Part 6 - History and Needs (52 - 57)

Backstory #52 – Targine

Diana and Carla place the conical-lidded clay cooker, heavily laden with its content of parsit fish, onto the low table before us. Sweet spicy aromas thick and succulent tell of the moist flavours of its content.

“It is a targine.“ I say, answering the inquisitive looks of my fellow diners, all but one of them staff of the Inn. I am the only female at the table.

Returning to the Kitchen, Diana brings forth a wide, handled earthenware pot its straight sides and fitted lid are embossed and colourfully glazed with primitive geometric pattern. Four stubby legs support the slightly curved base.

Earlier in the day, the girl had hand ground sa-tarna grain into it distinctive yellow flower, blending it with salt and water she produced dough, which she kneaded, pounded and rolled into pasta like sheets. Left in the sun to dry and harden it was later coarsely ground into grain size pieces. These were mixed with boiling water, chopped dry fruits and a pinch of the exotic saffron spice to produce the vibrant yellow rice like dish that Diana now presents for my approval.

I nod and Diana rises and places the bowl on the table while Carla towers along side each at the table placing before them a shallow dish, Turian eating spike and a small cupped spatula.

“And the fellow Teibar told you how to cook in this …?.”

“Targine.” I reply.

The questioner is Cernus, First Captain of Genesian and commanded of the Port’s guardsmen. He had joined us this evening.

“Indeed he said both vessels were from his own galley.”

“Strange conversation for a spy. Don’t you think?” Otta says, while accepting the goblet of paga offered to him by Vula.

Vula is continues serving the men paga giggling at their flirtive touching and playfully seducing them with her luscious body language – for me a watered ale. The Inn keeper, before leaving on his travels, had stipulated that this was the strongest brew I was to be served. Otta, has been left to run the Inn.

“He claims they are the cooking vessels of the Rencers in the Vosk delta swamps. Though I think the terra-cotta decorations are too primitive and colourful; they speak more of barbarians and warmer climates to me.”

Mother had told me once that many Gorean food recipes and preparations came with Barbarians who brought their cuisine from distant and exotic locations. In their slavery they recreated them in civilised Gor, over hearths and open fires until Gorean culture took them as their own.

“Did you board his ship?” asks the First Captain.

“I never leave the Inn.” I reply, glancing across at Otta and frowning at his knowing sneer.

“You fear my Guardsmen?”

I look hesitantly back to the First Captain “Yes”.

Cernus the First Captain is a friend of the Inn and often dines with us. Cernus has known of my presents for sometime and tonight, around this table, has agreed it to be neutral territory.

“It is as well you are. While you are within this building I can protect you but should I gain information …” he glances across at Otta “ … that you are on the street again, my men ….”

I swallow deeply the sentence needs no completion, I can almost feeling the weight of a collar about my neck – I follow his glance to Otta who seeing my gaze diverts his eyes.

Diana moves around the table serving each of us with a small bowl of my sauce which she places to the right of each eating dish.

The sauce is a blending coriander leaves, grup cloves, oil of the olives and the rind and a little juice of the Kort fruit. Added to this are spices to introduce a bite and add heat. The surface of the sauce in each bowl is powdered with the crushed buff-coloured and mildly sweet bark of the cinnarmus tree.

Our discussion continues focusing back on Teibar, a common enough name in Gor, the strange sea captain who recently visited the Inn and mysteriously departed the port at dead of night. Gorean captains seldom, if ever, travel by night.

“So what was Teibar’s interest in Tay about?” asked Braggs’s father, a bulky man of most undesirable appearance. One wonders how such as he could produce such a handsome boy as Braggs.

I realise they all are looking at me!

Shrug my shoulders “I know not. I have never seen the man before.”

It seems Teibar had aroused the interest of the Port Administration even before entering the Inn in his search for the “She-Urt Tay.”

Teibar’s vessel, I am told, was a light class Ram Ship with single bank of 12 oars. What drew suspicion to the vessel was its size compared to the distance it claimed to have travelled and the markings of Tyros that it bore. Its shield and weapons seem unlikely to originate from the island of Tyros. It was of the wrong type for a trading vessel and besides it had naught to trade with. When questioned, each member of the crew seems to give a slightly varying version for the purpose of their visit. Yet all documents were in order.

Those at the table discusses incident and puts foreword various speculations for the possible purpose of Teibar's visit but, none can place a plausible suggestion as to why he should be searching for me. All seem to agree that he was a spy, but spying on what and for whom? Otta, usually intensely opinionated in such matters, seems strangely reticent this evening. I note Census watching Otta, and believe he may have observed this as well.

