Bondage sex stories

Back to More Free Bondage, BDSM, and S&M Sex Stories

www.FetishClub.com - Unlimited 5-Day Trial
Bondage, BDSM, Domination and Submission movies & pictures only at Fetish Club! Only $4.95 to Join!



Archive-name: Bondage/angel.txt

Archive-author: Darren Bloomquist & Michael Raleigh

Archive-title: Angel



Copyright 1991 All rights reserved.





    The Dark Lord made certain he was early for dinner, taking

his place at the head of the table half an hour before his

guests.  He ignored the youngsters setting the table as they

paused in their work to bow when he entered.  There was much to

discuss, and the Dark Lord was eager to be gone from the luxury

and dull security of Dark Hold.  He needed the excitement of

another campaign, he could only tolerate leisurely decadence for

so long.  He was unsure why he begrudged himself the pampered

life that so many of his nobility enjoyed.  He did not know

whether he was afraid it would wear away at him like salt water

on the metal of a good sword, or that he would become addicted to

such a life if he dallied with it too long.  He knew such an

addiction would sap his vitality, and reduce him to the type of

lapdog courtier whose fawning and petty schemes he only permitted

to exist because he needed their money to finance his ambition of

seeing the entire continent of Quapu come under his banner of

blood-stained midnight.

     Addiction was what he dreaded, he realized; the

relinquishing of his will to something else.  He had worked hard

for all the power he had achieved, and he would not sacrifice any

of it.  But was it the lifestyle he worried about, or something

else?  The image of Rhea intruded on his thoughts, as if on cue,

as it had been doing so often lately.  For a change, he dwelled

on it instead of dismissing it with the usual contempt.  The girl

had been coming to his mind far too often and he knew it was time

to address the possibilities of why; that was the only way he

could be rid of it.

     Having his permission, his memory lingered on the beauty he

had just left in his bed chamber, his collar on her pretty

throat, and a chain around her ankle.  The fingers of his left

hand idly stroked the arm of the chair, recalling her curves and

how she had felt when she pressed herself to him in her wanton

eagerness to please.  Rhea had been with him longer than any

other pet, and during that time she had been subjected to more

than her fair share of pain and pleasure at his whim, but she had

well-earned everything she had received, from her beatings to the

limited power she held over the rest of his harem.  A more

complete slave he had never had before, nor since, and he had

owned many.  Could it be possible that she did indeed love him as

she protested so often?  More disturbing was the thought that he

might actually be growing fond of her.

     The Dark Lord's hand clamped down hard on the arm of his

chair that it had been stroking.  Love--such an empty word.  The

bards had exhausted it in their songs, using it to explain an

emotion that enthralled whole populations.  True, he did care for

Rhea, just as he cared for his hounds or other animals, but love

was unthinkable, even intolerable.

     Love was an emotion, and emotions promoted feelings. 

Feelings could complicate or poison his thoughts.  His precision,

perception and intuition were all that kept him one step ahead of

his enemies: alive and seated on his throne.  He knew that those

who let their hearts rule their heads lost the head in question,

just as he knew that if he lost his head it would end on a pike

somewhere, overlooking the usurper's victory feast.

     Rhea was a slave, a mere toy to satisfy his every whim, and

nothing more.  The feelings that were causing her image to

intrude upon him so often were most likely only generated by the

fact that she had pleased and satisfied him the most of all of

his slaves.  She had always served well, except for the incident

Ferone One-hand had set up for her with the poisoned needle, but

even this was changing of late.  She had recently become

careless.  She had permitted Gold-lily to become bruised, even

though the elf had caused the bruises herself and inflicted worse

on Rhea.  This could almost be excused, perhaps with only light

discipline since it was the result of Gold-lily refusing to

accept her place as a slave.  Then, she had not educated the elf

in her new duties to her master.  Gold-lily was resistant and

obstinate and had nearly thrown him out of bed the last time he

had summoned her.  This too was almost excusable, since she had

not spent more than a day and a half with the elf.  Finally,

there was the matter of that miserable priest.  Rhea had never

failed in a seduction before, and the Dark Lord did not like the

look of the pattern that might be developing.  But she had not

lost her talent for pleasing him, as the languid feeling in his

limbs reminded him.  Her most recent performance, less than an

hour ago, had more than adequately reassured him that she was

still serviceable.

     The servants completed their tasks and bowed out of the door

when he dismissed them.  Left alone, with not even a guard or one

of his hounds for company and protection, he stared blankly

across the delicate crystal goblets, molded off of the delightful

breasts of a long-sold slave, and the silver dishes.  He reserved

the gold plates for very formal occasions.  A sigh escaped him as

the empty chairs suddenly filled with ghosts of the past; most

gone to their graves, but a select few still able to look at him

each time he passed through the Hall of Skulls.

     One of the costs of building an empire is living with the

ghosts of those who fell to make the construction possible, and I

have indeed paid heavily.  Among the shades sat his father and

older brothers, the very first victims of his imperialism, some

of the very few that fell by his own hand.  He sneered at the

image of his father, wondering Have I proven myself a man to you

yet, Father?  Now that I hold sway over an empire greater than

anything you could have dreamed of?  An empire I have carved out

of the land and its people, with my own hands, and paid for with

my own blood?  Am I finally good enough to be the fruit of your

loins?  And what of you, my brothers?  What pale glories of yours

could compare with the splendor I have created?  What magnificent

destiny could any of you have brought our tiny kingdom of Guhrya

to?  Not the majesty I hold now, not, I think not!     

     Next were the nobles and ladies of his father's court whom

he had known since childhood.  They were pillars of the

moralistic, pure-hearted and enlightened society, who had turned

against him to side with his older sisters in a short-lived

rebellion.  Fools, he admonished them with a scowl as he recalled

some of the more prominent faces, both before and after his

ascension to power.  The superstitious contempt they had held him

and Zara in, as if they could have helped being twin-born, the

arrogance behind their facades of righteous chastity when the

twins were revealed, the pompous dignity as they fawned over the

more favored princes and princesses crossed his mind.  The

burning rage he had felt most of the time he was growing up came

back, only to be quenched and soothed by the memory of how they

had begged and whimpered so pitifully before him, and pleaded the

virtues of mercy before he had sentenced them to the hands of his

new executioners and torturers.

