My Sweet Sister

Content Warnings? Non-consent, slavery, sexual slavery, mental & physical abuse, threats of death & non consensual acts, choking, age gap, incest. In this story, a character makes light of another's trauma; they briefly mock prostitutes & victims of sexually transmitted diseases.

Please continue reading at your own discretion! Additionally, if you feel as if I've missed a triggering topic that should be included in the listed warnings above, feel free to comment, and I will address it as soon as I possibly can! Thank you for doing your part in maintaining a safe space for everyone here on Literotica.

Additional warning statement: Art does not reflect the artist. Any harmful or taboo plot-points that occur throughout this story do not depict my morals or that of the reader's. Thanks!

✎ Note--This fic belongs to me; the writing belongs to me. I do not consent for my work to be submitted to AI chatbots. I do not condone the usage of AI. Thanks!

A rainbow of carrot, leek, white onion, maize, and russet potato garnishes a king-sized table inside the Thalys Manor kitchen. Scullery maids dressed in ragged sheets for cotehardies and yellow stained aprons prep the victuals with practiced efficiency. In hooped buckets, they wash field-dirt from the vegetable skins; with blemished knives, they peel and slice.

The women's faces muddy underneath sheets of grime, but round, fresh features intersperse loose skin that sloughs over bone. Aunna, despite the furious wrinkle between her eyebrows, resides on the spectrum's younger half, with a dewy complexion and lustrous, ringleted hair. She sits atop a rickety stool tucked into the table's fore and massages large salt beads into a hairless goat leg. Her elbows jerk and twist; her thumb ruthlessly buffs the greasy tender.

"The goat cannot apologize for whatever wrongdoing it's done you, no matter how badly you beat its corpse," Phiva, a long-in-the-tooth maid, said. On her seat beside Aunna's, she clutches a paring knife and continues skinning a half-naked potato.

"I'm not...That isn't my intention," Aunna muttered.

"Are you in a hurry, then? An' for what reason?"

"No. It's nothing like that. Perhaps, I'm restless. It's been rather banal in the manor lately."

Hands clap onto Aunna's shoulders from behind and a head darts into the space beside her ear. The lanky newcomer, Ettelyn, a fellow member of the scullery staff, sticks her tongue out at the two women. Then, Ettelyn's high-pitched voice joins the fold: "More likely it has somethin' to do with the Dimenian Cavalry promised to pass through Vale soon."

"Quiet, please," Aunna pleaded. Heat seeps into her face, heightening the natural pink in her skin to a ridiculous vibrancy. She darts a panicked glance at her fellow Help and scouts for strayed eyes or strained ears. Yet, when satisfied with the general habitual nature witnessed throughout the kitchen, her heightened nerves quell to a simmering unease.

"You know how I am," Aunna continued in a hushed, whiny tone. "I have to see the knights if they take the road through town." To see if his heart still beats, she thought but opted to keep the truth surrounding her anxiety to herself.

Ettelyn wears a raised, cynical eyebrow. "See him, you mean?"

Barely fourteen-years-old, Ettelyn is all toothpick limbs, unbridled sass, and energy. Her shapeless gray smock hangs off her square body like a depleted potato sack. Her hair, shorn short, pokes out at odd angles from underneath a patchwork headscarf.

"Aceiphus' mercy on you, Ettelyn. Did your parents raise you to be so mischievous, or was your mother's womb cursed by the fae?" Phiva scolded.

"You old witch, you'll have fun with your potions and curses, but can't handle a little teasin'?"

Phiva crooked an accusatory finger in the teenager's direction. "Hmph. You want to boast about curses? Well, when you wake up tomorrow an' your hair falls brittle from your scalp, don't come to me begging for mercy. You've made your bed."

"You don't dare!" Ettelyn balked and adjusted her scarf over her crown.

"If you don't shape up, I will."

Phiva tilts her chin in an immature victory taunt like a cock-eyed rooster who believes itself responsible for maintaining order on the farm. Her papery mouth punches into a satisfied smirk. Although, between her sinewy limbs and prominent hunch-back, the woman's bark was plenty worse than her bite.

Aunna cracks a meagre smile, but her amusement drifts like a brief and forceful wind. Her thoughts wander the serpentine road that sags its way from the city Caliveve, then through Vale, to reach the Blair Col. Still, her focuses narrow onto the possible travelers undertaking the precarious, mountain terrain. She pictures Dimenian soldiers marching in their padded fatigues. While brandishing navy and cream colors, the men drink rum from their canteens and sing footmen melodies to pass time. One particular knight stands isolated from the crowd in her fantasy. He bears a tall, stone-lifter's build and an irregular face sculpted around canted cheekbones and a wide, aquiline nose. A man who, despite the bloodline they share, couldn't resemble her less.

