Dementor (Rolling Thunder MC Birmingham Book 1)

by Candace Blevins

  “What’s your name?”

  A deeper breath, so she’d have enough air to speak, but she answered quickly, her eyes still straight ahead without looking at me. “My original owner called me seven-sixty-three, Ma’am. The Master I just came from called me little one.”

  Before I slapped the shit out of the girl for her impertinence, I asked, “Do you know who I am?”

  “No, Ma’am?”

  Her voice wavered and her arms finally shook a little. The poor thing was scared shitless, and I was about to terrify her even more, whether I wanted to or not. I softened my voice and said, “You address me as my Queen or Your Majesty, Little One.”

  Her face showed complete and total panic, and she fell to her knees and prostrated herself at my feet, apologizing profusely while using as many honorifics as she could throw in between her apologies.

  So, the little slave hadn’t chosen to follow instructions over protocol earlier, after all. She didn’t know who I was.

  I let her continue a moment before I said, “You didn’t know. Don’t let it happen again.”

  I was dressed in the tight dark pants and shirt I prefer when torturing prisoners, and I wasn’t wearing a crown. The girl didn’t mean any harm, and with only another slave to witness it, I could let it slide. If she’d meant to slight me, she’d have been on the floor, bleeding and screaming.

  She thanked me for my mercifulness in at least a dozen different ways before I ordered her to shut up and stand at attention. The little thing quickly obeyed — her hands tucked into the small of her back, her head forward with eyes lowered, and legs spread so she could balance and stand this way for hours, if necessary.

  “What kind of slave has Kalonymos gifted me? What have you been trained to do, Little One?”

  She was still terrified, but she answered without faltering. “My first owner called me a sex slave, my Queen. My second master called me a pleasure slave. I’ll be whatever you wish me to be, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you prefer men or women?

  “A slave’s preferences do not matter, my Queen.”

  I sighed and turned to the stenographer slave. “Look through her file to be sure all familial searches were done when she was brought to the Summerlands. If everything’s in order, tell the Captain of the Guard to send someone deserving of a reward to Blue Hole Falls, and then you can join us there. I’m going to explain a few things to the new acquisition, so your services won’t be needed for a short time. Don’t dally.”

  I grasped the new slave’s arm and teleported us to the falls. I have a permanent throne here — not a hard metal one, but a comfortable chair I can sit in all day if I have a mind to.

  Plus, the ground is softer and wouldn’t hurt the slave’s knees while she knelt before me. Sometimes, I couldn’t care less about a slave’s comfort, other times it’s more practical to keep the pain to a minimum while I put them in their place.

  I sat, got comfortable, and smiled inwardly when my new slave fell to her knees before me. Her eyes were focused on my groin, which was fine for now. She’d been trained to look at her Master’s dick, which was so much better than making them look at your feet. I’d let her fall back on her earlier training until we could schedule her into an orientation. For now, I could learn much about her by observing her reactions.

  However, slaves are never allowed to shy away from answering my questions, so this needed to be dealt with before we moved forward.

  “When one has only a few sex slaves, one can’t afford to allow them a preference, Little One. However, with as many slaves as I own, it becomes sensible to play them to their strengths. When I ask a question, I expect an answer. If you’d like to couch your response in politically correct speech, feel free,” I leaned forward and gave a stern look, “but don’t use pat answers in an attempt to keep from answering.” I held the look a few seconds to be sure the words had enough impact before I straightened and tried not to look scary. “You’ll be given a little leeway since you’re new and appear to be trying, but it’s advisable to stay on my good side.”

  She wanted to shrink into the ground, but to her credit, she held her position and didn’t slouch, and instead of apologizing, gave me the answer I wanted. This little slave had promise.

  “I’m attracted to dominant personalities more than gender, my Queen. I prefer most men to women, but a dominant woman turns me on, while submissive men… don’t, Your Majesty.” Her eyes flicked up a brief second before landing near my pussy again. “I’m sexually aroused by strong women, my Queen.”

