The Last Lagharis

Samar had never considered himself a man of principle. On the contrary, his chief virtue was flexibility. He had grown up farming the boggy soil on the south side of the mountains, in the sweltering heat of the jungle. Now he lived on the steppes, where in winter you could spit on the ground and it would freeze before it landed. He had been raised on the traditions of male honor and rectitude and feminine dedication and deference. Now he took orders from a woman who regarded men as servants. And he had been taught never to kill except in defense of his honor. Now Captain Misha Laghari was hoarding so many weapons that it looked like their little tribe would break that taboo as well. But Samar would adapt as always.

The one thing he would never compromise was his dignity. Whether he was trying to coax yams from the soil, haggle for the price of a canteen or chart a path across a merciless mountain pass, he always kept his head high.

And now Samar had to call upon that poise as Shiro, a slim, scarred bandit who had joined the tribe a few months ago, challenged him.

"Come on," said Shiro, "I heard Miriam telling me you were saying you could wrestle any man down. I think you were just talking big."

"I was not," said Samar. "I have never met a man I could not pin." As soon as he said it, he cringed. It was, strictly speaking, true; every man he met, he had defeated in a wrestling match at least once. But it sounded as if...

"It sounds like you think you're invincible." Shiro flexed his muscles, and ridges and dips appeared all over his arms. "But I don't think so."

There was no going back now. He shed his jacket with a roll of his shoulders. "Fine, Shiro, let's see who's the better wrestler."

"Not so fast," said Shiro.

"What? You've changed your mind?"

"We need stakes."

"The stakes are honor. Now, off with your jacket and let's wrestle."

Samar spoke loudly, because he had a crowd. Men and women had issued from their yurts and stood from their fire pits to watch. Even the horses seemed to be watching.

"If I win," said Shiro, "I want you to go to the captain and tell her you're her bitch."

"Shiro, we already follow her."

"That's not what I said. She's from the mountains, where the men are just fucktoys. I want you to be her fucktoy." He grinned savagely. "For one week."

Samar looked around. Sure enough, Captain Laghari was there in the crowd, a strange and aloof figure. Being a mountain woman, she was short, her nose as high as the average man's shoulder, and her eyes were not round like his, but slanted on the inside. A thick, peaked fur cap covered the top of her head, and a tunic covered everything from her chin down to her heavy boots and the mittened hands that were swallowed by plainsman-style oversized sleeves. All one could see of her was her face, which was inscrutable--cool, thoughtful and bored. She raised no objection to Shiro's challenge.

"I take that bet," Samar told him, "under one condition. If I win, you get on your knees and suck me out."

Men went pale. Women giggled and jeered. Samar was sorely tempted to look at Captain Laghari and see what she thought of it, but he knew that his posturing was a show, and a good showman never looked to the audience for approval.

Finally, Shiro shucked off his jacket. Samar expected Shiro to give a speech, or at least get down and stretch. Instead, he tackled Samar.

They hit the ground with Samar on the bottom, and the hit set pain throbbing in the back of his head. But then the rush of conflict charged Samar, and the pain silenced; he felt it and did not feel it at the same time.

Samar's fighting instincts kicked in immediately, and he tried to grab onto Shiro's arms, trap them and immobilize him. But from the beginning, something was wrong. Shiro saw his grabs coming and pulled his arms free before Samar could get a grip on him. The one time Samar did get his hand around the skinny man's arm, Shiro pulled against his thumb, popping free of the one-handed grip.

Shiro barely did anything to pin Samar, but Samar could tell he was losing anyway, because Shiro had a leg around his, and Samar was too busy trying to defeat Shiro's hands to do anything about that. Always, Samar had won through overwhelming speed, never giving his opponent room to breathe, but Shiro was so evasive that it wasn't working.

Samar made a desperate grab, and halfway through, he realized it wouldn't work. Shiro flipped him over, mounted his back and pushed down on all four of Samar's limbs. He was pinned helplessly.

