. The few remaining servants cringed back against the walls as the Count drove the dogs and women along the hallways and down the wide stone stairs that led into his dungeon. He loosed the hounds which bounded eagerly up the stairs howling and barking loudly. The three women -- their clothes ragged and torn -- the Count pushed to the wall and slung their manacles over hooks above their heads. He looked from one to the other and finally at third. And nodded to himself.

“I suppose you shall have to do. I demand to be served and you will all learn to do it well…”

Louise was panting and making low, determined cries of protest as her hands were hauled up high above her. The handcuffs strained on her wrists, and as she was forced to stretch her strong, young body she shook involuntarily. The memories were horrific: the Count's horse which she'd heard in the distance, then the dreadful sight of that dog, viciously nabbing after her, running at her. She had run down toward the river, but another dog had turned up and the whole scene made her feel ambushed. So she'd zig-zagged into the riverside wood and narrowly escaped bumping into a tree, and almost out of her wits she had run on and got stuck in a brambleberry bush, its thorns piercing the skin of her arms, the palms of her hands, even her skirt. The roar of the barking dogs moving up on her from behind...oh God! - she had broken into muted tears and fought to break free from the bush - and then the Count's voice had rapped at the dogs and he'd come up to her, putting a heavy hand on her shoulder and saying "You'll come with me"

For a moment she had thought he'd help her, although she recognized who he was, thought that it might be an insane error of judgment, but on the return to his horse he had turned her around, forcing her to press her bosom into the saddle and pulling her hands over to the other side, and - manacling her?! Then he told her to kneel for him. Without thinking, she had obeyed; after all, this was the Count of the land. He rudely slapped her in the face and said "I'm taking you along, girl".

Dragged along and forced to run after his hound, she had returned to his camp further off in the wood, and it was there that she had spotted Violet, chained like herself, shackled to a sturdy bough in front of her.

She had called out, waved at her friend, the blacksmith's girl, one of her closest buddies since the time when Louise's parents had arrived in Tivat, moving there from the village up north where they used to live, to escape the aftermath of the border war and build a new peaceful life. The water mill her father had acquired right by a channeled arm of the river, just outside the city wall, had been a steady business, crops had been good, and Louise had made friends both in town and in the villages outside the wall. Aided by a merchant family in the city whom they had got to know, she had also learnt to read some Latin and vernacular, and the rudiments of writing.

Violet was a jokester and a hothead, wild sometimes but very nice to be with - it was as if she had inherited some of the heat of her father's smithy craft. Sometimes she would act almost like a boy, and Louise couldn't help being thrilled and amused by her daredevil style. Seeing her here she was shocked, and the mood was highly threatening. She called out, Violet replied and Lou knew they should have had the time to talk, but Violet looked afraid. What had happened?

As they were all driven down here like chattel or prisoners - three of them, a lady around thrity years of age as well - Louise had felt a bleakness sinking into her, but she fought it off: she would have to find a way to get out - and to get Violet with her, maybe the third woman as well. There was simply no leaving here without seeing that Violet would also escape. She grunted as her arms were stretched, her half naked torso, even her breasts bared to the gluttonous eyes of the Count and to anyone he might care to invite. As she looked over, Violet was stretching her arms obscenely high, forced by that rough hook above her. The dim light made them all look even more forlorn.

Then Louise glanced cautiously at the lady on her left, who had not spoken a single word. The woman's hair was streaked with sweat, her green skirt was ripped at the edge and the shreds of a linen headcloth hung around her neck, but she looked somehow more like a woman of some means than a village wench. She craned her neck and moaned softly, very quickly. As Louise caught the lines of her nose, her eyebrows, her high erect neck, it seemed to her that she had seen this lady before. When? It was a mere flash - must have been a long time ago...

