The trees thin out and suddenly we’re standing at the edge of a river.
The water moves slowly past, dark and smooth except where it catches on rocks. Tisha’s carrying a stack of towels under one arm, and both elves are scanning the treeline like they expect something to jump out at us.
“It sucks we can’t just go to a bathhouse,” Tisha mutters, still looking around.
Meira’s voice is quiet, measured. “Bringing a man to a bathhouse is inviting trouble.”
“Yeah.” Tisha’s shoulders slump slightly.
The river keeps moving, indifferent to all of this. I focus on the sound of it, the gentle rush of water over stone, because it’s easier than thinking about what comes next.
Meira turns to face me. “Slave…” She stops herself, and something crosses her face. “Sorry. Vincent. Strip and get in the water.”
The words land like a command from someone used to being obeyed.
I stand there for a moment, feeling the weight of their attention on me. These two women make me feel less than human, and I’ve only been with them maybe two hours total. The collar sits heavy around my throat, a constant reminder that I’m not a person anymore. I’m property. An investment they’re still deciding whether to flip or rent out.
My eyes drift to the treeline. The woods are thick enough that if I ran, I might get some distance before they caught up. They’re both in better shape than me, though. I’ve been sitting in a cart for two weeks, and before that I was drowning in depression and takeout for a year. I probably wouldn’t make it far.
Meira moves.
She crosses the distance between us in three long strides, and suddenly she’s right there, towering over me with those pale silver eyes fixed on mine.
“Don’t even think about it.” Her voice is quiet, but there’s steel underneath. “I can see it in your eyes, little human. Run and I will discipline you.”
The words send a chill down my spine. Not the threat itself, but the casual certainty in how she delivers it.
“I wouldn’t even know where to run to,” I say, and it comes out more tired than defensive.
She holds my gaze for another moment, then steps back slightly. Waiting.
I strip. The mud-caked clothes peel off with difficulty, and I feel more annoyed than ashamed. Annoyed that I don’t have a hot shower waiting for me. Annoyed that there’s none of my normal soap.
God, I miss the 21st century.
Meira steps forward before I can move toward the water. Her hands come up and press against my chest, fingers splayed wide.
Her lips start moving, forming words in a language I’ve never heard before. The syllables are flowing and musical.
Heat blooms where her palms touch my skin. Not painful, just warm and spreading, radiating outward through my whole body in waves. It tingles and I feel something shifting all over my skin.
She pulls her hands away. “There. I purified your body of any mites and ailments.”
I blink. “You cured my lice?”
“Their corpses are still in your hair.” She gestures toward the river. “Wash up properly. I’ll have Tisha shave you, too.”
My hand goes to my beard automatically, fingers catching in the matted, filthy tangle. “Oh wow. I haven’t been without a beard in a long time.”
“Beards are unbecoming of studs.”
I stare at her, and I know the annoyance shows on my face.
Meira catches it immediately, “You think I’m not used to a slave hating me?”
“I’m not your first slave?”
She goes very still. For a moment I think I’ve crossed some line, but then her expression shifts to something almost contemplative.
“They were my family’s,” she says quietly. “And there were no studs. Just servants.”
I let out a breath. “Look, Meira. I’m just adjusting to the whole ‘I’m no longer a person with any freedom’ thing, alright? I just became a slave like two weeks ago. Before that I at least had some level of control over my life.”
Meira scoffs. The sound is sharp and dismissive, cutting through whatever understanding I thought we were reaching.
“Men shouldn’t worry about things like control.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “Especially a human male like yourself.”
Her hand comes up before I can respond. She pets my head, her fingers running through my filthy, lice-corpse-filled hair with surprising gentleness.
“Be a good boy for us and we’ll treat you really well, okay?”
The words hit me like a physical thing.
‘Good boy. Be a good boy for me, Vincent.’
Amalina’s voice echoes in my head, layered over Meira’s. The way she’d say it when I finally stopped resisting, when I let her take what she wanted. The way it would make my brain go completely blank, make everything else disappear except her approval.
My cock hardens immediately, traitorously, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Meira’s eyes drop to it.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air.
I tear my gaze away from Meira to find Tisha completely naked, standing a few feet away with the towels laid out on a dry patch of ground behind her.
