by John Norman
“Give me the papers,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
Julian handed the papers, and the envelope, to Ausonius.
To the wonder of Sesella, and the others there, Tuvo Ausonius tore the papers, and even the envelope, to bits.
“I see I was too lenient with you, slave girl,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “No special provisions should have been made for you, for you are a true slave girl. Should anything happen to me now, you will be merely another of my properties, to be disposed of at the discretion of others, as what you are, merely a chattel. You will take your chances, like any other slave, in the open market.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master!”
He regarded her.
“But I want to be yours!” she said.
“I may sell you,” he said.
“No!” she cried. Then she hurried to him, and put her head to his feet. “Let me serve you that you will desire to keep me!” she said.
“I will have you serve me as few slaves have ever served a man,” he said, “now that I know, fully, what you are!”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “I want to serve as what I am, fully. I love you! I love you!”
He rose to his feet, and nodded to Julian and Otto.
“What of the same garb?” asked Julian.
“Burn it,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“It will be done,” said Julian.
“It is unbecoming to a slave girl,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“True,” said Julian.
Sesella looked down at the gray, formless heap of concealing, disguising materials thrown to the floor.
“Heel me,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “slave girl.”
“Yes, Master!” she said.
At the door to the room she looked back, once, at the same garb on the floor. She realized that she might never again be put in such garb. She was a slave girl and would now, presumably, be clad, if she were clad, accordingly.
“No!” said Tuvo Ausonius, suddenly, a little beyond the portal. “You will precede me.”
“As a free woman?” she asked.
“No,” said he, “as a female slave on whom I look at my pleasure.”
“I do not know the way,” she said.
“I shall direct you,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Move,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She hurried on ahead then, clutching in her right hand a tiny bit of scarlet silk.
“It is late,” said Julian.
Gerune hurried to Julian, and knelt before him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You have taught me that I am a slave,” she said. “I would serve you as such.”
“Is this the proud Gerune, the barbarian princess, the princess of the Ortungs and Drisriaks?” he asked.
“No, Master,” she said. “It is only Gerune, your slave, naked and in her collar, who begs to serve you.”
He looked at her for some time.
Tears were in her eyes.
“Hurry before me to my chambers,” he said. “Prepare them for love.”
“Yes, Master!” she cried, and leapt to her feet, hurrying from the room.
Julian rose to his feet.
“It is the turn of Renata, as I recall, from the roster in the kitchen, to clear, and to restore the room,” said Julian.
Otto looked up.
“Unless you wish otherwise,” said Julian.
Otto had made it clear earlier that Renata, his curvaceous blond slave from the summer world, was to participate in the duties of the house.
“No,” said Otto.
Flora looked up, startled.
“What of the guard?” asked Julian.
“What of this one?” asked Otto, indicating Flora.
“But it is Renata who is on the roster,” said Julian.
“Surely he should receive some compensation for his inconvenience, supervising her labors,” said Otto.
“Excellent,” said Julian.
The guard would presumably enjoy Renata on the tiles of the floor of the dining hall, and he might, also, if he wished, take her by the hair to the mat in his quarters. She should, however, be kenneled before dawn.
“I will want a good report on you before noon,” said Otto. “I do not wish to have to have to whip you.”
“It will not be necessary to whip me, Master,” she said.
“If the guard should show interest in you,” said Otto, “see to it that you are fully pleasing.”
“I will not be able to help myself, Master,” she said. “He is a man. I am a slave.”
“You may begin to clear,” said Julian.
“Yes, Master,” said Renata, attending to the table.
“I am going to my room,” said Otto.
“Master!” said Flora.
“I did not realize that it was Renata’s turn on the roster,” said Otto.
“It seems to have turned out that way,” said Julian.
“Master, please, Master!” said Flora.
“Treacherous, lying slut,” snarled Otto at the kneeling slave. “It is fortunate for you that Tuvo Ausonius recommended lenience. Otherwise you might have been thrown to the dogs.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
Otto then turned about and strode angrily from the room.
Julian gathered up the commission from the table.
He looked down at the slave who knelt there, her head in her hands.
“It is growing late,” he said. “It is appropriate then that you should either be in your cell or chained in your master’s room.”
“Master?” she asked.
“There is a slave rose in the kitchen,” he said. “It is fresh, and beautiful.”
CHAPTER 33
The dark-haired slave knelt before Otto, in the privacy of his chambers.
A lamp, suspended on three chains, burned to one side. Heavy tapestries were about, hunting and battle scenes, but they were muchly dark now, their thick, heavily woven textures hardly discernible. There were narrow bars on the window. Shadows were cast by the massive couch.
“How dare you have come here?” had inquired Otto, who had opened the door in response to the timid knock. There, kneeling in the threshold, had been the slave.
