Verbiage

Sitting in the clearing bound by the wagons of Mistress Shel, assaulted now and again by an exuberant toddler, my mind was wandering. The wool I was weaving kept getting tangled, which was comically frustrating. The Mistress had allowed me the use of her loom in exchange for socks for the family. Socks are boring and tedious to work on, and unless they are of the very thick variety, take a good amount of time. It is not one of my favorite things to do, but I was actually happy with the exchange. It was something I could do with ease in repayment.
It was something that allowed my restless mind to sprint through all the random thoughts that had been plaguing me.

Earlier in the day I had spent several ahns near the stream with the 'slave gathering'. Many of the faces were familiar, a few more so, and some completely new to me. One girl, peachy golden skin sprinkled with freckles and a bob of dark hair was rather close to me on the grass. The talk was of our Owners, partially in a just getting to know you sort of way, and likewise in a bragging sort of way. Competitiveness is an easy spirit to catch onto, I have found. The slave beside me was learning the arts of softening leather as I was, our fingers wet and noticeable against the dark skins. She was speaking of something...I am not even sure what at this point...and mentioned her pink treasure.

You could hear the stream lapping hungrily, and the grass growing...stretching toward the sizzling heat of the Central Fire as silence overtook the gathering. A hundred eyes seemed turned upon the slave, mine included. I noticed the slow realization that crept over her features as she lifted her head and ebony ribbons of hair fell back from her cheeks. The laughter started, and then the words were bandied about...cunt, love canal, slit...and each seemed to add a layer of rosy color to her cheeks. She laughed, and I snickered along with her, but I just couldn't resist adding that I imagined her Master...the keeper of her twat...took great delight in watching the effect such simple things had upon his slave. The smile she gave me was beyond grateful and I knew I had guessed right.

When it was my turn, the snickers returned as they always do. I stand firm on my story that I was given choice...and they can all go jump in a lake if they do not believe it. Even if my choice really was only death, I still cling to it as a monumental gift and chance that deserves to be written in the yearkeeper's songs. I finally admitted out loud, and for the first time ever, that I stayed because of...Him. Brave Warrior Fonce. Keeper of the delicate treasure of...me. All because I just -had- to get to know Him better. I heard them...their understanding murmurs...appreciative stories...passionate ideas. He is dark, brooding, sinister, exacting. It appeals to the deeper threads of a woman, stirs that wild desire to writhe under His demands. I would not spoil it by adding that He is really a super nice guy. I just wonder if He prefers a pussy or a flower.