by John Norman
There seemed something terribly familiar about the ring. She put out her fingers and felt the floor about it.
She tried, defensively, to conceptualize the matter as one of having given the men a good show, but she realized that that was a self-serving distortion of what had actually occurred. Oh, to be sure, doubtless it had been a good show, but that was largely the auctioneer’s doing. Putting it the other way suggested that it might have been the consequence of some decision on her part, or the result of some benevolent or defiant intention, that sort of thing. Rather she was only a property, which had been well displayed, in numerous attitudes, postures, and such. It was true, however, a little later, and as the bidding heated, she had been almost overcome with strange feelings, exciting, moving, thrilling feelings. It was then that she had, suddenly, perhaps for the first time, fully understood that she was a property, really, a wondrous, vital, excited, acutely conscious, extremely sensitive, highly intelligent, incredibly desirable property, a property that most men would find far more appealing than gold and diamonds, a property for which men might even kill. She tried to force such thoughts, such memories from her mind. Could it have been she who had behaved as the girl on the block? She could feel the heat as the men cried out. She could feel the interest and desire, like waves, such an incredible feeling, wash over her. She had had an identity imposed upon her, a clear, incontrovertible identity, but, too, this identity had seemed to emerge from within her. It was as though, for the first time in her life, she had had no choice but to be what she truly was. On the block then, there had been, at the end, only a flushed, startled, sweating, comprehending, leashed slave girl. But now, again, she was frightened. One bidder had apparently, not even audibly, but by signs from the audience, topped each bid. He had had her for a bid of forty darins, which was high for a girl at the magistrate’s auction, and well satisfied the auctioneer, but would not have been unusual, or even high, for a typical auction of women, even in a small town. But, of course, rich men seldom attended magistrate’s auctions, apparently finding them of little interest. Too, she was not even trained. But now, she realized, she no longer belonged to the city, but, presumably, to some private individual.
She now had a master!
Her fingers touched the ring, and the floor about it.
They trembled a little.
“Oh!” she cried, softly, for large, heavy hands were at her neck, undoing the fastenings on the hood, and then they thrust up the hood, a little, revealing her trembling, parted lips, there was no doubt they were masculine hands, and they held her face. The hood was left much in place, so that it acted as a blindfold. She felt her hair, what had been loosened in the partial lifting of the hood, touched, felt, almost wonderingly, and then arranged, softly about her shoulders. This seemed to be done almost with a sort of curiosity. Her hair had been washed and combed prior to the sale, but it was a bit disarranged now, and sweaty, from its incarceration in the hood. She had also been touched with perfume, prior to being taken to the block. The perfume was perhaps a bit subtle for a slave, but then she was new to the brand. Perhaps they thought it might make her first night in chains, at the mercy of a master, easier. But that seems unlikely. It is much more probable that it was designed, in its subtlety, to encourage a master to prowl her beauty, almost as in curiosity, detecting and relishing it. It was, of course, a cheap perfume. That would be expected from a magistrate’s auction. And it was also, as those versed in such matters would have recognized, a slave perfume, a perfume extracted and prepared with the vulnerable beauty of a slave in mind. She was now aware of someone, behind her, bending over her, taking in the scent of the perfume.
She did not dare speak.
She knew herself slave.
Then, in a moment, she felt a glass held softly to her lips, and tilted a little.
She tasted kana and was eager for more, but the glass was withdrawn.
Barely had she wet her lips.
She understood then that what she drank, and in what quantities, was no longer at her discretion, but at that of another.
Her lips trembled a little.
She heard a tiny noise, as of something being broken, a cracker, or perhaps a biscuit.
A moment later she felt a small piece of pressed cake of cereal put betwixt her lips, against her teeth.
She thought to lift her hands but, as she was kneeling, and they were fastened, she could not bring them near her mouth, not without changing her position, bending down, lying down, such things.
She opened her teeth and took the bit of pressed cake into her mouth, and ate it.
She was surprised at how sensitive her lips were, so soft, and moist, to the smallest touch. She could scarcely conjecture what it might feel like, what it might be to feel with them other surfaces, other textures, such as the body of a man. She felt, again, the presence of a bit of pressed cake against her teeth.
Even the tiny pressure of the cereal cake against her teeth could be felt, so clearly, so precisely. Her entire body was becoming sensuously alive, even helplessly so.
She fed.
She opened her mouth, again, lifting it, delicately, even imploringly, as she was hungry.
Surely there must be more.
But there was not.
She understood then that what she ate, and in what quantities, was no longer at her discretion, but at the discretion of another.
