VIOLENT/NON-CONSENSUAL SEX WARNING/DISCLAIMER: It is a story portraying a Conqueror/slave relationship, so it would appear non-consensual at first. As for sexual violence, there are scenes (In parts 3 and 4) which are detailed and graphic, and may not suite some readers.
Disclaimers: See Part 1
http://www.angelfire.com/id/DarkAngel/stories.html
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Part 3
After she had concluded a successful campaign in southern Gaul, the Conqueror and the Imperial Guard, along with two of her legions, made their way back home. Since Corinth was over a day's ride back, the Conqueror ordered her troops to make camp at the outskirts of town and made an overnight stop at a tavern along the way, accompanied only by her highest ranking officers.
The tavern in which she chose to do her guzzling that night wasn't one of the more renowned or prestigious ones in the Realm. However, it suited her purposes. The innkeeper and the barmaids nearly trampled over themselves serving her and her entourage. Trays loaded with food and drinks ceaselessly made their way to the best table in the house, but the Conqueror's appetite demanded something else entirely. The campaign had dragged out a fortnight longer than expected, and a battlefield was hardly the place for a body slave. The Conqueror had left her body slave in Corinth, for she believed the slave might take focus away from her soldiers.
The Conqueror took a hearty draught of mead and signaled the Innkeeper for a refill.
"Has anyone in particular caught my Liege's eye?" asked the Innkeeper when he filled up her goblet.
"That young thing over there," the Conqueror said and pointed her finger in the direction of an unattended slattern, the best looking in the house, who was lounging at the feet of the stairs.
The Innkeeper immediately clapped his hands and the young brunette quickly made her way to the Conqueror's table.
With the fire of battle burning in her veins, the Conqueror wasted no time. She rose to her feet, and her officers in respect rose to their feet with her. She bade them good night and took the tavern's wench upstairs.
In the room she had rented, the Conqueror turned to the girl she had picked.
“Do you know who I am?” She asked.
“I do, your Majesty,” the young woman replied.
“Have you heard of my reputation?” she inquired further.
“I have, your Majesty.”
The Conqueror paused and examined what stood before her. “Good,” she finally said, “so you know what to expect. Go lay on the bed,” the Conqueror instructed her.
The woman smiled seductively and began to disrobe. She walked over to the bed. Her occupation was evident in each of her movements, her manners all business-like, her expressions artificial and cheap, and nothing like the golden-haired slave that waited for the Conqueror at home.
The Conqueror moved her eyes over the body that was lying on the bed, and her mind became haunted with the angelic slave she had left in Corinth, and how she pined for her softness and her sweet scent. Her will left her and the roaring need she had felt simmered down. She had no desire to take what she paid for, and it bothered her.
The courtesan wore a puzzled look on her face when she saw the Conqueror dallying. A look, the Conqueror realized, her slave had never given her, wouldn’t have dared given her, and the Gods knew the Conqueror had given her plenty of reasons.
The Conqueror let out a deep heavy grunt as she reached for her inside pocket and retrieved a golden coin. "Do you know what I’m buying?” she asked the harlot as she took the smaller hand into hers, unfolded the shorter fingers and placed the golden coin in the harlot's palm.
"My silence, your Majesty,” the harlot replied.
“Indeed,” the Conqueror confirmed.
The harlot closed the palm that contained more than she could earn in a season tightly, and said: "Your Majesty is too kind."
“You will wait here for two candle marks, then leave.”
“I will, your Majesty."
After two candle marks had passed, the harlot was about to leave the room.
"Your Majesty can trust me. A good prostitute is a discrete prostitute, and I'm very good at what I do," she said before she left.
When alone in her room, the Conqueror was left to deeply ponder about her pathetic and unprecedented failure brought on by an incomprehensible obsession she had with a slave, a nobody, a nothing. True, the Conqueror found her very much to her liking and the girl served her better than any other that had come before her, but this carrying on was quite out of proportion. This was unacceptable. This could not stand.
Come dawn, the Conqueror made her way back to camp and mobilized her army back to Corinth. At dusk, when she entered her city, her subjects greeted her and her triumphant army with drums, flowers and merriment. Only this time, the Conqueror didn't linger to enjoy her subjects' gratitude. The Conqueror made her way, unaccompanied, to the temple of the Fates, which she hasn't visited since her brother had been killed all those years ago.
There was fire burning on the altar. The Conqueror held a small leather pouch containing 700 Dinars, and threw it into the flames.
