Layla's escape from the breedery was no small matter. The consternation that followed had not gone unnoticed, from the breeding cages to the punishment wheel, to the mother's cells above. All knew that the girl had somehow escaped.
This, left unchecked, put the entire operation at risk. It was more than just a problem of discipline. Everything about the breedery was designed to lower a slave girl's hopes and expectations till the idea of being bred by me, or even just used by chance, for recreation, is a preferred and hoped-for event.
However, if the slave girl could escape, even to the uncertainty of the catacombs, that undid all this. It gave them hope of something else, something better than being kept in a breeding battery.
The only solution to the crisis was for Layla to be punished. It could not be a simple whipping or rope-tie crucifixion. It needed to be severe, by Hyperborean standards, and all the other slaves had to be made to watch it.
Juskar suggested culling her. I pointed out, and not for the first time that I would never cull a slave girl nor allow any I own to meet such a fate.
"They must fear you," he objected. "They must know they cannot take anything for granted with you. That this day, should they displease you, could be their last."
I did not want my slaves to live in terror. Neither did I want to become that kind of master. I didn't mind a slave girl glaring at me. That is how you know to order her to turn, spread her legs, thank you after you are done, and beg that you do it again.
"Strap her face down on a table," said Fogrim, shrugging his shoulders as if it was the most obvious course of action. "Then cut the tendons behind her ankles. Make sure all the others can see. You only need her to serve you on her hands and knees and her back, yes? You will never have another run away again."
Hamstringing was the most common punishment for a runaway in Dura. The idea of it made me think of Ninga, the beautiful, Shemite slave girl I had rescue-bought from the Sleeping God tavern. I had set her to work as an attendant in my chambers. She would clean my boots and wash my feet, drying them off with her long, silk black hair. Then she'd kiss them and wait to see if I wanted more from her, if she could crawl back to her chaining ring. I imagined Layla alongside her, forever on her knees. Forever, looking up at me in that same, worshipful way.
No. What a horrible and hateful thing to do. To hamstring, the girl was not to punish her for running away. It was to spite her for doing so for the rest of her life. Only in a world where cruelty is never questioned was such a practice not assessed.
"I know what will be good for her, Master," said Perfect Feet the night I returned. She lay beside me on the furs. She was chained at the ankle. Sweat trickled down her back. Her large breasts were pressed against my side, my arm around her. She had thrown one long, elegant leg over me. Her foot pressed my calf, and she clenched her toes.
"What would that be?" Said pale Naya, lying atop me. She looked up from nuzzling my neck. The chain at her ankle clinked as she moved her foot to stroke the other slave's leg. Naya's small hand was around my cock, pumping.
"Master should put her out in the street," Perfect Feet's eyes glittered, and her smile became evil. "Put her in the stocks for public use. One day, one night. That every man who passes by stop and use her cunt, or her mouth!"
There are few things a slave girl dreads more than the institution of 'public use.' Alongside busy thoroughfares or outside the homes of more demanding masters are wooden pillories. They are short; a girl fitted to one must bend at her waist. Any passerby may use her without charge. They are not gentle: they know they are being called upon to punish the slave. If you come across a girl given out for public use, let's just say you want to be the first one to enjoy her, not the last… It was the least of the three punishments, but it was still quite severe.
None of these appealed to me. I wanted to punish Layla. I wanted to restore discipline and use her punishment to underline the hopelessness of resisting me. However, I didn't want to ruin the girl's body or mind. Public use would do both.
What I wanted didn't matter anymore, though. That window had closed. Layla had acted, and now there had to be consequences for actions. I could not lose the breedery, or even my entire harem, because I let one foolish little slave girl get away with one of the highest crimes a slave may commit.
And so, I made my decision.
***
The site I had chosen for the punishing was a chamber 50 feet down the tunnel that Layla had fled through.
I had taken advantage of my excursion to reclaim it and several other chambers. In doing so, I expanded the breedery into a larger, more developed harem.