The Count's confident scoundrelsome words called her back to immediate reality. "What do you mean Sir? We're supposed to stay along serving you? I'd suppose a Count like you would have plenty servants already..."
No understanding lost on this man. He walked straight up to her and tugged at the tail of her dark hair, sending Louise's eyes up toward the vaulted ceiling. "Not enough of the good service you will know how to provide Us, lass!" he rapped out. Without warning he completed the threat by probing under her ripped blouse, indecently grabbing at her nipple and wrenching it.

Louise breathed in hard, squeezed her eyes to slits and felt a wave of stinging shock and humiliation running through her. "Mmnnnnghh! ah..oh no, Sir! NO! Please, please stop this, Your Highness, please..." She could sense Violet's eyes fixing on her, but he wrenched harder.
"Nnnnghhh! S-stop it, Sir!"

A simple debt incurred to the Count from borrowing coin for his supplies: fresh metal bars, a new grinding stone, a new hammer and anvil, was all it took. It was true that her father was the best blacksmith in all of Tivat and had been providing the Count with armor and weapons for years. Her father was well respected in the small village and often provided shoes for the many horses of the towns people at a reasonable price. However, supplies were costly, and business had been very slow. Her father had been receiving loans from the Count to supplement his business for years. The debt accrued was insurmountable and nearly impossible to pay off. Violet was told that she would have to help pay off the debt by working for the Count. She had agreed without hesitation. Her father was a good man, and she loved him unconditionally.

When the Count came calling, her father went with him out to the shop. Violet thought she heard weeping, but she could not be sure. She ran to the window of the main room to look out on the shop, but all she could see was the impressive figure of the Count standing in the window. She saw the Count hold out his hand with a fiery look, as if trying to collect his debt. Violet backed away from the window in fear, not wanting to bring attention to herself. She sat on a chair and waited for the Count to leave so that she could speak with her father privately.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and the Count and two large dogs entered the house. Violet was snatched from the chair and manacles were quickly snapped onto her small wrists and attached to the collar of one of the large canines. Confused and frightened, Violet let out a loud gasp as the dogs began to walk quickly out of the small house and into the village street. The Count did not speak a word to her as they quickly passed her father's shop. Violet turned to see her father standing in the doorway with what appeared to be tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Father?!" Violet called to him. She did not understand why she needed to be handled so roughly if she was simply going to be working for the Count in order to clear up the debt. Her father wiped his face and called back to her, "Be well, Girl. Do whatever the Count says. Be well..." He slipped back into the shop and closed the door. Violet's eyes grew large as she hung on her father's words. Her footing suddenly gave way in a large divet in the road, and she fell to her rear, ripping her meager brown dress on a rock.

The Count simply grabbed her hair and lifted her to her feet. The journey continued in this way for another mile. By the time they reached the castle, Violet's dress was torn and tattered and her knees were a bloody mess. The Count simply walked with Violet and the dogs into what appeared to be a dungeon area of the castle. The stone facade was massive and made Violet gasp in horror as a barred door closed behind them loudly.

They reached a clearing with hooks hanging from the ceiling. The Count released her chained hands from the dog's collar and attached the chain to a large hook causing Violet's body to be stretched uncomfortably. Violet noticed she was not alone as a noblewoman was not too far from her in the shadows of the room. Her expensive green and ivory dress was also tattered from the harsh journey.

Violet heard commotion behind her as Louise was led into the room and hooked up in the same fashion. Louise was the daughter of Tivat's water miller, and Violet had befriended her many years back. Louise looked to be a bit worse off than she, as Louise's clothing was almost completely gone. Louise's stomach and breasts were clearly visible through her tattered outfit. Violet thought to herself for a moment, "I didn't realize the water miller also was indebted to the Count. Louise must be here to work off their debt as well."

As the Count looked them over, Violet swallowed hard. She would do whatever the Count asked to work off her father's debt. Her goal was to return home to her father. Little did she know, her father had not merely given Violet to the Count to work off the debt; however, he had sold Violet to the Count to pay off the debt in full. The Count had not gained a servant in Violet--she was his slave for life.

As the Count's voice boomed through the massive chamber, Violet's body trembled in its outstretched position. All three woman were glistening sweat from their journey, but their journey was just beginning...

