Alice Sinclair Gorean style BDSM fiction

“That gambler at the card table is throwing around gold like he has never seen it before.”

“That’s not unusual, is it?”

“It is for him. I checked; no one has seen him go beyond silver before. Now he’s at five gold - so far.”

“Is he cheating?”

“No.”

“So why do you care, Juskar?”

“Because all his gold is stamped with Father Dagon’s seal.”

The Meat Chains made me good money from Dura’s lower and underclasses. However, it was ‘The Master’s Inn,’ my pride and joy, that made me money off its more prosperous middling classes. Shopkeepers, traders, boaters, and the new elite risen from the dirt; the farmers.

The Master’s Inn was a large, two-story tavern building. Three corridors lined with rooms branched off from it, forming a ‘T’ shape. The two-story main structure was the tavern, proper. This is where meals were served, drinkers gathered at night, and we put on little shows for entertainment. The rooms were for traders who didn’t care for crowded spaces, or who of course had come for a girl or two.

Inside, the main structure was built like a ballroom: a large, open space, enclosed by walls of white stone. Throughout the room were heavy, wooden tables. On each knelt three slave girls, backs straight and knees parted, their hands on their thighs. They were naked but for their collars and a little rag tied around their waists (which concealed nothing). They smiled as men studied them, deciding where to sit.

The lunch crowd was small, and mostly traders visiting Dura. I saw a robed, Borderlands rice merchant shaking his head at a giant, Armanean pirate who sat back and folded his arms, tight-lipped. Before them were piles of gold coins and a small set of scales. A dark-skinned Darfuri slave girl, still kneeling on the table, smiled at them and topped up their wine cups. Below the table, the two other girls got to work, reaching between the men’s legs and pressing their heads in to take their cocks. Presently, the men’s moods improved, and they went back to discussion. The girls under the table giggled. One wiped semen off the other’s lips, then licked her finger clean.

At another table, a scarred, Shemite bounty hunter frowned as a robed scholar read to him from a papyrus, his finger following the lines. Two bored slave girls sat on the table, swinging their legs and playing with their hair. The third held down the ends of the papyrus for the scholar. She leaned forward, giving him a good view of her large breasts. The scholar, immersed in his text, showed no sign he noticed.

Loudest in the room were some dark-skinned, Darfuri merchants laughing and toasting each other with red wine. A pale, dark-haired girl carved roasted pork and served them. A slave with Eurasian features had been pulled onto one man’s lap, her waist rag used to tie her wrists behind her back. She lay against him, her cheek pressed to his chest. She looked up at him, eyes filled with rapt adoration. She moaned as he worked his hand under her between her thighs. It wasn’t just patrons who had their favorites.

I sat at the bar counter having a river-chilled beer. I sipped it through a straw in the Shemite style, a practice going back to their long-gone Sumerian ancestors who wouldn’t exist for another 300 million years. It was the second beer I'd had; Napoleon once said in victory one deserved champagne, but in defeat, one needed it.

Juskar, a natural-born auditor, had decided that managing and documenting the offloading of a slaving expedition was not enough work for him and had come down to the Master’s Inn to look at the books. Fortunately for the accountant, the matter of the gambler had distracted him.

I looked towards the gambling table. We had three; large, circular tables. Six people could sit around each, with room enough to hide their cards. Hyperboreans love gambling; it went well with drinking and whoring. I didn't run the tables but instead opened them up to local gamblers for a cut. The Armaneans dominated the game; for those worshiping Azothoth the Idiot God, chance was not random but religious.

The man at the table was younger, perhaps in his mid-to-late 20s. He was of mixed ancestry, as one would expect from one of this world's melting pot cities. His dress was more practical than luxurious. Around his neck was a black and white medallion not unlike a Yin Yang. It was the seal of a gambling priest, a cultist of Azathoth. The priest had the easy, casual arrogance that comes with that age that empowers men to dare anything. Forget empires. There are few things more disruptive than a young person working towards an "impossible" goal.

At the table with him were three other men, all peering behind screens like the ones a Game Master might use to hide rolls from the players. One gambler’s forehead was beaded with sweat despite the cold. Another kept reaching for his drink to hide (poorly) that he couldn't keep his hand still. The third glared like a sorcerer willing a rival to catch fire.

