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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} [NEW] Captivity [1/3] (MM, Mdom/M, nc, tort, oral, anal, ScFi)
Date: Sat, 28 Sep 2002 22:10:06 -0400
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SWORN

PART ONE: CAPTIVITY


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, September 2002. Permission
granted to duplicate this story via normal propagation
through Usenet and whatever mailing lists it's posted
on (but please do not repost; I can do that myself,
thank you); to archive it in the official web archives
of alt.sex.stories, alt.sex.stories.moderated and
alt.sex.stories.gay.moderated, as well as whatever
mailing lists I post it on; and to keep one hard copy
and two electronic copies for your personal use. All
other rights are reserved under the Berne Convention.

MANDATORY WARNING: This is hard-core erotica. If you
shouldn't or don't want to be reading this, don't.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:
What this series of stories describes wouldn't be
healthy in real life. The main character comes to
accept and enjoy being enslaved and raped -- and I
portray this as a Good Thing. The only reassurance I
can offer my readers is: this is a dream you are in,
an erotic dream about dominance and submission. It is
not a guide to BDSM or the real world -- only a portal
into the author's own twisted imagination.

All hail Dusk Darkling, who provided most of the beta
reading (and advised on Servant Byron's writing
equipment); Windrunner and Tyellas, who also beta'd;
and Michael Craig, who provided constructive
criticism.

You can read my other erotic works at:
http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html



Captivity (Part One of the "Sworn" series)

By Maureen Lycaon




LORD MICHAEL:

The hostage stood in the meeting chamber under the
soft glow of the electric lights, surrounded by the
others. He had been looking down at the floor, but he
lifted his head to watch me as I approached, and that
was when I saw his eyes. Such remarkable large, dark
eyes, almost like the eyes of a stag, and filled with
a strange mixture of pride and resignation. Martyr's
eyes.

I knew I would enjoy looking into those eyes.

The eyes told me the story: he had resigned himself to
what he believed would be lifelong hell, for the sake
of a Clan and a smallclan to whom he was totally
loyal. He expected to be beaten, tortured, raped
brutally, eventually killed. The terms of his oath
permitted no resistance, no escape -- not even by
killing himself. The best he could hope for was that I
would tire of him eventually, so that I might give him
back his freedom. Or -- far more likely -- kill and
discard him like a broken toy, in which case at least
his suffering would end.

An hour ago, he had sworn the oath before me and the
other Lords of the Gathering. The terms of that oath
were quite specific: he was property now, and no human
being. I could do what I wished with him. Nor could he
disobey me, in anything.

Not that I was much concerned about that. We of the
Gathering count the Clansfolk as utter barbarians, but
they hold to their word above all. They despise
oathbreakers as they do no other criminals. Among
them, to break one's word is to forsake all honor.

I studied the hostage as I walked closer.

He was precisely my height. Beyond that, it was hard
to say exactly what his body was like, clad as he was
in the Plainsfolk's heavy winter clothes of fur and
leather. What I could see was his clean-shaven face
and his long, straight, hair confined in the usual
Clan ponytail. It was a very fair, very young face:
fine-boned, pale-skinned, narrow but still beautiful .
. . dominated by those proud, dark eyes.

There was strength in that face, no question. He
wouldn't weep easily, but would preserve his honor for
as long as he could.

Even under the lights' yellow glow, I could see that
his hair was not true blond like my own, but an
intriguing reddish-ginger, hinting at auburn.

With him were eight others. The Gathering's witness,
Servant Byron, stood at the little clerk's table, the
ledger open before him, his dip pen beside it. Four of
my own servants also stood by, awaiting my orders.

Two other Clan members stood nearby: an older man,
gray-haired but still powerful, and a younger, tall
woman with blonde hair. They waited grim-faced as I
approached. I could sense their loathing of me, their
hatred of what they were compelled to do.

