Thump!
The first kick jolts Treel awake.
Thump!
The second sends him across the corridor and slamming into the wall.
"Where's my breakfast!" Remarra yells.
Breakfast? She never told me anything about bringing her breakfast! "I'm sorry, mistress!" he squeals. Fighting free of the blanket, he barely manages to avoid a third kick.
"Not sorry enough!" she growls, adding a last kick, hitting him on the hip and turning him to point towards the kitchen.
"I'm going!" he yelps, scrabbling to get to his feet and away from her kicks.
Grabbing his tail in both of her paws, she asks, "And where do you think you're going?" Giving a good yank on his tail, she spins him around. Then a push sends him towards the open door to her rooms. "Pick up the tray you forgot last night!"
I didn't forget it, you threw me out! Instead of voicing his opinion, Treel just gets to his feet, hurries inside to retrieve the tray and return outside without really noticing the messy state of the room. Then, trying his best to ignore the scowling female, he walks down the corridor, knowing that as long as he's carrying the tray he's relatively safe.
"The mistress is up early, I hear," the rabbit states, grinning at him as he deposits the tray. "She must really have taken an interest in you, then."
"What?"
"She usually isn't up and causing trouble before almost midday," the female explains, "so having her up and yelling at you before sunrise shows how much she cares."
"I'm dancing with joy," Treel mutters, sarcastically. "She wants her breakfast, but she didn't say what she wanted."
"I'll get it," the rabbit states. Then she scoops some stew into a wooden bowl, drops a spoon into it and paws it over to him. "Eat this while I prepare her breakfast. I doubt you'll get time to eat later."
The raccoon hurriedly gulps down the warm stew; thicker and more nourishing than the one served to the slaves in the pen, but basically the same ingredients, he realises.
While he's eating, a skunkette carrying a small child in the crook of her left arm arrives and without a word fills a bowl with stew and starts eating.
"Here," the rabbit whispers, depositing a large tray on the table, "the mistress' breakfast."
Keeping quiet, to awoid waking the child, Treel picks up the tray, nods to the females and starts the walk back to Remarra's rooms.
Finding the door closed, he contemplates what to do, then places the tray on the table, grabs the discarded blanket, quickly rolls it up and places it on the shelf beneath the table. Then he opens the door, picks up the tray and slowly enters.
"Finally!" the coyote growls from the bed where she's laying, "what took you so long?"
"The food wasn't ready, mistress," he replies, meekly. Then, looking around, he asks, "Where do you want me to put it down?"
"Here, you idiot!" she exclaims, slapping the bedcover, then sitting up higher and pulling the duvet up to cover her to the neck. "Unfold the legs and place it in front of me."
Working slowly to avoid spilling anyting, he shifts his grip on the tray from one paw on each side, supporting it against his belly and holding onto the other side with his left paw, he then extends the legs on the right side, before changeing his grip to the right paw and using his left paw to extend the other pair of legs.
As he lowers the tray, she interrupts him by barking out an order, "Not that way, moron! Turn the curved edge of the tray against me!"
He turns the tray around and deposits it, then steps back and turns towards the door, only to be stopped by her ice-cold voice, "Where do you think you're going?"
"Outside, to let you enjoy the food in peace, mistress," he mumbles.
"Use your eyes!" she barks, "this room is a mess! Start cleaning it!"
"Yes, mistress," he responds, looking around the room to survey the work; clothes everywhere, sand and grit on the floor, mats rumpled and furniture overturned. "Where do you want me to start?"
"The table," she states with glee, "I spilled some grease on it last night. Lick it off! In fact, lick the entire table!"
Lick? Is she serious?
"Get to i!" she growls, "or do you want me to get up and persuade you?"
"N-no, mistress," he stutters, hurrying over to the table and bending down until his muzzle almost rubs into the grease spots.
An eight-day later.
Treel is in the kitchen, helping to scrub a large cauldron, when Malarr, the master of the estate enters. He casts a glance in the raccoon's direction, then heads for the bench where a couple of the females who gave birth last winter is sitting. After looking them over, he reaches out with his right paw and clicks a small red tag onto a skunkette's collar. "Clean yourself up and be ready after the evening meal," he orders, then turns and leaves just as suddenly as he came.
