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Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 01

By: LordHyperion



"Well, there can't be any doubt now," the Girl Thief complained to the rat heard scrabbling through the darkness somewhere across the room, where it would hopefully stay. "I hate this town."

Anyone human with her in the dark cell would have readily agreed. Duke Victor Guinness was a tyrant and quite low on every local's list of favorite people. High taxes and bullyboy hired thugs notwithstanding; most hated him for keeping the jails clear.

There had been thieves who preyed on their neighbors and poachers caught hunting in the Imperial forests, but there were also the unfortunates who fell behind on their burdensome taxes and even a few who foolishly spoke aloud of open rebellion against the Duke. These were all caught and jailed in rapid order. Most prison terms often lasted less than a week. In Glankis- if you found your way to the cells beneath Guinness Manor you were tried and found guilty on Noble's Day, left to make peace with your god on Prayer Day, and were dead by sundown Reaper's Day. That is, unless Duke Victor took an interest in you during your trial.

Catching the Duke's interest was definitely considered unlucky and just as unhealthy as death. It could lead to long-term slavery in the Duke's court at best if you were skilled as a craftsman. Unskilled but hearty males often became fodder for the Black Bastard's love of inventing new tortures and inflicting pain until they died. Women were either sent to the dungeon alongside the men or cast into the bordello for the Duke's hired thugs, often both. The lucky ones died before leaving the dungeons.

She had seen one of the scant, broken few that had survived both hells wandering the streets. Scarred, shattered, and devoid of all but the faintest spark of life, these poor creatures gathered together to share the strength and will to continue living just one more day. No amount of magic could heal the terrible wounds they carried deep down in their souls. Shunned even by their own families, not one of these women was rumored to have lived more than a year without taking her own life.

I hope I have the good sense to die before it comes to that, she thought. The Girl Thief had no illusions as to her fate- she knew she was not unattractive. Men had lusted after her since she'd begun to blossom into womanhood. She had learned to make her favors an effective tool for a thief whose other skills were lacking. When getting caught usually meant having to lay with her captor willingly or not, she was often able to escape with a little something more than what she'd tried to steal in the first place. By getting caught and offering her body for her freedom, she survived to steal and run. It was hard to chase someone with your pants around your ankles, so she'd learned to be quick on her feet, taking advantage of men whose mind was more on their cocks than on her intentions. By having faster legs than clever hands she managed to get by, but just barely. Of course, that's just what had landed her in this cell in the first place- her hands were cleverer than her head.

She'd traded her meager scullery skills to a caravan master for safe passage in a wagon train out of Xelec before the guardsmen there caught her again. Eventually she'd hoped to make her way to the southern capital of Antilles, but by the time the caravan had reached Glankis, the Girl Thief had had quite enough of honest work for a while. In spite of the merchant's fatherly warning to avoid going into town, all the next Market Day she practiced her chosen trade in the crowded bazaar.

Hours of picking pockets had yielded only enough coins to fill one hand, bits and commons totaling barely one knight. Just enough for a few handfuls of straw to sleep on, with enough left over for a loaf of day old bread in the morning- hardly worth the work. That's why she'd tried for that mercenary's fat coin purse. If he'd caught her, she'd simply bed him for her freedom. Mercenaries with money were always eager to bed willing women she'd discovered. With luck he'd pay her for the privilege of using her body. Whoring was mildly more acceptable than starving, but not how she wanted to make her way through life. Sex was more for men, she believed, since she never got any pleasure from it. The threat of rape was always there, but that's why she carried a small knife under her skirt. While not much of a weapon by itself, the knife's little blade could make even big men cry like little children when stabbed into their groin at the right moment.

She hadn't counted on the strange-eyed man watching her from a stack of crates in front of an inn. Their eyes met for only an instant and she hesitated, just long enough to be caught by the City Guard. She struggled, but was eventually dragged away in irons, down a damp stairwell into the dungeons.

And now she was locked away in a tiny, windowless cell, shackled standing against the damp wall in bonds of rusty iron locked firmly around her wrists and throat, forced to spend the night with her arms stretched out in a human 'T'. Only the jailer had been alone with her, a fat eunuch whose meaty hands had manipulated the locks the way a jeweler handles tiny precious stones, stealing her tattered sandals and laughing at her when she offered herself to him in exchange for a chance to run. Within an hour her throat and wrists had been scratched sore and nearly raw.

That was yesterday afternoon. Dawn had to have come to Noble's Day by now. She hadn't been imprisoned long enough to lose all sense of time, even though no food had been brought and sleep had been impossible. Soon the guards would come for her and the others unlucky enough to be awaiting judgement this day. There seemed to be quite a few, judging by the moans and wails from other cells. Only those who had yet to be sentenced would have the strength to moan and wail. Force of pride kept her from adding to the moans and wails.

Moans, wails and the shouts of men, she realized. Shouts, screams and the ring of steel on steel, steel on stone. She'd never been locked in a dungeon before, and wasn't sure if those were regular noises or not. Soon the shouts died away, only to be followed by a more eerie and unnerving silence. A silence the seemed magnified by the all-consuming darkness around her. All night long there had been some sort of noise- a guard cursing aloud and rattling doors, other prisoners crying and begging, the scrabbling of rats on the clod stone floors. She considered calling out, but decided not to call attention to herself without cause.

She was almost relieved when she heard the turning key in the lock. Even going before the Duke would give her a few moments respite from her bonds. A chance to breath and stretch her weary limbs. Maybe even enough respite to attempt an escape.

"There you are little thief," said a voice from the center of the wash of lantern light that was enough to blind her after the creaky opening of the door.

Blinking and squinting, she adjusted her eyes to the light. This was not the jailer. The speaker was a better-built man with lean, hard limbs and a warrior's upright stance. A fold-over shirt of black chain mail hung on him from neck to knees and split for riding, belted about the waist with a wide engraved leather belt with a large silver buckle. Hanging from this belt was a heavy pouch, an empty tooled-leather and wood scabbard, and a thick handled, multi-tongued flogger. His gloves were thick, expensive leather gauntlets and in one hand he held a bloody sword, a yard of steel with a pommel shaped like a woman's body from the waist up, the other hand held the door open. Even his boots and breeches looked expensive and well worn under the stains of fresh blood.

The Girl Thief started when she saw his face, streaked with blood not his own. Here was that strange man from the market!

Atop his armored shoulders sat a wedge-shaped face, framed by disturbed dark hair. A carefully waxed mustache and beard partially covered one small scar running up his right cheek, a remnant of a long ago battle. She thought he was handsome, a powerful man that sent strange tremors through her. His mouth was firmly set in a thin, straight line- neither grim nor angry, but scarily noncommittal. His whole face was that way- perfectly cold and impersonal, calmly ruthless. Except his eyes. Those strange, chilling eyes under dark, brooding brows. They seemed to be staring at her with a mixture of intensity, anger, hunger and fulfillment. She suddenly felt very afraid. But what she was afraid of she would have a hard time saying. The way he was staring at her, the scrutiny stirred her in ways she found both uncomfortable and pleasant. His eyes conveyed so much while his face betrayed so little, feral eyes of hand-polished jet scrutinizing her from beneath sweat-limp black hair.

His eyes held no color beyond black and white.

"You have already caused me a great deal of trouble this week." His voice course with a sort of eager, barely controlled lust, he approached. His eyes wouldn't release her. "You had better be worth it.

"I heard about you from the caravan master with whom you took passage out of Xelec, and watched for you in the marketplace. You have shreds of talent, but no skill. You are a clumsy pickpocket, a guileless sneak thief, and have absolutely no slight-of-hand, foresight, or concepts of stealth or misdirection. As a thief you are a blot on your profession. If you ever had a teacher, I can't see any signs of it."

He lifted the ragged hem of her skirt with the bloodied tip of his blade. She trembled against the warm flat steel and dried blood touching the bare skin of her left knee and rising slowly along her inner thigh. She also felt a trickle seep from the slit of her pussy into the already wet crotch of her small-clothes. Her breath caught at this bizarre betrayal by her body. She suddenly had an insane desire to let him ravage her.

"Please," she begged, trying to look anywhere but into those infinitely black eyes. "Let me go and I promise I'll run away before the Duke finds out."

"The Duke is no longer a threat to anyone." The sword skimmed over her trembling muscles and smooth inner thigh with just enough pressure to stroke those primordial feelings of lust within her. She gasped as the warm blade brushed flatly against her tender crotch, drawn back until she felt the point press lightly against the front of her soiled undergarment.

"What...what do you mean?" She tried not to squirm as the sharp tip of the weapon slipped up around her narrow hip. Not the time to be ticklish. The razor edge caressed her side, brushed her ribs, and skimmed between her young breasts, all under her dress.

"Duke Victor Guinness is dead. You are now mine to do with as I see fit." As a tremble ran through her at this simple statement, he pressed his sword's flat blade against the chill pit of her belly. The sword was both hot and cold; the razor sharp point at the base of her throat, the blade nestled between her small breasts and the crosspiece just below her sex. With an easy turn of his wrist, the sharp edge of the blade lay against her shivering skin, with the hilt nudging her most personal place in a way she found disturbingly pleasurable. He put his face only a few inches from her own. "I really hope you're worth all the trouble you've caused me."

He stepped backward, pinning her more securely with those strange eyes than her iron bonds ever could. With one sharp, clean jerk, he split the sturdy cotton of her only dress from the ragged hem to the laced bodice cleanly along the sword's razor edge. Two similar passes sliced apart her sleeves from shoulder to cuff. Gathering a thick fistful of the rags in his free hand, he pulled and left her with nothing between her and the dungeon wall save sweat, dust, and her soiled small-cloth. Shivers ran down her spine- half from the moist cold air, half from fear. No where on her naked body existed a scratch caused by the weapon.

"Well," he commented while wiping dried blood off his blade with the remnants of her dress and carefully looking her over with a casual eye. "You appear healthy enough." Frowning at the most stubborn bloodstains, he slammed the weapon back into its scabbard. Finger by finger he removed his gloves and folded them over his belt.

"Of course, what one sees on the outside isn't necessarily the truth."

His hands were well groomed and clean, but rough like old leather. He tore away her shamefully stained loincloth, dropping it distastefully in the corner. She'd wept helplessly in the night when the long wait had finally forced her to vent her bladder down her legs. Thankfully the cell already stank of stale urine and other bodily products that what she had done didn't add too much to the smell. But overnight the puddle of urine she had then been forced to stand in barefoot had grown cold, only adding to her discomfort. Her skin itched where it had dried on her.

Stepping back, he took a long, silent moment to look her over. She had the uncomfortable experience of being judged as one might judge a horse or other valuable animal. Even with her arms and neck secured to the wall, she did her best to hide from his level, unnerving stare, fully aware of the passionate flash in his eyes. By pressing her legs together and twisting her lower body, she tried to hide from him, but even as she did she wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment at her naked form or her growing sexual arousal. Examining her firm and boyish body, he could see how young she was- the surprisingly flawless pale peach-colored skin save for her hands and face, and she was covered in a fine sheen of nervous sweat. Small, pert breasts with high, hardened nipples sat high on her chest with a sexy cluster of freckles strategically placed between them. She was lean, as one who steals to survive often is, but not so that she'd yet lost her female shape. Her belly was nice and flat, without a trace of fat but hard from hunger, though her skin had not begun to shrink around it, the rising and falling nicely with her nervous breathing. Her curves were not fully pronounced, as if she still had a few years of growth left, which she did not. Her hair and eyes were brown, the former a tangled dirty mess that hung generally straight but badly matted past her shoulder blades. Her face was oval set with young somewhat pretty features twisted in uncertain fear and nervous desire. 

"Nothing a bath wouldn't fix it appears," he said finally, stepping close once again. His warm and callused hands fit easily over her small, soft breasts, roughly thumbing her high, pointed nipples. In spite of her fear, she moaned.

"Sensitive, that's good," he said, pleased in the way a rider is pleased that his favorite horse has new shoes. Looking down, he saw something that intrigued him; her dark-furred crotch was wet with her stew. "Open your legs." When she didn't immediately comply, he seized her left nipple in a fierce grip between finger and thumb and pinched hard. The Girl Thief cried out against the pain, but still refused. He twisted and her cries increased and her legs parted. 

"More," he commanded, continuing to twist her tender nipple until she had opened her legs more than shoulder width apart. "Good. The sooner you obey, the easier this will be." He didn't appear angry, but a subtle edge in his voice told her that he was no longer entirely pleased. With no ceremony or warning, he reached down and pushed two fingers inside her, past her tender lips and into the tight tunnel she was humiliated to discover was moist with primal heat. His fingers were soaked the moment he entered her love hole. In spite of herself, she groaned, rubbing herself against his hand.

"Very good, still young and responsive," he said, pushing deeply into her, reaching for tender places. He lifted his hand, digging deep. She lifted a leg slightly, easing his passage. "You've known men before, but not many. No children apparently- you feel fairly fresh and snug. What are you- seventeen summers?"

"N-nineteen," she stammered as fear and desire beat a thunderous dueling rhythm on the tight drum of her heart. She knew she should be terrified, but he knew exactly how to touch her to send delightful jolts of erotic energy flying out of her pussy into the rest of her straining body. She was having trouble focusing her eyes while the not entirely unwelcome intrusion pushed her closer to the point of no return. He rubbed her rebelliously engorged clit and fingered her pussy, then began to work a wet finger into her tight little virgin ass hole. Wondering what he planned on doing to her next made the sweat run from her armpits down her bare flanks. How could a room so cold while she was dressed become so hot when she was naked?

"You appear younger, that's a very good sign. Youth is a fine tool for a thief. If you know how to use it." His fingers made a wet, sucking noise when drawn out of her, coaxing a steamy moan from deep down in the girl's belly. So close to completion, she was sorry to have them gone. The denial was almost cruel, more so than the invasion. With a firm, commanding grip, he lifted her chin and forced her mouth open by squeezing the base of her jaw, examining her teeth in the dull, flickering candlelight from the hallway. Unable to speak, unable to move, she was held transfixed in that dark stare. His dark brows came together, adding weight to the sharp edge in his voice.

"You have got to be the worst cutpurse I have ever come across. You lack sufficient skill, discipline, and restraint to be anything more than what you are right now: a wretched guttersnipe scratching for crumbs. Is that what you want? To be a worthless whore, selling your tired body to whomever will pay a few bits for your diseased hide? To spend weeks healing from the beatings given to you by those who catch you stealing after a sweaty, animal rut? To pick through refuse piles and fight rats for a few crusts of old bread, hard rinds of moldy cheese, and dirty old apple cores, to dine on the scraps left untouched by heartier scavengers? To be dead of a worn body at the ripe old age of twenty-five? If that's what you want, the path you walk now will lead you there without a doubt. 

"Or, would you rather become a person of some renown? One whose name is whispered in reverent awe by less capable thieves throughout the Empire and feared by those with wealth? Would you like to be untouchable, unmatchable- a veritable phantom to the soldiers of your opponents? Does the thought of dining on fine rich foods, drinking old and expensive wines, and preying on lords in their very manor homes appeal to you? Do you want to be transformed from what you are right now almost entirely?"

"You can do that?" she asked in awe, blinking hard. He didn't seem to blink at all, his dark, smoldering eyes calling to her.

"That depends on you." He unbuckled his belt, dropping it on the pile of rags that had been her dress. She trembled in knowing terror when he slipped the wood and leather toggles closing his armor shirt open. She knew what was coming, wanting and not wanting it at the same time.

"If you let me free, I'll be yours," she promised with a shaky voice, trying to stall him. He laughed with a hollow humor. Even his laugh sounded flat and emotionless.

"You're mine whether you will it or not, little thief. Your only concern needs to be how long it will take you to satisfy me." He didn't remove the chain shirt, but rather left it open as he pressed his body close to hers. The jerkin he wore beneath it was deep blue and quilted, supple leather padded to allow him to accept the blows of crushing weapons more easily. 

Their lips met as his tongue explored the inside of her mouth. He ran his fingers over her sensitive nipples, bent, his tongue flickering around the base of the point. His mouth descended with steam around her tender nipple, making her cry out the instant she felt the passionate heat scald her breast. She moaned as he sucked her tit between his lips, purred as the wet organ roughly toyed with the excited tip. His rough hands caressed the tender flesh around her hips and across belly, stroking the small egg of desire growing in her core. He slipped his hand between her thighs, his fingers stroking up and down outside her pussy. The smooth skin felt silky to his touch as he teased the small slit. She purred, her head turning from side to side as he continued to toy with her tit and pussy. He licked the nipple again as he bit the point, tugged on the tit, pulling it roughly from her body. 


Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 01



She was confused and terribly so- she felt a wonderful sense of desire growing within her but she wanted to be free to fend him off. She wanted him to stop but knew that if he did, she'd never forgive him. His fingers slid through the slick, wet folds of her pussy, turning trembles of terror into shudders of excitement. Her bonds only seemed to make her inexplicable passion more intense. He moved his feet out, groaning as the head and first couple of inches of his cock disappeared into her. In one terribly swift motion, he plunged the hard, thick shaft of his member into her to the hilt. She squealed in surprise as he stretched her painfully rougher than she'd ever been taken before.

She cried softly, her tongue sliding between her lips, his hands over her breasts, toying with the excited nipples. Their eyes met again as he rocked his hips forward, burying his cock to the hilt. She cried out softly as his pubic hairs rubbed against her snatch. Moaning, her head rolled from one side, then the other as he withdrew all but his head before forcing it back to the base. He released her breasts, moving his hands behind her body, studying her eyes as he began to rock his body back and forth, his cock in and out of her cunt. His chest rose faster as his cock plunged in and out of her pussy. His lips parted as she flexed her body, causing more friction on his dick as he withdrew all but the head before guiding it back inside. Ignoring her whimpered and unfelt cries for mercy, he took her more savagely than any lover had ever done in the past. 

