The Turkish Ransom (closed for Monique_Minx)

[Tio_Narratore]

The Crusade had been good to Dionysiac Mirabond, good in many ways. He was a Chevalier to the Archbishop of Arles when the call went out for men at arms to free the Holy Land from the Seljuks, and, under the direction of his patron, he raised a light cavalry of more than a hundred and fifty lancers and crossbowmen. His cavalry, with the rest of Archbidop Aicard’s forces, joined the army of Raymond de Saint-Gilles.

His cavalry was successful in all their battles, often outflanking the Turks and gaining land for the Crusade. And loot for themselves. Gold and goods. Each soldier returned with more wealth than had required him to serve and each also gained a prized weapon, a dagger of Damascene steel, sharper than any European blade. Dionysiac’s great prize, however, was neither gold nor goods; it was a Seljuk general, the favorite of the Caliph, captured during a surprise flank attack on the Turkish forces.

On their return to Arles, the Chevalier Miramond was raised to Marqués of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, and charged with the protection of the Camargue, Aigues-Mortes and of Arles itself from invasion by sea. He garrisoned two hundred mounted men-at-arms in Les Saintes-Maries, and another two hundred at Aigues-Mortes, all good chevaliers, or nearly of that status, capable not only of fighting, but of training and leading the general levy. All was calm since their return from the campaign, and now he awaited the Seljuk emissary with a ransom for their general.

That day was soon to come, and three corsairs were spotted making their way to the harbor of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Miramond’s deputies met the contingent at the wharf and led them, and the ransom their men carried, to the Marqués’ stronghold.

The Seljuk general was enjoying a meal with his captor when his ransom arrived. Miramond had kept his captive well, as would be expected; a spacious and well-appointed room with fine food, following his religious laws, and two young handmaidens to see to his needs. Both men greeted the Emissary and his deputies. After the formalities were observed, the ransom was brought in for Miramond’s approval. As he rose to take the seat at the head of the hall, it was clear why his men had nick-named him “Femna-pièch”- “broad chest.” And not only was he broad of chest, his six-foot tall frame towered over the Turks. He sat, and the first of the offerings were brought before him.

“Ten chests of Damascene swords, fine cloths, and other goods, for your Lordship,” the Emissary announced.

Miramond quickly scanned and nodded his approval.

The next part of the ransom was brought in. Another ten large chests were brought before the Marqués.

“Gold and silver and jewels,” declared the Turk.

Much of it seemed to be looted from Christian Churches. Miramond reflected on how the gifting of such to the right ecclesiastical authorities would gain him favor.

“And now,” the Emissary announced, “ninety nubile female slaves at your Lordship’s disposal.”

Rows of young women, clad in diaphanous dress and chained in lines of ten, were brought before the Marqués. He looked on approvingly.

“Lastly,” began the Seljuk, “Ten virgins for your Lordship’s personal service.”

Ten attractive young women were marched before Miramond. His smile at the sight - and the prospect - clearly showed his approval. He rose and inspected the girls, one by one; all were fit to serve as whores to any Lord. The inspection finished, he addressed them.

“Who among you wishes to be the first I deflower, to be the premier concubine of the Lord of this estate?

 

[monique_minx]

For some of the women by her side, this may not have seemed so bad. To be traded as a slave to a wealthy French noble rather than toil in fields, it might even be a step up in the world. For Safiye bint Harun al-Konya, she could be walking to her own public execution. Her father was a vizier to the Seljuk Empire, she was supposed to be safe from such concerns but when they couldn't round out the number of virgins for the ransom, they began to pluck from noble houses. Her father was considered generous and selfless for offering his daughter even though she'd been betrothed to another.

'Yes, he was the selfless, the generous...and I, the meat.' She thought to herself as she entered the stronghold with the other women.

At only 18, she was surely beautiful. Almond shaped eyes of hazel-green beneath thick black lashes set into sun-warmed marble skin that could be considered flawless, untainted. Her high cheekbones framed an elegant face complete with a softly aquiline nose that bespoke her eastern heritage. Her silk kaftan was a pomegranate red, embroidered with tiraz bands of gold thread that crossed her sleeves. She wore a light muslin veil in a yashmak-style, a requirement for travelling and diplomacy intended to represent her chastity, dignity and seclusion. Her hair was so black it often seemed blue in the right lighting and was loose down her back but still in clean, well-kept condition.

She'd not have chosen her clothing, she'd begged her father not to let her stand out from the others but he'd insisted it was somehow important and her concerns went by the wayside. Safiye displayed none of the apprehension she felt, years of training inside the women's court had taught her to carefully school her expression as she was finally led before the Marqués himself. Still, she would consider him imposing and several inches taller than she was at a glance. She coolly held his gaze as he walked the line of virgins including her, her back straight and chin level as it would be on any other diplomatic mission. Though, this would surely be her last.

When he was done at last, he posed his question for the virgins alone and started them turning, looking at each other. Safiye couldn't help but snort in both surprise and disgust.

"Is that a prize my Lord? Or a punishment?" She asked aloud, stirring whispers that died as swiftly as they began.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

The whispers were punctuated by a loud crack as the slave driver raced up to the woman and brought his rod down so hard across her cheek that it tore off her veil and almost sent her reeling to the stone floor.

“Küstah orospu,” he shouted.

“You insolent bitch,” echoed the Emissary. “Down on the floor and pray for forgiveness.”

He motioned to his guards, and two of them forced her to her knees. They turned her hands palm down on the stone, and each guard placed one of his feet firmly on a hand to hold it in place. Another came up and stepped on the small of her back, pressing down hard to keep her knees and toes on the floor. The Emissary himself took a position at her head and stepped roughly on her neck to keep her forehead and nose to the stone floor.

“One hundred,” he ordered as he looked to the driver.

The slave driver removed the young woman’s sandals, baring the soles of her feet to his rod. One blow after the other, counting out the blows. Each strike was sharp, but only enough to sting. Each strike added to the ones before, though, was horrific, and by the tenth, welts were forming on her soles. Twenty, and purple bruises appeared. Fifty, and welts were torn open and bleeding. At the hundredth, her soles were nothing but swollen, bloody pulp. The Marqués just watched and listened, never having seen such extreme bastinado.

“Now, slave,” the Emissary called out as the driver counted out the last strike, “you can crawl into heaven and cede your virginity to some holy martyr.”

With that, he took his own foot from the girl’s neck and nodded to one of the guards. The guard drew his scimitar and yanked her head up by the hair. As the blade neared her throat, Miramond intervened.

“Hold!,” he shouted, and his voice, strong and insistent, stopped the guard just as the steel touched her skin, drawing a thin line of scarlet across her flesh.

“I allowed you to punish her because her insolence reflected on you,” he said, his enraged eyes focusing on the Emissary, “but her virginity is mine, not some martyr’s ghost. And her life is mine, not yours.”

He looked to his deputy who immediately drew a dagger and held it to the Turkish general’s throat.

“If you wish to give me the lifeless body of a slave, then you shall return with the lifeless body of a commander.”

The Emissary called his men off the girl.

“Now you may leave,” the Marqués ordered, rather than suggested.

As the Turks left with their ransomed commander, Miramond spent a few moments in contemplation, of the slave girl, of her arrogance, of her beauty. As she lay on the floor, her feet bloodied and swollen, her neck still trickling a thin stream of blood, he addressed her.

“Girl, you asked if to be the first to lose her virginity to me, your master, was a prize or a punishment. Well, tomorrow evening you’ll have your answer. You shall be the first.”

He turned then to the other virgins.

“Take care of this one of you, and on the morrow, after evening meal, prepare her for her first night in the manner you would in your homeland.”

“Take them to the hall and find them bedding and food,” he commanded, of a deputy “Appoint two of our maids to see to their needs,”

 

[monique_minx]

Safiye was unprepared for the crack of the rod against her cheek and it very nearly sent her to ground. She cried out and clasped her face, her eyes watered with pain. She heard their curses and felt guards approach her, their grip was unforgiving and she grunted as her knees hit the hard stone floor. She kissed the floor with her forehead and ceded to the weight against her.

