Y
24
Half a Yn year earlier:
The tavern was called The Ever-Flowing Cup. The name was an allusion to a popular Yn folktale. As the story went, a wealthy but foolish rexus named Permas wished one thirsty day for a flask of beer that never ran dry. The Florans overheard the man’s desire, and, to play with him, or to teach him a lesson, or to create an artistic masterwork, the legend did not say (the motives of the Florans were always obscure in folktales, as they were in reality), they granted his wish, as they had done many previous times. There were lots of “Permas tales.” They were a humorous vehicle to highlight the occasional foolishness of men and the practicality of their devoted slaves. Basically, the Florans overheard “everything” Permas said and, more often than not, granted every one of his requests, usually to his, and to the people’s around him, misfortune. Permas’ ever-flowing cup was an archetypal example. In the tale, the unwise rexus drank so much he passed out, and he left the ever-flowing cup on its side, where, eventually, the beer not only filled the rexus’ citadel but washed out into the streets and flooded his entire city. Permas and his soldiers survived only because their faithful slaves had had the foresight to entice their masters to take them—in both senses of the phrase—upstairs. So, while the girls were quite thoroughly used in the upper quarters of each pyramid, the bottom quarters they had been assigned to clean were quite thoroughly washed out, saving the slaves much time and trouble. In fact, by the time Permas woke beside his loyal and extraordinarily patient slut Deia, his city had never shown brighter.
Eventually, the cup was recovered and returned to the Florans. Looked at more closely, the tavern’s name was a double-entendre. In the tale of the ever-flowing flask, a famous comparison was made between the never-ending supply of beer and the slave Deia’s unquenchable desire to be used by her owner. An “ever-flowing cup,” therefore, alluded to both Permas’ illustrious flask as well as to the insatiable needs of a slave, any slave.
Honoa, like the legendary Deia a mere slavegirl herself, fully appreciated the double meaning.
Like Deia’s, Honoa’s desires too were unquenchable. They ebbed sometimes, after an especially fine use by the tavern’s customers, or by its owner, Nozo, for whom Honoa perpetually lusted, or by his employees, too, who had free use of all the slaves in The Ever-Flowing Cup, but often they flared, blazing forth within her loins, her need to be fucked reignited whenever a man amused himself with the pleasures of her body. At times, even a man’s casual glance, with his hungry and speculative eyes, would be enough to reawaken Honoa’s desires, and she would crawl to him begging to be put to use.
Not without some pride, Honoa was the Cup’s most sought-after tavernslut.
The man at Table Five beckoned her. Honoa, naked, approached with her serving tray and knelt at the customer’s feet beside the table. “How may I serve your pleasure, master?” she asked eagerly.
Her descent had been smooth and practiced. Not a drop was spilt from the flask of green beer resting on top of the tray she supported. The slave split her knees before the customer.
“Slake my thirst, little one,” the huge man said, reaching out for the flask—there were two empty ones on his table already—“and slake your thirst,” he went on, spreading his own legs and adjusting his kilt.
Honoa smiled and placed the tray carefully on the floor. “Yes, master. Thank you, master.”
Inching forward on her knees, the tavernslut lifted her hands and lowered her mouth onto the beckoning male member. She cooed in happiness before wrapping her lips around that delicious prick. Her nostrils fluttered at the thick, intoxicating scent of the customer’s maleness. She loved being a slave.
Honoa swallowed and pushed herself onto him. She sucked, making small sounds of contentment as she worked her tongue and provided the pressure necessary to bring the customer the exquisite pleasure that was his due as a man. She licked his balls. She swirled her tongue. He took a drink of beer. Eventually, the man exploded inside her, and Honoa bobbed her face up and down upon him in a delicious and smoldering lust. She slid down his length, smacking her lips and wetly slurping at him.
Finally, Honoa drew back, licking her lips. She felt the hypnotic slave-ecstasy consume her. It felt so good to be told what to think, what to believe.
