The Confessions of a Dancing Kajira

[thedancingkajira]

C37

It's over. My life as a slave is over. But nothing is really over, is it?

Certainly the questions remain. Their messy cousin, Regret, skulks after them in their shadow. Was I a good slave with a bad master? Was I a bad slave to a good master? Do these things even matter, or were we just people? And do people matter at all?

I have my entire life left to live. Yet not a single minute of it is promised. Each is earned and given by grace. Each is, therefore, precious. I gave years of it to slavery. Have those years given me knowledge in return, or just lingering pain, like a gladiatrix's bad knees, aching when the rains are about to come?

Certainly, they linger. I linger, in public houses, traffic hubs, and docks, for purpose to seize me. I wait like a slave, even though I stand on two feet, wearing gowns. No color is perfect for those gowns. They feel best in black, much like my mind does, but even that isn't quite right. 

Every hour of life is precious, yet I spend my hours waiting, waiting, waiting in places of congregation for someone else, for something new, for the right look, the guiding hand, the spark of inspiration that lives on the edge of a smile. Slaves wait for such things. And in this sense, my slavery lingers.

It lives on through my children. I had many children through my Master. Many, he freed. Ultimately, my freedom didn't come from him. My freedom came when I no longer felt like I had a place under his command, and roamed. I'd waited long for him.

I wait still, but I do so behind a veil, with my knees straight, as a free woman. It was simplicity itself to gain my freedom. I was biding my time in the hub when Hawker, a voice, spoke to me after almost a year. He said there could be a place for me in Genesian Port. I felt no bond to hold me back. I went.

And in going, I arrived back where I was at the very beginning of my time in the cities. Genesian may as well be Brunidisum. I was given from one free, to another, to the kennels. I was told to get an exam. I was told by the physician that nobody could help me. And after a few days of that, I left.

It's a common story for any slave. That's because almost every destination is the same. They say 'you can never go home again', but the opposite is true for slaves. For slaves, you go to the same place no matter where you go.

I stepped out of the cycle by joining a house for wayward slaves and, within a day, asking for my manumission. I was granted it with almost no second thought. The only words of protest came from a fellow slave. A slave's worst enemy is another slave.

Who can blame us? We are all expected to fight over the slightest attention and are told we are worthless. Certainly, some might whisper to us that we are precious, special, valuable. But that is usually in the afterglow, and if a price is actually asked for us, even a slight sacrifice, we are reminded that we are nothing. Small wonder that we treat one another the same way.

I am free of that now. At least, these papers say that I am. The gowns suggest it. The dialog I receive from men confuses the issue. I am often reminded that I would be more appealing without my clothes. I am always expected to conform with their desires, even if that involves telling them what to do.

Yet, I wait. As I waited for my Master, I wait. I wait because slaves wait. Slaves do not take the time away to think what their dreams are, plan to achieve them, and go do so. Slaves have no time for that. Slaves' time belongs to Master.

Now my time belongs to me. Every hour is precious. It isn't worthless. At least, that's what I'm supposed to think. So why do I wait? What do I wait for? Another Master? Surely not. No, I wait for what a Master represents; what a Master always represented. 

I wait for purpose to move me. 

And sometimes, amid all the talk, all the words that move in lieu of my feet, I wonder on that. I wonder if purpose, like the fleeting hours and days of my life, belongs to me and me alone.

The slave in me fears that is so. 

When will her life end and mine begin? The answer is mine and it is whatever I wish it to be. 

Yet. This girl. Waits.

And the woman that girl should become waits until she can find the courage to let that girl go.

[thedancingkajira]

C36

I'm confessing again. My first confession? I'm pregnant.

It's probably twins again. Or triplets. That's just my luck; I'm cursed or blessed by the constant drive to outdo myself.

It can be easily inferred that my homecoming was a happy one. For those of you unaware of my whereabouts for the past few months, suffice it to say that "the truth is out there." I will leave it at that. That, and to say that my Master and I have a mystery on our hands, one that we're almost afraid to solve.

Yes, I effectively disappeared. But, after a rather rocky couple of weeks realigning with my Master, that vanished time and space has been put squarely in the past. A trip to Tarn Ridge set us right, by getting us back in the carnal groove. Since then, it's been Ka-la-na and dinas.

