As soon as I started trying to go to bed last night, ideas started popping into my head for this installment. So, rather than doing the responsible thing and going to bed early to make up for having had only 4 hours of sleep last night (the meeting with the architect went well, by the way), I’m going to write some more!
…and now that it’s 2:40 AM, I’m still not done with this installment, so we’ll call this part 1, and the rest can be part 2…to be written at a later date.
After a few steps, you regain your breath, take your arm from around Bulkun’s neck, and trudge along with him. As you walk along the well-worn path that joins yours and several other villages to the makeshift dock where the furs your tribe catches are traded for spices and tools made of metal—a resource the forest doesn’t provide. Were this any other day, you might well be on your way to represent your tribe at the docks, to haggle and try to secure the best bargains for your kinsmen. But today, well… Today isn’t any other day.
You sigh, your eyes picking up on subtle but familiar landmarks, like the way that root crosses the street just so; you tripped on it when you were young, and your friends all laughed at you. At least you didn’t drop your furs! And there’s the withered, old tree, burnt by lightning ages ago. You and Janus got in your first fight there, and you became best friends afterwards. And there’s the rock where your grandfather sat to rest so many years ago. As you pass by it, you’re almost certain you can feel him still sitting there, making wry remarks about how the furs have gotten heavier than when he was a boy.
“Hey! Are you deaf or something?”
You gasp, startled, and look up to see one of the Schwarzfuß warriors looking at you with a mixture of amusement and indignation played out over his ursine face. You can’t help but smile at seeing her; Mila found you after your fight with Janus and helped stop your nose from bleeding. While neither of you goes out of your way to see each other, you’re almost guaranteed to run into each other on trade-days.
“Helloooo,” she says, waving a large, black paw in front of your face and grinning. “Man, you were really out of it! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!” She frowns thoughtfully. “The traders won’t be here for another sennight at least; what brings you to the docks?” She cracks a grin. “Did you just come here to see me?” she asks—hopefully, it seems to you.
“Vales,” Bulkun says over his shoulder, “Do not tarry.”
Your face clouds. You feel that tightness in your chest again. You shake your head violently and dart away from Mila before you lose your composure. Gritting your teeth, you blow out a few breaths to get yourself back under control; rough day or not, this is not the way you want her to remember you!
You spot movement out of the corner of your eye and sigh; Mila has caught up to you and is looking at you, perplexed.
“Hey, what gives?” she demands, matching your pace. “Who’s your friend?”
You lower your eyes and hang your head, your ears drooping. You move your lips, but nothing comes out. You sigh, frustrated, knowing that she’s not going to leave you alone until you tell her. The thought crosses your mind that Bulkun might not approve of you speaking out of turn. You give him a cautious glance.
“The she-warrior asked you a question, Vales; it may be permissible in the hvithale tribe to ignore questions one does not wish to answer, but as long as you serve me, you will reply promptly, succinctly, and truthfully.”
Mila does a double-take. “Serve? Vales? That’s not your name; your name is—”
Bulkun stops abruptly, and you nearly bump into him as he turns to face Mila head-on. “As long as he serves me, Miss, his name is Vales. And, given that is likely to be a very long time, whatever other name you think you know him by, you might as well forget.”
With that, he turns and continues walking, leaving Mila gaping and you rubbing your shoulder uncomfortably.
“Vales, do not tarry!”
“I’m sorry,” you manage, and then rush to catch back up.
“Sorry?” Mila asks, matching pace with you once again. “Sorry for what?”
You huff. Will this never end?
“I’m a concubine,” you say, your eyes firmly staring at the ground in front of you.
“And a fine one you shall be, Vales. You have much to learn, but your first service to me was quite pleasing, considering your lack of experience,” Bulkun interjects, making you redden and want to hide behind the nearest tree.
“No, no, Vales!” he says, stopping once again, whistling to stop the rest of the elk, and turning to face you and Mila.
“This is your friend, yes, Vales?” he asks.
You swallow and nod, still avoiding Mila’s gaze.
“Then you must proudly demonstrate your skills! You would show off a kill you had made, would you not? Or a clever deduction? Come, now, present yourself to me the way you did earlier, and show her what an excellent concubine you are!”
