Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
OP
OP
Elaebryn
Planetoid
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2017
True to her expectation, the two attendants set about bathing her.
Yasma is led into the middle of the pool, whereupon the woman remains with her while the man fetches bottles and cloths from the low table-shelf. The woman sinks down to her knees, immersing herself up to her shoulders, and upon the man's return begins to scrub the captive drow's legs with an abrasive cloth. The man similarly begins work on her arms, the attendants each using one hand to steady the limb currently being cleaned and the other to scrub. The woman starts at the right calf, using her left hand to scrub, while the man begins with the left bicep, using his right hand to scrub. They both remain silent for now, attentive to their work as though they were scrubbing floors or scouring dishes. After a few minutes, they each move on — the woman rises to begin scrubbing Yasma's right arm, dripping water down her torso in little rivulets that accent the curves of her breast and the definition of her stomach, while the man sinks down to his knees and scrubs Yasma's left leg.
Minutes pass. The woman is always to Yasma's right, the man to her left. After they finish scrubbing her limbs, the same rough cloths scrub her torso. Front and back, over shoulder and breast and stomach and crotch, the coarse material leaves her skin flushed lightly abraded. The attendants then dump the bottles of oil on her, and as though they were waxing leather they begin to rub it into her now-tenderized skin. From neck to toes, oil is slathered onto flesh and coarse cloths grind slow circles across every public and intimate bit of her until she positively shines. The entire ordeal is doubtlessly painful for the captive woman, but if they are even aware of it the attendants show neither sympathy nor remorse for their actions. They dutifully work, stopping only if they are accosted, and taking brief pauses only long enough to evaluate whether the job is complete. The entire process is repeated with less coarse cloth, then even smoother cloths, such that eventually every touch would have felt sensually exciting but for the pain and weariness she had already endured.
At the end of it all, Yasma is led out of the bathing pool with skin and hair shining like new in the flickering light. She is clean, she is dripping wet, and she is perhaps by now overheated in addition to having skin that has been made intentionally sensitive to the touch. The attendants present her to the guards exactly such, and the newfound sensitivity is immediately apparent as they take hold of her to lead her onto her next stop in her misadventure.
* * *
The walk through the corridors is short, and unusually taxing. The weakness in Yasma's muscles that she had perhaps attributed to hunger or the heat from the baths lingers and in fact becomes noticeably worse while she walks. She does not feel groggy or sluggish, and in fact her mind is as sharply focused and her senses as keen as they have ever been —perhaps even more so. She is fully awake, intensely aware of herself and her surroundings, and full of energy. And yet it is an enormous effort for her to even lift her feet to keep pace with the guards.
Scarcely is she able to come to terms with these new sensations before she is shown into a room with obvious purpose: there is a bed, a low table with spirits, and an open wardrobe with various lingerie.
"Welcome to your new home," calls out a familiar voice. The brawny woman from the arena — the overseer of slaves — is there waiting.
Yasma is led into the middle of the pool, whereupon the woman remains with her while the man fetches bottles and cloths from the low table-shelf. The woman sinks down to her knees, immersing herself up to her shoulders, and upon the man's return begins to scrub the captive drow's legs with an abrasive cloth. The man similarly begins work on her arms, the attendants each using one hand to steady the limb currently being cleaned and the other to scrub. The woman starts at the right calf, using her left hand to scrub, while the man begins with the left bicep, using his right hand to scrub. They both remain silent for now, attentive to their work as though they were scrubbing floors or scouring dishes. After a few minutes, they each move on — the woman rises to begin scrubbing Yasma's right arm, dripping water down her torso in little rivulets that accent the curves of her breast and the definition of her stomach, while the man sinks down to his knees and scrubs Yasma's left leg.
Minutes pass. The woman is always to Yasma's right, the man to her left. After they finish scrubbing her limbs, the same rough cloths scrub her torso. Front and back, over shoulder and breast and stomach and crotch, the coarse material leaves her skin flushed lightly abraded. The attendants then dump the bottles of oil on her, and as though they were waxing leather they begin to rub it into her now-tenderized skin. From neck to toes, oil is slathered onto flesh and coarse cloths grind slow circles across every public and intimate bit of her until she positively shines. The entire ordeal is doubtlessly painful for the captive woman, but if they are even aware of it the attendants show neither sympathy nor remorse for their actions. They dutifully work, stopping only if they are accosted, and taking brief pauses only long enough to evaluate whether the job is complete. The entire process is repeated with less coarse cloth, then even smoother cloths, such that eventually every touch would have felt sensually exciting but for the pain and weariness she had already endured.
At the end of it all, Yasma is led out of the bathing pool with skin and hair shining like new in the flickering light. She is clean, she is dripping wet, and she is perhaps by now overheated in addition to having skin that has been made intentionally sensitive to the touch. The attendants present her to the guards exactly such, and the newfound sensitivity is immediately apparent as they take hold of her to lead her onto her next stop in her misadventure.
* * *
The walk through the corridors is short, and unusually taxing. The weakness in Yasma's muscles that she had perhaps attributed to hunger or the heat from the baths lingers and in fact becomes noticeably worse while she walks. She does not feel groggy or sluggish, and in fact her mind is as sharply focused and her senses as keen as they have ever been —perhaps even more so. She is fully awake, intensely aware of herself and her surroundings, and full of energy. And yet it is an enormous effort for her to even lift her feet to keep pace with the guards.
Scarcely is she able to come to terms with these new sensations before she is shown into a room with obvious purpose: there is a bed, a low table with spirits, and an open wardrobe with various lingerie.
"Welcome to your new home," calls out a familiar voice. The brawny woman from the arena — the overseer of slaves — is there waiting.
Last edited:
