Continues from The Hunt (IV)
In rows of ten, in a field painted in flames of yellow and orange, one hundred slaves, both male and female, penned in on all sides by whip-wielding horsemen, stood naked under a savage burning sun.
The games arena had been built in farmland outside the town. There were some woods to the west, beyond which lay the river. I could see the castle directly ahead of me and to my right there was a large spectators’ area with a stand especially constructed for the Royal Prince and his entourage. They were seated in the shade on a raised dais which had been decorated with flowers and garlands in the red and yellow colours of our national coat of arms. The Prince was easily recognizable in a white and gold robe and was surrounded by his family, guards and slaves.
It was a sweltering hot day with very little wind and the Royal banners were bowed and still, as if in deference to the drama taking place around them.
We slaves had been arranged in rows of ten for the inspection of our Masters and Mistresses of the hunt. They rode up and down, making occasional comments amongst themselves, and even directly at us. It was all part of the game but the comments were brutal and deliberately designed to humiliate and put the fear of the gods in us.
We were all just meat now. Prey to be teased and played with before they devoured us one by one.
I felt very afraid but it was always best not to show it. Slaves should always remain silent when abused or beaten, but from time to time a Master would approach, whip in hand, and deliberately try to provoke a response in us which, of course, would then be punished quite viciously.
The cruelty was calculated and severe. One of the boys in a row in front of me was cock-whipped by a mistress in order to ”make him hard enough to run.”
Then she kneed him in the balls and when he fell to his knees, she whipped him again on his back and shouted at him, “Make sure you look after that thing, boy. And keep it hard. I want it running for me!”
Her team – all black leather clad Mistresses – laughed and then rode off to seek out more victims further up the rows.
A minute later short stocky Master dismounted and came over to me. He put his ruddy pock-marked face close to mine, grabbed my breasts and dug his fingernails into my nipples, viciously pulling and tugging at them, trying to make me flinch or cry out.
I kept my head down, held my breath and submitted to him.
“No reaction eh? Like it, do you?” He laughed, “You’re a well-trained cunt aren’t you? But you’ll be singing for me later.”
Then he grabbed me by the neck and forced me to bend over. Gripping my collar to hold me still, he whipped my ass until it burnt red. Then he called out to one of his team. “Good red meat here, Dennius. Make a note of this cunt. Add it to the list.”
He pulled me up to face him and leered at me. His teeth were rusty brown like old razors. “Let me introduce myself, cunt. I’m the butcher. And today your tasty pussy meat is going under my chopper.”
There was laughter from his team and he moved onto the next girl, looked her up and down and spat at her. “Skinny cunt. Don’t like ‘em skinny. Next…” The girl remained impassive but I imagined she was thanking the gods for the diet her Masters kept her on.
I closed my eyes and calmed myself. My ass was burning. But I managed to think myself into a zone distant from both the pain and the humiliation. It meant nothing. I had served him.
I had served. But I preyed the gods that I wouldn’t have to serve him again. I wondered why my Mistress was putting me through this ordeal. Why had she suddenly decided to test me like this? And who exactly was the Master she wanted me to surrender to?
By all the gods I hoped that it wasn’t him. And suddenly I felt real fear again.
By now he’d moved on to a tall broad-shouldered boy with long hair.
“Turn round and bend over, pretty boy.” He stood behind him and put the whip handle against the boy’s ass as if measuring something.
Spread your legs, bitch boy. Wider!”
He spat on the handle and, with one slow movement, he drove the rounded silver handle all the way into the boy’s hole.
Ignoring the boy’s cries, he called out to his team, “Right size. Big enough for you, Dennius,” He pumped the boy a few times and laughed again, “Like it, pretty boy?” Then he removed it, wiped the handle on the boy’s hair and whipped him so hard he fell forward onto his hands and knees. Finally, he picked him up by his hair and told him to say thank you.
“Think nothing of it, pretty boy. There’ll be much more to come when we catch you later.” He laughed again, got back on his horse and moved on.
