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Roland and Allison - 7/2/2014 7:26:57 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Okay. I’m going to give this a shot. But first:

Disclaimers and other stuff

The following was written for two reasons:

Practice at writing and Fun.

The following is fantasy and should not be construed as advocacy for or against any particular issue in the real world.

The author assumes no responsibility for any consequences if the reader should attempt anything they read here. Again: THIS IS FANTASY! Safe, Sane and Consensual is the key to great BDSM in the real world.

The following takes place on a fantasy world that exists . . . somewhere. It is a male dominant/female submissive story in the Gorean mold, by which I mean that you will find many Gorean concepts (my BDSM roots are showing). Despite the similarities, this is not Gor . . . you’ll find no Priest-kings, Kurii, sleen, or Ubars here.

I welcome constructive criticism on spelling, grammar, narrative, structure, characterization, etc.

I am starting off with the Prologue and the first two chapters. I hope that will be enough to entice people to want more. If so, I’ll post additional chapters in a few days to a week from now.

I hope you enjoy,
Marc2b


_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!
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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/2/2014 7:34:24 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Rolland & Allison.

Prologue: Dawn.

It was a need to piss that woke him up. The young man emerged naked from his small tent, to stand in the pale light of a moon just a hair’s breadth from being full. The moon loomed large near the western horizon which was never very far away in this northern hill country. Sure enough to the east he could see the first traces of light, as if someone had hidden a giant candle beyond the hills. The more distant hills wore crowns of light in hues of red, orange, yellow and purple. But the sun could not compete with the moon yet and the later threw its pale light across the landscape, leaving long purplish shadows in its wake.

He was glad to have awoken. The night had been filled with dreams . . . vivid . . . troubling. He did not want to dwell on them. He had enough to dwell on during his waking hours, especially today. Today was the day! Stepping carefully in his bare feet through the tall grass he relieved himself about twenty paces from his tent and could not help but be awestruck once again by the incredible beauty of this place, no matter what time of the day or night it was. Roland Halefert was a city boy through and through. He had not been prepared for the beauty. Buddy, his horse (a silly name for a horse, he knew, but the animal had taken an instant liking to him and so it seemed appropriate) stirred from his sleep to stare at him and then decided that whatever Roland was up to, it didn't concern him, and so he went back to sleep.

Roland was starting to forget the dreams from the night before and to help that along he occupied himself first by checking to see if his fire was completely out (it was, he concluded, after stirring the ashes around with a stick) and then by checking the two rabbit traps he had laid. A part of his mind told him it was foolish to tread so far in the grass without anything on his feet – without his weapons! – but there was something reverent, almost mystical, about making his way naked slowly over the few hundred yards to each of his traps and then back again through this blue tinged, shadowy world. His passage stirred up sleepy moths and butterflies and was accompanied by the melody of amorous frogs and crickets. In some distant trees, dark and indistinct, he could see fluttering shadows that he knew to be bats. He returned to his tent in disappointment. Both traps had been empty but he had learned already that he was more likely to find rabbits in them toward the end of the day rather than the beginning.

Buddy had decided to get up after all and was helping himself to a morning much of the abundant grass. There was no thought of going back to sleep for Roland, either. He was too full of nervous, excited energy. He pulled out a chair that had been resting beside the tent. He had fashioned it himself out tree limbs, strips of bark and one of his three wool blankets as a cushion. It may have looked like a crude construction but it was solid, sturdy and comfortable. He had also fashioned himself a large, long table the same way… useful for keeping many of his items off the ground. On further thought, he put the chair back. He didn’t want his bare ass crack fouling up the seat, even though he had bathed the night before. Instead he sat down on the ground (using more care than he had taken with his steps), drew his knees up, folded his arms across them and then rested his chin upon his arms to watch the sunrise. To distract himself from his excitement he contemplated his recent good fortune once again.

Five hundred acres! His! Five hundred acres of forest and meadow with two good sized ponds and a wide deep creek that flowed swiftly. The forest abounded with game and the ponds and creek seemed to over flow with fish. Game fowl fluttered through the meadows and the soil, he’d been told, would yield good crops. And it all belonged to him – a reward from King Malcolm for Roland’s service in the King’s Militia. The militia had done its job, delaying the Palasian army long enough for the regular Karmaran forces to flank the enemy, in the epic (as everyone seemed to agree) Battle of the Border. It would have been epic for Roland even if history had not already rendered its judgment. It was the first, and so far only, battle he’d ever been in. The battle had won the war and the war had won the Kingdom of Kamara a vast, virtually uninhabited, new territory.

The Rucklands, as they were called, had long been disputed ground between the Kingdom of Kamara and their larger neighbor to the east, the Kingdom of Palasia. The Palasians had tried to force the issue once before, some three centuries earlier, when they invaded their smaller, supposedly weaker, neighbor. Confident of victory they were stunned to be handed a humiliating defeat thanks to the superb military leadership of the Kamarans who had simply out thought and out strategized the Palasians. After that, by treaty, the Rucklands were neutral territory, home only to scattered bands of brigands, religious cults, and the occasional blessed lunatic… until the Palasians tried to force the issue again. Now, by the new treaty dictated by a victorious King Malcolm, the Rucklands were recognized as sovereign Kamaran territory, ripe for colonization. Now, the Palasians were home again, licking their wounds and consoling their injured pride in drink while trying to fathom how the Kamarans had managed to do it to them again. And now, thanks to King Malcolm generously sharing the spoils that his loyal subjects had won for him, Roland owned a large piece of virgin land.

I can make a good life here, he thought, if I can pull it off. The “ifs” were many and mighty but he was determined to go forward. Nearly a third of his fellow militia men had opted to sell the land bequeathed them and return to the city and the towns but the twenty-three year old Roland had lived a hard scrabble life in Castle Kamara, the capital city of the kingdom. He had been mostly unemployed, despite his having carpentry skills, thanks to his generation being a baby boom. He was often hungry the last few years, though he admittedly would have been less so if he hadn’t spent what little money he occasionally managed to earn in taverns.

Desperation had driven him one day to armed street robbery which landed him in the city dungeons and a date with the noose. That’s when, at what appeared to be his darkest hour, good fortune first shone on Roland. That’s when the news hit the streets. War with Palasia! King Malcolm needed every good subject to do their duty! He also, it seemed, needed the not so good subjects for a Royal Decree went out immediately:

All male subjects of the Kingdom between the ages of fifteen and forty-five years who are idlers, wasters, drunkards, no accounts, malcontents, brawlers, scoundrels or libertines are hereby inducted into the King’s Militia where they shall give obedience to duty until such time as they shall be honorably discharged from service.

That’s when Roland learned that his date with the hangman was canceled and he was now a proud and loyal private in the King’s Militia. He had no complaints.

He looked around, imagining how he could make this place look. The house over there, beyond the tent a ways. Not much at first, a single room with a fireplace (lots of good stone by the creek!) but once he had properly seasoned wood, he could build a bigger one later. A vegetable garden over there and, in the meadow between the two ponds, orchards, even though it would be years before he could enjoy their bounty (apples and pears and cherries!). He could even see himself planting some vines and making his own wine. He could grow the barley and rye and brew his own beer! He could distill his own spirits! The possibilities were numerous. Truth be told he knew next to nothing about farming or distilling or much of anything about life outside the city, but he could learn. In the meantime his carpentry skills would serve him well, people would need furniture and other items after all and he had recently acquired a good set of tools. Time and hard work. That is what it would take. That… and one more thing.

Buddy gave a bored sounding neigh, interrupting Roland’s enforced reverie. He realized that he was ignoring a beautiful sunrise, so lost in though he’d been – the orange globe was half way above the hills now.Roland stood up, revealing a trim but well muscled body that had not yet quite reached its adult fullness but was well past the awkward lankiness that so often accompanies adolescence. A few scars testified to the rough and tumble upbringing in Castle Kamara’s poor section, and to the more recent engagement. His hair was darkly blond and, once unkempt, was now kept short. Dark blue eyes competed with a strong chin to dominate a slightly blocky face.

The day held promise of being clear and warm with a gentle breeze. He inhaled deeply of the pungent smells of nature and it added a kick to the energy that was already coursing through him. It was light enough; there was no point in waiting anymore. Roland walked over to his tent which was under the shade of a large, lone, maple tree that stood like a sentry over this stretch of meadow. The branches of the tree were useful in hanging some of his equipment and a convenient place for his clothes to dry. Another sturdy branch was perfectly located for another purpose but that would come later today – if the day went as planned. He decided to don the “civvies” he had been issued when he had been officially released from service – cotton pants and shirt, leather vest and a leather belt – along with his military uniform they were the only clothes he possessed. It was the middle of spring and he could get by on them for now but purchasing or trading for proper clothing for the winter would be a priority during the warm months before then. Today, though, he was not going to worry about it. Today he had a different purchase in mind.

After he laced up his boots he girded on his short sword and sheathed his dagger. The Rucklands had supposedly been swept clean by both the army and the militia but it was still possible that brigands or crazies were still around though Roland had never seen any. The virgin wilderness was also home to some vicious predators – bears, wolves, even some forest cats.

He hoisted on his back pack containing his mess kit and then grabbed his water skein, with its long leather strap, which he slung over his shoulder. Lastly, he grabbed his money pouch which was resting in a small depression he had dug underneath his tent. Not the best hiding place he knew but it had to do under the circumstances. He didn’t like to think that his fellow militia men would steal from each other but he didn’t know all of them personally and he wasn’t taking any chances. The purse had a nice heft to it and jingled nicely, as well it should – it held thirty three silver coins. It was another example of the king’s generosity. Every honorably discharged militiaman had been given land and silvers – amounts depending mostly on rank. Roland had received five hundred acres and one hundred silver coins – the highest reward King Malcolm had given out. This was because the sergeants and lieutenants of the militia had all praised his bravery and had cited his courage as one of the reasons the militia’s line had held during the critical moments of the battle when it had wavered and looked like it might possibly break.

He had never told anyone (though he suspected that many of his comrades knew) but it hadn’t really been courage. It had been terror and rage. The terror came from the realization that he might actually die, might actually end up as nothing more than another disemboweled corpse on the blood soaked ground. Oh, he had know that he might die going into the battle but the bravado of youth had not allowed him to actually believe it until the pivotal moments of the battle when the Palasian army (professional soldiers much better trained and more experienced than he and his comrades) began hurling itself against the militia’s lines – confident that it could break through and escape the trap King Malcolm had craftily lured them into (“peasants playing private” was the professional soldier’s sneering view of militiamen). Seeing what they were up against many of the militia had begun to quail, had begun to fall back slowly against the onslaught and looked poised to break into a headlong run to some imagined safety.

Roland had felt that terror too. There was an unfairness, a supreme injustice, to it all. He was young! He was healthy! There was so much more that he wanted to see and do and experience. He did not deserve to have his life end so soon – and at the hand of invaders at that! That’s where the rage came in. How dare they! How dare they arrogantly invade his country, disrupting his life and putting it in danger (the fact that their invasion had bought him a reprieve from the hangman’s noose had slipped his mind at the moment). Bellowing his rage he unleashed it upon the enemy. Battle Frenzy! That is what it was commonly called but Roland was aware of an older (and in his estimation, much more accurate) term for it: Berserker Rage!

Rage having overpowered terror, Roland hacked and slashed at the enemy, heedless of his own safety. He enjoyed the expressions on their faces as he sliced their necks open with his dagger or plunged his short sword into their bellies. They were expressions of shock and disbelief. They were the expressions of men who could not comprehend that this truly was the end of their life – and it had come at the hands of someone they obviously considered an inferior. That only added to Roland’s rage. Unaware of it at the time, Roland’s headlong plunge into the fray inspired a few of the men near him, which in turn inspired others and so helped to turn the course of battle.

In all fairness and honesty, had the Palasians the time to fall back and regroup, they probably would have broken the militia’s lines in a second charge… but they had run out of time. The Kamaran army had arrived behind them and the Palasians – despite having outnumbered the Karmarans nearly three to one – were sliced into disorganized groups by the Kamaran Cavalry and those groups were ground into pieces by the Kamaran infantry and militia. Roland’s memories of all this were not that distinct. What memories he did have seemed more like fuzzy dream images. He seemed to simply have “woken up” one moment to find himself, sword raised in victory over his head, bellowing in inarticulate triumph, breathing hard and standing in the middle of carnage – soaked from head to toe in blood. Most of it belonged to the enemy but he soon discovered that he had two good slashes on his arm and a stab wound in his leg.

With a start Roland realized that he was woolgathering again. He gave the money pouch another jingle and then secured it to his belt. Thirty-three silver coins. That’s what he had left after purchasing the horse, a plow, a small wagon to hitch to Buddy, tools, and other supplies (most of which were hidden in the forest under branch covered tarps or buried in caches – not taking any chances on that stuff either!). The prices had been all outrageous. “We have a greater distance to travel,” whined the merchants, “that increases our expenses. Our expenses go up, the price goes up.” That sounded reasonable to Roland but he still suspected them of upping their prices more than an honest profit demanded. He wondered how much the item he planned to purchase today would cost. He was certain that he had more than enough but it still distressed him a little how quickly his one hundred silver was dwindling. Well, no point in worrying about it now.

Buddy was standing by the small wagon expecting to be hitched up. Smart horse, thought Roland but he grabbed the saddle instead. “No wagon today,” said Roland to the horse as he saddle it up, “what I’m buying today will be able to walk back here on its own. Roland mounted the horse and started off at a canter. “Today, Buddy, I’m buying me a woman.”


< Message edited by Marc2b -- 7/2/2014 8:12:41 PM >

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 2
RE: Roland and Allison - 7/2/2014 7:50:01 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Roland & Allison.

Chapter One: Early Morning.




As Roland slowed Buddy to a walk to begin the climb of the final hill before reaching the new frontier town of Harold’s Stand, he caught up with a man named Robert heading in the same direction. Robert, on foot, was forty-one and despite the difference in their ages the two had formed a strong friendship during their shared experience in the militia. It was, Roland knew, a much more valuable friendship for him than for the stocky dark haired, dark bearded (with just a few flecks of gray) Robert. The man was a barge full of good practical advice – although he could be exasperating at times, like an overbearing dad.
“Who is this scruffy old mongrel blocking the path of his betters,” Roland proclaimed with mock indignity as he came up behind the man who had been a corporal in Roland’s unit during their service together.

Robert stopped, slowly turned around and put his hands on his hips. “And jess who is this disrespectful pup yapping at his elders?” Roland smiled as he brought Buddy to a halt, dismounted and shook his friend’s hand. The hand shake quickly evolved into a bear hug and back slapping. When it ended, Roland, leading his horse, walked beside his friend as the two men conversed.

“So,” said Robert, “I take it ya heard about the new merchandise that’s coming in today.”

“New merchandise?” Roland asked in faux innocence. “I have heard nothing. I am merely out for a pleasant morning’s ride.”

“Ha!” Robert bellowed. “And your pecker’s leading the way!”

“I suppose that would be difficult for an old man like you to understand, what with your own pecker having shriveled up and dropped off long ago.”

“Well my pecker has had a lot of experience, which is more than yours’ could say. It’s so inexperienced that it probably doesn’t know which hole to aim for.”

Roland stopped, looking puzzled. He scratched his head and then, sounding like a confused school boy said, “but you told me they were all good!”

“Ha!” Bellowed Robert again and the two men shared a good laugh. They resumed their journey up the hill and after a moment Robert said,” Seriously, Roland, don’t let looks alone be the deciding factor. Every man wants a hot body and a pretty face but slave girls like that are two bits for a dozen. What she has in here,” he tapped his forehead with a couple of fingers, “will be of even more importance. You don’t want an idiot. What you want is a woman who has some useful skill or knowledge, something that will be a benefit to you.”

“Well, I do want a good cook,” replied Roland.

“Yeah, that’s another thing every man wants in his woman. I’m talking about something like knowing how to tan hides or how to sew, some skill that you can trade for other skills.” Roland had to admit to himself that he hadn’t really thought of that. The men had already begun trading skills. Robert, who had grown up hunting in forests, had already organized hunting parties that shared the meat. This same group was going to help each other chop down trees and, with Roland’s carpentry skills, build each other’s first dwellings. One of their friends knew everything you wanted to know about fishing. Another had been the one to show them how to construct and set simple traps for rabbits. Those with skills were teaching the others. Even if it was only physical labor, everyone was contributing to each other’s survival. Groups like that were forming all over the newly settled territory. For some reason it had not occurred to him that slave girls could contribute skilled knowledge to the group. Rather dense of him now that he thought about it.

“You’re right,” he said. “It would be nice to have a slave who could sew.” Men’s fingers, after all, were not really meant for sewing. During his time in the militia Roland and the others sometimes had to resort to patching their own uniforms – such patches were never anything more than crude. Roland sometimes wondered why they had bothered at all.

“Aye,” grunted Robert, “you could have her sew other men’s clothing for trade. So don’t jess feel ‘em up. Talk to ‘em, ask ‘em questions. You plan on keeping her for some time, so make sure she’s the right one. Besides, there’s a good chance she’ll be the mother of your children and that’s another reason you don’t want an idiot.”

That too had not occurred to Roland. The upper classes, the nobility and the wealthier merchants would consider it scandalous to sire children off of slaves (though it unquestionably happened from time to time – not that such children were ever acknowledge by their free parent) but the lower classes weren’t so selective. Roland’s own mother had been his father’s slave for twelve years. Yes, Robert was right; he should deliberate carefully on his purchase. “I shall heed your counsel, my friend” said Roland with overly grave seriousness. Robert scowled for a second then grinned. They walked in silence for about another minute then Roland asked, “how much do you think they’ll go for?” He was trying to approach a sensitive subject. As a Corporal in the militia Robert had received a hundred acres of land and twenty-five silver coins. That was a little more than most of the Privates got but far less than the much praised Roland had received. If his friend felt any jealousy over it, it never showed.

“Well,” said Robert, “I’ve noticed that most items have been going about a quarter to a third higher than they would back in Castle Kamara.”

“Back in the city a young healthy slave girl would fetch about eight to ten silver.”

“Ayuh, so I’d expect them to go for at least ten to thirteen. Of course, we have to consider that slaves are a lot more numerous in the city than here.”

“Any kind of woman is a lot more numerous in the city than here… and men want women.”

“You can be smart when ya wanna be. Ayuh, I reckon they could be going fifteen… maybe more.”

There was an awkward moment of silence and then Roland decided he owed it to his friend to be honest and straightforward: “Do you have enough of your reward left?”

“I still ‘ave seventeen silver.”

“You’ve only spent eight?”

“Aye. I bought an ax and a hatchet – gotta have those out here – and a few other items. Haven’t needed to spend much yet. I’ve me tent and other stuff they let us keep when we were discharged. I’ve hunted and trapped enough food so far. I figure none of us will do any plowing till next spring so I haven’t had to really buy much else.”

Roland thought about the plow he had bought and wondered if it had been foolish not to wait. Merchants were just beginning to trickle in and Roland felt that he had to snatch the plow up because he wasn’t sure how long it’d be before more became available. He had reacted to emotion, not reason, he now realized. He knew nothing about farming, and so far no one he had met did either. It would be a serious problem if they had to depend upon hunting and fishing alone for food. “What about a horse?” asked Roland?

“I’m close enough to town that I can walk it. If I can make my land productive, I can earn the money to buy the other things I need. I ‘aven’t had me a woman for far too long. I aim to have me one.”

“But a good one,” laughed Roland, “one with a great brain as well as a great body.”

“That’s right. I don’t let my pecker do my thinking for me… but that don’t mean I don’t let it contribute its’ thoughts on any given matter… and on the topic of women it has very strong opinions.”

“Don’t you mean hard opinions,” quipped Roland. Both men laughed at this and then Roland, somewhat hesitantly, said, “If the one you want goes for more than seventeen silver, I’d be willing to loan you a few.” Robert stopped at that and scowled. Roland stopped as well. It was one thing for friends to buy a round of drinks or a joint of beef for each other. This was different. “No charity. I would not insult your pride so. A loan, offered strictly out of friendship.”

“I thank you for that. But I prefer to be in debt to no man… even you.”

“I understand.”

“Still, I appreciate the offer. I’m sure, though, I’ll find me a good one within my means.

“It just doesn’t seem right, though, everything out here costing so much more. I know the merchants have to spend a little more to bring it out here but I can’t imagine it costs that much more.”

“Yeah, but what are you going to do? We’re buyers in a sellers market.” Roland was no expert on mercantilism nor had he ever heard the phrase before, but he understood the meaning.

The two men resumed walking and the conversation drifted toward when they should get together for another hunt. Roland got the impression that Robert had something else on his mind but was holding back. Probably wants to talk to all of us about it, thought Roland, who therefore didn’t bother to inquire. After several minutes they crested the hill and looked down into the broad valley below. A wide flat expanse was bisected by the curving flow of the Kamar River. In a jut of land between two loops of the river was the newly established town of Harold’s Stand.

Harold’s Stand was named after the only militiaman to garner praise equal to Roland for his actions during the battle (he had been in a different unit and on the other end of the line, so Roland had never known him). Unfortunately, he had died of his wounds a few days after the battle so instead of land and silver his shade would have to be content with having a new town named for him. Perhaps, in time, Harold’s Stand would grow into a prosperous market town of cobble stone streets, thriving businesses and elegant houses surrounded by neatly hedged fields and pastures. Perhaps. Now, however, to call it a town – to even call it a village – was to give it an honor it didn’t really deserve.

The “town” was basically a large grassy field (well trampled but not yet churned into mud) consisting of tents of various shapes and sizes. Some were quite large and fancy (noblemen looking to buy up land, no doubt) but most were strictly utilitarian. A large, heavy beamed, stable was the only completed building. Three more buildings were under construction: a courthouse (the king’s law must be upheld, even way out here on the frontier), a post office (the king knew the value of reliable communication), and a smithy (who currently practiced his trade in a large tent next to the uncompleted building). Space had been cleared for another building, probably a branch of the Royal Bank, was Roland’s guess. Only along the main road (little more than a dirt trail) did there appear to be any semblance of an ordered layout. The further from the center one looked the more haphazard the placement of the tents. Those at the edge of town were the smallest – pup tents the same as Roland and his friends had. Some were probably men whose new lands were more than a day’s travel away. Some probably had not bothered to inspect their new land but were looking for buyers instead. Fools, thought Roland. Unimaginative fools. Throughout the town, here and there, were piles of stone and stacks of lumber and a little ways to the east were the silt trenches.

The sounds of the town carried easily. Roland could hear the clanging of the smithy’s hammer, the bangs and clatters of the men working on the new buildings. Underneath it all was the hum of conversation, spiked now and then by a raucous laugh or an angry shout. Roland could smell the town as well. His nose detected the mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat and a subtle tingle of spices from some merchant’s tent but it was overpowered, most unfortunately, by the reek of unwashed bodies and the miasma of the silt trenches. Roland was used to such odors and knew his nose would adjust quickly. Indeed, he was surprised how reeking he found Harold’s Stand to be when he first visited. Nature, he had learned quickly, can be quite pleasant smelling and once one got used to it… he wondered if he would find Castle Kamara to be foul smelling should he ever return.

Robert gave Roland an elbow jab in the ribs and nodded his head toward the south. There, in the distance, little more than a vague dark outline, he could see a wagon coming up the dirt trail pulled by a team of horses. One man sat on the wagon, handling the reins while others walked along side or behind it. They did not hold Roland’s attention. The other figures marching single file behind the wagon did. At this distance the chains connecting them was not discernable but the figures they held were. The shapes were unmistakable: women… slave girls. Roland felt his heart beat faster and his loins stir. It had been a while since he had even seen a woman, much less used one. He looked at Robert and both men grinned at each other. “I suppose we should get down there,” the older man said.

“I suppose we should,” said Roland. They started down the hill but after a few minutes it became apparent to Robert that Roland was really chomping at the bit to get down there in time to see the wagon go by.

“Go,” said Robert.

“Huh?” was the young man’s reply.

“Go. Get on your horse and go. I’ll catch up.”

Roland grinned at his friend, quickly mounted and said, “I’ll see you down there,” as he rode off.

“Youth,” muttered Robert to himself, “no patience at all,” but he picked up his pace as he said it.

♦♦♦

As Roland entered town he dismounted Buddy and led the horse again. There were perhaps two hundred men lining the road, arching their necks toward the slow approaching wagon. Most of them were recently discharge militiamen like Roland but he spied a few noblemen as well as some of the craftsmen, merchant men and workers he had met on previous trips to Harold’s Stand. Roland knew many of the men here. Some were close friends, others only acquaintances. He exchanged several greetings from nods to handshakes but they were all, by unspoken agreement, quick and pre-functionary. Everyone’s attention was elsewhere.

The sound of marching boots – familiar to militiamen of course – temporarily broke the spell of the (maddeningly slowly) approaching wagon. Those standing nearest the source heard it first. The turning of their heads started a wave of turning heads that moved down the two lines of men. The source had come from a large tent next to the mass of scaffolding that was the soon to be the courthouse. Fourteen men were marching down the middle of the road. Thirteen of them wore military uniforms of leather and polished brass. Each wore a helmet and had sword and dagger girded on. Each carried a large cudgel in his right hand. They came down the road in two columns of six each with a man wearing a plumed helmet leading them.

Roland recognized the uniforms immediately. He had encountered them often growing up in the meaner sections of Castle Kamara, and of course when he was arrested. They were members of the Royal Guard. If King Malcolm was generous with one hand he held a big club in the other. These men were that club. Selected (a great honor) and trained for their position from the age of seven these men were the elite warriors of the kingdom. Any one was said to be a match for any five men and they were fanatically loyal to the King. Throughout the length and breadth of the Kingdom of Kamara, and through all the social ranks from slaves up to the Dukes one piece of common wisdom was held: you don’t mess with a Royal Guardsmen. Yeah but you were nowhere near the Battle of the Border, were you, thought Roland with contempt though he knew the thought might be unfair. The Royal Guard had been held in reserve in case King Malcolm’s brilliant plant turned out to be not so brilliant after all. Either way, Roland counted himself amongst those who had no intention of messing with them.

The fourteenth man, striding out ahead of the guardsmen, was also recognizable from his clothing. A dapper looking gray haired man who looked to be in his late fifties, he wore a loose white robe (though there were some dirt and grass stains on the hem) with a broad purple stripe on each sleeve. He was a Magistrate, an executor of the King’s laws. Break the King’s law and men such as this decided your punishment. Men such as this held the power of life and death over men like Roland. Another Magistrate had sentenced Roland to death only nine month’s earlier. By all the gods, thought Roland, it seems so much longer ago.

The authority of Magistrates came directly from the King himself. They answered only to him and were considered direct representatives of the King. They never wore armor or carried swords. The King’s word was their protection. An attack upon a Magistrate was considered the same as an attack upon the King himself, and Roland didn’t want to imagine the consequences of that. In silent deference to this authority, the long lines of men all pulled back from the side of the road a step or two in another wave down the lines. It dawned on Roland then what the reason for the presence of the Royal Guardsmen and the Magistrate was (beyond that of being men who wanted to look upon some naked women). The potential for riot and chaos, the potential for violence, was very high here. He was standing in a crowd of over two hundred men – most of them armed. Two hundred men all of who had at least a half a stiff one. Two hundred horny, women starved, men. And there were twenty naked women in chains coming down the road.

The Magistrate stopped as he reached the head of the two lines but the Royal Guardsmen continued forward, spacing themselves out evenly along the lines. Not very sound tactically, thought Roland but he realized that reputation was a formidable weapon in itself. But if everyone is afraid to test the reputation, how do you know it’s justified?

There was some grumbling amongst the men over the presence of the Magistrate and the Royal Guardsmen. Most, Roland was sure, understood instinctively at least their reason for being here but a few loud complainers voiced their belief that the Magistrate intended to confiscate the women for his own. The gray haired man quickly put an end to that speculation and made his intentions clear.

“Loyal subjects all,” he proclaimed in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone (a voice louder than Roland had thought him capable of), “have you heard any word about new arriving merchandise?” This brought some cautious laughter from the assembly. “By all means,” he continued, “let us enthusiastically greet our new arrivals but,” his voice took on a stern tone of command, “let us keep our enthusiasm contained within civilized limits. We wouldn’t want any unpleasantness to mar this joyous occasion.” More cautious laughter came from the crowd, this time containing an undertone of resigned acceptance – from most of the assembly. Roland hoped it was enough.

The wagon and those with it were clearly visible now. A cheer went up from those closest to it and spread down the line, soon to be followed by the appreciative shouts, catcalls and wolf whistles of the men. Roland joined in with eagerness. There they were! Women! Twenty beautiful naked women! Each one had her hands manacled behind her back and each wore a leather collar – a long chain, clinking as they tramped along, connected each woman, via an iron ring on her collar, to the one behind her and in front of her. It was their right side that faced Roland so he couldn't see the permanent mark of their enslavement, but there was no doubt in his mind that each of these women had the circle and S symbol branded onto her upper left thigh.

Their journey showed upon them. There hair was limp and scraggly and each was covered with a film of dust (their lower legs were particularly grimy) but that mattered to neither Roland nor any of the other men present. Women! Jiggling breasts and flat bellies, long legs and enticing pussies and oh those sweet curves. They were beautiful. Their very presence was intoxicating. Roland was finding it hard to restrain himself but he didn't want to be the first one to incur the displeasure of the Magistrate and thus be made an example of – a notion that most of the assembled men seemed to have. There had to be one fool, naturally. The fool stepped forward and grabbed at the first slave on the line, a small and rather young one who cringed and yelped loudly in fear. One of the guards with the wagon gave him a sharp blow on the head with his cudgel, staggering him and causing him to fall back. This brought some angry protests from those around him but two more Royal Guardsmen were suddenly standing there and the brief fracas ended.

At first, Roland found it difficult to focus his attention on any particular one. They were all enticingly beautiful but there was a wonderful variety amongst them. Some were tall, some short, some in between. Breast size was also equally distributed ranging from ponderously large (too large, in Roland’s opinion) to small (but none that could be called flat, he noted with approval). There was brown hair, blond hair, black hair and one red head (who drew a large amount of interest from the assembled men). They appeared to range in ages from one woman in her mid-forties (a few streaks of gray in her dark hair gave her a look that was oddly both dignified and lustful) down to a girl (the yelper) who didn't look a day over eighteen, with most being in their early to mid-twenties. The majority kept their heads bowed and their gaze held steadfastly on the ground in front of them, trying to hold their faces in immobile masks of inscrutability but failing to completely hide their evident fear. The bodies of several trembled. A few cast surreptitious glances at the crowd. One (the yelper), looked particularly terrified and disbelieving. Roland got the impression that she was new – very new – to her collar.

As the line of woman began to slowly walk by him, one of the chained females did garner Roland’s extra attention. Twenty years old, give or take a year, he estimated. She had long brown hair and brown eyes that were trying to look impassive but could not hide the fear she felt. High cheekbones framed a pert nose above full lips. Her breasts were neither too small nor too large and were nicely rounded. More than ample enough for a man to enjoy, they still possessed the supple firmness of youth that allowed them to defy gravity. Her areolas were also perfectly round, framing her nipples which, like all of the slave girls (including the yelper Roland had noticed) were quite hard. Her navel was round as well, accenting a taunt belly. Her other set of lips, just below the patch of dark fur were full – “the puffy kind” was how he thought of them. He always liked the puffy kind though he reminded himself that arousal might be playing a role in their appearance right now.

The day wasn’t hot enough to work up a sweat yet. All the dust and dirt on her was dry, save one spot. Her juices weren’t flowing like a fully aroused, begging for attention female but that pussy was definitely enjoying itself despite her obvious fear. All of the slave girls, Roland had noticed, had obvious moist spots. The little yelper had the biggest one of all.

Instinctively, Roland inhaled deeply and his nostrils flared. The air was full of the subtle but intoxicating scent of aroused females and it was having its effect on the crowd. A few more men made lunges toward the chained women only to receive painful blows from wagon guards or Royal Guardsmen. Two were knocked unconscious and had to be dragged away. A few others were restrained by their more level headed friends. For a moment Roland feared that chaos would break out despite the Magistrate’s warning but the situation returned to relative calm though a strong feeling of tension remained in the air.
Roland returned his attention to the brown haired girl. Her legs weren't long but they weren't short either, and they were as nicely curved as the rest of her. Her feet were small but only because they were female feet. They were the right size for her and despite being caked in dirt they somehow retained their feminine allure.

Every part of her was perfect! Every part of her was an epitome of female beauty and female enticement on its own. But it was more than that. Each part seemed to blend, almost flow with its neighbors perfectly. The parts might all be fantastic but the whole was indeed greater than the sum of it parts. Roland was finding it impossible to put into words.

According to the Priests back in the city (pompous, boring, moralizing old men as far a Roland was concerned, he hoped it would be a while before any of them showed up in Harold’s Stand) woman was created when, shortly after creating the first man, the Elder God Yassa went to his son Crassus and asked him to create a helpmate for man. Someone whose “strengths will fill in for his deficiencies, who can be a fertile field for his seed, and bring him both ecstasy and contentment yet shall always desire him.” Crassus then spent seven years studying man. When He finished his deliberations He next picked up a piece of the earth, a piece of the sea, a piece of the light from the daytime sky and a piece of darkness from the nighttime sky. He took a piece of the sun and a piece of the moon before asking his father for a piece of man which Yassa granted (the Priests never said which piece from man Yassa took – Roland had, upon occasion, wondered about that) Cassus then retreated into his workshop. It would be another seven years before he emerged with his creation: woman. When Yassa saw woman he proclaimed her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen though he was not surprised at this, Cassus was an artist after all (he was, in fact the patron god of artists). Roland agreed. Cassus’ artistic genius showed in every one of these women. But you’ve reached the pinnacle of your craft with this one, he thought.

She was coming by him now and Roland felt a compulsion he could not ignore. Fixing his gaze on her he loudly proclaimed, “By all the gods, let you be the one!” She glanced at him. It was quick, so quick he almost didn’t notice it. In that single glance her eyes rapidly took him all in. She breathed a little deeper, a slight flicker of her tongue moistened her lips and a small squirm in her loins caused her to misstep a little but she recovered quickly.
Roland liked her reaction very much. He felt his own loins stir again. He also felt a hand take a firm grip of his arm. Robert had caught up with him. “So ya thinking about that one, huh? She’s pretty enough I ‘spose.” For a few seconds, Roland contemplated punching his good friend in the mouth.

“She’s utterly fantastic,” he replied instead.

“She’s got a nice ass, that’s for sure.”

She was passing him by now (her gaze once more firmly fixed on the road) and Roland got his first good look at her backside. Roland was not particularly religious but as he watched those firm and curvy butt cheeks joggle up and down as she walked, he did give thanks to Crassus. As she moved forward with the line she became harder to see as she was partially obscured by the women behind her (Each very nice in her own right, Roland admitted to himself) and the crowd itself, then he lost site of her altogether just as the wagon was slowing to a stop. Roland took a deep breath, then said,” I am quite tame, you can let go of me now.”

Robert obliged but added, “jess remember what we were jess talking about.”

“I am. I just really want it to be her.” Everyone seemed to quiet down instinctively and the two men joined the others in turning their attention to the Magistrate as he began to speak.

“Welcome good Slaver, as you can see your arrival here was keenly anticipated.” Almost as if on cue, the crowd chuckled appreciatively. “On behalf of the good and loyal subjects of our most benevolent King Malcolm, I welcome you to Harold’s Stand and extend our hospitality.”

“Thank you, your Honor,” replied the merchant. He must have been standing on his wagon because Roland could see the upper half of his body quite clearly. He could see only the last few slave girls and they were all kneeling, knees close together (unusual that, there were certainly no free women present) and heads bowed. The merchant spoke loudly, as had the Magistrate, so that his voice would carry to the whole crowd. “And I thank you one and all for your warm welcome.” Another appreciative chuckle emerged from the crowd.

“Tell me good Slaver,” said the Magistrate, “have you heard aught of any other merchants coming to our fair town.” The description of Harold’s Stand as a fair town brought a few guffaws from some of the gathered men, which the Magistrate briefly scowled at disapprovingly before returning his attention to the slaver.
“Much is on its way,” responded the slaver, “grain, garments, tools, beer (this brought a hearty cheer from many), and I know of at least three more wagons of slave women that should arrive over the course of the next week.” Another cheer went up from the crowd, accompanied by some applause.

Roland realized that he was watching a play, a set piece. In all probability the Magistrate and the slaver did not know each other, had probably never met before today. Yet each saw the potential danger here and each understood the need to diffuse it. Each knew the role he had to play, the lines he needed to recite and the all important knowledge that had to be gotten across to the multitude: more women are on the way! Don’t be disappointed if you don’t get one today (as the vast majority were destined to be) because more women are coming! Roland chuckled at his inadvertent pun. Robert made a quizzical glance at him but said nothing.

A shout came from the crowd. “Enough of this prattle! Start the bidding!” Several men enthusiastically seconded the proposal.

The slaver held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Friends! Friends! These lovely lasses have had a long journey. I would never insult my customers by offering them filthy merchandise. I need time to clean them up.” The crowd had mixed reactions to this. Some agreed whilst others clearly didn’t care to wait. “Besides,” added the merchant, “you want time to properly examine them before you decide to buy, do you not?” This notion the crowd was more agreeable to though it was by no means unanimous. “I must take them to the river and clean them up. I promise you they will be on display for your consideration soon and the bidding will begin before noon.” The reaction was again mixed, some sighing benign acceptance and some protesting such an unwelcome delay. Still, their protests were only half hearted at best.

Another voice came from the gathering. “Are there going to be any rentals?” came another voice from the gathering.

“I’m sorry but no, sales only.” This brought a disgruntled groan from much of the crowd.

“I am sure I speak for every loyal subject here good merchant,” intoned the Magistrate, “that we do not begrudge you the time to make necessary preparations and that we all look forward to examining your offerings at the proper hour.” His implications were obvious and to emphasize them a few of the Royal Guardsmen motioned for those near them to disperse. A few did. They provided the impetus for a few more and gradually the crowed began to break apart as men began to turn to other tasks. A large portion, however, followed the wagon down to the river bank.

“Looks like we got us some time to kill,” said Robert.

“Yeah,” replied Roland, “Why don’t we stable Buddy and then go down by the river to watch them bathe?”

“Half the gods forsaken town will be down there watching them bathe! We should see if we can round up the others and start figuring out whose shelter we’re going to build first.”

Roland was about to protest that they’d plenty of time for such things but he recognized how whiney that would sound so he conceded to the elder man’s idea. With Roland leading Buddy, the two men headed toward the brand new stable.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 7/2/2014 8:09:57 PM >

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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/2/2014 8:06:47 PM   
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Chapter Two: Mid-Morning




“That’s outrageous! You’re a thief!” Roland had shouted at the stable owner when informed of the cost of stabling, grooming and feeding Buddy. The man just shrugged. A shrug that mockingly said go to another stable if you don’t like it, oh wait, you can’t, there aren’t any. It was a shrug that almost got the man throttled (if the expression on Roland’s face was any guide to go by) but he didn’t seem to care Robert gave Roland a discrete nudge. The reason the man didn’t care was that several of his stable hands had stopped what they were doing, picked up some heavy object like a stout piece of wood or a chain, and showed sudden interest in the altercation.

“Look,” said Roland with a slight growl in his voice, “I understand the merchants charge more because they have to travel farther and all that but you’re actually living here. You’ve no cause for such an… outlandish… ur… ack… this is no word for it!”
“The price is what the price is,” replied the stable owner, sounding rather bored. The stable hands (some instinct told Roland that they were all related, brothers and cousins) all took a step forward.

Though furious, Roland decided this wasn’t a battle worth fighting – now. Buyers in a sellers market, he thought. For now . . . for now . . . He grudgingly handed over one of his silvers. The stable owner slowly, mockingly (for now . . . for now . . .) counted out five silver bits and then handed Roland a chit to reclaim Buddy later. “That says twenty-eight,” said the stable hand as if he was addressing an infant.

For now . . . for now . . . “I can read and I know my numbers and figuring,” said Roland tersely. Not many of his social class were literate like Roland and it was a point of pride for him. “I also know this: when I come back that horse better be very well groomed, fed, watered…” he leaned in closer to the stable owner “…and happy. Or I will be demanding a full refund… and then some.”

Roland was gladdened to see that the man looked at least a little bit intimidated by him but the other man’s pride had been wounded too and so he puffed himself up a little and replied, “I provide the services I contract for.”

“I don’t doubt that you do,” said Roland with a tone that suggested otherwise, “but for three silver bits… I expect exemplary service.” Roland didn’t give the other man a chance to reply but instead turned toward Buddy and said, “I’ll be back my friend, don’t you worry about that. In the mean time these good (doubtful tone again) men are going to take excellent care of you.” With that, he handed off the reins. Buddy made no complaints as he was led away. The stable owner had nothing more to say either, but then why should he? He was the one who just got three whole silver bits for a service that wouldn’t have cost more than two copper bits back in the city.

Roland’s foul mood did not last long. He and Robert quickly found the others of their quintuplet. Robert, in silent acknowledgement of his age and the slightly higher rank he had held in the militia was the leader of this newly formed mini-tribe but his rule was by no means absolute. On the matter of what to do next he was quickly outvoted four to one and his plan to make plans was shelved in favor of all going down to the river to watch the women bathe. During the near spontaneous vote – “called” by Oliver, a tall and lanky, red haired and freckled eighteen year old – Robert shot Roland a glance that said traitor when he made his wishes known. But then he grinned and gave Roland a friendly slap on the back to let him know he wasn’t serious. After all, even though he may not have thought it the best idea, Robert wasn’t totally opposed to looking at wet, naked women.

Robert’s prediction that half the town would be down by the river was wrong. It was closer to three quarters. The men had formed a large semi circle and Roland and his friends had no problem filling a gap and getting a good view. The Royal Guardsmen and the wagon guards formed a loose, second semi-circle – an obvious “do not cross” line to act as a barrier to the female flesh that had immersed itself in the river.

Roland had often seen slave girls at the public baths in Castle Kamara. Assigned their own area in the baths (so that they would not be confused with slaves working at the baths) they were often playful and laughing with each other. Men often paused during their treks or on a work break to view the loveliness but view was all they did. There seemed to be an unwritten cultural command to respect this brief social time with their sisters in bondage that the baths afforded them. Perhaps it was simply understood on an unconscious level that they needed such time. Perhaps it was nature’s way of demanding a little recompense for those from who nature has demanded much (Roland smiled at this thought; nature had provided other compensations to the enslaved female).

Despite this, these enslaved women were not playful and laughing but instead were all business as, having paired off, they methodically helped lather and scrub each other from head to toe with soap and brushes. Perhaps they feared that playfulness would be too strong an enticement (slave girls well knew the power of being cute) and might lead to an uncontrollable explosion of male lust. An explosion that, in these circumstances, could literally lead to them being torn apart as men, all civilized restraint having been swept away, fought over them. They may well have been warned in advance by their owner, the slaver (Roland recalled how, just moments earlier, they had knelt with their knees together).

Whatever the reason, that cultural command seemed to be holding as the tension in the air had lessened somewhat and most of the men simply watched, as though awestruck, as the grime of the long trek was washed off. It took Roland about half a minute to find her. She was just coming out of the river, the young yelper next to her, and both women bent over and up again at the waist several times to fling the water out of their hair. Several other women were doing the same and this brought appreciative “mmmmm’s” from the spectators.

One of the wagon guards collected brushes and soap in a sac while another handed out combs. Roland watched as the brown haired girl knelt, knees closed again he noticed, while the yelper combed out her hair. She was even more beautiful now, she seemed to shine. She appeared to be looking straight ahead but Roland noticed that her eyes were slowly, subtly, scanning the crowd. They stopped when they found Roland. Did he imagine the slight quiver that passed through her? He might have, but he didn’t think so. Her gaze was brief. She quickly returned to looking straight ahead. Roland had no doubts the second time she squirmed because little miss yelper paused and said something to her. Something like stay still, Roland was certain.

“Don’ forget what I told ya,” said Robert.

“Oh by all the gods and spirits,” exclaimed Roland, “are you my friend or a mother hen? And don’t tell me you don’t have your eye on one. Which one is it?”

“Well since ya asked nicely, I find myself hankering for that blond over there,” he pointed.

She was nice one. Very nice. Slim, yet still curvy, her blond hair had a natural waviness to it that held even while wet. It framed a soft, heart shaped face. “I hope she suits you and you get her.”

“For us both,” said Robert, “for us both.”

Roland heard voices coming down the line. The Magistrate was introducing himself to the folks. The slaver was also talking to a group of men and paying them what looked like a few copper bits each. They reason why became apparent as the men began digging holes and putting up posts in a clear section of the field. Twenty posts in all, each with an iron ring embedded in the top. Roland returned his attention to the brown haired girl. She and the yelper had switched places and he noticed that she was whispering things in the newly enslaved girl’s ear. Giving her advice, perhaps? Roland liked that idea very much. He liked the idea of her having a kind heart though he wondered: just what kind of advice do you give a new slave girl?

“Gentlemen, how are we this fine day?” The Magistrate had come up to Roland and his friends. Roland was somewhat annoyed by the interruption (couldn’t this Magistrate see that Roland had other things on his mind?) but he forced his attention off the brown haired girl on onto the King’s official representative in Harold’s Stand. One didn’t want to get on the bad side of a Magistrate after all. Roland already knew about that. “That’s great,” said the Magistrate when everyone returned cautious affirmatives and greetings. “Allow me to introduce myself; I am Sir Cecil of the Royal Court, recently appointed by King Malcolm to oversee justice in this territory. I must say I am rather excited to be a part of this, helping a new town to be born, new commerce, new fortunes to be made all while strengthening our beloved kingdom.”

“We all are, your Honor,” said Robert, supplying the answer to Magistrate seemed to be fishing for. “I think I safely speak for all of us that we are all loyal subjects of the King.” The others, including Roland, nodded assent. “That’s wonderful to hear,” said the Magistrate, “It always displeases me when I must pronounce sentence on some disloyal malcontent. I am certain that such will not be the case with any of…”

“Excuse me your Honor,” said Roland. He was actually kind of annoyed at the Magistrates passively implied threats. He felt somewhat insulted by them and felt the need to make certain things clear. Keeping his tone respectful, Roland continued, “I once broke the Kings law and was sentenced to hang. King Malcolm, though he knew me not, saw fit to forgive me and give me a chance to prove my worth as one of his subjects. The cynical might argue that the King had his own ends in mind but I do not care. He didn’t have to give me a second chance but he did. On top of that he has rewarded me handsomely for my service. I have more wealth and opportunity now than I ever imagined possible for me. I don’t know the King all that well as a person, having only met him briefly when he presented me with my reward at the victory celebration, but I do know I like the man. And I do know that he would be hard pressed to find a more loyal subject than me.”

