by John Norman
“Very pretty!” urged the second man.
I had been taught to present myself well in chains, or ropes. I had been taught to turn well on the slave block.
But it seemed such things were of little interest to the new comer.
Desperately I looked at him, trying to read his eyes. You must understand that we literally belong to the masters, and that they may do with us as they please. I hoped that he would be kind.
“She begged for use,” said the man behind me. “She had to be cuffed.”
I feared I detected contempt in the eyes of the newcomer.
I put down my head.
“She is a hot little slut,” said the second man.
I looked up, angrily. Could I help myself? And had I not been enslaved? And had my needs not been ignited and enflamed by men? Had they not detected and revealed my most profound erotic secrets? Had they not released me from myself? Had they not, indeed, forced me, with whip and chain, to become my true self, the needful, hungering, passionate self of my dreams? They had not permitted me to hide! Why then was I to be criticized? It was they who had put me in the collar!
“We have kept her starved of sex,” said the man behind me, “as you ordered.”
Why would have ordered that?
Our eyes met and I quickly lowered my eyes and head, before that fierce gaze. I looked down, fearfully, docilely, humbly. I was a slave.
The seated man then, suddenly, rose to his feet.
I looked up, frightened.
But he paid me no attention.
He reached within his cloak and drew forth a leather pouch. It seemed heavy. It was apparently filled with coin. He tossed this to the man behind me whom I then understood as being surely he who was first of the two who had captured Aynur and myself. The captor did not even count the coins. That the sack had been given to him by the man in the mask was apparently a sufficient guarantee of the integrity of the transaction. They, I gathered, unlike Aynur and myself, had some sense of he with whom they dealt. They might not know his identity, but they were apparently adequately assured of the validity of his credentials, at least as being those of some contact in question, of his reliability, of his right to conduct certain businesses.
“There were two collars of gold,” said the man behind me.
The newcomer made a tiny gesture, granting them such trivial objects. The collars would doubtless be melted down. Either was doubtless worth more than many slaves, doubtless more than I and perhaps more even than Aynur.
No longer did we wear collars of gold.
No longer were we pleasure-garden girls.
Now, about our necks, as though we might be the least of common girls, were hammered simple rings of iron.
“What of this slave?” asked the second man, indicating Aynur.
Aynur turned wildly toward the newcomer.
He would make no claim upon her.
Aynur, wildly, desperately, in terror, threw herself to his feet.
“Please, Master,” she begged, “keep me!”
But he stepped away from her, and, when she looked up, it was the two captors who stood over her.
“Have mercy, Masters!” she wept.
“You have served your purpose,” said the second man.
“A girl may serve many purposes!” she wept.
“What should we do with her?” asked the second man of the first.
“We could always put her in the slave box, and return her to the porch of the house Appanius,” said the first man, musingly.
“Please, no, Masters!” said Aynur. “My perfidy would be clear to all! I would be nailed to the gate!”
“It might be dangerous to return her to the house,” said the second man.
“That is true,” said the first.
“It would be better,” said the second, “to bind her and gag her, and put her in the slave box, and then cast the slave box into one of the more remote carnariums.”
“We could save the slave box,” said the first, “and, at night, simply weight her and cast her into the carnarium. She would disappear without a trace.”
“Yes,” said the second, thoughtfully. “That is much better.”
“No, no, Masters!” wept Aynur.
“We could then sell the slave box,” said the first.
“Yes,” agreed the second.
“Have mercy, Masters!” cried Aynur.
“You are a treacherous slave,” said the first man.
“No, Master, no!” she cried.
“You are disloyal,” said the second man.
“No, Masters, no, no!” she cried.
“Do you deny the words of free men?” inquired the second man.
“I beg humbly only to correct the misapprehensions of Masters,” she wept. “I was treacherous. I was disloyal. But I am no longer treacherous! I am no longer disloyal! I have learned my lesson. Forgive me, Masters! Give a foolish, disobedient slave the opportunity to redeem herself! I will never again betray a master!”
“What are you?” asked the first man.
“A slave, Master!” said Aynur.
“And what else?” he asked.
“Nothing else, Master,” she said. “Only that, Master!”
“Are you determined now to be a good slave?” inquired the first man.
“Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” wept Aynur.
“Perhaps we should then cut her throat before we cast her into the carnarium,” said the first man.
“No, Master! Have mercy, Master!”
“What are you good for?” asked the second man.
“All the things that a slave is good for!” she wept.
“You are cold,” said the second man.
“No,” she said, “I have a thousand heats and a thousand flames!”
“Do you think you could please a man?” asked the first man.
“Desperately and fervently,” she said, “in all the ways that a woman can please a man! I beg only the opportunity to show you!”
“Let us leave her fate in the hands of the other slave,” suggested the second man.
“No, no, no!” cried Aynur, turning white. “No, Master! Please, no, Master!”
“But she was first girl over the other slave,” said the first man.
“So much the better,” said the second man.