While her mind ordered her to whimper and protest loudly, her body reacted even more forcefully to the other extreme, her leg encircling his waist, easing the invasion and making her small tingles of pleasure into jolts of sexual lightning. She shoved her hips forward, meeting his as the unrelenting cock pushed in and out of the opened hole. Moaning as her head snapped from side to side, she was beside herself with physical excitement, shaking in the intensity of her conflicting emotions, her resolve buckling further and further. Wild-eyed, she whimpered and strained even further upward, tossing her head from side to side in her mad frenzy. 

He moved his hands from behind and grabbed her hips, pulling her body towards his as he shoved his cock deep inside her quivering body, hitting a spot deep within her. Each thrust drove her bare bottom against the rugged stone of the dungeon wall, soon wearing her ass raw and scratched. He lifted the soft, round buttocks in his strong hands, pressing her even tighter against the wall. She cried out as her head snapped back, her hips forced against his again. His cock buried to the base, his balls slapping against her body as he picked up the pace. She moaned approvingly. He grunted, his pulse racing faster as he ravaged her thoroughly. The sounds of their hips coming against one another filled the air. He smiled, feeling the liquid spreading along the length of his cock as he withdrew all but the head before shoving it back up her pussy. His mouth consumed her throat with kisses, biting the tender hollows and generally arousing every nerve in her neck. His fingers dug into her hips, forcing her up and down his pole. 

The instant her climax overtook her, she instinctively threw her head back to scream and cracked her head painfully against the stone, bringing silence while stars danced in her head. Her body continued on without her brain, reacting to the grind of his cock with burst after impossible burst of orgasmic energy. As his balls slapped against her body she cried out, signaling another short climax as he pulled her hips against his, grinding his pubic hair against her pussy.

He grunted, his legs shaking as cum shot from his cock. A breeze hit his coated shaft as he withdrew all but the head before shoving it back up her pussy. His legs shivered as cum emptied from his cock into his momentarily willing partner. She groaned again, her body trembling under the assault on her pussy. He gripped her hips, slamming them against his as the last of his load burst from his helmet and deep inside her gut. She moaned when he released her hips, pushing his fingers under her tits. He gripped the soft tits, forcing them higher. Her body shivered as he pulled her body closer, his cock buried to the hilt. He kissed her on the shoulder, softly biting into her flesh, and licking the pale, trembling skin.

By the time he finished, her slender arms were strained from struggling to break free. So much of her body ached and every bit of her skin was coated in sweat mingled with the stew of sex. Her wrists felt worn raw by the old and rusty brackets pinning her to the wall, less securely than his hard body was doing. Their eyes met- his glowing with something deeply primal while hers gleamed with tears. What the tears were for, she couldn't say. They stared, gasping for air and studying each other. She felt his hard cock throbbing between her legs, buried in her womb, her juices boiling inside her. 

Although not yet spent, he eased himself out of her and stepped away calmly, redressing as though nothing unnatural had happened. Strangely enough, he remained as hard as stone; a fleshy knife aimed at her cunt. She, in contrast, panted with exhilarated exhaustion and tried to keep her legs solidly underneath her, lest she collapse and hang herself from the bracket. The mess of sex oozed from her cunt, painting her thighs with their rich juices.

"Please find the keys and set me loose," she pleaded at last. He calmly buckled on his belt and watched her struggle uselessly against her bonds.

"Keys? I don't need keys to set you loose from those," he said with contempt. He crossed the cell and caressed the old metal around her throat. The most minimal contact between his flesh and hers made her tingle. She almost came again. "They're ancient and rusty. Looks like poor quality metal work and no care taken to maintain them. It's the moisture that makes them weak. Weak, just like you are now." 

With uncommon ease, he seized the bracket holding her left wrist and tore it free of the mortar. It clanged against the far wall and he pulled the right one off just as easily. Her arms dropped limply to her sides, tired and useless. Her shoulders burned with exhaustion. He crushed her against the wall with one hand pressed to her chest and tore away the iron collar locked about her throat. Small bits of old rock and mortar bounced off of her shoulders and down her body. A contemptuous flip of his wrist sent it sailing across the cell, clanging against the stone of wall and floor.

She fought to keep her feet for as long as possible, but quickly collapsed in a nerveless pile a few scant seconds after he released his hold on her. Overnight the puddle of piss she'd made almost dried away or seeped into the floor. Almost, but not entirely. Her wrists and throat felt as if they bled and the scratches stung from her sweat. Gradually, the spidery pinpricks of feeling began to creep back into her numb limbs. She began to wish it hadn't.

"Why are you crying?" he asked. It was only now, after he'd asked, that she became aware that she was indeed weeping softly. He squatted on the floor before her, resting easily on his haunches while looking down at her. Her limbs wouldn't work. She couldn't stand, let alone run.

"You raped me," she wailed, sounding suddenly weak and pitiful even to herself in the dark cell.

"One cannot rape the willing. You wanted to be ravaged, plain and simple."

"I didn't want that!" But even as she protested, her voice broke in denial. She couldn't believe her arousal, why should he be blamed for taking advantage of what she wanted? Or, at least, what her body wanted.

"Oh, really? In your mind you tell yourself that you hated my touch. That it was unwanted. But you never said 'No'. Your body took pleasure from my actions, and did not withhold your release. One who is raped rarely, if ever, enjoys the pleasures of contact. The bonds took your control away, but made the sensations sweeter, didn't they? That fragile, often misled 'civilized' part of your soul has been cast into confusion, while the primal beast that drives your basest instincts took pleasure in your helplessness." His hand rested on her shoulder briefly, stroking comfortably. Her body wanted to feel those callused hands all over her, but she also wanted him to leave her alone. Her pussy spasmed, calling for him.

"N-n-o-o-o!" she wailed in shock, trying one last time to deny what she knew to be true. If she had had any strength available, she would have thrown herself into his arms and wailed until she fell asleep.

"The body doesn't lie to the mind, the mind simply refuses to believe. The sooner you stop lying to yourself, the sooner your confusion will end. I offer you a choice. In fact, I will offer you this choice once more after this, when you have more information to go on. But for now your destiny lies in your own hands, so think hard before deciding."

"Please don't kill me," she begged.

"I don't kill without reason, and never the helpless. Nor have I ever knowingly taken an unwilling woman. Force is the weapon of bullies and cowards. I have tried very hard to be neither."

The hiss of steel startled her from where she lay collapsed in a ball with her head buried on her arms. Her arms and legs felt afire, pain slicing through the strained muscles of her narrow shoulders. He had drawn his sword and was placing it hilt-first on the cold stone floor before her. A beautiful, carved silver face stared up at her with eyes of tiny sapphires.

"Right now you have three options," he explained, once more dropping his belt and untying the stays of his armor shirt. "Take up my sword and run me through. I won't resist and I'll even clear the way for you- a neat thrust into my heart." Suiting word to deed, he reopened the chain shirt and tugged aside the padded jerkin underneath. The skin underneath was scarred and tan, with very little chest hair to be seen. This she couldn't do. Even healthy and well rested, she'd never had either the strength in her arms to lift the weapon nor the skill to plunge it into anything more solid than a pillow, let alone the courage to plunge it into a man's chest. She pushed ineffectually at the weapon with an unsteady hand. It moved an inch and she jerked away as if she'd been burnt or slapped.

"Just as well," he said, resettling the padded shirt. "If by some miracle you had managed to kill me, you'd still have to fight your way through my troops to freedom. They wouldn't be pleased to say the least. No lone, unskilled, weaponless girl could make it out of this dungeon alive no matter how lucky she was.

"Your second choice lies just the other side of that open door." He gestured and she realized that it had never been shut after he entered. Anyone passing in the hall would have been able to see and hear what had transpired within. She felt the burning flush of shame paint her face, coat her naked body. She wanted to reach out and draw her rags to her, but they were just out of reach and he didn't seem inclined to let her cover her pale, naked skin.

"Crawl out that door and I'll be done with you. You'll still be my slave by Law and Custom, but I'll make sure you get the lowliest duties possible. You will have no worth to me, little Value whatsoever. No matter how long it takes you meet my bond, you will learn nothing more than the lowest sort of scullery tasks- laundress, stable cleaner, pot washer, midden cleaner, and what ever other lowly tasks can be found for you. Even if I have to make up new ones just for you. Follow that path and you will most likely die a pathetic failure because you lack the will to change your life on your own.

"Or," he concluded, folding his arms across his chest and regarding her with that dark stare. "You can come to me, crawl to me if you must. Satisfy me and prove your absolute submission to my will. I promise that you will be worth a great deal to me if you do. Before you meet that bond, you will be transformed in both body and spirit; of that I have no doubt and am prepared to invest dearly on the outcome. Your worth to yourself, however, shall be twenty-fold the Value I set upon you, probably a thousand times what it is now. The choice is yours. I'll wait as long as I need to."

She longingly eyed the door as he stood to one side, not barring her way in the least. How simple it would be to crawl out that door and into a short life as a bonded slave. Law and Custom according to the ancient Plazato Sygma required masters to provide their slaves with clothing, food, and shelter keeping with the master's station. Judging by the way he held himself and the quality of his gear, that would be quite good indeed, better than she was used to at the very least. And maybe he would eventually forget his promise to keep her poor and unskilled.

Or he'd never forget, as he seemed that kind of man. One who does not threaten lightly and would sooner cut off one of his own hands than break an oath.

But to be of Value. Great Value. He was right in that she felt no great sense of self-worth. Survival had been more important than pride. Every thief knew something about the concept of worth, but mainly cared little for an object's Value. An object could be worth hundreds of Emperors, but if no one wanted it, it had no Value. The same held with craftsmen or anyone with skills of some sort. To have Value, even if to have nothing material...

You were wealthy if you had Value, even if you had no money.

Slowly she crawled, trying to blank out the sharp jolts of pain that jumped up her arms every time she put a hand down. The cell floor was filthy, covered in old straw, rat shit, and more that she did not want to think about. Her limbs were almost totally awake, the tingling almost gone, but only time could ease the soreness of her shoulders.

She knelt at his feet feeling humiliated and fragile, helpless and exposed. She stared at the floor in shame, astounded that she'd surrendered so easily. Worse, she actually felt excited, her body aroused. She waited in silence, her hands twitching nervously against the bare flesh of her lap, tiny needles stabbing into each and every nerve. His callused, rough fingers lifted her chin until their eyes met, his as colorless as night, her red and brimming with tears. This once his voice sounded calm and laced with softness that didn't seem to fit all that well with roughness of his features.

"Never hang your head in shame or cry when you think of this moment. You have stepped onto an uncertain path offered by one whom you do not know and have little enough reason to trust. That alone is an act of bravery not easily matched, and I have witnessed a long lifetime's worth of bravery. I swear, in spite of all that is to come that you think will break you, you will succeed."

His kiss was tender and she answered it hungrily, lifting her hands to caress the sun-hardened cheek. It felt so different to kiss someone and mean it that she almost came, a moan of lust emptying her lungs slowly into his mouth. With a low throaty laugh that set her juices churning, he pulled away. She knew what he required of her as he guided her hands to reveal the hard shaft of his manhood pointed at her nose. It was had, but his skin felt warm and soft. She moved her mouth over to kiss the head. When she gave it her tentative kiss of passion, it jerked in response to her touch. She knew what it wanted and opened her mouth wide. Eyes closed, she explored him with her warm, eager tongue, circling the tip. Her essence still clung to him, a tart and pleasant flavor. 

Her lips circled the head of his shaft, her tongue darting into his piss hole, lapping up his salty pre-come. The blend of flavors made her heart beat faster. He eased it halfway into her mouth and she could feel her heart pounding as her lips slid along the hard shaft. She did her best to take his thick length into her mouth completely, but it became increasingly difficult the farther into her it went, until finally she gagged. Keeping her lips tightly around his prick, she relaxed her jaw and throat and he slid deeper. He tangled his fingers in her hair and started moving his hips so that his cock moved in and out of her mouth. He stroked her face slowly, careful not to feed her more than she could handle. She put her hands on his hips and simply held on. Her jaw ached by the time she felt the first stirrings of his eruption in the deep root of his cock. She felt him pulse at the base and pull out of her mouth, leaving only the tip inside as he came roaring in pain and relief.

She nearly gagged on the thick, salty flood of semen before managing to swallow the first mouthful. Shorter, less intense spurts followed- all of which he made her swallow before withdrawing his still-rigid member from her mouth. It was odd, she thought, all the past men she'd experienced had softened soon after launching their seed but he remained as hard as stone. She curiously licked the round knob still hovering around her mouth. Patting her head and smoothing her tangled hair, he took on the attitude of a teacher praising a star pupil.

"Never spill a drop," he told her in a lecturing tone. "My seed is a gift to you for a job well done, a reward for pleasing me. I don't come very often, so when I do you have done very well. And don't worry, I am barren. Thankfully, the Mistress of Fate has been kind enough to see that I am forever denied children of my own."

Restoring himself back into his breeches, her...Master retrieved his weapon and the pile of rags that had been her dress from its heap in the corner, out of her vision. She waited, uncertain but patient, as the sounds of tearing cloth filled the cell. In the quiet rustling that followed, her heart fluttered terribly.

With cloth rope strips of her torn dress, he bound her, wrist to elbow behind her back. Shoulders back and spine arched, he lifted her onto shaky legs and held her up until she steadied enough to stand on her own. She felt awkward presenting her small breasts and pointed nipples thrust out in this manner, but knew any protest would be futile. Using a short lead of hastily braided cloth strips tied like a leash around her neck, he pulled her out into the candlelit corridor.

"Lord Cinder!" boomed a voice only slightly larger than the individual wielding it.

Coming down the hall was a pillar of muscle, bone, and steel that seemed to fill the narrow stone corridor top to bottom, and nearly side to side. Fully a head taller than her Master, who stood a half-head over her own height, the big man bowed respectfully at the waist. If she were to embrace this giant with the salt-and-pepper beard, her arms would barely encircle his waist. She tried to step back into the cell and away from this imposing, looming figure, only to be dragged back into the hall by her leash.

"Stanton," the man addressed as Lord Cinder acknowledged, glaring darkly at the girl. Almost casually he struck, the cluster of leather straps making the flogger caught her just below the navel. The pain was mild but the shock of the blow knocked the wind out of her.

"Is this her?" Stanton gestured with a hand that could easily wrap around her head and crush it like a grapefruit. He was a titan dressed in plate mail, chipped and dented in places, over a coat of black mail links. Over his great, wide shoulders, made all the wider by his armor, she could see the hilt of a sword nearly as tall as she was, while a broad shield hung from his arm. With arms thicker than her legs and legs like pillars, Stanton sent chills of terror through her. She'd seen men who she considered big- farmers and blacksmiths who had the broad backs and strong hands that moved their lives, soldiers and other fighters with broad chests that propelled hearty shouts over a battlefield or calls for beer across a tavern, and the roundness of innkeepers who were kind and merchants who were not. He was kind, she hoped. His face showed signs of age, fifty years or more judging by the dark folds and creases around his eyes.




Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 01



"Yes, this is the troublesome little thief that disrupted our plans. What do you think?" 

She tried to shy away as an armored hand lifted her chin. Eyes wide with fear, she felt instinctually that if her Master shared her with this man, she'd be torn in half. She'd once seen a woman who had broken her pelvis by wildly screwing a man almost as big as this one. The woman was in constant pain whenever she walked, and the girl didn't want that to happen to her. If she'd kept her wits about her, she'd have saved herself a worthless fright and seen that he looked at her more as a father looks at the dirty face of his youngest child than a rapist examining a victim.

"You're asking me?" Stanton replied, raising a bushy eyebrow. "I'm the one who thought Anastasia would never be more than an expensive whore. I don't have your eye for a person's potential unless it's obvious."

"Your opinion is still valuable, even when it could be wrong." Cinder spoke again in the same calm monotone, but his eyes blazed at his slave. She flushed with shame and embarrassment, to be bare for her Master after sex was one thing, but before a complete and utter stranger was entirely different. Especially one who's scrutiny was so perfunctory, familiar and indifferent. He looked at her long enough to examine her face, but his eyes didn't linger on her naked body. She almost felt upset. Didn't she at least have a body worth looking at when she was naked?

"If what you told me earlier about her potential is true, she'll be a worthy addition to the Shadows scouting force at the very least. But if she isn't..." He shrugged his broad shoulders and spread his hands, palms up. "There's always room for another hand in the kitchens, I suppose. Maybe she'd like to be an angeline?"

"Time will tell," Cinder said, slowly bunching the leash in one hand, drawing the girl closer. "My luggage?"

"Sent to the former Duke's chambers, as you commanded. Your wagon will be left in the manor's stables for the time being, but the horses will be brought out to our corral."

"Well done. Have a Display Post set up in the main hall, in the usual place. Convince the townspeople to be patient a little longer."

"Will you be along directly?"

"No." His voice had retaken that edge that made the girl nervous. "There's a lesson that needs to be delivered. A half hour or so."

"Aye, m'lord." Stanton saluted by pressing a mailed fist to his chest and bowing briefly from the waist. He took a moment and towered over the girl before turning to go. "You shouldn't have shied away from me. No one but the Master and his Women will be allowed to touch you when you are bound unless it is absolutely necessary. From all others you are quite safe. He'll kill anyone that lays a hand on you without permission. And so will I. Besides, my wife would kill me if she found out, and even he's afraid of angering her."

While the giant Stanton retreated back up the corridor, his two-handed sword rattling on his broad armored back, her Master seized the leash close to the loop around her throat and led the way deeper into the dungeon. He didn't speak and she was too busy keeping up with his long-legged stride to ask questions. Only the slap of her bare feet and the scrape of his hard leather boots echoed in the tight stone corridor. There were other doors to either side, all open and the cells beyond empty.

