Random Posts: Thoughts and a RP Chore — The Pillow Fluffer

So I was skipping along this morning through a “lifestyler” blog that I enjoy reading… and shifting through her comments. While reading, I ran across the one comment that always makes me cringe “I should be safe to be around like-minded people…” Laughs, I’m sure I paraphrased a little by implying that not being exposed to differences of opinions helps an individual to feel safe and emotionally secure… but that’s how I read it.

Anyway it got me to thinking and I think I’m finally ready to write my next story but you won’t get it on this post, it’s going to take some time, so instead, I’m giving you one of my roleplay scenes from Second Life. I don’t play there as much as I used to as a kajira, I still love the beautiful feelings I get from envisioning myself living the life of a Gorean Kajira/slave/submissive but there are a lot of conflicts… conflicts within me, conflicts between lifestyle people taking up space on roleplaying sims (LOL), hardcore roleplayers bitching about the unfairness of life in a roleplay sim (when unfairness is a part of the game, huh?), conflicts with people seeking feelings of reassurance/devotion/love/understanding and acceptance, conflicts between where the line of real life and second life begins, so on and so forth.. anger over one person’s ability to emote versus another and debates over “who feels their submission/writing/emotions the most”… blah blah.

Anyway, skipping between “lifestyler” blogs and “roleplayer” blogs (guess I should put everything in quotation marks) helps me to see that “realness” is a subjective emotion and for each of us, it has a different taste, a different texture, and emotional cord that it strikes.

One of the main reasons I quit playing so much is because I try to feel what my character feels and I enjoy it but at the same time, I’ve come to the belief that I don’t think that what I have to offer should be squandered on every person I meet because I do get caught up in the emotions but… the roleplayer in me says “are you any less hypocritical if you selectively choose who you feel is and isn’t worth your time?” I don’t know but I am beginning to see two things, “realness is subjective but emotions lace every realm” and for some crazy reason, while kajirae/submissives/slaves/women/girls/role players battle it out… I still haven’t really found anyone speaking about the accountability of men… Masters/Dominates/Men/males/boys… I see them speaking about the role of women but I’ve only seen one say anything about how H/he fits into the whole equation.

As for me, I remember my very last encounter with a “Master” in Second Life, I remember the struggles and competition and unnecessary combativeness of his chain, and I remember my last two encounters with so called “submissives” who “don’t role play because they are real life submissives (although surprisingly, they do wiggle asses and emote some things — anyway one still exists in SL and is doing the same ole thing and the other one has disappeared completely, her profile reads: GONE FOR AN UNKNOWN AMOUNT OF TIME, UNDECIDED IF AND WHEN I WILL RETURN… like so many other kajirae I have seen come, rise like shooting stars, explode into a loud, distasteful conundrum, then disappear)” All the same, I’m not too eager to experience a mixture of my latest SL Gorean experience in that combination again.

In truth, sometimes I wonder what’s the purpose in sharing at all when you work so hard to try to make the things you do beautiful and pleasing for all. But it’s early morning, the sky is still tinted with purple and sometimes your mind just wonders… but like the rising sun, you know you’ll always come back one day even when your hidden behind clouds.

[1:09]  Saniya Brandi quietly sniffs the warm band of metal of her new chasity belt as she rolls it over one delicate hand and works it up her arm, like a sling, to take outside. She doesn’t really like it but if her Tajiri is pleased then… a small half smile creeps onto moist lips. Her toes gently nudging one large pillow on top of another. Then reaching down to drag the first of many outside…. “1, 2, 3…. 20!” she counts, emerald eyes widening with surpise, “what?” then mumbling as quiet as a mouse, “wayyyyy toooo many.”

[1:13] Saniya Brandi plops the first two on the steps. “There has to be a quicker way to do this,” she moans, hips rolling against the threshold of the door. The hard wood giving her the slightest bit of comfort against her naked, unchained flesh. “Hmmmmmmmm,” her eyes scan, narrowing against the flickering flame. “Aha!” she giggles melodiously, grinding her hips unconsciously one last time before stepping away from the door and snatching up the edge of the nearest fur. Small caramel fingers curl around one end. Small, manicured feet quickly tapping the pillows into the center as she grabs the other end.

[1:16]  Saniya Brandi quickly drags it across the room scooping up pillows until she has a bundle as large as the Gorean Saint Nick’s. “Mmmmmphf!” she grunts, small pearls of sweat forming against the soft bobbing curves of her heavy breast, back arched, thick, cinnamon thighs brushing lightly against each other as they flex with her efforts to squeeze the bundle outside. It pops! and pillows fly everywhere… but luckily they all bounce outside, raining down on the porch as the door closes, shutting her off in solitude to begin her work.

