Backstory #58 - The Tahari trade
With wheels clattering against the rutted surface of the pavestones, one of the cripples with a gleeful whoop, and to the indignation of the other, veers her board in under the Bosk making good her advantage as they both race in, out; around and under the market stalls. The Bosk care little just keep nonchalantly munching in their chaff bags. The stall owners and custom in the most ignored them or feign annoyance, only a few attempted to chastise them in their passing.
Both slaves were strapped kneeling, narrow nadu posture, with their useless legs tucked up against their thighs. Each wore a ragged camisk, just sufficient to satisfy the propriety of Free Women. They propelled themselves by hand, scooping at the paved surface.
Resting on the board in front of one, is a baker’s bag its leather thongs knotted behind her neck. I had smelt the fragrance of hot bread as they passed. No doubt their gleeful mood and speed of passing is partially buoyed by a possible reward of a warm pastie to share - a reward from their Mistress.
The Girl in the back of our cart let out a squeal of merriment as they pass, I guess she is watching through the canvas flap. Her delight seems to waiver with a more serious remark. I recognise Carla’s voice but not her words, which probably related to the crippled slaves having their hamstrings cut. A common punishment for runaway slaves.
The three slaves in our cart are free to move about the interior as they wished and as far as the chains, that shackled them to the restraining bar, permit. The Girl and Carla seemed in good spirits delighted at the change in routine and to be outside of the Inn.
Tutsu is petulant and moody, she has been this way since the Inn keeper, her Master, made her drink the second Slave Wine – that was two days ago and already she is flush and ripe for seeding.
Around Tutsu’s neck, attached to her collar by a delicate chain, is a small polished cylinder in which is kept her breeding records – every 4 hours I remove her iron belt and insert a small tubular glass vial instrument up her anus, recording on breeding chart the icon reading as the Physician showed me. On this paper will be recorded several other things during the breeding, such as dates of impregnations, diet and later milk production.
This chart forms part of her slave records and those of any young she made produce. Her milk may not be for her own young, for it is doubtful she will ever see them. She will be milked and her product sold or she will be rented as a wet nurse to a slaver or a Free Woman. There will be a good market for her milk at the new settlement.
I also have some small packets of powder to feed her 2 hours prior to any impregnation. The physician says it will cause multiple young with a high probability of females.
“Be quiet! Stop it immediately” I thump the cart floor above my head, the giggling stops, thought only muffled behind clasp hands. It is awkward enough within the constrictions of these robes of concealment without knowing the slaves are peaking at you through the cracks in the floorboards.
“Tower!” I command and hear the prompt movements of submission above me as they react to the command.
I had been told, by the Inn Keeper, not to leave the wagon under any circumstances. In desperation for a pee I crawl under the wagon and partially shielded by a draping canvas squat attempting to arrange the voluminous robes so as not to soil them. This definitely is not within the norms of Free Women behaviour. My confines seem to amplify the trickle. I am much relieved, not only physically, when emerging from under the cart I see nobody seems to have noticed my actions.
“Release.” I hear a shuffle within the cart. “Tutsu, She Sleen!”.
Inside the cart I know Tutsu is adopting the posture, hindquarters upthrust, thighs wide and head to the floor. From beneath the wagon driver’s seat I retracted the pouch containing the little glass instrument and key to Tutsu’s iron belt.
As I climb to the back of the cart I am momentarily distracted by a cheery gaggle of six short, plump coffled slaves, as they are lead past naked towards the docks. These are not the slender beauties sort by most men of Gor, but specially prepared slaves for the Tahari trade. Tahari tribesmen prefer their slave meat well rounded and softly padded – it possibly has something to do with the added warmth they offer their Masters on the freezing desert nights.
These girls, though good natured now as they delight in, and play to the whistles and goads from the free men, were probably force fed to achieve their chubbiness. Force-feeding is done by forcing fatty food, foods containing much verr butter and cream, through a tube directly into a slave's stomachs every 2 to 3 hours over a number of days, even weeks, until the required shape is achieved. Their Master will no doubt profit well from his efforts.
I continue into the cart and unlock Tutsu's iron belt ....
(To be continued)
Monday, December 8, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
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! ....”
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! ....”
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Part 5 - Kari e yara laybis! (The girl is a bitch!) - (47-51)
Backstory 47 - Candy Time
With exception of Carla and Vula all that are not asleep go to tower posture as I enter the kennels, even Tutsu, as best she can in the confines of the punishment cage.
“Greetings Mistress.” Their voices almost in unison.
“Oh don’t do that, not in your kennels. It is Tay!” I said.
Hesitantly they return to former activities, some glance a Carla for guidance.
“Mistress … Tay you cannot blame us for you are a free – we have been conditioned to react so.” She said, herself showing a little uneasiness.
Vula looks at me with a half smile she is visibly shaking. I reach out to calm her and she rests her cheek against my arm, her eyes are watering.
It is true, if a Master or Mistress thought any kajira’s response was in any way slovenly or disrespectful the girl would receive severe punishment.
Diana is in the opposite corner her head lowered and shoulder down disgruntled – earlier I had her switched for not attending to soup that was simmering on the heath.
I cross to stand over her and run my finger through her hair “Shhhh ...”
She looks up sobbing, eyes wide and pleading forgiveness – she is going to say something and I place a finger across her lips “Shhhh …”
Taking a small piece of candy from my pouch I place it between her teeth, ruffle her hair and return to Carla
“Carla, comfort me.”
In the corner of the Kennels wrapped in Carla’s arms with Vula lying in the straw beside me I am watching the girl. The Inn Keeper wants her to spend time in here. I am uncertain if he doesn’t want me to get too attached to her or he is preparing her for sale.
I find it lonely and cold in my room when the girl is not present to pet and preen. It is comforting to have her sleep curled at the bottom of my furs. At times I bring her to my arms and have trained her fingers and lips in the touches and kisses that match my various moods.
I take enjoyment with the little thing as I watch her reactions to my stroking and playful toying with her body - she is a real cutie and a delight to play with.
I sit unobtrusively in the corner of the kennels, the slaves having relaxed to my presence, watching my little pet interact with the other slaves. There is a good natured teasing amongst them and one playfully demonstrates on the girl how she had served a Master in the alcoves the night before. The demonstration ends in a tickling fest of animated giggles, squeals.
The girl teaches them little rhythmic game. I notice that Tutsu, in the cage, is watching intently and wide eyed.
The girls sit in a circle and hum a tune slapping each others palms in rhythm with the tune and in increasingly complicated patterns. The rhythm increased until one girl looses the pattern, and leaves the circle. They start again until only one girl is left.
The girl looks up and seeing me smiling, scurries across to kneel at my feet. It is hard to believe those sparking and energetic eyes only a few weeks back were so frozen and lifeless.
“Harmmooor”
She never speaks. Communication, like a little child, is through a series moans, whimpers, yelps and growls. The girl has a charisma about her that draws you in and words seem redundant, her meaning is intuitively understood.
Taking a piece of candy from my pouch I offer it to her.
“Moarrr Moarrr” She shakes her head indignantly.
I laugh and pop the candy into my own mouth.
She frowns; eyes widen; eye browse rise in shock.
“Hyummm!?”
I laugh again and reach forward tweaking her nose.
Taking two pieces I give one to Carla and one to Vula then throw the pouch to the Girl who squeals in delight scurries back to the other slaves. They divide the spoils between them. The girl goes to the cage offering a share to Tutsu who regards her inquisitively saying something in the Barbarian language.
The girl cocks her head to one side hesitates a moment and offers the candy a second time. Tutsu petulantly snatches it and move back in the cage.
Backstory 48 - Scullary Girl
“Yelp!”
I suppress a laugh seeing the look on Otta’s face as once again the girl narrowly dodges his boot tip. I wonder if she is playing with him as she scampers about her scullery chores. She is playing a dangerous game for he is subdued with her now in comparison with other kitchen girls but can switch within a sleen breath.
The girl kneels at my feet brushing against my leg and emitting a chatter of whimpers and click.
Otta glares at me, refraining from the usual obscenities.
Ruffling her hair I slip her a little pastry.
“You will fatten it. Make it worthless.” chides Otta as he movers across to the pantry.
Turning my nose up, I poke out my tongue in defiance before returning to processing the food. I’ll feed her what I want!
“Stupid bitch.” Otta mumble - I hear the pantry door opens and close. A quick glance across my shoulder and I slip the girl a slice of lama fruit gesturing to Diana and the other kitchen girl to share the remainder from the bowl on my bench.
“Quickly! He will switch you!”
Otta shows little mercy to his kitchen girls, especially Diana who receives the butt of his ill temper for the slightest mistake. Recently, since she has risen from last girl, it hasn’t always been unwarranted for I too have been angered by her increasing laziness.
By time Otta returns from the pantry all three girls are back at their chores, Diana guiltily wiping the stain of the Lama juice from her lips onto the back of her hand.
The girl works well and energetic at her chores scurrying about the public areas cleaning and gathering up after Paga girls whisked to the alcoves. also carrying out menial kitchen duties one of which she seems to take a strange interest in. All waste bones are boiled in a large caldron to extract the gelatine and make stock. The bones are then dried and packed in barrels to be collected for crushing into fertiliser. It is the girls job to dry the bones and pack the barrels.
With one exception, when the girl is not busy she kneel at my feet unless the musicians are playing – then she keels near the kitchen door listening and lightly tapping the rhythms on her thigh – she seems almost mesmerised by music.
Backstory #49 – dum tek tek tek dum tek ka
She had completed her chores but the girl is not in the kennels or my room?
Searching for her I venture into the public area. She is kneeling nadu fashion beside Rashk the tabor player – he is seemingly bemused and obviously conscious of her watching eyes as the group finish their segment and begin to rise for their break.
Rashk strokes the girl’s hair as he rises.
“dha” she gestures to the drum “dha” she repeats.
Rashk pauses and laughing take up the tabor and plays a short rhythm set for her.
“dha dhin dhin dhin dha dhin dhin dha” The girls seems to voice the rhythm
Rashk stares at the girl inquisitively – frowns and strikes the tabor with his right hand giving off a single beat of clear low tone.
“dum” he says
Hesitantly the girl says “d... d… dum” and looks at him plaintively
He nods and strikes the tabor again with the righthand but this time giving a single beat of a high crisp tone.
“tek”
She hesitantly repeats “t...tek”.
He smiles at her and nods. The girl’s eyes are full of excitement and she edges closer to Rashk
Once more he strikes the tabor with his left hand this time and the tone is sharp almost a click.
“ka” he looks at the girl inquisitively
“k ka … ka!” she says wide eyed and excited
“I. Humm I ….” He looks up at me the shock obvious on his face.
“I wonder …” and looked back to the girl.
He plays a short routine and nods to the girl
“dum tek ka tek tek dum tek tek tek ka” the girl recites rhythmically.