“You are a good slave,” she heard, and so she was. I am a good slave, she thought. “You are a hot slave,” and, again, so she was. I am a hot slave.
On the other side of the tavern, a man, one of Nozo’s employees, sat and took note of the beer the customer at Table Five had taken. The price would be added to his final bill when he left. The fellatio, on the other hand, was free, a complimentary service provided by the tavern’s sluts, as was the next service Honoa performed. Table Five’s customer stood, wiped his mouth of green foam, and seized his petite server by the arms. Honoa giggled in delight as she was lifted and put to her back on the table.
A moment later she was screaming in utter rapture as she was penetrated, her legs crossing just over her user’s firm buttocks and tightening. “Oh Master!” she gasped. Honoa’s head lolled backwards. The man atop her pressed inward, and her whole body opened up to receive him. She climaxed hard. Her womanly spasms as his male seed engulfed her, filled her, were held within the fervor of his embrace.
After she was released and quenched enough to continue working, Honoa thanked the master and invited him humbly to return and make use of her again, that is, if she wasn’t totally dissatisfying.
“Have no fear, little slut,” the customer said. He cupped Honoa’s cheek in his humongous palm. “You are a fine slave.” He patted her face gently and then headed to the doorman to settle his bill.
I’m a fine slave, Honoa thought, beaming. She traced her hands over her red, ripe body, lingering over her enormous tits and her wet, naked pussy. She breathed deeply, enjoying the touch of herself, and then she shook herself out of her semi-trance. Easy to fall into, but it was time to go back to work.
The table had already been cleared by her back being pressed against it, and by her delighted squirming and writhing. Honoa picked up the empty flasks, used a wet cloth to wash down the table’s surface—it was designed for size and sturdiness—and with the help of another slave moved the heavy wooden chairs back into place. “Thank you, Beloa.”
“You’re welcome, Honoa.” Her fellow tavernslut leaned in and whispered. “I’ve been fucked ten times today so far, and I’ve given fourteen oral pleasures!”
“That was my twelfth taking today,” Honoa replied, “but only my seventh suck.” She pouted. “Where is Juhoha?” The Cup’s sluts had a pool going. At the end of the day, their proctor, the head slave Simna, used their daily tallies to make their shift schedule. The sluttiest sluts were allowed the privilege of extra shifts in the beer hall while those girls who were fucked least had to endure more time in the kitchen, and thus more time away from the Cup’s delicious clientele. It was a vicious cycle: the least popular slaves became even less popular because they were seen less and therefore couldn’t experience the full range of the uses their more popular sisters enjoyed, contributing to their skill level. Honoa, one of the most frequently called-for tavernsluts, considered herself a much better slave now than she had been when first purchased by her Master. It had taken her a long, long time to escape the kitchen.
“Juhoha’s only on her eighth fuck, but she’s leading everyone in sucks. Eighteen today.”
“Well, she does have the prettiest lips,” Honoa admitted. “They’re soft and delicious.” She knew this from personal experience.
“I’ll see you later,” Beloa said. She winked. Her hand brushed against Honoa’s naked thigh. The two girls leaned forward, let their heavy breasts rub up against one another briefly, and parted again. Such touching and caressing were not uncommon among slaves, just as they were not totally uncommon among men. It was customary that one’s first sexual experience was with the same gender. As boys and girls, very young Yn played together, but as they got older the sexes were segregated, and it usually wasn’t until long after adolescence that they met up again. Boys helped one another achieve manhood, and girls traditionally took one another’s virginity, instructing each other in the skills they would need later in life. Honoa liked to fuck women, but, being a slave, she much preferred to be fucked by men.
It was still early. Honoa brought food and drinks to new customers, went on her back for others, and performed more service on her knees. She had every intention of beating Juhoha today. Nozo’s regular clientele liked her, and she also used techniques to win the favor of passing customers: the saucy turn of her ass she had practiced; her sexy, rolling walk; the way she never entirely closed her mouth but instead pursed her lips in a constant invitation for something to be inserted between them; and so on.
