Rice, Anne - Beauty Series 02 - Beauty's Punishment

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BEAUTY’S PUNISHMENT

Anne Rice

an erotic novel of discipline, love and surrender, for the enjoyment of men and women

A. N. Roquelaure

A PLUME BOOK

THE EROTIC NOVELS OF ANNE RICE WRITING AS A. N. ROQUELAURE

•The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

•Beauty's Punishment

•Beauty's Release

Since 1983, A. N. Roquelaure has envisioned (for the uninhibited reader) a hypnotic and seductive

adult fairy tale in the Sleeping Beauty novels. Now, the author of this exquisite erotic trilogy

reveals her true identity—beckoning the reader into a sensuous world of forbidden dreams and

dark-edged desires ... a world in which traditional ideas of submission and dominance and gender

preference are thrown to the winds ... a world made irresistibly inviting by the adventurous spirit

and imagination of the unrivaled Anne Rice.

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,

London, England Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

Victoria, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 2801 John Street,

Markham, Ontario, Canada LSR 164

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Plume, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Books USA Inc. First published in a

Dutton edition.

First Plume Printing, 10 9 8 7

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Roquelaure, A.N.

Beauty's punishment.

Seauel to: The claiming of Sleeping Beauty

ISBN: 0-452-26662-9

Scanned by ripper² July 22, 2002

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS:

THE STORY THUS FAR

THE PUNISHED

BEAUTY AND TRISTAN

THE AUCTION IN THE MARKETPLACE

BEAUTY ON THE BLOCK

LESSONS FROM MISTRESS LOCKLEY

PRINCE ROGER'S STRANGE LITTLE STORY

THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD

THE PLACE OF PUBLIC PUNISHMENT

TRISTAN IN THE HOUSE OF NICOLAS, THE QUEEN'S CHRONICLER

A SPLENDID EQUIPAGE

THE FARM AND THE STABLE

SOLDIERS' NIGHT AT THE INN

GRAND ENTERTAINMENT

NICOLAS'S BEDCHAMBER

TRISTAN'S SOUL FURTHER REVEALED

MISTRESS LOCKLEY'S DISCIPLINE

CONVERSATION WITH PRINCE RICHARD

PUBLIC TENTS

MISTRESS LOCKLEY'S AFFECTIONS

SECRETS IN THE INNER CHAMBER

UNDER THE STARS

REVELATIONS AND MYSTERIES

PENITENTIAL PROCESSION

TRISTAN AND BEAUTY

DISASTER

EXOTIC MERCHANDISE

ANOTHER TURN OF THE WHEEL

VOLUPTUOUS CAPTIVITY

THE STORY THUS FAR

After her century-long slumber, the Sleeping Beauty opened her eyes at the kiss of the Prince, to

find her garments stripped away and her heart as well as her body under the rule of her deliverer. At

once, Beauty was claimed as the Prince's naked pleasure slave to be taken to his Kingdom.

With the grateful consent of her parents, and dazed with desire for the Prince, Beauty was then

brought to the Court of Queen Eleanor, the Prince's mother, to serve as one of hundreds of naked

Princes and Princesses, all playthings of the Court until such time as they should be rewarded and

sent home to their Kingdoms.

Dazzled by the rigors of the Training Hall, the Hall of Punishments, the ordeal of the Bridle Path,

and her own mounting passion to please, Beauty remained the undisputed favorite of the Prince and

the delight of her sometime Mistress, the lovely young Lady Juliana.

Yet she could not ignore her secret and forbidden infatuation with the Queen's exquisite slave,

Prince Alexi, and finally the disobedient slave, Prince Tristan.

After glimpsing Prince Tristan among the disgraced of the castle, Beauty, in a moment of

seemingly inexplicable rebellion, brings upon herself the very same punishment destined for

Tristan: to be sent away from the voluptuous Court to the degradation of harsh labor in the nearby

village.