Rashk’s face lights up with a brilliant smile – “Yes!”
He plays a longer routine and the girl pick up the rhythm with her voicing then breaks to a counter rhythm.
Rashk complicates the beat and increases the tempo – the girl matches it adding clicks to her vocabulary and breaks into another counter again. Now she has the control and Rashk follows her and so for some quarter of an ahn the musician and kajira dual in within the rhythm, and counter rhythms until Rashk throws up his hands away from the tabor - rises from and leaves the platform a shaken and silent man.
The girl stunned by his leaving looks after him then seeing me hurries to tower by my side.
I am uncertain of the meaning of what I just witnessed and stand staring at the empty musician’s platform with its vacant instruments. Become conscious of slight tugging on my garment I look down into her frightened pleading eyes of the girl.
Not smiling, not knowing how to react I pensively ruffles hair and gently squelches the tip of her nose with my forefinger. Moving off, conscious of the girl healing me, a feeling grows in my gut that something has been lost … things will not be the same ever again.
Backstory #50 – What happens in the kitchen
No hair to ruffle, no gentle tug on my tunic, no chatter of clicks and moans, no perceived warmth of another’s presence by my side; a small pasty sits on the bench waiting. I chop onions ready vacant in my thought … alone.
Placing the knife back to the bench I brush a pottery bowl sending its ingredients across the floor at my feet.
“Girls clean this up!”
She does not scamper across the floor to complete her chore.
“Girl!?”
I go to investigate and see her hastily stuffing something under the bench in the bone processing area.
“What have you there!?” I demand.
The girl, on her knees, yelped is surprise and cowers back from me before towering her eyes wide and fearful.
Feeling beneath the bench and my fingers brush against cloth a small parcel wrapped in rep cloth.
“What is this?” I looked at the girl – she had never hidden anything from me before, why now and why is she so frightened?
With a slight moan of despair she lowered her head to the floor and edged towards me.
The parcel contained bones – just worthless bones – her treasure. The treasure she hides from me her Mistress is a collection of worthless bones!?
The girl is at my feet sobbing, kissing and stroking my ankle
I kick her violently sending her sprawling across the floor and fling the bones into the barrel. The girl wailed her hands groping at the air as if to pull them back.
Taking the leather quirt from my belt - I thrash her, I hit her, and again, and again howling and screaming and thrashing. Anger that erupts within me is overwhelming … It flow from my inner core uncontrollable unfathomable.
A firm but gentle hand grasped my wrists. “Enough, Enough.” A smoothing voice says and I turned sobbing into the chest of Otta who steadies me stiffly in one arm.
“Take it to the kennels” he commands the girl moans and screams in pain as she is raised to her feet.
My sobbing was uncontrollable, not until much later did I question why, of all people Otta ………
That night I lay sleepless on my furs not understanding my anger, I reson that it was a reaction to the girl’s secret, a realisation that she had hidden something from me but it was more than that, it was deep, deep within me.
Un able to sleep I go and sort through the barrel and retrieve what of the bones I can, wrap them in the rep cloth and leave them of the bench top.
Next morning Otta leers at me relishing in my depression “So the little She-Urt cook is human after all” yet within his goading I sense a glimmer of understanding.
And now I chop vegetables again in an empty space; a lonely place.
The girl seldom comes to me as before and when she does she kneels quietly, a little apart and without touching.
Unless commanded, she lives with the other slaves in the kennels and does not frequent my room.
Backstory #51 –The Sistrum Jangles
Constantly wary of the guardsmen, I now move about the inn both private and public areas even venturing out, in robes of concealment, for short trips about the city. Never telling Otta until I return.
I now sit unobtrusively in the corner of the public area sipping on a fruit juice sizeably splashed, unknown to the Inn Keeper, his best sul paga.
Fingering the fine etchings that embellish the delicate goblet from which I drink, I observe through the flicker of thaliana oil lamps, the custom of the evening. A fat merchant converses with wild gestations to two local stall holder, lesser brothers of his caste and Thurock the Slaver. A number of sailors, a face stripped free woman and her companion. This free woman seems to have many and varying companions her reputation is well known as is her source of income. There is the cosmopolitan cast of regulars along with the splattering of new faces serviced by a bevy of sumptuous provocative and available paga girls.
Within some alcoves base shadows animate against walls and upon silken curtains, the occasional orgasmic grunts and screams that are heard above the gregarious raucous of the room are ignored. Carla kneels, with her glistening with perspiration, kneels nadu fashion panting within dance ring. Tutsu slops water on to the dance sand from the wooden bowl as she passes it to Carla …...
On the musicians platform the girl kneel nadu beside Rashk chatting with her inevitable clicks and moan marking off some beat using hand gestures. The musicians encourage the girl seeming to ignore her slave condition and their free status. Sometimes they playing little routines to demonstrate something yet never is she aloud to touch the instruments.
My curiosity is aroused when Harcnus the kalika player walks across to the Inn Keeper and converses with him. The Inn Keeper shakes his head rejecting what ever is being proposed but Harcnus is determined and persists, eventually the Inn Keeper wearily nods approval.
My interest becomes more concentrated when on returning to the platform Hacnus give the girl an order and she gleefully disappear to the kitchen returning enhs later with her little parcel of bones. Kneeling this time nadu near the centre of the platform to the side of the czehar and facing the customers. She lays out the rep cloth and arranges the bone does something to her feet.
The violent jangle of the brass sistrum cross members vibrating across it vertical sounding bars attracts the attention of the custom and an the ambient laughter and chatter seems to subside into a mild sense of curiosity.
Backstory 51 - Kari e yara laybis! (The girl is a bitch!)
The lone tabor commenced pattering out an unfamiliar repetitive beat fast and consistent. The larger base tabor comes in underneath highlighting the up beat, shaping and dividing time, building and conveying and undercurrent of feeling to the rhythm. A rhythm that is strange; unfamiliar yet pervasive. The whole Inn falls the silent, the Merchant stopped his gesturing; the free woman instinctively pins her veil.
Next the czehar adds a melody its twang enhancing attributes of the rhythm adding flow, shape to the music with an the is an underlying aggression building within the beat - an aggression that is made sinister by the persistence of the sistrum vibrations and so the crescendo builds. The kalika joins a counter melody This is heart stopping; heart throbbing music which stops abruptly only the leaving the kalka to hold the strangely mesmerizing melody.
I hear a puzzled voice, Carla's voice “you can dance to that?’
“Oh but you can.” Mutter Tutsu who now kneels beside me.
trrrrrrrrrrek trrrrrrrrek trrrrrrrrrrrrek rek rek
The noise is wrenching loud and a rumbles as travels across the listeners as they try to source it origins.
“Oh no! Oh no!” Moans Tutsu,
In the centre of the platform kneels, nadu fashion, the girl. In her right hand she holds two small rib bones. A larger bone locked firmly between thumb and index finger the smaller held loosely between and the middle fingers. She vibrates them against each other through the rhythmic twisting of her wrist.
The rasping sound became rhythmic, vibrant and alive. The musicians seemed as much in awe as the listeners. The tabors take up the rhythm; the rhythm increases increased faster and faster. It speaks of a primeval urge to dance; to survive; to court; to hunt – it is a rhythm of warriors and yet it builds with the aggression of repetition.
It is fast, it is furious.
With a nod from Hacnus the girl rises to her feet dropping the bone she stands tall haughty and aloof. She bringing her arms rigidly to her side – she is magnificent tall, proud and erect. She starts pounding the platform with the ball of her feet taking the rhythm defiance.
Tutsu gasps “… no not here. Not on Gor.”
“What is it girl?” I demand.
She was pale and trembling.
“Tis the dance of the Celts Mistress … it is its….” Her voice fades as the sound of pounding feet gains another dimension. I realise the girl is wear bone toes rings that click against the wooden floor of the platform.
The girl erupts into a series of six high angular kick the rest of her body erect and un-moving as she moves to wards the front of platform and still the incessant beat continues boring into my very soul - the girls feet move faster and faster.
This is neither the voluptuous dance of the pleasure slave nor the frenzied excitement of the bonded tribal maids for the North.
This dance; this step dance of the Celts is a dance of warriors. It is a dance to insight the warrior within us all; it is a dance of pride and defiance. The girl posture is high erect and proud – defiant of all before her, and that rhythm goes on and on. She defies the leather, defies her tortured body, defies her very bondage.
Otta takes up a whip and moves forward but the Inn Keeper holds him back.
This is a demand of freedom; an incomprehensible freedom.
I look at the paga girls, I look at Carla their eyes are bright and energised.
The custom is enthralled never had they been challenged is such away; never had they been equalled and commanded by a mere slave.
There is a stirring anger a growing intensity; an anger being drawn from them by this dance of steps. If the women of the Celts are such as this, the warriors are to be feared and admired. For Gor has seen little of their like
Suddenly the girl topples collapsing to the floor – she struggle to nadu exhausted and perspiring, once again submitting her body but, few would truly believe her spirit, to the judgement of her Masters.
All is silent, the musicians cease playing, only the sound of the panting kajira on the musician’s platform can be heard.
Leather is struck three times and then another and another as the Inn explodes with the excitement and applause.
“Kari e yara laybis” proudly shout one in admiration
“Aii, Aii” replied others
“Jai a keh'ra greshak tahem jula!” shouted another
The girl sinks to the floor in a faint.
With exception of Carla and Vula all that are not asleep go to tower posture as I enter the kennels, even Tutsu, as best she can in the confines of the punishment cage.
“Greetings Mistress.” Their voices almost in unison.
“Oh don’t do that, not in your kennels. It is Tay!” I said.
Hesitantly they return to former activities, some glance a Carla for guidance.
“Mistress … Tay you cannot blame us for you are a free – we have been conditioned to react so.” She said, herself showing a little uneasiness.
Vula looks at me with a half smile she is visibly shaking. I reach out to calm her and she rests her cheek against my arm, her eyes are watering.
It is true, if a Master or Mistress thought any kajira’s response was in any way slovenly or disrespectful the girl would receive severe punishment.
Diana is in the opposite corner her head lowered and shoulder down disgruntled – earlier I had her switched for not attending to soup that was simmering on the heath.
I cross to stand over her and run my finger through her hair “Shhhh ...”
She looks up sobbing, eyes wide and pleading forgiveness – she is going to say something and I place a finger across her lips “Shhhh …”
Taking a small piece of candy from my pouch I place it between her teeth, ruffle her hair and return to Carla
“Carla, comfort me.”
In the corner of the Kennels wrapped in Carla’s arms with Vula lying in the straw beside me I am watching the girl. The Inn Keeper wants her to spend time in here. I am uncertain if he doesn’t want me to get too attached to her or he is preparing her for sale.
