SWORN

PART ONE: CAPTIVITY


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, September 2002. Permission granted to 
duplicate this story via normal propagation through Usenet and 
whatever mailing lists it's posted on (but please do not repost; 
I can do that myself, thank you); to archive it in the official 
web archives of alt.sex.stories, alt.sex.stories.moderated and 
alt.sex.stories.gay.moderated, as well as whatever mailing lists 
I post it on; and to keep one hard copy and two electronic 
copies for your personal use. All other rights are reserved 
under the Berne Convention.

MANDATORY WARNING: This is hard-core erotica. If you shouldn't 
or don't want to be reading this, don't.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:
What this series of stories describes wouldn't be healthy in 
real life. The main character comes to accept and enjoy being 
enslaved and raped -- and I portray this as a Good Thing. The 
only reassurance I can offer my readers is: this is a dream you 
are in, an erotic dream about dominance and submission. It is 
not a guide to BDSM or the real world -- only a portal into the 
author's own twisted imagination.

All hail Dusk Darkling, who provided most of the beta reading 
(and advised on Servant Byron's writing equipment); Windrunner 
and Tyellas, who also beta'd; and Michael Craig, who provided 
constructive criticism.

You can read my other erotic works at:
http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html



Captivity (Part One of the "Sworn" series)

By Maureen Lycaon




LORD MICHAEL:

The hostage stood in the meeting chamber under the soft glow of 
the electric lights, surrounded by the others. He had been 
looking down at the floor, but he lifted his head to watch me as 
I approached, and that was when I saw his eyes. Such remarkable 
large, dark eyes, almost like the eyes of a stag, and filled 
with a strange mixture of pride and resignation. Martyr's eyes.

I knew I would enjoy looking into those eyes.

The eyes told me the story: he had resigned himself to what he 
believed would be lifelong hell, for the sake of a Clan and a 
smallclan to whom he was totally loyal. He expected to be 
beaten, tortured, raped brutally, eventually killed. The terms 
of his oath permitted no resistance, no escape -- not even by 
killing himself. The best he could hope for was that I would 
tire of him eventually, so that I might give him back his 
freedom. Or -- far more likely -- kill and discard him like a 
broken toy, in which case at least his suffering would end.

An hour ago, he had sworn the oath before me and the other Lords 
of the Gathering. The terms of that oath were quite specific: he 
was property now, and no human being. I could do what I wished 
with him. Nor could he disobey me, in anything.

Not that I was much concerned about that. We of the Gathering 
count the Clansfolk as utter barbarians, but they hold to their 
word above all. They despise oathbreakers as they do no other 
criminals. Among them, to break one's word is to forsake all 
honor.

I studied the hostage as I walked closer.

He was precisely my height. Beyond that, it was hard to say 
exactly what his body was like, clad as he was in the 
Plainsfolk's heavy winter clothes of fur and leather. What I 
could see was his clean-shaven face and his long, straight, hair 
confined in the usual Clan ponytail. It was a very fair, very 
young face: fine-boned, pale-skinned, narrow but still beautiful 
. . . dominated by those proud, dark eyes.

There was strength in that face, no question. He wouldn't weep 
easily, but would preserve his honor for as long as he could.

Even under the lights' yellow glow, I could see that his hair 
was not true blond like my own, but an intriguing reddish-
ginger, hinting at auburn.

With him were eight others. The Gathering's witness, Servant 
Byron, stood at the little clerk's table, the ledger open before 
him, his dip pen beside it. Four of my own servants also stood 
by, awaiting my orders.

Two other Clan members stood nearby: an older man, gray-haired 
but still powerful, and a younger, tall woman with blonde hair. 
They waited grim-faced as I approached. I could sense their 
loathing of me, their hatred of what they were compelled to do.

"Great Lord Michael," Servant Byron began, "this is Grayknife 
Setovar, who represents the Alliance of Clans" -- he indicated 
the older Clansman -- "and Killdeer Ethon, who represents the 
captive's own Clan." He nodded at the woman. Then, he turned to 
the dark-eyed young man. "This is Rain Ashin, of the Brightriver 
Clan, the Southwest smallclan. He is the one the Brightriver 
Clan has chosen to honor the treaty. He has already sworn the 
oath of submission."

Since I had witnessed the swearing of the oath, the words were 
not truly necessary; but the formalities needed to be followed. 
I nodded and stepped forward, examining the captive closely.  

He was even younger than I had thought at first glance, 
certainly no more than eighteen -- too young to be of much 
standing in his smallclan. His face was as smooth and 
unblemished as I'd ever seen, with no trace of the ugly freckles 
that the faint reddish tint of his hair might have signaled. He 
stared back at me without flinching, refusing to show the fear 
he must feel.

I reached forward, cupping his chin in my hand, and looked 
carefully into his face. A quick flash of anger passed through 
his eyes at the touch, but he offered no resistance.

"Did you consent to this, Rain?"

"Yes." He didn't grant me my honorific. His voice was soft, a 
little higher-pitched and lighter than mine, but even and 
unwavering, with the soft Clan accent.

"One of several volunteers, I'll wager." They're a brave people, 
every one. "Weren't you?"

His look became a little guarded. "Yes, I was."

"Good."

We stared at each other for a few more heartbeats. I could sense 
his loathing. I knew what the Plainsfolk thought of us and our 
ways. Centuries ago, they had refused our protection and left 
the City for the Outlands. Now, they called themselves the Clans 
and saw us only as oppressors. The war had forced them to submit 
to us, but it had done nothing to truly domesticate them.

What was in that untamed soul that looked out at me through 
those eyes? Was it the kind of soul I required -- even if it 
were hidden in the body of a Clansman, so deeply buried as to be 
unknown even to himself? I could not yet tell.

I released his head and dropped my hands to my sides, stepping 
back, and glanced at the two Clan representatives still 
watching. Not a muscle of the older man's face had moved, but I 
saw barely visible telltale lines of tension around the woman's 
mouth. They were powerless here, and they knew it.

It was time to begin this slave's first lesson in obedience. 
"Strip," I commanded him.

A pink blush darkened his cheekbones, more at being so brusquely 
ordered than because of modesty, but he didn't hesitate. 
Silently, he removed the fur-trimmed leather jacket and handed 
it to one of my servants who stepped forward to take it. He 
pulled off his leather tunic and the woolen undershirt beneath, 
then the boots and the trousers, passing those to another 
servant.

Last of all came the thin thong with its little stone smallclan 
pendant from around his neck. He handed that to the Plainswoman 
Killdeer, who accepted it in equal silence.

She would cry bitterly when she returned, I suspected, but for 
now she only gazed back somberly at him without speaking. She 
accepted his sacrifice. These people don't weep before their 
enemies.

Now he stood naked before me. His body was lean, much leaner 
than one might have suspected underneath the bulky clothes. Yet 
muscles there were, well defined without bulging. The skin there 
was as pale as that of his face -- the cold, cloudy wilds don't 
tan skin very much. Only a few small scars marked him, on the 
legs, one on his right arm, another on his belly; possibly 
hunting accidents, for given his youth, he might never have been 
in a serious fight. Beneath the nearly auburn hair of his groin, 
his member hung limp, only a faint circumcision scar marring its 
length.

He was beautiful.

His flush deepened as I gazed upon his nakedness, but the 
expression in those martyr's eyes didn't change. For all his 
youth, he had the Clansman's control and pride.

"Put your hands on the back of your neck," I commanded.

He obeyed me immediately, lifting his arms, slipping his hands 
under his ponytail. I continued to study him, but he neither 
moved nor showed any emotion. The Clan representatives watched, 
equally silent and stoical.

Finally, I nodded to Servant Byron. "He is acceptable. I will 
take him into my service."

Byron nodded and sat down at the table to write down the 
transaction in the ledger, and I read and signed it. The 
formalities were done.



It was winter and bitterly cold, so I let Rain put his clothes 
back on for the journey to my estate.

Throughout the groundcar ride, he betrayed no fear or wonder, 
though I knew it must be strange and unfamiliar to him. He 
stared silently ahead, awaiting whatever would happen, save when 
I spoke to him.

Something dark and lost showed in his eyes as I explained to him 
the second oath he must swear when we arrived, the words he must 
use. It was his only display of emotion.

When we reached my mansion, I led him to the main hall to stand 
before me, to make that vow before all my assembled servants. 
Though the true oath had already been made, I needed the gesture 
before my household.

Once again I commanded him to strip then and there before them. 
It must have been grueling for him; this was no longer an 
enclosed room with only a few witnesses but an entire hall with 
more than one hundred watchers. Yet he flushed only a little as 
he complied, handing his clothes over to one of my menial 
servants, Boudet.

My other servants remained silent like the well-trained ones 
they are, watching. Boudet carried his clothes out of the room. 
For just a moment, Rain's gaze flickered away from my face to 
see Boudet go, and I glimpsed that same lost look he had had 
when I'd explained the oath to him. Then it vanished -- so 
quickly that, had I less experience, I might have doubted I'd 
ever seen it.

My seneschal Duval, who oversaw my slaves as well as other 
servants, handed me the leather collar at my order. I stepped 
forward and solemnly placed it around Rain's neck, buckled it, 
then stepped back.

"Down on one knee," I told him. He sank down gracefully. "Now, 
the other."

