“Oh!” she cried, her face reddening at the movement within her. She stirred in Cimilan’s grip, unsure of his intentions and still somewhat fearful, and then his hips began to move. Famira whimpered, feeling the strength of him, knowing his presence for the mastery it was, attempting to deny the weakness he brought upon her. His movement increased in speed and force, and her mouth opened in amazement, words lost to the unimaginable and inexpressible sensations being given her. Cimilan lowered his head and took her lips, and with a small, muffled moan, Famira began attempting to match his movement. In no more than heartbeats she leaped beneath him, crying out incoherently in response to the slave due he forced from her, lost in the pleasure of his manhood. I felt the demands of desire in my own flesh, yet my earlier disturbance had not left me. The two opposed forces fought in my body, one insisting that I beg in my need, the other demanding that I carry my pain in silence. My flesh ached from lying in one place so long, yet the distraction of the ache was not enough to overcome knowledge of Ceralt behind me. In Mida’s name, I knew not what might be done, and the sound of Ceralt’s voice startled me from consideration of the dilemma.
“See the unrestrained heat of her,” said Ceralt, unconcerned with being heard by any save I. Cimilan and Famira dwelt in a world made only for two, and heard naught save the heartbeat each of the other. “I have always known she would be magnificent for a rider,” he chuckled. “She had only to be chosen by the proper rider. True obedience will be long in coming to her, yet I venture to guess that she will no longer risk full insolence with Cimilan. Should he find the need to give her a hiding, she will thereafter pack her insolence away, no longer to be used upon men. I will listen closely for her first words when Cimilan releases her.”
Then his hand came to my arm and pulled me around to my back, so that I must stare up at his face. Light eyes met mine in sober regard and silence, and it was a moment before his hand came gently to my face.
“What disturbs you, satya?” he asked, a faint echoing disturbance to be heard in his voice. “I have learned to be wary of such silence from you, and your eyes show a great unhappiness. Speak to me of that which gives you pain.”
A lock of dark hair had again fallen to Ceralt’s brow, and I felt the desire to raise my hand and brush it away, clearing his vision. He saw so much and yet so little, and I was helpless to do other than as I did.
“It is not a thing which might be spoken of,” I replied, keeping my hand from him. “It might only be seen to should my word be returned to me.”
“No,” he growled, so softly that a chill touched me. “You are mine and shall continue to be mine. I see you have replaced your breech. Do you think this bit of leather will keep me from you if I should desire your use?”
“No,” I whispered, turning my head from him and closing my eyes. His hand had touched the breech, solidly, possessively, and the flesh beneath it burned as though touched by the coals I cooked upon. How might I think myself other than fully in his capture when the mere sight of him made my body his? His hand moved in and about the breech, forcing a moan from my lips, and his other hand came to turn my face back to him as he chuckled.
“A man must needs be touched by Sigurr to release one such as you,” he murmured, shifting about so that he might stretch out beside me. “You, too, are magnificent for a rider. Show me what you have learned in offering your lips to me.”
I opened my eyes to look upon him, yet sight did naught to alter his command. I raised my face to his, parting my lips slightly as I did so, knowing the gesture was one he approved of. My lips were his and he took them fiercely, showing again that my release would be through Mida’s doing and not through his. His arms held me to his body as he drew my soul from me, and Famira’s cries of pleasure were as daggers twisting through my flesh. I writhed in his grip, my need growing beyond my ability to govern, and Ceralt raised his head to regard me.
“What, again?” he laughed, putting his hand to my hair. “Surely you were seen to no more than a hin ago, and yet here you lay, squirming about as though untouched for feyd. You cannot possibly require further attention, so I will consider myself mistaken.”
He released me then to stretch and yawn, and then put himself flat upon his back in the fur beside me. I sat up quickly, knowing momentary shame, yet my desperation would not allow the agony to be borne in silence. It was the place of a war leader to take, yet Ceralt was no longer a male who might be taken from. I gazed upon him as my breasts rose and fell in agitation, and a comforting smile came to his face.
“Calm yourself, wench,” he murmured, drawing a thick strand of my hair toward him. “Speak to me of what disturbs you, and I shall do all possible to assist you.”
He waited patiently for what words would come from me, yet I was nearly beyond speech. I pulled myself to my knees and tore the breech free of my body, then put my hands upon his chest.
“I must be used,” I whispered in pain, pleading with my eyes. “My need is such that I will beg if necessary.”
He pursed his lips at my confession and gazed thoughtfully at the strand of hair in his hands, yet made no move to do as I had asked.
“So you are willing to beg,” he murmured, keeping his eyes from mine. “When one is willing to do a thing, that thing has proven itself less distasteful than another thing. Just how high does your need rage?”
His hands released my hair and suddenly came to me, one hand behind my waist, the other to test the intensity of my desire. I cried out and attempted to throw myself upon him, yet this he would not allow.
“We are beyond the time when you may force me to your service!” he snapped, keeping me from him by his hands upon my arms. “Have you no knowledge of anything other than forcing your will or begging to be taken?”
I struggled in his grip, unable to reach him, miserable in the knowledge that he would refuse me use. I burned within me, my flesh demanded service, yet I knew this service would not be forthcoming. From somewhere in the depths of my being, I found the strength to pull from his hands, yet when I attempted to take my misery to a far corner, this, too, was denied me. Ceralt’s fist came to my hair, and my head was forced to the furs.
“A question has been asked you, wench,” he pursued, his voice close to my ear as my face, as I held to the fur beneath my knees. “Have you never thought upon other methods of bringing relief to your flesh than taking it or begging it?”
His hand gripped my hair with such force that my head whirled, and my own hands went to his fist in an attempt to ease the strain.
“What other methods can there be?” I choked, seeing naught save my knees and the lanthay fur they rested upon, feeling naught save the squareness of the fist beneath my hands. “One is natural,” I gasped, “the means warriors have ever used upon males. The other is shameful, yet necessary when one has been made captive to males. There are no other circumstances.”
“Captive!” Ceralt growled in anger, his hand giving my head such a shake that I cried out in pain. I had no hope of loosening his grip, yet my hands went again to where he held me, resting gently against the corded strength of his fist. “Still you persist in calling yourself captive!” he ground out. “When will you no longer be a captive?”
“When Mida frees me from your presence,” I whispered, knowing he would give me pain again, yet unable to speak other than the truth. “This has been promised me, and it will surely come to be. I will not forever be the captive of a male.”
I had thought to hear him shout then, and perhaps see him beat me, yet no sounds came other than those from Cimilan and Famira. And then my head, held so cruelly to the lanthay fur, was slowly raised by Ceralt so that I might look upon his face. Strange did that face appear when once I knelt straight, strange in the impatience of his expression, the pain in his eyes. No anger showed from that which he had earlier felt, yet it lingered in the set of his body, the grip of his hand.