Part 120 (1/2)

”I will never tire of you,” he said.

I kissed at his ankles.

I whimpered.

”You are insatiable,” he said.

”I beg that my hands might be freed, that I might caress you,” I said.

”Ah,” he said, absently, ”I did forget to free your hands, did I not?”

”Yes, my master,” I smiled.

”Since when does a slave require her hands to be freed, that she may caress her master?” he asked.

”True, Master,” I laughed.

I rose to my knees beside him, and put my head down, to his body.

”You learned the lessons of the pens well,” he said.

”Thank you, Master,” I said.

Slaves must be superb lovers. If they are not, they may be whipped.

There are a thousand ways to please a man, even when one is bound.

In scarcely moments, however, he had again seized me. I looked up into his eyes, those of my master.

I was then put again to his purposes.

I later lay at his side, at his thigh, docile and grateful. ”I love you, I love you, my master,” I murmured.

”We shall see,” he said.

”Master?” I asked.

He rolled over, and reached to one side, drawing to him his belt, with the sheathed knife upon it.

He then extracted the knife from the sheath.

I regarded this action with apprehension. Had he now recalled, in some fearful sense, I wondered, the putative object of his venture to this city? Had he tired of me so soon? Surely it was not necessary to kill me. Surely he could simply give me away or sell me!

Had he dealt with me as he had, merely for his amus.e.m.e.nt, only as one might toy with a meaningless slave? Did he hate me so? Had he now determined to comply with the wishes of his superiors, those who had dispatched him to this city, now that he had made me squirm, and cry myself his? Had such compliance been within his intent from the beginning? ”Kneel,” he said. I faced him, frightened.

”Turn about,” he said. Apprehensively I did so.

Then I cried out with relief, as I felt the knife part the cords on my wrists. My hands came forward, weak, freed, and I was on all fours, beside him, shaken.

”What is wrong,” asked he, ”slave?”

”Nothing, Master,” I sobbed, in relief.

”Ah!” he said.

”Yes, Master,” I said.

”Turn about,” he said.

I was then, again, kneeling, facing him. I rubbed my wrists.

Suddenly I was startled, for, on the stones, the knife lay before me.

He was lying on his back, looking up, at the ceiling. His hands were behind his head, pillowing it, his elbows to the side.

I looked down at the knife.

”You see the knife?” he said.

”Yes, Master,” I said.

”Consider it,” he said.

”Yes, Master,” I said, puzzled.

”Do you think you could seize it, lift it, and, before I could resist, or defend myself, plunge it into my heart?”

”I have no wish to injure my master,” I said.

”Do you think you could do what I said?”

”I do not think so, Master,” I said. Surely at my first movement he could turn and seize me.

”Pick it up,” he said.

”Surely I may not touch it, Master,” I said. ”It is a weapon.” In many cities, it is a capital offense for a slave to touch a weapon.

”Must a command be repeated?” he asked.

”No Master,” I said. I lifted the knife, timidly.

”Approach,” said he. ”Hold it with both hands.”

I knelt over him then, the hilt of the knife gripped in two hands. That was well, otherwise I think my hand would have shaken miserably, helplessly.

”Put it to my heart,” he said.

”Please, no, Master!” I begged.

He turned his head to regard me, and I, quickly, frightened, put the knife over his heart.