The Collared Slave of Corcyrus
The great hall of Corcyrus flickered with the light of a hundred torches. The scent of burning oils and spiced wines filled the air as nobles lounged on silken cushions, their voices murmuring over the soft melodies of flute players. At the center of it all, kneeling upon the polished marble floor, was Lyra: collared, bound by destiny, and utterly exquisite in her submission.
She had been taken as a prize, a trophy of war, after the armies of Corcyrus had conquered her home city. Once the daughter of a noble merchant, she now knelt before her Master, her golden collar gleaming in the dim candlelight. The inscription upon it marked her as the property of Lord Marcellus, a warrior of renowned cruelty and power.
Her body was draped in the thin folds of cream-colored silk, a garment meant not to conceal but to accentuate. A belt of finely wrought metal encircled her waist, its purpose both ornamental and symbolic—she was owned, and there was no escape. Her wrists bore delicate golden bracelets, gifts from her Master, and yet, they felt as much shackles as adornments.
“Lyra,” Lord Marcellus’s voice cut through the murmurs of the hall. She lifted her gaze, her golden eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment before she lowered them again, knowing well the ways of a proper slave.
“Yes, Master,” she murmured, her voice soft yet laced with an unspoken yearning.
He leaned forward, resting his forearm upon the armrest of his high seat. “Do you know why I summoned you?”
“No, Master.”
A low chuckle escaped his lips as he studied her. “Tonight, you shall dance.”
A rush of warmth spread through her chest. Lyra had been trained for this, of course. In the private chambers of the Slaver’s Hall, she had learned the art of movement, of seduction, of surrender made into dance. And yet, before so many eyes—before him—she felt a different kind of thrill.
With a single nod from Marcellus, the musicians struck up a new melody, slow and hypnotic. Lyra rose to her feet, letting the silk shift against her skin as she began to move. Her hips swayed, her arms lifted in graceful arcs, her body telling a story older than the walls of Corcyrus itself. A story of desire, of submission, of acceptance.
The room fell silent, save for the music and the crackling flames. The men watched, transfixed, while the women cast jealous glances her way. But Lyra danced for none of them. She danced only for him.
And when she finally sank to her knees once more, breathless and radiant, she knew she had pleased him.
Marcellus smiled—a rare thing. “Well done, my little slave.”
Lyra lowered her head, a small, secret smile gracing her lips. For though she was bound in chains of gold, she had never felt more free.
The story and the image are inspired by the tales of Gor by John Norman. I hope you like it!