Hendrix of Gor Ch. 03-04

After two days of travel we came to sprawling farmlands which are typically connected to cities. The planting of seed in the ground means taking root in a place. That is not the way of Hendrix or the way of my people. We are people of wagons and war. We survive by taking. That takes strength. Wariness. Sharpness of wit. City folk have none of these things. In their place grow walls. Walls become their strength and wariness. Their wit remains confined to things like, "How can we make better walls to defend us?" They also produce walls for their bodies. Shields and armor. Such things are an abomination to me. Such people know nothing of interest and are incapable of broad thought. Like the broad sword and cock of Hendrix. Or the broad hips of Imp beside me.

I turn to the free woman who steps slowly behind us. Imp looks as well and then to me with a smirk and a glint in her eye. It earns her a flogging and the title of bad girl. These bring tears to her eyes. The latter more than the former.

"You will learn that because another is inferior, it does not mean you may act the petty slutress over them. Nor may you look me in the eye with haughtiness."

"H-how will I learn, Master?"

"Because I will teach you, of course."

The free woman begins to outpace us now. There were walls ahead, and this excites her. She sneers in an ugly manner at my slut. Imp's cheeks redden.

"You did well to punish her," the woman says to me. "Well for a barbarian, at least."

I do not reply to such foul words. Instead I look back to the slut. "This woman can give such looks and say such things for now. But in her heart there is a deeper truth. She will learn of me as well." I wink to Imp and she smiles shyly.

I enter the walls and feel weaker just in doing so. But this is reconnaissance, I tell myself. And it is a test of my fortitude. For myself and the things that are mine.

We step out of a cold night into a hot tavern. The wind whistles around our locks until I shut it out. Inside, idle whispers and leering eyes replace the icy gusts.

But there is mead, which means this place is not wholly irredeemable. So I go to a corner table, sit, and order my drink. The free woman flits her eyes, but remains near me. These are evidently not her people and she is wary enough of them to sit beside me.

"Do you have honeyed wine?" she asks the tender. Her body is covered up to the neck in dark muslin. A contrast to her face which is devoid of color. Her clothes are frayed and torn. I can tell she is trying to hide the dirt. If this was a city of much riches, and she had the coin to spend, she would be in some steaming bath house somewhere, pampered. Ordering brand new garb.

Yet she is here and so she makes the most of it, sipping her wine.

"I allow you spend my coin on wine," I tell her, "In the hope it will make you a tolerable companion for the rest of the day."

"I have no hope that your mead will will do anything of the kind for you," she says.

"True," I say. Then I turn my attention to the slut. "To my boot, Imp."

Wrapped in a fur, she spreads thighs and lowers, my boot snug against her crotch.

"Nice slave," a man says from a near table.

"No. A good slut. But still in training. Still learning what it means to be mine."

"I'd have a go at her. She'd learn much from me."

I eye him carefully, up and down his fine clothes and well-kept locks. "I think you might, at that."

"What's your name, stranger?" the man asks. "You appear to be of the Alar people."

"My name carries a story you may not be man enough to hear. But take the slut. It will be a good lesson for her. And you can show me if you are worthy to hear my name by the way you fuck my girl."

Imp whines. A mixture of fear and excitement fill the girl's wide, green eyes. Her fists clench. I prop my boots on the table. Silent but nodding down at her. The girl crawls to him and with some hesitation, opens her thighs to show her readiness to serve. That is a demonstration of strong constitution considering the pitiful example of manhood before her.

He too hesitates, eyeing me. Perhaps he wants to determine if this is some trick. "Fuck it," he says, eyes turning to the girl's crotch. He lifts the girl, a bit awkwardly, and places her over the table so she faces me. He unbuckles his belt and lifts his member out. He primes the dick with quick pumps. The free woman beside me turns away with a huff. I am tempted to do the same. The dick is like that of an urt.

As he fucks her the entire tavern watches, though some pretend not to. My eyes are glazed with the effects of mead but I listen to every "Ouch" and "Master" as the girl looks at me over the table. She appears torn in thought. Wanting to do as she is told but turned off by the man's awkward lackluster thrusts. I watch her tits rub against the tabletop. That is a pleasant sight at least.

He is trying his best, I assume. But her eyes are always on me, not craning back to adore the man who pummels her. She watches me expectantly. Wondering, perhaps, if she may make herself come and be done with it. I shake my head once. She is not to come.

Eventually I stand and make a show of rolling my eyes and drawing out my cock. Some in the room gasp. Others chuckle. The free woman beside me makes a noise I cannot decipher. A groan of frustration? I move the cock to Imp's face. It is big and heavy against her bottom lip. She takes it greedily, drawing it deep. Sucking until the girth expands in her. I grip her hair, winding it up nicely in a fist.

