I turned my head away. There was a faded, stained, half-torn poster, advertising a carnival, on the wall opposite.
He then gently took my head in his hands, turned it to him, and held it, and I tried to pull away, but could not do so.
“No!” I begged.
He drew me to him.
“No,” I said, “no!”
Then I felt his lips on mine.
I tried to pull back, but could not do so.
“Part your lips, more,” he said. “Get your mouth open, more.”
I tried to shake my head, negatively, but could scarcely manage it.
“I want to feel your teeth,” he said. “Do not bite, of course, or your teeth must be torn from your head.”
I tried to protest, but could not well form words.
“You have good lips,” he said, “sweetly soft, bred for a master’s kiss.”
I struggled, futilely.
“Touch teeth, gently,” he whispered. “Now,” said he, “tongue, tongue. Surely you have been trained.”
“Please, no, Master, please, no, Master,” I murmured.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, tears ran from my eyes, forcing their way between the clenched lids.
“You are in a collar,” he whispered.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I am in a collar!”
My body then shook, and I felt weak, and I pressed my lips to his, piteously. But almost at the same time, suddenly, unexpectedly, spasmodically, I thrust myself against him, needfully, beggingly.
I recalled slaves in the house, moaning in their kennels.
I remembered the kitchen of the eating house of Menon, at night, late at night, how I had thrashed in my chains.
I pressed myself against him, my fingers clawing into the laundry I carried.
“Interesting,” he said. “I suspect our barbarian slut is now just another well-oiled, nicely lubricated, juicing slave.”
“I hate you!” I said.
“You might do for a paga tavern,” he said.
How I hated him, but might he not be my master?
I knew I was ready, open, wet, gaping, and a master’s.
“Yes,” he said, “you are red-silk.”
“I am yours, I know I am yours!” I said. “Buy me, buy me, Master!”
“You are anyone’s,” he said.
He then thrust me back, away from him, and held me at arm’s length.
“I have now established what I wished to ascertain,” he said. “You are, as I thought, just another piece of collar meat.”
“Yours,” I said.
“Anyone’s,” he said.
“I cannot help it if I am a woman!” I wept.
“Nor should you,” he said.
“Buy me!” I begged.
“Only a slave begs to be bought,” he said.
“I am a slave!” I said.
“Obviously,” he said.
“Master!” I wept.
“It is a pity to waste you on a woman,” he said. “You are a man’s slave.”
“Yes,” I said, “yes, Master!”
“I thought you might be a hot little thing,” he said.
“Master,” I said, but I could not reach him.
“You have laundry to deliver,” he said.
Two or three fellows were standing about, smiling.
“You have aroused me, as a slave!” I said.
“You are scarcely warmed,” he said. “You do not even suspect what might be done to you.”
I knew Goreans sometimes set aside two or three days for a slave. It was common to devote a day, a morning, or an afternoon, to dalliance, a dalliance in which the slave, from time to time, might scream her need. But, too, of course, the use of a slave could be brief, dragging her to oneself by her leash or chain, throwing her over a saddle, or the arm of a couch, thrusting her, as one wished, to the carpet, kneeling, head to the floor, hands clasped behind the back of her neck, and such. Too, of course, the slave may be commanded to serve her master in a medley of modalities, at so little as a hand sign or a snapping of fingers.
“You have made me show myself slave,” I said, “publicly, in a street. I have been humiliated! I have been treated with contempt, I have been scorned!”
“All women are slaves,” he said. “You are no different.”
“I hate you!” I cried.
“Though not all are in collars,” he said.
“I hate you!” I screamed.
“You, at least, are in a collar,” he said.
I shook with frustration.
“Be careful of the laundry,” he said.
He then turned about, and left.
I turned to look after him.
After a bit, he turned, looking back. “Perhaps sixty copper tarsks,” he called. “Not a silver tarsk!”
Tears burst from my eyes.
He then resumed his departure.
After I had delivered the laundry, I returned to the street, to make my way back to the house of Epicrates.
On the wall opposite the back entrance, one of several, to Six Bridges, there was a faded, half-torn poster.
I had seen it before, but had paid little attention to it.
But, somehow, I had not forgotten it.
I now went to it, and, for the first time, regarded it with care. Amongst the animals portrayed on the poster, snow larls, large, striped urts, snarling sleen, performing tharlarion, prancing kaiila, there was another, where the poster was half torn. It was a beast, much like Master Grendel. It was clearly Kur.
Then I dismissed the matter from my mind.
As I made my way back to the house of Epicrates I recalled the Metal Worker. What a hateful brute he was. How I loathed him!
How he had humiliated me, and taught me my collar!
But it was nice of him, was it not, to have protected me from the girls of the house of Daphne? He needed not have done that. And how had he been there so opportunely? Was that a coincidence? I did not think so, which thought gave me considerable satisfaction. Too, I was sure I had seen him, from time to time, even before the Sul Market. It seemed likely that, at least from time to time, he had followed me. Certainly some men will so follow a slave about, or even a free woman. What then might be his motivation? Might he have some interest in a slave, even one who might be a mere barbarian slut?
Surely he was muchly different from most of the men I had known on my former world.
He was Gorean.
And I was a slave.
On the way back to the house of Epicrates, I hummed, and sang.
