Black Beauty by Peony D Beckside
Chapter Three: Unconsciously worming my way in.
“Lay out love-furs,
Vita. They are in that cupboard over
there.”
He
indicates.
I find the soft sensuous fabric. Love-furs are not actually fur at all. Keeping fur clean of the sweat and bodily
secretions of slave and Master would be impossible. No, these are a kind of duvet or futon,
covered in sensuous satin. I take the
furs to the sleeping dais and commence laying them on the top of the raised
surface.
“What are you doing,
slut!?”
“Master?”
“I didn’t take you for a
stupid girl, when I first saw you! I
hope I wasn’t mistaken in that! Don’t
you know that only a free companion or invited free woman makes love on the dais
itself? Did they teach you nothing at
the slave house?”
I
grovel for all I’m worth.
“I’m sorry, Master. I
did not truly know. They didn’t tell us
that in our training. I think they must
have assumed we knew. I don’t think that
I’m a stupid slave. Merely an ignorant
one. The ways of this place are totally
different from…”
I
have to think quickly. I don’t know how
much my Master knows of Earth, or where to him, barbarian slaves come from.
“...barbarian
lands. I will do better in future,
Master, I promise.”
“You’d better. Love furs, on the floor, close to the chain
and shackle. Slaves should always be
taken such. You are not worthy to mount
the dais.”
I’m
already repositioning the furs.
“This slave thanks you
for correcting her misunderstanding.”
Will
he whip me? I fervently and silently
pray that he won’t.
“Get me a goblet of
wine, girl and position yourself to be chained.
The bottle is over there.”
I
scurry away in the direction shown, returning with the beverage. I kneel thighs wide, press the goblet to my
belly, raise it sensually to my lips. I
kiss the rim opposite to that from which Master will drink. I offer the goblet forward to him with both
hands, dropping my head between my arms, in submission. Yes, we have been taught this manoeuvre, and
told that we must not just be offering the cup, but our very self. Such is my love for this magnificent man,
that I give this offering of myself with every fibre of my body. I’m not just giving of my body, I’m giving of
my soul. This act of submission and
giving, itself excites and arouses me. I
understand now. I don’t just want him to
take me, I NEED him to take me. I quiver
in uncontrollable desire as he takes the metal ankle shackle. I feel its coldness, even more so, I feel its
emotional obduracy. I am his, I cannot
escape him. My breasts heave, my pelvis
writhes unbidden. I want him so much
now, that it would be a torment unbearable to even contemplate if he were to
spurn me. I croak out, my voice
distorted and husky with passion.
“Master, your slave begs
the pleasure of undressing you. She is
ready and needy for your touch.”
I
am indeed! The odour of my arousal is
palpable. There is no mistaking my
need. Nature has seen fit to design that
a woman’s odour of lust, is perfect to bring a man to an equivalent state of
need. Not that men need this extra
stimulation, and from what I’ve seen of Gorean men, even less so. They become so ‘ready’ at any and all times,
with little or no provocation. I reach,
in abject supplication for the closures of his garment.
As Master’s ‘weapon’ comes into view I marvel at its size
and beauty. I don’t suppose that it’s
any grander than any other, but even given that I’m not a virgin, my experience
of such items is limited. I think what
makes it so magnificent for me, is that it’s HIS. It belongs to my Master, a man who for no
reason I can understand, I adore more than life itself. I want so to kiss this pillar, to take it in
my mouth, to work it until I have taken every drop of his ‘gift’. A little burr, a little warning bell sounds
in the back of my mind. This shouldn’t be so!
Back on Earth, I had felt, and when attempted, found oral sex to be
disgusting, unclean, morally repugnant, emotionally a ‘turn-off’. Yet here, the very opposite seems the
case. What has changed me, my beliefs,
my attitudes? Whilst during our training
in the Slave House, had incorporated oral sex, and I’d been diligent in these
lessons, I’d still felt disgusted by the act.
Why should my feelings have changed?
Why only for this man, do I wish to undertake this unhygienic and
deplorable task? It’s almost as if somehow I’ve been ‘brainwashed’ to use the
jargon of Earth custom, to throw aside my scruples when it comes to this
man. Why is this man so special? Special to me, because of that kind of
‘conditioning’?