"Great Lord Michael," Servant Byron began, "this is
Grayknife Setovar, who represents the Alliance of
Clans" -- he indicated the older Clansman -- "and
Killdeer Ethon, who represents the captive's own
Clan." He nodded at the woman. Then, he turned to the
dark-eyed young man. "This is Rain Ashin, of the
Brightriver Clan, the Southwest smallclan. He is the
one the Brightriver Clan has chosen to honor the
treaty. He has already sworn the oath of submission."

Since I had witnessed the swearing of the oath, the
words were not truly necessary; but the formalities
needed to be followed. I nodded and stepped forward,
examining the captive closely.  

He was even younger than I had thought at first
glance, certainly no more than eighteen -- too young
to be of much standing in his smallclan. His face was
as smooth and unblemished as I'd ever seen, with no
trace of the ugly freckles that the faint reddish tint
of his hair might have signaled. He stared back at me
without flinching, refusing to show the fear he must
feel.

I reached forward, cupping his chin in my hand, and
looked carefully into his face. A quick flash of anger
passed through his eyes at the touch, but he offered
no resistance.

"Did you consent to this, Rain?"

"Yes." He didn't grant me my honorific. His voice was
soft, a little higher-pitched and lighter than mine,
but even and unwavering, with the soft Clan accent.

"One of several volunteers, I'll wager." They're a
brave people, every one. "Weren't you?"

His look became a little guarded. "Yes, I was."

"Good."

We stared at each other for a few more heartbeats. I
could sense his loathing. I knew what the Plainsfolk
thought of us and our ways. Centuries ago, they had
refused our protection and left the City for the
Outlands. Now, they called themselves the Clans and
saw us only as oppressors. The war had forced them to
submit to us, but it had done nothing to truly
domesticate them.

What was in that untamed soul that looked out at me
through those eyes? Was it the kind of soul I required
-- even if it were hidden in the body of a Clansman,
so deeply buried as to be unknown even to himself? I
could not yet tell.

I released his head and dropped my hands to my sides,
stepping back, and glanced at the two Clan
representatives still watching. Not a muscle of the
older man's face had moved, but I saw barely visible
telltale lines of tension around the woman's mouth.
They were powerless here, and they knew it.

It was time to begin this slave's first lesson in
obedience. "Strip," I commanded him.

A pink blush darkened his cheekbones, more at being so
brusquely ordered than because of modesty, but he
didn't hesitate. Silently, he removed the fur-trimmed
leather jacket and handed it to one of my servants who
stepped forward to take it. He pulled off his leather
tunic and the woolen undershirt beneath, then the
boots and the trousers, passing those to another
servant.

Last of all came the thin thong with its little stone
smallclan pendant from around his neck. He handed that
to the Plainswoman Killdeer, who accepted it in equal
silence.

She would cry bitterly when she returned, I suspected,
but for now she only gazed back somberly at him
without speaking. She accepted his sacrifice. These
people don't weep before their enemies.

Now he stood naked before me. His body was lean, much
leaner than one might have suspected underneath the
bulky clothes. Yet muscles there were, well defined
without bulging. The skin there was as pale as that of
his face -- the cold, cloudy wilds don't tan skin very
much. Only a few small scars marked him, on the legs,
one on his right arm, another on his belly; possibly
hunting accidents, for given his youth, he might never
have been in a serious fight. Beneath the nearly
auburn hair of his groin, his member hung limp, only a
faint circumcision scar marring its length.

He was beautiful.

His flush deepened as I gazed upon his nakedness, but
the expression in those martyr's eyes didn't change.
For all his youth, he had the Clansman's control and
pride.

"Put your hands on the back of your neck," I
commanded.

He obeyed me immediately, lifting his arms, slipping
his hands under his ponytail. I continued to study
him, but he neither moved nor showed any emotion. The
Clan representatives watched, equally silent and
stoical.

Finally, I nodded to Servant Byron. "He is acceptable.
I will take him into my service."

Byron nodded and sat down at the table to write down
the transaction in the ledger, and I read and signed
it. The formalities were done.



