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To Train A Queen (Commander James Bondage)

To Train A Queen by Commander James Bondage

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When Count Casimir overthrew the King of Bartavia, and had 18 year-old Princess Christine and best her friend Lady Emily dragged off into a dungeon, the two girls’ troubles had only begun. Casimir planned to make himself the new King, and he would choose one of them as his Queen… after first training them for his bedroom, then testing them, to discover which of the two noble beauties could best sate his sadistic appetites

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 3 / 2018

No. words: 39000

Style: Male Dom - M/F, Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle



To Train A Queen is erotica in an historical setting, and although I have published several novels in this genre, my Faithful Readers may not be as familiar with them than they are with the alternate world science fiction stories of the By Judicial Decree and the Cadet series. Dear Faithful Readers, do not shy away from this or my other historical novels out of fear that they will lack the erotic content of my other books. I have it on good authority that the unfortunate girls in this book, Trapped Princess (Part 1 and Part 2), Slaves of the Assyrian Empire and the other historical novels, are as alluring, their torments as painful, and their surrenders to their cruel masters are as satisfying as those found in any of my stories.
I think your hearts will go out to poor, unfortunate Princess Christine and her dear friend, Emily while they languish in the dungeons beneath the palace of the former’s father. It is perhaps possible that some of you will also secretly envy the usurper Casimir for his ownership of these two delicious noble maidens, particularly after he has trained them for his pleasure and bent them to his will.
Please let me know what you think of this book, or anything of mine you have read by e-mailing me at:
I look forward to hearing from you soon.