Though she complained sometime of the constant competition, as her sister-slaves did on occasion, though never seriously or in front of a master, in truth Honoa knew it made them all better slaves. It made them strive ever harder to please men. Honoa’s eagerness, as well as her relative novelty, made her popular. She had only been owned by The Ever-Flowing Cup for a little less than three brawls, or just over a quarter of a year. A part of her, deep inside, wanted to call that interval of time twelve months, but Honoa couldn’t precisely recall what a “month” was. It bothered her sometimes.
She blamed her lack of formal education. Before her Master Nozo purchased her, she had been but a common streetgirl, the standard fate of many unexceptional slaves, those without pedigree or training, maintained in a city’s public stables for licensed rental. A guild, syndicate, or entrepreneur could rent hundreds of girls such as she had been and sell their services in alleyways.
Her name then had been Jurin. Probably. She wasn’t really sure.
Honoa had no recollection of her life prior to being a rented commodity nor a clear picture of how long she had remained one. What with the cheap rates of streetgirls (a few zirhaals at most), the constant turnover in rental owners, and the countless swayings enjoyed upon the dicks of so many men, charter whore was a livelihood not conducive to the formation of long-term memories. Still, she had striven to please men, as was her birthright, and in time her owners had perceived the promise of her slave heat.
From her perspective, life had really only begun at her auction.
The vending block had been gritty beneath her bare feet, she remembered, and it was raised so as to prominently display the merchandise presented upon it. Honoa, then only Jurin, recalled well the noises of the crowd, the rowdy humor of the men as they bought and sold her sister-slaves. The details were all fresh in her mind. The auction house. The vaulted ceiling. Her excitement. The lines of slaves behind her.
Jurin had had good traction stepping up to the block. In spite of her nervousness, she had not slipped.
Her nipples had tightened, though. Naturally. She had stood before men.
“Next on the list is a streetgirl,” the deliciously muscular vendor had shouted. He stood off to the block’s side. “I have used this slut myself, warriors, and I can tell you she is uncommonly skillful. I’m almost sorry to see her go!”
Jurin had blushed pinkly. The men in the crowd saw and laughed. Modesty? From a slave? Later, the slave thought her reaction might have actually increased her final sales price.
“Put your hands behind your head,” she was ordered. She complied. “Good. Thrust out your chest. Better. See, warriors, see how plump and luscious she is!” The vendor put his hands on her. He cupped the slave’s breasts and kneaded them before the audience. He tickled her big jutting nipples.
Jurin had gasped in her slave heat.
They were all staring at her. Their eyes had been hungry. The only time a slave normally stood in an elevated position before men were at times like these, when that girl was on a block. Oddly, instead of making her feel exposed and humiliated, having actually been there, or so she recalled, the then Jurin had felt a peculiar sense of power. They’re all looking at me, she had thought. They all want me!
An electric thrill passed through her. Her pussy had blazed.
“Turn around, girl,” the vendor ordered again. He lightly slapped her heavy buttocks, causing her to yelp! “See how rounded she is in back, men! Bend over and show them, my dear.” Jurin complied.
“Five zirhaals!” she heard someone in the crowd shout out.
“Six!” The price of a good dinner.
“Warriors, please,” the vendor had said. “Look at her.” He commanded Jurin up and turned her about to face her prospective buyers again. His hands reached down between her legs and sought tenderly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh Master! Please! Oh, Master!” She bucked and squirmed. “Oh, Master! Please, Master! Ohhhh!” With one meaty hand on her hip and the other fondling at her clitoris, sinking his digits inside her, the vendor had played the slave like a musical instrument. “Oh, please, Master!”
She writhed like a post-eel. “Ohh! Ahhhh!” Her body grew sweaty, and the sweat caused her skin to gleam. The vendor called for his assistant. While the second man lifted and held both her hands above her head, the first used both of his to stroke her and pet. Jurin’s back had arched under their masculine attention, her legs trembled, and she was brought to a series of climaxes. “Ohhhhh! Aiiihhhhh!!!”
