Dementor (Rolling Thunder MC Birmingham Book 1)

by Candace Blevins

  “The pretty, healthy onions are sold at market. The ones that are fine to eat but aren’t pretty go into the other basket. Bad onions are tossed in a pile. Someone will check your baskets and piles. You’ll be punished if you have poor judgment. You’ll also be punished if you can’t fill your baskets fast enough. No speaking to other slaves, no breaks because you’re tired. You’ll get your water allotment when you walk your baskets to be checked and emptied. Don’t complain of thirst in between. No one cares.”

  He bent and attached a chain between my heavy iron ankle cuffs. I could walk, but I couldn’t take big steps. No way would I be able to run.

  And without anyone telling me, I knew I wouldn’t be able to change. I’d heard people talk about how slaves in Faerie are installed with a magical drain, so their power goes to someone else. I’d only recently had my power levels increased, but I’d gotten used to having so much magic available. This felt awful. I’d had more energy as a swan.

  I got to work, but filled my basket of imperfect onions when the other was only half full. I walked them to the table and struggled to lift the heavier one high enough to put it onto the table.

  And then watched as he looked through them and started moving them from the bad basket to the good. “This isn’t bad! It’s dirty! That’s what happens when it comes out of the fucking dirt! Stupid fucking birdbrain swan!” He proceeded to call me every name derogatory to swans, birds, and shifters, and it was everything I could do to keep my mouth shut. I was here to learn to control my temper, and I hoped if I showed control, Aaron wouldn’t leave me here long.

  This was also when I began to suspect Queen Mab had fixed it so everyone would only see my swan shifter status. No one knew I was also a dragon.

  A guard approached, and he looked at my throat before telling the man at the table, “Make a note of slave M3629’s need for discipline, and why.”

  The guard connected a hook onto an attachment at the back of the ring encircling my waist, and I gave a small scream when I was yanked into the air. A pulley system of cables carried me to a hillside overlooking the fields, and the guard floated up to join me on a small platform.

  And then I screamed when he lifted me and set me down hard, so a cold metal phallus was shoved up my ass. My butt muscles squeezed around the unyielding, coarse metal. It got fatter and fatter towards the bottom, which meant it was going to split me open if I came down off my tiptoes.

  The chain attached to the back of my waist drew up, and I soon learned I could lean forward to make it taut when I was about to lose my balance, but the position made my calves and back and hip muscles even more tired.

  I was there at least two hours before I was given baskets and expected to work again. I didn’t bother asking for something to drink, though I could tell I was dehydrated.

  I was a nervous wreck the next time I took my basket to be looked over. I noted only a few of us had to do that. Most of the slaves just dumped their baskets onto two large piles while someone looked on. I tried not to fidget while the field-hand looked through my onions. He made a signal to the guards, and I was walked to the side and handed a metal tumbler full of water. I downed it in two drinks. “Can I have another, please Sir?”

  The guard slapped me. Hard. The metal tumbler went flying, and he slapped me again. “Pick it up, slave.”

  I scurried to retrieve it and almost fell when the chains wouldn’t let me open my legs up to walk properly. I handed him the tumbler without apologizing. I vaguely remembered the first guard telling me slaves don’t speak unless asked a direct question.

  I saw the guards using the other slaves sexually — male and female. Sometimes, the slave kept working while they were fucked. I got horny from the activity but didn’t dare stop working to watch. Still, the sights and sounds of a dick fucking a pussy or an ass always gets me wet, and in this instance, with guards and helpless slaves, I kept hoping someone would come fuck me, too.

  But no one did.

  The day dragged on forever. Onions and thirst became my world. And heat. A blister formed on my right hand, but I kept snipping. It eventually broke and bled, but I didn’t stop.

  Fuck, but I was miserable. I didn’t dare slow down even a little, though.

