Larta's expression was calm, even pleasant but inside she was terrified. The barbarian, at the foot of whose throne she now stood, glowered at her. He was dark, huge and muscular, with brilliant gray eyes a broadsword laid across his broad lap.

"Great warrior," pleaded Larta, "I beg of you to not attack and sack our city. We are a gentle people who desire peace above all things."

"You are a weak-blooded people who would allow themselves to be led by a woman," replied the barbarian king, "Sacking your village will shake off its yoke of docility."

"My late husband was lord of our community. Upon his death, the authority he possessed passed to me. It is the way of our people."

"It is the way of weakness and timidity." shot back the barbarian.

The product of the uncivilized world gazed at the svelte urban woman. Despite her years, he found the woman ravishing. Her blue eyes lit with an inner fire of passion and her blonde hair reminded the barbarian of the finest straw. Her enchanting face was, as yet, unlined and her toga bulged and indented in quite exhilarating ways

"Our people are peace loving and unused to fighting," continued the woman. "Yes, we are weak, as you define the term, but we have a strong sense of community. I implore you to reconsider. Hundreds of lives will be forfeited, fortunes lost, and children carried off into captivity. I can readily tell from your bulging wagons and train of prisoners that our small city will add very little to your treasure trove."

"Why should I not pluck this city as I would a dinner goose, Your "lordship"?"

Larta curtsied and stated,"The gods have blessed our city these last few years. From our abundance, we can offer you gold and rare silks, casks of wine and ingots of silver. We offer this because we know in our hearts that you are an honorable man who will not shed blood without reason."

"Bullshit, Your "lordship"! I covet the sensation of blood coating my sword. I thrill to each disembowelment. Widow's tears are as songs to me, as you know full well. Sacking your city will not cost me many men and then ALL of its gold and silks and casks of wine and ingots of silver will be mine anyway. It would serve your people right for allowing themselves to grow fat and defenseless."

Larta fell to knees in the dirt before the throne and threw up her arms in supplication. "Say what we must do to extinguish your wrath and we shall do it, Sire!"

"I savor my wrath, ruler. My wrath has brought me power and prestige. I shall be blessed in the afterworld by the many thousands whom I have slain. They shall wait on me and serve me and ride with me among the thunderclouds on horses shod with lightning."

Larta's head fell against her chest. None of her pleas had found any purchase in the stony heart of the leader of the barbarian horde. She had failed her people and now a large portion of them would die. She had worn the mantle of leadership proudly. She ruled as she felt her husband would have, with wisdom, flexibility and a willingness to compromise for the betterment of the entire community. What would she rule by the next sunset? Burned buildings, salted fields and a hideous number of corpses. Even now Larta could hear the cries of the orphaned, could feel the tears of the widows, could spy the wounded. Her grief was profound.

"HOWEVER," continued the barbarian. Larta's head rose and she met the intense stare of her adversary.

"However," continued the brute, "Perhaps NONE of my warriors need die and none of your people either. Do not let it be said that Marek the Bold cannot also be Marek the Teacher. I will accept your tribute, ruler provided ONE more thing is provided."

"Name it, Sire!" replied Larta.

"Your, your "lordship!"" stated Marek with an evil leer. "Through you, I can demonstrate what the fate of EVERY citizen of your fair city will be if they dare oppose me. You will enter my service as the lowest form of an intimate slave! In this way, I can show your pathetic people that I can remove any one of them from their place of honor and comfort and leave them naked, collared, and cowed under my toe. We will accept your tribute. Next year we will return for TWICE what you offered today and tribute shall be doubled each year. Before too much time has passed, all of your coddled city folk will be wishing that I had simply pillaged and continued on. Instead, I shall bleed you dry slowly, inexorably. Since you prefer peace so intensely, I will allow you to choke on it!"

With that, Marek doubled over in laughter.

Larta's eyes flew open wide. What could she do? Lives would be saved in the short term, were she submit to Marek's odious proposal, yet over the longterm her city and her people would still suffer. The thought of lying with such an uncouth heathen made Larta's gorge rise. Yet, she also considered that tyrants such as Marek rarely retained their crowns very long. In a few months, certainly no more than a year or two, at most three, she reasoned, some other barbarian would separate Marek's skull and spine. With Marek dead, her city would be freed of its tribute demands and she would rejoice as never before when her eyes beheld the decapitated torso of his loathsome beast.

