Date: Sat, 19 May 2018 21:49:32 +0800
From: Kylix <cast.kylix@gmail.com>
Subject: Wheel of Time - Enslaved by the a'dam 1

Wheel of Time – Enslaved by the A'dam
By Kylix

This is kinda like a fanfiction of The Wheel of Time. No copyright
infringement intended. As a work of fiction, names, characters, businesses,
places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the
author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

# Glossary

One Power, the Source, Saidin, Saidar – Source of energy which
channelers can tap. The Power is drawn from the male and female halves of
the Source, Saidin and Saidar respectively. 5 different elements (Air,
Water, Earth, Fire, Spirit) can be drawn from the Power, and subsequently
woven together to produce tangible effects.

A'dam - a silver collar attached to a bracelet. The collar effectively
makes the channeler a slave of the leash-holder.

Damaro / damane – male / female channeler who is enslaved

Marath'damaro / marath'damane – free male / female channeler yet to be enslaved

Morul'dam / sul'dam – male / female leash-holder who controls the damaro

Der'morul'dam / der'sul'dam – senior male / female leash-holder
------------------------------------------------------

# Chapter 1

Years after Rand Al'Thor's cleansing of Saidin, someone in Seandar figured
out how to make a male a'dam, putting to rest the empire's worries over the
question of male channelers who would be free to run amok while female
channelers remained collared. With the term sul'dam and damane used for
millenia to describe the women, it was decreed by the Great Empress
Fortuona that there be a change in names for males. Male leash-holders were
called Morul'dam, while the male Leashed Ones were called damaro.

Part of the reason why it took so long to create a male a'dam was that the
copies they had received from Suroth were flawed. They tried to pit two
women against one man, and eventually the man could end up controlling his
female sul'dam. It was eventually reasoned that the problem lay with the
nature of women, since women had to surrender to embrace Saidar. That
conflicted with - and more often than not, lost to - the male who had to
take control to seize Saidin. It was concluded that only another male could
control a male channeler completely.

The male a'dam worked much like the female version in practice. Damaro
could not channel without the express permission of their Morul'dam, and
they could not hurt their Morul'dam lest the pain be reflected back at them
tenfold. Like for sul'dam, morul'dam could also sense the feelings and
emotions of their damaro, and to add on to them. The male a'dam also
forbade damaro to pick up weapons, or to use anything as a weapon. The mere
thought of a weapon would send the damaro into convulsions of agony that
would stop only when he stopped thinking about it.

-------------------------------------------------------

Halvate Toraeus fingered the silver collar in his hands as he waited in
barely suppressed anticipation. Finally he would get a chance to prove
himself in a final test - to capture a marath'damaro and to train him to
obey. If he succeeded, he would be officially accorded the badge that
marked a full morul'dam - two lightning forks tattooed down his
forearms. Not for once he wondered if he ought to be worried that he was
assigned enemy marath'damaro who already knew how to channel, rather than
the usual poor farmboy who had just discovered he had accidentally called
down lightning on his father's cows after one scolding too
many. Marath'damaro could be impossible to train, and grown men would balk
at being under the control of the young Halvate, who was only eighteen
years old and looked disturbingly like a boy.

A couple of his companions from the academy waited with him - a young,
dark-skinned woman who wore the dark blue dress of a sul'dam, and two men
clad in the dark blue tunic and breeches of morul'dam. They were waiting
for the delivery of the channelers who would be collared. Such was the
nature of relations between Seandar and the other countries. Bound by the
Dragon's Peace, Seandar could not attack other countries to harvest their
crop of marath'damaro and marath'damane, but there would always be those
who would be willing to hand over channelers to the Seanchan. More often
than not the channelers were betrayed by their own fellow comrades for
political gain. Halvate shook his head in disgust. Better for all
channelers to be collared than for them to run about seizing power and
causing chaos. Tar Valon, he heard, was a viper's nest of backstabbing and
betrayal, with no order whatsoever. Andor, where the Black Tower was, was
not much better. Tales had spread even to Seandar of black-coated men who
used the Power indiscriminately to do whatever they wanted.

Halvate sat up abruptly on his horse as the orange glow of a lantern bobbed
into view amidst the darkness of the night. His marath'damaro was here.

-------------------------------------------------------

Joran Vinstone gritted his teeth until he thought he could hear them
crack. He was trussed up like a prize pig, his hands and feet bound
together, gagged and blindfolded so he couldn't see a single damn
thing. His muscles ached from the long hours of being held in this
position, and he was holding back a desperate need to pee. Joran didn't
know where he was being taken to, only that he was lying down on the floor
of a wagon with three other strangers who were similarly bound as he
was. All of them were so dosed with forkroot that neither of them could
channel. Oh, what he wouldn't give now to seize Saidin and open a gateway
to Cairhien to burn that bastard Kieran he once called his best friend!
Joran had been framed of a crime he did not commit, and in an instant had
found himself shielded and tied up, then forced to gulp a whole pot of
forkroot tea before he could even register his shock. He had stared at his
smirking best friend in disbelief as the blindfold came down over his
eyes. He had been warned time and time again by his friends that there was
something not quite right with Kieran, but Joran had naively thought their
friendship would prevail. It turned out Joran had been played for a fool,
and would pay for it with his life. Did Kieran intend to have him brought
to a secluded place and killed? If so who were these other strangers?

