Clans of Luteri

Hey, lit readers.

I have a story for you. It is set in a different world, the Luterian world, and is a part of a fantasy series. It is already complete.

I should say up front that this book is more involved, the characters more developed, the situation more elaborate, and it's longer than the Vanata books. Slower, more story-driven. Fantasy more than sci-fi.

I am so very proud of Bellie444 for winning the Lit Valentine's Day writing contest. Please go and check out her stories, they're wonderful. And I would like to say hello to a mutual friend.

This story is in the Non-con category for a reason. This chapter especially fits that description. Please don't read it if this bothers you.

Peace out,

-Harp

All characters are portrayed as over the age of eighteen.

The Five Clans of Luteri

Book I: Alveria

Chapter One

Two older women were all that were left from a busy staff of twelve at the Bonstram Orphanage. Emma didn't remember anywhere else. Once a busy place, the house was almost empty. The previous three orphans, whom she had been too young to remember, had found their way into adulthood and onto disaster almost simultaneous to orders to close the orphanage.

The funding for Bonstram Orphanage had dried up, a wealthy benefactor passing, and any new orphans were to be redirected to the Home for Wayward Foundlings in Dunston, eighteen miles northeast.

Only the misfire of a blind bureaucracy could explain why the final closing of the orphanage was delayed for one girl, but it was. Most people in the area had assumed the orphanage was already long closed, as far away as it was from town, from other houses, a squat unkept mansion looking abandoned already.

When she had first come here as a very young child, Emma didn't speak. Miss Stram had named her Emma and treated her like a simpleton until the girl seemed to learn. Emma had grown up in the empty halls, rooms full of ugly battered furniture covered with dusty cloth, the blocked fireplaces, only the occupied rooms heated in winter.

#

Emma was accustomed to the vacant silence, her light footsteps echoing through the rooms, most of the huge house unused. She had read every book, explored every corner in the place, knew the contents of the boxes still packed for removal and stacked carefully against the walls, now covered in a thick layer of dust. A woman came every week to clean indifferently, staying to the few rooms that were still being used, bringing fresh linens.

Whenever she could, Emma would slip out of the house and into the hills around, talking to herself as she walked, carrying a stick to beat back the tall grasses, collecting rocks and feathers she found. She knew better than to bring them into the house. Like most children, Emma had a small hiding place for things kept secret from others.

Miss Stram had educated Emma and been her caretaker since she could remember. The woman was a veteran raiser of foundlings and was a believer that a crooked body led to a crooked nature. She corrected her sole pupil's posture with relentless vigilance, the small switch she carried looped around her wrist always ready.

When Emma was disobedient—when she laughed too loudly, ran in the house, slouched, dropped things—Miss Stram would walk Emma by her arm to her office. Miss Stram did this regardless of where they were at the moment of the infraction, taking the stairs up, or the stairs down, through the same hall, her firm grip never wavering. She never spoke.

#

Today, Emma was nineteen or twenty. She didn't know which one it was for sure. Lord Montrose was to arrive today and Emma was nervous. The lord had been sent by the Board of Directors, Miss Stram having received a letter with details.

All that Emma had been told was that Lord Montrose was to help her to settle her into her new situation. She was to have a small salary from work that had been arranged for her, a domestic position in Pilet, a dusty, isolated town on flat land sixteen miles east. She was to care for two families with a total of five young children—never mind that she had never in her memory even seen a child.

The rain outside became briefly louder and then muffled again in the hall with the opening and closing of the front door as Emma hovered in the dining room. She heard voices and knew she would be expected to greet him.

Emma came in quietly, standing, her hands crossed in front of her, her posture straight. Lord Montrose was older, an aristocratic, severe face, closely trimmed mustache and dark hair, his face tight and without much expression. He was well dressed. He was removing his gloves, his hat, his wet coat, hanging it. He gave her a sharp, long, assessing glance. She curtseyed carefully.

"You are Emma," he observed.

"Yes, Lord Montrose."

"It's nice to meet you, Emma."

"Thank you, Lord Montrose."

#

Emma answered the questions Lord Montrose posed, and the ones she didn't know, Miss Stram answered. Miss Stram reported Emma had come to the orphanage alone when she was five or six. She had no relatives. Emma answered that she had no memory of living anywhere else. Emma played the piano, yes, entirely self-taught. Lord Montrose was pleasant if unsmiling. They would leave in the morning, he said, his carriage and driver arriving to take them.

