| Recueil | Smut |
|---|---|
| Livre | My (fancy) life as a slave |
| Type | Chapitre |
| État | Publié |
Flip the switch
"HALL-MEETING!", shouts again my dear mistress Morr, while leaving the hall.
Still chained to the wall, I wait for the other slaves to join me.
First, Gretha, our catfolk maid, comes and chains herself right next to me. She has put back on her tiny apron, and her tail wiggles as she hands me the note I forgot in the office.
My legs are still shaking. It's not every day that I can cum thrice in a row. And it's just past midday.
With a satisfied look on his face, Abelaïd then enters the room. His chastity cage is locked back on his penis, and he is carrying a mason jar quarter-full of his own sperm.
"You've taken your time!" I tease him from afar. He gives me the finger, then exits the hall again towards his lab. He's gonna join us when the jar is safely stored in his closet.
"What a wimp!" laughs Gretha.
Abel is indeed a cuck, his only bodily pleasure is to wank on the leftovers of our sexual punishments.
The fourth slave of our house appears. She is an old tiefling who constantly wears a look of suspicion on her face, with tiny fleeting eyes.
"Good morrrning, Salista!" joyfully greets Gretha, "we don't see you often in these parts!"
She chains herself afar from us, walled in silence.
Mistress Morr is finally back in the room. "Where is Abelaïd?" she asks, a bit upset.
"Right here, mistress!" says said Abel, swiftly pacing towards the metal rings to chain himself. "I am deeply sorry, I was just finishing what you asked me."
Mistress Morr walks up to him with a frown. She tilts towards his face, then slaps him with all of her might.
Abel fumbles and trips, nearly strangling himself with his slave collar that he just attached to the wall.
"Next time, it's gonna be a punch in the gut." scolds his mistress.
As a sign of submission, Abelaïd gets back on his feet and keeps his head down. A cold reminder of our condition. I also tend to forget that despite all the mutual benefits being Morr's slave brings me —us—, this is no place of leisure here.
Our mistress breaks from her stern expression and begins to inspect us.
The first to go is Salista, who is the furthest from me.
"How are things going, at the shop?"
The tiefling lifts a tired eye at her, feeling quite distant. "Your affairs are going smoothly, mistress. I left the details in your office, as usual. The only thing worth noting is the substantially increasing demand for methylenedioxies. As long as the production can adapt, there will not be any issue." She has a side-eye for Abel, who is still looking at his feet, his cheek turning cherry-red. "I think we can apply a price increase of seven percent and thus hope for four point seven percent more sales profit for the next two weeks."
Salista is the manager —and sole worker— of the little shop mistress Morr has set up downtown. There, she sells the low-grade drugs Abelaïd makes, destined for the common folk. A nice addition to the top-grade product Lady Morr sells herself to the highborns.
"What is methynononoxies?", candidly asks Gretha.
Mistress Morr turns to her. "It's short for methylenedioxymethamphetamine. You know it by another name, pink-petal."
Gretha's cat ears go right up. "Oh! The hug-drrrug! I like it!"
Mistress Morr shakes her head, holding up a smile caused by the cute innocence of her maid. Salista raises a pedantic eyebrow.
"Anyway, no shoplift, no claim. Your reputation keeps the affairs perfectly afloat, mistress."
Despite her saying that, mistress Morr quickly examines the night-purple skin of the half-demon slave.
"Any overtime due in the future days, mistress?"
"Maybe. There is a peon that has been messing with my property. It won't be easy to find, but if I do, I will require your interference."
I clench the note in my hand. Really? Just for spitting on me? That's harsh.
Salista's eyelids insensibly raise, selling out her slight excitement. "Very well. I am at your disposal."
Mistress Morr then steps to Abel. "What about you?"
Abelaïd responds with a failing voice. "Production is up to schedule. The research you ordered is going well, but the formula isn't stable yet. If I need to make space for additional production, I may not finish it by the end of next week."
