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Princess Astrid knew her kingdom was falling apart. She just didn’t think it would happen this fast.
She’s sleeping, if a little fitfully, when she’s awoken by shouts and the sound of metal clanging against metal. She groans and turns over, folding one of her silken pillows over her ears. As she drifts out of her dream, she hears someone run past her chambers, their armor jingling. At this hour? she thinks, resolving to have the guards told off when the hour is more decent.
Just as she manages to drift off again, a scream echoes from the eastern stairwell. Her heart jumps. Blearily, she wrestles off the layers of heavy blankets and steps onto the furs that line her floors. Her slippers lie ready by her bed, and she slips them on. In the half-dark, she makes her way to the small, closed entry chamber, where her personal guard stands posted at every hour of the day and night. He had been with her family since before she was born, and had been her guard since she was a baby, standing by her crib to see to it that she still breathed. He was aged, yes, but his grip on his great, heavy sword had never faltered. He was…
Gone.
What?
The entryway is empty. Her guard is nowhere to be seen. Suddenly panicked, Astrid throws open her bedroom door.
Torchlight flickers on the stone hallway walls. By the far staircase, one guard raises his sword, prepared for attack. A shadow lurches out of nowhere, and the guard charges. Both figures tumble into the staircase, out of sight. There’s a sickening crunch of silver against stone. Astrid doesn’t know which man fell.
Someone rounds the bend and rushes past her. She jumps back. Turning, she slams the door behind her, rushes back into her bedchamber, and stations herself inside her dressing-room. The draped fabric filling the walls takes her further from the sounds of the fighting outside. Her hands shake. She blinks away the tears that have risen to her eyes. She must do nothing but wait and listen, until her beloved guard comes to fetch her again.
She settles on the dressing-room floor. It’s a comfortable enough place to wait, and made interesting by the enormous variety of dresses, underthings, and jewelry that line the walls.
Astrid sifts through her dresses as the sounds of the battle, muffled by her walls, ring out on the floors below her. She holds a green velvet gown against her body, and admires in her mirror the way it brings out her eyes. Someone yells, and then what sounds like a hundred pounds of glass smashing into a million pieces on the ground. She sets the dress aside and picks up a ruby necklace. It washes out her skin, she thinks. She tosses it on the ground.
Minutes go by. The fighting does not get quieter. It gets closer. And closer, until she thinks it must be right outside her door, only separate from her by a few inches of wood. She puts down the dress she’s holding and walks anxiously closer to the entryway, trying to gauge by the sounds of the men how close they are to defeating the enemy. The more she listens, the more she can’t tell how many are left, or whether they’re the voices she’s heard a million times or those of strangers.
Finally, there’s a lull. Astrid lets go of her breath. She creeps closer to the door, waiting for the three knocks of a guard seeking permission to enter.
And jumps back as the hilt of a sword SLAMS into the lock. Astrid covers her yelp with her hand and runs back into her dressing-room to hide. Two more hard hits and she hears the wood crack around the lock. Then with one almighty crash the lock falls to the floor and the door swings open.
Astrid peeks out from behind the rack of dresses to see the knight standing in the doorway. In the low light, she can only make out the armored silhouette. The knight holds their helmet in one arm, casually. Their other hand wraps around the hilt of a heavy, gleaming sword. Astrid thinks she sees dark, crusted blood along its edge, but she prays that it’s a trick of the light.
The barbarian knight steps further into the room, and Astrid ducks behind the dresses. She hears them wander around, their armored footfalls echoing. They make their way steadily closer. She holds her breath. Probably they want to make off with the most precious of her jewels. Her face burns hot with anger as she imagines losing her most prized possessions.
In the light of the mirror, there really is blood on the knight’s sword. On their armor, too, sprayed across the chest. Their nose looks like it’s been broken before. Their thick, dark hair lies across their armor like oil.
They stop. Astrid tries so hard to stay still that she trembles.
“Stupid princess.” Astrid jumps. It’s a woman’s voice. “I can see your fucking feet.”
She tries to bolt. The barbarian knight grabs her easily, the moment she starts to move. She wrestles her against her chest, and wraps iron-strong arms around her torso, pinning her in place. Astrid struggles and kicks at her, but she’s fighting against solid armor.
“You’re pretty,” the knight tells Astrid. Her hair smells like sweat and leather and blood. “And dumb. Dumb as a rock. Good for you I like pretty girls.”
“I’m not dumb,” Astrid snarls, “I’m the heir to the throne of your kingdom, and I should have you jailed for speaking of me in that manner.”
The knight laughs. Her laugh is unpleasantly loud, like the bark of a hunting dog. “Princess, for daring to speak to me in that manner, I should bash your little brains in with my hilt. As I said, good for you you’re pretty. Or you’d be dead.”
