Fantasy spanking: The keys to the kingdom (part 1)

Image courtesy of Dreams of Spanking

This fabulous fantasy spanking story is written by Ozma van Aalsberg, and read aloud by Pandora Blake of Dreams of Spanking. The story originally appeared on Dreams of Spanking and is being published here with permission. 

A week before her twentieth birthday, Riva Avarith, duchess heir of the Grand Fiefdom of Avarith, had instructed the estate’s staff that she was not to be disturbed until the day of her ascent. The calligraphy with which she printed and signed this pronouncement is said to have been more ornate than the most sacred texts of the most devout hermits. So vital was her privacy, that she refused the company of even a mirror in her bedroom. So serious was her concentration, that she sentenced an invading moth to an immediate beheading, and carried out the sentence herself. In this, her last week of childhood innocence, she was to prepare herself for the responsibilities of adulthood. In service to her own rebirth, she had furnished her own cocoon, a tomb in which a sheltered heiress would die and a benevolent leader — a woman who answered to no one — would emerge.

On her first isolated day, she relished in the depths of her mind. She cleared her head of the responsibility that would soon be upon her, and recalled instead each moment of her past. Two decades of experience lined up, and each moment pressed upon her with the immediacy of a sword against a neck. She relived each scene and discarded it at a thousand times its original speed. At times, her recall was imperfect, and she cursed her imperfections. When she found a moment of shame, she chastised the child within and forgave herself the sin. In her moments of achievement, she reprimanded her pridefulness and cursed her base and common attachment to external honors. To glory in accomplishments is to admit their unlikeliness.

Each moment of hunger passed through her, and each subsequent satisfaction. Every need she had ever felt, she felt again, and every disappointment. In moments of confusion, she accepted contradictions, and saw new nuances in what had been obvious before. She remembered her infancy, her adolescence. She remembered all the way up to a week before her twentieth birthday, when she had closed herself off to the world, to meet her own brain. She had slaughtered a moth. All her life passed before her, a thousand times quicker still, and as those moments passed again into an ever shortening moment, she experienced the whole of her existence as a singularity. She had done it. She had mastered her entire life, and all it had to offer.

In short, she had learned nothing, and had never yet had a chance to live, as a person lives. Now she knew this. Now she could move on.

On her second day of isolation, she drafted a letter to whom it might concern. She wrote of a young lady who had served her manor well, to be vouched for by the highest authorities that she could perform any function that might be required of her. “Be assured, innkeeper, farmer, magistrate or whomsoever you be, this maiden is of fine stock, and your virtue by respect to her position will not go unrewarded, on this earth or any other.” She signed the note with a flourish that could only be royal, and sealed it shut with an emblem of the Avarithine carpenter ant.

Under nightfall, she cracked open her door. With a hand against the wall, she felt her way down the long spiral of stairs, further down than she had ever explored within the confines of her home. The servants’ quarters were for servants. Somewhere in these depths, she was sure she would find a maid’s uniform. Whether it fit her well or if it hid her dainty, corseted figure in coarse, frumpy waves, she would use it as a mask. She would flaunt no sway from her mother’s name, nor from her own. Virtue would be her only advantage.

In time, she’d found the scullery, and still drying, a uniform like every other uniform on the line. No one could possibly miss it. She pulled at the ruffles on the sleeves, which sagged against the weight of water, and she pulled harder, forcing the garment from the line and producing a tear at the shoulder. This added authenticity would serve her well. She rearranged the other dresses that dried in the basement air, so nothing appeared missing. If any of the staff received disciplinary measures for her crime, she would be compelled out of mercy to reveal what she had done. Her dalliance would undoubtedly be forgiven, but her reputation would not go unstained. Her mother, Moira, the current Duchess of Avarith, was renowned for her grace and perfection. For her daughter to don the a commoner’s robe would be scandal enough, but to live outside the castle for even a day would be unheard of. Such contempt for the feudal system could lead to revolution. Riva knew the risk, but as duchess, she would have to take these risks, if they were for the benefit of her people. The educational value was too compelling to ignore.

She returned to her room and removed what else was left of royalty. In her isolation, she had not primped herself more than was necessary. She had had no mirror. As she pulled her new dress around her, she could only sense how wretched it looked. The neck had been stretched so far that her shoulders kept slipping out, one at a time, as she pulled against it. The sleeves were long enough to reach her knees, and as she rolled them up, she could only imagine how fat her arms must have looked, how wide her waist, how narrow her bust. Most of her body seemed modest and geometric, and while the conic section defined by her royal good looks and formal education might have stood out, it would not overwhelm the impression given by the rest of her.

She thought of packing, as though on vacation, and scolded herself for the indulgence. She should have no advantages, other than her one letter of introduction. A ruler should be as capable as anyone else, and be able to rise above the harshest circumstances to regain the throne once more. She should be capable of more than others, and on her own merits, she would rise up from nothing. A true leader can acquire the highest honors of the land, rather than simply receive them.

In daylight, she had seen from her window a ladder on the south side of the property’s wall. No one would miss it, she was sure, and as she stepped into the night, she climbed the borders of the caste. Atop the barricade, she pulled the ladder up behind her, to the other side, and descended it as carefully as she had risen.