"I yield," grunted Samar. "I yield!"

Shiro stood up, laughing madly. He flexed his arms, and the crowd cheered.

"Up, loser!" growled Shiro, as he took Samar by the scruff of the neck and forced him to his feet. He jabbed a hand off to the side. "Now, go grovel for Laghari!"

Samar looked where Shiro pointed, and he saw Captain Laghari's richly decorated tent but not the captain herself. He looked all over and failed to find her. He flushed. The captain had not even condescended to watch the rest of his fight! But he did not speak his discontent aloud. Instead, he made for the watering barrel.

"She's that way, coward!" yelled Shiro.

Samar bit down on a rebuke and said, "I am covered in mud. As are you. I will not insult her by presenting myself as I am."

The bathing process was long, and Samar made it longer still as he tried to think of what he would do. Dignity was always the one thing he tried to maintain, and now his dignity was about to be trampled into the mud just as his body had been. Clean clothes would make a good start. A clean body would go further. But beyond that, his imagination failed him. So he put on his bravest face, marched out of the bathhouse and made for Captain Laghari's tent.

She found him first. Stepping out from behind a horse and an open-air kitchen, she stepped into his path. Her clothes were the same as before, but her face had thawed a little. He saw the beginnings of a smile on her small mouth. He could not decide whether that was a good omen or a bad one.

"So," she said, folding her arms, "you are the man who pledged himself to me, should he lose the bet. And Chaarumathi tells me you lost indeed."

"Just so, Captain."

One eyebrow quirked up, and her voice became wry. "It is proper to kneel."

Samar hesitated as little as possible and took a knee. His bowed his head so that he could only see her from her knees down. "I am a man of my word, so I pledge myself to you, Captain Misha Laghari, as your personal slave for the next seven days."

The bustle of the camp had gone quiet. Everyone in sight was watching Samar abase himself. He struggled to keep his face firm.

The smile Samar had seen must have been real, because the captain spoke with joy in her voice. "You come from the south, don't you?"

"I do, Captain."

"You're not used to kneeling for women, are you?"

"I am an adaptable man, Captain."

"We will see."

Her legs shifted, and Samar judged that she was turning back to her tent. That meant he would have to follow. He began to rise.

"I did not give you permission to get up," said Laghari mildly.

He collapsed back to his knees, mortified.

Another moment passed, and then, "You may rise, slave. And follow me."

As he followed her back to her tent, he refused to look at the other men. Instead, he stared determinedly as the top of her head, which was level with his eyes. He knew other men were watching him, sneering at his emasculation. And he knew that by refusing to meet their gazes, he was fooling no one. He had been demoted to the status of a war-trophy, and they all knew it. But it did not mean that he had to acknowledge it.

The command tent was unmistakable, wrapped with colored stripes and swirls of dyed cloth. Inside, it looked just like any other tent, but with more of everything. More space, more fur and more goods and supplies on hand for the taking. And more occupants than Samar had expected.

The Captain's second, Chaarumathi, knelt cross-legged across the fire pit. Samar was struck by how young she looked. He had always known she was not an old woman, but now he judged she had not even seen twenty years. Always, she'd looked the part of the stalwart second. Now, she had a wild grin like a lusty girl about to make love for the first time. It occurred to him that maybe she was about to do just that.

"He's beautiful," she said.

"He is," said the captain. "Do you know you're beautiful, slave?"

"I do."

"Did your mother tell you that?"

He felt a flash of heat. "No! Others. I was told that by other women." He calmed a little and added, "Captain."

"In your position, you don't call me 'Captain.' You call me 'Mistress.'" She pointed at Chaarumathi. "The same goes for her."

There was a pause. The women watched him expectantly.

"Yes, Mistress," he said.

"What's your name, slave?"

"I am called Samar."

"Samar, can you cook?"

"Yes. I always cooked for myself while I was on the run."

