Laela was asleep at the foot of his bed, a sweet slave girl, his nubile sister. Lord Jace appraised her, her slim, young body curled up against the cool dawn air.
She was naked of course, her breasts, heavy for her small frame, rising gently with every breath. Lush curves and a narrow waist, her lithe, dancer's body almost burning for a man's hard touch.
Her cleft was shaved bare, when she shifted in her sleep, he caught a glimpse of the moist pink pearl between her thighs. She murmured softly in her sleep, her body writhing lightly as though in the throes of a dream.
She could not move far, the collar around her neck was hooked to a leash tied to the bedposts. Soft velvet ties had been slipped around her wrists and attached together so that the mobility of her arms was reduced at all - he didn't want her touching herself for pleasure without his permission. He'd made her sleep on the cold marble floor the night before, her usual pallet tucked under his bed. He wanted her disoriented and uncomfortable, ready to beg for even a scrap of comfort or affection.
When they were children, she'd been under their father's protection - bastard-born or not. As a growing boy, he'd sometimes been curious about what lay underneath her smock - but she'd always been quick and nimble to run away from him. He'd pulled her braids and tossed stones at her in sour moods but she didn't belong to him and there was a limit to what he could do.
Now his father was dead and he was the head of the family, a great lord in his own right. And he could do as he pleased with her - strip her, whip her, fuck her. She could be his darling princess as his trueborn sister, Daenehra, was, cossetted and sheltered. Or she could be his filthy little whore, bearing his bastards and warming his bed, degraded in as many ways as he could imagine. There was no one to stop him.
He rose from his bed and pressed his feet gently into her belly, kneading with his toes as he would a fine rug. As the pressure increased, her eyes fluttered open and she squirmed, trying to get away - but tied as she was, there was nowhere she could retreat to.
"Slept well?" he said lightly.
She was short and sullen, this morning. "No," she snapped, forgetting herself. She curled her knees towards her stomach to defend herself.
He tsked. "That's no way to greet your loving brother in the morning."
"I hate you." Her pale green eyes, so like his own, were afire. Yesterday she had been demure and docile, stripped and deflowered though she was, the shock of the situation terrifying and disorienting her. Today she was ablaze with virtuous anger and he liked that, he liked a good fight.
"Cold?" he asked solicitously. He trailed his feet along her torso and pressed down firmly on her breasts. They were soft and cushiony, the dark nipples springing alertly to attention. He admired the contrast between his pale feet and her dusky, golden body. It didn't hurt her, not truly, but it made her more aware of how vulnerable she was.
"Yes," she said finally. "I should have had a blanket at the least."
"You belong to me," he said lazily, his toe tracing lazy circles on her chest and throat. "Your cunt, your tits, your skin, your soul. I decide what you should have."
He pressed his feet against her lips. "Suck," he ordered her.
Her eyes were wide with disgust and she jerked her head violently in a no.
"Laela," he chided her. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way. I like you, you're my precious sister and I want to be kind to you. But I can't be when you're as stubborn as a mule. Would you want me to shut you up on all fours in a barn like a mule, ready to be mounted by any slave who passes? I can, you know."
He reached down to tousle her hair. "Let's be reasonable," he said sensibly. "You can sleep in my room, you can eat at my table, you can be my pet, as cozy as a kitten. Or I can send you to the fields to slave all day under the sun and be fucked all night by the slaves and the overseers. The choice is yours."
She looked like she was going to cry but she mastered herself. She opened her little red mouth and began to suck on his toes. He chuckled and after a few minutes, pleased with her submission, bent down to untie her hands and the leash that kept her tethered to his bed.
She rose awkwardly, her back stiff from the hard night's sleep, and crouched into a sitting position. "Good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He wrinkled his nose. "You stink," he said pointedly and she blushed. She was used to pretty clothes, his other sister's castoffs, used to being clean and tidy and admired for her looks.
Today her eyes were crusty from sleep, dried blood still sticking to the inside of her thighs from her violent defloration the night before. Her thick black hair was disheveled, matted to her back. She smelt of sex. She didn't look like a girl who had once been her father's darling, she looked like a little whore.
He rang a bell to summon the slaves and ordered them to fill his bath with hot water. "Come sweetling," he said, holding out his hand to raise her to her feet. "I can be kind." And he intended to be, he liked to see her pretty and dainty, an ornament to be admired. He wouldn't hurt her.
The copper tub was filled with hot water and scented with crushed rose petals. He led her to it himself and she winced as she lowered her aching body into it. While the slaves watched, ready to offer assistance if needed, he soaped her hair himself.
She had beautiful hair, hanging down almost to her hips, as black as night. She was silent as he bathed her, silent as the slaves tipped cool water over her hair to wash away the soap. He used a fine white soap, fragrant as lavender, to clean her body. He paid special attention to her breasts and cunny, of course, enjoying himself as she squirmed under his attentions. She was small and daintily-made, a petite 5'3'' to his towering 6'2'' and he enjoyed feeling her delicate body, as fragile as a bird's under his hands.
"Why?" she asked finally.
"I'd wash a bitch the same way," he said lazily, "if she'd hurt herself on a good day's hunt." And he would, he had a kennel of prized hunting dogs and a stable of thoroughbreds and he was more solicitous of their welfare than he was of his slaves.
"So I am to be your bitch." Her face was twisted with sullenness. "My father wanted more for me."
"Then why did he never free you?"
She opened her mouth and closed it, fuming. He laughed and signaled the slaves to bring the towels. He dried her and chose a citric fragrance for the slaves to spray over her - at her throat, her wrists and between her thighs. They oiled her limbs while he watched, so that her skin gleamed like polished bronze. She smelt like an orangery in summer. Her damp hair curled in tendrils down her shoulders and her eyes were heavy-lidded from the warmth. Naked and sleek with oil, she looked wild and wanton, ready to tumble into a man's bed for an afternoon of delights.
"I could dress you," he mused to himself, "but why hide such a piece of art?" She was gorgeous and helpless and she belonged to him, he felt his cock harden at the thought. "Come."
He held her in his lap in the atrium as he broke his fast. He decided what to feed her and how much - the sense of control was exhilarating. He sliced fruit with a small knife and his hands were sticky with their juice. Under his teasing fingers, her dark nipples budded, syrupy from the juice. He could feel the heat of her languorous body against the fine cambric of his shirt. She was changing, from the prim little virgin she had been only yesterday. He would make her his wanton.
"Father did want to free you, you know," he said idly, allowing her to sip water. "On his deathbed, he asked me to free you when you were of age. Make you a decent marriage - perhaps to Nahuel."
