"You noticed?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you not think it was cruel not to put her to slave use?" asked Marcus.
"Not nearly so cruel," I said, "as it might be a few months from now, when she will have been longer a slave."
"True," he said. Slave needs tend to develop and deepen in the course of a girl's bondage. At Lavinia's present stage of bondage she could not begin to suspect what her needs would be like later, how helplessly she would become their prisoner, how hopelessly they would put her at a master's mercy. In the face of such needs, the stoutest collars, the heaviest chains, are but as gossamer. The depths of a slave's sexuality, and love, I think, have never been sounded.
"She was cruelly deprived, even so," he said.
"We will make it up to her," I said.
"Oh?" he asked.
"Well, perhaps we will," I said.
"Oh?" he asked.
"Assuming, of course, that the intensity of her zeal, and the perfection of her service, warrants it."
"You are serious then," he said, "about bringing her within the scope of your whip?"
"Quite," I said.
"How does she figure in your plans?" he asked.
"You will see," I said.
He wheeled his tharlarion about, and dust rose.
"Where are you off to?" I asked.
"I want Phoebe!" he said.
"It seems then," I said, "that it is not only the lovely Lavinia, former free woman of Ar, who has been frustrated."
"True," he laughed.
"But she is helplessly yoked, and must depend upon men, even to be released," I said, "while you are free to ride to your slave."
"And what of you?" he asked. "Are you so unmoved by the charms of your little field slave?"
"I?" I said. "I think I shall to a paga tavern."
I, too, then turned my tharlarion.
"And perhaps some former free woman of Ar in such a place will have five pierced metal tokens, purchasable for so little as a tarsk bit, threaded on her ankle cord tonight?"
"I shall race you to Ar!" I said.
Losing not a moment then, eager and laughing, we raced toward Ar.
20
The Slave Will Obey
"I love my collar!" she wept. "I love my collar!"
"You understand what you are to do?" I asked.
"Yes, yes, yes!" she wept. "Do not stop!"
I lifted my hand and her body leaped up, to resume contact with it.
But I pushed her down, my thumb on her belly, to the blanket, spread on the floor of our quarters in the insula of Torbon, in the Metellan district. She squirmed, writhing there in frustration. I held her in place with my thumb. She looked up, wildly.
"Please!" she wept.
She drew back her left ankle and there was the sound of the links of chain rattling and scraping on the floor, that chain run betwixt her ankle ring and the stout slave ring, anchored in the floor.
"Oh, yes!" she wept, softly, in gratitude. "Oh, yes, my master! Oh, yes, my master!"
"She is pretty," commented Marcus, from the side of the room.
"Yes," granted Phoebe, kneeling nearby, some sewing across her knees.
"Thank you, Mistress," said the slave. Phoebe, of course, was first girl.
"For a cheap slave," said Phoebe.
"Yes, Mistress," said the girl. "Oh! Oh!"
The slave looked up at me in wonder and joy. Slaves are lovely.
"How you own me!" she wept. "I did not know it could be like this! How you have made me feel! How you have trained me! How much you have taught me! How much better a slave I am now!"
"Some women," I said, "think that the joys of bondage are primarily those of submission and selfless service, the loving and the unstinted giving, the surrendering to the master, the being wholly his, but now you see that there are additional feelings as well."
"Yes, Master!" she cried. "Please do not stop!"
"Her hair is too short," said Phoebe.
"Free women know nothing of this!" wept the slave. "They cannot begin to understand the raptures of bondage!"
"I think they are not as ignorant as you think," I said. "And surely you can recall your own speculations, and suspicions, and sensings, and dreams, when you were free."
"Only glimmers of terror, and longing," she said.
"Speak," I said.
"Of course in my belly," she said, "I felt the appeal of bondage. I was intrigued by thoughts of it, and lured by them. Often did I linger lovingly upon such thoughts. Often was I fascinated to consider how it might be with me if I should become a slave, be owned and have no options but to obey."
"Then you did understand much of these things," I said, "even when you were a free woman."
"No," she said, "I understood nothing, nothing!"
"Oh," I said.
"Aiii!" she wept, rearing up. "Nothing! Nothing! Oh, my master, thank you, thank you! Be kind! Be kind to your slave, she begs you!"
I was silent.
"How helpless I am!" she said.
The chain moved a little again, on the floor. I glanced to her ankle. The ankle ring looked well there. She reached up, to put her arms more about me. She was stripped, save for her collar and the ankle ring.
"I desire to be found acceptable, Master," she whispered.
"You are acceptable," I assured her.
"Her skin is blotchy," said Phoebe.
"Steady," I whispered to the slave.
"Master?" she asked.
I put her arms gently away from me. I moved my right hand. "Oh!" she said. I felt the pressure of her left thigh against my hand. I moved my hand again. "Oh," she said softly. The chain moved on the floor. I moistened my tongue. I lowered my lips to her lower belly.
"Oh, Master," she whispered.
"Steady," I said.
She moaned, given no choice but to submit to the pleasure I chose to inflict upon her.
"Steady," I cautioned her.
"You know I shall not be able to resist you," she said.