Joran grimaced as the wagon rolled over a bump and jolted his already full
bladder. If the journey went on for much longer he was afraid he would have
to soil himself rather badly. Imagine, the former Asha'man advisor to the
High Seat of Saighan wetting himself like a baby! Joran grimly held on to
his bladder. Even if he were to be killed he didn't want to give Kieran any
more satisfaction than he could help.

Joran sighed in defeat. He could accept the betrayal from his best friend,
but he hoped that Kieran had left his only son alone. The boy would still
be training at the Black Tower. In fact he was to undergo his ordeal for
the Asha'man next week. He would be protected in the Black Tower, but if he
ventured to Cairhien alone....

The wagon abruptly stopped. Muffled voices could be heard outside, although
Joran couldn't hear what was being said. Suddenly the wagon flap opened and
he could hear people dragging the other prisoners out. He was the last one
to be forcibly unloaded, and nearly lost control of his bladder as he was
unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Someone ripped the blindfold off his
head, and it took him a moment to adjust to the darkness barely lit by
flickering torches. What he saw nearly stopped his heart.

A silver collar, linked by a silvery chain to a bracelet worn by a young
man clad in a dark blue tunic.

Realization hit, and he began to struggle for real this time. His muscles
bulged as he flexed his arms against his bonds, even as he scrabbled
uselessly for the Source. Joran struggled so hard he didn't know that he
was whimpering into his gag and bucking his body violently, nor was he
aware of his three other fellow travelers doing the same thing. All he was
aware of was the silver collar, and what it represented, drawing closer and
closer, until it snapped around his neck with a click like an ominous sound
of finality. Joran felt something wet trickle down his breeches. He had
lost control at last.

Joran moaned in fear and denial. This was not happening! That blasted
Kieran! Joran had been expecting to be killed, had even accepted it, but to
be enslaved by the Seanchan, that was worse than being killed! Joran closed
his eyes and bit his cheek hard, hoping against hope that it was all a
dream. A sharp pain flared in his cheek, and he tasted blood. Not a
nightmare then.

"Open your eyes," a voice commanded in an unmistakeably Seanchan
drawl. Joran opened his eyes to look at light blue eyes flickering in the
torchlight. He blinked. Surely that deep silky masculine voice did not
belong to this young boy?

"I am Halvate, your morul'dam. From this moment on you are property of the
Empress, may She live forever. What is your name?" The boy asked, undoing
the gag in Joran's mouth.

Joran spat and snapped his head away. "Release me at once you filthy
Seanchan dog!"

The boy - Halvate - tutted. "I can't stand bad manners in damaro. I will
ask again - what is your name?"

Joran suddenly felt warm. Uncomfortably warm. He stared in defiance at his
captor, unwilling to answer. The temperature suddenly ratcheted up several
notches. Joran squirmed as sweat poured out of his pores. He shifted in
discomfort as the temperature rose to just before scalding hot. Sweat was
pouring from his body in waves now, utterly drenching his clothes.

Halvate raised an eyebrow as if in question.

Joran spat on the ground and swore.

The next instant Joran screamed as he felt his skin burning as though
plunged into the hottest inferno. So intense was the heat that he thought
he must have been cooked to a black crisp. It felt like eternity.

As quickly as it came, the heat receded. Joran gasped for air, feeling his
body shudder uncontrollably. The air was cool again, but he still felt as
though his nerves were on fire. He looked down at his body, surprised to
find it unmarked.

Halvate crossed his arms in front of his chest and asked again. "What is
your name?"

"J..Joran," Joran gasped out weakly.

"Good. That wasn't so hard was it. Now I'm going to untie you." Halvate
bent down and with quick motions cut the ropes binding Joran's arms and
legs.

Joran heaved a sigh of relief as his body was freed, but winced as his
muscles immediately cramped. Halvate noticed it immediately and started
massaging the cramps away. Joran looked up, uncertain of how to deal with
this unexpected kindness.

"Thanks," Joran muttered gruffly as Halvate removed his hands. "You are my
responsibility," Halvate replied curtly. "You will find that I do not
punish unjustly, only when you have done something wrong." Joran grunted in
disbelief. What was being forced into being damaro if not unjust? He
thought about punching Halvate in his all too boyish face, but Halvate's
act of kindness had thrown him off. Maybe he should wait for a chance to
escape? He had heard stories of how hard the Seanchan punished their
leashed ones.

Halvate tugged on the leash. "Come," he said. "It is time to return to
Falme."

