Three knights, armor shining, crested a hill. Their horses panted heavily in the hot sun, laboring under the full armor of their riders. Sir Aloric, the youngest of the three, had proposed they wear the armor as they arrived at Count Mevenmein's court. The others had readily agreed, envisioning a grand entrance, but that had been when they believed themselves less than half a day's ride out. By the time they realized a landslide in the night had made the foothills hell to cross, they were already sweating in what were increasingly feeling like metal coffins.
"We can still make it before nightfall," Aloric said, taking off his helmet. Sweat poured from his ginger hair over his youthful, fair face. He tried an optimistic smile as he looked at the other two.
"Hrmph," Gastogne snorted, his anger making his already serious face look dour. "We would already be there if it weren't for all this damned luggage." He stared back the way hey had come, at the baggage train trundling along. Two carts, stacked high and heavily laden with goods, were pulled by teams of slaves chained to it like oxen. These were no trussed-up pony girls though. These were labor slaves, wearing only a rag on their head to keep their hair up, if they wore anything at all. Around them were the dominas -- loyal slaves who carried whips and urged the others on, and a few squires on horseback. Behind the last cart were another thirty slave girls, shackled and fettered in lines and rows. They each carried a sack -- the slaves were responsible for carrying their own supplies. The carts were solely for the three knights and their squires.
Gastogne watched them all with increasing frustration. The first cart paused as it hit a hole in the road, and the slaves strained to push it out as the dominas encouraged them with whips and shouts. "Lazy cunts," he muttered, looking up. The sun was just past its zenith.
"Come now, sir Gastogne," the third knight said. He rode at the head of them, and it was his family crest that adorned both carts. Of the three, only he still looked fresh, the sweat on his brow barely a trickled, despite how warm his long, blonde hair must have been. Sir Moldred of House Gyvain smiled, and Gastogne couldn't help but let some of his anger evaporate.
Moldred said, "Don't tell me you'd prefer to travel like the knights of old? Roughing it out here, on our own? I can hardly piss without a slave girl holding my cock," he laughed.
Gastogne smiled. "It woudn't be so bad. We could paint Sir Aloric's lips and eyes. He'd be a bit flat, but he could pass."
"At least from behind," Moldred added, and both of them laughed as Aloric stared at them aghast.
"I'll fight you both. Right here and now," he said.
"Calm yourself, Sir Aloric," Moldred said, still chuckling. "Sir Gastogne and I are just jealous. I've seen the way the slaves crowd you." Aloric sighed. If anyone had said it he would have drawn his sword then and there, but he was used to Moldred's bad jokes. Moldred turned back to Gastogne and said, "And Sir Gastogne, why the hurry? Even if we arrive tomorrow morning, it will make no difference. Mevenmein has no knights in his realm. He only possesses an invitation to the King's Tournament through some ancient decree. Regardless of when we arrive, in two days that invitation will be yours."
Gastogne took a deep breath and said he agreed, but continued to watch the carts. Moldred would never admit it out loud, but he was more anxious than either of them. Gastogne was a commoner, the son of a charcoal maker who owned only two slaves and who was only able to have a child after saving for years to rent a pureborn from Moldred's father. He had only been able to afford her for one year, but, luckily, she bore a son in that time.
Despite this common birth, Gastogne was born a knight -- able to wield a crest. Uncommon, but not unheard of. What should have been unheard of was how, despite being a knight, the man had still had to scrape for everything. If Moldred hadn't discovered his talents he likely would never have gained a crest of his own. Moldred fumed at the unfairness of it. In his opinion all men should be judged by their merit, not their class. That a man like Mevenmein could hold three crests and one of the most profitable lands in the kingdom, despite his fallow blood, was an injustice.
Tired of watching the slaves push the carts over the rocky path, Moldred said, "Let's ride ahead." The other two agreed, and they took off -- the cool wind on their faces. They made it around the bend, before having to once again stop. A boulder blocked the path. Clearly knocked loose the night before, it was taller and wider than the carts. A crew of six cunts were hacking at it with pickaxes, while a short, fat man in a tunic lounged in a chair watching them. A seventh cunt was crouched between his knees. From the faces the man was making, she seemed to be making more progress than the other six combined.
The three knights stared at this, until Moldred finally said what they were all thinking:
"Fuck."
-
Eve was not dead. This was something of a surprise to her as there were multiple points where she was sure the blonde bitch's potion burning through her body would kill her. It didn't though, and somehow, despite feeling like it would turn her insides to ash, she was left feeling better and more energized than ever.
She stood at the cleaning yard, a corner of the grounds near the river where small rocks had been laid down to keep the ground from turning muddy while the slaves cleaned themselves. With a bucket of water, some lye, and a rag, she slowly tried to wipe off the shame and disgust that still covered her body. She was alone. She had ordered the slaves that came to pick her up away. When she entered the cleaning yard she ordered everyone out. A few slaves spluttered something about being ordered to clean up, but they weren't compelled. Besides, one look in her eye told them she didn't need a cock to beat them.