I find it lonely and cold in my room when the girl is not present to pet and preen. It is comforting to have her sleep curled at the bottom of my furs. At times I bring her to my arms and have trained her fingers and lips in the touches and kisses that match my various moods.
I take enjoyment with the little thing as I watch her reactions to my stroking and playful toying with her body - she is a real cutie and a delight to play with.
I sit unobtrusively in the corner of the kennels, the slaves having relaxed to my presence, watching my little pet interact with the other slaves. There is a good natured teasing amongst them and one playfully demonstrates on the girl how she had served a Master in the alcoves the night before. The demonstration ends in a tickling fest of animated giggles, squeals.
The girl teaches them little rhythmic game. I notice that Tutsu, in the cage, is watching intently and wide eyed.
The girls sit in a circle and hum a tune slapping each others palms in rhythm with the tune and in increasingly complicated patterns. The rhythm increased until one girl looses the pattern, and leaves the circle. They start again until only one girl is left.
The girl looks up and seeing me smiling, scurries across to kneel at my feet. It is hard to believe those sparking and energetic eyes only a few weeks back were so frozen and lifeless.
“Harmmooor”
She never speaks. Communication, like a little child, is through a series moans, whimpers, yelps and growls. The girl has a charisma about her that draws you in and words seem redundant, her meaning is intuitively understood.
Taking a piece of candy from my pouch I offer it to her.
“Moarrr Moarrr” She shakes her head indignantly.
I laugh and pop the candy into my own mouth.
She frowns; eyes widen; eye browse rise in shock.
“Hyummm!?”
I laugh again and reach forward tweaking her nose.
Taking two pieces I give one to Carla and one to Vula then throw the pouch to the Girl who squeals in delight scurries back to the other slaves. They divide the spoils between them. The girl goes to the cage offering a share to Tutsu who regards her inquisitively saying something in the Barbarian language.
The girl cocks her head to one side hesitates a moment and offers the candy a second time. Tutsu petulantly snatches it and move back in the cage.
Backstory 48 - Scullary Girl
“Yelp!”
I suppress a laugh seeing the look on Otta’s face as once again the girl narrowly dodges his boot tip. I wonder if she is playing with him as she scampers about her scullery chores. She is playing a dangerous game for he is subdued with her now in comparison with other kitchen girls but can switch within a sleen breath.
The girl kneels at my feet brushing against my leg and emitting a chatter of whimpers and click.
Otta glares at me, refraining from the usual obscenities.
Ruffling her hair I slip her a little pastry.
“You will fatten it. Make it worthless.” chides Otta as he movers across to the pantry.
Turning my nose up, I poke out my tongue in defiance before returning to processing the food. I’ll feed her what I want!
“Stupid bitch.” Otta mumble - I hear the pantry door opens and close. A quick glance across my shoulder and I slip the girl a slice of lama fruit gesturing to Diana and the other kitchen girl to share the remainder from the bowl on my bench.
“Quickly! He will switch you!”
Otta shows little mercy to his kitchen girls, especially Diana who receives the butt of his ill temper for the slightest mistake. Recently, since she has risen from last girl, it hasn’t always been unwarranted for I too have been angered by her increasing laziness.
By time Otta returns from the pantry all three girls are back at their chores, Diana guiltily wiping the stain of the Lama juice from her lips onto the back of her hand.
The girl works well and energetic at her chores scurrying about the public areas cleaning and gathering up after Paga girls whisked to the alcoves. also carrying out menial kitchen duties one of which she seems to take a strange interest in. All waste bones are boiled in a large caldron to extract the gelatine and make stock. The bones are then dried and packed in barrels to be collected for crushing into fertiliser. It is the girls job to dry the bones and pack the barrels.
With one exception, when the girl is not busy she kneel at my feet unless the musicians are playing – then she keels near the kitchen door listening and lightly tapping the rhythms on her thigh – she seems almost mesmerised by music.
Backstory #49 – dum tek tek tek dum tek ka
She had completed her chores but the girl is not in the kennels or my room?
Searching for her I venture into the public area. She is kneeling nadu fashion beside Rashk the tabor player – he is seemingly bemused and obviously conscious of her watching eyes as the group finish their segment and begin to rise for their break.
Rashk strokes the girl’s hair as he rises.
“dha” she gestures to the drum “dha” she repeats.
Rashk pauses and laughing take up the tabor and plays a short rhythm set for her.
“dha dhin dhin dhin dha dhin dhin dha” The girls seems to voice the rhythm
Rashk stares at the girl inquisitively – frowns and strikes the tabor with his right hand giving off a single beat of clear low tone.
“dum” he says
Hesitantly the girl says “d... d… dum” and looks at him plaintively
He nods and strikes the tabor again with the righthand but this time giving a single beat of a high crisp tone.
“tek”
She hesitantly repeats “t...tek”.
He smiles at her and nods. The girl’s eyes are full of excitement and she edges closer to Rashk
Once more he strikes the tabor with his left hand this time and the tone is sharp almost a click.
“ka” he looks at the girl inquisitively
“k ka … ka!” she says wide eyed and excited
“I. Humm I ….” He looks up at me the shock obvious on his face.
“I wonder …” and looked back to the girl.
He plays a short routine and nods to the girl
“dum tek ka tek tek dum tek tek tek ka” the girl recites rhythmically.
Rashk’s face lights up with a brilliant smile – “Yes!”
He plays a longer routine and the girl pick up the rhythm with her voicing then breaks to a counter rhythm.
Rashk complicates the beat and increases the tempo – the girl matches it adding clicks to her vocabulary and breaks into another counter again. Now she has the control and Rashk follows her and so for some quarter of an ahn the musician and kajira dual in within the rhythm, and counter rhythms until Rashk throws up his hands away from the tabor - rises from and leaves the platform a shaken and silent man.
The girl stunned by his leaving looks after him then seeing me hurries to tower by my side.
I am uncertain of the meaning of what I just witnessed and stand staring at the empty musician’s platform with its vacant instruments. Become conscious of slight tugging on my garment I look down into her frightened pleading eyes of the girl.
Not smiling, not knowing how to react I pensively ruffles hair and gently squelches the tip of her nose with my forefinger. Moving off, conscious of the girl healing me, a feeling grows in my gut that something has been lost … things will not be the same ever again.
Backstory #50 – What happens in the kitchen
No hair to ruffle, no gentle tug on my tunic, no chatter of clicks and moans, no perceived warmth of another’s presence by my side; a small pasty sits on the bench waiting. I chop onions ready vacant in my thought … alone.
Placing the knife back to the bench I brush a pottery bowl sending its ingredients across the floor at my feet.
“Girls clean this up!”
She does not scamper across the floor to complete her chore.
“Girl!?”
I go to investigate and see her hastily stuffing something under the bench in the bone processing area.
“What have you there!?” I demand.
The girl, on her knees, yelped is surprise and cowers back from me before towering her eyes wide and fearful.
Feeling beneath the bench and my fingers brush against cloth a small parcel wrapped in rep cloth.
“What is this?” I looked at the girl – she had never hidden anything from me before, why now and why is she so frightened?
With a slight moan of despair she lowered her head to the floor and edged towards me.
The parcel contained bones – just worthless bones – her treasure. The treasure she hides from me her Mistress is a collection of worthless bones!?
The girl is at my feet sobbing, kissing and stroking my ankle
I kick her violently sending her sprawling across the floor and fling the bones into the barrel. The girl wailed her hands groping at the air as if to pull them back.
Taking the leather quirt from my belt - I thrash her, I hit her, and again, and again howling and screaming and thrashing. Anger that erupts within me is overwhelming … It flow from my inner core uncontrollable unfathomable.
A firm but gentle hand grasped my wrists. “Enough, Enough.” A smoothing voice says and I turned sobbing into the chest of Otta who steadies me stiffly in one arm.
“Take it to the kennels” he commands the girl moans and screams in pain as she is raised to her feet.
My sobbing was uncontrollable, not until much later did I question why, of all people Otta ………
That night I lay sleepless on my furs not understanding my anger, I reson that it was a reaction to the girl’s secret, a realisation that she had hidden something from me but it was more than that, it was deep, deep within me.
Un able to sleep I go and sort through the barrel and retrieve what of the bones I can, wrap them in the rep cloth and leave them of the bench top.
Next morning Otta leers at me relishing in my depression “So the little She-Urt cook is human after all” yet within his goading I sense a glimmer of understanding.
And now I chop vegetables again in an empty space; a lonely place.
The girl seldom comes to me as before and when she does she kneels quietly, a little apart and without touching.
Unless commanded, she lives with the other slaves in the kennels and does not frequent my room.
Backstory #51 –The Sistrum Jangles
Constantly wary of the guardsmen, I now move about the inn both private and public areas even venturing out, in robes of concealment, for short trips about the city. Never telling Otta until I return.
I now sit unobtrusively in the corner of the public area sipping on a fruit juice sizeably splashed, unknown to the Inn Keeper, his best sul paga.
Fingering the fine etchings that embellish the delicate goblet from which I drink, I observe through the flicker of thaliana oil lamps, the custom of the evening. A fat merchant converses with wild gestations to two local stall holder, lesser brothers of his caste and Thurock the Slaver. A number of sailors, a face stripped free woman and her companion. This free woman seems to have many and varying companions her reputation is well known as is her source of income. There is the cosmopolitan cast of regulars along with the splattering of new faces serviced by a bevy of sumptuous provocative and available paga girls.
Within some alcoves base shadows animate against walls and upon silken curtains, the occasional orgasmic grunts and screams that are heard above the gregarious raucous of the room are ignored. Carla kneels, with her glistening with perspiration, kneels nadu fashion panting within dance ring. Tutsu slops water on to the dance sand from the wooden bowl as she passes it to Carla …...
On the musicians platform the girl kneel nadu beside Rashk chatting with her inevitable clicks and moan marking off some beat using hand gestures. The musicians encourage the girl seeming to ignore her slave condition and their free status. Sometimes they playing little routines to demonstrate something yet never is she aloud to touch the instruments.
My curiosity is aroused when Harcnus the kalika player walks across to the Inn Keeper and converses with him. The Inn Keeper shakes his head rejecting what ever is being proposed but Harcnus is determined and persists, eventually the Inn Keeper wearily nods approval.
My interest becomes more concentrated when on returning to the platform Hacnus give the girl an order and she gleefully disappear to the kitchen returning enhs later with her little parcel of bones. Kneeling this time nadu near the centre of the platform to the side of the czehar and facing the customers. She lays out the rep cloth and arranges the bone does something to her feet.
The violent jangle of the brass sistrum cross members vibrating across it vertical sounding bars attracts the attention of the custom and an the ambient laughter and chatter seems to subside into a mild sense of curiosity.
Backstory 51 - Kari e yara laybis! (The girl is a bitch!)
