“It is only a matter between slaves,” said Alcinoe.
“What matter?” I asked.
“If I may,” she said, “I would prefer not to speak.”
“Very well,” I said.
I saw no reason to press her in this matter.
“Are you not ashamed,” I said, “to have behaved as you did, to have made such a spectacle of yourself?”
“The Lady Flavia of Ar,” she said, “would have been ashamed.”
“But not you?”
“No,” she said.
“What would the Lady Flavia of Ar have done?” I asked.
“The Lady Flavia of Ar had power,” she said. “Were the woman a slave, I would have purchased her, had her beaten, put in earrings, and sold out of the city.”
“I see,” I said.
I thought the former Lady Flavia of Ar might look well in earrings herself. They are inflicted, of course, only on the lowest and most despicable of slaves. The common slave fears earrings more than the slave lash or shearing. To be sure, they are attractive on a slave, and, eventually, a slave is likely to become quite proud of them, even defiantly arrogant, for what they say about her, about what she means to men and what may be expected of her in a man’s hands. She is special on a chain. Much may be expected of her. Pierced ears, too, tend to improve a girl’s price. For that reason, even in the absence of discipline, slavers sometimes pierce a girl’s ears, to her misery and horror, before putting her on the block, a pierced-ear girl.
“And if,” said Alcinoe, “the woman was free, and even of high caste, I would have arranged for her to be in a collar by nightfall, and, chained, hurried from the city, to some mean and distant market, from which, after piercing her ears, she would be sold for a pittance.”
Yes, I thought to myself, the former lady Flavia of Ar herself would look quite well in earrings.
Is it not the ultimate degradation of a female slave?
“But,” I said, “you are not the Lady Flavia of Ar.”
“No,” she said.
“You behaved as a slave,” I said.
“I am a slave,” she said.
“I trust that you and Iole,” I said, “were well punished for your altercation.”
Normally masters do not much mix in the squabbles of slaves but, in this case, damage had been done, slaves bloodied, and tunics torn. Too, the slaves, in response to the command, “Position,” had not knelt properly.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “We were tied, side by side, and well lashed.”
“Who wept first?” I asked. “Who cried out first for mercy?”
“I,” she said. “I wept first. I was weakest. I first cried out for mercy.”
I was not surprised at this.
“After what stroke?” I asked.
“The second,” she said.
“So soon,” I said.
“Iole cried out after the fourth!” she said.
“Still,” I said, “the second?”
“Master may recall,” she said, “that long ago I was lashed.”
“Yes,” I said, “for lying. You claimed I had raped you.”
“I remembered the blows,” she said. “I was terrified to feel another! I knew what it would be like! One stroke and I knew! I cried for mercy after the second stroke. Iole laughed, even in her pain, but she, too, soon, cried out for mercy.”
I was not surprised. They were both lovely female slaves.
“You fear the whip,” I said.
“We all do,” she said.
“Some free women,” I said, “think that slaves are weak, that they fear the whip.”
“I did not fear it when I was free,” she said, “for I had never felt it.”
“Many free women,” I said, “scorn slaves for their fear of the whip.”
“Let them be stripped and tied, and put under it,” she said, “and see how long they scorn it, and how quickly they beg for the surcease of its attentions.”
“It is a useful device in improving a slave,” I said.
“Doubtless,” she said.
“Perhaps you would do much to avoid it,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, her head down.
“You are quite sensitive to pain,” I said.
“So, too, is Iole!” she said. “So, too, are we all!”
I saw little of Iole now. She must now respond to the snapping of fingers of Aeacus, who seemed somewhat taken with her, after she had been half stripped by Alcinoe.
The five-stranded slave lash, of course, is designed to punish, and keenly. It is also designed not to mark, for one would not wish to lower the value of a slave.
There are differences, of course, amongst slaves.
“You are not a strong slave,” I said.
“No,” she said, “Alcinoe is a small slave, a weak slave, a helpless, vulnerable slave. She cries easily, she has little control over her emotions, her skin is much alive. It is thin, soft, and sensitive!”
I was pleased to hear this, for the body of such a woman can become a burning tissue of awareness. It is, far beyond that of duller women, alive and helpless, aware of the tiniest differences of temperature and air, and acutely so if naked or in a tunic; it is aware of the smallest differences in textures and fabrics, in the feel of fur, in the weaving of a mat under bare feet, the coolness of a scarlet tile, the whisper of silk on a thigh, the coarseness of a rope bound about her body, a strap on her wrist, the clasp of slave bracelets, holding her small hands behind her body, the weight of shackles on fair limbs.
“I am pleased you fear the whip,” I said. I was indeed pleased, for in such a case, it need seldom, if ever, be used. To be sure, it is occasionally useful, like a stroke of the switch, to remind a girl that she is a slave. It is well for a girl to never be in the least doubt about that. Even the most loving and kindest of masters will enforce a perfect discipline on his chattel, which reassures her, and to which she is helplessly responsive, sexually and psychologically.
Never let her forget to kneel appropriately, and obey quickly. Never let her cease to be pleasing to her master.
The least imperfection in a slave is not to be tolerated, for she is a slave.
“I do fear it,” she said. “Muchly so, terribly so, dreadfully so.”
“Excellent,” I said.
This is common in a woman whose body is much alive.
“It scalds me, and burns me, and each stroke immerses me in fire,” she said. “It shows me no mercy!”
“Then you would try to be a good slave, would you not?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” she said, “Master.”
“Good,” I said. “How many strokes did you and Iole receive?”
“Ten,” she said. “And in the end we were helpless in the ropes, unable to stand, our weight on our bound wrists, shuddering, sobbing, our bodies afire, from the encircling tentacles of the lash, scarcely able to breathe.”
“If one of you had seriously injured the other, cost an eye, or such,” I said, “it might have gone seriously with you.”
She shuddered. “Yes, Master,” she said.
“Your discipline,” I said, “was administered by an armsman.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You were courteous enough to thank him, I trust,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Suspended in the ropes, in our pain, as we could, we sobbed our gratitude.”
“The common point of a whipping,” I said, “is to improve the slave.”
“I think, Master,” she said, “that we both are now much concerned to be better slaves, and more pleasing to our masters.”
“You were both foolish,” I said, “to try to keep your knees more closely together than prescribed.”
“Each wished to appear superior to the other,” she said.
“Surely you were taught to kneel with your knees apart,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “But I did not even know that I was a pleasure slave!”
“You know now,” I said.
“But I am white-silk!” she said.
I found this of interest.
“For now,” I said.
“When am I to be opened, who is to open me?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps after your sale, by whoever buys you.”
She looked at me, wildly.
How helpless are slaves, as other animals.