As the discussion begins to falter I gesture to Diana who is towering with Vula and Carla against the far wall. She gracefully rises and strides to the table to lift the lid from the targine and with an eruption of steam reveal its colourful and succulent ingredients.

Diana, who is now my kitchen slave and is much happier being away from the Otta. Earlier in the day had assisted me in preparing the dish based on the instruction Tabier had given me.

She first smeared the inside of the targine with oil, then arranges two layers of sliced tospits on to the base of the vessel seasoning them with salt and a sprinkling of biting splice. On top these layers I place the fillets of parsit fish, which earlier I had smeared both side of each fillet with the same sauce that now sat in bowls before each of my companions. The fish was then left in the chila for a couple of ahn to allow the flavours of sauce and fish to blend.

Over and around the fish Diana scattered artichokes and olives along with a selection of a chopped mildly acid red and yellow pulpy fruit. Some of my sauce was trickle across these ingredients before finally topping them with more layer so sliced and spiced tospit.

Placing the conical top of the targine we placed in heath for slow bake until it was ready for the girls to bring it to our table.

Vula rises and service each diner a small glass of sweet Turian wine. I had chosen the wine, its sweetness will compensate and enhance the flavours of the spiced fish.

I was surprised that with a slight cough and gesture Otta indicated to Vula that I too should be served a nod of this strong wine.

Diana now moves around the table serve each Master and myself a portions of fish. Carla follows her serving each a spatula of the yellow pasta carefully placing it on their dish such that it absorbs parts of the liquids of the dish.

Backstory #53 – Purple Toenails

My life has taken on a routine, it lacks the variation and vitality of the street, yet it feeds me well and gives me simple comforts. Undreamed of comforts for a She-Urt. My body is taut and yet curvaceous. Most nights, such as this night, I eat with the other staff. Otta, the Kitchen Master, delights in humiliating me - the way he calls me “Lady Tay’ is cutting and hurtful, even more so when a slave giggles at it. He chastises them but they know he loves them doing it.

The strange encounter with Teibar would, I presume, prove a fleeting variance, soon to dissolve into the routine of my Kitchen duties but it I know it will affect me forever.

It began when Carla appears at the kitchen door, her skin gleaming with the sweat of recent usage. Her hair clinging to her cheeks and neck, creeping close across her shoulders. The odour of her usage is still upon her.

I move across, glancing to see where Otta is. “What is it girl?”

Her eyes are enlightened crystals, her body alive and invigorating.

“Mistress! Teibar would speak with you.”

“You idiot!” I chastise her through gritting teeth, repeatingly whipping her about the ears with the rep cloth in my hand while glancing over my shoulder to see if Otta had heard.

“By the priest Kings girl! You should be flogged for using a Master’s name! What is wrong with you!?”

I had a monetarily twinge at the familiarity with which Carla spoke the name.

“This girl begs forgiveness Mistress.” She bows her head looking to the floor, but her remorse is short lived, even a threaten flogging does little to thwart her excitement.

She moves to the beaded curtain to the public area and gestures towards a large, gruff man with ruffles of knotted blond hair; his feet, bare between the thongs of his sandals, displayed toenails painted purple.

“Who …is that!?” I look down at Carla who, with raised shoulders. looks back with wide sarcastic eyes.

“Oh alright! Permission to speak the male’s name.”

With a coy smile Carla looks back at him “he is Teibar, of Tyros, a mere sea captain, or so he claims.” But her voices carried a message that say he be more than a ‘mere sea captain’.

“Humph!” It is obvious who has recently savoured Carla’s delights in the alcoves. It is also most obvious he is nicely satisfied with her usage.

“Why does he want to see me, Girl?”

“This girl knows not Mistress.” I hesitate a moment then gesture Carla to go. She makes no move to leave until I nudge her with my foot and gesture a second time. I don’t know what has come over her – having to repeat a command – she is mightily distracted by this 'mere sea captain'.

As I walked towards this Teibar, he looks up stripping me naked with his eyes. Instinctively I adjust my posture, straighten, add a slight sway to my hips. It is as if he is evaluating my worth. His observation of me stirred a sensation within my thigh to an extent that I find myself clinch to restrain it.

“I am …”
“Tay.” He completes the sentence. “I’d know you anywhere girl”

Not Lady Tay! Just girl! Like slave meat. He made no disguise of his lustful eyes carousing over my body, as if he is grazing in known territory – the sensation within grows stronger, my breathing is short and frequent.

I stand by the table almost waiting for the command to sit. His power is within me, there seems little will to resist it.

”You would know me …?”