"You will be whipped, if you even try," I said.
"Yes, Master!" she said, in joy. I felt her small fingers, clutching, in my hair. "Oh, Master!" she suddenly wept. And then she began to twist and moan, and try to remain still, and thrust against me, and to hold my head where it was not letting it go and her fingers were tight in my hair and this hurt but I did not beat her but relished her so moaning and then bucking and trying to remain still and thrusting against me and how needful and helpless she was and so much in my power and so responsive and how such helpless movements and cries could be elicited by such tiny, persistent, patient, delicate attentions and she cried out begging me and I took her hands from my hair and looked down into her wild pleading eyes.
"What is it you wish?" I asked.
"I am ready, my master! I am so ready, my master!" she said.
"Do you wish to serve?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Yes!"
"Do you beg to serve?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said. "I beg to serve." She lifted her belly, piteously.
I looked down upon her.
"Please, Master," she said.
I was silent.
"I am only a slave," she said. "You have done this to me! I am only a girl in a collar. I am helpless. I belong to you! I am yours to do with as you wish! I must do anything for you! I want to do anything for you! I beg to do anything for you! I beg you to have pity on me!"
"I have tested your responses, slave," I said.
"Oh, Master!" she wept, in misery.
"I have found them satisfactory," I said.
"Thank you, Master," she said.
"Once triggered," I said, "they were involuntary, reflexive, beyond your control."
"Yes, Master," she wept.
"Such responses will much improve your value," I said.
"I am pleased, Master," she wept.
"And they appear still beyond your control," I said. I regarded her.
&n
bsp; "They are, Master!" she said, tears in her eyes. Her body moved. She squirmed. Even to look upon her seemed to make her move. She was aroused, clearly, simply finding herself under the eyes of the master.
"But surely," she said, "you have not addressed these attentions to me merely to assess the nature and specificity of my slave responses?"
"No," I admitted.
"Let me serve! Let me serve!" she begged.
I regarded her.
"I beg to serve, Master!" she said.
I entered her.
"My Master!" she said.
I then informed her, in a modality of the mastery, of my ownership of her.
"I yield me yours, your slave!" she cried.
Then I held her quietly, her body trembling in my arms. "Ecstasy, ecstasy, ecstasy," she breathed.
"You see," I said, "there are feelings involved."
"It was unbelievable," she said.
"You are just learning to feel," I said.
She looked at me, startled.
"It is true," I said. "You are still a new slave."
"Then I think I must just die," she said.
"Slaves have survived such things, and more," I said.
She laughed softly, and pressed against me.
"There have been slaves for thousands of years," I said.
"And there is another now," she said.
"Yes," I said. There was no doubt about that.
"I have never been so happy in my life," she said.
"Your feelings do not matter," I said.
"Master?" she asked.
"They are those only of a slave."
"Yes, Master," she said.
She then lay quietly beside me, her head on my chest.
"But if free women could understand these things," she said, "they would all put themselves to the feet of men and beg their collars."
"But they cannot understand them," I said. "They are not slaves."
"I assure you that I had some understanding of this sort of thing when I was a free woman," she said.
"Anything like the understanding you have now?" I asked.
"No, Master," she said. "Nothing like my understanding now!"
"That is my point," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"The experience is a totalistic one, which occurs in an entire context," I said. "It is thus that a woman does not fully understand what it is to be a slave until she becomes a slave. Once she is owned, of course, and subject to the whip, she will learn her condition. Kneeling before her master, she will soon apprehended something of its joys, duties, and terrors."
"It is true, Master," she said.
"Kneel," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I lay on one elbow, regarding her.
"It is my hope that I have pleased my master," she said.
"You have pleased me," I said.
"Then the slave, too, is pleased," she whispered.
"She is very pretty," said Marcus.
"Her skin is still blotchy," said Phoebe.
"It is much better now," I said. We had purchased soothing, healing lotions.
"And her hair is much too short," said Phoebe.
"That is true," I said.
The slave kept her head down.
"But I suppose she is pretty enough," said Phoebe, "for a cheap girl."
"Thank you, Mistress," said the slave.
"What did you cost?" asked Phoebe.
"Oh, come now," said Marcus, irritatedly. Phoebe knew very well, of course, what I had paid for her. Indeed, she had not rested from the moment we had brought her in, braceleted and on a leash, until she had learned, and to her immense satisfaction, how little it had been.
"Five copper tarsks, Mistress," said the girl.
"I myself," said Phoebe, "sold for a hundred pieces of gold."
"That was under very special circumstances," I said.
"But that is what was paid!" she said.
"True," I said.
Much of the weightiness of this was lost on the new slave, of course, for she had very little notion of the prices of women. As she had come into the keeping of Appanius in virtue of the couching laws, she had had only one sale, that to me for a few copper tarsks. She would, of course, recognize that a hundred pieces of gold was an incredible amount of money. In a sense a woman is worth as much or as little as someone is willing to pay for her. In typical markets, if it is helpful for purposes of comparison, an excellent woman, suitable, say, for the paga taverns, would sell for between one and three silver tarsks. In such a market I thought that Phoebe would probably go for something like two or two and a half silver tarsks, and that the other girl, if her hair was grown out and her skin healed, for something like two silver tarsks.