As our story continues, Beauty has just been placed in the cart with Prince Tristan and the other

disgraced slaves to be taken down the long road to the auction block in the village marketplace.

BEAUTY'S PUNISHMENT

THE PUNISHED

Some, in desperation, glanced back at the high towers of the darkened castle. But no one was

awake, it seemed, to hear their cries. And a thousand obedient slaves slept within, on the silken

beds of the Slaves' Hall or in their Masters' and Mistresses' sumptuous chambers, unconcerned for

those incorrigible ones who were borne away now in the wobbling, high-railed cart, towards the

village auction.

The Commander of the Patrol smiled to himself as he saw Princess Beauty, the Crown Prince's

dearest slave, press towards the tall, heavily muscled figure of Prince Tristan. She had been the last

to be loaded into the cart, and what a lovely slave she was, he mused, her long, straight, golden hair

hanging loose down her back, her little mouth straining to kiss Tristan in spite of the leather bit that

gagged her. And how could the disobedient Tristan, with his hands bound to his neck as securely as

those of any other punished slave, solace her now, the Commander wondered?

He debated with himself: Should he stop this illicit intimacy? It would be simple enough to pull

Beauty out of the group and spread her legs as he bent her over the railing of the cart, spanking

with his belt her plump disobedient little sex for its impudence. Maybe Tristan and Beauty, both,

should be set down on the road and whipped behind the cart to teach them a good lesson.

But in truth the Commander felt just a little bit sorry for the condemned slaves, spoilt as they were,

even the willful Beauty and Tristan. By noon they would all have been sold from the block, and

during the long summer months of village service they would learn plenty.

The Commander rode alongside the cart now, catching another succulent little Princess with his

belt, punishing the rosy pubic lips that peeped through a nest of glossy black curls, and he plied the

strap all the harder when a long-limbed Prince sought gallantly to shield her.

Nobility even in adversity, the Commander laughed to himself, and gave the Prince exactly what he

deserved with the strap, all the more amused when he glimpsed the Prince's hard and writhing

organ.

Well-trained, the lot, he had to admit, the lovely Princesses with their nipples erect and faces

flushed, the Princes trying to conceal their swelling cocks. And as sorry as the Commander felt for

them, he couldn't help but think of the glee of the villagers.

All year the villagers saved their money for this day, when only a few coins would purchase, for the

whole summer long, a pampered slave who had been chosen for the Court, trained and groomed for

the Court, and must now obey the lowliest kitchen maid or stable boy who bid high enough at the

auction.

And what an enticing group they were this time, their rounded limbs still fragrant with costly

perfume, pubic hair still combed and oiled, as if they went to be presented to the Queen herself and

not a thousand leering and eager villagers. Cobblers, Innkeepers, merchants awaited them,

determined to exact hard labor for their money as well as pretty looks and abject humility.

The cart jostled the crying slaves, tumbled them together. The distant castle was now no more than

a great gray shadow against the lightening sky, its vast pleasure gardens concealed by the high

walls that surrounded it.

And the Commander smiled as he rode nearer to the thicket of lovely shaped calves and high-

arched feet in the cart, seeing a half dozen splendid unfortunates pressed to the very front rail with

no hope at all of escaping the soldiers' straps as the others crowded against them. All they could do

was squirm under the playful assault, baring hips and backsides and bellies again to the sting of the

belts as they bowed their tear-stained faces.

It was a luscious sight indeed, rendered all the more interesting, perhaps, by the fact that they didn't

really know what lay in store for them. No matter how much Court slaves were warned about the

village, they were never really prepared for the shocks that awaited them. If they had really known,

they would never, never have risked the Queen's displeasure.

And the Commander couldn't help but think ahead to the end of summer when, thoroughly

chastened, these same wailing and struggling young men and women would be brought back with

heads bowed and tongues silent in utter submission. What a privilege it would be then to whip them

one by one to press their lips to the Queen's slipper!

