Alice Sinclair Gorean style BDSM fiction

I am not typically a self-pitying man, but some days it was harder to rise above this weakness than others.

I drew my hood to cover my face and left the Council building, disappearing into Dura’s shoulder-to-shoulder crowds on my way back: a whipped dog if there ever was one.

Dura was a town built from stone, wood, and mud. I passed two and three-story structures of white adobe walls, their floors held up by thick, wooden beams that protruded. Laundry lines and prayer flags hung between them. On one rooftop, an old man threw seeds to a flock of pigeons, they clustered around him, pecking away. On another, a slave girl hung sheets over a stretched clothesline, a baby strapped to her back in a papoose.

Down at street level, it was the usual, midday madness. People squeezed past each other, jostling and pushing. A man driving a lizard-drawn cart cracked his whip in the air and cast. No one moved for him. Vendors sat cross-legged along both sides of the street, crowded under awnings they paid rent to sit beneath. In front of them were baskets of stunted fruit, dried mushrooms, and of course, rice. One found my I and back into me, assuring the finest wearers. Hanging from wooden frames beside him were stretched, dried sinew. Some were from oxen. Others from goats. Most, though, were human.

I let the crowd push me along, trying to lose myself in its business. There was a loud chop of a fishmonger’s cleaver, cutting off the head of a grotesque, armored fish as long as a man's leg. Behind him in his shop, a naked slave girl was bent over the table, scrubbing away at a fish with a shaped flint to descale it. Her hair was tied back from her face with a ribbon. She was chained by the ankle to the table. On another table beside her, another chained slave girl, up to her elbows in gore, was tearing out the guts of a fish and dumping them in a bucket. A cat rubbed itself against her legs. Another stood on its back legs, trying to peer into the jar.

"Did you hear? Gerard was undone! The Council pissed and shitted on him!"

"Ha! Good that they put him in his place! Would that we never have to hear his nonsense again!"

"Heathen, Armanean-loving bastard. One day we will run him out, burn his brothels to the ground, and carry off his slave girls to our temples and cut their throats!"

"By Set, to see his pompous face when that day comes!"

I tried to get home faster than news of my defeat, and failed. Some in the crowd drew that vicious, leering delight at the failure of others that is common to losers of any age. Others seemed to take it as entertainment: mine was just the day’s celebrity news gossip. Both these bothered me less, though, and the fact that most people seemed to have no opinion at all. It is in moments like these that one realizes that not only would most people not care either way if one lived or died; but also, that all one's efforts and achievements counted for nothing to them.

Why was I trying to help these people? Was this just a death spasm of the unsuited ethics I’d brought from of an unborn time? Or was it nothing so noble: instead just the acting out of a rich, bored man’s ego?

I reached my home, a small villa overlooking the river, surrounded by a tall, white wall. I exchanged nods with the guards at the entrance. If they had heard the news, they gave no sign; gods bless them. I entered, bolted the door, and shut myself away from the world for a bit - peace, such as I could have it.

My villa was a modest, two-story structure of white-painted adobe with clay shingles for roofing. It was built around a large, central courtyard which was well insulated from the sounds of the city.

About half the villa was my private museum and study: I had drawn many maps on my travels and had drawn by others. Wealth had allowed me to source from as far as icy Zidon and the insect-reclaimed ruins of Hatadur’s fallen libraries.

Besides maps, there were other artifacts; tablets, papyri, engraved stones. Some were in languages visiting scholars translated. Others belong to scripts surrendered long ago to the creeping event horizon of extinction that follows all of Humankind’s efforts. In one room, three slave girls worked. Amber from my own time; Ina, a priestess I had carried off by my own hand; and a Hataduri nobleman's daughter I had not yet named, who I’d bought for a bag of rice. There they worked long hours translating texts. Literate Hyperboreans, especially female ones, were rare.

The other half of the villa was my harem.

There is nothing quite like setting aside rooms as a playground and stocking them with naked girls. My harem was just ten girls; why would I need more? If I wanted fresh meat, I could get some in the market or from my own brothels. I didn’t breed my harem girls. They were for pleasure. They were exquisitely beautiful creatures, interesting ones that had caught my interest, or just trophies and gifts. I liked keeping the villa low-key: at the end of the day, I needed to be able to get some rest or just time to myself. You really can't do that if you have 25 girls to worry about. Your harem will run you, and not vice versa. 

I hardly allowed anyone into my home. This is because-

Slap!-Slap!-Slap!

What the hell?

Slap!-Slap!-Slap! 

