She was even more beautiful than I had remembered.
I thrust her head back, so that she was looking up, and felt about her throat, under the fur.
She was nicely collared.
“A ship’s collar?” I asked.
“Yes!” she whispered.
“Yes?” I said.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
I was pleased she had not yet been claimed or assigned.
Might she not have been uneasy, could she have sensed my pleasure, my satisfaction, in having made this determination?
To be sure, almost all the slaves on board wore the ship’s collar, were ship slaves.
“You are still Alcinoe?” I asked.
“That is what they call me,” she said.
“Then that is your name,” I said.
“Yes, Master.”
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Alcinoe,” she said, “-Master.”
“Do not forget it,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said.
I moved about her a bit, and, with my two hands, felt beneath the furring wrapped about her left ankle.
A metal band had been hammered shut there, and, now flat against the band, in its welded staple, was a smaller ring, to which a chain might be attached, or through which a chain might be run, one by means of which several girls might be secured.
In the keeping areas the girls were commonly kept chained.
“I have not seen you about,” I said.
“It is hard to exceed the length of our chain,” she said.
I twisted my hand in her hair, held her, and cuffed her twice, sharply.
She looked at me, my hand tight in her hair, startled, disbelievingly. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her lip trembled. Did she truly think she might play with a free man? Did she truly think she might speak as a free woman? Did she not know she was a slave? Did she truly think that I, or any free man, would not put her to discipline?
Let her learn differently.
Sometimes a master will allow his girl a bit of slack on her leash, so to speak, which is sometimes pleasant, but that only makes it all the more sweeter to bring her again to her knees before him, his slave.
“It is appropriate that you be chained, is it not?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I am a slave, Master,” she said.
I stood up, before her, and regarded her.
“Keep your back straight,” I said.
She straightened her back, and looked straight ahead.
“I have not seen you since the cell,” I said.
“Nor I you,” she said.
“It is my understanding that you claimed I had put you to use,” I said.
“Doubtless Master knows the story,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
She dared to look up, frightened.
“Please do not have me whipped,” she said.
I supposed that I, as the putatively offended party, might suggest a repetition of her punishment, for my own satisfaction, the first having been administered merely because she had been caught in a lie.
It is interesting how a slave who has felt the whip so fears it. They will go to great lengths to avoid its kiss.
To it they know themselves subject.
Like most men, most masters, I thought that the whip, if applied, should be applied judiciously, and, preferably, not at all.
It is, after all, primarily an instrument of correction.
And, hopefully, correction will not be necessary.
What one looks for from a slave is service, and inexpressible, inordinate pleasure. Why else would one put them in collars, buy them, and own them, and master them?
To be sure, if they are not fully pleasing, they must expect to be punished, and well. They are, after all, slaves.
Too, interestingly, a slave may sometimes desire to be whipped, perhaps to reassure her of her master’s attention, that she is still important to him, that he regards her as still his slave, that he regards her as still worth whipping, and perhaps, sometimes, she simply desires to be whipped, to be reminded that she is a slave. To the slave her bondage is inexpressibly precious. And surely little could better convince a slave of her bondage than finding herself being whipped as the slave she is.
“Where are you housed?” I asked.
“In the Kasra area,” she said.
It was then further confirmed, as I had earlier conjectured. She was neither claimed nor assigned.
She was a simple ship’s slave.
“Please do not have me whipped,” she said.
The whip hurts; a slave will commonly do much to avoid it. Certainly they are seldom in doubt as to their bondage. They know themselves subject to it. It is often most effective when merely dangling inert upon its peg. It is sometimes put to the lips of a kneeling slave, that she may lick and kiss it, in trepidation and reverence. It is a symbol of the mastery. When a slave is found errant, she is sometimes required, kneeling, to beg for its attention. Sometimes, after having received its attention, she is required to kiss and thank it. “Thank you, dear whip. I shall try to amend my ways. I shall strive to become a better slave.”
“How long have you served about the ship?”
The ship was large, and one had varied duties, here and there.
“This is the third day,” she said, adding, “-Master.”
“Why did you claim I had put you to use?” I asked.
“I do not know, Master,” she wept. “I was angry, I was frustrated, I felt rejected, I felt insulted. I am sorry. I am sorry! Please do not have me whipped, again. It hurts. It hurts, so!”
“You were punished,” I said, putting the matter aside.
“I was in a collar,” she said. “I was alone with you! I could not have prevented you. I could not have resisted. Why did you not put me to use?”
“I was not pleased to do so,” I said.
“I see,” she said.
“Why did you, in Ar,” I asked, “a great lady, lower your veil before a common soldier?”
“I do not know,” she said.
“Perhaps to torment me?” I suggested.
“Perhaps,” she said. “I do not know.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “it was the act of a slave, one who desires to be taken in hand, and braceleted.”
“Surely not!” she said.
“I can understand such things,” I said, “before high officers, before men who determine the opening and closings of gates, men who hold the keys to cellars of gold, to the trove of Merchants, men who command armies, who grasp the reins of power, whose word will launch fleets, but not before common soldiers.”
She put her head down.
Beside her the vessel of black wine no longer steamed.
“Slave?” I said.
