Alice Sinclair Gorean style BDSM fiction

I gripped the slave girl by her throat.

The shackles that held her wrists behind her back clinked as I pulled her to her knees. An iron cuff around her ankle chained her to a wall ring. She was a tall blonde, her body slender and toned. All she wore was a crude leather collar. Just under it, small runes had been carved into her throat. They’d been made with a dagger or a heated branding wire. They named the pirate who had captured her.

The slave girl stared up at me with ice-blue eyes. They looked dead - they’d seen far too much. It was a look many of the slaves had, arriving at the docks. It was the men who preyed on them who had survived this apocalypse. These girls were as much victims as the dead they left behind. Those were just bones and memories now, in faraway lands, mulching under freezing rain and ash.

I held her in place and began unbuckling my belt.

The girls sleeping on either side of her did not stir. They lay curled in the straw, their faces at peace. One used her cuffed hands as a pillow against the stone floor. The other lay chest down, her cheek pressed to the floor. They wouldn’t wake for any part of this. Brothel slaves always sleep deeply.

The blonde opened her mouth and pushed her head over my penis. Warmth enveloped it: I felt her tongue stroking. She did a few slow, gentle strokes, looking up at me to check for displeasure.

I gave her no sign.

Perhaps emboldened, she pulled her head free and ran the tip of her tongue up and down the shaft.

Gripping her collar, I forced her head back.

She looked up at me.

I spat in her face.

She did not flinch as the spittle hit her cheek. Her tongue darted out, and she licked it away. She remained staring till I let go of her collar. I gripped her by her hair instead.

She turned back to my penis. With the ease the comes only with practice, she rolled the foreskin back with her lips. The blonde licked the head and kissed it, over and over.

She looked about 23. There was no name tattooed along her collar bone, under her chin, or on the sole of her foot. As with any other livestock, only the outstanding ones got named.

Where was she from? She was not as pale as a sun-starved Armanean. Yet, her long hair was so light it was almost white. The brand on her thigh was a shark tooth - the mark pirates give their captives. She could have come from anywhere: Hyperborea was an ever-melting pot.

She nuzzled my testicles and stroked them with her face. She had high cheekbones; her face was oval. A curling script I’d never seen was tattooed from the tip of one ear, down to the earlobe.

With both hands, I seized her by her hair.

She made a surprised gasp, but no other slaves stirred.

I forced her head over my penis and rocked it back and forth. I pushed till my penis brushed the back of her throat. She did not resist. Instead, I felt her jaw relax. She set her knees wider apart for support.

“Good Girl,” I said. There are two things a brothel slave knows better than any other. When to try to please, and when sit back and be used.

I kept pumping her head. I felt release coming: I pulled out and tilted her head back. She gasped for air, chest rising and falling, semen-saliva mix gleaming on her lips and chin.

I came on her face. Grey white hit her forehead, the bridge of her nose, and around her right eye. Some hit her cheek. Her tongue snaked out and licked it up.

When I was done, I bent her head forward till her chin touched her neck. Then, I bunched her long, soft hair and used it to wipe myself clean. The drops gelled and clumped her hair. I squeezed out the last few drops onto her forehead and shoved her.

The slave girl fell onto her back, her ankle chain rattling. She got back to her knees, sitting back on her heels, head down. She waited a moment to see if she would be beaten.

I did not.

She stuck her tongue out to try and clean her face. The semen hung thick, though, and did not drip. A moment later, she found the solution. She sat crosslegged and lowered her head to one foot. She wiped her face with it, grey-white seed coating her toes. With a shamelessness only a slave girl has, she began licking my semen off her foot.

Hyperborean-born slave girls are young, naive, ignorant meats. Most have never been five miles from their birthplaces. For the most part, they’re simple peasant girls, slum dwellers, and barbarians. All, however, are thankful for food - and a firm hand on their leashes. Our attentions filled the gap left by fathers who valued their sons instead. I was more than happy to keep such beautiful young women on leashes.   

I watched as she finished, cleaning her toes with sucking noises.

“This,” I shook my head, “This is all you are good for.”

She looked up, surprised to have been spoken to. She beamed: it was an innocent smile.

“Thank you, Master!”

I wondered how she could have misread that as praise. I left the slave and walked on through the vault. It was good there were places like this, where creatures like her could be put to productive use.

I could not sleep - and when you own brothels, you have more options than counting sheep. These were the slave vaults under the ‘Master’s Inn,’ my prize business. The vaults were two stories underground to buffer them against the snap freezes of the above-ground world. Shafts lead down into it from my other two brothels and the training yard. Light came from dim torches set in wall brackets. They cast flickering light on the sleeping girls.

With the captives the Vulture had brought, we were up to over 400 girls now. We stabled them, lined up, and chained against the vault walls. Most slept on stone. The best performers were slept on thin piles of straw. All were naked but for collars of iron, bronze, or leather. Each girl was fettered: her wrists cuffed, a chain shackled to her right ankle. Each girl was fast asleep.

I looked behind me: the blonde I’d used had settled back down, eyes closed. My girls were the most popular in Dura - the patrons worked them hard. At two every morning, any girl not still serving in a private room was bathed, fed, and stabled down here. A brass band could start playing, and they’d sleep through it.

And so, when there are more worries than I can sleep comfortably on, I come here to look at my women.

First, there was the problem of the mystery girl found in lands nearby. She’d been bred by a Deep One -- but how? Did those creatures now dare to operate close to human lands? They were formidable - I’d faced them in combat. Yet, claws and fangs are no match for quick steel. They couldn’t operate here in safety except in massed numbers. Yet, a horde would have been discovered. If instead, they worked in small groups -- then who was giving them aid?