     Beyond those sorry shades, the Dark Lord found the faces of

the people he really missed, whose loss was deserving of his

grief.  The soldiers of the Old Guard, who stood along side him

against the empire's early enemies, his very first legionnaires,

who had believed in him and spilt their blood in his campaigns. 

There were dukes, an admiral or two, distinguished officers and

common soldiers who held their ends of the imperial line when

enemy ranks closed upon them.  They were men who had never left

those first bloody battlefields, whose lifeless bodies adorned

great funeral pyres in the streets of the first city-states to

fall to him, or sank into the muck at the bottom of the river or

sea to feed the myriad fish.

     The silent multitude haunted him.  There were a few whose

faces he saw, those who had died near him, a few, like the sandy-

haired drummer boy of eight, who had died in his arms.  But most

of the helms covered only emptiness.  I made myself a promise

when we began this great work.  I vowed I would remember each of

you who fell in the name of my Empire, for it was yours as well. 

But as the wars went on and the losses multiplied, I just

couldn't.  All I can do now is lift a goblet to the memory of

your deeds, and hope that somewhere, someone remembers, because

I, the man you died for, cannot.  He picked up his wine glass

from the table before remembering he had ordered no wine set on

the table before the meal.  He had expected to be occupied until

the last minute.  His cup remained as vacant as the faces of the

phantoms around him.  "We shall drink a toast to you tonight,"

the Dark Lord promised aloud to the empty room around him.  "To

that I swear."  The spectral company nodded in reply and faded

back into the nothingness.

     Alone again, he turned his thoughts to the matters that

would soon be at hand, namely explaining to his council their

parts in his most recent plans of conquest.  King Fionn would

also be joining them for dinner, alone save for his bodyguard, so

that the council could appraise him and decide if he would make a

better friend or foe.  Dinner was for getting reacquainted by

good food, excellent wine and even better old memories.  The real

planning would take place in the war room upstairs, a conclave

which King Fionn would not be attending.

     After a time, the bell began to toll the first hour of the

evening (sixth hour will put it about 2 am!) and a respectful

knock came at the door.  Moving to sit up straight, the Dark Lord

gave the command to enter, and the door opened for the elite

honor guard.  They were dressed in their best parade armor and

marched around the perimeter of the chamber in a precise fashion,

assuming their posts at very precise intervals.  The Dark Lord

watched as the Captain of the Guard gave the orders and his

troops came to attention and turned to put their backs to the

walls.  Satisfied, the Dark Lord nodded and, after a hearty

salute pounded off his shoulder, the captain took his place to

the right of the chair at the foot of the table.  It was his

privilege to occupy this seat whenever the elite guard was

required for meals.

     After the guards, Lem followed, leading in all of the girls,

except Rhea, Chandra, Morgan, Alia and Gold-lily.  The girls

quietly entered the room and situated themselves around the

table, each selecting a pair of chairs to stand behind and

between.  Darlene and Dara, having their orders, took the head

and foot of the table, standing behind and to the left of the

chairs.  All knew they would serve the men who sat in the chairs

they had selected, providing them with anything that would

satisfy them, including private entertainment later if they

desired.  Each wore a sheer two-piece garment of rainbow hue with

a flattering glitter of jewelry and expertly applied cosmetics. 

Each was a vision of loveliness, presenting her best features for

the pleasure of her master.

     Elna entered last with a psaltry and a large pillow from the

harem.  She would not be tending the table tonight, but rather

providing the only formal entertainment.  She positioned the

pillow in a corner across from the door to the oil reservoir and

knelt trying not to look nervous.  Her performance would have to

be flawless.

     The Dark Lord surveyed his arrangement proudly.  The

symbolic uniformity and hardness of the guards contrasted well

with the softly subdued individual beauties around the table,

making a splendid visual representation of his power.  A sweep of

his hand dismissed the eunuch to the harem to watch over his

master's prize trophy who would be displayed after the banquet. 

All was in readiness, and he turned to watch the door, taking an

appreciative glance at Darlene as she stood shyly behind his

chair.

     She was lovely, not as achingly beautiful as some, but

pretty in a way some beauties never had.  Any other girl might

have dared a tentative look up at him, but Darlene kept her eyes

to the floor, not in fear like Gold-lily, nor out of respect or

worship, like Alia and Zandra, but from innocent longing to

please.  She was his innocent flower, untouched and unspoiled,

whose nectar would soon bear sampling.  She was the only one

whose affections he trusted as genuine.  She was thoroughly

trained now, and he had toyed with her on occasion, but had never

taken her completely.  She was also the only one who had never

felt the explosive slap of his hand or the burning kiss of his

whip, the only one who had experienced nothing but his gentle

side.

     Footsteps from the stairs broke his sentimental yearnings,

and he watched the first of the commanders arrive.  Duke William

James IX of Guhrya commanded the elite First Legion, as well as

governing much of the Empire's eastern half.  He was one of the

few men left from King Leonyir's reign, and had been with the

Dark Lord from the very beginning.  He was a judicious,

moralistic and traditional man, and as fine a politician as a

soldier.  He had no ambition to do anything more than serve his

emperor, as his family had generations before, even beyond the

memory of the Time of Darkness.  The Dark Lord's ancestors had

ruled the area of Guhrya beyond memory or history, and there had

always been a James at their side.  The duke would speak for

nearly half of the Empire in the council, and his counsel, would

be especially important.

     Duke Zuberbier followed him, a flamboyant lethargic man, the

misbegotten product of noble inbreeding and hereditary

succession.  Since his father was a duke, and he came from a

noble family of great affluence, he assumed the military rank and

status upon his  father's death, regardless of his personal worth

or competence.  It was one of the few traditions the Dark Lord

had not opposed, since to do so would have cost him the support

of much of the nobility.  It was easier to merely relocate the

useless ones to calm, insignificant provinces, instead of

deposing them and giving his nobles a cause to unite against him. 

They kept their pretty titles and trappings, but held no real

power and fatal accidents could always be arranged if he needed

to replace them quickly.  Rima was such a sleepy province, and

although blessed with the princess for whom it was named, a

prince, and Duke Zuberbier as well, the real power rested in the

hands of the admiralty, headed by Rima's husband, Paloken, a man

who had spent most of his life on the sea before his age caught

up with him.  This new campaign promised to make Rima more

significant, and although Duke Zuberbier commanded only a single

legion, he would need briefing as much as the more competent

dukes who commanded five or six.