The Count's face darkened as he pushed it closer into Louise's cowering gaze. He gave her nipple a final, heart-piercing wrench and released it, only to slap her breast hard.

"That had better be the very last 'No' I hear from your lips," he growled. He stepped backwards and swept his eyes across the three women. "From any of you! Hear me?"

The Count's boots rang heavily on the floorstones of the dungeon space as he paced quickly back and forth. "My dogs hunt by the scent of prey. So that is what you were. I hunt by eye and I measure sharply. It matters nothing to me what nor who you were before. I suspect you have no learning so your duties here will be simple, but you will learn them well." He pointed at each one in turn. "Kitchen. Halls. Bed. Those will be your duties and your names from now on. You will answer to whichever I call you whenever it pleases me or there is work to be done." A cruel smile curled his lips as he saw how the women's faces registered their shock, their revulsion, and their fear.

He nodded. "I see. Kitchen thinks she will smuggle herself out in a barrel of slops for the pigs. Halls already plots to unbolt the door at night and flee. And Bed believes she will blind me with her naked charms, take my dagger, and plunge it into my heart to gain her freedom." He repeated the nod. "You are neither the first nor shall you be the last to hold such foolish dreams."

The Count walked over to a small heavy wooden chest bound with iron and unlocked it from a key slung on a leather thong around his neck. He reached in and pulled out a thick bundle of thin sagging sheets of some material and tossed them contemptuously on a table. For a long silent moment, he fingered the sheets, his eyes seeming to glaze over, then he snapped his head around to face the women again.

"These," he said, holding up the bundle, "were your predecessors -- that means, for you simple-minded sluts, the ones who came before you. Like you they dreamed of their freedom." He carefully selected the top sheet and held it out for the women to see more closely. It was nearly transparent, but even in the dim light of the candles, they could see the darker round circles of a pair of nipples on the sheet.

Two of the women gasped loudly and shrank back against the wall. The third made loud retching noises in the back of her throat and pulled at the chains on her wrists as if she had suddenly gone mad and wild.

The Count nodded a third time at them. He gathered the bundle of sheets up and tossed them back into the trunk, closing the lid and locking it. "I see we have already reached a little understanding. Good. For now, you..." he pointed at the woman flailing uselessly at her chains, "..will be Bed. So you have many hours to think on how I take my pleasures there. You..." he directed his attention to the taller woman, "will pluck those thorns from your skin and clothes and then be Kitchen for the day. See that my plate is cleaned well. That idiot of a cook is more swine than man. And you..."

The Count walked up to Violet, the blacksmith's daughter. His eyes drank in her firm body and he grunted loudly. He trailed a finger across her cheek. "Halls for now. Sweep and clean, clean and sweep." He moved his open palm back and forth in front of her eyes, then leaned closer, sniffing at her skin. "Humph. Perhaps with the soot washed off you and bent over the dining table..." He looked deeply into her eyes and nodded. "Never been fucked yet, have you, Halls? Of course not, what one of those village scum would dare your father's ire? But here, that will not protect your...virtue." He dropped his hand and cupped it over the mound between her thighs. "This I can take whenever it pleases me...slave."

The Count laughed harshly and swung his gaze across all three women again. "The same for all of you and especially for whichever I call Bed for the night."

From the table, the Count snatched up his riding quirt and flicked it in the air, moving from woman to woman. The tall one and the blacksmith's daughter he unhitched the chains from the hooks, but left their manacles on. "Kitchen and Halls," he keened, caressing each one's face in turn with the end of the quirt. 'Go find your places!"

As they turned in the dungeon doorway, they saw him advance closer to the third woman, still pulling uselessly at her chains. She froze as the Count came closer...he spun her around and ripped open the linen top from neck to waist, running the tip of the quirt up and down the pale unmarked flesh of her back. "Oh," he murmured, "so pretty." Turning her back around to face him, he looked deeply into her eyes, seeming to probe her depths to her very soul. "I shall enjoy taming you, Bed. Indeed, I shall." With a low rumbling chuckle, he turned and left the room.

