Dream Captive

by Reese Gabriel

  ‘Get off her you ravenous little cunt!’

  Drusia recoiled as the whip struck her hack. ‘Forgive me!’ she wailed. ‘Master, please, forgive me!’

  The man continued to strike at her. ‘It’s too late for that, cunt! Far too late. Bothar!’ he called up top to another man. ‘Put this one in heavy irons, and the yellow hair, too! I’ll deal with them both after I’ve finished my supper. Yes, yes, little captain’s slut,’ he purred to the cowering Drusia, her body balled at his feet, ‘I will enjoy punishing you, tonight - while your new friend watches.’

  Bothar was a red-bearded man with a flattened nose and scars across his cheek and neck. His chest was covered in fiery locks and he had round his neck circlets of heavy, clanking irons. Drusia was limp and utterly passive as he shackled her, hands behind her back, both ankles drawn tight to the wrists. He left her on her belly, her body bowed, a bit in her mouth attached to light chains drawing her neck back painfully towards her feet. For good measure he tied back her auburn hair, taut at the roots. Tesra was dealt with far more leniently, being required to offer but a single wrist, the shackle being attached by a length of chain to an eyebolt in the deck nearby.

  Minor though this might seem by slave standards, it was for Tesra an unbearable confinement, terrifying and humiliating.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ she pleaded to Bothar, who had paused to scratch the wild red head of his obediently yapping Kasandra.

  He made no response and long after he had left she continued to pull at the chain irrationally, finally giving in to a flood of tears that soaked the metal, threatening to rust it. Drusia, meanwhile, her body scourged, her limbs contorted, looked stoically away, her eyes focusing on some distant point.

  Vorra alone seemed pleased, for while she had not yet gotten her old job back, it was a virtual certainty she would, given Drusia’s transgression. ‘Just you wait,’ she taunted the helpless warder, carefully wiping the sweat off the woman’s brow to drip into the wounds on her back. ‘I will make you pay for every bit of treachery.’

  And what did Vorra know of treachery? Tesra thought bitterly. Had she endured kidnapping and cruel abandonment all in one day? Had she been taken from all she knew by a strange man, only to be forgotten by him, left to linger in despair? How could she possibly understand, or Marcellus either? Indeed, the next time she saw the man she would give him a piece of her mind. She would make him comprehend who she was and how it was she must be treated. She, Tesra, would speak and he would have to listen.

  Then again, what if he didn’t? What if he told her things were as they were and she could not change them back? What if he took out his belt to enforce his decrees? Or took down a whip like Montrego had used? The idea angered her, but it also made her wet and squirmy, the way Drusia’s fingers and tongue had. Quietly retreating to an isolated spot, Tesra tucked herself tight into a ball in an effort to make the feelings pass.

  It did not help that Drusia was close by, being forced into whimpers by Vorra’s girlish tortures. Oh, Persistrata, she prayed, you who are most powerful among female beings, descend now and defeat these males and Vorra, too. Give me courage and dignity.

  Closing her eyes, she awaited a response that was destined not to come.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Behold, Rodrigo,’ announced the pirate king, placing the ancient medallion into the hands of his much-mellowed second-in-command. ‘My greatest treasure.’

  Rodrigo, his temperament much improved by the Talassian governor’s rum, grasped the hammered medal in slow motion, fighting as he did to focus his deep brown eyes, which turned black as a sea storm in times of rage. ‘Not gold,’ he muttered from across the heavy oaken table in Marcellus’ chambers. ‘Bronze, is it then?’

  Marcellus nodded his head. ‘Yes. It is not the metal itself that is of value, though, but the source of it, and the inscription. See here, at the bottom?’

  He pointed to the beveled edge, just below the stylized ship and sun emblem, superimposed over a vaguely rounded shape meant to represent an island. ‘This is where we were today, and this ship belonged to my grandfather.’

  Rodrigo raised his teetering head. ‘The same island?’

