“I have told no one, just as you bade me,” said the physicker. “Being angry is normal, boy, you must-”
Thurston lunged out of bed, wrapping his hands around the old man's spindly throat. The physicker gasped for air, his hands clawing at the mayor's wrists. With cold blooded ruthlessness, Thurston ignored the red weal’s scraped along his skin as the old man's eyes grew glassy.
“You know,” he said “I think you are right. Being a eunuch is not making killing you any more difficult.”
The physicker's hands went limp, his voice choked off forever. Thurston dropped the man to the floor and set about getting dressed. His course of action was clear. The Allfather had spared his life that he may find the abomination that ruined him and send her to the fires of the Inferno.
He left the old man where he lay, not caring about the wrath of mortal authorities.
After all, what could they do to a man with nothing to lose?
Leaving the physicker's hut, he stood in warm sunshine that seemed to mock his condition with its cheerfulness. Yes, the sun would continue to shine, birds would continue to sing in the branches, and folk would go about their lives as before, while he was forced to live as half a man.
A sudden flash of inspiration hit him. He remembered the old fool Davros calling Father Cornelius Bruce. Asked where his eye patch was...
Circling around the back of the physicker's hut, he headed for the priest's residence. He severed the thin leather curtain blocking the empty doorway and went inside. The domicile was neat and tidy, and a cursory search turned up nothing of note. He tossed the man's clothes to the floor as he emptied the battered old dresser. Finding nothing but bare wood, he angrily shoved the drawer back so he might check the one below it. So violent was his motion that the drawer went in crookedly and cracked, still jutting about halfway open. Thurston tried in vain to shove it in all the way, then swore in frustration as he could not remove it either. Seizing it with both hands, he put one foot against the drawer below and yanked with all his might.
He ended up on his arse, the drawer flung over his head to crash against the wall. Cursing loudly, the gingerly rose to his feet, his burned loins causing him great agony. He glanced over at the damnable object which had caused his injury, splintered on the floor. Something glinted in the sunlight amid the shards, something that looked like coin...
Falling to his knees, his pain momentarily forgotten, he dug through the remains of the drawer and pulled up a spool of silver thread. He unwound a bit of it, amazed at how the priest could leave behind something worth so much money. Putting the strand in his mouth, he bit into the surface to test if it was truly silver and not some other metal.
He dropped the spool to the floor, which unwound as it spiraled through the air, when the length in his mouth lit up brightly. In a panic he tried to extract it, finding that it seemed to be fused to his tongue.
“Allfather, forgive me!” he wailed. “I did not seek to rob a priest! I did not!”
Many miles away, in Fort Drakken, Roland sat at his great desk, stacks of parchments neatly arranged in six piles. He was sweating, his head thrown backwards to rest upon the back of his padded chair. A low groan escaped from his thin lips, and his body shuddered. He dabbed at the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief. A sudden scowl crossed his face and he reached his hand below the desk.
“You are not finished yet,” he said harshly.
“But I am, lord, I have received your-” came the muffled feminine voice below the desk.
“Quiet now,” he said, cutting her off in more ways than one. “I have a better use for your mouth than speaking...”
His eyes were half lidded once more, and he began to relax against the chair. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he sat up straight, causing a ruckus below the desk. He stared hard at the silver spool on his desk, now possessed of a dull reddish glow.
“What is wrong, my lord?” said the pretty young servant clambering out from under the desk.
“Nothing,” he said “leave me now, I have something important to do.”
“I live to serve,” she said, giving his exposed member a playful slap on the way out. He scowled up at her as she skipped out the door. Making himself modest, he sat back in his chair and unwound a bit of the spool.
“Let us see why you have delayed so in carrying out your task, Crown.” he said, putting the strand in his mouth.
“Hello?” came the voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once to Thurston. “Crown, is that you, man?”
“Who's there?” said Thurston, sprawling about on his hands and knees. “Where are you? Come out where I can see you!”
