‘Think of this,’ Fiona was saying, her voice a strange cadenced moan, ‘when you are with his Majesty. Imagine me... if you can.’
If she could? Why couldn’t she think of anything she wished?
When Fiona had taken her fill she continued Tesra’s bath, cleaning the very needy girl with her hands. Tesra was not released from her bonds till her breasts, legs and tummy had been soaped and cleaned. Fiona was keenly cruel, knowing precisely how to complete the bathing task without in any way allowing her true sexual relief.
‘You must remain this way,’ Fiona explained, after untying her and helping her from the tepid waters, ‘until he gives you audience and finds you worthy.’
Fiona’s words held a special urgency. There was a warning in this, plainly. But how could Tesra control her own body’s reactions, especially now with so much to be feared? There was her safety and far more importantly, his. Marcellus’. For his sake if not her own, Tesra resolved she would continue to cooperate, offering herself as her new jailors desired. For the moment that meant Fiona, but soon enough it would be the dragar himself whom she would need to appease... and satisfy.
The pirate king sat upright against the rough-hewn stone wall, appraising the situation. A number of his fellow prisoners, those still able to rise to their feet, were scrambling for the scraps of food being tossed through the bars. They resembled more closely animals than men, their filthy rag-covered bodies bent over, teeth snarling as they tore into each other’s flesh for the right to consume the bits of gristle and stale, moldy bread discarded with utter contempt by the lords of the palace above them.
How long had these poor devils been in this dungeon? Years, from the looks of it. As for the ones already dead or dying little could be done, except to offer prayers. In the far corner, as a reminder perhaps, was a skeleton, the bones collapsed round a set of manacles chained to a heavy iron ball, a confinement device which had one day held a brigand like himself, or a thief, or maybe a tax evader, or simply one unfortunate enough to have crossed the wrong man.
The question was survival, and whatever Marcellus intended to do, best to do it quickly, for with each moment of indecision he would only grow weaker. For the moment he enjoyed a brief advantage. He was strong and quick, relatively, having come from the outside. The perpetual darkness and squalor of the dragar’s dungeons had not yet broken him.
Nor had he yet felt the reality of the torture that might very readily deter him in the future. There was no question that he must act. The only question was what to do. Escape was impossible; at least not without having a coherent plan, a good command structure. This he would have to build. The place to begin, then, was to establish his position.
Marcellus, king of pirates, would be reborn as Marcellus, king of prisoners.
First he must study just a little longer. Two things he had learned. First, he’d discovered that the guards depended on the men’s being at each other’s throats. In this main cell, some fifty yards by fifty, there were a hundred men. If they should rush all at once when the door was open, say when the guards came in to change the straw on the floor, or throw in a female slave for discipline, there would be no stopping them.
The second thing he’d learned was that the endless squabbling for turf, for meat, for water, for the right to fuck the slave girls first was an abysmal waste; of energy, time and morale, not to mention of meat and women. In his two days here so far he had seen three girls killed, literally torn apart after just a few minutes in the dungeon. Under his reign they would last the night, and they would fuck and suck each man to his fill. This would be his first gift to his new subjects, though it would hardly be the last.
Tesra examined herself in the mirror, beholding the finished product. According to Fiona she was now dressed in the ceremonial garb of a Talassian pleasure girl. She could not deny that the results of the woman’s hard work in dressing her were dazzling. The tunic was of white, a dress of sorts that hung to her knees, with a plunging neckline trimmed in gold, as was the hem. She was barefoot, both ankles being ringed in delicate gold. Several of her toes bore rings, also gold, unadorned and hammered from the mines of far away Rantor.
The nakedness of her feet was in stark contrast to the ornate decorations in her hair, which was swept up in tresses impossibly high and steep. Jewels, woven in and strung on the finest filaments of silver, reflected the highlights of blonde reminding Tesra very much of the city itself as it had appeared upon her first approach. The truly remarkable element of her costume, though, aside from the jewel-encrusted cuffs of fourteen-karat gold binding her wrists together at her belly, was the mask. Covering entirely her face and made of the same yellow metal, it lent her the appearance of a statue, or perhaps a goddess, one of the silent ones such as harmony or justice.