"Oh!" A girl moaned, "oh, Great Cthulhu!"

The sound of someone fucking one of my slaves, was coming from upstairs.

I reached for my sword, which of course was not at my side, grabbed a clay vase of flowers instead, and ran up the stairs.

The stairs led to an open balcony that looked over the Black. Large cushions had been strewn about. In one corner was a brass hookah. Hanging from the wooden rafters were windchimes made from brightly colored feathers and painted copper rods. A set of bronze shackles hung from one rafter.

In the center of the balcony floor, on an expensive, hand woven rug, was a large, naked, man. He had the dark skin and sub-Saharan features of a Darfuri Highlander. His body was scarred by war.

On her hands and knees before him, her long, chestnut hair tossing with each of his strokes, was my slave, Amber. Her blue, silk loincloth and veil lay torn on the rug.

He dug his fingers into her thigh as he worked her, his other hand gripping her by the back of her silver collar. 

Both turned and looked at me.

"It is about time you got back from that Council nonsense," said Fogrim. "I was delayed by pirates - but you, by politics! Ha! How the warrior has fallen… Ah, Friend. It is good to see you again and fuck your girls."

***

“Do no waste your time on these things, Brother. Consider what you could have done, instead! Built a statue to a god. Bought and sold hundreds of girls. Hunted marsh tribals. This world is yours, Gerard. Stop wasting your time and take it.”

As the chill of the sun-denied afternoon set in, we retired to a small, cosy room I used for entertaining. Across the walls, a mural told a story of lion-headed men in gold armor hunting fairy-winged women across a forest. The artist had pre-discovered Da Vinci’s Golden Ratio and used it to guide the eye. Smoke rose from a disk of ground incense floating in a clay water bowl. Tiny blue and red fish swam near the water’s surface, hopeful for crumbs. The whole floor was carpeted with a single, giant, white fur specked with black camouflage markings. The markings looked like eyes staring up at me - eyes big as both my fists held together.

Fogrim and I sat across from each other on low, wooden couches. By my side knelt a petite, pale girl with shoulder-length black hair. This was Kushini, a Marsh Tribe girl I had caught on a recent hunting trip. She wore a bronze slave collar and matching anklets. White crystals hung on little chains from her pierced nipples - they danced as she moved. She held an amphora of wine, smiling as she refilled my cup with the economy of much-practiced motion.

Across from me, Fogrim was (thankfully) dressed in sun-bleached, traveling clothes. He sat leaning forward, sloshing white wine around in a silver goblet. He smiled at it as if amused at the extravagance.

Kneeling before him were two slave girls. One was Amber. I’d sent her off to properly prepare herself, and on returning, she did not disappoint. Kohl underscored sparkling, blue eyes. Her body was oiled and glittered with specks of sparkling mica. Her silver ring collar now had chains that connected to her wrist and ankle cuffs. They clinked as she held out a tray of sweets to him.

The second girl knelt with her back to him - and did all she could to avoid eye contact with me. She was a chocolate-skinned, slender, petite woman - I knew that she was about 21 now. Her features showed South Asian ancestry, but she was no local girl.

Like me, she had been brought from another time.

Her hair was done up in a long, black ponytail, pulled tight through a thin tube of bone. Her wrists were cuffed behind her back by iron rings that looked like coiling snakes. A more elaborate ring, where the snake swallowed its own tail, was her slave collar. I could make out two black strokes tattooed on her inner thigh - breeding marks. She had given birth twice in captivity - when was the second time?

She stared into the distance, back straight, defiant. The very sight of her made me salivate. I was delighted to see that she hadn’t died as I’d feared, just a few days ago.

“Perhaps you are right,” I said, leaning back in my couch.

“I am,” he said. “Now, more so that not.”

“I don’t even see Caral getting it done. He has no track record: he’s just a rich fisherman! There will be no oversight. It’ll be a mess. The Slumlands are already full of disease. Come winter; we’ll end up with cholera.”

“That’s a nice name, Cholera,” He reached down and began fondling Amber’s breasts. They were large and perky; she smiled and sat up, arching her back and baring herself for him. “But you need to stop caring about this, Brother.”

“It’s not that straightforward. Also, I am a town burgher. I am responsible for Dura.”

“For Dura. Not all these people. They owe you nothing. If you died tomorrow, they would dig up your corpse to eat you. Do not think that because people have become your neighbors,” he pulled Amber onto his lap and started fondling her behind, “that they are also your community. You should end all this.”

“What do you mean?”