The mistress is disapproving. "I see. I'll find some time tomorrow and you will show me. Maybe we can speed things up if I take a look. Anything else?"
"Yes. I finished the other special products this morning. Aside from the one that needs research, everything is set up for next week."
Mistress Morr nods. "Very good. I'll also take a close look at Salista's next week's prevision to give you a more precise product input. Remember the priorities: first, the production, then the research. And the closed deadline is next Friday, so you'll have to make this work."
"Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress."
Mistress Morr steps away from the alchemist and walks up to the catmaid.
"My dearrrly beloved mistrrress Morrrr! What can I do forrr you today?"
The slaver silently glances at her enthusiastic maid for a second, then steps away. "Nothing."
Gretha seems upset.
"But—"
"Nasué, in ten minutes we're out. You'll dress from the red-black cabinet, and add the ball gag and the yoke. I want you at your best, it's a big prospect we're visiting."
Then she turns away from us.
"Meeting over. Get back to work."
I can see our catmaid is quite sad to not have any part in our mistress' today's activities. I'm about to comfort her, when Abel comes to talk to me.
"Nasué, come to the lab. I have something for you."
As I walk away, I glance back at Gretha. I don't have much time to prepare myself, so I need to go on with Abel's errand.
We go to Abel's lab, where he produces the daily products of the shop handled by Salista, the research asked by our mistress, and his own research on drugs when he has 'free' time.
"Here, take this." He hands me an average-sized bottle filled with purple-black liquid, in which sparkling particles float.
"Looks like night's sky. What is it?" I asked.
He shrugs. "I don't know what you're gonna use it for, but it's steroids combined with a respectable dose of metaphedrone and a small dose of... phencyclidine."
I'm a bit bit surprised. "What? You're using 3C now? Since when you're cooking cheap drugs?"
He raises an eyebrow. "It's about the metaphedrone you're worried about? You are either brave, or quite imbecile. Probably a bit of both."
I am dumbfounded, until it hits me. "Wait, there's PCP in there?!? You're saying Mistress has ordered you to make me PCP?!?"
He shrugs again. "In a very small dose, yes. I reacted a bit like you, with a roundabout questioning of her judgment, but got severely punished for that. So I just obeyed."
I stare at the angel dust floating in the black solution. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
"She probably has some specific plan in mind, go ask her." He then reaches for my shoulder. "Good luck with whatever it is."
I manage to retain a tear at the corner of my eye.
"Now go," shouts Abel, "don't make yourself late!"
He's right, I have to quickly prepare myself, or else mistress Morr's gonna punish me.
I run back to the hall, where I can see Gretha idling, close to the main entrance, fondling her own boobs.
"Stop touching yourself!" I shout as I pass by her, "You know Mistress hates that, you're gonna get yourself punished."
She throws at me a defying look. "Then maybe for once she'll pay attention to me!"
She then proceeds to try and lick her own nipples, which is quite easy for her considering the appreciable length of her cat-tongue.
What a brat. I swiftly exit the main hall and go to the dressing room. It is a two-stories room containing tons and tons of clothes, from ragged loin clothes mistress Morr makes her slaves wear for day-to-day jobs to the finest suits she wears for special occasions.
I restlessly go to the aforementioned red-black cabinet, stamping at the idea of wearing what's inside. I carefully open the leaf, revealing to my sparkling eyes the marvelous garbs sitting inside. I quickly but carefully dress up.
I walk up to the great ornate miror, and admire myself.
The sheer spider silk of the baby doll gown highlights my hip shape. Two black ribbons cross my chest, barely hiding my nipple, and two more run down my pubis, joining just above my shaved lips. Both of the thigh-high stockings and arm-up sleeves are almost transparent, displaying complex designs of roses. Finally, the vast translucent cape, light as a feather, casts a soft halo on my whole silhouette, floating in the air around me.