     General Cartwright, another of his senior officers entered

chatting with General Garza.  They were an unlikely pair at best. 

Cartwright was tenacious, traditional and wise.  He had served

the Dark Lord's father and grandfather with the same unswerving

loyalty that he bore his emperor.  He was of the old nobility,

widely respected and as fine a fighting man as most men half his

age.  Garza, on the other hand, was living proof that the empire

discriminated only against the weak.  A towering unsightly giant

of a man, in whose veins was rumored to flow the blood of ogres

and trolls, as well as that of his human mother, a slave in the

exotically vicious Chained Collar brothel in Ellanya, he was

utterly ruthless.  He commanded the southern outposts, holding

them against the Ice Queen and her hordes.  The spring thaw ran

red with the blood of legionnaires and Winter Wizards each year

since he had been posted, and through his efforts, the southern

border had advanced more than fifty leagues.  Unlike Cartwright

who would support the Dark Lord's plans unhesitatingly, Garza

would most likely voice his grievances against the upcoming

campaign, since it would draw on the resources needed to keep

back the Ice Queen.

     General Victor "Victorious," of the renowned Lightening

Legion followed them, hiding his amusement at the conversation

topic.  He was boisterous, cunning and proud; one of the more

ingenious of the military chiefs.  He was able to make and

execute snap decisions, based almost entirely on his unerring

combat instincts.  He and his Lightening Legion, the only legion

that operated completely on horseback, would be crucial to the

Dark Lord's ultimate designs in securing the Elven Kingdom.

     Warlord Toggle Fingerbiter entered and chose his seat with

no ceremony and an approving glance at Phyllia posted beside his

chair.  He was no tactician, but he and his people would follow

orders and fight to their dying breath, since death in battle was

their way of assuring great rewards in the next life.  He would

speak for many and support anything the Dark Lord proposed.

     Admirals Thomas Ekert of Londarus and Charles Stout of Rima

were carrying on their customary friendly feud over whose river

forces were more effective at pirate hunting: Rima's, where

quality troops were needed to keep the smugglers, and the ships

from Lupa and Tavect in line, or Londarus' forces who clashed

with river pirates and barbarian raiders, in situations where

numbers were of more use than strategy.  They were both

argumentative, determined and resourceful, and each knew his

river, its shores, and the opposing forces intimately.  Their

special knowledge would be as invaluable as the Lightening Legion

to the success of the campaign.  This would be the first time the

imperial army and navy had worked in direct cooperation.  The

Dark Lord disliked first times because too much could go wrong,

so there was much to plan to ensure nothing did.

     General Timothy Oakleaf, the empire's only half-elven

general followed the debating captains, looking bored at their

conversation.  He was taciturn and spiteful, and like most dark

elves had spent his life trying to live down his elven heritage. 

He was fiercely competitive with his peers, a character flaw that

the Dark Lord had molded from a liability to an imperial benefit. 

His hatred for his elven blood, like that of most half breeds

cast from the light of Eslil, had become a driving conviction to

destroy the race that had borne him and cast him out when he did

not conform.  He was the expert on elven society, customs and

mind-set, and always requested stations near the Elven Kingdom. 

He had personally led several of the reprisals against the

infrequent elven raids.  His support for the plan would

neutralize much of Garza's expected opposition.

     General Ravensblood, the youngest and newest of the generals

entered last, leading Morgan on a leash.  The brazen display of

his loaned bedwarmer only confirmed the reports about him.  He

was said to be impulsive, inexperienced and lucky; a rogue in

imperial uniform.  He was already a folk hero, based on his short

career.  His tactics were spectacular, haphazard and based on

surprise, novelty and great risk.  None of the more established

generals were comfortable working with him, and no one was sure

if he was a greater asset or danger to the military.

     The eleven men stood, anticipating the arrival of the

missing three that the table was set for, quietly conversing with

each other and admiring the slave girls that would be serving

them.  The Dark Lord noticed that Morgan was kneeling perfectly,

even if her bound hands were clenched into angry little fists

behind her back.  It would be amusing to watch her during the

interplay tonight.

     Moments later, Balkar arrived, escorting King Fionn and Sir

Edward.  The company was seated with a simple motion of their

host's hand, a casual show of dauntless supremacy which mortified

Sir Edward.  Introductions followed, and the Dark Lord watched

the reaction slyly.  The Tavectans had probably never seen a real

hobgoblin before, and Generals Garza and Oakleaf hid their scowls

poorly under the formality, as if sensing a new enemy.

     Dara, at the end of the table, moved to the wooden panel at

a snap of her master's fingers and signalled the cooks to send up

the food.  Elna, reacting to the same snap, began a lively tune

she had heard sung around the barracks.  It was an unorthodox

choice for a formal banquet, but since it was not ribald, she

doubted there would be objections.  Approving glances from

Ravensblood and Admiral Stout confirmed her belief.  She knew her

master hated dull, sleepy melodies when he was among friends.

     The slave girls went to where Dara had received the first

platters and began the task of serving their master's guests. 

More than one shot Elna a glance of envy.  She could sit in

whatever position she found comfortable while she played, well

out of reach of the greedy hands many of them would feel before

the end of the evening.  They would be standing and moving about

all night, and then if selected for private duties, would likely

get no sleep.  Elna would be excused to rest her sore fingers

after the meal was over, they would clear the table and report to

the various suites, chambers and tents.

     During the first course, among the fried curds and chicken

patties with almonds, was circulated an elongated divided platter

stocked with what appeared to be large brown peas with dark spots

on the sides and a curiously fermented odor.  The other side held

long segmented strips and smaller round bits of meat.  Toggle

Fingerbiter smiled favorably and hungrily eyed the platter as it

was started at the head of the table, as were all the dishes. 

The Dark Lord, noticing, and not wishing to offend, took a

healthy spoonful of the dark spheroids and an ample helping of

the meats.  Balkar followed suit, but most of the other men

passed it by or took only a modest helping from it.  Toggle

spooned a triple portion of both foods onto his plate and ate

with relish.

