|
BrutalDreads -> a QueenDom fantasy with Paranormal/sci-fi leanings (11/1/2010 10:26:47 PM)
|
I have been posting this on my personal journal here on CollarMe and it was suggested I bring it here. Let me know what you think--it's not too much on the kinky side just yet, but as you can tell, it's headed there.
------------------------
Alone on the mountain for the third blessedly rain free day, Ayala’s heart soared as the beast cleared the bushes. Below the narrow ridge it walked along, a straight, steep line cut down into a rocky valley that folded layer upon layer into itself. Small patches of greenery, like velvet quilted within chain metal, lie temptingly beyond the grating loose gravel and blunt boulders that would surely break every leg on the horse. She pinned her knees together tightly, sitting sidesaddle, long skirts teasing his flanks as the unbroken mountain wind howled over them. She caught her hood by the peak and peered into the approaching forest line. Today, the men of the forest would not find shelter in their hiding places.
Breaking through the wall of trees, Ayala allowed her robe to part, revealing the skin of her bosom to the humid breath of the forest. An uneasy murmur from the horse’s lips let loose a cloud of steam from deep inside his barrel chest. She gave him a firm pat on the neck as she spurred him forward, the tail of her dress protecting him from the full prick. When she could no longer see the gaping mouth of the valley, and the tree line behind them became anonymous, she dismounted, removed the saddle and tack, and slapped the skittish animal on the behind. He was loyal. He would return. He was not a stupid young stud. He would be waiting on the rocky path, eager to assist and return home safely to his stable where water and food awaited.
If only the men of the forest were that intelligent, she thought to herself as she loaded the charges onto the collar. If only they were not so eager to run and feign wild freedom when it was clear their lives were a miserable waste. Ayala had held in her very hands proof positive that things had not always been so, that men had, in fact, held themselves intellectually superior in ancient times—the works of earth men such a Milton, Shelley, Lord Byron; these were not the works of animals, but of thinkers, feelers, explorers. And yet, even in their time, even with all they had intellectually accomplished, the wars men hung dark over their history like a shadow. War was the way of the caveman. War was the way of the men of biblical times, of ancient roman times, of the dark ages, of the renaissance, of the romantic period. War propelled men, and war escalated war until it even reached the new planets, the virgin planets, and in their final act of escalation, they were finally reduced down to the level of animals—to below animals, being still intelligent but without language, without direction, without structure and without the ability to live amongst the gentile without the training. The training, Ayala thought . . . it seemed ridiculous to still be a trainer at her age, but it so delighted Queen Castia!
She brushed her robe over her shoulder and threw her auburn hair back. She placed her leather boot on the trunk of a fallen tree and surveyed the land before her. Lots of places for a man to hide—many fallen timbers, natural stone shelters, earthy embankments, all within a forest just beginning to yield to the cold and rainy seasons. Soon there would be snow, and the castles in the Queendoms below would be warm and well larded with the stuff of soups and breads, and yet the men would still hold out here, perhaps praying evolution would be kind enough to bestow hibernation upon them.
High upon the incline, a stone shelter caught Ayala’s sensitive hunter eyes. The entrance to it was too square to be natural, too symmetrical to be an accident. The subtlest line of mist confirmed his presence—the stone house was occupied, probably by a big one. The stones seemed too new, too white, to have been reclaimed. Ayala took her first steps forward, toward the rough stone house, feeling every leaf and every offensive, noisy twig through the skin tight leather surrounding her foot. He would not hear the skirt dragging behind her, nor the hollow rattle of arrows waiting restlessly in their quiver, but his ears would inevitably trained towards the sound of a snapping twig, the approach of a rival, a threat to his stone creation. Ayala mindfully used the point of her boots to scoop the forest litter upwards, blessedly crushing only those twigs too soft to make a sound. She knelt at a fallen tree just yards from the entrance and reached a fur-lined glove up to the quiver. A flash tip could be used to provoke and confuse him, send him running out of his stone shelter and tumbling down the steep incline, and there, Ayala would be ready with the collar loaded on the rod. She carefully observed the patterns of his breath—if he were sleeping, the flash would catch his attention but he would not be stunned, pitting her against a groggy, powerful rival capable of dragging her back into his stone home to meet the fate of hulder-maidens, but if he were awake . . . Three short breaths confirmed, and Ayala shot up from her hiding place and aimed for the slab above the door, sending showers of sparks to either side of the entrance.
In a ball of fury he rolled out of the stone hut, and Ayala’s eyes went wild with fear for the first time in her fifteen year career. He was the largest male she’d ever seen, easily 6’5 at full height, wooly and bearded, possessing a full mouth of pearly white teeth that he gnashed in his bewilderment.
