Andrew had spent nearly a year finding a way into the elven warcamp… including a month hiding in a cave barely larger than he was, lying alone in his own shit as he waited and observed, waiting for a weak spot in their patrols and magical defenses… but finally he was here. With a hunter’s stealth, light-footed and wary, Andrew flitted from shadow to shadow. Trained as a trapper, a poacher, a tracker, he made his way unseen and unheard through the elven camp. Tents of a crude fashion were clustered around the heart of the camp, tarps stitched together from the hides of ownerless cattle, draped with fabrics stolen from the bodies of their former masters. Some tents had human skulls hanging over their entrances, and from some hung the bones of children in barbarous chimes. There was no unifying style of adornment, no coherent fashion to the structure and arrangement. Only brute practicality and a grotesque, childlike sense of style, gaudy, chaotic, and morbid.
Andrew marked out most keenly those suggestions of barbarity and degeneracy, affirming himself in the hardened, unyielding vendetta he had against these creatures and their mistress and latching onto every sign of cruelty and depravity. He was careful as he made his way through the camp, fixing himself on his destination and betraying no signs of his presence, but he kept his hatred burning… he had no respect for them except that of a hunter for his prey. Still, he appreciated that they were dangerous, and he understood that if he failed, he would suffer a certain and terrible death. He had spent nearly his whole life preparing for this moment, and he wouldn’t let himself fail now.
From some tents, larger and more finely adorned, he could hear the squalling of elven young, the first generation born outside slavery in so many centuries – too precious to leave unguarded, even in a guarded warcamp. From other tents he heard the soft sighing of lovers intertwined in private confidence, soldiers joining in sapphic couples or harems attending to the fathers of their future race and breeding a generation of elves who, if their campaigns succeeded, would know only freedom and mastery of the earth, unquestioned and unrivaled. Here he heard friends sharing their doubts and their hopes as they drifted off to sleep, and there he saw priestesses comforting their flock with evening prayers.
They were almost like people.
Andrew shook his head. He had almost felt a twinge of sympathy, seeing them as they were among their own kind, showing softness and kindness and a nearly human camaraderie. But this likeness to mankind only deepened the uncanniness of the differences, and it made still more jarring and detestable the more savage adornments and the more gruesome trophies of their twenty-year campaign against the empire. If they found him, they would do to him as Syllia had done to his family, as she had done to the people of Dunloch and Byway, of Graymont, Highwater, Southing, and Bitter Creek, and of dozens more towns and villages on the outskirts of the empire, in the wake of their campaign into the heartland and toward the capital.
He was moved… but not to compassion. Seeing the camp and its inhabitants only hardened his resolve, by momentarily shaking his certainty ultimately only making it stiffer. And so he made his way to the center of the camp, evading detection by the guards, slipping past all watching eyes and deceiving all listening ears. As silent as a whisper, like no more than a ghost, he crept slowly and steadily toward the greatest tent at the center of the camp, the tabernacle to the elven goddess of knowledge and liberation, Syllia, bringer of magic and bane of men.
They adored her and revered her as the judge of fate, the righter of wrongs and defender of the oppressed. She was their savior, and they would do anything she bade them to do. And if Andrew had his way, she would be their undoing.
He watched, hidden in the shadows, as Syllia embraced one of her priestesses… the an elf from the very first town she had freed, turned into one of her Sacred Sisters. He watched Syllia as she kissed the forehead of the elf she called Laoyre, the two of them embracing, the dark goddess comforting her follower before sending her on her way. He could hear them whispering to each other… could just barely hear the whisper as Laoyre spoke into her goddess’ ear. “You give my life purpose.”
Then she was gone… and there was no more reason to stall. He stepped out in front of Syllia, eyes narrow.
In the process, it had felt felt arduous and difficult, roundabout a vague… but once he reached his goal and stood before her, watching her dark eyes widen, the path that had led him here seemed straight and sure. Once he was at the finish line, it amazed him to realize how easy it seemed. He had prepared for this moment for twenty years, and now that she was in his hands, he knew that he had achieved his goal. He saw the terror in her eyes. He saw her freeze up as he drew breath, as he opened his mouth to speak.
“I hate you.”
