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“It’s time.â€
Ielle took a deep breath and rose gracefully from the furs. She was nervous. Like all the girls of age on her world, she had years of training to prepare for this day.
Still, she felt her stomach flutter now that it was time to carry out the fulfillment.
She stood, naked, her chest moving rapidly up and down until she calmed herself. She brought both hands up from her sides, stretched out as far as they could reach, palms up and open, arcing them until they met over her head. She brought her hands down, clasping her fingers tightly together and settling her arms under the full swell of both breasts. The soft weight of them rested on her forearms, the nipples peeking out, dusty pink. Yes, she was as ready as she could get.
The warm breeze brushed her skin. She had practiced the positions while naked of course, but she had never been in front of anyone but her teacher and the other girls unclothed. Unowned girls were kept carefully covered until this moment. Another breath. It was time.
She crossed the compound, hundreds of eyes turned toward her. Her bare feet picked up a light blue coating of dust from the ground as she walked. It was early yet, not too hot, but not too cold for her bare skin either. Men and women alike gazed at her, some even jostling for a better view. They were examining, weighing, evaluating as she moved toward the dais.
They all judged her worth, but only one judgment mattered. Some were dressed in the finery of the upper class, some in the ragged cloth of the poor. Everyone else was dressed in something, even if it might be skimpy or ragged.
She was naked and fully exposed, ready to be scored. She squeezed her fingers together a little tighter, knowing that there was more to come soon, hoping she would hold up well.
She had her first look at him when she crossed the small wooden bridge that spanned the light orange waters of the creek. He was tall, a few years older than she was. His eyes were dark, a deep brown that bored into her, even at a distance. He did not look nervous, not at all, but surely he must be. She breathed in and out slowly again. She would appear as collected as he did. She could feign confidence if he could.
Two men stood with him, one quite similar but bigger and broader, perhaps a brother or cousin. The other shorter, light haired, younger. His men, at his side for the ceremony. They would not know how her stomach fluttered more and more with every step closer to her destiny.
It seemed both an eternity and an instant then Ielle was before him. She was close enough to touch him, close enough for him to touch her. His face was strong, sure. There was something else.
A smirk. He was amused by her. She narrowed her eyes and shifted her calm countenance to something closer to a glare. She pulled herself back from outright defiance, but she did allow her face to let him know she was not strictly entertainment. Once the contract was fulfilled, she would be his property, yes. But she was not without value and substance herself.
The Oblate nodded and Ielle released her fingers, dropping her hands to her sides. The scribe made a note in the tablet. Her handmaidens stepped up, taking her hands straight out to the sides and holding her firmly, their fingers supporting the weight of her arms so that she should not tire during the judging. They did not hold her to keep her from fleeing. There were girls that struggled sometimes, often with dire results, but Ielle would not be one of them. There was no fear of that from those that knew her.
The Oblate spoke, his voice ringing out loudly, the crowd hushed and listening.
“Who judges the offering?â€
“Kyr of Janos.†He spoke with no hesitation, watching her as he answered. Perhaps he did not feign confidence after all. It seemed to be something he wore quite comfortably.
“Who stands with the judge?â€
“Bylar of Janos.†The bigger man spoke and the scribe recorded the information.
His eyes twinkled as he watched her display herself. She puzzled that her glare did not set him back at all. In fact, she realized that it only amused him more. He stepped forward, close in front of her. The examination would begin now.
She steeled herself, knowing from her training what steps were involved, knowing in a logical way what he would do. This was no longer hypothetical instruction from her teacher. This was the judging for the fulfillment of the contract. The weight of that knowledge sat on her heart but she took another breath to keep herself calm.
He brushed his fingers lightly over her face, both hands touching her skin for the first time, warm, strong, knowing. She held still, watching him intently, determined not to flinch or succumb. He trailed the tips across her forehead, her eyes closing as he stroked over the lids, then fluttering open again when they moved to her cheeks. He used only one finger to draw ever so lightly across her lower lip. The barest touch on her, tingling, tickling. She wanted to bite her lip, scratch it with her teeth, soothe the itch he was creating. She wanted to press her mouth into his touch, but she would not.