You balk, your eyes darting to Mila, who is staring, mouth open, at you.
“Come, Vales! I command it!” Bulkun says firmly.
You close your eyes, your face and ears burning, and as if moving through cool molasses, you move in front of him, your knees bend, and your mouth moves towards his crotch. His malehood pokes out, waiting for you to grant it the reverence you gave it earlier.
But you can feel Mila’s eyes burning into the back of your head. You’ve already lost your family, your friends, your tribe. You can’t lose her, too!
“Now, Vales!” Bulkun says, shoving your head down, driving his penis between your lips and teeth.
As much as you licked and swallowed around his member earlier, you would think that you’d have gotten used to his smell, that your ministrations might have washed away some of the ingredients that gave him that pungent, masculine scent. But it’s as if his body’s main task is to produce more musk. If it was strong before, it’s twice as strong now. The smell immediately makes your eyes glaze over and your mouth drool. Without thinking, you spread your teeth and cup his balls, welcoming his member as it extends fluidly into your mouth. Your mind goes hazy, and once again, all you can think about is surrendering to him, pleasuring him, fulfilling his every sexual need. Your tongue begins to loll around his shaft, and your head begins to bob in time. You wrap your lips around your teeth to let you squeeze the base of his shaft each time you bob backwards, and your hands reach up to cup and gently caress his large orbs, still just as heavy as they were before. You feel the pressure on the back of your head relax as he basks in the pleasure you’re giving him, and then you feel his fingers squeeze tightly.
Yes, you think. Please, yes…
He grants your request, but this time, you know what’s coming and close off your throat and sinuses with your tongue. A sharp burst of semen pierces into your tongue, covering your mouth with that same bitter, tingly taste from before. Before you can react, another burst just as strong as the first follows, and then a third, less intense burst, and then finally, a light pulse. He sighs in pleasure and withdraws his penis, leaving your cheeks puffed full of elk essences.
“Swallow, Vales,” he says. “You must consume my essence and let it nourish you.”
Still not quite adjusted to the strange taste and stranger feeling, you cock your head sideways, grimace, and gulp a few times, smacking in distaste.
That stuff tastes weird and feels icky—why did I want him to cum?
“You—”
Mila’s faltering voice interrupts you and drags you unpleasantly back into the present. You open your mouth and then close it, unable to say anything.
The bear takes a breath and lets it out. “I see, then,” she says. Her tone is sad, but also reproachful.
“Mila, I–I can explain,” you say desperately.
She holds up her paw. “Your body has said more than enough.”
You blink, taken aback, and look around yourself, not sure what made her say that. But as your eyes travel between your legs, you sigh, defeated: your legs are spread, and your penis is throbbing, making yet another damning pool on the ground between your thighs. You hang your head.
“I take it you’ve been exiled, then?” she asks, her eyes searching you for a modicum of good news.
“Not in as many words,” you reply, “But effectively, yes.”
“Your poor parents,” she says, shaking her head.
“They will retain their good name,” you answer. “The Matriarch has ensured that my punishment allows them to retain their honor, and me as well, but”—you swallow, choking down your feelings—”I must serve Bulkun, my master, until he sells me or releases me.”
Mila purses her lips and nods slowly. “I see. Well, best of luck to you…Vales…”
Without warning, she reaches forward and wraps you in a hug. But before you can react, let alone hug her back, she releases you, turns on heel, and stalks quickly down the path, not once looking back.
“Come, Vales,” Bulkun says. “We have tarried too long already.”
He turns to go, and you rise, cursing your still-erect prick as you follow behind him. Though you were torn up over leaving your village, now you want to run ahead, to get away from this place with so many memories of things that you will never experience in the same way again. You would have preferred not to see Mila. No, more accurately, you would rather that she hadn’t seen you…like this. You would rather to have disappeared, to have left without her knowing of your shameful position now.
“You must take pride, Vales, or you will not survive your concubinage long,” Bulkun says over his shoulder.
You say nothing; how can you take pride when your own body exposes and debases you so much? How can you take pride in serving another…another male?
