"No," I said. "It is well known to what the kiss of a slave girl must lead."
"What?" she asked, innocently.
"Her ownership, domination and rape," I said.
"Oh," she said.
I snapped my fingers.
The girl, immediately, stood.
"You see, pretty Winyela," I said, "you are ultimately powerless. I snap my fingers and you must stand, prepare then to follow me, unquestioning, your will nothing, to your master's lodge. Your clever tricks now avail you naught."
She put her head down.
I laughed with triumph, seeing her standing there, her head down. "You see," I said, "you are ultimately powerless."
She lifted her head, and smiled. "I am not completely powerless," she said.
"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
"I will show you," she said, "how a slave can seduce a man."
Suddenly she reached out and putting her lovely, bared arms about my neck, pressed her lips to mine. "Ai!" I cried, in anger and fury. But I could not, then, for a moment, release her. She was a female slave. It is not easy to surrender to a female slave from one's arms. Then, angrily, I pulled away from her. Her kiss, that of a female slave, burned on my lips. I shook with emotion. I was furious. The kiss, too brief, delicious, startling, warm, soft, raged in my body. It was like a chemical agent, a catalyst, introduced unexpectedly into my system. Reactions and transformations, eruptive, excruciating and compelling, irresistible and violent, seemed to explod in every compound and tissue in my body. Then she lifted her lips again to me. "Taste again of the lips of a slave, Master," she said. Then she was in my arms, crushed to me, and it seemed that there was only she, and the thunder and light in my blood. Then she was lifted in my arms. "See my collar?" she laughed. "I see it," I said, angrily. "I am a slave!" she said. "Yes," I said. "Do you like the taste of a slave, Master?" she asked. Then she reached out again to me, her arms about my neck, and, again, our lips met. I was then furious. I hurled her to my feet.
"Slut! Animal! Slave!" I cried.
"Yes, Master," she said, laughing.
She rose to her hands and knees and looked up at me, delighted. "I do not think you will resist me now," she laughed.
"Slave!" I cried, angrily.
"Yes, Master," she laughed.
I then, to her horror, strode to the side of the lodge and picked up the kaiila quirt which lay there.
"Please no!" she said, frightened. "Do not whip me!"
But I laid the quir to her well, five times, first striking her from her hands and knees to the robes, and then, as she twisted and rolled, helpless to avoid the blows, lashed her upon them.
"You wanted to be punished," I said.
"I did not want the punishment of the whip!" she wept.
"You will take what punishment your master decides to give you," I said.
"Yes, Master," she wept, her body marked, at my feet.
"On your back," I snapped. "Make slave lips. Throw apart your legs!"
Swiftly the girl complied, tears in her eyes. She then lay there, her lips pursed to kiss, her ankles widely spread.
I looked down at her. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes.
A girl who is commanded to make slave lips, or who receives the command, "Slave lips," must form her mouth for kissing. She then, commonly, is not permitted to break this lip position until either she kisses or is kissed. Needless to say, a girl cannot speak when her lips are in the unbroken, fully-pursed slave-lips position. The command which commonly followes the «Slave-lips» command is, "Please me."
I threw the quirt down beside the girl. She looked at it, there, gratefully. No longer was it in my hand. To be sure, it was where I might easily seize it up.
I then crouched beside her and lifted her to a half-sitting position. She closed her legs somewhat. I then kissed her, and this permitted her to break the slave-lips position.
"I do not think you will now hesitate to have me," she said.
"I do not think so," I said.
"It will be a great indignity for me, a great punishment, to be had by you," she said, "for you, too, are only a slave."
"Doubtless," I said.
"Following the instructions of my master, Canka," she said. "I am to yeild to you, fully, irreservedly, as a slave to her master."
"Yes," I said.
"I am to hold nothing back."
"No," I said.
"But even were I not under such commands," she said, "I know I could not help but yield to you. I have felt your hands before. I know that you can, if it pleases you, make me cry myself your slave."
"Perhaps," I said. I had handled this slave before. We both knew what I could do to her.
"I am ready," she said. "Please being my punishment."
"Very well," I said.
She lay back, softly, in my arms. "That was a splendid punishment," she said, "Master."
I said nothing. To be sure, I had enjoyed administering it to her. It was pleasant to take a woman and reduce her to a cringing, cuffed, orgasmic slave.
"I am yours for the afternoon," she said.
"That is true," I said.
"It is still early," she said.
I doubted that it was that early. Still the cooking fires had not yet been lit for the evening meal.
"Master," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Punish me again," she wheeled, putting a finger on my shoulder, and then kissing me, "-please."
"Do you beg it?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I beg to be punished again."
"Very well," I said. I took her and threw her again beneath me. She cried out with delight.
"I love my master, Canka," she said.
"I know," I said.
"I want to fully pleasing to him."
"You had better be," I said.
"That is true," she laughed. "It is strange," she said.
"What?" I asked.
"I am Canka's slave," she said. "Yet, I love him so nuch that even if I were not his slave, I would want to be his slave."
"Interesting," I said.
"I am only his enamored slave," she said.
"I know," I said.
"Do you want to know something?" she said.
"Surely," I said.
"Love," she said, "puts any woman in bondage, and the more deeply she is in love, the more deeply she is plunged into bondage."
"Perhaps," I said.
"I think it is true," she said.
"Perhaps you are right," I said. "I do not know."
"But if this is true," she said, "it would seem to follow that no woman could be truly in love who is is not a female slave."
"What follows, I think," I said, "is that any woman deeply and truly in love is, in effect, a female slave."
"Imagine, then," she breathed, "the loved that might be felt by an actual female slave, a woman acually owned, for her master. How helplessly she would be his!"
"Bondage," I said, "with its ownership and domination of the woman, is a soil in which it is natural for love to blossom."
"I know that that is true," she said.
"And the bondage of chains is then, not unoften, succeeded by the bondage of love."
"And think how deep is the bondage of the female slave," said the girl, "whose bondage is the bondage of both chains and love."
"Yes," I said. Her bondage was indeed the deepest bondage in which a human female could conceive of her self being placed, being only, strictly, the property of her beloved master.
"Do you know something else?" she asked.
"What?" I asked.
"You are my friend," she said.
"Beware that you are not quirted, a hundred strokes," I said.
"You are my friend," she said. "I know that it is true."
I did not bother responding to her. How preposterous was the girl's conjecture. Did she not know she was naught but a female slave?
"Can masters and slaves be friends?" she asked.