Undoer of Knots
The battlefield surgeon, Nijal, called Silver-Hand, walked the corridors of the Torrent Mountain Redoubt with Brynnan: Bard, Priest and sexual bond-servant of the Warlord. Brynnan’s heart was filled with cautious hope that his voice and the sensitivity of his touch might be restored by Nijal, who had just completed an initial assessment of his injuries.
“Wounds to the body can be healed, but wounds to the mind, heart and spirit, while just as important, are more difficult,” Nijal told him, “I think you have suffered in all four realms.”
“I have survived in all four realms, you mean,” he laughed softly, “But I am relieved that the truth about the possible invasion was brought out. Lord Samir will have a difficult time convincing the other six Council members . . .”
“And they, in turn, will have trouble disseminating this news to the other city-states,” finished Nijal.
“How much time will pass until the invasion?” Brynnan asked.
“We may have a year or two yet, but it could even be sooner,” Nijal said.
They approached the doors to the Warlord’s chambers.
“Nijal, if you stay this evening, you will likely witness some . . .sexual acts involving me.”
“Brynnan, it won’t bother me. I respect your choices.”
Brynnan stood still and looked straight into Nijal’s green/gold/turquoise eyes, “If you were asked to participate, what would be your answer?”
Nijal regarded the Bard with a half-smile and a tilt of his head, “That’s a very indirect way of asking me. The answer would be ‘Yes.’ And your Lord has already asked me to provide a certain service,” he added mysteriously.
Brynnan briefly touched the back of his hand to the surgeon’s face. He didn’t need any more words.
On entering the Warlord’s chambers, Geraint met them and ushered them down a corridor to a large room. As expected, the gathering consisted of the Warlord, Geraint, Nijal and six other men, all Council of Seven members. Brynnan was disconcerted. Samir was up to something.
The Bard knew all of the Council, of course. As well as being mentor and priest to the Warlord’s wife Mara, he had been intimately involved in the Council’s dealings for seven years, as an envoy carrying their business to other city-states and advisor to the Council on external affairs.
Brynnan noticed a tall, bearded, ascetic-looking man with long brown hair and beard. What Brynnan could see of his skin was covered with tattoos of fanciful wild beasts: Raith, Master Engineer of Torrent Mountain Redoubt. He was a long-time friend of Samir’s. Brynnan owed Raith a debt. When he did not die after being felled by the Warlord’s sword, Brynnan heard that Raith had argued with Samir to keep him alive. He wasn’t aware of Master Engineer’s taste for the male sex, but the Bard decided to serve Raith as directed if Samir so ordered it.
Raith, for his part, greeted Brynnan with something like relief, “It’s good to see you in one piece, Lord Bard.”
“Please, no more ‘Lord Bard.’ With my Lord Samir, I am just ‘Brynnan.’”
Walking over to them, Samir interjected, “Come, let us have wine while Geraint prepares Brynnan for us, for my Bard’s hands are not yet healed.”
Geraint put a hand on Brynnan’s shoulder, guiding him into the bathing room.
As Geraint helped Brynnan remove his clothing, he told the Bard, “Seems like I am to have you ‘Stripped, washed and brought to his tent’ once more.” He laughed, “Get used to it, lad. If Nijal operates on your wrists, it will be back in casts for you for a time. I will be looking after you as I did before, until you heal up.”
“And am I to thank you daily for your care as before?”
“By giving me suck? No, actually. Your throat may be too painful. You will have to do it another way,” Geraint grinned wickedly, “Like we did yesterday.”
Geraint had fucked Brynnan’s ass for the first time the previous day, with Samir’s permission.
“I did not expect to see the Council present. Are they are free to use me also?”
“M’Lord will dictate that, since you have given him control. But I expect it won’t be for too long tonight, so take heart. M’Lord Samir has plans for us three afterwards.”
After being duly washed and prepared, Geraint led him back out to the gathering room, where people sat on divans lining two of the walls. Brass tables, laden with food and wine, gleamed in the glow of the orbs lighting the chamber.
