The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 9 The Knight s Passion
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A Day & Then A Night In Schendi free porn video
(based on the Gor fiction of John Norman)
The Slavers of the great port of Schendi threw a festival for the whole city, on the occasion of the groundbreaking for their new library cylinder.
Even before the Sky was streaked by rosy-fingered Dawn, on the cleared land where the Slaver library would one day stand, a good many stalls were set up to provide free food and drink. Musicians roamed the grounds playing tunes, acrobats leapt and tumbled. Mimes mimed. For those in the mood for a match of the Game, complete sets of Kaissa pieces could be gotten free from most concession stalls, along with a heavy-rence paper game board of tan and brown squares. Citizens, of all ages and all alike in their party mood, began to gather early. There was even the highly unusual sight of a black-robed member of the Assassin Caste within the throng of merry-makers.
There were several pagar kajira alcove-tipis erected for the carnal-minded. Even as the small tents were being staked and the leashed slave girls installed, lines had begun to form in front of the tipis’ open flaps. The queues were made up mostly of adolescent males, young bachelors who weren’t about to turn down the chance of a rut gratis with a lively kajira. Young maids strolling by in their fluttering Robes of Concealment and veils blushed furiously at the loud and lewd sounds of raw passion emanating from the long row of tipis. Older Free women, somewhat more wise to the order of the things, laughed derisively at the eager, randy youths.
Matronly amusement aside, it was, perhaps, too much to expect that any healthy Gorean male just into his first full flush of manhood could pass up the chance of furring a lively and willing pleasure silk-clad slave girl.
Even in a city such as Schendi, with an extensive Street of Brands district and above average slave population, a young man was unlikely to know the charms of a pleasure kajira, if he weren’t the son of a rich house or born into a slaver family. Although the price of a good hunting sleen was many times the price of the average slave girl, owning a kolar’d slut was still an expensive proposition. Even paying for a coin-girl was beyond the normal means of the average young man just growing hair on his chin and looking to make his way in the world.
And the free sex tipis served a greater purpose than merely providing relief to aroused young men, the cultural practice all but eliminated sex-crimes on Gor.
To the delighted, if guarded, surprise of everyone, the Sun shone golden bright in a cloudless Sky on the day of the official groundbreaking for the new Slaver’s cylinder. In the sub-equatorial city of Schendi it was mid-winter, technically speaking. And in winter in Schendi it constantly rained.
While it was definitely calendar winter just below the equator, it is understandable that visiting inhabitants of Gor’s more temperate zones might take Schendi’s hot and humid weather to be that of high summer. But the million or so permanent inhabitants of the great port city knew better. It was winter all right. A native of the region could tell the season by the tremendous amount of rainfall which sheeted into the surrounding jungle, pelted on the rooftops of the city, and flooded the flagstone boulevards and cobblestone streets.
Of course, it rained a great deal in the summer in Schendi as well, more in fact than during the so-called dry season of winter.
But, as has been stated, against all reasonable expectation, Lor-Torvis shone unchallenged on the ground-breaking festivities. It was as if the Central Fire itself graced the event. And, the commencement of the building of the grand new library/school was significant. It marked the public ascension of the Slaver Caste as a real power in Schendi, rivaled only by the fabulously wealthy and global influencial Merchant Caste of the freeport city-state.
The Assassin, a black dagger clearly tattooed on his sunburned forehead, moved smoothly through the assembled masses. A sleen in the fold. He brushed past a haruspex, a soothsayer who was working the crowd. The wide-eyed fortune teller shuddered at the passage of the night-garbed killer and gave a raspy whisper.
‘Death.’
At the center of the two city blocks of cleared land, Builders had erected a platform, its floor three feet off the ground. On this stage stood the Administrator of Schendi, of the Merchant Caste, and twelve others, the rulers of the families which comprised the city’s Slaver oligarchy. Set atop high white poles, surrounding the platform, long silken banners streamed and snapped in the persistent offshore breeze. There were thirteen pendants in all which waved above the crowd, twelve of them were of blue and yellow and each bore the emblem of a great slaver house, from the howling Jit-Monkey of the Ushanga family to the stylized Ul of the Dhahabu clan. One pennant displayed the emblem of Schendi herself, the Scimitar of Discipline and Shackles.
