"The girls are ready." Said Juskar. "Will you taste them?"
The Second Floor of the Master’s Inn was a large, open space.
At its center was a small bar counter. My men sat there, each nursing the one kumis they were allowed on duty. Once I was gone, their kumis would somehow become refilled, frothing over the edges of their mugs... Behind the counter were several amphorae of wine and a large cask of kumis. On a set of shelves beside the cask were whips, hooks, and neat piles of shackles.
All around the bar, and across the whole Second Floor, were men fucking slave girls.
Sex is a strange thing for a Hyperborean woman. Her culture teaches her to indulge in it in private. For the Hyperborean men, however, it is the exact opposite. For them, sex in public was just like eating in public. They thought nothing of it, but a private space was considered VIP treatment. They respected the wishes of a free woman even as they reveled in the discomfort of displaying their slave women, as they used them, to bystanders.
It was this sensibility that the Second Floor played to. It was an orgy space. There were no walls or dividers. The space was only broken by support pillars and a stairway leading upwards. The floor of this large, open-plan space was covered in big cushions, low tables, and lower couches.
Serving girls went back and forth between the tables and the bar. Their only garment was a rap of red, see-through silk tied in a knot just over the right hip. The wrap did not extend lower than halfway down their thighs. Their cheeks were rouged. Their eyes darklined. A tall, Shemite girl rushed past me, her long, dark hair swishing as she went. She wore a coronet of red string hung with copper coins. They flashed as she rushed, a skewer of grilled meat held with both hands. She knelt in front of a tall, naked, Darfuri man lying back on a cushion. She knelt with her thighs apart, buttocks pressed against the soles of her bare feet. She looked down at the floor, holding the skewer out to him. He did not take it. She looked up slowly, staring at the man. He smiled and beckoned for her to come closer.
Chains were stacked in neat coils on each table. Iron anchor rings had been bolted to floorboards at 6 foot intervals. A naked Armanean man sat on a table. A blonde girl with long, curling hair straddled him, her arms around his neck. She looked down at his hands as he chained her ankle and fastened it to an anchor ring. Once he was done, she felt underneath herself and guided his penis into her. She started to bounce, her hair tossing.
Two girls sat on a reed mat. A brunette sitting cross-legged, and a blonde behind her, pouring oil from a flask into her her hand. She began rubbing it up and down the brunette’s back.
A naked man crept up behind the blonde.
Unaware, the blonde moved to oil the brunette’s arms.
The man snaked his arm around the blonde’s throat, putting her in a headlock. She cried out and dropped the flask, oil spilling on the floorboards. The brunette turned and stared, one hand going to her chest.
The man laughed and dragged the blonde away, her hands tugging at his arm. He stopped at a couch. In front of it, two chains had been fixed to an anchor ring.
Still securing the blonde, he attached one chain to her collar. Only then did he release her. The girl got down on her hands and knees, one hand going to her throat, panting. She then cried out; her head shoved down, cheek pressed against the floorboards.
Still holding down the blonde, the man looked over to the brunette.
She looked down, then up again to see if he was still looking at her.
His eyes spoke a language every slave girl finds she understands.
As if of its own accord, her body turned, and she began crawling to him, her head down. Reaching him, she crouched at his feet, putting her forehead against the floorboards.
He took the second chain and fastened it to her collar. Then, taking both girls by their hair, he forced them to rise up their knees. He looked back and forth between them as if deciding. Then, he licked the blonde’s face and forced the brunette’s head down to his crotch.
She opened her mouth and took in his cock. It was not done with either reluctance or excitement. It was done with absolute meekness. I smiled, and my cock hardened; seeing her abject submission was a pleasure all of its own.
"There they are," said Juskar, pointing.
Across the room at the far end, near the stairs, with three remarkable, Shemite devices.
Imagine a wooden trestle stand. See the two "A" frames joined by a horizontal, wooden beam running across their tops. Now, mount three little chains along that beam. One at each corner, and one hanging from the center. Above each, a nail has been hammered halfway in, then bent upwards to form a hook. At the bottom of the “A” stands are more hooks and chains.
Now, consider how it is used. First, you must put cuffs on your slave’s wrists and ankles. Then, kneel her under the device’s horizontal beam. If she recognizes it, you will need a whip.
Once you have her kneeling under the beam, take the chain that hangs from its center. Push it through her collar. Lift it back up and fasten its end over the nail, making a closed-loop. Now, she can only move her neck a few inches before the loop goes taut.
