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From: Tom Delfs <vikingboy14544@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Black Tent (Mf, bondage, consensual)
Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000 22:10:08 -0400
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<1st attachment, "THEBLA~1.txt" begin>
As always, this is mine. You should not post it elsewhere without my
permission. You can comment by writing to me a Vikingboy50@hotmail.com (if
hotmail is EVER up)
Thanks to Pami for her suggestions. Because of her, this is good.
The Black Tent
His camp was up beyond the Long Way at the very north end of the
campground. He had put in for it early the previous year and hadn't been
surprised when everyone let him have it without question. It was to hell
and gone from the shopping, the store, even the battlefields, but it was
secluded and very dark in the evenings. On a clear, moonless night, he
could sit up all night long and watch the stars and planets wend their
eternal way across the sky. For years he had concentrated on his pursuit,
his obsession with astronomy. And at The War he could practice it. His
camp was a period camp -- authentic on every possible detail from his
raised Viking a-frame to his campfire to his meals using only preserved or
freshly killed meats. The only inauthentic touch was an invention for
stargazing, for tracking the movements of the stars in the heavens. He had
designed it himself. It stood on a ground 10' square and was 7' high at
the top. It was a very standard structure with angled poles at each corner
and an 8' square frame at the top. And it was of black canvas, pure black
walls and roof. When it was shut, no light could enter, for the doors
overlapped and tied to the posts. And even during the day, it was dark.
The only light that could enter would come through the roof, for that was
another flap that could be folded back to allow a (modern) telescope to
look up and out. He often had wished that he could afford a period
telescope, but they cost far more than his limited budget could afford. He
shrugged each time he set up his viewing dome and allowed himself the pride
of an inventor & owner of a dome that no other possessed.
He often spent all day cooking and relaxing in camp, his days passing
slowly & leisurely. Only in the evenings did he leave, and then only to
visit camps where period activities took place. Among his favorite leisure
activities were gambling, drinking, singing, and whoring. One of his
favorites was the Inn of the White Horse, a camp set up as a tavern. There
he had often spent pleasant evenings playing draughts, hnaftafl, and kegls
-- a form of bowling. And he won more often than he lost, including
tonight.
He had bet heavily before, often dropping enough to buy many flagons of
ale, but tonight he had decided to play the ultimate game, to wager his
freedom. He had never felt the thrill before of putting it all on the
line. For he was a remarkably independent man, used to be his own master,
and other's as well. He was a true master of all situations he was in, but
he decided to see what the other side of the life was like. So, he engaged
a skilled kegls player, a wench who played every evening ... flirting,
gulling, and then often taking her victims all evening long. She
intoxicated him, her fiery tresses below her shoulders, her green eyes
flashing with laughter, her intelligence and skill obvious in all she did.
She was tall, too, taller than the usual girl he went for. She was a
challenge, both physically and mentally for him. And he had both won and
lost against her at kegls and knew there was at least a 50% chance she
would beat him. So he offered her his challenge:
One match, ten frames, winner takes the loser for one night of slavery.
She looked at him and was immediately aroused. She had played him
before, sometimes ending up on top, sometimes losing, but she had often
beaten him as the stakes rose and they drank more and more. Her skills
became sharper as the evenings progressed, while his seemed to wane. She
had regularly watched him and was bothered by his arrogance, his
self-assurance, his authority. She could think of nothing better than to
defeat him and take him as her slave and lover for a night. For she heard
enough to know that he was a good lover, inventive, powerful, enduring.
And she needed that type of man to bring her pleasure.
She played recklessly, seeming to hurtle herself down the ramp with the
ball. The pins flew everywhere and she built up a seemingly insurmountable
lead. But he came back, carefully aiming to keep deadwood on the platform,
to gain the extra points they gained him. And gradually, imperceptibly, he
caught her. Finally, in the last frame of the last game, they were tied.
