Legends of Belariath

Sajidah And Roquai

Mark of the Dead

Part One

In the bustlingly, busy town of Nanthalion stands a Body Arts Shop. It's not an overly large place, tucked away as it is, but it serves its purpose. The proprietor of the shop has a bit of a reputation. People say nothing but good about his work... but mostly bad about his attitude; he's callous and perhaps a little cruel, some say. Of course, in order to hear these things, you'd have to ask.

A tall, but rather dainty, centaur steps into the Shop. Her delicate teacup hooves make a light tapping on the floor. She pauses to glance around a bit nervously. She's never entered such an establishment before, though she does bear the mark of artisans; an intricate, interwoven pattern is branded to her left flank, though long since healed. She appears to be perhaps twenty years or so, though with some breeds, it is hard to tell. It could be the creamy olive complexion and large, violet eyes that make her look young.

The foreign centaur calls out softly to whoever might be currently on duty in the Shop. "Hello?" Even with the one word, her accent is obvious. It is thick and lilting, the words quick, but precise. Her russet coat shimmers, even in the dim light as she peers into the dim depths of the shop. Her tail flows behind her, like a flag. The base is nearly the same shade as her coat, but fades to a pale, creamy blonde at the tips. Around her slender waist is an intricate chain, hung with bits of sparkling amber, cut and polished.

"Eh?" The massive Mountain Troll sits up from bed, which is more like an industrial strength cot for him. In contrast with the dainty centaur in the main room of the shop, the old troll seems to be tailored to cruelty and ugliness. He is long of limb, long of face and long of body. His skin is the rusty color of the rich, fertile soil of the Highlands, once his mountain home. The bulk of his back rises above the crest of his head as he slouches there in the cot a moment. The gently curving rise is parted down the center by a column of protruding vertebrae.

The delicate clapping of hooves has roused him, but he didn't know that. His brain was only aware enough to register a noise that hadn't been there before. The muffled call through the backroom's doorway finished the awakening. "They always come in the day," he grumbles; swinging the wide, paddle foot, still tangled in sheets, onto the floor. His legs, by comparison to his sinewy arms, seem mismatched: short trunks of muscle with club-like knees and nimble toes, the feet calloused for protection. Untamed swaths of hair mat many places of his body. Most notable of these places, and most covered, are his forearms. It's far thicker then his pate and much deeper in color, glossy and healthy, green-black tufts with roots deep in his pliable skin.

The groggy troll spots his meager leather armor, his day clothes, in the corner of the room. Standing up, he wraps the white sheet around his waist as many times as it will go. The only privacy he had, besides the thin sheet, was an even thinner loincloth that no customer ought to see. He stumbles over the excess fabric a moment, tucking the flap of the sheet tight against his hip, and then opens the door to the backroom by a few inches, enough for half of his face and whatever section of his body happens to be there to peek through. He sees the centaur still standing by the short entrance to the Shop. Squinting at her from behind his cover, he says loudly enough for her to hear him clearly, "You woke me up. What's your business?"

With a slight start, the young desert centaur turns toward the sound of the brusque voice. She takes a few shy steps closer, but remains a safe and respectable distance. Bowing deeply, one delicate hoof outstretched before her bent torso, the other tucked beneath her equine chest, she speaks softly in that thick accent that calls to mind desert winds and dancing silks. "Forgive me, Sir. I seek the service of an artist. I did not know the hours of the shop." The filly remains bowed, awaiting permission to rise, as is her place. She has obviously been well trained, a credit to the Master who has trained her.

The rocky looking troll merely stares at the centaur's strange behavior. His face can be said to be typical of all trolls. Heavy brows sink over deeply set, beady eyes of an indistinguishable muddy color. Their perpetually dull stare would indicate stupidity, but the smoldered intelligence behind them is undeniable. The flesh of his face hangs loosely to his skull, but has full animation when he feels inclined to express himself in such a way. A mop of uncut hair rests on top of his face, and it drapes the side and back of his head, a few of the thick, long black wisps even covering his undersized forehead. Triangular membrane ears lay flat against his head.

When she finishes speaking and remains at the nadir of her pose, he quietly shuts the door again. He thinks of an answer while on the way to the corner of the room where his leathers lay on top of each other. The kilt is tugged out of the bottom of the pile and wrapped around his waist, then tied off at the small of his back. He double-knots it for security, and then takes up his chest armor and slides it over his shoulders. He struggles briefly with this while walking back to the door. A pair of leather strings dangle from his right armpit, and he both jerks and knots them while turning the knob. The troll steps out and shuts the door behind him. "Get up. I'm the artist. What'd you need?" He pulls the long greenish-black tresses of hair from his face and neck as he speaks, bunching them behind his skull. His fingers wrap a leather strap around the bundle of loose hair until it lays somewhat uniformed to the side of his huge neck.

Rising once more, the centaur blinks bright eyes at his unexpected response to her subservience. She's never really been treated as an equal by anyone who wasn't wearing a collar. And while his manner did seem... callous, it certainly wasn't the way a Master treats a slave. "Thank you, Sir. My Master, the esteemed Husam al Din, has been missing for more than three moons. I fear that he may be dead."

The effort to hold back tears as she speaks of her beloved Master is obvious. Her violet eyes are slightly puffy and her lashes are wet. She keeps her voice under absolute control, not letting that facet of her composure slip. "I wish to honor his memory with a mark on my body. A small desert flower, crossed with a scimitar. I have a little money... All that he gave me to keep as allowance. I never spent any."

The centaurian slave chances a glance up to meet the troll's eyes, almost pleading. She fears the money she has will not be enough, knowing absolutely nothing about the common monetary system. She quickly unties the weighty purse and holds it out and up, an almost desperate gesture.

After pondering a moment, he pushes the bag of coins and her hand aside with the back of his palm, and after that he crosses his fingers diplomatically in front of his lap. "As long as you have it, that's fine. We'll talk about money after it's done." Clutching the coins against her stomach now, she nods in response.

The huge troll begins to shuffle to her side and continues, eyeing her flank. Thinking to himself, he wonders what breed of horse-woman she is, where she's been to garnish such odd smells around her, how her coat became so glaringly silky, and how valuable she might be to a slaver. He rounds her rump, still walking a steady oval around her standing figure, and continues his private thoughts. How would she taste, he wonders. She lowers her gaze and keeps her eyes downcast demurely as he walks around her.

At this, his hand shoots out and the black claws on the ends of his fingers delicately part the follicles of hair on her hindquarter. Still appraising her, his eyes now wandering to any details her spine might give away, he asks, "Nothing else? I've never decorated a centaur, but I'd like to. You'll do fine with at least one nose ring." He grins toothily, but out of sight. His hand detracts when it reaches her animalistic shoulder, before touching the bare and humanoid skin. The troll stops walking and stands at her side.

She flinches, the flesh along her spine twitching, as his claws suddenly make contact with her hide. The skin beneath her chestnut coat is black and healthy; the coat itself is clean and well groomed. She seems both well fed and well taken care of, if a bit thin. Her spine is straight and true, a mark of her meticulous breeding. She glances back as he speaks, but turns away again lest he think she's staring. In truth, she is a bit awed by him... His size... his sheer mass, and also in part his rather disconcerting looks.

"Thank you, Sir." She starts to say more, but stops mid-breath as his hand comes into contact with the smooth flesh of her lower back. She shivers lightly, then stills. She isn't quite sure what to make of his actions and the uncertainty makes her a bit jumpy. She peeks back at him once more; head tilted slightly down as she watches him from over her shoulder. "I have not the funds for both... decorations, only the Mark of my Master."

The near-silent troll feels his body turn rigid and a frown suffuse with his face. Her docility was initially charming, but it was something he was very familiar and arrogant with. At her over-the-shoulder glance, he tilts his head slightly so his eyes are on the same plane as hers, and reminds her firmly, "We'll speak of payment when I'm done, remember?" He ignores the fact that she's probably right, and instead remains adamant in his desires by giving them pause.

Upon seeing the troll's demeanor change quickly from grim to grimmer, the girl decides it probably best to keep silent unless directly questioned. She nods to his reminder about the money and then turns away again quickly, focusing on a nondescript spot on the opposite wall. Again, the flat of his palm presses into her side. Lingering fingers feel the last handful of trim hairs for the next few moments, but certainly not for the last of the day, as he trails off and walks into his co-worker's tattooing studio. He doesn't beckon her to follow, but only walks into the dimly lit atmosphere that smells of flesh and ink.

Out comes a shelf that looks more like a painter's palette, rows and columns of shades and variations of colors. The troll plucks a few of the tiny jars from their holsters and sets them aside, and then out comes another shelf below the first with the same set-up, only different colors. Turning to face towards the horse-woman, he asks, "Do ya have a name?"

The centauress glances his way once more as he walks off. She hesitates a moment, uncertain if he intends for her to follow. She decides he most probably does and as he seems to be of the type who prefers to spare words, she follows. Her steps are quick and light, but by the time she has her mind made up, he is already in the other room and she but half way there when he addresses her again. She continues her little prance, until she stands at the doorway before responding. "Yes, Sir. I am called sajidah, 'beloved of the Master'."

