Chapter Text
His servants barely look at you, wrapped in your heavy coat and bright red scarf, skin chapped from the icy winds on the mountain. They open doors for you and ignore you when you thank them, one of them takes your scarf and gloves. They’re caked with snow, but they ignore your apologies as well, you catch the way they eye your dress, and you find yourself wishing you’d worn something less warm, but more fashionable.
The castle itself is warm in temperature, while cold in color palette. The stone is dark grey blue, in stark contrast to the bright light of the crackling torches, shackled to the wall. You rub your hands together, willing feeling to return to them as you’re led deeper into the building. You feel the sword at your hip, aware that it looks off, wrong, and far too large for you to carry. It bounces as you move, and the servants offer to take it, but you politely refuse. You stand in an antechamber, with high vaulting ceilings and a huge window that snow whips against. You pace nervously there for a few minutes. On a clearer day, you imagine you might be able to see the whole valley, down to your tiny village, and the towns beyond, represented currently by little smudges of light.
“He’ll see you.” One of them says, bowing his head and opening the heavy dark wood door on the right side of the room, you stride quickly across it, heart thrumming in your chest, aware of the stakes of this simple conversation. The room is an office, with walls of bookshelves, and a globe in the corner. There are huge tapestries of the night sky, constellations and directions carefully mapped out in glistening gold thread against the indigo cloth. The room is long and thin, with a desk at the far end, and a huge arched window behind it. The light from outside is bright and white, and it makes it hard to focus on the man’s facial features. He sits behind the desk, studying some paperwork, dressed entirely in black and dark blue, a pair of glasses low on his nose. He doesn’t give you any greeting, doesn’t agknowledge you as you walk across the stone floor, your footsteps echoing. You stop a few feet from his desk. He clears his throat, lifting his attention from his paperwork.
“Have a seat.” He says, gesturing to the two dark wood leather-backed chairs that are positioned in front of his desk.
“Thank you.” You manage, your voice sounding odd and soft in the large space, as if it’s swallowing it.
“You are here to buy something from me, correct?” He says, setting his pen down on the desk, folding his gloved hands in front of you. You nod. “You’re here for the hypericum perforatum.” He seems nearly cheerful, giving you a smile that sends shivers up your spine. You nod again. “I need to know, first of all, how you found out I have it.” He watches you choose your words carefully, allowing a moment of silence before you speak.
“In order to make the risk of the mountain roads worth it in this season you have to be transporting things of a certain importance or I suppose, ah, value,” your hands move in front of you as you speak, as if you’re carving the snow out of the way of his wagons with your palms, “And there are really only three regularly supplied marketplaces in the region, with shipments that, despite weather conditions are rarely delayed. Those shipments contain basic supplies, to a man like you I’m sure they’re hardly worth making the effort for generally during winter, unless you have other things coming and going throughout the region that you’d like to disguise under the pretense of supplying the local marketplaces so that people don’t starve.” You shrug. “There are three major political players in the region who could be making or using such channels, but out of all of them you’re the most likely.” He raises his eyebrows and adjusts his glasses
“So you hiked up a mountain, in the middle of a blizzard to meet with someone who almost certainly wouldn’t want to see you,” he squints at your outfit, “Wearing that , based on those deductions alone?”
“Ah, no sir.” You touch the back of your neck self-consciously, your eyes flick to the window behind his desk. “I was able to plot the coming and going of your caravans and estimate that yours were likely the ones being used to smuggle goods, given that rarely did the size of the caravan match a delivery. If ever. So I knew it was you who could get it for me.” He leans forward, studying you, still amused, his chin in his palm.
“And what would you like to give me, in return for my healing herbs?” He asks, a little smile on his lips, “Since you’re here, at my mercy after all that hard work.” You squirm uncomfortably.
“People in my village are dying.”
“Yes.” He says, waving that fact away. “I know.”
“It’s a terrible fever,” you say quickly, “You go to bed feeling fine then wake up in the morning far from your body.” He wrinkles his nose.
“I dislike metaphors for death.” He says, and you’re struck by just how little emotion his features telegraph. “I dislike metaphors generally.” You nod, noting the preference. “And I don’t care much for the day-to-day goings on of the local villages, it’s not my problem if people die of some mysterious illness.” He watches you nod. “What have you brought me?” You take the sword from your waist and set it on the desk, the jewels on the hilt sparkle in the low light.
“It was my grandfather's.” You offer. He takes it, standing, holding it up to the light, running his fingers down the sheath. He hums softly.
“This is quite valuable,” he eyes you, setting it back on the desk, and you’re struck by how large he is when he stands up straight, how broad his shoulders are. “But unfortunately for you, I don’t want it.” He watches you wilt, delights in it, the way your shoulders curve a little inward, and your lips twitch in an attempt to hide your disappointment. “However,” he sits back down, “I am willing to give you what you want, in return for something.” You perk back, how easy, he thinks, how easy it is to move your body, like you’re on marionette strings, using only his words, his favor.
