Blood-Magic Slave

This is part of a longer story, written in November 2010 for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The setting is an utterly misogynistic kingdom (in a roughly medieval time) where sex should only be pleasurable for a man, and any woman who enjoys the act is weak and scorned. Slavery is practiced. Long hair is a trait of whores and temptresses, so all chaste women wear their heads covered. The main character, Gwen, was found earlier in the story to have the gift of magic, and for that reason was cloistered in a monastery. The monastery of Hemsedal, however, was later sacked by a black-clad Knight and his bandit-followers. The Sisters were taken as slaves, as the laws of the Kingdom allow. Gwen was enslaved by the Knight himself, who has revealed himself to be magically talented as well.

*

Gwen had been allowed to go out and gather herbs for the healing of her Master's wounded men, one of her occasional duties. The thought had briefly crossed her mind that she could run away, but she squashed it almost before it took shape. No. She had been taken by a noble Knight, in just accordance with the laws. His desire to often run his fingers through her lengthening hair was disgusting, but he had told her he would not rape her, and had remained true to his word. She was more fortunate than any of her Sisters, she knew, and had reason to be grateful. The Lady of Light clearly wished Gwen's path to follow this road. She had been obedient in the cloister; surely she could continue to lead a virtuous life here, even if her Master did not allow her to pray as often as she had before.

It began to rain, dark falling more quickly than she'd expected, and she hurried back to the encampment. She stopped by the small herb-hut the Knight had ordered built behind the kitchen in order to drop off her gatherings. Brother Hannu called to her from the kitchen doorway, "Gwen. Your Master wishes to see you as soon as you get back. I wouldn't delay, were I you."

While she wished to appear presentable, the urgency of the message caused her to skip going to her chamber to change; she arrived soaking wet and panting slightly at his workshop. She pushed open the door and stepped into the darkened interior, her hand rising to untie her wimple unthinkingly before she realized the place was empty. There was a smoky smell from the extinguished fire.

Frowning, she stepped back outside and tried to think where else he would be. His cottage. Stumbling along the rain-slicked pathways, she hurried there, hoping he would not be displeased for having to wait for her.

"Master," she gasped, pushing open the door and bowing. "Forgive me. I came as soon as I received your message. The rain came upon me more quickly than I'd expected..."

"Shh. It's all right." He beckoned her inside, his dark gaze taking in her sodden clothing and wet hair, now free from its wimple. "Come, get closer to the fire. My poor girl, come warm yourself."

"T-t-thank you," she mumbled, her teeth chattering as belatedly, her body felt the frigid rain and wind.

"Take off that wet tunic, my dear. You'll warm up far faster without it."

Gwen reached for the hem, then froze. "Master, I cannot undress..."

"Don't be absurd, my Gwen. You'll freeze. Here."

To her discomfort, he crossed the room and swiftly pulled the soaking garment over her head. She folded her arms over her bound breasts and lowered her head, trying to cover as much of her indecency as she could.

There was a wet slap as her tunic was dropped over the edge of the table and she jumped, then jerked again as his hands suddenly cupped her face, lifting her gaze to meet his. He was standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body. She longed to step away. Even the cold rain was better than this...

He lifted the damp mass of hair off her back, running his hands through it, and she heard a stream of water hit the floor as though he'd rung the moisture out of it. Indeed, he seemed to have done so with his magic, for when he lowered his hands to her bare shoulders, she felt the unaccustomed tickle of the soft hair brushing her neck and back. She shivered, and he briskly rubbed her arms.

"Take off those wet trews, you foolish girl," he chuckled. "You'll never warm up with wet garments on."

"Master," she whispered, agonized. "Please..."

He rested his finger against her lips. "Shhh. Do as I say, miroslav, my beautiful slave."

Trembling as much from cold as from shame, she untied the drawstring around her waist and let the miserably wet wool fall to the damp-stained wooden floorboards.

Taking her shoulders, he walked her toward the fireplace set into the far wall, where a roaring blaze crackled merrily.

"There," he whispered into her ear, his arms dropping from her shoulders to wrap around her from behind. The heat felt wonderful against her icy skin, but the intimacy of the contact repelled her.

"Master...?"

"Give yourself to me, my Gwen," he breathed, his lips touching the skin where her shoulder met her throat.

