Marc2b
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Author's Note: My apologies to anyone named Myrtle. Nothing personal, you understand. Roland & Allison. Chapter Five: Early Afternoon “Would you quit hovering over me!” Roland didn’t really mean to be short with the diminutive, middle aged, man with a receding hairline who was continuing to examine his face, but the medicinal spirits the Healer had applied to him had stung horribly. He knew that he was being a little unfair. The man was only doing his job, after all, and Roland understood that the good spirits contained in the clear liquid would help protect him from bad spirits that would seek to weaken him with fever and rot. Still, he felt like he was being patronized. When Roland first emerged from the trees with his new possession crawling behind him, he had to endure several minutes of good-natured back slapping, handshakes, and jibbing from his friends as well as men he casually knew, barely knew or didn’t know at all. Even the usually stoic Marcus was enthusiastically congratulatory as he handed Roland his backpack and water skein, and Robert, returning Roland’s money pouch, managed to withhold his usual critiques of Roland’s intelligence. It was Robert however, who first insisted that Roland see the Healer who was in town. At first Roland had dismissed the idea and had walked to the river instead. After splashing his face several times he stared at his rippling reflection. He was well on his way to having two good shiners and it looked like his nose was going to assume a new shape. Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time. His left eye was puffy but he could still see out of it fairly well. All things considered, he could have come through a lot worse. By this time all his friends were pestering him to see the Healer. Partially to shut them up and partially because he knew it to be prudent, he conceded. Now he sat on a wooden stool outside the Healer’s tent. His friends stood nearby while the Healer, ignoring Roland’s rudeness, continued to look him over while humming “hmmm . . . hmmm,” to himself. Inside the tent Roland saw two other men, both with bandages on their heads. One sat on a chair, holding a hand to his head, while he slowly looked around with a curious expression, as if the world was something new and not comprehensible. The other lay unconscious on a cot. Next to Roland, in the obeisance position, was his new slave. Robert’s and Oliver’s new slaves knelt next to their masters. Robert’s slave, like Roland’s was still un-collared but this was the first time Roland took a good look at what was written on little miss yelper’s new collar: Miranda, property of Oliver Dockerson of Harold’s Stand. (RM3rdC). The ‘Royal Militia, Third Cohort,’ he thought was a good idea. But what intrigued him the most was Oliver’s referencing this haphazard collection of tents as his home. Roland had still been thinking of himself as being of Castle Kamara but Oliver was right, it was time to start thinking of this place as his place. I am Roland of Harold’s Stand, he thought. Of course, he had to ask about the name. “I knew a girl named Miranda when I was growing up,” was Oliver’s answer, “I just always thought it was a pretty name.” Roland looked the girl over for a good minute (interrupted briefly to tell the Healer that, yes, it did indeed hurt when he moved his arm like that). For the first time she seemed to be able to hold her position well and without trembling. The same emotions he had seen in his own slave’s face were evident here as well but there was also a wide eyed innocence about her. Oliver continued to occasionally stroke the top of her head, petting her like a cat, in a slow, almost nonchalant way. “It is a pretty name,” he concluded, “and it suits her. She looks like a Mira…AAAGH!” The Healer had chosen that moment to jab a finger into Roland’s jaw, poking at a tooth that felt a little loose. “Damn it, man! At least warn me!” “Hmmm . . . hmmm . . . I need to see inside.” Roland gaped at the man briefly before, with an attitude not unlike a petulant child, he complied with the request. “Hmmm . . . hmmm . . .” continued the examination. As if Roland was a mere slave girl, the Healer grabbed his chin and moved Roland’s head this way and that, using the bright sunlight to peer into his mouth. If that indignity wasn’t enough, Roland next felt a finger poking at and around the sore, loose, tooth – and all the while having to listen to that madding “hmmm . . . hmmm . . .” Only his fear that he might loose the tooth kept him from protesting. When it was over, the Healer uncorked his bottle of medicinal spirits and poured a measure in a pewter cup. “Swish this around in your mouth,” said the Healer as he handed the cup to Roland, “don’t drink it, just rinse well and then spit it out.” Roland would have preferred to drink it. He knew that medicinal spirits could get you as nicely drunk as the friendly spirits that dwelled within beer and wine. Grudgingly, though, he complied, enduring the fiery, stinging pain for half a minute before spiting it out – the clear liquid now had a pink hue. “I take it I’m going to live.” “Yes, for which you can thank the resiliency of youth, though I am mildly astonished that you have no breaks.” “What about that tooth.” “It’s loose but I don’t think you’re going to lose it. It should return to normal in a few days.” “What about the rest of me.” “Well, you’re going to be sore a few days.” “I could’ve told you that! You’re not going to tell me to spend those days lying down, I hope! I’ve much to do!” “Most certainly not, but you do not want to over exert yourself either, particularly that arm.” “We’ll see to it that he paces himself,” said Robert. “Are we done here then?” Roland wanted to know. “Yes, my request for services is three coppers. If you are unable to pay I will also take goods or services in trade.” Roland noticed the frumpy little man’s eyes alight on his brown-haired slave girl. “Sorry. On any other day I’d think about it, but not today. The smallest I have is a silver bit.” “After what you went through to acquire her, I quite understand,” said the Healer though he couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice. He picked up the half full bottle of medicinal spirits and held it out to Roland. “I recommend that you apply some more to your cuts and scrapes rather than drink it but whatever you do with it . . . services plus this, one silver bit. And I’ll add in a follow-up examination in, say, three or four days?” All things considered it wasn’t a bad price. Roland stood, made the exchange and then said, “Guys, I’m fucking famished, and I smell pork.” ♦ ♦ ♦ Some of the new locals had been putting their skills to use by providing the nascent town with a steady supply of meat. There were usually two or three spits of deer roasting and crudely made stick grills of smaller meats, mostly rabbits and chucks with the occasional turkey or grouse. The native forest swine, Roland had already learned, were notoriously difficult to hunt. They sported a pair of sharp, curved, eight inch tusks and had an aggressive nature. They were also surprisingly fast given that they weighed up to four hundred pounds. And, as if the sows weren’t bad enough, the boars were even worse – larger, faster, meaner, and with longer tusks. “Only fools, hunt boars alone,” had said Robert and Roland had concurred when he saw a boar make a charge for the first time. It had come bursting out of the under-foliage and charged Marcus who had been sensible enough to bolt out of the way, yet nimble enough to jam a wooden spear in the beast’s side as it passed by. Even then the boar was in such a fury, and possessing of enough strength, to chase Marcus up a tree (he would, no doubt, have to endure jokes about that for the rest of his days) but this gave the others the opportunity to come up behind the boar and finish it off. That was the first, and so far, only time Roland had tasted pork since before the battle and the tantalizing aroma led him right to it. Venison and rabbit had been keeping his belly full but their gamey taste was getting a little bland to him. What he really