The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Y

23

Larr, once a human being, wiped the cherry blood off his dagger and replaced it in the special sheath.

No sexual metaphor was implied. The representative sent by the rexus was too noble to express visibly either the disapproval or the disappointment he felt with the way the duel had ended. Stolidly, he stepped forward and spoke to its victor.

“You have won,” he said to Larr, slow and formally, according to ritual. “All that was Cuennal’s is now yours, including his name. You are now Larr Cuennal.” The representative paused. The hatred and contempt bundled up inside was hinted at by his stilted manner. “Have you a preference, Larr Cuennal, citizen of Woom?” Somewhere, out of sight but not earshot, a widowed slave was weeping.

“Yes,” Larr said casually. “I shall continue to be known as Larr Gutis. I have no use for this fool’s title.” He kicked the body at his feet, still bleeding pinkly. Some of the witnesses to the duel bristled with anger at the double insult—the kick and, more so, the refusal to accept the decedent’s name, thereby condemning the man to oblivion. At least one fellow had to be held back by his friends.

The law, however, was clear. Unless he wished it, the winner of a trial of blood could not be challenged again for a full brawl. The winner had to be given time to recover, though all could see that in Larr’s case this was needless. The former Cuennal Borch had barely managed to scratch him in their bloody contest. They would have to wait another hundred days to try and kill him, not that they had much shot.

Larr had been challenged every brawl for the last seven, ever since he had first won a citizenship in Woom. “I will have my head slave consult with the council and to arrange the transfer of my new assets,” the smug winner said on. “In the meantime, I’ll take his bitch now.”

The representative’s hand trembled with anger. Larr admired his restraint.

He knew the man wanted to strike him but dared not. Both law and custom were on Larr’s side. It wasn’t right to challenge someone after his last duel. Perhaps more importantly, the delegate knew he’d lose. Larr’s eight “official” kills were only the ones he had had registered with the council.

His actual number of victorious fights since making his home in Woom was twice that. He didn’t know why. People just didn’t like him very much.

The friends of the unnamed deceased man left with his body, followed by the city representative. A few minutes later a crying slave was escorted into the preparation chamber, one level down from the top of the highest pyramid-structure in Woom. The slave had belonged to Cuennal. She was now owned by the man who had slain him. “Do you miss your former master?” Larr asked her, cruelty turning his lips.

It took the girl a second to respond. She sniffed loudly. “Yes, master,” she said softly. She reached out to lightly touch the blood still staining the floor. She could not lift her face to meet his.

“You won’t, soon enough,” Larr said, lifting off his tunic to expose his manhood.

A little while later, the wealthy citizen of Woom stepped out onto the streets of his adopted home. He breathed deep of the chill evening air and began making his way back to his citadel. He had a grin on, and he was feeling eminently satisfied, both from the fight he had won and the slave he had finished using. Behind him, a stunned expression still on her lovely face, the recently acquired slave hurried to keep up. From the way she walked, there was an indication that she was in some pain. From the way she stared ahead blankly, there was an indication of some bewilderment as well. Both were common attributes of the slaves of Larr’s household. Like her previous owner, she too now possessed no name.

Larr walked unafraid, cyclopean buildings towering all around him. Above were the sounds of rotors, and every few minutes the light of the Indi dusk was darkened by the sight of a flying aircraft overhead.

The sounds of ship construction, continuous throughout Woom’s daylight hours, were coming to an end.

Cuennal had challenged Larr after hearing how he had treated one of the tavernsluts in his favorite hangout. Larr hadn’t seen the problem—she was just a tavernslut, for the God’s sake! and besides, she would heal, in time—but Borch had thrown his knife at Larr’s feet, in public, and that was that. Truth be told, the former Betan wasn’t entirely disappointed that he had been engaged in another trial of blood. It was about time for another, and trials of blood had been very good for him. As he and his opponent had climbed the pyramid together, after getting their duel registered with the city council, he had given thought to the previous seven he had fought there, and he had snickered at Cuennal, unnerving him. The fellow really should have known better. Legally, Larr’s name was Larr Gutis Mozez Voestra. Like the former Cuennal, he had disregarded the other four names of the men he had killed and assumed. When he had finally arrived in Woom following the blowout at the Brahma complex, the first thing Larr arranged was the sale of the Tolaamese hovership. Among other things, the people of Woom weren’t completely adverse to the pawning of the vessels of their defeated adversaries, especially if they were the ones who had built the ship in the first place. Woom was one of the largest city-states on Y. It controlled much territory, from the mountains north of Tolaam to the hugely fertile Kaan Basin, near the ocean and the confluence of three massive rivers, but where its real strength lay was in its air force. Woom had the most prosperous skyship construction yards on the planet. The Woomese sold finely crafted hovercrafts, large and small, to a host of other cities, keeping the best, naturally, for themselves.