It was winter and bitterly cold, so I let Rain put his
clothes back on for the journey to my estate.

Throughout the groundcar ride, he betrayed no fear or
wonder, though I knew it must be strange and
unfamiliar to him. He stared silently ahead, awaiting
whatever would happen, save when I spoke to him.

Something dark and lost showed in his eyes as I
explained to him the second oath he must swear when we
arrived, the words he must use. It was his only
display of emotion.

When we reached my mansion, I led him to the main hall
to stand before me, to make that vow before all my
assembled servants. Though the true oath had already
been made, I needed the gesture before my household.

Once again I commanded him to strip then and there
before them. It must have been grueling for him; this
was no longer an enclosed room with only a few
witnesses but an entire hall with more than one
hundred watchers. Yet he flushed only a little as he
complied, handing his clothes over to one of my menial
servants, Boudet.

My other servants remained silent like the
well-trained ones they are, watching. Boudet carried
his clothes out of the room. For just a moment, Rain's
gaze flickered away from my face to see Boudet go, and
I glimpsed that same lost look he had had when I'd
explained the oath to him. Then it vanished -- so
quickly that, had I less experience, I might have
doubted I'd ever seen it.

My seneschal Duval, who oversaw my slaves as well as
other servants, handed me the leather collar at my
order. I stepped forward and solemnly placed it around
Rain's neck, buckled it, then stepped back.

"Down on one knee," I told him. He sank down
gracefully. "Now, the other."

His eyes remained locked with mine, but he obeyed with
no hesitation.

"Put your hands behind your back, and cross your
wrists," I continued, and he did so. "Now, acknowledge
me as your owner, before my household."

"You are my owner, my Lord and my master, Great Lord
Michael," he replied.

There was no quavering or defiance in that voice --
but no true submission either, not of the kind I
wished. It would take long months for him to truly
understand what I wanted from him . . . and he might
not be able to give it at all.

If so, I would indeed tire of him. But there would be
more than enough time to find out. For now, I would
simply bring home to him his new place in life.

"You will obey me in all things, blindly and utterly?
Even unto your own destruction?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"And do you have any rights, anything you may expect
from me?" I asked him.

"No, my Lord. I am your possession. Do with me what
you wish." A slight glaze came over those dark eyes as
he spoke. What it must have cost him to speak those
words . . .

I only nodded.

"So it is, as of this day."

I lifted my head to take in my watching servants, and
addressed them: "You have all witnessed this. Now,
hear my words: this man is my property, to do with as
I please. You may *not* help him or comfort him, but
neither may you mock or abuse him, save as I so
command. Remember these words, for the sake of your
very lives. You are dismissed."

As they filed out, Duval brought me the leash, and I
snapped it around the metal ring in the collar around
Rain's neck.

"Now, lift your hands, put them behind your neck and
keep them there," I bade him. "Rise now, and follow
me."

I knew what he was expecting. I would deal with that
first. And afterward -- we could truly begin.



RAIN:

Rain forced down the despair that threatened to drown
him. He would not disgrace himself or his people with
any show of weakness.

Clansfolk were no strangers to nudity. Relatives and
friends often saw one another unclothed in the
sweathouses. But now -- being led like a beast through
the halls of Michael's home, knowing that he was
nothing more than a possession for a wealthy and
decadent Lord -- for the first time in his life, Rain
felt nakedness as something shameful. As the leash
tugged at his neck, the young Clansman desperately
wished for clothes. 

The house was what he would have expected of the home
of a Great Lord of the Gathering -- unimaginably huge,
strange and rich. Possessions filled the long corridor
he walked through: rugs, statues, and upon the walls
paintings and the electrical lights that were only a
tale to the Clansfolk. The floor was of oddly smooth
and shiny wooden planks, wherever the rugs did not
cover it.

It had been late afternoon when they'd arrived. There
had been windows in the main hall to let in the waning
light -- tall, narrow ones, unlike the small ones of a
Clan house -- but this corridor had none. The
electrical lights shed the only illumination. He felt
as if he had entered some otherworldly space where day
and night did not exist.

