Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I wish he’d let me suck his cock. Men are far more amenable to a woman’s demands when they’ve had their cocks sucked.
The ground shifts underneath my feet and I wobble, falling against the side of the tent with a yelp. I manage to catch myself before I crash through the strange leather and tear it, and stagger outside, looking around.
We’re…moving?
Even though I don’t see the turtle’s head, I can feel the strange surge of the body moving, and every so often, the lift of a long, angular flipper rising through the waters. The sea around us glimmers in the sunlight, startlingly beautiful, and I can see why someone would live on the waters. It’s so pretty. Seagulls fly through the air high overhead, clouds dot the blue sky, and it’s an absolutely gorgeous day with fair weather and a gentle breeze. It’s so much nicer than the cities, where everything smells like last night’s chamberpots and the only greenery to be seen is on sale in the market, and won’t be eaten by slaves because it’s too expensive.
I take a deep breath of the sea air and hug my arms to my chest. Get a blanket and some food and I could be happy like this, I think…provided my new husband will speak more than two words to me.
As if my thoughts have summoned him, Ranan’s head surfaces through the waters nearby. He tosses a fish the size of my arm onto the turtle’s back and then hauls himself over the side and onto the shell. He’s dripping with water, wearing nothing but his usual loincloth and the knife-belts that cover his chest. The sail atop his head shivers when he shakes himself off, and I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the flying droplets that go everywhere. “Good morning, Ranan,” I say cheerfully. “Are we going somewhere?”
There’s no answer. Why am I not surprised? The man acts as if he doesn’t even like me, which is quite odd considering he’s the one that asked for a bride. Perhaps he’s just not a chatty sort. If he prefers silence, I’ll have to learn to be a bit quieter. The old man I served when I was first enslaved liked for me to talk. He said it filled his empty house a bit, so I learned to chitchat as I did chores and talked about everything and nothing. If Ranan doesn’t want that, though, I can learn to be quieter.
I can be anything he needs, as long as he keeps me safe. And last night, he was kind to me. He saw me shivering and pulled me in his arms and kept me warm. If he truly hated me, he wouldn’t have done such a thing. Pleased at this realization, I beam at him.
Ranan eyes me with a hard gaze.
“If I do something that bothers you, please let me know,” I say, keeping my voice gentle and even. “I’m not here to make you miserable, but I won’t know you’re displeased unless you speak up.”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice gruff. His gaze falls to the gaping neck of my slave shift and then just as quickly veers away again.
I noticed him looking at my body last night. I might not be a noble lady, but I’ve got a strong frame and rather nice breasts, if I do say so myself. My slave shift is old and showing its wear, and I’m starting to think that dirt was the only thing holding it together. Now that it’s gotten wet, pieces of it have started to fray and tear quickly. The neckline gapes open far too low for a modest household, but we’re on a turtle’s back. I don’t know the etiquette for this particular location.
If I’m to stay with him, I should probably get something a bit more suited to sea life, though. Something that won’t fall apart too much. Something warmer, perhaps. Then again, he’s not offering and I’m not going to ask. It’ll do until it falls off of me, and then I can just run around in a loincloth like he does. I have to bite back a smile at the thought as Ranan stalks away.
He moves with purpose, I notice, as I follow after him. Every step is one made forcefully, as if he has a battle plan in mind and is simply executing it. I like it. Slave men tend to meander, because a prompt and eager slave just gets more work handed to them. You learn to be slower—cheerful but slower—and you learn to lie a lot.
Lies serve a slave more than the truth. I learned that very quickly. No one wants to hear from a slave that their work is too much, their master’s cock is not appealing when waved in one’s face, and the lady’s arse does look big in that. Lies are a slave’s armor. They’re our safety. Of course we lie. It’s to protect ourselves. I do it as naturally as breathing nowadays.