Far from here is a place in the Rift where the walls are so wide one cannot see either side, and plateaus of sheer stone rise from the canyon floor like islands in the air. That is the realm of the Sky-Barons of Voumos. Each baron or baroness rules a plateau island from their castle in the clouds. Each defends their realm with magic against all the others, for all are sorcerers.

Ah, the names these sky mansions had, these floating keeps. Castle Caerulea and Stormhaven and Tempest Dome, Starbridge and Heart-of-the-Winds. Unbound by gravity, they were delicate as thistledown, light as soap bubbles, filled with the finest of luxuries. Each had its army. The Baron of Tempest Dome kept swarms of metal insects to repel invaders and keep them at bay, while the Baron of Starbridge controlled the winds and weather. The Baron of Skygarde, he who my story concerns, had an army of hardened airmen mounted on the bird-headed dragons we call stymphads. Like the other barons he spent his time plotting against his fellows, discarding alliances when they no longer served him and taking up more advantageous ones when they reflected his needs.

His name was Taven Westblade, and though he was in the prime of life magic kept him youthful and strong; and it was only natural that he kept a hareem. Some of the women came from slave traders; others were village girls he appropriated from his fief. Others were the female relations of the Sky-Barons he had conquered, and one luscious red-haired minx was former Baroness herself, though she had been magicked into thinking she was a slave. Rejuvenation spells made them ageless and beautiful, and they were kept nude, the better to display their charms.

But when wars called the Baron from the castle dissent ruled in the hareem, for the slaves were no longer united by regard for their master. They fractured into cliques, the weaker-willed forming alliances with the strong, both sides trading sexual favors to gain power other their keepers. Other forms of bribery netted them drugs and liquor, and sex toys of many kinds were smuggled into the keep to abet their appetites. They had affairs with each other and spiteful endings to those affairs, the gossip and ridicule adding layers of intrigue.

Such was the situation when the Baron returned from his warring. He had with him two captives from his latest conquest, the daughters of the Baron of Starbridge. A separate sky-barge contained the members of the defeated Baron's hareem, which he intended to add to his own. For now he was the most powerful of all the Barons and Baronesses, and as such was expected to show largesse towards all the others, and that included use of his harrem.

But shock gripped him when he saw the state of it. The slave girls were strutting about as if they were free, some wearing fine clothes, others lasciviously fondling each other. Some even spoke out loud to him, sarcasm in their eyes. Not a one obeised herself before him as was required.

What was he going to do? Outside in barge waited forty new recruits; what bad habits might his slaves teach them?

Of course, it would have been very easy to bind each insolent slave and toss her off the edge of the keep, where she might fall two miles or more to the bottom of the Rift; but trained slave girls were not easy to come by. Moreover, the Baron was a kind man. He had always done the best for them. He had used his magic to keep them young and firm and had given them the finest foods to eat, the most luxurious of surroundings. He also had the two former Baronesses to think of. Their training was paramount so that they serve him selflessly, to demonstrate to the other Barons how well he vanquished his enemies.

As he brooded over the balcony railing, regarding the distant, green-carpeted floor of the Rift below, he felt the warmth and faint odor of a nude female body come to stand beside him. "Master..." she whispered.

His glanced to his right: his favorite, Honeyvine. She was a luscious thing, curved and rounded, firm and sweet as an apple. Her dark curly hair swept past her waist and tickled the upper reaches of her buttocks like a nest of curious serpents. Her eyes were the pale green of peridot, tilted slightly in their orbits, and her skin was a flawless ivory dusted with gold. Locked around her neck was the gilded iron collar all his slaves wore, but the discipline of decades of bondage enabled her to wear it with exceptional grace and pride.

"You should be in hareem," he said roughly. Slaves were forbidden, on threat of heavy punishment, to pass through the gilded doors that led to the rest of the castle.