Even better, actually. Yes, I still make some mistakes. For one, I have to remind myself that though my Master and I share opinions freely in private, it's simply not done to do so in public. I am sometimes too much the tavern slave, a wide-mouthed bawd inclined to let the whole world resound with my voice. My Master is a man of decorum, and though He makes my spirit feel free, my tongue need not follow.

So, I confess that there have been a couple of occasions, only a couple, where I've been on the receiving end of a stiff correction. The stiff sexual connection that followed more than made up for it, and I am the wiser for having experienced it. Wiser and, it so happens, rather blessed with my domestic duties.

Blessings come in many forms, and some of the most delightful are either in disguise or out of the blue. My appointment to laundry duties qualifies as both, arguably. It occurred because my Master was picking at a frayed piece of His clothing, cursing the culprit. I interjected that I'm quite adept at laundry and quite pleased to do it. He's since appointed me as head of the household's laundry, and I could hardly be more delighted. It not only gives me the opportunity to handle all manner of precious and impressive fashion, it also soaks me in lovely scents all morning long. There are hardly better ways to start one's days.

Of late, my days started with morning sickness as well, and the laundry assisted that. The sudden sickness inspired by scents, sights or other stimuli was somewhat blunted by the pacific perfumes of the cleaning products. Now, the morning sickness abates, and the clean scents remain.

This is all to say that the latest rough patch seems to have passed. My days with my Master are delightful occasions of game play, or shopping, chores, or sex. One could hardly hope for better, slave or Free. And I'm doubly blessed because I enjoy such days with the best of Free men.

[thedancingkajira]

C35

It's been said that every story ends in a funeral. This is only so for those who don't know how to properly end a story. Many wise storytellers know to end their stories with a wedding. Or, in my case, a birth.

My Master and I enjoyed a thrilling journey together. We began with a coincidental meeting. Fortunes and the fickle interest of others cast us about, creating a conflict that tempered the bond between us. And when I needed that bond the most, it became a collar.

Then came sex, games, adventures, and greater challenges yet. We found comfort in one another, along with tremendous excitement and just the right touch of pain. We had many conversations that I know will echo for me for a long time, bringing with them the sentiments of delight over finding someone to truly connect with.

Then, as happens, came the next generation. There were countless breeding attempts, many brutal and all beautiful. We held together, true to our course, and I began to grow with His children.

We built homes, explored new cities, wove and ate and laughed. More games were played, some on boards and some in bedrooms. More conversations, about literature and life philosophy, lit our nights.

The last stretch was difficult, as the last stretches of pregnancy usually are. There were many feelings, several of them uncomfortable, and there were times we ached to be closer. Other times, we just ached.

In the end, we saw it through. Our children were born, and He will name them. He will raise them. Really, our story belongs to Him. That's the nature of a Gorean story, after all. Not all end well. But all begin and end with Him.

And will I have other stories? I've yet to tell the tale of my funeral. But I've confessed my last, as I have no sin left in me, and nothing more to say about a world that believes in sin.

[thedancingkajira]

C34

Peace and patience aren't seen as romantic, but that's by the shortsighted. In my estimation, it's the affection that one applies to oneself that's just as important as the affection shown to others when it comes to caring for someone else.

My Master and I reunited after a long time of passing like the proverbial ships in the night. He heard of the birth of His children and asked why I'd dressed in a soft pink dress. I replied that it was not a very thought-out decision.

I make a lot of decisions that way, with what some call "no mind." It's highly recommended to liberate creativity and regulate stress, both valuable activities.

I went about the rest of our time the same way. I had no expectations, only gave myself over, peacefully as possible, to my Master's demand. And it was delightful.

It was affirming, serene and exciting; all one would hope from a homecoming. We connected, physically and emotionally. We took our time. We talked.

All things come and go in this world. The best way to hold onto something is by respecting the ebb and flow. We follow the course of events, together, and so we hold together. That's a bond worthy of a collar.

[thedancingkajira]

C33

The end of my journey has been reached. My pregnancy reached the beautiful agonies of its conclusion. Our twins are born.

Rather, my Master's twins are born. My devotion to Him is total and these final months of my pregnancy reinforced that. Since our voyage to Ar, I've been largely housebound.

I use that term literally, as much of my time has been spent bound in my Master's house. Occasionally, I'll shear our verr, Rosarita Frijoles, or pick at a tapestry on my loom. Most of the time, it's the mind-splitting monotony of bondage.

All the while, my body has been at its most uncomfortable. Had I even been able to write these Confessions, I doubt I would have had more to confess than tedium, numbness, discomfort and dehumanization.