"My Lord..." she pleaded, anguished.

"Let's unbind you..." His hands were warm, calloused and strong as they deftly began to untie the damp bindings that held her breasts. While she remained like a statue, unable to think what to do to stop this abominable behavior without overstepping her place, he walked around her, gently lifting her crossed arm away from her body so that he could unwrap the lengths of linen.

The warm air tingled against the tender skin as he let the last of the fabric fall to the floor.

"Don't," he said softly as she raised her hands to cover herself. "Oh, my beautiful Gwen... Whyever would you cover up such treasures?" His hands lifted to cradle the soft, plaint flesh, his thumbs smoothing over the painful ridges that the bindings had left. At her side, her hands clenched. The touch became stronger, and she gasped at the sensation, a deep-seated pleasure tinged with the frisson of tingling pain from her over-sensitized skin. It seemed that somehow her whole body was beginning to react, almost the way it had with the magic, the first time he'd taken it from her. Before her wickedness had turned it Dark.

Then he was once more behind her, his lips on her throat, his strong hands kneading both breasts, holding her against him, her head resting upon his shoulder. "Oh, Light," she gasped. "No. No, I cannot do this. Please, I am a holy Sister... Please..." She tried weakly to pull away.

"Miroslav," he murmured, one hand wrapping around her stomach to pull her back against him, the other dropping lower to untie her braises, "You promised that you would give yourself to me."

"That was the magic," she protested, tremblingly pushing his hand away from the knot. "I only meant the magic..."

"This will allow me greater access to the power; this will deepen my link with you. Yield to me, my beautiful slave."

"Please, Master...You said... that first night... that you wouldn't take me by force... Oh!"

The linen braises fell around her ankles, and she stood completely bare before him. She flinched as she felt his fine woolen tunic brush against her backside as he held her tightly.

"For a woman," he said, "magic is a physical thing, that's why it's tainted. I take your physical magic, and use my stronger reasoning to control it, and direct it to my will." His hands were forcefully grasping her breasts, pressing, squeezing, and pulling as he spoke. The pleasurable pain seemed to steal the breath from her lungs. "Your magic is making you feel the way you do now -- sinful and wicked, wanton -- and that is why I must take it away, before you do yourself or others injury. Do not think that I am so weak as to succumb to your lustful charms; I seek only to take the power that taints you now."

She nodded uncertainly, her mind clouded by the exquisite feelings flowing through her.

"Do as I say, be my obedient and willing slave, and I will protect you from yourself."

He must have sensed her acquiescence, for even as she opened her mouth to relent, his left hand continued to fondle a still-tender breast, and the other delved into the cleft between her legs.

Her intended verbal surrender became physical as his touch ignited sparks within her, strange and powerful and intoxicating. Her knees felt weak, and she struggled to remain standing, leaning back against him.

"You see, my sweet one, you are no unwilling holy Sister. You are as eager for me as I am for you."

His fingers danced in and around her rose, pushing and tugging gently on the petals, seeking the center... her center. She groaned at the entirely unfamiliar sensation, then cried out as he found her opening and slid one finger upwards. "My beautiful one," he grated, then lifted her off the floor, one arm tight around her middle. He carried her to the bed, laid her upon it, then kicked away his boots and unlaced his trews.

He sat atop her, just below her hips, and bent forward. His lips found her nipple, his tongue swirling. Her head tilted and her back arched as he suckled, his other hand delving lower once more. She squirmed as his longest finger thrust upward, then gasped as a second joined it. At first her body was dry, his passage achingly rough.

"You will call out for me, and only me," he rasped as he wiggled his fingers against her body, his other hand squeezing her breast, pinching the erect pap and making her twitch and gasp. From deep within her, uncontrollable emotions welled. She fought off the feeling weakly, knowing it was her damnable weakness, but moisture flooded her rose, easing the motions of his hand against her deepest recesses.

"Oh, Gods," she moaned, and he sat up. A flash of blinding pain rippled across her chest, and she cried out, even as his fingers stroked and curled within her, reaching deeper. Blinking against the tears that stung her glazing eyes, she stared up at him.

"What...?"

His open hand came down again, on the side of her other breast, and she shrieked over the sound of the heavy slap. "Master, please!"