One new room was the Dairy Chamber. Here, three Shemite holding racks had been placed in a row, facing off against another three. I'd keep girls fed on milk root here and mothers after their infants were taken away.
Another was the Breaking Chamber. It had high ceilings, and against each wall was now mounted crucifix. It was for when I next had a spitting, scratching, unbroken captive to deal with. The Breaking Chamber gave me discretion. If none had found out that I'd taken Lady Ansa, her fate would have been very different… I liked the idea of kidnapping the lovelier daughters of enemy burghers. They would know it was me but not be able to prove it. I could use it as a tool to intimidate them. I'd tried politics the honest way - now it was time to give the Council what it deserved.
The room I'd picked for the punishing was the largest one. It was a round vault about 60 feet across. I wondered if it had been some manner of religious meeting place or an immense wine cellar.
Now, it was a dungeon.
There were no flagstones. Instead, the floor seemed to have been cut right into the rock. It was rough and uneven as if it had never been finished. Sand had settled into cracks and along the room's edges.
At one end, cages had been pushed against the wall. These, however, were not like the ones I used in the breedery. The breedery's cages were a type designed for slavers to squeeze individual slave girls into as small a space as possible. The cages could also be stacked for easier transport. However, they were designed for slavers working with small volumes. Those, for example, taking a barge a few days downstream or a wagon between settlements.
These were larger cages, six feet on a side. They had become popular after the Event. They were built to be hoisted up from deep-hold, ocean-going ships and lowered onto piers. You could cram more girls into them. They crouched down for transport, pressed shoulder to shoulder, back to back, a common chain running along their collars. You could squeeze in even more if you packed them so tight that they had to take it in turns to sit.
Two brunette slave girls were inside one of the cages. One sat with her back against the bars, staring into space ahead of her. A chain ran between her shackle wrists. Another, between her ankles. She was an unruly kitchen girl the chefs had urged me to get rid of. I thought she just needed a change of scenery...
The second girl stood, her hands gripping the bars. She stared across the room at me, eyes wide, her oval face anxious. I had not fed her the day before. I would not feed this morning, either. She had faked an orgasm. I have no problem with that and encourage my slaves to do so with all the clients. However, this one had not been convincing. Two days without food, I have found in this matter, is sharp and effective discipline.
Chains and cuffs hung from new fittings hammered into the ceiling. There was a whipping post, a St Andrew's cross, and more of those excellent Shemite holding racks.
A dark-skinned Darfuri girl hung from four ceiling chains. Her body formed a "U" shape with her wrists and ankles at the high points. Her shoulder-length hair fell forward, swinging as she fidgeted. She was a petite girl but with large breasts for her build. She looked up at me, her dark eyes intelligent. I had pierced both the nipples and hung the silver chain between them. Once the piercings had healed, I would try her out and decide whether or not to return her to the Meat Chains.
Oil-fired braziers lit the room. In the center, pride of place went to a wooden platform, dancing stage. On it were two blonde dancers. One sat cross-legged, naked but for her collar, a drum made from stretched hide on her lap. She beat out a steady rhythm, nodding her head as she watched the other.
The other blonde was 6-feet tall, her body slender and toned. She wore anklets and a belled chain made from blue, tube-shaped seashells that had been strung together. Some were hung like tassels, jerking as she moved. Her lips had been rouged, and her eyes darkened. Wavy, thick hair danced as she turned and sprang from foot to foot.
Both girls regarded me.
I shook my head.
The drumming became slower. The dancer beat out the new rhythm with her foot before starting again. This time she swayed and squirmed, raising her arms and pushing out her breasts. She went down on her knees and began a slow, snakelike dance. Both girls looked back at me.
I nodded.
