Lord of Avalon

J.W. McKenna

Jenya is Lord Rydah's newly
acquired slave. Having waited eight rynes for his breeder to be old enough to
come to him, he finds her irresistible both in bed and out. Rydah's slave has
learned everything there is to know about pleasing a man and meeting his sexual
desires, but he will soon find out there is far more to her than that...more
than he ever dared to dream.

Houston, Texas, September 2035

Jack Baxter was surprised to see his wife kneeling naked on
the rug when he came home from a long day at NASA’s Houston headquarters. He
rocked back on his heels, then quickly shut the door, afraid neighbors might
catch a glimpse. He stared.

“Your breeder awaits, m’lord,” Joyce said, fighting to keep
the grin off her face.

Jack paused, then blinked, taking in the sight of his
dark-haired wife. She still looked good to him after six years of marriage.
Beautiful face. Great smile. Terrific sense of humor. And now she’s greeting
him naked. Naked! Her breasts were full and white, contrasted by the dark
triangle of hair between her open legs. He felt his cock stir at the sight of
her
.

Sudden realization hit him. He cocked his head to the side.
“You’ve been reading my notes again, I see.”

Joyce looked up and grinned. “Yes, um, master.”

“All right.” He laughed and held up his hands. “Perhaps you
can explain to me why the Avalonians turn you on so? It’s not exactly a
progressive planet, you understand.”

She stood and approached him, kissing him on the lips. “I
know. It’s the raw sexuality of it. I mean, think of it—an entire planet where
women are kept as ‘breeders’ for the ruling class!”

“Not all the women,” he corrected, pulling her close to him
with one arm, letting her feel the hardness of his cock. “There’s the
Noblewomen…”

“Oh, I know!,” she said, dismissing them with a wave of her
hand. “Still, doesn’t that turn you on?”

“Well, sure, but I’m a man. We’re Neanderthals, remember? We
get excited by girls in beer commercials. What makes a feminist like you all
hot and bothered by this research?”

“It’s the secret fantasy of many women to be held and
ravished by a handsome, powerful man,” she said, rubbing her nipples against
his shirt. He could feel them like hot embers on his skin.

He raised his eyebrows. At 5-10 and 190 pounds, he didn’t
exactly fit the profile of a ravisher. Nevertheless, Joyce loved him, he was
sure. “So I guess this is your subtle way of telling me you’d like to be
ravished tonight?”

She looked up and gave him a soft pout. “Oh, yes, there will
be sex tonight, no doubt. I’m ovulating. But that’s not what this is about,”
she said, indicating her nakedness.

“So, then what?” Jack asked, puzzled. Like most men, he
thought linearly—
woman naked, woman want to get laid.
Especially since
they’ve been trying to start a family for months now.

“The story. It’s time you told me.”

“Ohhh, that.” He stared off into space. “But I haven’t
written it yet.”

“Jack, you’ve been gathering notes for months! Ever since
that ship started sending back data! I know you’ve plenty of material for a
book. I want to hear it.”

Jack nodded. It was true. Ever since NASA’s first starship
had reached the third planet around the star Cyrus eleven months ago, a treasure
trove of information had come flooding back.

The planet that NASA named Avalon had humanoid life! The
world buzzed with the news. Probes were launched that helped scientists get a
close-up view of the planet. From the probes, a picture of the humanoids’
rather unique civilization emerged: the natives of Avalon were reasonably
advanced. They had a fully-developed language, art, transportation and a
community structure that indicated the civilization had reached the equivalent
of 17th century Earth.

They operated under a strict caste system; the
higher-ranking members ruled the society and lower-ranking members served those
above them. Women could be equals, although those who weren’t considered
Noblewomen or free members of the upper castes were kept as “breeders” to serve
the rulers of the planet.

Apparently, it had not always been so. U.S. scientists
learned that the use of breeders had been instigated by high priests many years
ago when inbreeding among the ruling class threatened the stability of their
leadership. Too many offspring had been born demented, physically weak or with
damaging genetic diseases. Without knowing for sure that inbreeding was the
cause, the priests nevertheless managed to hit on a workable solution.

