Tesra winced at the rough treatment. ‘Yes, Vorra.’
‘Such a pretty one,’ she whispered. ‘It will be a joy to make you cry. Have they told you I am warder again?’
‘No, Vorra, but you mustn’t touch me. No one is supposed to, not even a man.’
Vorra was licking her lips, like a cat at a bowl of cream. ‘I’ve news for you, my trusting little free woman. The men do not know what transpires down here unless someone tells them. And unlike Drusia, I run a tight little ship within a ship.’
‘What will you do?’ said Tesra, looking at the woman with new respect.
‘Whatever I wish,’ Vorra replied, pushing down on her shoulders till she was kneeling. ‘Now kiss my feet... slave.’
Tesra lowered herself all the way down, practically burrowing under the straw to reach Vorra’s toes. Touching them with her lips she imagined Marcellus once more, a surge of heat shooting through her belly.
‘Suck them,’ Vorra demanded, and that is precisely what Tesra did, one by one till all ten were cleaned to the satisfaction of the haughty and vindictive slave.
Chapter 3
‘You have been a naughty girl, my little Drusia.’
‘Forgive me, master,’ begged the naked, collared wench, lying stretched at the captain’s feet, having crawled across the floor of his chambers on her belly.
Marcellus pressed the toe of his calfskin boot to the lips of the vivacious slave, his personal favorite among the herd, though he would never let on. ‘Perhaps the sharks could teach you some manners, little girl.’
‘Please no, master,’ rasped the very grown up Drusia through her naturally pouty lips, even as she began to lick the surface of the dusty boots, her tongue moving with sweet desperation, ‘your little girl begs you for another chance.’
Marcellus allowed her to abase herself a while longer, demonstrating in the process his complete and total power over her, to the point of life and death. It was this aspect of the ownership of a female that most satisfied him; even more, in fact, than the ability to use her sexually in any way shape or form. Marcellus, like most strong men, craved power in every area of his life, sexual relations included. To accept a female as equal would be as absurd as allowing democracy for his crew, or piloting his rowboat to the nearest station of the Talassian navy to throw himself on their mercy.
‘Another chance?’ he exclaimed. ‘And how many would that make in total?’
‘Your slave girl does not know, master,’ she answered coquettishly, no mean feat in her present position of total subjugation. ‘Little Drusia cannot do math, nor can she read or write the words of men.’
‘You, Drusia? You read better than I! By the salty beard of Nephisis, girl, that tongue of yours will be the death of one of us yet.’
‘Drusia’s tongue exists to please her master.’
‘Indeed,’ he noted dryly, ‘when it is not otherwise engaged in pleasuring the pussies of my new acquisitions. And who was it, exactly, my dear slave, who gave you license to diddle in the hole of the nymph?’
‘I sought to warm her up for you, master.’
He reared back, enjoying his first good laugh in days. ‘You make as fine a liar as you do a cocksucker. What do you suppose that says about my cock? Is it as easily covered over and manipulated by your lips, do you suppose, as the truth?
‘Master, allow your girl to please you.’
‘My naughty girl,’ he corrected.
‘Punish me then, master. Beat me and use me like a naughty little slave.’
‘Fetch the cane, and lie across my sea chest.’
Drusia enjoyed this game as much as he, though it was her flesh that ended up bruised and welted, her body invariably teased and tormented to breaking point. Breathing hard, her nipples tight, her crotch already thickly oiled, she presented the dastardly rattan. ‘Position, master?’ she whispered.
‘On your back,’ said the captain; sentencing her by his words to a far longer torment than if he’d ordered her immediately to offer up her arse.
The slave girl shivered visibly at her sentence, but made no delay in obeying. Prettily, with pure feminine grace, she sat upon the curved, metal-banded chest, as old as his grandfather’s grandfather, and immediately reclined, her head lying at one end, her knees over the other. Raising one foot she hooked it on the edge, so that the captain had full access to her crotch. Drawing a sharp breath to outline her ribs and push out her breasts, she let fall her hands down to the floor, giving him access to her torso as well.