But the Assassin, who surveyed the scene with the alert raptor gaze of a circling tarn, knew that by all rights there should have been another flag among the collection, the cross-bones and skull ensign of the League of Black Slavers.
It was the Black Slavers, after all, who were footing the entire bill for both the festival and the erection of the Slaver cylinder. This was an open-secret within the city. But, the Assassin noted with a small grin on his cowl obscured face that it wasn’t the First-Captain of the League who hosted the event, it was the City Administrator.
Here, too, there was irony.
Until the very recent past, the Merchant Caste had been considered inferior by the High Castes of Gor. However, with the widespread and growing acceptance of codified Merchant trade law the Merchants had grown into the richest of all the castes, far outstriping the Scribes, Warriors, and Physicians. As the keepers of the only international law ever enacted on the world, Merchants had also risen to be the highest de facto caste, if judged on the amount of economic and political influence they wielded. They held the fate of entire cities in their hands and everyone knew their collective power would only grow with the coming years.
Yet, as the Merchants had been reviled in times past, they in their turn looked down upon the Slaver Caste. Indeed, Merchants considered Slavers nothing more than a sub-caste of their own. The Slavers disagreed. According to Slaver history, Schendi had been founded by slavers. Merchants had come to the port only after it’d been safely settled and the threat of attack by rain-forest tribes neutralized. In Schendi, unlike anywhere else on Gor, there were Slaver families as rich as Merchants.
Needless to say, there was a certain cultural tension between the two castes within the city-state. The presence of the Administrator was a sign of how significant was the Slaver project. His presence further attested to the rising power of the Slavers, that a Merchant was compelled to give his implicit blessing to a rival caste enterprise, a cylinder which would rise one level higher than the Merchant’s own high-rise.
If the Merchants were uncomfortable with their relationship with the city Slaver Caste, their relationship with the League was far more complex. The Assassin knew, as well as the Administrator, that Black Ox himself, First-Captain of the League of Black Slavers, was the library’s real sponsor.
The League, with it’s eleven ship fleet, kept Schendi’s sea-lanes clear of competing pirate bands throughout the year. With its year-round plundering, north and south of the Equator, the Black Slavers constantly pumped revenue into the port city’s economy. Also with its looted riches, the League fattened the assets of the banking houses on the Street of Coins, not to mention their various business concerns and real-estate holdings throughout the city.
For example, the cleared land where the festival was being held had once been host to row upon row of Blac
k Slaver owned insulae. Insulae, what on Earth would be called residential hotels, were shabbily build wooden structures meant to generate maximum profit with minimum upkeep. But the thing about insulae was that they were candle and oil-lamp lit and they tended to burn down fairly frequently. For three-hundred and fifty years the League had owned the insulae, rebuilding each shabby tenement time after time through the years. But, after the last fire, which had nearly consumed the entire two blocks of insulae, Black Ox had decided to dedicate the land, in the heart of the Street of Brands District, to the library.
Whereas most ill-informed outsiders assumed Schendi tolerated the League, either out of fear or because of the indirect protection it gained from sheltering the depredators, the truth was Black Slaver money was a good part of the riches to be found in Schendi. Far from being a necessary evil, the League of Black Slavers was a full partner in the fortunes of the city and had been for uncounted centuries. One needed to merely consider the fact that wealthy Schendi had neither a standing army nor navy, yet the freeport had never been attacked.
It wasn’t the Merchants who would-be raiders feared. It was fighting the green ships of the League which jellied their bowels.
For some long minutes the Assassin studied the figure of the Administrator up there on the stage, dressed in his flowing robes of white and gold, as he recited a prepared and verbose speech. One never knew when familiarity of a certain face might come in handy. But, eventually, he looked away from the politician, the merchant wasn’t the target of his hunt.
His slitted gray eyes searched the rest of the group on the stage.
At the far left, clothed in pastel-blue and yellow dyed linen Robes of Concealment and properly street-veiled, stood Uhura. She had only lately come into the stewardship of the House of Mkuku, the second best slaver market in the city. Her father had been killed during a buying trip upriver. He’d fallen overboard and was eaten by river-sharks before he could be pulled to safety. Although Uhura would never sully herself with actual hands-on capture and training of slaves, she was an expert at running a slaver’s mansion and none under her employ or slave-steel doubted that she was in charge. Uhura was most definitely mistress of her domain.
