In this scorching new series, eighteen-year-old Princess Jamie emerges, her breathtaking beauty a prize men kill to possess. The Tournament of Swords rages, steel clashing in a brutal symphony as warriors vie for her hand, promised by the king to the last man standing. Amid the chaos, Robin Hood strikes, his presence a dangerous whisper cutting through the din. Who will claim her first, ravaging the exquisite princess in a storm of lust and violence?
The kingdom of Hollander thrummed with savage energy on Princess Jamie Hollander’s eighteenth birthday. The sword tournament, a blood-soaked tradition, drew the realm’s deadliest men to the castle’s dirt arena, their blades flashing under a sky heavy with storm clouds. King Henry Hollander, a bear of a man, sat enthroned above the fray, his barrel chest straining a velvet doublet of midnight blue, his graying beard tangled like storm-battered brush. His eyes, icy green and pitiless, gleamed with twisted pride as fighters died for his daughter. Beside him perched Jamie, a vision of defiant beauty, her golden hair fell in thick, honeyed waves past her shoulders, framing a face of sharp cheekbones and full lips, her hazel eyes sparking with unease. Her crimson silk gown clung to her lithe frame, the bodice accentuating pert breasts, the skirts flaring over hips that promised both grace and strength. She was no wilting maid; her slender hands, though soft, bore faint calluses from secret dagger practice, a rebellion against her gilded cage.
The fighters were a motley crew, scarred mercenaries with matted hair, knights in dented armor, their cocks likely hard at the thought of bedding her. One by one, they fell in sprays of crimson, skulls cleaved by broadswords, guts spilling onto the dirt. A towering brute with a pockmarked face and yellow teeth drove his blade through a rival’s throat, blood gushing like a fountain, and Henry roared approval, his meaty fist slamming the throne’s arm. “A fine match!” he bellowed, voice gravelly from years of ale and war. Jamie’s stomach churned, her forced smile a mask as the crowd’s cheers pounded her skull.
Then the air split with a whistle. A figure dropped from the ramparts, green cloak billowing, landing in the arena with a predator’s grace. Robin Hood, the outlaw terror, stood tall and lean, his frame corded with muscle under a tunic of forest green. His hair, a wild mane of chestnut brown, framed a face both handsome and cruel high cheekbones, a crooked nose from old breaks, and dark eyes that burned with lust and menace. His lips curled in a smirk, revealing teeth stained faintly yellow from tobacco. Arrows flew from his yew bow, piercing guards’ necks with wet thuds, their bodies crumpling as his men ragged, sinewy outlaws with tangled beards swarmed the stands, steel flashing.
Henry surged to his feet, his broadsword drawn, but Robin vaulted the dais, swift as a wolf. He seized Jamie, his calloused hand gripping her waist, his scent leather, sweat, and pine flooding her senses. “You’re mine, princess,” he growled, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down her spine. She kicked, her slippered foot striking his shin, but he hoisted her over his shoulder, her breasts pressed against his back, her ass in the air. Guards charged, only to drop under a storm of arrows and blades. Robin bolted through the chaos, his boots hammering stone, and hauled her up a spiraling stair to a guard tower, its walls stained with moss and old blood. He kicked the door shut, the bolt clanging, and flung her onto the cold floor, her gown tangling around her legs.
Jamie scrambled back, glaring up at him, her chest heaving, nipples straining against the silk. Robin towered over her, his cloak discarded, revealing arms roped with muscle, a jagged scar snaking down his left forearm. His breeches bulged with his arousal, and he unbuckled them with a leer, freeing a cock that made her breath catch thick, veined, the head a flushed purple, already weeping a bead of cloudy precum. “Been dreaming of this,” he said, his dark eyes raking her body. “That pretty face, wasted on those dead cunts below.”
“Stay back, you twisted fuck,” she spat, her voice sharp despite the tremor. He laughed, a guttural bark, and pounced. His hands tore at her gown, silk ripping to expose her thighs pale, smooth, trembling with adrenaline. She swung, her fist cracking his jaw, his stubble rough against her knuckles, but it only stoked his fire. “Love a fighter,” he snarled, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, his grip bruising. His other yanked her skirts up, baring her cunt pink, unshaven, glistening faintly from fear-sweat. He spat on his fingers, smearing it over his shaft, and thrust into her, dry and savage.
Her scream ricocheted off the stone, her cunt clenching against the intrusion, the pain a white-hot lance as his cock stretched her. Halfway in, his shaft was a brutal sight—veins bulging, slick with her reluctant juices, the base still exposed, coarse brown hair framing it. He grunted, forcing deeper, his hips slamming, her walls burning as they yielded. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his breath hot on her face, smelling of ale and meat. Jamie thrashed, her nails digging into his wrist, drawing pinpricks of blood, but the struggle hardened him more. His rape was a storm, each thrust a jolt of agony, her body slicking around him, adrenaline twisting pain into a dark, pulsing heat. His balls, heavy and hairy, slapped her ass, his teeth nipping her neck, leaving red marks.