  ‘Yes, Rodrigo, it is.’ Marcellus only hoped he hadn’t gotten the man too drunk, or else he’d wind up explaining the whole thing again tomorrow. ‘My grandfather came to this place nearly a century ago. He told an incredible tale, which in turn he passed to my father, who left it to me. This medallion alone bespeaks its truth, and yet the men of my family have had no rest on account of its eating away at their brains like a phantom. It drove my grandfather and father mad, the seeking of it, and now I, Marcellus, have found it.’

  ‘You never said anything,’ Rodrigo slurred, holding out his dented iron goblet for yet another refill, ‘about a magic island.’

  ‘It is not the sort of thing to advertise,’ he tipped the rum bottle, upending the dregs. Indeed, Marcellus had intended to tell nothing of this to his crew. The severity of Rodrigo’s and the other men’s reaction upon his return from the island, however, had caught him entirely off guard. Apparently his authority was not as ironclad as he would have liked to think. A pirate king should not have to explain himself nor ask permission for anything. Those who follow obey, at the price of blood, the rewards being measured in the booty he brings to one and all in his campaigns.

  Of late there’d been little in the way of treasure, thanks to the ever-increasing efficiency of the Talassian navy. It was no secret that the new dragar had vowed to end the menace of piracy on the high seas forever. What his Imperial Majesty Teranos the Fifth did not know, though, was that Marcellus, latest and greatest of the pirate kings now had a secret weapon, one he’d been searching for surreptitiously his entire life.

  ‘Rodrigo,’ he leaned forward, capturing the man’s shoulder in his grasp, ‘what if I were to tell you the female has a power greater than that of all Talassia, greater than the dragar... greater even than the gods?’

  Rodrigo pursed his lips, and after a thoughtful moment began to laugh. ‘I would say you were mad,’ he shook off the hand of his captain. ‘I would say the slut is some witch who has cast a spell on you. Give me half an hour with her, captain, and I will fix her right enough.’

  Marcellus had no doubt he would. The slave girls lived in terror of the man, especially those of his own ship and for good reason. It was not only their bodies he took, but their minds and hearts as well, playing upon their worst fears, breaking their wills and reducing them to levels scarcely recognizable as human.

  ‘No, this one cannot be treated as a slave. She must be cultivated till her powers are gauged.’

  ‘Powers,’ he spat, landing a thick ball of sputum on the slanting wooden floor, gently swaying with the rest of the ship. ‘What power does a female have but the ability to take a cock? They are animals; they should not even open their mouths except to cry out or suck.’

  ‘This one is different, Rodrigo. This one can see the future.’

  Rodrigo looked ready to laugh again. This was the tricky part, the part Marcellus had wished so much to avoid. It would almost be worse if the man believed him than if he thought him mad. Were it not for the high probability of mutiny, Marcellus would keep his mouth shut. Earlier today, on deck, he had deliberately provoked his vice king to test the depth of the resistance. Looking about, reading the men’s eyes, sensing the tensions in the air, Marcellus had read his own fate. Montrego, Baltar and Thosar were nearly ready to switch sides, and there were others who would have followed suit. And these were men of his own crew. How matters might stand on the other ships he was only now learning from his spies. Prudence had been the watchword upon his return. Had it come to steel today, he - the pirate king - might have prevailed in the melee. Or not.

  Marcellus did not like to play odds. He preferred to be master of his own fate. Better to retain Rodrigo’s alli
ance, at least for now until their coffers were filled, after which time he could make whatever moves he needed. Since the story was so fanciful Rodrigo would never convince anyone else anyhow, so in that sense the secret was still protected no matter what.

  And if worse came to worse, which it sometimes did, he still had the ring, safely hidden once more, which would allow him to go back for another slut, or even to hide out himself till the trouble blew over.

  ‘She is a seer,’ Marcellus continued. ‘Uncultivated, but definitely the genuine article. They live in seclusion, as part of a holy order, under the care of nuns belonging to a sort of sisterhood. They are raised as virgins, with no knowledge whatsoever of males. They live in perfect harmony, contemplating the beauty of the heavens their entire lives.’

  Rodrigo slammed his fist, shaking the wood. ‘Now you are pulling my leg, my friend. I am sure of it.’