“All of this. The Slumlands. The camps. You could just drive them away.” He slipped his fingers between the brunette’s buttocks. She gasped and tried to slide off him. He grabbed her by her collar and held her in place.

“Drive them away to where?”

“Gerard, who cares? That is also not your responsibility. We drove Ebugal’s hungry away when they came to our farms. Do not give me that face - you did not see what they did. The burned farms. The smashed grain stores. The piles of broken, cooked bones of men and slaves alike. A woman with a hungry child is more dangerous than any trained spearmen.”

“These people crossed the planet to escape that. And they have rice here. They grow it themselves, even out of broken pots and puddles.”

Amber shut her eyes and made a loud moan. The chocolate-skinned slave rolled her eyes.

“So, you think they are not dangerous?” he asked.

I paused.

“All people are dangerous. You are right; just because they are neighbors doesn’t mean that they are community - but they’ll never become that if we treat them as enemies.”

“That is a naive position. What if they remain enemies? You give, Gerard. It is in everything you do. They speak your name across the Highlands for the rice seeds you sent us. But, you must know when to stop. The ‘takers’ around you never will. Get rid of these people, Gerard. Before they kill and eat you.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Everything is simple when you have a sword. You are better with that than you are with politics. It certainly made you happier. Leave the Council, Gerard. Seek happiness, instead.”

There was a short silence. Kushini went to refill Fogrim’s cup - she bent over, the crystals hanging from her nipples danced. Fogrim whispered something to her, and she grinned and blushed, skipping back to my side. Amber turned and regarded her, glaring.

Fogrim shoved Amber down between his legs. She lifted aside his robes and took his penis in her hands, spitting on it and stroking it. She looked up at him and beamed.

My eyes went to the little, chocolate-skinned, cuffed beauty. Fogrim had tattooed black vines along her calves. Marked on the skin right above each ovary was the symbol of Shub-Niggurath, the fertility god.

“Layla is even more beautiful than I remembered,” I said. She showed no reaction. “I see a second breeding mark. Already?”

“Oh yes,” he looked down at her with a smile. “It is what she is best at.”

Layla was from Great Bharaji, a 23rd Century, AI-run, Giga city that stretched across - and deep under - the entire climate-ravaged Indian Subcontinent. At its peak, 10 billion genetically enhanced humans would live in its underslums. 10 billions that the Landing Beasts hunted from. The city AI let them; the thousands of girls they brought to Hyperborea daily, not worth its energy to even count.

“Do you remember the trade we discussed back in the desert outside Aymund?” I said.

“Oh yes. And I am still in agreement.”

“You are certain? It was not too much to ask?”

Layla’s eyes tracked us through the exchange.

“Not at all. It is time, Gerard.”

“I shall examine her.”

Her back stiffened.

“Come, Slave,” I snapped my fingers.

Layla crawled forward.

She knelt before me, thighs spread, buttocks resting on her heels. I admired the high cheekbones and the oval face, the large, dark, intelligent eyes staring down at my boots. She tossed her ponytail back, baring her neck. I remembered the taste of it: her sweat, her skin.

I gripped her by her throat. The skin was as warm, smooth, and soft as I remembered.

“It is good to see you again, Layla.”

“Thank you, Master,” she stared at me, her expression deliberately blank.

“She had an accent, now,” I said.

“So do you.”

Engineered to thrive in a grim age, Bharaji girls never sickened. They could survive on mosses and algae. They even regenerated; their branding scars seldom lasted a year. Most amazing, though, was their staggering reproductive rate - just three months. They were designed for repopulating after wars.

“Come closer,” I pulled her to me.

“Yes, Master,” she crawled on her knees into my personal space. I felt her breath on my knee. The large, perky breasts rose with her chest, the dark brown nipples were already turning hard.

I took hold of her knees and pushed her thighs wider apart. The two breeding marks were just thin, black, finger-length stripes against her inner thigh. One short, one long - she’d had a boy, then a girl.

“When did you breed her the second time?” I asked, peering between her legs. There were glyphs tattooed along the sides of her outer labia - more symbols of Shub-Niggurath.

“Four months ago,” said Fogrim. “That’s when the first harvest from your rice seeds came in. It was a good crop, Gerard. Many in the Highlands bred, after that. Layla pupped last month.”

I gripped her waist and measured the width of her hips. Then, I cupped her breasts and gave them a squeeze. There was no physical evidence whatsoever that she had ever given birth. Her body had repaired itself completely.

What disasters lay ahead for Humanity that we would come to outbreed rabbits?

