'A slave whip,' she said.
'Do you now begin to understand what it might be to be a slave?' I asked.
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'This is an alcove,' I said. 'But you may think of it as a very special sort of place.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'As a chamber of submission,' I said.
'Yes, yes, Master,' she said.
'Think of it now,' I said, 'think of it deeply and keenly, with every fiber and particle of your lovely body, as a chamber of submission, a chamber in which you, a slave girl, must bend in all respects, a chamber in which you, only a female slave, must submit, in every bit of you, totally, completely, to the will of men.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'I will now touch you,' I said.
'I am frigid,' she wept. 'Do not kill me, I beg of you.'
'Think deeply now, fully,' I said. 'You are in the chamber of submission.'
'Yes, Master,' she wept.
I then touched her, with exquisite gentleness.
Her haunches leaped, the chains shook. She looked at me, startled.
'Do you submit, fully?' I asked her.
'Yes, Master,' she said. Then she lifted her body, piteously. 'Please touch me again,' she said.
I let her wait for a time. Then, again. I touched her, very gently.
'Aiii!' she cried out, squirming. I continued to touch her for a bit. 'Oh, oh,' she began to moan.
Then I stopped touching her.
She looked up at me. 'What are these sensations? she asked.
'Apparently you should be whipped,' I said.
'Why?' she asked. 'Why, Master?'
'Because you have lied,' I said. 'You told me that you were frigid.'
She looked up at me, frightened.
'But you are not,' I said. 'You are only another hot slave.'
'No, no,' she said. 'Not a hot slave, not I!'
'Let us see,' said I.
'Oh, oh,' she moaned, softly.
She looked up at me. 'How can you respect me? she asked.
'You are not to be respected,' I told her. 'You are only a slave.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'You no longer have any pride to guard,' I said. 'A slave is not permitted pride.'
'Yes, Master,' she wept. 'Oh, oh.' Then she threw her head to the side, on the furs. 'I want to respect myself!' she cried.
'Your obligation is not to respect yourself,' I told her, 'but to be yourself.'
She looked at me, tears in her eyes. 'I dare not be myself,' she whispered.
'Is it wrong for a woman to be a woman?' I asked.
'Yes,' she said, 'yes! It is wrong, and demeaning!'
'Interesting,' I said. 'What should a woman be?' I asked her.
'She should be a man!' she said.
'But, quite simply, you are not a man,' I told her.
'I dare not be a woman,' she wept.
'Why?' I asked.
'Because,' she said, 'I sense, in my heart, that a woman is a slave.'
'Is it not permissible for a slave to be a slave?' I asked.
'No!' she said.
'Why?' I asked.
'I do not know!' she wept. 'I do not know!'
'Can it be wrong to be what one truly is?' I asked.
'Yes, yes!' she said.
'It is wrong for the tree to be a tree, the rock a rock, the bird a bird?' I asked.
'No, no,' she said.
'Why, then,' I asked, 'is it wrong for a slave to be a slave?'
'I do not know,' she said.
'Perhaps it is not wrong for a slave to be a slave,' I said.
'I dare not even think that,' she said. Then she said, 'Please do not stop touching me, Master.'
'Does a slave beg?' I asked.
'Yes, Master,' she said. 'Evelyn begs Master not to stop touching her.'
I kissed her, softly, about the breasts, but did not stop touching her.
'Thank you, Master,' she breathed.
Then, suddenly, she tore at the chains, trying to free herself, but could not, of course, do so.
'What is wrong?' I asked her.
'I must resist you!' she cried. 'I must not yield! I must not yield!'
'Why not?' I asked.
'I sense the thing in me,' she said. 'I have never felt it before, but this must be it. It is like waves, from so deep in me. It is beginning to overwhelm me. It is fantastic. It is unbelievable. No! No! You must stop touching me!'
I stopped touching her. 'Why?' I asked.
'I was beginning to come to you,' she said.
'So?' I asked.
'You do not understand,' she said. 'I was beginning to come to you-as a slave to her master!'
'But you are a slave,' I told her.
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'And you are in the chamber of submission,' I said.
'You give me no choice,' she said.
I smiled at her. 'This time, and this time alone,' I said, 'I will give you a choice.'
'A choice?' she said.
'A slave's choice,' I told her.
'What is it?' she asked.
'You may yield-or die,' I told her.
She looked at me with terror. 'I choose to yield, Master,' she said.
'Of course,' I said, 'you are a slave.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'Next time,' I said, 'you will not even be given that choice. It will not be necessary. Your slavery has now been confirmed. You will thenceforth be accorded no choice whatsoever, no alternative, however dire, to the enforcement of your submission upon you.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
Then I began again to touch her, lifting her to the heights she had chosen, the degrading joys of bondage, the humiliating ecstasy of the chained slave girl.
'Aiii!' she cried, throwing her head back. 'I yield me yours, my Master!' she cried.
I had not even, this early in the evening, elected to enter her.
'Please touch me, hold me,' she wept, helplessly. I did so. How piteous were her small hands, opening and closing, In the wrist rings.
'I did not know it could be anything like that,' she said.
'It was nothing,' I told her.
'Nothing!' she wept. 'It was the most incredible experience of my life.'