It felt far too warm for the middle of winter, even in
a house. Yet the Lord and his servant wore cloth
jackets over their ruffled shirts, just as they had in
the meeting chamber. Was the mansion always this warm?

The overpowering strangeness of it all, the utter
difference from the simple cabins and huts of his own
people, was a crushing weight upon his heart.

Servants passed by, going to and fro on their errands.
None did more than glance at him before passing on,
disappearing through the doorways lining the corridor.

As he walked behind his master, he managed to catch
glimpses of some of the statues and paintings. Though
many were of hunting scenes or battles, or simple
landscapes, others were of men entwined with other
men, performing acts that made his stomach knot. None
were of men with women.

He knew what the Lords did to their slaves, that they
saw no wrong in men taking other men -- had known it
when he had stepped forward to offer himself to this
fate for the sake of his people. Everyone did. He had
foresworn all honor and dignity, save that of
obedience. Still, those pictures and sculptures had
the power to make his stomach tighten with the
beginnings of sickness. It was one thing simply to
know what would be done to him; it was another to
actually *see* it.

At last, Lord Michael and the servant Duval led him
into a great room without rugs or windows, only a
tiled floor with a drain set into it. It was smaller
than the vast hall, but still large enough to hold a
variety of bizarre frameworks of metal and padded
leather. Rain couldn't make out the purpose of most of
the devices, but from the shackles dangling off of
some, he guessed that they were meant for holding
captives.

It took him a moment to identify the objects in the
wooden rack on one wall, but then he recognized a
bullwhip and what looked like a riding crop such as
might be used upon a horse, and his heart thudded.

*He is going to torture me now.*

Cowardice tugged at him, urging him to fight back, to
try to tear off his collar and run -- anything rather
than endure this. He reminded himself of his oath. 

*It's only pain. I can endure pain.*

Lord Michael led him to a tall, heavy frame of steel
and thick wood, set with thick rings. His blue eyes
held no expression -- no pleasure, no compassion,
nothing that Rain could read.

"Stand there," the Lord commanded in that deep, calm
voice of his, and then unfastened the leash.
Apparently he trusted Rain to remember his oath and
remain there. 

Rain wondered if he should feel honored at that. He
did not reply but merely waited in silence. He'd
learned from Michael on the way here that he was not
to speak, save to acknowledge a command or answer a
question.

"Duval." The Lord said no more than that, but the
servant went to a cabinet standing against the wall,
and came back with a bundle of stout ropes and four
thick leather cuffs, set with steel rings, that were
too obviously designed to hold even a very strong man.
Michael nodded, and Duval came over and put them on
Rain. Rain knew he must offer no resistance. He
remained motionless as the cuffs were buckled around
his wrists and ankles.

"Lift your arms up now, over your head," the Lord
commanded.

Rain felt the quiver of fear in his belly. He took a
deep breath and obeyed, lifting his hands from the
back of his neck, ignoring the twinges of weary
muscles as he raised his arms high.

"Bind him, Duval," the Lord said.

Duval stepped in close, his clothing brushing against
Rain's bare skin as he passed ropes through the rings
on the wrist cuffs. Then the servant ran each rope
through its own separate ring set into the top bar of
the frame. He pulled the ropes tight, forcing Rain's
arms up high and apart, and tied them off around a
lower ring, out of Rain's reach.

"Now, spread your feet wide," Lord Michael said.

Rain did so, but the servant suddenly grasped his
right ankle and tugged it still farther to the side.
Startled, the Clansman had to consciously force
himself to permit it.

Duval did the same with Rain's left ankle, spreading
him still wider, obscenely wide. What little slack
there had been in the wrist ropes disappeared; his
arms and shoulders and even his back ached with the
tension.  When Duval was finished, the young Clansman
was held spread-eagled within the frame. He knew all
too well that every part of his unclothed body was
exposed, bared to whatever torture the Lord cared to
inflict.

