Disclaimer and warnings: This story uses
characterizations from the Universal owned Xena and Hercules
crossover episode; Armageddon II. I am not keeping them and I
certainly won't be making any financial gain while they're in my
care. Also need I say, though the characters belong to someone else,
the words and ideas are mine - all mine. Do not enrage an Angel by
reproducing them without consent.
This is the sequel to "Chattel". Its written in the same style,
through the eyes of the Conqueror herself. Do yourself a favor and
read the other one first. This too contains further references to sex
between two women, some of it falling under the definition of S/m and
Bondage concepts. Some also may appear non-consensual.
- © 1999 Dark Angel.
I'd seen my share of colorful parades with young men polished and
gleaming, ready to do battle and, if needed, surrender their lives in
my name. But the weather had brought me out; that and the realization
I'd not seen the outside of my palace walls for quite some time. In
reflection, my decision to view the slavers' propositions that day
had been as instinctive as my presence to watch my city's sons.
I paid 500 dinars for her: A reasonable price considering she'd
already had her turn on the slaver's platform more than once. I
suppose the real question was why I actually paid for her at all. I
mean she'd been sold back to the government, apparently some matter
of different priorities at a previous post. So theoretically she was
already my property. I know it would have made more sense to rent a
whore for an hour. But then again, I never was much for taking my
time in a queue and she'd already caught my eye.
I made a fair show of it, inspecting the entire line up of body
servants on display. I paced the stock from beginning to end, flanked
by two of my royal elite and wearing robes usually preserved for
leading a troop to claim new land. No one would have guessed what was
on my mind, nor I think I, completely comprehended.
She looked mortified when I finally brought myself and my
entourage back in front of her. I remember watching her knees shudder
beneath a faded piece of cloth before she somehow got a hold of
herself. I remember too that she smelled like corn soap and fresh
washing though I suspect it was because they'd scrubbed her and her
garments down first. Her hair caught the noon day sun in a way that
made her appear almost angelic, soft and younger than her 18 years.
Whenever I smell corn soap, even now - or see the daylight cut
through shards of wheat, I can't help but think of that girl. Can't
help thinking how different things between us could have been.
I turned away from where she stood with no more than a postured
wave to mark how her life had just been altered. Then I proceeded to
take my time about the streets, gathering a crowd and walking among
my people. I was in no hurry, I knew my purchase would be waiting to
serve on my return behind the palace gates.
She had been made wait on her knees for sometime, it appeared.
Still, she looked a little different without the brilliance of direct
sun on her face. Less naive, thinner perhaps. I don't know, only that
I decided that it didn't matter for what I wanted, and I wasn't going
to be troubled with sending her back.
I kept my commands simple not knowing how much she would
understand. I made her strip and turn and bend to show me what she
had. She seemed to manage it all well enough, so at least I knew she
wasn't an imbecile. I had her lay down in the middle of my bed and
put her hands above her head.
I didn't dispense with my robe, simply mounting her and doing what
I needed to get myself started. It never took me much in those days.
A squeeze or two - a handful of thrusts. She was under no allusion
and it just saved the time. She didn't so much as blink or make a
sound, but then again, I doubt it wouldn't have made any difference to me if
she had. I came easy as expected and I got up as soon as I was able.
I moved away from where she still lay looking a little surprised it
was apparently over. I turned back only long enough to tell her she
was done. Then I dismissed her and went on about my day.
It should have been the end of it. I'd never had the time or
inclination to have anyone around me for more than what was needed.
Certainly nothing regular to address my private needs. I returned to
the business of my states and pushed the fineness of her hair, the
softness of her body against mine from my thoughts.
It was Autumn and Crycus was moving south again. Mycilis was
opposing the new embargo orders to the east. I watched two more
parades from my balcony window. I rode each morning, pushing me and
my steed as hard as I dared. I presided over a dozen or so strategy
meetings and ordered three more executions in the cells.
But no matter how I tried , or what I did, when my day was done and I
returned to my chambers alone, the slave girl's breath still prickled
When I'd finally had enough I sent for her, though it took several
of my guards searching half a morning to locate her back at the
slavers pen. She didn't appear that well that time, but neither did
she seem surprised to be kneeling at my feet again.
