Continues from Slave Tales: The Hunt (XXIV)
Image – “Driftwood” – author unknown
“You need a lesson.”
The Riverman was sitting under an oak tree carving some kind of rod or spear. He’d made the comment quite casually, as if it were just a given fact, one of the many tasks he had to do today.
We had stopped to rest by the river. We were somewhere near the edge of the forest and had been here since first light. The slave hunters’ camp was now several hours ride behind us. If they were looking for us they’d have no idea where we were. And anyway it would take them a while to repair and regroup. It had been utter chaos. The attack had taken them completely by surprise. When we’d escaped, the camp had been in flames and all their horses had bolted.
For the moment we were safe.
“May it please the Master.”
I was lying naked on the grass a few feet away from him. I had awoken from a kind of dazed half sleep and had been idly watching him for a few minutes. He worked slowly, fashioning the tool precisely and methodically, as if he had all the time in the world. He hadn’t looked at me once. But I was sure he knew I was watching him.
He was sitting bolt upright on a log holding the long stick between his legs, his tanned broad shoulders were glistening in the bright morning sunlight and the muscles in his upper arms and torso flexed and bulged as he carved. It was soothing to watch the measured rhythmic movements of his hands and it wasn’t long before I began to feel the call of my sex.
A call I could not resist. I shifted to one side and let my hand fall idly across my belly. With my forefinger I made a lazy pirouette or two across the soft flesh there and then feigned an itch on my thigh. I scratched it. I left the hand where it was. Inches from my sex. Cautiously my fingers crept to their target. Closer now. He mustn’t see. There. I shifted again and placed my free hand under my head. The other hand stayed where it was, masking my sex, its gentle pressure both easing and stoking my desire.
Gods, what a body he’d been blessed with. His physique was perfectly sculpted, exactly as nature had intended. And there was no doubt in my mind that nature had very much intended him to be seen naked. The loin cloth looked superfluous on him. And a little silly. Why cover what is beautiful and natural? If it was to protect or conceal the undeniably majestic trunk of his sex then it quite plainly was not up to the task. If I’d had my way I would have ripped it from him and unceremoniously tossed it into the river. Awful thing. I wondered why he was wearing it at all. Was it just to demonstrate his authority over me – us – his captured slaves? That hardly seemed necessary now.
And he looked so completely at home under the tree. In his natural element. Entirely self-sufficient. He was master of himself and his environment. Here was a man – a real man – at one with nature, as much a part of the forest as the birds in the trees. He lived from the land and took only what he needed from it to survive. No more.
I found that fascinating. And very arousing.
Image – author unknown
My forefinger played a gently rhythm at the bud of my sex. How graceful he was. Such tranquility. With such beauty he put the forest itself and all within it to shame. Even the sturdy oak tree we were sheltering under seemed tiny and insignificant in his compare.
I closed my eyes. The soft breeze on my bare skin, the lapping waters, his slow graceful hands….
Above me the birds were singing.
Faintly, shyly, I added my own voice. A gentle moan. A sigh so soft.
A song of joyful surrender.