She considered the thing to be far more beautiful than her own face, with its arrogantly carved cheeks, the lines above the eyes and exquisite chin, though there was also a cruelty to it that might well frighten a small child.
Certainly Tesra felt a little like one herself. Kept up half the night being primped and preened, all the while awaiting the command to come at the beck and call of the mighty ruler, before whom even kings trembled and queens abased themselves as slaves.
A child, and yet, at the same time, ever so much more.
According to Fiona, Tesra’s potential debut this night as pleasure girl to the emperor was of exquisite significance not only to her own existence, but to that of the empire itself. In Talassian society the pleasure girls played a unique and crucial role. Higher than a servant or whore, the pleasure girl was in some ways like a consort and wife. And yet she was also like a slave in the sense that it was upon her flesh the Talassian lord unleashed his full lordship and right of possession, pouring without mercy the darkest most sacred of the sex visions in his mind. To be such a girl one must be beautiful and intelligent, radiant beyond measure, unequalled in her class. She must also be fortunate to be chosen, captured, raffled or otherwise acquired. There were means within the social structure to make such girls out of noble families, though there were complex taboos surrounding this and it was not spoken of in polite households, though the evidence was generally right underfoot. Pleasure girls were black holes in the society, sacred spaces where none, not even warriors tread.
To be the pleasure girl of a high officer, an admiral or governor, was to wield immeasurable power. To be so for the emperor of Talassia was to be tantamount to its goddess. Teradon the Fourth, relatively new in his reign despite the high number of his daughters claimed no such woman for himself. Fiona would not say if Tesra’s being thusly prepared was a jest or a serious overture. There was no reading the mind of the dragar. To even attempt to do so invited untimely death for one’s self and one’s family.
Hence the secrecy of her preparations, and the long wait - a wait that was about to end; for this look in the mirror was the final one in preparation to make her journey.
‘Enough,’ said her mistress, almost kindly. ‘It is time.’
Marcellus stood, chest heaving, over the body of the terrified, whimpering girl. She was barely eighteen, a blonde like Tesra, though with shorter hair and smaller breasts. On her thigh was a brand, that of the island of Miros. She wore a scrap of a rag upon her hips and nothing more.
‘The next man to touch her,’ warned the king of pirates, ‘dies.’
He had fought off a dozen of them so far. Fortunately it had not occurred to them to work in unison. One by one he had dispatched them, inflicting damaging though not severe wounds. Broken limbs were not something he could afford among his soon-to-be troops. At any rate, it was time to end this lesson before he grew too drained of strength to continue his plan.
The prisoners, bewildered, brought to life in a way they’d not expected, regarded Marcellus as well as one another. Several began to grunt and growl, this being the degenerated form of speech most c
ommon in the dungeon.
‘You are men,’ Marcellus challenged. ‘Speak as such.’
One man, large and hairy, did, or attempted to at any rate. ‘You... claim woman?’
‘This is not about the woman.’ He shook his head, though he intended to be using her richly in a few short moments. ‘It is about our manhood.’
‘What... what do you mean?’
Marcellus thumped his fist upon his bare, unwashed breast, which the little slave would shortly lick clean with her tongue. ‘I am a man. I am Marcellus and I claim before you the rights of manhood.’
‘What rights?’ asked another, an old timer with nary a tooth in his head.
‘The right to command a slave to my pleasure, with dignity, the right to enjoy her to my contentment.’
‘We, too, want the slave.’
Marcellus nodded. Good, they were beginning to reason. ‘We all do, that is why I propose we share, in an orderly manner.’
‘Share?’
‘We use her,’ Marcellus explained, ‘one after another, till we are all satisfied.’