And then his other hand was withdrawn from her dew-dampened rose. Before she could feel anything but the emptiness and cool air on her exposed body, he was there atop her, pressing her into the straw mattress. She felt something wider than his fingers at her entrance. His full weight settled against her hips, the lacings of his trews tickling her legs. Both hands rose to cradle her head; with his thumbs, he wiped away the tears. "Open yourself to me, my slave, just as I taught you. Open, and give all of yourself to me."

"Yes, Master," she tried to say, but the feeling of his mind against hers, his body against hers was too much.

With an almost bestial roar, he raised his hips and plunged into her.

She screamed as she felt a searing, tearing pain deep within her body, compounded with the prickling, oozing feeling of her tainted magic in her mind. She thrashed, and he used her movement to push himself deeper. The world had gone dark; she couldn't see; she could only hear a rushing in her ears, the pounding of her heart.

"Yes, my Gwen. You are mine, my miroslav," she heard distantly. She drew in a deep breath, crying. His mouth moved to find hers, to capture her in a kiss as intimate and forceful as the claiming of her body had been. His tongue pressed against hers, then moved around her mouth as though exploring. She tried to turn away, to gather her bearings... but his mind against hers, his body within hers, his lips demanding she meet his kiss... He had taken control of her entirely.

He lifted his hips and withdrew almost his entire length from her. Her scream as he thrust down again was muffled into his insistent, claiming mouth. Again he drew back, lifting away from her bruised lips, and she drew a deep, ragged breath into her lungs, feeling warm, wet blood trickling from her savaged lips and ruined maidenhead. Again he slid into her, slowly and deliberately, his dark eyes fixed upon hers in a gaze she could not break.

"Yes," he whispered to her, "Feel me within you, claiming you as mine."

Slowly the pain began to fade, to be replaced by the not-unpleasant feeling of his hands pressing and pulling on her breasts, stroking along every inch of her body, his lips upon her throat, her lips, her eyelids, her tender breasts. Coherent thought had fled, and there was only feeling stretching, pressing, growing, rising.

"Very good, my sweet one," he murmured, his lips stroking her ear. "Take all of me, and surrender yourself entirely. Open your mind, open your body, and give it all to me. You are mine."

His hands never ceased to move, caressing her. Over her face, tracing the contours as though to memorize her features, down, over her arms, tickling against her sides, tracing over the bones of her hips, around to knead her buttocks.

She felt something building deep within her, mingled excitement and pleasure, and her body began to strive for it, to draw that feeling toward her. Then the sensation was shattered as her Master's teeth closed around a nipple. She screamed again, pain flooding over the pleasure, and his hand came up to touch her lips.

"Shh," he said, his voice slightly slurred. "You're mine, miroslav. The pleasure must be mine, not yours."

Then his hands returned to finding which places of her body elicited the most pleasurable reactions. The pain dimmed again, as the sweet sensations built within her, rising faster, as though somehow fed by the short bursts of pain.

"Tell me that you are mine, Gwen. Tell me that you belong to me, heart and body and soul. Bind that promise into the power building here now."

Gwen could barely understand his words; her mind was too far lost in the swirl of emotions. She felt as a boat adrift, a twig caught in the current of a river.

"Say it, Gwen. Say that I am your Master, that you belong solely to me, and to no one else."

The delicious movements stopped, and the pleasure began to recede. Instead of caresses, his fingers tightened, bruising, hurting.

"Please," she moaned, delirious. "No... don't stop... please..."

"Tell me that you're mine, miroslav."

"I'm... I'm yours, Master."

He thrust forward again, hard, then pulled back and stopped. A shivering moan grated in her throat. She tried to arch beneath him, her hips rising to meet him, but he pushed her down again, denying her the fulfillment she desired.

"Tell me that I own your body, your heart, your soul."

"Y-you... Master, please... I belong to you, all of me."

His strong fingers dug into the tender underside of her breast, the other twisted her opposite nipple, lifting her shoulders almost off the mattress. She groaned again, her head falling backward against the bedding.

"Your whole being, body and soul."

"Yes!" she cried. "My body and soul are yours, Master, all of me. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours!"