Alongside the dancing stage was a space about the size of a boxing ring. It was covered with soft leather pelts, three inches deep. They were sewn together to form large sheets. This was a wrestling pad. On it, a dark-haired Zidonese girl was wrestling with an Armanean brunette. Both girls gleamed with oil as they slipped and squeezed against each other. They grunted, teeth gritted, bodies thumping against the leather. The Zidonese girl managed to get on top of the brunette, squatting over her back. She tried to put the brunette in a headlock, but the brunette managed to push her off. They were well matched. The winner would receive a sip of red wine. The loser would have to go down on the winner. I suspected this motivated the winner more than the wine.
Crawling beside me was Ninga, the beautiful, hamstrung Shemite girl I had rescued from the Sleeping God. I had her on a chain leash. She held the strap of a leather bag between her teeth. It swayed with the weight of its contents. She looked up at me with large, brown eyes.
I took the bag from her mouth.
"Master?"
"Get all these slaves to kneel before the branding table," I removed the leash from her throat. She took a moment to rub her neck with one hand. "They will kneel."
"Yes, Master," she nodded. "Shall I take my place alongside them?"
"No," I pulled the bag's strap over my shoulder. "You will be by my side at the branding table and attend to any instructions."
"Yes, Master," she nodded again and crawled to the wrestling girls.
I went to the breedery to get the others.
Every single one of them.
***
I faced the assembled slave girls.
They knelt in five rows, ten girls in each. All were still, eyes forward. Chins up. Breasts bared, and thighs parted wide. All were collared, of course, but they wore no chains. This was unusual - it is good, especially when dealing with many girls at a time, to keep them leashed or chained. However, the entire point of the unfolding exercise was to show escape was impossible. That and its attempt would be severely punished.
The sense of power I felt standing there, looking at so many naked, kneeling, beautiful slave girls, was overwhelming. Any whose eyes caught mind looked down that instant. They would kneel that way for hours if it suited me. Another time, perhaps.
I looked over them, one by one. Besides the new meat I was trying out, there were also my favorites I had given names to. Belled pet. Kitten. Little Slut. Yarina.
Haley.
The blonde Amazon was every bit as lovely as I remembered her. Time locked away in dark rooms had taken nothing from this. I could not help but admire the long, elegant lines of her legs. The silver cord that had laced up her labia had been removed by Fogrim. The labia protruded. To look at them was to recall the feel of my fingers running back and forth over them. The large, well-shaped breasts heaved as she breathed, rising and falling. My eyes went up the graceful neck to the overall face. The high cheekbones. The long, golden hair down to the small of her back. Those large blue eyes did seek to find mine.
They had given up trying a long time ago.
What would I do with her? Fogrim was right; I could not leave them in limbo anymore. It was a crime to waste such meat! Either I had to sell her to one who would make good use of her, or I would have to start doing so myself.
For the first time, that second part sat well with me. Yes, was I not already treating meat as meat? I had ignored her for over a year and laced her labia! I had moved down here, cramped into a breeding cage.
Yes, it was time to reacquaint myself with this one. She would not be saddened to find I was not the same man she knew. She already knew that.
Her eyes rose for an instant to regard me. I felt a powerful wave of desire: I wanted those staring up at me; helpless, anxious, eager.
I smiled at the change that had come upon me over these years. It was the old Gerard, the hypocrite, who had kept her from me all this time. Now, he had faded away. My prize for opening my eyes where he'd refused to was this beauty!
After the punishing, I would take this one. I will take away her idiotic, 21st-century name the old Gerard had given her. I'd mount her on the cross and break her again, like a new, raw girl. Then, when the time was right, I would breed her. The child I would keep! My own son or daughter. Perhaps that was what I was ready for now, in my life? Would that give me peace? To keep me from this ever-increasing thirst for my own power and gain? One day, they might ask which one was their mother. If I had not sold her then, I would blindfold her and show them.
First, however, it was time for the punishing.
Beside me on the table was Layla. She lay face down, her head turned to the side with her cheek pressed against the wood. She lay in an "X." Her wrists and ankles were held in thick, iron cuffs bolted to the table. Tied between her teeth was a leather bit. I used bits this way; if a girl was going to scream over much, or if she needed something to bite down on, or I just didn't want to hear her babbling.