He led her straight through the open door of the torture chamber and down the stairs into the sunken room. She recognized the pale bloated body of the eunuch jailer where it lay at the bottom of the stairs, his bald head twisted around unnaturally, wide eyes staring blankly over his shoulder at his heels. He led her past the corpse and straight to a thick-legged wooden table laid out with cruel hand-held implements of torture- tongs, sharp forks of twisted iron, barbed whips and branding irons among others. With an angry sweep of his hand, these bloody instruments flew about the room, crashing off of everything. The noise alone drove rats out of hiding and racing for the door.

He ignored all of the infamous devices stationed about the chamber, but she took them all in in one fearful instant. A pit of coals commanded the center of the floor with a grating placed above it, pieces of charred skin still clinging to the metal, more irons thrust into the dying red glow below. The bloody manacles of a rack beckoned from one corner, the cleanest of all the devices, being relatively free of gore and excrement. Faint light caught the rust and gore encrusted spikes of the iron maiden standing in a far corner, the floor around it stained permanently black with the last of life. A wheel, pressing board, and hanging cage were all in sight, as were a half dozen devices whose names and dire purposes she couldn't begin to guess at. A rat and insect gnawed skull leered at the room with its eternal grin and empty sockets, a hole punched neatly through its forehead. Manacles and brackets lined the walls and hung from the thick, smoke blackened rafters menacingly. The room smelled of death and piss and fear and blood and felt evil.

Instead of forcing her onto one of these evil-looking pieces of 'furniture', he pushed her over the table. His hands were sure, binding her legs securely open to those of the table, then her wrists to the legs on the opposite side. Her heart beat fiercely and her breath came laboriously as she rested on her belly with her small, white ass in the air. He pushed a leather-wrapped stick into her mouth and she bit down on the gag. She'd been in this uncomfortable position before. She'd been caught stealing one afternoon by a matronly innkeeper's wife right in the tavern's taproom, led by the ear to the town square and thrown in the public stocks. The fat bitch had bared her ass to the town and beat her painfully red with a willow switch. She'd howled loudly enough to leave her throat raw for days, almost as long as it took for her ass to allow her to sit down without whimpering in pain.

At the end of the beating she'd been left with her torturously welted bottom still exposed, locked in the stocks all night. A lone watchman awakened her at midnight by taking his pleasure from her before letting her go at the coming of dawn. She ran, knowing no one would care what had happened to a lowly thief, she being worse than a cheap whore in their eyes. After that she'd begun carrying her little knife.

Instead of a switch, Cinder took up his multi-tongued flogger, whose straps were no thicker than the width of her finger. As she shrieked unintelligible protests, she felt the hot sting of leather as it fell firmly and repeatedly across her naked ass cheeks. It hurt and it burned. It made her cry and want to promise to behave, want to promise anything. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to continue. She couldn't tell where the burning in her backside ended and the fire in her cunt began. She felt her mind losing control of her body once more. Moving around behind the girl, he changed to an underhanded whipping technique, making the multiple tails swing between his victim's trembling thighs and slap the tender flesh of her cunt. Every part of the girl's intimate pink skin came in for a lashing. She almost tore free when she unexpectedly came. She whimpered and cried softly until he stopped, her backside a criss-crossed map of red welts.

Gathering a fistful of her hair, he forced her to meet his eyes as he bent over her. She knew her face was burning, not so much from the hot pain of her bottom, but the shame of the hot sexual gravy oozing down her legs. The whip had to be wet from what leaked out from her pussy.

"You are mine, little thief," he stated sharply. "Mine. That means no one touches you without my consent. Be absolutely sure that those who do not have it will suffer for their mistake. Shy away from no one in my presence ever again. Trust that I can and will protect you until you can properly protect yourself."

While tears streamed down her cheeks, she tried to speak around the gag, to beg him for mercy, for the climactic release of satisfaction. He refused to let her use her own voice.

"Say nothing. You speak entirely too much for a master thief in training. Everything that has come out of your mouth has been noise- stale and sick, like chewing on a month-old honeycomb. Say nothing more unless you are bidden to do so." He let her slump back onto the table but continued speaking, punctuating each sentence with a blow from his rough hand against her striped ass. "Forget what you were. That person no longer exists. From this moment on, you are my pet. An animal. A tamed creature bending to my will. A beast. And as no beast in the wilds wears another's skin to hide its own, neither shall you."

She howled like the animal he declared her to be until her voice gave out. In another moment she would have chewed through her bit to keep from crying out but a furious passion filled him as he whaled away at the helplessly bound girl's rump. He stopped the spanking and moved around behind her. Hoping to show how eager she was to please, she tilted her hips in such a way to allow him to enter her wet cunny easier. From out of her sight came the sound of ceramic scraping on wood, then the cracking of a wax stopper.

She didn't know that the oil he began pouring on her was usually used on those victims Duke Victor had roasted over the pit of coals. What she did know that it felt pleasantly cool as it spread across her buttocks and teased through the channel between her sore cheeks. What wasn't so pleasant was the way he used that oil to ease the intrusion of his fingers into her virgin bowels. She bucked as his fingers spread the thick oil inside and out. With her eyes screwed shut, she tried to relax and slow the heavy beating of her heart, but the more she did so, the more insistent and impossible to ignore this latest invasion became. Her bladder voided down her legs in a sudden rush.

She tried to brace herself to no avail. The oil-slick tip of his manhood pressed firmly against her sphincter. He held her narrow hips tightly in his hands. She opened her mouth to complain, but as she did he slipped past her anal ring and turned her protest into a garbled moan of ecstasy. There was no gentle introduction in his taking her this way. Instead he crushed her against the table while slowly driving the whole length of his rigid cock into her virgin rectum. Her thighs danced while his shaft pushed hard against her bowels. It took him a good long time to get his staff buried in her ass.

She incoherently screamed herself hoarse while silently begging him to stop in her mind; sure that he was tearing her apart, searing from the inside out. He did neither, although she was stretched to her very limit, the pain quickly turning to pleasure as he slowly began pumping into her. The pressure was incredible, each drive of his hips filling her with his rod of flesh and another burst of sexual heat. The burning in her punished ass soon overcame any resistance she had left, she screamed and wept and came hard, and then came again even harder still. Just as the tortured screams died in her raw throat, he stopped ravaging her ass, only his pulse pushing through her tight ring.

A few heartbeats later, another climax sent delicious spasms through her tired body. The vanished screams became one long, passionate groan when her body took final control from her mind and milked unsuccessfully at his cock. Several heartbeats after she stopped shuddering, he drew himself from her, still perfectly erect. She could only lie there and shake, trying to catch her breath. She wished for the strength to weep for joy.

Miles to the north and far to the west, a small army of mercenary soldiers, men and women of a lesser quality than Cinder's Shadows, broke camp. They were a ragged bunch, worn and tired from months of duty along the barren wastes that formed the border between the Empire and the H'Nurt Freeholds. For the twenty-plus years since the end of the War of Long Days, when the seventy-three H'Nurt Clans swarmed across the barrens and attacked the Empire only to be driven back after three years by the Imperial army bolstered by scores of such mercenary companies; the border patrols had been supplemented by mercenaries hired by the outlying communities and Imperial garrisons. The duty was long and dull but paid well over the short term, even better if a company wished to stay a year or more. It was an ideal post for those coming back from a particularly disastrous campaign in other parts. The money was good because it was direct from the Imperial treasury and held by the Merchant Guild in bond. There was actually very little to do. There were no raiders crossing the stretch of blasted wasteland that made the border. On this side the hills were low and rolling, covered in lush grasses that survived on very little rain. The rivers could not support the deeper draft cargo ships that plied the river highways of the rest of the Empire, so cargo came on wide shallow-bottom barges until even they could go no more. Out here the towns were few and far between, generally clusters of homes at the trading points, farming as much land as they could handle. In the distance, the steep, almost sharp mountains known as the Kiros Teeth hid the nearest lands of the H'Nurt. What lay beyond was unknown, no humans had been there and back, and there were few that even cared to make the attempt. In between the two the land was barren, baked, and uninviting. Until the War, no one knew that another race and culture existed across the wasteland. If the H'Nurt patrolled their side of the border, it was impossible to tell.

But the border needed to be manned, just in case. With the Empire still reeling from the last War, the need for an early warning was still strong. Should the invaders return, the Royal Council would need time to summon help from its allies. That is why groups of mercenaries bolstered the Imperial garrisons. Those either eager for adventure or seeking time to regroup could visit the border for months and be prepared. Most considered it easy money.

It was odd then, that this group would be marching away in such a manner. The Imperial regulars were sorry to see them go. They had served well and would have stayed on for months if the Mistress of Fate had not taken a hand. A few more months and they could afford to completely replace their worst equipment, buy better armor, train in more tactics. They had come east for those very reasons. But a letter had come to their commander one day and now a week later, they were leaving.

They marched west at a regular fifteen miles a day toward destiny.

Brother Baron hated this room, hated being assigned to work here. He didn't care that his superiors thought enough of him to assign him to this great honor, but he still hated it. He would sit for a long time in the sun as soon as the day's session was over with. This room was dark and hot and dry and it smelled terrible.

"It begins! The last pieces are in place!" the gravelly voice in the dark crowed happily. A strange sound drifted from where the voice had come from, a slow shuffling like someone dancing. Brother Baron turned from where he wrote in the dim light of a single weak tallow candle, scratching out in his long, flowing hand his companion's thoughts as he'd been bidden to do. His chest tightened.

"Pardon?" he called to the dark. "Did you say something?"

"Nothing you need worry about, child of mine."

Brother Baron screamed at the hands reaching for him from the shadows beyond the candlelight. Dry, thin skin wrapped around impossibly thin fingers extended towards him, slipped around his throat. There followed the wet snapping of bone and then a very disturbing, complete silence. Brother Baron slumped to a limp heap on the floor, his eyes blankly staring at the last, fitful flutters of the candle.

"The unfaithful shall be cleansed. Rejoice, for you shall be the first of The Great Host."



Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 02



Lord Jonas Cinder led his pale-skinned, hot-bottomed new slave out of the bowels of the dungeon and into the open-air court much the same way he'd led her from her cell, bound on a leash of rags. She still felt fear as he led her into the courtyard, arms secure behind her back and as bare as the day she was born but she tried to hide it. There were so many people gathered here that she felt completely defenseless. In truth she had never been better protected in her entire life.

The sun had come up on what promised to be a nice day. The sky had already become a healthy blue, with thin wisps of clouds drifting high in the air above the town. A dawn that Glankis sorely needed to bring a new feeling, a new light as it were, to the tired eyes of the citizens. The town had suffered since the War, when the whole section of town outside the old wall had been looted and burnt by the H'Nurt tribes. Then to fall prey to the C'ar V'in raids of the next five summers, as did most of the southern provinces. When money, troops and materials for reconstruction went East to the H'Nurt frontier, Glankis felt the bite but held on as best as they could. When Duke Victor returned at the head of a small mercenary army, things seemed to improve. They were protected by proven troops and the father and son refused to let the tired town collapse. Then his father died and life in Glankis during the War seemed comforting in comparison to the present day. Even in their Noble's Day best, the people seemed ragged and beat down, now even a bit terrified that they had just traded one evil for another.

All eyes of the assembly fell on them as he led her to the post placed on the ground before and just to the right of the three-step dais. He knew she'd need time to become accustomed to appearing naked before outsiders, especially such large groups, so he ignored the faltering steps she took. She had the potential to be amazingly graceful, almost cat-like in her movements once taught new skills like dancing and swordplay. Not just new skills either, but things about herself she was already beginning to understand.

Although he didn't show it outwardly, he was quite pleased with her so far. She was responsive and eager, aroused by the restraints and excited by her own helplessness. And she did have the potential to become so much more accomplished than a mere thief-come-alley whore. By making her his slave, taking her body and freedom, he'd opened the world to her.

Nice to see that a long lifetime of practice in judging people hadn't failed him entirely in spite of recent events.

The post was a pillar of polished oak standing four and a half feet high and mounted on a circular platform of the same wood about three feet across. Long, sinuous carvings of sensuous women had been cut into the wood of the post. The mountings, chains, and bindings were all silver, lovingly polished and shining brightly in the sunlight. A contrast to the rusty and dirty pieces that Duke Victor had on hand for the public displays of his cruelty. A wooden platform that stood against one wall of the courtyard, darkened with the blood of those damned souls that were dragged up the steep stairs to die in horrible pain before the terrified eyes of their loved ones as he flayed them alive, slowly. A rack loomed menacingly against the wall at one end while the pivoting martyr's cross marked a giant 'X' over the spot of death. A headman's block, two pillories and a chain still holding the remains of a hand all added to the repulsive nature of the place. No one approached within a dozen feet of it. The detestable thing would be burned, and soon. 

He made her stand with her back to the post, facing the gathered crowd of wide-eyed townspeople. Well cared for leather cuffs lined with velvet held her ankles securely to a bar through the base of the post, keeping her feet a little more than shoulder width apart. With her shoulders back and spine pressed against it, the cool wood nuzzled against her burning ass soothingly. He locked similar bindings around her wrists- these bolted to the back of the post from where she stood, again forcing her to pull her shoulders back and thrust her breasts out like an offering. Around her thin neck he fastened a wide, hard leather collar that effectively prevented her from looking down, forcing her to look out at the crowd and hooked it by chain to the top of the post. The warm blush of shame colored her tear-stained face. Shame at her nakedness before all these strangers and at the aroused heat she felt under their awestruck scrutiny. It was as if she could feel the scores of eyes on her skin as if they were hands- some groping, some soothing, some curious, some possessive; but all touching her with some sense of familiarity; a sensation that she found immensely arousing. He'd wiped her thighs clean before untying her from the table, but she felt the sticky gravy cooking in her cunny once more.

Lord Cinder brushed a few stray locks of her hair out of her face before giving an approving nod and mounting the steps to the throne. Carter Stanton stood on the first step, just behind and to the left of the girl on the floor. Even though it was unlikely, if the crowd rioted he would be the first to her side. She may have been nude, but she was in no way naked and unprotected. The man-mountain's very presence and patronly visage could calm the unruly. Failing that, his fists could crush bones like a mace. Someone had passed a hasty cleaning rag over the big general's armor, wiping away dust and flecks of blood and put a comb through his hair. The general looked, as always, a sturdy rock amidst a stream of chaos. Cinder realized that he probably should have done the same, but it was too late for cleaning up now.

On the same step but on the opposite side of the throne was another such man. While not nearly as tall or as massive as Stanton, Jason Halpeitr gave off the air of a hungry mountain lion on the verge of attacking at all times. He stood tall and calmly let his woodsy eyes roam over the nervous crowd. As the captain of Cinder's personal Guard, his attire was similar to his lord's, a black chain shirt split for riding, leather pants and hard boots- but he wore no gloves and didn't carry a flogger. Instead, a hand-and-a-half bastard sword hung across his back and he gripped the thick haft of a tall, broad-headed poleaxe. In most hands the poleaxe could be a formidable weapon, but Jason could split a man's spine from top to bottom by pushing it with his powerful shoulders. A tabard of black covered his barrel chest, depicting a black tower on blue flames, detailed in silver thread. His squared-jawed face stern and impassive and framed by tightly drawn back black ponytail, he bowed in a salute that mirrored the one Stanton gave in the dungeon hall.

On the next step up and closer to the throne were Lord Cinder's real bodyguards- his Women. Both were skilled mages, although this was not always the case and neither held the normally coveted sanction of the Magister's College of Odgred. While most nobles kept sturdy warriors like Stanton and Halpeitr or college sponsored mages close at hand for protection, Lord Cinder was twice as skilled in martial pursuits than both men combined and unconcerned by magic. Instead, Cinder's Women served not to protect him, but to guard others from him.

On his right as he mounted the dais waited Quinlin, the more skilled in war magic of the two sorceresses, a battle-witch. She stood a few fingers under his height, a slender whip of powerful muscle. In the nine years since joining him, she had not lost her aura of innocence- a soft face wrinkled only by a tiny half-smile, her smooth and graceful limbs, and a healthy glow to her light brown skin. Her closely cropped brown hair remained tousled by the short battle in the city, and her silvery-gray eyes seemed to contain some amusing secret she kept all to herself. Her sparse green satin attire flagrantly displayed not only her athletic and slender body, but also the intricate dragon tattoo that decorated it. Beginning just above her right knee, its tail wound up her thigh, joined the body at her hip, climbed across her bare midriff, parted her firm, full breasts and ended with its horned head on her left shoulder. The beast appeared to breath flame down the length of her arm, which gradually changed into a twining rose bush that wrapped completely around her left arm, ending with an open rose on the back of her hand. One wing was folded down her left side, ending just below her hip, while the other was unfurled across her bare back. On her feet were knee-high, laced sandals of a soft colored dun leather. A casual observer could see the gold ring piercing her navel and the golden chains looped onto it- one wrapping around her waist like a belt while the other disappeared into her brief, narrow breechcloth. She wore bracelets, ankle bindings and a collar made of small gold, silver and platinum diamonds riveted to a soft leather backing, each piece set with a silver ring whose mounting also served as the piece's lock. The collar had a large square setting containing a thumb-sized moonstone surrounded by two dozen small rectangular diamonds set over a large silver ring that rested in the hollow of her throat. She held a silver-shod ironoak staff topped with a glowing beryl the size of a hen's egg and wore a long leaf-shaped dagger in a leather scabbard on her right hip.

