Becoming His Bitch
The light that entered through the tower window, cheerless and grey, cast few shadows. Brannan Marec Mavrenn attempted to grip the bars and looked out over the flanks of the Torrent Mountain Redoubt to which the tower attached like a thorn on a branch. In the distance, the muted thunder of the waterfall that supplied the Redoubt with its water needs filled the air.
The bars in the window had been installed after the Warlord’s wife had leapt through the open embrasure many Moons past. Brannan reflected that he would have been tempted to do the same without the wind-suit, but that was now impossible.
Turning back, he lay on the thin pallet, placing an arm over his eyes, trying to shut out the light and his current reality. The straw stuffing in the mattress rustled as he rolled over. Dressed only in linen breeches, he shivered, even as he tried to clutch the worn woollen blanket about himself. The room’s temperature chilled him. It always seemed cold.
After spending the last Turn in a cell, he had recently been moved to this tower. Brannan tried to find comfort in his memories, recalling the time when he had not been Lord Samir’s tormented prisoner but an honoured and influential bard, frequently part of the governing Council of Seven’s discussion meetings. But ever since recovering from the sword thrust into his abdomen, Lord Samir’s two picked minions had beaten him daily.
After his initial healing from the sword wound, Talitha, the head physician’s daughter, had, on rare occasions, brought oils and massaged his arms and shoulders. Brannan suffered strains from holding a still position with the claw cuffs circling his wrists as the lash fell repeatedly. Bard that he was, females had once been attracted to him like moths to a flame, and some men, too, although he only coupled with women. Thoughts of Talitha had kept him from despair when he had finally fallen, and the claws had torn into the tendons of his wrists. His failing hands could no longer bring sweet music from his harp.
Lord Samir had isolated Brannan after he succumbed to the cuffs, placing him in this tower where he had once imprisoned his wife. Talitha was forbidden to see him. She had been the one source of solace: a human touch that Brannan craved.
The Warlord still wanted a confession from him of his missing wife’s supposed plans for his downfall, which the Bard could not supply, and he wondered why Samir persisted. The foundation of his identity and his core value as a Ruithin bard and priest depended on honouring and discerning truth. He had been called upon as a Master Bard in his homeland to judge disputes and render the laws faithfully. To lie could destroy him spiritually and separate him from Mavrenn, who was said to fall silent if her Servant no longer practiced his vows—his dedication to the Truth.
Brannan considered that the Warlord could have resorted to more severe punishment before this. Why hadn’t he? Was he looking to justify his actions, finding his attempted taking of Mara’s life too bitter a medicine to swallow? Or was there something else? Initially, Samir had pierced the Bard with his sword in an uncontrolled rage, nearly killing him. Memories of that event played endlessly in his mind, keeping him awake at night. Sometimes, Brannan felt a phantom pain in his gut, and the terror would seize him again in its inescapable grip.
And then there was the grave secret that Nijal, the Alsar Guardian, had imparted to him that a possible invasion force would come—the real reason Brannan had to survive. It weighed heavily upon him. He had waited too late to tell the Warlord but knew Samir would not listen now; as it was, the facts stretched credibility. Brannan could imagine all too easily how the Warlord would react.
The Bard changed position on the scant bedding, sitting up with effort and wincing in pain as he tried to rest his weight on his hands. The numbness and tingling of recently damaged nerves tormented him, constantly reminding him that he could no longer play his harp. His hands felt like wood. But claw cuffs would do that to a man. He wondered if his torturers would still use them to restrain him.
Sounds outside the door alerted him: footsteps and voices. Brannan felt his stomach muscles clench, and his senses heightened in apprehension. He knew who it would be. Two guards entered the room, followed by Kai and Efan, his torturers. Efan carried a wooden chest with him, placing it on the table. To Brannan, it boded ill. But the figure entering last commanded his full attention: Samir, Warlord of Torrent Mountain and architect of the Bard’s suffering.