I
awaken, stretching like a panther. I
feel marvellous! I feel a freeness in my
spirit. My ankle chain tautens,
reminding me of my slavery, but somehow it doesn’t destroy that feeling of
lightness and airiness. To use a
crudity, last night Master gave me the fucking of my life! Several times, at that! I’d never before been so well screwed. Those Earth lovers I had, were insipid by
comparison. If Master is going to love
me so well in future, my life will be totally sybaritic! Towards the later part of the night, Master
had turned from me.
“Get some sleep, Vita.”
I
didn’t need a second telling. My eyes
closed almost instantly.
I
seem to be the only slave in Master’s quarters.
It’s clear though that there’s been another before me, at least
one. I wonder idly what happened to the
previous occupant of the slave kennel attached to what appears to be a kind of
kitchen. I must suppose that she’s been
sold. I don’t want to ask why. Apart from the probability that such a
question would be seen as impertinent, I’m not sure that I want to know. I am reminded by this lack, of just how easy
it is for a slave to suddenly find herself cast out from a place that she may
have come to think of as her home. Of
course it’s not HER home, just somewhere where she resides for a while. It’s the impermanence of her situation that
must be disconcerting. To suddenly find
that one has been taken to a new place, with different routines, different
expectations, even to having to learn the whims and preferences of a new owner,
must be quite a challenge. One that I
too find myself with. The thought that
one day I might, nay even probably will, be torn from this gorgeous man that I
love, or believe that I do, terrifies me.
Master did not want me last night. After the fucking that I’d had the previous
night, I was devastated. I cried myself
to sleep after he’d locked me in the kennel.
I wanted him so badly!
Correction, I need to rethink my terms of reference. As his slave, it’s not for me to want him,
but for him to want me. Wanting him
carries with it the implication that he is mine. This is Earth-girl thinking. I must become more Gorean. I am now his, not he mine. This thought doesn’t in any way lessen the
desire, nay need for him to again take me to the heaven that he’d shown me upon
bringing me here. In the training pens,
the other girls, the Gorean ones, spoke of the fabled ‘slave fires’, that once
lit in the belly of the slave, can never again be doused. I feel a constant low-level arousal at all
times. Whenever in Master’s presence,
that need becomes a raging inferno. Is
this what ‘slave fires’ feels like? I
think it must be. Intellectually I know
that I must not become too importunate; like a kitten that won’t let its owner
get on with whatever it is that he’s doing. That’s the surest way of annoying
Master, the most certain way of getting myself sold by him! It’s so hard not to be constantly thrusting
myself under his very nose, onto his lap.
He has to want to reach for me.
It’s my job to entice him to want to reach for me, but I must be subtle.
My eyes light up, or at least I assume so from the
feeling of joy that I have when he comes and lets me out of my kennel.
“Good morning Master!
Let me make you some breakfast!
Do you have any preference?”
He
reels off what he would like. I note his
preferences for future occasions.
‘Learning the Master’, what he likes, what he doesn’t, is a complex
business. I mustn’t be too
presumptuous. I was given basic cookery
lessons, at least based on Gorean cooking techniques, during my training. What with my Earth experience, I feel sure
that I can provide a good and varied culinary experience for Master. I find what I need in the storage
cupboards. Even though I’m utterly
famished, I know better than to take any of the food for myself. That’s a big ‘No, No!’. That much they’d taught me during my
training. Master will feed me when he’s
good and ready. My diet will probably be
far simpler than what I am making for him.
Most Masters, it seems, like to control the food intake of their slaves,
ensuring that the slave retains what they consider to be the perfect physical
proportions and healthiness.
I kneel at his side, watching every nuance of him eating,
watching for any way that my service can be perfect. Will he need more bread, more of the Bazi
tea, does he want me to remove his plate, etc?
I’m constantly having to swallow the saliva that is building up in my
mouth, at the sight of all this lovely food.
Master laughs gently.
“Is Vita hungry,
perchance?”
“Yes, Master, Starving…”
I
beg piteously.
“… feed me, please,
Master!”
“You didn’t perhaps help
yourself to something while you were preparing my breakfast?”
“Oh no, Master. I know better than that. In the training pens, one of the slaves
tried to steal a bread-roll. They made
us watch the girl’s punishment. I dare
not presume to eat what is not given me by Master!”
He
does not ask what punishment the other slave received.
“I’m glad to hear it,
Vita. Your diet will be simpler, more
nutritious for one such as you.”
“I assumed as much,
Master.”