longed for again was beef but for now some succulent pork would be a superb treat. Feeling energetic and in a great mood despite (or perhaps even because of) his many aches and pains, Roland had insisted on buying for everyone. A silver bit got him and each of his friends three thick slabs of meat on each of the tin plates from their mess kits, and Roland was gratified to get some copper coins in change for once. They sat crossed-legged near the river and devoted themselves to gorging on the hot, juicy meat while the slave girls knelt. Roland’s still nameless slave was in the obeisance position again. He had decided that it would be good for her to practice the position she had violated so recently. It would be a good reminder that she still faced punishment for that, on top of the customary “welcome” whipping and for an unauthorized orgasm. And, thought Roland, I left the possibility of further punishment for that little miss coy act in the air. I wonder if she remembers that. In a flash of insight, he realized the purpose of what seemed a rather foolish risk on her part – she had been testing him, testing to see what kind of master he might make. I hope I passed. I think I did. Roland couldn’t help but smile to himself. She’ll know for certain before this day is through. Despite the Healer’s advice the bottle of medicinal spirits didn’t last long. Roland took a swig, managing not to gasp and sputter too much, and passed the bottle around. There was one swig left when it came around to Roland again and he tucked the bottle into his pocket thinking that maybe he would follow the Healer’s advice about it. “So what are ya gonna name her,” Robert asked between gulps of ham dripping with fat. “I haven’t really thought about it,” replied Roland, “what are you naming yours?” “Uh-uh, you first.” “Okay then, uhmmmmm . . .well . . . I don’t know . . . now that I think about it . . . I mean there’s so many to choose from.” He rubbed at his chin with thumb and forefinger for a moment and then said, “kneel, slave.” She seemed a little less fluid in her motions this time and Roland saw that it was because she had sacrificed some of it for speed (her breasts made a lovely bounce in the process). This was a slave girl desperate to be promptly obedient. Roland studied her face for a moment. She was one of those women who somehow managed to be cute and beautiful at the same time. “She kind of looks like a fun tavern girl I knew named Elise . . . but no . . .” A few more seconds of thoughtful chin scratching, and then: “What name were you known by at the tavern?” Roland asked his slave. “I was called Myrtle, Master.” “Myrtle? Gods and spirits no! That’s an awful name. It doesn’t suit you at all. I’m not sure it suits anybody.” Roland noticed that the other men were chortling over this. “What was your dunderhead of a master thinking?” “I do not know Master.” She sounded scared, and for good reason. Any slave is loath to speak ill of a free person, for obvious reasons, but they are also not allowed to lie. It can cause tricky little moments like this one. “Bah,” said Roland, dismissing the question and her fear of it. “What’d you guys think?” “Cory” chimed in Henry, I knew a slave girl named Cory once.” “She looks like a ‘Lucy’ to me,” was Robert’s contribution. But Roland didn’t care for either. More ideas were bandied about including Maria, Penelope, and Damngoodcocksucker. “Were trying to be serious here, Oliver,” said Roland. “Well, judging by what I heard,” grinned the young man, “it suits her.” Everybody laughed at that, including Roland. He noticed that her lips made the slightest tremor, gave just the barest hint of a smile. She’s not embarrassed, Roland realized, she’s proud. Still dreadfully afraid, though. “What name was she born with?” It was Marcus, who so far had not contributed to the conversation. “I heard you’re not supposed to do that,” said Henry, “that you’re supposed to, like, break their past or something.” “Nonsense,” proclaimed Robert in between gulps of meat. “They’re slaves, you name ‘em whatever you want.” “Besides,” said Marcus, “names have a way of molding themselves to a person, and they to them.” “Well thank all the gods and spirits,” said Roland, “that we cut ‘Myrtle’ short after three years. It would be a grave injustice if she was molded to that name.” After some more laughter Roland asked her, “So what name were your born with?” “Allison,” Master. It was perfect. As soon as she finished saying it Roland felt that somehow he knew it all along. It just seemed to fit her so well. There just might be something to what Marcus said, Roland thought. “Aye,” said Robert, as if to confirm it. The others nodded there heads. “I guess that settles it. Your name is Allison.” “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.” She couldn’t hide the flush of pleasure that ran through her, as if she was coming home to something that had always been a part of her and Roland couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t something to what Henry had said as well. “I like it,” said Marcus, “Rollie and Allie.” “On second thought,” said Roland. “Ahh, no ya don’t,” laughed Robert and the others joined in the mock protest until Roland threw up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right,” he said, “she’s Allison. “Your turn,” he said to Robert, “what about you?” “Hmm…” Robert gulped down some pork, “that’s easy. Beatrice.” There was a moment of incredulous silence. Marcus, Oliver, and Roland all looked at Robert with you-can’t-be-serious expressions. Henry just had that confused look (more naïve than resentful) when he realizes that everybody gets a joke but him. Robert just returned everybody’s stare with an innocent, whad’ya-think look. It was Marcus who finally broke the silence. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me . . . Beatrice the beekeeper?” Robert held his innocent look for a few seconds and then slowly grinned. He joined the other’s laughter (including Henry, now that he got the joke) after a few seconds. “Almost had you there a moment, didn’t I.” After chomping down another bite, Robert asked his slave straight out, “what name were you given when you were born?” “Ellen,” Master,” replied the blond girl, “but I was usually called Ellie.” Robert contemplated this for only a few seconds before pronouncing, “I like it. Ellen it is.” “Yes, Master,” she replied, “thank you for giving me a name, Master.” For a few moments the men focused on finishing their meal. Both Robert and Oliver, Roland noticed, saved a couple of pieces for their slaves, which they fed to them by hand and not allowing either of them to use their own hands. It would be impractical, even tedious, to hand feed a slave every meal of course, but upon occasion it was a good way of reminding the slave of her total dependence on her master. It was also a fun way for a man to assert his dominance over the woman he commands. More than once Roland had amused himself by making a tavern slave, usually after enjoying her charms, kneel and beg prettily for a piece of beef or a sweet treat that he held up just out reach, teasing her a few times by lowering it and then pulling it back up. Both Robert and Oliver were enjoying this game with their slaves. Miranda, at first, didn’t seem to understand what she was supposed to do but then she copied Ellen and for the first time, Roland and the others got to see Miranda smile and laugh a little. Roland decided to take things with Allison a step further. “Fours,” he said, commanding his slave to her hands and knees (noting again how she sacrificed just a little grace for speed), enjoying the way her tits swayed for a moment before tossing the remaining few bites onto the ground, landing them perfectly right under her nose. He was pleased to see that she waited. He made her wait a good long minute in which she could do nothing but stare at the succulent meant in front of her. Roland didn’t doubt that the Slaver had kept his slaves on nothing but cheap, bland, slave gruel during their five day march. Those tidbits in front of her, their aroma teasing her nose, had to represent an even tastier treat for her than it had for him. Since