The lone tabor commenced pattering out an unfamiliar repetitive beat fast and consistent. The larger base tabor comes in underneath highlighting the up beat, shaping and dividing time, building and conveying and undercurrent of feeling to the rhythm. A rhythm that is strange; unfamiliar yet pervasive. The whole Inn falls the silent, the Merchant stopped his gesturing; the free woman instinctively pins her veil.
Next the czehar adds a melody its twang enhancing attributes of the rhythm adding flow, shape to the music with an the is an underlying aggression building within the beat - an aggression that is made sinister by the persistence of the sistrum vibrations and so the crescendo builds. The kalika joins a counter melody This is heart stopping; heart throbbing music which stops abruptly only the leaving the kalka to hold the strangely mesmerizing melody.
I hear a puzzled voice, Carla's voice “you can dance to that?’
“Oh but you can.” Mutter Tutsu who now kneels beside me.
trrrrrrrrrrek trrrrrrrrek trrrrrrrrrrrrek rek rek
The noise is wrenching loud and a rumbles as travels across the listeners as they try to source it origins.
“Oh no! Oh no!” Moans Tutsu,
In the centre of the platform kneels, nadu fashion, the girl. In her right hand she holds two small rib bones. A larger bone locked firmly between thumb and index finger the smaller held loosely between and the middle fingers. She vibrates them against each other through the rhythmic twisting of her wrist.
The rasping sound became rhythmic, vibrant and alive. The musicians seemed as much in awe as the listeners. The tabors take up the rhythm; the rhythm increases increased faster and faster. It speaks of a primeval urge to dance; to survive; to court; to hunt – it is a rhythm of warriors and yet it builds with the aggression of repetition.
It is fast, it is furious.
With a nod from Hacnus the girl rises to her feet dropping the bone she stands tall haughty and aloof. She bringing her arms rigidly to her side – she is magnificent tall, proud and erect. She starts pounding the platform with the ball of her feet taking the rhythm defiance.
Tutsu gasps “… no not here. Not on Gor.”
“What is it girl?” I demand.
She was pale and trembling.
“Tis the dance of the Celts Mistress … it is its….” Her voice fades as the sound of pounding feet gains another dimension. I realise the girl is wear bone toes rings that click against the wooden floor of the platform.
The girl erupts into a series of six high angular kick the rest of her body erect and un-moving as she moves to wards the front of platform and still the incessant beat continues boring into my very soul - the girls feet move faster and faster.
This is neither the voluptuous dance of the pleasure slave nor the frenzied excitement of the bonded tribal maids for the North.
This dance; this step dance of the Celts is a dance of warriors. It is a dance to insight the warrior within us all; it is a dance of pride and defiance. The girl posture is high erect and proud – defiant of all before her, and that rhythm goes on and on. She defies the leather, defies her tortured body, defies her very bondage.
Otta takes up a whip and moves forward but the Inn Keeper holds him back.
This is a demand of freedom; an incomprehensible freedom.
I look at the paga girls, I look at Carla their eyes are bright and energised.
The custom is enthralled never had they been challenged is such away; never had they been equalled and commanded by a mere slave.
There is a stirring anger a growing intensity; an anger being drawn from them by this dance of steps. If the women of the Celts are such as this, the warriors are to be feared and admired. For Gor has seen little of their like
Suddenly the girl topples collapsing to the floor – she struggle to nadu exhausted and perspiring, once again submitting her body but, few would truly believe her spirit, to the judgement of her Masters.
All is silent, the musicians cease playing, only the sound of the panting kajira on the musician’s platform can be heard.
Leather is struck three times and then another and another as the Inn explodes with the excitement and applause.
“Kari e yara laybis” proudly shout one in admiration
“Aii, Aii” replied others
“Jai a keh'ra greshak tahem jula!” shouted another
The girl sinks to the floor in a faint.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Part 4 - Cruelty and Survival (32-46)
Backstory #32 - Frozen Eyes
It cowls on the floor besides the Inn Keeper, hands tethered to the rough iron collar about its neck. A collar that had worn the skin raw.
“It was with the butcher’s offal to be thrown to the Urts.”
A constant barely audible whimper emitted from the body, so emaciated it is hard to determine the sex. The Inn Keeper indicates the left thigh.
On the thigh are four common Kef brandings only a few days old, haphazardly applied and festering with infection. On the right thigh, another three.
“What? … Why?”
“Apprentice used it for practice I guess … disgusting.” There were tears in the Inn Keepers eyes he is gripping his hand in rage.
Kneeling I lifted its chin looking at the head, age undeterminable but young. The body trembled constantly and the whimpering continues. The skin an unnatural pale in pallor; cold and clammy to touch, eyes glassy frozen in their sockets.
Backstory #33 - Warm Broth
Taking up a small bowl of warm broth I place it its lips – there is no response the liquid runs across the mouth and down the chin. I indicate to Diana to open its mouth. There in no resistance as Diana pulls open the jaw pinching the nose to force it to swallow.
I spoon small portions of the broth allowing time for a swallow at first it coughs and splutters then seems to react a little and voluntarily takes the broth when Diana releases her grip.
The Inn Keeper kneels beside me observing this first but slight reaction to her surroundings.
Standing, he leaves the kitchen without a word. I look across at Otta the meanest and coldest man I know yet even he seems moved – there is a trace of compassion in his eyes I’d never seen before.
“Diana, go to Vula. Have her prepare and basin for my room.” I look at Otta, he nods approval.
Placing the now empty broth bowl back on the bench I try to lift it but cannot.
Backstorey #34 - Step by step
Otta comes and assists in raising it to a standing position, with the movement it reaches, regurgitating much of the broth onto the floor.
Diana returns and helps me slowly half carry half walk the girl, for standing it is recognisable as such, step by painful step towards my room.
How could such cruelty be inflicted upon the beast?
Backstory #35 - Thick Nimble Fingers
Diana is back in the Kitchen, Vula helps the girl stand and I strip rags from the body.
Some places the residue of offal sticks the fabric to the skin. Carefully lifting and peeling until the girl stands naked, spasmodically trembling in the basin. Her hands now bound in front lest she attempt to scratch at the infection.
The whimpering is constant monotone.
“Sssssh Huss, little pretty one, do not cry ….” Vula words a popular lullaby as she sponges and smooths the hair. The whimpering seems to take up the tune. Stopping, Vula looks at me inquisitively. The whimper returns to the monotone. I gesture Vula to continue, and again the whimper harmonises.
I am kneeling sponging and dabbing around the infection. Braggs has come with his father’s tools and is removing its iron collar. I look up at his large hands; thick stubby finger work so nimbly at the collar consciously protective of the ulcerated skin beneath.
Backstory #36 - Never trust the Physician
Braggs offers a brilliant smile when gesturing with my eyes I indicate my ankle on which his cherish gift now resides. Squishing my nose at him, I momentarily lay my head against his leg.
Vula pretends not to see.
“Look” Braggs holds the now released collar to the light. The owner's name had been roughly filed away.
Looking at the ulcerations on the girl's neck, he states “Done while still on the neck.”
The girl, an old cloak draped across her shoulders, kneels on a little kennel straw bunched into the corner, hands tethered behind her to the slave ring.
I lay on the sleeping fur thinking of the streets. She-urts never trusted the physician’s medicine, never trusted the physician if truth be known. Cuts, burns and ulceration were common problems.
I remember a flat leaf plant, not a native, possibly from some seeds blown from the deck of a visiting merchant’s craft. It grows under the foot bridge on the sullage lagoon near the docks. When smeared with bosk fat and bound against the flesh would lessen the pain and draw at the infection.
Backstory #37 - The Kaissa players
The Kitchen, as expected, is empty. Quickly moving to the grease trap near the waste bins I scoop a small amount of the greasy slurry smearing it in into my hair and over my skin. Cleanliness may do well for civilised society but on the street it brands one as sure as a Kef on a Kajira’s thigh. Taking a short bladed pearing knife I conceal it the folds of the girl's filthy rags which I now wear and tighten the soiled thigh wrap retrieved from the laundry.
A noise; a rustle; I startle; tense; relax – probably a furry urt no doubt disturbed by my presence – tomorrow I will have it caught. A deep breath and I’m into the public area. A gentle snoring emits from an alcove above. The dance pit is empty its sand disturbed by the nights entertainment, the musicians platform long since vacated.
In the corner a single tharlarion oil lamp flickers across two Kaissa players huddle over their board.
Backstory #38 - The Coolness
A paga girl kneels nadu fashion beside one of the players, she attempts to rest her head against his knee and roughly he brushes her aside.
A drunk slumbers head down on another table his empty tankard up ended against a platter of broken bread and crumpled cheeses. The air is permeated with odours of burning tharlarion oil and stale ale.
Slap!. “Oh! … Ohhh Master!?” It is Tustu’s voice from within another alcove. Her pleasures would have been bought for more than the mere cost of paga.
“Grrrr” squeal “Oh Master! Get off!” laughter “Huh! Ohhh … Talk of the second coming!”
I smile, Tustu will be well used tonight and pleased with that use I vouch.
Carefully I slink out through the same door I arrived so ignobly those many months earlier, again to hear the silence of the city’s night and feel its coolness against my face …….
Backstory #39 - Symbol of Foreboding
Squeal, rustle, disturbance within the rubbish trough at the corner of the yard, well I remember that trough.
From the overhanging tree an alarmed nocturnal fruit eaters falls chattering from the branch to which it hung, with the spread of its proportionally giant wings and slow languid strokes of the same, gains flight to head away over the city an ominous symbol of foreboding shaped against the Prison Moon. The silence returns.
Backstory #40 - From the shadows
Warily at first I move out into the courtyard and across to the grilled metal gates. With great care, lest some slight noise should reveal my presents I unlatch the gate and ease out into the street, careful to leave it unlatched I pull the gate closed. Hurrying across the street to seek the shadows beyond for I am now in the domain of the guardsmen.
Anxiety surges in my belly, my breasts heave as I fight against palpitations; increasing heart rate.
Standing within the shadows now, I seek to calm myself; to steady and soon regain my breath.
Leaving the shadows I promptly step back into them - for something now moves within the courtyard. In the light of the three moons stands the shape; the silhouette figure of Otta.
He crosses to the gate and monetarily stops then, stepping out into the street looks each way then, to my horror, he seems to look directly at me. I freeze moments pass before he returns to the yard and with a loud click the latch snaps home. ….
Backstory #41 - water that broils
Crouching at the foot of the bridge I survey to opposite bank. Here none but the most foolish of guardsmen would venture, unless in a force of numbers, this the domain of the street demisons.
The danger is liquid almost palatably as the stench from the giant urt infested lagoon before me and equally as fatal a threat.
