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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Truth [1/3] {Maureen Lycaon} (MM, Mdom/M, nc, sad, bd, humil, scifi)
Date: Fri, 14 Nov 2003 20:10:03 -0500
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SWORN

PART TWO: TRUTH



@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, November 2003. Permission
granted for normal Usenet propagation, for archiving
on the official a.s.s.m. and a.s.s.g.m. sites, and to
download one copy and make one hard copy for your
personal use. All other rights are reserved under the
Berne Convention. If you think a friend might enjoy
this story, please don't forward it to them; instead,
direct them to my personal website (see URL below).
That way, they can read my other stories as well.

Archiving this story on a commercial or pay-to-view
site is forbidden. If you had to pay to read this, the
site owner has violated my copyright and defrauded
you.

MANDATORY WARNING: This is hard-core semi-consensual
BDSM 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 even enjoy being enslaved and raped -- and
I portray this as at least partly a Good Thing. The
only reassurance I can offer my readers is: this is a
dream you are in, an erotic dream about a fantasy
world of dominance and submission. It is not a guide
to BDSM or the real world -- only a portal into the
author's own perverted imagination.

All hail my betas, Ron and Tyellas, without whom this
would be a much poorer story.

Series notes:
This is the sequel to "Captivity", and the second
story in the "Sworn" series, concerning Rain Ashin and
Lord Michael.

You can read my other erotic stories, including
"Captivity," at:
http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html



Truth (Part Two of the "Sworn" series)

By Maureen Lycaon




RAIN:

Scrubbing floors gave Rain all too much time for
thought. It occupied the Clansman's hands, but not his
mind.

Outside, winter gripped the earth. The low, gentle
hills and open fields of the southern lands slept
under their blanket of snow. Inside, the Great Lord
Michael's mansion remained warm -- warm enough that,
even naked, Rain was comfortable.

Farther north, in the Plains, winter would not be so
gentle. The thought of home sent a pang of sorrow and
even of guilt through Rain, as it always did. In a
normal year, the Clanfolk should have long since been
snug in their homes, surrounded by their stores of
food and their sheep and cattle. This year, they would
still be desperately hunting whatever game they could
find, even as the bone-chilling winds swept down from
the north and the blizzards threatened. They had been
hungry enough when he had left; they were surely worse
off now. He could well imagine the hollow bellies, the
faces he had known all his life growing gaunt . . . as
he labored here in relative comfort, warm and
well-fed.

He wondered how many people he had known were already
dead, and whether his parents or his younger brother
still lived. He closed his eyes, shivered, let the
terrible but familiar pain pass through him; that was
all he could do.

Were he not bound by his oath, and were it only his
own safety that he risked, nothing could have stopped
him from killing the Lord who now owned him. A
thousand times in the confines of his own thoughts, he
had imagined taking slow, gory vengeance upon Lord
Michael, returning agony in exchange for all the
insults and humiliations done to him in the past two
months.

But he *was* bound, he reminded himself. His people
suffered. If war broke out again, they would suffer
far worse. He would bear any humiliation, any pain to
avoid that.

He realized that he had stopped scrubbing. Gritting
his teeth until they hurt, he quickly resumed his work
before the overseer, Duvier, could reprove him.

A strange labor, this scrubbing of stone-covered
floors. In Paniseth, the Clan village from which Rain
had come, the log huts had only dirt floors upon which
rushes or dried grass were spread. The women and
children swept them out and replaced them -- and they
did not do it each day but every ten-day.

He had realized early on, from snatches of overheard
servants' comments, that those who served Michael
counted cleaning the stone floors a very menial task.
And he had never seen any of them naked as they
worked.

Two months ago, he would have been puzzled, but not
all that discomfited, by such a strange demand. Since
then, he had learned how helpless and vulnerable
nakedness could make him feel -- as if he could be any
more at this Lord's uncertain mercy. He had almost
protested Lord Michael's command -- almost. Only his
oath had held him silent.

When he had volunteered to be one of the hostages the
Lords had demanded, he had expected torture and rape,
and eventually an unthinkably cruel death. He had
believed himself prepared. Instead, in many ways his
slavery was very comfortable. He ate well enough, for
all the strangeness of the food. The bed in his own
quarters was larger and far softer than the straw
pallets of the Clansfolk.

Lord Michael had fulfilled only one of his
expectations -- of being raped. Almost every night,
Michael would take Rain to his luxurious bedroom, and
command him to fulfill his chief task: that of
bedslave. Rain had to suckle upon the Lord's manhood
and bring him to spending, then swallow his seed.

He wasn't sure which was worse: the disgust and shame
he'd felt the first few times, or how quickly he'd
become accustomed to that duty.

