Introduction

 

Biljana opened her eyes as the light moved closer. She didn't tremble or shrink back in fear. She knew what to expect now; she knew there was no escape. The lamp meant pain. Her Master had returned.

She sat up and held out her arms. A strong pair of hands belted the manacles to her wrists then unlocked her collar. His hands always fascinated her. They were square and muscular like a powerful tool. She remembered how strong they felt like on her naked body.

He lifted the heavy neck chain off her shoulder and she rose gracefully to her feet. She turned with her hand crossed behind. This was their ritual. Failure to follow it meant certain pain, failure to follow any order meant pain ... failure to perform sexually meant pain. Her life was all about pain.

He locked the manacles at her wrists then placed another pair on her arms just above her elbows. They pulled her shoulders back hard accentuating the curve in her back, the lift of her breasts, her pointed nipples. He enjoyed her this way. Sometimes he would follow behind as she walked admiring her high ass, her long strong legs.

She was proud of her body, thankful; it was what kept her alive.

The jailer tied a cord around her neck and lifted the lamp. She followed. Their routine never changed. He would take her to the washbasin now, lift her arms behind in strappado, shackle her legs to the wide-spread cleats, and clean her body.

His rough hands would wash every inch, every crack, and hole with meticulous care ... like a lover. After, he would dry her gently with a rough towel then bind her in the doge's private quarters.

The binding was always excruciatingly painful. The doge had a theory -- the longer she waited in agony, the happier she would be to see him. He was right -- current pain was always the priority. The future was unwritten.

Yes, it was unwritten. One day I will balance the scales, she thought. One day, I will visit on him sevenfold the pain he has visited on me. The future might be unwritten but the universe always demands balance.

 

From the writings of Caliph Muhammad bin Arsian...

 

Hate is a useful emotion for a leader. It reminds him that he must annihilate his enemy to achieve victory. Often a leader thinks a wounded foe is no longer a threat. This is a great mistake; wounded enemies are dangerous.

Before the Battle of Djinni, I thought of Venice as a timid rival too involved in commerce to offer much of a fight. Their lack of outrage after years of raiding made me overconfident. I did not see these weaklings interfering with my dream of controlling the Mediterranean. This was another grievous error; each small wound stoked their hatred until ... Djinni.

Venice is now my sworn enemy. By this writing, I swear never to forget their offense against my ambition .There will be no mercy. I swear to torture, kill, or enslave every Venetian I take. My righteous anger will bring them the greatest mass suffering since Genghis Khan swept across Asia.

But my hatred for Venice is small compared to my hatred for Duke Titus of Crikvenica, the Black Knight. He attacked me personally! He stole my pets, my beautiful Venetian slaves. He engineered the escape of thousands of prisoners caged in the Djinnian pens. He drew the maps that allowed the Venetians to foil my defenses. He came close to ending my life. He did this with the help of his bitch, Giulia, who made the cowardly doge of Venice a lion.

Although he failed to kill me, the Black Knight diminished me in the eyes of my men. This proved even more deadly than his sword. My men despise weakness. Even after killing hundreds of disloyal followers, I am still vulnerable. The only way for me to regain the unconditional loyalty of my men is to dispatch this devil using the worst agonies imaginable. He must scream his sincere apology to me in public for all to hear.

[Side note: The caliph is silent for several minutes. AaH]

This is our time...

It is our destiny to rule Europe and Africa and Asia Minor. If I need to kill everyone, save the breeders, I will. I will make the world my empire. Only masters and their slaves will exist; fear will rule; and the bondmaid will be our true currency.

 

...As told to his historian Abdul al Harish

 

Chaos followed the fall of Rome.

Murder, rape, robbery, even piracy were commonplace and people grew to fear strangers. Alliances were rare. Only the feudal lords prospered promising protection in exchange for submission.

Five hundred years later, the Church, the Crusades and commerce changed everything. New ideas began to gain acceptance. People cautiously peeked out from their homes and began to dream. The feeling of change was everywhere. Europe was on the cusp of becoming strong once again.

This directly threatened Mediterranean pirates. They had preyed on Europe for centuries. They viewed the European coasts and ships as their private hunting preserve. Slowly, they began to switch from isolated raids on ships and towns to small wars. Early success encouraged them and alliances formed among the various pirate tribes.

