...stick with the lies.

“I...I...” You try to think. “I...I work for the guard.” Technically true, in a roundabout way. The best lies usually are. “I’m here to spy on you a-and let them know your location.” Also true-ish. You would let them know, right after you handed over her blood-soaked necklace. Your words sound nervous, you can’t help that, but no more nervous than should be expected considering your predicament. If she’s so good with lies, let her chew on ones grown in the garden of truth.

Her expression has a hard edge of concentration to it as she dissects your words. Nothing much changes in her countenance; to most, her face would be expressionless, yet you see the subtle signs; the slight narrowing of her eyes, her incremental lean forwards as you talked, the stare that digs into your own eyes as if to core them of their secrets. It’s because you’re looking for such subtle signs that you notice the change; the slip to suspicion, the flash of interest and amusement, the cracks of internal thought rippling through her expressions. She settles of a flat look, controlled and comforting. It’s the expression of acceptance, hopefully of your story.

“Tony!”

You jump slightly at her bark, and a muffled “Yes mam!?” comes through the closed door.

“Go get Misty.” She doesn’t have to shout, nor, apparently, break eye contact with you.

“Yes mam!” His footsteps depart at a running pace.

“How many of you are there?” You contain your relief, still unsure if she believes you but happy to move on. They’re already searching the island so chances are they’ve already figured it out, or will soon.

“Just me.” More truths to add to your credibility. She nods her head ever so slightly.

“And how did you get in here?”

That’s a tricky one. After some thought, you decide to keep to the truth there as well. You tell her of your infiltration of the island and her mansion, the successes and the failures, leaving out things like your waiting guide and the names of the merchants who pointed you in this direction. She asks questions; looking for specific details on some things and skipping over others. You keep it interesting, feeding her the things she wants to hear, the weak links in her security of particular note. She nods her head, sighs in the right places; all in all, she’s a good audience and above all, she believes you. You weren’t sure at the beginning but you are now. Nobody asks so many questions if they think you’re lying.

Eventually, you stop as your story catches up to reality, ending with your current sad state of affairs. She looks at you in silence; blue gaze taking in more than just your eyes and words as they wonder your features and figure. It takes all you have to suppress a shiver. It’s like those half closed pools of brine and sea foam can see through your clothes, through muscle and bone, see into your core with idle interest. When she was picking apart your words it was...uncomfortable, but you never felt the hairs of your neck stand to attention or the prickle of sweat down your back. The return of distant footsteps is almost a relief.

The door knocks once before opening. It’s behind you, and the two men at your sides don’t turn to face it, leaving you blind to the person entering. The footsteps are odd, soft and gentle as they continue into the room and move around behind you. You had thought the footsteps crossing the outer room, which has approached in a manly clomping, were incapable of such lightness and of one person, but as the loud and heavy sounds meander by the door, pulling it closed and letting the latch softly snap as the wood meats the frame, you realise the guard remains outside and had acted as escort. The prim tapping of a dancer’s feet takes their owner into your sights; a woman, with long hair as black as boot polish, framing a face of sculpted angles. She brings to mind the image of a fox; her narrowed northern eyes and high cheekbones giving her a predatory, sly look, made worse by the slight knowing smile she sports. As alien as her features are, they’re not as pronounced as you’ve heard northern barbarians described; her skin isn’t yellow and jaundiced, but simply looks tanned and her eyes are not so thin as to be sealed shut. Either the descriptions you’ve heard of northerners are exaggerated, or she’s some manner of half-breed. She drops into a flawless curtsy at the sight of the Captain; tugging up the short, brown skirt of her neat house servant uniform, enough to show the tanned thighs above her knee length white socks.

“Captain?”

The captain breaks her gaze; glazed eyes slipping into focus as they look at the newcomer. “Ahh, Misty, this is...” She looks down you again and sighs with a look of slight resignation. “...Tamy; our intruder.” Her smile returns. “Tamy, this is Misty.”

The woman looks you over. “It is a pleasure to meet you Tamy.” Her voice has a smooth, foreign lilt that matches her eyes. There’s no curtsy for you.

