Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Seamstress

   [To any of my few faithful readers, please note: this story is very
unlike my other stories, in that it it has no 'underage' component.  It
also has a lower 'sex action' to story ratio, takes a while to 'get
started', but hopefully it 'finishes with a bang'.]

   (MF, MMMMMF, D/S, romantic, reluc)

   By cc

   "Lot 28: a seamstress."

   She was the last slave to be auctioned.  Being skilled, she was
potentially very valuable to the right master, one who was able to exploit
her talents to full advantage.  If buyers for such were in the crowd, the
slavemaster stood to take in three or four times as much as any of the
other slaves.

   "S'time," the slavehandler grunted, nudging her, albeit gently, almost
apologetically, towards the front of the platform.  This was
uncharacteristic: he had barked to the other slaves, often punctuating his
commands with a stroke of the crop on thigh or bottom to hurry them along.
But the seamstress was different.  She was older than all the other
slavegirls, for one.  She was well into middle-age, although she wore it
well.  Streaks of gray showed in her dark hair, but it was still shiny,
hanging straight and fairly long, with a gentle curl framing her face.  She
was not slender, but she had a pleasant figure.  Which was easily seen: she
wore only skimpy undergarments.  This was more than the other slavegirls
had been allowed, however.  After all, if a buyer was looking for a
bedwarmer, there had been a number of pretty enough teenage girls, and even

preteens, sold before her.

   But she had not been permitted to retain any hair below her waist, and
the undergarments were fairly sheer, so little was concealed.  Yet she
retained a certain...something about her.  Not dignity exactly, but a
gentle, reserved quietness, that had affected even the hardened
slavehandler.

   She murmured, "Yes, Sir," and stepped to the front of the platform.  The
slavehandler pushed a display of her work beside her; it was of high
quality.  The bidding began.  Scattered voices rang out, hands were raised;
the bidding was not as brisk as it had been for the prettier of the younger
girls, but the amounts involved were higher, and they jumped.  Soon only
four, then three, then two voices were bidding, and the price had reached a
level that was at least well into the median for a skilled slave.

   There was obvious sadness on her face; not surprising, considering her
circumstances.  However she seemed at least resigned, calm, not looking
wildly about at those bidding for her, as some of the younger girls did, or
staring at the platform with tears streaming down her face as some of the
others had done.

   But those who looked closely could see a tensing around her eyes, each
time she heard the voice of one of the bidders...

   "500 Imperials, 500 Imperials," the auctioneer called out.  "Do I hear
6? 6, anyone?  500 going once..."

   "600."

   A new voice.  It almost made her look, but she controlled herself.  "It
doesn't matter," she told herself.  But her heart was beating just a bit
faster...

   "700," the other bidder replied.

   "Eight."

   "Nine!" A hint of exasperation in the other; he had been so close.  The
price was now on the high end, even for an experienced, skilled slavewoman.

   "Twelve hundred," the new bidder replied, almost a hint of...perhaps it
was contempt, in his voice.  With this jump in the bid he was making it
clear: no one else was going to have the seamstress.  Give up.
A hush had fallen on the surprised crowd as the drama unfolded.  A

barely audible snarl was heard.

   "T-twelve hundred going once, twelve hundred going twice, sold for
twelve hundred!" the auctioneer, nearly as startled as the rest, managed to
stammer out.

   Tomas looked at his Master.  "Fetch her for me, Tomas.  And Tomas," he
added, as his servant turned back towards him, "I know I don't have to say
this, but still: be gentle and considerate, eh?"

   "Of course, Master, I understand," he replied.  And he did; he had been
with his Master for many years, and he had seen what his Master had seen...

   At the platform the slaves were being parceled out to their new owners.
He showed his master's emblem to the slavehandler and the seamstress was
brought forward, still dressed only in her revealing underclothes.

   Tomas took his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. 
"Would you come with me, please?" he asked, rhetorically.  "The Master is
waiting for you."

   As they walked he spoke quickly, in low tones for her ears only, "Do not
be afraid.  The Master is a good and kindly man." Her heart, all ready
lightened to know that...That One had not acquired her, blossomed even more
into even a bit of hope.  Perhaps at least she would not be abused, and
would be able to be of some use in her accustomed trade.

   He was tall, older, older than she at any rate, though perhaps not by
much.  Grave, clean-shaven, a hawk nose, bushy eyebrows.  Not bad to look
at, she thought, then chided herself for even daring to think it.  You're a
slave, she reminded herself.

   "My carriage is not far.  We will walk there," he said, and turned down
the street.  She followed, clutching Tomas' cloak about her.  The Master's
other two servants fell into step; one was on either side of her, and Tomas
took up the rear.  She wondered if this was to make sure she didn't try to
escape.  But somehow it only made her feel...safe.

   The carriage was well made, trimmed with silver; clearly the Master was
well-to-do, which she all ready deduced from his willingness to pay an
exorbitant price for even a skilled slave, and his clothes, which her
seamstress' eye had immediately noted to be simple, but elegant and of high
quality.

   At the carriage one servant held the door, the others climbed on to the
seat atop.  Almost automatically, although she had no experience as a
slave, she headed for the back step, the accustomed place for a slave to
stand and hold on.  But the Master forestalled her, and with a motion of
his hand ordered her into the carriage.  Or perhaps it was more of...an
invitation?

   The carriage seats were soft, the ride smooth.  She looked at him, at
her lap, at him.  She opened her mouth..."Later, seamstress, later," he
said softly, then he leaned forward and looked into her eyes and said more
intently, "But hear me, seamstress: I mean you no harm.  You are safe!"
then turned to look out the window.  She closed her mouth, but continued to
alternate looking at her lap, then at him.  They rode most of the day, with
only enough stops to eat.  Tomas brought food and drink from roadhouses
along the way.  Finally they reached the Master's estate.