Brannan saw his torturers daily, but the Warlord was an infrequent visitor. The Bard felt forgotten and cast aside, and he wondered if this was how he was to live out the rest of his life. But today, an expression on the Warlord’s face and an icy glint in his eyes warned Brannan that this would be no casual visit. Lord Samir’s clothing—the black leather breeches with a wide belt and his shirt of sombre colours—appeared to fit his mood. Something seemed to have changed within the man: he looked determined, but why?
Samir addressed his prisoner, his deep voice brisk and to the point. “How are your wrists? Are they functional?”
“No, they are not,” Brannan said softly, tempted to add more but unwilling to provoke the man.
At this, the Warlord beckoned to a woman standing in the doorway, a tall, wrapped case in her arms. She walked forward, head bowed. The Bard recognized her as one of the musicians from the Hall of Music. She gently placed the case on the floor, then cast an agonized glance at the Bard before leaving the chamber. Brannan stared at the bundle: they had brought Mavrenn, his harp. The Bard slowly closed his eyes.
Samir piles cruelty upon cruelty where there was once regard, but perhaps that is why. If only I could still play you, my harp, I would have a chance, for the spirit inside you, coupled with my skills, could change their minds and more—
The Warlord’s voice interrupted Brannan’s thoughts. “You know what I have long asked for, Bard—a confession. I am now even more convinced you were in league with my wife. And another thing: you are keeping something from me beyond that. I know you too well, and your silence is too complete. I will find out what it is.”
Brannan shook his head in denial. “Why have you not killed me before this? Since you have named me traitor, I have endured a long imprisonment that you could have brought to a close at any time. Why maim me now?”
“You know the reason: I have long kept the facts of Mara’s disappearance secret. I have not yet found her. Were your King to discover what happened, there would be war. I don’t think you want that for your people. And you still are a Ruithin bard and sacrosanct in the eyes of most. I have respected that so far, but my patience has run out. Speak and be done.”
The Bard swallowed. “I cannot. Mara is innocent, and as a Ruithin bard and priest, I will not betray my vows by lying to you.”
Samir’s expression hardened even more. “Will you still resist me? Then, punishment will resume the day after next. We will not cuff your wrists above your head, as before. Instead, we have this—” Samir waved a hand.
Kai opened the chest, reached in, and pulled out a silvered metal circle ringed with retractable claws similar to the cuffs that had rendered his hands useless.
Brannan had seldom seen one, but he knew what it must be: a collar that forced its victim to stand motionless. If the wearer stumbled, the sharp claws dug into the throat, potentially damaging the ability to breathe, speak, or swallow. One of them could pierce a jugular vein. Brannan shuddered at the sight, recalling when he fell while wearing the claw cuffs. He knew this device’s effect would be much more savage.
Samir glanced at Efan and Kai, and they obediently retreated from the room, leaving the collar on the table with its promise of pain and destruction. He then motioned the two guards to stand outside the doorway, ensuring no one could enter without his permission.
One of them began to protest, “He is still dangerous, my Lord—”
Samir cut him off. “He will not attempt to harm me.”
The guard looked doubtful, but he withdrew. When the chamber door closed, Samir glanced down at the Bard, who remained seated on the pallet.
“Will you not?” Samir asked softly, raising an eyebrow. “You know by now that I will not.”
“You did try in this very chamber. You used a sword against me, protecting the Witch.”
“I defended Mara. Your wife never betrayed you, and I did not attack you. She is not a witch or sorceress, yet you would have killed her,” Brannan said for what seemed like the thousandth time. “And it was your sword that felled me.”
Brannan could not help glancing at the old bloodstain on the stone floor—his blood. There was no avoiding the memories of Mara’s narrow escape or of his sword fight with the Warlord, just as Samir had intended by placing him here, he was sure. It constantly reminded Brannan of the futility of his disobedience.