As the Count unhooked her, Louise curtsied and then said in a low voice "Are we supposed to serve clad like this?"
"Yes, you will" he said sharply. "For now! You'll find your way when you get upstairs" And he opened the heavy door, letting them out.

The studded door closed behind them and they stepped up the staircase. Louise gazed at her companion. "Violet!? How on earth..."
"My father sent me here to...to work off a debt he has incurred -" she said, looking up at her taller friend. "he doesn't seem to have heeded all the tales of what the Count is up to in his free time!"
"He let the Prince hire you as a servant girl..? Ummm, he must have been hard up then"
"Isn't that the reason you came here too?"
"What? You think I went into his service on my own? Because I wanted to...had to...?" Louise giggled, the thought was so absurd.
"No, no...I mean, your father might have made you work here to get off..."
"We don't have those debts and he would never send me here. The Count just hunted me down when I was walking in the forest - I'd spent a few nights over at Anton's family in Vijnica, to see them and run a message to someone there for Father, and I was going home."
She swallowed. Nobody knows I'm here, she thought, except God and His saints. "It was..oh by all sacred spirits, it was awful. His hounds hunted me, ran after me, chased me into a bush...and then he made me run handcuffed after one of them, all the way here. You too?"
She nodded. "He picked me up in the village, and my father said I would be working here... and then I had to run all the way, chained like you - or even dragged along by those wolf-like hounds." Tears stood in her eyes. "Oh Lou...!"

Louise awkwardly put her chained hands around Violet as they slowly moved upwards in the staircase., holding her friend close.
"We'll have to do as he says, I think...for now...well, not anything, ummm...We're in this together - I wonder who the third one is, I just thought for a moment I had seen her before, but can't say just when. Apparently he would bed her tonight..."

Violet's mind raced as she walked up the winding staircase with her friend. Louise had been captured into service by the Count, but her own father had sent her to the castle to work off his debt. Much of this did not make sense to the young girl. Plus, she could not let go of the Count's puzzling words, "This I can take whevever it pleases me...slave." What had he meant by that? Why was he calling her slave? She understood that she was going to be toiling very arduously to relieve her father's debt, but she was no slave...was she?

Louise smiled at Violet as they reached the top of the staircase and pushed open the heavy wooden door with their manacled hands. The Kitchen was off to the left and the Hallway was to the right, so the girls parted ways and went to their respective locations.

Violet trudged through the enormous great room and parlor until she came to the long hallway. She saw a broom and a mop leaning in the corner of a large closet. She quickly grabbed the broom with her shackled hands. While gripping the splintering handle, Violet could hear the tinkering of pots and pans in the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen and bit her lower lip as she grabbed a dust pan in the other hand. The hallway looked to be very long, and Violet let out a soft sigh as she pushed a stray tress of brown curls from her face. She began sweeping the dusty floor as she continued to contemplate what the Count had meant by his words and why Louise's situation was different from her own.

The cook eyed Louise’s entrance with suspicion. He lunged his face toward her and when she didn’t flinch back, he grunted and pointed to the pile of platters and a large pot. “Wash,” he muttered. He kept an eye on her, however, for it would be very like his Master the Count to set a spy over him. He shuddered over the memory of the cook he himself had replaced. No servant lasted for very long at Castle Montenegro. This thought brightened his countenance and he let his mind wander to more pleasant musings. Like the buxom young woodsman’s daughter. She certainly knew her way around a woodshed. He idly rubbed his large butt, still imagining the heat she’d given it with a hickory switch last Sunday after Mass. He began preparing the soup and -- still daydreaming -- reached to grab a jar from the shelf. Suddenly his fingers closed around thin air. He looked to the side to see the new woman holding the jar and looking at him angrily.

“What the devil…!” he shouted. ‘Give me that. It’s for the soup”

Louise looked at the jar then back to the cook’s bloated face. “Not this, you idiot.” She pointed at the scrawled lettering on the jar. “It’s Aconitus. You want to kill everyone?”