She is rocked from both sides. My involvement, fucking her mouth, makes the city man pick up speed. A wanton cry fills her mouth, vibrating around me. I allow myself to climax. I hear a woman gasp and faint as my seed spills into Imp's mouth, dribbling out around her chin. Her hungry tongue licks at it.

The man in her makes a noise as he comes, seeming to be surprised by it. The girl probably clamped down on it when I came in her mouth. Cheeky slut. He collapses across her backside, smiles, pulls out, and sits in a chair, letting his seed dribble onto the floor. I smack Imp's ass because she is not moving to clean the man's cock. She does so now, scooting off the table and kneeling between his legs. Licking him up.

"Well trained," the man admits between hard gasps.

"Learning," I say.

"I thought she would come," he says.

Then I laugh heartily. It is time for the punch line. "The slut of an Alar will not come on a city dweller's sapling," I grin.

His face turns red with anger. My words tell him I think my slut is a better thing than he is. He stands abruptly, stumbling over the slut and the trousers at his ankles.

I punch him before anything else can happen. I punched him good and hard, knocking him back into his seat. It feels good. And my joke makes me laugh long and hard.

Every man in the tavern comes at me. The free woman at my table stands and with glee clenches her fists. Perhaps hoping I will fall to these men. But most likely appreciating my prowess in the pugilistic arts. All in all it is shaping up to be a glorious day.

We are escorted outside the city. Not the honorable escort I deserve. These people do not appreciate a good joke or a strong fist. It isn't as though I pulled my sword and slew the idiots. But it is just as well we are leaving. The smithy resides beyond the city walls. A smithy is what I need next. We step up to his place of work.

"What are we doing here, Master?"

"Are you mine, slut?"

"You have taken me, Master."

"And how is that known?"

She has no answer. I will soon give her two.

I do my own work, stoking the fires and readying the materials. The slam of hammer to metal shakes my bones. The smell of smoke fills my lungs. When I am done I set aside my creation and reach for the branding iron.

Imp yelps at the sight and scuttles away from the glowing tip.

"Are you a brave slut, or was I mistaken about you?"

Tears stream but she squares shoulders and displays her small breasts. "I have never been branded, though I have had many masters. They did not see fit to ... I was never ..." Her voice trails in emotion then strengthens again. "I am proud to accept this if you believe me worthy."

I nod. "Bite into my shoulder. And hold on to me. Dig your nails as deep as you need."

Iron melts into skin.

She does not scream. But she does draw blood. From tooth and nail. I pull her from me where she clings like a small child. Bending her over me, I investigate the Mark I have given. It is red and ugly, but sweet to my eyes. Gently I begin to sponge the spot clean and apply the salve previously mixed. She winces and whimpers so I begin a chant learned in my youth from an old outrider called Jaym.

"Angry howls will fade

As the wolves view your face

It is stone and silence

As a blood-dipped mace

Pain will not reach

As bone turns to metal

And the furnace of your soul

Causes jaw to settle"

When the growl of my droning voice is done the work is as well. She is quiet and still. Imp stretches her neck to look up at me. I move her to sit atop my lap.

"Is that a song?" she asks.

"It is a reminder. As is this."

I remove the collar her previous owner placed. She begins to protest but my look stays her words and she swallows them back. She does not like the naked barren feel of her neck now. A true slave cannot bear such a thing. So I take the one I have made and clasp the cold metal around her throat. It is a rough thing. Thick. Plain. Representative of myself.

She gasps. Fresh tears fall and trickle through a new smile. Her kisses come with need, uncontrolled.

I tug her closer by the ring in the collar. Against her tear-salty lips I say, "Now you are mine in truth. Your body, your spirit, your mind ... for my capricious use."

She whimpers as if I've impaled her with my cock. "Why me, Master?"

"Because I have chosen you."

"Yes, Master," she mewls, voice shaky.

"Good slut," I say.

I take her and fuck her there in front of the smithy. Harder than I have in the past. Urgent quick pushes and a strong claps of hand around newly collared throat. She is wanton for my strength to fill her and show my ownership to be a true and hearty thing. Thrusting and taking as she gives me her cunt, squirming around my fat cock and running fingers over all my muscles and scars. Imp tries to slam down around my pelvis, needy for me to be deeper.

She is mine. She is beginning to understand this. I believe the other woman is as well. But she has hidden herself or strode away. It is difficult for a collarless woman to observe the collaring of a slave. There is an intimacy to slut and Master that leaves other women feeling empty.

I fill Imp with my seed and my mastery. Then we drift to happy slumber.