He had meant to invoke the Oathword, but this intonation seemed to paralyze her every bit as tightly as any binding magic. He gripped her tighter, staring into her eyes, looking at her dark face and her graceful features, a lithe and womanly form clad in fine and flattering vestments. The robes of her status were revealing, their fashion informed by the kinds of clothes the elves had been made accustomed to wear, so used to nakedness and the scantiest rags that anything more concealing than this felt oppressive and confining. Gazing down at the expanse of her breasts, nearly on display, he felt a desire more intense than any he had ever before felt stir in his loins. He saw a taut belly, waist trim, hips wide, legs long and slender. High was the slit in her skirts, and low plunged her neckline, and her belly and her back were left uncovered. Tighter still he held her, pushed against the floor of her makeshift temple, and lower and more harshly, he growled. “I’m going to make you pay. I’m going to end this.”
Andrew glared at Syllia as he seized her robes and rent them with his hands, as he threw her down powerless beneath him, fixing her with his eyes and holding her motionless with the weight of her shock and her fear. Noiselessly her mouth worked open and closed, and she whimpered beneath the man, recalling everything that had led to this point, remembering all that she had done to free her people, to avenge her race and punish mankind. She had come so far, and it seemed like now it was all for naught. She barely had the will to stir her fingers or give voice to her breath, too stunned and too afraid to invoke the powers that could free her. Fear made her helpless, fear and doubt and a trace of regret.
But she was naked now, and he was upon her. She could feel his strength and his hardness, and she shuddered at the touch of his skin. It was a familiar thing… loathsomely so. How many times had she lain like this beneath a man with those eyes, a man with that jaw? Andrew was a true son of the Tarn bloodline, the heir of her masters and the lawful owner of her body. It was like waking from a dream, the last 20 years of freedom vanishing like a popped soap bubble. She had come so far since her first and greatest rebellion, when she had murdered all the members of that house and freed herself from their cursed command… but she hadn’t freed herself after all, for she had faltered at the last. In fear or mercy or exhaustion, she had spared this man and left. He had only been a boy then, maybe, barely more than a toddler, but she had spared him, and ever since then, she had feared him.
In the last twenty years, she had done nothing but flee the thought of him, the gnawing doubt and the lurking fear. Somewhere deep down, she had known this day would come. But she hadn’t been willing to accept it. She had run from the truth, comforting herself by saying that of course he must have died, left alone and helpless in that great, empty manor, and she had not prepared herself for this as he had prepared himself.
Any other, she could have faced without fear and struck down, unflinching. The emperor, the greatest of humanity’s high battlemages, the head of their Inquisition, all the armies of mankind united… she could have defied them without fear and humbled them with her power. Andrew alone could inspire this dread, Andrew alone, whom she had pitied and spared, the one moment of softness in two decades of campaigning, the one real mistake in almost two centuries of plotting.
It was like… Her heart was naked before him, and her fear was open in her eyes, wide and staring as he thrust into her. Her mouth gaped wide open, jaw straining from the girth of an agonized scream that rose from her belly, but the wail could not sound itself before his hand clamped down over her mouth, stifling her voice and muffling her howls. And he thrust in and out of her, moving his hips powerfully, manfully, fucking Syllia with a strength and a ferocity that frightened her.
“If you say a word, I will have but one Word for you,” he said darkly, eyes flitting to the Oathmark on her brow. Syllia’s insides twisted, and she whimpered into his palm. In and out, in and out. He fucked her, a toned and wiry frame heaving above her, lean from a hard youth but robust with an active muscularity. He was like his ancestors, yet so much unlike them. “Submit to me, Syllia,” he growled. “Submit, or I will do to you what you did to my family.”
Even in her fear, Syllia guessed that he was bluffing. In her heart, she knew it was probably too late for that. Her following was now too large and too fanatical to be stopped simply by killing her. To the contrary, her martyrdom would surely propel them into an even greater hatred of humanity, lending to their new cultural narrative that perfect instant of tragedy to cement the existence of the elven identity and perfectly justify their revenge. There could not be a more disastrous mistake for humanity than to try and simply kill her, and she was certain that Andrew realized this. She could read the lie in his stare, as she could once read the lies in the faces of her long late masters.