'One hundred what?!' She wondered in terror.

She felt her shoes being removed and whimpered in apprehension, the first blow made her jolt and her unasked question was answered within a few strokes. She tried desperately to breathe through all the pain but the more strokes that landed on already injured skin, the worse the pain became and her cries became louder and louder. At some point they turned into full blown screams and her tears flowed freely down her face.

"No more! I beg you! Merhamet!"

Mercy. She begged for mercy.
And then she screamed all over again.

These men wouldn't have laid a finger on her in their homeland and Safiye felt the very real change in her status for the first time. She was practically lifeless when he dragged her up by her hair, the pain incomparable to her bloodied and useless feet. She heard some threat and felt some cold steel but her eyes weren't really seeing, she was in shock at this point. There was an exchange of shouting from the men then and she was released to collapse onto the floor at last. Left to herself for a good long while as some scuffling and exodus occurred.

“Girl, you asked if to be the first to lose her virginity to me, your master, was a prize or a punishment. Well, tomorrow evening you’ll have your answer. You shall be the first.”

She heard his words and had no witty retort, no fight to offer. She tried to peer up at him but her muscles refused to respond to her brain's commands. She passed into blissful unconsciousness as he'd turned to give orders to others.

When she woke, Safiye was in a room she didn't recognise, on a soft bed that wasn't her own. And lords but her body hurt! She touched at her throat where she remembered the kiss of a blade and a sharp pain and found it covered in some bandage that encircled her throat. She threw back the sheet that covered her as she sat up and looked upon her feet as she remembered everything slowly. They were covered in bloodied bandages too, soaked in some poultice by all appearances.

Safiye reached out a hand to her feet but collapsed back onto the bed, crying her eyes out. Tears flooded down over her temples, into her hair and ears. Body wrenching sobs left her, wracking her until she had released everything she had to give.

Safiye didn't recall passing out again but when she awoke, she was fed and given much water before she was told it was time to prepare which came as a shock to her - had it been more than 24 hours already? The other ladies helped relieve her off her under things and Safiye tried to stand but immediately collapsed back onto the bed with a cry. Her poor feet were unable to hold her yet so she leaned back on one untorn heel and two of the ladies took her underarms, helping her hobble to a large basin, big enough for her to sit in. She put her feet up over the side so they'd not be touched as they performed the ghusl - a full body purification that had been meant for her wedding night.

They washed her in water scented with lavender and cleaned her hair before combing it out with rose oil until it fell upon her shoulders in beautiful waves. The rose oil was then applied to her wrists, neck, breasts, navel, inner thighs and behind her knees. The faded henna on her fingertips and palms was redrawn but her feet were left alone. They oiled her like a bride.

She was finally dressed in a light robe of white silk and kohl was applied to the rims of her eyes. The ladies intended to say a long and traditional prayer but Safiye wouldn't allow that.

"This is not my wedding. We say sabr and we are done." She said a quick prayer for patience and endurance.

None of the ladies argued with her even in her wretched state. Safiye opted not to have a veil, traditionally she'd have had the option but the memory of it being struck from her face the day before had her working her bruised jaw and she decided it would feel like a farce or some pointless protection that would not save her. They may anoint her like a bride but this was no covenant - this was conquest.

When she finished the preparations, Safiye sat before the polished silver mirror and appraised herself for a moment. She felt like a sacrifice more than a lover. And once she was in that room, she would be more than at his mercy. Without aid of the ladies, she was still unable to walk even on her single heel. The Emissary had one thing right - she would be crawling for a time to come, even if it wasn't to her death. Finally, she was given Willow bark tea for the pain to help her manage for the rest of the evening. She'd have preferred something stronger but it would dull her senses too much.

"It's time." One of the other virgins murmured to her and loaned her shoulder.

Safiye was aided at a slow hobble towards Miramond's chambers and helped inside, the two ladies stood by her to aid her and allow Dionysiac to see her fully before they'd leave her, waiting to be dismissed. She'd be forced to go to her knees or sit on something once they did leave.

"My Lord." She spoke softly, bowing her head.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

The Marqués was thankful his houppelande covered past his knees; his verga had swollen so with arousal at the woman's cries and sobs that it threatened to tear his codpiece free of his hose. The physical traces of his lust gradually dissipated, but the mental traces stayed with him. Still, it was time for business.

“Cléophas,” he whispered to his first deputy, “send two trusted and capable maids with the virgins. Have them find all they can about the insolent one, and secretively.”

The deputy left on his errand and his fellow stepped up to his Lordship.

“And what of the other offerings, Sire?” he asked.

“It is an abundance, Angelin,” Miramond replied, “and we will need some time to decide. For now, have the chests inventoried and locked in the vault. The only place for ninety slaves now is the great hall. Bed them in there with a contingent of maids and armed guards at the door.”

“We can leave the women chained; that way they can’t escape,” observed the second deputy.

“I was more concerned with keeping the bocs out; there are men here hornier than goats, as you well know.”

The deputy laughed in acknowledgment.

“Cléophas will give you a hand as soon as he returns from his task,” Dionysiac offered as Angelin left.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully for the Marqués and the night as well, save for the thoughts of the coming day and evening. Sunrise, and it was time to freshen and dress for the days work.

Hours were spent in discussion of the disposition of the ransom, and, shortly after midday, Miramond made his preliminary decisions. He addressed the ten virgins first

“I will have four of them,” he declared, “the insolent one and three others of her choice. My deupties shall each have a virgin as will each of the capitani of the cohorts. Cléophas and Angelin will make the choices of the six on the morrow.”

He paused for a moment before taking up the other ransom price.

“Separate the religious gold and silver from the secular and give me the inventory. The religous will fetch us more than its worth in favor from the ecclesiastics. Calculate how much wealth is needed to provide armor to those without in the garrisons so that they may be raised to chevaliers, and attend to it. Of the swords and other goods, some for my manor and shares for those still with us who served in the Crusade.”

Yes, the Marqués of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer knew how to curry favor and how to instill loyalty. And now it was time to hear from Constansia and Sileta, the maids attending to the virgins.

They reported that there were seven lowly virgins in the ransom and that the other three, including his choice, were high born. They filled their naster in on all the details they could glean. He thanked them and dismissed them to return to their charges.

The day came to an end with Miramond dining with his deputies and receiving their reports. Off, then, to his chambers to await his choice of virgins.

He was shoeless and clad in a fresh short tunic and hose with his bulging codpiece clearly evident. His eyes grew wide as his concubine for the night was aided in. The white silk robe clung to her body, highlighting her curves, her face was mesmerizing in its beauty and the intensity of her hazel green eyes was reinforced by kohl lining. And then there was her scent. Attar of roses, creating an atmosphere of fragrance that surrounded her. She was, indeed, beyond merely appealing.

He was impressed, too, at her standing on her bruised and damaged feet, even with the support of the two other girls, and impressed also with her subservient address. He looked to the side of his chamber, where there was a small table with two chairs, one with an embroidered cushion at its foot.

“Help Safiye to her seat,” he told her assistants, “and then you may leave.”

When she had taken her seat, the cushion easing her mangled feet, and her maidens had left, Dionysiac took the seat opposite her.

“Yes, girl,” he said, “I know your name. And you may keep it if you wish. I know more about you as well. I see you speak the Langued’oeil well enough to understand our Langued’oc. I suspect you learn quickly and will soon be well-spoken in our tongue.”

A wine carafe and two silver goblets were on the table; he picked up the carafe and a goblet.

“It’s not wine,” he said. “I know the rules of your religion. It’s lemon water. Take some.”

He filled her goblet and then one for himself.

