The New Raya by Sean Michael
(originally in Taste Test: Sand and Heat)
Feyer didn't want to be here.
He didn't want a new raya or a new home or new ways.
He certainly didn't want to have to wait hand and foot upon the giant who now owned him. Amut was... big all over. And very... active.
Feyer pouted. The least he deserved was a couple of slaves at his own beck and call, but instead he was expected not only to care completely for himself, but for his raya as well.
He didn't like it at all.
"If you spill that wine again, the Meun Amut will have your hide, chadan." The dark skinned lad who belonged to the raya's second warned, voice pitched soft and low. "He does not abide clumsiness."
"I am not clumsy." Feyer sneered and upended the flagon, letting it drop from his hands when it was empty.
A shadow fell over them and the boy beside him fell to his knees. A low, familiar voice growled, "No. You are willful and graceless and prideful, but you are not clumsy."
Feyer struck a pose, fluid and relaxed. "Graceless, Amut?"
The boy beside him began to tremble as the room fell utterly silent. Amut bent down and touched the boy's shoulder. "Return to your master, little one." Then the brown eyes turned on him.
Feyer felt a slice of fear go through him. He could wind up dead for his insolence. He dropped his eyes half-closed and shook out his hair, letting his hips slouch further forward; if he died at least he wouldn't be here. "Grace and poise and pleasure. It's all I know." He looked at the big man from beneath his lashes. "You knew that when you bought me. Did you not?"
Amut arched an eyebrow and snapped his fingers. His Second appeared at his shoulder immediately. "Strip it and stake it outdoors. If it struggles, shave it." Then Amut turned his back on him, dismissing him.
Feyer's mouth dropped open, protests springing to his lips. He had expected anger, perhaps a beating or even death, certainly not dismissal. The words died on his lips as the raya's Second grabbed his hair in one hand and a knife in the other.
The knife pressed against his forehead, cold, black eyes glinting in a still face. "How will we do this, chadan?" The blade bit in, a line of hot blood sliding down his forehead.
Feyer glanced at Amut, but the raya still had his back turned, unconcerned about what might happen to him. He lowered his eyes, hiding the tears that had sprung up and showing his acquiescence at the same time. He could remember his old raya punishing him only twice, could remember the tears in the old, dark eyes -- it had always hurt him more than Feyer himself.
He was pressed outside, dragged over to the center of the village, and summarily stripped. Two men hammered four large stakes into the ground, leather thongs fastened to each. As Feyer watched, trembling, the sun began to set.
"Down and fasten your feet, dog. We will see how graceful you are when the night hunters come for you." The Second's voice was flat and humorless, hard as stone.
His hands were trembling, slipping as he fastened the leather bindings around his own ankles. Night hunters? A soft shudder went through him as he could only imagine what those might be, putting savage faces to the howls he had heard in the night before.
His hands were fastened, the ties tested, and then the men left him, spread out like a sacrifice upon the dirt, the sky turning from rose to violet. He tried to be grateful that he was face-down, that he wouldn't be able to see the beasts that came to kill him, that his tears would fall unseen into the sands.
He tried, but he wasn't succeeding very well.
This was not what he'd had in mind when he'd pushed and sulked. Amut did not react the way he had expected. These tribal people were strange to him, not that it really mattered anymore. He tried to relax, to go limp, but he was bound tight enough that he could not and soon his muscles began to protest his position.
He could hear the laughter and chatter from the communal supper, smell the roasted meat, the fresh cut fruit, the wine. All he could taste was bitter sand.
Soon his tears flowed freely. He hated crying; it made his eyes red and swollen and his nose run. It was not very pretty.
The true panic didn't set in until full darkness fell, the tent flaps falling closed, drumming and soft songs filling the air. Then there was the silver-quick flashes of lizards, the slick slither sounding close by, and the jerky, curious long-legged searching of insects.
He prayed for a quick death. And, as hour followed hour, he begged for it. No one came. No one heard. Even the cattle were checked, fed, comforted when they lowed, but it was as if he were invisible.
By the time the sky lightened, his shoulders were on fire, his thighs covered with a series of bites that were matched by the welts on his shoulders, his wrists and ankles bloody from twisting. He had no voice left. His curls, filthy and limp, trailed in the dirt, beetles running through them.