Roquai, for that is the troll's designation, cracks a half-smile at the meaning behind her name, or title, whichever it may be. He wasn't so sure now, as calling her either by her name or 'slave' would have nearly the same implications. The small inkpots are set beside a metal basin set into the top of the workbench. He asks her, "What sort of flower's to go behind the scythe?" Questions pop up in the back of his mind. 'Will she sit or stand since we have no chairs for her?' he asks himself. The lone, black leather chair is large, certainly able to hold even Roquai with a small adjustment of the arm rests, but there are only a few amusingly awkward positions for a centaur to seat herself. He chortles less then quietly while searching for a clean towel from an overhead shelf, standing tall to reach them.

Stepping a bit closer to watch his preparations, sajidah speaks up quickly, her hand reaching into the pouch that holds her coins. "Scimitar, Sir. It is a curved sword." She pulls an intricate network of delicate chains from her purse, and then offers it up to the large troll. Dangling from the center is a small replica of that which she has asked for: a flower, crossed with a scimitar to form an X. The flower is entirely in metal, so no colors are apparent, but its form is clearly represented: a small, 5 petaled blossom conjoined with a burst of tiny follicles, a long curving stem and a single, arrow-shaped leaf.

"Will this is serve as an adequate example, Sir?" The centauress hadn't yet given any thought to positioning herself; perhaps because it is of no real concern to her. She is quite comfortable assuming any position that is required of her, including just standing still. Her training as a slave was rather extensive. She tilts her head, eyes expressing curiosity at the unexpected chuckle. There is much she does not understand about this very large creature.

"Aye." His hand extents underneath the trinket and his claws close around it, holding it in contrast to the callous and brown surface of his palm without pulling it out of her grip. His middle finger winds into the network of chain until the length tenses against his digit. "Do you want it in silver? Grey? Or colors? And where am I putting it?" He averts his eyes to her shoulder, then to her face. She'd look nice with it on her cheek, he thinks with a smile. The chain untangles in his fingers as he pulls them away.

The troll takes her by the wrist and ushers her further into the room. He backs up and shoves the chair into the small back corner of the room to make ample space for her to stand, not giving her time to cope with the rushing fact that she is minutes away from being permanently etched with a vibrating needle.

"Silver sounds appropriate, but perhaps color on the flower as well?" She starts slightly as he grabs her wrist, but makes no protest as she trots further into the room. She takes the distraction time to consider the question of placement. She hadn't actually given it that much thought. She has no qualms about her decision. She's been permanently marked before, though the vibrating needle aspect is quite new to her. "Perhaps, Sir could recommend a location?" She glances about the room, taking mental note of the layout before she turns back to face the troll.

He grins wickedly at the suggestion. With the smiles still plastered on his face, the round and pointed tips of specialized teeth peeking out from rubbery lips, he cups her chin in his thumb and forefinger. "I've got a few ideas but, ah, how much did you love your Master?" A thumb wipes at her pronounced cheekbone to smear away a nonexistent tear. As the mountain troll reaches for her face, the centaurs violet eyes are lowered. Her tone is soft and subdued, respectful of her fallen Master. "I loved him more than my own life, Sir." For what is life without a fine Master? A warm tear wets the palm that rests against her jaw.

He walks to the side between her and the nearby counter, his palm staying against her jaw line and ushering her not to turn or look. His bulk barely fits but forces him to stay much closer to her flank then needed until he looms above her midsection. The hand is removed from her face and begins a close inspection of her back fur. He lightly combs through the hair around her spine, sensitive to any disruptions in the silky quality of the skin beneath. His eyes are turned to her back, however. What a nice canvas for an emblem, he thinks. "Your back?" Upon speaking, he leans away from her and slightly nearer to her tail to get a better look at her rear mare thigh. Shaven clean, that would be a nice spot too. 'But would she let me take a razor to her flesh?'

He smiles at her.

She makes no effort to follow him with her gaze as he moves to her side. The sensitive flesh of her back shifts beneath his touch, a reflexive action reminiscent of a shiver. Her heartbeat quickens in her chest and she holds her breath. The dark flesh beneath her silken coat is completely flawless. She has never had cause to be punished with the whip and has never participated in combat of any sort. "That would be acceptable, Sir." She remains still, almost afraid to move with him so close, towering over her and out of sight.

"I could cover your back. That would be fun for me." He licks his lips at the thought of literally mounting her unusually unique centaur frame in order to have a clear angle at her soft back. He swallows the built up saliva from his mouth and continues the auditory inspection. "On your side. Anywhere you want it... Even your face. That all depends on how much you want it to be seen. I'd love doing your face." The mountain troll pauses his hands at letting that last part slip out, and hopes she doesn't catch wind of the other implications it might have, but no matter.

She considers his suggestions as he rattles them off. Her is brow furrowed and thoughtful. If she noticed the double meaning, she made no sign of it. Her tone is quiet, contemplative. "I do not wish to displease my new Master. Do you think it would look well on my face? Perhaps something less.... open? Or on my back, but a little smaller..."

She reaches up to lightly touch the tip of her fingers to her high cheekbone. She is attracted to the idea of her face decorated with the vibrant inks, but a new Master may not appreciate the mark of a previous Master in such an obvious place.

Roquai strokes down the center of her humanoid back, like wiping dust off an old sheet of canvas, and runs that hand all the way down her spine to the base of her tail, where it lifts away. He then walks around to her opposite side and does much the same.

It would be apparent to an observer that he does it for no reason other then personal enjoyment and to try and make her squirm, but inside the stuffy room it isn't so obvious to either of them.

He mutters something in troll. "Oay pakitch pnoi buhekth, uh?" which translates roughly to, "Which needle would you like, hmm?" The base sounds themselves are rumbling and throaty.

She starts suddenly, fighting the instinctive urge to bolt at the unexpected touch. She stills quickly, adjusting to the feel of his large hands, first on the velvet of her deep-purple blouse, then the equally soft nape of her chestnut coat. She is more prepared the second time and doesn't even flinch as he strokes her, though she does lift her banner-like tail just slightly as his hand nears it's apex with her body.

Tilting her head slightly at the trollish words, sajidah turns to look at the sinister artist. His tone sends a shiver down her spine that he would surely feel beneath his heavy hand. She understands the words, but not the meaning.

"I know nothing of needles, Sir."

The size of the drawing would be decided by the first few strokes of the needle and not before, but he didn't need to tell her that. It wouldn't really matter. Once pinned to the floor she wouldn't have much of a choice, which he looked forward to with eagerness. So let's hurry this along then...

His smile is coy as she replies to his outspoken thought. It was a rhetorical question, and one he didn't know or expect to know an answer to. But saying that now would be stupid. So he said something else. "It's a good thing one of us does, aye?" His face freezes, and then melts into neutrality. "Get on the floor."

He walks around her front, his eyes downcast to look at her dainty abdomen. His eyebrows go wide for a moment. 'What an odd creature,' he thinks, turning his face to his tools on the workbench.

"We're going to do your back. It's going to hurt, and if you squirm it's going to hurt a lot more. I'm going to straddle your back so that won't happen, and you're going to be leaning into a cushion..." The troll talks at length but isn't paying much attention to he words he speaks. He's choosing between the tiny clay pots filled with ink, his eyes repeatedly darting to the bottle of booze to his left.

As she sinks to the floor, instead of tucking her front hooves beneath her, like most centaurs, she stretches them out in front of her, much like a dog would when lying down. Her hind legs are tucked against her belly. She keeps her human torso erect as he prepares.

"Thank you, Sir. I will not squirm." She says this matter of factly, confidant, but not arrogant that she will be able to handle the pain. She's quite used to pain. She watches him from behind as he selects the colors.

"Shall I remove my clothing now, Sir?"

"Yes. Leave them on the floor."

He steps over to the sleek black chair he shoved aside earlier and pulls it so that the cushioned leg rest is close to sajidah's chest, slanted towards her equine legs in the most comfortable position possible. The chair has many uses and he's glad for this.

He steps over her to cross the room, now divided in two unequal halves by the glossy body of the centaur. There is a tiny hearth in the corner tucked away behind a shelf and inside of that is the tool he needs. He uses a pair of silvery tongs to reach inside and pull out a black instrument, thin and oblong and oval shaped. The grooves, to the trained eye, appear to match the shape of a very large hand. The device is dropped in a metal basin and left to cool.

So he's left with a few choices. While the gnomish "needler" is left to dissipate its cleansing heat, he has time. His eyes wandering dangerously about her body as she undresses.

Saying nothing, sajidah unbuttons her blouse. The tiny jade buttons don't take long and she slips the blouse off her petite shoulders. The velvet slides across the juncture of her two contrasting halves as she pulls it to the side, folding it once before setting it on the floor.

The lavender silk of her tank is much more feminine than even the soft blouse. It is simple and straight, having almost no back. She crosses her arms in front of her, grasping the hem on opposites sides. She pulls it up over her head, the fabric pulling her hair up and to the side, revealing her slender neck and the smooth line of her collarbone. She folds the tank, laying it atop the blouse.