“I am truly glad to hear that,” said the Magistrate, his tone having lost the slight smarmy, ingratiating tone it had held up to now. My apologies if I offended your pride or honor. I consider it necessary in these circumstances to make gentle but firm reminders of our duties as subjects of the King. I see now that it was unnecessary with you… uhm?”

“Roland Halfert, and no offence, taken,” said Roland (hiding his own surprise that a Magistrate would actually apologize to him). “I just wanted things to be clear between us.”

“And they are,” replied the Magistrate, “tell me lad, might you be the same Roland I have heard so much praise heaped upon? The one credited with holding the right side of the militia’s line during the battle?”

“I am he,” said Roland. He saw no reason to be modest.

“Well then, I do expect great things from you young Roland. I speak truthfully that I wish you success. With men such as you and your friends, and I deem them good men if they keep company with you, I believe we will succeed in bringing civilization and prosperity to this wilderness.” He extended his hand to Roland which Roland accepted. “Good luck at the auction,” he said as they shook hands, “Good luck to you all.” The men all nodded and uttered thanks and with that the Magistrate headed to the next group of men to introduce himself.

“You know,” said Robert, “sometimes you’re jess a little to bold for your own good.” But Roland thought that he might just like this Magistrate. Sure he was a little foppish like much of the nobility, but Roland was inclined to like him anyway. He turned his attention back to the brown haired girl but discovered that she and the others were now moving back toward the slaver’s wagon, apparently for a cleanliness inspection. After a moment he could no longer see her. Well, maybe he’d reserved judgment on the Magistrate.

The slaver and his men began securing each woman by the neck with a long chain to the newly sunk posts. Nobody seemed interested in waiting for the slaver to officially announce that the merchandise was now open for inspection. Instead, the great mass of men began to form a rough line at the post of the first women put in place. Roland and three of his friends began to walk briskly in that direction, eager to get a good place in line but the fifth, Robert of course, called out. “Now hold up there ya pups!” The other four turned to look at him with expressions of exasperation. Undaunted, Robert continued, “if you go up there now ya gonna have a bunch of guys poking and prodding you to move along so they can see what’s next. Trust me on this; you want to be at the end of that line. The guys looked at each other with expressions that grudgingly conceded Robert’s point. Thus was Robert’s plan to make plans resurrected.

♦ ♦ ♦

And make plans they did – sort of. Roland’s mind (as indeed all of them, including Robert’s) was only half paying attention. He was aware that they kind of agreed to meet at his site tomorrow morning to chop down trees for their shelters. He again got the impression that Robert was anxious to discuss something but was holding back because he obviously didn’t have everyone’s full attention. The other half of Roland’s mind was focused on the line. The line was blocking, save for occasional glimpses, his view of the women. He as well heard the approving raucous laughter (there seemed to be much laughter coming from the middle of the line) and the bawdy converse of the men as they physically examined the prospective purchases and called out commands of various positions to see how quickly they could obey. He also heard the occasional gasping of the aroused slaves as the men checked other things about them. Roland spotted her, briefly, near the start of the line and he was certain he heard her gasping or moaning from time to time. This shot red hot waves of jealousy coursing through him. Enjoy her now while you can, you bastards. After what seemed an interminable amount of time, the sun was approaching high noon, the line had thinned out greatly. He decided not to wait any longer. No one, not even Robert, objected when Roland strode over to the first slave girl. They just followed his lead instead.

Slavers will often line up their lovely wares in some arrangement. By age or tallest to shortest or perhaps (in his judgment) according to their beauty but this time there seemed to be no order. Perhaps the merchant realized that it wasn’t really necessary in this particular market. Either way, the first girl was a black haired beauty with equally black eyes. She was a slight but nicely curved woman of perhaps twenty-five years. It was Robert who began putting her through her paces, calling out in rapid succession, “kneel! Bind! Kowtow! Obeisance!” The girl was obviously both well trained and experienced as she quickly and smoothly, assumed each position. She was quite beautiful in her obedience

Roland lost interest though when he spotted the brown haired girl just a few posts up – and nobody examining her at the moment. Forcing himself not to look too eager, Roland walked over and stood in front of her. She knelt in the standard display position: kneeling back on her heels, leaning back slightly with knees spread wide and fingers clasped behind her head. Her eyes were cast upward, as if examining the sky. She had a noticable tremble to her and it was obvious that she was quite aroused. For a moment, Roland was captivated by this chained beauty. Then he snapped himself out of it and began the examination.

“Obeisance!” A quick but fluid motion (the chain at the back of her neck, clinking) and the girl was now bending over, knees together, face nearly touching the ground. Her arms, crossed, were tucked under her. “Spread!” Another quick and fluid motion and now she was laying before him, her legs and arms spread out; her eyes resolutely on the sky again. Roland took half a moment to admire her beauty, particularly tasty looking pussy before calling out: “use!” There was no doubt about it. She was both an experienced slave girl and a well trained one. Now she faced away from him, on her forearms and knees but with her (oh so shapely!) ass in the air. Her legs were spread and that delectable pussy presented itself for the taking in a way that always seemed more insistent than any other. Roland took a few deep breaths and silently told his manhood to be patient but it wasn’t particularly inclined to obey.
It would have to wait. He briefly wondered why the merchant didn’t avail himself to the obvious money to be made before the auction. Whatever the reason, he was glad of it. Roland would never have a problem sharing any slave girl of his with his friends but not today. It was a dark and possessive thought but he liked it.

“Kneel!” It was both beautiful and elegant the way she seemed to just flow into the next position. She knelt as she had in the Present position except this time she crossed her wrists behind her back, palms facing outward with head slightly bowed and gaze directed at the ground. It was the most common position for slave girls … except when free women were present, then they kept their knees demurely closed. It was, as far as Roland was concerned, the most beautiful position a woman could be in. Oh, there were plenty of close contenders but there was something about this position. The way it advertised a woman’s charms so openly, the way it displayed her vulnerability and submissiveness… it seemed to trigger something ancient in him. It was time for a closer examination.
“Stand!” She stood up, legs slightly apart, hands behind her back, head bowed. Roland did a slow walk around her, noticed that she was taking very slow and deep breaths. Her arousal was evident by her flushed skin, wet pussy and stiff nipples. Roland had some stiff anatomy as well. She was so damned exquisite. She stood about five feet four inches, Roland estimated, the top of her head coming to just below his chin. That appealed to Roland greatly.
He reached out with both hands and ran them through her hair. It was still a bit damp but it was soft and silky and felt cool against his fingers. It evoked dim memories of his early childhood, of being in his bed with his soft “blankie” wrapped around him and his whole being infused with a sense of contentment as his mother sang to him.

Realizing he would look silly fondling her hair all day Roland put such thoughts out of his mind and continued the examination. He ran his hands down the side of her arms, feeling their smoothness and the taunt muscles beneath them. She may have not known hard labor but it was clear that her muscles got a lot of use. He felt her palms and her fingers. They had not the silky smooth skin of a rich man’s pampered pleasure slave – they had clearly known labor – but they had none of the roughness or calluses that come with long association with toil.

He lightly brushed one of her hardened nipples eliciting a barely audible “uh,” from her. Roland smiled and took each nipple between his fingers, rolling and gently squeezing them. This time her “Uh,” was louder and quickly followed by an “errrrm,” and an “ahhhh.” She also had a noticeable little squirm going on. She was clearly exerting a lot of effort just to stay in position. Roland squeezed a little harder. Her face (still resolutely looking at the ground) scrunched up and she emitted a high pitch squeal. Her squirm however was more noticeable.

Roland’s smile turned into a grin before letting go to explore her breasts more thoroughly. Her gripped them and squeezed, enjoying their silky smoothness and their firmness. He cupped them and jiggled, enjoying their heft. She made a few more soft squeaks. Though her eyes remained downcast Roland knew intuitively that she was straining to focus on his face with her peripheral vision. Straining to see if her charms were found pleasing. They were.

He continued his examination downward, feeling her belly, which was taunt and warm, poking a finger into her belly button… a very cute “innie.” He continued, feeling her waist, enjoying the gentle curve they made which sent a tingle through his fingers. He felt her hips, which were firm solid muscle yet soft to the touch… except in one spot. He traced his finger over her brand, that indelible mark of her slavery. It felt rough but not unpleasant to the touch, perhaps because of the message it sent him… ‘this is a woman that can be owned… that you can own.’ That I can own. He was not surprised to see her shudder when he examined her brand. It sent an even louder message to her and its effect upon her, upon any woman, was profound. Her brand was lovely and well defined. Whoever had pressed the red hot iron into her flesh, transforming her from free woman into slave, had done an excellent job.

He slowly squatted down as he examined her legs, ankles and feet, all of them as wonderful as he expected them to be, then slowly stood back up while his palms ran over the curve of her buttocks, pausing to grip and jiggle them a little. Finally he turned his attention to her inner thighs, caressing them slowly. They were as smooth as her breasts. She began to breathe more quickly and her legs, her left one in particular, were trembling. With a single finger he probed her warm wet pussy, stroking both set of lips, enjoying their feel and moistness before pushing inside her hole. This brought some more little noises and quivers out of her. Next he went probing for that bud of flesh that a poet had termed “Crassus’ gift to women… and to the men who own them.” He found it quickly, firm and erect, and stroked it gently. She was louder this time and the buck of her hips was near violent. He took her pleasure blossom between thumb and forefinger, giving it a good squeeze. Her knees began to bend and she moaned as she threw her head back – her ability to hold position was fast becoming a loosing battle.

Roland realized that he would soon be fighting a loosing battle of his own. He withdrew two steps from the girl and fought down the urge to take deep sniff of his fingers (it would drive him over the edge, he was certain) but instead pointedly wiped them in her hair.

He took a moment to take three deep breaths and then, feeling in control again (though still not far from the edge) he said, in neither a harsh nor gentle tone, “kneel.”

Demure,” he said after she obeyed and she promptly brought her knees together (he didn’t need that tempting pussy in full view right now). “You have it bad, don’t you?”

“Master?” Her voice, though possessing a pleasant melodious quality, had a false – an obviously false – tone to it. Roland’s reaction was swift. With his left hand he delivered a stinging slap to her cheek. A startled “eeeeeee” erupted from her as she scrunched her face in pain.

“Now is a very stupid time to play coy, girl,” Roland said in an authoritative but not angry tone, “You’ve got the fire in your belly and it burns hot. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Master!” She now sounded both fearful, regretful, and determined to speak plainly. “I beg forgiveness, Master.”

“I’ll think about it.” He saw no reason to lessen her anxiety now. He let her stew for a moment and then asked about her age.

“Twenty-two, Master.”

“How long have you been collared?”

“Three years, Master.” She seemed to relax a little yet she was clearly focused on the task at hand – answering her prospective master’s questions.

“Who was your owner before you came here?”

"My owner, Master, was Devon Achess of Bumble Street in Castle Kamara."

Roland knew of this street though he had never frequented it. It was home to many of the city’s middle class taverns (from which the street, it was joked, got its name). “Your duties there?”

“I performed all duties, Master. I cooked, I cleaned, I served drinks, I served in the alcoves, and I danced.”

“You can dance?” This greatly intrigued Roland.

“Yes, Master! I know all the free forms, all the chain and rope dances, and all the silk dances.” She seemed quite proud of this but there was a slight nervous hesitation before she added, “I also know many folk dances.” Folk dances? Roland wasn’t really interested in that and didn’t know why she thought it important. He had never seen any folk dances as far as he knew. He had seen plenty of slave dances and the thought of her nude body shaking, writhing and undulating before him by the light of his fire necessitated another deep, calming, breath from him.

“You may know them but are you any good at them?”

“Yes, Master,” she replied in a slightly mischievous tone. She too was finding it necessary to take the occasional deep breath. “Shall I demonstrate for Master?”

Amazing what one slap can accomplish, thought Roland. The would-be coy girl had vanished once it was clearly demonstrated that she’d not be allowed, and a much bolder girl had emerged. One who had confidence in what she spoke. Roland liked that. He had known slave girls who lacked confidence, who were nervous wrecks and seemed to live in a state of perpetual terror that they might cause the slightest displeasure and incur punishment. Ironically, they tended to be clumsy and poor slaves who ended up feeling the whip more often than most. It took a little bit of spice in a girl to make a good slave. Obedience didn’t have to come at the expense of personality. He wondered what gave some slave girls, and not others, that confidence – but only briefly. That image of her dancing naked before him was driving him to distraction. To actually see it now would send him over that edge, he was certain. “No.” he flatly replied to her suggestion. He needed to distract himself so it was time to change the subject. “Why were you enslaved?”

“My father died in debt, Master.”

Ah, yes, thought Roland. It was probably the second most common way – after law breaking – that a free person might find themselves reduced to slavery by their own kingdom. The age of full self accountability was twenty-one. If coin, land and possessions were not enough to settle a man’s debts, his children who had not yet reached that age, be they male or female could be seized as well (unmarried daughters of any age could be seized and if that was insufficient, a man’s wife, though last on the list, was always vulnerable). Roland well remembered the sigh of relief he felt on his twenty-first birthday. His father, though never destitute, was far from wealthy. This girl’s father, unfortunately for her, had left this world in debt when she was nineteen. Or perhaps, thought Roland, if her father was fated by the gods to die that day anyway, it was fortunate for her that he was in debt… if her slave needs are as deep as I suspect them.

The next question was born of simple curiosity. “What was your father’s profession?”

“He was a farmer, Master.” Roland caught a note of grief in her voice but did not dwell on it (people died, his own mother was dead seven years now). His earlier conversation with Robert came back in full force. This was excellent!

Trying not to sound excited, “you grew up on a farm?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Did your father own any slaves?”

No, Master, but he did lease them from time to time.”

“You performed, I presume, all the many chores a girl growing up on a farm would be expected to do?”

“Yes, Master. I know how wash and mend clothes and I am a very good cook.”

Roland smiled a little. She was unquestionably trying to advertise her qualities to him now. And then it suddenly dawned on him. Folk dances. She had been dropping a huge hint as to her talents and skills. And it went right over my head. “What about planting and harvesting? Do you know the right times for different crops?”

“Yes, Master!” She sounded excited now and Roland got the impression that she was excited at being more than just a pleasant body for her master; she wanted to be truly valuable to him. He had to force himself to contain his own excitement. He decided to form his next question as a little test.

“It too late in the year to plant anything now, is it not?”


“No, Master! For some crops yes but there is still time to plant various squashes as well as potatoes – and tomatoes!”

“So if I have a horse and a plow, I could start planting tomorrow?”

A brief flash of nervousness flickered across her face and then she ventured, “has the ground been tilled before, Master?”

This caught Roland off guard. It was bold thing for a slave girl to answer a question with a question. He liked that she had courage but he was more preoccupied by the implications of her question. He had presumed that Buddy would be up to the task of pulling the plow and it troubled him to learn that he might not be. Worse, he now felt foolish in front of this girl. Sounding more defensive that he wished he had, Roland asked, “is that a problem?”

“If the ground has been tilled before, one or two horses should suffice but unbroken ground is difficult, there are roots and stones, a team of oxen are needed. Two oxen, maybe four, Master.” She sounded almost apologetic as she spoke; aware, no doubt, of the dangers of wounded male pride.

Roland’s mind was whirring. The plowing problem didn't long concern him. If not this year then by next spring he was confident that some oxen could be traded for, purchased or even leased. If I have enough money, he thought. What bothered him was the sudden notion that in some ways he would be dependent upon her. Slaves were supposed to be dependent upon their masters, not the other way around. Personality was one thing but he couldn't stomach the idea of appearing stupid compared to his slave. He found himself slightly nauseated and angered at the notion of his slave silently smirking at her dumb city slicker of a master bumbling around in the country where he clearly didn't belong.

Nonsense! The self incriminating thought was born out a lifetime growing up in a slave society. I’ll be the master and she’ll be the slave and if she has any doubts or notions of being superior… well… there are methods of correction. Knowledge was like tools. If you didn't have what you needed then you acquired it somehow. That’s what he would be doing here, acquiring knowledge. What knowledge she had in her head would as much belong to him, could be used for his purposes and pleasure as her tits or her pussy. Such knowledge would be as bonded in service to him as her hands when she washed his clothes or cooked his meal or her feet when the fetched him a drink.

And what knowledge it was! There could be no doubts. There were no doubts. She was the whole package. Beauty, skills, talents, and useful knowledge, all wrapped up in a deep need to submit, to be dominated by the masculine. She wanted it to be him! He was certain of that. It was as if all the gods and spirits had ordained it, as if fate itself cried out for it.

“Roland! Hey, Roland!” It was Robert, further up the line and gathered with the rest of his friends around a slave girl. Robert was motioning to him to come over. Roland gestured that he’d be there in a moment. It was time to leave her for now (he was seriously considering a dip in the cool waters of the river) but before he did he bent over slightly and tucked a couple of fingers under her chin. She gave no resistance as he lifted her face to look upon his but her eyes darted off too the side, afraid to make eye contact without permission.

“Look at me,” he said. A quick intake of breath and she obeyed though he could see it was difficult for her. It was against her instincts to look a free man in the eyes. Her pupils were wide and watery and Roland was certain he could read every emotion she was feeling at the moment. There was an undercurrent of fear of the unknown future but that was over-layered with an obvious need and evident longing. He wondered if she could read him as well. Did she see his own nervousness over-layered with his own need to dominate her, to truly own her? When she lightly licked her lips and took a very deep breath Roland knew he had his answer. “It’s you,” he said in little more than a whisper. “You are the one. Before this day is over, you will belong to me.”

Her voice was low and had a throaty, lustful, quality to it as she replied, “Yes, Master.” Roland then turned and joined his friends.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 7/2/2014 8:46:55 PM >

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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/6/2014 1:56:18 PM   
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Chapter Three: Noon




It was the little yelper that everyone had gathered around. Oliver had taken quite the liking to her and Robert was trying to talk him out of it. “She’s no skills! She’s no experience with any kind of labor! She’s useless for anything other than fucking! Now don’t get me wrong. I’m a big a fan of fucking as the next guy . . . but ya need more than that out here!”

“She can learn,” replied Oliver. The lanky lad was squatting next to the kneeling girl, stroking the top of her head as if he were petting a cat. The girl herself trembled with fear and her cheeks were stained with tears.

“But do ya got time to teach her all she needs to know? We’ve only so much time before the cold weather sets in and a lot of work to do before then; we can’t afford any dead weight.”

“I’ll see to it that she learns quickly,” said Oliver, never taking his eyes off her. “What do you think Roland?”

“Has she no useful skills at all?”

Robert cut off any reply from Oliver, “None! Roland, I have the honor of presenting to you the former Clair Wolfingham, daughter of a modestly prosperous merchant back in Castle Kamara I’m given to understand. That was until she was caught flinching from a perfume seller.”

“They reduced her for it?” That seemed rather unlikely to Roland. Youthful petty flinching, especially for the middle and upper classes, usually resulted in fines and perhaps a month’s worth of home confinement. Reduction was rather harsh by normal standards, particularly if it was a first offence.

“Aye,” Robert confirmed. “And here’s the kicker, she was reduced the very same day they left for here. She’s been collared for only five days and she’s spent all of them doing nothing but walking.” The girl, Roland noticed hung her head a little lower, as if ashamed of this bare resume. He also noticed that her trembling had subsided a little. Oliver’s gentle stroking, it appeared, was having a calming effect. “She’s never even been whipped yet either, apparently,” continued Robert. The Slaver scooped her up at the last minute, put her on his chain and headed right out here. How’s that for inexperience?”

“I know how to whip a woman,” said Oliver. The young slave girl whimpered at the mention of the whip.

Roland recalled the particularly raucous laughter coming from the middle of the line and realized that the inexperienced slave was the likely source. He could think of only one reason for such loud hilarity. “Does she know her positions at all?”

“Ha,” came Robert’s characteristic bellow. Oh she knows of them, or of some of them anyway but she clearly doesn’t know them. ‘Kneel’ she’s got down, more or less, but as for the rest? I tell you, Roland, you’ve never seen such clumsiness. Would you like to see?”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Roland actually found himself sympathetic to the obviously distressed girl. To be a merchant’s pampered daughter one day and then to find herself branded and collared the next day; to find herself ripped away from all she knew and held dear and marched naked, in chains, to this wild place, surrounded by men whose intentions would not involve pampering her in any way. Except maybe Oliver, thought Roland as he watched his friend continue to gently stroke the trembling girl. Still, his sympathies were tempered by the fact she had brought it upon herself. He had stolen out of desperate hunger. What need did a wealthy man’s daughter have to steal? Especially something as trivial as perfume? Foolishness.

“You probably won’t even be able to afford her.” That came from Henry, a stout, muscular, dark-haired youth of twenty years. “Virgins always cost a lot more.”

Roland was incredulous. “She’s a virgin?”

“Aye,” replied Robert, “She’s intact. Check for yourself.”

“I’ll take your word on that, too.” Roland was still waging a struggle within himself to keep his need under control. Poking around a pussy would not help the matter. “Actually, I don’t think her virginity will up her price that much. Virgins are boring. They’re rich men’s playthings. Out here, nobody’s going to care much about it. Nobody is going to be willing to pay extra for it.”

“Aye,” said Robert, “she’ll probably be the cheapest one of the lot. And that should tell you something!” He waged his finger at Oliver who was still petting the trembling girl. She was a cute little thing. ‘Small’ seemed to be the operative word for her. She was not so small as to be considered a dwarf but she definitely dwelt at the low end of ‘normal.’ She was perfectly proportioned, though. Her breasts were small but only because everything about her was small. There were round and lovely and ample enough for a man to enjoy. She reminded Roland of a drawing of pixies he had seen once. He wondered, living out here in the wilderness, if he would spot a real pixie one day. Well, time would tell.

“What bothers me,” Roland continued, turning his attention to Oliver, “is her being reduced for mere petty flinching. There must have been something else she’s not telling.”

“No!” It was the girl, sounding desperately afraid. “That’s all it was Master, I swear it to all the gods and…”

She let out her loudest yelps yet as Oliver gave her two stinging slaps, one to each of her tear stained cheeks (I guess I didn’t need to worry about him, thought Roland). Oliver placed a finger on her mouth and rather softly, even gently, said, “hush. No one gave you permission to speak.” She stifled a sob as she bowed her head again. New tears spilled slowly from her eyes. Oliver resumed gently stroking the girl. Robert rolled his eyes, held his hands out wide, and looked up in mock supplication to the gods.

“Actually, it makes perfect sense.” It was Marcus who had spoken up. The sandy haired, blue eyed, twenty-three year old was the quiet one of the group. When he did speak, it was usually to good account. The other’s turned their attention to him to hear that account.

“The King had a problem,” he continued. “His city and towns were awash in a very large younger generation.” This was known to all. The competition for jobs had been fierce. “And let’s be honest,” Marcus went on, “large numbers of young men with too much time and, inevitably, too much beer on their hands is never conducive to good public order.” All the guys gave little nods and chuckles of understanding save Oliver who concentrated on petting little miss yelper. “Luckily for the King, the Palasians handed him a solution on a silver platter. He scooped all us young fellas up… along with a few old timers,” he slyly remarked, looking at Robert (who wagged his head slightly as if to say, hardy har har har) and dumped us into the middle of a battle. Then he dumped us out here to settle the new territory.”

“Aye,” said Roland with a hint of irritation in his voice. “Pretty smart of him actually.” While Roland, like the cynics he mentioned to the Magistrate earlier, didn’t delude himself that the King acted for his own purposes, he was quite sincere in his loyalty to King Malcolm. Something about Marcus’ use of words like ‘scoop’ and ‘dump’ rankled him, even as he admitted to himself that they were as accurate as any other words would be. Still, Marcus was his friend, so he let the other man proceed.

“It was very smart of him,” conceded Marcus, “but now he’s got a new problem – all the men out here want . . . need . . . women. “And, he’s still got all those young women left behind.”

“Ahhhhh,” said Robert, “I see where you’re going with this.”

“I don’t,” said Henry. Roland did see where Marcus was going but he let Robert, explain it to Henry while Marcus smiled knowingly.

“I’m willing to wager,” said Robert, “that our good King Malcolm has ordered his Magistrates to crack down and deal severely with lawlessness . . . . any lawlessness . . . amongst the young lasses. This pampered young idiot was one of the first to run afoul of that new policy.”

Henry slowly grinned his understanding and started to laugh and everyone else joined in on this tribute to the King’s wisdom. Everyone except little miss yelper. Her mouth formed an O as her expression went from fear and despair to one of terrible, unwanted, insight. This made everyone laugh harder and she bowed her head further in shame again. Oliver continued to pet the distraught girl even as he laughed.

“Ahh, quit pestering him and let him bid on her if that’s what he really wants,” said Roland when everyone regained themselves. “It doesn’t matter who she used to be. She’s a slave now and slaves can be taught.”

Robert looked like he was about to raise some fresh objections, then decided against it. He threw up his hands and shook his head in defeat. “If ya really want her that badly then go for her, but ya gonna have your work cut out for ya making her into a decent slave.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” said Oliver sounding a trifle annoyed but still not taking his eyes of the trembling little beauty as he continued his gentle stroking.

Wanting to change the subject, Roland asked Robert, “What about that blond? Are you going to go for her?”

Robert welcomed the change of subject despite, or perhaps because of, Roland’s obvious intent. “Aye, I’m going for her! She’s a beaut and get this – she knows about beekeeping. Aye,” he continued when everyone looked incredulous, “she was born a slave; grew up on an estate and spent much of her youth tending bees.”

“So?” said Henry.

“Ya really are just a simple minded creature, ain’t ya? People like honey, dumbass! And the wax can also be sold for candles. It’ll be a nice sideline, some extra income.”

Henry accepted this with a nod of understanding and no sense of being insulted. Henry wasn’t actually stupid, in Roland’s opinion. It was just that while other people’s thoughts walked or even ran, his just tended to amble along – but they did eventually get to where they were going.

“Mead.” said Marcus.

“Aye, that too,” replied Robert, nodding his head. “And what about your brown-haired beauty,” he then asked Roland.

“She’s as good as mine.”

“Aye, but is she useful?”

“Extraordinarily so.” Roland smiled a tight little, mischievous, I-got-a-secret smile.

“Ah, c’mon now. Don’a be holding out on us.”

At that moment a bell began to ring. It was the merchant, clanging a cow bell and when he had the entire town’s attention he proclaimed, “Friends! The inspections will last another quarter hour and then we will get the bidding underway.” He repeated this several times to the cheers and applause of the town.
Excellent, thought Roland, that’ll give me enough time to take that cooling dip in the river. But he had something else he had to take care of first. “Trust me,” chuckled Roland. “I’ll tell you later. I gotta make a trip to the silt trenches.

♦ ♦ ♦

The day was holding to its’ promise as only a few puffy white clouds failed dismally in their mission to obstruct the bright sunshine which cast its’ warm glow over the land but which in turn was prevented by a gentle breeze from turning warmth into unpleasant heat. What was, unpleasant was the up-close stench of the silt trenches but this did have the benefit of negating Roland’s necessity to plunge himself into the river. The foul orders were enough to send Roland’s masculine needs in temporary abeyance for which Roland was quite grateful. There were several men who also decided a cooling dip was in order and they were subject of much laughter and mocking from others.

Back in the city, particularly when most or all of the merchandise was female, slave auctions were often festive affairs with brightly colored pennants and streamers flapping from a well constructed, well equipped, auction block. Prospective buyers (and usually a large contingent of male gawkers) would munch on treats bought from cart vendors and sometimes even entire families (perhaps looking for a new house slave to clean and serve) would bring a picnic lunch. The first slave auction at the scarcely started collection of tents named Harold’s Stand was, of necessity, a much more prosaic affair.

The merchant’s wagon was emptied of its’ supplies which were piled next to the stable and guarded by a few of the merchant’s men and one Royal Guardsman (Roland snidely wondered how much the thieving stable owner charged the merchant for that). After the horses were unhitched, the wagon was wheeled up to display stakes. Some latches were thrown and the sides of the wagon came down to form a platform. Roland rather admired this cleverness. The slave girls were removed from their stakes and, after a trip to the silt trenches under heavy escort, they were knelt down in four rows of five on one side of the platform. The men of Harold’s Stand gathered in a large semi-circle around the other – the Royal Guards (seemingly nonchalantly) again forming a loose barrier between the men and the platform that would soon display the enslaved female flesh for bid.

Roland’s mind seemed to go into a kind of overdrive. This was, in a very real sense, a battle. Confident of his victory thanks to his full purse he none-the-less recognized everyone here, save his friends, as a competitor… as an opponent. Roland scanned the crowd. The bulk of the men had been Privates in the militia. They had each received twenty silver and most likely spent some of it already. If what Robert had said earlier about prices was true – and it all seemed perfectly sound to Roland – they should be no competition. He had thirty-three silver in his pocket (well, thirty two and five silver bits – thanks to that thieving stable owner) and he would spend it all if necessary.

There were a few Nobles in the throng. To his right he noticed a foppish looking young man, pale and drawn with stringy blond hair, who held a (probably scented) handkerchief to his nose. He was surrounded by four body guards – hired locals obviously because the only things that set them apart was their perfect four-point positioning around him and a subtle, wary, stance that Roland recognized more by instinct than anything else. Most likely the heir to a Barony judging by his velvet and silk clothes. Probably sent out here by daddy to buy up land, Roland thought. ‘You’re going to have to just rough it with those smelly commoners a little while son.’ Roland snorted rather than chuckled at his internal mimicry. Also to his right was a thirty-ish looking, dark haired, man wearing a Colonel’s uniform of the Kamaran Cavalry, which probably meant he was a Barron. There was nothing foppish about him and Roland doubted any son of his was either. He looked vaguely familiar to Roland which probably meant they had crossed paths during the battle.

On his left, not to far from him, was a man whose hair and neatly trimmed beard were both salt and pepper. He wore the uniform of a Kamaran Army Sergeant. This almost certainly made him an Earl – the lowest rank of the Nobility. There would be nothing foppish about him either. Quite the contrary, his face looked like it had taken it’s share of hits in the past and bore a still relatively recent looking scar on his right cheek. Roland didn't doubt that there were other scars on him as well or that he had given many scars – or worse – to many a man with his sword and dagger.

Any one of these men, and perhaps a few others, would have the silver to out bid him, Roland knew, but would they want to? Thirty-two silver was a lot of money for a slave girl. Ultimately, it wasn’t a question of what one able to pay but, rather, how much one was willing to pay. He’d commit every last silver bit if necessary… would they? No, more than likely nobody was willing to pay more for her than he. Roland relaxed a little. It was just a matter of waiting. He continued to look around.

A few people behind him Roland noticed the Magistrate who was also scanning the crowd intensely. Without meaning too, Roland caught his eye. Still not used to the idea of relating to a Magistrate with anything other than fear and loathing, Roland simply, instinctively, gave a nod of acknowledgment which the Magistrate returned. He found himself leaning back toward genuinely liking this man who wielded such power that he stood amongst the crowd with, unlike the foppish, hankie holding nobleman, no guards. His power and authority silently acknowledge by the slightly larger personal space the men around him granted.

Nearby he saw a middle-aged, portly merchant stocking up a stall in front of a large tent. Roland could see rows of slave manacles as well as various types of whips, crops, and paddles. Next to the stall was a post similar to the temporary ones (which even now were being taken down by the hired helpers) used to display the slave girls. This one, however, was taller and had a cross bar on top with iron rings firmly attached at the ends. It was a whipping post. Customers might want to try out their prospective purchases after all and it would be a nice public service to anyone who needed to discipline a slave or give them the customary whipping after purchase. It was considered important by society that slaves be given a firm reminder of their status by their new owners. That whipping rack was likely to get a lot of use today.

The slave wares merchant also put out a rack of the simple cotton, sleeveless, smocks that most slave girls wore when they were allowed to wear anything at all during the warm months of the year. He then laid down a row of sandals in front of the rack. Roland wondered if he also had any winter slave clothing. He wondered how much those items were going to cost. He hadn’t been thinking about that. When you buy a slave girl that’s all you get – the slave girl. Under the King’s law, that’s all a legally licensed Slaver can sell you. They were forbidden to sell any of the accessories. But slave girls do require some accessories. They require upkeep… and that entails additional expenses. He would need some money left over. I can get by for a while if I have to, he thought. Winter is still a ways away, I’ve got rope and there are other methods besides the whip for disciplining a slave girl. He still wasn’t too worried.

There would be one thing that would be absolutely necessary. He might well sire some children off of her one day but now would definitely not be a good time. Roland looked around intently and spotted what he was looking for a little further beyond the slave wares merchant – an apothecary. He had two long tables with his various herbs and concoctions on display. As Roland watched the Apothecary, a thin, small balding man, set out two signs on wooden easels. The first was a simple outline drawing of a well proportioned female figure kneeling, tilting back her head and drinking from a cup from which a couple of tendrils of steam arose. That sign was for the illiterate. The other sign read: ‘Slave Elixir. 2 C-bits per packet, 4 C-bits Prepared.’ Roland smiled. Now those were reasonable prices, higher than one would see in Castle Kamara, but not by much. Roland liked this merchant. That thieving stable owner could learn a thing or two from him.

Roland’s examination of everything around him was interrupted by Robert. “So ya gonna let me in on the big secret about your brown-haired beauty?”

“Not here,” replied Roland. Then he leaned in and whispered in the other man’s ear, “I don’t want people knowing just how valuable she is.” He leaned up again and said, “just trust me, will ya.”

“All right, all right. What about you other pups? Are ya gonna bid on any?”

“I’m not,” said Henry dejectedly, “I don’t think I have enough money left.”

“Ya haven’t been spending it foolishly, have ya?”

“Naw! I bought all the stuff you told me to, like the ax and the hatchet. I bought some preserves and… I dunnno… just stuff.”

It would be all too easy, Roland knew, for an unscrupulous merchant, even by the standards out here, to take advantage of Henry. The thought angered him and he shuddered at the thought of what that thieving stable owner would have charged Henry, had his friend owned a horse. Not wanting Robert to go into one of his well meaning but exasperating rants, Roland asked Marcus if he was going to bid on one.

“No,” he replied. I could probably afford one but merchants around the kingdom are just now getting geared up and bringing their goods here. I suspect that in a few weeks we’ll be flooded with slave girls as well as most other things. The prices will be cheaper then. You would do well to wait.”

“I probably would,” Roland answered, “but I’m not passing that one up. She’s going to be mine.” And then he grumbled, “if this slaver ever gets a move on.” Roland’s wish was promptly granted. The slaver stepped up onto his portable platform.

♦ ♦ ♦

Slave auctions, particularly when it is women being sold, are often drawn out affairs with the slaver taking time to extol the many virtues – her beauty, her obedience, her skills at tasks both mundane and pleasurable – of each proffered female and arranging the order so that the most enticing ones are saved for last – all geared toward maximizing profit. This slaver seemed not to care about such things. There seemed no order to which he brought girls forward. Marcus’ comments made Roland realize what motivated this particular slaver. He wanted to get in, sell, get out, and maybe get back in again while prices were still high. He made a few welcoming remarks concluding with: “payment is expected upon completion of the sale,” he pointed to a couple of his hired men – and two Royal Guardsmen – standing to the side with a cashbox resting on a small table. “Please take possession upon purchase (yup, thought Roland, he’s not even going to stay the night), all sales are final.” With a wave of his hand the first female, now collarless, was brought forth to kneel down in the Present position.

She was a short, dark-haired woman of about thirty years, give or take a couple. She was quite trim and toned, evidence of many years spent in labor but also having been well cared for. She was well proportioned and Roland realized that had he spotted her first he might have never focused his attention on his (soon, very soon) brown-haired beauty. But he hadn’t so it didn’t matter. Just more evidence, as far as he was concerned, that the fates had decreed that she should be his.

Roland stood impassively, arms folded across his chest and simply observed. The Slaver started the bidding at five silver and more than half of the gathered men either raised up their hands or shouted an affirmative or both. The slaver was obviously pleased with this response and quickly raised the bids. About half of the original bidders dropped out around ten and eleven. It was down to three men at fourteen.

Roland got the impression that this woman had been a slave a very long time, perhaps her entire life. She was a statue, nary a tremble at all. At fifteen silver it was down to two men. The final bow out occurred at sixteen. There was some light applause and some bawdy reminders to “use her well,” as the new slave owner (Roland vaguely recognized him, his name was “Perry” or “Gerry,” or something like that) went up to the men at the cash box. All eyes watched as the just sold slave, with a motion from the Slaver, scampered off the platform and knelt beside her new master. The lucky man was immediately propositioned by several men but he waved them off (there was some grumbling but the glare of the Royal Guardsmen kept it from going beyond that) and, holding his new slave by the hair, bending her over slightly, marched her straight to the Smithy’s tent.

The second female was a lovely blond, but not the one Robert was interested in. She sold for fourteen silver to the foppish young Noble. He had one of his hired guards exchange the silver for his new slave and then, before the Slaver brought forth girl number three, and to the cheers of many, announced that anyone who wanted to enjoy her use could do so for a silver bit for five minutes. Although that was a very high price for such a service, there were no complainers. Nearly a quarter of the men present followed the hired man who was leading the blond, over to the edge of town. She’s in for a very long day, Roland thought as she was commanded into the Use position and several men lined up to pay the price. Roland looked at Lord Foppish (as his mind had labeled the effeminate looking man) with puzzlement but he was concentrating on the next girl.

Number three, a lusty looking sandy-haired wench, went for seventeen silver. Her new owner got many back slaps and approving shouts when she had an orgasm – small and quick but still obvious – upon hearing the slaver call out “sold!” It was not unheard of.

Number four (whose new owner also decided to recoup some money, causing more men to amble away from the platform to avail themselves) and number five both sold for sixteen. Roland was pleased with this. He was now absolutely certain now that he’d have no trouble out bidding anyone. The feeling didn’t last, though. He was reminded that there were some individuals who could outbid him when number six turned out to be the redhead. It came down to the Cavalry Colonel and the foppish Nobleman. Some in the crowd gasped as the bidding went past twenty, much to the obvious delight of the Slaver. At twenty-seven silver the Cavalry Colonel bowed out. There were a few grumbles about it “not being fair that somebody was buying two” but the presence of both the Royal Guardsmen and the Magistrate (who had loudly cleared his throat at the grumbling) had their usual “calming” affect. The announcement that the redhead’s use was also available for a silver bit a go also soothed some ruffled feathers.

Roland was even more puzzled about the motives of Lord Foppish now. Perhaps he was planning on opening a tavern. Roland didn’t doubt that several taverns would open soon enough in Harold’s Stand, but it seemed an unusual profession for a member of the Nobel Class. The thought that was worrisome was that Lord Foppish, who obviously had considerable funds to command, might take a liking to his brown-haired beauty.

Nearby Roland heard the gasps and cries of the first slave that had been sold. Her new owner had her secured to the slave wares merchant’s whipping post. Whether he was reminding her of her status, just trying out a new whip, or both, Roland didn’t know. Nor did he much care. He kept his attention focused on the platform.

Roland willed himself to be patient as numbers six, seven, eight and nine (two of which also had orgasms upon being sold) all sold for around fourteen silver – give or take a couple. The calls of the Slaver (who was now starting each bid at ten) and the shouts of the bidders occasionally were overcast by the shouts, cheers and guffaws of the nearby men who had decided to rent for now and buy on another day. If the well used women where making any noises, they were drowned out by the cacophony around them.

When slave number ten came on the platform there was burst of laughter from the crowd. It was little miss yelper. Shaking badly, she was barely able to hold her position. Rather than keep her gaze passively downward as expected, she looked around wildly for a few seconds before catching sight of Oliver, who was standing next to Roland, his face an expression of calm save for his eyes which burned with a wild intensity. She was not the first slave girl to quick scan the crowd looking for the one they hoped would win them (some had those hopes realized, others had them dashed), just the most obvious. The Slaver gave her a smack to the back of the head. Cringing, she assumed the proper position… or, rather, a close approximation of it. This generated another round of laughter from the crowd. Perhaps taken aback by the laughter, the Slaver made his first actual sales pitch.

“Yes friends,” he said, “she’s new to the collar and obviously untrained. But she is young, she is healthy and she is a virgin, which many of you observed for yourself. The bidding starts at ten.” Roland (along with the rest of his friends) glanced at Oliver but he said nothing. In fact nobody said anything. After a few seconds of the obvious silence, the crowd let out yet another burst of laughter. The Slaver didn’t do a very good job of hiding his disappointment. He muttered something under his breath and then tried again. “C’mon friends, a virgin! They don’t get any tighter than that… and think of the enjoyment you’ll derive from igniting her fires… from teaching her and training her… from molding her into your perfect slave. Come, now friends… who’ll give me ten silver for this beauteous potential?”

The Slaver was again greeted by silence followed by laughter. Roland couldn’t help but smile. He had been right. “Very well,” said the exasperated Slaver, “nine silver. Who’ll give me nine silver?”

A voice carried out over the crowd. It was a voice still possessing some of the high treble of youth but managing to convey a sense of calm determination. “I’ll give you one silver for her,” said Oliver.

“That’s little better than robbery,” replied the Slaver testily, ignoring the guffaws form the crowd. Roland noticed a couple of tears drop from the humiliated girl’s cheeks.

“Take her back to Castle Kamara then,” said Oliver emoting a disinterest that Roland was certain his friend did not feel. “Try your luck there.”
“Five silver,” shouted the obviously angry Slaver over the crowd. “That’s a more than fair price for such a young and lovely piece of female flesh. Unless, of course, no one here thinks he’s man enough to master her.”

The gambit didn’t pay off. After a few more seconds of silence Oliver spoke up again. “The bid is one silver coin.”

A look of increasing resignation came over the Slaver. “You are awfully evil for one so young. Four silver.” Oliver did not respond. The Slaver’s resignation became complete. Almost deadpan he recited the final “One silver going once… one silver going twice… sold.” He gave her a kick in the butt to send her on her way.

Turning to his friends with an unabashed grin of happiness, Oliver said, “I’ll catch up with you guys after the auction,” and then before any could reply he bounded, much like a schoolboy let out of class early, over to the guarded cash box and his new slave.

“Good luck with her,” shouted someone from the crowd, “you’ll need it!” This brought a final round of laughter but Oliver ignored it as her paid his silver coin. Roland wasn’t sure if his young friend even heard it.

Roland noticed that Robert had his hands on his hips and was sadly shaking his head. “I’m proud of you,” Roland quipped. “Not a single lecture during the bidding.”

“Aye. Like ya said… if he really wants her that badly…” He let the thought hang there.

“You fret too much,” said Roland as he watched Oliver march his new slave toward the smithy the way the first buyer had. “He’ll be okay. Have a little faith in him.”

“Aye, it’s jess that I’m a little more worried about getting through that first winter than I’ve been letting on. I think we need to rethink some things. I’m thinking maybe… oh!” Robert’s eyes widened a little and his attention immediately focused on the platform. The blond who knew how to keep bees was the next girl up.

Roland watched his friend intently. Robert held his voice until the price became fourteen when he jabbed his finger in the air and shouted “Aye!” He continued doing so through fifteen and sixteen. Roland bit his lip a little, remembering that his friend only had seventeen silver on him. At seventeen it was Robert and one other man. Roland stifled a groan but at eighteen Robert jabbed his finger in the air again and loudly declared, “Aye!” The other man remained silent; a look of rueful disappointment on his face and the Slaver (who seemed to be recovering his mood) proclaimed her sold. He gave Robert a congratulatory punch in the shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” Robert said with a grin as big as Oliver’s had been before heading over to pick up his purchase.

Now it’s my turn, thought Roland, please be next, please be next, please be next . . . Damn it! The next slave was the forty something dark-haired woman with a few streaks of gray in her hair. She may not have been as young as the other slave girls but she was still enticingly beautiful. Her muscles had a solid look to them and her belly was taunt. She had obviously been well cared for and was just as obviously experienced – like the first proffered woman, she was a rock solid statue while being bid upon. The bidding did not last long, though. Still standing behind Roland the Magistrate raised his voice at the opening bid of ten and after that, nobody else was interested in bidding. The Slaver looked crest fallen for a moment but resigned himself to this disappointing sale as well.

Robert returned to stand beside Roland. With a snap of his finger and a point to the ground, his new slave assumed the Kneel position. He then took hold of her hair and held on as if afraid someone would try to snatch her away. With just a hint of teasing in his voice, Roland asked, “don’t you want to get her collared and properly welcome her?”

“It can wait,” Robert responded. I wanna see how you make out.”

Roland leaned in a little and in a low voice said, “I thought you only had seventeen silver on you?”

“I said I had seventeen left of my reward, which is what ya asked. What? Ya think I didn’t manage to save me a little money in me years?” Roland shook his head sheepishly. Though growing increasingly impatient, Roland forced himself to maintain his calm demeanor through slaves’ number thirteen (another one who had an orgasm upon being sold), fourteen and fifteen. Number thirteen went to the Calvary Colonel and it pleased Roland to see him take her promptly to the Smithy. It meant the man would not likely be competition now. Number fourteen, an adorably cute black-haired girl of perhaps twenty years sold to Lord Foppish who immediately made her use available too. Much to the relief of Roland, Lord Foppish also left the vicinity of the platform, his slave buying for whatever venture he was planning apparently done for the day. Roland stamped his foot irritably when number sixteen turned out to be another dark-haired cutie who became the property of a man Roland knew from his time in the service. Roland gave him a shout of congratulations along with several others and then returned his attention to the platform . . . and then . . .

Finally! It took a considerable amount of will power to keep from shouting it out. Roland felt his pulse quicken again and his loins stir anew as she ascended the platform. Her quick scan of the crowd as she assumed the Present position was subtle, many might not have noticed it – but Roland did. He noticed it because her scan of the faces ended abruptly with him. For just a fraction of second their eyes locked and Roland received the unspoken, yet loudly sent, message: ‘Please let it be you!’ Roland’s reply was equally silent shout of: ‘It will be!’