“You're not Crown,” said the voice. “I know not who you are, fool, but the spool you have is property of the king!”
“I did not take it from the king,” said Thurston, finally convinced that he was not speaking one on one with the Allfather. “I took it from a priest.”
“The priest,” said the voice “serves the crown. What has become of him?”
“I know not,” said Thurston “he has fled Ravensford, along with the black knight and his faerie wench, or he has been slain and lies in the woods.”
“I see,” said Roland, grinning back in his office. “Perhaps you could assist me, friend. Opportunities like this do not come along very often, I assure you. Would you like to serve the king, my good man?”
“What kind of rewards can you offer me?” said Thurston.
“Coin, prestige, the backing of the royal army should you need it,” said Roland.
“What must I do?” said Thurston.
“Be the eyes and the ears of the king,” said Roland. “Find out what things are said and done when folk believe they are far beyond our sight.”
“Who are you?” said Thurston. “You're not the king, surely.”
“I don't think you need to know who I am just yet,” said Roland smugly. “We shall see how useful you are first.”
“Useful?” said Thurston, sneering. “Would you like to know that there is a rebel camp not far from here?”
“That is actually known to us,” said Roland “though we are not aware of the exact location-”
“I have been to it, seen it with my own eyes, touched its stone walls with my own hands,” said Thurston.
“This is the beginning,” said Roland “of a beautiful working relationship.”
Thurston grinned, his eyes cold and hard.
Oblittero ran his hand down the flank of Sabia, his new favorite. She whimpered around the hard metal bit he'd shoved in between her teeth and pulled away from his touch. Snagging a handful of her hair, he yanked her back to him.
“Not so fast, my pet,” he purred. Nearby, his hell Pony team stood hobbled to a tree. The slender blonde pawed the ground with her hoof shaped boot, jealous of the attention his new mare was getting.
Oblittero bit her nipple, hard enough to hurt. Sabia struggled with the leather sheath which bound her arms up painfully behind her shoulder blades, but there was no give. Oblittero ran his tongue around the tortured teat before biting even harder. A scream tore from Sabia's throat fit to wake the dead, and he grinned as her nipple was distended beyond belief.
At last he released her, only to clamp his jaws around her other teat. Sabia sobbed, fat tears rolling down her face. A bit of snot dripped out of her nose and landed on Oblittero's purple sleeve.
“You stupid slut!” he said, slapping her hard enough to draw blood at her lip. “You got your damn filth on me! I know you did it on purpose!”
Oblittero threw her off of him, his cock exiting her pussy with a lewd wet noise. Cursing, he cast a minor glamour that summoned a whip made of shadowstuff. It wouldn't cut the flesh, but it hurt worse than being hit with a drawbridge chain. He laid it across her still swollen and hurting nipples and relished the agony in her eyes.
“Oh, yes!” he cried, whipping her harder. “Do cry out, but with more FEELING!”
Sabia wept, screamed, and strained, but she could n
ot escape the lash of the whip. Oblittero never missed his targets, and his targets were only the most vulnerable parts of her body. When it licked against her swollen, dripping wet clit, she nearly passed out.
“Oh, no you don't!” Oblittero growled. He folded his hand in half, then rapidly extended it while saying words of power forgotten to all but a few. Sabia found herself perking up, her senses returned to her. “You don't get to faint to avoid your punishment. Oh no, not with my magic at my behest...”
Oblittero lashed her a dozen more times for good measure, before spitting in her face.
“That should teach you to besmirch my robes,” he muttered. “Now, let's see how Bruno and his friends are doing...”
He cast a remote viewing spell and folded his hands together eagerly while he awaited the results.
“So,” Oblittero said as he watched Bruno and his chums “they have come across the last works of Banabas. Well, I doubt the Drogs will eat them all. SOME of them will make it back to Fort Drakken and serve as a suitable distraction while I research a spell to snare a dragon queen. Yes, it's all working out just perfectly...”
Oblittero's mad laughter echoed through the forest, and his Hell Ponies could only stomp and whimper, respectively.