“Jana! By the Priest Kings it is Jana!” The raucous howl of his laughter and slap of a huge hand on the wood of the table startles me juggles the goblets and bowls on its surface – breaking for a moment my trance. Many customers look up from there reveries inquisitive of the intrusion only soon to return to their own thoughts.

.“Jana!? I am not Jana? Who …?”

“Your mother; I knew your mother she was named Jana.” There he goes again! Finishing ....

I can’t breath! Within me a voice howls, but there is no sound, all turns liquid …, I…., I hear the distant crash of furniture, a force holds me – it is hands that hold me, it is rough textured hand huge hands that lifts, that guides, that commands me …

I am sitting on a stool at the table; the stale smell of paga emits from a huge shape, a head shape – the sea captain is saying something – it is like time is distorting, like sounds pass through water. Gradually I realise that Teibar stands over me firmly yet gently securing me on the seat.

“... of me to scare you like that. Can you sit girl?”

I nod, hesitantly he releases his grip; hovering close only satisfied when, with a small movement, I adjust my position on the stool.

Picking his own stool off the floor he places it near me and sits, with obvious concern watching me. He gesture Vula for water.

“Are you alright girl? T’was thoughtless of me.”

It was Carla who brought the water – I sipped a little.

“How do you know my Mother?” my words are hesitant, almost a whisper.

“I be the one who bought her from the Public block. I named her Jana – she grew to like the name…”

I swallowed. “Is she alive?”

“As far as I know girl – this oaf staked her at Kaissa” there seems a feeling in his words, an annoyance; a feeling of stupidity of value lost. He thumps his fist on the table “… and lost!”

I sip more water swallowing deeply

“Lost?” my question when unanswered. “To whom?” Still no answer.

I look at Carla, kneeling semi-naked in the position of a pleasure slave. He nonchalantly plays with her hair as he contemplates me. She lulls her head against his knee. We are silent. He lets it stay for a few moments then playfully brushes it aside, ruffles her hair.

“Girl, you have Jana’s beauty …”

I am startled his words break into my thoughts.

“She talked of her Tay when I would let her.” He continued

In my mind Carla transforms into Jana, not mother, but Jana a playful pet, a naked slut at her Master’s feet.

Teibar sends her for another paga. She strides with a seductive swing of the hip tempting and enticing her usage.

Teibar talks to me of Jana, how she wailed as the ship left the Port of Genesian. Wailed to the extent that he had her flogged and, that night, gave her to his crew as a plaything for their usage.

“I did not expect her to survive, but there was a spirit in her. A spirit and a drive that made her popular with the crew .”

She remained on board as a galley slave besting the vivacious appetites of him and his men both from the galley and the furs.

She became their lucky girl; the ship’s pet; its mascot.

Carla returned with Teibar’s paga, kneeling before him to place the goblet to her sex, gliding it across her belly to her heart, before kissing it and, head bowed, offering it with up stretch hands to him. She then served me watered ale, though the serve is restrained she finishes it with a supportive smile; that smile is more welcome than the ale.

I try to remember mother at home, but still see Jana. My mother has transformed to a protective animal – she seems, in my mind to be lost to me.

Teibar goes on to talk of her cooking, and her playfulness, her care and concern for his crew. She is not human to him, she is but a familiar he speaks proudly of her but the pride is more is his ownership and enjoyment. In a treasured toy.

He will not tell me where she is now. When I persisted in my questioning he abruptly pushed Carla aside and leaves the Inn without a word.

Later a male slave arrived with the targine and a selection of spices.

I think it best not to mention the detail of our conversation about Jana and command Carla that she should not divulge it to anyone.

Hesitating a little while with my thoughts, I eventually return to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal - this meal we now eat.

Backstory #54 - Bring the beasts!

The Girl comes in from the kitchen, her chores not yet complete, she assists Diana to clear away the targine and eating bowls while Vula and Carla serving Paga, flirt and flounce around the Masters.

The Girl smiles at her sisters’ antics giggling and nudging Diana.

At Otta’s command she divides the left over food onto four small roughly hewn wooden slave eating platters, which she places against the wall. The slave will eat as their duties permit.

While Diana scoops her fish sliding it, with her fingers, across the surface of her platter and into her mouth, The Girl takes up her platter, along with the last of the dirty bowls and makes to leave.

“Leave it.” I command. “Do your chores and return here to eat.”

Otta promptly looks up, The Girl hesitates, he nods agreement and promptly she returns the platter to the floor.

She smiles, almost purring; I believe the prospect of serving a Masters tonight is much to her liking. She leaves for the kitchen with an added bounce in her step.

It is good to see her happy and playful once more.