That thought absorbs you for the rest of the journey to the docks, pricking your mind over and over with cruel taunts and replaying the crueler looks your former tribe gave you. Shoulders sagging, you gasp abruptly as Bulkun comes to a stop and you nearly bump into him.
“Come, Vales. Into the boat.”
You glance up at Bulkun, who inclines his head towards the little dinghy. You have to admit, you’ve never been in a boat before, and the moment you step into it and it rocks to the side, you yelp in surprise. The warriors laugh, but Bulkun quickly grabs you by the shoulders, steadies you, lets the boat quit rocking, and then slowly puts your weight back on your feet and lets you sit on the bench.
With that, he nods, and two of the warriors jump nimbly in on either side of you and take up oars. Bulkun steps in next, occupying the bench facing you, and two more rowers move in beside him. The remaining warriors—of which there are at least two dozen—remain standing on the shore.
Without a word, the rowers shove off the shallow beach and maneuver the dinghy into the middle of the river. Then with almost silent, precise movements, the oars dip into the water, and like a dog paddling, the two oars in front alternate with the two oars in back, moving the boat forward with a brisk, slightly shuddering gait.
For a moment, the feel of the breeze on the back of your neck and seeing the twin shores going by so quickly on either side of you makes you forget your predicament, and you can’t help but marvel at how fast and effortlessly you’re moving! Still, it’s a little unnerving moving backwards, and you crane your neck over your shoulder to see what lies ahead. A sharp bend in the river a little ways ahead obscures your view, but you look forward to it with anticipation; this could possibly be the furthest you’ve ever been away from your village, and certainly the furthest you’ve traveled by water.
“Vales,” Bulkun says, pulling you back into the moment.
Your head whips around to glance up at him, and then you avert your eyes.
“A point of decorum, Vales,” the elk chieftain says. “When we are traveling like this, take note. The rowers all have their tasks: theirs is to drive the boat forward, swiftly and silently like you see. Mine is to steer, or, if I have a helmsman with me, to direct him where to go. And you, Vales, have a task to perform, as well. What do you think it is?”
You hesitate; your gut twists, certain that it has something to do with being a concubine, but you desperately hope that you’re wrong, that there’s some other—any other—useful function you can perform.
“Uh, I can…relieve one of the rowers?” you ask hopefully. “I–I may not put up much of a fight, but I have plenty of strength.”
Bulkun shakes his head. “No, Vales. The rowers have rowed from the day they were able; they have had years of practice in the proper technique, the proper timing, the proper force. If you were to take the place of one of them, we would surely begin going in circles because you applied too much or too little force, give away our position because you slapped the water with your oar, or at the very best lose speed because your timing is not right. No, you must leave the rowing to those whose task it is to row. And before you think of suggesting that you can help with my job, let me assure you, Vales, I have been chieftain of this clan since before your father fertilized your mother. I know with absolute certainty that you know nothing of leading a clan; you know nothing of tactics beyond trapping the occasional dimwitted, frightened rabbit; you know nothing of seafaring, and you know nothing of my clan or its members, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their motivators.”
You open your mouth to protest, but he silences you, saying, “If you did, you would not have so rashly suggested replacing one of the rowers; you would have known that a rower is the best tribesman at rowing, and a rower is at his best when he is rowing.”
You close your mouth and wait for him to tell you what he thinks you should be doing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits back and fixes you with a serene but expectant stare, somewhat reminiscent of the Matriarch’s, but with more patience and less severity. Nevertheless, as he rests his hands on the bench on either side of himself, his huge biceps and bulging chest convey quite clearly the degree of control he has. He doesn’t need to be aggressive or severe about it; when you’re both the strongest and smartest in the group, you don’t have to rely on threats.
In short, without him saying another word, you know that he’s already beaten you, that he can wait as long as it takes for you to accept it, and to acknowledge that he has asked a question of you that you must answer.
“I’m…to be a concubine, then?” you murmur.
Bulkun brightens. “Yes, Vales! Very good,” he says, leaning forward to clap you on the shoulder. “And as such, you must at all times make yourself appealing to me and to the others that would look on you.”
