Slathaar: Invasion

Author's Note:

A couple of notes on the world-building and mythology. If there is an Earth parallel, the islands of Slathaar would be the Nordic countries. The mythology is loosely Norse, with Arsu heavily inspired by Odin. Arianne would be closer to feudal Europe. Samarra is very loosely based on the Middle East.

I've kept this story in BDSM because the sex, where it happens, will be strongly BDSM-flavoured. (Also, selfishly, that's where my readers are.) But this could be in Sci-Fi/Fantasy as well. There will be bits that are more appropriate to Group Sex in future chapters, as well as bits that straddle the edge of consent. I'll note these as they happen, but none of it should be too extreme.

I am struggling with paid work, so updates might not be as frequent as I'd like. But I will finish, because I really, really want to write this story.

And as always, much gratitude to my editor.

***

Slathaar: Invasion

Chapter 1

Mariam:

"Kneel, Mariam." The voice is level. There is only one man in the realm who would dare to ask me to kneel. No, not ask. This isn't a request. This is an order.

I am Mariam. During the day, I am the Second-in-Command of the Armies of Slathaar. And at night, I am the mistress of the Overlord. Gareth. Overlord of all Slathaar. I am in his tent right now, and my Overlord has voiced an order.

I kneel. I wait.

"Shall we discuss troop movements, Mariam?"

Aah. The sound of his voice. When Gareth speaks, even in council, every muscle in my body clenches in arousal. Gareth never raises his voice in anger. I've heard him sound amused. Mocking. Sarcastic. And cold. But always in control. Gareth is more in control than any man I've ever been with.

"If the Overlord wishes," I reply, my eyes on the floor. I am naked. My knees are spread as far apart as they will go. My cunt is shaved naked, and earlier this evening, before I was summoned by the Overlord, I rubbed fragrant oil over my mound. I can smell that perfume now, mixed with the juice my cunt produces in copious amounts when Gareth is near.

"The Overlord?" There is danger in those words, and I curse inwardly at my thoughtless phrasing.

"I beg forgiveness," I whisper. "If my Overlord wishes."

"That's right, Mariam. Let's not forget who you belong to, shall we?"

He doesn't own me, of course. Because we are in Slathaar, where there are laws against slavery that have been set in stone for thousands of years. Slavery of sorts is practiced in Arianne, and in the hot desert reaches of Samarra. But never in Slathaar. The concept is repulsive to my people.

No. His words are a prelude to an evening of play. The slight sense of danger is imagined, not real. But a very real frisson of fear cuts through my body, one that comes with a large helping of arousal.

"Let's discuss troop movements, Mariam." His voice mimics mine from the council meeting earlier today. "Gareth, don't be a fool. You can't go south with such a small force. You are Overlord of Slathaar."

If for a second I thought that I couldn't speak freely in council, I would resign my commission and take up farming or knitting or something else. But I'd known as I had spoken those hot words in council that Gareth would use them in our play. There'd been an amused look in his eyes as I'd spoken.

"I beg my Overlord's forgiveness," I reply. I try to keep the snide tone out of my voice.

Gareth just laughs aloud. "How you lie to me, Mariam," he says. I can see his feet as he walks closer to me. My eyes follow his path as he moves to my side, and then he walks behind me. I keep my eyes lowered as my Overlord examines me.

"Do you know what I think of troop movements, Mariam?" Gareth's voice is even.

I couldn't give a flying fuck, Gareth.

I keep that thought hidden. I am impatient for our games to begin, and if Gareth even senses a hint of impatience, he will keep me at the edge of orgasm all night before sending me away. I have learned to hide certain emotions from my Overlord.

He chuckles. "Let me guess, Mariam. You don't give a flying fuck. Isn't that the expression you always use?"

I make eye-contact and my lips curve into a reluctant smile. "Damn you, Gareth," I mutter. "You know me too well." Except the one secret. I know he doesn't know my one hidden secret. Because if he knew, I wouldn't be in his chambers.

He inclines his head and smiles back. "As tempting as it is to keep you on edge the entire night, Mariam, tonight isn't the night for that. We have a hard, perilous voyage ahead of us. Tonight, I seek comfort in your softness."

It is words like these that have the power to wound deeply. Because the words are so close to the ones I crave from Gareth but will never hear. For three years, I have loved Gareth with an intensity that overwhelms me. And with an awareness that he does not reciprocate my feelings. He likes me. He cares for me. But he has not surrendered his happiness to me the way I have done to him.