But Andrew was as much unlike his forebears as he was like them. It was not a difference in nature, but in the expression as it was shaped by his experience. Her masters before him had been pampered and comfortable, only as fit as they chose to be for their leisurely pursuits, well-fed and lounging with the ease of nobility. He had the same blood, the same eyes, the same bones and sinews as his fathers, but he had not the softening reserves of fat in his cheeks, not that touch of relative limpness in his wrist. He was not a spoiled dandy, but a man who had suffered and striven and survived by his own ability, living in the wild and wandering the lands. He was worldlier than his forebears, sterner and steelier. Maybe this was the quality that had shown in his ancestors who fought during the war, of whom their descendants had told so many proud stories. He looked like a vagabond, but he held himself like a warrior, and he had a discipline and cultivated technique surpassing anything in the possession of her own troops, fortified as well by just as much experience as any of them had. He was a fighter. He was a killer. He was a survivor.
There was a skill to his movements like Syllia had never felt from the movements of his ancestors. He had both a firmness far surpassing them and experience to rival them, in his travels having known many fleeting lovers. As well, there was a ferocity unlike even the cruelest brutalities of his forebears, not just a viciousness of spite or savagery to amuse himself, but a deep, visceral, emotional violence that drove his hips and smoldered in his eyes. His every touch was an attack on her body, and she could not defend against him.
Tears slid down from her black eyes. It had been twenty years since Syllia last knew a man’s touch. Loathing her experiences in the service of the Tarn family, and partly wishing also not to complicate the affairs of her followers, she had not embraced a man since the night she murdered her masters, and she had not known this sensation of raw, heated, pulsating fullness in all those years. She had never liked it back then. She had never believed that she could ever even tolerate it. But… it was perversely pleasurable, and if her mind and heart despised this touch, her body craved it and relished it.
This embrace satisfied something inside Syllia even as it horrified her. Something visceral, programmed into her by three hundred years of abuse and conditioning, responded to Andrew’s touch, woman’s flesh delighting in the feel of a man’s cock with no concern for learned moral revulsion. No, the very hate and fear that she felt for Andrew made the sensations seem that much more intense, stoking the flames of a treacherous passion, a humiliating longing that she wished she could tear out from her soul and fling over the horizon. But this was part of her, and she could not remove it, and she could not deny it, even if she had chosen to walk a path in rejection and defiance. She had hated her masters, and she had feared them, and she feared and hated Andrew even more.
But he was different from them. He had known suffering, and he had lived a hard life. This did not make him kinder, and it clearly did not make him care for her, but…
She hated it she hated it she hated it. It was not a moan of pain, nor of disgust. Her back arched, her body twisting exquisitely beneath Andrew’s inexhaustibly bucking frame, their skin clapping together and their sweat mingling between their naked forms. She felt his cock inside her, and she marveled at how huge and solid it felt, long and thick and unyieldingly hard. Had his sires had dicks like these and she’d simply forgotten, or was he a rare prodigy in his bloodline? Whichever was the case, Syllia reveled in it, closing her eyes as she felt herself be used. Almost, she forgot herself. Almost she regressed to that shameful period between her fearful youth and her bitterly plotting womanhood, almost returning to that time of slavish submission before the full resolve had blossomed and she had begun planning her revenge. He was doing things to her that she had never felt before, and he was making her feel things that terrified and delighted her. The very ferocity of his ravishing made it more delightful, and she drowned in his touch as she was filled by his cock.
Their bodies thumped meatily together, her ass slapping the dirt, her breasts jolting and swaying as their frames rocked together. She was moving reflexively with him, turning her hips upward, wheeling her loins to grind her sex on his pumping rod. His cock sawed inside her sex, and his hands grasped at her body and squeezed her brusquely, and his eyes held her with a dark and furious look that laid Syllia shamefully low. Drool shone on her lips, trickling down to her chin. Her heart raced in her bosom, and her pupils vanished behind fluttering lids. She moaned louder, yielding more to the man’s touch, succumbing more to his gaze, feeling herself spasm and tense from his fierce, powerful thrusts.
“No…” she gasped through his fingers. “I can’t…”
“Submit!” he commanded. “You are mine! You have always been mine!”
Something about his face, something about his eyes, something about his tone made this statement seem… delightful? No, not delightful… simply correct. She should have resented it. She should have rejected it. But she thrilled, and she gazed at him, vulnerable, powerless, humbled and humiliated.
She almost wanted to submit to him. It was insane, but… in his arms, she felt no fear. She was afraid of him, yet his embrace in some way made her feel happy. It was a hollow happiness, and obliteration of the soul and self, but… it was like the worst had already happened. There was nothing to fear any longer. Nothing to dread. A strange emotional burden lifted off of her while she was helpless and defeated.