Jesus Christ, she’s hot.
The auburn braid falls over one shoulder, and her skin catches the light filtering through the trees.
“How the hell did you get him hard so easily?” Tisha’s voice carries genuine surprise as she walks closer, her eyes locked on my erection. “Aren’t human studs supposed to be difficult? I’ve heard stories about how picky they are, how you have to really work for it.”
Meira looks down at me, and I watch confusion flicker across her face. Her silver eyes study me like I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve.
“I don’t know.” Her voice is slow, uncertain. “Alls I did was pat his head?”
Tisha reaches us, still staring at my cock with open interest. “If I clean him up really good, can I get the first go with him?” She looks at Meira, and excitement lights up her whole face. “Unless you want to use him for the first time together?”
The way she says ‘use’ makes my stomach twist.
Meira’s expression shifts to something cooler, more distant. “He’s just a slave, Tisha.” Her voice takes on a lecturing quality. “Mother always told me sleeping with male slaves is the same as masturbation.”
Tisha’s enthusiasm dims slightly. “You told me I was your first...”
Color blooms across Meira’s obsidian cheeks, a darker flush that spreads down her neck. “I never slept with the slaves, honey.” Her voice goes softer, almost defensive. “I’m just saying how we viewed them. How I was raised to think about it.”
Tisha absorbs this, her head tilting slightly. “Well, as you already know where I’m from we didn’t have slaves at all.” She pauses, her gaze shifting between Meira and me. “But if this is how you think I should treat him, then that’s fine with me.”
“Get in the water, Vincent,” Meira says, her composure sliding back into place.
I wade into the river. The water is cold enough to make me suck in a breath, and it rises to my waist as I move deeper. The current tugs gently at my legs.
I’m about to dunk my head under when Tisha wades in after me, water splashing around her legs.
“Hold on,” she says. “Let me you shave you first, Vincent.”
Before I can ask what she means, her right hand erupts into fire.
The flames appear, wrapping around her fingers and palm like she’s wearing a glove made of fire.
“Woah, what the fuck?”
Her other arm wraps around me, pulling me close and holding me steady. The heat from her flaming hand radiates against my face as she brings it closer.
“Don’t move too much,” she says, her voice dropping to something focused and careful. “I don’t want to burn you.”
The flames touch my beard and I feel some of the heat, but no pain. Just warmth spreading across my jaw as the hair sizzles away. The smell is awful, like burning protein, and I force myself to stay completely still while she works.
She moves methodically, her flaming fingers tracing along my jawline, under my chin, across my cheeks. Everywhere she touches, the matted, filthy beard disappears. The lice probably burn away with it.
It takes maybe a minute, and then she pulls her hand back. The flames extinguish like she flipped a switch.
I reach up to touch my face and it’s completely smooth, like I just had the closest shave of my life.
“That’s convenient as hell,” I manage.
Tisha grins. “Right? Way better than a razor.”
She holds up her other hand and suddenly she’s holding scissors. Except they’re not real scissors, they’re made of purple light, semi-transparent and glowing faintly.
“What kind of cut?” Tisha calls over her shoulder to Meira.
Meira has settled herself on a flat rock near the towels, sitting with perfect posture like she’s watching a performance. “Not too short.” She pauses, and I catch the hint of amusement in her voice. “And give him a part to the side if you can. I’m pretty sure that’s what the expensive whores are wearing nowadays.”
My jaw tightens.
But Tisha doesn’t seem to register my annoyance. She’s already working, her fingers threading through my hair as the scissors snip away. She’s careful with each cut, taking her time, adjusting the angle before each clip. She’s clearly done this before.
The sound is rhythmic. Her fingers comb through sections, measuring length with practiced ease. The strands fall away, drifting on the water’s surface before the current catches them.
“Gods,” Tisha mutters, wrinkling her nose. “I’ve never seen so many dead lice in my entire life.”
“Sorry.”
“Eh, I’m sure it’s not your fault.”
“True.”
Eventually the snipping stops. Tisha steps back slightly, her head tilting as she examines her work from different angles. The light-construct scissors disappear from her hand like they were never there.
“Alright.” She sounds satisfied. “Let’s get you washed up now.”