The Wizard Enslaved — “The Whore of Utiae”
Alcaeus enjoyed talking with slaves. Most men, and many women he had found, only talked to slaves, and he found this to be wasteful. He shared the same opinion about wizard enslavers who roboticized their merchandise, like the Nycclethnim. What was the point of exercising power over someone if that someone was incapable of appreciating it?
The man-wizard was traveling abroad in Utiae when he chanced upon The Writhing Circle, a celebrated brothel in Western Dommodon. Normally, Alcaeus’ sexual needs were more than satisfied by his current slave girl, but he had recently sold Nessa (and had his eye on a certain raven-haired slut whom he hoped might soon be on the market), and in any event he was many miles and across the waters from his home in De. Besides, it was a very famous whorehouse. He had taken no more than ten steps inside when he did a double-take. The last thing he expected to see there was a familiar face.
The slave in question was all but naked, clad in a black webwork of leather straps girdling a well-formed and luscious body. The costume had the effect of simultaneously revealing and even enhancing all her considerable charms while holding a small reserve back for those customers so moved to take the little trollop to a room. All the whores in the Circle were similarly garbed. The one that had caught Alcaeus’ eye was a light-headed brunette, hair tied into a long ponytail. Her breasts, supported yet peaking through the leather straps, were shapely, and her form overall was salacious, perfected through regular exercise, diet, and magical manipulation. But it was the face that got Alcaeus’ attention.
At first, he discounted the resemblance as a coincidence. There were many women in the world, and many slaves. One could be forgiven for occasionally mistaking one for another. There were also, too, those deliberate attempts to duplicate appearances. Some slaves of the Far West, he knew, beyond Shossin, were altered to look precisely the same. Such slaves were trained to be as uniform as possible, as interchangeable as possible. Height, weight, face, all were standardized within a given subgroup. After their transformations, they weren’t even given individual names: a group of blondes might all be named “Dona,” a group of brunettes all named “Huca,” and so on. The anonymity this practice provided, this submersion of the slave’s identity to the point she became a cog in a machine, was supposed to be, according to the owners who valued such things, extremely liberating to the female, allowing her to perform even the most shameful and degrading acts without hesitation, for who would be able to tell one slave from another? Alcaeus found their argument specious. He had never met a well-trained slave that wasn’t utterly without shame. In any event, he disapproved of the practice. Each slave girl was an individual treasure, and by devoting themselves so completely to sameness these slave owners missed out on a great deal which they might otherwise have enjoyed.
But this wasn’t that. At first, Alcaeus thought this girl’s appearance was merely a case of mistaken identity. But then he saw her turn her head in that particular way she had had, and when he approached closer he heard her voice, and he knew. It was her.
He sat down alone at a couch. A slave girl knelt before him. “How may I serve your pleasure, master?”
“That girl,” Alcaeus said, pointing. “What is she called?”
The girl glanced over. “Cleia, master.”
“I’ll need a room. Send her to me with some wine.”
A few minutes later Alcaeus was ensconced in a lavish bedroom. He responded to the knock at the door, and “Cleia” entered the chamber. She carried a tray with bottle and glasses.
The slave whore put the tray on a nightstand. She then went to her knees before Alcaeus, who was seated on the edge of the bed. “I am Cleia, master,” she spoke, putting her head down. “How may I serve your pleasure this evening?” Clearly, she did not recognize him.
“Remove that gear,” he ordered her. Lingerie? Outfit? It wasn’t precisely either. She complied immediately, of course. “It is my circle livery, master,” she said, shrugging off the lattice of leather, and that right there reaffirmed Alcaeus’ opinion about the value of conversing with slaves. She needn’t have spoken, aside perhaps, if one was strict, for a “Yes, Master” acknowledgement. But she did speak, and not just in acknowledgement. She had tried to provide information, even when it wasn’t requested, to help her user. She had taken a risk; there were some men—ignorant boors, the lot of them—who would have taken the slave’s words as a correction or even a rebuke, the penalty for which could have ranged from a customer’s displeasure (thereby inflicting emotional pain, mostly on account of magically-inspired guilt) to an actual whipping (inflicting physical pain, yet little more, likely, as most women-whips were designed not to leave scars). That the slave had taken the risk showed she had individuality.