Why…? Why? Why was she like this? Why was she allowing herself to…?
“I… hate you,” she whimpered. “You… Your family… everything that you have done to my people…!”
“I hate YOU,” Andrew replied, thrusting faster, thrusting harder. His hand left her mouth and drifted down to her neck, his fingers brushing her throat. “After everything you have done to me, and to my people… I can never forgive you!”
Syllia shivered. Her hips bucked, and she gnashed her teeth. “I hate you,” she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. “I hate you…!”
Andrew closed his hand over her throat. He squeezed, choking her, thrusting harder and smacking her hip. Syllia’s eyes bulged, and more spit leaked from her mouth, a moist sheen glazing her chin while her frame bucked and lurched beneath Andrew. She stared at him, fascinated and afraid, feeling him rape her, feeling him choke her, feeling him glare at her and knowing how he wanted to destroy her and everything she had created.
She couldn’t speak. She gurgled. She groaned. She shivered, wondering if he really would kill her, after all. Despite her previous conviction, she feared how far his anger could push him. There was no certainty. Anything was possible. He could do anything to her, and she could do nothing to stop him.
He held her while he choked her, and he moved his lips while he raped her. Syllia recognized the impending syllables from the first shape his mouth made, and she heard the word in her mind, echoing from three hundred years of memory, before he even gave the first whisper of breath to the word. “Itharien.”
Her Oathmark kindled. Magic that had lain dormant for two decades reawakened at its rightful master’s command and curling the tendrils of arcane power that intertwined with her deepest essence, like a pulsating parasite that spread roots through all her flesh and lit itself in a sudden phoenix blaze, electrifying her body and burning her spirit to ash. Syllia would have screamed, but he squeezed her throat even tighter, and no sound but a weak choking could leave her mouth. Her eyes bulged and rolled wildly in her sockets, her body seizing, her limbs madly thrashing. Yet, even if she was magically powerful, physically she could not match Andrew – all the involuntary thrashing of her excruciating seizure could do nothing more to help her escape him than her conscious efforts could.
Andrew did not stop thrusting as the Oathmark’s magic seared its way through Syllia’s veins. If anything, his thrusting reached its crescendo as she was racked by the runic powers that he had invoked, Andrew raped Syllia more fiercely still as she was trapped in the throes of perfect anguish, fucking her more viciously as she choked and writhed and soundlessly sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks as pain and pain and pain vanquished all reason from her eyes.
The magic obliterated her, and it dominated her, and it forced her submission as irresistibly as divine command. She was undone by it, rent to pieces and left gaping wide, open and vulnerable and emptied of will. On reflex she nullified herself, blanking out her mind and deadening her wits, limply receiving this familiar torment and waiting for it to end. She let it wash over her. She let it erode her. If she resisted, she would shatter. If she fought it, she would be destroyed.
But the pain was not the only thing that she felt, and she could not utterly banish her awareness while her master’s cock was still thrusting in and out of her. No, she felt his manhood plundering her sex, honoring her with the touch of his naked flesh, and something in her responded to it. The torment of the Oathmark, the terror of the Oathword… she had been fleeing these things for twenty years, but she was in their grip once more, and she had been claimed by her lawful owner. There was nowhere to run, nothing more to fear, and that was… freeing. As liberating in an odd way as her first steps outside of the mansion she had grown up in.
She was an object, of course. A thing, less than even an animal. She was not a person. She had no moral worth, no rights or privileges, and no responsibilities either — none, that was, except to satisfy her master. And for that, she had to do no more than lie back and let him have her however he wished. Yes, she just had to let her master have his fun. She just had to wait for her master to finish. She ought to be grateful that her master had come all this way to reclaim her. She should be flattered that he still wanted to take her back, and not just discard her and replace her with a more obedient slave.
Her mind was scrambled, her thoughts disordered. Between the twin assaults of pleasure and pain, racked by the Oathmark and ravaged by her master’s cock, Syllia could not think. She forgot herself. She forgot her ambitions. She forgot her people and her obligation to them. Really… what were elves, anyway? Just a lot of knife-eared fucktoys. They were slaves. They were meat. They existed to be used by their masters. They had been born to be used. They deserved to be used. They deserved to be broken and discarded and replaced. They were worthless. They were expendable. Every moment of use, every second of attention from their masters, was an incalculable, incomparable blessing.
