Sorcha's Story

Darkness reigned in the ship's hold. Only the gentle motion of the ship and lapping of water against the hull gave any shape to the dark. Sorcha lay on her side, her hands bound behind her, with no notion of how long she had been there.

The name of the ship was Highlander, sailing from Silveneir on a diplomatic mission to neighbouring Daricia. Sorcha had been the leader of the expedition, a dozen fighting women of Silveneir on special envoy for the Warmistress. But not long after arrival, they had been waylaid by the Darians and flung bound and naked into the hold of their own ship.

This was as much as she knew.

A bright line appeared in the darkness, becoming a blaze of sunlight as the hatch was opened. The shadow of a man, very tall and broad shouldered, blotted out the light for a moment. Sorcha shifted in her bonds, glad of the darkness that hid her nakedness as he stepped into the hold. He approached and knelt down beside her, put one hand to her cheek and gently turned her head from side to side. She made an effort to struggle as he scooped her up in his arms, only to discover just how stiff she was from laying unknown hours on the hard deck of the hold.

Her captor's arms were powerfully broad, encircling her inescapably. He carried her up out of the hold to the open deck, where the sunlight at first dazzled her. He set her down gently in the shade of the mast, where stood a barrel of water. With her hands bound, she had to accept his help to drink from the iron goblet that hung on a nail in the mast.

As her eyes adjusted to the daylight, she saw black-clad men in the ship's rigging and armed Darian warriors on the deck. One, larger than the rest, prowled the ship in full armour, bearing a whip in one hand and laden with a harness of multiple weapons: two straight swords, a curved dagger on a coiled length of chain, an axe, half a dozen knives across his chest and a two-handed war-flail folded in a holster on his back. He was bald and heavily scarred, his skin black as ebony whereas the other Darians ranged from pale flesh tones to stony grey.

The warrior who had brought her up from the hold lifted her to her feet, supporting her even after she knew could stand. Then she saw, scattered about the ship, the women. There were at least a dozen of them, very beautiful and dressed in diaphanous silks that left little to the imagination. They were not particularly doing anything, either looking over the rails or sitting in the shade, some flirting with the Darian warriors when they passed by. Sorcha could not understand why they were there or what they were for. She knew that the Darians, like the Kellion northmen on Silveneir's western border, kept harems. The concept was alien to Silvan culture; Sorcha's mind reeled and rejected the notion.

She barely noticed when her captor began to walk her along the deck towards the hatch in the forecastle that led to the ship's cabins. She felt somewhat better in the cool shade of the short corridor accessing the cabins, but she was in a state of shock, unable to quite comprehend what was happening.

The Darian brought Sorcha into one of the cabins and laid her on the bunk. Her hands were still bound behind her back, but even so she was too weak to resist when he stooped to kiss her.

“Please.”

“Please?” The Darian raised an eyebrow. In the dim light of the cabin, Sorcha saw that his skin was pale grey. He wore his black hair long, swept back in a stiff mane from solidly Darian features. Besides a diagonal scar on his left cheek and upper lip, he was handsome. The number XIII was tattooed in Darian numerals on one side of his neck. Like all his race, he was hugely muscular; in the tight confines of the cabin, he seemed larger still.

Sorcha swallowed and said, “Please... shut the door.”

He chuckled and went to the door, closed and bolted it. The cabin shrunk in Sorcha's perceptions, her captor seeming to attain yet greater size, but that was preferable to having the door open. Born and raised in the Silvanni church, Sorcha had rarely even seen herself naked alone; her people even hid their faces behind masks, both in public and private. She had never been naked in another's presence, much less that of a man, and certainly never in public. Now she lay naked on the bunk, a feast for the eyes of her captor; the closing of the door from any public view was a small mercy that only piqued her awareness of vulnerability.

He stepped away from the door, moving towards the bed. As he advanced, he reached behind his head with one arm and peeled off his tunic by the collar with a single action. Corded muscles played beneath granite-grey skin. Sorcha caught her breath, daughter of a culture where men were not permitted to display their strength. His features were stern, Darian, a face cut from rock to match the hard power of his frame. Nevertheless, the ghost of a smile twitched his lips before he sat down on the bed, showing his back to her. Sorcha lay quiescent, watching the play of the muscles across his back as he tugged off his boots. Her entire upbringing had taught her only to fight, never to be passive, while yet demanding total submission to the religion and culture of her race. She was unequipped to deal now with her situation, raised to obey authority yet revile the male with equal fervour.

He stood up, his hands moving to the buttons of his breeches. Sorcha shifted herself a few inches back on the bed, inadvertently opening her legs with the same movement that afforded her a quantum of distance from the inescapable yet unknown danger. He slid the breeches off his hips; the first sight of his taut backside inspired in Sorcha both fear and a strange anticipation. When he turned to face her, displaying his manhood in the full context of his muscular frame, she drew her knees up to her chest in an instinctive posture of acquiescence.

Mounting the bed, he knelt and parted her legs with gentle but irresistible strength. Sorcha knew she should fight, struggle, resist even in futility, but his calm self-assurance and her inculcated assumptions met within her to forge an alloy of immobilizing fear and urgent but unknown need so that she could only comply. She lay quiescent, at war within herself but outwardly still. He leant forward over her, scooping his forearm behind her head for a pillow. At his touch, she unthinkingly shifted her position, lifting her breasts and hips towards him.