  A test. “Were you attracted to Kalonymos? Are you going to miss him?”

  “My first owner had me trained to prefer pain over pleasure, but this frustrated my most recent owner and master, Your Majesty.”

  The little slave passed my test with flying colors. She answered my question truthfully, but without saying anything ill of her former owner.

  I laughed, because I knew Kalonymos well enough to know he shouldn’t have bought the slave he spent a few days in a pleasure parlor with, and became enamored with. She’d pleased him without pain a few days, but hadn’t been able to keep it up long term. “I imagine he had no idea his punishments were what you craved.”

  “He did not, my Queen.”

  “Did he give you to me because he didn’t know what to do with you and thought you’d fit well into my sadistic leanings, or because he thought you a naughty slave beyond his capability to tame, since you kept acting up and forcing him to punish you?”

  Another test. Slaves don’t talk bad about their masters – current or former. However, I’d also told her I expected her to answer my questions.

  “I wouldn’t venture to guess my former owner’s intentions, my Queen. I suspect it might be the latter, though I believe the pleasure parlor would have purchased me back, if he’d asked them.”

  I suspected Kalonymos didn’t want to admit to them he’d made a mistake in purchasing her, as they’d probably warned him when he inquired about buying her. I was impressed with the way she’d managed to both answer my question and not openly speak badly of her previous master. My ‘tribute’ slave was one Kalonymos had thought so close to worthless, he may as well gift her to me rather than try to train her so he could sell her. He had no idea her true value.

  Also, the notes from the pleasure parlor listed several clients who always requested her for parties, and I noted a number of friends and allies who’d had her in their castle for four to six weeks at a time. For royalty who don’t staff their own sex slaves, the ability to rent them long term to provide to visiting guests is important, and this little thing was quite popular. I noted both Count Ivan and King Koschei had purchased her for days at a time on more than one occasion, and I blanched at what those two must have put her through.

  The stenographer slave arrived with a strapping guard. I waved him to the perimeter and teleported away from the slave to give the stenographer a few details I wanted written down. I also had her make a note to tell my assistant to copy the notes into Kalonymos’s file. My memory is excellent, but you never know when having a thousand or more years of notes all in one place will prove beneficial.

  I looked back to my newly acquired slave and considered a few things before teleporting back to my throne and telling her, “If you fit in here and continue to please me, I’ll consider giving you a real name. For now, we’ll call you Little One. Tell me, did your former master feed you enough?”

  “My Queen, he began combining loss of privileges with regular whippings when I didn’t follow rules or was clumsy. Eating is a privilege, Your Majesty.” The delivery guy had noted her caloric intake on the trip — gruel twice a day and some bread scraps. He’d refilled her water bag when he’d watered the horses, and noted she only ran out twice on the trip, so she wasn’t likely dehydrated. She’d had enough calories she shouldn’t be weak or lightheaded, but I felt the need to be sure she had good food.

  “I’ll send you to the cook when we're finished here, with i
nstructions you’re to eat until you’re full. From there, someone will take you to the baths and stylists, and you’ll eventually make your way to my chambers this evening. I’ll get with my designer to decide how we’ll clothe you, but for now, I quite like you nude.”

  She’d look good in corsets, and in sheer robes. Sometimes, the right clothing can show off nudity by highlighting what isn’t covered.

  I asked her a series of questions about her preferred type of whip, her least favorite punishments, and her erogenous zones. I asked her how she’d lost all three virginities — cunt, ass, and throat. It was in her file, but I wanted to hear it from her. This slave’s original training had been by one of the best, and if she were telling the truth — and I had no reason to think she might be lying — her entire body was an erogenous zone, with one exception: her eyeballs. My insides warmed at the possibilities. Oh, what fun I could have with this beautiful little slave.