Your eyes meet for a moment as you both try to understand the presence of the other; your grey analysis locking with her green steel, and matching oddly. It’s broken a second later, with Captain Washkin whisking her a short distance away to have a whispered conversation behind you. Perhaps it’s just from being on the low ground of this situation, but you feel like you didn’t match well against the newcomer in your brief stare off; you don’t know how you can know from a seconds eye contact, but it’s clear to you that the maid possesses a different mental landscape to anyone you’ve met before.

They whisper to each other in a way that makes you uncomfortable; out of sight and out of understanding, you have no doubt who they are talking about as they go back and forth, and you’re held by the two brutes, **** to stare at the table the Captain briefly visited. It’s round and wooden and doesn’t match any of the other furniture you’ve seen; it’s safe to say that it doesn’t belong here, next to all the finely crafted wardrobes and dressers, yet it’s far too big for any ship. It looks sturdy; crudely efficient in design. The kind of table that would last long after its owner had turned to dust. Too practical for nobility. Father would have approved. Looted from a house or some servants quarters perhaps? Years of scars mark its surface.

Why are you thinking about a table? Perhaps it’s just familiar. Certain.

“Tami, Tami, Tami.” You jump slightly as the two women suddenly return.

You hide your startled state quite well, yet the guards would know; they’d have felt it. Captain Washkin walks into your vision, swinging lightly on your shoulder and crouching to put her head in front of your own.

“Here’s the thing. I like you Tamy. You think your clever, and who know knows, you might actually be, but you keep lying.”

You go cold, taking a breath to explain, but she brings a finger to her own mouth, shushing you and your unformed protests into silence. Her voice takes on a conciliatory tone, as her finger drops to rest playfully on her chin.

“I believe that you are with the Guard, but the Guard doesn’t take women, and so that makes you an Agent, correct?”

“N-no, I...”

Her finger rises again, eyes twinkling as she plays with you. It’s true of course -her logic is irrefutable- but that’s not really something you wanted her to work out. Agents have a reputation for being somewhat fanatical in their duty, and while you feel that you’re far more reasonable than most, revealing the profession to your captors would make bargaining far harder. Agents of the Principalities don’t walk away from half-finished jobs.

She ignores your denial, but changes her approach. “A spy would confirm I’m on the island and leave, not come all the way up here.” Hard to argue with that. “And no one would get so close without wanting to finish the job. That makes you an assassin.”

You only manage to shake your head at the accusation, the **** look in your eyes unfeigned as they try to convince her.

“No? A lying little Agent assassin?” She leans closer, her finger going from her lips to the side of your face. “Don’t worry, we’ll find out soon.”

You don’t like the sound of that. Maybe you could bite her? That wouldn’t get you very far considering your arms remain tied. The amusement remains in her eyes, along with something else; a...hunger, perhaps? Better to stay on her good side, and so you remain motionless as she explains.

“You see, I’m going to break you.” The colour drains from your face. You open your mouth to speak, to beg and plead for your life if necessary, but her loose fingers cover it; prison bars for your words. “Ah. Ah. Ah. Don’t worry. As I said, I like you, so I’m just going to separate the fact from the fiction.”

Your eyes are as wide as wagon wheels. What’s going to happen to you? Your fast breath splits on her fingers. Do you bite? It’s the only action your panicked mind provides and is again rejected.

She smiles. “You might even enjoy it.”

What in the name of the Gods does she have planned!? She looks at the guards and makes things far more clear.

“Put her on the table.”

The hands on your upper arms lift you easily. Her hand falls away.

“No! Please don’t! I-I’ll tell you anything!” You struggle and kick before they slam you down on the wooden surface, one holding your neck and the other holding your legs. You watch the maid, Misty, walk around the two men to your feet.

“Hold her legs.” She directs the guard pressing down on your neck to your lower half while she tucks her loose waterfall of black hair behind her ears. The big man moves down to hold your right ankle, the more handsome man moving to the other. You try to sit up.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” captain Washkin responds to you as she appears overhead, beaming down and pressing on your shoulders, easily pinning you to the wooden surface. Her voice takes on a mocking tone that matches her sudden, pouty expression “And you don’t even know what we’re going to do.”

