The Circassian (closed)

haremfaery

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Katirah ((Kah-TIR- rah roll the r)) was cursed. She had been born a beautiful child and retained that beauty into young womanhood. She did not go through an awkward stage at puberty and only seemed to become more beautiful. Her hair was a sun streaked auburn, her eyes deep green flecked with gold. Her skin was flawless, not a mole or a freckle marred it's milky perfection.

Katirah was cursed. Like all of her people, she was intelligent and clever. She loved stories and memorized them easily along with poems of all sorts. She had her father's gift with instruments. She could play almost anything with little instruction and had a good ear.

Katirah was cursed. She had her mother's voice and could sing like the nightingale in the Mandarin's court. She also had her mother's gift for dancing. She could dance with such etherealness, as if her feet were too special to touch the ground. Yet she could also dance with a raw earthiness to rouse the stoniest of men.

Katirah was a passionate girl, quick to anger or to happiness. Her moods changed as quickly as the clouds over the mountains of her homeland.

And Katirah was cursed.

When the raiders came to her village, she would have been safe if she had stayed hidden with the other girls and most of the women. But she could not stay hidden when she saw her father and brothers attacked. She snatched up a fallen sword and dashed at the raiders. She was able to give a few some lasting scars before she was grabbed and thrown over a horse. At the time they did not know what a gem they had stolen. The rider thwacked her across her bottom with the flat of his sword to quiet her. "This one fights like a she-demon. He grinned. She would bring much gold in the slave market if she were half as fair as she was vicious. And he would take some of the spirit out of her by the time she was presented.

----

Katirah was in a line with other women, some little more than girls, some far older than she. Some to be sold as household slaves, some to work in the marketplace or the fields, some, like Katirah, were for entertainment--playing, singing, dancing, and others were for a different sort of entertainment altogether.

Katirah was worth far more for her skills in the musical arts and storytelling. That's what she had been told and she clung to to that. She would live a quiet life entertaining her master and his guests, pursuing her music, perhaps teaching the master's children these fine arts. It would be a good life.

She was roused from her daydream when one of the slave master's grabbed her by the elbow.

((Feel free to jump to where you want this to begin...her arrival at the slave market, the auction itself...))
 
It was a dust ridden, God forsaken town. Tbilisi, Georgia, to be exact. Marcel Barton found himself here at the behest of his liege, Théodore Caron, a baron of some means.

Some means monetarily, less so in sense. After all, the Baron sent Marcel half way across the world on some whimsical mission to find the perfect beauty. Shrugging to himself, Marcel wondered what was wrong with the pale beauties in the north. Danish women he had heard were soft curvy and quite warm.

But no, Baron Caron had other plans. He wanted a Circassian play toy.

Ultimately it was not Marcel's to wonder why, merely his to obey. He had been given quite a sum of money to find this fabled woman. Dressed in his armor, oversized robe covering it, Marcel headed to the market where women could be bought.

Presumably men too.

Marcel arrived at the largest of the slave traders not long after he began to offer his 'wares"' for sale. It was an uninteresting experience until near the very end.

She was clearly thinking about something, what Marcel cared not. Her beauty however was unsurpassed. Hair the color of the deepest garnet, her eyes were liquid emeralds with gold flecks in them, her skin color was much closer to that of a Greek than a German. Pointing at her, Marcel commanded, "Bring her forward so I may see her."

A slave trader grabbed her roughly and yanked her forward nearer to him. Marcel's eyes traversed her body settling onto her eyes. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. A fleeting thought of buying for himself and not returning crossed Marcel's mind.

No, it would be dishonorable to do so.

With a deep rumbling bass, Marcel asked, "What is your name, woman, and what skills do you have?"
 
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((I pictured her with dark auburn hair and dark green eyes flecked with amber. But I realize I forgot to put in a description. Since you want to go for blonde and blue eyes, I can roll with that.))

They had tried to break her spirit but she came from a long line of proud women. And she knew her worth. It was a dangerous combination.