“You are the daughter of Bahadir, a vizier to the Caliph, and you were betrothed to Aslan, son of Ilknur, the chief Imam. And yet you find yourself given as a small part of the ransom for a commander of the Caliph’s army. I trust your father has at least risen in rank, if not to chief advisor, for the sacrifice of his daughter. You were a great prize to dispose of for the sake of the Caliph’s favor. I trust you appreciate the sacrifice your father made in treating his only daughter as an object to be traded for his own gain.”

He expected his words would sting her heart, but they would also underscore her new position as slave and concubine. He poured some more lemon water into their goblets.

“Since you are now mine,” he began, “and I know who you are, it is only fitting that you should know who your master is.”

“My name is Dionysiac Mirabond,” he continued, “a Chevalier raised to the rank and rule of Marqués of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer for his service in the Crusade. As the Marqués I am charged with the protection of the whole of the Camargue. When you are fit, you will have a tour of the land where your life will now be lived.”

He drained his goblet and set it down sharply on the table.

“But now it is time for you to learn whether your deflowering will be prize or punishment.”

He rose quickly and grasped her around the waist. A quick jerk, and she was sailing through the air to land over his shoulder, her head at his back and her feet at his front. As he carried her to his bed, he felt the press of her perfumed breasts against his back; he found the touch and the scent more than pleasing. Between the posts at the foot of the bed, then, and he tossed her from his shoulder onto the soft, wool-filled, silk-covered mattress. He stood there and doffed his tunic and hose, displaying his broad chest and muscled body. And if she had thought his codpiece bulged from an artifice, she would have been divested of that thought.

 

[monique_minx]

As Miramond was taking her in, she was subtly doing the same to him. Each appraising the other. He was quite appealing - physically. He was clad in less than he had been the day before and she was able to appreciate his physique a little better. He was not the troll, the villain, that she had allowed herself to imagine on the way to the stronghold after all.

Safiye was surprised when she heard him refer to her by name but had to focus completely on getting herself to the gestured seat with the help of the two women. The surprise must have crossed her face because he then pointed it out.

“Yes, girl, I know your name. And you may keep it if you wish. I know more about you as well. I see you speak the Langued’oeil well enough to understand our Langued’oc. I suspect you learn quickly and will soon be well-spoken in our tongue.”

She wanted to express outrage or sarcasm that he'd be so grand as to let her keep her name but Safiye bit her tongue and merely nodded, keen to hear what he had to say. She needed to learn what he had learned about her and what he was willing to tell her about himself. She accepted the goblet tentatively and then relaxed some when he told her it wasn't alcohol. Not that she was devout in her religion, she'd flaunted the rules a time or two but she wouldn't tell him any of that. Teenage rebellion was the same for almost any culture, Safiye had just been more subtle and reserved in hers. Of course, she also didn't want to be that relaxed with her captor. She could have pointed out that sex without marriage was also violating her religion but she reserved her discourse once again.

“You are the daughter of Bahadir, a vizier to the Caliph, and you were betrothed to Aslan, son of Ilknur, the chief Imam. And yet you find yourself given as a small part of the ransom for a commander of the Caliph’s army. I trust your father has at least risen in rank, if not to chief advisor, for the sacrifice of his daughter. You were a great prize to dispose of for the sake of the Caliph’s favor. I trust you appreciate the sacrifice your father made in treating his only daughter as an object to be traded for his own gain.”

Safiye took a sharp intake of breath and clenched her hands at her sides for a moment, trying to maintain control of her emotions. She was certain he meant to rattle her, to degrade her. She would not give him such satisfaction. How he'd learned all about her in such a short time was a mystery but then she'd spent a large portion of the previous 24 hours unconscious and missed everything going on around her. She'd not thought to ask the other ladies anything about this either.

She licked her lips delicately and softly responded, "I hope it serves him, My Lord."

She barely restrained herself from adding, 'it will not serve you.'

“Since you are now mine and I know who you are, it is only fitting that you should know who your master is.”

“My name is Dionysiac Mirabond, a Chevalier raised to the rank and rule of Marqués of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer for his service in the Crusade. As the Marqués I am charged with the protection of the whole of the Camargue. When you are fit, you will have a tour of the land where your life will now be lived.”

His choice of title soured on her ears - Master. She fought the inner turmoil that word caused her. She wondered if that tour was offered to all slaves or if it served any particular purpose beyond knowing her surroundings but she didn't get a chance to ask him as he drained his goblet and stood from the table.

“But now it is time for you to learn whether your deflowering will be prize or punishment.”

She gasped as he lifted her effortlessly over his shoulder, the terror and humiliation of his carry had her hiding beneath her hair as it draped over his back like a cloak. She gripped his shirt simply to feel safer, not that it helped much. Knowing she'd be at his mercy and actually being at his mercy were two different animals. She grunted as she landed on the bed, her robe had ridden up a little and she scurried where she sat to tug it down.

Safiye then watched as he divested himself of his clothing and she saw a naked man before her for the first time. She bit her lip as her eyes travelled over him, his erection quite obvious. Safiye wasn't entirely innocent about men and sex, the older women often imparted their advice on the betrothed and the married women talked behind closed doors quite a lot on the topic. But her gaze was fleeting, she didn't linger on him, it was embarrassing. It felt wrong. Even though she'd known the moment would come. Suddenly her robe and the gömlek beneath it didn't feel like quite enough clothing at all.

"If the question be 'what is it for me', then it is only fair to ask: what is it for you, My Lord? Am I a prize or a punishment?" She asked him gently, her eyes peeking upwards again.

She hoped to stretch out the conversation rather than be relieved of her clothing in short order. Safiye was doubtful that Dionysiac was the self flagellating type but anything was better than nothing and she'd rather not anger him. Of course, she couldn't very well run away from him. Or kick him. Every other thought was a vicious stab or a horrific, salacious intrusion she refused to acknowledge. She'd been a slave for five minutes but a Lady her whole life after all.

"Did you choose me, perhaps, because I could not run from you once they beat me? I must seem the weakest."

But she recalled something then, something that confused her, "To trade a general's life for a single slave's. That's an interesting level of pride, My Lord. How sinful of you..."

She smiled ever so slightly, letting him know she also wasn't oblivious to his religion. She was also testing the waters, she'd never been a slave, she'd never been a slave in a foreign country so she only really knew how to converse as a noble. And, if truth be told, she was also subtly flirting with him. Safiye had been taught to do that when conversing with men, she'd frequently been told to pretend her ideas had come from a man or to feign interest even if she knew a topic backwards. It was a huge bone of contention in the women's court that Safiye both failed and flaunted those ideals. But she figured that flirtation in this situation would be harmless, Miramond would have his way regardless so Safiye had nothing to risk. The illusion of her virginity was already gone.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Miramond was onto her stalling, and decided to partially play along.

“A prize, Safiye,” he replied. “Save for your mangled feet, your are a beauty. I’ll not deny you that. But it’s time to see all of your beauty.”

He took hold of her ankles and yanked so she fell onto her back and her puèja was pulled to the foot of the bed. As her bottom was drawn to the foot of the bed, her clothing slid up her legs and her hips, just exposing her vulva. The Marqués marveled at the sight.

“My Lord,” he exclaimed. “As smooth as alabaster. I’ve heard Muslim women shave there, but this is the first I’ve seen. I rather like it. Perhaps you’re a better prize than I expected. I’d like to see more.”

He slid her robe and her undergown up to her waist and then placed his hands on the inside of her thighs, right next to her vee. He slid his thumbs onto her labia and began slowly and firmly massaging her just below her mound of Venus.

“I will be honest with you, girl,” he said as he looked up from between her legs, “It wasn’t because you were the weakest. It was because you were the strongest. Maybe not the wisest, but the strongest.”

He continued his massage, rubbing her in small circles on either side of her clitoris.

“It may have been foolish to speak out like you did, but it showed you had strength a proper slave would lack.”

