The Handmaiden's Revenge

Chapter One As though dark clouds of evil intent were sweeping through the seamy caverns of the counting house dungeon, the clangorous din of human enterprise suddenly, solemnly fell silent. What had been a raucous night of exhibition and bartering souls—like every other raucous, drunken night in the bowels of Illusia—was reduced to nervous coughs and a whispered word, and the occasional swish of a barmaid’s skirt. He required no clarion, no trumpeters, no herald to announce his presence. He was the embodiment of the Illusian spirit in physical form, and no one—save an alien to this singular land—would fail to recognize his distinct aura. Drunk or sober, the tumultuous assembly felt him, hair standing on end, goose bumps rising from the surface of their skin, guts wrenching slightly sour, slightly anxious, as the shadow of their great Lord darkened the doorway. He was not expected. In fact, he never came to his counting house dungeon anymore—not since he’d purchased his slave wife, Casia, many many moons before this full one. Yet, the c**k had crowed strangely that morning. The sun had taken on an eerie golden glow—and that full moon had hardly set when dawn flashed its merits across the sky. It was a season for oddities, if ever there was one. Inside the creepy silence, Nor cast his eyes about the dungeon—which now looked more like a tavern than a place of torture—except for the dais and the ominously hanging manacles on the far end of his stone-walled, subterranean lair. The few who dared to stare at his portentous visage noted a scowl, a deeply furrowed brow, and eyes that could pierce through iron and send slaves into mortal fear. His sorrows and his fears were one with his earthy nature, and yet, there was some supernatural substance in his immutable character that rose far above the earth, a spirit—quixotic and oddly wistful. He was a man of contrasts and contradictions for those who knew him well. Those who did not—those inside his counting house—were simply stupefied by his absolute authority. It is hardly necessary to say that he stood well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a hearty build. His long hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck; his britches were of heavy, hand-worked leather and his vest the same, the sides laced together over a fine linen shirt. Handing his billowing cloak to his attendant, he moved along the raised walkway surrounding the counting house, his eyes taking note of every detail, every man and woman, every servant, slave, gentleman, wench and knight, as if he could catalog them all in his wily mind. “Sir,” the dungeon master bowed in reverence. “We welcome you.” Nor nodded. “I’m here to view the new slaves.” “Yes, Sir,” the officious, little man smiled nervously. “I do wish you had advised us of your…” “You wish for nothing but to serve your Lord,” Nor swiftly interrupted. “Show me your slaves.” “Here? On the dais?” He seemed aghast. “Where else?” Nor grumbled. “I…I…” the man stumbled woefully over his words, and finally scampered out of the counting house into the twisted corridors of the underground toward the cells. How had this fellow attained the title of dungeon master? Nor wondered. In the interim the ruler of Illusia surveyed his lot again, and scowled, “Is there no one to offer their Lord a tankard of ale?” The room seemed to thaw in an instant. Three maids scurried to the bar to do the man’s bidding, each arriving with a hefty pewter tankard, ale sloshing over the side. They bowed politely trying to gain his favor. The trace of a smile appeared briefly on Nor’s face, but he was deferred from further review of these comely lassies; Grutius, the dungeon master had returned with fresh slaves. Snapping a tankard from a busty redhead, Nor drank his ale as he inspected the scraggly lot of young female flesh—in chains, dirty, faces smudged, hair disheveled, eyes either lost or trembling with fear. “You have nothing better than this to pacify my loins?” he barked. “This is all, Sir,” Grutius assured him. “Take them away,” he roared, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. “Bring me what you haven’t showed me.” “There are none.” “None?” “None, Sir, I swear, but…” “But what, man?” Nor’s impatience showed, while the crowd in the dungeon house was still on edge and afraid to move or sneeze. “But…” the man thought again as if someone had come to mind, then he shook his head again, “there are none, Sir.” “You lie,” Nor’s voice thundered through the room. How could he know? Grutius was thinking. “None, Sir, but the Castonian maid.” “Castonian?” Nor’s interest piqued. “Bring her to me.” The poor fellow stammered in confusion, “It is the against the law, Sir.” Nor’s eyes fired. “I made up the law, my man. I break it when I choose to. Bring the slut to me now!” “Yes, Sir.” He was off, the tails of his white shirt wagging after him like a loose sail. Nor gulped the remains of his ale in the sixty second interlude, and still, not a soul in the room dared to stir. He looked up once to the balcony where he used to sit for the festivities, from where he’d spied on Casia the first time. His heart was instantly torn apart at its seams and a deep melancholy lingered, until it was, as quickly, arrested by the appearance of Grutius and the Castonian