Sighing, the skunkette stands up and walks out the door. A few seconds later, Treel can hear her descend the stairs to the basement. "What was that about?" he muses.
"She just got tagged," the rabbit explains in a hushed voice. "She must spend the night in the master's bed. The tag is so that no one else grabs her. It also allows her to use the baths in the basement, but I think most would prefer to forego that perk if they could get out of what happens later."
"Oh..."
"Of course, the guards aren't allowed to make use of the household slaves," she continues, "and most of the unmated overseers picks a 'personal servant', so most of the available females aren't tagged that often."
"But?" he asks, "doesn't the master have a mate?"
"Shows how much you know," she replies. "Yes, he has a mate, but she isn't well. They haven't even shared a bed in years."
"Talking about your betters?"
Uh oh! Fearing the worst, Treel slowly turns his head until he spots a golden-furred leg. The Mistress of the kitchen. "I'm sorry, mistress!" he exclaims. He then continues in a more somber voice, "It was all my fault. If you must punish someone, punish me."
"I'll think about it," the lioness growls. Then she grabs him by the neck of his vest and pulls him upright, "But first you can run and clean yourself up. I have a task for you."
"Yes, mistress," he responds, and as soon as she lets go of his vest hurries out of the kitchen and to the corridor where his clean clothes are stored.
A few minutes later, after returning to the kitchen to receive a tray and his orders, Treel slowly climbs the stairs to the top floor. At the top he turns left and walks down the corridor, while counting doors. Stopping at the fifth door on the left side he puts down the tray and takes a deep breath. What was it mistress Medara said? 'The fancy collar can't protect you if you do a mistake up there.' Well, here goes nothing. Pushing on the door makes it swing open silently, revealing a large, luxurious bedroom. He picks up the tray, enters and pushes the door closed behind himself, then pads silently across the thick rugs, barely manageing to suppress the urge to stop and curl his toes deep into the mats, past the wide bed covered with pillows and blankets and to the open door on the other side of the room. He steps through to find himself on a veranda, baked in the late summer sunshine. Then the sound of breathing makes him look to the right. There, in a deep chair, and wrapped in blankets, he finds an elderly-looking female coyote, seemingly soundly asleep. As quietly as possible he puts the tray down on the table, then turns and moves back towards the door.
"Stop."
The single word, spoken quietly, stops the raccoon in his tracks.
"Who are you?"
Quickly turning to face her and dropping to his knees, he replies, "Mistress, I'm Treel."
"So you're the scoundrel who have caused my daughter so much grief," the female comments. "Stand up! I want to get a good look at you."
Treel quickly gets up and brushes off his knees at the same time. Then he stands there as she scrutinises him with her deep brown eyes. She looks so old... except for the eyes.
"Turn around."
Treel slowly turns around, constantly aware of her penetrating gaze.
"You'll do," she finally states. Then there's a mischievous glint in her eyes as she points to his bandages and asks, "You two play rough at night?"
Play? at night? "N-no, mistress!" he stutters. "I don't touch your daughter!"
"What a waste," the coyote mumbles. Then waving towards the table she orders, "Pour me some tea."
"Yes, mistress." The raccoon picks up a cup with his right paw -- She's alone up here, so why are there two cups on the tray? -- and the pot with his left and proceeds to fill it with the steaming liquid.
"Add a lump of sweetener and some milk," the coyote adds.
When he places the cup in front of her she picks it up and takes a quick sip, then looks at him. "Sit down," she finally orders, "having to look up at someone is so tiring."
"Yes, mistress," he mumbles, slowly sinking down on his knees.
"Not there!" she barks, "use the chair"
Both grateful and terrified -- no one is nice to him unless they're planning to hurt him -- he gets up off the floor, brushes off his pants and sinks down on the padded seat of the chair directly opposite the coyote.
The coyote takes another sip of her cup, then holds it out. "Add a little more milk." Then, as soon as he complies, she adds, "And pour yourself a cup, too."
"Thank you, mistress," he responds cautiously.
"Take some milk, too," she adds, "it strengthens the bones."
Why is she so nice? Suspicious, but not about to let the opportunity get away, he pours himself milk and tea, then quickly takes a sip, then another.
