With the map as my guide, I left the catacombs by the nearest exit. This course took me upwards. I climbed dusty, narrow flights of stairs that led to shrinking corridors. Those in turn, to more dusty stairs. They seemed to go on forever: was this even the quickest exit? Had I misread the map? My body ached with the tiredness of the trek and the post-combat exhaustion. Layla was tired as well; the slave girl, wrists shackled behind her back, a leash chain at her throat, kept stumbling in the dark or nodding off.

Yet, I pushed on. I did not want to spend one more moment down here than I had to. I kept putting one foot in front of the other. I gave Layla her motivation to continue in the usual way. I made her kneel before a block of fallen masonry. I rearranged her wrist shackles so that her arms were held around the block. She looked back at me, her tired eyes all of a sudden quite anxious.

“Master, I will not fall asleep!”

No “,” I drew my whip. “You won’t.”

I gave her five strokes: two across her back, three against her thighs and calves.

The whipping done, I set off again with a much more alert slave girl, red marks on her body and a glare in her eyes.

Do not pamper slave girls. Push them. Then, push them again and make them thank you for it. They should be grateful that you feed and protect them. Yet, they never are. So, just keep pushing the ingrates... Whatever you will of them is what’s best. Whatever you visit upon them, they (likely) deserve. They will never understand, and that’s alright. They don’t ever need to.

At last, when I was about to give up and turn back around, the map’s promise came true. I came upon a final, crumbled stairway littered with dead leaves. Moss grew on the humid, damp walls. Hand-sized wood roaches scattered into corners at the vibrations of my footsteps. At the very top of the stairway was a shaft of light. After the darkness of the catacombs, it seemed as bright as if the sun itself had returned!

I led my slave up the stairs and into the open.

We came out on a hilltop. To the East was the Mist Wall. A cool but not uncomfortable wind blew from them. It pulled at Layla’s hair. To the West was the River Black - and the lights of Dura. At this distance, the city and the camps seemed like a thin, brown-grey scum grown over the land. I had come quite a way - and in the wrong direction! Between myself and the city was a good day’s worth of travel through thick, Carboniferous jungle… If I could find a man-made trail, that would cut the travel time in half. However, I saw no smoke from cooking fires or logging camps between the hilltop and Dura.

I looked up. The dust cloud gloom seemed brighter than I had ever seen it before. I wondered how much longer before we’d see a clear sky again; whenever that would be was drawing closer and closer. Was it midday? I didn’t hear the sounds of morning insects or birds. If it was afternoon, I did not have the time to reach Dura before nightfall. I did not fancy crossing the jungle without at least the benefit of daytime gloom. This was not a world humans were adapted to, and the jungle was not kind to interlopers.

I looked about: the ground was stony, dry. Thorny bushes grew in the wind shadow of large rocks. Tall, skinny, Cycad trees swayed in the wind. Their leaves were so dry they seemed to rattle.

I checked my waterskin; it was only about a quarter-full. It would get me and the slave through the rest of the day, but no more. I needed to find water. Water, food, and shelter.

I also needed to avoid running into any more of those Armanean poisoners. The other catacomb exits marked on the map were even deeper in the jungle... What were they doing, so far abroad in unfriendly country?

Perhaps I’d misunderstood. Maybe the exits didn’t lead to their camps. Maybe the Catacombs themselves were their camp. What better place to hide activities under our noses than right beneath our feet?

I put these thoughts out of my head. They were for another time. Right now, I needed to survive.

The gods chose to smile on me at that moment. Not ten feet away from the catacomb exit was a stretch of muddy ground. Tall grasses grew out of it, the kind one found along rivers and streams rather than on dry, windy hilltops.

I tugged at the slave’s leash and set off.

As I entered the muddy area and moved deeper into it, the grasses became thicker and grew taller. Soon they were above my head, and I had to push my way through them using both hands. Beneath me, my boots squelched in clay-rich mud. The grasses topped out at about 9 feet and then came to a sudden stop. I stepped through the last of them to see what they had hidden.

