The Circassian (closed)

Katirah tightened her grip on the tajin. She felt her face get hot with anger. Another day! She bit back a protest. What was she supposed to have learned? That life was unfair? She knew that? That her fate was not her own? She knew that too. That her life and comfort depended on the whim of her master? That had been made all to clear to her recently.

"As the Comte wishes." Katirah said still not looking at him.

"Show me your feet."

Katirah set the tajin on the carpeted floor of the tent. She slipped her shoes off revealing her socks and the bandages she had wrapped around her feet. A few rusty brown spots showed where they had bled. The ball of her right foot was the worst. She was not sure if she should sit and remove the bandages for the Comte or not.
 
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Marcel watched Katirah look between him and the cushion until he finally waved at it, and watched her slump onto the cushion. He waited patiently as she took her boots, socks, and finally bandages off.

Taking her heels in his hands, he pulled her legs straight and looked at the damage. Her feet were in fact raw, several small puncture and slices on the bottom of her feet.

"Samara!" he called out.

Poking her head in, Samara responded, "Yes, my Comte?"

"Bring some of that foul smelling tincture that you gave the chirgeon earlier."

Her head disappeared as she said, "Yes, sir."
 
Katirah sank onto the cushion. It was the most ungraceful movement she had ever made in the Comte's presence. She wished she had water to dampen the bandages to loosen the dried blood. She took her time removing the bandages not wanting to cause them to bleed again.

Katirah flinched involuntarily and made to pull her foot away at the Comte's touch. He held them firmly, but gently. Her fingers gripped the cushions.

She looked to the doorway when the Comte called for Samara. She had not know the girl was so close by.

Katirah still would not look at the Comte. Thankfully, Samara was not gone long. She came into the tent and bowed to the Comte then held out the jar of ointment. She also had a roll of fresh bandages.

"Shall I tend to Katirah's feet, sit?" She knelt down and took the lid off the jar.
 
One syllable cut through the tent freezing both women in place, "No."

Samara looked up at the Comte as if she misheard and impatience laced his voice as he said, "Leave us."

Samara left the tent and Marcel stepped up to Katirah and took her right foot in his hand and carefully smeared the foul smelling tincture across the ball. Inspecting his handiwork, Marcel nodded, then said, "Now, put your shoes on, and tomorrow try and learn what you need."
 
Katirah looked at the Comte. Why was he so angry?

Samara gave Katirah a quick look of sympathy, then backed out of the tent as if it had suddenly become infested with vipers.

Katirah reached for the clean bandages to wrap her feet. "I will do my best to learn my lesson, Sir." She said. She put her right foot on her left thigh. In her nakedness, her pose was rather vulgar, or provocative depending on how one's mind was leaning.
 
Marcel smiled despite himself at Katirah's wanton position. She was tentatively wrapping her feet with bandages, and not doing quite as well as one would have hoped. Kneeling down, he said, "Here, I will do that."

He unwrapped what Katirah had already done and started over, his touch was firm but gentle, and in a couple of minutes had both feet properly swaddled.

((I apologize for the delays in posting, life has taken an interesting turn here, and I am replying as quickly as I can muster. I hope things settle in the near future.))
 
((no problem abt the slow posting, I've bben busy too. As long as you don't abandon me, I'm good. :) ))

"The Comte is too kind." Katirah said keeping her eyes on his hands and how is was wrapping her feet. She had never experienced a man who treated her so well, and yet treated her so badly.

Katirah carefully pulled her socks over the bandages. A breeze from the entry turned all her skin to gooseflesh. Going naked in the evening was cold. She wanted to crawl under her blankets and go to sleep. Tomorrow would be another horrible day. She would have to think what answer she could give the Comte by this time tomorrow that he would find acceptable.

"Am I to sleep with the slaves or in my wagon tonight?" She was still hurt and angry at the Comte and did not care where she slept as long as she could do it soon. She still had to clear up any dishes left at the fire.
 
((Abandon you? Only with the cessation of my heart beat. :devil: ))

Marcel reached down and caressed her face gently, his thumb dragging gently across her cheek. "With the slaves, cher, but dress. You no longer have to walk around naked."