“Clear the table, wash
the pots, and wait kneeling, in the kitchen.”
He
gets up and leaves the room. I would
automatically have done what Master had requested, except perhaps for the
kneeling. It’s clearly my duty to tidy
up after Masters’ meal.
A
man knocks on the door. I open it. He’s a merchant, or so I take him to be from
his garb. The white and gold is
distinctive. He’s a free man so I kneel
automatically. A slave must always kneel
before a free person. I deliberately
kneel in the doorway. It could be seen
as being impertinent, but until Master has cleared him, I have to think on the
security of Master’s house. I have no
way of telling if the man is a friend or an enemy.
“Greetings Master. Whom should I tell my Master, is here?”
All
free men are ‘Master’ and must be addressed so.
Similarly, all free women are ‘Mistress’. Only one though is one’s owner. A kind of Master of Masters.
“Tell him Proximan would
appreciate a moment of his time.”
No
‘please’ of course. I’m a slave, such
courtesies are not appropriate or expected.
“Yes, Master. Right away.”
I
rise and rush away. I find Master in his
drawing office.
“Master, there’s a
merchant at the door. He says he is
‘Proximan’, and he would like a word with you, if possible.”
“Did you let him in?”
“I didn’t know if he is
a friend or an enemy, Master.”
Master
clearly understands the dilemma.
“For future reference,
he is a friend. Show him into the living
room. I’ll be there momentarily.”
I
race back.
“Sorry to keep you
waiting, Master. Please enter. If you’ll make yourself comfortable in the
living room, Master will be with you very shortly.”
I
indicate the direction.
“I know the way, girl.”
“Yes, Master. May I get you something to eat, to
drink? May I assist you in any way”
“Bazi tea would be
appreciated if you have it.”
“Yes, Master, on its
way.”
I
scoot into the kitchen and put the kettle onto the wood-fired stove. From a pot deliberately placed in a sunny
part of the courtyard, I fetch a bowl of warm water. I grab soap and a towel.
“Master, with your
permission, may I bathe your feet?”
“That’s thoughtful,
slave. Kindly do so.”
“Thank you, Master.
It’s
not that Master Proximan’s feet are dirty, that they need washing. Given the dusty nature of the city streets,
and with no knowledge of how far the man has travelled, it seems to be a
courteous thing to do. I kiss the
buckles of his sandals, before unfastening them. I lovingly wash the feet of this, my Master’s
friend. I’ve just nicely finished drying
his feet when my Master enters the room.
“Proximan! So good to see you again. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting…”
“Not at all,
Castartius. The opportunity to sit down,
is welcome.”
“How long are you likely
to be staying in the city?”
“Four days, perhaps
five…”
“How about us getting
together in a tavern somewhere one evening?”
“Sounds good to me.”
My
Master sits down opposite Proximan.
“This is new, isn’t it?”
He
points at me. I should be offended at
the implication that I’m a thing, rather than a person. But of course, legally I am.
“Yes, useless slut that
she is. Cost me more than she’s probably
worth…”
They
both laugh at that. I know precisely
what I’m worth. I’m a ‘gold piece’
girl. I know very well that such is a
very good price for one such as I.
“If she pleases you,
feel free to use her before you leave.”
What?! Master will let this stranger fuck me? Earth thinking again! I must remember that I’m now only a thing, a
convenience, a perk, a kindness offered as a courtesy to a guest. I calm my puritan concepts and think
positively. A mid-morning ‘romp’ in the
furs, could be pleasant. I just hope
that this guest is as skilled a lover as my Master.
“At least she’s
thoughtful. It’s a long walk from the
vermilion gate. Her attention to my feet
is appreciated.”
“Master, I’m preparing
Bazi tea for your guest. May I get
something for you, also?”
“Bazi tea sounds
good. I’ll have the same.”
“With your permission…”
I
indicate leaving in order to complete that task. Master nods, I quietly depart.
I return with cups a jug reminiscent of a teapot, bosk
and verr milk, different sugars, etc.
Whilst it’s not my place to listen in on conversations that don’t relate
to me, one thing that I have learned is that slaves are no less curious than
free men and women. We just have to be
more discreet about it. Another aspect
is that I’m still trying to come to grips with this strange world, still trying
to figure out ‘which way is up’ as we used to say on Earth. Besides, knowing what’s going on in Master’s
world, helps me serve him better. The
polite small-talk that precedes the core of the conversation seems to be over
I’m just in time to hear something that ‘pricks up my ears’. Why it should, I don’t really know.