"Your Lordship, you must not!" came the voice of one her advisers. His opinion was echoed by the rest of the band of negotiators from the city gathered under a flag of truce.

Larta turned and faced her men. "My defilement is preferable to the defilement of our entire city. Best one matron be debased than EVERY maiden and matron. How long can this tyrant keep his crown? My debasement shall not be prolonged. If the gods are just, one day I shall be returned to you and we can all remember and praise this moment, the hour when peace first dawned."

Larta turned once more and met the level stare of Marek. She inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. At last, she stated, "On behalf of my people. I accept your terms." Her gaze quickly fell to the ground.

While the delegation from Larta's city gasped, Marek smiled and replied "Excellent!"

After a pause for the new reality to set in, Marek eyed the now former lord of the city and stated, "Why is this slave dressed as a free woman?"

He turned to two of his generals and commanded, "Strip her, but do not ruin her clothing."

Larta was a proud and modest woman. Since she had become an adult, only her late and greatly lamented husband had seen her naked. Rog had been an excellent husband and, she thought, a skilled lover. The only sadness in their married life was their seemingly inexplicable childless state. No doctor had ever diagnosed a problem with either of them. In time, Larta concluded that the gods made them childless so that nothing would impinge upon their happiness as a couple. It was not a good explanation she knew, yet the lie gave her comfort. And then Rog had become ill. Against cancer, the doctors could do nothing. In a matter of months, Larta had gone from diplomat's wife to lord of the entire city. With no son to take the reigns, tradition had placed Larta in the seat of power.

She had ruled to the best of her ability. Using Rog's example as a model, she had done a fine job in administrating the city and surrounding farms. The current tribute that her city could offer the beast Marek was created almost entirely by initiatives instituted by Larta. Yet, she felt that she had done only what her husband would have. Her advisers knew better, however, Larta was more capable and fairer than her husband had been and the city prospered as a result. Any grumbling over the highest office being occupied by a woman had long since died out. More than one diplomat gathered under the flag of truce wondered how their fair city would continue to prosper without Larta to steer it.

Larta spied the hulking generals approaching her and blanched. Her word was an inviolate bond however so she stood and willed her body to be lax and yielding. Marek the Bold's generals were far more homely as their master, who had a sort of brooding intensity and firm but handsome features that fascinated. The taller one bore a livid scar down one side of his face which also lacked most of its ear. The shorter one was younger but with a bearing that radiated menace nearly as intensely as Marek's own. As repellent as the first man was, Larta realized that this second man was far more dangerous.

Simultaneously, Larta felt hands at her earlobes and ankles as her gold earrings were removed and the stays to her sandals loosened. Subtle pressure on each thigh, in turn caused her to raise her foot as left and right footwear was removed. Hands went to the back of Larta's neck and manipulated the catch to her necklace of gemstones and silver. The bracelets on her wrists were also removed. Larta was surprised when the barbarians seemed to ignore her wedding band, which she had, some time ago, moved to her right hand. Larta realized that she was out of jewelry.

She felt the toga being worked off her shoulder and down her trim body. It tumbled to the sod floor of the barbarian king's tent. Larta was urged to step forward, out of her cast off toga. She stood now in just her underwear and bandeau. Marek the Bold truly enjoyed the vision before him. Larta possessed fine, flawless skin, long coltish legs, appealing hips and an intriguing navel. He was sure that the breasts concealed but the bandeau would be as perfect and that her loins would be thatched with the same honey gold as her head. The generals stripping Larta took their own appreciative stares, drinking in the former politician's intoxicating beauty.

The Bandeau fell to the floor, revealing to firm breasts adorned with light brown areolas and sharp pink nipples. Unlike other women her age, Larta had never nursed, so her hillocks of femininity owned no sag. To the barbarian king's eyes, they were virtually indistinguishable from those of a young maiden. Marek nodded at his men and Larta's final garment was tugged away. Feeling more naked than she thought possible, Larta felt every eye upon her exposed body and naked sex. She flushed with embarrassment and wished herself a million miles away or that the earth would open up and swallow her. Neither happened, the world remained stubbornly in place, its horrors not abating a bit.