He saw a look from her that was something akin to anger and he smiled, "Though if you prefer, you may stay naked."
 
((Aw, aren't you sweet. You made my night. I celebrated Beltane today and drank mead and danced around a maypole.))

When the Comte touched Katirah so gently and looked so kindly at her, she thought perhaps he would let her resume her usual life. But it was not the case.

"With the slaves, cher, but dress. You no longer have to walk around naked."

Anger flared briefly in Katirah's eyes before she could hide her reaction. She looked at the floor quickly ready for a slap. When it didn't come, she prepared herself to hear some new indignity she must endure for her disrespect.

Instead, the Comte smiled when she looked up at him. "Though if you prefer, you may stay naked."

"Non." She spoke French back to him. her vowles were atrocious and she rolled her R's too much. "I do _not_ prefer to stay naked. The men..." Her voice trailed off. "With the Comte's permission, I should go finish cleaning up from dinner and then retire." The Comte should eat his dinner before it got cold. The tajin would keep it warm for some time, but not indefinately.
 
Marcel nodded and watched as Katirah left his tent, the cold entering the tent, he thought, had more to do with the night air than her leaving.

Didn't it?

The Comte turned his attention to the pot that Katirah had brought with her and he sniffed at the foor with something between suspicion and ravenous hunger. Eventually, rather quickly actually, hunger won and Marcel ate the food with vim and vigor.

After eating, Marcel grabbed his sword and toured around the camp, checking the defenses.
 
Katirah went as fast as her injured feet would let her to her wagon. She pulled the dress she had from Samara on and went back to the camp fire to see if there was anything she needed to clean up. Then finally, she would be able to get off of her feet and sleep. With the other slaves. She did not even know where the slaves spent the night. She was sure the cook or any number of people would be able to tell her.

The dress did not do much to keep Katirah warm. She would be happy to work near the fire.One of the soldiers saw her approach and nudged his neighbor. "Ma Cherie, you disappoint me. I had thought to see more of your charms before retiring. Did you get cold?" he smacked his thigh, come sit and I'll keep you warm." he leered at her.

Katirah ignored him and walked around the fire picking up a few abandoned bowls.

"Ma Cherie, back that fine rump of yours over here. I have a present for you." He rubbed his crotch. His friends laughed.

Katirah ignored them and kept working. As she was passing by one of the men on her way to bring the last of the dished to the food wagon, he reached out and pulled her into his lap. Dishes flew. Katirah cursed in her own language and pushed the man as she tried to stand up. "You great oaf. Take your hands from me!"

"You don't get to talk to me like that." he retorted. He yanked her back and pushed her dress up to grab a handful of her ass.

Some of the men at the fire laughed. Others ignored them and a few decided it was time to get some sleep.

((If you don't want a scene with the men or one man getting a little too friendly, we can move this along and he'll let her go. Or if you don't think the Comte's men would let it go too far, just enough to upset her, that's fine too. Then I can move her along back to the slaves sleeping arrangements.))
 
Marcel ate his food silently, singing the praises of Samara and Katirah as he did so. It was a far better meal than the one the previous night, or all day for that matter. He was half way through his meal when he heard Henri's voice, "Comte?"

"Yes?"

The flap of the tent opened and Henri poked his head in, saying, "You should look after the men," before leaving.

Marcel put the food down after stoppering the mouth and headed out into the camp. It didn't take long for him to hear Katirah's voice giving someone what for. Standing outside the circle of light provided by the fire, Marcel watched on the balls of his feet.

((Go with what you had in mind, Marcel will cut it off before it gets too far along.))
 
Katirah made to slap the man, but he grabbed her wrist, grabbed both her wrists in fact, then held both in one large hand while he continued to explore what was under her dress with the other.

"You're just a common slave. You're here to serve, and I want some service now." He leered at her and planted a sloppy wet kiss on her. He pushed two fingers into her sex. "Hot and wet already, ma cherie."

Katirah squealed and struggled. She twisted her head away from the man and his stinking breath. "Let me <i>go!</i> You will pay for this!</i>

The man guffawed loudly. "You want me to pay you?" he laughed again. "So that would make you a whore and not a slave."