Hastily licking the final juices from her platter, Diana returns it to the floor, dabs her mouth with a serving cloth and then proceeds to the table where she wipes clean its surface, lays the deep red dice bias across it.

I drain the dregs of the syrupy Turian wine from my glass, letting its sweetness linger on the palette as it saunters across the tongue to slide deep within – I feel it’s every slithering motion as it sinks to my belly emitting its luxurious warmth within. I give an involuntary giggle at this pleasure.

“Bring the beasts!” Otta slaps his palm to the bias.

Diana gracefully rise from where she kneel near his left should, with a subtle sway of the hips she displays her beauty to the Masters as she strides across the room; it is her slave duty to do so and she loves it. Kneeling at the low cabinet in the corner she retrieves five flat boxes, a little larger than a man's hand, and a bag of gaming cups.

“Ohh!” whimper giggle “…. Oh Master! Yes Master.” Carla playfully resists Bragg’s father’s gruff grab at her, only to surrender to his arms offering her lips for his pleasure.

Slap! Vula’s laugh is cut short, turns to a wide eyed squeal as Otta’s gross hand contacts the delegate skin of her buttocks, his finger groping at her inner thigh “Paga, Girl.!” He demands.

“Yes Master,” she hurriedly rises from his side …

Laughing Otta as he wafts his hand across the table saying “The meat is hot and marinating.” Even I give a reluctant giggle.

Diana is progressing around the table kneeling beside each Master placing a box and a games cup before him. The boxes are colourfully decorated with animal motifs each having a horizontal hinged lid which is sealed closed. The wax seal on each bearing the crest of Genesian.. When placing each box on the table, Diana holds it to display the seal to all who might care to check it.

Cernus brushed his box aside for Diana to retrieve. She moves to the next Master.

It is strange that Cernus remains; usually the First Captain stays for the meal and genial conversation then excuses himself on some pretext. Tonight he lingers not quite joining in the joviality, but not aloof from it either.

I lift my wine to my lips, hesitate, not sure why, shrug and sip more of the glorious syrup.

On evenings like this, the paga runs freely the slave dance and cajole until eventually serving the Masters on their furs or, more often, on the low table before his paga companions.

I will laugh and coo at the pleasure slave’s usage as she is straddling and writhing, gasping beneath some Master, only to leave for my room, to secretly finger my own arousal, jealous of the slave’s freedoms.

The Girl, having completed her kitchen cores and returns to eagerly kneels in the corner scooping the contents of her platter into her mouth. She has changed from her work camisk to the silks of a pleasure slave.

Backstory #55 - As a precaution

Within the confines of the Inn I am scandalously dressed and despicably in my actions; well scandalous and despicable by the moralistic values of Genesian’s prudish free women. My tunics are somewhat more revealing than I would dare to wear in public place; little more than a sleaved camisk, or wrap skirt knotted at the hip with a male shirt laced open at the neck. I am always face stripped – it worries me not. Often, beyond the lack of brand and collar, the only thing distinguishing me from the slaves is thigh wrap, a garment not permitted to the house slaves.

I live somewhere between slave and free, technically free, but this Inn is as much my Prison and bondage as a slave's collar and brand is hers.

The Inn Keeper has me to drink slave wine with the kajira.

“As a precaution.”

But there is little need, for he has warned all males away from me. Though constantly flirtatious, I only experience the occasional sly flirty touch and occasional cheeky kiss. A desire; a need is so strong within me that calling to The Girl up from the kennels no longer satisfy.

------

I gulped the remainder of the Turian wine, its luxurious thick sweetness gliding down my throat like the flesh of a succulent sorp.

It is not permitted for a woman to play these games so no amount of cajoling on my part can will get me a box.

“Carla, what am I bit for this beautiful and willing slut?” Mimicking the slaver on the public block, Cernus opens bidding for the game stakes.

The slaves are auctioned off as player stakes, at the beginning of the game. Playfully they line up against the wall behind Carla, who poses her beauty with a cheeky smile and a twist of her curvaceous hips.

The slaves complete against each other to attract a higher price; a gaggle of naked slave flesh writhing and teasing at each other. Moneys gained from the auction go into the common pot which, at the end of the night, the winner claims as his own.

“A copper tarsk! And that be over valuing the slut” cries Bragg’ father with teasing joviality.

Carla pouts and stamps her foot feigning indigence at the insulting bid. The players break out in laughter; the girls giggle and with a bright smile Carla gleeful tosses her hair back over her shoulder with a twist of the head to continue her playful mimicry.

“Oh by the priest Kings! She will complain all night at that price. A silver task!” Otta makes his bid.