So let them wail now, the Commander mused. Let them twist and turn as the sun rose over the

rolling green hills and the cart lumbered ever faster down the long road to the village. And let the

pretty little Beauty and the majestic young Tristan cleave to each other in the very middle of the

press. They would soon learn what they had brought upon themselves.

He might even stay for the auction this time, the Commander thought, or at least just long enough

to see Beauty and Tristan separated and hoisted one after the other to that block as they deserved,

and sold off to their new owners.

BEAUTY AND TRISTAN

But, Beauty, why did you do it?" Prince Tristan whispered. "Why did you disobey deliberately?

Did you want to be sent to the village?"

All around them in the rolling cart the Princes and Princesses whimpered and bawled hopelessly.

But Tristan had worked loose the cruel little leather bit that had gagged him, and let it drop to the

floor. And Beauty at once did the same, freeing herself of the mean device with the aid of her

tongue and spitting it away from her with delicious defiance.

After all, they were condemned slaves, were they not, so what did it matter? They had been given

by their

parents as naked tributes to the Queen, told to obey during their years of service. But they had

failed. They were now condemned to hard labor and cruel use by the common people.

"Why, Beauty?" Tristan pressed. But no sooner did he ask the question again than he covered

Beauty's open mouth with his own so that Beauty could only receive the kiss, standing on tiptoe,

Tristan's organ lifting her moist sex which hungered for him desperately. If only their hands were

not bound, if only she could embrace him!

Suddenly Beauty's feet no longer touched the floor of the cart, and she tumbled forward against

Tristan's chest, riding him, the throbbing inside her so violent that it obliterated the cries and loud

wallops of the mounted soldiers' leather straps, and Beauty felt her breath sucked up and out of her.

For eternity she seemed to float, unanchored to the real world of the immense creaking wooden cart

with its high wheels, the taunting guards, the paling sky arching high over the soft dark hills and the

dim prospect of the village lying under a blue mist far below them. There was no rising sun, no

clop of the horses hooves, no soft limbs of other struggling slaves mashed against her sore buttocks.

There was only this organ splitting her, lifting her, and then driving her remorselessly to a silent yet

deafening explosion of pleasure. Her back arched, her legs out straight, her nipples throbbing

against Tristan's warm flesh, her mouth filled with Tristan's tongue at the same instant.

And dimly through the ecstasy, she felt Tristan's hips go into their final irresistible rhythm. She

could not bear any more, yet the pleasure was fragmented, multiplied, washing through her over

and over. In some realm beyond thought, she felt she was not human. The pleasure dissolved the

humanity she had known. And she was not Princess Beauty, brought as a slave to serve in the

Prince's castle. Yet most certainly she was, because this excruciating pleasure had been learned

there.

She knew only the soft wet pulse of her sex and the organ lifting her and holding her. And Tristan's

kisses growing more tender, more sweet, more lingering. A weeping slave pressed against her back,

hot flesh against her own, and another warm body crushed against her right side, a great sweep of

silky hair brushing her naked shoulder.

"But why, Beauty?" Tristan whispered again, his lips still touching hers. "You must have done it

deliberately, run from the Crown Prince. You were too admired, too accomplished." His deep

almost-violet-blue eyes were thoughtful, meditative, reluctant to reveal him completely.

His face was a little larger than that of most men, the bones strong, perfectly symmetrical, yet the

features were almost delicate, and the voice was low and more commanding than the voices of

those who had been Beauty's Masters. But there was nothing but intimacy in the voice, and that,

and Tristan's long eyelashes, gold in the light of the sun, gave him a touch of enchantment. He

spoke to Beauty as though they had been slave companions forever.

"I don't know why I did it," Beauty whispered in answer. "I can't explain, but yes, it must have been

deliberate." She kissed his chest, quickly finding the nipples and kissing them both and then

sucking them hard one after the other so that she felt his organ thump against her again, though he

begged her softly for mercy.

