The Will of the Gods Ch. 01

Story Info
A captive, a princess--a captive princess.
8.8k words
4.71
79.7k
165

Part 1 of the 5 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 03/28/2018
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

"Are you sure you'll be alright, Your Highness?" Sir Oran ran his eyes uncertainly over Princess Regina of Trandon, daughter of King Bryton of Eldon, the rightful heir to the throne of Eldon, who stood with a whip in one of her slender hands.

"I will be fine, thank you." She raised her chin as she spoke, running her thumb along the braided leather hilt.

Firelight licked at the auburn locks of Regina's hair, piled into a braid high on her head. She looked at the figure who knelt in front of her. He was in his late twenties, dressed in well-made clothing that looked to have been repaired many times. His dark head bowed slightly. His well-muscled frame radiated the tension of a man looking for a way to attack.

Even with her assurance, Sir Oran still stood at the door, hovering. He was always worried about her, the only person in the castle who paid her much attention at all.

Still, though, she was the princess. Regina's back straightened, and she squared her shoulders, rounding on Sir Oran. Her lips drew into a tight line. Eyes flashing, she opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the bound man chuckled.

"We'll be fine."

"You will not speak," Regina snarled.

Sir Oran wavered for a moment more, but then, seeming to decide the man could do little in shackles, left. From behind her, Regina heard the door close. She held back the urge to roll her eyes at how often she was underestimated here. No one thought she was capable of anything.

Sure, she had never broken a slave before, but it did not strike her as a particularly difficult feat. A whip, a sharp word, unflinching resolve, rinse, repeat. For a moment, she wondered if her father had been right after all. Perhaps taking on an enemy soldier was biting off more than she could chew for her first slave. The thought angered her. She squared her shoulders, tossing doubt away. She would show them.

The man cast a crocodile smile toward the princess. It did not reach his eyes. "You know, a whip is more intimidating if you unfurl it."

Regina glared. "Giving me advice on how to break you? Not wise." Her fingers opened, letting the whip's length out.

He smiled, but beneath it, she saw a hint of tension. This was not a man who enjoyed being made to kneel. She liked the feeling of power over another person. It sent a thrill down her spine.

Regina cracked the whip, landing a blow on the floor between his knees. She smiled as he flinched. In the late night quiet of the castle, the noise of the whip reverberated loudly through the room.

"Why were you so near our castle, soldier?" Her voice was ice.

"I came to see you," he replied. "Got a bit tied up, but the result, it seems, is the same."

"How sweet," Regina cooed before bringing the whip down hard enough on his side that his shirt ripped.

---

The man had come to the castle just this morning with a group of other soldiers. Most of them were nothing. They were small people, sympathetic to the Heilaun claim, but they would know little. They dressed in patchwork armor, rusted and clinking. Just as her father was ready to send the lot of them to work camps, Regina had noticed one man in the middle of the group. Something about the way he stood made her pause. There was a suspiciously aristocratic countenance to his motions.

"Father," she said, leaning around the blond man who sat between her and the king. "I don't think that one is just a low-level insurgent."

"Which one?" Asked Crestoff cloyingly, blocking her view of the king as he leaned toward her. He was thin to the point of boniness, almost serpentine in the grace of his movements. His facial features were just a little too broad to be handsome. Everything about him was broad—broad of forehead, nose, and cheek. Even his eyes were set just a little too widely.

"The tall one with the curly hair," Regina said, pointing.

"Don't fuss with her, Crestoff," the king replied. "You don't have to take everything she says seriously just because she's your betrothed."

"Of course, Your Highness, but if you'd give me leave to pursue my lady's thoughts, I think there may be something to her claim." He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, pulling her pale fingers to his wide mouth. She bit back a sneer.

The king gave an indulgent shrug and waved his hand in permission.

At the king's leave, Crestoff kissed Regina's hand, stood, and crossed to the group of shackled men. Regina watched the dark-haired man's face, saw his muscles tense and then slacken as if he had to force himself to remain calm. Crestoff grabbed the man by the shackles and pulled him forward to get a better look.

"By the gods," he cried. "He's a Heilaun."

"A what?" The king sputtered. "Bring him here."