“You were, as I understand it,” said the first man to Aynur, who seemed now unable to rise even to her knees, “a poor first girl, one not only unpopular in the garden, but even one richly hated therein, one who ruled it strictly and cruelly, personally, arbitrarily, using your modicum of power as an opportunity to satisfy your vanity, bestowing favors on your sycophants, indulging in petty vendettas, stealing from, and abusing, those whom you disliked. Too, you tried to seek power from guards, and even, through them, to contact, and influence, others, others, even outside the house. Your pettinesses, and administered punishments, often founded on nothing more than your whims and tastes, were notorious in the house.”
Aynur moaned.
“And, in an abuse of your power, you tricked this other slave, and illicitly, treacherously delivered her, for putative gain, into our hands, in this act betraying both your office and your master.”
Aynur’s wrists seemed small, behind her back, pinioned there by the bracelets.
How helpless we are, bound!
“So it seems fitting then,” said the first man, “that your fate be now put in the hands of she whom you tricked, she whom you betrayed into our grasp.”
“Do not entrust my fate to her, Masters!” wept Aynur. “She hates me. Please, no, Masters! I am, when all is said and done, only a slave, and I am naked, and braceleted, at your feet. Have mercy on a slave, Masters!”
“What is to be done with her?” asked the first man of me.
I was startled by what had occurred. I knew that Aynur despised me. I knew that she hated me. I knew that she had willingly delivered me into the hands of these men, neither knowing nor caring what they sought of men. I kne
w she wanted me out of the house. I was sure she welcomed this opportunity to rid herself of me. She would not have cared, I was sure, if they had simply, once outside the house, cut my throat, or, for some reason, cast me into some pit, one of the great carnariums outside the city. She did not wish me well. She was my enemy.
“Shall we weight her ankles and hurl her into a carnarium?” asked the second man. “Shall we throw her to leech plants? Shall we stake her out to be eaten alive by insects?”
I was silent, disconcerted.
Suddenly Aynur, on her belly, oriented herself toward me. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes, lying before me on the stones, a prostrate, naked, braceleted slave. I might have been a queen, kneeling over her, concealed even in the heavy, dark cloak.
But there were rings of metal on both our necks.
“We can expose her in the mountains,” said the second man. “We can leave her bound, at the mouth of a larl’s cave.”
“My life is in your hands,” wept Aynur. “Please, sweet, beloved Gail, my favorite, beloved sister in bondage, be kind, be merciful!”
Aynur did not now have her talmit, that symbol of authority. She did not now have her switch.
“I am sorry I was cruel to you!” said Aynur. “I am sorry! Am sorry!”
No longer was she first girl. She was now naught but another slave. And a rather pretty one. There was no special reason, I now saw, why she have been first girl, any more than several of the others.
“Please, beloved Gail,” she wept.
“She is beautiful, Masters,” I said, suddenly. “You do not wish to hurt her.”
He who was first among the captors looked at me, startled. The newcomer, too, who had paid little attention to these matters, turned, now, to regard me.
“She is your enemy,” said the second man. “How shall we kill her?”
“She is only a slave,” I whispered. “She wants to love and serve.”
“Yes, yes,” whimpered Aynur, her head turned to her left, her cheek on the stones.
“Do you no understand?” asked the second man. “We are granting you a rare privilege. We are permitting you to dictate the manner of an enemy’s death. You may never again receive such an opportunity. Relish your revenge! Let it be sweet!”
I put my head down. I wanted none of this.
“Beg!” said the second man to Aynur. She cried out, kicked. “My life is in your hands,” wept Aynur to me. “Permit me to be spared! I beg my life!”
“How do you address her?” inquired the second man of Aynur. She wept, again, again kicked.
“Mistress! Mistress!” she said. “I beg my life, Mistress!” I was in consternation.
I was now as Mistress to the proud Aynur!
“If I am to die, please let it be done quickly, mercifully, Mistress,” said Aynur.
“Speak!” the second man ordered me.
“I am a slave, Master,” I said. “It is neither mine to prescribe, nor dictate, the manner of another’s death. It is rather mine to obey, to serve.”
Aynur lay helplessly before me. All that had seemed cruel and hard about her before was now gone. She was now no more than the slave she was. The cruelties, the artificialities, had been broken away from her. She was now utterly vulnerable, and soft, and tender, and beautiful. Now she was no more than a helpless slave girl.
“What is to be done with her?” inquired the second man.
I looked down at Aynur, and she looked up at me, piteously. No longer was she the Aynur of old.
“We are both slaves, Masters,” I said. “That is all we are. That is our destiny and nature. We beg to love and serve. That is what we wish, to be pleasing, and to be loved. Please be kind to us. Please show us mercy. We beg it.”
“What of her?” said the second man. He indicated Aynur, roughly, brutally, prodding her with his bootlike sandal.
“If you do not want her,” I said, “do not hurt her. If you do not wish to keep her for yourselves, do not kill her. Sell her. Surely she will bring you a good price in a market.”
I sensed the men looking at me.