Layla regarded me, her large, dark eyes as fearful as a dear that looks up and sees you have been watching at it the whole time.
Beside me was a small stone furnace. The air over it shimmered with the heat. Inside, among blazing red coals, were tongs and a ceramic cup.
Lying on the table beside Layla was a whip. This wasn't a soft, wide-flailed, play whip. Neither was it a thick, long, training whip. This one was nine vicious feet of coiled, black leather. I picked it up and felt its unusual weight and toughness: it could have been used to make armor. Glued into place along the last foot of its length were the bone-white points of an armored fish's teeth. This was called a razor whip. It had need seen the awful used - but I had seen the damage it could cause.
I put down the murderous whip. . Arranged on the other side of the slave was a set of polished, basalt blades that a surgeon might use. I had seen such blades used at Aymund, used to hamstring a slave.
Layla turned her head and watched as I picked up one blade, turning it this way and that, studying its edge. It would cut through flesh as easily as a sharpened steak knife.
The slave girl began to tug at her cuffs, again and again. Down beside me, kneeling, Ninga looked down. I did not think she wanted to look at the blades. I stroked her head; I did not want her to relive what had happened to her.
"Layla ran away," I said to my females. All their eyes immediately looked up at mine. "But I recaptured her," I caressed the back of her calf and thigh with my fingers. "She showed how well she had learned from her mistake by attempting to escape again! And now, here she is," I took hold of Layla by her hair and yanked her head back for them to look upon her face. The slave began to tremble.
"This one can never be trusted. The punishment must be permanent. Look and see what happens to her. Know the same will be done to you. If you run away."
I turned to Ninga. "Reach into my bag and pull out what is there."
"Yes, Master," Ninga reached inside the bag. There was a clinking sound, and she pulled out a pair of cuffs. The chain between them was two feet long. She held up the cuffs.
I took them from her and placed them on the table.
"There is more in the bag," I said. "Give me everything, Slave."
Ninga reached back inside and pulled out two leather bands. She raised an eyebrow at them as if wondering what their purpose was.
I regarded the watching slaves. They, too, seemed to be wondering what the leather bands were.
It was then that I noticed a girl I did not recognize.
She was in the second row, a pale, petite brunette. Lovely, coiling tattoos ran up her legs: Dagonite tattoos! They have it done with great care as if by an artist decorating a man's favored harem girl. How had I missed such a beast?
She smiled at me; it was so beautiful it was like the sun coming out! I did not know how she had ended up being sent to the harem, but I was glad for whoever's error had brought her here. I would enjoy this one tonight, as well!
I turned back to the trembling Layla.
The anklet that held her left foot had been fitted higher up, exposing the Achilles tendon. I fitted the leather cuff around her ankle and pulled on the lace till it pressed into her skin. I did the same with her other ankle.
Next, I took the iron cuffs that Ninga had given me. I closed one around the leather that held Layla's left ankle. I could not extend the other cuff to her right foot: her legs had been chained too wide apart. I turned the iron cuff till the lock faced upwards. Its mechanism had locked automatically.
Next, I put on a leather glove, reached for the tongs in the furnace, and lifted them out.
Held in the tongs was a ceramic cup. Inside the cup was a dark, silvery metal: molten Tin. I set the cup down beside Layla on the table. Smoke rose from the wood as it scorched. Layla stared at the cup.
Beside the furnace was a small iron funnel. I picked it up and set its end inside the cuff's lock. The funnel had a small stand to keep it still. I had had it designed just for this.
I poured a few drops of the molten Tin into the funnel. It ran like water into the locking mechanism. I added a second round of drops. When I tried a third round, the Tin remained inside the funnel spout. I poured it back into the cup and removed the funnel slowly.
The locking mechanism was filled with Tin. It was already hardening: it does not take a lot of heat to melt Tin. It is why I picked it over bronze for this task. Once the Tin cooled, I pushed the protective leather cuff out from under the fused shackle and removed it. In this manner, I also fused her other shackle.