it had been hours since dawn, when she was likely last fed, she had to be quite hungry as well. Although I did give her something not to long ago, he smiled to himself. “Feed.” he said. “Thank you, Master,” she replied and Roland could hear the sincerity in her voice. It was thanks given not simply because it was expected, but because a hungry slave girl was truly thankful to her master for feeding her. He also heard some worry in her voice. Why, she must be wondering to herself, Roland thought, was her Master not playing with her the same as the others? Why was she being fed like a farm animal, less than a farm animal? Was she truly that much out of his good countenance already? It’s because I want to make things very clear to you from the start, my sweet little Alison, Roland responded to himself. Don’t fret too much, the day’s far from over. She had the good sense not to wolf it down ungracefully, despite her hunger, but she wasted no time in taking a bite into her mouth and chewing heartedly. She could not hold back a subtle series of “mmms” as some of the juice trickled out of her mouth. Ellen and Miranda had similar reactions. Roland simply enjoyed the sight of his naked slave girl eating for a few minutes (and particularly enjoying her dangling breasts) and when she was done he had her kneel next to him and put her remarkable tongue to use again in licking his fingers clean. It was astonishing, how easily he could read the emotions on her face. Then again maybe it wasn’t. It seemed to be in the nature of the fully surrendered woman to be incapable of lying with her face and body. It was possible if not probable for a slave girl to lie with her words. A properly mastered woman does not want to lie to her master, it was commonly said, and she knows that she would be a colossal fool to risk it even if she did, but it was possible. These same women found it near impossible to lie with their bodies. Their emotions, their fears, their hopes, their desires and needs played out constantly across their faces and throughout their bodies. Even when commanded to stillness, a subtle twitch of a muscle, a delicate placement of a hand, pupils wide or narrow, a change in blink rate and a thousand other little indicators wrote a never ending verse of her emotions and thoughts. Men who would master women learned early on how to read them. Roland enjoyed the verse he read here. There was joy in being allowed to perform such a trivial yet intimate service for Master and there was a genuine desire to please but always present was that fear of being displeasing. Fear of punishment. Fear of the whip. But, perhaps, worst of all, fear of being burdened with the knowledge that she had disappointed her Master. Her fear seemed to send a sexual charge through her and she squirmed ever so slightly, not even noticeable to anyone not looking for it. The smell of her sex was undeniable and it sent a sexual charge through Roland. His manhood alerted him that it was ready to go again whenever he was. But Roland was still contented enough to set it aside for now. He wanted to simmer for a while and sweet, luscious looking Allison, so delicately licking his fingers clean right now was definitely going to simmer for a while. Allison began to blow softly on his fingers to dry them. While she did so Roland looked around. Robert and Oliver were each receiving a similar service from their slaves. Ellen had much the same expressions as Allison: wanting to please, desperate to please, fearful of being not pleasing. Today was going to be an all Allison day for Roland but that didn’t mean he didn’t look forward to sampling the blonde’s charms. Miranda, too, had similar expressions but they were amplified to a comical extent. At one point Oliver said, “stop! You don’t have to slobber, just lick,” he told his slave girl. “Understood?” Oliver’s fingers still in her mouth, the wide eyed girl nodded her head and then went slower. Roland suppressed a chuckle. She had so much to learn. But she was a sweet little thing and Roland looked forward to pounding her little pussy as well. Henry looked a little dejected and Marcus, just finishing up his own meal had a rather honest looking this sucks but I can wait expression on his face. Allison stopped blowing and bowed her head. Roland looked as his fingers and waggled them a couple of times. They were perfectly clean and perfectly dry. He smiled and though her lips barely twitched, he recognized it as the smile of a relieved slave girl. She had good reason to be relieved, her master was pleased. “To my friend Marcus,” he said in the voice of a master commanding his slave girl, “clean his fingers.” “Yes, Master,” she said as she moved. Marcus acknowledged his friend’s small kindness with a nod of his head as Allison knelt in front of him and began to lick his fingers. “Hey what about me,” said Henry petulantly. “Ah, quit your whining,” said Robert, “you’ll get your turn. In fact you can have it right now.” He had been checking his own fingers and found the outcome satisfactory. “Good job,” he told a smiling Ellen, “now do a good job for my friend.” “Yes Master! Thank you Master,” responded a smiling Ellen as she knelt before a smiling Henry. When Allison finished her task, after Marcus had nodded his satisfaction, she returned to her Master and knelt beside him. Roland handed her his tin field cup and ordered her to fill it in the river. He kept his eyes on her the whole time, simply enjoying the sight of her luscious body, especially when she got on her knees and bent over to fill the cup. What a pleasurable thing it is to be a man and to have a beautiful naked woman kneel before you, bow her head, and proffer a drink on outstretched arms. This too was not a new experience for Roland, save for the fact that this was the first time he owned the woman in question. It would have been nice had the drink proffered been beer, mead or wine, but the cool water of the river was wonderfully refreshing. He had her fetch another cup for him (Robert’s and Oliver’s slaves were doing likewise for them, providing more pleasant views) and then had her fetch a couple of cups for Marcus. Miranda served Henry who grinned like it really was his first time, though Roland knew it wasn’t. When Allison finished he took the cup back and then had her top off water skein before allowing her to slake her thirst directly from the river for which she both dutifully and sincerely thanked him. A languid peace settled over the group, the men all leaning back on their arms, enjoying the beautiful day and the feeling of bellies filled with hot meat. The slave girls no doubt enjoyed the same feeling but both Ellen and Miranda (still with that wide eyed innocent look that she could barely keep off of Oliver) were kneeling again. Roland had commanded Allison back into the obeisance position. He noticed that the auction was now over and the Slaver and his men were busily repacking their wagon and hitching up their horses. Roland had been right about him. He was going to make a dash back to the city to restock and then another quick march of merchandise back to Harold’s Stand or perhaps one of the other new frontier towns. In the distance, he saw a couple more wagons approaching and wondered what merchandise they were bringing. Lord Foppish was turning out to be quite the opportunistic business man. In addition to the slave girls he was renting out, he and his men had organized several games of cards and dice. A couple of the Royal Guard stood nearby to make sure that emotions didn’t get out of hand – and to collect the ten percent donation of the house profits to the King’s Beleaguered Orphans’ Fund. Only a fourth of this would actually go to the fund (which, to its’ credit, did provide shelter, blankets and food for actual orphans). Another fourth would go the Royal Guard’s Retirement Endowment. The third portion went into the Royal Treasury and the final portion directly into the King’s personal account. It was an open secret in Kamara that King Malcolm didn’t mind a little corruption in his kingdom . . . so long as he got his cut. The silent enjoyment of the sunny, warm, and breezy day, stretched several