Although in the past month—since I had learned I was to be sold to a person of some importance in Imperial Hundret—I had taken it upon myself to learn quite a bit about their culture and history, I still knew next to nothing about the individual who would own me. Or individuals, as I had found out.
I was a slave, sold as part of the Service Trade, and therefore registered in the Guild of Service. My Trainer, Cochran, was responsible for the finest slaves in the entire continent of Aurona, and known for his ability to create concubines who could easily keep up with the financial arrangements of wealthy businessmen or the deeply complex affairs of highest royalty.
My own training had enabled me to become a veritable expert in all manners sexual and passionate, and I was excited—after nearly six months of exclusively pleasuring fellow indoctrinate women and Trainer Cochran alone—to finally wrap my mouth around the cock of the stud rich enough to buy me. Trainer Cochran was especially proud of the way I had turned out: my absolute obedience, my attention to every detail, and my efforts in my outward appearance. I caught the highest price he had ever heard of, apparently—and to the most prestigious buyer, back from his home country.
Prince Cullen's quarters were guarded by large uniformed men with heavy automatic rifles in their hands. Beyond the front door was a short hallway lined with crisply attended-to ferns, fed sunlight from a series of windows overhead. Through the door at the end of the hall, I entered his study, where he was documenting figures off some log sheet.
“Right,” he said, without looking up. “Just a moment. Armies don’t feed themselves, you know. Or, well, they can, but nobody would much like...that...”
He looked up, slowly, eyes widening at my appearance. Warmth spread over me as I felt his approval of my appearance. It was so good to be wanted by your Master.
I was shocked, at first, at how young he was. I had been told he was eighteen, but there are all kinds of eighteen year-olds. I was eighteen, for example. He was the sort who wears his youth as an identity; the kind of athletic young male who you imagine when you think of the prototypical young man. Clean cut, square jawed, broad shoulders, cut from stone. He wore a tight military uniform with red trim, the collars of his shirt dipped in gold. His skin was, rather than the almost onyx, midnight color I had seen so frequently in the halls, a shade of dark brown, with hair that was dark and cut close to his skull.
“Francesca?” he ventured.
Very polite. Most often, an owner simply called a slave what she was—or more nastily-formed names.
“If you wish it, your Highness. I am to be called whatever you desire.”
“I desire to call you by your name, in that case.”
“Then you have it. Francesca, as you said.”
He stood up slowly, walking up to me stiffly. I could see, even with my head tilted down, that he was trying to discern the proper introduction.
“We need be only as formal as you like, your Highness,” I said, trying to calm him. “There is no real ceremony to owning a slave. Only pleasure, at your discretion.”
From the way he bristled at this, I could tell that I had mis-stepped.
“Formality is what keeps us from the animals,” he said, his voice as imperious as his office. “Without it, we are nothing more than savages burning to the ground every last beautiful thing we come across.”
“As you say, your Highness. My apologies.”
He seemed to relax slightly. “It’s quite all right. We shall learn one another, I expect.” His hands came out, and then retracted just as quickly. “I very much look forward to learning about you, Francesca.”
“You may touch me, if you wish it, Master. You may do anything at all.”
His hands slid over my shoulders, and then brushed my hair. He tilted my chin upward so that I looked him in the eyes.
“You are very beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you, your Highness.”
“Do you know that?”
“That I am beautiful?”
“Yes. I’m always curious if women know it about themselves.”
The window nearby was open, and a bird—and then two more—dropped down onto the balcony leading out from it. There was bird seed scattered there. I had to imagine that Cullen enjoyed watching the birds come down to feed as he worked.
“Your average free woman does not, I don’t think,” I said. “She is subjected to a great many ordeals, all of which are in some way based on her pleasant appearance or lack of. But it all boils down to sex, and whether she is any good at it. Rightly or wrongly, this is the basis of much of the interactions of the free world.
“For me, for any slave, it is different. We don’t have to try to be above sex. We are what we were born to be. So yes, I’m very aware that I’m beautiful. But it doesn’t matter to me all that much outside of a way to make you aroused, my Prince.”
“So you don’t care if I call you beautiful?”
“I enjoy your compliments more than almost anything else, my Prince. Feel me, here.” I took his hands to my soft, full breasts. They swelled at his touch, so rough and strong. “Can’t you feel how warm I am? How my heart flutters from your words?”
Touching me so intimately, so soon, clearly bothered him. He pulled his hands away—but slowly. I could not tell whether to be disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm or not. The strings of civility seemed tightly wound around him.
“But you said it doesn’t matter to you.”
“It doesn’t in the way that, perhaps, being royal doesn’t matter to you. But you still enjoy it when I call you my Prince, do you not?”
“I do,” he admitted. “Very much. You say it differently than others do.”
“Others do not carry the affection I do, my Prince. I say it with heat, with arousal, with need, with lust. My Prince. I say it with luster and with the knowledge that finally, at long last, after being trained for so long, I know the vehicle of my obedience. I say it with everything I have...my Prince.”