[1:23]  Saniya Brandi gathers the pillows, filling them back into the center of the fur. A soft string of heated curses spilling from her lips, then well sculpted arms flex. The early morning breeze flowing gently over her curves, whipping between her legs, and fanning out her hair to comb gently across her shoulders as she drags the bundle to the edge of the porch and drops one corner to provide herself with a soft and comfortable resting place.

[1:26]  Saniya Brandi sits and begins fluffing the first of many pillows. The rounded sides filling the empty space between her thighs. “pat, pat,” her hands begin to beat softly, as if stroking the tightly drawn leathered hide of a drum… and a few specks of dust lift into the velvety folds of morning light.

[1:28]  Saniya Brandi finishes the first and then the second, the third and fourth, fifth… then takes hold of the sixth. Two triangular corners fit neatly into the palms of her hands, thick and firm to the touch… she moans softly, reminded of something.

[1:30]  Saniya Brandi: They squeeze gently, the tips of her fingers circling their way up to the tips then drumming lightly until her thighs squeeze inward, coaxing a third corner into the deep, quickly warming recess of her treasure.

[1:31]  Saniya Brandi: It gives her a little comfort, her mind slowly beginning to drift to wasted fantasies as she continues to fluff and fluff and fluff.

[1:34]  Saniya Brandi: Finishing the sixth, she draws away the dampened corner of the pillow and sniffs with a devious smile. Her scent is thick and sweet, stirring her senses to arousal… and this is her Tajiri’s pillow.

[1:35]  Saniya Brandi tosses it to the side, chuckling softly as she begins to fluff the seventh and eighth pillows, ninth and tenth, on through number fourteen.

[1:37]  Saniya Brandi’s hot! Palms damp and red, her arms trembling with a tired inner heat. Breath soft and labored… brow dappled with sweat that fights against the cool kiss of the morning’s breeze.

[1:38]  Kiterina Demonia: hey Niya, let me help you…

[1:39]  Saniya Brandi: One of the last few pillows held protectively in her arms. This one small, the fluffy corners propped gently under her breasts. “It’s okay Rina, I only have three left.”

[1:39]  Kiterina Demonia: can I carry some back inside for you?

[1:40]  Saniya Brandi shrugs, “If you wish. Then I can carry the last three when I finish them.”

[1:42]  Kiterina Demonia reaches down with slender arms gathering the beaten and fluffed pillows up gently, smiling to herself at how nice they turned out, I turn swaying my curvaceous hips as I start back into the house with my arms full, breasts tucked high on the bundle in my arms

[1:42]  Saniya Brandi smiles warmly, curling forward so that the weight of the pillow nudges the underside of her breasts, sinking into the warmth until she can fill the beating of her heart against her palms… and meanwhile I’m fluffing my little ass off.

[1:45]  Kiterina Demonia saunters back in passing Tajiri with my arms full, smiling at him, and goes straight to the seating area, bending over exposing my curvaceous ass as I sink to the rug and start placing the fluffed pillows back in place, sitting back to inspect each one as I place them for a perfect design as they should be for my Tajiri’s home.

[1:45]  Saniya Brandi chuckles softly, stealing a quick glimpse of her beautiful sister over her shoulder. Her eyes slowly searching the backside of the girl… stalking up then down, from silky locks to delicate rounded heels before tossing the 17th pillow to the side. “Asante,” she whispers softly, voice low and honeyed.

[1:47]  Saniya Brandi hears the click of the door as the latch catches and it closes. Her chin lifting again to the breeze, eyes fluttering closed with a kiss of thick, lashes that sweep across her cheeks.

[1:49]  Kiterina Demonia grins naughtily as I turn to walk back outside to her sister to get another armful of her freshly beaten pillows, grinning as I go due to the sight I just got of Tajiri’s naked flesh, and having difficulty thinking about what I’m doing after that.

[1:50]  Saniya Brandi lifts the last two pillows, letting the textures tickle her senses as she sweeps them over each arm and along her sides. One rounded edge moving like the tantalizing pulse of a strong, opened palm, the squared corner of the second racing up and over her thighs like a thick, eager finger…. meanwhile I continue to fluff the last two of three pillows.

[1:55]  Kiterina Demonia gathers more of the already worked pillows, feeling them pressed against my heavy breast, brushing my nipples into excitement, feeling them grow erect as I move to carry them back into the house, glancing over to my sister to smile at her, thinking we are almost done and how nicely we work together.

[1:51]  Saniya Brandi moans softly, catching them both between her thighs as they come together. Then squeezing like a young larl with prey captured between her paws. She watches the exposed sides grow thick under her strength, nearly ready to pop!

[1:53]  Saniya Brandi tickles one corner pausing… to enjoy the feel of them then releasing and tossing them to the side to finish the last.

[1:56]  Talton Spiritor: I will return shortly. I must take the city a moment. Be wonderful kajira.

