 |
|||
|
|
CHAPTER THREE—THE VISITOR
"You've got an expert touch," she complimented him.
Daka jumped and nearly dropped the soap. He turned to see the mysterious visitor at the entrance to the cleaning stall. Her dusty overrobe was gone, revealing the finely made white sleeveless closerobe she wore beneath. It was nothing more than an ankle-length stretchsilk sheath that clung to her every curve, slit up each side past her hip. The silk was the finest he'd ever seen and so thin the color of her flesh shone through. Wearing undergarments would have ruined its lines entirely. Daka tried not to stare at her abundant cleavage, but not only was she lavishly proportioned but her plainly visible areola were surprisingly large. Such pale skin . . . . Her hair was longer than he'd thought, reaching nearly to the middle of her back, and looking blacker than night against the white silk. She wore tiny black boots with chrome trim.
"Th-Thank you, milady," Daka managed to get out. The ponies turned their heads slightly to watch their mistress, Low still drinking.
The Lady was surprised. She'd been expecting a ham-handed, ignorant wretch of a stableboy that could barely tell the difference between a bit and a hoofboot. Instead, as she'd studied him from the shadows, she'd seen an experienced stablehand cleaning her ponies with the speed and skill of someone twice his age. His movements were deft and professional, and he'd apparently never even thought of taking liberties with her two mounts. That'd been a constant problem on her trip west, finding competent stablehands that could keep their organs in their pants. You'd think these ignorant westerners had never seen a well-built pony before.
"How long have you been tending ponies?" she asked him. Daka finished with High's hair and began using the brush on her sweaty skin.
"Since I was big enough to reach," Daka said. "I remember as a boy having to stand on a stool to clean between their fingers."
"When did you come to this depot?"
"Oh, I've been here all my life, milady." He stared at the pony he was washing as he talked. Looking at the visitor was too distracting, and he didn't want to do a poor job of washing her mount.
She looked around the drab stable, trying to imagine living a lifetime here. Still, if it was all one knew . . . .
"Milady, may I ask, are these two sisters?" Daka said nervously.
She smiled mysteriously. "Not quite your usual pony out here in the desert, I would imagine."
"No milady. Most mounts I see are much stringier," he admitted. "Some in poor condition, or new to the bit, or hairy ," he said with some measure of disgust. High and Low were blessedly smooth of skin below the neck. "These are spectacular specimens. Three year olds?" he wondered aloud.
She studied her mounts, as if seeing them for the first time, and after a few seconds nodded her head in approval. "You'd think so, from their young faces. I'm guessing you don't see much high-gen purebred stock out here. Probably not any genbred at all. They're six-year-olds, actually, but purebreds are maturing earlier and earlier, and genbreds like these mares grow like weeds. If they were of normal stock they might not even be full grown yet."
Daka's brow wrinkled. "I have not heard the term 'genbred' before, milady."
"I thought not. In answer to your question, yes, in a way they are sisters. Let's just say they're a special kind of twin. I don't suppose you know what a clone is?"
"No, milady."
"I thought as much. Well, a genbred is a special type of purebred, done in a way so as to leave nothing to chance. They're doing much the same thing with assayan, I'm told."
Daka nodded, even though he hadn't heard the term 'assayan' before either. He didn't want to appear too ignorant. "At first I thought they were exhausted from that amazing morning run," he told her, "but now I see they were just dry. Dangerously so. They're not used to running in this kind of heat, are they?" Both ponies were much more alert after drinking their fill, and were beginning to shift their weight restlessly about. The fact that they weren't dead tired from the twenty-nine mile morning run was simply amazing.
"It's the dryness as much as the heat," she admitted. "I left later than I'd planned, long after sun-up. This desert just bled the speed right out of them."
Daka frowned. "If I may ask, milady, what time did you leave JoTown?"
"Why?" She seemed genuinely curious.
Daka shrugged. "It's just that few have made it to our depot from JoTown before noon."
"I believe the journey took us just under three hours."
Three hours! It seemed impossible. That would mean the team would have had to average six-minute miles. Ten miles an hour! They were not running nearly that fast when Daka spotted them at the end of their trip, which meant they were running faster than a six-minute mile pace at the start. Incredible.
Daka nodded like her news held no surprises and moved to the far side of High to scrub at her ribcage. The robed woman's eyes flew wide.
"What is that?" she said, pointing.
Daka looked around in confusion, finally realizing she was pointing to his shoulder. The tattoo there was fuzzy-edged and faded with time, the pattern blurry but still discernable. A six-pointed star over a cutlass, all inside a circle the size of his palm.
"Just a tattoo, m'lady."
"Where did you get it? Who gave it to you?" Her voice was demanding, almost shrill.
