SWORN

PART TWO: TRUTH



@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, November 2003. Permission 
granted for normal Usenet propagation, for archiving on the 
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other rights are reserved under the Berne Convention. If 
you think a friend might enjoy this story, please don't 
forward it to them; instead, direct them to my personal 
website (see URL below). That way, they can read my other 
stories as well.

Archiving this story on a commercial or pay-to-view site is 
forbidden. If you had to pay to read this, the site owner 
has violated my copyright and defrauded you.

MANDATORY WARNING: This is hard-core semi-consensual BDSM 
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 even 
enjoy being enslaved and raped -- and I portray this as at 
least partly a Good Thing. The only reassurance I can offer 
my readers is: this is a dream you are in, an erotic dream 
about a fantasy world of dominance and submission. It is 
not a guide to BDSM or the real world -- only a portal into 
the author's own perverted imagination.

All hail my betas, Ron and Tyellas, without whom this would 
be a much poorer story.

Series notes:
This is the sequel to "Captivity", and the second story in 
the "Sworn" series, concerning Rain Ashin and Lord Michael.

You can read my other erotic stories, including 
"Captivity," at:
http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html



Truth (Part Two of the "Sworn" series)

By Maureen Lycaon




RAIN:

Scrubbing floors gave Rain all too much time for thought. 
It occupied the Clansman's hands, but not his mind.

Outside, winter gripped the earth. The low, gentle hills 
and open fields of the southern lands slept under their 
blanket of snow. Inside, the Great Lord Michael's mansion 
remained warm -- warm enough that, even naked, Rain was 
comfortable.

Farther north, in the Plains, winter would not be so 
gentle. The thought of home sent a pang of sorrow and even 
of guilt through Rain, as it always did. In a normal year, 
the Clanfolk should have long since been snug in their 
homes, surrounded by their stores of food and their sheep 
and cattle. This year, they would still be desperately 
hunting whatever game they could find, even as the bone-
chilling winds swept down from the north and the blizzards 
threatened. They had been hungry enough when he had left; 
they were surely worse off now. He could well imagine the 
hollow bellies, the faces he had known all his life growing 
gaunt . . . as he labored here in relative comfort, warm 
and well-fed.

He wondered how many people he had known were already dead, 
and whether his parents or his younger brother still lived. 
He closed his eyes, shivered, let the terrible but familiar 
pain pass through him; that was all he could do.

Were he not bound by his oath, and were it only his own 
safety that he risked, nothing could have stopped him from 
killing the Lord who now owned him. A thousand times in the 
confines of his own thoughts, he had imagined taking slow, 
gory vengeance upon Lord Michael, returning agony in 
exchange for all the insults and humiliations done to him 
in the past two months.

But he *was* bound, he reminded himself. His people 
suffered. If war broke out again, they would suffer far 
worse. He would bear any humiliation, any pain to avoid 
that.

He realized that he had stopped scrubbing. Gritting his 
teeth until they hurt, he quickly resumed his work before 
the overseer, Duvier, could reprove him.

A strange labor, this scrubbing of stone-covered floors. In 
Paniseth, the Clan village from which Rain had come, the 
log huts had only dirt floors upon which rushes or dried 
grass were spread. The women and children swept them out 
and replaced them -- and they did not do it each day but 
every ten-day.

He had realized early on, from snatches of overheard 
servants' comments, that those who served Michael counted 
cleaning the stone floors a very menial task. And he had 
never seen any of them naked as they worked.

Two months ago, he would have been puzzled, but not all 
that discomfited, by such a strange demand. Since then, he 
had learned how helpless and vulnerable nakedness could 
make him feel -- as if he could be any more at this Lord's 
uncertain mercy. He had almost protested Lord Michael's 
command -- almost. Only his oath had held him silent.

When he had volunteered to be one of the hostages the Lords 
had demanded, he had expected torture and rape, and 
eventually an unthinkably cruel death. He had believed 
himself prepared. Instead, in many ways his slavery was 
very comfortable. He ate well enough, for all the 
strangeness of the food. The bed in his own quarters was 
larger and far softer than the straw pallets of the 
Clansfolk.

Lord Michael had fulfilled only one of his expectations -- 
of being raped. Almost every night, Michael would take Rain 
to his luxurious bedroom, and command him to fulfill his 
chief task: that of bedslave. Rain had to suckle upon the 
Lord's manhood and bring him to spending, then swallow his 
seed.

He wasn't sure which was worse: the disgust and shame he'd 
felt the first few times, or how quickly he'd become 
accustomed to that duty.

But Michael did not content himself with simply using 
Rain's mouth and having done with it. No. Instead, the Lord 
would tease and caress him, forcing him into unwanted lust, 
then leaving him on the very brink of release, groaning 
with frustration. For the sake of his oath, Rain had to 
submit, to allow the Lord to do it. He was as unable to 
escape the degrading fondling as if he had been bound.

At first, he had thought that Lord Michael merely delighted 
in denying him his pleasure. Gradually, he had come to 
realize it was not so. Michael himself became aroused by 
this teasing, at seeing his bedslave's organ erect. His 
smile was of sheer pleasure, not of contempt for a humbled 
barbarian.

Only when Michael had him literally moaning and squirming 
would he command that Rain pleasure him with his mouth and 
tongue. Still aroused himself, Rain then had to satisfy the 
Lord, humbly, upon his knees. And only if he strained 
himself and the skills he had so unwillingly learned to the 
limit would Michael then satisfy him -- and usually only 
after toying with him still more.

He had never expected to take any pleasure in servicing the 
Lord's lusts. Yet, as his manhood stood rigid as a spear 
and his body burned with hunger for release, Rain often 
found himself suckling with wanton greed on Lord Michael's 
sex. When he could not have the relief that he craved so 
desperately, the feel of Lord Michael's sex filling his 
mouth, rubbing against his lips, tasting of salt, was only 
pleasure. He felt that, somehow, Michael's seed gushing 
into his mouth could ease his own lust.

But once the suckling was over and his stomach was 
rebelling at his master's seed oozing into it, his 
maddening need remained as strong as ever.

He turned the degrading memory away, as lately he had often 
had to. He remembered his disgust the first time he had 
suckled the Lord to orgasm, how it had brought him to the 
verge of vomiting, but he could no longer muster up the 
utter disgust he had felt then. The thoughts and memories 
of longing and pleasure came to him more and more now.