     When the tray finally reached Sir Edward, the Dark Lord

intentionally slipped a large spoonful of the spheres into his

own mouth and smiled encouragingly as he chewed, while discreetly

swallowing them without letting his teeth touch them.  The young

knight took a careful, but large helping from the girl who smiled

down at him, never meeting his gaze.

     Having never seen such food, the Tavectans sampled the

dishes cautiously.  They were salty, with an unusually tangy

flavor and a stringy interior texture which differed from the

smooth, slightly wrinkled exteriors on which their tongues could

detect tiny ruffles.  Still, they were interesting and palatable,

but clearly not vegetable as first thought.  The long strips of

meat were tender, while the small round bits were somewhat chewy,

but flavorful, like excellent beef.

     Curious and considering making the dish a centerpiece for

the next masked ball, during the approaching Harvest Festival,

King Fionn asked his host what they were, just as Sir Edward

beckoned the girl back from Toggle who had just taken another

large helping.  The Dark Lord only smiled as he cleared the last

of the meat from his plate, followed by the remaining spheroid

and washed them down quickly with a large gulp of wine.  He was

glad to be done with them and on to the more appealing

appetizers.  After a bite of the chicken patty, noticing the cook

had been heavy-handed on the rosewater again, he commented, "You

like them, do you?"

     "Oh, quite," King Fionn returned, noticing the some of the

other diners who had taken them had not even touched the

appetizer.  "You set a fine table, Great Lord, but please, what

are these called.  I'm sure I've tasted something similar, but

I'd like to be sure."

     "Pooshnok," the Dark Lord answered, gesturing with his wine-

glass to the brown spheroids Sir Edward was adding to his plate,

"served in accompaniment with Javooka-du-Shagga."

     "Is special hobgoblin delegate," Toggle added from across

the table between enthusiastic bites.  General Oakleaf stifled a

snicker in his wine-glass as Sir Edward blanched, his jaws

momentarily ceasing their chewing.

     "Delicacy, Toggle," the Dark Lord corrected.  "We can't have

our guests thinking they are eating sentient beings.  The word is

delicacy, not delegate."  The hobgoblin nodded and shrugged and

apology.  Sir Edward regained his composure somewhat, but ate

with noticeably less enthusiasm.

     Now more curious than ever, King Fionn persisted, "We may

have to rethink our initial evaluation of your humanoid allies. 

But please, what is Pooshnok?"

     The Dark Lord gestured to General Garza who had been leaning

forward, eager to explain.  "As the Warlord said," the general

began formally, "they are a hobgoblin delicacy.  Most humanoids

from the Mountains of Menace live underground, hence their diets

have developed along a very restricted track from limited natural

resources.  In fact, Pooshnok was extremely rare until only

recently when our new trading policies opened them up to the

outside, but even now they are still considered a delicacy, at

least to some palates.  But in answer to your question, Your

Majesty, Pooshnok is pickled goose eyes, and Javooka-du-Shagga

are worms sauteed in butter with crack-shelled snails."

     Duke Zuberbier roared with laughter as Sir Edward turned an

unhealthy shade of green and slumped in his chair, but a

withering glance from the Dark Lord silenced his ridicule. 

General Ravensblood, having unwittingly taken a fair sized

portion of the buttered worms and snails also felt a sudden knot

in his stomach, but avoided reproach, by feeding the remainder of

his food to Morgan, who shuddered at every mouthful.  It was

permissible to feed the slave girls unwanted food, and as a

slave, Morgan could not refuse any such favors.

     "An interesting menu, Great Lord," King Fionn answered,

taking a moment to let his own stomach settle as Ursala refilled

his wine-glass.  "Snails are a delicacy in Tavect as well, but I

had never considered worms, or goose eyes."

     The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow at the admission, but said

nothing.  He in turn let his stomach settle at the thought of

civilized humans eating snails.  Humanoids he expected it of, and

he had only had the cooks prepare the repulsive dish for the

benefit of Toggle and to watch the Tavectans choke when they

found out what they had been eating.  Only Sir Edward had given

him the pleasure, and now it had been turned upon him with a

vengeance.  He found himself wondering how hard it would be to

lay siege to a people who could resort to eating snails.

     Dinner progressed nicely, and the talk invariably turned to

the military prowess of Tavect and the treaty.  Tavect's rivalry

with Lupa was well-known to both Admirals who had made their own

assessments of both kingdom's navies.  They had been called on at

times to escort imperial vessels through the disputed waters, and

had lost potential smugglers and pirates to the safety of

either's ports, where they could not pursue without international

incident.  They believed that while Tavect and Lupa were well

matched to each other, neither could stand against an imperial

fleet.  Lupa's ships were faster, while Tavect's were sturdier,

but the Empire had both and in far greater numbers than even the

combined forces.

     General Oakleaf noted that Tavect's army had not engaged in

any major conflicts for generations, and that its fortifications

along the borders were antiquated, more serviceable as watch-

towers than as credible strongholds.  He added that Lupa was more

progressive, and their ongoing fortification construction was a

matter of national pride.

     King Fionn readily agreed to all of the facts, only to

stress again that his kingdom was dedicated to peace, but capable

of defending itself if attacked, with an army that was constantly

on the move, making its size impossible for invaders to

calculate.

     "None of those invaders," Sir Edward quickly pointed out,

"have ever managed to take and keep Tavectan ground for more than

a few weeks before being destroyed."

     "And none of them," Balkar countered, "have ever been a

particularly large force in all my years."

     "That is fortunate for them," the young knight returned. 

"Our enemies have learned that any force sent against us is

doomed.  It is not our fault that they are intelligent enough to

prefer the certain destruction of hundreds over that of

thousands."

     "Thousands?"  Balkar immediately probed.

     "The army of Tavect does what is required of it," King Fionn

interceded, determined not to let the wizard call his bluff.  The

belief of an invincible army was all Tavect had to protect itself

with, and King Fionn knew it all too well.  Brianna's spendthrift

habits had resulted in his neglect of national security, yet a

fortuitous marriage could bolster that security as never before,

but he would have to maintain the hoax for a while yet to bargain

from a position of strength.

     "Perhaps, Good King," Duke Zuberbier ventured, "you are too

lenient with your taxes?  The only way to live well is through

the purses of others, and really, what use have the peasants for

money?  They certainly aren't smart enough to spend it properly."