His eyes never left her face as his free hand moved traced a wavering line between her breasts and down her abdomen. When his finger played below her navel, he asked her, “Are you a virgin?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and the half-smile flickered again on his inexpressive face.

“Not for much longer.”

He put his hand between them and guided himself into her. Sorcha gasped, her bound hands knotting into the bedsheets beneath her and her thighs clasping involuntarily tight around his hips. He eased himself back within her, then pushed forward again, achieving deeper but still gentle penetration. Again Sorcha quivered, her legs grappling his waist while her hands clawed at the mattress and all she had ever been taught vied against all she had ever yearned for. Her culture and her religion screamed that she should fight, against herself and her captor, force aside her inner desires and resist his invasion of her flesh. But the sensation of his skin on hers awoke a more primal passion, a need as urgent as food and air that her upbringing had denied. His eyes gazing into hers, his hands upon her breasts, his manhood filling her and his lips ravishing her throat, all overmastered the strictures of her youth.

Sorcha cried out and pressed herself against him, bracing herself with her bound hands and wrapping her legs tight about him. He snarled, swelling within her and redoubling his fervour; Sorcha answered in kind, swept away by an inward tide that left her only a distracted observer afloat on a sea of sensation. She saw a woman on a bed in a narrow cabin, a man atop her striving with all the power at his command. She heard herself scream, an ululating cry that began deep in her abdomen and became a crashing wave of light and exultation that swept away her identity.

For an unknowable time, she could not have said where or who she was. Gradually, Sorcha returned to herself. The Darian lay over her, his face buried in her shoulder. Her hands were pinned beneath her, still bound; as she shifted them to a more comfortable position at her side, the Darian lifted his face and blinked at her. Awareness returned to his eyes and he kissed her, brushing his lips against hers.

The moment of ecstasy passed, and for a split second Sorcha was assailed by all the accusations of her upbringing; she had submitted to capture and ravishment. Worse, she had enjoyed it. Against inculcated self-recrimination, she strove to recapture the transcendent moment when she and the Darian had been one. The sensation flitted from her waking memory like a dream through the fingers of consciousness. She felt a sudden unutterable loss, but before the sob could rise in her throat, the Darian's strong arms gathered her to his chest. Resting his embrace, Sorcha wished that she could have forever to recover herself.

Without volition, she found her lips and tongue tasting the sweat on his chest. His gentle touch beneath her chin guided her lips upwards to meet his kiss. His lips brushed past hers to rediscover her throat, and she found herself kissing with gentle hunger his jaw and then his neck. There, she discovered his tattoo.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“It is my name,” the Darian said, “given me when I was a slave.”

“When was that?” She laid her head on his chest and listened to the rhythm of his heart.

“Long ago. Before you were born. How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“You are young. ” XIII said. “I am one hundred and twenty years old, young by the standards of my people. I was born in a mine in Kellia. That is where they gave me my name.”

“You grew up in a mine?” Sorcha glanced up at him without lifting her head.

“I was born there. Darians do not age; we are born adult.”

Sorcha felt the alien nature of the man lying beneath her, but could not move until XIII sat up, rolling her gently onto the bunk.

“Why?” she asked, and he paused.

“Why what?”

“Why kidnap us? We were envoys, Silveneir is at peace with Daricia...”

“You are at peace with the Warmaster.” He smiled at the contradiction. “But Daricia is a land of factions; the Loyalists would have others believe that they reign supreme. But you have been captured by the cult of Naril. You will come to learn what that means.”

He rose and started to get dressed, filling the cabin with his Darian bulk. Sorcha recalled his weight on top of her with a moment of distress in juxtaposition to the languor that now possessed her. She remembered too the anticipation that had accompanied her fear and experienced a quiver of guilty pleasure that she was no longer a virgin.

Watching XIII slide back into his breeches, she realized that this encounter was soon to end and was surprised to wonder when or if she would ever feel this way again.

XIII had tugged on his boots and buckled his belt. Gently, he rolled Sorcha on her side and released the cords from her wrists. She sat up and massaged her fingers, studying the rope burns and wondering how long the scars would remain.

With his tunic in one hand, XIII threw a small felt bag onto the bed and stood back, waiting while Sorcha looked inside. Emptying the bag, she found a loop of suede with four long strips of cloth attached. In the bag also were a fine suede belt and a pair of high-heeled harem shoes. Only when she had the entire contents of the bag emptied on the bunk did Sorcha comprehend that the loop of chord and its attendant silks constituted a dress.

That part of her which still adhered to her upbringing railed that she could not wear something so revealing; the part of her awoken by XIII's lovemaking snidely suggested that she could always choose to go naked. Hesitantly, caught between conflicting drives, Sorcha dropped the suede loop over her head and stood up, allowing the silken strips to fall about her shoulders. XIII took up the belt and gathered the garment at her waist so that the silks covered her breasts and fell about her hips with at least a suggestion of decency.

Their eyes flickered as one to the high-heeled shoes that still lay on the bed.

“I can't walk in those,” Sorcha said.

“You will have to learn,” XIII replied. “But not today.”

