Author: Endemoniada69

(M/F, Fantasy, D/s)

The serving hall of the lodge lay still and quiet as the evening emerged, the Master of the house long departed with his party of warriors on a wolverine hunt, and the first beams of moonlight cast their soft, ethereal glow through the stone carved window. Tufted furs from many beasts slain by the Master lay scattered across the cold stone floor of the hall, where he had earlier bid his slave to serve him. Upwards, the hall's high roof strutted with heavy oaken timbers, and, below, the curve of its arches, alcoves and corners lay veiled, half-hidden in wispy, flickering shadows as the torches lined upon the walls burned low.

A lone girl, Miranda, the Master's beloved slave, sat in the centre of the serving hall. She rocked herself gently to and fro, her knees tucked up against her breast, her head resting thoughtfully upon her knees. She blinked suddenly and stirred, drawn from an idle thought; the yellow embered torchlight flickered against the surface of her dark, wet eyes. Her exposed skin, pale and delicate, took upon the opalescent glow of the torch light and drew the fiery warmth in towards her. She sighed, warmed, yet still cold and alone within the domain of her thoughts. Her Master had left her, that was her only thought, was all that was worth considering. A low, sad murmur escaped forth from her soft lips, realising as she did, that long fretful hours awaited her before her Master's return.

He had bade her goodbye, with a lingering kiss to her lips. His tongue had searched out her mouth as only a Master could, his hands had slipped downwards, toying with her breasts, then caressing her firm bottom through the sheer cover of her silks. It was a kiss she craved. Her Master, with his overwhelming masculinity--a true man of the kingdom of Arandis, all about his person was muscular and well sculpted, beautifully proportioned, truly, exquisitely male; his voice deep and commanding; she smiled at the thought--the only one who could set a humble slave girl's heart aglow. She would not let go of her Master, pressing her slight body tightly against his, wrapping her arms protectively around him, afraid for him as the wolverines awaited.

Yet, she knew, to her Master, a skillful warrior renowned throughout the land, the wolverines' claws would be as much a threat as her own weak arms that lay around him. A girl could not help but worry. Should her Master fail to return she would be all alone, unable to serve him, no longer having any purpose to her life. Miranda, like all slave girls, lived to serve, her very being and joy of life being borne from her Master's pleasure.

"Girl, release me." A sharp word from him, from those same strong lips that had lovingly kissed her seconds earlier, and she released herself, stepped back a pace, her eyes lowered respectfully.

Her Master smiled as he saw his beloved's disappointment, her pretty face crinkling in concern for him. "Don't fear, Miranda, your Master shall return to you soon." He reached out his hand and stroked her cheek, sweeping back a lock of her silky black hair, to wipe away the tear that had fallen from her eye. "I wish you to smile for me, Miranda. A girl should always be beautiful for her Master. Never let a tear spoil your beauty."

"Yes, Master," said Miranda, raising her lips to a smile. She felt at once reassured, her Master had spoken and she would always obey his command. "A girl wishes you to return with haste, Master," she said, smiling once again.

"Don't fret, Miranda," her Master said as he turned away from her, "your Master shall return."

"Take care, Master," whispered Miranda sadly, as her Master strode away from her out from the hall.

Thus remembering her Master's sad departure, Miranda rose from the floor and walked over to window. The moonlight cut across her face as she stared, yearning, outside, towards the far distant sprawl of the forest that her brave Master and his retinue journeyed towards.

* * *

The morning came, streaming sunlight through the window to fall upon the huddled up, sleeping slave girl. She stirred, yawning as the first light of the day woke her. She pulled her curled form up from her sleeping fur and stretched out her tight limbs, tossed her long hair to and fro, and wiped away the last remnants of hazy sleep from her eyes. She blinked--once, twice--and the sight of the serving hall lay clear before her. Then a sudden, terrifying thought: Her Master, where was her Master? Her mind raced in a blur of panic, recalling the past night and her fears for him. She ran from the serving hall, her heart beating wildly in anticipation--nervous, excited--out into the corridor, searching the outward chambers for any sign of her Master's presence. Minutes later, her heart sunk in dismal gloom, Miranda returned to the serving hall. Her Master had not yet returned.

All morning she busied herself with her work in the kitchen, preparing for her Master's return. Surely he would be hungry after his long night away from her. The hours passed slowly, until the sun reached its afternoon peak. Just then, she heard a noise from the courtyard and rushed to a window to look down. There was her Master, she could see him riding towards the castle. In moments she would be in his arms once more! She hurried from the kitchen, making her way to the serving hall to await her Master's arrival.

Footsteps resounded from the corridor, and through the archway came her Master. He called to her, "Miranda, come here," upon catching sight of her. The slave girl sprung to her feet and, smiling all the way approached her Master. She wrapped her arms around her Master's broad chest and held herself close, hugging him warmly. "A girl is happy to see you again, Master," she said smiling, her face so bright that it seemed as if the tears of the previous night had never been shed. "The hunt was a success, Master?"