   The seamstress looked almost in a daze at the house, a mansion really,
the groomed grounds, the fields.  Tomas escorted her to a room.  "This will
be yours," he said.  "Everything you need should be here.  There is a bell;
ring it if you are lacking anything.  I will call for you in the morning at
eight.  The Master will have breakfast with you then, and he desires you to
wear this..." He went to a closet and opened it.  There were many dresses
and other clothes in it.  He pulled some aside and indicated a gown.

   Again her skilled seamstress' eye served her well: the gown was like the
Master's clothes, elegant, simple, well-made, beautiful.  But there was
more.  She could tell that it was made for someone of about her size.  And
the style would particularly compliment someone with her face, her hair. 
And she could tell that it had been worn before...

   As she puzzled at it, Tomas bowed out the door and left her.  It was
late, the bed was soft, and despite the stress of the day, or perhaps
because of it, soon she was asleep.

   In the morning she awoke.  The necessary was more than adequately
appointed.  After her ablutions she donned the gown.  It fit better than it
should have, but not perfectly.  "If he wants me to continue to wear this,
I'll have to alter it a bit," she thought, "But there's no time now."

   There was a tap at the door.  "Seamstress, are you awake?" she heard
Tomas say.

   "Yes, I am," she replied.

   "When you are ready, just go down the hallway to the left and you will
find the dining hall.  The Master will be there in thirty minutes."

   "I understand.  Thank you...Sir," she replied.  She wasn't sure how to
address Tomas.

   "You're welcome, seamstress.  Have a pleasant breakfast." She could hear
a small smile in his voice.  Then she heard his steps walking away.

   In a few minutes she was ready.  She stepped into the hall.  Since it
was early, she turned right instead of left, to see a bit more of the
Master's house.  Or at least some of the hall, she thought to herself; she
had no intention of going into any rooms she was not ordered, or invited,
into; she was a slave, after all.

   The walls were richly paneled, with some fine tapestries hanging at
intervals.  As she admired them, she heard footsteps coming down stairs. 
Looking down the hall she saw the bottom of a staircase.  The steps were
fast, light.  She recognized them as being that of a younger person.  A
girl, perhaps thirteen years old, came pelting down the stairs and turned
towards her.  She stopped short when she saw the seamstress.

   She was dressed like the Master: elegant, simple, high quality clothes.
But again her keen seamstress' eye served her well; or perhaps it was the
mother in her: "She has no mother," she thought to herself.  The girl's
clothes were just that much askew, her hair just that much out of place.

   The seamstress curtsied as the girl approached, and held the curtsy, as
a slave should, until addressed, told to rise, or the Master (or the
Master's daughter, as she assumed her to be) had passed her by.  The girl
skidded to a stop in front of her.  "Who are you?" she demanded.

   "I am your father's new slave, m'Lady," she replied, "A seamstress he
bought yesterday.  I am at your service."

   "You're a - what?!  A slave?  B-but my father doesn't own any..." She
cut herself off and went pelting off down the hall, shouting, "Daddy!!"

   The seamstress stood for a moment.  He doesn't own slaves, she thought;
but he bought me.  Why?!

   The girl ran to her father's suite.  The door was ajar and she pushed
inside without knocking.  She found her father in front of the big mirror
in his dressing room, tying a tie.

   "Daddy!  Did you buy a--a slave?!" she nearly shouted.

   "A little more softly sweetheart, all right?" he tolerantly replied. 
"Yes, I did buy a slave, but it's not...exactly how you think.  She was in
trouble, and...I have other reasons that I'm not going to discuss with YOU
right now, eh?  But listen to me, darling girl," and here he turned to face
her, putting his hands on her shoulders.  "I think she is a very wise
person.  I think you will like her.  A lot.  And she will probably be able
to tell you and teach you some things you very much will want to know.  I
know you'll do this without my saying so, but treat her gently, and with
respect.  All right?" And here he chucked his daughter under the chin and
gave her a soulful look.

   "All--all right Daddy, I will," she replied.  She gave her father a hug
and sprinted out the door to grab her own breakfast.

   When the seamstress judged that a half hour had passed she turned back
down the hall.  She found the dining hall.  A table was set, a pleasing
aroma wafted from a variety of dishes.  As she entered, the Master arrived
through another door.

   She curtsied as he approached.  He took her hand and raised her, then
led her wordlessly to the table.  She stood next to the head chair, as a
servant would for her master, but he just shook his head, pulled out the
chair next to his for her and motioned her into it.

   He spoke only in low murmurs as he indicated the dishes present,
forestalling her attempt to serve him, dishing up a sumptuous breakfast for
her and then for himself.  She tried the food tentatively, then with a
delicate gusto nearly devoured it, finding it to be some of the finest she
had ever had.  Also she was ravenous; in the stress of the day before she
had had no appetite, had not eaten anything, even though the slavehandler
offered her bread and cheese.

   When she had finally cleared her plate she set her utensils down.  She
looked at him, at the table, back at him.  She opened her mouth, saying,
"Master, may I..."

   He cut her off.  "Soon, seamstress, soon I will tell you.  But for now,
you tell me YOUR story, hm?"

   She looked at her lap for a moment, looked at him and said, "Yes,
Master," and began:

   The Seamstress' Story

   I was born in another province, some distance from here, to kindly
parents whom I loved dearly.  We lived on a farm, and did well enough.  My
brothers and sisters mostly are scattered about in that same province.  I
have not heard from them since my mother died.  My father passed away when
I was still young, and my mother apprenticed me to a seamstress of whom my
mother knew, being a distant relative.  I was willing; it was an adventure,
and a new place to see, new things to do.  The seamstress lived in the
province next to this one.

