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Chapter 10 – The Bitchblade
"A woman must learn to defend herself. That way she can never be a victim."
King Ethelred's words fell on Princess Gwendolyn's ears like water falling on a desert plant. The desire blossomed in her mind. She snuggled up close to him in the bed. His disdain of innocent virgins was a continuing comfort to her. Through the open bedroom window, they listened to the moans, whimpers and gasps of Queen Rowena's Ladies-in-waiting being raped over in the courtyard by brutish peasants. In the days before porn videos, live entertainment was the only game in town. Gwendolyn and Ethelred enjoyed a romantic little interlude while, in the courtyard below, a fiercely struggling, fair skinned beauty was made to grunt like a pig by strong smelling sons of the soil, Gwendolyn stuck her tongue in Ethelred's ear hole. She whispered her question breathily into his moistened orifice.
"How does a woman learn to fight? Who will teach her?"
Ethelred gave her a sated grin.
"I'll teach you, if you like."
Gwendolyn and her bare breasts bounced up and down on the bed with childish enthusiasm.
"I like! I like!"
The next day in the dungeon, King Ethelred gave her a light rapier and taught her the basics of parry, thrust, lunge and recover. They worked slowly and carefully as he taught her a swordsman's stance and the rudimentary parries.
Queen Rowena's guards were dangling nude, hung by their wrists from a long trestle overhead. Their ankles were bound to a ringbolt below, stretching them out temptingly. Giving in to temptation, Gwendolyn had arranged for them to be whipped with thorns from head to toe. A badly scratched man hanging helplessly with his genitals fully exposed to an armed woman that he has recently raped is tremblingly respectful. Whipped curs, they had little to say as they watched Ethelred encourage her by tossing apples in the air and having her slice them in half. A quick study, she did it with a vicious competence that was little comfort to her dangling spectators.
"If you mouth off to me, I'll slice off your dicks!"
Gwendolyn walked down the row of naked guards, pausing in front of each to dip her blade under his testicles and lift them delicately with the flat of the blade. She looked each coolly in the face, earnestly inquiring if he had any complaints about his treatment. Afraid to make the smallest sound, each guard answered silently with frantic head shaking and pleading eyes.
She loved the way that their scrotums shrivelled to walnuts at the touch of the cool blade. The deeply fearful guards seemed to be trying to withdraw their flaccid, thoroughly deflated penises back into their bodies, like a turtle pulling its head back into the shell. It was all deeply gratifying.
"Might I suggest an amusing little game to improve your swordsmanship?"
A saucy little minx, Gwendolyn eyed Ethelred inquisitively.
"What did you have in mind?"
"It's a game called bagpipe. You cut a contestant's ankles free and he tries to defend his testicles and penis from your questing blade while hanging from his wrists in mid-air, using only his legs. The aim of the game is to remove his genitals cleanly with one slice."
Gwendolyn grinned. The ropes creaked as the naked guards twisted uneasily.
"Bagpipe? As in slashing off both the bag and the pipe with one cut?"
"Exactly!"
She raked the head guard with predatory eyes. Urine spurted from his limp member. Laughing, she slashed the rope tying his ankles. Squeezing his legs tightly together, he instantly raised his knees to his chest, lifting his scrotum and penis in his lap, pressing them protectively against his ample stomach.
Playfully, Gwendolyn walked around him. The guard, with bulging eyes, twisted desperately in mid-air. His hairy buttocks dimpled as he cradled the family jewels in his lap.
She deftly stabbed the pointed tip of her sword into his anus, pricking it lightly. He screamed, clenched his buttocks and lowered his legs. In a heartbeat, his manhood was on the floor.
This simple, but effective, ploy was met with a respectful round of applause from those spectators that were not dangling nude and helpless. Gwendolyn had a definite talent.
The head guard had a different opinion. Ashen faced, the spittle flew from his lips as bright red blood seeped down his thighs.
"YOU BITCH!!"
Instantly, the head guard was made to scream like a woman as the Royal Doctor, an old hand at castration, cauterized his wound, dabbing delicately between the screeching guard's held-down legs with a red-hot iron. The air filled with the smell of cooking flesh as the red-hot iron hissed and smoked with each searing touch. The Royal Doctor crudely fitted a straw into the remains of the head guard's piss hole.
As the former head guard (now head eunuch) sobbed hysterically, King Ethelred turned to Gwendolyn.
"Since you display the skill that I thought you would with a sword, I have a present for you."
The Royal Armourer stepped forward and knelt respectfully before her, head bowed. In his hands, he held a superb rapier. Its serrated, elaborately engraved blade gleamed wickedly. A light, finely balanced weapon, its jewelled hilt reflected consummate craftsmanship.
Princess Gwendolyn's eyes flashed as she hefted the fine weapon.
"It's wonderful!"
The armourer spoke proudly.
"It has an invisible feature, my future Queen!"
Princess Gwendolyn arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
"The blade has been dipped in poison. The smallest prick kills its victim within ten heartbeats."
Gwendolyn glanced speculatively down the row of nude, sweating guards.
"The smallest prick, eh?"
All eyes turned to George. George, the most under-endowed guard, began trembling visibly. Making eye contact with her intended victim, Gwendolyn gave him an evil smirk. Urine dribbled from his pathetic member and ran down his shivering thighs. His bowels quaked audibly.
He whimpered pathetically as she playfully gave his shrivelled penis the smallest, tiniest little scrape, just barely breaking the skin.
Almost instantly, every muscle in his nude body tightened to spasm. His taut nakedness jerked and twitched violently in mid-air. Blood trickled from his nostrils. His lips frothed with red foam as his lungs dissolved in his chest. He coughed bloodily as his internal organs disintegrated. George's body was gripped by one last powerful, wracking convulsion and then he hung limply, his days of disappointing the women at an end.
Gwendolyn nodded approvingly.
"You do excellent work, Armourer."
"I suggest that you call your weapon Filthfroth as that's what it turns its victims into."
"Filthfroth?"
Gwendolyn arched a sceptical eyebrow, something that she was getting good at. The Armourer blushed. It had seemed like such a brilliantly inspired name. It had been jovially well received by his drunken cronies at the pub the night before. Gwendolyn spoke kindly to him.
"Would you mind terribly if I called it something else?"
The Armourer, a small frequently taunted man, looked at her gratefully.
"Call it whatever pleases you, my future Queen!"
She gestured at the blubbering head guard, a forcibly retired rapist still trying to cope with the abrupt, catastrophic loss of his manhood.
"That man called me a name earlier."
"Surely not an appropriate one, your majesty!"
"He called me a Bitch."
The Armourer blinked.
"He is a very stupid man, your majesty!"
"Agreed! But to my enemies I am The Bitch and this…"
She held up the deadly weapon.
"… This lethal sword I christen The Bitchblade. With a weapon like The Bitchblade, whose lightest touch is a mortal wound, I need fear no one and can enjoy a long reign with complete peace of mind, although my enemies shall have none!"
And with this charmingly naïve burst of youthful optimism and ill-advised reliance on technology, we end our story (at least for now).
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