…stare her down. She’ll get nothing from you, even if it’s the last thing you do.

You stare it down, then her down, straining your eyes up to meet her sea blue gaze, narrowed with need and expectation. Those eyes think that you enjoyed it; think the memory of her hot tongue, first between your legs, then between your lips, is the fairer memory for you than the thick press of a man’s touch. That you would be glade for the chance to kiss her between the thick thunderous thighs lying on your back with boiling heat. Her dripping musk assaults your nose, warring with the phantom feel of men; dozens and dozens of men; dozens of Roland’s riding you and filling you with carless brutality.

She’s right; to avoid that, you’d gladly pleasure a woman. You’re no licker, but you’re no fool either. Her wet and full flower, once a prize purchased by many men, shines before you with wanton lust.

But she’s also wrong, as she’s not just any woman.

If she believes that you prefer women over men, then perhaps she is right, if only for the savage glee you get from the look in her eyes as they read your choice. They shift from wanton lust, to confusion, to anger, to a poorly conceived expression of indifference. Finally, at the end and under it all, she shows a hurt that’s quickly hidden, but you saw it; you hurt her. It’s a pathetic thing, but you don’t care; you hurt her after she hurt you, and it feels good.

She puts on the mask of a smile, throwing a leg over and away to slide off the bed. Her frustration shows in intended carelessness; legs landing on your shoulder and pressing it painfully down with her weight as she moves; a purposeful slide on wet sheets that paints her wetness across your turned face, grinding it for half a second on your cheekbone. As she stands, she presses her hand upon your back, steadying herself with aggressive pettiness until your strained bones click from it. The pressure lessens, but the hand remains, stroking you again. Fingers run frustrated nails up and down your back.

“Brave.” She takes a deep breath, squatting beside you and leaning near your ear. “I like brave.” She stands, raking her hand down your back. “Not one for stupid. But I do like brave.”

As she walks past your hips, her trailing fingers go between the cleft of your cheeks, barely skirting the hole of your rear as their hard press lessens upon your skin. They follow the valley down, between the undefended space of your spread legs, and a cluster of fingers enter you there, pressing inwards in an idle grope of your rear and inner passage. After Roland, and with enough warning from her trajectory, you manage to take the move without flinching. Back and forth. Back and forth. The fingers finally lose their unthinking mood and begin to target your sensitive spot, so recently hammered raw. You burry you face back in the bed, and breathe deep till it’s done.

“Bah!” The fingers go, as though they were never there. “What’s the point of a licker that doesn’t lick?”

You raze a head to protest, but find there is nothing you can say to improve your situation. She doesn’t let your silence go unanswered. “And don’t tell me you’re not! This isn’t Roland on my fingers!” She wipes her soaked fingers on the sweat of your taught cheek before levelling a hard smack upon it to drive home her point. It stings, lighting a small beacon of pain among the dull oceans of ache. With one last harrumph, she steps away and opens the door, and your last glance backward catches her donning a plane looking dressing gown before stepping out.

You tug weakly against the ropes, briefly cutting off the already thin circulation to your hands and feet, and its only by relaxing that the bright purple colour drains from your extremities. Even as you feel it, you wonder if the savage joy of such a feeble victory will last through what’s to come. Will she set her crew upon you here? It’s unlikely, considering it’s her bed. More likely, they’ll untie you and take you somewhere else, and so rationing and regaining your strength becomes your priority.

“Rock! Garran! Benji! Get yourselves here now!” Even through the doors, the captain sounds angry. You listen in, hesitant of your earlier supposition; she could at least give you a break! Fortunately, her orders are terse and clear. Benji is sent to ‘get Misty up here now!’ while Rock and Garran follow the captain to you in a business-like manner.

As men you’ve never seen enter the room, you unwillingly great them with the sight of spread legs and a red raw pussy, freshly assaulted and seeded. Whatever their thoughts, they keep them to themselves while under the eyes of their frustrated captain.

