The Barbarian's Pet

by Loki Renard

  His climax elevated hers, his spurting seed making her delicate tissues swell and pulse, her inner walls clenching with an animal rhythm that sent ripples of ecstasy washing through her well fucked body. She felt lightheaded and weak, a temporary exhaustion washing over her as Griffen pulled out of her and his cum slid slowly out of the tight little hole between her legs. She closed her eyes and saw lights dancing against her eyelids. She was no longer a maiden. She had been taken. And by Griffen, the king, whose seed was spread so deep inside her she fancied she would forever carry it.

  With her eyes closed, her body struggling to come to terms with the intensity of the erotic ordeal, Sariah was just barely aware of a thick leather collar being slid around her neck.

  “Yes,” Griffen said, satisfied. “It fits you perfectly, my pet.”

  She opened her eyes and saw him looking down at her with a possessively proud expression written on his face.

  “Come, pet,” he said, sliding his arms underneath her and lifting her to his chest. “I wish to show my men you and your collar.”

  Sariah did not have the will to defy him. Griffen swept her up from the bed and carried her to the mouth of the tent, where he put her on her feet and called for attention. In short order, the entire camp was once again gathered for the king’s announcement, many masculine eyes roaming her flushed, naked body. They must have known what he had done to her; surely the sex was written over every part of her, in her blushing face and pink flushed skin, in the puffy hardness of her nipples and the sheen of shared juices still slicking her thighs. She was the freshly deflowered prize being presented to barbarian men and all she could do was press against Griffen’s side and hide her face in his broad chest, a modesty that did little but reveal the red blush of her spanked bottom as well.

  “I have taken this woman as my own. She wears my collar,” Griffen declared. “That means none shall touch her other than I. The penalty for doing so is death.”

  She had expected another rumbling roar of masculine excitement, but silence met the king’s announcement. Sariah peeked at the assembled men and saw deference in their eyes. It suddenly occurred to her that Griffen’s words were not designed to shame her. They were words of protection. From hot embarrassment so strong it made her scalp prickle, she was filled with a sudden sense of power.

  “Of course, if you see her misbehaving—and I have little doubt you will for she is a spirited and yet to be tamed pet—report such to me immediately and I will ensure she is thoroughly taken in hand.”

  A firm slap to Sariah’s already sore bottom punctuated the end of Griffen’s announcement and left Sariah blushing all over again.

  Chapter Three

  For many days, Griffen patiently and passionately schooled Sariah in the art of lovemaking. She learned many things under his tutelage, but the time soon came when the king could no longer spend every day with her entwined in his arms, her body taking thrust after thrust of his regal rod.

  “What shall I do with you while I turn my attention back to my work?” Griffen asked the question with a rakish smile. “Need I leash you in place somewhere? Or can I trust you to stay within the boundaries of the camp?

  Sariah did not answer his question immediately. She felt a little sullen at the notion of no longer receiving his undivided attention, but aside from that it was true that he could not trust her to remain in the camp. His lovemaking had touched her at the very core of her being, but even with his collar around her neck and the heated memory of his cock between her thighs she was drawn to escape.

  “I will leave you with Rafe,” he said as the silence drew out. “He has been my squire for many years and I trust him with my life. Put on a robe. You have been naked long enough. The men do not need the continued distraction of your bare rear.”

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, there was not much in the king’s tent for Sariah to wear. Griffen eventually found a tunic that fit her. It flared out almost to her knees and was belted about her waist so as not to be entirely shapeless, but even in the most unflattering clothing Sariah felt a little more human and a little more in control of herself.

  “I will have something made for you in silk,” Griffen said. “But this will do for now.”

  With that done, Griffen called Rafe to him. A young man in his twenties hearkened to the call. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed, a man from the far north. He was slimmer and much less intimidating than Griffen, and Sariah found herself liking him on instinct. He seemed to have a kind nature, strange for a barbarian king’s squire.

  “Do as he bids you,” Griffen cautioned her. “I will not be pleased if I hear you have given him any trouble.”

  “Come, Sariah,” Rafe said kindly as he led her from the tent. “I am cleaning blades. You can help me.”

  “Keep this one away from the blades,” Griffen chuckled as he followed them. “I will not be pleased if you are injured, Rafe.”

  “You can watch me clean blades then,” Rafe said to Sariah with a wink. “It is almost as fascinating as watching grass grow.”

  Sariah felt both shy and surprised by how warmly she was being received. But a few days earlier she had slain men in that very encampment, and somehow she had been immediately forgiven. Was it because Griffen had taken her so thoroughly in hand? Was it because she smelled of sex, her feminine chalice still bearing traces of Griffen’s seed seeping down her thighs in a slow trickle?

  With many questions in mind, she followed Rafe to the station where he was working, a tent not far from Griffen’s, stacked high with swords in various states of wear.

  “If I let you polish one of these, will you attack me?” Rafe gestured to the swords.

  “Not unless you try to attack me first.”

  Rafe smirked and passed a short blade over to her. “Run the whetstone over it like so,” he said, demonstrating with the sword he was working on.