Roland’s concentration grew even more focused on the task at hand. All his desires and stirrings, all his hopes and fears were simply set aside. He had originally planned to wait toward the end before making his first bid – to come in as a dark horse and disappoint somebody at the last moment – but he discarded that plan immediately. He would take no chances and right from the start shouted out “ten!” as he jabbed his finger in the air. He did the same, his elation growing each time, with “eleven!” and “twelve!” He was so loud that several men near him laughed. He didn’t care. Let all of them know I’m serious, he thought, might make some drop out sooner.

That shortly seemed to be the case. By the time the bid was up to fifteen it was only Roland and three other men. Two were fellow militiamen he did not know. The third was the salt and pepper bearded Earl to his left. Roland had forgotten about him and felt the first stirrings of fear in his gut when he realized that the Earl had not bid up until now. He reminded himself that it was a question of how much a man was willing to pay. He ignored the fear and continued to shout out his willingness to pay each increased bid.

At seventeen the first of the other two militiamen dropped out. The second did so at eighteen. Before the Slaver asked for nineteen the Earl called out “twenty!” It was obvious to Roland what he was doing. He had figured that Roland couldn’t go above twenty, or much above it, and he was trying to end things quickly. That fear in Roland’s gut expanded, become a hollow thing – a strange unidentifiable presence of an absence that came with a most unwelcome realization . . . he wants her!

“Twenty-one!” shouted Roland. We’ll just see how badly you want her.

“Twenty-two,” responded the Earl in a calm, collected voice. As so often happened in this phase of an auction, the Slaver kept quiet and let the last two men have it out. At twenty-five that fear seemed to have expanded from his gut and made his loins feel numb. At twenty seven he felt the first beads of perspiration on his forehead this day. Despite expending tremendous amounts of energy to appear unconcerned, Roland knew he wasn’t succeeding when the Earl jumped three coins ahead and said, “Thirty.”

My next bid will give it away. He’ll know I’m afraid of big increases – and he’ll know why. Unless . . . he’s trying to scare me off by going as high as he’ll go. Only one way to find out. “Thirty-one,” said Roland.

“Thirty-two,” was the Earl’s confident reply. That fear became a sick feeling that seemed to tingle on his skin. He had only one bid left to make and it would advertise that he had reached the end of the line. It would advertise his weakness. There was one hope and only one hope left and it was a forlorn one. Maybe he’s bluffing. Maybe, just maybe, he’s got no more than thirty-two silver and four bits left. Damn that thieving stable owner! Even as he thought these things he knew them to be absurdities.

“Thirty-two silver going once,” said the Slaver. Roland hadn’t even been aware of the passage of time. He felt a sense of panic come over him. What can I do? What can I do? I could sell some of my land! But he knew this was a futile thought. The Slaver expected his coin up front. No coin, no sale. The rising sense of panic was replaced by a crushing feeling of hopelessness. God and Spirits don’t fail me now!

When he spoke, his voice had the dejected sound of defeat in it. “Thirty-two and five bits.” A murmur ran through the crowd as everyone there realized the significance of the bid. The Earl smiled and upon seeing that smile Roland felt the tingling fear on his skin become numbness.

“Thirty-two and six bits.” He said it without any sense of spite in his voice and somehow that made it all the more insulting. That numbness poured throughout Roland’s body, infused itself into every particle of his being. This cannot be, he thought.

“Thirty-two and six, going once,” said the Slaver. Roland looked at him with a puzzled look as if to ask, what are you doing? This cannot be. He looked at the girl and again made a fleeting eye contact with her. Disappointment was far too inadequate a word to describe what he read there. She was crushed and two tears dripping down her cheeks were like silent accusations of his failure. I’m sorry, he wanted to silently say back to her but, ashamed, he looked away instead as he heard the Slaver say, “thirty-two and six, going twice.” This cannot be. He felt detached from the world, as if everything and everyone around him were alien to him.

“Sold! For thirty-two and six.” The Slaver seemed quite happy, he now had two really good sales to make up for the two lousy ones. But Roland couldn’t understand why he was happy. What was there to be happy about? This cannot be. He felt someone patting his back. Robert, his mind told him – but who or what was Robert? He heard voices too: That Robert thing again telling him that “ya canna win them all.” Something called the Magistrate agreeing and mentioning that there were still three nice ones left. Another known/unknown thing called Marcus saying that it’d be best to wait anyway. He heard these voices but did not really hear their message. Their message was strange and unnatural. It was irritating bits of sound trying to confirm an impossibility. Their message was wrong! This cannot be!

Another voice came through but this time Roland did hear it clearly. He felt a visceral, primal hatred of that voice for it belonged to the man who had just altered Roland’s reality. “Better luck next time, kid,” said the hateful voice.

Roland watched, too stunned to feel humiliated, as the source of that hateful voice turned and headed over to the cash box. He watched as that bastard Earl paid his coin and took his – Roland’s! – slave by the hair. He watched as the girl – his girl! – gave him a final departing ‘it-would-have-been-nice’ glance that seemed to stab him in the gut (he heard that irritating noise called Robert say something about “here comes the next one, she’s damn nice” but he ignored it). He watched as that bastard, world upending, happiness destroying, Earl started taking her over to the Smithy’s tent – taking her away from him.
This cannot be . . . but it was . . . then I must not let it be! I will not let it be! With a sudden burst of clarity the world reassembled itself back into its familiar forms. He knew what he had to do.

“Roland no!” shouted Robert, but it was too late. With an angry, determined stride Roland headed directly toward the Earl and the woman he intended to own.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 7/6/2014 2:00:53 PM >

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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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Chapter Four: Shortly After Noon




Honor. To some it is nothing more than a word, mere breath and insubstantial air. To others it is a code to be rigorously guarded for such they have been taught since childhood. Yet in others it is simply something intrinsic, a natural born sense of fairness demanded by one’s own sense of personal integrity.

Roland did not realize it at the time but being one of the last types saved his life that day. By some instinct the (bastard, world destroying, dream crushing) Earl and those nearby sensed that Roland’s approach, although angry and determined, was not immediately hostile – so no weapons were drawn when the young man placed himself in the path of the Earl and his recent acquisition. Several men did quickly gather around, including two Royal Guardsmen, and had Roland’s intent been read as an unprovoked attacked he would have been quickly gutted – or worse, arrested for an attack upon a Noble. As it was there were a few seconds of tense silence and then Roland simply said, “She’s mine.”

“I believe,” said the Earl, clearly annoyed, “that the sale is complete. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He started to step around Roland but Roland blocked him with a matching step.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want. You can have the thirty-two and five now and I can get the rest later. I have land I can sell . . . or trade! How much you want? Fifty acres? A hundred?”

“I am not interested,” replied the Earl with just a hint of anger. He tightened his grip on the girl’s hair causing her to wince and whimper a little.

“Two hundred acres!” There were some exclamations of surprise from the crowd around them which had grown a little larger. Roland saw that all four of his friends had joined the circle of men forming around him and the Earl. Both Robert and Oliver had their new slaves kneeling next to them. Oliver’s slave, now collared Roland noticed, still trembled slightly – but no where near as bad as she did before she became his. Roland also noticed the Magistrate with his new slave as well.

“I already have all the land I want,” said the Earl with even more anger in his voice. “I desire no more. The only thing at this moment I desire is for you to go away. I bought her. She’s mine. Accept it and buy yourself another before they’re all gone.” Again he tried to step around Roland and again Roland blocked him, holding up a hand as he did so. The Earl released his grip on the brown-haired slave girl (she promptly knelt), drew himself up and glowered, but before he could say anything . . .

“Then I challenge you for her,” Roland said. There were even more gasps from the crowd which continued to grow larger as the scene drew men away from the auction and the groups of men waiting to pay a silver bit for a few moments use of a pussy. The auction itself had come to a halt as the Slaver was waiting, with obvious irritation, for this interruption to finish and stop drawing attention away from his last three slave girls. The Earl was angry now, and obviously insulted. He knocked Roland’s hand away with the back of his own but Roland brought it right back up again and this time pushed it against the Nobleman’s chest. “I challenge you for her!” he shouted.

“You don’t have the right!” The Earl was growing red in the face now. He was about to shout something else but another voice cut him short.

“Pardon me Lord Ethbridge.” It was the Magistrate. Like a saber cutting through thin rope, his voice – simply because it was his voice – had cut through all the nearby chatter and brought silence to the still growing crowd. The whole town was now taking notice. “Young Roland here does have the right. Anyone who has the right to bear arms – and the King has extended that right to all honorably discharged militiamen – may issue challenge.”

There were several ‘yeahs’ from the Militiamen in the crowd, several nodding of heads. “He may have the right,” responded the Earl to the Magistrate, “but he’s got no sense. You tell him!” Then he hastily added, “Your honor.”

Turning to Roland with a look of fatherly concern, the Magistrate said, “He’s quite right, I’m afraid. This is foolishness on your part. The Earl of Ethbridge is a well trained and seasoned warrior. You cannot hope to prevail against him. I strongly urge you to reconsider, young Roland. There is more than one slave girl in the world. She’s not worth it.”

Roland was getting a little tired of this Magistrate constantly calling him “young,” but he understood that the man meant well. “I appreciate your concern, your Honor, but I have no choice in this. She must be mine.” He turned his attention back to his opponent. “I challenge you for her. Either yield her up or name your choice of weapon.”

The Lord Ethbridge snorted and looked Roland up and down once. He snorted again and looked directly into the young man’s eyes. Roland held his gaze, trying to force all of his determination into that gaze, hoping (but not really expecting) to bluff the other man into backing down. He was just now taking stock of the fact that this man he was challenging was taller than him – and broader. He was getting on in his years, yes, and Roland had his share of youth’s natural, arrogant, belief in its own quickness and strength, but now he realized that this Earl was still hearty and hale. Roland recalled the words of the Magistrate. He recalled one word in particular: “seasoned.” What have I gotten myself into? But he wasn’t really afraid. If he played to his strengths he could still win (had he not, after all, killed many a professional soldier during the Battle of the Border?), and this Earl would likely be overconfident. And if I don’t win?

It was a stunning self revelation that he’d rather not live if he couldn’t have her. He couldn’t explain it to himself. He didn’t even know she existed before today yet it was as though she had cast some spell upon him. He could just see her out of the corner of his eye, kneeling next to and slightly behind the man who, at this moment at least, was her legal owner. Gods and spirits she was enticing! But was beauty, even such as hers, worth his life? And of what use was the knowledge in her head to him if he were dead? Yet it strangely didn’t matter. He just knew that he needed her to complete himself. He was also surprised to discover that he felt a sense of obligation. He had told her in words that she would be his at the display stakes, and again, without words, when she was on the platform. Free subjects were under no obligation, legally or by custom, to keep their word to slaves but something deeper than measly legalities and customs, something basic and almost primal, told him he had to honor his promise. To not do so would feel like breaking some ancient compact.

The town of Harold’s Stand was dead silent as the two men sized each other up. Roland continued his resolute gaze. The Earl of Ethbridge’s jaw moved his salt and pepper beard slightly as if figuratively chewing over various options. The silence stretched to half a minute, and then the Lord Ethbridge chuckled, cracked a little smile, and broke the silence with: “Although you’re an annoying pain in my ass, I like you kid. I’m going to be merciful on you and just teach you a lesson.” Then louder, for the whole town to hear, “I choose no weapons!”

The Magistrate signaled two of the Royal Guardsmen over. The Earl began removing his scabbard and sheath – their weapons still in them – and handing them over to one of the Royal Guardsmen. Roland followed suit, surrendering his weapons to a Royal guardsman and handing his backpack and water skein over to Marcus. He had almost forgotten his money pouch but when the saw the Earl hand one over to a Royal Guardsman, Roland handed his over to Robert. The Magistrate motioned for everybody to make more room and the entire town of Harold’s Stand formed a large circle around the two men. Even the slave girls who were being rented out were getting a respite and kneeling next to Lord Foppish and his hired body guards. Only the Slaver, with his three remaining girls and a few of his hired men remained at the auction block but they all watched intently as well.

Roland looked this assembly over and saw the eagerness for the entertainment of a fight on so many of the faces. Most being his fellow militiamen, they were inclined to support Roland and many nodded encouragement at him as his gaze passed them by. He also heard wagers being made. Many of the bets were for him, for no other reason than group loyalty, but he noted that a great many were against him as well. He also saw the looks of concern on his friends’ faces. There were only five people in the circle: Roland himself, the Earl, the two Royal Guardsmen (each holding one man’s set of weapons) . . . and her, the cause of the whole spectacle. She did not stay long.

“Over there,” the Earl of Ethbridge commanded, pointing to the Magistrate, “obeisance!” The brown-haired girl quickly complied, scampering over to the Magistrate and with that remarkable fluid motion of hers assumed the proper position: kneeling, knees together, bending over so that her face nearly touched the ground and tucking her crossed arms underneath her. She was not, apparently, to be allowed to watch the fight that would determine her master . . . and thus her future.

As she obeyed, Roland caught another glance from her. Her face, though a seemingly immobile mask of composure still reported a tumult of emotions: fear, desire, astonishment, pride (all this over me!), concern and others. Through it all Roland read two things very clearly. First, that she would have tried to talk him out of it were she able, and the second . . . that she hoped he kicked ass.

Roland drew encouragement from this. This damned condescending Noble was underestimating him. Roland would show him what a scrappy upbringing in the poor streets of the city taught a man about fist fighting. The two Royal Guardsmen also left the circle, taking up positions near the Magistrate. Roland and the Earl each walked over to one side of the circle, both swinging their arms back and forth and moving their heads around in that time honored imitation of limbering up that was really part bluff and part self assurance.

“Challenge,” said the Magistrate in his loud, official sounding tone, “has been lawfully issued . . . and accepted. The contention is the ownership of this unnamed female slave.” He didn’t bother pointing the slave girl out – everyone knew which one she was. She couldn’t see the many eyes that glanced at her but she obviously felt them upon her for she shuddered a bit. “The choice of weapon in no weapon. Combat will continue until one man or the other yields, is unable to continue, or is dead.”

A hush fell over the crowd as the two men faced each other from opposite sides of the circle and then the Magistrate simply said, “Begin.” With fists raised, both men began, in a cautious back and forth jig, toward the center of the circle. Calls of encouragement, all but a few of them for Roland, began to emanate from the crowd.

After some fifteen seconds of this wary dance Roland decided to put his youthful quickness to work. He feinted right then dashed straight toward the Nobleman, his left fist poised to slam the side of the man’s face. For a second Roland thought he had succeeded – as he had expected to – but the Earl of Ethebridge’s upper body moved deftly to the side and the next thing Roland knew, his wrist was in the firm grip of both of the other man’s hands. Roland was yanked forward and tripped over his opponent’s leg and was tasting grass before he realized that he had been slammed to the ground.

He heard the “ohhs’” from the crowd but he didn’t have time to think about how easily he’d been thrown. The Earl still had a firm grip on Roland’s wrist and was starting to twist his arm. Pain shot through his muscles and tendons and he let out a snarl as he swept his legs, hoping to knock the Earl off his feet. The hope didn’t pan out. The Earl timed his leap over Roland’s swinging legs perfectly and all Roland had accomplished was to twist his body into an even more helpless position.

“Yield,” bellowed the Earl, “and I won’t break your arm.” Roland looked at the faces of the crowd. Some were encouraging him in both word and motion for him to get up but most looked disappointed and even a little affronted, as if they had purchased tickets to a play only to discover that it was boring. He saw the Magistrate, looking concerned but also disappointed. It was a different kind of disappointment though; more like a father watching a son learn a lesson the hard way because he had been too impetuous and prideful to accept sound advice. He nodded his head slightly, as if to say, yield, there’s no shame in it. Roland also saw his friends. Oliver and Henry were enthusiastically shouting at him to get up. Marcus, arms folded across his chest, observed impassively but couldn’t completely hide his concern for his friend. Robert looked at him with an expression that clearly said, you’re the world’s biggest fucking idiot.
He also saw her face. In blatant disobedience to her master’s command, she had lifted her head and was intently watching the fight. The disobedience didn’t concern Roland at all at that moment. What did concern him was the look of distress on her features. She clearly wanted him to win but she did not want to see him suffer pain and humiliation on her account.

Roland took in all of this in a few seconds and realized he was on the verge of suffering a quick and humiliating defeat. A burst of anger shot through him and ignoring the pain he pulled on his arm with all his strength. The Earl of Ethbridge let go . . . but too late. He lurched forward and was unable to stop himself from tumbling over Roland. Roland pulled himself from under his toppled opponent, rolled over and, to the cheers of many, leaped up. Gods and Spirits his left arm hurt! He flexed it and spun it around a few times and found that it still worked despite the pain. The Earl also rolled over once and quickly returned to his feet. The two men faced each other again and resumed their wary dance.

The shouts from the crowd were louder now and all of them, as far as Roland could tell, were siding with him – what few supporters the Earl had either were drowned out or had decided, perhaps because they were so outnumbered, to remain silent. Okay, thought Roland, this guy is skilled. He knows some tricks. He also knows that I know that now. He won’t be expecting me to be so brash now . . . which means this is the perfect time to strike! Roland repeated the same move but this time he held back his punch until he saw that the feint had worked. Weren’t expecting me to try that again, were you? thought Roland with triumph as he threw his punch and connected just below his adversary’s ear. Roland used the Earl’s brief disorientation to deliver an uppercut to the man’s chin with his right fist and followed that immediately with another left handed punch which landed on the side of his nose. The Earl staggered back and Roland pressed his advantage, delivering two more blows before the Nobleman stumbled backwards and fell on his rear, generating some laughter from the crowd along with the cheers.

“She’s to be mine!” yelled Rolland, “yield her!” The Earl of Ethbridge made no reply. Instead he wiped his hand across his nose, stared for a second at the blood there, and then flung it away. He looked at Roland with an expression of affronted anger but that was quickly followed by a hint of amusement. He grinned, slowly stood up, and raised his fists. The wary dance began again.

It lasted longer this time, a silent acknowledgement of mutual respect for each other’s abilities (some in the crowd booed). It was the Earl who struck first. Taking advantage of his longer reach, the Nobleman made some quick jabs at Roland to get the young man to back up a few steps, and then he leaped in with both fists flying. Roland ducked his head first this way then that and also tried to block the other man’s punches with his arms but with only limited success. Knowing that to stay in a defensive mode meant to be eventually worn down, Roland accepted a few blows while making a few of his own. For several seconds the two men traded blows. Then, both of them staggering a bit, they withdrew from each other.

As they warily circled each other yet again, Roland assessed his injuries. His left arm still hurt terribly, the sharp twinge off pulled muscles was worse. There was a dull ache on his upper right arm where several punches had landed and the left side of his face throbbed with pain. His left eye felt a little puffy and he could taste blood and feel a trickle of it running down the side of his mouth. His opponent was definitely feeling some pain too. Blood dripping from his nose had stained some of the white flecks of his salt and pepper beard red, absurdly making it look like a checker’s board to Roland. He laughed at this and the Earl of Ethbridge looked at him quizzically which made Roland laugh even harder . . . and that’s when the Earl struck again.

Roland side-stepped him and tried to land another punch but the Earl ducked and landed his own blow into Roland’s ribs. Roland spun away but received another punch in the ribs as he did so, which threw him off balance. He staggered a little but managed to remain on his feet but the delay in orienting himself gave the Earl the opening he needed. Three times Roland felt the other man’s fist smash into his face, once in each eye and the third directly on his nose, sending blood splattering in all directions. Roland brought his hands up to ward off any more blows but this presented the Earl the opening he needed to drive his fist right into the soft spot in the middle of Roland’s chest.

With an “ooofff,” Roland’s breath was forced out of his lungs. He doubled over as he felt his legs go wobbly and had to concentrate on remaining on his feet. The Earl of Ethbridge then sent a crashing blow into Roland’s jaw, sending the young man sprawling onto the ground. The crowd groaned and then was silent as Roland gasped for breath, the man he had challenged standing over him.

Roland concentrated on getting his breath back and waiting for some feeling to come back to his legs. Again he saw the disappointed faces, except for his friends who all (even the usually imperturbable Marcus) looked alarmed . . . and except for her as well. She still had that torn between concern and desire look on her face but now both emotions seemed to be intensified. Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks.

Several seconds went by and the Earl spoke up. “I think that settles it, your Honor,” he said to the Magistrate. But Roland had found his breath by then.

“It does not!” The strength was returning to his legs and he propped himself up on all fours. He drew in a deep breath and said, “I’m not done with you yet!” This brought some chuckles and some admiring cheers and clapping from the crowd. The cheers increased, but the Earl shook his head sadly, as Roland slowly stood up.

“Forget it kid,” said the Earl, “you’ve no chance. Yield while you can. I’ve no wish to hurt you. Do you want her that badly?” Roland ignored him and raised his fists again. “Idiot,” said the Earl with a snort of contempt as he resumed his stance. “Some people just have to learn the hard way.”

Now it was just the Earl circling Roland who spun on his feet slowly, trying to keep his opponent in front of him. His left eye was now quite swollen and he had difficulty seeing out of it. He knew he had to keep the other man away from his left side. The Nobleman made feinting jabs at Roland, causing him to retreat again. Knowing that he could not afford to fall into that trap again, knowing that he was running out of time, he decided to try one of the Earl’s own moves against him. Roland firmly planted his feet and ducked the latest jab with only his upper body. He grabbed the man’s arm with both hands and pulled with all his might.

At first it seemed to work. The Earl started to stumble forward but then, instead of trying to pull back as Roland mistakenly had done earlier, the older man went with the motion. He twisted around, breaking Roland’s grip and Roland had only a second to realize that he’d been out maneuvered again before he felt several blows land on his back. Roland tried to turn himself around only to catch another blow to the side of his face. He staggered, trying to keep his balance and as he did so the Earl of Ethbridge plowed his fist into Roland’s nose once again. Roland had to pinwheel his arms (his left arm protested mightily at that) to keep from falling as he stumbled backward. The only reason he didn’t fall was because the Earl had grabbed him by the scruff of his blood soaked shirt.

Roland was now on the receiving end of four punches to the face as the Earl of Ethbridge punctured each one verbally. “I! Have had! Enough! Of this!” He let Roland go and the dazed youth was unable to stop himself from falling to his knees and toppling over. As he did so he heard the Ohs’ and ahs’ of the crowd. He heard the underlying tone of resignation that evidenced the spectators’ belief that the fight was now truly over.

The world again seemed to be strange and unnatural. How could he be lying here, bloodied and racked with pain? This was not supposed to be… but it was. The faces told the story. Nearly every one wore a look of pity. His friends were an exception again. All looked dreadfully frightened for him. Robert in particular seemed to be willing him to stay down. The Magistrate also looked very concerned but his expression had a mixture of, “I told you so,” in it. A murmur began to rise from the crowd as men, admiring his courage and thus unwilling to see him hurt further in an obviously lost cause, began to exhort him to “give it up,” and “stay down.”

And then there was her. She wept openly but silently now, an anguished expression on her face. Roland caught the movement of her lips as she silently mouthed, “please… not for me.” Humiliation and shame swept through Roland and his wounded pride caused an intense, resentment filled, anger to swiftly follow. He used this anger to seek out his last reserves of strength.

“Your Honor?” said the Earl of Ethbridge, looking at the Magistrate. His voice carried a tone of pleading, a clear unwillingness to inflict anymore damage on the brash young man lying prone in front of him.

The Magistrate sighed, nodded his head and then, in that official sounding voice of his, said, “It is my judgment that combatant Roland is unable to continue… I therefore decree that…” He stopped suddenly and another murmur ran through the crowd. Roland had propped himself up on all fours again. Silence reigned once more as the town of Harold’s Stand watched Roland shake his head, sending some blood spatters around him, and then slowly, painfully, rise to his feet. The Earl held his arms out in supplication, and asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you,” said Roland, flecks of blood splaying from his lips, “she must be mine.” The Earl looked incredulously at Roland, as if unable to believe what he was seeing. But then a change came over his countenance, one that seemed to be of recognition and understanding. He put his hands on his hips and looked down, shook his head slowly a few times, and then looked at Roland again. This time it was a look of acceptance followed by a grin and a chuckle.

The Earl of Ethbridge held up both hands in surrender and, looking over the crowd, loudly proclaimed, “I yield!” Returning his gaze to Roland he said, “Take her, she’s yours.” It took about three seconds for the gathered assembly to register the implications and then there was a hearty round of cheers and applause.

“I don’t need your damned pity or your damned charity!” shouted Roland, bringing the cheers and applause to an abrupt end. He raised his fists. “C’mon!” He gestured the Earl to come forward.

“Roland! Shut the fuck up you dumbass!” someone shouted. It was Robert of course.

“There is no need to continue, young Roland,” said the Magistrate, “Lord Ethbridge has yielded.”

“If I may, your Honor,” said the Earl. The Magistrate nodded and the Earl held out an arm toward the edge of town. “Will you walk with me, Roland?” When Roland hesitated he added, “please.”

His burst of outrage over his wounded pride subsided and Roland thought to himself, what the hell am I saying? He lowered his fists and nodded his head before taking a couple of tentative steps. He wasn’t as unsteady on his feet as he feared he would be. He took a second to straighten up a bit more and then turned to look at the brown-haired slave girl. She had an expression of wonder on her face. The Earl followed Roland’s gaze and as both men looked at her she gasped and, with a look of fright, promptly ducked her head back into the Obeisance position.

“You!” said the Earl in a tone that made it obvious he was addressing her. “Crawl behind!”

“Yes, Master” she replied as she got on her hands and knees. Her voice betrayed her uncertainty as to whether she was addressing any free man or her actual master.

The crowd was slowly starting to break up. Some of the men were sheepishly paying off wagers. There were a few arguments over who had actually won the bet. One in particular was getting heated: “The man yielded, you heard it, pay up!”

“That Nobel was just being nice! Your guy got his ass kicked, everybody saw it!” Roland noticed that the Magistrate and a Royal Guardsmen were slowly making their way over to the outburst.

The two Royal Guardsmen who were holding their weapons approached Roland and the Earl, proffering their armaments to them. The Earl took his right away and buckled them back on. Roland hesitated a few seconds (he felt caught in some netherworld where he wasn’t sure what was going on or what he should do), and then took possession of his weapons as well. As the Royal Guardsman handed them over, Roland caught a glimpse of respect in the man’s eyes. Coming from one of the usually stoic, and not easily impressed, elite warriors, this was quite the compliment. Roland felt honored by this and acknowledge the man’s respect with a nod of his head. He girded on his sword and dagger and then looked at the Earl as if to say, lead on. The Earl turned and headed toward the edge of town, Roland keeping pace beside him. The brown haired slave, crawling, followed behind.

♦ ♦ ♦

A little ways beyond the north edge of town was a field of stumps – the remnants of a large wood that had been sacrificed to the needs of man. At the edge of the stump field there stood a surviving vestige of that wood, though it was doubtful that those trees would remain long. But for now their leafy braches provided some privacy for the Earl and Roland, who stood about twenty yards inside the wood, to talk.

When he first saw where the Earl of Ethbridge was heading Roland felt a momentary sense of alarm. Was this Earl leading him to a secluded place to gut him in private? He quickly dismissed the thought as nonsense. This Earl could have easily dispatched him during their combat if he had wanted to. That knowledge stung Roland’s pride bitterly. He also dismissed the thought as unworthy of himself. He had to admit that the Earl of Ethbridge appeared to be an honorable man – but he was still in no mood to like him.

The brown haired girl was kneeling as the two men faced each other. Roland wondered briefly if he legally owned her now. The Earl had yielded, and the Magistrate had affirmed that but Roland, in his injured pride, had called for the fight to continue. Did that constitute a refusal? He wasn’t sure. It was the Earl who spoke first. “First off, Roland, I wish to apologize for my final bid. It was unnecessarily insulting against a worthy opponent. It was spiteful and petty and beneath my station, so please . . . accept my sincere apology.”

Another noble apologizing. This just continued to be a day of surprises. Roland, recalled something his father had once told him: "There is no greater courage a man can demonstrate than to admit himself wrong." Although the apology would have carried more weight, in Roland’s estimation, had it been made in front of others. Still he wanted to move things along so Roland simply said, “accepted.”

“Thank you,” said the Earl who sounded like he wasn’t entirely convinced of Roland’s sincerity but also apparently also wanted to move things along. “Now, I have a question for you. Do you think me a fool?”

This was not at all what Roland expected and he felt himself fumbling for words. “I . . . well . . . how should I know? I don’t know you well enough to . . . ”

“Ahh, come on, Roland. You can be more forthright than that. I know you can. I’ve seen you in action, you’ll recall.”

“Very well. I’ve seen nothing to indicate that you are a fool.”

“Good, now why do you think I’m out here?” He waved his arm around in a broad sweep to indicate that he meant the new territory, and not just him and Roland in this copse of trees.

“To buy up land, I would think.”

“That’s right. I’ve bought up twelve hundred acres. You see, Roland, my family is not exactly one of the wealthy ones. By your standards I’m sure I rank as quite wealthy but by the standards of the Nobility, we are what is known as the ‘gentile poor.’ Roland nodded his head in understanding although he agreed that he and the Earl had different notions of what constituted ‘wealthy.’ No one who could buy up twelve hundred acres at a blow had any business, in Roland’s estimation, calling himself poor. But he also knew how obsessed the Noble Classes, particularly the higher ranks, were about money and luxuries. He knew how many of them looked down upon anyone with less than them. He wasn’t sure, however, what any of this had to do with the present situation. His puzzlement must have show.

“I’ve come out here Roland with the intention of improving my family’s fortunes. Once things get built up and settled down a little I’ll be bringing my wife and children, their spouses and my grandchildren here. I plan on being a gentleman farmer and renting out some of my lands as well. Once I got things up and running it should all provide a good and steady income. In time, perhaps my son or grandson can achieve the rank of Barron or Count.”

Roland again nodded his head but he still didn’t understand why he was getting this biography. The Earl could see that he didn’t understand why either and he continued with, “I want to get along with my neighbors.”

Ahh, thought Roland, now he did understand. Most of the settlers out here were discharged militiamen and just by virtue of shared experience and common belonging, they had naturally cheered for Roland. Seeing one of their own killed or maimed by a Nobleman, even in an honorably given and accepted challenge, would not endear him to them.

“Precisely,” said, the Nobleman, seeing that Roland now understood. “I will have to conduct commerce with these people after all and maintain peaceable relations with my neighbors.”

“So you want to give her to me just to make friends and influence people.”

“Yes,” said the Earl. “Now before your pride gets your dander up again, hear me out. Roland nodded. His pride was prickling him again most annoyingly. He felt caught between his desire to posses her and his need to respect himself. Could he sacrifice one for the other and still feel whole?

“I told you that first,” continued the Earl, “because I wanted to be upfront and honest with you about it. I admit my motives are not entirely altruistic.” He paused for a moment, looking at the kneeling slave. She was flushed, breathing a little rapidly, and was covered in a sheen of sweat and her legs had picked up some dirt and bits of grass from her crawl through the field. She kept her gaze firmly on the ground. She was no longer crying but the tear tracks down her cheeks were obvious. “She is a damned nice one isn’t she?”

“I can think of no words that can truly describe her.” Roland was a little surprised at his own honesty. It felt like confessing a weakness to both of them, but he found he didn’t care.

“And that fire in her belly burns hot… very hot. You can tell that just by looking at her.”

“It was something I noticed early on,” said Roland with a smile (or what he hoped was a smile, he wondered how bad his face looked). Although still wary of this Earl’s intentions he couldn’t help but feel that most basic of commonalities amongst men with him – an appreciation, that bordered on awe, of that wonder . . . and mystery . . . called woman.

“They are truly marvelous creatures to own.” The Earl turned his face back to Roland. “My motives may not be entirely altruistic but that doesn’t mean . . .” He paused again and seemed to be at a loss for words. He looked down for a few seconds, sighed, and then looked up again. “That look you had in your eyes when you first approached me and all during the fight? I’ve had that look myself once. Many years ago, and I was just about your age, I was the one ready to sacrifice everything to own a woman I just knew was meant to be mine . . . only I didn’t win that fight.” Roland caught a brief wistful look in the other man’s eyes, thoughts about might-have-beens and lost opportunities.

The Earl quickly returned himself to the present and looked at the slave girl again. “To me she’ll just be another slave girl . . . a damned good one to be sure, but just another collared female. I already own four. I’ll bring them out here in time, too. Probably before I bring my family out here.” He grinned, returning his attention to Roland. “All I was looking for was a pretty bauble to keep my tent and amuse my loins but I can wait until the next shipment of women comes in. I know she’ll be so much more for you. I want you to have her.”

Roland shuffled his feet a little, scratched the back of his head and smiled. “I’m not saying I won’t accept her, you understand . . .” his smile turned into a bit of a scowl . . . “but I’m still not comfortable with accepting her outright. I don’t feel like I’ve earned her. I can’t really explain it. I am still willing to pay for her.”

“I understand. Too accept her when you feel you haven’t earned her would be an insult to your pride. Yet, to refuse my gift would be an insult to my pride. So where does that leave us? You know, Roland, pride can be a dangerous thing. A man needs pride, certainly. Without it he cannot walk upright in the world. But he should be careful not to walk so rigidly that the slightest push can tip him over.”

The Earl rubbed his bearded chin with thumb and forefinger for a moment (a habit Roland’s own father had which, though largely unconscious of it, Roland had picked up himself), plucked absent-mindedly at the drying blood that had accumulated there. An enigmatic half smile came to him. “In exchange for her, you can do me a favor . . .”

“I’m listening.”

“Years from now you may be the one buying a mere trinket of a woman . . . a woman that will be much more to a very determined young man . . . let him have her.” He waited for the young man’s response.

Roland looked down at the ground for a moment. Would that day ever come? Perhaps. At the moment, he found it hard to believe he’d ever want to own another slave. Still, it was a promise he felt he could keep and while he may not have truly won the fight, he had endured against a formidable opponent long enough to earn his obvious respect. It also occurred to him that being on friendly terms with an Earl would have advantages. Roland lifted his head, smiled and, as he offered his hand, said, “not without giving him a sound thrashing first.”

The Earl of Ethebridge laughed heartily, seized Roland’s hand in a firm grip and said, “done, then! See to it that you use her well.”

“Oh, I will,” replied Roland as the handshake ended “that’s been my intent from the moment I saw her. Oh, believe me, I will.” He was starting to feel a little giddy now. She’s mine! She’s really mine!

The Earl laughed again. “Well then… I think I’ll go down to the river to clean up a bit and then maybe see if that redhead is still available for use . . . although I’ve never been one for sloppy seconds . . . much less sloppy fifty-seconds,” he muttered, causing Roland to chuckle a little, “I’ll see you around, Roland.”

“I’ll see you around.” He watched the man’s retreating back as he walked to the edge of the wood where he stopped and turned around to face Roland again.

“There is one more little favor you can do for me.”

“What’s that?”

“You may have noticed during our contest that she was watching most avidly.”

“I did indeed notice.”

“Despite the fact that she had been commanded into the Obeisance position. That was most disobedient of her.”

“It was very disobedient,” Roland agreed.

“She should be punished for that.”

“She will be,” Roland assured the man. Roland heard the girl hitch her breath and stifle a sob. Lord Ethbridge grinned as he left the wood. Roland could catch glimpses of men through the trees, his friends no doubt and other curious on-lookers. There was a slight babble of voices as the Earl emerged from the wood, and a spattering of applause. He could hear the Earl telling people that the mattered was settled and that he – Roland – should probably be given a few moments alone with his new prize. Roland smiled. Just a short while ago, mere moments, he hated the Earl of Ethbridge with a passion, now he found himself liking the man immensely.

Roland turned his attention to the brown haired slave – his slave! – kneeling in front of him. She kept her position but Roland noticed a slight tremor throughout her whole body. What thoughts, he wondered, must be pounding through her brain right now, what emotions that wanted to burst out? Her arousal was evident and Roland’s own arousal was pouring back into him. The stench of the silt trenches had given him some relief which had continued through the auction and the fight when he needed to focus his energies now . . .

Now that she was his, now that he had prevailed, it was coming back with an intensity that demanded satisfaction. He wanted to wait. He wanted to get her back to his campsite and take his time enjoying that delicious looking pussy for the first time. But he knew he was unable to restrain himself any longer. He had been out bid and has lost the fight, and yet still had prevailed. He was triumphant and that triumph coursed through him, demanding the celebration of release. His manhood was straining against his pants.

Well why the hell shouldn’t I? What’s the point in owning a woman if you can’t enjoy her when you want to? Besides, women have more than one hole . . . he could enjoy her now and still save her pussy for later. He removed his weapons and set them carefully against a tree and then with a few quick motions he released his belt and allowed his pants to fall around his ankles, not caring how ridiculous it might make him look. In a mere few seconds he achieved an intense rigidity unlike any time before. It felt like it might actually split open. Roland didn’t bother with words. He just snapped his fingers. The meaning was obvious and she obeyed promptly, scooting forward to position herself (she didn’t even move her hands from behind her back) and eagerly taking him into her mouth.

Three years of experience in a tavern was readily apparent as her warm, wet tongue explored his engorged flesh. She gave him a slight rake with her teeth and caressed him with her lips. With what little coherent ability to think that remained, he realized that she was testing . . . probing . . . finding out what he liked and adjusting her technique accordingly.

The many pains he felt from the fight merged in with the pleasure, became subsumed by it, adding to it. The physical pleasure he felt was just one aspect of the ecstasy that was building in him, infusing him. He had been sucked off by slave girls before but now his mind swarmed with the simple yet powerfully gratifying knowledge that this one belonged to him. It amplified the pleasure to a whole new level he had not experienced before, had in fact not even suspected to exist.

He stuck out his arms and braced himself against a pair of trees on either side of him. He slowly bucked his hips back and forth as he looked down at her, watching her concentrate on her task. She glanced up occasionally, trying to read his responses and hoping that she was proving herself pleasing. He could see her fear. She knew, of course, that failure to please would mean punishment (and this was a slave girl who already knew herself to be facing a whipping before the days end). He could also see that she fed off of this fear, that it increased her arousal. She was squirming quite a bit but her head seemed to move independently of the rest of her body, determined not to let the pleasure she was feeling interfere with her performance. He fed off of her fear as well; sucking it in as an affirmation of his triumph, his masculinity, his very existence, as he gradually increased the tempo of his hips. But there was also something about her fear he found distasteful, something that seemed accusatory, not from her but from within himself. His brain, though, was of no mind to figure it out right now.

How long he watched her, he was not certain. He lost all sense of time. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes. He didn’t care. The time was now. He grabbed her by the hair with both hands and, except for her tongue and lips, she immediately went passive, allowing him to move her head back and forth in time with his bucking hips. With each thrust he grunted a deep throaty “yeah,” his tempo increasing as he neared his peak.

As he fucked her mouth, the slave girl – his slave girl (“yeah!”) – managed to emit her own little squeaks of pleasure. Her hips wanted to buck back and forth, her knees wanted to rise so that her pussy could seek it’s satisfaction from his manhood but she forced herself to remain in position, denying her body’s primal demand that it be allowed to move in rhythm with his. The sexual forces within her found their exit through a shiver that ran through her whole body but seemed particularly intense, almost violent, in her loins.

“Mmmmm…mmmph…mmmph,” was the slave’s muffled reaction as Roland’s hot seed splattered itself on the back of her throat in several high-pressured streams. Roland’s response, as he pounded his loins against her face, was considerably louder. With a loud “yeah,” that came out more like “yargh,” he abandoned himself to the pulsating waves of ecstasy that shot throughout his body but, as always, seemed concentrated in his head and loins. He abandoned himself to the bliss that was the near extinguishment of thought as he exalted in the animal ferocity side of him that was usually held in check by the more civilized human side.

Only a tiny fraction of his thinking mind remained as he made a few more thrusts and then simply held her head in position, enjoying her tongue’s ministrations on his throbbing flesh. It was the part of his mind that always remained now matter how far he ascended into bliss. It was the wary watchful part that always remained on guard. He always felt like two different people at this moment, completely separate yet somehow fully experiencing both.

While Roland the male animal flung back his head and bellowed a conquering roar, Roland the wary watcher heard laughter, hoots, and applause from beyond the trees and (recognizing them for what they were) immediately dismissed the noise as non-threatening and irrelevant. While Roland the male animal scrunched his fingers in her hair and took in several deep breaths, Roland the wary watcher felt its own sense of pleasure at how beautifully the sun light dappled amongst the breeze bestirred leaves and swaying branches above him. While Roland the male animal looked down at the female that belonged to it, feeling another burst of pleasure in the process, Roland the wary watcher noted the bucking of her hips, the quivering of her legs, and the deep, throaty, muffled, sounds coming from her.

She was having her own orgasm, Roland the wary watcher realized, while some female version of a wary watcher within her continued to focus on using her tongue to clean his spend from him quickly, almost franticly. Her wary watcher knew it probably had only a few seconds to perform this job. His two separate parts were starting to merge back into one. The animal, comprehending that it had brought about an orgasm response from the female in front of it felt one last burst of pleasure. The wary watcher made a last check of the noise behind him, heard that it was dying down and dismissed it as an irrelevancy again. Then it gave itself to the rejoining.

Roland felt the tension in his manhood lessening, felt that strange sense of pleasure at being himself again that was also accompanied by a sense disappointment over the diminishing of the magnificent sensations. He knew he would be compensated with that drained yet harmonious feeling of contentment and relief that would come as soon as . . .

Roland let go of her head and pushed it away from him when the moment of unbearable super sensitivity arrived. Some instinct of hers, perhaps attuned to the tinniest reflex of some of his muscles, told her to stop tonguing him a fraction of an instant before he pushed her away. She licked her lips once and swallowed as she bowed her head again. For a moment Roland just stood there, enjoying the sight of her kneeling before him, while enjoying the flushed feeling of after. He noted that she had done an excellent job in cleaning him; he was wet only with her spittle and that was drying fast in the breezy air.

As he came down from his peak he slowly pulled his pants back up and re-sheathed his sword and dagger. He was beginning to feel the pains of the fight again as pains but they seemed distant and didn’t really bother him. He also felt weak; not in a defeated, no-energy-to-go-on sense of the word, but in a relaxed, refreshed just-woken-up-from-a-good-night’s-sleep kind of way. He was in fact beginning to feel a new burst of vigor.

Roland spent a few minutes slowly walking around the nude female kneeling before him, taking her in while he once again contemplated his good fortune. He had land! He had silver! He had a woman! And what a woman! He knew he was just beginning to understand the abilities and skills of this woman he now owned. He knew he was just beginning to unravel the depths and intensities of her needs and desires. It was going to be a marvelous adventure.

He also foresaw a danger – it would be all too easy to fall in love with this woman and that would be a weakness. Was father’s love for mother a weakness? The thought came unbidden from some depths of his past and his memories of growing up supplied the answer: no. There could be no disputing that his father had loved his mother with a passion and intensity that she returned ten times over. Even after he had manumitted her and married her their relationship at home had changed very little.

Outside their humble flat she could walk freely without having to show a slave’s deference to free people while the local slave girls, many whom she had been friends with, now had to show her proper respect. Roland smiled as he remembered her talking about what a difficult adjustment it had been but also how much she enjoyed her “outside” status (and recalled that she did eventually adjust – maintaining friendships with some of her former sisters in bondage, and delightfully extracting a humiliating revenge on some she hadn’t been friends with). Her status at home, however, remained one of love and obedience. The manumission had been little more than a legal ploy to provide for his mother should anything ever happen to his father. It was not common but it was far from rare (and it turned out not to be necessary, an outbreak of plague four years later had seen to that). It had been, Roland understood, an implicit confession from his father that the woman who had lived with and under him for twelve years was something more to him than a mere slave girl.

Roland continued his slow steady pace around his slave girl. Watching as her breath slowly retuned to normal, as her squirming subsided and she forced herself to hold position. Watching as her eyes, although resolutely looking upon the ground, followed the movement of his booted feet as best they could. She was coming down from her own orgasm. If I had won the bidding she would have yielded then and there, he was certain. Like the slave girls who had yielded upon being sold, it had not been the deep, body thrashing, abandonment of a fully yielded female being driven to the depths of her submission by a master who – with both enjoyment and amusement at the power he wielded – nonetheless wielded that power with a merciless efficiency, forcing her yield all, to hold nothing back. Still, it had been a delicious reward from her body for her submission. It confirmed that she was right where she belonged – kneeling naked in front of a man. In front of me.

Was it possible? Could he come to care for this delightful creature so much that he would actually grant her the option of whether or not to obey his commands? His mother, once the manumission papers had been signed and sealed, could have walked away if she wanted to. She could have left him and his father to make a free life of her own. She chose instead to continue to submit herself to his father’s commands and desires, to his hand and his whip. She chose to kneel naked before him. Roland had asked her about it once, asked her why she continued to act like a slave, continued to be treated like a slave, when she wasn’t anymore. In reply she had simply smiled and said, “your father owns my heart,” then she had resumed her task of scrubbing the kitchen floor. He hadn’t really understood his mother’s answer at the time but now, he was certain, he did. And you owned his heart as well. It all came down, really, to one question: Could he own her heart?

Some poet, somewhere, he recalled, had once said that a man can own every part of a woman but not buy every part, that he could only own her heart if she willingly gave it to him. He had dismissed it as romantic nonsense at the time but now he was not so sure. He was not so sure that the reverse wasn’t true as well. Could he allow a woman, a mere slave, to own his own heart as his father had obviously did? Roland had to admit the possibility was there but a smile slowly came to him as he stopped in front of her. It didn’t really matter right now. Time would tell. As per the King’s law he had to own her for seven years before he could legally manumit her anyway – and his father had waited twelve years. And why the hell was he thinking about this stuff anyway? Time will indeed tell but for now my little lovely . . . you are mine. And you are going to be one obedient, hard working, and pleasing female.

As earlier at the display stakes, he tucked a couple of fingers under her chin and lifted her face up to look at him. Again he had to tell her to look straight at him. Again he saw the desire and the fear, the need and the joy. All of them seemed amplified. There was something about the fear that he again found distasteful . . . something accusatory from within himself. He was beginning to understand it though. “I do not recall giving you permission to yield.”

She could not hide the burst of dread this simple statement had wrought. Her face scrunched up, her lips quavered and new tears formed in her eyes as she restrained herself from bursting in sobs. “I’m sorry, Master.” Roland felt a burst of pride and satisfaction. He had been addressed as ‘master,” uncountable times by many slave girls but this was the first time he had been so addressed by a woman that he actually owned. “Please forgive me, Master,” she squealed in a voice that quavered as much as her lips. Not even an hour since she had been sold and she was really racking the punishments up, this in addition to the customary whipping of a newly bought slave. But there was something more to the fear and Roland understood it now.