-------------------------------------------------------

# Chapter 2

Halvate's face was a mask of impassivity, but on the inside his mind was in
turmoil. He knew from the start that foreign marath'damaro could be
troublesome, but this was still his first time being called a filthy
Seanchan dog, and he didn't like it. The three others who were delivered
together with Joran had reacted pretty much the same way. One of the
marath'damaro had even punched his morul'dam, much to his own
regret. Halvate knew that he couldn't simply expect these marath'damaro to
fall over themselves and readily accept their new life instantly, but what
a far cry they were from the docile, well-trained damaro in Seandar.

Even now Halvate could feel the rigid tension in Joran's body. He examined
the ball of sensations in his mind that were Joran's. It seemed tension
wasn't the only thing troubling Joran. Halvate could also feel that he was
hungry, he felt a little dizzy from all the forkroot tea, and that he was
walking most uncomfortably. Halvate turned his head to examine Joran again
in the dim firelight, and saw a dark patch on his pants. He raised an
eyebrow in wonder. Had the grown man wet his pants?

Joran must have noticed where Halvate was looking, for he blushed, then
immediately assumed a belligerent demeanor, as if daring him to
comment. Halvate shook his head. He would have to do something about that
later.

They arrived where Halvate had picketed his horses. His year-mates followed
behind, leading their own charges. The marath'damane was weeping
inconsolably, much to her sul'dam's irritation, and one of the
marath'damaro was hunched over as if he had been punched repeatedly in the
stomach. Which he must have, for Halvate knew that his morul'dam liked to
use gut punches as punishment. In contrast Joran was standing still and
curiously silent, as if biding his time. Halvate wasn't sure if that was
good or not.

He motioned to Joran's clothes. "Take those off. Normally we'll wait till
we arrive at Falme before we change your clothes, but you've wet
yourself. Wear this." Halvate pulled a long, gray sleeveless tunic out of
his saddlebags.

He turned to find Joran staring at him in shock. Halvate frowned. Had his
instructions not been clear enough? "Take off your clothes, now, and change
into this. I will not repeat myself," Halvate warned sternly. He saw the
shock fade from Joran's face, only to be replaced by anger. "Here? In front
of everybody? I am not some.... some animal you can command about as you
please! Get this collar off me now you bastard!" With a roar of fury Joran
clenched his fist and threw a punch straight at Halvate's face.

Halvate reflexively dodged, but he allowed the punch to clip him on the
cheek. It was high time Joran learned that he was not to disobey him,
especially not in front of others.

The instant Joran's fist slid past Halvate's cheek, Joran gave a cry of
pain and immediately slapped his other hand to his own cheek. Halvate
smiled grimly. He only felt a mild stinging, but he knew that Joran would
be feeling as if his face had been hit with a ton of bricks.

"The a'dam amplifies any pain that I feel and returns it to the damaro,"
Halvate explained patiently. "Even if you aren't the one to hurt me."
Halvate massaged the bruise that was quickly forming on his own
cheek. Joran gasped as though he was punched again. "You will never hurt
your morul'dam, and it will only be to your own benefit to keep your
morul'dam safe."

Halvate closed the gap between the two of them. He took out his belt knife
and waved it at Joran. "Since you will not take off your clothes, I shall
personally cut them off of you." Halvate pulled at Joran's tunic and
lowered his knife, about to start cutting, when Joran's hand came out of
nowhere to try to grab the knife.

He failed of course. Halvate looked down in irritation at the man who was
on his knees clutching his hand and vomiting onto the ground. "You won't be
able to touch a weapon without having that reaction. You will regain
control of your hand in another hour." Halvate bent down and deliberately
moved the knife closer to Joran's hand, eliciting a cry of pain and a
renewed bout of heaving. "See what I mean?"

Halvate knelt down to cut a rip down Joran's tunic and shirt. This time
Joran did not resist, even as Halvate cut off his breeches and loincloth in
a swift motion. Halvate threw the cut-up cloth away, and tugged on the
a'dam to get Joran to stand.

Halvate admired the older man as Joran stood up painfully. Joran's body was
generously covered with a layer of dark hair, although they did nothing to
obscure the outline of his bulging muscles. Joran looked to be in good
shape, and appeared as though he was in his mid-twenties, although for a
channeler he could be anywhere from twenty to a hundred years old. Looking
down, Halvate suppressed a sigh of admiration. Joran had the largest cock
he had ever seen, even hidden as it was in Joran's dark bush. He briefly
wondered how long that cock could be when excited.

Halvate drew his thoughts away from that direction. He turned to pick up
the long gray tunic, before a devious idea came to his mind. Yes, this
would serve as a good punishment. Twisting the tunic into a rope, he
wrapped it around his neck and said, "Anything can be a weapon. Even
cloth." Halvate pulled at the ends of the rope to simulate strangling
himself, then unrolled the tunic and offered it to Joran.

Joran looked confused as he tried to take the tunic, only to clutch at his
hand and let out a yell of pain, before collapsing once more to his knees
and heaving out the contents of his stomach. Not that he had anything left
to vomit out.

Halvate smiled. It was perhaps childish, since he was supposed to train
Joran, but Halvate could feel a dark pleasure at having gotten back at
Joran for the insults he had offered. Halvate said sternly, "As long as you
think of using something as a weapon, you will have that reaction. You have
to consciously avoid thinking of anything as a weapon. As it is you will be
unable to even touch cloth for the next three days."