“Eight zirhaals!” “Ten!”
“One fowhaal!” A night’s stay in a comfortable tavern.
“Kneel,” the vendor had told Jurin, after she had recovered. She had knelt then, knees spread, back still arched, tits well in display. I am a slave, she thought. I am a hot slave.
“Such passion can be yours, warriors. I’m ready to start taking serious bids, starting at two fowhaals.”
Jurin was finally sold for four fowhaals, two zirhaals. Considering that she had regularly earned on her back at least one zirhaal per use for her rental owners as a streetgirl, it wasn’t a bad price at all, and Jurin had preened slightly after being led down from the block. “Goodbye, little slut,” the vendor had said to her leaving. What he had said before was true; he had gotten into the habit of having her on his way home every evening, whenever she had been put on his street corner. It might very well have been his professional assessment of her lovemaking skills, in fact, that had motivated him to arrange her sale.
“Goodbye, master. Thank you, master.” She had been on her knees. In her memory, she was always on her knees. She recalled leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on his crotch in farewell.
A numbered strap-collar had served at the time as her only identification. Not long after the auction, her new owner came to claim her. “I am Nozo. I own a tavern in Soodr, and you will serve in it. You are now a tavernslut, streetgirl.”
She had breathed excitedly, on her knees, before her new master. “Thank you, master. I will serve you and your customers well.” A tavernslut! That was leagues above being a simple charter whore!
“You had best, slave.” He had removed his kilt then and lowered himself atop her. His cock had rubbed against her lower belly. His hands had manipulated her massive tits, squeezing them, testing their texture, and she moaned like the slut she was. He buried his cock inside her and made her scream.
He had become her new master that night . . . her Master! His kisses were blessings upon her, and they brought her to a titanic orgasm, within which he molded her thoughts to his liking. “You are . . . Honoa,” he had finally declared, cementing the identity upon her. “You are the tavernslut Honoa.”
“I am Honoa, Master,” she had said then, joyously. I am Honoa, she had thought. I am a slave.
The pleasure of that first taking had been so, so very good. Her owner had lingered over her for hours more before joining the caravan back to Soodr, swaying her to his liking. That was three brawls ago.
The time had just flown by.
The shift passed without further incident. Juhoha won the day on account of her beautiful lips, though both Honoa and Beloa closely seconded. “Goodbye!” she called out to her last customer. “Please, master, come back soon!” She watched his muscular ass flex and felt a comfortable sizzle in her loins.
“Honoa,” her proctor said, coming to her as she began to clean up. “Go to the Master.”
“Yes, Simna,” she said. “At once, Simna.” Soon, Honoa was knocking at the door to Nozo’s office.
“Come in, Honoa.”
Inside was her Master and another man. Nozo pointed at the floor in front of the two of them, and she knelt, knees spread, her slave heat blossoming. “This is she,” Honoa heard her beloved owner say.
“Look up,” the other man said. “Look at me, slave.”
She did. There was something almost familiar about this man’s voice. Honoa started to tremble.
The stranger was a typical, wondrous specimen of Yn manhood, and naturally Honoa desired him. He towered over her, and Honoa’s sexual appetite for him was to be expected. He had a lean face, though, and there was something about the turn of his mouth, the look in his eyes as he appraised her, that eclipsed her instinctive desire for him with fear.
Neither man said anything for a time, then the stranger—he was not a regular customer of the Cup, she would have well recalled this one—grinned and turned to Nozo. “It’s her.”
He slapped his thigh, a thunderclap, startling Honoa and eliciting a cry. “It’s her! Finally, she’s mine!”
Honoa’s trembling increased. Was she to be . . . to be sold to this awful man? She didn’t want to be sold. Unexpectedly, she thought, But I hate him! Mixed with the unfamiliar emotion was pure dread.
