Barbarossa's Bitch

When the settlement delegation entered the encampment, Kane was being fucked. Lord Barbarossa hammered away at his ass, growling obscenities. Kane himself had as much to do with the sex as the motorcycle supporting him. He gave them a quick smile and watched as his glasses slid off his nose to land in the dirt. He couldn't catch them with Barbarossa pinning his wrists together against the back of his waist. The glasses didn't break, which was lucky; he wouldn't have to get the eye-man to make him a new set next month. The elders looked at them in disgust, which turned to horrified mutters as they passed.

Once they couldn't see his face, he set his teeth. Barbarossa hadn't taken off the spiked codpiece and Kane was bleeding from the thighs and the soft skin on the back of his balls. But he couldn't make any noise. This was a dominance display. He would play his part perfectly. He heard the whispers as they saw the scar across the top of his ass, the one that read "Barbarossa's bitch" in spiky, hand-carved letters.

He felt Lord Barbarossa's fingers tighten on his hips at the sight of an old woman among the visitors. Lord Barbarossa slammed him three times and shouted a triumphant orgasm. The rest of the wildpack roared in revelry.

White got the Elders seated and brought beer to all the men. Kane nodded his approval. After Lord Barbarossa withdrew, Kane took a breath and composed his face. Then he grabbed his glasses, turned and waited. His own cock lay trapped in wicked-looking cage, all black iron and spikes. He was never allowed to climax in public.

Lord Barbarossa closed up his spiked codpiece and wiped away sweat from under his leather mask. He yanked the leash on Kane's collar and they joined the visitors at the fire. White settled a joint of beef to finish roasting over the flames and bowed out, leaving the chief of the wildpack to talk. Kane knelt at his feet, ignoring the droplets of blood sinking into the sand under him.

"We come, Lord Barbarossa, to ask—"

Kane cut off the woman with a slash of his hand. He snarled at the oldest of the men, "Make the gash shut its suckhole."

The woman's mouth dropped open at his rudeness. The men stared. Kane looked at them with a sneer. "Lord Barbarossa is offended that you have brought a gash into the camp. That you let it make noise revolts him. We have razed villages larger than yours for less."

Barbarossa clouted him on the back of the head, and Kane's ears rang. The woman rose and left without another word.

Barbarossa addressed himself to the eldest of the men. Kane watched the rest. They stared at the leader of the wildpack, taking in his spiked codpiece and the sculpted leather mask of black and gold spirals that he never removed. They shifted uneasily when he spoke. Kane suppressed his usual shiver. His master's voice always raised goosebumps with its sexy baritone.

"You come to us for protection. What does your settlement offer?"

"We are a small settlement, without much in the way of resources," one began.

Kane spat at his feet. "Lord Barbarossa asked for figures, not excuses. You are twenty miles beyond our current borders. If we take you in, we require at least two gallons of fuel per vehicle each month, as well as other trade goods."

Three of the men wailed as if pained. The leader moaned, "You will bankrupt us, with your great fleet." Barbarossa yawned, a dangerous sign.

Kane looked at the six motorcycles, four trucks and one semi rig that made up the Pack's fleet. "You waste my lord's time. Tell us what you want and whether you will meet our price."

"We need seeds. Seeds and glass and metal. We have no fuel, only milk and goats and cheese. We need young people. Ours are gone."

"The cost of the fuel will be added to our side of the trade." Kane was allowed to make that concession. Few of the settlements had fuel. Only the one by the old refinery really kept them supplied. A few of the others traded alcohol in place of gasoline and grease fuel for diesel.

"Where did your young people go?" Barbarossa asked.

"The women, they were taken. The young men have hired out to other settlements, or ride with wildpacks, my lord."

"They are on the border of Ar, Master," Kane reminded him. "Slave raids will be common there. The Normanites have made a lifestyle of it." He turned to the council. "So where are they dumping the pregnant gash? You should be getting that back."

The old man shook his head. "We have heard rumors they have a doctor who makes sure the girls can have no children, ever. He is killing us."

Kane did some calculations and named a steep monthly price. The council flinched again. "We will protect and fight for you. We will bring you metal and glass and young people willing to learn. Take it or leave it. We will not raid you, and we protect what is ours."

The council hemmed and hawed, clearly unhappy to be making the decision without the old woman. "We will take it," the old man finally said.

Lord Barbarossa stood up and called for more beer.