*It is because I am so hungry for release,* he told 
himself. *Only that.*

The Lord had forbidden him ever to satisfy himself in any 
way. Only at Lord Michael's hands could he ever know 
release, and Michael seldom gave that release. Thus, Rain's 
hunger had built and built, day by day, until his manhood 
was ready to stiffen almost the moment his thoughts turned 
to it. Already, it did so whenever he entered the bedroom 
with Lord Michael, for his flesh had learned to anticipate 
the caresses it would receive. But it would also rise 
whenever the memories of the Lord's teasing hands came -- 
at the most unlikely moments throughout the day, even as he 
performed his other duties.

He sought not to think of those memories, to force them 
away. But he could not remain vigilant forever. Always 
there was an unguarded moment when they slipped through. 
Often his organ remained stiff and hungry for a long time 
afterward.

Always, Duvier -- or Duvier's assistant, Bischet -- watched 
him as he did his other tasks. Sometimes one or the other 
would lean against a wall, arms folded, as Duvier did now; 
sometimes the watcher would stand at his side or behind 
him; but always Duvier's or Bischet's gaze was upon him, 
whenever Lord Michael's was not.

Duvier had surely noticed his manhood's stiffness at such 
times. But if so, the overseer had never spoken of it. 
Duvier spoke to him only concerning his duties.

Several times, servants had passed through the Great Hall, 
no doubt bound on duties of their own. Not one had mocked 
or remarked upon his nakedness. Perhaps they had looked, 
but he had long since learned better than to stop his 
labors to look up -- that would have earned him a 
reprimand. Neither Duvier nor Bischet had ever touched him, 
but Rain had long since learned that Lord Michael always 
heard of any disobedience.

So far, Michael had spoken the truth when he had promised 
not to use the sukai lash again. But he had many other 
tools for punishment: crops, switches, various whips and 
many-tongued floggers, which he usually used on Rain's 
buttocks. All these devices caused pain, but none as 
unbearable as the sukai lash had been.

The Lord did not bind Rain standing in the rack, as he had 
on the first day. Instead, he would command Rain to crouch 
upon or to bend over a leather-padded bench, in an awkward, 
humiliating position.

Sometimes, Rain felt the shameful warmth in his loins even 
as he assumed one of the positions for punishment, before 
the Lord ever touched him. Knowing that he was about to 
suffer did nothing to stop the stiffening of his manhood.

Thankfully, Lord Michael never remarked upon his arousal at 
such times.

*No!* He forced the vile thought from his mind, scrubbing 
furiously at the stone as if by so doing he could erase the 
memory of his body's reaction.

*What does he wish from me, really?* Rain thought, but even 
as he thought the words, he knew the answer. He knew it all 
too well. *He wishes me to want what he does to me.*

*And do I not already?* the thought came to his mind, 
unbidden.

Some unspeakable part of him did, at least. Now, as he 
scrubbed the Lord's floors, he admitted it to himself, in 
the privacy of his own thoughts -- though the admission 
brought bile to his mouth.

He could no longer deny the longing he felt at merely 
thinking about offering his rump to Lord Michael. He wanted 
desperately to believe that it was merely his pent-up 
hunger for release . . . but deep inside his heart, he knew 
that it was not. Rain clenched his jaw, his hand tightening 
around the brush until his knuckles turned white, but not 
even his helpless anger could turn aside the thought.  

*Spirit-forsaken bastard. It is his wretched 'training'. He 
is depraved, he is corrupting me as well.*

Rain felt as if not merely his body but his very self had 
been violated, stained beyond all cleansing. Even now, his 
manhood was warming again, hungering.

Rain sought once more to draw his mind away from these 
thoughts, forcing it back to his task. Scrub the flagstone 
before him. Hear only the sounds of bristles scraping on 
stone; see only the dark-gleaming dampness left by the 
water. Dip the brush in the bucket to wet it again. Scrub 
again.

It was of no use. His sex throbbed, swelling to full 
stiffness. With his nakedness, there was nothing at all to 
conceal his arousal from the overseer.

"Cease," Duvier's voice came.

Rain felt his thoughts freeze. *He has noticed.*

He stopped scrubbing, crouched there on hands and knees, 
and waited.

"Kneel up."

Rain obeyed, putting down the brush and clasping his hands 
behind the back of his neck as he had been taught. His 
manhood quivered stiffly in the air, utterly exposed.

Duvier walked around him to look down upon him. As always, 
Rain found it difficult to read the overseer's bland, round 
face. Duvier's gray eyes were expressionless; it was 
impossible to tell if the man were disapproving, delighted 
or something else. The Clansman held himself still, and 
silently cursed his unruly sex.

Duvier's gaze moved down from Rain's face to look upon his 
groin. Rain's manhood refused to slacken. If anything, it 
seemed to throb and swell the more, as if the overseer's 
cool gaze itself were a caress.

Abruptly, Duvier turned away. "Bischet!" he called.

In a few moments, Bischet's slender form appeared in the 
doorway that led into the Great Hall. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Inform the Lord that the slave is erect."

"At once, sir." Bischet vanished back into the corridor 
outside.

Rain felt his heart pound. He refused to let any sign of 
dismay show on his face. He had little enough pride left, 
but he would cling to it.

Duvier returned to the wall and leaned back against it, 
crossing his arms again, his gaze steady upon Rain. The 
young Clansman could only wait helplessly, struggling 
against the urge to touch his manhood, each slow moment an 
eternity measured by its throbbing.

Then he heard the approaching footsteps -- not Bischet's 
alone, but another pair that he knew all too well. Fighting 
the warm fog of lust that threatened to cloud his mind, he 
tried once more to will his stubborn sex into limpness as 
the footsteps drew near to the entrance. It was of no use. 
His manhood remained raised and craving, even as Great Lord 
Michael entered the room.



LORD MICHAEL:

As I walked down the corridor with Bischet trailing behind 
me, I reflected upon the past two months. It had been that 
long since Rain had surrendered himself to the Gathering 
and to me, bound by no chain save for a treaty -- and a vow 
that he refused to break.

Up north, in the Outlands where the Clans dwelled, winter 
was a cruel beast. Even had the war never happened, the 
Clansfolk would have suffered privations that our servants 
and dependents never knew. Many of the oldest and weakest 
would have perished before spring. Had Rain remained with 
them, he would have suffered the same privations. 

Even in summer, his life would not have been safe or 
comfortable. When they were not fighting us, the Clansfolk 
fought each other. He might be killed in a raid, or a full-
scale war between smallclans.