Crestoff yanked the man's shackles, pulling him up the stairs of the throne and then shoving him to his knees. The man did not look at the king. Instead, his eyes moved slowly over the dais until he was staring at Regina. She found herself caught up in them. Crestoff was right, she realized, he was certainly a Heilaun. Those grey eyes. She had never met one before.

"A Heilaun," the king breathed in disbelief. "Who are you? What is your name?"

Her father had been crowned king ages ago, but the civil war had not begun until recently as the Heilauns spread rumors calling into question the legitimacy of her father's throne. Given the way her father and Crestoff spoke of the rival family, she had started to believe that the Heilauns were a particularly vicious folk. In her head, she always imagined a greedy, ugly, rat-like family. This man was in no way like a rat.

He looked more like a wolf; his dusky brown hair brought out the gray of his eyes. She imagined herself falling into them, completely transfixed as he watched her. Suddenly, the eyes were pulled from her as Crestoff kicked the man in the side.

"The king asked you a question, Heilaun," Crestoff said, yanking the man back to his knees. Regina did not realize her father had said anything. She shook her head, looking around to see if anyone had noticed her inattentiveness. No one had.

"What question?" The man wheezed a little.

"Who are you?"

"Ah, a good question." There was a glint in the man's eyes, and his voice was full of mirth. Despite the severity of the situation, Regina felt a small tug at the corner of her mouth.

Crestoff kicked him again, infuriated by the man's sardonic tone. The Heilaun winced but did not fall this time, anticipating the second blow. "Answer it."

"Must I?" The prisoner looked almost bored.

King Bryton rolled his eyes. "I have no time for this. Crestoff, take him to one of the quieter wings and beat it out of him."

"I'd rather not, Highness. I much prefer breaking girls. If you don't mind, have one of the slavers do it. I feel I'll serve you better here as your counsel if it pleases Your Highness."

The king shrugged. "Sir Oran, take the—"

"Father, could I do it?" Regina spoke up. She liked the look of the young man. Too, she had always wondered what it would be like to have someone entirely at her mercy.

With a startled look, as if he had forgotten entirely that she was there, the king turned toward her. "Have you broken a slave before?"

Regina and her father had never been particularly close. He had wanted a male heir. Being born without the proper parts served as the first strike against her. Her mother's death brought the second blow to their relationship. His Majesty had never forgiven her for either offense and, in general, treated her as if she were on the verge of making a third.

"No, you haven't let—"

"Then what makes you think you can break him."

"Ah, let my beautiful bride-to-be try," Crestoff said, beaming at her very like the way he did when the jesters put clothes on their animals and had them parade about as humans. "He's locked up, not much he could do, and if she doesn't break him by the time the Ceremony fires are kindled, and Sir Oran can take a crack."

"I suppose it can't hurt," Regina's father indulged him, as he always did with Crestoff's requests.

Crestoff turned back to her, taking her by the wrist and pulling her close to him.

Almost involuntarily, Regina found her pressing her hands to his chest, keeping the distance between their bodies as wide as possible.

"How does that sound, dove?"

"Yes," she forced an answering grin on her face.

He pulled her tighter. "Come now," he spoke softly. "Doesn't that deserve a thank you?"

"Thank you," she replied, her eyes trained stiffly on a spot behind Crestoff's head.

"And a kiss," he prompted. As he spoke, his fingers found her inner arm and gave it a rough pinch.

Regina knew better than to cry out. Stifling a disgusted shudder, she forced herself to lean her head up toward him and stretched her face towards him to plant a chaste peck on his lips.

Crestoff had been her father's solution to Regina's gender inadequacies. When Crestoff was twelve, he had come to the castle with his mother, King Bryton's sister. By the visit's end, Regina's aunt had agreed to let Crestoff stay to be squired by one of the castle's knights, and Regina's hand was promised. She was a babe of two at the time and had little say in the matter. The wedding was set for her twentieth birthday, which at two weeks away, was approaching at a sickening clip.

"The trick," Crestoff told her, still speaking softly, his fingers still pressing into the flesh of her arm. "Is to make him hate the pain so much that he forgets he exists. Nothing but you and the pain exist. The only person who can make the pain stop must be you. He must believe that with every fiber of his being." He ran his finger over her chin until she was looking up at him. Not for the first time in his presence, Regina felt a chill run down her spine.