You swallow. “How—how do I do that?” you ask reluctantly.
“You must sit as I am sitting now, Vales,” he replies. “See? I am already demonstrating. Spread your legs wide apart, and show off your malehood. Just as you have done twice today already, let your pink emerge from your white and tan and show your devotion.”
“But I didn’t do it on purpose!” you blurt. “How can I make myself get erect on command?”
“Have no fear, Vales; there will be help for that once we reach the village. For now, I will be satisfied to see you try. Come, come: spread your legs and thrust your hips forward.”
Feeling the eyes of all the rowers on you, you close your eyes, force your legs apart, and shudder as you push your hips forward.
“No, no! Vales, just as you thrust your hips out, you must thrust your chin out, too! You must be proud of your role. See? Look at the rowers on either side of you: their chests swell, not only with exertion, but with pride in their tasks! You must show the same pride, if not because you take pride in yourself, then because I command you to be proud. And if you do not feel truly proud, pretend that you do; eventually, you will believe yourself.”
“But master—” you protest.
“Do not argue, Vales. Come: stick out your chin, stick out your chest. Look masculine!”
Damn it all…
“Yes! Just like that, Vales,” Bulkun says, apparently very pleased. “When you are not otherwise performing service, this is the posture you shall adopt. But keep your eyes open. If you cannot appear proud, then at least appear angry; confidence will come in time, but until then, glare at anyone who looks at you; dare them to speak ill of your body or of your role.”
Finally, something you can get behind! The glare you give him makes him laugh and slap his leg.
“Yes, Vales, that will do. But look—we have arrived already.”
You look over your shoulder and gasp; there is water all around you, and the shore is suddenly far away in all directions. And directly behind you is a large ship; its sides tower over you, and its mast juts dizzyingly into the sky.
As gently as a feather, the dinghy rotates and brushes broadside up against the ship. The rowers store their oars and take hold of ropes thrown down off the side of the ship, steadying the dinghy for disembarkation.
“Go on, Vales,” Bulkun says, gesturing to a rope ladder. “Climb up and then kneel as I have shown you, facing the ladder, and await my instructions.”
This is really real, isn’t it? There’s no escaping once I get on that…that ship. You sigh. Who am I kidding? There’s no escaping now. Even if I jumped overboard, I can’t swim.
Swallowing hard, you get unsteadily to your feet. The weight of the other crewmen helps steady the boat, and you reach over to the ladder and begin hauling yourself up it. The way it twists and heaves in response to your weight is unnerving, but at least it doesn’t feel like it’s going to throw you in the water the way the dinghy did when you were getting onto it. You feel a humid breeze blow against you as you climb steadily up. Though the sides seemed to tower over you before, the climb is easy, and within less than a minute, you climb over the side of the ship and scurry out of the way of the rower that follows right after you.
“Hands on deck!” he barks, and out of every door, cubby, and port on the ship, elk dressed as sailors, warriors, or merchants come out and line the edge of the deck, all standing at attention.
Your jaw drops a little, seeing so many elk there, and with such discipline. Your tribe’s—your former tribe’s—laws may be strict, but you’ve never stood on pomp and circumstance; people obey the laws, respect the Matriarch, and otherwise go about their business. This—this is completely new. And very impressive.
No wonder they were able to take over us so easily…
The rower clears his throat, looks directly at you, and growls, “Hands. On. Deck.”
Not sure what to do, you scurry to your feet and do your best to salute and stand at attention, mimicking the other sailors.
A blow to the stomach doubles you over, and a sweep under your legs drops you to your knees.
“Foolish buck! Did you forget the orders the chieftain gave you?” he barks. “Assume your position, concubine!”
You move your jaw, but nothing comes out. Suddenly you realize what he means, and wincing from the blow to the gut and the sharp rap of the deck on your knees, you hurry to spread your legs and thrust out your hips. But, embarrassed at having been scolded, you instinctively avert your eyes, mumbling that you’re sorry.
“Assume the position, you idiotic whore! Thrust out your chin; thrust out your chest! Glare! I said, glare!” the rower bellows, backhanding you.
