Norman Invasions (33 page)

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Look up,” he said, “into my eyes.”

She did so, fearfully.

“And,” said he, “the slave is subject to discipline, and is totally at the mercy of the master.”

Her eyes widened.

“Do you understand, girl?” he said.

For the slave is, of course, a “girl,” with all the charm, beauty, and vulnerability that that lovely expression connotes.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened.

“And you must accustom yourself to chains, and such things, for example, to be chained to the foot of a man's bed, thongs, cords, gags, blindfolds, such things.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“That you are a slave, of course, is something which, on the whole, unfortunately, must be concealed on this world, lest it generate envy, or concern.”

She bowed her head, his slave.

“Bondage, as you doubtless know,” he said, “was sanctioned for centuries in all parts of the world, in all civilizations.”

“Yes Master.”

“Knees,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.”

She lifted her body, and straightened it. She spread her knees.

She kept her head down, her knees spread.

She would doubtless soon accustom herself to slave position, the postures and attitudes of docility, vulnerability, and subservience. Soon, doubtless, without self-consciousness, she would naturally, and easily, thoughtlessly and appropriately, so place herself before free persons.

“I wonder,” said he, “if there is somewhere a natural world, somewhere, where these natural relationships, in all their beauty and power, are accepted, celebrated and institutionalized.” He looked down upon her. “What do you think, my little thong slut, my little chain bitch?” he asked.

She looked up at him, for a moment uncertain, for a moment troubled, that he had spoken so to her. To be sure, a master may speak as he wishes to a slave. Then she saw something in his eyes, could it have been a smile, a hint of such, which was not unkind, and she, at his feet, rejoiced. Yes, she thought, I am his thong slut! I am his chain bitch! That is what I am! And it is what I want to be, and I want to serve him with my whole heart and soul, and in that moment she grasped something of what it might be to be the helpless, ardent slave of a mighty master. How complete, how fulfilling, how nurturing, how glorious, how joyous, how magnificent to a woman, or should one now say “girl,” was such a relationship! Perhaps, if I am sufficiently pleasing, she thought, I can win from him a smile, perhaps, in time, though I am only a lowly slave, his love! She had a sense then, trembling nude before him, of what it might be to be a love slave!

Could she hope for so much?

“Well?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she whispered. “Perhaps, Master.”

She looked again to his eyes, but now they were different. She saw that she was now again only a slave at his feet. He was now looking upon her with a free man's contempt for a piece of meaningless slave meat. She saw that he would be strict with her. Had he been embarrassed by, she wondered, angered by, what he sensed in himself might have been a moment of weakness? To be sure, she wanted him to be strict with her. She needed that. She wanted no choice, but to be made to serve. This was important to her. She wondered if he might, someday, care for her. She sensed she might love him, that she already did love him. Too, she supposed that it would be hard for a girl not to fall in love with a man at the foot of whose bed she is chained. She would surely, unquestioningly, undeniably, know herself his. Perhaps it has to do with dominance and submission, pervasive in animal life, she supposed. Perhaps, she thought, it has to do with the complementarities of nature.

But mostly, she supposed, it might have to do with him, the particular him, and with her, the particular her of her, and the mysterious chemistries of men and women. Away, she thought, with the commands of a stunting, pathological culture, the frenetic, hate-filled competitions for power, which brought in their wake only disappointment, emptiness, and misery.

In the supermarket she sensed he had looked upon her and seen her as a stripped slave.

She had never forgotten that look.

How could any woman?

He had seen her as what she was—a vulnerable woman, an unclaimed, needful slave.

How stunned she had been!

How her body had suddenly burned within her garments.

She had followed him as, as he had said, a slave girl follows her master.

There are many slaves, she thought. Are there many masters? My culture has not taken the slave out of me. She has cried out within me, for years, for her chains, and the caress of a master.

She wondered if, in men, or in some men, there might be a secret master, restless within the male breast, snarling within, raging, hungry for its prey, its capture, its slave.

How much illness, how much violence, how much cruelty, she thought, might be averted if only men were free, statistically, to be themselves, and how much cruelty, petulance, neurosis, and unhappiness might be done away with if only the natural needs of women were recognized, rather than denounced and subverted.

“You may now rise, and dress yourself,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Thank you, Master.”

“I am not an animal!” she cried.

“Surely you are,” she said. “Are you so unacquainted with biology as to doubt that? Have you not lungs, organs, and such? Have you not a belly appropriate to your kind? A nervous system, a digestive system, and, obviously, something that will be of interest to men, a reproductive system? Thus, if it is wished, you may be crossed with suitable stock, and bred. Clearly you are an animal. Do not presume to deny it. You are an animal, and an animal of a certain sort, a mammal, a human mammal, and, obviously, a human female mammal. Consider the delicacy of your features, their obvious sensitivity and even, obviously, their beauty. You have lovely eyes, and lashes, and sweet lips. And you have abundant and lovely hair, deeply rich and brown. Unfortunately it is not auburn.”

“What is wrong with that?”

“I see you are already interested in your objective value.”

“My objective value?”

“Do you shiver? Or do you tremble? Interesting how you try to draw those tiny shreds of garments about you. Do you think they much conceal you, or protect you? They haven't left you with much, have they?”

“My objective value?”

“Are the chains heavy?”

“Objective value?”