[1:56]  Kiterina Demonia walks in thinking, darn I’m too late he’s dressed again now

[1:56]  Kiterina Demonia: aii Tajiri Wangu

[1:56]  Saniya Brandi fluffs the last, her small fists raining down in triumph against the pillow until it’s clean. Then she springs from the edge of the porch, bouncing down onto her feet with the grace and prowness of a she-sleen. Her nimble fingers gather the edges of the fur, one side still warm from sitting as she tosses in the last pillows.

[1:56]  Saniya Brandi: Yes Tajiri wangu.

[1:56]  Saniya Brandi: I will miss you.

[1:58]  Talton Spiritor walks off the porch and around, stopping a moment in front of his first. He looks to her thigh, then to her, his fingers running over the bandaged area. “Tomorrow, it comes off, my Niya. You will see the mark of your slavery, and will know you are mine. Then in 5 days, you will stoke the coals for your sister, so that the house will be complete in uniformity.

[2:00]  Saniya Brandi gasps at the touch, her body instantly blossoming with fire until she hears his words continue. “Oh,” she chirps with disappointment, “yes Tajiri, asante.” Then turning back to complete her chores, her backside tingling under his escaping gaze as they both continue on their way.

[2:00]  Kiterina Demonia: ok I need to log for some sleep, Good night Tajiri

[2:01]  Kiterina Demonia: Good night Niya

[2:01]  Talton Spiritor: Sleep well, my Rina

[2:01]  Saniya Brandi: Night Rina.

[2:01]  Saniya Brandi gathers the last of the pillows and drags her bundle back into the house.

[2:15]  Saniya Brandi drops each pillow back into its place.

 

Random Thoughts: This is not eHarmony.com…

Well, I knew sooner or later that I was going to write something that was going to make me have to create an “about me ” page, laughs. I just thought it would be about 10 to 15 posts into my blog but after writing 2.1 Over the river and through the woods, I figured I better go ahead and write it before the (raises her hands to do the quotation marks) “true Gor” fanatics started sending me hate mail about Gor not being BDSM, which is true it’s not but… There is a certain reality that goes along with the idea of slavery. After all John Norman did base his writings on some aspects of real life; mainly historical facts on the social relationships and interactions of people from a variety of races and cultures. He also wrote about his own personal philosophies… but let me back up— uh-oh, did I say a variety of races?

Yes, Gor was not all blonde or red hair with blue eyes either.

It had all kinds of people. To name a few, the Tahari region is based on Arabs (I am sure that’s not the politically correct term for them and I’m sorry if I offend anyone). The Schendi region was based on the Ushindi, which is a real race of African people or people from the African diaspora (Pumps her little fist, I wanna give a shout out to my peeps, laughs) and they have an area based on the Vikings and Celtics and a whole lot more. All of which I will eventually one day learn.

But…

Back to the subject of this post. The books of Gor are based on slavery right? Or at least the aspects of slavery and female bondage are what made his books super popular. It’s all about how women should behave. The differences between our society and this other world called Gor (I’m mainly speaking about America because thats where I live when I say ‘our society’).

To reduce it down to its simplest form, his books say something about how society perceives sexuality. His books express a return to a primal existence where people are not afraid of their sexuality and… in a sense it makes a statement about what masculinity and femininity really are.

What is masculine? What is feminine? These are questions that people all over the word have been debating since the beginning of time when Adam and Eve took their first bite off the tree of knowledge and entered into a world of sin (Laughs, yep, I’m Christian too… waits for the rest of the Christians to start telling me I’m going to hell for writing erotic stories).

Anyway, slavery in real life is not giggles and love and in the books many times John Norman says himself that it’s a man’s world and a man’s will. You see women cuffed (i.e. that means hit) and  taken sexually when the man is ready. I would imagine that means that the men did not wait until the women were in the mood. They wanted it, they took it, plain and simple. There was love too and all that jazz but Gor from the Norman books was not eHarmony.com where people come together from a mutual effort.

Gor was written to be a world full of danger and excitement and that is what my idea of Gor is. So when I write my stories and when I write my responses and interact with people in Second Life, I’m gonna write what I feel, how I would respond if this was real life, and I am going to take into consideration all the possibilities. For example, if you were whipped in real life, you’re going to be weak and hurt, your not going to growl or smile like nothing happened. If your cut, there will be bleeding. I am not going to like every Master, every Free Woman, or every slave but the difference between me and most is that I believe in the statement that “slaves were cunning.” My responses will always be from the position I have chosen to play.

Sex has smells and tastes, candle wax is hot and if you dip your finger in it, it burns. Different people walk different ways. My smile is not the same as yours. If your were to be bound in real life with rope and squirmed about, it would probably leave bruises and hurt. I believe in the realities of pain, I believe in the realities of fear, I believe in the realities of happiness. I believe in committing myself to realistic responses, too looking at the Chronicles of Gor and realizing all of the realistic possibilities not just grandiose fluff.

