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Sian's Story part 12 - A Lost Year


jfraser

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I spent roughly a year as Oron Piour's personal slave. He was some sort of Imperial army courier superintendent. His job was to make sure the courier lines in the southern holds of Skyrim remained working, to replace couriers that had been killed, to kill those that had tried to go AWOL, and just to keep everything running smoothly. My job was to carry stuff, set up and tear down his camp, and get fucked whenever he felt the need. If we came across Imperial encampments and spent the night there, he would often offer my services to whoever was in charge. He did not, thank God, offer me as entertainment for the general soldier populace. Not that they needed me - every camp seemed well stocked with its own supply of indentured whores. Indeed, some of the camps were low on supplies and food but had plenty of slaves. Priorities, right?

 

Blessings counted: two.

 

It was weeks before he let me roam more than a few steps away from his side. He kept a chain locked on my collar and kept the other end securely fastened to whatever was handy. He would bind my arms and gag me at night and do the same anytime he felt I was being the least bit recalcitrant. He did not hesitate to pull out his whip if he thought I was planning on trying anything, or if he had had too much to drink, or if one of his commanding officers had yelled at him, or any of a dozen other reasons, or no reason at all.

 

And, eventually, I counted myself lucky. As masters go, he was a good one, and I learned to keep my head down, to avoid showing emotion in any way, no matter what was happening around me. I started to anticipate his needs, to have food ready for him when he woke (once he was trusting enough to keep my arms unbound at night), to have the camp torn down and everything packed by the time he was done eating. I learned enough about his work that I was able to help, to have the papers he would need ready when he needed them, or the list of couriers in his hands before he realized he wanted it. I even took the initiative in sex, more for my sake than his. It hurt much less when I was able to prepare myself, and I discovered the seeds of the blue mountain flowers that dotted the landscape gave off a nice oil, similar to olive oil, except more flowery. It was good for cooking and better for lubrication. I can't say I enjoyed the sex, but at least I no longer had to walk with a half-waddling, half-limping gait the following day.

 

After months of this life, I had settled in, and had nearly forgotten the things that had proceeded it. It's weird how that happens, how things just sort of coalesce into the now. The dragon was just a wild dream, my previous life a story from the distant past. There was just the road and the needs of my master. And then, I started feeling sick in the mornings. Inevitable, I figured; traipsing around naked, even in the relatively warm southern parts of Skyrim, you're bound to get sick sooner or later. I knew sickness would be no excuse - slaves don't get sick days - so I hid it the best I could and continued working.

 

After a week or so, though, it became harder to conceal, because I threw up each morning. I tried to do so away from my master and his breakfast, but one day I wasn't able to get far enough from him to be discrete. He beat me for ruining his breakfast; I felt it only right, and took the beating meekly, head down, holding in my cries. He was harsh that day on the road, but I gave him a blow job when we stopped for the night and everything seemed forgiven.

 

Eventually it dawned on me that being sick for more than a week was a bit odd; odder still that the sickness generally went away soon after, although other aches and pains were beginning to present themselves. It didn't take long for a suspicion to form in the back of my head, and I prayed to every god, aedra, and daedra I had ever heard of for it not to be true. The next time we were in one of the Imperial camps, as I stood outside the commander's tent while my master gave his report inside, I managed to get the attention of one of the camp surgeons on the pretense of acquiring some medicines for my master. It took very little conversational skill to turn the topic to me - he seemed very eager to examine me - and soon I had the prognosis I had been looking for. And dreading.

 

Pregnant. Well, fuck.

 

Don't feed the bastards - they'll only want more

Edited by jfraser

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