Commander James Bondage

Chapter One: The Usurper

The sounds of fighting from the courtyard died away as the last of the loyal guards were overwhelmed and cut down one-by-one by the Count’s men, to lie bleeding their lives out on the gray flagstones. Up in the throne room, all that now could be heard of the combat was a few faint clinks as steel sword met steel shield, and an occasional faint cry of agony as a soldier received his deathblow. The big man with the black beard and mustache dressed in half-armor and a bloodstained white wool cloak, sitting with his body slumped uncomfortably across the elaborately carved throne, was too preoccupied to pay the sounds any heed; indeed, it was doubtful if he even heard them.
It was clear that the man, Count Casimir LeBonne by name, was waiting for something or someone. The Count was making no effort to conceal his impatience; the steel tips of his gauntlets rapped out a steady, nervous rhythm on the arm of the throne while he stared at the open archway that was the entrance to the room, glowering menacingly at anyone who moved into his line of sight.
After what seemed to Casimir’s underlings to be approximately forever, there came the sound of voices in the corridor indicating that someone, or several someones, were approaching. Casimir sat up straight, and the scowl fled from his face to be replaced by a broad grin as the voices became louder and more recognizable.
Through the pointed archway and into the high-ceilinged chamber came a squad of Casimir’s men, accoutered much like their commander in white cloaks over steel plate armor. With these men were two girls, whose hands were tied behind their backs and had soldiers firmly gripping their upper arms, one on each side. The girls were in dressed in brightly colored kirtles that looked somewhat worse for wear, and from their glassy-eyed expressions, appeared to be rather the worse for wear themselves.
The captain of the squad, an English mercenary named Boynce, shouted, “Attention!” His men snapped into position, stiffening as if ramrods had been suddenly thrust up their fundaments, as did Boynce himself.
“My Lord,” the captain said, thrusting out his chest and bellowing as though he wanted to be certain that no person on the castle grounds could not hear him, “I wish to report the capture of the Princess Christine and her companion, Lady Emily of Fernhill!”
Casimir, who was accustomed to his man’s volume, did not turn a hair. He nodded his head, and said, “So I see. Excellent work, Captain Boynce. I shall not forget you when the spoils are distributed.”
He crooked a finger at the four men holding the girls. “Bring them up to the foot of the throne, if you please, gentleman. I should like to converse with the Princess and her noble friend, and one can hardly have intercourse with them when they are so far away.”
The four soldiers advanced, carrying the two girls as effortlessly as if they were straw- stuffed effigies, until the hems of their skirts were brushing the toes of Casimir’s cavalry boots. Although they were not related, they were often taken for sisters by strangers, so similar were their appearances. Both girls were 18 years old, had delicate, straight noses, high cheeks, eyes that were almost shockingly blue, long, fine hair and attractive, curving forms beneath their dresses.
Emily was the daughter and heir of the Duke of Fernhill, the wealthiest, most powerful noble in Bartavia, and the King’s right hand and closest friend. His wife had died when Emily was only five years old, and she thereafter spent most of her childhood in the household of the royal family with Princess Christine, being raised almost as though she was in truth a second daughter to the King and Queen. The two girls became fast friends from the moment they first met, and now were inseparable.
Emily was taller, had hair of spun gold, and a shape that was more frankly womanly, while the shorter Christine had tresses the color of molten copper, and a more slender form, but one that was in no way less attractive.
“I trust you are in good health, Your Highness, My Lady,” Casimir said, bobbing his head amiably.
His words seemed to bring the dazed Princess Christine to life. “How dare these men lay their hands on the daughters of the King and Duke Fernhill, Casimir? Order them to release me at once… both of us!” she shouted. Without waiting to see if he would obey this royal command, she continued, “Do not concern yourself with the state of our health, villain. You would do better to consider your own. Have you despaired of life that you would presume to place your low-born posterior on the Lion Throne of Bartavia? You may count yourself fortunate if you are merely beheaded instead of being drawn and quartered as you deserve, after the King hears of it!”
The soldiers exchanged sidelong glances. Count Casimir normally did not tolerate being harangued by anyone, especially a mere slip of girl half his age. He had a short temper, a violent disposition, and he was no respecter of rank, age or sex when he believed there was an insult to be repaid.
But rather than striking the Princess dead with his mace, Count Casimir smiled. That is, the corners of his mouth turned upwards to display the tips of his teeth, which technically constituted a smile, although it far more resembled the expression on the snout of a shark the instant before it rips a mouthful of flesh from its prey, than it did any normal human expression.
“Well, perhaps he will not hear of it,” he said easily. “In sooth, I should be astonished if he did.” He bent to reach over an arm of the throne, and plucked a stained burlap sack from the floor. “It is said that dead men tell no tales, so by analogy, I must conclude that they cannot hear them, either.”
With this, he gripped the bottom of the bag and emptied its contents on the floor at the feet of the two girls. They both screamed hysterically and frantically threw themselves backwards, away from the two gruesome objects now laid on the flagstone before them: the severed heads of the Prime Minister of Bartavia, Duke Robert of Fernhill, and his sovereign King Charles Gustav II of Harenburg.
The girls continued to scream until their spittle was pink and Casimir was developing the beginnings of a headache from the ear-piercing sound. Finally, he seized the two heads by their hair and returned them to the sack, which he tossed aside. Then he gestured to Captain Boynce, who nodded and crammed handkerchiefs into the girls’ mouths, securing them in place with lengths of twine, which he tied behind their heads. This served to muffle, if not totally silence the screams.
