Elizabeth\'s Story

Ch. 1

The rain drumming steadily on cobbles outside was a pleasant distraction from the throbbing pain.  Elizabeth had lost track of exactly where she was sore.  The pain had long ago turned into a persistent ache that left her stomach churning with nausea, only broken by the periods when one of them would come back to use her.  But the rain was nice. It was different. It reminded her of home and of happier times.

Pushing the memories back down, Elizabeth tore her  pale green eyes away from the silvery streamers of rain, tears slowly sliding down her puffy, dirt smeared cheeks.  She had almost smiled for that brief moment as she watched the rain fall through glassy eyes, only now able to open after being swollen shut for the last ... what was it? Three days? The fat brothers had come back three times. Or was it four?  Elizabeth let out a heavy sigh, but it was cut short by a stabbing pain in her ribs.  One of them was surely broken, but they didnŐt seem to care.  She didnŐt care anymore either. She was going to die here, and she had resigned herself to that some time ago; not long after the smelly one had told her what he was going to do to her when he got bored.

He and his men had been coming every night since Elizabeth was captured, and some came during the morning or afternoons too.  Elizabeth had lost track of how many different ones there were.  In truth she didnŐt know.  They all seemed the same:  Violent. They hated her, and when they fucked her, they made her relive that hatred.  They would punch her while their members tore into her most tender flesh, and they would spit at her and call her "voark." Mostly Elizabeth thought they just enjoyed hurting her and hearing the sounds of pain she would make, as if her suffering was penance for some unknown betrayal they had endured at her hand.  She had learned quickly that if she didnŐt make noise, they only hurt her more.  At first she'd tried to play like it hurt more than it did, but they could tell the difference.  Somehow they knew. And they never enjoyed it until her screams were real and her sex was bruised and her asshole bloodied. Only then did they cum inside her, or on her face, or her tits.  Only then did they feel they'd gotten their turn.

At first, in the wagons on the way to her current prison, Elizabeth hadnŐt noticed that any of them were different. And as she thought about it, she couldn't even be certain he had come to her then, while they were on the road.  But come to her he did, eventually.  They never spoke to him or he to them, so she had no name or title for him other than 'the smelly one.' They all stunk, but he was different.  He didn't just have that foul stench of unwashed soldier like the others.  He smelled like something else... like decay.  Like dead things.  His breath carried the same scent of carrion and death when he was rutting into her, breathing hotly on her face, drooling on her.  Unlike the others, he never came with friends.  It was always just him, alone.  And it was always worst with him.

None of the others really spoke to her, and the ones that did only babbled in that incoherent common speech favored by sailors and whores.  The smelly one, however, spoke to Elizabeth in cruel sadistic whispers as his cock would drive into her.  He made her talk back to him, hurting her terribly when she refused... "cunt" she would have to call herself, and he made her do things.... disgusting things with her mouth on his ass while his fingers clutched her hair, threatening to pull it from the roots if she didnŐt get her tongue deep enough.  Unlike the others, he never spilled his seed inside her.  He would make her beg, every time, to take it out and cum on her face, or in her hair.  Never satisfied until she was crying and pleading, "please? *sniff* please donŐt cum in .. in *sob* cunt's kitty? Please cum on its *sniff* face? please sir? please donŐt let cunt taint your seed?"

He hated Elizabeth more than the rest, and she knew it.  He would pinch her nipples until she blacked out from the pain, only to awaken to his cock slapping her face, then gagging her as he shoved it down her throat.  He is the one who backhanded her enough to swell her eyes shut.  She had started her menses and as a result, he'd gotten some of her blood on him, which sent him into a rage.  He just beat her until she was sure she would die then left.  That was ... well a while ago.  Some of the other men had returned to use her, but she didnŐt care anymore.  The smelly one had not returned since the bad beating, and now that her eyes were open again, the rain blocking out the light of the moon just didn't seem that sad.

