The Pure and the Profane Ch. 02

Laela was asleep at the foot of his bed, a sweet slave girl, his nubile sister. Lord Jace appraised her, her slim, young body curled up against the cool dawn air.

She was naked of course, her breasts, heavy for her small frame, rising gently with every breath. Lush curves and a narrow waist, her lithe, dancer's body almost burning for a man's hard touch.

Her cleft was shaved bare, when she shifted in her sleep, he caught a glimpse of the moist pink pearl between her thighs. She murmured softly in her sleep, her body writhing lightly as though in the throes of a dream.

She could not move far, the collar around her neck was hooked to a leash tied to the bedposts. Soft velvet ties had been slipped around her wrists and attached together so that the mobility of her arms was reduced at all - he didn't want her touching herself for pleasure without his permission. He'd made her sleep on the cold marble floor the night before, her usual pallet tucked under his bed. He wanted her disoriented and uncomfortable, ready to beg for even a scrap of comfort or affection.

When they were children, she'd been under their father's protection - bastard-born or not. As a growing boy, he'd sometimes been curious about what lay underneath her smock - but she'd always been quick and nimble to run away from him. He'd pulled her braids and tossed stones at her in sour moods but she didn't belong to him and there was a limit to what he could do.

Now his father was dead and he was the head of the family, a great lord in his own right. And he could do as he pleased with her - strip her, whip her, fuck her. She could be his darling princess as his trueborn sister, Daenehra, was, cossetted and sheltered. Or she could be his filthy little whore, bearing his bastards and warming his bed, degraded in as many ways as he could imagine. There was no one to stop him.

He rose from his bed and pressed his feet gently into her belly, kneading with his toes as he would a fine rug. As the pressure increased, her eyes fluttered open and she squirmed, trying to get away - but tied as she was, there was nowhere she could retreat to.

"Slept well?" he said lightly.

She was short and sullen, this morning. "No," she snapped, forgetting herself. She curled her knees towards her stomach to defend herself.

He tsked. "That's no way to greet your loving brother in the morning."

"I hate you." Her pale green eyes, so like his own, were afire. Yesterday she had been demure and docile, stripped and deflowered though she was, the shock of the situation terrifying and disorienting her. Today she was ablaze with virtuous anger and he liked that, he liked a good fight.

"Cold?" he asked solicitously. He trailed his feet along her torso and pressed down firmly on her breasts. They were soft and cushiony, the dark nipples springing alertly to attention. He admired the contrast between his pale feet and her dusky, golden body. It didn't hurt her, not truly, but it made her more aware of how vulnerable she was.

"Yes," she said finally. "I should have had a blanket at the least."

"You belong to me," he said lazily, his toe tracing lazy circles on her chest and throat. "Your cunt, your tits, your skin, your soul. I decide what you should have."

He pressed his feet against her lips. "Suck," he ordered her.

Her eyes were wide with disgust and she jerked her head violently in a no.

"Laela," he chided her. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way. I like you, you're my precious sister and I want to be kind to you. But I can't be when you're as stubborn as a mule. Would you want me to shut you up on all fours in a barn like a mule, ready to be mounted by any slave who passes? I can, you know."

He reached down to tousle her hair. "Let's be reasonable," he said sensibly. "You can sleep in my room, you can eat at my table, you can be my pet, as cozy as a kitten. Or I can send you to the fields to slave all day under the sun and be fucked all night by the slaves and the overseers. The choice is yours."

She looked like she was going to cry but she mastered herself. She opened her little red mouth and began to suck on his toes. He chuckled and after a few minutes, pleased with her submission, bent down to untie her hands and the leash that kept her tethered to his bed.

She rose awkwardly, her back stiff from the hard night's sleep, and crouched into a sitting position. "Good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He wrinkled his nose. "You stink," he said pointedly and she blushed. She was used to pretty clothes, his other sister's castoffs, used to being clean and tidy and admired for her looks.

Today her eyes were crusty from sleep, dried blood still sticking to the inside of her thighs from her violent defloration the night before. Her thick black hair was disheveled, matted to her back. She smelt of sex. She didn't look like a girl who had once been her father's darling, she looked like a little whore.