Or he might simply have died of an illness we could easily 
cure, or in a hunting accident.

Thus must his people struggle to live, by their own choice. 
A thousand years ago, they had scornfully cast aside the 
benefits of civilization to live in what they considered 
"freedom", far from our City. There, in the wilderness of 
the Outlands, they had reverted to barbarism, forming the 
Clans. In time, as the City had grown under our protection 
and guidance, its boundaries had reached the Outlands. We 
Lords are generous, and we do not hold grudges; we had 
given them some of the benefits of civilization, asking in 
return only taxes far lighter than any City-dweller paid. 

Yet, light as the taxes were, last year the Clansfolk had 
laid aside their feuding and united in another futile 
rebellion against them. Now their plight was far worse than 
it had ever been. No doubt hundreds of them had already 
starved to death, and hundreds more -- perhaps even 
thousands -- would die before summer and the first harvest.

Had Rain remained in the lands of his birth, he might 
already have died. Even if he had escaped all these fates, 
he would have aged before his time. The wind and the cold 
of the Outlands would have weathered his handsome face, 
leaving it lined and leathery. His beauty would have faded 
quickly -- never even recognized, let alone cherished, like 
a fine gem that falls into the mud where it is swallowed 
and lost.

Instead, under my care, he lived in comfort and plenty. And 
his beauty was admired and enjoyed. As I walked down the 
hall, I promised myself that one day soon, I would hire an 
artist or sculptor to record that beauty.

Some of my fellow Lords, such as Lord William, would have 
said that the hostages had volunteered simply to escape the 
miseries and barbarism of their homeland. They would have 
spoken in ignorance; they understood little of the people 
of the Outlands. 

I knew very well what the Clansfolk thought of us, and what 
Rain had expected to be his lot in my service: endless 
torture, brutality and eventually a cruel death. Yet, he 
had offered to suffer that fate, to protect his people for 
as long as he could. His offering had been an act of 
selfless courage and loyalty. Barbarian ideals of both, 
perhaps, but courage and loyalty all the same, and I 
admired him for them.

Of course, if what I hoped was indeed true, there was 
another reason for his self-sacrifice. But he was not yet 
aware of that reason; he would require a long, slow process 
of training to understand and accept it. This day, I hoped 
to take him one step further along that path.

I entered the room to find him waiting upon his knees, as I 
had expected. He was holding his hands behind his neck, 
under his magnificent long hair, just the way I had taught 
him.

I walked over to him, savoring the sight of his kneeling, 
yet proud and defiant beauty. His mane of fine ginger-blond 
hair framed that handsome face with its high cheekbones and 
fair skin, and flowed down over his shoulders and his back, 
echoed by the darker tufts in his armpits. Lean muscles 
showed clearly beneath his pale skin, giving shape to his 
arms and his thighs.

I made a mental note to give him more arduous work as soon 
as the spring thaw came, so that he would not grow soft and 
lose any of his beauty.

He stared straight ahead, not meeting my gaze as I walked 
over to him and looked him up and down. Only a telltale 
quiver of his jaw muscles told me what an effort it was 
costing him to remain still, to endure this inspection. A 
pink blush again colored his cheekbones. His face was set 
with determination -- he had retreated into himself to 
endure the humiliation being visited upon him. 
Nevertheless, when I looked down, I saw that his member was 
beautifully, rigidly erect.

"Stand up," I told him. "Keep your hands in place."

He did so, moving with the grace and ease he had learned. 
Then he stood erect before me, his member bobbing for a 
moment before it stilled.

I lowered myself onto one knee before him to study that 
handsome phallus more closely. Already, pinkness flushed 
its tip, set off by the thick gold-red pelt of his groin.

"Spread your legs a little," I said. I heard him inhale 
deeply, but he obeyed -- sliding his bare feet farther 
apart, so that his testicles dangled freely between his 
thighs. His phallus jutted forward, seeming to demand my 
attention.

His breath actually checked when I gently palmed the 
swollen flesh; then it left him in a slow, barely 
controlled exhalation. I simply held his member without 
caressing it, feeling it twitch in my hand. Then I reached 
forward and down, slid my fingertips along the underside of 
his testicles and cupped them lightly, weighing them. They 
felt warm and heavy in my palm, drawn tight with long-
unsatisfied lust, the skin as soft as the thinnest, finest 
glove leather.

I released them, and ran one finger along the underside of 
his beautifully stiff member, from root to tip. It twitched 
again. A drop of clear fluid swelled at the opening, then 
slowly oozed downwards in a lengthening thread until it 
separated and dropped down to the floor. I loved the sight, 
for it had the effect of making him seem all the more 
vulnerable and exposed, all the more wanton.

I drew my hand back and stood up, looking once more into 
his face. Unable to ignore me any longer, he returned my 
gaze, and I stared deeply into his wonderful great dark 
eyes. The eyes of a wounded stag, at bay and doomed, yet 
still proud.

I watched those eyes carefully, for how he responded to my 
next question would reveal much.

"Tell me, Rain," I asked softly, "what were you thinking 
upon when you became aroused?"

The proud gaze wavered for a bare moment before it 
steadied. Had I blinked, I would probably have missed it. 
Yet, no one could have missed his blush. Never before had I 
seen his entire face flush, but now the flawless skin over 
his cheekbones darkened to near-scarlet, pink spreading 
over all his face, even his chin. He swallowed, his throat 
working briefly under the narrow band of the leather 
collar.

"Of -- of being with a woman, my Lord."

I could see the guardedness in his eyes, the flicker of a 
desperate urge to look away again. There was no question; 
he was lying to me.

The hope in my heart swelled into exultation, but I firmly 
restrained it. I simply nodded and turning to Duvier.

"Return him to his work," I said. "You need not call me 
again on this matter, but my other orders stand."

"Yes, Lord," Duvier affirmed.

I left them and returned to my study, controlling the rush 
of exultation that I felt. I was nearly certain now, but I 
would still have to remove all doubt . . .



RAIN:
 
Fear and guilt tormented Rain for the rest of the day. Fear 
-- Lord Michael was difficult to deceive at the best of 
times, and he might not truly be deceived now. Guilt -- 
though his oath had spoken nothing explicitly of being 
always truthful to his master.

