“Gentlemen, may I present Miss Fisher, from the United States.”
She scanned the faces, recognizing none of them. “I am actually a doctor,” Merritt corrected.
He smiled very thinly as he held the high backed chair for her. “We have four doctors with us, actually. Along with a judge and a cabinet minister.”
“Andre,” said a gray bearded man with a gold medallion around his neck, “will you honor us with the toast?”
“Here, here,” called several others, raising their glasses. As if on cue, barefoot serving girls moved behind the chair of each man, taking up a position of rigid attention. None of the girls, Merritt noticed, went to stand behind the women, all three of whom were bereft of glasses with which to toast.
Andre moved solemnly to his place at the head of the table. “To reclaiming our destiny,” he called, lifting the glass high.
“To destiny,” the men repeated.
At the entrance, two guards in immaculate blue uniforms drew their swords with white-gloved hands, touching them to the tips of their noses, their bodies at rigid attention.
“To reclaiming our property,” Rochescu continued.
The girls lowered their eyes.
“To property,” the men mouthed.
“And to the reclaiming of victory.”
“To victory,” they recited.
Andre seated himself now, signaling for the main doors to be closed. At the last possible second, a man slipped through, calling out his apologies for tardiness. Merritt’s heart did a somersault as Simon Rutledge claimed for himself an empty place several seats to the host’s right.
Simon. The last man on earth she’d expected to see here, wearing a tuxedo and looking delicious enough to eat.
“Forgive me, Andre,” he offered the host.
“Not at all,” Rochescu snapped his fingers at a barefoot, buxom blonde who’d been standing against the far wall in reserve. The girl came instantly to the table, taking up her place of service behind Simon’s chair. Merritt felt a twinge of jealousy as she noticed the girl's tousled hair, pink cheeks and bouncing breasts, the nipples of which stuck prominently through the thin material of the dress.
Merritt had no doubt the big-breasted slut would be more than happy to serve him up her body in addition to whatever else might be on the menu. Fortunately, Simon seemed to be indifferent, even as she leaned unnecessarily far forward, brushing her bosom against the back of the man’s head.
Merritt was ready to scratch the woman’s eyes out, especially when a few moments later she began attending to him, kneeling to place his napkin in his lap and arranging his silverware for easier access. The other girls were doing the same for their men, and it was obvious by now these were no ordinary serving girls.
“We will begin with a most excellent consommé,” Andre announced to the assembled.
“I haven’t any silverware,” Merritt spoke up as the bowl was placed in front of her by a lovely brunette.
The man to her left with wavy black hair and a mustache eyed her curiously before returning to a conversation regarding the economy.
“You have to be fed,” whispered the raven-haired woman seated to her right, “by a man.”
“Excuse me?” laughed Merritt loudly enough to draw the attention of half of the table.
“Is there a problem?” the man on the other side of the woman wanted to know. He was a thin man with large ears and a German accent.
The female wearing an off the shoulder black gown and pearls bowed her head. “No, sir,” she replied quickly to the hawkish man, her eyes addressing the bowl of soup.
The man frowned, his brow furrowing. “Serving woman, remove this woman’s bowl."
Promptly the raven-haired woman’s soup was whisked away by one of the serving girls.
“I’m sorry, I had no idea you’d get in trouble,” Merritt whispered to her neighbor.
“Just hush,” she whispered fiercely. “You’ll make it worse.”
“Miss Fisher, did you have something to say?” asked the mustachioed man.
Merritt looked to the women for guidance. Her neighbor to the right had gone stoic like a punished child. The second, a short haired blonde in a spaghetti strap dress that revealed the better part of her lush cleavage, already had her mouth open to receive a spoonful from the man next to her. Her eyes were soft and indicated gratefulness. She sipped prettily, waiting patiently for another. The man, a portly fellow with pink cheeks and wire rim glasses was grinning eagerly and licking his lips, clearly enjoying both her beauty and her servility.