"There is camp cooking, and there is home cooking. Which have you done more?"

"Camp cooking." He added, "Mistress."

"Oh. I see." Her tone was one part pity and two parts patience.

Samar guessed that she had been thinking of having him cook for her, but then decided his skills were unworthy of it. His blush burned hotter.

"Dinner will be served shortly." She produced two bowls made of ornate ceramic. He had seen those bowls before, at mealtime, but never this closely. "When it is, get a bowl for yourself and two for us. Until then, you are released."

He weighed whether to thank them before standing. He noticed a mischievous smile starting on the captain's face and said a crisp, "Thank you, Mistress," before he left. The word 'mistress' still felt strange on his tongue.

Outside the tent, he avoided everyone's gazes, but the rumors were already flying. It was all he could do not to turn and snarl at them for enjoying his humiliation.

When dinner came, the cooks rang the bell, and everyone clustered around and jockeyed to be the first to fill their bowl, looking like a pack of furry animals in their thick coats. It was a swarm, but when he came with Mistress Laghari's decorated bowls, no one resisted him as he walked through the crowd. Everyone knew that those bowls meant status, a status that nobody wanted to shove back against. The respect, of course, was for the bowls, not for him. The cook smirked at him as she ladled them full.

It was a relief to return to the command tent. Here, at least, the mistresses did not seem to fault him for being embarrassed. Carefully, he served Mistress Laghari, then Mistress Chaarumathi, then himself, and he was pleasantly surprised when they sat and had a normal, peaceful meal. As they finished, he began to nurse the hope that he would be able to pass his entire week of servitude without having to debase himself.

"Now, Samar," said Mistress Laghari, wiping her lips with a cloth, "how long has it been since you were with a woman?"

Samar realized he had hoped too soon. "I've had nothing to do with women since I joined your band."

"The last time, what did you do for her?"

Samar thought back to that night, and a proud little smirk crossed his lips. "I showed her my body. And then she showed me hers. And I laid her down in the hay and made love to her."

"Did you wear a cover?"

He was not sure he understood what 'cover' meant in the lowland common tongue, so he interpreted her as best he could. "I wore no clothing, and she wore nothing as well. It was only her and me."

Mistress Laghari shook her head. "See, Chaaru, this is why boys should never choose. They don't know what they're doing." She looked at Samar. "But I like the idea. Do it for us, Samar. Take off your clothes. Let us see what we've won in your bet."

Samar felt another flash of heat, and this time it was not indignation. That was an order he would gladly obey. He unstrapped the pads from over his robes, then untied the belt around them. He sneaked a glance at the mistresses, his audience, and found them watching raptly.

This, at last, was familiar. Having a woman under his spell while he prepared to make love to her, that was nothing new for him. So he did what he had done last time and eased open the knot on his belt. He did not drop his robes, but emerged from them, chest first. Now his arms were exposed to the open air from the biceps down, and his legs from the knees.

He knelt, balancing so the mistresses could see his legs flexing as they held him up, and he slowly lifted away his shirt. This time, he did not look at the mistresses. He knew where their eyes were.

Finally, she stepped out of his robes and presented himself, not facing them squarely, like a soldier, but tilted away a little, his hands on his thighs, ready to close in.

Mistress Laghari rose and did something unexpected. She took his hands. He played along, relaxing his fingers but closing them gently around hers. She played with them for a while, then pressed his hands to his chest, then slid her hands off of his and let her fingers explore him.

She looked over her shoulder at Mistress Chaarumathi, who still sat transfixed. "Chaaru," she said, "don't let me hog all the fun."

Mistress Chaarumathi demurred. "I shouldn't. I shouldn't be here, really. It isn't fair to Jalil."

"Well, you're a more honorable woman than I. I will be busy with our new gift until sundown, at least."

Mistress Chaarumathi took her cue and left the tent, devouring him with her eyes on the way out.