“Enough, Hengthun,” the chieftain says as he comes over the side of the boat. His voice is firm but not harsh. “I am sure the concubine means no disrespect.”
Turning to you and kneeling, he reaches behind you to push forward on the space between your shoulder blades while pushing back on your shoulder with the other hand, forcing your chest outward, and then turning and lifting your chin to face him.
“Isn’t that right, Vales?”
You swallow and try to turn your head, but he firmly keeps your chin facing him.
“Yes, master,” you murmur, your eyes darting side-to-side, trying to avoid his gaze.
“Glare, Vales,” he says. “Your role is not to be sorry or to feel ashamed or embarrassed, whether because of modesty or because you were called out. Your shame and embarrassment serve me no purpose. Your role is to obey, to grant me and my tribe the sexual release to which we are entitled. I have been patient with you, but that patience has reached its end. If you cannot help feeling ashamed, then hide it; I never want to see it again. These men here”—he gestures with his head to the sailors all standing at attention—”all know of the punishment I will mete out if you disappoint me again. Now, glare.”
More from fear and desperation than from actually feeling any less embarrassed, you glare at him for all you’re worth.
“Good.”
Turning to the rest, he says, “We make for home. Dismissed.”
There’s immediately a flurry of activity on deck as the sailors lift and stow the dinghy that brought you here, fix the masts and rigging, and begin weighing anchor. Uncertain of what else to do, you remain kneeling where you are, your eyes darting from elk to elk, doing your best to glare if you happen to make eye contact.
“Come, Vales.”
You get to your feet and turn to follow the chieftain. The rower who berated you walks past you to address him.
“First Mate Hengthun,” Bulkun says, “What is it?”
“The men, sir; they have seen the concubine and wonder whether you will be sharing the spoils per the usual custom?”
“Indeed,” Bulkun replies. “But let it wait until we get underway. The concubine’s tribe—these Hvithale—have troubled me greatly with their backwards ways, and I am anxious to wipe clean the slate of his mind and to give him aid in properly showing his devotion until he is able to do it himself.”
“Yes, sir.”
The first mate walks off, and Bulkun leads you into his stateroom. The moment you enter, he closes the door behind you.
“Ah, that mouth of yours is quite luxurious, Vales,” he says, “But my loins crave a deeper draining. As a show of respect for your tribe, I did not take it while we were there, but now we have some time to ourselves, and I intend to feel myself completely and deeply sated.”
You gape. All these times he’s gotten off, and he’s still not done?!
“Go, Vales,” he says, gesturing to the bed. “I want you to get into position for me to breed you properly.”
Your stomach turns; is this really going to be your life from now on?
You must not dishonor your parents, your tribe, or yourself, you think. Think of the alternative. You have a point; at least there’s a chance of seeing your parents again if you do well. And, in time, maybe the sting of this humiliation will dissipate for everybody, and it might even be a pleasant encounter. But it all hinges on you being a good concubine.
Nodding to yourself and exhaling softly, you climb up onto the bed. It is much thicker and softer than the hay mattresses you sleep on at home; you’re amazed at how comfortable it is.
“No, Vales, I will not breed you like a wild animal,” Bulkun says, shaking his head at seeing you on all fours. “As you are my concubine, I wish to feel your submission completely. Lie on your stomach and spread your legs. Rock your hips forward to give me clear passage, and let your malehood mark upon the sheets the degree of your devotion to me.”
The last part doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to you—what is it with this “devotion” he keeps talking about, anyway?—but at least his instructions are clear enough, though you’re not sure how lying on your stomach will be any different from being up on all fours. Breeding is breeding, isn’t it?
But as you lie on your stomach and feel the soft covers against your sheath, as you rock your hips forward and feel the air brush over your ass and the sheets tug at your sheath, exposing the tip of your prick, you suddenly realize what he means. Your ass is exposed and so vulnerable that even the air is free to caress and violate you as it pleases. Your malehood—your most private part—is being forced out of its protective sheath and made to press against these foreign materials.