The Count began to speak again. “Now, as it happens, I…” He stopped when he realized that he did not have the full attention of either the Princess or the Duchess (with the death of her father, Emily had inherited Duke Robert’s title and properties), if the way their eyes were rolling wildly around in their sockets and the stifled sounds of panic and grief they both made was anything to go by. He leaned forward to slap Emily lightly on the cheek, and then did the same to Christine. As he was still wearing his metal gloves, even these comparatively light chastisements were sufficient to snap the heads of the recipients violently sideways and raise colored lumps on their cheeks, which almost immediately began to darken into bruises.
“I must ask you to pay close heed to my words, My Lady and Your Highness, for this is a matter of importance,” Casimir said. “Have I now your full attention?” He raised his gauntleted hand again.
Emily cringed fearfully, her eyes on the gauntlet as she nodded her head in answer. Christine nodded her head as well, but her eyes were locked on the Count’s in a glare of unalloyed hatred. He returned the glare with a smile and a wink before continuing.
“Good. I mislike repeating myself,” Casmir said. “Now, as it happens, I should like to make the transition from the old dynasty to the new as uncomplicated as possible for my new subjects, and for that I must needs have a member of the old royal family for my Queen. That way…” He trailed off again, as the two girls burst into muted, incomprehensible, but obviously heartfelt protests.
Rather than battering them into silence again, Casimir nodded, and said, “Ah, of course, you were not privy to the news, and so knew not that the reign of the Harenburg family is at an end, or that I shall become the new King.”
Emily reacted by screwing her face up and bursting into tears. Christine, on the other hand, shook her head and made a noise like “Nnnnn!”
The Count nodded his head. “Oh yes, it’s quite true. Shaking your head will change nothing, my dear,” he said. He raised his mailed hand again. “Now, do you need a fresh reminder, or will you still your clamor, YoHighness, that I might be permitted to finish?”
The threat was sufficient to make the two girls fall silent again. “As I was saying, the uncertainties that might result from the change will, I judge, be greatly lessened if I take a Harenburg to wife. My first preference would have been your mother, Queen Charlotte, who became eligible after the unfortunate demise of Charles. But when she learned of the King’s defeat and death, she took to her bath and opened her veins with a dagger. You, Princess Christine, are the last of the direct line, so if I wish to have a Harenburg bride, there is but one choice. On the other hand, there is much to be said for a union with the late Duke Robert’s daughter, is there not, Lady Emily? Your estates… mine, if I espouse you… are twice the size of the Harenburgs’, and more valuable by far. I could raise a far greater army with Fernhill gold at my command than without. So, there is a much to recommend both of you. But which will make a more suitable match when it comes to the bedroom? Which of you lovely young ladies will be more solicitous of her King’s pleasure, hey?”
He stepped down from the throne, and stooped low over Emily, studying her face from an inch away. She whimpered in fear. “What would you do, my fine little Duchess, to avoid the scourge, the hot irons, the pincers, the rack, the needles and all the rest?” His mailed hand clamped onto the collar of her dress and he pulled down sharply, ripping the front of the garment away, leaving the blonde girl clad only in a thin silk chemise embroidered with flowers. He released the ruined dress and let it fall to the ground, then reached up to untie the string that held the neck of the girl’s dainty undergarment closed. “Would you crawl to my bed like a well-whipped bitch?”
Emily stared helplessly down at his hand. “Let us see what you conceal under here, My Lady Emily,” the Count said, slipping the straps of the chemise over her shoulders so that it slid down over her body, catching for a moment on her nipples, then drifted to gather in a pile at the now-nude girl’s feet. She made a broken sound deep in her throat, closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. A blush began in her forehead, and spread to her cheeks neck and breasts. Although it was May and the room was not particularly cold, she was shaking so badly that she would have fallen had the two soldiers not held her erect.
Casimir’s eyes drank in her beauty. He had enjoyed not a few women in his life, but he had never seen one more magnificent than the eighteen-year-old Duchess of Fernhill. Her skin was flawless, a smooth expanse of alabaster perfection. Her breasts were full, round, womanly, but surpassingly firm and resilient. Her legs were long and shapely, well-muscled from riding, and overlaid with just the right amount of soft flesh. Her mound was wonderfully formed, with pink lips seeming to beckon from beneath a few golden hairs.
The Count took her chin in his steel-gloved hand and turned her head to face him. “Look at me,” he commanded, and Emily opened her eyes. He shook off the gauntlet from his free hand, and asked, “Would you bear the torture to preserve your chastity? Would you endure the rack for hour upon hour before besmirching your family’s honor? Would you die for your virtue, rather than come willingly to the bed of your father’s killer?”
Emily stared back at him, unable to look away, unable to think in her terror.
“Raise your chest and offer me your noble titties,” he commanded. “Show us now the courage of a daughter of the famed House of Fernhill.”
Emily was in many ways a typical girl of the high nobility. She had led a pampered, protected existence, and was accustomed to being treated with attentiveness and respect by her many male admirers, and with instant compliance by her servants. Her days were spent reading poetry, sewing, and learning the arts of managing the kind of great household that she would someday marry into or inherit. Other than horseback riding, she had not engaged in rough sports or dangerous activities, or done anything that might be thought of as unladylike since before her twelfth birthday. She had no real personal experience with violence, and the sight of her father’s severed head together with the Count’s bloodcurdling threats overwhelmed her. She felt as if her will had left her body, as if she was being operated by some outside agency. Without any conscious thought, she obediently forced her shoulder blades together and arched her back, thrusting her breasts out toward Casmir’s waiting hand. She shuddered but did not pull away when the Count’s hand cupped the creamy flesh of her left breast and his callused palm scraped her dark pink nipple.

Author Information

I am a retired criminal attorney with a Master's Degree in History. How these prepared me for a career of writing naughty books is not altogether clear to me, but then, life can take some strange turns. My books have two goals: to have a bit of innocent fun and to provide a few pleasant moments for my readers.


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