The Emperor

by Norman, John;

  “‘Pig’?” she said.

  “It is an endearing name,” he said. “Many peasant girls in the empire are named ‘Pig’.”

  “I am not of the peasantry,” she said.

  “True,” he said, “as a slave, you are a thousand times below the peasantry.”

  “Let us talk,” she said.

  “You are still standing,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said defiantly, lifting her head.

  At this point, Titus Gelinus turned and went to the chest at the side of the room and removed from it another object, which he uncurled and then snapped, sharply.

  A gasp of anguish and alarm escaped Pig, though nothing had touched her.

  She did, however, under his stern gaze, slip down to her knees.

  “Good,” he said. “That is better. You are now where you belong, on your knees, before a free man.”

  “I can explain everything, thoughtful, kind, understanding, noble Gelinus,” she said, kneeling before him, in her chains. “In the time of your tribulation, I was dismayed. I grieved for you and suffered as you suffered. You cannot guess the keenness of my sorrow. When your many notes came I, overcome with love, and need, could not bring myself to answer them. I dared not, foolish I, lest I betray the depth of my feelings for you, which I feared were unbecoming to a free woman. Convention constricts. Society is cruel. Inertness is praised. Coldness is to be pretended, no matter how fiercely blazes the furnace of the heart. We are to conceal our feelings lest we be taken for amorous beasts, rushing about, rutting at will. How we must guard ourselves, despite ourselves, and our true feelings, lest we, noble free women, be taken as wanton! So I feared, foolishly, to answer your notes, that I not betray myself as a free woman, and thus earn your rightful scorn. And then I resolved, unable longer to resist seeing you, to answer one of your dear notes, and invite you to my domicile. But then, oh, terrible, unhappy day, I resolved to see if your love was as strong as mine, so I pretended coldness, indifference, and scorn, to see if you would, nonetheless, persist in your attentions. I set forth a wall only that it might be shattered, I posed an obstacle meant solely to be overcome, all this a tragically misconceived stratagem to test your fervor. Forgive me, dear Gelinus, for my foolishness! But should you, too, not be chastised for not seeing through so transparent an artifice? Is all this not as much, or more, your fault as mine? Should you not beg my forgiveness as much as I beg yours?”

  “No,” he said.

  “‘No’?” she said.

  “I shall explain your duties, my pretty slave,” he said.

  “‘Slave’!” she cried.

  “Yes,” he said, “slave, that and no more. You are as much a slave as any woman captured, the prize of a raid, the loot of a war, chained to a post, with a placard on your neck, as much as a slut from the breeding farms, brought to Telnar in the crowded, hose-washed bins of a common slave ship.”

  “How dare you speak so to me?” she cried.

  “A master speaks to a slave as he wishes,” he said, “and the slave hopes to please.”

  “I have no master!” she cried, from her knees.

  “He is Titus Gelinus, of Telnar,” he said, “and beware, lest you be punished as a lying slave. Only free women may lie and you are not a free woman.”

  “But I love you!” she cried.

  He snapped the whip, and she, startled and frightened, cried out in misery.

  “Kneel up,” he said, “more straightly. Good. Now lift your arms, and put your wrist chain behind the back of your neck.”

  She did so.

  “Good,” he said. “Your breasts lift nicely. They are attractive. I like good lines in a pet animal.”

  “Please!” she protested.

  “Now,” he said, “put your head down, to the tiles.”

  “These are slave positions!” she wept.

  Again the whip snapped and she, alarmed, put her head down to the tiles.

  “I have long wanted to have you so before me,” he said.

  “You degrade a free woman,” she wept.

  “You are no longer free,” he said. “You are now an object, an article of goods, merchandise, a beast, an animal, to be done with as an owner might please. You can be bought and sold, gifted, traded, exchanged. You are goods, a slave!”

  “Please, no, noble Gelinus!” she said.

  “Do you dare soil the name of a free man,” he asked, “by putting it on the lips of a slave? Surely you know how a slave addresses a free man or a free woman.”

  “Mercy,” she begged.

  “Kneel up,” he said. “Now take your hands from behind the back of your neck, put them before you, at your nicely rounded little belly. Good. Now attend me closely, Pig, and I will explain our relationship. Most simply, you are a slave, and I am your master. Obedience is to be instantaneous, and unquestioning. You exist for the service and pleasure of your master. It is what you are for. You must understand, in your deepest heart, in every particle of your small, luscious body, that you are a slave, and only a slave. You are to think, speak, and act as a slave. When you look in the mirror you are to see a slave; when you kneel, you are to know that it is a slave who kneels; when you speak, you are to know that it is a slave who speaks. You are to feel as a slave and hope as a slave. Most simply, you are a slave.”

  “Be kind,” she begged.