“You would not dare,” says Astrid, much less sure of herself. “My family is —”
“Shut your mouth,” the knight says. “You want to feel this?” Her sword reeks of rust, iron, fresh blood. It’s longer than Astrid’s torso. She wields it like it’s nothing. “Because I want you alive but I’ll take you dead.” Her sword is heavy on Astrid’s stomach. Her voice drops, whispering into Astrid’s ear. “See how much of this shit can fit in your little body.”
Astrid whimpers fearfully. She shuts up. She stops struggling.
The knight laughs at her again. “That’s what I thought, Princess.” She rips Astrid’s nightgown straight down the middle with one leather-gloved hand. The bedroom cool hits her skin. She instinctively moves to cover her chest, and the knight yanks her hand away, taking her other wrist too and trapping them both between their bodies. She forces Astrid’s back into an arch, and Astrid wriggles in protest, but she just takes one of Astrid’s tits in her hand, kneading it hard between her fingers. Astrid’s tits are big like the rest of her. She’s never worked a day in her life, and she’s fed like a proper princess. The knight tugs at her nipple and she whines and squirms. It hurts. She’s been touched before, by low-ranking guardsmen and farm boys that she sometimes orders to eat her out, but no one would dare to hurt her.
“It hurts,” she gasps, when the knight squeezes particularly hard, bruising.
“Yeah, well, you be a good girl and take it,” the knight says. She barely sounds interested, her greedy hand exploring all of Astrid’s chest. Her tits spill out of her fingers, more than a handful, and she tugs them hard and lets them bounce. Astrid’s face is bright red. She feels filthy.
“I don’t - I’m not-” The knight lets go of her tits and plunges her hand down the front of Astrid’s ripped gown. She stumbles over her words. “I have no desire. To lay with women. Ah!” Two fingers forced inside her, no warning, no preparation. She stretches onto her tiptoes, running away from the pain, and the knight’s hand follows her, forcing herself in to the base of her palm. Astrid isn’t wet, isn’t ready, and the leather-gloved fingers burn and ache. Her clit rubs against stiff leather.
The knight lets her fingers slip out and then shoves back in, fast, violently. Keeps fucking her, slow like that, drawing out gently and then pushing back in like a punch. Astrid yelps every time she slams into her. She’s going to cry. She has never, never been treated like this before. The sheer indignity is enough to make tears come to her eyes, forced out by the rhythmic ache of the barbarian’s hand inside her.
Mercifully, she stops to grab Astrid’s hair and push her off balance, forcing her to the ground. She lands hard on her back. She tries to make a crawling run for the door, but the knight shoves a knee into her stomach, settling her weight on top of her. Her armor cuts against Astrid’s stomach. The softness of the rug onto which she fell does nothing to offset the discomfort. Astrid glares through her tears.
The knight grins down at her. One of her teeth is crooked. Strangely, her broken nose suits her face. She’s almost handsome, Astrid thinks. She sheathes her sword and peels off her gloves. Her hands are tan and freckled, thick and broad from hours training with her blade. She looks infuriatingly happy. It scares Astrid how much she likes hurting her.
“See, I’m gonna be nice to you, Princess. I’m gonna make you feel so good. We’re gonna forget what a dumb, spoiled little bitch you are and just let you be a pretty thing.”
“No!” Astrid says. “You’re hurting me.”
“I’m fucking you,” she says. “You want me to make it worse? You want me to really hurt you? Cause I could.”
Astrid shudders. She knows. She knows she would. “No.”
“See, there’s a good bitch.” Calloused hands ruck up Astrid’s skirt. She squirms. She’s never felt skin like that, scarred and hardened, against her own. The knight forces her thighs apart, and she tries uselessly to close her legs, already sore.
She kisses her stomach, and Astrid flinches. She doesn’t want her greedy mouth on her, not anywhere. When she leans down to bite the curve of her thigh, she cries out and swats at her head. The sting is so sharp. She bites again, harder. Astrid twitches and cries. Her soft skin is already turning pink.
Her mouth lands on Astrid’s pussy. Astrid bites back a moan. She likes this. Just if it were not with a woman, not forced, not for anyone’s pleasure but her own. Being eaten out for someone else’s pleasure feels dangerous, like she’s a puppet, forced to writhe and dance and beg against her own will. The knight eats her like she’s starving for it. Licks between her folds, teasing, hungry. She dares to suck Astrid’s labia against her tongue and nip at her. Then presses the tip of her tongue against her clit, just for a second, before she pushes inside. That feels so strange, she tries to squirm away, and then to press herself closer, ask for more without the indignity of using her words. Of course she is denied, and then overwhelmed as the knight switches to suck hard on her clit, using her whole mouth so she feels it everywhere, far too sensitive and with nowhere to escape.
