Chapter 4

"Come here, child, sit down, sit down." Bethsany patted the couch, trying to be welcoming to the nervous young girl who stood at the doorway. "Young" was perhaps a bit of an inaccuracy to Bethsany's eyes, since she had some girls working for her who were younger.

She walked forward, her eyes scanning the room intensely. Bethsany saw the careful, analytical training that Darynn had imbued Aimee' with, but she also saw the youthful nervousness that came naturally to girls at Aimee's age. Bethsany tried her best to hire girls who were already enjoying sex when they came to her; women who did their work out of desperation were simply not good workers.

Aimee' reached out with her hand, touching the rough texture of the couch, her eyes exploring. Bethsany watched her for a moment. "It's a brothel, dear. My customers expect a certain degree of garishness." She smiled. "Sit down, sit down."

Aimee' finally took her seat and Bethsany took a longer, more careful look at her. She was what she expected from Teltirray's tastes; tall, slim, relatively small breasts. Dark hair and bright, blue eyes were something of a necessity with him. Bethsany was somewhat relieved to see that even after three months the usual signs of abuse that Teltirray heaped upon his "charges" weren't as graphic on Aimee' as usual; either she was showing remarkable resilience to his advances or he really was holding back, probably hoping that between Darynn's magic and her training they would turn Aimee' into the perfect sex toy for Teltirray's vapid tastes.

"Now, then," Bethsany began after Aimee' had settled down into her seat. "My object is to train you to be as good as any of the girls I have here. That's not easy, you know." She laughed. "My girls are the very best in the city. But we will do our best. Now, I understand that it's been Darynn's way to tell you stories about himself, how he got his understanding and so on. I plan on doing the same. So listen closely, dearie, because I don't like repeating myself."

I was born the daughter of a nomad whore. I don't mind saying that because it's completely true. My mother was a good whore, too, and a woman devoted to her husband and her daughter. We travelled around the southern continent on a tented wagon. There were four wagons in our train and a total of seventeen people. We didn't even have a name for ourselves, really; we were just "the people." There were nine cities we visited on our course, the same course, year after year. My father was a merchant trader and was very good at picking out what one city had that the next one down the line would need, even after a year's absence. My mother, with her deep red skin, slanted eyes and straight, black hair, was exotic in many of the cities and men would flock to her like flies on butter. Much the same they did with me many years ago.

We were a friendly bunch most of the time but we tended to take it very carefully on the road. A good plan considering how many brigands there were out there interested in lightening our loads. The greatest travel we ever took was from Ticonary to Emti, a rough road through a mountain pass that usually took twenty days or thereabouts. We weren't to know it, but in my thirteenth year the Maple Campaign to the North had driven a small tribe of barbaric Centaurs into the mountain range for refuge. These were no gentle Centaurs of the upper valleys. No, these were the Gespil Centaurs, small, strong, but magicless Centaur warriors who still sometimes plague the lands of the Maple region.

They fell upon us in our sleep. Crossbows aimed with silent accuracy felled our menfolk before they could even shout a word. It was a most silent brigandry. More than half of our men were dead before an alarm was raised. My mother fought them off, seizing father's sword and slashing at them. It was to no avail; there were too many of them, too many warriors, and as she hacked at two who leapt and taunted her, one stepped up behind her and ran her through with his pike. I shall never forget the look on her face as she died with her ribs pushed out by the spike erupting from her chest. She was sad, sad for me. She wanted to see me, twisted on the spike horribly to look at me as she fell. When her body slumped to the ground the one who had killed her pulled the pike free, then turned and gave me a smile. I hated him and his evil grin, I wanted to wipe it off his face and make him pay for my mother's death and I would wallow in his pain when I did.

"Take her!" he shouted, pointing at me. "Alive!"

They did that. Although I fought them, there was really no point to struggling with two male centaurs. "Find a bench in one of these wagons. I'm going to have me some fun."

I begged and pleaded. Not that it did me much good. When they found out I was a virgin, there was a roar of approval, as if it was all one big joke. Two found a wooden bench, torn from the seat of one of the wagons, and laid my mother's bedding over it. It took four Centaurs to hold me, one for each arm and each leg, as they tore my clothes from me and laid me down on their platform.

Gespil Centaurs are not much larger than humans, Aimee'; they are usually a little under six feet tall, made more of ponies than full-size horses. Their penises-- I'm a professional, dear, I have to use the technical term-- are not much larger than a man's. This one, their leader apparently, had a large penis even for his species. "Hold her down, dammit!" he shouted. "I can't fuck her if she's flailing her feet about all over the place!"

