Day 1: Dusk, Darfuri Militia Camp
“There is nothing more to say upon this madness! We will not aid Mazgar barbarians!”
The last of the sun was sliding below the horizon. The white desert sands had turned red and were dimming. Corpse white flowers began opening among thickets of tangled, thorned, desert bushes. Moths large as dinner plates flitted about them, drinking nectar too precious to expose to the daylight sun. Soon, large bats would be rise from hilltop caves to hunt them.
Too preoccupied to enjoy the desert’s beauty was the Darfuri warband. All had gathered at the camp’s center. A leather aproned horseman held a pair of tongs, the glowing hot, iron horseshoe held in them, quite forgotten. A man with a whip stood frowning at the edge of the group, hands on his hips. Tied naked to a post by the slave carts, red lash marks on her back and legs, a tall, brunette girl looked back over her shoulder at him: her face seemed a mix of surprise, relief, and a dash of outrage.
“How can you even ask such a thing?” went on the speaker. He was a man built like an ogre, with a black, curling beard. “We should instead ally with the cultists, to kill the invading scum!”
Many men murmured their assent.
“No!” Fogrim thundered back. “Have you so quickly forgotten what is at stake?”
“It is not a matter of stakes, but of blood! Ours, or the foreigners! The cultists are at least Darfuri!” Black Beard shot back, his eyes narrowing into slits. “I will not take up arms against them in order to aid our people’s greatest foe!”
“Sondar, you are - as ever - a witless fool!” Fogrim’s hands curled into fists. “You were more than happy to spill their blood but minutes ago, and you forget that the Mi-Go are our greatest foe! They are the true invader! They would see all this land as grey as their wastes. You speak of blood and foreigners? If they win, Darfur will be peopled only by their purple-eyed, slave race!”
“This is not a matter,” said Gorol the Yoggite priest, raising his hands for calm, “to be decided in haste. Let us-”
“But it is, Gorol,” said Fogrim. “There are but ten days to the Arrival. Ten days before the Mi-Go themselves march from Aymund. Would you bring back the war our grandfathers fought, upon our homes again? Would you insult those whose graves we make offerings at, by digging them up to make room for more heat-blackened bones? We must aid the Mazgar and strike at once, or all will be lost. Understand this, all of you!”
The brunette at the whipping post, her wrists chained to its binding ring mounted over her head, noticed my gaze. She looked down: but then also turned a bit to the side to better exhibit her breasts for me. Such is the typical, mixed behavior of a slave girl. They were nice breasts - B cup sized, perky, with brown aureoles. She brought up her knee, and scratched a long leg against the post. She checked again to see that I was still looking, saw that I was, and quickly looked down and pretended to examine the post.
“Slut,” I said under my breath. I did not say it as an insult.
Slaves often flirt as a survival mechanism. Winners of a man’s sexual attention are better fed and quartered. The rest end up with scraps, and are set to more onerous or dangerous work. Once you own three or four slave girls, the competition to please you starts to really come into play.
“I will not hear more treasonous talk from you, Fogrim,” Sondar shook his fist, “or brook any treasonous act to pass! By Yog, Set, and Cthulhu, I will ride to the fortress this very moment and warn them of coming battle!” he turned and began walking away.
Fogrim drew a javelin from his quiver.
“No!” Gorol rushed towards him. “No!”
Sondar turned and looked back just as the javelin struck him in the throat. He was jerked off his feet and pinned to the ground. Men gasped as his blood sprayed those closest. Sondar stared at the sky as he died.
All eyes fell on Fogrim.
“You should not have done that,” Gorol’s voice quivered. “You have killed your own brother!”
Others murmured; I saw hands going to weapons. I stopped day-dreaming about the brunette and drew my sword.
“No!” Gorol cried. “You dogs will stay your hands, you most of all!” he jabbed his finger at Fogrim. “You will pay a great penalty in gold to Sondar’s people. Should they find it wanting and seek recompense in your blood instead, let no man raise his hand to your aid!”