Her words end in a smeared red grin; upside down to you and tickled at the corners by suppressed laughter. She drops down, planting her elbows on your shoulders and bringing her head closer to yours. She looks up; down your form and at the guards holding your legs. The maid stands between them.

“You see these men?” Her fingers play with the material of your black top.

You look at them both more closely: two men; one moderately handsome, the other simply intimidating. They grin down at you, eyes flicking between yours and your captors. You see where this is going. Tears blur your vision for a moment before sliding down the sides of your face. You imagine them inside you, **** you, breaking you. How many times will it take for her to believe you? Their faces sport joyful giddy grins as they look back, eyes wondering over your form, imagining the same things you are.

Captain Washkins face turns down to you, upside down and framed by falling golden hair.

“Well, they’re not going to do anything to you dear.”

She smiles in a way that supposed to be comforting as the faces of the two men drop with confused disappointment. You struggle with your own relief for a moment, having to keep it at bay to stop it from overwhelming you. She could be lying: **** may be off the table according to her, but you’re still on it.

She leans more on your shoulders; her weight making your back arch as it crushes your bound arms. Her fingers play with the hem of your black top and you feel her nails scrape and tickle along your sides.

“But I’m not about to order them to close their eyes either.”

She grips the black hem and lifts it, pulling it up and over your torso. You don’t see the moment your breasts are uncovered, but you do see the moment both men’s eyes snap to them. For your part, you make a noise, somewhere between a “Neeer” and an “Uhhhh” and you have no idea where it came from; a mix of shock and embarrassment, and of words that need to be said yet haven’t been thought of. She pulls the top up further, dragging it over your head until only your tied arms are in its sleeves.

Darkness covered your eyes while the top travelled over them, and now light spills back in, lighting you and your assets up for the group to see. The men look contentedly hypnotised by your small chest, the worlds pull setting their unimpressive weight flat while pink nubs stand in defiance. They would scarcely be able to see them at all if it wasn’t for the flat patches where your ribcage is less pronounced. The women, both sporting finer goods, only give them a passing glance. Despite your chest rising and falling with your suddenly heavy breathing, and your now slightly arched back, you can still see the sharp features of the woman as she leans forward between your legs, grabing your black trousers.

Captain Washkin smiles down at you wordlessly.

“Wha- What is she doing? I-I thought you said-” The hands start to pull, quickly revealing your short hairs, and the men’s eyes change target. You scream internally. This isn’t fair! She said the men wouldn’t do anything to you! “No! Stop! What is- why are you-“

Captain Washkin interrupts, laying a hand on your face. “You like lies don’t you?” She looks down at you playfully, before switching her attention to Misty. “She’s going to clean you up before you meet the southern empress.”

What? It takes your mind a moment to register what she said. The maid keeps pulling and you feel the material slide over your knees.

“W-What?” One of your shoes falls off, flicked away covertly by the bigger guard. The dark haired woman leans forward, but it’s the captain who holds your attention. She smiles down at you still, grin as wide as a happy kitten pulling something apart.

“She’s a stickler for cleanliness that one.”

An unknown yet utterly unmistakeable feeling suddenly assails you, tensing every muscle and destroying the fast rhythm of your breathing into shuddered gasps. You no longer notice the hands on your hips or feel the material sliding over your foot. You don’t comprehend the warm breathy air breaking against the tuft of your mound or the look on Captain Washkin’s face as she drinks in the sudden that rocks through you. So much detail fades away: the room, the stares of the men, the hardness of the table. They become nothing against the one, irrefutable feeling; the sudden sensation of the maids tongue slipping up your womanhood.

You could imagine your face, if you thought about it; see it reflected in the captains hungry, sparkling eyes if you looked. Your mouth wide with shock and your eyes unseeing, your form pushed and pulled by the arching of your back as your hips make a **** escape from the new and unwelcome feeling. Slender hands slip under the space your raised rear occupied, turning up to grab your hips and hold them there, keeping them steady and pulling them back as the woman’s unshakable mouth continues the movement. A silent strangled cry squeezes through your throat, turning loud as her tongue finishes with a flick on the front most part of her attentions.

“AHHHHH! No!” Her hands pulls your hips back to the table. Captain Washkin smiles down at you. “Gods! Wha-“ Words fail as you try to ask what she thinks she’s doing; what her game is. You never anticipated this.