Indeed, whether she was to have food or drink at all, she now realized, was not at her discretion, but at that of another. It had not been a true feeling, at all, she then realized. It had been an instruction.
She trembled. She had learned a valuable lesson for a slave.
Suddenly, terribly frightened, she put down her hands and grasped the ring, and she then put them about the ring, seeing how it fitted into its hemispherical staple, and she then felt the heavy, solid plate, bolted into the floor, in which the staple, with the ring, was fixed, its dimensions, its shape, its height above the floor, the location and nature of the bolts which anchored it in the floor, and she then felt, even, the very nature of the floor itself, and a crack in a board, a place where something once must have scraped.
Her heart began, to pound wildly.
Surely she knew the plate, the ring, the staple.
She was certain then, too, that the crack, or gouge, she could now feel was one which once she had seen.
She lifted her head, her lips trembling. She jerked at her chains, but her wrists could move only a few inches upward, as they were fastened closely to the ring.
“Yes,” said a voice. “It is the same room.”
She squirmed on her knees, and jerked at the chains.
Hands took the hood in their grip and pulled it wider, and then, lifting it, tore it away.
“You!” she cried.
He seemed very tall then, standing over her. In his hand was the hood.
Damp, dark hair was loose, and wild, about her head and shoulders.
“Is this some form of jest?” she asked, pleadingly.
“I suppose so,” he said.
“Is this the room of my master?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“It is my room,” he said.
“You are my master?” she said.
“Yes,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “I am your master.”
CHAPTER 24
“No!” she cried. “Surely it is not true!”
“It is quite true,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “I own you. I am your master.”
A sudden, wild, almost-indescribable look, perhaps one of horror, perhaps one of misery, perhaps one of sudden, startled, unbelievable elation, or perhaps one of all three, transfused the countenance of the slave, but this was only for the briefest moment, for, in a moment, she had recaptured herself.
“I despise you,” she said. “I do not want you for my master!”
“Dogs and pigs do not decide who will be their masters, nor do lesser creatures, su
ch as slave girls,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
He cast the hood to one side, to the floor.
“You are ‘Sesella,’” he said, naming her.
She glared up at him.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Sesella,” she said.
“‘Sesella’?” he inquired.
“Sesella, Master,” she said.
“Do not forget it,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“No, Master,” she said.
“How does the word ‘Master’ feel on your lips?” he asked.
“Fitting,” she said. She could scarcely tell what that simple sound, and its meaning, did to her, addressed to men, how it made her feel. Suddenly she felt warm, soft, moist and receptive. “What are you going to do with that whip?” she asked, uneasily.
“Perhaps you recall,” he said, “how in a basement chamber in the headquarters of the commissioner, you, not commanded, only permitted, flew at a kneeling, helpless fellow, and, somewhat ardently, even savagely, one might say, with supposed impunity, struck him, again and again.” He shook out the coils of the whip.
“That was done by a free woman, Sesella Gardener,” she said. “Surely you would not punish a poor slave for something done by a free woman!”
“I see that you are highly intelligent,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Thank you, Master,” said the girl.
“But not intelligent enough,” he said.
“Master?” she asked.
“It is not improper, you see, if the free woman has become the slave,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “For, in that case, after her embondment, her punishment is even more shameful, being then beaten as a mere slave.”
“I am small and soft,” she said. “You own me! I beg not to be whipped!”
“Perhaps we should not concern ourselves overly much with what was done by Sesella Gardener, the free woman,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “After all, she is gone. There is now in her place only pretty little Sesella, the slave.”
“Yes, Master!” said the slave, gratefully.
“But Master has not yet put aside the whip,” she said.
“But there does remain, of course, undeniably, the connection between Sesella Gardener, the free woman, and Sesella, the slave, for one has become the other.”
“Yes, Master,” said the girl, falteringly.
“But we need not concern ourselves, I suppose, at least not overly much, with such matters.”
“No, Master!”
“But you may, in any event, be whipped whenever I wish,” he said. “For example, if I feel like whipping you, I may do so.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You understand that you are subject to the whip?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“As a highly intelligent girl, even if not quite intelligent enough, you understand that?”
“Yes, Master.”
“You may be whipped at any time, for any reason, or for no reason,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“That helps to keep slave girls zealous,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
He looked at the whip, in his hands.
“Please, no, Master,” she said.
“‘No’?” he said.
“No,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I am zealous,” she whispered.
“Speak up,” he said.
“I am zealous!” she said.
“Is she who was once Sesella Gardener the free woman and is now Sesella, the slave, zealous?”
“Yes, Master!”
“Who is zealous?
“Sesella, the slave, is zealous!”
He struck the whip once or twice into the palm of his hand.
