Black Beauty Chapter Four

Black Beauty By Peony D Beckside

 Chapter Four: Entertaining!

I serve canapés and drinks at yet another party at my Master’s house.  I am not the only slave doing so, but the responsibility for everything to go smoothly is mine.  Master has ‘hired in’ the other slaves.  Nominally they are under the orders of Hypolytus, his business being just such entertainment catering.  However as Master’s only slave, and slave in residence, I am de-facto ‘First Girl’.  Hypolytus will doubtless punish his girls should they fail to be pleasing, but whilst it’s not been specified, I do fear I will suffer too for any misdemeanours of the other slaves.  Am I reading too much into this situation?  Is my ‘mother-vulo’ concern simply a self-imposed duty.  I so much want this event to be successful for Master.

My serving is to a large extent discreet.  Ever watching for someone’s glass to be empty, and to be there to fill it.  To have ready whatever by way of food any guest might wish.  My place is to be invisible, to be an object, a function, a drink and food dispenser.

More than that though.  Should any of the guests see beyond my subservient attitude, and desire the pleasures of my body, I am to serve them in whatever more intimate way they wish.  Consider me then a ‘perk’, a bribe, a sweetener, baksheesh[1], pishkesh[2],  On such occasions as this, I am often and well ‘screwed’ to use a crudity.  Master has been entertaining much  of late.  It’s ‘networking’, ‘politicking’ to use the old Earth words that I grew up with.  Whilst I speak Gorean fluently, my vocabulary is limited in many areas. Apart from the obvious words such as ‘kajira[3]’ and the Gorean equivalent of ‘available’, I don’t know the equivalent terms for what Master is doing, or my tasks in helping him.  I do recall Proximan, Master’s friend’s comment about the Tatrix appreciation Master’s initiative in seeking to become Ubar.  I can only assume that this, the many previous parties, and presumably more in the future are part of Master’s attempts to woo those with power into nominating or appointing him to such a position.

I think that it’s part of Master’s tactic in having an unpretentious dwelling and only one slave, rather than hundreds.  I believe that he’s going after the conservative[4] vote, the traditionalist, the opposite of wasteful, the lack of frivolous pomp, a more reasoned careful approach to ruling.

Master’s parties are usually very well attended by both men and women.  Most of whom are very richly attired.  There are however, with the exception of the Merchant class of whom the bankers are an offshoot, very few of those from the lower castes.  It is said that if one who is not of the high castes were to surmount the throne of the Ubar, then the city will fall.  Consequently, in the deciding of a new Ubar, it is probable that the high castes will have the only say.

The clash of caste colours therefore is eye-watering.  Robes and tunics, for the men, robes of concealment and face-veils of the women, in the brightest of Scribe blue, Warrior scarlet, Physician green, Builder yellow, Initiate white, and the white and yellow of the Merchants.  There are no women in the pure white of the Initiates, since they do not seem to ‘Free Companion[5]’.  One must wonder how they renew their ranks.  Breeding with slaves is no real answer as the child of a slave is by definition a slave.  I bring my attention back to my work.

 

Master claps his hands together.  The room falls silent.

“Gentlemen, Ladies, welcome to my home.  Today, I’d like to announce the design for the city’s new Western Gate!”

He pulls back a curtain.  There is a large easel upon which resides the latest drawing of proposed gate he’d asked me about soon after my arrival here.  The drawing incorporates the isometric view I’d outlined, but now it’s fully detailed.  The gate design shows the hammer-beam and its anchorage points.  Whilst I know that as a slave I’ll never get any thanks or accolades for my input, I do feel proud that I had some small part in this moment.

There is a susurration as the audience takes in and appreciates the image.  I hear several comments. Some even from other Builders.

“Hey! What’s with the extra view?”

“Wow, you make it look like it’ll really look!”

“How did you draw it that way, Castartius?”

“Sorry, my secret, Grippingen!  The good news is that we are ready to build this Gatehouse right now.  The Ubar’s advisory council has given the go-ahead.  The workers are ready.  I’ve confirmed tonight, with the Merchants that the funding will be available.  We begin construction tomorrow!”

There is much cheering and applause (in the Gorean fashion; the striking of one’s chest with the fist of the right hand).

