On the Banks of the Bighorn Chapter Twenty Eight – by Tracker

 

Slave Fires

 

Patrick Master’s Narrative

 

If having one slave girl totally subject to my orders and my use was good, having both Juli and Tiffani is great. Seeing the two of them together, both stripped and in collars, subject to any kind of usage at any time has made this one of the best times of my life.  I see now, that much as I love Juli, having a variety of women would be ever so much more exquisite.

 

This is something rich men and rulers have had and enjoyed throughout history; almost a universal male dream. There is no arguing that such feelings are innate. Today though, even rich men have to settle for mistresses, women they pay and who can leave if the terms are not to the woman’s liking. That is not ownership though. Haggling over every encounter and terms reduces and diminishes a man’s power in an unseemly way. It is unfortunate that when I return to San Francisco, I will not be allowed, by the conventions and laws of society, to own, truly own, even one slave. It may be time to investigate changing the laws of property, or at least finding a loophole.  As I always say, the loophole is part of the law!

 

Tiffani and Juli are so different in build and figure and colouring, even in temperament, but they are so deliciously alike in their femininity and submission.  I wish I could own a hundred like them!

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative

 

Tiffani and I are chain sisters for real now. This morning, Master Patrick attached the chain that hangs from my collar to the loop in Tiffani’s collar. Our two collars connected by three feet of chain. He led us around this way for at least half an hour, first Tiffani leading, then me taking the lead. It brought the two of us even closer, keeping in step, matching our strides with each other, taking the measure of the tempo set by Master Patrick. With the two of us moving almost as one, it made me so close to her  When she was leading, I tried to match the way her hips moved with that little roll of the pelvis as she pushed off with each foot. How I envied that little roll; it seems to say to the watcher - a man of course - watch me move my pelvis. Wouldn’t you like to make my pelvis roll?

 

When I was leading, Tiffani started giving me advice, as of course I wanted

 

“No, don’t shake your hips that much, just a suggestion of your movement. It’s not like his fingers are up inside you. Save that move for then.  No, not like that; a little roll of the hips. You are a woman, not marching like a soldier. You’re not a soldier. You’re a sexual sensual woman, and you want to be noticed as a woman, so Master will not turn right into that Paga tavern and waste his time on some cheap paga slut.  That’s right, walk like you are the cheap slut you want Master to waste his time on.”

 

Patrick had stopped and was watching us now. He had a big grin on his face.

 

Tiffani just would not stop talking. “Now, counter intuitively, get your thighs a little more together.  You don’t want Master to think that the last man left you bow-legged and replete.  You want more. You are still unsatisfied. Thighs together, like you are well-oiled and don’t want to drip where a Free Woman might see.  That’s right, thighs rubbing smoothly against each other, not rubbing, but gliding smoothly, like some of your oil is lubricating their movements.  Now you’re getting it!”

 

We had stopped for a drink of water, Tiffani and I putting down our packs. Patrick was sitting against a tree, eyes shut, humming a tune.  I don’t think I had seen him so relaxed in months.  Owning women seemed to agree with him.

 

I said to Tiffani that it was like learning to walk all over again, and add all the extra movements, the shoulders, the moving of the arms, it was so exhausting: “So many moving parts to co-ordinate.”

 

“But sweet Juli, you are becoming a new person, a new woman. If you let your inner nature take over, it will all become so very easy.

 

Patrick Master’s Narrative

 

Listening to Tiffani instruct Juli, I knew that I was becoming a new man.  I was having more sex daily than I had ever imagined, and yet not only was I not worn out, I seemed to have more power now than ever before.  It is like all the energy I was putting into courting and asking now went into performance.  But more than that, it seemed that mastery made me more powerful.  A conundrum, as the more I used these women, the more I was able to use these women. Whatever will I do in San Francisco, the home of human rights and civilization. This world needs more loopholes.

 

Slave Tiffani’s Narrative.