Again, real life slavery and raids and wars are not all shits and giggles. You don’t believe me, turn on the news, take a class in social work, visit a human rights website like Amnesty International and read the stories of different people’s lives with empathy. Try to imagine what it would feel like to live in their shoes, to have their experiences. What happens after war? What does a war torn city look like?

Now with that being said, it doesn’t mean that I am ready to fuck the world either because real life sex slaves don’t have a choice, laughs. Life is a balancing act and we each have to weigh our actions.

I am NOT about to gloss over anything for anyone and I am not about to tone down my abilities for any girl who considers herself competition or any man who secretively believes he’s not at my level.

Roleplaying slavery should be exciting as well. It’s more than sitting at a Master’s foot and tying his shoelaces together while giggling insanely. It’s more than using people to compensate for real life inadequacies too. Which brings me to my main issue with roleplaying in second life… which is totally another post.

So I will end with this… Love and devotion are great. We all want it, me included but I will never understand why people, usually women, ask me “why do you roleplay?” Why would I not roleplay when there are so many things to express and explore?

The intelligent person wants to live life and gain the full scope of each experience.

If you want to share real life, there are ways to work it into your scenes and times that you can take a break from playing and discuss real life. But if you are going to Gor and you expect to sit on your microphone in Second Life all day (OMG yes, I roleplay in Second Life, laughs) and share your problems with a man or woman… or if you’re looking for a savior or are foolish enough to fall for a woman/man who butters you up with golden words and flattery but has a million blatantly visible faults, for example dishonest, dramatic, overly possessive, and delusional… then you don’t need Gor. You need to join a dating network like eHarmony.com or Chemistry.com (look, I even provided you some links so you can get to the right place) or you should just go hang out in the Second Life BDSM communities.

If your emotions lead you to be passive aggressive or manipulative or dishonest, then you don’t need Gor either, you need therapy and a boost of self-confidence because everything we do and say is a direct reflection of who we are and our inner selves in some way regardless of if we consider ourselves roleplayers or lifestylers.

As for me, I want to explore all aspects of myself, all of the possibilities from a realistic stand point. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

This is the beauty of roleplaying, it’s the opportunity to explore a full range of emotions while always being true to who you are in your actions, your feelings, and your responses.

Anyone can hide behind the words, “this is not who I really am, I am acting out my character” but it’s a lie. And anyone can say, “Oh my god, you have to forgive my nasty behavior because I’m not roleplaying… this is really who I am and I am just so vulnerable and I just love you so much and I act this way because I’m scared of loosing you” but that’s bullshit too.

We can all run from our actions but you cannot hide from your behavior. Everything you do and say is connected… So open your mind, broaden your horizons, and stop trying to make other people feel bad because your creativity isn’t as well-developed.

These are a few things I can promise you.
1. My actions/responses will always be realistic. If I am sad you will receive sad responses, if I’m happy, you get happy responses, mad, blah, blah, so on and so forth.
2. I don’t have time for games and manipulation, I believe in honesty and hold myself to high standards. If I’m punished, I’m gonna live out my punishment. I don’t bitch about it or complain.
3. If I say your great, then you are great to me. When I write and speak for my character I am speaking from the heart. I am not going to feed you a million lines of bullshit that I fed to the Master before you and the Master before that and that I will feed to the Master who comes after you.
4. Gor on Second Life is an interactive world, in order for a relationship to be successful, people have to give and receive. I don’t expect to be entertained 24 hours a  day/7 days a week but if you have a profile full of quotes and/or stand around without truly interacting with me, I’m not the girl to kiss your ass for ass kissing sake. For each of us to enter into this world and consider ourselves dedicated to it, we have to take on a sense of responsibility.
5. I will always try to be understanding but if you are weak, you’re weak. If you are lazy, you’re lazy. If you’re just looking for a girl to make you feel awesome about yourself and your willing to overlook some serious character flaws to get that need satisfied, then you probably don’t think too highly of yourself or your self-worth. If you let dysfunctional women control your actions and dictate your responses then your not living up to your portion of gorean responsibility and like I said earlier, you should seriously consider visiting a dating site and leave Gor alone.

If you’re sitting around giving all of yourself, your hard work and dedication, to a man who gives you nothing in return except a few passive words of praise to keep you complacent, while you hope and wait for the day he takes some responsibility and say he loves you because you have this deep seeded emotional need to be needed, then you need a serious boost in your self-confidence. As for him, he’s probably some type of predator, plain and simple, emotional or sexual so you can be sure that the minute you leave, you will quickly be replaced.

If you run around calling yourself a “true gorean slave” or believe yourself to be a “real slave” in real life, you seriously need to visit some human rights websites and do some reading about what real life slavery is. Real life slaves don’t have choices so WE ARE ALL roleplaying to some degree. After all, I’m sure that most of you would bail out way before me when something doesn’t go the way you want it to in your little scenes of love and devotion.