Through Aunna's peripheral vision, she notices Phiva, whose countenance is dazed in reverie. Phiva wipes the juice cloyed to her blade onto her stained apron as the tail end of her speech finally cuts through Aunna's brain fog:

"I remember that young boy who used to follow you everywhere, sweet girl. Every chance he could. Fancied himself as your protector, an' what not. Ryse acted suchlike your second shadow, nowadays most of the staff here can hardly recall his existence anymore. But enough of this misery, you've stressed yourself into a tizzy, an' you need to have patience. When he gathers the means to, your brother will come for you."

Tightness cinches Aunna's sternum, and she clenches the table's splintered edge in a meek attempt at stabilization. "It's not that simple. Even if Ryse hasn't abandoned me here, he can't control his fate on or off the battlefield. I have no way to count for his safety each day. I have no way of knowing if he's been hurt or ki--"

The rest of her sentence solidified into a hard ball of emotion and lodged inside Aunna's windpipe, and her sudden quiet seemed to drown the scullery.

"Abandon you? Well, if that isn't the most outrageous thing I've damn near heard anyone suggest. An' to hear it coming from you, girl...Why, you ought to be more rational than this. You know Ryse would give anything to be here with you. He's your big brother."

"Even I can sense that, and I never met the fella," Ettelyn interjected.

Their earnestness knocks loose the stress rigging Aunna's body. She plants her elbows atop the table and hangs her head between her forearms. "It's just been so long since I've seen him," she said wearily. "I miss him so much I can't think straight sometimes."

Phiva nods, and the jerky motion shakes her thick, slate braid that hooks like a limb over her shoulder. "I understand your frustrations, sweet girl. I regret not seeing his sour face each day, too. But he will come. I know it."

A long, winded groan sounds from the opposite end of the kitchen, where a solitary door sweeps inward and shadows spill in from the corridor, forming a reversed bell shaped silhouette. Instinctively, a forced reticence besieges the scullery as the staff attunes themselves to the intrusive presence. The short hairs trailing the women's napes and forearms stand on end; their prior liveliness snuffs like a candle in the wind as they tend to their chores with renewed vigor. Aunna, similarly trained in the art of sangfroid, composes herself with a shallow breath. She pinches salt from a burlap pouch and sprinkles the crystals atop the goat hock in an offhanded fashion.

Treated leather shoes emerge into the lowlight and come attached to gangly chicken legs, then a rotund torso. Steward Grenaldy centers himself within the kitchen. His regulated woad tunic boasts a vibrancy distinct from the matte neutrals and pale yellows establishing the staff, a symbol of his elevated status amongst the manor peasantry. He strokes the tufted orange mutton-chops curtaining his double-chin and surveys the Help, denoting time to ogle the young women peppering the staff while promptly dismissing the older, less attractive parties with a vague sneer. His austere eyes shrink against the weight in his face like two moss agates buried in a white beach.

"Do you require aid, Steward?" Phiva's vociferousness sounded harsh in the kitchen's stillness.

Grenaldy bristles, and his thinned mouth exaggerates his prominent and lengthy philtrum. "When I am in need of your services, I will inquire of you directly, beldame," he said in a voice thick with phlegm.

As if noticing Aunna for the first time, Grenaldy's attention settles upon her. She doesn't need him to verbalize the thoughts brewing behind his crude leer to surmise his fantasies; the weight of his intensity crawls along her backside, a look she's received from men since her figure first developed from flat rectangle to a slightly more curvilinear shape. Grenaldy pictures what lies beneath her cotehardie: her round bottom, pale and blushed. Her soft thighs and slender legs. Her dainty feet that stuff into tanned cowhide.

"Aunna, Lord Thalys 'as requested your immediate presence within the study," he drawled as he fluttered his lashes.

"Yes. Of course. But, please allow me to wash the grime from myself first, so as to better please our Master," Aunna said mechanically. She stops tending the meat to clasp her hands together, and grease shines on her knuckles and chewed nails.

Grenaldy adjusts the length of his sleeves with a bored expression. "Be swift about it, then."

Aunna crosses the room toward an enormous fireplace carved into a Flemish wall, a gaping maw in the brick with a spit-roast placed underneath its roof. Above the hole's head, a charred mushroom cloud climbs along the masonry to reach staggering heights. A hooped bucket sits upon a poplar chair nearby with a belly full of boiled river water. Aunna bathes her hands within its lukewarm contents and uses a fatty soap bar to clean the salt and oil from her skin.