Halvate grinned as a look of horror came over Joran's face. Yes, making the
big man squirm in humiliation was strangely satisfying. Perhaps training a
foreign marath'damaro could be fun after all.

-------------------------------------------------------

Joran's mind was in turmoil. He felt as though he was standing outside his
body looking in horror at what was happening to him. He couldn't even
process what he was feeling. Fury, fear, embarrassment, disbelief, horror,
all warred within his mind. And that was just in his mind. His body was a
mass of aches from the position he had endured all night, and his
hands.... he couldn't even feel his hands now. They had been seared with
pain when he had tried to grab the knife, and later the tunic, but now they
were just numb.

The thought of the tunic brought another wave of nausea, and Joran quickly
directed his thoughts away. Was this how it was going to be? He couldn't
even think of rebelling, unless he wanted to spend his life
vomiting. Feeling the nausea fade away, Joran collected himself and looked
around. Realization hit as he remembered that he was stark naked in front
of all these Seanchan, who were smirking and giving him discreet glances.

Joran flushed a deep red. He wanted to throttle Halvate and all the bloody
Seanchan with a tunic for doing this to him. Blast it! Joran cursed to
himself as the nausea returned. He pushed those thoughts away, then
clenched his fists and stood up slowly, staring straight at Halvate in
defiance, unwilling to show how much his nakedness bothered him.

Halvate didn't seem perturbed. Joran wanted to fling his fist again at that
cool, impassive boyish face, but he restrained himself, knowing the
backlash it would induce on his own body.

A tug on the leash brought Joran back from his contemplation. Halvate
asked, "Do you know how to ride a horse?" Joran wanted to spit at Halvate,
but the slightest hint of his body heating up had Joran quickly answering,
"Yes." Seeing the small smile on Halvate's lips, Joran belatedly realized
that he was being trained. Oh bloody ashes! He felt a flash of anger at
himself for succumbing so fast, but also a growing despair at how insidious
the Seanchan's methods were.

"Good. Get on." So saying, Halvate swung himself onto his horse with expert
grace. Joran stood gaping at the boy. "What's the matter?" Impatience
marked Halvate's handsome features. Distracted, Joran was suddenly reminded
of his son for a moment, even though they looked nothing alike. He was
brought back again by a tug to his leash. "I am growing impatient,
Joran. Get on the horse, now."

Joran clenched his fists in anger and embarrassment. "I... I cannot ride
like this." He flushed as he gestured vaguely to his legs. A look of
comprehension and amusement came over Halvate's face. "I see. We will only
be moving at a trot. I will hold your reins. You can protect your balls
with your hands," Halvate smirked.

Joran kept quiet as he swung himself into the saddle. He could feel eyes on
his naked body, and it was all he could do not to look
around. Unconcernedly he gripped the saddlehorn with one hand while the
other gently cupped around his balls, as though he did it all the time. He
heard a chuckle from Halvate but he was too embarrassed to even try to
glare at him. At a signal from someone, another morul'dam, the Seanchan
started moving off at a trot for Falme, bringing their unwilling captives
with them.

-------------------------------------------------------

# Chapter 3

The ride back to Falme was short. Covering his cock and balls gave him a
modicum of privacy that Joran was thankful for, although he was still
incensed and a little shocked by how the a'dam worked. He had studied it in
the Black Tower, of course, all of the Asha'man did, but it was one thing
to know dispassionately what it could do, and quite another to have it done
to him.

He had learnt that escape was impossible, having been placed in an a'dam
before, but then it was in a classroom in the Black Tower knowing it was
just a lesson. Now he wondered if escape was indeed possible if one was
desperate enough. As soon as the forkroot wore off Joran would try to draw
enough of the Power to break the a'dam.

Throughout the ride he could hear sobs and whimpering from the captive
woman, and cries of pain from the men. It appeared that the other two
morul'dam were disciplining their damaro. Joran suddenly felt a wave of
despair overtake him. Was this all he had to look forward to? He was
already forty years old, even though he looked not a day older than twenty
five, but because of channeling he had expected to live another three
hundred years. But as a slave?

Joran's morose thoughts turned to Halvate. The morul'dam was silent, and
not for the first time Joran wondered why the morul'dam wasn't doing
anything. Joran took a sidelong glance at his captor. In the darkness of
the night he could only make out a lean figure sitting on his saddle with
obvious grace. He looked so young, even younger than his son
Dorian. Joran's thoughts turned bitter. Would he ever see his son again?
Did he even want him to see him in this state?

As if sensing his thoughts, Halvate turned to him and spoke, "Don't worry
Joran, life as a damaro is comfortable and rewarding, as long as you follow
the rules. The great Seanchan empire has been doing this for millenia - I
would say even a large proportion of people envy the lives of damane and
damaro. If you have a special Talent, you will be treasured even more." His
baritone voice turned steely here. "Know however, that any disobedience
will be swiftly and harshly punished." Joran felt a slight burning on his
skin, although it died down quickly afterwards, much to his relief.

