I gathered that the Lady Constantina must, indeed, be very hungry.
“You may now feed the slave,” I informed Pertinax.
I thought this little exercise would do the proud Lady Constantina a world of good.
Certainly, now, she would better understand, even as a free woman, how she was in the power of men, should men choose to exercise their power.
Later, we separated the slaves, and tied the leash of each about a tree. We left their hands bound, but we untied their ankles.
I looked down at the Lady Constantina.
She lay on her side, looking up at me.
I glanced at her legs, and then I asked her, “Have you had slave wine?”
“What is slave wine?” she asked.
“It prevents conception,” I said. “Slaves are not to breed randomly. Their crossings are to be decided by masters.”
“I have not had slave wine!” she said.
“A pity,” I said.
“But I have had what I was told,” she said, “was the wine of ‘the noble free woman’.”
“Strange,” I said, “as you are a slave.”
“You know I am not a slave!” she whispered.
“Ah, yes,” I said, “sometimes, when I look at your legs, I forget.”
“Beast!” she hissed.
“As you have had ‘the wine of the noble free woman,’” I said, “it does not much matter. The substances, save in the pleasantness of their imbibings, are equivalent. Indeed, both have as their active ingredient sip root.”
“Do not touch me!” she said.
“I have no intention of doing so,” I said.
“I am a virgin!” she said.
“That surprises me,” I said.
“Why do you smile?” she asked.
“It is nothing,” I said. In some markets virgins sold well. That always seemed to me a bit strange. In any event, virgin slaves were rare.
“You think I am not attractive?” she asked.
“As a free woman of Earth,” I said, “I would think you are quite attractive.”
“I am!” she said.
“You are vain?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but legitimately so. My beauty is obvious. It is a matter of fact.”
“I see,” I said.
“I am beautiful,” she said. “I am extremely beautiful!”
“For a free woman of Earth,” I said. “But you have not yet even been opened.”
“‘Opened’?” she said.
“For the pleasures of men,” I said.
“I see,” she said, icily.
“But more importantly,” I said, “you have not yet been awakened, softened, and sensitized. Your body is not yet a sheet of awareness. Are you even aware of the feel, the exact feel, consider it now, of the straps on your wrists?”
She shuddered.
“There are horizons, and vistas, of your sex,” I said, “sensations, feelings, hopes, apprehensions, awarenesses, fears, anticipations, yearnings, longings, of which you are totally unaware. You have not yet begun to learn yourself. You are still a stranger to nature, to yourself, and the world. You do not yet know who you are, or what you are.”
“I know very well who I am, and what I am,” she said.
“No,” I said. “It is only in the collar that women learn themselves. It is only in the collar that the flower of their sex opens, one by one, its vulnerable petals. It is only in the collar that a woman comes to her true happiness, and true beauty.”
“Kneeling before a man,” she said, angrily, “her lips pressed to his feet!”
“Certainly,” I said. “Can you not conceive of yourself so?”
“Yes,” she said, “in terror of my life.”
“Yes,” I said, “it often begins so.”
“Leave me,” she said.
“What do you think of Pertinax?” I asked.
“He is a despicable weakling,” she said.
I then left her, as she had requested. A Gorean male, commonly, complies with the wishes of a free woman.
They are, after all, free.
I turned about, and went to Pertinax. “Take the first watch,” I said.
I then went and lay down near Cecily.
“Master,” she whispered.
“Yes?” I said.
“My needs are much on me,” she said. “Caress me, please.”
“No,” I said.
The satisfaction of the slave’s needs is up to the master. Occasionally one frustrates them. It helps them to keep in mind that they are slaves. On the other hand, the sex lives of slaves are a thousand times richer and deeper than those of a free woman, if the free woman, with her hauteur and grandeur, has anything worth considering a sex life. There is no comparison with that of a free woman. The sexual experiences of slaves, as opposed to those of free women, are lavish, vital, frequent, and prolonged. The sexual experiences of the free woman are usually brief and disappointing. The life of the slave, on the other hand, is essentially a sexual life; sexuality irradiates her entire existence; it does not begin and end with a caress; in the collar she knows she is essentially a sexual creature, a slave, at the master’s bidding, and this knowledge imbues her entire life with an erotic glow, a permeating ambience. For the slave, polishing a master’s boots, tying his sandals, presenting him with food, greeting him at the door, kneeling, and such, are sexual experiences. Normally, of course, the slave’s petitions for attention will be entertained, and usually acceded to, and readily. This should be easy to understand. It is, naturally, usually quite pleasant to assuage the slave’s needs, as anyone who has done so knows. Having a slave at one’s mercy and forcing her through the throes, she perhaps jerking at her chains, of a succession of belly-wrenching, belly-rocking orgasms, is gratifying. Who does not want a naked slave, in her collar, sobbing, and bucking and squirming, and begging for more? Also, one usually has, if not a duty to content the slave, for nothing is owed to the slave, an inclination to do so. Surely this is easy to understand. She is so needful, and beautiful! Too, have not men been responsible for the tormenting acuity of those very needs which so distress her? Has it not been men who have seen to it, with an almost cruel intent, that slave fires will rage in her lovely belly? Should not those who have set such tinder alight satisfy the very needs they have done so much to ignite and intensify?
Cecily moaned, softly.
“Be silent,” I said to her, softly.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.”
In several Ahn I knew she would be even more needful and desperate. One of the controls a master has over a slave, as the control of her food, her clothing, and whether or not she is to be permitted clothing, and such, is the control he exercises over her in virtue of her sexual needs. Slave fires, even when extinguished by the mercy of the master, will soon rekindle.
Any woman in whose belly slave fires burn knows herself slave.
Such fires will put her at the mercy of even a hated master.
“Master,” said Cecily.
“Yes?” I said.
