‘Ready to finish, slave?’ she asked, detecting the clues that preceded ejaculation.
‘Yes, your majesty,’ he hissed through tightly interlaced fangs, nuzzling to her calves.
‘I want you to look into your fellow slave’s eyes as you climax, slave,’ she ordered.
‘Yes, your majesty,’ he weakly confirmed, her heel pivoting, guiding him forward and to the side of the table where he found himself staring into the glistening eyes of Corin. The queen was going to humiliate him and 133
thereby teach Corin via this act of depreciation.
With eyes locked to his sibling, he fixed his peripheral vision to the queen, trying to leave his main gaze unfocused, to deny Corin’s presence. It was distinctly anti-erotic, but he was so close there was no hope of depriving himself.
With a snarling choke he felt warm droplets spill from his tip, each new thumping drive unleashing more of his seed as he cavorted on his knees, torn by the storm of his orgasm.
‘Keep those eyes fixed on each other, slaves,’ chuckled the queen, digging her stiletto into Thanos, emphasising his submission, making his climax rise to new heights.
‘Though you’ll never perform on each other, you can at least perform for each other.’
Stealing all the pleasure he could, Thanos finally slowed his rhythm and then stopped, letting his hand drop free of his shaft.
‘Good, slaves,’ commented the queen, stepping back, letting Thanos’ gaze drop to the floor, suddenly beset by shame at what he had done. ‘But something will have to be done about that awful mess on the floor…’ she pondered with obvious intent. ‘I wonder what?’
Already aware of what she was going to recommend, Thanos leaned forward and swallowed his revulsion as he swallowed the sporadic splatters of milky goo. The ghastly tang crept through his mouth, the already cooled slime sliding lethargically down his throat with every swallow. It was an obnoxious chore he was occasionally brought to perform, but because it humiliated him so he found a slim satisfaction in it, adding another paradox to his life.
‘That’s a good slave, don’t miss any now,’ she advised, stepping onto the presented surface of his back, pushing 134
down as she put a hand to her raised knee for added stability.
Rolling his tongue along the areas he had cleaned he made sure all was left spotless and then paused, staying beneath her boots while awaiting freedom. As usual the queen held him there for a moment longer, to impress her rule upon her slave.
‘Now what do you say, slave?’ she enquired.
‘Thank you, your majesty, for letting me find relief and for allowing me to adore your boots,’ he stated softly.
‘Excellent, now release your sister,’ she ordered, removing herself from Thanos and sidling over to the cabinet, opening the box and taking out a coil of coarse rope.
Lifting himself onto his feet, Thanos towered over his sibling, the two of them trapped in very separate physical facets. Unfastening the restraints at her extremities, she was fully released and slid aside and onto the floor, her skin sticking to the padding. She crumpled into a heap, breathing slowly, her limbs aching terribly from their prolonged captivity. Hugging her latex-sheathed limbs to her, she comforted them as the queen appeared once more before her. From her lowly pose Corin looked up across the spit-shined boots and across the queen’s glorious cleavage to the features of her trainer and owner.
‘Stand up, slave,’ the queen demanded, causing Corin to grimace as she forced her weary muscles into activity, slowly acquiring a crooked stance before her owner.
‘Stand up straight, slave!’ she barked, and grabbed a nipple, compressing the tender teat to have Corin stiffen, her spine giving a soft crunch of readjustment.
The queen lifted her hand higher, delivering Corin onto tiptoe where she swayed, her arms flapping at her sides, unsure of what to do against the punishment. She was 135
held there for a few seconds, the queen assessing her scowling expression of endurance, and then let go. Corin sagged a little but kept herself to attention.
‘Put your hands on your head, get your legs apart and keep them there,’ came the next commandment, and Corin obediently shuffled into the required pose.
The centre of the rope was located and placed across the back of her neck, letting the two long strands flop down her front. A knot in her cleavage connected them and a series of four other knots were set along the twined coil, the last being one that hung just above her sex.
Feeding the paired lines between her legs, her buttocks were parted by the queen so that the coil could press to her sphincter, rise up her back and form another five knots before slipping through the rope at the nape of her neck.
A single tug stole the slack and pressed the knots to her, digging the lowest ones straight into her anus and her crotch, the coarse rope abrasive as it slid into place, lifting her to the balls of her feet as she gritted her teeth.
The ropes parted and reached around her front, grabbing a strand of rope and reaching back around to grab the twin strands at her spine. The same method followed all the way down her front, the two segments of rope located between the knots being pulled apart into a diamond shape, marking her front and her back with the same pattern. The laced coils drew the rope dress ever tighter to her torso and ground the intimate knots more forcefully to her orifices until the first stage was completed. Her breasts were now forced between a tight pattern, the ropes squeezing them as the others pulled in at her chest, the base of her ribs, her waist and her hips.
Standing behind Corin, the queen held the two ropes that had pulled the lowest formation of ropes and 136
transferring them to one hand, she used the other to mould Corin as she wished. The slave’s forearms were placed along each other at her back, and the rope was deployed to force them into this pose against any defiance.