Instantly Joran felt a sickening dread come over him. Had he already been
conditioned to avoid punishment? He was the fucking Asha'man advisor to the
High Seat of Saighan! He had spent a decade and a half navigating the
complex political games of Cairhien, and before that had battled his way
through the internal power games in the Black Tower. Surely he could fight
against this enslavement!

Halvate seemed to sense the rebellious thoughts again, for he turned once
more to Joran, and this time there was none of the friendliness he had
exuded before. In the darkness of the night Halvate's light blue eyes were
cold. "I see that you need a distraction." No sooner had the words left his
mouth that Joran felt an itch start in his butt. Joran clenched his butt
muscles in reflex, but the itch was located somewhere inside his ass crack,
and no amount of bouncing on the saddle could seem to reach it.

"Like it?" Halvate murmured again. Joran felt the itch spread, this time to
his entire butthole, and his anus started twitching most uncomfortably. He
gripped his saddlehorn hard, trying to fight the urge to reach down and
scratch the damn itch. Imagine the image that would make! A naked man
writhing on a horse with a hand deep inside his asscrack, his finger
plunging away! Joran gripped his saddlehorn harder, trying hard not to give
in to scratch the itch.

"I think if you can't ride you will most unfortunately have to run all the
way to Falme," Halvate drawled.

Joran was starting to hate that silky baritone voice, but most of his mind
was occupied on his now burning hole, and trying to control his horse which
was starting to frisk in response to his constant shifting. He could feel
himself slipping - already the hand that was cupping his balls was inching
back towards his asscrack, as though to plunge a finger down there and
scratch most vigorously -

"All you have to do is beg me, and it will reduce into a manageable
itch. Enough for you to ride, in any case," Halvate smirked.

Joran gritted his teeth. He would not give in. He was more than twice the
age of this upstart young boy, and if he hadn't been made powerless by the
a'dam and the forkroot tea he would have burnt the boy up in an instant. He
flailed futilely at Saidin, but he was cut off completely.

"Wrong decision, Joran."

Itch exploded up his asscrack and all over his cock and balls with an
intensity and fury Joran had never experienced before. Joran's resistance
crumbled instantly. With a cry Joran's hands flew at his asscrack and
genitals, scrabbling over them helplessly. So overtaken he was by the
incessant itch that he did not hear the chuckles of the other sul'dam and
morul'dam at the image. He, a fully grown man, was bare-assed naked and
thrusting a hand into his ass while the other attacked his privates in wild
abandon, atop a horse! Even worse, he was whimpering and groaning!

It went on for what felt like eternity, but in actual fact was only a
minute. If not for Halvate holding his reins and guiding his horse, Joran
would have been bucked off the horse a long time ago. When the itch finally
subsided and Joran came back to his senses, he found himself three fingers
deep in his own ass, and his cock and balls were red and raw. To his
complete humiliation, Joran realized that his unruly cock was sticking up
into the air stiffly at its full 11 inches. Flushing deeply, Joran
discreetly removed the three fingers he had thrust into his hole, and tried
to ignore the whistles around him as he unsuccessfully tried to hide his
erection.

"Modesty is unbecoming of damaro, Joran. Nobody will look at a naked damaro
twice, even if you are in the middle of the grand plaza. However if you are
beautiful to look at," Halvate's eyes raked appreciatively over Joran's
body, causing Joran to flush, "you might find yourself naked very often, or
wearing the thin see-through sokrun that da'covale wear. I think most will
enjoy the amusing show you have just put on for all of us just now."

Joran clenched his fists in anger even as he blinked back tears. This was
twisted, no man or woman deserved to be toyed with like this, like, like an
animal! He could still feel his own scratches along the impressive length
of his erection with every throb, and his hole felt like it was on fire. To
his horror, he felt the itch start again in his ass. He glared at Halvate
hatefully and shouted, "Stop it! I'm not your fucking t- AARGH!"

Halvate had wrenched his collar leash hard, causing Joran to fall off the
horse and tumble down onto the ground. Before Joran could get past the
initial shock of pain, he felt a tug on his neck, and moments later he was
scrambling to his feet as the collar threatened to strangle him. Halvate,
the jerk, hadn't even slowed down the horse's trot! Joran struggled to get
to his feet even as he could feel himself being dragged along by the neck.

"I am at the end of my patience, Joran," Halvate said curtly as he
continued the trot, causing Joran to break into a quick jog in order not to
get strangled. Joran jerked at the collar, but it was held firm by
Halvate. The boy apparently was much stronger than he looked, not that
Joran had much time to look anyway. Joran was about to retort with a
sarcastic reply when an itch drove up his butt like a red-hot rod.

He couldn't help it. Joran squealed and jumped, his quick retort completely
wiped from his mind as his fingers went right to his hole again.

The entire journey to Falme was like that. Halvate kept the pace
manageable, and whenever Joran showed signs of flagging or of saying
something, Halvate would send a spear of itching into his hole, and that
would effectively shut Joran up.