At the center of the table in front of them were stacks of gold coins. I counted over 20 gold. It was rare at the Master’s Inn for stakes to go over ten gold pieces. Remember, you could now buy as many women for that money.

People seated near the game had stopped their conversations, turning back in their seats to watch. Even the serving slaves, who steal such moments to attend tasks handsy patrons may prevent them from, kept looking towards the table. Most distracted were two blonde Amazons dancing beside it on a small platform.

One wore a play harness of delicate, bronze chains, fitted with dark, holly green stones. Pasted to her forehead was an emerald. Her green eyes had been accented with black eyeliner. Her lips brushed with dark purple pigment. Swirling patterns in dark green had been painted on her long legs.

The other blonde had eyes of ice blue. She wore a veil made from thin, silver chains that danced as she moved. Around her belly was chain a set with white crystal. Her belly and buttocks were marked with circles of white and blue body paint.

Their bodies gleamed with oil that shone as they rubbed against each other. The blue-eyed beauty slid to her knees, running her tongue down the other’s belly and licking between her legs.

And yet, all eyes were on the gamblers.

I went over to the table.

The men smiled and nodded as I approached. The priest seemed the most pleased.

“Lightning Shield!” his accent was Armanean. “Would you join our game?”

“If there is no objection, sir, I would.”

There was some shuffling as they made room for me at the table. The priest won the round, and they dealt me in for the next.

There are, of course, no printed cards on Hyperborea. Some games used woodcut tablets with hand-painted scenes, but these were expensive and rare and more often displayed as art pieces. More common were games that used counters or dice drawn from a pouch and cast.

A bell tinkled. I turned and saw Belled Pet running up, a tray of five gambling pouches held in both hands. She wore a gray rag tied around her waist. Around her biceps were bronze rings. Smaller ones were fitted on her ankles. It was a pleasant sight; I recalled her lips around my cock just a few days ago. I wondered how many others she had pleased since then. I did not think she would try running away again.

Belled Pet placed the pouch tray on the table and stepped back, head down, avoiding eye contact. We picked dice from a cup at the center of the table and rolled to see who would pick first. Then, to see if highest drew first, or lowest. Lowest won and picked a fresh dice pouch. I went second. When all of us had picked, Belled Pet collected the used pouches the others had been playing with.

“Come back, Slave,” I said without looking, “with my drink. It is at the counter.”

“Yes, Master,” Belled Pet said in a small voice and rushed off.

“She’s a fine little bitch,” said one of the gamblers. “I might have her, later.”

“Shall we begin?” said the gambler priest.

We began.

The game was called Forever Lands. It was like a combination of Magic the Gathering with Poker, with an escalation mechanic that could see a whole fortune lost in a single game. Laying a strong build helped insulate a player from the dangers of luck. Aggressive play and bluffing could make up for a weak build. It began in stealth, but gradually, one had to reveal one’s build. Players had to guess at another’s possible strength, force good pieces to be discarded by making attacks, and test brinksmanship to raise stakes.

I reached into my pouch for my first draw. Six, cubic blocks, each made from cut and polished human finger bones. Holes had been drilled into them for numbers, and runes carved on their faces. Three were ‘land’ blocks of medium strength. Two were attacks, and one was a blank dud. It wasn’t a great start. If I drew stronger land blocks in the second drawing or some good attacks, it would even out.

“Your bids?” said the gambler priest.

“Five Silver,” said one.

“Raise to Six,” said another.

“Raise to Eight.”

We went around the table, bidding. The stakes settled at one gold, and everyone put a piece at the center of the table. I had three gold on me. The gambler priest, Solon I learned, was his name, used a coin just like the one I’d found outside the Council building that morning.

Belled Pet returned and placed my drink by my side.

“Remain to serve the table.”

“Yes, Master,” she stepped back, head down.  

Then, we went to the second drawing. I drew weak blocks, low-quality land, and more duds. A better player would fold at this point and smart at losing a whole gold. I, however, wasn’t here to play Forever Lands.

