Paga Diaries (25) by Arizona Wanderer

 

25.  Paga Flows

I woke to the sound of a low toned bell that rang twice, and then twice again after a moment.  I was in one of the tents on the lawn, set up for Mirus’s party.  Lina had slept with me in the furs and she woke up hearing the bells too. 

Verna's Journey (4) The Boulevard

 

Verna’s Journey
Pauline Anne Armitage

With acknowledgement, and thanks to John Norman for the creation of his world of “Gor”, in which this story is set.

Chapter Four: The Boulevard.

I stand at the beginning of a long broad boulevard.  I am awed at its magnificence and the brightly coloured buildings on either side.  I had once spoken to a barbarian slave girl who’d fled into the forest.  She’d seen several Gorean cities.  She’d remarked on how drab even the most exciting Earth cities were by comparison.  I sold her back to her Master for ten metal arrow points.  I doubt she’ll dare to run away again!  In the distance I see what appears to be the tallest tower in the city.  Traditionally this is where the home-stone of the city is held.  Such usually doubles up as the palace of the Ubar or Administrator of the city.

Callius, Arminias and I had arrived at the city just after nightfall.  Coming from the dark of the forest where the only night-time light is the fire one has lit, I found it difficult to comprehend the amazing number of lights or to even hazard a guess at the number of hearths or dwellings such a place might have.  We had landed, rather exhausted, on the platform of the tarn-cot attached to one of the city’s main gates.  The tarn-keeper, as had his counterpart at the frontier fortress, found it difficult to grasp the idea of a woman riding a Tarn, and not in a palanquin attached to the saddle.  One riding the bird lake a man would, let alone one who to all appearances must surely be a slave!  Arminias brought the attention of the tarn-keeper. back to practical matters by waving a coin in front of the tarn-keeper's eyes.  While Arminias dealt with business, I gladly stripped off my flying-leathers, and retrieved my weapons.  After the forests, even after nightfall this place is still too hot to be wearing such heavy clothing.
“We wish to board the tarns here, good fellow!”
“Certainly Sir.  Any idea how long?”
“Myself and my companion...”
Indicating Callius,
“...will be leaving the city in three to four days.  The Lady knows not yet.  Work to ten-days.  The Lady will advise you by then if she’s staying longer.  The tarns are to be fed well and rested.  The Lady may wish to exercise her tarn during this period.”
“Very good, sir!”
“It’s late, tarn-keeper, can you suggest a good lodging house?”
The tarn-keeper has finally decided that though branded and wearing earrings, I do not wear a collar.  Hence, I must in fact be a free-woman, though a daring and unusual one not to be clad in robes of concealment.
“The Silken Chain, just outside the gatehouse is clean.  The food’s passable, the girls moderately beautiful and pliant.  They also have a few private rooms for visiting free-women.”
“Sounds good.  Thank you, tarn-keeper.”
“Tarn-keeper?”
“Yes, Lady?”
“These riding leathers though the smallest available are too large.  Where can I get leathers made to my size?”
“Try Trichellius, on the Street of Leather-workers.  He should be able to make such if he doesn’t have suitable in stock.  Follow the main street until you see on your right, the Street of the Drunken Tharlarion[1].  The second left is the Street of Leather-workers.”
“My thanks, sir!”
The Silken Chain is a general purpose lodging house, catering to a fluid trade of visitors arriving and leaving the city.  It has attached, a Paga tavern.  Men of Gor consider Paga Taverns an essential facility of any community.  We dine in a chamber specifically intended for such.  The serving slaves being demurely clad and modestly behaved in this part of the lodging house, though should a patron show interest in one of them, doubtless she would be sent to the patron’s sleeping furs.  I call for wine, the two men, Paga.  As we eat, I talk with them.
“How soon do you need to be back at the fortress?”
Callius has a sly grin on his face.
“Well that’s up to us to some extent.  The journey here took longer than anticipated, as will the return one.  A man from the edge of empire may only get to see Ar, once or twice in his whole life.  I’m sure that Grippus won’t mind if we spend three or four days here.  I’d be surprised if he expects us back before the end of the passage-hand[2].”
“I’m tired.  I’m having an early night.  I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.  If you are going into the Paga tavern, I don’t know if I’ll see you in the morning.  Arminias, would you arrange for me to stay here as long as you do, in case I don’t get to see Marlenus immediately.  If I don’t see you before you leave, I thank you for your company, and I wish you well, Warriors!”
“And the same to you Lady!  You may be like no other woman I’ve ever met, but you’ve got ‘balls’ even if such are figurative.  I am honoured to have met you Verna, Chieftainess of the Twelve Sisters band, Ubara!”
“Why, thank you Arminias!”
“Same goes from me, too.”
“And you, Callius!  Thank you.”
“Before I forget, Ubara.  You will need coins.”
Arminias removes several coins from a leather pouch.
“I have enough for Callius and I until we get back to the Fortress.  Please have the rest.”
He hands the pouch to me.  I take it and push it into a pocket on the inside of my jerkin.
“Appreciated, Arminias.  Please give my thanks to Grippus for allowing me to denude his treasury of such.”
We both grin.
 
