Adventures of Red hair
Pity the Boi
Here’s a little fan-fiction based in John Norman’s world of sci-fi, beasts, heroes and sexism – Gor
“I want you to beg,” I said. I managed to keep my voice steady, which was pretty impressive considering how drunk I’d gotten on paga, and how much emotion I was trying to keep bottled up just then. I kept my gaze steady too, my eyes meeting his as he looked up from his place near the cage. He was trying to gauge my mood, and usually I let him, wanting him to match me, to be the perfect foil. Not this time, though. Or rather, this time the mood I wanted him to see was something that I already knew he couldn’t exactly match.
Meet, yes. With tears in his eyes and that little catch in his words that cut deeper than any knife could… with his hands shaking and his own body fighting him as he tried to obey… under those terms, he could meet it. But never match it.
He could never match my rage.
And so I showed him nothing but blankness and the deep pits that my eyes could become when I was feeling beyond cruel. I held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to the camp fire, a paga mug still in my hand, letting him kneel near the cages for a moment more. I knew he’d speak eventually, my comment had ensured that.
“Wh..what do you want me to beg for, Huntress?”
He had such a sweet voice, all timid and trembling, the voice of someone who was already frightened before I’d even begun to show him how far I would go tonight. Then again, he knew me. Knew that I didn’t normally play when drunk. That I didn’t EVER let out the beast within me without a reason. So I guess he had every right to be afraid …. I’d suddenly changed the rules on him.
I shook my head, waved the mug languidly at the cage, letting the paga slur my words a bit more than it would normally. I wanted him thinking me completely drunk.
“In the cage, boi. Close the door.”
He scrambled instantly toward it, but hesitated with one hand already inside, resting on the furs that I allowed him.
“H..Huntress? May your slave leave the door o..open, please?” and his voice caught so wonderfully, tripping over the words. He knew how to exaggerate his own fear for me, trying to appease my hungers, to spare himself the pain and fright that I’d otherwise cause him. Normally very effective, but the alcohol helped me wall away my desire to protect him and I’d already made up my mind as to what I wanted.
I shook my head, waved the mug again, my voice still slipping over the phrases with what he could only interpret as drunken carelessness.
“No, little one. Close the door. Then beg.”
He hated it when I did this, ordering him to beg without telling him what I wanted to hear him pleading for, making even the choice of it into a form of torture … he knew that if he begged for the wrong things, it would be worse than if he failed to beg well for the right things. He hated that. Hated being forced to make choices. He’d submitted to me in part because then so often I made the choices, the decisions… and here I was, throwing his own slavery back in his face. Poor boy. I grinned as I heard the cage door shut.
He fumbled about for a moment, turning like a puppy on its rug until he found a reasonably comfortable position, facing me, his hands pressed against the sturdy wire bars of the cage and his eyes wide, mournful, a puppy indeed… no words came out yet, he was thinking. I snickered. Took another sip of my paga. No need to let him know that I’d diluted it…
“H..Huntress? Did I do something wrong?”
He asked that a lot, actually… every time I caged him, every time I gave him an order that he and I both knew he hated. He was more afraid of displeasing me than of the actual punishment …when he failed me he wanted to know, wanted to learn from it. Again, an admirable quality… just not what I wanted right now. I shook my head again. He was silent for a while, thinking.
Finally he took a guess, betting that what I wanted was an excuse to punish him (clever boy, but not quite clever enough) or to make him hurt in some way… and curled up on the furs, silent. Making it very clear that he wasn’t going to beg.
I turned slowly, set the mug down, as I did so. Looked at him. He looked back, trying to keep up his courage, but I could already see his fear building. He knew that sometimes the only way to avoid serious misery was to try to provoke me early on, to draw out a bit of my anger at the start.
But I knew it too. And I just grinned at him. Oh, he shuddered then… he’d seen that grin, seen it when I first decided he was ready to taste his own blood, seen it when I beat him truly, the first time, seen it the few times I honestly wanted him to suffer. And he thought he’d guessed right.