A sudden lack of movement tumbled Aithne from chaotic dreams that slipped from her mind with alacrity, leaving only a tainted residue of disoriented horror as her eyes cracked open to see the first blushes of pink painted against the star-laden sky.

 

Her arms ached and her legs felt numb. She shook her head. There was no time for this - if they had stopped, HE would be expecting her to…

 

The thought froze in her mind as the memories of the night before crashed in concert with the sudden opening of the tail of the wagon. Rough hands reached in and yanked at the still unconscious Borkul, dragging him from the cart (and off her legs - apparently he had rolled onto her during the night), leaving only half-congealed blood in his wake. She heard a dull thud as his body hit the ground without ceremony or care. The hands reached for her next, but at least they put her on her feet once out of the cart. Or tried to – her numb legs sprang to needle-point life and gave out the moment her weight was placed on them and she began to topple. The nearest solider caught her, then laughed as he held her up, supporting her wavering frame with one arm that wrapped around her in such a way that his hand cupped her right breast.

 

“What are we going to do with his slave?” The soldier’s query didn’t seem to be directed at any one in particular, but one man turned from where Borkul lay and peered at her with disinterested eyes. It took two heartbeats for Aithne to realize she recognized the man’s uniform and insignia – he was  Prefect!  They were Imperial soldiers! How had she not noticed it before? If only she could talk, she could tell them she was one of them! She tried to speak through the gag but only got a sharp twist of her nipple (which turned her attempted but futile words into a muffled yelp) in response.

 

“Slaves of captured insurgents are to be sold to the closest approved dealer, as you’re well aware, Private,” the Prefect responded.

 

“Yes sir, but he’s not really an insurgent, right? More like a criminal.”

 

The Prefect snorted. “Nice try, Private, but you can’t keep her. There are plenty of whores in town and slaves in camp. Put your dick away.”

 

“Yes, sir.” The Private sounded a little sulky and he didn’t move his hand, but he didn’t take any further action except to drag Aithne with him as the company formed up around Borkul, now hanging from a long pole like a wild boar, and marched forward.

 

Aithne hadn’t paid much attention to their surroundings upon arrival, so it came as a bit of a shock to see the giant metal doors that opened to a city that appeared to have been carved out of a mountain. She only got a glimpse of dizzying heights and narrow bridges spanning the cliffs above before the company turned down a road that led to a flatter, more open area filled with industry.

 

They came to a crossroads between a furrier and a silversmith and the Prefect gestured to the right. “Private, take the slave to Bertrand and meet us at the mine.”

 

“Yes sir!” The Private, hand still clutching her breast, yanked her out of formation and they set off up the gently sloping road. Aithne glanced back with desperation growing in her heart as the rest of the soldiers carried Borkul the opposite direction. That same feeling of hatred and longing filled her and…

 

“Finally.”

 

Aithne’s attention snapped back to her soldier, whose steps had become more rushed, his grip a little harder. She stumbled, trying to keep up, and he grunted and lifted her off her feet, carrying her forward.

 

They came to a dim alcove, a place where the natural cliff had been carved away to form some steps to one side but left alone on the other. The soldier set her down and pressed her against the wall. It didn’t take long for her to catch on to what was happening, helped in no small part by how he fumbled at his belt.

 

“All right, slut, get ready. You’ve never been dicked like this before.”

 

Fortunately, though she had (mostly) broken Borkul’s grip on her mind, her training took over with what she felt must have been an audible snap, and she did not laugh out loud at his proclamation. Not that the gag would have allowed that anyway. However, as he jerked his leggings down (his already-rigid dick was slightly shorter and significantly thinner than average, she noted with a practiced glance), she realized she faced a lubrication problem. Always, since the first time in public, however many long months ago that had been, Borkul had slathered oil on her parts. The initial entry had always been a bit scratchy as the dicks hit inner dry areas, but those had always been smoothed out after a few strokes. Now, though, the Private was apparently going to enter her raw, which would hurt, even if his dick was smaller than average.

 

As he got his pants to the ground and reached for her breasts with both hands, she closed her eyes and thought of…HIM.