At a certain point, the flesh just surrenders to its fate and closes up shop. The lights go out where once lights glowed vividly. The ache of the bones replaces the bones themselves. Time and memory melt together like a sundae left in the sun.

All the while, a life I expect no attachment to grew in me and fed from me.

Having read what I wrote, it feels like touching a callous. Such is not the case. It's simply the tragic reality of the situation. And much like my swollen feet, my aching joints, my discomforts attenuted by being chained to a wall for not only hours upon hours, but days upon days, it hurts so bad that I simply forgot what it is to not hurt. It's not so much a callous as it is a wound impossible to heal.

And now, after the endless hours of ball gags and weak bladders, of chains and contractions, monotony and milking, I went into labor. It lived up to its name and more so. It was exhausting in the extreme, a struggle like no other, demanding extremes from parts of my body that had laid dormant before turning into raw fire.

Then they were out, off and away, and I've been able to rest. In this rest, I found my way to fetching quill, ink and paper. I now write a confession that feels more like a eulogy for the girl that first began these confessions.

Isn't that as it's meant to be? At the end of any journey we set out for, we are changed entirely from how we started. The person that took that first step is now gone.

So it is with me. I made myself a vessel. I was filled. Now, I am empty.

It remains to be seen whether, like the urns that stand along the wall I am often chained to, I will simply be filled and empty, time again, unfeeling clay, until at last, I crack.

[thedancingkajira]

C32

The greatest power of choice we have, is the power over what we think and feel. Many forget this. Many feel subject, even enslaved, to their thoughts and feelings. Yet this is the opposite of how things are. As things are, we have almost no control over the world around us, and near total control over how we think. Some may protest and say that we can sing and dance, fight and fuck, write and build. But all of these things come from a thought that decided to do them. So if this is a power shared by Ubars and slaves alike, why is its proper exercise so hard to come by? How many miserable nobles and icon of commerce are there? How many happy slaves and low-caste laborers? If the purpose of one's brief, unique life is happiness, why is it that seems almost entirely independent of wealth, social station, even agency? It comes down to a principle that was perfectly embodied by my day with my Master, "Amor Fati" in Latin, "love your fate." My fate was peculiar yesterday, and demonstrated that no matter what happens, one can always find some sweet outcome. It all began with the sweetest of outcomes, the little flutters of life within my belly. I feel them both, tremors of life within me, my Master's children. For the first time, they feel like what they are; little people, trembling spirits, growing like a kindling flame. That flame lit my mood as I moved about the farm for my next task, that of verr shearing. Yet tragically, the beloved verr, Wendy Woolbottom, had perished. At first, I blamed myself, but in the spirit of loving my fate, decided to make the best of it. Or, more to the point, I decided to make the best of Wendy. I prepared a recipe for verr chops and set to it. Once again, fate was its usual fickle force. I burnt the first plate I made, managed to create something adequate the second time, ate it, and then created two sumptuous plates for my Master. Once He returned, He ate one of those plates, praising me considerably. He even fed me one, so because of the trial and error of a single failed plate, I ended up having two plates of verr chops. Given that I'm eating for three, this suited me just fine. Right before we went to gaming and furring, we talked of this notion of loving fate. We had just touched on the matter of what unites and divides people in society, and how distrust brings out the worst in people, when the subject of Stoicism arose. I remarked that the Stoics were often misunderstood, as people think them grim, hence the connotation of "fatalistic" that my Master pointed out. Yet Stoicism is founded in gratitude and learning, the principle of Love Your Fate, for it is uniquely yours, you alone control your thoughts, and you may as well enjoy it. Besides, lifelong learning is also a tenet of that philosophy. That lifelong learning and fickle fate was put on display as my Master and I played the Royal Game of Ur. We both tried new strategies, yet both had to admit that we were unsure as to their effectiveness given that the dice were so lopsided. He won, and so His strategy was surely superior for the situation. Yet would it hold out? Only more turns on fates wheel, more trials and errors, will tell. So it goes, for both slaves and Ubars; for both Epictetus, a former slave and the father of Stoicism, and Emperor Marcus Aurelius, a champion of it. So it goes for Wendy Woolbottom, who first became a horrid mistake on my behalf, and then led to a feast. So it goes for Rosarita Frijoles, who replaced Wendy Woolbottom, a more exotic verr with a more exotic coat and name. So it goes for us all. We are all subject to the roll of the dice, trying to determine if our plans are effective or merely fortunate. Yet just as Ubars fall and slaves are sometimes made nobles, there is no telling what is ahead. The only power over it is whether we love it or not.