The cook snatched the jar away and looked at it. “Wolfsbane. It’s a good herb. A lot will kill rats. But a little? It just adds flavor to the soup.” As he turned to pour the jar into the soup pot, his hand was gripped and yanked aside. “Now, who the devil…” he sputtered.

The Count of Montenegro twisted the cook’s wrist and nearly broke his hand. “You are an idiot, as she says!” The Count took the jar and put it in the voluminous fold of his tunic. He grinned wolfishly at the cook. “I suggest you make that very tasty, you’ll be eating a lot of it..before I take a sip.”

The cook shook like a wet dog as the Count released his wrist. He cringed backward.
Count Montenegro looked at Louise, as if appraising her anew. “You,” he said, smiling, “are more than you seemed.” He fumbled in a bag at his hip and brought out a curling strip of parchment and held it out to her. “What does this say?”

Louise’s eyes widened. It was never wise to let on that she had too much knowledge. She read the strip quickly, it was in simple enough Latin, but she pretended to slowly look at each letter and mouthed the sounds. “It is something about a relic, Lord. And the…the darkness of…I don’t know some words. A relic though. I believe.”

The Count grabbed the parchment back and stuffed it back in the bag. For a moment his eyes blazed at Louise, into her eyes, and then slowly his gaze slid downward to her firm breasts. He sucked at his upper lip noisily and rubbed at his forehead. Suddenly, he grabbed Louise’s arm and pulled her close. His words came out in an animal’s snarl, ‘There are pleasures to be sucked out of your body, woman, but first I need your mind…Come!”

He propelled Louise out of the kitchen with a shove, then, dragging her by the shackles chain, he pulled her along to a small hidden passageway and up a long tedious flight of steps, muttering to himself. “I will have it, I swear…” He stopped short and turned, his eyes glazing slightly. He grabbed at Louise’s breasts and twisted, kneading the flesh painfully. “Like ripe apples to be beaten from the tree,” he growled. “Did your father beat you, Kitchen? Did it make you…”

“Alphonso!” cried a voice from below. “Alphonso! I found it! I found the iron box!”

"If he pulls me around like this I'll really get to know the castle in time" Louise thought with a twisted grin as she was again pulled by her manacled hands. Her eyes darted around and when they settled on the parchment, she tried to think clearly. He knew she could read - highly unusual for a girl - but probably not that she had some meagre skils in writing. The latter she had to conceal from him. His unstoppable erotic appetite made her wonder how the others in the staff here held out...

As he twisted her nipples and groped for her ripe hills in a most unchivalrious way she made sharp sounds - how could he miss she did not want this? - but suddenly the call of a name seemed to get his attention. Iron masks rather than iron boxes are what one would expect in a place like this castle, but he seemed to be alerted and moved away, hinting that he would see more of this girl though. Standing in this cramped spiral staircase she panted and tried to shake off the cold sweat. Is this the man who will ravish me? she thought.

She knew she should return to the kitchen, but spurred on by curiosity Louise moved a few steps further up and glimpsed a door in the limestone wall, opening onto the stairs. She walked slowly up and pushed forth: it opened with a soft squealing and she was looking into a dark-walled alley, leading off towards - a tower? She had to find out, and stepped silently in. After about thirty feet, the passage opened onto another door; she turned the handle and stepped into a better-lit room with windows draped in yellowish, slightly sullied and damp curtains. Apart from a table in the middle and some shelves with weights and tools the room was empty. She walked up to one of the windows and looked out, for the first time since entering more than an hour before she could glimpse the outside world. The drop down to the ground was vertiginous, more than eighty feet, she reckoned, and the main castle wall was still in front of her, about forty feet away but a bit lower.

Never before had the young woman seen inhabited country from this kind of height; her eyes glued to it in awe and amazement. Beyond the dark blue moat, her eyes could scan the farmland, the stacks of hay and the wooded hills on the horizon.

