It’s been two days since I moved into the Kennels. Carla is training Vula and Tutsu. I am lying on my bunk staring at the ceiling, indigent at their presence.
Tutsu is a recent acquisition to the kennels; she claims to be a Eurasian Barbarian. None of us understand what she means, but her skin is a deeply exotically bronzed; her hair dark, silken, unfathomable. She is a rare, intoxicating beauty.
"May this girl pleasure the Mistress?" Tutsu is saying.
"No! Beg Girl Beg! Now again." Carla's voice contains the flavour of frustration.
"Please Mistress; this girl begs to pleasure her." Tutsu is now passionately pleading, reflecting a genuine a need.
My eyes bolt open! I sit upright. Both Vula and Tutsu kneel, in the fashion of pleasure slaves, beside my bunk.
Oh! This is ridiculous!
Promptly I return to lay on my back, fold my arms firmly against my chest and stared at the ceiling.
"See, a genuine beg attacks the natural curiosity of the Mistress." Carla's voice is instructive and clear, if not smidgen teasing.
Masters and Mistresses
"Mistress Tay.” That attracts my attention. ‘Mistress Tay’ indeed!
“Tay, come the training fur." Not request, but a command from Carla. A command, even as a Free, I thought wise to obey.
"If Mistress will permit ..." Without waiting for permission, Carla places my arms above my head, kneeling in the palms to constrain them. Vula and Tutsu's nimble fingers work at undoing the silken belt cord and waist wrap. Soon, my camisk removed, I lay naked; seething with anger upon the furs.
"Most Masters delight in the moisture and succulence of our lips and mouth. They desire the kiss, the lick; they desire to be suckled and brought to prompt arousal.” Carla says “For this purpose they will often bracelet our hands behind us."
Carla continues, I squirm trying for release but her weight only increases.
"A mistress, enjoys these delights as well, but will revel in the additional delights of the hands and fingers to build her arousal over a longer period."
Conceding I lay back, Vula and Tutsu are attentive and eagerly absorbing Carla’s teaching. I must admit to a growing interest myself.
Feather and glide
“The anticipation of touch is often more desirable than touch itself. In the kennels we have all learn the craving for touch.”
Vula and Tutsu nodded in agreement, both looking momentarily distant.
“Skin has the craving within it. This is why the feel of certain fabrics become desirable."
I remember the feel of the clean white camisk.
Carla now kneels alongside me, my arms remain where she had placed them. She rubs the palms of her hands together and blows upon them. Starting from beneath my arm pits her hands glider down the side of my naked body to my thighs - never touching the skin, but close, ever so close, the warmth of their presence igniting me. I squirmed and gasped as her fingers then feather back across my belly.
"It is not so much the touch as the anticipation of the touch that can arouse the Mistress.” Carla repeats. “Now Vula, you try."
For the next ahn Carla demonstrates on me, then have the girls repeat each movement, each touch, each behaviour, each word time and time again until perfect.
I lay withering uncontrollably on the fur. Pulsating. Quivering. Carla hand lays across my mouth stifling my moans. Such heat I had never experienced - could never have imagined.
I am called Tay
Vula and Tutsa kneel either side of me smiling warmly and knowingly on the furs, each with a hand gently patting, or stroking my thigh. My head cradles within Carla's thighs, I sense her heat. Looking up I see her smiling at me her eyes watering. I feel a gentle tensing and relaxing of her thigh muscles.
We stay like this unspeaking for some time, the afterglow still in my belly ...
From that day on I am named Tay in the kennels ...
A name given to me by the paga girls - the kajirae of a small backstreet Inn at Port of Genesian.
Master is her slave
Vula giggles and squeals while Tutsu covered her mouth and looks to the ground.
“Oh Tay! You are so clumsy!” Even Carla’s voice can hardly disguise the laughter.
In the kennels I am trying to mimic the start position for a dance Carla is teaching us. My hands above my head, wrists turned outwards, feet flat on the floor.
I pull my hands down, stamp my foot and pout - tears well in my eyes.
“Shh…” Carla placed her hand on my shoulder “Come we try again.”
Placing my hands back over my head she starts to pose me, positioning the fingers, a slight off centre pose of the hip, an arch in the back …
“Imagine,” she says” there is an invisible pole rising behind you.”
Cupping my upper thigh in one hand and placing the other behind my left knee inclining my leg forward.
“The Dancer is the leader.” She continues. “It is the only time a kajira will be the Mistress and the Master her slave.” Her attention is on Vula and Tutsu’s reactions.
Bodies moves
Finally, a lifting of the chin, a slight twist of the head to the right.
“There!. Now pout a little and let your eyes droop slightly”. I do so.