“So, Proximan, what do
you hear from home?”
Home? Is this not Master’s home? Is this not his city?
“The Tatrix is very
pleased with you. The drawings that you
sent are being studied by our military men to see if there are weaknesses in
the defences.”
Tatrix?
A remembrance from the Gor books I’d read surfaces. A Queen, more specifically a Queen Regnant, a
Queen ruling in her own right, as against a Queen Couchant, a Queen that is
only so as the consort of a King.
“She’s impressed at your
initiative in seeking to become Ubar,
She does however warn against hubris, and would be very displeased if in
becoming so, you forgot where your real loyalties lie…”
Ubar? That’s a kind of King. Master has ambitions of becoming a King? He can’t surely become a King of the city
he’s from, if it’s already being run by a Tatrix? Is it this city that we are in, that he
wishes to rule? If so, then this city
already has an Ubar, or at least an administrator. If he’s talking about becoming Ubar of his
home city, then would this Tatrix want to step down, even if to become Ubara,
the consort of the Ubar. I find that
difficult to believe. I can’t really
make any sense of this conversation, only it does put me on my guard a
little. Something clearly is not as
straightforward as it appears or perhaps should be.
The rest of the conversation is relatively benign, it
covering all sorts of mundane subjects I
‘switch-off’, allowing myself to be little more than an automaton. I am jerked out of my ennui.
“That offer to use your slave, is it still open,
Castartius.”
“Of course, friend. For you, anytime! Vita, attend to the pleasure of my
guest. Pop your head round the door of
my drawing office, Proximan, when you are done.
We can decide then when we are going to enjoy the fleshpots of this city
together.”
I
put my heart and soul into pleasing Proximan.
He is after all my Master’s friend. To please him is in a way to please
Master, since my use has been given to this guest. Besides, Proximan is not a displeasing
man! He has that air about him, that I
see in most men on Gor; sex-appeal is the only phrase that I can think of to
say what I feel. Thanks to the
Stabilisation Serums, there are few old, and hence ugly people on Gor. Most men, then appear virile, in their
prime. Of course, the only other explanation
is that I’m just a tart, a bimbo, a floozy.
I certainly feel more sexually needy than I ever did before I came to
Gor. Whether that’s due to the training
that I got in the Slave-House, which shattered my inhibitions, or whether I
always was at heart a slut, I don’t know. Proximan is a skilled lover. He has me wriggling and writhing, moaning and
crying-out in no time. My pleasure, I’m
sure, is as great if not more than Proximan’s.
He may know how to get the best out of slut like me, but for all that,
he’s not my Master! Master’s loving of
me, is in a class of its own!
“When you’ve tidied up
the breakfast things, attend me in my drawing office, Vita.”
“Yes, Master!”
I
scurry around the Kitchen, not wanting to keep Master waiting. At the door to Master’s office, I timidly
knock, and upon being ordered, enter.
Master is standing by a drawing board on a twin-tripod arrangement. It is not a lot different from similar things
I’d seen on Earth; the kind of thing draughtsmen would have used before
computer CAD/CAM systems came into use.
On the board is a drawing. It
seems to be either some kind of gatehouse, or perhaps a bridge between two
buildings.
I kneel before my owner.
“You claimed when in the
cage, that you had received training in barbarian lands, of many skills that
the Builders use. Were you lying? Do I need to punish you for that?”
I
go cold with dread at that possibility.
“No, Master. Definitely not.”
“Then look at this
drawing and tell me what’s wrong with it.”
I
study the image. A gatehouse,
definitely. The drawing is very nicely
done, highly detailed.
“With the structure,
Master, or with the drawing?”
I
quail at my temerity, my presumption.
I’m horrified! Did I actually say
that? If this is Master’s work then my
implied criticism will probably earn me some serious ‘grief’. Master laughs.
“You’re brave,
girl! I don’t think you are stupid
enough not to care what you say or how you say things. I am not offended. Carry on.”
I
sigh in relief, leaning forward to kiss Master’s sandals.
“Thank you, Master. I apologise for not thinking through my
response before making it. Thank you,
thank you!”
I
stand and study the image.
“This bridging
piece, What’s it made of, please,
Master?”
“Stone.”
