Emily
originally posted March 8, 2006
She wanted to be chained. She begged it. She, in that manner of hers, honed over years of this abject life, attempted to wheedle favor. She needed it. That much I did not doubt. In the campsite, beside the fire, a day from the city of Rarn, she asked to be chained.
"Were there no Tasta..." I asked, referring to the six-legged, tireless monster that has the scent of the girl imprinted in her animal brain. "...would you run?"
Emily was struck. Responding proudly, she proclaimed, meeting my eyes, "Emily does not run."
"You are already chained," I told her. And it was true. She would not run. There is nowhere for her to go, save the whip and collar of another.
"Buy heavier chains," she said defiantly, expecting more.
Insolence. Simple and challenging. Daring. I have mentioned before that I allow Emily a certain level of arrogance. Unchecked, I am aware that she elicits reactions among the women I own that range from open admiration to indifference to undisguised disdain. I do not care to interfere with the way she chooses to comport herself amongst women. The reins upon Emily are loose. She is given much freedom. At times, she acts up. From time to time, she tests me. I am not kind to her when she does. I did not smack her with the back of my hand. I did not command her to position where I might easily mark her ass with my belt or the five-bladed slave whip. I stripped her. I, then, using the silken sarong that is normally tied about her hips, bound her wrists behind her back. She began to cry. Emily does not bawl. Emily does not weep. She is not that sort of girl. When the tears came, they dampened her cheeks silently. She laid there, shoulders pitched forward, as, too, I chained her. Secured by tent stake, the silver links of medium-gauge hung from her throat. I kissed her mouth. She was lifted from the grass by the hair, suspended painfully by my grip as the use of her hands was denied her, wrists bound by sarong silk. I, too, tasted the salt of her tears before thrusting her back onto her hip. I, finished with her for the moment, dismissed her. She, bound and chained at the throat, nude, would not be given the indulgence of the small tent or benefit from the body heat of my three girl, fantastic, Tuchuk-pierced Nirah. She would get what sleep she could out of doors, deprived of blanket or mat, under the gaze of a golden-eyed monster. Tomorrow, in the coffle, she would be marched into the city of Rarn thusly. Nude, bound and in the two spot behind the earner, Portia.
---
"Five," I said. "Silver Tarsks of double weight."
Emily, still bound from the evening prior, was bent at the waist in the leading position. my hand was in her hair. Earlier, in the room I secured a block from the Pilgrim's Respite Tavern of Rarn, the tavern we stood in presently, I applied her cosmetic. It was not done precisely. It was not even done well. From the small pot, I took the red color onto my thumb and smeared it across her bottom lip. I then did the same to the top. Her hair was brushed. Normally straight and shining, like a wave of dark silk, it had the dust of the road and, from her exertion of marching bound and coffled, her sweat. I did not attempt to fix her hair prettily. Lastly, I gagged her petulant mouth, pulled the leather wadding behind the teeth, further smearing the paint about her lips. This was the girl, bent in the leading position, that I demanded five silver tarsks of double weight for. This girl, I would permit to dance in the Pilgrim's Respite Tavern. The Tavern Master did not take me seriously. I am average in appearance, neither short nor tall. My eyes are an unimaginative grey. The hair is a normal sort of brown, not remarkable. It was true that my tunic was red, the crest at the left breast of aqua, suggesting that I was of the Singers, the Caste of Poets, but I did not fault him in the least for not knowing who stood before him.
"I will need, as well, two thongs of bells, one for each of her ankles," I said.
"Two copper tarsks," he said, offering me a pittance compared to what I demanded.
"Five," I said, pulling her head up cruelly by the hair, "Silver Tarsks of double weight. I will need, as well, for each of her ankles..."
The thongs of bells, by a tavern girl, were already being wound tightly about her ankles behind us. At the sight of her, rudely gagged, shoulders pinned behind her, the fellow had recognized the girl. He had snapped his fingers, calling for the bells. One by one, he was placing the five coins I demanded into my hand. I closed my fingers about them, accepting the payment.
"I have a friend," he said, staring at the dancer who breathed shallow, held for his gaze painfully by the hair. "In Jort's Ferry. He owns the Riverside. That...is the dancer,Emily."