Mistress Laghari took away her hands, turned and fished something from a clay pot. She turned around with a brown rubbery strip in her hands. "Come here, Samar."

He obeyed.

With her fingers, she revealed it to be a tube, probably of sheepgut, and without warning she seized his cock and smothered it with the tube. "This!" she said grandly, "is a cover. When I put it on you, you lose your power to give me children. And the spirits lose their power to punish us with lover's diseases. So it is good for both of us." She stepped back again, shuffled inside her coat and cast the heavy garment aside. It was a sudden, striking gesture, completed in a heartbeat, and it left her looking completely different. Laghari the distant, untouchable leader was suddenly transformed into an ordinary woman in a plain wool shirt, grinning and horny. She watched him with glee as she took the waist of her trousers, untied it and dumped them around her ankles.

In nothing but that worn grey shirt, she lay back in a pile of furs. Her legs splayed a little, showing her pussy. "Now," she purred. "I think we're both ready. Come to me, and pleasure me, southern style."

Samar thought a moment. 'Southern style,' if it meant anything, meant women acting with humility and patience; any woman who demanded to be serviced in the southern style was missing the point. But he chose not to tell her this. The look in her eyes was eager and hungry. There was respect in those eyes too, and he would not break the spell by correcting her. Instead, he knelt beside her, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek, on the neck, and over her heart. Then, he maneuvered himself between her legs and let her perch her feet on his thighs.

With that, he realized that she would control the pace, and that maybe she did not trust him to control it himself. She need not have worried. Years before, Samar had made the mistake of pushing too hard, too fast, and now knew better. With his hands caressing her hips, he teased the covered head of his cock at her folds. He pushed a little, and Mistress Laghari bent her legs, allowing him into her.

His hands felt her reaction. She tensed and relaxed at the same time. He pushed deeper, and her walls closed around him, pressed in on him. She clamped her legs around his back, heels striking him over the spine. "Yes!" she crowed. "Yes! More!"

So he gave her more. He withdrew almost until his head came out from her pussy lips, then eased back in. Mistress Laghari moaned as if she were in pain, drawn-out and throaty. When he was all the way in, she kept him there, her legs trapping his body. Then she released him to pull back again, and her legs pulled him in faster than he would have gone.

With her legs, she took control, pulling him into the rhythm she wanted, moaning a feminine pleasure-song that encouraged him.

Her hands grabbed his wrists, pulled them from her thighs and put them on her sides, under her shirt. She moved his hands, massaging herself with him, and when she released him, he kept going, careful not to put any weight on her.

Her left hand clutched the furs beneath her, and with her right, she reached down, around his arm, between her legs, and began fondling herself. Quickly, her pace grew feverish, faster and rougher than Samar would ever dare to touch a woman. Her moans changed subtly, telling him exactly how close she was to orgasm. Samar, too, was close, and at this rate he would finish too soon. So he slowed himself, letting his hands and hers bring her closer. Then Mistress Laghari spasmed, her pussy clenched around him, and he lost control. His cock spent itself into the cover. He felt the hot stickiness coating his tip.

Mistress Laghari finished herself. With a wail, she, too, spent, every muscle as tight as a bowstring around his cock. Then she relaxed, smiling up at Samar. He remained inside her, and she seemed in no hurry to get him out.

He petted her sides a little more, stoking her afterglow. She took one of his hands and kissed it. Then she released him with her legs, and with feet on his stomach eased him away from her.

"I'm still hot for more," she said, sitting up. "But every man needs his rest. Go wash up. There will be plenty of time for more, later."

Samar had braced himself for her to humiliate him somehow. Instead, she had carefully avoided it. He decided to respond in kind. "It will be my pleasure, Mistress." He dressed himself, got to his feet and took his leave, his head held high.

In bed, being Mistress' Laghari's slave was not the ordeal of humiliation he had expected. Always, Samar had considered himself adaptable. And now, it seemed, he could adapt to a week as the captain's slave with his dignity intact.