About 100 yards along from the bridge a small fire burns. The dark smoke wafts across the water offering a familiar odour which only the rubbish, the unwanted offal of society, can engender. I make out four humps around this fire, no doubt sister she-urts. Sister or none the she-urt is a territorial being. Territories are hard won, traded for by scavenged goods, bodily pleasures, blood and often life itself.
Beneath the bridge on the other shore I knew the plants grew. The decision is now. The waters swirl near the bank where I crouch, shapes rise sleek and reflective to disappears again beneath the water. The giant urts sense my presence; the urts sense my tension they hunger and squirm in anticipation …
I move onto the bridge keeping low and moving fast. Once over I stop and survey – no movement from the fire but still the urts squirm …
Backstory #42 - Survival
Laying, belly down on the walled embankment, warily watching for the urts, I cut each leaf by its stork at water level stacking it neatly on the path beside me.
“AHHeeeee” the agony, I coil against my pain, my ribs are on fire. Instinctively I unravel snake like to bite hard into the calf of the assailant. Mine is the automatic reaction of a street fighter; a street survivor.
“Ahh Yaa!” the agonising scream is accompanied by the surprised yelp of others.
My mouth fills with the assailant’s blood she kick me loose instantly I am up crouching knife in right hand the other ready to fend of any attack.
The she-urt leader faces me in similar pose but favouring her bleeding right leg. Hissing commands at her sister she places the three other girls as sure as an experienced Kaissa player’s strategically encircle the opposing Ubar’s Homestone
We circle each other. In each hand she grasps a sorp shell.
The shell of the Sorp mollusc is a common weapon amongst the she-urts of the port, its smooth oval edge is sharper than any warrior’s sword and, in the right hands, almost as deadly.
I grasp at the pain in my ribs a smudge of blood dribbles to my chin. She smirks sensing my weakness - the bitch is enjoying this!
I feign with my right - laughing she blocks the thrust out wide, her backhand brutally percusses jarring my head backwards. I clumsily roll left spluttering blood.
As I rise, too slow, rolling again I just avoid her kick. She pulls back.
Whimpering I rise my eyes dart seeking escape but everywhere I look there seems to be a laughing bitch revelling in the torment of their frail captive - they are playing with me.
We circle; my steps are faltering eye darting about. She dives at me only to pull out at the last moment laughing as I cringe indecisive in my movements.
Screaming I run at her again my right thrust is brushed aside and as I roll left I feel rhe slash across my right arm “Ahhhay!”
My roll ends against the feet of one of the girls. I breathing through gritted teeth against the pain of being lifted by the hair until I stand a few inches from her smirking face. A face which changed dramatically as my knife slide across her belly slicing through he rag to end, its point under her chin raising her to toe hight. A left to the solar plexus. I turn again to face my assailant ignoring the sounds as girl collapses gasping for breath behind me.
The smirks are a little hesitant now and my assailant looks decidedly more serious circling me again with more care. I spit the remainder of her blood from my mouth, threatening her with my right hand. Twice she sliced and twice I easily fended the blow countering with a tumble to the left.
I feel the edge of the embankment wall beneath my feet the sound of water movements behind. Cautiously I snap a glance over my shoulder – she comes at me screaming I dodge her right then her left thrust – promptly ending my ruse I throw the knife to my left hand slashing to her arm - spin to the right with jab kick on her weak leg sending her screaming to the water.
Shreeking in terror, two of my tormentors rush to her aid ignoring me – third now bare breast held her ground making to block my escape, hesitates and lets me pass.
Scooping up the leaves, and I hasten onto the bridge - looking back I see the three girl kneeling, anguishing over the convulsing body of their leader.
Backstory 43 – The Paga Wagon
In this alley beside the Perfumery I can see anyone heading for the Tavern’s courtyard. I am cold and shivering uncontrollably. The crushed leaves have eventual stopped the shoulder bleeding and nulled a little of the pain but the binding cloth, roughly torn from my waist wrap, is soak in coagulated blood. Knowing the courtyard gate is locked I wait for the early morning paga delivery. My intent is to enter the courtyard with the cart.
The squeak of wheels on cobble stone and the snorts of the burdened bosk alter me to the approaching wagon with it Wagon Master and his male slave.
Moving from shadow to shadow, ever alter to the guardsmen, I retrace my steps until I reach the same place from where I had earlier watched Otta lock the gate.
It is with almost audible relief to see Braggs come across the courtyard and swings open the gates for the approaching wagon. Something, however, warns me to wait; something is not as it should be.
The wagon is rumbling up the lane and Braggs has moved to one side of the gate, presumably let it enter. No!? He is talking to someone; someone in the shadows.
The rear door to the Tavern opens momentarily spreading a dim light across the courtyard as Bragg’s father comes to meet the wagon; light sufficient to see who Braggs is talking to – it is a Guardsman!
The wagon is in the yard now, as it pulls to a stop at the cellar doors a second guardsman steps from the shadows at the far end the courtyard to inspect the barrels and beneath the wagon. They are search for someone, or something, and I have the distinct feel that someone is me.
The ratchet chains rasps at the early morning as the twin cellar door open and the offloading ramp appears.
I remember now the movement in the kitchen when I left and the strange appearance of Otta in the courtyard.
Backstory 44 – “Urts! Bloody urts”
It had taken only a few moments for me to calm and refocus.
With little difficulty I had found old sack and captured two furry gutter urts which, once wrapped firmly in the sack they were quite and still.
I now stand on the courtyard wall amongst the branches of the tree above the garbage trough. Braggs and the wagon master’s male slave are manhandling the heavy barrels and rolling them off the wagon down the wooden ramp into the cellar. Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master and second Guardsman can be seen chatting behind the bosk.
I let myself down into the garbage. To my ears the noise of my rustling and disturbance of the garbage is like thunder, I might have well announced out loud “I am over here!”
The three men peer towards the noise and the guardsman strides across to investigate. As he nears I release the two urts which scurry squealing and fighting onto the cobble stones before him.
“Get out! Get away!. Filthy things” he mutters as he kicks at them and, after a cursory glance over the garbage, returns to his fellows.
“Urts! Bloody urts.” The other laugh and have soon returned to their conversation.
Backstory 45 - I do not hear ....
I scurry low across the courtyard and crouch beneath the wagon. Listen intently - alert to any movement – there is no indication that anyone has seen me.
The last barrel is unloaded. Braggs is taking the ramp back into the cellar. I cannot move for fear of being seen by Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master or Guardsman who now stand only feet away from me.
The ratchet chain rankles in its pullies and to my dismay the cellar doors start closing – with a gruffled farewell the Wagon Master and slave mount the wagon – and still the doors close
The wagon moves. In only moments I will be left crouching fully exposed – and still the cellar door edge closer the chain’s constant wrangling, howling in my brain.
I see the feet of the remaining two men change position – they have their backs to me – the wagon has moved from me I am fully exposed – the gap between the doors is narrowing faster now
I have no options. Diving through the gap I land with a roll on the sawdust of the cellar floor and scurrying behind one of the barrel.
The chain momentarily stops then recommences before the doors finally slam shut.
I hear the barrels of the locks slam into place.
I hear Bragg’s muffled footsteps as he crosses the cellar floor.
I hear the cellar interior door open.
I hear Briggs’s footsteps fade away.
I do not hear the door being closed.
I do not hear the lock being thrown ….
Backstory #46 - What happens when Tay returns to her room
I had noticed the old cloak soaking in the laundry when changing into a tunic its sleave long enough to disguise the shoulder wound. My bloodied rags and garments being burnt the laundry fire.
The rich odour of smouldering the scent sticks greet me on entering my room the girl, still tethered, now kneels on fresh straw and in a clean white camisk. Light from a tharlarion oil lamp reflects from small surface puddles on the bench top around the basin steam rising whispping off the water within. A fresh neatly folded rep cloth also rests on the bench along with a small bowl of fruit, a platter of sliced sa-tarna bread and bosk cheese. On the floor next to the girl but oiut of reach is a wooden bowl containing bosk fat.
It takes a few moments before the silence registers. I look again to the girl … the whimpering has ceased …. her unblinking bovine like eyes follows my movement about the room - it is eerie and I involuntarily shiver.
The expressionless face watches without reaction as I kneel beside her laying the leaves on the floor. Each leaf I prepare by lightly crushing it to bring the juices to the surface over which I smear a layer of bosk fat letting the fat and leaf residue intermingle.
The girl emitted a slight moan, like a trapped animal accepting its fate, as I smooth each leaf into place against the neck ulcerations. The leaves I bind in place with a leather thong tight enough to restrain the dressing but not to pressure greatly again the skin.
The eyes follow my hands as they closed on the infected left thigh; there is no sound as the leaves are similarly applied against the wounds, though I observe the thigh muscles tighten and attempt to withdraw from my touch.
Concentrating on the treatment I suddenly become aware of lips gently caressing the welt on my face. I turn to look at her; she abruptly pulls back and lowers her head.
A head I take in both hands raise it to my lips and kiss for she is a dear thing a frightened beast and I seek to reassure her. She blinks, a single tear crosses her right cheek trickling to the corner of the mouth – a warmth; a suggestion of recognition; of response seems to flicker within those eyes.
I continued treating the infection the girl’s head lulling against my shoulder as she quietly hums the lullaby Vula had sung when we had first washed her.
Even by the following morning the redness about the neck has reduced and within two days the girl wore a house collar with no discomfort. It took another 5 days before she could be untether without risking that she my scratch and re-infect the thigh – during this period she was fed on a clear broth made from vulo meat stock and grup cloves to clean the blood. Tustu says grup cloves is called garlic where she comes from - Tustu says some strange things at times.
It cowls on the floor besides the Inn Keeper, hands tethered to the rough iron collar about its neck. A collar that had worn the skin raw.
“It was with the butcher’s offal to be thrown to the Urts.”
A constant barely audible whimper emitted from the body, so emaciated it is hard to determine the sex. The Inn Keeper indicates the left thigh.
On the thigh are four common Kef brandings only a few days old, haphazardly applied and festering with infection. On the right thigh, another three.
“What? … Why?”
“Apprentice used it for practice I guess … disgusting.” There were tears in the Inn Keepers eyes he is gripping his hand in rage.
Kneeling I lifted its chin looking at the head, age undeterminable but young. The body trembled constantly and the whimpering continues. The skin an unnatural pale in pallor; cold and clammy to touch, eyes glassy frozen in their sockets.
Backstory #33 - Warm Broth
Taking up a small bowl of warm broth I place it its lips – there is no response the liquid runs across the mouth and down the chin. I indicate to Diana to open its mouth. There in no resistance as Diana pulls open the jaw pinching the nose to force it to swallow.
I spoon small portions of the broth allowing time for a swallow at first it coughs and splutters then seems to react a little and voluntarily takes the broth when Diana releases her grip.
The Inn Keeper kneels beside me observing this first but slight reaction to her surroundings.