I have never told him. Because I know that the instant my Overlord knows the depth of my feeling for him, he will cut off my access to his bedchamber. Gareth is only cruel when he is dominating me. He will not inflict cruelty otherwise. And, caring for me, he will think that the best thing he could do is to send me away.

He would be correct in this. The best thing for me would be to end this thing with Gareth. But like the addict who craves her next fix, I find myself unable to speak the words that will start the process of healing. Instead, I reach once again for the knife, and I slice open a bit more of my heart.

"I am yours to use, Overlord," I whisper. I don't look into his eyes. My emotions are a turmoil, and I need a few seconds to collect myself. I can hear Gareth move, and eventually, I compose myself enough to look up. He gathers a flogger. Rope. A blindfold, for which I give inward thanks to Arsu. A candle.

"Are you ready, valiant defender of Slathaar?" There's no trace of mocking in his voice. Just an indulgent good humour. It is because of things like this that I find myself unable to walk away. When you find someone who gives you what you crave in bed, and who respects you unstintingly during the day, how do you leave?

He does not love me. That's why I should leave.

I nod my readiness, and he fastens the blindfold. His lips brush against my neck as he moves my hair forward to lie over one shoulder. My hands are drawn behind my back and tied together, elbows pulled tight, the knots holding my arms together from elbow to wrist.

"Too tight?" he asks, ever solicitous.

"Not yet," I reply.

He backs away. I hear his footsteps recede. I wait again, my knees parted, my breasts pushed outward by the rope tying my arms together behind my back. My Overlord wills me to stay perfectly still, and I comply.

I smell the candle an instant before the hot wax drips on my jutting breasts. I hiss as the heat sears my skin for an instant, and I can feel Gareth come closer to see if I've been burned. I haven't. He knows what he is doing.

The wax drips steadily, covering my breasts, my nipples, my chest. I flinch slightly, but I stay in position. I fight to remain still, and while I hiss, I don't speak.

The candle moves lower. Now, the wax runs down my abdomen. A trickle cascades down my inner thigh, and at that, I whimper, fearing where the wax might flow next. Gareth knows my limits well, and I trust him. And at this moment, I fear the drop of wax on my hard nub, and I crave it at the same time.

He chuckles. "Mariam," he laughs at me. "If I let that wax drip on your clitoris, you'll be sore for days. Not ahead of a long journey. I do need my Second-in-Command to be somewhat effective.

I pout slightly. He sounds amused, and I can get away with a bit of sulking. "Damn it," I mutter.

"Did I say you could talk, Mariam?" His voice is suddenly dangerous.

I shake my head, suppressing my aroused full-body shiver. The flogger now. The wax has hardened on my skin, and the tails of the flogger will strike my skin and scour it off my body.

I hear the tails whistle, and then the flogger strikes my skin, each tail bringing a little sting. I hiss again. This is the only noise I will allow myself to make. My own private battle. I will keep silent. The Overlord will not make me scream in pain.

Three more swift strokes, and I'm gasping, biting off the screams. Another stroke cuts down on my parted thighs, and I jump and move and scream.

"Back to position, Mariam." His voice is even. Then, he adds, and this time, I hear the humour in his voice. "And for Arsu's sake, keep the screaming to a minimum, sweet one. I don't want our play interrupted."

I roll my eyes, grateful for the blindfold. "You should try the flogger," I mutter sarcastically, and he laughs, and helps me back in position.

"That tongue of yours," he says. There's amusement laced with danger, and I know what happens next. I get gagged. Partly for the screaming, partly for the snide words. And mostly because it will amuse and arouse Gareth to hear me whimper behind the gag.

His hands are gentle on my face as he gags me, and then he brushes the back of his hand against my cheek. Every inch of my body shivers in response, and inwardly, I tense. Because this is a shiver of something more than simple lust. There is love layered in with my arousal in the way I respond to Gareth.

But the Overlord's mind is elsewhere. The flogger swings again, and yet again, and I finally groan loudly through the gag as the last bits of the wax are flicked off my skin. His hands are quickly on my gag, removing it. The blindfold follows.

"Are you okay, Mariam?" he asks.

I nod. "That last one stung," I say ruefully.

"Your thighs? Spread them, let me see." He kneels next to me, runs his fingers. "A welt. No broken skin. But let's take a break from the flogger. Come."

