Erado's Journal

Journal entry - Marktch 4th, 1 PR.

My name is Erado.

In getting this down on paper I don’t expect to be understood. Rather, I only hope to chronicle my strange life, perhaps for me to look upon later once I have moved on from my current station. In starting this log I know that I am slave to ink and paper, and should either one elude me for a spell, the threads of my journey may begin to fray. This is a risk I am prepared to take- and as it happens there is plenty of both.

I am a squire, but I do not carry swords, nor am I burdened with armor, waterskins, or feed. My mistress attends to herself when it comes to garb of war, for I haven’t the strength. I am not permitted to perform any arduous task- and so when battle is joined, I buckle her clasps as best I can, and hope for a favorable result. Even this is difficult. My fingers are gentle, unsuited to the task of fastening leather and iron.

You must think this strange. Do not worry. You shall know it all before I set down this pen- the muse waits for no man. In equal measure to your curiosity, I am entranced by the telling. I am not alone as I write. I have one companion, a very special person- and we have made camp. My quill scratches are the only thing louder than her soft breath. The fire is dying now- but by starlight I can still see enough to accomplish my task.

Her beauty is apparent to me in ember-cast light of orange. Every flicker of the guttering flame stamps her freshly into my memory, as with an iron press. I want only to leave my writing by and lay at her side- but that is not for tonight. Our ride was too long. She sleeps. My rescuer. My perfect woman. The swell of her hip beneath a simple blanket breeds in my mind enough prose to fill ten pages such as this one- and the swell between her legs, a hundred. A thousand. I would burn a mass of autobiographies to lay with her in the grass for but a day.

I was born in Cradle Spire, and came of age during the revolution. In my former kingdom, the lowest class was able to throw off the shackles of subjugation and rise to power. It was poetic. It was perfect. My mistress would have grown up to be my servant, and now I am hers. Revolutions are normally violent, but aside from a few isolated incidents, ours had only one casualty. The king. He was the first domino to fall, and the rest fell behind him. Let this be a lesson to all future kings. Give your slave a laborious task, and that slave will grow brawnier than you in the doing of it. Send your slave into battle in your stead, and that slave will be your better with sword and shield. Give your slave a task of figures and sums- and that slave will grow sharper in mind than you.

My mistress was a key part of the revolution. She stood in the town square when Zalia held the king’s head high, to show the gathered nobility. I was in the crowd, and handled the transition of power better than most- for I was already in love. My father would never have approved, nor would my mother have- but the revolution made their approval moot. I was already hers- and there would be no more hiding it.

On the chance that this journal is found by someone other than a far older, far wiser version of myself, I should describe my appearence. I will do this at length- for my beauty plays a part in this story. I say this not out of ego, but out of a genuine necessity. I have been called Erado D’Eqwai, which means “Erado The Beautiful.” In fact, I was called such before the revolution. I have heard it whispered in my ear in secret lofts. I have heard it called out, in ecstasy.

I am a boy, and sixteen years old. I have sun-kissed brown hair, lighter in certain spots. Depending on what else I am wearing, I keep it out of my eyes with a pretty flower-pin or hair barrette. You may find this choice strange, but if you are imagining the wide shoulders and barrel-chest of a young farmhand, you have the wrong idea of me. In my youth, it was unacceptable for me to perform menial tasks- and so though I was handsome, I was smooth, my body long, silky and flat. Even now, I am not permitted to lift anything heavier than a medium-sized rock. My skin is golden, bronzed by exposure. My eyes are bright blue. She says my eyes were what she noticed first. The tan is no accident- per the instructions of our new rulers I have lain spread-eagle in a sunny field for an hour per day, without the smallest stitch of clothing.

Excepting the silken strands that spill down the side of my head, reaching neck-length, I am completely hairless. You no doubt find this strange- but in my special places, where hair was beginning to grow, I have been treated with alchemical potions and unguents. In running a hand across my flesh, on either the front of the back of my body, you will not feel so much as a bump.

My nose is thin, with small nostrils- identical to that of my sister, Jeanne. Again, this was luck. My old friend, name of Pim, is well-loved by his former house slave…but never coveted by all of our new mistresses, as I was. As I still am. We joked that the reason was his surpassingly large nose! How absurd it seems to me, now. I hope he is well. As for me, I am a fugitive. But let me return to the subject of my beauty, as uncharacteristic as it is (believe me!) for me to praise myself so.