Katirah spat in his face. She craned her neck around trying to see others at the fire. "Why are you all sitting like lumps? Get him off me!" She continued to struggle trying to twist free.
 
Marcel began moving as the oaf molesting his slave murmured, "Hot and wet already, ma cherie."

Grabbing the man's head by the hair, Marcel growled dangerously, "Let go of her."

He saw Katirah scrambling away as he pulled the man along, Gustav, Marcel thought, a mercenary hired for the job of protecting the caravan. Dragging him over to a partial log destined for the fire, Marcel bounced the man's forehead off of the wood, splitting the skin, blood flowing into his eyes.

Grabbing the axe that was there to split wood, Marcel caught Gustav's hand and forced it flat against the log. "The application of justice is something the people here do well, and interestingly." Marcel said.

The blade of the axe glinted menacingly in the dim light as Marcel hefted it above his head and then down cutting the man's offending two fingers off. Grabbing the other hand while Gustav was still screaming, Marcel lopped off his thumb.

"The fingers because they offended me and mine, the thumb, so you offend no woman again," Marcel said in a low growl.
 
Katirah clambered away from the man. She paid no attention to her feet. her only thought was to put distance between her and the men. She recognized the Comte's voice and the menace it held. How long had he stood out of sight? When he was finished with the man would he turn his anger on her?

She watched in horror as the Comte picked up the ax. Her own scream joined that of the man as the ax fell. She ran to the edge of the circle and fell to her knees. She emptied the contents of her stomach on the ground.

The men at the fire watched in silence. It was now clear that even though the beautiful slave had fallen out of favor with the Comte, it did not make her fair game for their own pleasure.

Katirah wrapped her hands around her legs and pressed her forehead against her knees. She wished the man would stop screaming. She wished the fool had never touched her. She wished she could crawl into her bed and sleep for a week.

She shuddered and sobbed. Katirah was cursed.
 
Marcel walked over to Katirah and stood over her a moment or two before lifting her head up where he could see her eyes. His face was soft, concern draped over him as he looked at her. Caressing her face, he felt her flinch slightly at his touch.

Pain flashed across his eyes as he dropped his hand from her face. Turning he headed back toward his tent.
 
Katirah took long slow breaths trying to calm herself to keep from heaving again. She had never witnessed a scene of such calculated violence. When the Comte had cut down the bandit it was in the heat of battle. This chilled her to the bone to see the Comte act in such a cold-blooded way. She knew she had been sheltered from many things in the world, but until this night she had not realized the extent of it.

She did not hear the Comte approach. He leaned down to lift her face to him. She flinched. She could not help it. She saw his look of concern for her, but it could not erase what she had just seen him do. She watched as he walked away. She wiped her eyes and stood up unsteadily. She gathered what dishes she could carry from the circle staying well away from the site of the dismemberment. Someone must have taken the man away to the chirgeon. The few men left at the fire did not look at her, avoided her, in fact.

Katirah took her tray of dirty dishes back to the food wagon. Word had spread quickly, the cook knew what had happened. He poured her wine and let her sit while other slaves continued to clean and prepare everything for the next day.

After some time she stood. The cook gestured for one of his helpers to walk with her back to the slaves' tents. When the master of the slaves saw her he laughed ruefully. "I heard there was a problem serving the men. It does not surprise me. What does the Comte think would happen making you parade around naked like that among the common slaves? If he had any sense at all, he would hide you away for the rest of the trip." He shook his head. "Go to bed, it is another long walk tomorrow."

Katirah limped off to the women's tent and found an empty spot. She curled up and cried silently for a very long time.
 
Marcel headed toward his tent, stopping here and there speaking to some of the men. They hadn't been on the trail very long and already things were threatening to spiral out of control.

The most shocking proof, to him, Gustav's mawing of Katirah.

Sighing he stopped near the fire and turned, looking over the camp. The familiar tread of Henri came closer. With out turning, Marcel said, "Yes, I know, you think I was too harsh."

Henri stopped by his side and said, "Yes, Comte, if she is merely a slave. If she is more than that, perhaps not enough, or the wrong type."

Marcel nodded, whispering, "I am unsure what she is, entirely."
 