The castle below roared shouts, steel, boots pounding as Henry’s men hunted him. Robin didn’t flinch. He flipped her onto her stomach, her breasts pressed into the floor, and yanked her hips up. “Ass now,” he rasped, spitting on her hole, a thick glob that dripped down her crack. He forced his cock in, halfway at first, the sight obscene—his shaft, slick with her cunt’s juices, splitting her tight, pink ring, the head buried, veins pulsing, a faint smear of her own fluids mixing with his spit. She screamed again, her ass clenching, the burn unbearable, but he thrust deeper, his full length impaling her, his groin grinding against her cheeks. “Take it, princess,” he snarled, fucking her raw, his cum building, a milky white flood that shot into her depths, hot and sticky, pooling as he pulled out, dripping down her thighs in pearlescent streaks.
He wiped his cock on her torn gown, smirking, and turned to the window, peering out at the search. Jamie lay panting, her body a map of aches—cunt throbbing, ass stinging, her mind racing. She spotted a rusted dagger on a table, its hilt chipped, and inched toward it. Robin whirled at the sound, but she struck, jamming it into his thigh—not fatal, but deep enough to make him roar, blood trickling down his leg. “You cunt!” he bellowed, staggering. She bolted, slamming the door open, and tumbled down the stairs, her bare feet slapping stone, her gown a shredded mess flapping behind her.
The castle grounds were a slaughterhouse—bodies strewn, blood soaking the earth—but she slipped past, her breath ragged, her golden hair wild. She fled to the lower villages, a warren of mud streets and thatched roofs, the stink of shit and coal thick. Her heart pounded, her holes aching from Robin’s assault, but survival fueled her. She ducked into an alley, shadows swallowing her, when rough hands seized her. Two women dragged her down, their strength born of hard lives. “Got ourselves a prize,” one sneered, her voice gravelly.
They hauled her into a basement, the air damp and sour, torchlight flickering on their faces. Mara was stocky, her skin sallow, her black hair greasy and chopped short, her eyes a muddy brown glinting with spite. Her tunic was patched, her hands thick with calluses. Nell was leaner, her frame wiry, her red hair a tangled nest, her face pocked with old scars, her gray eyes cold and mocking. “Princess Jamie,” Mara taunted, throwing her onto a straw pallet, its stench rising as she pinned Jamie’s wrists, straddling her chest, her weight crushing. Jamie’s breasts spilled free as Nell ripped the gown further, her nipples hardening in the chill, her cunt exposed, still leaking Robin’s white cum.
“Too fucking beautiful,” Nell hissed, her thin lips curling. She grabbed a broom, its handle dark oak, worn smooth from decades of sweeping, and spat on it, a thick wad that glistened. She shoved it into Jamie’s cunt, the wood scraping her tender walls, already raw from Robin. Jamie screamed, her hips bucking, the broom’s tip buried deep, its shaft a brutal intruder, slick with her juices and his lingering seed, a pale smear coating it. Mara laughed, grinding her hips down, her coarse breeches chafing Jamie’s skin. “Cry, you royal bitch,” she sneered, slapping Jamie’s cheek, the sting sharp.
Nell twisted the handle, pumping it, the wood’s grain biting, Jamie’s cunt pulsing around it, pain and adrenaline merging into a sick rush. Mara fetched a rolling pin, hefty pine stained with flour, its girth daunting. “Ass next,” she said, flipping Jamie over, straw pricking her breasts. Nell yanked the broom out, leaving Jamie gasping, her cunt gaping, and Mara spat on the pin—a fat glob that slid down its length—then forced it into Jamie’s ass. The stretch was excruciating, the pin’s blunt end splitting her, halfway in a grotesque sight: wood gleaming with spit, her pink hole stretched taut around it, Robin’s cum still dripping from her cunt nearby. Jamie’s scream was primal, her ass clenching, but Mara thrust deeper, the full length buried, her arm flexing as she fucked her.
Nell grabbed a candlestick, brass and cold, its base crusted with old wax, and rammed it into Jamie’s cunt, the metal scraping, her walls spasming. “Look at her take it,” Nell mocked, pumping it, the candlestick’s tip slick with a mix of Jamie’s juices and Robin’s milky residue, now tinged pink. Mara gagged Jamie with a wooden spoon, its handle splintered, shoving it into her mouth, splinters pricking her tongue. “Suck it, whore,” she snarled, and Jamie choked, drooling, as they ravaged her—broom in her ass, candlestick in her cunt, spoon in her throat. Their taunts rained down: “Fancy slut,” “Royal ass,” “Cum-soaked bitch.” Jamie’s body burned, the objects relentless, her holes stretched and aching, adrenaline twisting the violation into a dark, pulsing heat.
They tired at last, tossing the candlestick aside, its brass smeared with her fluids. “Done with you,” Mara spat, her saliva landing on Jamie’s back. They unbound her wrists, expecting collapse, but Jamie’s hazel eyes blazed. As they turned to loot a sack, she grabbed the broom handle, still wet with her shame, and swung, cracking Nell’s skull. The redhead dropped, dazed, and Jamie lunged at Mara, slamming the handle into her gut. Mara gasped, doubling over, and Jamie ran, bursting into the night, her body screaming, her gown a tattered ruin.
She staggered through the village, her golden hair matted, her bare feet raw on cobblestones, her cunt and ass throbbing with every step. The castle loomed, its torches a distant hope. She didn’t stop, her breath a ragged curse, reaching the gates as dawn bled red across the sky. She collapsed into a guard’s arms, a wiry man with a patchy beard, her voice a hiss: “To my father.” Henry’s wrath would be a tempest—Robin had lit a fuse, and Jamie’s rape stoked her own fire. The tournament was dust; the war was hers now.