     "My taxes are more than sufficient," Fionn replied, looking 

suspiciously at the golden apples that Camille was offering him

before taking one.  It's my management of money that's to blame,

he added silently.  His mind drifted to his daughter's wardrobe,

filled with gowns and accessories that went out of fashion far

too quickly for what they cost, and her lavish jewelry

collection.  Magpies and youngest daughters adore shiny things,

but a quarter of my girl's baubles could finance the

refurbishment of those antiquated castles and the construction of

a dozen new warships!  The golden apple turned out to be a ball

of pork encased in some sort of egg-based coating.

     After several slave girls had set the main course of

cockatrice on the table, to appropriate noises of approval, they

returned to their places behind the diners' chairs.  Two of the

beasts were set out, and closer tasting revealed that they made

of suckling pig and rooster, highly spiced and endored with a

red-brown coating before having the feathers added.

     "A most clever subtlety, Great Lord," commented King Fionn. 

"There are records of such feasts being held in my great-

grandfather's court.  I fear our cooks have become simple-

minded."

     "This is a trifle," the Dark Lord returned, resolving to

compliment the cooks.  "For my last birthday they created an

entire dragon."  He stretched luxuriously as Darlene's soft hands

rubbed his shoulders.  He noted disapprovingly that Duke

Zuberbier seasoned his food very liberally with kaniba taken from

an ornate silver dispenser.

     Further discussion proved fruitless in gaining an account of

the numbers in Tavect.  Known battles were reviewed as the

chroniclers had recorded them, and minor information gaps were

filled by either the king or his knight, but precise numbers and

tactics were never discussed.  Even if an enemy's numbers were

known, Tavect's were never disclosed.  Although none of the

battles had been waged against opposition the size of an imperial

legion, which was promising, if Tavect was indeed hiding a

skilled massive force behind inadequate exterior defenses, they

might easily give the Dark Lord his first major military disaster

since Ocara.  This time there would be no secret allies to call

on, and he just might lose.

     Getting nowhere, and not wishing to offend his guests, the

Dark Lord directed the conversation to the proposed alliance,

especially the difficult point of how many troops might be paired

with his legions.  They could keep their advisors and their

banners, he merely wanted numbers equitable to what the kingdom

could spare.  King Fionn again held to the original offer of one

hundred, refusing to be swayed by either glory or spoils,

claiming his kingdom's only interest was peace.

     Resisting the temptation to crush the wine-glass he held to

ease his frustration, the Dark Lord began working his situation

through silently.  He's hiding something, but I cannot risk a

miscalculation against him when I'm already taking a large risk

with the elves.  Damn if he's not about to force an alliance I

don't want, and maybe even find some way of holding me to it so I

cannot turn on him.  We're too much alike, this king and I, far

too much alike.  That means I need to find his weakness if I'm to

exploit him before he finds a weakness in me.

     The banquet finally drew to a close, with the appearance of

the olikuken and the wine in bottles instead of carafes, a signal

it was time to toast the night before retiring.  The small raisin

and current studded bread puffs were eaten in near silence, while

the girls lucky enough to be kneeling near a benevolent guest

were permitted to sample dessert, although more than one paid for

the privilege by having their breasts fondled or a nipple cruelly

pinched through the sheer fabric.  Morgan, who had been fed more

in this one meal than she was accustomed to eating in two days

appeared bloated.  Her ample breasts served General Ravensblood

as a seemingly endless source of amusement as he toyed with them

and forced her to accept food from his mouth with his kisses. 

Several of the older and more established men were rather

displeased with his seeming lack of discretion, but the Dark Lord

took a certain measure of satisfaction in watching his spiteful

bandit being humiliated before the entire harem, knowing she

hated the watching eyes as much as her own inability to resist.

     Neither the twins, kneeling obediently beside the Tavectans,

nor Phyllia, serving the frightening Warlord, received any of the

dessert.  In Tavect servants did not eat at the table, and were

definitely not fed from it like animals.  Phyllia had eaten

little, since Toggle had been enjoying his meal too much to share

with anyone.  A few of the other generals, noting the lack of

attention, had fed her when she had served, but she could still

hear her stomach rumbling at the smell of the honey the hobgoblin

had drenched the olikuken in.  The others were more generous, and

most of General Ravensblood's dessert found its way from his

mouth to Morgan's.  General Garza nearly gave his, plate and all,

to Lucy, since he disliked anything sweet.  Olikuken were not

especially sweet, but the raisins were not to his liking.

     Darlene had served well, and was rewarded with several small

bites from her master's own fork, and a long sensuous caressing

of her throat and shoulders.  He gently lifted her chin so he

could look at her pretty face, noticing the soft imploring eyes,

and the way she ran her tongue lightly along the side of his

thumb as it brushed her lips.  The delicate arching of her back,

that presented her breasts to him in a display of submissive

longing intrigued him.  The Dark Lord ran two fingers through the

honey that remained on his plate and brought them to her lips. 

She licked his fingertips lightly, savoring the sweetness on

them, before moving to encompass them with her mouth.  She closed

her lips very slowly, stroking his fingers with her tongue before

he withdrew them.  He smiled approvingly down at her.  Rhea had

trained this one well.  Very soon now, she would be ready for his

bed.

     Returning his attention to his guests, the Dark Lord

refilled his wine-glass and stood.  Elna stopped playing

instantly, her sore fingers going promptly to her mouth.  "A

toast," he declared.  "One from each of us, and then the night is

through."  The company smiled and took up their own glasses

expectantly.  It was a visionary close to a perfect meal.

     Drawing a deep breath, the Dark Lord gazed out across the

table, looking past the live guests, to the faceless phantoms

beyond the walls, as he raised his glass before him.  "To all

those whom we had to leave behind on the battlefields, and

beneath the waters, without whose courage and sacrifice the

Empire would not stand as it does today.  And especially to those

whom we know served with us, and died for us, but whose names and

faces we cannot remember."

     A prolonged silence filled the air, each man seeming to see

his own ghosts reflected in the crystal of his wine-glass.  The

Dark Lord watched the smiles of appeasement on the faces he could

not remember as his own ghosts faded away.  Lightly chiming his

glass against Balkar's to break the commemorative silence, he

moved his arm left, to touch King Fionn's glass, and drank a

measured sip, leaving plenty for the other toasts.  His guests

followed suit and the hall filled with ringing crystal.