“I will pay Sondar’s people,” said Fogrim quietly, “but all that clan would be dead, had I let him leave here. I have said my piece: you all may ignore it as you wish. Your actions be on your heads - but know they will not be on yours alone. Should any seek to warm the cultists and Purple-Eyes, I will strike you down where you stand. If you would leave to bring word to the nearest legion that a Mazgar army is here, then I bid you leave this band, but best you sprout wings and take to the sky, rather than the saddle. And, if you stay, then you will come with me this very night to fall upon the cultist’s lookout post, that the Mazgar army may strike, unnoticed.”
There was murmuring back and forth between the men. Then, in twos and threes, they began to leave. The collected their horses and set their slaves to packing up their tents. I counted over half our number.
The priest Gorol and his Yoggite zealots, remained. Fogrim stared at him.
“Do not be so surprised,” said Gorol. “We have come to slay heathens. I will not worship alongside one of those stinking Mazgar barbarians but they too, would see glory to the Great and Hungry One. We will fight alongside them.”
“Thank you, Brother,” said Fogrim. “Prepare your men for war. We leave upon the hour.”
“To arms, Brothers!” Gorol turned and yelled.
His men cheered, then rushed to their gather their weapons.
“Gerard,” Fogrim came up to me, “Are you ready?”
“Yes. And again, I think you should take the extra water skin. We’re in a desert.”
“Attend your slave girls,” he removed his quiver and began checking his javelins, “They have been days now with strange men.”
“You think that’s the best use of my time right now?”
“You are already prepared,” he studied the point of an iron javelin head. “And mismating spice must be given soon, or it will not take. If the battle is prolonged, it may be too late to do so, afterwards. Bred slaves travel very poorly, Gerard. Mismate them now, or they may perish in the journey away from here.”
The last thing I wanted was one of my slave girls dying because another man fancied his cock in her one evening. I nodded, and left towards the slave carts.
The brunette at the whipping post saw me approaching and her eyes widened.
***
“Is it ready yet?” I asked.
“Almost, Master,” Haley followed after me, crushing herbs in a wooden bowl with a spoon. “I think there will be too much!”
The departing warriors had left one slave cart - a wagon topped with a large cage made from iron bars. Packed almost shoulder to shoulder inside, were the slave girls that Gorol’s zealots had brought. The quickly kneeled in my presence.
Most wore thick collars of bronze or iron, the sort any village blacksmith would stamp out. These girls were branded: on the thigh, behind the calf, or on the spine just above the buttocks. Some of the brands were quite carefully and artfully done.
The rest though did not wear metal collars. Instead, their collars were polished, hollow bones strung through black cords. Instead of brands they had thighs tattoos of a black circle filled with fangs - the mark of Yog.
I reached through the bars and grabbed one such, a brunette, by her bone collar. I pulled her to me; she gripped the bars as her face was pressed between them.
“One of you is missing. Gorol’s girl,” I said. “The lovely one with skin like chocolate?” I could not, of course, remember her name. It was the one he had had with him that night I’d spoken with him, outside his tent.
“Jokolat, Master?” the brunette seemed confused.
“Chestnut. With skin the color of a chestnut.” I tried again.
“Tazna, Master,” the brunette replied, nodding and smiling. “Tazna was blessed! Master Gorol gave her to the Great Eater. Would that we follow her, soon!”
Such a horrible and pointless death, was what I thought.
“Such a waste of good meat,” was what I said.
I released the girl. She drew back, kneeling, soothing her throat with her hands.
“It is ready, Master,” said Haley. The blonde Amazon held up the wooden bowl of green-brown paste she had been stirring. It smelled like cinnamon mixed with particularly rancid milk - the sign of an imbalanced mix.
“You’ve made way too much,” I frowned. “And it reeks, even for mismating spice!”
“I’m sorry, Master,” she looked down. “Shall I stand at the whipping post and await discipline?”
The brunette at the whipping post, quite forgotten by her punisher, stood just eight feet from me. She was delicious - tall, elegant, with hazel, smoky eyes. Her hair fell just past her shoulders. She kept still, feet planted apart in an inverted ‘v’ stance, and stared ahead, trying not to be noticed. She seemed to regret her earlier flirtations.