At least the trip was short. By the end of it sweat was pouring down
Joran's bare flesh, the beads of sweat clinging to his hairy body
shimmering in the torch light. Joran himself was heaving frantically,
trying to catch his breath. He wasn't that unfit - because of the Power, he
still had the youth and body of a 25 year old, but the years in Cairhien
amongst the nobles had evidently exacted its price from his fitness. Joran
could feel his lungs and muscles burning, but most of all, his abused hole
radiated pain like he never knew before. His fingers had scrabbled
uncontrollably at the itch in his hole all the way, and now it was
scratched raw. For a man who had never even touched his own hole before in
his life, he was clearly getting intimate with it.

"Come," Halvate ordered, tugging on the leash again. They had all
dismounted in front of the city gates, and were about to walk in. Joran's
anger flared. That tug again! As though he was a beast, a dog to be led!
Despite his weariness, Joran lunged at the boy.

He didn't even get a chance. As though Halvate had already anticipated it,
the boy sidestepped Joran's half-assed lunge and stuck out a foot, which
Joran promptly tripped over. The next moment Joran was lying on the dirt
road, frantically struggling to breathe as a boot drove his face down into
the dirt.

"I tend not to use pain, but that does not mean that I will not use it,"
Halvate said coldly from above Joran. "Believe me, there are few things
worse for a man to feel than this."

Before Joran could react, sharp, red-hot needles lanced through his
balls. He screamed, his entire body bucking violently. It was as though his
balls were repeatedly stabbed with giant needles, and then crushed and
rolled between grinders. His hands went immediately to his balls, but there
was nothing to protect them from. Joran kept screaming into the dirt -
Halvate's boot was still driving his face into the ground, but Joran's mind
was only flooded with one thing - to get the pain to stop.

It did, finally, a few moments later. Joran was left sobbing weakly, his
hands clutching his balls protectively. His balls felt as though they had
just gone through a crusher, and even though they felt like they were fine,
just touching them sent spasms of pain through Joran's body.

"There are variations you know. That was just the needles and crushing
treatment. There's one that is the kicking variation."

Joran gave a shrill scream as he felt his tortured balls savagely
kicked. His entire body thrashed in order to get away from Halvate, but the
boot on his neck was like a rock, pinning him securely to the ground. There
was another blow, and then agony erupted in his balls again. Joran
half-screamed, half-sobbed in pain, his body curling up as best as he could
while blow after blow rained down on his abused nuts.

It was a while before Joran realized that the blows had stopped.

"The good thing about using the a'dam for pain is that it's all in your
head," Halvate's calm voice said. "There is no physical damage. That does
not mean that the pain is not real." Joran felt some pressure around his
nuts, and immediately he whimpered as his tender nuts twinged in pain. "You
see? The pain is very much real."

"But fear of pain will not make a good damaro. The damaro who seeks to
please will be ten times more effective than one who fears the punishment,"
Halvate said, although it sounded more as though he had recited it from
memory. He removed his boot from Joran's neck. "Get up."

Joran slowly pushed himself off the ground, trying to wipe tears away from
his eyes. He couldn't believe it. Joran had once thought that he could
handle anything, but nothing prepared him for the abuse on his balls he had
just taken. It was all still very surreal, and Joran was surprised his
balls hadn't already been crushed into an unrecognizable pulp. As Halvate
had said, there was no physical damage, but the tenderness had Joran
cringing and walking bowlegged.

"You look quite a sight."

Joran glanced down at himself. His thrashing on the ground had his sweat
mingling with all the dirt, which had turned into mud and was caked on his
naked body like a second reddish-brown skin. He couldn't see his own face,
but he imagined it must have been streaked with dirt as well.

"Come, we are keeping the others waiting." Halvate tugged the leash again.

This time Joran meekly kept his head down and followed behind his captor,
trying to avoid the stares from the people around him. His nuts protested
with spasms of pain, and his hole still burned, although now Joran knew
enough not to complain or disobey.

Joran discreetly blinked his tears away. At the back of his mind, Joran
knew that he was starting to break.

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# Chapter 4

Halvate strode into the stone houses that served as the damaro barracks, a
calm expression on his face as he handed the reins of his horses to the
handlers. His insides however were churning with guilt, and irritation at
the guilt he was feeling. He hadn't meant to snap like that, to inflict
such pain on Joran's balls, but sensing the man's belligerence through the
a'dam had caused Halvate to boil over in rage. Besides, Halvate derived a
sadistic pleasure from making the man scream. For some reason seeing that
muscled man writhing powerlessly on the ground ignited a rush of
satisfaction in Halvate. It was only after the rush that he felt guilt. And
irritation.

Halvate shook his head. He was perfectly justified in punishing Joran
anyway. Not only had the man repeatedly disobeyed Halvate despite Halvate's
kindness, but he had tried to attack him, twice! In front of his peers!
Halvate was already being looked down upon because of his young age, and
any sort of disobedience would be seen as ineptitude on Halvate's part. He
had looked forward to training his very first damaro, and he was not going
to be delayed graduation just because he had drawn a short stick and came
up with an experienced old man, while his year-mates had gotten teenagers.

