Masquerade

Kat put on her mask with mixed feelings. With the mask on she was no long the former Captain Jak, a brave warrior ruked in the loyal and selfless service of her lord. She was no longer Jakie, the saviour of the prince, a girl who none could touch for fear of the princes retribution.

No. With the anonymity of the mask she was a simple serum girl, servile, ripe and willing for the taking. She was Kat, the very thing she fantasised about. What she longed for - able to act out her needs. Putting on the mask filled her with fear and excitement, made her nipples stiffen with arousal, made her loins ache to be filled.

A sad regret tinged with an overpowering eagerness warred within her as her body responded to her thoughts. She resented that she had been ruled by these urges of late. After all she had once been a man, brave, forthright.. Free. A master. This was not her. Not what she should be. She had been the master of her own fate. Once. No more.

***

"This way."

"Yes milord," Jak said as he proudly followed Prince Karl Leoh through the main square of the town. He had been the captain of the guard for scant days, promoted ahead of his two fellow guardsmen lieutenants - Yorik and Tarv. They'd congratulated him warmly with as much ruefully envious humour as they could muster.

It had been a glint of light, his warriors sixth sense warning him. "Milord - assassin!" So saying he had interposed himself between the bell tower and his liege. He'd looked down in shock at what protruded from his chest. Not a quarrel but a ruk dart. It had ended him just as completely.

***

The outfit, such that it wasn't, was complete. She loved the leash. She imagined placing it in her masters out stretched hand and bowing in supplication. His for the taking. For this one night she would be able to indulge her serum girl needs without giving up her freedom. She could play at being a ****, let a man take her, ride her lithe sexual body in the furs.

She cast her mind back. When she had been ruked she had been the captain of the princes guard, freshly promoted over her fellow lieutenants and ready to prove herself. She had been full of duty and pride. She'd taken the dart for her prince. The dart man had escaped. And she had been reduced to this. A woman. Weak and lovely.

The prince had been very grateful and had declared her off bounds to all of his men. She appreciated his kindness at first. But then her urges came. She couldn't sleep at first. A minor problem, one that she knew how to remedy but refused to. She knew that the path to becoming a slavegirl was a slippery slope - one misstep and she could be in the furs for the remainder of her very long life. The prince could not save her if she publicly gave in to her urges. But that didn't make them any less consuming. The opposite in fact.

The lack of sleep began to tell, and her days started to be full of waking dreams... Dreams spicy and erotic involving any man she was with.

And so she had succumbed to her nightly urges. She found pleasuring herself to be extremely gratifying and found herself embracing her new femininity. The change was immediate. And others began to notice. Her clothing became more feminine.

And now for this one night she could be free. For tonight was Masquerade, the one night of the year when everyone donned a mask and rank and formality was put aside. A prince could wear the mask of a sailor. A **** could wear the mask of a noble. She could wear the mask of a slavegirl! None would challenge the conceit or hold it against her this evening (she believed) or beyond the festival.

There would be no recriminations. Even if a person was recognised it was custom that the sanctity of the masquerade ensured that everyone would act as if they did not.

The masquerade ball was not just held in the grand ballroom of the castle. It was celebrated in the privacy of the most regal of noble mansions and the most humble of peasant homes, and it spilled out into the streets, alleys, cannals with their intimate gondolas and raucous pleasure ferries, squares and markets of the city. The masquerders would go to taverns, shisha bars, opium dens, brothels and pleasure gardend. Some went so far as to take serums to masquerade as other people. A few even foolishly ruked themselves in drunken their enthusiasm.

Kat had spoken to Diam, the Princes valet, and requested that he organise a discreet chaperone for her for the evening. She had been quite embarrassed when she had admitted to Diam her intent to masquerade as a slavegirl. Diam had nodded in quiet understanding, assured her of his complete discretion in organising things and informed her where to meet her escort for the evening.

Kat put on a concealing cloak and stepped from the security of her apartment out into the streets throngs of masked revelers, her heart racing with excitement and a hint of trepidation in her concealed slavegirl outfit that left her all but naked beneath. She knew that once she stepped out publicly into the masquerade without her cloak she would no longer be the former Captain of the guard in peoples eyes. She would no longer the prince's saviour. She would simply be common a serum slavegirl dressed to thrill and be used. At least for the night.

Kat’s heart sang though, for tonight, this one night, she could act as a **** without fear of slavery. Her sex tingled at impending realisation of the forbidden desire that she had so often wrestled against and suppressed with stoic resolve.

Katz’s mask was a simple black leather eyepeice that framed her eyes with a silver studded leather strip. Her outfit, or lack of it, hidden beneath her cloak, was a crimson and black leather and silken ensemble that barely contained her swollen breasts in diaphanous slilk, cinched in her waist and flared out over her hips in a way that was both provocative and extremely practical for any man to brol her. Her boots were knee high with stiletto heels that clicked confidently on the cobblestone streets.

Kat even wore a henna **** mark on her hip, a temporary indulgence in imitation of a real **** tattoo or brand. The faux **** mark marked her as the property of the prince and it made her feel a giddy nervousness that further piqued her arousal. What if the true prince saw her and claimed her? This was fantasy fuel of tge highest order for a serum girl such as her fighting against her innate **** urges.

Before she had left she had taken **** bitters to ensure that if she brolled a man she would not conceive. She had considered **** honey but balked at the notion.

The streets of the city were alive with the masquerade’s mischeviously playful energy, the air thick with the scent of spices. Throngs of masked figures moved around her petite form, a whirlwind of vibrant colors as some slowed to regard her then moved on. Her heart pounded in her chest with every step. The town square was a sea of masked faces, the anonymity a heady **** that made her feel both **** and powerful.

She approached the rendezvous point Diam had set.