Chapter 4

Tula lowered her eyes, lifting her fingers to caress her collar, feeling what the Master had just said sink into her body and mind. He was right, she thought wonderingly. She felt much more of a slave after Jason had bought the new girl Mira. She felt so humbled, submissive, and so eager to see him, she had to bite back a soft squeal when the gong sounded, she was allowed to wash, tart-up, and run to him with Mira. Though she just didn't know what the Master saw in new that flat chested, tight assed young bitch. She suddenly caught her self thinking of Mira as bitch, and stopped smoothening her belly rag for an instant. Jason was right on that, too. She had thought of Mira as a bitch from the day she had been put into the kennel, and couldn't help being petty and nasty to her. It is not like she hadn't tried and tried to be a nice and friendly sister to her Master's slim thighed, smooth skinned new slave. She had kissed her softly, and hugged her told her all the kennel and house rules, even though as older girl, she had thought she had slap right over the new one. And she had tried not to bitch at her, sensing that Master liked the new girl. But then, Mira would say some thing, and before she knew it Tula would have snapped back. And Mira returned the favor; instead of being humble and submissive with Tula the new girl was uppity and catty in turn. It must be natural for us girls to be so bitchy to each other, Tula sighed to herself, as she flicked her carefully set hair onto her face, and tasted her lip gloss as she licked and wet her lips. Master is so right, it is like part of being female. All us girl are just catty to each other, she thought again, looking at how Mira's firm pointy breasts lifted her tit-rag so neatly, the ragged edge marking the flow of the smooth glowing skin, over her ribs to her tight concave belly. Unconsciously, Tula arched her back, thrusting out her teats, stiff nipples tingling on her rough rag, and then sucked in her gut, trying to tighten her own belly.

Men, she told herself slowly, as she shuddering quietly spreading her thighs and ass cheeks, were Masters. They were always right. Her eyes dropped to Jason's boots, and she blushed again, softly, lips parting, remembering eagerly what he had said. They were soo snug and shinning. Tula lifted the meat platter up to her Master again, eyes moving from the supple boots, to his thighs, that were so wide, so hard, rippling in his white linen breeches. Between, she could see the outline of his thickness, laying half hard on his testicles, cupped there, softly, by the loin-pouch of the breeches. Tula felt her mound moisten again, wetness seeping from her slit, soaking her fur, as her breath quickened.

"Meat, Master?" she whispered, a slight whimper in her voice.

Mira watched Tula preen, basking in Jason' eyes which seemed to have new interest in her prominent, hard tipped breasts. The new slave tried to hold her resentment in check, but couldn't stop the growing feeling jealousy at the attention Tula was getting from both men. So when she had said, in a soft, lilting tone, "Tula, you are such slut!" she had expected to interrupt Tula's primping with fresh male laughter and draw attention to herself.

But Tula jerked towards Mira with an angry hiss, livid, and threw the meat platter at her. How dare that bitch say that of her! It was one thing for her sluttiness to be called out, emphasized and laughed at by her Master. That humiliation was part of being a slave, part of learning and feeling her place in relation to free men and women. She was a slut, and knew it. Still, of course, she felt needled when addressed or referred to as such in public, as all girls were --to be addressed as 'slut' or referred to as 'that slut' casually as a Master would use her name was common. So when Marcus said, as he had just done, "Bring the wine, slut," to her without even looking at her, or had asked Jason casually, when Mira and she cutting were the roasted meats "how old is the big-titted slut now?" she felt the usual prick of shame and humiliation, that she never quite felt she would get used to, but no more. And, then, as always, she touched her collar, and remembered the Masters were right.

But there was an added powerful and cutting edge to being called a 'tit-slut.' Not only because of the sharpness of Marcus' insight, or the obvious accuracy of his statement, but because it seemed like a public name, a condition that would be hers, part of her own personal slavery.

And Mira's whisper rubbed that in so well. That angered Tula, because Mira, who was just another collared filly like her, had no right to humiliate her. Mira wasn't over her because she was Master's favorite, and therefore privileged and superior because she was a hotter lay. That would have made things different. It would have been difficult to live with, but not to understand: a Master often gave a favorite the privileges of a Mistress over his other girls, and if Jason had done so then Tula would have been lower than Mira. But, no Mira was just another low slut, just as she was. Just another cleaning-filly-- not even pretty enough to be a bed-tart.

Just look at her thought the seething Tula, lips trembling. The bitch was dressed in the same tattered belly and breast cloth as she was. Half naked, with her breasts and butt hanging out of her cheap rags, she wore the same silver collar and big, silver bimbo ear hoops that Tula had on. Her hair, like Tula's, was used for cleaning all day, before she was allowed each evening to wave and set it in thick curls that fell hotly over her right eye and face; her lips and tongue also pressed wax polish on to his boots and sucked stains off the Master's loin-pouch before they were colored a tarty pink and puffed up with prickly oil gloss for the evening; And the heavy "rape-me" perfume, they were allowed to use, after were allowed to wash, when they were called to serve, couldn't hide the smell of fresh sweat and juice that wafted from her pussy-patch. And more, the slut had waited up nights, squirming on her pallet in the kennels, thighs wide, nipples stiff, stinking blanket twisted on her claves, waiting to hear of Master from Tula, when she was sent back late, after serving in Master's bed-room. Tula seethed remembering. Remembering how insistent Mira could get, when she didn't hear what she wanted to. The little bitch, Tula thought, remembering the how Mira had crawled to her pallet, pulled at her hair again and again, when she was just laying there, thinking of her time with Master, and then half scratched her thigh, when she hadn't answered at once, the question she had asked like a hundred times, "Did he fuck you?" "... Did he?" Making her soo high-strung that couldn't help but slap the small titted cunt hard. And then she calls me a slut, thought Tula, as she trembled helplessly on the verge of real tears.