She had a mind enslaved, not a mind made numb; and mind always had value.
He liked her already.
“Come closer,” he said, indicating the spot on the floor in front of him. It must have been a familiar position to her—for any slave—for she was already preparing herself to go down on him.
“No,” he said. He turned her head gently from side to side, examining her closely. Her face was beautifully made-up. Her eyes, particularly, were smoky, and the unfamiliar redness of her lips, gorgeous. He had never seen her use lip color before. The long, dangling earrings were also something the girl he had known would never have deigned to wear. Nonetheless, despite these changes, it was definitely her face.
The body was different, but that was only to be expected.
Not only was she older, she had been through intensive diet and training. Physical enhancement was also a factor. On her back, near her left shoulder blade, the Mark of Daox stood out, a magical sigil-tattoo binding her mind to obedience and hotness. Simply put, and appropriately enough, considering what she was, the girl he had known now had the body of a sex slave, a slut made for a man’s easy pleasure. She was a truly lovely girl. He was eager to fuck her.
But he had something to do first.
Alcaeus had her dance for him and serve him wine. He had her pose in a number of different positions, on her feet, on her back, on her knees. Then, and though she was disconcerted by this, she hid it well, he left. The next day Alcaeus met with a Pecthent woman-wizard who operated out of Utiae. He told the heavily-robed female what he wanted; she said it was possible and named a price; they negotiated; and a few hours later Alcaeus left with a small gold charm in his hand. He returned to The Writhing Circle and asked to speak to the owner. “Will it hurt the magic that makes her a slave?” the hirsute man asked the wizard—his Dommodonan hair was matted with sweat after the interview; he was obviously afraid of what Alcaeus’ magic could do to him if angered—and Alcaeus assured him that it would not. Then he took a room for the night at the brothel and had Cleia sent to him for the duration.
“Do you remember me?” he asked, first thing.
“Yes, master,” the whore said, kneeling, gazing up at him. Tonight, instead of leather, she was adorned in a shimmering set of silks, all semi-transparent. “Of course. You’re the man who rented me last night.” She beamed at him. “Cleia would be happy to serve as your actual fucktoy tonight.” And again this was the sort of subtlety Alcaeus liked from his slaves. Though she would never actually say it, she was critical over not being used yesternight. “Actual.” He smiled. That was very much like his Peri.
As if to compensate, he wasted little time this evening. He seized her and kissed her mouth and throat. Slipping his hands through her silks, Alcaeus massaged her breasts, and when the slave parted her legs to straddle him, he quickly entered and used her, probing her pussy with urgent yet disciplined strokes, eliciting sharp and delightful squeals from her as she was fucked. “Oh, master!” she cried. “Master!”
Their bodies moved as one. He lay back on the bed, and she rode him as he alternately manipulated her breasts and caressed her hips. She looked down at him at first; but as his passion swelled inside her, her mouth opened, and her head tilted back, and she screamed inarticulately toward the ceiling.
They were lying down and comfortably entangled when Alcaeus placed the charm on her, which descended from a thin gold chain. He hung it around her head like a necklace. Though he was a man-wizard, and consequently gender-blocked from perceiving the intricacies of the magic, his psychic senses were sharp enough to discern the intangible spark between the little bauble and “Cleia’s” tattoo.
He saw the dawning light of identity in her eyes as well. He needed no magical senses for that.
She gasped. Recognition animated her features. “Master,” she breathed. It was the same word as before, and still dripping with submission, yet all the same spoken very differently now.
“Do you remember me?” he asked her, cuddled in his arms.
“Oh . . . oh, yes, master.” She gazed upon his in awe and, most importantly, total recollection.
“Good,” Alcaeus said, and once more began using her for his pleasure.