His eyes remained locked with mine, but he obeyed with no 
hesitation.

"Put your hands behind your back, and cross your wrists," I 
continued, and he did so. "Now, acknowledge me as your owner, 
before my household."

"You are my owner, my Lord and my master, Great Lord Michael," 
he replied.

There was no quavering or defiance in that voice -- but no true 
submission either, not of the kind I wished. It would take long 
months for him to truly understand what I wanted from him . . . 
and he might not be able to give it at all.

If so, I would indeed tire of him. But there would be more than 
enough time to find out. For now, I would simply bring home to 
him his new place in life.

"You will obey me in all things, blindly and utterly? Even unto 
your own destruction?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"And do you have any rights, anything you may expect from me?" I 
asked him.

"No, my Lord. I am your possession. Do with me what you wish." A 
slight glaze came over those dark eyes as he spoke. What it must 
have cost him to speak those words . . .

I only nodded.

"So it is, as of this day."

I lifted my head to take in my watching servants, and addressed 
them: "You have all witnessed this. Now, hear my words: this man 
is my property, to do with as I please. You may *not* help him 
or comfort him, but neither may you mock or abuse him, save as I 
so command. Remember these words, for the sake of your very 
lives. You are dismissed."

As they filed out, Duval brought me the leash, and I snapped it 
around the metal ring in the collar around Rain's neck.

"Now, lift your hands, put them behind your neck and keep them 
there," I bade him. "Rise now, and follow me."

I knew what he was expecting. I would deal with that first. And 
afterward -- we could truly begin.



RAIN:

Rain forced down the despair that threatened to drown him. He 
would not disgrace himself or his people with any show of 
weakness.

Clansfolk were no strangers to nudity. Relatives and friends 
often saw one another unclothed in the sweathouses. But now -- 
being led like a beast through the halls of Michael's home, 
knowing that he was nothing more than a possession for a wealthy 
and decadent Lord -- for the first time in his life, Rain felt 
nakedness as something shameful. As the leash tugged at his 
neck, the young Clansman desperately wished for clothes. 

The house was what he would have expected of the home of a Great 
Lord of the Gathering -- unimaginably huge, strange and rich. 
Possessions filled the long corridor he walked through: rugs, 
statues, and upon the walls paintings and the electrical lights 
that were only a tale to the Clansfolk. The floor was of oddly 
smooth and shiny wooden planks, wherever the rugs did not cover 
it.

It had been late afternoon when they'd arrived. There had been 
windows in the main hall to let in the waning light -- tall, 
narrow ones, unlike the small ones of a Clan house -- but this 
corridor had none. The electrical lights shed the only 
illumination. He felt as if he had entered some otherworldly 
space where day and night did not exist.

It felt far too warm for the middle of winter, even in a house. 
Yet the Lord and his servant wore cloth jackets over their 
ruffled shirts, just as they had in the meeting chamber. Was the 
mansion always this warm?

The overpowering strangeness of it all, the utter difference 
from the simple cabins and huts of his own people, was a 
crushing weight upon his heart.

Servants passed by, going to and fro on their errands. None did 
more than glance at him before passing on, disappearing through 
the doorways lining the corridor.

As he walked behind his master, he managed to catch glimpses of 
some of the statues and paintings. Though many were of hunting 
scenes or battles, or simple landscapes, others were of men 
entwined with other men, performing acts that made his stomach 
knot. None were of men with women.

He knew what the Lords did to their slaves, that they saw no 
wrong in men taking other men -- had known it when he had 
stepped forward to offer himself to this fate for the sake of 
his people. Everyone did. He had foresworn all honor and 
dignity, save that of obedience. Still, those pictures and 
sculptures had the power to make his stomach tighten with the 
beginnings of sickness. It was one thing simply to know what 
would be done to him; it was another to actually *see* it.

At last, Lord Michael and the servant Duval led him into a great 
room without rugs or windows, only a tiled floor with a drain 
set into it. It was smaller than the vast hall, but still large 
enough to hold a variety of bizarre frameworks of metal and 
padded leather. Rain couldn't make out the purpose of most of 
the devices, but from the shackles dangling off of some, he 
guessed that they were meant for holding captives.

It took him a moment to identify the objects in the wooden rack 
on one wall, but then he recognized a bullwhip and what looked 
like a riding crop such as might be used upon a horse, and his 
heart thudded.

*He is going to torture me now.*

Cowardice tugged at him, urging him to fight back, to try to 
tear off his collar and run -- anything rather than endure this. 
He reminded himself of his oath. 

*It's only pain. I can endure pain.*

Lord Michael led him to a tall, heavy frame of steel and thick 
wood, set with thick rings. His blue eyes held no expression -- 
no pleasure, no compassion, nothing that Rain could read.

"Stand there," the Lord commanded in that deep, calm voice of 
his, and then unfastened the leash. Apparently he trusted Rain 
to remember his oath and remain there. 

Rain wondered if he should feel honored at that. He did not 
reply but merely waited in silence. He'd learned from Michael on 
the way here that he was not to speak, save to acknowledge a 
command or answer a question.

"Duval." The Lord said no more than that, but the servant went 
to a cabinet standing against the wall, and came back with a 
bundle of stout ropes and four thick leather cuffs, set with 
steel rings, that were too obviously designed to hold even a 
very strong man. Michael nodded, and Duval came over and put 
them on Rain. Rain knew he must offer no resistance. He remained 
motionless as the cuffs were buckled around his wrists and 
ankles.

"Lift your arms up now, over your head," the Lord commanded.

Rain felt the quiver of fear in his belly. He took a deep breath 
and obeyed, lifting his hands from the back of his neck, 
ignoring the twinges of weary muscles as he raised his arms 
high.

"Bind him, Duval," the Lord said.

Duval stepped in close, his clothing brushing against Rain's 
bare skin as he passed ropes through the rings on the wrist 
cuffs. Then the servant ran each rope through its own separate 
ring set into the top bar of the frame. He pulled the ropes 
tight, forcing Rain's arms up high and apart, and tied them off 
around a lower ring, out of Rain's reach.

"Now, spread your feet wide," Lord Michael said.

Rain did so, but the servant suddenly grasped his right ankle 
and tugged it still farther to the side. Startled, the Clansman 
had to consciously force himself to permit it.

Duval did the same with Rain's left ankle, spreading him still 
wider, obscenely wide. What little slack there had been in the 
wrist ropes disappeared; his arms and shoulders and even his 
back ached with the tension.  When Duval was finished, the young 
Clansman was held spread-eagled within the frame. He knew all 
too well that every part of his unclothed body was exposed, 
bared to whatever torture the Lord cared to inflict.

Rain tightened his jaw, refusing to show any fear before these 
men, and once again loathed his nakedness.

When both of Rain's ankles had been bound to the frame, Lord 
Michael told Duval, "Bring the mouth strap."

Duval went back to the cabinet and returned with a thick, tough 
leather strap, which he lifted to Rain's mouth. It obviously 
wasn't intended as a gag to stifle screams or even words. 
Instead, it fitted into the Clansman's mouth, pressing down upon 
his tongue, and then buckled closed behind his head. He 
swallowed reflexively, tasting the dry leather.

"That is to bite down on," Michael told him, then turned to the 
servant again. "Duval, fetch me the sukai lash."

Duval actually started at that. "The sukai lash? Yes, Lord."

The servant didn't go to the little rack of whips and crops. 
Instead, he went to another, taller cabinet and drew out a 
strange-looking object. It had several tails, like a cat-o-nine-
tails, but its substance was of no leather Rain had ever seen. 
It was actually transparent, like glass -- even the thick 
handle. He saw it for only a few moments before Duval went 
behind his back to hand it to Lord Michael.

What in all the spirits' unknown names was it supposed to do? He 
was about to find out.

Duval retreated, to stand against a wall awaiting further 
orders. Behind him, Rain heard a rustle of clothing. He braced 
himself, anticipating the lash upon his back.

There was a soft *crack*, much softer than he would have 
expected from a whip. A moment later, he felt the individual 
tails streak across the skin of his shoulders. They left a sharp 
sting, nothing more.

The second blow didn't follow. Instead, Lord Michael's deep 
voice sounded again.

"Not what you were expecting, was it?"

Long moments of silence followed, and then Rain realized an 
answer was necessary. "No, my Lord," he mumbled around the 
leather bit.

"It was not activated." He heard a crisp, quiet, unrecognizable 
sound, but refused to crane his neck to look behind him and see 
what it was. "It is now."

The second blow came across his shoulders, as the first had. 
What followed was a ferocious stinging, as if acid had been 
poured onto an open wound. Each individual lash seemed to 
inscribe its path across his skin in blazing intensity. And the 
pain did not ebb -- it grew worse, until he felt as if liquid 
fire had entered his flesh.

His whole body spasmed beyond his control, and he bit down 
fiercely on the gag even as tears started from his eyes.

With the third blow, Rain couldn't hold back a whimper. At each 
stroke, the fire in his flesh built and built, mocking his 
desperate attempts to control himself. By the tenth blow, 
despite his best efforts, his whimpers had turned into a full-
throated scream. Soon after that, he was shrieking 
uncontrollably with every stroke. The gag did nothing to muffle 
his cries.