[thedancingkajira]

C31

I have been instructed to resume my confessions, and so confess, I shall. I'll keep this as a record of my activities and hopefully give insight to others as to the experience of a Gorean slave. This will serve as an account of Lacimea, slave of Jesen. Today began with me wearing something inappropriate to the occasion, which is often the case. My Master removed my lavish dress and set it aside for some later games, and then had me change into a more revealing outfit. It was white, the color of milk and celebration. This set the tone for the time we spent together. Once He was satisfied with my appearance, He had me climb onto His lap on His throne. He released my breasts, which are full of milk, and put my pregnant belly between His legs. Then, He used a series of plugs to anal train me, to train my ass. He excited me by rubbing my pussy while He widened my ass with a pair of plugs, one larger than the next. This made me like anal stimulation more, and that pleased my Master. He was so pleased that He set me on His lap, straddling Him, and fed from the milk of my breasts. Wrapping a chain around one of my breasts, He squeezed it until it was a pained, round bulge. It seemed to make Him like the milk more. It certainly deformed my breast and hurt a lot, but it pleased Him greatly. Afterward, He treated me tenderly and told me of the many chores I was to do. One, of course, is to resume my confessions. Also, I was to shear the verr He owns and finish furnishing the forum upon our land. Shearing the verr is always fun. I take a bucket that I've been provided by G&S, go to my favorite sheep, Wendy Woolbottom, and get to shearing. It doesn't take long, and both Wendy and I appreciate it. I have set to these matters at once, as well as finding new things to wear. It is good to have such direction and to know that by accomplishing these things, I am pleasing.

[thedancingkajira]

C30

A home is more than just four walls, as the saying goes, but a home is also more than just one’s castle. A home is devotion.

I made a house for my Master, and it is orderly as any castle should be. It has an orderly theme, that of an homage to Ar, with every element within reflecting my Master’s homeland. It is orderly in its composition, having everything a Master may need placed in a way that’s intuitive and reflective of deeper principles. Best of all, there is proper order to its occupants.

My Master proved this true when He found me, His tour guide to our new house, in a playful mood. I’d just returned from the Gor Hub, the “Gub,” after a couple of hours deflecting the advances of a Master who wanted to challenge my collar.

That exchange with the presumptuous Master at the Gub had been polite but firm in my commitment to my Master. Time and again, I had to state who I belonged to. At the same time, my station as a slave demanded that I be pleasing and submissive.

It’s a balancing act that I’m becoming quite practiced at. And ultimately, my Master approved of my handling. That was all that mattered. But the incident put me in a playful mood that continued during my time with my Master. Every time there was an opportunity for humor, I sought it.

By the time the tour was concluded, my Master essentially had to tell me to settle down. In a kind but stern, and rather sexy, way, He brought me back in line with my foremost mission, to be pleasing. That the tour concluded with a good time in a bath house that I made for Him probably helped emphasize my submission.

This is all remarkable because it showed that even when having worked a long week, and having to deal with a mischievous slave girl, my Master brought His best self to the time we shared together. He was patient and strong and sensual with me. That is the foundation that a good Gorean home can rely on.

My hope is that I can do the same. Nobody can be expected to be at their best at all times. Fortune’s wheel grinds down on us all. But when such a time comes when He can use me to hold Him up, I wish for nothing more than to be at my best as well.

[thedancingkajira]

C29

Sometimes, it’s the little things, within the little hours, that are the glue of a bond between Master and slave. They’re what move a story beyond the relentless drama of a novel to the constituency of a true continuity.

That’s what my Master and I have been doing these last two days, laying the mortar to our brick. We’ve had interactions meaningful to us, rather than to some greater dramatic scheme.

First off, we came too late to a tournament signup at Tarn Ridge, and so will have to miss out on trying my hand at a favorite game of mine, the Royal Game of Ur.

I’m no expert at the Royal Game of Ur, but through a brief trial, my Master determined I’d be a worthy competitor. The tournament organizers had, however, set the roster already some four days in advance, so I missed the opportunity this time.

On that same day, my Master permitted me to create another house for us, and so I’ve set to doing that. Much as my Master has been recovering from a tiring early week, I’ve been tiring myself out with that project. No doubt, like two currents in a powerful tide, we will soon align.