"I am Katirah." She said to the man. Her look appraised him as much as he appraised her. "I sing. Very well. I play the ney, the rebab, the qanun, the tar. And also the oud, my favorite." She gave the man a little smile. "I dance the dances of the Persian court and those that please the pashas and sultans. I also tell stories. Do you like stories?" She paused. "Sir."

"She knows more stories than Scheherazade, and hundreds--no, thousands of songs." The slave master said. "She's a Circassian, you know." He added as if that explained everything about her. He pushed Katirah forward. "Show your legs to the fine man."

Katirah let out a slow breath, then raised her skirts to show delicate feet and ankles, then the beginning of shapely calves. She let her skirts fall.
 
Her voice was dulcet, the sound of church bells chiming in the early morning from a mountain away. Soft and rich, it carried a musical quality, a hint of defiance, laced with deference.

Her pride was evident in her stance, haughty, beckoning and guarded simultaneously. Marcel swore to himself, trying to separate the transaction from the woman in front of him. The sun played off the red in her hair, highlighting it, emphasizing it. Slowly, Marcel began to fantasize what such a woman would be like to know.

Mentally, emotionally, and not least of all, Biblically.

The slave master prattled along, "She knows more stories than Scheherazade, and hundreds--no, thousands of songs."

"She's a Circassian, you know." He added as if that explained everything about her.

Marcel shot a withering glance at the slave master. His voice dripping with the honey sarcasm of nobility as Marcel purred, "Really? I thought perhaps she was from the orient."

Anger flared in Marcel as the slave master pushed her forward, none too gently commanding her to bare her legs to Marcel. For the briefest of moments, Marcel considered cleaving the man in twain for his insult to Katirah; but, he checked himself.

He was after all here to buy a slave for his Baron, not a wife. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Marcel asked, "How much for the woman."

The response was shocking; a small fortune. Well not so small. It was enough money that Marcel could pay his tribute to the Baron for a year. A substantial, but doable amount. Instead of agreeing though, Marcel demurred and turned to leave.

The slave master called out, "Wait, young master, perhaps we can arrange a deal for the woman."

Looking at her instead of the slave master, Marcel mused, "I don't know. She appears prideful, willful. I do not think she would serve my master well. I would pay no more than a quarter of what you ask."

"MY FAMILY! My Children, good master, please remember I have a wife and children I must provide for. I could take no less that three fourths of that amount."

Marcel smiled, responding, "I can not one whit about your family, sir. No more than a third."

The two men stood facing each other, both trying not to smile knowing at the end a deal would be struck, it was a matter now of which party, other than Katirah, would hate the deal the most.
 
The slave master sniffed. "You can see she is no woman of Cathay, though I have one and can get more if that is what you prefer." He implied that the man before him did not deserve such as one as the Circassian.

Katirah drew her veil across her face to hide her little smile. She didn't not consider herself prideful. Was it pride when you knew your worth and could prove it? Even a blind man would sense her beauty. She wondered who this man's master was. He must have wealth to burn. She doubted he was a man fo the East. His servant, if that is what this man was, surely was not. He had a deep, rich voice. She wondered briefly if he sang.

Katirah realized she has been lost in her musings and missed the details of ehr sale. She had not heard her final selling price. From the look of it, both men were equally dissatisfied.

"Will you take her with you now? You can send a porter for her things, her musical instruments and clothing." The slave master asked. "Or will you collect her later? I will keep her overnight if you wish, but after that--you must pay room and board for her if you are not ready to take her." He would at least get more money for Katirah. "And if anything happens to her in the meantime," he folded his arms, "'Tis not my responsibility."

Katirah watched and listened trying to get a feel for this man who would take her to her new master. She saw the way he looked at her. Was she expected to entertain him as well?
 
Once the deal was struck, Marcel turned his attention away from the slave trader and Katirah. He looked over the other slaves and saw a male and female glancing at each other while trying to keep their eyes down cast.

The fear and concern was etched clearly on their faces. Walking up to the male, "She is your wife?"

Shaking his head, "No, my sister."

