Day 3: Sunrise
I walked along the cleared grounds outside the slave barracks.
It had been a grand building in its day, six floors tall and eight deep. When all of it had still stood it had been the length of a football field. Now, all the remained with a few grand arches and pillars of white stone. Campfires burned outside dig entrances, tents circling them. Excavated steps lead down in the digs, to holding burrows.
I watched as a group of Mazgar braves lit torches and trooped down into one of the burrows. Out of another, a second team emerged. They dragged slave girls behind them, naked and blinking in the morning light. Their wrists were cuffed behind their backs, each girl's collar chained to the collar of the next. A Mazgar cracked a whip and the girls hurried forward. They made them kneel in a row, in front of two other rows of kneeling slaves.
A Mazgar officer walked up and down them, studying the girls. Each knelt with their thighs apart, sitting back on their heels, heads down. The officer stopped in front of a petite blonde with long, gently curling hair. He lifted her head up by her jaw, and studied her face. He released her and nodded, going on to the next woman. Two Mazgar guards came running over to the blonde, unchained her from the coffle, and dragged her by her arms towards the grounds.
Set up in rows along the grounds were wooden crucifixes. I watched a Mazgar and a refugee carpenter putting one up: it had been made from beams of half-burned wood. The two guards with the blonde went to a free crucifix, next to it. They put her up against the cross and re-fettered her wrists to shackles hanging off its ends.
There were 60 crucifixes up, so far. At each one, a slave girl had been mounted. Most wore iron, bronze, and leather collars. These girls kept still, their heads hanging.
Others however were bare-throated. Some wore shreds of torn, dirty rags and even jewelry. They screamed and moaned, twisting and tugging at their chains, trying to yank themselves free.
A pair of guards stood in front of a brunette wearing a muddied cultist's robe. She glared at them, blue eyes defiant. The men laughed, nodded to each other, and went to her. She screamed and tried to slip out of their hands. They tore the robe off her and threw it down in the mud. She wore nothing underneath: her breasts were large and shook freely, the nipples dark brown. Her belly was flat, the legs long, athletic. She looked good, bared. One of the guards began urinating on the robe. She cursed at him in low Hyperborean. Unfazed, he urinated on her belly and legs, next. Then he picked up the robe and threw it over her head.
"Gerard?" I heard from behind. I turned; it was Ammad. The tired lines of his face made him seem 20 years older, but he smiled through it all as one does after a long and arduous task. "Gerard Lightning Shield!"
"Lightning shield?"
"Aye," he limped as he came towards me, "that is what they call you now. A name well-earned from a man who fears not the power of the gods themselves!"
I shrugged.
"It's honestly not a big deal. Lightning is inaccurate. That weapon was for show. I know you can't imagine such a thing, but lightning just isn't as amazing as you think."
"The deceitful modesty of the true hero," he waved his hand to dismiss my words. "You should be resting! Yog knows I would be, if I could. You don't have to worry about the after-battle."
"I couldn't sleep. How can anyone after a night like that?"
"It was your first battle?"
"Yes. How about you?"
"My third. My first, fighting under the banners of my own people."
I turned and regarded the slave girls on the crucifixes. It reminded me of the slave-breaking back at Red River. How long ago that seems now!
"What's going on here?" I asked. The men only bring up a few girls at a time."
"They are bringing up the loveliest," Ammad answered. "The ones in best health. These," he pointed to the rows of crucifixes, "the officers will pick from, first."
"How many does each man get?" I asked.
"Three."
"Three! That's all? We've captured thousands of slave girls, Ammad."
"They belong to the Legion," he replied. "Only once we have returned home will they be divided up amongst the men. Some will be sold to Darfuri smugglers in exchange for iron and tin - and news. Others will be given as gifts to Yog's temple. A small number will not survive the march; they will be used to feed the others. Most most though, will go to the men."
"You won't sell any to large farms?"
"That is not our way."
Off to the side of the crucifix field, three branding racks had been set up. Stacked beside them were heaped collars and cuffs. Small furnaces smoked alongside each rack, iron tongs protruding from them. We watched as an officer led a meek Shemite by her leash to a rack, and made her lie back inside it. She did not resist as he spread her legs and fastened her ankles and knees to the arms of the "Y" frame. He did not bother securing her wrists, holding them together with one hand. With the other, he picked up an oil cloth and pulled a tong from a furnace. It's end glowed red hot. The slave girl whimpered and looked away.