"Alright. I'm finished," she said and dried her palms on her apron. Aunna unties the sullied cloth from her person to mount it on a wall-peg.

Grenaldy clicks his heels before beelining through the kitchen door. Aunna hovers in his fat shadow. They merge into a modest corridor, where Grenaldy twists an unlit sconce. A guttural echo reverberates throughout the tidy space as a terminus wall hauls backward to reveal an arched crevice in the brick; it lumbers to the left and disappears into a tall slot. Beyond the newly formed entrance, a tunnel illuminated by sparse lamps on staked hooks stretches to a shadowed point ahead. Webbed cobblestone make-up the sides and flooring, and hefty dust swells in the damp air.

Grenaldy steadily peers into the grim underpass.

"I caution you today while seeing to our Master's needs, Aunna; Lord Thalys is still suffering exhaustion from 'is strenuous trip," he said.

A phantom of her Master's voice, convoked within her mind by the mere promise of his presence, circulates in taunts around her head. A sound as cold and pitiless as an eclipsed sun, followed by instances of groping hands, of pain and pleasure.

Grenaldy ventures inside the servant's tunnel, but the threads of conversation persist between them. "Are you curious as to why you've been summoned?" He abruptly inquired.

"Perhaps our Master wishes to comment on my performance as of late."

He tilts his head as if measuring her response, although Aunna doubts he discovers worth in her lie.

"Do you expect me to 'ave written you a poor review?" Grenaldy asked and scratched the red undergrowth scrubbing his chin.

"If I have been faulty in some manner, Steward."

"Ah...A perfect answer crafted by a perfected woman," he served the backhanded compliment with faux admiration burnishing his tone. "'Ave you heard that Dimenian troops march through the Blair col as we speak?"

Aunna wills the powerful emotion undulating her heart to vacate her expression. Her forehead smoothens, and her clenched teeth hide underneath braced lips. She threads a scant touch along the twine clasped around her throat. The necklace's wooden pendant, a lamb's head fashioned out of a Ruhlian oak branch, slips the neckline.

"I have, Sir," she muttered.

"Your 'eart must be fluttering with anticipation, then."

"My heart beats only for my Master, Steward."

A smug twitch arches Grenaldy's fish lips. "Oh? But that surprises me, Aunna. If you've given yourself to Lord Thalys, as so proclaimed...Why do you brand yourself with another man's token of affection?"

Her spine stiffens. Aunna drops her necklace to fist her skirt. "This is a souvenir from my homeland, Sir."

"The six nations of Roque 'ave been burnt to ash; barbaric Ruhlia laid to waste. Dimenias is your 'omeland now. I would rip that cursed thing from your neck if our Master cared less for 'is playthings."

A dreadful quiet, as taught as an iron cord, settles upon the passageway. Grenaldy paws at his wispy comb-over. The heat distressing his face tightens, then dissolves into a contained irritation.

"Nevertheless, we must be on our way," he chided, as if she bore fault for distracting him.

Single-file, they trek a narrow staircase until they reach a servant's door attached to the upper floor of the manor's Eastern wing, where they exit onto an interior balcony wrapped in lacquered balustrades. Grand arched windows overwhelm the gallery. Golden chandeliers scintillate in the late-afternoon vibrancy, and ornate oil paintings of the Thalys bloodline throng the paneled walls.

A dull thwacking noise pelted by muffled eeps and cries sounds throughout the vestibule. Grenaldy approaches a floor-to-ceiling pair door where the din grows increasingly louder on the opposite end. He raises a bold fist and raps against the studded, hardwood surface. Then, a disembodied voice commands them to enter, and Grenaldy bows the handles to reveal a wainscoted study.

The clangor unveils itself in a disturbing exhibit: a woman lies bent over a trestle desk, her skirt flipped above her waist, with her bare posterior facing the entryway. Her summery skin swells with a red tinge; scrapes and welts splotch her thighs.

Another dull, hard slap cracks through the air, followed by a pained cry.

Aunna flinches. She averts her gaze toward the floorboards, an unwilling participant in the woman's humiliation. Understanding derived from personal experience burdens her like a two-ton weight tied to her shoulders. Her arms rest heavily at her sides. A roiling mixture of infuriation and sympathy heats the blood in her veins, and Aunna flexes her fingers to shake burgeoning anger.