The individual lines of fire multiplied and spread, joining into 
one another until they united into one burning mass of agony, 
covering his back like a cloak of live embers. Once, when he was 
14 summers old, he'd suffered a broken arm; it hadn't hurt 
nearly as much as this.

Eventually, he was screaming and begging for mercy behind the 
gag, all pride broken. His pleas might as well have been the 
cries of a slaughtered animal for all that Michael paid heed to 
them.

Lord Michael would not stop. Eventually, Rain fainted, falling 
into a comforting, warm, black nothingness.

He roused moments later to hard slaps across his face, and 
opened his eyes to see the Lord standing before him. Michael's 
cold face showed no anger, no glee, no regret.

When the Lord was certain Rain was fully conscious again, he 
held up the lash for him to look at. It was no longer clear as 
glass. Instead, each tail was filled with glowing white light, 
and little flecks of that light were dripping off the ends to 
the floor, like water. Only the handle remained transparent.

Rain stared at that terrible scourge a few moments, all words 
frozen in his throat. Then his head jerked away against his 
will, refusing to look any longer, as if that could stop a 
resumption of the agony.

The Lord nodded, and then walked around the frame to stand 
behind him once more. Then the flogging resumed.

Wherever the tails struck, those glowing flecks seemed to eat 
into Rain's skin, burning into his nerves with incandescent 
heat. The sukai lash worked its way down his back to his 
buttocks, and the backs of his thighs, and finally to the calves 
of his legs. Then the Lord went around to his front, and flogged 
him across the chest and belly, and the fire engulfed him 
utterly.

He fainted twice more before it was over. Each time, he was 
revived, and the flogging continued. Toward the end, he could no 
longer even plead, only scream and weep, his throat growing raw, 
sweat running into his eyes until he was nearly blind. He would 
have accepted death without hesitation to escape the agony; he 
would gladly have broken his oath, betrayed the Clans, anything.

He never knew what caused the Lord to stop. Indeed, for long 
minutes he was not even aware that the lashes had ceased to fall 
upon him, as the glowing particles clung to his skin and burned 
and he sobbed and retched.

He came out of his daze as a bucket of water was poured over 
him. The burning began to die down. He moaned, expecting the 
flogging to begin again.

As he gradually regained full awareness, he realized the water 
running down his body onto the tiles had a faint, odd, sour 
smell -- there was something in it. Whatever it was, it quenched 
that cruel fire, and the agony quickly ebbed.

Duval stepped back, holding the now-empty bucket. Lord Michael 
nodded to the servant, and he put it down and returned to his 
station against the wall.

Rain was still bound to the frame, but the leather bit was out 
of his mouth. He hadn't been aware of it being removed. 

"Please . . ." he gasped, his voice hoarse, "No more . . . I beg 
you . . ."

Lord Michael, standing before him now, shook his head. "There is 
no more."

The lash was still in the Lord's hand, but now it was clear 
again, quiescent. Michael dropped it to the floor as he stepped 
toward Rain, reaching out to stroke his sweat-soaked hair.

"Duval" -- the Lord turned to the servant again -- "fetch me 
cold water, and a cloth."

Duval left the room without a word, taking the bucket with him.

Rain hung suspended in his bonds, gasping as his breathing and 
his hammering heart slowed. As his mind cleared, he became aware 
of another smell reaching his nostrils -- he had lost control of 
his bladder during the flogging. The humiliation of that refused 
to come, lost in the deeper pain of knowing he had broken so 
easily and so utterly.

Duval returned with the laden bucket and a white cloth. He 
handed them to Michael before returning to his place.

To Rain's numbed astonishment, Lord Michael then crouched down 
and bathed him with his own hands, wiping the damp cloth slowly 
and gently over sweat-drenched skin. The Lord showed no 
revulsion at all as he wiped off the urine. He cleaned Rain's 
genitals and thighs without comment or obvious embarrassment, 
then calling for fresh water and a cloth from Duval.

Against his will, Rain felt himself relaxing under Michael's 
ministrations. The Lord wiped down his thighs once more, making 
certain they were entirely clean. Down Rain's knees, his shins 
and calves, at last even his feet, without embarrassment.

Rain looked down at himself, searching for the marks of the lash 
on his chest and belly. He had thought to see raw, bleeding 
wounds. Yet, only a few narrow red lines showed upon his flesh, 
less than might be expected from riding too quickly through 
thick brush.

Michael, now wiping down Rain's left flank, smiled as he saw the 
Clansman staring at the insignificant welts. "Pain by direct 
nerve induction," the Lord explained. "It does no damage."

Which left Rain little wiser than before.

The Lord said nothing more, but bathed every inch of his flesh, 
washing away the sweat. When Michael was finished, Duval took 
away the washcloth and bucket again.

When the servant had returned, Lord Michael commanded, "Unbind 
him, Duval."

This was done, and Rain stepped free of the frame, feeling his 
legs still weak as a newborn colt's. He felt as if his very 
being had been scorched bare, leaving him nothing more to think 
or feel with.

The Lord called again for the leash, snapped it onto Rain's 
collar once more, and then handed the other end to Duval.

"Obey him, Rain," Michael ordered. "Duval, show him to his 
quarters to rest."



The silent servant guided Rain through one long corridor, then 
another. They met only two other servants on the way, who gave 
Rain brief, careful looks before going about their duties.

Duval led him into a darkened chamber, and turned to touch a 
little panel on the wall. Light suddenly illuminated the room, 
from a lamp of some kind set into a recessed well in the 
ceiling.

A bed, much larger than the straw pallets Rain knew, took up 
most of the space -- a real bed, with a mattress resting upon a 
brass frame. Its bed-head and foot were curiously fashioned of 
straight brass bars. A wooden chair stood to one side, pushed 
against a wall. No furs covered the bed, only a couple of 
pillows and a quilt of thick woven fabric. There were no windows 
at all.

The feeling of being held in a trap returned, but he felt too 
empty to care much.

Duval led him to the bed, then unsnapped the leash, leaving the 
collar in place.

"Lie down," the servant said.

Rain hesitated a moment -- why, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was 
the trapped feeling. Perhaps it was some last scrap of 
resistance against the knowledge that this, now, was his only 
home. Before Duval could repeat the order, he gathered what was 
left of his will and forced himself to lie down on that bed.

Duval looked at him, no doubt making sure he wasn't about to 
disobey by getting up. Then the servant turned to touch the 
panel again, and the ceiling light suddenly darkened, leaving 
the open door the only source of illumination.
 
Duval walked out of the room without a backward glance, closing 
the door behind him.

At first, Rain thought he was being left in total darkness. But 
as his eyes adjusted, where the little panel had been, now a 
square glowed upon the wall -- the panel was lit from within. No 
doubt the glow came from the same mysterious electricity that 
the ceiling light used. It shed just enough light that he could 
make out the outlines of the room, the door, and the chair in 
the corner.

The buckle on his leather collar pressed into the skin of his 
neck, and he felt a brief but powerful urge to undo it, tear it 
off and hurl it away. Instead, he reached up and worked it 
around so that he was comfortable.

He forced himself to relax onto the bed, feeling the deep 
soreness of his muscles, the aftereffects of struggling wildly 
in his bonds. The room was too warm for getting under the quilt, 
even for a man without clothing, so he simply lay on top of it. 
The mattress underneath felt incredibly soft, much softer and 
more comfortable than straw; he almost thought he could sink 
into it and be swallowed up.

The sheer comfort was almost blissful, after what he had just 
endured. He shivered once, then simply lay there with eyes 
closed, trying not to think.

Nevertheless, his mind began working again.

He had never imagined such pain as he had just suffered. In his 
mind and his heart, he had known what he was consigning himself 
to when he had volunteered to be the sacrifice. He'd known that 
for all intents and purposes, his life was at an end. But he had 
not truly understood.

He had thought he could bear any pain. Instead, he had been 
broken in the space of a single flogging.

Lord Michael had reduced him to begging for mercy, even the 
mercy of death, so easily. Rain would gladly have killed himself 
or the Lord, betraying his honor and his Clan, rather than go on 
enduring that lash for one more moment.

Surely he could be made to suffer like that for much longer -- 
perhaps for days or even weeks. The thought made bitter nausea 
rise in his stomach, forcing him to swallow down the bile. What 
would it be like to have to endure such pain again and again for 
the rest of his life? By the terms of the oath, he could not 
even slay himself to end the pain.

He could not possibly abide by what he had sworn. He would 
certainly forsake his vow and betray the Clans. His people's 
only hope was that when that happened, Lord Michael would ignore 
his pleas for mercy and not let him go back on his word.

And this was what he had consigned himself to.

A soul-deep, excruciating longing rose in his heart for all he 
had left behind: the simple cabins and wooded plains of the 
Outlands, the Southwest smallclan folk he had grown up with and 
lived with, the feel of the cool spring wind. Things he would 
never see or feel again; friends and kin whose voices he would 
never hear, whose company he would never again know.

Alone, where neither Lord Michael nor his servants could see him 
do it, Rain turned his face into the quilt and began to weep 
softly but bitterly, the sobs shaking his entire body. They 
brought no true comfort.

Afterward, he rubbed his eyes and his cheeks carefully to remove 
all traces of his weak tears, and fell into an exhausted sleep.



