“Would you dare to strike me?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I said.
“Is it your intention to strike me?” she asked.
“If you do not obey,” I said.
“You would,” she said. “You would!”
“Yes,” I said.
“I will obey,” she said.
I threw the kaiila crop to one side, to the floor. It slid along the tiles. She watched it.
“Fetch me the crop,” I said.
She did so, and again placed it in my hand. “Turn about,” I told her. “Go to the couch, lie upon it.”
Her shoulders shook with defiance. But then she turned about, and went to the couch, lying upon it.
I let her lie there for a moment, I watched her eyes. I had little doubt, from her eyes, and her breathing, that if I were to touch her body, intimately, my hand would be hot and soaked with the helplessness of her arousal. Seldom had I seen a woman so ready.
Tarna, I gathered, had waited long to be a woman.
I threw aside the kaiila crop.
“Do you not want the crop,” she asked, “to discipline me?”
“Fetch it,” I said.
She rose from the bed, scarcely able to stand, bent over, so much was her need upon her.
“No,” I said.
She looked at me.
“On your knees,” I said. “In your teeth.”
She crawled to the crop and, putting her head down, sideways, took it in her teeth. She, on her hands and knees, brought it to me. I took it roughly from her mouth. “Get on the couch,” I told her.
“Yes, Warrior.” she whispered, again crawling upon the scarlet sheets. I put the crop beside the couch, at hand. I doubted that it would be necessary to use it.
I went to one of the coffers and picked out two scarves.
“What are they for?” she asked.
“You will see,” I told her.
I dropped them to the pillow beside her. “You made me fetch a kaiila crop,” she said, “on my hands and knees, and in my mouth, as though I might be a she-sleen.”
“You are a she-sleen,” I said. “You will be treated as one.”
“I am not in the habit,” she said, “of fetching kaiila crops in my teeth for men.”
“If you knew more men,” I said, “true men, the experience would be less unfamiliar.”
“I see,” she said.
“The she-sleen,” I said, “is a sinuous and beautiful animal, and very dangerous, one cannot show weakness with such an animal. They will turn and rend the master. One must keep them under perfect discipline.”
“And if one keeps the she-sleen under perfect discipline?” asked Tarna.
“Then,” said I, “it is a superb, and beautiful, and most pleasing pet.”
“And I am the she-sleen?” she asked.
“Yes.” I said.
“And,” she asked, “am I, your she-sleen, to be kept under perfect discipline?”
“Of course,” I said.
“You are a beast,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“If I were a she-sleen,” she said, snuggling back into the pillow, “I think I would like a master such as you.”
“You are a she-sleen,” I said.
“And you?” she asked.
“I am your master,” I said.
“Keep me under perfect discipline, Master,” she said.
“I will,” I said.
She looked up at me, her lips parted, her eyes bright.
“I give you my permission,” she said, “to do with me what you want.”
“I do not need your permission,” I said.
Her hands were beside her bead, on the pillow. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“You will see,” I told her. I stood beside the couch, looming over her, looking down upon her.
I saw she wished to say something. I waited. She rose up, on her elbows.
“I have never felt this way before,” she said.
I shrugged. I had no interest in her feelings.
“You are different from the others,” she whispered, “the docile, weak ones.”
“It is you, a female,” I said, “who is weak, and it will be you who will be docile.”
“A she-sleen?” she smiled.
“You are not truly a she-sleen,” I said.
“Oh?” she asked. “What am I, truly?”
“What do you feel like?” I asked.
“I have strange feelings,” she said. “I have never felt them before.”
She looked at me. “I feel, before you,” she said, “weak, vulnerable. I want to be overwhelmed by you, and held. I imagine a slave girl must have some such feelings, before a strong master.”
I smiled.
“You are so different,” she said, “so different from the others, the weak, docile ones.”
“It is you,” I told her, “who is weak.” I held her hands down, pinned, under mine, beside her head. She could not free herself.
“Yes,” she said, “I am weak.” She smiled up at me.
“And it is you,” I told her, “who will be docile.”
“Yes,” she said, “I will be docile.”
I freed her hands, and looked down at her.
“Yes,” she said, “I am helpless. I will be docile.”
“You would make a pretty slave,” I said.
“Would I?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“You will see,” I said.
“I beg your favor,” said she. “Warrior.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Tonight-please, Warrior,” she said, “tonight let me be truly as a female slave. Treat me not as your mistress, who owns you, but as only a slave girl, whom you own, at your mercy. Treat me as a slave girl! Please, Warrior, treat me as a slave girl!”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Teach me,” she begged, “to be a woman!”
“I do not have time,” I said.
She looked at me, wildly.
“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me this night,” I said. One of the scarves, which I had been surreptitiously wadding at the side, I thrust swiftly, deeply, into her mouth. She could not speak, but twisted, only tiny, fumbling sounds coming from her mouth. Kneeling across her, pinning her arms to her sides, I then, with the other scarf, tied the wadding securely in her mouth. Holding both her hands in my left hand I then dragged her from the couch to the side of the room where, with my right hand, I tore down some of the soft cords used to arrange the voluminous, decorative drapes and hangings which adorned the chamber. I then threw her to the slave ring and, with the cords, tied her wrists behind her back, and then, passing the cord through the ring, crossed and tied her ankles together, pulling them rather close to her bound wrists. I then put her on her knees, bound hand and foot, at the slave ring. She struggled to face me, squirming, her eyes wild with rage.
I looked to the door, considering the distance.
Swiftly I pulled the binding of the wadding free. I then, moving swiftly, so as to be in place, went to the door. Head down, furious, Tarna fought to expel the wadding, It took her a moment longer to do so than I had anticipated, but it did not disarrange my plans. She spit out the wet, heavy scarf. She threw back her head. “Guards!” she cried. “Guards!”
In a moment the door flew open and the two guards, scimitars drawn, entered the room.
They saw Tarna at the slave ring. They stopped, startled. I was behind them. I took the neck of each and, in the instant before they could react, struck together their heads, felling both.
I closed the door.
Tarna was looking at me, wildly. “You tricked me,” she cried, squirming at the ring.
I thrust the wadding back, deeply, in her mouth, securing it with the other scarf.
“Yes,” I said.
I dragged the two unconscious guards to the side. I took the garments of one, and tied both, gagging them, to one side. One of the luxurious hangings I flung over them.
I moved swiftly to the door, and, opening it a crack, reconnoitered.
I looked back to Tarna. She was enraged. She struggled. She had, of course, been bound by a warrior. She was helpless. Near the red silk I had cast aside, when donning the desert garments of the guard, on the tiles, I saw the vulgar, wooden, rounded, yellow slave beads, the necklace, which I had not chosen to permit being placed upon me.