  We were fed a disgusting goulash and more stale bread around noon. I finally felt as if I got enough water, so I thankfully wasn’t dehydrated anymore. Most of the slaves were taken away, and only a handful of us had to keep working. When the other slaves returned, I was certain they’d been allowed a nap. The rest of our day involved boxing up the morning’s harvest and loading the crates onto carts.

  I assumed we’d be there until the sun went down, but we were ordered into six lines and then marched about a mile away to a small compound of buildings later in the evening. They released the chains between our ankles, but ran a long chain through the back of our waist-irons, connecting the six people who were side-by-side in the six lines. If someone slowed, guards on horseback were quick with a bullwhip to encourage them to speed back up.

  Based on the position of the sun, I thought this was maybe six o’clock. Give or take.

  We were given another unappetizing meal and then lined up and bent over a bar. My wrists were connected to the corresponding ankles.

  And then, without warning, something was crammed in my ass and I was given a large damned fucking enema.

  Without a doubt, receiving enemas had been one of the least pleasant parts of my time with Able, and this one was so much worse. They filled the line of slaves and expected us to empty while we were bent over, and this was especially demeaning and humiliating. It underscored the fact that the slaves in this place weren’t people. They weren’t even animals. I wasn’t sure what we were, other than property.

  I hadn’t fully evacuated the first enema when the nozzle was inserted again and water flowed back into me. This one was a much higher volume and I thought I might be sick, but I didn’t dare say anything. They gave me a little longer to evacuate before giving me a third enema with even more damned water, but it still wasn’t enough time. Finally, we were marched around a sandy track for twenty minutes, and we were expected to evacuate the rest while walking. When I tried to go around a pile of shit, a whip snaked out and caught me on the ass. When I needed to go and slowed down to release, the whip caught me again.

  Next, we were lined up, and another slave walked down the line with a soapy sponge to clean our genitals, knees, our feet, and our armpits. Finally, we were hosed down with cold water. I flinched and took a few steps back, and felt the whip again — nonstop until I took my place back in line. I’m pretty sure the hose was directed at my clit and then nipples longer to make a point.

  I was in line with the slaves, waiting to board some kind of magical bus when the castle guard arrived beside me, grabbed my arm, and teleported us to a horse stable.

  No. Not a horse stable. These were people dressed as horses. I’d seen pony play before, of course, but never anything so elaborate.

  “No one will fuck your ass or pussy here,” the guard told me. “Your throat is another story. Unlike the fields, you’ll be beaten here whether you’ve done anything wrong or not. You’ll most certainly be beaten — or worse — if you aren’t a perfect pony.” He pointed to the ground and I wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it seemed smart to drop to my knees. He pulled his cock from his trousers, pissed all over me, and poked his member back through the slit in the fabric. Her Majesty gave them uniforms with easy access, apparently.

  I sputtered a little, but it wasn’t the first time I’d been pissed on. I remembered the punishment I’d received when I’d fought Able that first time. It’d been bad, but I had a feeling it would be much worse in this place.

  “Filthy slave,” the guard said with a shake of his head. It seemed he waited a moment to see if I responded before he teleported away. Another test? I’d glared at him, but I hadn’t said anything. Had I passed? Failed? I wished I knew.

  Another man approached. He wore jeans and
cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and he was shirtless with chiseled abs. He removed the metal collar, waist-iron, and cuffs of the onion field and put leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles. My neck felt bare. How quickly I’d gotten used to belonging again. I felt unsettled without the universal symbol announcing I was owned.

  And then he tightened what can only be called a stainless steel g-string around my waist and pussy. He removed something from the iron collar he’d set aside and hung whatever it was onto the steel now going around my waist. I looked and saw it was a tag with my slave number. So much for feeling as if I weren’t owned.

  “I don’t have time to train you during the day, so you’ll work the fields each day until I can send for you. When you’ve learned enough to function with the other ponies, you’ll reside here. If you can’t make it as a pony, you’ll be sent somewhere much worse than the fields.” He motioned towards the barn and turned back to me. I could see lots of other corrals with human ponies being ‘worked’ in them. Some were pulling small chariots, some were running, others were walking funny.

