She had taken her clothes off in front of strangers so often since her capture that on hearing that strange gutteral expression in the middle a hall crowded with strangers, she obeyed almost without thinking. The robes (which were quite good quality in fact) slipped off her body, revealing her creamy brown skin beneath; she skinned down the thong around her shaved private parts, and slipped her feet out of the clogs. The stone flags were cold and she felt her nipples hardening involuntarily. The fat man her owner gave her a satisfied nod, and gestured for her to hold out her wrists as she had practiced with him in dumb show the night before. Crossed, just below her breasts. She felt the cold snap of the metal hoop around them, and then he began to waddle forward to the throne pulling her behind him by the chain attatched to the hoop. She kept her eyes down as she had been taught, watching the smooth brown skin of her breasts and belly and the slow rythmic movement of her feet over the smooth grey stone. She remembered how last night, in a fever of exitement, he had rubbed and squeezed her breasts and belly and pubis until she had gone to the stage where every touch of his was an agony, her arms tethered behind her back so she could not have protected herself even if she had dared to. She had been pampered in his house, she knew that; not sexually molested or beaten. Her bindings were always soft silk. But the fat man had been unable to keep his hands off her body (she had always dreaded those sessions with him) and last night she began to understand this was his last time with her: he was trying to remember the feel of her for the rest of his life. She wished he had tried to teach her more than the basic commands. The other womenfolk in his house, on whose pale skins every touch of a whip or cane raised bright red marks, used for sex as casually by the men as utensils for eating and drinking, dared not say a word to her, but treated her like a dumb pet. Come here, brown pet; eat this, brown pet; here is water to wash. The hall was echoey: it made it all the more difficult to understand what was being said. These northerners spoke no language she had ever heard of and what with the misery of her capture and separation from the people she had known she had not even bothered to try to learn more than a few basic words which any dog (bitch, she corrected herself, I'm a captured bitch) could have easily picked up in the meantime. Her nipples stood out from her dark aureolae. Look at the exotic bitch, she thought. Stripped for your viewing pleasure, gentlemen. Before the throne, which was really not much more than a large wooden chair set up on a pedestal, she was positioned in front while her owner stood to one side and spoke volubly and gesticulated. She saw him pointing to her body several times, and then once he gave her the gesture to turn herself round slowly. She smiled softly to herself despite everything and smoothly, gracefully, she turned round, accentuating the curve of her back and bottom for the desired effect... shameless, shameless... if she posessed shame any more... back again, facing front, head down. The metal chain from her wrists dangled near her ankles. There seemed to be an argument between the fat man and the man on the throne. The language always sounded on the verge of a growling match to her but this was unusual. She looked up shyly out of the tops of her eyes: the man on the throne exuded power... she shivered... greying beard, strong hands clenched on the arms of the chair as his body tensed forward. Oh dear - didn't fat man understand he was in mortal danger? And as suddenly, laughter. Not real laughter. There was hysteria in the fat man's voice, and a hollowness in the laughter of those standing around the throne. All eyes turned to her, and she took her courage to raise her head. Too many pasty white faces, bristling with beards and moustaches, looking at her lithe creamy brown body at the same time. Abruptly, a space was made between them and an old thin man in a grey robe and sandals stepped forward and placed himself so that she, the throne, and he formed an equal sided triangle. "You are a slave to Ser Oleg?" he asked quietly. Her heart raced at the sound of her language and she almost cried. "How... how did you know?" "It's what he said. Your bill of sale identifies you. Before you are accepted as a gift I must ensure that you are genuine. Not a virgin, eh?" She shook her head dumbly, heart sinking fast. "We don't often get women from as far south as you. You are nevertheless a prize posession, and the Prince is pleased to accept you." "Why does Sir speak my language?" she asked, using the extremely polite form of expression. "It's my job. The Miss does not speak ours." "I speak many, but not the northern one of Sir." She saw him raise his eyebrows... nothing like temptation to get a linguist on your side, she thought. "Talents that will go to waste, O Miss Malamalei. You know that your body is the prize. Here.." he lifted the end of the chain and pulled her gently in front of the prince. A few more guttural sounds passed between them. The prince accepted the chain from the old man, who stepped back hastily. There was a long moment of silence as the prince looked over her body, slowly, leisurely, taking in her full dark skinned breasts, her wide hips, waist still pleasantly narrow... She took courage and looked back at him, straight in the eyes. He startled slightly and then his eyes grew soft. A small smile crinkled the corners of his lips. He's really quite handsome she thought to himself. He most probably breaks hearts as easily as snapping the stem of a flower. Still, here I am, it would seem: a flower going begging... The prince said something in his language and uttered a soft laugh. The men around the throne clapped their hands, gently and joined in the laughter, warm and genuine. A woman stepped out of the crowd by the throne and walked confidently up to her, almost ignoring the prince, except to give him a