Then, take her wrists, and fasten them in the same way, using the other two chains. When you are done, her wrists will hang suspended, parallel with her head as she glare at you.
At your leisure, secure her cuffed ankles to the bottom chains. She will not be able to move her legs except to open and close her thighs.
There is nothing that cannot be done with her now.
This device was called a holding rack. It was a Shemite slave-handling tool that had become more popular with the mixing of peoples and ideas the Event had brought about. The Shemites are a sadistic people. I do not say that as a judgment or criticism; sadism is the joy that comes from using one's power over another, to torment. To us, such pleasure - like the keeping of beautiful, young women as sex slaves - is taboo. Yet, to the 10,000 plus year-old Shemite culture, it was just another form of pleasure. They had explored, advanced, and perfected it.
We made our way towards the holding racks.
I stepped past a man on top of a girl with Eurasian features. She was on her back, her knees pressed against her breasts, her calves resting over the man's shoulders. She cried out as he thrust into her, again and again. She was yoked: her collar was chained to an iron bar behind her neck that was parallel with her shoulders. It ended in two manacles; they held her wrists.
Again and again, there was the sound of a whip striking flesh and a girl crying out. I looked: a Darfuri girl was hanging with her wrists chained to a ceiling hook, her legs kicking as she swung back and forth. Her back and her legs were red with whip marks. Standing behind her was a Shemite man. His stance seemed relaxed, almost meditative. He held a three flailed whip. He took his time, studying the girl’s body, aiming. Kneeling at his feet was an Armanean brunette. With cuffed wrists, she reached up and fondled his balls. Her legs and back glowed red from whip marks.
We reached the racks. They held three girls. Two I knew, one of them quite well... The third was a slim, small-made girl with a sack over her head. She was a mystery to me.
I went to the first girl.
"Belled Pet?"
"Master!" She looked up at me, smiling, straining at her chains. Red beads had been woven into her dirty blonde hair. On her throat, five, thin, black strokes had been painted - her throat price, the fee to use her, had risen to five bronze. There were lines painted on her belly - she had no belly price. She was not for sale anymore. She was the first of the three racked girls. I stroked her cheek.
"What's she doing here?"
"Luck of the draw, Lightning Shield," said the attendant slaver. He was a tall, dark-haired man, One of Juskar’s crew. "She threw up yesterday morning. She was going to be mismated, but I brought here, instead."
I looked down at the eighteen-year-old slave girl. She looked up. Her expression seemed uncertain.
"When will she be mismated?"
"This is her second day on the milk root," said the slaver. "It needs a week to take proper effect. Is that alright?"
"Yes. Mismate her in a week, then."
“Very good. She will be fruitful for a year.”
You could mismate a slave up to the end of her twelfth week, at no risk. Beyond that, it became dangerous.
The second racked slave was a tall, dark-skinned Amazon. Her black hair had been pulled back and forced through a gold tube at the back of her head to make a ponytail. It bared her long neck. A golden ring - like one a cow would wear - had been fitted to her nose. She had been staring at me the whole time, her eyes like boring drills.
"She is your Mazgar bitch!" Said Juskar, crouched down in front of her. He did not get too close - she had bitten him once. His expression was one of both surprise and glee.
“Say hello to the master, Kitten,” I said.
Kitten was a Mazgar, a brutal and powerful tribe to the east of Darfur. She had been a gift from a Mazgar agent, one of several peasant girls he had abducted before infiltrating into Darfur, to use as his cover as a slave trader.
Kitten glared at Juskar and snarled, baring her teeth.
Juskar grinned and flicked her nose ring.
She bit the air where his finger had just been.
He flicked her nose ring a second time.
"I thought you were going to break her?” his eyes ran up and down her body. They rested on the large, chocolate-toned breasts. The nipples were dark. “She is untamed!”
"She’s tame - just not broken,” I replied. “I decided not to break her.”
“Why ever not?”
“She’d be just another girl licking my balls for a pat on the head. I like her better this way. Cursing. Fuming. Half-tamed.”
She looked up and gave me a look that promised murder. Not today, not tomorrow. But one day.
"And what is a ‘half-tamed’ barbarian woman like?"
"I'll show you," I began unbuckling my belt.
Kitten's eyes went to my crotch, and she turned her head away.
I snapped my fingers.
She kept her head turned away.