  “Ponies piss when they need to go. Doesn’t matter where. The chastity belt will allow you to piss. From here on out, you’ll receive one or two word commands. You’re an animal, not a person. Animals don’t speak. Not even when spoken to.”

  I could piss in the chastity belt, but what about shitting? Then it occurred to me I’d likely continue to get enemas. I’d only need to shit when the belt was off for my enema. I wanted to cry, but I knew it would be a bad move. This trainer’s mannerisms told me tears would provoke consequences instead of sympathy.

  A stable hand brought another female human pony out, along with a full bag of something. The bag’s contents were dumped on a table in the center of the corral, and I saw a bit gag, reins, a fucking huge butt plug, and a bunch of clamps.

  The human pony was beautiful, but I figured staring at her would be bad, so I stole a few glimpses and looked back to the table. I’m used to being plugged, but this one was bigger than I was used to.

  The trainer didn’t just use commands. There were pats when I did good, and he’d mutter, “Good girl, that’s it. I know it’s hard,” while he laced my arms into the armbinder, or while he worked the huge plug into my ass. He had to take the chastity belt off to put the plug in, and he rubbed something on my clit while it was off. I moaned when it went back on because my clit burned. The trainer released the cane swinging from his belt loop and gave my ass five hard thwacks. I screamed and jumped, and tears streamed from my eyes even though there were only five strikes, but they were brutal.

  He put his mouth to my ear. “You aren’t in the pony mindset yet, so I’ll break the rules just this once to tell you that you’d better be pleased at any attention you get, good or bad. You don’t want to be sent somewhere to work twenty hours a day, hard labor, in total isolation for days at a time, where your pain levels are based on how many tourist gewgaws you can make every fucking hour. Totally mindless tasks, so you can focus on your pain while you work.”

  No. I didn’t want that. I looked to the ground and tried my best to appear contrite.

  He chuckled and lifted a piece of leather from the table. “Good girl. It’s time for your collar.”

  The posture collar positioned my head so I could only look forward, straight ahead. I couldn’t tilt my face up or down, nor could I look left or right. I had to aim my gaze downward to keep from looking anyone in the eye.

  It felt more like a neck brace than a collar.

  The dragon would have come out if my magic hadn’t been drained off. She was just under the surface and pissed. We were fucking royalty, and probably a thousand times smarter than these people, yet we were being treated as slaves. As less than.

  It took everything in me to push the dragon down and keep her from making me call the trainer a fucking bastard cuntwaffle, amongst other things. Only the knowledge that maybe if I behaved and didn’t let my temper run away did I have any chance of this not lasting all week kept me from going off.

  Next, the trainer put my hair in a high ponytail and brushed it into total submission. I was then ordered to open my mouth, and he unceremoniously inserted a bit mechanism that seemed to work with the ponytail and the tall headpiece a slave stable hand brought out. I’m not sure I could’ve balanced the heavy, elaborate headpiece without the posture collar.

  And finally, something was rubbed on my nipples and then strong clamps attached to them.

  “Marigold, prance.”

  The other horse took off in the oddest gait. A stable hand had been holding her where I could see her, straight in front of me and out a little bit. She turned and moved away from me, and my trainer said, “M-three-six-two-nine, prance.”

  The world slowed around me. The other pony had a name. I was just a number.

  Two sharp thwacks to my ass from the cane brought me back to this realm, and I did my best to copy Marigold. He struck the sides and backs of my thighs and ordered, “Higher.” Later, when they were too high, he struck the tops and assumed I’d figure out how to get him to stop hitting me.

  In the following hours I also learned trot, gallop, canter, and a few other ways to walk and run. And then he had me full-out run. No special gait, he just wanted me to run as fast as I could while he timed me. When I thought I couldn’t run anymore and I stopped, leaned over, and gasped for air, he beat my ass and thighs with the cane until I started running again.

  When he finally let me stop, he pissed into my mouth. I was so thirsty, I didn’t complain.