Once I was done, I unchained the slave from the table and put her on the ground before me.
Layla lay back, propping herself up on her elbows as she stared down at her feet. She lifted up one small foot, then the other, feeling the weight of the light chain she would wear for the rest of her life.
"Master did not hamstring me?" She looked up, her expression one of amazed surprise.
"You cannot run now, Slave," I said. "You will never run away again."
She looked back down at her ankles. I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes as her new reality sank in.
"Yes, Master," was all she said. She got to her knees, palms pressed down to the floor between them. She threw her hair back and looked up at me, and smiled. It was the smile of an Angel! I felt a surge of desire - and delight at owning this beautiful creature.
"Come," I beckoned with a finger. "Lick my balls, slave. Beg me to spit in your face."
"Yes, Master!" Layla crawled forward. I felt the warmth of her breath between my thighs, and she looked up at me. She flashed that same smile and then stuck her tongue out. Keeping her eyes locked on mine, she ran her tongue back and forth along my testicles. It was like a warm, wet fingertip.
She moved still closer and sat back on her heels, gripping me by my thighs. She closed her eyes as if she were kissing me and pressed her face into my crotch. She opened wide and took both my balls into her mouth. She stroked them, her touch worshipful in a way only the girls imprisoned in the breedery seemed to learn. In her universe, I had become her Alpha and Omega. I was the closest thing she would ever know to a god.
She spat out my balls and rubbed her cheek against them, her eyes still closed.
I reached down and took hold of her by her throat. She opened her eyes and looked up as I forced her head back to face me.
"Beg," I commanded.
"Master, spit in my face! I am your slave; I beg to feel your-"
I spat. She winced as it struck her forehead and cheek.
I pulled her away from me by her hair and pointed to the chaining rings fitted along the wall to my left.
"Yes, Master," she replied.
I let go of her hair. The slave crawled on her hands and knees to the wall to be chained for the night. The chain between her ankles clinked as she went.
I turned to Ninga.
"Lick and beg, Slave."
"Yes, Master!"
She repeated the same ritual as Layla had performed. I did not point her to the wall, though; Ninga, I pointed to the sleeping furs behind me. I would enjoy the taste of her skin tonight, along with Haley's and the mysterious girl with the Dagonite tattoos!
One by one, I called each of the girls to lick me and receive my spit in their faces. It was a good ritual. Every girl got to see every other one being submitted. All were reminded of their value to me - and what that value was. All were reminded of their low status. Slaves began to line against the wall, kneeling in wait for me to come and chain them by their throats.
Soon, it was that turn of the mysterious brunette beauty with the Dagonite tattoos.
As she began to crawl, Haley lowered her arms and rose up on her knees. She was staring at the girl, frowning.
"Haley!" I thundered.
The other slave girls stopped and stared at me, fear in their eyes.
"Back to your stance, Slave!" I bent to my discarded clothes and plucked my whip from my belt.
The girl with the Dagonite tattoos turned and gave Haley a hard stare - and continued crawling towards me.
Haley jumped to her feet. There were gasps from the other slaves at her insolence.
"That girl is not a slave!" she yelled, pointing at the brunette.
"Haley! To the whipping post!" I pointed, my knuckles whitening around the grip of my whip. How dare she undermine my discipline! I would give a 30 lashes for-
The Dagonite girl had got up as well - and was running right towards me.
Haley was faster. She ran at the Dagonite and crashed into her. Both girls went down, snarling. The other slaves cried out in alarm and scrambled away from the two. None got to their feet: there would be enough whipping today!
The two girls wrestled. The Dagonite pulled a hand free and punched Haley in the breast. Haley gasped, then received an elbow in her jaw, hard.
Haley responded by letting go of the Dagonite. Then, holding her jaw, she lashed back. Before the Dagonite could move back, Haley brought up her knee into the girl's belly.