Alignment and organization were yesterday’s theme, as my Master took me shopping. After acquiring a few outfits for me, He learned that I don’t really organize my inventory at all. For a fellow as well organized as my Master, this called for correction.

He took me to purchase a wardrobe organizer that would permit me to visualize what I’ve saved to wear. Whether this proves to be a handy extra step, or merely extra, remains to be seen. Yet I both respect and appreciate the care that inspired His action.

That’s the stuff that makes an enduring bond. Too many Masters, and for that matter slaves, engage one another only for the thrill of a dramatic display of entertainment. It’s the substance of the quiet times that makes a bond truly sound. And these have been good quiet times, with challenges faced, generosity shared and above all, care and appreciation shown.

[thedancingkajira]

C28

Let it never be said that two people who connect intimately can't find a way to mutually satisfying intercourse. I use the term "intercourse" with the full breadth, or in this case girth, of its meaning. The day before yesterday, my Master made good on His promises, as He always does. He brought me to the stall by His house and milked me, while telling me that He would use my ass given that I was now bred. As these pages have recorded in abundance, use of my ass is hardly my favorite thing. It does seem to be an act for which my Master is particularly fond, however, and He's made it clear that He'll continue to enjoy it. The fondness isn't exclusively His, though, as there's a particular component of rosy-colored memory associated with it in our case. One of the first times that my Master exercised comprehensive command over me was when He first took my ass. And so, in the case of this recent back-door action, it brought it all back. The memory dates to when I was a kennel slave in Brundisium and He was a frequent client of mine. He told me, after one particularly delightful time together, that I should prepare my ass with ointment He provided me, in anticipation of when He'd take me in such a way. Prepare I did, and the anticipation made it pleasurable. The preparation was like the exercise of His desire over me, even when He didn't yet own me. It still felt like ownership, since for the few days between when He told me to prepare and when He came for me, the presence of His will was always there. That preparation culminated in what was probably the sole pleasurable act of receiving sodomy that I've ever experienced. The care and command that He'd applied for the prior days, by having me apply oils and ointments to myself, made the act exquisitely intimate. And it was performed in such a way as to be very considerate to me; truly handled like a deflowering intended to bring us closer. Obviously, that implicit intent worked out, as He now owns me, I am bred and His command over me is present constantly, both in the form of my collar and in my twins that I carry for Him. And as He took me this latest time, the circumstances and the surrounding, namely the stall we were in, summoned the memory and feelings of that first time. I mentioned this and, generous as He is, my Master indulged reflection upon our past together. He talked of having been receptive to owning me because I begged, even though others were 'waiting' for me to do so. The latter was news to me and, I must confess, my curiosity clung to that outlook. Nevertheless, the past is the past, and the present is the closest thing to a fact that we have, and the fact is that He is the one who owns me and that I'd have it no other way. It is all to say that talking about our bond while He had His way with my bottom made the time together quite enjoyable. I am glad to have discovered a way of enjoying that intimate connection while undergoing a rather, shall we say "lop sided," act. My only hope is that this attempt at mutual enjoyment isn't an act of disobedience. The reason I say this is because my Master indicated that He does me in my bottom because I don't like it. My Master says some things in order to tease, irk, shame, or otherwise get a rise out of me, and I hope that this is one of those things. I suspect so, because it seems to me that He would have to have an appetite for buggering me in order to want to do so, beyond just that I don't like it. For instance, if He were choosing cuisine to eat, I doubt He would choose something like Torvaldsland cuisine, with all its pickled fish and suspicious cheeses, solely because I don't like it. He'd choose something He wanted to eat. I will extend this metaphor no further, but suffice it to say that I'll be sensitive to His needs while He uses my bottom for His pleasure, no pun intended. I certainly enjoyed talking during the process, as it gave me a trip down memory lane while He was in my back alley. It brought us closer, and surely that is to the good of all. Mutual benefit isn't a privilege that all slaves enjoy, but it's a power that serves to sustain and develop the best of slaves.

[thedancingkajira]

C27

At last! I carry my Master’s child. Children, even. An heir for Him and a girl to continue my line.

It is a beautiful achievement from a beautiful event. It could not be otherwise. As if the entirety of my being had to be devoted to him in order to make it happen, it was the result of a day devoted to my devotion.

