A/N: I've had this idea for a little while now. Set in a post-apocalyptic dystopian future where society has reverted back to feudalism. Part medieval, part Southern gothic. This story contains mature themes of heavy BDSM and dubious consent; it is a sexually explicit DarkFic featuring Dom!Michonne and sub!Rick. Do not keep reading if this does not appeal to you. Enjoy!

The Tribute

Prologue

The War of the Dead ended five centuries ago. Warlords who built armies have now carved out their own Fiefdoms from amidst the ruin. Society has been rebuilt by those who wield power and dominion others: Lords and Ladies. Their vassals, or sworn subjects, offer a Tribute of their eldest born child, and upon their twenty-first birthday, they are sent to their Lord or Lady's Fiefdom to enter into servitude. Some Tributes serve as combatants to entertain their overlords, others as sexual playthings trained in the art of erotic submission. When their twelve-month residency is over, the Tribute is allowed to return home or remain in service to the Lord or Lady.

The Eve of Liberalia

The quaint, dimly lit room is bare and almost empty, save for the man on the bed. He is recovering from his wounds, and has finally awakened after some time of unconsciousness. The bright light flickers in his eyes as he pries them open; it stings. It is of no consequence, since the pounding in his head is drowning it out. Blinking in rapid succession, he tries to sit up. Dizziness overwhelms him, so he brings his head back to the pillow and closes his eyes while trying to gather his thoughts.

"Ah, you're awake," says a female voice. "Daddy! He's awake."

Instinctively, he reaches for his sidearm; it's not there. A sense of dread and confusion sets in. Before he can raise himself from the hard bed, an older man is suddenly at his side.

"Hello, there," he offers with a smile. "Good to see you're finally up. I'm Hershel. I helped you with your wounds. D'ya wanna tell me your name?"

The injured man looks at him silently, while he orders his thoughts.

"Son," he urges. "What's your name?"

"Rick," he answers dryly, his voice hoarse from disuse. "My name is Rick."

…..

After the initial confusion passes, Rick begins to recall why he is there. He wolfs down the humble serving of soup and bread. It's as if I haven't eaten in years. Hershel, and his two daughters, watch the stranger with fascination. While he finds it quite irritating, he understands why: It is not often that travellers, who are not merchants or politicians, ever visit other fiefdoms. The man sitting at their dining table is a visitor; he, like Hershel and his family, do not speak with the same drawl as the others in the region. Their homelands are much farther south. Even though he has said few words, they know he is a Southron like they are; like they were.

"Where'd you come from?" Hershel asks from across the table.

Rick looks up from his food, and then shrugs. He knows where he is; he knows where he is from, but he does not tell them. Instead, he feigns ignorance; pretends to have amnesia. It is best that these kindly people do not know of his true intentions.

"I don't really remember," says Rick, giving them a woeful glance. "I've travelled around a little while, I know that much. But I can't give you an answer on that one."

"That's sad to hear," says Hershel. "But it's common for memory loss after someone's been through what you have."

"What have I been through?"

"You were shot," Hershel explains. "My eldest daughter, Maggie, she found you on the outskirts of our land. You were badly wounded and bleeding. Out of it. Real disoriented. She brought you back here to our home. I patched you up. That was nearly a month ago."

Rick looks to the young woman sitting to his left, and offers her a grateful nod. He is surprised that so much time has passed.

"I wanna thank y'all for the hospitality," says Rick. "Thanks for takin' care of me."

"Don't mention it," Hershel replies. "You need to be rested and strong. It's the Eve of Liberalia."

Rick looks around the small home; he thought as much, considering the decorative masks hanging above their hearth.

"You have to turn me over to your Lord?" he asks.

"Yes," Hershel answers. "It's the law around here."

"I understand," he replies. "How do Tributes work around these parts?"

"Are you a from a Noble family?" asks Hershel.

"No," Rick lies. "I don't think so."

"Well, son, it's the same as any of the other regions," he offers. "You owe a debt, so you've gotta pay it, Noble or not. You might be a lil' old to be a Pleasure Boy, but I'm sure you're strong enough to fight, in spite of your damage. My Maggie is ready to be a Tribute. I'll take you both to the Citadel tomorrow."

Rick glances at the young woman. She has a steely determination in her eyes. He almost feels sorry for her, knowing what she is about to endure. Many young people dread the day that they go into servitude, others welcome it; Rick recalls his own residency as a Tribute, many years ago.

"I'm strong enough to fight, too," she says.

Hershel and Rick share a deliberate look: Both know she's too pretty to be made to fight in the tourneys.

…..

