Is it possible to fetishize a pair of shapely ankles?
During my training I saw a lot of Iona’s ankles and lower calves, on account of the fact that I knelt and turned my gaze down towards her feet as she trained me. I watched those feet glide gracefully back and forth as she spoke. Slave paces. A slave walks in a beautiful fashion. Each step is precise and measured, soft and delicate.
I also sometimes saw the tip of her whip as it swished before my eyes. Many times I was made to kiss the supple leather as if I secretly yearned for it.
I grew to desire those ankles and lower calf muscles on Iona. I wanted to kiss and touch them. They were always there, even when I didn’t dare gaze at the rest of the girl. The ankles, those I was always permitted to look at. I think it is possibly a form of conditioning, that enhances the appeal and allure of a dominant woman, if the male is only permitted to gaze at her lower legs and ankles for a long period of time. The view that he is permitted becomes fetishized to a degree where the subtle turn of an ankle becomes exciting.
“She is fucking hot,” Dexter said, as we washed ourselves in the water trough, one afternoon after our lessons for the day were complete. “Those ankles..”
My ears pricked up at that.
“I know what you mean.”
“I hate the bitch for the way she treats me, but I can’t help but want her as well,” said Dexter.
“Not so loud,” I said as I saw a guard nearby. “I don’t think you want anyone to hear you say that.”
Dexter suddenly looked scared, like a small boy, no longer quite so brash as before.
“She’s just… well very pretty,” he said with a stammer.
“I know.” If the guards had heard, they said and did nothing about it.
That night in our kennel pens we sat beside the dividing bars and whispered our thoughts about Iona.
“Do you think she’s going to have sex with us? You know, as part of the training?” asked Dexter.
I hadn’t considered that, but it made sense. We were being trained as silk slaves – to serve proud Gorean Women in the bedroom.
“It might come to that,” I said. My penis rose at the thought of some form of sexual training with Iona.
“Yeah. Man, I could do with some sex,” said Dexter. I watched as he gripped his own rigid penis. “Just… some relief, you know? I mean, my hand is good, but I just want a woman.”
“I know.” I touched my own penis. It swelled in my hand. “If she does have sex with us, we’ll probably be restrained.”
“Fuck, yeah.” Dexter started stroking himself. “She can tie me down any time she fucking wants. Any time at all.”
I imagined Iona seizing my wrists, pulling them down above my head and tying them to a slave ring at the head of a couch. I imagined Iona parting my thighs with a sneer, and then tying each ankle, my legs wide apart, to a slave ring set either side of the base of the couch. I imagined Iona gazing down at my restrained body, with a slave switch in her right hand.
“She’s very dominant,” I said, with a breathless tone to my voice. I turned slightly so that my cock, and what I was doing to it, was out of sight of Dexter’s gaze, though it seems he wasn’t looking at anything other than his furiously pumping wrist.
“Fuck, yeah. I’ve never known a woman like her. These Gorean bitches, they love dominating men. They love it.”
“So it seems,’ I said, though of course Iona was a slave, herself, and subject to men. It did beg the question though, if a female slave could be so dominant towards male slaves, how much more dominant would a Gorean free Woman be?
“Eventually we’ll both be sold to one,” I hissed as my body began to shiver.
“Tell me about it, Roland. I’m going to be fucking owned by a woman!” He was gasping, too.
“It’ll happen, soon,” I gasped. “We’re getting more attention from buyers than when we were first exhibited on the block.”
“Those hot bitches know a good thing when they see us.” Dexter’s legs were twitching as he rubbed and stroked harder and faster. “Fuck it, I want one of them to buy me. She can tie me to her bed and fuck my brains out each night. Come on, baby! Dexter will be your silk slave!”
He suddenly grunted and came. I slowed my own touch down, I wanted to prolong the feelings.
“I heard what our next leg of training will be tomorrow,” I said.
“Yeah? What?” Dexter lay back against the cage bars, momentarily sated.
“Iona is going to teach us to...” I swallowed. My penis remained rock hard. “To undress a Free Woman.”
“Fuck, yeah. She’s going to stand in for that?”
I nodded. “Apparently so. One of the guards told me. He found it funny for some reason.”
“Iona’s going to let us undress her? And you told me that AFTER I fucking came?”
“It’s going to be slow and gentle, but yeah, we get to undress her.” Now I began to stroke myself to a slow leisurely climax, imagining the sheer heaven of touching a woman like Iona and stripping layers of silken gowns and veils from her.
“Keep talking,” said Dexter. “I think I can make myself hard again.”
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So I spent my first night at Felicity Emery’s town house. There wasn’t really any need. Even if there had been a stalker prowling the garden, the locks on her doors and windows very good, and statistically it was unlikely a stalker would return so soon after being scared away.
But I slept over, and in the morning when I awoke I found there was another man in the house.
