She looked up as I approached, the 20-year-old beauty gave me a relieved smile.
"I feared for you, Master!"
"Those guys were nothing; I used to be a Facebook group admin. Now stand."
She got to her feet. I put my arm around her neck and forced her to bend at the waist 90°.
"Come." I led her in this way, her head pressed to my hip.
I took her up the stairs to the second floor. Here there was a row of rooms with heavy wooden doors. From one I heard the slapping of flesh on flesh and a girl moaning. I went to the room at the end and unlocked the door with the key I had in my pocket.
Inside was what had been my home for the past month. It was a fair-sized room, neat and clean. To one side was a wooden weapons rack. A mace, another sword, and a cruel-looking, notched, steel spear were mounted in it. Propped against it was a short bow which I was quite useless with.
On the other side was a wooden desk with parchment maps pinned to the wall above it. None were very good, and one was partly drawn in by my own hand. From what I could tell, we were near a mountain range that went as far as anyone traveling through Dura had seen. Within that mountain range, the Great Old Ones warred with the Elder Things.
Stacked in a corner was a pile 8 inches high, of animal furs. Affixed to the walls of that corner were several, iron rings.
I put Zana down on the furs. She quickly sat up on her knees and looked about. She lowered her head to the furs and sniffed them.
"I can smell Nura!"
I laughed and sat down across from her.
"She smells like scented flowers, as do you."
"I can smell her, under the perfume," the Shang protested.
I shook my head. The casual racism was endemic to the era.
"She is a great fuck," I took off my boots. "It is nice seeing a tall girl with a long neck, down on her hands and knees."
"Foot-licking is in her nature," Zana shook her hair back.
“Oh yes, "I reached down and took hold of her soft, shapely foot. I squeezed the copper anklet off. “And it is also in yours.”
She gave me a dirty look.
"I tried to buy you today."
"Buy me, Master?" her back went rigid, and her eyes sparkled.
"Uru did not go for it. Not this time."
"Master has made offer on me before?" She seemed quite taken with the idea.
"Many times." I lifted away her crocodile tooth necklace.
"Has master made offer for Nura?"
"No, not for Nura. I could never afford her," I teased.
Zana gave me a dirty look and pouted.
I untied her hands and pulled off the copper bracers. Then, taking hold of one breast at a time, I removed her nipple piercings.
"Master has stripped me!" said the slave who had already been naked.
"Yes, your body is now completely bare," I took hold of her by her jaw and stroked it. She looked up at me with large, brown eyes. "Does that make you uncomfortable, slave?"
"Yes! I am as an animal before you! A cheap, fresh-collared girl!"
"Like Nura should be?"
"Yes!"
I doubted it was very often a man took the time to remove her trinkets before using her. Before now, I certainly hadn’t.
"May I-if it pleases you,” she said guardedly, “At least wear my necklace, Master?"
"No."
The word struck her like a slap.
"Of course, Master." She tipped her head down.
I got down on the furs with her and pushed her onto her back.
"Do not feel awkward or shy," I ran my hand up her side, stroking the side of her breast. "Your body is magnificent, it should be enjoyed this way. You should be exhibited this way. Without adornment."
She got up on her elbows.
"Like a beast? Like a girl caught and thrown into a slave pit?"
I pulled off my clothes and settle down on top of her. Her soft, young body was the loveliest mattress.
"Did you think I wanted to buy you to have you dance in a tavern? Or to be sent to a temple, covered in ash symbols and body paint?”
I held her wrists together and clamped them down in the furs above her head.
"Yes, Master?"
I laughed and licked her face. "Such an arrogant little slut! No," I bit her cheek. "You are livestock, and one does not dress livestock except in humor. You should wear nothing but a collar at your throat and cuffs to hold your wrists and your pretty little ankles."
I sat up on top of her, my knees pressed into her armpits. With one hand, I held her down by her throat. I spat on her face. She winced and turned her head to the side. I grabbed her jaw and forced her head back to face me. I spat again. The saliva trickled down her cheek and into her ear.
"Lovely little bitch! I will make you carry my loads through the jungle, straining with it on your back. When you are slow, I will whip your legs and behind." I slapped her thigh hard. "Would you like that?"
"Yes, Master!" She opened her eyes and looked at me. There was a smokiness there now. Her tongue snaked out and licked away my saliva on her cheek.
I spat on her face again. It is a good way to mark your dominance on a slave girl. There is a big difference between trained obedience and primal submission. It was for the power to extract primal submission over beautiful women like Zana that I loved this world.
"I’d take you far away from this place. Somewhere the wars of gods and men can't find us. And there you will wake me every morning, with your mouth around my cock.”
“I’d like that, Master,” she wriggled deliciously under me.