"The wolverines will bother us no more, they are all slain," he replied.

Miranda gasped in horror, seeing a patch of blood stained upon her Master's tunic, obviously a blow from his fallen adversaries. He head bested them, but not without a price. "Oh, Master, you are wounded!" she shrieked in horror.

He shook his head, barely appraising the wound. "'tis nothing, girl; a mere scratch."

"Please let a girl tend your wounds, Master. She can see that you are hurt."

Her Master did not answer, did not even look upon her. Instead he paced away from her and settled himself, cross-legged, upon the serving furs.

"A girl loves you, Master. She worries for you. Please permit her to tend your wounds," asked Miranda in a soft whisper, kneeling before him. She shivered all of a sudden. Had she been too bold? she thought. A girl cared for her Master, but she knew that she must know her place and not step an inch from it.

"Ambrosia."

Miranda nodded; the issue was at an end, her Master had spoken. "Yes, Master. It's this slave's pleasure to serve you."

She rose to serve her Master, strode gracefully towards the bar. She took her Master's goblet--the finest of them all, befitting of his status--from the rack and rubbed it with a soft cloth, so that it may be fit to touch his lips. The image of his handsome face came to her. His long, dark hair and his well defined features, harsh but beautiful; beautifully, captivatingly male, she thought. The skin of ambrosia hung from a wooden peg above the bar. She stretched up on her toes, extending her short height as far as possible, and took it in her hand. She knew that her Master was watching her. He looked up as she returned to him, and Miranda smiled warmly, fully and openly, all her slave beauty revealed for him. His face was indeed just as handome as she had visualised it.

She then kneeled, took the goblet in her hand, uncorked the skin of ambrosia, and carefully poured a measure into the goblet. The last droplet dripped into the goblet and the smooth surface of the sweet drink rippled reflectively against the light. Miranda raised the glass to her breast, held the cold metal against her skin, imparting in the gesture the love from her heart. Then she placed the goblet to her soft lips and kissed, slowly and surely, all around its rim, so that her Master may taste her devotion with each sip. Her eyes again lowered respectfully, she offered the drink to her Master. "May this serve and this humble slave girl please you, Master," she whispered.

Her Master reached out and took the goblet from her, pausing for a second to appraise his slave's service. Miranda lay deathly still, the blood drawing away from her already porcelain complexion, as she awaited his word of approval or disapproval. In this moment of judgement a slave girl knew her place; she must wait to see if she had pleased her Master. They were agonizing seconds, stretching out before her, seeming like endless hours, until her Master nodded and smiled at her. A girl had served well. She had pleased her Master, she would not be disciplined.

She kneeled before her Master, watching him drink from the goblet. Several minutes passed in silence, every second her awaiting his command, ready to serve him. Often she wanted to speak, break the silence and speak to her Master--'A girl loves you, Master,' in her gentlest tones--but she knew that she must hold her tongue until he bade her.

"You will come with me to the tavern tonight, I have business there with Master Hawk," he said, at last breaking the long silence.

"Yes, Master," said Miranda, gladdened that her Master would not spend another night away from her, "this slave will be pleased to accompany you. May she ask what Master's business is?"

His expression became questioning, "Why? What concern is it of yours?"

"No reason, a girl is just curious, Master," Miranda said defensively, not wishing to appear intrusive.

He smiled mysteriously. "You shall see, my girl."

Miranda waited for her Master to continue his explanation, but he said nothing more.

He looked at her for a few moments, his gaze lingering over her body thinly veiled beneath her silks, and brought himself a little closer. He sipped thoughtfully at his ambrosia, then after a time said firmly, "Disrobe."

Miranda nodded. Her lowered eyes stared down to the modest peaks of her breasts--inwardly she frowned, perhaps her Master would not be pleased with her, she was slender, lacking obvious curves, not as voluptuous as other girls--and began to pull at her silks, slowly revealing her climes to her Master. Then, in mid flow, her hand clasped over her left shoulder, clutching the soft material, she paused and blushed demurely. A few seconds passed, the slave girl standing impassively, frozen like a statue.

"Miranda, you will disrobe," her Master repeated, his tone unwavering, no more insistent than before. Yet she knew he would not ask her a third time--and she dared not make him.

A slave could not refuse her Master's wish. "Yes, Master," she said.

Never had a man, the weeks being short since her training as a slave had began, seen her fully naked, never had her femininity been completely exposed for male pleasure. She drew in a breath, her stomach became taught and flatter, and her silks slipped gently from her body to gather around her feet. She stepped away from them, drawing a pace closer to her Master, her body now as bare as her always uncovered feet. Modestly she lay her arm across her breast and turned away slightly, her thigh obscuring the dark curls of hair below her navel.