"This is her price," she stated. "She's worth even less now that I've used her. Whatever my debt is, it is now paid in full."
But when the Conqueror was riding back to her palace, the young slave kept occupying her mind, an infraction she would be forced to pay dearly for.
In the Royal stables, the Conqueror dismounted her mare, handed the reigns over to the stable boy and took a riding crop and a branding iron with her.
Before she entered her chambers, the Conqueror had taken a burning torch from the corridor's wall. It was time to punish her slave for spoiling other women for her, a time to put her in her proper place.
When she set foot inside her suite, a thick heavy darkness one could almost touch was ambient like an omnibus cloak. Surrounded by utter darkness, the small flame nearly blinded her sight at first but it soon dispelled the darkness.
With a broad slow movement of her arm, she illuminated her surroundings. As the cast rays were arcing in the shadows, she spotted her slave kneeling at the foot of her bed wearing nothing but her collar and a familiar blank expression on her face, as if no time had passed, as if nothing had happened, as if she wasn't about to face the Destroyer of Nations provoked by unspent battle lust and barely reticent rage.
The Conqueror lit up the hearth and placed the tip of the branding iron in the whispering glowing ambers. As she affixed the torch against the wall, the Conqueror remembered earlier days when she hadn't cared whether it had been lust or hatred she had seen in her conquests' eyes, believing fire was fire.
An uncanny force compelled the slave to seek after her Lord's intentions, but when her eyes fell on the branding iron reddening in the fire, her blood ran cold and fled her face in a rush. She considered that she must appear whiter than the wall she found herself briefly leaning against. She distinctly felt a shiver run down her spine and her palms broke icy sweat. However, true to form the slave composed herself in a blink of an eye.
Intently, the Conqueror fixated her eyes on the slave's illusive countenance, as if it was narrating the secrets of the universe to her. She immediately understood the significance of it, as though in absolute lucidity.
Livid, the Conqueror grabbed the slave by her collar and hoisted her up in the air. Her blood lust-induced strength was unrivaled and awesome.
"You are my whore," the Conqueror stated like she had just caught some eluding truth for the first time. She then careened her head slightly to the left as though to better penetrate her slave with her glare. "That is all you are," she declared.
Rough hands landed the slave prone on her back atop the spacious desk. The hands pursued to cup the slave's milky breasts. "Let there be no misunderstanding..." the Conqueror said as she secured one hand over the slave's mouth while the other traveled between the girl's thighs. "That is all you'll ever be," she said with a curious smile that was chilling in its gentleness.
The Conqueror unbuckled her leather belt. "And you’ll be treated as such," she spoke her words intentionally. She wanted her words of exhortation limpid. She incapacitated her slave, who was no bigger than half her size against the desk.
With her mouth throttled, the slave was incapable of offering any pleading, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. She was a slave and that’s what she was there for.
"Silly sentiments," the Conqueror began whilst leading the distended head of her protruding phallus into the slave’s opening, "are tedious redundant blabbering. Lust," she continued and pushed herself into the slave’s tight sex, "is brief and to the point."
She withdrew the enormous assault-organ, and burnished its length with the slave’s moisture, but her need to have knowledge of her slave and to share knowledge with her ushered it back into its natural habitat.
The dark Lord could feel her erection being augmented, becoming harder and stiffer against the body she was taking. She could feel the slave’s depth around her shaft.
"I've killed any sentiments I had for my dead brother." The first thrust of her member was barbaric and scathing, but the Conqueror didn't hear a scream. "I've killed warriors and warlords in battle." She crammed herself into the slave a second time. "I've killed their wives after taking my pleasure." The Conqueror kept on driving her device in and out of the slave's womanhood, dipping it forcefully again and again for her selfish satisfaction and hearing nothing but her own crude voice.
The slave could hear the chill in her Lord’s voice; she felt the shaming penetration between her legs and the humiliating betrayal of her body against the Conqueror’s drillings into her. Her head, as always, was turned away from the Conqueror, but the Conqueror gripped her face in her hand and forced the slave to meet her eyes.
Never neglecting her gagging hand over the slave's mouth, the Conqueror leaned down till she almost covered the prostrated slave. When her face was but a hair away from the slave's, she asked a question that imbued fear of a previously unparalleled kind in the slave.
