Dashington’s Punishment
Staring at the penitent Duke, you feel a stirring that must be your imperial blood coming to the fore, for the command comes to you quite naturally. “Strip!” you say sternly, and the Duke, smouldering eye demurely on the ground, complies.
It is but the work of moments to ascertain safewords and tie him to the spun-space-glass table with his own discarded garments. You privately congratulate yourself for the extra hours you spent perusing the Galactic Girl Guides Guide To Knots. The Duke, panting, makes a valiant attempt to escape on your command, but your bindings hold firm!
(Spun-space-glass, a product of the mines of Merktop, is of course vulnerable to the thoughtwaves of advanced species, so that it is as heavy or light as the strongest-willed person in its vicinity desires, and therefore the Duke has no chance of toppling even the small table as he might if it was made out of Old Earth glass, insofar as anyone would be foolish enough to create an entire table out of that most dangerous material, which could shatter into pieces as sharp as the pangs of unfulfilled desire which presently stab at your lower regions.)
With the Duke’s firm and rounded posterior thus presented to you, it requires none of his frantic requests for punishment to compel your delicate hand to descend upon his shapely buttocks! As his cries mount, you begin to insult him with the most foul insults you can think of. “K’letrian jokr puddle! Ghur-loving trezzle!” you cry as, half-amazed at the foulness spilling from your pretty lips, you continue to smack his tender butt.
The Duke’s cries rise in intensity and he grinds his magnificent manhood against the edge of the table. “Please, Princess,” he begs. “Please!”
“Only when I permit you, you son of a Fro-ofjian gaxst!” you command, and, truly stirred, strike him all the harder. His buttocks glow as red as the apples of Hort, which are extremely red and also rosy, and when you feel that warmth tingle down your hands and arms, you decide he may be permitted some small release. “Now!”
“Guurgh,” he gurgles, and spends vigorously all over the table, to the great satisfaction of you both.
Mindful of your need to call your parents and inform them of your whereabouts from one of the holo-phones that must be in the suite somewhere, and also of the rule that your gracious teachers drilled into you to never leave a bondage partner bound and alone lest they be non-consensually injured, you use the zathwop blade to cut the Duke free.
But before you can voice your requirement for the holo-phone, or your suggestion that after the call you could retire to some chamber better fitted for such play, you hear a clamour from outside the suite as great as that of the tuning of the 600-piece orchestra of Lambda 9!
“Proet, no!†Duke Dashington exclaims, leaping to his feet. “It must be the mercenaries!â€
As one, the two of you bravely dash out into the corridor, zathwop bladearm and lumino-epee held at the ready! You lay about you with your weapons in an impressive fashion, claiming the lives of many a mercenary. But just as it seems you may be able to win free, Duke Dashington is struck down!
“O, Dashington!†you exclaim, helping him to the ground with one arm as you skillfully parry the attack of a mercenary with the other.
“Take heart, Princess,†he gasps, as his lifeblood pours forth, “you may yet carry the day!â€
But you don’t. Only moments after making a brave vow to avenge the Duke’s death, you receive your own mortal wound at the hands of a merciless mercenary. It seems that two people are not sufficient to hold off an army.
Oops.
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