None of this would have been possible without the potion. She would have been dragged off by slaves, who would roughly clean her while she lay there, unable to move. A further embarrassment after an already humiliating ordeal. There was a downside to the potion though. The exhaustion and pain had fit how she felt. Mentally she still had the disgust, the humiliation, but physically the only thing she was left with was the arousal. She told herself that was likely from the potion, but she knew that wasn't completely true. She could still remember the feeling of Christophe first entering her, and though it made her want to vomit, it also made her wet.
Faye dunked her head in one of the larger buckets, holding her head under the water as she ran her fingers through her hair -- trying to undo the tangled, cum-coated knots. The cold water helped clear her mind, but she could only hold her breath for so long. She wanted to scream, but there were other slaves and men around. There was nowhere she could go to be alone. Even bathing, she had no privacy. So, she shut her eyes tight, and began to scrub her skin furiously.
-
"Aye my lords," the fat man said, the belt of his trousers still hanging open. "Rock slide last night. We been workin' at it all morning."
Moldred stared down at him. The peasant man's crew of cunts looked weak and malnourished, skin tight around their ribs. They swung their tools, sweat dripping down their nude bodies, with a strength that would make a young boy laugh. At the rate they were going they would be 'workin' at it' all week.
"We need to get through," Gastogne said. "We have urgent business with the count. There must be another pass."
The man ran his finger through his ear. "This is it, unless you head all the way back down."
Gastogne continued to argue with the man while Aloric tried to soothe the knight and assured him it would be fine. Moldred turned away from them. They had gone over this with the man a hundred times. Nothing was changing. As he was looking back, he saw the first members of the baggage train starting to round the bend. They were losing time.
With a deep breath, Moldred walked over to the boulder. The slave girl's, seeing his armor and bearing, fell to their knees. He ignored them. Instead, he focused on his chest, feeling the place inside himself where his crest resided. It appeared over his breast plate -- shining a brilliant white.
Strength flooded his limbs as he drew on the crest. With a roar, he shoved both hands into the boulder and pushed. It shifted. He groaned, calling on more and more strength, but the boulder was twice his height and solid rock. With his crest he was as strong as ten men, but even ten men couldn't have budged it further. He relented, and it fell back.
Then, beside him, Gastogne and Amoric appeared. Their crest's glowed over their chests as well, and the three of them pushed as one. It moved, scrapping over the ground. They yelled in triumph as it inched forward. But then, the boulder hit a ditch slight incline, and settled in place. They tried again, but could push it no further.
Panting, the three knights looked at each other. After a moment, Moldred looked back to their bagged train and roared "Gash!"
A slave girl near the front of the train perked up and started running towards him. Moldred waited. Technically, 'Gash' was not her name. Her name was Gail, or Geel, or something like that. Even more technically, her name was Moldred-Gail, as pureborns were named after their owners but with a syllable added to the end. Moldred disliked both of those. He preferred the more descriptive names given to farm bred slaves. Why would anyone ever call a cunt 'Ann' or 'Sal' over the more interesting, and accurate, 'Piss-lips' or 'Dick-squirmer?'
Gash ran as Moldred waited. She had terrible form, made worse by her swinging tits and the high heels locked around her ankles. Her silver hair swaying back and forth over sharp, violet eyes. A series of straps crisscrossed her body -- hiding nothing and supporting her ass and breasts. Moldred knew that on the inside of those straps were small spikes that were cutting into her as she ran. In fact, her whole attire was spiked. There were tiny spikes in her shoes just under her heels to keep her from resting. Spikes lined the inside of the heavy iron collar around her neck. She had dildos in her cunt and ass, both coated in spikes that angled down so they were harder to remove. Above those dildos was his crest, branded into her mons pubis. When she finally reached him, she threw herself onto the ground at his feet knees first, pressing her forehead into the ground in a bow. Moldred stared down at her. "Stand up cunt!" he yelled, and she hopped to her feet.
She was painfully thin, her ribs sticking out like the malnourished cunts trying to break down the boulder. He could see that her strap suit had been tightened to its fullest, but it still hung slightly loose. That was his fault. He was punishing her by not allowing her to eat anything other than cum. Soon, he would need to let her eat something -- she was starting to be unsightly. He did worry that it might be letting her off too easy though. He couldn't actually remember what she had done, but it must have been bad.
Gash stared at the ground, but he didn't miss her lick her red-painted lips. He almost sighed. Gash was weak, even for a member of the lesser sex. Worse, she was appallingly obedient. Even without his brand on her, he suspected she would do anything he said. There were few positive things Moldred could say about her. She was pleasing to the eye, but that was not to her credit. Every woman, whether they were pureborn or birthed by magic, was given a witches' brew to ensure they grew in a way that was more appealing. It was said that the more work the brew had to do, the more unusual they appeared. With her silver hair and purple eyes, Moldred guessed she had been given a double-dose. But, there was one thing Gash was good for. She was a genius.