*What else could I have done?* the Clansman asked his 
queasy conscience. *I have obeyed him in all things, 
always. The oath spoke nothing of telling him the truth of 
myself. I cannot let him know what he is doing to me.*

What if the Lord had seen through his lie? He could only 
guess what terrible punishment he would suffer.

*Better the torture I expected when I came here than more 
of his unspeakable caresses,* Rain told himself grimly.

He wanted desperately to believe that . . . but the memory 
of the sukai lash was all too strong.



LORD MICHAEL:

In the evening, I returned to him, where he was working in 
my private kitchen. Neither Duvier nor Bischet accompanied 
me; I would not require their aid in dealing with him. 
Humiliation and anger he would feel, but he *would* submit, 
remembering his oath.

At my command, he stood to let me attach the leash to his 
collar. His dark eyes held their usual cool reserve. Yet, I 
perceived a controlled tension in his bearing. His organ 
hung limply between his thighs now. Yes, he feared that I 
had seen through his lie.

I let him remain in doubt, allowing nothing in my 
expression or bearing to give away my intent.

He followed me into the corridor in obedient silence, then 
stepped ahead as I had taught him, his hands again clasped 
at the back of his neck. As he walked before me, I enjoyed 
the sight of his smooth, rounded buttocks alternately 
tensing and relaxing. The stripes of his last beating, two 
weeks ago, had faded into nothingness; his pale skin was 
flawless.

We reached the point where the south hallway joined the 
main one. Since I had given no command, he turned to the 
right, where my bedroom lay. I checked him, tugging lightly 
on the leash, and he looked back at me in momentary 
surprise.

"No," I told him, keeping my voice calm, without anger. "I 
am taking you to the Room of Punishment."

His face paled, more than it ever had before at those 
words. Yet, he swallowed only once, then turned to the left 
without a murmur of protest.

*Such courage,* I thought, as I had before. It was one of 
his most admirable qualities. I suppressed the smile that 
sought to come to my lips. 

We entered the room, and I turned on the light and closed 
the door. Then I unfastened the leash from his collar. He 
dropped to his knees, hands still behind his neck.

He was breathing quickly, and a thin film of sweat gleamed 
on his brow. I could well guess the thoughts racing through 
his mind: Had I seen through his lie? If so, would I force 
the truth from him? And how severely would I punish him? 
Or, was this about some other failing entirely?

"Go to the bench," I commanded him.

He got up and walked over to the large, leather-padded 
wooden bench I usually employed for his punishments. I 
could see his humiliation and loathing in the way he 
carried himself, the faint stiffness in his stride. Ahh, 
how he hated these punishments -- oh, yes, I knew very well 
that he would have preferred being flogged upon his back 
and shoulders, even though that invariably hurt more. 
Perhaps he would even have preferred me to use the sukai 
lash again. He hated humiliation far more than he did pain.

When he reached the bench, he turned to face me, awaiting 
my next command. Beneath the hardness of his magnificent 
eyes, I could see his apprehension.
His mouth had tightened into a straight line. I walked 
toward him slowly, drawing the moment out, increasing his 
anxiety.

"Mount the bench," I said. "Crouch there on hands and 
knees."

Angered pride flickered briefly in his eyes before he 
turned to obey. Of all the positions I used for his 
chastisements, this was the one he most hated. Yet, he did 
not hesitate. He mounted the bench obediently to crouch 
upon it, his rump toward me.

I turned away, and went to the cabinet against the wall to 
choose the tool I wanted -- a stiff leather switch, with a 
small square "tick" on the end. I returned to stand at his 
side as he crouched upon the bench, looking down upon his 
handsome naked body, the strong back, the well-defined 
shoulder blades. He waited in silence; he would not plead 
with me, or protest. I would not have expected him to.

"Lower yourself onto your elbows," I directed, and he did 
so. I walked around the bench to stand directly behind him.

Few things appeal to me more than a slave's buttocks 
proffered for chastisement, lifted and fully exposed to my 
gaze. Rain's invariably reminded me of apples -- too small 
and tight to quiver much when he was punished, sadly, but 
beautifully round and just plump enough that the opening of 
the anus was fully concealed within the cleft. They were 
pale and smooth, without a mark on them; I had not 
chastised him for some days now.

I ached to caress those buttocks, to slap them, to bring 
the switch down across them repeatedly. But I intended more 
than mere chastisement this night. I meant to bring out the 
thing I was nearly certain lay within him, and to make him 
admit to it with words as well.

I softened my voice, made it lower and more intimate. "Arch 
your back." I touched the back of one thigh gently with the 
tip of the switch. "And spread your thighs apart."

His obedience remained flawless. He arched his spine 
downward and moved his knees farther apart as I had taught 
him -- a position that displayed his handsome buttocks to 
their best advantage.

In that position, I could not see his face, but I had no 
doubt that the blush had returned to it. His ribs shuddered 
with a shaky breath. Yes, he felt shame, but not enough. I 
needed him to feel still more humiliation.

"No," I said firmly. "That's not good enough. Arch your 
back more deeply, Rain. Spread your legs wider."

I used the tip of my switch to guide him, lightly brushing 
the inside of one thigh to make him spread even wider, 
until his muscles quivered with the strain. I could hear 
his breathing lose its rhythm again, becoming harsher.

No doubt he was silently cursing me in his mind. Yet, he 
strained the more, seeking to obey me, to honor his oath. 
What wonderful strength he had!

I could feel my member pressing against my breeches. How I 
longed to flog those wonderfully smooth buttocks, and then 
stroke them, kiss them, fondle them . . . gently part them 
to enter him, and hear his groans as I used his tight, hot 
passage. It would be so long, so terribly long, before he 
was ready for that.

Squatting down behind him, I peered more closely between 
his legs. I could see the pale pouch of his scrotum hanging 
underneath his body. Beyond it, the very tip of his member 
was almost touching the padded leather of the bench. As I 
studied it carefully, I saw the underside beginning to 
redden near the tip -- a redness that had nothing to do 
with blushing.

I smiled at the sight. I had noticed this response in his 
flesh before, the last two times I had chastised him. 
Tonight, he was ready.

With my switch, I carefully reached in between those lean 
thighs to lightly touch the side of his organ. He stiffened 
at the unexpected touch, but otherwise he remained 
motionless. Then I used the switch to lightly push at his 
member, making it sway a little from side to side. No doubt 
about it -- it was stiffened.

I knew then, beyond all doubt. He *was* what I sought. I 
inhaled deeply with the profound joy that filled my heart.