The Warlord inhaled deeply, and his eyes flashed. “She leapt from the window of this very room into a sheer drop, yet we found no trace of her body. Tell me that is not sorcery! If she indeed escaped, your aid allowed it.” Samir glanced at the window embrasure, then added coldly, “And for that, the torture will now increase and continue until you die or tell me what I want to know. I was informed that the child my wife carried would be used to supplant me. I ask you afresh: How would she have accomplished this? What evil powers did she possess? You were her Bard, teacher, and priest: Mara confided in you, and both of you betrayed me!”
Brannan saw the Warlord’s harsh and uncompromising expression, but he still tried to reason with the man, however hopeless the endeavour. “How can you take the word of strangers over my words; I who served you for seven Turns, and Mara, who gave you nothing but love and loyalty? Did you not investigate the accusers’ allegations?”
“Yes, and my agents brought me proof! I presented it to you, and you could not deny it!” the Warlord growled.
“No, I could not deny that her mother was of the Alsar, a race vastly misunderstood by you, but that is proof of nothing!”
“You side with that vile race? Argue with me at your peril, Bard!”
Brannan just shook his head.
But Samir had not finished. “I have taken your harp music. Next, I will take your voice.”
Brannan felt his blood run cold. Losing his voice would destroy his capabilities as a Ruithin bard, the essential core of his identity. And how would he ever persuade the Warlord and the Council about the strangers Nijal had warned were coming?
“And afterwards?” the Bard whispered.
“After that, I will take your mind. There is a drug that slowly destroys memories. You will have no other recourse than to drink it in the water you are given. But I will not immediately kill you. You will wander these halls as a ghost, unable to recall your own name.”
A surge of real fear gripped Brannan, but he set his face like stone, revealing nothing. He had an eidetic memory, having spent much of his youth learning the codes and laws, teaching songs, the Histories in ballad form, and the poetry of his homeland. Although still young, he had been a Master Bard and a Ruithin priest since reaching manhood. “Marec Mavrenn” in his native tongue: “Servant of Ravens,” and guardian of his renowned harp, Mavrenn, a treasured artifact of his people. He would lose his essential self and all that he most valued if the Warlord had his way, and this time, Brannan could see no way out.
His thoughts whirled. Try to kill Samir? He knew he could still attempt it without using his hands. But he realized that such an action could serve no good purpose and remove a key individual, this Warlord of the Torrent Mountain Redoubt and City-State. He thought of Nijal’s message. Enemies were coming, and harming the Warlord would seriously damage the Alsar Guardians’ necessary plans for the survival of everything that mattered. Brannan knew that Samir, exerting control over the entire situation, was sure of his invulnerability; thus, he had sent away the guards.
Despairing, he cried out, “And what else do you want of me besides a truth that is no truth?”
“Play your harp if you can,” Samir answered with a cold laugh.
“I cannot.”
The icy light that boded ill gleamed in the Warlord’s grey eyes, and he smiled mirthlessly. He moved closer to stand directly before the Bard, and Brannan, remembering, knew what his captor wanted.
The first occasion happened when he was newly imprisoned. Samir reacted when Brannan defied him by refusing to kneel. This insubordination, brought on by sheer frustration on the Bard’s part, had triggered a harsh response: Samir had struck him in a cold rage. Brannan had rolled with the vicious blow, but still, it cut and bruised him. Then, as punishment, the Warlord commanded him to kneel and perform oral service, thus making his dominance abundantly clear. The Bard had plainly seen the path before him, and, with no retreat possible, he had knelt.
And now, he faced that exact situation again. There was no way out. Protesting or refusing would increase the Warlord’s hostility toward him, and Brannan desperately did not need that. He still had a duty to survive.
One day, I swear I will get through to you. I will make you understand that Mara loved you and would never betray you. I will tell you about the strangers. But he had no idea how. From a deep friendship, where the Warlord had treated him with affection and respect, the man’s behaviour had changed into something unrecognizable that seemingly went against Samir’s own codes of ethics.