Well, Joran wasn't that old, Halvate mused idly as he navigated his way to
his room. The way Joran's muscles shone and glistened in the flickering
torchlight attested to that. And those legs! Joran looked like he could be
Halvate's older brother, but his eyes belied his youthful appearance. Joran
had one of the sharpest eyes Halvate had ever seen. They were a dreamy
silver grey, but with hidden depths swirling behind them. If not for the
a'dam, Halvate would have been fairly intimidated by those eyes.

Halvate examined the ball of sensations that was Joran again. It seemed
that Joran was experiencing difficulties with walking. A twinge of guilt
washed over Halvate again, but he immediately suppressed it. When an animal
misbehaved, it was punished, as simple as that. Even an animal as gorgeous
as the one currently leashed to his hand. Again Halvate diverted his
thoughts away. It would not do to feel attracted to a damaro, much less his
own damaro.

Halvate stopped as he reached his door. Joran would be living with him for
three months before Halvate would have to present him at his final exam. If
Joran was successfully obedient and trained enough, Halvate would finally
receive the two lightning bolts on his forearms to mark him as a
full-fledged morul'dam.

He turned to the damaro in question. Joran was shivering, even as he winced
in pain whenever he adjusted his footing. Suddenly Halvate realized that
Joran was cold. Summer was ending, and the stone houses kept out the heat
of the summer, which also meant that they were cold at night. And Joran was
not wearing a single stitch.

Again Halvate felt guilt that he had played such a trick on his damaro,
that he would not be able to wear clothes for at least three days. Pushing
the thought out of his mind, Halvate unlocked his door and entered with
Joran behind him.

His room was fairly spartan, as expected of a student of the a'dam
academies. There was just one bed, a table and chair, a wardrobe and a
washbasin. In the corner of the room was a small pallet covered with a
straw mat, as well as a hook on the wall. It was obvious where the damaro
would sleep.

It seemed Joran had noticed as well. Halvate could sense a rush of
indignation and fury through the a'dam, and he quickly concentrated,
sending a sharp tap to the man's balls through the link. Joran stifled a
cry, but he didn't do anything else. The indignation subsided, only to be
replaced with a faint sense of anger and despair.

Halvate didn't like it. In the a'dam academies he had handled many damaro,
and all of them had been willing to please, their only worry was that they
had done something wrong. Even though he had been warned before by his
teachers, the reality of training a marath'damaro was starkly different. He
was unused to feeling such hostility through the a'dam, and even worse, the
slow breaking of a man as he sunk into despair. For the first time Halvate
wondered if he was missing something. The richness of emotions that he was
feeling from Joran were starkly different from what he usually felt from
the Seanchan damaro. He almost seemed like a regular human.

Pushing those treasonous thoughts away, Halvate strode over to the bell
beside the door to ring for a da'covale. Moments later there was a knock on
his door, as though the da'covale was waiting outside just for his bell to
ring. He opened the door to find a male da'covale standing outside.

"Get one hot tub of water in here to wash," Halvate commanded. The
da'covale nodded, and Halvate made to close the door, when he felt shock
and horror emanate from the a'dam. He turned to Joran, whose mouth was
gaping open. Halvate frowned.

"What's wrong, Joran?"

"Y-you..." Joran stuttered, still staring at the da'covale. "I mean, I
heard the stories, but this..."

"What?" Halvate asked impatiently. He looked at the da'covale, but there
was nothing out of the ordinary.

"His clothes..."

Understanding bloomed. The da'covale was wearing the customary nearly
transparent white robes, called sokrun, which showed off all of his
beautiful muscles and hairless smooth skin and hid nothing.

"That's what da'covale wear. Stop wasting my time and let him do his work."
Nodding at the da'covale, Halvate shut the door firmly and turned to Joran.

He stepped menacingly toward the older man. It probably wasn't the best
idea, though. Joran towered over Halvate by a head, and he was much bigger
and more muscular than Halvate's lithe frame. Halvate assumed the coldest
mask of confidence he could, then grabbed Joran's short dark hair and
wrenched his head down in front of his own.

Joran tried to resist, but Halvate was much stronger than he
looked. Besides, it was small work to send a tap to Joran's balls through
the a'dam. Joran immediately acquiesced and hunched over. Halvate looked
straight into Joran's silver grey eyes.

"Damaro do not question," he hissed. "I will forgive you this one time,
because you have not seen a da'covale before. But know this. Damaro are
animals, below even da'covale. At least da'covale can rise in station to
so'jihn. You, however, belong to the Empress, may she live forever, and any
morul'dam who comes along and wears your bracelet. And you will obey all of
them, and do everything they tell you to, because you are damaro. For the
rest of your life."

From the stricken look in his eyes, and the surge of emotions from the
a'dam, it seemed that Joran had indeed gotten the message.