This distinguished attire isn't very covering, but it subtly hides the key parts of my anatomy, making me way more desirable than if I were naked.
I don't even have the presence of mind to wonder what great occasion would have pushed my mistress to ask me to wear that. I simply savor the most distinguished honor a slave can have.
I am the most beautiful slut in the world.
When I wake from my own fascination, I break into a run, realizing I'm probably getting really late. I grab a leather gag ball, a chrome yoke, and fasten myself while running in the long hallway — which is no easy task since I'm still holding Abel's custom drug vial.
When I arrive in a bang in the main hall, my mistress is frowning at me, visibly upset. I run to her, and I can see in the corner of my eye our maid, on the ground, her nose bleeding and a wide masochist smile on her face.
Mistress Morr glances at me. "I see you have recovered the concoction I asked to be made for you. That's good."
She extends her hand, and take it from my tied-up hand.
Then, in a flash, she grabs my neck and throws me against the wall.
"What's up with you lot, today? Do you really think you can be late with no consequences? Today is important, so I need some DISCIPLINE!"
She throws me on the ground. My knees absorb most of the impact, but as my hands are tied up my forehead hits the red carpet hard. I am a bit stunned, and I can feel the weight of my mistress on my back, pressing her foot.
"You are MY property! You obey ME! When I say come, you COME! And you shall never be LATE!"
With a movement of her leg, she rubs my whole body on the ground, causing light burns on my joints and belly.
"Now, get up!"
I get up with difficulty, not able to use my hands.
"Gretha!" She eructs. "Come and clean her, NOW!"
The maid carefully walks up to us and begins to lick my dusty skin with her raspy cat-tongue, then rearranges my expensive attire.
"Listen, Nasué. This house is of the best in the town only because I know how to find the best slaves that suit my needs, and I make it so they all prefer to stay and serve me. I know your kinks, for each one of you, and turned this slave thing into something you can flourish from, in a way. But this only works because you slaves serve me well enough. As soon as this balance falters, my house will decline and we will all plummet down to misery. Don't think you are in a good position, because I'll maintain this balance whatever the cost.
"You are my best earner. I need you to be at your best, as obedient as it needs be. If you ever fail, I shall put you brat in your place. Whatever the cost."
She brings her face close to mine.
"I will make you obedient, you hear? Forget about the fun punishments I reward you with every few days, I will break you if you force me to. I'll take a whole week from the busy town life, keep you in this insulated dungeon where no one could ever hear you scream. I'll bring down the worst kind of torture. I'll break your limb joints, cut a thousand wounds on your skin, and pour acid on it until you pass out. Then I'll use my best ointments to make your skin pristine again, bring you back to consciousness, then repeat the process. Tens of times a day, for a whole week. You'll be only be fed a spoonful of soup each day, and I'll make Abelaïd and Gretha take turns on the fuckatron so you'll be deeply fucked twenty-four hours a day, every day. You won't sleep. You'll wish you were dead. And if you ever die from this, I'll use five hundred thousands golds to buy a resurrection spell so I can torture you again. I would sacrifice everything I have to have you understand what 'obedience' means. Do you understand?"
I look down, emitting a muffled assent through the gag ball.
"Speak clear and loud! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"
I force myself to articulate. "Yussh Musshtrussh!"
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
Angry as ever, she raises her fist, ready to hit my face.
Of course she would not hit me, no mark on her slaves, but I'm so submerged by the terror that I recoil in reflex.
And that's all she needs. This proof of me fearing her with my guts is enough for her.
She lowers her fist. "Good girl."
Tears flow down my cheeks. "H'm sshurry, Musshtrussh..."
She raises my chin with a gentle gesture. "I know. You just needed to be reminded of some facts."
She relaxes a bit.
"After all, it's not everyday you can fulfill your duty thrice. And the day is not over yet."
Gretha steps back from us. I'm clean and ready to go.