moments, until it was broken by Robert. “So Roland, ya gonna finally tell us why ya got you’re face rearranged for her.” At first Roland thought he’d never be able to explain the certitude he had that she was fated by the gods themselves to be his, but then he realized that Robert was merely asking about what he had talked about so much before. He wanted to know what skills she had, whether she was worth something more than just a good fuck (and after what you’ve been through she damned well better be, said his tone). With everyone’s attention on him, Roland smiled that I’ve-got-a-secret smile again and then commanded Allison into the kneel position. “Allison,” he said, “what crops would grow good around here?” “Potatoes, Master,” she said and then went on to list several other crops including rye, oats and maize. Roland could see the interest of the other men increase, particularly Robert’s. “If we can get the proper seed stock,” Roland continued, “is their enough time left to plant this year” “Yes, Master.” She listed several crops, including potatoes, tomatoes, and pumpkins. Roland heard the pride in her voice over the knowledge she had, pride that she could be very useful, but he also heard her fear that he might ask a question she couldn’t answer. “I love pumpkin pie,” said Henry. “Everyone loves pumpkin pie,” snapped Robert as a way of telling Henry to shut up. “So,” said Roland, addressing his slave again, “if we want pumpkin pie, when will we be able to harvest them?” She took a deep breath and then, “depending on when they were planted, late summer or early autumn, Master.” “So we are going to have pumpkin pie?” asked Henry. “You’re missing the point,” said Oliver. “Aye,” said Robert with a nod of understanding toward Roland. “I see what you mean. She’s going to be very useful.” With a point of his finger to the ground, Roland silently commanded Allison back into the obeisance position. He allowed himself a moment of smiling satisfaction and then said, “we might want to rethink a few things, change our schedule a bit. We probably couldn’t plant much right now but any food we can grow increases our chances of getting through the winter.” “We can’t plant anything right now,” said Marcus. “I’ve yet to see any seed stock in town.” “True,” conceded Roland, “but like you said, the merchants are just gearing up, they’ll be here soon. Also, I’ve been informed…” he tilted his head toward Alison, “that we’ll probably need to rent some oxen to plow. “Aye,” said Robert, “we’ll keep our eyes open for oxen and seed. Right now we need to concentrate first and foremost on our shelter, and I’ve been thinking about that a bit.” He paused long enough to make sure that he had everyone’s attention, and then continued with, “ever since we got out here, ever since we’ve found out we were now landowners, we’ve all been really eager to get out on our own. Roland knew where this was headed. They had all spent several months living with several hundred men side by side – literally. During training they were packed into cramped bunkhouses and on maneuvers they’d been packed just as tightly into tents. They had slept communally, ate communally, shitted, pissed and shaved communally and griped about the lousy food and lack of women communally. It had felt good to simply be alone. But after a week on their new lands it had become increasingly evident to him that it was not yet time for them to live on their own. It had been apparently on the minds of the others as well, for each of them nodded slightly as Robert laid out the difficulties they would all face in the coming winter. “Winter out here ain’t like winter in the city,” he gravely said, “out here, if ya ain’t got what you need ya canna buy, borrow, beg, or steal it so easily.” “You think we should build us a single shelter and live together,” said Roland, testing his theory about where this was going. “Aye,” replied Robert, “at least for the first year. It makes no sense not to.” Robert made several points as to why they should do so but it wasn’t really necessary. The advantages of the five of them (well, eight now) living together rather than apart were obvious. Marcus pointed out that others were already doing the same while Roland mentioned that any first shelter would be temporary anyway because wood needed to properly season to be of any long term use. There was no point in building five temporary shelters when one would do. The details were hashed out over the next twenty minutes and it was decided that Roland’s lands would be the location of their new home. The others would bring their tents and tools over in the morning and then they’d get to work. For a few minutes it was debated whether they should make the move today – security being the reason sited. They may have not been too distrustful of their fellow militiamen up to now, but the situation had changed. Now women had entered the picture. It was at least possible that some sore losers at the auction might take it upon themselves to murder in the night and steal what they could not buy. “I’m not too worried,” said Roland, “most of the men around here are at least getting sated,” he nodded to the still large group of men gathered around the slave girls who were being rented out, “and we have Royal Guardsmen in the area now, and a no nonsense Magistrate.” Robert (who had put forth the idea) nodded in agreement. Truth be told he wanted a night alone with his new slave same as Roland and Oliver. The matter was settled when Marcus volunteered himself (with Henry quickly following suit) to patrol their lands during the night. “Well then,” said Robert with a shit eating grin on his face, “That jess leaves one more matter to be settled.” “Okay, I’ll bite,” replied Roland, “what’s left?” “These three,” he waved a finger nonchalantly to indicate the three slave girls, “will ‘ave to be working together a lot, sometimes unsupervised. There needs to be a first girl” Roland had no doubts this time; some instinct, some shared commonality amongst men who owned women, gave him instant insight to where Robert was going with this. He grinned to show that he knew and was happy to play along. It would be marvelous entertainment. “I agree,” he said, “and since we will be on my lands, it only makes sense that my slave should be first girl.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied Robert, “I think the one with the most years in the collar, the most experience, should be the one.” “Seniority for slave girls? I didn’t know there was such a thing.” Robert grimaced a little, caught in his own “argument.” “I heard you shouldn’t do that either,” said Henry. “You’re supposed to let them fight it out for themselves, like, so long as everything gets done.” Roland wondered if Henry understood and was playing along, or if he had just stumbled across it. Either way, “That’s a good idea, Henry. We can have them bitch slap it out right here.” Upon hearing these words, Miranda shrank back, her eyes wide with fright, and she scooted herself a little closer to Oliver. The men, including Oliver, all laughed. “Nobody seriously considered you for the job, my little cherry,” Oliver informed his slave. ♦ ♦ ♦ Slave girls often have to work with each other or at least in close proximity to each other as they go about their various duties. Even slaves who are the only slave their master owns must often interact with other slave girls as they run errands in the city streets or bathe themselves at the public baths. Sometimes they become friends, even best friends and other times bitter rivals and enemies (relationships that can be severed in an instant with the mere exchange of coin). At all times though, they must get along lest their inability to do so bring punishment down upon all involved. Fear of the whip is one thing all slave girls are united in. It is not surprising therefore that a whole set of largely unspoken rules, a slave girl culture, governs many of the interactions amongst enslaved females. When it came to fighting, be it at the command of men for their entertainment or to settle a private dispute, the great fear of the slave girl was permanent injury or disfigurement. For herself mostly