 

As before, she was hit with a sudden wave of contradictory feelings. She tried to quell the revulsion and hate and focus on the lust and longing. She pictured his giant green cock with its ridiculously large veins that pulsed at her touch, imagined stroking it, having it in her, pounding at her, feeling like it might break all the way through her. Her body responded, in the nick of time, as the Private pushed her legs apart with his knee and shoved himself in.

 

She needn’t have bothered, perhaps- she barely felt him. The angle he chose was all wrong for his size. He should have laid her flat on her back, at least, or, better, bent her over and entered from the rear. As it was, he got little more than the tip in. It seemed enough for him, though – he grunted and pushed (though he fell out a few times in the process) with all the effort he appeared to be able to manage. Aithne began to feel a little sorry for him and arched her back, angling her own body as well as she should to compensate. Pent up need more than anything else carried the day for him – after a handful of minutes, he froze, straining. She felt him spurt, more onto her than into her. Somehow, though the entire thing was technically rape, the experience left her feeling disappointed and unfulfilled. He seemed to feel otherwise.

 

“There!” He had a smug look on his face as he yanked his leggings back up. “You were certainly wet! Never had someone like me, I’ll wager. Bet you wish the Prefect had let me keep you!”

 

She nodded, like the good slave she was, while his spunk began to slide down her thigh. He laughed and grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the wall.

 

Up the stairs, then, and along a stone path to the slave market. The Private sauntered in, explained with a pompous voice why they were there to a reedy man wearing spectacles. The man looked Aithne up and down, said, “very well,” then gestured to another man who was a head taller than the Private and who stepped forward and took Aithne’s other arm. The Private looked uncertain for a moment until the bespectacled man said, “You may go.”

 

“Um…” The Private began to stammer about payment but the smaller man cut him off.

 

“The military’s account will be credited, you need have no fear.”

 

It took a few more befuddled seconds, then the Private let go with reluctance and trudged out, looking deflated.

 

“All right,” Bertrand (or so she assumed) said as he faced Aithne, “let’s have a look at you. If we remove those bindings, are we going to have trouble?”

 

Aithne shook her head.

 

“Very good. You, of course, realize what will happen to you if that turns out to be untrue?”

 

She nodded this time, otherwise standing still and impassive, as she had been taught. Hope tried to raise its head – if they took out the gag…but she knew it was a false hope. Even if he believed her, he had paid money for her now. He would not easily be persuaded to lose the chance to regain it.

 

Bertrand nodded at his large helper – not as large as Borkul (the thought sent another spike of lust and loathing through her), but taller than most – who cut through her bindings with a quick slash, followed by a more precise cut to the rope that formed her makeshift gag. She just restrained herself from rubbing her chaffed wrists and licking her parched mouth; her training held true, and she stood quietly, hands at her sides, watching the slaver and waiting.

 

“My, you have been trained, haven’t you?” Bertrand’s toothy smile wrinkled up his face in what, in other circumstances, she might have considered a cute way. 

 

“Sir…” The big man’s voice was incongruously high but it got Bertrand’s attention.

 

“I see your escort had his way with…hm?” Aithne kept perfectly still as Bertrand joined his assistant behind her. A moment later, she heard a curse. “Look at that damage! She’s worthless!” He circled back around and stood frowning in front of her. “I guess those lessons were hard taught. I have never seen so much permanent damage! You must have been quite the recalcitrant one.”

 

She was tempted – sorely so! – to defend herself. No, I wouldn’t, it wasn’t my fault, it was just the constant… But she held herself still and quiet as he continued.

 

 Or…” He picked at his lip with a finger, “…perhaps you just had one of those psychotic masters who just love to torture people.”

 

Closer to the truth, but this time she blazed to jump to Borkul’s defense. No! He was nothing but wonderful to me! Which her other half immediately decried as the lie it was, but still, he would never! Except he had. But that was…

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Bertrand sighed and turned away. “I won’t be able to recoup my investment in you. At best, I’ll manage an Eagle by selling you to the mine and…”

 

“Did you say an Eagle?”

