Btw, the much longer, uncensored version of this can be found on my adultfanfiction account under the same penname and story title. :) Enjoy.

O

Where do I begin?

On Thursday I tore up all my clothes.

They were too expensive. I’m not the princess I once was. I’m some king’s five-dollar whore and I’ll dress like one, lying here in my rags.

Minutes pass and I lift myself up on my elbows, to stare at the mirror across the room. It’s a full-length wall-mirror, all adorned in gold. Pink and white reflections watch me, shreds of silk and ruffles, and the occasional ribbon. My black lace undergarments peak out, too thin and embellished to be either practical or comfortable. Am I some humanized showboat to him? Must be, but... I’ll be his trophy wife no more.

Maybe I’ll shave off my treasured hair, waist-length and dirty-blonde. The curls are unruly and it reaches too far, anyway. That would really piss him off. Maybe I’ll bite my pink lips ‘til they crust, and gouge out my blue eyes. Pull off my thin limbs and tear my pale skin and rip out my shriveled heart. There’d be blood everywhere, and no matter how hard the maid scrubbed it would forever stay, permanently entwined in the thousands of tiny fibers that make up his precious foreign rugs, so damn ornate as they are. Like every damn thing in the room. I’d cover everything. Canopy bed, silk-satin sheets, mahogany dressers and water-drenched terrace doors, every piece of gold or expensive wood or pale gray brick walls. He’d come home to his beautiful little eighteen-year-old child-pleasure-slave/wife strewn across the giant chambers in two thousand tiny pieces. I’d leave my king a royal mess.

My mirrored lips twitch into a crude smirk at my own joke. ...Although... he’s no king of mine.

He made a little deal with my father one year ago to join our two kingdoms. Me being the seal. Then he killed my father anyway and his army still slaughtered my citizens, and for some strange reason (I’ll never understand) I’ve still been forced to marry him. And I’m still forced to fuck him. It’s terribly unfair. (In my kingdom seventeen was too young to marry, but apparently his has no decency.) Anyway...

I’m the last of my people and I’m lying on my floor in rags. Lovely. I miss my kingdom. It was always sunny and beautiful. Here, it never stops raining. (And in the background I hear the drops hit the glass of the terrace doors and full-length windows, like always.)

There’s a knock on my door and I continue to stare at my mirrored dead eyes. Lord, I’m feeling bitter today. It happens.

The knock sounds again and again I ignore it. Only servants knock. I don’t want to talk to his servants. They’re his demon spawn. The handle twists and the door opens and a foot steps in. Pauses. I turn to see her seeing past me, staring at all the tattered, torn fabric, all dresses with too-big skirts and too-little bodices. I need to breathe and I don’t like him breathing down my chest.

She stares at me next and I stare back: What?

Rissa is my guard. She exists for the sole purpose of caging me here: seizing me should I run. Run. As though I’m allowed to own running shoes – as though I’m allowed to choose my own clothes. I’m not. Not going to break my ankles. She stares at my “gifts” again and bends to collect them. She begins to gather them into piles.

Rissa is my guard and his servant, but I don’t hate her. She isn’t one of his demon spawn. His demon spawn have lightly tanned skin and chestnut hair, and hollow eyes. Like ugly him. Well, I suppose that’s not true. He’s actually maddeningly handsome by conventional standards, but it doesn’t matter as he’ll always be truly hideous to me. I know his insides. Anyway. She has dark brown skin and dark black hair and bright, white eyes. Some days, I like to imagine that he’s kidnapped her too from her own far away land, and together we survive this. Her hair comes to her mid-back and is perfectly straight, and her bangs are cut straight, across her eyes. She has long limbs and she’s taller than me, and older, but I don’t know by how much. She’s thinner and not nearly as curvaceous as I, but more muscled – she doesn’t have my “heaving chest” or “plump rear,” as he puts it – but I don’t care. I like her the way she is. She doesn’t talk often.

She gathers all my clothes and gives me a look of reprimand, and for a moment, I feel silly. That was so childish. My gesture will do nothing but anger him, and he’ll lash out at me, and I’ll have new bruises to cover and no clothes to cover them with. With nothing to dress my skin I’ll be allowed to leave the castle even less, which, as it is, is already almost never. I am a child.