He grabbed her by her hair; she cried out as he pulled her head up to make her watch. He plunged the tong between her legs and branded her right on her pelvis. She made an ear-splitting shriek and smoke rose from the marking.
He dropped the tong back and unstrapped the girl; she whimpered as he forced her to kneel at his feet, tears streaming down her face. He gripped her by her hair, and with the other hand dipped two fingers into a clay pot balanced on the branding frame. His fingers came back dripping with yellow ochre paint. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look up into his eyes, as he ran his fingers around her throat painting a thick, yellow line.
"What does that mean?" I asked. "The yellow throat marking?"
"It shows that she is owned. Other men will not claim her."
It was a good, simple system.
The officer picked out a collar; a crude, heavy device of dark iron. He clasped it around her throat, the yellow paint showing above it, and fastened it shut. Then, he dragged her in front of the furnace. She knelt, trying to lean back and away from the heat. The air over it shimmered.
“Now what’s happening?”
“Wait and see,” Ammad smiled. “It is something your people should learn.”
There was a thin pair of tongs alongside the branding irons. The officer picked it up - it held a small cup with a thin, narrow spout. On the ground beside the furnace were small, flat pieces of polished wood. He took one and slipped it between the girl’s throat and the lock on her collar.
The slave tried to crawl away - she cried out as he slapped her. He seized her by her hair and forced her head back and to the side, baring her throat. The locking mechanism was exposed.
With care, the officer put the cup’s spout against the lock, and tipped the cup by a few degrees. Molten bronze poured in. He filled the lock right to the surface, then set the cup aside. He peered at his work, waiting for it to cool. A few minutes later he tested it, tapping around the lock with his finger. He smiled to himself and removed the wooden disk that had protected the slave’s throat.
“Did he just ruin the lock?” I asked.
“We don’t put names on our collars,” said Ammad, “When a slave is bought, her master tattoos his name on her. If he sells her to another, he will add his own tattoo. The collar does not tell you who owns a girl - so there is no cause to change it. Better then to fuse it, yes? A girl in a fused collar will wear it till she dies. Then it will melted down and recast0 for another slave.”
I watched as the officer lead away his slave.
"Take one," Ammad gestured to the crucifixes. “Take a girl.”
"I cannot," I shook my head. "Mong was very clear. I only have the slave I came for."
"You can have one of mine," he said.
"I can't do that!"
"Take one," he insisted. "You are the Lightning Shield! Would that the Legion could give youa hundred girls and ten chests of gold and silver! By the Great Eater, such would be richly deserved!"
I did not need to be urged a third time.
I entered the rows of crucifixes, taking in the chained beauties as I walked up and down.
"Take me, master!" A delicate, red-headed girl with green eyes called out, leaning forward as far as her wrist chains would allow. "Please! Do not let them have me!"
Was that a trace of an Irish accent?
I studied her thigh: the scar was well-healed and faded. I wondered when she had arrived at this world.
“What was your name, before?” I asked in English.
She stared at me, jaw dropping.
“Molly O’Kane, Master!”
“What was the year you were taken?”
“1847, Master.”
The height of the Potato Famine.
“You are in a better place, now.”
I kept moving; I already had a red-headed girl.
Further along, a small-made, chocolate-skinned Bharaji with dark, large, nervous eyes caught my attention. She reminded me of Layla - Layla! That hot, wet little bitch.
She sighed as I pressed my hands against her belly. I moved my way up over her muscles and gripped the large, perky breasts. I licked a dark nipple and bit it, hard.
"Oh!" She cried out, eyes wide, rising up on one leg.
I enjoyed her reaction. I reached between her legs and slipped my fingers into her vagina. She clenched reflexively, the muscles strong. My fingers came away wet.
"Such a slut!" I brushed her hair aside and slipped my fingers into her mouth. She sucked them, running her tongue up and down, her eyes both keen and nervous.
No, she reminded me too much of Layla. I did not want to have her on her back, balls-deep inside her, wishing she was a different girl.
I kept on walking.
In the next row, an officer with his arm in a sling was standing between two, tall, long-legged brunettes. One had the evenly tanned skin of a slave; around her throat was a copper collar and her thigh was branded. She smiled at the man and licked her lips.
The other had paler skin, with tan lines from clothing. Now, all she wore was the remains of an undershirt. It had been torn to reveal her breasts. They were large and well formed, they jiggled as she gritted her teeth and tugged at her chains. Whoever had chained her to the crucifix had taken care to make sure that she had very little give; she teetered on tiptoes.
The injured Mazgar officer noticed me and immediately stepped aside, bowing.
