sure, if I owned her, I thought I would shorten it to Tina. That is an excellent slave name. Indeed, I had owned slaves with that name.
She basked in my praise.
'I am called Tarl,' I said.
'Oh,' she said, reprovingly, 'that is such a fierce name.'
I shrugged.
'It is a northern name, is it not?'
'It is common in the north,' I said, 'particularly in Torvaldsland.' 'Men from Torvaldsland frighten me,' she said. 'They are so strong with women. You are not from Torvaldsland, are you?'
'No,' I said. To be sure, I had been in Torvaldsland, and I felt that I knew as much as any fellow there about what to do with a woman at his feet. But then any true master anywhere knows as much. Indeed, although the men of Torvaldsland are find and strong masters, they are generally rather direct and straightforward about what they are doing. In the south, in the cities, in my opinion, because of the richness in history and tradition, and the much greater cultural sophistication and complexity, a female is likely to find herself placed under a much stricter and more exacting bondage than in the north. To be sure, much depends on the girl and the master. Some girls thrive best with uncompromising barbarian masters who will put them on the oar or under the whip at the least sign of their being displeasing and others find that they did not truly understand helplessness and submission until they found their chain fastened to the couch ring of a gentleman.
'That is reassuring, ' she smiled. 'Where are you from?'
'From the northwest, near Thassa,' I said. I saw no reason to tell her I was from Port Kar. She might then have become not feignedly, but actually, alarmed. Most of the fellows of Port Kar have something of the ruthless lust of pirates in their view of females, coupled with some knowledge, because of a popular form of commerce in the city, of sophisticated techniques of slave handling and management.
'Where did you just come from?' she asked.
'Torcadino,' I said. 'Oh,' she said, disappointed.
'What is wrong?' I asked.
'You are not a refugee, are you?' she asked.
'Why?' I asked.
'Then you might have had a difficult trip,' she said.
'I see,' I said.
'I do not believe things are as bad in Torcadino as they say,' she said. 'Oh?' I asked.
'No,' she said. 'They are just trying to frighten us,' I saw her eye on my purse.
'I came in by fee cart,' I said.
'I see,' she said. I saw she liked that information. I had thought she would. It suggested I had money.
'Are you of the Merchants?' she asked.
'I have sometimes bought and sold things,' I told her. I saw that this pleased her. I did not tell her that many of the things I had bought and sold were much like herself.
'May I call you Tarl? ' she asked.
'Of course,' I said. She was after all, a free woman. If she were to become a slave, of course, there would be no such liberty in such matters.
I poured her more ka-la-na.
She drank. She leaned forward, her elbows on the small table. Her breasts seemed to invite my touch. Her lips were warm and soft. 'There was another reason,' she said, 'other than the splendid dismissal of a slut slave from your presence, why I came to your table.'
'Oh' I said.
'I feel drawn to you,' she said.
'I understand,' I said. I glanced at the fellow still slumped on the other table.
'Tarl,' she whispered.
'Yes,' I said. She knew her business, this woman. The sooner she was in a collar the better.
'Yes,' I said, softly, encouragingly. 'Oh, no,' she said, drawing back, suddenly, seeming to wipe a tear from her eye, 'I must not say such things to you.'
'What?' I asked, kindly.
'I must leave,' she said. 'I must hurry away now.' She put her hands out, that I might gently take them in mine, holding her at the table, restraining her sweetly, in earnest, gentle persuasion, from departing. But I, curious to see what would happen, apparently did not notice this opportunity.
She did not leave.
'I just do not know what to do,' she said, turning her head from side to side. 'What is wrong?' I asked, seemingly concerned.
'How terrible you must think me,' she said, wiping away another tear, it seemed, from the corner of her eye.
'Not at all,' I said. I certainly did not think her terrible at all. Indeed, I thought she was luscious.
'I have been too bold,' she said. 'I approached your table. I have spoken to you first. I have permitted you, a man I scarcely know, to buy me ka-la-na. I am so ashamed.'
'There is no need to be ashamed,' I said.
'But far worse,' she said, 'I revealed to you my feelings, I told you of my unspeakable loneliness. Are you lonely?'
'Not particularly,' I said. It is normally only free folks among free folks who are lonely, each so separate from the other. It is not easy for men to be lonely who have access to slaves. Similarly the slaves, so occupied, and of necessity so concerned to please the master, are seldom given the time for the indulgence of loneliness. Too, of course the incredible intimacy of the relationship, intellectual and emotional, as well as sexual, for the master to inquire into, and command forth, and is normally inclined to do so, her deepest thoughts and feelings, which must be bared to him, as much as her body, as well as command, even casually, her most intimate and delicious sexual performances, militates against loneliness.
In slavery total intimacy is not only customary, but it can be made obligatory, under discipline. Masters like to know their girls. They want to know them with a depth, detail and intimacy that it would be quite inappropriate to expect of, or desire from, a prideful free companion, whose autonomy and privacy is protected by her lofty status. In a sense, the free woman is always, to one extent or another veiled. The slave, on the other hand, is not permitted veils. She is, so to speak, naked to the master, and fully.
There is no doubt that slaves without private masters, or slaves in multiple-slave chains, arrangements, households, institutions, and such, may experience terrible loneliness. There is doubtless great loneliness, for example, in a rich man's pleasure gardens. Indeed, the presence of a lovely slave there might not even be known to the master, but only to her immediate keepers, and the master's agents, who may have purchased her, or accountants, who keep records of the master's properties and assets. Perhaps she must beg piteously to be called to the attention of the master. Some women in such a place, even those whose existence is known, or remembered, at least vaguely, might wait for months for a summons to the couch of the master, he perhaps selecting a ribbon with her name on it, from a rack of slave ribbons, and tossing it to an attendant, that she be brought in chains to this quarters that night, the ribbon on her collar. Too, it can doubtless be lonely in the house of a slaver, especially when the guards do not choose to amuse themselves with you, or have you perform for them, or, say, when you find yourself alone at night, perhaps a work slave, in the basement of a cylinder, chained in a cement kennel. 'Oh,' she said.
'With you here,' I said, 'how could I be lonely?'
'What a lovely thing to say,' she said.
I thought it has been pretty good myself. To be sure, it had required quick thinking.
'But mostly,' she said, as though tearfully, 'I am distressed at the boldness with which I spoke before.'
'Boldness?' I asked.
'When I admitted, as I should never have done,' she said, 'that I was drawn to you.'
' 'Drawn to me'?' I inquired.
'Yes,' she said, lowering her eyes.
'I understand,' I said. 'You were drawn to me because something within you seemed to sense, and