Her now-nude form is a creamy olive shade. Her human torso continues the theme of daintiness conveyed by her slender legs and proportionately tiny hooves. The gentle curve of her breast is relative to her body, being firm and well shaped, though somewhat less developed than her Domestic counterpart. Her nipples are the exact same soft, dusky shade as her lips, and seem to be reacting to the sudden chill of nudity, firming up just slightly.

Reaching behind the small of her back, sajidah removes the 'belly chain' from around her slim waist. She performs the actually quickly and with ease, having done it without the aid of sight numerous times.

She sets it atop the other items, and then turns to her head to observe what Roquai is doing, only to find him watching her. She smiles a small, almost coy smile, her violet eyes twinkling with unexpressed spirit.

Roquai points at the basin with his thumb and opens his mouth. That's as far as he gets, holding his thumb out like a shy child, because his sentence gets caught in his throat. He was about to explain why he was staring at her, to say that the gnomish device needs to cool off, but why should he? He doesn't need to explain anything beyond the simple reason that he wants to do it, even though at this time that's legitimate.

The fire light of amusement dances in sajidah's eyes as she watches him fumble for a moment, her lips curving upward just a bit more. She hadn't intended to be disconcerting, but she found his brief discomfiture to be endearing.

He tucks his hands back under his arms and folds his legs at the ankles as he stands. His staring grows steelier. She made him question himself, and however briefly that moment was, in Troll culture (as if there were one) that's a punishable act.

Luckily they're nowhere near the mountains. His gaze pans from tail, to face, to tail, to face again. She was still smiling. Her face had an eerie way of expressing itself. Maybe I'll ink her cheek for fun anyways, he thinks.

Seeing the large troll's look turn hard, sajidah lowers her gaze, the fire in them banked to a low, smoldering glow. She clasps her hands in front of her, sensing she's overstepped some invisible line of acceptable behavior. Her tone is soft, nearly contrite, she does not wish to anger or displease this one. Even if he weren't about to take a needle to her flesh, she wouldn't want to behave inappropriately towards him.

The black wand in the metal bowl didn't look any cooler and the troll once again resumes staring. Now he was feeling awkward. He had enjoyed her from a distance as much as he could and now it was time to move onto something else.

"What language is your name in?" he says.

"It is the language of my people. I do not think the language has name. It is just the way we speak. I did not learn common until my Master taught me." She doesn't bother to specify which Master. Master is a term that overlaps for her, her Master taking the key role in her existence. Without a Master, she is lost, like a child. She refers to her second, most recent Master: the now dead Sheyka warrior, her previous Master having been entirely replaced in her mind by the new.

His fingers rap at the sides of his body right below the armpits. Fidgeting usually accompanies boredom for Roquai. He wasn't bored as much as he was preoccupied with other thoughts. 'As long as one of us keeps talking then this tattoo might get done and afterwards you can do other things,' he promised himself. A dark glimmer appears in his right eye and contorts that side of his face into a sneer. It's almost that time, but not quite.

"Uh huh, and who are your people?" The troll uncrosses his legs and arms and steps over her once more to the other side of the room. He takes up a silver, black, white, yellow, and lavender colored inks. The pots are all grossly chosen shades of gray, but he knows the identification markings on their sides, as he was the one who sorted them. All five of the squat jars fit into one hand. He noiselessly arranges the five jars on one of the arm rests of the tattooer's chair then pulls the chair nearer to Sajidah.

The accommodating leg rest is now square with her chest but not close enough to be leaned upon by her yet. He just does it to make her notice.

Once again, Roquai steps over the centaur and faces the wall and the basin where the flesh quill cools.

The slave-girl remains motionless, only her eyes and mouth moving as she speaks. She watches Roquai's actions curiously as he rearranges things. "They are called the Ziala, Sir; barbarians."

Slowly, she turns her head just far enough to see what Roquai is doing behind her. Her kohl black lashes lower as she turns away again, questioning herself now that he has shown displeasure. She looks at the chair in front of her and waits. He takes the gnomish device in his fingers without hesitation. The deep grooves match themselves to the corresponding upraised portions of Roquai's hand. The warm tingle of the sterilizing heat washes through his right hand grip. "Uh huh."

The minute pinhole opening at the front of the flesh quill appears free of debris and unblocked in the troll's professional inspection. With no more delays, he takes one step over the middle of Sajidah's back and lowers himself on top of her. The thickness of his doubled legs aren't as tall as the centauress' ribcage and it takes a moment of adjustment to make sure her furred spine doesn't constrict the bridge of his leather kilt in all the wrong places. Any other time and that would have been a welcomed sensation. The centaur slave shifts her own trim bulk beneath the much larger mountain troll. Knowing that the pain is coming soon, she begins to regulate her breathing, taking long, slow breaths. The silky coat between his thighs is as smooth as butter.

The loose strands of Roquai's hair hang on either side of hers as he leans forward. The chair is pulled on until the rounded base presses gently into her stomach. The troll presses the flat of his hand into the back of her neck to urge her to lean forward, his fingers long and splayed, pressing all the way around her slender throat and casting over her shoulders like a knobby brown shawl.

She holds perfectly still as he leans over her, pulling up the chair. Leaning forward at his urging, sajidah rests her body against the smooth surface of the chair, shivering slightly as his hand encompasses her throat. In order to distract herself a little she continues with the explanation. "They are desert people, very fierce and consummate lovers." Her tone remains even. She seems to think that's a normal thing to say to a virtual stranger, but then, she was never trained in social etiquette.

"Oh?" He does sound genuine in the tiny remark. Although not the most proper of suggestive dialogue, the troll hears no difference in that then he would with anything else. Most worthwhile conversations in his life have begun with love making as their launching pad. It's one of the few things that surfacers, flatlanders, and trolls all have in common.

His knees squeeze shut and he adjusts his height up her body by pushing his arm off of the floor. Comfortable once more, his hand reattaches to the back of Sajidah's neck and the needlepoint touches down.

The sweet buzz doesn't miss a note, but Roquai's hand tenses up as he expects her to react... Not so much to the needle, but to his hand. The gesture forces her face and chest into the padding even more so, his fingers sliding against her scalp to attain an improved controlling grip. One handed, bending very low, he begins to outline the blade of the scimitar. Strands of hair that he should have tied more tightly behind his head must be moved out of the way by shifting his neck and his position on top of her body, causing tangles of the stuff to intermingle with the mare's own rolling locks that have been pushed aside.

Continuing her even, concentrated breathing, sajidah shivers once as the large fingers of the troll's hand work their way up the back of her head, pinning her down against the padding of the chair. She tilts her head to the side, resting her cheek against the cool surface. She closes her eyes, letting the sharp sting of the needle sink in and dissipate. She sighs softly, willing her body to relax.

"What desert?" He is rounding the tip of the blade, retracing that small bit when the point doesn't appear pointy enough, and deepening the line with preemptive shading that should be saved until much later. He blows some hair out of his face, doodling away.

It takes her a moment to realize he's asked her a question. She slowly climbs up from her trancelike state, blinking her eyes back open again. "The Zialund Desert." She closes her eyes again, first one, then the other, letting her mind sink once more. As long as she can remain focused, she can ignore the sensations...

This is all unique for him. There has never been a centaur in this building. He has never worked on a centaur, and has never mounted one, nor met one that is of this breed. All of those things compliment the conclusion that he has never worked on one so attractive while literally mounting her. This will be a very enjoyable learning experience, he decides.

Tendrils of hair are coiled around his thick fingers. The kilt provides a frictionless slide over her silken body, a covering for him to scoot back on, which he does as more and more precision is needed for his work. His face lowers at a steady rate until the thin membrane of his ear flits along her nape beneath his wrist. Huge, paddle like feet push into the floor on either side of her body, and his legs periodically pinch her flanks. The inner tracts of his three-trunk thighs are almost on top of her hind legs within minutes of his repetitive routine. His weight is kept from crushing her by his feet and knees braced on both side of her body and, of course, his sweetly familiar grasp on the back of her head.

Though the delicate desert centaur has thus far managed so suppress the pain to a tolerable level, she can't seem to block out the feel of his gnarled paw pinning her neck. Every minute movement sends a thrill down her back. Her lips part, exhaling deeply as her body relaxes further.

As the tip of his ear tickles the back of her neck, she can no longer contain the delicate shiver that runs through her, but it's small enough to not interfere with his work. Her tail swishes lightly as she raises it a bit, its russet strands dragging the floor.

He lifts up the needle to survey what he has done. The dull outline of the scimitar is inches away from his eye. He has totally forgotten their line of conversation, dropped long ago, it seems, in place of concentration. At the bottom of the swords hilt is a spot of red blood. She sighs softly at the sudden absence of pain, her torso completely relaxed against the padding of the chair.

She wasn't bleeding much at all... She must be trying very hard to ignore this. As that thought punctuates his brain, the tip of his prehensile tongue retraces the entire route of the tattoo and ends at the drop of blood in the pummel of the shaft. The tongue tracing along her flesh tightens every muscle in her body, her back arching. She tries to lift her head from the seat, but is still pinned quite effectively. She can't hold back the short, breathless whimper that slips from her throat.