This had an effect on him. I could see him attending to his bulge in his tight pants. My soft lips made a small “o” shape. I wanted so much to suck his cock, to make him know what perfect service I could provide him.
“I should like to kiss you, young Francesca.”
Nodding eagerly, I stepped forward. My breasts pressed hard against his strong chest. “I would like that very much, your Highness.”
His lips passed over mine, firm and unyielding. Luckily for him, I was designed to yield. My body gave in to his immediately, sliding forward onto his firm man-body. Tenderly, he looped one hand around my waist, curious and probing. I guided it against me harder, urging him to press me into him. I wanted him to smother me with his weight.
Soon, he led me to the couch, sliding me onto his lap. I could feel the thickness of his manhood, the hardness of it, rubbing into my bottom. I ground harder, but he slowed my motions with a hand on my hips. I pushed my hand into his shirt, hoping to touch his skin, but again he slid me back down, making me wait. From these denials, my desire only became stronger. He was a much more patient person than I, Prince Cullen.
And so we passed many hours then, kissing on his couch, safely and sedately. In truth, I wanted more, so much more, but a slave is patient; and more important, a slave obeys.
* * * * *
The next day, I was scheduled to meet Prince Frederik.
I wore a tight violet dress that generously scooped underneath my breasts, pushing them up toward the air in a fetching manner. The dress was strapless, revealing large portions of my back and all of my shoulders, and to look somewhat dignified as I walked, I draped a long white shawl over my naked shoulders.
When I exited my quarters, Frederik’s own rooms were all the way on the opposite side of that step of the tower, on my right. If you will recall, this was the opposite of where Cullen’s were—to my left. I was, before the time was done, to be in the middle of these two hunks in many more ways than just that one.
The entrance to Fred
erik's room was covered in long scrolls and giant piles of books. It was hard even to make out where the different doors were. He was not even taking especially good care of his reading materials—old plates littered with half-eaten meals and unfinished bowls of soup were everywhere. I saw bottle after bottle of whiskey and wine filling the floor—one corner was entirely stacked with absolutely licked-clean tumblers.
A man who enjoyed his drink more than his food or duties, I expected. That was quite all right. I expected, as well, that he would have passions to match his appetites.
When I entered his sitting room, I found him laying upside down on a long couch, sipping acrobatically at a tall glass of whiskey. It was not quite the evening, though outside through the window, the sun (which I saw only just barely over several large piles of historical books) was setting beautifully. Long purples streaks ruled the sky, cutting through fields of orange.
He was older than Cullen, nearly twenty-eight, and rather more gruff in his manner and appearance. His hair was shaggy and long, and a thick beard coated his jaw. He was broader, too, with much more man-muscle on him. The sort of thick, dense muscle that was used regularly, like you might see on a warehouse worker or a teamster. His skin was also of a darker color, more of the sort that I had seen more regularly in the empire thus far from my dealings with imperial servants and so forth.
In my studies, I had found that at one point, the color of skin had been almost a symbol of status in Imperial Hundret, much akin to where one lived in-step or out-of-step. Those with darker skin had not ever dared for higher office, and the browner-skinned individuals held most positions of authority, despite never being numerically superior to those with darker skin. This sort of barbarity had been phased out many hundreds of years before, but still some remnants of its ideology remained with the more stubborn and biased individuals. At any rate, it was just one more way to differentiate between the two Princes for me.
“Greetings, your Highness.”
He unrolled himself from his “seat” on the couch, stumbling through a series of books and knocking over several dishes. Miraculously, he kept his glass upright and took another long sip.
“Don’t start with me with all of that nonsense. You’ll call me Frederik, or nothing at all.”
I stayed quiet.
He looked just a bit puzzled. “You do know that means to call me Frederik, right? The second option isn’t really intended to be an option.”
“I...yes, your...Frederick.”
“Is it that hard for you?”
“I am trained to respect those with authority, Si—Frederick. My natural inclination is to bestow upon you a great many titles, so that your complete authority over my every desire, whim, action, and thought is more transparent. And, at the same time, more pleasurable.”
He walked around me, perhaps seeing me for the first time. His hands fluttered through the transparent material of my gown, and he pushed my shawl down. I let him, of course—it was his privilege to touch me as he wished.
“It does make you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? To not call me something.”
“Yes, Ma—Frederick.”
“Very well. You can call me...I don’t know. Sir. Or Sire. How’s that?”
“That would be wonderful, Sire.” My hands came up underneath my breasts, pushing them up fetchingly. “My Sir is so very kind to me.”
“You’re quick.” One hand slid over the twin tops of my cleavage, and I purred with appreciation. “I like that.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
Of course, having seen one now, and then the other, I had to start drawing comparisons.
Frederik was the man; Cullen was the station. Both could use a bit more of either. For Cullen, power was simply the structure of the world, and he existed at the upper echelon of the structure. Strangely, though, with the formality of his training, he was less inclined to use that power. He knew it too well as simply movements and forces, the way I understood an arch in a building as a shape more than I did as something that hands had made.