Ayala wasted no time in recovering her senses. She grabbed the rod and thrust it forward, but one swat from his powerful arms knocked it out of her hands. Ayala hardened her expression and reached for the whip on her belt. Unfurled, Ayala snapped her arm back and the whip cracked. The male crouched and made his ancient sounds, the bright yellow in his eyes showing signs of the man-made poison of long ago that doubtlessly fueled his resistance. “Don’t you remember?” she purred, brushing the long fingers of her leather gloves over the flesh of her breasts, “What pleasure woman brings to man?” He tilted his head and kept his teeth bared, balling his giant fists beneath the leaves. Ayala tucked her thumbs beneath the rim of her bustier and pulled it down, revealing flesh and nipples and all the ripe roundness that he lacked. “Do you remember now?”
The man half closed his gaping mouth and peered into the hypnotic beauty of the sway of her breasts, half remembering, half enraged, half desiring, half repulsed. When he pounded his fists against the forest floor and showed his teeth again, Ayala pulled the bustier up and dropped the whip. She disliked using the voice on the poor beasts, but such insolence from even the wildest of them could not be tolerated. She briefly placed her hand over her nose and mouth, just long enough to affix the device. “You refuse!” She commanded, her voice echoing all over the forest, shaking the smaller men loose from their tree-homes. “Low born, you are chosen” She said, throwing her hand up in the direction of the rod, recalling it to her hand as effortlessly as he had cast it away. “Submit, in the name of Queen Castia!” she said, lowering her voice, allowing the vibration to cripple the male in front of her until the collar was easy to fit around the girth of his neck. Ayala witnessed the pupils of his eyes contract, as if he knew what was to happen next. He reached for the collar and the charge detonated, shutting his body down, bestowing that blessed hibernation he undoubtedly spent time in his cave praying for. How odd, Ayala thought, that such a wild and frightful creature would seem to understand before the training.
She formed the gurney on the ground around him and led it up and out of the forest, the male so huge his limbs hung over the sides. Ayala smiled warmly at the sight of almond-shaped black eyes staring back from the mountain path, nostrils flared and quivering, a sign her horse was ready to eat. “Yes, Henry. I missed you too. Got a big one back there—think you can haul him down?” she said as she strapped tack and saddle back onto the beast, affixing the gurney to rods on either side. It was still cool and crisp and sweet smelling, not the grueling oldness of afternoon. Ayala mounted side saddle again and paced the horse back down to the castle of Queen Castia, a swell of satisfaction rising like the still-young sun.
********
Through the walled city Ayala’s horse pulled the gurney against a hundred hungry arms that pulled and stroked the exposed skin of the captured man. She had long wished that Queen Castia would provide a different way through—a secret entrance known only to hunters—to prevent such a spectacle from occurring. But who could blame them for wanting to touch him? Harvested raw from the forest, he doubtlessly could provide the seed they prayed for. So many hands ran down his arms and legs that Ayala spurred Henry a little harder than she should have. She looked behind to see him almost completely engulfed in sea of breasts and long hair of every color, fine dresses and heavy jewelry. The man’s head lolled to one side and Ayala felt a small spark of fear—what if the dosage had been wrong for his size? What if he were being aroused, here, in the city, where any one of them would go to great lengths to keep him as their own, where any one of them could be ripped from limb to limb by an unstable virgin male still heavily steeped in the ancient poison of his brothers. They never seemed to understand this. With her left hand Ayala reached for the great whip hanging from the saddle of the horse, unraveling its wrapped black tail for all to see before cracking it loudly over the heads of the women. “Get back! Stand down! He is not for you!”
The crowd fell back, arms raised in defensive position almost uniformly. But even as the castle gates came into sight, the many hands came subtly back to the platform. Ayala again urged Henry forward, keeping her eyes fixed on the thick oak doors of the palace. Ayala felt the pegs attached to her saddle sink down slightly. With a quick snap of her neck she turned around to find one of the women upon the gurney, her body splayed fully onto his, skirt hiked high between them, lips parting to match the drowsy male. Ayala pulled hard on the reigns. The animal stopped and reared as Ayala dismounted. She sprightly climbed aboard the gurney and grabbed the woman by the full mass of her hair. “Stupid, stupid woman!” She hissed, throwing her to the crowd, “Even a child knows! Even a child knows they are useless until the conditioning!”
Ayala stepped down from the gurney and the woman caught her by the knees, begging with wet tears drenching Ayala’s skirts, “Please, please take me to Queen Castia! I vow to be her faithful servant! I will train him in every way possible, just please, give me the opportunity!”
“You should be ashamed of yourself! To go to pieces over any cock you see! This is why it is done! Because if it were up to people like you we’d all be like them, don’t you see that? Don’t you see that, good people? We were spared. We were given this task! We were charged with being their stewards, not their rapists . . . not their dependants. The road to ruin lies in ancient thinking.”
The woman’s tangled blonde hair moved slightly in the breeze as she lifted her head, her palms open to Ayala, her mouth drawn but closed in obedience. She sank down heels to buttocks as the gurney sailed forward into groaning doors of Queen Castia’s palace, mascara bleeding like black rivers from her eyes as she dabbed them with a fine, white handkerchief.