If you say you just naturally know “how to cater to men” but your dealing with and settling for bullshit on every corner then again… you need a boost in your self-confidence. This has nothing to do with “everyone having a need that needs to be filled” and everything to do with being afraid of standing on your own two feet until the right thing comes along.

As for me, I promise to always believe that I am worth having, that I am worth possessing, that one day a Master will come along who is not willing to settle for less; one who wants all that I have to offer and who has the intelligence and devotion necessary to elevate my mind to exciting new experiences.
6. In the famous words of Dave Chappelle, I promise to always “keep it real,” even when keeping it real goes wrong.

 

2.1 Over the river and through the woods…

Hmmmm, I love the rain, darkness, and feeling of disorientation so I tried to write a story in double verb tense. Both past and present to provoke a sense of disorientation… I don’t know if it’s successful but it made me hot, laughs!

“Dark and cold, dripping and wet,” that’s all she can think of; the one line tumbles over and over again in her mind.

Tharna has been attacked!

The years of her grandmother and mother were full of a simplistic, wholesome comfort. Women thrived and the Tatrix ruled with a dainty fist covered in iron and lace. But now, in her time, those days were coming to an end…

The darkness closes in and her heart begins to race faster and faster. A thorny bush tears at her left sleeve and her eyes snap shut, desperately fighting against the horrific stains of a memory.

The tavern… filled with sullen, drunken, vengeful men and a few of her friends.

Her hands stretch out into the darkness, waving blindly as she stumbles along over dirt and hard rocks.

She remembered well… they had been herded like a ring of stampeding bosks across a western plain. Stopping briefly so that the women could be sorted and neatly categorized. The pretty, slim girls moved to the left. The thicker women with slavish curves to the right.

“Wha-what time is it…” she stammers looking up to one of three moons in the velvet sky. Life had been so soft and cushioned; she had never taken the time to learn the basic rules of survival.

His hand reached out and ripped the blouse and corset from her breasts. She could remember the way those heavy, deeply tanned breasts jiggled with each forceful yank. Thick rose nipples jerked and swept in forceful semi-circles by the rough hands of nearby men while the sounds of each new tear in the cloth shrieked out in cruel mimicry of the nameless screams and sobs of free women… former free women.

Most amazing of all, she remembered its firmness, the small covering of goose bumps crushed between one man’s thumb and first finger as he stretched it out and away from her body.

Did the girl moan?

It almost seemed as if the agony was pleasing…

“10:00 pm, a quarter past 10… maybe twelve,” she groans, breath heaving as her own full tits bounce wildly like those in the tavern. A thin trail of blood begins to trickle from one of her scratches, chilling her arm under the night’s air.

She had lost one shoe at least an hour ago and now the grass is damp. She can feel it licking at her toes, sometimes soft like a kitten and every now and then she receives a forceful scratch or a jab against the bottom of her foot as it slams down against a jagged rock here or group of pebbles a few steps further up the path.

“Grant me the strength of the Gods!” she cries out in misery, her words crack then fall onto the deaf ears of the forest… “Quick sand!”

Is there any?

Could she accidently stumble into it?

Her mind continues to race, her thoughts growing more and more erratic and jarring. The wheels begin to creak and smoke as if the system could grind to a mind numbing halt at any moment.

A memory flashes!

The men, the tavern, the girl with tanned, bouncing breasts. The rich lavender and gold of her friend’s dress biting into her midriff as torn pieces strained and stretched against her body. Drawn taunt, they moved against her sides like fingers with sharp nails; leaving a trail of welts against the silken skin.

In slow motion, the girl descended to the floor and the men crowded around her came and went down with her, each piling onto her like a stack of fall leaves until they formed a frenzied pile of flesh.

Leather ties crinkled, slithering from the crotches of Warriors’ pants.

A man, aged prematurely by hard work and a few trips to the cruel gladiator styled games of Tharna looked up and grinned. His fingers curled into darkness and dragged out his raging cock. Massive in size, the tip burned red like a stoked ember from the fire.

She remembered blinking and swooning on her feet then staggering as she watched the thick length throb in his hand. Her sight instinctively zoomed forward to survey the blood filled veins that mature women, such as her mother, jokingly called pleasure ridges in their tight-nit groups of secretive gossip.

“Your next,” he roared proudly, redeemed by the strength and size of his erection. He was one of the largest men in the room… and then she recognized that he was also her neighbor from four doors down, a fellow Tharnian!

Almost near the point of fainting, she remembered being jerked back to her feet while wondering how many times she had skated away from his wanton stares at the local temple.

The room filled with guttural grunts and deep, disturbing laughter.

Perfume mixed with sweat and the smell of hot sex!

Sharp slaps from wicked hands ricocheted against bare, squirming asses.

The girl in the woods shivers unable to get away from the memories. She can smell it all, still fresh and ripe, offending her senses. Her pumping legs tense under the scarlet robes. Her feet are now caked in mud, the grim creeping further and further up her legs. “How could they,” she sobs, her back still stinging as if it were scraping against the front of a rough tavern wall.