On one table, Brynnan saw items arranged: two coils of red silk rope, a black cloth and a heavy leather flogger with long, soft tails—without weighted or barbed tips, unlike the ones previously used on him. Beside the table, a thin, white pole rested.
Geraint stood Brynnan near the implements and removed his wind-silk cloak with a flourish to reveal the Bard’s naked body. There was some subdued murmuring and exclamations from the Council members present, and Brynnan surmised that they were looking at his scars, both from the bullwhip and from the torturer’s whips, not to mention the newest ones on his neck and throat. One or two men looked uncomfortable, but others’ eyes brightened with interest.
Samir spoke, “Behold my bond-servant. I offered him his total freedom, but he has agreed to remain under my direction and control, of his own will. Is that not so, Brynnan?”
“Yes, my Lord Samir.”
“And you agree to serve at my pleasure and that of my guests?”
“I do, my Lord. I am yours to do with what you will. Since I cannot sing for you or tell you tales, I hope my service will be instructive in other ways. And my Lords . . . don’t be distressed for my sake, but if you wish it, I will serve you willingly. Have no care.”
Geraint was grinning at his formal stance and courtly language, despite his hoarse voice, “That’s my lad!” he said in an undertone.
The Warlord glanced at Geraint with a pointedly raised eyebrow, and Nijal just smiled. Raith and the others looked bemused.
The conversation turned to how they would use the Bard. As they relaxed into the situation and drank more wine, they began to speak in crude terms and explicit details. Brynnan understood human nature. Being in a group and having been given permission to do and say things they normally would not, the men started to allow more animal instincts to emerge. The Bard suspected that Samir was encouraging this to exploit the situation. How the exploitation would work remained to be seen.
Brynnan felt objectified by the crude talk but dismissed its import; he was becoming inured to men’s discussions about him.
Nijal spoke up, “I believe it’s time to practice a specialty of mine,” he approached the Bard. Wordlessly he ran his hands over Brynnan’s body as if assessing its merits.
Brynnan stood passive and still with his eyes downcast. ‘It seems we shall give them a show,’ he thought.
Nijal took the first coil of rope and started his work. As he bound the Bard, beautiful knotwork evolved, both restraining and allowing flexibility to the limbs. He steered clear of Brynnan’s neck and wrought a star pattern over his chest. Then the Bard’s arms were bound behind him down their entirety. This was then tied to knotted thigh-to-calf restraints that now had him kneeling and helpless.
“How do the ropes feel?” Nijal asked him.
“It’s very different from any other binding I have experienced.” Brynnan felt helpless yet comforted. All decisions were taken away from him, for he literally trusted Nijal with his life. “I am totally at your mercy.”
Nijal smiled at him. “As you will be at my mercy two days from now when I will see about restoring your voice and touch.” The Guardian turned to the Warlord, “He is all yours, Lord.”
Samir tied a black silk cloth over Brynnan’s eyes that shut out all light, making him totally dependent on his other senses. The Warlord announced, “First of all, I will introduce you to the whip—this flogger. I am sure you will have experienced nothing like it.”
Brynnan wondered if he was joking. After being beaten every day for a year with various implements, it was unlikely that he had not experienced the flogger.
Samir ran the heavy stranded whip over Brynnan’s kneeling form, letting the drape of it slide over his skin. It felt soft to the Bard, and he wondered what force it possessed. He didn’t have to wonder long. The Warlord drew back his arm and struck the first blow across Brynnan’s shoulders and bound arms. It hit with a heavy “thud,” rocking Brynnan’s body with its force, but the impact did not hurt unduly. Samir stroked the whip across his chest, then struck him again. He whipped the Bard all over his bound body, and the blows weren’t light, and there was pain. But, fairly quickly, what pain there was turned to pleasure. Deep tranquillity descended on him, and he reflected that if his torturers, Kai and the now-deceased Efan, had whipped him like that, he would not have detested them so much.