Ayala closed her eyes and guided Henry with a gentle hand to her neck, feeling a bit nauseous after such a confrontation. The feeling faded as the oak doors closed behind her and the iron doors of the inner sanctum swung heavily open to the white marble courtyard of Queen Castia, Goddess of the fifth of seventeen continents, ruler, destroyer, unrivaled among the twenty tribes for her Excellency, grace and hospitality, where Ayala had spent most of her adult life in grateful servitude.
“My gods what an incredible capture!” The Queen exclaimed breathlessly as she nimbly descended the stairs to her cold white throne, the rounded toes of her hip-high leather boots almost perfectly in line with the sharp spike of her heel, her black skirts bunched up behind her in a bustle. With a child-like smile she swept her face over every detail of him, raising a black leather glove to his hairy, leaf littered arm. “He’s absolutely remarkable in every way! The size . . . the density . . . even the eyes hold promise.”
“I noticed that as well, my Lady. The poison’s not as profound.”
“Yessss . . . oh and he’s a fuzzy one, isn’t he?” She said with an impish smile, her bright white teeth shinning over her pointed chin. “Whatever shall we do with this one?”
“It shall be as you wish, my Lady. They are all a blank slate.”
“Yes . . . but the question is, how shall I be best served by such an incredible find? My gods, if I would have found him in my youth!” She said, clutching the red jewel around her neck with her fist, wiping a feathery stray hair back into the billowing white bun on her head.
Ayala met eyes briefly with second of the Queen’s beloved, a dark eyed shemale whom she had groomed for the queen many seasons ago. The Shemale straightened her back and coolly turned her face away, her heavy makeup in the black and white colors of the queen’s court heightening her otherworldly appearance. “I should think this one would make a poor candidate for any kind of transformation, sadly.” Ayala retorted as kindly as one could, “He has already been seen by the public, and they seem to already be in the process of making plans for him.”
“Psh! Could you imagine? Him . . . as a breeder? We’d have nothing but boys for generations. Nothing but mothers tearfully surrendering them to the forests of foreign lands when nothing more can be done . . . nothing but trouble. Wonder what kind of mother gave this one up?” She said, raising straight and tall, her expression once again taking on its regal air. “I have a good mind of making a Eunuch out of this one.”
Ayala felt her face go briefly white as even the Shemale turned her face towards the Queen. “A Eunuch? My Lady . . . !”
“Well, it makes perfect sense! You can’t have ones of this size as breeders! They’ll tear these poor girls apart! They are nothing but trouble, these big fellows . . . nice to look at, impossible to fully reform.”
“Why impossible?”
“Because they are aware that their size makes them different, my dear. Even the stag understands that the biggest rack controls the harem, so what makes a man any different? He is beautiful, I’ll grant you that, but in the long run, the most humane way of dealing with him is to . . . remove that which drives his aggression. If he cannot be transformed into a shemale, and his maleness posses a danger to the citizenry, than reduce him to being neither male nor female.”
“I must confess,” Ayala said, trying her best to make her voice sound strong and clear, “I have never faced such a task.”
“Silly, Silly Ayala . . . Silly servant girl. Silly little trophy hunter. It is not you who would perform such a thing. It is he.”
Ayala tilted her head. “He, Ma’am? Turn himself?”
“That’s right. That is how it is done. That is the only way it can be done properly.”
“Is he to be trained to perform such a task?”
“No.” Queen Castia said as she lifted the skirts flowing backwards from her hips to ascend the stairs to her throne, “He is to be trained as a breeder. He is to be seduced daily by whatever beautiful body you may have at your disposal, and alternately tortured in whatever way you see fit, but never allowed culmination, and never allowed any other rest or shelter outside of that which a chaste female may give him.”
Ayala boldly spoke with her eyes fixed on the Queen, “Are you displeased, my Lady?”
“Displeased? No, no my dear Ayala! On the contrary, I believe that by bestowing a eunuch of this size to your Queen, you will have performed the greatest compliment I will have received in all my ruling years. I shall be the envy of all the Queens in all the Tribes of Hephaedea!”
“And shall he be my last?”
The Queen gave a motherly smile and lovingly uncoiled her hand from the arm of her throne, “Of all the years I have denied you emancipation from these tasks typically bestowed upon debutantes, do this for me, and he shall most certainly be your last.”
“And . . . my house and home?”
“. . . Shall be free and clear of any and all tribute, taxation or government seizure. You shall be almost like a Queen in your own right, your clothes, food and other living expenses covered by the treasury of my court.”
“And . . . a servant?”
“As always, of your choice . . . save for the one we have here before us.”
Ayala bowed and placed a hand upon the gurney as the Queen’s servants scrambled to open the work chamber door. This one last time . . . but how long would it take for someone like him?
|
|
|
|