"I have no idea, m'lady. I've had it as long as I can remember." He crouched and scrubbed at the mare's thick legs.
The robed visitor watched Daka with slitted eyes. He had an athletic if slim build, head and arms burned brown from the sun. Very tall, three or four inches over six feet, wide shoulders, with well defined musculature topped by a ratty nest of overlong sunfried brown hair. In other circumstances his washboard stomach would have perhaps caused her to tarry, but not now. His body was dusty and spotted with washwater. Totally hairless, but that was to be expected living this close to the Poisoned Lands. The loincloth he wore was a simple piece of what looked like burlap tied around his waist, stained with sweat. Ugh.
Without another word she turned and swept back through the doorway into the depot's living area. Orr was busy chopping greens and tossing them into a bowl, and she could smell meat cooking somewhere. He'd beaten the dust, as well he could, out of her formal robe and laid it on a chair. She studied the robe thoughtfully – it was folded sleeve over sleeve in the manner that was practiced inside the royal city.
"I was watching your son wash my mounts," she said, "and I noticed—"
"He's not my son, milady, begging your pardon."
She turned and looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Oh?'
"I have had him since he was barely old enough to walk, milady, but he's not my son. Cost me a fair bit at the time, but I suppose he's been worth it."
"I see. Did you give him that tattoo on his shoulder?"
"No ma'am, that was there when I bought him."
"Do you know whence he received it?"
"No milady. I figured it for an ownership mark. Is there a problem?" Could the boy have been stolen property? Wouldn't that be a thing, and after all these years.
The woman ignored the question. "From whom did you buy him?"
"Well . . . ." Orr thought back, trying very hard not to stare at the abundant breasts before his nose. The slit in her robe revealed a sliver of muscled thigh and rounded hip. He hadn't lain with a woman in a very long time, but apparently he wasn't too old to want to. He dropped his eyes to the scuffed wood counter. "I'd just gotten word from the governor that I was going to be the new depotmaster here, and I knew there'd be more work than what I could handle by myself. In Agave I ran across an old nomad leading a half dozen or so children. Daka was the only boy, and barely old enough to walk and talk, but he looked healthy, so I bought him. Also bought the oldest girl he had. Wasn't full grown yet, but she was the only one didn't look sick and the price was right. I figured she could do the chorework until Daka got big enough, and the nomad said he'd already broken her in."
"Where is the girl?"
"She died not much more than a year later. Snakebite," he explained. "Never have had the money to replace her."
"Daka," the woman murmured, mulling over the name.
"That's what I named him, milady."
"Any idea where the nomad acquired him?"
"No milady, haven't a clue. If he ever said anything I've forgotten it now. I doubt he did. They're a pretty closemouthed people."
"I wouldn't have assumed he was your son but I saw no ownership tag or brand."
Orr laughed, his eyes lighting up. "Now that's a story," he said, chortling. "He's got one, that's for sure. You should ask him to tell you the story . . . " Orr realized he was getting a little too familiar with the noblewoman and looked back to his work The next time he looked up she was gone. He hadn't thought about Leura in years. A shame, really, but at least he'd had her for that year. Such an pliant, agreeable girl.
"Show me your ownership tag," the woman commanded Daka.
The two ponies were happily munching away on ponymix through gravity-fed feed bags, still hooked to the tie-bar. Daka was cleaning off their gear when the woman reappeared and gave him the order.
Daka set down the hose and the salt-encrusted corset he was holding and turned around. He wondered what Orr had been telling her, but dutifully untied his loincloth and let it drop to the stable's cement floor. The steel ownership tag flashed in the light from the window as it swung between his legs, hanging from the gold ring piercing the head of his organ.
He'd never taken liberties with any mounts, but when two young women, part of a group of royal wetnurses passing through, had peeked into the stable to see him he'd been busy scrubbing between the legs of a particularly well-built mare, and they'd misinterpreted his actions. Or maybe they hadn't, and were just those kind of girls. Orr and the coach's driver, who was supposed to be acting as chaperone as well, were being entertained in the front room by two of the young women. Four other wetnurses took the opportunity of the distraction to surprise Daka in the stable and overpower him. This had been four years previous, just before his last growth spurt, and they'd all been bigger and stronger than he.
As punishment for what they'd said was a mischievous indiscretion by him the laughing young women held him down, stripped him, and produced a large needle of the type used to repair leather. With a woman sitting on each of his limbs and his own loincloth stuffed into his mouth as a gag, Daka had been powerless.
The instigator of the action, a chunky brunette with a massive chest, blouse damp from her perpetually leaking teats, slid the big needle into the hole at the end of his organ and out through the skin on its underside. He yelled and bucked, but that only seemed to encourage them. They produced the gold ring from somewhere and slid it through the new hole in the end of his organ, as an afterthought removing the tag from the chain around his neck and placing it on the ring.