The Festival of Liberalia

The journey to the Citadel is fairly short. Rick rides in the back of the carriage with Maggie while Hershel drives. His younger daughter stayed home; the old man wanting to spare her the excitement and debauchery of the Liberalia festivities. From the decorations to the jovial atmosphere, people are already preparing for the enjoyment that is to come.

Masks, not unlike the one's hanging in the Greene's home, decorate the treetops. Ribbons and brightly colored pieces of string brighten up the posts on the sides of the roads. There are many people in the streets; a few delivering goods for the celebratory events, others already inebriated. There's certain spark to the air; an eagerness and a hint of dread.

Rick takes it all in. His own memories reignited at the scenes that they pass. Liberalia marks the beginning of servitude for many Tributes. It is a tradition that has been in existence for as long as anyone could remember. Even though it is something still practiced in Rick's homeland, it isn't something he particularly agrees with.

He was a Tribute when he turned twenty-one, as were his friends. They were curious about what their servitude would entail, but also slightly afraid at the thought of leaving their homes. There were many a story told of the treatment of Tributes throughout their tenancy. Some spoke of being awakened to the desires of the flesh; finding it a pleasurable experience. Others recalled complete submission that taught them only disdain for their captors.

Rick thinks back to the time when he was a Tribute. He was somewhat unruly, but learned how to get by. He remembers some Lords and Ladies being merciful, while others enjoyed cruelty too much. Now, as he and his companions arrive at the Citadel, it seems history is repeating. He is about to undergo the ordeal of servitude again. He inhales deeply musing how the first time didn't kill him; and lamenting how his friends weren't so lucky.

xXxXx

The Citadel is little more than a large stately home on a farm. It may have been something to behold when it was first built. Now, behind reinforced steel walls, it is a relic from a time long since gone. Rick, Hershel, and Maggie have been ushered into the courtyard. People, some Noble, others common, mill around. Their eyes take keen interest in the new arrivals as they make their way quietly through the grounds. Someone steps up to them, and speaks to Hershel.

"What's your business here?" they ask.

"I've brought Tributes for His Lordship and Her Ladyship," Hershel replies.

"Take 'em around the back," the say, and they move on.

There is a line of people around the back of the main building. They're all dressed in finery, signifying that they come from Noble families; the sons, daughters, and wards of Vassals. Here to honor their family's oaths. Here to offer up their bodies for service. Rick remembers when he first came to Court as a Tribute. That was such a long time ago. Judging by the sullen looks on the faces of these young people, it is evident that not much has changed.

The line moves slowly, and, in time, Hershel, Maggie, and Rick reach the end of it. Hershel hands over a document in an envelope to an Official. It's the Negotiation Agreement that he and his daughter have signed. He is hoping that they will just take Rick as an added bonus, and goes about explaining the situation. The Official who receives them eyes the younger of the men curiously; his gaze flitting over his form. Rick stares back at him. After a moment's consideration, the Official says that they will accept him, since he owes a debt to His Lordship. It is noted in a ledger, and they are told to move along.

"Thank you for takin' me in," says Rick while shaking Hershel's hand.

"No need to thank me," he replies. "Anyone would've done it."

"All the same," Rick adds. "I do appreciate it."

"Good luck," says Hershel.

"Thanks," Rick offers. "I'm gonna need it."

Then, he steps through the large, wooden doors and leaves the old man and his daughter to say their goodbyes. The line he has joined continues to move at a snail's pace, but soon, they are all ushered into the cellar of the house through a narrow walkway. It is more of a dungeon, now; dark and cool and nestled in the bowels of the earth.

There are not any supplies down there, just room for people. Room for Tributes. Bunk beds line the walls and fill any free space that might have shown how large this cellar actually is. Rick glances behind and sees that Maggie is there a little ways back. There are at least twenty other people there with them. Some waiting quietly, appearing forlorn; others in tears. All of them not knowing what fate awaits them.

A tall woman enters from a large steel door and perches herself upon a small dais near the entrance. She is wearing black gloves that match her short, formfitting dress. She holds a riding crop in her right hand. Her face is stern, and her eyes have seen much depravity. She is handsome. She is at home in this vaulted dungeon.

"It smells of despair in here," she proclaims. "You will stop your crying, now."

The unfortunate souls all give her their undivided attention, ignoring the servants who have entered after her and begun to fill a number of troughs with water. She regards the new group of Tributes. Her unsympathetic eyes examine their many different body types and faces. She takes note of those visibly distressed. A small smile creeps across her thin lips.

