Fiction - Prelude and Fugue in slave-minor

Greetings all,

As some may have guessed I know about Gor. For those that do not, perhaps in time you shall know it as well. Certainly if you hang around here long enough you will.

I am not going to be speaking about Gor in this post, however I could not post the following short piece of fiction without some general acknowledgement for its inspiration.

I hope you will enjoy it.
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Prelude and Fugue in Slave-minor

© 2002-2004 Mackenzie Cross
All rights reserved.

(composed while listening to J.S. Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in Cm (BWV 847), as played by Glenn Gould.)

Prelude

The following piece uses some Gorean words. The Gorean books are a series written by John Norman. Those who have not heard of it are welcome to do their own research.

Some definitions for those unfamiliar with Gor.

Kajira – the Gorean term for slave girl
Tarn – a fantasy animal. A large bird that can be ridden. Noted for its vicious nature.


Fugue

*
Touch. His fingers trace a lazy pattern. Tension. Circles and spirals of movement and control. The rich scenting of female perfumes the air. Tension. A primitive sound escapes her throat. Touch. Release.
*
Touch.

The small alcove is lit by a single candle.

“Master?”

“Position.”

She is ready.

She shudders at the delicate touch.

His fingers trace a lazy pattern. Tension.

“Ah, Master.” A whisper, a breath, a need.

“Be still girl.”

He pushes her down with the palm of his hand. She will not be permitted the smallest control.

Now he begins a deliberate arousal.

Circles and spirals of movement and control.

“Aiiee Master! Please?”

“Be quiet, slave.”

She must be silent, yet she must scream.

His fingers follow seemingly random circular patterns over her body. She draws a ragged breath.

He spreads his hand wide and encircles her throat.

Juices flow freely between spread legs, exposing the intensity of arousal.

The rich scenting of female perfumes the air. Tension

He breathes deeply, taking further pleasure from her essence.

She yields her submission.

He notes the changes.

He leans over and rapes a long kiss from her lips. As he does this, his free hand reaches down, trailing a path between her breasts, over the fine sheen of sweat on her belly.

Her body is rigid in its tension.

Leather-clad fingers plunge through her slickness, probing her center.
“Now, kajira.”

A primitive sound escapes her throat.

Slave orgasm.

Touch. Release.

*

Touch.

He is a courier taking a brief relaxation before continuing on his mission. She is only a tavern slave. Her use came with the price of the meal.

The small alcove is lit by a single candle.

The black leather riding gloves still carry the scent of his tarn. There is no need to remove them. He will be leaving shortly.

“Master?”

“Position.”

She is stretched out beside him. He has bound her wrists above her head, chained to the wall ring. Eyes closed. He waits, observing, not touching. He notes the changes in her breathing, the rising flush on her chest.

She is ready.

He begins just above the navel. She shudders at the delicate touch.

His fingers trace a lazy pattern. Tension.

“Ah, Master”. A whisper, a breath, a need.

Her belly is taut, filled with slave heat. Her hips lift trying to press against the gloved hand, yearning for the fingers to slip lower, possessing what she must offer. She feels the familiar, yet always unique, tightening of her muscles.

“Be still girl,” his tone invites no argument.

He pushes her down with the palm of his hand. She will not be permitted the smallest control.

Her flesh is a living canvass of light and shadows. Curves and lines provide natural pathways for his fingers to follow. She bites her lower lip in an attempt to obey his command. She must lie still, yet she must move. She must follow the imperative of his command, but she must obey the imperative of her need. Yin and yang.

He smiles, sensing her dilemma. It is the nature of the male’s power. Now he begins a deliberate arousal.

Circles and spirals of movement and control.

“Aiiee Master! Please?”

“Be quiet, slave.”

It is pleasant to touch this female. To explore the contours of her body, reading her reactions, taking control of her essence. His mind is relaxed, almost detached, as he discovers her limits and capacities. To control another, to have them yield their submission, one must first have control of one’s self. As he controls his own reactions, so he gains control over this slave.

She must be silent, yet she must scream.

His fingers follow seemingly random circular patterns over her body. At the breast, they trace a slow spiral that terminates with brush of leather over a hardened nipple. A brief tugging, the friction of leather against this too sensitive bead of skin. She draws a ragged breath.

He spreads his hand wide and encircles her throat. Slowly he applies pressure. Her breathing becomes laboured. His control is total. Her life is at his whim. She is nothing, only a tavern slut, a use girl. So near to death, this instant of life is brought into complete focus.

Her juices flow freely between her spread legs, exposing the intensity of her arousal.

The rich scenting of female perfumes the air. Tension

He breathes deeply, taking further pleasure from her essence. He presses down on her throat, still tightening his grip. She is both terrified and aroused. She can only do what she has been trained to do. She must obey her genetic coding.

She yields her submission.

He notes the changes. The arching of the back. The delicate hands gripping tightly on the chains. The legs spread wider, inviting and needful. Her parted lips beg for use.

He leans over and rapes a long kiss from her lips. As he does this, his free hand reaches down, trailing a path between her breasts, over the fine sheen of sweat on her belly. He feels vibrations deep in her throat as she struggles to scream. Her body is rigid in its tension.

Leather-clad fingers plunge through her slickness, probing her center. His hand twists in a cunning, erotic manner. He releases his hand from her throat; he ends the smothering kiss.

“Now, kajira.”

A primitive sound escapes her throat.

It is not a human noise. She has been reduced to a primal animal, without rationality. The scream is an ultimate expression, an exultation of her sexuality, defining her inner being. For an instant she is no longer slave, no longer kajira. For a single, infinitely long instant she attains a perfect moment of liberation, the freedom of the chains.

Slave orgasm.

There are no words to describe this mindless state. Waves of sensation pulse throughout her body. Muscles spasm, wrists twist in restraints, all control is lost. Somewhere a female is screaming.

“Master! Master! Master!”

Touch.

Distantly, she is aware he has mounted her, that he uses her in a quick rape. She flows into him, becoming his use thing. Still caught in the grips of orgasm, her body is a pleasing distraction from his work. She provides what he requires from her. He tenses.

Release.

Coda.

In a small alcove of a tavern, a use girl lies on the floor, chained to a ring on the wall, grateful for the rough blanket thrown when he was done.

In the distance, she can hear the wild scream of a tarn taking flight.

There is a sensation of floating, of being suspended in some strange other place. A place of balance and truth, a glorious zone of liberation where she has attained the perfection of her being. From this place, she hears her own voice, words flowing from her mouth, liquid and soft, like a distant river under the moon. “Thank you, Master. A girl thanks you.”

From far far away, the tarn screams again, its voice muted by the distance but still piercing as it soars still higher into the dark night sky. The beast’s cry is exultant, an joyful celebration of a perfect state of being.

Chained, yet floating free, the slave girl understands.
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