He awakened when the door opened -- he was lying on his side, 
head on a pillow. The Clansman had no idea how long he had 
slept; he was given no time to ponder it, for a figure stepped 
in, alone. Even by the faint light of the wall panel, Rain 
recognized the intruder as Lord Michael -- he was growing 
familiar with how the Lord moved, and could see his free-flowing 
pale hair. Michael was fully dressed once more, though he no 
longer wore the jacket over his strange frilly shirt.

Rain's heart pounded wildly; only by a great effort of will did 
he keep himself from trembling as the Lord approached. What did 
Michael want? To torture him again, or simply to use him?

Michael touched the panel, and light flooded the room once 
again. Then he turned toward the bed.

His face was impassive as he walked toward Rain. He stopped, 
looking down upon the young Clansman, and stared into his face a 
long time without speaking. Rain forced himself to meet that 
unfathomable gaze, but he couldn't help swallowing anxiously. He 
was suddenly aware of his own nakedness again, of how vulnerable 
he was.

The Lord nodded twice, almost as if to himself, and then turned 
away to fetch the chair. He dragged the chair over to sit in it, 
beside the bed.

Reaching forward, he took Rain's head in his hands, as if to 
prevent him turning away. They were gentle hands, with no 
cruelty or even brusqueness. Rain didn't resist.

The Lord's face was as gentle as his hands as he looked down 
upon Rain, his blue eyes almost tender.

"You have been weeping," he stated, his deep voice soft.

Rain blinked. He'd thought he had left no telltale signs of 
tears, but there was no denying the certainty in Michael's 
voice. He knew.

The Clansman bit back a denial -- after the sukai lash, he had 
no wish to arouse this man's wrath.

"Yes, my Lord," he admitted, feeling his cheeks heat.

Lord Michael sighed. And then, astonishingly, one of those 
gentle hands was stroking Rain's hair, as if to comfort him.

"I don't blame you," Michael said.

Rain stared back at him, baffled. The Lord's softness now was so 
totally at odds with what he had done to him earlier. The 
Clansman didn't trust it at all.

"Is gentleness from me so hard to accept, then?" Michael asked, 
and smiled, with that same tenderness. "Never mind -- I 
understand, Rain. You're afraid of me. You fear me terribly, 
after yesterday. And you dread breaking your oath and failing 
your Clan."

Rain closed his eyes, his face growing still warmer. The 
stroking of his hair continued.

"You expect to be tormented like that for what remains of your 
life, don't you?"

"Yes, my Lord." His control broke for a moment; a shudder ran 
through him, and a stab of shame as he realized Michael could 
see and feel that shudder. Rain braced himself, forcing down his 
fear and despair.

"That's why I used the sukai lash," the Lord said. "Now we are 
done with that and we can truly begin. You need not fear that 
you will ever face that lash again, Rain."

Rain opened his eyes. He sought to guard himself, but he 
couldn't help the swelling of utter relief in his heart.

Lord Michael smiled at his expression. "I know . . . You believe 
the Lords to be without honor, and so my word is valueless to 
you. But for what it is worth, I swear: unless you ask me for it 
of your own free will, I will never again make you suffer so 
much pain. In time, you will see that my word is good.

"Yes, in some ways I do enjoy watching a slave suffer for me," 
the Lord went on, his smile broadening for a moment, becoming 
something less gentle, before fading. "And sometimes you *will* 
know pain in my service, both for correction when you have erred 
and simply for my pleasure. But never again will it be so great, 
nor by that lash, unless you yourself desire it. I have no 
intention of torturing you to the point of madness or death, or 
even beyond bearing.

"Now, turn onto your belly. I wish to touch you, so remain there 
and do not move until I say so."

Sickness welled in Rain's stomach. *He will rape me now . . .*

Well, that was no more than what he had expected when he had 
sworn his oath. It could be no worse than the whipping. He 
obeyed, pushing the pillow away and rolling onto his stomach, 
face pressed into the sheets.

The Lord got onto the bed with him, straddling him.

Rain felt Michael's hand once again stroking his hair, the back 
of his head. Then the Lord's fingers were doing something to the 
little thong that held his hair in its Clan ponytail. He didn't 
realize what it was until his long hair, released, fell onto his 
shoulders and the quilt.

He felt a sharp stab of mingled humiliation, anger and grief. 
That ponytail was one of the things that marked a Clansman; 
feeling it being loosened brought home to him just how much else 
he had lost.

"I understand what this means," Michael's voice spoke above him, 
as both hands spread out his hair to bare his shoulders. "But 
you are no longer anything but my slave. No slave of mine will 
wear such beautiful long hair bound like that, not unless I so 
will it. I want to see it flowing onto your shoulders and down 
your back and chest when you stand or kneel before me, to make 
you look as handsome as possible."

Michael's hands moved down to Rain's shoulders, exploring. 
Massaging deeply to feel the muscles there, then moving on as if 
satisfied. Then down his flanks, gently, but firmly enough not 
to tickle.

Rain felt like an animal being prodded and examined for its 
meat. His whole face was warm now.

Lord Michael felt his body over from head to feet, slowly and 
thoroughly. Then the Lord's hands moved up again along the backs 
of his legs, up his thighs, until they rested on his buttocks, 
which were explored as gently but thoroughly as the rest of him 
had been. Rain held himself carefully still, wanting all the 
while to curse and twist away, trying to ignore the painful heat 
of his face.

The edges of both Michael's hands moved inward, dipping into the 
division between Rain's buttocks -- and then the palms slowly 
spread them apart, exposing his anus so that he could feel cool 
air against it.

He knotted his fists in the quilt. His guts tightened painfully 
as if the entry were already happening.

There was nothing he could do to stop this. Nothing. He could 
not lift a hand against Lord Michael, or even plead with him. He 
had sworn to obey.

Warm breath blew on his anus, telling him the Lord was leaning 
down to study it more closely, breathing upon it. His buttocks 
were firmly pulled still wider. And then Michael's face was 
pushing into them, and lips pressed against that undefended 
opening, giving it a gentle kiss.

Rain's entire body jerked with surprise.

The Lord drew away slowly, releasing his buttocks.

"You fear I am going to take you there now, don't you?" he said.

"Yes, my Lord," Rain almost whispered.

"You need not fear. I will not use your anus today, nor 
tomorrow, nor for many days." Rain almost gasped in relief. "I 
will not do so until -- well, let's just say it will not be for 
long weeks, perhaps months. But one day I will.

"Now, roll onto your back. I wish to see you face to face."

Rain turned over onto his back, his feet brushing against the 
insides of Michael's legs as he did so. His skin felt as if it 
wanted to crawl away from the contact.

*I must let him do this.* But oh, spirits, what it was costing 
him . . .

The Lord moved off of him slowly, deliberately, to stand on the 
floor beside the bed once again. He picked up the chair and put 
it aside, clearing his way. Then he leaned over to take Rain's 
head gently in his hands and kiss him softly, lingeringly on the 
lips.

Rain's first impulse was to jerk his head back at that intimate 
brushing of lips upon lips. He restrained himself, and submitted 
to the touch.

It was a strange and terrible experience, knowing that he must 
submit to this, to being kissed and touched by this man, that he 
had no right to refuse nor ever would again. Perhaps it would 
have been easier simply to be roughly used.

When the Lord drew away a little, Rain took a deep breath, then 
let it out, trying to clear his thoughts and brace himself for 
whatever came next.

Michael took Rain's hands in his and guided them above his head, 
before taking him into his arms.

"Clansmen do not lie with other men, do they?" Michael remarked.

"No, my Lord," Rain answered, as he looked into Michael's face 
and silently cursed his blushing.

"But you have lain with women, no doubt. The ways of two people 
in bed are not wholly strange to you, are they?"

"No -- that is, yes, my Lord -- I have lain with women."

"Good. *Submit to me*, Rain." Lord Michael's tone of voice 
brooked no resistance. The Lord's face filled Rain's vision as 
Michael lowered his head to kiss the Clansman again.

And Rain submitted.

For long, uncounted moments the Lord simply kissed him on the 
mouth, nothing more. It felt alien, having another man's face so 
close to his, the smell of him in his nostrils. But it was not 
beyond bearing, he decided.

Then, with no warning, Michael's tongue slid into his mouth.

For all his resolve, Rain reacted without thinking. His head 
jerked to one side as he gagged.

The Lord drew away, releasing his hands, and straightened up. 
There was no anger on his face; in fact, there was no expression 
there at all. He was as emotionless as he had been while 
wielding the sukai lash.

"Get up," he commanded, all softness gone from his voice.

Rain gathered his wits and quickly obeyed, getting off the bed 
to stand before Lord Michael.
 
"Kneel before me!" Michael's voice was iron.

Rain sank down onto his knees on the hard wooden floor in front 
of the Lord, trying to ignore the violent thudding of his heart, 
the chunk of ice that seemed to have formed in his stomach.

The Lord ignored him for a moment, to turn and sit down 
carefully on the edge of the bed. Then he returned his gaze to 
Rain, who now had to look up to meet his cold, stern eyes.

"Turn and face me," he ordered.

Rain turned around on his knees, as he hoped desperately that 
none of the fear he felt showed on his face. He lifted his head 
to look up at the Lord once more, clamped his jaw and waited. 
Michael's eyes were still implacable.

"Do you wish to go back upon your oath?" the Lord demanded.

