DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original FR characters. They belong to their respective owners/authors. I do own the OCs, however.

CHAPTER WARNING: quite a bit of BDSM, bloodplay and lemon.

Next updates will be erratic, as I've resumed writing for my original fiction project(s), but the plot will speed up a bit, with fewer lemons and more ass-kicking.

Flame me all you want, I'm fireproof.

Enjoy!

The princess came back the following week and then the week after that and again.
Some weeks she even visited twice and when for any reason she missed a week, on her following visit their coupling would be even more frantic and needy.
For the first time in his life, having sex was not just a job, a duty, but an exquisite pleasure.
She liked it rough and he totally didn't mind it, even when he was on the receiving end of it, he was even a bit annoyed that the marks she left on him seemed to fade away too quickly.
It was wonderful and it seemed that she couldn't get enough of him as much as he couldn't get enough of her.
He adored the way she seemed to enjoy pushing the limits of appropriateness with him, ordering him to pleasure her in definitely transgressive ways , loved the curve of her back and the full firmness of her buttocks when she had him take her from behind, the way she could always make him lose control and confess how much he liked her, how much she affected him and he worshipped her for always letting him reach him peak within her.
He didn't recall ever being so happy before: he fought almost every day and had the best sex he had ever imagined to have.
Life couldn't get much better, could it?

Obviously enough, there was somebody who was not entirely happy with the situation, even if he was benefiting from it.
Jhaelas' mood was often sour even in the best of times and Uthegental didn't pay him excessive heed when he muttered under his breath upon seeing the marks his princess (if she ever knew he claimed ownership of her, even in his thoughts, she would probably be outraged) had left on him or when he saw her head to his bedchamber and leave only hours later or even, a couple of times, only the morning after.
Jhaelas was too old and sour to remember what it feels like to be desired, he mused.

After a couple of months of happiness, one morning, after waking up still tangled with her (they had exhausted themselves enough the previous night that she couldn't go back to her palace – the very idea made his heart swell with pride), Jhaelas came upon him during his training.
"I need to speak with you, boy." was all he said and Uthegental obediently put down his weapons and followed him to his provisional office.
Jhaelas sat at his desk and Uthegental simply leaned against the wall, crossing his arms on his chest.
"What's up boss? It looks like you've swallowed a whole pickled ginger root." he asked, smiling. Jhaelas didn't usually mind good-natured teasing.
"It's about your regular." the half-drow replied with a grimace.
"What about it?" Uthegental retorted.
"I don't like the way things are evolving between her and you." the half-drow said, frowning.
"But you like her money, don't you?" Uthegental teased, grinning.
"Yes, yes, of course, you stupid boy. I'm glad about the money. – Jhaelas said, waving a hand in the air, irritated – I just don't like what this is doing to you. It's giving you ideas, I know."
"Me, ideas? I wouldn't be able to recognize an idea if it bit me on the ass, boss." the warrior said, good-naturedly.
"Do not play the fool with me, boy. You know what I mean. Don't let yourself be fooled: she is just using you, nothing more." the ringmaster scowled.
"I know, but as long as she keeps using me, I do not really mind, boss. I do not mind at all." he replied, with another wide grin.
Jhaelas shook his head. "You're hopeless, boy. Can you only think about sex, for the Dark Mother's sake? - he ranted - Go away, get on with your training. At least your crazy romps with that noble brat haven't spoiled your performance in the arena…" he sighed then.
Uthegental laughed and turned to the exit. "A satisfied jaluk fights better, it is known." he said from over his shoulder.
The ringmaster scowled again and slammed the door after him.