On the left stood Anastasia, an exotic beauty with a curled mane the color of the sunset's burning sky, tumbling down her back to tickle her buttocks. There was something marvelously wanton about her, the way her long curly hair fell over an eye, the way the sun played over her almost bare shoulders, the outline of her fleshy thighs. Her magic was in tantric fire- both magical and passionate, and the whole of her being radiated its instinctive knowledge of pleasure. To her, sex was more essential than food or drink and she proved to be a true connoisseur. Her whole body was a marvel of nature, slender yet curvaceous. She stood with her hands on her hips, seductively arching her back and drawing back her shoulders, greatly increasing the dramatic upward thrust of her magnificent breasts. Heels lengthened the appearance of her long and smoothly contoured legs, thrust out her compact heart-shaped ass, curved her back and further emphasized her breasts. The diaphanous red silk of her dress stretched pleasingly over the pair of high standing, smooth mounds with the pierced nipples dark and just visible through the cloth, inviting the eyes of all those who knew desire for the female form. Her dress was no more than a filmy, transparent narrow tabard of silk joined at the hips front and back by a trio of gilded chains, leaving free her arms and legs and providing a view of bare side flesh from shoulder to ankle. The center of the three chains supported a thumb-sized emerald mounted on a small golden arrowhead hanging below the outline of her crotch, which could just be seen through the translucent film. The dress' neckline dropped to a point just below her navel, shamelessly exposing the inner curves of her breasts, with only four tiny golden chains holding the bodice closed to any degree of modesty. Under her hair, the dress was backless, revealing the smooth plain of her back from shoulders to just above her rump. She could shrug just right and there would be a pile of silk at her feet. The emerald had two mates; one glued in her navel just above the same golden ring and dropping chain as Quinlin's, but without the waist chain, and the other mounted in her collar. The jewels gleamed even brighter when seen in contrast to the exotic brassy cast of her silky skin, almost as if she had been made entirely of gold. Her bright green eyes flashed him a come-hither look when he passed and she licked her pouty lips with a lusty hunger. She had high cheekbones that tapered smoothly down to her chin. On her lips shined a thick coat of crimson gloss made bright by the passage of her tongue. She also wore the bracelets and anklets of precious metals and bore a long slender knife chained to her right hip, the scabbard soft, golden brown leather stretched over wood. 

He mounted the final step and paused, staring down at the Duke's throne. It was an unattractive but utilitarian chair with a high wooden back, covered with velvet cushions, a variety of furs, and a tapestry that should have been on a wall somewhere. He truly detested these things- thrones, the Noble's Day court, and the assorted trappings of rule. His holding of Shadowholm had no court to hold, had no throne, and- most importantly- someone else to run things. He lashed out and kicked it, sending the chair crashing over the back of the dais to the floor. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the nervously waiting crowd.

If only the little thief hadn't forced his hand. Someone else would have done this in his stead if he'd been able to wait. Two long weeks until this burden was taken from him...

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Lord Jonas Cinder; the Everflame's Shadow, Duke of Shadowholm, Marshall of the Northern Scilogthar Mountains, Punishing Hand of the Empire, with dozens of other names and titles from various points touched by the Empire, sat behind a long table of polished black ash, drumming his fingers on its dark surface. He remembered the first time he saw this table, the first time he saw this room, the first time he met the Emperor. Now the Grand Imperial Palace housed the new Imperial Council.

His grim, expressionless eyes narrowed as he surveyed the dozen richly dressed figures seated across from him. In spite of their brightly colored clothing (cut by master tailors), intricate laces (in the latest styles), jewelry (passed down), stylish hats, decorative weapons and dozens of other little details making the difference between nobles and this freeman's son apparent, in his simple black mail and dragon-hide cloak he dominated the room. Behind each high-backed chair stood a tall staff bound in long ribbons of silk dyed the colors of the respected House. His own pole was an eight-foot shaft of black ribbons, like a monolith of night in the light of the room. 

Some of the faces opposite he recognized, but too many of those with him in the plush chamber were new to him. Noble men and women stared back with expressions ranged from concentration to awe to thoughtful concern to jaw-clenched anger. The last he could sympathize with, he felt it himself most of the time. Thankfully, now he was simply annoyed. 

He'd come out of his mountain home to visit the great capital, mostly on business related to Shadowholm. As a matter of course, he had ridden east with the active troops of his Shadows, intent on giving them some in the field training and getting them out of the garrison. In his train had been wagons full of samples of the goods he would trade for vital supplies. By the afternoon his wagons would be on their way home bearing supplies for the summer. Meeting the Council had not been part of his plan, but he knew that they might wish to see him. He generally had to make at least a courtesy appearance before them every time he made the trip. Some times it was social, others it was not. This time, it was not. Sitting on the table before him, like two poisonous vipers, sat two scrolls of vellum bearing the intricate seals of the Empire.

The two were a Writ of Execution and a generous but unnecessary land grant.

The writ he would take up easily, gladly in fact. He had no qualms in the least in delivering the vengeance of the Ruling Council on those who violated Imperial Law, he done similar things often enough in the past. Some of those sitting opposite him did so because he'd opened their seats for them. But the grant of the title and lands belonging to the man he was to remove- that constituted a deep insult. Not unforgivable, but still fairly deep. He had a home, a refuge that suited him quite well.

"What is this?" he asked flatly, gesturing to the grant. "You know my terms. They are non-negotiable." In all the years he had led his Shadows in the service of whomever he decided best served the Law and Custom, it had been infrequent that his demands had been inadequately met. This was one of those rare times that they had been ignored altogether. He never accepted lands or titles, not since taking control of the Northern Scilogthars, land he nominally controlled from ten miles east of Shadowholm all the way to the border of the Joten Kingdoms some fifty or more miles through the maze of unexplored mountains to the west. For years he had been trying to find a trail through the mountains, but thus far unsuccessfully. He also had nominal control of the mountains themselves for a score of miles north and south of his holding, but few actually lived there to his knowledge. He never bothered to collect taxes.

"The Cinder Family has served this Council faithfully for decades without adequate reward," the youngest of the Odgred Ruling Council spoke up eagerly. Cinder thought his name might be Conover, but he couldn't place his father's features on that soft young face. He did sit under the Conover colors of red, white and black cord. "We felt that it was time to do so. The Scilogthar Marches don't allow much in the way of political influence, so we felt that the Duchy of Glankis, with its trade importance and voice in the Imperial Court, would be a start at repaying our debt to your family. As well as giving you an opportunity to find representation in the Imperial..."

"This was your idea then," Cinder interrupted, not really caring who he insulted or to what degree. The boy would get over it or he wouldn't, it made no difference to him. "Read the records again, son. Only one member of the Cinder family has ever directly served this Council." To emphasize his casual point, he lay a flat hand on the table and stroked his lower lip with the thumb and forefinger of the other.

"The eldest male of each generation I understand." The young Conover seemed genuinely eager to show off his meager knowledge to his peers, all who were older and should have been wiser. He must have been the one who proposed and pushed for the land grant. Cinder hated to drive home this lesson again, but someone should have dissuaded the young man. He'd been away too long once again, letting others handle the meetings and they had forgotten whom...and what he was. Once a generation it seemed he had to go through this foolishness.

"No, only one." He rose and pushed the scrolls away. "I apologize. I can't accept serve the Writ if I have to take the city. I don't want it."

"What? You dare refuse the Imperial Council?" Conover slapped his hands sharply against the table and leapt to his feet. Only the quick reflexes of those seated to either side saved his chair from toppling to the floor. Now Cinder was sure that he was indeed a Conover, he had his great-great-great-grandfather's fire.

"Look into my eyes boy, and tell me what you see," Cinder ordered, leaning across the table toward the fuming young lord, trapping him with those strange, colorless eyes. Huffing and fuming, Conover accepted the challenge. The line between bravery and foolishness blurs when you have no idea who's challenging you.

The longer he looked, the shakier his knees felt. Staring that hard into Cinder's eyes was not unlike staring down a very, very, very deep well. Darkness is all that can be seen, but when there is a glimmer of light at the bottom, it is hard to tell if was really there or just a trick to keep the mind from reeling from intense vertigo. Finally, the blood drained from his face, he sank back into his chair with a haunted groan. The rest of the nobility shifted uncomfortably while Conover shook almost in terror. It took the kind hand of Old Duchess Daighton to bring him back to the assembly.




Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 02



"There's nothing there," he finally whispered, looking fearfully at everything but Cinder's face. "Nothing. No soul."

"Oh, I have a soul," Cinder told him with a harsh smile. "I just don't use it. Lady Daighton, can you recall your earliest memory of me?"

The grand dame of the ruling party smiled, a knowing 'I-told-you-so' sort of smile. At ninety, the younger lords and ladies rarely consulted her in Council meetings, unless they needed her long, sharp memory for a reminder of a treaty's finer points, advice on the suitability of a new ambassador, or for a vote on a close debate. Her family had little in the way of holdings outside the capital city, but it remained one of the Empire's oldest houses and thereby held a seat on the Council. Once she was gone, there were no more Daightons to take her place, her ancestral holdings would pass on to some distant cousin through marriage. The grand House of Daighton was slowly fading from the official roll like the last ray of son before dark. But while she may have been the eldest of the assembly, she remembered every event of the last seventy-five years with incredible clarity.

"Jonas Cinder, you bounced me on your knee on my sixth birthday, eighty-four years ago. I still have the brooch you gave me with the date inscribed on the back. The last time you attended on of my birthday celebrations was back before the War, in the year 886, just before you went to the Jotékoku, so don't think that I've forgotten. You have changed very little since that day eighty-four years ago."

"Very little," Cinder admitted, resuming his seat. "I assume you remember my terms then."

"Now that you have reminded us as to why we agree to them, I'm sure we all have," Lord Harrod, the Ruling Council's spokesman grumbled through his bushy gray beard, taking away the scroll bearing the land grant. He looked embarrassed. Not only had young Conover managed to make an ass out of himself, but he'd also made the Council look bad. Fortunately, he knew Lord Cinder would treat the incident like it had never happened. "You will take the Writ then?"

"Duke Victor Guinness? I wondered when you would get around to replacing him. His heavy-handedness has gone on for far too long. Even in Shadowholm we've heard merchants complaining about the problems in that part of the Empire. If I had been out that way on other business, I might have stepped in and taken care of him just on general principle. Why haven't you done anything about him before now?"

"He had influence here in the Imperial Council, too many friends in places of power."

"You looked the other way because of the man his father was."

"Yes," Lord Harrod admitted with a grim nod. "Many of us did not wish to think ill of Garrod's son, no matter what was spoken about him."

"What finally changed your minds? Do you have any idea why he's doing what he's doing?"

The graybeard baron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Cinder had stayed away exploring the Scilogthars for too long to be involved in the recent politics of Odgred, but he knew that much had happened in the capital of late that made his return visit warranted sooner than he had intended. Young Conover holding his father's seat was one such indication of the latest changes troubling the Empire. He needed to arrange for some sort of representative who would keep him apprised of current events, maybe even young Conover. Or Carter Stanton when the general retired.

"We captured the man responsible for a number of murders here in the capital over the past year. The dead had no connections, coming from the heights of society and the lowest levels of the peasantry. There may have been killings we will never hear of in the Broken Quarter. No one could find him, not the Watch, not the Inquisitors, not even the Diviner's College. Some magic hid him from all eyes. It took a stroke of the Lady's own luck, but we finally captured a master assassin who left a strange calling card at each murder. On each body we found a blessing for eternal life, stuck to the victim's chest with a stiletto. We are tracing the elaborate maze of blind trails and contacts that will eventually lead us to his employer, but it will take much time and many of our resources. Thus we turn to you to serve the Writ. If you hadn't arrived on your own, we would have sent for you. Before committing suicide, this assassin confessed to poisoning Garrod at his son's behest, long before his last campaign of murders began. We still have no idea why."

"You verified this?" Cinder felt that a complicated plot was being executed, and whether or not Duke Guinness fit into it or not, willingly or not, was yet to be determined. It seemed odd that an assassin as professional as this one had been would just volunteer information like that. He voiced his concern over that matter, adding: "I don't think many real assassins leave such a blatant calling card like that either. He sounds more like a fanatic."

"None of the mentalists from the Magister's College could stay in his sick mind for long. Nor could they retrieve much while there; he had a strong will. Strong enough to make two mages violently ill and burn the talent completely out of one novice. After the truth came out, Victor lost what little support he had remaining at Court. Not even his own representative has sent messages to him." 

The room fell silent while Cinder leaned back in his chair and regarded the ceiling. His mind searching the myriad litany of his concerns for the one best served by the might of the Royal Council. He rose finally and closed his hand around the Writ of Execution.

"I will act as regent over Glankis and its lands until the representative arrives to take over. He is to arrive by the end of this month or I shall leave the city to its own devices. I have no desire to rule Glankis or any other city. I suggest you keep the choice simple and obvious. Shadowholm needs grains, several tons of oats and wheat, lumber and various other items- silks, fruits, cheeses, and the like. I'll have a list delivered to young Lord Conover before we leave for Glankis and collect upon my return. These items I will want to purchase in large quantities, or trade for with Shadowholm goods. What I want from you is a ship, a good sturdy river merchantman capable of short sea voyages fresh from the yards. Waiting on ships to come all the way up to Shadowholm has become tiresome and unprofitable, so I want to be able to trade without depending on them. Send me Victor's representative, please. I'd like to interview him before I set out. 

"A pleasure as always Lady Daighton," Cinder said with a short bow before turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

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Six separate merchant caravans arrived in Glankis in the space of a week, most coming from the north and east. Built at the crossroads between several main overland routes to the grain-rich southern provinces and the broad Cath Casir, the large town was accustomed to such traffic. Situated on a natural river harbor with deep-water allowing the easy loading and unloading of ships, the town was a vital way station on the voyage to the southern capital of Antilles. Barges would fill the river at harvest time, carrying lumber and metals from the northern forests and western mines to the broad southern plains to trade for the plentiful wheat and beef cattle. In the off season between late spring and early summer, which it was, merchant caravans would often gather near the town to trade goods, news and supplies.

That was in the better days of years past. Since Duke Victor had replaced his beloved father, the richer merchants had begun bypassing the town, sometimes going days or even weeks out of their way to avoid the Duke's patrols and more importantly avoiding the heavy tariffs on trade. Only the most desperate, or the most greedy came near the troubled town, bearing goods that were second-hand at best, shoddy at the worst. For six years the town had suffered in this way. Some people had escaped by moving on with no warning, leaving behind nearly everything save that which could be carried away on their backs in the night. Those that had given warning to friends and neighbors were often discovered by the Guard and punished. Soldiers came in the night and made away with whole families. Those that called for resistance found themselves on the courtyard stage until they begged for death. Many houses now stood empty save for the ghosts of former residents in better times. Despite the riches available to it in trade, the town had been beaten and become quite poor.

Thus the excitement created when a veritable flood of off-season caravans arrived ready to spend hard coin for what little goods and services could be had. A hodge-podge of tents and low pavilions was erected in the long-unused fairground fields just northeast of town. Visitors from town felt welcome comfort in the hustle and bustle of this mad circus of trade. Goods were bought and sold amidst the shouts of teamsters and laborers, merchants haggling with housewives and farmers, children shouting amidst the chaos of market. A wainwright from town repaired a doubtful axle. A cooper made barrels for salt pork and the small hard apples that traveled well, kegs for potent wheat beer, and tuns for butter. Eventually the gathering took on a carnival atmosphere in spite of the caravans' ever present mercenary guards and the Duke's own bullyboys.

The whole event was a total sham.

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Cinder sat alone in his tent near the center of the 'merchant camp', a pile of notes and maps heaped on the camp table before him. Before him lay the complete layout of the town- every building, alley, and street as well as patrol routes, empty houses, and a grim note about the complete lack of dogs and cats. Condition of the walls, guard strengths of the three gates, the current strength of the river, the dilapidated condition of the water-mill- all had been carefully observed, including the most direct routes from several points to the manor house. He made a habit of considering more than his own opinions of the enemy, but under anyone's scrutiny the Duke's troops were poor quality soldiers. Someone had even noted where he'd found a comely and willing wench for a small fee and a loaf of bread. Someone else later added a note that he'd seen the woman thus described and advised the taking of a burlap sack for her looks, unless one had no morals or taste, as well as adding a few comments about the mating habits of the first man.

Outside his soldiers played the parts of the merchant, the down-at-the-heels-mercenary, and the rowdy teamster...and played those parts badly. Few of those arriving with the caravans were not in his direct employ and those that weren't didn't know what was going on. While certainly not one of his better experiments in intelligence gathering, the caravan ploy was otherwise ideal for this town starved not only for fresh money, but a spark of life to distract them from the iron grip of a cruel and demented ruler. He couldn't even use his own wagons because they were in too good repair, too easily seen as military in purpose. 

He'd already listened to a dozen reports of the town's low morale- poorly kept homes, conversations cut short with the appearance of the city guards, half-hearted attempts at haggling, and a wealth of other small signs. Eventually his soldiers would weary of their roles and the poor spirits would spread from the townsfolk to the mercenary army. Soon discipline would flag, and while desertions were not likely, fights between his Shadows and the Duke's men were more than a certainty. Small shoving matches and brief, one-sided confrontations had already happened, all ended before the real roles of the Shadows was revealed and Guardsmen died.

Nothing seemed right about Glankis. A lord, no matter how twisted, drove a whole town into the ground with oppressive taxes. The militia had been decimated by attrition while those that could still fight felt cowed by the threat to their families. The men-at-arms of the City Guard were all mercenaries and that never happened. No one from the father's reign held any position of power. It felt like Duke Guinness had decided to play with the town until it no longer amused him. Money, in taxes and confiscated goods, flowed into his coffers but was never spent. Defenses were falling into disrepair and the vital industries that kept Glankis functioning threatened to crumble like dominos at any moment. Not even the whitewashing had been done to the smallest buildings in seasons. Cinder felt deeply disturbed because he couldn't fathom what Victor could possibly be doing. The man couldn't be that mad, or mercenaries wouldn't work for him.

He could almost smell Death taking a hand in things here and he didn't like it.