Of course, the punishments of the castle had been voluptuous; it had been exciting to be the

playthings of a rich Court, to be the object of relentless attention. Yes, it had been infatuating and

confusing, the exquisitely tooled leather paddles and straps and the welts they caused, the exacting

discipline that had so often left her crying and breathless. And the warm perfumed baths

afterwards, the massages with fragrant oils, the hours of half-sleep in which she dared not

contemplate the tasks and trials that awaited her.

Yes, it had been heady and seductive and even terrifying.

And surely she had loved the tall, black-haired Crown Prince with his mysterious unnamed

dissatisfactions, and the lovely sweet Lady Juliana with her pretty blond braids, both of whom had

been such talented tormentors.

So why had Beauty thrown it all away? Why, when she had seen Tristan in the stockade with its

crowd of disobedient Princes and Princesses, all condemned to be auctioned in the village, had she

deliberately disobeyed in order to be sent to the village with them?

She could still remember Lady Juliana's brief description of the fate awaiting them:

"It is wretched service. The auction itself takes place as soon as they arrive and you can well

suppose that even the beggars and the common louts about town are there to witness it. Why, the

whole village declares a holiday."

And then that strange remark from Beauty's Master, the Crown Prince, who never dreamed at that

moment that Beauty would soon disgrace herself: "Ah, but for all its roughness and cruelty," he had

said, "it is sublime punishment."

Was it those words that had undone her?

Did she long to be hurled downward, away from the high Court of ornate and clever rituals

imposed upon her, into some wilderness of disregard where the humiliations and spanking blows

would come just as hard and just as fast but with a greater, more savage abandon?

Of course, there would be the same limits. Not even in the village could a slave's flesh be broken;

never could a slave be burned or truly harmed. No, her punishments would all enhance. And she

knew by now just how much could be accomplished with the innocent-looking black leather strap

and deceptively decorated leather paddle.

But in the village she would be no Princess. Tristan would be no Prince. And the crude men and

women who worked them and punished them would know that with every gratuitous blow they

were doing the Queen's bidding.

Suddenly Beauty couldn't think. Yes, it had been deliberate, but had she made some dreadful error?

"And you, Tristan," she said suddenly, trying to conceal the quavering of her voice. "Was it not

deliberate with you, too? Didn't you deliberately provoke your Master?"

"Yes, Beauty, but there's a long story behind it," Tristan said. And Beauty could see the

apprehension in his eyes, the dread he couldn't admit either. "I served Lord Stefan, as you know,

but what you don't know is that a year ago in another land, as equals, Lord Stefan and I were

lovers." The large violet-blue eyes became a little more penetrable, the lips a little warmer as they

smiled almost sadly.

Beauty gasped to hear this.

The sun was fully risen now, and the cart had taken a sharp turn in the road and the descent was

slower over uneven terrain, the slaves pitched more roughly than ever against one another.

"You can imagine our surprise," Tristan said, "when we discovered ourselves Master and slave at

the castle, and when the Queen, seeing the blush on Lord Stefan's face, immediately gave me over

to him with the sharp instructions that he train me himself to be perfect."

"Unbearable," Beauty said. "To have known him before, to have walked with him, spoken with

him. How could you submit?"

All her Masters and Mistresses had been strangers to her, defined perfectly in the instant she

realized her helplessness and vulnerability. She had known the color and texture of their

magnificent slippers and boots, the sharp tones of their voices, before she had known their names or

their faces.

But Tristan gave the same mysterious smile. "O, I think it was far worse for Stefan than for me," he

whispered in her ear. "You see, we had met before at a great tournament, struggling against each

other, and in every feat I'd bested him. When we hunted together, I had been the better shot and the

better horseman. He had admired me and looked up to me, and I had loved him for it because I

knew the extent of his pride and the love that equaled it. When we coupled, I was the leader.