She held still, her breath gently blowing while he continued, watching her intently, cataloging her responses. She could tell he saw her battle, but she would not confirm it for him. She held still, like a statue under the hands of a sculptor, a living work of art.
He stroked her upper lip, the same tickle and itch that she was unable to scratch. She stared him down. He moved his finger from her mouth, touching her ears, a firm pinch on each lobe, but still she refused to flinch. He grinned, no longer making any pretense of hiding his mirth. He stroked his hands down her throat, trailing over her collar bones, her skin breaking out in goose bumps at the touch. She sucked in air and found herself inhaling his scent. Something spicy and warm, masculine and primal.
He hefted both breasts, cupping them from underneath, weighing them, eyes locked on hers. They filled his hands nicely, she was neither too small nor too large. He nodded at the Oblate and the scribe made a note on a tablet.
He took her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers. He pressed and released several times until they started to pebble. She took slow, calming breaths, remembering her training, willing herself not to flush under his scrutiny.
She couldn't prevent the gasp when he pinched hard, then twisted. She couldn't hide how they tightened under his touch. He could not know how her core clenched. A feeling she had never had before. Another nod to the scribe, another note.
He moved behind her, fingers combing through her long dark hair, following it from the crown of her head to the small of her back. He gathered it and draped it over her shoulder. She sucked in again, her hair brushed over her sensitized skin and teased her hardened nipple. He was tracing his fingers over her smooth back, following the curve of her shoulder blades, feeling each bone in her spine. He cupped her rear cheeks, clenching and releasing, squeezing her flesh. She wanted to close her eyes, escape from the process but she would not.
His hands were on her thighs, tracking downwards, flexing into her skin, tracing the muscles down the back of her legs, even stopping a moment to tickle behind her knees. He was in front of her again, working his way up over calves and thighs, kneeling in front of her to be able to reach, his breath close against her. She took another calming breath, knowing he was soon to do the final tests.
He rested his hands on her legs, looking her over a moment before he tugged on the small patch of curls that her handmaidens had left during the denuding. She clamped down on her lip, determined not to cry out while he pulled. Blessedly, he released her before many hairs pulled free. He looked up at her, watching her when he dipped his finger into the crease between her lower lips. She held his gaze.
She knew he felt the moisture that was gathering there. She clenched her hands, waiting for the inevitable.
There it was. He slipped his finger into her and she fought against the grimace she would otherwise make. Although they discussed this in the training, the actual insertion was saved for this moment. If he refused her, she would still be intact for another judging, but her value would drop. If she should be refused enough times, she would be consigned to the auctions, ending up as a house girl at best, the rentals at worst. She pushed that ugly thought from her head and concentrated on the here and now instead.
He smiled broadly when he pulled his finger from her, wiping the evidence of her arousal across the front of her thigh. There was a positive murmur from those in the crowd that were close enough to see, the word spreading in waves to those at the rear. He nodded again to the scribe, then stepped away to consult with Bylar.
She lowered her arms. Once again she clasped her fingers together and tucked her arms under her breasts while she waited. She couldn't hear what he said, but she could see the animated discussion going on in quiet voices, the occasional laugh, the looks and nods in her direction. Was he really requiring so much thought? Was he just torturing her? Might he actually be considering a refusal?
She was getting a bit lightheaded and reminded herself to breathe, surprised that these final moments were proving to be the most stressful of the process. She had hundreds of hours of practice and schooling to prepare for the ritual but there was little talk of this part of the process.
He turned to the Oblate and she held her breath. It would be a crushing blow if he should refuse her. Until now it really had not occurred to her that might be possible.