I became aware of others watching us, patrons and slaves alike.
I snapped my fingers again, right in her face.
She turned her and opened her mouth. There were murmurs and gasps as I slipped my cock into her mouth. Kitten began to rock her head back and forth. She did not make eye contact.
I let her do ten strokes before pulling out. Then, I refastened my belt.
"That’s what a half-tamed girl is like," I stroked her face.
She glared at me.
I smiled.
Her eyes narrowed into slits.
"The question must be asked," Juskar peered at her like a healer trying to decide if she was a great medicine or a greater poison. "Why do you still have your cock?"
"Because Kitten is a slave,” I stroked her hair, letting it run through my fingers. “A slave chooses life, no? She obeys me - more or less."
"You are a very strange man, Gerard. So bred her?"
"No, Fogrim did. The man is an animal. He has bred half my damn harem and drunk all my wine. I put her on the milk root for two days. Then, I mismated her."
"She will not be in milk long, then," said the slaver attendant. "Two, maybe three weeks."
"That’s fine. As long as I can milk her today, that's enough for this test."
***
Get some milk, full-cream if you can find it. Either way, you are going to have to add cream to it. Use the real stuff! No whip cream from a can, garbage. Next, add some sugar. Don't hold back; it needs to be a large amount. Mix it well, heat it to body temperature, and then drink it.
That is what human breast milk takes like.
Milk from a slave girl has more fat and twice the sugar as milk from a cow. Hyperboreans use it as a sweetener, pouring it over fruits and cakes. They preserved it by turning it into either cheese or alcohol. The alcohol was made like Central Asian ‘kumis,’ bagged with a few drops of live starter culture, and churned.
Key to dairy slavery was a yellow herb that grows near stagnant pools, even in the darkened skies of the Event. Every Hyperborean knows it - and a good many have been held down and forced to eat it... It has many names, the most common of which is ‘milk root.’
Give milk root to a pregnant girl, and in a day, she’ll produce milk. The effect can last for months. Between milk root, mismating drugs, and a man’s own fertility, a Hyperborean master can keep his girls ‘in milk.’ This is not an extravagance - cows are rare here. Cows belong in a word of large, open grasslands. The dominance of grass would not be for another 245 million years.
This, then, was what we were testing today. How much more enjoyable would it make my girls if the patrons could milk them?
***
I started with Belled Pet, getting down in front of her on one knee, cupping her cheek with my hand. Her skin flushed and became warm to the touch.
"She is in good spirits."
Belled Pet giggled.
"She has bloomed like a spring flower," said Juskar. "She had seven men yesterday. Seven. She knew she hit her quota. Then, she tried to please the slaver who shackled her for the night. Just to get some cheese he had in his pocket."
Belled Pet giggled again and smiled at me.
“Did she get the cheese?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Bloomed indeed, it warmed me to see this. Her shamelessness was a good sign. It is hard for a slave girl to hold onto shame, especially when she was encouraged so much to lose it.
“How did you get the cheese, Slave?” I asked.
“I drank his piss, Master,” she said with pride. “Right from his cock!”
“And the other girls around you watched?”
She took a moment, looking up in recollection.
“Yes, Master. I think so.”
“Did you share the cheese with them?”
She lost her smile and pouted.
“No, Master.”
“But they saw you eating it? They smelled it?”
She made an evil smile.
“Yes, Master!”
It was the best outcome. She had normed the other chattel by showing what they could have - and what it would take.
"There is a man now working for me,” I rand my finger across her lips, “who says he is your father."
Belled Pet leaned forward, the chain at her collar going taut. She lost her smile, and her eyes grew wide.
"My father, Master?"
"That is what he says. He wishes to buy you. I have set him a term of service. If at its end, the man still wants you, you are his to do with as he pleases."
Her jaw dropped.
"By Azathoth! Thank you, Master!" She forgot she was no longer permitted her old faith. "How is my father?"
"The man who claims that he is, is well," I said, picking my words with care.
"And my brother?"
I knew of her brother. However, I had no reason to discuss him with a slave.
"Slaves don’t have brothers. They have masters."
She lowered her head.
“Here,” the slaver handed me a small clay bowl.
I took hold of Belled Pet’s left breast. Her skin was soft and warm to the touch, almost hot. The well-rounded globe filled my fingers. I ran my thumb across the brown aureole. It was just a tone darker than the rest of her body. The nipple was hard.