The Great Mistress Morr proudly walks through the downtown streets, fully naked as she always is, prompting a very proud face as everyone can see the magnificent, well-dressed, pristine, first-class slave she drags around with a chrome chain.
I am well in my role, still shaken in fear, not knowing where we are going, only knowing that the second she asks me something, I will execute it in a heartbeat.
In this neighborhood, every social class meets. The slaves run errands and hold the counter of some shops, lower-class artisans have their workshop set up on the avenue, middle-class orks seek sex-battle to show their strength and sometimes claim higher-class slaves, all while the highborn look over their territory and network with their kind.
My mistress is in her element here, and I am widely exposed, everyone glancing at both of us in envy.
That's when something quite expected occurs. A middle-class ork, wearing a black shirt and a large dong hanging between his legs, comes from behind and violently grabs my hair.
"Morr! You pompous slut, you don't deserve your place! I'm claiming this lump of pink meat right here, right now, and'll show you what a real dick feels like!"
My mistress just stops in her tracks, her back turned at us. The claimer pulls my hair, straining my neck against the slave collar. Mistress Morr holds the chain firmly, but doesn't pull. I am all tensed up, and my head begins to hurt.
The whole street has gone quiet. Someone claiming Morr's slave in front of her is an event to witness.
Some members of the local bourgeoisie gasp, feinting to be shocked, but impatiently waiting for the sex-battle to happen. A few male middle-class ork cheer behind the claimer — probably his friends.
Mistress Morr turns her head around, looks up and down to the sassy ork, then turns her head back again.
"You're not worth my attention. Nasué, take care of him."
An even greater gasp comes from the crowd. She refuses the challenge? She gonna let her slave do her battle for her?
This situation is a first. As I've heard of, no ork has ever let their slave fight for the claim while they were watching by. That's why most claims happen when the master is not around: because claiming defenseless slaves is easy, even if it often means later retaliation from the owner.
Thus, refusing to answer to the challenge is a offense for the claimer. The ork that is pulling my hair is red with rage, and his friends are booing my mistress — which annoys me quite a lot.
"Oh yeah? You dare insult me like that?" Then he recomposes himself. "Whatever. This will be even more easy. It's basically free real estate at this point."
Mistress Morr let my chain go, and suddenly I feel all alone.
"Nasué," she says before the dance begins, "Show him what the Aphrothecary best slave is capable of. Show him how much you are loyal to me and how much you love me."
My feeling of loneliness immediately disappears at these words. I am empowered by the pride I feel towards my mistress' trust.
You're right, Mistress, I'll show him. I'll show him what are the consequences of disrespecting you!
The ork stays at loss for words for an instant, downed by the mixed feelings this situations provokes in him.
I twist my jaw and make my gag ball drop on my neck "Well?" I taunt him, "One second ago you were so eager for sex, but now you're afraid to use that tiny rod of yours?"
It feels strange trash-talking someone who is supposed to dominate me. The bystanders are also shocked, plunging us in a deep silence.
But then, in an access of rage, the ork roars and tears off his shirt.
"I will destroy you for talking to me like that!"
He kicks my legs while still holding my hair, forcing me into a kneeling position. He takes a firm grab at my yoke, then brandish his growing and smelly penis in front of my face.
"Ready to get your jaw broken?" he spits, almost laughing.
I smirk. "You call that as dick? I eat three like these for breakfast!"
He roars. His free hand pinches my jaw to open it wide, and without further ado he proceeds to fuck my throat.
In another life, I would have gargled and coughed at such an appendice, ten times larger than any human's. But I've been a sex-slave for long enough to know how to handle it. It's not even that hard, considering that it's average-size — for an ork. I work my muscles a bit, and soon manage to impede my gag reflex.
From there, I begin to thrive. Does he think he can handle me? He can't handle me. It's time for tongue-play and sloppy sucking. I feel his dick throb as I now penetrate myself, sipping the saliva and precum that tries to come out, and then periodically letting it all out in a long gooey wave of pleasure fluids.
