"I remember the arena,” said Cabot, slowly. “I was not pleased."
"Few were pleased,” said Peisistratus. “You drank to forget, too much, too long, but one does not forget."
"No,” said Cabot, slowly. “One does not forget."
"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus, “it is time to remember."
"No,” said Cabot, sullenly.
"Are you not of the Warriors?” asked Peisistratus.
"Once,” muttered Cabot.
"Always,” said Peisistratus.
Cabot tried to see the slave. “She is not collared, is she?” he asked, puzzled.
"Those are coins,” said Peisistratus.
"For each use of her, after the red-silking of her,” asked Cabot, “the coins then to her master?"
"She is not a coin girl,” said Peisistratus. “If she were, the coin box would be chained about her neck and locked. She would have no access to the coins."
"Why are there strings of coins about her neck?” asked Cabot.
"They are useful, to remind her that she is a slave, that she has economic value, that she can be bought and sold, and such. Let her think of herself as, in effect, similar to the coins, an object, a property."
"I see,” said Cabot.
"There are twelve strings of coins, your winnings,” said Peisistratus. “From the arena."
"I do not want them,” said Cabot.
"Nonetheless, they are yours."
"Why are they about her neck?"
"I told you,” said Peisistratus. “I would throw her in with the coins."
"It is she?"
"Yes."
"The brunette?"
"Yes."
The slave straightened her body, and lifted her head, and looked away. She assumed an aspect of irritation, of resignation, of disinterest, of frigidity, of disdain, even of boredom.
She was determined to give masters no pleasure.
How naive she was!
Did she not understand how she could not help but give them pleasure, how even her ruthless, helpless subordination to their will would give them pleasure, and how, if they chose, in their patience, she could be inevitably transformed into a squirming, begging instrument of delight, thereafter to be vulnerably, hopelessly dependent on a man's touch?
"Beware, slave,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes, Master,” she said, frightened.
"I do not want her,” said Cabot.
The slave gasped, and drew back.
She regarded him, startled, disbelievingly.
Could a man not want her?
She drew back, further. Her assumed mien of boredom, of disinterest, and such, was now well vanished. She now seemed confused, frightened, disbelieving. How could this be? Had she heard aright? She was kneeling, she, who, quite possibly, had regarded herself as the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, she who had known herself excruciatingly desired, who had taken great pleasure in leading males on, and tormenting them, and then rejecting them, was now kneeling before a male, utterly vulnerable, she now a slave, at the mercy of masters, strings of coins about her throat, and he had not cried out with pleasure at the prospect of her use, had not seized her by the hair and drawn her rudely, instantly, to the privacy of one of the small, enclosed, lamp-lit alcoves.
Was she lacking, was she not attractive?
Was she not such that she could make men her toys?
Or was it now that she was the toy, with whom men might choose to play, or not to play?
She seemed uncomprehending. Momentarily she was angry. Then she was afraid, terribly afraid.
She was now a slave, and helpless. What if she was not wanted? What would be done with her? Too, she now knew that her beauty, in this place, was not that unusual. Here, she was but one slave amongst others.
Slaves are chosen for their beauty, you see. The collars on their necks are not easily purchased.
Too, she was here before a man, and men, such as she had while on Earth met only in her dreams, men of will, and force, men before whom such as she, she realized, could be but a slave.
But he had not wanted her?
She wanted to be wanted.
She must be wanted!
She needed to be wanted!
She knew that she, if necessary, would beg to be wanted!
Despite her pretences from Earth, you see, clung to hitherto so futilely, she was now muchly different from what she had been.
Even in her virginal state, her belly was muchly stirred. Effusions of desire, of readiness, of desires to please, in this so unnatural, and yet so natural, a place, had begun to afflict her with intimations of submission and ecstasy.
Here, in this place, her feigning, her pretenses of bravado, her postures of indifference, and such, suddenly seemed pointless and absurd, even to her.
And what if masters chose not to accept them?
Here she was not as she had been on Earth.
These men would not be likely to be patient with her.
Here she found herself a woman, and a slave, amongst true men.
And she knew such men would expect much of a slave.
And she must strive desperately to please them!
How paradoxical it all seemed to her. Here, where her body was subject to shackles, she found her needs, long denied and desperately, even fearfully, suppressed, unshackled. Here they were allowed to emerge, and run free, into the daylight of nature. Here she could be a joyful, shameless animal, which, as a slave she was.
Indeed, those needs must emerge.
They could be commanded forth.
Men would have it so.
They would have her the helpless victim of her needs, so much then at their imperious mercy.
And what of these new desires, such remarkable consequences of the liberation of her deepest self?
Such desires!
Keen, insistent, irresistible, overwhelming desires!
How like torture, and ecstasy, they were!
Already she sensed she could become their prisoner, as much as though weighty chains had been locked upon her small, fair limbs.
Well would she be enshackled in them! How much they would place her at the mercy of masters!
For the first time in her life, other than in the joy of her dreams, she understood how a woman could kneel before a man, and place her lips tenderly, humbly, gratefully, submissively, to his feet, thanking him for his collar and the fulfillment he granted to her.
Too, she suspected how she, bound, might understand, and gratefully welcome, even the stroke of the whip, unfit for free women, but confirming for her as it would her status as object and property, as something subject to the whip, as something owned by her master.
Already, you see, she had begun to suspect, and well, what it might be, to be a woman, and a slave.
And, as the Priest-Kings, in their cruel wisdom, had chosen her for her desirability, and particularly to a man such as Cabot, indeed, had chosen her to be irresistible to him, so, too, in her way, she had been matched to Cabot, as slave to master, that he would be irresistible to her.
And now, as she knelt helpless before him, the choice wholly his, he had not accepted her. He had denied her acquisition.
She, however incomprehensibly, had been rejected! Tears of shock, of amazement, of confusion, of fear, of misery, of helplessness, sprang to her eyes, stung them, filled them, and ran down her cheeks.
"I fear you have distressed her,” said Peisistratus.
Cabot shrugged. What, after all, are the feelings of a slave?
"Stop crying,” said Peisistratus to the slave.
"Yes, Master,” sobbed the slave.
"Would you rather I had strung the coins on a post?” asked Peisistratus.
"Do whatever you want with them,” said Cabot, slowly.
"You could kill yourself, drinking like this,” said Peisistratus. “Men have."
"What would it matter?” said Cabot.
"It might matter much,” said Peisistratus.
"Is it truly her?” asked Cabot, trying to focus on the slave.