The other player began laying blocks out on the table for all to see. Interest spiked among the onlookers; even Belled Pet watched. The two dancing blondes had quite forgotten their task and just touched and themselves and swayed, watching the game - and me. I caught Ice Blue’s eyes: she smiled and blew me a kiss. They wanted to see how good their master was.

I pulled out the best blocks that I had. I laid down the minimum, two. Solon, the gambler priest, did as well. His face was blank as desert sand. Good luck trying to read a people who’s played games of chance as a form of prayer.

“Bids?” he asked.

“One Gold, Two Silver.”

“One Gold, Three Silver.”

“Folding,” one player shook his head and sat back.

“One Gold, Four Silver,” I said.

“Two Gold,” said Solon.

It was quite the jump. He’d had a strong build from the start, perhaps, and was now bullying the table to give up their stakes or risk following him down what could be even costlier punishment.

“Folding,” said another player.

“Folding,” said the third.

It was just Solon and me now.

“What will it be, Lightning Shield?”

“Three gold,” I said. A gasp went up around the room. “Will you see it?”

“Yes,” he said without reaction, moving two more Dagonite coins to the center of the table. I took the last of mine and put them up as well.

“Attacks,” he said. “Giant Worm and Ice Shark,” he put down the blocks.

“I cannot defend,” I moved my two revealed blocks to the side to show they’d been discarded. Then, I made my own attack.

“Ant Swarm,” I put down the block.

“Forest Fire,” he played the counter. It canceled my attack. We moved the blocks to our respective discard piles.

“Shall we show?” he asked. From the second draw onwards, the game can be ended and builds compared to see who the winner was.

“No. Forever.”

A gasp went up around the room. The other players exchanged stares. Even Solon seemed uncertain.

“It’s your gold,” he said. “Draw.”

This is what made the game. By saying ‘Forever,’ I had pushed us into a third draw. More blocks would be revealed, but more would be held in secret reserve. A weaker player could recover. A stronger one could find themselves weakening. They couldn’t know for sure till the game ended - which could be delayed again with another invoking of ‘Forever.’ With each cycle, the stakes grew and the pressure to quit. Attacks became key -- they could clear away an opponent’s public build, pushing them towards (more likely) defeat.

I looked at my third draw; it was much stronger.

“Four gold,” said Solon as he laid down his public blocks. He moved a fourth coin to the center of the table.

“I am out of gold,” I said.

“Then, the game is done, at three gold.”

“You two,” I pointed to the dancing slaves. They stared, surprised. “Come here. You as well,” I took Belled Pet by her arm and forced her to her knees. “Solon, will you accept slaves?”

He watched as the three girls knelt in a row beside me, heads down.

“Yes. Yes, I think I will.”

“Shall we say they are worth three gold, each?” I offered.

“Let us say four,” he smiled. “They are, after all, girls from the House of Stone.”

There were claps and cheers from around the room. I noticed that everyone had stopped to watch, even the scholar who’d been reading the scroll.

“You are too gracious,” I said. I looked at the girl with the ice-blue eyes. “You,” I pointed to the table.

“Yes, Master!” Ice Blue climbed onto the table and crawled to its center on her hands and knees. I had to look past her large and pleasant behind to see Solon.

“That takes us to seven gold then, Solon.”

He pulled out three more coins - all Dagonite. Juskar was standing a few feet away, frowning as he studied the coins. Solon looked to him and to me, then back to him. Then, he seemed to put the man from his mind and stared at the block behind his screen.

“Attacks.”

We fought. I had the Chthonian, which would have destroyed his whole build without allowing a counter. I set it aside: I wasn’t here to win his gold. I was here to count it.

I made a weak attack instead. He countered it. He attacked me again, and I took a small loss.

“Shall we show?”  

“Forever,” I said. Another gasp went around the room.

Solon sat back. He seemed to now be questioning what was going on.

“Are you good for it?” I asked. “Else, the game ends now, and we show.”

“No,” he said, pulling out another coin pouch and putting it on the table. He reached in and counted out four gold coins. He counted them again, pausing. “Eleven gold,” he said as he placed the coins in the center.

I looked to the two other slaves, the dancer with green vines along her legs, and Belled Pet. The dancer stared at me, her jaw slowly dropping.