“So, lets us begin as well, shall we? Now, who are you and what are you doing here?”

Hot, wet breaths breaks against a part of you that’s barely ever felt a cool breeze. You can feel them; regular and close.

“Neerrr. I-uhggff”

The breaths transform from straight on blasts of wet heat, into twin winds rustling through your shorthairs as she closes again. Something of indescribable softness lands on you: lips in a kiss as gentle as a butterflies landing. Only the hands pinning your hips keep them on the table. Another lands, and another; like falling snow.

You try to close your legs against it but the hands on your ankles hold you like irons.

“Hrrrrn!”

You inner thighs brush both her cheeks. It’s not enough. More kisses rain. You look down at her and see two emerald eyes looking back. This time, there’s no contest between who has the upper hand. They sparkle with mirth as another kiss sends your head back involuntarily.

Captain Washkin is waiting for you.

“The sooner you start, the sooner she stops.”

This kisses ride up you one after the other, approaching the point she flicked before. You close your eyes and try to shut her out. You can do this.

“A-agent of theahAHHHHhhh!” Your words falter as the kisses suddenly become more lurid; light pecking lips turning into deep tongue filled passions that spread and invade in new and unimagined ways. “Please! I’m an agen of the pri-princimapities – principalities. Oh Gods! Tell her to s-stop!” Her hands dig in to the soft flesh of your hips, holding them steady against the twisting wet feeling that threatens your very sanity.

“She’s good isn’t she? Tongue for miles that one.” You barely hear the captain’s words as all your focus is drawn south by the maids machinations. Her lips stream across you like crashing waves, washing back and forth as her tongue dives your depths and pushes new and insufferable feelings into your core.

“Ahhhhhhnnn! Oh my, oh n- ohhhaaaa!” Your hips lift off the table for a moment before being brought to heel once more.

“Oh she’s really into this. Either your better than I remember or she’s actually a licker.”

A licker? Slang for a woman who prefers the company of other women. You suddenly understand the term in a way you never did before.

“...maybe both.” Captain Washkins eyes float above yours, watching and weighing you in far different ways now. When this started, she watched for lies, wielding suspicion and reason like... well, like you: like an Agent of the Principalities should. Now her eyes are wide, like a spectator of some grand game, or vicious execution. Her knuckles idly stroke back and forth across your nipple as she watches. She catches it every other stroke as your breath spasms your chest with short sharp intakes.

“What’s your name sweetheart?”

You try to focus on her, her face and her words, yet it is the unspeaking tongue that answers for you, through you. “Ah-ah-ha-ahhhhh!” Again, your flat cheeks smack wood as your rebellious hips are brought down and more pressure is used to keep them there.

“As good as any I suppose.” The captain looks to the maid. “Definitely a licker. Maybe I should make her stop...”

“YES!” The word busts from your mouth with much more **** than you intended, carried by the cry’s you’ve been trying to keep down. “Please! I...Ughhh...I don’t want...this!” A wet sound had long since started filling the room: the sound of probed mud, or stirred porridge, or the sound of a heavy wet kiss who’s origin holds your mind’s eye like an attack all of its own.

“And the lies continue!” Captain Washkin raises her hands in mock supplication; praying for a strength she doesn’t need. “Would you rather have these two take a turn? Hmm? Fill you with seed?” The two men, previously looking on in wonder, now practically burst with agitation. You look at her wide eyed.

“No!”

She returns a look of understanding. “Ahhh, so you DO want her!?”

You feel the fabric of her top brush your thighs, her hands stroke your hips, her tongue dig somehow deeper.

“NOooh!”

Captain Washkin revels in the new and insufferable feeling radiating from your hips, displayed all over your face.

“Rather her than them though ey?”

Thumbs slip down your hips and spread you open.

“I-I don’t-Oh Gods!”

Captain Washkin kisses you.

