I awaken again to the endless dawn of the North, where the sun sits lazily on the horizon. Day will rise slowly over the skies before resting again, never quite riding into the realm of Night, yet only traveling higher than sparse bands of clouds which defy the otherwise blank, silver dome of Winter.
A hawk chirps from its perch in the long hall, flapping its wings and ruffling its feathers with a shake of its streamlined head, her sharp talons clicking and gripping the stand, she then nestles back into a restful pose, shrinking down and closing her eyes, returning to sleep.
Reluctantly, I sit upright, stumbling and stretching to stand. A large white larl fur drapes over a hardwood platform. Strewn around this are few mismatched cushions.
Hanging against one wall is the skin of an elk (or the Gorean species most resembling one), and near this, on the wall perpendicular, hangs the yellowish fur of a harvested tarbuk.
Between the two skins, ancient dark futhark, the rune script of the Vikings, bears my name. The sygils are placed in such a way they appear to float in mid-air, and a soft glow emmenates thus. Upon closer scrutiny, no visible means of support holds them in place, and the source of their illumination is not made obvious– clearly, magick is involved in their making.
Leaning back against one wall, slipping on my pants and shirt, I buckle the kilt and cloak around my body– like my bedding, the furs provide protection over the elements.
On the far wall hangs two small wooden shadow boxes, deep yet intended for flat artwork such as a map or painting, which is what they display; At the left, a map of Gor, and the right, a painting of a ram-headed winged man of sorts– he hovers over a maid and touches her. The piece commissioned as a replica to one painted by Earth artist Boris Vallejo.
The frames are hung staggered, one above the other, in a way I find asthetically pleasing.
Preparing aching muscles to venture outside, I pull the mead horn off the wall and string it to my hip, followed by bow, daggers, and tools of the Jarl.
A thalarian oil lamp sits empty on a small table, the remaining wick was extinguished late last night by a bond maid.. who warmed my furs and slept with me some of the night.
Wafting through the room are odors of baking, a sweetness I recognize as porridge being prepared for breakfast.
The Jarl’s accomodations are small rooms just big enough to fit some bedding, a small table, perhaps a chair, a kennel for keeping captured beasts or slaves. They afford privacy (if desired) by accordian style screens built into the structure of the walls.
In one motion, I grasp the screen firmly in one hand, sliding back the panel which folds upon itself to the open position.
Upon hearing this, the bond maid stopped stirring the kettle and came up to me, smiling as her bare feet padded briskly along the floor. The motion was much like a pet, upon hearing its owner’s arrival, rushes to greet them home. If she had a tail, it would wag with spontaneous joy.
“Greetings, Jarl!” she cooed, eyes meeting mine for a second before dropping her head down submissively, her curvatious naked body wiggling into a nadu pose, kneeling and settling herself before my feet, legs spread open and her hands resting, palms up, upon her soft thighs. She exhaled through slightly parted lips, her chest rising with each breath.
“Good morning, girl,” I said. Looking down upon her sublime body and immediately feeling both lust and gratitude for her, “is that porridge I smell brewing?” I asked.
“Yes, Jarl,” she purred, “your favorite recipe,” she described the ingredients being golden brown dried fruit resembling sultana raisins of Earth, spices from markets far South of here, a mixture of milled grains, bosk milk and sweet cane juices. “just as you like it,” she smiled, knowing I was pleased. “Would you like me to serve you now?” she asked, if not metaphorical.
“Aye, girl” chuckling, I said, “make me a bowl while I put on my boots.”
Her lips parted for a moment and she flicked her tongue across them, bringing moisture while breathing in sharply, suddenly.. as if I had struck some sensual nerve within her. She rocked slightly upon her heels, her legs spreading a bit wider, the backs of her upturned hands slowly stroking the top of her soft thighs. “Yes, Jarl” she said, rising to stand.
Still facing me, she backed away a few steps, then spun on her heels to fetch the bowl. “I will be within earshot should you need anything else,” she teased, playfully, “Jarl..?”
Then, humming a tune to herself, she scampered away, hips swaying in quite a sensual, purposeful way, she walked knowing I continued my gaze upon her. She wanted every muscle of her body, every ounce of her flesh, to serve me, for this was her greatest pleasure.
I stepped to where my boots lay, reaching down to pick them up, and began wrapping the straps and strings together, pulling them tight.
By the time I finished, the girl had returned with the cooking bowl of porridge and a pitcher of drink, sitting kneeling at my feet, holding the jug between her legs, her head bowed.
I looked upon her again, tracing the slope of her breasts with my eyes, letting my gaze roam itself down her body to her stomach and to her treasure. She blushed, “Do you wish me to serve you here, or at the table?”
I could just as easily forego eating altogether and lay her down upon my furs, taking her, using her body for pleasure. That, a role of the bond maid, to service all men of the holding, which owns them outright; She is a slave, she is property.
Though it his her duty to meet my basic needs and serve, and I am grateful, I do not need say so, and do not love her –not in the romantic sense– I love her as a pet, or how a man would love possesions like a motor vehicle.