Standing, he leaves the kitchen without a word. I look across at Otta the meanest and coldest man I know yet even he seems moved – there is a trace of compassion in his eyes I’d never seen before.
“Diana, go to Vula. Have her prepare and basin for my room.” I look at Otta, he nods approval.
Placing the now empty broth bowl back on the bench I try to lift it but cannot.
Backstorey #34 - Step by step
Otta comes and assists in raising it to a standing position, with the movement it reaches, regurgitating much of the broth onto the floor.
Diana returns and helps me slowly half carry half walk the girl, for standing it is recognisable as such, step by painful step towards my room.
How could such cruelty be inflicted upon the beast?
Backstory #35 - Thick Nimble Fingers
Diana is back in the Kitchen, Vula helps the girl stand and I strip rags from the body.
Some places the residue of offal sticks the fabric to the skin. Carefully lifting and peeling until the girl stands naked, spasmodically trembling in the basin. Her hands now bound in front lest she attempt to scratch at the infection.
The whimpering is constant monotone.
“Sssssh Huss, little pretty one, do not cry ….” Vula words a popular lullaby as she sponges and smooths the hair. The whimpering seems to take up the tune. Stopping, Vula looks at me inquisitively. The whimper returns to the monotone. I gesture Vula to continue, and again the whimper harmonises.
I am kneeling sponging and dabbing around the infection. Braggs has come with his father’s tools and is removing its iron collar. I look up at his large hands; thick stubby finger work so nimbly at the collar consciously protective of the ulcerated skin beneath.
Backstory #36 - Never trust the Physician
Braggs offers a brilliant smile when gesturing with my eyes I indicate my ankle on which his cherish gift now resides. Squishing my nose at him, I momentarily lay my head against his leg.
Vula pretends not to see.
“Look” Braggs holds the now released collar to the light. The owner's name had been roughly filed away.
Looking at the ulcerations on the girl's neck, he states “Done while still on the neck.”
The girl, an old cloak draped across her shoulders, kneels on a little kennel straw bunched into the corner, hands tethered behind her to the slave ring.
I lay on the sleeping fur thinking of the streets. She-urts never trusted the physician’s medicine, never trusted the physician if truth be known. Cuts, burns and ulceration were common problems.
I remember a flat leaf plant, not a native, possibly from some seeds blown from the deck of a visiting merchant’s craft. It grows under the foot bridge on the sullage lagoon near the docks. When smeared with bosk fat and bound against the flesh would lessen the pain and draw at the infection.
Backstory #37 - The Kaissa players
The Kitchen, as expected, is empty. Quickly moving to the grease trap near the waste bins I scoop a small amount of the greasy slurry smearing it in into my hair and over my skin. Cleanliness may do well for civilised society but on the street it brands one as sure as a Kef on a Kajira’s thigh. Taking a short bladed pearing knife I conceal it the folds of the girl's filthy rags which I now wear and tighten the soiled thigh wrap retrieved from the laundry.
A noise; a rustle; I startle; tense; relax – probably a furry urt no doubt disturbed by my presence – tomorrow I will have it caught. A deep breath and I’m into the public area. A gentle snoring emits from an alcove above. The dance pit is empty its sand disturbed by the nights entertainment, the musicians platform long since vacated.
In the corner a single tharlarion oil lamp flickers across two Kaissa players huddle over their board.
Backstory #38 - The Coolness
A paga girl kneels nadu fashion beside one of the players, she attempts to rest her head against his knee and roughly he brushes her aside.
A drunk slumbers head down on another table his empty tankard up ended against a platter of broken bread and crumpled cheeses. The air is permeated with odours of burning tharlarion oil and stale ale.
Slap!. “Oh! … Ohhh Master!?” It is Tustu’s voice from within another alcove. Her pleasures would have been bought for more than the mere cost of paga.
“Grrrr” squeal “Oh Master! Get off!” laughter “Huh! Ohhh … Talk of the second coming!”
I smile, Tustu will be well used tonight and pleased with that use I vouch.
Carefully I slink out through the same door I arrived so ignobly those many months earlier, again to hear the silence of the city’s night and feel its coolness against my face …….
Backstory #39 - Symbol of Foreboding
Squeal, rustle, disturbance within the rubbish trough at the corner of the yard, well I remember that trough.
From the overhanging tree an alarmed nocturnal fruit eaters falls chattering from the branch to which it hung, with the spread of its proportionally giant wings and slow languid strokes of the same, gains flight to head away over the city an ominous symbol of foreboding shaped against the Prison Moon. The silence returns.
Backstory #40 - From the shadows
Warily at first I move out into the courtyard and across to the grilled metal gates. With great care, lest some slight noise should reveal my presents I unlatch the gate and ease out into the street, careful to leave it unlatched I pull the gate closed. Hurrying across the street to seek the shadows beyond for I am now in the domain of the guardsmen.
Anxiety surges in my belly, my breasts heave as I fight against palpitations; increasing heart rate.
Standing within the shadows now, I seek to calm myself; to steady and soon regain my breath.
Leaving the shadows I promptly step back into them - for something now moves within the courtyard. In the light of the three moons stands the shape; the silhouette figure of Otta.
He crosses to the gate and monetarily stops then, stepping out into the street looks each way then, to my horror, he seems to look directly at me. I freeze moments pass before he returns to the yard and with a loud click the latch snaps home. ….
Backstory #41 - water that broils
Crouching at the foot of the bridge I survey to opposite bank. Here none but the most foolish of guardsmen would venture, unless in a force of numbers, this the domain of the street demisons.
The danger is liquid almost palatably as the stench from the giant urt infested lagoon before me and equally as fatal a threat.
About 100 yards along from the bridge a small fire burns. The dark smoke wafts across the water offering a familiar odour which only the rubbish, the unwanted offal of society, can engender. I make out four humps around this fire, no doubt sister she-urts. Sister or none the she-urt is a territorial being. Territories are hard won, traded for by scavenged goods, bodily pleasures, blood and often life itself.
Beneath the bridge on the other shore I knew the plants grew. The decision is now. The waters swirl near the bank where I crouch, shapes rise sleek and reflective to disappears again beneath the water. The giant urts sense my presence; the urts sense my tension they hunger and squirm in anticipation …
I move onto the bridge keeping low and moving fast. Once over I stop and survey – no movement from the fire but still the urts squirm …
Backstory #42 - Survival
Laying, belly down on the walled embankment, warily watching for the urts, I cut each leaf by its stork at water level stacking it neatly on the path beside me.
“AHHeeeee” the agony, I coil against my pain, my ribs are on fire. Instinctively I unravel snake like to bite hard into the calf of the assailant. Mine is the automatic reaction of a street fighter; a street survivor.
“Ahh Yaa!” the agonising scream is accompanied by the surprised yelp of others.
My mouth fills with the assailant’s blood she kick me loose instantly I am up crouching knife in right hand the other ready to fend of any attack.
The she-urt leader faces me in similar pose but favouring her bleeding right leg. Hissing commands at her sister she places the three other girls as sure as an experienced Kaissa player’s strategically encircle the opposing Ubar’s Homestone
We circle each other. In each hand she grasps a sorp shell.
The shell of the Sorp mollusc is a common weapon amongst the she-urts of the port, its smooth oval edge is sharper than any warrior’s sword and, in the right hands, almost as deadly.
I grasp at the pain in my ribs a smudge of blood dribbles to my chin. She smirks sensing my weakness - the bitch is enjoying this!
I feign with my right - laughing she blocks the thrust out wide, her backhand brutally percusses jarring my head backwards. I clumsily roll left spluttering blood.
As I rise, too slow, rolling again I just avoid her kick. She pulls back.
Whimpering I rise my eyes dart seeking escape but everywhere I look there seems to be a laughing bitch revelling in the torment of their frail captive - they are playing with me.
We circle; my steps are faltering eye darting about. She dives at me only to pull out at the last moment laughing as I cringe indecisive in my movements.
Screaming I run at her again my right thrust is brushed aside and as I roll left I feel rhe slash across my right arm “Ahhhay!”
My roll ends against the feet of one of the girls. I breathing through gritted teeth against the pain of being lifted by the hair until I stand a few inches from her smirking face. A face which changed dramatically as my knife slide across her belly slicing through he rag to end, its point under her chin raising her to toe hight. A left to the solar plexus. I turn again to face my assailant ignoring the sounds as girl collapses gasping for breath behind me.
The smirks are a little hesitant now and my assailant looks decidedly more serious circling me again with more care. I spit the remainder of her blood from my mouth, threatening her with my right hand. Twice she sliced and twice I easily fended the blow countering with a tumble to the left.
I feel the edge of the embankment wall beneath my feet the sound of water movements behind. Cautiously I snap a glance over my shoulder – she comes at me screaming I dodge her right then her left thrust – promptly ending my ruse I throw the knife to my left hand slashing to her arm - spin to the right with jab kick on her weak leg sending her screaming to the water.
Shreeking in terror, two of my tormentors rush to her aid ignoring me – third now bare breast held her ground making to block my escape, hesitates and lets me pass.
Scooping up the leaves, and I hasten onto the bridge - looking back I see the three girl kneeling, anguishing over the convulsing body of their leader.
Backstory 43 – The Paga Wagon
In this alley beside the Perfumery I can see anyone heading for the Tavern’s courtyard. I am cold and shivering uncontrollably. The crushed leaves have eventual stopped the shoulder bleeding and nulled a little of the pain but the binding cloth, roughly torn from my waist wrap, is soak in coagulated blood. Knowing the courtyard gate is locked I wait for the early morning paga delivery. My intent is to enter the courtyard with the cart.
The squeak of wheels on cobble stone and the snorts of the burdened bosk alter me to the approaching wagon with it Wagon Master and his male slave.
Moving from shadow to shadow, ever alter to the guardsmen, I retrace my steps until I reach the same place from where I had earlier watched Otta lock the gate.
It is with almost audible relief to see Braggs come across the courtyard and swings open the gates for the approaching wagon. Something, however, warns me to wait; something is not as it should be.
The wagon is rumbling up the lane and Braggs has moved to one side of the gate, presumably let it enter. No!? He is talking to someone; someone in the shadows.
The rear door to the Tavern opens momentarily spreading a dim light across the courtyard as Bragg’s father comes to meet the wagon; light sufficient to see who Braggs is talking to – it is a Guardsman!
The wagon is in the yard now, as it pulls to a stop at the cellar doors a second guardsman steps from the shadows at the far end the courtyard to inspect the barrels and beneath the wagon. They are search for someone, or something, and I have the distinct feel that someone is me.
The ratchet chains rasps at the early morning as the twin cellar door open and the offloading ramp appears.
I remember now the movement in the kitchen when I left and the strange appearance of Otta in the courtyard.
Backstory 44 – “Urts! Bloody urts”
It had taken only a few moments for me to calm and refocus.