  Sariah held the sword by the hilt and looked at him in shock. The last thing she ever expected to be allowed in Griffen’s camp was access to weapons. “You trust me with a blade? You don’t hate me for what I did?”

  “What you did was honorable,” Rafe said simply. “And what they did was not.” He gave her a keen look. “Do you regret it?”

  “No,” Sariah said quickly, skimming the stone over steel.

  “You might have bad dreams,” Rafe said. “When a warrior spills blood for the first time, he is changed.”

  “I am not a warrior, or a he,” Sariah pointed out. “I feel no guilt. They forced my hand.”

  “That they did,” Rafe agreed. “But if the dreams come, tell Griffen. He will guide you through them.”

  Sariah nodded silently and went on with her task. Rafe’s respect for the king was clear. What impressed her was that it was obviously returned. Griffen walked among his men, leading them from within their ranks. He did not hold himself separate from them, nor did he hide secrets from them. She estimated that there were at least fifty men in the party, minus the three she had dispatched. All of them seemed to owe him a deep allegiance.

  Griffen’s work that day mostly involved consulting with his officers. They walked back and forth before a map drawn by one of the men, deep in discussion. Sariah found herself watching him with an absent-minded enchantment. He was handsome beyond compare. His broad shoulders made the other men seem slight of build, the casual ripple of the muscles in his arms, the smooth motion of his hips, powerful thighs…

  His every motion made her tingle with anticipation and memory of what those hands had done to her, how those hips, now clad in leather leggings, had thrust forward…

  “Careful,” Rafe said, reaching out to stop her from accidentally cutting her fingers off. “Swords are not good for daydreams,” he winked.

  “Sorry,” she said, putting the blade down entirely. “I’m not… I don’t know anything about weapons.”

  “Except how to use them,” Rafe observed. “You have a talent for that. If you were a man, Griffen would m
ake you a general.”

  Sariah laughed at Rafe’s kind words. His easy charm made it possible to forget that he was guarding her. He did it so unobtrusively she almost felt as though she were speaking idly with a new friend. To Sariah’s surprise, she found herself remarkably at ease given the trouble she had been through. She was a captive, a stolen woman, and she was sitting calmly with a complete stranger, next to a cache of weapons, and not making the slightest attempt to liberate herself.

  What had happened to the bold woman who just days before had fought tooth and nail for her freedom and virtue? Both had been stripped from her and yet there she sat, as complacent as any house cat. That would not do. She would not accept her lot so passively. The collar that encircled her neck was not shackled to anything. She could leave if she liked. There were no physical barriers stopping her, only men, and men were eminently distractible.

  “Rafe!” Griffen called for his squire. Rafe responded immediately, putting down the sword he was polishing and making his way toward the king.

  It was as if Fate had been listening to her thoughts. Sariah found herself left alone, unattended and unobserved. She did not let the opportunity go to waste. Her first impulse was simply to run, but she knew that was not the best plan. Griffen’s promise on the night they met came back to her—a horse and all the gold she could carry.

  She crept back to the king’s tent and made her way through the chests and bags that were stacked in the fabric room next to the bedchamber. Her searching was soon rewarded with a motherlode of treasure. Gold bars, sacks full of jewelry—gold and silver and colored stones—abounded, more riches than Sariah had ever imagined existing. She sank her fingers into a bag of emeralds and let them fall through her fingers, smooth stones sliding between her fingertips with a satisfying sound.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed to herself, clutching the bag tight to her chest. Her mother would never have to spend another day in toil again. The village could grow, buy new sheep, new tools, build a well, construct a granary for storage… Sariah’s imagination was running wild. Being captured by the king, taken as his pet, having her maidenhead taken, it was all going to be worth it. She snatched up a second bag of jewels, doubling her riches. The king would likely never notice that they were gone, he had so very much.

  “What are you doing, pet?”

  The question came smoothly, calmly from somewhere behind her. Sariah dropped the jewels as if they were red hot and whirled around, clasping her hands behind her back. “Nothing!” She squeaked the word out in panicked tones.

  “Nothing?” Griffen’s eyes narrowed at her. “It looked like you were trying to steal from me, pet.”

  “No,” Sariah lied. “I was just… uh… looking at the pretty jewels.”

  “You were not looking at them. You were holding them. Can you see through cloth, Sariah? Or did you want to take the pretty jewels for a little walk?” His tone was still calm, but she sensed a danger in the questions. She had been caught, there was no doubt about that.

  “Yes,” she blurted under his hard stare. “I was going to steal your jewels and take them back to my village. They would be put to better use there.”

  He looked at her with both brows raised, seemingly stunned by her bold admission.

  “Well,” he said. “At least you did not add telling falsehoods to your crimes.”

  “I have committed no crimes.”

  “No?” Griffen cocked his head to the side, the dark cascade of his hair falling over one of his brawny shoulders as he waited for her to explain that statement.

  “These jewels, they are not yours. They are the riches of all the people you have conquered,” she said. “I was going to take a small amount and put them to good use.”