The rain was a pleasant distraction after all.  The man who had been fucking her up until now grunted a few times, and the stabbing pain in her gut let her know he was cumming inside her rectum.  He laughed at her, and a warm, smelly gob of spit landed on her face as he got up, pulling his breeches closed and kicking her leg on his way by.  She barely noticed, but grunted in pain anyway, knowing he would kick harder if she didnŐt. 

Rolling onto her belly, the cool stone on her bruised breasts and thighs was a relief compared to the sweaty warmth of the rapist.  Elizabeth's eyes closed again and she began to sob quietly, waiting for the next one to come in and fuck her, or beat her, or both.  The sound of the cell door creaking open, then clanging shut again was a relief at least, and with a great effort, Elizabeth got to her hands and knees and crawled to the tattered remains of the deep green silk dress she had worn at the time of her capture.  Little more than a bundle of rags now, Elizabeth had been using the dress it to clean some of her wounds. 

There was a time not long ago she had cried for days when the sleeve of that same dress had torn on a branch in her father's private garden.  The dress had been a gift from him on her 16th birthday, and it was the finest emerald silk in the entire kingdom.  She had only twice asked how much it cost, and twice had received a playful pat on the bottom before being told it was impolite to inquire how much a gift was worth; as if she might sell it.  The tear in her sleeve was fixed easily enough, but it had taken the tailor nearly a month to receive a bolt of the same silk to do the mending. Now the dress lay in ruin, balled up in a bloodied, moistened wad.

Choking back fresh tears, Elizabeth tore her eyes away from the shimmering green silk before the pain of it all was too much to bear.  Everything had changed that night her carriage was attacked.  She fought hard with the dagger her father had given her, but in the end had to watch as the men slaughtered her personal guard before carrying her off in shackles to the wagons they had waiting off the road...

Ch. 2.

Sleep was no release for Elizabeth.  The pain of her waking world was echoed in her dreams, and the fitful rest she had been getting was no rest at all.  Still, something had startled her awake.  It wasn't the pain; that hadnŐt changed.  A sound? Yes.  There it is again.  Yelling?  No. Screaming.  She wished she'd paid more attention in languages class.  The Taril language was so different, though.  A crash! The sound of steel sliding against the stone floor.  Now the dull, sickening sound of a sword slicing through flesh.  A grunt, followed by a thud.  Silence. Elizabeth's heart was pounding, only making her chest ache more.  Her hands clutched the green bundle on her sleeping slab.  It was dark out; no light coming through the window.  The sound of rain outside was lighter, but still persistent.  How long had she been asleep? No more than an hour or two.  The cum oozing down her thighs was still sticky.

Footsteps now.  Elizabeth curled up on the slab again, clutching her knees to her chest.  It was about to start again.  It was probably the Smelly One. She hated him as much as he hated her.  The creak of the outer door was too loud for some reason, as if her entire perception had changed.  Whoever was coming through this door was not a regular. 'Oh Goddess,' Elizabeth thought, 'what is HE going to do to me?'

As if reading her mind, the Smelly One stalked up beside her, a smirk on his face and in his voice as he whispered, "I wonder who that could be, cunt?" His voice startled her, and she would have fallen from the slab had his hand not slithered into her hair, gripping her head painfully.  How long had he been there?

"No matter, my little vorak cow, you have duties to perform."  His hand twisted her hair roughly, yanking her face to his robe, which he had brushed open.  His cock was throbbing and angry looking as he shoved it between her trembling lips. Gagging from the stench and the feeling of his shaft pressing against the back of her throat, Elizabeth felt tears falling down her face.

"Since your disgusting body has tainted me, I will return the favor, bitch."  His hand yanked her hair back after he was satisfied his cock was choking and gagging her enough, leaving her face exposed and downcast with a trail of saliva dribbling down her chin onto the cold stone between her legs.  His fist clenched in her hair and he yanked her head back further, forcing her to gaze up at him from the bench, cock bobbing in front of her face in time with the rapid beating of his heart.