   She was a wonderful teacher, a kindly woman, and I loved her like my
mother.  She taught me so much about...everything, not just sewing and
clothes.  And she encouraged me to learn, and even to design my own
clothes. By the time I was sixteen I was working alongside her almost as a
partner.  We were doing well.

   Then I met a man.  He was a bit older, in his twenties.  The seamstress
knew him, and thought well of him and his family.  He had a good farm, and
was a hard worker.  And he was good and kind and gentle.  So I fell in
love, and he asked me to marry him, and I said yes.

   Oh, and we had such a good life.  I lost two children as infants, but we
raised three, straight and strong.  I still did some sewing, but now mostly
for my family, and some friends, and some of the poor in the nearby
village.

   But when my children were twelve, and fourteen, and sixteen, my husband
grew ill.  The Healer did what she could, and even sent to the provinces
around for help, but...he died.

   I decided that it would be best for my children to sell the farm; it was
prosperous, and I had a few offers to choose from.  I cast about and found
that the town...the town where you bought me, Master, it needed a
seamstress, so I set up shop there.

   And I did well, and my children were such a help to me, and we did more
than survive.  But children grow.  And soon my oldest was joining the
cavalry.  He was ever adventurous, and brave, and a good horseman.  He is
posted to a far city.  I have had letters from him from time to time.  He
is...he was a lieutenant, last I heard.  That was many months ago.  My
middle child, my daughter, married a fine young man, and they are in the
Capitol City, where he is studying to be a Healer.  She learned to sew from
me, of course, and she is working and supporting them while he studies...at
least, last I heard; again that was some months ago.

   My younger boy followed them just a year ago, hoping to study to be a
Healer as well.  I think...I think he was much affected when my husband
died, and hopes to defeat what killed his father.  He is bright.  He was
preparing to take the entrance examination when I last heard from him. 
Perhaps he has all ready started his studies, I don't know.

   At first I did well enough after they left.  I must admit, it was hard.
Hard to do all the work myself, hard to...make myself do it.  I had divided
what remained from selling their father's farm amongst them, and they
didn't need my support.  I held on, hoping, I suppose, to see my
grandchildren someday, though I don't know if I ever will, even when they
do have children.

   Times became a little hard, in the town; the mine that many of the men
worked at was flooded.  Business dropped off, and I had to scrimp and save
some, but I think I would have been able to make it...

   But there was a man.  He called himself a tailor, but truth to say I
think he knew little enough of it.  But there are always some who want a
man for any job, and must have a `tailor' instead of a `seamstress' [Here
she smiled a bitter little smile].  After my children left he came
courting. He was so sure of himself, so sure that no one could resist him,
that it was so obvious that I should become his wife, or maybe more like
his servant.  He became enraged when I refused him.

   He took to spreading lies about me, accused me of shoddy work, of
shorting customers on material, of stealing his clients.  Well, perhaps he
was right about the last: more than one dissatisfied customer of his ended
up in my shop to set right what he had mishandled.

   Soon I had no money to meet my obligations: taxes, creditors for bolts
of cloth, and so forth.  My shop was seized.  And I was bought by the
slavemaster.

   "And you know the rest.  You were there," she finished, looking up at
him, eyes clear, the question still there, but held in abeyance; she was
content to wait for him, now.  "There is one thing: my adversary was
soundly defeated.  For he it was whom you outbid, Master," and she smiled a
small smile again.

   "I thought as much," he replied.  "Thank you, seamstress.

   "And now," he continued, "I do have a task for you.  It is one for which
I think you are well-suited.  And I think you will find it fulfilling. 
Follow me."

   He led her to the main door.  Tomas was waiting outside with the
carriage.  They drove some distance, to an area that seemed somewhat
poorer: small cottages, shacks, hardscrabble farms, a down-at-heels
village. They arrived at a building that was at least well-maintained, with
some grounds around it that were well-kept, if plain.  He led her through
some of the buildings; they walked the paths outside them.  A few people
came and went, some appearing quite poor, some leaving carrying bundles of
clothes and food.

   "This is my mission," the Master stated.  "There are many needy folk
nearby.  We try to help.  Mostly they need...hope, teaching,
encouragement." He showed her around, the food pantry, the clothes closet.
"There is no one to manage it.  I have had difficulty finding someone
suitable: someone skilled, compassionate, yet tough-minded." He turned
towards her.  "Someone like you, seamstress."

   "Master, may I speak?" she asked.

   "Seamstress, I hope you know, now, that you need not ask that.  Speak
whenever you wish, and say whatever you want," he answered with a smile. 
She smiled a small smile in return.

   "Thank you, Master.  I am yours, Master; I will do whatever you tell me
to do.  If you want me to do this, I will strive to do my best to satisfy
you," she stated quietly.

   "But will you enjoy it, seamstress?  Will you teach these young women
what they need to know to help their families?  Will it satisfy you?" he
asked, almost urgently.

   She looked down for a moment.  Then she looked in his eyes.  "Of course
it will, Master.  It is a wonderful thing that you do.  Thank you for it,
and for putting me in this place." Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

   "Good, good!  That's settled then.  Tomorrow we'll return, and you may
review operations in detail, and we will see what you will need." He turned
back towards the coach, handing her in the door.  Tomas shook the reins and
they headed back to his estate.

   He took his leave of her for a while, again bidding her to go where she
would, be at her ease.  He would see her for the evening meal.

   Again she strolled through the halls, admiring the workmanship and the
artwork.  In a little while she again heard smaller footsteps pelting
around a corner, and the Master's daughter appeared.  Again the seamstress
curtsied as she approached.

   "Oh!  It's you!  Hello," she said, brightly.  "How are you?  My name's
*********.  I'm thirteen.  So you're a seamstress?  Um..." and here she
twirled her hair a bit nervously, then continued, "C--could you come with
me?  To my room, I mean?"

   "Of course, m'Lady," she replied quietly, and followed the girl a step
behind her, as a slave would.