“Master Julian has sent me,” she said, frightened.
In her hands there was a silver tray, on which were a flask of wine, with a goblet, and some viands, and a flower.
“It is thoughtful of him to send me a light collation,” said Otto.
He gestured that the slave might enter.
She did so, and placed the tray on a table, near the couch.
She was dressed in a brief slave tunic, much like Renata and Gerune had worn earlier.
It seemed that Julian, who had much taken her garmenting and her quarters in hand, had decided that she would no longer wear the long, sleeveless garment of wool, that which had been for so long her garment in her cell.
Otto looked away from her, angrily. Her legs were superb.
She then knelt at the foot of the couch.
“You may leave,” said Otto, not looking at her.
“Master Julian,” she said, “has desired that I inquire after your wants.”
“You have now done so,” he said. “You may now leave.”
“It is late,” she said. “At this hour I might be severely punished if found in the halls.”
At this hour it would be normal for a slave to be secured, perhaps in the master’s room, perhaps in the slave quarters, in a cell, or kennel, such things.
“You came here upon command,” he said.
“But a guard may seize me and beat me,” she said.
“Inform him that you are here on the orders of the master of the house,” said Otto.
“Master Julian will not wish to be disturbed now,” she said.
“Then be whipped,” said Otto, angrily.
“At the least,” she said, “I would spend the night in
close chains.”
“I will bind your hands behind your back,” said Otto, “and then it will be understood that you are in proper custody.”
“I was being kept in a cell,” she said. “But now it has been taken from me.”
“You now have a kennel?” asked Otto.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is it clean and dry?” he asked.
“I must keep it that way,” she said.
“How large is it?” he asked.
“It is larger than the cage you keep me in on Varna,” she said.
“You look well in a cage,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She looked about.
“It seems Master has not slept,” she said.
Otto growled with rage.
“Master?” she asked, innocently.
“May I pour the wine, Master?” she asked.
“I would have a woman,” said Otto suddenly, fiercely.
She rose to her feet, unbidden, to pour the wine. Otto looked to the slave whip, on its hook, on the wall, but he did not advance toward it, and remove it from its hook.
She poured the wine. “The girls are now in service,” she said, “or kenneled for the night. I suppose one might be brought up, from the kennels.”
She replaced the decanter on the tray. “I am a woman,” she said.
Otto cried out with rage.
She took the goblet and knelt before him, kissing it and then lifting it to him.
“I have been sent,” she said, “to inquire after your wants.”
“My wants,” said Otto, in rage, “are well satisfied.”
“What of mine?” she cried, suddenly, tears brimming in her eyes. “What of my wants?”
“They are nothing,” said Otto. “They are only those of a female slave.”
He turned away from her.
“Do not treat us with such cruelty!” she cried.
“‘Us’?” he said.
“Slaves,” she wept. “You do not know what it is to be a woman, and a slave. You do not know what it is to be in bondage, to be property, to be owned. You do not understand how this at once makes us so vulnerable, so helpless, and yet so free and needful. Do you think we do not know the meaning of our brands, of the collars on our necks? Do you think we do not understand how it is that we are garbed as we are, and what this means? Can you not understand how such things touch us in our deepest belly, how they liberate, and inflame, our sexuality? Have you not heard how desperate we are to obey, to love and to serve, to be the most complete and perfect of women, to be mastered, and in being mastered, in our own conquest, to become most ourselves, and secure our greatest fulfillment, our greatest exultation and ecstasy? Can you not understand how we long to return to the very wellsprings of our being, to the world in which we were bred, a world of flint, of hammers and thongs? Have you not heard how slave girls, in their kennels, weep and scratch, and moan, and cry out for the touch of a man? Do you think any other woman can know the heats of one who is a slave? Can you understand what it is to be subject to sale, to know that one must please, to fear the whip, to know that one is owned? I have screamed with need, for the touch of my master, and he does not even look upon me!”
Otto turned to regard her.
“I beg kindness,” she said.
“You are worthless,” he said. “A thousand things have shown me this.”
“Even the lowliest, and most worthless of slaves,” she said, “may beg her master for his touch.”
“And you do so?” said Otto.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Yes, Master!”
Otto took the wine from her.
He put it on the tray.
“Strange remarks,” he said, “for one who was formerly an officer of a court on Terennia.”
“That was long ago, Master,” she said. She put her fingers to her collar. She lifted it, just a little, on her neck. “See, Master,” she said, “I am now only your slave.”
“It is true,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
He looked down upon the distraught beauty.
“Do not send me away, Master,” she said.
“Is this behavior seemly in one who was once an officer of a court on Terennia?” he asked.