"Miranda, uncover yourself at once!"

"Yes, Master," Miranda said in fright, almost jumping at the command. She hesistated briefly, then she lay her arms by her side, slowly uncrossed her legs, revealing herself, and turned to face her Master.

"Stand up straight, girl. I wish to look at you."

"Yes, Master," Miranda said obediently. She straightened herself; the slight muscles beneath her slim frame rippled with movement, her breasts jiggled almost imperceptibly. She knew her Master could see every part of her slave body, those once private parts now uncovered and vulnerable, wholly for his pleasure. She stood fully a woman before him.

"Turn."

Miranda turned around, pacing in a small circle so that her Master could view her--his property--at his leisure. Once she had completed a full circle she stopped and stood silently before him.

"Did, I tell you to stop?" his voice came.

Miranda shook her head, lowered her eyes from him. "No, Master, you did not tell a girl to stop."

"Then turn, and don't stop until I tell you."

Miranda paced around and around, walked back and forth in a line as her Master commanded her, all the while displaying her naked body for his pleasure. She could not tell if he was pleased with her, his face lay still as he drunk deeply from his goblet. Her limbs, her back, started to ache, yet she held herself gracefully, her pert breasts thrust forward, her stomach sucked inwards, her bottom enticingly displayed, and her head held high and proud. 'A girl should always be beautiful for her Master'. Yes, this was the truth. A girl should always be beautiful for her Master, she repeated to herself, willing it so. Eventually, he nodded to her, called out:

"Kneel."

"Yes, Master," said Miranda. She slipped down to her knees, glad of the opportunity to rest her aching muscles. "Master..." she hesitated, spreading her knees a little wider apart, "are you pleased with this girl?"

"Yes," he said looking upon her, "you are a beautiful slave. Your Master is pleased with you."

Miranda knelt before her Master. She smiled, filled with pride in the knowledge that she had pleased him.

"We are leaving soon for the tavern," he said. "Go prepare yourself, girl."

"Yes, Master," said Miranda. She rose and slipped quietly from the serving hall, away from her Master.

* * *

A flurry of diaphanous red silk, the motion of a sister in the middle of her dance met Miranda's eyes as she stepped inside the tavern, trailing a respectful distance behind her Master. She strained her ears to listen above the rising clamour, the shouts and merry-making of the evening, anxious to serve her Master should he call her.

"Greetings, Hawk," said her Master to another, one who Miranda did not recognise.

"Good Evening, Blackcrow," he returned, though he did not address Miranda, casting only a perfunctory glance in her direction, aimed at the curves beneath her immodest costume.

"Greetings, Master Blackcrow," she said, picking up the name.

They walked towards the serving furs, all the way engaged in conversation. Miranda followed behind him; she glanced across to glimpse Master Hawk's slave. She was indeed a beautiful girl: dressed in red silk, tall and slim, dark haired like her, with full, luscious breasts--her glance was jealous at that--her waist tapering narrowly, her hips equally shapely and pleasing.

A thought, one often visited her mind, came to Miranda. She blushed, knowing what she was thinking, that she desired to touch a sister, kiss a sister, hold a sister in her arms. Could it be that is was so, that this girl desired another? Only at night, when she slept, dreams overtaking her, would she allow herself to think such thoughts. In day time, when she looked upon her Master and felt the passionate stirrings of a slave girl, she would allow no such thing to cross her mind. She was a woman, and a woman only. She must be for her Master only, and all else, the beautiful girl who walked beside, she who she shared the bond of servitude with, should remain an unrealised dream; safe and untouched.

"Greetings, sister," the beautiful slave girl said.

"Greetings, sister." Miranda stared at her again as they walked. She looked to her waist, the sharp points of her generous breasts, looked to her meagre own, and then turned her head away. Still, those thoughts... The slave girls followed their Masters over to the serving rugs, both kneeling close by whilst their Masters talked of their business. The red silked slave whispered to her, "This one is called Aurora."

"Miranda, sister," said Miranda, smiling faintly.

"You are just beginning your training?" Aurora asked.

"Yes, this slave has served her Master only a few weeks. She is still learning."

"It is the same for all us girls. You must trust in your Master," she looked up briefly and smiled towards Master Blackcrow, "he will show you the way."

Miranda nodded, taking heed of the advice. They sat by their Masters, able to talk no longer as the tavern grew busier and the noise increased.

"Girl, serve me," a voice called out above the others.

"I must go," said Aurora, smiling again at Miranda. She rose and walked over to another Master, kneeling before him as he instructed her.

Miranda waited too, staying carefully alert should she be called to serve a Master. She would serve another Master with the same pride and diligence that she would attend her own, he who was so very special to her. She worried that she might not be able to remember the correct way to serve. Could she remember exactly how to serve lemon tea correctly, mulled spiced fruit, in a goblet or a warmed bowl?

