'Yes, Master,' sobbed Phoebe, her eyes closed.
'But you are my love slave,' he said to her.
She sobbed, with joy. He touched her and she trembled beneath his touch like a vulo.
He then rose to his feet, and removed a coiled slave whip from the wall. This he threw down beside Phoebe, the coils of the leather cracking on the floor, beside her head, to the right.
'You will serve,' he said.
'Yes, Master!' she whispered.
He then put his hand to her hair, letting her feel the tightness of his grasp, and turning her head from one side to the other. Then he put his hand on the back of her neck, letting her feel this grip. He then took her right ankle in his hand and lifted it, bending her lower leg, his grip like an ankle ring, toward her body. Then he released it, and let it return to its former position. She lay there very quietly. Then she made a soft noise, as he had begun to caress her, audaciously and masterfully.
I went over and picked up the sewing which Phoebe had dropped to the floor, when she had leaped to her feet. It was a tunic resembling that of a state slave, done in the new fashion. The garmenture of the state slave, that of a girl owned by the city itself, some time ago, had been brief, sleeveless and gray, slashed to the waist. The collar worn by such slaves had been gray, matching the tunic, and it had been customary to lock about their left ankle a steel band, also gray, from which depended five small bells, also of gray metal. Fashions in such things tended to change, of course, even in normal times. For example, the hemlines might go up and down a bit, the garments might be accented or trimmed with color, or not, the number of bells on the ankle might be increased, say, to seven, or be returned to the original five, and so on. Currently, however, the garmenture of the state slaves, as one might have expected, given the defeat of Ar and the hegemony of Cos, had been considerably altered. No longer were the tunics slashed to the waist. Now the necklines were high, and about the throat. Similarly the hemlines had been considerably lowered, just above the knee. These alterations had been introduced to assist in the subjugation of the men of Ar, by seeking to depress their sexual vitality. Similarly, of course, no longer were the left ankles of the slaves belled. the sound of slave bells on a woman's ankle tends to be sexually stimulating to a male. To be sure, of late, with the rise of the Delta Brigade, and the undercurrent of unrest in Ar, there seethed in the city, doubtless to the dismay of Cos, a surgency of male energies. As I have mentioned earlier, many masters, not, no longer sent their slaves unescorted about the city, until they had fastened them in the iron belt. The slave tunic of the state slave was still sleeveless, however. That is common with slave garments.
I looked down at the new slave, who was lying on the blanket, on the floor. I gestured that she should stand. When she had done so, I handed her the tunic. 'Hold this against you,' I said.
She did so, with both hands, closely, one above her breasts and one below. I regarded her.
'Master?' she asked.
'You could make a rock sizzle,' I said.
She flushed. 'Thank you, Master,' she said.
I continued to regard her.
She would be fetching, indeed, in that tunic. The Cosians, I thought, had to some extent miscalculated. Did they really think that the excitingness of a slave could be reduced by such a triviality as the addition of a few horts of material to a tunic? Did they not realize it would still be the single garment she wore, the one piece of cloth she was permitted, and that it would have no nether closure? And even more significantly did they not understand that her true excitingness did not depend on such things as a collar and a particularly sort of livery, as telling, and revealing and lovely, as these things were, but on her condition itself, that she was slave? That she was slave, the essence and perfection of the female, was what made her such an extraordinary, special, incomparable object of desire, and that would be so whether she were kneeling in a ta-teera, clad in an evening gown or concealed from head to toe in the dark haik of the Tahira, peeping out through a tiny screen of black lace. I then, in a moment, took back the garment, and dropped it to the side, where Phoebe had been working, near the small sewing basket there. I indicated that the slave might kneel and she did, her hands on her thighs, her knees in the appropriate position.
Phoebe was now gasping at one side of the room.
'Master?' said the new slave.
'Yes?' I said.
'Was I pleasing?'
'Yes,' I said.
'Do you think another man might find me pleasing, as well?' she asked.
'It is possible,' I said.
'I am not now as stupid, or ignorant, as I was, am I?' she asked.
'No,' I said.
'I am a much better slave now, am I not?'
'Yes,' I said.
'I am grateful for my training,' she said.
'It is nothing,' I said.
'It is my hope that I have profited from it,' she said.
'You have,' I said, 'considerably.'
'Then you think I might not, under certain circumstances, at least, be found displeasing by another man?'
'No,' I said.
She put down her head, shyly.
'I would not get my hopes up,' I said. 'It is your business to obey me, and your primary objective, in the first phase of our operations, is merely to deliver the message.'
'I understand, Master,' she said.
'In the course of this delivery,' I said, 'you may behave as you wish. That I leave to you.'
'Yes, Master,' she said, shyly.
There was a sudden noise at the side of the room and I looked there, quickly. Marcus, turning, rolling. Phoebe locked in his arms, had struck into the wall there.
'Approach me, on all fours,' I said to the new slave. She did so, dragging the ankle chain behind her.
I indicated a flat leather box to one side. 'Knee crawl,' I said. 'Fetch it here.'
She went to the box on her knees and picked it up, and returned to a place before me. It had been a simple knee crawl. I was briefly reminded, however, of the Turian knee walk, sometimes used by slave dancers. I considered the slave. I did not doubt but what she might be taught to dance.
'Master?' she asked.
'Give it to me,' I said.
But I did not take it.
She looked at me, puzzled.
'Forgive me, Master!' she said.
She then, kneeling before me, her knees widely spread, lifted and extended her arms, proffering me the box. Her head was down, between her lifted, extended arms.
'It seem you still have much to learn,' I said.
'Forgive me, Master,' she said.
I took the box.
She then knelt back, her hands on her thighs, her head still bowed.
'Your training will continue,' I said.
'Thank you, Master,' she said.
'But it seems that perhaps it should be sharpened with the whip,' I said. 'As master wishes,' she said, trembling.
The whip is an excellent mnemonic device. The girl who receives a lash, or lashes, for an error, seldom repeats it.
'To all fours,' I said. 'And stay here close, where I can reach you.'
I then put out my hand and touched the collar on her neck. It was one of three collars I had for her. The