He notes the straining of her back muscles and the push against his hand, though it still keeps her from doing what her mind wills her body to do. The flare-pink tip of his tongue is now covered in red blood that has leaked through her swelling skin. The puff has risen since the lingering muscle began its duty, mopping up the sensitive tracks of flesh. The rise is so minute that it can only be felt.

He withdraws the tongue, which leaves the patch on her back drier and cleaner overall but with a healthy looking gleam of spittle. The blood is smeared over his jagged teeth and then swallowed. Hot breath washes over the wound and the pen begins work again.

The ink well inside the quill will soon run dry, but refilling it can wait. Roquai finds it difficult to detract his concentration from his unspoken goals. His neck muscles creak and his head tilts, rubbing the tip of his ear over the ridge of her bare shoulders like the leaf of a passing branch. The odd membrane of that ear is lost somewhere in her hair. It's powerless, not being able to press and having only one range of movement, and the brushing sensation is lost on the top of her head. The Troll doesn't really notice.

The stem of the flower begins next. He starts the bottom of the shaft, appearing to be clean-cut and sheered by a blade, at a point about two and a half inches to the left of the scimitar's hilt and below. The stem itself is longer then he had anticipated, which is a surprise. That's good. The result would be a flower with a long stem, and that's all. But it would be very pretty.

He reaffirms his hand on the back of her head. Almost involuntarily, his wrist gyrates. His thumb and little finger wrap around her neck. The other fingers fan up the back of her head and into her luscious shades of hair. During this readjustment phase, his fingers curl over her ear, onto her face, and under her jaw line.

His hips grow more weighty on top of her and his thighs clench her body, ignorant of the movements of her tail.

Pain is easy to ignore as long as it's mild. All you need to do is push it down deep inside you and let it absorb, soaking into your flesh from the inside where it will do less damage. sajidah has had enough practice to accomplish this with only a minimal amount of challenge.

It's the touching she's having trouble with. She can't ignore the rough flesh that encircles her throat, knotting her hair and caressing her jaw line. She can't ignore the fleshy ear tickling her shoulder. She holds her torso perfectly still, but only with great effort. Her equine body begins to quiver beneath the pressing weight of the heavy troll, not straining, but reacting to the overwhelming sensations

A tender pink tongue slips from between her parted lips to rewet the dusky skin. The centauress closes her eyes tightly now, anything but relaxed as her redolent cream begins stir inside her.

A soft, rolling murmur kept ensuing out of the back of Roquai's throat. It was much less then a growl and more consistent then a gurgle. His neck was so close to her shoulder blades that the trembles of his throaty grumble was traveling through the air, humming into her skin.

The two hollow caverns inside of his nose tasted the traces of excitement in the air. He sniffed, curiously. The resonating base sound was his expectation taking voice.

Deep even breaths cause the centaur's small breasts to rise and fall, slow and measured. The humming and vibrating sends little shivers down her spine, but she manages to remain otherwise still and quiet.

His middle finger wound tighter and tighter still until her scalp could nearly buckle, becoming a rein attaching her head to his monstrous palm. The needle buzzed up and down the stem of the plant. The troll had no idea what it was. Maybe he saw it in a dream once; pausing before he trampled it, long enough to keep a glimpse in his subconscious. The name of the desert bloom on sajidah's back was probably too complicated for Roquai to remember, anyways.

Upon finishing the long stem he pulled his face back, looking over the artistry. It had a slight bow shaped quality overall. It was barbed and defended well, each tiny hook down-turned and spaced far from one another, unorganized, betraying the unwary eye

with a stab and a tear if they yanked it for selfish reasons. That sounds best. Mainly, the barbs looked small and cruel and ill intentioned.

Laying the hand with the buzzing needle, held firm between two fingers, on top of sajidah's shoulder, he yawns wide. Would she be startled to see that there is more then enough space for her head and probably one other between the troll's thinly stretched cheeks? He sincerely wished she should be. His hand tugs at her scalp and rubs her cheek, trying to force a squeak or yelp out of her, something to punctuate the coppery, sticky taste of blood over his tongue as he laps over the charcoal black stem of the flower.

Sajidah inhales sharply as the large hand tightens its grip on her hair. The harem slave leans her head back slightly to ease the pressure, only to have it tugged, the coarse fingers caressing her cheek. She whimpers softly from the pain, the gaping maw quite visible in her peripheral. Her violet eyes widen and her pulse jumps erratically under his touch.

Her resistance wears thinner with each unexpected touch and the feel of his tongue sliding across the punctured flesh calls another quick gasp from her as she starts, her back arching slightly away from the slick tongue.

A slim smile suffuses with his face around a fat, rolling tongue like a pink sausage that dances over her wound. His libido momentarily quenched by her whine, his grip becomes less demanding and loose again, pressing her front back into the leg rest. Attempting to catch her breath, sajidah relaxes against the smooth leg rest. Her breathing is uneven for a few moments as she tries to regain control of her lungs.

The leaking streaks of red are swabbed up and the troll risks damaging the design by mildly scrubbing it with the rough tongue. He does it for no reason besides inflicting painful pleasure into her back flesh, which should be obvious by now.

The centaur's efforts are wasted, for no sooner does she smooth her breathing, the mountain troll elicits another breathless whimper as his tongue scrubs her raw flesh. The muscles beneath the half-finished tattoo tense up again.

Gently, slowly, he releases her hair. Black talons trails over her temple and cheekbones and his thumb rubs into her neck. Roquai shakes his shaggy tresses out of his face, slurping his muscle back into his mouth, and then resumes the tattoo through the new and shiny coat of mucus. His free hand cups her neck and shoulder in his palm, reassuringly stroking her collarbone with his fingers but never leaving her throat or nape with his hold, ever-present and imposing.

'How loud would she squeal if I drew a collar around her tiny neck?' he ponders. From a quarter-inch below the pistol, he begins the first of several layered leaflets that are to wrap around the base of the flower.

As his talons skim across the thin flesh of her face, her body begins to shiver again. She manages to relax against the leg rest once more as the hand finds its place on the juncture of shoulder and neck. She utters a soft sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh. Her body continues to tremble beneath him, though not enough to disturb his work.

The petals are detailed to their very veins. The troll's great face is nearly presses against her, perpendicular with one eye dangerously close to the humming needle, that one lazy ear flopping between her shoulder blades. Although the beast has a near total lack of floral knowledge, he has seen a lot of flowers. This was a conglomeration of a dozen of them.

His hips sink and press against her. Her whimpering sends tingles along his spine, which reach to all the receiving portions of his body. The material of his kilt tents over her back and up into his testis from below, also pressing along the underside of his partially-hardened troll-hood, which makes him bear down more.

As the troll continues his delicate work on her back, sajidah slows her breathing once again. Her smooth, olive flesh stretches out before him as an unfinished canvas. The feelings engendered by his body pressing down into her back are slowly processed and realization that he's becoming aroused lodges itself in the pit of her stomach.

His lower and higher functions are torn between taking a break from his craft to delve into another rewarding preoccupation, most of it laying somewhere between sajidah's legs, he guesses. The leaflets circle the base of the flower. Finishing up the last few of the leaves, curling them beneath the base and barbing their minute edges, the troll sighs into the female's back. "You've done good. And you don't bleed much."

Smiling, he presses his lips along the top of her skin, ignoring the glaring spots of blood fattening at the pistol of the flower. It's close to a kiss, but it isn't. His rubbery mouthparts remain stationary, and when he finally does lift his face his nose vacuums in her fragrance. Sweat and sex, he thinks. Given the circumstances, he couldn't think far beyond those two things if he tried, so don't blame him. He licks his lips.

Nails curl and fingers flex beneath her chin, covering her supple neck, draping her collarbone possessively. Roquai leans forward again. His leather kilt creaks against the stress. When it stops, his tongue has already landed on her nape and has begun creeping around to the front side opposite of his hand.

The culmination of her thought is quickly followed by a hot sigh against her skin. Her voice is breathy and low when she answers his statement. "Thank you, Sir."

Her own dainty hands fist into tight balls against the smooth seat of the chair as he tastes her scent. Her heart skips a beat, and then pounds quickly. She feels its throb throughout her body, a slow heat rising from her stomach. Her lips part and her eyes slide shut and she leans into his possessive caress. Her breathing shallows out, coming in quick, soft gasps. She makes no attempt to move herself from the tongue's path, her acceptance complete.

Hair sticks to his tongue and lips, but he doesn't seem to mind. Nothing keeps him from lapping up the recess of her neck and he does exactly that. The outcrop of his pointed nose helps to part and push her hair aside with the erratic movements of his head. Perfume rises from her body. The metallic taint of blood, sweat, and her foreign fragrance all waft into a mixture that plays games with his sense of smell.

Belying to the rest of his tongue is the soft, rounded tip, which is currently trying its damnedest to tickle and squirm its way inside of her throat. It swabs around in little bursts of activity. It traces her jaw line as least a dozen times while the thick of the muscle (and it IS thick) paints the entire side of her neck in spit.

