“You are attractive,” said an instructress. “Otherwise you would not be in your collar. But the masters feel that your current attractiveness does not measure up to your beauty.”
My head was at the floor. I had not received permission to lift it.
“Doubtless, in time, it will do so,” said an instructress. “We have great hopes for you. You are clearly a born slave. And, eventually, you should be an exquisitely desirable slave.”
“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses, again.
“Kneel up,” said an instructress.
Gratefully I knelt up.
“Belly in, shoulders back, head up,” said an instructress.
I complied.
My knees were clenched closely together.
I kept my eyes straight ahead.
“What are you doing, Mistress?” I asked.
“I am removing the white ribbon,” she said.
“Mistress?” I asked.
The instructresses were about, looking at me.
“What do you think?” asked one of the instructresses.
“She is pretty,” said one.
“Better than a kettle girl, or a pot-and-mat girl,” said another.
“A Tarnster, or Drover,” speculated another.
“If the price were right,” said another.
“Spread your knees, Allison,” said an instructress.
“Surely not, Mistress!” I exclaimed.
“Now,” she said.
I felt enormously vulnerable, and, oddly, subtly enflamed.
How could I, the former Allison Ashton-Baker be placed in such a position?
What sort of slave would kneel in such a position?
I feared I knew.
She who had removed the white ribbon now approached.
“Do not move, Allison,” she said.
I saw that in her hand she had a different ribbon, a red ribbon.
“I am not red-silk!” I said. “I am not red-silk!”
“Do not move,” she said, again.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, a slave, commanded.
I was very much aware of the position and attitude in which I had been placed.
To be sure, it could not be appropriate for me.
It must be some mistake.
I was from Earth.
It is strange, how, when one is a slave, small things are noticed, the nap of a rug, the feel of tiles beneath one’s knees, one’s body then so alive.
I regarded the instructress, apprehensively.
The red ribbon, of dyed rep-cloth, not silk, was doubled, and then threaded under and over my collar. Its loose ends were then threaded through the loop, and I felt it jerked tight, against the collar.
“There,” said the instructress, and stood up. She and the others then stood back, a bit, looking at me. “What do you think?” she asked. “Is she satisfactory, will men like her?”
“She may do,” said another.
“Sooner or later,” said another.
I did not understand. Had I not been one of the most beautiful girls in my sorority, a sorority noted on campus for its beauties? Certainly I had not lacked for the attentions of young men. A week would not pass without my declining several offers for outings, afternoons or evenings, with such, while I would select from amongst such offers those few which I deemed suitable, those which might prove eventually to be to my advantage, those from suitably positioned young men, young men worth interesting and cultivating, young men whose background and assets exceeded my own. Oddly, though I had pretended to be interested in them, laughed at their jokes, and such, I had seldom received a second invitation from them. I did not understand this. Did they not realize my quality, the honor I paid to them, how fortunate they were, that I would permit them to share my company, however briefly? Surely there were many who would have rejoiced to be granted such an opportunity. How ungrateful, how foolish, how stupid they were!
“Keep those knees split, slave,” said one of the instructresses.
“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered.
“Wider,” snapped another.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
At least no man was present, to see me so. What would he think, should he see me so? Did I not know? Would it not be clear what I was, and what I was for?
How vulnerable a woman is in such a position!
Too, I felt decidedly uneasy.
I squirmed.
“Steady,” said an instructress.
“She is heating,” said another.
“Mistress?” I said.
“The little tart is cooking,” said another.
“Wait until she knows what a man’s touch is,” said another.
“She is ready, nearly ready,” said another.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“She has nice slave curves,” said one.
“She has the flanks of a slave who will heat well,” said another.
“Mistress,” I said.
“Yes?” said the instructress who had placed the ribbon.
“Mistress has erred,” I said. “I am not red-silk.”
“Who speaks?” asked an instructress.
“Allison,” I said. “This slave speaks.” I felt tears form in my eyes.
“And what has she to say?” asked an instructress.
“She says,” I said, “that she is not red-silk, that she is white-silk.”
“The slave is correct,” said an instructress.
“Yes,” said she who had placed the ribbon.
“Please then, Mistress,” I said, “replace the white ribbon.”
“It is dirty, grimy,” said the first instructress, she who had placed the ribbon. “Surely you do not want such a ribbon on your collar?”
“Perhaps another ribbon then,” I said.
“You have another ribbon now,” she said.
“A white ribbon,” I said, “another white ribbon!”
“No,” she said.
“Put back the old ribbon then,” I said. “It is all right. I do not mind!”
“It goes to another girl,” she said, “one who is white-silk.”
“I am white-silk!” I said.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked.
“The men, the guards,” I said. “They may think me red-silk!”
“The market,” said an instructress, “is now slow for white-silks.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Do you not think you have been white-silk long enough?” asked an instructress.