"My lord?" Anastasia, slinking into the tent, breathed in a low husky voice that purred. He smiled wryly. She seemed to walk in only one of two ways- an aggressive strut and a seductive slink. The strut was her masterpiece; she would suck in her stomach, throw her shoulders back, keep her head perfectly centered and lead her stride ever-so-slightly with her hips, walking a line like a tightrope. Her hips would sway just enough with every step to make her dress billow out and give a glimpse of the inviting treasures not quite hidden beneath nearly sheer silk. Her thighs were slim enough to show light high up between them when she walked. The total effect could make a dead horse turn its head. The slink, however, signaled a sexual need that could only be satisfied by her Master. It was a more cautious walk, slower with less sway of the hips, less erotic but with more of a glowering hunger in her eyes.

She had to be on the brink of carnal madness by now, not having been with him in over a week. From an early age she'd had the physical madness, the need to lay with another as frequently as possible or she would feel as if she would burst into flames. Her natural beauty and inherent carnal skill had helped her earn a prosperous but unfulfilling living as a highly paid courtesan in Imperial Odgred under the tutelage of the well-connected Madame Jocelyn Hunbo, where Cinder had found her. After demonstrating her virginity through a sensuous dance ending with the rupturing of her maidenhead with an ivory phallus before a wealthy crowd, she had been auctioned to the highest bidder to be her first man. From that moment on, she'd been the center of a carnal carnival whispered about in nearly every corner of Odgred and many places beyond. Following the rumors and recommendations, he had been introduced to the famous madam and her prize harlot. 

With his political position smoothing the introductions to Madame Hunbo, and his rumored reputation as a lover with deep appetites stirring Anastasia's primal interests, a meeting would have been arranged by any one of the three in any event. He'd sensed the spark of more than just carnal fire within her, seen the ability to wield arcane power fueled by the energy of sex. The very smallest passionate act made her power grow, and their first night had been anything but small. He offered her a chance at attaining magnificent power after sharing a night of intense pleasure, promising that she'd find satisfaction in more ways than simply opening her legs for strangers. She accepted his challenge with the same degree of enthusiasm she'd demonstrated in bed with him. Her training had been relatively simple, due mainly to her already intensely sexual nature, but also, in part, to her keen and moldable mind. 

She became a new woman, better rounded in spirit and intellect without losing her carnality or sensuality. Gone was the wanton slut who had been the center of attention in secret orgies thrown by the wealthy, exhausting lover after lover in her incessant search for fulfillment. Now she knew love and contentment after her own fashion. She transformed into a truly bewitching blend of passion, heat, lust, and presence bound together in an erotic, elemental parcel. And despite the multitudes of suitors since, many rich, noble, or both, her love and loyalty had remained for Cinder alone. 

"You sent for me, Master?" she asked in a sugary voice, trying to appear shy and subservient. Unsuccessfully, but trying. She should have been with the reserve force stationed miles away instead of here in his tent.

"Not that I recall," he said, glad for the distraction, pushing his chair away from the table. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know." Her wobbly voice made husky with her runaway desire. Her hands roamed suggestively up her tantalizing body, fingernails making small scratch traceries along her bare flanks. Already he could smell her perfume, and not just the expensive scents bought in the markets of Odgred. Something more intimate. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"The layout of the Manor, a solid night's rest in a real bed, a good meal cooked by a competent cook in a real kitchen, a few hours of undisturbed peace with a good book, a fine bottle of two-hundred year old brandy; but other than that, nothing comes to mind. Why? Do you need something?"

She came around and imposed herself between his chair and the table. With hooded hungry eyes she gathered her skirt front into a bunch at her waist, exposing her honey frosted treasure to him as if offering a clean shirt. She'd been shaved hairless and the sheen of eager, sweaty flesh was offset by the golden gleam of the thin chain connecting her navel to the tender button at the top of her slit.

"See," she said, stroking the moist outer contours of her sex. Her fingers twisted around the gold chain, rubbing the gleaming silver-blue skirsteel ring piercing her clit. The soft pink tip of her tongue slipped out, moistening the hot red of her pouting lips. "I need you. I want you."

Her body exuded a deep, musky odor and she shivered when he brushed the tender skin between knee and crotch with his fingertips. He slowly traced inside her thigh, then pushed a little against her lips, pushed slowly inside. He started moving his fingers across the silky strip, pressing them harder and harder as they got wetter and wetter. Her melting pot got so hot and juicy that her eyes glazed over and her head fell back, tickling her tight ass with her long hair. Her legs opened enough to allow him to cover her moist heat completely with one hand, spreading her glistening folds wide open before gripping her underslung pouch, pressing a thumb hard against the jewel of her clitoral flesh. A deep, passionate moan ghosted out between her parted lips as he gently but powerfully lifted her by her crotch to stand on tiptoe.

"Your wants and needs aren't at issue here, now are they?" She ground herself against his hand as he spoke, biting her lower lip and widening her eyes in hopeful sadness.

"I'm sorry Master," she whispered huskily. "I've been bad."

"Yes," he replied with a thoughtful nod. "I suppose you have."

With practiced ease, he turned her over his knee, ensuring her head would hang near the ground, a pile of crimson curls pooling around the legs of the chair, while her rump pointed to the tent's roof. She could smell the rich odor of his boot leather. A simple leather thong looped through the ready rings of her bracelets secured her wrists together behind her back. The punishment began with a single smart crack across her ass delivered with his open hand; each loud retort interspersed with thrilling caresses of intrusion. She squirmed and struggled but had no real chance of escape from someone of his strength and skill. Wild surges of erotic excitement shook through her body, vying with the stinging jolts of pain every time his hand fell with a loud crack. After a dozen or so strokes, he noticed that she ground her crotch against his leg madly.




Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 02



She tried to keep silent by biting her lower lip and holding her breath, although the noise really wouldn't matter. The walls of the tent were hung with thick canvas and furs and the guards knew not to intrude on their game, trying to hold in her exclamations was all part of the fun. The open-handed blows shifted back and forth regularly, until her backside ached and burned a deeper tan- the bronze of her skin mixed with the raw red of chastised ass. His hand felt sore, and she was genuinely crying, tears streaming down that perfect face; but her hips still churned her pubic bone against his leg. Her breath finally exploded in one passionate gasp the first time the short, hard paddle cracked firmly against her thighs. She shuddered, her melting pot spilling molten woman down her legs.

He showed no mercy as each strong stroke of the paddle made her buttocks jump and her muscles dance. She struggled feebly against her bonds, which she could break easily if it became necessary. Instead of helping her escape the stinging blows, her frantic writhing served to insure that they left no part of her ass unpunished.

"Please!" she finally cried out, not in pain, but a most urgent need to be taken. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. Using the paddle to cool her lust was like using a keg of brandy to extinguish a bonfire.

Finally setting the paddle aside, his thick fingers spread like icicles soothing the burning, raw skin. She eagerly spread her trembling legs, allowing him to stir her boiling cauldron. He slowly licked a finger, sucking it slowly before thrusting deep into her treasure. He let the finger slide out, then pushed it in again slowly, listening to her center suck at it wetly. Withdrawing his finger, he gently circled her hard clit. His fingers slid through the slick, wet folds of her treasure, feeling her body shudder in excitement. He knew her gender well, knew how to excite and energize a woman for hours without allowing the release of climax. He'd done it to her before, making her finally beg for a savage coupling that left her feeling joyously raw in every orifice but satisfied down to her very soul. He'd taken her so hard her first night in his service that she'd collapsed into a sound, pleasant sleep while a thin trickle of blood snaked down her inner thigh from her rear tunnel. He did that to her for a month, taking her whenever he had the time and the inclination but never talking to her like he did with Quinlin and Miranda, never treating her like a person rather than a toy. Finally, she couldn't stand to be in his presence but not in his circle. She hated the way he treated her like a whore, using her body but doing nothing personal with her. Finally she'd had enough and said so, loudly. And that's what he'd been waiting for, for her to decide that her talents were more than between her legs. However, she'd gladly submit to a night of the same rough treatment after a weeklong period of forced abstinence.

But while his hands were occupied with her treasure, his mind was elsewhere. Anastasia and Quinlin were fine for keeping him under control and his morale high, but the Shadow morale would start to fail soon. The strain of playing unsuitable roles in an unfriendly environment would wear on his soldiers just hard as war would. The time when the need to defend themselves from the Duke's men would come, and when it did, there would be no holding back. He would not allow even one of his troops to spend the night in the cells below Guinness Manor. So while his fingers stroked and coaxed Anastasia's hot crotch with feathers and fleece, his mind attacked his plan with the mental equivalent of a hammer and tongs.

He'd planned on spending another full week becoming familiar with the town and its remaining inhabitants, then serving the Writ of Execution on Noble's Day next. That would leave only a week that he would be forced to govern Glankis before the newly appointed Count Joseph Addicus arrived with Imperial troops and a decree authorizing his sovereignty from the Royal Council. A younger son of a western baron, Addicus had been chosen by lot from the pool of available candidates and sent for before sundown the day Cinder met with the Council. He would be on his way by now, once affairs had been settled and a levy of Imperial guardsmen raised. Cinder's plan had been formed with this knowledge. However, now that he'd had time to assess the attitude of the town, the plan needed to be changed. Perhaps he could pull his troops out beyond the range of Guinness' patrols and just wait. He didn't like the idea, but it would keep in the general area of his original idea to wait.

A throaty groan made him look down at the woman in his lap. He'd absently pushed two fingers into her puckered rectum to the knuckle. With his other hand, he continued stroking and plucking her wet lips, teasing her with the merciless promise of a climax but not delivering. He slid two digits into her steamy center and started rubbing all four penetrating fingers together. Tilting her hips more sharply, she began to pant for release. Incoherently moaning with the sweet pressure on her two most sensitive spots, she was almost to the point of screaming.

The weighted tent-flap rustled open and closed on its own on a breezeless night. Cinder paused and patiently watched the space between his chair and the door. Over the course of a dozen heartbeats, Quinlin faded into view, slowly at first, a thin outline of her willow-like body appearing out of the darkness. The metals in her jewelry picked up the light cast by the hanging lanterns when she stretched sore muscles. The tattoo burst into sharp relief all at once, followed at last by the rest of her soft, sun-browned skin.

She stood before him, eyeing the punished red buttocks of her frustrated girlfriend. While in no way as constantly needful as Anastasia or those nymphs and fairy women she'd met while growing up, she'd hoped the sultry mage would be joining them that night. The Master needed to release his frustrations in camp or things would go badly in town during his next visit.

"You have something good to report, I hope?" he prompted, withdrawing his fingers from his unfulfilled slave's inner reaches. She whimpered in protest, but said nothing, knowing that the information Quinlin brought would most likely be of more immediate importance than her mad need for sex. He rapped her sore cheeks once more for emphasis.

"I've completed the map you wished, Master," she replied. From a satchel hanging across her body she withdrew a roll of parchment. She'd spent two long nights carefully and quietly mapping the manor's interior while invisible, hiding when she needed to rest. It had been hard work, moving only when others opened the doors, remaining invisible for long hours in awkward situations. The worst period had occurred when she'd been trapped with the Duke in his study for several hours, but she wasn't going to tell her master about that since she had escaped without harm and without learning anything important. The rest of the information she gathered would allow the Shadows to capture the building in less time and with less bloodshed than a straight siege would.

"Excellent, any problems?"

"None at all, Master. He didn't even have geese, probably ate them months ago. Not even the rats like him. I would like to rest if I may." While she did indeed need rest, remaining invisible for so long taxed her reserves, the way she stared hungrily at the bare bottom arched before her spoke about a similar basic need.

"I think you're right, you deserve a rest," he agreed, stroking his trim goatee thoughtfully. What kind of a moron doesn't keep geese around to sense invisible opponents? No matter, or rather a matter for another time. "But first, you've earned a reward for your diligence and hard work. Strip."

It took her only a moment to lay aside the two relatively small bits that covered her intimate places. Opening a simple clasp on her right hip released the skirt, swiftly followed by her scanty top. She stood nude before them, her bare bosom and womanly hips flaring with just the right amount of fullness, the scales of the dragon glittering with her sweat. She also had been shaved clean and there again gleamed the ring piercing her hard berry, connected to her navel by a slender gold chain. 

He stood, dumping Anastasia unceremoniously to the tarp floor and directing Quinlin to take his seat. She did, sitting demurely with her hands in her lap, waiting for her Master with her heart pounding a message of passion and love. From a large wooden chest banded with steel he took a series of finely crafted leather bindings- hand tooled and carefully painted with intricately detailed erotic images. With them he secured her wrists to a special mounting on top of the otherwise plain chair's high back. He then made her sit somewhat awkwardly with her feet flat on the front corners of the wooden seat, where he hooked her ankles to similar hidden mountings under the seat. This forced her to squat rather than sit, with her legs spread and allowing the night air to caress her hairless valley. He kissed his now helpless slave deeply and lingeringly on the mouth, with only a hint of the pleasures to come. He touched her with only his fingertips, from the nape of her neck down the gentle slopes of her sensitive breasts, across the taut plain of her belly, skirting over her moist wings, finally sliding along her trembling thighs and off her knees. Her moan began below her belly and chased his lips when he turned away.

"As for you," he said untying Anastasia's hands and lifting her to her feet with one hand. He stripped off her dress and bound her forearms together behind her back, wrists to elbows with a single leather cuff. To the rings in her nipples he hooked small silver-dipped iron weights shaped like nude fairy women that pulled down on her firm tits. A similar weight was then hung from her nubbin-ring. With a callused hand he rubbed her hairless crotch, making the pixie dance until the temptress gasped. He then lowered her down into the classical attitude of submission, kneeling on the canvas floor with knees separated by a binding bar and another, longer bar between her ankles. Around her head he attached a black leather and silver harness that ended in a slightly curved rod of hand-polished wood approximately an inch longer than his longest finger jutting out from her chin.

"Pleasure her," he commanded, positioning her face the length of the rod away from Quinlin's waiting dewy flower. The sharp crack of the paddle against the tender red ass cheeks was a more insistent command. Each stroke of the paddle insisted she thrust the rod into Quinlin as if it were a slender cock. She knelt in such a way that made it very awkward to keep the rod in place so she could use her talented tongue tickle the glowing berry, instead of rocking her back into the paddle again. The weights hanging from her nipples and nubbin swayed madly, sending jolts of pleasure/pain through to her core. Her passionate distress was as obvious as Quinlin's mounting pleasure, yelps and whines harmonizing with throaty moans and groans.

She stopped moving when the paddling stopped, her backside and thighs on fire, a tingle or two away from a climax and wet to the knees. During this brief respite she looked up at the woman above her. Quinlin beamed a loving smile down upon her, winking lewdly while moistening her lips with a quick flash of her tongue. Anastasia's own smile was just as beaming. She knew coming to her Master tonight had been better than waiting for him to summon her. That he'd been willing to play rather than just bedding her was a good sign. It meant that he still had the patience to be diverted from the monumental task at hand.

The polished, oily bulbous tip of a wooden phallus pressed to her well-lubricated asshole. Sending shivers up her spine and making her eyelids flutter, it eased unobstructed into her, stirring and twisting in only the first few tender inches of her rear chute before the implement's full length slid inside. She helped by pushing back onto it, eager to take more. He worked it in as far as it would go, gently pushing and turning to seat it well in her bottom. Most of their toys had been crafted to the same size and shape as Master Cinder's delicious cock so as to give the barest sensation that he was taking them, but this one felt more like a thick finger at the top and nearly triple that at the base. An egg with an extra room, she'd once heard it described. She could feel every delightful inch of it, from the flanged base to the round bulb at the head, and it made her body quake.

Cinder guided the chin-cock against Quinlin's rosebud, then put his hand on the back of Anastasia's head and pushed. The battle-witch grunted once, but then began to coo with pleasure as a nimble and experienced tongue began exploring her sweet honey pot. Her pink tongue slipped over the tender folds and ridges, then dug into the secret crevasses. Waves of delicious pleasure rolled up her belly, resonating off of the little invader in her ass. While Anastasia's tongue established its coaxing rhythm, her Master began wielding a flogger against the prisoner's sore buttocks, red thighs, and aimed multiple strikes maddeningly accurate against her soaking wet sex. The tips of the whip struck the soft hump of her fleshy mound, stinging the inner lips where they protruded like pink petals of some hothouse blossom. The blows left her hovering back and forth over the point of release, applying tantalizing heat with a jarring sting.

The sight of leather lashes imprinting themselves on smooth, flawless skin sent ripples of pleasure through Quinlin's own nubile young body. As her orgasm hit, her entire being stiffened as if cast in stone. Her eyes rolled back in her head before her lids fluttered closed. Her breath puffed out in a great groan of joy and relief and the middle of her body arched impossibly, threatening to tear her hips free of her bound legs or upset the chair. Only his strong arms kept her from accidentally hurting herself.

Master Cinder hooked a finger through the loop at the back of Anastasia's collar and pulled her away. While the battle-witch panted to catch her breath, he bound his other woman face down on the war table, bent over in supplication. Arranged with the fiery carpet of her hair forming a halo around the burning ass and throbbing pink crease, Anastasia presented an image that would have driven Duke Guinness completely insane with desire. Desire for what exactly was a debatable topic.

Rather than the comforting presence of his ever-erect manhood driving into her and propelling her toward that final, freeing satisfaction, Anastasia felt the smooth slender fingers of a woman massaging her hot flesh. Quinlin rubbed healing salve into her battered skin, soothing away the physical evidence of her punishment. The salve, a base of bear-suet and special herbs, felt cool and sticky, thick as it poured over her sore ass. It tingled and tickled between her legs. By morning her body would be healed but the memory of the punishment would remain.