  To end the interview process, I leaned forward and ordered full eye contact. “I have a dungeon full of people I can torture if I only want to hear someone scream, but to watch a little wisp of a thing orgasm while I torture her? If your paperwork is accurate, you’ll be a rare treat. How well we get on will determine whether I keep you for my personal use or make money off you by renting you out. You’ll never get to make decisions, but if you please me, I’ll ask your preferences when it amuses me to show kindness. Now, since I don’t want to wait until tonight to sample the goodies…”

  I waved the guard over and ordered him to strip, and to hand me his belt while he disrobed.

  Chapter Two

  Little One

  When I awoke a few days before the solstice, I thought it would be an ordinary day. I’d been nervous when the lead slave had sent me to medical for a check-up, and then terrified when I figured out the nurse was filling out paperwork for my exit from the castle. Despite the fact I hadn’t fit into my former owner’s castle very well, being sold to strangers is terrifying. Would I have a single master? Or would it be another pleasure parlor, where I was rented out to people who preferred masochists? I’d been happiest at the pleasure parlor, but only because if I had a bad Master, it was only for a short time. I’d enjoyed the variety of pain I received.

  I’d needed pain, and the only way to get it from my last Master had been to misbehave, or to accidentally break things. I’m sure they thought I was the clumsiest slave ever. Still, I hadn’t thought I was bad enough to be sold. I’d made sure I didn’t need to be punished more than once or twice a month, and I’d been careful to appear forgetful instead of defiant when I didn’t follow orders.

  My former owner didn’t even tell me goodbye. I went from the medical office to the loading area near the stables, where I was loaded onto a cart with other goods being sold to a far-off castle — fabrics, rugs, yarn, and thread. Ironic, that I was naked while being delivered alongside fabrics destined to be made into clothing.

  The driver made sure I had plenty of water, and I was given gruel in the morning and evening. He also gave me a few of his bread scraps, for which I was grateful. He tended to me when he tended the horses, though they got some apples once, and I didn’t.

  My right wrist and ankle had an iron shackle attached, and a chain locked me to the cart. The driver was responsible for me, but I was just another item in his cart, another line on a shipping form — though one he had to keep alive during the trip. He had no way to know I’d have never made a run for it. I’ve been a slave all my life, and I’d have no idea where to go. The uncertainty of how life would be with a new owner was scary, but the thoughts of being on my own with no one to tell me what to do were terrifying.

  At night, I slept on the cart, thankful for the rugs and fabrics in rolls under me. My chains were long enough I could stand beside by the cart, so I peed on the ground when we stopped to water and feed the horses, but otherwise, I spent the three days on the cart — under the sun during the day and under the stars at night. My sunscreen treatments last a month, and I’d recently had one so my skin didn’t burn, but the days were still hot and miserable.

  Two guards accompanied us, though they followed us on horseback. The guards used me a few times, but the driver barely took notice. They were all responsible for delivering me healthy and uninjured, so no one hurt me. I was too scared to risk defying the men in the hopes of feeling their belt.

  No one spoke to me, and slaves don’t start conversations, so I was alone with my thoughts throughout the trip. I had no idea where I was going, or what it would be like when I arrived.

  My terror had grown when I’d seen the size of the castle I’d been brought to, though I hadn’t learned I’d been given to The Dark Queen until I heard the driver speaking to the guards at the gate.

  I’d entered through a side door naked, but I was used to being without clothes. Still, I felt so small and alone. I didn’t know anyone in this place.

  I was given a protein drink and taken to a plain room with a small desk, stocks, and an unpadded bondage table. I expected to be restrained in some way, but I was shown how to stand at attention the way The Winter Queen prefers, and then put into inspection pose and left alone for a long time. An hour? More? I didn’t know. Pleasure slaves learn how to check out of reality when they’re stood to the side and aren’t needed. At first, I’d worked myself into a panic, but eventually I focused on my breathing and got myself mostly under control.

  Long ago, I’d learned to lift my hands a few inches and prop my fingers near the top of my skull when not being watched. It didn’t take much to drop them a few inches when the doorknob started to turn, and I hadn’t been caught in years.