They had a third of the women of Tharna lined up, each one waiting their turn and watching with wild eyes as men feasted on freshly christened slave flesh. Many of the men were too revved by battle and hungry for satisfaction to wait until the women were properly prepared to be sold.

While men picked out and devoured the women, others were tied and laid in a far corner, their wrists and legs bound together with gorean rope. Stripped and stacked naked on top of each other like a pile of corded wood.

The girl in the woods slows down.

Her eyes narrow into dull slits as she remembers watching their chins…

Some were covered in spit and snot, sliding over and rubbing into the shoulder blades of lower girls as they cried. Some were gagged. The ropes tight against the corners of their mouths, rubbing roughly against their cheeks until they flowered like the cheeks of a painted clown.

Her own tongue slithers across the dry roof of her mouth and her mind stalls on another memory like a needle stuck in the groove of a worn record… rough cotton and torn dress shreds stuffed into too tight little mouths.

The acrid smell of piss, fear, scorched verr meat, and drinks.

Tharna had been raided and surely now it’s being destroyed!

The girl looks back over her shoulder and sees dark plumes of smoke against a darker sky. Specks of softly glowing orange lay against the horizon. “Fires,” she whispers… “the bastards are burning my home to the ground!”

She trips and dives head first into a patch of rough bushes. Small wet things brush against her cheeks and her hands sink into the belly of the soft earth. She can feel things crawling near the roots. Then suddenly something scrambles across the back of her hand and she screams in pure unadulterated terror!

The spot prickles where the small animal touched her and she scratches as soon as she’s out of the bush.

“I-I think…” she swallows, soft blue eyes widening as if the effort would help her to see any more clearly within the darkness…”I’ve come far enough to rest.”

 

(1.2) Dinner is served…

This is the second part to the story 1.1 Trouble brewing. It only has two parts: 1.1 Trouble brewing and 1.2 Dinner is served (which is this post, the one you’re reading right now, laughs). I was gonna write a third part but… it kind of seemed finished to me after two.

The tavern seemed a little quieter… was it possible for a place normally filled with the heavy thudding of work boots, blaring music, boisterous laughter, and chair legs scraping across stoned floors to suddenly sound less harsh?

Saniya didn’t think so but still, the tavern seemed quieter like people were listening and watching. She could feel their eyes resting on her caramel limbs like heavy stones. One pair here, laying against the back of her neck, another sliding down her bare arms, a third hidden beneath the table at the cradling point of her hips. The lights were low but surely it was bright enough to reveal more then her silhouette.

Yes. Her eyes narrowed down to larl-like slits then snapped shut cutting out all of the vile and scandalous things she had seen during her own time of service as a paga girl within a tavern very similar to this.

She hated it!

The sounds, the smells, the food, the drinks, the invisible traffic patterns created by patrons and slaves weaving their way in and out of the crowd to sit at tables here, to serve men there, to enter at this one entrance and then exit at another.

And then there was Mikael…

Still watching her every move, her every breath, twitch, and twinge of discomfort. He paused and lifted his gaze to her lips. He had not stopped watching her since this morning when he announced that they would be eating out this evening.

It was maddening!

Frightening!

The way he pushed her back and forth, thrusting her up then dragging her down an emotional teeter-totter. First she had been rescued from a slave house, then stripped, then thrown into a cage and carted for three days with no real food… she laughed out loud again, a loud and nervous twitter… as if slave gruel could be considered real food.

“Is that what I’m doing?” she muttered. Was she comparing the niceties of slavery to anything that could pass for a real existence?

Mikael blinked away a hidden smile, tucking it into the recess of his mind.

He had heard her speak but he was in no hurry to demand her words make any sense because there was no such thing as random speech. In time, with patience, everything could be connected. Every sigh, every whimper, every utterance of joy and pain could be strung together to make sense. All he had to do was evoke it.

No. Her head shook and a wave of soft locks swept across one bruised shoulder. She wasn’t making comparisons, the situation had simply gone from bad to worse.

“Master,” called a honey voiced slave girl with golden tresses. Her words were barely audible above the loud cacophony of drums, cymbals, and czehars but you could hear her slave bells. There were five sets tied around her ankles and wrists. The last set was fastened around her waist so that the small, bronzed bells whipped against her inner thighs and sex as she moved.

“Hmmmmmm,” rumbled Mikael as his sight lifted from Saniya to the girl.

She giggled and leaned forward to set the tray down.

His hand lifted to the bells at her waist and fingered their way down until his knuckles brushed against the baby hairs curled just above her pouty little slit. It appeared that the bells had been coyly placed to gather someone’s attention. “Sit,” he commanded, his hand discreetly pushing the bells forward until they dived between her moist lips and bumped over her clit…

The girl hissed passionately, her legs spreading as her knees bent. Mikael was fully aware of the way slave girls were permitted to move. He knew instinctively how far her legs would part and which areas of her body would be most vulnerable and exposed as she moved. “Who has commanded you to present yourself like this,” he whispered, leaning forward as his hand turned to caress her bald lips. His mouth bumped over her tummy and one nipple to the fullness of her neck.