And as the realization of just how vulnerable you feel washes over you, you feel his weight on you. You feel his legs spread yours further apart. You feel his chest press against your back, pinning you down. You swallow and squeeze your eyes closed, your lip trembling as you realize how violated you feel without his malehood having even touched you. You feel worse than helpless; you feel exposed—even more exposed, naked, and vulnerable than you felt standing in front of your tribe and parents, you feel like you want to withdraw into yourself, to shut out his body, to snatch vainly at any scrap of dignity you have left.
His penis slips between your buttocks. It’s hot, slimy, wet, and unyielding. You shudder as it slips into such an intimate place and grazes over your anus. You try to flinch away, but his weight has you immobilized under him.
“Rock forward, Vales,” he says, his voice calm and commanding. “Submit to your master, and let him enter.”
You thought you already had rocked forward; you’ve felt the sheets tug your sheath back and expose your malehood, and you’ve felt the lascivious air groping your private places. You are afraid to do as he commands. You are afraid of the vulnerability. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears.
But Bulkun has spoken, and he will be heeded.
Your fear serves him no purpose; your role is to obey.
You bite your lip; it quivers between your teeth.
You rock forward.
Your penis slips completely out of its sheath and glides over the sheets, leaving a glistening trail under you. Your hips rotate, slipping past Bulkun’s throbbing member. Your anus slips past the tip of his prick, lightly catches it, and angles it into you. You can feel his tip lightly spreading your anus, effortlessly holding you open and making your vulnerability complete; your ass is his now, and he is free to push forward anytime, to bury himself balls-deep inside of you, to paint your insides with his essence.
You let out a sob in spite of yourself. The sheer intensity of the helpless feeling you’re experiencing and the anticipation—the knowing that he is going to exercise his right over you but being unable to hasten or delay it—is too much to bear. Your chest heaves, and another sob racks your body.
“That’s it, Vales,” Bulkun whispers in your ear. “Submit to me.”
With that, he slides balls-deep into you in one fluid motion, stretching your anus and instantly making you feel full and—strangely—complete?
You stop mid-sob, bewildered by this new emotion. How can you feel anything pleasant when you are in such a helpless position? How can knowing that you are being taken by another male—raped in the sense that the alternative to submitting is a fate worse than death—grant you peace?
You don’t have time to ponder it. As smoothly and easily as he went in, Bulkun pulls out completely, leaving a deep void in your gut, as if the best meal of your life was suddenly ripped from you. You let out a faltering gasp. How can you feel so empty now? Tears come to your eyes; the bewildering procession of emotions was bad enough, but now, when the aggressor that took your virginity has left, how can you possibly feel a sense of loss?
But once again, Bulkun does not leave you time to come to terms with your emotions. He slides in again, and again a delayed wave of satisfaction follows, hitting just after he begins to pull out. Before the wave of loss hits, he’s already begun pushing in again, getting faster and faster, until you can’t tell whether you should feel satisfied or deprived.
What you do feel, though, is an increasing sense of being overwhelmed. It starts as a dull concern at the edge of your consciousness, but as the waves of joy and sorrow crash into each other and the physical sensation of feeling him sliding against your tender anus build in intensity and chaos, panic grips your throat. You gasp and begin to hyperventilate, afraid of the intensity of this new feeling, afraid of how fast it grows, afraid of how desperately out of control you feel. You clutch the sheets, and when that doesn’t save you, you bite down on them, letting out a panicked scream as Bulkun thrust harder and faster into you.
“That’s right, Vales,” he says, his voice shaky but surprisingly steady for as much as he’s exerting himself. “Submit.”
He thrusts harder and faster still. Your heart is racing, and your breath is keeping pace with it. You feel as though your head will burst. Utter loss of control is imminent. You’ve never experienced loss of control like this! What lies on the other side? What if you pass out? What if—
The intensity reaches a fever pitch, and you scream again, your voice reaching a pitch it hasn’t reached since you were a fawn. Bulkun slams into you again and again, his penis a blur as it rubs your ass raw. You see a blinding flash of light.
Sudden darkness. Sudden, utter calm. Peace. Contentedness. An overwhelming sense of belonging.