“No, it’ll do the job. And, there isn’t time to whip you,” I said, opening the slave cart’s hatch. It’s metal door swung open, over a wooden plank extending to the dirt. “Ashtala and Ina, come down.”
Squeezing their way through the press of naked girls, came my women. Dark-skinned Ashtala came first, the long-limbed beauty crawling down the plank on her hands and knees. Her body gleamed with a sheen of sweat. Someone had bunched her long, glossy hair and shoved it through a bronze ring. It was a nice effect and showed off her neck.
“Greetings, Master!” she said, smiling. She was on all fours in the dirt, staring up at me.
I motioned to my boot. She lowered her head and kissed it.
“Remain on your hands and knees, Slave.”
“Yes, Master.”
Next, Ina appeared - formerly the Yarth-Tanophk priestess, Galena.
“Master!” she cried out, rising up on her knees. Her purple eyes were wide, her long, fire-red hair fell loose. Such a magnificent mane! I would grow it further still. Fitted about her waist - and up between her legs - was a contraption of iron and hard leather.
“What is that?!”
“Master Gorol fitted me with it,” she glared down at it and gave it a futile tug. “I cannot remove it! That is the key, over there,” she pointed to some pegs fitted behind the whipping post. Rings of collar keys hung from them. One bronze key was on its own ring. “It is the bronze one, Master!”
I went to the whipping post to get the chastity belt’s key.
The brunette at the whipping post looked down as I plucked the key from the peg. I noticed a smoky, hazel eye peeking at me. Her breasts heaved gently as she breathed. About her throat was a dull bronze collar, half-greened with patina. She wore anklets of the same, aged metal. I wondered how many slaves had worn them before. Was she bred to slavery? In the distant highlands Gorol’s men came from, a girl born of a slave, was also a slave - and there no longer any free women, at all. Perhaps her mother or grandmother had worn them.
I left the nervous brunette and returned to my girls.
Belted-Ina made her (awkward) way down the plank and lined up on her hands and knees beside Ashtala. Ina threw her hair back and gave me a huge smile as I fitted the key into the lock. It took a few tries but at last, I opened the chastity belt.
“Thank you, Master!” She closed her eyes and sighed, “I have worn that for days without end!”
“Your life is so hard,” Haley replied with slitted eyes. “Left in a cage with a belt so no man would touch you.”
Ina gave her a quick, sour glare.
Haley smiled back - a cold, cruel smile.
Gorol had provided an excellent solution. No man could sport with her -- had she been bred, the xenophobic Darfuri would have culled her. He had, as I had asked, protected my property.
“Be thankful that he did this,” I said to her.
“Master,” asked Haley, “will she not be mismated, then?”
“No,” I replied, looking at all the other girls caged in the slave cart.
“You,” I called out to them, “how many of you girls have been used by the men? Show your hands.”
All the girls wearing bronze and iron collars raised their hands.
“How unsurprising. Has anyone thought to mismate you, though?”
They shook their heads.
“Start with them,” I said to Haley. “One spoonful each. Make them show you that they swallowed.”
“Yes, Master.”
Haley went to the wagon and started spooning out the foul-smelling, green-brown paste. Only a few slaves though pressed their faces to the bars. They winced and groaned as they swallowed the spice, then showed their open mouths, just as they would when proving they’d swallowed a man’s semen. One wiped a smear from her lips and rubbed it against a cage bar, lips curled in revulsion.
I glared at her.
She looked down, closed her eyes tight, and licked it off the bar and shuddered.
“Come forward and receive the spice!” I ordered. “I know it tastes and smells foul, but would you rather find you have been bred? If you carry a child, both of you will die on the way back. Your masters will not care - they will just skin you, and feed you to the others. They may not even wait till you are dead to do it.”
At this, all the other metal-collared slaves pushed past the bone collared girls, pressing themselves against the bars.
While Haley mismated them, one by one, I examined Ina.
I moved her silky hair aside and studied her back. Her shoulder blades shifted as she fidgeted, I marveled at how completely unblemished and pale her skin was. I ran my hand down her spine - her skin was soft, cool to the touch. She giggled and clenched her toes.
