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An Eventful Evening.

redthorn

redthorn

Moon
Joined
Nov 28, 2011
The sky overhead was dark and overcast, a testament to his reign. With the human's factories no longer operational the sky had been given a chance to return to its once beautiful, serene blue, but they had soiled their opportunity to live bereft of his tyranny. The people of Blackstone were, in no way, perplexed by the state of the sky, it had ever become a precursor to their overlord's moods.

No, the only concern that plagued the people of Blackstone was the identity of the one they would send to appease the Sorcerer. He was even less merciful with them if their tribute proved lackluster, resulting in their careful selection of the girls they allowed into his manse.

Vastille's quarters were large, but hardly lavish or grandiose. Much like its inhabitant the room was gorgeous in its simplicity. Though any form of opulence was absent, there was a certain air of nobility to the space and Vastille’s presence did nothing to lessen it.

He stood before the large stained glass window the Manse's former ownder had ordered installed roughly forty years ago. He, unlike his Vastille, had a penchant for the finer things in life and did not mind flaunting his wealth. In truth, it seemed the only thing Vastille and the city's former ruler shared, aside from their sexual proclivities, was an enjoyment of the city’s scenery. From this room, the Sorcerer could look out over the entire city as though he were the god of this anthill; perhaps, in a way, he was.


The sound of a fist pounding against aged blackwood could be heard behind him; someone was at the door and apparently felt the need to disturb him. Without turning around Vastille’s lips parted giving birth to his cold, emotionless voice.

“Come in.”

The door opened with the barest of creaks and one of the city's former Lords stepped into the room. Kaz was a fairly tall, lean man with well-defined shoulders, his features a bit too sharp for Vastille's tastes, but one he had felt the need to break nevertheless. Dark hair was pulled back into a low pony tail with a few strands falling across his pale brow. Garbed in the fine silk, Kaz looked more a nobleman than a hired killer.

“They've yet to make a selection, my Lord.” His voice was nonchalant and held a tone of informality that left Vastille with a smoldering temperament. He wished to play, but Vastille held no interest in a beast broken with such ease. No, his sights were set on something new, something far more interesting.

“Begone, worm. Inform the people they've until nightfall to deliver their tribute or I shall feel the urge to have a night on the town.” Vastille would wait for the final creaking of the door before turning to don his clothes for the day.
 
Blackstone had always been her home so Miranda was more than passing familiar with the many moods of the Lord of Vastille. Her Mother had taught her well; she knew to avoid leaving her home without a cloak, hood pulled low over her face; to never, ever speak with anyone. And she knew that the most important rule was to stay inside when the sky boiled gray and angry. Her mama said that was when men became crazy, and they would sacrifice anything.

Her mother had been a font of wisdom, but it had been two weeks since her mother had passed away, and in the mourning she had run low on all the necessities – no bread, no cheese; the clean drinking water was low. The angry sky could last for days, or weeks. She couldn’t wait out the storm.

Wrapping herself in a warm gray cloak, pulling the hood low over her long brown hair, she cautiously slipped from her cottage, a wicker basket held like a shield in front of her. The market place wasn’t far, and she slid through the streets with as much poise as she could muster. Men clustered in front of tavern doors, drinking too much and speaking too loudly. Cold eyes cast appraising glances her way, but Miranda hurried on and concentrated on the path beneath her feet; the feeling of her long blue skirts brushing against her calves and the wicker basket pressed against her thighs.

The market place was nearly deserted, and Miranda hurried along the closed stalls, trying to find someone willing to sell food. By the time she reached the end of the stalls, she was almost frustrated to the point of tears; it seemed everyone had gone home to wait out the storm with their loved ones. Turning slowly, she started back down the stalls, considering her next option. She’d have to stop at a tavern and see if she could convince them to part with a loaf of bread and a wheel of cheese.

She had never been inside a tavern before, and the strong scent of ale and wine nearly sent her reeling. She had picked one of the less crowded taverns, and when she crossed the threshold she lowered her hood. Despite the fact that men weren’t falling out the door, it was still quit packed. She had to squeeze in between men in varying state inebriation, pressed first against the back of one and then held against another’s front. She made her way to the bar, where she attempted to catch the eye of a roaming barmaid, to no avail. She could feel the tears building.
 
