The Black Tent

His camp was up beyond the Long Way at the very north end of the campground. He had put in for it early the previous year and hadn't been surprised when everyone let him have it without question. It was to hell and gone from the shopping, the store, even the battlefields, but it was secluded and very dark in the evenings. On a clear, moonless night, he could sit up all night long and watch the stars and planets wend their eternal way across the sky.

For years he had concentrated on his pursuit, his obsession with astronomy. And at The War he could practice it. His camp was a period camp -- authentic on every possible detail from his raised Viking a-frame to his campfire to his meals using only preserved or freshly killed meats. The only inauthentic touch was an invention for stargazing, for tracking the movements of the stars in the heavens. He had designed it himself. It stood on a ground 10' square and was 7' high at the top. It was a very standard structure with angled poles at each corner and an 8' square frame at the top. And it was of black canvas, pure black walls and roof.

When it was shut, no light could enter, for the doors overlapped and tied to the posts. And even during the day, it was dark. The only light that could enter would come through the roof, for that was another flap that could be folded back to allow a (modern) telescope to look up and out. He often had wished that he could afford a period telescope, but they cost far more than his limited budget could afford. He shrugged each time he set up his viewing dome and allowed himself the pride of an inventor & owner of a dome that no other possessed.

He often spent all day cooking and relaxing in camp, his days passing slowly & leisurely. Only in the evenings did he leave, and then only to visit camps where period activities took place. Among his favorite leisure activities were gambling, drinking, singing, and whoring. One of his favorites was the Inn of the White Horse, a camp set up as a tavern. There he had often spent pleasant evenings playing draughts, hnaftafl, and kegls -- a form of bowling. And he won more often than he lost, including tonight.

He had bet heavily before, often dropping enough to buy many flagons of ale, but tonight he had decided to play the ultimate game, to wager his freedom. He had never felt the thrill before of putting it all on the line. For he was a remarkably independent man, used to be his own master, and other's as well. He was a true master of all situations he was in, but he decided to see what the other side of the life was like. So, he engaged a skilled kegls player, a wench who played every evening ... flirting, gulling, and then often taking her victims all evening long.

She intoxicated him, her fiery tresses below her shoulders, her green eyes flashing with laughter, her intelligence and skill obvious in all she did. She was tall, too, taller than the usual girl he went for. She was a challenge, both physically and mentally for him. And he had both won and lost against her at kegels and knew there was at least a 50% chance she would beat him. So he offered her his challenge:

One match, ten frames, winner takes the loser for one night of slavery.

She looked at him and was immediately aroused. She had played him before, sometimes ending up on top, sometimes losing, but she had often beaten him as the stakes rose and they drank more and more. Her skills became sharper as the evenings progressed, while his seemed to wane. She had regularly watched him and was bothered by his arrogance, his self-assurance, his authority. She could think of nothing better than to defeat him and take him as her slave and lover for a night. For she heard enough to know that he was a good lover, inventive, powerful, enduring. And she needed that type of man to bring her pleasure.

She played recklessly, seeming to hurtle herself down the ramp with the ball. The pins flew everywhere and she built up a seemingly insurmountable lead. But he came back, carefully aiming to keep deadwood on the platform, to gain the extra points they gained him. And gradually, imperceptibly, he caught her. Finally, in the last frame of the last game, they were tied. She took aim and rolled her final ball -- the pins clattered and fell -- a strike, all the pins on the floor, the platform swept clean. She was elated, for only the most fortunate shot could even duplicate the feat, let alone surpass it. He took a deep breath while looking her square in the eyes.

His gaze held hers as he rolled the ball. As his ball rolled noisily down the ramp, she looked at him and laughed, picturing the proud, almost arrogant baron on his knees before her, serving her dinner, morsel by morsel, sip by sip. The pins shook as the ball dropped onto the platform. And then they fell, rolling everywhere. A strike. As she looked, agonized, all rolled off the platform save one which clung precariously and settled to lie on the deck, dooming her. She groaned and he guffawed. He gave her a large goblet of wine and whispered in her ear, "As agreed, sweetling, next Wednesday, at 4:30, before Kingdom Court."