“Not yet, she isn’t,” her Master Nozo said, and Honoa felt a momentary lightening. “She’s my best slut.”
The other man laughed.
He turned to her. “Do you hear that, Commander? He called you a ‘slut.’ You’re his best slut!” He absolutely roared in his mirth.
Commander? “Honoa the slave is pleased if her Master should find her desirable,” she said, somewhat formally because of her fright. “I am a slave, master.”
Her eyes turned to Nozo. “I am your slave, Master.” Please don’t sell me to him, Master, she silently pleaded. She liked working at The Ever-Flowing Cup. It was her home. She loved Nozo.
“I want her,” the stranger said to her Master. He slapped a bag of coins on a table beside them. “Take it. Take all of it, so long as she becomes my property right now.” His glance never left her person.
“Master?” Honoa asked beseechingly. She didn’t want to belong to this man. She was a good tavernslut. She loved her Master’s customers. She wanted to please them. She wanted to go on pleasing them. She was a slave.
Nozo picked up and looked inside the bag. His eyes widened. “This is too much,” he said.
“Have we a deal?” the frightening stranger said. His clothing was very fine. His sword, hung in an expensively decorated, inwrought leather sheath, gleamed. His hand rested on the sword’s hilt.
“What . . . are you going to do to her?” Nozo asked slowly. “I will not sell her if you intend on harming her.” Honoa’s head fell. She started to cry.
“Killing her is the furthest thing from my mind,” the wealthy stranger said, “yet even if that was my intent, there’s enough in that purse for ten slaves such as she.”
Both his hand and his voice tightened. “Have we a deal?” he hissed.
Nozo said nothing for a moment. Then he reluctantly nodded his head. “I’m sorry, Honoa. I must.”
He turned to the stranger. “She is your slave. But if I hear of her pain or her demise, we will climb the pyramid together.” He held out his arm. The stranger clasped it at the elbow. Their deal was struck.
Honoa wept. “Just so. May I use this room to get acquainted with my new property?”
Nozo sighed, nodded again, and left without another word, appearing older and more tired than Honoa had ever seen him before. “Master!” she exclaimed at his back. The door shut heavily behind him.
She was suddenly alone with the stranger, her new owner. Honoa turned to face him. He was already silently removing his clothes and laying them on the table. She shuddered.
Despite that she was a slave and she had not received permission to rise to her feet, Honoa did so. She stood and actually shrank away from her new owner as he approached her. “Please,” she begged.
“I own you,” he said, fiercely. “It took me a long time to track you down from the Brahma base, but I own you now, you little cunt.” Suddenly, viciously, he grabbed her. He hurt her.
“Master, please!” she begged, again placatingly. Her eyes were wide and fearful staring into his face.
Why was he so familiar, and yet not?
He smothered her face in a savage, lengthy kiss. For the first time Honoa could recall, she regretted the overpowering, irresistible slave-passion that swelled within her. Her body wanted him, but she did not.
Her new owner finally drew back. Her lips had been made to feel bruised and sore.
“I am Larr Gutis, now. But when we last knew each other, I went by something different.”
“I . . . I don’t remember, master.” His embrace was crushing. He tilted her back to the floor, pressing upon her soft and vulnerable body. She took his monstrous weight. “I don’t remember anything!”
“I know,” he whispered, “and that’s what makes this so delightful.”
He laughed as she cried. She tried to squirm away, but he was too heavy. He put his hands around her breasts and squeezed at her, making them bulge painfully. The helpless slave screamed. His first penetration of her body was from behind. He released her chest, flipped her over like a ragdoll, and shoved himself violently inside her. He pumped without regard for her pleasure or safety, and it hurt!
He pushed her down. Her tits were pressed flat against the floor.
His cock slammed into her again and again, his pelvis flush against her backside, driving in as deep as he could. Honoa felt pleasure. She could not deny her slave nature. But it hurt more than it felt right.