Before me was a pond about 30 feet across. Tall reeds grew up along its muddy edges. The stems of water plants could be seen just beneath the pond surface. They waved this way and that as unseen fish pushed through them. Around the pond were large shelves of black slate. Strangler vines ran across them like streamers thrown after the return of a triumphant army. Trees pushed their way up from the grass and helped shade the pond. It was the perfect little secret space. However, it was a watering hole. Things would come a to drink - unless I lit a fire.

I began to look about for firewood. There were large, fallen branches over some of the rocks. They would-

“I can gather wood, Master,” said Layla, perhaps reading my mind.

“You have been nothing but trouble,” I turned and frowned at her.

The slave girl looked down.

“From the moment I bought you. You have been trouble. You’ve wasted my time. Wasted my resources. Cost me a guard. And for what? You are just a runaway.”

Layla said nothing.

I tugged on her leash, making the slave stumble forward. I tugged again and led her to a tree with a low-hanging branch.

I uncuffed her wrists. Then, I threw the shackles over a low-hanging branch. It was sturdy: it looked like it would take a fair amount of weight. The shackles hung down from it.

By her leash, I pulled Layla to stand under the branch. Then, I pulled her hands up to the shackles and re-fastened them. She stood on tiptoe, teetering, arms held up above her head. The slave stared ahead, resignation in her eyes. She knew what came next. Every Hyperborean slave girl did.

I drew my whip. Leaving aside the quick taste I had given her in the catacombs, it had been some time since I had given her a proper disciplining.

I stood behind her, whip in hand, studying her. Her was body stretched; she was up on her toes. I looked over the fine lines of her shoulder blades, the muscles of her back, the round, fullness of her large, well-shaped buttocks. My eyes went down the slender, athletic legs. Such tasty legs!

Yet, I was angry. So angry, it’s spoiled my appreciation even of a chained, beautiful slave’s body. I drew back my whip, a five-flailed device with flared tips, and slashed it down across her back.

Wwk-KSH!

Layla jerked forward but made no sound. Oh, that felt good to do!

Wwk-KSH!

The second lash went across her buttocks. They quivered, and she jumped up, crying out, stepping from foot to foot.

I settled into a satisfied smile, and as I gave her a slow, careful, thorough thrashing. The large, soft flails would not bruise her, and I was too practiced to cause her any harm. This freed me to whip her for as long as I liked.

Wwk-KSH!

I worked on her legs, going up and down the calves and thighs. Her buttocks I gave special attention. Then, her back. She was soon covered with angry, red whip marks. I only decided to stop because it was growing darker.

The whipping had nothing to do with punishing her for running away. I did it because I just really wanted to give her a good hiding. To teach her her place. To hear her crying out. To see her discomfort.

I unshackled her from the branch. She remained standing, feet apart, head down.

I took up her leash and led her to a sapling that faced the pond. There, I knelt her, with her back against it. I pulled her hands back and shackled them behind the small tree.

Next, I took hold of her ankles and pulled them back, as well, behind the sapling. With another pair of shackles, I secured her ankles.

I crouched down before her and shoved her thighs wide apart. I made a line in the dirt in front of each knee and gave her a look.

The slave saw my expression and looked down. For the rest of her time chained to the sapling, she did not move her knees past those lines. I had commanded her, in no uncertain terms between a Master at a slave girl, to keep her thighs apart.

With the slave girl secured, I set about my survival tasks. The first was to build a shelter. I took many of the large, fallen branches and propped them against a tall tree, making the frame. I then covered it with grasses and ferns. I kept going till I had a thick layer to keep off both rain and wind.

Next, I built a fire. The wood made cracking noises as it burnt orange-yellow. Smoke rose into the sky, but it was already too dark for anyone to see it.

Looking for food, I waded into the pond. The water was much warmer than expected. It had a mineral tang to it: spring water. I waited till I was waist deep and stood still. Soon, the fish of the pond, creatures that had never encountered humans in all the evolutionary history and never would again, began to investigate me. The largest was about a foot long, their heads covered in bony, armored plates.