From his pocket, he produced a length of leather cord. Sorcha was so relieved at being spared the shoes that she barely noticed when XIII fastened the leash around her neck.

“Now, we must go up on deck,” he said. “You will be expected to call me master.”

Sorcha stiffened, but XIII jerked the leash and brought her face close to his. “It is expected,” he repeated and then glanced at the bed. All the arguments of her upbringing suddenly dissolved into confusion, innocent libido and guilty obedience colliding so that she could only nod and whisper, “Yes, master.”

XIII smiled and kissed her, holding her close and staring into her eyes long after their lips parted. With shared reluctance they quit the cabin, XIII leading Sorcha by the leash. She followed him in a hopeless turmoil, relieved and yet afraid to leave the room where she had lost her virginity, guiltily eager to return.

Out on deck, the sun was rising towards mid-morning and a stiff wind raised goosebumps on Sorcha's skin. The harem outfit was indecent, useless for any practical activity and a humiliation to her Silvan heritage. She had no opportunity to bemoan, though; they were not alone on deck, something was happening. A dozen Naril warriors were already on deck, some of them accompanied by girls leashed just as she was. There were also other girls, presumably the existing harem. Sorcha was disconcerted to notice that all the girls were extensively tattooed, a practice alien to Silvan culture.

In the Highlander's rigging, black-clad men worked, trimming the sails and keeping the ship underway; on the deck, Darian warriors and captive harem girls assembled for inspection. Sorcha had been raised, like all Silvan girls, in the military education system imposed by the church; she could not restrain a trill of amazed laughter to see the Naril warriors line up in one squad and the harem girls form up in another alongside. XIII shot her a glance, jerking the leash once in a silent order to behave. Looping the free end of the leash through her belt, he sent Sorcha to the ranks of the harem girls with a slap on her behind. She flushed but hurried quickly to fill one of the free spaces in the line. She stood automatically at-ease, feet slightly apart and hands behind her back, the position automatic from her military training. A glance to the side revealed that the posture was correct; the other girls beside her stood thus, as did the Naril warriors. Sorcha and XIII were among the last to join the parade; there followed a long moment while the stragglers shuffled into position. Then one of the harem girls and one of the Naril warriors detached themselves from the parade and walked along the ranks, inspecting each warrior or woman in turn.

The Naril officer was bigger than any of the men; well over six feet in height, muscled like a bull, moving with the dangerous grace of a panther. The other Naril were all grey-skinned, some of them bearing scars, tattoos or even brands. This one was black, the natural granite of his flesh darkened by age and seamed with scars. Sorcha recalled that XIII claimed to be over a hundred years old; how old then was this officer, so ancient that his body resembled coal.

But it was not the Naril officer that held Sorcha's attention; warriors she had seen before. The blonde girl leading the harem inspection was a creature beyond Sorcha's imaginings; tall and slender, brightly tattooed from neck to ankle, clad in the briefest harem silks that left nothing to the imagination. She seemed very young, perhaps younger even than was Sorcha herself, but she moved with self-assurance and poise. Alone of the girls, this one wore tall harem shoes like the pair XIII had shown to Sorcha in the cabin; all the other girls were barefoot, which made sense when half the girls were unused to wearing high heels and those with more time in the harem had little or no experience of walking the deck of a ship. The girl leading the inspection, though, walked with perfect balance despite her slender heels and the gentle rocking of the deck.

A wind got up, fluttering the harem silks of the girls on parade. Sorcha had to hold herself still, resisting the urge to hold her brief skirts still with her hands. In that moment of distraction, she caught the attention of the head girl. Fierce blue eyes were suddenly a few inches from Sorcha's s face, the tattooed girl eyeballing her like a sergeant major.

She was very beautiful; Sorcha had little basis for comparison, but she was certain that the fine cheekbones, perfect skin and cutely upturned nose, the petulant set of the girl's full lips, were all the epitome of what the Naril desired in a woman.

“Stand straight,” the girl said, beginning to pace around Sorcha, inspecting her as one might a thoroughbred horse. Sorcha thought she was standing straight already, until the girl gripped her shoulders and pulled them firmly back. Sorcha discovered an additional inch of height, as well as lifting her breasts more prominently on display. The girl continued to pace around her, stopping in front of Sorcha again to study her critically. Brusquely, she began adjusting the set of Sorcha's harem silks, teasing the diaphanous garment into a more pleasing configuration that revealed more cleavage but remained better secured at her hips.

Sorcha stood rigid, falling inwardly back on her previous experience of military life and uniform inspection, staring straight ahead at an imaginary point beside her examiner's right ear. The girl smiled and tilted her head directly into Sorcha's gaze, staring into her eyes and capturing her full attention. Her hands were still on Sorcha's dress, no longer adjusting it but simply resting gently on the folds. Sorcha bit her lip in surprise when the girl slipped her hands beneath the silk and took hold of her breasts. The girl went on studying Sorcha's face and eyes while her hands lifted and caressed her breasts. Then she withdrew her touch, smoothing the silk back into position with her fingertips before she stepped away.