“Untie her, tie her up, then throw her in a cell.” The captain pinches the bridge of her nose as she gives the order, and the men rush to obey without question. They work the ropes with quick efficiency, and when your arms are freed, there is a little moment of confusion, the ‘untie her, tie her up’ part of the orders given unclear. After a silent back and forth made up of confused and worried expressions, as well as heads bobbing and gesturing to each other, one of the men ties the two ropes currently connected to your wrists, to each other, making a somewhat thick bulk about your tightly wrapped forearms. They do the same to your legs with all the professionalism of corpse collectors; displaying no lust at the sight of your bared self. This time, they remove the rope from an ankle and tie the bed post end of the longer peace in its place, leaving you with a limited walking length, like prison chains. All tied up, ‘Rock’, who is a vast tower of a man, lifts you by the arm pits, while ‘Garran’ and his somewhat wizened form, hold you with vestigial ease by the ankles. Together, they carry you like firewood silently out of the sight of the captains bubbling frustration.

The outer room passes, and then the stairs to the foyer. You play the corpse, not wanting them to think you need a lesson learned in how to cooperate. You even stay still as they carry your naked body past the richly dressed merchants at the bottom of the stairs, each of which watch the procession with feigned disinterested. No doubt they heard the noises as well.

You’re glad to be rid of them as the men take you around the corner, following the familiar path to the cellar door and opening it in silence. They descend the stone steps, you remaining flaccid in their grip, and they take you to a collection of metal bars set between stone floor and ceiling. You stare ahead, unblinking; somewhere along the way, stillness in body had become a kind of stillness in mind, and you decide to maintain the act as they dump you in the cell made of bars mortared into stone. The mindlessness may help for what’s to come, and the act of it may even aid an escape down the line, if you can convince them you’re broken and they take the time to take notice or care. You feel cold stone through the scant straw and you look up at the ceiling, waiting for the horrors to come.

And, as the night begins in earnest and the moon slips from the unseen sky, nothing happens to you. The cellars occupants change over time, with many questioning your presence and who you are, as well as look upon your still naked body. Perhaps the sight inspires them as many then use the cellars other occupants, locked in the stocks and similarly unclothed. When the captain said she would give you to her crew, the sight of those two prove her words to be no joke; trussed up naked in a stock may be how you spend the next few days, or weeks, being **** again and again…

As predicted, the thrill of refusing -of taking back some measure of power from the woman who helped take all yours away- had long since faded. The prospect of being **** again… it leaves you sick to your stomach, but still you cannot fault yourself. On the face of it, licking her, as disgusting as it would have been, was the most logical choice, but it would be a choice peppered with compromise and lacking any guarantees. It would have placed more than just your mouth under her control, and even after it was done, she could’ve just hand you to her crew anyway, or sell you, or kill you, or any number of things. The word of a woman like that means nothing, especially considering what you’ve experienced first-hand. Meanwhile, there is a strength to choosing your fate and accepting it. It’s a horrible and cold thing, but it’s yours, and it makes a quiet place inside you. You don’t sleep, but when morning comes you step out of that quiet place in your mind and find something like rest given to you. The ropes about your wrists are loose now, thanks to your picking and twisting.

You know its morning for the glow of a distant window, standing high and unseen down a distant corridor. Birds -gulls you think- squawk at the risen sun and ride the distant draft of early air. You also know because the woman who helped **** you saunters down the stairs, well rested and talking to a man in a short sleeved green coat. Several others, mostly her crew judging by the colours, accompany them.

You try not to look. Gods but you try. Playing the inconspicuous remains of a beaten mindless girl had worked during the night, keeping the lecherous men unprovoked. True it was likely the vagueness of their captains orders and the intentions she only seemed to have shared with you that kept you out of the stock, but still.

She looks different in clothes; almost like a different person. She strides with confidence and power, sword bouncing at her hip and long red coat gleaming with vibrant colour. And yet, when she glances your way, her sea blue eyes gleam with remembrance and you know her to be unchanged. And she knows it of you as well. In the moment your eyes meet, you’re tied to that bed again, staring down her hairless snatch like a prisoner refusing her final meal. No lust clouds her mind this time though. A cold shiver travels up your spine when she winks at you.