Those raiding ships from Sooshr, long ago, that had lain siege to Tolaam and precipitated his glorious transformation into a Yn, were from Woom, and it was to Woom that Larr had eventually brought the skybarge he had appropriated from Baor Korez, after first making the necessary preparations.

While the sale of the vessel Baor had entrusted to him had been start of Larr’s fortune, it had still taken the killing of Gutis Kal to make him a citizen of the city-state, to grant him the right to build there and make a home for himself. Gutis had been the first to challenge him in Woom. He had shown nothing but hypocritical contempt for the foreigner who had come to his beloved city just to sell off the property he had “stolen.” Larr sniffed. How could you steal from dead men?

After ritually defeating Gutis and assuming his legal status, no one could gainsay that Larr didn’t belong in Woom. The subsequent duels, made, he honestly thought, because others were jealous of him, and the private arrangements he had made with the pirates who sometimes operated out of the city-state, officially frowned upon by the rexus and the city council, but there for the same reasons Larr was, because of the loose regard for provenance in Woom, had only increased his personal holdings.

Larr was one of the city’s richest citizens. He had his own citadel—not as large or as impressive as the rexus’, but getting there—his own men, and, of course, his own stable of slaves.

Night fell. Gas lamps automatically lit, providing a dim radiance to Larr’s wandering.

He was almost to the gates of his citadel when a soft voice spoke in his ear. He paused, smiled. It’s about time, he thought.

“Hurry up,” the former Betan told the female slave. There was an childlike eagerness in his tone. The slave moaned but replied submissively enough, “Yes, master.” She walked funny. Again, though, this was not an uncommon thing among Larr’s slaves, especially after his absolute use of them.

He was almost at his gate when they attacked. Someone loosed a quarrel dart from the alley opposite Larr. Had it struck, the sharp wooden shaft would have gone neatly through his throat and out the other side, killing his voice, and preventing a shout out, only a second or two before killing the rest of him.

“Inducer Engaged,” the tiny chemiprocessor voice said in his Larr’s ear. “Defense Mode.” The dart flared brightly a full three meters from its target. It winked immediately out of existence, with not even the tiniest sprinkling of ash to tell that it had once existed. A second burst from the hidden microwave emitter, tracking along the bolt’s trajectory, completely flash fried its point of origin.

The man who had fired the bolt never knew he had been targeted, let alone killed. From his perspective, he fired his crossbow round and . . . knew no more.

Two men—Larr recognized them as friends of the late Cuennal Borch—charged him. Larr doubted they were aware their associate was no longer backing them up with his crossbow. Both he and that crossbow had ceased to exist about a second ago.

The slavegirl hadn’t recovered enough presence of mind yet to cry out, which was good for her. Larr would have punished her.

Larr drew his dagger, the only weapon he had on him that could be seen with the naked eye. The knife itself was nothing special. It was what held it that gave Larr his edge, so to speak. “Cheater!” the first man to come at him cried. He was carrying a curved sword. The way he moved with it, the elegance of his bladework, said much about the hours he must have spent in practice with the deadly weapon.

Nonetheless, to his surprise—not Larr’s, though—his expertly aimed swing missed.

The second man, also carrying a sword, also struck and missed. Larr barely had to move to avoid either blow, in fact, which, had they connected, would surely have separated some part of his anatomy from the greater whole of him. Larr wasn’t dueling. There were no witnesses about—his scanner had told him that when it informed him of the impending attack—slaves didn’t count, and so he didn’t bother trying to make the battle look real. He was almost yawning as he plunged his knife into the first of his attackers. The startled look in his eyes was matched by the mirrored expression of his friend.

Larr pulled the dagger free and turned to the other fellow.