of course, and for obvious reasons, but also for her opponent because that would be damaging a free person’s (most likely a man’s but possibly a woman’s) property. That would bring fines and shame upon her owner and some very severe punishment upon herself (possibly even death if the injuries were severe enough). Thus it was understood that biting and gouging were not allowed and a twisted arm (Roland flexed his left arm – it still hurt greatly but it was tolerable) or leg should not be twisted too far. As a result of these strictures – both those laid down by men and by the slave girls themselves – fights between them are affairs mostly involving pushing, shoving, hair pulling, pinching (titty twists were most definitely allowed) and slapping. One way to win was to pin the opponent on her stomach, grab two handfuls of hair, and painfully twist until the other girl yielded. This though, was actually considered a low way, an underhanded way, of winning. Particularly since, if taken too far, it risked creating bald spots if a large enough chunk of hair should be pulled out. That most certainly fell under the idea of disfigurement. The preferred goal of the fight was to pin the opponent on her back, or perhaps her side, to pin her arms with one’s own legs and thus be able to deliver stinging slaps against the opponent’s face until she yielded. It was from this practice that slave girl fights came to be known in common parlance, to both free and slave alike, as “bitch slaps.” Even when they didn’t command it (it was a great way for taverns to bring in the business), even when they chanced upon one while passing the public baths or some side ally in the city or behind a barn in the countryside, men enjoyed a good bitch slap. The new town of Harold’s Stand was no different. When Robert, Roland and the others stood up and formed a small circle, when they had Ellen and Allison kneel facing some ten yards apart from each other, it was readily apparent to passerby what was happening and thus the call, “BITCH SLAP! BITCH SLAP!” went out across the town. And the men came . . . to watch. Bowing to the inevitable, Roland and his friends backed up a bit, marking the outline of a half circle against the river with the two naked, kneeling slave girls inside. The half circle filled up quickly, most of the town was once again assembled. Roland saw the Cavalry Colonel, the Healer, several of the Royal Guardsmen (who once again spread themselves out amongst the line), the guy who sold him the pork and others. The Magistrate was nearby, his ripe looking dark haired (with just a few streaks of gray) slave kneeling at his side and Roland saw that even Lord Foppish and his men were watching (his slave girls getting another respite). Only some merchants at their stalls and a few others failed to join the congregation (including, Roland noted with irritation, that thieving stable owner and his cronies; he had in fact not seen them at all since this morning). Not exactly the sociable type, thought Roland, Buddy better be okay when I get back there. The slaver was already heading out of town though Roland noticed that a few of his men looked back. They were to far away for Roland to see their expressions but he did not doubt they were expressions of disappointment. The Earl of Ethebridge walked up next to Roland. “Having some fun with her already, are you?” He grinned and folded his arms across his chest. “It has been a while since I’ve seen a good bitch slap.” Roland grinned back and also folded his arms across his chest. Judging from the enthusiasm of the gathering crowd, it had been a while for most of them. Bets once again were being made. Roland and Robert had already made their wager: three pints of beer to be paid when the occasion presented itself. A voice called out from the crowd. “Will there be any incentives?” Both girls, like all slave girls, already had very powerful incentives, of course – their master’s pleasure versus his displeasure. Except for wagers made upon the spur of the moment, men took little interest in the causes and outcomes of private spats between slave girls. Roland remembered an occasion where his mother (still a legal slave) came home from an errand with obvious slap marks on her left cheek and arm. When his father saw this he asked simply, “did you win?” With a wicked little smile and a nod of her head she assured him that she had. “Good,” he had replied, and then he dropped the matter. It wasn’t until a few days later that Roland had realized that his father had never inquired as to the cause of the disagreement or even what other slave girl it had been with. It simply wasn’t a matter of his concern. A more formal bitch slap is different. At the taverns, parties and festivals where they usually take place, wagers on the combatants could go quite high. The combatants themselves, whether brought around once a week or so by their carousing master at a dockside den or specifically owned as a “slapper” by a wealthy man in an upscale establishment, were often long experienced (and in some cases specifically trained) veterans of the sand and mud pits. Often, to increase the excitement of the spectators, a few moments is spent with each owner extolling the abilities of his slave (many such slave girls will have fans who keep track of win/loss records and get into debates, arguments, or fisticuffs, over who is the best). At this time the girl’s owner may provide additional incentives, publicly proclaiming that should his girl win she will be rewarded. Perhaps it will be some free time to herself, a few hours to nap in the sun, or perhaps a piece of chocolate (something slave girls seem to go nuts for), or perhaps both. Either way, it was, from the slave’s perspective, a much better outcome than a whipping from a displeased master. As the slave auction before it, the first bitch slap of Harold’s Stand was taking on the air of a downsized version of a formal bitch slap in the city. When the question of incentives was asked, the Earl and several of those near Roland all looked at him. This led other heads to turn his way. Roland looked around at the expectant faces and then, not knowing really what else to say, simply said: “I will be pleased.” This brought some chuckles, laughter and even a few claps from the crowd which then turned its attention to Robert. Robert, in an amused lighthearted manner said, “I too will be pleased.” The crowd reaction was the same as it had been for Roland. Some more wagers were being made and Roland noticed that most of them were for “blondie,” or “the blond.” He looked the two slave girls over closely. Ellen was a little taller, a little heavier than Allison and this would give her a bit of an advantage but not much. There was no way to judge the experience of the two naked women. Ellen had been a slave all her life but bitch slaps between slave girls weren’t really allowed by society (both free and slave) until their teens and there was no telling how often either slave engaged in bitch slaps. It was quite possible that neither girl had participated in that many or perhaps Allison was a weekly regular in the tavern that had owned her (he had not thought to inquire about that aspect of her slavery there). Both girls had an equal incentive to be first girl and both had an equal incentive to please and not displease their masters. But then again Allison, he was quite sure, had much greater incentive than Ellen in this area. Ellen had been simply purchased for eighteen silver coins. A good sum to be sure (one any slave girl would take pride in) but still, just a simple exchange of coin. Allison knew that her master had paid a much higher price for his new slave. Yes, smiled Roland, she would be desperate to please her new master, to be found worthy of the price he had paid. “We need a Whip Master,” somebody said. “Here, here,” came a cry. It was the portly merchant who owned the slave wares stall. Leaving an assistant to watch his stall, he had come forth brandishing a long tail – five feet of tapering leather on two feet of molded wood. “I will gladly loan the use of one of my fine quality whips for this occasion. In fact” he continued, I will