The Assassin moved his glance from her, for the woman was not his prey either.
Each slaver in turn came under his scrutiny, he noted their features and looked at the next in line until he reached the man farthest to the right, R’o, Master of the House of Dhahabu. The Dhahabu market was acknowledged as both the largest and the highest quality in the city. It was also an ancient enemy of the Mkuku. The multi-generational feud between Mkuku and Dhahabu had very nearly wrecked both houses. It was R’o and Uhura’s father who had stitched together a shaky truce.
Coincidentally, Black Ox was the son of R’o.
The killer looked away from the stage, his quarry was absence from that group of worthies. His gray gaze moved to the large pavilion which rose behind the stage. The great tent, its center apex rising up some twenty feet from the bare ground, was of satin dyed in morning blue and yellow-gold. The sides of the gargantuan tent were rolled up and within could be seen the numerous representatives of the lesser slave houses of Schendi. A sectioned off portion segregated the Free women and children from the men and pagar-kajirae.
Socially speaking, Free females and pleasure-silk slave girls are natural antagonists. It was best to keep them separated.
Rich food was served on silver platters, delicacies from across Gor, brought to Schendi in the holds of the ships of the League. Fine wines and paga of excellence flowed from slender-throated pitchers poured by infinitely skilled slaves. Girls danced in pits dug into the ground and sand-filled, contesting their graceful movements against one another.
On an extensive and ornately woven carpet, sitting cross-legged, was the infamous Black Ox. Exulted sat the First-Captain. He was a big man, big hands, big feet, and well over six feet tall. His skin a rich dark brown, as were his eyes. A broad nose and generous lips helped to form a masculine and handsome face. His wide shoulders were covered in a blue and yellow aba of intricate brocade. The sleeveless robe left his powerful arms bare. He wore blue trousers with yellow piping and sandals. A silver stud pierced his left earlobe. Grandiose and boisterous, he was every inch the pirate-king.
He sat before a table with the hundred-square Kaissa board inlaid in its top in gold and aged whale-bone ivory. No paper game-board for the Fleet-Master, thought the Assassin. A much smaller man, in the garb of a Poet and his dark face frowning in concentration, sat opposite the admiral.
To either side of the big slaver were the much talked about pleasure-girls of Black Ox. His blonde la en kajira behind him and to his right and his red hair la se kajira to his left. Singly, either slave was dazzling, as a set of chain-girls they were incandescent. Their white skin made them even more exotic among the varied deep hues of Schendi’s majority Black population.
The blonde, Angel, had been born Free. A daughter of a Turian merchant, she’d been captured by the Wagon People of the great plains far south and inland of Schendi. Years later, she’d been recaptured, by a Bazi warrior in the pay of Turia during a raid on the camp in which she served. The warrior had been a good friend of Black Ox, when the man had died the First-Captain had taken the kajira under his personal kolar, the first girl ever bestowed that honor, and installed her into the League’s pleasure garden. She’d performed for years as maid to the ransomed Ubara of Ianda before being promoted to First-girl only a few months past.
Her hair was a cascading silken gold fall of curls which draped to her ass when she stood. Angel’s face was heart-shaped. Her open and expressive eyes, expertly outlined in kohl, were the sweet clarified blue of a restful Thassa. Her nose was pert. Her lips full and her cheeks held a natural-rued blush. A golden kolar banded her graceful throat, etched upon it was the legend, property of Black Ox. Her shoulders were lightly tanned, as was the rest of her red-silked petite form. Her breasts, as with most kajirae, were very full with prominent nipples. They sat high and firm on her chest. Her waist was pinched by heredity and her hips were full. Her ass, like her face, was heart-shaped. Her mons and the twin-fruit of her sex were clean-shaven, so that her well-developed clit was obvious. Her legs were coltish with soft thighs and nicely defined calves. She had dainty feet.
She was, in a word, exquisite.
Angel’s demeanor never varied from soft-spoken, even when admonishing a girl under her supervision. With the Free she was shy and flawlessly obedient. Her papers stated she was of high slave heat. The Assassin could believe that. He felt the tug of the slave’s sensuousness even over the distance which separated them.
