John Norman - The King

When the woman of senatorial class had entered the room the girl at the far wall had stirred, and then, becoming aware of her, had hurriedly knelt on the mat, her head to the floor, the palms of her hands on the floor, as well.

“Girl!” snapped the woman of senatorial rank.

The girl hurried forward, and knelt before her, her head to the floor, her palms upon the floor, as well.

“Mistress?” asked the girl, frightened.

“Are you trained as a lady’s maid?” inquired the woman of senatorial rank.

“No, Mistress!” said the girl, frightened.

The woman of senatorial rank uttered a sound of exasperation, of impatience.

“I would dress,” she said. “Do you think yourself competent to assist me?”

“I will try, Mistress,” said the girl.

And, in a few moments, with the assistance of the girl, who was deferent, and whose fingers seemed adept in such matters, the woman of senatorial rank was again suitably robed.

There was little to be done about the coiffure, of course, and it would have taken hours to manage properly, but her hair could be muchly concealed within the frame of wire and jeweled leather, and, particularly in the darkness, few would guess that it had been disarranged.

The bedecking of the imperial female, of the upper classes, was not a simple task, given the numerous garments, their positioning, the cunning closures, and such, but the matter was soon finished.

“You are certain you have not been a lady’s maid before?” asked the woman of senatorial rank, regarding herself in one of the wall mirrors.

“No, Mistress,” said the girl, again kneeling.

“That dress you are wearing,” said the woman of senatorial rank. “It is all you are wearing, is it not?”

“Yes, Mistress. Forgive me, Mistress,” whispered the girl.

“You are very pretty,” said the woman of senatorial rank.

Though the gown of the girl was loose, and of an ankle-length, it was not difficult to detect a graceful, well-curved form within it, and the neckline was surely lower than it need have been, making clear that it held merely precariously captive a lovely, well-formed bosom.

“Thank you, Mistress,” whispered the girl.

“You have not been trained as a lady’s maid, and yet you seem familiar with the subtleties, the intricacies, of a lady’s investiture,” said the woman of senatorial rank.

“Forgive me, Mistress,” said the girl.

“Interesting,” mused the woman of senatorial rank.

The girl, fearful, kept her head to the floor.

“Look at me,” said the woman of senatorial rank.

The girl looked up, timidly, but did not dare to raise her eyes above the ornate collar of the robes of the woman standing before her.

“Look into my eyes, my dear,” said the woman of senatorial rank, kindly.

Timidly, gratefully, the girl did so.

The woman of senatorial rank then slapped her, viciously, with all her force, across the face.

Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She looked at the woman of senatorial rank. Her eyes were startled, questioning.

“Do you not know,” inquired the woman of senatorial rank, “that you are not to look into the eyes of one such as I, unless you sense that you may do so, or unless permission is granted?”

“Forgive me, Mistress,” said the girl, shuddering, putting her head down to the floor, as she had before.

“On your belly,” said the woman of senatorial rank. “Kiss my slippers!”

Instantly the girl obeyed.

The woman of senatorial rank then spurned her to her side, with her foot.

The girl lay on her side then, in pain, but did not dare, of course, to look into the eyes of the one who had spurned her to her place.

“Slaves are disgusting,” said the free woman.

“Yes, Mistress!” said the slave, putting her head down.

The free woman then spun about, and left the room, with a swirl of her robes.

How shamed I have been, she thought. How I will beat my intimate maid tonight, the embonded little chit!

To be sure, that maid was now her only slave, that being one of the unfortunate, degrading consequences of the reduction in her resources, in the slippage of her fortunes.

Her carriage would be waiting.

Shortly after her departure a bell rang in the anteroom, and the slave girl, whose name, we recall, was Elena, hurried to the inner room, where she knelt before the Arbiter of Protocol, in suitable obeisance.

“You are crying,” he observed.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Our guest has left?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Go to my chamber,” he said. “Prepare it for pleasure. Then chain yourself, naked, at the foot of the couch.”

“Yes, Master!” she said, and then, unbidden, she crawled to his boots and kissed them, gratefully, fervently.

She then hurried from the room.

From his chambers she saw a darkened, closed carriage leaving the grounds.

She looked to the cuffs and shackles, the collar. They were all open.

She looked about the room, to make certain that all was in readiness. In a moment it would be too late to repair any last-minute oversights.

All seemed in order.

She slipped her gown to the side.

She looked down at the chains, the impediments. How totally helpless, how much at his, or anyone’s, mercy, she would be in a moment.

She loved their weight, the sound of them on her body, how they moved against the ring.

How they told her what she was, and how she must be.

The master, of course, held the key to them.

She began with the left ankle, for there is an order to such things. It is one of the first things a girl is taught. Then, in moments, the steel, in all its beauty, its efficiency, its closeness, its meaningfulness, was upon her.

She could scarcely control herself.

She had a good deal of slack now, but such devices may be shortened and adjusted, as the master may please.

She looked to the wall.

On it was a whip.

She did not think she would be beaten. Surely she would do her best to please.

She lay there, like a tethered kitten, at the foot of the couch, like the animal she was.

She trembled with desire.

She did not envy the free woman.

The free woman, in anger, confused, filled with the hope of improved fortunes, fearful of the future, resolved, rode alone in the closed, unmarked carriage, the blinds drawn, her guards, her escort, on the box outside.

Coming to the palace she had permitted her escort to share the carriage.

Doubtless that had given him much pleasure. Doubtless he had been looking forward to the return trip, as well, to the opportunity, if only briefly, to be again close to one such as she. She was sure of it!

Then she had banished him to the box.

How amused she had been at this.

It had been difficult for him to conceal his disappointment.

Too, for a moment there had been a look in his eyes which had frightened her, but then it was gone.

She reassured herself.

Men are weak, she thought.

She smiled to herself.

She looked down at the floor of the carriage.

Slave girls, she thought, those meaningless chits, might be transported in such a carriage naked, kneeling, crouched down, on the floor, a blanket, or cloak, thrown over them.

Slave girls are commonly so transported, in closed vehicles, and such.

They are commonly kept in ignorance.

How fitting for them, she thought.

How pleased she was, that she was a different sort of woman, not such as they.

The wheels sounded hollow on the hard surface; the hoofs of the draft beasts rang on the pavement.

Back in the palace Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol, gathered together papers, inserting them in a portfolio, and then placing the portfolio in the recess from which, earlier, a rectangular leather case had been withdrawn.