His gaze turned to her vulva once more as he addressed her last comment.

“I know in your religion a general - in fact any man - would rate more highly than any woman, least of all a slave, but in mine, death makes all equal - man and woman, lord and slave. And as for women, it was Christ who saved the adulteress from stoning and Christ who welcomed the whore Marie de Magdala into his fold.”

He spread her labia with his fingers and started massaging her clit directly.

“And sin or not, I’d rather put my verga between a young woman’s legs than put it in an old man’s cuol.”

He laughed, and then bent over, still rubbing her, and brought his lips to her mound. A kiss, and then he drew her flesh between his teeth, sucking hard to break the tiny blood vessels in her skin and leave her with a mark of his desire.

 

[monique_minx]

“A prize, Safiye, save for your mangled feet, you are a beauty. I’ll not deny you that. But it’s time to see all of your beauty.”

Safiye gasped and fell backwards onto the bed as he pulled her down the length of it until her bottom rested near the edge. Her raven coloured tresses fanned out beneath her. Her legs overhung the edge and she knew she was exposed, she could feel the air tickling her nether regions. But it was his comments that had her flushed with embarrassment.

“My Lord. As smooth as alabaster. I’ve heard Muslim women shave there, but this is the first I’ve seen. I rather like it. Perhaps you’re a better prize than I expected. I’d like to see more.”

"Oh!" She uttered in surprise as he pushed her clothing up further and she felt his thumbs climb to a place no one else's hands had ever touched her.

“I will be honest with you, girl. It wasn’t because you were the weakest. It was because you were the strongest. Maybe not the wisest, but the strongest. It may have been foolish to speak out like you did, but it showed you had strength a proper slave would lack.”

“I know in your religion a general - in fact any man - would rate more highly than any woman, least of all a slave, but in mine, death makes all equal - man and woman, lord and slave. And as for women, it was Christ who saved the adulteress from stoning and Christ who welcomed the whore Marie de Magdala into his fold.”

Safiye didn't have time to feel insulted as he directly touched her clitoris, she bit into her bottom lip hard and tried not to jerk away from him. She feared both upsetting him and hurting her feet in the process - the dull ache in them enough to remind her that she didn't want to make any sudden reactions and accidentally hurt herself. An unwelcome wetness had started to blossom between her thighs in response to his caress.

“And sin or not, I’d rather put my verga between a young woman’s legs than put it in an old man’s cuol.”

She heard him laugh but was so focused on studying the ceiling that she didn't see him dive down with his mouth to suckle on her flesh. She jerked her hips up suddenly in surprise of the sensation and the mild pain it caused. She barely stifled the cry of shock, she was certain a slight sound had escaped her. Safiye tore her eyes down and propped herself up on her elbows to see what he had done. It was pink and a little raised, its appearance completely belied the sensation he'd caused her in a sensitive area.

"I, uh...I didn't know an old man's...cuol...was meat for your table..." She tried to sound like she was carrying on a normal conversation but she couldn't keep the breathy sound from her voice or hide the flush of red on her cheeks.

She was also rather surprised he cared to touch her there at all, she'd heard of men doing that with their mouths and hands but thought it was reserved for lovers. Certainly not slaves. Her breast was heaving with undeserved effort - largely caused by anxiety and mild arousal.

"I'd have also thought you'd, uh, desire a proper slave." She continued.

'Whatever that means...' She thought to herself - obedient, knowledgeable, subservient and silent came to mind though.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

“No, an old man’s ass is not meat for my table, and even the priests prefer young boys,” he countered. “Besides, I’ve observed it to be more common among your men.”

She was up on her elbows as he spoke, and he could see she was looking at the love bite he had bestowed upon her. And, as she s propped herself up, the open top of her enari opened even wider, offering a fuller view of her cleavage beneath the gauzy silk of her gömlek. As he gazed on his prize, he continued massaging her pearl of pleasure. He could sense the unwelcome arousal in her breath, her voice, and her eyes.

“If by a proper slave, you mean a docile woman,” he began, “such are easy to come by. I received ninety-nine who could be such today. But only one who clearly wasn’t ready to obey.”

He took advantage of her having risen to see more of his prize. He took his hands from her delta and quickly undid the belt of her enari. Before she could react, he grabbed the lapels of the garment and drew it back over her shoulders and down to her elbows.

“Lovely,” he declared as he looked on the fullness of her bosom, outlined by the thin silk of her undergarment. And then looked for more.

Her gömlek was already up past her buttocks, so it was simple for him to psh it up her sides and over her head. Her breasts were bared to him now, and her arms partly bound at the elbows by the sleeves of her clothing.

He grasped on firmly in his left hand and began kneading it, commenting on how firm it was, perfect for a beautiful young woman and fit to please a Marqués like himself. With his other hand he poised his cock between her labia, rubbing it on her clitoris. He leaned forward as he took her left breast in his hand, and that forced his organ down her furrow to the entrance of her womanhood. He kept it there as he caressed and massaged her breasts, letting its head press against her maidenhead.

He continued for sometime and then gripped her nipples tightly between his thumbs and forefingers. A hard yank, and he pulled her upright by her nipples. Once her face was to his chest, he released his grip and grabbed hold of a hank of hair to keep her in place. His other hand returned to his cock, rubbing it up and down her valley, massaging her clit and pressing at her virginity.

“Finish undressing, slave,” he commanded as he tightly gripped her hair.

 

[monique_minx]

“If by a proper slave, you mean a docile woman, such are easy to come by. I received ninety-nine who could be such today. But only one who clearly wasn’t ready to obey.”

"Then it seems I have had the misfortune of catching your notice, my Lo-ord." She gasped mid sentence as he opened her robe and forced it back off her shoulders.

"Lovely."

She swallowed and he continued undressing her by pulling her gömlek up over her head which then rendered her ability to pull her robe back up impossible. Her breasts spilled out below it into the cool air - ripe and helpless, their dusky peaks tightening beneath his gaze. Safiye's blood rushed to her face, scalding her with humiliation as he took her breast in his hand. His comments made it that much worse, her thighs flexed and shuffled and she looked to the side rather than than continuing to make any eye contact.

Her eyes shot up to look at him again as she felt his cock press against her. Safiye inhaled sharply as he shifted to press against her maidenhead, a slickness covering the head of his shaft. An unbidden wetness. He continued to toy with her breasts and Safiye had never felt so vulnerable. So open. So exposed.

She tried desperately to ignore all of the sensations but when he took her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and pulled sharply, she couldn't help the cry of shock and pain that escaped her as she struggled upright to follow her stretched buds. Her cheek soon rested against his hard chest, her body trembling. The unpredictable, contrasting thrums coursing through her left her unmoored, and the fear of what might come next was unravelling her control.

His fingers found her hair, and in the next breath his shaft was sliding once more between her thighs. A thin whimper escaped her, her body tightening under the unyielding hold he had upon her.

“Finish undressing, slave.”

It was like he slapped her across the face to call her that directly but she obeyed - if only to have use of her arms again. She reached behind herself and grasped at the sleeve on the opposite elbow, grunting softly as she pulled one side free and then the other. Her clothing discarded behind her. Now she was completely bared to him. Her body’s dew rose in spite of her, a traitor’s answer to his touch.

She was held fast by his grip in her hair but her eyes drifted upwards, trying to see his face as if that would tell her what was yet to come.

"Well, my Lord...will you take your prize, or keep testing it?" She asked him, unable to keep the sarcasm from her soft lilt, hoping her faux confidence held up.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

“From stalling to hurrying, Safiye?” Miramond laughed. “Your sarcasm is amusing, but it may not get you what you want.”

He reached to the side an took hold of her wrist. A sharp tug and she was off balance with her hand brought to the Marqués’ cock. He forced her fingers around his shaft and used her hand to rub his cock up and down her furrow. A few strokes around her clit, and he pressed his cock head against her maidenhead.

