When I went in, the sun, though setting slowly, was still bathing the plains with its warmth. From the grassy hill overlooking the herds one could see all that the Tuchuk hold near and dear. In one direction there were the bosk as far as the eye could see littering the plains as they grazed upon the sweet grass. In the other direction, the brightly painted wagons stood out against a bloody red and burnt orange backdrop with the tall stacks of smoke slowly rising from the various cooking fires throughout the endless maze of wagon rows.
When I awoke from my late evening nap, disoriented and vaguely unaware of not only myself and the time but my surrounding aswell, I stubbed my toe on a pair of my own boots and stumbled into an empty crate in the corner of my wagon. My shin still bears the bruise. I recall the sky being the same color as I stepped from my wagon rubbing my eyes and trying to put myself together. Dark shades of Ubar worthy purple and forboding blues stretched across the plains somewhat eerily. I could smell rain. Perhaps it will rain soon. Its only redeeming quality were the stars that dusted sky like the diamonds I had seen in the Paravaci standard once as a boy and looking up into them I suddenly felt sleepy again. Had it not been for what came next I might have retreated back into my wagon and let the still of the Ubar's fires at night lull me back to sleep but I was sudden struck by an itch that had not been scratched in many seasons.
Vices. Men and women are born with them I believe. There are some that are worse than others but a vice is a vice and eventually you are either broken by it or you learn to live with it. There are the few who are ale to rise above them, either by force or by sheer will. There are others, namely myself, who have learned to live with them. The itch I was telling you about. I share my vice with my father. It was on a raid that my father first introduced me to it, and I have been living with it since then.
She was kneeling next to the fire completely oblivious to my presence. Had there been a sleen somewhere in the shadows she would have been killed without even managing to put up a struggle. If there had been a less than honorable man in the shadows she would have surely been raped without mercy.
She was trying to soften leather and doing a piss poor job of it. It wasn't difficult to tell that someone had gone to alot of trouble to bring this slave here for she wasn't a woman of the plains. I could tell. I could see it. I could even taste in on the open air. Women of the plains, be they free or slave, are firm and bear a feminine definition. They are beautiful and thoroughly sought after from what I have heard from the lips of a Turian or two during the Love Wars. Tuchuk women are proud and brazen. Their spirits are not easily broken and their bodies do not easily bend or break when brought to the edge time and time again. Tuchuk women are built for survival and for this Tuchuk men are blessed.
This woman was different and it was this difference that brought the itch on. I followed the soft lines that her wide splayed kneel created for me. Ripe curves that had not sharp turns or sudden stops. I knew without a doubt that her body would be soft and her skin creamy smoothe. There was no doubt in my mind that she hadn't been here long, but from the bruises fading away on her flesh it was clear someone had made an attempt to break her in properly. This woman wore only the collar around the slim column of her throat and soft hair which framed the oval shape of her face.
I hate dweller women for this! I hate that I crave them so! I hate them because I know many will not survive upon the harsh plains. I hate them because many are brought here to struggle and die. I hate them because I am a Tuchuk and cannot abide by laziness. Yes, as much as I crave them...I also hate them. I hate them because many times I end up hating myself. After.
After commanding she display herself I smirked when I found that she was a trained slave. I never understood that odd little song and dance women do. I commanded she stand more like a woman. I commanded she bring her thighs closer together and stand less like a soldier. She did so...and I made my approach. Tasco has an eye for women. Very rarely am I wrong..even at first glance. I was right about this one too.
Her skin was soft as tabuk hide. Her hips and waist were curvy and full. I pressed my fingers into her tender flesh of her thighs and they sunk in deep and went deeper as I pawed out the curve of her ass that I realize now was shaped like a heart. It jiggled and bounced when I lifted it and let it drop. Surely she could absorb the shock of thorough fuck...I only question her durability.
There isn't any need to elaborate. For none of it went anywhere. Despite my vice I am a man of intergrity (some) and upon finding out who her owner was, I made a choice to respect his property as I would expect the same. I left her by the fire with what I considered to be words of encouragement and returned to my wagon. That shame was there...the anger also, but I pushed it down...way down...with several swallows of lukewarm paga. This slave was an eye opener and I hope for her sake she lasts. It would be a waste of a nice piece. Ongel, I am sure knows what do with it. If not...I am sure he'll learn. QUICK.
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