My head job is now tighter than his grip, and I begin to hear him moan.
This is my chance to reverse the situation.
As soon as I can take a deep breath trough my nose, I go balls-deep. With my yoked hands, I grab his thick waist, then spring into the air into a front-flip that brings my legs around his neck. I grab his short hair with both hands, heave myself up and stick my wet-ass pussy against his face.
He emits a muffled protestation, but I bring the bait.
"OH YESSS, MISTER ORK, You're sooo big, please, PLEASE MAKE ME CUM!"
It's a bit hammy, but he buys. Or at least, needs to keep face.
He grabs my butt with both hands, discards the black ribbons covering my lips with his tongue, and begins to lick me.
He isn't even half as good as I expected. I continue to shout false pleasure phrases, to make him feel he's gonna win, but this is not even half enough to arouse me.
At this moment, I am deeply disappointed. I don't want a cheap victory. I want an orgasmic domination. I want to cum at his cumming face.
Now I know the thrill of the orkish sex-battles.
I let a long drip of saliva come out of my mouth and let it flow over my shoulder, directly on his hand.
Then, with a twist of my hips, I forcefully penetrate my ass on his middle finger.
His tongue is now inside my pussy, and I begin to feel real pleasure as I'm being double-penetrated.
I am both the one who penetrates and who is being penetrated. I never though of myself as a dominatrix, but my first real sex-battle awoke something deeply hidden inside of me.
Time to wrap this all up.
I use my legs as a lever and pull myself forward. He arcs his spine and takes a few steps back to try and keep his balance, but I move all of my weight above his head. He falls hard on his butt with a painful sound.
I get up, put a foot on his mouth, and spit "Now, fist my pussy." before sitting on his dick.
My ass is trained and prepared, so his rock-hard rod slips into my anus without any difficulties. He raises his hands between my legs, and I welcome it inside.
Little he knows, everyone has now acknowledged my domination to the fight. He doesn't seem to realize he is still in one.
His hand is now fully into my vagina, stretching all the muscles inside it, while I hop on his dick. He then begins to rub my clit with his free hand. My pleasure is now immeasurable. But I ain't coming yet.
Oh no I ain't.
The only thing that'll make me cum, is his spermy juice filling up my belly. I fondle his balls, my back arced back and my boobs pointing at the sky.
"YES! Cum in me, mister! Fill me with your manhood! Break my ass and fill my hole! You're destroying my pussy! You're ruining my ass! Now finish me! Show me how STRONG you are! FINISH ME NOW!"
He lets out a hoarse roar, and with a final strong thrust, cums in my ass.
I am near climax, but I restrain myself, just a bit more.
Two more throbs of his hips, and the cum now overflows and squirts out of butt.
The fourth one is the last, and he falls flat on the ground. I pull his dick out —but not his hand—, get up, bring myself above his climaxed face, and with a violent pull take out his hand.
It's now that all of the accumulated pleasure comes out. I still feel the shape of his dick, his hand and his tongue inside my holes. The pleasure flows out like a broken dam.
I'm the dominatrix! I'm the strongest! I'm the best sex-slave ever!
A long flow of squirt rain down his face, making him cough as he has not caught his breath yet. I let out a long wail of orgasmic pleasure at the sky, savoring my victory more than any other climax I ever had.
The silence finally falls on us...
...Immediately followed by raging cheers and applause from the audience.
I'm a bit startled at that, I completely forgot where we were.
I turn to my dearest Mistress Morr, who is watching the scene a few steps away, and cry at her with a dramatic gesture.
"Behold, Mistress! I won! I won for you! I love you! I LOVE YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!"
It is with a blissful satisfaction that she reclaims her property. She who is so stern, so phlegmatic, can't refrain from smiling before my victory.