“If you’re so impatient and really don’t want me to do it,” he taunted as he pushed her hand towards her, pressing harder against her hymen. “You can use my cock to deflower yourself.”

He held it there for a moment and then released her hand.

“I’d prefer the pleasure of your cunny in the manner of my people,” he declared as he pulled her head back by her hair.

He looked down into her upturned face and then kissed her hard and hot on the lips, pressing until her lips were parted. His tongue slid between his lips and stroked over hers, giving him a taste of his new slave.

“Do your men do that, slave?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

He pulled both arms, then, leaving her unsupported to fall back onto the bed. He quickly released her arms and grasped her teats, kneading them gently and roughly with no particular pattern. He played with her nipples, too, and all the while worryng her maidenhead with his erect organ.

“Now,” he said suddenly, and clasped his hands around her waist, tossing her higher on the mattress as he mounted the bed between her thighs.

A hard thrust, and her maidenhead held as best it could, but it was no match for Miramond’s lust. His cock tore through her virgin’s veil and plunged deep into her cunny.

 

[monique_minx]

“From stalling to hurrying, Safiye? Your sarcasm is amusing, but it may not get you what you want.”

Safiye didn't have a chance to respond, she'd been leaning on her hands and he yanked one from her which meant she had to reshuffle her weight quickly. In the meantime, he took that opportunity to force her fingers around his cock and held her there. A small squeak issued from her mouth as he pushed both their grips to manipulate her clit and slit with his shaft. Little electric volts shot straight through her clitoris in pulses.

He then buried himself in the entrance to her sex and she gasped. She tore her mortified gaze from their hands up to his face as he spoke.

“If you’re so impatient and really don’t want me to do it, you can use my cock to deflower yourself.”

The pressure punctuated his words and Safiye swallowed, unable to feign that sliver of confidence when faced with such choice. The moment he released her hand, she withdrew it as if it was burning, not tearing her eyes from his face.

“I’d prefer the pleasure of your cunny in the manner of my people.”

"Wha-" She began but was cut off when he pulled her head back.

She thought she expected anything but she did not expect him to kiss her. Her breath caught in a startled rush as his mouth claimed hers and then he applied so much pressure that her lips yielded. Her eyes widened as his tongue invaded her mouth, she froze and her body stiffened. His tongue seemed to massage hers. Safiye had seen others kiss but had never heard of open mouths let alone entwining tongues. This was no bridal right or courtly gesture she'd ever heard of. She felt thoroughly invaded, forced to taste him. It felt as though even the space inside of her was no longer hers. She gasped when he broke the kiss.

“Do your men do that, slave?”

She didn't really have a chance to respond but she felt it was pointless - he knew her answer which was why he did it, of course. He swiped her arms out from under her and she fell back onto the bed with a grunt. And then she cried out as he grasped her sensitive nipples and began to knead her breasts with no amount of gentleness. His cock still lingered, threatening her, ever present.

A single word was all the warning she had when he withdrew and quickly tossed her as if she were weightless. He was between her legs again before she could blink, getting her bearings and then there was a sharp, burning pain unlike anything she'd ever felt before. She cried out as the pain radiated out through her hips and lower belly. Her breathing was shallow and quick, she was keenly aware of a sudden fullness inside of her, a deep pressure. Her fingers launched at his biceps and gripped him reflexively.

His weight was pinning and a slight scramble of her feet caused her pain and she immediately calmed herself, quelling any idea of pushing him from her. Her breathing started to steady as she forced her survival instincts to back down. The pain started to ebb slowly and she blinked back the welled tears. A strong sense of wetness leaking between her legs didn't go unnoticed either.

“It no longer hurts, my Lord… though perhaps you hoped it would linger.” Her voice was airy, drawn from somewhere deep and unsteady, "I wonder if your interest will fade as fast."

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Miramond had driven his verga deep into Safiye’s body and was thrusting his hips back and forth slowly, savoring the feel of her virgin cunny
“Your cry was arousing, girl,” he said as he continued to thrust, “and so was the desperate clinching of your fingers on my arms. While those are expected pleasures of defloration, they are far from the only. Right now I’m enjoying the pleasure of an untouched sheath, snugly fit around my cock. Your cry was but the first note of the song you’ll sing. Whether sad and sorrowful, desperate, despairing, hopeful, pleasureful, joyous, angry, it matters not. It will be the song of your first entry, entry into your sheath and your entry into womanhood.”

And with that, he dove down to her lips again, another penetrating kiss, his tongue twisting and twirling around hers.

He held the kiss for some minutes and then broke it, He pulled his arms free of her grip and reached back to seize her legs behind the knees and draw them to either side of her breasts. The angle of his cock changed with the shift, and he drove it slowly back and forth, its head stroking firmly across the roof of her cunny. It was a position that he had learned often gave pleasure to women, whether they sought the pleasure or not.

A few strokes, and he looked down on her chest; her legs had squeezed her breasts together, raising them up in silent offering to him. He eagerly accepted the gift, laying kisses on the soft globes of flesh and suckling at her teats as if he were a famished infant. His thrusting and his sucking quickly fell into a rhythm, or, more so, a variety of rhythms that pleasured his mouth and his cock. The scent of the attar between her breasts enhanced the touch and taste and sight, and his ears were pricked for the notes of her song.

 

[monique_minx]

She listened intently as he spoke, trying to ignore the fact that he was moving inside of her as he did. He talked about her emotions as though they didn't matter and it made her somewhat angry, it hurt in an unexpected way. Like a dagger in the heart. Safiye couldn't explain why, she was treacherously aware of every sensation going through her in that moment - both physical and not.

Before she could reply, he dove upon her mouth again and her lips parted more easily this time. Perhaps because she'd been so utterly focused on her breathing or because he took her by surprise. It didn't matter. His tongue seemed to dance in her mouth while hers seemed to attempt to avoid the invader at first. She withdrew it, flattened it, tried to push him away but of course, he held all the leverage. He was above her and her head was pressed into the mattress, she had nowhere to go. So eventually she allowed him to merely toy with her tongue, uncertain of what he expected of her.

When he finally broke the kiss, her mind wanted her to speak but as Dionysiac pulled her hands free of him, she found she had something else to focus on. He shifted her legs until her knees were practically at her ears and she was careful to point her wounded feet outwards to avoid them getting hurt.

The angle drove him deeper, spearing into her as though he meant to claim the very core of her. Her breath hitched under the faint constriction, but she barely registered it before his mouth descended on her breast. She arched involuntarily, a soft gasp escaping as his lips closed over her nipple and he drew it into the heat of his mouth. Her breasts had drawn much of his attention that night and as a result, her nipples were as hard as stone and extremely sensitive.

Then he matched his thrusts in some rhythm with the attention he gave her breasts and Safiye started to feel something build, something she had only ever felt when she was alone. The dual assault left her breathless, her body responding despite every instinct that screamed to resist. It was the same dangerous stirring she had known only in the safety of solitude, but now it was sharper, heavier, as though his body commanded it into being. Her thighs trembled and her breath came faster as the treacherous swell of pleasure rose within her.

"Oh..." She meant to speak, to say it, to stop him but instead she moaned the word and stopped herself.

'I don't want to sing for you...' the thought raced inside her brain, like an animal clawing at walls in desperation. Safiye just wanted to hold on...or at the least; hold out.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

A moan! The Marqués heard it, felt it reverberate in his own chest as it flowed from deep in Safiye’s breast. A word lost to sense turned into a note, a legato of pleasure undesired yet uncontrollable. The first note. And then near silence. Near silence. There was a song, its notes a staccato of breaths whispered to the air, a song riding on the slosh and slap of the wet percussion echoing from their conjoined organs.

And then was Miramond’s own song, sigh and moan and panted breath as his arousal heightens to a latent pleasure that demands release, a parallel to her wordless chant.