I stand at the beginning of the long broad boulevard.  I set off walking towards the tallest tower in the city.  I am awed at the size of the buildings, at the constant bustle of people, the cacophony of noise, the brightly coloured patterns on the walls, the clash of colours worn by the robes of free people and slaves alike.  I’m aware of staring at everything.  Does my jaw hang open in astonishment?  I wasn’t aware that there were this number of people in the whole of the world.  Coming from the emptiness, in terms of people, of the forest, this place is breathtaking!  I’m sure that to these ‘cosmopolitan’ southern folk, I must appear as some kind of bumpkin.  I’m certainly not on my guard!  I should be treating this place as just a different kind of forest.  The slave, barefoot as most are, nearly runs into me.  She is simply a blur of light-blue.
“Out of my way, pierced-ear girl!”
Light blue camisk and carrying rolled-up scrolls?  She’s clearly of the Scribes, or should I say, her Master is of the Scribes.  A slave has no caste.  As she tries to push past me, I give her a good whack over the side of her head with the flat side of my spear.  It sends her sprawling.  She’s up on one knee, her other foot underneath her so as to rise and fight.  A slave striking another usually occasions a fight.  The squabbles of slaves are unimportant.  The masters generally ignore such unless there’s a danger of permanent damage to one or other of the combatants.
“Is that how you speak to a free-woman?”
The slave is puzzled.  She’s seen my brand, my pierced ears.  She looks for my collar.  I have none.  She wonders at my claim to be a free-woman.  Is it possible that I could be what I claim to be?  She takes in my bearing.  I’ve been more than lenient with her!
“Is it not customary to kneel before a free-woman?”
I have repeated my claim.  To have made that claim wrongly; for a slave to make such a claim would likely bring death and a most excruciating one at that.  I must therefore truly be a free-woman.  The slave moans.  Her face shows absolute horror, terror even.  She looks between me and the scroll of documents, trying to decide which is most important.  She grasps her documents and scrabbles to my feet, forehead to the ground in obeisance.
“Forgive me, Mistress!  I wasn’t aware…  I’m sorry, Mistress!  It won’t happen again!”
She grovels for all she’s worth.
“Enough, slave!”
She falls silent.
“Respect for a free-person is mandatory to you.  You know that you can be killed for such disrespect?”
The slave is shivering with fear.
“You are forgiven your lack of judgement this time.  But does it not behove you to be polite and accommodating to fellow slaves?  Their errand may be just as urgent as yours or maybe more-so.”
“Oh thank you Mistress for your forgiveness.  A slave is grateful beyond telling!  This slave will be more considerate in future, Mistress!”
“Make sure you are!  These scrolls that you are carrying, they are important?”
“I know not, Mistress.  I cannot read.  I only know that they must be more valuable than I am, for my Master has made it clear that should I lose such, I will be slain.  When told to carry scrolls to or from someone, I must do so as quickly as possible, Mistress.”
Hence her uncertainty as to which is more important, the scrolls or the slave’s duty to obey a free-person.  I am intrigued that a Scribe’s slave cannot read, but then one who cannot, can be trusted not to reveal the contents of the scrolls to anyone.  She is merely a message-carrier.
“And whence do you carry these particular scrolls and from whom?”
“From the Tower of the Ubar, To my Master, Henrius Sevrenius, Scribe to the fifth legion, Mistress.”
Perhaps important documents indeed?  Military documents!  They may indeed be more valuable than the slave’s life.  The scrolls concern me, but I can’t say why.  I feel that I should open them up and read them.  I actually don’t know if I can read such!  It’s been many years since I fled my home, and there is nothing to read in the forest, except the tracks of animals.  Have I forgotten how to read?  It’s also highly likely that the scrolls will be written in code.  I do note however that the scrolls carry wax seals.  If I break the seals, the slave will almost certainly be killed, after torture.  The testimony of a slave may only be taken under torture, it being considered that without such they will naturally lie.  Once the slave’s Master sees the broken seal, he may very quickly have legionnaires out looking for me!
“Very good.  You may be about your business.  Hold, before you go.  Can you give me directions to the street of Leather-workers?”
“Yes, Mistress!...”
She’s eager to please now.
“Take the fifth street on the right, and then the second on the left, Mistress.”
“If your Master enquires about your tardiness, you will tell him that a free-woman stopped you and asked you for directions.  If he asks you about the bruise forming on your face, tell him of your bad manners.  I leave it to him to decide if you should be punished further.  Now, begone!”
The slave rises picking up the scrolls and sets off running in the direction she had been heading.  Perhaps I should have opened the scrolls?  Too late now.  I continue along the boulevard.
 