He was still an unknown to her. She had wanted it to be him but despite her needs and desires she still had no idea what kind of life awaited her. She didn’t know what kind of master he would be. How fierce would his punishments be? Would his whip deliver the harsh punishment she both feared and desired or would he go beyond and leave ragged scars on her like the whip held by incompetent or brutal men unable to master even their selves? Would he keep her well, giving her sufficient food and sleep and keeping her warm in the winter? Or would he be neglectful and so uncaring that she would waste away into an overworked, underfed, torn-up wreck of a woman?

Legally a free person could do anything they wanted to a slave. The social mores of Roland’s society, backed up by the King’s law, afforded protections to child slaves but adult slaves had no such protections. Their owner could do anything they wanted with them. Anything at all. Not that they usually did. Most men didn’t want wrecks for slave girls, they wanted vitality and eagerness along with the obedience and those same social mores reinforced it. One sure way for a man to loose all respect and fellowship of other men was to cross the line between discipline and brutality. Roland himself felt nothing but contempt and disgust for such men.

And now, he realized, the woman kneeling naked before him, looking into his eyes with her watery own, could not help but wonder what kind of man he was. She had hopes, but no certainties yet. He remembered something his father had told him once. “A slave girl should have a healthy fear of her master’s displeasure, of his punishments, but she should never have to be afraid of him.” It was another thing he hadn’t understood at the time. Now he did. He could tell her. He could assuage the worst of her fears right now but what would be the point? She could never truly know until she had lived under him for a while, until she held endured his punishments and received his care. She would learn in due time, until then she would just have to stew about it. He continued to hold her gaze for a good minute and then said, “I told you that you would be mine.”

As before, her voice had a deep lusty sound when she replied, “yes, Master.” Roland smiled a little as he let go of her and was pleased to see that she smiled a little too as she bowed her head again. She had her fears and doubts but she wasn’t giving into them just yet. She remained optimistic and she understood all too well that she could only wait and see.

Roland looked around. He could still catch glimpses of men hanging around near the edge of the stump field. In the distance he could hear that men had returned their attention to the available slaves and that the slave auction itself had resumed. It was time to rejoin that world, time to start his new life as a man that owned a woman as well as land (and still had a nice pile of silver in his pouch!). “Crawl,” he said as he turned and started toward the edge of the woods.
“Yes, Master,” she replied as she obediently followed her new master on her hands and knees.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 7/7/2014 5:47:41 PM >

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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/8/2014 7:17:15 AM   
Bambi2003


Posts: 31
Joined: 11/30/2009
Status: offline 		Liking this a lot - more please!

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'Life is not a rehearsal'

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/8/2014 10:11:54 AM   
Marc2b


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quote:

Liking this a lot - more please!


Thanks!

I appreciate the feed back.

There is more. Roland's (and his new slave's) day isn't over yet.

I plan on posting about one chapter a day . . . but, unfortunately, you'll have to wait until my day is over. I'm on my lunch break right now so it is back to work.



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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/8/2014 5:06:08 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Author's Note: My apologies to anyone named Myrtle. Nothing personal, you understand.

Roland & Allison.

Chapter Five: Early Afternoon




“Would you quit hovering over me!” Roland didn’t really mean to be short with the diminutive, middle aged, man with a receding hairline who was continuing to examine his face, but the medicinal spirits the Healer had applied to him had stung horribly. He knew that he was being a little unfair. The man was only doing his job, after all, and Roland understood that the good spirits contained in the clear liquid would help protect him from bad spirits that would seek to weaken him with fever and rot. Still, he felt like he was being patronized.

When Roland first emerged from the trees with his new possession crawling behind him, he had to endure several minutes of good-natured back slapping, handshakes, and jibbing from his friends as well as men he casually knew, barely knew or didn’t know at all. Even the usually stoic Marcus was enthusiastically congratulatory as he handed Roland his backpack and water skein, and Robert, returning Roland’s money pouch, managed to withhold his usual critiques of Roland’s intelligence. It was Robert however, who first insisted that Roland see the Healer who was in town.

At first Roland had dismissed the idea and had walked to the river instead. After splashing his face several times he stared at his rippling reflection. He was well on his way to having two good shiners and it looked like his nose was going to assume a new shape. Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time. His left eye was puffy but he could still see out of it fairly well. All things considered, he could have come through a lot worse. By this time all his friends were pestering him to see the Healer. Partially to shut them up and partially because he knew it to be prudent, he conceded.

Now he sat on a wooden stool outside the Healer’s tent. His friends stood nearby while the Healer, ignoring Roland’s rudeness, continued to look him over while humming “hmmm . . . hmmm,” to himself. Inside the tent Roland saw two other men, both with bandages on their heads. One sat on a chair, holding a hand to his head, while he slowly looked around with a curious expression, as if the world was something new and not comprehensible. The other lay unconscious on a cot. Next to Roland, in the obeisance position, was his new slave. Robert’s and Oliver’s new slaves knelt next to their masters. Robert’s slave, like Roland’s was still un-collared but this was the first time Roland took a good look at what was written on little miss yelper’s new collar: Miranda, property of Oliver Dockerson of Harold’s Stand. (RM3rdC).

The ‘Royal Militia, Third Cohort,’ he thought was a good idea. But what intrigued him the most was Oliver’s referencing this haphazard collection of tents as his home. Roland had still been thinking of himself as being of Castle Kamara but Oliver was right, it was time to start thinking of this place as his place. I am Roland of Harold’s Stand, he thought. Of course, he had to ask about the name.

“I knew a girl named Miranda when I was growing up,” was Oliver’s answer, “I just always thought it was a pretty name.”

Roland looked the girl over for a good minute (interrupted briefly to tell the Healer that, yes, it did indeed hurt when he moved his arm like that). For the first time she seemed to be able to hold her position well and without trembling. The same emotions he had seen in his own slave’s face were evident here as well but there was also a wide eyed innocence about her. Oliver continued to occasionally stroke the top of her head, petting her like a cat, in a slow, almost nonchalant way.

“It is a pretty name,” he concluded, “and it suits her. She looks like a Mira…AAAGH!” The Healer had chosen that moment to jab a finger into Roland’s jaw, poking at a tooth that felt a little loose. “Damn it, man! At least warn me!”

“Hmmm . . . hmmm . . . I need to see inside.” Roland gaped at the man briefly before, with an attitude not unlike a petulant child, he complied with the request. “Hmmm . . . hmmm . . .” continued the examination. As if Roland was a mere slave girl, the Healer grabbed his chin and moved Roland’s head this way and that, using the bright sunlight to peer into his mouth. If that indignity wasn’t enough, Roland next felt a finger poking at and around the sore, loose, tooth – and all the while having to listen to that madding “hmmm . . . hmmm . . .” Only his fear that he might loose the tooth kept him from protesting.

When it was over, the Healer uncorked his bottle of medicinal spirits and poured a measure in a pewter cup. “Swish this around in your mouth,” said the Healer as he handed the cup to Roland, “don’t drink it, just rinse well and then spit it out.”

Roland would have preferred to drink it. He knew that medicinal spirits could get you as nicely drunk as the friendly spirits that dwelled within beer and wine. Grudgingly, though, he complied, enduring the fiery, stinging pain for half a minute before spiting it out – the clear liquid now had a pink hue. “I take it I’m going to live.”

“Yes, for which you can thank the resiliency of youth, though I am mildly astonished that you have no breaks.”

“What about that tooth.”

“It’s loose but I don’t think you’re going to lose it. It should return to normal in a few days.”

“What about the rest of me.”

“Well, you’re going to be sore a few days.”

“I could’ve told you that! You’re not going to tell me to spend those days lying down, I hope! I’ve much to do!”

“Most certainly not, but you do not want to over exert yourself either, particularly that arm.”

“We’ll see to it that he paces himself,” said Robert.

“Are we done here then?” Roland wanted to know.

“Yes, my request for services is three coppers. If you are unable to pay I will also take goods or services in trade.”

Roland noticed the frumpy little man’s eyes alight on his brown-haired slave girl. “Sorry. On any other day I’d think about it, but not today. The smallest I have is a silver bit.”

“After what you went through to acquire her, I quite understand,” said the Healer though he couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice. He picked up the half full bottle of medicinal spirits and held it out to Roland. “I recommend that you apply some more to your cuts and scrapes rather than drink it but whatever you do with it . . . services plus this, one silver bit. And I’ll add in a follow-up examination in, say, three or four days?”

All things considered it wasn’t a bad price. Roland stood, made the exchange and then said, “Guys, I’m fucking famished, and I smell pork.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Some of the new locals had been putting their skills to use by providing the nascent town with a steady supply of meat. There were usually two or three spits of deer roasting and crudely made stick grills of smaller meats, mostly rabbits and chucks with the occasional turkey or grouse. The native forest swine, Roland had already learned, were notoriously difficult to hunt. They sported a pair of sharp, curved, eight inch tusks and had an aggressive nature. They were also surprisingly fast given that they weighed up to four hundred pounds. And, as if the sows weren’t bad enough, the boars were even worse – larger, faster, meaner, and with longer tusks.

“Only fools, hunt boars alone,” had said Robert and Roland had concurred when he saw a boar make a charge for the first time. It had come bursting out of the under-foliage and charged Marcus who had been sensible enough to bolt out of the way, yet nimble enough to jam a wooden spear in the beast’s side as it passed by. Even then the boar was in such a fury, and possessing of enough strength, to chase Marcus up a tree (he would, no doubt, have to endure jokes about that for the rest of his days) but this gave the others the opportunity to come up behind the boar and finish it off. That was the first, and so far, only time Roland had tasted pork since before the battle and the tantalizing aroma led him right to it. Venison and rabbit had been keeping his belly full but their gamey taste was getting a little bland to him. What he really longed for again was beef but for now some succulent pork would be a superb treat.

Feeling energetic and in a great mood despite (or perhaps even because of) his many aches and pains, Roland had insisted on buying for everyone. A silver bit got him and each of his friends three thick slabs of meat on each of the tin plates from their mess kits, and Roland was gratified to get some copper coins in change for once. They sat crossed-legged near the river and devoted themselves to gorging on the hot, juicy meat while the slave girls knelt. Roland’s still nameless slave was in the obeisance position again. He had decided that it would be good for her to practice the position she had violated so recently. It would be a good reminder that she still faced punishment for that, on top of the customary “welcome” whipping and for an unauthorized orgasm. And, thought Roland, I left the possibility of further punishment for that little miss coy act in the air. I wonder if she remembers that. In a flash of insight, he realized the purpose of what seemed a rather foolish risk on her part – she had been testing him, testing to see what kind of master he might make. I hope I passed. I think I did. Roland couldn’t help but smile to himself. She’ll know for certain before this day is through.

Despite the Healer’s advice the bottle of medicinal spirits didn’t last long. Roland took a swig, managing not to gasp and sputter too much, and passed the bottle around. There was one swig left when it came around to Roland again and he tucked the bottle into his pocket thinking that maybe he would follow the Healer’s advice about it. “So what are ya gonna name her,” Robert asked between gulps of ham dripping with fat.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” replied Roland, “what are you naming yours?”

“Uh-uh, you first.”

“Okay then, uhmmmmm . . .well . . . I don’t know . . . now that I think about it . . . I mean there’s so many to choose from.” He rubbed at his chin with thumb and forefinger for a moment and then said, “kneel, slave.” She seemed a little less fluid in her motions this time and Roland saw that it was because she had sacrificed some of it for speed (her breasts made a lovely bounce in the process). This was a slave girl desperate to be promptly obedient. Roland studied her face for a moment. She was one of those women who somehow managed to be cute and beautiful at the same time. “She kind of looks like a fun tavern girl I knew named Elise . . . but no . . .” A few more seconds of thoughtful chin scratching, and then: “What name were you known by at the tavern?” Roland asked his slave.

“I was called Myrtle, Master.”

“Myrtle? Gods and spirits no! That’s an awful name. It doesn’t suit you at all. I’m not sure it suits anybody.” Roland noticed that the other men were chortling over this. “What was your dunderhead of a master thinking?”

“I do not know Master.” She sounded scared, and for good reason. Any slave is loath to speak ill of a free person, for obvious reasons, but they are also not allowed to lie. It can cause tricky little moments like this one.

“Bah,” said Roland, dismissing the question and her fear of it. “What’d you guys think?”

“Cory” chimed in Henry, I knew a slave girl named Cory once.”

“She looks like a ‘Lucy’ to me,” was Robert’s contribution. But Roland didn’t care for either. More ideas were bandied about including Maria, Penelope, and Damngoodcocksucker.

“Were trying to be serious here, Oliver,” said Roland.

“Well, judging by what I heard,” grinned the young man, “it suits her.” Everybody laughed at that, including Roland. He noticed that her lips made the slightest tremor, gave just the barest hint of a smile. She’s not embarrassed, Roland realized, she’s proud. Still dreadfully afraid, though.

“What name was she born with?” It was Marcus, who so far had not contributed to the conversation.

“I heard you’re not supposed to do that,” said Henry, “that you’re supposed to, like, break their past or something.”

“Nonsense,” proclaimed Robert in between gulps of meat. “They’re slaves, you name ‘em whatever you want.”

“Besides,” said Marcus, “names have a way of molding themselves to a person, and they to them.”

“Well thank all the gods and spirits,” said Roland, “that we cut ‘Myrtle’ short after three years. It would be a grave injustice if she was molded to that name.” After some more laughter Roland asked her, “So what name were your born with?”

“Allison,” Master.

It was perfect. As soon as she finished saying it Roland felt that somehow he knew it all along. It just seemed to fit her so well. There just might be something to what Marcus said, Roland thought. “Aye,” said Robert, as if to confirm it. The others nodded there heads.

“I guess that settles it. Your name is Allison.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.” She couldn’t hide the flush of pleasure that ran through her, as if she was coming home to something that had always been a part of her and Roland couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t something to what Henry had said as well.

“I like it,” said Marcus, “Rollie and Allie.”

“On second thought,” said Roland.

“Ahh, no ya don’t,” laughed Robert and the others joined in the mock protest until Roland threw up his hands in surrender.

“All right, all right,” he said, “she’s Allison. “Your turn,” he said to Robert, “what about you?”

“Hmm…” Robert gulped down some pork, “that’s easy. Beatrice.”

There was a moment of incredulous silence. Marcus, Oliver, and Roland all looked at Robert with you-can’t-be-serious expressions. Henry just had that confused look (more naïve than resentful) when he realizes that everybody gets a joke but him. Robert just returned everybody’s stare with an innocent, whad’ya-think look. It was Marcus who finally broke the silence. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me . . . Beatrice the beekeeper?” Robert held his innocent look for a few seconds and then slowly grinned. He joined the other’s laughter (including Henry, now that he got the joke) after a few seconds.

“Almost had you there a moment, didn’t I.” After chomping down another bite, Robert asked his slave straight out, “what name were you given when you were born?”

“Ellen,” Master,” replied the blond girl, “but I was usually called Ellie.”

Robert contemplated this for only a few seconds before pronouncing, “I like it. Ellen it is.”

“Yes, Master,” she replied, “thank you for giving me a name, Master.” For a few moments the men focused on finishing their meal. Both Robert and Oliver, Roland noticed, saved a couple of pieces for their slaves, which they fed to them by hand and not allowing either of them to use their own hands. It would be impractical, even tedious, to hand feed a slave every meal of course, but upon occasion it was a good way of reminding the slave of her total dependence on her master. It was also a fun way for a man to assert his dominance over the woman he commands. More than once Roland had amused himself by making a tavern slave, usually after enjoying her charms, kneel and beg prettily for a piece of beef or a sweet treat that he held up just out reach, teasing her a few times by lowering it and then pulling it back up. Both Robert and Oliver were enjoying this game with their slaves. Miranda, at first, didn’t seem to understand what she was supposed to do but then she copied Ellen and for the first time, Roland and the others got to see Miranda smile and laugh a little.

Roland decided to take things with Allison a step further. “Fours,” he said, commanding his slave to her hands and knees (noting again how she sacrificed just a little grace for speed), enjoying the way her tits swayed for a moment before tossing the remaining few bites onto the ground, landing them perfectly right under her nose. He was pleased to see that she waited.

He made her wait a good long minute in which she could do nothing but stare at the succulent meant in front of her. Roland didn’t doubt that the Slaver had kept his slaves on nothing but cheap, bland, slave gruel during their five day march. Those tidbits in front of her, their aroma teasing her nose, had to represent an even tastier treat for her than it had for him. Since it had been hours since dawn, when she was likely last fed, she had to be quite hungry as well. Although I did give her something not to long ago, he smiled to himself. “Feed.” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she replied and Roland could hear the sincerity in her voice. It was thanks given not simply because it was expected, but because a hungry slave girl was truly thankful to her master for feeding her. He also heard some worry in her voice. Why, she must be wondering to herself, Roland thought, was her Master not playing with her the same as the others? Why was she being fed like a farm animal, less than a farm animal? Was she truly that much out of his good countenance already? It’s because I want to make things very clear to you from the start, my sweet little Alison, Roland responded to himself. Don’t fret too much, the day’s far from over.

She had the good sense not to wolf it down ungracefully, despite her hunger, but she wasted no time in taking a bite into her mouth and chewing heartedly. She could not hold back a subtle series of “mmms” as some of the juice trickled out of her mouth. Ellen and Miranda had similar reactions. Roland simply enjoyed the sight of his naked slave girl eating for a few minutes (and particularly enjoying her dangling breasts) and when she was done he had her kneel next to him and put her remarkable tongue to use again in licking his fingers clean.

It was astonishing, how easily he could read the emotions on her face. Then again maybe it wasn’t. It seemed to be in the nature of the fully surrendered woman to be incapable of lying with her face and body. It was possible if not probable for a slave girl to lie with her words. A properly mastered woman does not want to lie to her master, it was commonly said, and she knows that she would be a colossal fool to risk it even if she did, but it was possible. These same women found it near impossible to lie with their bodies. Their emotions, their fears, their hopes, their desires and needs played out constantly across their faces and throughout their bodies. Even when commanded to stillness, a subtle twitch of a muscle, a delicate placement of a hand, pupils wide or narrow, a change in blink rate and a thousand other little indicators wrote a never ending verse of her emotions and thoughts. Men who would master women learned early on how to read them.

Roland enjoyed the verse he read here. There was joy in being allowed to perform such a trivial yet intimate service for Master and there was a genuine desire to please but always present was that fear of being displeasing. Fear of punishment. Fear of the whip. But, perhaps, worst of all, fear of being burdened with the knowledge that she had disappointed her Master. Her fear seemed to send a sexual charge through her and she squirmed ever so slightly, not even noticeable to anyone not looking for it. The smell of her sex was undeniable and it sent a sexual charge through Roland. His manhood alerted him that it was ready to go again whenever he was. But Roland was still contented enough to set it aside for now. He wanted to simmer for a while and sweet, luscious looking Allison, so delicately licking his fingers clean right now was definitely going to simmer for a while.

Allison began to blow softly on his fingers to dry them. While she did so Roland looked around. Robert and Oliver were each receiving a similar service from their slaves. Ellen had much the same expressions as Allison: wanting to please, desperate to please, fearful of being not pleasing. Today was going to be an all Allison day for Roland but that didn’t mean he didn’t look forward to sampling the blonde’s charms. Miranda, too, had similar expressions but they were amplified to a comical extent. At one point Oliver said, “stop! You don’t have to slobber, just lick,” he told his slave girl. “Understood?” Oliver’s fingers still in her mouth, the wide eyed girl nodded her head and then went slower. Roland suppressed a chuckle. She had so much to learn. But she was a sweet little thing and Roland looked forward to pounding her little pussy as well. Henry looked a little dejected and Marcus, just finishing up his own meal had a rather honest looking this sucks but I can wait expression on his face.

Allison stopped blowing and bowed her head. Roland looked as his fingers and waggled them a couple of times. They were perfectly clean and perfectly dry. He smiled and though her lips barely twitched, he recognized it as the smile of a relieved slave girl. She had good reason to be relieved, her master was pleased.

“To my friend Marcus,” he said in the voice of a master commanding his slave girl, “clean his fingers.”

“Yes, Master,” she said as she moved. Marcus acknowledged his friend’s small kindness with a nod of his head as Allison knelt in front of him and began to lick his fingers.

“Hey what about me,” said Henry petulantly.

“Ah, quit your whining,” said Robert, “you’ll get your turn. In fact you can have it right now.” He had been checking his own fingers and found the outcome satisfactory. “Good job,” he told a smiling Ellen, “now do a good job for my friend.”

“Yes Master! Thank you Master,” responded a smiling Ellen as she knelt before a smiling Henry. When Allison finished her task, after Marcus had nodded his satisfaction, she returned to her Master and knelt beside him. Roland handed her his tin field cup and ordered her to fill it in the river. He kept his eyes on her the whole time, simply enjoying the sight of her luscious body, especially when she got on her knees and bent over to fill the cup.

What a pleasurable thing it is to be a man and to have a beautiful naked woman kneel before you, bow her head, and proffer a drink on outstretched arms. This too was not a new experience for Roland, save for the fact that this was the first time he owned the woman in question. It would have been nice had the drink proffered been beer, mead or wine, but the cool water of the river was wonderfully refreshing. He had her fetch another cup for him (Robert’s and Oliver’s slaves were doing likewise for them, providing more pleasant views) and then had her fetch a couple of cups for Marcus. Miranda served Henry who grinned like it really was his first time, though Roland knew it wasn’t. When Allison finished he took the cup back and then had her top off water skein before allowing her to slake her thirst directly from the river for which she both dutifully and sincerely thanked him.

A languid peace settled over the group, the men all leaning back on their arms, enjoying the beautiful day and the feeling of bellies filled with hot meat. The slave girls no doubt enjoyed the same feeling but both Ellen and Miranda (still with that wide eyed innocent look that she could barely keep off of Oliver) were kneeling again. Roland had commanded Allison back into the obeisance position. He noticed that the auction was now over and the Slaver and his men were busily repacking their wagon and hitching up their horses. Roland had been right about him. He was going to make a dash back to the city to restock and then another quick march of merchandise back to Harold’s Stand or perhaps one of the other new frontier towns. In the distance, he saw a couple more wagons approaching and wondered what merchandise they were bringing.

Lord Foppish was turning out to be quite the opportunistic business man. In addition to the slave girls he was renting out, he and his men had organized several games of cards and dice. A couple of the Royal Guard stood nearby to make sure that emotions didn’t get out of hand – and to collect the ten percent donation of the house profits to the King’s Beleaguered Orphans’ Fund. Only a fourth of this would actually go to the fund (which, to its’ credit, did provide shelter, blankets and food for actual orphans). Another fourth would go the Royal Guard’s Retirement Endowment. The third portion went into the Royal Treasury and the final portion directly into the King’s personal account. It was an open secret in Kamara that King Malcolm didn’t mind a little corruption in his kingdom . . . so long as he got his cut.

The silent enjoyment of the sunny, warm, and breezy day, stretched several moments, until it was broken by Robert. “So Roland, ya gonna finally tell us why ya got you’re face rearranged for her.”

At first Roland thought he’d never be able to explain the certitude he had that she was fated by the gods themselves to be his, but then he realized that Robert was merely asking about what he had talked about so much before. He wanted to know what skills she had, whether she was worth something more than just a good fuck (and after what you’ve been through she damned well better be, said his tone). With everyone’s attention on him, Roland smiled that I’ve-got-a-secret smile again and then commanded Allison into the kneel position.

“Allison,” he said, “what crops would grow good around here?”

“Potatoes, Master,” she said and then went on to list several other crops including rye, oats and maize. Roland could see the interest of the other men increase, particularly Robert’s.

“If we can get the proper seed stock,” Roland continued, “is their enough time left to plant this year”

“Yes, Master.” She listed several crops, including potatoes, tomatoes, and pumpkins. Roland heard the pride in her voice over the knowledge she had, pride that she could be very useful, but he also heard her fear that he might ask a question she couldn’t answer.

“I love pumpkin pie,” said Henry.

“Everyone loves pumpkin pie,” snapped Robert as a way of telling Henry to shut up.

“So,” said Roland, addressing his slave again, “if we want pumpkin pie, when will we be able to harvest them?”

She took a deep breath and then, “depending on when they were planted, late summer or early autumn, Master.”

“So we are going to have pumpkin pie?” asked Henry.

“You’re missing the point,” said Oliver.

“Aye,” said Robert with a nod of understanding toward Roland. “I see what you mean. She’s going to be very useful.”

With a point of his finger to the ground, Roland silently commanded Allison back into the obeisance position. He allowed himself a moment of smiling satisfaction and then said, “we might want to rethink a few things, change our schedule a bit. We probably couldn’t plant much right now but any food we can grow increases our chances of getting through the winter.”

“We can’t plant anything right now,” said Marcus. “I’ve yet to see any seed stock in town.”

“True,” conceded Roland, “but like you said, the merchants are just gearing up, they’ll be here soon. Also, I’ve been informed…” he tilted his head toward Alison, “that we’ll probably need to rent some oxen to plow.

“Aye,” said Robert, “we’ll keep our eyes open for oxen and seed. Right now we need to concentrate first and foremost on our shelter, and I’ve been thinking about that a bit.” He paused long enough to make sure that he had everyone’s attention, and then continued with, “ever since we got out here, ever since we’ve found out we were now landowners, we’ve all been really eager to get out on our own.

Roland knew where this was headed. They had all spent several months living with several hundred men side by side – literally. During training they were packed into cramped bunkhouses and on maneuvers they’d been packed just as tightly into tents. They had slept communally, ate communally, shitted, pissed and shaved communally and griped about the lousy food and lack of women communally. It had felt good to simply be alone. But after a week on their new lands it had become increasingly evident to him that it was not yet time for them to live on their own. It had been apparently on the minds of the others as well, for each of them nodded slightly as Robert laid out the difficulties they would all face in the coming winter. “Winter out here ain’t like winter in the city,” he gravely said, “out here, if ya ain’t got what you need ya canna buy, borrow, beg, or steal it so easily.”

“You think we should build us a single shelter and live together,” said Roland, testing his theory about where this was going.

“Aye,” replied Robert, “at least for the first year. It makes no sense not to.” Robert made several points as to why they should do so but it wasn’t really necessary. The advantages of the five of them (well, eight now) living together rather than apart were obvious. Marcus pointed out that others were already doing the same while Roland mentioned that any first shelter would be temporary anyway because wood needed to properly season to be of any long term use. There was no point in building five temporary shelters when one would do.

The details were hashed out over the next twenty minutes and it was decided that Roland’s lands would be the location of their new home. The others would bring their tents and tools over in the morning and then they’d get to work. For a few minutes it was debated whether they should make the move today – security being the reason sited. They may have not been too distrustful of their fellow militiamen up to now, but the situation had changed. Now women had entered the picture. It was at least possible that some sore losers at the auction might take it upon themselves to murder in the night and steal what they could not buy.

“I’m not too worried,” said Roland, “most of the men around here are at least getting sated,” he nodded to the still large group of men gathered around the slave girls who were being rented out, “and we have Royal Guardsmen in the area now, and a no nonsense Magistrate.” Robert (who had put forth the idea) nodded in agreement. Truth be told he wanted a night alone with his new slave same as Roland and Oliver. The matter was settled when Marcus volunteered himself (with Henry quickly following suit) to patrol their lands during the night.

“Well then,” said Robert with a shit eating grin on his face, “That jess leaves one more matter to be settled.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” replied Roland, “what’s left?”

“These three,” he waved a finger nonchalantly to indicate the three slave girls, “will ‘ave to be working together a lot, sometimes unsupervised. There needs to be a first girl”

Roland had no doubts this time; some instinct, some shared commonality amongst men who owned women, gave him instant insight to where Robert was going with this. He grinned to show that he knew and was happy to play along. It would be marvelous entertainment. “I agree,” he said, “and since we will be on my lands, it only makes sense that my slave should be first girl.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied Robert, “I think the one with the most years in the collar, the most experience, should be the one.”

“Seniority for slave girls? I didn’t know there was such a thing.” Robert grimaced a little, caught in his own “argument.”

“I heard you shouldn’t do that either,” said Henry. “You’re supposed to let them fight it out for themselves, like, so long as everything gets done.”

Roland wondered if Henry understood and was playing along, or if he had just stumbled across it. Either way, “That’s a good idea, Henry. We can have them bitch slap it out right here.” Upon hearing these words, Miranda shrank back, her eyes wide with fright, and she scooted herself a little closer to Oliver. The men, including Oliver, all laughed.

“Nobody seriously considered you for the job, my little cherry,” Oliver informed his slave.

♦ ♦ ♦

Slave girls often have to work with each other or at least in close proximity to each other as they go about their various duties. Even slaves who are the only slave their master owns must often interact with other slave girls as they run errands in the city streets or bathe themselves at the public baths. Sometimes they become friends, even best friends and other times bitter rivals and enemies (relationships that can be severed in an instant with the mere exchange of coin). At all times though, they must get along lest their inability to do so bring punishment down upon all involved. Fear of the whip is one thing all slave girls are united in. It is not surprising therefore that a whole set of largely unspoken rules, a slave girl culture, governs many of the interactions amongst enslaved females.

When it came to fighting, be it at the command of men for their entertainment or to settle a private dispute, the great fear of the slave girl was permanent injury or disfigurement. For herself mostly of course, and for obvious reasons, but also for her opponent because that would be damaging a free person’s (most likely a man’s but possibly a woman’s) property. That would bring fines and shame upon her owner and some very severe punishment upon herself (possibly even death if the injuries were severe enough). Thus it was understood that biting and gouging were not allowed and a twisted arm (Roland flexed his left arm – it still hurt greatly but it was tolerable) or leg should not be twisted too far.

As a result of these strictures – both those laid down by men and by the slave girls themselves – fights between them are affairs mostly involving pushing, shoving, hair pulling, pinching (titty twists were most definitely allowed) and slapping. One way to win was to pin the opponent on her stomach, grab two handfuls of hair, and painfully twist until the other girl yielded. This though, was actually considered a low way, an underhanded way, of winning. Particularly since, if taken too far, it risked creating bald spots if a large enough chunk of hair should be pulled out. That most certainly fell under the idea of disfigurement. The preferred goal of the fight was to pin the opponent on her back, or perhaps her side, to pin her arms with one’s own legs and thus be able to deliver stinging slaps against the opponent’s face until she yielded. It was from this practice that slave girl fights came to be known in common parlance, to both free and slave alike, as “bitch slaps.”

Even when they didn’t command it (it was a great way for taverns to bring in the business), even when they chanced upon one while passing the public baths or some side ally in the city or behind a barn in the countryside, men enjoyed a good bitch slap. The new town of Harold’s Stand was no different. When Robert, Roland and the others stood up and formed a small circle, when they had Ellen and Allison kneel facing some ten yards apart from each other, it was readily apparent to passerby what was happening and thus the call, “BITCH SLAP! BITCH SLAP!” went out across the town. And the men came . . . to watch.

Bowing to the inevitable, Roland and his friends backed up a bit, marking the outline of a half circle against the river with the two naked, kneeling slave girls inside. The half circle filled up quickly, most of the town was once again assembled. Roland saw the Cavalry Colonel, the Healer, several of the Royal Guardsmen (who once again spread themselves out amongst the line), the guy who sold him the pork and others. The Magistrate was nearby, his ripe looking dark haired (with just a few streaks of gray) slave kneeling at his side and Roland saw that even Lord Foppish and his men were watching (his slave girls getting another respite). Only some merchants at their stalls and a few others failed to join the congregation (including, Roland noted with irritation, that thieving stable owner and his cronies; he had in fact not seen them at all since this morning). Not exactly the sociable type, thought Roland, Buddy better be okay when I get back there. The slaver was already heading out of town though Roland noticed that a few of his men looked back. They were to far away for Roland to see their expressions but he did not doubt they were expressions of disappointment.

The Earl of Ethebridge walked up next to Roland. “Having some fun with her already, are you?” He grinned and folded his arms across his chest.

“It has been a while since I’ve seen a good bitch slap.” Roland grinned back and also folded his arms across his chest. Judging from the enthusiasm of the gathering crowd, it had been a while for most of them. Bets once again were being made. Roland and Robert had already made their wager: three pints of beer to be paid when the occasion presented itself.

A voice called out from the crowd. “Will there be any incentives?” Both girls, like all slave girls, already had very powerful incentives, of course – their master’s pleasure versus his displeasure. Except for wagers made upon the spur of the moment, men took little interest in the causes and outcomes of private spats between slave girls. Roland remembered an occasion where his mother (still a legal slave) came home from an errand with obvious slap marks on her left cheek and arm. When his father saw this he asked simply, “did you win?” With a wicked little smile and a nod of her head she assured him that she had. “Good,” he had replied, and then he dropped the matter. It wasn’t until a few days later that Roland had realized that his father had never inquired as to the cause of the disagreement or even what other slave girl it had been with. It simply wasn’t a matter of his concern.

A more formal bitch slap is different. At the taverns, parties and festivals where they usually take place, wagers on the combatants could go quite high. The combatants themselves, whether brought around once a week or so by their carousing master at a dockside den or specifically owned as a “slapper” by a wealthy man in an upscale establishment, were often long experienced (and in some cases specifically trained) veterans of the sand and mud pits. Often, to increase the excitement of the spectators, a few moments is spent with each owner extolling the abilities of his slave (many such slave girls will have fans who keep track of win/loss records and get into debates, arguments, or fisticuffs, over who is the best). At this time the girl’s owner may provide additional incentives, publicly proclaiming that should his girl win she will be rewarded. Perhaps it will be some free time to herself, a few hours to nap in the sun, or perhaps a piece of chocolate (something slave girls seem to go nuts for), or perhaps both. Either way, it was, from the slave’s perspective, a much better outcome than a whipping from a displeased master.

As the slave auction before it, the first bitch slap of Harold’s Stand was taking on the air of a downsized version of a formal bitch slap in the city. When the question of incentives was asked, the Earl and several of those near Roland all looked at him. This led other heads to turn his way. Roland looked around at the expectant faces and then, not knowing really what else to say, simply said: “I will be pleased.” This brought some chuckles, laughter and even a few claps from the crowd which then turned its attention to Robert.

Robert, in an amused lighthearted manner said, “I too will be pleased.” The crowd reaction was the same as it had been for Roland. Some more wagers were being made and Roland noticed that most of them were for “blondie,” or “the blond.” He looked the two slave girls over closely. Ellen was a little taller, a little heavier than Allison and this would give her a bit of an advantage but not much. There was no way to judge the experience of the two naked women. Ellen had been a slave all her life but bitch slaps between slave girls weren’t really allowed by society (both free and slave) until their teens and there was no telling how often either slave engaged in bitch slaps. It was quite possible that neither girl had participated in that many or perhaps Allison was a weekly regular in the tavern that had owned her (he had not thought to inquire about that aspect of her slavery there). Both girls had an equal incentive to be first girl and both had an equal incentive to please and not displease their masters. But then again Allison, he was quite sure, had much greater incentive than Ellen in this area. Ellen had been simply purchased for eighteen silver coins. A good sum to be sure (one any slave girl would take pride in) but still, just a simple exchange of coin. Allison knew that her master had paid a much higher price for his new slave. Yes, smiled Roland, she would be desperate to please her new master, to be found worthy of the price he had paid.

“We need a Whip Master,” somebody said.

“Here, here,” came a cry. It was the portly merchant who owned the slave wares stall. Leaving an assistant to watch his stall, he had come forth brandishing a long tail – five feet of tapering leather on two feet of molded wood. “I will gladly loan the use of one of my fine quality whips for this occasion. In fact” he continued, I will award this beautiful piece of craftsmanship to the winner,” by which it was understood of course that he meant the winner’s owner. Some men applauded the merchant. Nothing wrong with a man advertising his wares and it was a nice offer. “Who wishes to wield the whip over this contest?”

“You know how to use that?” asked Robert.

“Most certainly I do kind sir! Do you think that I would not know the wares of my own business?” The merchant’s attitude was not offended, however, but rather jovial. A practiced joviality that said a potential customer could never offend him.

“I’m okay with it then,” said Robert. People looked at Roland who nodded his head to show that he was okay with it too. In fact he wasn’t entirely okay with it. A Whip Master was often a part of a formal bitch slap but there was nothing mandatory about it. Roland hadn’t even thought about it but now that there was one . . .

There was a slight murmur from the crowd as Roland walked over to his slave, squatted down and started whispering in her ear. “If it is necessary for him to whip you then so be it but truth be told I would rather it be me who next applies the leather to you. I will be disappointed if I am not. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered back. She blinked several times and visibly swallowed.

“Hey, you’re supposed to declare incentives,” someone objected from the crowd.

“I don’t have to declare anything,” said Roland as he stood up and returned to the line. It was true. It was not like this was an official bitch slap put on by the Kamaran Bitch Slap League.

“This is true,” said the Magistrate, his voice once again cutting the conversation short. “Although in simple fairness,” he gestured from Robert to Ellen but Robert shook his head no. “Well then,” said the Magistrate with the voice of a man who was simply eager to see a good bitch slap, “let’s get started.”

The whip wielding merchant took a position halfway between the two slave girls and near the crowd so that the three of them formed the points of a triangle. There were two ways he could use the whip. He could snap it in the air as a warning or use it directly on female flesh should a warning prove insufficient. The whip was also commonly used to start a match. “Choose your opening positions,” said the merchant as he raised the whip. Allison immediately crouched in a three point stance, ready to pounce outward. She assumed it quickly enough that Roland was heartened. She appeared to be experienced. Ellen too, unfortunately leapt into an experienced looking three point stance. There was a loud crack as the merchant slashed the whip in the air. Both girls flinched (so did several in the crowd) and then leapt toward each other.

They met, each grabbing at each others hands, interlocking their fingers, and pushing hard with their legs. Men began shouting. Roland and Robert led the way in cheering. “C’mon girl! C’mon Allison!” Roland shouted while clapping his hands and punching the air. Robert was doing likewise and the assemblage of men began to pick up the combatant’s names and call them out as well, revealing who had wagered upon (or simply regarded as the prettier) whom. For a minute, straining and practically snarling, the two slave girls strove against one another, neither managing to push the other back more than a few steps before having to retreat. This went on for another minute. A few disappointed boos came from the crowd and the merchant snapped the whip in the air again. Both girls leapt back. Ellen tried to retreat a few more steps, to catch her breath, and made the mistake of presuming Allison would do the same. Instead, the brown haired girl leapt forward and delivered a stinging slap to the blonde’s left cheek. Then Allison used Ellen’s brief disorientation to lower her head and barrel into her opponent. Allison wrapped her arms around Ellen’s waist and then dropped her knees, hauling Ellen with her and flipping her over.

Some of the crowd cheered, others moaned. Roland cheered too, lifting his arms up in what appeared to be a quick triumph. No doubt about it. His Allison had been in more than one bitch slap. But Ellen quickly showed that she was not inexperienced herself. When Allison flipped her, she kept rolling, preventing her brown haired opponent from climbing on top of her. Allison tried to give chase on her knees but Ellen jumped up and Allison had to quickly do so as well, ducking away just in time to avoid a slap to her right cheek. “Yeah! Yeah!” Robert exclaimed, clapping loudly along with many others. The two enslaved females faced each other, slowly circling each other, hands held wide, looking for an opening, some mistake, from their opponent to exploit. A minute went by. The loud crack of the whip resounded again.

Both girls sprang forward again, trying to wrap their arms around the other’s head while also trying to trip each other with their legs. For a moment they were a swaying tangle of limbs. Then Allison lost her footing. She tried to haul Ellen down with her but the blonde girl went with the momentum and instead of being flipped, she ended up on top of the slightly smaller girl. Roland led the Allison supporters (many who were already calling her ‘Allie’) in a groan. Ellen (already ‘Ellie’ to many in the crowd) tried to sit up, with her legs pinning Allison but Allison responded by wrapping her own legs around Ellen before she could do so. The two girls grappled with each other’s hands for a few seconds and then Allison switched tactics – she started pounding her fists into Ellen’s legs and waist.

Punching, though discouraged, was allowed in bitch slaps but never on the face and with care at the upper body. Most punches tended to be aimed at the legs. A bitch slap, in fact, was the only time a slave girl was likely to get punched. As far as the men of Roland’s society were concerned, men used fists to settle disputes with other men – not with women and children, regardless of their status.

A man who regularly uses his fists on a slave girl would not only find himself ostracized from the company of men but likely relieved of the slave girl in question. Perhaps he will be formally challenged for her – the likely upper class response. Amongst the lower classes he may likely be made a small offer of coin for her from a group of the local men and he would be smart to take it. If he refuses there is a strong possibility that he will find himself set upon by several masked men in the middle of the night. Later, waking up, bloody and beaten, he would discover that his slave girl has been simply whisked away, her chains perhaps cut open or the lock on her cage pried apart. Magistrates, interestingly, had a tendency to overlook such actions even though it was, legally speaking, assault and theft.

On this day and in this place, however, Allison’s use of her small fists upon Ellen’s legs was breaking no taboos – and their use was having the desired effect. Howling in pain and frustration, Ellen pushed away. The two girls broke apart, rolled away from each other, leapt to their feet and started circling again. They didn’t wait long enough for the whip master to become annoyed this time. Both girls charged each other quickly. There was another tangle of limbs for a few seconds and then Ellen got hold of a handful of Allison’s hair and began twisting. Allison yelled in pain and tried to twist her whole body around to relieve the pain but Ellen turned with it and now had her opponent by the hair and facing away from her. Allison was forced to bend over backward slightly. It was a very helpless position and Ellen took advantage of it by releasing one hand from Allison’s hair and proceeding to slap the brown eyed girl’s face.

“Bitch!” screamed Allison (that, of course, was the other reason why bitch slaps had acquired the name). Allison twisted herself again, increasing the pull on her hair, but she accepted the pain for a purpose. She had maneuvered herself so that she could grab Ellen’s left nipple and then she twisted hard . . . very hard. There was no mercy in it.

This time it was Ellen who screamed “bitch!” loudly, over the cheering men. She had no choice but to let Allison go and push her away. She backed off several steps and massaged her right tit. Allison also scrambled away to catch her breath.

“That’s my girl! That’s my girl!” cried Roland clapping and pacing back and forth. It was another moment of experiencing something familiar in a new way. He had cheered for one slave or another in bitch slaps before, and the cry of ‘that’s my girl’ was common amongst men who did not own but merely were fans of a particular girl. But now, “that’s my girl!” was a literal truth for Roland. It felt fulfilling, with just a little bit of trepidation because a small bit of his prestige (bragging rights vs. enduring friendly ribbing), as well three pints of beer, were riding on this, but they were of minor consequence to him. She was literally his girl – that was all the reason he needed for him to want her to win.

For half a moment the two women, disheveled now, bent over, hands on their knees and breathing hard, regarded each other. Both had red marks upon them and it was evident that Ellen would have a ‘bruised booby’ (a common bitch slap term) for a few days. Roland noticed that Oliver and Henry seemed to be cheering for Allison while Marcus stoically watched with his arms folded across his chest. The slave girls kneeling near their masters we’re being allowed to cheer as well but Roland had noticed that they always seemed to cheer for whoever appeared to be winning. Slave girls were smart, there was no sense in earning enmity from either of the combatants for one never knew how they might have to interact with them in the future. The one exception was Miranda. The exquisite, tiny, dark haired slave clutched at her master's leg and half hid behind it as she knelt. She watched with wide-eyed horror and wonder. She knew that she would likely have to engage in a bitch slap some day; either because men ordered it or because she had violated the customs of slave girl culture – a culture she had to know she was abysmally ignorant of but which she now had no choice but to participate in.

There was another crack of the whip in the air. The women sprang at each other again. Ellen tried to snare Allison in a head lock but her arms met only open air. Allison had dove to the ground; she spun around on her left hip, using her legs to sweep the blonde girl’s legs out from under her. Ellen toppled to the ground hard and Allison pounced upon her.

“Arrgh!” cried Robert who was exhorting and cheering his Ellen as heartily as Roland cheered his Allison. Roland’s slave, with a look of determined fury on her face managed to pin Ellen on her back but had fail to pin either of the blonde girl’s arms. The two grappled with each other, aiming slaps at each other but most of the time managing only to beat each others hands back and forth. Allison did get two good slaps, one to each side, and Ellen managed one. Then Ellen shot her right hand toward Allison’s pussy. The blonde grabbed one of Allison’s pussy lips and began twisting. This is considered a perfectly “legal” move but definitely an underhanded one by slave girls. There was even some boos by the slave girls present but the men cheered.

“AIEEE!!!! You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!” Allison shouted as she pulled away, rubbing at her pussy but she immediately pounced again with that look of furious determination. Ellen had gotten to her feet, just a tad slowly, and backed away as fast as she could. Allison continued to move on Ellen and the blonde slave continued to back away. She had the worried, desperate look of one who knew she was loosing. This continued for about a minute.

The loud crack of the whip resounded again but this time it was not air that it struck. Ellen howled as the tip of the whip made contact with her ass, certain to leave a painful welt that would last a few days. But she didn’t take time to dwell on that, she had received the message of the whip and responded by launching herself at Allison. When Allison began to dive again Ellen tried to leap over her, hoping to come up behind her but Allison had been feinting and instead of going forward and down, she went up and sideways. As Ellen’s feet hit the ground Allison pushed her hard, sending the blonde girl toppling over on her side. Allison moved quickly to straddle her and before Ellen could move, Allison had her pinned on her side. Ellen’s left arm was pinned underneath her and her right arm was pinned beneath Allison’s pussy, while the brown haired girl’s weight held her opponent to the ground.

A cheer went up from half the crowd while a groan came from the other half. Robert led the groaners as he put his hands on his hips and shook his head in disgust. Roland led the cheerers, jumping up and down with fists raised. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he shouted (his aches and pains had receded into the background again – there, but of no consequence). Ellen had one, very slim, chance: raw strength. Screaming inarticulately, she struggled to rise but she had no leverage. Roland dropped to his knees and one hand, and pounded the palm of his other hand into the ground (he was not the only enthusiast to do so) as Allison delivered the first stinging slap to the right side of Ellen’s face. He was unable (and saw no reason) to contain his enthusiasm because he knew that it (SLAP!) was (SLAP!) all (SLAP!) over!