"How hard do you think it would be for me to kill you?" The rhythm of the Conqueror's pounding quickened, as did her rasping grunts of cathartic pleasure. "I'm life and death to you," she said and wrapped her hand around the slave's throat. "I own you," another raw jab roved into the swollen slit, "my worthless whore." The ram that followed her latest words was the deepest yet and elicited an unbridled cringe out of the slave.
The Conqueror suddenly halted herself, still buried inside the quivering slick flesh. "You brought it on yourself, didn't you? You provoke me because you enjoy me grinding myself into you like this, don’t you?" The Conqueror asked as her mouth was at the slave's ear, and her thick tongue traced its rim. Her voice was staid, low and hoarse and her eyes were extinguished, inert and glazed like dark cobalt marbles. They peered directly into the eyes of the lachrymose slave, but couldn't be bothered enough with really seeing them.
The Conqueror's tongue lathed the slave's face, hoarding the sweet salty tears, and then her sharp teeth sank into the slave's nipple, making the sensitive bud buzz with heat.
The Conqueror released her hold over the slave and got off her. After a few short moments, she returned with her crop and with her exacting hand she taught her slave the very definition of 'Possession' by introducing flagellation that left beautiful pulsating welts all over the slave's overwrought flesh. The Conqueror ordered the slave to turn around and lift up her backside and gave the slave's buttocks and thighs the same harsh, uncompromising treatment.
Finally, the Conqueror went to retrieve the branding iron from the hearth. She clutched it in her merciless hand. The Conqueror's insignia on its circled end disseminated a healthy orange glow like a freshly salvaged ember still ensnaring live fire.
Maintaining her scowl, the Conqueror's steel grasp put an end to the smaller body's pointless flailing, leaving the slave with nothing to do but shrink above the table, eyes riveted on the burning metal.
"This will insure you'll never forget what you are and to whom you belong," the Conqueror chided and with the incandescent iron rod, she reinforced her words by heartlessly stamping the right side of slave's back, just below her shoulder, branding what was hers. The sizzling grilling of the flesh, like the slave's shrieks of horror, cries and whimpers of harrowing pain, fell on deaf ears, as though the Conqueror had been submerged under water, incapable of hearing anything that existed outside her head.
When it was over, the Conqueror examined the cauterized wound.
"Like a birthmark…" She smiled sinisterly, and the virile rocking of her pelvis continued. "You should have been born with it," she said and ran a probing finger over the permanent, long overdue memento she had singed into the body of her slave.
The slave tried to keep her body from trembling with sheer fright and the frenzied beatings of her heart were matched by the Conqueror's pounding into her. She felt a slap against the lower part of her buttock, in the way of a man praising a fine horse who has carried him well.
After the Conqueror finished, she pulled herself out of the slave, then yanked the latter to the ground. The slave quickly and silently assumed a kneeling position at her Lord's feet.
The Conqueror fed the slave's garments to the hearth, making it perfectly clear to the slave that she was to return to the pen exposed, allowing all she would chance along the way to witness her Lord's mark on her.
A knock on the door signaled the Conqueror's guards to enter her suite, which reeked with the odor of sex and burnt flesh.
“I’m done with her. Get her out of my sight,” she commanded.
On the way to the pen, one of the guards lost his supper at the sight of the slave's body and the smell he had gotten a whiff of.
As she was lying on her stomach on the pallet back at the pen, after she had tended to the fresh wound on her back, the slave soothed her mind by telling herself not to take the Conqueror's obscenities to heart and to simply be grateful that she had survived her Lord's infamous battle lust.
The next day, just after sunset, the slave prepared herself for service by rubbing scented oils on her skin and accentuating the color of her lips to please her Lord, but she wasn't summoned. She wasn't summoned the next day either. When a solid moon had gone by, another sort of dread nestled within her. She knew the Conqueror hadn't left her palace. In fact, she'd even seen her from afar on occasion, and yet her service hadn't been resumed. The slave never neglected her daily preening ritual, notwithstanding.
She busied herself with watching over the staff's children and reading in the Royal library, keeping her persistent thoughts at bay; but at nights, barring them became impossible. What would be her lot if her Lord had lost her taste for her? Would she be resold or would her Lord keep her nevertheless out of pity? Was her Lord capable of mercy? Had her Lord taken another in her stead? Had her Lord found her new servant to be preferable to her?
Did it really matter?
Slaves needn't have pride, she told herself.
When at last she was summoned for service, she all but sighed in relief.
TBC