Now, he thought, now that the sun's deadly heat had arrived, he would be either killed or cut down.
Hours seemed to pass, the sun growing brighter and brighter, children stopping to kick dust at him while their mothers busied themselves, before pair of dark feet settled before him. "Are you feeling graceful now, chadan?"
He tried to speak but all that issued from his throat was a croak. Despite the pain he managed to shake his head, one brief movement that had him whimpering.
Amut stepped away, speaking loud enough for him to hear. "Hobble the chadan and have him serve all who ask. If he dishonors me, bring him back here. If he struggles, shave him. If he behaves well, bring him to me at sunset."
He did not understand. He was stripped of his beauty, his grace, his dignity. He would serve others and make no sound, but he was no longer fit to serve the raya, why would Amut want him returned?
He was jerked up, muscles screaming as his arms and knees were strapped tightly together, a long piece of leather tied around his throat. The dark eyes of the boy from -- was it only the night before? -- looked at him with pity as he was forced to his knees. "You were warned, chadan. Behave yourself today; please do not anger the Meun Amut again. I will help you, if you will allow it."
He hated it, hated that his beauty and grace were thrown to the sands like crumbs from a raya's table, hated that he must rely on this boy who should be serving him.
Lowering his eyes, he allowed his head to nod, ever so slightly.
"Come, Chadan, serve your tribe." He was offered a sip of water and then he began the painful trip into the group of tents.
He was clean, powdered, and perfumed. No one expected him to serve, to move, to kowtow. Jewels were draped over his throat, threaded through his hair, his ears, the shining ring in his cock. He was not abused, not beaten, nothing but so gentle hands stroking him to hardness again and again.
Feyer was miserable.
That first night he had been led to his raya, the corners of his mouth torn, his ass raw and aching, blisters on his hands and feet, one stripe across his sunburned shoulders. Amut had been lounging with his Second, talking and laughing, heavy cup of wine in his hand. The dark eyes had landed upon him and he had flinched from the lack of concern, the cold distance.
"Tell me, Rifik, what did the chadan say his purpose was?"
"Grace and poise and pleasure, Meun Amut." Rifik's voice had laughed at him, taunted him.
"I see." Amut had shifted, holding out his cup to be refilled. "Then I believe it should begin to perform its duty so that my fortune was not ill-spent on a common whore. Have it washed and made beautiful. I feel the need to decorate."
Then Feyer had been led away, his wounds dressed, his face painted. He had been draped in silks and furs and brought to the raya's tent where he had been attached to the wall, gagged, and promptly ignored, barring the periodic caresses when his erection faltered.
And there he had stayed, allowed down only to eat, relieve himself, bathe and sleep, for night after night after night.
He'd long since stopped crying, it only gave him headaches.
He was lonely, exhausted and growing more and more numb. Every night Amut took his pleasure in slaves with half the looks and skills as himself. At first it had angered him. Then made him sad and now... he was numb.
Two boys were curled on either side of Amut, thin limbs tangling with the heavy muscles, covered in ebony. Timot crawled in silently, knelt at the end of the furs silently, waiting for Amut's acknowledgement.
Timot had been good to him, assuring his wrists and ankles did not chafe, that he ate.
"You wish to speak?" Amut's low voice seemed to fill the room.
"Yes, Meun Amut. My Raya, your second, he asked if perhaps you could spare these chadani, as he has a visitor within his tent."
Amut nodded, slapping one playfully as the boy stole a kiss. Timot did not rise.
"You have more to say?"
"Yes, Meun Amut." Timot's voice was low and soft, full of respect. "My raya requested that I offer myself to your pleasure, to replace the chadani borrowed."
A long silence followed and then Amut sighed. "No. You should return to your raya, Favored One. I have no need for you."
No, Feyer thought sulkily, the man had made love almost constantly; he had no need of Timot. He watched as the boy bowed and left. Timot smiled softly at him, but he didn't have the heart to smile back.
The flap of the tent closed behind the boy and then he and Amut were alone.
"You are not as beautiful displayed upon the wall as you were the first night I took you." Amut's voice startled him, made him jerk slightly in his bonds. The large man was looking at him, eyes and face solemn. "You underestimated your abilities, chadan."
