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.

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.