Cornhair supposed that a woman did look well, so tied, so displayed, so helpless. She could scarcely move.
“Do you think men would find her attractive?” asked another woman.
“She would do for a use or two,” said the man.
“Do you think she could do for a brothel slut?” asked the first woman.
“Certainly,” said the man.
“She is the sort?” he was asked.
“Eminently,” said the man.
“I do not want to be sold to a brothel!” thought Cornhair. “Do not sell me to a brothel, Mistresses!”
Cornhair had hitherto, for no good reason, taken it for granted that she would be sold to a private Master. It had never occurred to her that she might be sold to a business, an organization, a household, or such. Suddenly, to her astonishment, as she had not really thought of it before, she realized that, as a slave, she hoped very much for, and, for some reason, as though it made any difference, desperately wanted, a private Master. She hoped to be owned by a man, by one man, by only one man, whom she might then strive to serve and please, and, interestingly, she wanted to be his only slave. She suddenly realized, too, to her surprise, that she would hope to be a good slave, and would try, with all her intelligence and her emotional being, to be a good slave, indeed, the best slave she could be. And she sensed more might be involved in such a matter than merely being frightened of the whip. To be sure, the whip would be there, for she would be a slave.
“So,” said the man, “you are going to sell her to a brothel?”
“No!” thought Cornhair.
“No,” said the voice of the first woman.
In her bonds, Cornhair rejoiced.
The fellow then, apparently, left the hoverer, though she was not altogether sure of that, and, shortly thereafter, she felt the vibration of the grating, the hum of the engine, and, a moment later, the sweep of wind on her back, as the small, circular vessel rose swiftly, smoothly, into the air.
“Stand here,” said a woman’s voice.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair, her feet in the warm sand to the ankles.
“Is this a market, of some sort?” she wondered. “It does not seem likely. There is sand. Perhaps I am to be run for boys, with ropes, to be awarded to the winner in a game? I have heard of such things. Perhaps they will have nets, and be on horseback? But I do not want to be won by boys. I would want to be owned by a man. If I am hooded, I would be helpless to favor a given contestant. I hope they will unhood me.”
She considered the assailing of her lips with a Master’s claiming kiss.
This made her uneasy, but she knew she would yield, as a slave.
She sensed she would press against him, begging.
Could this be me, she wondered?
Cornhair had no idea, for a time, where she was, but she, of course, had some familiarity with Telnar, and, given her time in the hoverer, she assumed she must be a hundred miles or so from the capital. She was reasonably sure she was somewhere in the countryside, perhaps in the vicinity of a villa, or set of villas, from which one might commute to Telnar.
She heard birds. Perhaps there were trees about.
Once the hoverer had landed, her ankles had been freed and she had been stood upright, though with some unsteadiness and awkwardness, on the grating. She had then heard the rail gate of the hoverer opened, and she had been led from the vessel down the gate ramp, for the gate, when unlocked and opened, swings out, and lowers, to form the ramp. Exiting the hoverer, to her pleasure, she descended to a surface of short, soft grass, this constituting a most welcome change following her earlier trek through the streets of Telnar.
She heard no men about.
Perhaps a male had piloted the hoverer, but she did not know. Perhaps it had even been the fellow who had lifted her over the rail in Telnar. He might have returned to the small ship, or not really have left it. She did not know. There was the hood. In any event, shortly after landing, and the disembarking of the passengers, including at least the two women whose voices she was familiar with, it had departed.
She was led across the grass and into some structure, and down a passage. At the end of a short journey over a smooth, tiled surface, her journey was arrested.
The hood was unbuckled and pulled from her head, and she knelt instantly, naturally, as became her status as beast and slave. She shook her head, freeing her hair, and blinked her eyes. There were several women about, perhaps seven or eight, richly clad in Telnarian regalia. Clearly they were women of station and, doubtless, of means. And she heard the voices of others from somewhere, doubtless in another room. Several of the women present had laughed when she had shaken her head, freeing her hair. “See?” said one to another. “Yes,” laughed the other. But surely it had been a natural enough gesture for a woman, any woman? “Let them sweat blindly in a canvas hood,” she thought. “See if they would not be grateful, when it is pulled away. See if they would not struggle to accustom themselves to the light, and try to see through wet, matted hair!”
“Mistresses?” she said.
“What is your name?” asked the woman who seemed first amongst them, whom she would learn was the Lady Delia Cotina, of the Telnar Farnacii.
“Publennia,” said Cornhair.
“Oh!” cried Cornhair, struck with a switch.
“What is your name?” asked Lady Delia.
“Filene!” cried Cornhair, frightened. Then she winced, and sobbed, as the switch struck her again.
“What is your name?” asked Lady Delia.
“Cornhair!” cried Cornhair, and then she recoiled twice more, from two fresh blows of the switch.
“Mistresses?” she begged.
“A slave has no name, no more than any other beast, unless the Masters or Mistresses please,” said the woman. “She is named whatever Masters or Mistresses please.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Forgive me, Mistress.”
“What is your name?” asked Lady Delia.
“Whatever Mistresses please,” said Cornhair.
“She is indeed a poor slave,” said another woman, she whose voice Cornhair recalled from the cell in the slave house, and the palanquins, the woman who was Lady Virginia Serena, of the lesser Serenii. She was also, as one recalls, of Telnar. “I first saw her,” said the woman, “standing on a slave shelf in one of the Woman Markets, one supplied by Bondage Flowers. I had a fellow read her placard. She is new to bondage.”
“It does not matter,” said Lady Delia, “for our purposes.”
“Certainly not,” said another woman.
“She will do as well as another,” said another woman.
“They are all the same,” said another.
“Yes,” said another.
“You were a pretty little thing,” said the Lady Virginia, “standing there, the placard hanging about your neck.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” murmured Cornhair.
“I would think men would find you a tempting morsel,” she said.
Several of the women laughed.
“Thank you, Mistress,” whispered Cornhair.
“That makes you ideal for our purposes,” said another woman.
There was more laughter.
“In the slave house,” said Lady Delia, “they referred to you as ‘Cornhair’.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“You are Cornhair,” said Lady Delia, naming the slave. “Who are you?”
“‘Cornhair’, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“You are going to be put in a temporary collar,” said Lady Delia.
“‘Temporary’, Mistress?” said Cornhair.
“Yes,” she said. “And then you will be unleashed and unbound.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“You will also be conducted to a bath,” she said. “You will be given oils and tools, towels, brushes and combs. You are to clean and groom yourself, and well. We want you to be as fresh, clean, and lovely as though you were being sent to the couch of a Master.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“Also,” said Lady Delia, “though we recognize that your lineaments are such that they might attract and excite men, we have little interest in them. You will be clothed.”