Brannan had a message to deliver, but this was not the time, although it seemed his time would soon run out. Should he just tell Samir and take the consequences? But it might trigger the Warlord’s disbelief irrevocably. The Bard rose to his knees and looked into Samir’s eyes without challenging him, although he was gripped by trepidation and abhorrence at being forced. Except for that one prior instance, this was alien territory. Then he dropped his gaze: defiance now would earn him death. Not only would the message be lost, but Mavrenn’s fate would now hang in the balance. Brannan deeply regretted that Master Nazar had not returned the harp to his homeland as they had arranged, thereby placing him in this untenable situation.
Samir braced on his feet. His hands slowly moved to undo the belt. Freed, his manhood pushed its way out, already fully erect and substantially large, the shaft thick and the heavy head dripping with the secretions that signalled his rising lust.
The Bard’s near-useless hands fumbled as he attempted to grasp the phallus. Using his taped wrists on either side, Brannan brought it to his mouth and took it in. It felt hot, and it tasted salty. Samir grunted briefly and pushed his hips forward. His hands came up and grasped Brannan’s uncut dark hair, taking him in an inescapable grip. The Bard made himself submit, doing his best not to pull away.
Brannan worked to arouse Samir’s lust. He heard the Warlord’s intake of breath and grunts of pleasure. His Lord would come soon if Brannan kept up the rhythm, and the Bard had no desire to prolong the event. But to his dismay, he found his body responding. He wanted to struggle from the Warlord’s grip. The Bard felt the penis in his mouth spasm as the ejaculate surged. Brannan knew he had to swallow. Rivulets of musky sweat trickled down his bare chest despite the cold.
Afterwards, he looked the Warlord in the eyes. Samir’s expression seemed conflicted for some moments, and the Bard recalled how considerate the Warlord used to act towards him. He fell back onto the pallet, and Samir did not object. But Samir remained beside him. Wordlessly, he sank to one knee and swiftly freed Brannan’s now-hard member.
Starved of kindness, a part of the Bard hungered for bodily contact, a touch that did not bring pain, even at his tormentor’s hands. Another aspect of him struggled with revulsion. But he knew this: Samir’s demonstration of control over his prisoner constituted a power play. However, the knowledge didn’t help. Unable to reconcile the erotic sensations with the need to escape the unwelcome attention, the Bard’s mind cut off the rational, judgemental side of himself and allowed the animal inside him free rein.
“Tell me when you are coming,” Samir commanded.
Brannan clenched his teeth as the sensations consumed him like fire. The stroking became faster and more intense to the point of pain. But then the agony transformed into a helpless fall into a deep, sensual abyss.
Experienced in lovemaking, Brannan could regulate his need to come as the occasion demanded. However, he found his control slipping as the Warlord’s actions pushed him toward that inescapable edge.
“I’m coming now,” he heard himself say before an intense orgasm took him in a shuddering wave.
Brannan saw the Warlord glance down at the old wound on his abdomen. “You bear the scar from my sword,” Samir said. “It will not be the last time I mark you, in body or soul. Tomorrow, I will fuck you.”
His words constituted a promise, and Brannan murmured, “I think you have been doing that to me for a long time now.”
“And will again,” the Warlord said, wiping his hand on Brannan’s breeches. He stood, fastened his belt, retrieved his gear, walked to the door, and left.
Brannan heard the lock engage with a loud click. His body felt exhausted and drained. He rolled his head back, seeing into a hopeless future. Was this sexual subjugation now to be his lot, along with more beatings?
“I will hold on. Somehow, I will persevere until I break through to Samir or draw my last breath.” Brannan promised softly to the silent room.
The Bard spent a sleepless night in the bleak tower chamber. He awaited the Warlord’s visit. “Tomorrow, I will fuck you,” Lord Samir had said. It was now tomorrow.
Thirsting, Brannan awkwardly picked up the water bowl with his near-useless hands, causing spears of pain to lance through his wrists, and drank. He thought about the Warlord’s other threat: that, eventually, he would have the water poisoned with a memory-destroying drug. That would indeed be a death sentence to a bard. His mind shied away from the idea.