When he was a young boy, long before he studied magic, Alcaeus was a peasant orchardist working on the estates of House Promelo. It was there he had met Periandra, the daughter of a local merchant. He had spilled a small basket of apples on her. In turn, she punched him in the gut. Clearly, it was love.
Their romance was brief and intense. On a special night in the spring, in the middle of an orchard, they had taken one another’s virginity, with much awkwardness, fumbling, and sweetness. Of course, the relationship was doomed from the start. While not as gaping wide as that between commoner and noble, a class division was still present: when Peri’s father found out about him, he was angry, yet all told his reaction was not altogether outside the boundaries of reason. He had Alcaeus whipped and sent to the country as a serf. And in the end this was not an altogether bad turning of events, for it had been on that country estate a few months later that Alcaeus was noticed by a passing member of the Ainchonnim, who judged his potential as well worth investing in, and subsequently Alcaeus became a wizard-apprentice.
Typically, teenage romances flare hot and die quickly. Alcaeus missed Periandra miserably for a few weeks, pined for her a few weeks more, then other things grabbed his attention, and in due course she became a fond memory. Although at the time he was quite angry at Peri’s father, in retrospect, and in his place, Alcaeus could admit now that he would likely have done the same thing. The past did not upset the adult man-wizard. He hadn’t even thought about Periandra in years, until yesterday night.
“It’s so strange,” she said, after her second usage. They lay side-by-side in bed facing one another. “I no longer feel like ‘Cleia,’ yet I’m still a slave girl.”
“Legally, you still are ‘Cleia,’” Alcaeus responded, touching her face. She was so beautiful.
“I know, master.” She kissed him. “I feel like I should be mad at you,” she said, “but I’m not. Like, I shouldn’t want to be a sex slave, but I do.”
“A slave’s memories are removed in part in order to avoid these confusions,” Alcaeus explained. “These can sometimes bring on mental illness, and thus decrease the value of the slave.”
“I don’t feel ill,” the slave girl said.
“You need not worry. The charm’s effects are temporary. Once removed, you will once again be Cleia the slave girl, and only Cleia the slave girl. But until then, for tonight, I will call you ‘Peri.’”
“‘Peri,’” she said, smiling. “Short for ‘Periandra.’ That’s what you used to call me. But I’m no longer Periandra, am I? I’m just a slave named ‘Peri.’”
“Temporarily. In reality, you are, of course, still the whore Cleia. I have no intention of stealing you.”
“Rescuing me?” She pressed her hands together in mock pleading, and he laughed.
“Stealing you.”
“So, I am to remain Cleia the whore,” she said, a little tartly.
“Do you object?”
“No, master,” she said. “How can I? I love being used. I love serving my owner. I love being his whore.” The magic of the Mark of Daox was still working on her mind and will. Even if that had been his intention, the Mark’s removal would have been difficult, especially for him, a man.
“Even if you didn’t love being a whore, you would still be one. You are thoroughly owned, girl.”
“Yes, master.”
“Yet you do love it, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, master. I love it.”
She asked Alcaeus about what happened to him. “My father said you had been made a slave boy,” she said. The wizard laughed. He told her about the farm and about being a serf. He told her about the Ainchonnim and how he became a man-wizard.
“Have you made many slave boys?” Peri asked, eyebrow raised speculatively.
“Not a one,” Alcaeus said. “You have to at least in part be sexually attracted to the man in order to make him a willing sex slave. Such magic necessitates desire. The more you feel, the better the slave.” He touched her intimately. “I like girls too much to ever make a saleable slave boy. All I’ve made are workers and soldiers, and not many of them. I pay my tuition to the Ainchonnim in other coin.” He told her of his life as a wizard, and she listened intently, with much absorption.
“Forgive a mere slave girl for saying such a thing,” Peri said, afterwards, “but she is proud of you.” She giggled. “I had no idea the boy I slept with would grow up one day and become a great wizard.” She giggled again. “I still picture you as the poor little slave boy my father described.”
