Sucha's New Beginning

originally posted July 27, 2006

The last time I saw Sucha, she was being dragged out of a tent by a fistful of her hair. She had danced. She had danced well. It was not well enough. Her master was not a particularly large fellow, but he needn't have been to be fearsome to her. He expected her to win the competition. The stakes were high. From the very first flex of Emily's extended leg, he knew his Sucha would not win. The brassy red-head watched most of the arrogant girl's dance with her cheek in the dirt, her master's sandaled foot on her face, holding her there. I admit I was sad for Sucha. She was a beautiful dancer, but not quite as beautiful as Emily. She did not, in fact, claim any of the top three prizes awarded. Others were her better. It seemed that it was to be Sucha's last dance. Her master was not pleased. That is all that matters really. It was not my affair. One does not intrude upon the relationship between a man and his slave.
That is why it was difficult to believe the rumors, or the chants of men around the bonfire. There amongst the men of the caravan, stalking like a she-larl to the rhythmic claps and chants of "Su-cha! Su-cha!" was the very girl herself. Revitalized. Renewed. Risen from the ashes, it seemed. I wedged the girl, Elise, in before me to watch her. Sucha was, in a word, one that, in fact, slipped from the whispering lips of Elise, incredible. She wore a brief, fringed sarong that hugged her hips as if it were painted upon her body, matched to a snug halter that scarcely restrained her bosom with a single, delicate cord. Her ankles were belled and both wrists were bangled to nearly the elbow. Her arms held above her head, she wore tiny cymbals about her fingers. Here, I thought, is where women had their power - however tenuous it might be, it was real, near-tangible. Like a sunrise or the delicate stride of a fleeting tabuk or the crash of mighty Thassa against the cliffs of the Genesian coast, Sucha was an apt example of Gorean beauty. Untamed, glorious, true to herself, Sucha danced. At one point, while her hips seemed to shake independent of her body, the beaded fringe dancing about the back of her legs, she glanced over her shoulder at me, biting her lower lip. At another point, as she turned on the balls of her feet, never even a fraction out of time to the demanding clapped rhythm of her audience's hands, she tugged the tie of her halter, freeing her breasts, delighting the men who failed to anticipate such a thing was about to happen. The cry went up again, "Sucha! Su-cha!". This time it was louder, more excitedly chanted.
I had made my confirmation. However she was here, whomever owned the she-larl Sucha, she had escaped the potentially terminal displeasure of her former master and made the most of a second opportunity. I smiled and took my leave, letting another wedge into the circle where I had stood.