The two ropes initially fastened just above her elbows, squeezing her upper arms before they laced along the parallel section of limbs, locking them tightly together and preventing any chance of escape. The detailed plexus met in the middle and knotted before launching the reunited twin coils back up and over Corin’s shoulders, placing them next to the original beginning of the rope dress.
‘Sit cross-legged, slave,’ ordered the queen, keeping firm reign on her property as the woman lowered herself obediently to the floor, every breath pressing against the rigorous corset of woven strands, the feel of being so comprehensively bound clearly exciting her.
No sooner had she adopted the required position than the queen pulled the strands together, knotted them and then yanked down, pulling Corin’s chin lower, drawing her almost onto her calves. She gurgled and croaked, fighting to keep quiet as she was treated so roughly, her worry at being bound thus obviously plaguing her a great deal.
Using the separated coils to reach out to just above her knees, the queen formed a tight anchor and then performed the same procedure as used on her forearms.
Corin’s shins were laced together, running against each other, her spine bent, her arms twisted up behind her, the extreme stoop becoming more painful with every second that passed.
The queen had barely straightened up when Corin found she could take no more, her fingers and toes bunching and flexing, her mouth agape, droll slipping 137
over her lips as she panted and gasped with discomfort.
She glanced to Thanos as he monitored her distress, wondering if she was being treated any different than he had been, wondering how he could have taken this sort of bondage.
‘Please, your majesty, it hurts too much. I… I can’t take this, please, show mercy, please.’ She wept, her eyes glistening with new tears, her cruelly captured limbs fighting the detailed mesh of rope, the coarse bonds grating her skin, afflicting her most delicate regions.
In an uncharacteristic display of tenderness, the queen lowered to one knee before her servile and cupped her hovering chin, Corin unable to straighten up or lower, only dwell in the severe position.
‘Y-yes, your majesty, but—’
‘There are no buts, slave. There is only obedience and trust. Do you trust me? Trust me to do what is best for you?’
‘Yes, yes I do, your majesty,’ Corin whimpered, and nestled against the gloved hand that moved to her cheek, her tears running onto the burnished hide.
‘And are you content to languish here, alone, suffering for me, thinking on your slavery to me?’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘Then say it, slave. Let me hear your submission from your own lips. I want to know that you are entrusting everything that is you into my care, without hesitation or regret.’
‘Please, your majesty, please leave me here to learn what it is to be your slave, I want to be yours, forever,’
she stated with corrupted tones of strain, knowing how despicable her containment would be, but resigned and 138
eager for her servitude.
‘Good slave. I will be back for you later. Until then, think over your woe and know that it is for me. You are in this pain for my purposes. By doing this I declare my love for you, the love I have for all my slaves, a love I express by punishing them so, by giving them what they need most. Control. The pleasure of submitting totally to another’s whim, in losing oneself to the rule of another, and gaining the security and fulfilment that consensual slavery brings.’ She rose, balancing on one leg to offer a pointed toe to the lips of Corin, who kissed it feverishly before it fled, taking this meagre reward while she could before she was deserted.
‘Would my slave like something to remind her of me more distinctly in my absence?’ asked the queen.
‘Yes please, your majesty,’ blurted Corin with haste.
‘Very well, slave. A little treat for you, because you have done so well today. I am very proud of your progress thus far.’
‘Thank you, your majesty, I’m glad to have made you happy,’ beamed Corin, because even against her bondage she was full of joy at hearing such words.
The vampiress hooked her thumbs under her dress and drew down her thong, removing the slender garment and wafting it before Corin’s flushed features. Corin sniffed at the air, catching the scent and closing her eyes with hunger.
Threading it over Corin’s face, the queen snagged the hips over her ears and placed the strongly scented crotch over her nose, allowing the lupine to smell deeply of her personal perfume with every breath. ‘There, how is that, slave?’ she asked.
‘Thank you, your majesty, thank you so much,’ she gasped, drawing of the scent, working herself against 139
the knot buried against her belly.
‘Come, Thanos,’ the queen snapped, all the gentle emotion with which she had regarded Corin vanishing as she turned and snapped the leash to her servile male, leading him out of the room.
Thanos felt a measure of sympathy for his sibling, for it was a position he too had suffered once or twice, and he knew from personal experience just how evil it would grow as time dawdled past. But as with all bondage the elation at being freed would be a reward, and the adoration of the queen would swell when she came to set Corin free. The gratitude of being shown mercy would clamp Corin to the queen’s heels and have her sobbing her thanks. Truly the vampiress was an artisan of no mean skill.
140
Chapter Seven
As the entrance to Corin’s tomb pulled aside it exposed the awaiting form of the seneschal. Cassandra was clad solely in polished latex leggings that merged expertly with her stiletto-heeled footwear, making the entire thing seem as one garment.
Her chest was bare, leaving her breasts exposed to open view, pert and succulent to the eye. Latex opera gloves trailed up her arms, and her hair had been swept back away from her collar of ownership.
