Part III

In her bedroom, sitting upon her four-poster bed, Cariad lay back in her petticoats. Julia Trulia watched on from a nearby chair.

“It’s the dress. Rather, it’s the cloth,” said Cariad to Julia Trulia.

She picked up a cat, and wrapped the cloth around its neck, like a collar. Then she let the cat go. It wandered off, confused.

“Now watch this,” whispered Cariad. She picked up a stone, turned her back on the cat, and lobbed the stone over her shoulder, not aiming in any way. Julia Trulia watched as the stone flew in a lazy arc, sailing through the air, and landing squarely upon the cat’s head. It hissed and purred and scampered into a corner. Cariad walked over, picked him up, rubbed and kissed him, then removed the cloth.

“Sorry babe, I had to prove a point,” she mewed.

“So the cloth is cursed?” deduced Julia Trulia.

“Yep. Every time I wore a dress, a mishap occurred. As soon as the dress was, um, removed, my luck instantly changed for the better.”

“Oh my. That dastardly dressmaker,” sighed the duchess. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve already done it. I’ve got him downstairs at my mercy. So if you excuse me for a moment, I am off to torture a dressmaker.”

Cariad whisked herself away, down the stairs to the dungeon. There, in a cell at the end of a dark corridor, was Edmund. His arms and neck were in a pillory, he was wearing a dirty-green smock made from Cariad’s last dress, and his legs were spread wide apart by a wooden block.

“I-I can explain,” were his first words.

“Explain?” asked Cariad softly. “What is there to explain?”

“I… oh.”

She paced around him, walking in and out of his line of sight. “Were you going to tell me that you had cursed my dresses, putting me in mortal peril, and indirectly giving a cat a headache?”

“I… what? What cat? No, I did curse the dresses, yes, but… AaaaaaaaaaaaAAAA!”

He was cut off in mid sentence by the burning sensation that roared across his backside. Cariad held a brander in her hand, and looked down at her work. An ornate “C” sizzled upon Edmund’s left buttock.

“Mmm,” she purred. “I love the smell of burning flesh. I think I interrupted you there – you had just said ‘but’.”

“But? But. But it was you who wronged me,” cried Edmond. “You paid me for two dresses, when I had made you three.”

Cariad stepped back, astonished. She could not believe the sheer effrontery of the man. “And for that, you cursed me? You didn’t just ask me to pay you for the third dress? Besides, it was a three-for-two offer that you gave me, remember? You told me that when you were measuring my nipples, remember.”

“Oh. Shit, yeah. I forgot. Wha-what’s that? NyAAAaaaAAA!”

A second bright red “C” was burnt into Edmund’s flesh.

“Now. You are going to make me three more dresses, and I shall pay you for each of them. You are a fantastic dressmaker, sir, and I respect your abilities. Tell you what, let’s make it an even dozen, just in case Senor Clouto gets excited and tears them a little.”

Cariad shuddered at a happy image raced through her mind – she was in the pillory instead of Edmund, and it was Senor Clouto who was in her position. In her mind, he did not have a branding iron in his hand. No. In one hand, he held his manhood. His other hand was stroking her tender cheek, dipping a gentle finger into her mouth, encouraging her to moisten her lips in preparation for the job he had in mind for her.

She snapped out of her reverie. “Well, are you going to make me these dresses or not?”

“Y-yes ma’am.”

Cariad padded in front of Edmund, her flimsy petticoats wafting an inch in front of his face. She bent over him, and stared deeply into his eyes. “You don’t just make dresses, do you?” she purred. “Because I would love to meet my Senor Clouto in a tight, tight soldier’s uniform.”

Edmund gurgled.

“And it would be one of your specials too, tight around the breast, supportive, and matched with a tiny little matching skirt. Can you make them?”

“O-of course, and I promise not to curse them or anything,” whined Edmund. Then, just as he was on the verge of passing out, he added “I think I need to take some new measurements, though.”

“Of course,” grinned Princess Cariad, dipping the branding iron into the hot coals for a third time. “You have to do your job properly, don’t you?”

The End.