The third girl, a curly headed brunette in a low cut red dress, was trying to draw the attention of her date—if indeed, this was the correct term—by facing him, her chest thrust out, the stalk of her neck arched invitingly. The man to whom she was directing herself, the one with the gold medallion and the pointed beard ignored her as he alternated feeding himself and waving the spoon at a blonde man with a long pony tail who was failing to appreciate his point about the need for a stronger Zuravian military commitment to NATO.
“No,” she decided not to get anyone in trouble. “I didn’t.”
He nodded. “Very well.”
“Try to get a little meat you can slip to me,” the girl whispered now. “They don’t feed us all day. They like to see us beg.”
Just then the shorthaired blonde put out her tongue, panting. She was rewarded with a tousle of her hair and a sip of wine as the man next to her held the glass to her thirsting lips.
“What is your name?” Merritt asked, deciding to gain all the female camaraderie she could.
“We don’t have names. My current user calls me Honey, because my juices are sweet.”
Merritt felt a tugging at her belly. What this sweet, lovely Zuravian girl was telling her was that for all intents and purposes she had no identity outside of men. Not even the right to a name or the right to feed herself.
“But that’s impossible,” Merritt shot back, a little too loudly.
The thin man beside Honey, her so-called user, turned his attention once more to the lovely dark-haired girl. This time he appeared angry, there being a distinct pinch to his long and bony nose. “This is the second time I’ve had to speak with you, and I promise you there won’t be a third.”
The girl’s eyes faced straight ahead, her face suddenly pale. Merritt could feel the fear rolling off of her, sweet and seething, darkly seductive.
“Breasts,” the man barked by way of command, the word rolling from his lips with chilling Germanic precision.
Honey did not have to be told twice. Reaching behind herself for the zipper, she opened the back of her dress, pulling the bodice down over her full, healthy tits. She had no bra on and to Merritt’s astonishment, she had a gold ring through each nipple. Sitting bolt upright, hands in her lap, her torso utterly naked, she waited.
“Clamps,” he ordered, his voice rising above the conglomeration of male conversation.
“Here, too,” indicated the rotund user of the slender short-haired blonde who immediately pulled down her own top to reveal a pair of small, high, pointed nipples pierced with rings of silver.
“Consommé?” asked the curly-haired man sitting beside Merritt and holding the spoon in the direction of her lips. Not daring to refuse, she sipped the contents, warm and salty on her tongue, smelling nicely of onion and parsley.
“How long will you be in our country?” he asked pleasantly.
The metal spoon clicked on her teeth as he withdrew it.
“Three months,” she croaked, the tangy taste of the soup having awoken her hunger. “I’m completing a research project on The Prince.”
He smiled indulgently. “Another sip?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied softly, her lips open and waiting. How long had it been since she’d eaten?
“You there, American female,” called Honey’s user, his bent out ears bristling very slightly in anticipation. “You should watch. You’ll find it quite illuminating.”
Unable to resist, Merritt turned to Honey, who was sitting with her hands laced behind her head, her tits pointing straight out.
“They’re lovely, aren’t they?” The thin man cupped a breast. “Go on, feel one yourself before I put these on.”
He was dangling the pair of nasty looking clips he’d just been handed that were connected by a fine silver chain.
“I couldn’t,” she shook her head.
“You will,” he countered, the brow compressing into a tight V, “or I’ll have Honey’s tits whipped till they bleed.”
Merritt cast a desperate glance at Simon. He looked back at her coldly like she was some form of insect. Tears welling in the corner of her eyes, Merritt surrendered to the inevitable and touched the dangling globe of her helpless sister. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered to the girl.
“Caress it, make her hot,” ordered the German.
Merritt complied, trying her hardest to remain detached from the sensuality of the act. Honey’s breathing had quickened by now, and Merritt could feel the nipple swelling under her probing hand.
“The heart of pleasure,” the man gloated, stroking the other breast of the completely passive girl, “is pain. Honey, are you wet for a cock, my little slut?”