"Gerard Lighting Shield!" He spoke with a heavy accent.
I smiled politely.
The girl in the ragged tunic stared at me, eyes wide.
"It seems you are having difficulty choosing, Friend."
"I will choose," he bowed again, "after you have chosen."
"Nonsense! I'll come back later."
"No!" He put his good hand on my shoulder. "I was on the ground, I do not know for how long. There was the screaming of the giants, and the men. The horns of the enemy. The dreaded lighting gun. Then, I saw you run forward, I heard what you said. All the pain went away," he looked at his injured arm, "I got back up and I led my men. I led my men. I will wait till you have chosen."
"Thank you."
I regarded the girl in the torn tunic. She was still staring at me, her expression incredulous.
"I told this one to get away, or she would be enslaved," I reached up and stroked her hair. It was long and soft, falling to the small of her back. I liked a slave girls hair that way. It gave you a lot to grab onto. "And here she is. What is your difficulty choosing between them?"
"This one knows the collar well," he stroked the branded slave's side. She gave him a beautiful smile. "And my arm is broken. It would be nice to have well-behaved meat crawling in my hut, tending the fire and sucking my cock when I snap my fingers. And just look at these!" He ran his hand down her leg and stroked her calf. "Her legs are very beautiful."
"They are. And this is a good mouth," I cupped the girls face and stroked her cheek with my thumb, "to find around a cock when one awakes in the morning."
The slave girl look at me and blushed.
"But then, there is this one," he regarded the girl in the ripped tunic. "Such bright, blue eyes! I could stare into them for hours. The nipples are pink: I do not have a girl with pink ones. But, she must be broken. It will be hard, with my arm."
"She also has beautiful legs," I said. "Whoever she goes to, he should crawl her for hours just to look at them, and the shape of this behind," I groped her buttocks and squeezed. She looked uncomfortable but did not try to break free. This was not attraction: this was fear. A fresh girl makes a big fuss in any a slave market, But this was no market, and she was a prize of the Mazgar.
"She will definitely crawl," he nodded. "Both of them will. Their tendons will be cut," he pointed down to their ankles. "No Mazgar man will let such beauties stand."
Both girls looked horrified.
"Is there one you prefer?" He asked.
Both girls regarded me, their eyes imploring.
"No, but I will definitely take one of them. I don't know which."
"Why don't you examine them?"
"I think I will."
I unchained the blue-eyed brunette who had wasted her chance, from the crucifix. I gripped her by her shoulders and forced her down to her knees, before me.
She looked up, kneeling with her buttocks against her heels, palms down in the dirt, head craned up at me.
I looked down at those large blue eyes.
Only a few moments passed; but for her, they were the longest of her life.
Unbidden, she removed the rags of her tunic and dropped them in the sand. Then, she reached up and undid my pants. She pulled out my penis and stroked it, rolling the foreskin back and forth. She cupped my testicles with her fingers. Looking up at me again, she opened her mouth wide pressed my penis into her mouth0 as far back as it would go.
She began. She did not bob her head up and down; instead, she rose up and down on her knees, thrusting with her whole upper body. After a few experimental thrusts, she began to push deeper. I felt the head of my penis knocking against the back of her throat.She closed her eyes for a moment, then again, and finally she kept them closed. She shook her head gently from side to side, her tongue racing up and down the shaft. She stroked my testicles and penis with both hands as she thrusted.
She opened her eyes. They looked up at me - they now belonged to a very different girl.
She drew her head back and spat over my penis. She caught the saliva between cupped palms as it dripped. She slathered it back, and went back to thrusting, unable to take her eyes off mine. One hand snaked up my belly and clawed at my chest.
I gripped her hair with both hands as I came. She remained still as I filled her. She began coughing and choking but I did not let up until I was done. When I released her, she drew her head back and gently squeezed the shaft and tip, getting the last of the semen out. She pulled her head back, strings of semen hanging from her lips. She licked them off and swallowed. Then, she began licking my penis clean.
I had not said a word.
That is how Akingin handles his sluts," the officer nodded, smiling. "You have the same effect."
“I think I understand it, now. This is a world where a man is free to choose to seize a woman, and keep her in chains,” I reached down and stroked the licking girl’s soft hair, “is it not then also a world, where a girl is free to can choose to be seized, and kept in them?”
She looked up at me and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She sat back on her heels, smiling but with anxious eyes.
“Why didn’t you escape?” I stroked her oval face. There was a smokiness to her eyes.