A wagon rolls past on my right.  It is drawn by two yoked bosk.  As it passes, there is a loud clang of something hitting metal.  It makes me jump.  I turn my head to find myself looking into the eyes of a hissing sleen.  Following on behind the wagon there’s a man with a sleen on a leash.  He has all-on controlling the beast.  I’ve seen many such beasts in the forest, and killed them all!  It’s strange to see such domesticated, or at least semi-trained.  The sleen is an indefatigable hunter.  It can follow a trail that is months old.  When set on tracking it simply wont stop until it runs its prey to ground.  That’s why they are used in tracking runaway slaves.  Depending on what orders they are given, they will either tear their prey to pieces or herd it back to their handler.  In my case, the forest sleen had taken my scent as being ‘food’.  There’s only one way to survive in such a situation and that is to kill the sleen!  It’s not an easy thing to do!  The sleen is larger and heavier than a Panther-girl!  As far as I am concerned, the only good sleen is a dead sleen.  Let the slave-owners find some other way to track runaway slaves!
 
On the other side of the boulevard I see a sign.  ‘Black wine sold here!’  I am intrigued.  I have heard of this beverage.  Black wine is quite expensive.  I do however have more than enough coins for such.  I enter the establishment and sit at a low table.  I order up the black wine.  A demurely clad slave girl places on the table a container holding bowls of different sugars and jugs of bosk and verr milk respectively.  Given the paucity and value of sweet foods in the forest, I almost want to spoon the sugars from the bowls directly into my mouth.  I restrain myself.  As I understand it the beans from which black wine is made, come from the Thentis mountains.  The supply is limited and the warriors of Thentis guard against poachers trying to steal plants so as to grow them elsewhere, hence the high price of the drink.  The beans are, I believe roasted and then ground to a powder.  Hot water is poured over the powder.  The brew is filtered and served in small cups.  A cup of such is placed before me.  I sip the liquid. Eargh!  It’s bitter!  I spoon some of the sugar into the cup and a small quantity of bosk milk.  I stir the beverage.  Better!  Given the cost, I am determined to finish the drink.  As I get towards the end of the cup, I begin to feel the stimulant effect of the drink.  Perhaps one can get used to this drink.  The barbarian slave that I mentioned before told me that on Earth, black wine is known a ‘koff-ee’.  At the time I had thought the girl mad and had discounted much of what she said.  In the light of what Hot-Lips had told me and given that black-wine is a relatively recent ostentation, perhaps she wasn’t.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have requested her owner to have her whipped for lying.
 
