Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
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Ch. 1 -- Master's New Plaything
"My name is Twelve," I say, flexing my riding crop between my hands. "I am lord and master of this household. I am not to be questioned. Understand?"
The young woman's mud-streaked face looks up at me, a question dancing behind the sad blue eyes that flash in the light of the hundred candles that light my receiving chamber. I would say I've seen this look a thousand times before and on a thousand different faces, but that would be inaccurate.
According to my records, I've only seen this look on the faces of fifty-seven Tithes. Fifty-seven different young women, one question. And that question is always the same. No doubt she'll ask it soon.
She lies on her side, curled into a tiny ball on my flagstone floor, struggling desperately to hide her nakedness. Her wrists are still bound before her by the rough hemp rope that tethered her to the Tithe she marched behind on her journey here.
Her hair is long and brown and should prove exquisitely soft once it's clean. Protocol would dictate that since she is a new Tithe, I should have her shaven from head to toe, stripping away her dignity with every stroke of the razor. But I can't bear the thought of such a waste.
I've a fancy for hair and a flair for rebellion, not that I am above being punished myself for not strictly adhering to protocol. Nine would surely have me thrown into stocks and flogged bloody and raw, if I still answered to her.
She still has the power to do so, mind you. She is Nine. I am Twelve. She is my superior, but in numbername only. I am Hierarchy now, though even we are still occasionally called, usually as an example as to how a proper slave should serve. Nine believes the best way for a slave to serve is by bleeding.
But I answer to Three now, and Three is smitten with me. She would never let Nine's cruel hands mark her prize, not since she spent such vast sums to erase my scars. I have nothing to fear from Nine anymore. My concern is for my new plaything. Should she so desire, Nine could claim dominion and have her whisked away from me, and this new Tithe is just Nine's type.
Though she is twenty years old, well into harvesting age, she's not much larger than a child, standing under sixteen hands tall. Currently, she can't weigh more than seven stone, as her ribs are clearly visible. It's a long journey from Palsinore, and Tithes are marched much more than they are fed. She's doing her best to hide her breasts from me, but I wager there's not much to hide.
This one is the kind Nine has been known to kill, accidentally, she'd add. I pity this wasted child should she lay claim to her. She is small, weak, and frightened. Her timid voice has the high, hollow sound of a wooden flute. "What are you going to do to me?"
They're all stupid when they're this fresh. She doesn't even know her name. Not yet. She probably thinks she does, but she only knows what it used to be.
Normally, I'd flog a Tithe within inches of her life for daring to question me, especially after I've just told her not to, but I'd be afraid it would be too much for this one in her current state and, unlike Nine, I don't enjoy breaking my toys. And there's something about this one. Her sheer terror is a delight to my eyes, but there's something else in there, too. A few simple tests should tell if it is what I'm thinking.
I sit on my haunches beside her head, positioning myself so that when she tries to look at my face, she cannot help but see the bulge in my leather breeks--a little hint as to what her future holds.
Gently, I brush the hair from her face with the tip of my crop. "What is your name, Tithe?"
She catches herself staring and quickly averts her gaze. "Avissia."
I bring the crop down hard against the only surface I feel safe striking a Tithe in her condition -- what little backside she has left. She yelps.
"I didn't catch that," I say. "What is your name?"
She sniffs and her lower lip trembles. "Avissia," she says, then hesitantly adds, "Master."
Alright. So she isn't completely stupid, but she still doesn't get it. I strike her harder. Three times in rapid succession, eliciting the most beautiful, delicate wail I've ever heard. It will be hard not to beat this one.
"Let's try this again," I say, sighing to feign disinterest. Were she to open her eyes and look up, she would quickly learn how untrue that is. The leather of my breeks is squeezing my cock so deliciously tightly, it's like being in the viselike grip of one of Three's demonic contraptions. "My name is Twelve. I am lord and master of this household. I am not to be questioned. What is your name?"
Her eyes flash open and dart around. Her teeth gently close on her bottom lip. Adorable.
"Do watch that, little one," I say as I gently run my finger across her lips. "You'll soon enough see the scar on Thirty-Seven's bottom lip which she got from thinking too hard. Now. Your name?"
She glances up at me. She understands. "Thirty-eight?"
"Right idea," I say with a swat of my crop. "Wrong number."
"Thirty-Nine?"
Another lash. "You'll be dead by dawn at the rate you're going. Did you really think that as a new Tithe you'd be someone's Prime?"