Katirah woke early when the slave master rang the bell. There was much to be done to fix the morning meal, something quick to fill the belly so they could decamp and be on the road.

The Slave Master kept Katirah at the food wagon. He did not think it was a good idea to have her serve the men.

Samara brought her a basket with some meat pasties that she had got from the merchant. "You can bring these to the Comte so he can eat them on the road."

Katirah shook her head. "I do not want to see him. If he asks for me, I must go, but--" She shook her head, "I cannot. That man's screams still ring in my ears. You take them to the Comte."

---

She finished the morning chores. She required instruction on nearly everything because she had never had to do menial labor. The work kept her mind off the night before, the pain in her feet, and the ache in her heart. She wondered if the Comte would ask again what she had learned during her punishment. She wondered what she would say. She had learned much, but doubted her answer was what the Comte was looking for.
 
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Morning broke and Marcel reached across reflexively for her, and she wasn't there. Sitting up, he nearly bolted from the bed before his mind caught up with his body.

"Ah yes," he murmured to himself.

Marcel stood up and changed into clothes for the day and stepped from the tent. Henri was outside drinking some hot tea near the fire pit from the night before. "Good morning, Henri."

"Good morning, Comte. It will be a fine day, I think we will make the next village by night fall."

"Hmm, perhaps not. I think I would like for us to stop prior to the village and push through or around it tomorrow."

Henri look at the Comte askance then nodded, "I will pass that along."

As Marcel watched, Henri walk off, Samara arrived carrying some pastries. Taking them from her, he said, "Thank you."

She stood there a moment before turning slowly. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

"No, Comte," she responded half heartedly.
 
((Hmm, not stopping in the village? Too comfy for Katirah or do you have something else planned?))

Katirah thought people were avoiding her. Not making eye contact. Not getting to close. Not talking to her unless absolutely necessary. She was not the one who had lopped the fingers off the soldier. A mercenary, someone had told her. It made her stomach clench and twist to think of it.

The Slave Master made sure that they all received ample food and water.

Katirah both hoped for and dreaded her next meeting with the Comte. Would her punishment be over? Would he take her back to his bed? It seemed like years since she had awakened with her limbs intertwined with his. Could she stand to have the Comte touch her after witnessing what he had done?

She understood the Comte needed to be harsh to keep in control, his power never under doubt, but... She shuddered. She had been sheltered from so much in the Pasha's harem. Yes, she had witnessed beatings, but nothing so swift and brutal as what had transpired the night before. Her mind was a turmoil. How simple her life had been before.

Katirah limped along lost in thought. Conflicted, confused.
 
(( Why of course it is all about Katirah and inconveniencing her until she learns what she needs to. :) And don't ask, that would be telling :devil: ))

Marcel rode during the day, working his way up and down the line, imposing his will on the men and slaves alike. He saw Katirah off and on, his cock flaring in need each time. Her hips flowed gently left and right easily, her feet apparently feeling much better than the day before. Though she limped slightly, she was compensating for her feet easily enough and in a day or two all effects of her injuries would be gone.

Half way between the noon meal, which was taken on the fly, and when they normally would stop, the caravan pulled off at a camp site. They were close enough that they would be able to go through the village with out stopping.

In the long run it would cost them a day or so but if Katirah learned what she needed, then the day was worthwhile.

The tents were pitched, and horses groomed, Marcel worked his way back to his tent, ignoring the side long glances from the men at arms. Seeing Henri, Marcel waved him over.

When Henri arrived, "Go into town buy whores or prostitutes or whatever and bring them to the men."

Henri gave him a look then nodded and headed off.
 
((Poor Katirah. I think maybe she now understands on an intellectual level, but I'm not sure it's in her bones yet. I don't know if it will ever be in her bones.))

Katirah knew the Comte was watching her when he would ride through the ranks of the slaves. He never came over to speak to her. She did not see Samara except around lunch time when they were at the food wagon at the same time.

When word came down the line that they would be camping, there were groans from people who knew the route. Apparently they should be pushing on to the village for the night. Katirah wondered why they were not. Did the Comte sense some sort of danger if they stayed in the village? He could not possibly be doing this as part of her punishment, could he? She had to smirk to herself that she could be so important to him he would disrupt the entire caravan to teach her a lesson.