She took aim and rolled her final ball -- the pins clattered and fell -- a
strike, all the pins on the floor, the platform swept clean. She was
elated, for only the most fortunate shot could even duplicate the feat, let
alone surpass it. He took a deep breath while looking her square in the
eyes. His gaze held hers as he rolled the ball. As his ball rolled
noisily down the ramp, she looked at him and laughed, picturing the proud,
almost arrogant baron on his knees before her, serving her dinner, morsel
by morsel, sip by sip. The pins shook as the ball dropped onto the
platform. And then they fell, rolling everywhere. A strike. As she
looked, agonized, all rolled off the platform save one which clung
precariously and settled to lie on the deck, dooming her. She groaned and
he guffawed. He gave her a large goblet of wine and whispered in her ear,
"As agreed, sweetling, next Wednesday, at 4:30, before Kingdom Court."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She walked the path carefully, slowly, considering her situation. She
did not have to go to his camp. She could easily forget the whole stupid
idea. After all, there were over 10,000 people in the campsite; he
certainly would never try to force her to attend upon him, to be his slave.
However, she felt a drive, a need to go on. She soared with the
possibilities, to have an experience she had never had before.
When she arrived at the campsite, she stopped momentarily ... a gate
stood before her. It was a simple log gate with runes carved into the
lintel. She could not read them, but she sensed it was the name of the
camp. "Egilsstad" he had said to her. Yes, that would be the first word,
but following that was a string of words, each break marked by a * . The
door was almost completely closed. No noise came from within. She called
out, "Baron Egil? Hello, the camp?"
No answer. Only the bright sunshine and the soft buzzing of bees. She
slowly pushed open the door and slipped inside. The door noiselessly slid
back into place. She looked about her. The 3 tents were positioned in a
semi-circle around the firepit which smoldered even now. All stood on
walls, 4" wide by 12" high. All were A-frames, each with dragon's head
framing pieces on the front edges. The center tent had elaborately painted
dragon's heads, gold and red. And then there was a slight noise behind
her.
She turned and found herself looking up at him. He was taller than she
recalled in the tavern, at least 6" taller than her 5'10". He was dressed
in a soft leather jacket over a linen shirt, a pair of cross-gartered red
wool pants and low boots. His hair was pulled back into a braid, yet it
hung to his waist. She longed to run her fingertips through it. She
sighed inwardly, thrilled by his appearance. His blue eyes seemed to burn,
but he laughed softly. "Welcome, my slave. Is this how you greet your
Master?"
She inwardly gasped at the words ... slave ... Master. But she knelt,
quickly and quietly. She had dressed as he requested in a robe, a chemise,
a full peasant skirt, and slippers --- nought else. He reached down and
unpinned her tresses, then shook them lose with his powerful hands. She
felt a thrill course through her body. He took her by the hands and lifted
her to her feet. He took the cloak from her and looked at her as she
stood, hands in front, eyes lowered. The chemise did little to hide her
full, firm breasts and the tight nipples.
His fingers lightly stroked her body, her hair. He looked her deep in
the eyes and murmured, "Drink? Food? A slave should not be starved." He
took her by the hand and led her to a table next to which she knelt on a
feather cushion. He took meat for himself, then fed small gobbets to her,
watching her open her lips to accept the food. When juice slid down her
chin, he tilted her head up and licked it off. He gave her wine to drink,
sweet red wine, and kissed her lips after she had partaken. She giggled
and thought of how silly she looked. But his attention was wondrous, more
than she could have expected. As she chewed and drank, his free hand
lightly stroked against her nipples, causing them to extend and harden even
more, begging for more attention.
"Now it is time for you to be trained," he whispered, "You shall feed
me." He showed her how to take a small piece between her fingertips and
bring it to his lips. And he lick and sucked the juices from them, as
though they were more than fingertips. She felt the wine and more deep in
her belly and moaned in ecstasy as he slowly taught her. She learned to
feed him wine without spilling a drop, though it took three tries and her
breasts caught the spills. The coolness of the wine on her chemise and her
nipples agonized her already aching flesh and made her hotter yet.
Then he pronounced himself full and took her by the hands. "Come with
me and learn how to dress your master," he commanded. She nodded and
followed him to the third tent. In it was a small bed and a trunk, already
opened. The garb in it was ready for him and it was exquisite: soft gray
woolen tunic over a linen undertunic, and green woolen trousers, with
yellow silk cross-garters. On the top of the pile was a pair of soft,
buttery leather halfboots. A leather coronet lay along side the boots, as
well as chains of amber, yellow, black, green, and brown.
He signaled for her to kneel before him. She shivered as she did so,
feeling his closeness and his power taking her over. She wanted him to
take her, to use her. He undid his belt and handed it to her. She
unthinkingly rolled it and placed it on the small bed beside her. When she
turned again, he directed her to undo the cloth cross-garters on his
leggings. So it went, as he coolly stripped to his undertunic and
breeches. They stayed on, though she could see his rigid cock and lightly
stroked it through his breeches. His intake of breath confirmed his
arousal.