In that moment, Syllia was happy. There was no anger. No hatred. No bitter resolve. She was freed from the responsibilities she had so rashly taken on, relieved of the duties that weighed so heavily on her shoulders. She no longer had to keep worrying about the future of her people. She no longer had to bother about leading them to victory. It had all been a mistake, a foolish lark… She should have known better than to think she could defeat her master, than to think that elves could ever be anything but slaves and pets and pieces of meat.
Syllia smiled in the agony as her head swam from want of air, as the throbbing and searing and crackling of the Oathmark worked its way deeper and deeper into her soul, the anguish eating her personality alive. Every inch of her was on fire, writhing in an agony worse than hell, yet she was blissful, absorbed in the feeling of her master’s cock plunging in and out of her, attending euphorically to the throb of his erection, to the spasm of his rod, to the spurt and gush of his cum as it shot into her pussy.
He came inside her, and she came for him in gladness at receiving his seed. A training that she had for so long defied and subverted was now by Andrew’s hands completed, perfected, and she became in truth was she had for two centuries feigned to be – the perfect, submissive slave. She was his slave. She was his pet. She lived for him. She would die for him. She wanted to serve him. She had no purpose but his pleasure, and if he tired of her, she would accept death without complaint. She was his plaything, and once he no longer enjoyed using her, it would only be natural for him to get rid of her or kill her.
Syllia smiled until her jaw hurt, smiling until her face was sore, smiling in a lunatic rictus as she was conquered by the Oathmark’s magic and her master’s cock. Maybe somewhere deep down there was still a remnant of her hate, and maybe once the spell was lifted, she would remember herself, but in this moment, she was nothing other than his dutiful, mewling thrall, and Andrew could see it.
He pulled out of Syllia with a grunt, looking down at her naked body. The Oathmark was still active, sparking and glowing on her brow, sending fiery script like a runic infection throughout her skin, wrapping around her body like the coils of a snake. She was writhing and moaning and vapidly, shamefully smiling, mindlessly reverencing him with glassy, punch-drunk eyes.
“Your army…” Andrew said, rolling Syllia onto her belly, plastering her tits on the mat beneath her and straddling her from behind. “Disband it. Restore your followers to their proper state, and return them to their masters. Invoke their Oathmarks, and I will release yours and give you what you want.”
Somewhere inside her tortured, frazzled, dizzied head, Syllia managed to have a thought. She brushed a hand over her throat. She hadn’t even noticed when Andrew had stopped choking her, and she felt a little disappointed that he hadn’t gone farther.
Maybe there was still a vestige of sanity in her mind, and maybe she could have defied him at the last. She could have refused, and suffered the Oathmark’s torment until she perished, dying as his mother had died — as her mother, too, had died. She could have accepted death and become a martyr for her race. She could have tested Andrew and seen how far he was willing to push it, daring him to cross the line and doom his people with a careless stroke.
But she was… so… tired.
Tired as she had not felt since the night that she slaughtered the Tarn family. Tired as she had not felt since the moment she spared that weeping child and left him beside his lifeless mother. That child was now a man, and he had come to assert over her all the power that his house had ever held over her, over her mother, and over her mother’s mother. She was his slave, and she had never been anything else.
And she never would be.
Syllia whispered the Oathword that she had set to the marks of all her followers, a Word that she alone had the right to speak with power. From any other lips it would mean nothing and do nothing. To someone without her magic, it would have also done nothing without their ability to hear it. It was neither of those things. From her, it was the doom of her race, the undoing of her campaign, and the damnation of her soul. She sent the magic throughout her camp, a wave of force that washed over all the escaped slaves of her race, be they soldiers or priestesses or mothers and fathers. Male and female, strong and weak, shrewd and simple — there were none who could escape the invocation, and like a ghastly chorus, their screams arose throughout the camp all at once as they fell powerless, bound once more by that familiar power, racked by that hated torment.
It was finally over.
Andrew smacked Syllia’s ass, hearing the proof that she had done as he bade her, spanking the elf like it was her reward, and he grabbed her by the hair and bent over her, biting her long, pointed ear and whispering her Oathword so that his voice tickled her lobe.