Daka told the noble born his story without shame, insisting ". . . but I wasn't taking any liberties with their mounts. I wouldn't!"
"Did you tell your owner what happened when they left?"
He hung his head and shook it. "Not for a week, and only then because it got infected."
"Why didn't you remove the ring?" she wondered aloud.
"We didn't have a metal saw at the time, didn't have one for close to two years. By that time I was used to it."
She didn't have the heart to tell him it was a captive bead ring, that with the right size reverse pliers she could have removed it from his organ in seconds. It probably didn't matter now anyway, he'd worn it so long. The gold ring was big, one step down from the ones through her own mares' nipples. Absently she wondered if the young man knew how unusual his organ was in size. Probably not, unless . . . .
"Have you ever laid with a woman?" she asked him directly, peering into Daka's eyes.
He colored slightly and looked down. "No milady," he mumbled.
"What about ponies? Mares? Have you ever taken someone's mount?"
"No milady," he said forcefully. "Never." Although that hadn't been easy. Some of the mares that came through were quite spirited, and it'd been more than once that he'd had ponylegs wrapped around him as he tried to finish the washing. Their grip was so strong sometimes he just couldn't break free, and he had to wait until they were done grinding on his hip before he could finish his duties.
The woman leaned forward and he felt the full impact of her forceful gaze. "You've never spilled your seed?" she demanded. "Never?"
Daka blushed a deeper red and tried to look away, but she grabbed his chin and yanked his head around.
"W—Well," he stammered, "after the wetnurses put the ring in they kept grabbing at me, and it – it just happened," he said. "They all laughed." She kept her iron grip on his chin, not letting him look away.
"And?" she prompted him.
"And . . . sometimes when I'm alone in the stable . . . ." he couldn't finish the sentence, he was too embarrassed, but that was fine. She'd heard what she needed to. She released his chin and straightened up.
"It's all right," she told him. "Finish cleaning the leathers, and wipe down the carriage as well. "But don't go poking around inside it, understand? That's off limits."
"Yes milady." Daka couldn't meet her eyes. His heart was hammering away in his chest, afraid his half-lie to her would somehow be discovered. The first time with the wetnurses, that had been an accident. Quite a surprise for everyone involved. There'd been some laughing, but also quite a bit of interest. The busty one had grabbed him again and began deliberately stroking his organ. The others kept him pinned to the stable floor and egged her on. She seemed no stranger to the task and masterfully brought him to a second climax, grunting and twitching, in just a few minutes.
"There's some wood in you, boy," she'd said almost admiringly then, one hand wrapped around his still hard member.
"Work him again," one of the other wetnurses said in a hoarse voice. They'd gotten much quieter, watching Daka's big shaft being stroked. For two of the four it was a new experience, not just seeing a man's seed leave his body but being able to gaze uninterrupted at what makes a man a man.
Even with the pain of the fresh ring distracting him Daka came again after but a few short minutes. Daka had the natural stamina of youth, and when he didn't wither away in her hand after the third time the now visibly aroused wetnurse lifted up her skirts and made to sit atop his pole, ring, tag, and all. Just then the driver/chaperone called unseen from the doorway and the women scrambled up and away from Daka. He was left alone in the stable with just the team of eight bignoses that had brought the young women in, the ponies having watched the whole incident. It had gotten them agitated, of course, with bignoses that was easy to spot, which only made his job more difficult. He had to rush around like a madman to get them ready for the road in time.
"When you're done with that," the noblewoman continued, "I see you've got some massage oil here." She nodded at the bottle. "Rub down their legs, give them a really good deep muscle massage. Keeps them from getting cramps. Do you know how to do that?"
"Yes milady."
"Good. And wash yourself, too, you're dusty and sweaty. When you're done come back inside. Put on some clean clothes, if you have any."
"Yes milady."
Massaging her ponies' thick legs took as much time as everything else combined. By the time he was done his fingers and forearms were aching, but the mounts were visibly relaxed. Their buttocks had been like rocks! He could barely bend his thumbs.
The worked-in oil gave their skin a soft sheen, and, as was common, the folds between their thighs had been moist by the time he finished. Perhaps he should've put his loincloth back on before the rubdown, so they'd be less distracted, but neither of them had tried anything. Another sign of good training, on top of their excellent breeding and temperament.
Cleaning himself up was last on his list. He used the soap on his hair and scrubbed the dirt and sweat off his skin. The ponies kept trying to turn and watch him, although it was harder for them since he'd put spreader bars on their legs after the rubdown. Otherwise they might start squeezing their thighs together and work themselves up again.
|
|
|