Proud Slave GirlChapter 17
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The attendant nearest the Lady Fortescue was holding a vast sunshade over the Mistress's head, completely keeping the Great One out of the scorching heat. Now Francine knew why she was to walk back with the Mistress! She would be carrying the great weight of this all the way, as well as walking barefoot over sharp stones. Shit!
But why would A Great Lady be walking all that distance? Then Francine saw the horse.
"Kneel Oh miserable worm! Let me use you to mount my noble steed."
The obedient Francine knelt, face down like a Turk at prayer, and the Lady Fortescue stepped onto her back and mounted the horse. So Francine was to walk and the Lady Fortescue was to ride! But Slave Francine knew her place. All she wished was to do her duty. She savoured the humiliation of being used as a step ladder and the pain as the sharp heeled boots dug into her tender flesh. Then she rose and took the heavy parasol from the attendant.
The weight of it made her gasp and the thing almost slipped from her hands, but she steadied herself and positioned it so as to shield her Great and Mighty Mistress from the sun. Immediately the procession set off. Lady Fortescue led with Francine trotting at her side, too engrossed in keeping the parasol in place to have a chance to see where she was putting her feet, which soon began to feel the effects of the sharp flinty stones along the way. Francine heard the cart rattling along behind, carrying the wretched Tharg, the unfortunate Katya and the triumphant Gottman and Olga, together with the woman who appeared destined to be Francine's lover - whether Francine liked it or not. She still had the taste of Frederica's pudenda in her mouth. Not as bad as she had feared, as a matter of fact. Tasty, even!
But the effort of keeping the parasol upright and constantly in position was already getting to her and her arms were aching after a hundred yards. Her feet felt as if they had been slashed to ribbons already. And she had miles more of this before she could rest. Then Francine remembered who she was. She was a Slave and must do as she was told, deeming no task too menial and no pain too great as long as her Mistress demanded it of her.
The Lady Fortescue, meanwhile, was looking down at the poor Francine and laughing inwardly as she saw the sweat pour down that hateful tall body. She saw the muscles straining on those extended arms and tired shoulders and exulted to think of the agonies the poor wretch must already be suffering, a hundred yards into a six mile journey. The sun might be unable to reach the Mistress, but Francine was getting no benefit from the giant shade, being roasted alive in the fierce afternoon heat. Behind her was an attendant with a whip at the ready, prepared to lambaste the Slave the minute she let the shade slip. Francine was aware of this and was determined not to fail in her duty. She tried to forget her pain and concentrated all her mental forces on the task in hand. Then the Lady Fortescue gave the horse a light tap of the whip and the animal started moving more quickly. Francine was forced to half run as she still tried to keep the parasol directly over her Mistress's head, shielding that delicate white skin from the effects of the sun.
Her own skin was almost black by this time. It was Francine's increasingly deep tan that appealed to the lovelorn Frederica. But Francine did not know this and could have done nothing about it if she did. She wondered how the group in the cart were doing. She rightly guessed that her own position was more enviable than that of the disgraced Tharg and Katya who were no doubt being brutally rabbit-punched back to sleep as often as they started to recover. And, perversely, this annoyed her. She, Francine, wanted to be the most wretched, the most despised. She wanted to be right at the bottom of the heap. She deliberately stumbled and allowed the parasol almost, though not quite, to fail to shade her Mistress. The whip struck her hard on the rump, several times, making her shriek. She felt that her own position as the lowliest of the low had been regained - for a time.
Francine began to feel so thirsty that she began to pray for water - even a drop - to ease her agony, but the Lady Fortescue would decide when she drank. The Parasol Slave put all thoughts of refreshment from her mind. If her Mistress wanted her to be thirsty then she must be thirsty.
Some two miles into the journey the road ran through a small village and the inhabitants came out of their houses to look at the cart rumbling through their township. The men were greatly appreciative of the tall and naked Francine with her bronzed skin and athletic figure. It was unusual for slaves, even female ones, to be totally nude. Olga and Katya were still naked, as were Tharg and Gottman, but that was because they had been fighting in the arena and in any case they were hidden from view. For a female slave to be naked in front of the general populace was very unusual.
"That wench is a bad one!" said one elderly villager to her friend. "She is being punished for offending the Great Lady Fortescue. "Shame on the wicked Slave!"
To reinforce her words she threw a bucket of waste over Francine. The filthy fluid stank and was not even cool to her skin. But The Lady Fortescue could smell the stink that now came from the filthy Francine. She was not amused and the village women were driven off by the attendants.
Once outside the village the pathway became steeper and even flintier. To Francine's imagination, all the flints seemed to be conspiring to be directly under her sore feet as she passed. Lady Fortescue was not finding it easier to tolerate the filthy stink from Francine's labouring and sweaty body. It was good to see her suffer so, but less good to smell the consequences of her suffering. She pondered how she could clean the Slave without in any way cooling her. Of course! The Hot Springs!
Cayleigh
- 30.03.2020
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