Their ruling literally saved the higher castes and it
elevated the priests to a much more powerful level than before. Priests became
the top-ranked Damons, the
de facto
rulers of the planet, supplanting
kings. The breeder program grew and developed until it was institutionalized through
the creation of “slave pens” for young women.

Jack had learned all this because it was his team that was
responsible for transcribing the tapes of conversations, once the language had
been deciphered. From them, he had developed a good overview of the society,
but it lacked emotion and detail.

That had bothered Jack. The public hungered for news about
the planet and he didn’t think they were satisfied by the dry facts and
statistics provided by NASA. So Jack began taking notes about the humanoids
themselves: Who they were, what they ate, how they lived. From that, a story
began to emerge—a story about a master and his slave. A story that clearly
excited Joyce to no end.

If she can get so turned on just by notes
, he mused,
maybe
I’m onto something here
. He grinned down at his wife. “Fetch me a martini,
slave, and maybe I’ll tell you about it.”

“Ohh. Yes, master!” She scurried off. He watched her ass
appreciatively as she disappeared into the kitchen.

He mock-swaggered around the room, stripping off his tie as
he made his way to the couch. He sat down heavily and placed his feet on the
coffee table. He resisted the urge to thump his chest.

In the kitchen, Joyce mixed a couple of martinis as she
thought about this mysterious planet. She’d read all the news stories, but it
was Jack’s notes that had really had excited her. When she had read through his
latest batch of notes earlier today, Joyce made up her mind to find out more
about her husband’s book.

She remembered a science fiction story she had read as a teenager
that had given her a similar reaction. It had told about a planet where all the
women were submissive to the men and acted as slaves to them. The women, though
locked up or chained, were well-tended and well-loved, usually by very strong
and virile men. She’d masturbated many a night after reading some of the more
steamy passages.

Now there really was such a world and Jack had the story
locked up in his head. He’d been taking notes for months without writing a
single page! She was determined to find out more. She wasn’t above using her
body as an enticement.

She grabbed her thigh-length silk robe that had been draped
over a chair and slipped it on. Then she brought the martinis out to the living
room. Jack’s face fell when he saw she had covered herself.

“Hey, what happened to Slave Girl?”

“Slave Girl will return if you behave yourself.” She handed
him a cold martini. “First, you’ve got to tell me what you’re working on. I
only get bits and pieces. You use terms I’ve never heard of:
dal, ryne
and
capeks
, for example.”

“Ahh. Those are measurements the Avalonians use. A
dal
is about a week, a
ryne
a year, a
capek
is about a foot.”

“Why don’t you just say so!”

“Because they’re not exactly equivalent. I’m trying to be
scientific—”

Joyce shook her head. “I don’t care about that. I care about
the sexy stuff. Like the relationship between this Lord Ry-dah or whatever his
name is, and his slave, Jenya. You have to tell me about them!”

Jack nodded. Those names were real enough—taken right from
the transcripts. In fact, that had started him thinking about a novel based on
Avalonian culture. By taking bits and pieces from other transcripts and adding
details about planet life, he’d begun developing a love story.

It had surprised even him that he could ever imagine writing
something like that. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t been able to actually start
the book. Yet the story seemed to write itself in his head.

“Okay,” he told his wife. “But you’re going to have to
encourage me.”

“What? Kneeling naked on the floor isn’t enough?”

“Come here, sit on my lap.”

Joyce didn’t need further encouragement. “Yes, master,” she
breathed as she settled in, her martini rock-steady in her left hand. She took
a delicate sip.

Jack smiled, took a sip himself, then pulled aside her robe so
a rosy nipple was exposed. It thrust out in arousal. He thumbed it with his
free hand.