I caught one with my bare hands. It thrashed back and forth as I held it up, a tube of writhing muscle. I hurled it onto dry land, and it flopped up and down in the mud. A rock over the head brought an end to that, red pooling under it. I cleaned it, skewered it, and set it to grill over my fire.

Night fell. The chattering began of insects calling one another. Some sounded larger than others. Every so often, there was the whup-whup-whup of a very large, winged creature passing above. The fire would keep me safe from both the natural and the eldritch beasts that were out that night.

The fish was soon done cooking. I picked it out of the fire and started eating.

A few feet away from me, Layla stared, hungry.

I let her watch for a few minutes. Then, I went over to her. I removed her shackles but instead fitted her with a heavy, iron anklet. To this, I attached the chain that I’d used for her leash. I secured the other end of the chain to the sapling. This gave her 6 feet to crawl.

I went back to my spot, sat down, and resumed eating.

Layla crept towards me, the chain at her ankle clinking over the ground. When she was at my side, she rose on her knees, held my arm, and kissed my shoulder.

I shoved her off. The slave girl fell back, sprawling.

I resumed eating.

After a few moments, Layla crept back towards me. This time she remained on her hands and knees. Again she went to my side. She lowered her head to my thigh and kissed it.

I shoved her back again.

Layla approached the third time. She crawled down on her knees and elbows. This pushed her buttocks up in the air; I watched as they moved this way and that with her movements. It is almost hypnotic to what such a thing. She got beside me and lowered her head to my foot. She leaned forward and licked it. Her eyes darted up to regard me.

I did not react.

Layla pushed her hair aside and licked my foot again. Her body lowered: the buttocks going down to rest on the backs of her heels. Her chest to the ground. She licked my foot again and again. She lifted her head up in a flourish and settled her breasts over my toes. They were warm and soft. She pressed down, squeezing them against my skin.

With one hand, I scraped some fat off the fish. It quivered and gleamed in my fingers. With the other, I grabbed Layla by the hair. I jerked her head up and shoved the fat into her mouth.

Force-fed, the slave gobbled it down, her tongue pushing out to lick my fingers hard.

I got up and stepped to the water. Large water beetles were moving in round dances to attract mates. I grabbed one that had drawn my attention instead. Its legs flailed back and forth as I lifted it up by its back. I walked back to the slave, forced her mouth open, and shoved the struggling insect in.

There was a crunching as her jaws worked, eating the creature alive.

I sat back down to watch her.

The slave girl wiped the back of her mouth with her wrist, then crawled to the side of the pond. Hands out to support her, she lowered her head and drank the spring water like an animal. Had I not been there, she would have used her hands. However, a slave girl with her Master’s eye on her, especially after she has been given a thrashing, will act differently.

“Oh!” she cried out as I yanked on her chain, pulling her foot back. She turned to look back over her shoulder at me and cried out again as I dragged her across the ground with another yank. In this manner, I pulled her to me.

The slave girl at my side, I took hold of her hair again. This time though, I forced her head down to my cock.

She opened her mouth to receive it. Her mouth was warm, soft. I felt her lips press and former ring around the shaft. I pushed her head till her nose was pressed into my crotch. I could feel the back of her throat with the tip of my penis. I held her like that for a few moments, just letting her feel what it was like to be held that way. To feel my power over her. To know her pathetic place. Then, I began to rock her head back and forth.

Layla tried to take my cock in her hands. I batted her hands away. Using both hands, I began jerking her head back and forth. I used her hard, jerking 2 to 3 times a second. My penis rammed the back of her throat, again and again. Layla did not gag. She opened her jaw wide and relaxed her neck, letting me use her.

I came. I held her head to me as I squirted. Layla kept still. There was no movement from her throat: she knew not to swallow without a command.

I pushed her head off. Semen mixed with saliva gleamed on my penis. Layla kept her lips pressed together, tight. She looked up at me.

I held my hand in front of her mouth.

She spat her mouth full into it. It was thick grey mixed with spit. Inside her mouth, I could see grey strings clinging from the roof of her mouth to her tongue. She spat again. The mixture began to drip through my fingers.