 

Juli was very close now.  Very close to not only acting like a slave, and sometimes feeling like a slave, but to giving in to slave fires. Sure, she would oil for Master Patrick, but I would bet that once he got her warmed up, even as a free woman, she would oil for him, even if she denied the intensity of her feelings.  Once her slave fires were lit, she would oil freely not only for Master Patrick but for any man.  She would melt if any man touched her, not just her own master.  She would oil at the thought of any man touching her, and she would feel physically deprived if she was not subjugated regularly.  Not quite yet, but soon.

 

We talked as we fetched wood from the river. Master Patrick wanted a good supply in the camp.  When we left on our task, he had his shirt off and was dragging in deadwood, fallen and seasoned, to split for firewood. There was already a good amount, but he wanted to cut, split, and stack an impressive woodpile.  Men like leaving monuments to their passage. Women like to build memories of the men who have had them. Juli was grousing a little that she would never make as attractive a slave as me.

 

“Let’s face it, I’m just too tall for a proper slave.  I’m five foot nine, and that’s too tall.  Men want women about your height. What are you? Five foot five?”

 

“Juli, I’m five foot seven, not too much shorter than you.  I’m proportioned like a dancer.”

 

“And I have the proportions of line-backer!”

 

I put down my buckets, and looked at her.  I think she understated her height by about a half an inch.  She was tall, but such a figure of a woman. She would go high on any auction block, I am sure. I walked around her.

 

“Stop look at me like that! Like you are assessing me.”

 

“I am assessing you as if you were for sale.  Let me sum up what I see.”

 

“Very black hair. You seldom see it that true black, so – rare and sexy.  Desirable.  Nice ankles, trim, like a dancers, with excellent calves.  Do you know you have good looking knees?  Very few of us women do, you know.  Strong thighs; you know men want that.  Nice love cradle, but slim hips; not all men want them that thin, but walk around to the rear, and such nice butt cheeks, not spreading but muscular.  You could crack walnuts with those butt cheeks.”

 

Juli was gasping with laughter now.  She was blushing too.  I did not tell her it was a good thing I was not a Thorn, as a Thorn would want her to have special training with that butt.

 

I went on, “strong shoulders, but in a way they need to be, to carry that marvellous bosom.  Firm, well-shaped, move nicely, obviously real.  A hint, but only a hint of a six-pack.  In fact, you have muscles all over from your Pilates, but instead of being muscle-bound, they just make you rounded.  Juli, girl, you are a knockout!”

 

“Men want girls like you though, Tiffani, curvy, a neat package, light brown hair with just a hint of curl, and all those moving parts so well co-ordinated.”

 

“That’s enough Juli, we better get our moving parts moving back to camp.”

 

I encouraged her in her funk, on our walk the rest of the way to camp.  “Master Patrick is a tall man, over six feet and a few inches, and he is well built.  He is the kind of man who wants a girl like you.  You are strong and can carry a pack on his adventures, and yet keep him warm at night.  You can stand up to the wild and face adventure.  You are the slave girl for an adventurer, for a hero.”

 

Juli’s eyes were shining as we entered the camp.  Master Patrick was building up his woodpile.  He stopped to watch us as we put the water buckets with the rest.  We would have plenty of water.

 

Juli reported that while we were at the river, she had seen a group of men on ATVs on the other side of the Bighorn. They seemed to be looking for something, maybe the ford.  I added that I had heard some gunfire from the group.

 

Master Patrick asked how I was sure it was gunfire, not thunder or something.

 

“I was in the Navy, Master, before I was collared.  We had survival training and arms training. I am sure it was gunfire, Master.”

 

While Master Patrick was reporting this news by the Kurii communicator to the Lazy F, Juli and I concocted a plan.

 

Master Patrick spoke to me.  I have reported your news to the Lazy F.  They are sending out some people, I think you will be collected sometime today, Tiffani”

 

I was so happy to be going back to my Masters.  It would be sad leaving my new slave sister, my chain sister, Juli, but slave friends are often sundered by the actions of the Masters.  Our feelings are not consulted.