Two tasks remained for tonight: to persuade Rain to admit 
to his need, and then to what had aroused him. The first 
would be easy enough. The second would require all my skill 
and experience, but I had no doubt I would succeed in the 
end.

As I had in the past.



RAIN:

Rain gritted his teeth until they hurt, even as his muscles 
ached with strain and his loins surged with long-denied 
hunger. *I must hold to my oath,* he reminded himself. *I 
must let him do as he wills with me.*

Lord Michael's switch lightly stroked his starving manhood, 
caressing it as gently as his hand might in the bedroom. 
With all his strength, the Clansman forced himself to 
remain splayed and crouching on the bench as the switch 
teased him. Then it withdrew. He heard the slight sounds of 
Michel getting up.

He heard Lord Michael walking slowly around him, to stop by 
his side.

"You are aroused." There was no hint of mockery in Lord 
Michael's voice, only the same gentle softness he had used 
since they had entered the room. "You desire my touch. Do 
you not?"

"No . . . my Lord . . ." He wanted to groan with shame and 
dread, even as his manhood hungered and swelled.

"No?" A little of the iron crept back into Lord Michael's 
tone. The Lord must have crouched then, for a hand suddenly 
grasped Rain's unruly sex to hold it firmly. A gasp leaped 
from his throat before he could stop himself. "Your member 
is stiff. Does your body lie to me, then?"

Rain crouched there, his eyes tightly closed, and wished 
deeply to be anywhere but here upon this bench. The hand 
began to fondle his stiffened flesh. His loins surged, 
making him gasp again.

"Tell me, Rain. Do you desire my touch?"

"Yes, my Lord," he finally admitted. His voice was scarcely 
audible even to him.

"I did not hear you, Rain. Speak so that I may hear you." 
The fingers stroked, pumped gently. Some fluid must have 
oozed onto the Lord's fingers, for suddenly they were 
slippery with it.

He stifled a gasp. "Yes, my Lord!"

"And not over thoughts of being with a woman, I'll wager."

The words struck him like a blow to the belly. *Oh, spirits 
-- he knows that I lied . . .* But the wet, teasing fingers 
continued their work, and it was growing impossible to 
think clearly.

"Answer me, Rain. Tell me what has aroused you."

"Your touch, my Lord."

"Before that."

Rain clenched his teeth, refusing to reply. He would not, 
*could* not let this Lord find out -- but he so hungered 
for that accursed fondling . . .

"You detest this position, do you not?" Lord Michael's 
voice was gentleness itself, even as he continued to fondle 
Rain's manhood. "And yet at the same time, it arouses you. 
Isn't that so, Rain?"

The words sent a spear through Rain's very soul, for they 
so closely described what he was feeling. He knew now that 
he had no defense. He could not curse the Lord aloud, or 
strike out. Abruptly, his throat closed up, tears of 
humiliated anger welling behind his eyelids. He actually 
felt a moment of relief, for now it would be harder to 
speak.

Then Michael's fingers abandoned him. His hips yearned to 
thrust in vain pursuit of those touches.

He heard the Lord's footsteps, circling around behind him 
again. A moment later, there was a sharp crack, and a 
streak of pain across his rump. He couldn't hold back a 
deep groan; his buttocks clenched without his willing them 
to do so, and he felt another surge pass through his organ. 

The switch lashed down again, just below the last stroke. 
Caught between his shame and the pain, he groaned, "My Lord 
-- please!"

A third stroke burned across his buttocks. "*Answer* me, 
Rain." The voice was all command now, with no softness in 
it.

Rain gasped, his buttocks stinging savagely. Still he would 
not reply.

The switch struck him once more. Then Lord Michael's voice 
cracked out, as harsh and abrupt as the blows: "Get up!"

Clambering off the bench slowly, limb by limb, Rain got his 
feet on the floor. He knelt down again before Lord Michael, 
putting his hands behind his neck. His buttocks still stung 
and burned. The Lord's blue eyes were frigid as he looked 
down upon him, and the Clansman's belly knotted. *Now I 
will indeed be punished . . .*

"No, you need not fear the lash, Rain," Michael said, his 
voice as cold as his eyes. "I am going to make use of a new 
punishment, one you have not known before. It will not 
hurt, but you may well find that you would prefer pain. Go 
to the rack." He pointed with the switch.

The rack was all of steel, a metal frame set with stout 
rings everywhere. Rain knew it well -- it was the rack upon 
which he had been flogged with the sukai lash, the first 
day he had been here.

When he had reached it, he turned to see Lord Michael again 
walking slowly, unhurriedly toward the cabinet.

*If not the lash, then what?* he wondered.

Michael returned without the switch, but holding ropes and 
leather cuffs in his hands. Rain offered no resistance as 
the Lord fastened the cuffs upon him, then bound him 
standing in the rack, arms and legs stretched out to the 
sides.

His buttocks still burned. He wished that he could rub the 
fire away. At least his manhood had softened.

Michael fetched a little wooden stool from against one 
wall, and placed it carefully before Rain's bound, standing 
body. Then the Lord sat down upon it, and looked up at him. 
His expression had changed; no longer was it frigid as 
winter. Now there was a stealthy glitter of delight in his 
eyes, like the delight they often held while Michael teased 
him to full hardness in the bedroom.

"As I have said, this will not hurt," Michael said. 
"However, you may find it more difficult to bear than the 
switch."

He reached out with both hands. Rain tensed, but all the 
Lord did was take gentle hold of his limp organ. Then, 
Michael began to stroke and caress it, as he might do in 
the bedroom. Rain felt the sudden flush of warmth filling 
his manhood, making it swell and hunger again.

And suddenly, he knew what this punishment would be, and 
new dread filled his heart.



LORD MICHAEL:

Yes, he was ready to learn a little more.

My Rain had great strength of will; I knew that. Like any 
Clansman, he could endure great pain. I might have broken 
him with the whip, but with pain alone I would never truly 
make him mine.

Yet, all of his strength and pride had no answer to the 
torment of unsatisfied passion. That he was so young made 
him still more susceptible that way.

I had already taken advantage of that weakness and youth in 
my bedroom, when I teased him before using his mouth to 
make him more eager. He knew now that he was vulnerable to 
such soft torture -- and that, just as I dispensed the 
torture, only I could give him the relief his body craved. 
On this night, I would use that weakness to teach him a 
little more, bring him a little farther down the path of 
submission to my will.