Each girl has the stake value of her auction price; maybe a silver task or even a few copper coins. She can be placed on the table instead of coinage of that value when betting.

As the she are worthless to the eventual winner, any poor girl who is left on the table at the end of the game is traditionally flogged for entertainment and has little chance of usage that night.

Being a game of deception and detection there as several ploys an experienced player can use by betting his stake girl. He may bid on more than one girl just to prevent another player from having a stake.

If a player bet his stake and looses, his is a dry frustrating evening until he can win her, or another, back; or purchase one from another player.

“Next what have we here!? – She is delicious! She is percolating with desires! And what is more she can cook!” Diana moves forward ends a sensual twirl with a pleasing posture arching her back and protruding her breasts to the delight of the players and a hiss from the other girls

Each girl, in turn, as auctioned goes and kneels, in the way of a pleasure slave, next to the player who wins her. Only his stake is permitted to serve a player food, drink and/or her usage that evening.

I sip my wine the chuckling at the girl bideing for attention of the players.

“Awww poor Braggs!” I add my tease to those of the other players “He got not stake.” And poke my tongue out at his indignation.

I slightly light headed, “Wheee. I’ll be your stake! Braggs.”

Looking at the other player, my head undulating in self congratulations and defiance I state “I’ll am Bragg’s stake.”

“Tay. I don’t think…” Bragg’s protest in cut short by his father.

“Yes of course. Why not?” the question was rhetorical and before anyone else could interfere, I sat cross legged at Bragg’s side, nudging him; meeting his concerned look with raise eyebrows and a cheeky smile.

Whoooo I did it! That deserves another sip of wine and I lift the full glass to my lips and giggle spluttering the syrupy liquid on to my nose. I giggle again and placing the glass back beside me while dabbing at the succulent liquid with the tip of my tongue.

Braggs reluctantly agrees by throwing two copper coins, the value of the lowest winning auction bid, into the communal pot.

“Right! Time!” Otta snaps

The players open their boxes with a sharp clacks as the wax seals breaks and retrieve from it a knuckle.

I’ve seen these before; they are usually the knuckle bone of a verr. Triangular in shape each of the five faces painted with a different animal motive similar to those that colourfully decorated the boxes.

The players are careful to close their boxes before placing the knuckle into their gaming cup, shake the cup vigorously and, in unison, slam it upside down on the table before them.

“Reveal!”

The cups are lifted.

I sipped the wine and all are watching intensely

“Two Larl.” exclaimed Otta. “Father and son no less”

Braggs and his father grin each sizing the other up as they place their knuckles back in the cups and played again.

I sip more wine, licking the luxurious syrup from my upper lip.

“Son downs the father”

Braggs had thrown another ‘Larl’ to the pittance of his father’s ‘Verr’.

“Yes!” mutters Braggs and looks triumphantly at his father.

“Luck son. You have luck on your side.”

Braggs nudges me “I have Tay on my side.” There is a general chortle at this comment.

The played knuckles are thrown into a central bowl.

Holding their box closed and accompanied by loud rattling noises, each player now shakes their box, flipping them over several times finally slamming them flat on the table in front of them.

Braggs drains his goblet.

“Open Lad.” Otta looks to Braggs.

Braggs slightly lift the lid of his box ensuring only he and he alone can view its contents. He hesitates closes the lid and bids “Run 4 Urt.”

Braggs, looks around the table, until his eyes eventually settle on his father sitting to his left.

“Ah! For the Priest Kings Sake son, have some backbone.” Snarled Bragg’s father looking in his own box

Otta laughs “Like father like son” he teases “Never known you to enter higher than Verr.”

Otta gestures to Carla for paga. With posture rises and strides sensually the to Paga barrel.

Bragg’s father throws two copper task to the table, for that was the standard ante seeing he had won The Girl at auction for that price and the lowest price pay for a stake. Being the first to call, Braggs had been the common pot so he has no need to place an ante until the second round.

I join Carla at the barrel and she shows me how to pull the Paga.

I watch as she stride back to Otta kneeling by his side placing the goblet to her sex, her bell, her heart then kissing its rime before head lowered she raised her arms to offer him the drink – he snatch it from her without once leaving his attention of the game.

The image of Teibar, forms in my mind, the way his eyes stripped me naked, how instinctively I had adjust my posture, added a slight sway to my hips. Now, as I stride back to Braggs I find myself clinch to restrain the same growing sensations that throb within my thighs.

I become aware of Cernus’s raised eyebrow and wiry smirk.

Kneeling before Braggs I parody the glide of Carla’s goblet across my belly, slurping a little on my breast as I giggling, kiss the rim, taking a mischievous sip and nudging Braggs pass him the goblet.

