A Fantasy story set in the Dunnis Urom fantasy world.
Jayala - A Judicial Slave, slated for sale by a slave merchant
Sir Winston Nalight - A young knight assigned to the 3rd Riding outside of the city
Lady Morgana Nalight - The recent wife of Sir Nailight, from the southern Islands
Squier Tag Palar - a Knight Aspirant who hopes to be chosen as a squire.
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Jayala was dangling naked in the judicial dungeons, hung by her wrists, her legs spread with a bar the length of her forearm moored at each ankle. It ought to have been agony. As it was, an Art on the chains made her feel comfortably supported. If she tried to lift her legs, the downward force applied itself harshly, so she dangled, worried and annoyed. One of the bitch judicial matrons had spread her cheeks and rubbed a poultice into her anus so she itched there--badly. That absolute cunt!
They'd also dipped her in a solution that removed all her body hair. She'd need to hire an Art to grow any of it back so in her case that was more or less permanent. The girls had giggled, threatening to dunk her head under the fluid--but they hadn't.
A large fire under an arch kept her warm. For the tenth time in the eternal minute she'd hung there, she clenched her buttocks in desperate hope of having some--any--effect on the cursed itch--but clenchingdid nothing. She felt like crying but wouldn't allow herself: she'd made this mess herself.
Jayala, with her high-born education, her wealth of innate talents, and her fine family, had discovered she could replicate the artistic talent of the greats. If a piece was stolen, and she had it, she could duplicate it--reasonably so--and, if she had the original, she could sell it again... and again... and again.
She'd arranged for the thefts. She'd arranged the sales. She'd been careful. Then she'd been caught. Her Sattvan counselor bitch had told her to beg--no--to grovel for mercy before the court. To abase herself and degrade herself. She'd hissed at the bitch.
"You're a beauty," the woman had said. "Exotic--heritage from the Merchant Isles?"
She'd looked stonily back. Yes, it was true. Her mother had been from that faraway place.
"You've upset powerful people," the woman dressed in her white robes explained. "You're going to be relieved of your pride and dignity."
"Will groveling for the court help me?" She'd asked.
The counselor had considered. "No," she'd admitted. "Not exactly--but a pretty spectacle will incline those present favorably to you. You're going to shed as many tears as you've got anyway. Charm them with what a contrite girl you are."
She'd glowered, and the counselor had nodded to the guards to take her.
She'd been petulant silent, stood in a puddle of urine where the girl before her had wet herself during the proceeding. The magistrate had praised her talent with art. Spoken well of her organizing skills--and declared a punishment-scroll to be drawn up shortly. She was taken to the dungeons without even knowing what she was sentenced to.
Now, she dangled. And itched. She could hear soft echoes of many torments blending together--the dungeons were an extensive labyrinth with many different parlors and alcoves for an imaginative array of suffering. Through a grate she could hear the heart-stopping hysterical wails of the dreaded tickle dungeons. She heard the reports of wet slaps--leather straps on bare skin.
She had refused to grovel or beg but now, dangling and surrounded by the echoes of her potential fates, she fought a rising tide of regret at her stalwartness and was terrified that her emotions would run away with her and she would cry!
She heard footsteps. They--whoever they were--were coming closer to her. For her. Shit.
A fat man in brightly colored merchant robes with intricate designs walked with a guard commander and they stood before her. Jayala startled when they came into view and her instincts and modesty bayed her to cover herself! It was required, but of course, impossible, so she just struggled for them, every naked inch of her shimmying adorably in the firelight. The merchant-man, taking her in, examining every bit of her body, slowly, assessing. The guard commander stood by, hands folded behind his back as she was clearly being presented as a prized heifer intended for sale.
"You are correct," the merchant said, albeit reluctantly, stepping forward. She struggled, uselessly as he spread her buttocks, looking at her anus. "She's quite the prize. Visually speaking."
"She has a temper as well," noted the guard.
"Mmm," considered the merchant, poking a finger into her vagina.
"UGHHN!!" She drew her legs up, trying to keep him out, but his other hand quickly grabbed her calf, and he continued to feel around in there. Jayala's desire to present a stony-faced stoicism crumbled and the crude, wiggling finger worked squirms and little gasps and even grunts of astonished, infuriated displeasure which, to her even greater dismay and outrage, the men took no notice of!
"So she'd need extensive obedience training," the merchant remarked. "Not a plus for this wretched thing."