How beautiful she was, stretched out for love yet destined for pain.
‘Perhaps I should marry you,’ he ran the tip of the cane over the hollow of her belly.
Drusia closed her eyes, already priming herself to move as the slut she was. ‘Your slave would make a poor wife, milord; forever crawling to you, begging to be leashed and fucked.’
‘True. Still, I am tempted, which is why it is fortunate that I came across you already branded.’ He smacked her on the inner thigh, inviting her to spread herself more widely.
‘And yet that thought makes you jealous - that it was another who burned my flesh, who gave me my first whipping, making me beg for it on the deck of a ship belonging to your enemies.’
Marcellus struck her on the cunt. ‘You push me, slave, time and again, why?’
Drusia writhed. ‘So that master will be stronger with me.’
‘Good answer,’ he nodded, using the end to masturbate her. ‘Indeed, one day I hope to be strong enough to feed you to the sharks, which as we both know is the only way we will either of us find any peace with regard to our relationship.’
‘I would die for you, my captain.’
Marcellus retracted the cane, depriving her. ‘Bridge.’ Drusia assumed the required shape, responding like the trained animal she was. Marcellus enjoyed her this way, watching her acrobatics, her utter vulnerability as she placed herself, cunt in the air, hands grasping ankles from underneath her arse. ‘Beg,’ he told her, placing the cane suggestively over her bowed belly.
‘I am at your mercy, master,’ she evaded.
He ran his hand under her quivering buttocks, feeling for visceral responses. Simply holding this position for any length of time could be quite painful, even without any form of corporal punishment attached. ‘Which will be stronger today,’ Marcellus speculated, his left hand sneaking up to her pussy, his right brandishing the punishment stick. ‘Pleasure or pain?’
His timing, as always, was impeccable, for at the very moment the thin, resilient piece of wood crashed down on her naked belly, he was tickling the underside of her clit in that way she loved best. ‘Beg,’ he repeated, determined to outstrip her martyr’s will, just this once.
‘No, master, please, I can take more.’
He hit her again. ‘I can do this all night,’ he warned, ‘the whole time keeping you on the edge, a hair’s breadth from orgasm.
‘I am yours,’ she breathed, her voice and form slipping on over to that other place, to that realm where torture is received as a sacred rite and where the feminine is elevated to the most devastating of levels of anguish.
‘That means nothing to me,’ he growled, moving north to strike at her helpless tits, wanting to see them as red and bruised as her belly, wanting to see every inch of her marked and abused so that no matter how he chose to fuck her tonight it would be agony. ‘Your coy words are wasted. You are an animal - beg as one, that is all I require of you.’
Though in truth it was Drusia who brought out the animal in him. More than any of the other girls, in his hands, she was slave and he master.
The sensation had seemed unique, up to tonight, when he’d had his first encounter - or more properly his first training session - with the blonde seer. Instead of remaining impassive, full of professional pride and satisfaction, he’d been
overcome with the desire to possess her completely, as his personal object of conquest.
Perhaps this was a result of his having bonded with her in capture, or else an overeager lust for her as the proverbial golden goose to fill his coffers with shiny eggs. In either case it fell to Drusia, unwittingly, to make him forget, to drain off his raging manhood enough to let him think straight around the arrogant and quirky little yellow hair.
‘You’re nothing but a cunt to me, Drusia. A mouth, an arse, or tits if I have need of them.’
‘I am your cunt, master. I am your mouth, to be filled. I am the arse you may beat or screw as it suits you.’
‘Turn over, girl. Arse up high.’
Drusia lifted herself painfully from the chest. To lie now on her stomach was excruciating, but this is what Marcellus required from her, the ultimate sacrifice.
‘How many times, girl, have you been promoted to warder?’ he wanted to know, the cane poised to strike.
‘Seven,’ said Drusia, no longer claiming ignorance with regard to her counting skills.