These ancient customs are normal and expected as breathing, this the Gorean way. To think otherwise, to refuse the girl or have sympathy for her, as if concerned of her condition, would insult and make her feel unworthy- for she is proud to be in my care and delights to do so. It gives a slave girl ecstasy to serve a Master, completely and selflessly.
Indeed, some girls are bred and trained for this their entire life, giddy and excited to the moment they may finally plead, “Buy me, Master” and surrender themselves into submission.
Even so, the girls’ sacrifices and lodgings are not secured- at any time they may be stolen in a raid, or traded in the market. If a new man buys her, she may remain a slave, be released as a free woman, or even become his companion, whatever he wants.
While most women are eager to do well, the resisting or untrained are whipped into obedience. Knowledge of their position is enough to keep some girls in check, while others intend to perform erroneously, that is, they crave punishment!
As the mind processes pleasure and pain the same, some slaves desire lashings and find it arousing.
A good master takes this into account, for chaos may arise from increasingly bad mannered girls, if she demands stronger correction to satisfy beastly appetite.
If a maid becomes too unruly to serve, she is taken along hunting and fishing expeditions, her body used as live bait. Better to sacrifice a slave to capture animals for food and skins, than waste energy managing a wild maid.
Of course, most slave girls, they simply serve well without somuch a thought of wanting anything else, this is their deepest passion, their best happiness. They would just assume be put to death than not used.
I walk to the long table and motion the girl, sitting down on the bench and leaning back, stretching my muscular arm along the edge of the backrest.
She leaps up to hurry beside me, eyes peeking at me, smiling, waiting upon my next words like a poised dog anticipating the next fetch of its favorite tennis ball thrown far across an open grassy field.
“On the table,” I motion, and she crawls up on to it, then kneeling again before me with a slutty smirk upon her face, her legs spread open wide before me and her head glancing down upon my crotch, she licks her lips expectantly, swooning on the very sound of my voice.
She dips a smaller bowl into the warm meal from the larger one, scooping a good helping into it, then kissing the lip of the bowl, raises her hands up in offering to me, as if I were a God and she was prostrating before me, “May it nurish you, Jarl.” she whispers.
I grab the bowl from her, my strong calloused hand brushing over her delicate fingers in the process, to which I see her smile widen and face blush from my simple touch.
“Some drink, bond,” I say, nodding to the pitcher which now sits at the table by her side.
While I eat the porridge, slurping and sipping the bowl, she deftly places the pitcher between her breasts, squeezing them tighter placing her arms along her sides, then holding the vessel in her cleavage, she places a cup underneath and proceeds to bends forward, letting gravity work upon the contents and her form somewhat, the liquid spills into the cup until filled. She rocks back, sitting upright, flicking her head back, her hair commanded in a wave of motion as it drapes around her shoulders. She smiles, seductively sliding the jug down her torso until it rests upon the table between her legs. She giggles with delight that I have watched this entire display and smile upon her.
She smiles back, raising the cup toward me with lifted hands, as if they were encircled with locked bracelets, her deep eyes lock with mine for an instant and I feel the electricity of her gaze, before she drops her head again and trembling slightly, sits poised for me to accept the drink “May this quench your thirst, Jarl,” she says softly.
I lift the cup from her fingers and then drink it down, gulping the warm beverage hungrily until it is gone. With a mighty thunk I set the cup down on the table, exhaling “ahh!” the taste lingers for a bit in my mouth, and I gobble down the rest of the porridge without speaking.
“More, Jarl?” she asks, prepared to serve me more of the food and drink. I shake my head no and she tilts her head curiously in acknowledgement. “I am satisfied, and don’t wish to overeat before my journey,” I say, a hint of sadness forms on her brow and she asks, “will your journey be long?” perhaps expecting the worst.
“No,” I say, “just a few days,” not wishing to leave her, yet knowing she will be safe here.
“I will look forward to your return,” she says, knowing full well she means to express her love to me and will be filled with longing every moment I am away from her sight.
“Yes,” I reply, “be well,” my words are cold though true, I do wish her well and will miss her company while I am out hunting and scouting, my eyes may reveal, but I a warrior, and she a slave, that is all need be said.
“Be well, Jarl,” she says, her voice cracking a little. I toss on my cloak and head to the large door of the long hall, she trails behind and at my side, yet attentive to me.
I embrace her and she kisses my cheek softly, holding me tight, her bare skin rubbing up against me. I let her go, commanding her return to her chores, and she nods happily, standing in place as she watches me unbar the door, preparing to exit the hall.
As I walk through the threshold, thrusting the gate open, I take one last look upon her, smiling upon her sublime beauty.
She shivers slightly at the burst of cold pouring in from outside, and as I turn and step away from her, she shuts the door closed behind me; it squeaks and groans closed, locking its mechanism with a clicking thud. I hear her struggle to draw the bar across the door, perhaps aided by other maids, sliding it back into place, and I step down from the hall, into the surrounding grounds of the holding, a snow covered path which leads to the outer gates.