Carolina

It could be dismissed as a fever dream.

The weeks pass in a blur as I settle into my new role as Ragnar's prized wife-slave. Each morning I awake before dawn, preparing myself mentally and physically to serve my Master.

Being in the service of a Lord Ruler is like being in close orbit around a star. The brightness is inundating, overwhelming, it drowns out everything else. It’s like he’s surrounded by this field of psychic gravity that sucks you in and won’t let you go. It’s like being on the very cusp of understanding immortality and godhood, but unable to take a step further, because I’m only human.

And therefore, chattel.

Each morning, I rise before the sun, then drop beside the bed, on my knees, humble and silent. When he stirs, I help dress him, my fingers working quickly over the fastenings of his fine robes. As I slide the silken fabric over his broad shoulders, I feel a shiver of awe - I am clothing a god.

Sometimes, he barely acknowledges me. Sometimes, he stakes his claim on my throat with his cock. Sometimes, he has me serve his breakfast, naked but for collar and dangling leash, as I hand-feed him ripe fruits and warm pastries.

When Ragnar finishes, I clear away the dishes then kneel at his feet. This is my time to share any requests, which he listens to with stern patience. I do not plead for myself, only for others in the household who need aid. Ragnar decides what mercy he will grant.

My new position, after all, comes with duties beyond the bedroom. My days are filled attending to Ragnar's needs. I manage the slaves and oversee the household, carrying out my Master's will. At meals I serve Ragnar, then dine alongside my mother and brother. We are not equals, but family reunited. And at night, well…

A Lord must have his due.

But truthfully, it’s the management of the household that fills me with the greatest catharsis. I run the stables with a firm grip, putting the senior members of the Bothnia family to work… diligently, but not cruelly. They were vain, but neglectful, when they were my legal masters, and I’m returning the same treatment to them.

With Arthur and Audra, though? That’s a different story. I rule them with an iron fist, corralling them with liberal use of whips and chains.

It really does feel like a fever dream when I stand over Audra as she scrubs the grime from the floor. I remember what it felt like when I was the one doing it.

The stone, cold against my knees.

The bristles of the brush, rough against my hands.

The clinking sounds of my chains and my heavy-set collar.

I always felt so numb, so mentally reduced, labouring away at stubborn stains on the floor all day. This type of work is designed to break you down, to dismantle you. But I’m a kind overseer to Audra. Unlike me, she gets company while scrubbing away.

Typically, that’s because I occasionally stomp her face into the ground, slip a toe inside her mouth, and have her suck it. I’m sure the variation must be nice.

Arthur also provides me with plenty of satisfaction. He loved running me through the changing booth, dressing me in all manner of attire he desired, so it’s only fitting that I do the same to him. I’m sure he loves the sensation of robotic hands, prods and sensors gripping onto his limbs, wrapping him in tight corsets.

Bangles, anklets, and armlets, diadems and colourful skirts made of silk, nano-ink pens tattooing his body, proclaiming him for the sissy slut he is… it’s what the booth does best. I mean, I already knew this from my time as a slave, but the selection… the amount of sissyware available to choose from is enough to make a girl’s head spin.

And Irmgard? Oh, she’s my greatest joy.

Stripped naked, bound in chains, she quivers at my feet. I tease and deny her climax again and again, until she is a sobbing, begging mess. Never have I felt such heady power as when she looks up at me with tear-filled eyes and begs for mercy. Breaking haughty, arrogant Irmgard, reducing her to a slave more lowly than I ever was, is more powerful than any aphrodisiac drug.

I love crouching before her, tilting her chin up. Every time her eyes meet mine, they’re red-rimmed and swollen from ceaseless tears. The defiant fire I once saw in there has been utterly extinguished. She is broken.

We - Master and I - stripped her of every ounce of psionic potential, but it’s her very humanity we’re going after now. And it’s working. She’s more dog than person now, devoid of pride, selfishness, devoid of self. She doesn’t even get to be a Lord Ruler’s prize, like I am, no.

She is the lowest of the low. A slave to slaves.