"Mistress is very pretty," said the slave.
Phoebe tossed her head, smoothing her hair about. She was pretty. I had always thought so.
"I did not know Cosian girls could be so pretty," said the slave.
Phoebe cried out with rage, and rushed to the wall to seize up a switch there. She rushed to the new slave, the switch raised. The new slave cried out in misery, putting her head down. But no blow fell. Marcus had intercepted Phoebe's descending wrist. Phoebe cried out in pain and dropped the switch. But she looked down at the new slave. "Cos defeated Ar!" she said. "That is clear!"
"No longer are you of Cos," said Marcus, sternly. "Nor is she any longer of Ar. You are both only slaves, only animals!"
Phoebe struggled, angrily, in his arms.
"Is it not true?" he asked.
She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "Yes, Master!" she said.
She struggled a bit more, but was now pinioned tightly in his grasp. She could do little more now than squirm, futilely. She made a tiny, angry noise. As well might her lovely body have been wrapped in cables of iron. The sewing she had been attending to had been spilled to the side, when she had leaped up to seize the switch. Originally Phoebe had known little, if anything, of sewing, but when she had become slave she must learn such things. Indeed, we had even rented a girl to give her some lessons. The new slave, too, knew little of such labors. I would see to it that she received instruction of Phoebe. One expects a slave to know such things.
Phoebe ceased struggling and Marcus released her, stepped back a pace and regarded her.
She stood before him, angrily, defiantly, her small fists clenched.
"I suppose you could be thought of, as of Cos," he mused, "in the sense that you were once of Cos."
She trembled.
"So in that sense," said he, "take off your clothes, female of Cos, and get to your belly, with your legs widely spread."
"I am not of Cos!" she said, suddenly. "I am only a slave, Master!"
He regarded her, unwaveringly.
Swiftly she drew off her tunic, over her head, and put herself to her belly, and as he had stipulated.
He looked down upon her.
She sobbed, subdued.
The other slave was very quiet. It seemed she scarcely dared to breathe.
"Perhaps the wrong girl is first girl," mused Marcus.
Phoebe sobbed, her head to the side.
"May I speak, Master," whispered the new slave.
He looked at her. "Yes," he said.
She went to her belly before him and reached out her tiny hand, timidly, to touch his foot.
"Yes?" he said.
"Please have pity on her, Master," she said.
"You would speak for her?" asked Marcus.
"Yes, Master," she said.
Phoebe looked at her, in wonder.
"It is only that she loves you so much," she said.
"I do not understand," said Marcus.
Phoebe sobbed, looking away.
"She is telling you that Phoebe is jealous of her," I said.
Marcus crouched down beside Phoebe.
"Is that true?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," sobbed Phoebe, her eyes closed.
"But you
are my love slave," he said to her.
She sobbed, with joy. He touched her and she trembled beneath his touch like a vulo.
He then rose to his feet, and removed a coiled slave whip from the wall. This he threw down beside Phoebe, the coils of the leather cracking on the floor, beside her head, to the right.
"You will serve," he said.
"Yes, Master!" she whispered.
He then put his hand to her hair, letting her feel the tightness of his grasp, and turning her head from one side to the other. Then he put his hand on the back of her neck, letting her feel this grip. He then took her right ankle in his hand and lifted it, bending her lower leg, his grip like an ankle ring, toward her body. Then he released it, and let it return to its former position. She lay there very quietly. Then she made a soft noise, as he had begun to caress her, audaciously and masterfully.
I went over and picked up the sewing which Phoebe had dropped to the floor when she had leaped to her feet. It was a tunic resembling that of a state slave, done in the new fashion. The garmenture of the state slave, that of a girl owned by the city itself, some time ago, had been brief, sleeveless and gray, slashed to the waist. The collar worn by such slaves had been gray, matching the tunic, and it had been customary to lock about their left ankle a steel band, also gray, from which depended five small bells, also of gray metal. Fashions in such things tended to change, of course, even in normal times. For example, the hemlines might go up and down a bit, the garments might be accented or trimmed with color, or not, the number of bells on the ankle might be increased, say, to seven, or be returned to the original five, and so on. Currently, however, the garmenture of the state slaves, as one might have expected, given the defeat of Ar and the hegemony of Cos, had been considerably altered. No longer were the tunics slashed to the waist. Now the necklines were high, and about the throat. Similarly the hemlines had been considerably lowered, to just above the knee. These alterations had been introduced to assist in the subjugation of the men of Ar, by seeking to depress their sexual vitality. Similarly, of course, no longer were the left ankles of the slaves belled. The sound of slave bells on a woman's ankle tends to be sexually stimulating to a male. To be sure, of late, with the rise of the Delta Brigade, and the undercurrent of unrest in Ar, there seethed in the city, doubtless to the dismay of Cos, a surgency of male energies. As I have suggested earlier, some, perhaps many, masters, now, no longer sent their slaves unescorted about the city, until they had fastened them in the iron belt. The slave tunic of the state slave was still sleeveless, however. That is common with slave garments.
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