“All right.” He leaned back, letting the story spill out of
his imagination, sparked by the facts he had gathered over the last few months
and fueled by the alcohol and his amorous woman. “This Lord Rydah, you see, was
about to take possession of his new breeder…”

Lord Rydah couldn’t help but keep his ears pricked for the
jangle of the slaves’ coffle. Such lines regularly passed by his window on
their way to their deliveries to wealthier Damons. He’d often paused to watch,
with growing longing, the line of young, naked women as they shuffled past,
guarded by two or three old warriors.

His envy would soon be put to rest. This very sun, the
coffle would stop by his humble home. He had saved a portion of his salary as a
scribe for many long
rynes
to purchase a young breeder named Jenya.

Rydah, a third-tier Damon, lived in Blethryn, the
third-largest city on the planet Avalon. The youngest of five children, had
grown up as a quiet and studious boy. He secured a job as a scribe, a noble but
obscure profession among the ruling Damons. His task, which he had been
performing for eight
rynes
now, was to edit and copy the texts of the
priests so their words could be sent to other cities. Blethryn was home to the
Cabal, the priest overlords of the society.

He bent to his task of editing the High Priests’ documents,
tongue peeking out of the side of his mouth, a small smear of ink on his ear
where he had brushed it with his free hand. His hair swept dark and full across
his head in the traditional style of the Damons. Hair reflected the standing of
its wearer: long or bushy for the Damons, medium for the Craftsmen, shorter
still for the Merchants and cropped close for the Laborers and Warriors.

Rydah reversed the bow of his back to ease his aching
muscles. He’d really have to get a taller desk. His seemed to have been
designed for a much shorter person. But that was a luxury to a man saving for a
slave, so he’d put up with it. Now that his slave was paid for, he’d be able to
afford some new furnishings. Among the first would be a cot for Jenya, he
decided. It wouldn’t do to have his breeder huddled on the floor with the
crawlies, would it?

For another
hura
he worked, pausing only to stretch
or wiggle the cramps from his fingers. Then, a faint sound drifted to his ears:
the sing-song rhythm of chains in the distance, coming nearer. Lord Rydah
smiled slightly to himself, then tried to pretend not to notice as the coffle
arrived on his street.

The jangle stopped suddenly. Rydah hunched over even
farther, relishing this moment that he’d waited so long for. Another smile
slipped across his angular face.

There came three knocks on his door.

Sliding his chair back, the young lord rose slowly and
walked with exaggerated casualness toward the door, as if accepting a slave was
a common occurrence in his house.

Ho, hum, another slave—where shall I put this one?

He opened the weathered panel and peered outside, his face
composed, though his heart beat rapidly in his chest. A toothless old Warrior
stood outside, his slave whip held loosely in his right hand. >From the
looks of him, he’d been away from the battlefields for a long time. Herding
slaves was probably all he could handle now.

“Lor’ Ryda’?” the old man mumbled.

Rydah nodded gravely, trying hard not to grin.

“I’m deliverin’ you’ breeda, m’lord.” He gave a stiff bow.

Rydah looked beyond the man to the slaves. He counted seven
in line, each woman chained to the collar in front of her, their hands
handcuffed together in front of them. He could see the sheen of sweat across
their bodies, their naked breasts heaving with the exertion of their journey
through the streets. By Rand, they were lovely! As they shuffled in place, the
soft tinkle of their breeding bells sounded pleasant to his ears.

Going down the row, the lord spotted Jenya second from the
end. “Thank you, bring her in.”

The man turned and unlocked Jenya’s collar chain from the
women on both sides of her. The last woman in line was quickly rechained to the
coffle. The guard led Jenya by her chain to the door, the little bell between
her legs announcing her presence.

“Wait,” Rydah commanded. He had noticed that Jenya’s feet
and legs were covered with dust and mud from the streets. “She’s too dirty.
Would you mind taking her out back and fastening her to the slave ring?”

“A’ course, m’lord.” The old guard bowed again and moved
away.

Lord Rydah closed the door and smiled behind it. He’d wanted
nothing more than to drag her in and start the breeding process immediately,
but that was not befitting a lord.

He would force himself to wait.

Rydah returned to his desk and sat down. He worked for
another
hura
before the twitching in his groin made him push back his
chair and stand up.