Ignoring "Kitchen" for the moment, the Count of Montenegro hurried down the steps, his hands twitching in anticipation. At the foot of the stairs, he saw his brother, Antonius, and clapped him on the shoudler heavily.

"Is it true? You found the box?" he shouted eagerly, then suddenly cast an eye over his brother's shoulder at the new slave pausing in her sweeps with the broom. "You! Get on with it!" to roared at her. More quietly he turned his gaze back to Antonius. "Where is it hidden?" he hissed. "I want it now."

"Easy, brother," Antonius cautioned. "Tommorow night, I will bring it. Have no fear. The old monks guarding it don't even know what it is. It shall be yours. But I must return there now before they notice the 'new one' is missing." He clasped the Count's hand firmly and strode away.

The Count watched his brother leave with a sly grin. He was a foolish young boy, but he served his purpose and if he could truly bring the box, well...

A movement caught the Count's eyes and he shifted to watch as the blacksmith's daughter's hips swayed back and forth as she swept the floor. It seemed to the Count that his gaze penetrated through her skirts, settling on the firm young flesh of her buttocks. He stroked thumb and forefinger down the ends of his moustache and imagined the snap of his riding quirt making the woman's ass bounce and flinch from its blows. Was she one who would groan and whimper? He closed his eyes and pretended to hear her voice crying out in agony and heat. "Please, Master, more! More! I swoon..." The Count's cock grew stiff and throbbed as his reverie played on. His mind re-played the ever-sharper image of the manseed spurting from him across her reddened quivering ass cheeks as the leather tip of the quirt smeared the splashes with every blow. He opened his eyes again and walked quickly toward the woman still working her broom to and fro,

Behind her, the Count tried to stifle his gasping breath, pushing hard at her back to send her tumbling to the floor on her hands and knees. The Count knelt behind her. He grabbed the hem of her skirts and flipped them over her back in an instant and gazed hungrily down at her pale, slim buttocks. Before he even thought, his hand slapped at the skin and felt -- gratifyingly -- the yielding flesh compress and spring back. The girl looked over her shoulder at him, astonished and yet -- did he really see it or just imagine -- her eyelids were half-open and was that a smile curling the ends of her lips? He slapped her ass again, harder and watched...was that a wiggle or a flinch. He could not be sure, but as she held his gaze, he slapped once more, even harder and felt himself erupt in his trousers, his manseed spilling hotly. He reared backwards and -- still holding the woman's gaze -- was sure now that she smiled at him, her glance darting down to the obvious stain spreading over his crotch. "Slave!" he snarled at her, pushing himself to his feet and pointing at the broom still held in her hand. "Back to your work!"

The Count backed away and then turned. His hand moved down and he felt his own wetness with a soft groan. He grunted at himself and then thought of the final new "trophy" still chained to the wall in the dungeon. He nodded. "Yes," he thought, "Bed remains to be taught what it means to be my captive..."

Sir Jean de Lyon, champion of the downtrodden rode his steed through the night toward the castle of the Count de Montenegro. He was steadfast in his task as he neared the castle.

When his warhorse threw a shoe outside of the tiny village he was on his way to Paris on a pilgramage to Notre Dame to offer his services to the king. But the blacksmith and his family were distraught when he asked for aid in shoeing his horse.

After explaining that they had given their oldest daughter in bondage for the tiny debt of a few gold coins, Jean grew livid and angry. He was determined to right the wrong.

Sir Jean approached the castle at dusk and approached the gate as it was being lowered for the night. His warsteed lept into the inner courtyard.

The guards were dumbfounded but acted quickly. Sir jean swung his sword and headed his horse into the castle keep.

Violet after her ordeal with the count was sweeping and crying plaintively at being treated so cruelly as she heard the commotion and the sound of horse's hooves on the stone floor.

Hearing her name being called by Sir Jean as he rode through the castle she turned in his direction. She called out, "I am violet."