Miss Stram had departed directly after the interview, her small box of belongings already neatly packed and shipped, going to her brother's in Stratfield. She would walk to the train. Emma had seen her to the door.

Shaking Emma's hand briskly once and biding her goodbye and good luck, Miss Stram's glance had been sharp on Emma's clothing, reaching to twitch her collar. It was not an affectionate gesture. The door had closed behind the woman with a firm click, Miss Stram already opening her umbrella against the deluge past the small porch.

Retreating upstairs to a place in front of the window in her simple room, Emma stood with her hands folded in front of her to watch Miss Stram's gray, straight-backed figure slowly fade into the grayer landscape behind her until she was out of sight, disappearing into Emma's past. Emma felt a twinge of sadness, unexpected tears she blinked against. She knew Miss Stram hated walking outside.

#

Emma startled awake when a knock came at her door. She had only gotten to sleep a couple of hours ago.

"The carriage is here. We are leaving shortly, Emma," she heard.

Lord Montrose's voice.

"Of course, Lord Montrose," she called. "I will be right there."

She looked. It was still raining, although now it was blustery, fat droplets on the window, the sound of wind. Emma rushed through her morning routine, the accommodations, combing and braiding her hair over her shoulder, taking the time it did. She put on her best white shirt, unstained, a long row of buttons, the scratchy skirts, her matching jacket over it. Shoes, buckling them quickly. She finally put her wool shawl over all of it, a little threadbare but the only warm thing she had.

Emma grabbed the small trunk by the door, already packed, opening it and setting it on the bed to put in the last things. It held everything she owned. When she reached the top of the stairs she was a little out of breath, Lord Montrose looking up at her.

A man, the driver, came and climbed the stairs to take her small trunk, not looking at her as he returned down the stairs, Emma following. Lord Montrose offered his arm, the driver holding an umbrella over their heads.

"Are you hungry, Emma?" Lord Montrose asked.

"Not at the moment, Lord," she replied.

"We will drive, then. Sherman, we will stop for lunch at the Covet Inn in Sacket."

Emma looked at the driver as Lord Montrose handed her into the carriage. The tall thin man had the umbrella in his hand over them, his head showing a bald patch the rain fell onto before he replaced his hat. He nodded to her.

She found her seat as Lord Montrose entered, the space close. He sat across from her. She looked at her hands as the carriage swayed, the driver mounting it, perching on top in the rain.

"There's no need to be nervous, Emma," Lord Montrose said. "It will be three days' travel to my estate in Worthington."

"I thought I was going to Pilet, Lord Montrose? For the domestic position?"

"Eventually," he said, taking off his hat and setting it beside him, his gloves, crossing his legs.

Emma looked out the window and then back at the mansion as they pulled away, the light dim and the sound of the rain on the carriage roof loud. Her hand tightened on the seat with the motion.

"Have you not traveled by carriage before, Emma?"

"I have not been away from the home before, Lord Montrose," she replied.

"Never?"

She shook her head, watching the orphanage get smaller until the angle was wrong and she couldn't see it anymore, sitting back in her seat.

For the next two days they traveled, stopping at dusk every evening at an inn for supper and to sleep. She was given her own room both nights, far more grand than any she'd seen before. Lord Montrose was polite but distant. He still scared her. She had never been around any men, much less a lord.

They didn't speak much, to her relief, and Emma passed the time looking out the carriage window. The view was glum, still a cold rain, and it sometimes became muggy in the carriage, the windows fogging. She wanted to wipe the moisture off to see, but she didn't quite dare.

On the third day, Lord Montrose spoke to her over breakfast.

"We will arrive at my estate tonight," he said, sipping his tea. "You will stay there for a time to be trained and then I will take you to Pilet for the position."

"Thank you for your trouble, Lord Montrose," she said.

They got back in the carriage, the driver perched on top. They drove for hours, small stops for necessities, still raining, mud splattering on the wheels. In the afternoon, Lord Montrose pulled out a small flask and held it out to her.

"It is a cordial, Emma. Try a little."

"No, thank you, Lord," she said.

She could smell it. It smelled awful. Lord Montrose drew his brows down, his face losing its pleasant expression.