I resume my journey. I am assailed by doubt.  What am I doing here?  Why have I really come to Ar.  My mind knows that Marlenus had invited me to visit when I wished.  Curiosity had prompted me to visit now.  Deeper, though I cannot admit it to myself, my body knows.  I pass by the Street of the Drunken Tharlarion, deciding not to visit the street of Leather-workers just yet.  I wonder idly at the ‘not yet’, not understanding why deep down, I adjudge such may yet be superfluous.  I am past that street entrance.  I stop and turn to look back at it.  Should I, shouldn’t I go back and find Trichellius the Leather-worker.
“Out of my way, pierced-ear girl!”
The strident cry of a woman.  A command uttered imperiously.  I turn to face the woman in irritation.  I am a free-woman.  I do not take commands.  The woman is higher than I.  She sits on a curule chair atop a litter carried by eight strong men, each chained to the poles of the litter.  The woman is flanked by four chained, kneeling female slaves, each wearing a long sleeveless ankle-length gown.  There are two guardsmen following.  The woman herself wears fine robes of concealment in the white and gold caste colours of the Merchants.  Clearly she’s the free-companion or daughter of a rich merchant.
“Are you talking to me?”
“How dare you, slave!  Why are you not on your knees?  Why are you carrying weapons?  Don’t you know that it’s death for a slave to even touch a weapon?  Mikanius, seize this slave!”
“Hold!  Firstly I am not a slave!  Secondly, I carry weapons because it pleases me to carry weapons...”
The woman is clearly shocked that I dare to talk back to her.  Though her lower face is hidden by layered ‘veils of modesty’, her eyes express such shock most eloquently.
“...and thirdly, I carry the signet of the Ubara.  Being Ubara, I believe gives me the right!  Now, tell me your name!”
The woman while shocked is sufficiently arrogant as to question my claim.
“A daring boast, slave-girl.  Who did you steal it from, if you have it at all!  I’ll see you impaled on the city walls!”
I remove the thong containing the signet from around my neck.  I hold it up.  The guard Mikanius has come round the side of the litter.  He approaches, but does not put his hand on his sword.  I drop my spear so the point touches his belly.
“Close enough to look, guardsman.”
“Lady Arlinga, the signet is genuine!”
The guardsman backs off.
“Lady Arlinga, the signet was given to me by Marlenus, Ubar of Ar himself.  I am on my way to see him.  Should we go together and have him confirm my right to carry such?”
The look in Lady Arlinga’s eyes changes from shock to horror.
“My humble apologies, Ubara!  I did not know…!  But you are branded.  You have pierced ears...”
“I am Verna Chieftainess of the Twelve Sisters band of Panther-Girls, and friend of Marlenus.  My brand and pierced ears are historical artefacts, I do not choose to hide.  I think it should be you kneeling to me, don’t you?”
I call to the male slaves supporting the litter.
“Lower the litter to the ground.”
They have been given an order by a free-person and one who apparently outranks their owner.  They comply, kneeling deferentially.  The Lady Arlinga rises from her chair and steps down from the litter.  She kneels before me, head bowed.
“Please use my litter, Ubara!”
“I don’t need it…, but neither do you.  You will walk home, or wherever you are going.  Do you have the keys to the chains of your slaves?”
“To those of the girls, Ubara.”
“Unchain them.”
Lady Arlinga remounts the litter and removes the chains from the kneeling slave-girls.
“Free them, and the litter slaves.”
“I free you, all of you.”
The four former slaves rush to my feet to thank me for a gift that none of them thought they would ever be given.  It is said that the cruellest slavery of all, is to be the slave of a free-woman.
“Now, Lady Arlinga.  You may be about your business.  Think yourself lucky that I do not have you face-stripped[3], or worse still enslaved yourself.”
“Mikanius, have these free-man escorted to the shop of the nearest Metal-worker so that their chains may be struck-off.  And prepare manumission papers for all of these former slaves.”
Lady Arlinga makes to leave, while she can, lest I change my mind about having her enslaved.
“Lady Arlinga!...”
She turns to face me again.  I reach into the pouch inside my pocket.  I pull from it a tarn-disk[4] of gold, double-weight.  I throw it to her.
“I am not a thief.”
She nods her acknowledgement.  I know the value of slaves at the forest edge, but not the value in the cities.  I surmise that so valuable a coin is more than enough to buy all twelve slaves.  I step round the now grounded litter and continue onwards, hearing behind me it being lifted again as the freed-men head towards a metal-worker’s shop.  The chattering former female slaves follow so as to have their collars removed.

---

[1]     A large lizard-like creature, used as a draught animal or as a riding animal.  It is often used by armies as a shock-cavalry mount due to its power and bulk.

[2]     Month-end

[3]     For a free-woman in the cities, the ultimate humiliation and degradation short of full enslavement.

[4]     A large coin, the most valuable in circulation.  The value of such varies depending upon the city of mintage.  Those of Ar, generally being considered the most trustworthy and hence valuable.

Scipio Metellus, Slaver of Ko-ro-ba (1)

 

(catch me, by Gorean Art

The little stream had been swollen into a river by spring runoff and sudden torrential rains in the surrounding hills. There was no crossing either by the ford or the small ferry until the flooding passed, which locals informed travellers would be in about three days.