But Michael did not content himself with simply using
Rain's mouth and having done with it. No. Instead, the
Lord would tease and caress him, forcing him into
unwanted lust, then leaving him on the very brink of
release, groaning with frustration. For the sake of
his oath, Rain had to submit, to allow the Lord to do
it. He was as unable to escape the degrading fondling
as if he had been bound.

At first, he had thought that Lord Michael merely
delighted in denying him his pleasure. Gradually, he
had come to realize it was not so. Michael himself
became aroused by this teasing, at seeing his
bedslave's organ erect. His smile was of sheer
pleasure, not of contempt for a humbled barbarian.

Only when Michael had him literally moaning and
squirming would he command that Rain pleasure him with
his mouth and tongue. Still aroused himself, Rain then
had to satisfy the Lord, humbly, upon his knees. And
only if he strained himself and the skills he had so
unwillingly learned to the limit would Michael then
satisfy him -- and usually only after toying with him
still more.

He had never expected to take any pleasure in
servicing the Lord's lusts. Yet, as his manhood stood
rigid as a spear and his body burned with hunger for
release, Rain often found himself suckling with wanton
greed on Lord Michael's sex. When he could not have
the relief that he craved so desperately, the feel of
Lord Michael's sex filling his mouth, rubbing against
his lips, tasting of salt, was only pleasure. He felt
that, somehow, Michael's seed gushing into his mouth
could ease his own lust.

But once the suckling was over and his stomach was
rebelling at his master's seed oozing into it, his
maddening need remained as strong as ever.

He turned the degrading memory away, as lately he had
often had to. He remembered his disgust the first time
he had suckled the Lord to orgasm, how it had brought
him to the verge of vomiting, but he could no longer
muster up the utter disgust he had felt then. The
thoughts and memories of longing and pleasure came to
him more and more now.

*It is because I am so hungry for release,* he told
himself. *Only that.*

The Lord had forbidden him ever to satisfy himself in
any way. Only at Lord Michael's hands could he ever
know release, and Michael seldom gave that release.
Thus, Rain's hunger had built and built, day by day,
until his manhood was ready to stiffen almost the
moment his thoughts turned to it. Already, it did so
whenever he entered the bedroom with Lord Michael, for
his flesh had learned to anticipate the caresses it
would receive. But it would also rise whenever the
memories of the Lord's teasing hands came -- at the
most unlikely moments throughout the day, even as he
performed his other duties.

He sought not to think of those memories, to force
them away. But he could not remain vigilant forever.
Always there was an unguarded moment when they slipped
through. Often his organ remained stiff and hungry for
a long time afterward.

Always, Duvier -- or Duvier's assistant, Bischet --
watched him as he did his other tasks. Sometimes one
or the other would lean against a wall, arms folded,
as Duvier did now; sometimes the watcher would stand
at his side or behind him; but always Duvier's or
Bischet's gaze was upon him, whenever Lord Michael's
was not.

Duvier had surely noticed his manhood's stiffness at
such times. But if so, the overseer had never spoken
of it. Duvier spoke to him only concerning his duties.

Several times, servants had passed through the Great
Hall, no doubt bound on duties of their own. Not one
had mocked or remarked upon his nakedness. Perhaps
they had looked, but he had long since learned better
than to stop his labors to look up -- that would have
earned him a reprimand. Neither Duvier nor Bischet had
ever touched him, but Rain had long since learned that
Lord Michael always heard of any disobedience.

So far, Michael had spoken the truth when he had
promised not to use the sukai lash again. But he had
many other tools for punishment: crops, switches,
various whips and many-tongued floggers, which he
usually used on Rain's buttocks. All these devices
caused pain, but none as unbearable as the sukai lash
had been.

The Lord did not bind Rain standing in the rack, as he
had on the first day. Instead, he would command Rain
to crouch upon or to bend over a leather-padded bench,
in an awkward, humiliating position.

Sometimes, Rain felt the shameful warmth in his loins
even as he assumed one of the positions for
punishment, before the Lord ever touched him. Knowing
that he was about to suffer did nothing to stop the
stiffening of his manhood.

Thankfully, Lord Michael never remarked upon his
arousal at such times.

*No!* He forced the vile thought from his mind,
scrubbing furiously at the stone as if by so doing he
could erase the memory of his body's reaction.

*What does he wish from me, really?* Rain thought, but
even as he thought the words, he knew the answer. He
knew it all too well. *He wishes me to want what he
does to me.*

*And do I not already?* the thought came to his mind,
unbidden.

Some unspeakable part of him did, at least. Now, as he
scrubbed the Lord's floors, he admitted it to himself,
in the privacy of his own thoughts -- though the
admission brought bile to his mouth.

