Princess Sophia was on the road to Toledo when she was captured. It was, coincidently, her eighteenth birthday. She’d escaped the carnage at the fall of Valencia, only to run into a ranger patrol of Moors deep inside what should have been her Father’s territory.
She had been trudging along with a small party of refugees, nearly exhausted, trying to escape the advancing Moors. The road was hot, long and dusty and to make it this far had cost the princess nearly everything.
Her pride had been the first to go, followed by her purse. Then her two bodyguards had given their lives to get her through the besieging circle of attackers. Then there she’d been, praying that the next hilltop view would be of Toledo.
When they finally did top the next hill they found the Moorish patrol, lying in ambush. Quickly surrounded by fifty mounted men, the score of cringing refugees stood for inspection. A large, well-muscled man climbed off his warhorse and strode into their midst, his eyes focusing on every face until he came to the princess.
She had hoped that being disguised as a boy would protect her... But her captor looked into her eyes, laughed out loud, and brutally stripped her naked, right there on the spot. The mounted men laughed to see her bound breasts being freed, then gasped to see her hairless pussy.
They were like children, loose in a candy shop.
She was put into chains so that she couldn’t resist, fitted with a ring gag and then used by every man in the patrol, even the homosexuals.
When they were done with her she had been reduced in rank from princess to company sex slave.
It bothered her most that they were deep in what should have been Christian territory, yet the Moorish riders acted as if they had no fear of being caught.
Had her father’s power been broken the same time hers had been?
After murdering the rest of the refugees with their lances, the laughing men tied the still chained Sophia over her new Master’s horse. And off they went, riding hard for Cordova where they could collect the rest of their reward.
Princess Sophie thought about how many times they’d made her come last night. She wondered at how intense her experience had been. She marveled at the way her passion had seemed to protect her, from the pain of their whips to the shame of being gang raped.
There had come a rising tide of lust within her, a need for more painful passion... and yet more again and again...
Several times she’d found herself being fucked by three men at a time. She found herself loving every second of it, from the brutal shedding of her virginity to the final mouthful of semen she swallowed, just before dawn.
She had played with herself for years, enjoying the small, private pleasures she could get that way. She hated her hymen but a princess’s maidenhead was politically important. She would need it to marry and marriage was how you gained allies.
As she’d grown through her puberty her need had become overpowering. She had even tried a couple of shaved pussy lesbians who did their level best to quench her internal furnace. But she had come away dissatisfied, wishing she could have a man, or even a dildo.
She had turned away several royal suitors, looking for the man of her wet dreams. The man very much like this Captain Ishmael, my captor, she thought. Bouncing along in the man’s lap, she could feel the promise of his rock hard cock poking against her side. His fingers between her thighs were driving her crazy, keeping her hot but not giving her orgasm.
As the endless miles passed beneath her, the hand on her rump toyed with her sex and occasionally spanked her welt-covered ass, keeping her hearth warm for later. The scent and sight of the naked princess drew the riders into a tight cluster, galloping along, watching her squirm and froth.
Ahead of her lay Cordova and the palace of her enemy, a place where she will be a trophy for the Moorish King.
Before entering the city they fed, watered, bathed and wrapped her from head to toes in burlap, shielding her from the hatred of the mob.
When they gained the palace they striped off the burlap, gave her a second bath, this time in scented water, and then dressed her in a gown of finest silk. Her hair was fixed, her bruised and exhausted body was sprayed with yet more scent. The chains that held her arms up in the middle of her back stayed as they were, as did the hobbles on her ankles.
After again accepting the ring gag, she was taken into the throne room, to meet her newest Master, The Moorish King of all Andalusia. He was Imam Mohamed a bald fat man equipped with oversized wedding tackle. He sat on his throne mostly naked, like a toad on a stone. His big cock lay limp between his plump thighs like a piece of boned fish.
She was forced to her knees before her new King and stripped of her gown. He smiled and said, in heavily accented Castilian, “Welcome to my harem, Christian Bitch!”
Behind her she thought she heard her captor sigh in regret. She wondered if he was having second thoughts.
The Moor looked at her, a fire kindling behind his eyes as his cock began to stir and swell. She was the enemy of Allah, the barbarian from the North. She was one of the unwashed Christian followers of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, who always fought without quarter, killing men women and children whenever they captured a Moorish city.
He thought of his people being raided by bands of murderous monks, how the rapes and murders would go on all night, usually leaving no one alive.
He crooked his finger to indicate she come and service him with her ring-gagged mouth.
Eying the hugely hung ax man standing beside the throne, Sophia knee-walked toward the King, her nipples growing tight, her eyes going sultry and hot. Between her thighs she could feel the pussy juice trickling down.
She took his now erect organ into her propped open mouth and tried to swallow him, first thing, knowing that it was a case of, please him or die.
He smiled and lay back, reaching for his hookah’s mouthpiece. A servant stepped forward to light the ball of hashish therein. Taking long draughts from the mouthpiece, the Moor lay back and enjoyed the rush of pleasure along with the royal knob job.
Ishmael, the captain of the Rangers was angry. He’d been shorted. He’d been graced by Allah to bring in the Christian Princess and that oily pustule of an Imam had kept nine tenths of the reward as “taxes.”
The Princess was his slave, his and his men’s. She was worth twice the “reward” in any slave auction in Andalusia.
After stewing about it for several miles, he pulled up his horse. He stood up in his stirrups and shouted to his gathered men. “That fat old toad is unworthy of her.” The men nodded in near unison. They too had seen the puny sack of gold they’d been given.
“Shall we let the bastard steal from us?” he shouted, watching their faces. A man who leads fighting men needs to be able to judge his men.
The response was low and deadly, “No,” they muttered.
He pointed back down the hill they’d just come up and shouted, “Then let's go get her back!”
It wasn’t like they were invading. Cordova, the capital of the Moors was only ten miles away. Because they had gone to war, the army was gone. There were less than twenty men at arms left behind to protect the Imam.
Ishmael took the lead, his razor sharp scimitar out of its sheath. When the guards challenged them Ishmael shouted that he had a vital message for the Imam and led his men past the confused guards, giving them no time to argue.
The palace guards were even more confused. These men had just been before the Imam, surely they could be allowed back inside?
And then it was over. The palace was theirs. The Imam was found in a garden pool, face down and cold. The Princess, still helpless in her chains, was hiding behind a bush.
In time the princess would become Ishmael’s favorite wife. When that happens she will feel regret at the loss of “her company.” She will be used to being the center of attention at the circle jerk, the sex object, the orgasmic girl in the middle. She will feel that making do with just Ishmael, might not be enough. But as a slave girl, she will not dare to express her doubts.
In the end she bore him five strong sons.
In the further fullness of time the Christians and their Jewish allies would drive the Moors from Iberia. The last place to fall was Granada, the palace of a thousand falling waters.
Then the Christians turned on the Jews.