Rain felt the blood leave his face. The ice in his stomach 
spread to his heart in a single moment. "No, my Lord."

"Then it would appear that you need to be reminded of some 
things. First, always remember that you are my slave. You will 
resist *nothing* that I choose to do to you. *Nothing*. You do 
*not* draw away from me, ever. You are my possession, and I will 
touch you as I will. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my Lord," Rain managed.

"Did you somehow not understand this when you swore your oath?"

"Yes, my Lord. I understood it."

"Then why did you draw away?"

"I -- was surprised, my Lord," he said carefully, sure that the 
truth would only enrage the Lord more.

"And disgusted as well, I'd wager," Michael said, his voice 
gentling. Something indefinable in his expression softened just 
a little. "The truth, now. You were disgusted and ashamed at 
having my tongue in your mouth, weren't you? Do not lie to me, 
Rain."

His eyes locked with Rain's, as if they would never release the 
Clansman until he told the truth. Rain looked back into those 
icy blue eyes, and realized it was of no use to try to deceive 
this Lord. No matter how angry he might be at an honest answer, 
he would be angrier if Rain lied to him.

Suddenly, Rain's own disgust felt absurd to him. When he'd sworn 
the oath, he had been prepared to perform whatever vile acts 
this decadent Lord might demand -- having to use his mouth on 
him, being used from behind, being given to others to be used. 
Why should he balk at merely being kissed?

Lord Michael's eyes were still locked with his, demanding an 
answer.

"Yes, my Lord," Rain admitted. "I was."

The Lord nodded. "So I expected." And then, to Rain's amazement, 
he smiled.

"I think, in the end, I can teach you to take joy in your tasks. 
For now, simply apologize, and we will continue this lesson."

Rain took a deep breath.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I beg your pardon."

*Joy? How can he imagine such a thing?* But now was no time to 
dwell on that.

Lord Michael nodded, accepting the apology. "Now, get back onto 
the bed, and lie down beside me."

A little awkwardly, Rain rose from his aching knees and climbed 
back onto the bed.

The Lord turned, and with his hands guided Rain to lie down 
facing him, pausing briefly to thrust a pillow under his head. 
Then Michael pulled over another pillow for his own head, lay 
down beside the young Clansman, and took him into his arms.

To be so intimately, casually touched by another man . . . Once 
again, Rain knew the quiver of revulsion, though not as 
intensely as before. And yet -- the warm, gentle embrace also 
felt curiously comforting. Certainly better than being flogged.

Lord Michael smiled, the softness back in his eyes. He reached 
up to slip one hand under Rain's hair, his fingers brushing the 
leather collar, and held the back of his head.

"Much better," he remarked. "Now we are both comfortable."

He lifted his arm, put his hand on the back of Rain's head, drew 
the Clansman's face to his and began kissing him again. On the 
lips a few times, as if to start over, and then his tongue was 
once again questing between Rain's lips.

The Clansman was prepared now. He refused to give in to the 
impulse of disgust, to flinch away. Instead, he took a deep 
breath, and opened his mouth a little. Michael's tongue entered 
again; this time, Rain didn't gag at the intrusion.

Michael's mouth was never anything but gentle. Once Rain's first 
reaction had passed, the kissing grew much easier. There was 
even a certain pleasure in simply lying here being held and 
kissed, at having to do nothing save accept. Had the women he'd 
kissed felt something like this?

For a long time, the Lord simply contented himself with teaching 
him to accept being kissed by another man. He explored and 
plundered Rain's mouth, all the while gently stroking his hair, 
and softly rubbing and massaging his shoulder and even his neck 
over the collar.

At length, Lord Michael drew away a little. "Now, return the 
favor."

Rain's stomach lurched, bringing him out of that state of 
languid acceptance. Michael's eyes looked deeply into his again, 
and the Clansman had no doubt the Lord guessed what he was 
feeling -- and expected him to obey anyway. The Lord's hand 
pressed gently on the back of his neck, against the collar.

*Well, I have kissed before, after all.* It might be less 
humiliating than having to passively accept Lord Michael's lips 
and tongue, anyway.

Bracing himself, he kissed Michael on the lips, in the same 
gentle fashion as he himself had been kissed. The Lord's scent, 
muskier and heavier than a woman's, filled his nostrils; he had 
to pause, to gather his will to continue.

He simply kissed the Lord, lips brushing lips, several times. 
Then he felt he could delay no longer. He pushed his tongue into 
Michael's mouth.

Reluctance made him awkward, but the Lord offered no correction. 
Rain explored cautiously, hesitantly. He pushed his tongue 
toward the back of Michael's mouth, and felt the Lord suck 
gently on it. He smelled Michael's breath, warm and humid but 
not unpleasant; he tasted his saliva, faintly sweet. Michael's 
hand on the back of his neck began to move, massaging him again.

As he grew accustomed to it, the Clansman called upon what 
experience he had with women, did what he had done with them. He 
moved his tongue softly against Michael's, explored his mouth, 
took Michael's lower lip between his own and pressed it gently. 

The sickness in his belly dwindled and vanished, forgotten.

At last, Lord Michael grasped a handful of his hair and used it 
to pull him back, gently but firmly.

"Enough," the Lord said. "And much better." He smiled, his eyes 
soft with approval. "Now I will explore you a little more."

Michael's hand gripped Rain's shoulder lightly, then moved 
slowly down his upper arm, squeezing just a little to feel the 
muscle there. Then it moved to his chest to stroke slowly 
downward. To Rain's surprise, it stopped at his nipple and began 
to toy with it.

Rain controlled himself, holding still. Those exploring fingers 
were gentle, much too gentle to hurt. In fact, they gave him a 
strange sensation as they softly stroked and caressed his 
nipple.

Suddenly he realized that his flesh was reacting, the nipple 
stiffening as a woman's would.

Deep rage flared in him, rage that the odd caresses were calling 
forth this response from his weak flesh. He wanted to strike out 
at the Lord, to lash out against this violation; the muscles in 
his arms quivered with tension. Only with a great effort of will 
was he able to keep his arms down. His hands balled into fists 
on the quilt.

Lord Michael saw his anger. "You don't want to respond, do you?" 
And he actually smiled at the young Clansman.

*You spirit-forsaken pig!* Rain wanted to snarl. Instead, he 
managed between clenched teeth, "No -- I don't, my Lord."

The Lord nodded. The amused smile faded, leaving his face calm. 
Clearly, Rain's anger meant little to him; he knew that the 
Clansman would not go back on his oath. At least he was not 
angered in return.

"This caress feels strange to you, doesn't it?" he said, toying 
with Rain's nipple again.

"Yes . . . my Lord."

"You thought that a touch only for a woman."

"Yes -- my Lord." Rain forced himself to breathe evenly, to 
relax his taut muscles. His anger would avail him nothing.

Michael smiled again, his eyes almost tender. "Make no mistake; 
whatever you might think, you are not a woman to me, Rain. It is 
men's bodies that I find beautiful, men whom I wish to command 
and be pleasured by. Have no fear on that score."

Mingled sickness and relief warred within Rain's heart. 

"Now, roll onto your back again, reach up with both arms, and 
seize the bars on the bed-head," the Lord continued. "Do not let 
go until I tell you. Offer me both your nipples. I wish to touch 
them still more."

The sour taste of helplessness rose in the back of Rain's 
throat, forcing him to swallow it down. There was no use in 
nursing his anger, he reminded himself. His future held much 
worse than this. But the knowledge brought him little comfort.

He turned onto his back, and reached up to the bars above his 
head, gripped them as he had been commanded, leaving his entire 
chest and belly exposed to the Lord's hands.

That cursed blush was warming his cheeks again; he could feel 
it. With an effort, he thrust down his aching pride.

*I belong to him*, he reminded himself. *I have sworn.* He 
closed his eyes, distancing himself as best he could.

Almost, he wished that Lord Michael would be merely brutal with 
him instead. Almost. The memory of the sukai lash was too fresh 
to let him wish that wholeheartedly.

Now Michael sat up on the bed, looming over him. Both those 
clever hands reached for Rain's nipples and began to work -- 
caressing them, slowly stroking them between fingers and thumb, 
palpating them gently. Despite Rain's best attempts not to 
react, his nipples stiffened even more.

The tickling sensations spread through his chest. He found that 
he actually wanted more of the touches; his back sought to arch 
into them as if his body had a will of its own.

*It's just sensation*, he told himself. *It means nothing.*

His body made a liar out of him. To his horror, an all-too-
familiar warmth was filling his manhood.

Oh, spirits forfend . . . the last thing he wanted just now was 
to grow aroused . . .

*I am being used*, he thought. *I will not let him say that I 
enjoy it.*

He tightened his grip on the bars and endured the touches, 
trying to think of anything but the sensations they aroused. He 
reached for his anger, his disgust at this unnatural act, tried 
to fill himself with those emotions and blot out the pleasure.

His traitorous body paid him no mind.

At last, like a warrior who throws himself on his enemy's very 
sword rather than be taken alive, he burrowed into his most 
painful recent memories, seeking to destroy his body's 
burgeoning lust. The tearing sorrow of saying farewell to his 
friends and his kin; the horrible lashing he'd received; the 
grief and homesickness that had brought him to tears . . .