"Forgive me Master." She dropped her eyelids, resting thick black lashes on her cheeks. "You were unhappy. I could not let you suffer alone."

He grunted, deciding to let it pass. He caught her by the waist and drew her to him, letting his fingers stroke the moist, trembling folds of her sex. Yes, she was his definitely his favorite. The warmth of her breasts pressed against the tailored stiffness of his uniform, the firm globes begging for his attentions. He had bought her over sixty years ago from a slave market deep in the Rift, and with each yearly rejuvenation spell she had grown more and more into perfection as the template of her former self gradually disappeared...sensual, selfless, her only purpose in life to please him.

But she would not remain so forever. Rejuvenations forestalled aging and decay, but only to a point. When they exceeded a slave's natural lifespan the effects suddenly reversed, so the winsome slave girl kneeling before him would suddenly deteriorate before his eyes, turning to a skeleton and then a poof of dust.

"I missed you, Master," she whispered, pillowing her head against his chest.

He pulled back her head and kissed her; she was as hot and sweet as he remembered. But for how long? She was nearly eighty. The sisters she had started out with were all gone, some in swirls of dust, others traded or sold, others relegated to the keep's kitchens or housekeeping staff to age naturally. Was it this year she would disappear? Or the next?

He massaged her nipples, feeling them pucker and lengthen in his hands. He lowered his head to taste them, torturing the miniature tubes in the warm suction of his mouth. Honeyvine whimpered in pleasure. "Oh, Master..."

He raped her lips with another deep kiss, then suddenly lifted her under her buttocks so she sat precariously on the balcony railing. Her eyes went dizzy with fear as she began to fall, but he caught her wrists and held her in balance. She spread her legs wide in a futile effort to hook them about the railings, exposing the vertical pink orchid of her sex. "Do you trust me, slave?" he demanded.

"Yes," she whispered faintly. Deep within the orchid a pearl of moisture stirred.

"I could let you fall, you know."

She swallowed prettily, her panicked eyes still trained on his face. She would tumble for over ten minutes through the empty air before she hit the bottom. "I know, Master. If that is what would please you, then do it."

"You would die for me?"

"I would suffer anything for you Master, if it would make you happy. Honeyvine does not matter. Only you do."

He regarded her as she hung in stasis. Her red-flushed nipples, glistening with saliva and not a few tooth marks, puckered again as a cold wind hit her. At the point of her vee, a third red-flushed kernel stirred to life, pushing through the folds.

He buried his head between her legs, at once punishing and rewarding her devotion. She gave a little scream, but he still held her wrists, keeping them pressed to the stone of the railing. She began to tip backward and so was forced to wrap her slender legs around his back, the soles of her feet arching like dolphins. Her toes--each banded, in the manner of a bird's leg, with a metal ring to indicate her vital statistics--clenched tightly against the cloth of his uniform. "Oh, Master..." she moaned, "I would do anything for you..."

She tasted as delicious as she always had, and when her breathing quickened he quickly undid his trousers and thrust inside her, rocking her back and forth on the narrow railing, balanced between life and death. Her sweet screams had the timbre of an angel's, and when she shook he came with a cry too, shooting jet after jet of his seed inside her, so it flowed like a fountain from the pink lips of her sex and dripped to the tiles below.

A fountain...

He pulled her back from the railing so she stood on the solid stone floor of the keep once again. Dazed, she blinked, then knelt swiftly to lap up with her tongue what she had let spill from her sex.

"Honeyvine," he chided, "Look up at me."

She raised her head, the white froth glistening on her lips.

He was not the sort of man who wrestled long with decisions, but once made, they were made.

"Tomorrow, in a peformance such as this, you will demonstrate your regard for me before the hareem," he said. "Both the old slaves and the new will witness it, to see how I expect my charges to act."

"Oh, Master..." Overcome, she pressed her forehead against his shiny black boots. Her lips kissed the toe.

"Now go back to the hareem, for I need time to prepare."