Her thought hazed as she recalled conversations with her sisters, snippets of information here and there, carefully listened to and stored away for later use. She knew, even in the days to follow when she was an experienced slave that, a girl should always strive to learn more, so that she may serve her Master ever better and please him. Girls walked to and fro, serving their Masters, carrying food and drink, and the night drew on, her Master still engaged in deep conversation, until suddenly:

"Come to my lap, Miranda," he called.

In an instant, Miranda rose from her knees and padded softly over to her Master, perfectly poised and straight all the while, aware that the other Masters were watching her. She must not disgrace herself, and thus her Master--for which she would be swiftly and severely disciplined--in public.

She settled herself gently on his lap. "A girl has missed you, Master," she said sweetly, adoration shining in her eyes.

She laid a soft kiss upon his neck, leaned close to snuggle her head into the pit of his shoulder, and cuddled him. She felt safe and protected, sitting close to her Master on his lap, his mouth whispering sweetly into her ear. She could happily stay like this forever, just her and her Master, locked together in their loving embrace. He turned her head in a harsh movement, so that she trembled unsteadily, and kissed her hard, fully penetrating her mouth with his tongue.

Eagerly, Miranda ground herself closer to her Master and opened her mouth as much as she could to receive his kiss. Even with this small touch, she could sense his raw, unfettered masculinity, how powerful and strong he was, and, in comparison, how small, weak, and dependent upon him she was. Her desire for Aurora seemed now a distant, ghostly memory. His hands rose to the nape of her neck, swept away her long locks, and massaged her with firm but gentle strokes. They continued to kiss, her Master taking the lead, Miranda kissing back when he allowed her to. He pulled his mouth away from her, and with his arms on either side of her waist, threw her over his knee in a clean, swift movement. She giggled, balancing herself upon him. He stroked her back, running his hand up and down its length, and swept her hair away so that if tumbled over her head, down to the floor.

She lay bent over her Master, her weight completely supported by him, her stomach flat across his lap, breasts squashed underneath. She flushed hotly, aroused yet embarrassed, knowing that he could feel the hard arousal of her nipples beneath him; the legacy of his kiss. Her swathe of black, shiny hair cascaded to the floor, falling over her Master's muscular thighs, hiding her face from view. She could only stare downwards at the flagstones upon the floor, reflecting a glint of flame from the the hearth, as her breath came in short, sharp pants. Her Master's grip was tight around her neck, pinning her fast with his hand and restricting her breath. A girl should not be even allowed such a simple luxury as air if her Master would not permit it.

She felt his free hand play over her silks, massaging her gently from the small of her back, sweeping down with his fingers to explore her plunging contours, beneath which lay hidden the all enveloping chamber of her slave heat. She moaned under her Master's probing touch, his hand now cupping, stroking, and squeezing her buttocks as if they were a piece of ripened fruit. As that same fruit, sweet and fragrant, delicious, she felt a moistness trickle from between her tingling thighs, dampening her silks. She willed him to probe further, to penetrate the source of a slave girl's passion and bring her joyous relief.

She wondered, did this girl, this lowly one who was surely not the most beautiful of all her Master's slaves, please him? It seemed that a girl would not be permitted relief at this moment; her Master withdrew his hand and pulled at her silks, drawing them away from her, revealing the full roundness of her slave bottom to his roving gaze.

Then, with shock, she realised...everyone else could see! All of the other Masters, all of her sisters in the tavern, could see her lithe, naked slave body.

"Please, Master. Please don't, Master...everyone can see," she whispered, trying to control her rising panic, her flushing embarrassment.

"Indeed, and such a pretty girl, too," he remarked, laughing.

Miranda heard a voice call out; although from where, prone as she was, slung over her Master's knee, she could not tell. "A fine little wench you have there, Blackcrow!"

Laughter erupted around the tavern as the assembled patrons looked on at the helpless slave girl thrown across her Master's knee. Miranda blushed, feeling as if her cheeks were consumed by a raging hellfire. Never had she been so humiliated, the only mercy was that she could not see anything but the floor, did not have to face the others. Her Master delivered a sharp slap to her bare buttocks, and she squealed aloud and squirmed. Again laughter exploded around her, the other Masters obviously enjoying the entertainment.

"A Master thinks he shall spank his slave. Eh, what do you say, little one?" he said playfully.

She could only manage a faltering, moaning, "Master, no Mast..." kicking her legs in vain, trying to wriggle free of his iron grip as he slapped her buttocks again. It stung just as sharply as the first time, and she cried out again, this time biting her lip to stifle herself. Her Master spanked her again and again, each time she cried out loudly, and each time the crowded roared in amusement. Her buttocks now ached--the sensation growing in stature from a sharp sting to a distinct pain--glowling pinkly, the same colour that her burning face flushed.