But he wanted more, he wanted a song of defeat and submission. It could be of pleasure or despair, but ut was the song he wanted to hear from her mouth, from her heart. Not just back and forth now; at each drive in he ground his pubis against hers twisting his hips to roughly massage her clit between her pubic bone and his. Circles and gyrations, strokes of his hips up and down over her mound, side to side across that now-marked mass of voluptuous flesh.

He was obsessed now, insistent that she should climax and willing to hold out, hold on until she did. To feel her body convulse ib that release was his sole aim now, and he worked to bring her there. Nd in the act and in the prospect, he drove his own arousal higher and higher. He sensed in her a need for the release as well, and wouldn’t accept his save with his deflowered slave.

 

[monique_minx]

Her breath caught in uneven snatches as he forced each tiny sound with every stroke. The rhythm of his hips moving against hers worked its way under her skin like an unrelenting tide. Safiye could feel the heat building as she fought like the devil to stop it but she knew it was a battle she was losing. She stared up at his chest, unwilling to see his eyes, she didn't want to know what he saw in her face. In her surrender.

Her chin tipped upwards as a particularly powerful shot from her clit raced all the way through her groin and she couldn't help the moan that slipped out or the fact that her teeth unclenched in that moment. It gave way to sound, to her voice box utterly betraying how she felt.

She made soundless protests in ragged breaths that melted into soft moans. Safiye began to arch unconsciously upwards with her hips, meeting his thrusts. She was dangerously close to the edge now. Her ability to mentally talk herself down had dissipated along with all thought. Except that of getting what she needed.

"Oh...oh...I can't-" She gasped and it was over.

Safiye cried her passion as her orgasm hit her like a crushing wave, the pleasure surging through every cell of her. Her head tipped back completely and her fingers curled into the sheets beneath her tightly, as if she were holding on for dear life. She trembled beneath his weight, every muscle quaking as the rapturous pulses racked her like a confession taken under torture. Her body betrayed her.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Safiye’s cunny tightened in spasms around Miramond’s cock as her body arched upwards, driving his organ deeper inside her. That was more than he could withstand, more than he wanted to withstand. Is back arched in resonance, and his cock erupted like a volcano, shooting out jets of thick, lava-hot jism. His cock pulsed with each glob as it spewed from his tip, crashing into the wall of her sheath. He held himself arched above her as he gasped over and over with the pleasure of each release until at last he was spent and eased himself down, still atop her, still between her legs, still inside her.

A deep breath, and he smiled at her.

“Yes, Safiye,” he breathed, “a treat for me, well worth the saving.”

He impulsively kissed her and then laughed.

“And for you,” he taunted, “was it treat or punishment? Or was the treat the punishment?”

He lifted himself from her, not expecting a quick answer, and carefully dismounted to avoid hurting her injured feet. He had no interest in adding pain to the emotions she was feeling. Before he lay back down beside her, he pulled on a rope at the head of his bed. A minute later a maid, came into the room.

“Constansia,” he said, “give some care to this slave’s feet.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the maid replied. “I’ll fetch my basket.”

“Constansia is a mistress of healing,” Miramond said after the maid exited. “She took care of your feet while you were unconscious.”

He turned on his side, looking over his new slave. He reached over and laid his hand on the breast, squeezing it gently before sliding his hand over her body down to her mound. He held it there, feeling her heat in his palm.

“Yes,” he said, “you’re quite the treat. And now, what say you?”

 

[monique_minx]

When he finally reached the height of his pleasure, Safiye's inner muscles spasmed and involuntarily clenched around his cock like some kind of final betrayal in receiving him. The heat and heaviness of his seed washing her walls wasn't something she could ignore either, it punctuated his dominance viscerally. It reminded Safiye that her purity was gone, forever. The added possibility of pregnancy was like a heavy chain hung on her neck - the idea of being more connected to this man or yet bearing a child she wasn't ready for. Not to mention the humiliation of having orgasmed during her own violation. Safiye was uniquely conflicted in those few moments as Miramond collapsed atop her to recover.

“Yes, Safiye, a treat for me, well worth the saving.”

His laugh made her blush but it was hardly visible, she'd already exerted herself physically and was quite flushed and breathing shallowly herself. His lips pressed to hers swiftly and Safiye merely laid there, her mind was reeling as conscious thought had returned to her.

“And for you, was it treat or punishment? Or was the treat the punishment?”

He knew the answer, Safiye hid her emotions carefully behind a mask as he slid from between her legs and the cool air touched her. It made her shiver reflexively, she covered her breasts with her arms and rubbed each of her biceps as if it might help. She didn't even realise he'd called for a maid until she heard them talking and looked over in time to see the maid disappear again. Safiye looked at Dionysiac quizzically, sitting up slowly, her weight resting on her arms which held slightly behind her and he answered her unasked question.

“Constansia is a mistress of healing. She took care of your feet while you were unconscious.”

"Oh...then I am grateful my Lord." She inclined her head slightly.

It felt surreal that she used such courtly manners while she was completely naked in his bed and his seed seeped leisurely from between her legs. He came to her then and Safiye swallowed as his hand grasped her tortured breast again, she was almost thankful that he only squeezed her gently. Still, she held her breath as his hand travelled to her mound and cupped her sex - merely resting there.

“Yes, you’re quite the treat. And now, what say you?”

Safiye bit her lip, this was humiliating enough but now he asked her an impossible question as well. She could wound herself or wound him which then might end up hurting her also. A no win situation. Thus, her answer was carefully measured.

"A punishment, my Lord." She started thoughtfully, "That I also felt it as a treat shames me more than anything."

She breathed a little heavier then, like she'd released some more of that shame to hang between them.

"But I am merely a vessel for your will, am I not? I think you proved that beyond measure, my Lord."

This was a tightrope to walk between subservience and defiance, admitting what she could not deny and denying what she could not admit. Safiye thought it was almost akin to diplomacy in a court between enemies - thinly veiled politeness masking all the angst in the room.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

“I admire the honesty of your answer, Safiye, but your slavish surrender is far from the truth. Were you truly a ‘vessel for my will,’ you would have welcomed your climax at your deflowering. I would think you above such a pathetic lie, and for it you shall be punished.”

He turned to her, seized her about the waist again, and flipped her onto her stomach.

“One lie; one strike,” he declared, and brought the flat of his hand sharply down on her puèja. “Another lie will get the same for your other cheek.”

Constansia returned as Miramond was savoring the sight of his red hand print on Safiye’s ass. She bore her basket of herbs and lotions and potions as well as a shallow but wide pewter bowl and some other metal instruments.

“Do your work, Constansia,” he ordered, “And, Safiye, your healer has control of you now; let her do what she needs do with your body.”

He left the bed and sat opposite, watching the servant at her work, and watching his slave’s reaction.

 

[monique_minx]

“I admire the honesty of your answer, Safiye, but your slavish surrender is far from the truth. Were you truly a ‘vessel for my will,’ you would have welcomed your climax at your deflowering. I would think you above such a pathetic lie, and for it you shall be punished.”

Safiye gasped at his sudden movement and before she knew it, she was face down on the bed attempting to anticipate what he intended. But once he made it clear, Safiye released the breath she'd been holding and let out a raspy bark of a sound when his hand came down. It hurt, of course, but it was singular and it was over quickly. She could handle that even if it was humiliating to be spanked like a child.

“Do your work, Constansia. And, Safiye, your healer has control of you now; let her do what she needs do with your body.”

Safiye gave him a withering look and attempted to keep her anger out of her tone as she spoke, she didn't entirely succeed, "Yes, my Lord."

"Just stay that way, I actually have a better view of your feet the way you are." Constansia said as Safiye had fidgeted in case the maid wanted her to shift position.