â€Do you accept the offering, Kyr of Janos?â€
“Yes, Kyr of Janos accepts the offering, Ielle of Harku.â€
Ielle took a deep breath and rose gracefully from the furs. She was nervous. Like all the girls of age on her world, she had years of training to prepare for this day.
Still, she felt her stomach flutter now that it was time to carry out the fulfillment.
She stood, naked, her chest moving rapidly up and down until she calmed herself. She brought both hands up from her sides, stretched out as far as they could reach, palms up and open, arcing them until they met over her head. She brought her hands down, clasping her fingers tightly together and settling her arms under the full swell of both breasts. The soft weight of them rested on her forearms, the nipples peeking out, dusty pink. Yes, she was as ready as she could get.
The warm breeze brushed her skin. She had practiced the positions while naked of course, but she had never been in front of anyone but her teacher and the other girls unclothed. Unowned girls were kept carefully covered until this moment. Another breath. It was time.
She crossed the compound, hundreds of eyes turned toward her. Her bare feet picked up a light blue coating of dust from the ground as she walked. It was early yet, not too hot, but not too cold for her bare skin either. Men and women alike gazed at her, some even jostling for a better view. They were examining, weighing, evaluating as she moved toward the dais.
They all judged her worth, but only one judgment mattered. Some were dressed in the finery of the upper class, some in the ragged cloth of the poor. Everyone else was dressed in something, even if it might be skimpy or ragged.
She was naked and fully exposed, ready to be scored. She squeezed her fingers together a little tighter, knowing that there was more to come soon, hoping she would hold up well.
She had her first look at him when she crossed the small wooden bridge that spanned the light orange waters of the creek. He was tall, a few years older than she was. His eyes were dark, a deep brown that bored into her, even at a distance. He did not look nervous, not at all, but surely he must be. She breathed in and out slowly again. She would appear as collected as he did. She could feign confidence if he could.
Two men stood with him, one quite similar but bigger and broader, perhaps a brother or cousin. The other shorter, light haired, younger. His men, at his side for the ceremony. They would not know how her stomach fluttered more and more with every step closer to her destiny.
It seemed both an eternity and an instant then Ielle was before him. She was close enough to touch him, close enough for him to touch her. His face was strong, sure. There was something else.
A smirk. He was amused by her. She narrowed her eyes and shifted her calm countenance to something closer to a glare. She pulled herself back from outright defiance, but she did allow her face to let him know she was not strictly entertainment. Once the contract was fulfilled, she would be his property, yes. But she was not without value and substance herself.
The Oblate nodded and Ielle released her fingers, dropping her hands to her sides. The scribe made a note in the tablet. Her handmaidens stepped up, taking her hands straight out to the sides and holding her firmly, their fingers supporting the weight of her arms so that she should not tire during the judging. They did not hold her to keep her from fleeing. There were girls that struggled sometimes, often with dire results, but Ielle would not be one of them. There was no fear of that from those that knew her.
The Oblate spoke, his voice ringing out loudly, the crowd hushed and listening.
“Who judges the offering?â€
“Kyr of Janos.†He spoke with no hesitation, watching her as he answered. Perhaps he did not feign confidence after all. It seemed to be something he wore quite comfortably.
“Who stands with the judge?â€
“Bylar of Janos.†The bigger man spoke and the scribe recorded the information.
His eyes twinkled as he watched her display herself. She puzzled that her glare did not set him back at all. In fact, she realized that it only amused him more. He stepped forward, close in front of her. The examination would begin now.
She steeled herself, knowing from her training what steps were involved, knowing in a logical way what he would do. This was no longer hypothetical instruction from her teacher. This was the judging for the fulfillment of the contract. The weight of that knowledge sat on her heart but she took another breath to keep herself calm.
He brushed his fingers lightly over her face, both hands touching her skin for the first time, warm, strong, knowing. She held still, watching him intently, determined not to flinch or succumb. He trailed the tips across her forehead, her eyes closing as he stroked over the lids, then fluttering open again when they moved to her cheeks. He used only one finger to draw ever so lightly across her lower lip. The barest touch on her, tingling, tickling. She wanted to bite her lip, scratch it with her teeth, soothe the itch he was creating. She wanted to press her mouth into his touch, but she would not.