His free hand wedges itself between his chest and her shoulder blades. Now one side of her head is held by a gentle and teasing hand, the other side by the trolls gaping mouth and writhing tongue. Fingernails run down of her spine, over her tattoo, and over the small of her back, resting at the interface between her humanoid torso and her equine features, and slowly melting around to her stomach along that hairline.

A small adjustment tilts sajidah's head further toward his hand, allowing the trolls thick tongue freedom of movement against her sensitive neck. She gasps softly, lips parting to inhale a quick breath, only to be exhaled again in a soft, ragged moan.

She appears to remain outwardly calm and relaxed, though beneath her soft flesh the pumping of her blood is strong and quick. She nearly squirms out of her flesh when those long nails rake down her back. A soft whimper of pain heralds their journey over her fresh tattoo. As they reach the small of her back, she jerks slightly, momentarily breaking contact with a sharp inhalation of breath. She calms herself easily enough, though the muscles of her abdomen are tense under his touch.

Steam from his lungs periodically wafts into the cavity of her ear, which is soon filled by the squirming tip of his tongue. His lips, too, brush her lobe and the cartilage while his roaming hand makes its journey.

The pink tip of the tongue withdraws like a sopping wet plug. A slurching noise booms against her eardrum. He mutters, his voice and breath flooding her senses, "...how much money did you bring, young centaur?"

She winces slightly as he speaks, his voice so close it hurts. Nevertheless, it sends a thrill down her spine. Her own voice is breathless, barely louder than a soft whisper, the accent a little thicker. "I do not know... this currency..." Her body trembles and her tail swishes lightly behind her, the combination of fear and arousal overcoming more mundane thoughts.

Like an inchworm climbing along a branch, each scoot of his knees and clench of his thighs rears his frame an inch higher up her body. The hand on her stomach reaches down to scratch the slope of her humanoid torso where it melds with the horse body. Then it crawls back up. The dry, worn fingers wedge easily between her stomach and the leg rest padding. Her bare, slender chest trembles between his midriff and hand.

Sliding his body up her length has forced his shoulders high above her own and broken the tongue-kiss with her neck. But it's also given him free access to her upper body, and his own thrumming crotch is directly behind her back, the hard hem of his kilt pressing sharply into her flesh. An inch inside of the inky blackness of his kilt is the bobbing, bulberous head of his troll-hood, lurking in the darkness like a monster should. The desperate shivering of her body continues and the delicate torso straightens as she feels the hard press of leather-encased organ pressing at her back.

The hand around her throat fully encompasses it now, circling around to her petite adams-apple. His thumb and index fingers uplift her face. Black and green hair hangs down and shrouds her head as Roquai positions directly above her, staring down, his smile completely faded.

As the rough hand wraps itself around her throat, sajidah's face is forced upward, but she doesn't resist. Her eyes fail to make contact with his and full lips part slightly in a soft exhalation of breath that is almost, but not quite, a moan. It's true nature is revealed by the tremor against his hand where her throat presses against it.

Though she will not meet his eyes, his gaze remains transfixed at her eyes as one of her breasts is grasped and thoroughly molested by the demanding ministrations of his roaming hand. Cool skin is pressed over his hard, ridged stomach - her back being forced into his front by the crushing pressure of the wrist.

Fear mingles then with the passion smoldering in her eyes like a hot bed of violet coals. The coals are banked as her eyes slide shut, a short whimper offering mild protest to the rough treatment of her tender flesh.

The nubbin of that tender flesh that is her left nipple disappears between Roquai's two, dry, pinching fingers. Her areola and much of her breast go with it. The arm has crossed over her slender chest to molest her far breast and further hug her body against his knobby stomach. Cool shop air fills the gap between them as the troll bends down. A sharp gasp punctuates the capture of sajidah's comparatively diminutive breast and she shivers as the cool air teases across her back, warm and slightly damp with sweat and fresh blood.

Open lips lower on top of hers; rather, over her chin and nearly covering her nose. Her mouth, although pouty and succulent, is dwarfed by her aggressor’s inhuman size. Roquai's tongue wastes no time in spearing downwards to suppress her tongue and smother her palette. He groans softly.

With a push from her dainty fore-hooves, sajidah rises up to meet the monster's cavernous mouth. The movement brings her equine back up to bump against the back of his leather kilt. Her whimper holds the slightest hint of eagerness to its tone as his tongue dives into her mouth and his thick fingers play her taunt nipple.

Her chest is cupped and breast strummed by all five fingers. Again, the proportions in size make it awkward to look at. The mammoth troll is holding her by the throat to face the ceiling, which can't be seen through his monstrous head and the cage of hair that settles around both of their shoulders. Roquai hasn't bent his face in any way and so his chin hovers above her nose and his teeth nip at her cheeks. Massaging her neck with one hand, the other brushes up and down and up again, stroking the tips of four digits over her areola and smudging her breast.

Finding nothing appealing about the sight of the troll's gargantuan chin, sajidah closes her eyes. The hesitant whimper turns to a deep moan as the second immense hand begins its firm massage against her fluttering throat. With a jerk of his neck and another widening of his jaw, his tongue slips farther into her mouth, testing her tolerance, excitement, and fear in the taste and feel of her.

The quick mind of the desert centaur races. She has never been subjected to the attentions of anyone quite so inhuman... nor quite so large as this mountainous troll. She sensibly fears the unknown, but there is also a delicious dose of frenzied exhilaration laying jut below the surface of her thoughts, belying her outward demeanor of near calm acceptance.

Now that her dwindling resistance has been secured by his lust and his mouthparts his hands are set free to assist in smashing whatever else remains of her defense. His lips envelope her lower jaw by the shear force of the vacuum, suckling then letting go with each lustful chewing motion.

Like dry scrubs, hot palms sear over the front of her body. With the pressure at which they press, Roquai is sure that there will be long reddened streak where her skin is hashed, much like the swollen tattoo caked with her molten blood.

Her physiology, if he took the time to ponder over it, might at first confuse him. Luckily for them both he had very few things on his mind despite the present tasks. He rings her narrow waist in his hands, above her hips, his index fingers and thumbs pressing together over her belly button and along her spine, and lifted that ring up her ribcage and onto her breasts. Her soft mounds are buried under beefy palms and mauled accordingly.

Every touch, every minute sensation is like a drop of rain on the hot sand of the desert. Her body craves the attention, thirsts for it. It matters little to her if it be pain or pleasure she receives for the two quickly become one. The troll's scabrous hands dragging across her supple flesh tear a breathless cry from her diaphragm. It wells up inside her until it must burst forth, only to be lost in the vacuity of his gaping maw.

During that time, Roquai has been sure to savor each little whimper, and each of her moans helps him to hone in on her throat. She would have gagged or fell under a panic by now if she hadn’t been disciplined beyond the norm. His tongue keeps her jaw spread enough to slink further down her hole, lashing the insides of her mouth all the while. Each tiny thrust of the tongue brings a slow grapple of her breasts, trying to coax more out of her vocal cords, although he isn?t sure how much else she has.

Her cries turn quickly to moans as the pain is lost in the pleasure of once again being under the dominating force of a superior male. This troll is physically and characteristically nothing like her former Master, but his force of will is strong and seductive. At one point, the thrusting of the Roquai's thick tongue does nearly gags the enraptured centauress. She seems not to notice, her recovery quite instantaneous as she begins to suckle at it's prickly length.

The willful compliance is unusual for him and his first reactions are to stomp it out, although he knows that this was one of many things that the centauress was born to do.

She was delicious: naturally sweet, and thick and fragrant, as if saturated with nectar. He savored the taste that he suckled out from between her lips. Ropes of his own spit were, of course, following gravity's path, and the contours of his tongue carried the fluid inside of her like a siphon, making her swallow in excess.

The eager swallowing motion of the girl's tight throat seems to want to pull him deeper, drinking his congested saliva like water. The muscles vibrate against his tongue as she whimpers. The careless treatment of her tender breasts brings sudden tears to her eyes, but still she does not protest.

Her nipples are tweaked and tugged and almost wrenched from her body. The caps on his fingers point akimbo, nails bent to avoid stabbing the poor female as the hands work her extremities into red, raw soreness.

The callous material has scrubbed her flesh more then it deserves, and the troll is aware that the soothing, regenerative properties of the mucus draining down sajidah's throat would relieve worlds of suffering from her mounds. Maybe later, he concludes.

Roquai pulls up with a start and yanks the cord of muscle from her mouth and the entrance to her throat. Strings of coagulated spit tether the troll's tongue to the young centauress' mouth, and then snap as it recoils into his gaping maw behind a row of pointed teeth.

She gasps, shocked and quite suddenly bereft by the removal of his probing tongue. She starts to reach for him, her hands just barely parting from the pad of the chair, but she stops herself. It is not her place to demand, or even request that his actions progress, or digress rather as the nature of her presence is to be marked.

The troll looks to his black gnomish device, balanced up on the armrest of the chair, then back to her face. The hands stop moving over her breasts. Roquai thinks, but he doesn't speak, content to study her bewildered, lust-clouded face, a droplet of fluid calling onto her cheekbone from his upper lip. 'I should get this tattoo done,' he thinks.