Wordlessly, she kissed his boot again, then glided to her feet.

# # #

He spent the rest of the night in magical research. When dawn striped the sky he called again for Honeyvine and they retired to his bedchamber, to make love again beneath carmine silk and cloth-of-gold, after which he told her some, but not all, of what he had planned.

"You will be enspelled as you perform," he said. "But you will feel no pain. It will be very pleasurable."

"And the other slaves will all see me?" she said, her words a hoarse whisper low on his belly, warming his cock.

"They will see you," he said. "Afterwards, you will be High Mistress of the hareem, and they will worship you forever." He felt badly that he could not tell her more. But if he did that, it would mean giving her a choice, for he loved her too much not to. He would have even married her, if the laws of his society permitted it. But no Sky-Baron married anything less than a Sky-Baroness, for that was how their magical bloodlines were preserved and passed on to the next generation.

And if she had a choice about his plan, she might say no. And he would honor her, though she might turn to dust, as all the others, when it came time to renew her spell.

He could not live with that, to have her beyond him forever!

He stroked her soft hair. "You will be mine forever, as well," he murmured. "Ageless and beautiful, the way you were meant to be."

She made a musical noise in her throat and took his cock in her mouth, nudging him lightly with her teeth, and he put his apprehensions aside to concentrate on the present.

# # #

By evening of the following day the preparations were complete.

He dressed in his finest and went to the Chamber of Blue Silence, the only place in the hareem large enough to contain all his slaves. He peeked in through a curtain in the back. The floor was already well-packed with female flesh, the slaves sitting so tightly together only the width of wrist seemed to separate them. Flesh of ivory and bronze, cocoa and caramel, intermingled on soft cushions of ruby and amethyst; each girl was a different size and a different shape, yet all were lovely. As per his orders, they had all been washed, groomed, and oiled until they glistened and divested of the clothing they had recently adopted. If any complained, the guards had full rights to whip them. He was pleased to see the two former baronesses among them as nude and richly groomed as all the rest. A hareem guard led them on a chain as they trembled, barely able to keep their tears under control. He decided to rename them Perky Nipples and Saucy Buttocks. When they learned to obey, they would receive less humiliating names.

The last of the slaves squeezed in, the toe-rings of the newcomers clicking softly against the tiles, followed by the soft slap of their feet. Those already seated moved to accommodate them, displaying buttocks and breasts as they shifted position, their freshly shaven loins filling the air with a musky perfume. Candles were lit and sticks of incense ignited. It was time to make his entrance.

He pushed aside the curtain, striding down the gold-threaded carpet to where his dais awaited. The slaves stopped their chattering and grew silent. He mounted the steps to his chair, which had been placed to overlook them, and they did not need to be told to kneel, every one of them. Ninety-nine gleaming heads of hair dipped to the floor, and ninety-nine pairs of creamy buttocks rose.

He admired the sight. "Sit up," he commanded. "Your Master returns."As one, they perched on their knees, facing him. He didn't have dress the obvious in courtly speeches; they weren't men of stature or even servants, they were only slaves. Even little Perky Nipples and Saucy Buttocks knew that.

"Some new additions will be joining you," he said. "They are former members of the hareem of Starbridge. I expect you all to cooperate most amicably, with no fighting and no difficulties. There will be punishment for those who don't. The new slaves will note I am fair and not cruel, and that they will be treated the same as the other members of my hareem as long as they conform to my rules and expectations."

He gave the new arrivals a glance. They had been distributed throughout the room like raisins in a pudding but they were easily picked out from afar, as the old Baron's taste had been different from his own: he liked his girls dark and slim, piercing their nipples and navels with gold rings. With them had come a sprinkling of exotics: freckled Leopard Girls from the Panjarl Jungle, a haughty sylph with pale blue skin and silver hair. There was even one slave who had no hair at all, being covered with fine golden scales that had the sheen of cured snakeskin. If they grieved for their old Master they kept it hidden, being as they were still unsure of their new positions. But probably they did not. Slave girls were used to being property, it didn't matter much who owned them.