Samir wordlessly held out the whip to him when it was finished, stock first, touching Brynnan’s lips. He kissed the whip and thanked the Warlord.
“You are now ready to suck cock,” Samir said, “Although you are blindfolded, I want you to suck my guests to the best of your ability. I will use the pole to introduce some pain if you need encouragement. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my Lord Samir.”
And so, it began. Cocks brushed against his lips, and he opened his mouth to take them in. One, then another: a variety of tastes and textures and degrees of hardness. He recognized Geraint’s cock, but Geraint did not cum.
“Later, my lad,” the old warrior whispered.
He tasted pre-cum; he tasted sweat. Hands seized his hair, and one person forcibly fucked his mouth, hurting his throat. He heard their moans. When he lagged, someone—either Samir or Nijal, inserted the pole into specific knots and twisted. Pain ensued, which encouraged him to continue with a renewed effort. Three men came in his mouth, and some of it dripped down his neck. He also felt spurts of hot cum hitting his face and chest.
When Brynnan was gasping for air, Nijal called a halt, then towelled the cum from his face and body with gentle thoroughness. Brynnan was given a drink of cold water and wine. It soothed his throat.
He heard Samir say, “Untie him. Let the Bard rest now.”
Nijal untied the knots with slow deliberation and removed the ropes. Brynnan gratefully flexed his muscles as his limbs were freed. Geraint removed the blindfold and settled the Bard near the fire, throwing his wind-silk cloak around his bare shoulders.
He brought the Bard another drink of mixed water and wine. Handing the cup to him, Geraint grinned and said, “You did good, Master Bard. You sucked my cock right well. But don’t think you’ve got off easy. I’m up for another go, and you’ll get my cum.”
Brynnan looked around the room, assessing the reactions of the Council of Seven. Most seemed relaxed. Their heads were together in discussion. Then Raith stood and approached Samir.
“My Lord Samir: Nijal Silver-Hand: we wish to thank you on this occasion for your . . . hospitality. It was indeed an education. And I wish to thank the Lord Ba-, Brynnan for his gifts. He gave us a new song this evening, but I, personally, wish him well in having his voice and hands restored,” Raith looked directly at the Bard, “Hurry the day when you play your beautiful harp, Mavrenn, and sing the ancient ballads to us again.”
After more courtesies, the guests left. The small group was alone again.
Nijal approached Brynnan and crouched down beside him, “How are you feeling? Any soreness or strain from the ropes?”
“I must tell you, Nijal, that was the most comfortable torture session I have ever experienced. I had no idea you were a practitioner of the art.”
“Don’t get too used to it. I will probably be travelling again after I’ve seen to your health.”
Samir came over and, casting a discerning eye on the Bard, said, “You did well, my Bard, and gave me important information.”
Brynnan wondered just what Samir had observed and how he would use the information.
“But now,” Samir continued. It is time for us to relax, ourselves. You asked me for this night. Geraint will bathe you—”
“—Again,” interjected Geraint and got a pointed look from Samir.
“Again—” Samir continued, “—and we will spend this night pleasuring each other, you, I and Geraint,” Samir looked at Nijal, “And you, Silver-Hand, will you not join us for a time? I feel I owe you repayment for your arts.”
Nijal looked at Brynnan, who responded, “Nijal? As I said before, you would be most welcome, and I also would like to repay you, in whatever way I can, for your healing touch, and surely you could use some deeper affection in your solitary life.”
Nijal smiled at him, “You are perceptive, Brynnan. I agree,” He turned and addressed Geraint, “Then let me take the Bard and bathe him for you. It’s incumbent on me to get to know my patient’s body thoroughly before surgery,”
Geraint laughed loudly, “Outsmarted myself, didn’t I? Go to it, Silver-Hand. M’Lord Samir and I will await you in bed. Don’t miss the party.”
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t go too far without us,” said Nijal, with a raised eyebrow.
Brynnan smiled and turned to follow the Guardian.
* * *