Violet had been described by her father but when Sir Jean laid eyes on the beautiful face framed by the long brown curls he was smitten. He hesitated a second as he cut down another guard and rushed in violet's direction.

With one mail-covered arm he scooped violet up in his arms and lay her across his saddle. In the same moment he let the bag of gold tied to his saddle fall to the floor, payment for the blacksmith's debt.

The steel-shod hooves of the warhouse came down on a guard as he lept back the way he came and out of the castle at a gallop and into the night.

After heading deep into the forest at the edge of the mountains did he stop and gently let the blacksmith's daughter down to the ground.

Looking up at Sir Jean confused the girl then bows down before the knight. Sir jean gets down from his horse and takes the petite beauty in his arms.

"I have been sent from your father, dear lady. But once I laid eyes on you I fear I want you for myself. But talk of that can wait. We must get you to safety."

They look at one another for a long moment of time.

Sir Jean murmurs a faint "Forgive me.," as he leans forward and kisses violet with a kiss rapt with promise and passion.

Wtf?

I was asked by the writers (which includes myself) to post this announcement:

OOC: By special decree of the Count of Montenegro, active participation, especially Domly participation, in the goings-on at His castle is by invitation only - at least until any further notice. Trespassers will be prosecuted!

I was asked by the writers (which includes myself) to post this announcement:

OOC: By special decree of the Count of Montenegro, active participation, especially Domly participation, in the goings-on at His castle is by invitation only - at least until any further notice. Trespassers will be prosecuted!

Isabella still hung from the chains in the dungeon, wincing at the pull on her shoulders and arms, frantically trying to find a way out of this mess she had gotten herself into.

The Count very obviously had not recognized her face, although she had seen him during one or two court festivities before. "Men", she thought, "they never pay attention to faces".

She had been caught by the Count during one of her walks she occasionally took in order to relax and put all her duties out of her mind for a little while. For those walks in the woods, she had the habit of disguising herself as a peasant woman, therefore needing no guards or other company which would be suitable for a woman of noble birth.

"It seems my disguise worked a little too well", Isabella thought, "but I still have to decide if I make my name and station known or not. As for this being BED - how DARE he!" A contemptuous snort escaped her mouth. "I think I will teach him a few things he very obviously has not learned about women yet."

She tried to circle her wrists inside the shackles a few times, then closed and opened her fists carefully. Circulation was getting slower, and she did not wish to lose feeling in her hands.

The woman still shackled to the wall glared at him as the Count of Montenegro descended the stairs into the dungeon room. Ignoring her, he carefully lit two wall torches and placed the candle and holder on the tabletop, then seating himself swung his booted feet to rest on the table edge. He glanced up at the woman, who turned her face aside.

“I am not fooled, woman. No calluses on your hands. Smooth pale skin on your back. You’re no peasant, so why are you dressed in those rags?”

He casually put his feet down on the floor and walked closer, first one way then the other, approaching her obliquely. When he was close enough, he stretched out and arm and trailed one fingertip down her cheek, her neck, and finally let it rest on her left nipple.

“Pampered merchant’s wife or daughter? Someone sending you to be a nun? Perhaps even some king’s willful daughter, running away from the boredom of court?” Suddenly he grabbed, bunching her linen top in his fist and dripped downward, exposing her breasts.
He cupped her left breast, idly grazing a rough thumb over the stiffening nipple.

“Yes, bored.”

She turned her head back to him with baleful eyes and spit.

The Count nodded and chuckled a moment, then grabbed her hair and pulled her face against his. “Lick it off.”

She shook her head until he gripped her hair more tightly and pulled. “Lick it off, “ he growled, “or I’ll leave you down here to rot of your own boredom.”

Hesitantly and revulsed, she licked at the glob of spit on his cheek. After a long moment, he released her hair and almost threw her back against the wall.

“I know your kind, Bed. You think butter won’t melt in your mouth…or up your ass. It will, I assure you. Before I am done with you, Bed, you’ll be begging me to continue.” He walked a pace or two away then spun around sharply. “But you’re still a bit too clean for me now, not raw enough, not desperate enough.”

