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From: "Axis Q." <axis_q@yahoo.com>
Subject: {TruthHurts} Princess Charming (MF tort hist)
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Princess Charming
By TruthHurts


"Leave it there, my man." 

"Very well, Ma'am." (He had to call her Ma'am, it was part of his
contract). 

She stood and contemplated the awful twisted rusty iron sculpture that
she'd just bought on the advice of her great friend Rupert. Rupert is
a twit who thinks he knows about art and who thinks that his inane
wittering will one day gain him entrance to the only gallery he's
really interested in. Some hope. The Princess doesn't open the doors
of her most private collection for anyone. 

"No, I liked it better in the other room. Take it back." 

The other room was, of course, half way across the palace, and no-one
else was around to help. 

She wandered around in front of him as he grunted and strained
shifting the oxidised monstrosity from room to room. She spouted a
line of incessant chatter and whims which she wanted him to do once
they've finished this. Repaint the hallway, white this time. Hang that
old tapestry in a different room. Polish the frame of her portrait.
Her long blonde hair shimmered around her back, revealing a white silk
blouse through the haze. 

"Oh, come ON! If you don't much faster I'll sack you! Shame I can't
have you whipped, like my ancestors could!" 

She turned around and glared at him. He seemed to be muttering under
his breath, she thought: how disrespectful! It might even be
treasonous. She stomped a petulant foot, then kicked him in the shin.
He was taken by surprise and dropped the statue. It cut a deep gash in
his thigh, from which blood started to ooze. 

"Oh, for Fuck's sake!" he says, exasperated beyond all endurance. 

"I beg your pardon? That does it, you're sacked! Fired! Finished! And
if I had my way I'd chop you block off!" 

He didn't speak, just stared her in the face. She stepped back,
afraid. No-one was allowed to look her in the eye. She didn't like the
seething anger she saw. His blood was staining the carpet as he
grabbed hold of her wrist. She was so shocked that this SERVANT has
laid hand on her that she didn't even start to scream until he clamped
his other hand over her mouth. He frog-marched her into the nearest
room, which happened to be a disused guest suite. He had her arm
twisted so far up behind her back that she thought he was going to
dislocate it. 

He let her go as he shut the door behind them, locked it and pocketed
the key. She was standing in front of him, trembling, trying to decide
whether to be scared or angry. 

"What are you doing? Once this gets out you'll be bloody arrested! You
can't just grab hold of princesses like that!" 

He stepped up to her and slapped her very hard across her face. She
flew backwards a couple of feet and landed on her backside. She looked
terrified, finally, at her predicament. There was no-one else in this
wing of the palace at all. No-one could hear her even if she did
scream. She whimpered to herself as she raised her hand to the hot red
mark on her cheek. 

"Your Royal Highness is in serious need of several lessons. Clearly
your tutors were not permitted to teach you these lessons, so you will
have to learn them the hard way. You might as well know that I am
leaving your service soon, because I've got cancer and may not survive
the treatment. So I have nothing to lose. You, on the other hand, are
in serious danger of losing everything. I could quite fancy going down
in history as the man who murdered the last royal princess." 

The look in his eye was that of a mongoose sizing up a particularly
virulent cobra. He knew she was not physically strong, but she had a
stubborn will that would be hard to break, and he'd better not let her
get her hands on anything sharp. 

"Get up. I am going to teach you what it is like to be in another's
power. If you survive this lesson, you'll have a bit more sympathy for
those whose lives you control." 

She stood before him, eyes downcast, legs shaking, the hint of tears
sparkling in her eyes. Her face was half covered by the crimson mask
of his hand print. 

He reached out and pulled her blouse out of her skirt, pushed her
resisting hands out of the way. he took firm hold of the silk and
ripped upwards along the seam to her armpit. He repeated the process
the other side, then tore the rags off her. She was wearing just a
light bra underneath, and he ordered her to remove that herself. When
she hesitated, he slapped her again. 

All that was going around in her head was a single thought. "I don't
want to die!" 

As if in a dream, she watched herself bare her breasts to appease this
creature in front of her. It was as if another moved her hands down to
the waistband of her designer skirt, popped two buttons, slid black
material down over hips, silken thighs. Knickers followed, finally
shoes. 

She, a Princess of Royal Blood, could not possibly be standing here
naked in front of a servant! It must be a dream! No servant would be
doing these things. No servant would order her to lie on her stomach
on the bed, legs tight together, heels off the floor. No servant would
look down on her with that mixture of lust and pity. No servant would
remove his trousers, unthread the belt. It must be a dream. It must be
a dream. It... 

The sound of his broad leather belt on her unprotected buttocks, and
the scream which followed it, echoed through the dusty magnificence of
the bedchamber. He stood over her, exulting in the power and strength
he had found, that he though had been lost to the slow death of
cancer. Again and again he whipped the broad belt down on the
princess' prone body. He screams of anguish told of betrayal, of
torment and pain. 

