Part 85 (1/2)

”Do you truly think you can free yourself?” he asked.

She ceased her efforts, putting her head down even further. She whimpered twice.

”You might be interested in knowing,” said he, ”my former lofty, rich lady, that your rival, the one I prefer a thousand times to you, is one amongst the lowliest of slaves, and one, it seems, amongst the most despised of slaves, one clad when most often I saw her only in a collar and rags, and never in more than a simple tunic. Her name, not that it matters, is 'Tuta'.”

The slave began to tremble, uncontrollably.

”What is wrong?” he asked, puzzled.

The slave seemed in much agitation. How she pulled at the binding fiber, so desperately, yet so futilely.

She made tiny noises, they m.u.f.fled in the gag.

I myself had drawn back on my knees. What I had feared, what I had hoped, had come true!

He regarded the slave, puzzled, she kneeling, head down, before him.

”I do not understand,” he said.

She whimpered piteously, desperately.

”What is wrong with you?” he asked. ”Doubtless she wishes to plead,” he mused. ”It will do her no good.” He looked down upon her. ”Do not expect the least of kindnesses or considerations in our house, new slave.”

She squirmed.

”Perhaps she wishes to raise her head,” he speculated.

She whimpered once, desperately.

”So soon she desires to exert the wiles of a slave!” he said, angrily.

She whimpered, in misery.

”Ah, yes,” he said, ”I have heard rumors to the effect that the Lady Constanzia of Besnit might have slave curves concealed beneath her robes. Would one not have guessed? And how appropriate! And how fortunate for her! Perhaps if she grovels well she may be lashed less frequently! Perhaps she desires to now exhibit them, that they might win for her some lenience? Do you think I am so easily put off, so easily swayed, dear little thing, that I might be seduced from my resolution by the luscious contours of a begging slave? But do not fear, for I have every intention of putting them frequently and well to my pleasure. But they will never compare with those of my love! To her gold, no matter how luscious and exciting might prove to be the curves of your perfidious, despicable body, you can never be more than a meaningless tarskbit of shaved copper!”

The body of the slave shook, trembling with emotion.

”See,” he said, scornfully. ”How quickly she learns! She is clever, no doubt! Oh, yes, she is highly intelligent, but now her intelligence will have a different object, not that of seeking wealth and power, but that of pleasing a master! Scarcely has she been branded and the collar put on her than she hopes to sway me with the pathetic artifices, the piteous beggings, of a trembling slave, but her cunning will avail her naught!”

Clearly the slave wished to raise her head, but dared not do so. I was pleased that I had given the Lady Constanzia some slave training in the pens, in answer to her desperate request that I do so.

She had desperately desired to learn how to be more pleasing to a certain visitor to Treve.

I had found her an apt pupil.

I showed her a few things, but not too many. She was, after all, a free woman.

In particular I tried to apprise her of the psychology of these matters from which, in a sense, all else flows.

”Your internal states,” I told her, ”are important, your mind, your emotions, and desires.”

”In bondage it is your heart, your love, that blossoms,” I said.

I spoke to her of nature, and her laws, and of health, and dominance and submission.

On the behavioral level, I called her attention to a variety of att.i.tudes and modalities of deference, some as simple as kneeling and bowing the head.

”Be submissive, and feminine,” I had told her.

”Be a slave,” she said.

”Yes,” I said, ”be a slave.”

Another thing I told her was to listen.

That was because she was a free woman.

One need not tell a slave that. The slave is in a collar. If she is inattentive, she may be lashed. Too, it is extremely important for her to listen to the master, for he is her master.

”It is not only we who wish to be listened to,” I told her, ”but men, as well.”

And I did not tell her this but, commonly, aside from considerations of prudence, the slave wants to listen. Most slaves soon become loving slaves and it is one of the happinesses of the loving slave to have the master speak to her. And who is more important to her than her master? We want the master to be kind and loving, but also to keep us under a strict, perfect discipline, even to the whip. We wish there to be no mistake about the matter that we are slaves, fully, nor any doubt about to whom we belong.

That is how we will to have it.

And so it is with care and attention, and pleasure, that we listen to the master.

Too, of course, as we are only slaves, and animals, we are grateful to be spoken to.

In addition, of course, it may be easier for the slave to listen, for she is seldom allowed to speak, unless she has been given permission to do so. Subjected to this condition we are muchly aware of the authenticity and rigors of our bondage. Few things more impress upon us that we are slaves. We are animals and goods. What better to remind us of this than that we may not speak without permission?

”Perhaps you think I can be moved by a piteous glance?” he said.

She made tiny whimpering noises, begging.

”Do you wish to look upon me?” he asked.

She whimpered once, plaintively, desperately. ”We must leave the city by sundown,” he said.

She whimpered again, begging.

”You are doubtless curious to see to whom you belong,” he said.

She whimpered, once.

”I suppose that sometime, sooner or later, you must be permitted to look upon my features,”

he said.

She uttered a tiny noise, a single whimper.