“Hardly, slut,” and he settled on top of her, to her delight and their mutual pleasure.
“How did you become a slave?” he asked her, later that evening.
“My father was a practical man,” Peri began, curled in Alcaeus’ embrace. “He intended to arrange for me an advantageous marriage, but in the meantime he saw to it that I should bring a useful set of skills into any alliance. I started working as a clerk in his warehouses in De. I kept track of the shipping and storing of merchandise. In time, I became one of his accountants, handling payments made to certain of his overseas partners. I liked the work because it gave me a sense of responsibility. I wasn’t just an ornament desired for my pretty looks or my bedability. I wasn’t just the daughter of my father. People listened to me and followed my lead.”
She twisted her head to look upon Alcaeus. “All that’s changed. Now, I am just an ornament. And as a slave girl, I can have no father.” This was true: in virtually every part of Ramanananan, a reduction to slavery legally cut all ties to one’s birth family. Slaves were property, not people. “Now, I listen to my owners and masters and do whatever they require of me.”
“You are judged today, too, largely on your good looks and bedability,” Alcaeus said, touching her breasts. She pushed herself deeper into his grip, clearly enjoying this. “Yes, master,” she said, breathing hard.
“Which is as it should be.”
“Yes, master.”
“Continue.”
“Yes, master. One night I was working late in a warehouse office. I was going over accountant ledgers for a shipment of apple-wine to Dicao. I was alone in the office, but I knew there were my father’s guards stationed throughout the warehouse, so I felt safe.
“I heard a noise in the rooms outside. I paid this no mind, thinking it was only the guards. A few minutes later, though, a man wearing a mask came into the office. I remember screaming, and I think I threw something at him, but I don’t know what. In any case, he quickly subdued me, tying my hands and putting a gag in my mouth. He then left for a time, leaving me helpless on the floor. Eventually other men in masks came in. They searched my father’s office. One of the men bent beside me. He had a knife in his hand, and for a moment he held it to my throat. He was going to kill me. Then another man put a hand on his shoulder, and he said, “She’d fetch a tidy sum,” and the man with the knife agreed.
“So, instead, they stripped me, cutting the clothes from my body. It was the last set of garments I would wear for a long time, and it was the last set of clothing for a free woman I would wear, ever.
“I thought they would rape me. Instead, they carried me away. I saw that they were robbers and murderers, desperate men. I saw the bodies of the guards, and many rooms in the warehouse had been ransacked. They took me to their hideout, I know not where, but it was cold and wet and dark. They put me in a corner and left me for long periods of time. I was not fed, nor was I given water. I grew sick, and once I would have choked to death if my captors had not undone my gag.” She shivered, and Alcaeus comforted her, holding her tight.
“Did they rape you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Peri said, “after they determined I was not a virgin. Eventually, all of them used me. It was a hateful experience. They told me that they were going to sell me because my father wouldn’t pay my ransom. But they were lying. There was no time for such a message to have been sent, and, really, I don’t believe any of them were clever enough to carry out such a plan.
“A few nights later I was dragged onto a ship, in secret, and that was the last I saw of the robbers. My new captors were professional enslavers. They began taking care of me. I was no longer an abused prisoner, I realized, but merchandise. They fed and watered me. They tended to my bruises. I was put into a hold with other women. We were chained but allowed to speak with one another. Most were Deinian girls like me, debtors and convicted criminals; but there were a handful of other kidnapping victims as well, like me, and some foreigners. In the hold, we had all been made equal.
“Over time I began to change. I didn’t think it was possible. At first, we wept and screamed often. We struggled to escape, though escape proved impossible. I hated the men holding me. But then, slowly at first, they began to seem more powerful, more attractive. I gazed upon them in awe. When they spoke, my pussy moistened, and my nipples hardened. Our struggles gradually ceased. We longer felt we could, or even should, resist them. I didn’t understand what was happening, but it was happening to all of us.”
“Do you understand now?” Alcaeus asked.
