Chapter 836 - 835- Suck it... new Slave

Chapter 836: Chapter 835- Suck it... new Slave

Viktor looked at her. At the body, thin and beaten. At the eyes, fierce and unbroken. At the spirit, still fighting despite the cage and the chains and the damage.

A merchant appeared. The man, short and fat, with a greasy smile and dirty clothes, waddled toward the cage. His hands, rubbing together, were the hands of a man who smelled a sale.

"That one?" the merchant said. His voice, oily and eager, was the voice of a man who had been trying to sell this particular slave for weeks. "She is trouble. Got her jaw broken. She is a fighter. Bit one of my guards. Cost me a good man."

He leaned closer. His voice dropped. "I can give you a good price. She is not worth much, but I can teach her good enough. Break her in. Make her obedient."

Viktor looked at the merchant. Then at the dark elf. Then at the merchant again.

"It does not matter," he said. "I will teach her myself."

He pulled out a coin purse. The weight, heavy and audible, made the merchant’s eyes widen. The amount, far more than the slave was worth, was a statement.

The merchant, his smile widening, bowed. "Of course, my lord. Of course. I will have her brought out immediately."

He turned. Called to his guards. Two men, thick and armed, approached the cage. They unlocked the door. Reached in.

The dark elf fought.

She lunged. Her teeth, bared and sharp, aimed for the first guard’s hand. He pulled back. She missed. The second guard grabbed her arm. She twisted. Her body, despite the malnourishment and the damage, was still fast. Still dangerous.

She clawed. Her nails, broken and dirty, raked the guard’s forearm. Blood, red and bright, welled. He yelped. She kicked. Her foot, connecting with his knee, made him stumble.

"Fuck!" the guard shouted. "She is fighting again!"

The first guard recovered. He grabbed her from behind. His arms, thick and strong, wrapped around her torso. She screamed. The sound, raw and animal, was the scream of a trapped creature.

The merchant, watching the commotion, raised his hand. Slapped her. The blow, hard and open-palmed, hit her face. Her head snapped to the side. The scream stopped.

Viktor’s hand moved. Fast. His palm, open and flat, connected with the merchant’s face. The slap, harder than the one the merchant had delivered, sent the fat man staggering. His feet, stumbling, found the wall. He hit it. His head, bouncing off the stone, left a red mark.

"Why did you slap my merchandise?" Viktor said. His voice was calm. Cold. The voice of a man who owned something and did not appreciate others damaging it.

The merchant, his cheek red and his eyes wide, trembled. The look in Viktor’s eyes, the violet glow behind the mask, was not the look of a customer. It was the look of a predator.

"I apologize, my lord," the merchant stammered. His hands, raised and shaking, were the hands of a man who had just realized he had made a terrible mistake. "I did not know she was yours. I thought she was just..."

"She is mine," Viktor said. "Do not touch her again."

The merchant nodded. Rapidly. The nod of a man who would agree to anything to survive.

Viktor turned to the guards. The two men, still holding the dark elf, looked at him. The dark elf, her face red from the slap, glared. Her green eyes, bright and furious, were the eyes of a woman who had been fighting her entire life and did not know how to stop.

"Bring her," Viktor said.

The guards released her. She stumbled. Her legs, weak, barely supported her. She caught herself on the cage bars. Her hands, gripping the rusted iron, were white.

Viktor took the slave contract from the merchant. The parchment, yellowed and stained, bore the terms of ownership. He signed it. The magic, binding the contract, sealed the deal.

The dark elf was his.

He walked. She followed. Not by choice. The collar, still around her neck, ensured compliance. The magic, flowing through the metal, was a leash that could not be broken.

She tried to attack. The moment they were away from the guards, she lunged. Her hands, clawed, aimed for his face.

The collar activated. Lightning, blue and sharp, arced from the metal. The electricity, coursing through her body, made her scream. The sound, raw and broken, echoed through the cavern. She fell. Her body, convulsing, hit the ground.

She cursed him. The words, in her native tongue, were sharp and vicious. The language of the dark elves, designed for cursing, was perfect for the occasion.

She lost consciousness. The lightning, combined with her weakened state, was too much. Her body, limp and still, lay on the packed earth.

Viktor picked her up. His arms, under her knees and behind her back, lifted her with ease. Her body, thin and light, weighed nothing. He carried her out of the market. Up the stairs. Into the light.

The carriage waited outside the butcher’s shop. The driver, a man who had learned not to ask questions, held the door open.

Viktor placed the dark elf inside. She was conscious now. Her eyes, green and wary, watched him. Her body, huddled in the corner, was tense.

He entered. Sat across from her. The door closed. The carriage moved.

The dark elf trembled. Her hands, in her lap, were fists. Her eyes, darting between Viktor and the door, calculated the odds of escape.

"What do you want?" she said. Her voice, hoarse and raw, was the voice of a woman who expected the worst.

Viktor looked at her. At the face, thin and defiant. At the body, malnourished and marked. At the eyes, green and fierce.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he unzipped his trousers. His cock, semi-hard, emerged. The head, dark and swollen, hung between his legs.

"Suck it," he said.

She stared. The word, crude and direct, was a command. Her face, already hard, went harder.

"What?" she said.

He said nothing. Just looked at her. His violet eyes, behind the mask, were patient. The patience of a man who had given an order and expected it to be followed.

She looked at his cock. At the head, dark and thick. At the shaft, veined and growing. The sight, the reality of what was being asked, sank in.

She bit her lip. The gesture, unconscious, was the only sign of the internal struggle. Her body, trembling, was still. Her mind, racing, calculated.

’If I bite it. If I bite it off. He will punish me. The collar. The lightning. I cannot...’

She crawled. The motion, slow and reluctant, was the motion of a woman who had decided that survival was more important than pride. She moved across the carriage floor. Her hands, finding his knees, steadied herself.

She licked. Her tongue, pink and wet, touched the head. The taste, salty and musky, filled her mouth. She licked again. Longer. From the base to the tip. The shaft, responding to the contact, hardened further.

She sucked. Her lips, closing around the head, created a seal. Her tongue, swirling, explored the surface. The motion, inexperienced and rough, was the motion of a woman who had not done this before.

Or who had done it under duress and never learned to do it well.