  Marcellus’ face bore no expression as he rose to his feet, military fashion. ‘The proof shall come, all too soon. Keep the crew in line, maintain discipline, and see if we are not snatching fat-bellied Talassian galleons out from under the nose of the dragar within the week.’

  Rodrigo was not too drunk to understand that he was being dismissed. ‘I obey you, captain,’ said the dumbfounded man, as dazed and awed as Marcellus had hoped he would be.

  ‘You are my arm,’ he saluted in formal pirate code.

  ‘And you, my heart,’ Rodrigo replied. ‘For now and always.’

  Marcellus hoped there was some sincerity still left in the stock salutation. Rodrigo had been with him on many missions, but it was a known fact among pirates that a friendship was only as strong as the rum that poured, only as brilliant as the gold that shines fresh off a newly taken vessel.

  The seer was brought to him shortly after Rodrigo’s departure. She had been cleaned up after her time in the slave hold, though its effects seemed very much writ on her lovely face.

  He greeted her standing, hair braided down his back, his body covered by a short loincloth and nothing more. ‘I see you have found something more suitable to wear,’ he observed, noting the linen lace-up shirt hanging nearly to her knees.

  ‘It was given to me,’ she informed him, much accusation in the sky-blue eyes. ‘After I was dunked in the ocean upside down, a rope tied to my ankle.’

  Marcellus suppressed his amusement. ‘That is a slave’s bath,’ he confirmed. ‘For which the girls are generally most grateful after lying so long in their own filth.’

  ‘The gods shall punish you,’ said the still haughty nymph, far too beautiful for her own good. ‘They shall hunt you down and dispatch the whole of your evil crew and all of your ships besides to the pit of eternal flames.’

  Marcellus thought it interesting that in her account so far she had not brought up her being confined in steel, a fact brought to his attention just before her arrival. Nor did she seem anxious to discuss the incident with the naughty and ever horny Drusia, in which she had experienced a tiny awakening of her dormant sexuality.

  ‘I cannot help noticing,’ observed the pirate king, arms folded across his bare chest, ‘that your nipples are fully erect.’

  Tesra crossed her own arms. ‘That is a reaction to the cold of the ocean and nothing more.’

  ‘Return your arms to your sides, captive.’

  She did so, furious. ‘As you say, captor.’

  ‘I had an interesting discussion with Rodrigo,’ he said, enjoying immensely this game of cat and mouse, ‘in which he told me what he thinks should be done with you.’

  ‘Oh?’ she tossed her wet yellow curls, born to be clenched in the hands of a possessing master. ‘And what is that?’

  ‘That which is done with the others,’ he shrugged, going to the cabinet for a fresh bottle. On a whim he chose a different spirit entirely. ‘Do you know what wine is, Tesra?’

  ‘It is a drink made of fermented grapes,’ she said dismissively, returning to the other matter, as he knew she would. ‘What things in particular did he mean - among those done to those poor prisoners below deck?’

  ‘Slave girls,’ he corrected. ‘Come here and kneel.’ He snapped his fingers, pointing to the edge of the table. ‘As for what things Rodrigo meant, I suspect you know better than I, having spent some considerable time with the girls.’

  ‘Why may I not sit down?’ she enquired, noting the presence of two seats.

  ‘Because,’ he sat himself in the one, ‘females do not sit in my chambers.’

  ‘Then I shall stand.’

  ‘Not an option,’ he shook his head. ‘In my chambers females remain on their backs, bellies or knees. Take your pick.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘There is the whip,’ he inclined his head. ‘Fetch it for me.’

  Tesra turned to face the wall on which hung the leather device, some foot-and-a-half long, made of braided leather.

  ‘I will obey,’ she lowered herself hastily, her face a shade whiter. ‘Please do not beat me again.’

  He held out the cup for her, allowing a distinct look of amusement to creep across his face. ‘Drink.’

  Tesra understood she was to lean forward with her lips. Deliberately he fed her too much, sending blood-red rivulets down her neck and chest.