"I insist."

Emma hesitated and then took it, unstoppering it and trying a small sip, her nose wrinkling at the taste. It was terrible, sweet. She shuddered a little, swallowing.

"It is blackberry brandy," Lord Montrose said. "Drink some more, Emma."

"Thank you, but I don't like the taste, Lord," she said, holding the flask out to him.

He didn't take it.

"It is medicinal," he said, looking away from her. "I didn't realize you were such a nervous woman. It will relax you."

Emma raised the flask and drank. She hesitated and held it out but he didn't seem to see it. She drank again. Her stomach turned over as she took another small sip. She coughed.

"That's enough, Emma," Lord Montrose said, holding out his hand.

She handed it back, relieved, looking out the window again. She watched the flatness they traveled through, ugly, nothing more than a muddy flat horizon, sometimes small clumps of the darker silhouette of trees.

She began to feel strange, like the window just kept showing the same picture. Then she felt dizzy. She leaned her head against the seat behind her, closing her eyes, but that made her feel like the carriage was spinning in a circle.

She looked down at her hands, her heart pounding, waiting for the feeling to pass, but the sensations only became more intense. It was suddenly so hot. She felt herself flushing. She straightened, removing her shawl. It wasn't enough. She unbuttoned her jacket, leaning forward to drag it off her, feeling Lord Montrose watching her.

The thick white button blouse underneath was still too warm, her skirts heavy and itchy, but there was nothing she could do about it. She shifted, feeling her skin begin to crawl. Lord Montrose leaned forward on first one side and then the other, closed the curtains of the carriage, the thick drapes darkening the interior to dimness.

"So you can rest," he said.

She didn't feel like resting. It was closed in, warm. Emma felt sweat on her upper lip, a tickling drip down her sides under her shirt. She raised a shaking hand to her face, running it across her cheek, her mouth, feeling numb, her hand falling to her lap. She began to drift, losing time, feeling both too awake and like her body was limp. She dimly saw Lord Montrose rise and come to sit beside her. Her eyes followed him but she didn't move.

"Are you well, Emma?"

She looked at his face, trying to focus, her tongue not moving. She couldn't organize her thoughts to reply. She felt a dull surge of alarm. Something was wrong.

"The drug was in the brandy. It is a stimulant. The composition is carefully guarded in my circles. It will sensitize you. It can be disorienting, yes. You shouldn't worry, dear. You won't remember a thing."

Emma was being lifted. She was sitting on his lap. She struggled and Lord Montrose clamped his hands on her upper arms, stopping her. She could feel him under her, the swaying of the carriage, bumping, feel something hard under her bottom through her skirts as she squirmed.

"Relax, Emma," Lord Montrose said, his voice thick.

She struggled and then rested against him, her head on his shoulder, panting a little, her heart going too fast. The rain made a loud clattering on the roof and for a moment she thought she could hear each individual drop until it became a general roar again.

"It's warm in here, isn't it?" Lord Montrose said quietly, leaning back a little, bringing her with him.

"Let's make you more comfortable."

She watched from far away as his thick fingers went to the top button of her blouse. Her hands rose in her vision to push them aside, but he ignored them and she let them drop again. The cloth parted as he pushed it to her sides, revealing her chemise, the ribbon giving way as he tugged it, unbuttoning the smaller buttons there.

He opened it, exposing her breasts. They were round and firm and high, pale generous swells rising toward the ceiling, jiggling a little with the motion of the carriage, her nipples large and soft and dark pink. She could hear him breathing heavily in her ear.

"You are in every way a beauty, Emma," he murmured. "Such a pretty little whore."

His hands rose to cup her breasts, rough and dark. His thumbs brushed her nipples lightly and Emma's breath sucked in with the sensation. He did it again. And again. She watched from far away as they hardened, becoming stiff under his thumbs. She arched a little, bringing them forward, the feelings going straight between her legs.

He began tugging and squeezing on the tender tips and she lost all sense of herself. It went on for what seemed like hours, his ragged breathing in her ear, the unending sensations of his fingers, her nipples beginning to hurt. She heard herself, soft cries.

She realized he was talking to her, had been talking to her.

"...such terrible, wonderful things to you, Emma. You are a rare find. Such a remarkable beauty, yes, and innocent. I wish I could keep you and do what I like, but you're more valuable to me as you are."