Vula claps in glee. “But she is beautiful.” whispered Tutsu.
….
“A dancer is as a warrior, she senses everyone’s position and what they are doing and with this knowledge entices, teases; she is insolent, she can even be irreverent.” Carla instructs while slapping her hand against the wall.
At the sound of each slap us three Vula, Tutsu and I, adopt another pose – another movement of the dance.
“If a Master waivers in his concentration the dancer re-gains his attention with the flick of a wrist, the twist of the ankle, flip of the hip, gestures of the eyes ...the mouth”
The rhythm of the beat increases – our bodies move, swirl and limber in response.
“In the dance we control the Masters, we arouse and tantalise them – They want us on the fur yet savour the arousal of the dance. They cannot have both. The art of the Dancer is to control that choice. To draw out the arousal, to extend it until Master can withhold no longer and then, and only then collapse to his feet hot and aching for his furs.”
I work as a Kitchen Girl and not allowed into the public areas of the Inn. My fear is not of the whip; my bondage not of a collar; the fear by which I am controlled is that of the ever present threat of exposure to the Guardsmen – I have escaped capture twice, a third time I may not be so lucky.
Otta, Master of the Kitchen, is a brute of a man and works us hard. He cuffs and kicks the girls mercilessly for the smallest reason and, although never touching me with his hand, I have received many bruises on the back of the legs and across the shoulders from beatings with his kitchen implements. I am in fear of him. We all are regular targets for his constant tirade of abuse and scorn.
Diana, a tall blond and constantly harassed kitchen slave, taught me the basic chores of the kitchen and I learnt quickly. One of my more pleasant duties is to slice and fry lama fruit and lay the slices as garnish on the plates of grilled tabuk.
Tay's Specials
Tabuk has a gamey taste and is not very popular with the customers, but Otta gets tabuk meat cheap, and not always fresh, from the docks.
When Otta is not looking, I mix up a little marinade made from the acidic juice of the tospits fruit to tenderize the meat, sweetened with a little honey and crushed ram berry. To this I add chopped wild onions, salt and a mixture of herbs. Laying slices of the meat in this mixture, I hide them at the back of the chilla. After about one ahn, I sear the slices, both sides, on a very hot grill to seal in the juices.
The girls have got to know of this marinated meat and ask for my “special” if they particularly like the Master they are serving.
I experiment with other food and combination, when I can, but it is a bosk steak and kidney pie with a crusty pastry that is my undoing - the odour is much stronger than I expected.
I wail in dismay as Otta’s rains blows from his spatula about my head and shoulders.
“You …” wack “Idiot!” wack “How dare tampering with my food!” wack! Wack!
Enter the InnKeeper
“Stop!” I looked up as Otta, holding me before him by the neck of my camisk, faces the Inn Keeper. The Inn Keeper's face an angry red and eyes staring - blood shot.
“Stop!” He repeated stepped towards me. Closing my eyes I cowled in fear, trembling before him.
Otta released his grip and ... nothing happens.
I become aware of a choking noise.
Opening my eyes I look up to see my self enclosed between Otta and the Inn Keeper with his hand around Otta’s throat. I dart out from between them.
“You stupid fool!’ growls the Inn keeper.
“But ... but …” Chokes out Otta, fear written on his now bloating face.
“We have never had such custom!” hisses the Inn Keeper.
Placing his face a few inches from Otta’s he shouts “They come for our food!”
A Gaggle of Giggles
Then, looking around at the gaggle of curious girls who now clustered about the kitchen doorway, the Inn Keeper's face - and fortunately grip on Otta’s throat - relaxes a little.
“… and our Girls” he leers at them with a false sweetness “Who I will have thrashed if they don’t get back to work immediately!”
There is a giggles of delight, squeals and flurry of activity as the girls scamper to their duties.
Discarding Otta by pushing him into the corner to collapse noisily among the empty pots – he turns to me.
“You!” a huge finger beckoned me towards him. “What have you been up to?”
Over the next ahn still, at times, trembling I show him how I prepared the food and where it is hidden in the chilla – He sent Diana to get me a half tankard of watered ale while I talk. I relax a little as his fatherly arm envelopes my shoulder and squeezes me to him.
The New Cook
Turning to Otta, who now stands silently behind us and swallows deeply at our focus.
“You” the Inn Keeper says, prodding Otta’s chest emphasize each word “Remain Kitchen Master .... But!” Indicating me “Tay will cook! And!” there is a tormenting pause.
“And!” he repeated starting to prod again, “If I hear as much as a whisper of you hitting a Free Woman again, I will have you before the magistrate so fast, you wont realize what has happened until you arse hits the oar bench of the next ship leaving Genesian!”
Otta whimpers.
---(to be continued)
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