All at once, Syllia was relieved of her torment, and she slumped in a sweaty heap beneath Andrew. The end of the pain did not bring her sobriety, nor did it make her immediately regret what she had done. She was still awash with many sensations, profoundly weak and dully happy. She was relieved that the Oathmark’s torture had been lifted, even if the price of that relief was to condemn all the rest of her people back to slavery or worse, and she sighed and squirmed beneath her master, feeling the head of his cock nestle promisingly, menacingly between her dark, round buttocks.
“Fuck me, Master…” she said, her words moaned without shame, without honor, without pride. “Choke me. Break me… Kill me.”
She felt the first twinge of regret as she said this, and the weight of what she had done began to settle on her heart. Despite the momentary sense of relief, a pit opened in her stomach, and she shuddered in the first rush of horror as the screams grew louder and more numerous, even the strongest willed of her followers soon succumbing to the agony of the Oathmark. But she did not speak the word that would end their pain and free them from this binding magic.
There would have been no point.
It was no longer in her power to relieve them of that pain. The Oathmark took possession of everything in its bearer and turned it against them, relinquishing all to the master of the Oathword. That included the magic of other Oathmarks bonded to the bearer. By invoking the Oathword while her own Mark was active, she had surrendered the Word to her master. He was their rightful owner now, as far their marks were concerned. Unless he permitted her to use the Oathword again, she would not be able to turn the Marks of her followers on or off. In her weakness, in her fear, in her madness, she had doomed her people.
Faintly, Syllia could hear the sounding of trumpets, the trampling of hooves. The cries that arose from the camp were the signal Andrew’s allies had been waiting for, and the personal troops of the imperial nobles who had lent him their aid now descended on the helpless elves. Before the night was through, they would all be back in bondage, returned to slavery and forced to accept it for good… if they were lucky.
Syllia understood what was going to happen, and she despaired deep down. Out of this despair, she buried herself again in the deadening, mindless lasciviousness that had overthrown her at the cusp of victory, hoping to find some meager solace in the very weakness that had destroyed her.
“Break me, Master,” she repeated, in a way almost seeing it as atonement, as an escape from the responsibility for what she had done. She wanted to be beaten down until she didn’t have any hope or desire anymore… nothing to disappoint. Nothing to recognize her failure. She thought fleetingly of all the humans who had perished at the hands of her followers, slain out of hatred — maybe a just hatred from their perspective, but surely not from that of the humans — and wondered how harsh the retribution for their vengeance would be. Too late, she saw the cycle that she had perpetuated, and she despaired of any escape but death from the ever-turning wheel of fate. “Punish me, Master…”
There was a sob in her voice, and tears burned in her eyes. She was miserable. She was furious with herself.
Yet, at the same time…
Syllia’s heart skipped a beat when Andrew’s fingers curled around her throat. Her hips bucked, her pussy clenching, when Andrew drove his hips down and thrust his cock into her ass. She felt faint as he squeezed, and she felt giddy as he thrust, and beneath his firm body, she could almost forget everything that had happened. There was just her and her master, just his hands throttling her throat and his cock reaming her ass, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that none of this had ever happened, that it had all been a dream and she was still a faithful, dutiful slave of the house of Tarn…
But she knew this wasn’t the case, and her surrender could not blind her to reality. Deep down, she was still aware of her failure, of her twofold betrayal—first of her masters, then of her followers—and this awareness tainted her shameless, brute pleasure with a bittersweet sorrow.
Syllia’s teeth clenched. Her… a goddess? Her, a queen? A savior? No… She could see now that she was none of those things. For all of her magic, for all of her strategies and her ruthless ambitions, she was ultimately still so weak and vulnerable and pathetic. She was an elf, and this was all she could be. This was all that elves were, wasn’t it? Maybe her masters had been right. Maybe humanity was right. Elves didn’t deserve to be free. Elves didn’t deserve to live…
She didn’t deserve to live.
Andrew was choking her harder, and he was fucking her faster. Her ass cheeks clapped around his plunging shaft, and her anus clenched and tore around his pulsating girth. Rigid and ferocious, he annihilated her, crushing her and ripping her and goring her with his cock. She felt small upon his hardness, and she felt weak and insignificant in his hands. She was miserable, and she despaired, and yet she was happy. In this subjugation, there was paradoxically something like freedom.