 

The voice came from behind Aithne, but she knew better than to look, even as her heart and stomach dropped. Sell her to a mine. She would be chained and locked away in darkness for the rest of her days, never to see the sun again. She fought against the tremble that threatened to break her demeanor even as Bertrand’s voice came back into focus.

 

“Yes, all right. Let me just process her properly and she’s all yours. Cichlid! Shave and brand her for me, will you? Hm? Oh, ah…number 84, I believe we’re at. Yes, I have it right here.”

 

Aithne couldn’t stop the wince at the word “brand.” She had suffered through so many, she already knew how extreme the pain was. She began to quake, despite her best efforts. Cichlid took her by the arm and, though she would have walked despite her trepidation, yanked her to a small blacksmithy at the side of the platform. She recognized most of the things she saw there, including the heavy wooden X with the wrist and ankle straps that dominated one wall. He pulled her to it and began to turn her, but she took the opportunity when his hands briefly lifted to place herself against the cross, arms up, legs spread, wrists and ankles aligned with the manacles. He grunted and nodded approval as he tightened the manacles and turned away.

 

The shaving wasn't too bad - he dumped an unceremonious bucket of water over her head and, while she shivered in the sudden chill, picked up a pair of shears and chopped her hair close, tossing the tresses in the forge as he went, then switched to a razor to finish the job. It felt freeing, in a way - a weight had literally been lifted from her head. But that left the part she dreaded.

 

It was not one brand, or even two. She was branded four times – two instances each of the numbers eight and four - and each hurt worse than the one before, a rare instance where the anticipation was decidedly not worse than the actual fact. She knew they were coming but could not hold back the screams as the hot metal seared her skin, first her right ass check, then on her chest directly above her left breast. She nearly blacked out each time and considered it a sign that she was cursed by the gods when she did not.

 

Once finished, Cichlid released her restraints. Aithne stumbled forward but managed to keep her balance, though the floor heaved at her in a mockery of an invitation. She took some deep breaths and allowed herself to close her eyes for a brief moment. It was at that moment that she felt something cool and soothing on her skin. She opened her eyes to find Bertrand standing in front of her, holding a cloth that smelled of medicine to the brand on her chest, while another hand – Cichlid’s, no doubt – pressed something similar to her sore ass.

 

“I do detest that part of the job, but it must be done, I’m afraid,” the slave master said as he dabbed at her chest. “It is unfortunate that healing potions remove the brands if given too soon – it would be nice to be able to alleviate the pain immediately. These poultices are the best we can do.” He turned away from the incredulous Aithne to hold the jar out to a man by the door she had not noticed. A Nord, by the look of him, with a soft face and a thick mustache. He wore a dun-colored robe with the hood pulled up and a golden rope for a belt. Other than a couple pouches attached to the belt, he seemed to have no other adornments. “You will need to apply this twice a day for the next three days if you don’t want to lose her before you’ve had any time with her. Those brands can get infected if you’re not careful.”

 

“I understand,” the man said, taking the pot of salve and tucking it inside his pouch.

 

“Very good. Just sign here…and here. And the money…perfect, she’s all yours. And I thank you! Breaking even is a win with a slave like this.”

 

“I’m glad we could come to an understanding.” The man had a soft, soothing voice. He beckoned to Aithne and she blinked as everything clicked into place. She had been bought!

 

Fortunately, her legs were smarter than her brain, and she had already begun to walk to him by the time she understood what had happened. She stopped in front of him and waited, as she had been trained. Her new master looked her over. One of his hands reached out, stopping just an inch from her right nipple before slowly retracting. He smiled, a curiously disarming expression. “It gets cold. We’ll have to get you some clothes for the road.” He frowned. “And a new collar. I know just the one. Sir?

 

Five minutes later, Aithne followed her new master from the slave market, collarless for the first time since she could remember, the one Borkul had procured dumped without ceremony in a box of junk metal. She told herself she wouldn’t miss it, that it represented all the bad things that had happened to her over the past…however many months it had been. Yet some part of her yearned to run back, to try to keep that last vestige of what she had lost. That part wept in internal silence as she followed her new master farther away from HIM.

 

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