The worst of these alliances was led by the unimaginably cruel Caliph Muhammad bin Arsian, who had more than 300,000 men and 5,000 corsairs at his command. His goal was simple -- to enslave all of Europe especially its women. The sale of highly-prized bondmaids in the cities of Asia Minor would fund his campaigns.

This goal was well within his reach in the year 1100.

Only the city-state of Venice, Europe's one superpower, stood in his way. Venice however viewed the Moorish pirates as an annoyance, an impediment to commerce. Venice's leader, the Doge Arturo Leandero, encouraged this view, dismissing the real danger, and putting his personal interest before everything.

Standing physically and ideologically between these strongmen was Duke Titus of Crikvenica. The duke, also known as the "Black Knight," was no angel himself. He killed and tortured his enemies, he was subject to violent tempers, and he enjoyed a good war every year or so. He was also a world-class womanizer who cultivated his own stable of luscious slave-girls.

In truth, the only difference between Duke Titus and his two rivals was his view on civilization. The duke saw Europe's potential and committed himself to a better future. This led him to oppose the savage Moors most directly and to ally with Venice.

But the treacherous doge didn't honor the pact. Instead, he attacked the duke's strategically-located kingdom, Crikvenica, and fortified it. Even in the face of such deceit, Duke Titus chose to fight with Venice at the Battle of Djinni.

Although the doge claimed victory, the caliph escaped. The doge blamed Duke Titus. Moving quickly, the Black Knight escaped to Zagreb and the protection of his father-in-law, King Vilmos of Croatia, a leader of the Huns.

The final battle was yet to come.

 

Chapter 1 - The Team

 

The carriage whip reached out and savaged the girl's bare flank.

There was no warning just a flash of searing pain. She instantly corrected her step then clamped down hard on the wooden bit with her teeth. After years of training, her muscles well understood their priority.

Without thinking she turned back towards the driver, her eyes flashing with rage. She was well-trained in the harness, but no training can remove the primitive urge to strike back when surprised. The driver quickly snapped the whip's rawhide popper over her head -- a warning. She blinked away her tears and turned obediently back to the front. The dimple in her ass cheek was puckering furious still trying to bleed off the pain.

A pony-girl's life wasn't complicated; it followed one simple rule, obey or suffer. Drivers and trainers didn't allow their human steeds to feel the confusion of human emotions. They didn't permit most human behavior. Girls in harness were for the most part animals cultivated for their beauty and strength.

Slowly, the graceful lift of the whipped pony's knees improved and she synchronized her long legs with the other girls.

Duke Titus was satisfied and returned the carriage whip to its holder. Although he had whipped the pony, he blamed himself for the team's momentary lapse of discipline. He had been distracted thinking about the battle at Djinni, about Ilary, about Giulia.

"Another fucking excuse," a voice in his head said.

He felt ashamed, the voice was right. This was the excuse he always used ... Something had distracted him at Djinni as well. It was just a convenient rationale ... an excuse for his failure.

If he had concentrated on his primary goal of killing the caliph instead of rescuing his slave, Ilary, he would have succeeded. Now the madman was again threatening the world. How did freeing one female slave equate to the safety of the entire world? Publicly he had blamed the doge for being too cautious in his attack, but the truth was that he, Titus, was responsible for the caliph's escape. He had lost his focus, just as he had lost his focus a moment ago, disrupting the team's harmony.

"Focus...!" he whispered harshly to himself. Focus on the task at hand! He stared at the six luscious asses straining to pull his chariot.

Driving a team of ponies at speed over the mountainous roads around Zagreb required his full attention. A momentary lapse, a distraction could lead to disaster. He knew it, but as hard as he tried, his mind kept returning to his failure at Djinni. He was responsible for the death of his friend and mentor, William of York. If he had gone after the caliph, William would still be alive riding at his side.

His eyes locked on the ass cheeks to his front. Their churning butts, their long slender legs, their flowing blond hair ... their narrow waists were magical, hypnotic. Once again his mind drifted.

Caliph Muhammad bin Arsian, Commander of God's Loyal Seamen had created this team of pony-girls.

"God's Loyal Seamen..." It was a strange title for such a nest of vipers, he thought. The Moorish pirates were a scourge on the earth, the most evil snakes that ever traveled the Mediterranean.

The caliph had created his pony-girl team out of contempt for Venice. He chose only Venetian slaves. He wanted to taunt and enrage Venice by using its most beautiful, most perfectly matched young girls as race animals. It was a masterful stroke of psychological warfare.