For all his bluster in the confrontation with his master, Uthegental knew, deep in his heart, that he was doing exactly what Jhaelas had warned him to avoid.
Rationally, he knew that his relation with his princess was based exclusively on mutual profit and carnal lust, yet he couldn't help but wanting it to be something more.
He was no longer emotionally detached and this was an error that could prove fatal, but it was so hard to pretend that the look of desire in her eyes didn't affect him in any other way than physically, that her praise, however fake it might be, didn't make him proud, that the nights when she snuggled close to him in her reverie and he almost didn't want to succumb to the reverie too to better savour the sensation didn't mean anything to him.
She understood him better than anyone else, better even than his own master, who had raised him since when he was a child, and she seemed to appreciate him even with all his defects or rather, which was even more astonishing, she didn't see them as faults.
She talked to him, wanted to know him, what use was that to her?
Why did she do that if she didn't care?
What was a jaluk supposed to do when everything he desired in a relationship was dangled in front of him?
He knew it was bloody unprofessional on his part, but much of his happiness depended on his princess' continued patronage and, deep inside, he dreaded the moment when Jhaelas' troop would march out of the City of Spiders again.
He was not melodramatic as to say he would never be content again, away from her, but he knew he would regret leaving her.

Weeks passed by and the princess kept returning and he knew it was wrong, that he was leaving himself open and vulnerable, but he was happy.
If only he could stop time in this moment, he would.
But time didn't stop and it crawled steadily towards the moment when the festival would end and he would have to leave, instead.
Contrary to his earlier ideas about freedom and submission, he had entertained the idea of buying himself out of the company and offering his services to her only, but what if she was growing bored of him, what if the novelty of the experience was already fading and she didn't want him anymore? What if she had no use for him except in bed?
No, the best course of action was to follow through with the expected pattern of behaviour. She was just a customer, however long might their work relationship have been. Surely he, the terror of the arena, the mighty warrior, was not so weak as to be overwhelmed by the loss.
Sometimes he knew he was.

For the last few months, Mez'Barris had been a very satisfied jalil.
Exactly as she had foreseen, her dealings with the gladiator had not gone unnoticed by her family and had been rewarded with despise. In any other circumstances, this would have sent her into the bleakest despair, but that was exactly what she had been aiming for.

Unnoticed by her elder sister, mother and scheming cousins, she had tightened her alliance with house H'Tithet and the network of commercial enterprises they commanded and the joint venture had begun to give its fruits in the shape of revenues. So far, her only involvement had been economic, but Matron Tal'queyllen was pressuring her to take a more active role in the enterprise, by providing armed support for the expeditions, which they could ill afford with their meagre troops.
Mez'Barris was confident that she could arrange something, without risking too many of the warriors who had given her allegiance and she already had an idea on how to do that.
She was almost sure that a stable contract with a merchant network would more than assuage Jahelas' ill temper when she stole his prized fighter from him.

Mez'Barris was increasingly convinced that if she asked, the warrior would readily consent to be hers. Even if he tried to pretend that everything was alright, she had noticed his anguish at the fact that the Jubilee festival would end in a week and that their next meeting would likely be the last.
The fact should have irritated her, as a symptom of weakness, but it didn't, if only for the fact that it played so well in her hands.
The warrior was a fruit ripe for the taking, as the saying went.
More than ripe, she mused: she might even be able to have him beg to be hers and convince him to buy himself out of the company.
She knew he could, she had made him talk, after their encounters, while they recovered, and he had eagerly told her everything she wanted to know, glad that she took an interest in him.

Yes, better to play difficult and to have him work for the prize she could and would have given him without effort.
It would be for the best to save her money, if she could, and she would love to hear him beg and she had not managed to make him, so far.
Mez'Barris rummaged in her closet searching for another extremely daring outfit, a joke present of one of her cousins, who insisted that she didn't have enough sexy clothes.
She stripped and donned the outfit, which didn't cover much but was not unsightly on her, and grinned at her reflection in the mirror.
"Yes, - she thought, wrapping a cape around herself to prevent accidents en route to the arena – this is going to be really fun."

A week. A week to go before they had to leave.
The troop was already packing, even if the closing ceremony was still a week away.
This would be the last week he would be able to see his princess. If he was lucky, they would have a couple of nights more together, most probably just one.
His heart felt leaden, numb, and even the prospect of the great melee fight on the closing day was not enough to cheer him up.
He sat by the window, honing his dagger as he used to do when he was nervous as the repetitive motion soothed him.