     Balkar stood next, and presented his own glass.  "To the

alliance between Tavect and the Empire: may it be forged as

strongly as the swords in the hands of the soldiers who will

stand on either side of it."

     Duke Zuberbier followed, standing beside the wizard, as it

was the custom to remain standing after one's toast was drunk,

and cleared his throat in a poor attempt to hide a belch.  "To

health...and wealth...stealth.... and...and...uh, well, what else

matters?"  The Dark Lord blinked and held his eyes closed for a

moment too long, but drank the oafish toast anyway. 

Unfortunately the duke's military talent's matched his courtly

graces.  It galled the Dark Lord to think that his younger

brother, Prince Jame, was being exposed to this man as a proper

social influence.

     Admiral Stout rose quickly to make up for the Duke's

ineptitude.  "To the spirit of cooperation between the kingdom of

Tavect and the Empire: may our ships never need to meet in

conflict."

     Admiral Ekert offered a more ominously pragmatic toast to

follow him.  "And if that spirit of cooperation between our

nations should ever fail, and our ships do meet in conflict, may

the contest be quickly ended."  It was a double-edged sword,

gilded with words sweet enough to hide its bite.

     General Garza shoved away from the table and brandished his

wine-glass like a weapon.  "To all those who have fallen," he

began, following his lord's example, "defending civilization from

the forces of chaos on our borders, and especially to those who

will continue to fall if we ever permit our ambitions to call our

armies from where they are truly needed."

     The Dark Lord pondered the challenge to his authority as he

sipped his wine.  At least he now knew Garza would oppose him,

and he would be able to prepare his presentation around it.  The

challenge was permitted since it came from the man's heart, with

a genuine concern for the imperial citizens and legionnaires

along the frontier.  The challenges to him from personal pride

and jealousy were crushed without a second thought.

     General Ravensblood stood, appearing at a loss for words

when his turn came until inspiration landed on him like a great

bird.  "To the Lady Ariadne of Keep Theda:  May Blessed Maira

grant her tortured spirit rest that the good people of Ocarina

may be spared her mournful hauntings."  The Dark Lord quietly

promised King Fionn he would explain the young general's very

personal toast later.

     The remaining toasts proceeded with no real distinctions,

mostly hopes for the alliance and well-wishes on the Empire or

Tavect or both, until only King Fionn was still seated.  He shot

a thoughtful look at Balkar, and then slowly stood.

     "Before I lift my glass," he began after a short silence, "I

should first like to make an honest observation, then a grand

announcement, and finally my toast."  The room fell into an

anxious calm, and several men leaned forward in curious

anticipation, while the Dark Lord felt the warning tension cross

his shoulder--usually a warning that the enemy was about to

strike from behind in a battle.  He shrugged it off, knowing he

was safe in his own castle.

     "Through all of our discussions here, and your own

deliberating assessment of my kingdom, it should now be apparent

that Tavect is indeed a mighty nation, not by any means as great

as your empire, but still the dominant authority in our region,

rivalled by only one: the coalition of Lupa and Nikka across the

river from us.  War between your empire and this hated coalition

appears imminent, but it is my understanding that in future wars

of conquest you would consider it wiser to have my kingdom

aligned with you than against you.  Your bid for such an alliance

is hereby accepted, as understood and set forth in the treaty

your emperor and I have been discussing the past few days, with

but one condition that will be beneficial to all:

     "At this time, I am pleased and proud to announce to this

assembly the betrothal of my only daughter, the Princess Brianna

Anastasia Theresa Fiona, to your Emperor, the Dark Lord.  A toast

to their happiness together, and to the strength and security

their union shall bring to both of our nations!"

     The silence was like a thunderclap, knocking the breath out

of Sir Edward and a number of the generals.  It was broken by

simultaneous gasps from Phyllia and Darlene as the two girls felt

their hearts nearly stop in their chests.  The silence wore off

quickly, and was immediately followed by an almost joyous ringing

of wine-glasses and a rush of applause and congratulations from

everyone at the table, almost startling the Dark Lord a second

time.  He had not realized his generals were so anxious for him

to take a wife.

     "Congratulations, Sire!" Balkar beamed at him.  "I had no

idea."

     The Dark Lord glared at him before turning to King Fionn who

held his glass expectantly, waiting for him to seal the bargain. 

Instead, he locked eyes with the King, and poured the remaining

wine onto the floor, before planting his wine-glass upside down

on the table.

     "Neither did I," he answered his wizard dangerously. 

"Neither did I."

     The cheers and congratulations ceased abruptly, and all eyes

followed him as he left the dining hall.  Suspicious glances

began to fall on King Fionn and his knight.  Clearly anyone

capable of springing such an announcement without the approval of

one of the parties involved was no one to make a treaty with. 

The imperial leaders left one by one, going up to the war room as

they had been informed.  Soon the Tavectans were alone at the

great table with the wizard.

     "I thought you said he would take it well," King Fionn snapped.

     "Your forgiveness, Great King.  Perhaps I can talk him

around to the idea," Balkar attempted to placate him.

     "I hope you can.  We shall retire for the evening.  Let us

know of any progress that is made."  Beckoning Sir Edward to

follow, they retreated through the waiting room to their suite.

     Caught in the middle, and not really wanting to go to the

war council, Balkar wondered if he could beg off on the excuse of

dinner not agreeing with him.  The guards were leaving and he

remained sitting.  Dara brushed next to him to retrieve her

master's inverted wine-glass.  "Tonight, my chambers," he

whispered.

     "Captain," she answered briefly, indicating the Captain of

the Guard wished her attentions.

     Balkar sighed and swirled the dregs of his wine in the

glass.  He lifted it briefly to the picture that appeared in his

mind's eye.  General Ravensblood had given him an idea, and

perhaps the alliance with Tavect would be made after all, only

with his signature at the bottom instead of the Dark Lord's. 

Knowing it was time to go, he left the dining hall for the war

room, hoping his absence would not be remarked upon.

     Arriving, he found the discussion of King Fionn's

announcement loud and growing more heated by the minute.  The

Dark Lord had been backed into a conversational corner by his

married generals, while the unmarried ones hovered around the

edge, making pointed comments about succession.