He licked his lips, his mouth was so dry. "I don't understand."
Amut stood, stalking across the room like a sleek cat, stopping only to retrieve a goblet. "I know that you do not. I also know that you will."
Amut took a drink, the smell of the wine bright and sweet. Feyer almost sobbed at the cruelty, and then his chin was lifted, wet lips covering his, cool wine splashing into his mouth.
Gasping, he swallowed the liquid greedily, tears filling his eyes at the sudden and unexpected kindness.
Their lips parted, Amut's eyes focused and still and looking right at him. "More?"
A nod, a sip, and those lips covered his again, giving him the liquid he so desperately needed. Twice more, Amut fed him, the final time lapping softly at his open lips.
"It does not have to be always a struggle, chadan."
"I wish only to serve you, Raya."
"Do you?" Amut offered him another drink, another kiss. His head spun from the wine, from the loss of breath, from the gentle attention washing over his shattered nerves.
"Yes, Meun Amut, it is what I was made for. To fill my Raya's every need." The tears in his eyes overflowed. He ached to do his duty but every time he had tried it had only made things worse. "I don't understand."
"What do you not understand, little chadan?" Hands, warm and unbelievably strong, stroked over his shoulders, his chest, touching him, feeling him. The husky voice rolled over him, tongue licking at his tears. "All you need do is give yourself to me. I will give you all you need."
"I am yours." His tears continued to fall, Amut's care unexpected, almost shocking after the last days.
"Yes, little chadan. You are mine. Would you serve your raya or do you prefer to decorate my walls?" The rough, hot tongue lapped at his cheeks.
His body strained toward Amut's; he knew only one answer to the question, knew it with his entire being, it was who he was. "I would serve my Raya."
His response must have been appropriate, for he was rewarded with a long, deep kiss and hot hands released his wrists, allowing them to fall upon the sleek strong shoulders. He filled his raya's mouth with a sob, hands sliding over the warm flesh, shaping and re-learning the muscular contours. His shoulders ached, muscles stretched and sore, but he ignored his pains for pleasures that were offered.
Hands caught beneath his buttocks and lifted him, his world, so long still and empty, suddenly swaying and filled with the feel and taste and smell of his raya. He was laid upon soft furs, the heat of skin covering him from above. The kiss never ended.
He was drowning in sensation, drowning in his raya, and foreign as it was to him, he didn't want it to stop. His old raya had never overwhelmed him like this, never filled his senses and mind so completely.
The furs were cool and slick against him, his raya's hands rubbing him, petting him -- but not as if he were a pet, instead touching deeply, touching muscles and bones and leaving the knowledge of that hand within his veins. He arched into the touches, moved and twisted into them, searching for more.
"Do you see, little one? Do you understand what awaits you when you find your place in honor?" The words filled his head as he gasped for air. His raya slowly turned the ring in his cock, possessive fingers tracing the thin skin of his shaft.
He tried to nod, tried to answer, but only soft, keening sounds came from him.
Another kiss started as slick fingers pressed inside him, rocking with the same slow, steady pace of the tongue within his mouth, the beat of his raya's heart. He held tightly to Amut's shoulders, letting his raya push him higher and higher.
The pace altered, motions slowing as the thicker, hotter flesh of his raya pressed inside him, filling him until all Feyer could sense was sweet pressure upon his lips, upon his skin, within his body. He was laid bared and subsumed, consumed, taken by his raya and given such pleasure.
Steadily the pressure increased, the speed increased, heat building in his belly until he could not bear it. He whimpered, making soft noises, begging without words.
"Come for me, little one. Give yourself to me for you are mine." The words were growled low, their hungry vibrations sinking into his balls.
He cried out as he came, body shaking apart. The only thing that kept him together were his raya's hands, large and solid on his skin.
The final thrusts, the pulse within him were barely noted, wrapped as he was in the cocoon of pleasure and his raya's hands.
"My Raya..." The words whispered from him, true and solid and all that mattered.
"Yes, little Imani." His Raya settled beside him, pulling him close. "I am your raya, your master in all things."
Imani... treasured, favored, held above all. He could live with that.
© Sean Michael