But then, his hand coming down upon her again, the sensation seemed to transform itself. Yes, pain at first, stinging as always, but then an equisite warmth sunk into her, and she groaned quite wantonly, sluttishly, sounding as a whore being used, knowing that what she was feeling was pleasure, not pain. She pressed herself against her Master, and in seconds the pink buds of her nipples were more fiercely erect than ever, they too pulsing with the same wonderful feeling. Her arousal continued to build as her Master dominated her ever more, and she moaned ever louder, feeling as if the intense sensations would tear her apart inside if she did not cry out to release them. Finally the spanking stopped and she lay, breathing heavily, over her Master's lap, her slave girl's passion half-spent, her eyes tear stained. Miranda wept not from pain but from gratitude. She knew she had come close, her Master with his control of her had almost allowed her to feel the orgasm of a slave girl. It would come, she knew -- her Master would see to it. One day. Then as easily as her had forced her down, he pulled her upright, smoothing her silks over her, covering her tender, glowing bottom.

"Master," Miranda whispered, wiping her wet face. That was all she could say, she could find no words to express the depth of her emotions. All her feelings she had expressed through her cries. Her embarrassment too, was gone. All she felt was contentment, so close had she been to being satisfied. She leaned close to her Master and snuggled herself into him, laying still and quiet for a moment. He kissed her forehead and held her to him against his chest.

=============================================

Miranda turned her gaze to the open floor of the tavern, and watched as a girl stood on the floor, her legs splayed, her head bowed. It was Aurora, Master Hawk's slave--she was about to dance.

As the music began Aurora spun around, lifting herself en pointe as her red silks flashed through the air, fully revealing the shape of her thighs, the intricate design of her slave brand. She raised her hands above her head, fully extended, fingers tapered in the middle, so as to shape herself gracefully as she moved. She twirled around in this position, her face beautiful and smiling in the joy of dance as the Masters surveyed her. Then she stopped, remained so for a few seconds, bent herself in the middle and threw her dark mane down to the floor. She paced backwards, trailing her hair along the floor, eyes facing downwards, indicating her subservience, before again throwing back her head and spinning in a blur of red silk. The music played on, rising to a frenetic pace, and she danced; her breasts strained at their thin cover, moving slightly as she skipped over the floor.

Miranda turned her gaze downwards at this moment, feeling confused. She could see that Aurora danced beautifully, but was that all she saw? She couldn't understand it. Why should she feel herself drawn, with all the unrestrained passion of a slave girl, towards another. Her lips were not those of a Master, her face not that of a Master; not strong and handsome, but still she desired a kiss, perhaps even a touch. No, she decided resolutely, it could not happen. She was her Master's girl, and thus she would serve, and serve her Master. Miranda returned her eyes to the dance, but focussed distantly, a glassy expression upon her face as she pondered.

A peal of applause broke out and Miranda saw that the dance was over. The Masters turned back to their slaves, and again girls obediently fetched food and drinks, gliding gracefully across the tavern floor.

Master Hawk looked up, called out to his slave as she returned to his side. Aurora glistened with sweat from her dance, her breathing a little laboured, her breasts quickly rising and falling. "Slave, you are to go with Master Blackcrow. You are his now," he said.

Aurora nodded, showing little emotion as she understood that she had been sold by her Master. It was the fate of a girl to be bought and sold many times over, to serve many different Masters as their whims dictated.

"This girl is pleased to serve you, Master Blackcrow." At that, Aurora turned to Miranda and gave her small smile.

Master Blackcrow rose and strode towards the door. "Come, it is time to leave. Miranda, bring my cloak."

"Yes, Master."

* * *

Miranda scrubbed the floor, carefully working the soapy mixture into the tiles, washing away the deeply ingrained grime. She looked around herself, the hall was large and she had barely begun to clean it; this task would take her many hours, until the night fell. But her Master had commanded her to serve him, and serve him she would, serve until her fingers bled, her back ached, and she could scrub no more. She scrubbed again at the tile with her brush, with each small stroke serving her Master, and with each stroke a little flicker of joy in her heart.

An hour later, almost a quarter of the hall had been scrubbed clean. Miranda had worked hard, eager that her Master should be pleased with her upon his return. It would shame him if guests to his house found it slovenly and disorderly--they would see that he had failed as a Master, failed to control his slaves in the proper manner. Miranda stopped to rest for a minute, needing to ease the cramp in her legs and the ache in her back. She sat resting, with her back against the cold stone of the wall, the beads of perspiration cooling off against it pleasantly. Suddenly there was a loud clatter, and Miranda looked up to see her bucket upturned and a great flood of dirty water wash over the freshly scrubbed flagstones. Aurora stood nearby, a shocked expression on her face.

She came to Miranda, cried apologetically, "Oh, sister, this one is sorry...she did not see your bucket!"