He helps me up, guides me towards his bed. My breathing catches. My cunt has been weeping for his touch ever since I entered his tent. No. Before. My cunt had started dripping as soon as I received his summons.

"What do you want, Mariam?"

"Please fuck me, Gareth," I beg. I hear the barely controlled desperation in my voice. The ache in my cunt is painful in its intensity, and I can't think in the face of my need. "Gareth, please."

He watches me with a slight smile on my face as I start to unravel. He slowly removes his shirt, then his trousers. His cock springs erect as he slides his undergarment down, and I openly lick my lips. He smiles at that reaction, and his eyes are appreciative.

"Ah, that never gets old, that reaction from you, Mariam," he says. He gets on the bed next to me. I am kneeling by the pillows, and he lifts me up and slides me down his hard length. I have managed to keep mostly quiet through the wax and the hard flogging, but as I feel him slide into me, hot and hard, I moan, unable to silence myself.

He laughs, a breathless sound. One hand smacks my ass, and I begin to ride him, my knees gripping the side of his hips to steady myself as I raise and lower myself on him. His hands move to my breasts, pinching them and pulling them, sending delicious, throbbing pain pulsing through my nipples.

Full armour is going to be a bitch tomorrow,

I think wryly for a second. The metal rings will press into my breasts, and I will ache all day. Those are the problems of tomorrow. In this moment, there's only the feel of his hands on my breasts; the hot gaze of his eyes on my face; the grateful fullness in my cunt as my Overlord claims me for his own.

One of his hands moves to my clitoris, and I whimper. "Please, Gareth," I beg. I hurt in this moment with sweet, painful anticipation. His fingers find my nub, and he circles it slowly, drawing out the pleasure. I groan, but I do not protest. I wait, and he smiles his approval of my patience, his fingers pressing just a bit harder at that throbbing, pulsing spot.

I incline my hips, and grind against him, moaning out my pleasure. I can see the heat in his eyes as he watches me move against his body. His thumb strums my clitoris steadily, and that motion -- that steady, repetitive movement of his fingers pushes me into climax.

His fingers stay where they are, and his eyes are intent. "Keep moving, Mariam," he warns. I obey, biting my lip as the sensations overwhelm my body, like an overfull goblet, till everything threatens to tip and overflow.

He holds my hips steady as I come again, moaning his name. "Gareth," I sob. "Please, I'm too sensitive." My clitoris feels huge and engorged, my passage is tight and puffy, and he is still moving in me, and I feel every inch of him now in my satiated body.

He slides me off his body. "Get on your knees," he orders. "Shoulders on the bed." I assume the position, biting my lips in anticipation. He will be hitting the bottom of my cunt in this position, and hands tied behind me, I have no leverage to ward him off. But I also know my body well. For the first three hard thrusts, I will balance between pleasure and pain. And then, I will fall into pleasure. It is always this way.

And it is this way today as well. Gareth holds my thighs in his grips, so tight that I will have bruises on my legs tomorrow. He slams into me and I whimper, but my hips thrust back into him.

Again

, my body pleads silently. He obliges, pounding into my body, reaching under and rubbing my clitoris again, until I come again, screaming this time, and as if the sound of my long-quieted scream was a signal to him, he shudders in orgasm as well.

***

"Lie back," he says finally, once the rope is untied. His strong, calloused hands massage the ache in my shoulders, and restores the blood flow to my hands. "How's that feel?"

"Sinful," I reply honestly. I lean against Gareth, and his hand curves around my waist as he kisses my forehead and strokes my hair. We lie in silence for a bit, and then I stir. "I should go," I say to him. My voice is reluctant. But I have the troop movements to plan; the same troop movements that provided Gareth much amusement earlier. We'll need to load enough supplies into the ships to last us our long ocean voyage. Defensive formations must be selected. There is a lot of work to be done, and staying here in Gareth's warm arms is an indulgence for which I will pay later.

"Stay just a while," he asks. Now that we are done with the play, at least for the moment, the tone in his voice makes it clear that this is a request, not an order.

"Is it madness, Mariam, do you think? What I do?" There is a pensive note in his voice.

"No, Overlord," I reply. "I have no hesitation in calling folly when I see it, and this isn't folly."

He chuckles at that. "Indeed Mariam, you have no such hesitation." He winds a strand of my hair around his fingers, and then unwinds it. "I change the course of my people tomorrow, Mariam. I am not arrogant enough to do it without second-guessing myself."