"Some says it tastes better if you pour milk first, then the tea," the coyote comments, "but I have never been able to tell the difference."
"I wouldn't know, mistress," Treel mutters.
"Your mother was Lemana, wasn't it?"
"Y-yes," he stutters, "but..."
"How I know?" she retorts. "The year after she gave birth to her first child, she was my first servant. I got to know her very well, and you have many of her features. You know, you were born an eight-day before my son Larr?" Before he can respond, she continues, "She always had more milk than me, so she often nursed him, too. Then, a few years later I got sick after I gave birth to Remarra. Your mother sat by my side whenever my mate had to leave the house. Because she had had five healthy children and was no longer required to work in the fields, she became my personal servant permanently until she got sick and died."
"I don't remember much about her," Treel sighs.
"She looked a lot like you," the coyote states, "only cuter. My mate thought so, too, I'm afraid. I wonder who has his fancy these days."
"A skunkette," Treel responds, then clamps his muzzle shut with both paws. NOW you've done it!
"That figures," she comments, "he always loved playing with my tail. Still does, but I'm not strong enough for what happens afterwards." Stretching her right arm she snags a cake and bites down on it. "These cakes are good!" she exclaims. "Have one yourself."
What? "B-but..."
"You're not allowed to take one," she finishes. "It's all right if you're given one. Besides, there's too many of them for me."
"T-thank you, mistress," he stutters, then very slowly reach out and picks up one of the spongy cakes. First he sniffs at it, then licks delicately at an edge before taking a bite out of it. Soon he's licking his fingers clean of berry-juices and crumbs.
"So," she begins, "you don't share my daughter's bed. Where do you sleep? I know there used to be a pallet by the door, but I think that was removed last year."
"On the floor, outside her door," he replies.
"Wouldn't you rather be sleeping with your arms around the female who's carrying your child?"
"I don't know," he responds, "she's pretty, but..."
"You also want to survive to see another day," the coyote finishes for him. "I'm fully aware of her temper. It's the reason she is no longer allowed to pick a personal servant from the household." Then she lifts her cup, drains it and holds it out. "Fill it again."
"Yes, mistress," he responds dutifully, grabbing the little milk-jug and pours a fingers width of milk in the cup, then fills it with tea and adds a chunk of sweetener.
"You learn fast," she comments. "You'll do as a mate. You can go now, but leave the tray."
Mate? Shocked by her statement, he's almost back to the kitchen before the realisation hits. Groaning, he sits down on the first available seat. She wants me to be her daughters mate? B-but...
Passing by and hearing his groan, then seeing his terror-stricken face, the Lioness walks over and looks him over. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"
"N-no," he mutters, I wish!
"Well, spill it!" she growls.
Fearing her wrath, Treel quickly sums up what happened, then finishes with, "And she seems to think I would make a good mate for Remarra!"
"She still has a sense of humour," the lioness grins.
"You learn fast and work hard," the rabbit interjects, "except for that, what is the difference, between a slave and a mate?"
"It's easier to replace a slave if you happen to be careless with your claws," the lioness responds, grinning mischievously."
Groan.
"Don't worry!" the lioness exclaims, slapping him on the back and almost sending him across the floor, "we're only joking!" Then she gets a thoughtful expression on her face, turns and heads towards the back door.
"What now?" he wonders out loud.
"Maybe she decided to find a male," the rabbit offers, wistfully.
"Don't you get enough attention from the males in the house?"
"Not hardly!" the rabbit exclaims. "The mistress bought Leez and me, and she won't let just any male touch us. What do you know about lions?"
"Nothing," he admits.
"They prefer to be three or four females to each male, something about them being useless for anything else and that one for each female is a waste of food and shelter," the rabbit explains, "and with no other lionesses nearby, guess who fills in for them?"
"I see..."
"No you don't!" she exclaims. "The male must satisfy her first! How many males do you think have enough energy left over after that?"
"A few?"
"Not a single one the last two years!" she exclaims in disgust, "I'm about ready to jump one of the wolves!"
"I'd help you," he offers, "but I don't think your mistress would approve."
"And your mistress," she counters, "has promised to kill, in a very slow and agonising way, any female you have sex with."