curt nod. Her heart raced suddenly. Oh oh.... nothing worse than a new pair of legs under the sheets... the woman was well dressed in silks and leathers, boots, trousers, a small dagger on a leather belt around her waist. Not much older than me she thought - pale skin, high cheekbones, thin slash of a mouth, golden blonde hair. The woman took the chain matter-of-factly from the prince's hand, and led the way, through the throng of men. Malamalei passed quite close to the men, aware of her nakedness all over again, out of the throne room, out. Slam. They paused on the other side of the door, the woman looked at Malamalei and made a small half amused dismissive gesture with the back of her head. An ally? They started off again, down stone corridors.... doors, guards... led by her chain... whomever are they afraid of, she thought... a large room with windows, sunlight.... furs, velvet drapes, wall hangings... her feet felt the delight of the warm flooring. Warm, golden sunlight. Malamalei could have embraced it, warm where it touched her skin. The woman looked at her quizzically, and taking a key from her belt, undid the hoop. Malamalei rubbed her wrists, yes, they were sore of course. The woman looked at her, not unkindly, and said something about resting. Malamalei shook her head and smiled back, then taking her courage in both hands, pointed to the woman and in the general direction of the throne room and made a pillow gesture against her face. The woman stared at her and then finally uttered a short laugh... taking Malamalei by the shoulder, she steered her to the large bed and gestured for her to get in. As Malamalei climbed in, smelling a whiff of the expensive perfume they had rubbed into her that morning, she saw the woman make a gesture of putting the palm of her hand against her self, in front of her vagina, and then shaking her head in the direction Malamalei had pointed. I am not getting enough from my husband, you have a go? Malamalei tried to interpret... You're a disposable slavegirl? She huddled herself into the warm blankets, sitting up, clasping her knees, looking at the woman, who seemed to be exasperated by everything. The woman showed her fingers to Malamalei. Look, no hands... ohhhh... yes, they used rings here of course... look... no rings... Malamalei looked up into her eyes and the woman smiled back, stroked Malamalei's cheek gently, turned, and left. Time passed. Malamalei lay down and relaxed in the soft warm sheets for the first time in what seemed like an eon of time... mever mind the fact that this was someone else's bed, that her surroundings were cold and strange, that she had lost everything and everyone she had ever known and loved... this was a real bed; people had smiled at her in genuine warmth and affection; she had not been raped as soon as she had taken her clothes off... she drifted off to sleep. ++++ The covers were thrown back, exposing her body, honey coloured against the white sheets. The movement had awakened her. Sitting on the bed beside her was the prince. He was wearing a soft shirt and brown breeches. She quickly raised herself to sitting and tried to get up but he smiled and shook his head. He said something to her about resting... she realised that he was speaking slowly, distinctly, in his own language and she could almost understand what he was saying. "You are my gift, what is your name, O gift?" "Malamalei, O prince." "Malamalei." He had a good ear, the way he intoned each vowel equally. "Malamalei, get up now." He held her hand and helped her out of the bed. She stood naked in front of him, but the kindness of it all almost made her cry. His hand passed over her back, drawing her nearer to him, down the sides of her arms, he picked up her wrist, and rubbed it a little where the mark of the chains still remained from the boat, frowning. Gently, he turned her round and stroked her bottom. She suddenly realised he was looking for marks of her beatings... she hoped they had faded away, she so wanted to look good for him, she realised... all down her back, bottom, the backs of her legs... she felt his fingers trace a diagonal across the top of her thigh. Ah yes... that one would take long to heal... she shuddered. Her breasts came for close scrutiny. Luckily female slaves were not tortured on their fronts otherwise they'd never sell. She felt his hand hold her nipple (the fat man's hands were nothing like these!) and when she looked up he was smiling at her, reaching down.... oh no.... between her legs, shaved so smooth she was like a baby and she felt him encounter the warmth and moisture - was she that transparent? She watched in horrified silence as he lifted his fingertips that had just then been delving gently inside her and kissed them to his lips. Oh sir... He suddenly sat down on the edge of the bed, and motioned her, yes, to kneel in front of him. She obeyed, not daring to touch him, but he took her by the upper arm and drew her so near to him she felt his breath on her face. What was he saying? "Will you .... the .... and be....?" A sideways glance at her. She looked distraught and tried to shrug slowly aware of her breasts moving. He took her arm, her hand, and raised it to his beard... was she meant to touch it? It was soft and silky, she leaned forward and stroked it gently, looking at his face in wonderment. Yes, he could almost be a wise priest, she thought, but he is very very dangerous. "You will be ....?" He cupped his hands together and looked at her. She paused and cast her eyes down, looking at his hands, side by side in his lap, opening as if he were reading a small book. She smiled and shook her head and looked him in the eyes and smiled again. He suddenly turned to the door and spoke a loud command, raising her hand to his beard again in a grip grown suddenly vicelike. The old man in the grey robe appeared almost instantaneously and seemed to freeze at the sight of the two of them. "Tell her that ....... and..... and......" The old man drew near them and stood beside the