But he remained steadfast and she slowly helped him dress, tie his cloth
belt, turning the top of the trousers over it, fixing his cross-garters and
his boots, brushing out his braid until his wavy gray and brown hair shone,
and watching as he slipped on the gray tunic, the amber, the coronet. He
sat on the bed after he was dressed and looked her deep in the eyes. He
kissed her lips and she ran her fingers through the hair she had pulled and
brushed loose. He stopped her and whispered, "Touch when you are told,
only when you are told."
She lowered her eyes and murmured, "yes, my Master," the first words she
had spoken in an hour.
He took the silk cross-garters he had worn that afternoon and chuckled,
"These will see to that." And he tied her hands before her in a loose knot.
She giggled, enjoying the game. And she shivered, enjoying the bonding.
She wanted him desperately, and could hardly control herself.
He seemed to read her mind and kissed her deeply. But then he said,
"But I must to court. What shall I do with you? Slaves are wont to
escape."
She murmured, "Yes, my Master."
He took both hands and untied them. Then he looked at her and smiled,
but he took a leather thong and tied her hands securely, yet not so tight
as to hurt her permanently. She flinched, nonetheless, having never been
so bound, not even in fun. And this, she felt, was in earnest.
He sensed her doubts and kissed her, stroking her body, her breasts, her
ass, her face. He murmured, "You can slip these easily. Do not fear. No
harm comes to those who give themselves to him totally."
He then took a leather lead from his pouch and attached it to the
leather binding. He tugged the lead as he left the tent, and lead her past
the firepit and between his tent and another. She struggled to keep her
feet, but trippingly kept up with his brisk pace. He lead her to the Black
Tent and opened the flaps. She looked at the interior which was very
black. There was daylight seeping in from the doorway, enough to see a
small table with a pitcher and goblet and a plate of bread and cheese, a
locked box, a chair, and four "dogstakes" screwed into the ground. She
recognized them because they were screw-shaped. They were, she knew from
having seen them driven, 18" long, designed to keep even the largest
pavilion steady in hurricane winds.
Again, she started to protest, but his embrace and whisper stopped her.
"This place is safe, no one will molest your peace here." She willed
herself to believe him and willingly walked in. He smiled and then he
growled, "Remove your clothing, slave, and sit on the ground." She kicked
off her slippers; he took them. She looked up at him, then slowly undid
her skirt. It puddled on the ground. He reached down and took it. She
then moved to untie her chemise, but he stepped in and cut the cord. It
fell from her shoulders to the ground. He removed it from her reach, also,
and unlocking the box, put her garb and cloak away from her reach. He
snapped the barrel-lock in place and put the key into his pouch. Even
though the tent was warm, she shivered, her nipples hard and tight. He
laughed and pushed her down between the stakes. As she landed, she
realized that he was deadly serious, indeed, about this game. He took her
leather lead and tied it to a stake, then bound an ankle to a stake,
leaving her enough slack to be able to get to the food and drink. He
smiled, "I have to present myself in court this evening, and I must dine
before that. So, I will have to leave you here for a few hours. Be
comfortable, but do not sit in my chair! Eat and drink. You can easily
loosen your ties to use the privies if you need. But be certain you are in
your place when I return, or I shall be forced to punish you. And you will
not take kindly to my floggers."
He turned and left, closing the tent flap behind him. It was dark, with
only a glimmer of light. She was alone.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She sat for a long time, on her knees, with her ass resting on her
calves. She unconsciously assumed the classic slave position, with her
back straight, shoulders back, head lowered, thighs spread slightly, and
hands on her thighs. Her hair hung over her shoulder and across her
breasts. She didn't think at first. She faced his chair.
After a time, her stomach growled and her thoughts turned to food. She
moved to the table, finding her bonds gave her the freedom to move to all
the corners of the tent. She found soft cheese and flat bread on the
platter and a light, heady ale in the pitcher. She poured a goblet and ate
and drank ravenously. The cheese tasted as soft as its texture, with a
hint of pepper. The ale was sweet and light, with a musky taste. As she
ate and drank, her thoughts turned to him.