"Then you stop the pain and take what you want." He kissed her deeply. Regina pulled back as soon as he released her, surreptitiously rubbing her arm.

"Sir Oran," The king called as Regina broke from Crestoff's touch. "Bring the boy to one of the empty wings and make sure the princess has whatever she needs. Then start the fires."

Sir Oran pulled the man up from where he knelt and led him out of the room with Regina at their heels; her head lifted regally.

---

Back in the room, the prisoner winced as a crack of the whip cut his skin.

"So you weren't leading an attack on the castle?" She asked him, her tone saccharine.

"With six men?" The man scoffed. "No, princess. The boys and I were coming to see the Lady of Trandon."

"You know," the princess cooed softly as she moved closer to him. "I think you're lying. Such a young man... So highly decorated..." She ran her hand over the small holes on his right lapel. It was obvious he had removed several marks of rank in an attempt to make himself unknown to his captors. "You do not rise through the ranks so quickly unless you're related to some high official." She grasped his chin.

He tried to pull away, but his hands were bound to the wall and offered little range of motion.

Her hand forced his eyes to hers. "And those eyes. No one but a member of the Heilaun family line has such steely gray eyes." The soldier tensed slightly and tried in vain again to pull away. "Which makes you Gregar of House Heilaun—the famous young man who led rebels in taking hostage village of Canterry last year."

"You're smarter than you look," he told her.

She brought the whip down against his thigh.

He gave a soft groan, but it did not stop him from speaking. "I mean it."

She brought the whip down again, cracking it across his belly. "You're not as smart as you look. I told you not to speak."

She cracked the whip against him again to underline her point, careful to keep the marks light, even as she tore the fabric of his jacket.

"So you are Gregar of Heilaun? You confirm it?" Regina was thrilled. This was working quite well.

"You said it; I didn't." He replied, beaming at her. He seemed determined to keep up the appearance of cavalier disinterest.

Regina wondered if she had picked the wrong weapon. Would a crop hurt more than the whip? Would a knife make him more talkative? The knife seemed like a bad idea. She did not want to mark him up too much. He would make a fetching slave once he was broken. Still, she had little knowledge of the amount of pain caused by anything in the room.

--

Gregar watched Regina, entirely amused. The false confidence in her words coupled with the furtive glances she made whenever he did something she didn't expect brought a smile to his lips despite the current state of his plan.

"You know, the blond man—I suppose that's Crestoff?" He looked up at her. She did not answer, but he saw her nose wrinkle in distaste.

He continued. "He was not entirely right about breaking slaves."

Regina chuckled and placed her hand on her hip. "Are you going to give me advice on how to break you, Gregar?"

Gregar smirked as she used his name as if she were holding it over his head, dangling her knowledge. He did not engage.

"Just hear me out. I know it's your first time."

She rolled her eyes but waited for him to continue. He could tell she was way out of her depth.

"The trick to breaking a slave is not pain." He found her eyes with his. "It's making them want to be broken."

"What do you mean? Who wants to be broken?"

He nodded to the bindings. "Stand me up. I'll show you."

Regina looked around, nervously, as if checking to see who might be around to catch them. Instead of standing him up, she walked over to a small chest of drawers. She rifled through the items until she found what she was looking for. When she held it aloft, it was a small, curved blade—more like a spoon than a knife, razor sharp and about three inches long. She walked back to him.

"Do you know what this is?" She asked him, holding it in front of his face.

He glanced at it. "I expect it's for gauging my eyes out if I misbehave."

Regina nodded. "Don't do anything stupid." She grabbed the lever that controlled the chains and pulled it until he was standing. She stopped it when he was on the tips of his toes, his hand stretched up over his head.

"Open my shirt."

Regina balked.

Gregar rolled his eyes, biting back a chuckle at the pink in her cheeks and her wide-eyed expression. He could not help but wonder, as she held her mouth open, what her lips would feel like around his cock.

"I'm tied up, remember. How am I going to take advantage of you, little dove?"

She brought the back of her hand across his cheek so hard his head spun sideways. When he looked back at her, his lip was bleeding. He looked into her eyes, the flare of anger that burned within them. The fact that her emotions were so easily to decipher intrigued him, her soul visible with only the slightest provocation.

"Not a name you like, then?"