The door of his room opened briskly.
Just by the sound of it, he knew it was his princess and, despite himself, he felt like his mood was lightening already.
She had always been beautiful to him, even when she came to him in normal, unassuming, street clothes, but that night he couldn't peel his eyes off her and the mere sight of her had him hard as a rock already.

She was wearing a short lizardskin waistcoat with a neckline that barely covered the essential and tight enough that her breasts looked like an offering ready for the taking, a very short lizardskin skirt that left her toned tights bare and high-heeled knee-length boots.
"Mistress…" he saluted hoarsely and she grinned, sashaying towards him. The way her hips swayed was completely hypnotic.

"I gather you like my outfit, Crazy Dragon…" she provoked, grinning and striking a pose.
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, mistress." he whispered and it was true and it broke his heart to know that this might be the last time he saw her, the last time he made love to her.
She smiled sweetly and closed the distance between them, pressing herself against the length of him and kissing him deeply and passionately. His hands instinctively flew to the fastenings of her waistcoat but she swatted them away.
"Tonight we do something different…" she whispered in his ear and detached herself from him, bending at the waist to extract a dagger from her boot.
"Oh Goddess." he thought, imagining how wonderful it would be to rip her underwear off and fuck her from behind like that, boots and all, the mere thought making him throb in his trousers.

She straightened again and stalked towards him, dagger in hand, her eyes dark with lust, and licked her lips sensually, leaving him completely paralyzed by desire.
"Tonight you submit to me." she whispered again and her dagger made short work of his shirt, whispering against his skin, pressing but not quite cutting. He kept as still as possible, even as his skin tingled and erupted in goosebumps, but he could not contain the moan that escaped his lips.
He wanted to tell her that he had already submitted, that she owned everything that he was, but couldn't find the words, couldn't find the breath to talk as the dagger moved to the waistband of his trousers and sheared them off slowly, baring him to her sight.
And oh, the way she looked at him possessively and lustfully… It was almost too much.
Uthegetal closed his eyes and tightened his hands into fists at his sides to keep calm and let her do whatever she wanted with him.

She kissed him again, hard and demanding, almost bruising, then bit at his shoulder.
"To the bed." she commanded roughly and he obeyed, backing towards it on slightly unsteady legs.
She shoved him on the mattress and climbed on top of him, taking hold of his hands and pinning them over his head, near the headboard, whispering something under her breath.
She released his hands and sat back, straddling his hips and he realized two things: first that she was not wearing anything under that skimpy skirt of hers (he could feel her already wet womanhood against him and it was maddening) and second that his wrists and ankles had been tied to the bed.
She must have uttered a spell, he figured, and couldn't help but struggle against the bonds.

His mistress smiled and retrieved her dagger.
"I know you do not like being tied up, lover, but I will make you enjoy this, I promise." she declared, tracing his jawline with the tip of the dagger, again without breaking skin but leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.
Slowly, the dagger slid over his neck, following the line of his pulse.
It was frightening, but also extremely arousing, to know that she had complete control over him, that she could hurt him, but was choosing not to. And the look in her eyes… It set his soul on fire, so full of passion and yet controlled.
The cold metal trailed over his collarbone and then down his chest, following lazy patterns on his skin, the pressure of her hand strong enough for him to feel it, to anticipate the possibility of pain, but not enough to draw blood and he felt himself almost wanting it, the pain, the blood, just to end the nerve-wracking, skin-tingling anticipation.

Almost as if she had been reading his thought, the blade nicked him.
He let out a small cry, more of surprise than of pain, looked up at her and the ravenous look in her eyes left him breathless.
She bent down over him and her mouth closed on the wound, her wet, pink tongue tracing it slowly, as if she was savouring him, the small pain fast fading, replaced by the same overwhelming pleasure he had experienced that first night.
They had come full circle, at the end, he thought wistfully.