     "But I can't abide the chit!" he bellowed as Balkar walked

in.  "Why now and why her?"

     "Sire," Balkar began, nervously trying to smooth things

over, "You grow no younger, and you insist on taking needless

risks, like riding with your troops.  You have named no heir, and

we worry about the future of the Empire should you not return

from a battle."

     "That's what they've been telling me.  Besides, you knew

this was coming.  I saw the look King Fionn gave you before he

spoke!  Suppose I were to wed the princess, and fill her belly

before this next campaign, but some elf nails me from the trees? 

She would bear the child in late summer, well after I'm gone, and

then spend eighteen years raising it until it can take the

throne, and there's no guarantee it will be a boy!  My sister

Zara is my heir and after her comes Jame as all of you well

know."  There were dark looks from the Vanadan generals and a

mumbling about being ruled by a sorceress.  "Enough!" the Dark

Lord bellowed again.  "I will consider an Empress, but I will not

marry the Princess Brianna.  Not for all the swords in Schwerter

or all the doxies in Pergamum.  Balkar, you are not needed.  Give

apologies for my rudeness to King Fionn and tell him I am

considering his proposal.  Now enough about succession. 

Gentlemen, your assessments of the Tavect situation."

     Balkar strode down the stairs, pleased to be away from the

discussion, but peeved at being dismissed like a footman.  He

would not visit the king tonight, he decided, let both rulers

stew for a while.  He swept through the cool evening air toward

his tower, a look of serene calm on his face.  He passed a pair

of orcish guards that grumbled quietly in their native tongue. 

He was amused to hear complaints about the food, as well as a

comment about a cheater in a card game.

     He drifted up the stairs to his apartments, dispelling the

magical ward on his dorr with a single sweep of his hand before

opening it, the languid smile on his angelic face giving lie to

the trophies that were illuminated when he entered.  Some he had

collected, and others he had fashioned himself to perfect his

magic.  He closed the door softly behind him.

     General Ravensblood had given him an idea, now if he could

just implement it.  He walked to the bookshelf, lightly running

his fingertips along the spines of the books, some hot, some icy

cold, and some, the most powerful, having no temperature at all. 

Not finding it, he dropped down, shelf by shelf, until he was

kneeling and searching the very bottom shelf.  As if seized, his

fingers stopped on the book he had been searching for.  It was

faded and musty, and the edges showed signs of fire, but it was

there.

     Carefully pulling the aged volume from its place, Balkar

stared at the golden symbols on the cover with a mixture of

triumph and dread.  He stood, trying to recall the language to

his mind.  After a full minute of intense concentration, he

deciphered it, although he knew the title as he had always known

it.  Almost reverently, he breathed the name.  It was a language

humans were not made to speak, and no tongue but his had used in

over half a century.

     "Ariadne's Antithesis," he repeated softly.

     Although slightly scorched around the edges, and rippled by

rain, the volume was in remarkable shape.  Carried from the Keep

before its destruction by one of the lady's harem slaves whom she

had freed, it had been kept secret for years.  It was believed

destroyed in the cataclysmic battle, when Silver-eyes, the elf

who owned it, fell on the side of the Light.  It was the last,

and most complete, work of the Lady of Ocarina, and a premier

work on wizardy, the black arts, and other occult mysteries.

     The few who knew of its existance had zealously guarded the

secret, since the book would have made them the target for every

meglomanic hedge wizard and holy paladin on Quapu.  The Furyblade

family, a most formidible group of paladins and priestesses,

especially would stop at nothing to destroy the book, as would

the Elf Queen, on whose family name Ariadne was a blot.

     Using great care, Balkar cleared a space on his cluttered

desk and gently set the book down.  Contained in this volume was

the sum of three hundred years of knowledge, amassed by the lady

both before and after her casting out from the elven kingdom. 

And although her life had been cut short, her last work was

complete, if a bit random.  Magic spells and ceremonies that

could channel awesome destructive power lay but pages away from

prosiac herbal remedies.  Recipes and elaborate instruction for

potions, poisons and magical paraphenalia were included among

various entries on her daily life and sexual adventures. 

Advanced necromancy kept company with curses for chronic male

impotence, and favorite dinner recipes with plans to bring ruin

to entire geographical regions.

     Surely, Balkar thought as he blew the dust from the volume

and opened the heavy cover, there must be something in here I can

use against my lord.  Something that will alleviate the situation

that grows more intolerable with each passing day.  I am through

being his lackey!  It is time for me to forge my own destiny, and

time for a change in imperial order.  Time for a new emperor to

seize the ebon throne, one who will not appoint a mystic witch as

his heir to be succeeded by a bleeder.  Time for my order and my

reign!

     The Lady Ariadne will see to that, somehow.  But even when I

find the perfect item it will take me weeks to decipher her

writing and then translate out of this language that was dead

even when she affected it.  Perhaps even more weeks will be

needed for preparation, and I do not know if I have enough time. 

He suspects something, I can feel his eyes watching me.  It is

only a question of who moves first.

     Balkar's eyes strayed momentarily from the page to his

dagger, a lissome anlance given to him personally by Nikodanb of

the Many Faces when he had summoned the being for a contract.  He

envisioned himself planting it deeply in his lord's back, taking

the satisfaction of making the kill personally.  Unfortunately

simple assassination was out of the question.  The Dark Lord was

too much of a physical opponent for Balkar to risk a

confrontation, and even if he succeeded, by some cosmic stroke of

luck, there would be the guards to deal with.  The human regulars

were loyal beyond question, and nearly impossible for a would-be

usurper to win over.  The humanoids would be entirely impossible,

and the ShetaRra would either martyr themselves in their lord's

defense or never rest until his death was avenged.  Also to be

figured in were the army of Shadowmen, Zara, and the Dark Lord's

numerous personal allies.  At least one of them would eventually

avenge him, and any assassin would live in fear of that for the

rest of his miserable, and very short, life.

     Overt magic was not feasible.  While a well-placed fireball

or lightening bolt could be counted on to fell a dragon, it would

be worthless against the emperor.  In his paranoia and knowledge

of magic, the Dark Lord had fortified himself with an unseemly

array of protective charms and talismans, mostly disguised as

jewelry, which could take the brunt of any magical attack.  He

was practically invulnerable from that angle.