With little difficulty I had found old sack and captured two furry gutter urts which, once wrapped firmly in the sack they were quite and still.
I now stand on the courtyard wall amongst the branches of the tree above the garbage trough. Braggs and the wagon master’s male slave are manhandling the heavy barrels and rolling them off the wagon down the wooden ramp into the cellar. Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master and second Guardsman can be seen chatting behind the bosk.
I let myself down into the garbage. To my ears the noise of my rustling and disturbance of the garbage is like thunder, I might have well announced out loud “I am over here!”
The three men peer towards the noise and the guardsman strides across to investigate. As he nears I release the two urts which scurry squealing and fighting onto the cobble stones before him.
“Get out! Get away!. Filthy things” he mutters as he kicks at them and, after a cursory glance over the garbage, returns to his fellows.
“Urts! Bloody urts.” The other laugh and have soon returned to their conversation.
Backstory 45 - I do not hear ....
I scurry low across the courtyard and crouch beneath the wagon. Listen intently - alert to any movement – there is no indication that anyone has seen me.
The last barrel is unloaded. Braggs is taking the ramp back into the cellar. I cannot move for fear of being seen by Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master or Guardsman who now stand only feet away from me.
The ratchet chain rankles in its pullies and to my dismay the cellar doors start closing – with a gruffled farewell the Wagon Master and slave mount the wagon – and still the doors close
The wagon moves. In only moments I will be left crouching fully exposed – and still the cellar door edge closer the chain’s constant wrangling, howling in my brain.
I see the feet of the remaining two men change position – they have their backs to me – the wagon has moved from me I am fully exposed – the gap between the doors is narrowing faster now
I have no options. Diving through the gap I land with a roll on the sawdust of the cellar floor and scurrying behind one of the barrel.
The chain momentarily stops then recommences before the doors finally slam shut.
I hear the barrels of the locks slam into place.
I hear Bragg’s muffled footsteps as he crosses the cellar floor.
I hear the cellar interior door open.
I hear Briggs’s footsteps fade away.
I do not hear the door being closed.
I do not hear the lock being thrown ….
Backstory #46 - What happens when Tay returns to her room
I had noticed the old cloak soaking in the laundry when changing into a tunic its sleave long enough to disguise the shoulder wound. My bloodied rags and garments being burnt the laundry fire.
The rich odour of smouldering the scent sticks greet me on entering my room the girl, still tethered, now kneels on fresh straw and in a clean white camisk. Light from a tharlarion oil lamp reflects from small surface puddles on the bench top around the basin steam rising whispping off the water within. A fresh neatly folded rep cloth also rests on the bench along with a small bowl of fruit, a platter of sliced sa-tarna bread and bosk cheese. On the floor next to the girl but oiut of reach is a wooden bowl containing bosk fat.
It takes a few moments before the silence registers. I look again to the girl … the whimpering has ceased …. her unblinking bovine like eyes follows my movement about the room - it is eerie and I involuntarily shiver.
The expressionless face watches without reaction as I kneel beside her laying the leaves on the floor. Each leaf I prepare by lightly crushing it to bring the juices to the surface over which I smear a layer of bosk fat letting the fat and leaf residue intermingle.
The girl emitted a slight moan, like a trapped animal accepting its fate, as I smooth each leaf into place against the neck ulcerations. The leaves I bind in place with a leather thong tight enough to restrain the dressing but not to pressure greatly again the skin.
The eyes follow my hands as they closed on the infected left thigh; there is no sound as the leaves are similarly applied against the wounds, though I observe the thigh muscles tighten and attempt to withdraw from my touch.
Concentrating on the treatment I suddenly become aware of lips gently caressing the welt on my face. I turn to look at her; she abruptly pulls back and lowers her head.
A head I take in both hands raise it to my lips and kiss for she is a dear thing a frightened beast and I seek to reassure her. She blinks, a single tear crosses her right cheek trickling to the corner of the mouth – a warmth; a suggestion of recognition; of response seems to flicker within those eyes.
I continued treating the infection the girl’s head lulling against my shoulder as she quietly hums the lullaby Vula had sung when we had first washed her.
Even by the following morning the redness about the neck has reduced and within two days the girl wore a house collar with no discomfort. It took another 5 days before she could be untether without risking that she my scratch and re-infect the thigh – during this period she was fed on a clear broth made from vulo meat stock and grup cloves to clean the blood. Tustu says grup cloves is called garlic where she comes from - Tustu says some strange things at times.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Part 3 - Slave Kiss (21 - 31)
Backstory #21 - I have a Room
Now well fed and washed daily, my body is rounded and sleek, my belly flat and breast buoyant. It is hard to believe that it is the same scrawny thing that burst through the door only weeks ago.
I’m looking in a mirror smoothing my work tunic to accentuate my shape, concentrating on my shape in shear wonderment – am I beautiful? am I sexy? would I make a desirable slave? …
“’orrible site ain’t it!?” Braggs, the young Paga attendant, whispers in my ear giving quite a star and accompanying his intrusion into my thoughts with a playful pinch of my butt.
I turn at him and poke out my tongue.
“Hahaha!” already he is walking away with jaunt and wobble of the head that indicates he is quite amused by my reaction.
I am a little embarrassed but secretly pleased at the attention. Fingering the keys in my belt I let myself into the privacy of my room.
Backstory #22 - Thoughts of Mother
My room is little more than a windowless storage cabinet – privileges of the cook. I smile to myself, mother would be proud, but the smile turns to a frown as I remember the laughter, the cooking the lessons with mother in the kitchen in our little shop – I hadn’t though of her in such a long time and wonder where she is, if she has a good master …
“Sniffle” brushing my nose on my arm I proceeded to undo my belt taking the little chain with the room and pantry keys along with small pair of scissors and putting them on the little bench next to the basin. The basin which Vula, or one of the other girls, had recently filled with warm water.
I splashed some water to my face, only cursory like, ingrained habits of the street have not quite left me. Undoing the corded collar ties I Slip the knee length, short sleeve work tunic over my head and kick off the leather sandals - soon to lay naked on the sleeping fur staring at the ceiling and fingering the slave ring on the wall beside me – it had been a hard day.
Backstory #23 - Wrench at my gut
Reaching for my little leather candy pouch I took a piece into my mouth.
Tonight I am lonely. I don’t know why it should happen now after such a long time but a welter of thought and memories of mother; of the shop; of father overtake me – I am sobbing uncontrollably, and the sobs wrench at my gut.
The noise I hear is of a distant wailing is grows louder – It is me. My whole inner being it crying in protest; is screaming in anguish.
“Mother! Oh Mother!”
“Shhh little one. Shhh.” An arm rounds my shoulder and lifts me to a sitting position while a hand brushes my hair from a perspiring brow. I look up into Carla's eyes. She pulls me gently to her. Over her shoulder I see the Inn Keeper standing at the doorway, on his face concern then, with a nod, he moves away down the corridor towards the kennels.
Carla is almost naked, still in her yellow dance silks, I snuggle into the warmth of her body whimpering.
Backstory #24 - Little more than a child
“Shhh mistress.” Carla affectionately pats my hair, I lick the salt from my lips and inhale the odour of her slave perfume. The sobs are less frequent now.
I see Tutsu hurry past the door towards the Inn, she is dressed in yellow dance silks.
The Inn Keeper steps back into the room and with a light chain secures Carla to my slave ring.
“Stay with her, comfort her, you need not complete your dance” He says and then as he leaves “You may speak her name.”
“Yes Master” Carla replied, I am momentary aware of the inquisitive tone to her voice.
Stopping at the doorway, looking back the Inn Keeper mutters “She is little more than a child …” and leaves.
Backstory #25 – My fingers freeze in my mouth
I awaken to the rustle of silk and gentle clunk of pottery. Carla kneels tower fashion before me placing a wooden platter on the floor beside her. Stretching, I sit up on the furs resting my back against the cushions.
“May this girl offer Mistress Tay breakfast?” she asks
“Yes Carla” I reply still half asleep.
She takes up a large bowl of sullage, bows her head, whispers a prayer and holds it out to me with both hands her head bowed.
I take the bowl, dip two finger into the sullage and place them in my mouth. Ohhhh this is good! The sullage is thickened with verr cream and sweetened with chopped kort and ram berries.
Carla is watching me and smiles warmly. “Carla is pleased mistress enjoys the serving.”
I stop momentary, my fingers freeze in my mouth. I look first at the empty slave ring and then at Carla with the tethering chain now slung over her shoulder.
Removing my fingers “Err!? …” I look back at the ring “How? …”
Backstory #26 - My tongue delights
Carla’s smiles broadly and jangles my chain and keys a cheeky smile, she leans forward and tethers herself back to the slave ring before reaching back to place the keys on the bench where I had left them the night before.
“Oh girl you should be punished for that, severely.”
“Yes Mistress Tay … please punish this girl.” There was a certain tease in her voice, we both know I will not, besides the tethering was more symbolic than anything else.
On the platter was a goblet of ta-grape juice which Carla knows I detest but I know she loves. There also are two thick slices of warm sa-tarna bread dripping with a thick spread verr butter.
Carla offered me a spoon. I scooped at the contents of bowl its texture smooth, rich and creamy. In my mouth the flavour is luxurious I let it rest on my tongue revelling in it dream like qualities.
Backstory #27 - Feed Girl
I realise Carla must have gone into the Pantry for these ingredients. That was dangerous, if Otta or the Inn Keeper had caught her she would have been whipped mercilessly
“May this girl fetch water Mistress Tay.”
I nod and she leans forward so I can remove the chain from her collar.
Carla graciously rises steps back three pace and, taking up the basin from my bench, leaves the room.
I sit back languishing over the succulence and texture of my breakfast.
Returning a little later, Carla replaces the basin along with a clean folded rep cloth on the bench, wisps of steam rise from within the bowl. She kneels before me looking expectantly at the bowl in my lap – I look at her then back to the half empty bowl, hesitate, cling it closer possessively to my belly.
Carla frowns in disappointment. I laugh and place before her “Feed Girl. Feed Carla.”
Backstory #28 - The Slave Kiss
Pulling the wash basin from under the bench Carla dutifully kneels, tower fashion, waiting for me.
I reluctantly step into the basin. Carla pours warm water upon me I shudder as it spills across my shoulder to envelope the rest of my body leaving a residue of the aromic bath oils. I am not comfortable with this daily washing it is unhealthy strips the skin of its natural essence, however, this morning the delightful odours of the bath oils and the feel Carla’s touch as her hands stroke and pad at my body seems most pleasurable.
“Mistress Tay is beautiful.” She reassures me. “She is a woman now … no longer a child.”
I smile. I go within myself seeking the woman, what am I looking for? How does a wom….
“Gasp! Ohhh!” My back arches and knees grasp at Carla's arm trying to stop her as it withdrawing from the slave kiss.