“It is good to feel your hands, Master.”
“It is good to feel your back.”
I lifted up her arms and checked them one at a time - no scratches or cuts. I moved down to her toned thighs - no signs of rough loveplay, but there were faded bruises. They were on her buttocks as well.
“What happened here?” I squeezed one of her buttocks - it was meaty, cool, delightful in my hand. It would be nice to stroke it idly, while lying in bed.
“I was whipped, Master!” she arched her back downwards and raised her buttocks up at me.
“Why were you whipped?”
“I dropped a jar of water, Master!”
I slipped my fingers between her legs, mostly from force of habit. She moaned and licked her lips as I stroked her smooth pussy. Her labia were already wet.
“Will Master use me before he leaves?” her lips were parted.
I could be quick. Yes, quick was fine.
“Go,” I pointed to a large, wooden chest beside the slave cart, “Bend over it, spread your legs, and await me.”
She squealed in delight, jumped up, and ran to the chest. She bent over it, propping herself with her arms like a sphinx, and planted her pale, long legs wide apart. She looked back at me over her shoulder, her purple eyes shining. So fine and eager! I was glad I had turned her into a pet.
I went to Ashtala.
“Did men sport with you, Slave?”
“No, Master,” she said after the smallest of pauses.
Why the pause?
I squatted behind the girl to examine her. I checked one arm - there were scratches along the bicep. They were also on the other arm.
“What happened here, then?”
“I fought with another slave, Master.”
“Oh? Can you point her out to me?”
Another pause.
“She was given to Yog, Master.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Master.”
“She lies, Master!” Ina called out. “The slut was well-used! She swallowed cocks most hungrily!”
Ashtala’s gave Ina a murderous glare.
“Be silent, Slave. You do not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Ina’s reply was meek.
I was quite pleased though I hid it: I wanted my slaves at each other’s throats and competing for my favor. It is how I would control - and grow - my harem.
I examined Ashtala’s back and thighs. There were more scratches and some bruises but not those caused by a whipping. No, something quite different had been done with her.
“But, you were not whipped?”
“No, Master,” she stared straight ahead.
I ran my hand down her spine -- she was tense, rigid.
“So Ina drops a jar and is beaten severely, but you get into a fight with a consecrated sacrificial slave, and were not punished?”
Another pause.
“No, Master.”
“It is done, Master,” said Haley, comind up to me. “All the slaves have been mismated.”
“Except her,” I gripped Ashtala by the ankle. “Come, mismate her.”
“No men have used me!” she tried to pull her leg free - I clenched it tight.
“Then it doesn’t matter, does it, Slave?”
“Master, please no!” she turned and looked back, tears in her eyes.
“Tell me now,” I grabbed the little liar by her collar and yanked her around right around to face me, “or I will cut your leg tendons and gift you to the Mazgar!”
She stared up at me, eyes filled with fear. My knuckles around her collar dug into her neck.
“I-I have had sickness in the mornings, Master,” her voice quivered. “And I have not bled!”
The Hyperborean slave girl is a wonderfully wretched, truly base creature. You can feed her algal slime. Half-drown her for dropping a single grape. Whore her out for a few coins. She will object to these (till she becomes accustomed), but it is what she expects. It is easy enough to do these things to her.
However, if you plan to breed her… she will wail, kick, and scream like the day she was captured. Even after, when you unshackle her and give her a piece of fruit as a treat, she will glare at you as if you’ve wronged her!
So why was this one trying to avoid mismating - going as far lying to her own master? A girl is hardly trustworthy when you keep her chained by your bed, but the penalties for lying are severe. Slaves rarely risk it.
“I carry your seed, Master!” she blubbed. “Let me bear it! It is a strong son I carry who will fight many battles and bring you gold!”
“She is lying,” said Haley. Her voice carried every tone of disappointment.
“I know,” I held my hand over Ashtala’s mouth to mute her. “But it’s alright. She is being foolish because she is in love.”
Haley looked unconvinced.
“Not with me. With Juskar.”
“Master Juskar! She does stare at him!”