The humiliation wasn’t just random. They were selecting the slaves they wanted to win for their teams. Although nominally, the object of the hunt was to catch as many slaves as possible, many hunting teams just collected whichever slave boys or girls took their fancy. Once they had collected enough toys to play with, they would set up camp in one of the outlying fields and start to bring their dark fantasies to life. These teams were often the cruelest.
The hunt was made up of between fifteen and twenty teams containing four or five Masters each. Some teams were male or female only, but they were rare. Most contained both sexes and would cater to any number of sexual predilections.
We thank the gods that sex is not dictated by gender alone. The confessors consider homosexuality and lesbianism to be as natural as heterosexuality. Love knows no bounds so why should sex be constrained by accidents of biology? The body is unimportant – a mere vessel for pleasure or pain. What matters is the mind. And the personality roles of dominant and submissive are far more important in sexual relations than the randomly assigned biological gender roles of male and female.
Life is a hunt. There is the dominant – the hunter who sets out to catch his prey and devour it for his fulfillment – and then there is the submissive – the prey who must surrender to the hunter and take pleasure in his own submission.
For that is the nature of life and the will of the gods.
I remember when a confessor in the seminary told me that not all cultures in history have seen sex in this way. In the far-flung forgotten corners of our world there are even still a few godless primitive tribes in which men are only allowed to have sex with women, and then only for biological reasons. The confessor told me that it was precisely because they didn’t understand sex or its passion and fire that they had become so weak and their cultures now languished unknown and dying.
I told the confessor I gave thanks to the gods for the fire they had put inside my slave cunt. Ours was a glorious way. A way that not only unified Masters and slaves, but also gods with men, love with hate, and pleasure with pain. This is why we are such a strong people. Our sex unifies and gives purpose.
I told her that I ached to serve the gods and my Masters.
The Confessor smiled and told me I was now ready to serve. Then, as if to test me, she told me to stand, raise my arms and present my breasts for whipping. She ordered me to remain with my arms stretched up, as high as I could, for the entire whipping so that, as each lash fell, I would, as she said, “reach for heaven, praise the gods and beg their mercy.”
What followed was one of the hardest and longest whippings of my life. It was truly beautiful, her artistry with the whip was unparalleled, no part of my naked flesh was left unmarked and the gods, in their infinite mercy, visited all the glories of heaven upon me.
And today, as I stand here being humiliated naked under a beating sun I think of that conversation and the whipping that followed it, and although there is fear in my belly, there is also my slave faith to keep me.
I am so happy to stand here as one of the hundred. So happy that my Mistress has selected me for this task.
With my slave faith I feel no fear and no pain – only pleasure to serve.
It was then that another Master approached. He was riding a gorgeous white Dalusian stallion and wearing a black sleeveless leather waist-coast, open at the chest, and boots of fine Dalusian leather. He looked like a Dalusian Lord.
He was staring at me at conferring with one of his aides. His team, two Masters and two Mistresses, all wore similar clothes; the men wore trousers but the women left their long tanned legs bare. Dalusia was horse country and their traditional riding costumes gave them away as natives of that region.
It was said a Dalusian child learned to ride before they could walk. Their horses were their lives. They respected the animals so much that some said they treated them better than their slaves. That may have been true but I also knew they treated their slaves with more respect than many other people. They recognized the nobility of a good slave in the same way they saw it in a good horse.
The Master dismounted and walked over to me. I lowered my eyes but he touched me on the cheek with his whip and ordered me to look at him. He was tall, dark-skinned, around 30, and had an easy-going authority, as if he was used to being obeyed, an army man perhaps. His eyes were clear, bright and serene like the sky on a summer day. I saw a calm in his eyes that seemed like a refuge from all the danger and cruelty that surrounded me.
With those eyes, at that exact moment, he captured something within me.
And I knew who he was.
He leaned in close to my ear and said “Bella?”
“Remember what your Mistress told you.”
I nodded again. His eyes lingered on mine a few moments more and then he went back to his horse.
So this was the Master.
And I was to be his captive.
I thanked the gods and prayed.
All I had to do now was stay in one piece and out of the clutches of old razor teeth.
A horn blew three times.
The hunt was about to begin.
Image – source unknown
Continues The Hunt (VI)