One slim finger slipped between her red cheeks and circled the plug resting in her ass. Anastasia couldn't help rocking back and forth, trying to impale herself on the slender fingers. While working the oil around, her other hand went to tease the throbbing clit, but each time Quinlin's talented fingers strayed too long over her patient's juicy pouch and tender button, she received a meaty crack across her own buttocks from the paddle, directing her away from it. Once she finished applying the oil, Cinder led her to his cot, specially built for more than one occupant. During a more overt military campaign, they would have been in the command wagon, instead of leaving it with the reserves- retiring to the large and comfortable bed that had been built in it.

They coupled until she was sore from the continual pleasure, the number of times she came lost in the heat and sweat of sex. He started on top of her, driving down into her and rubbing his shaft against the tender button of her pierced clit. His mouth and hands never stopped roaming and touching her, caressing the silken hairs of her arms and tasting the tangy sweat of her earthy flesh. Straddling his hips, she could take as much or as little of him into her body as she wanted while he massaged her breasts and flanks. Each burst of orgasmic pleasure left a little bit of itself behind until the last peak of pleasure burst in her heart and drove the last vestiges of strength from her body, sending out the last of her air in one final gasp. Finally she collapsed bonelessly against his scarred chest, where he held her in war-strengthened but comforting arms. He hadn't climaxed, like always remaining stone erect inside the soft tunnel of her intimate cave.

She was surprised when he didn't move to relieve Anastasia. She knew he had no preference between the two of them; they both pleased him for different reasons and knew why. But rarely did he ever punish one of them without bestowing the sexual satisfaction that made enduring the ordeal worthwhile. And knowing how long the temptress had been without his cock bringing her the relief she so desperately needed, his negligence was out of place. 

"Master Jonas," she whispered in his ear, not wishing the flame-haired enchantress to hear her prompting him. "Anastasia..."

"...Is being punished for disturbing me." He spoke loud enough for the bound woman to hear. "I won't have her again until she's learned her lesson." Whispering conspiratorially he added, "Her birthday's coming up and I'm planning special treat."

His voice rose again. "Understand?"

"Yes Master Cinder," the war-witch intoned solemnly, covering a girlish giggle by pressing her lips to his neck. He rolled them both over, holding her hands over her head while they made love for a short time more before she fell asleep in his arms. 

------------------------------------------------ 

The next dawn was Merchant's Day, when the gates of the walled town opened early. The 'merchants' moved into the city to erect booths and stalls in the square, each space rented out at exorbitant taxes and tariffs by a sad-eyed Exchequer operating under the watchful eyes of two burly thugs. The majority of business would be conducted and concluded before sundown, effectively ending the week. No more business would be conducted until Reaper's Day- Noble's Day belonged to the lord of the town, while Prayer Day remained devoted to the gods. Most important now when the people needed faith because mercy seemed in short supply. That night, taverns would be filled, toasts offered, and deals celebrated until the dark, early hours of the morning. First came the business of the day however.

Cinder sat on a crate outside the Crimson Boar; a medium class inn that served a tolerable beer out of a tent erected out front and provided an excellent view of the Town Square. The board of fare was uninspiring to say the least- the slate advertising horsemeat soup, baked cat stuffed with onion, braised shoulder of dog with tomato sauce, roast donkey and winter potatoes, even fried mice and roasted rat. He'd eaten rat often enough in the years gone by, remembering the interesting flavor of pork and partridge in each bite. He felt naked without armor but knew that mail and a weapon would attract unwanted attention and an unwise attempt to take him to jail. For the better part of the morning he'd covertly signaled and otherwise directed his officers to end bartering in favor of the Glankis citizens using the clever hand-speak taught each Shadow during training. Taken from the subtle and often over-looked hand language of Odgred thieves, the Shadow hand-speak began by adding the alphabet and military signals, then move on from there. 




Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 03



“Wake up pet,” Anastasia called quietly, patting the girl’s cheek lightly. She sat on a pile of furs and held the new slave in her arms like she would hold a child. Accepting a snifter of brandy from Quinlin, she poured it smoothly down the unconscious girl’s throat. Sputtering and fighting back tears, the thief awoke and clung to the enchantress desperately while trying to regain her senses.

The warmth felt nice against her chilled, bare skin after the dankness of her cell. It was also nice to feel the comfort of another’s arms around her, cradling her rather than having to support her own weight. Being held helped ease her sore muscles. But as the fog of unconsciousness finally faded into the clarity of awareness, she realized that Lord Cinder sat several paces away in a comfortable chair. She jumped, startled that he wasn’t the one holding her and struggled frantically, trying to escape the enfolding arms. When they didn’t let her go, she felt her panic rising. Blindly she thrashed and pushed but escape seemed impossible.

The sudden sting of a hard slap rocked her head to one side, but the shock held little power when compared to the roar of it in her ears. Dazed, she barely felt Quinlin’s hands cup her dirty face. Long fingers massaged her temples, thumbs stroked her eyebrows, and warm palms steadied her thin cheeks. The battle-witch’s hands felt like silk but were as strong as steel gauntlets, almost a man’s hand in disguise.

“Hush, hush little pet,” Quinlin whispered soothingly. “The Master told us that you are not supposed to speak. Is that right?”

The woman had such a kind, innocent face and bright, beautifully gray eyes that the girl couldn’t help but feel comforted. She nodded, her eyes wide with wonder. Quinlin smiled warmly and kissed her lightly and lovingly, tugging softly on the girl’s lower lip as she pulled away. She didn’t even flinch from the kiss, going so far as to follow the fingertips that slipped off of her cheeks. Wonder didn’t seem to describe the feelings that made her heart beat like thunder as the woman turned away. Fascination and awe were good places to start. The woman moved with such a fluid grace, like a cat, hardened muscles moving under sun-browned skin. She wore nothing more than the jewelry the thief had seen on her earlier. How naturally she moved without clothes! Easy, sure steps with no trace of shame of self-consciousness, almost a man’s stride- heavy on the lead foot with a minimum of feminine sway, a step that matched the boyishness of the witch.

When she turned her head, she was treated to a similar vision. The flame tressed enchantress also sat completely nude, holding the girl across her lap and tight against her firm, perfect breasts. She could see the pierced nipples, the gold gleaming just before her face. The older woman radiated a pleasing and soothing heat that kept her from trembling with cold born of uncertainty. She snuggled closer, allowing the warm hand to circle familiarly across her flat, empty belly.

“Well little thief, it seems to be a day for surprises all around. Pleasant ones for you, I hope.” Cinder leaned against one arm of his chair, gesturing with a brandy snifter in his free hand. He seemed pleased; his face appeared softer, brighter than before. The sternness had faded away, replaced by a mask of resigned contentment. He wore no armor and carried no weapons save a very small flogger lying in his lap. An embroidered dressing robe hung on his shoulders, a single tower on a field of flames under an eternity symbol, open in the front. He’d also abandoned his hard riding boots for rather plain slippers lined with rabbit fur. Otherwise, he too was nude. His hard cock stood out from his loins like the branch of a tree, a club of male flesh that she wanted to beg to have assail her again. 

Actually, he was the only one in the room wearing much of anything, the girl realized.

“I told you that you would have one more chance to change your mind and this is it. You now know how much Value I place on your future if you stay with me. It will take some time to pay off this debt, but a lot less than you think. You are still free to leave right now. If you do, I’ll reduce your Value to thirty Barons and cast you out the moment it’s paid in full. I’ve told you what will become of you in either event. But I want you to know more about me before making your final decision, because once you do so there will be no going back. Do you understand?”

Mindful of his command of silence, she shook her head negatively. She didn’t understand at all. He was the Master and she was the slave. He didn’t have to explain anything, nor did he need to be giving her a choice at all. What more could there possibly be?

“Good. Honesty to your Master shows you to be clever, or at least intelligent. The first step to learning is to admit that you don’t know.”

“I was born on the seventh of Windshammer in the year 734.” He leaned forward in his chair, drawing her attention to his face, but not his eyes. “At my last birthday celebration I turned one hundred and seventy five years old. This is not a joke. As far as I know, I am immortal. 

“My father was a freeman landholder in Cevanties, about one hundred miles southwest of Odgred. My mother, a somewhat learned but otherwise unambitious woman, was once the governess to a local merchant prince but, tired of raising someone else’s children, she married my father to start a family of her own. I was the fourth of five boys and had two sisters, one older and one younger. I hated the farm back then, the long tedious hours behind the plow, making do with hand-me-downs, sleeping with all my siblings in the same bed, animals in the cottage at night for warmth. All I could think about was getting away. Now…now I sometimes long for that simple sort of life…

“I was fourteen when I set aside the plow and took up the sword, as part of the militia training. I had talent even back then because Sir Robert Tatum, our Imperial Garrison commander, took a number of us to train even better. I completely left tilling soil and other farm chores behind to become an adventurer at sixteen, taking with me my youngest sister Tara and next eldest brother Stephen. We wandered for weeks to the south and west before eventually making our way to the Wyndle Valley and settling in the frontier town of Greenbow. The three of us founded the Wild Rose Company with the other adventurers coming to the valley.

“There were eight of us all together. Tara knew how to use a sword, but nowhere near as well as I did because her real skill lay in using the bow. She was so calm under fire that I remember one time when she leaned between two stones and kept firing even with an arrow lodged in her thigh. Stephen had the role of healer and peacekeeper, the same role he always played as the middle brother. He saved my life at least once a week during our most chaotic year through the use of stitches, herbs and magic. I was, as I have ever been, a warrior skilled then only in the sword and spear. Today there isn’t a weapon in the known world that I cannot kill with.

“We followed a seasoned mercenary swordsman by the name of Joseph Renderhall. He was a good mentor, taught me a lot about warfare, wine, and women- the most important things in the life of a young mercenary. My good friend Darin Harrierson was an Earth Mage, born and raised in the Wyndle Valley before being sent to the Magister College in Antilles. You would be surprised how helpful an earth rampart springing up from nothing can be. Our other mage was Natasha Cyansis, a dark and moody bitch who taught me about passion and would later teach me the true meaning of betrayal. She was, like Quinlin, a war-witch and my first lover. And, ironically the last person I ever felt any emotions for. 

“And then there were Kyle and Lynda Hammerssmith. Kyle wasn’t very smart to say the least; strong as an ox, but simple as a stone. As the blacksmith’s son he didn’t need to be smart, just skilled and he wasn’t that either. He actually broke an anvil as an apprentice. The closest he ever got to skill with a hammer was the day he learned to switch from a head strike to a body blow in mid-swing. He was so proud of that- like a child with a treat. His younger brother had the brains, and eventually took over as his father’s apprentice. Did nice work, too, as I recall. His name was… Bryan, I think; and he would repair our armor as best he could, shoed our horses, even traveled between towns with us once a season when he had to. 

“But how Kyle ended up married to a mouthy cleric like Lynda I will never know. I used to think that my father was overbearing before I met her; afterwards he seemed like a pussycat in comparison. I really believe that she browbeat him into it. Her tongue was sharper than my sword and she never stopped trying to spread her dying faith. Truth told, I don’t think she ever stopped talking about gods, holy crusades, and the precepts of faith. Sadly, her religion was dying and her god is so forgotten that only the odd history text and I now remember, and my memory often fails me. As much as I wish it wouldn’t, but there is much for me to remember. Even her simple shrine and the few holy places she loved are gone, taken by stronger gods as their own, I supposed.

“I only had a little faith in gods back then. I hold absolutely none now. If there are gods somewhere, they have a lot to answer for… doing this to me.”

He clenched his free hand into a fist so hard that it creaked. Something like anger crossed his face for a brief instant. He stared at the white knuckles as if trying to see the blood being forced from them. He cleared the anger from his mind and loosened his fist, using his free hand to stroke his leg absently. 

“The deeds of the Wild Rose are still legends in the Wyndle Valley, even if sometimes the names and events are somewhat distorted. We hunted monsters, rescued kidnapped children, fought bandits; we even cleverly misled an entire army of C’ar-V’in raiders in the summer of 753. We did all those things that heroes are supposed to do. And in the end we…they did the one thing all heroes are supposed to aspire to…

“They died.”

He drained his brandy, let Quinlin refill the glass, and drank that down while staring at the floor. The blankness of his face was more terrible than any despair or anger could have possibly been. He had to be in pain, but either couldn’t or wouldn’t show it. The girl wanted to go to him then, to hold and comfort him, but the redhead’s grasp wouldn’t let her loose. When she turned to ask for release, Anastasia just shook her head and silently told her to wait. 

“Around the middle of 757,” he continued, “a few months after my twenty-third birthday, Summersclimb I think, we began to unearth evidence of some sort of controlling influence behind many of the recent attacks on the Wyndle Valley. A plot of devious complexity that encompassed such a variety of pieces that no single thread could be followed in its entirety before crossing a weave of others. A botched pickpocket attempt could lead to pirate attacks in a river harborage two weeks away, then the kidnapping of a third son of a woodcutter could be the beginning of an attempted coup of the Wyndle Imperial garrison or a rise in the price of cheese. Some clues even went back to other adventures that didn’t seem associated to anything else at the time they happened. We never knew where any clue would lead us, or if it was a clue at all. It took us a full year to discover the source of this influence. Almost another full year passed before we could gather enough evidence to convince the Imperial garrison to join us for a counter-offensive in spite of all the help we’d given them before then.

“Before we became entangled in our war with the Syndicate of Eternity, life was simple. We protected the weak and fought for Law and Custom, our enemies fought against it. Simple.

“Afterwards…afterwards, life got complicated.”

He set his refreshed brandy aside untouched. From the slack set of his jaw, the hang of his head, and closed eyes, it was easy to see that he was trying to keep powerfully hurtful memories from overwhelming him. White knuckled fists beat against his bare legs as if the despair could be fought as any other enemy. Finally, he rose from the chair and moved into the fading sunlight to collect himself. The girl could feel his sorrow and found herself close to tears. Quinlin and Anastasia, who had undoubtedly heard this story before, both trembled but neither made a move toward him. They knew that he would neither permit nor accept any attempts to comfort him until the story was over. When he spoke again, his words came out slowly but clearly, as if he were reciting a speech that he’d given many times over. She could hear the catch in his voice, a lump in his throat that threatened to trip him up at every pause.

“The Syndicate had a shit-poor name since none of them were actually deathless. Some of them were certainly very old, but none of them were immortal. To this day, I have yet to meet someone else like me. Sometimes I lead a very lonely existence…very lonely indeed.

“Their plan was capture enough land to allow them to conduct their experiments unmolested. They also wanted the largest local focal points for ley lines, those currents of magical energy that span the world, under their control. Five such lines met in the Wyndle Valley near the lakeside town of Casseples. Their fortress at the time sat over the connection of only two. The theory was to tap the power of the ley lines and use the raw energy to bestow immortality on Syndicate members. I didn’t find this out until much later, in a later encounter with the Syndicate, but that’s another story entirely.

“We led a small army against their stronghold- Imperial troops and a score of other mercenaries, even a few members of the militia who owed us favors and could be spared from their homes and businesses. They used a strange sort of building stuck in a lonely corner of the valley, set in the deep western forest four days from the nearest settlement. Tall and foreboding, with ugly gargoyles at every possible place on the walls, it waited for us like a bear trap. There were no windows, no guards walking either patrol or parapet, not even a visible ward on the gate. Magic or slave labor could have raised it, but we’d never caught any slavers, so magic seemed more likely. I still think that the fortress was a monestary or a nunnery of some kind. Monks, nuns, and secret cabals- I’ve never understood the religious love for high, near-inaccessible locations. 

“As our Imperial allies lay in wait, we of the Wild Rose Company slipped into the fortress. We should have known that it was too easy, but Natasha said there were no magical detectors or barriers around the structure and we trusted her. So we scaled the lowest part of the wall we could find and forced the door to the kitchens. 

“You must understand- at this point we still had no clear picture of the Syndicate. We thought they were more of a simple evil, out to overthrow the Empire for their own gain. Carve out a kingdom of their own by conquering the Valley and enslaving the citizens. That sort of thing happens often on the frontier where those with nothing but hate and cruelty want power and think it is better to take it than earn it. Much like Victor Guinness tried to do here. We learned what they were truly like within hours of entering their citadel. They pursued immortality with a religious fervor bordering on fanaticism. They had a reach that stretched further than we’d been led to believe- long enough to reach out and bury a knife in my back. They lured us there, baited us like fish to a hook.”

A silence like the Shroud of Death descended on the room when stopped speaking. It was hard to tell on his impassive face, but he looked haunted and weary. Main in his heart throbbed an incredible desire for his home and its comforts. Or the arms of his lovers and the ease he felt therein. But telling the story to the new girl was too important to stop.

“It’s funny in a strange sort of way how your memory works sometimes,” he continued, more subdued and rehearsed than before. “I remember very clearly the painful bite of steel being shoved into my back, but I don’t remember ever falling down. It was a deathblow, that knife in my back, and I never fell down. I remember hearing the clash of arms all around me, but can’t remember seeing anything but a bright white haze for the longest time. I remember Tara’s last screams as clearly as if they happened just a few moments ago. And I can hear the way Darin pleaded for his life with the same clarity that I can hear Victor Guinness’ shouts. But I remember nothing of how Stephen died, only that he lay before me in a pool of blood. My last memory of my gentle brother and his healing hands is that of his empty eyes staring up at me with his face forever twisted in terror. 

“A narrow tunnel of blood red opened through the white haze before me, and through it I saw Natasha- our friend, our companion, my lover. I saw the bitch mercilessly slit Lynda’s throat like she was killing a suckling pig for roasting. I realized that it had been her knife that I’d felt in my back.