     Balkar knew his options were limited.  He was no paladin to

slay the Dark Lord and die a martyr.  He wanted his former friend

dead, but without any repercussion falling on him.  Poisoning was

likewise out of the question.  If the Dark Lord died from poison,

Balkar knew that his neck would go on the chopping block right

beside Lem and the entire family of cooks.  That policy forced

those in the best position to attempt such an act to guard

against it.

     It would have to be a curse, or perhaps, just a hex, given

the time constraint.  A hex might not be powerful enough to

accomplish the Dark Lord's demise outright, but if cast at the

right time, it could weaken him enough that someone else, like an

anonymous elven archer, could accomplish it.  It would be less

awe-inspiring than a curse, but easier and less-time consuming to

cast.

     Still, he mused maliciously, leafing to the page where he

had deciphered the heading of "Curses" almost a year ago, if I am

to aspire to the ebon throne, and since I will only have one

chance, why should I not use this text to its full potential?  A

hex is only good against one victim, but a curse could strike

down many, including those who would oppose me, solving all of my

problems at once!

     His glee dissolved into dread as he comtemplated the task

before him.  The casting would be simple compared to acquiring

the means and wherewithal to cast it, namely perusing the book

beyond the first few pages.  Ariadne's Antithesis had a long

history of being the undoing of those who had read it, even

Silver-eyes to whom she had given it personally.  The adventurers

who had retrieved it from the battlefield all died horribly

bizarre deaths shortly thereafter, setting a grim precedent for

the later possessors.

     Balkar had aquired it through just such a tragedy.  His

former master, the wizard he had been apprenticed to, had owned

the volume before him, and Nikodanb only knew who had it before

the old man.  Balkar remembered the stormy night he had awakened

to a ghastly piercing scream, and the tower seeming to rock on

its foundations.  He had followed the screams and weird maniacal

laughter to the library.  He arrived in time to see his teacher,

engulfed in flames, laughing and screaming like a lunatic, throw

himself out a window and plummet like a shooting star into the

waves below.  the book was lying open on the writing desk, almost

the only piece of furniture not burning, and Balkar had snatched

it and several other precious books and scrolls and fled the

castle before it slid from the cliff and joined its master in the

waters off Vorsorge.

     After much wandering and research in all of the remaining

libraries, Balkar finally stumbled upon the language the book was

written in.  It was a variant of Old Minotaur, which showed heavy

ogrish influence.  He had deciphered the title and few pages,

shaking his head at the complexity.  What had possesed a dark elf

to write in such a language, he had no idea, but realizing the

treasure he had, and finally understanding his master's fate, he

locked it in a chest beneath some clothing.  When he had moved to

Dark Hold he had put it on the bookcase, since few thieves look

for valuables in obvious places.  He had dabbled with it, like a

miser playing with his gold, but only briefly, before losing his

nerve and putting it back on the shelf.  He had almost forgotten

about it, but tonight General Ravensblood's toast seemed to ring

purer than the sound of crystal and the book had seemed to call

him, even when he was inside the castle's keep.

     After a brief instant of toying with the idea of putting the

book back, being content with his lot and living a long healthy

life in the service of his lord and friend, Balkar clenched his

fist in firm resolve.  He began reading, chanting a continuous

incantation of protection.  He paused only momentarily to

concentrate on the occasional symbol he could not remember and to

copy it out for later reference.  Always watching for an unusual

glyph that might destroy him as one had his master, he committed

each listing to memory, fascinated by the variety of virulent

influences he could invoke.  His throat was dry and the syllables

of the incantation were sticking, but he dared not stop lest he

lose his resolve.  Swallowing was painful, and his vision was

blurring, but the book compelled him onward, dominating his

attention and relentlessly draining him.

     Word after word sank into his memory as the archaic language

began to creep back and become increasingly prevalent, almost

intimately personal with each block of script.  He hungered for

more, his blood pounding faster as he read on, marvelling at the

crooked genius behind each individual selection.  He pressed on,

unable to decide, ignore the fever that swept over him and his

irregular breathing.  More hours passed, night moved into day,

with the first dim rays of false dawn.

     A rooster crowed in the outer courtyard, almost inaudible in

his chambers, but breaking Balkar's concentration like a

thunderclap.  A bone-numbing chill washed over him, and the

enchanted light dimmed for a moment before returnign to normal. 

Impulsively, he slammed the cover shut, and pushed himself away

from the desk, suddenly aware of how weak he felt and the wetness

in his mouth that indicated he had not been chanting for some

time.

     He glanced out the window trying to guess the hour, not

remembering hearing the castle bell since he left the keep.  He

leaned on the desk to support his unstable legs, but drew back

quickly.  Ariadne's Antithesis lay open agains, although he had

distinctly closed it.  Mor intimidating was the fact that it was

well over two-thirds of the way through, to a page he had never

seen before.  The was no wind in his chambers, and even so, no

breeze could have flipped the heavy cover and stiff pages without

him feeling it.

     Balkar reached over to shut the book again, aware of the

chill that still permeated his body, but he could not help

glancing to the page it was open to when his hands found the

volume's covers too heavy to close.  The inscription at the top

alluded to a curse, and he became aware that he was smiling as he

effortlessly read the title and summary of the effect.  Perfect,

my Lady.  Exactly what I wanted, and precisely what I need. 

Knowing his services would not be required for several hours,

Balkar collapsed on the bed, exhausted from his night's labors.

     She is small and fair.  Her green eyes sparkle as she kisses

him, trailing her long golden hair over his body.  The white gown

she wears dissapates into the mists around her.  A tinkling laugh

escapes her as she removes his robes.  It has been too long since

he took a woman, and now he comes to her gladly, enjoying her

small body and gentle words of encouragement.  Her pointed ears

poke through the shower of gold she bathes them both in, and she

whispers to him in the old arcane language of her book as he

makes love to her.

--



bondage sex stories, bdsm sex stories, stories, sex, bdsm, s&m stories, domination, submission, erotic fiction, sado masochism, BDSM stories, free sex stories, free bondage stories
BDSM Sex Stories - Bondage Discipline Dominance Submission Sadism Masochism

Back to More 1st Sex Stories


See All Our Feature Hardcore Sites!
Fetish Club, 1 Asian Porn, Fetish Cinema , XRated TV , V Girl, Massive Hardcore