Punishing The Slave Girl

by Zade, Chera

  'I've seen them.'

  Grenn turns to the voice. My eyes go there too. It's an old man sat at the bar alone, nursing a tankard of ale.

  'Bullshit', Grenn says, hands quick to lift into the air dismissively.

  'You know I have, Grenn', the old man says. I notice his left hand dead against the counter, his right hand trembling slightly around his glass of ale. I think he's going to try and lift it to his mouth, before he grabs the handle and settles with that, as though his hand were simply a startled bird landing on a tree branch in a heavy storm.

  'What have you seen?' I ask.

  'It's bullshit', Grenn says, 'whatever he tells you, it's bullshit. He can't even fucking see. Half of his body's already been taken by the devil, the other half is on its way. He's a liar and a thief. You won't get no sense out of him.'

  'I'm a thief', the old man says, 'I'll admit that, but I'm not a liar. I was two days in Minster at the beginning of the year. I saw them come of the boats and I saw what they did to the city. I saw what they did to the women.'

  The barmaid slides three plates of pork stew onto our table, a basketful of bread. Grenn takes a slice and tries to dip it into Edgar's stew. Edgar hits the back of his hand with a spoon, a second after he's thought it, faster than lightning.

  'What did they do to the women?' I ask.

  'Don't listen to him', someone by the fire says. 'He's only trying to scare you.'

  'You don't want to know', someone else says.

  'It doesn't matter, we're safe here in the Kingdom', comes a third voice.

  'You think we are safe here?' Grenn says. 'You think that fat King gives a fuck about us. You think she does?'

  'What did they do to the women', I ask again.

  The old man turns to me. It's now that I see that the left hand side of his body is paralysed, while the right hand side of his face has been burnt horribly. Grenn throws his hands up in the air, resigned to it. He heads off to the bar, muttering to himself and scratching the welts on the top of his head like a cat sick with fur itch.

  'Those that they don't kill outright', the old man says, 'they turn into sex slaves.'

  'Sex slaves?' Blake says, taking the question off my lips.

  The old man nods solemnly. 'They use them like lumps of meat', he says. 'handed around from person to person like they mean nothing. There all day to pleasure them. Fucking constantly. Two, three, sometimes even four men at a time. It's sick.'

  'It isn't true', Grenn says, shaking his head.

  'Fuck off', the old man says, angry now. 'You know nothing of life away from the Kingdom. You were born here and you'll die here', he says. 'By their hand. You all will.'

  'What are they like?' I ask.

  'Savages', the old man spits out.

  'No, I mean, what do they look like? How strong are they, how tall? How do they fight?'

  'Better than us, that's how they fight. We need ten armies to destroy them.'

  He pauses to sip his beer. It takes an almighty effort to get it to his lips without spilling it. Once he's done, he continues. 'Big', he says. 'Strong. Blond hair. Long too. Cut weirdly sometimes. They wear animal skins and horns on their heads when they wear anything at all. In every way they are better than us. Bigger, taller, fiercer. And that weapon that they carry, that hammer. We've got no chance.'

  An ember from the fire explodes out onto the stone floor, and we all watch it hiss and cool for a moment, before someone crunches it out under their boot. The old man stares into space, his words settling on us like the torn remains of a prophecy destined to be unheeded, that has been destroyed and thrown to the sky in anger. The silence is broken by Grenn's caustic laughter, before the room settles and we are left to our own devices again, like any of the other patrons.

  I sip my ale quietly. The food tastes good. I watch Edgar shovel it in, Blake sip at in cautiously, and the old man relive the terrors of his past, alone at the bar again, his bright blue eyes wet with tears.

  Chapter 4

  My husband smells of wine, roast boar and adultery. He doesn't even bother keeping it a secret anymore. He doesn't use this bed, but he brings girls back to the palace, and I know the kind of places he frequents in the city. I have long since stopped caring. I have my mind on other things, my dreams placed elsewhere.

  I watch him pour wine, guzzle it down and pour another glass. He stands deliberately at the end of the bed, a movement familiar to me.