“I let him use her once. Maybe twice? Look at how it’s changed her!” I remembered the raw, animal power Akingin had had over slaves back in Ebugal. Just a look from him reduced one to whimpering; she crawled to his feet, flushed and tearing up.
I still had so much to learn.
“Will you still mismate her, Master?”
“Of course. Haley, leave the spice, and bring a funnel and a cup of water.”
I forced Ashtala to stand and crossed her wrists behind her back. I held them with one hand. The other, I locked around her throat and marched her to the whipping post.
“Please, Master-”
“Shhh! Silly girl,” I said into the stumbling girl’s ear. “It’s alright. I do what’s best for you. Do you understand? I do what’s best for you.”
The female was mine: she’d breed, if I wanted.
I pushed her up against the post, on the other side from the chained brunette. A pair of shackles hung from the top of the post. I took Ashtala’s soft, perfect hands and cuffed her wrists over her head.
Her belly against the post, she turned her head and implored me with large, brown eyes.
“Do not do this, Master! I beg you!”
“She resists!” Ina called out, again, speaking out of turn. “She insults you, Master!”
“Everything will be fine,” I said in a soothing tone, running my fingers through Ashtala’s hair. “Understand?”
“Master, please,” her eyes brimmed with tears.
“You don’t know what’s good for you. That’s alright. You’re just an illiterate, twenty-year-old, barbarian slave who’s never before been more than ten leagues from home,” I kept her pinned against the post. “I don’t expect you to understand. And, you don’t need to.”
I looked back at the girls kneeling in the slave cart. They stared at me, kneeling, naked, anxious. Ashtala had been the daughter of wealthy gentry -- but these? They were the average slave girl of this world. Kept in a kennel, taught just to enough obey and speak, and in that order. They didn’t understand their world and all its dangers.
They could never understand.
But, kept in cages, they’d be alright. Like hens in a coop.
“You’ll be alright, Ashtala.”
Haley returned with cup of water and a funnel made from a goat’s horn. She poured the remaining spice into the cup and mixed it till the water was an even brown.
“Bring it,” I commanded.
I put my hand over Ashtala’s forehead and pulled her head back, to look at the sky. My other hand cupped her jaw and forced her mouth open.
“Insert the funnel, Slave.”
“Yes, Master,” Haley slipped the funnel into Ashtala’s mouth.
“Deeper, almost to her throat.”
Haley obeyed.
“Pour, now.”
Haley poured: the brown liquid rose to the top and she stopped: Ashtala wasn’t swallowing. The dark-skinned beauty tried to jerk loose: the foul mix splashed and dripped down her face and over my fingers.
I pinched Ashtala’s nostril’s shut.
She stared at me, eyes widening.
I smiled and waited.
Ten second later, her throat bobbed as she gulped it down. There was a shrill sound as she took deep breaths through the funnel.
“Pour the rest, Slave.”
“Yes, Master.”
Ashtala’s body become limp and she sagged against the post. Tears formed as she drank the rest of the mix without resistance.
“Good Slave,” I kissed her forehead and removed the funnel. I unshackled her wrists and forced her to the ground. “Crawl back into the wagon.”
She said nothing as she crawled her way back and up the plank. Had she been obedient, I would have given her a treat. As it was, a gentle tone and no punishment, seemed kindness enough.
If she’d been bred at all it was most probably my own seed - there had enough distractions of late that an error in birth control on my part was likely. I considered the idea - and liked it.
How many slaves had I bred so far on Hyperborea?
The first was a pouty, blue-eyed, blonde Siberian belonging to Uru the Settite, back at Dura. I let her tire herself out against her fetters first, promising to not use her if she’d break even one before the sun rose. How she’d tried!
Once she was exhausted, panting and weeping beside me, I gave her water to drink from my cupped hand. Then, I kissed her tears away, gripped her by her collar, and got on top of her and bred her. She thanked me afterwards as I wiped my penis clean on her face. I let her lick my hand as a parting gift, and never saw her again.