He could no longer deny the longing he felt at merely
thinking about offering his rump to Lord Michael. He
wanted desperately to believe that it was merely his
pent-up hunger for release . . . but deep inside his
heart, he knew that it was not. Rain clenched his jaw,
his hand tightening around the brush until his
knuckles turned white, but not even his helpless anger
could turn aside the thought.  

*Spirit-forsaken bastard. It is his wretched
'training'. He is depraved, he is corrupting me as
well.*

Rain felt as if not merely his body but his very self
had been violated, stained beyond all cleansing. Even
now, his manhood was warming again, hungering.

Rain sought once more to draw his mind away from these
thoughts, forcing it back to his task. Scrub the
flagstone before him. Hear only the sounds of bristles
scraping on stone; see only the dark-gleaming dampness
left by the water. Dip the brush in the bucket to wet
it again. Scrub again.

It was of no use. His sex throbbed, swelling to full
stiffness. With his nakedness, there was nothing at
all to conceal his arousal from the overseer.

"Cease," Duvier's voice came.

Rain felt his thoughts freeze. *He has noticed.*

He stopped scrubbing, crouched there on hands and
knees, and waited.

"Kneel up."

Rain obeyed, putting down the brush and clasping his
hands behind the back of his neck as he had been
taught. His manhood quivered stiffly in the air,
utterly exposed.

Duvier walked around him to look down upon him. As
always, Rain found it difficult to read the overseer's
bland, round face. Duvier's gray eyes were
expressionless; it was impossible to tell if the man
were disapproving, delighted or something else. The
Clansman held himself still, and silently cursed his
unruly sex.

Duvier's gaze moved down from Rain's face to look upon
his groin. Rain's manhood refused to slacken. If
anything, it seemed to throb and swell the more, as if
the overseer's cool gaze itself were a caress.

Abruptly, Duvier turned away. "Bischet!" he called.

In a few moments, Bischet's slender form appeared in
the doorway that led into the Great Hall. "Yes, sir?"
he asked.

"Inform the Lord that the slave is erect."

"At once, sir." Bischet vanished back into the
corridor outside.

Rain felt his heart pound. He refused to let any sign
of dismay show on his face. He had little enough pride
left, but he would cling to it.

Duvier returned to the wall and leaned back against
it, crossing his arms again, his gaze steady upon
Rain. The young Clansman could only wait helplessly,
struggling against the urge to touch his manhood, each
slow moment an eternity measured by its throbbing.

Then he heard the approaching footsteps -- not
Bischet's alone, but another pair that he knew all too
well. Fighting the warm fog of lust that threatened to
cloud his mind, he tried once more to will his
stubborn sex into limpness as the footsteps drew near
to the entrance. It was of no use. His manhood
remained raised and craving, even as Great Lord
Michael entered the room.



LORD MICHAEL:

As I walked down the corridor with Bischet trailing
behind me, I reflected upon the past two months. It
had been that long since Rain had surrendered himself
to the Gathering and to me, bound by no chain save for
a treaty -- and a vow that he refused to break.

Up north, in the Outlands where the Clans dwelled,
winter was a cruel beast. Even had the war never
happened, the Clansfolk would have suffered privations
that our servants and dependents never knew. Many of
the oldest and weakest would have perished before
spring. Had Rain remained with them, he would have
suffered the same privations. 

Even in summer, his life would not have been safe or
comfortable. When they were not fighting us, the
Clansfolk fought each other. He might be killed in a
raid, or a full-scale war between smallclans.

Or he might simply have died of an illness we could
easily cure, or in a hunting accident.

Thus must his people struggle to live, by their own
choice. A thousand years ago, they had scornfully cast
aside the benefits of civilization to live in what
they considered "freedom", far from our City. There,
in the wilderness of the Outlands, they had reverted
to barbarism, forming the Clans. In time, as the City
had grown under our protection and guidance, its
boundaries had reached the Outlands. We Lords are
generous, and we do not hold grudges; we had given
them some of the benefits of civilization, asking in
return only taxes far lighter than any City-dweller
paid. 

Yet, light as the taxes were, last year the Clansfolk
had laid aside their feuding and united in another
futile rebellion against them. Now their plight was
far worse than it had ever been. No doubt hundreds of
them had already starved to death, and hundreds more
-- perhaps even thousands -- would die before summer
and the first harvest.

Had Rain remained in the lands of his birth, he might
already have died. Even if he had escaped all these
fates, he would have aged before his time. The wind
and the cold of the Outlands would have weathered his
handsome face, leaving it lined and leathery. His
beauty would have faded quickly -- never even
recognized, let alone cherished, like a fine gem that
falls into the mud where it is swallowed and lost.

Instead, under my care, he lived in comfort and
plenty. And his beauty was admired and enjoyed. As I
walked down the hall, I promised myself that one day
soon, I would hire an artist or sculptor to record
that beauty.