“I YEILD! I YEILD!” shouted Ellen. Roland leapt up and raised his arms in triumph. Robert made a disgusted “blah!” expression and kicked at the ground. While the cheers and moans continued Allison leaped up and ran to her master. She knelt before him, hands behind her back, knees spread wide and head bowed. She was breathing heavy, quite red in complexion and was quite dirty with dust and grass stains again. She was beaming with pride.

Roland ignored some congratulatory back slaps as he looked down at her. He tucked his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to look at him (he really enjoyed doing that, he admitted to himself). All those emotions were still there but it was joy that now dominated and she was grinning broadly. She had won! She had done well for her master! She had made him proud! Hadn’t she? Roland almost laughed at how quickly he saw the worry, the desperation, melt back into her face. “Very well done,” he said and she beamed again. Roland nodded toward the center of the half ring where Ellen was crawling toward her master, head down and crying. It was customary in staged bitch slaps to allow the victor a moment of applause.

“Thank you, Master,” she said as she sprang up and ran to the center of the circle. She stood, legs slightly apart, with one hand on her hip and the other raised in a fist of triumph. She turned a slow circle as the men, even those who had wagered against her, applauded though it was just as likely that they were applauding her beauty as well. When she finished she knelt down and bowed her head to the ground. This too was part of the tradition, lest a slave girl allow her victory and the applause to go to her head and forget her place in society. Allison bowed four times, making sure to “cover” all the men present and then she ran back to her Master and knelt in front of him again.

Again he lifted her beaming face to regard him. “Do not think for one moment that this in any way lessons the punishment due you.”

“No, Master,” she said as she bowed her head but the disappointment was obvious in her voice. Although a smart slave girl does not put too much stock in such hopes, she finds it hard not to hope anyway.

“And for that punishment may I present you your prize,” said a voice. Roland looked up and saw the slave wares merchant standing in front of him and holding the long tail whip out to him. Roland had forgotten the man’s offer. He saw immediately that it was a fine looking instrument.

He took the whip with the same delight that a child takes a present and looked the whip over carefully. The handle was cherry wood, perfectly weighted, finely carved and expertly lacquered. The leather was fine grain, supple, and expertly twisted and knotted around the handle. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, obviously created by a hand whose owner took great pride in his work. “This is a fine gift, are you certain?”

“Of course, of course,” answered the slave wares merchant with his practiced joviality. “Just be sure to tell everyone where you got it from – Franklin’s Fine Slave Wares of Harold’s Stand.” He spoke a little louder than normal conversation required.

“You plan on staying here, huh?” asked Roland idly, sill eyeing the beautiful whip closely.

“Oh yes, I believe the new territory will be a burgeoning market for several years at least, and a boom market for the next several months.” The man had a habit of rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind him. The crowd was beginning to break up now.

Roland held the whip out. People nearby backed up a little, seeing his intent. When he judged he had enough room, Roland cracked the whip smartly in the air. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Allison flinch. Roland coiled the whip and held it in his left hand. He extended his right hand and said, “thank you for this gift, I will indeed tell folk where I got it from,” as they shook hands. In truth, Roland wasn’t sure that he’d mention it nearly as often as the slave wares merchant would like – it was, all things considered, still just a whip – but there was no reason not to be honest if the matter should come up. “There are some more items I’ll need, rest assured I’ll be by later.”

“I look forward to fulfilling all your slave ware needs,” he said, “until then.” He turned and started back toward his stall. “Franklin’s Fine Slave Wares, always the finest quality,” he said to no one in particular as he went. Roland was still getting a few back slaps (and Allison a few compliments) as people went by. He could hear a few arguments over wagers.

“She’s even more amazing than I thought,” said the Earl of Ethbridge.” Roland had forgotten that the Earl had been standing near him all this time.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” He had meant it to be a light hearted quip but he regretted saying it as soon as it was out of his mouth. It was rude. Nor did he want to give the man any ideas about taking her back. Roland need not have worried though, because the Earl of Ethbridge laughed, slapped Roland on the back (he really wished people would stop doing that, it reverberated painfully in his left shoulder) and said, “You’ve no worries there, Roland. However, perhaps someday you may do me the kindness?”

“Of course,” said Roland, eager to make up for his rudeness.

“Well until then,” said the Earl. He laughed and slapped Roland on the back again and headed away.

“Making new friends, are you?” It was Robert, having just come up to him. Ellen, crawling behind him, knelt. She was no longer openly crying but she sniffled a lot and bit at her lip. Marcus, Henry and Oliver had also gathered around. Miranda was kneeling properly but she was still a little closer than custom dictated in such circumstances. Oliver did not seem to mind, however.

Roland looked at the retreating back of the Earl and then back to Robert. “He is an honorable man,” Roland told him. “Never mind that, when do I get my beer?”

“You’ll get it when it gets here,” he bellowed in his customary frustrated voice that was more act than reality, but he shook Roland’s hand in congratulations and grinned as he did so. Roland knew that his friend would good-naturedly accept his loss. In the grand scheme of things it was trivial and his only real motivation had been to watch a good bitch slap. He had achieved that.

Robert pointed at the whip with a ‘may I?’ expression and Roland handed it to him for examination. Henry, Oliver and Marcus all leaned in for a closer look. After a moment’s close examination they all proclaimed themselves to be suitably impressed. Roland took the whip back and coiled it in his hand.

“So it looks like you’re first girl,” said Roland to Allison. “I expect you to do a good job in supervising these two.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And while I’m sure Oliver and the rest of us have much to teach Miranda, I expect you, and Ellen, to take a hand in her education as well. She has much to learn.” There was a chuckle from the men, even Oliver.

“Yes, Master. May I ask a question, Master?”

“Go ahead.”

“Will I have discipline rights?”

Roland looked at Robert and Oliver both of who nodded, but it wasn’t really necessary. Such authority usually came with being a first girl. “Of course,” said Roland. “Since things won’t really get started until tomorrow morning, perhaps you’d like to say a few words to them now.”

“Thank you, Master,” she replied. She looked at Ellen and Miranda. Her voice took on a tone that, in some way inexplicable to Roland, was authoritative toward the other two slave girls yet managed to remain submissive in the presence of free men. “I’ll only say now that I’ll strive to be fair but I will be strict. I expect my orders, when not in conflict with one of the masters, to be obeyed promptly, and to the best of your ability.” This too was a given but a reminder never hurt (well, when it wasn’t accompanied by a whipping). Allison looked directly at Miranda. “Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress,” replied Miranda in a high, nervous voice. Nobody but Miranda was surprised when Allison slapped the inexperienced slave hard across the face causing the small, dark-haired girl to squeal (rather than the yelp Roland had expected).

“I am not a free woman,” Allison explained to a stunned looking Miranda, “I am a slave like you. You will address me by name. Is that clear?”

“Y . . . Yes . . . Allison,” stammered Miranda. Allison then looked directly at Ellen.

“I will obey you, Allison,” said Ellen deferentially. She had largely regained her composure but she still looked seriously bummed out.

Allison bowed her head to signal that she was finished (the other two slave girls followed suit). The crowd had largely dissipated by now for which Roland was grateful. He was getting to the point where if one more person slapped him on the back . . . “Well then,” said Robert slapping Roland on the back, “now that that’s settled, what’s next?” Sometimes friendship benefited people in ways they never knew.

“Since my slave is in need of much instruction,” said Oliver, “I’d like to get home and teach her the price of disobedience (Miranda’s eyes bugged out at this well known reference to the whip), and some other things.” He had that naughty school boy grin again.

“Aye,” said Robert. “I’ve a few more things to buy and then a pleasant evening at home getting acquainted sounds very fine.”

Marcus spoke up next. “If I’m going to spend half the night wandering through the dark,” he smiled, “I’d best get going now.” Henry nodded in concurrence. Handshakes were exchanged. “I’ll see you later tonight,” said Marcus.

“No if you do you’re job correctly,” quipped Roland to which Marcus just grinned. The two men headed on their way. Roland watched their retreating backs for a moment.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” said Roland to Robert, “but I think our first stop should be the Smithy. I think my slave has been out of a collar for far too long.”

“Aye,” agreed Robert.

“You will continue to crawl,” said Roland to Allison.

“Yes, Master” she dutifully replied.

“You crawl too,” Robert informed his slave. His voice made it clear that he was still disappointed in her. Three beers between him and Roland may have been trivial but she had still failed her master and he apparently saw no reason to alleviate her of that burden just yet.

“Yes, Master.” Ellen’s own voice made it clear that she felt her failure intensely. Oliver informed Miranda that she was to crawl as well. Perhaps he thought it improper that she be allowed to walk while she who was first girl over her crawled. Perhaps he just wanted to reinforce the fact of her slavery on her – not that it really mattered.

For a moment the three men admired the three beautiful female bodies that now belonged to them, kneeling in the bright sunshine. Then, almost as one, they turned and headed toward the Smithy’s tent. The three naked females, two of them collarless only for a little while longer, crawled behind them.

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 9
RE: Roland and Allison - 7/9/2014 5:07:44 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Roland & Allison.

Chapter Six: Mid-Afternoon.





The smithy (a compact, powerfully built man – like all blacksmiths seemed to be) was a man of both knowledge and skill. He didn’t even need to measure Allison’s and Ellen’s necks but instead, after a brief look, had pulled the right sized collars from a free standing shelf in his spacious tent. Using a metal drill powered by a foot pedal he engraved each one with a beautiful flowing script (the man was truly an artisan) according to each man’s specifications – which, they had decided, would copy Oliver’s example. In a matter of moments Roland was holding the open, sturdy steel collar in his hand. He showed it to his kneeling slave girl, holding it under her downcast eyes, “You can’t read,” said Roland. It was not so much a question as a statement awaiting confirmation.

“No, Master,” she replied. It was the answer that Roland had expected. A farm girl would likely have little, if any, formal education.

“Still,” said Roland, “I’m quite certain you know what this says.”

While Allison, like most slave girls, was illiterate, she had managed (like most slave girls) to pick up a few words here and there. It wasn’t too difficult, after all, to deduce that a word on a sign above a merchant’s stand filled with turnips probably meant ‘turnips.’ Such words that were picked up were dependent upon where a slave girl lived and worked on a day to day basis. There was one written word that all slave girls knew, however. They knew it because it was written on virtually every collar they saw and upon their own most likely. That word was ‘property.’

Allison visibly swallowed once and then said, “it says that I am your property, Master.”

“Yes it does.” He placed a finger underneath the word ‘Allison.’ He said her name, paused, moved his finger over a little, and then continued, “property" (he continued to move his finger over) "of . . . Roland . . . P . . . Halefert . . . of . . . Harold’s . . . Stand . . .” He finished up with, “Royal Militia, Third Cohort.” He paused again and then, “Whose collar is this?”

“It is your collar, Master.” Roland cracked a small smile. It was a question asked of slave girls now and then when it was felt a reminder was in order. Roland had not doubted that she would know the proper answer. Although, in the vagaries of language, phrases such as ‘Allison’s collar’ or ‘Allison’s chains’ may be common, such items could not, in fact, belong to her. Nothing could belong to her or any slave. Property could not own property. A slave could no more own her collar than a table could own a chair. It was she that was owned. The romantic notions of poets’ aside, the law gave him title to every part of her. Her long nimble fingers were his fingers; her sweet looking lips were his lips. Her gorgeous tits were his as were her splendid looking pussy, shapely legs and pretty feet – the entire curvaceous whole of her; and his collar around his pretty neck would inform the world of that ownership. It would inform her, most of all.

Roland turned the collar around, holding it open. She swallowed again, brought her hands up to her neck, and held her hair up and out. He looked at the back of her neck as he slowly brought the ends together, pausing briefly to move a few wisps of hair she had missed. The three small, but sturdy, notched, round bolts slid into the three corresponding holes smoothly. There was an audible “click” that sent a shudder through Allison and a surge of excitement through Roland. He fingered the small key hole a moment and then withdrew his hands. She brought her hands down too, pausing briefly to run her fingers along the inside of the collar, to feel its unyielding steel. Roland tucked a couple of fingers under the front of her collar, pulling on it gently but firmly, lifting her chin up. The fit was perfect; tight enough for her to always be aware of its presence but loose enough to clean under. He removed his fingers from between her collar and neck and hooked them into the D-ring attached to the front of the collar, tugged it a couple of times. Her head jerked up and down a little with each tug and she licked her lips and squirmed a little. He saw that she was still moist.

The Smithy handed two keys each to Roland and Robert which they pocketed. They each paid the man half a silver coin (only a silver bit higher than what it would cost in Castle Kamara), shook his hand and thanked him for his fine work and headed on their way again.

The slave wares merchant was the next stop. The jovial and bouncy Franklin was, not surprisingly, delighted to see Roland again . . . and Robert and Oliver too, of course, of course. After looking things over Roland inquired, “do you have any winter slave clothing? I don’t see any.”

“Soon, very soon,” was the merchant’s (still slightly louder than necessary) reply. I have some shipments commissioned that should arrive in about a month. Fine quality. Very fine quality.” Roland was impressed at how the man could talk while smiling constantly.

The three decided to purchase clothing first and each, after having their slaves try them on, bought a couple of slave smocks along with the soft but sturdy rope that functioned like a belt—and had a great many other uses. They each also purchased a couple of cotton strips, with which long hair could be tide back in a pony tail, and a couple of kerchiefs because the sun could beat down quite brutally in the summer. A pair of sandals was also acquired for each girl. Roland enjoyed the sight of his “dressed” slave. Her hair being mostly covered by a kerchief her face was highlighted in the bright sunshine. The smock covered her nudity from her neck to just above her knees but, with the assistance of the binding rope tied around her waist, revealed her figure fully. No one looking at her (or Ellen or Miranda, Roland noted) would ever mistake her as anything other than female. The sandals would protect the soles of her feet from overly harsh ground when necessary but showed off her cute toes quite nicely. Her overall appearance was . . . adorable, that was the only word Roland could think of.

Such outfits would be for working days and then only if the slave girls were pleasing, so none of the men were inclined to let them remain on their slaves for long. Allison and Ellen folded their slave smocks neatly and the clothes and sandals were set aside. Miranda’s effort was quite clumsy (she probably had never folded anything in her life before today) but Allison, using a raised finger and a look, told Miranda without words to pay attention – and then showed her how to properly do it.

“When do you bleed next,” Roland asked Allison who was naked and kneeling again.

“Nine to ten days, Master.” Ellen was due in about a week and so was Miranda (who blushed furiously but did not hesitate to offer up such intimate information) so the men bought two female sponges each. These weren’t actual from-the-sea sponges (rare and expensive) but tightly packed rolls of adsorbent fur with thin leather strands that could be tied around the waist and legs. They could be washed and reused and usually lasted several months before needing to be replaced.

“Very finest quality,” said merchant Franklin. On this, Roland couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t exactly an expert on female sponges. He thought for a second to ask Allison her opinion on the matter but decided that this would be somewhat insulting to the merchant. The man’s boasts, though obviously (and annoyingly) ingratiating, did not appear to be idle so Roland decided to take the merchant’s word on it.

Oliver snapped his fingers. “Combs,” he said, “They’re going to need combs.” Each man added a finely crafted wooden comb to his purchases. Robert added a seven strap whip to his pile. About five feet long, including the handle and it looked to be as well crafted as the whip Roland had been gifted. Roland considered buying one for himself but then decided it wasn’t necessary. If they were all going to be living together for a time, they could borrow each other’s whips. Oliver first looked at a leather covered paddle and Miranda’s expression upon seeing it in her master’s hand provided another moment of comic relief.

“Ya don’t want that,” said Robert when the laughter died down. “Not for the first time. A slave’s first whipping should be a proper whipping . . . with one of these.” He held up the seven strap, “or a single tail like Roland’s got.” Roland nodded his head in agreement although it would be nice to have a paddle handy; they were great for quick discipline over minor infractions. Well, he could always buy one later. After examining several more beating instruments Oliver settled on a single tail similar to Roland’s. Miranda’s latest expression caused another round of laughter.

Roland did decide to buy a leather crop. While he certainly could and might well use it to punish a disobedient slave, he bought it mainly for Allison to use in her position of first girl. Custom in this area was by no means universal but a first girl’s power to punish those slave girls under her authority is usually limited. Serious breaches of discipline, if they are not known already, are reported to the master (or mistress) who will decide upon the appropriate consequences. But a few strokes of the crop across the ass or breasts (or merely the threat of it) were a good way for a first girl to assert her authority when necessary. Too, they often had the power to grant or rescind minor privileges and, of course, slave girls who earn a first girl’s displeasure frequently found themselves assigned the most unpleasant chores. Most slave girls are smart enough not to challenge a first girl’s authority. A first girl’s authority may be delegated (subject to being rescinded at any time by the whims of the master) but while she has it, it is none the less quite real.

If a first girl is wise, though, she will seek to wield her authority judiciously, precisely because it is subject to being rescinded at any time, suddenly and quite unexpectedly. A first girl who excels at her duty to manage and supervise other slaves is, as might be expected, less likely to loose her position than one who doesn't, but she herself is still a slave. Her authority over her charges is loaned and limited. The authority over her is absolute. She is equal with her charges in that respect.

That, ultimately, is why a first girl who uses her authority to lighten her work load over much, who plays favorites, and uses punishments and privileges to coerce favors (handing over a piece of candy bestowed by a pleased master, for example) is a fool. She will rue such actions should she ever find herself stripped of her position and under the command of a new first girl, perhaps someone she had ill-treated. Roland recalled Allison’s words to the other two slave girls. He was confident that she would be an excellent first girl. The notion of Miranda being first girl, at least in these early days of her slavery, was laughable but Allison would be quite aware that if she failed as first girl, the masters could always give Ellen a chance.

The next item up was a pair of slave bracelets. The steel cuffs, padded with leather, were about two inches wide. Each had a D-ring and they were connected by a single sturdy link. They were quite effective in securing a slave girl’s wrists together and all three women looked quite fetching with their wrists cuffed behind them. The mere act of having her wrists bound behind her by her master always seems to have an effect upon an owned woman, particularly if she is naked. This simple yet profound act of ownership almost always elicits a shudder or a sudden intake a breath. Or perhaps it will be a slight movement of the hips or a licking of the lips. It could be any one or a combination of these and many other things. They are outward manifestations that her desire & need to be dominated by the masculine were being fulfilled.

The final item was a slave leash for the three girls. A six foot leather strand, thin but strong terminated in a hook at one end. The hook could be secured to the D-ring in the collar with a simple nut and bolt. A man could wrap the other end in his hand and lead his slave or tie it to a post. It could also be used to bind the slave herself or even lash a badly behaved slave. Roland felt another flush of excitement as he looked over his leashed naked slave with her hands cuffed behind her back. His pecker continued to inform him again that it was ready, willing and able to report for duty but he continued to ignore it.

“I’m certain,” said the merchant, Franklin, “that you gentlemen would like to reward a pleasing slave now and then, and I have a nice selection of hard candies.” With practiced aplomb he hid his disappointment when neither Roland nor Robert showed any interest and only Oliver purchased a few.

“Maybe later,” said Roland but then the slave wares merchant surprised him with another gift, though nowhere near as fine as the slave whip. It was a piece of hard candy, slightly larger than his thumbnail and wrapped in a small piece of waxed paper tied with bits of string.

“A reward,” Franklin explained, for your girl’s superb performance in the bitch slap. Maple flavor, she’ll enjoy it very much.”

“Maybe later,” said Roland as he put it in his pocket. Again the smiling merchant was very professional in hiding any disappointment. Roland didn’t actually dislike the man (how could he dislike a man who had given him such a fine gift as that whip?), but he wasn’t about to be friends or his advertiser no matter how gracious he was. He was just too obvious in his motivations. Roland was here because the constantly smiling man was the only slave wares merchant in town right now; and right now, Roland wanted to move along.

The purchases decided upon they were totaled up – “you’ve purchased the very finest quality, gentleman” – and Roland’s bill came to half a silver. Not bad all things considered. Slave clothing was cheap, worth only copper bits, but items of metal and leather almost always cost silver. The slave girls would carry their respective master’s items of course so their hands were freed. Robert and Oliver removed the slave leashes from their girls but Roland decided to keep his slave leashed. He wrapped the end around his right hand several times and led her away. “A pleasure doing business with you gentlemen… come back any time, any time at all. Franklin’s Fine Slave Wares, for all your slave ware needs.”

They did not have to go far as the Apothecary was nearby. He was a much more affable man, in Roland’s opinion, and soft spoken or perhaps just appeared that way in comparison with the loud Franklin who, fortunately was focusing his attention on a new customer (Roland had feared for a moment that he would continue to shout at them about his wonderful merchandise while they tried to talk business with the apothecary). Their interest in the Apothecary was the slave elixir. The concoction of herbs and other plants (Roland had no idea what the actual ingredients were) prevented a woman - most of the time - from ‘watering a man’s seed’ until she was taken off of it. Until then Roland would be able to plow and plant with fairly high assurance that no child would sprout from his exertions. There was a time to sow and a time to reap . . . and frequently there was a time to sow without reaping because the sowing was so much fun.

Slave elixir was also said to smooth out a woman’s cycle, making it more regular and her time of bleeding of shorter duration. The usual dose was half a pint a week. Roland and Robert were gratified to learn that the Slaver had dosed his slaves, except Miranda, before he began his journey, though it was not surprising. Except for the failed hopes he placed in the virginal Miranda, his hired men would expect certain benefits – and customers might not care for a baby bonus. Oliver inquired about how long he would have to wait after Miranda’s first ever dose and the Apothecary assured Oliver that as long as she was dosed today, he should have no worries.

Slave elixir was sold to free women as well except that it was then called by the rather fanciful name (in Roland’s opinion) of Moon Spirits. The fact that slave elixir and Moon Spirits were the same thing was another open secret in society. Everyone knew they were the same thing. Nobody ever mentioned it. The dignity of free women apparently depended upon it although Roland found the whole thing rather ridiculous.

The Apothecary brewed up a couple of doses of slave elixir and while they waited for the mixture to cool, he tried to interest Roland in some medicinal herbs but Roland was more interested in mellow herb. Since he had nothing to drink (that last swig of medicinal spirits didn't count in his mind) some good mellow herb would do nicely instead. Besides, mellow herb was a good way to reduce pain and Roland had no doubt that his aches and pains would reassert themselves in due time. He purchased a small pouch of sticky, purple, buds and a small wooden pipe. Robert wasn't interested, joking that he could always raid Roland’s stash later on but Oliver bought some as well.

The slave elixir was ready. Allison and Ellen both dutifully and without hesitation, quaffed the brew down. They were unable to disguise their obvious distaste for the concoction. Once, long ago, youthful curiosity had compelled Roland to dip a finger into some slave elixir his mother had recently brewed up and take a taste. He would never do so again. It was perhaps the most noxious, foul tasting mixture ever to assault his tongue. Not surprisingly, free women mix copious amounts of honey or fruit juices into their Moon Spirits and Roland didn’t blame them one bit, although he doubted that it could be of any real help. The foul after-taste lasted for hours and was even worse than had been his father teasing him that he was now going to grow breasts and bleed every month.

Miranda it seemed had never had a close encounter with the brew, under any name, before. She gagged just smelling it and then looked at Oliver with an obvious ‘please, don’t make me do this’ expression on her face. The face she saw upon her master in return was not the face of the man who had gently petted her; it was the face of the man who had slapped her hard when she had spoken without permission. Miranda followed Allison’s and Ellen’s example and quaffed the slave elixir down quickly. She gagged some more (for a few seconds Roland thought she was going to heave it back up) and then loudly went “Bleeeeah!” Out of the corner of his eye Roland noticed ever so slight smirks from Allison and Ellen. The two experienced slave girls no doubt found the antics of the “newbie” amusing. Miranda looked at her master nervously, wondering if “bleeeeah” counted as speaking without permission. Oliver must have decided that it didn't. He smiled and took the cup from her and handed it back to the Apothecary. The men each purchased a couple of packets of un-brewed slave elixir, paid the Apothecary and continued on their way.

There was a small crowd gathered in front of the recently arrived wagons and for good reason. They had brought bread and cheese and they were selling quickly. Men enjoy their meat but a steady diet of only meat becomes unsatisfying and all three men eagerly paid the slightly less than outrageous prices for them. Roland bought three loaves of wheat bread, and a five pound wheel of cheese. The food merchants also had some wax sealed, clay jars of preserves. Roland, feeling a little rich, bought one jar of apples and one of pears.

The slave girls were getting a little loaded down now and were using the slave smocks as sacks. Roland was leading Allison on her leash again as they all made their way to the stable. Roland was feeling very satisfied with the recent turns of his life as he approached the stable. He tried not to let his dislike of the stable owner ruin his mood but it soon turned out to be of no avail. Shortly after arriving at the stable, Roland came close to throwing all his good fortune away.

♦ ♦ ♦

“I will not stand for this!” Roland bellowed so loudly that every head in the stable, and several just outside, turned. “You’re already a thief for taking three silvers bits! Now you want two more! This is nothing more than black mail!”

Robert, equally indignant, cast aside his usual caution. “You agreed on three! That’s all you get! Or perhaps you’d like to take it up with the Magistrate?
You've been hiding in here all day… can’t say I blame you . . . so perhaps you’re unaware that our new Magistrate has taken a liking to him . . . as well as most of the town!”

“I've heard,” replied the stable owner in that condescending voice of his, “that he is really good at taking a beating.”

“He’s pretty good at giving them too,” snapped Oliver to make sure that every one involved knew that he, like Robert, was standing by his friend. “And so am I,” he added for good measure. In truth, Roland wasn't sure how well the lanky lad could last in a fist fight against any of the more muscular stable hands – all except three holding stout pieces of wood (two of these exceptions were holding pitchforks and the third had a length of chain, one end of which he was wrapping around his fist) – but he felt warmed by the loyalty of both his friends. He wished that Marcus and Henry were here now. Although not out-armed, he and his friends were out numbered though he didn't really care. He simply was not going to stand for this.

The three slave girls had withdrawn from the confrontation to a nearby corner, the sacks of goods in their charge next to them, Allison’s leash in a coiled puddle in front of her. They were huddled in a position not unlike the obeisance position, save that they all looked up just enough to see what was happening. Even if the men present had been paying any attention to them, this would not be considered breaking position. They had not been commanded such. Rather, in a combination of instinct and experience Allison and Ellen both knew that in such situations of male aggression and hostility, the best thing for a slave girl to do is to get out of the way, make herself small . . . and wait. Miranda, of course, had her moment of wild-eyed confusion but Allison had tugged on her arm and the small girl caught on quickly and followed suit, emitting a yelp of fear as she did so. The air was too full of tension for anyone to notice, much less be amused by her.

Roland held up the chit he’d been given earlier. “I am only going to say this once.” His voice was terse, a barely controlled growl. “Bring . . . me . . . my . . . horse.”

“I would be glad to,” drawled the stable owner, “right after you pay me my two silver bits . . . you’re horse eats a lot, you see.” He smiled. Roland had reached the end of his rope with this obnoxious thief. Punching him simply would not be satisfying enough. Roland threw the chit down in disgust and then drew his short sword. His friends followed suit. Robert, perhaps hoping to diffuse the situation began to say something but he was cut short by the stable owner’s yelp of surprise as he quickly back stepped toward his compatriots. The only reason Roland didn't gut the man was because he was to busy laughing. The stable owner’s reaction had been comically close to Miranda’s frequent exclamations. “You wouldn't dare,” the retreating man yelled. The Magistrate would have you all hanged!”

Roland laughed harder. His friends and others nearby joined with him. All his pompous pretensions and the man was just a coward. His colleagues were too it seemed. They clustered together, looking frightened, and nodding their heads as if to affirm their leader’s proclamation. Roland’s anger was still acute but it had come down a notch. He knew he had already won. There would be no satisfaction in gutting a coward. Besides, the stable owner was right – the Magistrate would be duty bound to hang him . . . and perhaps his friends as well. He could not do that to them. Roland sheathed his sword.

The tension dropped considerably as Robert and Oliver sheathed their weapons as well, but it still remained high. For a second Roland considered issuing a formal challenge but then realized that he probably couldn't. Challenge could only be issued to one who had the same right, one who had the right to bare arms. If this inbred collection of human garbage had the right they would most likely have their weapons on them instead of cudgels and pitchforks. The fact that they did not have the right spoke volumes. Somehow, this reticent family had weaseled out of service in the war with Palasia. Roland’s disdain for them was increased ten fold. “You’re not worth killing,” said Roland, throwing all the contempt he could into his voice. “But pounding you into the dirt won’t get me more than a few days in the clink . . . except that we don’t have a clink,” he grinned. “No . . . more likely I’ll just pay a fine . . . and that will be worth it.”

“Okay, okay,” the stable owner said as he held up a placating hand. “Perhaps I’ve been . . . a little less than fair.”

“A little!” The incredulous snort came from one of the gathering crowd just outside the large open doors.

The stable owner snapped at the man next to him. “Mackie, get his horse!”

“Not good enough,” shouted Roland. “You've been no better than a thief from the start! I want a full refund!”

The stable owner seemed to find a bit of his courage, or perhaps it was desperation. A few from the growing crowd had trickled into the stable and were standing by Roland and his friends; clearly taking sides with them. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, “we agreed on three silver bits. I’m willing to settle on that.”
“My horse and a full refund or I turn you into mush!”

“I want a refund too!” The voice came from right next to him. Roland looked around. His attention had been so focused on the cowardly, thieving, stable owner that he hadn't really noticed that he had attracted a crowd again. Not as big as the ones for his fight against the Earl or the bitch slap, but still large and still growing. The town was again taking notice of the spectacle of conflict. He saw Allison, huddled in the corner with Ellen and Miranda. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Robert lean in close to Oliver and whisper something in the red haired youth’s ear. He saw Oliver nod every so slightly. Roland didn't need to hear what was said, he knew Robert well enough to know without hearing.

Roland returned his attention to the stable owner just as the man said, “I have the law on my side!”

“I have a pissed off town on mine,” was Roland’s retort. There were several yeahs and a few damn rights from both inside and outside the stable. Another man came forward and demanded a refund. He strode right up to the stable owner and pushed him. One of the stable hands swung a stout cudgel at him but missed when the man ducked and the brawl began in earnest.

As he knew they would, Robert and Oliver went straight for the two men with the pitch forks, grabbing at the handles of the deadly farm tools and struggling to wrench them from their owners. From his peripheral vision, Roland was aware of the stable hand with the chain swinging his makeshift weapon around, and somebody else not quite ducking in time. Roland went straight for the stable owner. The man lifted his stick to defend himself, crying out as he did so, but Roland easily snatched it away from him. The stable owner half fell, half dropped to the dirt floor, held his arms in front of him to ward of the expected blows. For a second Roland was prepared to bash the man’s skull in with his own weapon but the sight of the cringing pathetic bragger took a little of the vindictiveness out of him.

He took a second to take a quick glance around. Robert had disarmed his opponent (who was retreating rather rapidly down the stable corridor) and was going to the aid of Oliver who was struggling with his opponent but not in any immediate danger. Another man had gotten by the swinging chain and was pummeling its’ owner quite ruthlessly. The man who had broken the damn open with the first shove was laying on the ground, apparently knocked out from a nasty looking blow to the head. The man who had delivered the blow was occupied with fending off two others from the crowd. One of them, Roland noted with a sense of budding friendship, was the Earl of Ethbridge.

The three slave girls remained huddled though they continued to peek their eyes out to make sure they were still out of the way. All three sets of eyes showed fear and he could hear Miranda emitting a series of near panicky squeaks. All around him was the cacophony of conflict, the shouts of men and the worried neighs of horses. Roland knew he only had a moment or so left. He turned his attention back to the cringing stable owner.

Only a little of the vindictiveness had left him. He tossed the recently liberated cudgel away from the fight and with a snarl he punched the man three times in the face, easily driving his fist through the stable owner’s flailing arms. Three punches were all he had left in him. It was the man’s cries of pain that took the last of the rage from Roland. This was just too pathetic. Roland grabbed the man by his shirt, leaned in close, looking him straight in the eye. “It looks like you’re pretty lousy at taking a beating,” Roland said with a triumphant smile. He let the man go and stood up just as what he knew would eventually happen did happen.

Half a dozen of the Royal Guard, swords drawn, stormed into the stable. One of them was the Captain with the plumed helmet and it was he who demanded that everybody cease immediately in the name of the king. It took a few seconds but everybody did. Those still standing were glaring at each other as the Magistrate walked in with his forthright, purposeful stride that came so naturally with his authority. “Young Roland,” he said sounding slightly exasperated, “you do have a knack for making your presence known.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Roland was very conscious of both the silence and everyone’s attention on him as he said, “my apologies your Honor . . . again . . . but this thief who calls himself a - ”

“You’re the thief,” cried out the stable owner as he slowly stood up, holding his hand over his bloodied face. “This hooligan and his cronies burst in here to rob us! They assaulted my men and - ”

“Shut up!” The Magistrate’s angry exclamation caught everyone by surprise.

“But your Honor,” continued the stable owner indignantly, “we've done nothing to deserve this. I demand justice! I demand these men be arrested! I demand - ” His tirade stopped when a couple of the Royal Guardsmen took a few steps toward him, and when he saw the look on the Magistrates face. Words weren't necessary, his expression plainly said: if I have to tell you to shut up again . . .

The Magistrate looked around, saw the two men who had been knocked out laying on the ground along with another – the stable hand who had been swinging the chains – who had joined them in the land of senselessness. “You men there,” the Magistrate pointed at some townsmen just outside the stable. “Would you be so kind as to convey these unfortunates to the Healer?” The appointed men glanced around a little to make sure that it really was them the Magistrate was drafting, then a few them broke away from the throng and then a few more. “Thank you,” said the Magistrate as each took an arm of an unconscious man and unceremoniously dragged them away.

“Now then,” said the Magistrate looking at the stable owner, “I believe I've got the gist of your . . . statement . . . Mister . . . Totter? Is it not?”
“Yes, your Honor,” he replied. “We were minding our own business when - ” He stopped when the Magistrate held up a hand and several men both inside and outside the stable began shouting that the stable owner was a liar. He withdrew a step backwards, clustering with his remaining stable hands, all of whom were looking very nervous.

The Magistrate turned to Roland. “What say you on this matter?”

Roland had managed to collect himself a little more. “I've already paid the obnoxious price of three silver bits to stable my horse. I agreed to that, I’ll admit. But this . . . man” (Roland loaded all the dismissive contempt he could into the word) . . . “demanded two more before he returned my animal. That’s nothing more than blackmail. I demanded a refund, as did a few others. Someone shoved someone else and . . .”

The Magistrate nodded. “Lord Ethbridge? I know you to be a man of honor and honesty. What say you?”

The Earl of Ethbridge pointed at the stable owner. “Mister Totter is a liar.” For a second it looked like Totter was going to object but then he apparently decided against it. “Roland,” continued the Earl, “speaks the truth. Mister Totter is a liar, a gouger and a scoundrel. This affair would not have happened were he an honest man.”

The Magistrate looked at the assembled throng gathered in and around the large doorway. “How say all of you?” Lord Cecil listened a moment at the angry affirmations that Roland and the Earl spoke honestly whilst the stable owner was a liar and a knave and no doubt of questionable parentage amongst several other unsavory things. The Magistrate held up his hands to quiet everybody. He bowed his head and clasped his hands behind his back, thinking. Silence reigned and Roland was very conscious of the sounds one misses during the normal clatter and chatter of people – he could hear the creak of the new stable’s wooden walls settling, the chatter of birds outside and even the stirring of hay in the slight breeze blowing through the building. After a moment the Magistrate lifted his head again.

“As a matter of law, Mister Totter is free to set any price he likes . . . even if he is not very wise in the matter. There were several low grunts of agreement from the crowd. “If three silver bits were agreed upon then no refund, presuming the agreed upon services have been rendered, may be demanded.”
With a start Roland looked down the long corridor at the stables. In all his anger and excitement he’d forgotten the very reason he was here. Buddy . . . he had better be alright. “That remains to be seen your Honor,” he said, the nervousness clear in his voice.

“Those horses are fine!” Totter had found his voice again. “I provide the services I contract for!”

“Well let us make certain of that,” said Lord Cecil. Please fetch young Roland’s horse and bring it outside. Totter pushed at one of his stable hands and pointed down the corridor. The stable hand hastened to obey. The crowd (nearly the whole town seemed once again assembled) shuffled back as the Magistrate led the others outside. Roland and his friends motioned for their slaves to follow and they waited in a cluster; the men standing with arms folded across their chests, the slave girls kneeling. Roland saw the Magistrate’s slave join his side. Totter and his men swung their arms and shuffled their feet nervously. A moment later the stable hand emerged into the bright sunshine with Buddy in tow.

“Hey there, Buddy,” said Roland as he took the reigns. His was the only voice, the rest of the town waited in silent expectation as Roland examined the animal. Buddy was happy to see him but only in a mild, I’ve been missing you sense, he did not seem distressed in any way and nuzzled at his owner as Roland stroked him and looked him over. He had been groomed. He showed no signs of hunger or dehydration. It seemed that Mister Totter did indeed provide the services he contracted for. It was a pity that he was such an asshole. It was inexplicable to Roland but he was in no mood to figure it out right now. Roland looked at the Magistrate and nodded his head, his relief that Buddy was well evident on his face.

“Very well,” said the Magistrate. “Mister Totter cannot demand more than the agreed upon price.” People looked at the stable owner and his men accusingly. “But, since Mister Totter has appeared to have adequately rendered his service for the agreed upon price, there is no legal basis to demand a refund.”

“That’s right! That’s right!” The stable owner emphasized his words with angry points at Roland and a few others. There was a slight moan from the crowd, and a noticeable grumble from those who’d been hoping to get some money back. Roland managed to withhold his disappointment. Despite his relief about Buddy, he still felt he was owed both for the shit this Totter asshole had to put him through, and on the general principle that three silver bits was an outrageous price for a few hours stabling.

“However,” said the Magistrate. The stable owner looked askance at him as the man in the white and purple robe continued. “Speaking strictly for myself as a member of this community . . . I must say that three silver bits for a few hours stabling does seem rather excessive.” He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment while he idly examined a puffy white cloud drifting slowly by that vaguely resembled a smiling puppy.

The town’s attention was more focused on the stable owner. It didn't need to be said out loud. Everyone knew that Magistrates had a wide discretion in their authority to keep the King’s laws and maintain the peace – perhaps even more so out here on the frontier. This Magistrate had not said anything yet about the violence. He could easily arrest all involved and lay formal charges . . . to be followed by formal punishments. He could just as easily arrest some and not others depending on who he thought was more at fault.

The stable owner knew who that was in this situation. He wasn't totally stupid. He was smart enough to take an out when he saw it. “Well . . . perhaps I’ve been a little . . . overenthusiastic . . . Just trying to earn a living you understa . . .” He looked nervously around at the angry glares of the crowd. “Okay! Okay! I’m willing to refund one silver bit each.”

The Magistrate, hands still clasped behind his back, continued to examine the cloud that now looked like a bear with a very large erection. He chuckled a little.

“Two! Two silver bits! I’ll refund two silver bits!” Totter held up two fingers to emphasize his point.

“Thank you, thank you,” said a smiling Lord Cecil suddenly returning his attention to the stable owner and extending his hand for a shake. “Could you see to that right away please?”

“Of course, your Honor,” said Totter who let his hand be shaken, too afraid too return any pressure. He snapped at one of his men to retrieve the cash box.

Roland knew not to thank the Magistrate. Lord Cecil had not ruled in favor of a refund after all. He had merely expressed an opinion and the stable owner was only granting a favor after willingly examining his conscious. Roland allowed himself to fully enjoy watching Totter reach into his cash box and withdraw two silver bits. He glared triumphantly as the tiny silver coins were placed in his palm. He enclosed then in his fist. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he said. Totter couldn't even look him in the face, which suited Roland just fine. He put the small coins in his pouch.

The outer layers of the crowd were beginning to drift away now that the latest entertainment was clearly over. The Magistrate was idly standing by, watching while not actually watching as the stable owner handed out more refunds. Roland and his friends looked at each other, silently agreeing with each other that this had turned out to be quite a day. When Lord Ethbridge approached the group, it was Roland who spoke first. “Thank you, my Lord, for your timely aid. That was most gracious of you.”

With that amused grin of his the Earl responded. “Don’t try to flatter me. I was glad to help. Besides, that lowly, lying knave had it coming. He’s lucky he didn't receive far worse.”

“I would've given him far worse but, he’s a coward as well.” The Earl merely nodded in understanding. For Roland another matter was now settled. He liked the Earl, and while not yet ready to call him friend, he was willing to go in that direction. “Did you get to try out that red head?” Roland glanced over to where the slave girls being rented out were resuming their industry after the latest interruption of business. Men wanting a go were heading over there again. There weren't as many as there was before but it was still a sizable number.

“Nah,” said the Earl, “but I’m in no hurry, so you don’t have to do what I know you’re thinking of doing. I know you’re probably eager to have her for yourself tonight.”

“It is true that I am feeling a little proprietary toward her body right now, particularly her pussy. But I’m willing to loan out her mouth to a friend for a few minutes. She’s quite skilled. All I ask is that you take her around to the side of the stable where there aren't too many people. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m handing out freebies.”

The Earl slapped Roland on the back reminding him of the many pains he still had, pains he had received, ironically, from the man himself. Roland’s own expression was a mixture of good-natured grin and painful grimace. The eager Earl snapped his fingers at Allison and strode away. Allison didn't have to be told to follow. She crawled behind the Earl, her leash dragging behind her. As they disappeared around the corner Robert open his mouth to say something but was cut short by the arrival of the Magistrate. “Might I have a word with you alone, young Roland?”

Uh-oh. Here comes the . . . what? The lecture? The warnings? Roland handed Buddy’s reigns to Oliver and walked alongside the Magistrate. The older man’s newly acquired slave walked behind them, hands lightly clasped in front of her, head slightly down. She remained quiet and unobtrusive while free men conversed and would remain so until her master otherwise commanded her. People nearby also sensed that they should keep their distance from this private conversation. Roland, a little fearful, thought for a second that he should start apologizing for – unintentionally to be sure – causing so much commotion but decided it would appear weak and, well, guilty. He didn't think of himself as guilty of anything. Years of experience gave Lord Cecil insight into exactly what Roland was thinking. He put his arm around Roland in a fatherly sort of way as they walked.

“Be not concerned, young Roland. You’re not in any trouble,” the Magistrate smiled. I just need you to indulge an old man and let me give you some friendly advice.” Roland nodded. Whew! It’s just gong to be the lecture, he thought. The Magistrate stopped and waved an arm around. “Look around you, Roland. It is nothing but a collection of tents but it is a beginning. It is a seed that will grow in to a village, a town . . . perhaps someday, even a city. There is so much potential out here, so much opportunity.”

The Magistrate paused a second. Roland realized that the man had not been entirely facetious when had spoken earlier about how excited he was to be a part of the new town. “Every town, every community needs it’s leading citizens, its business leaders, its council members, its mayor and constable.” He paused again.

“Me?” Roland was incredulous. He never gave any thought to a public position. He was a poor boy from the meanest sections of the capital city. Such people had long been to him, almost instinctively, ‘them.’ “Your Honor is generous in his praise but I don’t think -”

Lord Cecil held up a finger to cut him off. “I don’t mean right now,” he said with a chuckle, “but ten or fifteen years from now, once you’ve mellowed out a bit. By then, if you have managed your lands well, if you have made the most of the opportunities in front of you, well, you could be a very wealthy man by then. Such a man, who is also esteemed by his neighbors, might even be awarded the title of Earl some day.” He removed his arm from Roland’s shoulder, stopped, and looked the young man straight in the eye. Roland and the Magistrate's new slave also stopped (the latter promptly kneeling).

Roland was too flabbergasted to look flabbergasted. His expression was blank as he took in the enormity of the Magistrate’s words. The information had been in his head all along, he’d just hadn’t taken the time to put it all together yet. It was true. He was in a position to make himself a very wealthy man. And wealthy commoners who made their mark in service to society, usually in the military put also in civic responsibilities, were sometimes rewarded with the title of Earl. This didn’t usually happen until they were old and not long for the world but still . . . Earl Helfert, he thought, liking the sound of it. And if I have a son, he’ll inherit the title, as will his son.

Roland thought about what the Earl of Ethbridge had said about his ambitions. I would never live to see it but in time, could there be a Barron Helfert? A Count Helfert? Duke Helfert? Dare I even think it? King . . . Roland shook his head. It was too much for him right now. He had more immediate concerns like building a shelter, surviving the winter and fucking his new slave girl silly. He looked the Magistrate in the eye again. Not sure what to say, he waited for the older man to speak.

“Just give it some thought,” said the Magistrate. “Indeed, your great strength Roland,” he continued, sounding rather like a school professor, “is that you are a thinker. Your great weakness is that you do not yet realize this about yourself.” Roland returned the Magistrate’s handshake almost automatically, like Totter moments before, though nowhere near as limply. “Well, good day to you Roland. I’m sure we will see each other around.” With that the gray-haired man turned and with a stride that was somehow casual yet still radiated authority, headed off in the direction of the new courthouse. His new slave girl, quiet, unobtrusive, followed behind. Roland spent a few seconds admiring her shapely backside and then turned to rejoin his friends.

♦ ♦ ♦

“So how many years in the clink did he give ya?” Robert asked jokingly as Roland, scratching at his chin and looking deep in thought, ambled back to the group. When he didn’t get an answer he snapped his fingers in front of the young man’s eyes. “Hey, Roland, you awake inside there?”

Roland looked up and for a half second looked confused and then, finding himself, said: “Oh . . . that was nothing . . . he just wanted to tell me to . . . be careful.”

Robert grinned and gave Roland a light punch on his right arm. “And I’ve been telling you that for how long now?” Ellen and Miranda, Roland noticed, now knelt with their hands secured behind them. Each slave girl had her leash attached and her master’s bundle of goods was now tied to the back of her collar. Each girl was also wearing her sandals. Everyone waited in silence for several minutes and Roland was just starting to wonder if he should get nervous when the Earl of Ethbridge came around the stable corner, looking very content and leading the crawling Allison on the leash.

A thought occurred to Roland. No aristocrat would ever let his daughter marry someone like Roland – born of a slave woman – even if he did achieve the title of Earl. If any son of his were to inherit that title from him, he could not be born of a slave woman if he wanted a noble woman for a wife. At the very least Roland would have to marry a free woman, one who had been born free, and begat children off of her. He pushed the thought from his mind. I take it she pleased you,” said Roland as he took the leash from the Earl.