The warmth at last abandoned his manhood, and even the Lord's 
caresses on his stiffened nipples lost their magic.

If Michael had glimpsed any sign of that inner struggle, he said 
nothing. Eventually, he seemed to tire of the bizarre caresses. 
He ran his hand ever so slowly down Rain's belly and gently 
rubbed the place between navel and pubic hair.

Michael explored there for a little while, his fingers gently 
caressing around Rain's navel and then downward, his hand 
rubbing firmly enough to feel the muscle underneath the skin. 
The hand moved lower still, stroking his pubic hair.

"Such a fine pelt you have there," the Lord observed. "Thick and 
dense like a sheepskin. It is lovely."

Rain felt his blush return. He heard the Lord's low chuckle, a 
sound both amused and indulgent.

The hand descended, to gently grip his manhood.

Rain's eyes flew open at that touch, and he gasped. Every 
instinct he had screamed at him to jerk away, to lash out.

Lord Michael's eyes lifted to look deeply into his again. Rain 
couldn't read his expression.

The Lord spoke calmly, with authority, while his hand remained 
on the Clansman's flesh: "*Submit*, Rain."

The simple command did something to Rain that he couldn't 
understand. Looking back into those probing eyes, he felt his 
urge to resist abandon him, leaving behind only helpless 
resignation -- and a curious warmth.

He stared back into Lord Michael's eyes, drew a careful breath 
and let it out, then nodded.

The Lord's hand left his sex, moving up to stroke his hair 
instead.

"You don't want to respond to me, do you?" Michael was still 
looking deeply into his eyes, his face. "You wish to stay soft."

Rain had no strength left with which to deny it. It seemed that 
no lie or deception would fool this man. "Yes, my Lord."

Michael nodded. "This must be very humiliating for you. I could 
tell you that there is no need to feel shame, Rain, but that 
would mean nothing to you now.

"Nevertheless, you must obey me. Cease resisting me. Do not 
think of anything but my hands upon you. Let your body respond."

Rain swallowed. His gaze lowered without his will. "Yes, my 
Lord."

From the edge of his vision, he could see that Lord Michael was 
still watching his face. The Lord nodded, once. Then his hand 
left Rain's hair to grip his manhood again, and began to fondle 
it. 

Rain closed his eyes once more. A long, silent time passed, time 
in which he felt the warmth and hunger return to his flesh -- 
warmth he was forbidden to resist. Then the touches changed, the 
Lord's hand stroking him from root to tip.

Michael never changed that slow pace, and his hand was never 
anything but gentle. Rain felt himself responding once more.

He couldn't stop it. He was forbidden to resist.

*Why can he not just use me and have done with it? Why must he 
make me want his touch?*

He clenched his jaw, holding as still as he could. He couldn't 
control the hunger of his organ, but he could preserve at least 
a shred of pride by giving Lord Michael as little response as he 
could.

The warmth filled his manhood now, stirring it again, stiffening 
it. His hips wanted to flex and thrust, wanted to push that 
swollen flesh into the Lord's knowing hand.

It was harder and harder to keep his self-control as hungry lust 
made him feel every touch keenly, stiffening his nipples 
further, until they almost hurt. His breathing was growing 
harsh; he struggled not to pant.

"Go ahead, move your hips, Rain. Submit to me. Submit to the 
pleasure."

*Spirits curse you!* Rain thought. But the words left him no 
more choice. To pull away, to move his hands from the bars, even 
to resist his own hunger -- these things were forbidden. He 
surrendered, as he knew he must, thrusting into Michael's hand 
as lust lapped through him in warm waves.

He gasped at a deft flick of Michael's fingers, just behind the 
head of his organ, which sent a lash of pleasure through his 
whole body. His hands flexed, clutching the bars of the bed-
head, his whole body lost now in sensation. Lord Michael lifted 
his free hand to touch one nipple and caress it again.

The first moan came from his unwilling throat. Then another. 

"Ah, such a sweet voice," Michael said, and caressed him with 
his fingertips. Rain gasped again, shuddering like a dying 
animal.

His head went back as his moans became more shameless. The 
Lord's lascivious fingers were moistened by his first seeping 
essence.

He would never, ever know how long that state lasted, with him 
gasping, moaning, squirming, and thrusting into Lord Michael's 
hands. The dark spell of pleasure broke only when those hands 
stopped, ceasing to caress him.

He felt the mattress give and sink as the Lord shifted his 
weight. Rain lifted his head to look at him. Michael had 
straightened up on the bed and was smiling down at him.

This arrogant Lord had brought him to shameless, animal arousal, 
then denied him -- and now was gloating over him. Only the 
memory of the oath he had sworn restrained Rain as his fists 
gripped the bars to white-knuckle tightness, arms shaking with 
the strain, and he silently cursed Michael with every foul word 
he knew.

As the Lord gazed down upon him, that smile faded. Michael 
nodded, as if acknowledging his emotions without responding to 
them. He didn't seem worried.

"You are angry," he stated calmly.

Rain glared back at him, not certain whether an answer was 
required or not -- and not trusting himself to speak.

"Give me an answer, Rain." Some of the iron was back in that 
voice. "You are angry, are you not?"

After a moment, Rain admitted, "Yes, I am . . . Lord."

"You believe me to be laughing at you for becoming aroused. You 
imagine that I despise you."

"I -- yes, my Lord."

Michael nodded again. "Understandable," he remarked. "You still 
think of me as your enemy."

Rain muttered "Yes, my Lord," before wondering if Michael had 
really expected an answer to that too.

A silence grew between them, stretching into long moments. Rain 
felt a throb of hunger in his manhood; it was still swollen. He 
closed his eyes, turning his head away.

Feeling another touch upon that stiffened flesh, he opened his 
eyes. The Lord had bent over him and caressed his organ again.

"Would you like more of that?" Michael asked.

Rain stared up at him, torn by conflicting emotions. What to 
answer -- a defiant "no", and risk being mocked and perhaps 
punished? "Yes", and admit how completely the Lord's hand had 
subdued him with pleasure?

Chill, heavy helplessness spread through his soul. He would be 
allowed no pride at all, it seemed.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice weak even in his own ears.

Lord Michael simply nodded again.

"Good. I *will* satisfy you, but before that I wish to give you 
your first lesson in pleasing me. Hopefully you'll now find it 
less distasteful. Afterward, provided you do well, I will reward 
you. I will go slowly, and keep your inexperience in mind."

Lord Michael moved off of him and climbed down from the bed, 
slowly, unhurriedly, swinging his feet to the floor.

"You may let go of the bars now," he told Rain. "Get up off the 
bed, and stand on the floor with me."

Rain obeyed, feeling his still-stiffened manhood swaying as he 
moved to stand before the Lord.

Michael sat down on the edge of the bed again, facing Rain, and 
spread his knees apart. Taking a pillow from the bed, the Lord 
dropped it to the floor between his feet.

"I think that will be easier for you," Michael remarked. "Kneel 
on the pillow."

Rain felt his face heat again. He was acutely self-conscious as 
he knelt down upon the pillow before the Lord, all too aware of 
how abject he looked. At least this time he wasn't in front of 
Lord Michael's entire assembled body of servants.

"No, you need not raise yourself upon your knees," the Lord 
corrected. "Sit down on your calves. Yes, that's right."

As Rain sat kneeling between Michael's opened thighs, the Lord's 
groin bare inches from his face, he suspected what he would be 
called upon to do now. It was not unknown to his own people -- 
when done by a woman, for a man. But for a man to suckle another 
man, let alone a Lord . . .

*I must do this,* Rain told himself. *I must.* He felt his 
arousal mercifully dwindling.

Lord Michael wasted no time, but spread his own thighs wider 
apart. The shape of his organ was obvious underneath the tight 
cloth of his trousers.

"Open my trousers, Rain," the Lord commanded.

Rain reached forward with both hands. Slowly, cautiously, he 
fumbled with the lacings -- they were different from those of 
Clansfolk, shorter and tighter, which made the knot at the top 
harder to loose. Finally he managed to untie it. He opened the 
flaps, so that the wiry pubic hair emerged. The Lord was wearing 
nothing underneath those thin trousers, not even a loincloth.

So short were the laces, he'd have to pull them out of their 
eyelets to reach Michael's sex. He hesitated.

"Go ahead, remove the laces," Michael's voice sounded. 

With some difficulty, Rain drew the laces out of several 
successive eyelets, until the Lord's organ was half-exposed.

"Continue," Lord Michael said. "Draw out my member, and take it 
in your hands."

Rain hesitated a moment, then reached forward again and 
carefully pulled out Michael's organ.

Its warmth was like a shock to his fingers. He hated the feel of 
it, wanted to drop it and wipe his hands off. He did not want to 
do this, and he knew he must, that there was no escape from the 
necessity of it.

Michael had not commanded him any further. Rain knelt there with 
the Lord's manhood in his hands, and looked up at Michael's 
face, uncertain.

"Hold it in your hands for a moment," Michael told him. "Just 
look at it and feel it. Get to know how it feels."

Rain lowered his eyes to the flesh he held, feeling its warm 
weight in his hands. It was about as long as his own, perhaps a 
little thinner, but uncircumcised -- something unheard of among 
Clansmen. He'd never seen a foreskin on an adult man before.