Marcel stood his eyes traveling the miles back to France. It was a hard journey, rife with danger and inconvenience. Nodding absently, "I;ll take this male and that female," pointing at the sister.

"Load him up with her gear, if he can not carry it all, he'll make multiple trips."

Walking up next to Katirah, Marcel's hand twitched, as if he was about to offer it to her. The thought of her touch sent a shiver down his spine, and Marcel lowered his hand back to his side. "Follow me." he commanded as he strode off toward the inn.
 
Katirah had to lengthen her stride to keep up with her new master. It was most unbecoming. "Pardon my boldness to speak when you have not addressed me, but what title am I to call you? Sir." She was testing the waters a little. He said he had purchased her for his own master. Was he a slave? A servant? A retainer? He had shown himself to be a man of some compassion when he purchased the brother and sister together. She wondered if he had more in his entourage or if the three of them were the entirely. At least she would have a woman to help her dress. And to keep her company.

Katirah had many other questions for him. Where were they going? When were they leaving? Beyond her skills in entertainment, what were his expectations of her? And most important: what was her new master like? The urge to blurt out the questions clawed at her. She must be patient. It was not one of her virtues.

((What does Marcel look like?))
 
Marcel stopped abruptly and turned to his left to look at Katirah. "Sir is good, you may also call me Comte Barton." Taking his helmet off Marcel's thick dark brown hair, spilled around the bottom of his neck, not quite long enough to grab while wearing the helmet, but long enough to protect said neck from the chaffing of the helmet and its padding.

His was a face accustomed to the sun, and being exposed to its warmth. His skin was finely baked to a golden bronze, his eyes, closer to gray than blue, took on the color of what every her wore, which now seemed almost white. His eyes pulsed with energy and alertness.

"I shall slow down for you Katirah, but stay to my left and slightly behind me. That will keep you clear of my sword if there is cause to draw it."

Marcel turned to start toward the inn at a much slower pace, "You are now the property of Baron Caron of France. You will find he is a pleasant lord as lords go. I do not know what your duties will be for him."
 
The way he stopped so abruptly, Katirah thought he might strike her for being insolent. He was a difficult man to read. Or perhaps she was simply not accustomed to the ways of men of the west.

"As you say then, Comte Barton." The name felt strange on her tongue. It was hard angles which she softened somewhat by rolling the R. So he was a lord of some rank, yet not so very high. The rank of one sent nearly halfway round the world to purchase a slave for his master. He did not seem happy to be on such a mission.

When the Comte took off his helmet, Katirah could see that he was a handsome man, but his eyes. She had never seen such eyes. They were like the eyes of a ghost. She shivered a little.

"As you wish, sir." She stepped back into what she thought was the proper distance. So was was to be slave to a Baron. She was not quite sure how close that was to a king. "The Baron must have incredible wealth to send you so far to purchase a trifle such as myself." She was being very forward to speak when not addressed, but the Comte had not reprimanded her before so she pressed her advantage to learn more about her new master.

((Didn't know if you wanted anything to happen on the way to the inn or not, so I didn't move them along.))

((Guh, I'm a sucker for dark hair and blue eyes. Black Irish especially.))
 
Marcel began walking again, Katirah's hint ignored or not heard. As they walked along the streets of Tbilisi, his eyes kept sweeping the crowd watching, waiting for problems.

Fortunately or not, those problems never arose.

Reaching the inn, which was bustling with activity, Marcel pulled a man to the side, "Move my things from the room I am in, and into yours. You are to leave and displace whomever."

The taller fair haired man glanced once briefly at Katirah, while maintaining the good sense to not gawk, replied, "Of course, my lord." Turning on his heel the knight headed back to the rooms.

As his presence, and Katirah's, was noticed, the buzz fell off rapidly. Then one by one, then suddenly, 20 mouths all at once demanded of Marcel's attention, until "STOP!"

Marcel's roar rattled through the crowd, silencing them. "I will address each of your concerns as soon as I have Katirah situated, and have changed from my armor."

Glancing back at Katirah, "If you will follow me please."