I reached over to my table. Lying across it was a long, leather whip. I pulled it out and let it unfurl, its end trailing on the floor. Her eyes suddenly popped open, as if she had been woken suddenly from sleep.
"This is not a play whip," I said, tugging on the leather showing her how tough it was. "Do you know what this is?"
She nodded.
"Say what it is, Slave."
"A training whip, Master," she pulled her knees up against her breasts protectively.
Play whips were short and built with many, soft, leather flails. Most whips that men used to thrash their slave girls, whether for discipline or pleasure, were play whips. Training whips are quite different. They are larger, heavier, and can be excruciatingly painful when used correctly. A training whip can easily take the skin off a slave girl's back if one is unskilled in its use.
"When was the last time you saw one of these?"
"In a slave camp, Master. When I arrived in this world."
"And did you train well?" I hefted the whip in my hand.
"Yes, Master," she nodded vigorously.
"No, not well enough."
She moaned suddenly in fear and shrank back away from me.
"Here is what will happen." I reached into a sack and pulled out a crude, iron collar. "I will put this around your throat, but you will fight me. You will fight me like the day a Hyperborean slaver landed a lasso around your waist. If I do not think you are fighting hard enough, then I will thrash you with this whip. A real whip. You remember what that feels like?"
Once beaten with a training whip, no slave ever wishes the experience again. That is the point of the training whip. Submissive slavery is preferable to its sting.
It is, of course, more complicated than that; it is the entire experience of a slave camp-where slaves are often killed-is what the girl does not wish ever to repeat. They associate that with the training whip.
"Yes, Master," she nodded.
I got to my feet and set the whip aside.
"Stand," I commanded. I forced open the iron collar, it's two halves clunked.
The slave girl stood, staring like a deer at a hunter.
I stepped forward.
She jerked back, frantically looking this way and that. She grabbed a metal flask and threw it at me. Next, a clay jug. It shattered against the wall as I dodged.
I rushed forward and grabbed at her throat. She screamed and brought up her hands to block me. The girl stumbled and fell back in the sleeping furs. Her small feet kicked at my chest with as I came down on top of her.
Zana’s face pounded against my chest, and she kicked under me, nearly smashing my balls (I did instruct her to resist). I pinned her arms down, but she slipped them free and turned over, her well-formed buttocks pressing against my penis as she tried to crawl away.
“Ah!” The slave cried out as I grabbed her by her long, dark hair. I yanked her head back, and she craned her neck, gritting her teeth in pain. I put her in a wrestler's headlock and pinned her down into the furs. She moaned into them, her face pressed down. She tried to resist, but my heavier mass kept her in place.
With one hand free, I grabbed the iron collar. It was a thick piece with a simple locking mechanism. A very common, rugged design worn by most of the human females on the planet. I forced her head up and slipped the dark iron under her throat.
"I obeyed! Please don't whip me!" she moaned.
I pressed the iron to her skin and with both hands forced the two halves shut. The mechanism clicked loudly; it would take not only the key but strong hands to get it open again. Some masters let the locking mechanisms rust. This way, even if a slave escapes, she may not be able to remove her collar.
I rolled her onto her back. She sat up and backed away, bringing up her knees and clasping around her legs. Her expression was wounded, distrustful. She had seen a side of me that I had kept from her.
“I am disappointed,” I lied. “Your resistance was poor.”
"No!" she clenched her hands into little fists, glaring.
I grabbed her by her collar, yanked her to me, and slapped her (gently). Her ivory cheek flushed red.
“Master! I resist-”
I slapped her again.
It is a rush to wrestle a slave to the ground and collar and cuff her. However, the real value is in imposing physical dominance. Overpowering a slave quickly teaches her her place.
I produced a pair of heavy manacles from the sack. I yanked her wrists in front of her and cuffed them. Then, I produced a rope from the sack. I tied it securely at the middle of the chain that held the manacles.
Fixed to the ceiling, right above the sleeping furs, was an iron ring.
"No," she shook her head. "No, please Master!"
I took the end of the rope and threw it up through the ring. I caught it as it fell through.
"Do not whip me!"
She cried out as I yanked on the rope. Her wrists shot up over her head, and she was jerked up, till she was standing on tiptoe. I tied the end of the rope to support and picked up the whip.
"I obeyed you, Master! I obeyed!"
I spun her around so that her back was facing me.
I took the whip, reached back, and brought it slashing down across her back.
She howled in pain and was thrown forward. She swung back and tried to stand on her toes. She cried out again and thrown forward by the second strike. She began sobbing.
I in the four months that I had been in this world, I had found the training whip most effective. Slave girls under it are more fearful. However, they rarely need disciplining and are more servile.
