A continuation of "The Prince." Significantly more sexually graphic.
CW: public use, chastity, mind control, humiliation, hostile plurality, internalized transphobia
Tactician. Genius. Diplomat. Prodigy.
These were the words her Father had raised her on. His 'son' was presumed to be exceptional. Expectations of excellence, standards to reach. This was decidedly not the tone of what the figures surrounding her had been writing all over her body.
Conquered Pet. War Spoils. Whore. Warlord’s Property.
One set of these titles filled her with dread, the misery of objectification. It was not the ones her Master’s soldiers were writing onto her breasts with charcoal sticks. Those felt right, they were what she had chosen when she pledged herself to this life.
Her mind wandered blissfully as her shoulders thumped rhythmically against the stockade her neck and wrists were locked into. These drifting thoughts were cut short by a hard tug on her body. she whimpered as the captain grabbed her by her tail, yanking the pactbound into a more upright position for the warrior. That was what she was now- not an elf prince, but a conquered prize.
a gentle rain made the marks of ash on her skin run, sizzled into steam when it touched the glowing pactmarks on her back. The Princesses eyes met her Masters' gaze as she screamed in pleasure. She still felt such a flutter in her chest when thier eyes met, deep dragonkin pupils smoldering like the fire they had used to claim her as their prize.
Water from the rain dripped down her skin, mixing with the fluids splattered across her body. Some was from the soldiers, but some was her own, dribbling from the small cage locked between her legs. She'd never liked the thing anyway, and it felt good to have a real one inside her so regularly.
She was getting accustomed to being used constantly as the days went by. Her Warlord had been rewarding thier most loyal subordinates with turns with the royal whore. To her delight, many were quite rough with her. Her Conqueror was always watching to make sure the soldiers didn't damage thier property.
It was a good thing, as she was no longer a good judge of her own limits, always wanting more, more, more. One man, a turncoat from her own royal guard, had used the opportunity to pull a knife to her neck. He was dead before the Princess even knew what was happening. One moment she had felt something cold and sharp against her, the next, her Master was standing over her, blade wet and hunched over thier pet protectively, possessively. She knew no matter how aggressive the men got, she was safe under her Warlord's gaze.
Hours passed. The stockade lay to the side, broken by repeated forceful slamming. Her Master had laughed, and called for a specific sword. It had been taken from the Princesses old throne room. a gift from her family she hadn't asked for. Dull as it was, the tip spiked into the mud just fine, and she was bound to it by the wrists. There was a poetry to it.
The Princess knew it was all for show anyway. No part of her truly wanted to leave. The begging for mercy, for release, to give "his" kingdom and freedom back, was just an echo. No part of her was capable of imagining a life better than this. The voice that still came out of her mouth, the Coward, pleaded in her mind as much as he pleaded with the soldiers around her. He insisted to the Princess this was a mistake, what if she was wrong, what if she really didn't want this life?
She felt nothing but contempt for the Coward Prince in her head. He had kept her chained, tied to the trappings of a life she never asked for far more than the ropes binding her wrists to flat metal did. Fortunately, all he could do was speak. She was the one who controlled the body, slowly choking out the miserable wretch in her thoughts. He had done the same to her for decades, after all.
The Coward had his chance, and he squandered it like someone who never wanted it in the first place. The embittered townsfolk who distantly leered at the spectacle of her lying in the mud were the result. He had been hated, alone, self sabotaging. What exactly did he want back? Why had he desperately clung to his own misery for so long? Convenience? The hollow comfort of a lie?
As she rested against the improvised post in the ground, sign of her past she was tied to, she mused if that was why she craved such debasement. Perhaps part of her felt she needed to atone for some kind of guilt for having been unable to stop the suffering for so long. It was a confused thought. She didn't like how muddy the distinction between her and the Coward felt in relation to it.
The Princess took a deep sip from a bowl of soup her Master had brought for her. The blankets and comforter felt good on her skin. She was so much more sensitive to texture than she used to be, and had been spending each night squeezing a large friendly looking aquatic stuffed animal. Every sensation felt more real, every color more vivid, in her new life as a pactbound.
She looked at her hands. The scar the Coward had gotten as a child on her pointer finger shone in the soft light of the fireplace. The scar had been one of young boy playing in the woods. Why did this memory feel like hers? The voice of the Coward, thankfully, was dormant, so she did not have to listen to her own mouth verbalizing his whining, but it did leave her trapped alone with her own thoughts.
She finished her meal and set the bowl down, with a furtive glance at the dragonkin on the bed next to her. She knew what she wanted, to be pushed around until she couldn't think such troubled thoughts anymore. She wished she could speak, but the Prince's presence kept her from being able to beg for what she wanted. Her Master recognized the pleading look in her eyes, and chuckled.
The Princess whimpered as her Master placed thier hand on the back of her head, pushing her down firmly. Her arms were pulled into place, tied to her ankles with ropes her Master kept on the chest nearby. The feeling of the Warlord that owned her pressing her face helplessly down into the soft blankets was nothing short of pure bliss. This was what she craved most of all.
Being shared was fun, but her Master reconquering her body every night was what she lived for. The feeling of emptiness, not having to think, simply to be used by one who knew how to listen for her true feelings. The moments of orgasmic silence, being filled by her master pressing into her. Relaxation enforced physically. She had earned this peace, pledged herself to this life. It was unfair that the doubts of the past still haunted her, but at least Master knew how to banish them.
Her body stretched to accommodate what filled her. Magical dragonfire swirled around her body each night. Her curves felt a little more defined each time her Master claimed her, skin softer, tail longer, horns wider. Breasts that now bounced with each rough thrust into her.
Tears of joy rolled down her face. she savored the taste of freedom from her destiny. There was no going back like the Coward had so many times. No pretending it had just been a passing thought or a shameful fetish. This was reality.
Being used by the one she was pledged to serve granted her another precious gift, control of her voice wrenched back from the Coward.
"Thank you, Master, for claiming me as your Princess."
The words felt good, overwhelming pleasure keeping any trace of the Prince far from her voice. The ability to speak without his shame lasted a bit longer each time. Perhaps one day she would only hear his pitiable mewling occasionally, or not at all. She curled up into her Master's embrace, strong arms keeping her safe. For one so feared, her owner was surprisingly tender, comforting in a way she had never known as a 'Prince'.