As a result, the caravan of Scipio Metellus, Slaver of Ko-ro-ba was camped close to those of other travellers along the banks of the swiftly running water. The water was brown with soil washed down from the hills, and very cold due to the amount of spring runoff. Scipio Metellus and his five wagons were camped at a little distance from the other travellers. Scipio Metellus was an experienced traveller and had no intention of camping near a riverbank that might be carried away by a surge of water. Nor would he be the first to cross the stream when the water receded. When possible, the slaver was a careful man, which often deceived people who judged by surface appearances.

Verna's Journey (3) The Paga Tavern

 

Verna’s Journey
Pauline Anne Armitage

With acknowledgement, and thanks to John Norman for the creation of his world of “Gor”, in which this story is set.

 

 

Chapter Three: The Paga Tavern.

It is dark when we arrive at the caravanserai.  We board the Tarns at the Tarn-cot.  Arminias throws a coin to the keeper.
“Feed the birds!”
The keeper acknowledges.  We find a bunk-house and drop our belongings there.  Arminias has paid extra for the three of us to have a small private room capable of housing four people.  I do not need privacy.  I am used to being seen naked, by other Panther-Girls, by men or at least enslaved men.  Callius and Arminias, knowing that I am the Ubara, I know that they will not lust after me or at least not openly.  On Gor, free women seem to need considerable privacy and modesty.  I though do not give such matters any thought.

Tales of Drysdale House (3) Veronika

 

Narrative of Kajira Juli, formerly Miss Julie Chen BA of San Francisco

The four she-urts knelt in a row in the Grand Salon of Drysdale House, my master’s San Francisco residence. They were waiting, more or less patiently to be paid. It was the last day my Master, through the housekeeper, Mrs Magruder, would be employing Kampus Kleaners to bring the state of the house, really a mansion, to one that she considered worthy of my Master’s stature. Kampus Kleaners did not know that these she-urts would be here. After the first two days, Mrs Magruder had been employing some of the girls directly, rather than through Kampus Kleaners, ‘providers of naughty maids and naked cleaners’.

Paga Diaries (24) by Arizona Traveller

 (The first twenty chapters are hosted at Emma of Gor This continues the story of Rykart, a wanderer on Gor who had arrived from Earth. Stories by Tracker is pleased to host this continuation of the story.)

24. Dancing Kajirae

After the extravagant banquet meal, Mirus announced that the evening’s entertainment would continue with dancing.  Everyone gathered near the fire, close to the band in the same spot that the wet t-shirt contest had been held.  We all sat on the ground and watched the dancers.  Even the slaves sat and watched, except for Lenta and another slave who were kept busy serving drinks to everyone.

There were three dancers who took turns, each one performing a dance and then another one would start a new one.  The dancers were mostly nude and had bells attached to their ankles.  Some of the dancers used silk accessories to draw attention to their bodies and movements.  Trem and I sat together and enjoyed the dances, the firelight on the dancers and the accompanying music, created a very erotic atmosphere.  Trem told me the names of the dances after they were finished, the first being the Collar Dance and the second was the Contrition Dance.  During the third dance, Lina came and knelt in front of me, offering a paga.  I finished the paga I already had and took the paga from the lovely Lina.

“May I watch the dances with you Master?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, noticing that many of the other slaves were sitting very close to and sometimes leaning into the guests, lounging.   The three Gorean moons were bright tonight, and as we watched the dancers, I kept looking at Lina, her blond hair was golden in the light of the fire and the shadows accentuated her lovely curves.  I put my arm around her bare shoulder, bringing her in close.

Rimici stepped out after the third dance concluded, her fine curves and perfect body motionless, she stood crossed leg, poised as a pirouette.  She was naked except for her collar and belled ankles.  The band began to play rhythmic, mysterious music.  Rimici looked to the sky and began to dance quickly.  She moved well and her motions were very erotic.  She stomped her feet to the rhythms, the bells on her ankles ringing, accentuating her steps.

Lina, put her arms around my right arm, holding it. 

Rimici dropped to her knees and danced on them, gyrating her hips.  She then went down to the grass on her back, to her sides, again to her knees, then prone, rolling over supine, constantly moving her limbs, writhing as though in frustration.  She struck her hands, now clenched fists, on the ground, then scratched at the ground, pulling up grass in frustration.  She shook her head, scattering her long black hair in all directions.  She kicked her heels against the ground as a child would, having a tantrum.

The music became slower, entering a melodic phase, and her dancing became less physical and frantic.  Her dancing was now poignant, graceful.  She went to her knees and crawled to her right, lifting her head, reaching out and seemed to touch something, feeling it out, a wall perhaps.  She continued to move gracefully using her hands to search in pantomime. She appeared to encounter a barrier or confining wall, her hands reaching up, and around, searching, exploring. Then she crawled to the left, once again feeling out the wall, tracing the location.