"Vizor" A deep, confident voice interrupted the Smelly One's next move.  "If you urinate on my prisoner, it will be the last piss you ever take standing up."  The hand in Elizabeth's hair tightened in surprise, and the cock she was facing twisted to the side, turning to face the new voice.  Elizabeth's head, and eyes, had no choice but to follow.  She only had a second to glimpse the figure standing in the open cell door, and as she opened her mouth to speak, the Smelly One's knee caught her on the side of the head, sending her sprawling onto the floor.  The glint of steel and the electrically charged tingle of air being twisted by magic were all she saw and felt before her head crashed to the floor with a wet thud, sending her back into her nightmares.

"Daddy?" The only word on her lips before she passed out made the newcomer smile slightly before his sword severed the hand of the Vizor attempting to delay the inevitable.

Outside, the rain continued to fall softly, and the chill breeze that whipped through the streets outside the small detention centre kept most everyone indoors.  The few soldiers assigned to patrolling the streets were no where to be seen, likely taking shelter in archways and under awnings, cursing their luck.  The hissing white noise of rainfall was only broken twice by sounds of the struggle inside the  stone cellar before it was over.  If anyone had been out in the street to hear them and came to investigate, however, they wouldn't dare provoke the wrath of a Storm Lord.  No one except maybe a Vizor, that is.

His severed hand twitching on the floor and his conjuring interrupted, the Smelly One had sworn loudly: the first of the two sounds that interrupted the otherwise peaceful drumming of the rain.   His hate filled glare burned into the Storm Lord, his pain irrelevant.  His silent challenge was answered quickly with another slash of the sword.  This time, however, it struck as if hitting solid stone, and the loud shriek of metal on rock pierced the night louder than the Storm Lord would have liked.  The self satisfied smirk of victory lasted only a moment on the Vizor's face as he realized his protective magic was not stopping the sword, only slowing it.  His glare turned from hate to shock, from shock to fear, and from fear to pain all in the span of a heartbeat.  His death rattle never came as the sword passed with surreal slowness through his flesh as if through mud, separating his head from its former resting place atop his neck.

A frown on his face, the Storm Lord watched the Vizor's body crumple to the stone floor.  With a sigh and a brief shake of his head, Lord Ellengale bent to clean his sword on the Vizor's robe.  His eyes stern, his face set with grim purpose, he slid the warm blade back into its resting place at his hip.

"You chose the wrong man to defy, Vizor." He muttered quietly as he shoved the body aside and made his way to the battered naked girl laying crumpled beside the stone bench, the cell's only piece of furniture. After a brief assessment of her condition, identifying her broken ribs, lacerations and bruises, Lord Ellengale gently lifted Elizabeth in his arms.  He laid her head gently against his shoulder, wrapping his cloak around her chilled form, and cradling her like a hurt child, walked out of the cell and back through the detention facility with purpose and mild annoyance written in lines across his brow.

The Storm Lord never bothered to look back as he passed the bloodied bodies and splintered doors on his way.  Shards of the facility's once sturdy front entrance made him check his steps briefly, lest they cause further damage to his precious cargo, but his grim expression did not waver and the steely look in his grey-blue eyes was unchanged.  Death was the only punishment for any man who would defy his orders, and the gruesome scene left in his wake would serve as a warning to those who might consider doing so in the future.

There were enough real enemies to trouble his thoughts without having to add his subordinates to the list of them.

Ch. 3

Elizabeth woke to a feeling she had not had in what felt like weeks.  Warmth.  She was warm.  The cell had been so cold all the time, and damp.  Warmth was a change she had not expected.  She was still sore everywhere, but the warmth of the blanket she was sleeping under made the pain less troublesome.  She was in a bed?  That was unexpected also.  Her head hurt, and the blood pounding in her ears let her know that the knee to her head had not been imagined.  Despite the throbbing headache, she listened and kept her eyes closed.  Nothing had startled her awake like last time.  And though she was groggy, she felt rested. How long had she slept?  The room was quiet.  She heard no rain, and no babble of people on the street outside.  In fact she heard nothing.  Nothing but the quiet ticking of a nearby clock.

