Story Teaser - Dickgirl Revolution (Erado's Journal)

Story by Flesh_Seraph

(Hi, it's me- Flesh Seraph. This is a quick snippet of introduction that I'm considering turning into a story. This story would be a medievel tale about dickgirls and their rise to power, as told through the eyes of one of their young male concubines. If you like this idea, chime in here. If you don't, and want me to go back to writing gonzo stories like Dickgirl Washroom, well, that's ok too. To each his own!)

DICKGIRL REVOLUTION

PROLOGUE – ERADO'S TALE

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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

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