Except for Honeyvine.

A lump formed in his throat. Could he go through with this? Dare he? He caught her eye, seeking resolve. She knelt modestly far to his right, as if by being on the periphery she would not draw attention to herself. He wondered if the others of the hareem had ever taunted her or been cruel to her because she was his favorite.

"My men have told me," he continued, "that this hareem experienced a severe lack of discipline while I was away. Those responsible among the servants and staff have been dealt with or dismissed. But for those of you who are slaves, I am truly outraged at this level of insubordination. It will not happened again, whether I am here or not. I expect selfless service and loyalty from all of you. And love, most especially love, for I am your Master, am I not?"

He scanned the faces of his slaves. As he expected, some had taken him to heart, while others were scornful or bored. Well, that was all right. What they thought would not matter soon.

"Of all of you, only one slave retained true devotion to me. That slave is Honeyvine." He nodded to where she knelt. "Come up here, my dear."

She rose gracefully to her feet. Watched closely by the others, she came to stand beside his chair, modest yet proud. No emotion crossed her face besides the desire to obey, yet he saw the wild passion that lay beneath. And pleasure, too, that he had acknowledged her like this. So she was not quite as above the power games of the hareem as he had thought.

"Honeyvine has served me the longest and the most faithfully. For sixty years she gave of herself--quietly, modestly, without censure, without coyness. Never has she thwarted or refused me. Never has she argued my discipline or questioned my...love." His voice broke. He went on ahead to hide it. "To all of you, she will be an example, a shining paragon, of what I expect of you."

His gaze shifted to his right, to the chamber's center. It had once held a recessed pit covered with thick eiderdown pillows in which orgies were conducted, but now it held a large marble basin with a wide rim. It gleamed like a snowfield against the multicolored carpets and cushions, pristine, inviolable, though it was empty as yet

He nodded to his slave again, knowing there would be no turning back. "Show them," he whispered.

She nodded hesitantly, but glided confidently to the edge of the white marble basin and knelt on the rim. She spread her thighs wide, displaying her sex, and lifted her head proudly. Her breasts thrust themselves out as her spine straightened, nipples salmon-pink buds.

"Show them," he said. He made a slight gesture with his hands, triggering the spell. "Show them your passion, show them what you feel for me."

She had been holding her hands flat on her thighs and they now uncurled, to obediently stroke and caress her creamy flesh. She performed her autoeroticism without censure, without shame; a subtle pride crept into the gestures that told them all she was aware of her station, and gloried in it. This is me, she might have been saying. This is who I am. Her fingertips circled her nipples, brushed her sex, the gentleness of the touches building tension in a way no orchestrated hareem orgy ever could.

After a few minutes it became obvious to all she was growing excited. Her breath came quicker, her hands rougher and more urgent. Now they squeezed her ample breasts, teasing her nipples in hard pinches. When they strayed to her sex, it was to press firmly and penetrate. From the valley to the hills her fingers went, pausing to stroke her face, her rear, the back of her neck. Her head rolled sensuously from side to side, her eyes closed, and her mouth opened in little moans.

The Baron smiled sadly. Though the scene before him was designed to arouse he knew where it would lead, and it killed his desire like a bitter poison. Caught in the web of magic, Honeyvine would continue to pleasure herself until the magic played itself out completely.

The second part of the spell kicked in. Honeyvine's legs remained spread and motionless, but she above the waist she began a slow, subtle gyrate as a flock of invisible hands joined her pleasure. The Baron could almost hear the spirits whisper as they caressed her, mouthed her, molded her breasts. Her hips rose and fell as the phantom lovers penetrated her, unseen tongues licking her sex, and her buttocks clenched and unclenched as even her anus was pleasurably plumbed. She threw her head back so her hair rippled down her back, her neck arching, as her own hands moved to guide and abet the unseen masturbaters, kneading her heavy breasts in a rhythmic squeezing.