‘Please, no,’ wheedled the cowering girl. ‘I serve only you; you are the strongest.’
Marcellus lifted the girl by her hair. ‘Behold,’ he presented her, ‘this is the slave put here to be punished. Does she not belong to us tonight?’
‘Aye,’ shouted more than one man.
‘And who is strongest among us?’ Marcellus continued, coming to perhaps the more difficult question.
‘You,’ said the old timer, pointing amidst the silence. ‘You are strongest.’
‘Who?’ He bent back the neck of the half naked girl slave.
‘You are!’ she cried.
‘You are, master.’ Marcellus looked around the dungeon. ‘Does any here challenge me?’
They looked to the big man, who considered doing so, only to retreat once more.
‘By right of combat, then, I am strongest,’ declared Marcellus. ‘But this is not enough.’
‘What more is there?’ wondered the old timer.
‘Beasts rule by strength alone. Men rule by wit and generosity. You,’ he said to the old timer, ‘what is your name?’
‘I was called Goragno.’ He straightened himself, saying a word he had likely not spoken in many years. ‘Son of Malato.’
‘And you are called so again,’ declared Marcellus. ‘Goragno,’ he addressed him now, ‘son of Malato, will you acknowledge me?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, grasping quickly the import. ‘Marcellus, strongest in the dungeon, I acknowledge you.’
‘Good. In that case I give to you first rights over the slave. When you have finished with her she shall go to the next man in line. Let us draw lots now for our places.’
‘No!’ screamed the girl. ‘I serve you, not him. Please... master, I will lick and suck you as if you were a lord of Talassia, a free man, I will give you much pleasure.’
Marcellus cuffed her to the floor. ‘Do not insult me again, slave girl. We in the dungeon are free by our own declaring. We are named by one another, and we would sooner die than imitate the ways of the spineless bastards who imprison us.’
‘Forgive me,’ said the girl hoarsely, ‘master.’
‘Crawl on your belly to Goragno, son of Malato, who is your master now. Beg his forgiveness.’
‘Yes, master.’ Knowing herself in the presence of men, the lithe female slave, her body muchly desired by all in the dungeon, made her way across the cold damp floor, the stone of the dungeon, her belly never leaving the surface.
‘Forgive me,’ she asked of Goragno, her head at his feet.
Goragno, son of Malato drew a deep breath. ‘It has been a long time,’ said he to Marcellus, ‘since I have the pleasure of commanding a woman properly.’
‘Is this not better, my new friend, than tearing the wenches limb from limb, depriving yourselves of all pleasure?’
‘It is,’ the man agreed, wiggling his dirt-blackened toes. ‘Slave girl,’ said he, ‘lick and kiss my feet.’
‘Yes,’ the girl shuddered, ‘master.’
Her tongue was blackened and her person much humbled. There was no way to remove all the dirt, but when Goragno had had enough of this he commanded her to kiss her way up his legs, till she came to the disgusting loincloth that hung from his bony frame. Marcellus imagined it being a fine robe, just as Goragno must once have worn when he was young and strong.
‘I do not know,’ grunted the old man, suddenly self-conscious, ‘if after so long I will be able to...’
‘That is not your concern, my new compatriot. It is the slave’s. Isn’t that so, girl?’ She looked at Marcellus, fear and uncertainty in her eyes. ‘You will bring your master Goragno to erection, then you will take him down your throat and allow him to ejaculate into your mouth. Afterwards you will swallow. If you cannot accomplish this goal we shall return to the old way of dealing with female slaves.’
The girl’s face grew pale. She did not want to die, did not want to be torn apart, her arms and legs ripped from their sockets. So very diligently did she attend to the wizened cock of the old timer. Employing great skills acquired in service to her Talassian masters, the female began by licking the tip of him very gently. His cock was as filthy as his feet. Still, as she ran her tongue along the underside and sucked each of his balls in turn, she treated him with the same deference due an admiral or even the dragar himself.