The girl's fine-boned hands fall once again and her gaze is quickly lowered. She licks the last bit of cohesive dribble from her lips, but can't seem to do much for the spittle that shines her nose and chin. She blinks, attempting to clear her vision and calm her body with slow, deep breaths. She can smell him still, his scent clinging to her skin like sour perfume and it haunts her. She doesn't know why he stopped, or why he began in the first place, but she accepts it, as with everything, unquestioning.

Watching her restraint shows how much of a feat it actually was. Both of her arms sought to draw him back into her mouth, and if she had reached higher then he would have given that to her, and much more then she asked for. But her good sense, mired in a lifetime of training and principle, saved her from what might have been a tragic mistake.

These thoughts don't affect his face. The lamplight illuminates everything there is, and even the troll's murky brown eyes are shed in the glow. They're motionless, peering into and through her, and then, to the black flesh-quill on the armrest.

Roquai reaches for it. One of her breasts falls from his cupping palm and then the other. Mounting the needle, examining it closely to be sure it matches the imprint of his hand, the other hand rests on her shoulder. The weight his arm puts on her suggests that she leans forward. Roquai doesn't bother to utter the command or an apology for toying with her, which he was. That much is clear. He says nothing, besides a mutter in his throat that makes the needle jump to life. The gently trembling centaur keeps her nebulous, violet eyes focused on the grain of the leather that covers the chair. As the troll's arm urges her forward, she complies. With a soft sigh, she leans once again against the padded leg rest.

He licks her lingering savor off his lips. A throaty sigh erupts when he slides a foot's length back along her body. The minute ruffles of fur and flesh atop her spine transfer through his kilt's material and send shudders of pent-up excitement down his cock, through the stem, stimulating his pelvis. 'Her Master would be proud, even in the afterlife,' Roquai thinks.

With a strength of will like iron, she forces her body to relax once more. The task is made all the more difficult by the unexpected sensation of the massive troll sliding along he length of her back. His shuddering tells her more than anything he's spoken as to his own state of being. She smiles softly to herself, knowing that in some small way, perhaps she has pleased him.

The needle pumps ink into her skin. At one time, galloping under the desert sun, this skin must have been a rich mahogany from the scalding heat, but now it looked like it was washed in cream. Blood became reddish pink at the fringes of the flower.

Each time the mechanism plummets and breaks the flesh, a tiny dimple sinks around the point of entry. The magically induced speed produced by the gnomish device fools the mind into seeing a continuous pit following the point of the needle as it maps a path through the bleeding canvas. This is something that Roquai has learned to ignore. He no longer sees the dimple, or the blood, or even the needle in his hand, or his hand. All he sees is a piece of artwork taking shape - a miraculous birth, although he would never attach those words to the act, out of ink and skin. Skin, the perfect medium.

Currently, he is crafting one of a dozen-plus pedals. The bloom appears as a multiple layered star, one overlapping the other, and another on top, symmetrically perfect to the observer. Their only flaw is the drooping of the delicate leaflettes. Although it might appear to be the normal construction of the flower, healthy and vibrant, the effect can also be seen as a slow and overwhelming wilt.

Roquai has indeed destined this plant to die, here on sajidah's back flesh, in the unsustainable environ, drenched in blood and soul. A desert weed has no place in a 'scape so luscious and unexploited. This plant can only afford a life too rich for itself in this place.

Once again, sajidah attempts to clear her mind. It's more difficult this time as the memory of his large frame encasing her torso dominates her thoughts. She tries to shove them a way as the needle-induced tremors threaten to overtake her body. A nearly inaudible whimper escapes the cavity of her chest to slip from her parted lips.

It takes a concerted effort, but the thoughts are pushed aside, her mind once again attaining the trance of thoughtlessness. Her body slowly relaxes to match her mental state. The gentle swishing of her tail stills and a soft sigh blends with the light hum of the needle.

She cannot see Roquai's interpretation of the design, nor it's sinister implications. She closes her eyes, resting her sticky cheek against her folded arm.

Roquai is putting the last caps on the last pedals. It's a disappointment that he couldn't have made the bloom more intricate to prolong her pain, and the curious nature she resorts to, to beat it back into her heart. But it isn't finished yet, he reassures himself. He then decides that maybe sajidah would appreciate a little assurance, too.

A brief hiss, him sucking in the hot air that rises off her shoulder blades, and he speaks, putting his lips directly beside her ear. "We aren't done yet. There's still a lot of coloring to do... Don't move. I'll pick."

The hiss seems to break through her concentration, or perhaps it's the unexpected proximity of that huge mouth. Either way, that protective shield between her senses and the pain is shattered. She keeps her eyes shut, but manages to nod against the supportive length of her arm.

The troll sits back again. He hurries to consummate this next act, which is one of his favorites if you haven't noticed already, and the shift in weight is quick. The air in the room has become oppressively humid.

He breathes something, a misused word in the troll language that sounds like a feeble cough to the uneducated, and the flesh-quill stops. It remains suspended between three fingers so it doesn't obstruct the task. Roquai puts his hands on her shoulders, weightless. His back arches and his crotch rolls forward to bring his mouth down along her spine. The tongue unwinds. It connects with the supple ridge running the length of her back starting above her shoulder blades and then dragging down to the new tattoo, swabbing a thin trail of mucus over her vertebrae.

As he kills the buzz of the of the device and his hands touch her shoulders, she jumps, despite the lightness of the touch, having thought he'd been fetching colors. She stills again, having become somewhat accustomed to his towering over her. The tongue on her back, on the other hand, will never seem commonplace.

When the salty metallic of ink tainted blood stings the underside of his tongue, Roquai's mouth closes over the wound. In a few moments of rhythmic suckling, the enthusiastic gestures of his tongue belaying the soothing outer features, the blood has stopped to trickle. He must bend unusually low now to lap up the stuff that has dribbled down the small of her back, but he does it with practiced ease. Business as usual.

Finished, his hands slide over her shoulders, grazing her head, and onto the seat of the chair she leans on. There are bottles of inks already prepared. He takes up something similar to lilac then presses his body into the young woman's. Throughout this time, Roquai is keenly away of his erection, sometimes dormant but spiking with shivers of lust in response to the slave's hidden pleasures. He has no choice but to be aware of his excitement now, as closing the space between himself and the bottles has forced him to move up her length again so that his kilt is slightly hitched on her back, and the mushroom shaped head of his phallus is wedged against it as well. He prays for her own sake that she doesn't flinch... much.

His stomach, ridged and smooth and cool, lies lightly on top of her. The bottoms of his pecks in his sloping posture are just above her shoulders. He uncaps the inkbottle and sets the quill inside.

The desert centaur's once-smooth back is arched, her head coming up off it's resting place on her arm. Her eyes are open now, as is her mouth, a throaty, pleasured moan startled from her. She can't seem to escape the overt sexuality of the gesture, his tongue seeming to want to work its way inside her, to taste her and consume her.

As the tongue snakes lower to tickle the small of her back, she gasps, attempting to squirm away from it's touch, but there is no where to go, but to press more tightly against the seat. She moans again as he pulls away, the humid air of the shop seems cool after the heat of his mouth and she can smell her own sweet perfume in the thick air.

It is at this moment that she finally recognizes the pressing troll-hood for what it was. A soft ripple runs up her equine spine to send a chill up her back. She shivers once, then stills again, focusing on remaining still beneath his massive, gently leaning bulk. Her only movement now is to tilt her head slightly to look up at him, her breath held as she feels the sexual tension bristling against her like an electric field.

Roquai's flesh tingles with the static charge carried by sajidah's gaze. His neck, chest, and face all burn with hot desire. Heat pours from his toughened cock. It penetrates his clothes, seeping directly into her skin, and fumes out of his kilt like a mythical and fragrant fog. His fragrance clashes with hers to make a pheromonal bouquet of sex. In the attempt to clear her head, sajidah takes deep, even breaths. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, this only further clouds her mind as she takes full inhalations of that musky bouquet.

The tip of the gnomish device slides into the lilac colored goo and rests on the lip of the flattish clay jar. The ink takes time to soak upwards, into the tiny well, for storage. This leaves a little bit of free time.

His face points downwards at a deliberately slothful speed. 'So pretty, like porcelain, so frail,' he thinks, his eyes meeting hers and igniting ethereal sparks between them.

'Her neck is so smooth, like butter,' he approves as his hands rubs over the skin. Ivory and cream is a strong contrast to the mahogany of the troll's battered knuckles. He's at a loss as to what to do with this morsel beyond finishing the design... which will be soon.

As the troll's stony gaze meets hers, the centauress hesitates perceptibly. She is torn by the desire to meet that gaze and read those eyes, but in a short time, her upbringing wins out, pulling her look down with obvious protest. The young slave even goes so far as to close her eyes, prompted by the stroking of his hand on her neck. The supple flesh is warm under his touch, slightly moist in the humid, stale air of the close room.

The other hand fishes between her body and the seating, now damp and much hotter then Roquai's skin, and cups her molested breast. He resumes the rough massage there while brushing over her pouting lips with his thumb, hand masking most of her face and neck. The hem of his kilt is forced away from the knob of his penis and is jacked up the monster’s thighs so that the scolding knob thumps against the small of her back. He hardly notices.