She was alive in a way she had never been before--trembling, gliding, undulating, a slow dance of passion that held the audience hypnotized. She even seemed to float from her position, weightless, as lifted by the invisible cocks that penetrated her. The silence in the room was total except for her cries: "Ahh...oh oh oh...mmmm...."

The members of the hareem all leaned forward, eyes fixed on the writhing slave. Not a sound came from them now. Instead of evincing rebellion and insolence they sat transfixed. Several were aroused enough by the scene to begin masturbating themselves, though their eyes remained trained on the basin.

The Baron caught his guards' eyes as they started forward, telling them to leave the aroused slaves alone. It was all part of his plan. The sharp, musky odor of female arousal began to perfume the room; it was a good thing most of the guards were eunuchs.

Honeyvine's unseen lovers finally teased her to a climax. Half moaning, half sobbing, her cries grew louder, her gyrations stronger. Her thighs strained as she opened them even wider. She held each breast in her hand as if offering them to unseen mouths, the nipples stretching and darkening as they were sucked. Her clit pointed like a finger, prominent enough to be visible to even those in the rear of the room; the entrance of her sex gaped like a mouth, twin to the O of pleasure that now transfixed her face. Her ribcage heaved, each pant drawing forth a cry as she pumped up and down: "Ohh...oh oh oh Ohhhh...."

The Baron remained oddly remote from it all. Why had he done this? Had he truly loved her, he would have given her a choice. But there was no stopping it now. Once begun, the magic must see its way to the end, else it would backfire on the caster.

"Oh...oh..oh..." The rhythm, grew shorter, choppier. The slave girls leaned closer, now even forgetting to stroke themselves, their eyes wide and shining, their lips parted in fascination and wonder.

"Oh-oh-oh-o-o-o-" and Honeyvine's gyrations suddenly ceased and she trembled all over in a rapid vibrato like a plucked string of a musical instrument. She opened her mouth, eyes slitted in pure pleasure, and let forth an indescribable musical sound equal parts human, animal and angel. Magic shimmered in the air, an even more powerful than the magic than the spell which caused her to orgasm.

The cry ended. She knelt there for a split second, frozen in stasis; then, in the blink of an eyelid, bronze freckles peppered her skin, swiftly increasing in size to form spots, circles, then islands as their sides touched, swirling over her flesh like a paper curling into flame. No sooner had the echoes of her cry faded when she was completely encased in bronze, an expression of ecstasy forever frozen on her lovely face.

She'd been preserved at the height of her desirability, exactly as he had told her. All details had been rendered completely--the areola of her nipples, the dimpled globes of her buttocks, the petal-like creases of her sex...even her clit had been permanently plated, a shiny metal nugget that winked the candlelight like a gem.

The slave girls gasped. Shock washed over their faces and not a little repulsion. They hadn't dreamed their sister's performance would lead to this. But it was not yet over.

A hissing noise came from deep within the statue. Suddenly, without warning, two jets of clear sparkling water shot out of the newly bronzed nipples, falling with a loud splash in the dry basin of the pool. Another flow, through few could see it, seeped quietly out from between the statue's legs to gush gently down the sides of the basin.

For a second, the slave girls sat stunned.

Then, because the magic had caught them up as well, they rushed forward. The guards did not stop them. They thrust each other aside in the mad rush to the basin and flung themselves into the rapidly filling pool, cupping their hands in the water to drink of it. Some immersed themselves completely, others just splashed. Not a few crouched in the spray as if showering, and one or two lapped the flow directly from between the statue's thighs. The water entranced them, delighted them; they had never seen water so clear and refreshing, that tasted so sweet and good.

