Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Trembling, Chalondra complied, and for the first time I got to see the back of the lovely panties I had dressed the girl in. Their slender back, a mere ribbon of white silk, had nestled snugly into the bewitching valley of her little bottom. Her sweet, pert cheeks still bore hints of the cruel paddling she had received on Kamnos, but the company agents knew their business: the marks had faded enough that I knew if I wished, I could correct the girl as I pleased without fear of lasting damage.
It took a good deal of restraint not to reach out and fondle the lovely rondures of the girl’s arse, run my finger between them, find with a fingertip the tiny place Franla had to my satisfaction already begun to train for me. Many a nobleman would simply have done so, I supposed, beginning his full possession of his new bed girl without delay. I intended, however, to make my first enjoyment of Chalondra last a very long while. She had felt my touch between her thighs in the car: I meant to make her wait to feel it again, until she needed it so badly she would beg for her master’s firm hand, tender or brutal, as he pleased to bestow it.
“Keep turning, Wetquim,” Franla ordered.
Chalondra completed the revolution her mistress had commanded. My eyes rose with some reluctance from the seductive glimpse of her smooth cunny, visible through the white lace, to ascend past her adorable, creamy, wonderfully bare breasts, and then to see again her gorgeous face, blushing pink with violated modesty. Again I had the delight of taking in her terribly conflicted expression once: the furrow in her brow, the blush in her cheeks, the way she chewed on the inside of her cheek as she stared at the carpet, so clearly knowing how my eyes roamed with absolute freedom over her gorgeous form.
My cock felt like a bar of iron against my thigh. I would, I reflected, probably have paid the entire fortune of House Gravamir at that moment, for the prospect of deflowering Chalondra. I noted with a little leap of my manhood that after showing herself to me at her mistress’ command, her little hands had balled themselves into fists, as if she had to keep them that way in order to stop herself from trying to cover up her maiden charms and deny them to her master’s eyes.
“My Lord of Gravamir,” Franla said, beginning the ancient formula Vionian nobles had used to claim their sexual servants since the foundation of our world almost five hundred standard years before, “I present to you Wetquim, a bonded servant of your house, a virgin prepared for your pleasure.”
Chalondra
Bonded. Prepared.
I stared at the piece of woven fabric that covered the floor. It must, I realized, be a carpet. I had never seen one before. Floors on Kamnos, except in the village house, were packed dirt, swept every evening as clean as a broom could make them. The ornate pattern of red and green on my master’s carpet had clearly faded with age, but it seemed to me all the more splendid for that sign of continuity and evident value.
The wooden floors elsewhere in Gravamir House had matched the platform on which the company had displayed me in my cage, and the block on which they had sold me to my master. They had matched the wooden floor in the village house, too.
Only as I looked at the carpet—a tiny detail in the romantic stories of imperial glory I had read as a young girl and yet one that had stuck firmly in my mind—did I realize that I had walked across the boards of the village house’s floor all my life without realizing what the wooden floor really meant: that underneath it lay the basement room that belonged not to my village but to the company. The secret place where they caged the bed girls they requisitioned and whipped them as necessary to ensure their readiness for purchase, for bonding, for training.
Somehow the sight of my master’s carpet, the only place I dared look in his splendid, book-lined study for fear of another whipping, represented for me the full weight of Vionian power and Vionian luxury. That power had taken me from my home to make me a plaything for my master’s desires—it had made me, myself, my trembling body and my conflicted mind, into a bit of that luxury.
I shifted my weight, foot to foot, and I felt anew how the tiny panties claimed me, between my thighs and between my bottom cheeks. I bit my lip at the sensation of their tightness over the tender cleft from which my mistress had taken away the curls that had concealed the secrets there. I could almost feel the baron’s eyes on me, all over me, like a soft pressure, an almost-caress. To my distress, my body had begun to respond as if he had touched me already: as I shifted again, I sensed that I had begun to dampen the little pad of softer fabric that covered the lace where it went beneath the opening of my vagina.