I walk back to me mistress like the good bitch I am. She puts my gag ball back in my mouth and we depart.
As we leave, I take a quick look back. The crowd is throwing stones at the sore loser. Some of them begin to kick him on the ground. Given the dishonor of losing such a fight and the glamour of my victory, the crowd is so excited he probably won't see the sun setting.
And that's all he deserves for challenging my beloved mistress.
"I couldn't be more proud of you, my little Nasué."
My Mistress pulls on the chain until we walk side by side. She plunges her eyes into mine with a smile of deep contempt.
"Not only you made history by being the first slave to best an ork in a sex-battle under the order of her mistress, but you won with such flair that no one will dare challenge me nor my servants for at least a few weeks. My reputation will skyrocket thanks to this."
She stops and run her fingers through my hair.
"You deserve a treat."
She walks up to the terrace of a restaurant and sits down at a table. There are two bowls on the floor, one filled with water and the other empty. I am parched from the effort I just made. I drop on all four and begin to lap up.
The waiter arrives and greet my Mistress with all the dithyrambism due to her rank.
"I'll have... The smoked salmon with a grilled cheese salad. And a bock of beer."
The waiter approves. "Noted. And for your slave?"
Lady Morr grins. "Same."
The little fully-clothed ork-boy is confused. "What? You sure? I mean, with all due respect..."
"The only respect you can afford to give me is following my order. I gave you my order, follow it."
The little waiter is dumbfounded. "Yeah, sure, at once, madam— I mean, milady."
Seated on my knee, I raise a confused pair of puppy eyes at my Mistress.
"Yes, you deserve a really good treat."
Her face is barred by a huge smile as tears pearl at the corner of my eyes. She unties my restrains so I can eat.
This is the best meal I've eaten for as long as I can remember. Even if the waiter just dropped everything in the empty bowl, everything has so much savor!
I'm the luckiest slave alive...
No. I earned this. I've the best slave of the town, with the best Mistress that ever walked these streets, and this is just what I deserve. This tastes like pride. Not mine— that of my Mistress.
After chugging my very-own, very-first bock of beer, I feel dizzy. Full, and happy. I want to hug my Mistress, and I alsmot do. But even tipsy, my survival instincts are still there.
After we are finished, we continue down the street. After all, my Mistress still has an errand to run.
"Now that you have had your treat", she says, "time for your reward."
I'm dumbfounded.
"But, Mistress..."
"No buts! Don't forget I am the one who gives orders, and you shall know to accept rewards too."
She turn to a street I've never been.
"This is a breaking point for you. You passed a threshold, and must be treated accordingly. Of course, that means I'll be more demanding from now on. Take it as a small raise in status, and this requires a few adjustments."
She pushes the door of a lluxurious tailoring workshop. As we make our way through the lacquered wooden floor, my eyes dance in awe between all the fine tailor-made attires— gowns, tuxedos, fur coats and plummed hats.
A well-dressed shop owner comes up to us as we make our way through his wares.
"Lady Morr! It's been too long! What can I do for you today?"
My mistress pushes me in front of her while replying "She needs a new attire."
The tailor begins to detail my features while walking in circles around me.
"My my, made-to-measure garnments for a slave. It must be a special day! If I didn't know better, I'd ask what is the occasion." He smiles at his noblewoman patron. "But I won't, don't worry."
He makes me put my arms in the air in a T-pose, then addresses my mistress once again.
"So, what shall this apparel look like?"
By way of response, my mistress stares at me.
A bit of panic begins to build up as I don't understand what she wants.
"Well, Nasué? You heard the man, what do you want?"
Both me and the shop owner are dumbfounded.
What? She wants me to choose my new clothes?
The tailor mirrors my thoughts out loud. "Excuse me, esteemed Lady Morr, you say you're willing to let your slave choose their wear?"
Lady Morr frowns at the fully-dressed artisan. "Did I stutter?"