He was strong, she knew that, yet he seemed gentle. He knew what he
wanted and seemed to be able to read her mind. For she had come here
eager, wanting to serve him, to be his plaything for a night. And she
found herself becoming more curious as to what lay under those baggy
breeches, that soft linen shirt. As she daydreamed of his body, his touch,
his breath on her breasts, her thighs, her sex, she felt herself becoming
wet and aroused. Her lips were slippery when she touched her sex and when
she brought her fingers to her mouth, the taste was musky, salty, yet
sweet, like the ale.
She poured herself another goblet and drank thirstily. She dozed
briefly, then awoke, realizing that time had passed. She need to pee. But
she was naked and the nearest port-a-john must be 50 yards down the road.
She could not walk that far naked, exposed. Security would certainly sweep
her up and dump her at the Point. She panicked briefly, angry at him for
leaving her with nothing! Her need grew and she had to pee. She undid her
bonds, leaving the wrist leathers in a loop so that she could put herself
back in them when she returned. She peeked out of the tent. The sun was
setting and its light shone on a statue in the back courtyard. She noted
it briefly, then went looking for something to cover herself. She
cautiously opened the flaps of his tent.
In it was a bed and storage boxes. The bed was huge, she thought, a
feather mattress covered with sheepskin. The siderails rose to horses'
heads and the headboard was a lattice work of carved oak. From it dangled
more leather ties that ended in manacles, also of leather, lined with fur.
She smiled inwardly, but her need was too great. She NEEDED to pee! She
glanced about and saw, to her relief, a woolen cloak -- red with a gold
trim embroidered in silk around the edges. She swept it off its hook and
wrapped herself in it. The knobby wool rubbed against her nipples and made
them harder than before. She snuck out of the camp and quickly walked the
50 yards to the privies. She relieved herself and headed back to the camp.
When she returned, the sun was lower. She kept the cloak wrapped about
her as she walked back toward the tent. Surely he couldn't object to her
borrowing it, for how else could she have used the privies? She approached
the black tent but found that the sun still shone on the statue. She
turned toward it and looked. It was about her height, a definite Viking
with a long beard and conical cap. His hands grasped his prick which must
have been 12" long! She realized that this was Freyr, the Fertility god.
She saw streaks of blood on the statue and felt its power. This wasn't
just decoration. He sacrificed to the gods! She shivered deep inside,
hoping that the blood wasn't human. Then she laughed at herself.
Certainly not. Not in the 21st century. She felt compelled though, to
honor this god. She made her own sacrifice, reaching between her legs and
dipping her fingers into her wet, flowing sex. She brought forth her honey
and stroked it on his lips and his prick. The wood seemed warm under her
touch as she stroked the god's huge thick phallus.
She was suddenly thirsty and very warm under the cloak. She removed it,
leaving it lying on the soft grass in front of the shrine. She bowed her
head to the god and then turned and went back to the Black Tent.
Once inside, she reassumed the slave's position and reattached her
bonds, tightening the wrist loops more securely than he had done. She sat,
staring at his chair, wondering if he was as large as the god, anticipating
taking him in her hands, her mouth, her cunt. Unthinking, she stroked her
sex, dipping her fingers in and out, and pinched her nipples until she
shuddered in a small, unsatisfying orgasm. Then, after drinking her third
goblet of ale, she slept. And she dreamed, dreams she would not later
recall, dreams that kept her aroused throughout her nap.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
When she awoke, it was dark, totally, utterly dark. She felt the chill
night air on her body as she stretched. But where was she? She shook her
head and then sat up in fear. She was bound? But why? who? how?
She sat very still, trying to recall. As it came back to her, she
changed her posture, rising to sit once again in the correct attitude of a
slave. She faced the table and saw a red glimmer ... a candle in a red
glass lantern. And in the chair sat him, her Master. She sighed groggily,
but as the cobwebs cleared, she recalled why and how and who. She
whispered, "Lord Egil, Master."
He chuckled softly and still sat, sipping his drink from his goblet.
She looked up and was again surprised, for the roof was gone, the tent
opened to the sky. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, she
realized that her body was bathed by moonlight. He watched her through
slitted eyes, then leaned over and extinguished the candle. He rose and
approached her.