Opening her eyes, Elizabeth could see immediately that she was not in a prison or dungeon.  The ceiling was adorned with carved redwood tiles depicting beautiful patterns of leaves and branches, giving the illusion of laying beneath a forest canopy.  Turning her head didn't hurt so much as it had in days past, and as she turned, her silky red hair gathered around her neck and head from where it had been splayed out on a soft white satin pillow.  To either side, the pretty young girl saw the elaborately carved posts of the bed she now lay in, which felt to be covered with satin sheets if the sensations from her bare flesh were not deceiving her.  Beyond the bed, simple but elegant furniture made of rich wood and upholstered with plush, inviting red and maroon fabrics adorned the room.  There were rich maroon velvety curtains pulled shut over what could only be a tall window on the wall at the foot of the bed, and a tall mirror standing near it, framed with the same carved redwood as the ceiling tiles and some of the other pieces in the room.  The glow from behind the curtains told her it was daytime, though she could hear nothing from outside and no breeze touched the heavy fabric.

To her left near the foot of the bed, Elizabeth saw that a dressing screen was oriented so as to provide privacy from the window and right side of the room. Behind it lay the most beautiful sight she had seen in days: a bath tub and dressing table, which appeared well stocked with all the brushes, perfumes and oils a young lady might need.  The mirror atop the table was smaller, but equally ornate when compared to the one by the window. To her right Elizabeth noted a small side table on which rested the clock she heard before and an armoire in the corner not far from the room's only door. 

The door!  It was open!  The heavy looking wooden door was open just slightly, as if whoever had left simply pushed it behind them without ensuring it was fully closed.  Elizabeth's heart began to race and her hands reached up to clutch the hem of the satin sheet that was pulled up around her smallish breasts.  Her fingertips dug into her palms through the soft material she had pulled up tight under her chin without thinking.  Green eyes wide, the sore, abused girl licked her suddenly very dry lips and squirmed into a sitting position against the headboard.  Just as she thought her heart would thunder completely out of her chest, her moment of blind foolish hope was cut short.  The silence had been broken by footfalls.   Elizabeth chastised herself silently for being so foolish. Even if she got out of the room, and even if she got out of the house... she was naked, alone, lost and undoubtedly far from home.  'Foolish girl,' she thought to herself, and with a defeated sigh, slumped back into the sheets, too distracted by her dark thoughts and pained ribs to notice how soft and luxurious the satin felt against her smooth, young skin.

The footsteps grew louder, and as she listened, Elizabeth began to tremble.  Fear of who or what may be coming tightened her tummy, twisting it into a painful knot.  Gripping the sheet tight to her firm breasts, she stared at the door nervously, the luxurious decor of the room quickly forgotten as her mind raced to recall everything she could before waking up here.  The days spent in the cell came back to her like a living nightmare, along with the last moments spent with the Smelly One, watching his cock bobbing before her face, knowing what he was about to do and powerless to stop him.  Whoever it was that had come that night was likely who had rescued her.  She didn't remember anything after being hit on the head.  She wished she had seen the man more clearly, or heard some of what he might have said.  Was she rescued?  Is that why she was in this place?  She doubted it.  This was not like her father's house, or even like any home she had seen in her homeland.  Something in the pit of her stomach told her she was still very much a prisoner.