"Don't be so dramatic," she adds. "You all knew this day would come. Now, wash yourselves and prepare to meet your new Master and Mistress. The Attendants here will guide you and do my bidding; do as they ask, and you'll be fine. Disappoint me, and there'll be Hell to pay. Now strip those clothes off and wash away the tiredness of your journey."

Her gaze falls on Rick as he begins to undress; she stares curiously, taking in his appearance. He is far from a scared twenty-one year old. She notices. She steps closer as he splashes his face with water.

"What do we have here?" she asks no one in particular. "You're not the type of Tribute we're used to in this part of the world."

Looking up a moment, Rick remembers his own training from many years ago.

"No, ma'am," he says, gaze now averted; hands behind his back. He is not at all docile and meek, but this undertaking requires his compliance, for a time. He acquiesces to this little power exchange and plays the part of the submissive well.

"Why are you here?" she queries further.

"I owe His Lordship a debt," Rick replies. "I'm here to repay it, however he sees fit."

She runs her hand up over the crop, and looks over his now shirtless body.

"Remove those britches," she order. Rick does as he is told. He chances a look at her face, but she is preoccupied with eyeing his manhood.

"You're well-built," she says. "And you've got a nice, big cock. I'm sure His Lordship and Her Ladyship will find some use for you."

He eyes move slowly from his sex, up his firm body, until her stare reaches his face. She licks her lips and then says, "Now finish cleaning yourself."

Rick does not look her in the eye as he nods his head and continues to wash. The remainder of this day will be long, as will the night, he muses. The woman returns to her place atop the dais and watches everyone. After a moment, she speaks again.

"Welcome to the Stables," she says. "I am the Lady who presides over them. Where you spoiled children of Vassals will share the same quarters as common servants. This is your first day as a Tribute. It is an honor and the best day of your life. A Tradition that we have held for centuries. Be grateful that you are here to offer yourselves to your new Master and Mistress. Here, at the Citadel, you will give yourself over to be used as your Overlords see fit. Today, your official training begins. The Attendants are at the end of their residency. They will prepare you for what is to come. Be willing, Tributes; there's a lot of pleasure to be found here. Embrace it, and your time will a torturous delight."

With that, she turns heel and leaves them. Rick lets out a discreet sigh.

I'm too old for this, he thinks to himself. But it has given me entry to the Citadel. I will bide my time until I can fulfil my mission.

He splashes cool water on his face once more as a young man approaches. He waits until Rick dries himself off with his discarded shirt.

"Here," says the stranger, holding a pair of thick, leather cuffs out to him. "Put these on."

Rick knows the drill, and takes them from the younger man. The cuffs are weighty, and dark in color. There are sturdy steel rings attached to them; it makes it easier for the wearer to be bound quickly and securely.

"You look a lot older than a lot of the others," he says.

Great, Rick thinks. He's chatty.

"I'm not a Tribute," he goes on to explain. "I'm not a Noble. I'm just here 'cause I owe a debt."

"I see," he replies, assisting with the buckles on the cuffs. "So, you know this can go one of three way for you, then."

"I know," Rick says. "They'll either force me to fight, fuck, or die."

"Right," he says. "So you've heard about what happens here then?"

"Yes."

He leans in closer, and then says, "I'm Glenn, by the way. What's your name?"

"You're nearly done here, Glenn," Rick whispers in response. "Don't ruin it by gettin' too familiar with His Lordships new pets."

The young man nods his head, and sees the error of his ways. Fraternization between Tributes outside of what pleases the Lord and Lady is forbidden. Getting to know others in service of the Overlords is not a good idea, generally. Getting to know Rick Grimes is, more likely than not, the worst idea. Suddenly, a loud, shrill noise pierces the air. Everyone, Tributes and Attendants alike, stop what they are doing. It is the blaring sound of a whistle. It's the woman who welcomed them before: The Lady of the Stables. She has returned.

"Girls," she begins. "The cosmetics that the Attendants are giving you now are to be used on your lips. The ones on your face must match the ones between your legs in color. Get it right; you will be inspected. Boys, make sure your little peckers get hard, and remain that way during the Cortège; you will be examined. I do not expect to see one dry cunny or one limp prick from any of you. Now, get to work; you have twenty minutes until you are presented at Court. Isn't this exciting?"

Rick regards the others as their expressions carry a look of horror with a hint of anticipation. His thoughts go back to the first time he ever took part in a Cortège. The procession was long because of the number of Tributes that year. He recalls how he was so nervous before he and the others were to be paraded before the Nobility. They would scrutinize the young men and women, and make a judgement on whether they wanted to fuck them or not. Rick remembers being unable to maintain an erection. The Stable Master made one of the other Tributes, a plump redhead, take his flaccid cock into her mouth and suck him off until he was stiff and aching. As his mind drifted back to the present situation, he mused he needed no such help that day; running his hand up and down the shaft worked just fine.

