Imperius Ch. 03

To my returning readers: Thank you for bearing with me through this long delay. The scope of the story has grown exponentially since I began, as has the cast of characters. I'm grateful for all the thoughtful feedback I've received thus far, and I hope to read more. After many revisions, here is the third chapter of Imperius.

To any new readers: While I do attempt to expound on the universe and the characters here, this story will make considerably more sense if you read the prior chapters first.

~*~

Lilah shifted, the clinking of her shackles accompanying the motion. She winced as the rough metal chafed at the already tender flesh of her wrists. The sensation summoned memories of being bound in an imperial slave caravan, ignoring the jeers of staring enemy soldiers. The last time she had felt so sore, it was due to a combination of rough handling and forced immobility as she was bound, naked and exhausted, amongst her fellow captives. This time the cause was somehow more humiliating—she had pulled at her chains in the throws of unwanted passion, pinned beneath the power and the dark allure of her enemy.

"You shouldn't struggle so much next time, Lilah," said Magnus, Praetor of the Imperius, with the dry humor that surprised her so frequently. He circled her, stern and imposing, but there was subtle thread of mischief in him, lurking in the curve of his lips and his potent gaze.

He had closed the view screen of his sky-ship, casting them in shadow and rendering him the only clear thing in the room.

It had been only the evening before that he had sent for her, a captive in chains, but it felt like an eon, offering no rest from the fear and treacherous desire he invoked in her.

Lilah knew she ought to hate him. Her captor, slaver, would-be destroyer of her country. But his attention was a heady thing, like the air of a thunderstorm, dark and entrancing. She found she couldn't always think under the weight of it. He had only to come near, and it was as though a mist descended over her thoughts, and warm desire flickered over her skin like flames, golden and feather soft. He stood, bare chested, and her own impulse to touch that bare, bronze skin made shudders ripple through her being.

He knows, she thought. He controls the speed of my pulse like the moon pulls the tides. There was a certain heat to his willpower, at once both predatory and playful.

She was kneeling on the floor before him, nude and vulnerable, her hands pulled behind her and her head lowered. Her sunlit curls took on a darker cast here, like polished gold falling in tumbling waves down her bare shoulders.

He touched her cheek, lifting her eyes to his.

"There are places in Drace for slave training. They are—by all accounts—unpleasant." His eyes, a stormy, hypnotizing grey, held hers in thrall. "I would spare you that, Lilah. But in return, you'll need to prove to me that you're responsive to my instruction." He paused, his eyes dark. "Unhook my pants."

She stared, baffled. Her hands were still bound behind her.

He raised his eyebrows at her, "Your mouth."

Her mouth.

She did try, ashamed and awkward as she felt doing so. It felt like minutes, and he waited patiently all the while, watching her lips fumble around the fabric and the clasp. It wanted finesse, knowing when the metal hook had been drawn inward enough to loosen and detach.

And she couldn't see, damn it. It felt impossible, sisyphean.

Magnus gazed at her impassively.

She took a steady breath, trying to silence her frustrated anger by reminding herself how much more humiliating things could be, to balance the knowledge that it was wrong with the awareness that it could be much, much worse.

She returned to the task, tuning out every other thought. When the hook broke free at last, she watched his phallus rise against the fabric beneath. He lifted it, held it out to her. She expected it to bob awkwardly, but it didn't. It stood, stiff and swollen before her, both intimidating and strangely beguiling, seeming larger than when she had first seen it. Purple veins stood out against the golden bronze skin, and she felt a delirious impulse to trace the lines of them.

The thought made her thank the heavens for her bindings.

"I trust you know what's expected of you?" he asked, his tone dryly solicitous, with that teasing undercurrent that seemed so strange alongside his superficial austerity, "Or do I need to instruct you?"

She promptly flushed, but met his eyes, shaking her head. He was still testing her, framing much of this as a favor to her, as generosity she needed to earn. He knew it was wrong, even owned it, but he used it all the same, gauging her ability to endure the indignity.

It wasn't easy. As much as she knew that it could be worse for her, there is a vast distance between a thing not being so bad as it might be and a thing being good. Knowing it and acceding anyway was both provoking and humiliating. He was baiting her defiance.