He rang a bell to summon the slaves and ordered them to fill his bath with hot water. "Come sweetling," he said, holding out his hand to raise her to her feet. "I can be kind." And he intended to be, he liked to see her pretty and dainty, an ornament to be admired. He wouldn't hurt her.

The copper tub was filled with hot water and scented with crushed rose petals. He led her to it himself and she winced as she lowered her aching body into it. While the slaves watched, ready to offer assistance if needed, he soaped her hair himself.

She had beautiful hair, hanging down almost to her hips, as black as night. She was silent as he bathed her, silent as the slaves tipped cool water over her hair to wash away the soap. He used a fine white soap, fragrant as lavender, to clean her body. He paid special attention to her breasts and cunny, of course, enjoying himself as she squirmed under his attentions. She was small and daintily-made, a petite 5'3'' to his towering 6'2'' and he enjoyed feeling her delicate body, as fragile as a bird's under his hands.

"Why?" she asked finally.

"I'd wash a bitch the same way," he said lazily, "if she'd hurt herself on a good day's hunt." And he would, he had a kennel of prized hunting dogs and a stable of thoroughbreds and he was more solicitous of their welfare than he was of his slaves.

"So I am to be your bitch." Her face was twisted with sullenness. "My father wanted more for me."

"Then why did he never free you?"

She opened her mouth and closed it, fuming. He laughed and signaled the slaves to bring the towels. He dried her and chose a citric fragrance for the slaves to spray over her - at her throat, her wrists and between her thighs. They oiled her limbs while he watched, so that her skin gleamed like polished bronze. She smelt like an orangery in summer. Her damp hair curled in tendrils down her shoulders and her eyes were heavy-lidded from the warmth. Naked and sleek with oil, she looked wild and wanton, ready to tumble into a man's bed for an afternoon of delights.

"I could dress you," he mused to himself, "but why hide such a piece of art?" She was gorgeous and helpless and she belonged to him, he felt his cock harden at the thought. "Come."

He held her in his lap in the atrium as he broke his fast. He decided what to feed her and how much - the sense of control was exhilarating. He sliced fruit with a small knife and his hands were sticky with their juice. Under his teasing fingers, her dark nipples budded, syrupy from the juice. He could feel the heat of her languorous body against the fine cambric of his shirt. She was changing, from the prim little virgin she had been only yesterday. He would make her his wanton.

"Father did want to free you, you know," he said idly, allowing her to sip water. "On his deathbed, he asked me to free you when you were of age. Make you a decent marriage - perhaps to Nahuel."

"Nahuel?" She asked. It was the clerk who had measured her body the day before at his command.

"Poor man," Lord Jace sighed theatrically. "What a delicious little wife you'd be - but perhaps I'll let him sample you if he does me good service. I thought I'd rather keep you for myself, what use is a bastard sister when she's not even my slave? I have a trueborn sister already, to make me an advantageous marriage."

He held a slice of mango temptingly to her lips. When she opened her mouth to bite, he held it away teasingly. "Kiss me like a good sister," he ordered her.

She wrinkled her nose and pecked drily at his cheek.

He laughed and set the mango slice down. "No," he said, "kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me like a lover. Or I'll see to it that you're not fed today."

"I've never kissed anyone," she said baldly. "What would I know of it?"

"Liar," he said amiably. He knew she'd been sneaking out with one of the slaves - harmless kisses of course but she was not as innocent as she tried to pretend to be.

She blushed at being caught in her lie. But she was hungry enough to try to make a good attempt of it. She kissed like a young girl, awkward and untutored. But her lips were as soft and red as rose petals and there was something very charming in her innocence.

She began tentatively, pressing her lips lightly against his. Her lips parted slightly and he slid his tongue down her throat. She gasped. Unbidden, her arms slid around his neck, her ripe breasts pressing against him.

She was enjoying herself, she could not help it, he was a good kisser. He slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. One hand began to trace lazy circles around her belly, in a moment he would make her writhe with desire.

"Must you do this at breakfast?"

It was his other sister, Lady Daenehra, scowling and tight-lipped. Laela tried to pull away, scarlet, but Jace's hands tightened around her, holding her in place.

"And a good morning to you too, my sweet sister," he said amiably.