She wasn't fresh as I had first predicted, but I assumed correctly
she'd not been with a woman before. I didn't let it bother me and
told her it just saved me the work. I instructed her what to expect
and what part I preferred the best and if she was surprised she hid
it well. When I was done saying and doing what would become our
habit, I said she could eat in the kitchen and made sure she'd have
some extra to take away.
From the beginning, she had a kind of intuition about my wishes. A
way of knowing what I would want and complying, at least physically
with little or no prompting. I would say 'table' and she would
go to the small dinning counter I kept in my chambers for meals and
bend over it, positioning herself in a way that permitted best access
for me from behind. I would say 'bed' and she would lay face
up, raise her hands above her head and clasp them lightly together.
Then she would open her legs and find some spot on the ceiling to
contemplate. It became clear too that in spite of my indifference and
rigor, her body won over occasionally from the thoughts of being no
more than property, and release would come for her too.
We went on like that for months. Me, her lord and master summoning
her under armed escort from her cell deep within the city slums. She,
a houseless beggar, arriving at my suite after being hosed down
first. She would spend an hour or two performing what ever was my
bidding, being dismissed with no hint that she would have a place in
my bed or another meal to count on in the future. But I suppose it
was as obvious to her as it was to me that she would return. She
learned that and everything else quite quickly.
I had her installed in a room that had previously been used for
storage. Nothing special, just enough space for a single pallet and a
place for the gowns she'd been issued. Certainly nothing that gave
the impression she was there for anything other than convenience.
I didn't need an excuse to touch her - or hear her cries when I
took her rough. I didn't care what business I ignored, which
dignitaries I kept waiting, or whether we had an audience or were
left to ourselves. I did everything to her. Things I barely allowed
myself to fantasize and things I had not considered arousing enough
to contemplate. Somehow, she made me an animal, a beast with a need
no other had ever tapped and for that, I treated her as the tormenter
she had become. I called her my 'bitch' and exercised my
prerogative in being no more than that myself.
Generally while I did it, I would taunt her saying it was she who
loved it most, that she couldn't live without me drilling her
senseless at least once a day. She would whimper and moan as if
struggling with saying it was simply her place to serve, and agreeing
that she needed me that way.
I ignored her tears and slapped her whenever they got the better
of me. Sometimes I slapped her for the lack of them. Mostly I hit her
simply because it excited me. I openly gloated at the way her body
shook and strained against the bindings, more so when there were no
bindings at all and she had to hold herself steady, knowing she
couldn't hide behind chains or strips of leather. But no matter how
hard my blows were, or the level I dragged her too, she kept herself
at least some how separate to me. Unquestioningly bound but free
somewhere deep in her own thoughts.
Sometimes I wished she would struggle, knowing it would have been
such a futile exercise in itself. She was no more than half my size
and could easily have died from any misplaced blow. Sometimes, in
desperation, I wondered if one of those blows would have spared us
Within our first year together, I gave her a permanent reminder of
whose she actually was. It wasn't administered so much from any
premeditated plan, but from anger. That kind of anger would clamor up
inside of me from nowhere in those days. And I nor anyone else could
harness it until it had run its course. Mostly I needed no reason for
the rage to surface, but on that occasion my justification had been
fueled by what was clearly her lack of allegiance to me - her utter
and intolerable disregard for the master she serviced.
I was the ruler of all of Greece. Grown men cowered at my feet,
women much more grand than I hid themselves in fear. Yet a useless
piece of garbage I pulled off a slaver's cavalcade, whom I fed and
clothed, thought she could test me so and remain unscathed.
I had risen from my bed in the dead of night to attend a message
I'd been told was urgent. From my standing position near the reading
lamp, I saw her eying the young guard, perhaps no older than herself
who'd accompanied the note. She had been sitting up in the center of
that same bed with the sheets tucked up for modesty, as if they could
cover what I'd been doing to her. He had braved an open glance in her
direction. The Gods only knew why. I suppose because he was new and
stupid, wanting to see for himself what his master laid.
I interpreted her interest in him, whether it was real or not, his
presence in a room that hung heavily with her scent and mine as her
fooling herself she had a life beyond my reach. That she would
consider others as being potential parts of that imaginary world
infuriated me. I sent him out and proceeded to teach her the one
lesson she'll wear to her grave.