Your mind goes blank. Those pleasant emotions fade into nothingness.
“Wake up, Vales…”
The sound is far away.
“I am very pleased with you.”
Your ears stir first, and then your eyebrows.
“You have shown great devotion to me, and I am deeply honored.”
Your eyes flutter open. You suck in a breath—how long has it been since you last breathed? Things begin to come back into focus. You’re in Bulkun’s stateroom.
Lying on his bed.
He’s lying on top of you.
Something wet is trickling down the crack of your ass.
You wince, all of your muscles aching from tensing so much, and try to move.
Something sticky and wet clings to your fur and to your penis.
You gasp. Did you…cum?
“I knew you were the one, Vales,” Bulkun says above you. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were the one.”
“What—what happened?”
“You submitted, Vales. You let go of your fear, and you allowed yourself to be pushed past the Great Terror. Oh, Vales, I know that someone coming from your backwards tribe could never understand what this means, but it means that you were destined to be mine, Vales.”
“I—I don’t understand. Did I…pass out?”
“Yes. And you might continue to do that for some time, Vales. But, I hope that one day you can submit without passing out. Only then can you truly experience the full splendor of your submission.”
“Did I…cum?”
“Spectacularly, Vales. You proclaimed your devotion loudly, all over the sheets.”
You let your head fall back onto the bed. You don’t understand a word of what he’s saying. But you remember how you felt, just as things went black.
You want to feel that way again.
A knock at the door startles you.
“We’ve made way, sir,” says Hengthun.
“Very good. He’ll be out in a moment.”
“Yes, sir. Uh—”
“What is it, Hengthun?”
“Congratulations, sir.”
“Thank you, Hengthun.”
The door closes.
“What do you mean, ‘he’ll be out’?” you ask.
“You’ve got to service the rest of the crew,” Bulkun replies. “That’s a concubine’s job.”
“But”—you hesitate—”I’m your concubine; that’s the punishment I was assigned.”
“A chieftain shares all of his spoils with his tribe,” Bulkun says. “That is the Reldehorn way.”
“But—what were you saying about how I was destined to be yours?”
“You will share a special relationship with me, Vales,” Bulkun answers, “But that does not excuse you from your duties as concubine, just as my special relationship with you does not excuse me from my duties as chieftain. Try not to conflate sex and relationships. I know that your tribe does things differently. You will learn, in time. For now, just do as you’re told, and it will make sense to you one day.”
You sigh. You don’t like the idea of having to please the whole crew.
And, if you’re being honest, you want to stay here with Bulkun. You may not understand this destiny stuff or the weird emphasis he has on “submitting” and “devotion”, but you do know that the feeling you had—that contentment—was unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, and somehow, you know you’ll only experience it with him; something tells you the others won’t stir that in you.
“Before you go, Vales, I want you to receive my mark. It will alert the others so that they will not seek a special relationship with you.”
You cringe. “Is this like…a brand?” you ask.
“No, Vales. It will not hurt. I want you to lie on your side.”
Nervous with uncertainty, you do as you’re told, and he moves in, spooning you from behind.
“Spread your legs, Vales.”
You lift up your free leg, and Bulkun slides his penis effortlessly and painlessly up into your ass.
“You may lower your leg.”
As you do, you suddenly feel a warmth spreading inside of you.
“I want you to hold this in as long as you can, Vales,” Bulkun instructs. “If it comes out while you are fulfilling your duty, so be it, but hold it in as long as you can.”
The warmth continues to fill you, and you grimace as you feel your stomach bloating a little bit.
“Remember: hold it in,” Bulkun says again, and with that, he pulls out.
You wince at feeling a bit of a sting right at your anus. A strong, acrid and musky smell hits your nostrils.
“They should know the moment you go down,” Bulkun says, satisfied. “When you are finished pleasing the men, return to me.”
You clench your buttocks closed and grit your teeth; the pressure inside of you wants to be let out, and the sloshing sound your stomach makes as you crawl off the bed is unnerving. You get to your feet, wobble a little, and then catch your balance.
“Go now, Vales. And well-done.”
Scatterbrained Ramblings 