She pulls off, and drags her tongue straight up her cunt, dipping it inside again. Astrid whines before she catches herself. She feels how wet she’s gotten. Spit and come run down between her legs. When the knight slips two fingers inside her, they go easy. She keeps her mouth on her, teasing now, feeling her drip and clench around her when she teases her clit. She curls her fingers, and the wet noise that it makes is humiliating.
“Oh, Princess.” Astrid burns. She doesn’t want to be so easy. “You’re so good at being a slut. So fucking hungry for me. I wonder what this princess pussy is gonna feel like with my fist in it, huh?”
“Ohh.” She chokes on it, as those thick fingers twist inside her. “No-o, please, noo.”
“Yes, baby. You can take it. You’re gonna fucking take it. I’m gonna make you.”
“But–” She can’t, she can’t, there’s no way. “Please. I can’t. I don’t– I’m— I’m crown princess, I don’t want to, please.”
“I know, baby. I know. Never had to do anything you didn't want to before. But you don’t get a choice now. No more power. Just a pretty cocksleeve.”
Astrid cries. Her cunt drips.
When the knight’s fingers come out of her pussy, they’re gleaming with her slick. She rubs her clit, and Astrid tries to stay still but she bucks against her hand. She doesn’t want it, doesn’t want to cum, doesn’t want another reason for the knight to force her fingers inside her like a weapon.
But she doesn’t get what she wants, does she.
She pushes three fingers inside her this time, and she wishes it hurt, but it doesn’t. It just feels good. She could take more. She’s full and hungry at the same time, pushed up against the edge, greedy and mindless and wanting all of it. When the knight’s hard calloused thumb rubs over her clit and her thick fingers curl inside her she bucks up into it and it’s still there it’s not stopping it’s too much and she comes, her pussy weeping and trying to push her hand out.
“Fucking good,” the knight murmurs, but she doesn’t stop. She’s not satisfied, she’s not surprised, she doesn’t care. She just presses harder against the soft tired muscles of Astrid’s cunt, no strength left to resist her.
“No, that’s enough,” Astrid begs. She barely believes it herself. She can, she will, she has no choice.
“Shh, baby, I don’t care.” The knight’s little finger rubs against Astrid’s cunt. Astrid lets out a little sob. She pushes, pushes, pushes, and then her mouth is on Astrid’s clit again and she loses control and it slips inside, four fingers stretching her wide open.
“Oh, god,” she curses. “I, oh, fuck, oh, no.” It doesn’t feel like, oh god, four impossible fingers, almost a whole hand inside her, it just feels mind-numbingly fucking full.
“If that’s too much, my fist is really gonna hurt, huh? When I make you into a good little fuckhole?” She pushes somehow deeper, harder, making Astrid cramp and squeeze down around her. Her mouth barely leaves her.
Astrid grabs at her hair, trying to pull her away, trying to stop the overwhelming sensation all over, but her soft hands tangle and stay there. She can’t stop it, can’t even help her reaction, can’t tell if she’s gonna come again or if the first one never stopped. She’s so sore and stretched and aching that she doesn’t know the difference.
The knight twists her hand inside Astrid, and Astrid feels herself open up, her cunt burning but taking it, soft and wet and full. It hurts in a way that feels right. Her clit is hard and exposed and so fucking sensitive against the knight’s tongue.
She pushes her thumb against Astrid’s cunt. Astrid cries and tries to buck her hips, tries to get away. The knight’s arm wrapped around her thigh holds her still, pulls her soft little cunt down on her fist. She kicks and wriggles and cries, because it hurts, because it scares her. But under the knight’s weight she’s helpless. She can’t escape as she slowly, slowly forces it in, her hole stretching wide around five fingers. It just keeps going. As she pushes into her, Astrid’s cunt clenches around the widest part of her hand, the base of her fingers.
Astrid yells a desperate “Fuck,” as she feels herself let it in. Harsh fingers dig into her thigh, holding her down, keeping her helpless. The knight’s eyes are so dark, her mouth open as she watches her hand disappear inside Astrid. She pushes in further, and Astrid feels the bulb of her fist fully inside her. It’s the fullest, hottest, wettest she’s ever been. She wants to beg but she can’t find any words. Her body flops on the floor, not able to even lift her arms to shove at the knight like she wants to. She’s putty, a mess of pain and pleasure and visceral fucking submission.
The knight’s tongue on her clit lights up her entire body. It feels connected everywhere, to the hardness against her walls, like her nerves are lighting up from the inside and outside at the same time and it’s too much and it’s so good her brain is short-circuited with pleasure. Her stomach clenches and she yells out wordlessly and comes. This time it gushes out of her, soaking the knight’s wrist. The tightness and oversensitivity of her orgasm make everything feel twice as much and she comes again, her body out of control bucking against the arm holding her down. She gasps for breath and then screams. It’s all too fucking much and she feels like an animal, base and soaked and thrashing. Her bucking hips meet the knight’s mouth and she gasps in agony.