  'What?' I ask him.

  'You know what', he says. 'I can't do it on my own, can I?'

  'I didn't think you were interested anymore', I say evenly, sitting up in bed slightly to face him.

  'I need a son, Anne', he says. 'I've waited long enough.'

  'I'm trying, Henry', I say, supplicating myself to him. 'Come here.'

  I outstretch my hand for him to take. He looks at me like the gesture is unrecognised and scowls at me instead. More wine is poured, both from the decanter into his goblet, and from the goblet into his mouth.

  'Try harder', he orders, a menace in his voice.

  'Yes, my King', I say.

  'It's not like the others can't do it. If you can't provide me with the one thing I married you for, I don't have any reason to keep you.'

  'I promise I'll give you a son', I say. 'We just need to practice more.'

  'You need to serve your King more', Henry says.

  Naked, stripped of his robe, his gold, his finery, he looks vulnerable and ordinary. He looks like a confused sleepwalker, who has just woken up in a strange place in the middle of the night. He crashes to the bed, mattress sinking and frame creaking from his bulk. His hands go behind his head, his legs one crossed over the other. I slide towards him, my fingers caressing his skin, moving gradually towards his limp and pendulous meat, stuck in a flaccid state of pre-excitement.

  I remember a time when making love to my husband was a pleasure. I remember too, a time when he would spend half the night taking me to a level of ecstasy I have long since forgotten existed at all. I warm his cock between my hands, pumping and squeezing life back into it. I choke the skin back and forth, bend over and take him into my mouth. His cock is sizeable, even pleasurable inside me. With my tongue moving in well practised circles around his glans, he soon begins to grow. When I am done, and his cock is ready to slide inside me, he is as hard as rock.

  I squat above him, take his cock in my hand and rub him against my clit. Years ago, this would have excited me almost to the point of climax, now, with my husband all but inactive below me, it feels so much like a chore, I can hardly wait for it to be over. I close my eyes and imagine that the man below me is a savage I have been ordered to fuck, and the fingers I put on my ass to pull myself wide for his cock, aren't my fingers at all, they belong to a second man, ready to bend me over and force himself hard into my ass.

  My husband groans. He too has his eyes closed, and I wonder whether it is the girls of the brothel he frequents that he is imagining, or someone else entirely.

  Wet at the thought of a number of dangerous men taking me, I place my husband's cock at the entrance to my pussy and drop my weight onto him. It feels good taking a cock inside me finally, even if it is only my husbands. It has been such a long time since we fucked, that I'd forgotten how pleasurable it was, even like this.

  His swollen meat claws at the entrance to my hole and forces it's way inside. I love the moment of penetration so much that I pull him out and do it again. For me, it is the moment of connection, the moment where we go from being two individual people to linking ourselves as one. I do not love my husband anymore, and I know that he doesn't love me either, but that moment for me is still magical, in a purely sexual sense.

  'What the fuck are you doing?' my husband complains, as I lift off for a third time to rub his cock head into my swelling clitoris, ready to drop myself down again.

  'I'm tight', I say by way of explanation. 'It's been a while.'

  'The tighter the better', Henry says. 'Put me back inside your cunt and fuck
me. Fuck me like a whore.'

  I put him back where he wants to go, drop my lifted knee so they are both now rested either side of his hips and rock him up inside me. My husband has a large penis, wide at the base and tapered to the top. It bends slightly to the left, and in this position, leaning slightly forwards, I can just about feel him nudging against the sweet spot inside my sex.

  'Fuck yeah', Henry calls. He pulls at my tits and puts his hands on my ass to better control my movements. He can only make love to me in this position, but he wants to be the one who feels like he's fucking me, and not the other way round. He grips me forcefully, rocks me back and forth on his sensitive stem and thrusts himself up inside me as best as he can manage.

  'Oh fuck', he says.

  I reach behind to where his balls are squashed up against my ass, and I fondle and squeeze them as much as he will allow, dragging them first away from his cock and then cupping them and attempting to slide a finger below and towards his anus.