“Anything you want,” you blurt, “Anything at all.” A small smile plays on his lips.
“I will re-introduce this remedy to the trading route,” He says, writing something down quickly on a sheet of paper in front of him, “You cannot have my personal store of it because I need it in case there’s an outbreak in my home, I’m sure you understand.” You swallow, nodding. “And in return,” He pulls a sheet of paper from his desk and slides it over to you. “I want you.” You blink at him, not entirely sure you’d heard.
“Me?”
“Yes.” He takes his glasses off, cleans them, and then looks you up and down again. “I do, I want you. All of you.”
“F-for how long?” You get out, hands doing a nervous little dance in your lap. He shrugs.
“Call it a year.” He taps the paper in front of you. “Can you read?”
“Yes.” You say quickly, skimming the contract. “This is for the sale of goods, though, and I-”
“Here,” he taps the last line, a touch of impatience in his tone, “It makes an allowance for exchange of services. This would be open-ended, of course, as I would like your complete obedience and loyalty for one calendar year. To start.” You look nervous, as he expected, but a smart girl like you had to know that a year's worth of your labor was certainly worth the lives of thoughts you held so dearly. Perhaps , he considers, a valuable lesson for you about showing your cards too early in a negotiation. He could teach you to be better, though. He watches you decide, eyes on the way you flatten your hands in your lap, on the slope of your cheek, surprising himself with how much he cares what your response will be.
“Where do I sign?” You say after a long moment, and he makes some quick calculations, giving you one last out.
“If I own you it means I can do whatever I want with you, or your body.” The unspoken burns under the surface of your conversation. “You do understand that failure to obey or meet my demands will be followed by swift and appropriate punishment?” You nod, swallowing.
“Yes.” You whisper. He slides the paper across the desk and hands you the quill.
“No need for dramatics. Sign your full name here.” He notes that you do finish reading it before signing the contract, good girl , your hand trembling slightly. He takes it from you then, filing it in a drawer that you hear lock shut with a soft click. “Well,” he stands, smiling at you. “Let’s see what I’ve purchased, hm?” He scribbles something on parchment. “This is the order for the herb. I’ll have it sent out with my other missives before sundown.” He looks back up at you over his glasses. “Strip, please.” You look up at him sharply, surprise on your face. “Let’s try that again,” he says, faux kindness in his voice. “I gave you an order, and you say, yes sir .”
“Yes sir.” You blurt before he even has a chance to speak again and then you feel your face warm. He chuckles, it’s a deep, warm sound.
“Eager to please, are we?” He strides around the desk. “That’ll serve you well. Strip.”
“Yes sir.” You say, and this time you stand, unlacing the side of your robes with trembling hands, laying the fabric on the chair, standing for a moment in your plain white slip dress before pulling it over your head carefully.
“You may leave your stockings on,” his eyes flick to your thighs, where the high wool socks make the plush of your thigh squish around the top, “You’re of no use to me if you catch cold.”
“Yes sir.” You avoid eye contact as you pull your bra over your head, and then step out of your panties, covering yourself with your hands.
“That won’t do.” He murmurs, and he goes over to the bookshelf, leaving you nearly naked standing next to his desk. He takes something long and black down from a shelf and comes back to stand in front of you. He uses the thin, whippy riding crop to push your hands away from your breasts, “Don’t cover yourself.” He says, tone sharp. “I want to see what’s mine.” You nod, and he steps forward, delicately removing his black gloves and rings, and setting them on his desk. “These,” he murmurs, almost to himself, taking your breasts in his hands and massaging them, flicking his thumbs over your nipples as his cool fingers sink into your warm skin. “These are exceptional.” He pinches your nipples and you whimper, he smirks at the sharp expression of emotion. He notices your hands twitch at your sides, glancing down with momentary annoyance. “Behind your back.” He instructs, and you do, reaching for your opposite elbow, folding them behind you. “ Good girl,” he says, radiating smugness. He takes you by the shoulders and spins you around, pushing you down over the chair so that your ass is in the air and your feet on the ground while your face pushes against the cushion.
“Oh,” you gasp, rocking onto the balls of your feet and then coming back down, stilling when you feel his palms on your ass, and hear him set the crop on his desk.
“This is nice too,” he murmurs, and it’s odd, to feel appraised in this way. “Let’s see what you can handle.” His hands withdraw and you cover your face, hiding in the chair. Normally, he supposes, he’d make you look at him, thank him, but there would be time for that . He picks the crop off the table, and you have time to hear it whistle through the air before it cracks against your ass. You inhale sharply, but he notices you don’t cry out, and don’t attempt to hide or protect yourself. He rubs the skin for a moment, humming something unintelligible. He draws it back and hits you again, and again, he counts in your head and it takes fifteen lashes before you let out a soft whimper. He stops, you hear him set it on the desk and you don’t dare move, feel him palm your bruised, warm skin.