But the tiny bout of bitter satisfaction is almost enough to counterbalance a beating, and I don’t entirely regret my outburst. I comply with him too much, and I have so little ways to rebel. I have done what I can.

I’ve looked away and when I look back Rissa is standing. She seems like she wants to do something to help, but knows she cannot. Or so I like to imagine. In reality her expression does not falter – it never does. She takes another look at my former clothes and leaves. And closes the door.

So I push off my bruised knees and stand and cross the floor. Reopen the door. She stands outside with her spear, and occasionally follows me where I go, and occasionally stands at the front door. I’m sure it’s more structured than I make it sound. I don’t know how the guard’s schedules go, and she won’t tell me. Today and now she’s standing one foot away with her spear in hand, perfect posture holding her straight. Fear has caught up with me and I don’t want to be alone.

She glances at me. My dress is torn across my chest and one sleeve is half missing, the other sporting three large gashes, both slumping off my shoulders. It was once pink and baby blue and white, with ruffles everywhere and a full skirt, as always. My skirt is ripped irreparably and each layer ends in jagged, fraying, uneven edges. She looks back – straight ahead. My bra is showing, but... I’m not self-conscious with her – she’s a woman. He’s a man and I hate when he looks at me.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, finally, even though I’m not so sure I fully mean it. “I got frustrated again.”

She says nothing. I slump down against the wall next to her, sitting with my back to the pale gray brick wall. Normally I would go to the library or kitchens or something now, but I... I can’t in this. There are other servants and I don’t want them to see me. I... I suppose I’m still a queen, if not a princess, I... “But I can’t help it,” I drawl, “He bought a new one for me on Tuesday.” I don’t specify the ‘he’ because she knows. “And yesterday he made me wear it to the banquet. And he didn’t look at me the whole time. Then he got drunk and the minute the guests left he made me take it off. Why do I even bother putting clothes on if he’s only going to rip them off? And then he throws another party today and won’t even let me come down!” I glare off, upset. Being upset does me no good, and I do it less and less. But it is inevitable and sometimes I feel the intense desire to punch things. I end with a quiet, “I hate him,” and pout. (I don’t care if it’s a “man” party – for knights and thanes and lords, or whatever. He throws too many.)

She’s looking down at me, I can tell. I look up and she’s still looking. She pats my head and it’s a little soothing.

“I hate all his clothes,” I say. He dress like a pirate and dresses me like a doll. It doesn’t even match for goodness’ sake. “We live in a city of rain – we should just wear plastic.” I’m mumbling and ranting and I continue on for a while and she listens.

Eventually I hear footsteps. I know. I want to stand up, but my knees won’t. I don’t know if I’m paralyzed with anger, fear, or frustration, but overall I can tell I’m just drained. His shadow appears on the wall before he rounds the corner, smiling his maddening smile. Back from his merrymaking, I deduce, or whatever. He probably left me here so he could flirt with girls a third of his age. He’s more than twice mine and he’s vile. I wish his stupid celebration hall would spew rats.

He walks right up to me and opens his ruffled-white-shirt-covered tanned-arms, teeth working into, “Bell, honey, how’s my darling little wife been?” I can’t help but glare up at him, and once he takes me all in his arms fall. My name isn’t Bell. He calls me that because he wants to. “Is that the dress I bought you?” His breath smells like beer, I can tell. Even from down here.

And my lips twist. They’re all the dresses he bought me. That’s all I have.

“That was expensive,” he says.

You have my whole fucking kingdom’s fortune, I want to say, but don’t. And half should be mine, anyway. And he’s just so wrong and this is just so unfair. And I know it’s just her job to bring me back but sometimes I really wish my guard would let me drop from the terrace to the gardens, and run through the rain for days.

Then he grabs my arm suddenly and yanks me up so hard it hurts – his grip is tight. I hate his long fingers. I stumble and he twists the doorknob. He opens the door and pushes me in, and sees the pile. I watch his expression darken.

But it was still worth it.

X

His reaction? In the aff version. :P Anyway.

Sorry that was so short and all exposition. More chapters will bring more substance, and if you want more chapters please review. :)