“I tried, Master. I waited at the edge of the city for my husband-to-be, but he did not come. Then, men found me.”
I reached lower and fondled her breasts. I loved their soft feel between my fingers, the pink nipples were hard.
“Your husband-to-be was not with you when you were escaping. Is he a soldier?”
“No, Master.”
“Then he failed you. You should not have waited for him.”
Her shoulders fell and she looked down.
“But now,” I lifted her chin up, “you have a Master. I will take you.”
She looked both elated and relieved. The other girl looked down.
“Thank you, Master!” her eyes sparkled.
“Heel, Slave.”
I snapped my fingers and started walking towards the branding wracks. She crawled beside me, her long, slender body moving like a cat’s. I admired the back and forth of her buttocks, the gleam of the morning sun on her smooth skin.
“You gave yourself to me,” I said.
“Yes, Master.”
“Why?”
She seemed surprised at the question.
“What else could I do?”
What else could I do. Imagine if you will, a handpicked group of stunningly beautiful underwear models and cheerleaders. They are then stripped naked and put on display. You are there to pick one to be your slave, and the first girl you look at immediately blows you. When you ask why, she looks surprised and says ‘what else could I do?’
It was a good day.
She was a fantastic animal, but slaves do not learn their place because of the world they live in. They learn their place because their masters teach them. This one was new - not even collared. I had to teach her. The first thing, always the first thing with any slave girl, is to teach her,, her place.
She stopped as we neared the wracks, staring, her body tensed, as she recognized what they were. I grabbed her and threw her over my shoulder.
“Come,” I licked her thigh, “I will mark you, now.”
“Master!” her long legs squirmed and I tightened my grip. “You do not need to brand me! I, I have proven myself to you! Strong, powerful Master!”
“Is that what you think will sway me?” Her thigh was pressed against my cheek, her body warm against my skin.
“Let me please you, Master!” her tone was desperate.
“Oh, you will,” I ran a hand up her legs and fondled her buttocks. They were ample and well-rounded - they made a satisfying sound when I smacked them. “after I brand and collar you, Slave Meat.”
She grunted and started kicking, her fists beating against my back. I held her tighter still and carried the lovely beast the rest of the way.
I laid her her down on her back, on a branding rack.
“No!” she tried to get up and kick me away.
I caught her long, slender legs, one in each hand.
“No!” she snarled, gritting her teeth. She tried to kick loose.
I got down and laid myself on top of her, pinning her to the beam. Her breasts squeezed against my chest, I felt her breath against my face. I grabbed her small wrists and forced her hands down. She grunted, helpless, and regarded me with sullen eyes.
“What happened to ‘what else could you do?’”
She glared and said nothing.
I forced her hands under the beam. I felt around and found the binding straps. I secured one wrist - she winced as I pulled it tight. She cried out as I tied the other, even tighter.
I got off her. She tried to resist with her legs but it was half-hearted. I pulled them apart and strapped them, on leg at a time. The leather ties bound her at her ankles and her knees.
I stepped back and took a moment. She lay secured, her ample chest rising and falling, long, brown hair fallen across her face and those angry eyes.
Such a vision of loveliness.
I pulled out the brand from the furnace and held it up for her to see. There was a glowing, red 'x' at its end. She stared at and started to whimper, tugging at her bonds.
“You will watch, Slave,” I took her by her hair and pulled her head up to see.
She screamed but could not look away as I brought the iron close to her thigh. I felt the heat from it. Here? Further along? No, this spot was nice. I plunged it into her.
I enjoyed her scream. It was a good scream: distressed, vulnerable, afraid.
I unstrapped her and pushed her off the frame. She lay on the ground, fingers digging into the sand, panting. Beside the frame was a small pot of yellow paint.
I sat down over the brunette’s back, pinning her. She turned her head to look back at me, the large, blue eyes wild.
I dipped my fingers into the pot. The pigment was rich, thick, and sparkled with flecks of ground mica.
“This yellow goes well with your eyes, Slave.”
She gasped as I gripped her chin and forced her head up and back. Her throat bared, the skin cool. I painted it with a thick line of ochre. It did not run. I gave it a moment to dry. Then, I added a second coat. I studied the pigment on my fingers, it had excellent consistency. It dried almost like sheets of thinnest rubber.
I did a yellow circle around one arm, and another around her ankle.
“It is a nice color,” I studied her pretty foot. “I like how it glitters on your skin.”
The slave said nothing. She had pleasured me: in return I had branded her and used as a canvas. The silence was good: she was learning to endure. That is all a slave can do - endure and survive.
