Give me a minute; it's been awhile since I whipped out my gorean head.
I leaned back, my full ass resting on the backs of my heels as I kneeled on the water and suds soaked wooden floor. I swiped a dirt-smudged arm across my brow to wipe the sweat away as the exertion kept my skin painted red-tinged and glistening. I allowed myself the tiny moment of rest, although only after a quick glance around the square to make sure it was as empty as I suspected.
Most of the city was at the tournament, a good distance away in the arena. Warriors fighting warriors for honor and prizes. Wet-pussied pleasure slaves swooning and pressing their breasts to the greasy arm of a victor as they try to peddle their wares for his attention, hoping to be his princess and love slave. I shook my head at my thoughts, my jealous thoughts. As much as I would snarl at the pretty creatures in their silks and hair that shone from cosmetics. As much as I loathed that my most useful tool on my knees was a scrub brush while theirs was their red lipped and pouted mouths. I could admit to myself in the deserted city, with just my thoughts as company, that I was jealous.
I shook my head to clear it of my hateful thoughts. Really what good were the aspirations and jealousies of a tower slave? I curled forward again to scrub at the accumulated dirt and wear on the porch front, my fingers pruney, my hair bedraggled, back bent and aching, skin smudged with dirt, a remarkable sight in a far different way than the pleasure girls.
Just as my hand began to press the brush forward, a boot stepped down upon my knuckles; the weight of it was not enough to hurt or crush my hand, though judging from the size it probably could- it was just enough to halt my scrubbing. I had to catch my rebellious eyes from tracking up to scrutinize the interruption. Instead I kept my head bowed, my eyes downcast, my thighs spread as I awkwardly scooted back to allow my chest between my spread legs, other arm casting forward with the one trapped by a stranger's boot, my head dipping between my arms as they stretched in front of me.
In the karta position, I asked with a measured voice so that it could be heard as I talked to the floor, prone as I was trying to show the utmost respect and deference to the stranger, as it behooved an unremarkable tower girl to do in most cases, "How may I serve you, Master?"
He called back gruffly, with what I must have imagined to be some amusement in his tone," Nadu, slut."
Obligingly, as he removed his boot from my knuckles, I rolled back to sit on my knees again; this time spreading my knees wide as the back of my hands came to rest on the insides of my thighs, my back arching to press my breasts high, my chin staying dipped nearly to my chest as I kept my eyes respectively, and more importantly, safely downcast. With palms turned up to denote service, and thighs spread so that my simple and worn rep camisk showed my sex, denoting a different kind of service, I kneeled straight and proud despite my state, awaiting further instructions from the stranger.
He laughed a mocking and sarcastic laugh, causing me to flinch at the tone, my shoulders turning in just a bit from the sound. Before I could shrink any further he wrapped a thick fingered hand into the tangles of my hair as he began to walk into the tavern, dragging me by the hold he had on my tresses. My much smaller but similarly callused hands came up to wrap around his muscular wrist, trying to pull some of my weight up by the desperate grasp to keep my hair from tearing out by the roots, as my feet struggled to get footing and follow after him.
He released his painful grip from my hair to deposit me in a heap in the middle of the tavern as he walked over to a dimly lit corner, far away from the dancing sands, a slight note that I was not wanted for some display of dancing talent or visual enjoyment. I dimly heard the one-worded command for paga as he stalked away. Belatedly hearing 'warmed', as I scramble chubby knees and knobby, scarred feet underneath me to move towards the serving area; I winced as I desperately hoped he would not be a spiteful man and punish me for not asking how he would like his paga before I began to scramble away.
I scurried about the serving area, loath to make him wait, as I pulled down a footed bowl from the familiar cabinets, smiling at my own handy work as I gave the clean bowl a quick glance to make sure it wasn't marred or chipped in any way. I slanted my eyes maliciously, as I thought of the pretty silk, dancing girls and how they would make a show of rubbing the bowls upon themselves to check for chips, or 'clean' them with a swipe of a rep cloth, as though the tavern would stock dirty and broken wares for use. I shook my head, thinking how little I would want to drink from a vessel that had been salaciously rubbed upon the body of a well-used slut, but how much the unwitting men seemed to enjoy the show.
My path to the shelves that held the dark glassed bottles of sa paga, was barely noted by my jealousy addled brain, so familiar and mechanical the movements were at this point. I wrapped my hand around the neck of some half full bottle pulling it towards me with the hand that did not hold the bowl. I curled my wrist to press the bottle between my full breasts, letting my body heat warm the contents of it, even wrapping my arms so that I squeeze my breasts together forcing them to bulge tightly around it.
I skidded to my knees before him, settling awkwardly into a nadu, as I busied my teeth by setting them into the cork that plugged the bottle. I pulled the bottle away as I tugged with my teeth, until there was a resounding 'pop' sound as it released. With my lips wrapped around the cork, and my teeth sunk into it still, I tipped the mouth of the bottle over the bowl where I had rested it in my lap, my thighs closing just enough to press around the vessel to hold it as I poured. I watched the liquid swirl to top filling the footed bowl with the whiskey-like drink. The vessel filled, I straightened the bottle and used my tongue to press the cork loosely into the opening of it, setting it aside but within reach for easy refilling.
With little artifice, I cupped the vessel between my small hands, drawing it from my lap, the heat of my thighs and sex serving to warm the paga a bit more before I would give it to the stranger. I outstretched my arms, as my head bowed between them, presenting him with his warmed sa paga, smirking to myself in a small victory at the few times I had seen the silks punished and berated for taking liberties to kiss the rim of the bowl with a man not their Master.