Sadly, what he would learn tonight would make him suffer 
greatly inside his mind, at least for a time -- but that 
could not be avoided.

I began to fondle him into arousal. He understood part of 
my intent at once: anger burned in those lovely dark eyes. 
Then he set his jaw to endure the teasing in silence for as 
long as he could.

I knew him so well by now that I could play his flesh as a 
skilled musician might play an instrument. He fought me and 
his own lust courageously, clenching his jaw until the 
muscles quivered in his cheeks, closing his eyes to shut me 
out. But he could not deny me one response; his member had 
fully stiffened, a drop of preseed already glistening at 
its tip.

As I continued to toy with him, his muscles tensed with 
suppressed lust. That droplet swelled until it dripped down 
to the floor. At last, despite his best efforts, he uttered 
a choked gasp.

The rest came quickly as I continued to tantalize him. He 
gasped repeatedly, and his hips began to move, craving my 
touches. His nipples stiffened as the pleasure rose through 
his entire body, making all his muscles flex rhythmically. 
His pale skin began to gleam with sweat.

As his arousal grew more acute, his head went back, so that 
I could no longer see his face. The motion exposed his 
throat, as if offering it for a knife. Now he was taking 
deep, shaky breaths. His hands clenched and unclenched in 
his bonds. A moan came from between his teeth, then 
another.

Yet, he would not speak, even to beg me for fulfillment.

The moment when he was nearly ready to spend was very 
apparent: he took a deep, gasping inhalation, and a 
premonitory shudder ran through the flushed, heated organ 
in my hands. His reddened testicles had drawn up tightly. I 
flicked a finger along the underside of the head of his 
phallus one last time, and -- drew my hands away.

He couldn't help but groan aloud, his entire body writhing 
in its bonds, face contorted, eyes tightly closed. His hips 
thrust forward, desperately, blindly seeking to rub his 
swollen member against something, anything to carry him 
over the edge -- a slight brush against my clothing would 
have done it.

His sheer beauty at that moment brought an ache to my chest 
as I watched him buck and struggle in his bonds as if in 
pain, his phallus bobbing up and down with his movements.

I let my gaze dwell upon the lovely sight, feeling my own 
organ warming and stiffening. Yes, I would definitely call 
upon his mouth later.

Slowly, the futile thrusts ceased. His member was still as 
rigid as it could be, but it no longer twitched furiously. 
His head lowered, his gasps easing. He slowly opened his 
eyes, and the glaze of lust gradually cleared from them.

I smiled at him, letting him see my appreciation for his 
beautiful state, and saw those magnificent eyes narrow. He 
still could not see my pleasure as anything save mockery. I 
felt a twinge of regret.

Then I began to caress him again.

His restraint weakened more swiftly the second time as I 
played with him, bringing him to full swollenness again. As 
his frustration burgeoned, his movements became ever more 
abandoned. The glaze of animal lust returned to his eyes.

I began to use my voice as well as my hands, keeping my 
tone low and husky. "Yes, my beautiful one," I told him, 
"yes. So handsome, in your passion. Thrust those eager 
hips. How your member drips and craves. You want this so, 
do you not? Let yourself moan, let yourself writhe in 
abandonment under your master's touch. Forget your pride . 
. ." 

Again, I stopped only when he quivered upon the very verge 
of spending. He panted as a horse run to near foundering 
might gasp, hoarse and deep and rapid.

When he had recovered a little, I resumed.

And again, and again.

Over and over, I brought him to the edge of orgasm, only to 
leave him in need. By slow degrees, all restraint left him. 
He moaned as freely as his clear preseed dribbled, no 
longer able to remain silent. His taut, beautiful body 
became slick with sweat. He tried repeatedly to thrust his 
phallus into my hands firmly enough to let himself spasm in 
release, but always I drew my hands away at the last 
possible moment. No session of mine in bed, teasing him, 
had ever continued for so long.

So long had I waited for this, to caress his organ and 
watch his heat burgeon, to toy with him for longer than a 
few brief delicious minutes. Yet, this was meant as part of 
a lesson, and so I must still act with care.

Now, I judged it the right moment to weaken his defenses a 
little more.

"Do you wish to spend?" I asked him softly.

He hesitated; I could sense his remaining pride urging him 
to deny it. Then: "Yes, my Lord," he answered. His voice 
was low, husky with lust.

"Then beg me," I urged him, the first time I had ever done 
so. "Beg me to let you spend in my hands. Plead with me for 
release."

He shook his head wordlessly: no, no, no. Lost in the storm 
of his passion, he had at last forgotten his oath of 
obedience -- for the moment. I smiled, and did not remind 
him of it.

"Go ahead, my handsome slave. Beg me."

He tossed his head like a rebellious stallion, but my words 
had planted the seed. He knew now what I wanted from him, 
and that the torment would not cease until he gave it to 
me.

Soon, he had to set his jaw again -- not to hold back the 
groans any longer, for that was a lost battle, but against 
voicing the craving he felt.

At last, the first half-choked word escaped from between 
his bared teeth. "*Please . . .*"

I continued to caress his heated flesh. At last, louder: 
"Please . . ."

"Please, what?" I asked him softly.

He clung desperately to those last scraps of resistance, 
trying not to give me what I wanted. At last, inevitably, 
he surrendered.

"Please . . . ahhh! Please, let me spend." The words came 
from between his gritted teeth, low and profoundly 
unwilling. I felt another warm surge through my own groin.

"Keep on," I half-whispered.

It took nearly a minute of toying to get anything further 
out of him -- nearly a minute of beautiful but inarticulate 
gasps and groans. Then, louder this time, less reluctant: 
"Please! My Lord, let me spend!"

I nodded. "That is good. Go on."

He broke then, the shield of his pride shattering at last, 
and began to beg in sweet earnest. The words came ever more 
freely: "Please, my Lord -- I, I need to spend. I beg you 
to let me spend. Let me spend . . . please . . . ahh, 
please . . ."

Hoarse and thin with need, his voice was still pure beauty. 
Hearing the words from him then . . . ahh, that was truly 
exquisite. No matter how many years I had the pleasure of 
owning him, I knew that I would always remember this 
moment.

Finally, I withdrew my hands, ceasing the caresses. He was 
nearly weeping now, beyond all speech, whimpering 
pitifully, breath hitching, chest heaving. His rigid member 
bobbed up and down as he squirmed.