  Henry grabs me by the hips and lifts me up and down on his cock, as though he were using me to wank himself, and I go back up onto the balls of my feet to make it easier for him to do so. I plant a hand in the centre of his chest to balance myself, the other on the top of his thigh.

  'I knew there was a reason I married you', Henry says, and it makes me smile. 'You always were flexible.'

  I can tell he's getting close. I know the signs like the back of my hand. His breathing begins to peak in short, raspy intakes of air, sweat breaks out on the top of his head, turning the hair at the edge of his hairline a sodden brown and he grits his teeth like he's fighting to remain in control. I want to come too, but I'm not quite there yet. I want to play with my clit but Henry won't allow it. He hates me pleasuring myself because he thinks I'm only doing it because he can't. I'm going to have to fake an orgasm and see to myself when I can.

  'Don't fucking stop now', Henry says, almost to himself, as he continues to control me, lifting me up and down his cock in careful, precise little movements. He's barely inside me at all, just at the very edge of my hole, using my entrance to rub against the most sensitive part of his cock. I know he likes it like this. I know, from time to time, he prefers not to fuck me deeply, because in doing so, especially in this position, he loses sensitivity. It doesn't bother me either way. Deeper for me is better, but in this position I know it will be over more rapidly.

  I close my eyes and link myself into his breathing pattern, so we are both peaking and he thinks I'm about to come too.

  I grip his thigh hard, the ends of my fingers turning white, arch my neck backwards.

  'Oh fuck, Henry', I say in stilted delivery. 'That feels so fucking good.'

  'Just a little bit more', Henry says. 'Oh fuck, just a little bit more.'

  His hands hold my hips so tightly I feel like they are about to snap my pelvis in half. Henry grits his teeth. He twists his neck, grunts like a wolf baying to the moon and I feel his cock head swell inside me. At the point of ejaculation, he lets go, allowing me to drop down onto his cock so he's all the way back inside me. I feel his balls tighten up against the skin of my ass-cheek, and I feel a spasm cut through his thigh. I scream and fold myself forwards, pretending to explode in orgasm myself, my skin sweaty and my back arched up like a cat, ready to cough up a furball. Henry groans. His breath hisses out of him like the steam escaping from the broken lid of an old pot. He bucks and writhes and wriggles underneath me, and while I fold myself flat against his chest, he comes a handful of times, filling me full of his useless seed.

  I lay there on top of him, nowhere near an orgasm, but happy that I've pleased him and our short ritual sex session is over for another three months. Henry pushes me to the side, desperate to have me off his cock. He gets embarrassed when he comes, as though revealing something so private is like admitting to a weakness. I think he hates that he needs me. He hates that he needs me to please him.

  'That was fucking awful', he says.

  'I'm sorry darling', I say, unsure what it is exactly that he has a problem with.

  I try and caress him, reaching out to touch him fondly, but he snaps my hand away, gets up out of bed and goes for his wine.

  'That better work', he says. 'I feel like I'm wasting my time.'

  'I'll try my best', I say.

  'Aye', Henry agrees, while he eyeballs me suspiciously. 'You'll do just that.'

  While he sleeps, I roll onto my side and slide my hand down between my legs. I think about a group of barbarians turning me into their sex slave, and I quietly bring myself to a bone shattering orgasm, while I stifle my moans with the pillow, careful not to wake him.

  Chapter 5

  My brother is dead. The Vikings have taken Stanford and are advancing south. Henry has sent our army north to block them before they cross the Meiringen Strait, but no one knows whether they'll get there in time. We have word a week old of their whereabouts, and since then, nothing.

  Those that are able to are leaving the city. They are heading west towards the mountains, desperate to avoid what they believe will be a slaughter. They have lost faith in their King.

  My husband is defiant, but despite his confidence, there is an air of palpable tension running through the palace. I can feel it from him too.