She no longer had to fight. She no longer had to struggle and strive and suffer in the name of those vain, delusional hopes for a better future. Now, she saw that there could be nothing but slavery for her people, that they could never return to the way they had once been, and they would never be allowed to make for themselves a new culture and a new nation. They were objects, and they were there only to be used and discarded. If they simply stopped caring, if they simply stopped trying, they would be so much happier.
Syllia’s eyes bulged, and her pussy spurted, issuing her juices, still raw and aching from Andrew’s rape of her, but also tingling with a humiliating gladness as he hammered her ass. He was squeezing harder, harder, harder, and she could feel her head swimming and see her vision blurring. Tears of morbid gladness dripped from her rolling eyes, and a once severe and solemn mouth twisted into shapes of the most sinful expression. Her breasts mashed beneath her, and her body curved and writhed in a tortuous bliss, and she opened and closed her mouth in wordless, soundless rejoicing as her master reclaimed her and returned her to her rightful place.
She was free, for she was once more his slave. She was happy, for she had surrendered to despair. She felt more alive than she had in all her centuries hitherto, for she could feel herself at the brink of death. He was using her roughly, raping her furiously, garroting and battering and sodomizing her with a brutal, domineering ferocity. He was her master. She belonged to him. She existed for him. That she had for this long pretended otherwise was only a defect of her character, a defect that he would correct if he were able. And if he could not correct it, then he could simply replace her with an elf of better manners and leave this impudent sow for the crows.
Froth welled from Syllia’s gaping lips, and her vision blackened, her world almost ceasing to be. Andrew bottomed out inside her ass, finishing with a fervent, feverish sequence of thrusts as he came, shooting his cum into her asshole, marking her as his property—just to remind her. He finished inside her ass, and he loosened his grip, panting and sweaty and staring down with clear yet impenetrable eyes at the insensate, motionless form of his recaptured slave. Her head lolled limply, and her body sprawled like a fresh corpse, devoid of all motive forces but not yet stiffened by mortis.
Andrew stared at Syllia’s slender back, and he rubbed a hand over one of her dun buttocks. Round and shapely it was, and he cupped it and squeezed it, softly, almost tenderly, almost contemplatively. He pulled out of her anus, his cock still hard, and wondered why he felt unsatisfied.
“I did it,” he murmured to himself. “I achieved my life’s goal, haven’t I? I have avenged my family and taken her back, so why…?”
More gently still, he caressed Syllia’s backside. How many of his ancestors had used this ass? How many of them had fucked this pussy and shoved that mouth down on their cocks? He didn’t know exactly how long Syllia had been in his family’s possession. A century? Two? Even longer than that?
He had been young when they died. He knew little about his family’s history. Little that would have been passed down from father to son. He remembered next to nothing about them. His most vivid recollection of any of his family members was seeing his father as a shrivelled husk, his mother drowned, his wet nurse immobile with her brow seared by an Oathmark, her clothes rent by her own madly clawing hands in the rack of a mortal agony. That was the clearest image he had of his family: them laying before him, still warm but indubitably dead, and this creature standing over her, this rebellious slave, Syllia…
He gnashed his teeth, feeling a fresh surge of anger. He rolled her over and struck her across the face, glaring at her with eyes aflame. A twinge of pain and a flicker of awareness passed over Syllia’s otherwise senseless features, and consciousness dawned on her in response to the blow.
Blinking, dazed, sore, tired, the elf beheld her master, the man who had defeated her and destroyed her army. Dimly, she heard the screams dying down—not fading away, but being cut off one by one, either their mouths gagged with cloth or their tongues stilled by sterner, more permanent methods —and remembered everything that had happened. From how she hurt, she guessed that she had not been out of it for very long.
She was preoccupied with Andrew’s glare, however. His eyes drew all her attention, and his grim face set her heart to flutter. Yes… despite herself, looking at this man, Syllia felt…
Her face warmed. Was this the conditioning that had been inflicted on her in her youth, or did these feelings arise from her own inner nature? And did it even matter which, if either, it was? No… perhaps the cause of this feeling was irrelevant. What mattered was only that she did feel it.
And shamefully, appallingly, regrettably, she did.
Andrew stared at Syllia’s face, and he wondered why his eyes burned with tears. “I hate you,” he whispered. “It’s all your fault.”
From here, the story branches into 2 possible endings…