'Put your head down again,' I said.
She did so, quickly, frightened.
'Ritual,' I said, 'is important. It is fulfilling, and meaningful. It is beautiful. It is symbolic, mnemonic and instructive. It establishes protocols. It expresses, defines and clarifies conditions. It is essential to, and ingredient within, civilization. Similarly, do not overlook the significance and value of symbolism. Even chains on a slave are often largely symbolic. Where is she to run to, slave-clad, collared and marked? She would be promptly returned to her master.'
'Yet her chains are chains, and they are real, and they hold her helplessly, and perfectly,' she said, head down.
'True,' I said.
She shuddered.
'What are various slave rituals?' I asked.
'The kissing and licking of the master's feet, she said, 'the bringing to him of his whip or sandals, in one's teeth, on all fours, kneeling, prostration before him, the performance of obeisances, such things.'
'And you understand the appropriateness, the rightfulness, of enforcing such things on slaves?'
'Of course,' she said.
'Perhaps you now understand the importance of rituals?' I said.
'Yes,' she said.
'You may raise your head,' I said.
This time she raised her head timidly.
'But I am not a slave,' she said. 'I am a free woman.'
'True,' I said.
'Had I been a slave, would I have been punished?' she asked.
'Yes,' I said.
'What would you have done to me?' she asked.
'I do not know,' I said, 'perhaps cuff you a bit, perhaps lash you with my belt.'
She shuddered. 'It is no wonder that slaves are obedient,' she said.
'Yes,' I said. 'Slaves are obedient.'
'I, too,' she said, 'can be obedient.'
'Stand,' I said.
She did. She was in the sand, to her ankles.
'Approach me,' I said.
She did so, until she was quite close to me. I could reach out and take her in my arms. 'You see,' she said, 'I can be quite obedient.' I did not move. She then lifted her arms and put them about my neck. 'I am now ready to earn my passage,' she said.
'Your passage?' I asked. Surely she remembered what I had told her, that she would follow, tied, on a strap.
'My keep,' she smiled.
'Doubtless it will be the first time that you, a free woman, ever earned your keep,' I said.
'In a sense, yes!' she laughed.
'You are sure you can stand it?' I asked.
'Yes,' she said, 'I am sure!'
She then lifted her head and rose up to her toes, to kiss me, but I drew back and removed her arms from about my neck. I then held her, by the arms, before me, facing me.
She looked up at me, puzzled.
'Turn about,' I said, 'and get on your belly in the sand.'
'I do not understand,' she said.
'Are you a disobedient captive?' I asked.
'No!' she said, and swiftly turned about and lay in the sand, prone.
I discarded my tunic and accouterments.
'Oh!' she cried, seized, held helplessly. 'I am a free woman!' she cried, protestingly.
I cried out, exultantly.
'You cannot do this to a free woman!' she informed me. 'Oh!'
Again I cried out. There were tears in my eyes. I tried not to make so much noise. I did not want rencers, or animals, to be attracted to the island.
She squirmed, and struggled. She reared up, on her elbows, in the sand.
Again I uttered the intensity of my relief, my pleasure, my satisfaction.
How long it had been since I had had a woman!
'I am a free woman,' she sobbed. But she was held helplessly on her belly in the sand, as in a vise.
'Aiii,' I said, softly.
'Let me go!' she screamed.
'Do not make so much noise,' I said.
'I?' she said, in fury.
'Hold still,' I said.
'I have little choice,' she said, angrily.
'Do not forget you are a captive,' I said.
'No,' she said.
'No, what?' I asked.
'No, captor!' she said, in fury.
I suppose she had little pleasure in this, at least at the time, and perhaps I should have been a bit more concerned for her than I was, as she was a free woman, and not a mere slave, but, frankly, I was not much in a mood to concern myself with her feelings. Does a thirsting man in the Tahari concern himself with the feelings of the water with which he at last slakes his thirst? Does a starving man in Torvaldsland concern himself with the feelings of the viands on which he at last feasts?
I continued to hold her, tightly. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath.
It is interesting, I thought, how if one is starved for sex, and nothing better is about, one may have recourse even to a free woman. Perhaps, I thought, that is why many free women wish to keep men starved for sex, that they will then continue to be of interest to hum This is very different from the slave girl, incidentally, whose sexuality has been so liberated, triggered and honed, that she is now the helpless victim of her needs, so much so that she often begs her master for his attentions.
'Oh!' she said.
'Ah!' I said, softly.
Again I received pleasure from her.
Then I was again quiet, she helpless in my grasp. She sobbed.
'Can you stand it?' I inquired.
'It doesn't matter, does it?' she asked. 'No,' I said.
'Sleen!' she said. 'Sleen!'
'It is not necessary to talk now,' I said. 'Release me,' she said.
'No,' I said.
'Please,' she said, a strange note in her voice.
'Why?' I asked. 'Are you afraid you may begin to feel?'
'No,' she said. 'Of course not!'
'But you are already beginning to feel,' I said.
'No,' she said. 'No!'
I felt her body move a little, helplessly. This gave me pleasure.
I wished she were a slave.
Free women are so inferior to slaves.
One of the great pleasures of making love to a slave is the uncompromising exploitation of her marvelous sexual sensitivities, her helplessnesses, they putting her so much in your power, enabling you to do with her as