When Kaz had carried the news to them, the City Council truly began to panic. The monster who had claimed their town was capable of unspeakable horrors and none of them wished to relive the dark days of his arrival. They had not expected Vastille to deny their most recent tribute, yet he had returned the whore in a state far worse than when they had last seen her, frothing at the mouth and babbling incoherently. Such was the Sorcerer's way of delivering a message. They had scrambled the better part of a day, attempting to find a proper tribute, but none were to be found.

The girl's arrival in the tavern was a godsend. With the death of her mother, she had no family to contest her fate. They had elected Bellin to speak, for some unknown reason, under some delusion that he would be able to talk the girl into turning herself over to the beast, or at the very least force her into doing so. Waving a bar maid down was a simple task for a councilman, as was insuring the food and drink ordered he ordered would be delivered before any other within the tavern. Setting the platter of hot food and a cold mug of ale in front of the girl, Bellin took a seat across from her.

"You're Madeline's daughter, yes?" he asked, doing his best to mask his own disgust with his actions. "I'm Bellin, a member of the City Council. Please eat, I've something I need to discuss with you."
 
Miranda stared at the councilmember with wide eyes. The fact that the man brought food, and knew her mother’s name, did nothing to ease her worries but despite this she found herself sitting cautiously on the bench. She could eat his food and escape, and maybe she’d be lucky enough to buy a heel of bread from someone on the way.

Miranda brushed the brown bangs from her face and picked up the spoon and dug into the warm bowl of beef stew. She ignored the ale – she had never developed a taste for the stuff, and it wouldn’t do to lose her head in such an odd and possibly dangerous situation. The beef stew was delicious, but she forced herself to work slowly at her meal, keeping her warm hazel eyes on the man across from her. She had nothing to say, so she was content to listen for the moment.
 
Bellin was by no means the sort of man who preyed on helpless women, but even he could see the signs of mistrust in the girl's eyes. Eye's passed over the girl's body. She was shapely enough, certainly a specimen that the Sorcerer would find pleasing to look upon. When it was evident that the woman had no intention of touching the ale, Bellin laid claim to it and drank deeply. False courage had seen him through these dark years beneath the Sorcerer's reign and it would see him through this moral dilemma.

The ale had frothed and Bellin licked the last vestiges of foam from his lips. "Your mother was a good woman," he said, attempting to ease her fears. "She always had a kind word for me in the market."

There was still one simple matter that plagued his mind and in order to put his racing mind to rest finished the ale and waved for another. "Tell me, Miranda. How old are you?"
 
Miranda watched him drain the mug in silence. His question did surprise her; her age was something that she didn’t consider to be critically important to the city, especially with more pressing matters literally swirling over their heads. She broke the crust of bread, and dipped it into the warm broth of the stew.

“19 two months ago.”

Seeing no harm in answering, she responded honestly. Her voice was steady if quiet, and she was proud of herself for not stammering. She unhooked the clasp of her cloak, finding the tavern to be too hot. Her dress was a simple square cut neckline of blue cotton, but it framed her pale cleavage perfectly; her breasts pulled the cloth taunt. She’d been growing, but hadn’t had the funds to buy new clothing, instead opting to pay her mother’s doctor bills. It was one of the last dresses that she owned that covered more than her nipples.

She ate more of the stew, waiting for the council member to continue. Her full stomach was working to calm her nerves.
 
Her response eased his mind and his inner turmoil considerably. It was bad enough to take advantage of a woman, it was inexcusable to take advantage of a child. Knowing that Miranda was an adult by the cities standards served to absolve him of some small measure of accountability. Clearing his throat, Bellin accepted a new mug of ale when it was delivered and took another sip. His eyes took in the sight of her cleavage and he took another sip to dismiss the lump in his throat.

He was almost ashamed to feel the familiar rush of blood to his member.

"Miranda, I'm sure I don't have to tell you of the situation our home is in...you know as well as I do, it's the time of the Tribute. The Sorcerer rejected our initial gift."

His eyes hardened. "We, the council, have decided that you are the proper choice..."
 
Miranda stopped eating, her spoon halfway to her mouth, eyes growing wide. Surely he was playing a mean trick on her. She mustered a painful smile and shook her head. Her brown hair flounced around her shoulders.

“Surely, you’re joking.”