The redhead, Pele, was not the shy type. Indeed, her legally registered slave heat was the highest recorded in Schendi. She was an outrageous flirt, the cause of more than her share of induced-erections among the male population of the League’s hidden cylinder. Only the fact that she was the First-Captain’s private stock kept her from being constantly used by the men she so easily and highly aroused.
Her red mane was a variegated voluminous war-flag, twisted into a thick braid, which fell to the bottom curves of her firmly plump asscheeks. It was rumored that she was a wild-bred passion-girl. Such was easy to believe from the haughty, almost challenging expression in her eyes. It was said that the First-Captain often used his five-bladed whip on her, so that her lithe and snowy body was oftimes covered in ramberry colored welts.
As with Angel, the second-girl’s eye
s were also blue. But Pele’s were the azure of an uninterrupted morning Sky. Because of the emergence of a recessive gene in her ancestry, the girl was red-haired and blue-eyed girl despite having been born of the swarthy and black wine brunette Tuchuk, of the Wagon People. Pale-skinned, the oval-faced slave had delicately sculpted ears which were ringed with small silver hoops. Silver too was her kolar, inscribed as property of Black Ox. An aquiline nose, also properly ringed, was at odds with her full and sultry lips. Her slender shoulders were dusted with freckles. Her breasts were large, even for a kajira, but so symmetrical that they did not seem too big for her carriage. Her pale coral-nipples, seemed perpetually hard beneath her transparent red silks. There was a small tuft of hair above her mons and the swell of her glistening cuntlips. A final silver hoop graced her long clitoris. Her round hips supported a succulent ass, generous thighs and long legs.
Although her stomach didn’t yet bulge, the slave was two months pregnant.
Assuredly, the sluts of Black Ox were a sight worth seeing.
The Assassin cleared his mind of the momentary distraction of the beautiful kajirae and moved quickly but unhurriedly through the milling crowd, closer to Black Ox’s position.
There were many people all over the world who wished to do Captain Black Ox harm.
This wasn’t paranoid delusion on the part of the good captain. As leader of the piratical League of Black Slavers he was a wanted man across the face of Gor, expect in his home port of Schendi. In the Schendi, Black Ox was a tax-paying and respected citizen. More than that, he was the only son of the powerful House of Dhahabu. As a consequence, he didn’t think of himself as a wanted man, nor as a criminal. Black Ox saw himself as a member in good standing with his caste, who happened to be the leader of a large-scale and very successful slaving operation.
The fact that people wanted to kill him, that there was an ever-increasing bounty on his head with every passing year, was merely a by-product, a natural outgrowth, of his savage profession. All of which was far from his mind as he looked about the pavilion and out the open sides at the gathering.
He was well-pleased that the festival had turned out so successful, as happy as everyone else that not only had the rain had held off but that the Sky was actually cloudless and that the damp, steaming land was graced by sunshine. Colorful and raucous-voiced birds skylarked overhead, seeming as free of care as the holiday crowd below. The wheeling and diving avians kept a sharp eye out for any crumbs or tidbits that might be dropped to the ground.
The library project had grown out of the First-Captain’s enforced stay in port, prompted by an extensive overhaul of his ship, while the rest of the fleet had headed north, to ravage the sea lanes and coastal settlements during the Northern Hemisphere summer. In the League, it is said, to keep a Black Slaver in port when there is booty to be had is to cage the panther. But Black Ox, a man capable of thinking as well as fighting, had managed to turn a temporary negative into a long-lasting positive.
Even more importantly, for the moment, he was winning the Kaissa match. By his calculations he’d have his opponent’s home stone in check in five moves. The wagered copper bit the Poet had put up, against Black Ox’s sack of twelve double-weight gold tarn pieces, was as good as in his belt-wallet. As the pirate waited for his opponent’s next move, he casually held out his embossed iron cuppa for his First-girl to refill.
Then it happened.
At the periphery of his vision, he saw the wink of sunlight glint off something in the crowd outside. It could’ve been the chroming of light off an pendant around a sandal-maker’s neck, or a spark off the enameled kolar of a fish-monger’s slave. Something of no import.
Hortense
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