The two holding my legs managed to get my knees pressed to my chest, holding my feet far apart I felt they would split me in two. The leader reared up on his hind legs, straddling my body. He grinned down at me, his teeth showing in a snarl that befitted some demon more than he. "You will like this," he said.

"May Agas and all his demons pass you about for their buggery!" I shouted at him. Sorry, I don't mean to offend you, Aimee'. I'm just trying to relate the story as it happened.

"I'm sure he will," he responded. "But not today." He lowered his enormous prick. I felt it touch my thighs and screamed. He merely smiled. They must have some muscles to control it because with no hands he found my opening and battered at it, the head of his prick demanding entrance. He pointed at one of his followers. "Grease us."

The other one smiled. I felt a hand on my pudenda, touching me. I squirmed harder, but they held me fast, and as the hand pressed over my mound it left a streak of some thick, greasy substance. Then the leader was back, his prick still hard as ever. I felt the slick grease helping him, guiding him into me. I felt my opening giving way.

The pain, Aimee', oh, the pain. I shall never forget how awful that tearing agony was. It blocked out thought as this Centaur blocked the sun from my eyes. I screamed and flailed about. In my struggle I tore my muscles. Tears streamed my eyes. The huge stallion prick in my cunt bucked and shoved and jammed as it stretched and tortured me. He raped me wholly without remorse or shame.

I could do nothing. His prick within me was a weapon, one I would someday remove from him in the most painful manner I could possibly imagine. He repeatedly jabbed it into me, the snarl on his face-- so many feet away from my clawing hands!-- showing me his contempt. I tried to return it, but my tears and pain were too much.

My body responded, Aimee'! I understand now what happened, but at that time I felt the greatest betrayal as my cunt throbbed from his abusive prick. I felt a pleasure in my being even as I cried, a pleasure that exploded in climax even as he dropped his scum within my helpless body. "See?" he smiled as he slid off me. "She likes it. Take her. I need a new maidservant. We'll train her good."

The others laughed and nodded. I learned my Master's name was "Styur."

I was thrown over the back of a horse, one of our horses that they had captured alive in the raid. My crying was ignored, as was the blood of my deflowering streaming down my legs. We rode on horseback for many miles.

We arrived at their camp, a collection of caves and huts housing maybe fifty Centaurs total. I was there removed from the pack animal that carried me and led to his house. "Uma!" Styur shouted. "I have a gift for you. She's difficult, but you can break her."

The door opened and a Centaur woman looked out. Her face was ugly, the result of a burn I was to learn some time later. Nor was her smile kind. "She's pretty," she said. "Yes, I'll do wonderful things with this one. A worthy gift, Styur." She turned to a box and pulled out a collar, such as one would fit a dog, and wrapped it around my neck. It had once been white, but there were the brown stains of dried blood covering much of it. "You see," she said to me, her foul breath washing over me, "The last toy we had misbehaved. We've not cleaned her things off since then. That will be your task."

The lock on the collar was small and brass, but I could never break it. Styur smiled as he regarded me. "You will need to wash, Mosh." I was to find out that "mosh" is a word in their language meaning "toy." It was my new name.

I was consequently washed and then taken back to Uma and Styur's hut. I was shown my sleeping cloths on the floor, then given a basket and told to collect the cloths scattered throughout the house and wash them.

I did as I was told. I had no choice. There was nowhere to run, nobody to feed me. I was alone, the only slave alive in the Centaur camp, the plaything of their warrior-leader. I was assured that they had others at time, but the war and their movements had caused them to lose most of their slaves. I asked if those slaves had died on the trip. "No," Styur replied, smiling. "They were eaten."

The days and nights passed as winter came closer and closer. I was taught to make the fire, to raise the heat, to cook for them. And every third night or so Styur would tie me down to his bench and have his way with me. He was creative in his foul way, tying me face down and then placing bricks under one side of the bench to lift my buttocks into the air, making his entry easier.

I hated him. And every time he raped me, I climaxed. I drew my pleasure from hating him, from the knowledge that I could have this pleasure, that it was mine, it belonged to me, I made it despite him. He could never take it away from me without taking away his prick, his own pleasure at his human girl. I would fight the biting ropes and scream and hate him. He would sometimes gag me. My fingers would strain, my wrists pulling against the cords, trying for some way to get free, as his prick fucked my cunt, rubbed my clit and made me come. I would scream with anger and with pleasure.

He would get off me and touch my face. "See?" he would say. "You're starting to like me more and more."

I would curse him. Once, I spat at him, and he slapped my face so hard a bruise welted up there that lasted for a week.