award this beautiful piece of craftsmanship to the winner,” by which it was understood of course that he meant the winner’s owner. Some men applauded the merchant. Nothing wrong with a man advertising his wares and it was a nice offer. “Who wishes to wield the whip over this contest?” “You know how to use that?” asked Robert. “Most certainly I do kind sir! Do you think that I would not know the wares of my own business?” The merchant’s attitude was not offended, however, but rather jovial. A practiced joviality that said a potential customer could never offend him. “I’m okay with it then,” said Robert. People looked at Roland who nodded his head to show that he was okay with it too. In fact he wasn’t entirely okay with it. A Whip Master was often a part of a formal bitch slap but there was nothing mandatory about it. Roland hadn’t even thought about it but now that there was one . . . There was a slight murmur from the crowd as Roland walked over to his slave, squatted down and started whispering in her ear. “If it is necessary for him to whip you then so be it but truth be told I would rather it be me who next applies the leather to you. I will be disappointed if I am not. Understood?” “Yes, Master,” she whispered back. She blinked several times and visibly swallowed. “Hey, you’re supposed to declare incentives,” someone objected from the crowd. “I don’t have to declare anything,” said Roland as he stood up and returned to the line. It was true. It was not like this was an official bitch slap put on by the Kamaran Bitch Slap League. “This is true,” said the Magistrate, his voice once again cutting the conversation short. “Although in simple fairness,” he gestured from Robert to Ellen but Robert shook his head no. “Well then,” said the Magistrate with the voice of a man who was simply eager to see a good bitch slap, “let’s get started.” The whip wielding merchant took a position halfway between the two slave girls and near the crowd so that the three of them formed the points of a triangle. There were two ways he could use the whip. He could snap it in the air as a warning or use it directly on female flesh should a warning prove insufficient. The whip was also commonly used to start a match. “Choose your opening positions,” said the merchant as he raised the whip. Allison immediately crouched in a three point stance, ready to pounce outward. She assumed it quickly enough that Roland was heartened. She appeared to be experienced. Ellen too, unfortunately leapt into an experienced looking three point stance. There was a loud crack as the merchant slashed the whip in the air. Both girls flinched (so did several in the crowd) and then leapt toward each other. They met, each grabbing at each others hands, interlocking their fingers, and pushing hard with their legs. Men began shouting. Roland and Robert led the way in cheering. “C’mon girl! C’mon Allison!” Roland shouted while clapping his hands and punching the air. Robert was doing likewise and the assemblage of men began to pick up the combatant’s names and call them out as well, revealing who had wagered upon (or simply regarded as the prettier) whom. For a minute, straining and practically snarling, the two slave girls strove against one another, neither managing to push the other back more than a few steps before having to retreat. This went on for another minute. A few disappointed boos came from the crowd and the merchant snapped the whip in the air again. Both girls leapt back. Ellen tried to retreat a few more steps, to catch her breath, and made the mistake of presuming Allison would do the same. Instead, the brown haired girl leapt forward and delivered a stinging slap to the blonde’s left cheek. Then Allison used Ellen’s brief disorientation to lower her head and barrel into her opponent. Allison wrapped her arms around Ellen’s waist and then dropped her knees, hauling Ellen with her and flipping her over. Some of the crowd cheered, others moaned. Roland cheered too, lifting his arms up in what appeared to be a quick triumph. No doubt about it. His Allison had been in more than one bitch slap. But Ellen quickly showed that she was not inexperienced herself. When Allison flipped her, she kept rolling, preventing her brown haired opponent from climbing on top of her. Allison tried to give chase on her knees but Ellen jumped up and Allison had to quickly do so as well, ducking away just in time to avoid a slap to her right cheek. “Yeah! Yeah!” Robert exclaimed, clapping loudly along with many others. The two enslaved females faced each other, slowly circling each other, hands held wide, looking for an opening, some mistake, from their opponent to exploit. A minute went by. The loud crack of the whip resounded again. Both girls sprang forward again, trying to wrap their arms around the other’s head while also trying to trip each other with their legs. For a moment they were a swaying tangle of limbs. Then Allison lost her footing. She tried to haul Ellen down with her but the blonde girl went with the momentum and instead of being flipped, she ended up on top of the slightly smaller girl. Roland led the Allison supporters (many who were already calling her ‘Allie’) in a groan. Ellen (already ‘Ellie’ to many in the crowd) tried to sit up, with her legs pinning Allison but Allison responded by wrapping her own legs around Ellen before she could do so. The two girls grappled with each other’s hands for a few seconds and then Allison switched tactics – she started pounding her fists into Ellen’s legs and waist. Punching, though discouraged, was allowed in bitch slaps but never on the face and with care at the upper body. Most punches tended to be aimed at the legs. A bitch slap, in fact, was the only time a slave girl was likely to get punched. As far as the men of Roland’s society were concerned, men used fists to settle disputes with other men – not with women and children, regardless of their status. A man who regularly uses his fists on a slave girl would not only find himself ostracized from the company of men but likely relieved of the slave girl in question. Perhaps he will be formally challenged for her – the likely upper class response. Amongst the lower classes he may likely be made a small offer of coin for her from a group of the local men and he would be smart to take it. If he refuses there is a strong possibility that he will find himself set upon by several masked men in the middle of the night. Later, waking up, bloody and beaten, he would discover that his slave girl has been simply whisked away, her chains perhaps cut open or the lock on her cage pried apart. Magistrates, interestingly, had a tendency to overlook such actions even though it was, legally speaking, assault and theft. On this day and in this place, however, Allison’s use of her small fists upon Ellen’s legs was breaking no taboos – and their use was having the desired effect. Howling in pain and frustration, Ellen pushed away. The two girls broke apart, rolled away from each other, leapt to their feet and started circling again. They didn’t wait long enough for the whip master to become annoyed this time. Both girls charged each other quickly. There was another tangle of limbs for a few seconds and then Ellen got hold of a handful of Allison’s hair and began twisting. Allison yelled in pain and tried to twist her whole body around to relieve the pain but Ellen turned with it and now had her opponent by the hair and facing away from her. Allison was forced to bend over backward slightly. It was a very helpless position and Ellen took advantage of it by releasing one hand from Allison’s hair and proceeding to slap the brown eyed girl’s face. “Bitch!” screamed Allison (that, of course, was the other reason why bitch slaps had acquired the name). Allison twisted herself again, increasing the pull on her hair, but she accepted the pain for a purpose. She had maneuvered herself so that she could grab Ellen’s left nipple and then she twisted hard . . . very hard. There was no mercy in it. This time it was Ellen who screamed “bitch!” loudly, over the cheering men. She had no choice but to let Allison go and push her away. She backed off