She held still, her breath gently blowing while he continued, watching her intently, cataloging her responses. She could tell he saw her battle, but she would not confirm it for him. She held still, like a statue under the hands of a sculptor, a living work of art.
He stroked her upper lip, the same tickle and itch that she was unable to scratch. She stared him down. He moved his finger from her mouth, touching her ears, a firm pinch on each lobe, but still she refused to flinch. He grinned, no longer making any pretense of hiding his mirth. He stroked his hands down her throat, trailing over her collar bones, her skin breaking out in goose bumps at the touch. She sucked in air and found herself inhaling his scent. Something spicy and warm, masculine and primal.
He hefted both breasts, cupping them from underneath, weighing them, eyes locked on hers. They filled his hands nicely, she was neither too small nor too large. He nodded at the Oblate and the scribe made a note on a tablet.
He took her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers. He pressed and released several times until they started to pebble. She took slow, calming breaths, remembering her training, willing herself not to flush under his scrutiny.
She couldn't prevent the gasp when he pinched hard, then twisted. She couldn't hide how they tightened under his touch. He could not know how her core clenched. A feeling she had never had before. Another nod to the scribe, another note.
He moved behind her, fingers combing through her long dark hair, following it from the crown of her head to the small of her back. He gathered it and draped it over her shoulder. She sucked in again, her hair brushed over her sensitized skin and teased her hardened nipple. He was tracing his fingers over her smooth back, following the curve of her shoulder blades, feeling each bone in her spine. He cupped her rear cheeks, clenching and releasing, squeezing her flesh. She wanted to close her eyes, escape from the process but she would not.
His hands were on her thighs, tracking downwards, flexing into her skin, tracing the muscles down the back of her legs, even stopping a moment to tickle behind her knees. He was in front of her again, working his way up over calves and thighs, kneeling in front of her to be able to reach, his breath close against her. She took another calming breath, knowing he was soon to do the final tests.
He rested his hands on her legs, looking her over a moment before he tugged on the small patch of curls that her handmaidens had left during the denuding. She clamped down on her lip, determined not to cry out while he pulled. Blessedly, he released her before many hairs pulled free. He looked up at her, watching her when he dipped his finger into the crease between her lower lips. She held his gaze.
She knew he felt the moisture that was gathering there. She clenched her hands, waiting for the inevitable.
There it was. He slipped his finger into her and she fought against the grimace she would otherwise make. Although they discussed this in the training, the actual insertion was saved for this moment. If he refused her, she would still be intact for another judging, but her value would drop. If she should be refused enough times, she would be consigned to the auctions, ending up as a house girl at best, the rentals at worst. She pushed that ugly thought from her head and concentrated on the here and now instead.
He smiled broadly when he pulled his finger from her, wiping the evidence of her arousal across the front of her thigh. There was a positive murmur from those in the crowd that were close enough to see, the word spreading in waves to those at the rear. He nodded again to the scribe, then stepped away to consult with Bylar.
She lowered her arms. Once again she clasped her fingers together and tucked her arms under her breasts while she waited. She couldn't hear what he said, but she could see the animated discussion going on in quiet voices, the occasional laugh, the looks and nods in her direction. Was he really requiring so much thought? Was he just torturing her? Might he actually be considering a refusal?
She was getting a bit lightheaded and reminded herself to breathe, surprised that these final moments were proving to be the most stressful of the process. She had hundreds of hours of practice and schooling to prepare for the ritual but there was little talk of this part of the process.
He turned to the Oblate and she held her breath. It would be a crushing blow if he should refuse her. Until now it really had not occurred to her that might be possible.
â€Do you accept the offering, Kyr of Janos?â€
“Yes, Kyr of Janos accepts the offering, Ielle of Harku.â€
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