It was time.

He strolled past the kitchen to the rear door leading to the
courtyard, eager to see the young woman who would become the mother of his
offspring. The long
rynes
of waiting fell away with each step. He opened
the door and stepped out into the bright Cyrus sunshine.

Jenya was standing quietly, facing the stone wall, a four-
capek
section of chain leading from her neck collar to the ring. Her eyes were
downcast. Rydah saw that her wrist restraints had been removed. Nevertheless,
she kept her hands loosely clasped in front of her as an obedient slave should.

If she heard his approach, she gave no notice. She remained
motionless except for the slight puckering of her nipples. Sweat dripped
between her breasts.

Lord Rydah paused to take in his new beauty. Some Damon
could afford several breeders and have houses full of children. That he could
only afford one made his purchase all the more sweet.

Jenya was an exceptionally good-looking woman, with an oval
face surrounded by golden-blond hair and a strong jaw. Her breasts were large,
but not overly so. His eyes swept down the slender plane of her stomach to her
wide hips, ideal for birthing. His eyes were drawn to the small bell that hung
below the triangle of downy hair and announced her every movement. The bells
were designed to bounce against the clitoris to stimulate the breeders so they
would be ready for their masters’ cocks at any time. His gaze traveled lower,
to her sturdy legs that could work many
hura
s on her feet and easily
support a child in her belly.

He was glad that he had recognized her beauty early, so many
rynes
ago.

Rydah reached out to touch her shoulder and felt her
tremble. His eyes fell on the small “V” that had been branded onto the skin of
her upper left arm. In a few suns, a representative from Syminton would come
out to brand an upside-down “V” just below to make an “X,” indicating she was
no longer a virgin and was, in fact, now the property of a Damon. Rydah turned
her body slightly and observed the small six-digit number branded on the upper
curve of her bell-shaped bottom.

If she ever ran away, the brand would trace her back to him.

But where would she go? Slaves only ran away when they were
mistreated. The punishment for a runaway slave was not pleasant. Still,
Syminton had cautioned Rydah to keep her chained up for a while, until she
could be proved trustworthy—or until her belly swelled with his child. That
seemed to settle even the restless ones.

He stepped closer and brought his hand up to her chin. She
didn’t resist as he raised her face to his. Her blue eyes were wide and
questioning—and a little fearful.

For the first time, Jenya studied the face of her new master
up close. She had seen him from afar, of course, as he stopped by to check on
the growth of his slave. She had been afraid of him then. But now, standing
before him, she saw something in his eyes that calmed her.

“It’s all right. Don’t be afraid.” Rydah unlocked the chain
from the ring, letting it hang down between her breasts, almost to the floor.

“Would you like to use the privy?” he inquired.

She nodded shyly, her eyes downcast.

He pointed to the small structure and watched as she stepped
inside. She left the door open, as she had been trained not to hide herself
from her master’s eyes. He watched unabashed as she emptied her bladder in a
noisy stream into the hole, her tiny bell jingling.

He brought her to the small fountain and told her to pump
water into the bucket. When it was half full, he indicated she should wash the
dust and dirt off her body. He stepped back and admired the way she moved, the
shine of her hair when wet, the shimmering curves that winked in the sun. When
she was done, he stood nearby, studying her until the sun dried her skin.

Rydah led her inside. She squinted in the dim light of the
room, illuminated only by the bay window in front and a smaller window in the
kitchen. If she disapproved of his humble home, she made no sign. The girl
simply looked around, taking in the small kitchen, the living room that
contained only a battered old couch and the desk. Her eyes traveled to the
stairs, then away, as if she didn’t want to be caught looking somewhere she
wasn’t supposed to.

“That’s the loft,” Rydah said quickly. “It’s just my bed and
clothes. You can sleep down here. I’ll go out tomorrow and buy you a cot. The
couch, I’m afraid, isn’t too comfortable for sleeping.”