* * * * *

She walked the path carefully, slowly, considering her situation. She did not have to go to his camp. She could easily forget the whole stupid idea. After all, there were over 10,000 people in the campsite; he certainly would never try to force her to attend upon him, to be his slave. However, she felt a drive, a need to go on. She soared with the possibilities, to have an experience she had never had before.

When she arrived at the campsite, she stopped momentarily ... a gate stood before her. It was a simple log gate with runes carved into the lintel. She could not read them, but she sensed it was the name of the camp. "Egilsstad" he had said to her. Yes, that would be the first word, but following that was a string of words, each break marked by a • . The door was almost completely closed. No noise came from within. She called out, "Baron Egil? Hello, the camp?"

No answer. Only the bright sunshine and the soft buzzing of bees. She slowly pushed open the door and slipped inside. The door noiselessly slid back into place. She looked about her. The 3 tents were positioned in a semi-circle around the firepit which smoldered even now. All stood on walls, 4" wide by 12" high. All were A-frames, each with dragon's head framing pieces on the front edges. The center tent had elaborately painted dragon's heads, gold and red. And then there was a slight noise behind her.

She turned and found herself looking up at him. He was taller than she recalled in the tavern, at least 6" taller than her 5'10". He was dressed in a soft leather jacket over a linen shirt, a pair of cross-gartered red wool pants and low boots. His hair was pulled back into a braid, yet it hung to his waist. She longed to run her fingertips through it. She sighed inwardly, thrilled by his appearance. His blue eyes seemed to burn, but he laughed softly. "Welcome, my slave. Is this how you greet your Master?"

She inwardly gasped at the words ... slave ... Master. But she knelt, quickly and quietly. She had dressed as he requested in a robe, a chemise, a full peasant skirt, and slippers --- nought else. He reached down and unpinned her tresses, then shook them lose with his powerful hands. She felt a thrill course through her body. He took her by the hands and lifted her to her feet. He took the cloak from her and looked at her as she stood, hands in front, eyes lowered. The chemise did little to hide her full, firm breasts and the tight nipples.

His fingers lightly stroked her body, her hair. He looked her deep in the eyes and murmured, "Drink? Food? A slave should not be starved." He took her by the hand and led her to a table next to which she knelt on a feather cushion. He took meat for himself, then fed small gobbets to her, watching her open her lips to accept the food. When juice slid down her chin, he tilted her head up and licked it off. He gave her wine to drink, sweet red wine, and kissed her lips after she had partaken. She giggled and thought of how silly she looked. But his attention was wondrous, more than she could have expected. As she chewed and drank, his free hand lightly stroked against her nipples, causing them to extend and harden even more, begging for more attention.

"Now it is time for you to be trained," he whispered, "You shall feed me." He showed her how to take a small piece between her fingertips and bring it to his lips. And he lick and sucked the juices from them, as though they were more than fingertips. She felt the wine and more deep in her belly and moaned in ecstasy as he slowly taught her. She learned to feed him wine without spilling a drop, though it took three tries and her breasts caught the spills. The coolness of the wine on her chemise and her nipples agonized her already aching flesh and made her hotter yet.

Then he pronounced himself full and took her by the hands. "Come with me and learn how to dress your master," he commanded. She nodded and followed him to the third tent. In it was a small bed and a trunk, already opened. The garb in it was ready for him and it was exquisite: soft gray woolen tunic over a linen undertunic, and green woolen trousers, with yellow silk cross-garters. On the top of the pile was a pair of soft, buttery leather halfboots. A leather coronet lay along side the boots, as well as chains of amber, yellow, black, green, and brown.

He signaled for her to kneel before him. She shivered as she did so, feeling his closeness and his power taking her over. She wanted him to take her, to use her. He undid his belt and handed it to her. She unthinkingly rolled it and placed it on the small bed beside her. When she turned again, he directed her to undo the cloth cross-garters on his leggings. So it went, as he coolly stripped to his undertunic and breeches. They stayed on, though she could see his rigid cock and lightly stroked it through his breeches. His intake of breath confirmed his arousal.