"It is if your client is looking for a girl to break in," pointed out the guardsman. "Such a chore can be enjoyable for the right customer."
"Neh," remarked the merchant. But Jayala could tell that whatever they had in store, the guardsman was correct: her recalcitrance was, to some intended buyer, a plus.
"Her scroll--"
"Is lengthy," finished the guard. "Whoever buys her will have their hands full chastising her for quite a while."
The merchant twirled his finger in her vagina. She grit her teeth, willing the invasion to be over--mentally begging him to scratch her suffering anus. Neither happened.
Then: "I'll take her."
"Without a direct bill of transfer?"
"I have a customer in the 3rd Riding," he said. "Sir Nalight is settling there. His lady is looking for a girl. I understand that she is more than willing to take a judicial slave with bad behavior in. And she has island heritage herself. I think this one will be fine." He removed his finger, wet with her fluid and dealt her a sound slap on her buttocks.
She gasped in outrage and pain.
He cleaned his oiled digit fastidiously with a colored cloth. "Ready her for travel."
# # #
Jayala sat in the slave pen. She was still naked, now grubby and dirty--unwashed and smeared with dirt and muck. She wore only a restraint pole that clasped her neck, had cuffs for her wrists and then down to her ankles with lower cuffs. It was adjusted so she sat, hands helpless near her neck, ankles a bit apart.
Such a device could cause intense suffering if it was set to be overly tight, but while the ankle, wrist, and neck cuffs were snug (they were even fur-lined), the sitting position it enforced was not terrible--she was just helpless in it. The other slaves were not so restrained--just collars and chains to posts in the carriage. There was a hole for them to use as a toilet, but Jayala couldn't get to it so she just bounced along with people looking at her until they left the gates of Dunnis Urom.
The ridings out beyond the wall were irregularly sized plots of land that were overseen by, typically, landed knights or, failing that, mid-level royalty. A slave sold outside the walls was typically understood to have a hard life of labor ahead in addition to whatever her punishment scroll assigned.
Most of the slaves had swollen and bruised buttocks. They had been well chastised with paddle, hand, or strap--probably all three for some--before being loaded. She hadn't been. That worried her. They lay or huddled, miserably waiting for some farmer or miller or rancher or whatever to purchase them and take the requirement of their judicial sentence on.
She squirmed. Her anus still itched from the damned poultice and while she could get some relief by putting weight on her bottom and shifting to try to stretch the skin a bit, the stuff seemed to somehow recognize that its misery had been thwarted and redoubled its discomfort. Now she chewed her lower lip, her knot assaulted by the itch. The wagon drawing the slaves seemed to take its stupid time winding along the roads.
They passed Taking Stocks. A fair-haired boy had his head and wrists poking out while his bottom was immobilized in a yoke. He wore a tunic but she knew his rear was bare--defenseless. His anus was presented for, well, taking.
The utter misery of such a fate filled her with fear and sympathy, but the merciless itch made her imagine what it might be like to switch positions with him--to have some thick organ push into the greased clench and slide in and out, sending jolts of relief from the awful chemical irritation. The idea that such a disgrace appealed an any level filled her with a kind of shame she had thought she was largely immune to. They were breaking her, she thought miserably--and they had barely started!
The blasted wagon stopped, and she watched the men dismount. Some of them leading the horses to the nearby lake for water. A couple meandering to where the boy was mounted. It was quite allowed for one commoner to orgasm in the service of disciplining another.
And... well... the boy. He was--he was very cute--a winsome face, bright blue eyes--a pretty blush. Even his mortified grimace when he saw two of the big men starting towards him was charming. She'd heard that "Taking Stocks"--which really should've been called Pillories for how they positioned the head and hands--were so much worse for boys: girls were supposed to be taken--and while a girl in the stocks would most certainly have her anus used, a "patron" using her purse was 'natural'--she was built for it. She'd thought that was the purest of bullshit, but watching the poor lad struggle to ready himself for the intrusion, she realized it was really impossible for a young man to be taken that way without being dreadfully emasculated..
The men laughed, reading something on the rear of the stocks posted next to his ready bottom. She couldn't hear what they were saying as they spoke to him--but his blush deepened.
One lifted a wooden handle with a long, thick leather strap. It was firmly attached to the Taking Stocks with a chain--an implement meant to be kept with it. She tried to hear, leaning as best she could.
"If he spends," said a naked boy huddled next to her, "when he spends, he gets strokes."
"Oh."
"So their goal is to spend him so he can be strapped after orgasm."