Larta was instructed to keep her head up and turn in a slow circle, appalling the woman to her bones. As she turned, Marek the Bold noted how deliciously turned was Larta's buttocks and thighs, The firmness in his trousers grew more erect. Even in her chagrined state, Larta was acutely aware of the devouring gaze of every eye in the room. She noted that her own delegation, while striving manfully to avoid looking in her direction, still took occasional peeks at her revealed body. Larta felt sure that she would die of embarrassment and avidly wished her spirit would exit her body immediately.

Marek the Bold gestured at Larta's hand and stated, "Surrender the ring."

Larta's face twisted with emotion, "Sire," she replied,"it is all I have of my late husband."

Marek crossed his arms across his chest and stated firmly, "You are through being a widow. Every part of your old life has been erased. Surrender the ring or I will take your finger and the ring with it."

Tears came to Larta's face as she sadly twisted off the token of fidelity which meant so much to her and which symbolized so much and placed it in the upturned palm of one of the generals. Even though every part of her had already been exposed the loss of this item caused her even greater shame.

Like someone outside her own body, Larta noted that the clothing which had been stripped from her was neatly folded, sandals atop intimates atop toga. She saw the bundle transferred to the arms of one of her men and heard Marek the Bold state, "We return the politician's attire as a sign to all of you that, if I desire, EVERY resident of your city will receive the same treatment."

He then turned to his generals who had retained Larta's jewelry, "Meltdown the ring, gift the earrings and bracelets to your wives. Break up the necklace, distribute its gems to your daughters, and your whores."

He gazed intently at Larta and commanded, "Come here, woman."

Somehow, Larta forced her legs to transport herself to the very foot of the throne.

Marek the Bold opened his pants producing a massive length of rigid manhood.

"Suck." he stated forcefully.

Larta understood that, while her men were present, this was to be her final debasement. Marek was making his point as clearly as a signal fire at midnight. Her men had seen their leader stripped and humiliated, now she was to be reduced to a thing, an organic pleasure toy for the barbarian king and there was NOTHING they nor she could do to prevent it!

Tears streaming down her face, Larta brought her body into contact with the barbarian's leather clad legs. In all her life, having only lain with one modestly endowed man, she was unprepared to encounter a phallus so long and girthy. She began to tentatively explore his manhood with her tongue. Disgust building in her, Larta encircled the head of the penis with her mouth. Recalling the many times she had pleasured her husband this way, Larta tried to force herself to believe that it was his penis she was pleasuring and not a vile oppressor. She never did believe that lie but somehow, her task became easier.

Her head bobbed up and down, taking in just a bit more of the rod with each successive thrust. At last, she felt the tip of his shaft, pressing against the back of her throat. Fighting the instinct to gag, Larta redoubled her efforts. Suddenly, Marek seized the back of her head and held it fast while he emptied himself deep inside her mouth.

Larta withdrew as Marek's manhood lost its tumescence. With a sputter and gag and mostly out of reflex she discovered that she had swallowed nearly the entire load of vile cum. Feeling miserable and so full of shame and dread, she felt sure she would die, Larta was completely unprepared for Marek's next move. He removed a slave collar with an attached length of chain which had been concealed in the cushions of his throne, grabbed Larta forcefully and locked the ring about her neck.

"Behold! The only adornment you shall ever again wear!" Announced Marek to all present.

While Larta continued to cry and sputter the barbarian turned to the delegation of civilized men and stated, "Remember what you have learned this day. I expect my tribute at Noon tomorrow, and it had best be impressive. Now begone, the lot of you!"

Larta watched the delegation from her city make their exit as she tugged at the unyielding collar around her neck. Most of the men were gentlemen enough to avoid actually looking at her. The eyes who met hers, however, were full of sympathy and concern for her. As Larta spied the last of her men exit the tent, she felt the most alone of her life. Not even the initial sadness at the loss of her beloved husband had left her as bereft.