She didn't stop at that, but her dagger continued moving south, over his abdomen, tracing the contours of his body and peppering his skin in stinging cuts that her mouth eagerly soothed, until he couldn't tell anymore where the pain ended and the pleasure began, only that it was wonderful and that he didn't want it to end. Eager sounds were escaping from his lips and he was struggling against his restraints, not because he didn't like what she was doing to him, but because he wanted more.
He didn't care if she bled him to death, only that she didn't stop.
The blade glided lower and lower, tantalizingly close to his groin and he froze, not even breathing, his whole body tense in anticipation and, he had to admit it, a bit of fear.
Her steady hands slid the dagger along his inner tight, then on his pelvis, almost at the base of his manhood and then the cold steel slipped between his legs, tracing his balls and making him tighten up even more.
"Oh, Goddess…" he whispered breathlessly and she took the steel away from his skin, throwing it to the ground. He shivered with loss of sensation and relief, the tension easing minutely.

"I'm not done with you yet." the princess whispered roughly and dipped her head down.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, her tongue licked along his cock.
He cried out, in pleasure and shock, she laughed and her hot, wet mouth closed around the tip of his manhood.
The pleasure was beyond description, as her mouth moved up and down, taking him in more and more every time, her lips encircling him, her tongue lapping eagerly.
It was supposed to be something so demeaning that no self-respecting jalil would do it to anyone, but there she was, his princess, going down on him hard and fast and it was so wonderful…
Her hands cupped his balls, while her mouth worked up and down, up and down, sucking and licking, taking just the tip of him, tormenting him, and then suddenly taking him all the way to the hilt.
He screamed, and arched off the bed in bliss, every second taking him closer to the edge he couldn't let himself reach.
Not like this. It simply wasn't done.
It would be too much, too disrespectful, even for someone as transgressive as her.
Surely, he thought, trying to pull himself from the edge, she would realize his plight and stop, maybe finish him off by hand, or, even better, take him and fuck the living daylights out of him, but she didn't seem to notice how close he was and kept on going.
It took every ounce of his force of will to resist the pull of pleasure. He wanted so badly to spill himself into her, but he knew he couldn't and yet the sensation was burning through his veins, making him shiver and tremble, weak and powerless, underneath her.
It was unbearable, almost a torture.

He was teetering on the edge, resisting was getting impossible. "Please, mistress, stop. You have to stop! – he pleaded, desperately – Please, please!"
He couldn't care less that he sounded weak and pathetic, as long as she stopped and he didn't disgrace himself.
His princess heeded him and lifted her head from him. She looked up at him, one of her hands encircling his abused member.
"Why do you want me to stop, don't you like this?" she asked, licking her soft lips greedily.
"I love everything you do to me, mistress, – he replied, panting – but this is too much."
"Is it?" she asked, tilting her head to one side and licking the tip of him gently.
Even if her touch was feather-light, his eyes rolled back, leaving him blind and breathless for an instant.
"Please, mistress, no more." he pleaded again, shaking his head.
"Why?" she breathed, smiling softly.
He shook his head again, unwilling to confess, but she took his silence as an excuse to kiss his manhood again.
"Oh, please, stop! I'm too close! -he exclaimed, throwing the remainder of his dignity away – I can't resist anymore, mistress, please…"
His eyes were clenched shut, but he still detected a hint of a smile in her voice. "I know you're close, I can feel it, I can taste it… – she said huskily and her words were enough to make him tremble – Don't you want release?" she asked and her hand squeezed him gently.

Uthegental tossed his head on the pillow. It felt like his senses were in overdrive. That jalil would drive him totally mad with her words her caresses, her kisses and now this question.
It must be a trick, to see how obedient and submissive he was. "No mistress, I don't, I promise. – he said – P-please, mistress…" he stuttered.
"Liar." was all she said, before going down on him again.
"Oh Goddess! – he screamed – Please, stop! I want it, I want it so badly, but I can't. I know I can't. Please, mistress, have mercy…" he begged, almost incoherently, hands tightening against his bonds as if to brace himself.
"Why can't you? Who said it?" she asked quietly, releasing him.
By that time, Uthegental had already understood that not responding or lying would only worsen his predicament and answered truthfully. "It is not done, mistress, everybody says so." he gasped.
"But I'm not everybody and I say you can. I am your mistress, am I not?" she replied with a serene smile.
His heart almost missed a beat: she was giving him leave to let go, really? A wave of gratitude and awe swept over him, leaving him weak and dizzy.
"Yes, I am yours, only yours…" he whispered hoarsely, looking down at her with wide, desperate eyes.
"Good." she commented with a triumphant grin and took him in her mouth again.

