hand?” I asked.
“Yes!” she said, shortly.
“You may then beg,” I said.
“I beg to be fed by hand,” she said.
I then, a pellet at a time, fed her, she reaching, delicately, to obtain the pellet.
“Keep your hands on your thighs,” I cautioned her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“I do seem to recall you,” I said, “now that I think of it, from an emporium, faraway.”
“I thought Master might,” she said. “May I have more?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But then,” I said, “you were not kneeling, in a slave tunic, and collar.”
“Please, Master,” she said.
“I like you better as you are now,” I said.
“Please, Master,” she said.
I fed her, one after the other, two more pellets.
I then put a few in the palm of my hand, and let her take them from my palm. The pellets were dry, but her mouth and lips, and tongue and teeth, moving and nibbling, were moist. It was an interesting combination of sensations. Her head was down, over my palm. Her hair fell about her shoulders. It is no wonder that slaves are sometimes fed by hand. There are many subtle pleasures associated with the mastery.
“Kneel back,” I said.
She did so.
“I am still hungry,” she said.
“You have had enough,” I said.
“Please,” she said.
“We must be careful of your figure,” I said.
“Please,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“As Master wills,” she said.
I then addressed myself to the other two slaves. “Be about the business of the camp,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” they said, and rose up and departed, leaving me alone with the other slave. Both seemed pleased, for some reason. Tula went off to the vicinity of Aeson, and Mila somehow found herself in the proximity of Genak.
“Who owns you?” I asked.
“Surely Master knows,” she said.
“Your collar is unmarked,” I said.
“I am a camp slave,” she said, “owned by the Pani.”
“You were a fool to run away,” I said. “Why did you run away?”
“It seems,” she said, “because I am a fool.”
“You have been a nuisance,” I said.
“Forgive me,” she said, “for any inconvenience I may have caused Master.”
“You are a mediocre slave,” I said.
“Not every man finds me so,” she said.
“Ordinary, quite average,” I said.
“I suspect Master did not always find me so. If I am not mistaken, I owe my presence on this world, and my collar, to Master.”
“So do many others,” I said. “And many better.”
“It was my knees which were forced apart by Master Genserich or Master Aeson,” she said.
“You do not know by which one?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “I kept my head down. I am a slave.”
“I trust you understand that,” I said.
“It has been well taught to me,” she said.
“The other slaves’ knees were not forced apart?” I said.
“No,” she said.
“I gather you find that noteworthy,” I said.
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Are you a vain slave?” I asked.
“Are not all slaves vain?” she asked.
I supposed that was true, for they were women. And why should women not be vain, as they are so precious, desirable, and beautiful? How can men not lust for them, and make them slaves? What pallid, inert fool would not wish to own one? Whose blood would be so weak that he would not see them as the natural property of men? And what woman was more entitled to her vanity than the female slave, the female of females, selected by connoisseurs for the block? It was no wonder free women hated her so. Was her very presence not a reproach to less attractive women? Was not the collar itself a badge of her quality, the brand seared into her thigh an indelible certification of her desirability? Does her very presence not say, “I have been found exciting, attractive, desirable, and beautiful, so much so that men will have me in a collar”?
“Are you a saucy slave?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said.
“A whip can quickly take that out of a slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
My hand moved to the disrobing loop on her tunic. A jerk would drop it to her thighs, and, should she stand, it would be about her ankles. Girls are taught to step gracefully from such a tunic. I did not doubt but what she would do so, as well. It might be interesting to see.
“Do not strip me,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“You do not own me,” she said.
“You might look well without your tunic,” I said.
“You do not own me,” she said.
“You are a camp slave,” I said, “and I am of the camp. It may be done with you as I please.”
Surely she had seen girls