Third 👁️ Eye Spy
Tal! A Bondmaid Of Gor
His shadow stood tall in the dimly lit distance. Approaching me with a resounding roar of each heavy laden leather boot, reverberating through the wooden floorboards of the long hall. My Jarl a Torvaldslander. His stature is broad and fierce, his disposition barbarous. He was a Rarius. His needs brutally apparent and I adored it. I fed on it and I supplied him with what he needed. Ever ready and covetous. My heat insatiably driven to pagar only him. My limbs bending at the knees, into Nadu. Eyes lowered to his feet as his vast frame towers over me, and he flings his heavy axe over his shoulder into the leather sheath. His knife, protruding from his master belt, claret smearing it from the recent endeavours travelling in his serpent ship to the southern peasants, to trade parsit fish and mock their flimsy traits. Not for one moment could they parallel that of the northern folk. They would soon harta too warmer shores with kajiraes laced in silks. Aye, those feeble kajirae’s....with their silly kef’s on the top of their thighs. Us bondmaids need no such scarring to know our place and you witness either terror in their eyes as a Jarl approaches, or a yearning to pagar one, to which he would smirk and chortle at the mere sight of a silk. He would snap such a creature with a single digit in an Ihn.
I am Bondmaid. Voluptuous and resilient. Powering my life as such, taking on the hard tasks and nailing them with precision. Fervently horny, my bosom plump and bouncy, my thighs unyielding around his waist. My heat, pulsing and moistening with every glance of each step of his arrival, till it drips sweet nectar with one touch of his rugged hand, that reaches the exposed hardened nipple from my kirtle. My hips that sway and thrust more tempest than the northern shores and a rump that curves to seduce his eyes and tempt his hands to ravish each cheek.
I am Bondmaid. It is the nucleus of my core. It is the Lar, the Bara of me. My Torvis. The Ta-Teera that adorns my flesh and he knows it, inhaling my essence when he finds ‘Home’ in me as I find ‘Home’ in him, as I straddle his lap in the long hall, pouring mead into a horn and passing to him to quench his thirst.
It wasn’t always bliss. Chained and caged in Port Kar, I had to escape the regiments of the vile southern Masters after the pirates traded me off to them. Although my life began in a bosk shed, the day my first breath of the Hrimgar Mountains entered my lungs, it filled my soul and rooted me to my heritage. For the southern kajira, to live life in Torvaldsland would break her. It is hard grafting and us bondmaids put pagar slaves to shame, even the exotic sa-eela’s.
Mead was the tipple of the gods, and my Jarl consumed it in large quantities. All the Jarls did, drinking themselves unconscious almost like a religious duty to become inebriated at each feast. I worked in the fields by day. A day consisted of twenty horts (hours) sometimes longer and often my Jarl would pull me by the waist, push my kirtle aside, to take what is his on any whim he pleased. My kirtles were separated from hip to ankle, long splits down either side, for my Jarls ease of access, he liked that.
My day’s were spent sowing, tending and harvesting sa-tarna (wheat), suls (potatoes) ramberries and tagrapes and hard larmas. Fishing for parsit, tending to the Bosks (Ox), Verr’s (goats), Tarsk’s (Boar), Tabuk (Antelopes).....Churning bosk and verr milk to cheese, smoking tarsk strips and kneading tagrapes into wine and kalana for the Jarls goblets - they liked wine too but they loved mead. Mead was made up from a mixture of honey from the hives in the lower pastures, sa tarna and herbs. I always had a soft spot for the bee’s, they are a colony of strength working hard, gathering food just to maintain their brood. They reminded me of us, Torvaldslanders.