Her back was a mass of red welts. Her buttocks were bruised and
ridged. Her legs were covered with crossed and re-crossed bands of
scarlet. The pain had taken away her last refuge and she was naked in
soul as well as in body before him. She was not a princess any more,
but a naughty little girl, being punished for bad behaviour. The
little girl turned over to face her tutor. 

"Please, sir, I'm so sorry! Please don't hurt me any more!" 

"Princess, you have only just begun to be sorry." 

He grabbed hold of her, tore strips off the bedsheet and used to bind
the weeping girl. He tied her wrists behind her and her ankles a short
distance apart. The final strip he converted to an effective noose and
draped it around her slim neck. He sat down on the bed, yanked the
strip of cloth, watched apparently dispassionately as her eyes bugged.
He could see the tight edge of the cloth cutting deeply into her
throat, cutting off air and blood. She fell to the ground, crawled
towards him, begging with her eyes to stop. He let her grovel on the
floor for an eternal thirty seconds before loosening the neck tie. 

This is it, she thought. He is really going to kill me. My wrists
hurt. My back is on fire. My throat is going to show bruises I suppose
if I ever get out of this room alive. What can I do to make him stop?
Please god, make him stop. 

Please mummy make him stop. 

Please stop! 

Please! 

She was lying on the floor in a foetal position, no coherent sounds
emerged. She had gone beyond the child to the womb. But still he was
not finished with her destruction, her submission was not yet complete. 

He reached into his pocket for a cigarette lighter. 

He grabbed the strip of sheet between the girl's ankles, used it to
pull her feet onto his lap. She was making baby noises as he flicked
the lighter open with a practiced wrist movement. Her bum was just on
the floor, her long legs stretched out. Her toenails weren't painted,
he noticed as he ran the flame of the lighter under her toes. She
bucked, but didn't scream. There was a wild thing lurking in her eyes
now, behind the baby. There was a smell of burning flesh as the flame
played over the soft creases on her soles. Sobs became snarls.
Twitches become kicks, kicks became bucks and soon she was throwing
herself around to get away from him. He followed her diligently,
toasting whatever he could reach. The room stank of burnt flesh and
there were black patches on perfect skin. Finally, the cloth between
her ankles caught fire and permitted her to pull her legs apart. She
howled in triumph and hurled herself at him, biting, head butting,
kicking. Not even human any more, she had regressed to her deepest
animal feelings. He caught hold of her strangle cord and yanked it
hard. 

He stared into her eyes as she twitched and writhed, her heels banging
against the wooden floor in a tattoo of terror. He saw the animal
fade, the princess return. Saw that she had, at last, learnt her
lesson. Had felt the depths of despair and faced death. He loosened
the cord. 

She knelt before him, cowed and humbled. He knelt behind her, pushed
his rigid cock deep into virgin princess pussy. Her hymen ruptured,
but it was the Princess who felt that pain, not the child or the
beast. It was the princess whose thighs were stained by spreading
blood carried on a rising tide of salt juices. 

"Oh, I'm SORRY! FUCK ME! PLEASE!" 

She felt each thrust deep into the heart of her. Her cunt was sore,
but the pain was nothing to that in her back and from her burns. All
was as nothing to the waves within her. The beast howled from her
throat as a primal need was filled. The child cried crystal tears as
protection and forgiveness were bestowed. The princess drove herself
back onto his prick in deep fulfillment as all three melded into one,
rejoined by the force of her first orgasm. 

The rest of the day blurred into hazy dreams of dicing with death. She
remembered afterwards the first time he came in her mouth, how her
eyes flew open in honest astonishment as spurt after spurt filled her
mouth, dribbled down her chin because she couldn't swallow that fast.
Remembered him lighting the fire in the grate and tying her over it,
the huge fireplace so big that only her head was hidden up the
chimney. Remembered the ripping feeling in her guts when he forced the
purple head of his penis past her sphincter and tore through her guts.
Remembered, most of all, the agony and the ecstasy of orgasm after
orgasm, when he licked her, when he fucked her, when he teased her,
when he tickled her, when he stabbed her with needles, penetrated her
with iron, with wood, with everything to hand that could be forced
into her yielding flesh. 

Many years later, the Prince Consort was pleasantly surprised when his
wife, ruling monarch of a kingdom and bitch so haughty that she could
cause a man's balls to shrivel up just by looking at him, turned out
to have another side to her. Most of the time she was a total bitch in
bed, too, but every so often, just occasionally, she would come to him
at night with a choke chain around her neck and beg him to take her to
the limits of pain and degradation. To which request he happily
complied. He only wished on those occasions that she could remember to
call him by his own name.







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