The pubic hair was paler than his own, only a few shades darker 
than the Lord's blond mane. It was also stiffer and wirier, and 
less dense -- Michael was little exposed to cold, even in 
winter.

The Clansman found himself caught in mingled distaste and 
fascination, feeling the manhood so like and yet unlike his own. 
It was rousing, just from his touch -- the tip was reddening.

*It is not so bad, after all. It's just different. I can grow 
used to it.* The queasiness of his stomach mocked his efforts. 
*I must,* he reminded it.

"Very good, Rain," Michael said. "Now, put your mouth on it. 
Kiss the tip."

Rain gathered his will. He lowered his head, and kissed 
Michael's manhood on its very tip, a little over the slit. The 
warm flesh against his lips filled his awareness and drove out 
all other thought, as if the organ were already forcing its way 
into his mouth. His stomach hitched.

"Good. Again," Michael's voice commanded. Rain obeyed once more. 
His stomach quivered, less strongly now.

"Again -- more softly and respectfully this time."

He felt as if he himself were being diminished as he feigned 
humble reverence for the organ, kissing it more slowly. The 
spasms of his belly subsided, giving in to the inevitable.

He glanced up into Lord Michael's eyes, seeing the glitter of 
lust there. The Lord looked back intently at him and nodded 
once, almost imperceptibly, acknowledging his reluctance without 
making any concession to it.

"Listen to me well, now," Michael said. "You are going to 
pleasure me with your mouth, and I do not wish to have to urge 
you on. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my Lord." Rain made himself breathe evenly and listen, 
forced himself to look the Lord in the eye.

"You will take care not to touch me with your teeth, and when I 
spend, you will swallow my semen without my having to command 
you further. You will hold my member in your mouth then, gently, 
until I say that you may release it."

Rain swallowed. "Yes, my Lord."

"Now, take it into your mouth, just the head at first. Take a 
deep breath first -- that will keep you from gagging. Rest your 
hands on my knees or my thighs, if you wish."

Lowering his head again, Rain braced himself . . . opened his 
mouth . . . took Lord Michael's flesh into his mouth, feeling it 
rest upon his tongue, press gently against the roof of his 
mouth. He couldn't help but taste it, its slight saltiness and 
the faint musk of sex.

His stomach quivered again, beginning to rebel once more. Again 
he forced it down, breathing hard through his nose.

Holding the Lord's organ in his mouth, he put his hands on 
Michael's thighs, awaiting the next order.

"Tongue it, Rain. Lick it. Please me."

Closing his eyes, Rain touched his tongue to the tip, tasting 
the salt of Michael's skin. His stomach heaved one more time, 
and then was still. The Lord gave him no further order, no 
permission to stop, and so he continued to lick the organ in his 
mouth.

The taste and the feel were not as bad as he would have 
expected, even with the foreskin. They were not bad at all, 
really. He sighed through his nose as he worked, tonguing his 
master's sex, feeling himself grow accustomed to the strange 
task. The flesh stiffened and grew warmer as he worked. He 
wasn't sure if that were worse or better. It was . . . 
different.

His own arousal had gone, his manhood hanging limp. A mercy, he 
decided. He had no wish to find this act arousing.

The Lord's hand was stroking his hair again. He wanted to resist 
the soft pleasure of that touch, but he didn't have the energy 
or the concentration just now. It was all focused upon the act 
he had to perform. A small ache made itself felt in his neck as 
he worked with lowered head.

He had almost forgotten his shame, until Lord Michael spoke 
again.

"You are doing well, Rain," that deep, gentle voice said, with 
only a hint of huskiness, and Rain felt himself cringe inwardly. 
"But you must become more adventurous. Go ahead, explore my 
member with your tongue now -- you can take more of it into your 
mouth to do it."

The Clansman did as he was bidden, taking more of the manhood 
into his mouth. He found that he could overcome his urge to gag 
by that deep breathing, just as Michael had said, and by not 
letting the tip brush his throat. He moved his tongue along it 
in whatever new ways he could think of: stroking, tapping, 
caressing. He even tried slipping the tip of his tongue into the 
slit; that actually drew a gasp from Michael. The Lord's 
breathing was becoming uneven, shaky, as Rain worked.

"Very good," Michael said, his voice low and husky. "Work more 
quickly, now -- no, not too quickly," as Rain tried to seize the 
opportunity to hurry, eager to get the task over with. The 
Lord's hand came to rest on the top of his head, firm, 
commanding, and he stopped.

"It's no use trying to finish swiftly, Rain," Michael 
admonished, the note of command in his voice once more. "You are 
going to have to do this every day, sometimes more than once. 
You will do better to accept that fact, and grow accustomed to 
pleasing me with your mouth. No, keep tonguing me even as I 
speak. I did not give you permission to cease. And now, suck 
upon it, as well."

Rain felt heat flare on his cheeks at the rebuke. He began his 
work again, trying to ignore the worsening ache of his neck, the 
beginning of weariness in his jaw muscles. 

Michael once more stroked his hair as he worked.

He heard the Lord begin to breathe raggedly again, the muscles 
of the thighs tightening under his hands. A deep, soft moan 
came. Another. The hand clenched in his hair, then abandoned 
him. 

He felt as if he knew every inch of the organ in his mouth, how 
it tasted, how it felt -- a knowledge he had never wanted but 
had had to gain anyway.
 
Then he tasted the first salt of arousal, the seeping fluid that 
signaled true excitement.

The revulsion he thought he had conquered rose to choke him. He 
jerked back, releasing the organ and letting go of Michael's 
thighs as he gagged.

A moment later, his chin was seized in strong hands. He almost 
lifted his arms to fend Lord Michael off, to resist -- but at 
the last moment, he remembered himself, and let the Lord force 
his head back up. He was still gagging a little; he swallowed 
hard to quell it as he met those stern blue eyes once again.

*He will surely punish me now . . .*

Michael did, dealing him a single, firm slap across the cheek.

Rain shuddered, knowing that he must not lift a hand in his own 
defense. His fists balled tightly at his sides as he looked into 
the Lord's stern eyes, feeling hot anger well up in his heart. 
The imprint of the slap burned on his cheek.

He waited, but no second slap followed. Michael's gaze never 
wavered from his.

"I did not give you permission to cease," Lord Michael said, his 
tone of voice as even as it ever had been. He released Rain's 
head. "Now, continue."

Rain took a deep breath, fighting to regain control of himself. 
The Lord waited.

At last, the Clansman leaned forward, put his hands back on 
Michael's thighs, lowered his head to resume his task.

He had lost ground, but soon Michael was breathing raggedly 
again, then gasping.

Rain tasted the Lord's salty fluid of arousal again, but at 
least this time the element of surprise was gone. He forced down 
the urge to gag with everything that he had, and succeeded.

The Lord did not correct him again until the end.

By the shudders of Michael's sex and the tensing of his legs, 
Rain had enough warning to brace himself. He refused to let 
himself know the taste the Lord's essence spurting into his 
mouth, swallowing as quickly as he could. Even so, a faint 
warmth lingered at the back of his throat. Michael's manhood 
quivered a last time, then grew still.

*I have sworn to obey*, Rain reminded himself. It was little 
comfort. His stomach heaved, wanting to reject what he had just 
swallowed. His jaw ached; his neck felt as if it were about to 
break. Even with the cushioning pillow, his knees hurt fiercely. 
Remembering the command to hold the Lord's manhood until he was 
bidden otherwise, he waited.

Gradually, Lord Michael's breathing slowed. His manhood 
softened, shrank.

"You may release my member, now," the Lord said. "And you sucked 
very well, for a first time."

Rain had thought he could feel no worse shame, but the words 
seemed to strike through his very soul. He tried to turn away, 
letting his arms drop, feeling a burning heat on his cheeks. 
Lord Michael reached out with both hands, grasped Rain's collar 
with his left hand and gripped his chin firmly with the right, 
refusing to permit the evasion. There was no anger in the Lord's 
expression, but neither was there any weakness.

"No, Rain. You have given yourself to me, body and soul. You 
have no right to hide your feelings. None."

In a heartbeat, shame turned to anger in the Clansman. He glared 
openly at the arrogant Lord. *You wish to see my feelings? Here 
they are!*

He wanted to spit out the taste lingering in his mouth, wanted 
to twist away again, to strike out. Only his oath, and the 
knowledge that the safety of others besides himself was at 
stake, held him back.

He became aware that his fists were clenched so tightly that 
they hurt as much as his neck, the muscles quivering with 
tension. He drew a shaky breath, let it out again, fighting his 
own anger.

Long moments passed as his eyes remained locked with the Lord's. 
Michael's gaze never wavered, nor did his expression change as 
he looked back, still holding Rain's head.

"You belong to me," Michael said, looking down at him with those 
gentle, terrible eyes. "You must accept it. *Accept* it, Rain."

His heart recognized the truth of those words, even if his anger 
did not. They seemed to bore into Rain's very soul, crushing the 
anger, turning it to mere ashes.

*What can I do? Nothing . . . not without breaking my oath.*

Slowly, slowly, he felt his muscles relax, the heaviness of 
defeat filling them. Felt the aching of his knees, his neck and 
jaw.

The Lord nodded, as if in acknowledgment. His hands released 
Rain, moved to rest upon the Clansman's shoulders, and began to 
massage them gently.