It’s an...interesting experience all of its own. You’ve never kissed or been kissed so openly, so deeply, before today. Your first real kiss, and not only is it with a woman but it’s also upside down. Her neck is all you can see as she leans over you, mining your mouth with her tongue, caressing your own and coaxing it into action, mirroring the questing depth of the other kiss happening between your legs. It moves as though luring some creature from its den: a hypnotic dance of coarse silk, full of skill and enticement. Your tongue stirs into its own hesitant action; pushing back in a fight lost simply by starting. The kiss lasts only for a brief moment before she pulls back. She tastes like red wine.

Your two heads stay close; locked in a world of stares and hot breath as the rest of reality tries to **** its way in. She speaks in whispers.

“I could still order them, you know. Hmm?” She leans into one ear. “One fucking your cunt.” The other ear. “One fucking you in your arse. You ever had two at a time?” The image comes to you, unwanted and unbidden, as though her words control your mind as well as your body. A man between your legs is not so foreign of a concept, especially with the feeling that assails you now. But a man inside your... A sudden sharp spike of pleasure comes when a tongue is presses hard against your most sensitive spot.

“NNNNNN” You shake your head; more from the feeling than in response to the question you were asked. Captain Washkin strokes your cheek, dispersing the many beads of moisture formed there.

“It’s an interesting feeling. Maybe after.”

It almost hurts now. Tears mix with your sweat as the tongue attacks the sensitive spot it found with renewed vigour. The wooden table under your back and legs feels like wet fire, and your shaking slips and slides you about the thin pool that’s formed upon it. Her words ring in your ears. After? After what? You can’t even think of what after means. All you can think of is-

“W-Why are y-yooou ugh, doing this!?” Your **** words send saliva streaming out the side of your mouth.

“Me? I’m not doing anything.” The captain leans over you still, though only her forearm rests on your chest now. Her other arm seems to be below the table, working something you can’t see. She leans in close to your ear again. “As for why Misty is sucking on your pearl...” The sudden pressure on your most sensitive spot catches you off guard and the slurping sound that fills the room mingles with your own unrestrainable moan. The Captain switches ears again, talking loud enough to be heard far down your form. “Tonguing deep into your crack...” The suck turns into a deep penetration; wiggling and worming against a part of you she hadn’t reached before, pushing both her physical limits and your own mental ones. The captain moves from your ear, round the table to the side of your face. “Or doing that thing she does...” The tongue slides out of you with sopping wet ease before being placed on your tender nub. Captain Washkin licks up the side of your mouth, cleaning the trail of escaped saliva as the tongue between your legs inverts, the delicate motion putting a twisting, sucking pressure back on your sensitive end. As your mouth opens automatically, the tongue sliding up the side slips in once more in another deep kiss. For a moment, your find yourself brought to some unknown edge; a blossoming sensation you’ve never felt before, reaching out from some deep part of you risen from its slumber. Spit like a hog between two tongues, you stop being yourself. Your tongue, tired of it owners resistance, kisses back with a freshly taught insistence. You lie, almost suspended by the two women, feeling lighter than air yet balanced on the precipice of some unknown sensation. Soft lips curl and lock as your tongue takes its first foray into someone else’s mouth. She’s at an angle this time: a more natural quarter turn, closer to a normal kiss, if ever anything could be considered normal here. The kiss on your lips ends and the other moves on to less receptive parts. You feel almost like you missed out on something as the pressure in your mind and body draws back.

The captain is saying something.

“...you’ll have to ask her. She doesn’t lie... but she doesn’t speak with her mouth full either.”

You shake your head as you try to come to your senses. The Captain’s available hand grabs your face by the jaw as she holds you still, and with it, her eyes catch your own, stopping them in their unseeing wild rolls by sheer **** of will. She’s moved around you now, leaning down over your front. You can see her, facing you as though you’re both standing, with only the cascade of hair telling you otherwise. The maid and men behind her fade like stars before the sun.

“Truthfully? I’m doing this because after two rounds with my last appointment, he only left me halfway there.” She looks almost bitter; a woman remembering some lost opportunity yet determined to still seize it. Face still frowning, she leans down and kisses you again, full on for the first time. It’s the kind of kiss that redefines the very meaning; a new and amazing feeling that your mouth, now in a full state of rebellion, rushes to embrace with shameful eagerness. The feeling rises again and continues even after she pulls away. “I hate being left horny as fuck by a man.”