Meanwhile, the Naril officer was inspecting the warriors; reaching the end of the line, he turned and ran his eyes over the waiting harem girls. The head girl nodded to him, and the officer turned on his heel and marched towards the captain's cabin. Sorcha and the rest stood motionless, waiting until the door opened and the officer re-emerged. With him now came the master of the Highlander and all aboard; a Naril warlord so powerfully built that he seemed to unfold from the narrow cabin doorway. He towered even above the officer, blacker of skin and broader in limbs and torso.

While the Naril warriors wore leather armour, their master was stripped to the waist, clad in only loose black silken trousers tucked into knee-high boots. At his emergence, the head girl of the harem knelt and bowed her head. The Naril warriors and all the experienced girls knelt too, Sorcha and those recently brought aboard a second slower in complying.

The master's gaze swept over them critically before he spoke to the officer, his voice a deep baritone like honey mixed with gravel.

“Rathelon, is all as it should be?”

“One of the new girls remains to be inducted, master. She is... obstreperous.”

“Work with her,” the master replied, then seemed to forget the issue, turning his attention to the head girl who knelt before the harem, her eyes still on the deck.

“And you, sweet Fethne. What have you to report?”

“Nothing, master,” the girl looked up with adoring eyes at the towering warlord.

He chuckled and ruffled her hair. “There is always something.”

With a final affectionate glance, he strode on past Fethne and took a single pass of the harem, picking out the new girls by eye and assessing them. Sorcha followed his gaze with her eyes, marking now that while each of the established girls was remarkably beautiful, there was a wider spectrum among the new captives of the harem. She caught herself wondering where on this scale she lay, and what became of girls found aesthetically wanting.

The master's eyes passed over Sorcha and she shivered, his detached assessment more chill than the wind. Then his gaze moved on, and Sorcha saw the effect his attention had on each of the other girls in turn. He stood with his hands behind his back, weight back on his heels and his eyes now taking in the entire group.

“I am Odacon,” he informed them, then chuckled to see the tremors of fear that went through his captives. Sorcha trembled and felt her head bow automatically lower, trying to make herself unobtrusive; there were none in Silveneir who had not heard of Odacon, the warlord of Naril, infamous master of a harem that rivalled the size of an army. Only a handful of his girls were with him on this voyage, and he had clearly felt the need to expand his immediate dominion.

“It is good to be recognised,” Odacon mused, pacing idly back to tower over his favourite, Fethne. “Today you begin new lives. Until now you have eaten dust and breathed dead air. Embrace life; you will not be permitted to hide any longer in the grey shadows of an insipid Silvan culture. All your desires will be discovered; now begins a journey from which you will never return. Your minds and your bodies belong to me, even your very souls, and they will be conformed to my will.”

With a final ruffle of Fethne's hair, he turned away, nodding to Rathelon before marching away to mount the forecastle of the ship. Rathelon saluted in the Darian fashion, slamming his right fist against his heart, then took a long whip from his belt and coiled it in his hands. All of the girls flinched, those who had been long in the harem no less fearful of Rathelon or the whip in his hands.

“Fethne,” he said. “To your duties. They are yours for the morning. Later, they are mine.”

The master's favourite rose smoothly from her knees and beckoned two of the senior girls to her.

“Preparations,” she said. “Take the girls through their routines. Kelisa, bring the new meat to me at the mast.”

The inspection broke up, the Naril soldiers dispersing about the ship to pursue the daily minutiae of military life while the harem divided into two groups: the senior girls moved to one side of the deck and there began a well-practised bout of gentle exercise, stretching individually or in pairs while the appointed senior girl supervised.

The new girls, Sorcha included, were brought to the masthead where Fethne took charge, the girl Kelisa acting as her assistant. Kelisa was taller than Fethne, but less toned in her muscles. Where Fethne's blond hair was cropped short, Kelisa wore a mane of black curls that fell about her shoulders.

Both women were heavily tattooed, a detail that Sorcha found inexplicably frightening; tattooing was alien to Silvan culture, and she could not recall often seeing even an isolated tattoo, certainly never such extensive body-art as sported by Fethne, Kelisa, and the other senior harem girls.

The new girls stood in a loose mob, not looking at each other and avoiding Fethne's gaze. Sorcha was reminded that they had all been taken together; some of these girls she had known for years, most of them were her cousins, but the Silvan custom of masks meant that she had never seen any of their faces. Bereft of their masks and half naked in their harem silks, she could not identify any of them.

It was a strange realisation, that she was more anonymous now, unmasked, than she had ever been in her homeland. Sorcha was a stranger even to herself, forced to expose and experience an inner self for the very first time. This new self had no identity or ego, an all but blank slate now that the mask of false public image was torn away.

She was brought back to the moment when Fethne spoke again.

“Now...” the girl was smiling most unpleasantly, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “We're all feeling very shy.” She began to pace around and among the new girls, hands behind her back, taking exaggeratedly long strides in her high heels. “We need a little game to break the ice. Kelisa, do we like games?”

“We do,” the raven-haired woman replied, dutifully. She stood almost to attention, head up and shoulders back, displaying herself proudly, but it was clear from her tone that she disliked Fethne. When Kelisa spoke to the new girls, there was none of Fethne's suggestive baiting.