   But the girl turned back, took the seamstress' arm, and walked beside
her.  "I--I hope you'll be happy here.  Daddy is really nice, and Tomas and
the other servants are wonderful," she said.

   The seamstress smiled at her.  "Thank you, m'Lady, I am all ready very
happy to be here.  You are very kind." The girl blushed, but appeared
content.

   Later her father went looking for her.  He found them both in his
daughter's room.  They were sitting on her bed, the seamstress braiding his
daughter's hair, teaching her how to do it as she worked.  His daughter's
clothes looked...different; he couldn't exactly tell how.  He watched them
for a while, entranced...

   His daughter looked up and saw him.  "Daddy!" she chirped and popped up
to give him a hug.

   The seamstress rose to her feet and curtsied, holding it.  He reached
out quickly to her hand and raised her.  "The seamstress has been braiding
my hair, and showing me stuff about clothes, and how to put on make-up,
and..."

   "That's good," her father said with a smile, forestalling further
commentary from his daughter, whose conversational style he knew well.  He
turned to the seamstress.  "Come," he said, "Dine with me." It was not
quite a command, perhaps more than a request.

   "Of course, Master," she replied, and followed him out of the room.

   "See you later!" the girl called out.

   "Yes, m'Lady, I look forward to it," the seamstress replied as she left.

   At the dining table they were served by Tomas and another servant. 
Again a most sumptuous meal was prepared, not too rich, but elegant,
refined, varied, delicious.  The seamstress found herself to be quite
hungry again, and was almost able to do justice to the meal.  Her plate was
nearly clean when she looked up to see the Master looking at her, a small
smile on his face.

   He said, "Now, seamstress.  Now is the time to ask."

   She found that she had difficulty speaking.  Her eyes teared.  Her lips
trembled.  Her breath came in gasps.  Finally she was able to force out,
"Why?  Why, Master?  Why did you buy me?  What am I to you?  Why didn't you
just...pass me by?  What am I here for?  Not just to run your mission,
surely!"

   As she spoke the tears ran down her face.  The Master pulled his
handkerchief out of his pocket and held it up to her.  She took it almost
absent-mindedly, dabbed at her face, then looked at it, looked at him,
looked at it, then launched herself at him, leaning over the arm of her
chair that sat close to his, as he held his arms out for her, enfolding her
in a long, comforting embrace as she sobbed, her tears staining his shirt.

   "It's all right, seamstress, it's all right, you can cry now, cry it all
out.  You don't have to hold it in anymore.  You are strong, but you can
let go now.  I know you have hurt so much, I know.  I don't know if I can
comfort you enough, but I will try, seamstress, I will try," he murmured to
her as her shoulders shook.

   After a while she quieted, and he began to speak:

   The Master's Story

   I was married.  I'm sure that's no surprise to you; you are wise, and
observant.  I lost my wife.  She died giving birth to ********, our
daughter.  I grieved, but I had to keep going.  I had a daughter, and the
estate, and so many people counting on me.  Not just the servants here, and
the mission: I have many enterprises nearby and farther away that employ
many people, and provide opportunity for a great number.  These businesses
require attention, or they would wither, and people would suffer.

   I buried myself in work and in raising our daughter.  Time has passed,
both quickly and slowly...but I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, you
have felt it yourself.

   My servants and I had stopped in the town where you were.  I had some
small business there, and we were just strolling and taking the measure of
the place.  I don't buy slaves, ordinarily.  When we passed the auction I
looked up and saw you.

   You are strong, seamstress, and quiet, and self-controlled.  No one else
could have noticed what I saw.  But I saw you when your adversary bid; it
was as if you were being struck with a blow each time.  I saw the sorrow
you hid so well.  I saw your strength.  And yes, I saw the quality of your
work, and knew you to be skilled indeed.

   But there is more.  I saw you: your face, your hair, your eyes, even
your body.  You look...like what I think my wife would have looked like, if
she had lived.  Oh, not exactly the same, of course.  But when I saw you my
heart almost stopped.  When I saw the straits you were in wild horses
couldn't have kept me from buying you.

   *********************************************************************

   "So now you know why, seamstress.  And I have only one question for
you," and here he gently leaned her out so that he could look in her face,
as she returned his gaze, tear-stained but now calm, "What do you want to
do?  I will of course free you, but where will you go?" He smiled thinly.
"As I'm sure you can tell, I am not without resources.  You will of course
write your children immediately, and my couriers will carry the letters,
with instructions to facilitate their travel here as soon as is possible."

   At this she teared up again, saying, "Oh Master, oh Master I...I..."

   "Hush," he said.  He slid their chairs out and drew her to him again,
lifting her easily onto his lap.  She laid her head on his shoulder and
sobbed quietly.  After a bit he continued, "But what will you do?  If there
was someone, perhaps another seamstress you could work with, or a family
member you could rely on...but if there were such a person, you would not
have been taken as a slave, so I suspect there is no one.  Is there?" At
this he leaned her out again to look at her.  She just looked back and
shook her head.  He whispered, "I would gladly buy you a shop and
everything you need, a house, clothes, everything."

   "I would not accept," she whispered back.

   "I know.  But I had to say it, anyway," he said.  She smiled a small
smile.  "Then...will you marry me?"

   She wasn't sure if she was going to pass out.  The edges of her vision
dimmed.  It was hard to breathe.  "Master, I...I...No.  No, I will not
marry you.  But O, Master, I am yours.  I am yours willingly for you
to...to take." There.  She said it.  She would never have dreamed of saying
that before a few days ago.  Now it seemed the only thing to do.

   "But why?  Why won't you marry me?" he replied, astounded, though
perhaps, being wise himself, he had an inkling of what she would say.