Safety behind her, she dragged the ladder as a bridal train, away from home and civilization, between horizons. The woods between the estate and the castle village were vast enough to lose armies, and the trees were dense enough that only a few scattered slivers of the moon were able to trickle through. Riva felt her way from tree to tree, counting carefully so she could feel her way back. After the hundredth tree on her right-hand side, she let the ladder drop behind her, and after one hundred more, she came upon the church and the village behind it.

No light showed through any window. The streets were dark and free of commerce. Even the tavern at the edge of town was empty, and she kept walking, beyond the peasant farmlands, across the jagged mountains that overlooked the infinite sea. She walked until the morning and through the next afternoon, when the winding path to heaven stopped abruptly at a hermit’s humble roof. As gently as she could, she knocked upon the door, which opened for her slowly, but forcefully. It pulled from its hinges into an expanse, which had seemed so modest before, against the majesty of the mountains, sky, and sea. As the door slid away from her, the cavern it revealed seemed to grow. She walked an incline as long as the mountain itself, along a narrow cave lined with candles that did not flicker in the wind. She followed their trail into the heart of the earth, until the trail stopped at a balcony overlooking an enormous library. The door fell off and away, and if it ever landed, it did not make a sound.

As she stood against the railing, lanterns overhead lit of their own account, though their light failed to reach the floor of the room beneath her. So weary from her travels was she, that she could not comprehend the abyss beneath her, and she leaned across the railing, craning her head down, before a force pulled her backwards.

“Stupid girl,” a woman’s voice echoed against her. “If you fall, I’ll have to get another one.”

“Another what?” Riva asked, looking up at the woman, old and dark and strong.

“Another assistant. What else?”

Riva blushed at the woman’s proposal, but did not protest. She apologized for intruding and offered the letter of introduction.

“I couldn’t be bothered about royalty, love. The fact that you’re here makes you mine, and I shan’t be needing assurances from faraway aristocrats that you’re standing here before me.”

Riva felt she should protest, but could not find the words. She continued to hold the letter aloft.

“If you really want me to take it, I will.” The woman snatched the letter, and tearing it to pieces, pretended to read. “Dear Madam Crowlitz, we hereby offer you another unfortunate case of inbreeding and poor planning and hope that you will hide her useless face from our equally useless society. Please allow her to latch onto your dried up tits and feel free to beat her until she develops a backbone. Sincerely yours, nothing matters.”

She scattered the pieces of the letter over the balcony rail, and Riva watched them sparkle in the light as they twirled and fell. “That’s not what it said,” she muttered.

“Oh is that so?” The woman said. She had not spoken any louder than before, but the slight hint of wrath that had accumulated in her tone seemed to shake the ground at Riva’s feet. She wanted to apologize, but the woman spoke more quickly. “I’m sorry I acted hastily. If you really want me to read it, you can gather the pieces for me. You’ll find a ladder against the rail there.”

Riva felt faint at the thought of more climbing, and protested, “Please, miss, I’ve traveled all night and all day to reach you, though I’d known not to where I might come. My eyes are heavy with sleep, and my legs sore with the weight of the world beneath them. I will do your bidding and serve to your satisfaction, but at present, I am weary beyond the strength of my will.”

The woman stared at Riva, though her gaze seemed to land somewhere deeper. As Riva waited for a reaction, she turned her attention to the floor, and back at Madam Crowlitz, and back to the floor again. “I will await your return,” the woman said, and opened a book that flew into her hand.

Riva waited a moment before she dared to penetrate this impossible interior. What organization had budgeted this monument of isolation, this shrine to wasted effort? She hesitated as she lifted herself over the railing, wondering how infinite this task might be. Each step down brought to her face a new shelf of books in scripts she could not interpret, on incomprehensible subjects with unlikely premises. They were all covered in a cover’s thickness of dust, and when her movements created the slightest breeze, a cloud of stale air would rise to burn her eyes and throat. By the time she’d gone a thousand steps, she had learned to step deliberately, though the grace of gentle descent took all that remained of her concentration.

In a thousand steps more, she could see the bottom rung, and after a final thousand steps, she landed on the solid ground. All manner of debris had accumulated here, and she felt a need to organize, though she knew not what she saw. Within the alien bends and folds of the strange objects around her, she found the pieces of her letter, and each she found, she collected into a pile. The drawers of what must have been a table covered up a few, and she released them. What might have been a chair, had human anatomy been as varied as a plant’s, housed another, and within the clear metallic shells of creatures made of sand and sugar, she found dozens of fragments, more than she remembered seeing fluttering down into the nothing she now inhabited. The final few pieces were under a familiar door, out of place with its normality. She gathered every scrap, and scooped them up in the front of her dress, taking care that they should stay safe through the whole of her ascent.