There was nothing to do now but wait. Brannan’s harp stood in the corner of the chamber, protected by its case. Unable to play, he stared at it, and in his mind, he could hear the music. Haunting memories dogged his thoughts. I yearn to touch you, my harp. Your voice spoke to my soul. We could have invoked my gift of Shadow Singing and won our way out of here. If the Mother-of-All ever grants me a wish, it would be that my wrists would be healed. Inexplicably, an image of his friend Nijal Silverhand, the Warlord’s battle surgeon, came into his mind.
Eventually, he heard voices and footsteps. The heavy door opened, and the Bard’s stomach clenched in reaction to the sound. The time for his latest session was here and now. Guards came through the doorway, weapons at the ready. Then, the two torturers, Efan and Kai, entered, followed by the Warlord Samir. He stood before his prisoner. Brannan saw that Lord Samir had just returned from the Practice Arena, for he wore leathers: tight but flexible breeches and accoutrements. His heavily spiked wristbands could become deadly weapons, and a studded leather harness across his chest held sheaths with six throwing knives. Brannan knew that the Warlord kept his muscular body in shape with daily tactical workouts: in former times, Brannan had sometimes sparred with him, and Samir’s animal grace and vitality had impressed him with his power. Drawn to each other, the energy between the two men sometimes felt like lightning about to strike. The Warlord’s current coldness stood in stark contrast.
“Efan, cuff him,” Samir addressed the red-bearded torturer.
Both minions moved forward. Roughly seizing the Bard, they stripped off his clothing until he stood naked and shivering. When they pulled his arms behind his back, Brannan winced in pain. Efan manacled his wrists with heavy irons, then forced him to his knees.
The Warlord grasped Brannan’s long hair in a fierce grip that effectively controlled his movements. “Kai, collar him,” he commanded.
Samir’s henchman took the key from him and opened the chest, removing the collar from within. The cruel claws inset around the rim, retracted just now, would only deploy if the Bard struggled, but the Warlord’s grip kept him still as Kai placed the device around his throat and locked it.
The black-bearded torturer then picked up a chain leash with a leather handle, attached it to the collar, and handed the leash end to the Warlord. “That’s it, my Lord, he is secured.”
“Good. Take my blades and cuffs. Place them on the window embrasure.”
The torturer obeyed.
“Bard, do you understand what I am about to do?” Samir demanded.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“You are about to fuck me,” Brannan replied, carefully enunciating the crude word.
A slight tug on the collar chain immediately brought the spikes pricking at his neck. “—Lord,” the Bard added reluctantly.
“That is correct. You are a virgin in that regard, are you not?”
“Yes,” the Bard admitted. He saw no point in digressing. What words would stop Samir now? Brannan’s accustomed facility with language stalled in the face of the increasing hopelessness he was coming to feel, even as he fought it with all his might.
But the Warlord made no further move. Brannan shivered under the pitiless gaze, remaining still as the Warlord ran his fingers along the Bard’s closely bearded jaw, staring directly into his dark eyes. He knew what Samir’s eyes were seeing as they roved over him: his sun-starved pale skin and lithe, still-muscular body, the dark, silky hair on his chest and abdomen running in a line down to his groin. The golden torc collar the Bard had worn all his adult life, a badge of his rank, was conspicuously absent—one of the first things stripped from him when Samir had made him prisoner.
The Warlord exposed his thick phallus. “Suck,” he commanded.
A tide of inevitability rolled over the Bard. The previous day, the guards and torturers had been dismissed while Samir had his way with Brannan. Now they stayed. He wondered what this meant. Samir’s rock-hard phallus insistently probed his lips. The Bard bent to his task. No tension on the neck chain constrained him, so he was free to move his head, although Samir kept a grip on his hair.
As he worked down the oversized phallus, he caught the aroma of leather and sweat, stirring something primal within him, recalling their times together in the Arena. Brannan closed his eyes, oblivious to his surroundings, even the pain in his wrists that strained against the iron manacles. He had no control of this situation, bound and collared as he was, with the ever-present threat of the claws at his throat.