I could feel it in the way she squirmed in my grip as I turned with her, before thrusting her to her knees in the sand. Before I had pushed her head down, her hair obscuring her features there while musicians continued to tune their instruments. She sensed something of what I was doing finally. It was real. She was not dancing for my supper. She was not dancing for a handful of copper coins. She was not, even, dancing for a silver coin. She was to dance for five of them, of double weight. She was not in Grand, Glorious Ar. She was not in Nine-Gated Turia to the South. She was not in hated Cos, the island Ubarate of Thassa. She was in Rarn. A good sized town to be sure, but Rarn. Nothing for more than a hundred pasangs in any direction. A mining town, a stop-over for travelers North on the Pilgrim's Road. Rarn. I had asked for Five Silver Tarsks of Double Weight. She must earn them now. I had already been paid.
Earn them she did. Terrified at first, she could scarcely move, save to test the strength of her bonds which were maddeningly, exquisitely tight. She could not escape. The musicians were skilled. Tormenting her. Teasing her. Prodding her to respond. Emily responded. Pulled by the dull, droning lull of the czehar, mocked by the piping notes of flute player and set into pace by the insistence of kaska and tabor, she danced. She fought with them. At times, she danced around the intricate melodies, seducing the musicians to play for bound, petulant Emily. Soon after she was unable to move with impudence. She must conform. Something in the thrum of her heart and the inescapable nature of woman, she obeyed. Her shoulders moved as the strum of kalika would have it. Her hips gyrated as the rattle and roll of percussion wished them to. And, in time, the musicians simply stopped. Emily, then, danced to the call of men in the crowd. She danced to their sweat and their arousal. She danced, staring and pleading, to me. She danced low, as a woman gagged and bound must dance. She danced, for once, as the performance no longer called for it, without insolence.
---
Later in the room, I unbound her. I, too, loosened the straps of her gag. She, the sand still clinging to her naked body, utterly exposed to me, stretched herself painfully. She would feel it for days. For more than an entire day, she had been bound. Her dance in the sands of the Pilgrim's Respite Tavern had lasted better than an ahn. She was, not surprisingly, exhausted and tender. She tried to tell me many things. "Emily is better than that" or "I will do better". Promises. Assurances that she understood the meaning of my discipline. She is a Dancer. Exploited. Earning her keep. She need only answer the questions I posed. As she knelt there in only the collar, I asked those questions.
"Is Emily bound?"
"Yes, Master."
"Is Emily chained?"
"Yes, Master."
"Will it be necessary to buy heavier chains?"
"No, Master."
"Were there no Tasta..." I asked, referring to the six-legged, tireless monster that has the scent of the girl imprinted in her animal brain. "...would you run?"
Emily was struck. Responding proudly, she proclaimed, meeting my eyes, "Emily does not run."
"You are already chained," I told her. And it was true. She would not run. There is nowhere for her to go, save the whip and collar of another.
"Buy heavier chains," she said defiantly, expecting more.
Insolence. Simple and challenging. Daring. I have mentioned before that I allow Emily a certain level of arrogance. Unchecked, I am aware that she elicits reactions among the women I own that range from open admiration to indifference to undisguised disdain. I do not care to interfere with the way she chooses to comport herself amongst women. The reins upon Emily are loose. She is given much freedom. At times, she acts up. From time to time, she tests me. I am not kind to her when she does. I did not smack her with the back of my hand. I did not command her to position where I might easily mark her ass with my belt or the five-bladed slave whip. I stripped her. I, then, using the silken sarong that is normally tied about her hips, bound her wrists behind her back. She began to cry. Emily does not bawl. Emily does not weep. She is not that sort of girl. When the tears came, they dampened her cheeks silently. She laid there, shoulders pitched forward, as, too, I chained her. Secured by tent stake, the silver links of medium-gauge hung from her throat. I kissed her mouth. She was lifted from the grass by the hair, suspended painfully by my grip as the use of her hands was denied her, wrists bound by sarong silk. I, too, tasted the salt of her tears before thrusting her back onto her hip. I, finished with her for the moment, dismissed her. She, bound and chained at the throat, nude, would not be given the indulgence of the small tent or benefit from the body heat of my three girl, fantastic, Tuchuk-pierced Nirah. She would get what sleep she could out of doors, deprived of blanket or mat, under the gaze of a golden-eyed monster. Tomorrow, in the coffle, she would be marched into the city of Rarn thusly. Nude, bound and in the two spot behind the earner, Portia.
---
"Five," I said. "Silver Tarsks of double weight."