But he remained steadfast and she slowly helped him dress, tie his cloth belt, turning the top of the trousers over it, fixing his cross-garters and his boots, brushing out his braid until his wavy gray and brown hair shone, and watching as he slipped on the gray tunic, the amber, the coronet. He sat on the bed after he was dressed and looked her deep in the eyes. He kissed her lips and she ran her fingers through the hair she had pulled and brushed loose. He stopped her and whispered, "Touch when you are told, only when you are told."

She lowered her eyes and murmured, "yes, my Master," the first words she had spoken in an hour.

He took the silk cross-garters he had worn that afternoon and chuckled, "These will see to that." And he tied her hands before her in a loose knot. She giggled, enjoying the game. And she shivered, enjoying the bonding. She wanted him desperately, and could hardly control herself.

He seemed to read her mind and kissed her deeply. But then he said, "But I must to court. What shall I do with you? Slaves are wont to escape."

She murmured, "Yes, my Master."

He took both hands and untied them. Then he looked at her and smiled, but he took a leather thong and tied her hands securely, yet not so tight as to hurt her permanently. She flinched, nonetheless, having never been so bound, not even in fun. And this, she felt, was in earnest.

He sensed her doubts and kissed her, stroking her body, her breasts, her ass, her face. He murmured, "You can slip these easily. Do not fear. No harm comes to those who give themselves to him totally."

He then took a leather lead from his pouch and attached it to the leather binding. He tugged the lead as he left the tent, and lead her past the firepit and between his tent and another. She struggled to keep her feet, but trippingly kept up with his brisk pace. He lead her to the Black Tent and opened the flaps. She looked at the interior which was very black. There was daylight seeping in from the doorway, enough to see a small table with a pitcher and goblet and a plate of bread and cheese, a locked box, a chair, and four "dogstakes" screwed into the ground. She recognized them because they were screw-shaped. They were, she knew from having seen them driven, 18" long, designed to keep even the largest pavilion steady in hurricane winds.

Again, she started to protest, but his embrace and whisper stopped her. "This place is safe, no one will molest your peace here." She willed herself to believe him and willingly walked in. He smiled and then he growled, "Remove your clothing, slave, and sit on the ground." She kicked off her slippers; he took them. She looked up at him, then slowly undid her skirt. It puddled on the ground. He reached down and took it. She then moved to untie her chemise, but he stepped in and cut the cord. It fell from her shoulders to the ground. He removed it from her reach, also, and unlocking the box, put her garb and cloak away from her reach.

He snapped the barrel-lock in place and put the key into his pouch. Even though the tent was warm, she shivered, her nipples hard and tight. He laughed and pushed her down between the stakes. As she landed, she realized that he was deadly serious, indeed, about this game. He took her leather lead and tied it to a stake, then bound an ankle to a stake, leaving her enough slack to be able to get to the food and drink. He smiled, "I have to present myself in court this evening, and I must dine before that. So, I will have to leave you here for a few hours. Be comfortable, but do not sit in my chair! Eat and drink. You can easily loosen your ties to use the privies if you need. But be certain you are in your place when I return, or I shall be forced to punish you. And you will not take kindly to my floggers."

He turned and left, closing the tent flap behind him. It was dark, with only a glimmer of light. She was alone.

* * * * *

She sat for a long time, on her knees, with her ass resting on her calves. She unconsciously assumed the classic slave position, with her back straight, shoulders back, head lowered, thighs spread slightly, and hands on her thighs. Her hair hung over her shoulder and across her breasts. She didn't think at first. She faced his chair.

After a time, her stomach growled and her thoughts turned to food. She moved to the table, finding her bonds gave her the freedom to move to all the corners of the tent. She found soft cheese and flat bread on the platter and a light, heady ale in the pitcher. She poured a goblet and ate and drank ravenously. The cheese tasted as soft as its texture, with a hint of pepper. The ale was sweet and light, with a musky taste. As she ate and drank, her thoughts turned to him.

He was strong, she knew that, yet he seemed gentle. He knew what he wanted and seemed to be able to read her mind. For she had come here eager, wanting to serve him, to be his plaything for a night. And she found herself becoming more curious as to what lay under those baggy breeches, that soft linen shirt. As she daydreamed of his body, his touch, his breath on her breasts, her thighs, her sex, she felt herself becoming wet and aroused. Her lips were slippery when she touched her sex and when she brought her fingers to her mouth, the taste was musky, salty, yet sweet, like the ale.