Safiye was content to lay on her stomach so she didn't have to look at either the maid or Miramond. Above all, she could hide her mortification over being freshly fucked and naked in front of the woman. She was almost certain that calling Constansia in at that particular time was somewhat deliberate on Dionysiac's part. Constansia unwound the existing, bloodied bandages slowly and Safiye winced as there was a slight tug where they stuck to her wounds. Then it became worse, it felt like her skin was being torn away and she sobbed, unable to stop a strangled cry here or there despite the pain relieving tea she'd had earlier in the evening. There was very little unbroken skin, Safiye dared to look over her shoulder when Constansia had finished the unwrapping as she hadn't seen her feet without bandages yet but what she saw made her stomach turn and forced her to look away again so she didn't start crying from mental anguish in front of her Lord. Pain was one thing but that weakness was something she'd keep private if she could help it.

They were blackened and purplish in places, red and raw in others. They were beyond recognition, Safiye herself was grateful she hadn't known before she'd entered the room or else she mightn't have had the strength to get there aided on her single heel. She still couldn't feel several of her toes and moving the ones she could feel brought her immense pain. Even the exposure to the air made Safiye suck through her teeth sharply. Constansia was as gentle as humanly possible but Safiye still felt like her feet were on fire as the maid soaked them in a little chamomile solution.

She apologised softly as she went about cleaning her feet, Safiye merely gripped the sheets and tried to breathe as she endured the treatment. Constansia would cast comments about her feet but they were aimed at Miramond, not her. Safiye felt like she was an object being polished when Constansia told him that there was no yellowing nor any foul odour and that her swelling had reduced considerably in the last 24 hours.

Had it? Safiye had no idea.

She was muttering something, Safiye realised, what was that? She stilled and listened harder, she recognised some of the words and realised Constansia was praying while she worked, it just wasn't Safiye's religion. She felt entirely helpless as Constansia continued by rubbing a salve of comfrey root into her feet, her fists tightened in the sheets and a low, strangled groan escaped her. Safiye arched her back trying to keep as still as possible, mastering the pain.

Then Constansia applied a thick wool padding to the bottom of each sole and began to rewrap her feet, the necessary tightness of the bandaging made Safiye thump her fist on the bed and sob pitifully. It felt like she was being struck again repeatedly. In all honesty, the treatment and recovery would be more painful than the punishment had been and it certainly lasted a lot longer.

Safiye didn't even notice when Constansia had finished and stood back from the bed, addressing the Marqués, “My Lord, she must not walk far, else the flesh will tear anew.”

Safiye brought her hands to cup her own face, wiping her tears away before she pressed herself into her hands and into the bed beneath her. Her body was trembling all over and she was just trying to regain control as the pain slowly subsided.

Constansia moved up the bed and sat beside her face, Safiye looked up and saw a cup in the woman's hands, "Drink this, girl. It will help, it's willow bark."

"Tha-" Safiye started and then coughed to clear her throat as her voice became wheezy, "Thank you."

She rolled over gingerly and sat up, trying not to be aware of her naked body and she deliberately avoided the eye of her Master as she quickly took the cup and drank the contents. She returned the cup to Constansia who returned it to her basket and then stood back, lowering her eyes and clasping her hands as the basket handle rested on her forearm.

"Shall I take my leave, my Lord?" Constansia asked Miramond.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

“No, woman,” he replied. “I would prefer that the slave not be with child.”

“So be it,” the servant answered and returned to the foot of the bed.

She had come prepared for this; she had Safiye raise her bottom while she slipped the pewter basin beneath her. She pushed Safiye’s legs apart and then took a water buffalo horn with a pewter fitting at the narrow end. “Stay calm,” she said to the slave as she inserted the pewter into her cunny. Constansia then ladled water into the horn, and, as it ran out and into the basin, it flushed semen, secretions, and blood out. After three ladles, the water ran clear. The servant carefully cleaned Safiye’s skin of all traces of the residue of her defloration and then fetched a mortar and pestle from her basket. She added various herbs to the pestle with a few drops of olive oil and ground them into a thick paste. That she placed into a small muslin sack and inserted it all the way into Safiye’s vagina.

“That will take care of any seed that remains, my Lord,” she said as she packed her basket. “Leave it there should you wish to pleasure yourself again with the girl.”

“One thing more, Constansia,” Miramond said. “On the morrow have a cell prepared for this girl and three others. Four cots and mattresses, good bedding, and all the needs of the girls. Teach them our customs of hygiene as well.”

“It will be done, my Lord,” the servant declared and then left the room.

The Marqués returned to sit on the side of the bed, facing his new slave.

“You will stay here tonight for the sake of your feet and for my interests,” he told her. “On the morrow I will have you taken to your cell on a litter. You are to choose three of the virgins to share your room and to be my whores. I’m sure you grew familiar with all your companions during your transportation here, so I expect you will pick well. The remaining six will go one each to my deputies and commanders.”

He paused while he ran his hand over Safiye’s body, caressing her breasts and belly down to her delta.

“Now it is, perhaps, time to know more of each other,” he began. “My full name and title is Dionysiac Peyre Miramond, Marqués des Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. I was born to a fisher family, but chose to follow another path. I squired to a Chevalier and trained under him, and worked at occasional trade to earn enough silver to purchase my own horse and then armor. The Archbishop of Arles named me a Chevalier, and, when the Crusade was called, I raised a light cavalry of one-hundred and fifty men. Our success in that endeavor impressed the Archbishop sufficiently to elevate me to my present position, and entrust me with the defense of the whole of the Camargue.”

His demand of Safiye would highlight the contrast between the two. He, raised by his own efforts, from a poor family to the protector of the realm; her, born to a vizier and given away as a chattel by her own father, and now a slave to a Christian lord.

“And yourself, Safiye, tell me of your self, your aspirations and hopes. Was it solely to be wed to a man of your father’s choice, to live a life behind the veil, behind the walls of his house. That sounds little different from the condition you find yourself in now. From your arrogance and from your knowledge of other tongues, I suspect you had loftier hopes. Tell me truthfully of yourself.”

He poured her a goblet of water and one of red wine for himself, and sat beside her, both still naked, and waited for her tale.

 

[monique_minx]

Safiye had heard of such practices to prevent unwanted pregnancies but hearing about it and having it done to you are two very different things. Still, she'd prefer to lessen the chance that she'd bear his child as well so Safiye handled the humiliation of having it done in silence. Satisfying herself with a few biting thoughts as she stared at the ceiling while the maid douched her.

'Strange to spread seed where you do not wish it to bear fruit. Perhaps my Lord is a foolish farmer?' She almost smiled at that particular thought.

Her vagina was very sore though and it wasn't entirely painless for her to endure so occasionally her eyes would tighten or she'd exhale a little louder than usual. The muslin sack was certainly the hardest intrusion to ignore because it remained there after Safiye closed her legs. She was so flushed with embarrassment and avoiding her Lord's eye that she almost missed the Marqués order to the maid regarding her sleeping arrangements. But he soon came to her on the bed to explain it without her having to ask - the question surely written on her face as his instructions were rather deliberate and specific.

“You will stay here tonight for the sake of your feet and for my interests. On the morrow I will have you taken to your cell on a litter. You are to choose three of the virgins to share your room and to be my whores. I’m sure you grew familiar with all your companions during your transportation here, so I expect you will pick well. The remaining six will go one each to my deputies and commanders.”

She winced when he said the word 'whores' but said nothing, it was an open wound that he'd picked at on more than one occasion that evening. A brutal, verbal defilement. Then there was the addition of spending the night with him, that hurt almost as much. Safiye wanted to regroup and mentally process the evening, she couldn't do that without respite.

She watched his hand travel down her body, she didn't stop him - what would be the point now? Then she remembered the rest of what he'd said. Safiye was surprised he entrusted her with such a decision, after all, what would she know about which virgin might best please him visually, physically or otherwise? Safiye was already running a bare minimum criteria through her brain which started first and foremost with - 'who can I live with?' After all, if she had to sleep next to these women night after night and live in close quarters, she'd prefer to have the ability to trust them. She was also experiencing anxiety over the decision - what if Miramond disapproved of her choices? There were multiple cats in this bag.