“Yes, master. It was something in the slave paste they were giving us. Something magical. It was the only food we were given. It increased our sexual appetites. Our bodies became sexier. I became curvier, softer, more exquisitely feminine. It was a slow transformation, but by the time we made port, and we were taken to a slave pen, and we began being exercised, it was all but a finished business. We had the bodies of sex slaves.”
“And then?”
“It was strange, master. When the robbers ravaged me, I resisted them as best I could. I hated them and what they were doing to me. And I had felt nothing physical towards them, save disgust. But as my body changed, as I began to feel slave needs between my legs, at a point when I now truly wanted to be raped, in order to satisfy, if only for a time, the raging desires stirred in my belly, I was left untouched. I begged the enslavers to use me, but they ignored me and my needs completely.”
“Naturally,” Alcaeus said. “The robbers were but outlaws, living by wits and luck alone. Such men take what pleasures they can when they can. But enslavers have an ample supply of flesh at their command, and they can afford to be more selective. Besides, you had not yet truly been enslaved. You had not yet received your Mark. Were the men holding you Daoxechents?”
“Yes, master.”
“It would have been a waste of their time then to rape you. They would have done so either for their own entertainment or your sexual techniques training. They would have had other, far more amusing and trained pussy already at their convenience, and as for training, such efforts would have been wasted after you received your Mark of Daox, as you would forget everything.”
“You make it sound so cold-blooded, master. So calculated. I was burning, master.”
“It is simply a matter of priorities. The needs of an individual slave may be precious and useful in controlling her, but at the same time there are only so many women one can rape on any given day. Do you recall, now, when you received your Mark?”
“Yes. It was a few weeks after my abduction. I had given up hope of my father rescuing me. And by that time, what would have been the point? My breasts had grown to the size of overripe melons. My lips longed for cock. My whole body had become so sensitive and erotically charged that I was in a state of constant arousal. Of course, this was all before I was truly, magically bound and enslaved, and the heat I felt then was as nothing compared to what was to come. But still, if at that time I had somehow found myself back in my father’s care, what would he have thought of me? What could he have done? My enslavement was by then inevitable.
“I was put into a slave rack. My body and limbs were secured and held motionless within the wood and metal device. The mechanisms surrounding my left shoulder was tightened particularly, rendering the skin there absolutely still. The man who worked on me was quick and tidy. He washed my shoulder carefully, then went to work with his inks. Within an hour he was done.
“While I was still in the rack, the man called in a woman. She was completely covered in robes, from head to toe, with not even her face visible.”
“A Pecthent woman-wizard.”
“Yes, master. Despite my needs, I was scared. I did not want to become a slave, not truly. But then she touched the fresh tattoo on my shoulder, and she spoke some words I did not understand. And everything changed.
“At the time, I knew only an intense sexual heat. It was a heat that made everything I had felt prior to that moment, now that I can recall the experience, inconsequential. The woman stepped back, and I saw the man who had tattooed me—I did not recognize him as such then, of course—and I knew he was my master. I knew all men were my masters. I knew I was a slave girl. It was, really, the only thing I knew: that I was a slave girl; that I wanted to be a slave girl; that even if I hadn’t wanted to be a slave girl I would still be a slave girl, for I was a woman and weak and submissive, and he was a man and powerful and dominating. I wanted to serve him as the slave girl that I was. I had no name, I had no past that I could remember, I had no identity other than being a slave girl; and I was hot for him.”
“Were you used, then?”
“Yes, master. I was used, completely as the slave I then was, and remain still. He retained possession of me for hours, and after he was through I was given to other men, who also used me. At the time, I remembered nothing. As far as I was concerned, my life had only just begun, and so my first hours of existence were almost exclusively those of rape and serving men’s pleasure.”
“Appropriate, for your life now is that of rape and serving men’s pleasure, is it not?”
“Yes, master.”