That is, until he, Titus, had turned the team against him. He had stolen the girls and taken them as a prize back to Zagreb. The caliph's Venetian pony-girl team was now a living symbol of his humiliating defeat at Djinni. Even the doge of Venice taunted the caliph with the loss of the pony-girls. Ignoring, of course, the obvious fact these beautiful creatures were bondmaids from Venice.

Politics was confusing, he thought absently. He preferred the clarity of battle -- two men pitted against each another. Two men engaged in a fight of life or death.

Titus focused again on the hard ass of the girl immediately to his front. The movement of her legs and ass cheeks were hypnotic; the way her ass-dimple appeared and disappeared in such a rhythmic pattern was mesmerizing. His gaze moved to her curved back and firm breasts; there was no jiggling, no excess skin or fat, every part their bodies was hard and taut ... mannishly hard but still womanly. He felt his cock harden as his eyes glimpsed her areola and nipple.

For all his evil, the caliph had created a work of art with his team. Their tits were all the same size and shape; their asses were all delightfully high and hard; their skin was the same tawny brown; their legs were all shapely and extraordinarily long. The rumor was the Caliph gone through a thousand girls before selecting these six for his carriage.

Titus believed it; they fit together as a team.

Interestingly, they were not identical, that would have been too pedestrian for the caliph. Instead he chose girls who complemented each other. His goal was to convey an overall impression of beauty, strength, and harmony. He was also after a sexual tension -- no man could watch them run, their legs straining, their chests heaving, their mouths open -- without feeling an animalistic lust.

There was a story that a man had killed himself when he saw the caliph's pony-girls. He had opened his veins shouting, "Perfection, lord!" According to the tale, he didn't feel the need to live any longer after witnessing the caliph's exquisite work. Another version of the story called him as a condemned criminal who had been offered an easy death.

Titus believed the later, but he wasn't entirely convinced that the former wasn't true. There was something mysterious the way his six naked ponies affected men. It went beyond lust; in many instances they were struck dumb, paralyzed with an overload of feelings and bodily chemicals.

Titus listened to the fast clopping of wooden hooves on the hard-packed dirt. A curve was approaching. He pulled back unnecessarily hard on the reins. He watched as the reins pulled six blond heads and a dozen nipples back simultaneously. The entire team groaned in pain. Straps joined each girl's head harness to rings in her nipples. When the reins were pulled back, the nipples were lifted as well.

His cock hardened at the sight and sound of their sharp pain.

On one level he felt ashamed of the sadistic pleasure he felt; on another he felt a thrill. There was no denying it was thrilling to dominate such amazing animals. Just by bending his wrists, he could exercise massive control over their luscious bodies. They responded instantly to his whip and reins. He could feel the terrible power in his groin, taste it in his mouth. It was clear why the caliph felt the loss of his pony-girl team so deeply.

Titus smiled at the thought. Bringing pain to the caliph was delicious, something he savored over and over. There was a reason people called him the Black Knight and it had nothing to do with the color of his armor. It had to do with his sometime cruel and unholy disposition, with his inability to control the rage he felt towards his enemies.

He knew it was hypocritical to hate the caliph and the doge. They were tyrants, but he had done worse. His only saving grace was that he fought for a better future. They had only one goal, power for themselves. It was an important difference.

That was his rationale at least, he thought smiling. In truth, he wasn't much of a deep thinker; he had always left the deep thinking to William. He typically relied on his instincts. Most people followed him because those instincts were right most of the time.

He let up on the reins and watched the girls' muscles relax. He felt pleasure in removing their pain, sometime more than he felt inflicting it.

What did that mean? He wondered. How could he remove their pain if he didn't inflict it? A question for the ages, he thought, amused at the tack of his thinking.

One of the added benefits of stealing the caliph's team was it humiliated the doge as well. He had thrown away victory at Djinni by holding his men back. If the main fleet had landed during the night instead of waiting for the dawn, they could have prevented the monster's escape and taken his head. Instead, the doge and his admirals had played it safe and achieved nothing.

The Caliph could easily replace the men and ships he'd lost at Djinni. Thousands of pirate scum waited to join his "holy" war against Europe. All he needed to do was open the door to them. All they had accomplished at Djinni was to make the murderer aware of his vulnerability. The Venetians had won the battle and perhaps lost the war.

He felt a tinge of guilt. He shared responsibility for the failure with the doge. His decision to rescue Ilary rather than pursue the doge was a factor in his escape.