…..

The Cortège

Tributes enter the small ballroom in single file behind the Lady of the Stables. Their wrists shackled in front by a small chain fastened to the rings of the cuffs. They walk at an even pace, yet not in step with one another. They are trying not to trip because no one knows what they will do to the poor creature who breaks the procession line.

Surprisingly, they are allowed to look around the room; Rick supposes that those in charge are less concerned with it being an act of disobedience and more of a chance to make the Tributes feel overwhelmed. And it is overwhelming. There are Nobles everywhere. Their eyes drink them in. They whisper to one another; they jeer at the Tributes; they stare. No one lays a finger on them just yet; they have to wait for the Lord and Lady of the house.

The room is nice by the standards of the Nobility. It has high a ceiling with two strategically placed chandeliers hanging down. Candle stands are in the corners and offer added light. There are sofas of varied designs placed at the walls. A long, narrow table cuts through the center of the room, and is filled with many delicious looking foods.

At the front of the room sits two large thrones, side-by-side, atop a dais that is set between two large columns. The columns reach the ceiling, and have two large, metal rings attached just below the half-way mark. This is for the purpose of holding a subject in place to enact punitive measures for misdemeanors. Instruments to aid in their punishments are fixed to the column for all to see; the various tools of torture are an imposing sight. They are a constant reminder for those who have entered into servitude that such arrangements will not work without subservience.

Rick keeps his expression neutral. Their slow pace affords him with the opportunity to appraise the room. He takes note of any exits, and how many people are serving as sentries to guard the place. There are two sentries at either end of the room. He wonders if they are there to add to the appearance of grandeur and importance, or if they really have duties to fulfill. Knowing what he does of His Lordship, Rick surmises that they are most likely there for protection.

When the Tributes reach the front of the room, they are ordered to face the thrones and then kneel. Rick finds it difficult to lower himself since his bound wrists are keeping him off balance; the aching erection he has does not help. Someone a little farther down the line falls over. Immediately, there is a sound of a riding crop slicing through the air, and smacking bare skin. It is followed by a sharp, pained cry, and the gasps of shock from fellow Tributes; laughter comes from the amused Nobles. Their fun has already started.

The floor is cold and rough under Rick's knees. He keeps his eyes forward, and tries to ignore the discomfort he is presently experiencing. The sound of a door being unlocked and opened grabs his attention. Off to the right, a young page steps through the door and walks across the floor in front of the dais. He stops, faces the audience, before speaking.

"Please welcome His Lordship and Her Ladyship," he says, while gesturing to the door.

His Lordship enters first and the room grows silent. Rick has seen a photograph of him before, but muses that he looks a lot different in person. Lord John is tall with dark hair; his frame adorned with chainmail. He walks across the floor with his head held high. He is handsome, with a steely gaze. He has a large scar in the shape of a v near his eye on the right side of his face. He does not smile. He does not look at the Tributes, instead, he waits at the steps of the dais for his Lady. A flash of red draws Rick's attention back to the door.

It's her. The pictures do not do justice to her beauty. Rick holds his breath and takes her in. She is stunning. Her face is beautiful; her hair sits atop her head in an intricate up-do. Large brown eyes look brightly over the audience. Her lips turn up at the corners in a small smile. She does not regard the Tributes as she walks with determination and poise. Her dress flows elegantly about her feet. It fits her form perfectly, caressing each curve. Rick finds himself staring. His gaze follows the line of her clavicle, and falls on her breasts. When she passes by, he takes in her round backside. His manhood grows harder; it twitches as it stands proudly before him. He watches as His Lordship takes his Lady's hand and helps her up the steps, following behind. He holds her hand until she is seated on her throne. Rick keeps his gaze fixed to the beautiful woman, ignoring her mate as he steps forward to address his Vassals.

"Welcome Courtiers and other Noblemen, to the Festival of Liberalia," says Lord John, and the room erupts into applause. Rick is drawn from his reverie and brought back to the moment. The man standing before them commands attention. His accent is distinct and resembles that of an Englishman. He speaks, and the commotion dies down abruptly. "It's been a full year since we last gathered here, and I am pleased to say it's been a fruitful, pleasurable time."

The crowd applauds once more before Lord John continues to speak.

"Last year's Tributes are at the end of their tenure, and new Tributes await theirs to begin," he says while gesturing to Rick and his fellow captives. "Today marks the beginning of their servitude to their Lord and Lady. Let us begin by taking stock. Tributes, get to your feet."

