The slave wagon was so empty. I find myself wishing in the darkness of the evening that there would be more chained against its walls. I am not chained, by will, more of, by choice. Though there is no lock on the shackle I like to put a nice little scarlet ribbon through where the lock would seal to keep it around my slender ankle in the evenings.
I felt my life began not by only submitting to live, but protected by His chain. I wish I would have appreciated that more when I had the chance to. Perhaps I was........maturing? Maturing into what though? I was finding more beauty in my life everyday. I loved the way Yasmine's eyes shimmered when she spoke of some brave did her Master did, or just of Him in general. Even when she wasn't so happy with Him, and bitched about not having been touched, or Him not giving her more then a second glance when she took His lunch, her eyes still held that..speck of pleasured light..of being His. When I watched Catch, her shimmer was different. It was complex and yet, pure. She loved Him in the same way, but a bit different. Yasmine had a lifetime of slavery over me and Catch. We were both new, and saw it in a different views. Her eyes didn't just sparkle but reflected the vision of Him in them. Now and then I would catch myself watching her, everything she did, wrapped this cloak of feeling of Him. I wanted one of those cloaks. I wanted His cloak, but I was still trying to figure out how to get it. I was still just painting myself in His background. I would do wash of the men around His wagons as Mistress Mezoo said to. I found myself, carefully going to take just one pair of leathers of His, cause I feared to tarnish the worship of good work Catch did around His wagons. She was the familiar, the Pretty one. The Pretty Slave. She moved with this sticky sweet taffy of desire that made ones mouth water. Like watching the vendor at market pull the warm Taffy in long strands before they would find the mold to set on the cart. It made one just want to touch it, feel its firm yet soft sides that melted flavored sugar and fun at your lips. One wouldn't even need to eat the Taffy, to know it was twisted in colored wax paper in a bowl on the table was enough to bring joy. That is how I felt when I would see Catch working by the fires, or finish taking out fur carpets to be beaten from His wagon. The Pretty Girl. She made just the vision of the wagon sugary sweet.
I admired how brave she was to do so. I wasn't that brave yet. Yasmine would tease me and tell me to ask Catch how to make one of His favorite meals to take Him while He was out on patrol. I wanted to ask! I did! But when I stepped towards the wagons to try to make myself more then just a background, I let pot holes of self doubt stumble me to the ground and favor the throbbing of injured pride and self confidence. So again, I let my fingers press into the fresh painted canvas of bravery and once more finger paint myself into the form of wagons and sky. Again. Background. Like a red blotch behind a wagon wheel. Time to time I dare out to let the spot roll around the fires, even towards Him, but each time, did the spot melt back into the shadows. What a pity that spot.
What a pity.
Pity ponders pitted piles perplexity pulled properly placed plunders.
That summed it up.
Phooey plotted pagan pictures.
Time to let the red spot roll!
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