Jenya nodded, waiting. She expected to be bred right away
and the thought both terrified and fascinated her. Growing up in the slave
pens, she’d seen the couplings between the house breeders and the hand-picked
donors. It was all part of their education. The Merchants or Craftsmen brought
in were often gentle, but Warriors were universally cruel and brutal.

She’d never seen how a Damon made babies, but if she could
believe the whispers of the other virgins, some were just as brutish as
Warriors.

“Jenya.” She startled at the sound of her name. “Are you
thirsty?”

She hesitated, then nodded, wondering if this was some sort
of test. From a water bucket on the kitchen counter, he gave her a ladleful to
drink. She was careful not to spill a drop. She’d heard that many masters were
very strict about following their rules and she didn’t want to anger her new
master.

“More?”

She nodded.

Another ladle of water disappeared. Lord Rydah liked to
watch her swallow, the way her throat moved in the soft light. He could imagine
kissing that neck. He shook the image away. She was not his wife, merely a
breeder. He might yet marry, if a Noblewoman with the right combination of
status and means came along. It was socially acceptable to marry only within
his station. And, it would be difficult to achieve a higher station, even if he
chose to.

Marriage, of course, would have no bearing on Jenya. She
would continue to bear his children if he took a Noble wife. If his wife also
had children, they would have a higher status than his slave-born children,
although those distinctions tended to disappear with age. Some of the
brightest, most successful Damon children came from breeders.

It was possible for a breeder to achieve some social status,
but it took many
rynes
. For example, Lord Fyrad, his father, had stayed
with his breeder—Rydah’s mother—for thirty
rynes
, and by now she was
accepted as if she were practically a Damon. She even donned clothes, although
not many. She still wore her collar, of course. As long as she was careful not
to trade on her borrowed status, she would maintain an unofficial “honorary”
title that was not quite slave, yet not nearly Noble.

Only Noblewomen were called Ladies. Fyrad had never found a
suitable Noblewoman—or perhaps he found no one better than his slave, Saranya.

Rydah realized Jenya had returned her gaze to the ground
while he had been lost in his reverie. She stood with her feet slightly apart,
as she had been trained, her hands clasped behind her back, the chain hanging
between her beautiful young breasts.

“Are you hungry?” Again, she hesitated. “Look, Jenya, you’re
going to have to talk to me sometime. I promise I won’t beat you if you tell me
you’re hungry.”

Just the faintest wisp of a smile touched the corner of her
mouth. “Y-yes, master.” Her voice was low-pitched and velvety smooth. He had to
strain to hear her.

“Good. I’ve got some fruit and a half-loaf of bread. Please
fix us both something to eat.” He went to the far end of the living room and
sat down at his desk. Too late, he realized he hadn’t chained her to the slave
ring in the kitchen. He decided not to correct his mistake, to see how she
might react. It would be good to know if his new purchase had thoughts of
escape.

As he bent to his task, he heard the girl rummaging through
the kitchen, trying to find utensils and cups. He smiled in quiet relief. In a
few
lapars
, she came to him, chain clanking, carrying a plate for him.
She bent over and placed it on the desk, being careful not to get it near the
priceless scrolls he was copying.

He breathed in her scent: sweetness and musk. She
straightened up and started to move away in her jingling gait he already was
becoming accustomed to.

“Wait,” he said.

She froze.

With a wave, Rydah drew her closer. Reaching up, he found
the small lock that connected the chain to her narrow metal collar. He didn’t
have the key—the slave pen representative would bring it when he came with the
branding equipment. The sellers did not encourage new buyers to trust their
slaves too soon, so they didn’t provide the key right away. If they did, there
might be many more runaway slaves to capture.

Rydah sighed. “I can’t very well have this chain in your way
all the time, now can I?”

Jenya was startled. She’d heard from the other virgins that
new owners liked nothing more than to chain up new breeders and have sex with
them several times a sun. The worst situation was for a breeder to be brought
into a family where the master already had grown sons. Then they’d all take
turns at her, and the master would accept the babies that were produced no
matter who the father might be. They could nearly wear a breeder out.