“Do not whip me,” she begged. “Rather let me serve your pleasure!”
“My pleasure?”
“Yes, as a slave girl!” she said.
“You would serve with such abject perfection?”
“Yes, Master! Let me on the bed!”
“Lie on your back, where you are,” he said.
He took a blanket from the bed, and threw it to the floor. He then drew her down, so that her hands were up, chained over her head, as she lay. He did thrust the blanket under her.
Then he stood up, and looked down at her.
“The top button of your jacket is undone,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she smiled.
“You leaned forward,” he said. “Your undergarments were not those prescribed to conceal your figure. You bared your hair before me, a same, though you, too, were a same. You knelt. You dared to use lipstick. You came to this room, garbed, adorned, perfumed, in ways inappropriate for a same. There are many counts against you.”
“Punish me,” she said.
“Why did you come to the room?” he asked.
She turned her head to the side.
“You hate me,” he said.
She looked up at him. “I can no longer play such games, Master,” she said. “My feelings were troubled, and complex. I did not hate you, but what you were. From the first moment I saw you I wanted to be yours.”
“As you are now?”
“Yes,” she said, “as I am now!”
“But I am a same,” he said.
“I, too, was a same,” she said.
“True,” he said.
“Can we not both know then what we have missed, what we were denied, what we have been deprived of?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
He crouched down, beside her.
“Some sames keep servants,” he said.
“They need never know that I am your slave, Master,” she whispered.
“You would wear same garb,” he said.
“Outside,” she said.
“Yes, outside,” he said.
“And inside?”
“We shall consider that,” he said.
“And even if I am permitted clothing,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Touch me,” she begged. “The slave begs to be touched.”
“Ah!” she said.
“I have never been a man,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Perhaps Master would like it,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Ohh!” she said.
“Yes, it might be interesting,” he said.
“Oh, Master!” she whispered.
“I should not be touching you like this, for I am a same,” he said.
“We are no longer sames,” she said.
“What are we then?” he asked.
“You own me,” she said, tensely. “Be kind!”
“What are we?” he asked.
“A man and a woman, a master and his slave!”
“I suppose I might find some application for you,” he said, “in housework, or such.”
She arched her back.
“Can you cook, clean, sew?” he asked.
“No, no, no!” she wept. “No, please don’t stop!”
“Do you like being a woman?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she wept.
“And a slave?”
“Yes!” she cried. “A thousand times ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ “
“See how you arch your back,” he said.
“Do not criticize me, Master!” she begged.
“See how you squirm,” he said.
“I cannot help myself, Master!” she said.
“You may writhe,” he said.
“Thank you, Master!” she cried.
“The chains hold you well,” he said.
“Yes, Master!” she wept.
“I have never seen a woman like this before,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh!”
“You are very beautiful, Sesella,” he said.
“I am yours!” she wept.
“Kneel at the ring, with your head down,” he said.
“I obey,” she said.
“Onto your
stomach,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“I must rethink matters,” he said.
“Master?” she asked.
He was sitting on the floor, on the blanket, near her. She was still chained to the ring.
“There are dangers in this world,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Is there such a thing as honor?” he asked.
“I do not know, Master,” she said. “I am only a slave.”
“I thought there was no such thing,” he said. “But now I am not sure.”
CHAPTER 25
“Why is she bound in this fashion?” asked Julian.
“He bound me so!” she said.
“She broke a plate,” said the house master.
“You were clumsy, Gerune,” said Julian.
“The plate was slippery,” she pouted.
“What punishment did you intend?” inquired Julian of the house master.
“I thought five lashes would be sufficient,” he said.
“Master will never permit you to strike me!” she said.
“Why is that?” asked Julian.
“Surely Master remembers last night,” she said.
“Yes,” said Julian. “You are juicing well, learning quickly, and becoming an excellent slave.”
“Then certainly Master will have me released,” she said.
“Certainly,” he said.
“Thank you, Master!” she said, casting a glance over her shoulder at the house master.
“After you have received ten lashes,” said Julian.
“Master!” she cried.
But Julian had left the area.
CHAPTER 26
“It has been long,” said Julian.
“I should return to Varna,” said Otto. “There is no commission, no captaincy.”
“They must transmit it, they have no choice,” said Julian. “They dare not refuse to grant it.”
“It is time for the harvesting in the fields of the Wolfungs,” said Otto.
“They can manage without you,” said Julian.
“There are lions in the forests, against which I should like to test my mettle,” he said.
“There are fiercer lions within the empire,” said Julian.
“I have not seen them,” said Otto.
“They are not easily detected,” said Julian.