The tailor recoils, suddenly struck by fear. "Not at all. I apologize, this request is so... unprecedented, that I wanted to ensure I didn't mishear."
"Well, you did not. Get to work now."
The ork turns back to me, casting a revusled glare at me. As if his fine work was to be desacralized by me choosing my new attire.
"Well, Miss... Nasué, was it? Do you know what the most esteemed tailor of these parts will have to sew for you?"
My mistress does not bounce back on the audible disdain in his voice.
I think a little.
"Actually, I do. Do you have something I can draw on to show you?"
He snorts. "You can just tell me. I'll take care of everything."
My dear Mistress Morr bonces in. "Do as she says. It is her design, but I am your patron. You'd better remember this."
He scowls again, and provide me with a pencil and some vellum.
As my hand dances on the sheet, the muscle memory kicks in. I feel satisfied as I realize my drawing skill weren't dulled after all those years.
The tailor's eyes widen as I hand my design.
"Well, Lady Morr, I must say your slave has some original taste!" Then he presses: "This is a compliment of course. I believe this will be a fine piece. I should expect no less from the slave of such a refined Lady as you."
As we exit the shop, I feel like a new person. This is the first time since I arrived in town that I owe clothes. That I owe anything, to be honnest.
I am radiant, as my ankle-long gilded emerald-green dress floats through the dusty wind of the streets. The silk feels incredible, the waist-slit brushing my legs as I walk. My shoulders are naked, but the attire is complete with two assorted silk vambraces. The cloth covers my bresat up to my collar, something I did not expect my mistress to accept. This really means that I could do whatever I wanted with this. This is a real gift from her. The garment is completed with a wide golden waistband.
"I'm sorry mistress, but didn't you want me to wear the garbs from the red-black cabinet for your meeting?"
She shakes her head. "The situation's changed. Words of your feat will have reached my prospects already, so I might as well use it for a little power-play."
Then she lays on me a soft, very soft look. "You are resplendent, my little Nasué."
I'm —once again— brought up to tears at these words. "I love you, Mistress."
I don't know what I'm feeling right now. Pride? Love? A pinch of guilt? Yeah, all of that at the same time.
I collect so many stares and whispers from the passers-by that I feel ashamed. It feels like being naked in a human town.
Some lowlives even try to catcall me, but she stops as soon as my mistress looks down on them, fumbling a sore excuse of an apology.
Thankfully, our stroll is of short duration, and we end up at the foot of the town hall.
"Mistress?"
"Let's go."
As we enter the council chamber, all looks turn to Lady Morr, then to me, which makes a few eyebrows to raise.
"Lady Morr," says what I suppose is the mayoress. "You are late."
"I'm sure you already heard as to why I'm late. Does someone here disapprove of my conduct?"
Silence veils down on the hall, as nobody will challenge the subtly mentioned feat.
Here, everyone is naked. The female ork who addressed my mistress is the most dignified of them all, straight on her throne, a large battleaxe laying on the backrest.
She displays an evil smile, before responding. "No one will challenge you here, dear Morr. You are a friend of the council and one of our most esteemed citizens."
Lady Morr allows herself to arbor the same smile. "Considering how beneficial my business is for this city, I would expect no less than deep strong love from you."
The mayoress discards her words with her hand. "You are more than a taxpayer, Morr, you are a driving force of this society." Then her look darkens. "Are you here to ask for more tax reductions?"
My mistress exageratingly laughs. "Not at all! I'm here to submit a reform."
Everyone's eyebrows raise. "A reform? About what?"
"About the class hierarchy of our society."
Scowls and giggles burst forth from the whole assembly. But my mistress remains calm, and begins to explain her project.
Amused faces are gradually replaced by stern looks as they all assess the extent of the plan.
I fail to understand the details, but I soon catch up with what it would mean for me, the slaves, the nobility, and the entire ork society.
All of the eyes turn to me as I can't refrain from whispering.
"Could this really work?"