maid. Ah! She looked like a vision—something from ancient tales of mysterious lands—her skin white, her hair like a halo, golden wisps that seemed to float around her broad, open face. Her eyes were widespread, green in color, her nose small but sculpted, as were her other delicate features, her cheekbones and chin. Her lips were full and pink. The body beneath this captivating face was full-breasted and otherwise slender, willowy and strong. She wore the clothes of a peasant boy—loose fitting trousers, boots, and a billowy muslin shirt that was captured at the waist with a broad belt. On the sensuous form of this fair lass, these garments gave her an air of authority and charm. “I want this one,” Nor told the dungeon master. “Sir?” “I want this one.” “But… but…” neither he, nor the crowd behind the scene could fathom this unexpected mystery. “Is she a virgin?” Nor wondered aloud. “I don’t know, but I would assume so,” Grutius answered. “Well, then, we’ll find out now,” Nor was pleased with the prospect that lay before him. He stared into the green eyes that faced him, seeing alarm, hatred and amazement. “No greater gift could I give myself tonight than to break a virgin from Castonia. Put that fair ass on the table,” he ordered. The defiant girl did not fight him, though the fire in her eyes burned hotly, and her gaze did not waver from the Illusian Lord. Nor basked in such defiance, knowing he would conquer her soon. “You will be sorry, Sir, if you take me here,” the girl informed him. She’d spoken! The room grew deafly quiet, as if all the souls had disappeared. Nor laughed. “Sorry, you say. We’ll see who will be sorry, lass.” He motioned to his aides behind him, and the burly pair moved to the blonde girl’s side, forcefully taking her by her upper arms and pushing her over the table on the dais, belly down. Unsheathing a knife, Nor deftly clipped the fabric of the girl’s pants where her round ass cheeks came together and the indentation of her anal cleft was visible. The small cut was enough to clip the side of the girl’s inner cheek. She cringed, while the audience behind her held their breath, viewing a tiny line of fresh blood. The tear in her pants was enough to rip the garment away and reveal to every eye in the room the magnificence of this captive’s pearly, white ass. One of Nor’s aides, holding the virgin in place, pushed her face and chest to the table’s surface; the other forced her legs apart with his hand. The entire room beheld the delicate crevice of soft tissue and moist s*x, the puckering rosette of her anus and plump labia below. Between the aperture of her fleshy folds, her inner lips dripped down like purple jewels, and from the very center, the bud of her c******s appeared. Unlike the well-used whores liberally fondled throughout the room, this fair maid had an intact hymen—her virginity unquestioned. Nor rubbed his hand along the warm cleft, feeling the heat of her proud, indignant body pour out on him in a sensuous rush. Beyond her disgust and rampant fear, greater powers were at work. The forces of nature conspired against the virgin, giving away the underlying truth of her. Her ass swayed ever so slightly as if Nor’s hand was sexually enticing this defiant one against her better judgment. “You’ll be better off without this, slave,” Nor assured her and his audience, as he gently fingered the slip of skin that covered her womanly home. Though mute, the crowd was expectant. Their hearts beat wildly, boisterous desire raced through bellies and loins. Their minds were joined in one solitary picture of brute force… wanting, willing, thirsting for the instant of triumph. Nor granted them what they craved, opening his pants enough to withdraw his hard weapon and launch an effective strike. Taking each of the girl’s white rear cheeks in hand, he aimed his rod, the thick purple head of it at the tiny hole, and shoved, renting the flesh, making this child of Castonia into a woman in a single, breathless second. The girl flinched, but she didn’t cry out. Blood dripped down her cleft as Nor began to f**k her, vigorously, intently, purposely. Seven swift thrusts, he was done, withdrawing his spent member, letting it drip on the curve of her ass cheek. Three distinct drops. “Strip her down and mark her as mine, Grutius,” Nor ordered with contempt and venom spilling from his lips along with his brutal words. The crowd ahhed to themselves, as another swell of needy passion swept the stifling room. Hardly a breath of air was to be found. The de-virginized girl was handled roughly; her clothes pulled and tugged away until she was completely naked. The juices of Nor’s passion were still dripping from her crotch, mingling freely with her own. Thrust back over the table, four pairs of hands held her firmly to the oaken table, while Grutius took Nor’s marker from the burning coals of fire and pressed the glowing end into her flank for three long seconds of sheer terror. She flinched again while a low, sultry moan escaped her parted, panting lips; then she slumped forward in a faint. “Bring her with you to the baths,” Nor ordered his aides. Without waiting for them to take possession of the half-conscious girl, he retrieved his cloak and strode from the dungeon, disappearing into the black of night as he surfaced in the nighttime world above.