Delicacy & Compliance

originally posted June 6, 2005

“You are not wearing the lip paint, the inappropriate shade of red, that I have suggested,” I informed her.
There was no pretense any longer. She was no Lady Trinidad, Trini or even Lady Jenny. The subterfuge with which she thought she fooled an entire district was coming to an end. She, of course, would find out she was the last to know. It is a Gorean delicacy, this sort of truth, watching the carefully stacked bricks of a woman’s defenses come tumbling down. They lack the means and the mortar to erect such a structure soundly. Neither Surnoft nor Ashel, vineyards of Ar that rival anything Cosians have corked, have created a vintage quite so satisfying. The bouquet of swirling emotion; overpowering fear, timorous excitement, the warmth of sexual arousal and utter, knowing submission combine to bring a taste to the palate that is unrivaled. And each woman is utterly different though strikingly similar. My woman stared up at me from her knees, not knowing, on a conscious level, she was pleading for something I had no intention of giving her.
“I would like to have complied, sir, but I do not have the necessary funds…” she stammered. I am paraphrasing, frankly, because her gambit was not only overly verbose, and unmemorable, it was entirely expected.
I painted her mouth personally and then I handed it to her; a dented, obviously used, tin of lewd, red lip coloring. A girl, a phenomenal whore once on my chain called Pagar, had used it last. Only one type of woman could wear such a color. Only one type of woman could touch her lips with paint of such a greasy consistency; fashioned to be applied once during the day. Too, it was fashioned to be removed with only the firmest application of washcloth or during vigorous, eager slave duty. She stared at it in mock horror for my benefit. Unbeknownst to her, I saw the excitement in her eye when I said:
“I suggest you do not appear before me with your mouth unpainted.” I then proceeded to smear the paint with the pad of my thumb from the corner of her mouth across her cheek.
“Yes Sir,” she replied obediently enough, though she wore the garb of a free peasant female. “Thank you, Sir.”
Jen, Jenny, Argentia, Arjen, Jenny Stuck Thighs…whatever name you know my woman by, tried several, anticipated ploys to meet my ‘suggestion’ with minimal compliance. The most obvious was to simply stay away from me; negating the need to appear in public painted about the mouth like a whore. To which, I assaulted a slave known to her called Talorai; a worthless, traitorous bitch of a girl that deserves nothing but the grandest contempt.
“Where is my woman?” I asked.
The flame maned, contemptible trollop served as an excellent, loud mouthed tool. The Lady Jenny would know she was still hunted. She would seek me out rather than be taken down in the field unaware. The import was clear. People began to talk. She soon learned the price of discretionary compliance. Not only did I suggest the wearing of lip paint, but I forced her to let her hair down and bare her shoulders. People would continue to talk. To her credit, she began to respond with exacting compliance; perhaps beginning to understand the gravity of the situation, the tenuous nature of her status. I will mention one other thing before closing this entry. Not that it matters, for it certainly does not. The exploitation I was about to put upon my woman in no way required it; but painted about the mouth, silky, silver hair falling past her feminine shoulders, brought to compliance and docility, my woman is beautiful.
Without a doubt, she is slave beautiful.