Her voice wasn’t as steady as it had been earlier. It cracked, and she quickly settled the spoon in the bowl, her heart pounding. She started to gather her belongings – the cloak, the wicker basket and stand.

“I have to go now. Thank you for the meal.”

She pushed away from the table, intent on making her way from the tavern and never leaving her cottage again.
 
The rest of the council rose when Bellin did. Every door had a pair of Councilmen, ready to scoop Miranda up and whisk her off. They did not make eye contact with her, finding it easier to stare beyond her into nothingness. At least then they would not have to see the fear in her eyes, nor feel the weight of betrayal upon their hearts.

"I'm sorry," he said.

This was why they had chosen him; to bear the burden of peering into her eyes. To bear the weight of this shame...it was worse than death. They were upon her in a matter of moments, and would see her bound and delivered to Kaz before nightfall.
 
Miranda did not go gracefully to her fate; she fought against the onslaught, kicking, slapping, pinching and biting anything that came near her. She broke the wicker basket on a man’s head, and her cloak fell to the floor, trampled and forgotten.

And she cursed. She cursed with all the fury she could muster, drawing upon a reserve of knowledge she didn’t even know she had. By the time she had been trussed up – a gag stuffed into her mouth to silence her onslaught, she was exhausted, her dress was considerably dirtier, and she was bound so tightly she couldn’t twitch. The ropes secured beneath her breasts pulled the neckline of her dress even further down, the pink of her areolas peaking over the cotton neckline.

Tears of anger, defeat, and fear had dried on her face, but she was still where they placed her, laying on the floor and concentrating on breathing.
 
Despite their status as weak willed men, they dared not fondle her or do anything that might be considered lewd during their journey to the Manse. So great was their fear of the Sorcerer, that they did not so much as say anything to her beyond whispered apologies. When she was delivered to Kaz, they dispersed, leaving her with the Sorcerer's pet.

Looking her over, Kaz lifted the girl to her feet and bid her walk with an unkind shove to her backside.

"Master Vastille will have fun with you." He said, with a grin. "A shame none of the Tributes make it beyond the first week. I think it'll be nice listening to you scream though...I do quite enjoy that much of it."

He led her through the mansion, up a great stairwell and through a pair of double doors until he came to halt at a simple wooden door. He knocked and after a moment the door swung open of it's own volition. A voice beckoned:

"Enter. Leave the girl, then make yourself scarce." It was both dark and sensuous, terrifying and alluring. His words would serve to wrap around her mind with all the tenderness of a lover's embrace and with all the ferocity of a violent rape. He appeared a gentleman in aspect and design, from the finely cut and embroidered fabric of his dark tunic, all the way down to his pristine and uniform boots. Vastille's dark trousers clung to his form, leaving very little to the imagination.

After Kaz deposited the girl and left, the door closed shut behind him, locking itself with a loud and firm 'click.' Although it was within his power to, literally, undress her with his eyes, Vastille abstained from doing so, save to remove the gag from her mouth. Instead, he bid her stand with a twitch of his finger. Eyes as cold and inhuman as steel took in every inch of her. "Have you a name?"
 
Miranda stumbled in front of the servant, her hair a wild halo around her shoulders. She listened to his taunts, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she slowly climbed the stairs. She clenched and unclenched her numb fingers, trying to keep them from falling asleep.

Master Vastille cut a terrifying figure. She had to remind herself to breath, saliva dripping around the gag and down her chin – and when the gag was suddenly gone, she stood there, mouth gaping like a fish. She shut her mouth, trying to straighten herself and regain her composure.

“Miranda”

Her voice betrayed her; shaking, it was the voice of a girl. She bit her bottom lip and looked down, trying to think of something, anything she could bargain with him to let her go.
 
Tilting his head as though the name was foreign to him, Vastille strode across the room, the sound of his boot heels muffled by the lush carpet. Dark leather gloves adorned the slim fingers that took hold of her chin with enough force to pull her forward. His eyes traversed her form, stopping long enough to marvel at the pink flesh exposed by her dress.

"No," he said, his lips curling into a smile. "That won't do at all."

An arm raised and an unseen force turned her around, completely. With her back to him, Miranda would have know way of knowing that he had even made a move. Shoving her forward onto her knees, he clucked his tongue, several times.