 

Juli wanted to show Master Patrick a new walk she had learned.  The eager approach, but slowly.  In this walk, the girl, when summoned by a Master, walks towards him quickly eagerly, anxious to yield.  That is how it seems, but in fact, the girl moves very slowly, increasing the man’s desire.  The hips move enticingly and there is shoulder movement that moves the breasts in a counter movement to the hips. The trick is to keep all the movements subtle and the steps quick and covering little ground.

 

Juli tried it over and over. 

 

“Less shoulder, Juli, more subtlety. Just jiggle those boobs a little, you’re not shaking like a cheap slut in a tent show.”

 

Finally she had it perfect.  I know it was perfect because Master Patrick grabbed her just as she was about to circle away for another approach.  He was not going to let his girl get away.  The hero claimed the girl he would adventure with.

 

And he made her Testify, as she never had before I am sure.

 

“I will never let you go. I will find a way to keep you in that collar.”  Master Patrick was emphatic in his declaration.

 

“I think I am burning Master,” Juli testified in his arms.

 

I went to get more water.

 

------------------

 

When I was at the river, I still heard the ATVs in the distance. It sounded like they had passed by the area of our camp, and we were safe.  Maybe I would not be reunited with my own owners today after all.

 

Back at the camp, Master Patrick was hauling in some more wood to be made into kindling.  I did not see Juli at first. She had gone off somewhere.  I looked for her and found her some yards from the camp. She was crouched off, holding her arms between her knees, rocking back and forth.

She was muttering, “not a slave, I’m not a slave, soon all this will be over, I want it to be over.”

 

She was repeating this over and over, and she seemed in a fugue state, beyond thought or argument.  Her mind was under the strain of two ideas, contradictory ideas. She just hugged herself and rock back and forth.

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative

 

I didn’t want to be a slave forever.  I wanted to wear clothes again.  To pick out things that made me feel pretty, not to be naked all the time, and certainly not to respond the way I did this morning. I even wanted to wear a bra again, to feel its protection, even to have the underwire poke into my boobs.  My boobs, not Patrick’s, not his to look at, touch when he wanted.  Not his, mine.  My sexuality should belong to me, not at the beck and call of any man that touches me.  I don’t want to respond with panting hotness just because a man looks at me.  I don’t.

 

I don’t have slave fires or slave needs. I just wanted to be loved like a normal woman and do It with my husband once or twice a week. I didn’t want to be at the mercy of my needs, begging me touch me.

 

“I don’t have slave needs”

 

“What was that, chain-sis? You seemed to respond like a hot slave this morning?”  Tiffani was concerned but teasing, as though I was saying something so silly it needn’t be taken seriously.

 

“I don’t have slave needs, I don’t have slave fires, I don’t need to be fucked around the clock, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t”.  I was getting hysterical.  I knew it, but I couldn’t stop it.

 

“Come on sis, you are just resisting yourself, resisting your inner self.  ‘It is a contradiction you must resolve by integrating your personality into your behaviour’, as my old psychology prof would say.  I did take one semester of college you know, back when I was Teresa, before I was liberated by the collar to be the happy Tiffani I am today.”

 

I stared at her.  “That is just your conditioning talking.  Stockholm Syndrome. It is the whip and the kennels and everything conditioning your mind.  No offence, but I don’t want to be a slave, a kajira.”  I almost spat the last word. That silly science fiction fantasy that fuelled this whole crazy thing.

 

Tiffani was not offended, and she did not get angry.  She spoke affectionately, like to a child having a tantrum.  “The collar, the slavery, it all removed the foolish conditioning that society put on me.  I am freer in my collar than I ever was free.  Consider the cliques in school, in college, at work.  Now I serve men, strong men.  They applaud the womanly things I do well; the dancing the service, my gentleness taking away the cares and worries of their days. Even the pettiness of a slave’s concerns relieves them of the heavy worries of a man’s day.  My slavery is a gift to me and to the men I serve.

 

“My collar, and yes, my brand, that you won’t look at or touch, or even mention, they free me to be my complete self.  I am content, and the collar will content you too.” 

 

My fingers grasped my collar.  I could not remove it, it was locked on me.  Only Patrick could remove it. He didn’t even carry the key any more.  It was not on his ring.  I had seen him put it in the cubby between the seats of the Subaru.  He was not even tempted to free me.