I gave her 10 lashes over 3 minutes. I varied the timing between strokes so she could not prepare herself mentally. When I was done, her back, buttocks, and legs had telltale red marks. None, however, would bruise.
I untied the rope and pulled her free from the ring. She collapsed onto the furs, no longer crying. Her face had a sullen blankness to it. She would not meet my eye.
I removed the shackles from her wrists and tossed them aside. Next, I pulled out a long, heavy chain from the sack and affixed it to one of the rings set in place against the wall beside the sleeping furs. I took the other end and fastened it to her collar. It pulled her head down even further, the chain clinking on the floor.
I put my foot down in front of her.
"Lick it, Slave."
"Yes, Master."
She took my foot in both her hands, brushed her hair back behind her shoulders, and pressed her lips to my foot. Eyes closed, she kissed and licked them. Her tongue pressed between my toes, running up and down my foot, stopping at the ankle.
"Open your eyes, Slave. See what you are doing."
"Yes, Master," she obeyed.
I enjoyed the feel of her lips and tongue. I brought my other foot forward as well, and she shifted her attention to it. Then I spat on the floor, beside my foot.
"You know what to do."
Without a word, she licked my spit off the floor. I did it again, next to her face. She turned and licked that up as well.
"I told you that you would lick a man's feet well. Did I not?"
"Yes, Master."
I took hold of her by her hair and pulled her up to kneel. Her body moved like soft butter.
She regarded my erect penis; I could feel her breath on it. She looked up at me.
“Perform the Morning Lotus,” I instructed.
“Yes, Master.”
The two most popular sex slave arts were Snake and Lotus. Lotus was very giving, it was about tender, gentle, and utterly degrading lovemaking. It induced slaves to fall in love with their masters; to perform submissively, and to enjoy being quite sexually shameless! It also induced masters to be gentler to their slaves. This, in turn, positively reinforced the females' servile behavior.
Zana spread her knees wide apart and gripped my thighs. She pointed her toes and placed her feet flat against the floor. This was Morning Lotus; her body mirroring an opening flower.
Then, she opened her mouth and took in my penis. The warmth closed over it, her lips pressing around the shaft. She started rocking her head back and forth, her collar chain clanking.
Morning Lotus is a simple sex dance with room for self-expression. As such, a halfhearted performance is an obviously poor one. This makes it useful for training new slaves or submitting one newly bought.
Zana’s head moved quite slowly while she looked up into my eyes. The slow movement is submissive; it prolongs the experience for the girl, making her really think about what’s in her mouth (and why). Direct eye contact is key in Lotus; it produces a feeling of adoration in the girl.
After eight, long, strokes, she pulled her head back. She gripped my penis and rubbed her lips along the shaft, like a musician with a flute. She pressed my penis to her cheek, rubbing it. Her cheek was soft and warm.
She repeated the eight strokes and then rubbed the other cheek.
For the next part, she did ten, but then pulled out messily; thick strings of semen hanging from my penis to her lips. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, letting the strings drip and stick on her chin and throat.
Then, her hands went to work. One pushed my penis up and against my belly. The other cupped my balls. She bent forward and craned her head back to look at me. She took a testicle into her mouth; her tongue stroked and caressed it. Then she spat it out and took in the second one.
I resisted the urge to end her dance, prematurely.
Ten more strokes followed, but this time, she held my balls in both her hands. She stroked the loose skin. Her head pulled free; lots of semen mixed with saliva gleamed on her lips and chin. She pursed her lips back around my cock and gently squeezed off the fluids. Then, she spat it into her open hands. She rubbed them on her neck, under her jaw, and on her breasts.
It was an excellent performance, but I could take no more.
I pushed her head back over my penis. A few quick thrusts later, I held her head in place while I came. She remained still, receiving. When I let go, she drew her head back slowly and opened her mouth for me to see. It was full of white semen.
The dance was done.
"Do not swallow," I reached for the key and unlocked her collar. I forced it open and let it drop.
“Spit,” I cupped one hand to her lips.
She spat out my seed, careful to get it all in. Some dripped between my fingers and splashed on her thighs and the floor.
My other hand bunched her hair and pulled it upwards. Neck bared, she put her palms down on her knees and waited for what she knew was coming.
I wiped the semen around her throat, creating a thick, gleaming, ring. Where it dripped, I scooped it back up and reapplied it. It became sticky as it began to dry.
This was called a seed collar. A man holds his kneeling slave in place while it dries. Part of the experience is the girl just kneeling there, between her master's feet. Neither speaks. She feels the cooling of the drying seed around her throat.
After, he may re-collar her, in iron.
“There is some on your thighs,” I said at last. The drops had dried there.