“Yes, sir,” she exhaled, her buttocks squirming on the chair in anticipation.
“You can’t have a cock, Honey.” He took away the hand, signaling for Merritt to do the same thing. “What else could we give you?”
A drop of sweat trailed down the girl’s neck, splashing onto her swollen breast. “Anything, sir. I’ll take anything.”
“Nipple clamps?”
“Yes,” she hissed, her voice an unearthly wail. “Please…clamp me.”
“You see,” said the man to Merritt. “The worst thing for a female is to be ignored. Any form of abuse is preferable. In fact, women crave abuse, don’t they, Honey?”
“Yes, sir.”
The clamp was gold with screws to pinch the soft flesh. He applied it expertly to the left breast, turning it three times clockwise. Honey jerked to attention, a low moan emitting from deep in her throat. Merritt gaped at the sight of the red-hot nub so cruelly contained.
“Why don’t you do the other one?” the German handed Merritt the second clamp.
The serving girls were removing the soup bowls now, replacing them with plates of spiced meats that were pierced with toothpicks and decorated with colorful, skewered vegetables.
Merritt looked at the device he was offering her. So small and delicate, and yet capable of inflicting so much misery. Honey was moaning louder now, seemingly transported. Her belly was undulating so prettily. There was an energy about her. Merritt could sense the men’s desire for her even if they were seemingly otherwise engaged.
“Just a little bit,” she heard herself say, feeling seduced herself by the girl’s masochistic surrender. “Only a little pain; not too tight.”
Honey’s nipple felt damned good in her hand. It seemed made for the clamp and when she turned the screw and felt the first jolts, the fresh spasms of submission, she knew she must feel a little bit more. Just one more whimper, one more twist of her finger.
“Enough,” the man finally stopped her.
Merritt blinked. She’d lost track of herself. The clamp under her finger was now tighter than the other. “I’m sorry,” she quickly exclaimed.
“No matter,” he shrugged, turning to his plate of spiced meat. “A fresh toast,” he raised his glass, the sparkling white wine glimmering in the candlelight.
“To Belok,” he called.
“To Belok,” the men’s voices boomed, echoing the name that already hung unspoken and thick in the air like the scent of the girl’s pussy and the burning of the candles.
Honey was left to suffer at this point, her pain and sexual need of no consequence to the men. The blonde was in a similar predicament, though in her case the imprisoning clamps were connected to chains from which hung a series of small lead weights. In between ravenous bites of his appetizer, the soft skinned, portly man would add more of the sinkers to the string, making her nipples dip painfully lower with each addition.
The third woman, the one who’d been seeking the attention of the gold-medallioned man, had been rewarded with drops of wine in the middle of her plate, which she was lapping at now with her tongue.
Merritt clenched her small damp fists. Her own breasts were burning, her nipples and crotch crying out in piteous need. She felt violated, trapped. It was like her nightmare. In fact in many ways it was worse, because she was in that very same throne room only this time it was real. Or was she dreaming all this, too?
“Meat?” the man at her elbow purred, inducing her to open her mouth and take the dainty bit of flesh between her pearl white teeth.
“Andre tells us,” the medallioned man addressed Merritt now, “that you are an expert on the his highness.”
His highness. As though Belok were a reigning sovereign.
“I know a bit,” she tried to smile, her attention wickedly divided by the sight of the obviously starved Honey attempting to nip a bit of meat held between her user’s fingers. The man was teasing her, allowing her only the tiniest taste on her lips before jerking it high over her head. A tear trickled from her eye, down onto her throbbing, inflamed nipple.
“Only a bit?” the man looked to his fellows, inviting them to laugh. “Humility in a free female. What a rarity.”
“Tell us, then, Miss Fisher,” he egged her on, even as he spilled out a tiny bit more wine for the brunette to lap off her plate. “Are you familiar with the story of Belok and the Hagrenian merchant; the one who lost a hundred ducats of gold?”
