And so it begins

I like to tell love stories. There are so many different stories I could tell out of the land, but when I sit to write down my stories, or transcribe the stories of others, I always end up back at love. Every good story has love or hate at the heart.

Of course, love gets messy. In the Ruling Class Province, the nice thing about relationships between women and men was that everything was at least surface neat. Neat because the women did the picking and choosing and the men didn't have the least thing to say about whom they were taken by. Usually they couldn't say because the men were often gagged during any slave trading rituals, gagged and bound with arms stretched backwards.

The symbolism of taking away the traded males' language with gags wasn't lost on the ruling women, because no visual symbolism was lost on them, having been taught through the generations the prize of beauty, symmetry and visual expressiveness in everything they did.

Of all of the women's possessions, the men were the most beautiful. Their beauty was in hard bodies, in forced labor, in tight bondage, in whipped torsos, in helpless fuck positions, in submission against and by will. Nothing in that society recognized the concept of love between women and men, but love was ever present. As was hate. The men could either love or hate the women who ruled their lives and punished them for pleasure, ritual and lust; it sometimes came to love, or hate, or both woven together in the same unnamed emotion, all controlled to be very beautiful, orderly and neat in outward, lovely visuals.

Relationships in The Communities, well, there was nothing neat about those, at least in the choosing stage. Forced marriage had gone out several generations ago, and men freely chose which woman to be married by. Even though, by society design, the men had few economic or educational opportunities apart from what their eventual wives afforded them, the men were free to make all kinds of wise or stupid choices in agreeing to marriage. Spy on the conversation of a group of unmarried women in a bar one evening, and an outsider would hear an earful of complaints about love lost from stupid male choices. The complaints would be choosing beauty over intelligence, money and status over integrity, flattery over sincerity, and the like.

Eventually, the women would turn to whispering tales written by The Sons of Class, dirty underground Ruling Class tales of how men had no choices, whipped and used by the ruling class women, taken and beaten and fucked, no choices. And the drunken women would inevitably conclude that this was the way things should be, all throughout the land, no choices for men, just taken, beaten and fucked in all kinds of ways.

In the morning light, the women of The Communities meant none of it, but the sordid tales made them hot and felt good to trade drunkenly when scorned by love.

The Governing City, now there was a hot bed of messy love intrigue. The social structure was designed carefully enough to encourage order, hard working women with a small handful of owned males each, but there was too much of everything to keep actual order for very long. There were too many people packed in too small quarters. Too much traffic and stress and high stakes commerce. Men who were owned, in reality, had more freedom than could possibly be good for them, or for the women. There was at least one high profile scandal a year, where a woman committed illicit acts with the owned male of another woman....and many, many more scandals than that, shoved under rugs, quieted up by exchanges of money or power.

The Sons of Class loved writing stories about the Governing City, more than the Ruling Class, because avarice and treachery made for better reading than beauty and order. They wrote about women losing position all for the supposed love, or was it lust, of another woman's man, of social climbing men, seducing their way up to the most powerful woman. They wrote murder stories, women killing women, or killing their own man, consumed with betrayal, white hot with broken hearts. Many of the stories were pure fiction, but some were quite true, and how the Sons of Class came to know the details was its own mystery, sequestered as they were, well outside the City or the Ruling Province.

I have a lot of their stories, not all of them as many of the stories were lost, but I do have a lot of them to share with you. I also have some stories of my own. I'm attracted to the beauty and order of the Ruling Class, more than the messiness and heartbreak outside the province that compelled the Sons so. Also, my stories are true and the stories of the Sons a blurry mix of fact and fiction, not to take away from them; God, can they weave a tale.

So, I'll try to tell all the stories, theirs and mine, in due time.