"I need the girl," Dae said baldly. "I'm going shopping."

"I was just done with her," Jace said, slapping Laela's rump fondly. "You must sing for your supper, sweetling."

She seemed almost reluctant to leave, would she prefer her brother's degradations to her sister's petty cruelty? "I must dress," she said cautiously but Jace waved her away dismissively.

"Take her naked," he ordered Dae. "There's naked slaves aplenty in the market."

"The ones waiting to be sold," Laela protested, horrified. It was one thing to be stripped naked in the house, among slaves and servants who would not dare touch her without the master's permission. But out in the open market-

"You don't understand," she began to protest.

"The sun will be good for you," Jace said airily. "Now no more of that unless you'd like to go gagged as well." At the last moment he seemed to take pity on her. "She can have her shoes," he said magnanimously. "My sister's feet should be soft."

Laela followed her smirking mistress out of the atrium. She stopped briefly to lace up her worn sandals and then followed Lady Dae into the carriage, meaning to enter, as she always did when she accompanied her to the market.

Lady Dae stopped her. "You can sit outside with the coachman," she said imperiously. "Since you're so fond of flaunting your body, you can show it off to the world."

She's jealous, Laela thought dully, climbing up next to the coachman. He was delighted to share his seat with the beautiful, naked young woman and could barely keep his eyes on his horses.

Lady Dae was a handsome young woman with her silver-gilt hair and apple green eyes but she tended to plumpness after a lifetime of indulgence. Laela's skin and hair might be unfashionably dark but her body was slender and tight from a life of hard work. She knew that her trueborn sister envied her that.

Laela felt that the whole world was ogling her as they drove past the estate and the surrounding farms, into the capital and the bustling market district.

Nobles wore silk and jewels, freedmen linen and cotton and slaves rags but few were naked, except the ones to be sold. And there were very few naked young slave women and none of them beautiful. The prized beauties were sold in speciality emporiums, their bodies not exposed to the common eye or the vulgar touch. Laela was a novelty.

They made their way down a shady tree-lined avenue to a line of fashionable womens' shops - dressmakers, seamstresses, jewelers and hairdressers.

The coachman leaped down to help Lady Dae down when they reached their destination. Laela followed behind Lady Dae, a silent shadow.

The dressmaker's shop was cool and quiet, filled only with women, and she felt her tense shoulder relax. A row of ladies' maids lined a corner and Laela scuttled over until her mistress needed her.

She knew them from past occasions socializing and they looked at her with horrified curiosity but dared not speak.

Lady Dae was not shy - when the friends who she met at the shop asked if her maid was being punished, she loudly insisted that Laela had seduced their brother and had eagerly taken up the position of his whore. "She likes being naked," Lady Dae smirked. "She wants to be admired. If she had her way, she'd fuck every man and dog and horse in the house. Her appetite is insatiable."

That's not how it happened, Laela thought angrily. I was ravished. She preferred not to think of Lord Jace's kiss that morning, at the pleasure that he had unwillingly coaxed from her resistant body. I had no choice, she told herself firmly.

She was called upon several times to hold items, adjust fits and give opinions on the choice of colors and fabrics. Lady Dae enjoyed humiliating her, ordering her to kneel at her feet to help adjust a hem, slapping her with a glove when she was deemed slow.

The same performance was repeated at all the other shops. At the jewelers' there were men and when they modeled necklaces on her for Lady Dae to peruse, their hands skimmed her breasts and buttocks as they pretended to help. Lady Dae did not mind, she seemed to the enjoy the idea of her slave sister being touched by unknown men.

At the hairdresser's, Lady Dae wanted a footstool and none were soft enough for her. For over an hour, Laela was made to kneel at her feet so that her sister could rest her cushioned feet on her back. While Lady Dae's hair was twisted into fashionable ringlets and braids, Laela's knees and back burned. Clippings of hair scratched her palms and sweat trickled down between her breasts.

Lady Dae stopped at a fashionable eatery to lunch and gossip with friends but of course no one thought to offer Laela food. She sweltered on the coachman's box in the afternoon sun, tired and dizzy and hungry.

The coachman said that she could eat with him and his friends at the back of the establishment but she didn't dare. She didn't want to know what they would do to her and so she went hungry.