Miranda felt rage rise within her. Her work had been spoiled and now her Master would surely punish her for failing him. She cried out in complaint, "You should watch where you're going, Aurora!"

"Yes, sister," said Aurora apologetically, "a girl is sorry, really she is. She'll tell Master that it was her fault. He won't punish you for it if a girl explains to him." They both knew that wasn't true.

Miranda said, "Thank you, sister, but a girl can't let you. It was this one's task to scrub the floor." She reached out and hugged Aurora, pressing herself lightly against her. They stayed like that for a moment, then, somehow Miranda found that her lips touched Aurora's, kissing her. Ever since that moment last night in the tavern when she had first seen her, her thoughts had been concentrated upon Aurora. Her skin was soft and smelled of perfume, just like her very own; her hair was soft and shiny just like hers, her waist was slim and narrow just like hers.

Why was this so? A strange sensation seemed to pass through her whole body as the pair wrapped their arms around each other. A cold tingling shiver; her senses awakened, subtly but definitely arousing her. Aurora stroked Miranda's face and smiled softly at her. She did not smart from the kiss, was not horrified by the advance. She pushed her tongue between Miranda's lips and tenderly kissed her, brushing her tongue against her teeth, then pulled back, teasing with tip of her tongue. Miranda kissed her back, her own tongue entwining with Aurora's, stretching out to the back of her throat. She had imagined it would be soft and passionate, feminine -- and it was, but there was something more, too. Something she couldn't quite define. It felt good. This was pleasure, this was a touch, this was what it was like to connect, intimacy and emotional understanding flowing through their joined mouths.

They finally parted. Aurora said softly, "Thank you, sister. This one will make it up to you, sister."

Miranda nodded and looked into her sister's pale blue eyes, feeling close to her in that moment. The small touch they had shared was enough, and Miranda knew that all else would stay within her dreams. She picked up her scrubbing brush and set back to work as Aurora slipped away. She must work hard before her Master returned.

* * *

"Miranda!" She heard her Master's voice roar from behind her. He rushed towards her, grabbed her, dragged her by the hair. She followed, staggeringly painfully behind him. "You have disobeyed me, Miranda!"

"A girl...," she stopped, crying out loudly, "...uhhhh...a girl is sorry, Master."

"You will be punished, Miranda! I am displeased with you, I told you to scrub the floor. Look at it, it's a disgrace! Come with me!" She had no choice but to obey as her Master dragged her roughly along.

"Master, Master...a girl," she sobbed, failing to find her voice.

"I am going to punish you, Miranda. You are mine, all mine. I will show you who is the Master. You shan't fail me again, girl," he breathed imperiously.

"Yes, Master," she managed to say between harsh breaths, tottering along by the leash of her extended hair.

Her Master led her down the corridor from the serving hall, through to a smaller room at the side. "Stand still," he told her. He searched in his pocket and pulled out a coloured strip of material. Miranda could not see properly what it was, and she dared not strain forward and break her taughtly held position.

Her vision faded out to black out as her Master tied a veil over her eyes, advancing on her from behind. He ordered her to walk, which did she did unsteadily, and he led her over towards the wall.

"Raise your arms."

Miranda raised her arms in the air as her Master had told her. He pulled them higher, straighter into the air, correcting her, and she winced slightly, feeling an increased pressure upon her arm sockets. She felt something rough slip around her wrists and grow tighter, much tighter. She was being bound, she realised suddenly, and felt a tremor of panic churn through her stomach. Her Master worked with equal haste upon her ankles, securing them just as tightly. He could discipline her now, she was bound and vulnerable, totally under his control. Yet there was a quiet thought at the back of her mind, barely breaking through her panic, but still calling out to her: only when bound did she feel at her most liberated; the paradox of bondage yet freedom for a girl.

She waited expectantly, nervously, hearing the only the breath of her Master as he stood by her, seeing nothing but the panorama of darkness before her.

Roughly he tore away the flimsy covering of her dress, then grabbed at her nipple; at first he pulled sharply, then gently in alternation, so that she moaned pleasantly, the small ripples of sensation washing over her like a warm, slow tropical tide. Then he pulled her nipple more forcefully and suddenly twisted it hard beneath his rough, thick fingers. Miranda cried out, quickly gasping for breath. It hurt her terribly but only for an moment; she would have dropped to her knees had she not already been bound. She could feel her distended nipple burning painfully from her Master's touch, sink back slightly in repose, and it started to tingle pleasantly, recovering from its assault. It seemed that pain produced pleasure.

Her Master reached up to the wall and removed a half-burnt taper candle from its mount. He stared at its wavering flame for a moment, deciding upon his purpose before turning to Miranda. Her stomach leapt as she heard his foot steps approach her, resounding with a click-clack upon the flagstones. Quickly, she turned her head from side to side, thrashing, trying to peer through the dark veil that covered her eyes. An icy, creeping sense of vulnerability took hold of her, clenching all her muscles tight for a second before she shivered in release.