“Who are you?” I asked as I came downstairs to find a dark haired man speaking on a mobile phone in the kitchen.
“I’ll get back to you, Sir,” he said as he immediately ended the call. He wore a suit and pressed shirt, but no tie, and I could tell that he was confident with the self-assurance of a man who could take care of himself. I can, too, which is why I can recognise that in other men.
“Paul Denton,” he said as he regarded me. “And you’re Roland Martell, I guess?”
“I am.” I walked towards the Italian coffee machine and filled it with roasted beans. “Felicity hasn’t mentioned you?”
“I suppose she had no reason to.” Denton didn’t move from where he stood, and I got the distinct impression he was sizing me up. “You’re dating Miss Emery?’
Hired help. He had to be hired help, too, if he was calling her Miss Emery. So, not a relation, or a secret liaison.
I nodded. “I’m sorry, but jut who are you in relation to Felicity?”
“I work for her father. I’m here to investigate.”
“Oh, the stalker last night.”
“That’s right.”
“I checked the garden last night, and was going to do the same again this morning, now that it’s light.”
“There’s no need. I have everything under control.”
I leaned back against the kitchen counter. “That so? Have you looked?”
“I have.”
“And?”
He smiled. “I work for Miss Emery’s father, not you.”
“You can tell me whether you found anything. You can tell me that much?”
“No I can’t.” And with that, he left.
Felicity was back twenty minutes later. She had gone out to buy some breakfast pastries. She seemed pleased to see I was still here, drinking coffee.
“Good morning” she said brightly. She was freshly scrubbed, wearing simple, tasteful makeup, skinny jeans, flat shoes, and a layered top. Her hair was worn loose and down, informally, against the conventions of New Feminism.
“Good morning, Felicity. There was a strange man in your kitchen.”
She laughed as she set down the patisserie items. “You roleplay jealousy well, Mr Martell. A strange man, indeed.”
“From your father?”
“He looks out for me. Is the coffee still fresh?”
“It could probably do with another brew.”
“Sit right there. I’ll make some more and then we can have breakfast in the garden.”
Gone was any sign of the puffy eyed frightened girl from last night. With the advent of bright morning sunshine, and possibly the reassurance of her father’s man in the house, Felicity seemed on top of the world again. I liked her like this. Confident, off-guard, a little flirtatious, and yes, very pretty.
The croissant was delicious and no doubt very expensive. The coffee was also very good. Felicity made small talk about her day, and how she was going to have lunch with some female friends, for which I wasn’t needed. And then she was planning on having dinner with Dexter Bannon tonight, which surprised me.
“Dexter wants my advice on a personal matter,” she explained.
“I didn’t think you liked him?”
She shrugged and gazed at a flower bed. “I never said that.”
“It was the impression I got.”
“Dexter is a friend of my family. I’ve known him a long time. He’s not my type, and so I didn’t date him. But I appreciate the fact he isn’t so pig-headed that he can’t turn to a woman for advice when he needs it.”
“Advice?”
“Yes, advice.” She stared at me. “A true man can look to a woman for advice.”
“I’m sure he can.”
There was a turn of her lip, at the corner, which suggested I amused her now. “Are you jealous, Roland? Jealous of Dexter Bannon?”
“Why would I be? This is a job. You’re a client.”
“He’ll wine and dine me,” she said. “He’s taking me to a very fine restaurant.”
“I hope you have a lovely evening.”
She sniffed. “He will send a car for me, and ensure I return home safely.”
“Fine.” I made a slight gesture with my hand to indicate none of this was a problem for me.
“What do you think I should wear? Tonight?”
“I’m not an expert on evening wear for women.”
“I think the cut of my skirt will be a little daring.” She looked at me. “Above the knees, perhaps.”
“I’m sure you’ll look lovely.”
“And heels. High heels. I’ve known Dexter for many years. He’s safe to be with.”
“You know him better than I do.” I leaned back where I sat and regarded her. It would be dangerous to develop any feelings for Felicity Emery. I had gone down that route before and it always ended badly. But she was making it very difficult to remain clearly detached.
“Paul Denton wasn’t very forthcoming with me. Did he tell you anything?”
“Hmm-mm,” she nodded with a small bit of croissant pastry in her mouth. I loved the way she took such small delicate bites from it. It was very feminine. “There was an intruder.”
“He found signs?”
“Hmm-mm.” She finished the bite and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Some foot prints, I think.”
“Can I see them?” I looked round towards the line of bushes.
“I don’t think so. I think he erased them after he took some photos.”
“Really? Why did he do that? Shouldn’t the police see them, too?”
She shook her head. “We’re not involving the police. Father is going to deal with it.”
Compared to last night when she was plainly terrified, Felicity no longer seemed particularly concerned at the intrusion. “Deal with it how? Does he know who the intruder was?”
“Oh yes. Father is very clever. He’s going to deal with it.”