Carla glares at me. I chuckle. What do I care, but look to the floor aware that I have made a jest and belittled a proud service of a slave to her master.

Oh well it was just a bit of fun. I take up my wine and sip at its sweetness. I feel almost aloof from the game, resting my head against Bragg and watching with little interest as the round had moves to Otta on Bragg’s right.

“Herd 6 Bosk. Play stake.” Otta gestures Carla to the table.

I am alert! Carla is valued at a Silver Task and having her on the table ups the ante dramatically. Braggs can’t match that.

I feel Braggs tense, he fingers the content of his purse. I look to his face it is a mask.

“Come on boy!” Taunts Otta.

I look at Otta, then his father, both are smirking at his indecisiveness.

Throwing half the ante value as coinage into the pot he bid “The Stake and lower the herd half”.

“Well played.” Explained Cernus thumping his chest in admiration.

Braggs carefully lifted from his box four knuckle on which, the Bosk motif is painted on the upper face.

He turned to me indicating I should join Carla. “Sorry Tay.”

Giggle, I nuzzled his hair on rising “silly boy it is only a game”

I rise and step to the table my wrap is suddenly torn from me. I Gasp and grab for it,
But Braggs’s father has swirled it out of reach.”

“She should be naked!” insists Bragg’s Father.

“No!” Bragg’s cries, promptly jumping to my defence.

“I think not.” Cernus said in a matter of fact manner, but few would defy his word.

I giggle, it matters not, the tails of my shirt offer as much, if not more coverage, than my work tunic. However, I am aware of exposing my thighs as I kneel, knees together, on the table with Carla. Turning to Braggs, I squish my nose at him reassuringly.

My wine is within reach and I drained the glass. This is fun. I feel like a little girl and can’t stop giggling spasmodically.

Vula soon joins us on the table when her player, a wiry old wagon handler, raises to 6 Bosk – that made a call of 10 Bosk in total.

Otta laughs with glee; the fellow has shown his hand.

“Double and call.” Otta throws five silver Tarsk to the table looking around to daring others to double the ante and stop his call.

“I’m out” said Braggs lifting the lid of his box so all could see his remaining knuckle, a Larl.

“Ay, Son. So am I. Tis too rich for me.” Opening his box to expose his 5 knuckles, two of which two Verr, a Larl, a Sleen and a single Bosk.

With the four Bosk Braggs had exposed earlier, that made five. The wagon handler revealed another 2 Bosk and all eyes were on Otta.

As he scans the exposed knuckles his face shows concern – all are silent – he needs 3 Bosk, it is a high risk call.

Otta erupts with a raucous laugh, his whole face lights up as he turned his open box to the table – 3 Bosk 2 Larl.

I laugh and clapped my hands, He’s done it! Them suddenly realise the implications. I am now Otta’s stake.

Otta scooped all to him gleefully counting the coinage and returning the agreed percentage back to the common pot. Vula and Carla moved to kneel as pleasure slaves close to Otta’s left shoulder. I grudgingly, but still in playful spirit, sit cross legged behind them.

“Paga Master?” asked Carla.

“Oh not you girl.” Otta looks over his shoulder at me “Tay fetch Paga.”

I give a snide laugh “No!” I’m feeling a little light headed.

“Tis the duty of the stake to serve the paga Tay.” Cernus reprimands me gently but firmly.

The whole table laughs at me and, to my consternation, even Braggs poorly tries to contain a grin.

Sullenly I rise, maybe a little too abruptly, for head is made of Bosk gelatine and I stumble. “Hmpp.” I stand again, conscious of all eyes on me, stride purposely and a little unsteadily to the barrel. In filling the goblet slop some paga on the tail of my shirt. Returning to the table I bend and give the goblet to Otta, all the time fighting to maintain focus.

“You better sit here.” Otta says carefully relieving me of the paga. With his free hand guiding me to the floor beside him.

Instinctively a felt for my glass but couldn’t find it.

Diana has laid out fresh sealed boxes. The second round starts this time with Bragg’s father. I know not what he bid, but there was much laughing an teasing. During this and the subsequent three rounds I find my self on the table once more. Braggs won me back, but as I was barely able to stand The Girl got him his well deserved Paga.

By the end of the last round I had gained a little composure, but find myself once more on the table. Alone, in the Common Pot. The wagon handler and Bragg’s father are stake-less and Vula kneels at Braggs left shoulder. While he scooped up the coins of the common pot.

“Oooh! Bosk Droppings!” I whimper.


Backstory #56 - Metal to Tile

Otta gloats at my predicament.

“Carla! The whip girl.”