The feeling … the power … the need …. the woman I seek erupts … with such force I am breathless.
Backstory #29 - I have a visitor
“Tay needs a Master.” Carla says, she reaches for rep cloth body sheet.
“I do not! I am not a slave!” my body still howled in anguish and unrequited need.
"Girl! How dare you!"
Carla, ignoring my indignations holds the unfolded cloth to me.
“Mistress Tay, There is slave within us all.”
“I am free! Girl!.” Angrily snatching the sheet from her “How dare you!? A collared slave. A beast of labour. A pleasure object for use of others.”
“Yes mistress.” She says trying to assist me to tie the sheet …
Abruptly she moves away and kneels in the corner away from me.
“Greetings Master.”
Inquisitively I turn to find Braggs standing in the doorway.
Instinctively I pull the sheet against my chest aware that it rides high on my thighs.
”What are you doing!” I am perplexed
Stepping backwards out of the basin till my back is against the wall away from the mirror.
“Go away!”
Braggs is about 17 years old, a large boy for his age.
Backstory #30 - A beautiful object
Braggs steps forward and grasps my shoulders with rough textured hands, hands of a works man, the texture of which is surprisingly pleasing against the scented, freshly bathed skin; texture that rekindle the subsiding needs within my belly.
“Tay, you were upset last night, I wanted to … well …” He leans forward and gently kisses me on the cheek.
Then as if only now recognising my state of dress steps back red faced. I wish he wouldn’t – my body is saying come back, don’t go, stay, touch me, touch me Master touch me!
Turning from me he gropes within his pocket and extracts a roughly wrapped packet and holds it to me. Reaching for it the rep cloth fall from my body but he leaves without looking back.
I stand silent and naked staring after him, only looking down at the package when Carla lifts the rep cloth against me and ties it neatly about me. The package contains a simple little shell anklet the type found on any market stall but it is beautiful.
Backstory #31 - Get Out!
I look at Carla who now kneels before me watching with eyebrows raised …
Kicking her I shout “Get Out! Get Out!”
Carla hastily rises and makes for the door picking up the used breakfast platter on the way. At the door she kneels again towards me, acknowledging me with a hesitant smile.
I stand for a moment staring at her then; we both burst into a fit of the giggles.
---(to be continued)
Now well fed and washed daily, my body is rounded and sleek, my belly flat and breast buoyant. It is hard to believe that it is the same scrawny thing that burst through the door only weeks ago.
I’m looking in a mirror smoothing my work tunic to accentuate my shape, concentrating on my shape in shear wonderment – am I beautiful? am I sexy? would I make a desirable slave? …
“’orrible site ain’t it!?” Braggs, the young Paga attendant, whispers in my ear giving quite a star and accompanying his intrusion into my thoughts with a playful pinch of my butt.
I turn at him and poke out my tongue.
“Hahaha!” already he is walking away with jaunt and wobble of the head that indicates he is quite amused by my reaction.
I am a little embarrassed but secretly pleased at the attention. Fingering the keys in my belt I let myself into the privacy of my room.
Backstory #22 - Thoughts of Mother
My room is little more than a windowless storage cabinet – privileges of the cook. I smile to myself, mother would be proud, but the smile turns to a frown as I remember the laughter, the cooking the lessons with mother in the kitchen in our little shop – I hadn’t though of her in such a long time and wonder where she is, if she has a good master …
“Sniffle” brushing my nose on my arm I proceeded to undo my belt taking the little chain with the room and pantry keys along with small pair of scissors and putting them on the little bench next to the basin. The basin which Vula, or one of the other girls, had recently filled with warm water.
I splashed some water to my face, only cursory like, ingrained habits of the street have not quite left me. Undoing the corded collar ties I Slip the knee length, short sleeve work tunic over my head and kick off the leather sandals - soon to lay naked on the sleeping fur staring at the ceiling and fingering the slave ring on the wall beside me – it had been a hard day.
Backstory #23 - Wrench at my gut
Reaching for my little leather candy pouch I took a piece into my mouth.
Tonight I am lonely. I don’t know why it should happen now after such a long time but a welter of thought and memories of mother; of the shop; of father overtake me – I am sobbing uncontrollably, and the sobs wrench at my gut.
The noise I hear is of a distant wailing is grows louder – It is me. My whole inner being it crying in protest; is screaming in anguish.
“Mother! Oh Mother!”
“Shhh little one. Shhh.” An arm rounds my shoulder and lifts me to a sitting position while a hand brushes my hair from a perspiring brow. I look up into Carla's eyes. She pulls me gently to her. Over her shoulder I see the Inn Keeper standing at the doorway, on his face concern then, with a nod, he moves away down the corridor towards the kennels.
Carla is almost naked, still in her yellow dance silks, I snuggle into the warmth of her body whimpering.
Backstory #24 - Little more than a child
“Shhh mistress.” Carla affectionately pats my hair, I lick the salt from my lips and inhale the odour of her slave perfume. The sobs are less frequent now.
I see Tutsu hurry past the door towards the Inn, she is dressed in yellow dance silks.
The Inn Keeper steps back into the room and with a light chain secures Carla to my slave ring.
“Stay with her, comfort her, you need not complete your dance” He says and then as he leaves “You may speak her name.”
“Yes Master” Carla replied, I am momentary aware of the inquisitive tone to her voice.
Stopping at the doorway, looking back the Inn Keeper mutters “She is little more than a child …” and leaves.
Backstory #25 – My fingers freeze in my mouth
I awaken to the rustle of silk and gentle clunk of pottery. Carla kneels tower fashion before me placing a wooden platter on the floor beside her. Stretching, I sit up on the furs resting my back against the cushions.
“May this girl offer Mistress Tay breakfast?” she asks
“Yes Carla” I reply still half asleep.
She takes up a large bowl of sullage, bows her head, whispers a prayer and holds it out to me with both hands her head bowed.
I take the bowl, dip two finger into the sullage and place them in my mouth. Ohhhh this is good! The sullage is thickened with verr cream and sweetened with chopped kort and ram berries.
Carla is watching me and smiles warmly. “Carla is pleased mistress enjoys the serving.”
I stop momentary, my fingers freeze in my mouth. I look first at the empty slave ring and then at Carla with the tethering chain now slung over her shoulder.
Removing my fingers “Err!? …” I look back at the ring “How? …”
Backstory #26 - My tongue delights
Carla’s smiles broadly and jangles my chain and keys a cheeky smile, she leans forward and tethers herself back to the slave ring before reaching back to place the keys on the bench where I had left them the night before.
“Oh girl you should be punished for that, severely.”
“Yes Mistress Tay … please punish this girl.” There was a certain tease in her voice, we both know I will not, besides the tethering was more symbolic than anything else.
On the platter was a goblet of ta-grape juice which Carla knows I detest but I know she loves. There also are two thick slices of warm sa-tarna bread dripping with a thick spread verr butter.
Carla offered me a spoon. I scooped at the contents of bowl its texture smooth, rich and creamy. In my mouth the flavour is luxurious I let it rest on my tongue revelling in it dream like qualities.
Backstory #27 - Feed Girl
I realise Carla must have gone into the Pantry for these ingredients. That was dangerous, if Otta or the Inn Keeper had caught her she would have been whipped mercilessly
“May this girl fetch water Mistress Tay.”
I nod and she leans forward so I can remove the chain from her collar.
Carla graciously rises steps back three pace and, taking up the basin from my bench, leaves the room.
I sit back languishing over the succulence and texture of my breakfast.
Returning a little later, Carla replaces the basin along with a clean folded rep cloth on the bench, wisps of steam rise from within the bowl. She kneels before me looking expectantly at the bowl in my lap – I look at her then back to the half empty bowl, hesitate, cling it closer possessively to my belly.
Carla frowns in disappointment. I laugh and place before her “Feed Girl. Feed Carla.”
Backstory #28 - The Slave Kiss
Pulling the wash basin from under the bench Carla dutifully kneels, tower fashion, waiting for me.
I reluctantly step into the basin. Carla pours warm water upon me I shudder as it spills across my shoulder to envelope the rest of my body leaving a residue of the aromic bath oils. I am not comfortable with this daily washing it is unhealthy strips the skin of its natural essence, however, this morning the delightful odours of the bath oils and the feel Carla’s touch as her hands stroke and pad at my body seems most pleasurable.
“Mistress Tay is beautiful.” She reassures me. “She is a woman now … no longer a child.”
I smile. I go within myself seeking the woman, what am I looking for? How does a wom….
“Gasp! Ohhh!” My back arches and knees grasp at Carla's arm trying to stop her as it withdrawing from the slave kiss.
The feeling … the power … the need …. the woman I seek erupts … with such force I am breathless.
Backstory #29 - I have a visitor
“Tay needs a Master.” Carla says, she reaches for rep cloth body sheet.
“I do not! I am not a slave!” my body still howled in anguish and unrequited need.
"Girl! How dare you!"
Carla, ignoring my indignations holds the unfolded cloth to me.
“Mistress Tay, There is slave within us all.”
“I am free! Girl!.” Angrily snatching the sheet from her “How dare you!? A collared slave. A beast of labour. A pleasure object for use of others.”
“Yes mistress.” She says trying to assist me to tie the sheet …
Abruptly she moves away and kneels in the corner away from me.
“Greetings Master.”
Inquisitively I turn to find Braggs standing in the doorway.
Instinctively I pull the sheet against my chest aware that it rides high on my thighs.
”What are you doing!” I am perplexed
Stepping backwards out of the basin till my back is against the wall away from the mirror.
“Go away!”
Braggs is about 17 years old, a large boy for his age.
Backstory #30 - A beautiful object
Braggs steps forward and grasps my shoulders with rough textured hands, hands of a works man, the texture of which is surprisingly pleasing against the scented, freshly bathed skin; texture that rekindle the subsiding needs within my belly.
“Tay, you were upset last night, I wanted to … well …” He leans forward and gently kisses me on the cheek.
Then as if only now recognising my state of dress steps back red faced. I wish he wouldn’t – my body is saying come back, don’t go, stay, touch me, touch me Master touch me!
Turning from me he gropes within his pocket and extracts a roughly wrapped packet and holds it to me. Reaching for it the rep cloth fall from my body but he leaves without looking back.
I stand silent and naked staring after him, only looking down at the package when Carla lifts the rep cloth against me and ties it neatly about me. The package contains a simple little shell anklet the type found on any market stall but it is beautiful.
Backstory #31 - Get Out!
I look at Carla who now kneels before me watching with eyebrows raised …
Kicking her I shout “Get Out! Get Out!”
Carla hastily rises and makes for the door picking up the used breakfast platter on the way. At the door she kneels again towards me, acknowledging me with a hesitant smile.
I stand for a moment staring at her then; we both burst into a fit of the giggles.
---(to be continued)
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