The maid senses something, her pace quickening as she attacks the many tender spots she’s found. Every muscle tenses, lifting you as a cry escapes your lips, silently at first, before cracking halfway into a throaty howl. It’s coming. Whatever it is, it’s coming.

“Looks like that won’t be a problem for you.”

You come crashing down, your body a scrap of cloth caught in the coming storm, and the captain shrugs, amused. “Probably never will be, from the looks of you.”

Whatever this is... Whatever she started... sets you babbling as the woman below pushes ever onward.

“Ahhhy don- I-I-I- Ah! FUCK! What’s- I don’t-“

Wendigo stairs down at you, watching hungrily. “You know, you’re really not as good of a liar as you think you are.”

Your eyes close. The storm hits.

You’re dimly aware of distant screaming. Of your muscles straining as they try and carry you away. The maid; she keeps going throughout. You couldn’t for the life of you say what she did. The feeling that explodes within you shines like the brightest star, blinding you to everything but its presence. A shooting star; the spark between you and her that you ride to heights unknown. You’ve never felt anything like it. It’s a trip that keeps going and going, burning your body with its intensity. You must surely be in the heavens now. The stars you see and the feeling you feel confirm it.

Words come back to your mind, now slowly waking from whatever madness gripped it.

“Ooof, thats what I wanted to see. Bet you men never expected to see that today eh?”

The twin response of two men saying “No Captain” sound like they come from behind a wall of thick fog. A thick and very wet kiss lands on the side of your cheek; slow and indulgent, it lingers for a moment before parting.

Sight returns, or never left, and it’s the maid, Misty, that swims before you.

“Women aren’t usually my thing...” Her hand strokes your other cheek as she looks at you. Looks with those green eyes. Predator eyes. If she ate you up you could only smile. In a way, that exactly what just happened. “...But I do like a receptive audience.” She leaves your sight with a smile, and you feel the juice of her kiss roll down your cheek. Feel the tingling burn her delicate hand left on the other.

You close your eyes and return to a world of sound. Your heart hammers and your breath jumps likes you’ve run the length of this island twice over. It makes it hard to hear and even what you do hear is somehow hard to hold on to.

“I heard Sam’s a traitor.” The maid doesn’t sound angry or sad.

“That remains to be seen.” The captain sounds the same.

“Shame. He was starting to grow on me.”

There’s a pause before the captain responds. You crack an eye open at a strange feeling on your ankle. One of the guards strokes a thumb across it and smiles at you when you see. Its testament to the exhaustion you feel that you don’t try to close your legs. Not that they would let you. You close your eyes again to their unobstructed view of your body.

“Indeed.” The captain takes a deep breath before continuing. “Mmmmm. You know, I hate to ask...”

There’s a resigned sigh from Misty. “...and so you don’t need to. The price of skill I suppose. Can’t we at least keep the good looking one?”

A throaty chuckle returns, but the captains words sound hesitant. “I... No, I have merchants to deal with after this. You can have them both when you’re done with me though.” Her voice takes on a less kind tone as she addresses the two men. “Take this one down to the cells and lock her up. Nothing happens to her without my say so though.” Your sluggish mind only just registers that as a good thing. “I’ve got someone special in mind for her.”

Somehow, despite your frazzled state, her words still manage to send a shiver or two down your spine.

The guards take you away; back down to the cellar, naked. They do nothing to you, not even cop a feel; testament to their discipline you suppose. The woman in the stocks is not so lucky. It’s not a second after your cell door clangs shut and the lock turns before they’re on her, and not a minute more until their ferocity has her screaming again. You don’t look until Misty comes down, and by then they’re almost spent. Still, the three manage to keep you from any sleep for at least an hour. Their noisy and messy ‘show’ (put on more to torment your fellow prisoner; Sam, the traitor) has many acts, none of which you want to watch. When your eyes finally drift closed amid their muted gasping and slurping, and your disorganised thoughts come to rest, the last thing that runs through your mind is a pair of green eyes looking over a mound of black hair and the pleasure that slurping mouth can bring.

“Your **** is quite beautiful.”

You lower the gold leafed tray to the woman sitting at the table. She takes in your face, but also your exposed chest.

“Please, she is no ****; I own no slaves. She is a servant.”