I flogged her with my belt to start while she kneeled dazed and
confused, making no effort to block the strikes. I dragged her then,
me shouting and she begging through the corridors of my home in the
state she dreaded most.
My fury raised enough concern to gather a tribe of followers on
our trek. All trailing a safe distance behind, along a route I had
subconsciously mapped out even before pushing her out into the halls.
One of them had been the boy whose presence had sparked the whole
thing off. Livid, I offered her to him and others, and thought I
would see him soil himself in front of his league. Had he really
believed I hadn't seen, wouldn't notice he fancied himself a suitor
to my whore?
At the blacksmith's gate, I made him and his captain take her
arms, two others to hold her hips and force her to her knees. She
fought for her life then and it took all of them and more to get her
and keep her completely down. Then in front of six of my best and the
smithy, I stroked her face and lowered my tone.
"Who do you belong to?" I asked, as intimately as if we
At first, she was too wrought to speak. I slapped her face and
"You, my lord," she spluttered, barely able to get the
I dragged a nail across her cheek leaving a mark in the tear
trails along her dank flesh.
"Are you sure?" I chided. "You have no other master, do
you? No one else under this roof who decides your fate?"
She shook her head hysterically, agreeing that there was
"And what have I, as your only master of this house, been doing
for the better part of this night?"
As her pleas for mercy filled the stables, I grabbed a fist of her
hair and pulled her back so she could see my rage. She mumbled what
of course she knew she must. I narrowed my sight and stared her down,
not trusting that I could repeat myself again without killing her
there and then. She quietened the blubbering, choking a little and
needing to take a couple of gulps to catch her breath. My palm still
rested against her face and she pushed a little so I could feel her
skin on mine. A last attempt to melt a heart she must have known had
frozen over long ago.
"You've been taking what is yours, my lord," she moaned
solemnly but clearer the second time.
She'd shut her eyes unable to see my smirk appear or my head lower
a little in assent. But she would have been the only close enough to
hear me whisper, 'just checking.' before I stood up properly,
parting my robe for her to show her worth.
I gripped her with both hands, knotting fingers deeper through her
mass to direct the rhythm. Then as two guards followed out my order,
I pressed her so she could only swallow, continuing my pleasure as
the iron X changed the sight of her back forever. The smell and
sounds drenched my senses and I kept her there till I'd soaked her
too - then let her drop.
She didn't pass out, but I guess I had a sense she was made of
stronger stuff. So with her screaming and writhing at my feet, I
ordered the guards and the blacksmith back to bed - and took her again
on the livery floor.
She scared over sooner than the healers predicted, but not quick
enough to witness the boy pay his own price to me. For six months
after I made her present naked to the waist so her mark was always
visible. With her collar fixed and her leach in hand she began and
ended each session with, 'I am yours'.
Sometimes I knew if I stayed around her I would have killed her or
us both. The very smell of her hair, the way her hips swayed when she
walked, would drive me to thoughts that ranged from murderous rage to
denouncing all to lay but a moment equally in her arms. I would force
myself to lay alone in my bed, not foolish enough to think I could
take another, and she alone in hers. Needing days and sometimes weeks
to get a grip. Calling her to me only when I could be assured my
resolve was back in place. That my position as Empress, as ruler of
all the lands would not amount to nothing because of the power of a
slave - a possession.
Just as early, I dubbed her as a dreamer, a scattered wench who
pondered too much on meanings when there was none to find. I used her
idealism as an excuse a lot of the time to justify what was more my
own protection from what I felt. But it wasn't until much later,
perhaps a decade into her ownership, that I realized she still had
hold of a least one of those childish dreams.
I caught her trying to decipher an old piece of delivery parchment
and instead of taking my usual ride, I called her to my chambers for
the second time that morning.
Standing before her in slick britches and knee high boots, I
forced a gait that spoke volumes even then. Late in her twenty's, she
too still kneeled between those boots with a reasonable apprehension
sparked whenever I broke from my normal routine. I hadn't hit her in
months by then and she must have thought the time to renew my right
was close at hand.
