stripped, stripping myself, before that man! How well he then knew me! What had I left to hide from him, but then it is all of a kajira that is owned. He had then put me on the girl chain. But as I lay there that night, in the dirt, shackled to the common chain, I was pleased, so pleased, that I had been able to speak. But, I wondered how it was that he, a master, should be interested, if indeed he had been, in the thoughts and feelings of a kajira. Surely we kajirae were only beasts to be worked and put to use, and to be whipped if we were not pleasing. But, I thought, perhaps he is the sort of master who would be satisfied with owning nothing less than all of a kajira. The kajira, of course, knows that it is all of her that is owned. That is clear in law. But how frightening it sometimes is for her to realize that that is true, that it is all of her that is owned.
I supposed the saddle beasts, the racers, were now being prepared for the final races, which would culminate the day.
Tor-tu-Gor was still bright, but there were long shadows, from the awnings, lying across the nearer track. Across the way, at the far track, male work slaves were scattering water on the track.
People were now beginning to return to the tiers.
I sat there on the tier, tunicked, my legs closely together, my hands braceleted behind me, my left ankle fastened to the tier ring. I picked out the slaves in the crowd, in their colored tunics. I saw one slave in a short tunic which was white, with broad, diagonal black stripes. Her master, I thought, must be an old-fashioned fellow, a traditionalist, or such. Such tunics, it seemed, were once quite common, indeed almost a universal uniform of kajirae, but, later, happily, a great deal of variety had been introduced into slave tunics, in color, cut, neckline, and such. Masters now had a great many options at their disposal when it came to clothing their properties, if they chose to clothe them. We girls, muchly concerned, like all women, with enhancing our appearance, with being attractive, even beautiful, muchly approved this state of affairs. And, of course, though the final word is the master’s, it is a rare master who is immune to the delights which a lovely slave might choose to present for his consideration. Surely he does not wish his girl to be out of fashion, which might cast discredit on his taste, or wallet, or both. And now we might compete in a hundred new ways with one another, almost like free women who compete by means of the many luxurious varieties of their own bright, colorful, beautifully draped garmentures. To be sure, there is no danger of mistaking the brief, slight, dramatically revealing tunic of a slave with the concealing robes and veils of a free woman. I noted, again, the slave in the white, black-striped tunic. It was not unattractive. She had good legs.
I pulled a little at the bracelets which held my hands confined behind my back. How different this is from my former world, I thought. Here one thinks nothing of lovely, collared, back-braceleted, briefly tunicked slaves moving about in a crowd. Such a striking contrast with the others about, those well robed, so fully clothed! But how taken for granted here such beauties are! It is no more than a cultural commonplace. But on my former world this sort of thing would attract a great deal of attention, say, the appearance in a crowd of a lovely young woman, barefoot or sandaled, half naked, briefly tunicked, her neck in a collar, clearly locked on her neck, her hands braceleted closely, helplessly, behind her, perhaps even on a leash.
“Oh!” I said, for a cloth had been, from behind, suddenly slipped over my head. It was looped twice about my head and knotted in the back. I was blindfolded! “Master?” I said.
There was laughter from about.
I felt my head pulled back by the hair, and I was then, head back, facing upward, toward the billowing, striped awning, which I could not see.
I felt harsh masculine lips crush my lips.
I could not move, for the hand in my hair.
I could not speak, for the pressure.
Too, I had not been given permission to speak.
Then I moaned, and squirmed, and fought, and feared, and involuntarily trembled, for I sensed my body might yield to him.
How could I help myself?
I was a slave!
I feared that, in a moment, I might, to the amusement of those about, press myself piteously against him.
Had he touched me, as one might touch a slave, so confidently, so certainly, and possessively, I feared I would have leaped to his touch, even spasmed.
Then the lips were gone, and I heard more laughter from those about.
I leaped to my feet, in consternation, in misery, unable to see, helpless, jerking against the bracelets.
“Kneel down, slut,” said an unpleasant masculine voice, and I instantly knelt, frightened, before the tier, putting my head to the cement.
“She is indeed a slut,” said another voice.
Had they detected the incipience of my response?
“Worse,” commented another, “a slave.”
“How helpless they are,” said another.
“She is a hot little beast,” said another.
“Ten tarsk-bits for her,” said another.
There was more laughter.
I heard, amongst the laughter, the peels of feminine mirth. I thought, angrily, put you in a tunic, and blindfold you, and subject you to such attentions, and see if you are any different!
A bit later, I felt myself drawn up, kneeling, and hands undid the blindfold. “Master,” I cried, “what was done to me!”
I was quickly, brutally cuffed.
My face stung. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“I do not recall,” said he in whose charge I was, “that you were given permission to speak.”
I looked at him, wildly, pathetically.
“You may speak,” he said.
With him were the Lady Bina, with her program, Astrinax, and the guard, Lykos.
“What was done to me!” I exclaimed, tearfully.
“You were put to lip rape,” he said. “You were not used under the tier, were you?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“It does not matter, anyway,” he said, “as you have had, as I understand it, your slave wine.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He held up, before me, a tarsk-bit. He handed it to the Lady Bina, who placed it in her pouch.
“I did not see who did it to me,” I said.
“No matter,” he said. “The tarsk-bit was paid.”
“The tarsk-bit?” I said.
“Look there,” he said, “and there,” pointing.
I followed his direction, and, in two places, I saw a slave on a tier, one below and well to my right, and another down, four tiers, to my left. They were blindfolded. I then saw another slave, looking down the tiers toward a vendor, which slave suddenly stiffened, fighting a blindfold wrapped about her face. I saw a large fellow hold her head back, and feast, at his pleasure, on her lips. She struggled, helplessly. I wondered if it were the same fellow who had pressed himself upon me.
“It is a jollity of the Vennan races, a game,” he said, “to harvest kisses from the lips of unattended kajirae.”
“So why was I unattended?” I asked.
“I do not understand,” he said.
“I am in your charge,” I said. “Why did you leave me? Why did you not stay, and protect me?”
“The tarsk-bit was paid,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“You are not a free woman,” he said. “You are kajira. Surely, on the street, in the market, or elsewhere, you have received a sudden slap, or pinch, on the fundament, when unattended, even though you were in the tunic of a woman’s slave?”
“Yes,” I said, angrily.