“Then came the anger. The RAGE. The incredible, overwhelming need to kill. The roar of vengeance with armed enemies right before me. My throat burning with bloody vomit. With my hands full of steel, hate in my belly, and the taste of blood in my mouth, I have vague, disjointed memories of joining in a terrible, berserk battle. Wading into a tide of attackers, lashing out at anything, anyone that got in my way. Fleeting brutal images of the dead all around us in piles, of Joseph and Kyle and I awash in slaughter, of a half-dozen robed figures in an interrupted ceremony, my hands around Natasha’s throat and her eyes wide with fear. Then a bright light and stentorian voice crashing into an all-consuming noise. And then there was nothing. Nothing…

“Almost a week later I crawled out of the ruins, alive in body only it seemed. The building had collapsed in an explosion of magic. The remaining Imperial troops were terrified when I stumbled into their camp in the middle of the night. That’s when I found out I was the only survivor.”

Cinder turned away from the window and became more animated. He acted happier, but the emotional pain remained on his face. He had reflexively put a hand against the small of his back during his story, as if covering that old physical wound as if it had just happened.

“That’s been the story ever since. I’ve been the only survivor of nearly everything I’ve been a part of. I’ve traveled much of the known world, visited the capitals and great cities within a week’s ride of every port less than a month’s sail from Odgred, sailed both the Shapean Sea and the Olarth Ocean, and on and on. I’ve been involved in nearly every war on three continents for over a century and a half. I’ve seen friends die from wounds taken in battle and enemies pass on from the illnesses of old age. I held the last Emperor when he was born in the Imperial Palace, and again when he died on the Downey Heights. I have fought and bled and killed since before your great-grandfather was born. I have led tens of thousands of soldiers into hundreds of battles against more enemies than I can conceivably estimate. I’ve spilled enough of my own blood to fill a deep lake to flooding.

“I’ve killed monsters both bestial and human. I’ve dealt the heavy hand of the Law to hundreds like Duke Guinness. The name ‘Jonas Cinder’ is spoken with awe in the halls of the Imperial Palace and fear in the dark valleys of the H’Nurt Clan Holds. Many Seawolf ships and their crews rest at the bottom of the Shapean Sea because of me. My enemies number in the thousands of the living and probably in the millions of the dead, many of whom I sent there myself. The Kenku of the Jotékoku send me presents every year on my birthday at great expense for what I have done for them. I have seen things that no man have ever seen, been places that no one has ever been, done thing that no one shall ever do again. No matter how much I’ve seen I’m still amazed by the new. I think that when I’m no longer surprised at anything- that’s when I’ll know that the end is near.




Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 03



“On the other hand, I’ve founded the Shadows as a college of warfare. All of those under my care are educated, looked after, and healthy. I try to make things better wherever I go, seeing things with the eyes of a commoner armed with the power of a lord. I even try to help the occasional lost lamb by becoming her shepherd.”

He squatted in front of her and cupped her dirty chin in his rugged hand. She’d begun weeping because he wouldn’t, tear tracks cutting the grime on her cheeks. Her eyes had grown soft and round and red and she chewed on her bottom lip to keep from calling out in her despair. Anastasia had been unconsciously rocking her as much to calm herself as to comfort the girl. Quinlin leaned against a bedpost, hugging herself tightly. Only the mask showed on his face, the eerie emotionless mask.

“With my longevity came a gift and a handicap. I may never learn to wield magic, but neither does it affect me directly. Healing draughts are nothing more than water to my body. A mage throwing fire or lightning against me may just as well be throwing feathers for all the good it would do him. Enchantments and charms are wasted. Illusions don’t exist to my senses. On the other hand, there is little of a martial nature I can’t learn. When it comes to war, I am unstoppable. If I have any equals, I’ve never met them. In battle, I feel no pain- regardless on the wounds I take.

“Other than that,” he said with a sly half smile. “My other ‘gift’ you have felt more directly- my unquenchable appetite for women and their comforts. Sometimes it’s been as much trouble as immortality itself.

“In order to be honest, I must warn you that you will die in my service. More than likely it will be a sudden, violent, possibly even painful death. But I promise you that I will remember you for eternity.”

Cinder stood, straightening his robe. The girl felt the restraining arms ease away slowly. Her Master, the Immortal, sat casually on a small table laden with finger-sized foodstuffs. He stared at her intensely, seemingly trying to peer into her mind.

“So, little thief, what will you do?”

She had never moved faster in her life, bounding into his arms. She clung to him with the fiercest strength left in her skinny arms, burying her face against his shoulder and sobbing uncontrollably. His strong arms wrapped around her trembling shoulders and held her until she stopped quaking.

He smoothed away her tears with thick fingers, soothing her red-rimmed eyes. He bent and gently kissed her and she responded by pressing against him lustily. She put her hands behind his neck, leaning forward. Their lips became hot and she tried to draw the breath from his lungs. By then his arms were a vice around her quaking body, her stomach flat against his. His hands kneaded her hot back and she groaned.

Her surrender was finally complete.

“Quinlin,” he said after a moment, pushing the girl away to arm’s length. “This little beast needs a bath. See to it.”

“Yes Master Cinder,” the battle-witch-turned-nursemaid calmly replied. She took the girl by the wrist and led her to a strange construction near the far wall. Two tall posts carved as standing nude women with uplifted arms had been positioned at arm’s length apart, supporting a round beam that brushed the ceiling. From this top beam hung a pair of small pulleys supporting fine ropes which ended with leather wrist cuffs. Directly centered beneath this frame sat a tub of water, which the tattooed woman had her climb into. The knee-deep water was warm, but not comfortably so, as if it had been boiled then stood untouched for hours.

Rather than have her sit or squat in the tub, Quinlin bound her worn-raw wrists into the manacles, then pulled on the ropes until her arms had been drawn over her head. Unlike the dungeon, she could still move her arms a little bit, but not enough to do much of anything. Watching her intently, Quinlin stirred the surface of the water with a short-nailed index finger before stepping into the tub to stand behind her. The water grew pleasantly hot and the steamy vapors soothed her tired muscles. There were herbs in the water, too. The scents of honeyed lavender, sweet oranges, and coriander wafted up and hugged her bare flesh, lingering in her nose like the scent of fresh bread is wont to do long into the afternoon. The scents were very nice, doing a great deal to make feel at ease. 

As the aches flowed off of her, Quinlin methodically attacked her hair with an ivory brush; this shaped like some sort of large cat. She started low, trying to brush out knots. Every few strokes, she paused to clean the matted hair off of the grooming tool. Unfortunately, the long chestnut locks were too tangled for any amount of brushing to be effective and Quinlin finally gave up with a frustrated howl. Cinder, rising from his chair still holding the sword he had been busily cleaning and sharpening, approached the tub, circling it and looking the girl over.

“Cut it,” Cinder ordered after a moment’s consideration. “Like this.” With his finger, he traced on her slender neck the line Quinlin a moment later would follow. The box that yielded up the brush next produced a simple silver comb and polished steel scissors. The girl trembled when the sharp shears began their work. The few times she’d cut her own hair when it became necessary, like when she needed a quick disguise to help her escape, she’d just used her little knife to saw through the locks. Long, tangled bunches of hair came off with each clip of the scissors. In the end, she was left with enough length on the sides and back to cover her neck, but not quite enough to lie on her shoulders. In the front hung two thick locks that framed her face and rested lightly just above the gentle girlish slopes of her bare breasts.

Using a chased silver ladle, her bather rinsed the helpless girl once from head to toe. It had been a long time since she’d last had a bath the girl realized. They were expensive and without a fistful of good, solid coin hard to arrange in most inns, not that she’d slept in many inns of late, unless it was in a huddle of other travelers in the common room. There was no way to ensure privacy or safety at a riverbank without two or three companions she didn’t have keeping watch, and even then it wasn’t easy. Then there was the chance of catching the chills or other ailments from the cold or dirty water. Winters were especially miserable.

Quinlin took special care in washing the girl’s hair, scrubbing it twice with a mixture of geranium and lavender combined in peachnut oil and combing it out each time. Even when water laden, her head felt pounds lighter once free of the accumulated dirt and grime, untangled and properly taken care of for the first time in months. Under other circumstances she would revel in the soothing refreshment of a bath. The exquisite caresses of warm water cascading over her bare skin, plucking at the small hairs and sloughing off the dust of months of the road. 

Although generally easy to accept her own nakedness in the presence of other women similarly disrobed, being in the same room with these two also made her feel worse. Both of these older women were magnificent in their own ways- Quinlin had a tawny, athletic form that just radiated strength of limb and will, while Anastasia’s full and feminine body obviously stirred lust in men and provoked jealousy in women. By being both beautiful and powerful, their casual manners and comfort with their own bodies made her made her feel plain, poor and powerless.

She tried to remain relaxed under Cinder’s scrutinizing eye, but the battle-witch’s strong, slender fingers relentlessly scrubbed and cleaned everywhere. While being bound and having a man touch her breasts and more private areas had been unsettling but arousing, the last woman to touch her in this intimate way had been her mother back when she’d been too young to care. The egg-shaped bar of soap smelled nice, a mixture of lemon and juniper and had a rope on one end. Quinlin rubbed the slender body rhythmically and liberally. The fragrant lather multiplied on her back, shoulders, arms and chest, rubbing around her breasts with smooth circles. She moved lower, lathering her flat stomach, then lower still, rubbing the round body of the bar into her nether mound. The girl guiltily enjoyed the fingers that slipped in and cleansed her slit and sore rectum, slender and much gentler than their Master’s digits. Her bather rubbed her clit and lips methodically, almost torturously. Her tension flowed away as slender feminine fingers found their way into her rear hole and she sighed, moaning ever so slightly.

After minutes of rubbing creamy lather between her legs, Quinlin cupped the soap and angled the narrower end toward the girl’s unresisting slot. The soap slid in easily, disappearing inch by inch until the larger end jumped from her hand and into the girl. Like a lightning fire, her entire body seemed to explode and catch fire, quivering wildly. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the battle-witch began rubbing the tender clit furiously. Moaning and writhing with despairing delight, the girl shuddered again and again in a long wave of orgasmic pleasure. After a few more moments, Quinlin tugged softly at the rope. The slimy bar slid out of the hot channel, leaving a residue of love juices mixed with creamy lather. The girl groaned deeply, aware of what she had just done.

Quinlin hid her amusement behind an intently studious mask. She knew how unsettled the girl must feel and did what she could to ease her nervousness. She’d already added the herbs and oils to the water, making the heated tub into a weak form of the strengthening and healing bath she’d be given for the next few months. Combining the herbs, oils, and a bit of magic, the bath would help to protect the naked slave from the burning rays of the sun, as well as gradually toughen the flesh while keeping it as smooth and supple as silk. When the girl tried to reflexively protect herself from the more intimate ministrations, Quinlin used the girl’s movement to let her hands drift and massage gently. She scrubbed her charge’s groin and pubic thatch three times before she was satisfied that the girl’s dungeon ‘accidents’ wouldn’t trouble her in the form of a nasty rash. She allowed her fingers to travel up, slowly caressing her slightly rounded belly, rubbing the faint line of hair running from her navel to her tangled thatch. She touched her tits tentatively, pinching and rolling her hard, pink nipples.

Once confident with the girl’s overall cleanliness, the battle-witch climbed from the tub and added another pair of carved posts a yard or so before the main framework. They were the same dark wood as the frame, but stood only a few inches taller than her shoulders, and were topped with the same sort of handcrafted black leather bindings, tethered by short silvery chains to steel bracelets around the carved wooden wrists of the kneeling post figures. With practiced ease she buckled the girl’s ankles to the posts, trapping her in mid-air with no way to shut her legs or preserve what little remained of her modesty. No recourse but to surrender to the authoritative feel of the restraints. A tug on the ropes leveled her out with her cunt even with Quinlin’s belly.

Standing between the open and trembling legs, Quinlin took a beautifully wrought steel razor with a gold trimmed ivory handle from the grooming box. Wielding the tool with expert precision, she shaved the girl’s armpits, legs, and crotch. Sharp steel slid across soap slick skin, slicing away the wiry hairs of her puss, leaving behind bald virgin-like skin and producing a healthy glow that made her suddenly realize why men referred to the crotch of a woman as the gate of heaven. During the whole process the girl squeaked and whimpered, but never once forgot the command of silence. In the end she felt the caress of the warm sunset breeze on her intimate skin in a way she hadn’t felt it since early childhood.

“She cleans up very well, all nice and pink and pretty. You’d have never known under all that dirt.” Quinlin smiled at her handiwork. She picked up a small rune-etched clay pot covered with a wax sealed lid. “What do we call her?”

“She’s so pink and pale, with a cute little squeak and a tiny pink tail,” Anastasia observed cheerily from her place at the Master’s feet. “Let’s call her Mouse.”

“Isn’t ‘Mouse’ a rather unimaginative name for a thief?” Cinder asked, scratching his ear. “I seem to remember a Piers or Philo the Mouse.”

“There is a Matthew the Mouse in the Rutger the Wolf legends,” Anastasia added. “It is a famous name for skilled thieves, one with a lot of history.” 

“Mouse it is,” Cinder agreed with a nod while he lovingly played with the temptress’ hair. “Continue.”

“This is a special salve,” Quinlin informed the newly designated ‘Mouse’ while breaking the seal. “It will prevent your hair from returning.” She smeared the cream lightly under her arms but heavier between her legs, then massaging down her legs, kneading the calf and thigh muscles skillfully. There was a sudden sense of awakening instantly centered around Mouse’s crotch, a more intense feeling than she had ever experienced. The salve tingled as it warmed, seeping deep inside from the surface. She moaned with deep, sincere arousal, welcoming the flood of acceptance welling from her sex.

“Responsive, too,” the enchantress declared admiringly. Her fingers toyed with the hair on his legs.

“Yes, I noticed that myself. She should have quite a goose egg on the back of her head,” Cinder answered. “But as I recall you were a bit more than ‘responsive’ the first time the cream was used on you.”

“And it only got better as time went by,” she said dreamily. As Anastasia gazed up at him with loving devotion, Mouse watched her lacquered fingers slip under his robe. The folds of dark cloth fell open when her hand wrapped around his rock-hard cock, ranging up and down with slow and steady pumps. He cradled her heart-shaped face, stroking her tanned cheek with a course thumb. Mouse could also see the contentment sooth the harsh edges of his eyes as his rune-covered erection disappeared from her view behind an avalanche of scarlet hair.

Her hands found his tattooed cock, hard and pulsating. He settled back into the chair, getting as comfortable as possible, giving her free rein over his member. She wrapped her fingers around its shaft, slowly moving her hand up and down, around the head, then savoring the feel of it in her mouth. She ran her tongue up its length, flicking it back and forth, up and down, paying special attention to that sensitive spot on the underside right below the head, tracing the line of individual runes with nimble, practiced strokes.

“Open,” Quinlin commanded, stepping between the girl and the others, tapping on her chin with the tip of her index finger. Mouse obeyed, acutely aware of the golden ring and chain pressed warmly between Quinlin’s taunt belly and the newly bare and moist slit of her cunt. The battle-witch opened her mouth a little more, inserting a soft, leather ball approximately the size of the tip of the Master’s cock. The older woman tied the cords sprouting from the sides of the ball together behind the prisoner’s head. Mouse rocked back and forth out of confused desire as strong hands rediscovered the many curves of her body, scratching, caressing and pinching as they made their way down. A thin film of sweat formed on her upper lip as she watched, feeling a trickle of moisture eke out from between the warm lips of her cunt. The trickle became a tiny rivulet that tickled between her cunt and ass before sliding down and gathering at her tailbone.

“Feel free to scream as much as you like now sweetheart,” Quinlin whispered, kissing the pale pink forehead. “This will hurt. I’m sorry, but there’s really no way to avoid it.”

At first Mouse didn’t understand what Quinlin meant. The way she was touching the younger woman’s body didn’t hurt in the least. It was discomforting and unfamiliar to be stroked and caressed by another woman’s hand for certain, but not painful. Quinlin knew what she was doing, that was obvious. The pinching, pulling, and rubbing soon turned her soft nipples into hard nubbins of erect flesh. Then she bent down and captured one tender teat in the moist warmth of her lips. Licking with short, damp strokes, she left behind a faint coat of moisture, which she then blew softly on, sending a luscious chill through Mouse’s frail body. The prisoner closed her eyes and focused on the unexpected pleasure. Her breath moved in and out pleasantly, in and out, inhale and exhale. She was so focused that she missed the sudden flash of silver; felt her breast pulled outward, but didn’t see the needle placed against the tender flesh just behind the nipple. She blew out the air from her lungs and rolled her head back to let her pleasure take over.

What she didn’t miss was the piercing pop-pop of pain that came with each needle as it lanced through her nipple. For a second she felt light-headed, just as if she had climaxed. Then she tried to scream, trying to give voice to the anger and hurt she felt at this assault. This was so much worse than the ravaging in the dungeon. This gave her no pleasure as it took from her, it even masked itself as pleasure. She had a right to scream. Blood oozed from both sides of the long needles bobbing up and down with her every heartbeat.

The glint of gold transformed that scream into a weak, pained gurgle behind the gag. Quinlin had a small ring hanging from each nipple, as did Anastasia. Nipple rings…and more.

The hot needle that pierced the soft flesh of her belly and navel came much more abruptly during the next few seconds- a curved spear of slender sharpened silver hooked down into her navel and slowly lanced out of her belly. The pain peaked in one steady flow of agony, going from mild to excruciating in less than two seconds. She wanted to squirm to ease her discomfort with movement, but only succeeded in grinding her wet cunt against Quinlin’s belly, rubbing herself on the chain. The older woman touched and caressed her flanks and arms in comforting, soothing ways until the urge to squirm went away.