"But we had to return to our Kingdoms. We had to return to the duties that awaited us. Three stolen

nights of love we had, maybe more, in which he yielded as a boy might to a man. Then letters that

at last became too painful to write. Then war. Silence. Stefan's Kingdom allied with that of the

Queen. And later, her armies at our gates, and this strange meeting in the Queen's castle: I on my

knees waiting to be given to a worthy Master, and Stefan, the Queen's young kinsman, sitting

silently at her right at the banquet table." Tristan smiled again. "No, it was worse for him. I blush

with shame to admit it, but my heart leapt when I saw him. And it is I who, out of spite, have

triumphed by abandoning him."

"Yes," Beauty understood this because she knew she had done it to the Crown Prince and Lady

Juliana. "But the village, weren't you afraid?" Again there came the quavering in her voice. How

far were they from the village, even as they spoke of it? "Or was it simply the only way?" she asked

softly.

"I don't know. There must have been more to it than that," Tristan whispered, but then he stopped

as though bewildered. "But if you must know," he confessed, "I am terrified." Yet he said it so

calmly, his voice so full of quiet assurance that Beauty couldn't believe it.

The groaning cart had made another turn. The guards had ridden ahead to hear some orders from

their Commander. The slaves whispered among themselves, all too obedient and fearful still to

discard the little leather bits in their mouth, yet able to consult frantically on what lay ahead as the

cart rocked on slowly.

"Beauty," Tristan said, "we'll be separated when we reach the village, and no one knows what may

happen to us. Be good, obey; it can't ultimately—" And again he stopped, unsure. "It can't

ultimately be worse than the castle."

And now Beauty thought she heard the barest tinge of real trepidation in his voice, but his face was

almost hard when she looked up at him, only the beautiful eyes softening it just a little. She could

see the slightest golden stubble of beard on his chin, and she wanted to kiss it.

"Will you watch for me after we're separated, try to find me, if only to say a few words to me?"

Beauty said. "O, just to know you are there . . . but I don't think I will be good. I don't see why I

should be good any longer. We're bad slaves, Tristan. Why should we obey now?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. "You make me afraid for you."

From far away, there came the faint roar of voices, the sound of a large crowd carrying sluggishly

over the low hills, the dim vibration of a village fair, of hundreds talking, shouting, milling.

Beauty pressed close to Tristan's chest. She felt a stab of excitement between her legs, her heart

knocking. Tristan's organ was hard again, but it was not inside of her, and it was an agony again

that her hands were bound so she couldn't touch it.

Her question seemed meaningless suddenly, yet she repeated it, the distant noise growing louder.

"Why must we obey if we are already punished?"

Tristan too heard the distant swelling sounds. The cart was picking up speed.

"We were told at the castle that we must obey," Beauty said, "our parents had willed it when they

sent us to the Queen and the Prince as Tributes. But now we're bad slaves ..."

"Our punishment will only be worse if we disobey," Tristan said, but there was something strange

in his eyes that betrayed his voice. He sounded false, as if repeating something he thought he

should say for her good.

"We must wait and see what happens to us," he said. "Remember, Beauty, in the end they will win

over us."

"But how, Tristan?" she asked. "You mean you condemned yourself to this, and yet you will

obey?" She felt again the thrill she'd known when she left the Prince and Lady Juliana weeping

behind her at the castle. "I am such a bad girl," she thought. Yet. . .

"Beauty, their wishes will prevail. Remember, a willful, disobedient slave will amuse them just as

much. Why struggle?" Tristan said.

"Why struggle to obey?" Beauty said.

"Do you have the strength to be terribly bad all the time?" he asked. His voice was low, urgent, his

breath warm against her neck as he kissed her again. Beauty tried to shut out the sound of the

crowd; it was a horrid sound, like that of a great beast coming out of its lair; she knew she was

trembling.

"Beauty, I don't know what I've done," Tristan said. Anxiously he glanced in the direction of that

awesome, menacing noise: shouts, cheers, the mayhem of a fair day. "Even at the castle," he said,

the violet-blue eyes fired now with something that might have been fear in a strong Prince who

could not show it. "Even at the castle, I found it was easier to run when they told us to run, to kneel

when they told us to kneel, and there was a triumph of sorts in doing it perfectly."