Rain tightened his jaw, refusing to show any fear
before these men, and once again loathed his
nakedness.

When both of Rain's ankles had been bound to the
frame, Lord Michael told Duval, "Bring the mouth
strap."

Duval went back to the cabinet and returned with a
thick, tough leather strap, which he lifted to Rain's
mouth. It obviously wasn't intended as a gag to stifle
screams or even words. Instead, it fitted into the
Clansman's mouth, pressing down upon his tongue, and
then buckled closed behind his head. He swallowed
reflexively, tasting the dry leather.

"That is to bite down on," Michael told him, then
turned to the servant again. "Duval, fetch me the
sukai lash."

Duval actually started at that. "The sukai lash? Yes,
Lord."

The servant didn't go to the little rack of whips and
crops. Instead, he went to another, taller cabinet and
drew out a strange-looking object. It had several
tails, like a cat-o-nine-tails, but its substance was
of no leather Rain had ever seen. It was actually
transparent, like glass -- even the thick handle. He
saw it for only a few moments before Duval went behind
his back to hand it to Lord Michael.

What in all the spirits' unknown names was it supposed
to do? He was about to find out.

Duval retreated, to stand against a wall awaiting
further orders. Behind him, Rain heard a rustle of
clothing. He braced himself, anticipating the lash
upon his back.

There was a soft *crack*, much softer than he would
have expected from a whip. A moment later, he felt the
individual tails streak across the skin of his
shoulders. They left a sharp sting, nothing more.

The second blow didn't follow. Instead, Lord Michael's
deep voice sounded again.

"Not what you were expecting, was it?"

Long moments of silence followed, and then Rain
realized an answer was necessary. "No, my Lord," he
mumbled around the leather bit.

"It was not activated." He heard a crisp, quiet,
unrecognizable sound, but refused to crane his neck to
look behind him and see what it was. "It is now."

The second blow came across his shoulders, as the
first had. What followed was a ferocious stinging, as
if acid had been poured onto an open wound. Each
individual lash seemed to inscribe its path across his
skin in blazing intensity. And the pain did not ebb --
it grew worse, until he felt as if liquid fire had
entered his flesh.

His whole body spasmed beyond his control, and he bit
down fiercely on the gag even as tears started from
his eyes.

With the third blow, Rain couldn't hold back a
whimper. At each stroke, the fire in his flesh built
and built, mocking his desperate attempts to control
himself. By the tenth blow, despite his best efforts,
his whimpers had turned into a full-throated scream.
Soon after that, he was shrieking uncontrollably with
every stroke. The gag did nothing to muffle his cries.

The individual lines of fire multiplied and spread,
joining into one another until they united into one
burning mass of agony, covering his back like a cloak
of live embers. Once, when he was 14 summers old, he'd
suffered a broken arm; it hadn't hurt nearly as much
as this.

Eventually, he was screaming and begging for mercy
behind the gag, all pride broken. His pleas might as
well have been the cries of a slaughtered animal for
all that Michael paid heed to them.

Lord Michael would not stop. Eventually, Rain fainted,
falling into a comforting, warm, black nothingness.

He roused moments later to hard slaps across his face,
and opened his eyes to see the Lord standing before
him. Michael's cold face showed no anger, no glee, no
regret.

When the Lord was certain Rain was fully conscious
again, he held up the lash for him to look at. It was
no longer clear as glass. Instead, each tail was
filled with glowing white light, and little flecks of
that light were dripping off the ends to the floor,
like water. Only the handle remained transparent.

Rain stared at that terrible scourge a few moments,
all words frozen in his throat. Then his head jerked
away against his will, refusing to look any longer, as
if that could stop a resumption of the agony.

The Lord nodded, and then walked around the frame to
stand behind him once more. Then the flogging resumed.

