What Inspires Slaves
originally posted May 8, 2006
Inspiration comes from all corners. As the girl, Sandal, learns to paint, I am curious how she will express herself. Will she take her muse from within, splashing her raw emotions onto canvas as does Nirah? Or will she take it from her experience, drawing from lifetimes on two worlds? The same might be pondered over with respect to Samantha and her flute playing. As she masters the scales and becomes competent with technique, will she breathe forth melodies of her former life or will her music reflect her present day reality, that of a Gorean world? From time to time I sit in on their lessons. I do not always make myself known. Often, in fact, I do not. Most recently, I audited a class in which Sana, Six Girl, is enrolled. She is learning to craft pots and vases, this sort of thing. There is much to do with a foot pedal and wet clay. The hands massage the medium into a shape as it spins. It seems to lend itself to the ambidextrous. Sana was much intent on the craft. She did not notice me in the room at first, nor did the three other girls; two brunettes and a rather petite, little red-head, as I spoke to her instructor.
"Is she learning?" I inquired. The whole affair, as I have said, seems complicated, requiring a great deal of patience. I wondered if this was a suitable endeavor for Sana; if she could succeed at such a thing.
"She seems to be creating a vase for a single bud," I noted.
"Were that true," he exclaimed, fingers tight around the handle of a stiff, leather paddle, "...but no. Look closely. Once she starts to massage the medium, the form turns invariably phallic!"
"Ah," I noted. "Yes, I see it now."
Sana had noted my presence then and, just for a moment, looked over her shoulder. She grinned. The clay collapsed and the instructor gave her a harsh slap about the shoulder with the paddle. It seemed to smart quite a bit. If he had struck me thusly, I would have kicked his ass. He only struck a girl, however. One who had let her attention wander. It was quite deserved.
"Focus, Six!" He berated her. "Focus!"
"Yes, Master," she said to him.
She began to work with the clay again. I thought Sana might have served a Son of Torvald or two at our recent trip to the En'Kara Fair, judging by the circumference of the clay phallus that begun to appear before her massaging fingers. I decided to impart a suggestion or two. Perhaps it would aid her in achieving at least a modicum of success. Crouching behind her, I spoke.
"Think not of your hands," I advised her. "Think of mine. Imagine what they would feel were they to pet lightly over your backside. Imagine the curve they would encounter."
The height of her spinning clay gradually lowered as its widened, became pleasantly round. She continued to move her fingers outward until the shape of a bowl began to form. The lines were sensuous, decidedly feminine. It was not perfect, of course, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a fair effort. I was suitably impressed. Before I left, I brushed a brief kiss across her mouth and tousled her hair. Such attention to a love-starved girl like Sana might buoy her spirits for days or even several hands. Like the paddle about her shoulder earlier in the lesson, it was well-deserved.
Inspiration comes from all corners. As the girl, Sandal, learns to paint, I am curious how she will express herself. Will she take her muse from within, splashing her raw emotions onto canvas as does Nirah? Or will she take it from her experience, drawing from lifetimes on two worlds? The same might be pondered over with respect to Samantha and her flute playing. As she masters the scales and becomes competent with technique, will she breathe forth melodies of her former life or will her music reflect her present day reality, that of a Gorean world? From time to time I sit in on their lessons. I do not always make myself known. Often, in fact, I do not. Most recently, I audited a class in which Sana, Six Girl, is enrolled. She is learning to craft pots and vases, this sort of thing. There is much to do with a foot pedal and wet clay. The hands massage the medium into a shape as it spins. It seems to lend itself to the ambidextrous. Sana was much intent on the craft. She did not notice me in the room at first, nor did the three other girls; two brunettes and a rather petite, little red-head, as I spoke to her instructor.
"Is she learning?" I inquired. The whole affair, as I have said, seems complicated, requiring a great deal of patience. I wondered if this was a suitable endeavor for Sana; if she could succeed at such a thing.
"She seems to be creating a vase for a single bud," I noted.
"Were that true," he exclaimed, fingers tight around the handle of a stiff, leather paddle, "...but no. Look closely. Once she starts to massage the medium, the form turns invariably phallic!"
"Ah," I noted. "Yes, I see it now."
Sana had noted my presence then and, just for a moment, looked over her shoulder. She grinned. The clay collapsed and the instructor gave her a harsh slap about the shoulder with the paddle. It seemed to smart quite a bit. If he had struck me thusly, I would have kicked his ass. He only struck a girl, however. One who had let her attention wander. It was quite deserved.
"Focus, Six!" He berated her. "Focus!"
"Yes, Master," she said to him.
She began to work with the clay again. I thought Sana might have served a Son of Torvald or two at our recent trip to the En'Kara Fair, judging by the circumference of the clay phallus that begun to appear before her massaging fingers. I decided to impart a suggestion or two. Perhaps it would aid her in achieving at least a modicum of success. Crouching behind her, I spoke.
"Think not of your hands," I advised her. "Think of mine. Imagine what they would feel were they to pet lightly over your backside. Imagine the curve they would encounter."
The height of her spinning clay gradually lowered as its widened, became pleasantly round. She continued to move her fingers outward until the shape of a bowl began to form. The lines were sensuous, decidedly feminine. It was not perfect, of course, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a fair effort. I was suitably impressed. Before I left, I brushed a brief kiss across her mouth and tousled her hair. Such attention to a love-starved girl like Sana might buoy her spirits for days or even several hands. Like the paddle about her shoulder earlier in the lesson, it was well-deserved.
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