Beside the branding rack was a pile of collars. I picked out a heavy iron one. It’s unsophisticated caster had decorated it with a line of crosses. They were not all the same size, and the line wasn’t straight. Instead of a lock it had an interlocking set of crude teeth.
“Look at this,” I held in front of her face. Those blue eyes followed it. “Can you imagine wearing it for the rest of your life?”
Her eyes widened.
“You you, you would fuse it, Master?”
“Yes.”
“Please,” she shook her head, “Please, Master! Anything but that! I will do anything for you! I am sorry I resisted, I will be a good slave! I promise you, Master!” she begged. Defiance had earned her a glowing, hot iron. Now, she tried imploring.
Had she said nothing, she would have been fine. Because she begged against it, I had to do it to her now. A slave needs to be taught her place -- and she will tell you how.
I leaned forward, my head beside hers, cheek to cheek. Her skin was warm, soft.
“You are going to wear a fused collar,” I said in a gentle tone and licked her cheek. “for the rest of your life.”
I mover her hair aside and fitted it around her throat. The teeth interlocked and the collar shut. She whined and reached up, her fingers whitening as she gripped the collar with both hands trying to pull it off. She scrunched up her eyes and grunted, teeth gritted.
“Stop that,” my tone was stern, “or I will throw you back on the rack and brand your other thigh.”
She stopped immediately and lowered her hands. She became limp and started sniffing. Tears filled her eyes.
I picked up the tongs that held the cup of molten bronze.
Bronze melts at a lower temperature than iron - one reason it is popular. I studied the dull gold liquid, letting it swirl around the sides of its thick, ceramic, cup. The spout was well designed - almost a syringe. It was good for this sort of fine work.
I took a wooden disk from the pile beside the furnace and pressed it under the slave’s collar, right where the locking teeth were. It fit snug - the collar wouldn’t shift.
Slowly, ever so carefully, I moved the cup and placed the spout in the center of the lock. There was a little for it that fit perfectly - the collar was better made than I’d thought.
“Keep still, Slave, or this will kill you.”
I slowly poured the glowing, golden liquid into the lock. It ran slowly through the teeth, filling in the gaps, pooling in little catchment voids at the end. I poured in several, careful, movements. When the teeth were filled they disappeared from view, drowned in bronze.
I set aside the cup and waited. Sweat run down the slave’s neck and back. She tried to shift under me.
“Do not move, Slave.”
She became still again.
A few minutes later, I tapped the collar. It was warm, but safe to touch. I ran my fingers over where the lock had been - it was now a perfect, seamless, band of metal.
“Perfect!” I stroked her neck. “You will wear that till the day you die. Do you understand?”
She let out a sob.
“There is no point crying,” I pushed my knees between hers and forced her legs apart. “No one cares. You are slave meat, and you belong to me. What are you?”
“I am slave meat,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes dry with one hand.
“Good,” I lay down over her. “Now, I am going to teach you who I am.”
“You are my Master.”
“You know that in your mind,” I pushed my hand up along her belly. I squeezed it up between her breasts and gripped her collar, my knuckles digging into her neck. “I will teach it to your soul.”
I undid my pants and spread her buttocks. Her labia gleamed with wetness.
“Slut!” I grabbed her hair with my other hand and yanked her head back. She looked up at me, her face flushed, eyes dilated. “You are dripping wet, you lusty bitch!”
One hand at her throat, the other in her hair, I entered her anus. I began pounding, pushing in as deep as I could go. She cried out and clawed the dirt, howling like a cat in heat. I squeezed her windpipe till she her face went red. I bit her on the shoulder, drawing blood. Those long legs kicked and thrashed, she was like a butterfly pressed against the ground.
I came. When I was done I got up, rolled the flushed, breathless girl on to her back. She tried to rise up and kiss me, but I pushed her back down and slapped her, hard as I could. She cried out, bringing up her hands over her face. I pulled them aside and slapped her again. She shrieked and turned aside, wincing against a third blow.
I stood, did up my pants, and grabbed her by the collar. She clutched at it as I yanked her to her feet.
“Who is your Master?”
“You are! You are, Master!” she lowered her head and clutched my arm.
“You’re new name is Yarina,” I said, picking a pair of cuffs from a heap of fetters by the racks.
“Yes, Master! I am Yarina, Master!”
I cuffed and leashed my female, then lead her away. She walked with ginger steps, her face red where I’d slapped her.
Yarina had learned her place.