“You fucking bitch!” he shouted at her, in her ear. “Thought you were better than me! Better! Bitch!”
“Ah . . ah, master, please!” A rolling, agonizing pressure burst inside her. She climaxed and was under his sway. The world grew hazy and indistinct. She had lost all sensation in her upper body, so crushed was she between him and the floor. “I am a slave! I’ll do anything . . . anything! Please Master!!”
The truth was, she wanted to please him. She was a slave: she had to please him. But he didn’t let her.
He took what she would have willingly given.
Larr Gutis ruthlessly swayed his plaything. “You are a slave. You are my slave.”
Honoa’s response was torn out of her. “I am a slave. I am your slave, Master.”
“You were so stupid to think you were better than me. Say it! You were so stupid!”
I was so stupid, the injunction wrote itself across her brain. Its repetition was immediately maddening.
“I was so stupid,” she whispered. It hurt, his command. Everything he did to her hurt.
“Now you belong to me . . . Serry,” he said, pleased, and then her master proceeded to rape her again.
Modern Day:
“You are a stupid sow,” Master swayed her. “You are nothing but a stupid little sow.”
“I are sow,” Serry Sow repeated as best she could. “I are but stupid sow.” Stupid sow . . . Stupid sow . . . Stupid sow . . . Stupid . . . . These were the only thoughts Master permitted in her head.
Master twisted her nipples. She was numb to it.
Master poked her up the ass. She was unfeeling.
The Serry Sow felt nothing. She had felt nothing for so long, nothing was all she was inside. Emptiness and appetite, nothing more.
The girls she had been . . . Honoa . . . the girl, Jurin, before that . . . Commander Serry Garrant, of Beta Prime: Master had buried them all in her head. Now she was just the Serry Sow, Master’s pet.
She grunted like an animal. She was an animal. She squealed as Master plunged inside her. She felt Master’s cock glide across her backside, which was the usual opening Master used. Master’s cock was hot and leaden inside her. Master’s cum, as it seeped out of her, burned. She groaned under Master’s attention, pushing back against Master while resting on her hands and knees.
She had forgotten the last time she had been permitted on her feet. She was no longer sure she could manage that trick. Master liked to have Serry Sow crawl, and so she did, always.
She felt Master’s licks at the back of her neck. She arched her back for Master, mind dulled.
Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.
There was nothing Master could do to hurt her now. When Master struck her, spanked her, she was waiting, and she responded to it merely as she had been swayed.
“Tank yu, mas’sr. Tank yu, mas’sr.” It was hard to speak, since she was such a stupid sow.
The pain—she hardly felt even it anymore—was a customary part of Master’s taking, and she no longer paid any attention to it. SMACK! “Tank yu, mas’sr.” SMACK!! “Tank yu, mas’sr.” SMACK!!! “Tank yu, mas’sr.” SMACK!!!! She could have gone on like that for hours more, but fate intervened.
A heavy knocking at the door interrupted the usual punishment cycle. Master detached from the Serry Sow and strode angrily to the door.
“What is it!? I gave orders not to be interrupted!” Master snarled in the face of one of Master’s subordinates.
The soldier saluted. “I apologize, sir, but there is a man . . .” Master interrupted him.
“Who gives a fuck!? How dare you interrupt me!”
“I wouldn’t normally have interrupted your . . . pleasure, sir, but this man who came to the door . . . he came with a Floran, sir.”
Master stopped raging. “A Floran?” Master leaned heavily against the door. “Who is he?”
The soldier licked his lips. “I don’t know, but he’s calling you out, sir. He told me to tell you, he called you a sorry excuse for an officer, sir. A sorry excuse for a man. And he means to climb the pyramid with you. The Floran wants to watch.”
Master scoffed. “What’s this fool’s name?”
And for the first time in half a year, the Serry Sow felt a genuine emotion.
“Eben Halc, sir. He says his name is Senior Lieutenant Eben Halc.”