Shortly after the delegation from the city had exited the tent, Marek the Bold made an elaborate gesture and everyone else, save for a few guards exited the royal tent. Larta was alone with Marek. Her loneliness and fear were profound.

Marek the Bold, tugged on the chain attached to Larta's collar and pulled her closer. Her head came to rest upon his lap. The barbarian stroked her blonde hair with a surprising amount of gentleness.

"You have nothing now, not even a name, woman. Yet, if you focus solely upon obeying and satisfying me, you will find a contentment your previous life lacked."

Larta's hot gaze met that of her enslaver, "That is most unlikely, Sire." she stated bitterly.

Marek laughed and replied, "Naturally you do NOT feel that way now. But believe me when I state that you are a woman of rare beauty and wisdom whom I will treasure. While I am perfectly capable of using violence to make women such as you comply, I find that a gentle hand results in more pleasure for both me and the woman in question. Because of this, I will teach you your proper role with kindness, so long as you strive to obey and please me. In time, you will regret the years you did not spend as a man's property."

"Again," replied Larta in a numbed voice, "that is most unlikely, Sire."

Marek pulled Larta onto his lap and stated. "Those beautiful ruby lips should be kept busy so that they are not complaining. Kiss me, woman."

Larta held her lips firm in the face of the unwanted assault upon them by the barbarian's ravenous lips and tongue, at least for a while. Larta understood that the barbarian was quite capable of violence, the heads on the stakes outside his tent proved his penchant for terror was not mere gossip. Larta realized that her fate, for as far as she could see at present was to be used. Her debasement could come in one of two forms, either to be badly used or gently used. Larta knew there were limits to her martyrdom, being enslaved to save her people was one thing. To endure pain every day after that was quite another thing. Always gifted at mathematics, Larta calculated the difference between capitulation and cooperation upon her psyche and body as opposed to rebellion and resentment. In a nonce, she understood cooperation was her only sensible option. Yes, she would be humiliated and shamed daily but at least she would not be beaten or tortured. Willing herself to relax, for the first time she met the barbarian's kisses with her own. To her surprise, the uncivilized barbarian was quite adept at kissing. She and Rog had enjoyed kissing a great deal, more so than most couples in fact. Larta had missed the closeness of a man, the simple intimacy of kissing. Since his passing, a few diplomats who served under her had made overtures but Larta thought it disrespectful to her late husband's memory to even think of marrying again or to even share a bed with another man in a night of pleasure apart from her vow of marriage. The years since Rog's passing had left her lonely indeed. Forcing all thoughts away except sating the Barbarian's hunger, Larta imagined the huge warrior was her beloved Rog and, truth be told, it wasn't bad at all.

Marek broke off the kiss and manipulated Larta until her back was to him as she was settled on his lap. His eel-like manhood was aroused once more. Larta let out a gasp as she felt his maleness enter her secret place. He was MUCH larger that Rog and it had been several years since Larta had been penetrated. Two years into her widowhood, she had even cast away the stone phallus with which she had pleasured herself in the lonely hours. It had seemed almost perverse in her mind that she continue to enjoy herself while her husband's ashes sat upon the hearth in an urn. Larta had taken that deferred desire and turned it into statecraft. Even so, the fires of passion had never truly been extinguished.

Larta felt the Barbarian's warm hands explore her body. His nimble fingers expertly tweaked her nipples and massaged her flesh. In her ear, she felt his hot breath as he nibbled upon her ear lobes while extolling her beauty with words and in a manner that did not seem like simple flattery. As Marek slid Larta's body up and down the former diplomat was horrified to realize that her body was responding! She tried thinking of anything to get her mind and body to focus anywhere. Larta pictured herself hearing that her childless state was permanent. She forced herself to remember Rog's face contorted in pain. She placed herself at the foot of her husband's bier, igniting it into a pyre with her own hands. Still, the orgasm, like a determined burglar, caught her and Larta gasped in rapturous surrender as the barbarian emptied his seed into her quim. Larta hung her head in disgrace, THIS debasement was by far the worst!

Marek laughed softly and held Larta tight. "Your body cannot deny what it needs. Now that you are with a real man and not a girl-man from the city, you can be the woman the gods have called you to be."

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