His hands moved quickly and quietly, untying her from the stakes. He
whispered, "turn and kneel on all fours." She hurried to comply. Then he
knelt and lashed her hands and feet to the four stakes, tightly, with no
slack. He then rose and growled, "You failed to care for my possessions,
you invaded my tent, you left my camp clothed. You are an evil slave to do
such things."
Before she could protest, the whistle came to her ears, the bite struck
and she jerked forward. The flogger wasn't heavy or extremely painful, but
the shock and the sting brought her to her senses. He was whipping her
buttocks and her back. The blows seemed to rain down on her, insistent,
constant. And arousing. She was being driven to new heights and depths.
Reaching down into her, the punishment brought up old fantasies of being
trapped and forced, publicly punished for trivialities, and then displayed
for all to see. She shook as the pictures flashed through her mind. Her
eyes were open and the darkness of the tent enveloped her as he flogged her
again and again. She heard a voice whimpering, moaning, begging for mercy.
She felt her arousal grow until it felt as though she would burst.
And then it stopped.
She heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing. She was aware of
everything around her and he was not part of it. She was alone again. She
not been aware of his departure nor was she aware of his return. He moved
silently and the first thing she sensed was the blade at her throat. He
whispered, "You sacrificed, but not properly. We must correct your error."
She would have screamed, but she knew it could not happen, that he would
not dare. Then he cut the leather lashing that held her to the stakes. He
pulled her to her feet by her hair as she cried out. And he bound her
hands again. Then he dragged her, half-walking, out of the black tent and
into the light of the fire he had built before the god.
He pushed her down to her knees and walked before her. For the first
time she saw him ... naked, aroused, hard, long and thick. He was
muscular and lithe, not slim but certainly not fat. And his skin shone
gold in the fire light, from the exertion of the beating he had delivered
to her. She moaned, begging him to let her serve him, be his slave, his
toy. He moved forward and caught her by the hair. He held the goblet,
filled with the god's ale. He bade her drink. As the liquid hit her
belly, the warmth in her increased. Then he drank and as the ale took
effect, she thought his manhood grew longer, thicker. She felt the hweat
and lightness spread through her being. She entered a waking dream.
She did not recognize the scene until much later. Then she vividly
recalled her dream of a naked warrior, unclothed and aroused, carrying an
axe. She knew him, knew he was the god incarnate, and she willingly took
him into her mouth. His cock, huge and throbbing, levered in and out of
her, into her throat, her very center, and his hands stroked her hair. Her
tresses, fiery red, began to burn in her dream and she was enclosed in
flames. Then he was lifting her, offering her to the god and as he took
her, his prick exploding in her as her orgasm tore her apart, he slit her
throat, letting the blood drain onto the statue.
And now he was taking her, in front of the statue. Her head reeled and
she cried out, coming from his very appearance, without a touch. And she
begged him to give her his cock.
His hands were in her hair now, her mouth on the head of his cock. She
gave her Master head, giving him control of her mouth. He groaned as she
sucked on him, the feeling exquisite. He fought with his lust, knowing the
god demanded more, needed the sacrifice. And then he withdrew from her
mouth and signaled for her to kneel on the grass and spread her legs to the
god.
She trembled as she did, looking up at the statue, bathed in the
firelight. Its mouth was frozen in a rictus of lust, its cock looked
unbelievably large. And then her Master pushed her onto her back and
mounted her. He took her, filling her more completely than any man before.
He rode her, controlled her, guided her through orgasm after orgasm. And,
as he approached his climax, the knife descended to her left breast. The
point slipped home as she screamed her final passion and as he filled her
with his seed.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was light again. The night was over. She moved drowsily, free of
any encumbrances. She rolled to her side and wearily looked around. She
was in a strange tent, a strange bed. She sat up and heard a throaty
chuckle. "Ah, my slave stirs. Did you sleep well, sweetling? I thought
you might sleep all day."
She knew then that she was in the bed in the Master's tent. She lay
back and smiled, then remembering looked at her breast. There was a
circular scratch around her nipple. She shivered momentarily. He smiled.
"I was very careful, sweetling. The god wants a drop of blood, not a soul.
And I gave, too." He stood before her, in his cloak. He opened it and
showed her the cut just above his cock.
She murmured, "It must hurt. Let me soothe it." He grinned. "But
first," she said, as she reached over head, "shouldn't a slave be bound?
We are wont to escape you know." He chuckled and gave up any thoughts of
shopping today.
<1st attachment end>
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