“Surely,” she said, “if she who was an officer of a court on Terennia was even then a slave, deceitfully concealing the fact, which deceit she is now no longer permitted to practice, for her slavery has now been confirmed upon her, publicly, for all to see, legally, for all to know.”
“Are you not ashamed?” he asked.
“No, Master, for slaves are not permitted shame.”
“It is obvious that you are no longer a free woman,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You would love, and serve and obey?”
“With my whole heart, and all that I am, and might be,” she said.
“Surely you lie,” he said.
“No!” she wept. “Cannot you see the transformation which has taken place in me, that I am now collared, am now a helpless slave, that I am owned, and you are my master, and that I love you!”
“Lying slut,” he snarled.
“Then hate me,” she wept. “Abuse me! Tie me to a ring and whip me, if you wish! But do not neglect me! That is the most cruel of all!”
“Do you not find me attractive, even a little?” she asked.
He cried out with rage.
“Master?” she asked, frightened.
“Yes,” he cried. “I find you attractive, slave slut! If I did not know you, do you think I would not ride a thousand leagues to capture you, to put a rope on you and run you beside my stirrup? Do you think I would not, having merely glimpsed you in a public place, have followed you, and scouted your residence, and entered it, and stolen you? Do you think I could have rested before you were safe at my feet, on my chain? Do you think I would not break walls, subdue cities, and fight armies to own you?”
“To own me!” she cried.
“Yes,” he said, angrily.
“Master!” she cried, delighted.
“But I do know you!” he cried. “I know how meaningless, and petty, and treacherous, and worthless you are!”
“Then treat me as your enemy,” she said, “and subdue me! Teach me my defeat!”
“Bitch,” he said.
“You are a barbarian,” she said. “Do you think I do not know how you view women of the empire? As booty, worth only a pittance as slaves!”
“How can you know this?” he said.
“Do you think that slaves do not know who are their rightful masters, and that they do not long for them?”
He glared at her, savagely.
“I am yours,” she said. “Put me mercilessly to your pleasure. I beg it!”
He turned away, his fists clenched.
“I have been trained to please,” she said. “I am sure you will find me suitable. My tongue has been educated. I have been taught the use of my hair. I can cater to the most refined taste, or to the most savage taste!”
“You are a true slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“If your kennel is so spacious and pleasant,” he said, “perhaps you should soon go to it.”
“It is still a kennel, Master,” she said.
He turned, again, angrily, to face her.
“And doubtless one too good for such as you,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Perhaps I shall speak to Julian,” he said, “that a crate, or tiny bitch cage, may be arranged.”
“As Master wishes,” she said.
“What more could a slave want?” he asked.
She turned a little, putting her fingers on the furs with which the massive couch was bedecked.
“These are softer, Master,” she whispered.
“Turn them down,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, rising.
“With your hands claspe
d behind you, with your teeth,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
When she had completed her task she knelt again, at the foot of the couch.
“You have brought me a light collation,” he said. “You have turned down the bed. You may now leave.”
“Master!” she wept, pleadingly, looking up at him.
He put his hand upon her.
“Master!” she begged.
“It is well,” he said, “that there is no nether closure in a slave tunic.”
“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.
He pointed to the door.
She rose to her feet and went slowly toward the door. She paused at the door, weakly, defeated, leaning her head against the stout, dark wood.
He looked to the tray on which was the goblet, the decanter of wine, the viands, the slave flower.
She was sobbing.
He heard the latch lifted.
The door had opened only a little, little more than a crack, to let the slave slip through, when she jerked her hands back, alarmed, as the door was thrust shut again, loudly, with fury. She turned, frightened, her back against the wood, looking up at the gigantic form that loomed over her. Otto’s arms were over her shoulders, the palms of his hands flat on the door. His hands then were lowered to her shoulders, to the slave tunic there. Angrily he tore it down, away from her arms, to her hips. For an instant it seemed she would have darted her hands to her breasts, as though, in sudden embarrassment, to cover them, but, just as suddenly, she recalled she was before her master and put her arms down, a little behind her, their palms against the heavy dark wood of the door. Her eyes were frightened. He turned about and strode to the other side of the room. He turned about, again, and studied her, she standing there, against the door, in the light of the lamp, hanging from its tiny chains, hooked to a beam in the ceiling. There was a glint of the warm lamplight on the band on her neck, the steel of her collar. Her long dark hair was behind her shoulders.
“Yes,” he said. “You are a pretty slave. Let us see the rest of you.”
“Master!” she protested.
Then she slipped the shreds of the slave tunic away.
She stood with her back against the wood, the palms of her hands, too, flat, back, against the wood.
“You are a pretty slave,” he said. “Why should you not be used, like any other?”
“Are you too good for use?” he asked.
“No, Master!” she said.