“Amazing,” I held her by her hair and tilted her head this way and that, studying her face. She regarded me. The glint in her eyes seemed to be planning my murder. “But, she is wasted on your farm, yes?” I began a verbal game. “She belongs in a breedery, pupping three or four times a year.”

Her eyes widened.

“She does,” Fogrim nodded, joining the game. “But she has not sickened, and I have fed her no rice since the Event: just dead and rotting grasses.” He looked down at Amber. She had taken his penis into her mouth and began rocking her head back and forth. “You cannot feed this pet grass, can you?”

I reached behind Layla, removed her cuffs, and pushed her down on her hands and knees. Her large breasts swung freely. I cupped one and stroked it, feeling the warmth of the dark brown aureole, the hard nipple in my palm.

“But Fogrim, you do not need grass anymore. Your rice is growing well.”

“That’s true, very well indeed.”

I stroked her back like I was petting a horse.

“The pretty bitch isn’t big enough to pull a plough.”

“No. She drags sleds though, well enough.”

Her eyes stared into the rug like slashing daggers.

“Drag? Can she not carry?”

“No.”

“But she can dance!”

“She can?”

“Oh yes.”

“I have not seen it,” Fogrim shrugged.  

I pulled her head up by her ponytail and made her look right into my eyes. She did not try to look away. The shields fear had given her had been dropped; I saw instead all the scorn, the hate - and something else, far more powerful.

“Ah!” she squealed, surprised. She clasped her thighs and tried to squeeze my invading hand out. She could not. I stroked her labia - she was soaking wet! She glared at me.

“Ha!” Fogrim held Amber’s head against him while he ejaculated. “Nothing has changed.”

“Do you need a cup, Slave?” I took Layla by her chin and made her face me. She knelt like a dog. I leaned in till I felt her breath on my face. “You are always wet when you see me. Do you need a cup?”

“No, Master,” she managed.

“The last time you were this wet, I bred you. Do you remember? On the hill, by the spring? Do you remember, Slave?”

“Yes, Master.”

I downed my wine and made her rise on her knees. I put my empty goblet underneath her and made her sit on it.

“Do not drip all over my floor.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And you wonder why she hates you,” Fogrim grinned. Amber had finished; she held his penis in one hand and was licking it clean.   

“Well, one part of her doesn’t.”

“Perhaps it is the part that makes her dance.”

Kushini giggled. I nodded to her. She bowed and left the room.

“As I was saying, she is quite useless to you, Fogrim. You need a girl who can at least carry a sack of rice.”

Kushini reappeared, this time carrying a large, full, burlap sack over her back. She grunted and knelt before Fogrim, head down. Fogrim kicked Amber away. She crawled to the side and stared at Kushini, surprised.

“This girl is better,” I said. “And, she comes with a sack of rice.”

“She is. And she does.”

Layla watched, her jaw slowly dropping in horror.

“Are you suggesting, Gerard, that we trade one girl for another?”

“No. You can have this one for free. I am trading you a sack of rice for a girl.”

“Master!” Layla cried out, trembling. “Master, no!”

She stopped and looked down as we both reached for our whips.

“But - rice?” he asked. He stroked Kushini’s cheek. “Not gold?”

“Not gold. Be honest, Fogrim, do you really think, in this place and time, Layla is worth even a single piece of gold anymore?”

“That’s true. And as you’ve pointed out, she’s only good for one thing. Which might be dancing.”

“I don’t need a dancer,” I grabbed Layla by her wrists.

She screamed and struggled as I cuffed them behind her back. I pushed her down on her belly and held her in place with my boot on her back.  

She looked up at Fogrim, her face pleading, tears streaming. This was not manipulative but raw emotion: slaves don’t cry for leverage. It gets them whipped.

“Yes,” he looked back at her like a farmer might a chicken. “I accept the trade.”

“No!” she screamed.

“Poor little slave,” he smiled and shook his head. “Why did you think I brought you all this way? I sold you to him a year ago. You have been traded.”

“Master, anyone but him! Let me serve any man but him!”

“You were always destined to be his, Layla,” he pushed Kushini’s head to the floor. She got on her hands and knees and began licking his feet. “It is written in the stars. I just owned you for a while and taught you how to kneel. You served me well, Slave, on your feet and on your back. But, now I want a new girl. He is your new master.”

I seized my new slave by the hair. The feeling was electric -- she was mine! I had craved her for years.

“Enjoy your woman, Brother!”

I picked up Layla, threw her over my shoulder, and carried her away to the rest of her life.