The Opinion Of A Slave

-The Orchard; Morning of 2 DSTR-

Cordelia felt his eyes venture to the proof of her being considered property. Recognizing the facial gesture, she tilted her head and looked down the hall. Her name on his lips sent a warm vibration throughout her chest. “Let us just say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” she said with a smirk. Tilting her chin upwards, she closed her eyes and took in the words that were spoken oh-so eloquently. Opening her eyes at the pause in his speech, she smiled a sad smile, and bowed her head towards him once more. “Cartwright, if I had the chance to have such a magnificent change in scenery, I would take it,” Cordelia sighed.

Watching the men give her the cue that it would only be Cartwright joining them, she closed the door upon his entry. “Hm, yes, I am sure he will. I can’t say he won’t be surprised at your visit. He is only now becoming familiar with the events that have taken place during his departures.” Looking at the box with an inquisitive eye, she gave an open hand gesture as she spoke, “Please, let me take your jacket.” Cordelia didn’t know much about the personal affairs of Randel Cartwright. What she did know, was that he didn’t bid his slaves to do sexual favors, and he loved literature. Two things in which brought Cordelia to think very fondly of him.

“What is the opinion of a slave, Mr. Cartwright?” Cordelia had an opinion on just about everything, including the capabilities of Master Tyreth. “I know that he was very disappointed in his Uncle after finding out the events that have taken place here. What a said thing, yes? Being naïve to the shadows that lurk in the place that he would someday call home? I don’t know if I could bear it.” Cordelia breathed out another sigh, her over revealing chest pushing at the confines. “It would be well for this orchard to be more than it currently is, which in my opinion, if one of a slave is to matter, equivalent to a finer version of Jocelynn’s Inn.” Cordelia remembered her travels throughout the towns, and she distinctively remembered the driver of their wagon stopping, having a meal or two, and leaving overly satisfied. At the time, she didn’t recognize the look of satisfaction. Enough time living with her previous Master, she had come to recognize that look well. It was normally accompanied by a man pulling at the buckle of his trousers, his chest puffing outwards, his neck red from the lingering passion, and a newfound confidence in his stride.

“What have you heard of him, if you don’t mind me prying?”