She poured herself another goblet and drank thirstily. She dozed briefly, then awoke, realizing that time had passed. She need to pee. But she was naked and the nearest port-a-john must be 50 yards down the road. She could not walk that far naked, exposed. Security would certainly sweep her up and dump her at the Point. She panicked briefly, angry at him for leaving her with nothing! Her need grew and she had to pee. She undid her bonds, leaving the wrist leathers in a loop so that she could put herself back in them when she returned. She peeked out of the tent. The sun was setting and its light shone on a statue in the back courtyard. She noted it briefly, then went looking for something to cover herself. She cautiously opened the flaps of his tent.

In it was a bed and storage boxes. The bed was huge, she thought, a feather mattress covered with sheepskin. The siderails rose to horses' heads and the headboard was a lattice work of carved oak. From it dangled more leather ties that ended in manacles, also of leather, lined with fur. She smiled inwardly, but her need was too great. She NEEDED to pee! She glanced about and saw, to her relief, a woolen cloak -- red with a gold trim embroidered in silk around the edges. She swept it off its hook and wrapped herself in it. The knobby wool rubbed against her nipples and made them harder than before. She snuck out of the camp and quickly walked the 50 yards to the privies. She relieved herself and headed back to the camp.

When she returned, the sun was lower. She kept the cloak wrapped about her as she walked back toward the tent. Surely he couldn't object to her borrowing it, for how else could she have used the privies? She approached the black tent but found that the sun still shone on the statue. She turned toward it and looked. It was about her height, a definite Viking with a long beard and conical cap. His hands grasped his prick which must have been 12" long! She realized that this was Freyr, the Fertility god. She saw streaks of blood on the statue and felt its power.

This wasn't just decoration. He sacrificed to the gods! She shivered deep inside, hoping that the blood wasn't human. Then she laughed at herself. Certainly not. Not in the 21st century. She felt compelled though, to honor this god. She made her own sacrifice, reaching between her legs and dipping her fingers into her wet, flowing sex. She brought forth her honey and stroked it on his lips and his prick. The wood seemed warm under her touch as she stroked the god's huge thick phallus.

She was suddenly thirsty and very warm under the cloak. She removed it, leaving it lying on the soft grass in front of the shrine. She bowed her head to the god and then turned and went back to the Black Tent.

Once inside, she reassumed the slave's position and reattached her bonds, tightening the wrist loops more securely than he had done. She sat, staring at his chair, wondering if he was as large as the god, anticipating taking him in her hands, her mouth, her cunt. Unthinking, she stroked her sex, dipping her fingers in and out, and pinched her nipples until she shuddered in a small, unsatisfying orgasm. Then, after drinking her third goblet of ale, she slept. And she dreamed, dreams she would not later recall, dreams that kept her aroused throughout her nap.

* * * * *

When she awoke, it was dark, totally, utterly dark. She felt the chill night air on her body as she stretched. But where was she? She shook her head and then sat up in fear. She was bound? But why? who? how?

She sat very still, trying to recall. As it came back to her, she changed her posture, rising to sit once again in the correct attitude of a slave. She faced the table and saw a red glimmer ... a candle in a red glass lantern. And in the chair sat him, her Master. She sighed groggily, but as the cobwebs cleared, she recalled why and how and who. She whispered, "Lord Egil, Master."

He chuckled softly and still sat, sipping his drink from his goblet. She looked up and was again surprised, for the roof was gone, the tent opened to the sky. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, she realized that her body was bathed by moonlight. He watched her through slitted eyes, then leaned over and extinguished the candle. He rose and approached her.

His hands moved quickly and quietly, untying her from the stakes. He whispered, "turn and kneel on all fours." She hurried to comply. Then he knelt and lashed her hands and feet to the four stakes, tightly, with no slack. He then rose and growled, "You failed to care for my possessions, you invaded my tent, you left my camp clothed. You are an evil slave to do such things."