I danced that morning, in the tavern of the Hub. I poured out my passion and my need, just like the stories say a kajira should. I gave no thought to anything other than that famed fire and how it craved my Master.

And so when He called for me, I was infernally hot. He was busy writing a story, and I did not interrupt of course, but kept my fire stoked hot until such a time as He might wish its heat.

There was enough heat to burn down our home when He took me. His throne was my hearth and my milk was His fuel. He worked my body like an engine until I was exhausted and He adopted an appropriate posture of triumph.

He’d done it. We both knew at once. And He held me so close afterwards. His lust had become a deeper bond between us. And accordingly, my body surrendered its deepest chamber to His aims.

It feels to me like it could not have worked out otherwise and worked out perfectly. That He fed from me, that it was done in His house, that I was not pushed away but instead kept close and talked to after, all made it feel like the connection that had to happen. And it happened; my body grows His seed.  

From such growth, an amazing new phase will surely bloom. I am still just a girl, just His girl, but now I am everything a girl is born to be. I am pregnant.

[thedancingkajira]

CONFESSION 26

Yesterday was a near-perfect day. I closed it out with a catastrophic misstep during a friendly game of Kaissa with my Master, but otherwise, it could not have been better and was full of surprising delights. It began with meeting out in the wilderness that surrounds our property. My Master was in a very fine, humorous mood, and exchanged lively jests with me. One thing led to another, as it does with delightful regularity, and he took me upon the "picnic blanket" of His discarded tunic. There was something especially dreamy about the whole occasion; being out among nature, doing something so primal. Exposed to the outdoors, I felt like we were the only two people in the world. It was particularly special, and I want to believe He feels the same. He's given me a new nickname, which I adore. I spent the rest of the day shopping and met Him again, late at night, in the tower of our castle. We had a splendid discussion about, of all things, nature. As with when He uses me, He got deep. We talked about lore, purpose, fantasy and reality; all manner of philosophical topics. Much like our earlier time together, it was an impactful intercourse that I'm eager to repeat. That special discussion then led to what began as a special game of Kaissa. My Master took a mentoring approach. I appreciated that. I do feel like my understanding of the game and its strategies have developed to the point where I am about five games away from being a decent opponent, but I also like being taught and supported. Unfortunately, I blew it with the penultimate move. There's a reason, it seems, that slave girls aren't permitted to touch Kaissa pieces. They're rather slippery things, and when I was moving my hand from a Spearman to a nearby piece, it shifted the piece to a fatal position. When something like that happens in a friendly game, supportive sentiment can continue, but the game pretty much can't. There's no undoing what's done. A game, when lost, can only be entirely reset or seen through to its conclusion with compassion. Either way, it's over, and one must move on to the next match, wary of making future mistakes. That process seems symbolic of another effort that my Master is assisting me with, breeding me. He has been an absolute warrior when it comes to using me, present and imaginative when it comes to filling my womb. I have yet to produce. In the spirit of these confessions, I must confess that I feel down on myself about it. How can I not? I know that I am the one with the problems. A simple matter that results in a splendid and magical process has been frustrated by me. It has come to the point where I feel like I no longer want to risk failing Him. I know that's not the right mentality but, as is so often the case with flawed mentalities, it requires effort to correct. I must tell myself to let go of my concerns, to keep things simple and to let matters take their course. The course of those matters, after all, could hardly be better otherwise. Like water, we are finding our level, pooling together and increasing one another. And, like water, I must remain lucid and calm.

[thedancingkajira]

C25

Adversity defines us. The body may be mostly water, but the mind is metal. The mind requires tempering by hard strokes to take its proper shape. I've been receiving many hard strokes of late, both the welcome kind and otherwise. My Master has been breeding me regularly, in all manner of delightfully irregular ways. I have been used as a coin slut, a cum rag, a cow. I've been placed on all fours and milked, set on the floor and used to scrub it, or cast to the ground like a broken whore. In doing so, my Master completes me, as He fills His girl with His seed through the play of our passion. My Master is not playing around, either. We recently had a game of sorts that I lost worse than I have at Kaissa. I downright failed. Yet, as with the times that I've catastrophically failed in the past, that cataclysm has cleared the ground that needed to be cleared and made way for a renewed and resolved purpose. My purpose, as ever, is to be pleasing. I've yet to fail entirely in that endeavor, and the failures I've lately endured have succeeded in strengthening us. It's rather like bathing. We all know that bathing is mortally dangerous, but we do it anyway because we need to be clean. I've had to come clean to my Master over these past days, revealing the fears that I've always seen as my flaws. He's treated them as treasures, to His incomparable credit. Even diamonds must be chipped into shape. I'm going to take the shape that my Master demands. His lust has changed my body and will change it more. Now, I give forth milk. Soon, I'll give forth life. This is the best kind of life, the sort where we need not fear change but embrace it. Fear of change comes natural because we want to believe that the joys we experience and the successes we achieve are, and will always be, what define us. But we are our lows as well as our highs, our messes as well as our masterpieces. My Master accepts the totality of His girl. This, above all else, is what gives Him total ownership of His girl.