"And you forget that you don't even have the robe to cover yourself. If you
continue to anger me, I shall personally make sure that you get to wear
nothing for the rest of your life," Halvate continued. "I will imprint the
idea of cloth as a weapon so deeply in your mind that you will never touch
cloth ever again."

Anger flared in Joran's eyes, and he swung a fist in Halvate's direction,
which was promptly intercepted. Halvate sighed. He had to punish damaro for
any signs of rebellion, it was practically standard protocol for training
marath'damaro, but it was starting to get old. He shook his head in regret.

"Joran, Joran, when will you learn? I'm afraid that every time you disobey
I will have to punish you." Halvate concentrated on the ball of sensations
in his head.

With a yell, Joran crumpled to the ground, his hands trying to shield his
body from the invisible lashes that rained down on his unprotected flesh,
not that they did any good. Halvate made sure to cover almost every inch of
Joran's body, including several well-placed lashes up his asscrack. Halvate
knew first-hand just how much that would hurt.

Indeed, Joran gave a high-pitched scream as the a'dam inflicted invisible
lashes on his abused hole, causing him to grab his ass and thrust his hips
out in pain. Halvate grinned, then started lashing Joran's already tortured
balls. Joran gave a strangled cry and doubled up in pain, pulling on the
leash and nearly wrenching Halvate off-balance. Halvate jerked pitilessly
at the leash, all the while alternating the lashes between Joran's ass and
balls, causing the poor man to cry out and writhe uselessly on the
ground. He only stopped when he heard a knock on the door.

He opened the door, and the da'covale entered, rolling a large tub of
steaming water in front of him. The da'covale didn't even look twice at the
writhing damaro on the floor, instead setting out the towels and tub in the
middle of the room, then knelt down in front of Halvate.

"Go," Halvate ordered. The da'covale nodded his head and scurried out.

Halvate tugged at Joran's leash and said in a steely voice, "Get up."

Slowly Joran tried to prop himself up with a shaky arm, but it proved to be
too much. With a grunt of pain Joran collapsed, his body splaying out
against the stone floor.

Halvate bit back a curse of annoyance and was ready to inflict a lash
across that recalcitrant man's balls when he realized starkly that Joran
was in a worse condition than he thought. Examining the ball of sensations
that was Joran, Halvate realized that the man was near the brink of
exhaustion. He hadn't eaten the entire day and he had just been made to run
to Falme and then tortured viciously. With a stab of guilt Halvate realized
that he was going too far. Even damaro had limits.

Closing his eyes, Halvate sought to clear his mind. While everybody knew
that the a'dam was used to punish, few realized that it could reward. And
even amongst the morul'dam, far fewer knew that it could actively help and
support the damaro.

It wasn't easy to do, but Halvate wasn't the youngest graduate of the
academies in decades for nothing. His mastery of the a'dam had propelled
him through the academies in record time, and Halvate had realized early on
that being able to pass on his strength through the a'dam allowed the
damaro to channel more strongly. Far too few morul'dam took advantage of
that fact.

Halvate took a deep breath, then concentrated. He recalled the feeling of
strength after a night's sleep, the satisfaction of having a good meal, the
sensation of power coursing through his veins as he flexed his
muscles. Gathering these memories together, he carefully wrapped them
around the ball of sensations in his head, as though caressing Joran with
his strength.

The effect was immediate. Joran opened his eyes, blinked in confusion, then
rose to his feet in one smooth motion.

"What was that?" He asked, surprise turning his tone harsh.

Halvate frowned. "Damaro only speak when spoken to. I will allow you this
one question, but no more. Also, I have decided that you are to call me
master at all times. Do I make myself clear?"

"Just answer my question! What was - ARGH!!"

Halvate had switched him once on his butt, causing the bigger man to yell
and grab his ass cheeks in surprise. Joran glared at Halvate hatefully, but
the memories of his punishments must still have been on his mind, for he
remained silent.

"Good boy. Now if you must know, the a'dam can be used to transfer strength
as well. Now it's late and we are going to clean up. Take off your boots."

Joran glared at the floor sullenly as he obeyed. Halvate decided to let it
slide for now. It was only his first night, Halvate certainly didn't expect
a miraculous change of attitude in a couple of hours.

"Grab that washbasin and towel and fill it up," Halvate ordered. He waited
impatiently as Joran slowly filled up the washbasin. While Halvate had
helped with his strength through the a'dam, he could still sense that Joran
was hurting everywhere on his body. It made Halvate sigh. Sometimes he was
too kindhearted for his own good. Other morul'dam would have punished Joran
for his slowness.

When Joran finished, Halvate led him over to the corner of the room with
the pallet and hung the bracelet on the hook on the wall. Gesturing to the
washbasin, Halvate gave a curt order, "Wash yourself then go to sleep. It's
an early day tomorrow."

Ignoring Joran's expression of fury and disgust, Halvate strode over to the
tub in the middle of the room and promptly stripped. Lowering his body into
the warm water with a sigh of relief, Halvate sat back and closed his eyes.

It was just the first night, and already Halvate felt doubt about finishing
Joran's training.

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