It’s the least she deserves.

I look upon her pathetic form and feel only triumph. This wretched creature, once so arrogant and vain, is now no more than dirt beneath my feet. And it’s all because of the New Order.

In the old world, when us mortals were free-range, when we believed in silly things like democracy and rights, Irmgard would never have suffered such a cataclysmic reckoning. Not even in a million years. She would have coasted lazily through life as a wealthy heiress. How could that ever be preferable to this?

No, I won’t waste any more time mourning a childish fantasy. The old world is dead. My old self is dead. Irmgard’s old self is dead. Things are as they should be.

It is why we are here.

***

Master takes my hand and leads me into the grand ballroom.

I call it a ballroom, but that’s like calling a diamond a stone. Marble tiles shine in every colour, their surface rippling as if made of running water. In the center hangs a mammoth chandelier, its crystal droplets fracturing the light into a thousand rainbows. Along the walls are gilded mirrors that reflect the opulence into infinity, each mirror flanked by two pillars of polished obsidian.

Crystalline spires reach up into an endless vaulted ceiling, refracting prismatic shards of light across every surface.

It is a temple to beauty and excess. This is a room made for gods.

My sheer silken dress clings to every curve, the deep neckline plunging. Jeweled chains criss-cross my body, connecting to collars and cuffs. Master chose my outfit himself, adorning me for this event. Or rather, making sure I would adorn him.

I’m not here as an equal, or even a member of the nobility, but as a prized possession, a jewel in Ragnar’s crown, a pretty little ornament on his arm.

In the center is a sunken pit, ringed by couches and divans. Reclining here are the highest of the Lord Rulers, each accompanied by a bevy of pleasure slaves adorned in gauzy silks and sheer lace.

Scattered around the pit, more Lord Rulers mingle with their harems. House servants weave through the assembled guests with trays of exotic foods and libations. Laughter rings out, mingling with the occasional crack of a whip or moan of pleasure.

The air is thick with psionic energy as the Lord Rulers project their power. It presses down on me, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Master's hand on my lower back is the only thing keeping me upright.

I risk a glance at his face. His eyes blaze with inner fire, drinking in the combined energy of his new peers. He is one of them, now, just like I’m one of the many pleasure slaves that fill the ballroom with their service and their suckling and their moans.

He guides me down the steps towards the central pit. The Lords already present part for us, some nodding in greeting to their newest comrade, others ignoring Ragnar entirely. He may have ascended, but many here are ancient, primordial powers. My Master is but a fledgling compared to them.

We find an open divan and he reclines, gesturing for me to kneel at his feet.

And frankly, without his hand to hold me steady, it would be difficult not to kneel.

The sheer power radiating from the assembled Lord Rulers is driving the very breath out of me, making me feel infinitesimally small. It’s like sinking deep into the ocean, or being seared away by the glaring heat of a thousand suns looking down upon me.

It’s what it feels like to be mortal.

I lower myself to the floor, the cold marble biting into my knees. But the discomfort barely registers through the haze of awe I feel. Master's hand comes to rest atop my head, stroking my hair.

The mere fact that he’s sitting here marks his formal induction into the new pantheon of the world. It’s… breath-taking to think about. He’s now a part of them, not just in terms of status, but literally.

The Lord Rulers are a thousand. And one.

One will, one mind, one unity of purpose. He is no longer just Ragnar, now. He is part of an immanent, cosmic perspective that is reshaping the world itself.

And I belong to him.

I press my face against his boot, lips brushing the leather in a fervent kiss. I can feel the eyes on me in the room - submission is unremarked in the New Order, a natural and pleasant fact of life, a refined pleasure for the civilised, but there is still power, symbolism, in this moment. I’m a fragile mortal woman, defeated and brought low before a rising god.

I feel incredibly privileged to be a part of this moment. To be a shiny, prized, decorative object on Master’s arm, on the greatest day of his life.

What greater honor could there be than to be so completely owned?

It’s a privilege so great, so distant from the mundane human experience, that…

It could be dismissed as a fever dream.