Emily, still bound from the evening prior, was bent at the waist in the leading position. my hand was in her hair. Earlier, in the room I secured a block from the Pilgrim's Respite Tavern of Rarn, the tavern we stood in presently, I applied her cosmetic. It was not done precisely. It was not even done well. From the small pot, I took the red color onto my thumb and smeared it across her bottom lip. I then did the same to the top. Her hair was brushed. Normally straight and shining, like a wave of dark silk, it had the dust of the road and, from her exertion of marching bound and coffled, her sweat. I did not attempt to fix her hair prettily. Lastly, I gagged her petulant mouth, pulled the leather wadding behind the teeth, further smearing the paint about her lips. This was the girl, bent in the leading position, that I demanded five silver tarsks of double weight for. This girl, I would permit to dance in the Pilgrim's Respite Tavern. The Tavern Master did not take me seriously. I am average in appearance, neither short nor tall. My eyes are an unimaginative grey. The hair is a normal sort of brown, not remarkable. It was true that my tunic was red, the crest at the left breast of aqua, suggesting that I was of the Singers, the Caste of Poets, but I did not fault him in the least for not knowing who stood before him.
"I will need, as well, two thongs of bells, one for each of her ankles," I said.
"Two copper tarsks," he said, offering me a pittance compared to what I demanded.
"Five," I said, pulling her head up cruelly by the hair, "Silver Tarsks of double weight. I will need, as well, for each of her ankles..."
The thongs of bells, by a tavern girl, were already being wound tightly about her ankles behind us. At the sight of her, rudely gagged, shoulders pinned behind her, the fellow had recognized the girl. He had snapped his fingers, calling for the bells. One by one, he was placing the five coins I demanded into my hand. I closed my fingers about them, accepting the payment.
"I have a friend," he said, staring at the dancer who breathed shallow, held for his gaze painfully by the hair. "In Jort's Ferry. He owns the Riverside. That...is the dancer,Emily."
I could feel it in the way she squirmed in my grip as I turned with her, before thrusting her to her knees in the sand. Before I had pushed her head down, her hair obscuring her features there while musicians continued to tune their instruments. She sensed something of what I was doing finally. It was real. She was not dancing for my supper. She was not dancing for a handful of copper coins. She was not, even, dancing for a silver coin. She was to dance for five of them, of double weight. She was not in Grand, Glorious Ar. She was not in Nine-Gated Turia to the South. She was not in hated Cos, the island Ubarate of Thassa. She was in Rarn. A good sized town to be sure, but Rarn. Nothing for more than a hundred pasangs in any direction. A mining town, a stop-over for travelers North on the Pilgrim's Road. Rarn. I had asked for Five Silver Tarsks of Double Weight. She must earn them now. I had already been paid.
Earn them she did. Terrified at first, she could scarcely move, save to test the strength of her bonds which were maddeningly, exquisitely tight. She could not escape. The musicians were skilled. Tormenting her. Teasing her. Prodding her to respond. Emily responded. Pulled by the dull, droning lull of the czehar, mocked by the piping notes of flute player and set into pace by the insistence of kaska and tabor, she danced. She fought with them. At times, she danced around the intricate melodies, seducing the musicians to play for bound, petulant Emily. Soon after she was unable to move with impudence. She must conform. Something in the thrum of her heart and the inescapable nature of woman, she obeyed. Her shoulders moved as the strum of kalika would have it. Her hips gyrated as the rattle and roll of percussion wished them to. And, in time, the musicians simply stopped. Emily, then, danced to the call of men in the crowd. She danced to their sweat and their arousal. She danced, staring and pleading, to me. She danced low, as a woman gagged and bound must dance. She danced, for once, as the performance no longer called for it, without insolence.
---
Later in the room, I unbound her. I, too, loosened the straps of her gag. She, the sand still clinging to her naked body, utterly exposed to me, stretched herself painfully. She would feel it for days. For more than an entire day, she had been bound. Her dance in the sands of the Pilgrim's Respite Tavern had lasted better than an ahn. She was, not surprisingly, exhausted and tender. She tried to tell me many things. "Emily is better than that" or "I will do better". Promises. Assurances that she understood the meaning of my discipline. She is a Dancer. Exploited. Earning her keep. She need only answer the questions I posed. As she knelt there in only the collar, I asked those questions.
"Is Emily bound?"
"Yes, Master."
"Is Emily chained?"
"Yes, Master."
"Will it be necessary to buy heavier chains?"
"No, Master."
image is copyright Markus Harris 1997
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