Marcel waded through the crowd up the one flight of stairs to the next to last door on the right. The last doorway on the right having been boarded and plastered over.

Stepping through the door, Marcel plopped onto a pile of cushions asking, "Almost done, Henri?"

"I would be, sir, but you travel like my wife. Too many clothes." Henri said with a smirk.

"Perhaps the next I go to Paris, she and I shall leave you unfettered at home." Marcel replied easily.

Marcel looked up at Katirah, "That room," pointing to the inner chamber with his head, "is yours. I will stay out here."
 
It took Katirah some time for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the inn compared to the bright sun outside. It was cooler inside as well. It made her feel refreshed after their walk.

She was surprised at the amount of people, no men, in the inn. She realized they must all be with the Comte. He traveled with an entourage after all. This could not all be to escort her back to his Baron. The Comte must be purchasing many other wares to bring so many men. The caravan generally had its own guards against the bandits that lurked along the route.

Katirah felt eyes on her and looked at a very tall man with hair like sunshine. She pulled her veil across her face while she looked at him. She turned to follow the Comte's broad back as he cut a swath through the men. Her hips swayed as she walked as if to music only she could here. She smiled behind her veil, she knew these men would all be looking at her.

Katirah looked at what had once been a door before entering the other doorway. She realized the last door had been boarded up for her sake. True, the Comte had spent a small fortune on her, it only made sense that he should protect his investment.

Ah, the man had a wife. She wondered if he had any concubines--no they were called something else, mistresses. She hid a smile behind her veil.

Marcel looked up at Katirah, "That room," pointing to the inner chamber with his head, "is yours. I will stay out here."

"It shall be as you say, Comte Barton." None of her things were here yet. How could they be? They had left the market before the other slaves could have returned to her quarters to retrieve her things. And she expected it would take multiple trips. her instruments were delicate. If he hired a wagon, he could probably bring everything in one trip. In any case it would be awhile. "Do you require anything of me right now? Do you wish me to bathe you? Wash your feet? Or I could give you a shampoo--no, you call it...massage." She was rather adapt with languages and spoke some French and Italian. She was sure she would improve by necessity. She knew her accent was not right. But truly, what more did she need to know how to say except, "Yes, Sir," "If it pleases you, Sir?" She waited for the Comte's answer still keeping her face veiled.
 
Marcel's mind wandered off as Katirah offered to bath him, massage him. His mind filled with the natural more primal thoughts a male has when any beautiful woman was near, compounded by her offer to touch him.

His eyes dilated slightly as his breathing turned a little shallow, in his mind's eye her hands were running all over his body, teasing him, enticing him. Inwardly, Marcel groaned as his head shook. "No, not right now, I have work I must attend to."

Standing up, Marcel turned to one of the chests that Henri brought in and opened it, pulling out a set of fine clothing. As he stood upright, pulling the robe that covered his armor over his head, Marcel seemed surprise that she was still in the room. "If you would excuse me, I would change before heading back into the common area."
 
Katirah had thought the Comte would want her to attend him. perhaps later he would call for her.

"As the Comte wishes." She said with a little bow. She went into her room but did not close the door behind her. She removed her abaya--an outer robe-like garment and hung it on a hook. She slipped her shoes off and sat on the bed. The room was large enough. Probably the most expensive at the inn. It held a low large bed, a chest of drawers, a table with two chairs and a dry sink with a pitcher and bowl for washing.

There was little for her to do until her things arrived. She supposed she could practice singing. She made herself comfortable against the numerous pillows on the bed. Then she began to sing a love song. A woman sings about how she misses her lover, that when he is gone she is empty and when he is with her--there are no words. The singer is to make her throat catch to show that their time together is beyond expressing.
 
Katirah went into the other room and Marcel began peeling the layers of clothing and armor off. Laying the chain mail to the side, he enjoyed a moment of near nudity, whilst keeping an eye toward the door.

Pulling hose on under his tunic, Marcel listened to Katirah's voice as she sang. It was a wailsome song, bespeaking loss and mourning. Slowly it changed tenor and became hopeful, contented. Marcel stood transfixed, part of him want to rush in to comfort her, then he wanted so very much to be the one she hoped for.