My hands are dainty and long-fingered, and my feet are small and smooth, without calluses or marks. Indeed, my mistress’ hands and feet are larger than mine. I will never be able to forget the feeling of her palm wrapped around my own hand in a gesture of love. My fingers are agile, but try as I might they lack the length to encircle her fully when she is most excited. I must use two hands in such cases. Perhaps my overall lack of height contributes to such small hands and feet- my mistress stands more than a head taller than I.

My lips are very full, and naturally pink, like a young girl’s. They have been called “pretty”, and after the revolution I was taught to paint them lightly with gloss, making them shine. Though I am not allowed to build bulky muscles- it is forbidden for a squire to do so- I tone the muscles I do have by performing basic exercises each day. These were taught to me in the wake of the transition of power, and focus on body smoothness. Beneath the skin of my midsection, if you look closely or press lightly, six separate small muscles can be detected, in a pleasing pattern.

Oh! But I forget myself- squires ARE allowed to build up one area of our bodies. We are encouraged to perform squats. I have taken to this task with determination, and now I have a compact but wonderful set of hips, to rival any girl my age. In this area I am smooth and fleshy, and my mistress takes no end of pleasure in kneading me with her hands, or spanking me roughly as we entwine.

My hips are not the only part of me that I have worked hard to modify in accordance with our code. My nipples are pierced, and in these holes I attach small weights while riding or sleeping. As a result of this constant care, they are longer than those of a grown woman- and twice as sensitive. When hard, each fleshy bump extends outward from my smooth chest at least an inch. In this way, I have achieved a look that is closer to that of a flat-chested young female than a young male. The quickness with which my body was able to adapt to this change was, to the new ruling class, yet more proof of my desirability. Oh, how they teased me! And the things they did! But those are stories for another day.

I have just now laughed out loud to myself. It occurs to me that I must write about my special places, for it is by those places that I have so often been defined. Those places play a major part in so many important moments of my story. My laugh, it should be noted, is more of a giggle, for I have been trained well in the art of being a squire. I am happy that my mistress has not stirred at the light-hearted, high-pitched sound of it. I have forgotten my old laugh. This new laugh is the shy and perfect titter of a fairy-tale princess, and I like it better. Perhaps because I fancy myself to be her princess. Of course, the laugh is not all I have changed about myself, in an effort to be the ideal squire. I blush easily, I curtsy rather than bow, and I have learned to flutter my eyelashes with embarrassment when the situation calls for it.

As you might suspect, I have also been called Erado D’Ekute, which means “Erado The Cute”.

All laughter aside, I suppose there is good literary reason to detail my special place, and so I shall. It is perfectly smooth, and uncircumcised- for I was born on such a day as our calendar dictated no modification of my body. When I am fully hard, my penis is four inches long. My balls are smooth and perfectly formed- as hairless and golden as the rest of me. How strange it must seem to you, for me to detail this! You must be laughing to yourself, as I am laughing now…but bear with me. Our country is one of strange customs, especially in the wake of the revolution- and my intimate details are of great consequence, ludicrous as it may seem.

I told you before I was a squire, and this is true. But I am not tasked with martial duties, nor do I shoe horses. There is only one thing to which I truly attend. I am squire to Leila Veritas, former house-slave of the Gash-Yuma family, and now the exiled guardswoman of the Queen Zalia. I serve her in love, and will do so until she no longer finds me pleasing. I attend to her as she wishes. My foremost duty is to service her powerful cock and the beautiful flower of her pussy.

Are you shocked? Forgive the bluntness of my words, if you can- but I know of no plainer way to explain my station. In the wake of the revolution, and the elevation of dickgirls to their place as the ruling class, all other types of people in Cradle Spire were given a choice between reparations and execution. As part of the subsequent process, I became a squire, or concubine- a servant of sex and cock-worship. The transition was easy for me- for I was already in love with my mistress, and would have gladly served her, so tight was her hold on my heart- revolution or no revolution. I would have knelt before her even as her master. As it turned out, such a role reversal was not necessary. The wrong-headed slavery of Cradle Spire was severed cleanly from history, just as King Arkham’s head was taken from his shoulders by Zalia.

I have told you of my beauty, and though you cannot tell in the reading of this parchment, I am blushing as I praise myself so unabashedly. Trust me, I never boast in the normal course of events- but this is a special thing, this story, and so I must try to make you understand how I look, if only to help you imagine how a boy like me could cause a schism in one-half of the new ruling class, sending my mistress into exile, and I with her. In any case, I have written at greater length than I would have liked. Let me now talk of a far worthier beauty- that of my wonderful Leila.