Second was a fresh-slaved Shang girl in the milking hut at the Red River slave camp. She had been caged; I decided to breed her entirely on impulse. It was, to be fair, what she had been caged for. She had large, warm, well-shaped breasts I had pinched and squeezed. I hope she’d given a lot of milk, afterwards.
Third was Fogrim’s fine little bitch, Layla! She’d run away and I had had to track down and recapture her. There had been nothing but hate in those eyes as I chained her, gripped her hips, and began. But, seething as she was, Layla was born to be slapped by a master and put to licking his feet. She twisted and moaned without any shame, dripping wet, her skin hot as fire. God, how she wanted to be pushed down and fucked!
In the breeding pits of Ebugal I’d taken a timid, tall brunette; a feisty, green-eyed, eighteen-year-old; and a mixed race Shang-Bharaji with very satisfying breasts. Then, after a short rest, I found two Shemites trying to hide from me in the back of a cell. I used one as a cushion while I bred the other, and then reversed their roles.
Eight. I had bred eight slave girls. I felt oddly proud and accomplished about it. I watched Ashtala making her way up the ramp, her long, elegant limbs, the movement of her buttocks. Yes, it would be nice, when all this was over, to go back to Dura and breed slaves. I’d have to figure out-
“Crawl in shame, you lying cunt!” Ina snarled. “You would defy our Master to bear him a mongrel? Could it but know you, it would then kill itself rather than remain another day inside you!”
The other slaves stared at her in horror. Haley glared. Ashtala paused - took a deep breath - and kept on crawling.
I picked the chastity belt off the ground. It was heavy and crude, but well made. The bronze key was still fitted in the lock.
“M-master?” Ina looked back at me, eyes alarmed. “Please-”
“I told you; you do not speak unless spoken to. Were you spoken to, Slave?”
“No, Master.”
“Then why did you speak?”
She said nothing.
I placed the belt about her waist, making her stand to slip it around the front. Reaching between her legs, I raised the all important, central strap. I pulled it tight.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Master, it cuts into-”
Were you spoken to, Slave?”
She said nothing.
I closed the chastity belt, now tighter than before, and turned the lock. I pocketed the key and forced Ina to the ground.
“Crawl back into the wagon, Slave.”
Sullen, head down, she crawled as best she could with the metal and leather straps pushing between her buttocks. I shut the slave cart hatch and locked it.
“Haley, go and wait with Master Fogrim. I will be along shortly.”
“Yes, Master,” Haley nodded, gave me an appreciative smile, and left.
I felt a bit cheated: I had imagined myself pressing into Ina, her long, red hair tossing in waves, her delightful little grunts and squeals. No matter, I told myself, it was such a trifling. After the battle-
Chains clinked from the shackled brunette at the whipping post, as she fidgeted.
Nervous hazel eyes found mine.
I smiled.
“You are a fine piece of meat,” I undid my belt as I went to her.
Her eyes became wide and her jaw dropped.
“Master!” She tugged at her manacles, straining to get free.
“I have no time,” I put my hand under her knee and lifted up her leg. She squealed as she teetered on one foot. “To play games, Slave.”
I pressed her against the post; her body was delightfully soft. I put one arm around her belly, the muscles beneath it were firm. The delicious little beauty must have been about 21 or 22.
“But Master!” her accent was Siberian, “I have been not been fed pleasure herbs! If you use me, you will breed me!”
I froze. I held her against me and felt her breathing, the heat and tension in her body. Her was knee raised in the air, pretty foot dangling. My penis already pushed between her buttocks.
“You will breed me! Oh!”
I began thrusting, buffeting her against the post. She squealed, her breasts tossing with each stroke. I pounded faster and bit her behind the neck, she moaned as my hand pushed up between her breasts to grab her by her throat.
I came. I pushed into her and got it all out. When I was done, I reached inside her and scooped out semen. Mixed with her own wetness it gleamed in my hand. I gripped her by her jaw and brought my hand up. She grunted and tried to pull her face away, but failed.
I wiped the fluids over her face. I turned her head to the side, and spat in her face for good measure.
“Tell your master,” I wiped myself on her back, “that another man finished your punishment. But, he can mismate you, himself.”
I turned and left number nine.