“I am sure that she will do her best to be a good slave,” I said.
“Is it true?” asked the second man, of Aynur.
“Yes, my masters,” whispered Aynur.
“For the time, then, at least, we will spare her,” said the first man.
Aynur shuddered. I feared that she might faint.
I was acutely aware of my own helplessness, and bondage, how my ankles were crossed, one lying over the other, the two looped with cord and bound together, how my wrists were crossed, and bound. I pulled a little and, in an instant, had come to the last of the slack, an inch or so, in the cord which fastened my wrists to my ankles. I was conscious of the cloak, so precariously about my shoulders, and my nudity beneath it. It was total power the men held over Aynur and myself. This was not merely a matter of their much greater size and strength, enabling them to handle us as though we might be children, enabling them to do with us as they wished, nor was it a matter merely of the implacability of our bonds, denying us even the most meaningless opportunity to try to defend ourselves or to flee; it had rather to do with the marks on our thighs, the collars on our necks, that we were slaves. It was that which, more than anything else, more than their incomparable greater physical strength, more than the sternness of bonds, made us wholly, helplessly, theirs.
The second man bent to Aynur’s ankles and bound them together.
“Thank you, Mistress,” breathed Aynur.
I winced, seeing how tightly her ankles were bound together.
The man then knelt across her body and thrust the slave bracelets higher on her wrists. He then, with cord, tied her wrists together. He jerked the cords tight. He then removed the bracelets from her, putting them in his pouch. He then drew her to her knees and gagged her.
I dared now cast a glance at my master. He was standing to one side.
I feared to be overly bold. I did not wish to be lashed.
The slave box, by the first man, with his foot, was thrust before me and to my right, rather toward the foot of the stairs. It scraped on the stone flooring. It was not far, then from where my master was. It was to his left. He paid it no attention.
The second man then lifted Aynur up to his arms. I saw her eyes, over the gag. He carried her to the slave box. He sat her in the box. He put on hand in her hair and the other on her ankles. I again saw her eyes. In them there was terror. Neither of us knew, truly, what her fate was to be. It was my hope that they would spare her, if only for the whip and collar of another, one who would see, even casually, to her perfect mastering. He put her down in the box, on her back, her knees up. He shut the lid of the box, and locked it. Through the perforations in the box, in the form of the kef, I could see her face.
In what perfect custody we are kept!
The newcomer, my master, and the two captors then exchanged further words, sotto voce.
I saw then the slave box lifted by the two men. It had stout, leather handles at each end. It was carried up the stairs, and then, the first man opening the trap, thrusting it up, through the opening. The trap was then closed. I heard the stops of the men, heavy with the weight they were bearing, cross the floor above, and then, in a moment, as the set themselves to a new flight of stairs, diminish.
I was then left alone, in the subbasement, with my new master.
45
I thought that I would attempt to charm or placate my master. I would dare to lift my eyes, timidly, to his. I would smile, a timid smile, hoping to please him.
I lifted my head.
“Slut!” cried he in rage.
I understood nothing of his fury. It made no sense to me. Why should he be angry with me? Why should he be cruel to me? I thrust my head down, instantly, terrified.
I had only smiled at him.
How had I done wrong? How was it that this should have so offended him, have so enraged him?
“You worthless slave and sl
ut,” he whispered. In his voice there, was almost unbelievable hatred.
No longer dared I hope that he might be kind. I hoped rather now only that I would be permitted to live.
“You smile at me,” he snarled, “not even knowing who I am!”
I kept my head down. I trembled.
“Lift your head!” he snapped. I obeyed.
“Back, back, further!” he said.
My neck then hurt. I saw, above me, the wretched, peeling ceiling of that dank place.
He approached me and handled the collar.
“Fitting,” he said, contemptuously, angrily, “you begged use?”
Of course I had begged use! Was I to be blamed for what I was, for what I had become, that which I had earlier been only secretly, only in my dreams? And were not the masters, too, to blame? Had they not released the slave? Did he now think I could simply return her to her dungeon, where she had languished, neglected and denied, after I had met her, and, in her, my true self? Once one has found oneself can one forget oneself? It is a bit late for such things then. It is one thing never to acknowledge oneself; it is one thing to pretend and hide; it is one thing to avoid meeting oneself; but it is quite another to forget oneself once one has met oneself; one cannot, so to speak, then unmeet oneself; one may hide from the truth; one may attempt to avoid it; one may even arrange one’s life in such a way asto minimize the possibilities of learning it, at least explicitly, face to face, in its fully glory; but once one has seen it, one cannot simply unsee it; one cannot unlearn it; it can no longer be repudiated; incantations can restore neither virginity nor ignorance. And, too, I loved my sex, my truth. I would cling to it forever. No one could force it out of me. I was not discontent to be a woman.
With his left hand he grasped the cloak at my throat, holding me by it. With his right hand, he struck me thrice, first with the palm of his hand, then with the back of the hand, then, again, with the palm of his hand, lashing my head back and forth.