The curtain is rapidly shut.  Maybe it’s just me that senses something not quite right.  Perhaps Master just doesn’t want his rivals studying ‘his’ new drawing technique.  Subconsciously, perhaps I wonder if he doesn’t want the city officials to remember exactly what the gate will look like; but why?  Such deep-down thoughts, thoughts that I can’t quite coalesce are part of the feeling that I occasionally have that the whole story of my purchase and servitude is somehow a sham; that my adoration of Master is what I should feel, not what I actually feel.  Such odd feelings are usually fleeting.  I do so LOVE Master, in big ‘shouty capitals’ to use a literary device from my barbarian days and language,

Hark at me!  Barbarian days?!  Have I become that acculturated?  Sure, here on Gor, anything not of Gor is considered ‘barbarian’ particularly female slaves.  We were not however ‘barbarians’, back on Earth.  We were civilised!; or so we considered ourselves to be.  A civilisation such as Gor, to us was itself seen as ‘barbarian’.  I suppose that it comes down to the definition of ‘barbarian’.  To us in our Earth sense, we see the word ‘barbarian’ in the context of its root in the word ‘barbarous’.  To the Gorean perhaps it simply means someone or something from outside of ‘known’ Gor.  Technologically Earth is far more advanced than Gor, so anything less than that is ‘backward’ and by definition ‘barbarous’.  To the Gorean, even if they knew, they would probably be horrified by the mechanistic nature of Earth society and particularly its overlapping companies and institutions.  They would see that as ‘barbarous’.  Crude as it is, there is a kind of honesty in the structure of Gorean society, even if as on Earth, there are some evil and crooked men, and women too.

The evening is getting on.  As if on a given signal the free-women begin to depart.  Either they are well-trained by Gorean society, or having an inkling of what’s likely to happen later they don’t want to be offended or humiliated by being associated with such.  Those that seem tardy to leave are quietly hinted to either by the other women, or by the men that they ostensibly are with.

As soon as the room is clear of all the women, all the free ones that is, from behind the curtain, the easel having been moved out of the way, comes the wonderful sound of the wild and barbarous (to my Earth attuned ears) music of czehar[6] and tabor[7].  

The curtain opens and into the room leap three lithe female dancers.  Their wild contortions scintillate and dazzle.  They wear little, and what little it is, is virtually transparent, hiding practically nothing.  They are so brazen!  That they are slaves is obvious even without their collars being evident.  No free-woman would disport herself thus.  She’d be in a collar before the end of her dance!

The dancers break apart, leaving one in the centre of the room.  Her lascivious writhing is clearly arousing the men; not that it takes much to do that.-Men being what they are.  At a point where it seems that her dance, and a given phase of the music end, another of the dancers bounds onto the dancing floor; the first departing the stage.  Similarly as this second dancer finishes her routine, the third one takes her place.  For the finale she is joined by her fellow performers for one last climactic outburst of outright sexuality.  I’m not a lesbian, but even I am turned on by their dance.  Not by them per se, but by the wanton and salacious licentiousness of their display.

The dancers are mobbed by the men, being carried to the floor and fucked openly on the dance floor. The flood of testosterone spills over as each of the serving slaves are taken and flagrantly screwed.  I do not escape this orgy of wonderful debauchery.  My arousal is satisfied several times over.  I spend the remainder of the evening in a cloud of inexpressible passion and lust.

As each man there becomes satiated, the room begins to empty.  Hypolytus gathers together his much bedraggled group of serving girls and dancers, loading and chaining them into his slave wagon.  The musicians depart in a smaller wagon of their own.

I drag myself from my well-fucked stupor.  As I pass a mirror, I see just how dishevelled I am.  Priest Kings! What a party!  I giggle that already I’m using Gorean terminology of amazement and/or frustration.  I make my way to Master’s drawing office.  I know not whether he’ll want to use me tonight, or for that matter if I’m capable of fulfilling his needs.  It’s only important for him to know where I am.  He will tell me what he wants of me, or doesn’t.

It’s clear that Master has not indulged in the general hedonism and carnality.  He’s calm, properly dressed and groomed.

With him is Proximan.

“Vita!  Go to your kennel now.  I shall be along shortly to lock it.”

“Yes, Master.”

I back away.  The door though is still open.

“Do you think they were fooled, taken in by your deception, Castartius?”

“Yes I think so Proximan.  We’ll see as the …”

I hear no more, but this snippet of conversation worries me.  I decide not to dwell on it.  After all, it’s not my business what schemes Master chooses, or for what purpose.  One thing that I did learn even back on Earth is that being at the bottom of the heap even though one can be ‘put-upon’ by everyone, if something goes wrong and it’s not directly your fault, you can’t be blamed for it.  That’s what ‘middle-management’ is for; to take the blame insulating the top bosses from the fall-out.  Here on Gor, a slave is most definitely at the bottom of the heap. Sometimes that’s the best place to be.

I crawl into my kennel and settle down.  I’ll wash thoroughly in the morning.  I don’t recall Master arriving to lock my kennel door.  I must have been asleep before Master arrived; for the door is certainly locked when I wake up the following morning.

---

[1]     Middle Eastern: A small gift to facilitate an arrangement.  A ‘tip’.

[2]     Persian: Similar to baksheesh, but perhaps more personal.  A token of appreciation.

[3]     Gorean word for a female slave.

[4]     Conservative as in traditional, careful stewardship, rather than Conservative similar to the policies of the UK political party of that name.

[5]     A form of limited period ‘marriage’.  Must be renewed every year or dissolved.

[6]     Perhaps akin to a Greek Bouzouki.

[7]     A kind on bongo or tom-tom drum