Elizabeth's thoughts were interrupted by movement.  Her eyes snapped back to the door and she swallowed a lump in her throat, causing a painful jolt to swell in her chest.  It opened into the room slowly, and the sight of Him standing in the doorway made her breath catch.  His presence was unmistakably massive.  Tall, imposing and purposeful, the man surveyed the room with his critical steely blue eyes, finally settling on her with an intensity she had not known existed.  He stood staring, and for a moment that seemed to last forever, barred the second shadow who waited behind him from entering the room.  Elizabeth's eyes met his for only a moment before she could stand it no longer and was forced to look away. Those grey-blue orbs were piercing her to the very centre of her being, and staring into them had caused her breathing to stop and her heart to skip several beats.  This was her captor.  She knew she was his prize. His property.  'My prisoner' he had called her.  And she was, and she knew now why the door was open.  He did not need locks or bars to keep her;  his authority was edictal.

Unable to look at his eyes, her gaze traveled over the rest of him.  He was not as massive as he had first seemed, and now that she looked, she could see that though he was tall, he was slender and defined.  His face was all angles and lines, with a subtly defined brow and high cheek bones.  His nose was not large, but she could tell his profile would be hawk-like.  His square jaw framed a mouth that seemed built for smirking, which he was doing now, and  his lips were thin and slightly chapped from the wind.  His shoulders were broad, and the black velvet cloak that hung from them was clasped over his breast with a simple wooden hook and eye.  His chest was straight and flat, unlike other fighting men she had seen, and the simple linen shirt he wore fitted tightly over it, showing a flat, defined abdomen.  This was a man built for grace and precision; his muscles were defined but not thick.  Belted across his hips lay an ornate sword, its pommel inset with a deep blue sapphire.  His legs were long and slender like the rest of him, and his boots were polished and clean.  Her eyes blinked slowly, and her breath finally began anew as she stared at the floor at his feet.  Despite not being physically overpowering, his presence and intensity more than made up for it.  There could be no mistake: this was a dangerous man. More dangerous than anyone she had ever met.

Elizabeth was trembling as he stared at her.  If her inspection of him had been a result of her nervousness and fear, his was calculated and considered.  His eyes swept slowly and methodically over her figure, taking in everything.  This was a man who missed nothing.  No detail was too small for his attention when it came to this girl.

Quivering, Elizabeth pulled the white satin sheet tighter to her firm young breasts, ignoring the throb it caused. Her long red hair framed her beautiful face perfectly, accentuating the slight flush that was on her pale cheeks.  Her downcast green eyes were less swollen now than they had been when he first found her, and the bruises on her jaw and cheeks had faded, leaving her beauty unmarred save for the few smudges of dirt that had clung to her tear moistened flesh before.  The small, slightly pointed nose gave her an aristocratic look that was typical of her people, and he could tell her full, pouty lips would make men swoon if and when they curled into a smile.  Her slender neck was long and white, and her bare shoulders quivered as he looked at her.

His gaze lingered on the beautiful young girl, but he was in no rush to devour her with his eyes and so turned his head to speak to the other figure waiting in the hall.  Elizabeth could not hear what he said; the pounding of her heart in her ears was nearly deafening, but whatever it was spurred the figure into motion.

Lord Ellengale stepped into the room now, and the smaller man followed him, carrying a yoke across his shoulders.  Two huge buckets filled with steaming water dangled from the yoke precariously, but the man seemed to glide with practiced ease across the bed chamber without spilling a drop.  Lord Ellengale watched Elizabeth silently as his orders were carried out and she, in turn, watched the servant fill the bath tub. She licked her dry lips and turned her gaze back to the imposing figure standing just inside the room.  His hands were clasped regally behind his back as he watched her, not bothering to acknowledge the servant who bowed as he backed out of the door, pulling it shut on his way.

As the door clicked quietly shut, Elizabeth's captor turned his head ever so slightly to acknowledge that the door was indeed closed.  The movement was as sure and confident as his overall aura, his angular jaw turning down and to the side only a half inch, as if to let his ear get a clearer sound of the door's latch sliding home, verifying that he was indeed alone with his captive.  Turning his full attention back to her, the tall man stepped quietly into the room until he was standing next to the bedpost nearest the door at the foot of the bed.  His movement was fluid and quiet and Elizabeth watched with trepidation as he unfolded his hands, placing one of them on the bedpost while the other came to rest with casual comfort on the hilt of his sword. The practiced ease with which his hand found its way there was a testament to how much a part of him the weapon was.  Elizabeth's eyes fixed on the hilt of the sword and as his gaze followed hers, he let out a soft mirthful sound that was not quite a grunt and not quite a chuckle.  Still, he moved his hand away and held it towards her with his palm facing up, silently offering her his hand to help her up.