The thought unnerved her.

She lowered her lips to the edges of his member and kissed the skin tentatively. The appendage responded, swelling still larger. Her eyes darted to his, and his gaze was eloquent with hunger. "Use your tongue, Lilah," he ordered, his voice husky.

Perfidious desire stirred inside her, and it was a blessing to lower her head again. She touched her tongue to one of the veins, tracing a path against his skin. His hand came down on her hair, as heavy a weight as the incorporeal force of his will. His cock followed her movements as though it sensed her. It might have made her feel powerful if she weren't so keenly aware of being guided and gauged. She bathed his skin with her tongue, responding to silent commands until she felt nearly desperate with the need to please him, to satisfy the hunger she still felt radiating from him.

He groaned then, and pushed himself through her lips and steadily further into her mouth.

Her throaty whimpers seemed only to incite his passion to a hotter ferocity, and he drove his cock deeper until she sputtered. Then he eased, long enough to allow her to regain her composure, and then began again. The texture of him was soft and slick against her tongue, and yet the force of him against the roof of her mouth was hard and unyielding as stone. The whimpers rose again and again, and each time he buried his hands deeper within her hair, guiding her head with cruel precision as his thrusts gained speed. It seemed to go on and on, wherein one moment, she found her bearings and moved with him, and then the next where it was all she could do to steady her breathing.

When at last his taste flooded her mouth, salty and rich, he arched his head back, and his hands in her hair were vice grips.

"Swallow it," he instructed, lifting her face to his. His fingers played along the skin of her neck. She obeyed, her eyes locked with his. The warmth of it slid down her throat, viscid and heady.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice warm with approval, and she lowered her lids against threatening tears. He kissed her lingeringly, with that slow relish that made her feel shamefully, terribly wet and wanting.

He moved around her, undoing her bonds with the same overwhelming intimacy, bringing her hands up in front of her and massaging her wrists languorously.

He finally drew away, giving her the space to be aware of something other than him for the first time in hours. She had barely taken a breath of air before she saw something that sent a cold shock through her. Near the doorway, lurking in the shadows, stood the largest man Lilah had ever seen, silent as a golem, and just as emotionless. His dark eyes gleamed, watchful and unreadable.

Lilah let out a gasping little yelp and snatched up the sheet on the bed to cover herself, scrambling around the other side and against the wall for good measure.

Magnus was gazing at her, half dressed and unmistakably amused. "You spent days naked on a slave caravan being stared at by half the legion," he said, "And now you panic at one new observer?"

She flushed, embarrassed in every possible sense, "I didn't know he was...watching," she said, her voice sheepish.

Magnus continued to study her as he dressed, his eyes full of wicked promises, "Another thing to accustom you to," he said, his mouth curving in that barely perceptible, knowing way.

Magnus glanced at the giant. "Take her to Saphir. When he's finished, bring her to the legate's tent," he said. The larger man nodded in acknowledgement, and then his eyes refocused on Lilah, as though watching her for signs of flight. She wouldn't have believed it were possible for someone to make her feel more unnerved than Magnus did.

Magnus came over to her again, and lifted her chin. "Daegon's function is to protect and guide you. Obey him, but don't be afraid."

His kissed her once more, tilting her mouth to his by her chin. The kiss was dark and deep and lingering, a velvet abyss of need.

And then he left, throwing his scarlet cloak over his black ballistic armor as he went.

She was alone with the giant—Daegon—and the two stared at one another for several long, silent moments. She could see him clearly now.

He was bare chested, brazenly exposed. His skin was a deeper shade of bronze than Magnus'—a russet color with such a vivid, red under-glow it was as though there was firelight beneath. His hair was long, but drawn together behind him into a tail with several bound sections against his bare back. The hair of his eyebrows was thick and dark, and slightly pointed, as was that of his short beard.

There was something about him that was nearly bestial, a fierceness in his eyes, though his angular features were handsomely formed. Lilah had known a man in the Illythian military of comparable size, she realized then, and yet that man's immensity had been subverted by the kind solemnity of his demeanor, with a bear-like physique that only took on a ferocity during battle. The man before her was no bear. He was angular and hard, a giant jungle cat.