More time passed as he talked, pain and such exquisite sensations. She was panting and hitching. Then it stopped and she felt a touch on her inner thigh and realized his hand had moved well under her skirts, was pushing aside her undergarments.

"Open your legs for me," he breathed in her ear.

His hand slipped in. His fingers were there. His breath shuddered in her ear, his voice strained.

"So filthy wet."

His thumb was rubbing a most sensitive, tender place. Her legs slid open more, her hips tilting, giving him a better angle.

"That's right," he breathed, his thumb moving faster. "Good girl."

He squeezed her nipple, then the other. She strained against his hand and then it was there.

"Come for me, little whore."

Emma arched, spreading wide, crying out as pleasure came, her eyes closing, pumping her hips. His thumb was rubbing, his finger pressing in and out as it crashed on her again, more, her thighs shaking.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself," he said low into her ear.

He pinched her nipple and the pleasure shot up again. She felt herself pulsing on his hand. It finally eased, small shocks still following. He gave a soft laugh, withdrawing his hand from under her skirts. Her breath was shuddering, the swaying and sound of the carriage, the rain, so many drops, lulling her. She went limp and darkness took her.

#

Emma woke with a start, sitting up, looking around herself. She was in a room, a large room, in a soft bed with sheets. A woman was across from her, her back to Emma, pulling on the curtains to open them, dim light Emma winced away from.

"Where am I?" Emma said.

The woman whirled around. She was very pretty, blonde hair, a trim figure. Her face was a little haughty but she smiled politely, approaching the bed.

"Hello, Emma. I'm Katrine."

"How did I get here?" Emma asked fearfully.

Something bad had happened. The woman clucked her tongue.

"You've been ill. Something nervous. You had a fever. Lord Montrose called the physician, who gave you a tonic. He said you might not remember. You slept all day and the night. How do you feel?"

Emma looked at her blankly. She still felt a little like she was floating, and the carriage ride...the carriage ride was a gray blur of anxious feelings and images, a surge of something secret, wrong, a heated feeling. Rain. She looked out the window. It was sprinkling still. She put her hand to her head, closing her eyes.

"A fever?" she asked.

"You were talking, saying the most outlandish things about Lord Montrose."

Heat bloomed in Emma's cheeks.

"What kinds of things?" she said.

Katrine waved a hand at her.

"Nobody pays attention to fever talk, Emma. I'm sure Lord Montrose didn't take offense."

Emma's flush grew deeper, Katrine's eyes on her face. Lord Montrose. He had done something to her. She remembered a flask, a sweet taste.

"He...he—," she began.

"Now, you're not going to start that rambling nonsense again, are you?" Katrine said. "It quite discomforted everyone. You're awake now, your fever has broken. I'm sure you had terrible visions in your nervous illness, you were quite distraught, but it's over now. Lord Montrose has been very kind to you, you know. It's not many young women in your situation who receive such fine care."

Emma stared at her. She couldn't remember. It was all so hazy. He had...hadn't he? What?

Come for me, little whore.

She looked around, cringing.

"That's enough, Emma," Katrine said, standing over her, her face cold. "Why don't you get up. There's a bath ready, and Lord Montrose has arranged for some clothing for you, not those rags you arrived in."

Emma looked down at herself. She was wearing a frilly nightdress, lace on the sleeves. She pulled at it.

"This isn't my—," she began.

"Lord Montrose has arranged for clothing for you, as I said. You can thank him later. Now, I've drawn a bath. I'm sure you're hungry, and he has arranged for you to join him for breakfast."

#

Lord Montrose rose from the table. Emma hovered in the doorway, her dark hair swept up behind her. The dress was a pale pink and had a long stiff bodice gathered at the skirt with a scoop neckline. She was still shaken, nervous.

"You had us quite worried, Emma. I'm pleased you're feeling better. Sit," he said.

She didn't quite meet his eyes. She came into the room, slipping into her seat.

"I wanted to speak with you, Emma," Lord Montrose said as she leaned back for a servant to place toast in front of her, marmalade. "But it can wait until you've had some food. Some tea, as well, might be in order."

A servant appeared, filling her cup. Lord Montrose waited as she ate. When she was finished, the servant took her plate. She looked down.