"We have no choice in what we do, Gareth. The High Priestess has foreseen the flooding." And there is Kanata. I don't say it, but we both know what I've left unsaid. Kanata, where the tidal waves came, and destroyed the town completely. The army was sent in to clean up. One hundred thousand Slaathan dead. I will never forget the bloated, distended bodies of men, women and children washed up on the shore.

We are Slaathan. Haf roars in our blood. We sail before we walk. But we never forget that we are mortals, and that the sea, the great and powerful Haf is unmindful of our trivial concerns. Haf gives and Haf takes. No Slaathan would ever pretend otherwise.

And the High Priestess has foreseen more. More tidal waves. More destruction. The less religious of us had doubted the visions at first, until Kanata. After Kanata, we listen. She speaks with the voice of Arsu. Even we soldiers who typically believe only in the sharpness of our swords now mind her words.

In the morn, three Slaathan battle-ships will set sail from the shores of Temra, the capital city of Slathaar. Our destination is the continent of Arianne, composed of a dozen kingdoms ruled by petty, squabbling kings and queens. Before the autumn, we will need to conquer and control Arianne. Once a safe passage has been established in Arianne, we will head further south to Samarra. In the hot desert reaches, we will attempt to carve out a second home. And then, we will send for our people.

In the morn, we will set forth on a path that will end in us abandoning our ancestral homes to Haf. Ruined Kanata. My hometown of Palatha. Temra. Sloanne. When we are done, every single Slaathan island in the North Sea will be systematically stripped of people, and we will allow Haf to reclaim what has always been his. I shiver as I contemplate the finality of that action. And though I am not in the slightest bit religious, I whisper the First Prayer softly in the night, with the Overlord next to me.

Arsu protect us. Arsu watch over us. Arsu grant us fair skies. Arsu, let us journey in peace, and when our hearts grow weary, let us return home to happiness.

In the dark, I can feel my tears fall unbidden, and as Gareth's fingers lace in my own, I sense that I am not the only one in tears at that moment.

***

Ormr:

It is the dead of night. I cannot sleep. My mind is restless in the face of the journey that faces us in the morning. And so, I walk among the encampments, and I hear a soft footstep.

"Speak," I order. I am reluctant to fire my gun, sight unseen. We are in Slathaar. The footstep could be either friend or foe.

A soft voice speaks. "It is I, Mariam." I hear a certain pride in her voice that she would be embarrassed by, if pointed out to her. Mariam of Palatha. Every single man in Slathaar is slightly in love with her. But sadly, she only has eyes for one. My cousin Gareth. Who has no idea how much this beautiful woman loves him.

This is not my business. I shine the lamp I hold in my hand in the direction of her voice, and I hear her breath exhale. And I watch her hand leave her sword. We are a cautious people. Even in a friendly camp, our hands are never too far from our weapons.

"Ormr," she greets me and I can see her smile. "You startled me. Why do you prowl so at night?"

I could ask her the same question, but she has obviously returned from Gareth's quarters. "I can't sleep," I answer instead. "I leave home tomorrow. Perhaps forever. And my mind is not ready to rest."

In the light of the lamp, I can see her nod. "I am similarly restless, my friend."

The words come out in a rush, unbidden from my mouth. "For Arsu's sake, Mariam. Can you not convince Gareth to take a larger force with him? He is our Overlord. The idea of him so exposed to danger is making me gray with worry."

Her lips compress in a wry smile. "Ormr, do you think I haven't tried?" Her voice is weary. All around us is stillness and night. If there are those who listen to our conversation, it is those who have escaped the detection of Mariam. In other words, no one is listening to our conversation.

"I have tried," she continues. "His mother has tried. The High Priestess has tried. Arngeirr has tried. He has listened to all of our counsel, and he has made his decision."

I have to ask. "Do you agree with his decision, Mariam?"

She pauses, and when she answers, it is an indirect reply to my question. But a reply nonetheless. An indication of why Gareth has eschewed greater protection. "What is Slathaar, Ormr? Is it Gareth, Overlord of Slathaar who represents our land? Or is it Haf who curls on our shore? Is it the green of our fields ahead of harvest? Is it the sound of children singing in the fields as they cut the grain?"

"The Overlord believes that he is less than Slathaar," I say, as the meaning behind her words becomes clear.