In both cases, his feet were incapable of movement. Slack jawed he listened, his wonder growing, his awe manifest on his face, his desire manifest in the cod of his hose pushed aside by his hardening manhood.
 
Katirah got up from the bed and paced the room. She looked out of the lattice-covered window. She saw the two slaves the Comte had purchased. The man (she must get their names) was carrying a chest and the woman had a few satchels. They were bringing her things. Good. But this wasn't close to everything. She would speak to them when they brought what they had to her room.

Katirah sat back on the bed again. She didn't hear much movement from the next room. She sang a new song, a bawdy one about a girl who's father locked her in her room and how she would throw the key out the window and her suitors would use it to open her door. She sang it first in Persian and then in French. Her French was good but accented as the Comte already knew. The song ended in a crude joke that included camels as so many bawdy tales and songs of the middle east seemed to.

((Here are the lyrics if you want to read them. http://www.bedlambards.com/Lyrics/Take Out the Trash/Zulaika.html))

((And unless you have other plans...Or a guard can intercept them ebfore they reach the rooms and I can edit this. ))

It wasn't long before the two slaves came up the stairs bringing some of Katirah's things.

"My Lord, we have brought a few of The Circassian's things. A porter is coming along shortly with the rest. I told the porter he would be paid when he arrives. Where may I put this chest?"

The man's sister stood quietly in the background.
 
Marcel quickly donned his tunic and doublet when he heard Katirah moving around in her room. The song she sang, he did not understand the first go round, then she sang it again in French. It was one of the bawdiest songs he had ever heard, shockingly wanton the woman Zulaika clearly was morally repugnant. All in all the song had a soothing effect on Marcel; his excitement and desire both waned noticeably.

He stood a moment in shame, thinking, acknowledging that a moment ago that he would have been happy to be Ali if Katirah would have been Zulaika.

In the barest knick of time, he finished dressing as the door banged open. The male slave and his sister were standing laden with Katirah's gear. Marcel finished recovering from his own thoughts as the male said, "My Lord, we have brought a few of The Circassian's things. A porter is coming along shortly with the rest. I told the porter he would be paid when he arrives. Where may I put this chest?" he said.

Waving his arm vaguely in the direction of Katirah's room, "In there." Thinking about it a moment, "In fact, stack her stuff by the door to the hallway, create an inner wall as it were with it."

Looking at the sister, "You will sleep in the room with Katirah, your brother will stay with the men outside."

Having a new sense of propriety that he almost let loose of, Marcel headed downstairs to deal with the members of the caravan.
 
Katirah had expected a reaction to her bawdy song. Laughter. Or a snort. Possibly a reprimand for singing of such things. Nothing. This Comte was a difficult man to read. Perhaps because they came from different cultures. This did not bode well for her relationship with the Baron. Her skills as an entertainer depended on her being able to read her audience--her master. knowing when to push, to tease, to lighten the mood or match it.

She heard the arrival of the sibling slaves. Of course the two women would share the same room. Easier to protect both of them. The man came into her room. "No, no. Put that where I can get it it. That has things I need now." She sat on the bed as he brought the trunk and set it by the window. "Thank you." She smiled. "What are your names?" She had not heard them called by anything in the brief time they had known each other at the slave market.

"I am Kasim, and my sister is Samara."

Katirah smiled. "Thank you, Kasim. Would you go down and meet the porter? The cases with my instruments are obvious. I want you to help him carry them. They are very precious to me." She looked at the girl standing shyly in the corner. "Come, help me unpack. Once the rest is here, I would like a bath. I will send you to the innkeeper about bringing up a tub and water. Unless there is a bathhouse." She doubted the Comte would let her go and bathe if that were the case. He seemed to think there were bandits everywhere bent on stealing her away. She was only a slave, an expensive one, yes. But there were far more things worth stealing in this city.