“She is dancing the Sa-eela, Master!” Lina whispered to me excitedly.

Rimici stood up and faced the crowd, on tip toes, attempting to peer through an opening.  She yelled through this opening, on a door perhaps.  She waited, and nothing there, she went to the ground, curled into a ball and began to weep softly in her loneliness.

The music changes again and her head lifts up, a hand went to her ear, cupping it as though she hears something.  She stands up, steps backwards, stopped by a back wall as though in a cell and puts her palms against the wall.  She holds her chin up for a moment, disdainfully, then she turns away as if ignoring someone, perhaps a man has entered the cell.  She remains still and aloof, feigning disdain for the man.  She then becomes startled as if the man has turned away, as if to leave the cell.  She looks to the man, and throws herself to the grass on her belly, her arms extended performing obeisance, her fingers outstretched, longing to touch.  She lifts her head and calls out, “Master?”  And then, “Please Master!”

She then kneels swiftly in nadu, as a pleasure slave with her knees spread wide and her palms on her thighs, upturned.  She is stunning in this position, a perfect example of posture and form! 

“Ohh!” Lina exclaimed quietly beside me, clutching my arm tight, her breath quickening.

Rimini’s right shoulder suddenly jerks twice, as if she has been struck with a whip.  She nods her head in affirmation.  She then stands abruptly as if pulled up.  She is turned, and her wrists brought together behind her back.  She grimaces as if they are being bound together tightly, cruelly.  She bends over at the waist, her head moves to the side as if a master has her hair, controlling her.  She then walks, taking small steps, bent over, her head still to the side as if being led somewhere, leaving the cell.  She makes a slight turn before stopping.  She then appears to be thrown to the ground, landing on her side, her hands still held behind her back.  She looked at the audience from the ground as if seeing us for the first time.  The music became loud, dramatic and profound, as she presented herself as a stark, pitiful, humbled slave, laying before men, waiting for their attention.

She moves off of her side and kneels, putting her head to the ground as if commanded and raises up her bound wrists, high behind her back.  She remains like this for a moment and then her hands came apart, unbound.

She then appears to prepare herself, smoothing her hair, bringing attention to her features, holding her breasts and offering them, presenting her rear, attempting to allure and arouse the master.  The pace of the music quickens, drums pounding, as the attempt of the neglected slave to call attention to herself becomes desperate and wild.

At the climax of dance, Rimici crawled over to Mirus.  There was fine sheen of sweat on her body gleaming in the firelight.  She presented herself as a helpless, desperate, sensual, piteous slave, needful with desire, she danced on her knees with a final flourish before her master, enticing him to accept her, exposed, willing and submissive to his will and approval.  In a final gesture, she flung herself on to her back, lifting her hips invitingly to him, her breasts heaving with exertion, motioning with her arms, beckoning his approach and acceptance of her offering.

A thunderous applause erupted from the audience, many of the men standing and striking their chests, crying out praises.  As I stood up to applaud and cheer, I looked at Lina, who was smiling, cheering, tears in her eyes.  Mirus stood up, stepped toward Rimici and swooped her up, placing her over his left shoulder.  He carried her to the nearest white tent and entered it as the applause continued.

I was spellbound by the magnificent performance.  I had never seen such a dance, the talent, creativity, and the expression of raw emotion was exquisite and overwhelming.  For the third time this evening, I had become aroused and was in need.

I sat back down next to Lina.  She looked at me eagerly, her teary eyes wide and full of expression. 

“Master, may I speak?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Master, am I still appealing to you?”

“Yes, very much,” I replied.

“Do you desire me, Master?”

“Yes, yes,” I stuttered.

“Master, you have not taken me to the furs tonight.”  I didn’t know what to say, she was very beautiful in the firelight under the moons and I desired her greatly.  Did she know that I had already been in the furs with Tafa?  Had any of the guests put Lina to use this evening?  Was her slave heat boiling over from Mirus’s lascivious display of her earlier, the wet t-shirt contest and then the dances, especially the last one by Rimici?  Had her slave heat become excruciating and unbearable?

“Master?” she asked, frustrated by my silence; my mind was racing, another slave had begun to dance and I looked briefly, distracted.

“Have I displeased you, Master?”

“No, of course not,” I finally answered.

“I beg use Master. Please take Lina to the furs Master!” she begged.