Titus shook off the idea. His decision was a small part of the failure; the doge was to blame. His continued use of the pony-girls reminded every Venetian of that fact. It was a thorn in the doge's side and he took immense pleasure in twisting it.

They were slowly approaching the top of the cliff. He stared out at the blue sea at the city on the ridge. Zagreb was a fortress city, surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs and narrow winding roads. The caliph's forces could not reach him here -- his army moved by sea and was dependent on his ships. As for the doge's vengeance, he was too busy convincing Venetians that Djinni had been a glorious victory.

His infant son, Janika's son, was safe under the protection of his grandfather King Vilmos.

He snapped the whip lightly once then a second time on the sweating backs of the two lead girls and instantly felt a surge of power. The team advanced pulling the chariot the last few yards to the top. He pulled back on the reins and they stopped with a coordinated flourish of shapely legs.

Pain was a great equalizer, he thought. Although men did resist it more than women, all human beings responded to it, no one was immune. It was a man's size and strength and his capacity to withstand pain that made him dominant in life. Masters resisted pain, slaves especially women submitted to it. It was the reason some men and women were slaves and why others ruled.

He smiled at the random thought. Pain was also an aphrodisiac for some women, he remembered as he took the lead reins and walked the team to a nearby tree. They stood near the edge of the cliff. It was like they could see the whole Earth. If pain and pleasure was in balance, he thought, a woman would always climax. God had buried the instinct in the deepest part of their minds. He wanted them stimulated by both, motivated by both.

The team stood straight. Every girl was panting; six pairs of tits, six Venus mounds all trembling with the exertion of the long run. They were indifferent to their nakedness; unaware of the effect their tanned and muscled bodies had on his libido.

He tied the reins to the tree's trunk then walked to the second pony on the left side, Valentina, the girl he had whipped, the one who had flashed her defiance. She was magnificent in her heaving, with the sweat of the run making her hard body glisten. Her eyes followed his hands as he unstrapped her encased arms from the yoke. Without rushing, he led her to a low-hanging tree branch and turned her to face the team.

Slowly, all eyes turned in her direction, locking on her tall slender body. He tied the leather rein to the ring at the end of her arm-sleeve and tossed it over the limb. He caught the end as it fell then pulled smoothly raising the girl's arms behind. Valentina bent over at the waist presenting her gorgeous ass. Titus stared at it for a long time then he took a strip of rawhide and used it to pull her head harness straight back. There was no way for her to avoid the stares now.

He ran his hands over her flanks, slowly grinding his crotch into her ass. His intention was clear. The other ponies didn't look away; being fucked by the driver was commonplace. A normal man could not watch their bound young bodies strain for hours under his whip without feeling the urgent need to fuck.

Titus stepped back, dropped his pants, and slowly pushed his hard cock into her vagina. She cried out then moaned pleasurable as his cock settled into her tight crevasse. A pony-girl could not hide her feelings; the training dehumanized her, the physical effort heightened her senses. It was just too raw an existence to worry about appearances.

Valentina opened her eyes to the jealous glares of her teammates. They thought of sex as a reward. She wiggled her ass playfully and shuddered, anticipating her coming orgasm. But Titus was in no mood to play pony-girl mind games. He grabbed the head cord and pulled her back then using the paddle from his belt, smacked her hard on both flanks.

Instantly, she was twisting her ass, grinding on his cock, and breathing hard. His hard cock in her tight hole combined with the pain produced an instantaneous response. She began to move as if possessed. The insane fucking lasted a long time until she screamed into the bit and her eyes rolled back into her head. Her vaginal muscles spasmed and squeezed in a way that few men have ever experienced.

He came with a bellow heard far into the valley. The team shuffled in fear and envy as the pair convulsed in orgasmic ecstasy. After a while, he moved away. Valentina hung half-conscious in her strappado, shaking occasionally with residual pleasure.

Titus had added random fucking to their regimen. The Caliph had severely limited their sex believing their frustration would make them more attractive to men. He was wrong -- starving them of intercourse made them listless and hopeless; making it an intimate part of their diet reconnected them to the human race. It was almost as powerful a motivation as pain.

Titus buttoned his pants and walked slowly to the water bags. The trip back to his castle would be a difficult downhill journey; he wanted the team well rested. They all knew what was waiting for them at the stable -- he had arranged a platoon of randy soldiers to be there tonight. The girls would race back happily for the orgasmic treats those men offered.