  Shapeshifters can’t get sick from drinking another’s urine. It tastes bad and it’s degrading, but there’s no physical reason we can’t. Able had gone through a phase where he was too good to pee in a toilet. He’d call for a slave anytime he needed to go, and I was frequently the closest.

  It’s funny, my inner dragon had about blown a gasket over the posture collar, but didn’t go totally berserk over having to drink piss.

  Did the dragon have my memories of my years with Able? It didn’t seem she did. At least not at first, but maybe she’d accessed those memories as a result of being made a slave in Faerie? Whatever the reason, she was easier to manage than she’d been that morning.

  In my full pony-girl getup, I was taken to a carnival-type area and strung up so people could pay to whip or flog me. Some people were better at it that others, and my dragon came close to making me scream at a woman who had terrible technique. What the fuck was she doing? Why bother to pay to do something you suck at?

  Okay, so much for my inner dragon chilling the fuck out. I once again managed to remain silent, but it wasn’t easy.

  I was hooked up to a carriage at one point as well. Two ponies per carriage, transporting up to five people from the parking area. I was whipped a lot until I learned the right tempo and could run in time with the other pony.

  When I was finally retired for the day, they stored me in a horse stall. In a barn. My wrist and ankle cuffs were locked to short chains bolted into the floor, so I was stuck on my hands and knees. The headpiece, bit, and posture collar came off, and a sling hanging from the top of the short wall to my right was looped under my hips before the other end was hooked onto the top of the wall to my left. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to sleep, but the sling let me rest my weight without having to balance.

  The cream my trainer had rubbed on my clit and nipples earlier had been some kind of irritant. It’d driven me crazy at first, but the effects had died down after a while. Now, in the quiet and dark, my nipples and clit came alive again. Hot and itchy and burning, but I couldn’t do anything about it. Even if my knees weren’t restrained apart, the chastity belt had a dome over my clit so nothing touched it.

  I slept with my cheek on the floor between my hands, my arms awkwardly bent, and my ass in the air. I was awakened long before dawn the next morning, my irons were put back on, and I was teleported back to the onion fields. I don’t think I had more than three or four hours of fitful sleep.

 
; Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ember

  The following two days, I spent my mornings harvesting onions in what felt like sub-tropical, stale heat. I ate lunch with the other field slaves both days, so I was there longer than half the day before I was taken to my trainer at the stables. I was put into races against other ponies, often in a huge arena with a large crowd watching, but I wasn’t in front of the audience long enough to have to pee in front of so many people.

  I’m not sure why I drew that line in my head, but at some point I decided I wasn’t going to pee in front of the crowd.

  When I ate dinner on my third day, I was told I had to drink all my water.

  After we ate, a group of us were rubbed down with oil and outfitted in matching headpieces, much bigger than anything I’d worn before. We were taught a short routine, so we performed different gaits as the songs changed. The trainer called out the next gait, we just had to do it smoothly with the music.

  We were taken to a small corral in the center of the larger corral, and stable hands put armbinders on us. We were free to move around the little corral through at least a dozen races. One of the other ponies went to her knees to rest, but she was struck with a bullwhip at least a dozen times before she managed to stand. I didn’t dare even lean against the fence.

  By the time they pulled us out and put us in line, I had to pee so bad it hurt. The routine lasted ten minutes, tops. I could do this and then pee once we were taken away.

  Except I hadn’t realized it was a parade. We marched around and around the arena, and various animals were changed out ahead of us and behind us with every lap we made around the track.

  I finally had no choice because the pain was making me screw up, and one of the trainers hit me with his whip at least once or twice a minute.

  And so, while performing in front of a crowd, I pissed myself. We pissed ourselves in the fields, too, though it hadn’t been an issue my first morning because I’d been dehydrated. Still, for two and a half days, I’d pissed when I’d needed to, wherever I happened to be. I should have been used to it by then, but in my head, doing it in front of a crowd made me an animal. I can’t explain why, but it did.