bed, bending, trying not to tower over them. "Well O Miss Malamalei, the Miss has touched our Master's beard? I congratulate Miss Malamalei. Our Master asks you whether you will take an oath for him." "I... have a choice?" There was a brief flurry of words and the old man looked back at her with renewed respect. "Yes." "What's the oath?" She involuntarily put her left hand at the space at the top of her breasts where her little golden ankh had hung... wherever it was now... There was another brief flurry of words between the men. "Master says, he will give you an ankh amulet if you need one. I explained that was what you were looking for." She shook her head "No, my heart is my ankh and that is what I swear by. What oath?" He looked shocked "I see... Miss Malamalei is an adept?" She shook her head, sadly. "Very elementary, I'm sorry to say." The prince's hands were in the book position again. Almost instinctively this time, she found she had placed her hands in his. He smiled at her and enclosed them, speaking to her in a way quite unlike the way he had expressed himself in the throne room earlier. His hands were... sexy was too weak a word, she decided. O sluttish Malamalei, kneeling naked in front of a barbarian and getting wet for it she said to herself... Greybeard was translating: "...your oath that you will submit to your Master in mind, soul, and body?" She gasped. "What? Yes, of course...." "The correct form is to say 'Ig takker' which means, I do." She looked at the prince and pronounced the words. He smiled at her, encouragingly and said something else. "And that you will obey him without hesitating, from life to death?" She didn't like the sound of the death part, but she looked the prince full in the face and said as deliberately as she could, Ig takker, in his strange language. Another question, the prince leaning forward slightly, to catch every breath of what she said. "And that you will always strive to be beautiful for him, however much it costs?" "Ig takker." Although he still held her hands trapped there was a noticeable release of tension. Malamalei wondered what she had stepped into.... better than the slave pound, she said to herself, firmly... or that awful house to where young girls were dragged screaming, and from which they left so strangely silent.... The greyrobe continued standing there until a curt word from the prince dismissed him. He gave her an enigmatic smirk that the prince would not have caught perhaps.... she glanced at the prince and he gave her a thin smile. He clapped his hands once, and got up, raising her so they were facing the door. The door opened, and two armed men walked through, carrying something between them.... a large tray.... Malamalei knew what it was even before they had turned round to show the severed head of the fat man who had purchased her, in a puddle of blood, eyes and mouth foolishly staring open, muscles of the face relaxed, his white skin like dirty wax. She remembered that nose last night, as he had sniffed at her smoothly shaven vagina. She turned away and hid her face against her prince's shoulder holding onto him as deep and anguished sobs were drawn from her chest. She felt him gesture the men away. Why? She wanted to scream, she beat her hands weakly against him. Why end life? And why present me with it? Foul, stinking barbarian. Oh, how she had been misled! She should never have given that terrible oath to someone like this... she noticed he was holding her as well, and she looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears and saw a liquidity at the corners of his eyes as well. He nodded, and in wonder, she raised her fingers to his temple, felt, and tasted his salty tears. "Why?" she asked softly, in her language. "My friend .... enemy .... you were a .... this was your purpose." She shook her head. Very little made sense. She resolved, whatever was needed to understand him, she would do it. This was not a bad man, or a cruel one, and he needed her in some strange way. "Come. Look." In the corner of the room there was a waist-high post set in the ground. Attatched to the top were chains. The prince drew out a long black stick, supple, which he waved swishing in the air with an almost apologetic look on his face. Malamalei shivered when she saw it. Those sticks she had already known. He lifted the chain questioningly, as if to say, do you need to be chained for this? She looked at his tear-stained eyes, shook her head, walked over and turned her back to him, facing the post. She grasped the ring with both hands. Bottom out, legs together. This is now your role. She heard him moving around behind her, and tried to relax the tension out of her back and bottom because she knew that would make it even worse. She hoped her smooth light brown body was pleasing to him, used as he was to pale woman from the north. She hoped that the way she would react to the beating would be honest; that he would understand her honesty; and she blessed him for understanding that this was the only thing that could pass between them at present. She had been through too much to accept sex from him just now the way she would want to embrace him, and he knew that. She would accept what he was going to do to her, because, she realised, not that she had run out of options, but that somehow this strange man and she were cast in a bond that had been made between them in some previous life. The cane stung, yes! She bit her lip and tried not to make a spectacle of herself. But after a while, she found it was easier to cry out at each blow and to sob, her hands sweating on the metal ring on the post, tears running down her face and breasts, still presenting herself for him. And at last, she felt herself lifted through a barrier of pain, to the point where she realised that she was really and truly his, that he desired her servitude as much as she desired his mastery, and that the anguish of what he was doing to her was the shared language of their love.
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