A tall, dark-skinned girl lay with her arms around a petite brunette. The brunette had her head on the other’s chest. Her face was at peace. I pulled two lengths of blue-dyed twine from my pouch. One, I tied around the dark-skinned girl’s ankle. She didn’t stir. The other I tied around the brunette’s. Come the morning, the tenders would notice and upgrade the two unnamed girls to a performance table. Men paid more to watch girls pleasing each other. I imagined these two tomorrow: flowers set in their hair. Bodies oiled. A red silk rope tied between their waists. If they had chemistry, they would be allowed to stay together. If not, they would be separated. The patrons would decide; they have a keen eye for such things.

The second concern was the new statue of Dagon. It was a huge construction that could not have been kept hidden from Dura’s many gossips and meddlers. Except, perhaps, if many more than those had worked to keep it secret. Dagonite cultists are all over the Borderlands - these are old lands, and many who live here see the rest of us as interlopers. Yet, they have never gathered before in Dura in such numbers.

In the next vault, nine girls lay in a row along the middle of the floor. They were secured by a device of my own design. It was simple: an iron ring attaching four short chains, and one long chain. Each short chain ended in a heavy cuff. The girls lay as if hogtied, their wrists and ankles held by the cuffs. The fifth, longer chain went to a cuff at their throats. The throat chains were taut: each girl's head was lifted up off the floor. Yet, even within this uncomfortable bondage, they’d fallen asleep.

Their buttocks, legs, backs, and arms were red from the thrashing they'd been given. I knelt by one: a slim, elegant brunette with a blue flower tattooed on her hip. She had no bruises. I pressed and checked her thighs and calves to be sure.

She awoke and looked at me. Her large, green eyes became wide.

I licked her face.

"You will do better tomorrow? Yes?"

She had only pleased four men and dropped a cup of wine. The minimum to avoid a thrashing was pleasing five men. Dropping the wine alone, though, would have got her here.

"Yes, Master!"

"Good girl," I licked her face again and kissed her ear. Her skin was smooth, soft, warm. Tomorrow, each of the punished girls would have to please ten men. If they fell short, even by one, they’d spend another night in these cuffs. Very few girls spent a second consecutive night here.

This was control and punishment in action. It was the simplest and most common way Hyperboreans controlled their slave girls.

The control and punishment technique is simple. Take a girl’s leash in one hand - that is control. Now, your whip in the other - that’s punishment. See how much lighter she finds the leash when she sees your whip? The world she lives in teaches her to expect control. You teach her to fear punishment. In the end, that’s all it all it takes. Everything beyond is just seeking nuance and quality. Few slave girls are lucky enough to be trained to adore their masters. Most slave girls just expect to be controlled and fear punishment.

The third thing on my mind was Caral, the fish merchant. A new burgher to the Dura’s council’s First Circle who sabotaged and stole my idea for public sewers. A fish-faced man who paid in gold coins embossed with the mark of Dagon.

These were problems to solve, but they were hardly mysteries. Caral had to be sea-blooded as Hyperboreans called those born of Deep One matings. He had to be the center of all this. The only thing that didn’t make sense was why a cult would work so hard to hide their activities but let one of their number highlight himself so. Was Caral’s role to distract? He was certainly distracting me.

A little over a year ago, chasing problems like these got me into the ruins of an ancient city, the depths of an alien lab, and a pitched battle between armies. Would these lead me into similar?

If I let them, I expected they would.

In the next vault was a girl with skin the color of light milk tea. She was small made and looked fragile as a bird. The girl was chained at the throat and slept with her belly to the stone floor. She looked quite young: she must have been 18. Her feet were hobbled: leather cuffs were fitted tight around her ankles, a short chain connected them. They would allow her to walk but not to run. I wondered what she had done to deserve this shackling. Perhaps one of the handlers had thought it amusing.

I got down and stroked the sole of her foot. The skin was soft and supple under my thumb. She did not stir. I gripped a slim ankle and pulled her legs apart. Still, the girl slept. Between her legs I could see piercings: studs along sides of her labia. They were made from polished fishbone; they shined like pearls. Pierce and tattoo your slave girls; it turns their bodies into reminders of your power over them.

I settled over the slave girl. She woke, at last, startled. She stared back at me with large, brown eyes. I cupped my hand over her mouth. I didn't care if she made noise. I just wanted her to feel more controlled.

I pushed her legs wider apart with my knees.

She began squirming, trying to get free.

“Do you wish to be whipped, Slave?” I whispered into her ear.

She stopped squirming. Then, perhaps reminded of her status, she spread her legs further apart.

Control and punishment.

“Good Slave.”

I entered her and pushed in, deep. The polished bone studs felt pleasant, sliding against my penis. Her leash chain rattled as I began. I squeezed a large breast until she squealed.

On either side of her, slave girls slept on.

When I came, I pressed her against the floor. Her legs flailed, toes pointed. Once done, I pulled out and sat over the small of her back. She remained still as I wiped myself on her. I stood, and she turned to look back at me.

"Are you pleased, Master?"

I did not answer her - she didn’t even have a name. I checked her ankle chain to be sure it was secure.

I didn’t choose to come to Hyperborea - but I could choose why I was here. I didn’t need to get drawn into its problems again. I did my part, back at Aymund. Someone else could worry about Dagonite conspiracies. My business was to mind my business!  

I looked down at the girl. She was pushing a finger into her vagina and digging out semen. She licked her finger clean then did it again. Come morning, she would brag that the Master himself had used her. When doubted, she would let the other girls smell her finger. It is in these ways slaves gained status. Even in a cage filled with girls, there is a hierarchy.

“It is good,” I said to her, “that there are places like this, where creatures like you can be put to productive use.”

“Yes, Master,” she got on her hands and knees and licked my foot.

I left the pretty little meat, and problems that weren’t mine.