Fortunately, you don’t seem to be her target for now. She goes into a backroom of the cellar, where you know other prisoners are being kept and talks with the man loudly, negotiating the merchandise on display.

Slavery is not legal anywhere, save perhaps the savage north, and who knows what those barbarians think. Yet, slavery exists almost everywhere in some form or another.

In the south, slavery had long since been outlawed, yet the day the empress declared all free, debt slavery suddenly became very popular, with old unknown obligations being ‘discovered’ all over the place. From what you’ve heard, the easily forged debt papers are hardly ever checked, and some parts don’t even bother with the formality anymore. That said, the mighty empire of the dark skinned people have always had a tenuous right to ‘civilised’ status at best, opting to worship only one god and wanting to understand things with their science and magic. Heathens.

In your home -the principalities- a similar corruption had taken hold some time ago. It was the unsaid way of things that debtor’s prisons are far worse than the streets. Mines for the men and boys, whoring for the women and girls, and no way to earn enough to pay your way free. A life sentence of misery. The nobility like it that way -made it that way- so that those people they want to control can be put into debt and are then happy to do whatever necessary to stay away from a debtor’s fate. That and the lack of mercy for those who ‘lose the game.’ The few debtors that once held titles are treated like circus attractions for a time, by both higher and lower classes.

The talk of prices and pedigrees heard in the room beyond leave you thinking of Coronac. It’s probably the only place were slavery is limited, with debtors prisons looking positively lavish to your principality eyes. Yet still, it’s only so because the natives were used for the role, until the last one died. Coronac’s hands may be bloodier than the rest in that regard. Not to mention the large frontier; anything goes out there, where the law has difficulty reaching. You’ve helped to stop a caravan of slaves heading out that way once, were plantations grow forbidden things, or rest stops cater to dark desires. There are some rouge islands of the archipelago as well, such as this one, where the rules are set by their owners, but it’s likely the south for such a group. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for them. You know your fate will be worse.

As the price goes up and down, and occasionally a prisoner is given a harsh order to lift her skirt or show their teeth, the tone of things change. Two prisoners are singled out and asked questions, to which they respond with disciplined formality, weakened by hunger and time behind bars. Their voices are that of the Citizen Guard, and their sale for the purpose of ransom. A dangerous prospect for the criminal, but potentially lucrative as well. In the end, its forty a head for the men, sixty eight for the women, and one hundred and five for each of the guards.

“Of course, I’m full of cargo at the moment, but I’m happy to make a down payment and collect them all in a few days.”

“So we have to feed and water them until then? Fine.”

Then comes the prospect of how much the down payment should be. Fifty percent is settled on, with the other half reduced should any perish before collection.

“And what of these three?”

The thin and evil looking man steps into your section of the cellar and gestures vaguely to you and those in the stocks.

The captain follows behind, first looking at her two former crewmen. “Those two are thieves and traitors, but not for sale. Her,” she looks at you, still unmoving on the ground, “she’s an Agent of the ‘right honourable’ principalities who came here to kill me. Suffice to say she got a lot more than she bargained for.”

Both you and the man notice the lack of clarification that was freely given to the other two.

“A little assassin. Interesting.” He looks you over, your naked form hiding nothing from his eyes. “Sixty seems fair. Like the others.”

“I have plans for her.”

“Seventy then.”

The Captain raises her eyebrows at him. “Ransoms aren’t paid for Agents.” It’s true; your order can barely afford to pay its own Agents, as your late rent has more than once attested.

The man responds easily, quick to show he has no hidden motivations. “An attractive lady Agent will quickly recoup the loss in the right places, and ransoming the other two will take time to setup. When it is, I think it will go down smoother with a cherry like that on top. You know how the Guard is.”

‘Honourable?’ you want to spit back at him. You don’t know where a female Agent can make money quickly, but you doubt it will be in the pursuit of the gods’ justice.

The Captain looks at you, weighing you in her mind like an animal judged for sale or slaughter. You look back, bent but unbroken, expecting nothing but the pettiest retribution.

