Paint

The second day of Red's release from the chains started out much like the first. We melted into the plains like an entire caravan merchant's stall of flowers - or more aptly put - women. There were times I seriously wondered if we could possibly use all this fuel that was being collected, in a lifetime. Sacks and bags were being carted back toward the wagons, and this happened just about every day. Logically, we couldn't collect dry dung in pouring rain, and one of those sacks barely got the larger fires roaring, but when you are the arms and shoulders and back dragging it, you start to think differently. I know without a doubt that if I ever have a favor owed to me, I am going to call in the dung collecting marker, and that will be the first thing I offer if I ever owe someone.

Red had stayed pretty close to Dee and I the first day, and we made a matched set of sounds moving back and forth through the trampled fields. Dee thought we sounded like wind chimes rocking back and forth in the breeze, and thought we could find a belt or necklace of bells, maybe even bracelets, to bring a little song to the chores. About mid way through the morning, the thunder and rumble of kaiila claws kicking up dirt brought us all to stop and look. Riders are always coming through the fields, and each and every time we all stop and look. You can hear the calls back and forth, between men and women, slaves and Masters. The men here are daunting, dangerous, frightening and yet I am acutely aware of how thrilling that is. Still, none sets my heart afire like the Brave Warrior. Just thinking of Him sets my heart into crazy rhythm and I smile and loose track of time. This time it was Dee's Master that threaded through the bent grass and legs and beauty. He found her, and she found Him at just about the same time and I just thought that was really wonderful. Red was busy off down the slope, and making a few new friends when I heard him call my name. Run for us, Catch. Run..to where the bosk graze. Oh yes Master!

There are no words to describe how I feel when I run. The air is an elixir that clears my head and whispers 'faster,further' against the shells of my ears. My hair grows wings and arms and hands in the wind, lashing me with urgency and accolades against my back. I used to run toward a spot on the horizon, but on that day, that moment, when I ran toward my Master..it has become the visual of both symbolic and real goal. It is a pleasant idea, and seems ever present in the sketchy canvas of my oft spoken of dreams. When I finally turned, coming back toward the fields where the dung lay waiting, Dee's Master met me halfway. It was His idea that I run every day, practicing lithe moves from side to side, forward and back, speed as well as deft movement. An easy task to comply with, I found myself eagerly saying yes and thank you. I couldn't wait to tell Dee and Red and most of all Master. After chores that is.

I had several tasks in mind, courtesy of the Mistress Asria herself. Arrival at the wagon had found it empty and I circled it several times looking for the mess that was awaiting me. Some mention had been made of paint, and I figured that wagon painting was going on. After all, Master had just done a refurbishing job on His wagons, so it made sense. And several others were being decorated, compliments of the Artisan. Perhaps Asria was one that liked to do so herself. I found paint, but it appeared to be everywhere but on the wagon canvas. Speckles dotted the grass and dirt nearby, marched up the wooden steps and even drizzled here and there like tassels and fringe. A few lids teetered near the edge of the platform, brushes and crumpled up thin pieces of leather, a stone or two and a few old cloths. I... had my work cut out for me.

I had slipped the shift left by Master Pei at Master Fonce's direction over my head. The touch of the fabric was soft, so worn over time that it had lost it's itch and scratch. It was an almost violent contrast to the feeling of being ...naked. I felt a breath fill my lungs and that brought the drag of cloth tenderly over my nipples. I was reminded of the teasing weight of hair over my shoulder, the lapping water at my thighs now mimicked by the hem of cloth, the slightest weight of fabric neckline much like the brief taste of lips and tongue. A sensual playground that left me speechless, I almost feared that my nakedness would have a newer depth to it. Every movement was written on my senses in dual tones - one with the thin sheath that acted as further excitement to my flesh, and another with the fantasy spilling through my mind of the raw exposure that would be without the cloth barrier. Try as hard as I could to focus solely on the work on the platform, I was thinking of so much more.

Several ahns of scrubbing later, the platform bore not one speckle, dot or smear of paint. The wood, however, was in need of...something. Varnish, oil, a more serious coat of paint? I wasn't sure, but intended to find out. Any jars missing lids were mated with their appropriate counterpart and the miscellaneous doo dads were put together in a small basket with a hole in the bottom. The platform was swept with the broom I had just repaired, giving new meaning to sweeping the floor with my heart and soul. One final gesture was left for the Mistress and Little girl...a piece of paper I used to smudge fingertips over, leaving them a rainbow of sorts captured in clouds.