“What kind of load is
this intended to carry?”
“A tharlarion cart at a
time.”
“Do you have steel
beams?”
“A bar of steel that
long? No, our metalworkers are good at
making swords and weapons of steel, but no smithy is big enough, or equipped
with good enough hoists to cast such a beam.”
“Then it will fail,
Master. Even if your quarrymen can cut
and transport a single piece of stone of these dimensions, it will suffer a
stress fracture, most likely here. It
might hold for lighter loads, a man, two men, perhaps five at most. If an enemy were to be able to strike it
right with a reasonable force it would break, pulling down the gates with it.”
I
point.
“How do we bridge here,
so it doesn’t break?”
I
look again at the drawing. Indicating
the supporting buildings, I enquire.
“Do these buildings
already exist, or are they yet to be built?”
“Not yet built.”
“Then, Master, if we can
reinforce here and here…”
I
show him.
“Then we can use those
points as anchors for a timber hammer-brace.
If we can make them long and
sturdy enough, effectively they then become an arch. Looking at the scale, unless you need to pass
anything particularly high and wide underneath the hammer brace, then it
shouldn’t cause an impediment. With your
permission, Master?”
I
indicate, and reach for paper and a drawing stick. I sketch what I have in mind.
“Yes, you do clearly
have a grounding in the techniques of the builders. How far that extends, time will tell. As for your idea. That’s precisely what has been decided.”
I
smile. My smile vanishes.
“Now, what’s wrong with
the drawing?”
Some
back-pedalling is called for.
“Nothing in itself,
Master. The detail is exquisite, but it
doesn’t show an isometric view…”
“Isometric…?”
“3D… Three dimensional…”
I
struggle to find the right Gorean words.
“An as-it-will-appear,
view, Master.”
This
thought intrigues him. Is it possible
that Gorean Builders don’t know how to draw such?
“If I may, Master...?”
“Show me!”
I
look through Master’s drawing tools.
Yes, he does have a T-square to slide up and down the drawing board so
as to be able to draw horizontal guide-lines.
He also has a thirty degree set-square.
If the Goreans know enough about this angle to create a tool for drawing
it, how come they haven’t come up with the isometric view. I would have thought that there would be
little other use for such a set-square.
This is basic artistic-perspective.
I remove the existing drawing from the drawing board and lay it on a
flat table. Fortunately, I’d learned the
basics of technical drawing with drawing boards, at high school. CAD/CAM computer packages being relatively
new at the time, I’d only been introduced to them when I got to college.
“This’ll be simplified,
Master, so as to show the concept. The
detail can be added later, if you wish it.”
Taking
the salient points of the previous drawing, I quickly drew the front elevation,
the side elevation and the plan, effectively moving the plan view to one side
from where the original drawer had placed his plan. This freed up a quarter of the sheet to hold
the isometric. Finding a very light
coloured drawing stick, I drew in the necessary guidelines into that hitherto
empty quarter of the page. Creating the
starting point, the ‘corner of the edifice’ from which the 3D image would
spread, I begin to draw this new view.
As I work, I’m explaining what I’m doing, and why. From the corner of my eye, I sense that
Master is watching fascinated. This
simplified new drawing of the edifice in question is done. Master is, I think impressed.
“Very interesting,
Vita. Yes, I can see the potential of
this kind of layout. Whether it catches
on, only time will tell. You’ve probably
earned me back a large chunk of what I paid for you! Don’t however get any
ideas about being freed. A natural slave
like you, should never be free.”
In
my heart, I now know that what he says is true.
Being a slave, correction being his slave, is so wonderful that I don’t
really want to be anything else. Yet
again, there’s that niggling little feeling that things are not as they should
be. I may honestly respond, but is that
honesty my own or something instilled in me.
“With you as my Master,
Master, I don’t want to be freed!”
He
harrumphs
“Toadying slut!”
“Yes, Master. Your toadying slut, gladly so, Master.”
He
laughs.
“You shall have a treat
tonight. No slave gruel for you
tonight. You will kneel and I shall feed
you from my plate.”
“Oh, Thank you
Master. You do me so much honour. Perhaps, tonight in your furs, you might feed
me some other kind of ‘meat’, Master?”
He’s
got a big wide grin.
“You really are a slut,
aren’t you, Vita!? I’ll think on it.”
“Yes, Master. Please, Master. I burn with need…”
“Importunate slave!”