Dana did not speak, instead she let the door hum with mechanised strain and restore the defences to Corin’s cell. Then she watched as her most trusted servant grovelled and kissed her boots in reverence, her leggings squealing in soft notes as they brushed each other, her thighs pressed together, her arousal plain as she conducted the obeisance. Dana smirked at the alluring image of her rubber-clad rear, wiggling in the air, the two rounded cheeks enveloped by the polished sheet, the fabric slung between the peaks, smooth and inviting to penetration or punishment.
‘What brings you here, my seneschal?’ she asked, looking down upon the back of Cassandra’s head, her hair sweeping from side to side as she adored each of the boots before her. ‘You should be contacting Kitjana.’
The woman lifted up, brushed her ponytail back over her shoulders and looked into the face of her delicious tyrant. ‘A Wyrm demon arrived just before I was going to send forth your message. It was from Kitjana,’ she 141
stated softly, her words half expressed, her mind clearly loitering upon the visage of her queen and all she dreamed of doing with her.
Dana knew just how obsessed Cassandra was with her, but it made it all the more fun to tease and torment her as a consequence, and she enjoyed psychological torture just as much as more physical forms of abuse. ‘And?’
she firmly pressed, stepping back and putting her hands on her hips, the aggressive stance snapping her seneschal from her dithering and to applying herself more fully to matters of duty.
‘She says she will be arriving here in two weeks,’ stated Cassandra.
Dana chuckled, letting a smirk of amusement spread across her features. ‘How very like her,’ she mused, noticing Cassandra’s sneer of contempt. Her seneschal bore no love for Kitjana, not just for the fact that she was a diversion whenever she arrived, but because she flaunted the normal decorum that Cassandra was largely responsible for. One did not just say when one was going to arrive at the palace. One could ask humbly, one could suggest a meeting and leave the queen to decide when and where, but to automatically invite oneself and assume it would be acceptable was an unheard of offence. There were several vampire lords in the feed banks who could testify to the consequences of such mistakes.
But Kitjana was a lover of risks, she thwarted order, defied all etiquette, delighted in annoying and perturbing those who were sticklers for such pedantic matters. It was an endearing trait that kept the mighty witch in high regard with the queen, and thus they had remained firm allies throughout recent decades.
Dana particularly relished the woman’s hurricane appetite for living. Kitjana was mortal, with powers 142
beyond even the most learned and adept shaman, and because her longevity was finite she devoured every second of her life as though it were her last. This furious hunger had been one of the prime motivations in Dana’s recent rise back to authority. Before, she had been quite content, though slightly resentful of her position as part of the city council. But encountering Kitjana and spending a few weeks with her had changed everything.
The infectious charisma of the woman had lit new fires in Dana’s dead heart. No longer was she willing to lie around and wistfully dream of better days, now she wanted to take the offensive, to fight for what she wanted
– to tear back what was hers.
It was soon afterwards that Dana had concocted and instigated her capture and training programme of Thanos, sent him forth, consolidated and plotted in the ensuing storm of assassination and wild paranoia. She set houses against each other, sent others into ambushes, framed, deceived, betrayed, kidnapped, blackmailed and murdered anything that stood in her way or posed an obstacle.
‘Well I can see I will have to prepare a great feast for our witch companion,’ beamed Dana, and patted Thanos’
head as he knelt beside her.
‘Your majesty, surely you cannot allow her to get away with such a demand,’ snapped Cassandra, venom in her voice, the hatred seeping through the professed protection of the queen’s image and social standing before others.
‘She gave you an order!’
‘Yes, she did, and I had best obey,’ she repli
ed, looking into the fawning eyes of the adoring lupine.
‘What…’ began the seneschal, left speechless, unable to voice her astonishment that her divine ruler was going to allow herself to be commanded like a slave.
143
Dana treated herself to a raucous laugh, having achieved her intention to antagonise her servile. ‘Don’t fret, my seneschal, I’m not going soft on you,’ she added, hiding the awareness that against the sorceress in a genuine combat, she would stand little chance. ‘It is a game with Kitjana, to bait each other thus. It is no sleight, it is merely a peccadillo between nobles, and I’ll not dishonour myself before the sects by rashly responding to it or foolishly treating it as anything other than what it is.’
Kitjana might well be mortal and short-lived, burning her life in a raging dazzling and all too brief pyre, but that fire granted her power beyond match. Sorcery such as hers could breach the royal palace with ease. Her guards and defences would be as nothing, and even Thanos would be hard pressed to face her and survive.
Where a whole regiment of shaman would fail, Kitjana could succeed with ease. It was a power Dana admired, adored and respected. Get too close to the entrancing fire that was Kitjana and one would be consumed by it.
‘As you wish, your majesty,’ muttered Cassandra.
‘Arise,’ stated the queen, the words without inflexion, making Cassandra wonder if she had seriously offended her ruler. With trembles in her limbs she stood erect, keeping her eyes lowered a little.
Dana reached forward and let her left hand encompass one of the proffered breasts, stroking it, teasing the nipple as Cassandra released small shivers of pleasure at the touch. Continuing the play, the queen reached down and cupped the latex-sheathed crotch of the woman, rubbing the taut material, massaging her seneschal’s loins, the impermeable fabric slithering with ease against Cassandra’s moist sex.
Moonslave Page 13