The Dagonite cried out and doubled over. Haley grabbed her again, and the two grunted and squirmed over the floor - right up to my feet.
Haley soon got the upper hand over the smaller made girl. She rolled on top of the Dagonite, got to her knees, and put her hands around the Dagonite's throat.
The sound of my slap rang out in the chamber like a thunderclap. The stubborn girl let go of the Dagonite's throat. Next, I grabbed Haley by her hair and yanked her head back to give her another-
The Dagonite moved fast. Faster than I had ever seen anyone move. She shoved Haley aside with a twist of her hips, reached over to my clothes, and drew my knife from the scabbard.
At that moment, you must understand how stunned I was. Slaves do not draw weapons - they are tortured to death if they do. I stood there, disbelieving my own eyes. It gave the Dagonite girl all the time she needed in the world.
She lunged at my belly with the knife.
Haley shoved herself in front. The knife went deep into her arm. The Dagonite glared at her, eyes wide in disbelief-and rage. Haley didn't even make a cry.
The other slaves, however, began screaming.
Haley, blood pouring down her arm, lunged at the Dagonite and knocked her over. She had the girl pinned, their faces pressed together. Both girls snarled and gritted their teeth, one trying to push the other one off. The knife lay on the floor beside them, gleaming red.
Finding my presence of mind again, I rushed forward to pull them apart. If only I had acted just an instant sooner. How different everything would have been.
Before I could reach them, the Dagonite kissed Haley full on the lips. Haley drew her head back, startled.
The Dagonite smiled.
I grabbed Haley and pulled her away, but she had already let go of the Dagonite. She pushed herself away from me, her legs kicking and giving way under.
"Haley!" I tried to hold her; still, I had to stop the bleeding. I had to-
Haley pressed her hands over her mouth and began to shake. It was a convulsive, spasming shake.
"Haley?"
The Dagonite jumped to her feet, grabbed the bloody knife off the floor, and swiped at me.
This time I was ready for it. I jumped back.
She charged forward, as fearless as a trained soldier. I jumped back again, but she kept coming. I felt a hot flash as she struck my arm.
I stopped, my back coming up against the table. Before I could step aside, the Dagonite raised her knife and snarled in triumph. She stabbed down at my chest.
She went down with a cry, the blade nicking my skin as she fell.
Behind the Dagonite was Ninga, a basalt knife in her hand. Blood gushed from the back of the Dagonite ankle: Ninja had hamstrung her.
The Dagonite tried to turn, but Ninga was upon her, screaming. The Shemite raised the blade in both hands and brought it down, again and again, stabbing the Dagonite girl in the back. Warm blood sprayed. Ninga kept on stabbing and screaming. The Dagonite became still.
I ran to Haley, ignoring the pain in my arm. It was by then, of course, much too late.
The slave girl lay there, her jaw locked open in place, staring at me. She made no sound; her chest did not rise and fall. Her fingers were bent like claws, her back arched. I felt a sick feeling from the bottom of my stomach. Then, instant denial.
Looking back on that day, I could never unsee her eyes. How she had died in terror. Died looking up at me for help.
It wasn't just the slaves, then, who were screaming.
***
It wasn't just a slave I had lost that day. I had lost a woman that, in whatever twisted way, I had loved. It was why I had never been able to bring her down to the level of degraded, conditioned slave meat as I had my other girls. What were those to me, but pretty toys?
Too weak to crush her or even to set her free, I hadn't done right by her. What then was I felt for her, worth? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I'd hidden her away like an embarrassment. Yet, it was not her who was embarrassing, but me. I fancied myself a Hyperborean, ha! I wasn't the new Gerard Stone. I was the old one, doing what I did best: lying and being a hypocrite. I would always be that same pathetic creature. Not all the gold and slaves on Hyperborea would change that.
Grief, depression, and self-loathing would have taken me - but revenge saved me. An assassin slave! Striking within my own harem? A Dagonite assassin slave.
It was time to kill Caral, the Fish Merchant.