A series of confusing emotions cycled quickly through Elizabeth's mind.  Fear as he touched the sword then relief as he moved his hand away from it.  Confusion followed as he offered her his hand, quickly replaced by shock and embarrassment as she realized he wanted her to get up and she was completely naked.  Calm resignation came next, remembering she had spent the last four or five days being repeatedly raped, beaten and humiliated by this man's countrymen.  Still, she would not go willingly into his arms and though she relaxed her grip on the sheets slightly when his hand dropped away from the sword, Elizabeth made no move to get up.

The tall, handsome swordsman smiled as he watched her face, a knowing smile that told her he likely understood more of what she was going through than she would like to admit.  She watched as lowered his offered hand and turned away from her, moving around the foot of the bed towards the dressing area.  His footsteps were soft despite the sturdy looking boots he wore, and as he came to stop beside the bath tub, he reached up to unclasp his cloak.  He took his time, folding it neatly over his arm, then placing it with respect over the top of the dressing screen.  Turning once again to face Elizabeth,  his hands went to his belt and she winced before turning her face away, feeling new tears welling up in her eyes as the realization that he was going to rape her began to hit home.  Still not looking, she heard the soft tinkle of his buckle followed by the rustling of fabric and the clicking of his sword laying on the foot of the bed.  Her hands began to shake.

"You need a bath, Elizabeth." Was all he said, and the way his voice resonated in his tall, broad chest made her spine tingle.  The tenor and depth of his voice was hypnotic, and even though he had only said five words, she found herself relaxing.  Her hands stopped shaking and she turned her face to look back at him, eyes wet with restrained tears.  He had not removed his pants, only his sword belt.  He stood quietly beside the bed now, doeskin breeches and plain linen shirt making him look less imposing than the sword and cloak had.  He bent forward, his arms coming towards her.  She shied away, crawling with her butt cheeks towards the other side of the bed, but his persistence won out and gently his large hands and long arms encircled her small frame, cradling her behind the neck and under her knees.  With a strong pull that reminded her of her inured ribcage, he had her out of the bed, cradling her to his chest with the long satin sheet sliding soundlessly off the bed as it came with her.

Elizabeth felt his warmth against her skin, and her hands had no choice but to wrap around his shoulders and back lest she slip out of his arms.  She whimpered softly with pain and shame, but did not speak.  He lowered her carefully towards the steaming water that mostly filled the tub, and as her feet touched the surface, he paused to ensure it was not too hot.  He took the sheet as she slipped into the warm, scented water and she looked quietly away, refusing to let him see the embarrassment in her eyes.  Clutching her knees tightly to her chest, Elizabeth sat stiffly in the hot water, the steam filling her lungs as she breathed in shallow little pants, afraid, embarrassed and hurt. 

He made no attempt to persuade her to move.  Instead he simply moved behind her, kneeling on the floor outside the tub, and picked a up a sponge from the wash basin.  He dipped it in the warm water, swishing it around so she could feel the movement of his hand in the tub near her back.  The sponge softly brushed her skin and she twitched at first, but as he lifted it out of the water and let the hot liquid pour down her back and over her shoulders, she relaxed slightly.  It went like that for some time.  He would dip the sponge and lift it over her shoulders, letting its slightly rough surface drag across her skin soothingly as its water spilled down her back and neck.  In time he gathered a block of scented soap and rubbed it on the sponge between dips, letting the lather build until the water was frothy and slippery.  Elizabeth's eyes drifted closed and she started to cry without wanting to.  She refused to let him hear her sob, and schooled herself not to sniffle.  She cried silently like that for a long time as he began to rub the sponge over more of her body, starting with her arms and hands, then her back, neck and underarms.