Her Master held the candle above her, until the clear fluid welled, overflowed, and dripped down spattering over her breast. It dripped downwards to cover her nipple completely and slid down the underswell of her breast, solidifying as it neared the slight, furrowed undulation of her ribs below. It was so hot, burning hot, and Miranda could do *nothing* to resist the sensation! She could not hold herself protectively, nor wipe the wax away. She simply had to submit to its will. It would burn into her skin, warming her, and she would be forced to respond as a true slave girl should. She panted and cried as it burned her, further arousing the passions of her breast.

How she wished her hands were free so that she might massage herself, soothe the sweet, scalding sensation in her breast. It burned, it burned, but it was a sensation forced upon her body by her Master. Oh, it was an incredible pleasure! she thought. She squeezed her legs together, desperately trying to draw forth the rapturous passion that lay always locked away, never to this day released within her slave heat, now engorged and moist from her Master's attention. If only she could have relief, if only her Master would allow it. If only he could show her the way. A girl could not find release for herself, only her Master could release those pleasures for her. She sobbed in frustration, shaking, pained and aroused, tears welling in her reddened eyes as more wax dripped on to her body. This time her stomach, her thighs, thin trails of white wax dripping downwards, forcing blissful satisfaction from the slave girl's body.

She recalled her nakedness when she had disrobed, her hesitancy at revealing herself. Now her Master had bound her and removed all of her inhibitions. He may pleasure her (or punish her) in a way she would never freely admit to enjoying, and her body would not lie; the true lusts and desires of a slave would be revealed. Her Master was to tame her, to bring her to total submission.

"Stop that!" her Master barked, quite ferociously, noticing her movements. He put the candle back on the wall, then returned to stand right by her, speaking close to her ear. "Did I say that you could pleasure yourself?"

"Well, did I?" he said again, a second later, barely giving Miranda time to raise her voice.

"No, Master; you didn't say a girl could." She gulped, and an icy tremor slid down her spine.

"I didn't say what, girl?" He paused again for a brief moment, "Well, I'm waiting...."

"No, Master, you didn't say that a girl could pleasure herself."

Her Master stepped closer to her. He told her, "I will decide if this slave--" he broke off, and moved his hand to the swollen, hot mound between her legs. "You're a little slut, aren't you?" he asked, caressing her -- Miranda groaned in response. "This slave is her Master's little wet slut, aren't you? You want to rub yourself, don't you?. You want to rub your clit and get all wet and sticky inside, don't you?"

"Yes, Master. A girl..." Miranda stammered, struggling to find her voice. Her need, the voracious sexual desire of a slave girl almost overcame her as her Master plied his fingers inside her, penetrating her up to the knuckle, spreading the sensitive inner lips of her sex wide apart, "A girl is her...her...her Master's little wet slut," she finally managed to say, her voice broken by the strength of her arousal.

"You want to touch yourself, don't you?"

"Yes, Master," Miranda admitted. She blushed, embarrassed by so openly revealing her sexuality. She was very shy and modest by nature, she hated to bring attention to herself in any way at all. Everything lay inside of her, her thoughts and her desires, those lingering looks at so many men, all locked away underneath her long black curls. But here she was, telling her Master of her desires. "This slave wants to touch herself. She wants to rub her clit and put her fingers inside herself. She wants to have an orgasm, Master, she wants..." Her cheeks burned as she heard herself say the words; it was *she*, not I--slaves were never permitted to refer to themselves in the first person--but it was all true, every single word.

She wished he would say more to her, say those filthy words that would never pass a modest girl's lips. She wanted her Master to use her, thrust his fingers deep inside her, open her wide until she was slick and wet with her syrupy sexual fluids; until she was frenzied, maddened, painfully aroused, calling out to him, grinding her hips against him, seeking final penetration and submission; until the bud of her clitoris was swollen, hard and erect, peeking out its fleshy hood, pulsing against the cold air of the room with its hellish glorious heat, threatening to explode and release all of her pent-up desires in a single, ecstatic, lingering primal scream. She wanted him to use her as an object for his pleasure. She was his slave, she had to serve him. And then his penis, oh his penis...how she wished that he would take her, enter her with his penis, long hard strokes deep inside her body, thrusting again and again into her clasping ravenous womb, crushing her body under his weight, controlling her completely...

Her wild thoughts were interrupted by her Master's voice:

He strutted around her, keenly inspecting her body. "Stand up straight, my little slut. You're slouching. And keep your legs apart," he ordered.

"Yes, Master," said Miranda. She straightened her back and spread her legs apart as he had told her to.