She busied herself by directing Samara what to unpack. She still did not know when they would be leaving the inn. She must ask the Comte when next she saw him. She wondered if they would be dining together. She had many more questions for him and she needed to practice her French. Her vocabulary was very limited and most useful in bed. She needed more general conversation. She would have to teach Samara as well.
 
Marcel set about the onerous task of listening to the merchants whine about supplies, mules, horses, bandits, what ever. Normally Marcel was able to focus on the task at hand.

The damned woman upstairs though filled his thoughts. Ribald song aside, her voice was enchanting. It held a haunting quality that he had never heard before. From high to low notes, it was intoxicating and he would easily be able to sit hours and listen. Hell she even made the bawdy song sexy.

Sighing heavily, his train of thought was again interrupted, this time by the porter arriving with her gear. On and on the musical equipment came. Looking at Henri, Marcel said, "Prepare for an additional wagon. She packs like your wife."

Henri glanced at Marcel, "Perhaps we can leave some of your things behind?" His voice carried a playfully hopeful note, knowing full well the answer in advance.

A snort came from Marcel, "I will pass my condolences along to your bride that you stayed behind."

"No you don't, she'll just come after me."

Marcel grinned, then looked up sharply as the innkeeper came up. "Excuse me sir. Lunch is almost ready where will you be eating?"

Marcel replied, "Upstairs, prepare two plates."

Bowing the innkeeper muttered, "Of course sir."

The innkeeper backed away and for the hundredth time, Marcel's eyes twitched up the stairs. Henri looked at his friend and liege, "Perhaps you should have married before we came."

Marcel turned to Henri, Marcel looked at him questioningly. "You keep looking up there, like you want to go to her."

Marcel sighed, "She is beautiful, Henri. She sings like no other woman I have heard."

"Yes, but unless you are buying two, she has been spoken for."

Marcel laughed, "I know, that is what will make this trip so hard. It is why we need to leave in the next week or so, to try and make it back before the snows."

Henri laughed a warm rolling sound, "Oooh, winter in an inn with her? You wouldn't stand a chance."
 
Katirah oversaw the placing of the chests and trunks against the door that led to the hall, the one that had been plastered shut. Some she needed to look inside to determine how accessible she needed them to be. Her price included her clothing and her instruments and music and books.

Kasim was efficient in stacking the trunks. The room was much more cramped now. Samara had finished unpacking things Katirah would need for the next day or two. She left to fetch her mistress, that was how she saw Katirah now, more water so she could take a sponge bath.

Samara shooed the porters away. They all wanted to linger to look at Katirah. Katirah held her veil over her face. But her eyes flirted with the men. She enjoyed looking at their broad bare chests and strong arms.

"You too." Samara said to her brother. Then followed him out to get water.

Samara came back a short while later. Katirah closed the connecting door. She knelt on cushions and stripped to the waist. her back faced the door. Samara took a cloth and began with Katirah's face and slowly washed it, then her neck and arms. She had never seen skin so flawless. She moved to wash the woman's back. The line of her spine, the delicate waist that bloomed into perfectly proportioned hips. Katirah should be a princess and not a slave. Samara thought. She washed Katirah as if it were a sacred ritual.
 
Marcel walked into the chambers he was sharing with Katirah and stopped cold in his tracks. She was facing mostly away from him, but naked from the waist up. Samara knelt in front of her, worshipfully washing her fellow slave.

The swell of her left breast was visible from this angle. Not that Marcel had much exposure to female anatomy. Yes he had lain with one or two in the past, but the idle exercise of sex itself held little appeal. He was aware there was an emotional component to the act that had been missing.

Marcel was not one for anything wanton. Sex and violence, were similar in their ways, each had a purpose, each had a rhyme and reason. Each a purpose and time to use them.

Looking at Katirah's back, Marcel knew he found the person, if not the time and reason. Moving into the room he sat on the cushions, denying himself a view of Katirah, getting himself back under control.
 
((Poor, poor Marcel. I hadn't realized he was such a stick in the mud. :p I suppose Katirah will slowly be driving him crazy.))