"Hrm, yes...this is fitting, somehow." Another unseen force would serve to push her forward onto her breasts. "Now, what to call you?" He pondered.

"I do have a difficult time truly understanding people until I've gotten to know them better." A flick of his wrist saw to it that the hem of her ankle length skirt was pushed over her shoulders, revealing her backside to the Sorcerer.

"Your Council tried to pay tribute with a lowly whore, earlier today. I can't say I was gracious and the poor girl was simply a discredit to her profession. I believe in honor of her, I shall call you 'Whore.'

Any questions, Whore?"
 
Miranda chewed her lip as he pulled her forward, her eyes darting around furiously, looking for any means of escape. Speech left her, and she gave a startled cry as she was turned around by a strong, invisible force. When she hit her knees, she bit her lip too hard, drawing blood. Forced on to her breasts, the rug scraping against her tender flesh, she cried out again. Everything was happening too quickly for her to grasp, but she knew one thing. This was a hard, hard man.

His speech terrified her. It wasn't just what he was saying, but the way he spoke; quietly, a cultured tone. She didn't want to know what he had planned for her; she didn't care about the council members or the whore; all she wanted was to leave. When her skirts flew over her shoulders, baring her plain white cotton underwear, she finally found her courage -- and her voice. She wriggled her bottom, trying to find the leverage to force herself back into an upright position without the use of her hands.

"P-Please! Let me go!"
 
And so the show had finally begun. Settling back into a simple wooden chair, that moved to meet his form, Vastille rested the side of his boot atop his knee. As she wriggled, his smile widened.

White cotton panties, there was nothing more pure an innocent. Oh, how he did enjoy sullying them. At the sound of her voice, Vastille clicked his tongue, yet again.

"No, no, no. You've misunderstood me. You have made a request of me, essentially asking me for a favor. However, I did not ask for your requests..." Extending the tip of his boot out until it was pressed firmly between her legs, he rolled his ankle, teasing her sex.

"I asked if you had any questions. Do you?"
 
Miranda cried out again, and writhing, tried to pull away from his boot. The feelings were intense -- pain, and something new to her. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes again, and she furiously blinked them away. Now was not the time for tears; she was too exposed for more weakness.

"N-no! No, thank you"

She bit the words off angrily, trying to force herself to hold still.
 
Vastille offered her no quarter, the tip of his boot continuing to grind against her rapidly moistening panties. His ankle rolled in tandem with the wriggling of her bottom. His laughter was surely responsible for the thunder that rolled over head, for it's timbre was as deep and frightening.

"My, my. Such a polite Whore."

When she ceased moving he prodded her with more force, nudging her sex and rocking her back and forth.

"This is what I fail to understand about you humans. Something feels good and you dare to abstain from it. Should it embarrass you that you find pleasure grinding against my boot like a bitch in heat? Certainly, it should. Should you stop doing it?" His boot halted for a moment before continuing with more fervor.

"Not without my permission." Teeth clenched together as he issued his next order. "Now grind, Whore."
 
Miranda moaned, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. His words were painful, but the feeling of his boot pressing even more firmly against her lips and rubbing her cotton panties against the swollen flesh of her pussy was even more so. Yet somehow, she couldn't help herself; she felt possessed and not fully in control.

She found her knees spreading further apart of their own accord and her hips bouncing on their own. Even the rug burning the tender flesh of her breasts, and her skirt gently fluttering around her face in time to her thrusts seemed to invigorate her response. She was no behaving exactly as he had said -- a bitch in heat.

"Y-yes, sir"

Her voice was another woman's, breathy and wanton.
 
Vastille continued the torturous roll of his ankle until her excitement became audible. It was not merely the breathlessness of her words, or the moans she fought against, but the very faint 'squishing' of her sex. Without warning, Vastille lowered his foot to the ground and smirked as Whore was left grinding in midair for a moment.

"My, my," He said, gloved hands meeting in mock applause. "It would seem your name is one you are certainly worthy of."

Peering down at the tip of his boot,Vastilled pulled his feet out from beneath Miranda. "Turn around." He commanded. Lifting his foot a few inches off the ground he waved the moist boot disapprovingly. "This will not do. I've barely even touched you and you're practically sopping all over the carpet." Raising up on an elbow, Vastille held a hand out. "Give me your panties, Whore."
 
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