A Talendar for Shirley
Peony D Beckside
With acknowledgement and thanks to John Norman for creating the world of Gor, in which this story is set.
Chapter Nine: The Pastry Vendor’s Booth.
What have they done to me? Well, I know what they did to me. I feel so changed. I am so much more sensual, sexual too. Sure there were men in the slave house,
exciting men. Now my libido is on
steroids! Seeing Master again pushed my needs to another level altogether.
Shirley is braceletted wrists behind her
back. She is on a leash that runs from
her collar to my belt. I’m enjoying seeing the reactions of men as they pass
by. Shirley attracted a few glances
before being taken to the House of Thromberg, but now, she’s getting lots of
appraisals. A couple of men even offer
salute by striking their chest with their right fist. Now she just oozes sex.
My slut can barely walk without thrusting
her hips as I take her back to my domus[1]. From my first thrust into her, she is passion
personified. I am impressed by her
skills and repertoire as she coaxes orgasm after orgasm from me. I don’t think I’ve ever ‘come’ that many
times in a single day.
For a whole week Master has demanded
of me, more surrenders, and driven me to paroxysms of sense and feeling the
likes of which I could never have possibly dreamed of. I am an Angel, a Tarn, I believe that huge
bird is called. He rides me to heaven
and keeps me there beyond gasping, beyond moaning, beyond screaming with
pleasure even.
Now I’m in Hell! Not that they have that concept here, but it
sure feels like my body is such an inferno.
I’m locked in a slave cage set by the back wall of Master’s kitchen. It’s a barred box some five feet in length
three feet in width and the same in height, with a metal flooring. I’m not yet sufficiently familiar with Gorean
measurements to use those. The door is a
hinged metal grille that is secured with an unfamiliar but efficient sort of
padlock. I’m not getting out in a hurry!
Priest Kings! The slut is insatiable! She’s trying to ‘screw me to death’, I’m sure
of it! No, tonight she’s sleeping in the
cage. I need the sleep! Yes, ultimately I decide how much pleasure
she gives me, but she’s like one of those Earth cleaning devices, a vacuum
cleaner. The pleasure she’s capable of
giving me just goes on and on.
I don’t mind in principle being
caged. I’ve learned since arriving here
that bondage of any kind and severity ‘comes with the territory’ for a
kajira. I’ve been in many different, and
varied types of cages just in the last couple of months or so. What’s making this one particularly difficult
is my boiling need for Master’s cock.
It’s a physical pain. They call
it slave-heat. They say that I have had
my slave-fires lit To go without
Master’s touch for more than a day is sheer purgatory; cruelty beyond
contemplating. Locked here, away from
Master, is him being just mean!
“Do I need to bracelet you, Shirley”
Such is what the terrible, yet wonderful,
rat asks me as he consigns me to this miniature prison. We both knew to what he
is referring. The temptation to caress
myself is ever present. I learned from
the screams of 269 that such is unacceptable, and have internalised that
concept. That doesn’t make it any easier
to bear the burning itchy fire in my crotch.
I get little sleep as I writhe and wriggle in need.
“No Master, I’ll be good.”
Tears run from my eyes as I respond to
him.
I have to admit that Shirley locked in a
cage is even more a beautiful sight than her chained at my feet. I’m sure I must have mentioned that there is
something about a helplessly secured woman that speaks to something atavistic,
but ever-present in men. My need for
sleep and my desire for Shirley to ‘charm my snake’ again war with each other.
“Goodnight Shirley.”
“Goodnight Master.”
There’s a slight doleful quality to her
response. I wonder if I should punish
her to discourage such. No. There’ll be
other opportunities, especially if she tries to ‘push her luck’.
I awaken to the sound of the padlock being
unfastened. Master swings open the cage
door.
“Out, lazy slut! Wash yourself, use the toilet, make yourself
beautiful. And don’t take all day!”
“Yes, Master.”
I hurry with my ablutions. In as short a time as is reasonably possible, I present myself before Master. He throws me a scandalous slave-silk tunic in a kind of cerise colour. Scandalous by comparison with Earth woman and free-women’s sensibilities. By now I am used to the brevity and thinness of such garments. I’m just glad that I’m being allowed a garment of any kind. Master himself sports a more practical and masculine tunic in his caste colours of blue and yellow.
I do so enjoy back-braceletting and leashing
Shirley. My closeness and touching of
her skin elicit a moan. Now she’s over
the Earth concept of ‘personal space’ and fully used to the fact that anyone,
especially a Master, can encroach all the way up to her body, she begins to
ignite… again.
I feel the need for breakfast. It’s a nice
morning and I fancy eating such out, rather than getting Shirley to prepare
something. I think on the nearby
options. Yes, I know the perfect place
and what food it offers.
We’ve been here before; the pastry
vendor’s booth with its few low tables and cushions for the patrons. The cushions are not for me of course. Some may see me doing so as unacceptable,as
just plain ‘wrong’. It’s not my choice
of course. I don’t expect to be allowed
to use them, so am not ‘put out’ when Master bids me kneel on the grass next to
one such cushion.
I don’t really understand why I unfasten her
bracelets, bring her wrists in front of her.
I have no conscious reason for doing so.
I secure Shirley’s leash to a low hanging branch of the shading tree
above. I turn and stroll to the booth,
deciding what I shall buy.
I idly wonder if Master will feed
me. Will he give me some of what he is
getting from the booth. I sure hope so.
Something in my heart in my soul
swells up, engulfing me. I experience a
moment of crystal clear understanding.
In this split second, my world has changed totally. On Earth it might be described as a ‘Road to
Damascus[2]’
moment.
I am perfect! I am in the perfect place. My status as slave is right and fitting. Forgiveness of Master for bringing me here,
whipping me, branding me, sending me to the slave house, is automatic and
given. My acceptance of myself, the new
‘myself’, and the relinquishing of what I used to be gladly done.
I am an automaton. I know what must be done. I can no more stop myself than escape my slavery. Unbidden, I break position. I rise. I reach up to the entwining vine encircling the tree. I reach for a stalk and twist it off the vine. I return to my knees, threading the stalk into my hair. The large yellow talendar sits at the top left-hand side of my head. I smell its bouquet, feeling proud that I am now truly ‘His’.
I’m sure that my eyes must show
astonishment. Lovely Shirley enhanced by
such a deep-meaning flower. I am not
expecting this, not for quite some time yet.
I had hopes of winning the girl’s heart one day, but now she has
proclaimed that I have already done so!
There is a wide, happy grin on Shirley’s
face. I look deeply into her eyes
looking for hesitancy, uncertainty, even deceit. Do I believe her declaration?
“You recall our conversation when we
were here once before?”
“Yes, Master!”
“You understand the full implications of
your act?”
“Absolutely, Master.”
“You may remove the flower from your
hair if you wish, if you are in any way uncertain about your action. There will be no consequences if you do.”
I lay the food I’m carrying onto the table
and sit on the cushion next to my lovely Shirley.
“That will not be necessary,
Master.”
I grunt my acceptance of her gesture. Expressions of devotion and ‘undying love’
for a slave are not something that a man will allow of himself. Such would be seen by others as a sickness, a
weakness, demeaning.
Shirley breaks position. She lies on her side, her leash being long
enough to allow this. I feel the
softness of her cheek on my thigh. I
will not punish her for breaking permission.
Life for a man, on Gor, can sometimes be quite marvellous. Clearly too it is so on occasion for kajirae!
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