"That was terribly humiliating for you, wasn't it?" he said.

"Yes, my Lord," Rain admitted, hoping Michael would not mock 
him. "It was."

Michael nodded again, gravely. There was no trace of mockery in 
his eyes.

"Nevertheless, you will suckle on my member every day, and 
sometimes more than once a day, so you will get used to it." His 
hands moved slowly on Rain's shoulders for several more long 
moments, then stopped. "Now I will reward you, as I have 
promised," he said. "Get back onto the bed, and grasp the bars 
again."

Slowly, stiffly, Rain rose from his knees. He had long since 
lost every trace of arousal; the promised reward held no allure. 
*I must do this. I must obey.*

Michael moved aside to allow Rain to obey him, standing up to 
lace his trousers closed. Once more, Rain lay down upon the bed 
and held the bars of the bedstead, the entire front of his body 
exposed to his master, and waited for the Lord to do what he 
would.



LORD MICHAEL:

He had not truly submitted to me, I knew. Without his oath, 
without the safety of his people depending upon his obedience, 
he would never have been so docile.

Nevertheless, he had done well, and for now his anger was 
broken. This lesson was almost over.

I enjoyed the grace with which he moved, as he lay back down 
upon the bed, reaching up to clutch the bars of the bed-head, 
all the most sensitive parts of his body offered up to my gaze 
and my touch. His member lay limp again, but that barely 
detracted from his handsomeness -- and in any case, I meant now 
to attend to that.

When he was settled, I brought up the chair so that I could sit 
beside the bed. Then, without further words, I began to caress 
him again, stroking his lean belly with my fingertips for a time 
before I moved downward once more.

As I took his member into the palm of my hand, I saw a look of 
hesitancy upon his fine-boned face. I knew that he wanted to 
rebel again, to resist becoming aroused. I saw the moment of 
surrender in his eyes, the relaxing of his jaw muscles. Yes, he 
was making progress.

He erected more quickly now that the way had been prepared, his 
member warming and stiffening in my hands. And yet there was one 
last shred of resistance, with which he closed his eyes and 
refused to look upon me or anything else.

I let go of his member for a moment, reaching up to brush his 
lips gently with two fingers. "Open your eyes, my sweet slave," 
I bade him softly. "Look at me for a moment."

His eyes opened immediately, and he looked up. I could see the 
shame there, and the resignation.

"Listen to me well, Rain," I told him. "I own you, just as I 
have said. Your life is in my hands. So is your pleasure. Your 
body belongs now to me, and not in any way to yourself. You are 
not to pleasure yourself, ever, without my express permission, 
and you may not ask for that permission. I will give it to you 
if and when it suits my own wishes."

I saw him close his eyes, but then he opened them again. A pink 
blush was suffusing his cheekbones now.

I went on. "No matter how great your need, you may not satisfy 
yourself with your own hand. You may not spend, ever, unless I 
give you permission, and for the most part that will be a 
privilege that you must earn."

I could see the words strike home. He swallowed, still looking 
at me, and the blush deepened. Yet his member remained erect. I 
permitted myself a moment of hope.

He did not speak, so I asked him, "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my Lord." His voice was weaker than I had ever heard it, 
save after the lashing.

"Good," I said. "Now, I will dispense your reward, with my 
hands. You may spread your thighs as you wish, let your hips 
thrust, but don't take your hands off the bars and do not try to 
pull away from me."

His eyes finally lowered from mine. I began to caress him again, 
stroking and fondling his organ; a shiver passed through the 
long, lean muscles beneath his fair skin.

He did not want his passion -- I could see that -- but he could 
not deny it. Those wondrous dark eyes began to glaze, the 
eyelids drooping half-closed over them, as he uttered his first 
moan, his face betraying his growing pleasure. His member was 
fully stiffened now. His thighs spread as I stroked, then closed 
a little as he tried to restrain himself . . . then spread still 
wider.

Soon he was gasping and moaning freely, his body flexing and 
undulating in the throes of passion as it had before. His lovely 
testicles were reddened and drawn up tightly. As I continued to 
stroke his member with one hand, I let my other hand roam the 
rest of him, running up and down his tensed thighs, his hips, 
his ribs, caressing and softly pinching his dusky-pink nipples 
between my fingers until they were as stiffened as that craving 
phallus.

At one moment, his whole body arched, shuddering under my hands 
like a dying stag under the hunter's knife.

Almost, I took compassion upon him, to take him to completion. 
Almost. But the lessons I had just given him needed 
strengthening.

Thus, as his swollen member twitched in my hand in the moments 
before spending, I withdrew. He whimpered, and then jerked his 
head up sharply to look at me. I could see the glaze of passion 
give way to anger, just as it had before.

"Yes, I said you would be rewarded, that you would be allowed to 
spend," I told him. "I did not say that you would be satisfied 
immediately. I enjoy playing with my slaves, watching them 
writhe in need. I am going to do so with you."

The helpless anger in those eyes was so beautiful, it threatened 
to take my breath away. But it was vital now to show no 
weakness. Thus, I reached out to administer the touch that had 
brought such a powerful reaction before, flicking my finger 
along the underside of the reddened head of his member. 

Despite himself, he gasped, just as he had the first time. As he 
recovered himself, suddenly there was fear in his eyes as well 
as anger. No doubt he was thinking of the sukai lash, wondering 
if he had been foolish to show so much rage.

It would not do to let his fear go too far. I toyed briefly with 
his nipple, reminding him of his place, as I spoke.

"So defiant still," I said softly. "No, never fear. I have said 
you need never endure the sukai lash again, and you will not. 
But you are my slave and my possession, and you need to learn 
that to the marrow of your bones. You have no right to resist 
me." I lifted my hand to run one finger across his lips.

He sighed, the fire in those dark eyes dying as his gaze 
lowered. I could see the barely-perceptible slump of his 
shoulders.

He was conquered. For now.

The stiffness of his member had never slackened. Again, I 
allowed myself to hope. Perhaps he did indeed have those 
qualities I was looking for; perhaps there was more to his 
submission than an oath . . . even if he himself did not yet 
know it.

I resumed fondling him.

I played his flesh with all the skill I could summon, bringing 
forth the passion locked within him, making him moan and squirm, 
clutching the bars until his knuckles paled to whiteness. 
Always, I kept my touch just a little slower and gentler than he 
would have liked.

His movements became ever more abandoned, his groans louder, 
taking on a pleading note. His heated phallus dripped its juice 
freely now upon my fingers and the quilt.

What a study in masculine beauty he was! Magnificent, gloriously 
aroused, writhing unashamedly in need.

At last, I once again held him poised upon the very brink of 
spending. I had a moment to wish for some skilled craftsman to 
capture the image he presented in paint or stone: his long, 
pale, flowing hair in disarray upon the quilt, his back arched 
more tautly than ever before, face contorted, each muscle 
standing out in corded relief beneath his sweat-gleaming skin. 
His whole body shuddered, tight as a bow just before the arrow's 
release.

"Spend now, my slave," I told him, not raising my voice.

He cried aloud as his member spurted into my hands.

I continued stroking as he subsided, groaning, the flow 
dwindling to a last dribbling of fluids, then nothing. I did not 
cease until he had sagged back onto the bed in limp abandon, his 
member softening now.

I dried my fingers on a clean cloth from my pocket as he slowly 
recovered.

"Was that pleasurable, Rain?" I asked him.

"Yes, my Lord." His voice was humble enough, yet still he would 
not turn his eyes to me.

"Look at me," I bade him. "Let me see your eyes again," and I 
was rewarded once more with the opportunity to gaze into those 
magnificent, wounded, dark eyes.



RAIN:

Reluctantly, Rain opened his eyes to look at the Lord.

"You are ashamed again," Michael said softly, his voice gentle 
as ever.

"Yes, my Lord," Rain admitted.

"At what, precisely?"

"At -- at your touch, my Lord."

"More at being pleasured by it, I think," Michael replied. "Is 
that not so?"

Spirits curse this Lord, had he not been disgraced enough? But 
again Rain dared not lie.

"Yes, my Lord," he said, and felt his face warm again. 

Michael actually sighed, a small sigh but very real, as if 
something about the reply were expected yet disappointing. He 
reached out to Rain's face. Rain held still, and the Lord ran 
his fingers through his hair.

"Well, that isn't surprising," Michael said. "You regard me as 
your enemy. I wish there were something I could merely say that 
would change that, but too much lies between your people and 
mine. You will refuse to see that none of that has anything to 
do with what lies between you and me."

*What in all the spirits' unknown names can he mean?* The 
question did not cross Rain's lips, but he felt his eyes widen.

Lord Michael nodded. "It must have been terribly humiliating for 
you -- being naked before a Lord for his pleasure, being stroked 
to the verge of orgasm and then denied, having to use your mouth 
on him and swallow his semen, having him see you spend as well."

Now Michael's expression actually seemed . . . sympathetic. 
Sympathy, in a Lord? Rain could only nod dumbly at the words.

Michael's voice softened still further. "I am not your enemy, 
Rain. I hope that one day you will understand that."

The Lord reached out and touched Rain's throat, the collar that 
encircled his neck. Then he lifted his hand to Rain's hair and 
ran his fingers through it again.

"I am your master, but that does not make me your enemy."



Direct comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com. See 
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