It was early evening by the time they returned home. Laela was weighed down with Lady Dae'a parcels. A headache was hammering at her as she dutifully deposited the items in Lady Dae's room. She would need to unpack and put them away later but for now, she made her way to the kitchens to try to get something to eat.

Unluckily for her, Lord Jace caught her as she passed by his rooms.

"You look like the dead," he told her amiably.

She bared her teeth at him, too tired to be circumspect. "I feel worse than I look."

He put aside the scrolls he was reading and patted the divan next to him. "Rest your feet. Dae must have led you a merry dance today."

She sat reluctantly. He poured her a glass of wine and she shook her head.

"Drink," he ordered, "your lord and master commands it."

The wine was sweet and heady, a burgundy that went straight to her head. She threw back her head, her hair slipping in glossy coils down her back and glinting gold in the last rays of the sunset. She saw him watching, admiring her beauty.

Beauty is power, she thought, but she had never felt so powerless in her life. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, her lips stained scarlet as she sipped her wine.

Her eyes were panther green, large and wide-set and slanted slightly, almost like a cat's. Her cheekbones were high and her lips full, her face a perfect oval, marred only by a nose that was wider and rounder than was fashionable. When she smiled, a dimple dented her right cheek.

Jace traced a whorl under her right eye. "I like you better smiling," he said. "Don't make me tattoo a tear under your eye."

She faced him directly, the alcohol making her brave. "Do you want me to love you?" Was that what he wanted of her - her adoration, her submission?

He threw back his head and laughed and she shrank back from him. "I don't want anything from you, pet," he said. "I own you. I can make you anything I want."

"No, you can't." She lay back down on the divan, her hair swinging down and pooling on the marble floor. As he watched, she slowly spread her legs and let him have a good look at her cunt. She traced her fingers between the rosy inner lips of her labia. "You can't make me enjoy it."

She began to touch herself, feeling daring and wanton. Faster and faster, she stroked herself, slipping another finger in and out of her vagina, to the rhythm that she knew best. His lips parted as he watched the show.

Her hips moved in time and she began to moan softly, unable to help herself. She had only experienced this at night, muffling her moans in a blanket so as not to awake her mistress. But now she was naked and exposed. The room was lit by the last rays of the sun and her brother was watching her, licking his lips greedily.

"You can't make me want you," she gasped hoarsely.

She came quickly and hard. When her breathing slowed down, the shame overcame her. Her fingers were sticky with her own juices and he was still watching her, silent and contemplative. She sat up unsteadily, drawing her knees to her chest.

A slave came to light the lamps and candles in the dark room. He was like a statue as he watched her, her cheeks aflame with humiliation, dizzy from the wine and exhaustion.

He was one of the most handsome men she'd ever seen and he looked it now, his eyes as green and opaque as a mossy pool, the candlelight sliding over his chiseled face and burnishing his pale hair.

He rang a bell to summon food, but still he did not speak to her. She drew her arms over her knees and let her hair curtain as much of her face and body as she could. She was ashamed now, ashamed of her nakedness, her wantonness, her helplessness.

"Eat," he said, not unkindly, when the food was laid out. She untwisted herself and cautiously took a portion of flatbread and roasted meat. She was grateful at the chance to feed herself and then flinched to think at how low she'd fallen - grateful to not be fed like an animal on his lap.

"Father wanted me to be kind to you," he mused.

"He was always kind to me," she said guardedly.

He leaned forwards, mischief in his eyes. "He told me a secret before he died. Do you want to know?"

She shook her head, she didn't want to know, she didn't want any part of his twisted games. But he told her anyway.

"He wanted to fuck you too," Jace hissed, his smile cruel. "He said you reminded him too much of your mother, who died too young. It shamed him, to want to bed his nubile daughter."

Jace leaned back and shrugged. "Maybe he would fucked you too, if he'd lived longer and you'd grown into womanhood."

She wanted to retch. It was as though he had spit in her face. He had taken something so pure and untouched, her father's memory, and made it vile and besmirched. From the smug look on his face, she knew that was what he had wanted. It might have been a lie, but it could also easily have been the truth. She remembered the way her father would look at her sometimes, when he thought she was not aware.