“No!” I protest. “No! You can’t”

Otta gestures to Carla to continue.

I turn to the First Captain. “Cernus!? … No!?”

Cernus shrugs saying, “It is the way; the Stake becomes the entertainment. You know that.”

“Yes, but not the whip! No?” Fear; panic wrench at me, billowing up through my belly. I stare wide eyed as Carla crawls backs to Otta the whip in her mouth.

I am as a caged animal scanning the faces of all in the room, free and slave alike.

“Braggs? Please. Braggs?” I am kneeling knees clenched begging before him pleading. Braggs makes to rise; his father places his hand of his son’s shoulder forcing him down.

I look back at Carla she is kissing the whip that Otta now offers her.

Trembling, staring at the whip in disbelief, I am aware, to my horror, a glow of arousal rising in my belly; a hypnotic a attraction to the heinous implement.

Otta turns, leering, the coiled presence of the whip within the palms of his hands.

Shaking my head in breathless disbelief, I cringe from as his beckoning fingers.

“Kiss the whip girl.” He cajoles, “kiss the whip.” Someone sniggers.

I turn again to Cernus, his face is a mask to my fear; my pleading “I is the way girl. You volunteered ….” His eye brows rise contemptuously.

“Well …?” He stares at me as if my unvoiced protest is a challenge to his authority.

Whimpering I lower my self on to all fours, trembling and tearful; crawl across the table towards Otta who thrusts the sleek handle towards me, the sheen of its leather braid almost engenders the pain and suffering of it usage, silken tentacles extrude, coiled, hesitant, angering at their confine. Shaking and humiliated, a fire now raging in my belly, I lower lips toward ….

Otta roars with laughter withdrawing the whip.

The coils spring, unfurling to wreak venom across Carla’s back who yelps at its sting.

“Ah girl. This leather craves the delicacy slaves meat not scrawny flesh of the gutter.”

My skin; my belly wails in anguish at the withdrawal.

All about me laugh and jeer, even the slaves giggled un-disciplined. It is contagious, with the sudden relief fear soon translates the tearful pouting of humiliation to shy smile and giggle yet within my belly flames with an unrequited need.

“The whip is for slaves, girl. They earn it, cherish it and thank their Master’s for its use.”

As is prompted Carla’s lips move in an unheard thankyou to Otta for her punishment, a nasty red welt appearing across her shoulder.

He raises it again , involuntarily I reach out to stop him, but with a sly smile he furls the beast, places it to Carla’s mouth and gestures her away.

“Who’d want a scrawny thing like that for slave meat?” Braggs’s father jibed. “What use would she be? Clumsy …”

“Couldn’t let her near the Bosk, the stench would frighten them.” Added the Wagon Handler, “Besides.” he adds, leaning forward flipping the flap of my shirt above my thigh. “She’s all bone, no shape – the Sleen would think twice before attempting to digest that.”

Indignantly I stand smoothing down my shirt and stamping my foot against their laughter.

“I’m beautiful!” I protest. Smoothing the shirt even tighter against my body.

“I am beautiful.” but there is a fear within me that there might be some truth in their teasing.

“Of course you are!” Braggs jumps to my defence only to come red faced as another roar of merriment is aimed at him.

In the diversion I retrieve a set of zills form Vula.

Standing, as Carla has taught me, hands high wrists touch inwards, head high, haughty and insolent, back gently arched and right leg cropped forward displaying thigh between the flaps of my shirt, toes pointed. My sharp strike of the zills subdues the laughter.

“Well! What have we here?” asked Cernus.

“Scrawn done up as succulence.” Sniggered Otta.

My lips trembled, my need glistens. Once more I strike the zills between thumb and forefinger. Almost squirming in the delight; delight in the new flavour of the attention now shown to me.

“Dance Tay.” Cernus’s invitation is warm and encouraging.

My eyes follow my left arm as it lowers the rest my hand lightly up the hip; flicking my hair over my shoulder my head turns insolently over the left shoulder to seek and hold Otta’s eyes in feigned destain. My body weight ascends to the balls of my feet.

To the chatters and rhythmic pulsing of the zills hips undulate in rhythmic language of the dance each syllable a sound; a beat and languid movement; a gesture. A gesture of insolence, of desire; a gesture of anguish of need of searching.

As I gambol around the table the body teases and tempts at the males for it now speaks its own language; expresses its own languishing; its own desires, I am a mere passenger within its confines.

At one moment vibrant, rhythmic and bouncy, blatant in its sexuality; another languid, sensually yearning, passionately repressed; fragile in its vulnerability.

“ Teibar was correct, she be true slave this one.” the words barely register, my consciousness writhes and pulsates to the zills.