With that, he roared again, thrusting hard as her legs came up to wrap around his hips and pull him deeper within her. He exploded his release, tipping her over the edge, and she fell with one final scream into a state of bliss, where light and darkness, sound and silence, all senses had no meaning. She drifted there, weightless, before she slipped into oblivion.

"Gwen."

She woke slowly, feeling as though she was climbing up through wool. "Hmmm?"

There was a chuckle nearby, and a large, warm, calloused hand began to stroke her back. "Alas, my sweet girl, reality awaits your return."

She started to stretch, but stopped as every muscle in her body protested the movement. "Wha...?" she mumbled, trying to pull her scattered thoughts together.

"Come, miroslav, my dear. You have duties besides warming my bed, if you will remember."

There was a coarser laugh nearby, and she jerked awake, shame flooding through her as memories of the last night came back to her mind.

Oh, Light. What have I done? Oh, Gods, please, forgive me...

She opened her eyes to find Mekke standing beside the table, a goblet of wine in his hand, watching her. Her Knight sat on the other edge of the bed, wearing only his trews. She scrambled on hands and knees desperately for the blanket to cover her nakedness, but her Master pulled it from her hands.

"Stop acting like a modest holy Sister," he protested. "After your antics last night, I know there's no such thing in here." He leaned forward and patted her buttock. She jerked and squirmed away from his hand, blushing. "If you have the energy to fight for the blanket like this, surely you can get dressed and put that strength to good use? Or should I tell Mekke to leave and you can use your energy in other, more creative ways?"

She looked at him pleadingly, her hands barely covering her breasts, but he just laughed, his black eyes sparkling, and shook his head.

"You know, My Lord, I must admit that now I'm rather jealous of you," Mekke said, his eyes never leaving her as she climbed from the bed, bereft of the blanket, and sought her clothes. "Back at the convent, Rold said he wanted her. Then, I didn't see much appeal. But now... Was she worth the wait?"

"Indeed." Her master reached out and stroked down her back and over the curve of her hip as she scurried by, trying vainly to hide her nakedness with her hands while attempting to gather her scattered clothes. Light, the other man must think her a strumpet indeed for not even having put away her clothes before taking to her Master's bed. "There is something far more satisfying in gaining consent."

"I don't suppose she's one you'd be willing to share?" Mekke asked doubtfully.

"No. This one is mine, aren't you, miroslav? Body and soul."

Gwen bit her lip, tugging her stiff tunic hastily over her head, leaving her tender breasts unbound.

Her trews were still damp and freezing cold, so she crossed to the chest in which he'd laid her clothes and pulled out her spare pair, pulling them on. The wool was uncomfortably scratchy on her intimate parts, but she wasn't willing to take the time to re-wrap her braises with Mekke's hungry eyes upon her.

"Well, Mekke, I will consider your suggestions. We'll discuss them more over the midday meal, eh?"

The soldier clearly understood the dismissal, for he bowed with a sharp, "Yes, Milord," and withdrew from the cottage, closing the door behind him with a bump.

"Master, why did you..." Gwen began, her voice plaintive, then snapped her mouth shut. She had been about to question his actions, to demand an explanation for his demeaning of her. She shook her head, trying to push back the voice that wanted to know why he'd shamed her before his second-in-command.

He turned toward her, the smile dropping from his lips. "My slave... were you going to question me?"

She shook her head, almost frantically, but he saw the lie in her eyes, or else sensed it with his magic, as the Fathers of Hemsedal had been able to do.

"I rewarded you for your surrender last night, my slave, but I'm wondering now if I should have done so. I had hoped that rewarding you with your own pleasure would earn me your loyalty. Now, however... playing coy for my captain... becoming so forward as to demand reasons from me, your Master... Apparently, you are a harlot. You took too much pleasure in our joining because you were greedy, lustful. I was trying to rid you of your wicked, tainted power, and had hoped that you would have had the sense -- the control -- to temper your own lusts, as you properly should have done. But you did not. I cannot do both, my little whore. You need to learn mastery over yourself."

Gwen was shaking her head, humiliated, sickened, despairing. "No, Master please," she whispered. "Please, I'm not a wanton. I'm not a harlot, I swear. I will learn to control my unnatural lusts. And I was not trying to play coy with your... with Mekke, I swear. I belong only to you, Master. Only to you. And only when you wish."