Wulfkar dragged Phaeka by the hair over to her bound husband. Lord Kaelon was not a typical man. He served as an aide to one of the senators in the Prythian capitol, Caeleph. His fine cheekbones, thin reedy voice, and narrow eyes all accentuated a sense of delicacy rather than the warrior-class of which his heritage had long boasted. Kaelon’s family had been furious with him for choosing to marry Phaeka, who had come from a more modest mercantile family. The match was deemed lopsided, but Kaelon was too smitten with her to care. He and Phaeka had had a beautiful baby girl together when she was quite young – only 16 years of age – and they had never looked back with any regret. Never, though, in a hundred years did Phaeka think that their journey together would lead to this moment, this awful, nightmarish moment.
Phaeka met her husband’s stricken look, her own eyes just as fearful.
“Well, well. It looks like your man got hard watching the show you and your precious daughter put on together. I bet he’s yearning for some relief. Just to show you I can be merciful, I think I’ll let you provide it. Go ahead. Suck your husband’s cock.”
Phaeka gaped. She looked up at the scar-faced gladiator. He had a livid, angry cut that ran down his left cheek like a canyon of sandstone. “P-please, let us go and take everything you want. You can have our villa and everything in it. Just please let us take our daughter and go, let us –”
Wulfkar ignored her and walked away. He proceeded to retrieve his knife from among his flung-off weapons, clothing, and armor, and then strode back up to the tree. He pointed the knife at Kaelon’s erect manhood.
“Either you suck it off or I cut it off. Which will it be?”
The color drained from Phaeka’s face. Although Gorlann had promised her daughter that he would spare their lives, Phaeka didn’t know how strong of a control the leader had over his men, and she certainly had no desire to risk this one’s ire. The beautiful woman knelt. She looked up at her beloved husband. ‘I’m so sorry,’ her eyes spoke to him, the tears blurring her vision as she took the tip of his shaft between her lips. Soon she had a rhythm going, her head bobbing sedately yet steadily, sucking the shaft of the helpless man she loved. She tightened the seal of her mouth, bobbing lower and lower, ever so gradually, until her tongue cradled the base of his cock as she slurped loudly and tenderly on his straining erection.
Lord Kaelon’s face was scrunched up in the agony of pent-up release. He clearly had no desire to come in these brutal circumstances, but nature and the body’s instincts had a way of overriding the wishes of the mind. Phaeka tasted her husband’s pre-cum on her tongue. She knew how very close he was to losing control. Her hands stroked his stomach and abdomen as she lovingly brought him toward rapture.
Yet before she could, she heard the crunch of many feet. Many, many pairs of feet. There was a shout, and then a murmur of voices.
“Hey Arena-scrapper, you think you can hoard all the prettiest ones to yourself?” The voice was thick, accented. It was a slave’s voice. A Xokothi’s. He was clearly addressing Wulfkar. Phaeka slowly withdrew her mouth, wiped away the pre-cum dangling at her lips, and turned around. What she saw made her stiffen. There were at least 14 men in the group that now approached. These were dark-skinned Xokothi, all with eyes of fierce intelligence. The Xokothi had been bred to be accountants, bookkeepers, treasury clerks – the bureaucrats who helped the machinery of the Empire run smoothly. But the Xokothi were also naturally strong and physically fit, only slightly less so than the Prythians from the old days of the Empire’s founding, before the Imperium had grown soft.
Phaeka saw that the gang of slaves had a girl with them. She looked to be Anaria’s age. She had a face more delicately-boned and innocent than Anaria’s. She had long, dark hair, more deep brown than black, and she stood exceedingly slender, with a petite body more similar to Phaeka’s than to Anaria’s. Her eyes were the same deep-brown-to-black as her hair, and the tint of her skin was darker than a typical Prythian’s but much fairer than a Xokothi slave’s. With a start, Phaeka recognized the girl.
It was Shinatri. It was Anaria’s best friend, and yet the girl was hardly recognizable right now. She was naked. Her wildly disheveled hair, minor cuts to her face and arms, and the slight bruise growing on her right cheek all spoke of rough handling. The slaves had bound her wrists in front of her with rawhide. One of them idly fondled and groped her supple breasts. Her eyes looked straight ahead, deadened almost, or like one looking from beyond a dream.
“This little beauty has taken all 14 of our cocks up her cunt. She’s all used up. I suppose we will keep her around to pass around the campfire later, but now we need fresh pussy. Yours still looks fresh to me,” the lead Xokothi added pointedly. Wulfkar’s broad face remained taciturn and unreadable. He adjusted his grip along the hilt of his knife.
“I’m busy, as you can see. Why don’t you run along and find someone not yet claimed?” Wulfkar rumbled. “The only beauty I have which I am willing to let you sample is the one in my hand,” the gladiator added sharply, his knife glinting in the sunlight.
Phaeka held her breath. The tension in the air was thick enough to be sliceable.
“You Arena-maggots are all the same,” the Xokothi slave leader spat back. “You claim you want to do away with the Imperium, to build some new and equal society, but you look down on us just as the Imperium always has. And the proof, ah, now the proof is right here before us. You refuse to share your bounty with us. You could prove us wrong, you know. We are happy to share our booty,” the Xokothi offered. He curled his arm around Shinatri’s shoulders, caressing her with deceptive tenderness. “She’s truly exquisite, is she not? Why don’t we trade? You share your prize and we’ll share ours.”
Wulfkar grunted, unimpressed.
“Your ‘prize’ needs some rest and a good bath. I said it once and I’ll say it again. Leave me to my spoils. Go find your own or taste cold steel. You Xokothi are all the same. You think that all property should be shared. Some things are not for sharing,” he finished, and as he said this he put his hand possessively on top of Phaeka’s head. He stroked her hair, petting her like a dog as she knelt there, frozen, waiting for violence to erupt.
The Xokothi leader grinned. He was handsome despite his gap-toothed smile. He abruptly pinched Shinatri’s nipples, making the girl yelp before he shoved her into the arms of one of his followers. “Hold onto the little bitch while I deal with this stubborn ox.” The slave leader’s nearest companion immediately cupped Shinatri’s perky tits and resumed caressing them. Meanwhile, the confrontational Xokothi drew out a knife of his own and turned back to Wulfkar.
“Ah, I see how it is. You want to play hard to get. We can do that, Arena-scrapper. These Imperium haven’t put up much of a fight lately anyway. Perhaps you can help me practice my knife skills.” As he said this he began to advance. With each approaching step, Phaeka felt rising hope. In the midst of the fight, with all the men’s attentions distracted, could she untie her husband and get him out of here? As the gladiator and the Xokothi began to circle, blades in hand, Phaeka felt the tiniest glimmer of opportunity emerging at last.
THE END FOR NOW…
Leave a Reply