The Damsel In This Dress

(c) 2006 Qmoq

Part I

“Oh Princess, you look absolutely adorable,” sighed the duchess.

The duchess was correct. Princess Cariad stared at herself in the looking glass, and ran her hands down the smooth curves of her body, over the soft green fabric of her dress. She had never looked more alluring, and surely tonight she would be the belle of the ball. She had designs on the roguish Spanish earl, Senor Clouto, and such designs would require her to look her best. This was the reason why she had cast a decree to find the best dressmaker in the county, who turned out to be a rather gentle but unnerving fellow called Edmund Sloth.

He had taken her measurements over the course of an intensive day-long one-on-one session. Cariad flushed hotly at the memory. She recalled how his hands roughly pushed her naked legs apart to measure the circumference of her thighs, how he stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and held hold of her breasts, squeezing them to test their malleability. Even the obviously non-sexual touches, such as measuring the distance from elbow to shoulder, became intimate, as he let his fingertips tingle across her tender skin.

He closed his eyes, telling her that he was picturing the fabric upon her, whispering seductively that an expert dressmaker had to ‘become’ the cloth. He had to imagine how he would feel, covering the curves of her body, drifting lazily between her legs, tucking up on the underside of her breasts, wrapping himself around her neck. But when he had concluded the measuring session, Cariad had curtly put a stop to any more touching. The man’s tumescence had scared and excited her, so she put her foot down. “Stop that, kind sir!” she had cried whilst putting on her robe to cover her modesty. “Thou shalt go blind.”

It was worth it, the resulting dress was the best in the land. It hugged and warmed her skin, matched her eyes, accentuated each and every contour on her young frame. It was ankle-length, but when she walked, it floated around her like it was lighter than air. It was the perfect dress for Senor Clouto, but because she feared it would be ripped in a clinch with the Spaniard, she had ordered three identical copies from Edmund Sloth.

The castle where the ball was to be held was only an hour’s carriage ride away. Duchess Julia Trulia and Princess Cariad entered their cab, and giggled lustily at the potential exploits that would be written in the annals that night.

“I said ‘annals’, you cloth-eared wench!” giggled Cariad, after Julia Trulia had gasped.

“That dress, my dear, it does look wonderful upon you,” purred Julia Trulia, and Cariad noticed her friend’s bosom heave heartily, and a wrinkle to the duchess’ nose confirmed Cariad’s suspicions.

The carriage began to rock back and forth with the gentle motion of the travel. The heady musk of horse-power did nothing to quell the uncomfortable atmosphere that the lust of the duchess had produced.

“So,” said the princess, trying to change the subject, “Who dost thou havest thou eye on tonight, my dear?”

“Pardon?” asked Julia Trulia.

“Who do you have your eye on tonight?”

“Oh.” Julia Trulia mused for a second or two. “Whomever dost meet my high standards.”

Princess Cariad stifled a giggle. The duchess’ standards were dropped as frequently as the petticoats she occasionally wore under her pink dress. This gave her a thought.

“Duchess? Did you remember to wear your undergarments tonight?”

“I am afraid to say that I forgot to pass them to the maid to launder,” replied Julia Trulia. “And thou, fair Cariad, dost thou wear any thyself?”

Cariad flushed again. The dress she wore was delectable, but it came at a price. It hugged her figure so tenderly that she would be unable to wear undergarments for fear of having Visible Petticoat Line. Sloth’s workmanship was of an exceptional high quality, and the dress offered built-in support of her bosom, which almost spilled out over the low neckline. The more she touched the soft green fabric, the more she could feel the subtle corseting within the dress that made her slim waist even svelter.

The sound of hooves seemed to become louder, and a look outside showed that they were moving faster.

“I say! Driver!” cooed Julia Trulia. “Where is the fire, chum?”

“Ma’am,” replied a glum-faced driver, “We are being chased by a gang of highwaymen.”

This was not completely true. The gang consisted of just two, and they were a couple – the man was known simply as Archie, and the buxom girl at his side was the vicious but gorgeous Siouxie. Each was a crack-shot with pistol and arrow, and upon recognising them, the driver feared for his life, knowing that he could be picked off at thirty paces from Siouxie, and twenty from Archie.

“Madam,” pleaded the driver, “I recommend we stop and surrender. If I pull up quickly by the bushes, one of you can escape into the undergrowth.”

“Me!” said Julia Trulia instantly.

“Very well,” said Cariad courageously. She went on, with a touch of sarcasm. “Since you, in your bright pink dress, would be adequately camouflaged in the green undergrowth, whilst I, in my dark green dress, would stick out a mile, it makes sense for you to scarper. Just do me and the driver a favour, please find help as soon as you can. I’ve heard horrendous stories of what these brigands do to their captives. Sordid, degrading stories are they, stories to chill the soul with details involving steel bonds and whips.”

“Oh,” said Julia Trulia, “I think I want to stay now.”

“Go, go!” urged Cariad as the cab slowed to a crawl. With a yelp, Julia Trulia was pushed out of the door and into a clump of deep nettles. A quick glance showed no trace of her – she was able to hide her pinkness very well indeed. The rapidly closing pair did not see her.

The driver stopped the carriage a hundred yards away from the spot where Julia Trulia had departed, and put up his hands in abject and obvious surrender. The masked twosome, Siouxie and Archie, dismounted their steeds and approached warily.

“Come out with your hands up,” barked Archie into the cab.

Cariad mustered a good deal of dignity, and nudged open the door with a knee. Archie gave her a quick glance full of lust, then turned to look more closely at Siouxie before she noticed his appreciation for Cariad. It was Siouxie who he adored with all his heart, but the sight of the damsel Cariad was invigorating too.

Fortunately, Siouxie would have agreed that Cariad was a delectable cutie, and was pleased that Archie hid his reaction so well. She vowed that she would reward him later, but for now, merely approached her captive.

“Well, well, well,” Siouxie purred. “What have we here? What’s your name, cutie?”

“C-Cariad,” replied the frightened wench.

“Princess Cariad?” asked Archie, to which Cariad nodded, not taking her eyes off Siouxie.

“Oh my,” said Siouxie. “A real princess, well, what are we to do with you?” She paced slowly around Cariad, who did not move an inch, for she wanted to give Siouxie no reason to be angry. “Maybe I could throw you to the men, let them hold you down and fuck you. Get some working-class spunk in that pussy of yours, get some red slap-marks on that prim little body. How does that sound?”

“Pretty good, actually,” grinned Cariad, and she heard Archie giggle in a manly way, out of sight.

“On your knees.”

Cariad knelt. In full view of Archie and the driver, Siouxie tugged down her own trousers, revealing a bare bottom that curved deliciously, and a pussy that was surprisingly neatly trimmed. Then she parted her legs.

“Lick,” was her one-word command.

“No,” was Cariad’s reply.

Siouxie drew her pistol from her shoulder-holster, and aimed it at the driver. “Lick, or he shall perish.”

Cariad did not hesitate. She leaned forwards, a disgusted frown on her face, tongue out, and placed its tip on the least abhorrent part of Siouxie’s labia.

“Come now, whore, I think you can do better than that, don’t you? But I’m not evil. Hitch up that skirt of yours, and give your cunt a rub.”

There was no threat to the driver this time, but Cariad obeyed immediately. She pushed her head further in between Siouxie’s thighs to hide her face from the watching men. Siouxie did not lower her arm, the gun was still aimed at the man, but her hand shook, and her eyes were looking down at the bobbing head beneath her.

“That’s better. Oh my fuck, you know your way around a pair of cuntlips, don’t you, slut?”