THE END
Dramatis Personae
Bruno Cromwell: Black Templar, legendary hero and adventurer.
Hector Brandywine: Bruno's squire.
Crown/Gray Death: Imperial Assasin, student of human behavior.
Aven of Still Hollow/Allison: A half faerie maid. Lover of Bruno.
Lily: Hector's slave girl.
Thora: Local girl enslaved by Aven.
Thurston: Mayor of Ravensford, enemy of Aven and Bruno
Duncan Davros: Former first sword of house Mannix, now rebel leader.
Lord Mannix: Nobleman, fencer, and father of Katherine.
Katherine of Mannix: Noble lady who often displeases her father. Former lover of Bruno.
Madame Letwatt: Disciplinarian employed by Lord Mannix. Keeps Katherine in check.
Roland: Seneschal for King Drakken.
King Drakken: Supreme monarch of the North, lately baiting dragons.
Seamus: Dragonslayer, swindler, and hero.
Stella Pendragon: A wizard who has a spellbook with a mind of its own. Lately enslaved by Seamus, who refuses to allow her clothing.
Oblittero the Adequate: Wizard of some repute, master of Pony Girls and diddler of their lady parts.
Author’s Note
Kristine was born the youngest child in a large family in St. Louis, Mo. Left to her own devices by an absent father and a sickly mother, she delved deep into the darkest parts of her own psyche. It is from this dark wellspring that her stories flow. She likes heavy metal music, Caesar salads, and sex sex sex!!!
I’d love to hear from you; leave me a message on my blog at: KristineLichtlider.wix.com/KLauthor
Taboo Exotica
If you enjoyed ‘Honor Bound’ and like extra-taboo BDSM themed erotica, then you will also want to read ‘I, Demon Slave’ which features a lust demon who must grab the soul of an Earther to serve the war against the Seraphim. She takes his virginity & ensnares his heart, but doesn’t count on her own... ‘I, Demon Slave’ is available at Lot’s Cave now, your Family Exotica eBook source.
Kristine Lichtlider’s I, DEMON SLAVE
Available at Lot’s Cave
(Description)
Empusa, an Erinyes, is a creature of passion and lust who must grab the soul of an Earther to serve the demon’s war against the Seraphim. The Earther is more than he seems, at times harsh, others gentle. She takes his virginity and easily ensnares his heart. What she didn’t count on is the reverse would also come true, waking her long dormant heart to her submissive desires.
(Excerpt)
There's a sensation of moving through mud, like my body is both infinitely heavy and weightless all at once. Then I'm thrust out the other side, taking in the differences of Earth; The slightly higher gravity, the lack of ash in the air you breathe.
And the cold. I cover up my naked form with my arms and wings, shivering.
The robed figure stands stunned. I do believe he's stopped breathing. Slowly I unfurl my wings and do my best to look impressive. I'm standing on a pentagram drawn with ram's blood. Only ram's blood will do, because of some loophole in demonic law. As long as I'm in the pentagram, I'm technically under his power. I have to answer any questions he has, and use my powers to the best of my ability at his command. However, there's not much one can do within a circle, and here lies the con of demonic summoning.
The summoner thinks he is in control, and can make pacts with the demons he summons. However, these pacts are open to interpretation, often to the detriment of the foolish mortal who made them. Once, for example, a soldier summoned a Baalor to 'watch his back' in combat. The Baalor did just that—he watched while his back was stabbed three times.
However, I've been instructed to play it straight with this boy. Man, really, I see as he doffs his hood. I'm faced with a handsome, high cheek-boned specimen of adulthood. Even beneath his robe—which is of authentic goat's fur, I note—I can tell he's physically fit. That, combined with him being rich should make him too busy with the ladies to bother with something as involved as demonic summoning.
“Who has summoned Empusa, Mistress of Hell?”
“I, Ron Williams, Master sorcerer, have summoned thee,” he says, waving his arms. “I beseech thee and command thee to bend thy demonic might for my will.”