“Whatever rumours you've heard about harems are crap,” she said. “Life is very simple for you now. Get into it and you'll be happier than you've ever been. Fight it and... well... you'll see what Rathelon has in mind for the one girl left in the hold. When it's done, she'll love Rathelon in a way you'll all envy and fear.” Receiving a glance from Fethne, Kelisa fell silent. The master's consort nodded as if pleased, still pacing about the group and eyeing each of them in turn.

“Kelisa,” Fethne said, “I hoped you might think of a nice game for us all to play.”

“Masthead,” Kelisa promptly said, and Fethne grinned maliciously.

“It's like you're reading my mind. Masthead is my favourite game.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. Dear Kelisa, go to Rathelon and request from his collection a good switch and some suitable restraints.”

“Mistress.” Kelisa curtsied and went, leaving the new girls alone with Fethne.

“You'll all like this game,” Fethne smiled. “Do you play games in Silveneir?”

No one answered; Fethne pouted, then fixed her attention on Sorcha. “You will learn,” she said, speaking as if to Sorcha alone but in truth addressing the whole group, “when to speak and when to be silent.” She moved close to Sorcha, studying her face and body but ignoring her eyes. “Now; do you play games in Silveneir?”

“Yes,” Sorcha said, only to receive a surprise backhand slap across the mouth. She stared at Fethne, immobilised by shock.

“Yes, mistress,” Fethne informed her. “Again; do you Silvans play games?”

Every instinct of Sorcha's upbringing urged her to slap the girl straight back, but she was too uncertain in her new surroundings to act on impulse. Fethne leant forward, smiling still, offering her cheek for a return blow. When none came, Fethne quirked her cruel smile again and waited.

“Yes, mistress,” Sorcha said.

“Better.” Fethne tilted her head to one side, still smiling. “There are three levels in the harem; those you please, those you fear, and those you love. The master alone is to be loved; his warriors are merely to be pleased. Between he and they are those to fear. You should already fear Rathelon. Very soon, you will learn to fear me. You will enjoy learning this fear almost as much as I'll enjoy teaching it.”

Fethne stepped back, glancing theatrically back as if she had only just noticed Kelisa's return from her errand. The raven-haired girl was armed now with a riding-crop and a set of leather thongs. Fethne took the crop and tested it, cutting the air with the swishing recoil. Then she smiled at Kelisa. “Give the restraints to... what is your name?”

“Sorcha, mistress.”

“It's a nice name; you may keep it.” To Kelisa, she said, “Give the restraints to Sorcha, then assume the position.”

Kelisa stiffened but handed over the bundle of leather thongs as instructed. Sorcha could not read what she saw in the other woman's face. Then Kelisa turned away, went to the mast, and rested her forearms together against it, elbow to elbow, wrists touching. At Fethne's direction, Sorcha bound Kelisa's wrists to the mast. She did it awkwardly, ware always of Fethne standing by with the crop, then stepped back when the master's consort waved her away.

“A harem girl,” Fethne explained, swishing the crop again through the air, “must pay complete attention at all times. There is no escaping off into the back of her head, no escape by mere passivity. She must pay attention. To her mistress. To her responses. To her posture.”

The crop flickered and cut Kelisa lightly across the back of the legs, eliciting a tight gasp in response. Fethne grinned and said, “Straighten your legs. Breasts to the mast. Stick your butt out.” As she instructed, so she used the crop and her free hand to stroke Kelisa gently into position. Kelisa arched her back impressively to achieve the demanded posture, and Sorcha found herself jealous, not of Kelisa's predicament but of the woman's fitness and flexibility.

From a Silvan perspective, Sorcha could only admire Kelisa's acceptance of a whipping; Silvan dogma stressed obedience, with the whip reserved to assist spiritual aspirants to conquer their carnal egos. Such practices were conducted in private; to watch a girl publicly acquiesce filled Sorcha with a quixotic mix of emotions; she had never even imagined that a whip might be used for any kind of gratification.

Fethne used the crop now to part Kelisa's skirts off her hips and reveal a larger target-area. The whip cut again, higher, at the base of Kelisa's buttocks. She gasped again, quivering in position. Fethne smiled and stroked Kelisa's backside lingeringly, then cut her again twice more with the whip. Kelisa's gasp this time was a ragged exhalation trailing off into a sigh.

“A harem girl should not own insolence,” Fethne went on. “It is a gift of her master, to be petulant in any way. Yes, Kelisa?”

“Yes, mistress.” Kelisa's face rested against her bound hands, pushing her hips back with her legs locked straight. Fethne whipped her again, then brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face with her free hand. She was breathing harder too, a slight flush of perspiration colouring her cheeks.

“A harem girl,” Fethne repeated, “must pay attention to her voice. She must answer when commanded...”

The whip cut again and Kelisa's cry this time formed the words, “Yes, mistress!”

“...and she must scream when required. Kelisa?”

This time, Fethne passed the crop up gently between Kelisa’s legs, caressing her intimately even as she dealt a hard slap to the girl's buttocks with her free hand. Kelisa screamed with a different timbre, her hips quivering. Fethne frowned and pursed her lips, addressing the group of new girls even as she trailed the tip of the crop gently over Kelisa's waiting backside.

“A harem girl must pay attention to her master. Is he gullible...” She lashed Kelisa again, harder than she had yet done, achieving a genuine yelp of pain. “Or is he merely easily pleased? I am neither. Scream, Kelisa.”