"... Precious," he whispers in troll.

Those dusky, pouting lips part in inhalation as they are stroked. She leans her head into the possessive hold of his palm, her breath escaping as quickly as it was caught, leaving her throat as a pitched sigh that could almost be a whine if not for it's lack of abdominal support. The muscles there are too preoccupied with the butterflies that dance inside her stomach.

Her breath takes on a panting quality as her battered breast is fondled roughly, the muscles in her stomach jarred from their reverie long enough to tense at his hand's passing. Her vertebrae align themselves as she straightens, startled by the sudden flesh-to-flesh thumping on her sensitive lower back.

His only spoken word slowly sinks into the folds of consciousness, nestling in cohesively for a brief moment, then absorbed and understood as the 'tongues' incantation is activated. No outward appearance reveals her reactions, but the troll would feel beneath his touch, the jump of her heated pulse and quickening of her breath.

The rose pigment that filled her skin was hot blood rushing upwards to make her nerves more aware. Around her neck, shoulders, and face was blanket of pink. The color seemed to arrive after he spoke, as if she unconsciously reacted to being referred to as an item and being treated as such.

"Being a centaur must get awkward sometimes..." Petting her seemed to spur her docility to show, which he thought was rather cute. Her neck made a natural curve for him to stroke. His mind was in the same place as his hard on but Roquai wasn't selfish. He could fuck her, or could have fucked her several times by now, but just the oblong frame of her body would make it disruptive enough to jar him from his work, perhaps never to find it again. It was important to maintain the high-strung contentment that centered on his throbbing cock. But this was getting a little ridiculous.

He had to wonder if this female was an adept temptress or a foolish one. Picking up his earlier comment, he continues with, "I could have you... I might not ever finish my work if I did that, so I'll do this first."

There was little reason to talk to her. They were words she shouldn't be able to understand anyway, but she did. It was a caress to some dormant sub-section of her soul and bending her mind around his will. It'd worked so far.

But his meat rod had begun to ache a long time ago and it was a distraction. Roquai was accustomed to storing such a strong arousal in the background of his thoughts, but current circumstances made that exceedingly difficult.

As the troll's words continue to sink through the fog of pleasure and into her mind, sajidah slowly opens her eyes. She still doesn't look up, letting her gaze focus on that huge, toothy mouth as he speaks. Eventually, her gaze shifts slowly upwards so that he might see her smile softly, though her eyes still don't quite meet his. She licks her lips. Heavy breathing always seemed to make her lips dry...

"As you wish, Master." Her voice is a breathy whisper, her eyes shimmering pools of two-toned violet, as if the shallows where lighter, nearly gray. The color's saturation just seems to fade as around the edges.

Letting off with a heavy sigh, the hand that collared her throat takes up the needle. Roquai mutters and the device hums in compliance. He slides back along her body, compressing her fur with his kilt, dragging the underside of his protruding member heavily over her spine. There is no pause to enjoy the sensation that makes him shudder, only more incentive to get the job done. Her breast is no longer fondled but just cupped in the warmth of his hand to let his focus on his work. The tip of the needle, now stained a flowery shade of purple, touches down on the petals of the flower and begins filling each one.

The delicate, angular face tilts back further, moistened lips parting as she conceals those vibrant eyes of hers behind soft lids. She whimpers softly, perhaps in protest to the loss of his touch on her face... perhaps in response to the drag of the bulbous head of his cock on her back. Before the pleading whimper is even finished, it cuts off sharply into a gasp as the needle once again begins its work on her back. She holds very, very still.

Life seeps into the flower's head, starting from the jet borders of the pedals and growing inwards for each individual leaf, until each little droopy triangle bursts with lilac vibrancy.

Roquai acts as if he is in a bit of a hurry. He's held her captive in compliance with sajidah's hinted will even though she has never spoken a single 'yay' or 'nae' this entire evening. By her tone he can guess at her lifestyle. By her lifestyle he can guess that no one will be looking for her; a lost centaur slave who is spending the declining dust in subtle ecstasy, perhaps her very first enjoyment in a very long time.

A flick of the wrist empties the needle's ink well, splattering strings of thick ink against the cabinet siding beside them. Roquai takes full advantage of his long arms again. Bracing against her shoulder for balance, he dips the buzzing instrument into one of the capsized jars, filling it with the dark emerald pigment inside. The hand retracts from the bottle, poises over the center of sajidah's back, and sets down once more. He rapidly traces the inside of the flower's stem.

He works faster then before, more avid in his passion, her skin bearing the brunt of his haste. The pain was very temporary and it would all fade in a week’s time regardless of how good or fast he was. Her body was not special in that way.

But at this moment his speed forces her skin to cope at a slightly faster rate then it had in the past hours. Small beads of sweat have broken over her body like strings of priceless jewels. They adorned her back more then anywhere else. He ignored the droplets that rolled under the quill stroke, denied the zeal in her musk, and the sweat covering his own russet flesh.

The arrowhead spuds are painted the same shade of green. As soon as they are finished, the troll flicks out the last droplets of ink along the same boards. Brilliant dots of color are cross-crossed and splattered against dull cabinet boards to their right. He'll wash those off later, having no taste for non-cosmetic art.

Only when the buzzing needle's stinging bite leaves her damp flesh does sajidah carefully lean forward, once again supporting her torso on the sticky surface of the chair. Her breath leaves in body in a thoughtless rush as she fights desperately to sink back into the nearly oblivious state of her lost trance.

The vital pulse of her blood refuses to slow. Her breath loses its careless, sighing nature, coming in short, quick bursts, her lungs forcing her to breathe. The task is certainly not foremost in her thoughts as the vibrating needle tears her silken skin.

The searing pain spreads like a stain beneath her flesh, over her flesh and in her flesh.

Despite her most concerted efforts, the trance cannot be regained. She is left defenseless against the onslaught of the art. Now and then, a sharp whimper accents the strokes.

His great mass rolls forward again. Pivoting his hips grinds his member atop her back. A breathless sigh hovers just behind her ear, and a kiss follows that, sweet, tender, and promising, on the thick tissue of her shoulder. The tip of the gnomish device dips, swirls, and fills with the third color, which is lighter than the troll's skin with a touch of cream. It's to be the handle of the scimitar, made of some lightweight wood instead of pretty steel. He exhales her scents, which is like a cool draft that careens over her backside.

The room's temperature was ungodly. Even the metal beads that hang in the doorframe aren't conductive enough to trap this amount of heat in the cubical. It was the humidity from their bodies that acted in the air, exponentially upping their endearing discomfort like being trapped in a sauna with nothing to drink... but each other.

Sajidah moans lowly with the grinding contact of his unyielding troll-hood against her back. The heat swirls around them like a tangible essence as he exhales; a stomach-wrenching chill slithers its way up from the point of contact.

The mountain troll licked his lips. A droplet of tan falls back into the jar before being carried back to the centauress’s hide. Fast, he made tight circles with the tiny tip of the flesh quill, systematically filling the haft.

The handle fills with detail confined in black borders trapped behind a red wall of sticky blood. Finished with this step, the ink gets splattered on the same wall with the others, adding its contribution of the very abstract mural.

The finishing color will be tinny bluish silver. Its bottle is special because this mix of dye is rare. The outside of the jar is painted black with golden coding painted across the front, which was probably costly by it. The troll is quick and without errs. Pivoting his crotch and cock into the girl once more helps to steel his resolve and another rough groan rings her ears. The trembling centaurs whimpered monologue is interrupted by the head of the troll's bulbous sex as it grinds against her spine. The action forces a quick moan to slip between her labored breaths.

The front of the needle is dunked, given a few seconds to set, taken out, and brought back into positioning. He gives her shoulder the most gentle of rubs with his chin as if to reassure her that he's still there. The young centaur has proven that she can keep her cool, and he has proven to her that he can make her lose it just as easily. Cruelty takes forethought and planning. This was his way of saying, "I don't have the time."

She settles easily as his chin brushes her shoulder. The gesture is almost comforting to her, a reassurance, indeed, but also something deeper that she can't describe, a feeling in the pit of her stomach. It's something akin to acceptance, but slightly skewed.

His unused hand strokes down her back. Covered in a glowing coat of sweat, writhing under his touch, she looks smaller then she did before. The thumb and index finger make an open oval around the tattoo. This centers him, gives him a patch to focus on and only one patch at a time. The last details will flow more easily now at the girl's expense and the troll's exertion, but it'll be worth it. He never would have begun this job if he thought for a minute that it wouldn't be worth it. Even if the centauress thought differently by the end he would have his pound - whether that pound be made in flesh or in currency doesn't matter.

The cutting edge of the blade of the scimitar was already shaded by black ink. It takes professional patience and skill to color strips of lustrous ink between strips of eye-fooling perplexities. The shading is supposed to look real from any distance and coloring that shading without eliminating it is not an easy thing to do, as inks such as this have a tendency to run over each other. Fat tears of sweat form on the troll's brow and on his back. His breathing is as calm as the open sea.

After several minutes that stretch into a dozen, the blade and most of the backing shine brightly over sajidah's epidermis. Almost done.