“You spoke truthfully, she is very skilled,” said Lord Ethbridge with a wry smile. Roland looked at the now kneeling Allison. He saw that hint of pride in her skills but mostly he saw the relief at having been reported pleasing. Displeasing her master would be bad enough. Embarrassing her master by displeasing another she’d been ordered to serve . . .

The Earl thanked Roland and after handshakes and well wishes all around took his leave. Roland handed his water skein over to the girl. Without being told, she understood to rinse her mouth well before swallowing it. Roland had plans on kissing that mouth later on and wanted to make sure any traces of the Earl were gone. Roland didn't like the guy that much. Perhaps though, it occurred to Roland, if he developed his friendship with the Earl enough, the Lord of Ethbridge would let Roland marry one of his daughters – assuming he had any unmarried daughters available. Matters to be looked into another day, thought Roland as he dismissed these thoughts from his head.

Roland trussed up Allison in the same manner as Ellen and Miranda but instead of holding her leash himself he tied the end to one of his saddle rings. Then he took hold of Buddy’s reigns. Making their way slowly through the tents and people the three men led the horse and the slaves out of the town and headed east. When they got to top of the first hill Roland paused to look down at the nascent community. It seemed such a small place for so much to have happened to him in one day. A shudder passed through Roland as a thought occurred to him. A few minor changes in fortune on the battlefield and Roland may not have lived to have experienced this moment. Instead, it might have been the late Harold standing here, alive and well - looking down upon the new town of "Roland's Stand." Bah . . . he wouldn't have lasted as long against the Earl as I did, thought Roland contemptuously as he started walking again.

As they walked the men discussed the cock sucking abilities of their newly acquired slaves. Allison, Robert noted, already had two positive testimonies and he inquired of Ellen whether she was as skilled. She assured her master that she was. Robert assured her that she’d have the chance to prove it before long. Oliver had to endure some teasing since it was a given that Miranda would have no skills in this. Roland, laughing, offered to have Allison give her some lessons but Oliver, taking no offense, laughingly told his friends that he could teach her what she needed to know quite well himself. Miranda blushed furiously at this but Roland noticed that of the three slave girls, the neophyte was the most hot and bothered at the moment. He could also see that she was confused by this. No, it was more of a denial, but a denial she couldn't really maintain. Certain feelings were being aroused in her, feelings that, as a free woman, she would have considered too base for someone like her. Feelings that she would have worked hard to suppress. Feelings that she had to know she would not be allowed to suppress for much longer.

She had not yet experienced her first slave orgasm, had not yet surrendered herself to the ecstasies of her needs. The fires in her belly were smoldering but not yet lit. It would be up to Oliver to do so. If he succeeded (and Roland had confidence in his young friend’s ability) there would be a noticeable change in her – subtle yet profound at the same time – when Roland saw her again tomorrow. She would still be raw and in need of a lot of training, but she would no longer be self conscious in a very real sense of the term. She would be “Master conscious.” She would be devoted to pleasing her master, not just out of fear of his punishments, but also out of an inborn desire to serve the masculine and reap rewards that it can bring.

The banter was briefly interrupted by a cry in the distance. It came from the south, low and barley audible yet recognizable for what it was. It continued rising and sinking in pitch. “That’s coming from where the guy who bought the first slave lives, I think,” said Robert as they all stopped and looked in the direction the sound was coming from.

“Yeah,” said Oliver,” “I think his name is ‘Barry’ or something.” Barry, or whatever his name was, had wasted no time, it seemed, in exploring the depths of his new slave’s ecstasies. They all listened for a moment, curious as to how long Barry (or whatever) could keep her going. How loudly and how long a man could keep a slave girl going was something of a point of pride amongst men. Much depended upon the girl of course – her health, the depth of her needs – but Barry (or whatever) seemed fairly skilled as the warbling cries continued a good three minutes before they faded away. That wasn’t bad but Roland has known slave girls who could go much longer. A skilled man learned how to play a particular slave girl like a musical instrument. With practice both he, and she, got better in making the music of dominance and submission. Roland looked at Allison kneeling, waiting for when the masters decided to move again. She was the portrait of the docile, obedient slave but he could see the volcano of feelings and passions that rumbled under the seemingly placid surface. I will have plenty of time to learn how to play this one, he thought. But I don’t think I’ll need much time.

“I have a feeling,” said Robert with that hearty chuckle of his as the cries of the distant slave girl died down, “that we’ll be hearing a lot of that ringing throughout the hills tonight.

“Mine will be the loudest,” said Roland, totally deadpan. A few seconds of silence was followed by a burst of laughter as they continued on their way.
Shortly after they had heard the cries of another slave girl in the distance, one who was obviously being whipped rather than pleasured, Oliver broke off from the group, leading Miranda north to his campsite. Roland and Robert watched the receding pair for a moment and then Robert called out, “bring a slave girl with you when you come to Roland’s tomorrow!” Oliver, ever the cheerful, turned around and gave a thumbs up.

A short while later it was Robert’s turn to break off. Although Roland valued his friendship with the older man and was sincere in his goodbyes, he was glad to watch his and Ellen’s receding backs as well. He mounted Buddy and looked over his shoulder at Allison. He looked at the sun. The day was no longer young but it was not old yet. And the night was still ahead. He looked at Allison again. It had been quite a day so far for both of them and it was going to be quite some night. Eager, yet patient enough to savor all moments in their proper time, Roland set Buddy to a walk and continued east to his campsite, to his home. This was a moment to be savored as much as those to come.

He was a man. He was young, hearty and hale (albeit somewhat sore at the moment). He had an education and skills. He had land and silver. He had friends and the respect of men both common and noble. He had great possibilities and opportunities before him. And . . . he had a woman . . . a beautiful, intelligent, woman . . . naked, collared, hands cuffed behind her, following him on his leash.

Life was good.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 7/9/2014 5:38:40 PM >

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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/10/2014 5:56:56 PM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Roland & Allison.

Chapter Seven: Late Afternoon.



Roland was pleased to discover that he did feel a strong sense of coming home as he approached the large maple tree that stood guard over his modest little tent, the chair and table he had made, and the circle of stones where he lit his fires. He thought for a moment of dismounting and carrying Allison over his shoulder the last hundred yards or so. It was something of a tradition to carry new slave girls home thusly but since he didn’t have a threshold to carry her over, it seemed a little over dramatic and he decided against it.

He reined Buddy to a stop near his tent, dismounted, and untied the already kneeling Allison’s leash from the saddle ring, letting the loose end drop to the ground. He unsaddled the beast and gave it a friendly pat to let it know it was free from any immediate duties to him. After giving him a nuzzle the horse ambled into the meadow a ways. It was a smart animal that knew to stay nearby and not wander too far off.

Roland turned his attention to Allison. She was looking rather worn on the surface but she still radiated a youthful vitality. He could smell her arousal which he pointedly ignored as he untied his bundle of purchases from her collar, spreading the contents on the table. He went through his pockets, removing the bottle of medicinal spirits, the piece of hard candy Franklin (always the finest quality!) had given him and the keys to Allison’s collar and cuffs. These he added to the load on the table. He removed his back pack and set it at the base of the tree, then leaned his sword up next to it. His water skein he hung from a branch. Keeping his dagger girded, he pulled up his chair to sit for a few minutes, relaxing, enjoying the sight of his naked, kneeling, slave girl.

It was not uncommon for many slave girls to go through life in a constant, low level, state of arousal. In one sense he almost envied that, to have that subtle, pleasurable feeling as a constant companion. In another sense, though, he did not envy her at all. How frustrating it must get at times! He could satisfy his need with her whenever he wished. To gain her satisfaction, she must seek his permission by being pleasing, obedient and hard working. Most men agreed that it was the men who got the better end of the “deal” between masters and slave girls and yet, like most men, Roland suspected that the slave girls thought otherwise. Perhaps that was the true beauty of Crassius’ design.

For several minutes Roland just admired the beauty that was now his to command and enjoy. Up and down, slowly, his eyes crawled over her body from her long, lustrous (slightly disheveled) brown hair, past her slowly heaving breasts with their hard nipples and her soft belly down to that gorgeous furry (and obviously moist and engorged) cleft nestled between her thighs. He tilted his head one way to better view the curve of her back and rear and the beautiful way the curves of her leg matched up with each other as she knelt, then the other way to view the other side with its brand clearly marking her status or rather, her total lack of one. As the moments went by she would occasionally draw a faintly deeper breath, followed by a slower than usual, sighing, exhale or ever so slightly lick her lips. There was the occasional, barely perceptible, squirm of her hips usually followed by a series of rapid blinks. He smiled and stood up. First things first.

He saw her flinch slightly, hitch her breath, and squirm her hips a little as he grabbed the key to the slave bracelets and strode over to her. She knew. The moment Roland stood up, her finely turned slave girl instincts alerted her that the moment she had been both dreading and eagerly anticipating had arrived.
Roland unlocked one of the cuffs and Allison didn’t have to be told what to do. She brought her arms around and held her hands out front. With a “clink,” her wrists were secured again. Roland removed the leash, put it and the key on the table and picked up one of the soft, pliable lengths of binding rope. Allison, her lower lip already trembling and her eyes already beginning to water, held her hands up and out so her master could tie the rope to the single link connecting the two cuffs around her wrists. She rose as he pulled up on it and tossed the end over a branch. The branch that was perfectly located for this purpose. Roland pulled on the rope, pulling Allison’s arms over her head. The only resistance he got was from the friction of the rope on the branch. The slave girl, breathing a little faster now and noticeably trembling was brought up to her tip toes before Roland wrapped the rope around the branch a few times and tied it off.

Roland picked up the other length of rope. He squatted down next to his strung up property. This is what made the location of the branch so perfect – right below it was a partially exposed root, rising out of the ground and then plunging back into it; forming a loop. It was if, years ago, some friendly spirit had planted this tree and guided its growth just for this moment. Roland pulled the sandals off of her and then, with quick deft movements, he lashed Allison’s ankles together and then tied them off to exposed root.

He next used one of the cotton strips he had purchased to tie her hair in a pony tail and then tie that back up on itself, the better to expose her back. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. Hanging from her wrists, stretched out, there was nothing to hide any part of her beauty, as he unhurriedly walked a few turns around her, drinking her in with his eyes. He stopped, reached out, and played with her tits a moment, enjoying there softness and firmness between his fingers. She was blinking quite a bit now and breathing more rapidly as she bit at her trembling lower lip, trying to steady it. But she kept her head down and her gaze on the ground. She emitted the occasional low gasp or squeak. He wondered if she would orgasm under the whip. That too, was not unheard of.
He moved his hand down, slowly, over her waist and brought it to rest for a few seconds on her brand, then moved between her thighs feeling the heat and moistness of her pussy. He stroked her pussy lips a few times but deliberately avoided her clit. A soft “uh,” came out of her. Roland could hear the frustration in it. Damn this woman was hot! But as aroused as she was right now she was not near her peak. Still . . .

“You do not have permission to yield. You understand?”

“Yes, Master.” Her voice had equal measures of fear and desire in it. While Roland could admire the genius of Crassus’ design he had to admit there was a certain cruelty in it as well. By denying her permission to yield to her passions he was exerting his dominance over her . . . and thus fueling those same passions. But perhaps there was a kindness in it as well. She was about to get a stark and painful reminder of his dominance and her passions made it possible for her to endure it and even (in some strange way Roland was certain he could never fully understand) enjoy, even whilst hating it at the same time.
Roland picked up the single tail whip he had been gifted. Allison tensed up as he as he took up a position behind her. Roland had stretched things out a little simply because he was exercising his right to enjoy the sight and feel of his slave’s body, but he wasn’t one for over dramatization. He didn’t bother swishing the whip around or cracking it in the air to increase her agitation. He simply took a few seconds to get a proper feel of the whip and gauge the correct distance from her. Whipping a woman was both an art and a skill. To much power behind the stroke and he could split her skin open, leaving jagged scars for life. The only scar tissue a man wanted on his slave girl was her brand. To little force, however, and the wrong message would be sent. The goal of a whipping was pain; pain that would be remembered and that the slave would be eager to avoid in the future; pain that would make it clear that obedience was demanded and disobedience would not be tolerated.

With practiced skill Roland drew back the whip and brought it forward quickly, flicking his wrist at just the right instant. Somehow, even when they have felt the whip before, they never seem quite ready for it. The sharp stroke of leather on their bare flesh always seems to come as a surprise. Roland’s first blow connected with Allison’s upper back. Her body swayed slightly under the blow but it was a good second before she gasped and then let out an anguished, loud, “ahhhh-rrrgh.” Her whole body quivered, shaking her ass and legs nicely. That was one of the side benefits for men when it came to whipping women – it provided such nice visuals.

The second stroke connected just below where the first one landed, producing reactions similar to the first but the lurch and quivering were more pronounced and the scream was louder. That scream communicated its own message to Roland. It spoke of pain that could not be endured. It spoke of knowledge that it would be endured anyway. It spoke of knowledge that she was owned and that her master ruled . . . and it spoke of an underlying joy at that knowledge.
Roland’s aimed his third slash of the whip even lower, bringing it right across the middle of her ass. Her scream had a higher pitch to it and she lurched more up than forward, pulling on her arms in an instinctive but vain attempt to lift herself out of the biting leather’s reach. She flung her head back; her hands were tightly balled fists above the cuffs.

Roland continued to vary the placement of each blow: Upper legs, upper back, lower legs, ass, middle back, carefully avoiding the small of her back where here kidneys were but otherwise covering her backside from shoulders to calves with red stripes. She was crying by the seventh lash and her screams took on a panicky note on the eleventh. She knew that she had much to answer for and she had no idea how many lashes that would entail. That, only her master knew at the moment.

There were no rules over how long a “welcome” whipping should last. Some men said ten, others twenty. Much depended, of course, upon the girl herself and the circumstances of her acquisition. Roland decided that under these circumstances, twenty lashes were in order. He delivered the twentieth blow on her ass. For a few seconds her let her hang there, wondering if another blow was coming, then he stepped directly behind her and grabbed her by the hair. He pulled her head back so that she was forced to look up at the branches overhead while exposing her lovely, collared, neck. It was a very vulnerable position and to have a woman – his woman – thusly, shot a surge of excitement through Roland that made his nostrils flare while his already hard manhood stiffened even more. He looked down into her face with its wet cheeks and teary eyes. The vulnerable position had an affect upon her as well. He could see another quiver shoot through her and knew that it was not caused by pain but pleasure – pleasure brought about by the simple fact that she was a female who was being dominated by the masculine. She licked her lips and avoided direct eye contact with her master by darting her eyes upward.

“What are you?” It was a question commonly asked after a “welcome” whipping and if there ever was a slave girl who got it wrong, Roland had never heard of her.

“I am a slave, Master,” replied Allison in a weeping voice filled with frantic desire that her new master believe her conviction in the matter.

“Who owns you?”

“You own me, Master!”

“Are you going to be an obedient slave?”

“Yes, Master!” She practically wailed it. Roland stayed silent a few seconds, watching her as she blinked several times, anxiously awaiting whatever came next though he suspected that she already knew.

“So you tell me,” Roland said, “but I have my doubts.” Allison hitched her breath in dreadful anticipation but didn’t say anything. She had not, after all, been asked a question. “Earlier today,” he continued, “you were very disobedient, were you not?”

She hesitated only long enough to visibly swallow with difficulty and then out came a dejected, sorrowful, “yes, Master.”

“Your master, the Lord Ethbridge, commanded you into the obeisance position, did he not?”

“Yes, Master.” She sounded resigned but there was a note a pleading in her tone that came naturally to slave girls in such moments, born of a desire that master be merciful on them and not punish them too severely. Yet at the same time there was just a hint of worry that he might give in to her pleadings too much, that he might be too lenient. Slave girls didn’t just want their masters to be strong . . . they needed them to be.

“And you disobeyed that command, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Master.” She shuddered as she closed her eyes. “Please forgive me, Master.”

“Even if I had not assured Lord Ethbridge that you would be punished for that, do you think I would ever tolerate such disobedience from you?” He tightened his grip in her hair and gave her head a little shake as he spoke.

“No, Master,” she wailed again as she clenched her eyes closed even tighter, new tears spilling from them.

“No I will not. Twenty lashes.” She whimpered as he let go of her hair, giving her head a little shove downward as he did so. He positioned himself in front of her this time, taking a few seconds to enjoy the way her breasts heaved with each breath – then he struck again, landing the lash across those ample mounds of quivering flesh. Her cry had a much different tone to it, more anguished and almost grief stricken.

The next stroke, the twenty-second the girl had received so far, he landed across her belly which elicited a gasp as she flung her head back again. She looked up at the branches but Roland doubted she really noticed them. He sent the twenty-third stroke across her thighs and heard a note of panic in her voice again. Roland smiled and stepped back a few paces. He aimed the whip straight on instead of across and its tip struck smartly at her pussy. She lurched up again with yelp followed by an agonized moan while her legs trembled as violently as her bonds would allow. Her yelp reminded him of Miranda and he wondered if Oliver had given the girl her first taste of the whip yet. He would have liked to seen that. He was certain that her expressions would be her most hilarious so far. His slave girl, Allison, was the one in front of him though. Three more times he struck at her pussy, enjoying the high pitched yelps before returning to laying more strokes across her breasts again as well as her belly and legs. She had progressed from crying to openly sobbing with only whimpers punctuating each stroke of the whip.

She no longer lurched under the blows but hung limply, her weight totally supported by her outstretched arms. Her fingers were no longer tightly clenched in fists but now writhed as they grasped ineffectually at the rope above them. He slowly circled around her, striking the side of her thighs and her back and ass again. It was after the thirty-fifth lash that she cried out, “Please, Master! Have mercy on a foolish slave!” There were times when a man could afford to be merciful to his slave and there were times when he could not. Roland had no intention of letting her think he could be swayed that easily. He whipped his slave girl five more times, the last stroke he landed on her ass, putting some extra force behind it and causing her to yelp and lurch one last time before hanging limply again.

Roland stood in front of her again and watched a couple of minutes while she struggled to get her sobbing under control. When she had achieved some measure of this, he tucked a couple of fingers under her chin and lifted it up. “Look at me,” he said when she darted her eyes to the side. She obeyed – promptly – but he could see that it was even more of an effort for her than when he had similarly commanded her on the inspection line. After such a painful reminder of her slavery, her instinct not to look her master in the eyes was even stronger – but so was her desire to obey.

Roland peered into those wide eyes, trying to gauge the depths of those desires and needs and passions. It was not unlike peering into a deep hole. Just how deep did it go? “You’ll recall,” said Roland, “that earlier today you had an orgasm, despite not having permission to yield. Is that not correct?” She looked ready to burst into sobs again as she meekly answered that she had and that she was sorry and couldn’t help it.

“Well,” said Roland, “I suppose it was not unlike a girl yielding on the auction block. Most men don’t punish for that. It’s considered a good sign as I’m sure you know.” She nodded her head vigorously as if to say: Yes! Yes it is! “I might be willing to let it slide,” he went on, “if you tell me why it happened.”

Her eyes grew wide and she made another nervous swallow. She knew what he was asking for. Slave are not allowed to lie. To be caught in a lie can carry the most dreadful punishments, and half truths and lies of omission were considered the same as lies. To simply say that she was unable to help herself would not do here and she knew it. She had to come out with it – all of it.

“Be . . .” She licked her lips once, closed her eyes for about a second and then, “because I was so excited to be owned by you, Master . . . to be serving you. I wanted to be yours, Master and it had come true.” She sped up, as if frantic to get it all out. “When you didn’t win the bidding I thought it was over.” Another deep breath and then, “But then you fought so hard to own me and . . .”

Roland could see that she was too frightened to mention that he hadn’t actually won the fight. That he had, in fact, had gotten his ass handed to him and it was, in the end, his fortitude and determination that had won the day. But he wasn’t about to let her off so easily. “And . . .” he said

“And it didn’t look like you would win but then there I was, kneeling before you, serving you . . .” She shuddered as she drew in another breath . . . “I was yours.” She looked at him with a desperate pleading for understanding.

“And why were you so keen on being mine?”

“Because you desired me, Master.”

Roland thought back to that moment when she was on the wagon chain, when he had called out his own yearning to own her. He recalled the little squirm it caused her and how after that she really only had eyes for him. Roland smiled. Slave girls were all about humility and humbleness but they too had their own vanities. There was perhaps nothing that could churn a slave girl’s juices better than simply knowing that they were desired by strong men; desired enough that men will pay good money for them; desired enough that men will fight for them, kill for them and even, upon occasion (as Roland had so aptly demonstrated earlier), take a beating for.

It occurred to Roland that he had no idea how much the last three slaves had sold for but if they sold in the same price range as most of the others, then Allison here easily brought in the highest bid by far. And Oliver got the cheapest slave, thought Roland. He wondered again how his friend was doing with his cheap, raw, un-kindled slave. Well, time would tell which of them got the better bargain though it was entirely possible, he knew, that the answer might well be that both men did. Keeping eye contact with her, Roland removed his hand from her chin and gently caressed her tear stained cheek. She drew in a deep breath and held it, wondering . . . was it over? “Earlier today you also tried to pull a little miss coy act on me, didn't you?”

She exhaled, not in relief but in acquiescence. “Yes, Master.” She sniffled back a sob.

“I slapped you for it and you begged me for forgiveness, you’ll recall.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And what did I tell you?”

“You said you would think about it, Master.”

“Yes. I’m thinking about it right now.” For a moment Roland studied her intently, watching as she pleaded with her face. He watched as a quick bite at her lower lip, a sniffle, a pout, watery blinks, a licking of the lips and even a half smile all combined to write the same message: I've learned my lesson, Master. Please have mercy. Pleeeeeeease. It was an amazing thing to watch. Slave girls did not have many “weapons” in which to assuage their master’s displeasure, but what few they did have were powerful. A man would have to have a heart made of iron not to be moved to pity by such a pretty, pleading, face. Should he relent on the punishments for the unauthorized orgasm and the little miss coy act? Perhaps . . . but perhaps there should be one more lesson, one more reminder.

Allison breathed a sigh of relief as Roland coiled the whip in his hand and then held it up to her lips. With an eagerness born of gratitude that it was over she kissed the whip – the instrument of her punishment – passionately, tasting her own sweat along with the oiled leather. Roland allowed her to show her gratitude for thirty seconds or so before he withdrew the whip from her and set it upon the table. She had probably expected him to approach her and start untying her hair, which is why she gasped and then whimpered when he picked up the newly bought crop instead.

Roland didn’t say anything as he approached her again; he simply struck at the tender flesh of her left boob. Her cry was her most anguished yet, throaty, deep, and loud as her head flung back again and her fingers clutched into tiny balls above the slave cuffs. Her right boob received similar treatment, bringing about a similar reaction. Each of her tits got two more painful strokes and then he turned his attention to her ass. Four times the enslaved woman screeched as the hard leather made contact with her tender rear, adding new marks to the ones already made by the whip. She was sobbing again when Roland grabbed her chin and yanked her head up. His grip was not gentle, he pressed at the sides of her mouth hard enough that her lips pursed, making her look like a startled fish.

“Do you know why I just beat you with the crop?”

Her words came out sounding like a childish lisp. “Yesh, Masher!”

“And that is?”

“Becush yoush kin, Masher!”

“That’s right,” Roland said, giving her an extra squeeze before letting go of her. He leaned in close to her, bringing his mouth next to her ear. “Let’s review one last time, just to be sure . . . what are you?”

“I . . . I am a slave, Master,” she responded, stifling another sob.

“Who owns you?”

“You own me, Master.”

“Are you going to be an obedient slave?”

“Yes! Yes! I will, Master!” She nodded her head to emphasize her words.

“And are you going to be a hard working slave?”

“Yes, Master! I promise, Master! I will be a very hard working slave, Master!” She continued to nod her head, quite dramatically, so desperate was she to convince him of her sincerity.

“Are you going to strive to be a pleasing slave in all that you do?”

“Yes, Master! I will be a very pleasing slave, Master. I want to be a pleasing slave for you, Master! I do, Master, I really do!” She started crying again. Roland placed his hand on top of her head to still it. He held his hand there for a few seconds, then stoked her head gently, much the same way Oliver had petted Miranda, earlier. He could hear a change in tone in her crying and he knew it signified relief. Master’s displeasure in his new slave, it appeared, was pacified at last. He held the crop up to her lips and she eagerly kissed it while with his other hand he untied her hair, letting it fall loosely again. The roots, he noticed, were wet with sweat as indeed all of her was coated in a thin sheen of perspiration. Her face was particularly moist with her tears, her lips and cheeks were quivering and hanging loosely in that manner that only crying can produce. She was also quite moist between the legs.

Roland set the crop and the cotton strip aside and then untied her ankles. Allison hung limply by the wrists, head down, still crying. He wrapped one arm around the girl’s waist (she moaned a little where he made contact with her fresh welts), lending her some support while he untied her from the branch. The girl went limp into his arms as he slowly lowered her down. She half knelt, half sprawled on the ground for a few seconds and then, doing her best to stifle her sniveling, she slowly, painfully assumed a kneeling position, her manacled hands held up in front of her. When the slave cuffs were removed she dutifully got on her hands and knees and lowered her head to kiss her master’s booted feet.

This she did with an even greater dedication than when she had kissed the whip and the crop. The toe, the heel, the sides, all these she kissed gratefully only this time the gratitude was two-fold. She was grateful that her punishments and reminders were over. She was even more grateful that her new master had made one thing perfectly clear – he ruled. He was the master and she was the slave. There would be no compromise in this and she exulted at the knowledge of it. Her tears, he knew, were not just from the pain but from the underlying joy that comes from fulfillment.

Roland let her express her gratitude for a good solid minute, basking in his own sense of fulfillment that came with having a naked female he owned grovel her submission before him, before grabbing his water skein and sitting down in his chair. He motioned her to kneel in front of him, which she did, knees spread wide, hands behind her back. He observed her while she got her crying under control, taking a couple of swigs from his water skein. She also needed a few minutes to come down from the sexual charge the whipping had infused her with. When she finally got her crying reduced to the occasional sniffle and was nearly back to breathing normally again he leaned forward and held out the nozzle of the water skein to her. He nodded slightly to let her know it was okay.
With obvious appreciation in her eyes, she took a long draught from the skein. Whipping a woman usually involved a large amount of crying as well as a fair amount of sweating, at least. That meant water loss. It was simply good slave maintenance to replenish what was lost. “Thank you, Master,” she said when she had swallowed the life giving liquid. “Please, Master,” she responded when Roland asked if she would like some more and she thanked him again afterwards as he set the skein aside. This small kindness was also good slave maintenance in the psychological as well as physical sense. It demonstrated to the slave that her master cared about her well being.

Roland could see the change in her. The fear she had felt earlier about what kind of master he would be, and had felt so accusatory to Roland, was greatly diminished. She wasn't absolutely sure yet – more time was needed – but she was clearly much relieved. Roland recalled pondering earlier about what gave some slave girls, and not others, the confidence needed to be pleasing slaves and not nervous wrecks. Much, no doubt, depended upon a girl’s personality but he was now convinced that it was the master himself who was the critical element. If she knew that her master would be harsh with his punishments but not ruthless, demanding upon her while still caring about her well being, then she knew that she need only fear her master’s displeasure – and not her master himself. Slave girls may be all about submission and service but they, like every living creature, had a survival instinct. How could they devote themselves to pleasing their master if worry over their survival constantly gnawed at them?

I’m getting philosophical, thought Roland who then recalled the words of the Magistrate and thought that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all. I should read more, he thought, there is so much to learn. Although he could read, Roland had never been one to pursue books simply for the sake of reading. Now he wondered if he shouldn't change that. If I become as wealthy as Lord Cecil thinks I can, I could build my own library. He imagined himself, years from now, sitting on the deck of a nice house, sipping some fine wine while perusing some volume of philosophy or natural science, Allison curled up at his feet. It was a pleasant image and he allowed himself to enjoy this vision for a moment . . . until he realized he was being stupid. The future could wait. He had a more than pleasant vision kneeling right in front of him, here in the present.

Roland stood, stretched a moment (his sore muscles had already been getting stiff) and then started building a fire in the circle of stones in front of the tree. He could have ordered Allison to do it (a country gal should know how, after all, he reasoned) but for some reason he couldn't quite explain it just felt like a job he should do. He had all the materials he needed at hand. First some dry grass, then some small twigs on top of that followed by some larger sticks and a couple more, larger still, all stacked in a crude pyramid. He retrieved his flint stones from his tent and needed only a couple of strikes to send some sparks to smoldering in the dry grass. A little breath encouraged the first flames to leap up and in a few minutes the fire was ready for its first log. Soon he would have a proper bed of coals for cooking – if there was anything to cook.

“Put your sandals on,” Roland told Allison as he girded his sword again. She obeyed much more quickly than he thought she would be able to. She was no doubt still stinging mightily from the whipping but like a good slave she was ignoring the pain in order to please her master. Indeed, the pain served as a reminder of the consequences of not being pleasing. “Heel,” said Roland as he started walking away.

“Yes, Master,” she replied, her voice still sounding a little weepy as she followed.

♦ ♦ ♦

Yes! The first trap held a rabbit. It appeared almost comatose as it obeyed an instinct to stay still and hope that the large creatures nearby would not notice its’ predicament. Another instinct kicked in as soon as Roland lifted up small wooden cage and the rabbit tried to bolt away but Roland was too quick for it (he had learned the first time how fast the small furry creatures could be) and snagged it by the scruff. Lifting the helpless creature up by the ears Roland mercifully put a quick end to the animal’s fears with a twist of its head, snapping its’ neck. Its feet kicked futilely in the air a few times and then were still. Roland looked at Allison, wondering how she would take this brutal necessity but she seemed entirely non-pulsed. Of course, Roland remembered, she’s a farm girl . . . a country gal. He handed the dead animal to his slave to carry.

Roland led the way to the next trap which had also been successful. He held the animal up, which unlike the first one was protesting its’ treatment with loud, high pitched squeals, and was about to kill it when he decided to hold the struggling rabbit out to Allison. She set the dead rabbit down, took the live one from her master and, with nary a flinch, snapped its’ neck, abruptly ending its’ terrified protests. A country gal indeed.

Roland decided to check his caches and so led his slave girl on a ten minute walk north across the meadow to the edge of a large forest. Buddy was nearby as well. The horse always seemed a little nervous whenever Roland ventured into the forest. He would hang near the edge and wait for Roland to return. With its fresh canopy of leaves the forest was a dark, almost gloomy place. On an overcast day it would be gloomy, but on this bright day just enough speckled sunlight penetrated to turn the gloom into a kaleidoscope of dancing spots of diffuse, slanted rays of late afternoon light. Already he could sense the approaching night which would give the forest a dark, ominous, feel that spoke of danger but, strangely, not of malice.

Roland felt like he was stepping into another world as he made his way around the large trees, crunching years’ worth of leaves and twigs that carpeted the forest floor, and pass moss covered rocks. People often spoke of the silence of the forest but Roland understood now that they meant the silence of human activity. When you weren't distracted, he had come to learn, by the noise of one’s own thoughts, a great cacophony of sounds could be heard. The creaking of the branches and the fluttering of leaves in the gentle breeze was a backdrop to the flittering of insects, the scurrying of small animals, the fluttering of birds and even the subtle slither of a snake.

The forest had a pungent smell of damp wood, lush greenery and even an under-layer of dusty animal fur that Roland never-the-less found agreeable. The first time he had entered a forest, shortly after being inducted into the militia, the tangy aroma kept trying to trigger a memory that insisted on staying just out of reach. It had felt, strangely, like coming home after a long absence.

He followed the few inconspicuous notches he had carved into some trees to his food cache. He took note of some of the trees as he did so… which one to use on the first shelter, which one to season, which one to use for firewood… but at the same time rejected some simply because they were too close to one he would chop down. Roland had every intention of using this forest’s (his forest’s!) resources but he had no intention of clear cutting it. In a way that he couldn't really explain, it just seemed sacrilegious. There was something barren and sad about the stump field next to Harold’s stand. Roland didn't want to see that on his land.

The cache wasn't too far in the forest, perhaps a hundred yards or so, and was marked by some sticks stuck into the ground that would likely be overlooked if you didn't know to look for them. Buried here in a wooden crate wrapped in canvas that was tied tightly around it were the dried beef and even dryer biscuits that served as his emergency food supply. Each of the militiamen were issued about (depending on one’s appetite) two weeks worth (well, less now if he had to feed Allison on them) when they were discharged. Roland was glad that he had not yet needed to break the simple field rations out. The dried beef was tough and chewy (and didn't taste at all what beef should taste like in his opinion) and the biscuits were rock hard. The militiamen called them teeth breakers and the only way to eat them was to soak them in water first, after which they became a bland mush. He certainly didn't need them tonight and since there was no sign of any animal digging around the buried cache, no sign of any disturbance at all, he continued on his way to his next store.

About three hundred yards east of his food cache a very large, very old and much rotted, oak tree had toppled over. Years of winds had blown the detritus of the forest into and onto its’ drooping branches creating what looked like a cross between a bramble and a lean-to. It was underneath this, concealment aided by some branches Roland had added, that he had hidden his tools. His ax and hatchet, along with a mallet, were back at his tent but here he stored the other tools of his trade: saws of various types, a set of drills, awls and carving knives, the necessary blade sharpeners, as well as a sledge hammer, another (larger) mallet and a hammer.

He had no nails as of yet but he really didn't need them just now – they were horribly expensive and he knew how to notch and peg anyway, which felt like more honest woodworking to Roland anyhow. The tools were also covered by a tarp, held down by heavy rocks, and showed no sign of disturbance, much to Roland’s relief. These tools, he knew, were essential not only to his survival but to his prosperity. But it was more than that. The tools had come dear, eating up a good portion of his reward from King Malcolm, but they were his tools – the tools of his craft. He had never been able to afford his own tools before and in some ways, owning his own set of wood working tools felt better than owning all this land and even owning the luscious looking slave girl that knelt quietly nearby. People could now use words like “landowner” and “slave owner” and even “hero of the line” to describe Roland but they would only describe what he was. “Wood worker” and “carpenter” were the words Roland used when he thought about who he was. He was glad their first shelter would soon be built – he’d relax a little more once he could move his tools into the security of a solid home. He supposed he should move them to his campsite now but, although Roland was pacing himself, savoring his moments, he still wanted to move things along.

Another two hundred yards to the east was the last item. The tarp covered plow rested next to a tree and Roland had only used a few branches to cover it. The plow was big and very heavy so he wasn't too worried about anyone carrying it off. It had been quite the struggle for him and Marcus to bring it here. He uncovered the sturdy wood and iron contraption and wondered again if it had not been premature to buy one so soon. He’d never even seen one before and couldn't even be sure if it was a good plow or not. But I might have an informed opinion right here, he thought. “Allison,” he said in that commanding tone of a free man to a slave that was already second nature to him.

Allison lifted her head but kept her eyes downcast. “Master?”

“I presume you are familiar with plows, yes?”

A quick nervous licking of the lips was followed by “Yes, Master.”

“Come here and take a look at this one.” The slave girl sprang to her feet and, still carrying the two dead rabbits, approached the plow and cast her eyes this way and that over it.

“It looks like a good plow, Master.”

“Do not equivocate with me,” Roland said sternly, “I want to know if I have a good plow or not.”

“Forgive me, Master.” Roland could hear the genuine concern and self recrimination in her voice. It was not even an hour since she was whipped and already she was brushing up against displeasing her master. She set the rabbits down and started running her hands over the plow, feeling the grain of its wood, pressing against the handles to see how strong they were and pulling on the hitching rings to see how sturdy they were. She ran her fingers over the metal rivets that held the contraption together and even bent over to examine the plow blade itself providing a nice visual for Roland that did much to assuage his annoyance at her equivocation though, truth be told, every movement of the curvy naked woman that he owned was a visual treat.

Allison straightened up and stepped back a few paces, with head bowed, eyes lowered, and hands lightly clasped in front of her she said, “it is a very good plow, Master. Solidly built. You should get many years of use from it, Master.”

Roland breathed a slight sigh of relief but there was still one more question to be answered. “And how much would a plow like this sell for?”

“Ten to twelve silver, Master.”

Roland’s mood immediately became foul again. “Damn him! All the gods and spirits damn him to the deepest, foulest pit of the underworld!” If a plow like this would sell for twelve silver then the most out here, Roland figured, that it should sell for would be sixteen, if one accepted Robert’s premise of prices being a third higher. Roland had paid twenty. One fifth of his reward from King Malcolm! He had been taken. “If I ever see that son of cheap street slut again . . . ” Roland need to release this influx of anger so he punched the tree nearest him, adding a new pain to the many aches that still assaulted him but he paid that no heed. It felt good. Allison, he noted, had immediately knelt when he started yelling, obvious fright in her movements, and Roland was surprised to discover that he felt vaguely guilty about that. Some of her fears may have been diminished but she still wasn't certain about her new master.

Roland was still content to let her learn about her master as only time and experience would allow but he found that her fear had diminished his own anger. He recalled the words of the Magistrate: ‘. . . your great strength is that you are a thinker . . . your great weakness is that you do not yet realize this about yourself.’ Roland sighed and let the anger go. There was too much to look forward to this evening for him to dwell on it and let it ruin it for him. “Well,” he said more to his self than to Allison, “what’s done is done. At least I’ll get good use out of it when the time comes . . . but if I ever do come across that greedy bastard again . . .” The rays of sunshine that managed to penetrate the canopy were now quite slanted and composed of a golden, diffuse, light. It was time to go back and start the great evening he had planned.

Roland motioned Allison to follow him but when she stood up he suddenly heard a loud series of cracks above and behind him. His every instinct alert, he recognized the noise as several smaller branches bending and breaking and knew instantly that someone was jumping down from a tree right behind him. A startled Allison let of a yip of fear and, like she had at the stable, immediately darted away to scrunch herself up against a tree. A part of Roland noted with approval that she had taken the two dead rabbits with her but most of him was focused on identifying and dealing with this new threat.

To bring himself out of range of any weapon, Roland lurched himself forward just as he heard the thud of two feet landing behind him. Roland leaped and twisted himself around as he drew his sword, in a rather graceful display of masculine poise. Some bastard wants to steal her! His sword drawn, crouched in an attack stance, Roland confronted . . . a hysterically laughing . . .

“MARCUS!” Marcus was almost bent over from mirth, an I-got-you-good expression of merriment on his face. “You dumbass,” Roland shouted, very much aware that he sounded like Robert, “you trying to get yourself gutted?” Marcus took no notice of the admonition but continued to laugh while leaning against the tree he had jumped out of for support. “What’re you doing up in a tree anyway?” Roland sheathed his sword as he said it. “Is there a boar nearby?” That took a little of the hilarity out of the other man. “You’re never going to live that one down, my friend, and if you’re going to hide in trees on people you’re just setting yourself up.”

“It was worth it,” said Marcus, his voice still had a laughing tilt to it. “I just wished I could have seen your face. As for the boar, well, when you have one of them monstrosities charge you, then you can criticize me.” He grinned. Roland returned the grin and the two friends shook hands.
“How long were you up there?” Roland saw that Allison was again kneeling a properly respectful distance, the dead rabbits next to her, making herself available to be commanded but docilely waiting while free men conversed.

“Not long. I figured you might’ve come by to check on it,” said Marcus, looking at the plow. Me and Henry are going to switch shifts every two hours. I’ve about an hour before Henry relieves me at his camp.”

“Seen anything worth worrying about?”

“Naw, Things look pretty calm. Most of the guys who didn’t get themselves a slave availed themselves of the rentals. Everyone seems pretty relaxed and settling down for the evening.”

“You probably don’t need to patrol. If you guys don’t want to . . . ”

“Naw, nope, we said we’d do it and we will. Once there are more slave girls, once every man is happy with what’s available to him, then I think we can relax a little. Until then it’s just prudent to keep our guard up. I don’t mind. Henry doesn’t mind. You go ahead and enjoy you’re evening.” Marcus didn’t even attempt to hide the lusty grin on his face as he pointedly looked at the naked, collared, and well striped female kneeling nearby. “Besides, you’ll make it up to me tomorrow.”

“That I will,” replied Roland with all the warmth for his friend he could infuse into it. There was a strange thing about Marcus, a personality quirk that Roland could never quite understand. When in a group of people he was quiet, almost withdrawn, but one on one with somebody he could be quite animated.

“Hey,” said Marcus, giving Roland an affectionate thump on his arm, “I heard ‘bout what happened at the stable. I’m sorry I wasn’t there man.” He actually sounded a little embarrassed.

“You had no way of knowing. Besides, it wasn’t that big a deal, barely more than a scuffle. It worked out alright in the end.”

“Yeah, I heard. I would have loved to seen that too. I heard about what the Magistrate did.”

“Who told you?”

“Larry.”


“Who?”

“You know, Larry. He was in that Company right next to us on the line. The guy who bought the first slave girl . . . Larry.”

Roland laughed. “Is that his name?”

“Yeah, I think so. It might be Harry. Why?”

“It doesn't matter. Hey, we’re going to be very busy tomorrow. Are you sure you and Henry will get enough sleep tonight?”

“Don’t worry about us, I was wondering the same thing about you.” He chuckled as he pointedly looked at Allison again.

“Yeah,” said Roland with a good-natured grin as he let his eyes rove over his new slave girl, “we might all be a little sleepy tomorrow. I guess we’ll just have to trudge through the best we can and make sure we get a good night’s sleep tomorrow night.” After a few seconds he added, “Would you like a suck off right now? Might make the night a little easier.”

Roland could see that his friend was sorely tempted but Marcus shook his head. “Naw, I don’t want to relax tonight and it will make tomorrow all the sweeter.”
“Well, she will be. She’ll be very pleasing for all my friends . . . won’t you Allison?” He raised his voice slightly for the last.

“Yes, Master,” came the kneeling slave’s reply. Her voice held equal portions of confidence and promise with just a dash of concern. Still feeling the pain of the whipping, she had no doubt of the consequences if she was not pleasing.

“I should get going,” said Marcus. The two men made their goodbyes, punctuated with a few friendly arm slaps and then Roland watched as his friend faded away into the woods, heading west. He stood in front of Allison.

“But tonight you’re going to be very pleasing for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master.” Her voice sounded the same as before but with a generous helping of hope thrown into the mix. She wanted, so very much, to be pleasing to her owner.

“As for your equivocating, I have decided to forgive you.”

Thank you, Master!” She made no pretence of hiding her relief.

“This time,” Roland sternly added.

“Yes, Master,” was her properly chastised reply. Roland noticed that in addition to the rabbits next to her, the girl had somehow managed to pick a number of long green stems which lay in a pile next to the rabbits. Roland gave her a questioning look. “Chives, Master,” she replied. “They’ll go good with the rabbit.” She licked her lips. “I promise.”

Roland smiled. She did have a certain boldness to her that he couldn’t help but admire. “We shall see,” he said as he turned to leave. Allison, two dead rabbits in one hand, chives in the other, followed. There was that same sensation of stepping between two worlds when they emerged from the forest back into the meadow where everything seemed to have a golden glow in the rays of the sinking sun. It would not be long before the warming orb would sink behind the hills, casting long shadows of those hills. Twilight came early in hill country and lingered, curiously leaving a bright sky over a darkened landscape before the sun finally dropped below the hills, bringing night on quite abruptly.

Buddy, who had been waiting a couple of hundred yards to the east, caught sight of them. He made a neighing protest as he bounded over, as if to say, hey, no fair, you tricked me! The horse gave Roland another affectionate nuzzle and then, being the friendly horse that he was, gave Allison a couple of sniffs before giving her a nuzzle as well – much the slave girl’s delight. Roland continued to lead the way back to his tent and fire while Allison followed and Buddy cavorted in large circles around them.

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 11
RE: Roland and Allison - 7/12/2014 6:35:02 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Roland & Allison.

Chapter Eight: Evening.


It was quite the enjoyable show for Roland, watching her work. When they arrived back at his tent he checked his fire, stoking it with a stick before adding a couple of small logs. He removed his weapons, sat down in his chair and had his slave remove his boots. Then he stood up and removed his clothing before sitting back down again. After the day he had so far, he no longer cared if his bare ass crack fouled up his folded blanket serving as a cushion. Besides, he had a slave to wash it now. Washing was the first task Roland set his slave to. “You’ll find the soap by that sapling next to the bank,” he pointed and then leaned back to enjoy while she took his soiled and blood stained clothes to the creek where she soaked them, soaped them up, beat them against some rocks (he would have to get a proper scrubbing board for her to use, he noted to himself), rinsed them out and then repeated the process. After she had thoroughly rung them out she hung them from the branches of the tree, placing them close enough to the fire to dry without risking them getting scorched. The blood stains could not be removed, he knew, but she had done an excellent job otherwise.

He next set her to preparing his dinner. He set the bread and cheese out to let her know that they were to be included in the repast and providing no other direction except to point where his hunting knife and hatchet and a few other items were. Roland was new to gutting and skinning animals, though he was picking it up quickly, so it was fascinating to watch her in addition to simply enjoying her beauty. She worked quickly, not in a panicky haste that could cause mistakes, but with a concentrated attention as she chopped off the heads of each rabbit with the hatchet and then sliced them open to remove the innards. The heads and innards she buried using her master’s field spade that he had once used to dig fortifications (with large animals nearly everything can be put to one use or another but the innards of rabbits were neither very appetizing nor useful).

After a quick wash of her hands in the creek, she made some more deft slices and then pulled the skins off. These she set aside. She checked the fire; it was a nice bed of glowing coals now. She adjusted a couple of the rocks around the fire and then searched out a couple of sticks which she sharpened at one end and used to skewer the rabbits. Next she chopped up the chives she had plucked, set a portion aside, and stuffed the rest into the cavities of the furless slabs of meat and bone. She set them on the fire, arranging them so that they were a few inches above the coals.

She turned her attention next to the skins. Using some more sharpened sticks, she stretched the skins out on the ground and then started scraping with the hunting knife. The skins were quite small and Roland wasn’t sure what use they would be. He doubted they could be sold. “What good are those?” Roland asked.

Allison looked up, not the least bit startled. As attentive as she’d been on her tasks, she was equally attentive to him. “They could be made into mittens or boot warmers, Master, or line a hat.” Roland noticed that she had come down a notch or two in arousal, her tasks keeping her mind occupied. Roland’s own arousal had been wavering up and down – his manhood giving blatant testimony to his state at any given moment – as he’d been watching her.
“You can sew?” He had forgotten that she had mentioned it earlier.

