A Girl Called Joy
originally posted April 10, 2006
I own many women.
One is a Preferred Girl. Her collar is ruder than the collar of any other woman I own. There is no lock. It is hammered about her throat. I call her Joy. Too, she is Sandal. I have owned the same pair of sandals for years. Ingrained in the leather is the dust of the Turian Plains, the red dirt of the Voltai, the muck of the Delta Vosk, the moss of the Northern Forests and more. I have broken them several times. Each time I do so, I find their fit better. More supple to the touch. I have no intention of replacing them. Joy, too, I have owned for years. Ingrained in her memories are journeys far and wide, not only on the highways of Gor, but within herself. There was a time she was not permitted to ascend my couch. I would keep her in close chains. I would lock her away and let her pound on the doors, yelling until her voice failed her. I was cruel to her. I molded her specifically to me. I do not choose to share her. I do not intend to replace her.
"I love you my Master," she says to me.
I have given her nowhere to go. She is utterly mine. The possessiveness others know of me or have heard about, is manifested to the nth degree in my ownership of her. Accordingly, she has few restrictions with regard to our conversations which I find as stimulating as the having of her. That is not precisely true. Rather, it is more accurate to say that the having of her, which is sometimes a brutal and swift raping and other times a gentle tasting, is much augmented by how deeply I know her. Our conversations, not unoften, last longer than the moments I am between her thighs. And, similarly, the conversations we share on any number of topics from idle banter to deeper, intellectual discourse, are highly stimulating from the knowledge that the same mouth who well engages me in intelligent and thought-provoking debate can be at a moment's notice commanded to much baser, immensely pleasurable use. I own her. Once, on the road to the Sardar, several hands ago, she gave consideration to jeopardizing what we have. She broke down, abandoned her plot which was little more than a fleeting thought, a temptation. Do not misunderstand. I would have kept her if she succumbed to this weakness. She is only a girl beneath all the lovely layers, a slave girl. She would yet have been beautiful to me, only different. Less. Still more, I think, than the others, but less. She has never lied to me. She did not choose, then, to start.I hide nothing from her. I am not a sniveling adulterer of her former world. I own many women.I enjoy many women. Openly. I will continue to do so, but none is Joy. From her, a girl, I have learned much.
'These are the seasons of emotion
and like the winds they rise and fall
This is the wonder of devotion.
I see the torch we all must hold.
This is the mystery of the quotient.
Upon us all a little rain must fall.'
One is a Preferred Girl. Her collar is ruder than the collar of any other woman I own. There is no lock. It is hammered about her throat. I call her Joy. Too, she is Sandal. I have owned the same pair of sandals for years. Ingrained in the leather is the dust of the Turian Plains, the red dirt of the Voltai, the muck of the Delta Vosk, the moss of the Northern Forests and more. I have broken them several times. Each time I do so, I find their fit better. More supple to the touch. I have no intention of replacing them. Joy, too, I have owned for years. Ingrained in her memories are journeys far and wide, not only on the highways of Gor, but within herself. There was a time she was not permitted to ascend my couch. I would keep her in close chains. I would lock her away and let her pound on the doors, yelling until her voice failed her. I was cruel to her. I molded her specifically to me. I do not choose to share her. I do not intend to replace her.
"I love you my Master," she says to me.
I have given her nowhere to go. She is utterly mine. The possessiveness others know of me or have heard about, is manifested to the nth degree in my ownership of her. Accordingly, she has few restrictions with regard to our conversations which I find as stimulating as the having of her. That is not precisely true. Rather, it is more accurate to say that the having of her, which is sometimes a brutal and swift raping and other times a gentle tasting, is much augmented by how deeply I know her. Our conversations, not unoften, last longer than the moments I am between her thighs. And, similarly, the conversations we share on any number of topics from idle banter to deeper, intellectual discourse, are highly stimulating from the knowledge that the same mouth who well engages me in intelligent and thought-provoking debate can be at a moment's notice commanded to much baser, immensely pleasurable use. I own her. Once, on the road to the Sardar, several hands ago, she gave consideration to jeopardizing what we have. She broke down, abandoned her plot which was little more than a fleeting thought, a temptation. Do not misunderstand. I would have kept her if she succumbed to this weakness. She is only a girl beneath all the lovely layers, a slave girl. She would yet have been beautiful to me, only different. Less. Still more, I think, than the others, but less. She has never lied to me. She did not choose, then, to start.I hide nothing from her. I am not a sniveling adulterer of her former world. I own many women.I enjoy many women. Openly. I will continue to do so, but none is Joy. From her, a girl, I have learned much.
'These are the seasons of emotion
and like the winds they rise and fall
This is the wonder of devotion.
I see the torch we all must hold.
This is the mystery of the quotient.
Upon us all a little rain must fall.'
I own many women. One of them is called Joy.
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