"Follow," he instructed, his voice deep and flat.

She followed.

He led her through the door, and into corridors nearly as dark as the Praetor's quarters, lit with gold cast lamps. She clutched the sheet more tightly around her as she trailed alongside him, and she was relieved not to find herself surrounded by staring eyes outside of the room.

Lilah spared her guide a few wondering glances. He was puzzling, wearing pants and boots in the Imperial style, yet without shirt or any other ornament, and his hair and coloring marked him as a Gauthrien nomad.

It wasn't so strange to think his tribe might have been defeated and enslaved, but it was strange to think he had been given a position as a guard without adapting to Imperial fashion and manners. His demeanor would have been suited to a battle raid in the desert, but not on an Imperial sky-ship.

At each turn in the corridor, she hesitated for a fraction of a second, peering around the corner to check that it was empty. Upon the third such delay, the giant made a sound between impatience and sudden decision, and actually lifted her at her waist and tossed her lightly over his shoulder. Even in her startled state, she realized immediately why he had done it. His long-legged stride after this took them at three times the pace.

It was a miracle that the sheet she clung to stayed on in any capacity, however meager that capacity was. He continued down several more corridors, disorienting her with the swiftness of his pace. When they at last turned from the corner and into a room, Lilah scarcely realized it.

"Daegon, what...," a voice broke through her befuddled state, sounding vaguely alarmed, and then exasperated. "Will you please put her down?"

A sudden, dizzying movement, and she was set on her feet. It took her a moment to find her balance, and when she did, she hurriedly drew up the sheet again so that it covered her properly.

Before her stood a young man scarcely older than her. His skin was a honeyed brown, and his hair—silken and softly curled—was a lighter shade of the same color. His eyes, in vivid contrast, were a deep, placid blue, and unutterably gentle.

"Deus," he swore softly, still exasperated. Then he looked into her eyes, his voice warm with compassion, "I'm sorry." He came around to her side with a fluid caution, more worried—Lilah believed—about alarming her than anything. "Please don't be afraid. I'm here to offer what little comfort I can." He took her hand, guiding her gently to sit on a comfortable lounge chair. This room was brighter than the shadowed corridors they had entered from, marbled in white with golden accents, and washed with light.

The young man turned back to Daegon, who loomed in front of the doorway, arms crossed and unmoving. "If you stay in here," the delicate young man said to the giant, his tone threatening, "I shall ask for your advice on everything, from the shade of silk to use, to which scent to work into her skin, and you shall hear a great deal," he said, with a foreboding pause, "About cosmetics."

Daegon stared back at him, expressionless, for a long moment. "I will stand outside," he said at last.

"Thank you," the young man replied, with a gracious bow.

After Daegon had shut the door behind him, her rescuer turned to her. "I thought you might be more at ease with him out of sight."

"Yes," Lilah admitted quietly, embarrassed but comforted.

The young man took her hand, "I am Saphir," he said, his large blue eyes on hers. His wrists were decorated with golden cuffs, marking him as a slave. Otherwise he wore finely weaved ivory linen, at once sturdy and soft.

"Saphir," she repeated, a little shyly. "Thank you."

If she felt grateful and shy then, it was nothing to what came next. Saphir had drawn her a bath, and she flushed to discover that he would be the one to groom her. For all her reluctance, the scented water was alluring, and when Saphir asked, "May I?" before gently slipping she sheet off of her, she nodded her acceptance. It was pleasant to have someone ask before disrobing her for a change. He washed her hair, and chuckled when she moaned with pleasure. She blushed, but happily, unable to regret the sublime relief of feeling clean.

It was her first bath since before her capture, and a luxury beyond remembrance. The imperial guards had washed the captives, in their chains, standing them in lines and unleashing a frigid torrent of water from hoses, while they laughed at their new slaves cringing and cowering under the onslaught.

Lilah was amongst those who tried to stand erect in the face of this humiliation and pain, but she did resort to covering her private parts against the force of the water, trying to ignore the leering gazes and jeers of the observing soldiers.

It seemed worlds away now.