Without speaking his large hands, slippery and wet from the oily bath water, caressed her shoulders and slid gently up the sides of her neck until they over her ears. His thumbs rested gently but firmly behind her lobes, and his fingertips pressed softly into her temples, cheeks and jaw.  He tilted her head backwards in that fashion, with gentle but unyielding guidance, until her hair splayed out in the water and her eyes were looking once again at the decorated ceiling.  His fingers slipped away from her face then, and came to rest under her head, gently massaging her scalp and hair.  He combed his fingers through the tangled mass and with infinite patience, began to wash and smooth the knots and filth from her hair.  After what seemed like an eternity, he carefully raised her head out of the water and with one hand caressing the back of her neck intimately, used a ladle to rinse her hair.

With her eyes still closed, Elizabeth found the sponge tickling her palm in the water as Lord Ellengale handed it to her.  His hand was still gently caressing the back of her neck, fingers and thumb softly kneading the tense muscles and making her feel more relaxed than she was.  His voice, barley above a whisper, came to her from so close she thought she could feel his breath on her ear.  "Scrub your lower body gently.  You will feel better.  Your ribs are broken, and you have a lot of bruising.  Be gentle."  That hypnotic voice!  Elizabeth's spine tingled again, and before she could fully reflect on what he had said, the feeling of his nearness was gone.  Turning her head slightly, she could see that he had moved to the dressing table and was picking through some things.  He had a fluffy towel in one hand.  With her mind reeling with conflicting emotions and thoughts, she began to wash herself, wincing when she touched the tender flesh between her legs.  She thought for sure it would he torn and ruined, but it felt normal, if a little swollen.  The warm soapy water felt nice, and she allowed herself to enjoy it now that he was not hovering over her.  A soft sigh escaped her lips as she ran the sponge along her thighs and feet.

He was back. She could tell even before he spoke that he was nearby.  She let the sponge float to the surface and lifted her hands out of the water, resting them on the sides of the tub quietly, no longer curled into a defensive ball, but refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching her bath herself.  His voice was a little louder than before, less intimate but still tender.

"Stand up, Elizabeth."  She swallowed, and saw no point in disobeying.  She stood quietly, the silence only broken by the sound of water cascading off her body and back into the tub.  The scented oily soap had left a pleasant fragrance on her skin and in the room.  It made her nose twitch slightly, and she shivered as the cool air began to swirl around her.  From behind her, Elizabeth heard him make a noise.  It wasn't a gasp or a sigh, but something in between.  Some soft intake of breath that was cut short before it was let out with carefully disciplined control that made it seem somehow anything but disciplined or controlled.  She could feel his eyes on her naked flesh; on her slender thighs above the water; on the rounded curve of her ass; on the girlish fuzz that adorned her pussy lips and was visible from behind; and on the shapely contour of her waist as it curved into her back, forming a perfect hour glass.  She felt his stare and flushed hot pink with embarrassment and a muted sense of anger.  Before it spilled over, however, he was on her with the warm fuzzy towel, wrapping it around her shoulders and back, tucking it under her hands so she could hold it to herself.  A second towel followed shortly thereafter, rubbing and petting her hair to help dry it.  When he was done pulling the strands of her long red hair out slowly within the towel, Elizabeth's captor gently held her hand and gestured for her to step out of the tub and over to the dressing table, where he had pulled the chair out for her to sit.