“Stop,” she begs, straining to catch the air for the words. “Oh my god, please, please, I can’t.”
The knight hums against her clit and she sobs, hips jerking away from the painful touch. “Yeah, does it hurt, baby?”
“God, yes, I can’t, please, I can’t, stop.” She can’t even form the words to beg properly.
“I like when it hurts you.” She’s glowing, grinning, powerful, on top of and inside Astrid. “You can’t stop me, you can’t fight me, just suffer for me.”
She brings her other hand to Atrid’s clit and Astrid wails. She can feel her clit twitch when it’s touched, too fucking full, too hard too hot too sensitive. Her pussy clamps down around the knight’s hand and she feels each unrelenting inch against her gspot, pressing against her clit from the inside, her tummy cramping with how deep she’s being filled. She rubs her clit and Astrid gasps, twists away, feeling no pleasure just burning hot overstimulation.
The worst pain comes when she brushes a knuckle against the underside of her clit, under the hood, no protection from the searing pain of touch where she’s the most sensitive. Astrid lets out a high keening sound, and she touches there again, on purpose. Tears burn in Astrid’s eyes. The knight smacks her clit, hard, and she bucks against her hand, accidentally fucking herself on the fist inside her, and that brutal, accidental motion is what finally pushes her over the edge, impossibly, again. She cries out, thrashes, feels herself pulse around the knight’s hand, her clit twitching against her thumb. There’s nothing she can do to stop it. She sees white, her fucked-out nerves sparking with pain, cunt so stretched she can’t even tighten around her fist. She comes down gasping for breath. She doesn’t beg for it to stop. She knows that her voice is useless.
“God. Look at me.” A hand lifts Astrid up, into the flushed, red glow of the knight’s victorious face. “Look at me. Did you just cum from getting hit, huh? Fucking slut.”
“I.” Astrid breathes raggedly. “I. Ahh.”
“Yeah, you did, didn’t you. This is what you’re good for, isn’t it? Dumb fucking hole. Look at me, bitch, I wanna see your face while I pull out of you.”
Please be gentle, she wants to whine, but doesn’t. It hurts just to feel her move inside. She’s not gentle, of course she isn’t, the widest part of her knuckles stretching Astrid raw. Astrid bites her lip, tries not to cry. She knows the knight is drinking in the glittery tears in her eyes. When her hand slips out, and feeling comes back to her nerves, all she feels is brutal soreness.
“You’re fucking wrecked. You feel what I did to you, princess? You’re a wet, gaping fucked out little hole. Opened right up around my fucking fist, didn’t you?”
Astrid does feel it. Where she is usually soft and relaxed she’s open, fluttering, sensitive and painful. The knight’s hand is glistening to the wrist and, oh god, a little bloody. She feels lightheaded.
The knight sits up onto her knees, letting go of Astrid’s legs. Astrid doesn’t move. She can’t, and she’s terrified of what would happen if she did. The knight’s bloody, soaked hand reaches for her sheathed sword. Astrid whimpers.
The knight smiles at her fear. “You think I’m gonna hurt you?”
“Yes,” Astrid whimpers. “Pleaseohgodpleasedon’t. Please.”
She laughs. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to you,” she says. She unsheathes it, one quick motion, the tendons in her bare forearm flexing. Astrid’s mouth feels dry. She’s right, she can do whatever she wants and Astrid’s not strong enough to stop her. She prays fervently that she’s still pretty enough to be kept alive.
She flips her grip, holding the blade downwards. It’s so close to Astrid. The intimacy of the knight’s body leaning over hers, the hilt coming closer to her body, could be like a lover. She twitches when she feels the cold metal rub up against her hot cunt. The air rushes from her lungs in relief as she realizes that, at least for now, her life’s not in danger. Just the hilt of the sword against her, not the blade.
The knight pushes it in slowly. It’s cold and hard and not as big as her fist but, god, it still hurts, Astrid’s sore, used cunt weakly trying to push it out. The shock of the cold makes her tense up around the unforgiving metal, which just makes it harder to take. She tries to relax into the floor and just breathe, let herself open up for it. The knight watches her face, watches her eyebrows knit together and her teeth grit. She can feel the weight of it holding her open.
“Look at you,” the knight says. “Whole fucking sword inside you. What a talented little princess, huh? Such a good cocksleeve. I like you a lot better like this.”
Astrid doesn’t protest. She’s grateful to be alive. The praise makes her feel sick, but it also makes her tummy flutter. If the knight likes her, she gets to live. She gets to serve.
On the ground, on her back, cunt gaped open around the sword hilt, tits sore and bruised, she knows that she’ll never give an order, never be special, never be anything but a stupid cocksleeve again.