“Eighty then.”

“Seventy seven!”

“Fine.”

She walks out, sale done, her hands washed of you.

The day wore on, morning turning to midday and then evening without incident. You begin to feel hungry, but more so thirsty; the cloying sweat you shed before still sticking to you and reminding you why. There are no guards to ask for water from, and after sitting up and testing the cell, you can see why. Even with the ropes of your wrists loosened to dropping, the bars are thick and well set; fixed in place with mortar made of sea shells that shreds the fingers as you pick at it. The other cells nearby are empty, and those unseen about the corner, with your fellow fresh sold slaves, must be just as robust, or hold only those wizened by hunger or beaten into submission. The two in the stocks had long since given up hope.

Eventually, the untended lanterns give out and the darkness grows absolute. The setting of the sun robs the distant corridor of any glow, and even with the long summer days, it feels late. The quite of the cells are defining. Whispered mutterings from the unseen group reach your ears like a joyless festival chorus, talking of despair and hope, acceptance and disbelief. In both cases, the latter’s are losing.

The door opens and light returns down the stairs, bobbing to the tune of a hand held lantern and a jaunty whistle. The man, who had carried you here by the legs while his friend actually carried you here, was the old looking one with the bandanna and patchwork servant’s clothes. He carries a bucket and a cloth sack, the former sloshing its contents onto the latter, and walks unhurried across the room, looking with appreciation at the naked bodies of you and the woman in the stocks. Without pausing, he disappears around the corner to the other prisoners.

“Form a line. One piece bread and one water each.” From his bored and disinterested tone, he was feeding the men first.

You tug at the rope, not to weaken, but to tighten. After picking your fingers bloody, you could slip free from it with ease, but holding it so will sell the illusion. Perhaps you could get him close? How should you handle this? You have acted defeated to the men who walk by your cell, but if you don’t eat and drink, you really will be. Your stomach growls at even the notion of letting him leave without asking for your share. What should you do? What are you willing to do?

The man’s mood lightens. “Ok ladies, bare em for bread and water.” There is a muttering at this, but after a moment, the feeding goes as smoothly as before.

When he come back into view, the bucket is lighter and the sack hangs limply. He stops by the stocks, silently ladling water from the bucket into each of their mouths. When done, he tears some chunks off a loaf of powdery looking bread and stuffs them past their teeth, holding their jaws wide as he does so. Then he turns to you.

“You want something to drink?”

You look ahead, blankly, beaten, and he come to stand by your bars.

“Hey.” He makes a string of kissy noises, as though coaxing a cat from its hiding place. “You want some bread?”

You look ahead, though from the corner of your eye, you can’t help but notice he holds the last loaf level with his crotch.

“Hey,” He throws a kick through the bars, hitting the bare soles of your feet. “I’m talkin at you bitch.”

You look ahead. If he walks away, you’ll call after him. If he comes close, you’ll think of something.

A few more kicks tap your feet without comment, until his boot comes to rest on the side of your foot. He slowly pushes it to the side, moving your limp legs apart.

You look ahead.

He looks at you, like mould looks at bread, his eyes spreading and infesting the length of your body, yet focused on one clear spot that wets his appetite.

“Not even gonna talk to me? That’s just rude.” He lingers at the bars, looking between your legs. You’re hungry, and the thought of the bread is tempting enough that you could spring up and take it, but it’s the thirst that gnaws at you. Already, your head tingles with dehydration, and your lips feel dry and chapped. How long before your broken state is not feigned?

“Ok, well, I guess you get nothing then.” He pushes off the bars, lifting the bucket and moving away towards the stairs.

No! You feel the loss as though the food was taken directly from your mouth! He wouldn’t let you die, right? You’re sold! What would the buyer think to find his goods deceased on collection! Yet he moves away all the same. Perhaps he will let you die. Or perhaps he will only let you be weakened over time, before forcing you to eat when you’re too weak to do anything about it. You ready to call out to him, but should you? If you play the broken doll, he may come back sooner, and you may still be strong enough when he does. What do you do!