"I hope you've learned an important lesson today. Now, situate yourself. We have company," Thalys spoke eerily in a lethargic voice that limped off his tongue and conjured the appearance of his every word harboring grand weight, like a judge's proclamation on a defendant's guilt, or the low-frequency shock wave that follows a cataclysmic eruption. By nature of his deliberate and lethal demeanor, her Master elementally commands attention to himself, a venomous serpent noticed to be lurking in the underbrush and now requires vigilant observance on the sincere chance he decides to strike.

Thalys stands beside the woman at his full, imposing height. A quilted doublet heartens his pronounced, thickset figure, and a black velvet standing collar shapes like a fan against his wrinkled throat. With his eyes hollowed by the porcelain mask poised over his face, Thalys examines the long and thick wooden paddle in his hold.

In obeyance of his command, the woman shifts onto unsteady legs. Baggy fabric drains down her waist, and she winces when her skirt brushes the wounds flecking her hind.

"Yes, Master," she sniffled. Her unbrushed hair parts, showing sylphlike features. She's Galenin, with a face scored in long-healed ritual carvings, and entirely unfamiliar to the Thalys Manor.

"Grenaldy, see to it that the latest addition to our family is given a proper tour of her new home," Thalys said and flicked a dismissive kid-skin covered hand.

Grenaldy rebounds before anyone's lips can part for air: "Right away, my Lord." He dips into a glib bow, punching his bloated stomach against his lap. His yarn-like hair flops over his forehead in oily clumps.

A familiar tingle creeps across Aunna's side-profile. Grenaldy, in his sloped shape, studies her from underneath pale eyelashes. Malicious glee sparks through his visage, harshly twisted by a carrion grin. Yet, whatever cruel fate he imagines her to suffer at the whims of their Master, Aunna refuses him the satisfaction of witnessing her ruin. Her graceful carriage angles her chin high as she awaits Thalys's command with practiced surety.

Nevertheless, the door clicks shut behind the woman and he, and Grenaldy becomes someone else's problem for a while.

Unease charges the atmosphere within the study, a sensation similar to a storm's static forewarning. Tension cumbersome enough to bridge the physical world suctions to Aunna's body like a second skin layer. Her limbs itch with a growing desperation to run or hide. Thalys drops the paddle onto the desk, and its wooden clap takes like a constable's baton to her composure.

"I apologize for making you stand idly, my dear. Of course, you understand that my duties as a Lord must come first, even if it is rather unbecoming business," Thalys heaved a winded sigh and settled onto a chair tucked underneath the walnut hutch. His arms fall lax upon the rests in graceful nonchalance all nobles possess.

"What is it that you require of me, Master?" She asked. In contrast to his mask's permanent and polite mien, Aunna wears a tight-lipped simper.

The last light of day silhouettes Thalys disciplined posture, and its brightness omits from an enormous bay window prettying the otherwise cellar-like space. An unusual aesthetic consisting of hard masonry, dull furniture, and claustrophobic corners. In exception to the tower-like bookshelves belting the study walls that enchant with their attached rolling ladders and gold-foil tomes.

"I wasn't informed I needed a reason to order about my slave. Come. Sit with me."

Thalys widens the gap between his legs, garnering her entry, and like an obedient pup, Aunna gathers her skirt to slot herself onto his lap. He supports her hip, and his thumb strokes absent circles along her curves.

A medicinal solution wafts from his collar, and the potent smell overwhelms Aunna's senses. Ruse, sage, meadowsweet: herb infused oils used to ward off disease demons. Its familiarity haunts her, the aromatics entwined with her Master and his emphatic obsession with health. Twice a day, when Thalys wasn't vacationing overseas or called away on business to his underground slavery dens in Cosias Tierny (the annexed nation formerly renowned as Roque), she massaged herbal remedies into his sinuous limbs. She would start with his naked shoulders and toil her way to his feet.

"Now, reach into the top drawer of my desk. To your right, dear," Thalys said. Through a gap in his mask's mouth, his breath steamed her upper chest, prickling the naked skin there.

She bends at the waist and grasps a brass knob attached to a sleek, rectangular compartment. The drawer unhinges from its hold with a squeak to reveal a silver hand-mirror. Damask leaf patterning frames the looking glass, sunlight winking in its metallic sheen.

"Hold it so that I may see you," Thalys commanded.

Aunna complies. She angles the mirror at eye-level and examines herself within its cloudy reflection. Dried sweat stiffens her hairline, and her palish, skeletal appearance reflects a lifetime diet largely consisting of watery pottage and bread heels. A white, needle-thin scar cuts across the apex of her left cheek: her Master's first gift to her. A lesson in obeying, he'd said at the time, a void where sympathy crawled to die years ago.