  “You are to strive to be pleasing at all times, in all ways,” he said. “I hope you will be successful. The more pleasing a slave is the less likely it is that she will be beaten. On the other hand, as a former free woman, you are well aware that a slave may be beaten at any time for any reason, or for no reason. I might, for example, lash you once in a while if only to remind you that you are a slave. We do not wish our girls to forget that. In the beginning, in the house, you will be naked and chained. Later, I expect to remove the chains but keep you naked. In time, if I am satisfied with your service, I might let you have a tunic. I might even, should I be so moved, eventually give you a better name, a more attractive name for a female slave, for slaves are commonly lovely. But I promise nothing, pretty Pig.”

  “Release me,” she said. “I demand it!”

  He regarded her.

  “I beg it!” she said.

  “How well women look,” he said, “as you are, as they should be, on their knees, naked, and chained.”

  “Release me, noble sir,” she begged.

  “You are now as you should be, slut,” he said, “—a slave.”

  “No, no!” she wept.

  “I am thinking of you primarily, at least presently, as a work slave,” he said. “For example, I will want you, soon, on your hands and knees, with a brush and water, to scrub the tiles of the atrium, and clean the atrium basin for, as you can see, over the past weeks, it has accumulated a good deal of leaves and other sorts of debris.”

  “I,” she said, “the Lady Gia Alexia, she of the Telnar Darsai?”

  “Beware, Pig,” he said.

  “I am free,” she said.

  “The house is large and there will be a good deal of work for you,” he said. “The house was neglected during my time of difficulties, and, after the repair of my fortunes, these past weeks, I continued this neglect, deliberately. I had you in mind, as you are now. Thus, I saved the work for you. And we must not forget shopping, cooking, polishing, cleaning, laundering, and such, the full panoply of duties expected of a slave in a clean, well-run house. Also, of course, if I entertain free women, you will be expected to serve humbly and dutifully, as befits a slave. Doubtless, some of these free women will remember you, from when you were free. I do not think they will object to seeing you in a collar. Indeed, I suspect they will enjoy it. I gather you were not popular. Do not fear, however, for in your serving of free women, I will see to it that you are clothed, that the sensibilities of the free women not be offended. I have in
mind a modest tunic which will extend to the calves of your rather attractive legs. It will be clear, of course, that it is your only garment. You will also, as would be expected, serve barefoot.”

  “I will never be so humiliated,” she said.

  “You will have no choice,” he said. “You will be a slave.”

  “I will never serve so,” she said.

  “It may be difficult at first,” he said, “but later you will think nothing of it. Indeed, you will feel it fitting and perfectly appropriate, as you are a slave. Indeed, you will later look forward to it, and enjoy it, as it provides you with an additional way in which to prove pleasing to your master. Too, after the free women leave, it is you who will remain in the house, with your master, in your collar.”

  “I will never serve so,” she said.

  “You are mistaken, of course,” he said.

  “No!” she said.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “if you feel the lash, you will better understand that you are now a slave.”

  “You would never dare to whip me,” she said.

  “Never dare to whip a slave, one who has not been fully pleasing?” he said.

  “I am not a slave,” she said.

  “I should also mention,” he said, “though it scarcely requires to be mentioned, that, amongst your other duties, those of a female slave, is the providing of your master with inordinate sexual pleasure, at any time, in any place, in any way he may desire. You may, too, of course, as a slave, beg for such pleasure on your own behalf, but whether or not the master chooses to accede to your request is completely up to him.”

  “For one is a slave,” she said, bitterly.

  “Precisely,” he said. “He is master; she is slave. The coyness of the free woman is not permitted to her. The games of the free woman are not permitted to her, the dangling of prospects to wrangle gifts, entertainments, and suppers, the teasings and tauntings, the postponements, ambiguities, hintings, and calculations, the baiting of traps, the cunning distribution and withholding of favors, the playing off of one man against another, the provocation of jealousy, the delight in stimulating rivalries from which one may profit, the bargaining with one’s smiles, presence, and body, to buy position and power. What mercenary, what merchant, can compare with the free woman?”

  She shook the chains on her small wrists with frustration.

  “Behold, contrariwise,” said he, “this cunning, lovely, fascinating, seductive, desirable, tempting beast put in a collar where she belongs. What a delicious possession, yes, possession, she then is. Now her coyness is over. Now her games are done. No longer is she permitted hesitations, inhibitions, qualifications, or such. She is his. He takes from her what he wants, when he wants it, where he wants it, and as he wants it. When he commands her to be silent, she is silent; when he command her to kneel, she kneels; when he commands her to perform, she performs.”

  She looked up at him, from her knees, in her chains.

  “And her obedience,” he said, “as earlier noted, is to be instantaneous, and unquestioning.”

  She jerked helplessly at the metal which pinioned her wrists.

  “The female slave, you see,” he said, “is quite different from the free woman. As an object, an animal, she is completely at the disposal of the master. Thus, she is quite different from a free woman.”

  “Very much so,” she said.

  He looked at her.

  “What?” she said.

  “Get on your belly,” he said, “hands extended well before you.”