"Then why are we here, Tristan?" she asked, standing on tiptoe to kiss his lips. "Why are we both

such bad slaves?" And though she tried to sound rebellious and brave, she pressed herself against

Tristan all the more desperately.

THE AUCTION IN THE MARKETPLACE

The cart had come to a stop, and Beauty could see through the tangle of white arms and tousled hair

the walls of the village below, with the gates open and a motley crowd swelling out onto the green.

But slaves were being quickly unloaded from the cart, forced with the smack of the belt to crowd

together on the grass. And Beauty was immediately separated from Tristan, who was pulled

roughly away from her for no apparent reason other than the whim of a guard.

The leather bits were being pulled out of the mouths of the others. "Silence!" came the loud voice

of the Commander. "There is no speech for slaves in the village! Any who speak shall be gagged

again more cruelly than they have ever been before!"

He rode his horse round the little herd, driving it tightly together, and gave the order that the slaves'

hands should be unbound and woe to any slave who removed his or her hands from the back of the

neck.

"The village has no need of your impudent voices!" he went on. "You are beasts of burden now,

whether that burden be labor or pleasure! And you shall keep your hands to the back of your necks

or be yoked and driven before a plow through the fields!"

Beauty was trembling violently. She couldn't see Tristan as she was forced forward. All around her

were long windblown tresses, bowed heads, and tears. It seemed the slaves cried more softly

without their gags, struggling to keep their lips closed, and the voices of the guards were miserably

sharp!

"Move! Head up straight!" came the gruff, impatient commands. Beauty felt chills rising on her

arms and legs at the sound of those angry voices. Tristan was behind her somewhere, but if only he

would come close.

And why had they been put out here so far from the village? And why was the cart being turned

around?

Suddenly she knew. They were to be driven on foot, like a gaggle of geese to market. And almost

as quickly as the thought came to her, the mounted guards swooped down on the little group and

started them forward with a rain of blows.

"This is too bitter," Beauty thought. She was trembling as she started to run, the smack of the

paddle as always catching her when she did not expect it and sending her flying forward over the

soft, newly turned earth of the road.

"At a trot, with heads up!" the guard shouted, "and knees up as well!" And Beauty saw the horses'

hooves pounding beside her, just as she'd seen them before on the Bridle Path at the castle, and felt

the same wild trepidation as the paddle cracked her thighs and even her calves. Her breasts ached as

she ran, and a dull warm pain coursed through her sore legs.

She couldn't see the crowd clearly, but she knew they were there, hundreds of villagers, perhaps

even thousands, flooding out of the gates to meet the slaves. "And we're to be driven right through

them; it's too awful," she thought, and suddenly the resolves she had made in the cart, to disobey, to

rebel, left her. She was too purely afraid. And she was running as fast as she could down the road

towards the village, the paddle finding her no matter how she hurried, until she realized she had

pressed through the first rank of slaves and was now running with them, no one before her anymore

to shield her from the sight of the enormous crowd.

Banners flew from the battlements. Arms waved and cheers rose as the slaves drew closer, and

through the excitement there came the sounds of derision, and Beauty's heart thudded as she tried

not to see too clearly what lay ahead, though she could not turn away.

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BEAUTY’SPUNISHMENTAnneRiceaneroticnovelofdiscipline,loveandsurrender,fortheenjoymentofmenandwomenA.N.RoquelaureAPLUMEBOOKTHEEROTICNOVELSOFANNERICEWRITINGASA.N.ROQUELAURE•TheClaimingofSleepingBeauty•Beauty'sPunishment•Beauty'sReleaseSince1983,A.N.Roquelaurehasenvisioned(fortheuninhibitedreader)ahypno...

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Rice, Anne - Beauty Series 02 - Beauty's Punishment

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