  Froome wants to move us out towards safer ground just in case the city walls can't hold them out. He has suggested Greyweather Tower in the hills to the east but my husband won't allow it. He refuses to believe we are in that much immediate danger. He wants to wait for word from our troops. He wants to see them ride back into the city carrying the heads of their northern brothers, blood from a brutal battle smeared like war paint across their faces. His eyes light up when he says it, like he's got the sickness and in days he'll be mad and then dead.

  Kenrick thinks we can fight them off if we need to. He believes the city walls are impenetrable, and even if they make it down here, they'll be leading themselves to an early grave.

  'We have the advantage', he says. 'The higher ground, the tactical know how. The man power', but even when he speaks he seems to lack confidence in what he's really saying, as though the words are empty casks of something that once used to be much more powerful, and he's saying them because he has to, because it's his job and he's putting on a show just to please the king. As though they both are putting on a show, because the King sits there and agrees with him, despite everything else pointing to the contrary, as though the simple act of admitting weakness is an acceptance of defeat.

  Osborne is the only man who seems to have a clear head. He is the only man apart from Froome who believes that if we stay in the palace, we will die. Contrary to Kenrick's belief, Osborne thinks we will be vastly outnumbered unless we somehow bolster our reserves. Most of our best men have been sent to head the Vikings off before they reach us. If they are defeated, we won't have enough men left to defend us. He believes we have vastly underestimated the savages, both in terms of troop size and ability to fight. He wants us to get word to Milner. He wants us to ally ourselves with the King's cousin, put the past behind us and stand together to defend the realm.

  'There will be no Kingdom after this', Osborne argues. 'No throne to sit on and no ass to sit on it with. This is a real danger, it's happening now and we need to act.'

  'We need to kill them all, that's what we need to do', Henry says, hitting his chest passionately. 'You'll stay here and fight for your King. For the realm.'

  'I'll stay here and die for my King you mean. We all will. Is that what you want?'

  'Any more and I'll end you myself', Henry says, rising out of his chair, his face flushed with anger.

  'The city is falling apart', Osborne says, sighing heavily. 'The men and women are leaving. I suggest we do the same before it's too late.'

  'Enough', Henry barks. 'I will not listen to this insolence in my palace. We'll wait for our men to bring back the heads of those savages to run along the spikes of these city walls, and until they do, I'll hear no more about it.'

&n
bsp; A week later we get word. A lone rider is spotted at the edge of the city, slumped across his horse. When he gets to the palace, we realise it's Blake, still alive but mortally wounded. He has deep cuts across a face that has swollen and cracked by the temple, a broken arm and gouges across his torso from a weapon not even Kenrick recognises. He's been riding for the best part of a day, dying for a little more than that. A shake of the head is enough for us to know.

  'Edgar?', Henry insists. 'Jacob? Carruthers? Riley? What happened to my men? What the fuck happened to my men?'

  Henry grabs Blake by the lapels, but it's already too late. The rest of us watch as he tries to lift him into the air, as he tries desperately to get a response from a man that's already dead.

  Henry turns to look at me. I shake my head too. 'We need to go', I say.

  'We need to go now', Osborne confirms.

  Froome has lost the colour in his cheeks.

  'We fight', Henry says defiantly. 'We stay here and fight these fucking barbarians.'

  We have less than fifty men, Kenrick and the King included. No-one knows how many are coming. The army my husband sent up to stop them was two hundred strong, so this pathetic stand is little more than a suicide mission, but he won't listen, and Kenrick has no choice but to fight alongside him.

  He lets me go with Froome and Osborne. Orders me to Greyweather Tower to wait for him there.

  'Take our son', he says, 'and if I die, make sure he makes it to the throne.'

  'I will', I tell him, even though I know I'm not pregnant. Even though I know he can never make me so.

  'You better fucking make it', he says to Osborne. 'I'll run a sword through you myself if you don't.'

  The two men embrace. 'Come with us', Osborne insists. 'This is hopeless.'

  'This is my palace, Edwood', he says. 'I'm not letting it go that easily.'

  'Get me word', Froome requests. 'As soon as you can.'

  I kiss my husband, pull him into me and hold his hand. 'Are you sure you won't come?' I say.