She did not answer. Instead, she opened his shirt with the sharp edge of the gauging spoon.

"Do you hate the name, the bird, or the man?" He pressed, watching her intently. He marveled at how easily she took directions. He expected a princess to at least give some pushback.

"I've no qualms with the bird," she muttered as she cut open the last of the shirt. "Now what?"

Gregar looked at her, looking at him. He could see her eyes running over his few scars, taking in the muscles and sinews of him. He smirked, seeing her lips slacken a little, fall open softly. He felt himself harden under her gaze.

"What do you mean 'now what'?" His voice was teasing.

Her eyes snapped to his, angry, her nose wrinkling. "You said to open your shirt. It's open."

---

"Ah, yes." Gregar gave Regina a smile that made her feel immediately foolish. She tightened her lips, stifling a groan of annoyance. His eyes caught hers again as he spoke, slowly, letting his words drip. "The trick is to know exactly how to make the person want it."

"Want what?"

"To give in." He explained. His eyes held hers. "For example, if I had you tied here, I would not start with pain. I would truss you so you couldn't move. Just like you've done with me here. Then, I would push my fingers between your thighs and toy with your maidenhood until you started to coo in my lap like the little dove you say you aren't—"

She slapped him again, harder. He expected it now. His face hardly moved. She could see the red welt of her handprint rising on his cheek.

"You are opposed to that name." He clucked in mock disapproval. "Was that too much? It's all right. It's not everyone's thing. Just thought you might want to try it. First time and all. You never know what's going to work for you."

She slapped him again, this time with the other hand. He shook his head, dizzied a little. When his eyes found hers, she saw anger behind the playfulness. She stepped back and brought the whip down against him again. His lip twitched in a snarl.

"Is it Crestoff you don't like?" He asked her, his voice strained slightly from the pain of the whip, but never quite losing its derisive intonation. "He doesn't fuck you the way you need it, is that it? Doesn't make you feel like a princess?"

"Shut. Up." She brought the whip down against him with each word. He chuckled. She could feel her anger coiling in the pit of her stomach. She brought the whip against him twice more, putting her entire weight into the lashes. She looked up, hearing Gregar cry out for the first time, her anger fading slightly at the pain in his voice.

She had struck the whip across the bare flesh of his chest where his shirt was open. An angry red welt ran from his neck to his navel. She moved forward. Blood began to pool in the mark of the whip. She winced. "Oh gods," she whispered. "I wasn't trying to—it probably isn't permanent."

She went to the chest of drawers, digging until she found a small vial and a scrap of gauze. She poured some of the liquid onto the padding. Her father and Crestoff always bragged about breaking their slave without a mark. Crestoff had left a mark one time, and her father had not let go of it for years. She was not going to give them this.

"This'll sting a bit." She pressed it into his chest. He drew in a breath. "Probably not as bad as the whip, though, right?"

"No," he agreed.

"We'll get back to the breaking as soon as it's cleaned." She poured a bit more of the liquid onto the gauze.

"You know," He watched her clean the cut. "You'll most likely slap me for saying this..."

"Then don't say it."

"No, it's alright. I rather enjoy watching you get angry. Your nose wrinkles when you're upset, did you know that?" She glared and immediately realized he was right as she felt her nose crinkle. He smirked. "It's charming."

"Well then, by all means." She rolled her eyes. Regina realized it was rather difficult to intimidate a man who stood a full head and shoulders above her. Perhaps she should, in the future, use some sort of stool when she was so close.

"Your dress doesn't suit you."

"That's unkind." She pressed the salve spitefully into his welt, smiling when she heard him give a sharp intake of breath.

He seemed undaunted. "It's not your fault, really. The bodice does you justice. I can tell you don't need it to keep your breasts up. They look like they would stand fully at attention on your own. It's the skirt that's the problem. I can't tell whether your thighs are thick or scrawny. Your ass might be flat as a board."

She opened her mouth to speak in her ass's defense, then closed it quickly. She could feel her cheeks burning red hot, unsure of how to react.

Before she could, he leaned his face very close to hers, his breath on her ear. When he spoke, his voice held a ragged edge. "You'd look much better in slave silks."

She was about to respond when the voice came from behind, startling her enough that she dropped the bottle. It bounced on the ground, rolling behind a pillory as she whirled around.