How fitting for girls to be slaves, thought Marcellus. How natural for this young beauty to subjugate herself sexually to this less than handsome old man, the age of her grandfather. How right it seemed for her, naked and on her knees to be serving, her whole life devoted to his pleasure.
Goragno grunted in joy as he beheld the swelling organ. The girl was good. She must have been quite a highly trained slave. ‘By the gods!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am like a young man again.’
The girl took the swollen cock deep, again showing her great expertise and familiarity with the pleasuring of male organs. Marcellus was pleased to see she was not rushing the old man, but was giving him the respect and time due his age. As he neared his climax he put his hands on her head for support, which of course she allowed since her body, at the moment at least, was his property to do with as he wished.
Obediently she drank him down and then gave him a final lick clean. It was a nice touch, the sort of thing one learns in the harem of the dragar, no doubt. Seizing his opportunity, Marcellus made his enquiry. ‘Slave girl.’
‘Yes, master?’ She turned to him, her body alert and alive the way a girl’s always was when at the business of pleasing and obeying men.
‘What did you do to land yourself down here?’
The slave blushed, looking more child than woman. ‘I stole a cookie, master.’
‘Why would you do such a thing?”
‘I was hungry, master. I had not eaten for two days.’
‘Talassian masters are hard.’
She narrowed her eyes catlike, licking her lips. ‘So are dungeon masters,’ she said huskily, offering Marcellus her firm, apple-like breasts. ‘Will you use your girl now, master?’
Marcellus shook his head. ‘We have drawn lots. My number is fourteen. Who has drawn the first lot?’
‘I,’ said the big man with the barrel chest who had nearly challenged Marcellus earlier, ‘have the first lot.’ He held himself proudly. His eyes were brighter. Thanks to Marcellus, he knew himself once more a man. ‘I would enjoy the experience more had I a whip,’ he observed wistfully.
The slave girl lowered her eyes and shivered. From the looks of her she’d been beaten many times, but no matter how many times a girl tastes the lash, it is said, she never loses her fear.
Marcellus raised his palm and smiled. ‘Did not the gods give us instruments to discipline our
slaves already built in?’
‘Indeed,’ he laughed, the sound a startling novelty in such a somber place, ‘they did.’
Ordering the tiny creature to all fours - she looked scarcely to be half his weight - the big man proceeded to deliver loud, cracking smacks to her arse. The blows were both efficient and terrifying. With each blow, no matter how hard she tried to brace herself, she was pushed forward, down onto her smallish but proud breasts. Her bottom was throbbing red and she was sobbing and moaning as though he really had employed a whip.
‘What do you need, slave?’ He towered over her, the smell of her thick in the fetid air.
‘I need to be fucked, master,’ she acknowledged her wetness, her slave’s heat. ‘Please, will not master fuck me?’
‘If I fuck you it shall be in your arse.’
She went slack, hardly able to stay upright. ‘I yield myself to you, master,’ said she throatily. ‘All of me.’
He pushed her face to the floor, angling her hips higher in the air. ‘Lubricate yourself,’ commanded the big man. ‘And spread your cheeks for me.’
Reaching back she found her sopping pussy, and she transferred to her tight, puckered anus the sweet liquid that would allow the man to more easily invade her.
‘Hands on top of your head.’
The slave laced her glistening fingers, the excess seeping onto her hair and forehead. Cheek to the dungeon floor, breasts pressed hard, knees drawn to her tensed stomach, blatantly open for penetration, she waited.
The big man was big in every sense of the word. Were the girl not a trained pleasure slave Marcellus would never allow the huge spear to enter her slender form. As it was she would be open for him, having likely given herself this way in the past almost as much as in the other two more common orifices.
Grasping her hips like those of a toy doll, the sex-starved man thrust himself deep, burying the monster cock halfway on the first thrust.
Dream Captive Page 21