I pressed the handful over one of her large, well-shaped breasts. The hard nipple pushed against my palm. I pulled my hand away; I had made a handprint out of semen. Its edges dripped, grey fluid leaving tracks down the perky breast as they went. The handprint gleamed in the firelight.

I printed her other breast as well, and then her crotch. I drew an “X” with my finger where her now faded brand had been. Last of all, using semen dripping down her body, I pressed my hand against her face. I held it there for a good few seconds, marking her. Done, I wiped my hand under her chin and neck. I dragged her by her hair back to the sapling and rechained her wrists and ankles behind it, as before.

I returned to my spot and finished my dinner.

***

About an hour later, I went back to her. She looked up at me. The semen had dried. Her eyes went to my penis, and she leaned forward mouth open.

I knelt before her and slipped two fingers into her vagina. They slid in with ease; the slave was aroused: warm and wet. She moaned and pushed her breasts out, arching her back, as my fingers dug all the way in. I swirled around and pulled them out, looking at them in the firelight. The mucus was clear. I stretched my fingers apart, and it hung between them, stretchy, elastic. It did not break.

Layla was staring at my fingers as well. She understood full well what this meant. She was at the peak of a cycle: she was most fertile.

Again, I unchained her from the tree. Before she could react, I got behind her and locked my right arm around her throat. With my left, I pulled her arms back and slipped my arm between them and her back. In this way, my left arm went across her back, like a bar. I gripped the biceps muscle of her right arm. It was a simple move, but as long as I held her against me, she could not bring forward her arms. My right arm around her throat kept her from pulling away. I could now direct her as I liked, with the delightful secondary effect that her chest was pushed out.

I stood, making the slave girl rise with me. I pushed her forwards into the pond. The water temperature was just right. I drove her before me towards a large formation of shale that jutted out near the center. There, I made her climb out onto it, her body dripping. I climbed on after her and pushed her down.

Layla got down on her hands and knees and turned her head back to look up at me.

I stared down at her.

The slave girl parted her legs wide and hung her head.

I got behind her. I slapped her buttocks hard, and she cried out. My hands gripped her waist with both hands and pulled her buttocks against me. I pushed them apart, baring the labia. The slave kept still as I slipped my penis into her. She contracted the muscles of her vagina around it almost immediately. I kept a firm grip on her waist with one hand. With the other, I grabbed her by her hair and yanked her head back. She stared up at the sky as I began.

Smack!

Her buttocks quivered with each stroke. The shock wave ran down her body, tossing her breasts forward.

Smack!

Layla shut her eyes. Her lips parted, and her jaw began to hang open. She pointed her toes and beat her feet against the rock. Her fingers curled into claws, and her expression became strained.

Oh no, you little bitch, I thought. You don’t get to have one!

I ejaculated. I stopped thrusting and pressed her against me, savoring the moment. This was it, at last! I had bred the slave. I held her like that, even after I was done spurting. I did not want to disturb what was happening inside her now. Minutes must have passed before I pulled out. Once done, I rolled her onto her back and climbed over her.

She rose up on her elbows as we kissed. She probed inside my mouth with her tongue. I felt one of her hands gripping my arm. The other digging into my hair, fondling it.

I settled down over her, pinning her in place. I took my time licking her face, biting her lip, and tasting her throat. Even when you are most pleased with a slave girl, you do not kiss her the same way you would a lover. It is a relationship entirely about dominance and power; that shapes every facet of it. Even when kissing one, you impose yourself upon a slave girl. Even as she reciprocates your energy, her greatest desire is to please you, not to find her own pleasure. Layla’s arm stroked my hair and back. She pressed her feet against my leg and rubbed one up and down.

It was good to lie upon her and kiss her. After months of sparring, denying her, and playing games, it was nice to at last enjoy my woman! Whether a favored pet who adores your touch or a nameless girl in the vaults just excited to be noticed, my girls delighted in being kissed. As with all slave delights, it must be given sparingly. A reward for desired behavior.