“The tavern Master,” she purred.

“No,” he said louder, his hand sliding out from between her legs as her bottom bounced to the floor. “Like this…” he added as Saniya watched his freshly dampened fingers curls into the patch of blonde fuzz covering her treasure.

“Ooohhh!” she exclaimed, her whole body visibly shaking as he gathered and pulled roughly at her snatch. “The Tavern Master” he chuckled, flinging his hot breath against the side of her neck as a deep blush flowered across her otherwise bare body.

“Yes,” she whispered shamefully but aroused.

“Yes what?” Mikael interjected.

“Yes Master,” she moaned, her knees digging into the floor as she strained to open herself wider to him. “Does the Tavern Master know how to handle an unshaved pussy?”

“It’s shaved,” whispered the girl. “Only the lips,” growled Mikael as his middle finger shot out pinning down and spreading the mouth of her slit in rough but careful emphasis.

“He-he does…” she cooed, swaying slightly to one side as his finger continued to push forward and into the tight little hole of her sex. “What about the other men of the tavern?” cooed Mikael in a low, soothing tone that matched the girl’s. “Some do,” she whimpered as the first notch of his finger slid deeper into the hole and began to swim back and forth.

“As good as this?” he whispered, pressing his mouth now to her ear. “Mmmmm… yes,” she panted in response, barely able to concentrate.

“And how many times have you been used tonight?” he purred, his steamy words reverberating against her.

“None yet, Master…” she cried out, her voice rising in pleasant agony as a second finger snaked its way forward to jimmy into her slit. “None yet,” he laughed loudly as the girl rocked up onto her heels. Her pale thighs tensing under the golden glow of candle flames.

Saniya turned her head quickly, not wanting to watch, knowing that the man now had room to move his hand freely with or without mercy if he pleased… “You will watch and learn!” roared Mikael then both girls’ eyes flew open! The first, heavy lidded with lust and the second’s wide and startled.

The flicking of his wrists increased and his half closed fist began to make wet slapping noises against the girl’s thighs. Her voice grew into a long incessant whine of passion, lifting high and blending into the melodies of the tavern.

Men from other tables turned to watch as Saniya shifted uncomfortably. Her nostrils flaring against the girl’s musky scent. Soon she would cum. You could see the tale-tale signs in the tauntness of her limbs, the thick, jutting peaks of her breasts, and the line of sweat that had gathered against her brow…

(I’m tired of writing but you can figure out the rest… or I may come back and finish it in the next post.)

 

(1.1) Trouble brewing…

I’m closing my eyes and taking a leap of faith, this is my first short story written specifically for a blog, YAY! It only has two parts: 1.1 Trouble brewing (which you’re reading right now, this post) and 1.2 Dinner is served. I was gonna write a third part but… it kind of seemed finished to me after two.

She sighed, her fingers drumming lightly against the tabletop. Mind whirling in a million directions at once like a twister across an untamed gorean wheat field. “It’s just so damn hot in here,” she whispered, learning forward to strain against the noises of the tavern… desperately trying to listen, “I know that’s him!”‘

The man was sitting in the far corner, dressed in scarlet and darkly tanned leather. His outfit was plain and form fitting, the usual dress of the Warrior caste but these days as colors grew more and more popular within the safe confines of city dwelling, you couldn’t really tell which color belonged to which caste and she’d be damned if wearing a certain color in or around Torvaldsland showed any significant indication of a person’s trade.

The land and times were changing.

She laughed but it was a little too loud and a little off key… in fact it came out more like a disgruntled, ear splitting bark from a small dog. “Are you okay,” her escort inquired, his hands skating through the shadows to hers.

“Fine, FINE!” Saniya quipped, quickly jerking her hands back from his on contact. Her fingers tingled from the warmth of his damp palms or… better yet, she thought, dragging her eyes away from the scene at the distant table to look down at the overturned salt and Mikael’s thick, hairy wrists…

“Man paws are bad luck,” she grumbled wearily to herself, her own slender fingers sweeping lazy arches into the dunes of spilled salt. “Man paws?” Mikael laughed, his voice a deep, playful rumble. “Is that what you think of me these days, Saniya?”

“Am I some sort of burly animal, thick bodied… and powerful?” he seized her wrists and pulled upwards, dragging her ass slowly out of her seat. It rocked backwards, catching the attention of some of the patrons as she continued to move upward, her belly running over the edge of the table, spreading her out and arching her over it like a freshly skinned leather hide across the lip of a drum.

“A sleen” she hissed!

He laughed again, the smooth baritone of his voice rocking her body to the core, “but you’ve never seen a sleen, my lady.”

