Part 7 - (To be continued)

Backstory #58 - The Tahari trade

With wheels clattering against the rutted surface of the pavestones, one of the cripples with a gleeful whoop, and to the indignation of the other, veers her board in under the Bosk making good her advantage as they both race in, out; around and under the market stalls. The Bosk care little just keep nonchalantly munching in their chaff bags. The stall owners and custom in the most ignored them or feign annoyance, only a few attempted to chastise them in their passing.

Both slaves were strapped kneeling, narrow nadu posture, with their useless legs tucked up against their thighs. Each wore a ragged camisk, just sufficient to satisfy the propriety of Free Women. They propelled themselves by hand, scooping at the paved surface.

Resting on the board in front of one, is a baker’s bag its leather thongs knotted behind her neck. I had smelt the fragrance of hot bread as they passed. No doubt their gleeful mood and speed of passing is partially buoyed by a possible reward of a warm pastie to share - a reward from their Mistress.

The Girl in the back of our cart let out a squeal of merriment as they pass, I guess she is watching through the canvas flap. Her delight seems to waiver with a more serious remark. I recognise Carla’s voice but not her words, which probably related to the crippled slaves having their hamstrings cut. A common punishment for runaway slaves.

The three slaves in our cart are free to move about the interior as they wished and as far as the chains, that shackled them to the restraining bar, permit. The Girl and Carla seemed in good spirits delighted at the change in routine and to be outside of the Inn.

Tutsu is petulant and moody, she has been this way since the Inn keeper, her Master, made her drink the second Slave Wine – that was two days ago and already she is flush and ripe for seeding.

Around Tutsu’s neck, attached to her collar by a delicate chain, is a small polished cylinder in which is kept her breeding records – every 4 hours I remove her iron belt and insert a small tubular glass vial instrument up her anus, recording on breeding chart the icon reading as the Physician showed me. On this paper will be recorded several other things during the breeding, such as dates of impregnations, diet and later milk production.

This chart forms part of her slave records and those of any young she made produce. Her milk may not be for her own young, for it is doubtful she will ever see them. She will be milked and her product sold or she will be rented as a wet nurse to a slaver or a Free Woman. There will be a good market for her milk at the new settlement.

I also have some small packets of powder to feed her 2 hours prior to any impregnation. The physician says it will cause multiple young with a high probability of females.

“Be quiet! Stop it immediately” I thump the cart floor above my head, the giggling stops, thought only muffled behind clasp hands. It is awkward enough within the constrictions of these robes of concealment without knowing the slaves are peaking at you through the cracks in the floorboards.

“Tower!” I command and hear the prompt movements of submission above me as they react to the command.

I had been told, by the Inn Keeper, not to leave the wagon under any circumstances. In desperation for a pee I crawl under the wagon and partially shielded by a draping canvas squat attempting to arrange the voluminous robes so as not to soil them. This definitely is not within the norms of Free Women behaviour. My confines seem to amplify the trickle. I am much relieved, not only physically, when emerging from under the cart I see nobody seems to have noticed my actions.

“Release.” I hear a shuffle within the cart. “Tutsu, She Sleen!”.

Inside the cart I know Tutsu is adopting the posture, hindquarters upthrust, thighs wide and head to the floor. From beneath the wagon driver’s seat I retracted the pouch containing the little glass instrument and key to Tutsu’s iron belt.

As I climb to the back of the cart I am momentarily distracted by a cheery gaggle of six short, plump coffled slaves, as they are lead past naked towards the docks. These are not the slender beauties sort by most men of Gor, but specially prepared slaves for the Tahari trade. Tahari tribesmen prefer their slave meat well rounded and softly padded – it possibly has something to do with the added warmth they offer their Masters on the freezing desert nights.

These girls, though good natured now as they delight in, and play to the whistles and goads from the free men, were probably force fed to achieve their chubbiness. Force-feeding is done by forcing fatty food, foods containing much verr butter and cream, through a tube directly into a slave's stomachs every 2 to 3 hours over a number of days, even weeks, until the required shape is achieved. Their Master will no doubt profit well from his efforts.

I continue into the cart and unlock Tutsu's iron belt ....

(To be continued)