Layla, in submitting to breeding, deserved at least a decent kiss. Often, I liked to give a slave girl a piece of cake after I bred them. They make it last for as long as they can.

For a moment, I contemplated sleeping there on the rocks, with the unchained slave in my arms. Surely she would not be foolish enough to try to escape? If she would not last even a day out here.

No, one does not take chances with slave girls. That is what chains are for.

Surely though, perhaps with this one? Had she not changed? She had spent weeks in the breeding cages; other girls had given in, in less time. She had been manipulated, her ego used against her. And now, here were the results: she had submitted to breeding without so much as a grumble. I had succeeded!

Had I, though? I had to test to be sure.

I went back into the water, pulling Layla in with me. Then, I let go of her, wading away and sinking into the water till only my head was out.

Layla swam away from me to shallow water where she could stand. She moved her hands back and forth, making waves, luxuriating in the feeling. She squealed and brought her knee up as a fish swam past her leg.

I took slow steps back, making sure my feet were on solid stone. I tried to make it appear that I was actually in deeper water, with no secure footing. Then, I turned away, just peering from the edge of my eye.

Layla turned in a flash, thrashed her way up and out of the water, and began running.

I was out of the water almost as fast as she had begun. I ran around the pond and after her. She was fast! The grass, however, loomed up in front of her like a wall. She paused for a moment. Then dived in, trying to shove it aside.

At that moment, she found that it is easier to follow a large man with a sword, pushing and hacking his way through vegetation, than to do so oneself, as a naked girl half his size.

In the next moment, I was upon her.

She screamed as my arms clamped around her, pinning her arms against her sides. I yanked her up in the air. Her legs cart-wheeled, and she screamed again. I dragged her back to my little camp.

What was wrong with this one? Once a runaway, always run away? Perhaps... There was nothing for it, then. Hyperborea had solutions for such girls… If I owned her, then I had to pick one. It was simple as that.

I realized then that Layla was not a troublesome beauty who had learned to barely survive slavery. It was the opposite - by being kept a slave, Layla had been able to survive. She could never live free on a world like Hyperborea. On this world, at least, she belonged in a collar and cage. Keeping her enslaved was not a cruelty; it was a kindness.

I took her back to the sapling. This time, however, I had other plans. First, I pushed her down on her hands and knees. Before she could jump back to her feet, I jerked her hands in front of her and shackled them around the sapling. And that was all.

She got to her knees and looked back at me, glaring, arms secured around the small tree.

My hand forced her head down to the dirt. She cried out and turned her face to the side, her cheek pressed into the earth.

Next, I forced her legs apart with my knees. Her anus and labia were bared. Taking my penis in hand, I slid into position and entered her.

Her wrist tugged at her shackles, and she grunted.

Keeping her pressed to the ground and holding her by her waist, I began.

Smack!

I pushed harder, almost knocking her forward. My fingers dug into her waist, the nails drawing blood. Her breasts tossed forward with each stroke. Her knees and toes dug into the mud. She gritted her teeth and made no sound.

Smack!

I came. Once I was done with her, I wiped my penis up and down on her back. Then, I unchained her from the tree and dragged her, by her hair and making her crawl, to the shelter I had built. There, I hogtied her.

I lay down on a bed I’d made for myself out of fern leaves. I pulled Layla, her body hot and gleaming with sweat, against me. She made no sound.

Hyperboreans believe there are three kinds of slave girl. First, sexual submissives; those they believe were born to be slaves. Second, those who can be taught to be, with training and encouragement. Third, girls who submit because the whip is held over them but will never kneel otherwise. I had thought Layla a born slave, but she was the third kind.

I kissed her forehead and put my arm around her.

“You will never again escape, Layla. I will see to it when we get back when I punish you for running away. Understand also that for the rest of your life, I will make good use of you,” I slipped my hand between her thighs and stroked her crotch. “Heavy use. Fogrim did not understand your value, but I do. You will always be safe in my collar, Layla. I feed my slaves well, and I will breed you heavily.”

It was a long time before Layla fell asleep.