“My turn,” Anastasia said, draping one hand on Quinlin’s shoulder while wiping her chin with the other. A lusty fire glowed brightly in the depths of her emerald eyes, making Mouse flush nervously. The battle-witch kissed Mouse’s forehead tenderly, whispered a not quite comforting ‘good luck’ in her ear, then turned and was caught up by her companion in a passionate embrace. Mouse caught herself thinking that Anastasia appeared suppler and more golden than the brown, wiry Quinlin while she watched the two women’s bodies press together. The enchantress’ hands slipped around Quinlin’s hips and squeezed her taunt buttocks, making her moan deliciously and grind their crotches together.

“Ladies,” Cinder interrupted with a gravelly growl. “This is not the time to get distracted.”

“Yes Master,” they intoned in unison. Sneaking a final playful squeeze, the fiery female turned her full predatory attention on the nubile captive. Quinlin’s touch had been as warm as skin is warm, pleasant and comforting. Anastasia’s touch was wholly different- the same caressing heat of a blazing hearth seemed to come from the palm of her hand, the dry wind of a bonfire would have been cooler than her breath, and her lips scalded and burned like a hot iron against bare and tender flesh yet left no mark. Mouse shut her eyes tightly while the fiery lash of tongue traced the outer contours of her wet sex, tasting her dew before dancing nimbly over her belly, mapped the size and shape of her breasts but avoided the needles that ached in her nipples. It may have been illusion, but the very air around the redhead seemed to dance with moist, sexual heat.




Cinder's Women: Mouse's Tale Ch. 03



Following a much longer and intimately careful examination of her captive lover’s small breasts, Anastasia moved away, turning a critical eye to a small chest of jewelry. Moving once more to the girl’s side and placing the open wooden box on her captive’s flat belly, she began rooting around through a number of rings crafted of precious metals. Some were jeweled, others delicately crafted, and a few were very plain hoops of some precious metal with no adornment at all. Then, after careful consideration, including holding competing pairs in place to Mouse’s teats for comparison, she finally chose a pair of twisted golden rings and replaced the silver needles with them. Mouse’s nipples tingled when Anastasia wiggled the needles around, enlarging the hole before jerking them free and forcing rings through the holes with a quick single motion. A warm ladle of healing bath water cleansed away the thin trickles of blood and sealed the tiny wounds around the rings, leaving a throbbing in both nipples.

“Use the smallest matching belly ring and finest chain you can find,” Master Cinder ordered. “She is to be a thief after all.”

“My thoughts exactly, Master,” the enchantress agreed, holding up three similarly sized gold rings, each with a length of chain hanging from it. “It just wouldn’t do to have it get caught on something at the wrong time. Ah, here we go!”

Setting aside two of the ring-chain pieces, she swiftly replaced the silver needle piercing the girl’s navel with the remainder, taking care that the thin gold chain lay neatly between the sensitive, damp lips of her tender cunt. Another ladle of water washed her belly, trickling into the eager valley between her legs. The scalding hot fingers of one hand slipped inside her while the other strong hand supported and rubbed the small of her back. The probing digits knew where to go inside her body to push pleasure from her pussy to the rest of her body.

“She’s ready Master,” Anastasia cooed with a wicked smile. “Shall I continue?”

“I’ll let you know when to stop,” he replied, urging her on with a pompous wave of his hand. Quinlin sat in his lap with one arm draped around his shoulders and a dreamy look on her face. His hand went back between her legs and she turned to bury her moan in his neck. Bowing a short, irreverent bow from the waist, the enchantress slowly drew her fingers out of the girl with a wet, sucking noise. She made sure Mouse watched while as she licked her fingers clean with a naughty gleam in her eye. Strutting confidently to the table arrayed with all sorts of unusual paraphernalia beside her master’s chair, she retrieved a flat black box, one the size of a large, thick book.

It was a beautifully crafted wooden box stained a deep, dark brown and carved with an intricate and detailed pattern difficult to discern without close, intensive scrutiny. Twisting ivy wound in and about a lattice maze-works, with a dozen carefully rendered nude women worked into the pattern. The corners had been edged with silver and the lid skillfully inlayed with Lord Cinder’s sigil picked out in tiny blue sapphires and star diamonds. Anastasia carefully manipulated six hidden points along the sides, opening the lid upon hearing a small click. From one of a dozen slots in the midnight blue velvet-lined interior she drew a device with a silvery-blue sheen. It was a rounded diamond of rare skirsteel as large as a small plate or saucer nearly as thick as her index finger, fitting nicely in one hand. A master craftsman had taken great care in working the metal into the intimate contours and visible depths of an aroused, hairless female cunt. The only difference between the device and Mouse herself was the addition of a skirsteel ring piercing the metal clitoris.

“This is a Butterfly Talisman,” the temptress told her, setting the box down and showing her the device. “Once bonded to you, it will protect you in ways we can’t.”

Mouse’s small, muffled noises of distress soon transformed into undeniable moans of pleasure while Anastasia used her practiced fingers to stroke and penetrate her pleasure gate. Placing a finger on either side of her clit, she used quick, urgent strokes to slide her fingers from base to tip along her plaything’s clit. She pinched it between her fingers and stroked, as if she were jacking a cock. Every so often, she massaged the girl’s sticky honey on the Talisman, tracing the same intimate pattern as she’d done to her prisoner. For the next several minutes while she did this, the brighter the device began to shine with Mouse’s free-flowing juices.

After a time, Mouse became aware of phantom fingertips pressing against her while her tormenter caressed the Talisman. The stronger this sensation became, the longer Anastasia lingered only on the Talisman. Mouse jumped when she felt fingers enter her since she wasn’t being physically touched, Anastasia moving than arm’s length away. A short time later she was writhing and straining in her bonds as the sensations of being stroked, touched, licked, and otherwise manipulated were sent from the Talisman to her. A phantom echo of Anastasia’s tongue wiggled between her plump pussy lips and lapped up a dollop of her juice, then probed the sensitive inner membranes and tantalizing their rich network of nerve endings. Two long, disembodied fingers dug into her and curved upward, searching for that magic button that would electrify and then disable her struggling body. No matter how much her body fluttered and flailed, the phantom tongue stayed on target and lapped her tiny button till she showed every symptom of being close to another orgasm. She could no more prevent her oncoming climax than change the course of the mighty Cath Casir with a handful of sand. She fought back the mounting feeling, brought on so strangely, but could not handle it. Bucking in wild, uncontrollable ecstasy, she erupted in the glorious explosion of orgasm, muscles rippling and twitching along with her pulsing clit. The lusty heat sent lightning to her crotch…

…the sharp blast of pain sent stars flying into her brain. As sudden and unannounced as a knee to the groin, a spear of fire struck her solidly in the clit. She screamed. Compared to this, the needles through her nipples were mild. Tears burst from her eyes, tears of agony. If she hadn’t been wearing the ball gag, she’d have likely bitten her tongue off.

Ladle after ladle of healing water poured over her pain-filled crotch, fingers of warm healing energy tingling along through sore muscles in shoulders and hips. Finally the pain lessened and she could blink past the tears. She saw that her surrender was complete and Master Cinder had taken possession of her. The silver-blue ring of skirsteel had vanished from the Talisman and reappeared in the tender nubbin of her clit. She moaned from deep in her core.

As the physical pain disappeared and the mental shock gradually diminished, Mouse managed to regain control of her stunned body once more. Master Cinder held the Butterfly Talisman in one hand and appeared to be waiting for her. His thumb rubbed up and down over the now fleshy soft metal folds, motions that stirred within her the embers of lust. She moaned wearily behind the gag and he nodded in…what? Admiration?

“Impressive, Mouse. That is among the fastest I’ve ever seen anyone recover from the bonding process. Being hungry and poor must help one endure pain. Anastasia screamed her lungs raw and Quinlin passed out and slept for an hour.” He ran his free hand through Quinlin’s short hair in a tender gesture that somehow told her he spoke the truth.

“The Butterfly Talisman I hold here is one of twelve made for me by Arabella, nearly sixty years ago as a birthday present. Eleven still function. She was the first to be bonded to one and the first to feel the pain you just felt, and she was just as unhappy about it as you are, believe me. The pain wasn’t something she had expected when she crafted them, nor what they were made to do, that much is for certain. 

“Your Talisman won’t preserve your life, but it may just prolong it. Any attacks aimed at your crotch will be ineffective, unless they go through the Talisman first as if it were a codpiece you always wear. The immunity of the metal renders you impervious to diseases of every sort, from the chills to the bleeding death, from the drip to leprosy. If necessary I can use the Talisman to find you should we become unwillingly separated. As long as your heart beats that ring will remain in your flesh and I will know that you are alive.

“Until the bond is broken, you and the Talisman are intimately linked. It will act as part of you and you will feel everything that happens to it.” To demonstrate this last statement, he pushed the device down onto his erection as if he were entering her, pressing it firmly against his dark wiry hairs. He disappeared into it completely, even though it was only as deep as his fingertip. She felt it as surely as she’d felt him take her in the cell that morning. Rather than take it off, he left the Talisman where it was and it felt as if he was standing between her legs with his cock jammed deep into her belly. The ridge of its head opening her wet lips. The thick shaft of rune-covered flesh teasing her sexual nerves. The heat of cock setting her juices to boiling all combined to drive away the last twinges of pain and send her into her own sensual little world where his voice dominated everything.

“There are a few unexpected bonuses, gained somewhere in the enchanting process. You will remain as generally unspoiled as you are today. I won’t be able to wear you out, no matter how often I take you, and that will be often. You’ll always be wet and ready. Nor will you have to undergo the monthly discomfort that you women go through. No more bleeding, no more courses, no more chasing the cycle of the moon- none of that. I can’t even begin to tell you the problems that my needs caused my Women during that time of the month before Arabella gave me the Talismans.”

Mouse moaned deep in her throat, letting her head roll back as she shut her eyes again. No more courses- fine. Constantly horny- who cares? He felt delightful at this angle and her pleasure was intense. While he talked, she could feel his pulse beating through the Butterfly. The regular, erotic sensation of blood beating in his cock, throbbing inside her belly bonded to the phantom drive of man inside woman sending jolts through her slender frame as he slowly manipulated the device up and down the solid length of his erect cock. It drove her wild that no matter how she thrashed in her bonds, no matter how lewdly her hips ground against the empty air, he still took her with slow, steady strokes. She shook in the uncontrolled spasms of sexual satisfaction a few moments later, feeling her inner fist squeezing his cock just as assuredly as if he were actually inside her.

She still felt the heavy thumping of her strained heart as he casually took the Butterfly off of himself. Kneeling on the floor beside his chair, Quinlin pressed her face agreeably against the Talisman when he offered it. Soon Mouse continued squirming and bucking wildly, trying in vain to escape the uncomfortably delicious sensation of having a warm tongue explore her pussy from across the room. The more she fought, it seemed that Quinlin more easily probed into the deep, wet folds, nibbled her most feminine lips, and sucked every fleshy bit she could touch with her mouth.

Yet, while the battle-witch licked the helpless prisoner through the magic toy, the immortal Master seemed more concerned with his seductive enchantress. She stood with her hands squeezing her shoulders, pressing her firm breasts together with her forearms while Cinder casually cupped and rubbed her crotch. She masked just enough of her magnificent breasts to make them more tantalizing. Her low moans harmonized in a stirring deep contrast to Mouse’s higher pitched squeals behind the ball gag.

“The girl’s a succulent little beast, isn’t she, Anastasia?” he asked, slipping thick fingers into her slick cunny. She was still eager from two nights before, unfulfilled and ready to obey his every whim- so long as it ended in her finally achieving an all-releasing climax with his cock.

“Yes-s-s, Ma-master,” she finally forced out through trembling lips and lightly chattering teeth. She was nearing climactic release, and breathing was not for speaking, but for other things. In a series of passionate gasps, she added: “Ah…a vahh-very…tas-s-tasty…ah… mor-morsel, my Lord…o-ooh.”

“Glad you think so.” He rammed two thick fingers deep into her and lifted, forcing her to tiptoes impaled on his hand. Gasping, she grabbed for his wrist with both hands and fought for balance. “It’s a little early, but- Happy Birthday. I grant you the Privilege of Prima Noctu. Enjoy.”

Anastasia couldn’t help but shudder in delight even though his fingers slid from inside her before she reached the peak of satisfaction. The Master rarely accepted new Women and never more then four gathered in his ‘stable’ at one time. For decades it had been his custom that each new Woman spends her first night with another female. Her own first night had been with the wonderful Miranda, a beautiful, black haired warrior who hadn’t been her first woman lover but was among the best. But she was long gone, lost in the Cricket Betrayal. Quinlin had had Privilege with Cricket even though Cricket had wanted nothing to do with any women…but it was best not to dwell on that. They had discussed what he thought would be the best way to make the girl discover herself. It had been decided that she would benefit from the opposite treatment given to Anastasia and would not share his bed at all until the others felt that she was ready.

Her hungry eyes turned to witness the nubile and agile Mouse arch upward in the restraints when yet another climax took control of her tiny body. Master Cinder grabbed Anastasia’s belly chain and forcibly reclaimed her attentions, shooting sharp barbs of pleasure-pain through her to the core. 

“Make sure you take care with her. Show her all the things Miranda taught you. And don’t forget to tell her the price of betrayal. I won’t have another Cricket.” He tugged on the chain just enough to impress upon her the importance with which he viewed the last. Not that she needed the reminder as to why.

“As you wish my Master,” she replied, trying to appear subservient and submissive but coming across breathless and horny. He released her, and as she turned to her charge, a heavy but playful hand cracked open-handed heat across her firm ass. She jumped, then coyly bent over and offered her tanned rump for another blow. With a humorless bark of a laugh he obliged, spanking her once more before shoving her toward the dangling, sweaty prisoner.

Locking her emerald gaze on the suspended girl, Anastasia advanced on her with the predatorial grace that only comes to most women in a state of intense, all-consuming arousal. Each foot passed before the other as if she were walking a rope, her hands sliding up and down her own sweat gleaming flanks with sensual ease. This was her element- the heat of passion and magic of sex. Mouse would learn much from her in the hours to come.

After moving the tub out of the way, a casual wave of her hand lifting and floating the vat of water away on a cushion or air, she carefully began her ministrations on the girl. One at a time, she released each ankle from the posts, letting each leg down slowly; massaging blood and feeling back into the limb before letting it go. Then she rebound each foot in a velvet-lined leather bootie that went not only around the ankle, but fit snugly under the arch of each foot, leaving the heel, ball and toes of each foot uncovered. Locked in the back with small padlocks and sporting a ring on both sides of the ankle, they were tight bonds but not uncomfortable. The enchantress lowered Mouse to the floor with the same ease that Quinlin had lifted her from it, but kept her arms over her head a while longer. About her slender neck Anastasia buckled a wide, thick collar that made her look up, similar to the way she’d done in the courtyard below, but not as high and stiff.

Her first comfort came with the removal of the gag, letting her ease the ache of her jaw. She had chewed through the ball’s leather coating in places. She drank deeply when offered a cup of fresh water from a nearby pitcher. Slightly tart and salty, the odd tasting water had an underlying flavor of berries. She drank two additional full cups before her thirst was at least partially slaked. After each cup, Anastasia gave her a loving kiss on the cheek. Then her lips slid down Mouse’s neck, where she kissed up and down, and side to side, demonstrating that there were more square inches on the girl’s neck than she had ever dreamed she possessed.

By binding each wrist in a leather cuff upon release and hooking them to a shining steel ring at her throat, she could rest her hands on either side of her neck and finally rest her aching shoulders. This way, she inadvertently mimicked her mistress, pose from moments before, masking her pert breasts. Crooking a finger through the same ring, Anastasia slowly led Mouse toward the former Duke’s bed, letting the feeling return to the girl’s legs.

“May we Master Jonas?” the fiery woman asked, indicating the large four-posted bed.

“Go ahead, I’ll allow it as part of Privilege. Concessions must be made for our present location, I suppose. Quinlin and I will sleep in the outer bedroom tonight.”

“Thank you, Master. I trust you’ll watch awhile before you retire for the night?”

“Of course. But only long enough to see how you start with her.”

Anastasia smiled naughtily and gave a short curtsey. With a steady hand she guided the helpless girl to a seat on the edge of the mattress. Turning a critical eye to the chest of bindings and other implements, she let Mouse relax for the first time in literally days. Her sore bottom sank into the mattress, stuffed with feathers unlike the straw she was used to sleeping on, and her back sagged tiredly. 

Suddenly a long, low growl rumbled through the air and startled the three seasoned mercenaries. All three leapt to their feet, casting wild looks about the room expecting either attack or earthquake. All eyes eventually came to land on Mouse, who sat trying to make herself small. She blushed furiously as the low rumble repeated itself. Cinder let out a soft, rueful laugh. With a silly smile of her own, Anastasia fairly flew back to the bed. With the tenderness of an older sister or longtime lover, she brushed Mouse’s hair away from her tear-streaked, bright red face. The girl’s eyes were wide and nearly all but the earthy brown centers were lined red from crying.

“Oh you poor thing,” she said, showering the blushing face with loving kisses. Her hands felt so nice touching her cheeks, brushing her bare shoulders, even running through her hair. “What was I…what were we thinking? When was the last time you ate? A day? Two?”

Mouse shrugged. She wasn’t sure exactly. It had been a long time, though. It wasn’t like she was unused to hunger in any event. The enchantress grabbed the small table set with trays of sliced meats and fruits from Cinder’s side and set it before the starved girl with conviction, then freed her hands.

“Eat your fill sweety, don’t rush,” the fiery sorceress told her before turning on their lord with fierce mock anger, hands on her shapely hips. “And shame on you Jonas Cinder! Letting that poor girl go hungry like that!”

“Consider me properly chastised Flame, it slipped my mind in the face of other considerations.” He stressed her old name to underscore that he was still the Master and they all knew it, even Mouse. “Go ahead girl, eat as much as you like. The roasted beef is quite juicy and the cheese is an excellent sharp cheddar. The black bread is especially good. Far better than you’re used to, I’m sure.”