She now knew enough about setting up for the night that she could be of some use. She lamented that her hands were dry and not soft as they used to be. She could not even think about her feet.

Katirah helped with prepare the food for the evening meal. She could hear that the men seemed boisterous tonight. After what had happened the night before, she wondered what could lighten their mood to such a high degree. She stayed by the wagon and prepared things so others could serve them.

"I have the Comte's dinner." Samara said. "You should bring it to him."

Katirah sniffed. "The Comte does not wish to see me. You take it."

"How can you get back into his good graces if you never see him?"

"I am to have learned a lesson from all this. The last time we spoke, my answer did not please the Comte. What if he asks again and I displease again?" Katirah's shoulders slumped. "Am I to be a common slave for the rest of my days? My feet are ruined. I cannot dance. My hands...I have not practiced my instruments. I have not sung. Everything that makes me valuable is slowly being stripped from me. I will be worse than a common slave because I do not know how to be one."

"Then go to the The Comte and bring him his dinner." Samara pleaded. "Beg his forgiveness. Surely you know a story that has the right words you can use to soften his heart again."

"Soften his heart? You did not see what he did to that man? The Comte has no heart. I thought he did, but I was mistaken." Katirah ladled out more gruel or stew or whatever they called this bland unrecognizable meal. "I want this to be over, but The Comte frightens me, Samara."

"He is a soldier. The Comte must do what he must to keep order." Samara stepped close to Katirah. "I see the way he looks at you. He has taken no other woman to his bed. Go to him."

((And I think I'll leave it there because I don't know what you have planned with the men and the whores. I can have Katirah bring the Comte his food, or have someone come and tell her she is to serve the men... I do have an idea of what she will do when she sees the Comte up close and what to say if/when he asks her again what she has learned.))
 
Marcel was washing himself with cold water from a pitcher that Samara had dropped off when he heard Henri return with some women. From the sounds of it, Henri came back with four or five, which was hardly enough for the whole camp, but then that would give the men something to distract themselves with.

Henri poked his head into the tent saying, "Six, sir. They are all prostitutes willing to travel with us for at least a couple of days, maybe more if the men are generous."

"Okay," Marcel said, "Let them at it. Tell the men no fighting over the women, first fight that breaks out will be dealt with harshly.

Henri laughed and said, "Of course, by me and not you."

"Whichever" Marcel said. "Get some food in your belly and fuck one first if that is in your plans tonight. Chevaliers too I suppose."

"Right," Henri said as he turned and left.
 
Katirah stayed at the food wagon helping to transfer the evening meal from the large vats into smaller vessels to be carried to the surrounding campsite to feed the men. She could hear their boisterous noise. Someone said something about whores being brought in for the soldiers.

She wondered if the Comte would choose one of the women to appease his manhood. The effendi, Henri, has told her that the Comte had been without a woman for a long time after his wife had died, but the Comte had proved to Katirah that he was a man of mighty appetites. She did not believe what the effendi had told her.

She pushed a stay lock of hair off of her face with the back of her hand. She had to admit she was still very conflicted about seeing the Comte. She missed the comforts he had afforded her, but thinking of what he had done to the soldier who had groped her--it still made her stomach clench. He had shown evidence of a cruel streak with some of his threats to her. Certainly he had shown it when he had tied her to the small table at the inn. Yet, he always managed to make her scream with pleasure no matter how he had abused her poor body. She sighed.

Perhaps it was better this way. She would be a common slave until they reached their destination when she would be handed over to the Baron.

One of the cook's saw Katirah's sad face and said, "I heard you are a singer. Give us a song to lighten our chores. Something happy."

Katirah smiled a little. "That I can do." She thought about what to sing and finally chose a song about a 'delicious' boy named Nabil. It was a flirty, rather innocent song with a catchy refrain. Soon those around her were joining in while they worked.

--

Samara returned to the Comte's tent with his evening meal. He was shirtless from washing himself with the water she had brought earlier. She was the perfect example of a servant. Silent. Efficient.

She set the tajine on the table, then took the pitcher and bowl away to dump them. She bobbed a bow to him, "Does the Comte require anything more?"
 
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