I let go of her hair and crouched down in front of her. I moved her hand aside and scratched the dried seed. It peeled off in a flake.
“Open your mouth.”
She obeyed. I put the flake in.
“Eat it.”
I saw her throat bob as she swallowed.
I peeled off the rest of the semen and fed it to her. Then I pushed her head down; she licked the dried seed on the floor till it was gone.
I sat cross-legged. Crouched down, she put her head in my lap and looked up at me.
“Master,” her eyes shined, “may I eat the seed collar?”
“Yes,” I fondled her buttocks. “I will watch.”
She peeled off the seed collar. She threw her head back theatrically as she ate the flakes. Guided just by the sense in her fingertips, she found and ate it all.
I pulled her into my lap and studied her neck, pressing her head back.
“If I find any, I will whip you,” I warned.
But there was nothing; she was Lotus trained. Lotus slaves give of themselves entirely to their masters. They are givers, nurturers, desperate to give love.
Yet, to the men who owned them, they were not more than cattle.
“Very good, Slave.”
“Thank you, Master!” her smile was like a sunrise.
She squealed as I pushed her, belly-down, on to the furs.
I climbed on top of her, pinning her. I pushed her knees apart and held her down by her wrists.
"Master! Oh, oh, Master!" her jaw dropped as I entered her.
I began pounding the slave.
She moaned as I worked her, her whole body rocking forward with each thrust. Her hair tossed as she raised her head. I pressed it down to the furs, she cried out, head forced to the side.
“Little slut! You should be mine!”
Her moans became louder, she started gasping for air. Finally, her whole body clenched, and she screamed, eyes shut, teeth clenched. Her whole body relaxed: she became warm butter under me.
I came inside her. When I was done, I lay down beside her in the furs. She put her head on my chest and curled up against me. I picked up the heavy chained collar and snapped it back around her throat. Then, I pulled her over me.
"Thank you, Master," she folded her hands on my chest and rested her chin on them. "Is that what it would be like–to be owned by you?”
“Yes,” I cupped her buttocks and fondled them. “You should not be dancing for many men. You should be owned by one.”
“I am, Master.”
“That’s not what I mean. Uru is Settite; you are not tall enough to be kept caged in his private harem.”
As mentioned, the other popular sex art was Snake. Snake was highly seductive, sinuous style focused on enticement. If a slave is 5 foot 8 inches – about the height of a fashion model – she is usually trained in Snake. A good Snake can draw a man’s attention from across a room, as she squirms in her cage. Snake acts are mostly sinuous sex dances, often a girl’s back or her belly. Snakes tend to be brothel girls, temple dancers, and sacrifices.
Once, after a long night of drinking after hours, Uru let me into his harem. There he kept two, tall, naked girls in a cage. One was a blonde, Ancient North Eurasian from the Siberian steppes with a face out of a fashion magazine. The other, a Sub-Saharan African from 11th Century, Great Zimbabwe who could have been a king’s concubine. Uru had branded both on the thigh with a snake design. Their labia had been pierced and fitted with bronze rings. Around their throats were bronze collars shaped like coiled snakes. They wore dark eyeliner and black lipstick.
“Do you like my pets?” he had asked me.
“Of course. They are a wonder to behold.”
“Minka is ready to be bred for the glory of Set,” he had reached into the cage and stroked the blonde’s leg. I remember how she bent over and sucked his finger. “Would you honor me by seeding her?”
The blue-eyed beauty jerked her head back up and stared at him, her pouty mouth gaping open. Then she stared at me.
“This is your harem! Are you sure?”
“Of course! We are good friends, Gerard of House Stone. Breed her.”
He then pulled aside a curtain at the back of the room. Behind it was a small chamber, bounded by curtains. At the back of the room and facing us, was a 9 foot tall, wooden statue of a cobra. Its hood was flared, ivory had been used for the fangs. The statue had been painted black. Polished, white, river stones were its eyes.
On either side of the Set idol were brass, incense pots. Before it was a rectangular wooden altar with four, metal, rings attached to its corners.
“Set awaits your tribute, Gerard of Stone.”
I had opened the cage and dragged the outraged blonde out by her ankle. We then pulled her on to the altar and put her on her elbows and knees. As I tied her wrists and ankles to the rings, I had noticed a dark stain on the wood.
“Is that blood?” I had asked. “Did you breed a virgin here?”
“No. There were two more girls, but I sacrificed them.”
Perhaps it was a good thing Zana was not in his harem.
“I would like to be owned by you, Master Gerard of Stone,” she stroked my face. “Thank you for showing me what that would be like. I shall remember it, Master.”
I stroked her head and back till she fell asleep.
I would remember it, too.