   She paused a moment to collect her thoughts.  "Master, your daughter is
all ready very dear to me, and I'm sure she is the light of your life.  I
do not want to do anything that would hurt her, or make her think that she
is not the most important person to you.  I don't want to threaten her
inheritance in any way.  If I stay your slave, perhaps as your slave
concubine [and here she lowered her eyes, but peeped up at him through her
lashes], if you so desire it, then there is no threat, no risk to her.

   "So take me, Master, if you want to.  I am yours.  I am yours
willingly," she finished, and laid her head back down on his shoulder.

   He stroke her hair, laid his lips on her head, held her for a while. 
"There's just one other thing," he said.  "It's...it's a little
embarrassing.  It's something that...I would want to do, something my wife
was kind enough to do with me, and she came to enjoy it after a while. 
I--I think I would very much want to do it with you, and it might be hard
for me without it." He waited.

   "What is it, Master?  Anything you want to do with me, I'm sure I will
be more than willing for you to do it," she replied.

   "I used to spank her, and whip her," he said, almost whispering.  "Not
hard, very gentle, barely enough to sting a bit, and make her skin faintly
red.  It seemed to...excite her, almost as much as it excited me to do it
to her.  And I always told her, if it was ever too much, all she had to do
was say `stop' or `no' or `don't' or even `ow'.  She never had to say it."

   There was silence for a moment.  Then the seamstress raised her head
from his shoulder, grabbed the back of his head and fastened her lips
warmly onto his, opening her mouth, inviting his tongue to invade her,
sucking it as he entered her.  He groaned and held her tightly, his rod
stiffening under her buttocks.

   Then she broke off and laid her head back down on his shoulder.  "My
husband used to spank me, too," she whispered, as the Master gaped.  "We
could never get enough of it, with three small children around all the
time. But we became very good at seizing any opportunity..."

   "O my beautiful sweet slavegirl," the Master whispered back.  He waited
just a bit.  "Then tell me, seamstress: have you been...naughty?"

   "O, yes Master, I've been so naughty!  O please, Master, do I have to be
punished?" she fell effortlessly into character, the years dropping away
from her as she did so.

   "You know you do, you naughty, beautiful, wonderful slavegirl, and right
now!" He stood up with her in his arms, and strode off to his chambers. 
She nestled into his neck, clinging tightly, her breath short, moisture
gathering between her legs.

   In his chambers he stood her up before him.  He kissed her forehead, her
glabella, the tip of her nose, caressing her cheeks, then sweetly on her
lips.  He stepped back.  "Strip.  Now," he commanded.  He began to pull his
belt off his pants...

   She slowly, mock-reluctantly complied, unbuttoning her gown and letting
it fall off her shoulders, then slipping off her undergarments.  She stood
naked before him, her breasts heaving, her eyes half-closed.  He strode
around her, absent-mindedly slapping the strap-end of his belt into his
palm.  Then: SMACK-SWAK!  he whipped her across the back of her thighs with
it.  "AH!  AH!" she cried out, and again and again as he continued to whip
her, back of thighs, then the front of her thighs, then across her buttocks
as they jiggled and bounced.  Faint red marks showed where she had been
disciplined.

   He paused for a moment as she stood, whimpering.  He caressed her,
soothing her, kissing her, rubbing away the sting.  "Are you all right?" he
whispered in her ear.

   "Yes, Master," she replied, dreamily, "But O Master, do I have to be
punished...more intimately?"

   "Of course you do, you naughty, beautiful, wonderful slavegirl whom I
adore, you need to be punished intimately, and pleasured intimately, and
loved intimately," he answered.  He began to hand-spank her breasts,
SMACK-SMACK-SMACK!

   She cried out, "OOO!  OOO!  OOO!  Oh, Master, please, my breasts! 
AAAA!" as they jiggled and reddened under his hand.  Once her top was
well-disciplined he took her breasts gently in his hands, caressing them,
tweaking her nipples, then leaning down to kiss them warmly, sucking and
nibbling her nipples as she gasped.

   Without preamble he gripped her all-ready-disciplined buttocks in a firm
hand, and began raining spank after open-handed spank onto her cleft, still
devoid of pubic hair, WAP-WAP-WAP!  "AAAA!  AAAA!  AAAAA! 
OHMASTERPLEASEI'LLBEGOODI'LLBEGOODI'LLBEGOOD!" she nearly screamed as he
disciplined her so sharply, so intensely, so intimately.  Her hips were
rocking, her cries becoming more impassioned, and soon she was climaxing in
his hands as he alternately gripped her cleft, molesting her deeply, then
spanking her sharply again, driving her farther and farther into her
orgasm.

   Finally she subsided, collapsing into his arms as he swept her off her
feet, cradling her tenderly, kissing her hair as she sobbed out the last of
her climax, hiding her face in his shirt.

   After a minute or so he was almost startled to feel her hand reaching
down, finding his erect manhood, squeezing and caressing through his pants.
He carried her to his bed and lay her gently upon it, then took her face,
now so very dear to him, in his hands, looked in her eyes, and asked,
"Seamstress, are you sure?"

   She nodded but did not speak, her eyes shining.

   "Then know this, seamstress: I take you as my wife in all but title.  We
will raise my daughter together.  You will be beside me in everything, and
everything I have is yours as well.  You remain my slave, but beloved,
cherished, free in all but name," he said, and kissed her long but sweet on
her tender lips.

   He stood and disrobed, then lay next to her.  "Now, slave, pleasure me.
Pleasure me with your lips, your breasts, your body!" he commanded.

   And she did.  She trailed her long hair up and down his chest, abdomen,
down to his rising manhood.  She pressed her body sinuously against him,
her hand caressing his throbbing rod.  Then she used her breasts to
stimulate him, rubbing them against his groin as he groaned.

   Finally she took him in her mouth, sucking, bobbing up and down, as he
gently but firmly grasped her hair.  When he was wet and fully hard he
pulled her off him, laid her on her back, and mounted her, thrusting deep,
driving for her cervix.