Wherever the tails struck, those glowing flecks seemed
to eat into Rain's skin, burning into his nerves with
incandescent heat. The sukai lash worked its way down
his back to his buttocks, and the backs of his thighs,
and finally to the calves of his legs. Then the Lord
went around to his front, and flogged him across the
chest and belly, and the fire engulfed him utterly.

He fainted twice more before it was over. Each time,
he was revived, and the flogging continued. Toward the
end, he could no longer even plead, only scream and
weep, his throat growing raw, sweat running into his
eyes until he was nearly blind. He would have accepted
death without hesitation to escape the agony; he would
gladly have broken his oath, betrayed the Clans,
anything.

He never knew what caused the Lord to stop. Indeed,
for long minutes he was not even aware that the lashes
had ceased to fall upon him, as the glowing particles
clung to his skin and burned and he sobbed and
retched.

He came out of his daze as a bucket of water was
poured over him. The burning began to die down. He
moaned, expecting the flogging to begin again.

As he gradually regained full awareness, he realized
the water running down his body onto the tiles had a
faint, odd, sour smell -- there was something in it.
Whatever it was, it quenched that cruel fire, and the
agony quickly ebbed.

Duval stepped back, holding the now-empty bucket. Lord
Michael nodded to the servant, and he put it down and
returned to his station against the wall.

Rain was still bound to the frame, but the leather bit
was out of his mouth. He hadn't been aware of it being
removed. 

"Please . . ." he gasped, his voice hoarse, "No more .
. . I beg you . . ."

Lord Michael, standing before him now, shook his head.
"There is no more."

The lash was still in the Lord's hand, but now it was
clear again, quiescent. Michael dropped it to the
floor as he stepped toward Rain, reaching out to
stroke his sweat-soaked hair.

"Duval" -- the Lord turned to the servant again --
"fetch me cold water, and a cloth."

Duval left the room without a word, taking the bucket
with him.

Rain hung suspended in his bonds, gasping as his
breathing and his hammering heart slowed. As his mind
cleared, he became aware of another smell reaching his
nostrils -- he had lost control of his bladder during
the flogging. The humiliation of that refused to come,
lost in the deeper pain of knowing he had broken so
easily and so utterly.

Duval returned with the laden bucket and a white
cloth. He handed them to Michael before returning to
his place.

To Rain's numbed astonishment, Lord Michael then
crouched down and bathed him with his own hands,
wiping the damp cloth slowly and gently over
sweat-drenched skin. The Lord showed no revulsion at
all as he wiped off the urine. He cleaned Rain's
genitals and thighs without comment or obvious
embarrassment, then calling for fresh water and a
cloth from Duval.

Against his will, Rain felt himself relaxing under
Michael's ministrations. The Lord wiped down his
thighs once more, making certain they were entirely
clean. Down Rain's knees, his shins and calves, at
last even his feet, without embarrassment.

Rain looked down at himself, searching for the marks
of the lash on his chest and belly. He had thought to
see raw, bleeding wounds. Yet, only a few narrow red
lines showed upon his flesh, less than might be
expected from riding too quickly through thick brush.

Michael, now wiping down Rain's left flank, smiled as
he saw the Clansman staring at the insignificant
welts. "Pain by direct nerve induction," the Lord
explained. "It does no damage."

Which left Rain little wiser than before.

The Lord said nothing more, but bathed every inch of
his flesh, washing away the sweat. When Michael was
finished, Duval took away the washcloth and bucket
again.

When the servant had returned, Lord Michael commanded,
"Unbind him, Duval."

This was done, and Rain stepped free of the frame,
feeling his legs still weak as a newborn colt's. He
felt as if his very being had been scorched bare,
leaving him nothing more to think or feel with.

The Lord called again for the leash, snapped it onto
Rain's collar once more, and then handed the other end
to Duval.

"Obey him, Rain," Michael ordered. "Duval, show him to
his quarters to rest."



Direct comments and criticism to:
maureen_lcn@yahoo.com. See author's notes above for
the URL to my story archive.

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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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