Rich people can sometimes have very blunt solutions to problems. I knew this for a fact. They don’t always play by the same set of rules as you and I.
“Well I’m glad you’ve recovered from the fright.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I must have been a real state last night. Dragging you all the way over here.” She reached out and touched the back of my hand with the fingers of her left. Those fingers lingered for a moment, prolonging her delicate touch, before she again withdrew that hand. “My knight in shining armour.”
I resolved to do a little research on her father, and in fact her family. That’s what the Internet is for.
And so I excused myself and, after a little more small talk, and Felicity insisting on getting some more money for me from her wall safe, I left her property and returned home.
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Dexter and I were on display on the sale blocks again. The Gorean week (which, by the way, is five days, rather than seven) had settled into a routine of perhaps four days training, followed by a fifth day on the display platforms.
I don’t think Iona was truly disappointed that we hadn’t been bought early on in our captivity. I don’t think she truly expected us to be, and as it happens, the threat of placing one of us in a slave box never materialised. I think the threat had been there to motivate us both, and yes, it motivated us, possibly enough that Iona didn’t feel it necessary to follow through.
Interestingly, the sales platforms where Dexter and I were displayed (along with a few other men whom I didn’t know) were available to view only to women. I saw no men scrutinising us, and I was told sometime after, by one of the guards, that Free Women were accustomed to viewing merchandise without male customers present. I suppose this made sense as if a woman is assessing a potential purchase, she doesn’t want a man to be watching her while she does so.
I was relieved, too, that this meant I would in all likelihood be sold to a woman and not to a man. As I was being trained as a sex slave, for want of a better term, I could well imagine what might be required of me if I wore a man’s collar. Put it this way, he wouldn’t be buying me to clean his house. I knew enough about ancient Greek and Roman culture (which this society superficially resembled) to know that homosexual use of slaves did take place in ancient times, even if it wasn’t the norm.
I don’t personally have a problem with gay men, except that I wouldn’t want to be owned by one. I’m not into being buggered, and that would be my worst nightmare come true. If they want to bugger each other, well, good luck to them, but I want to keep my ass as tight and intact as the day I was born. And to be honest I don’t like gay culture. I don’t like their fashion sense, their small yappy dogs, their camp mannerisms and most especially not their bloody awful Eurovision pop music.
A cliché, I know, but they can live their lives and I’ll live mine.
So, yes, the presence of Gorean Free Women, and exclusively Gorean Free Women, was reassuring in that respect at least.
“You look different, Roland,” said Chelsea Savannah Frick as she paused again by my sale platform. This was the second time she had attended the silk slave market. The second time she had paused to speak to me. Again I couldn’t recognise her through the abundance of rich gowns and veils, but her voice was unmistakable.
“Please buy me, Mistress,” I said as I turned my body first to the left and then to the right, displaying myself as Iona had taught me to do.
“Buy you?” She laughed softly again. “Do you really want that, Roland? To be my personal slave? To serve me in all things?” She paused. “All things?”
“Yes, Mistress, I do. I wish to serve you. I beg to serve you.”
“Oh, Roland. How delicious to hear that.” She touched my thigh and ran her fingers along my skin. I took a deep breath and felt the first stirrings from her touch.
“Yes,” she said, studying me carefully. “you seem more fluid, relaxed, sensual, more eager to genuinely please than before. Your training is working wonders. What do you think of Gorean Free Women, Roland?”
“They are priceless and to be worshipped,” I said. “They are a thousand times superior to me.”
“Only a thousand times, Roland?” Her eyes narrowed.
“A thousand, thousand times, Mistress. Beyond measure.”
“Oh, you’re scared of me.” She laughed again. “Are you scared of Chelsea Savannah Frick?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. You should be.” Her voice dropped an octave and no longer sounded quite so pleasant. “You should be very, very scared of me, Roland.”
I didn’t dare look directly at her, only at the drape of her long gowns, where the tips of two beautiful slippers peeked out.
“Do you know where you are, Roland?”
“I think this city is called Argentum, Mistress.”
“It is. And Argentum is the greatest city in all of Gor. Did you know we are presently at war?”
“No, Mistress, I did not know that.” Iona had never mentioned it.
“We are at war with our ancient enemy, the city of Corcyrus. We will win, of course. Our legions are the mightiest on all of Gor. Even now we push their forces back, winning victory after victory. We will seize many slaves when this is all over.”
I knew nothing of the political alliances and conflicts of this barbaric planet. No one spoke of such things to Dexter or me.
And again, I wondered what Chelsea Savannah Frick was doing on Gor, in the city of Argentum, a city she seemed to profess loyalty to. But I knew better than to ask any questions.
“You pose well, Roland. I am pleased. I will not ask for you to be whipped today.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
And then she left.
Ten minutes later I was being casually assessed by another anonymous Free Woman, window shopping for a silk slave. “Are you a barbarian? Do you have all your teeth? Pose for me. Now!”
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