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 thread  Author  Topic: ayrie makes Tospitade  (Read 415 times)

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"Invisible threads are the strongest ties" Friedrich Nietzsche


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xx ayrie makes Tospitade
« Thread started on: Jun 19th, 2016, 4:14pm »

~slips into the Tavern from the slave kennels, warm copper hues dancing across the empty room, settling briefly upon the the Dais, her heart pounding as she gazes upon His chair, berry stained lips puckering to blow a sultry kiss before she turns to enter the kitchen.

sunny silks clinging to her curves as she moves within the room, her hips roll with every step, offering tantalizing peeks of what lies beneath as one gathers needed utensils

~humming softly, she smiles as she tugs mightily at the cold room door, remembering the beautiful dance of an exquisite red silk sister. The cold air nipping at her, a musical whimper tumbling forth as the icey air wraps itself around her. Spurring her to move quickly, gathering all of the ingredients she needs and hurrying out the way she came. a well placed bump from her curvy hip ensuring the door closes.

~laying all she holds upon the counter, she carefully picks up the knife that is secured to the block, cutting each beautiful tospit in half, inhaling the fresh citrus aroma, reminding one of sun upon the waters of the Thassa. she uses great care as she slices each succulent fruit, laying the halves in front of her.

Following only memories of the delicious drink from her childhood, she begins squeezing each half of the tospit over a clean, checked Pitcher. Careful to save every seed in a fresh rep cloth, to take to the garden later.

Using the back of her wrist, she swipes an errant curl from her view, only slightly aware of the juices that now moisten the front of her silks, praying her Master approves of a citrus flavored beast. A warmth spreads from her cheeks and lower, the slut chastises herself to remain focused

her brown eyes dance as the liquid slowly rises to the proper amount within the pitcher. she lifts the stone container of sugar, sifting the granules into the juices, again measuring from memory. she then reaches for the waiting ladle,stirring and stirring until every granule has dissolved.

~picking up the pitcher, she returns to the cold room, tugging the door open once more , prepared for the icey rake over heated flesh,  shivering softly as the determined slave moves to the rear of the room, holding the vessel tight, she carefully ladles cold water until the pitcher is almost full. she replaces the utensil and hurries from the chill, rounded bottom closing the door tight behind her.

Returning to the counter, she sets the pitcher down then carefully slices one tospit in thin slivers, again saving the seeds, and placing the ends in the pile of scraps she's accumulated... with a happy heart, she gently plops the sliced fruit into the Pitcher, stirring the refreshing drink gently before placing the ladle in the sink to wash later.

~lifting to full height, the slut reaches up, gathering a few Tankards, shining each as she checks for Imperfections, setting them upon the tray.
she inhales a deep breath before quickly moving to the basket of camisks, a brilliant smile upon her face as she exchanges silks for the rough cloth, only then lifting the tray and stepping out, hearing conversation drift in from the Piazza.
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Happiness... consists in giving, and in serving others.
‡Henry Drummond‡
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