“Pig!” she shouted at him.

He smiled cruelly. “A prophetess as well as a pampered little chit. A pig is exactly what you will feel like. A wild pig, hunted down and frightened, but eager for a hot, long, thick skewer up you.” He laughed.

“My hounds already know your scent well. And I do like a bit of a hunt in the woods to whet my appetite before feasting. You’ll be the prey, Bed…and later my feast.” Again he stepped close and took out his dagger.

He played it’s tip over the pale skin of her neck and then between her breasts and finally tapped the point over her erect nipples until she thought they would bleed. Then, without warning, he stuck the blade edge down into the waist of her skirts and cut them away, finally ripping the cloth with his hands.

He stepped back and looked at her, reaching forward to rip away the last shreds of her clothing. He stared at her body then back deeply into her eyes, silently. Moments passed in the still silence. The Count licked his suddenly dry lips. “Ohh,” he hissed. “You’ll be a pretty fuck…after the hunt.” He spun on his heel and then threw her a look over his shoulder. “I’ll send some guards down to take you out into the woods once it’s dark. I hope you’re good at running, Bed.”

Tears of humiliation and rage appeared in Isabella´s eyes as she hung there, and they were accompanied by a growing feeling of nausea at the thought of the upcoming hunt. This man was clearly out of his mind, and to make things worse, apparently nobody was brave enough to fight him. At least within the walls of his castle, he wielded absolute power over all of its inhabitants, free or not.

Yes she was bored. Her more-than-twice-her-age husband preferred to spend his time with any young stable-boy who happened to cross his path, and that was an open secret as well as the reason for her not having any children. He was kind enough with her in other ways, but the last years spent at his side made her feel more like a puppet going through her everyday duties and chores, and much time had passed since she had last felt adored and wanted as a woman.

But that did not give this lunatic the right to catch her and act out his fantasies on her, never even bothering to ask if she liked what was happening to her, or if she liked him, for that matter.

Trying to regain some semblance of dignity (which was difficult, regarding the state of her clothing and position), Isabella took a very deep breath and hoped she would find a way to escape once this madman set her free in the woods. She even felt glad at the prospect, because the idea of being left to rot all alone in this dungeon scared the hell out of her.

At the guards' entrance, Isabella realized neither pity nor reasoningwould sway these dullards. They leered at her nakedness, but otherwise went about their work with subdued, if clumsy, efficiency no doubt fearful of the Count's vengeance if they should leave some mark on his latest prey. One unhooked her wrist shackles from the wall, the other swiftly clamped a pair with a longer chain around her ankles. Each took an arm and led her carefully up the stairs to the clank of the links between her legs.

Through the hallway, they urged her and out into the courtyard. One of the guards carried a torch, the other unshackled an ankle and swung her up onto his saddle to sit in front of him and they rode down a rough pathway toward the now dark forest.

Once deep among the old trees, they halted. They looked around them with darting eyes. It seemed an eerie place, with several fallen trees and rugged, vicious thorny growths springing up amid the the tattered draperies of moss on the tree trunks and low hanging branches. It was almost pitch black now that the sun had descended and the moon was a pale, dim crescent high above.

Quickly they lifted Isabella from the horse and relocked the shackle around her ankle. For just the flicker of an instant, she thought she saw fear and perhaps even sympathy in the eyes of one of the guards, then it was replaced with the dull gaze of duty. They mounted their horses and rode off with a soft clatter of hooves on the forest mud.

Isabella looked around with a turmoil of emotions roiling within her. Fear, disgust, hatred fought for control. As she looked into the darkness, the moonlight glinted a moment on something shining from where the guards had ridden off. She ran to it and was shocked to see a small naked blade dagger lying on the ground. She plucked it up and tried to use the point to pry out the bolt in her ankle shackle cuff, but not a minute later, she heard the loud baying of hounds approaching...she cocked her head to try to gauge the direction and then, clutching the small knife, began to hobble off in the opposite direction.