He lay a hand on the small of her back and pushed her forwards, forcing her straighter, accentuating her feminine curves. Her chin, he adjusted just as roughly--leaving her in no doubt that she was really his, he was not playing with her--until its position pleased him.

Suddenly the veil slipped from her eyes, and her gaze met her Master's own beautiful eyes for a split second, flashing past, her own bound image reflected as he adjusted her head. It was forbidden, she may not look into his eyes without his express permission. Instantly he took a leather riding crop from his belt and struck her bare bottom with it. "Uhhhhh..." she smarted, and jolted spasmodically as it struck her flesh. A thin pink line with the faintest trace, a sliver of blood upon it, welled up on her bottom and throbbed hotly, her quickened pulse racing through.

"Now, who will decide if this whore is allowed her pleasure?" he said, replacing the crop in his belt. He then secured the veil back around Miranda's eyes, blinding her again.

"Master will decide," Miranda replied. She stared into the darkness of the veil once more, the sense deprivation making her more aware of her body, of the red welt upon her bottom. "This girl is his slave, he owns her. It is for Master to decide what his slave will do."

"Yes, that's right, little one," her Master said. He cupped his hands around her cheeks and forced his tongue into her mouth, kissing her deeply. Miranda could do nothing but accept the kiss, stiffling her breath until he at last released her. Then he said, running his hand quickly across her breasts, teasing her already painfully stiff nipples, "I will decide if this little slut is allowed her pleasure or not."

"Please, Master...please let a girl have her pleasure," begged Miranda. "Please, Master. Please...this slave really needs you; she loves you."

Her Master stared at her, seeing the need that burned deep within her flicker from her dark, sweet eyes. She seemed so innocent, so beautiful to him. Moments passed as he contemplated. Miranda stood bound, her Master by her side. She felt herself wrenched up before falling quickly to the floor as he released her bonds. She lay on the floor, unmoving whilst her Master paced around her. His hands worked at her head, pulling away the cloth, uncovering her eyes. The sudden brightness pained her and she squinted against the light. Her Master walked away from her, over to a large fur in the corner of the room.

He called over to her, "Miranda, come."

She came to him, rubbing her freed wrists and staring at the red friction marks caused by the leather as she padded across the flagstones.

"I want you, Miranda."

"Yes, Master."

"Come to me." He beckoned her closer, and then pulled her down to the fur when her fingers clasped his. "Come to your Master, girl." She knelt by him and he kissed her, this time tenderly, lovingly, not as when he had punished her. Her heart beat faster, her need rising again as her Master kissed her. She needed him, needed him as a woman needs a man. Her hands clambered down his chest, rubbing him, stroking him, feeling all of his hard, masterly body.

"Girl, you will take me into your mouth." her Master said.

Miranda blushed at the thought of what she was about to do. She was about to pleasure her Master, pleasure him as a slave girl should. She touched the rising stifness of his groin, hurriedly loosening his clothing, grasping excitedly as she freed him. She could only stare, transfixed at the vision before her.

It was just as she had imagined it, her Master's beautifully erect penis, standing hard and proud. A girl's need could only be sated by this alone. She reached down between her Master's thighs, tentively touching him with gentle fingers. Then, braver, delighting at that first touch--oh, it was truly beautiful, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen!--dwarfing her small hand, standing proud like a spear, she wrapped her hand fully around its wide girth. Her Master pushed her head down hard, making her swallow his bulbous crown whole, the thick length of his throbbing, hot penis; then deeper he pushed until he was all inside of her, thrusting at the back of her throat.

Miranda struggled to breath, her whole body pulsed as if charged by a powerful surge of electricity. Between her thighs, those fleshy pouting lips now engorged, yearning to be filled by her Master, she was enflamed and soaking wet, oozing her feminine fluids as he thrust his hard penis up into her mouth, filling her once again. She could hear her Master's pleasure, his cries, his calls to her, him moving faster and more urgently all the time. She lowered herself even more, giving all of herself to her Master. Then he seemed to freeze, his body jerking rhymatically, and Miranda felt a rush of bitter, salty fluid fill her mouth. She swallowed hungrily, drinking deeply on his semen as it continued to spurt into her; she had received her Master's pleasure, received his love for her. He reclined, groaning, and moved his hands to her breasts and squeezed, kneeding her nipples whilst she still eagerly tasted him, swallowing the last drops of semen, licking away the white, thick dribble on her lips. Her Master placed his arm around her waist and her whole body shook, trembled equisitely in the knowledge that she had served him.

She raised her mouth once more, finally free, taking a first breath of air, and her Master pulled her towards him, back against the fur. She drew herself closer, becoming entwined within her Master's protective embrace. They lay together, silent, in the afterthrows of their passion. A warm satisfied glow coarsed through the slave girl's body as she relaxed. Tonight she had pleased her Master and would sleep safely in his arms. Tomorrow, with the dawning of the new day, she would arise to serve him joyfully once more.