He had thought she would hasten up to get done with it, but he was wrong again.
She took her time, moving slowly and tenderly, keeping him on the edge, and pleasure began to build up inside him unbearably again. Her hands had a death grip on his hips, preventing him from thrusting up and increasing the pace.
"Please, more. Goddess help me, I need more. – he begged, past pride, past anything that was not that torturous pleasure – Please, fuck me, harder."
Surprisingly, she obliged, taking him deeper, harder, faster and he screamed incoherently at her every motion and then release swept over him, so hard that his heart missed a beat, that his whole body seized up, that he had no breath to scream and he even thought that he might die like this, but he didn't care at all and starbursts exploded under his eyelids and then everything went black for an instant.

When he came to his senses again, she was kneeling beside him, cutting him free from the bedframe.
His release had been so strong that he was still trembling and his breath came in harsh gasps, almost sobs, the breaking of tension leaving him unable to move and almost bereft.
She lifted his head on her lap and caressed his face softly, whispering soothing words and brushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead.
"I love to hear you beg, - she confessed, brushing her fingertips against his temple and making him shiver again – I love to know that you belong to me."
Those words and her smile undid him completely, breaking the last wall of reserve he had left.
He belonged to her in truth, there was no denying it, not now that she had him beg for her shamelessly, that she had demonstrated her control over him so thoroughly.

There was a universal truth in the drow civilization: every male belonged to someone else, his mother, his mistress, some female or other, or in the most unfortunate cases, as his was, to another male, who, in turn, belonged to some female.
There was no eluding this: the only thing one might be able to choose was the form of his servitude and, with luck, one might be even content with his lot.
Now he knew what a true mistress was supposed to be and he didn't want to lose his only chance at a life worth living.
He couldn't bear thinking that he would lose her, that he would lose the safety of her control over him, the comfort of her praise and the warmth of her bed.

Her turned on her lap and circled her waist with his arms, curling around her on the bed.
"Let me be yours for real, mistress. – he pleaded feverishly – Let me belong to you, serve you. I want to be your slave, whatever you want me to be. Please, I do not want to have to walk away from you."
His princess was silent for long moments and his heart sank as he thought that she might refuse him, but her hands kept on petting him gently and finally she spoke. "I do not need a slave, - she began, and his insides froze for a moment in fear – I need a warrior. I need you to be the warrior at my side when I rise to power." she whispered heatedly.
He lifted his head from her lap and looked up at her. The look of possessiveness and joy in her eyes was so beautiful.
"I can be the warrior you need me to be, mistress. Let me prove myself." he said, looking straight into her eyes.
"I know you can and I will ask you to prove yourself, but not now." she purred, leaning down to kiss him. Her lips tasted different and he realized the cause soon enough, but it didn't matter as she pushed him down on the bed again and lay beside him, grabbing one of his hands and guiding it under her skirt.
"Now I need something else from you..." she hissed, as his fingertips brushed her soaking wet folds.
She was already so wet, just from making him peak, it was unbelievable.

He deftly undid the first clasp of her waistcoat and this time she let him.
Her breasts spilled out of its confines, firm and perky and he had to close his eyes to prevent his head from spinning.
She smiled lustfully and moaned softly as he dipped his head down to kiss at her breasts, while his fingers slid into her wet core.
Her hands wound themselves into his hair. "I would have never let you walk away from me." she sighed, almost inaudibly, but he heard it and smiled against her skin and knew that he needn't fear anymore: she had him exactly where he wanted to be.