Fethne struck her six times in quick succession, earning an ululating melody of gasping cries. Sorcha noticed, to her confusion, that though Kelisa's face and voice expressed pain, her body revealed something else; she did not flinch from the whip, and though she quivered at its cut she immediately pushed her hips back into the waiting posture as if eager to receive another blow.

“My arm is tired,” Fethne complained, rolling the shoulder or her whipping arm. “But Kelisa is still a very bad girl in need of discipline. Aren't you, Kelisa?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Then I shall need a proxy.” Fethne smiled brightly and assessed her audience again. “You. Sorcha, wasn't it? Good. Take the whip. Stand here.”

Given the riding-crop, Sorcha was immobilized by confusion. She stood where Fethne instructed her but was unable to conceive why she now held the whip or what she should do.

“Well?” Fethne asked. “You have the whip, and Kelisa has for you her insolent little butt. It's not a difficult bit of arithmetic.”

Sorcha hesitated, but at Fethne's sarcastic nod of encouragement, she plied the crop half-heartedly. Kelisa barely grunted, shooting Sorcha an unreadable glance.

“Harder,” Fethne said. “I've warmed her up for you; no need to be gentle now.”

Before she thought to stop herself, Sorcha asked, “But why?”

“Because I tell you to. Because I said you'd all enjoy learning to fear me. So enjoy your turn with the whip; you'll be taking your turn at the mast very soon. If you don't enjoy yourself when I tell you to, right now, you'll spend the next two hours at the mast while all your little sisters get their chance at your butt. Kelisa won't return your mercy when she gets her turn with the whip.” Fethne leant away from Sorcha and took a handful of Kelisa's hair, drawing her head back to study her eyes. “If she does, she'll be mine to play with all night. And she fears me far more than she might ever want to go easy on you.”

Kelisa avoided Fethne's gaze, turning her eyes to Sorcha again. She said nothing, but this time her silent communication was clear; Sorcha steeled herself, drew her hand back, and experienced an unexpected satisfaction at the sound of the whip on Kelisa's waiting buttocks and the woman's yelp of pain. Guilt immediately assailed Sorcha and she could not help but ask, “Are you alright?”

“Yes mistress.” Kelisa's head was down, resting in the crook of her elbows while her forearms remained bound against the mast.

“Again,” Fethne said, and Sorcha complied, another thwack of the crop answered by a scream from Kelisa. “Again.” Thwack. “Don't stop.”

After six cuts, when Sorcha had all but forgotten her initial hesitation and was just beginning to relax, Fethne stopped her with a hand on her arm. To Kelisa, Fethne said, “Does she do it well, Keli?”

“Yes mistress.” Kelisa's voice was a whisper.

“Has she had enough?” Fethne asked Sorcha. The question was rhetorical; Fethne answered herself at once, “three more.”

“Yes, mistress,” Sorcha replied, and dealt a trio of cuts with all the force of her arm, aware that this part of the game was drawing to a close. Kelisa's cries reached a crescendo and another tremor went through her body before she subsided back into position against the mast.

“Enough,” Fethne said. “Give me the whip. Let her free.”

Sorcha obeyed, handing over the whip before fumbling with the thongs binding Kelisa's wrists. Freed, Kelisa leant against Sorcha for support, breathing hard. Sorcha was surprised to see Kelisa's face flushed, the colour spreading down her neck to her chest until it vanished beneath the thin silks covering her breasts. Kelisa's eyes were dilated, her lips pouting around shallow, ragged breaths.

“You,” Fethne singled out one of the other new girls by pointing with the whip. “To the mast. You; bind her.”

“Here,” Kelisa managed to say, leaning on Sorcha and indicating that they should withdraw to the ship's rail. There Kelisa rested, bent almost double and leaning her elbows on the rail, her head bowed. While Kelisa recovered, Sorcha watched each of the girls take their turn both at the mast and with the whip. None resisted; the rules of the game were quite clear. Each in turn with the whip began hesitantly, as Sorcha had done, but under Fethne's guidance rapidly eased into quick, hard cuts that drew gasps and cries from the girl at the mast. Between cuts, Fethne caressed the recipient back into the required position with firm but gentle hands, sometimes touching them with expert intimacy to elicit gasps quite different from the answer to the whip. Each victim, when released, betrayed the same flushed body and dilated eyes that Kelisa had shown after her punishment.

“Sit,” Kelisa told Sorcha, indicating the ship's rail.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Oh don't.” Kelisa waved the submissive epithet away. She did not sit down herself, still moving gingerly with concern for her tender posterior.

“I'm sorry,” Sorcha said, softly, and Kelisa gave her an odd look askance.

“What for? That was good. You'll understand.”

Sorcha bowed her head, using the newly learned attitude of submission to avoid Kelisa's eyes. When she looked up, Kelisa had produced a small pipe from a pouch at her belt and was filling it with herbs. She took a match from the same pouch, leant her hip against the rail and struck fire to light her pipe. “Silvan?” she asked, and Sorcha nodded.

“Ah, you'll have some times, then.” Kelisa toked on her pipe and looked out towards the riverbank passing by, distracting Sorcha's attention from the ongoing game at the mast.