“Table,” I said to her.

The dancer climbed on and crouched alongside the other, staring down at the table.

Belled Pet began to fidget - Juskar came up behind her and held her by the back of her collar. She stared at me, her fate coming to an inflexion point.

We played. I did poorly.

“Forever,” I said again.

“I have no more gold,” said Solon, biting his lip. His body seemed as tense as a drawn bow.

Eleven gold. All coins stamped with the mark of Father Dagon. How did he happen to have a small fortune on his person, all of the exact same coinage? There were many different coins in Dura, some quite ancient. No one bothered with where they came from - only their purity and weight. As such, coin pouches were literally a mixed bag.

I had learned what I needed.

“Then let us show,” I removed the screen and revealed my build.

“Azathoth awakens!” Solon clapped his hands together and cheered, his face going red. He sighed and sat back, drained, knocking his screen aside. His build was - surprisingly - only a bit stronger than mine. His luck had been on par, but he had played better and committed himself to the judgments of his eldritch God of Chance.

People in the room began to clap. I stood, and we clenched arms, the Hyperborean handshake.

“You are an excellent player,” he lied.

“And you are mad one. Well played! Enjoy your beauties.”

“Thank you.”

I gave him a complimentary room for the night to try out his new girls and left.

***

I stepped into the alley late that night, snow crunching under my boots. It had started snowing by late evening; ash descending from the upper atmosphere had tinted it dirty grey. It collected against the windows and peppered the streets, lit by the light pools of outdoor braziers. Above, the sky was pitch dark - as it had been every night, for months.

I blew on my freezing fingers and rubbed my hands together. Where was he?

At last, I saw a figure coming down the alley, a torch held over his head.

I stepped into the middle of the street.

The figure stopped.

“It’s alright, Solon,” I said. “I just want to talk.”

There was a pause.

“Out here?” He said at last. “Couldn’t we have talked at the inn?”

“I didn’t know who else might be listening.”

“I seek no trouble with you,” he said. His words were slow and picked with care. “You can have all the gold. All of it. I sold the girls, but if you want, I can get them back for you.”

“Relax, I’m not here to rob you, Buddy. I just want to know where you got those gold coins from.”

A longer pause.

“It’s just gold. Azathoth’s gifts to a simple gambler.”

“Have you only been gambling with Caral the Fish Merchant?”

“I-I can’t remember where they all came from. I really must go,” he turned back.

Back the way he’d come, Juskar and two other men stepped into view. Large men with clubs at their sides.

“Can you remember now?”

He looked both ways. He seemed to be bracing himself for action.

“You have nothing to be worried about. I just want to know where you got the gold from. That’s all, Solon.”

“I seek no trouble,” he repeated.

“And you’ll get none. I can protect you, Solon.”

“Not likely. If you must know, we stole it.”

“From Caral?”

“I don’t even know who this Caral is.”

“Who is this ‘we?’”

“There’s nothing you or your men can to make me tell you.”

A deadly code of silence? Our priest was a gangster.  

“I think you’d be surprised.”

“I wouldn’t be,” said Juskar, stepping forward. “Maybe you best leave, Gerard. I’ll have your answers by the morning.”

“Solon, must we do it this way? You will talk. The only difference is whether you leave in a minute - or a few hours. It makes no difference to me.”

Solon gave me a long, hard look.

“You’re a warrior,” he said at last. “Aren’t you supposed to be honorable?”

“I stopped caring what others think. I encourage you to do the same; it’s liberating. Look, Solon. I’m not asking you to sell out your people. Just tell me where I can find them and who’s in charge. I’ll ask them the rest.”

“Go to Grey Sands,” he said. “And ask for Kovan.”

Grey Sands was an area in the middle of the Slumlands. It was beyond the short, timid routes taken by the town’s patrols. It was a largely Armanean ghetto.

“Kovan? Will that be enough to find him?”

“It’ll be enough for him to find you. Can I go now?”

I nodded and stepped aside. I joined Juskar and his men, crew of the Vulture, as we watched Solon disappear into the night.

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” said Juskar, snow settling on his hair.  

“Perhaps. Have him followed: find out where he lives. If he lied to me, we can always ask him why, in his own home.”