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Praefectus's Shorter Subjects

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Praefectus Praetorio said:
This will be a very short story. I am sorry if I raised your expectations too high

Antoine Auguste Adrien Henri Tanoux (18 October 1865, Marseille – 29 July 1923, Paris) was a French painter.
Some of his other works - "Orientalism" was all the rage - a great excuse for half-naked women to sell paintings.
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Oh I should have recognized that it was Tanoux, not least because of the number of manips his work inspires!

No need to apologise, if there’s even just only one more chapter I’m completely happy!
 
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Almast’s mother was Armenian. Her father had met and married her on a trading caravan trip. From her mother, Almast inherited her fair, pale skin and the simple faithfulness of her people. Her light complexion caused her moterh to name her Almast, the Armenian word for diamond.
Young Almast grew up a typical girl of her time and place. Brought up in a culture where a girl’s role and training was exclusively to marry, bear children and run a household, she accepted her place gladly and looked forward to it.

When Almast turned thirteen, her mother passed away. After the set time of mourning, Almast began to look forward to the next phase of her life. Approaching marital age, she knew her father was scouting for an appropriate mate. She dreamed of the marriage bed and being the beloved wife (as her mother had been), in charge of the house and doing all needed to cae for her husband and family.
It is true that, the girl, growing up, had harbored some strange dreams, dreams of submission, dreams of abuse and hurt. But she never allowed those to dominate her thoughts.

Then, with no warning, her father came and told her of his financial distress and the necessity to give her as a slave to his patron and creditor, Kalil. Almast was heartbroken and horrified. All her dreams seemed shattered. A slave? What fate could be worse, she thought?
And so she still thought as she stood, stripped naked, all her private feminine treasures exposed, presented to this stranger who would own her, use her, do with her whatever he wanted. He could treat her like a piece of dung.

After the introductions and her father's offering of her, the room fell deadly quiet. Only Kalil, as the patron could speak next.
As the silence dragged on, Almast could take the uncertainty no longer. Shyly she raised her eyes and looked to the man who would own her. As she did, he looked and their eyes met. In his eyes, she saw, in an instant, care, concern, and mastery. This man would dominate her and make her bend her will to his. This thought excited feelings she'd forgotten she had. A tingling raced across her skin and dampness formed in her loins.
Almast lowered her eyes, accepting her fate and her new master. Then she heard his words of acceptance, and her heart leapt for joy!

TBC
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Almast’s mother was Armenian. Her father had met and married her on a trading caravan trip. From her mother, Almast inherited her fair, pale skin and the simple faithfulness of her people. Her light complexion caused her moterh to name her Almast, the Armenian word for diamond.
Young Almast grew up a typical girl of her time and place. Brought up in a culture where a girl’s role and training was exclusively to marry, bear children and run a household, she accepted her place gladly and looked forward to it.

When Almast turned thirteen, her mother passed away. After the set time of mourning, Almast began to look forward to the next phase of her life. Approaching marital age, she knew her father was scouting for an appropriate mate. She dreamed of the marriage bed and being the beloved wife (as her mother had been), in charge of the house and doing all needed to cae for her husband and family.
It is true that, the girl, growing up, had harbored some strange dreams, dreams of submission, dreams of abuse and hurt. But she never allowed those to dominate her thoughts.

Then, with no warning, her father came and told her of his financial distress and the necessity to give her as a slave to his patron and creditor, Kalil. Almast was heartbroken and horrified. All her dreams seemed shattered. A slave? What fate could be worse, she thought?
And so she still thought as she stood, stripped naked, all her private feminine treasures exposed, presented to this stranger who would own her, use her, do with her whatever he wanted. He could treat her like a piece of dung.

After the introductions and her father's offering of her, the room fell deadly quiet. Only Kalil, as the patron could speak next.
As the silence dragged on, Almast could take the uncertainty no longer. Shyly she raised her eyes and looked to the man who would own her. As she did, he looked and their eyes met. In his eyes, she saw, in an instant, care, concern, and mastery. This man would dominate her and make her bend her will to his. This thought excited feelings she'd forgotten she had. A tingling raced across her skin and dampness formed in her loins.
Almast lowered her eyes, accepting her fate and her new master. Then she heard his words of acceptance, and her heart leapt for joy!

TBC
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I know this wasn't necessarily your intention PrPr, but I am finding the contrast (differences and similarities) between Almast and Lyn fascinating ... both young and innocent, but with vastly different family patronage ...
 
KageKamen said:
A lot of places this could go from here, Perhaps even growing into a full thread like the last one.
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Beyond my current plans. However, who knows what tomorrow shall bring.

Three Years Later.