“Look, son, you don't have to talk like that,” I say, suppressing a giggle.
“I—uh, of course I don't!” He points his finger at me. “I would make pact with you, demon!”
“Ah, yes, a pact.” I lean forward, leering at him, until I come close to the invisible barrier separating us. It glows a dull red. “And what are the terms of this pact?”
Smugly, he withdraws a scroll from inside the robe.
“I, Ron son of Job, hereby immediately and for a period of no more than one hundred years, bind this demon as my slave. She will obey me in all things, and serve me in all things.”
The scroll bursts into flames, which I don't think he was expecting. I'm laughing hysterically while he runs about his living room, waving the burning sleeves of his robes. Finally he drags the garment off and tosses it into his bathtub.
“Stop laughing at me,” he says. I stop, though I still snicker. “Come out of the pentagram.”
“I cannot appear on Earth in my True Form. I must needs adopt a mortal form.”
“Then adopt one.”
“So be it.”
I close my eyes and imagine myself as I appear in my true form. Slowly, I make changes, taking away my horns, my wings, and my hooves, straightening my legs, and lightening my skin. Then I say the word of power, and I am transformed.
I look much like I did when I died at the tender age of 22—except, of course, that I'm naked. As I step over the line of blood, I can see him licking his lips as he examines my body.
“Does it meet with Master's approval?”
He flinches like I've struck him. Swallowing, he looks squarely at my breasts and then my eyes.
“What did you just call me?”
“Master.”
He closes his eyes tightly.
“Say that again.”
I’m sure you’ve heard of students selling their souls to pay for school, but would you like to hear about a particularly interesting client...!? Read ‘I, Demon Slave’, available at Lot’s Cave now.
BDSM Erotica
If you enjoyed ‘Honor Bound’ and like extra-taboo BDSM themed erotica, then you will also want to read ‘Kidnapped, Trained, and Mad as Hell’ which features Svetlana who is tough as nails. But can she survive a brutal program designed to make any woman into a wanton pain slut?... ‘Kidnapped, Trained, and Mad as Hell’ is available at Lot’s Cave now, your Family Exotica eBook source.
Kristine Lichtlider’s KIDNAPP
ED, TRAINED, AND MAD AS HELL
Available at Lot’s Cave
(Description)
Elite Russian agent, Svetlana Breshnev, is a feared woman. Trained in wetworks, she is a Spetznaz, trained to kill with any weapon or her bare hands. Taken off assignment in the Ukraine because of 'unpatriotic' opinions, she is left to her own devices.
An old friend contacts Svetlana, informing her that an ex-boyfriend has gone missing while investigating a human trafficking ring. Svetlana has no choice but to allow herself to be taken captive and serve her captors sadistic needs while searching for clues about her missing ex. Svetlana is tough as nails, but can she survive a brutal program designed to make any woman into a wanton pain slut?
(Chapter 1)
My fingers are rapidly going numb, exposed to the chill wind as I use my hand to keep my long coat shut tight. It's been a long time since I've been in Moscow at Winter, and it's just as cold as I remember. Maybe colder.
I can see the lights of the Kremlin in the distance, beautiful at night. The outside appearance doesn't even hint at the nest of vipers within. I savor my anger, because I'm frozen half to death and it helps keep me warm like a shot of vodka.
Not for the first time since I began my midnight sojourn, I wished for a car. The problem is my own vehicle is so obviously a government car that I can't use it. Not for this kind of work. No, the people I'll be seeing tonight would not respond well to government intrusion. I suppose it's for the best that this is a freelance gig, after a fashion.
I turn a corner and am blasted by a strong gust that threatens to tear the fabric from my hand. Stubbornly I hang onto it, and am able to make out my destination through the tears brought on by the frigid air. A tacky neon sign depicting a woman with bare breasts buzzes in the night. Stepping over what might be a passed out drunk or a dead drunk—it's hard to tell with an inch of snow over him—I arrive at the front door.
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