several steps and massaged her right tit. Allison also scrambled away to catch her breath. “That’s my girl! That’s my girl!” cried Roland clapping and pacing back and forth. It was another moment of experiencing something familiar in a new way. He had cheered for one slave or another in bitch slaps before, and the cry of ‘that’s my girl’ was common amongst men who did not own but merely were fans of a particular girl. But now, “that’s my girl!” was a literal truth for Roland. It felt fulfilling, with just a little bit of trepidation because a small bit of his prestige (bragging rights vs. enduring friendly ribbing), as well three pints of beer, were riding on this, but they were of minor consequence to him. She was literally his girl – that was all the reason he needed for him to want her to win. For half a moment the two women, disheveled now, bent over, hands on their knees and breathing hard, regarded each other. Both had red marks upon them and it was evident that Ellen would have a ‘bruised booby’ (a common bitch slap term) for a few days. Roland noticed that Oliver and Henry seemed to be cheering for Allison while Marcus stoically watched with his arms folded across his chest. The slave girls kneeling near their masters we’re being allowed to cheer as well but Roland had noticed that they always seemed to cheer for whoever appeared to be winning. Slave girls were smart, there was no sense in earning enmity from either of the combatants for one never knew how they might have to interact with them in the future. The one exception was Miranda. The exquisite, tiny, dark haired slave clutched at her master's leg and half hid behind it as she knelt. She watched with wide-eyed horror and wonder. She knew that she would likely have to engage in a bitch slap some day; either because men ordered it or because she had violated the customs of slave girl culture – a culture she had to know she was abysmally ignorant of but which she now had no choice but to participate in. There was another crack of the whip in the air. The women sprang at each other again. Ellen tried to snare Allison in a head lock but her arms met only open air. Allison had dove to the ground; she spun around on her left hip, using her legs to sweep the blonde girl’s legs out from under her. Ellen toppled to the ground hard and Allison pounced upon her. “Arrgh!” cried Robert who was exhorting and cheering his Ellen as heartily as Roland cheered his Allison. Roland’s slave, with a look of determined fury on her face managed to pin Ellen on her back but had fail to pin either of the blonde girl’s arms. The two grappled with each other, aiming slaps at each other but most of the time managing only to beat each others hands back and forth. Allison did get two good slaps, one to each side, and Ellen managed one. Then Ellen shot her right hand toward Allison’s pussy. The blonde grabbed one of Allison’s pussy lips and began twisting. This is considered a perfectly “legal” move but definitely an underhanded one by slave girls. There was even some boos by the slave girls present but the men cheered. “AIEEE!!!! You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!” Allison shouted as she pulled away, rubbing at her pussy but she immediately pounced again with that look of furious determination. Ellen had gotten to her feet, just a tad slowly, and backed away as fast as she could. Allison continued to move on Ellen and the blonde slave continued to back away. She had the worried, desperate look of one who knew she was loosing. This continued for about a minute. The loud crack of the whip resounded again but this time it was not air that it struck. Ellen howled as the tip of the whip made contact with her ass, certain to leave a painful welt that would last a few days. But she didn’t take time to dwell on that, she had received the message of the whip and responded by launching herself at Allison. When Allison began to dive again Ellen tried to leap over her, hoping to come up behind her but Allison had been feinting and instead of going forward and down, she went up and sideways. As Ellen’s feet hit the ground Allison pushed her hard, sending the blonde girl toppling over on her side. Allison moved quickly to straddle her and before Ellen could move, Allison had her pinned on her side. Ellen’s left arm was pinned underneath her and her right arm was pinned beneath Allison’s pussy, while the brown haired girl’s weight held her opponent to the ground. A cheer went up from half the crowd while a groan came from the other half. Robert led the groaners as he put his hands on his hips and shook his head in disgust. Roland led the cheerers, jumping up and down with fists raised. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he shouted (his aches and pains had receded into the background again – there, but of no consequence). Ellen had one, very slim, chance: raw strength. Screaming inarticulately, she struggled to rise but she had no leverage. Roland dropped to his knees and one hand, and pounded the palm of his other hand into the ground (he was not the only enthusiast to do so) as Allison delivered the first stinging slap to the right side of Ellen’s face. He was unable (and saw no reason) to contain his enthusiasm because he knew that it (SLAP!) was (SLAP!) all (SLAP!) over! “I YEILD! I YEILD!” shouted Ellen. Roland leapt up and raised his arms in triumph. Robert made a disgusted “blah!” expression and kicked at the ground. While the cheers and moans continued Allison leaped up and ran to her master. She knelt before him, hands behind her back, knees spread wide and head bowed. She was breathing heavy, quite red in complexion and was quite dirty with dust and grass stains again. She was beaming with pride. Roland ignored some congratulatory back slaps as he looked down at her. He tucked his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to look at him (he really enjoyed doing that, he admitted to himself). All those emotions were still there but it was joy that now dominated and she was grinning broadly. She had won! She had done well for her master! She had made him proud! Hadn’t she? Roland almost laughed at how quickly he saw the worry, the desperation, melt back into her face. “Very well done,” he said and she beamed again. Roland nodded toward the center of the half ring where Ellen was crawling toward her master, head down and crying. It was customary in staged bitch slaps to allow the victor a moment of applause. “Thank you, Master,” she said as she sprang up and ran to the center of the circle. She stood, legs slightly apart, with one hand on her hip and the other raised in a fist of triumph. She turned a slow circle as the men, even those who had wagered against her, applauded though it was just as likely that they were applauding her beauty as well. When she finished she knelt down and bowed her head to the ground. This too was part of the tradition, lest a slave girl allow her victory and the applause to go to her head and forget her place in society. Allison bowed four times, making sure to “cover” all the men present and then she ran back to her Master and knelt in front of him again. Again he lifted her beaming face to regard him. “Do not think for one moment that this in any way lessons the punishment due you.” “No, Master,” she said as she bowed her head but the disappointment was obvious in her voice. Although a smart slave girl does not put too much stock in such hopes, she finds it hard not to hope anyway. “And for that punishment may I present you your prize,” said a voice. Roland looked up and saw the slave wares merchant standing in front of him and holding the long tail whip out to him. Roland had forgotten the man’s offer. He saw immediately that it was a fine looking instrument. He took the whip with the same delight that a child takes a present and looked the whip over carefully. The handle was cherry wood, perfectly weighted, finely carved and expertly lacquered. The leather was fine grain, supple, and expertly twisted and knotted around the handle. