Other former women of the empire moaned, looking about themselves, fearfully, wonderingly, at men who might, at a word from Abrogastes, become their masters.
Huta’s hips, despite her efforts, moved.
“Forgive me, Master! Mercy, Master!” she cried.
“The music, slave, the music!” cried one of the musicians, angrily.
Abrogastes regarded her, eyes closely lidded, face expressionless, considering what a mere touch might do to such a slave.
“The music!” cried the musician.
Doubtless for such a lapse, in a tavern or brothel, a girl might be muchly leathered.
“The music!” insisted the musician.
The whip lies always to hand, you see, to instruct such women in deportment, its presence admonishing them to control themselves to the end of the dance.
They may afterward be thrown to those for whom they have been reserved.
It was not unknown, too, that their own girls might, upon occasion, in the dark, woolen, silk-lined, lamp-lit tents, fall to the rugs, weeping, tearing away veils, touching their collars, writhing, begging for the touch of masters.
Such was sometimes permitted, if there were no guests.
But sometimes, even in taverns and brothels, it is recognized that a woman, even one frightened and resolved, cannot always help herself. She is, after all, a slave, and is thus in a state of intensified nature. Some of the manuals recommend lenience, even indulgence, at such times.
What is done depends, of course, on the master.
“Dance!” ordered he who was first among the musicians.
Huta then, in agony, crawled to a few feet before the dais of Abrogastes, and knelt before him, precisely as she had before the spear.
“Good! Good!” said the leader of the musicians.
She then, to the music, leaned backward, until her dark hair was swirled upon the rush-strewn floor, and then, slowly, gracefully, came forward, lifting herself, her hands, and arms and body seemingly entwined with the music, obedient to its beat and caress, helplessly responsive to the melody, exquisitely, vitally vulnerable to it, submissive to it, swept up in it, like living silk in the wind, borne by it, and in it, sensuous and rhapsodic, wordless and eloquent, fluent in the speech of desire and emotion, like the glow of firelight on a brass vessel, the movement of silk, the rustle of ankle bells.
“Good,” said the leader of the musicians.
Then she bent forward, as she had before the spear, and, trembling, performed obeisance, head to the dirt, palms on the dirt, before Abrogastes, and then lowered herself to her belly, and crawled to the dais.
“Down,” said Abrogastes to the rumbling, agitated hound to his right.
The beast subsided, its ears erecting, the bristling, manelike hair, crackling, descending over the knot of muscle at the back of its neck.
Huta then squirmed to the surface of the dais and, putting down her head, began to kiss and lick at the boots of Abrogastes, as she had at the butt of the spear, still held by the two warriors toward the center of the hall.
The music then, suddenly, stopped, Huta’s tiny hands about the left boot of Abrogastes, her lips pressed down, piteously, fervently, to the boot of her master.
Huta trembled.
The furred boot of Abrogastes was damp with her tears, and dampened, and streaked, pressed down, wet, from the desperate, placatory attentions of her soft tongue and lips.
Abrogastes rose to his feet, and, with his boot, thrust Huta from the dais.
She lay then on her side in the rush-strewn dirt at the foot of the dais, trembling.
She drew her legs up, she covered the soft, swelling beauty of her bosom with her hands.
Her hips stirred in the dirt.
She wept. No longer could she help herself.
“Behold the helpless slave!” laughed a man.
There was much laughter.
But the slave, miserable, and in agony, could not, as we have said, help herself.
“The proud Huta has been stripped of her freedom,” said a man.
“And of her clothing,” laughed another.
“And now, too,” said another, “she has been stripped of her pride.”
Huta shuddered.
She sensed that no woman who has so danced can ever again be anything but a man’s slave.
She lay there in the dirt, trying to control herself.
“It remains now only to strip her of her virginity,” said another man.
“Yes,” said another.
“Abrogastes!” cried men. “Abrogastes!”
But Abrogastes descended from the dais, and stepped over the trembling form before the dais, which had, in the plans of Abrogastes, now served its purpose.
“Are you well feasted, and well entertained?” called out Abrogastes.
“Yes!” called men, and other forms of life.
Goblets smote upon the heavy planks of the feasting tables.
“This is nothing,” cried Abrogastes, “only a little food and drink, and the pathetic appeal, in dance, of a meaningless slave.”
Men looked at one another.
“Do you think it is for the sake of such trivialities, such pleasantries, that I have called you here?”
“Speak, Abrogastes,” called a man.
“Behold the spear of oathing!” called Abrogastes, pointing to the great spear, held upright by two warriors.
The hall was silent.
Abrogastes then surveyed the former women of the empire, kneeling, huddled together, frightened, here and there, before the tables.
They shrank back, but well, after the dance of Huta, knew themselves slaves.
She who was the first of the three display slaves, kneeling, raised her hands from her thighs, turning them, and lifting the palms, piteously, to Abrogastes.
Another, she who had been lashed when she had called out for the pity of masters, lifted her head a little, pathetically, but dared not move. Muchly did she fear the switch of her impatient, youthful mentor. Her eyes spoke for her.
Others of the women had their thighs pressed closely together. Some squirmed.
“To the spear, slaves!” called Abrogastes, harshly, waving his hand about.
These women had been well instructed by the example of Huta, and they hurried piteously to the great spear, and desperately, in fear for their lives, and, too, muchly aroused by what they had seen, the dance, and the masters about, and their own vulnerability, and condition, as slaves, ministered to the great spear, holding it, grasping it, pressing themselves against it, pathetically, caressing it, licking and kissing it.
There was much laughter at the tables, as the former women of the empire, with their bodies, their small hands, and their lips, and tongues, bestowed attentions upon the mighty spear.
They crowded about the spear, trying to reach it, kneeling, and bellying, none on their feet, each vying with the other, each striving to touch it, to lick and kiss it, each attempting to do so more lovingly, more zealously, more submissively, than the other.
“Behold the women of the empire!” called Abrogastes. He gestured to the crowd of slaves at the spear, performing the spear obeisance.
The men at the tables looked on, approvingly.
“Do they not attempt to caress pleasantly?” asked Abrogastes.
“Yes,” said men.
“Do they not attempt to lick and kiss well?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes!” called men.
“Are they not pretty little things?” called Abrogastes.
“Yes,” shouted men, approvingly.
“Do you not think they could be instructed to squirm well?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes!” laughed men.
“Enough!” cried Abrogastes, sharply, and the lads, who had been alerted to this moment in the feast, long before its commencement, lashed the ladies from the spear and to their bellies, where they then lay in the dirt, clustered about it.
“We are despised, as you know, my brothers,” said Abrogastes, “by those of the empire, we, the lords of stars, by the fat, the haughty and the weak, by the complacent, the petty, the smug, the wealthy, the arrogant.”