The man roared and brought his sword down in an overhead cleave. He was standing directly in front of Larr. There was no way he could have missed. A blind man with a sword, in that same position, would have landed the blow on top of Larr’s head. His attacker missed him entirely, the blade clanging on the rough stone pavement at the side of his sandaled feet and raising sparks. Too late, he must have realized he was overextended.

Larr ended the erstwhile confrontation by planting his knife deep in the back of the man’s neck. The would-be assassin shivered and managed to stay on his feet for a full five seconds before toppling over.

Only now did the slave start to cry. “Be quiet, slut,” Larr told her, and she wound down, trembling.

The transformed Betan used the heat inducer again to erase the evidence of his fight, searing the bodies of the two men with so many concentrated microwaves they evaporated like water hitting a red-hot metal surface. Only a horrible stink was left of them, and that would fade soon as well. The hovering inducer, shielded with a camouflage screen, returned to its hover over Larr’s shoulder. It remained there constantly whenever he was out on the streets of his city-state.

Larr’s soldiers eventually streamed out of the house. He chastised them for their tardiness, again. The fifth man who had challenged him had previously been one of his men, though, so he didn’t lay it on too thickly. In any case, he never used them as his bodyguards. Larr went quickly inside. As always, his head slave was waiting for him on her knees in the anteroom.

“Welcome home, master,” Bea said.

Every time Larr looked upon the former officer, he felt a prideful tremor in his groin.

“Your slave is pleased to greet her master.” Bea lowered her face close to the floor and kissed Larr’s sandals. She was entirely naked. That was the rule of the house.

“I acquired a new slave tonight,” Larr said, after she had lifted her head once more. The head slave remained on her knees.

“Yes, master,” Bea answered. “I shall arrange everything. May a slave inquire as to the name of the new acquisition?” She spoke very formally. Again, it was how things were done in Larr’s household.

The acquisition in question knelt on the floor just outside the anteroom. By custom, no slave could not enter until brought over the threshold by her new owner. She trembled. She was bleeding.

Larr shrugged. He didn’t remember whether or not he had actually been told the slave’s prior name. If he had, he didn’t remember it. “Call her Miru.” It was a common Yn moniker.

He saw Bea hesitate. “Forgive this slave, master, but you already own a Miru.”

“Then just call her a slut and let’s be done with it,” Larr replied irritably, and Bea bowed and licked his feet in humble propitiation again. He never got tired of having his former superior do that.

“Where is the Sow?” He put a hand to the front of his tunic and adjusted himself.

“She is scrubbing the second lower floor, master, as master instructed.” Bea lowered her eyes.

“Send her to me.” He almost strode off, then recalled the girl waiting on his porch. He roughly dragged her in and thrust her at his head slave. He would get to know her more intimately later. After one of his duels, there was only one slut he was truly interested in.

Inside his private chambers, Larr removed the hidden chemiprocessor relay from his ear and deactivated the mobile heat inducer floating above him. Both it and his special sheath he put away carefully. Modifying Aosha’s equipment to his needs hadn’t been easy, but it had more than proven worthwhile. He had just finished removing his clothes and sandals when there was a knock at the door.

He gave permission to enter.

The slave he called “the Sow” crawled in, the door held open by his faithful Bea. “That will be all,” he told her, and the head slave left, rather hurriedly. The Sow scuttled to the middle of his floor, panting.

On this planet, the term was one that perhaps only he, Bea, and the slave in question herself probably understood. Larr gazed upon his prized possession.

Her hands and skin were roughened by hard work. Her hair hung stringy and matted about her face, her eyes wild and desperate beneath the dark locks. The lowly slave moaned. She sweated, and she stank of her sweat. It had been several weeks at least, almost a standard month, now that he thought about it, since he had allowed anyone to use her.

Larr liked keeping his little Sow starved for sexual service. It made it all the more amusing when he took her or gave her to his men so he could watch.

He sat on the edge of his bed and lifted one foot to her face. Eagerly, desperate to please him, to be allowed to cum, the Sow began to pathetically lick at his toes. Larr laughed.

There was little left of the woman he had known, the officer, the woman who had presumed to give him orders, in this low creature licking his feet. And that was just how he liked it.

“Here piggy piggy,” he called out to his Serry Sow. “Come to your master, bitch.”

And driven by the raging sexual needs boiling in her blood, the helpless slave did exactly that.

It was his perfect end to a perfect day.

. . . to be continued (23 of 28)