Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“I’m so glad you came—the ceremony is about to begin!” Mistress Shin’dara smiled down from the throne, which was on Lucy’s right hand. “I have many, many guards who need to prove their loyalty to me—and pay for what they’ve done!” she added, digging the stiletto heels of her leather boots into the guard who was serving as her living footstool.
“Ah! Mistress, please forgive me!” he groaned, wincing. His light green skin was already a mass of bruises and cuts from the cruel heels.
“I will never forgive the fact that you tried to penetrate me in my sleep!” The Twainer snapped, digging her heels into him again. “This is the least of what you deserve, maggot!”
“I thought you were Lady Twa’linda!” the guard/footstool moaned. “She loved it when I woke her up with a good-morning fuck! I swear, if I had known it was you instead of her, I never would have tried anything!”
“It’s too late now, you revolting worm. Just pray I don’t decide to castrate you by the end of the day!” Mistress Shin’dara snapped. “Now then…” she went on, raising her voice. “Bring out the branding set. Who will be the first male to step forward and swear his loyalty to me?”
There were glances and whispers exchanged by the assembled guards but no one stepped forward. In the meantime, two servants were bringing a large brass cylinder, about the size of a wine barrel up to the throne. The barrel was turned on its end and Lucy could see a faint reddish glow coming from inside it. Seven or eight long sticks with thick handles that seemed to be made of some kind of silicone were sticking out of it. She wondered what they might be.
“Here you are, Mistress,” one of the servants said, making certain the glowing brass barrel with its many metal sticks was within Shin’dara’s reach.
“Enough dithering!” Mistress Shin’dara snapped, not even acknowledging the servants who had brought what she asked for. “You!” She pointed at one of the guards who were lined up in rows on either side of the throne. “Come here—you shall be first to swear your loyalty to me!”
The man she had pointed at stepped forward very reluctantly, Lucy thought. He looked like he wanted to run for the door but he didn’t dare to. Slowly, he approached the throne.
“Hurry up!” Shin’dara exclaimed. “Can’t you move any faster? What is your name?”
“I am Grun’thor—Captain of your guard, my Mistress.” The man bowed low before her. He was wearing the new uniform—which indeed, all the guards were—of leather straps across his bare chest and a speedo with the crotch cut out to show his shaft, kept erect by a cock-ring.
“Very well, Grun’thor—and do you swear and affirm that you will be loyal to me all your days?” Mistress Shin’dara demanded.
He nodded slowly.
“I do so swear and affirm, Mistress.”
“Excellent! Then step forward and take your brand.”
Mistress Shin’dara grabbed the well-padded handle of one of the long metal sticks and pulled it out of the glowing brass barrel. At the end of it was a stylized initial—a capital S—which had been made to look like a snake.
Lucy’s eyes widened when she finally realized what it was—a branding iron!
“Oh my God!” she murmured to T’zaren, who crouched beside her chair, on her left side so they could speak. “Is she really going to brand him?”
“She is.” His deep voice was a low rumble, meant for her ears only. “But there’s nothing you can do about it,” he added, as Lucy stirred indignantly in her chair.
“But—”
“I mean it—don’t say anything,” T’zaren warned her. “You’ll only set her off and if she passes into her third form, you’ll be signing our death warrants—as well as the death warrants of all these guards.”
“Well…all right,” Lucy said at last. “But this is awful!”
“It can always get worse,” T’zaren said. “We’re going to have to wait until it’s over.”
“Step forward, I said!” Mistress Shin’dara demanded of the guard. “And move the right strap of your uniform—I don’t want it getting in the way of the brand!”
Lifting his chin, the man stepped forward and did as she said, pulling aside the leather strap that crisscrossed over his chest.
“Now hold still—this is going to hurt!” Mistress Shin’dara’s dark eyes were filled with sadistic glee as she pressed the red-hot glowing S to the guard’s bare chest. There was a hiss of steam and the faint but horrible odor of burning flesh. The man gave a muffled groan, though he made no protest and didn’t try to get away.
Finally, the Twainer seemed to be satisfied that the brand was finished because she pulled the iron away and tossed it carelessly back into the glowing barrel.
“Very good—you’re mine now,” she told the guard. “And don’t think that weakling, Mistress Twa’linda is coming back to save you, either. I made certain she can’t!” And she leaned back against the sharp spikes that covered the back of her throne with a malicious grin.