Samantha
originally posted February 21, 2006
She hesitated a bit. It was subtle, but all too clear. She could not revel in the attention as her Sa Fora, Sana and Portia could. That night in Torcadino, I displayed the three of them. Advertisement for the rest of the chain. This journey is funded largely by the work of women on their backs, their knees or other, humbler still, servile positions and modalities. As they pleasured Itinerants en route to Torcadino from Ar, my pouch filled. Here, too, in this famed City of Aqueducts, for the duration of our visit, they would make themselves useful. Contribute to the travel fund, so to speak.
Samantha hesitated.
The men were not so wild at the Inn of Sa Tassna as they were at The Great Theater of Pentillicus Tallux in Ar. Nobody clawed at her or trampled on another fellow to try and snatch her away. And, to her credit, she did not wither and wilt like some tender veminium during unseasonable weather. She smiled. She moved as best as she could. And when some fellow paid the four copper for her use, throwing her over his shoulder, she served him. And the next fellow. And the next fellow after that. Still, there was pause. A level of discomfort not acceptable in a whore. I do not speak of the feigned innocence that a woman sometimes employs to throw oil on an already raging blaze. She was genuinely discomfitted. I think, given the opportunity, Samantha likes to have some influence on who she might bed for my coins. She cannot, of course, do this successfully all the time. She is only a slave. Slaves have their ways, however.
Back at the Inn, when it was finished, the dark-skinned slave and the Verr seemed suffused with pleasure, with arousal. The blonde girl sat by herself, alone with her thoughts. I allowed it. For a time. Much later in the evening, when the others had been kicked away, told to find their mats, we spoke.
"I am sorry, Master," she told me.
"What will I do with you?" I asked her.
"Anything you wish, Master," she answered.
"I will see that you are sold to a kind fellow," I offered.
"Please no, Master. Keep me," she begged.
"As a whore," I cautioned her.
"Yes, Master," she agreed.
She seemed resolute, I could see, not to hesitate again.
Samantha hesitated.
The men were not so wild at the Inn of Sa Tassna as they were at The Great Theater of Pentillicus Tallux in Ar. Nobody clawed at her or trampled on another fellow to try and snatch her away. And, to her credit, she did not wither and wilt like some tender veminium during unseasonable weather. She smiled. She moved as best as she could. And when some fellow paid the four copper for her use, throwing her over his shoulder, she served him. And the next fellow. And the next fellow after that. Still, there was pause. A level of discomfort not acceptable in a whore. I do not speak of the feigned innocence that a woman sometimes employs to throw oil on an already raging blaze. She was genuinely discomfitted. I think, given the opportunity, Samantha likes to have some influence on who she might bed for my coins. She cannot, of course, do this successfully all the time. She is only a slave. Slaves have their ways, however.
Back at the Inn, when it was finished, the dark-skinned slave and the Verr seemed suffused with pleasure, with arousal. The blonde girl sat by herself, alone with her thoughts. I allowed it. For a time. Much later in the evening, when the others had been kicked away, told to find their mats, we spoke.
"I am sorry, Master," she told me.
"What will I do with you?" I asked her.
"Anything you wish, Master," she answered.
"I will see that you are sold to a kind fellow," I offered.
"Please no, Master. Keep me," she begged.
"As a whore," I cautioned her.
"Yes, Master," she agreed.
She seemed resolute, I could see, not to hesitate again.
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