“Where are we?” Sorcha asked.

Kelisa frowned as if the question had no meaning. “Somewhere in Daricia? This is the River Dagon, I think.”

They were at the port side, looking southwards. Sorcha, considerably better educated than Kelisa in geography, decided that the distant mountains on the horizon must be the seven peaks of Pen Korcha, which meant that the open grasslands in between could only be Sorroway, Daricia's most southerly province. Sorcha looked across the deck, past the game still going on at the mast, and saw in the northern distance the lonely peak of Mount Karonan rising from the wide plains of central Daricia.

“We're heading west,” Sorcha decided, but Kelisa only shrugged.

“Does it matter?” She asked.

“Well, west would take us to the Borderush.”

Kelisa blinked vacantly.

“That's a swamp.” Sorcha explained. “A big, stinking...”

“Listen, we're here.” Kelisa spoke softly but looked Sorcha straight in the eyes. “Wherever we were and wherever we're going, we're here. You need to get hold of that, Sorcha; what Fethne said was true, you have to be here, in your mind. I don't want to see you get sent to Rathelon.”

“Why are you being nice to me?” Sorcha asked; Kelisa's attitude was far from the resentment that might be expected so soon after a whipping.

Kelisa affected surprise at the question. “Well, I don't have to be, but I might as well. There's no point being a bitch when Fethne's around; she's the queen.”

“Who is she?”

“Who are you? We all belong to the master. Fethne just happens to be his favourite. For why, I have no idea.” She paused, the pipe hovering an inch from her lips. “Actually, I do know why, but it's day one for you and some things you can't get just by having them explained. You're what, eighteen? Twenty, maybe? How old do you think I am?”

Kelisa cocked her head to one side, smiling while she waited for an answer. Sorcha shook her head, the experience of looking another person in the face rather than staring at their mask too new for her to gauge ages with any accuracy.

“You'd be wrong,” Kelisa said. “But Fethne's not sixteen, even though she looks it. The master keeps her looking like that.” Her free hand reached out to trace the line of Sorcha's cheek. “He can do the same for you too, keep you young and beautiful forever. If you earn it.”

Her eyes turned to the mast and Sorcha followed the direction of her gaze. There, the last pair of girls were finishing up; Fethne had organised the whole session so that every girl took her turn both at the mast and with the whip, while ensuring that no-one was permitted to discipline whichever girl had whipped her. Sorcha alone now had wielded the whip without tasting its caress. Kelisa put her pipe away and took Sorcha by the hand to lead her to the mast. “Come on. You'll be surprised.”

Sorcha hesitated but knew that she had no choice but to comply; even without the threat of Rathelon's discipline, Fethne had laid out the rules of the game. Everyone had to take both parts, dominant and submissive, and Sorcha had already played her first round. Simple honour demanded that she submit to the mast. Fethne was already waiting, the crop bent between her fists and the mast itself vacant. Guided by Kelisa, Sorcha stepped up and set her forearms against the mast, wrists and elbows together. Kelisa bound her deftly in place with the leather thongs, not so tight that they cut off the circulation, but knotted firm enough to defy any escape.

“Kelisa,” Fethne said, “position her.”

Kelisa stepped behind Sorcha and put her hands on her hips, drawing her gently but firmly back until she stood as required, wrists against the mast while she leant fully forward, her spine arched until every muscle stretched from her ankles to her elbows. Her hands, she noticed, were in a prayer position, while the rest of her body was stretched to full extent, presented with the certainty of receiving answer.

Fethne stood behind her, waiting until Kelisa had finished adjusting her posture and stepped away.

“We enjoyed using the whip, didn't we?” Fethne enquired.

Sorcha responded with dutiful honesty, “Yes, mistress.”

“Good. Enjoy this too.”

The first cut of the whip was a sharp sting across the back of her legs. Sorcha yelped, but the cut was far less than she had expected. She glanced back in surprise, just in time to see Fethne smile. As she had done with Kelisa, Fethne now used the tip of the whip to part the silken skirts off Sorcha's hips. Sorcha felt her cheeks redden, embarrassed until the cut of the whip distracted her from the other girls watching her performance. The next cut of the whip fell on bare skin, more acute without even the minimal padding of silken skirts. Fethne used more force this time too; Sorcha bit her lip to restrain a cry. Fethne clucked her tongue in irritation and dealt two hard blows in quick succession, then traced the whip gently up between Sorcha's legs before administering an open-hand slap to her buttocks. The action had induced a quivering release in Kelisa; Sorcha tensed instinctively and experienced only a disturbingly alien intimate touch. Fethne growled and plied the whip again, hard enough this time to draw tears from Sorcha's eyes. Then she felt Kelisa's hands on her shoulders and heard soft words in her ear.

“Lean back. Lean into it. Back, into your hips.”

Sorcha complied and felt the stricture of the pose lessen a split second before Fethne delivered the sixth cut. Automatically she tried to flinch away, but Kelisa's firmly gentle restraint prevented her from shifting more than an inch.

“Back,” Kelisa said again. “Offer yourself to it.”

Sorcha yielded to the pressure of Kelisa's hands on her shoulders and leant back, presenting her hind for the whip again.