  “So you steal from a king and give to peasants, is that it, Sariah?”

  There was something indulgent in the way he was handling her, but she knew she was in very serious trouble regardless. She was caught and cornered and the king would not let this matter slide, she was certain.

  “My village is poor,” she said. “You are not making any use of these at all. They sit in your tent, riches upon riches doing nothing for anybody.”

  “So you have taken it upon yourself to redistribute my wealth, have you?” Griffen shook his head. “Oh, no, pet, you will not rob me blind and lecture me when you are caught.”

  Sariah felt a quiver of something like excitement run through her belly. Griffen’s expression was one of distinct non-amusement. His left brow was raised and his jaw was set and his lips were thinned. She should have been terrified, but for reasons that defied good sense, all Sariah felt was a bolt of anticipation.

  Griffen closed the distance between them and took her by the back of the neck, his hand gripping her collar as he escorted her out of the tent to the very center of the camp almost to the exact spot where they had first laid eyes on one another.

  “Men!”

  She felt the blood draining from her face. “Why do the men need to see this?”

  “Because I want each and every one of them to see what happens to a naughty pet who thinks she has the right to the riches of a king,” he said before lifting his head and calling to Rafe. “Bring me a cart, squire!”

  Having given that order, he turned back to Sariah. “You will spend this day in service of my men, taking the polished and sharpened swords to each of them upon the cart.”

  A small cart was bought. Sariah was now entirely confused. She had expected some kind of physical retribution, a spanking or perhaps some sexual consequence. Instead, he wanted her to run some benign errand. It was probably going to be tedious, but not anything that concerned her.

  “Very well,” she said with a small smirk. “I will do as you say.”

  He returned her smirk, a knowing look in his eyes that made her question her assumption.

  “Rafe, bring me leather,” he added. “A complete set of strapping.”

  So she was to be strapped. Sariah prepared herself mentally for the lash of leather against her tender skin while Rafe bought two handfuls of long leather to Griffen. They were punctured with holes and looped around buckles in a way that struck Sariah as strange.

  “You will not need this,” Griffen said, bending down to tug her dress up and over her head by the hem in one swift motion, which left her naked before the encampment. Sariah opened her mouth to complain, but before she could, a thick strap of leather was pressed into her mouth and wrapped around the back of her head, cutting off her power of speech. Pure confusion took over as Griffen carefully and with practiced hands proceeded to wrap the leather straps around the rest of her body. She felt it slide over her shoulders, under her breasts, and over her chest in a fashion that made her nipples and tender flesh stand erect between thick dark bands.

  He pulled her hands behind her and likewise bound them, leaving her with nothing but her feet to work with. Nipples erect and pushed out by the posture her bindings forced her to take, Sariah was vulnerable in the extreme. The eyes of Griffen’s men were on her, no longer deferential. Some of them seemed mildly amused, others lustful. The leather presented her curves in a fashion that transcended mere nudity.

  “Spread your thighs,” Griffen ordered.

  When she did not immediately obey, he used his foot to sweep her left leg out. He then grasped her buttock and spread it open. Sariah let out a whine of surprise and discomfort as something oily was dabbed against her anus. She squirmed and tried to pull away, but the straps of leather made it simple for Griffen to hold her in place and continue the application of oil undeterred.

  She wriggled and squirmed, but all that happened was Griffen held her more firmly and pressed his finger into her bottom.

  “This is where your tail will go,” he informed her as she let out a squeal of surprise and jolted up to her toes, dancing about before Griffen and his men. She blushed furiously as he slid that finger deeper into her bottom, making her take a good two inches of it before withdraw
ing his digit. “John,” he called out. “Fashion me a tail, would you? Our filly needs it.”

  Sariah made a muffled sound of rebellion, which quickly turned to a gasp as Griffen drew her over to a stool, sat himself down on it, and tossed her over his knee to wait for the tail to be made.

  It was too late to apologize, or ask for mercy. She could no longer speak. She could barely move. The leather restricted the movement of her upper body to only the most simple motion and the taste of it filled her mouth as she wriggled over Griffen’s lap. The tail took some time to make and soon many of the men returned to their tasks, but that did not cause her embarrassment to abate.

  While Sariah mused her many mistakes, a plug designed for her rear, dark wood smoothed and sanded to the shape of a flared plug and complemented by dozens of thin leather strips—each of which were about a foot long, crafted after the appearance of an animal’s tail—was produced in surprisingly short order.

  “Thank you, John,” Griffen said to his craftsman. “See how men’s ingenuity and craft is spurred by the prospect of disciplining a deserving pet,” he observed aloud.

  Sariah gasped and wiggled, her hips seesawing over Griffen’s muscular thigh as he introduced the plug to her bottom, more oil spread on her rear before the rounded hard end began to press against her tight little anus.

  Whimpering apologetically, Sariah felt the plug slide inside her. It was not terribly large, perhaps two inches long and about two fingers thick. But it was large enough to make her rear stretch and to hold the tail in place after Griffen moved his fingers away.