Katirah stood to let Samara bathe the rest of her. Then the girl brought a shift and pulled it over Katirah as she raised her arms. It was a pale rosy gold color that complimented her skin. Next Samara brought a caftan to put over the shift. This was a deep copper with gold embroidered arabesques embellishing it. She turned and raised her hands to unpin her hair and stopped when she saw the Comte.

"Pardon me, Sir. I did not hear you enter." She stepped closer to him. "All of my things have been delivered and stacked at the door as you have instructed." She paused. "Shall I have Samara fetch more water so that you may have a bath? Or a massage? Both?"
 
((Poor, poor Marcel. I hadn't realized he was such a stick in the mud. I suppose Katirah will slowly be driving him crazy.))
If she doesn't, it kind of kills the plot line :devil:

Marcel's breath caught involuntarily as he looked at Katirah. It could not be possible she looked better, yet she did. Never had he seen a woman so beautiful, so confident in herself.

And she was a slave.

Marcel shook his head after Katirah asked, "Shall I have Samara fetch more water so that you may have a bath? Or a massage? Both?"

"The lunch meal is about to be served, I thought we could eat together." He knew in the back of his mind it was a dangerous precedent he was setting. Eating a meal with a slave was beneath his status. In France he would never contemplate doing such a thing.

This was not France. She was no ordinary slave.

Inwardly he groaned, it would a long travel steeling himself against her, but he must.

His mind raced trying to figure out a way to save a little face, then, "I thought you would serve it for me."
 
((Haha, true that. I had been thinking about playing her a different way, but since Marcel is such a boyscout, I'll take a different tack. :devil: ))

"As the Comte wishes." Katirah could see his discomfort. He was clearly not accustomed to slaves. And certainly not a slave such as herself. She wondered if his Baron would have any better idea. "Would the Comte like me to play for him after we finish our meal?"

She closed the distance between the two of them and gracefully folded herself onto cushion on the floor near his feet. "If I may ask a question, Sir. You do not own any slaves, do you? Are slaves common in France?" The man must have servants. He knew how to treat servants, didn't he? "May I suggest that you consider me one of your personal servants?" She gave him a small smile.

She could feel his tension. They would be traveling together for awhile. It simply wouldn't work if he continued this way. One of her many duties for her previous master was to make his guests feel at ease. So far her attempts at suggesting things that she might do for the Comte had failed. She would think of something.
 
((Play her however you want. I think the way you originally thought about playing her would have its nice innocent love story theme. Something we both would have to work at :devil: Besides I rather like the idea of playing someone who is unsure of his sexuality and its expression. Nice change of pace. For now...))


His hand twitched, arm raising forward slightly as the slave folded herself. He barely caught it and stopped his hand before caressing her face, running his fingers through her hair. It was an enormously erotic position he found. Having her on her knees in front of him. Marcel found he liked it very much, but still.

She was still a slave.

He almost missed her question, "If I may ask a question, Sir. You do not own any slaves, do you? Are slaves common in France?"

Shaking his head, as much to try and clear it as to indicate an answer, he said, "No. Not many. There are many serfs, but very few actual slaves."

Needing space, needing to get his head straight, Marcel walked into her room and examined the instruments. She had a dizzying array of instruments, then pointing at the tar, "Play this while we wait for the food."
 
((haha. I'm on another site where I have to keep everything PG. So I can handle writing her innocent. Of course, there are a lot of people in the world who would just _love_ to change that.))

((Is there a bed in the outer/Comte's room? behind a screen? Out in the open? Or will he be sleeping on the cushions he keeps lounging on?

"I see." Katirah said. "I am not very familiar with your Western ways. I hope you will educate me out of my ignorance. I would not care to be punished for lack of knowledge."

Katirah followed the Comte into her room. She picked up the Persian instrument. "As the Comte wishes."

Katirah walked back into the larger room and sat down on the floor. She adjusted her caftan and made herself comfortable. She began tuning the instrument making a little song of it. "Does Sir have a preference for the mood of my playing?" She looked up at him and raised her eyebrows.
 
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