It was a long, delightful night. They slept, on occasion. For most of their hours together, though, they talked and fucked. Alcaeus told Peri about the many places he had been, the people he’d met, and the work he had done. He told her of his leisure, too, including the many slave girls he had owned. In turn, Peri told Alcaeus about the places where she had been used; the masters, mistresses, and fellow slaves she’d met; and the skills she had developing in pleasing men, which she ably demonstrated for him.
Unlike the free person, she did not enjoy much leisure, but she enjoyed what she did. She was intelligent enough to be aware that she had no choice but to enjoy her slavery, that the tattoo on her shoulder made her an abject and willing slut; but that was something she could not control. “I live for the moment,” she told the wizard. “When I am used, that is all I can think about. That is all I want to think about.” She gave his cock a loving and affectionate lick. “I love being a slave.”
“I am happy for you,” Alcaeus said.
“You are a kind master.” She directed her gaze humbly downwards and spoke next in a lower, even more deferential tone. “Have you considered buying Peri and making her your personal lovetoy?”
Alcaeus stared at the ceiling and didn’t speak for a long while.
“I have,” he said. “I have much affection for you. And you are, indeed, a good lay. It would be a pleasure to own you.” Then he addressed his gaze upon her. “But I am not a long-term owner of slave girls. I like variety, and few are the sluts I own for more than a few months. I would use you, train you to please me the way I want, then, inevitably, grow bored and sell you.”
He shook his head. “I do not want to grow bored of you. It would spoil the memory of what we once were. And it would spoil this night we’ve had together.
“So, no, I will not be purchasing you, my dearest Peri.”
“I understand, master,” she said, still directing her face to the floor. Alcaeus reached down and lifted her gaze toward him. “The effects of the charm you wear are, as I have said, temporary. When it is removed, you will return to being just one more whore in the brothel . . . a whore whose flesh and mind I have enjoyed, but not the girl whom I once loved. The feelings you have for me now will change. Very soon, I will be merely another customer for whom you have rendered service and obedience.”
“It is hard sometimes to be a slave girl, master,” Peri said to him. “Your kindness is mixed with cruelty. I only want to keep on loving and serving you.”
“I know,” he said. He took a deep breath. “It is time.”
“Yes, master.” She offered her neck to him. A moment later the little trinket was in his hand.
The effect, as before, was obvious in her expression. She blinked several times, shook her head as if to clear it, stared straight ahead for a long second, then looked back upon him.
“Forgive a girl, master,” she said. “Cleia is confused.”
“Do you remember me?”
She smiled. “Yes, of course, master. You always ask that. You rented me all night, and you used me, totally.” She touched herself between the legs, like the slut she was. “When you weren’t using me, we talked.” She frowned slightly. “I don’t remember the subject of what we talked about, but I know I enjoyed the talk, almost as much as the usage.”
She looked up at him again. “Did Cleia please her master?” She looked hopeful.
“Yes,” Alcaeus said, touching her head. “I enjoyed you very much.”
“Will master be returning to The Writhing Circle soon? Cleia would enjoy serving master’s pleasure again.” Daringly, she crouched forward and gave his cock a second long and luxurious licking, completely unbidden.
He stroked her hair. “No, I’m afraid not.” He sighed. “My business in Utiae is finished.”
That day, Alcaeus boarded a vessel to take him home. As the ship left port, holding the charm the woman-wizard had sold him tight in his palm, the wizard thought about what Peri had said to him. Your kindness is mixed with cruelty. It was undeniably cruel to make slaves of women. Yet it was also, undeniably, a great pleasure for men to do so, and once magically bound usually a great pleasure for the women as well. The reverse was also true, in the making of slave boys. Alcaeus’ thoughts strayed, as they sometimes did, to speculations about his own fate were he to be made a slave boy. Would I try to resist, or would I kneel to the first who would have me? he thought. It might, perhaps, be good to resist, for the resistance shown in the beginning may be what makes the final result so special.
Yes, that is what he would do. He would resist. So he could become the better slave.
Though with luck and fate, he need never worry.
Much.