  She assumed this position. He did, after all, have the whip still in hand. Girls, particularly unclothed, are wary of the whip. It might be used.

  “Be fully aware of your position,” he said, “and the feeling of the tiles.”

  She was silent, seemingly uneasy.

  “What do you feel like?” he asked.

  “I feel strange sensations,” she said.

  “Those of a bellied slave,” he said.

  “Surely not,” she said.

  “I would expect so,” he said, “as that is what you are.”

  “May I lift my hands in supplication?” she asked.

  “If you wish,” he said.

  “Free me,” she said, lifting her head to him, and her hands, as she could.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not?” she begged.

  “You are now where you belong,” he said, “at your master’s feet.”

  “I am a free woman!” she cried.

  “Tell it to the empire,” he said, “to the rose burned into your fair thigh, to the close-fitting collar locked on your lovely throat.”

  “I am free!” she wept.

  “I warned you about lying,” he said. “You are no longer a free woman. Lying is no longer permitted to you.”

  “I am free, free!” she cried. “I am a free woman! I am free! Free!”

  “You are clearly a slave in need of discipline,” he said.

  “No!” she cried.

  She heard the whistle of the whip and, an instant later, the snap of the leather across her back, and, disbelievingly, her back afire, almost unable to comprehend the pain, she screamed with misery. Any resolutions she might have entertained hitherto pertaining to bravery under the whip, prior to its stroke, vanished instantly, even with the first stroke. Never again did she desire to feel such a stroke. How could it be endured again? She would do anything, anything, to avoid it stern admonition. Never had she suspected what it might be to feel herself under the lash of a master. “No!” she begged. But then she felt another stroke on her naked, slave’s body, and she rolled about, weeping, trying to fend blows with her hands, trying to rise to her feet, against the chains, tripping, falling backwards, then again, twisting, went to her belly, scratching at the tiles, and then there was another stroke, and another and another, and she cried out, weeping, “Please Master, no, no! Please do not strike your slave further! She begs mercy! She will obey! She will try to please you, her master!”

  “To my feet,” he said.

  She crawled to his feet and put her head down, sobbing, over them.

  “Speak,” he said.

  “I am a slave,” she said. “I will strive to be pleasing to my master.”

  “Perhaps you would now like to show your love, respect, and devotion for your master,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You may do so,” he said.

  She pressed her lips to his sandals, and kissed them, again and again, sobbing.

  “And perhaps, too,” he said, “you would like to express your joy and gratitude, that a man has seen fit to put you in a collar.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

  She then continued to minister, delicately, humbly, with lips and tongue, to his feet and ankles. After a time, he drew her up, to her knees, and she held his knees and looked up at him, tears in her eyes. She knew that she, before him, and on her knees, was looking into the eyes of her master. She then pressed her cheek to the side of his leg. “I am a slave, your slave, Master,” she whispered. He then pulled her to her feet, lifted her arms, and looped her wrist chain behind his own neck, thus holding her in place. “I cannot help myself, Master,” she said. “I am filled with strange feelings. I have never felt them before. They overwhelm me. I am their captive. Are these the feelings of a slave, of an owned woman, so hot, so suffusive, my whole body, so helpless, so needful? You have conquered me, you own me, I am yours. Use me, as a common slave is used, as pitilessly and ruthlessly, as you will. I have nothing to say, and want nothing to say. I am a slave.”

  He then held her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers, and she could scarcely move, for the grasp that held her so, and then, as she whimpered in need, he removed her wrists from the back of his neck, and thrust her back, on her back, to
the tiles.

  He then stood and looked down upon her.

  She lay before him, looking up at him, supine, shackled.

  “I have dreamed of you so, many times, pretty slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  He then bent down and removed the shackle from her right ankle.

  He then again stood.

  With his foot he brushed her right ankle suddenly, rudely, to the side.

  She gasped, startled.

  He then stood over her, between her legs.

  “Master,” she breathed.

  “Do you understand something of your collar now?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Put your wrist chain behind the back of your neck,” he said.

  The slave complied.

  “You look well at a man’s feet,” he said, “particularly now that his vision is unobstructed.”

  “A slave is grateful, if she pleases her Master,” she said.

  “You may now, if you wish, place your hands before your body,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said, and hastened to do so.

  She then looked up at him, at her Master.

  “You seem to be a ready slave,” he said, “ready for use.”

  She turned her head to the side.

  “Are you ready for use?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “I am ready for use.”

  “But it matters not,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said, “for I am a slave.”

  “Perhaps I shall now abandon you,” he said.

  “Do not, Master!” she said.

  “Do you beg use?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Now be silent,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  But, later, she cried out, again and again, gasping and weeping, moaning and shrieking, writhing and thrashing, with the gratitude and joy of a helplessly ravished slave.

  He then, toward morning, replaced the shackle on her right ankle.

  “You will now sleep for a bit,” he said, “here on the tiles.”

  “I do not know if I can sleep, Master,” she said.