His words stung, a brute gesture that testified to the power of his will. Saniya was no longer free. “You will answer me,” he growled patiently, dragging her arms closer to him until they stretched out like a lever that caused the delicate swell of her breasts to rise under the tension. She was too short for the strain and was left standing now on the tips of her toes, her ass lifted high with full hips grinding into the table like a tongue coupled perfectly into the hollow of a metal spoon.

The hard wood pressed relentlessly into her belly.

“…I have heard stories of them and you…”

He interrupted, his mouth drawn into a mocking line of seriousness, “from the slaves, you have heard stories of sleens from your sisters?”

“No!” she whimpered, twisting under his grip as rose colored plumes spread simultaneously across her sun-kissed cheeks and began to sink back down into the depths of her soul.

“No?” he cajoled softly, “not by slaves but someone else… maybe your father?”

Mikael Abdul Sansibar wasn’t wasting any time in breaking Saniya’s spirit. She was a slave and had always been a slave in his eyes; from the first time he laid eyes on her. And he remembered the first time… he watched her move within her father’s tent, age 16, teasing her way from guest to guest, smiling flirtatiously as she served tea as punishment for engraving the kaiila’s saddles with proverbs written in an ancient Arabic dialect. She said she had engraved the saddles to make them stylish and pretty and to give them a sense of flare that would make the riders of her father’ tribe stand out. As an after thought, when that line of reasoning had not impressed her father, she added that she had branded them to bless the tribe with good luck and fortune.

All in all, the punishment had been a joke for her, a chance to test out her cunning tongue and the power of her newly discovered sexuality, without consequences.

But for Mikael, it didn’t matter if she were strewn naked upon the floor, covered by flimsy slave cloth, or swaddled in the robes of a free woman’s dress like a freshly born babe. Saniya moved like a slave, she breathed like a slave, and was formed as a slave should be formed in body and mind. Ample bosom, soft ass, cradling hips, an intelligent mind, and thighs thick enough to cover a man’s ears like the softest of blankets.

It was a fact her father should have recognized before dangling her in front of his guests and men like a succulent piece of bait before a starved school of fish. Then again, knowing Saleem Ammanian Meh-Brandi Ghanem, he had recognized her beauty and found some type of senseless humor in flaunting her in such a way… maybe he had meant to frighten her or… it could have been his simple love for the thrill of fighting and gambling. A nonverbal challenge for any man in the room who thought himself skilled enough, to step up and place a collar around his daughter’s neck. It would have been the ultimate reward or a one way ticket to a chain gang in the salt mines of Klima.

But Saleem was dead now and bringing her father into this conversation, considering that he was the starting point of all of her troubles was a low blow… but not one that Mikael was above taking. Saniya irked him in every way, from the tantalizing, rhythmic sway of her hips, to the soft hue of her skin… cinnamon in color, as if Odin himself had created her, molding her body from clay and sprinkling every delicious little dip with brown sugar.

She couldn’t even blush like a proper free woman.

He had proven that earlier, as he watched the warm glow of hatred spread across her cheeks and work its way down between those voluminous mounds. It was maddening, he thought, licking his lips as she continued to fumble over her words. He enjoyed the way they pressed against his chest and felt within his hands as they had wrestled earlier; lying against his palms when she had grown too tired to fight, like smooth skinned, honeydew melons.

And her nipples…

They were like neatly cut stems, thick and firm, unyielding in the way they pressed against her clothes and everything she wore from the simplest, flimsiest of night gowns to the sturdiest leather corsets. They always continued to make themselves known, to call out to be stroked and caressed through the perfect little indentations they left within each item of cloth.

“My mo-mother,” Saniya stuttered, stumbling over the words and clinging to them like a drunken man who has been sucker-punched in the gut, “she told me all about sleens like you.”

It was pitiful the way she tried to hold on, to insult him, to re-gather her pride and footing. “They slither and sneak and hide in the shadows, moving in and out of filth and muck like snakes,” her tongue clicked over her parched mouth, “in over watered pastures… not the small, cunning osts either,” she hissed.

“No,” he chuckled, squeezing her hands tightly, his rough thumbs rolling over each finger to press it down submissively into his huge palms, “not the osts?”

“Your one of those big, i-ignorant snakes… the large ones that move slow,” she whispered as her flesh began to burn and melt into his hands like pooled wax.

“I assure you,” he snarled softly, leaning over the table just enough for his mouth to caress her ear, “my slowness is a mercy that you will learn to appreciate. And if I am the snake, then you are the spoiled and overgrown pasture but for now…” he squeezed harder, enveloping her hands and easing the tension out of her arms so that she could slide back down into her seat, “I suggest you revel in this long pause and pull yourself together.” The grim line of his mouth transformed into a carnivorous grin, “the men around us are beginning to grow curious… and I am beginning to hunger for slave bells and dance.”