I spread my thumb and fingers to take in as much of her breast as I could. Then, I gave it a small twist, like I was turning the dial on a safe. I did it again, this time pressing with my fingers.
Belled Pet squealed as milk formed on her nipple. I set the clay cup against her. The milk trickled down her breast and ran into the cup. Juskar and the slaver looked pleased. I twist-squeezed again, pressing a little harder. More milk squeezed out, bubbles forming on the nipple. Bell Pet stared down, fascinated at what was happening.
When the cup was half-filled, I let go of her breast and wiped my hand on her belly. She strained at her cuffs, trying to peer into the cup.
“Silly girl,” I dipped my finger into the cup. The milk was warm - I swirled it around. “Want a taste?”
She nodded.
I stuck my finger in her mouth.
Her eyes flew wide open. I felt her tongue squeezing around my finger, and she sucked it hard. I pulled it out, feeling the resistance.
“Can I have more, Master?” her eyes were pleading.
“No,” I kissed her forehead. “As long as you are in milk, you will be either racked or yoked so you cannot milk yourself.”
She looked crestfallen. Her own milk was perhaps the nicest thing she’d tasted since the Event. Dairy slaves are always trying to drink themselves…
I put the cup to my lips and tasted Belled Pet.
“Mmm!”
“She is good?” asked Juskar.
“Yes,” I handed him the warm cup. “Very sweet. There is an aftertaste of almonds.”
Juskar took a sip and nodded, licking his lips. He handed it to the slaver. The man took a taste, sloshing the milk in his mouth like a wine taster.
“She is alright.” he poured the milk into a spitoon.
“Take no notice of him,” I stroked Belled Pet’s head. “Let’s try Kitten.”
Kitten fidgeted, her arms straining at her cuffs. She gave me an uneasy look and turned away. Kitten’s breasts were not as large as Belled Pet’s. However, these seemed fuller, rounder than I knew them.
“This one is full,” said the slaver.
I cupped Kitten’s left breast. It was heavier than normal. She curled her toes and her body tensed.
“She will spray,” he added.
“Bullshit!”
“See for yourself,” he smiled.
Kitten stared at me as I held gripped her breast and pressed the cup to it. I gave a little twist - milk streamed from her nipple into the cup.
“Damn!” I squirted her again.
“One day,” Kitten bared her teeth and shook her head. “One day, I will escape. I will not run. I will get a knife and come back for you.”
“There is a knife on the bedroom table, Slave,” I made another jet. I turned to the slaver. “Why is this one spraying?”
“There is a lot of milk in her,” he replied. “In the mornings, dairy slaves are at their fullest. That is when it is most likely that they will spray when milked. That she is full in the evening is a good sign.”
“Why is she not dripping, then? Don’t girls drip when they are full?” I replied.
“You must first condition the slave. Milking her in the same stall or shed, at the same time, every day. Then, her body becomes used to it. In the morning, even as the girls are being yoked, the full ones are dripping. This one will be no different.”
There was another way. I had seen it with my breeding slaves after they had pupped.
On the other side of the racks, a tall Shemite girl lay on her side. Her wrists and ankles were in shackles. The girl’s skin was flushed, her body sheened with sweat, and the long hair had fallen over her face. She had a small smile - she’d just been used and with some energy.
“Come, Slave,” I beckoned to her.
The Shemite got to her hands and knees and crawled to me, as best as her shackles allowed.
“Please her,” I pointed between Kitten’s thighs. I stood, the half-filled cup in hand.
The Shemite got on her back, pushed her head under Kitten’s buttocks, and began to lick the barbarian girl’s labia. She targeted the G-spot.
I tasted Kitten. Her milk was creamier than Belled Pet’s. It had a salty note to it though: Kitten had been exercised too vigorously. Salt and lactic acid had entered the milk. This in no way made unpleasant. However, it did spoil our test; her milk was outside its baseline.
“I could drink her all day,” said Juskar after a sip. He took a second sip.
Kitten tugged at her wrist cuffs. She rolled her eyes and then shut them tight.
“A shame the milk is salted,” said the slaver after he sampled her. He finished the cup. “Was she used?”
“I think so. My houseguest is an animal.”
Kitten moaned. Beads of milk began forming on her nipples. They grew into drops. One trickled down her right breast just as she moaned again.
It is the release of oxytocin that triggers the milk-producing lobes in a woman’s breasts to eject milk. Sex also released oxytocin. It was a pleasant if messy side effect I had learning with my breeding slaves.