  Despite the fact I hadn’t known she was the Queen and had addressed her as Ma’am, so far my worst fears hadn’t transpired. However, I was still terrified this was some cruel trick, and the brutal Winter Queen I’d heard about in whispered tales would suddenly appear in the place of the nice Queen who’d gently questioned me, and who seemed to understand my needs.

  King Koschei had been kind when he’d rented me, and then he’d taken me home, stripped the skin from my breasts with knives, whipped me, healed me, and done it again, but to a different body part the next time. As long as I was whole when returned to the pleasure parlor, no one cared what was done to me while rented.

  But the Winter Queen seemed different. Scary without being terrifying. Just answering her questions made my skin crave the whip, and when she ordered the guard to hand over his thick leather belt, I hoped she’d give me what I so desperately needed.

  “Before we begin, I’ll inspect you.” The Winter Queen’s voice was suddenly all business, and I checked my posture to be sure I didn’t anger her.

  Unsure of so many things, I decided to fall back on my original Master’s teachings. He’d taught me to walk with dignity and grace unless I was in the act of being humiliated. My former owner had eventually seen my dignity as being haughty, but he hadn’t understood my need for pain, either. He hadn’t understood me at all.

  I followed instructions as gracefully and quickly as possible, and scrambled onto the picnic table — on my back with my bottom at the edge, my legs spread wide with my knees straight while I held my ankles out and up. Her Majesty settled the belt on the table, and observed me from all sides. Minutes passed. The sun warmed me. A light breeze kissed my skin, my breasts, my clit, even my bottom-hole. It was bad form to watch her as she walked around me, so I looked to the sky and hoped she was pleased.

  Without a word, she stepped closer and jammed four fingers into my cunny, pressed her thumb in, and then crammed her whole fist into me. I screamed at the forceful penetration and the stretch, and came close to orgasming but managed to hold back.

  “Am I allowed to orgasm, my Queen?”

  “Not without permission. I’m aware you came close. I expect better control.”

  I gasped and yelped when she pulled her fist out, but I missed the intrusion when it was gone.

  I didn’t miss it for long though, be
cause she treated my rear entrance the same. I screamed in agony this time, when her hand stretched my bottom-hole quickly and with no mercy. My cunny had been soaking wet, but my bottom-hole wasn’t lubed and her hand only had the moisture it’d picked up when she’d fisted my cunny.

  Her hand again pulled out too fast, and I was still trying to recover from the intrusion when she pulled my clit hood up and flicked the ultrasensitive bundle of nerves a half dozen times with a fingernail. I screamed until I ran out of air, but I managed to hold my position.

  My heart tried to beat out of my chest when the Queen reached for the guard’s belt.

  “You’ll come out of position eventually,” she told me, her voice conversational, as if she were discussing the weather, “but I want to see how long you can hold it. If you last long enough to satisfy me, I’ll let you orgasm when the guard fucks you.”

  The first strokes rained down fire on my inner thighs, and I struggled to hold position with everything in me. Determined to please my Queen, I held a death grip on my ankles and locked my knees so they wouldn’t be tempted to bend.

  I braced myself, determined not to beg, but within minutes I was in tears — screaming and begging for a respite. I’d long ago discovered women know how to hurt other women in ways men can’t imagine, and the Winter Queen had it down to an art.

  I have no idea how long I lasted before my legs came together and I rolled to my side, but the Queen didn’t stop whipping me, and I soon discovered she’d hit whatever I presented. If I turned to protect one area, it would only make another — possibly more vulnerable — part of my body her target.

  I came off the table but didn’t dare run from her, so I jerked and moved in an uncoordinated, graceless, frantic dance while she relentlessly beat me with the belt. Eventually, I forced myself to bend over the table and present my bottom and the backs of my thighs for the whipping. The speed and strength of the strokes increased, and in response I arched my back to give her a better target. Finally, I could take the steps necessary to relax and accept the strokes so I could properly submit to whatever my Queen wished to do to this body she now owned.