[thedancingkajira]

C24

As a girl is told that she is a slave, this is meant to denote that she is, by her nature, a victim. And so rather than ask, like a warrior would, “how can I get what I want,” a girl is left to wonder, “why can’t I get what I want?” Yet some days, like yesterday, make one realize that a girl really can get all she wants, and needs for that matter.

I designed a new home for my Master and He visited it yesterday. I am delighted to say that He was impressed by much of it and saw tremendous potential in all I had arranged. That praise alone would have satisfied me. But it was the many gifts He gave me that left me feeling complete.

First, He gave me an actual gift; two of them, in fact, as the first wasn’t up to His standards. Both were beautiful. Even more beautiful was to receive such thoughtful care at all. Without even having to ask, He got me one of my favorite icons, a jewelry egg. And He put enough thought into it to have it align with the theme of roses that I had created in our home.

That thoughtfulness, and that knowledge of me, was increased by how rare it was to receive a gift. That made it truly special. I know that some so-called Masters shower their slave girls in gifts as though the girl were the one they had to earn approval from rather than the other way around. I’ve always found that behavior weak and needy. But a gift given that is truly special and speaks to the soul of a girl on a special occasion is a marvel.

The next gift He gave me was even better. He drew me aside by the Heartbearer statues that I had set up and bared His feelings. He told me that He knew I sometimes needed more support and encouragement than I did punishment, particularly when it came to Kaissa. I’m doing so, He gave me the best gift one can receive in a relationship, understanding.

I believe that understanding, more than any force in personal relations, is what leads to strong and sustainable bonds. Knowing why someone does what they do, and encouraging it rather than deriding it, is what truly aligns people. It leads to inside jokes, to shared dreams and to activities that build someone up rather than frustrate them with friction.

Of course, even with understanding, there can be disagreement. Yet that is one of the blessings of being a slave girl to a true Master. I know my place when it comes to times when we may not see eye to eye. In such times, I trust in Him to lead us to a better place, rather than insisting on my own way. I submit. And that submission is rewarded.

The final gift was an example of this. He took me to the floor of the tavern I had made and bred me there. Not only had I long awaited the use of the floor in such a manner, having acquired the soapy bucket for just such a slippery occasion, I had waited for what felt like forever for my body to be used in such a way. That long wait, like the gifts of the eggs, made it all the more special.

And it was well worth the wait. Our coupling was intense and inspired. My Master even commented on my fierce passion. How could it be otherwise? Some dreams deferred, as the poets say, shrivel, but others, like my dream of being bred by my Master, explode. Such was the case.

What a dream it was and is. Used as a fertile woman, made to give life, forced to bear child; these are my ultimate desires. As He fulfilled them, He demanded that I say who truly owns me and my womb. Declaring that He was the one and only made it even hotter, forging that bond that I spoke of earlier in a way both spiritual and sexual.

How could it be otherwise? In my Master, with the gifts He gave me, I am complete. I have understanding, I have true submission to overcome what mere understanding cannot, and I have someone who truly sees me. The culmination of those powers in a carnal way, a way that lays claim to the most sensitive and essential parts of my body, perfected all this.

I know that perfection is a process, not a destination. Yet I also know when that process is as good as it gets. When the day finished by Him locking me to His bed, I remained there until I fell asleep. I gave no thought to straying; did not miss my usual shopping or socializing. I stayed. Just like His seed stays in me, I stayed. This is the completion of a slave girl, a station of true submission, the ideal that both girl and Master strive for. His command and my obedience had truly made a castle for us.

[thedancingkajira]

C23

Here’s a true confession: I hate losing.

Yes, I have a growth mindset. I know all things happen in their time. I get that one door closes and another opens. I feel the love of the universe when I let myself get out of my way.