I did nothing to distract him from his lust, but only sat 
quietly as I watched him. His hips kept thrusting and 
jerking for some time. My own member was pressing almost 
painfully against the crotch of my trousers.

His whimpers dwindled. The reflexive movements became 
slower, smaller, and at last subsided entirely. His head 
lowered a little, the dark eyes clearing again, and I could 
see the shame in them as he realized how totally he had 
lost all mastery of himself.

I stood up, pushing back the stool, to stand before him 
face to face. He manifestly did not want to look at me, but 
I waited patiently until boredom and anxiety got the better 
of him. When he did meet my eyes, his face held a desperate 
anger -- anger made desperate because he knew that it was 
his last bulwark of defense against me.

It was time to tell him a little more truth -- and to 
demand the truth in return.

"Your body wishes to obey me, Rain, no matter how much your 
foolish pride rebels against it," I told him. "Forget that 
pride, Rain. You no longer have any right to it. You have 
given it up."

"No," he said, the remnants of his pride still forcing him 
to deny it even as his member remained half-stiffened with 
need. "No -- I . . ." His voice trailed off.

I felt a moment of pity. He was so afraid of what he really 
was.

I looked into his dark eyes. Gripping his jaw in one hand 
to keep him from turning away, I spoke.

"Tell me now, Rain. And this time, tell me the truth. What 
were you thinking of, when you became aroused as you 
labored in the great hall?"



RAIN:

He looked into Lord Michael's implacable blue eyes, and 
knew that the Lord *would* have an answer.

"My Lord --" His voice quavered, on the verge of breaking. 
"Please. I beg you -- do not make me answer that."

He saw Lord Michael's hand draw back, and knew what would 
happen. The hard slap across his face silenced any further 
pleas he might have spoken.

"Do not provoke me." The Lord's voice was still level. 
"*Remember your oath*, Rain. Obey me."

*Remember your oath* . . . The words chilled Rain to the 
bone. He felt his mouth go dry as he looked back into that 
stern face, those cold eyes.

He closed his eyes again, shuddered. Tried to force his 
lips and tongue to work. His member was soft now, no longer 
stiff with need. He half-expected another slap at his 
delay, but it did not come. Michael waited.

"This . . . room . . ." A half-sob caught him by surprise; 
he hadn't known he was that close to tears. "This room . . 
. My Lord."

"This room? The Punishment Room?" The Lord's voice was 
without pity.

"My Lord . . . *please* . . ."

"No. Continue, Rain. What of this room?"

*Will he not leave me one scrap of pride?* Rain wondered. 
He sucked air deep into his lungs, exhaled, sucked in more 
air. Forced himself to reply.

"Of . . . being naked here."

He prayed Lord Michael would be satisfied with that. 
Michael was not. "What of being naked here? Tell me more."

"Of being on the bench." Rain's throat closed, and he could 
not speak further for the moment.

"What of being on the bench?" the Lord asked. "What made 
you erect as you thought of that?"

Rain swallowed again, forcing his throat open. Nausea 
heaved in his belly as he at last spoke the words he 
dreaded.

"Of . . . offering myself for punishment."

And then, to his horror, the tears flooded his eyes and 
spilled down his cheeks. The Lord's face wavered and 
blurred in his vision.

There was a long, silent pause between them. Rain tried to 
recover himself, tried to stop his tears, but it took all 
his strength simply not to sob.

When Lord Michael spoke again, something in his voice had 
softened ever so little. "Good enough." Rain felt a gentle 
hand stroke his hair in the familiar gesture. The stroking 
seemed to burn into him, through his hair into his skin, 
down into his very self. "Was this what you feared to 
confess?"

"Yes, my Lord." Rain closed his eyes, feeling more tears 
stream down his cheeks.

The stroking continued, Michael's breath blowing warmly 
upon his face. He struggled to regain control, to somehow 
force his tears to stop.

In time, they did, and the tightness in his throat eased.

He felt cloth being pressed lightly against one eye, then 
the other, blotting his tears. Michael carefully dried his 
eyes with the handkerchief, and wiped his cheeks with equal 
care. When the Lord was finished, he dropped the cloth to 
the floor, and looked deeply into Rain's face again. There 
seemed almost to be a hint of compassion in his face.

"That was terribly humiliating to tell me, was it not?"

"Yes, my Lord," Rain admitted.

"Why so?" As always, neither Lord Michael's manner or his 
voice betrayed any hint of mockery.

"Because . . ." Rain gathered himself. "It shames me."

"How so?"

"A -- a Clansman does not want such things -- wanting pain, 
to be shamed. Among us, no one feels such things."

Lord Michael nodded, slowly, gravely. "So you feel less 
than a man, a Clansman. Do you not?"

Rain simply nodded in turn, feeling himself beyond further 
speech for the moment.

"Nevertheless, I will demand the truth from you, always. 
And you will give it." Lord Michael spoke the last words in 
a tone of conviction so absolute that it was not even 
emphatic. "You have sworn to obey my every command, and I 
command this from you, now and forever: you will never 
again lie to me or deceive me in any way. From this night 
on, I will expect the truth from you, always. That is part 
of your oath, the oath you have sworn to protect your 
people. Do you understand?"

And Rain knew himself to be trapped, defeated. Lord Michael 
had called upon his oath. To break his oath -- to fail in 
his duty to his people -- that was unthinkable.

He felt that he might vomit. Swallowing bile, he forced 
himself to reply.

"Yes, my Lord. I . . . understand."
 
"Good." Lord Michael nodded, accepting his due. His eyes 
were gentle again. He reached up and let his hand come to 
rest on Rain's cheek. 

"Now, I am going to leave you, for a short time," he said. 
"While I am gone, think upon what has happened today."

The hand dropped from his cheek. Lord Michael turned away 
and walked out without looking back, leaving Rain with his 
thoughts.

The young Clansman stood there in his bonds, listening to 
the Lord's measured footsteps recede down the hall outside. 
They dwindled into silence, leaving him alone.

He let his head hang a little, taking deep breaths. His 
organ remained limp, for which he was grateful at first. 
The last of the madness of lust had cleared from his mind; 
he could think . . . and remember. The sting of his broken 
pride grew into an agonizing ache.

He had been defeated. He had writhed wantonly at the Lord's 
touch, and begged him for more, forgetting that Lord 
Michael was an enemy, forgetting pride and restraint, with 
no thought of anything save his body's desperate hunger for 
release.