 

And now he stood over me, his boots by my head. I could not get up. Tiffani was hugging me so closely, trying to sooth me, but she was holding me down too, an obeisance position, his boots by my head.  He must have been attracted by my screams and cries.   I hated being naked while he was dressed, barefoot while he was shod, my neck encased in a steel collar, while his open necked shirt showed his un-encircled throat, chest hairs peeking out over the fabric.  That stupid chest hair that proclaimed him male, and me female, that masculine smile that was melting me even as I was melting down.  Oh why was a feeling aroused just at the feet of this   man.

 

“Hug her master, hug her,” begged Tiffani.  “She is having slave panic.  Her conditioned feelings are fighting her deep feelings.  Hug her and sooth her.” 

Patrick lowered himself and crouched over, bending over me.  He didn’t hug me or embrace me as I cried in my fear and my horniness, and all the feelings.  He just touched me, lightly on my back, on my backbone just about an inch below my collar Just ever so lightly with one finger.  Slowly, infinitely slowly, the finger began to move tracing its way down my spine.  I was feeling calmer now.  His slow finger siphoning away, it seemed, all my anxiety.  Down my back, slowly ever so slowly, like he was counting my vertebrae, one by one as if taking inventory.  He was at the middle of my back now.  I was still hunched over, Patrick squatting beside me, Tiffani holding my hands with one of hers, the other gently touching my face.

 

Now Tiffani had a wet cloth, she was wiping my tears, Patrick’s finger slowly moving down my back, to the place where my waist narrowed to its least extent.  Now two fingers, diverging, so two hands now, his thumbs taking over on my spine, his big hands encompassing my whole back lowering downward.

 

“So you have no heat, you do not burn?” he asked.  “You are entirely indifferent?”

 

All the tension had gone out of my body.  I was at peace, but relaxation began to be replaced by warmth, and warmth by heat.  The heat burned like fire.  Oh God – no, not slave fires!

 

Without my volition I heard myself speaking words, “I burn Master. Take me. I burn.”

 

This could not be right.  Surely I didn’t mean it!

 

I felt Patrick position me, “do you burn as a slave?”

 

I pushed back, but he evaded me. “Do you burn as a slave?”

 

“I burn Master, fires are lit in my belly.”

 

I could feel Patrick so strong and hard; while Tiffani was so soft and gentle, stroking my face and holding my hands.  My Master and my Chain Sis.  I was in paradise.  The grass was so green, the air so clean, the sun so bright.  I responded in the way that Master Randy had been looking for just a few days ago.

 

Tiffani’s narrative.

 

I was astounded at the way Master Patrick handled Juli’s slave panic and brought her to the point of acknowledging her fires.  He was a natural Master.  How had he hidden it from himself and the women around him for so long?  When he was done, I took some water from the canvas bucket. It had been warmed by the sun.  I washed Juli’s face and washed and cleaned Master Patrick and Juli from their exertions of love.  He laughed, I laughed, Juli laughed.  The gentle breeze dried the places the warm cloth had cleaned.  Master Patrick touch my breast and laughed. Juli touched me and we all laughed. The sun was hot, and we all moved languidly as we sat down on the ground and then fell asleep in each other’s arms.

 

I heard a harsh sound.  I did not want to come to wakefulness. It was so pleasant lying there in the grass, my warm body against that of my sister Juli.  It was an unmuffled motor. I and Master Patrick jumped up, confronting a man wearing camouflage clothes, sitting on an ATV.  

 

His voice was harsh.  “Ha!  Two women for me, property of the Ranchers, and now property of me.  And just a soft city boy in my way.”

 

Master Patrick was impressive.  Even naked, facing a man on an ATV, he was impressive. He did not say anything, just hard-stared at the man.  

The man, unshaven and rough, stopped talking.

 

I believed we might get out of this somehow.

 

Then there was the roar of another ATC coming up behind us, and, Master Patrick, quickly half turning, being struck down and knocked sprawling after being hit in the head with a piece of firewood.