“Doubtless, as you assess yourself, you are priceless. But that is a subjective estimation, as you will discover. It is not your objective value. Your self-appraisal on the score of your own worth, you see, is not likely to withstand the scrutiny of the market. You will discover, you pretty, arrogant little thing, that your self-assessments of your value are not only unreliable, but simply illusory. Do not look so petulant. And do not pull so at your chains. Do you think you can free yourself? Do you think you can remove them? On the other hand there are girls who have low self-esteem, and think poorly of themselves, who, to their surprise, and doubtless delight, discover they are prized, and avidly sought. But you need not fear that sort of awakening. I fear yours, though you are quite beautiful, it must be admitted, will be less welcome.”

“So I am beautiful?”

“Of course, were you not, it is unlikely you would find yourself where you are.”

“What is wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing, you are nicely pelted.”

“‘Pelted'!”

“Auburn hair, you see, tends to be prized. It is rare. And blond hair sells well, too, presumably as it is less common.”

“Then let them dye my hair,” she snapped.

“And have them risk torture and impalement?” she laughed. “I think not!”

“I do not understand.”

“On this world, honesty is not frowned upon. Rather, deceit is disapproved, and often savagely. It has to do with honor, I am told, something apparently of interest to the men of this world. This world, you see, is very different, in many ways, from that with which you are more familiar.”

“Why have I been brought here?”

“I wonder if you are stupid.”

“I am not stupid!” she said. “Why do you smile?”

“Once, long ago, I recall I, too, said that, though the circumstances were different. It was shortly before I found myself kneeling naked, for the first time, before my master.”

“‘Master'?”

“Certainly.”

“You mean as in ‘one who to whom you
belong
,' as in ‘one who
owns
you'?”

“Of course.”

“You cannot be owned!”

“How naive you are!”

“I do not think you are stupid.”

“I do not think so, either. Indeed, I am supposedly quite intelligent, and surely so, if the IQ scores of your world have any significance.”

“I assure you I am not stupid, either!”

“Perhaps not, but it seems that at present you have little but your beauty to commend you.”

“My beauty?”

“Rejoice. Be grateful. That is your hope. Men like such things.”

“Please do not speak to me as though I were stupid!”

“Naive, then?”

“No!”

“I think so, that, at least.”

“Do not humiliate me.”

“That is not my intention. That will be done by the masters, and well, if they choose.”

“Masters?”

“Of course.”

“I do not wish to be humiliated.”

“But you do. And do not fear. They can make us weep, and beg and grovel, as it pleases them.”

“Why have I been brought here?”

“It is questions like that which suggest that you are stupid.”

“I—I am not stupid!”

“No, I would suppose not, or you would not be here. If you were truly stupid, you would have been less desirable, less of an acquisition, less of a prize. If you were truly stupid you would not have been found of interest. They are interested in only the most desirable,
la crème de la crème
. These men have little interest in stupid women.”

“You have not told me why I have been brought here.”

“If you do not know, perhaps you are indeed stupid.”

“No!”

“There are trade-offs, of course. Perhaps in your case they compromised on intelligence, in order to obtain other things of interest.”

“Do not speak as though I might be merely beautiful!”

“As I look upon you now, lifting the lamp, perhaps ‘pretty' would be better.”

“Beautiful!”

“Perhaps. You are, at least, a well-curved bit of meat.”

“Do not speak so of me!”

“Perhaps it is something else. Are you vital?”

“I don't understand.”

“It is not important—
now
. You will grow in such ways. They will see to it. Until you are helpless, and uncontrollable.”

“I don't understand!”

“You will be totally at their mercy, begging.”

“I don't understand you! You speak in riddles! You torture me! I don't understand you! I understand nothing! Why have I been brought here?”

“Conjecture.”

“No!”

“Your horizons of possibility seem rather limited.”

“I am not stupid! I am not stupid!”

“Then ignorant, perhaps?”

“Why have I been brought here?”

“You know.”

“No, no!”

“Pretending not to recognize the obvious does not mean that it does not exist.”

“No!”

“Yes, weep, weep, weep in your chains, curvaceous little thing, in helplessness and futility, if you wish. It will doubtless do you good.”

“What do they want with me? Why have I been brought here?”

“You dare to play these games with me? Do you see this switch at my wrist? It can be used upon you. Good. You are afraid. You crawl back in the shadows, on the straw. You do not wish to feel pain. Excellent. You will be tractable. You will train well.”

“Please be kind to me.”

“You wish, I gather, for me to tell you what you fear, and what you suspect, and what you wish to hear?”

“No, no!”

“Do not fear. I have no intention of doing so. Why should I insult whatever bit of intelligence you might have? Let me say only that the moment of which you have long and frequently dreamed is nearly at hand.”

“I do not understand.”

“A good switching would much improve you.”

“Please, no.”

“I am patient with you, little fool. The men will not be.”

“Why have I been brought here?”

“Consider the loveliness of your face, how exquisite it is, the vulnerability, delicacy, and sensitivity of its features, and the prettiness of your legs, the sweetness of your thighs, the width of your hips, the narrowness of your waist, the loveliness of your bosom. The delicacy of your wrists and ankles, the subtleties of your shoulders and throat, the curvatures of your body. Can you then ask such a question?”

“I do not understand.”

“Such things will make you attractive to men.”

“I hate men!”

“How unfortunate, for you will belong to them.”

“No!”

“Totally, completely, absolutely—in all ways.”

“You speak as though I might be owned!”

“You are owned.”

“I cannot be owned!”

“You are mistaken.”

“I cannot be owned! I am not a dog, or pig!”

“You are less than they, but you do not yet realize it.”

“No, no!”

“You have a lovely throat, slender and sweet, and aristocratic. It will look well encircled with a collar.”

“A collar?”

“Certainly.”

“What sort of collar?”

“One like mine, one signifying the same.”