But for Frederik, power was people. With less of a station, and less formal training in his home country, he had learned that the way to owning others was not by arranging them in this system or structure, but by owning their souls, their hearts. By commanding them with the authority he found in his very presence rather than his birthright.
Cullen, a natural administrator. Frederik, a natural general.
“So you’ll just do...whatever and ever?” His fingers pinched down on one nipple. “I could do anything to you. Is that right, slave?”
I nodded, biting my lip just slightly. “Anything at all, Sir.”
He slapped my ass, then.
“Thank you, Sire.”
He slapped harder, no doubt marking my flesh beneath the thin fabric of my tight dress.
“Thank you, Sire,” I said again.
This seemed to please him greatly. He put his drink down on a bookshelf, ensuring that it wouldn’t spill.
“Take off your dress.”
I nodded. “Of course, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Right away, I moved to do as he asked, and then remembered the zipper in the back. I turned to face him.
“Would you assist me with this, Sir?”
“Certainly.”
His rough hands grasped the back of my dress. He let the zipper down halfway, and then, holding it firmly, ripped it off my body.
“How’s that?”
My heart was rushing. It was so incredibly hot to feel a man do that to your clothes. Of course, you have thoughts about replacing the clothes—how much it will cost, how much this or that is worth, and so on. But none of that really, actually matters. What matters most in the world is that a man you find desperately attractive has just gone out of his way to bare your body to him. And you want, no matter what, to show him that you appreciate what he’s done.
“Thank you, Sire,” I said softly. I shimmied slightly and let the ripped dress fall to the ground. “My Sir is very kind to show me his strength.”
He seemed not to notice the compliment, looking instead critically at the display I had created for him.
“You have very large breasts,” he noted.
I breathed in deeply. “Yes, Sir.”
“How is they stay in the air like that? It's not just that bra. It's barely there. You must be very young. How young are you?”
“I am eighteen years of age, Sire.”
“That explains it, then.”
He grabbed one tit, lifting it up and then smiling as it bounced back down into place. His touch sent electric current through my body.
“If I may further explicate, Sire?”
He shrugged, continuing to bounce and play with my thick titties. “Go ahead.”
“All slaves are subjected to a thorough process which alters everything about us, from our thought-patterns to our desired behaviors. A-ah!” He squeezed a nipple roughly. “Thank you, Sire. Our entire body chemistry is rewired for aesthetically pleasing service. So, if, for example, even if I was much older, my breasts would still be this firm and bouncy. Though, it must be said, older slaves do not indoctrinate with as much ease as I did.”
This revelation, or series of revelations, seemed to give him pause.
“They’ve really done a number on your brain, haven’t they?”
“I am thankful for it, Sire. My thoughts are filled with obedience to you. You are the only source of possible stress in my life. How much stresses you out on a given day?”
I wanted to continue on, to explain how no matter his stress, I would gleefully attend his body. There are a great many schools of massage from all around the continent, and my Trainer ensured that I was well-versed in them. But a great cloud suddenly loomed on his face, and, recognizing his displeasure, I ceased all speech and movement.
“And my brother, you mean. My brother,” he spat. “And Cullen, you mean.”
“Sire?”
“Do not fence with me, slave. You are obed
ient to Cullen as well. Not just me.”
Suddenly, he slapped me. I fell to one knee from the blow, crying out just slightly. The pain licked all of my pleasure circuits, making my cunt wet with need.
“Thank you for the honor of your touch, Sire,” I said, meaning it completely. No slave was complete in his or her process without a severe masochistic streak. “And, may I mention, that should you desire to fuck me...you will have done so before Prince Cullen.”
When the sweet, blissful pain of his slap had left me, I noticed that he had taken his pants all the way down. His cock, proud and hard, stood out in front of him. Right away, instinctively, I began to drool. I wanted him inside me in any way that I could have it.
“Turn around,” he said. His voice was thick with whiskey and with lust.
“Yes, Sire.”
I turned and placed myself on my hands and knees, head arched up, belly drawn into my stomach. His entrance into me was shocking and wonderful. He wasn’t just big—he was enormous. His big black cock filled the entirety of my tight, needy canal, and I could feel my walls tightening down on his throbbing meat with perfect, aching need as he began to thrust in and out of my body.
Harsh and swift, his hands started to come down on my ass.
“Thank you, Sire!” I moaned with each strike. “Thank you, Sir!”
He struck my ass harder and harder, no doubt bruising my skin. I didn't care. I wanted it. I loved his attention. I wanted the pain. It only fueled my pleasure, fueled my desire to feel his obedience. I knew that to give pain like that, he must have been full of stress. Full of anger and heat. I wanted to be his outlet.
As he spanked me, his thrusts into my tight body only increased. My heavy tits shook harder and harder as his frequency cranked up. The sound of his flesh powering into mine, the sound of my big titties slapping against my body as he took me over completely, filled the air of the study.
The Sold For Service Bundle Page 10