Cernus is nodding in approval.

I fall before Braggs knees spread, skin sheenning with sweat, hips undulating in the succulence of desire. Head lowering, the gloss black of burnished locks drape to the floor before me, my arms stretching upward....

“No!” There is a clank of metal against floor tiles; a force takes my wrists, compelling me to rise, dragging me from the table.

“No!” It is Braggs. Thrusting me towards the door, looking back I see his father reaching for a collar that lay on the floor beside him.

Braggs drives me in front of him; lurching me head long and stumbling barely understanding what is happening. I falter, Braggs scoops me up. We still move forward.

I recognise the doorway to my room.

Backstory #57 – No!

I am lost, coiled and supported in Braggs's arms, strong, warm and secure. I clasp my arms around his neck, wanting him fiercely. Since the Inn Keeper's ban no man has dared to touch me but ... I want Braggs, I want his touch, want his musky odour, salt from his skin. I want to revel in his arousal and meld with his body.

I can picture, Vula. Luscious, submissive Vula, his winnings at the card game. Vula, waiting thighs spreading, glinting for his usage, but she shall not have him tonight. Not tonight – his usage is mine – Oh please let it be mine.

I offer my lips to his.

“Tay! Stop it!” His words are firm and recriminating pulling his lips from mine.

“What were you thinking!? By the Priest Kings Tay!” I lay my head on his shoulder with a sob and cling tighter to him, gripping him so hard – so very hard, I never wanted to let go.
Braggs right arm gradually releases support letting me slide across his body till I stand, tip toes still clinging to him, still clinging to this neck.

“No. No!” I whimper cupping my right leg over his hip bone in a feeble effort to climb back. The heat within flutters then intensifies.

“Tay! Please. Tay. you were going to submit! Tay!?”

“To you....” I whimper “only to you ...”sob. Then mumbling I add “Besides it was only in the dance ...” sniffle.

“Submit is submit – dance or no dance. You know the law.”

He can take me; he can collar me; he can brand me all over - my need for him is insatiable – that he should gorge himself on my usage is payment enough.

I kiss at his neck and taste at the salt of his sweat that smears my lips.

Grabbing my right wrist Braggs prizes my hands apart placing the right one to my hip. I lock my left arm around the muscular contours of his shoulder, gripping our bodies tighter together. The soft, elasticity of my breast squelching across his chest.

Releasing the thigh wrap I feel its silky stoke against inner leg as it flutters downwards to caress my ankle.

I can almost smell the sweet scent of masculine arousal as I glide my free hand up from his knee to his calf and under his shirt squealing with the intensity of the energy surge when skin meets skin; it ripples through my belly with squirming pleasure.

I crop my right leg to the firmness of his groin feeling a slight increase of pressure on my swelling from his upper thigh.

“Ooooh...”

Braggs's hand slides up my spine cupping at the nape and pulls me to his lips. It is as if we melt, flavouring each other; we are a single entity. Hot waves of pleasure condense and fester sending a shudder down to my thighs.

His hand, beneath my shirt flat close over my mons. Heat surged up from under his grip, I kissed his throat; the taste, the skin. The odour my body is his for he is my true ......

“To the furs girl!” Tearing open his cod he thrusts me to the furs, I throw my head back with glee and girlish laughter; gloriously happy in my expectation.

He holds me firm and forceful, I giggle and squeal; wriggle and squirm in a playful fight to get him off. My shirt wrenchs low over one shoulder exposing a breast, its nipple feels pointed and ripe. His lips are upon me suckling at its its pleasures. The exquisite tingling extending down through my body to the pulsing within.

Grunting Braggs rises, forcing me open with his knees and tearing open the shirt to run his tongue down my belly. My imminent usage is rich on the air.

I claw at his back. It it as if a veil of water run through me and I am ripping and buckling with delight. He throws my shirt flaps aside. I wrap my legs around his flank gasping; seeking his sex – the need is greatly upon me. I feel his hardness running inside my thigh. Anticipation pumps, I am open mouthed gasping; nerve endings awake, vital, expectant pulsating. My sex throbs I stare for his face.

A face which is not there; his flanks are rasped from my grip!

“Don't be stupid! Boy!” I struggle to realise.

“Vula quivers for her usage! Leave this .. this one – it isn't worth it boy.” It is Braggs's father.
Braggs is protesting, grappling with his father who has him by the collar forcing him from the room.

All my needs lay exposed, my arousal converging and unanswered; needs left to wail, thrash, writher and scream in tortured frustration.

“AHHHH! No! NO! Don't leave me! Don't leave me like this. Pleeeeeease! ....”