  ‘Leave it,’ he commanded when she tried to clean herself. He liked her this way. The borrowed white shirt soaked in the red wine, her peaked breasts outlined in the material, rendering her neither fully clothed nor gracefully nude, but somewhere between, in the category of whore or slut.

  ‘Rodrigo would enjoy this view,’ he mused, taking a sip for himself of the tart, dry liquid, liberated from the island stores of sun-baked Rotura on the eastern gulf of Pheraria Minor.

  Tesra held her tongue, the recent reminder of her status as a captive subject to the whip having curbed her temper somewhat.

  ‘You seem very curious,’ he said, ‘about what Rodrigo might do to you. What exactly was it you saw in the hold? You will tell me, in every detail.’ She frowned very slightly - an expression he found quite fetching.

  ‘I saw women, slaves, abused,’ she began, attempting to make her account seem voluntary though in fact she had been commanded. ‘Chained and confined in a vile hole.’

  ‘Were they clothed?’ he enquired as if he had no idea.

  ‘No, they were naked.’

  ‘Your knees are closed together,’ he observed. ‘This is another thing I do not permit in my chambers.’ Tesra spread them, uncertain. ‘Wider.’ He waited as she opened herself further, the shirt riding up nearly to her waist. Were he to check he was fairly certain he would find her already moist.

  ‘Drink,’ he commanded, and this time he gave her no chance at all, pouring the entire contents of the goblet down her throat and over the front of her sopping wet top.

  ‘S-stop,’ she sputtered, the liquid splashing pleasantly between her dependent orbs. ‘Are you trying to drown me?’

  The captive earned a cuff to the side of her face, strong enough to knock her to the floor. ‘You will no longer speak,’ Marcellus informed her, ‘unless spoken to. Resume your position.’

  Tesra returned swiftly to her knees, newfound fear and respect in her eyes. She was learning that there were limits and that while he might give her play from time to time, she must never forget on whose leash her lovely throat resided.

  ‘As I recall,’ Marcellus refilled both their goblets, ‘you were telling me the things that are done to slave girls, as was revealed to you by the ship’s sluts below deck.’

  ‘They are kept naked,’ she reiterated, fighting the tremor in her voice. ‘Some wear chains, collars even.’

  ‘Men are wont to secure their property,’ he nodded. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Tesra’s mouth watered visibly at the sight of the piece of dried beef in his hand. How long had it
been since she’d eaten?

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged the wine-soaked blonde. ‘Very.’

  ‘Tell me then, captive. How do slave girls take their meals in the hole?’

  ‘I think they must eat on all fours. Scraps are thrown down for them or else they are given bowls.’

  ‘For a slave to take food from a master’s hand, then,’ he prompted, ‘would be a privilege.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered the girl, her eyes daring to look up into his, their emerald centers hot and helpless for many things besides mere meat.

  Marcellus tore the strip in half, placing one part in his palm. ‘You may feed, captive.’

  The feel of her teeth and lips, soft and needy was pleasing on his skin. It occurred to him that he might take her here and now, on the floor if he wished, or else in his storm-tossed bed. He must walk a fine line, however, if he were to get the control he needed over her subconscious. ‘In addition to feeding like animals, what else do these sluts endure?’

  ‘They may be whipped,’ said Tesra throatily. ‘I saw the evidence. Scars from beatings, recent and not so recent. Whippings and floggings and canings administered to their recalcitrant flesh. One girl was even punished in my presence.’

  ‘So much disobedience,’ he mused.

  ‘No,’ she shook her head with a most intoxicating eagerness, ‘it is not only that. Slaves may be marked simply for a man’s pleasure.’

  ‘And they have no say whatsoever?’

  ‘None.’ She arched her back instinctively, revealing her charms. ‘None whatsoever.’

  The kiss was neither gentle nor brief. Marcellus, having bent to receive her, drank his full, absorbing the wine from her lips and also the taste of blood where he had struck her.

  Never had he felt lips to match his own so fully, never had he sensed a female so ready to yield to him, to the very depths of her heart and soul. And never had he been more ready, more explosively hard and surging.

  But this was not how it could go. Pulling himself back at the last possible second, barely avoiding the point of no return, he rejected her.