The Warlord groaned. “Enough,” he commanded.
He encouraged the Bard to his feet by light pressure on the collar. The two torturers took him by his upper arms and pushed him over the heavy wooden table in the chamber. The urge to resist filled him as he sensed the Warlord at his back, but he forced himself to hold still, knowing that struggle would only bring damage and pain and incur Samir’s wrath.
“Pass me a lamp,” the Warlord directed Efan.
The lamps contained oil from pressed fruit. Brannan could see the light extinguished from his position against the table’s surface. Then he felt Samir’s hand, covered in lamp oil, touching him. Brannan drew a deep breath and tensed.
“I will get in you easier if you don’t tense your muscles,” Samir advised.
Brannan exhaled and tried to relax, even as Samir’s hard phallus probed him. The Warlord pushed, and the tip entered his rectal passage. The Bard stifled an involuntary cry and waited for more pain, but the Warlord rested, unmoving.
“Relax, Bard,” Samir warned him again.
The painful, throbbing ache eased a little. Brannan felt more oil on his rear as Samir pushed his lubricated phallus deeper into the anal passage. The Bard took it, although he thought he would tear. The Warlord began to slowly thrust in and out.
Aware of the close presence of the two torturers witnessing his humiliation, Brannan, detesting them, shuddered at the thought that they might be allowed to molest him. Since being beaten by them daily throughout his long imprisonment, even though the Bard knew it was on Samir’s orders, he experienced a cold hatred towards them that he did not feel for the Warlord. Once, in the distant past, he and Lord Samir had shared a friendship based on mutual respect and trust. Perhaps recognizing that Brannan’s lack of disclosure to others of Samir’s thoughts and confidences linked to his priestly role had allowed the Warlord to relate intimately to his bard. Brannan could have wept at the memory of what they both had lost.
Samir started thrusting in earnest, one hand in Brannan’s hair, the other controlling the neck chain. His phallus penetrated the Bard deeply, and Brannan felt the slap of Samir’s heavy testicles against his flesh. He maintained his steady breathing and endured it, but just like the day before, his body responded in a sweep of lust, making him suddenly want to submit. The engorged rod inside him stimulated his prostate, and Brannan wanted to ejaculate. Confused, he fought the urge, controlling himself with effort.
“Tell me how you like it now, Bard,” Samir demanded.
Brannan told him the simple truth. “It’s making me want to come,” he gasped. His body revealed things he did not want to know, and he attempted to justify them. This happens to prisoners when they are made helpless. I have seen it in the fields of combat. That’s all this is.
“You will hold off,” Samir said.
Brannan heard the Warlord instruct the torturers to leave. Kai spoke to Brannan as he stepped back. “Tomorrow, you may be ours.”
Brannan felt an involuntary wave of revulsion and rage. Being penetrated by his two torturers would finally be a bridge too far. His body shook with an unaccustomed emotion. The Warlord must have felt Brannan’s response.
“You are mine. I will decide who has you. And right now—”
Samir growled like a tiger and pounded into him. Brannan could do nothing to stop him. Then he felt Samir pull out. He must have made a few potent jerks of his hand, for Brannan felt hot semen splash all over his buttocks. Then, like the previous day, the Warlord reached between Brannan’s legs and seized his phallus, skillfully manipulating it, and the Bard felt himself losing control. He did not want Samir to stop.
The Warlord said, “Come now.”
Brannan cried out and spilled his seed, shuddering with the force of it. He felt the collar prick his neck, barely puncturing the flesh except in one spot, which resulted in a hot trickle of blood.
Samir leaned over him and growled in his ear, “Whose bitch are you?”
The stark truth invaded Brannan’s mind—resistance would gain him nothing. His only imperative dictated survival at all costs.
“I am your bitch,” he conceded as he finally allowed himself to submit.
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