I waited, silent for longer than I needed, secretly loving the
sight she made. The way her breasts strained against her bustle, how
her hair shone through the window light. Legs and petticoats sprawled
like a doll's that had fallen from it's stand. Then with no warning,
I let the book I'd been holding fall between us. Watching as it
landed face up at its middle. She looked through tousled hair and
hooded eyes, not knowing what to say.
"Can you read it?" I asked knowing full well she couldn't.
She hesitated but a moment, I don't believe she ever even attempted
to lie to me. Then shook her head almost shamefully, and she made the
sound that always meant she was trying not to cry.
"No, my lord - I can not read. I try, but I have no..."
I scoffed loudly, cutting her off to hide my own realization that
she should wish for so little and be denied it nonetheless.
"Well no one here will teach you." I told her, maintaining
Her head lowered further still, eyes apparently fixed on the
collection of symbols on the page. I almost faltered then, torn
between wanting to shunt the book aside with my boot and sending her
flying too, and lifting her and it to meet me. Instead I crotched
down and reclaimed the book, leafing through it nonchalantly in an
"But," I continued as I flicked the pages to find what I'd
been searching for. "If you can read these few short lines by the
next full moon, you may keep the book and practice when the time
I turned the latest edition to my library around and held a short
piece by a known poet out for her to view. Her face beamed as she
braved a brief glimpse of me and the verse. Then she lowered her eyes
"I will learn the words, my Lord, I promise. Thank you,
I let the book tumble from my fingers to land before her once
again and I watched as she rose a little to start unfastening her
"No!" I scolded, pushing her hard enough to lose her
balance. "I have no interest with that right now." Her lip
looked like it was about to start its familiar tremble but she
stopped it, regathering herself and the book and bowed her way out of
Sure enough, on the eve of the next full moon, she stood square
shouldered in a dress she knew I favored and recited the verse as
best she could.
I kept my word and let her have the book.
Throughout all my battles, my countless deals and ultimate conquests,
she stayed her place and served me as I expected none ever could. She
bore my treatments and my absence equally, at least it appeared to
me, as if they were the same. She leaned to walk like a woman of
breeding and not some nervous stray. Visiting officials would come to
pay me due and ask after her by name. Sometimes I even almost forgot
myself and would call her to do the greetings at my side. She'd look
at me with that same horror she used to get in our early days and I'd
know that what I risked and how it would have shamed us both.
Even now, as gray pushes its way through my inky tresses in
abundance, she lays with me because I command it and for no other
reason. We rest quietly as I catch my wind. She is still beside me,
waiting for me to go again. To instruct how I want her, or just to
have it done which is more the case.
In a moments folly, I break my usual armor down to say what's been
in my heart for years. Of course it comes out harsh, barely a hint of
gentleness in my tone - but all I fear I am capable of now. She
shifts a little under the covers and I feel her hand move towards me,
as if to stroke my back. But the smaller hand doesn't quite connect
and I sense the limb has pulled away. She believes my words I know,
but she too because of what has been our lot, is capable of nothing
more than silent obedience.
I do not blame her, I have showed her no compassion, no light for
all my dark. And now with our lives closer to ending than beginning,
I can no more turn and face her with my words than she can initiate a
gesture that speaks of her own free will.
She prepares to leave me as I am apparently done with her for the
night. I don't know why I still can't say;
'I want you to sleep here - its half your bed anyway.'
But I can't. Instead I reach back and snare her wrist, a powerful
grip that she knows better than to argue with.
"I'm not done." I say, though I doubt how convincingly. We
are both exhausted and I no where near as virile as I was in my
youth. I ponder whether she truly believes that. Or if over the years
she has learned to read between my words as I have forced her to.
I feel her settle back, waiting.
I picture her behind me, the expression I know she maintains even
in the darkness. She has practiced it for decades and got it, I
think, to a point that nothing - not even I can shake.
Her hands move again and I know they are clasped together resting
low on her belly. Soft hands, supple from the cream she rubs into
them every day. Her body has filled out in places that once would
have meant it was time to cast her free. Her hair too fights to
maintain its gold and she squints whenever she reads too long at
But I kid no one, especially myself, to think that another could
satisfy that part of me I do not leave on her skin or within the
My heart is as much her chattel as the body of a slave is mine.
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