“The ducats weren’t lost,” Merritt replied, watching out of the corner of her eye as Honey’s user freed her long dark tresses and began to toy with her earlobes, “They were stolen. The merchant went to Belok and told him what had happened and the Prince immediately surrounded the town with his army and threatened to kill every man, woman and child if the guilty party did not surrender himself for impalement.”
“Yes,” nodded the German, impatiently taking the helpless Honey by the back of the hair and pushing her head down onto his lap. “But what did Belok do for the merchant first?”
Merritt eyed him warily. His eyes were small and cold and there was a look of distinct satisfaction on his face from having forced the lovely, passive young woman into so obvious a position of sexual subjugation. “Belok made good on the hundred ducats and sent the man on his way. A short time later, the merchant returned, indicating he had been overpaid by one ducat. Belok told him it had been a test and that he was very fortunate to have acknowledged the overpayment as he would have had the man impaled along with the thief had he tried to cheat the prince of the extra gold coin.”
“Bravo,” called the man with the blonde ponytail in the wake of the sudden silence, the fellow being apparently drunker and more easy going than the others. “Who says her sex can’t be taught?”
The German snorted at the man, though his own attention was on Honey, who was working feverishly to lower his zipper with her teeth, her hands still behind her head. Merritt could not imagine how painful the breast pincers would feel now that the girl’s bosom was so piteously pressed against the man’s thigh.
“Torvald is right,” Andre rose to the blonde man’s defense. “We must give credit where credit is due. Miss Fisher is a worthy and learned scholar. A credit to her gender. Gentleman, I give you our servant from America.”
André’s glass was held aloft once more, joined by a silent, tense clicking from the others. Merritt wondered which of these men knew the deeper secret. That she was not merely a student of Belok, but a dead ringer for his wife as well. And if Simon and Ileana were right, she was on her way to filling that role for a reborn Belok. Permanently.
Honey made a gurgling noise. Merritt looked down and saw that she had succeeded in unfurling her user’s penis and was now eagerly bobbing her head, swallow
ing him to the hilt with each thrust.
“See,” the portly man with the spectacles cried in a clear dig against Merritt’s claim to expertise. “Honey is also excellent with her orals. Perhaps she can complete her doctoral work as well.” Laughter rang out to the vaulted ceiling. Meanwhile, he had the blonde girl bent backward, a glass of wine at her lips. She was trying to swallow, but he was pouring it out too fast. Rivulets of it ran down her neck and over her tortured breasts.
A number of the men were pounding the table, which encouraged him to go further, taking an entire bottle and pouring it out over her head. Andre, who was laughing with the rest, signaled two of the serving wenches. Without hesitation, the women removed their velvet dresses, revealing lean, fit bodies. Lowering themselves to all fours, they began to lick at the puddles on the marble, slurping the spilt wine down their pretty throats.
“Those two will feel no pain later with so much wine in their bellies.” Torvasch, shouted out.
“Nor will you,” the medallion man countered.
“By Vistya, yes. Let us feast!” proclaimed Torvasch, his blue eyes dancing gaily. “The last wench with her clothes on is a frigid bitch.”
“Strip!” commanded Andre.
The serving girls lifted their dresses over their heads in a single, choreographed motion. Merritt could not believe how beautiful they were and how subjugated. There was not one who did not bear welts and scars, the signs of ready abuse. Many also bore tattoos and other intricate marks on their arses, breasts and hips. A few she recognized as symbols relating to Belok, others were unknown. She had no doubt, however, that all were signs of the girls' slavery.
“Don’t forget them,” someone pointed to the brunette and the pixie-haired blonde, who, unlike Honey, had no valid reason to be sitting at the table any longer.
The sopping wet blonde was the first to be dragged from her seat. The dress fell from her hips. Still clamped, she was put to her knees by the guards, her head shoved down to the portly man’s shoes. The trembling girl began to pay obeisance at once. The brunette, meanwhile was pinned in place on the floor on her belly, stripped and given a dozen stinging lashes from a horsewhip.
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