Clumsily, Rick and the others clambered with difficulty until they were standing. Some try to cover their nakedness with their bound hands, but a swift cracking of a nearby whip dissuades them from doing so.

Lord John eyes them before smiling, and turning to his Lady to ask, "Do you want to see them, my love?"

Her Ladyship offers him a slight shake of her head, and answers, "No, thank you, my Lord; you should inspect them first."

Rick's ears prick up at the sweet cadence of her voice. She looks regal, sitting on her large wooden throne. She commands Rick's consideration more than His Lordship does. She smiles a little, and places her hands in her lap before nodding her head, urging Lord John to inspect his new property.

"As you wish, my Lady," he replies as he steps from the dais and approaches his Tributes; his page hands him a piece of paper listing the Tributes and from which family they come.

Slowly, he walks along the line of young men and women. Using his free, gloved hand, Lord John cups their faces, and squeezes their backsides. He thumbs their nipples, and handles their erections; fondles and strokes them. The Tributes remain silent and pliant, as they were taught to be. Some tremble as he passes, others are afraid to look at him. Some are told to bend over or to part their legs. Their Lord takes his time. Rick keeps his own gaze averted and waits. He knows he will draw increased attention due to his age and apparent reason for being there.

The whole room is silent as Lord John makes his way down the line. Suddenly, he stops in front of Rick. He reaches out and presses the bandaged area at the side of his lower abdomen. Rick does not flinch, even though there is some discomfort.

"The physician Hershel sent you?" Lord John enquires.

"Yes, my Lord," Rick replies.

"And you're injured?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How?"

"I was attacked, Sir."

"It's dangerous to travel these lands."

"Yes, my Lord."

"It says here that Hershel states you're still recovering."

"I feel fine, my Lord."

"Well, you look like you can fuck," he says, gesturing to Rick's protruding erection. "But can you fight?"

"Yes, Sir," Rick answers.

"So you say. You're a lot older than I like," he offers. "Maybe I have no use for you, a wounded, middle-aged man. What do you think?"

"You're the Lord of the Citadel," Rick says. "It's your choice, Sir. My thoughts don't matter."

Lord John smirks and lets out a dry laugh. He turns to face his Lady, who is watching their exchange with great fascination.

"What should I do with this one, my Lady?" he asks.

"Unshackle him and bring him to me," she instructs, without much thought, and the page does as she says.

Rick's cuffs are unclasped and he is led to the dais. Her Ladyship gestures for him to be brought closer. He is led up the steps, and stood in front of her. Rick cannot help but stare at her face. His blue eyes meet her dark brown before she searches his naked body. Her eyes wander over his chest first, then southward to his straining cock. She reaches her hand forward and trails it over his abdomen. He shivers unwittingly at her touch, while his cock quivering; clear, sticky fluid drips from his large, red crown.

She smiles wickedly at him and grips the link in the cuffs, drawing him closer to her. She takes her the pad of thumb and wipes the precum from his tip. Rick closes his eyes and tries desperately not to lose all of his composure. Even though he is standing naked in a room full of people, it feels as if only he and the Lady of the Citadel are there. If she touches him again, he muses, he just might explode.

"Kneel," she commands, and Rick does so before the throne, almost too eagerly.

He looks up at Her Ladyship before she leans forward and runs her fingers through his hair.

"What do you think, my love?" asks Lord John while he watches them amusedly.

She grips Rick's curls and pulls them roughly so that his face is lifted toward her.

"I think he's pretty," she replies, in a matter-of-fact manner. Rick steadies his breathing. He is enjoying the way she is handling him.

"They're all pretty, My Lady," says Lord John. "What do you want to do with this one? Shall we send him to the arena? Cut him loose? Pass him around?"

"No," she says as she looks down at Rick, and runs her precum-coated thumb over his bottom lip so that he can taste himself. "No one else is to touch this one. He's mine."

"Very well, my Love," Lord John replies, before he turns and addresses the Court. "Lady Michonne has spoken and made her claim: This Tribute belongs to her."

A/N: Thank you for checking this out. Now that the formalities are out of the way, we can get down to the good stuff. NB Lord John's faceclaim is Richard Armitage as he appears in Pilgrimage – check my Tumblr for images.

Next is The Feast:

I belong to Lady Michonne, to do with what she desires. But I have to remember that she sits at his side; I have to be vigilant. She has stayed with His Lordship all of these years, even after her service had finished. I can't let her charms make me forget why I'm really here. Even if all I want to do is bury my face between her thighs and feast until I am full; drink until my mouth is no longer dry.