Though she tried to count her steps again, staying awake occupied most of her attention, and she lost count somewhere after seven hundred. She tried to rest by weaving her arm through the rungs of the ladder, but they were spread too far apart to gain a secure position. She continued taking step after step, occasionally shifting which hand held the hem of her dress. Her shoes were worn through by now, and she let them drop to the floor below. Madame Crowlitz would ask her to retrieve them tomorrow, she was sure, but in the meantime, that slight extra weight was an impediment she could not bear. She continued up the ladder with cool resolve, admiring the strength of character she demonstrated, until she climbed over the bannister and collapsed on the floor above in a weak, unconscious heap.

“There, there,” said a maternal voice that lifted her up and cradled her. “You should get yourself some rest. We can postpone your punishment for when you wake up.” Her eyes would not open, but she felt the warmth and softness of a bed made of rose petals. She sank into it, and was covered on all sides. Though she was furious at herself for showing weakness, the comfort made her forget her self-loathing, and she slept with only marginally troubled dreams.

When she awoke in a pile of mulch, she stood up in a panic, batting away the dirt and small insects that had made a home in her. The madame had removed her dress before tucking her away, and by the bed she saw a suit laid out for her, though it seemed tailored for a boy her size and not for her. Modest brown pants, a ruffled shirt, a vest, and a leather cap she had to squeeze around her head were unlike any outfit that had been provided to her before, but they fit her figure, and she imagined they suited her, in their way.

“Good morning, dear,” came Crowlitz’s voice from behind her, and Riva instinctively curtseyed, though she had no skirt to drape. “I hope you slept well.” The woman sat beside a simple wooden desk where books and papers circled her like scavenger birds.

“Yes, madame,” Riva said, though she felt more troubled by the woman’s well-wishes than she had been by her insults. “I apologize for the first impression I paid you yesterday. I had been stranded without rest for some time prior to our introduction, and I had travelled over hill and vale to reach you, though I’d known not of you before. Any ill manner I displayed, I can assure you, was purely a function of my exhaustion, and I assure you, shall not be repeated.”

The woman pushed up her glasses and smiled at the girl’s formality. “Thank you,” she said. “That was an articulate and humble apology.” Riva smiled and breathed a sigh of relief at the praise. “But it does not forgive your impertinence. Come here.”

The girl paused before she took a step forward, but she pointed her toe bravely, with the savoir faire of a royal. Madame Crowlitz pushed herself away from her desk and waved the girl closer. “When you are in my home, you will follow my command.”

“Yes, madame,” Riva said, though she wanted to say something more eloquent.

“I have devoted my life to study and the acquisition of knowledge. If you are to linger here, you will learn as I have learned, through service and discipline.” Riva swallowed as the woman’s arm touched her waist. “Consider it your rent, that you are to receive these punishments at the beginnings and ends of every day, and throughout as needed.”

“And what punishments are those, good madame?” the girl said, but she could already feel herself being pulled across the woman’s lap. The movement robbed her of her breath. As the woman’s hand clapped down across her backside, she felt an anger rise in her. No one, not even the duchess herself, had ever been so bold as to violate her physical autonomy, certainly not in this savage manner. She calmed herself as she remembered: this was the life of a commoner, this daily physical abuse by their elders. This was the experience she had come to savor. She kept herself from crying out and suppressed any squirming that might have been her instinct. The pain that rose in her backside made her recall new memories, that she was certain she had never had, but seemed familiar. Her body seemed to melt into the woman’s will, and lost all form of its own. This all seemed interesting. She let herself be interested in the anger and the hopelessness she felt.

As the woman’s open hand came down upon her again and again, clapping thunder with each blow, she pictured herself as the one source of light in this cavern. She maintained her poise, even as her britches and her knickers were forced down off of her frame. She would not feel humiliation. She would feel pride, unjustly handled in this indelicate manner. The pain of those giant hands against her bare skin threatened to unsettle her, but she held in her cries. She would not give credence to a brute, would not even acknowledge these aggressions. She even smiled. If the woman knew whom she was dealing with, she would be very sorry indeed.

The spanking continued for several minutes, then an hour, then the remainder of the day. The burn of it moved through her in place of a sun overhead. In the underground, time did not move, and all durations were the same. The woman only finished her task when Riva finally let herself make the beginning murmurs of distress. Despite her best efforts, tears had formed in her eyes, and as they dripped onto the floor in front of her, she felt the weight of them. Girlish, broken tears. She was glad to have them squeezed out of her. She wanted to be free of them. As she felt them, the rest of her began to weep in aching faraway gasps.

“You’re a naive, stupid girl, and you’ll have to be much smarter if you’re ever going to lead your people,” said the woman, and Riva felt shame rush to her cheeks, having recently thought herself superior to her accustomed luxury. She was coddled. She couldn’t even withstand the slight discomfort of a little spanking. What would she do in a war? As she fell upon the floor, she apologized to her madame. She would prove herself today, she was sure.

“Not today, my child, but soon.”


If you enjoyed this fantasy spanking story, listen to part 2 which is live now! Head to the fabulous ethical spanking porn site Dreams of Spanking for more like this, plus fabulous videos and photosets! You can also check out Blake’s incredible work over on Patreon

1 Comment

  • Chris says:

    Beautifully written. Read with a voice the breathes authenticity into an astonishingly believable character. Impossible determination, indignation, subtle submission woven together compellingly. Listen to believe.

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