As his fingers wreath the preferred patch of the canvas of her back, she stills herself. She takes deep even breaths in preparation for the pain, hoping this time she will stay strong against it, that her concentration will not falter. The trance is attained and this intricate portion of the tattoo is completed without complication. She breathes a deep, cleansing sigh. Her head is cloudy now with endorphins and lack of oxygen. The swampy air threatens asphyxiation, but she no longer seems to notice.

The cold blue blade fills in a hair's width at a time until it is done. Roquai lifts the buzzing needle away from her skin. The buildup of blood has gotten runny, sticking to the surface on the tip of the device. He hisses, commanding the needle to stop, and a single speck of red is flung against his chest when the rapid vibration becomes coarse and choppy.

By the time the last droplet of ink is absorbed into her receptive flesh, sajidah's nerves are as a million separate points of input, each one on high alert. It doesn't hurt. That ended long ago. For now, she floats in a cloud of endorphins and arousal.

"All done," he confirms in a calm voice. It would be a blessing if someone would open a window or one of the doors to let breeze sweep this sweltering air away. His nose is almost numb. It feels to him like a blanket of coppery aroma, blood and ink, have suppressed all but his sexually receptive senses.

She hears his words, though muffled, as if she waits on the bottom of a still pool. The phrase sinks slowly downward, eventually slipping it's way into her forward consciousness. She feels the resistance of the water's weight as she rises out of the depths of her trance. As she breaks the surface, her head is thrown back in desperate gasp for breath.

Free from the miasma of her meditations, sajidah is made eminently aware of the pressure on her lungs. The trolls hands, it seems, cage her sides, pressing her against the glossy leg rest. She only has a half a moment to register the other sensations: the tingly in her extremities, the slick heat of the vestibule of her femininity, and overwhelmingly moist scents of blood and lust.

The flesh-quill is set on the counter beside them to free both of his hands. Fingers settle in the natural grooves of her ribcage and hold her there against the chair. The troll scoots back, lays his tongue on the conjunction of her human and equine body, and licks up the valley of her spine. Generous droplets of blood are soaked up, absorbed by the rough spongy quality of the muscle. It doesn't stop there.

The swabbing muscle of the Troll's tongue, both tool and toy, seems to bring focus to her sensations. She forgets easily the pain of her minced tissue and the weight of him on her back. Her perceptions narrow to that one action, his tongue suddenly three times its size, at least in her mind, as it slides up her spine in a tender glissade. Her moan is low and agonized as she exhales a long breath. The sound dissipates in the tangible air of the shop.

A dull red trail of diluted blood marks the center of her upper back and ends where his tongue lifts off her skin, just shy of her nape. For several minutes, the Troll is silent. The only sound now is the labored breathing of the vanquished slave. She makes no attempt to otherwise break the near silence that falls, though her body continues its weak trembling beneath his confining tenure on her torso.

Roquai's voice parts the suppressing silence like an ax blade. His first words are strong and heavy on his breath, because he knows they aren't fitting with this moment, but he hardly cares. "Do you know who you remind me of, sajidah? Did you come here not knowing?" His claws press and drag over her side and rake back until the heels of his palm meet on the small of her back. "Or have you come to mock me?"

As the large, mountain troll begins to speak, sajidah sits up a little straighter, listening carefully to his words. She still has a little trouble understanding meanings sometimes, even with the tongues incantation. She opens her mouth to speak, but the only sound is the pitched intake of her breath. Her body tries to squirm itself away from the claws, but they nearly encircle her slim abdomen. The breath is pushed from her lungs forcefully, shuddering and dry in the moist air.

The Mountain Troll braces his toes and lifts his knees off the floor until his feet are flat against it. This is the first time in several hours that he has stood up and he feels exhausted. He can only imagine at a much later time how sajidah's reserves of non-sexual energy must feel. Up here, where cooler air vents in an lazy invisible ring above the column of pervasive body heat, the Troll can feel ribbons of fresh and hot air as they brush against his glistening muddy skin.

He stares at sajidah, waiting for her confession or her confusion to spill out in words. More then anything, he reads her expressions, knowing that they can hide nothing while her words could remain veiled in lies.

As the motion of his large hands cease, she starts to turn her head... to look at him... face her accuser. She seems indignant at the thought and distinctly confused, the once smooth flesh of her brow wrinkled in thought. She manages to only stare at the back of the chair before her, though she doesn't seem to notice the infinite detail of the leather's grain. Her mind is on other things. "No, Master, I would not ... deceive, Master!"

She stops suddenly, saying nothing more. Her plush lips are pressed shut, her eyes refusing to move one direction or the other. She takes a few deep breaths, and then speaks once more, more softly. "My apologies, Master... For my tongue." Her words seem sincere, though the cause for her worry is slight. Her tone might have been construed as harsh in her previous statement, though it was decidedly more confusion in tone than anything.

Were Roquai to take a closer inspection, he might note the tapping of her pulse beneath the thin flesh of her throat and gentle rise and fall of her raw and buffeted breasts in sync with her measured breaths. Her eyes are wide. It almost looks like fear... might be taken as fear, but she does not fear him.

There is no doubt that if he asked her to explain herself to him then he would get an insufficient answer. Her body carried a wealth of past information on it and her mind when spoken held tenfold. There is nothing she could say or do that could alleviate

Roquai's mistrust in himself. Questioning his own memories is not something that his big Troll is accustomed to. Certainly no living slave has ever offended him like this. sajidah has brought implausible remorse into Roquai's shop and has stroked a very personal nerve that even he can't quite place. He only knows that he dislikes - no, hates it.

"Don't call me that. Ever again." His Trollish words are brutal on the ears, but his visage is much worse.

His kilt still rests high over his hips and that is remedied by tugging down on the hard skirt. The mild protrusion of his excited member is shut away. Any kind of pleasure he had derived from this night is being repressed by the weight of rotten memories.

"The tattoo is done. This night is over."

His muscle-roped legs still stand in an upside-down 'V' like a guardian monolith built up around a priceless living treasure.

The carefully maintained wall of calm continues its downward spiral, the pieces crumbling away almost visibly in her haunted eyes. She recoils, as if from a blow, hiding her face once again against her arm. The action is quick... reflexive, but not quick enough to hide the look of utter rejection and shame that comes quicker than thought to her once-smooth features.

The creamy shoulders shake violently before the fury of the troll. The shudders wash down her body in visible waves. Her stomach turns, twisting sharply within her equine frame, the muscles tightening along the smooth walls.

She would leave. It's obvious to her now that her presence, despite the Troll's previous attitude, is not desirable. She has no wish to remain where she is not wanted. She would much prefer to be away from the disgust and rage that seems to roil off of the copper-skinned Troll. His massive legs, coupled with the press of the smooth leather chair, act as a cage, keeping her locked in a prison of umbrage and distrust.

The tears streak, unseen and unheard, down the creamy olive skin of her face. They wet her cheeks... her chin... leaving a salty trail of grief. The one who loved her is gone. She is alone, truly alone. And, left to guide herself, she has found herself here; cowering beneath one she thought she understood. She laments the loss of her Master and the mistake of trusting this stranger, for giving him the power to hurt her. The pain of the tattoo is forgotten, drowned in the tears of her heart. She doesn't even know the troll's name.

His next words come out coughed, dislodged from his throat like an object threatening to choke him. In common tongue, he speaks, "We'll see each other again. In two days time, you're to come back here to my shop, groomed and clean."

He turns away, lifting his right leg to clear the convulsing hurtle of her back, to stand facing the counter. He won't face her because that would mean trying to understand the full implications of her sobbing fit and he doesn't want to do that right now.

A few hours into the night, when calm has seeped back into all of the rooms in the Body Shop, the questions he shoves away will then pose themselves to him and will be more understandable.

So now the Troll must wait. The clutter on the counters is replaced into their shelves and bins at a slow rate, his eyes never crossing the center of this room all the while. Sometime during this process he says, "Understand?"

Even with the impetus of her grief, sajidah's movements are smooth and full grace as she stands. First, her fore-hooves push up her torso, then her hindquarters bunch up and thrust, bringing her upright. She holds her chin up, ignoring the tears that wet her cheeks, though her eyes are downcast.

When the girl finally speaks, her voice is tight her single word in some foreign tongue, though her assent is unmistakable in her tone.

She leans over to pick up her things. Rather than take the time here, where she is so clearly unwelcome, she carries them in her hands as she trots out and into the main room of the shop. She doesn't even chance a look at the Mountain Troll's back.

"Two days!" he growls at her after leaning his upper body out of the tattoo parlor's empty doorframe.

His eyes center on her unbandaged tat. "Close the door!" he barks.

The tapping of the desert centaur's dainty hooves echoes in the outer room of the shop as she makes for the door. She says nothing. She merely leaves. Ever obedient, the centaur turns after exiting to shut the door gently behind her. His errant hope is that this will have some finality when she comes back. He has plenty of time to make a decision, and this will be a momentous one. That slave deserves a Master, thinks the great Troll as he stuffs the tattoo needle back inside of the flaming hearth for sterilization and shelves the open paint jars. But so few Masters deserve her.

BACK