Saphir continued to wash her, massaging her skin as he did. His hands moved in soothing circles as he applied a scented oil that whispered of springtime. It was a tranquilizing fragrance, fresh and sensuous and familiar.

"That's waterlily," she said, her voice dreamy and pleasantly surprised by the realization.

"Something very like it. A scent of home can be comforting, or so I hoped," Saphir murmured.

"Yes," she replied, drowsy with pleasure, embarrassment forgotten.

He continued to pamper her, drying her off and massaging a cream of the same fragrance into her arms and shoulders. She largely forgot to feel shy in the process, so fastidiously did he avoid reminding her of her nudity.

"This is a strange luxury on a military ship," she ventured, while he attended to her hair, braiding and arranging portions of the curling mass with an artist's eye.

"It's not entirely military," Saphir replied. "It's his."

"That's normal?"

"Occasional. Imperial citizens and military officers alike often donate resources to the legion, but rarely ones as large as this. He had it commissioned to serve specifically as his base of operations. It was...a very grand gesture."

"He's very dedicated to the destruction of my country."

Saphir said nothing. His gentle gaze met hers, and she felt so open, so naked before him that she looked away.

"Lilah," he said then, as though resolving something with himself. "You must be careful, for your own sake." His voice was soft, "Both in what you do and what you say."

"They say that harming slaves isn't—,"

"It's prohibited," Saphir acknowledged, his eyes solemn. "Officially."

"I see," Lilah replied. She felt a flare of outrage, a burning ember of anger and distrust. How many times had slaves been abused, injured, or killed in this Imperius, with its delusions of enlightenment and perfect meritocracy, only for it be passed off as an accident or self-defense?

"You are new to this," Saphir said gently, "And though it might not seem it, he will have started gently with you. But I believe," he added, "That the Praetor intends to train you himself, and that will often mean punishment." He paused, and when he continued his voice was murmur soft, "The fewer reasons you give him to deal those, the better. He will still punish, but it will be for his own pleasure, and that will be a better thing than his anger."

Lilah shuddered, and was quiet. The immensity of it, of being a plaything to the whims of her enemy, overwhelmed her.

When she was cleaned and dried, Saphir styled her hair, and pondered over several colors of silk. Lilah was lightheaded with gratitude at the thought of once again being clothed.

"Valencian blue," he decided at last. "I considered rose, to match the color in your cheeks, but your eyes make putting you in anything other than blue feel criminal."

Lilah felt dull gratitude at this. The pinkness he referred to was her humiliation, and she blanched to consider being dressed to match.

For all of his threatening Daegon with talk of cosmetics, Saphir used only a few. A touch of color to her lips, applied with a delicate brush. He darkened the shade of her lashes and gave her eyelids a hint of shimmering, golden green powder.

When all was finished, Lilah studied herself in the mirror, her elation at the thought of being clothed evaporated, replaced with a new flavor of dreadful embarrassment. Her Botticelli curls were shaped with the same swirling flourish of elegant golden filigree that lined her bosom and her hips like a lover's caress. She was clad—barely—in the bluest of light blue, a sheer silk with no hint of green or purple to the shade.

Around her wrist, the same golden filigree design marked her status as a captive, while her neck held the most conspicuous ornament of all—a golden pendant shaped as a serpent, coiling with no visible end.

The Praetor's sigil.

In all, the ensemble balanced the lurid and the elegant, the design as risqué as the color was demure. It could not have marked her as a slave more clearly if they had draped a sign of the word around her neck.

And not just any slave. A pleasure slave. Lilah's cheeks burned.

Saphir sighed behind her, "Well, we'll use pink another time," he said reasonably. At her nervous glance, his expression turned somber. "Lilah," he said, turning her to face him, "This is nothing to what we have to work with in Drace, but you'll still be the most startling thing they've seen in three years of war," he said. "You're going to be stared at, some, and not all of it will be friendly." He took her hands in his, his eyes kind. "Know that I know what it's like, and I will be there." He paused, and spared the door a glance, "And the lummox out there, while thickheaded, is not the worst bodyguard that one could ask for," he added, with a grudging tone that, against all odds, made her laugh. She was surprised by the sound.

He smiled back at her, gave her hands a reassuring squeeze, and went to get the lummox's attention.