Almast sat on her haunches as the feet of her Master, Kalil. She had her dark hair up, with strings of white pearls for contrast and ringlets falling on her snow-white shoulders. She was naked except for a diaphanous silk cloth fastened around her hips. Her Master said he always loved to see her beautiful breasts. Almast was eager to please him with them so she drew her arms back to rest on her feet.
After three years of her Master's most attentive training, Almast had learned every rule and every posture to assume. She now followed them, not from fear of punishment, but from the desire to please this man, her Master, the finest man in the world, she believed.
Almast had fit easily and comfortably into her position in Kalil's household. He had never given a name to her role, and Almast often tried to find the right word. A slave? - Yes. A concubine? - Yes. A beloved companion? Oh, yes! A wife? Not really, but very close.
Her Master never used nor would he allow her to use the word, love. The one time he discussed it, he explained that it had all the wrong ideas behind it. "People use it in place of the real thing," he said. "I shall treat you as I wish and you shall obey as you consent. A word for that would only cheapen it all!"
So Almast sat on her haunches at her Master's feet, content and at peace. She did not know what the next moment would bring, and that relaxed her. Kalil might order her on an errand. He might whip her until she bled. He might use her sexually, gently, or roughly. He might just invite her onto his lap and cuddle her in his strong arms.
No decisions, no concern for the future. Almast could not imagine how she could be happier!

The End (for now)
 
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I hope all enjoyed this little story. A part of writing this was an experiment in structure. I wrote the three parts in the order they were posted. When I finished the first, I thought it could stand alone. However I was tempted to add a backstory on the girl, hence, #2. And then, with that done, I decided to wrap it up with a glimpse into Almast's future, #3.
As I was writing #2, a thought came for structure. And here it is:
Each of the three parts should stand on its own as a little gem of a story, illustrating the first picture.
Or, any two of the parts could be read as a two-part, complete story behind the picture.
Or, all three would flow together as a complete realization of the original painting.
The way I hoped to achieve that was to make each segment both a stand-alone frontstory and also a helpful, but not necessary backstory.

Please comment on whether I achieved my goal or not. Whatever, it was fun to try.
 
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I think you’ve pretty much achieved your desired effect, @Praefectus Praetorio. If I make one suggestion for the third part, to really make it stand alone and not read like a chapter, the third part might open with something slightly more descriptive, such as “Three years since she was sold as a novice slave:” or similar may improve the feel of it as it’s own vignette.
Beyond the occasional minor typo, I feel you have indeed achieved what you were after. Bravo :clap: :clap: :clap:
 
Loinclothslave said:
I feel bad mentioning typos of others because I am the absolute worst offender using my iPhone with fat thumbs! Yet the sub editor in me cringes at my own egregious errors..
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We iPhone writers can sympathize.
 
I was pondering the other day about a thing of beauty.

21-10-14 E.jpg
What is it about a butt? Especially a girl's butt?
What makes it so beautiful, so enticing? So captivating!
It's not just that it's sexy (Of course, it is, Oh, God it is! Yes! Yes!)
But the shape and its soft movement and its fullness - it can so easily hypnotize.
Part must be what it represents. A portal, a gateway, a heavenly entrance.
One knows that between and beyond lie the most exquisite treasures.
The tactile beauty and subtle movement of those cheeks.
The way they seem to glide under your fingers,
to be molded and shaped with your hands,
then quiver under that hand slap,
exquisitely dance with the cane.

A butt is truly beautiful.​
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
I was pondering the other day about a thing of beauty.

View attachment 1075582
What is it about a butt? Especially a girl's butt?
What makes it so beautiful, so enticing? So captivating!
It's not just that it's sexy (Of course, it is, Oh, God it is! Yes! Yes!)
But the shape and its soft movement and its fullness - it can so easily hypnotize.
Part must be what it represents. A portal, a gateway, a heavenly entrance.
One knows that between and beyond lie the most exquisite treasures.
The tactile beauty and subtle movement of those cheeks.
The way they seem to glide under your fingers,
to be molded and shaped with your hands,
then quiver under that hand slap,
exquisitely dance with the cane.

A butt is truly beautiful.​
Click to expand...
I couldn't agree more ...

ass.jpeg
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
I was pondering the other day about a thing of beauty.

View attachment 1075582
What is it about a butt? Especially a girl's butt?
What makes it so beautiful, so enticing? So captivating!
It's not just that it's sexy (Of course, it is, Oh, God it is! Yes! Yes!)
But the shape and its soft movement and its fullness - it can so easily hypnotize.
Part must be what it represents. A portal, a gateway, a heavenly entrance.
One knows that between and beyond lie the most exquisite treasures.
The tactile beauty and subtle movement of those cheeks.
The way they seem to glide under your fingers,
to be molded and shaped with your hands,
then quiver under that hand slap,
exquisitely dance with the cane.

A butt is truly beautiful.​
Click to expand...
If we don't expect visitors, I don't mind dressing up to impress my beloved. He likes my skirts short and shakes in anticipation if I'm willing to endure stockings and a fucking suspender belt. What is it with those? Apparently all women look good in them. According to BF it's like putting wide wheels on a car.

He tells me there's irresistible erotic appeal in bare thighs visible between stocking tops and the hem of an inadequate skirt. And a flash of knickers? Yeah OK, I can do that. I'm an undeniably sturdy wench and I'm sure I don't look like the slender, waif like creatures popular culture considers sexy. I asked him once, "What do I look like?"

He told me the way the inside of my thighs curves close to my crotch is one of my best features. Really? "What about my blistering intellect and my unwavering domestic support?" I asked. "Oh of course, those too!" he said, back pedalling like hell.

Indignant, I asked him if he'd be happy to do all his own washing and cook for himself if I offered him my arse to appreciate, twenty four hours a day. He laughed and asked "If? Can't you do that as well?"

Sometimes I wonder about the nature of romance and the complicated network of desires and expectations which bind us together as lovers!
 
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