Page 7 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“Yes.”
“Good.” The heated pain on my arm continues.
“Aren’t you going to make me swear to obey the Princess in all things?” I ask.
The old woman grunts. “Can’t be too broad with these vows, or they begin to have unintended consequences. And you can’t attach too much magical weight to a single tattoo.”
“I don’t know much about tattoo mages,” I admit. “We have none in my kingdom. I hear the Pirate King has some in his service, and I believe there are a few in the kingdom of Bolcan as well.”
She snorts. “Pirate King. Ha. I wanted to work for him once. He said my magic wasn’t good enough. Unreliable and weak, he said. Wouldn’t take me aboard, in any case. No women are allowed on his ships. Joke’s on him, because now I work for a true royal family, not some upstart renegade with a hatred for women.”
“I have heard women are permitted aboard his ships now.”
The tattoo mage jabs me harder with the needle. “We are not having a conversation, thrall. Stay quiet while I finish this.”
The sharpest pain ends when she’s done, though the area she tattooed remains hot and sore. I want to see my new tattoo, but I’m still chained and blindfolded.
With a weary sigh and much clinking of her needles and implements, the tattoo mage packs up and shuffles out.
I sense more people moving in—I’m not sure how many. Their hands brush my throat, wrists, and ankles, unchaining me.
I don’t resist as they lead me, naked and blindfolded, to a room that feels large and drafty. I’m set on a toilet and told to piss and shit. A handful of years ago, the indignity of it would have made me weep. But I’m a soldier. I’ve learned to be less modest when it comes to necessary physical functions.
When I’m done, they drag me back to the center of the room.
Powerful blasts of water strike my body, pummeling me all over. Someone forces my legs wider, pries my butt cheeks apart, lifts my cock—I’m lathered with harsh-smelling soap, scrubbed and scoured with rough brushes and coarse sponges.
Someone is kneading my scalp, rubbing soap into my hair. More blasts of water, and then a series of unmerciful scraping jerks from a comb as my hair is untangled. More lather, more scrubbing, more pounding water, until I feel raw and tender all over.
My blindfold is whipped off, and then the shaving begins.
There are two people, a man and a woman, dressed in simple clothing. Palace servants. They spread white cream along my jawline and throat, over my chest, down my abdomen, and all around my groin. I stand with my legs spread, perfectly still, terrified to move lest they cut me somewhere important.
The servants work the razors as if they’ve done this a million times, expertly shaving everything from my pectorals to my ball sack. Even the hair under my arms is trimmed close to the skin.
“Haircut?” asks one servant.
“I was told to leave his hair this length,” replies another.
“Right. We’re almost ready for the moisturizing cream and the scent.”
It’s as if I’m not human anymore. They don’t acknowledge me at all, or meet my eyes. I am a body to be prepared, an object for my mistress to enjoy.
I am a pleasure thrall now, bound to the Crown Princess Vienne of Thannira. The Second Princess warned that her older sister can be volatile. But I’ve heard she’s beautiful, too, with bright blue eyes and long, looping curls of glossy auburn hair. I look forward to seeing her.
Maybe, if I work hard to please and amuse her, my situation will be bearable. Lucky for me I get the gorgeous, sensual woman who will one day be Queen, and not her creepy sadistic sister with the deadly voice.
The two servants smear my body with a cream that soaks into my skin almost immediately, leaving it unusually soft. Then they add dabs of scent to my inner thighs, my throat, and the pulse points at my wrists.
“Clothing,” says the woman, and the man fetches a pair of satiny black shorts. They drape a couple of thin gold chains around my hips and add gold bands to my wrists and ankles. “Your mistress will choose your rings and ear jewelry,” says the woman. “Open your mouth.”
They clean my teeth, brush my hair with a light oil, and apply more oil to my chest and arms. They draw lines of black paint along my eyelids and pluck my brows to a neater shape. I can see a little of what’s happening thanks to a tall mirror that stands off to the left.
As a final touch, they snap a bronze collar around my neck. A long, thin chain dangles from it.
The man pushes me toward the mirror. “Take a look, thrall.”
I look like what I am—a well-toned, attractive body polished and prepared for someone’s pleasurable use. The tattoo circling my right bicep is a series of tiny gulls, black moths, and thorny chains.