Standing behind her as she sat with her head bowed, the Storm Lord picked up a brush and began to pass it through the luxurious red tresses.  He watched her avoid his gaze in the mirror, and brushed her hair until it was completely dry: well over 200 strokes.  The rhythmic cadence of the soft bristles running through her hair had Elizabeth in a light trance.  She felt so relaxed and without knowing, had let the towel slip from her fingers so that it fell partially away from her breasts, exposing a generous amount of cleavage.  Her long, deep breaths caused her bosom to heave rhythmically, and she slowly came back to her senses after realizing he had stopped brushing her.  Composing herself, Elizabeth pulled the towel back up and lifted her chin, finding his face in the mirror.  Her eyes were glassy and tired looking, still puffy from her injuries, but the luminosity in her green irises was unmistakable.  He held her gaze for several seconds this time before she was compelled to tear her eyes away, looking back towards the bed with an unreadable expression.  He set the brush down and stood back from the chair, giving her some space to move.

Moving of her own free will for the first time in days, Elizabeth stood slowly.  She paused before the mirror, looking at herself in it.  The towel wrapped around her torso and hips did little to hide the fact she was naked, but it did provide her with some modesty.  Modesty she had not had in days. Modesty she still did not have.  He was her captor.  She was his prisoner.  With a soft sigh, Elizabeth resigned herself to what lay ahead, and pulled the towel away from her breasts.  It fell to the floor with a soft rustle, and she turned to face him slowly, head bowed so that her chin nearly touched her chest.  Her hands clasped before her sex, shielding the red downy patch of fur that covered it from his eyes.  Her arms did little to conceal her breasts or the bruises on her ribcage.  Her toes curled and uncurled nervously as she stood before him, totally naked and exposed.  Her voice, withheld from him until now as her only real way to defy what was happening to her, finally broke the silence.

"How do you want me?" The simple question filled the room like thunder, echoing off the walls and furniture.  "On the bed I guess?" She turned towards it, her bare feet padding softly on the hard wooden floor until her knees hit the satin covered mattress.  She did not look back, afraid to see the expression on his face. Terrified to witness the look of hatred and lust that had so filled the others before him.  She did not even tremble this time.  Instead she stood quietly facing the bed, prepared to feel his hand on her shoulder, pushing her onto all fours to take her as many of the soldiers had, or perhaps to feel his fingers in her freshly washed hair so that he could put his cock inside her cleansed body and feel somehow less sullied by her.  None of it came, however.

"I want you rested and healthy.  I do not treat my prisoners the way you have been treated."  She stood still, unmoving.  Her knees began to tremble and she slumped slightly onto the bed, turning to sit on it at the lat minute before she fell.  Her shoulders slumped slightly and she lowered her head once again, tears falling freely.  The weight of her predicament finally resting fully on her shoulders, she felt sure to be crushed beneath it.  The sobs she had tried to conceal earlier came with full force now, and her body was wracked violently by them so that her ribs burned and her breath came in shallow gasps.   In an instant, he was kneeling before her, hands reaching up to gently hold her arms, his shoulder there to catch her head as it slumped and she bawled like a child.  His arms gently wrapped around her and he reached up to stroke her hair softly, soothing her while she cried harder than she had in her life.  The grief and shame of what had been done to her finally washing over her, she had no choice but to take comfort from the only person in the world who was near her: her captor.  He held her for a long time, until her sobs slowed and her breathing returned to normal.  He used the towel to dry her face, and quietly told her to blow her nose into it, which she did.  Gently guiding her with his strong hands, he helped her lay down and pulled the covers over her once again.  His hand brushed aside her bangs and he sighed softly as she turned away from him.

"The servants will bring you food and more water to bathe when you wish.  There are clothes in the armoire that should fit you.  I have business to attend to, but will return regularly to see that you are being treated well.  Make no mistake, Elizabeth.  You are a prisoner of war. You will be held for ransom, but you will be treated with respect and dignity.  What my men did to you was specifically forbidden and they have paid for their disobedience with their lives.  Get some rest, you are still injured."  The hypnotic tenor of his voice filled her ears, and without really meaning to, the scared young girl found herself obediently drifting off to sleep at his suggestion.  Her last thoughts before being taken by dreams were of her father, and how much this strange man's presence and demeanor reminded her of him.