“Of course, I apologise.”

Your mistress nods her head in acceptance before taking a sip of her own glass. The woman continues.

“I’ve never been fond of northern skin; I always found it too... bleak, too corpse like. This one has changed my mind though. Perhaps it’s her presentation.”

Your mistress’s thick lips curl into a smile as she studies you. “I’ve always had an interest in it. I agree that their skin makes their muddy little towns look like grave yards, but as a rarity, they can be hauntingly beautiful. I like the contrast between her and my usual servants...” She bites her lip as she looks at you. “Can’t paint a picture with only one colour.”

You remember the feel of her ‘brush’.

“Where did you acquire her debt?”

“An old friend of mine; a...sea captain of some renown. She transferred the debt this one owed to me. Usually I’m not so generous but... the circumstance intrigued me. I like my servants a certain way.”

“So I’ve heard.”

They smile mischievously at each other. You and the two other women attending them say nothing, remaining still as statues as trained.

It’s been two months since you arrived here; the southern empire, or at least its northern coast; the Nam-Anam trading town, and the rich villa of your mistress. Three and a half since the night misty had tongued down your doors and stormed your mind with indecency. Her actions had soon been rendered tame once you arrived. Two months here and two **** escape attempts. The first time you had tried to escape, you didn’t even make it to the walls of the compound before the guards caught you. Your master had been amused and the days afterwards were spent convincing you that staying had some distinct benefits. Those big brown eyes looking up at you have long since replaced the green ones in your dreams, often spilling into your waking moments as your mind catches on the pleasures they wrought. The last escape attempt was more successful and you had made it into the city itself before the guards tracked you down. She had been far less amused that time, and in the evening that followed she had taught you the perils of trying to leave. That was the first and so far only time she had brought a male servant in. So much oil, yet your rear is still sore weeks later. All the oil in the world wouldn’t have changed that. The man had been...large. She had enjoyed the contrast a little too much that time. Loved how red your face turned as you begged around her hand. Even she conceded that she let him go too far. Her attempts to personally recreate the vibrant redness in your face in the weeks that followed had met with… mixed results, for the both of you.

She leans forward and puts her dark skinned hand on her guest’s equally dark skinned leg. An innocent enough gesture. The look they share is anything but. You hate her. Hate everything about her. Hate what she makes you feel. Hate her fine dresses and jewellery, her strangely small feet and probing toes, hate her mud coloured skin, as smooth as silk, and her wiry waterfall of black hair that looks the same no matter how hard you hold on to it. You hate the warmth of her on your skin, the small scar on her inner thigh, the wetness...

You shiver slightly. Escape. You want to escape. Have to. Yet the idea of getting caught; the man, the punishment, fills you with dread. If you’re caught again then she’ll get her red face, and they’ll be none of the... restraint, she displayed during or since.

You watch your master’s hand as it rises in dismissal, but before it completes the gesture, her finger -that pressing probing digit that knows you so well- taps her lips gently. Her eyes watch you as she does, narrowed with a fiendish smile.

The other girls depart, taking their trays and giving the strange curtsies use over here. You, meanwhile, follow the standing instruction her gesture commands; bending down and kissing her wide, full lips. It’s her that decides to stroke your face, to use her tongue, to make it last. You simply accept it, as you have all the times before, responding as your training demands.

When she pulls away, she whispers her instruction. “Wait for us in my bed chambers.”

You bow and move. The next escape attempt starts tomorrow, no matter the consequences. Tomorrow. You’ll escape tomorrow. Didn’t you say that yesterday? Whatever. Tomorrow. You bite your lip and make the turn towards your mistresses vast and opulent bed chamber. Tomorrow. Tomorrow still leaves tonight. Your mistress’s guests were often as...inclined as she is and last time... you go red faced simply at the thought. Captain Washkin was right; equipped as they were with those strange belts, and enough oil, it was an... interesting feeling.

You arrive and unclip the loose skirt before shaking out of it, taking your place by the bed. Tomorrow, for real this time. Your heart quickens at the approaching footsteps, the memory and the anticipation. Tomorrow.

Your knees feel weak, palms sweaty, breath short.

Tom-

The door opens.