But I hate losing. I despise doing my best and not having it be enough. I loath having to suffer the proverbial slings and arrows while I make my way to success. I am sick of having doors slammed in my face and locked. I don’t like getting kicked in the teeth when I’m down and I detest waking up and having to clean up all the doubt, the fear, the woe of the day before.

I lost at Kaissa again yesterday and, as before, learned a good deal from it. Namely, I learned three things. First, that my defensive strategy was the correct one. Second, that key pieces need to be employed in order for that strategy to not be paralyzed. And third, that the eventuality of defeating my Master, who has been playing for quite a longer time than I, is not likely to occur in the near future.

The loss resulted in sodomy and story time, when I related two of my favorite events of my erotic history. As with past buggery, it was the intended punishment. I felt pretty awful afterward and was threatened by an even more awful outcome if I lost again.

I didn’t want to lose before and I sure as the Vosk is wide don’t want to lose again. Losing is bad enough in an encouraging environment, like when I used to mess up my tavern dances when owned by my prior Master, Ho-Hak Bar-Hom. Even though it was terrifying and awkward, he would tell me I was a great dancer in the making. Such is not the case with Kaissa.

My Master knows and says that I’ll be a formidable opponent one day. Yet the journey there will be long and unpleasant. Fortunately, I enjoy the game enough to persist. That’s the saving grace of the situation, the thing that puts that hatred and its root, my ego, aside and impels me to face the day enthusiastically. As much as I may hate the price of defeat, I love the game more than it.

Win or lose, I’d still play Kaissa. And I’d still be me. So no matter the situation, its cost or the length of the journey, I’d still keep at it. That’s that sense of purpose that gets us through the darkest times. I know what my devotions are, and I’m at peace giving my all for them, understanding that doing so is the only real success I can have.

[thedancingkajira]

C22

The masquerade games continue. As do our stories. They’re a fitting hobby for a house of scribes.

The exact details of this game are best not divulged. Suffice it to say that they were more Free Woman practice and that the conclusion was as satisfying as a Kaissa victory.

I enjoy these elaborate games of wit. They continue to be revealing. What comes out when under disguise is a different sort of truth; an unvarnished honesty related implicitly rather than explicitly. As such, I feel like we’re really getting to know one another beyond the masks.

That’s a good thing. It leads to a deeper understanding; to the awareness of the soul’s appetites rather than just those of the flesh. A girl must please all kinds of desire.

The game yesterday certainly did so, and I hope we play it again. It concluded given that we were both rather worn out. We’re working especially hard these days, both on setting up our home and on the business that allows it to function.

Yet we still find time for games. This is important. I’ve seen too many people lose themselves in their role and simply work out of habit. Not us. We have a common purpose in each other’s delight. I can think of no greater service.

[thedancingkajira]

C21

My Master discovered something about me yesterday: I truly do love games.

The day began with a near perfect game of Kaissa. We were well matched and that match had its result in 42 moves. I lost. 42 is a significant number to some. I’ve heard it said that top authorities consider it the meaning of life.

I ended up “losing” in that I was roughly taken afterwards. Another win-win situation in my estimation. But more importantly, I learned a lot from the game.

One of the things I learned was that I play too openly. Appropriately enough, my Master declared that we would have a wager. If I won within the next two games, I could ask a confession of Him. If He won, he would ask one of me.

Asking such questions, like a good game of Kaissa, is revealing on both parties’ parts. One not only learns the confession, one learns what the one asking the confession cares about. Sometimes, the question is even more revelatory than the answer.

I’ve heard this philosophy, when translated into a strategy, called by the shadier operatives of Ar “counter intelligence.” In this case, the operative presents s certain narrative in order to discover, through its proliferation, who is listening and how they react.

One clever narrative that my Master and I have lately explored involves my continued masquerade as a Free Woman. He had me purchase all the vestments and accoutrements of that station. I like to think that I wear them well, much as I do the more fetching garments underneath them.

We will see where that particular game leads. There’s no telling about the outcome of games. The best plan always involves the change of the plan, often several times, with a clear and open mind.

I am open to all things as a slave girl. I adapt to survive and to thrive. I’ve said before that a girl must do so in order to be pleasing. I’ve also said that everyone, even Ubars, are subject to the same dynamic of variable fate. The best we can do is be the best in any given game, learn from the outcome and use that knowledge to flourish.

With change as the only constant, even victory is relative. That’s inspiration enough for every girl to face a new day with fire.