And with that water, each experienced a change. What remained of Honeyvine was passing out of her, carried in the water, to pass into them as well, to reform them and remake them, so that all should carry the poise and selflessness of their departed sister and worship the Master the same way she did. Even the former Baronesses eagerly drank of the liquid. In a day or two none of their contemporaries would recognize them; they only be two more anonymous additions to the hareem ranks.

Sated at last, the first arrivals climbed out of the fountain so the other slaves could take their places. They knelt to the side, spent and exhausted, yet already more beautiful than they had been. They gazed up at the statue of Honeyvine in worship and wonder.

Is it as I has told you? the Baron asked his transformed lover.

Oh yes, Honeyvine said, her thoughts full of static from her orgasm, which, as long as the water flowed, would never end for her. They are all mine. I've remade them for you. They are me and I am them.

Do you forgive me, Honeyvine?

For what, Master? She sounded puzzled. I do not understand.

A pang of sorrow stabbed him. He would never hold her again, feel her soft flesh against his own. She would enjoy the fruits of his love forever, while he was left alone and hurting.

# # #

Later that night, after the hareem had recovered from the ordeal and lay sleeping, he came back to the softly tinkling fountain. The light of the three moons striped the floor, playing off the gentle ripples of the water. What remained of Honeyvine was a dark silhouette before the stars. She would crouch there forever, an inert fountain of bronze, legs wide, breasts offered in joy and passion...all his, forever. But at what cost?

You are sad, Master, she said, and it was the dream of a speech, barely a whisper. The magic of the statue spell was fading; soon she would lose the ability to communicate altogether.

I've lost you, he said, feeling absurd at admitting his feelings to a slave, and even more so to a fountain that had been a slave. Even though you were to die anyway.

I know, she said sadly, though her shiny bronze face was contorted in orgasm. Yet I live, and experience pleasure. Bring your new slaves here, to drink of me, so some of me shall pass into them too.

No new slave can take your place, he said bitterly. He realized his the slaves did not matter anymore to him anymore, they were only the fruits of conquest. And the old ones were unwanted baggage. I only want you.

You have not lost me Master. Whenever you wish, drink of the pool, and refresh yourself in its waters, and you will know me. And her voice faded out as the last of the magic faded, leaving her sealed in bronze forever, soon to develop a lovely green patina as all fountains did.

He watched the water splash against the sides of the basin, his grief threatening to come back anew. The water was silvery-white in the moonlight, like milk or semen. He gazed on the twin vortexes for a while, then followed the streams to their source at the statue's breasts, heavy bronze cones forever held upright in the grasp of slim metal hands. The statue's open thighs beckoned him, revealing the shadowed dark slot hidden within.

He shrugged off his robe and entered the pool.

The water was cool, but not uncomfortably so. He stood in the middle of the basin, where the water came up to his hips. He splashed about, feeling foolish, the spray running off his shoulders and down his chest and belly. The twin jets formed eddies that swirled around his body. They lapped at his balls, exploring him with lascivious fingers, and he began to grow aroused.

He began to stroke himself. He'd never felt such a deep desire even during his most exciting sessions with Honeyvine, when exotic drugs had increased their pleasure. Not even when three or four or even ten of the slaves pleasured him in the eiderdown pillows, or pleasured each other for him. He felt the water enter inside him, and his cock pushed hard against the taut skin of his belly.

He stroked the metal flesh of his transformed lover, relishing its coolness, its smoothness. He stood between her thighs and guided his cock inside the channel between her legs; the current rushing out of her made for a delicious resistance, massaging his cock like skilled fingers. He thrust into her again and again as the spray from breasts slicked him with ecstasy. He opened his mouth to receive one jet, then the other, as the pounding he gave her approaching the speed and urgency of thunder.

He came at last, his semen a white stripe to join with the water in the pool, to mingle and slowly disperse with her essence. She was with him. They were together.

And he felt an echo in his mind as they communed the only way they could: Thank you, Master.

Copyright © 2005   Email Cobalt Jade