‘And each time you were demoted, within hours. Why?’
‘I do not know, master,’
He sliced at her soft cheeks, landing a blow directly across her brand. ‘Liar,’ he accused, though probably she was telling the truth.
‘Yes, master.’
It was satisfying to unleash his wrath, moving the weapon with cold efficiency, again and again and again till Drusia’s bottom was a network of welts, a crisscrossed, throbbing horror.
‘Spread your cheeks,’ he told the sobbing girl, this being the only forewarning she would receive of imminent penetration.
Drusia had nothing more to say, no witticisms to share as he buried himself with dark satisfaction into her anus. Hands on her hips he showed no mercy, taking his fill of slave arse, his fill of slave suffering.
‘Touch yourself,’ he demanded, though in all probability she did not want any pleasure right now. ‘Show me what a greedy little cunt you are.’
Drusia buried a tired hand into her tired pussy, working it as required till, after just a few minutes she was groaning with need.
‘Tomorrow you will beg the forgiveness of Tesra,’ he declared. ‘The free woman whom you have wronged.’
‘Yes, master,’ groaned the arse-fucked slave, having no choice but to answer.
‘She is not like you,’ he felt obligated to tell her, though he knew not why. ‘She has a mind of her own and will not be bent to the opinion of anyone. What are you in comparison to her? You, who lies naked in the hold, dreaming and praying of moments like this, when your master will take you up into the fresh air for a nice beating and a fresh vanquishing.’
‘Oh yes, master,’ she hissed, prodding him. ‘Vanquish me. Take me and make me yield to you.’
Marcellus pushed her hand from her cunt in blind rage, forgetting for the moment she was doing this only by his orders. ‘Whore,’ he roared, taking her pussy. ‘Slut of a slave. Chattel bitch, I’ll teach you to taunt your betters.’
She began to convulse at the third thrust, her body a tangle of conflicting sensations. Like a dagger he kept at her, hands clamped to her hips, forcing her to feel more, to take more. He surged with seed, flooding the womb of her, overfilling the channel so that as he withdrew it began to pour back out of her well-caned cunt.
‘On your knees,’ he told her, the sight of her conquered body rousing him to life again already. ‘Your work is not yet done.’
‘Yes, master,’ whispered Drusia, eager to apply her lips where in truth they had belonged all along. ‘Thank you, master.’
‘You are welcome,’ he slid comfortably home, grasping her hair like a well-worn handle. ‘My very naughty, very horny little girl.’
She looked up at him lovingly, in a way that gave him much grief. ‘The sharks,’ he reminded her, forcing her to refocus on the matter at hand. ‘Never forget the sharks.’
The girl sucked him as if her life depended on it, which of course, it did.
Vorra did not dare to openly molest the yellow-haired newcomer, but there were plenty of other things she could do, much to Tesra’s great dismay. Not to mention her sexual frustration. After the toe sucking Vorra sat upon the back of the smaller woman, bending her arm till she begged for mercy.
‘We know your kind,’ Vorra snarled at her. ‘Pretending to lord it over the slaves, all the while stealing the attentions of the males, begging them with your eyes, taunting them to have and possess you. Yours is the worst kind of woman, dishonest and hypocritical. All you yellow-hairs are like that. You think you are better than us.’
‘No,’ gasped Tesra, the pressure on her arm threatening to break it. ‘I am not like that. All women are my sisters.’
‘Sisters?’ Tesra scoffed. ‘Now there is something truly laughable.’
‘It is true,’ Tesra craned her neck, hoping to enlighten the downtrodden female. ‘The man-beasts seek to keep you in these conditions, treating you like animals, but you are born free, destined to serve Persistrata, the great goddess of inner dawn.’