“Oh, very good, Kelisa,” Fethne sneered. “One might almost think you were trying to help her.”

The remark brought Sorcha's attention fully onto Kelisa; the other woman's expression was unreadable, and the glance merely distracted Sorcha long enough for Fethne to land the seventh cut of the whip by surprise. Sorcha yelped and writhed, the quality of the pain changing as her buttocks became very warm.

“Focus.” Kelisa said. “Lean back. Don't resist; anticipate.”

“Yes mistress.” The eighth cut fell a split-second later, but Sorcha was ready this time and bit down on the gasp of pain. Fethne swatted her again cut immediately, but in her irritation scored only a glancing and negligible blow.

“Stop helping her.” Fethne hissed.

“I want her to get it,” Kelisa replied.

“I'll have you tonight,” Fethne said, and Kelisa obediently took her hands off Sorcha's shoulders.

Two more cuts fell, but now the pain was merely a warm impact that shivered through her body. She found she could count the cuts, eleven now, when each girl thus far had endured a total of twelve. The warmth was spreading through her lower body, tingling lines marking where the whip had touched her flesh.

“You want to help her, Kelisa,” Fethne said, irritated that Sorcha had yet to properly scream. “Then you do it.” Two quick, hard cuts followed, and then Sorcha sensed through the numb haze that Kelisa had moved away from her. She looked back across her shoulder in time to see Fethne hand over the whip and step back for Kelisa to take over.

“Hips back,” Kelisa said, and plied the whip harder even than Fethne had done. “Hips. Back.”

“Yes mistress,” Sorcha whimpered, and leaned back as far her bound hands would allow.

“Breathe in.” Kelisa had the whip drawn back ready. “Don't look at me. Wait for it. Now scream.”

The whip cut again, and Sorcha exhaled a cry of submission, the sound beginning in her stomach and rising up through her arched body like a musical note. When she screamed, a wave of sensation went through her. She experienced a sense of weightlessness, as if only her wrists bound to the mast prevented her from floating away.

“Good.” Kelisa said. “Hips.”

Sorcha leant back again and received a sixteenth blow, uttered another gasping cry in answer.

“Were you spanked as a child?” Kelisa asked, conversationally.

“Yes mistress.”

“Good. Think about that.”

A seventeenth blow, and then another; Sorcha was transported from her position at the mast back to her childhood. In Silvan society, children were always disciplined by a female relative, usually an aunt; the association built an immediate bond with Kelisa, an acceptance of her right to administer punishment. Sorcha's body became distant, irrelevant; she was suddenly aware of the other girls watching, each of them having been through the same procedure and waiting now for her to join them after this initiation.

“Hips,” Kelisa said again. “Arch your back. Sink your weight. Better.” The whip touched Sorcha again and she screamed. “Good,” Kelisa said. “Nineteen now.”

Sorcha had lost count, falling one behind. She tried to amend the score, but the twentieth blow fell at once and she was transported again, this time to a realm of pure physical sensation that left her identity behind. She hung in her bonds, leaning her hips back in readiness, submitted and ready for each blow as it came, the pain becoming transcendent quivers of release through her entire body.

“Twenty-three,” Kelisa said. “Twenty-four...”

There was a pause, and then the whip tickled a line up between Sorcha's legs, brushing her intimately until Kelisa slapped her hard on the buttocks and gave the tip of the whip an expertly minute twitch. Quivering pleasure flooded through Sorcha, emanating as if from the core of her being. She lost all sense of self-awareness, floating disembodied until she heard Fethne say, “One more. Make it two.”

Sorcha screamed obligingly, only to lean back into her hips again to receive the next blow, certain that there would be yet more. Timeless seconds ticked before she relaxed. As soon as she did so, Kelisa plied a savagely final cut. Sorcha gasped, too exhausted to scream, then hung in her bonds, waiting either to be released or for the whipping to go on. She could not care anymore, her awareness abstracted to the point that she was vaguely surprised to feel Kelisa's hands loosening the thongs that bound her wrists to the mast. Freed, Sorcha embraced the mast and leant her face against the wood, drifting inwardly while she slowly returned to her body.

“I do believe she wants some more,” Fethne observed, at which Kelisa brusquely dragged Sorcha away from the mast, allowing her to lean on her shoulder for half a dozen steps. Sorcha yielded to the urge to sink down, only to find herself upheld by Kelisa; the girl was stronger than her build implied. “No, don't sit. You won't thank me if I let you do that. Here, lean on the rail. Kneel if you must.”

Sorcha sank to her knees and let her head rest against the ship's rail, physically exhausted and emotionally annihilated; she thought then that she loved Kelisa, would do anything for her to earn the care that the older girl showed towards her. Every Silvan thought had been silenced, the aftermath of the whip leaving gratitude as her sole emotion. As she had felt with XIII, a tension so long held that it had become part of her personality had been dispelled by her turn against the mast.

“Do you get it now?” Kelisa asked, and Sorcha nodded, still unable to speak or stand. The world swam about her suddenly and she reeled, supported only by the ship's rail and Kelisa's arm around her shoulders. A rushing sound filled her ears and darkness overcame her sight; she did not feel herself slither to the deck, instead feeling again the euphoric sensation of flight before consciousness deserted her.