   She cried out as she felt herself penetrated so fully for the first time
in so many years, "AAAH!  OHMASTEROHMASTEROHMASTER!" He thrust vigorously
in and out, fast and hard, long and deep, finally spending himself within
her with a shout.

   Then he collapsed next to her, hugging her, kissing her, laughing with
joy as she joined him, both of them deeply content.

   "Will you sleep here, with me, seamstress?" he asked.

   "Master you know I can't.  I don't think your daughter is quite ready to
understand...you and me, not just yet.  Do you?" she replied.

   "I suppose not," he sighed.  "We're going to have to figure something
out eventually, though..." They chuckled together, then she kissed him,
dressed, and slipped out of the room.

   Many days she spent hours at the mission, but over time she assembled a
competent staff there, and she mainly taught sewing there just a few days a
week, and only spent a few hours more overseeing things.  The rest of her
time she was with her Master.  It was rare for him to travel without her.

   She wrote to her children: "My darlings, I don't want you to worry: I
had fallen on hard times, but I am all right now.  Partly because of
circumstances in the province, and partly because of an adversary, I was
sold into slavery.  But a kind and wonderful man bought me, preventing my
enemy from being able to do so.  I am safe, and he is very good to me.  He
told me to write you, and has authorized his messengers to do anything they
can to assist you to come visit me at his estate if you possibly can, or
carry back a reply if you cannot." His messengers sped on their way, and
soon they received word back that her older son, and her daughter, would
arrive soon.  Her younger son was unable to leave the Academy, being in the
middle of exams, but would come as soon as he could.

   He often visited with friends, other prominent men who worked with him,
trying to help the many needy people in the provinces.  She came with him
as he visited Lord *****, who hoped to emulate the Master's mission work in
his own province.  He met them in the entrance hall.  After he had greeted
her Master, Lord ***** turned to her, saying, "Seamstress, so good of you
to come!  Oh please, no need for that," he hastily said as she deeply
curtsied before him.  He quickly raised her, clasped her hands in his, and
spoke earnestly, "Your Master has told me of your condition, your quality,
and your work.  You are worthy of honor from me and everyone here.  Please,
be at ease.  For now while I may take your Master from you for a short
time, make yourself at home.  We will speak more at dinner."

   She wandered the halls for a while.  Fine art decorated his walls, with
statuary at intervals.  She followed a savory fragrance, and found herself
at the kitchen.  As she entered, some of the kitchen staff saw her and
curtsied.  She quickly said, "Oh, no, you mustn't do that!  Perhaps you are
servants here, but I am my Master's slave woman, and I should curtsy to
you, and beg permission even to be here."

   An older woman in a chef's hat bustled up to her.  "Now, now, none o'
that!" she exclaimed in a thick brogue.  She had a brisk, no-nonsense, but
jovial manner about her.  "We know all about you, y'know, Seamstress!  How?
Surely you know how servants talk amongst each other.  No better way to
spread news than through the servants' halls, eh?  Your Master is one of
the finest men about, and everyone here knows it.  There's not a servant
here but has had friend or family helped by him, and by our own Master as
well.  Hearts'o'gold they have, mark my words.  And there's no mistakin'
what your Master thinks'o'you, and the joy you've brought him, and don't
think we don't know it, eh?  So just you sit yourself here, ducky, and have
a cuppa with ol' Cookie and we'll have a chat." With a shy smile the
seamstress allowed herself to be sat down and served.

   "Oh, it smells heavenly in here, Cookie!  Is that dinner?  If it tastes
half as good as it smells it will be the best meal I've ever had!" the
seamstress said, and Cookie beamed.  They talked together, becoming fast
friends, as the staff bustled around them, chiming in from time to time in
their conversation, all of them having a very pleasant time together.

   Her Master encouraged her, and so from time to time the seamstress
invited Cookie and various servants from other households to which he had
brought her.  He even sat them at his table, and was gracious to them, and
so the seamstress' circle of friends and influence grew.

   Soon her children arrived.  She met them at the door of the Master's
mansion.  "Mother!" her daughter exclaimed as they embraced.  "You
look...wonderful!  I'm so glad!  You're happy...at last!"

   Her son strode up in his cavalry officer's uniform, sword and sidearm at
his side.  "Mother, you look...well!" he said, in a surprised tone. 
"You're all right?"

   As they embraced she said, "Yes, son, I'm fine.  I'm so glad you're
here. Come.  Come, both of you.  Come meet the Master."

   She led them inside.  Her daughter bubbled at her side.  Her son walked
stiffly, obviously suspicious at best.

   "Welcome, both of you," the Master greeted them.  "I am so pleased you
are here.  Your mother has spoken so much about you.  Please make
yourselves at home."

   The seamstress' daughter took his hand, looked at his face for a moment.
"Thank you," she whispered, "for taking care of my mother."

   He clasped her hands in his and said, "You are quite welcome, my dear."

   He turned to the seamstress' son who stood stiff, silent.  "Lieutenant,"
the Master greeted him.

   "Sir.  I...I thank you for...I..." he seemed at a loss, frustrated for a
moment.  Finally almost as if it erupted out of him: "How much?!  How much
did you pay?  How much do you want for her freedom?  Double?  More? 
Whatever it is, I'll pay it somehow!"

   His mother looked at him with an expression somehow both pleading and
amused at the same time.  The Master began to speak, perhaps to defend
himself, but the seamstress' daughter forestalled him:

   "Brother, stop.  It is not what you think.  Mother was...in grave
jeopardy.  He rescued her.  Yes, he bought her, but that was the only way
to save her.  I'm sure he offered to free her; I suspect it was the next
day; she would have been too overcome the first.  But she would not go,
would she?" She turned to the Master, who shook his head with a smile. 
"She is happy, so happy here.  There is only one thing I don't understand,
but it doesn't really matter..."