‘Here,’ said Vorra, pushing Tesra’s face into the mulch. ‘Here is your great destiny. Here is where it all ends and begins for females in this world. Unless you happen to be born a queen in some tower - or a madwoman on a nowhere island like you. Know where I was born, Sister Tesra? In a whorehouse in Braxia. My mother was a nineteen-year-old prostitute impregnated by a garrison soldier twice her age. They let her go to term because it turned out this particular officer and his friends had a thing for pregnant girls. They chained her by the ankle to the bed for the whole nine months, where she continued to serve them till the day I was born.’
‘Please,’ cried Tesra, starved of air and wanting to retch, ‘I can’t breathe.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Vorra yanked her up by her ruined curls. ‘Is it too lowly and un-goddess-like for you down there?’
Tesra sucked down mouthfuls of relatively clean air. ‘Oh, thank you!’ she exclaimed, seeking to placate the woman. ‘That is much better.’ But her docility seemed to have the opposite effect.
‘Call me Mistress Vorra,’ the warder decided. ‘As a matter of fact, yellow hair, I think I should like to tell you the rest of my story while you give me pleasure, the way we are forced to pleasure men from morning till night. I assume your virgin tongue can manage? Certainly the men won’t be able to check that for purity, will they?’
Vorra used the back of a fellow slave for a seat, having called a pretty black-skinned girl over on all fours. In this position Vorra could open her legs wide, giving access to the kneeling Tesra.
‘Eat my pussy right,’ Vorra pulled cruelly at her ears, forcing her into place. ‘Or I promise, we will find ways to make you suffer that will make you pray to your goddess you’d never been born.’
Tesra had no clue how to pleasure a woman, though to a certain extent she assumed it must be instinctual. The lips of her were very soft, surprisingly so for the roughness of her slavery, and when the tip of Tesra’s tongue parted the folds of velvet flesh she heard from Vorra a tiny girlish moan.
‘Not bad,’ she said approvingly. ‘Now we can finish the story. Of my divine birth.’ Several of the girls snickered at this, having gathered themselves round to view the entertainment. ‘As I said, my mother was a special attraction, her ever swelling belly a source of great delight to the men who fucked her day and night. She was chained in place and deprived of all clothing, even the scraps usually allowed a slave whore such as herself. Towards the end they could only do her on all fours like a dog, though she was able to suck till the last possible second and immediately afterwards, which she did, as a matter of fact, to compensate the physician for his trouble in delivering me.’
‘There was some debate as to who I belonged to, but in the end the soldier, who only wanted to sell me in t
he first place, gave me over to the brothel owner in exchange for free ale as long as he was stationed in the town. My mother was never allowed to see me and the very next day she was sold to the owner’s cousin who used female slaves in his grist mill, forcing them to turn great stone wheels till they dropped, their bodies naked, scourged by whips and bound in heavy chains. Needless to say, I never laid eyes on her again.
‘I grew up in the whorehouse, and the tavern downstairs. Almost from the time I could crawl I was put to work, scrubbing the beer-soaked floors, often under the very feet of the male customers. I was a favorite of theirs and I took pride in pleasing them with my smile and my singing voice. They told me I was pretty and ever since I can remember, all I have ever wanted to do is please men.
‘As I grew older, closer to a woman than a girl, it was no longer appropriate to sit on the customers’ laps and joke with them. I was retired to the stable behind, where I cared for the customers’ horses. The whorehouse owner, quite elderly by now, took pity upon me and promised that when I came of age I would be given my freedom along with a small dowry, so long as I kept myself pure.
‘I was bound and determined and as of my eighteenth birthday, I had not strayed, by great power of will. There was, however, a certain one of the stable boys, a handsome, curly-haired twenty-year-old, arrogant and cruel who had been trying to seduce me for the better part of a year. Finally, on the very night of my majority, he cornered me once and for all in the back of the barn.
‘“You do not fool me,” he said, “even if you fool the others. I know what you are. I know what you really want, deep in your heart.”
‘I was standing there in my shirt, breeches and work boots, back to the wall, terrified. The young man had this dark look on his face, like a smirk or leer and his own shirt was open to reveal his lean, lightly muscled chest. But it was the whip in his hand that frightened me most.’
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