Some of my fellow Lords, such as Lord William, would
have said that the hostages had volunteered simply to
escape the miseries and barbarism of their homeland.
They would have spoken in ignorance; they understood
little of the people of the Outlands. 

I knew very well what the Clansfolk thought of us, and
what Rain had expected to be his lot in my service:
endless torture, brutality and eventually a cruel
death. Yet, he had offered to suffer that fate, to
protect his people for as long as he could. His
offering had been an act of selfless courage and
loyalty. Barbarian ideals of both, perhaps, but
courage and loyalty all the same, and I admired him
for them.

Of course, if what I hoped was indeed true, there was
another reason for his self-sacrifice. But he was not
yet aware of that reason; he would require a long,
slow process of training to understand and accept it.
This day, I hoped to take him one step further along
that path.

I entered the room to find him waiting upon his knees,
as I had expected. He was holding his hands behind his
neck, under his magnificent long hair, just the way I
had taught him.

I walked over to him, savoring the sight of his
kneeling, yet proud and defiant beauty. His mane of
fine ginger-blond hair framed that handsome face with
its high cheekbones and fair skin, and flowed down
over his shoulders and his back, echoed by the darker
tufts in his armpits. Lean muscles showed clearly
beneath his pale skin, giving shape to his arms and
his thighs.

I made a mental note to give him more arduous work as
soon as the spring thaw came, so that he would not
grow soft and lose any of his beauty.

He stared straight ahead, not meeting my gaze as I
walked over to him and looked him up and down. Only a
telltale quiver of his jaw muscles told me what an
effort it was costing him to remain still, to endure
this inspection. A pink blush again colored his
cheekbones. His face was set with determination -- he
had retreated into himself to endure the humiliation
being visited upon him. Nevertheless, when I looked
down, I saw that his member was beautifully, rigidly
erect.

"Stand up," I told him. "Keep your hands in place."

He did so, moving with the grace and ease he had
learned. Then he stood erect before me, his member
bobbing for a moment before it stilled.

I lowered myself onto one knee before him to study
that handsome phallus more closely. Already, pinkness
flushed its tip, set off by the thick gold-red pelt of
his groin.

"Spread your legs a little," I said. I heard him
inhale deeply, but he obeyed -- sliding his bare feet
farther apart, so that his testicles dangled freely
between his thighs. His phallus jutted forward,
seeming to demand my attention.

His breath actually checked when I gently palmed the
swollen flesh; then it left him in a slow, barely
controlled exhalation. I simply held his member
without caressing it, feeling it twitch in my hand.
Then I reached forward and down, slid my fingertips
along the underside of his testicles and cupped them
lightly, weighing them. They felt warm and heavy in my
palm, drawn tight with long-unsatisfied lust, the skin
as soft as the thinnest, finest glove leather.

I released them, and ran one finger along the
underside of his beautifully stiff member, from root
to tip. It twitched again. A drop of clear fluid
swelled at the opening, then slowly oozed downwards in
a lengthening thread until it separated and dropped
down to the floor. I loved the sight, for it had the
effect of making him seem all the more vulnerable and
exposed, all the more wanton.

I drew my hand back and stood up, looking once more
into his face. Unable to ignore me any longer, he
returned my gaze, and I stared deeply into his
wonderful great dark eyes. The eyes of a wounded stag,
at bay and doomed, yet still proud.

I watched those eyes carefully, for how he responded
to my next question would reveal much.

"Tell me, Rain," I asked softly, "what were you
thinking upon when you became aroused?"

The proud gaze wavered for a bare moment before it
steadied. Had I blinked, I would probably have missed
it. Yet, no one could have missed his blush. Never
before had I seen his entire face flush, but now the
flawless skin over his cheekbones darkened to
near-scarlet, pink spreading over all his face, even
his chin. He swallowed, his throat working briefly
under the narrow band of the leather collar.

"Of -- of being with a woman, my Lord."

I could see the guardedness in his eyes, the flicker
of a desperate urge to look away again. There was no
question; he was lying to me.

The hope in my heart swelled into exultation, but I
firmly restrained it. I simply nodded and turning to
Duvier.

"Return him to his work," I said. "You need not call
me again on this matter, but my other orders stand."

"Yes, Lord," Duvier affirmed.

I left them and returned to my study, controlling the
rush of exultation that I felt. I was nearly certain
now, but I would still have to remove all doubt . . .



Send comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com
. The URL to my story archive is in the author's notes
at the top.

This story carries the codes: (M/F, M/Mdom, nc, sad,
bd, humil, scifi)
 
The code "humil" means that some of the sexual charge
of this story involves the humiliation of one of the
characters.

For other codes, and how they can help you find the
stories you want, see:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/code/scfr.htm
The Story-Code FAQ for readers.


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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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