“Yes, Master,” she replied as she continued scrapping. “It’s not like I’m a seamstress or anything but I can patch and I could stitch together a pair of pants or a shirt.”

He could still hear the nervousness in her voice, a residual fear that she might oversell her ability, but overall Roland could see that she was much calmer now. Having something to do, a service to perform for her master, made her less nervous. “I guess I have to add sewing kit to the list of things I need to buy.” Roland smiled. Any concerns about mounting costs were driven away by the latest discovery of her talents. He may have paid a high price for her – his aches and pains still gave testimony to that – but he was beginning to believe that he had truly acquired a treasure here.

She continued scraping the skins, occasionally checking on, and turning, the roasting rabbits while the sun began dipping below the hills, beginning to create that bright sky/shadowed landscape effect that the native flatlander Roland still wasn’t quite used to yet but found to be just one more aspect of his new home’s unique beauties. It was so beautiful here. She was so beautiful. Buddy was standing nearby (he always hung near the fire when the sun went down). All I need to complete this picture is a dog, he thought. Yes . . . I’ll have to get myself a dog . . . but what kind of dog? It’ll have to be a good hunting dog but also a good guard dog . . . the kind of dog that will sound a warning to any danger . . . yes . . . I’ll need a good dog . . . one that barks when there’s danger . . . yes . . . one that barks . . .

The dog was barking. At first he ignored it as he continued to relax by the fireplace, enjoying his wine and looking through a new book he’d recently acquired; Allison, naked, knelt by his side. But the dog continued barking, sounding louder, more agitated. He closed the book with annoyance and set it on the end table. He stood, stretched, and exited his library. He passed by the kitchen where Allison, naked and in chains, scrubbed the kitchen floor. He stepped out onto the spacious deck of his home. It was a beautiful day of bright sunshine that fell upon the flower gardens in his front yard; Allison, dressed in her slave smock and kerchief, knelt in one of the flowerbeds, plucking up weeds. Off to his left, in the distance, he could hear the playful shouting of his children. The gleeful shouts were growing more distant and that bothered him but not as much as the dog’s barking. Where was the dog? He couldn’t see the dog and its’ barks were growing more distant too. Allison, naked and carrying a bundle of clothes to be washed, passed in front of him. The dog – he could barely hear it now – was somewhere to the north. There was a dark cloud in the north, roiling with flashes of lightning. He could no longer hear the dog but somehow he knew that it and Allison and his children and Buddy and all his friends and anyone he ever cared about, were behind him. The dark cloud was coming closer which was strange because he could feel no wind and the winds usually came from the west anyway. He felt a pleasant tickling at his feet. His looked down and saw that he was barefoot. The dark cloud was approaching; he could feel a wind now, cold, coming with the cloud. I should keep an eye on that cloud, he thought, but the pleasant sensation at his feet absorbed his attention. He felt an odd sense of dislocation. He was standing and sitting at the same time. No . . . he was sitting . . . he was sitting and Allison . . .

. . . Allison, naked, knelt before him, kissing his feet. Roland lurched forward a little as he woke. Allison stopped kissing his feet and scooted back. She knelt in the standard position except that she placed her right hand upon her forehead, fingers together, palm facing out. It was the signal of a slave girl who wished to speak. It was always a bold thing for a slave girl to do. Woe be to the slave who interrupts the doings and thoughts of free men with trivial matters. Roland, still a little surprised to find that he had nodded off, nodded assent.

“Your dinner is ready, Master,” she said as she returned her arm behind her back, where it belonged. Roland looked around. The sky was still brighter, in the west at least, than the landscape but both sky and land were a little darker than they had been. He hadn’t been out too long, he realized, twenty minutes, thirty at the most. He straightened up, vaguely remembering a dream, something about a dog and wind and . . . well it didn't matter. There was much more interesting things to see here in the waking world.

His collared female knelt docilely before him. On the table next to him she had cleared a space and the plate from his mess kit lay upon it with one of the rabbits (the other rested on the rocks ringing the fire) a slab of the cheese and a chunk of the bread. Next to that was his tin cup, filled with water and his hunting knife which was as clean as when she started using it. Roland couldn't help but grin . . . it was good to be a man who owned a woman.

He looked her over closely. She appeared placid at first glance but the barest of trembles revealed her anxiousness. When she had finished preparing his meal she had been confronted with a decision to make. Should she wake her master and risk his displeasure at having been stirred from a pleasant slumber? Or should she let him sleep, trying to keep his meal hot and fresh (not knowing how long he would sleep), and risk his displeasure at having a late meal? She had no choice but to make a choice and now that she had made it, she could only wait upon the result.

Roland kept his eye on her as he picked up the plate, holding it in front of him. The raw chives she had reserved were now sprinkled on the rabbit and around the cheese, a kind of ad hoc garnish. A wealthy noble in a fancy restaurant might chuckle at such an attempt to dress up such a simple, obviously low class meal but it made Roland feel like he was the king himself. He saw that Allison, in that always subtle yet profound manner, had relaxed a little – it appeared to her she had made the right choice in waking her master – but she had another test to pass. She had made a promise, after all. It was amazing how she could watch him so intently without looking directly at him.

Roland took a deep long sniff of the meal in front of him. The aroma of the cooked rabbit, which his mind had already come to associate with blandness was present but the chives, both cooked and raw, overlaid that with their piquant bouquet. The cheese and even the bread added their unique aromas to the mix. It was a pleasant smelling meal and it stirred his hunger. He plucked some meat off of the rabbit, gathering up a few of the chives with it and plopped it into his mouth. He chewed, slowly, with deliberation (his loose tooth pained him a little, but only a little), contemplating what his tongue reported to him. The chives did indeed add a tangy kick to what would otherwise be boring rabbit. “Mmmm,” was his response as he swallowed. Allison, he noted, squirmed just a little in reaction – a squirm of pleasure and growing relief. Roland broke off a piece of cheese, gathered up another piece of meat and some chives and sampled that. Again he took his time in sampling the flavors. The cheese was quite good. It had a sharp flavor that went well with the chives and the rabbit meat, he discovered, was not so bland after all. He swallowed again with another “mmmm,” and then said, “Very good.”

There was little that could be called subtle in the slave girl’s reaction. She smiled broadly as another squirm of pleasure shot through her. “Thank you, Master,” she said with obvious relish. Master was pleased.

Roland enjoyed his meal, tossing the rabbit bones into the fire. That was another thing about rabbits he didn't care for – they seemed to be more bones than meat. Soon he was starting in on the second rabbit. He drained his cup twice which his slave dutifully refilled. He found himself becoming full after only a few bites into the second. Roland held a piece of meat out to Allison. Her pleasure was again obvious as she took it in her mouth. “Thank you, Master,” she said. After a bite of bread for himself, he fed her a piece of that too. “Thank you, Master,” she said again.

“It is not necessary to thank me every time,” he told her as he held out a piece of cheese for her.

“Yes, Master,” she replied just before she accepted the cheese from him. Slowly, enjoying it for all it was worth, Roland continued to feed her while he finished his own repast. It pleased him to see her deriving such enjoyment from it. She enjoyed it, he knew, simply because her hunger was being sated. She enjoyed it because it represented a step up from the way he had fed her earlier, a clear signal that she was in her master’s favor. She enjoyed it because it was another sure sign that her master would take good care of her. Mostly though, he understood, she enjoyed it simply because she was a woman who was owned by a man.

Roland wasn't even entirely sure at first if he heard it but, even though it was barely audible, it went on for about a minute. Its’ source was somewhere to the south but he could not pinpoint its’ location – sound had a way of bouncing off of the hills. Although barely received, his brain could distinguish enough differences in tone and timbre to recognize that it was male. Roland had no idea who it could be but he presumed it was one of the buyers at the auction. Must be a damned a good slave ya got there, fella, he chuckled to himself as he helped himself to another bite of bread.

When the meal was finished Roland allowed his slave to quench her thirst from the water skein after taking a long draught himself. He stretched a few minutes (his sore muscles having stiffened somewhat again from inactivity) and added a couple of logs to the fire while Allison cleaned the plate and refilled the skein at the creek. When she returned to kneel before him again he felt a strong urge to take her right then and there. She remained strongly aroused herself and the scent of her arousal had been working its’ enchantment upon Roland for some time. Roland looked around. In the west it remained fairly bright even though the sun had finally retreated behind the hills. The east was darker but a pale luminosity ringed the furthest hills, the vanguard of a full moon that would soon begin its’ course across the sky. It would still be a while before night began in earnest and Roland wanted to wait for the night. He had plans. He fought down the urge and reposed himself in his chair again. He chose to wait. Allison, however strong her own urges, had no choice. She would wait as well.

Roland picked up the bottle of medicinal spirits with the single swig left in it and decided to meet the Healer’s advice half way. He swished it around his mouth (it didn't hurt nearly as bad as before) and then swallowed rather than spit it out. He tossed the bottle under the table (Allison could rinse it out later – it might come in useful) while the warmth spread down his gullet. He gently prodded the loose tooth with his tongue. Was it a little less loose than before or was it simply wishful thinking on his part? Oh well, time would tell. It still hurt though and prodding it had produced some sharp pains which did dampen his need quite a bit. That wouldn't do either.

“Pack me a bowl of mellow weed.”

“Yes, Master,” was the slave girl’s inevitable reply as she rose to obey her owner’s command. Roland was pleased to see that the first thing she did was lay the end of a stick in the fire – another sign of intelligence and forethought that was now in his service. She presented the stuffed bowl and the stick with its now glowing tip to her owner. Roland took a long drag, held it, exhaled and spent an increasingly relaxed moment assessing the strength of this particular batch he had bought. He took two more long drags before setting the bowl aside and tossing the stick near but not into the fire. He considered for a moment letting Allison have a drag or two – it was not unusual to allow such an indulgence to a pleasing and favored slave in such moments – but decided against it. It was another privilege she would have to earn with more than a few mere hours of pleasing behavior.

For several minutes he enjoyed looking at his naked kneeling female while the friendly spirits in the mellow weed worked their magic upon him, relaxing him and soothing his pains. Allison, to his mild surprise, again signaled that she wished to speak. “Yes?”

“Should I continue with the skins, Master?”

Had he not been feeling so mellow at the moment, Roland might have felt a little embarrassment at not having thought of that; but he had no idea how long it took to properly prepare skins and he was feeling quite mellow so he simply nodded his assent. Allison did not, as Roland had expected, pick up the hunting knife again but instead took ashes from the fire and began rubbing them into the rabbit skins. Roland scratched at his chin. He needed a shave. “Have you ever shaved a man?”

Allison, on her hands and knees, paused in her work. “No, Master.” She hung her head a little, ashamed at this deficiency though Roland saw no reason for it. She had only been a slave for three years and it was not a skill likely to be taught to tavern slaves. He was touched at her palpable disappointment that she was unable to perform the intimate, sensual and, for obvious reasons, very trusting service for her master. He realized with a start that he had already been extremely trusting – he had slept while she had access to a knife, a hatchet and even a sword and dagger. It had simply not occurred to him that she couldn't be trusted. There were occasionally incidents with male slaves but Roland had never heard of a case of a female slave attacking her master, much less killing him. The penalty, as one might imagine, was too terrible to even contemplate but beyond that, a well mastered female would no more want to harm her master than she would want to chop off her own feet. The notion went entirely against her own self interest as well as her desires. It went against her nature. The notion that he couldn't trust her had not occurred to him simply because he had seen what kind of woman she was right from the start.

“Well,” he said as Allison resumed her work, “we’ll just have to find someone who can teach you. Ellen has been a slave all her life, there’s a good chance that she knows.”

“I will strive to learn quickly, Master,” responded the slave, her mood immediately improving again at the thought that she would soon have another way in which to please the man who owned her.

“Not too quickly,” chuckled Roland. “I’d much rather have you learn properly. I got nicked enough when I learned how to shave myself.”

“Yes, Master,” she smiled. Roland smiled too. It made him happy to see her happy. Roland suddenly found himself intensely curious about this lovely creature he owned. He wanted to know everything about her. That would take time, he knew. And perhaps, in a sense, he could never know everything about her. It was strange but women, particularly enslaved women, were in one sense, very simple creatures and easy to understand. Yet at the same time there were startlingly complex – depths within depths, layers of mystery over layers of riddle bound together by paradox. They were wild beasts that found fulfillment in being tamed and they were beauteous angels that found liberation in being enslaved. Perhaps he might never fully know her, but that wouldn't be too bad. The marvelous joys of exploring her would be a never ending journey.

“You’re father is deceased,” he said, restating a fact she had told him earlier, “but what of the rest of your family? Your lips are open.” The last was a common phrase that meant she could speak freely. It would hold until he told her that her lips were ‘closed,’ when she again could speak only to acknowledge commands, answer questions or when granted permission after having given the proper signal. Roland wanted her open right now. He wanted her to relax. He wanted to see the woman underneath the slave.

Her mother, it turned out was also passed on, a victim of the same outbreak of plague that had taken Roland’s mother. There was a sadness in her voice, a sadness that Roland knew all too well. He felt a deep welling of sympathy for her. She had lost both parents whereas Roland had lost only one even though he was not on the best of terms with his father. Perhaps I should try to change that, thought Roland. There were no brothers but she had a sister, two years older, that had also been reduced at the same time as Allison. She did not know what had become of her sister. Roland could hear the concern over that as well, a more immediate and active concern. She may have missed her parents terribly but they were in the spirit world now, their fates known to her. The fate of the sister was unknown.

“Is she as pretty as you?”

Allison looked up again. “She’s prettier, Master.”

“I seriously doubt that . . . but if she is even half as pretty as you, I’m sure she found her way to a good master.”

Allison smiled at both the compliment and the kind reassurance. “Thank you, Master.” He continued to question her and discovered that she knew how to play the flute. She hadn't played for three years, another skill that the tavern owner was not interested in, but she assured her master that she could pick it up again quickly and Roland had another thing to look forward too. I wonder if I could carve a flute? He thought, I've never tried anything like that.
The noise from the south was back again, a little higher and a little louder than before, recognizably female. It lasted several minutes. Yup, thought Roland, she’s a good one. But stay awake, fella, you ain't heard nothing yet.

“Does Master have any salt?”

“Huh? No. What for?”

“It’s good for drying out the skins, but I can make use of the fire.” Although her arousal was still evident she was much more relaxed and as Roland continued his probing questions she even began to smile and laugh a little when he had her tell him some amusing stories from her childhood and he, in turn, related a few of his own. She found his first taste of slave elixir particularly amusing and he found her smile and her laugh delightful.

It was starting to get dark now. The last of the sun’s brightness was far to the west and the first of the full moon’s pale light could be seen in the east. The first stars were out. In the distance, here and there he could see the faint flickering glows of other campfires. One he thought might be Robert’s. A more distant one, he was certain, was Oliver’s.

While they talked, Allison repositioned the rabbit skins, jamming some sharp sticks into the ground so that they were now stretched out upright in front of the fire. They were interrupted again when the hills one more came alive with the music of female ecstasy. It still had that low distant quality as the previous times but this one was the closest the loudest yet. It came from the distant flickering glow that Roland was certain marked Oliver’s fire. He was more certain than ever now as he listened to the cries of female passion rise and fall over the span of several minutes. Although distorted by distance there was a recognizable quality to them. He didn’t know how he knew, just that he did.

He looked at Allison. Her own expression was one of recognition, and empathy bordering on communion with a hint of amusement. She knew as well as he (most likely, he had to grant, even better) what they were hearing. They were cries not just of the passion and ecstasy of female surrender, but of the startling revelations that come when they are experienced for the first time. They were the cries of a transformation from one thing into another, the cries of a death and a birth. There had once been a rather innocent and naïve young woman named Clair who had done something foolish and had been enslaved. She was gone now. In her place was a slave girl named Miranda. All right Oliver, thought Roland.

“She’s still going to need a lot of training,” said Roland.

“She will learn quickly, Master. I will see to it.” Allison had finished with the skins for the night and went to the creek, after asking permission of course, to wash her hands again while Roland added some more wood to the fire. Just a little while longer, he thought as he took another drag of mellow herb. He retrieved his whetstone from his tent and sharpened his hunting knife while continuing his discourse with his kneeling slave. He recalled thinking about a dog before he dozed off (he had dreamt about a dog, hadn’t he?) and asked her opinion on the matter. She recommended a shorthair pointer. He found out that turquoise was her favorite color because she had heard that the ocean was turquoise and she had never seen the ocean and always wanted to.

He was interested to learn that she had spent a good portion of her youth tending chickens. I could build a chicken coop no problem, he thought. Fresh eggs and fried chicken and . . . “Do you know how to make chicken and biscuits?”

“Yes, Master.”

“The kind with the creamy sauce? I don’t like the kind with the runny oily sauce?”

“Yes, Master.”

“It’s my favorite meal,” Roland said with a hint of challenge in his voice, “I look forward to the day I can try your chicken and biscuits.”

“Master will be pleased.”

“Is that a promise?”

She hesitated only the barest fraction of a second before responding,” yes, Master.”

“I can see the day coming when we go into town and you show me what you’ll need for a proper kitchen.”

“Yes, Master.” She was nervous again, Roland could see, now that she didn’t have a task to perform for her master. Kneeling as she was, displaying her beauty to the scrutinizing eyes of her master was also having an effect – her arousal was clearly on the increase again.

It was fully dark now. The moon was now halfway above the hills and looming large as it often seemed to do when low to the horizon. Its’ soft light was not enough to banish the dark but it was enough to cast a glowing illumination upon the landscape. It was bright enough to blot out the closest stars but could not hope to outshine them all. It was a little cooler but not in the least unpleasantly so. The wind had died a little but had enough strength left to gently stir the fresh grown leaves and make dancing little eddies in the smoke and sparks of the fire.

The hills were bouncing again with the sounds of rapture but where they came from, or even if they were male or female in origin, Roland didn’t know. He didn’t know because he didn’t care. He paid no attention to them. It was time. It had never fully left his mind since he had first imagined it while interviewing her at the display posts. It had been prickling at him like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Only now it could be. It was time.

Roland set his knife and whetstone aside. He stood, stretched and flexed a little, repositioned his chair slightly and then took another drag of mellow herb before sitting back down. “Your lips are closed,” he said, meaning that she could no longer speak freely.

“Yes, Master,” she said, properly acknowledging the command. Roland looked at her intently. She appeared almost a glowing specter in the fire light. Her forehead, cheeks, nose and chin were highlighted in yellow radiance against a flickering orange backdrop. Her breasts, round and firm, rising and falling slowly from her long slow breaths and jiggling lightly from nervous anticipation, were also bathed in yellow while her belly performed its’ roused undulations in the flickering orange. The yellow light bounced off the top of her upper legs but the knees and inner thighs glowed with the orange. The orange turned to amber and then to shadow at the joining of her legs. He could barely see the outline of that magnificent slit, that cave of delights that promised such pleasure and, of its’ own accord, seemed to beckon him . . . calling to him not with words but with primal feelings it pulled up from his own mind. Calling him to take it, possess it, penetrate it, conquer it, own it. He would. But the marvelous whole that it was still just a mere part of was going to entertain . . . enflame . . . his senses first. It was time.

“Stand,” he snapped at his slave.

“Yes, Master,” She cried out with unabashed enthusiasm as she obeyed, standing with legs slightly apart, hands behind her back and head bowed.

She is so damned perceptive, he thought. She knows exactly what’s coming next. Roland did not disappoint her. “Dance!”

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 12
RE: Roland and Allison - 7/13/2014 4:58:18 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Roland & Allison.

Chapter Nine: Nightfall.

Some slave girls might have hesitated, confused because there was no music. A few of the bolder one’s (or perhaps dumber, depending upon one’s point of view) might have inquired about it. If there was any hesitation on Allison’s part, Roland saw no sign of it. She started with a slow graceful pirouette. As she turned she pulled her arms in and bent her knees until she was squatting and covering her head with her arms, turning herself into a tight ball . . . or, rather, a seed.

Roland recognized the dance immediately. It was the Dance of the First Life, one of the free form dances. It represented the growth of the very first life, the Great Tree of Life, created by the elder god Yassa. It was said to still grow to this very day although no one seems to know exactly where it is (it is always said to be somewhere to the east). Curled up as she was now, Allison represented the very first seed. She did not move.

While all the slave dances have certain conventions, there is still much room for personal interpretation and in this dance, this moment was a major one. How long should the seed wait for the life giving rain that will cause it to open up? How long should the slave girl make her audience wait? A popular dancer with a large (and often very dedicated) following might wait a minute or two or even longer, building up the anticipation of the spectators. Roland knew of a few slave girls who had waited twenty minutes or a half an hour or more. They were of such beauty that they were considered to be worth the wait (but Allison, in Roland’s already unassailable opinion, was far more beautiful that they were).

Roland doubted that Allison would have the nerve to make him wait that long but she was obviously not going to let herself go cheaply. It had been at least a minute. Roland found himself wanting to lean forward in his chair but he forced himself to remain relaxed, or rather, relaxed looking. She faced away from him and her curved, bare, back – small, feminine, well marked by his whip yet still radiating vitality – was beautiful in the sparkling firelight. Another minute went by. Roland was already beginning to feel a little impatient but he had no intention of hurrying her along. In a way it was a contest of wills between them – how long dare she make him wait? Would he have the patience and the fortitude that men of his society (and the slave girls they owned) esteemed as masculine virtues? How long would he wait before he felt that such virtues had been satisfied and he exercised his uncontested right to command her? And would it satisfy her notions of those same virtues?

Roland understood that he was being tested again. Damn, she is bold! He understood the message. She was telling him that she esteemed herself a valuable slave; that she was worth the wait. This did not anger Roland at all. It pleased him. It was further confirmation of what he already knew: She had that little bit of backbone; that little bit of spice that he, and many men, felt that a slave girl needed. To be a truly valuable slave, a pleasure for her master to own and command, she had to believe herself a valuable slave. This one did. Buddy looked on curiously for a moment and then decided to call it a day. He ambled off a dozen yards or so and settled himself down in the tall grass for the night.

High self esteem or no, Allison was not about to go out on too far of a limb this first night with a new master who, though she had learned much about him already, was still largely an unknown. Roland judge it to be about three and a half, maybe four minutes gone by when her arms slowly began to rise, her fingers slowly spreading out and then waggling gently as she brought them back down. The first rain was falling upon the first seed and when that rain hit that seed . . . it burst open.

In a blur of motion she rolled onto her back and her limbs sprang out as she arched her back. She paused briefly and then slowly began to lift herself up, extending her arms as she did so. The very first tree was growing, spreading its branches. Her left leg became a third branch as she extended herself on her right leg, gradually standing on her toes. The Dance of the First Life (once it is started) is not a long dance nor is it a very complicated one, but it is one of the more difficult ones. It is also one of the more graceful ones. Roland could see both in Allison as her shapely muscles, particularly of her right leg quivered but held the demanding position.

This moment was another test for her. How long could she hold the position, allowing her master to drink in her beauty? A truly dedicated slave will endure the discomfort, the gradually increasing pain, to demonstrate her devotion. Roland waited. He could see the strain on her face as the trembling of her leg increased and spread upward. Even the best of slave dancers had difficulty holding the position for more than a minute (though Roland had heard of one dancer who could hold it for seven minutes - he was a little skeptical of that).

She began to bite at her lower lip and blink rapidly. It had been at least a minute; she was putting all of her effort into it. Roland was suitably impressed. He began to become a little anxious. The last thing he needed right now was a slave girl with a sprained ankle. He shifted in his seat a little, a subtle movement that none-the-less conveyed his worry. Allison, with a look of relief, brought her left leg down and immediately segued into her next dance.

It started with a simple stance and a tapping of her right foot before a series of spins that ended abruptly in the Obeisance position, which she held for a few seconds before leaping up and spinning again. She stopped suddenly again, bending over backwards in an arch, positioned so that he could see the full curve of her beauty. It was one of the Display Dances. Although all slave dances are beautiful simply because they are danced by females, Display Dances are designed to show off the splendor of the female form. There are many different tunes written for Display Dances and she was obviously listening to one in her head as Roland soon found himself picking up the beat and listening to one in his own head. He wondered if it was the same tune. Her arms and legs would move gracefully, her belly undulate alluringly, her breasts jiggle and bounce enticingly, as she would spin and turn and then break to hold a position before whirling again. Spin, whirl, twirl, break, hold . . . Spin, roll, pirouette, twirl, twirl, break, hold . . . Roland’s eyes moved this way and that way, keeping up with her, anticipating her next move.

The dance lasted some ten minutes, ending with Allison in the Display Position. For half a minute she caught her breath and then her head started to bob up and down in a new beat. This was a faster beat and Roland found himself keeping a tune to it in his head again. This dance was more foot movements, and arm action and hip thrusts than spins and twirls. A free form dance that had no purpose other than to simply enjoy movement for movement’s sake – an answer to some ancient call for a body to simply celebrate its’ own existence. She had excellent rhythm and Roland’s own body could not resist its’ own answer to that ancient call. It began with his clapping in time to her movements. Soon his left foot was tapping along with the beat too. For five minutes he kept time with her, occasionally calling out a lustful “Yeah!” to her moves. Each of her movements was a feast of beauty that his eyes consumed greedily . . . but it was not enough to satisfy that ancient call.

He might not even have been aware how quickly, almost violently, he had stood up if she had not bolted back several feet in surprise. She stood there, legs apart, knees slightly bent and arms half raised, her breathing pronounced and with an expression of surprise and desperate longing combined with a questioning look. Was this to be the moment of her taking?

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” said Roland, his voice so husky and low that it was almost a grunt. For a flicker of an instant Roland saw disappointment, frustration, longing, and admiration, all jumbled together in her face. Then she picked up the dance immediately again. Roland’s left foot was stomping to the beat in his head, the beat her movements had put there, and he followed her with his head as she moved around him. When his neck could turn no further he twisted his body around into his own dance.

It was a foot stomping, hip thrusting, fist pumping dance and the pains left over from the fight did not detract from it but actually added to his enjoyment. Every pain melded with a pleasure he felt throughout but was concentrated - and bobbing pronouncedly - in front of him. Together the pleasure/pain and the quick, aggressive, movements were both reminder and celebration of the simple but intense joy of just being.

Buddy, roused from his slumber, looked over with an expression that said: what the hell is this shit? With an annoyed - one might even say grumpy - movement he got up, ambled away another dozen yards and settled down again.

Roland had barely noticed. Each foot stomp and fist jab was accompanied by an animalistic, grunting, “uh!” The input of his senses seemed amplified. He looked at the ground at his feet, the tree and the fire, the woman, the star splashed sky with its full moon looking down on them and found all of them equally beautiful. It combined with the gurgling melody of the creek, the crackling of the fire, the sighing of the leaves in the breeze and the humming song of crickets and strumming bass of frogs. It mingled with the pungent smells of the grass and burnt wood, the lingering aromas of his meal, his own musky scent and her intoxicating fragrance. It all melded into one glorious whole that he instinctively knew he was privileged to have been born into.

He had earned the right to continue to be part of it, he knew, and his mind flashed upon the recent battle. His nostrils flared in remembrance of the smell of sweat, steal and blood and he could practically hear the clangs of sword and shield, the shouts and cries of men. He remembered the terror he experienced but did not feel it anew. He had passed through the terror and survived. He had triumphed over terror, just one of many enemies he had triumphed over that day. A flash of memory – a ducking avoidance of an enemy’s sword, a plunging of his own sword into an enemy’s chest – punctuated every one of his movements as he danced a slow circle around the fire like a planet around a sun - and Allison was his moon, dancing her own orbit around him.

She was a both a subsumed part of the beautiful totality and a singular shining independent quantity that drew his focus more and more. His memories flashed to when he first saw her on the chain and desired her with a fierceness he had never felt for any other woman before. He recalled interviewing her at the display stake, and waiting with increasing impatience at the auction block. He recalled the growing despair of loosing her and his anger at the interfering Earl but, like the terror before, he did not feel them because he had moved past them. He had triumphed over them. He had triumphed over the Earl, not with fists and clever moves but with his own will alone. He sped up (she along with him) as he recalled the savage pleasure he had felt when she had knelt before him and serviced him and knew that it had been a mere foretaste of what was to come. He recalled the profound contentment he felt as she licked his fingers clean and this he did feel again but only for a brief flash as he also recalled, and felt anew, the excitement of the bitch slap and the pride that accompanied watching her defeat Robert’s slave.

Roland lifted his head and let out a barking laugh as he realized a certain irony in that his slave had fought her opponent much better than Roland had fought his - and that he felt no shame in it because he had still won her. She was now his. Her triumphs were now his triumphs as well.

Roland sped up some more, Allison still keeping pace, and his movements became more pronounced, his exclamations became louder as his mind flashed through the fight at the stable, not dwelling longer than a few seconds as he felt contempt for the stable owner again, before leaping ahead to the whipping that confirmed his absolute ownership of her to both of them. She had knelt before him and gratefully kissed his booted feet! She was elated to know that she was owned and dominated by him, and that she would continue to be so. She would feel completed by him and this made Roland feel complete - almost. This union of opposites, of two halves into a harmonious whole, still need to be consummated. A consummation that would confirm his conquest and her surrender and reward them both.

The dance continued but Roland’s attention was now totally focused on Allison. No longer did he dwell on the battle or the auction or the cowardly stable owner. Now she, and she alone, held his concentration. He watched her flushed, sweat glistened body sparkling in the firelight; watched its stunning lines and curves, as it continued to move around him. The beat that each one carried in their head (Roland could practically hear the thrumming music) had brought them into sync with each other. He turned, she turned - but always they faced each other. She was now the embodiment of the beauty around him, all the past fears and doubts vanquished, all the triumphs in battles of brawn and wit . . . and to make it complete . . .

Allison cried out in both fear and desire when Roland abruptly stopped and grabbed her by the upper arms, pulling her violently toward him. He looked down at her and she looked squarely back at him. Under any other circumstances this bold breach of slave etiquette would be worth at least a slapping, and possibly a whipping. In these circumstances instinct ruled and it was simply understood that she was not only permitted, but required to look upon him so he could drink in the beauty of her aroused face. So he could read the desire in her eyes and lips. So that she could see his desire to own and master her and his savage pleasure, born of his triumphs, that she was now his. It was required so that he could tighten his grip on her arms, lean in and . . .

“Kiss” is far too inadequate a word to describe the rough, passionate, manner in which he sampled the sweet taste of her lips. With his tongue he penetrated and explored, savoring the wet heat of her mouth. Her knees seemed to loose strength so that his tight grip alone held her up as she returned his ministration with an eagerness that was both ardent and accommodating at the same time in a foreshadow of the full yielding that was yet to come - the hors d'oeuvre before the feast. How long it lasted, neither could be sure. It ended when Roland felt a shudder pass through her. Her submission to his oral assault sent a charge through him that made his already stiff manhood more so. He broke off and looked down at her again. Not entirely certain that he would be able speak coherently, Roland said: “You do not have permission to yield.” How readable she was. It was all there: the desire, the longing, the intense need, the awe, the frustration and the consternation that she might not be able to obey

“Yes, Master,” she responded in a voice that was as much a husky grunt as Roland’s. It carried with it an undertone of determination to meet and pass the challenge. She let out a gasp that was more satisfaction than surprise as Roland spun here around and roughly pushed her forward.

“Use!” No sooner than he said it than she dropped to her knees, which may not have been able to support her anyway, and fell forward to lean on her arms, spreading her legs wide. Once again that delectable looking pussy, wet and quivering, beckoned him. For a moment he just stared at it, taking satisfaction in the knowledge that it belonged to him. There was still a part of him that was surprised at his good fortune. He walked slowly around her, marveling once again that she was his.

Standing to the side of her he got down on one knee and took his time feeling the curves of her, the firmness of her nipples the heat of her belly. He deliberately avoided the exposed cleft between her legs as he felt the muscular firmness of her legs and caressed the creamy softness of her thighs, making her gasp out little “oohs’” and “ahhs’” and little squirms and wiggles that would have been more pronounced had she not be exerting all her effort to remain still.
Roland leaned in close to her neck and inhaled deeply, taking in her sweaty aroma that was somehow both sweet and musky at the same time. Along with it came a deep, more arousing musk and Roland stood up to position himself behind its origin. Slowly he dropped to his knees and again inhaled deeply. He leaned in closer and his attention was briefly held by her tight, pink sphincter. He fingered it for a moment, caressing it in a circular motion, watching as it tightened and loosened in response and bringing louder and lower gasps from her. This too promised many delights but that would be for another night. It wasn't the hole he was really interested in it at the moment.

Roland withdrew his finger and got down on his hands and knees. He pressed his nose right into her moist fold and inhaled so deeply that he almost snorted her juices. Her whole body was vibrating and Roland’s vibrated with it as her perfume coursed through him, intoxicating him as no spirit of drink or herb ever could. He once again felt like he was going to split open and his balls felt heavy and overlarge.

With a savage bolt forward Roland grabbed at her breasts, squeezing hard, and pulled himself forward. A violent movement of his hips plunged him into her. Allison was propelled forward with a squeal as her face was pushed into the ground while her heated walls engulfed him. For a few seconds Roland didn’t move but just leaned forward, pushing into her, squashing her cheek into the ground, her hair splayed around her. He shifted a little, moved his hands to her hips and shifted her a little. Having found his comfortable balance he began his thrusts . . . slow and steady at first, letting himself feel every inch of his rod being caressed by the smooth, wet, hotness of her. After a couple of thrusts he felt her tighten around him. He leaned back a little, gave her a slap on the ass and, although it may have been unintelligible, grunted out, “oh . . . good girl!”

He felt himself climbing higher and focused on holding back, making it last. Like a stone wall against a battering ram he held, knowing that the battering ram would win eventually, but that he would be the better rewarded the longer he held out. Roland continued to pick up speed, a grunting “uhh” accompanying each forward thrust that brought him slapping into her ass. Her own verbal emissions we’re in synch with his and he could hear her own extortions to stave off the explosion of pleasure. He master had commanded it.

Roland was under no restrictions but his own and when it felt like it had been long enough to satisfy that notion of self mastery that men feel in regard to staying power (how long it actually was Roland neither knew or cared) he increased his tempo as fast as he could manage. All of the recollected thoughts he had during the dance passed through him again but at a dizzying speed. They repeated themselves and like an endless loop they kept going by, each time ending, as he slammed into her, with the one all consuming, glorious fact: she’s mine!

He leaned back, looking up at the starry sky, the moon looking back at him. He was now more pulling and pushing her as much as he was thrusting and he began to feel that curious separation that marked the emergence of the wary watcher but a thought bolted through his head like lightning: I have friends watching out for me! It was followed by: I am respected around here! I do not have to fear! The wary watcher protested . . . there was much to fear, such as wild animals or a knave with no scruples. Roland decided that the risks were low. For the first time he would abandon the wary watcher, abandon those last vestiges of restraint and caution and give himself over completely. He had earned it.

With that, the wary watcher was vanquished and subsumed by the primal animal. Roland’s whole body stretched out, every tendon straining, every muscle taut. There were several cracks and pops from his joints, particularly the ones that had suffered the most in his contest with the Earl. He felt no pain but only the incredible, wonderful, pressure as he rammed into her a final time, eliciting a shriek of pain, pleasure and delight from Allison as his effort drove her harder into the ground. The wall gave way.

It was both familiar and new the way the release of pressure sent waves of ecstasy pouring up his throbbing manhood straight into his brain and from there careening back down his spine and to every extremity. It was all feeling, there was no rational thought but only instinct alone and that instinct felt itself attached to everything. The fire, the grass, the wind, the trees, the horse, the bats fluttering in the distance, the bright moon, the distant stars and the woman . . . he was part of it all. He knew by feeling, rather than thought, that he was a mote in the vastness of it all, a mote that appears for a brief instance and then is gone. Yet he was here! In this place, in this time, he was here and nothing could ever change that! As he arched his back and threw back his head, he let the cosmos know with a roar at the top of lungs. Let that which would take note do so.

To hell with the rest.

♦ ♦ ♦


Several times he seemed to be just starting to find himself again when a new wave of pleasure shot through him. For brief glimpses he was aware of who he was and his surroundings only to find himself overwhelmed by another jolt of bliss that would shoot through him, constricting and relaxing his muscles. Like a greedy child with a bag of candy, he immersed himself into it over and over. Gradually the jolts of pleasure diminished and the periods of a more rational awareness increased. He was a little surprised to find that he had already gone limp - the orgasms had continued well after he had shot his load and his pecker had decided that it had played its part. In a rather un-climatic way he flopped out of Allison as he pulled back, breathing hard. The soothing contentment of after washed over him as he lay back, looking up at the night sky while his breathing gradually returned to normal.

Gratification reigned within him as he again imbibed the sights and sounds of his surroundings, luxuriating in it all. Amongst the sounds that he began to pay attention to were frustrated little grunts and cries from his slave girl, still in the Use position but squirming quite a bit. He laughed a little as he rose slightly to look upon her. It was still a delightful new feeling of wonder to think, yet again, that she was his slave girl. He was pleased to see that his slave girl had obeyed her master. She was obviously in a high pitched state of arousal. It could not have been easy for her but she had held out. Good. He just as well not have to discipline her and he was very much looking forward to enjoying her moment yielding. She would have the moment before long. It was obvious that she was too far along to really come down again. To leave her denied would be to leave her barely able to sleep which would soon leave her barely able to concentrate. Men might control when a slave girl is allowed to immerse herself in her passions to serve but there were limits . . . at least, there were if they wanted slave girls who could carry out their labors efficiently.

Allison was going to wait a while longer, though, as Roland lay back down and spent several minutes, maybe it was ten or maybe it was twenty, gazing upon the starry expanse and simply enjoying his current place in it. When he rose he did so slowly, took up his water skein and helped himself to a long draught. He saw that some of his spend, mixed with her own flowing juices, had coated her thighs and was dripping onto the ground. Laughing, he squirted the skein at her pussy and laughed even harder when she when she bucked her hips and went “Ooooo!”

Roland set the water skein aside, added a couple of logs to the fire and then returned to his chair. “Over here,” he said, “kneel.” She scampered over and knelt in front of him. What a beauty she was. Her disheveled state, desperate need and the frustrated longing on her face, made her even more beautiful. She was so piteous looking in her need and Roland knew that she was not faking it at all. There was no need to fake it. Roland knew slave girls well enough to know that for most of them, their greatest desire, their most ardent fantasy, is to be owned by one man of strength and character and indomitable will that they could joyfully call Master . . . and for whom they would be slave enough. Add to that the fact that this country gal was now out of the city and back in the country she knew so well and no doubt loved and add to that her victory in the bitch slap and it was easy to see that this was a day of triumphs for her as well. Her whole body was aching to celebrate those triumphs with the same release of energy and emotion that Roland had just experienced.

He contemplated for a moment tying her up in some manner. There were so many ways to bind and restrict a slave girl that were not only deliciously attractive to their masters but which churned the girl’s submissive juices as well. It was a great delight to watch them struggle against their bonds, especially when they finally let go, but there was also delight in watching them flail away, loosing all control. There would be many nights, he decided, to enjoy the innumerable variations, tonight he wanted to see her unbridled.

He motioned her to him and had her lay herself across his lap, face up, her feet barley touching the ground, her back arched, her hands brushing against the grass while her hair splayed about. Although he had not planned it she was positioned to look directly at the moon and it seemed to focus her attention but Roland brought her attention back by plunging three fingers into her pussy. She gasped and lifted up a little to look. Her expression was one of such sincere appreciation that Roland laughed some more. Then with a mischievous grin he withdrew his fingers and began to caress her thighs. There was a little squeak of disappointment followed by a rattling moan of pleasure.

Roland took his time, exploring her, enjoying the feel of her heated skin. He laid a palm above her heart for a moment, amazed at how strongly he could feel it and how quickly it beat. He spent some time with her breasts alternating between squeezing them and caressing them. Although his manhood was still napping, he got a subtle yet deep pleasure from it all the same. It was a pleasure not so much sexual but simply tactile… flesh enjoying the company of flesh. It was deeply sexual for Allison though, her state such that every touch brought quivers and squeals or squirms and moans. Her legs would kick while her head bobbed around and swished back and forth yet she mostly seemed to keep her gaze upon the moon. Occasionally, she would lift her head a little, watching, as best she could, the ministrations of his hands or glancing at his face, looking for that moment when he would relent. Her mouth would gape open and close as if words were right there at the tip of her tongue but were being held back with great effort.

He dipped three fingers into her pussy again, coating them with her juices and some of his own spend as well he was sure. When she looked up again he wiped his fingers under her nose with a quick stroke across her upper lip. He wanted her to get a good whiff of her own arousal and its results. Her whole body started quaking and she grimaced as if in pain before looking at her pussy as if it was something both astounding and perplexing and perhaps even a little bit terrifying. This was followed by the most pleading look Roland had ever seen is a slave girl yet. He ran a finger up her slit and paused right on her clit, pressing in just a little. She flung her head back again with a yelp, staring at the moon and for a few seconds she stilled in anticipation but when no new ministration came she looked up again and broke her own record for most pleading look. A low “uhhhhhh,” came out of her and then her lips continued to move in silence, agitated by their prohibition on forming words.

“You would like to speak.” It was a statement, not a question, but still she shook her head in the affirmative vigorously… desperately. Roland chuckled and then said: “your lips are open.” She was more coherent in her speech than Roland had expected her to be.

“PLEEEEEEASE, MASTER! MAY I YEILD? PLEEEASE?”

“Not yet,” he returned as he applied more pressure to her clit and rubbed it in a circular motion. She was too busy flinging her head back again to demonstrate either disappointment or frustration. Instead she balled her fists and brought them up to her temples, closing her eyes and grimacing tightly again.
“Please, Master,” she managed to squeeze out between tightly clenched lips.

“Not yet,” Roland said sternly. She whimpered as her body started to shake again. “You love being a slave girl, don’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, Master!”

“Did you enjoy your slavery at the tavern?”

This seemed to catch her off guard. Her shuddering stilled again as she looked up in surprise. Roland understood why. This was one of those moments when the required honesty might be problematic. The life of a tavern girl was a difficult one, and in many ways an unfulfilling one but no slave wanted to speak ill of any free person, much less a former owner. It went deeper than that however. How, she must be wondering, would Master react if he thought she too easily submitted to what had no doubt been a great many men over the last three years? That any declarations of obedience and loyalty and joy of serving might be tainted by the fact that she would scream out such assertions to any man who aroused her and which, Master already knew, was likely to be any man that desired her?

Allison opened her mouth to speak but stopped short, looking worried for a second. Perhaps, Roland suspected, she was catching herself before she tried to please her master every which way by equivocating. She had been warned about that once already. It was something that she might have gotten away with occasionally with drunken patrons but, even with her aroused state addling her thoughts she could see that it would be a very bad idea right now. “I enjoyed it, Master, but I wanted more.”

Roland was still rubbing her clit and while he pondered her answer she hung her head back again but only long enough to let out a grunt of frustration as her body refused to cooperate and stop feeling while she dealt with this situation with her master. She forced herself to look up, anxious that her answer satisfied. Roland stopped his attentions to her clit and traced a finger around her belly button which seemed to increase her anxiety. She held her breath and the look of apprehension upon her face as she flicked her eyes between his face and the navel circling finger (taking its absence from her clit as an ominous sign) reminded him of yet again of Miranda’s comical expressions.

“Hmmm.” Roland bit softly at his lower lip, looking thoughtful. It was, he decided, an acceptable answer. She confessed herself to be what she was but admitted that she was not really content. Roland looked down at her belly button, still idly circling it with his finger, as if scrutinizing it. “You submitted eagerly to all of your master’s clients who paid for your use?”

“Yes, Master.” She sounded miserable. Surely master would understand that she could not help herself and even if she could she would never have been allowed to… she was a slave, what choice did she have?

“Yet you were not truly happy there?”

“No, Master . . . uhh!” She needed to concentrate so she shook her head violently, as if trying to throw off the demanding feeling of pressure that needed to burst out . . . that needed him to return his attention to her engorged clit.

“And why was that?” His voice was soft and calm, with just a hint of playfulness.

Again she seemed to catch herself before saying something wrong and then replied, “I want to belong to only one man! I want to serve him and him alone!” She gulped in some breath and then hastily added: “Master!”

“And now you do.”

“Yes! Yes! Please, Master! I can’t endure much longer!”

Yes, I can see that,” Roland replied, with feigned nonchalance. He stopped tracing around her navel and began lightly tugging at the hairs of her patch. He almost laughed to see the look of hope followed by disenchantment. She had thought for an instant that he was finally going to finish her off. “Yet,” he continued, “I need reassurance. I mean, you have told me that you will be . . . want to be . . . a pleasing slave.” He paused a few seconds to examine a hair that had come loose, as if it were a curiosity, before tossing it aside and returning his attention to the ones still firmly attached. They were so soft yet made a pleasant crinkling sound as he played with them.

“I do, Master! I do want to be a pleasing slave for you!”

“Yes. Yes,” said Roland as if annoyed, “but how can I be sure that you weren’t just telling me what you thought I wanted to hear? That you were not just motivated to have the whipping end?”

“Master, I . . . ”

“Of course,” Roland cut her off, “I can’t be sure now that you’re just not seeking leave to yield… trying to buy me off with pretty promises.”

She looked unsure how to answer. A few deep breaths and then she looked ready to speak again but nothing came out except a moan of frustration accompanied by a desperate look of pleading for understanding. How could she assure him? What more could she say? Her muscles were quivering quite rapidly now, her legs in particular and her hips made a slow bucking motion which seemed to travel like a wave up her back and to her neck. Women were such sinuous creatures . . . delightfully sinuous.

Roland moved his hand back to her pussy, hot, wet and sloppy, and roughly flicked her engorged clit, which was managing to rise above her equally engorged lips. She gave out a yelp that was equal parts pain, pleasure, and deepening frustrations. “Well?” Roland, put just a hint of impatience into his tone.
She picked up on it. Again she seemed to grope for words for a few seconds and then a look of determination came over her. “Mmm… My…” She took a deep, calming breath. ”My promise is real, Master.” Another deep breath. “It is up to Master to enforce it.” Mixed in with the desire upon her sex flushed face was an obvious worry that she might have crossed a line but also a hint of challenge.

Roland threw back his head and laughed in elation. She was so damned intelligent… and so damn bold. She was indeed going to be something of a challenge to own and master, but that would make the mastering of her all the sweeter. It was time, Roland decided, to show his slave some mercy and grant her that release that would rejoice in her submission . . . almost time.

