I watched the smoke rising from the apothecary’s district from the comfort of my brothel’s third-story, private deck.
The sun entered the clouds and dimmed like a dying fire. A chittering cloud of insects rose over the riverbank. The mud flies were hatching; foot-long insects crawling out of their burrows to dry their wings. Above them, flying lizards squawked and pounced on them.
Horns blared across the water as vessels left Dura’s docks. The lighthouse bonfire blazed orange-yellow. It wasn’t needed; tonight, the glow of the burning houses was enough for any ship’s captain to steer by. I imagined they would be steering away.
I sat back in my chair and sipped my wine. It is not every day you escape from a riot and take a minor enemy’s daughter as your prize. I didn’t need Juskar’s worried looks to know that I’d crossed a line. I wondered what the fallout would be. Nothing good... Yet, perhaps nothing that bad? The more I pushed at Hypeborea’s limits, the less they pushed back.
Even in a city, could I live by the sword?
I watched from a private deck, but I wasn’t alone. On a table were two performers. Both were of medium height. The brunette one was on her hands and knees. Wavy, chestnut hair fell below her shoulders. She had unknown but, in the main, Caucasian ancestry. Such girls were as common as dirt in Dura’s markets. Around her throat was an iron collar. It was fitted with a chaining ring as large as the circle you make by touching your thumb to your middle finger. The slave girl moved her foot; the chain at her ankle rustled. It ran to an iron spike rammed in the center of the table.
Kneeling beside her was a blonde. The blonde shook her hair back; it spread, silk-straight, spilling down her shoulders all the way to the small of her back. In a less depressed market, that hair would have made her more valuable. Hyperborean men like to run their fingers through long hair of such quality.
The brunette gripped the blonde’s collar, giggled, and pulled her down. The blonde was lowered to her hands and knees. Their heads met: both closed their eyes and kissed. They took their time in that tender, slow way girls enjoy each other. Their heads turned their lips in full contact.
“Apologies, Master,” said a small voice behind me.
I turned. It was a small-made Shemite girl. Her dark hair hung over her breasts as she bowed her head. Tied around her waist was a sash made from knotted rags. A thin, ring collar gleamed at her throat.
She knelt, thighs parted wide, and crossed her wrists behind her head. This was an obedience stance. I enjoyed the display of her well-formed, perky breasts and the pronounced labia. A single bronze ring had been fitted through them both. The kind a master could fit a finger through and pull.
“What is it, Slave?”
“Someone has come from the House of Sempren. He wishes to speak about the Lady Dasna.”
“So that’s what my new captive’s name was. ‘Dasna.’ It would make a good name for a slave, I thought. If she earned it.
The girls on the table rose on their knees and moved closer together. Their breasts squeezed as they pressed their chests together. Their thighs interlocked. The brunette stroked the blonde’s back. The blonde fondled the brunette’s buttocks. Their kisses became harder, louder. Moans followed them.
“What message should I take him, Master?” asked the kneeling Shemite slave.
I thought for a moment.
“Say that you have told me.”
There was a pause.
“Is there anything else, Master?”
“No.”
She nodded, rose, and left.
Sempren’s agent could wait. He would wait as long as I wanted. I had his leader’s daughter; let him think about that as he idled and cursed my name. The longer I could drag this out, the longer Sempren would wonder what happened to his lovely Dasna.
I looked back at Dura. Here was a city I had tried to help build. To reshape for the better. I wanted it to become a real home for those who needed it, not some sewer where they would be used. Dura could have become a great nation-state that shaped the whole region - if not the world.
Yet, people are people. What a fool I was to be surprised at such a thing! Now, all I felt for Dura was amusement at its misfortune. Its citizens were shortsighted, selfish people. That’s all they would ever be. I had become just like them, too. I was fine with this. Where I’d failed to teach them idealism, they’d taught me their way, instead.
I smiled to myself and sipped my wine. Yes, Dura, let us see how you push back at me this time!
On the table, the blonde now lay on her back. The brunette was crouched over her, her buttocks over the blonde’s face. The brunette, clutching the blonde’s thighs, lowered her head between them. I heard licking. The blonde bit her lip and smiled.
I stood and went over to the girls, wondering how long I should make Sempren’s agent wait. The brunette stopped, and both girls turned to look at me.
“Master!” the brunette smiled, her eyes sparkling.
I pushed hair out of her face and stroked her cheek.
“Open, Slave.”
She opened her mouth wide.
I spat. I missed, and the saliva hit the blonde’s buttock. The brunette’s head dipped, and she licked it off. Then, she looked back up at me, mouth open.
I took hold of her by the hair and forced her head back. Then, I spat again.
This time it went in. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
I pulled down my pants. The brunette tried to lick my penis, but I held her still by her hair.
“Oh!” the blonde gasped as I pushed my penis into her. I slipped right in; she was warm, wet.
I gripped her by her thighs and began thrusting. Each stroke buffeted her, rattling her ankle chain. All was fine until she started faking moans… New girls have this problem. There’s no point telling them about it; just use the whip. Then, it stays fixed.
The brunette, perhaps reading my expression, shoved her buttocks down over the blonde’s face. The blonde was quieted. The brunette closed her eyes as if savoring a sensation. I could well guess what it was the blonde was doing to her… My thoughts drifted away from whipping. Slave girls sometimes protect each other like this. I am undecided if it is a good or a bad thing for their masters.
A few thrusts later and I came. I pressed myself against the blonde as I spurted. I pulled out when I was done; vaginal secretions gleamed on the shaft.
“Clean it.”
The brunette’s mouth closed around my penis. She started sucking me clean, her tongue stroking up and down the skin. I waited till she was done, her lips pressing in a ring around me as she pulled her head back.
Yes, I thought to myself. That was long enough for Sempren’s agent to wait.
I wiped myself on the brunette’s face, pulled my pants back up, and left the deck.
Seated in the hallway playing cards were two slavers.
“Could you give the blonde ten lashes?” I asked.
“Of course, Burgher!” they stood, one going for his whips. “What am I teaching her?”
“To not to fake her pleasure. Can you give the other one twenty lashes, though? Tell her it is for trying to help the blonde.”
It is best not to let your slave girls turn to each other to better their situations. Therein lie alliances, conspiracies against you, and escapes. Make them turn against each other. Make them see that you alone are their path to better food or a bit of straw to sleep on. Divide them in this way, and they will never again be free.
I left to see Sempren’s agent, wishing politics was as easy as slaving.