   Her son still stood stiff, his countenance troubled.  The Master spoke:
"Young man, you are a good son.  And I can tell that you are a truly fine
man.  I can only wish I had a son like you.

   "How much?  Nothing.  It will cost nothing.  Here," and he handed the
lieutenant a paper.

   The seamstress' son looked at it.  It was a set of manumission papers
for his mother, signed by the head jurist of the Five Provinces.  His eyes
widened.

   "Do you recognize the signature?" The lieutenant nodded, dumbstruck. 
"This is not a trick," the Master spoke softly.  "I gave my servants
specific instructions not to bar you from wearing your sword and sidearm. I
am unarmed.  Nothing can stop you from leaving, I give you my word."

   The lieutenant turned to the seamstress.  Wordlessly she walked up to
him, and took the paper from his trembling hands.  She tore it in half,
then in half again.  She tossed the pieces in the fire that burned on the
grate.  Then she returned to the Master's side, leaning into him, holding
his arm, as he put his arm around her shoulders.

   Her son just stared for a moment.  "But...why, Mother, why?"

   The seamstress took his hands, saying, "Oh my son, you are such a good
son!  You came here ready to rescue me, but I have all ready been rescued,
and from very dire straits.  If not for him," and she motioned to the
Master, "even if you had discovered my plight, and come to rescue me, it
would all ready have been...too late.  And you might not even have been
able to find me.

   "I know it's hard to accept, but I am very happy now, happier than I
have been since your father died.  Here I am slave in name only, and wife
in all but name.  The Master is a wonderful man.  If you will let him, he
will be a good father to you, and your brother and sister, and we will be
grandparents to your children."

   He stood in silence for a moment.  Then he stepped forward to stand in
front of the Master.  He held out his hand.  "Thank you, Sir.  I don't
understand it, but...thank you for taking care of my mother."

   "You are very welcome, my son.  I look forward to a long and happy time
together."

   They spent a very pleasant week together.  The Master and his seamstress
showed them around the estate and the mission, and spent many hours talking
about the future.  The Master's daughter was entranced by the dashing young
lieutenant, monopolizing his time, hanging on his arm, enthralled by his
tales of adventure.  He found her to be charming and cute as a button.  She
made it a point to remind him that she would be of marriageable age in
three years.  The Master and the seamstress smiled upon them both, and the
lieutenant remembered the old saying: A lieutenant may not marry, captains
may marry, majors should marry, and colonels must marry.  Within three
years there was little doubt that he would make captain...

   Her son and daughter returned home with the expectation that the Master
and his seamstress would be visiting them soon.  In a few more weeks her
younger son was able to come and visit, and left much reassured concerning
his mother's well-being, and with his head whirling with plans he and the
Master had made for his future practice as a Healer.

   Some weeks after her children had left, the Seamstress and her Master
were lying in bed of an evening, her breasts, buttocks, and cleft
fetchingly reddened, smiles on both their faces, and sighs on their lips. A
tawse lay on the floor where he had tossed it after its use.

   "Master..." she said.

   "Yes, my darling beautiful naughty wonderful slavegirl?" he replied,
running his hands to her breasts and tweaking her nipples.

   "Oooo!" she squeaked, then continued, "I was wondering...I mean, I have
an idea.  I don't know if you'd like it, but I think you might.  If you
don't of course that's fine.  I--I'm not sure if I'll like it, but I
think...I might, or at least I might find it--punishing, and stimulating,
and...exciting," she finished with a whisper.

   "Tell me, my love, tell me!" he responded.

   "I have met so many of your friends, wonderful men, good and kindly. 
Would you find it...pleasurable to see me punished by...another man?  Not
that I am at all dissatisfied with you, Master, please don't think that!  I
only think that you might find it...stimulating, and it might stimulate me,
and of course you would have to punish me afterwards for being...stimulated
by another man.  And after all, I am not your wife, I am your slave, so it
wouldn't be...improper," she explained, then hid her face in his chest,
embarrassed, wondering how he would respond.

   He thought for a moment, then said, "It's true you are a very naughty
slavegirl, my dear; perhaps a little assistance with your discipline would
be a good idea..."

   It was on a day not long after that when Tomas found her in her room,
telling her the Master was calling for her to come to his study.  She
knocked at the door, and her Master opened it.  Wordlessly he motioned her
inside.  She stepped in and saw five of her Master's closest colleagues,
men whom she knew well, sitting in a semi-circle on chairs.  Each held a
disciplinary instrument of some sort, a tawse, a crop, a paddle, and so
forth.  As she panned her gaze around the room, realizing what was to
transpire, her breath came short, her legs shook.  "So many!" she thought
to herself, a flash of...not really fear, but anxiety, shot through her,
and she sank to her knees.

   Immediately all the men rose from their chairs; one of them preceded the
rest and sprang to her side, waving the rest of them back.  It was Lord
*****, the first of her Master's friends she had met, and, of all his fine
and admirable colleagues, he remained the one she thought most highly of.
He was a frequent guest at the mansion, and they often called upon him at
his home.

   "Seamstress," he spoke urgently but quietly in her ear, "You have but to
say the word and we will all leave.  Or you may choose one or another of us
to stay; your Master suspected that our numbers might be...a surprise, at
least."

   Her head was bowed.  After a moment she whispered, "Thank you, Master,
for kindly consenting to assist my Master in disciplining this naughty
slavegirl.  Having all of the Masters discipline me is no more than I
deserve." Then she looked directly in his eyes, and in a low tone, and with
a smile, said, "And I trust you, and all the rest here." As she spoke she
felt a thrill run through her, felt her nipples crinkle, felt a moistness
between her thighs...

   He smiled back, caressed her cheek, and resumed his place.  Still on her
knees she looked up and around at them all and said, "Masters, may I
speak?"