“She is leaking like a fisherman’s net!” said Juskar. “It is pleasant to look upon.”
It was. We stood there a moment, watching the lovely Kitten, racked and naked, dripping milk as another slave moved her towards orgasm.
“Will you allow the orgasm?” asked Juskar.
“No.”
“You should consider it,” said the slaver. “Her body can be trained. In the morning, do not milk her. Instead, get between her legs. When she orgasms, she will spray. Make her body used to this, and she will start spraying almost as soon as you begin using her.”
I could not think of a more degrading experience.
I was delighted.
“You dairymen are sick!”
He smiled.
I let the Shemite girl continue and turned the third and final girl.
There was something familiar about this one. Her skin was as white as fresh-cut stone. She was small made, the muscles toned but delicate. I admired the defined ankles, the wide buttocks, her small but perky and well-formed breasts. There were three small, black markings painted on her belly - she was for sale for three gold. The girl was still, hanging her cloth-bagged head.
“Why is this one’s head covered?” I asked.
“She is mine," said Juskar, folding his arms. He seemed put out for some reason. "I would not have her stimulated. She is - disappointing."
"What's wrong with her?"
"Nothing. But I do not know what to do with her."
I took hold of the hood and pulled it off the girl’s head.
Juskar's Irish girl looked up at me, blinking in the sudden light. Red hair fell over her face, tousled by the bag. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. She made the shyest smile and looked down.
"You don't know what to do? Fuck her little brains out!"
Juskar raised an eyebrow; the phrase did not translate well into Low Hyperborean. To be fair, it didn’t mean much in English, either.
"I don’t want a flower, Gerard. That's what this one is. I am worried I will break her.”
Juskar was a strong man and had quite rough sex, even by Hyperborean standards.
“She is lovely - that is why I made poor choice. I should have taken a taller girl, a stronger one. One good for breeding or taking the yoke. Like your Haley."
The name cast a shadow over me.
I shoved it away.
“This one," he gestured to the Irish girl. "I cannot find the words."
"Delicate. This one is delicate.”
I got down on one knee before her.
She looked up at me, her light blue eyes looking deep into mine.
Delicate. I pressed my hands to her belly. Her skin was warm, soft. I ran my thumbs up and down, feeling the depression around her navel. I let my hands travel, and they gripped her sides. Her waist was tiny!
One hand snaked down, running behind her thigh. I squeezed and assessed the muscle there. Onto the smooth calf and then the white, tiny ankles. I stroked the tips of her toes, and she curled them.
Next, I cupped her cheeks with both hands. Her hair was a dark red, almost brown. It brushed against my fingers soft, thick. It ended between her shoulder blades. I imagined it grown out a bit longer, to Hyperborean tastes. To my tastes.
"Cup," I said, my eyes not leaving hers.
Juskar handed me the cup.
I grasped her breast, my fingers gliding on its clear skin. I spread my thumb and fingers wide apart to take in as much of it as I could. I squeezed and did a twist. A second. A third.
Milk began dripping from the pink nipple. I milked her till the cup was filled halfway. Bubbles frothed at its surface. I sat cross-legged, holding it in both hands, feeling the warmth seeping through the cup.
I put it to my lips and tasted her.
The richness hit me like I was biting into a fresh orange. My salivary glands ached. I let the warm, creamy liquid run to the back of my tongue and then forward back again. My mouth filled with sweetness: it was like warm, melted ice cream.
"Holy shit."
"Woah!" Juskar grinned. "Was it that good?"
"I have a black-haired girl from the same group as this one. Tall. Strong. You know the one?"
"God's yes, such a fine piece of meat," there was a hint of regret in his voice.
"Give me this one," I stared at the girl, my eyes drilling into hers. "And you can have that one."
Juskar brightened. "It is done!"
The Irish girl's eyes widened and she looked between the two of us, eyes darting back and forth. It was the same look of disbelief and surprise any girl makes when she finds she has been sold unexpectedly.
I cupped my hand under her jaw, and she looked up at me.
"You are mine," I said.
I undid the chain loops that held her ankles. Then, her wrists. Her throat. Next, I threw her over my shoulder. Her side pressed against my cheek, her pale legs were still. Small hands clutched my back.
I licked her thigh, turned, and headed for the stairs leading up.
“By Yog, what did she taste like?” I heard the dairyman say behind me. “He drank it all!”