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, obviously created by a hand whose owner took great pride in his work. “This is a fine gift, are you certain?” “Of course, of course,” answered the slave wares merchant with his practiced joviality. “Just be sure to tell everyone where you got it from – Franklin’s Fine Slave Wares of Harold’s Stand.” He spoke a little louder than normal conversation required. “You plan on staying here, huh?” asked Roland idly, sill eyeing the beautiful whip closely. “Oh yes, I believe the new territory will be a burgeoning market for several years at least, and a boom market for the next several months.” The man had a habit of rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind him. The crowd was beginning to break up now. Roland held the whip out. People nearby backed up a little, seeing his intent. When he judged he had enough room, Roland cracked the whip smartly in the air. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Allison flinch. Roland coiled the whip and held it in his left hand. He extended his right hand and said, “thank you for this gift, I will indeed tell folk where I got it from,” as they shook hands. In truth, Roland wasn’t sure that he’d mention it nearly as often as the slave wares merchant would like – it was, all things considered, still just a whip – but there was no reason not to be honest if the matter should come up. “There are some more items I’ll need, rest assured I’ll be by later.” “I look forward to fulfilling all your slave ware needs,” he said, “until then.” He turned and started back toward his stall. “Franklin’s Fine Slave Wares, always the finest quality,” he said to no one in particular as he went. Roland was still getting a few back slaps (and Allison a few compliments) as people went by. He could hear a few arguments over wagers. “She’s even more amazing than I thought,” said the Earl of Ethbridge.” Roland had forgotten that the Earl had been standing near him all this time. “Not having second thoughts, are you?” He had meant it to be a light hearted quip but he regretted saying it as soon as it was out of his mouth. It was rude. Nor did he want to give the man any ideas about taking her back. Roland need not have worried though, because the Earl of Ethbridge laughed, slapped Roland on the back (he really wished people would stop doing that, it reverberated painfully in his left shoulder) and said, “You’ve no worries there, Roland. However, perhaps someday you may do me the kindness?” “Of course,” said Roland, eager to make up for his rudeness. “Well until then,” said the Earl. He laughed and slapped Roland on the back again and headed away. “Making new friends, are you?” It was Robert, having just come up to him. Ellen, crawling behind him, knelt. She was no longer openly crying but she sniffled a lot and bit at her lip. Marcus, Henry and Oliver had also gathered around. Miranda was kneeling properly but she was still a little closer than custom dictated in such circumstances. Oliver did not seem to mind, however. Roland looked at the retreating back of the Earl and then back to Robert. “He is an honorable man,” Roland told him. “Never mind that, when do I get my beer?” “You’ll get it when it gets here,” he bellowed in his customary frustrated voice that was more act than reality, but he shook Roland’s hand in congratulations and grinned as he did so. Roland knew that his friend would good-naturedly accept his loss. In the grand scheme of things it was trivial and his only real motivation had been to watch a good bitch slap. He had achieved that. Robert pointed at the whip with a ‘may I?’ expression and Roland handed it to him for examination. Henry, Oliver and Marcus all leaned in for a closer look. After a moment’s close examination they all proclaimed themselves to be suitably impressed. Roland took the whip back and coiled it in his hand. “So it looks like you’re first girl,” said Roland to Allison. “I expect you to do a good job in supervising these two.” “Yes, Master.” “And while I’m sure Oliver and the rest of us have much to teach Miranda, I expect you, and Ellen, to take a hand in her education as well. She has much to learn.” There was a chuckle from the men, even Oliver. “Yes, Master. May I ask a question, Master?” “Go ahead.” “Will I have discipline rights?” Roland looked at Robert and Oliver both of who nodded, but it wasn’t really necessary. Such authority usually came with being a first girl. “Of course,” said Roland. “Since things won’t really get started until tomorrow morning, perhaps you’d like to say a few words to them now.” “Thank you, Master,” she replied. She looked at Ellen and Miranda. Her voice took on a tone that, in some way inexplicable to Roland, was authoritative toward the other two slave girls yet managed to remain submissive in the presence of free men. “I’ll only say now that I’ll strive to be fair but I will be strict. I expect my orders, when not in conflict with one of the masters, to be obeyed promptly, and to the best of your ability.” This too was a given but a reminder never hurt (well, when it wasn’t accompanied by a whipping). Allison looked directly at Miranda. “Understood?” “Yes, Mistress,” replied Miranda in a high, nervous voice. Nobody but Miranda was surprised when Allison slapped the inexperienced slave hard across the face causing the small, dark-haired girl to squeal (rather than the yelp Roland had expected). “I am not a free woman,” Allison explained to a stunned looking Miranda, “I am a slave like you. You will address me by name. Is that clear?” “Y . . . Yes . . . Allison,” stammered Miranda. Allison then looked directly at Ellen. “I will obey you, Allison,” said Ellen deferentially. She had largely regained her composure but she still looked seriously bummed out. Allison bowed her head to signal that she was finished (the other two slave girls followed suit). The crowd had largely dissipated by now for which Roland was grateful. He was getting to the point where if one more person slapped him on the back . . . “Well then,” said Robert slapping Roland on the back, “now that that’s settled, what’s next?” Sometimes friendship benefited people in ways they never knew. “Since my slave is in need of much instruction,” said Oliver, “I’d like to get home and teach her the price of disobedience (Miranda’s eyes bugged out at this well known reference to the whip), and some other things.” He had that naughty school boy grin again. “Aye,” said Robert. “I’ve a few more things to buy and then a pleasant evening at home getting acquainted sounds very fine.” Marcus spoke up next. “If I’m going to spend half the night wandering through the dark,” he smiled, “I’d best get going now.” Henry nodded in concurrence. Handshakes were exchanged. “I’ll see you later tonight,” said Marcus. “No if you do you’re job correctly,” quipped Roland to which Marcus just grinned. The two men headed on their way. Roland watched their retreating backs for a moment. “Well, I don’t know about you,” said Roland to Robert, “but I think our first stop should be the Smithy. I think my slave has been out of a collar for far too long.” “Aye,” agreed Robert. “You will continue to crawl,” said Roland to Allison. “Yes, Master” she dutifully replied. “You crawl too,” Robert informed his slave. His voice made it clear that he was still disappointed in her. Three beers between him and Roland may have been trivial but she had still failed her master and he apparently saw no reason to alleviate her of that burden just yet. “Yes, Master.” Ellen’s own voice made it clear that she felt her failure intensely. Oliver informed Miranda that she was to crawl as well. Perhaps he thought it improper that she be allowed to walk while she who was first girl over her crawled. Perhaps he just wanted to reinforce the fact of her slavery on her – not that it really mattered. For a moment the three men admired the three beautiful female bodies that now belonged to them, kneeling in the bright sunshine. Then, almost as one, they turned and headed toward the Smithy’s tent. The three naked females, two of them collarless only for a little while longer, crawled behind them.
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Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!
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