   "Of course!" "Go ahead, seamstress!" "By all means!" they chorused in
friendly tones.

   "Thank you all for coming.  I hope that you will find assisting my
Master in disciplining me to be...pleasurable.  And I want you all to know
something very important.  I am fond of all of you, and think you all to be
fine, honorable men.  A slavegirl would be lucky to have any of you for a
Master.  But I love my Master.  I am not doing this because I am
dissatisfied with belonging to him in any way.  I am mainly doing this to
pleasure him, also to pleasure all of you." Here she ducked her head.  "I
hope that this slave will be able to satisfy the Masters," she finished as
she peeped up at them through her lashes.

   One of the men arose and said, "We drew straws to see who would have the
privilege of beginning and facilitating your discipline, and I won that
honor."

   He strode over to her and tipped her chin up.  He caressed her face,
smoothed her hair back off her forehead, smiling down on her.  Then he
`mock-slapped' her cheeks, forehand and backhand.  She closed her eyes,
mouth open, crying out softly, "Oh, Oh!" Then he ran his hands down her
neck, plunging one of his hands down her neckline, seizing one breast and
then the other, squeezing, kneading, working as she gasped and moaned.

   "Stand up, slavegirl!" he commanded.  In contrast to his command he
tenderly assisted her to her feet, kissing her cheek as she stood beside
him, then enfolding her in a brief hug.  Then he began to unbutton her
gown, until it was open to her waist.  He pulled it off her shoulders,
pinning her arms to her sides.  He pulled her undergarment top down,
exposing her breasts, still firm and high despite her age, her nipples
erect.  He stepped back, tawse in hand, and swung it down across her
breasts, smacking them back and forth, tops, nipples, and undersides all
feeling the sting as she cried out, "AAA!  AAA!  AAA!  Oh, Master, please!"

   Once her breasts were fetchingly reddened, he tugged her gown all the
way down, and stepped her out of it.  He seized her all-ready punished
breasts and squeezed them as she gasped.  "Sir *******, would you kindly
pull this naughty slavegirl's undergarments down and give her a brisk
spanking?"

   His friend responded with alacrity, and soon the seamstress was moaning,
dancing, and blushing as her buttocks jumped under his punishing hand,
while her breasts were kneaded and worked so lasciviously.

   Her discipline continued, each of the men having his turn at her, often
two or three of them attending to her at a time.  Her thighs were strapped,
front and back.  One of them seized her cleftlips, probing her.  He found
her to be wet, and announced it to the group.  They all chuckled, and
pronounced her `very naughty' to be responding so to her punishment.  One
after another they swung the strap, tawse, belt, and bare hand against her
vulva and clitoris as she nearly shrieked, her hips rocking and bucking,
finally actually coming under the strap as they applauded and cheered her
on.

   They paused for a bit, gathering around her, taking turns actually
picking her up as if she were a little girl, holding her tenderly as she
sobbed out the last of her punishment-orgasm.

   Then they resumed, now taking turns molesting her, probing her anus and
cleft, whipping her on her rosebud as she crouched in knee-chest position,
moaning hoarsely.  Most of the men now had their rods out, stroking them
absent-mindedly as they observed or participated in her discipline.

   They laid her on a nearby divan, gently tying her spread-eagled.  One of
them took her face in his hand and presented his manhood to her mouth. 
"Service me, slavegirl!" he commanded.  She blushed deeply, but opened her
lips as he entered her, thrusting vigorously (but not too far) as she tried
to suck and swirl her tongue around it.

   But she was too distracted to do much, for the others were taking turns
bringing the tawse down sharply on her inner thighs, cleftlips, and
clitoris.  She cried out wildly with each stroke, "AAAA!  AAAA!  AAAA!"

   Then they untied her, and one of them picked her up under her arms and
brought her down with force onto his manhood, standing straight as a
flagpole, penetrating her deeply as she nearly screamed with passion. 
Another came behind her and thrust a dildo, cleverly carven from ice,
expensively carted from a far northern province, into her anus, driving her
over the edge to climax again.  Then he pulled the dildo out and replaced
it with his rod, anally raping her while she was still being taken
frontally.  The men could feel each other's rods through the thin
intervening tissues deep within her.  They pistoned in and out of her
vigorously as she yelped, finally emptying themselves deep within her
punished body.

   Then they handed her off to two more who treated her the same, then
finally the last of the Masters, along with her own dear Master, completed
her discipline, raping and raping her in anus and cleft.

   When they were all spent and her discipline done, they gently laid her
on the divan, using soft cloths to wipe the perspiration from her face, the
seed and vaginal juices that trickled out of her cleft, and the semen
spilling out of her anus.  They kissed her tenderly one by one, thanking
her sincerely, then discreetly withdrawing from the room, leaving her with
her own Master.

   He held her to himself for a long time, kissing the top of her head, her
face buried in his shirt, staining it with her tears.  Finally he leaned
her out and looked in her eyes.  "Are you all right, seamstress?" he asked.

   "Oh, yes, Master!  That was very...intense!  I don't know if I'll want
to do it again anytime soon, but...did you enjoy seeing me punished by
them?" she inquired.

   He held her close to him and hoarsely replied, "Oh, yes, indeed I did,
you naughty beautiful, wonderful slavegirl!  You have made your Master very
happy, but I agree: we'll not do it again anytime soon.  But we will do it
again, seamstress!"

   So the Master and the seamstress had great pleasure together, and
remained loving and devoted to each other.  She continued to be his beloved
slavegirl, receiving intimate sexual discipline from him nearly every day.
And their children thrived, and his daughter was wed to her older son, and
all their children bore them grandchildren.

   And they lived happily ever after!

   By cc

   All comments sincerely welcomed!

   poppacarl55555@lavabit.com