Safiye didn't have time to dwell on it though, as she laid there, he deigned to tell her of his rise to power from humble beginnings. Safiye had no such difficulty achieving her position, she'd been born to it because her father was a vizier. So she saw that they were rather mirrors of each other - he, having come from a poorer background and risen to prowess and stature and she had come from wealth and stature to be subjected to slavery. As if they'd traded places.

“And yourself, Safiye, tell me of your self, your aspirations and hopes. Was it solely to be wed to a man of your father’s choice, to live a life behind the veil, behind the walls of his house. That sounds little different from the condition you find yourself in now. From your arrogance and from your knowledge of other tongues, I suspect you had loftier hopes. Tell me truthfully of yourself.”

She sat up slowly, folding her legs slightly so she didn't rely on her arms to hold her, as he moved to fill the goblets and huffed under her breath that he compared marriage and slavery. Perhaps. though, the ring of truth was the hardest to swallow because her marriage was not one of love, it had been arranged by her father. She would not have chosen it either, though marriage and babies were not in her mind as they were for many women her age. She accepted the water from him and took a small sip to steady her nerves, it seemed so odd to have such polite conversation with a man while they both sat completely naked.

"I was never made for sitting quiet behind a veil, my Lord. Had I been given my way, I would have traded spindle and loom for scroll and sword. But men do not ask what women are made for, only what use can be made of them. My mother would have called it an honour to marry Aslan, I thought of it as a prison. A husband's house is only a finer set of bars. A slow death behind silken walls where I'd be confined to do as I'm told."

She paused and gave him a funny smile, "Here I am a slave of flesh and there, I'd have been a slave of obedience. Which is the greater prison, I wonder? For it seems, women never escape it no matter what it looks like. I'd much rather learn many tongues and see beyond the mountains so I suppose in an unlikely way, I have achieved something merely by being here, perhaps closer to my dreams in this prison than the one my parents would have liked to see me in."

She stopped and took another drink from the goblet, allowing him to take in everything she'd shared. Safiye chose to be brutally honest this time to see how he would take that as it seemed when she lied to appease him, that was worse in his eyes.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Miramond was pleased with her response; it was what he expected, but also seemed honest. He let his hand rest on her breast as he spoke.

“Perhaps you were born to the wrong Faith, Safiye. Christianity doesn’t offer women equality, I will admit, but neither does it imprison them merely for being women. Your father allowed you to learn, but never expected it would be of any use to you. Here there are fathers who encourage their daughters’ learning, even to the universities. And at Bologna, a woman has even been installed as lecturer in anatomy.”

“As for those learned women who marry, their fathers seek appropriate husbands, men who can appreciate what a knowledgeable wife can offer. Many are the real managers of their husbands’ businesses, and even an unschooled wife is mistress of the house, and holds the keys. When a man dies, his widow may inherit the estate if he has no male heirs.”

His hand began to roam again over her body, caressing it softly in some parts, more roughly in others.

“Perhaps you will not fare so badly here. I have books, other than the Holy Book itself. Books by Aristotle and Pythagoras and others. If you can read Latin, you will be welcome to peruse them; if not, perhaps you can be tutored in that language.”

His hand settled on her Mound of Venus, and he massaged it as he continued to speak.

“I believe I have chosen my first slave well, Safiye. Your body is appealing and has already afforded me pleasure; your mind is likewise appealing, and I foresee it offering me the pleasures of thoughtful conversation.”

His burgeoning erection was quite apparent now, and his fingers found the way between her nether lips to play with the pearl hidden beneath her Mound.

 

[monique_minx]

She listened with a deepening interest and some disbelief as he told her of his own country and what women were allowed to do. This was so very unlike Safiye's world that she bordered on suspicion that he might be exaggerating but her eyes swept his relaxed body and saw no obvious signs of dishonesty. Her identity to her homeland was wrapped in whatever husband she might take and her intelligence and learning was only an adornment because Safiye had a hungry mind, it was not an expectation. Much like one would look at an ornament on a table, it was pretty but not necessary.

Women teaching men at a University? That was like some childish fantasy or, perhaps, heresy. And women running a business or inheriting instead of being quickly remarried or squirreled away by male relatives? Unthinkable. So it was only natural that Safiye was skeptical but she was also longing, jealous of these women who had things she'd never have. And that Miramond dangled it before her like a cat toying with a mouse after he'd enslaved and defiled her...well she didn't think she'd reach a new level of resentment with him but here he was, presenting it.

His hands began to roam across her skin again and she tried her damnedest to ignore it. If her feet weren't mangled, she'd have run from him a dozen times that evening already and no doubt would have ended up similarly unable to escape him as some sort of punishment. It was tightly wound self control that stopped her lashing out at him because she knew she couldn't flee any retribution for her actions.

“Perhaps you will not fare so badly here. I have books, other than the Holy Book itself. Books by Aristotle and Pythagoras and others. If you can read Latin, you will be welcome to peruse them; if not, perhaps you can be tutored in that language.”

"I can." She blurted out without thinking, "...read Latin, that is, my Lord." She finished in a mumble, embarrassed that she'd gotten a little excited that he'd let her read.

His hand travelled to her nethers again and her breath caught as he started to massage her there. 'He cannot be expecting more of me, surely!' She thought to herself as she tried to keep her eyes on his.

“I believe I have chosen my first slave well, Safiye. Your body is appealing and has already afforded me pleasure; your mind is likewise appealing, and I foresee it offering me the pleasures of thoughtful conversation.”

She blushed like the sun when he spoke and as his hand slid between her lower lips to find her hidden clitoris, Safiye's control came undone and she lashed out to grip his wrist tightly with her hand. She sighted his erection and knew it meant their conversation would soon be over. Safiye found his eyes but a moment later and felt like time was standing still as her hazel-green eyes met his. She didn't have the strength to overpower him and force his hand away from her and yet, she couldn't let go, she couldn't merely let this happen again. Especially as she knew he might force an orgasm from her and shame her once more.

"Do the women you speak of also lie beneath their masters, my Lord?" She asked him breathily, "Is it only I that need learn this lesson? You talk of thoughtful conversation though I'm sure your men offer you such and you don't touch them so. Perhaps the difference is that their wit earns them respect while mine earns me your hand between my thighs."

She finished a lot more boldly than she'd started, her voice slowly filled with conviction throughout. She couldn't very well spank him physically for lying to her but she'd settle for a verbal appropriation.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

“I didn’t claim it was a general condition in Christianity,” Miramond responded, “ but that it was possible and at times realized. Most of the priests would rather see women burning at the stake rather than burning with passion, and most men agree that women are subordinate. But take note of the royal marriages; the wives are not slaves to their husbands, but advisors; they bring their knowledge of the various courts to help their partners.”

She held tight to his wrist, but kept kis arm where it was, and his fingers as well. As he spoke, he continued to play with her clitoris, rubbing gently in circles around it and it strokes up and down and side to side’

“Yes,” he went on, “most men, most married men, have their wives lie beneath them, But lovers are more adventurous and even lie with the woman above.”

At that, he slipped his left arm beneath her and lifted her as he shifted to the center of the bed, lying down and landing her atop him, her legs straddling his hips. His right hand, with her hand still gripping his wrist, was underneath her, and he curled his finger to provide a nest for her clitoris as he continued to massage it.

“Lovers find all varieties of positions as they make love,” he noted, “all as they find mutual pleasure in the act.”

As they lie there, he ran his fingers over her back, exploring all parts of it. His fingers roamed down the cleavage between her cheeks, and he stopped at her anus, pressing lightly on it.

“Some even emulate the style of priests and acolytes, finding it pleasurable or convenient for a number of reasons,” he said with a laugh.

“Now, Safiye, how does it seem from atop? Do you wish to finish what I have started, or shall I continue?”

As he spoke, he increased the pace of his massage.