Oh, reader- if you could see her! You would fall to your knees and thank heaven for the chance to have had such an image of perfection pass through your eyes. Leila is a vision- an angel placed in the world just for me…and I count myself lucky for every moment I can feel the slow rise and fall of her chest as she holds me tight atop her blanket. As bluebirds are to morning, she is to the world. A song for the eyes. So before I tell you of her bravery, her kindness, her fortitude, I must tell you of her beauty.

Her hair is long and green- the natural pigmentation of the region where she was born. She keeps it tied in a tight ponytail while on the move, but as much as I hate to see her beautiful locks constrained, the moment where she pulls at her hair tie and swivels her graceful neck to shake it loose from bondage is well worth it. She likewise has green eyes of surpassing loveliness. She has the build of an athlete, with tight, sinewy muscles that are thin and toned enough to leave her the cat-quickness she cultivates with every training session. Her chest is a marvel- huge swells of motherly flesh that must be packed tight into a brassiere or corset to prevent the loss of agility. I have seen them unclothed…have been smothered in their warmth. It is like no other feeling.

Her skin is even more tanned than mine- for her tasks as our house servant included field work under the unforgiving sun of Cradle Spire’s summer months. And she is tall! At least eight inches taller than me- perhaps reaching a height of six feet when she is wearing her riding boots. I could spend paragraphs detailing how she is strong, yet gentle- she can lift me like a child and carry me with great care. In her arms I feel as safe as can be, like a cloak of invulnerable magic has fallen about my shoulders.

Now for the part you might find strange. Between her legs, my mistress has the sex organs of both a woman and a man. In truth, she is neither. She is a dickgirl, formerly subjugated by Cradle Spire, and now part of the elite. Don’t be quick to judge at the word! Not every rumor is fact. That said, with regard to the double-sexed, some of the things you may have heard at strange ports of call are true. She has a peerless sex drive, and is always ready for attention to be paid to her beautiful penis. I have yet to wear her out, though she has worn me out many times, despite the so-called “advantage of youth”. Of course, she is only seven years my senior, not far removed from teenage years in her own right.

It is also true that dickgirl penises are extremely large when compared to their exclusively male counterparts. From what I have seen, the average length seems to be approximately ten inches. This is all guesswork- I spent almost no time as a communal squire. In the wake of the revolution, I was sought after by every member of the new nobility, with Leila winning my favor by virtue of already having captured my love, and I hers. As you will read, this was almost not enough, and the issue of my ownership is still a matter of contention.

You might have heard tales of dickgirl orgasms, and how they are copious in their ejaculations to the point of inconvenience, and beyond. This is also true. I can only imagine what it must be like for my mistress, who cums with such volume that she can dampen a bedspread. My own orgasms produce not even one twentieth the amount.

Beyond that, though, what you have heard in the taverns and brothels is a pack of lies. Dickgirls are not subhuman- nor are they less intelligent or good-hearted than other human beings. I know this for a fact. My Leila is the best person I know. If I had to pick one person to be my friend for all time, past infinity, it would be her. I am not trained to fight, and lack the strength to do so- but I often feel like taking a swing at those who talk out of turn about the new sex. If only I had the strength of arm to fight brutes who speak ill of my Leila. But, of course, she likes me as I am- dainty arms and all.

My wrist grows tired from this hen-scratching. I took just now a long pause, to examine her by dying firelight…and I saw a twitch between her legs, beneath the blanket. She is dreaming, you see- and I hope and wish that her dream is of me, just as mine are always of her. I can see her size even through the rough cloth of her bedding. She is fourteen inches and incredibly thick, a girth I have felt on many occasions. Her pussy has the blushing beauty of a rose, and is just as sweet. Just now I slid my tongue across the roof of my mouth, and imagined I could taste her.

Did she gasp, just now? Is she dreaming?

We have a long ride tomorrow, if we wish to stay ahead of our pursuers. We go west, and neither of us knows what we might find, for the lands are wild. She needs rest, and so do I- for the body of a male squire is not cut out for a long journey. Still, even knowing all these things, I must go to her.

I will try not to wake her, even as I use my mouth. After all, I am silent as a mouse. And my lips, if my mistress if to be believed, are soft as silk.

ERADO GASH-YUMA, 1 PR