“C’mere,” he grunts, suddenly the tone of his speech has gone from lilting and posh to something rougher, something more impatient, as he lifts you back up into a standing position and drags you to the window behind his desk, pressing your naked body up against the freezing glass and listening to you hiss with pain at the contact. “Shhh,” he breathes, fumbling with his pants, letting them fall to the floor. Logically, you know no one can see you - you know no one is outside for miles, that the weather is awful, and you’re far, far from civilization. Emotionally, you want to hide your face, there’s a burst of warmth on your cheeks when he pushes your legs apart and pushes one, then two fingers inside you. You whimper loudly and he chuckles. “There she is.” He murmurs, and you feel his breath on your skin, his lips on your neck, on your shoulder. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Good.” You feel him scissor his fingers inside you and you gasp again, back arching as your breath fogs up the glass. “Going to be sweet,” he murmurs, and you feel his cock pressing up against your entrance, “Be a good girl for me, hm?” You open your mouth to respond in the affirmative but suck in a sharp breath instead, shivering as he pushes his length inside you. He moves more slowly and kindly than his demeanor would suggest, hands stilling your hips as he fills you. With a languid moan, he pushes your hips down onto him, and you feel the mushroom head of his cock nudge that bundle of nerves inside you. He deliberately angles you so that you’re fully pressed against the window when he bottoms out inside you, pulling a soft moan from your lips. His hips press against your ass as he stills inside you, the welts from his crop throb gently. “How does it feel?” He asks, his voice breathy, but you can hear it, hear that edge of cockiness. He knows how big he is, that he knows the way you’re struggling to focus on anything that isn’t his hands on your body, his cock buried inside you. He wants to hear the way you struggle to respond.
“I,” you hitch, leaning forward and pressing your face against the freezing glass. “It’s so much,” you whisper, your every breath depositing vapor on the glass next to you, little clouds making your ecstasy physical.
“I know,” he coos, “I know, you’ll get used to it.” He draws back a little and then refills you with a quick movement, “So warm,” he murmurs, setting a gentle pace, allowing your body time to adjust to him. He takes your forearms in one hand and uses it to fuck you just a little harder, letting out a soft hiss. “Anyone could see you right now,” he tightens his grip on your arms, “How does that feel, that anyone could watch me use you?” You mewl softly. “Oh,” he coos, and you feel him get closer to you, feel his breath on your ear, “She doesn’t like that, does she?” You shake your head, trembling, unable to focus on anything that isn’t him, that isn’t his cock nudging your cervix, that isn’t the slap of his hips against your bruised ass.
Your breath fogs up the glass, and then the condensation freezes, forming a delicate crystal structure that blurs in front of you as your eyes burn with tears.
“Oh, she’s crying,” he coos, fucking you harder, “Such a pretty girl, go on, cry for me,” he kisses your cheek, releasing your arms and taking a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back away from the window. “Should I be kind,” he says, “Should I let you cum?” You whine, a soft sad sound. “I like that,” he growls, voice taking on a darker undercurrent, “I don’t wanna hear you speak.” He slams his hips up against yours, burying himself to the hilt inside you with every thrust, “You wanna cum in front of the whole fucking valley,” he spits the words out, “Look down, look out there,” the snow swirls, as the day darkens you can make out the little sparkles of light in the blue twilight, the homes and farms, and small cities preparing for the night. “Go on,” he goads, “Go on, cum on my cock, I can feel you,” he’s interrupted midsentence by his own groan, a short, angry growl, “I can feel how close you are, cum for me .”
“Fuck,” you choke out, and your legs nearly give out from underneath you as you clench down on him, hands flying from around your back to brace yourself against the window as your knees give way and the white-hot pleasure rips through you.
“That’s it,” he coaches, his own thrusting becoming sporadic as he seeks his own high. “Just, just like that.” He groans loudly, and buries his face in your neck as he finishes deep inside you, essentially holding you upright as he cums deep inside you. He carries you back to his desk and then deposits you gently on the floor next to his chair. You shiver in the cool of the air. “Stay there for now,” he says quietly, adjusting his trousers and going back to work. “I want you to stay still and be sweet for me, can you manage that?” You nod on the ground, his cum dribbling out of your pussy onto the stone floor. He works for another few hours while you shiver, eventually, he sighs, standing and taking a throw blanket off of a nearby couch and tucking it around your body. “I suppose,” he murmurs, massaging your scalp softly for a moment before sitting back down, “It will be nice to have some company.”