She had become so squirmy that he found himself having to wrap an arm around her waist, to prevent her from sliding off him. Pushing on her legs and pulling on her arm he twisted her around so that she no longer lay across his lap but now leaned back against him, her legs splayed in front of him, her head resting against the crook of his shoulder. Her arms didn't seemed to know where to go and flailed around, almost hitting his head a couple of times before she forced them to remain relatively still above her head, as if they were grasping for some unknown object above her. Roland kept one arm firmly around her waist to keep her from sliding down – her legs were too jittery and her knees too weak to provide any support.

“Not yet,” Roland said as he returned his attention to her burgeoning clit. He pressed on it, made a slow circling motion. Her face scrunched up in effort and concentration while a moan, of both pitiful need and delicious mounting pleasure leaked out of her. After a minute she gasped in a breath and continued, putting all of her effort to holding back the explosion. “Not yet,” Roland repeated as he increased both pressure and speed.

He could hear a long drawn out pleeeeeaaaaassseeee vibrating at the bottom of her moan. She wasn't going to last much longer. She would soon reach a point where she would be unable to help herself despite her master’s command. That would be unfortunate. He would be obligated to punish her for disobedience and she would be deeply disappointed in herself… which could affect her confidence in herself and thus affect her overall performance as a slave. Timing was crucial. The longer she held out the deeper and more intense would be her response. A good master, so Roland had come to learn by example and experience, wanted a pleasing slave to get the maximum out of the experience, delighted in it… but always wanted to push her boundaries, to see just how deep she could go.

Allison made another gasping intake of breath. “Just a little longer,” said Roland with a forced casual manner and a bit of a chuckle. The pitiful, frustrated moan with its vibrating please grew louder. “So, said Roland, as if an entirely new idea had just struck him, “are you going to be an obedient slave?”
“YES, MASTER!” she barked out loudly before resuming her scrunched up look of concentration, this time nodding her head vigorously.

“Annnnnnnnd… are you going to strive to be a pleasing slave?”

“YEEEEEESSSSS!” She gasped for breath. “MASTER!” This was followed by a growl of sheer exasperation on the part of his slave girl, and an angry look that said: What? Are you stupid? I said YES! Get on with it already, damnit! Roland was not the least bit offended or angered. In other circumstances, yes . . . but in this situation he found it quite amusing and supremely gratifying. She was loosing what little bit of composure she had left and it was entirely due to him . . . to his immediate ministrations he applied to her womanhood, to his having fought to own her, to his having demonstrated his resolve by means of the whip, to his simply being a man who had demonstrated his willingness to keep her well and master her well. He increased his pace to an almost frantic tempo. “You love being a slave, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” she managed to blurt out in response as she scrunched up even more. Her legs lifted up so that her knees came up to her chest to meet with her balled fists while her head shook back and forth crazily. Roland’s one arm alone held her against him and kept her from falling while his other seemed to have disappeared into a quivering mass of Allison flesh . . . but he still had his fingers firmly on her love button.

You’re going to love being my slave aren’t you?”

She was kicking her legs frantically now and making a sustained “eeeeee” sound but still managed to produce a plaintive yet angry sounding, “Yessssss, Massssster!” This was followed by a rapid staccato of “IloveitIloveitIloveitIloveitIloveit…” There was a stark undertone of pleading in her voice but Roland could also hear that she was talking more to herself than to him. She was using every ounce of her will to stave off the impending explosion and every one of Roland’s senses told him that her time was up. It was time to be merciful.

“Yield,” Roland said.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was as if she had been struck by a bolt of lightning. Her back arched to such a degree that Roland feared for a second that it might actually snap. He only had a second because he had to dart his head to the side to avoid getting hit by her left arm which, like its companion, shot up and out to its tendon straining limit, her hands splayed open. Her legs shot out and became rigid too while her neck arched to a degree that looked nearly as dangerous as her back. Her head craned over his shoulder where, having risen some more, the moon cast its’ pale luminosity into her wide open eyes. From her throat there erupted a sustained “YAAAAAAA!”

Keeping his grip on her tight, Roland kept up his spirited handling of her clit. Take that, everybody, he thought as he listened to her own bark at the universe reverberate off the hills. Her shout ended abruptly with a quick deep breath and then she went into her first frenzy. Her head shook violently while her arms and legs flailed about and her hips did a bucking dance. It lasted for over a minute and had Roland not been attending to her clit she might have subsided after two or three more bolts of pleasure but Roland had no intention of letting her go that easy.

She arched and stiffened again, letting out another long yowl which was followed by another frenzy of movement. Roland did not relent as she continued to pass from one orgasm to another. Along with quick gasping breaths in between, she would look up at him as though he were a god in his own right and she found his existence unbelievable and incomprehensible, or at the moon as if it were a commiserating companion. Sometimes she looked down at her pussy with wonder and consternation… as if she couldn't decide whether it was her best friend or her worst enemy for what it was putting her through at the moment. Yet always there was another explosion close behind.

Roland silently admonished himself for not keeping count. It was something of a game and a competition amongst men in the taverns and Roland wanted to know just how many times, and for how long, she could peak for he had every intention of pushing on that boundary in the future. It didn't really matter tonight, though. He already knew that she had gone longer and deeper than any slave girl he had ever seen. His hand was getting quite tired actually, but he had no intention of stopping just yet. He intended to take from her all that she could give… and give to her all that she could take.

Her peaks were coming further apart and were gradually lessening in intensity. In the still too brief respites that came in between she began to mutter: “Uh. Oh yeah. Gods! Oh Gods and Spirits! Ohhhh . . . ” Her voice would increase by several octaves as the muttering turned into a shrill shriek when the next earthquake rumbled through her.

Although he had seen it before it was quite extraordinary to Roland none-the-less… the intensity and duration of the female slave orgasm. The male orgasm, even with its waves of indescribable pleasure, its peaks of glorious obliteration, still paled in comparison to the response of the female slave. It was said to be a gift from Crassus to his creation, a reward for her submission. Even as he marveled at it he was dubious that he’d ever want to experience it. It was almost frightening to imagine it. He did not want that much power having a hold upon him. Yes… he was quite certain that it was better to have been born male and to rule than be born female and be ruled. Yet, looking at her now he could understand why slave girls probably disagreed with that notion.

“Please, Master,” she suddenly shouted with a begging look on her face. “I . . . I ca . . . I can’t ta . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . it . . . it’s . . . too much!” She was slowing down considerably now, near drained of energy but near drained wasn't good enough as far as Roland was concerned. He continued. She moaned as she scrunched up her face again. It was a moan of despair and joy. The pleasure was so intense as to be unendurable, but it was pleasure and it would be endured, and part of her was grateful for it beyond the capacity of words to describe.

Three more times Roland got her to peak before he finally showed her mercy. There was nothing left in her to take anyway. All of her quivering and squirming had stopped and she felt like wet clay against him. For a moment he just held her and listened to her labored breathing. Only her head moved, slowly, back and forth with her eyes closed while, between breaths, she would murmur. “Oh . . . oh thank you . . . thank you Master . . . oh . . . oh yeah . . . oh thank you thank you thank you . . . oh yeah . . . thank you Master.” This went on for about a minute and when, in the midst of it, she murmured, “oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” Roland threw back his head and roared with laughter.

His laughter startled her and she looked at him as if she had forgotten he was even there. With his free hand, well coated with her juices, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back. Leaning over her, he moved in to again taste her lips which again eagerly, gratefully, yielded to his own. He savored her sweetness for a time, made even sweeter by her trembling acquiescence, and then slowly he lowered her, letting her slide down him until she became a puddle at his feet. Roland leaned back in his chair and as he did so Allison found enough strength to curl around his legs like a contented kitten. She grab onto his right leg like the way a drowning person clutches at a branch and began to kiss it repeatedly. “Thank you . . . Thank you, Master,” she breathed as she switched to Roland’s left leg.

Feeling rather contented himself, a whole and complete contentment he had never quite experienced before, Roland looked upon her with bemusement. He watched as she would mew her gratitude while she kissed him; listened while she continued to utter her intention to be an excellent slave for him, her desire to be nothing else. After a few moments he leaned forward and when she looked up he held up a finger which he brought to her lips. “Shhhhhh,” he whispered but his eyes gave a sterner command that her lips were now closed. “I believe you,” he said. The smile she gave him in return near melted Roland’s heart.
Roland leaned back again while she continued to clutch at him, drawing comfort from the feel of his skin, the tautness of his muscles. With a long sigh of contentment, Roland looked up and contemplated the starry sky.

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/14/2014 7:46:31 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		To my fans (sigh . . . okay . . . to my fan):

Just one more chapter and the epilogue to go but I won't be able to get around to posting them until tomorrow, at the earliest. Life is kind of getting in the way right now.

Thanks,

Marc2b


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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/14/2014 11:08:04 PM   
Gubben


Posts: 1
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Status: offline 		No need to remove the s in fans.
It`s been the highlight of my morning the last two weeks.

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/15/2014 8:52:06 AM   
Bambi2003


Posts: 31
Joined: 11/30/2009
Status: offline 		Apologies, I was away for a few days on business - and have come back to a real treat - I do hope there is lots more coming?

I can see clearly everything you are describing, you have a very good way with words. The whole story so far is so captivating that altho I am supposed to be working, I am trapped here reading instead (and that will never do!)

Please tell your fans (xx) that there is more?

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/15/2014 11:22:30 AM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline
quote:

Apologies, I was away for a few days on business - and have come back to a real treat - I do hope there is lots more coming?

I can see clearly everything you are describing, you have a very good way with words. The whole story so far is so captivating that altho I am supposed to be working, I am trapped here reading instead (and that will never do!)

Please tell your fans (xx) that there is more?


Thanks. And that goes out to Gubben too. I am going to try to post the remainder tonight but I can't guarantee it. It actually takes time to post it because, in the process of copying and pasting, I loose all the paragraphs and italics and have to go through and do them all again. Not saying that I mind, just saying that time is a factor.

Anyway, today and/or tomorrow . . . well, my sister is moving and guess who owns the pickup truck in the family.

Yup.

I do appreciate any comments as well as any criticisms - even spelling mistakes or what have you. There is always something you miss (no matter how many times you go over it) and while I can't correct what I've posted but I can still correct the master copy.

I admit to being a little nervous that the remainder may be a bit of a let down as there is no major action. As a writing practice I always saw this more about characterization and setting scenes than following the standard story formula (rising action, climax, etc). A slice of life story as we follow this young man and woman through a significant day in their lives. I suppose you could consider it a series of climaxes (no pun intended, but I'll take it): the fight with the Earl, the bitch slap, the whipping, the dance . . .

Well, my lunch break is just about over.

One last thing before I go - a challenge to anyone with any creative juices:

I would love to see a scene or two depicted if drawing is your enjoyment or - if you are more of a wordsmith - read a scene written from Alison's point of view.

Just saying.

Until I get back . . .

Peace and prosperity to everyone.





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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/15/2014 1:50:54 PM   
Bambi2003


Posts: 31
Joined: 11/30/2009
Status: offline 		Well I shall await the next posting with baited breath... I am such a fan of big hefty fantasy tomes, that I almost cannot bear to read a single book that when you get to the end that's that - so I love things like The Belgariad, The Mallorean, LOTR, The Wheel of Time (altho when that got past about book 7 it started getting silly....)

I think that is why this story has captivated me so much - have you considered taking it much further and have them build their homestead - turning their land into a community with Robert, Marcus, Henry and Oliver? I'd love to see how the girls fare under Allisons tutelage, she has already shown she has spunk but also a soft side... I want to know how they get on with tilling the land, sowing seeds that maybe don't properly germinate, the trials of a hard winter but the promise of new growth in the new season - maybe finally getting that pumpkin pie...

But I want it to continue at this pace - rather than jumping several years at a time I want to see the story pan out slowly and with the same wonderful attention to detail that you are already putting in... a tall order I know... I'll crawl back into my corner now..

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/17/2014 5:04:13 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		Roland & Allison.

Chapter Ten: Before Midnight.

His mind no longer seemed to whir around in a confusion of feeling which, in various intensities, seemed to have gripped him since he had woken before the sun so many hours ago. Some of his decisions now seemed rather foolish and hasty but he had no regrets. It had all worked out in the end and the evidence lay at his feet in the form of the beautiful, intelligent, and passionate woman that belonged to him. She was still curled around his legs, her head resting upon his feet. She lay very still. Roland understood by intuition that she really didn’t want to call attention to herself at the moment. She was luxuriating in contentment, enjoying every moment of being a well satisfied slave girl allowed to lie at her master’s feet. She wanted as many of those moments as she could get and would take as many as her master graciously allowed.

Although his mind was possessed of a genial tranquility now, such that he might examine the night sky for hours, his body had other ideas. During the intensity of his own passions and the satisfaction that came after, he had been scarcely aware of any of the pains that were the price he paid for the female at his feet but now they began to reassert themselves. It was more of a general stiffness than actual pain but it became annoying enough that he stood to stretch. Although he knew she probably was, Allison gave of no hint of disappointment as she scooted back and knelt before him while he grunted and his joints popped and cracked.

Roland stirred up the coals of the fire, added a couple of logs, and then took a draught from his water skein before settling in his chair again to look upon the naked loveliness kneeling in front of him. She too was now possessed of a certain calmness, he could see, that stemmed not just from sexual satisfaction but a greater certainty that the man she knelt before was worthy of being called ‘Master’ in every sense of the word. A slave girl, of course, will address every free man as ‘Master,” but that doesn’t necessarily mean she actually believes it (loath, though, she would be to admit it). She had learned a great deal about him since she had first laid eyes upon him. She now knew him to be strict but not ridiculously so, harsh but not brutal - and damned good at stoking her fires. Yes, Roland could see it now. That underlying fear, the fear that had felt so accusatory to him, was gone now. Only the perfectly normal slave fear of being displeasing now remained.

Still, Roland realized, she must be intensely curious about him. She still didn’t know the full range of his personality or its quirks. She knew next to nothing of his upbringing or his life before he came here. Feeling generous, Roland first told her that she could sit to her comfort. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms resting upon them, looking very cute as she rested her chin upon her hands. Roland then opened her lips again and told her she could ask him any question. She appeared to contemplate only for a second before she spoke. “Will I be allowed to share Master’s bed at night?”

Once again she had taken him by surprise. He had been certain that her first question would be something directly about him; a query about where he was from or his age or even his middle name. Upon a brief reflection, he decided that it was not that surprising a question after all. Slave girls, he knew, loved being allowed to share their master’s bed, loved being able to snuggle up against him and lay their head upon his chest. It fulfilled some primal need that made them feel protected. It was also a sure sign of their owner’s favor and, quite possibly, love.

“Well,” he said, scratching at the five o’clock shadow on his chin, “during the hot and humid nights of summer, no.” She made no reaction to this. Such nights were an exception for slave girl’s love of sharing their master’s bed as well. They had no more desire than he to be next to a hot sweaty body on such nights. “During the winter it will pretty much be a requirement. Nothing warms a man’s bed better, after all, than a hot blooded woman.” This produced a small smile of satisfaction. On freezing winter nights, the warmth of master’s bed was eminently preferable to just a few blankets on a cold floor. “As for nights when it is optional . . . that will ultimately be up to you. A pleasing girl will be allowed. A displeasing girl will not be. As for tonight, well, I don’t think you’ve earned that privilege just yet.” Roland wasn’t entirely sure why he said the last. It would be perfectly enjoyable to have her next to him in his tent tonight. Something in him just felt that he was granting her more than enough favor at the moment and thus he felt a need to reassert that his favor had its limits.

Allison pursed her lips a little and gave a slight nod of her head, as if to say, I will be pleasing, I will earn that privilege. “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master,” is what she actually said. After a quick lick of her lips she asked her next question. “Why was Master so determined to own me?”

Roland cracked a broad grin. Most slave girls, at least this early with a new owner, would be hesitant to start probing their master’s feelings about her - but not his bold Allison. He was beginning to understand the nature of her boldness now. It would never express itself in outright challenges to his authority; it would never manifest itself in deliberate disobedience. She did not desire that nor would she ever be so stupid. Well, it would be rare for her to do so at least, thought Roland as he recalled her blatant disobedience during his contest with the Earl. He understood, though, that exceptional circumstances (its not every day that a slave girl has men fighting over who owns her) had prompted that. That was no excuse, of course but that matter was now settled. What her boldness would do, Roland understood, is take full advantage of any leeway he afforded her. He would have to carefully guard the boundaries of whatever choices he granted her because she would have no problem “grabbing” at something he had not foreseen. Roland understood that this constant testing of the boundaries would be her way of keeping him on his toes, of making sure that her master didn't go soft on her. Well, he had afforded her this opportunity and though he would have been perfectly within his rights not to answer her, to back out now would be an unpalatable retreat, an admission of a defeat, before this daring female of his. No, he would stand his ground.

“At first you were nothing more than the best looking of the bunch. But watching my obvious interest in you make you squirmy inflamed me as well. It just felt right. Discovering that useful knowledge in your head just confirmed it. Something in me just knew that you were meant to be mine. I can’t really explain it, but I wasn't going to permit any other outcome.” He leaned forward and looked directly at her. “And Gods have mercy on any man who ever tries to take you from me . . . because I won't.” As he leaned back he watched his words send a charge through her. She squirmed as another sexual jolt was ignited just at the thought of being so desired. The awareness that his desire for her aroused her sent a charge back through Roland and he felt his own manhood waking from its respite.

“Yes, Master” she said in a tone that somehow conveyed both a fear and joy of being the object of such desire. Her next question was even bolder. “Will I be allowed to bear Master’s children?”

Roland almost shook his head in amazement. He was quickly tempted to just say that he didn’t know and leave it at that. It would be an honest answer but it felt incomplete and that felt like a retreat as well. He plowed forward instead. “You might. I think you and I would be a good mix. I think we’d produce healthy and intelligent children.” She smiled at this but there was an obvious, anxious, waiting for what came after the implied ‘however.’

“However,” continued Roland, “there are advantages in taking a free woman to wife and to be the mother of my children. The disappointment and fear were obvious on her face. The fear was brought on not just by the thought of being denied the most profound of services a woman can perform for a man, but also by the thought of being under the command of a free woman, one who would naturally be jealous of any attentions her husband expended upon the slave girl. One who, though free, would still be a woman in a man’s words and would have to begrudgingly accept her husband exercising his rights over his property but would have ample opportunity to vent her fury upon the right-less animal that competed with her for her husband’s desire.

“Of course,” said Roland, scratching at his stubbly chin again, there’s no reason why I have to confine my self to breeding only one female. Time will tell, I suppose. I think this is another area where much will depend upon you. It will be a year or two or maybe three before I’ll want to have children. There is much work to be done here first.

“Yes, Master” she replied and again she managed to convey more than one meaning into it. This time her tone reassured him that she would be a hard worker and informed him that she would rise to the challenge of being worthy of nurturing his seed.

She was apparently through with her bolder probes as her next question was more conventional. She asked what his middle name was. Roland tried not to sound too sheepish when he replied, “Percival.” He had always found it to be a little, well, less than masculine. He had been teased about it, by friend and foe alike. When she smiled upon hearing his middle name Roland, for a second, thought that she found his middle name amusing too. Then he saw that it was his sheepishness over it that she found amusing.

Roland recalled how amusing she had found his story about his first (and only!) taste of slave elixir and gained a new insight about her. Any slave girl looks upon her master as an authority over her that holds the power of pleasure and pain, reward and punishment, and even life and death, which naturally makes him a larger than life figure - something more than human. In the case of many slave girls, it is the only thing they see. Allison, though, was a slave girl who saw beyond that to the fallible human being who was not without his weaknesses, flaws, anxieties, vanities, foibles and fears. This woman was possessed of an incredible power of insight, Roland realized. It made him feel exposed in a way he had never felt before. He found that he didn’t really mind it, however. Her amusement over the human behind the Master was the sort of amusement one saw in friends. It did not offend but rather gave one a sense of belonging that sprang from a sense of being liked which was, perhaps, a greater affirmation than love. It was said that love is blind and perhaps so but it occurred to Roland that friendship could see clearly. It was easy to love someone you found attractive, who stoked your fires and made you quiver in orgasmic delight; but to be liked, simply liked, required somebody who was fond of you even when being yourself meant not being what they or others thought you should be. As his slave Allison would fear his punishments, exult in his dominance, and love him for it but she also, Roland saw, already liked him as a person. Roland found that far more precious than her fears, her exultation, and her love.

The questions continued to come. There were, as he had expected, questions about his life in the city and Roland found that he liked his slave enough that he didn't mind telling her about his ill fated attempt at street robbery and his stint in the city dungeons (though he did leave out his most shameful moment, no one was ever going to know of that). There were questions about his life in the militia and she thrilled to hear his account of the Battle of the Border. She also, being quite practical, quizzed him on all of his favorite foods and what foods he didn't like.

The question and answer period came to an end when Roland rose to stretch again. He looked up and saw that the moon was nearing its zenith. He would have to get to bed soon if he didn't want to be a walking dead man the next day. He wanted to bathe first. He closed Allison’s lips and motioned her to follow him down to the creek. Buddy looked up to watch them depart and for a moment looked as if he might join them but then he apparently decided that he would rather go back to sleep.

Still burgeoning with spring runoff, the creek flowed swiftly and the moonlight dappled in streamers upon its’ dark surface. Nearly twenty yards across and chest high on Roland at it center, it gurgled along the rocks on its’ banks as it pursued its’ course toward the Kamar River. Several frogs ceased their amorous calls and jumped into the creek when Roland and Allison waded into the chilly water. Roland had thought that she might hesitate when he ordered her into the creek but was reminded that she was a country gal when she plunged right in. Or perhaps she was just being an obedient slave, or perhaps both. Either way, Roland found himself playing catch-up again as he wadded in a little faster than he had intended.

He swam around a bit to warm himself up and nodded at Allison that she could do the same. She was a very good swimmer, better than he was, he had to admit. He didn't dwell on that though for he was mesmerized once again by her beauty as she twisted and turned and bobbed in the water. Any part of her that was submerged was teasingly hid from his view by the dark water. Above the water she glowed in the pale radiance of the moonlight. The boundary between these two worlds sparkled like diamonds. Roland stood to watch this shifting, gyrating, symphony of movement in light and dark. Despite the chilliness of the water, Roland felt quite warm and part of him that had been under water rose above it.

He motioned her over to him. She had an impish grin on her face as she stood up; she knew that he had enjoyed her moonlight swim even more that she had. Standing near the bank with the water up to their ankles, Roland handed her the soap and pointed to his feet. She knelt down, giving no sign that the rocky bank gave her any discomfort, and Roland lifted his left foot first. Not slowly, but not to quickly either, she caressed his foot, massaging it with her soft fingers building up the lather. She made sure to get in between each of his toes and a couple of them cracked pleasantly under her ministration. Roland let her carry on with her humble task for a moment before he plunged his foot back into the water and lifted the other so she could repeat her performance.

He watched her intently, yet with a look of sedate curiosity as she began on his calves next, slowly working her way up, first one, then the other, kneading them, massaging them, before proceeding up his thighs. She paused for a few seconds to examine the recent scar on his leg. She looked upon it as she massaged it with a curiously sad look. Conscious of his gaze, she deliberately bypassed where his thighs came together, moving her hands around to his buttocks instead. She had lusty gleam in her eye that said she approved of their muscular tightness as she lathered them up. An impish smile was added to her expression as she ran her soapy hands up his crack. She gave her hands a quick rinse in the creek and then began lathering his back, alternating between a pleasant circular motion and the kneading massage that was even more pleasant as it relieved the stiffness that had been building in his left shoulder blade. A few groans and grunts of satisfaction escaped Roland as she worked.

Allison continued around to his chest and her expression made it evident that she approved of these muscles as well. The same held true for his biceps as she lathered up his arms. The recently healed slash marks on his arm drew them same sad look, tinged with a dash of awe, as the wound on his leg had. She took her time with his hands, examining them in unconcealed curiosity as her own hands ran over the not yet too rough calluses that his life and labors had placed upon them. There was also an awe of his hands in the way that she massaged them. They were after all, the hands that had delivered her both pain and pleasure in equal amounts.

Allison took a slow deep breath and then, with an obvious expression of trepidation, brought her hands up to his face, lightly touching it. She kept her eyes downcast. Slowly she soaped up his chin, his cheeks and when her master made no sound, she lifted herself on tip toe and lifted her eyes just a little, just enough to look upon his face without making direct eye contact. That empathetic sadness was even greater as she gently lathered Roland’s bruised countenance. So was the sense of awe. She felt a genuine distress over the pain he felt, the pain he had endured . . . and a genuine wonder that she had been found to be worth such pains. Roland cracked a small smile. He realized that what he was seeing on her face was the same sense of astonishment that he continually felt about now owning her. It sprang from exact opposite circumstance but was the same sense of completeness. For him it was: I own a woman! For her it was: I am owned by a man! For both it was a satisfaction of the soul.

Slowly, the slave girl knelt down in front of her master again, and took his testicles in her hand. She was gentle but not exactly delicate in her handling of them as she soaped them up. That same approving look was combined with a hint of a playfully wicked grin and an appreciative glisten in her eyes. Roland was quite conscious that she could right now, if she so chose, deliver a painful and debilitating blow. That was the source of the, almost, wicked grin, the appreciation was for the trust he was showing her. Roland trusted her for the same reasons he had no fear about dozing off in front of her. Still, whenever he had been thusly cleansed by a slave girl at the public baths, he was very much aware of a being in someone’s power, of being fearful of that power and yet getting a slight pleasurable charge from it. It was a taste, he knew, of what a slave girl lived with every moment of every day. Roland had no desire to live out his life immersed in that feeling but he could sense the appeal enough to understand, at least a little, how slave girls’ found their place there.

Her hands moved up a little and began to massage his manhood. The slick, soapy, feel of her hands shot waves of delight through him and he made a moan of pleasure as he closed his eyes and craned his neck back. Although his manhood was content to see this through, it did not have the violent urgency of earlier and he wanted to savor it. He cut his moan short as forced his head forward again and opened his eyes. Allison picked up on this cue and ceased her ministrations. This latest display of intelligence and instinct pleased Roland enough that he laughed as he plunged himself into the creek.

He swam a bit rinsing himself, but always keeping his eyes on the moonlit beauty, now kneeling unbidden, that he still found it a shock to realize belonged to him. He wondered how long that feeling would last. How much time would pass before the fact that he owned her was as normal and unremarkable as the fact that he owned a pair of boots. As he looked at her, a figure of exquisite beauty standing aglow in the moonlight, he laughed again. It was a silly thought. He might get used the notion that he now owned a woman but he would never get that blasé about it. Roland gave himself a final splashdown as he rose and then said: “yourself now.”

“Yes, Master,” she replied as she stood. As with him, she started with her feet, first one and then the other, balancing quite gracefully on one leg. She was quick about her feet but she slowed up some when she started on her legs . . . just slow enough to give her master the show she knew he wanted. The sensual show moved up her legs and, bypassing their joining, started on her belly and it was at this point that Roland took the soap from her and took over.

Her belly quivered under his slow lathering circles and he made her giggle a little when he used a finger to play with her belly button. On her rear he alternated his motions with occasional fleshy grips before moving up her back and shoulders. He marveled at how small both were in comparison to his own masculine bulk yet had a muscled firmness that spoke of their own strength underneath the feminine smoothness. His efforts elicited an occasional “mmm . . . " of pleasure or pain induced “uh” as he massaged the welts he placed there not long ago . . . but there were more of the former than the later.

He started in on her breasts, taking his time, enjoying himself thoroughly, sometimes lathering them up gently while other times gripping them, or jiggling them. Here, too, his attentions brought forth sounds of both pleasure and pain. Yet the pain was a reminder that she was under his discipline and that added a sexual charge that increased the volume of her pleasurable exclamations.

He focused his attention on her nipples, which were stiff with excitement again. As he pinched, tugged, and caressed them, he realized that she was mounting again rather quickly. He hadn’t focused too much attention on her nipples before and now he realized that she was one of those women who could be brought off just by having her nipples played with. That would be a fun way to tease his slave into orgasm, but not right now.

Roland brought his attention downward. She was already wet and slick and not just from her swim. He played with both sets of her pussy lips as he soaped them up, pinching, tugging and caressing as he had with her nipples. Her knees trembled slightly and her hips bucked and the cries of pleasure and pain grew louder still. Roland recalled how one of her pussy lips had fallen victim to a particularly nasty twist delivered by Ellen during the bitch slap. Nor had he been gentle with that pussy with his whip or his rod but like the rest of her, this only served to fuel the fire that dwelt within her belly.

Roland stroked that fire further by caressing her engorged clit. Allison’s hips began to gyrate, slowly at first, and then more when her master did not object, as her head, eyes closed, now craned back like her master’s before her, in building pleasure. A long rattling moan came out of her but it was suddenly cut short. Roland had scooped her up and she let out a Miranda like yelp as he tossed her into the creek. When she came sputtering back up, Roland playfully dunked her under again. When she came up again he rather roughly grabbed her arms from behind and dunked her up and down to rinse her off. Then he half dragged, half led her out of the creek and into the tall grass.

Keeping his grip on her arms, he stood her in front of him, facing him. She looked down, almost bashfully, waiting for whatever came next. What came next was another passionate kiss, eagerly returned and as his loosened his grip to wrap his arms around her, Allison’s own arms wrapped themselves around his neck and she stood on her toes to meet him. The union of their lips continued as Roland slowly lowered them both to their knees, there to continued union for a time before they lay next to each other in the fragrant grass to become a double-backed snake twisting and twining as lips and hands explored.

Some shudder in unison that seemed to have no center but rather encompassed them all at once, informed them that it was time to consummate the joining of male and female once again. Allison lay on her back. Her hands, in lightly balled fists, hovered above her breasts, accompanying a smile of childlike anticipation of a treat yet her eyes gleamed with adult lustiness. Roland knelt in front of her feet and with one look his own lust filled eyes demanded her surrender which she signaled by spreading her legs. He positioned himself over her, his arms on either side of her, his knees within hers, and entered her.
For a moment, Roland made no movements but allowed himself to simply enjoy her warm, moist flesh encompassing his. “Look at me,” he said and when she complied he looked straight in her eyes, once again wondering how deep they go, marveling at the greater, mysterious, beauty that dwelt within the exquisite flesh. She returned his gaze with equal probing wonder and another minute passed in which no words were spoken but much was communicated.

Roland began his motions slowly and Allison responded in kind. The silent discourse continued as the pace of their joining increased in hardly noticeable increments and Roland found himself bidden by his passion to taste of those lips again. While mouths and loins continued their blending Roland found himself wishing that this unification could be whole, wishing that his flesh and her flesh, his mind and her mind, their very souls could merge and be the ONE that the two halves, male and female, each knowing themselves incomplete on their own, were meant to be. Even in his gathering need Roland had wits enough to know that such a consummation could be found only in death, if at all, and that moments such at this were the closest they would ever come. And of such sweet taste of the unreachable as nature would permit, both would consume eagerly.

They did not break their hold upon each other, either at lips or at loins, as they began to roll over, crunching the grass beneath them. They came to a stop at the creek’s edge, Roland on his back, Allison supine on top of him. Then, with a rapid, aggressive move, she was straddling him. There were, Roland knew, men who disdained the position for they found it unseemly for the slave, to summit the master. They saw in it a symbolism they found distasteful. Roland chortled at such nonsense and held rank with those men who proclaimed that a properly mastered woman knows her place even when she is atop him.
When Roland made no objections in either word or deed to this latest probing of boundaries, Allison’s face lit up in delight. Roland knew from his sojourns in taverns that slave girls were thrilled to perform this service. They took great joy in being allowed to give pleasure to the masculine while it lay in peaceful repose (and being the master, why should we be the ones to do all the “work? was Roland’s thought on the matter). That was another reason for allowing it. Their expressions of joy and lust were enchanting to behold.

Allison held her arms up, letting her hips alone perform for her master’s pleasure but her face showed that her own pleasure was building with each thrust downward as flesh smacked into flesh, sending magnificent vibrations through her clit. The breathing of both grew deeper as the pleasure intensified and Roland began thrusting his hips in rhythm to her movements, increasing the force of contact and bringing lusty growls from two throats. A new expression appeared on Allison’s face along with the joy and pleasure and lust that were already there. It was a question. She did not need words . . . Roland knew what the question was. “With me,” was his answer.

Allison arched back and grabbed her hair as she increased her bucking to a near frenzy. Roland reached up and grabbed the beautiful set of bouncing tits before him, his excitement too high to be gentle with them. As she increased her pace even more, Roland moved his hands down to her waist, adding the strength of his arms to the strength of her legs to bring their speed to a near blur, their flesh making wet smacking sounds in a rapid tempo. When the burst came, Roland let loose with another bark at the universe, but this time it was not in defiance to anything but in sincere appreciation of this joy called female that completed him. He was only a second into it when Allison, leave now granted her, responded in kind.

It did not last as long for either of them as the nights earlier forays into ecstasy had but it was ecstasy and being experienced together gave it a new flavor that made it, in its’ own way, more succulent. The afterward, as she leaned forward and they planted sweet kisses upon each other, was a contented calm to be savored like a pint of good ale after a laborious day. At some point he slid out of her as he came down and she slid to the side to lay next to him. Side by side the faced each other as the moonlight shone upon them and the babbling waters of the creek flowed around them. Roland gently played with a lock of her hair as they stared into each other’s eyes. No words were spoken . . . but much was communicated.

♦ ♦ ♦

How long they had lain there, neither knew nor cared but at some point, shortly after Allison’s first yawn, they went back into the creek to splash themselves and wash their faces, and then walked slowly, Allison properly heeling her master, to the fire. With a snap and a point, Roland commanded his slave to kneel in front of his chair again. He stoked the fire but only added one log before setting himself down. He noticed the hard candy the slave ware’s merchant had gifted him. He picked it up and thought what the hell; she did win the bitch slap after all. Slowly he unwrapped it, almost chuckling at how it made her perk up . . . how he could read the childlike desire for a sweet in her even though she barely moved at all. He gave it a sniff. It smelled good enough that he was half tempted to enjoy it himself but with a smile he tossed it to her and with an even bigger smile she caught it and pooped it into her mouth. “Thank you, Master,” she said as she moved her hands behind her back again. The slave ware’s merchant had been correct; it was evident that she was enjoying it very much. She resisted the natural temptation to bite down on it and took her time to savor it.

Roland looked in turns upon the stars for a while and then at the black trees in the distance or upon the beautiful woman he owned kneeling in the flickering firelight but his mind was upon the future. Come the morning sun his friends would arrive with their tents and supplies and two more slave girls in tow and the work of building the futures of all of them would begin in earnest. He wondered where they should locate their first shelter. Not where he planned to build his permanent home. No, that would not do. Perhaps, he thought, over there, closer to the creek where it will be quicker for the slaves to fetch water for washing and cooking, or maybe closer to the forest so we won’t have to move the logs so far.

This planning did not last long as he soon found it difficult to complete a thought and, with a deep yawn, knew it was time to seek his bed. He looked at Allison, who, the maple candy successfully savored, had been unsuccessful at stifling several of her own yawns. He saw that her eyes were drooping. She had a noticeable lean to the left. Suddenly she straightened up, her eyes bugging open in surprise and fear. Surprise at finding herself starting to doze off, fear at displeasing her master for having done so. A look of firm resolve came over her face but it faded quickly as her eyes began to droop again and the list to the left returned. There was another bolt upright accompanied by startled eyes. This time she saw that she’d been seen. Forgive me, master, the frightened expression of her face said.

Roland chuckled and stood up. “I think we are both ready for some down time,” he said benignly, with a hint of amusement. “We’ve both had an eventful day and need our sleep for the labors of tomorrow. Allison smiled her gratitude and relief. Roland took up the leash from the table and secured it to his slave girl’s collar. He led her on her hands and knees, yawning as she followed, to the base of the tree and there motioned her to lie down. The end of the leash he wrapped around a branch and tied off. There was no real need for the leash. Allison, he knew, harbored no desire to run off nor would it impede anyone trying to steal her (Roland’s blade in their chest would be their impediment, if anyone was stupid enough to try). No, Roland simply felt that this first night, an extra little reminder of her slavery was proper. Allison lay upon her side and laid her head down upon her hands.

“Good night, slave,” said Roland.

“Good night, Master, she properly returned, just beating out another yawn. Roland gazed upon her for a moment, watched her breathing’s subtle shift and realized that she was fast asleep in mere seconds. Roland took up his sword and dagger and crawled into his tent. He placed the dagger under his pillow and the sword next to his blankets before lying himself down. It was only a moment before the young man was himself fast asleep.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 7/17/2014 5:05:10 PM >

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RE: Roland and Allison - 7/17/2014 5:40:28 PM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Rolland & Allison.

Epilogue: Dawn.


It was the need to piss that woke him up but he welcomed it for it gave him relief from a sleep haunted with intense dreams. For a few worrying moments he found himself so stiff he was barely be able to move. The pressing on his bladder urged him to endure the discomfort of slowly getting up and stretching and working the stiffness out of him. He took his time to step carefully some twenty paces from his tent before he granted himself relief. The moon looked to be an hour away from the western horizon. He looked east. The moon being full meant that it would be an hour before he saw the first trace hints of dawn. He shook off the last drops, took a few steps back toward his tent and paused to look at the moon again – the steady, constant, yet always changing moon. How it seemed to stare down upon the puny inhabitants of the world, seemingly indifferent to what it saw. Or, perhaps, just wise enough to know that silence was the first step toward wisdom. It was if the moon was beckoning him to pause and steady himself after that wild cacophony of dreams. As if it were telling him to not be afraid but to look at them and listen for a message.

Already the images were starting to fade but he could still recall much now that he focused on them. He was back in the dank, dark cell that held him for three weeks before his pardon and induction to the militia. He could see himself as he was: naked, as all prisoners condemned to death are kept, and chained to the wall by the neck. Dreaming Roland had watched, filled with shame and contempt, as dream Roland, naked, chained, lay on the cold stone floor and wept. It had only been that first night, the first time he had wept since his mother had died. He felt no shame over those tears or of the tears that had been shed when he had leaned that several good friends had died during the battle. It was not unmanly to shed tears at such moments but this weak, pathetic fool in front of him, consumed with self pity though he had wrought his own circumstances, made him want to retch in disgust. He had told nobody of that secret shame – and never would.

His revulsion had forced the dream to move on. It was the Battle of the Border and Roland stabbed and hacked at the enemy with malicious glee but something seemed to inhibit him physically. There was a chain around his neck, the other end of which was secured around the neck of Allison who, naked, cowered in fright at the scenes of carnage around her. Roland grabbed at the links around his neck and tried to snap them apart but they would not, of course, yield to him. Roland yelled in frustration . . .

And found himself in his father’s flat. He was yelling at his father, trying to get him to understand that over seventy other men his age had shown up at the docks to seek the one job opening there. “Excuses, excuses,” sneered his father. “If you spent more time looking for honest labor than playing around with slave girls in the taverns . . .” Roland banged his fist upon the table in frustration. It angered him that the doddering old fool just didn't understand. It angered him even more that there was some justification in what his father said. The chain was still around dream Roland's neck but the other end was empty. In his dream he could not remember what was supposed to be at the other end, only a sense that it emptiness made him unfinished. He saw that his father also had a chain around his neck but instead of hanging limply like Roland’s it stuck out from his father at a right angle. Curiously, the end seemed to fade and vanish into the air.

Fed up with his father’s indifference to his troubles, Roland screamed at him (rather childishly the dreaming Roland noted with another sense of shame) that he was a useless old man and never wanted to see him again, before slamming the door behind him. As his dream continued he next found himself skulking down a dark street. The chain was no longer around his neck and he told himself that he was glad to be free of it. He was cold and filthy and hunger gnawed at him and it had been over a week since he enjoyed the escape of carousal in a tavern when he saw the solution to his problems approaching in the person of a gaudily dressed nobleman.

Easy prey, had thought Roland as he picked up a loose paving stone from the roadway and ducked into a narrow alley. He had never intended to seriously hurt the man, just knock him out and relieve him of his coin which, by the look of him, he could afford to spare anyhow. It hadn't worked out that way. The noble turned out to be quite nimble, effortlessly dodging Roland’s strike, drawing his sword, and planting its’ point firmly upon Roland’s neck, drawing a trickle of blood. After shouting to a passerby to summon the Royal Guard, the nobleman proceeded to make his thoughts about Roland known. Words like “knave” and “scoundrel” were the least offensive. Roland hadn't been really paying attention to the words. He had gone into a kind of numb shock at the realization that his life would soon be over, and that it would end in disgrace and ignominy. But here the dream departed from the reality again. Dream Roland caught a glimpse of a beautiful naked brown haired woman going around a corner and knew that he had to have her. He pushed the sword away and ran after her, a chain, suddenly appearing around his neck, the free end of which clanked upon the ground behind him.

When he turned the corner he was in the middle of a field, surrounded by cheering men. A fist suddenly slammed into the side of his face. The Earl of Ethbridge was pummeling him ruthlessly. “Women aren’t for free,” shouted the Earl as he continued the assault, “there is always a price to be paid!”

Dream Roland screamed back at him, “I know!” The Earl and the cheering men vanished and he was back in the Battle of the Border. It was the height of the engagement and the air reverberated with the clang of steel and the shouts and cries of men. Allison, once again occupying the other end of the chain, continued to kneel in fright. Roland twisted the chain around his arm, took a firm grip and yanked it hard. “To me, woman,” he bellowed. She obeyed promptly. Dream Roland renewed his killing frenzy. He no longer felt the weight of the chain around his neck, though it was still there. Allison, despite obvious fear, kept up with him. In one hand she held two dead rabbits, in the other a bunch of chives.

Roland, Allison at his side, hacked his way through a mass of men and then . . . then he was home . . . his new home. He stood halfway between his camp and the forest. It was night and a full moon shone down upon him. The chain was no longer around his or Allison’s neck. His naked, collared, slave girl lay, sleeping, at his feet. From the forest his saw a figure emerge.

The figure was mere dark shadow at first but as it drew nearer he discerned that it was a woman. As she drew closer still he recognized a familiarity of her walk and when her features came into view it only confirmed what he already knew. “Mother,” he said. He could not help the small hitch in his voice. She wore a simple slave smock and around her neck was his father’s collar which glowed in the moonlight. She looked upon the sleeping girl with hard appraising eyes . . . the gaze of a million mothers in history assessing the young women who were the final proof that their little boys were not little boys any more. Slowly the gaze softened into one of approval and acceptance with a sly smile as she looked up and gazed at her son. “Do you understand?”

“I think so,” replied Roland, his voice still choked up and his eyes moist.

“It holds you both,” Roland’s dream mother continued, “nothing can sever it . . . not even death. You wield it. You decide how far to let it out or how close to draw it in, but you will never be free of it. You must wield it with wisdom . . . wield it with strength when the moment demands it, gentleness when the moment allows, with firmness tempered by compassion. Do this, and you both shall be together, even when you are not.”

She smiled again and then began to turn away. “I miss you,” said Roland. She turned back to look upon him again.

“I miss you, but our lives are a mere flicker of flame in the vastness of eternity. Live many years, my son, but take comfort that our time apart is short. She turned again and started to walk back to the forest. Roland watching her, wanting to call out for her to stay, but he knew that it could not be. He felt a brief surge of hope when she stopped just before the forest edge and turned to face him again. “Make peace with your father,” she called out, “He is so sad and so lonely.” Then she was gone. Roland stood, looking at the place she had been for a moment before looking down at the sleeping slave girl but then the dream shifted again.

He and Allison were in the creek, splashing around. Roland tried to enjoy the sight of her but the water seemed to be pressing upon him most uncomfortably. It seemed to press particularly hard against his bladder and then . . . and then he had awoken, stiff as hell and needing to piss.

Now that he was in the waking world, staring up at the moon, he found himself in a pensive mood. Was it only a dream? He had heard that shades would sometimes leave the spirit world to visit people in their dreams but he also heard that such visitations, genuine visitations, were believed to be rare. It may have been nothing more than the mere wishful thinking of a slumbering brain still confused over the recent twists and turns of his life. He wanted to believe it . . . and whose business was it anyways if he chose to believe?

He recalled his mother’s last words to him. Perhaps it was time to patch up things with his father. Once things were settled here he could journey back to Castle Kamara. That might be a while though. He could send a letter. His father was functionally illiterate but knew people who could read a letter to him. Roland could invite him to stay with him. Roland was honest enough with himself to admit there would be a certain spiteful satisfaction in it. See what I have achieved, old man? I have land and silver and a slave girl of my very own! I have friends and the respect of the community . . . and you had given up on me! Roland was also honest enough to admit that he owed his father a few apologies and thank you or two, particularly for insisting (at an expense that had been difficult to afford) that his boy get the education that would allow him to write that letter.

Well, it might be a few weeks before he could mail a letter out anyway. There was time enough to ruminate on what he would say. Roland walked over to his sleeping slave girl. The temperature had dropped a bit during the night and there was a slight chill in the air . . . not enough to be any threat to her health, but just enough to be a little uncomfortable. In her sleep, Allison had curled her self up tightly, her body instinctively trying to conserve its’ heat in the cool air.
There was that sort of sweet innocence about her that all sleeping people seemed to have but he knew that it covered a much deeper truth. She was such a marvel to behold. All those passions and fires and instincts and hopes and fears packed tightly in a beautiful symphony of curves. It would be so easy to fall in love with her (Roland’s honesty with himself wasn't perfect; he wasn't quite prepared to admit that it was already too late). She was going to be a great slave for him, a joy to own and master but a bit of a challenge too. He would have to be strict with her, of that he had no doubts. He also had no doubts that she wanted a strict master. Allison shivered a little from the chilly morning air.

His friends probably wouldn't get up before the sun started coming up in another hour or so and then it would be another hour or two before they arrived. Stifling a yawn, Roland realized that he could still catch a few more hours of much needed rest. He turned and walked back to his tent, crawling inside. He emerged a few seconds later and walked back over to Allison. He squatted down next to next to her and put the blanket he had brought with him over her. She didn't wake but one of her hands clutched at the blanket, drawing it tighter around her. She snuggled into it a little and then from her barely moving lips there issued a hardly audible, “mmm . . . ank oo masser.” Roland smiled, stood up, and headed back to his tent.

Being a strict master didn't mean you had to be a heartless bastard, after all.

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
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