Worse, Lord Michael now knew the truth: that his willful 
manhood had swelled and risen at the mere memory of the 
indignities done him. The Lord knew that his efforts to 
corrupt him were bearing fruit, that his captive's flesh 
had begun to hunger for the very things that shamed him. 
And he would certainly exploit that knowledge to the full.

Rain had offered himself as a sacrifice, expecting to 
become a victim. He had not thought that Lord Michael would 
wish him to become a wanton animal instead.

**Can** I keep fighting him? Can I convince him that I am 
not the mere beast in rut that he wants?*

The answer to that filled him with despair. He was already 
losing the battle.



Lord Michael's footsteps sounded again. As he entered the 
Punishment Room, Rain lifted his head to look at him. To 
his astonishment, he saw that the Lord was bearing a tray 
of food, like a common servant.

Michael walked up to him, and set the tray down upon the 
stool. Looking down at it, Rain could see that it bore 
several slices of bread spread with the curious soft cheese 
that folk ate here, a goblet of what surely was watered 
wine, and a neatly-folded white cloth napkin. Suddenly, he 
was very much aware that he had not eaten since the midday 
meal, and his belly growled.

Lord Michael smiled almost tenderly at him.

"Since you have missed your supper, I will feed you," the 
Lord said. "Simply relax in your bonds, and let me do 
this."

There was no use in refusing. Rain ate the bread and 
cheese, bite by bite, from Lord Michael's hands, his lips 
blotted dry with the napkin. The Lord was matter-of-fact 
about his self-imposed task; his entire attention seemed 
upon the slow, careful feeding. When the last of the food 
and wine were gone, he wiped Rain's mouth very carefully, 
then put the soiled napkin down on the tray.

"There," he remarked, "I imagine you feel better. Now, we 
will continue this lesson."

Rain braced himself, expecting Michael to continue his 
torment, but the Lord did not. Instead, he reached out with 
both hands and took Rain's head in his hands again, forcing 
Rain to look at him. There was no cruelty in those blue 
eyes, only gentle firmness.

"Know this: I know what you feel, Rain. I know that you are 
suffering miserably. I could tell you that you need not 
loathe yourself, but that would mean nothing to you at this 
point. I will not ask if you understand that, for I know 
that you do not. You cannot, not yet. But I will guide you 
with all my skill, until the day that you do understand."

One hand lifted from his cheek, to stroke his hair again, 
as if to reassure him. Then the Lord drew his hands away, 
and the tenderness departed from his eyes.

"I am done with this portion of your punishment," Lord 
Michael said. "Now, I am going to release you from your 
bonds, Rain. When I do so, you will continue to obey me. Do 
you understand this?"

"Yes, my Lord," Rain answered, as humbly as he could. "I 
will obey you."

"Good."

Michael removed his restraints one by one, letting them 
drop carelessly to the floor. When he had finished with the 
last wrist restraint, he moved back, letting Rain step 
clear of the rack.

Rain carefully lowered himself to his knees before the 
Lord, keeping his thighs well apart, lacing his fingers 
together upon the back of his neck. From this position, 
Lord Michael's groin was directly before his eyes, and he 
could see the straining tautness there. He suspected what 
Michael's next order would be, even before he gave it.

"Now, you have a duty to fulfill, before we leave this 
room," Michael said. "Know, even as you suckle me and 
swallow my semen, that you will receive no relief tonight. 
This is the final part of your punishment for lying to me. 
Tomorrow night, if you do well, when you have served me in 
my bedroom I will allow you release of your own."

"As my Lord wishes." And even as he said it, Rain felt the 
returning pulse of hunger in his loins. So long to wait . . 
.

"Excellent." The Lord moved close, to stand directly in 
front of him. "Now, satisfy me, and we will go to my 
bedroom."

It was actually a relief to have this task to concentrate 
upon -- unlacing the Lord's breeches, drawing out his 
manhood. A relief, to have some distraction from the far 
worse humiliation he had already suffered.

As he took Michael's half-stiffened manhood into his mouth 
and began to suckle on it, he felt another surge of that 
terrible pleasure welling up again. He couldn't stop it.



Later, that night, Rain lay in Lord Michael's great bed, 
still awake.

He turned his head to look over at his master and owner. No 
doubt Michael had been well satisfied with what had 
happened this day. Now the Lord lay deep in slumber, his 
blond hair spreading over the pillow, his eyes closed. 
Trusting in Rain's oath to protect him, secure in the 
knowledge that Rain would never break it.

*I could slay him so easily,* the young Clansman thought. 
*I could avenge my honor . . . if I were not sworn.*

But he *was* sworn. To break his oath would not merely cost 
him whatever honor he had left; it would condemn his people 
to death. There was naught that he could do, save endure 
whatever Lord Michael chose to do to him.

Even at that thought, he felt the hateful hunger return. He 
tried to ignore his frustration, the urge to rub himself 
against the sheets.

He turned on his belly and buried his face in the pillow, 
hands clutching the sheets desperately as he struggled to 
sort out his dilemma in a way that would not destroy him.

*I can't let him make me into his groveling cur . . . but . 
. . what can I do?* He had thought himself more than strong 
enough for the sacrifice, when he had stood among the ashes 
of his village with his kin. But then, he had not known 
that *this*, and not mere agony, would be the sacrifice.

The Clansfolk knew tales of what had happened to those who 
became the Lords' slaves: tales of rape, torture, and even 
death at the hands of their masters. But not tales of 
seduction, or corruption, such as what he was suffering.

The realization came to him: it was one thing to sacrifice 
one's life . . . but a still worse thing to sacrifice one's 
very self.

And yet, he could not go back upon his word and beg for 
mercy or release. His own life, even his very self counted 
for nothing compared to the needs of his Clan. Lord Michael 
might seek to turn him into something other and less than a 
Clansman, but he must keep to that honor, at least. And 
that very honor doomed him to suffer Lord Michael's 
"training". He must keep his oath . . . even if it meant 
that he risked becoming something that was no Clansman, or 
even a man. 

It might be the only honor he had left, in the end -- if 
the Lord succeeded in corrupting him. 

For the second time since he had come here, Rain felt tears 
leaking into the pillow. He was grateful the sleeping Lord 
Michael couldn't see it.

*I will resist as long as I can,* he resolved. *I can do 
that much, at least, whether I win or lose.* The thought 
brought him no comfort.



Send comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . The 
URL to my story archive is in the author's notes at the 
top.