Then he who was with me touched me, gently.
I reared half up, helplessly, a wild cry stifled by the wet silk I clenched between my teeth. He placed his hand over my mouth. Then he removed it. I had been unable to help myself. I looked up at him, piteously, tears in my eyes. I lay back, but whimpered, pleadingly. I lifted my body to him, beggingly. I looked wildly up at him, half in astonishment, half in supplication.
He seemed pleased. “Yes,” he said, rather as he had when he had noted the lovely mark, incised on my thigh. It would not come off, of course, it had been put there, in me, over a period of a few seconds, with a white hot iron.
I tried, helplessly, to press my body against his hand.
What cared I now for my questions, what mattered it if I understood him or not, if I fathomed his presence here, or what he wanted, or even if his interest in me might, frighteningly, be more than that of one such as he who had, in a garden, encountered one such as I.
I whimpered piteously, begging him, looking up at him, my teeth clenched on the silk, by body lifted.
I writhed, touched.
Again I lifted my body, begging.
But I was not touched. Tears welled in my eyes. Surely I was not to be tortured!
I whimpered, pleadingly.
I knew what could be done with me. He must not torture me! He must not torture me!
I looked up at him. All was in his hands.
I sobbed gratefully, entered.
I clutched him. On my left angle were golden bangles. On my left upper arm, there was a golden armlet. On my right wrist were two narrow golden bracelets. They made a tiny sound as I clutched him.
I did not think he would take long with me.
Surely he would have the dangers of the garden.
I clutched him. I hled to him, fiercely, with all my small strength.
He would be soon done with me.
I was only a girl in a garden.
I held to him, fiercely.
I wanted to savor every sensation, every feeling, every tiny movement. I was grateful, such as I was, for whatever crumbs might be thrown to me.
I looked at him, pleadingly, over the sopped gag in my mouth.
My eyes begged him not to stop.
I wanted more, more! I could not help myself!
Then I suddenly feared he might cry out. Sometimes such men, in their joy, in their ecstasy, roar like beasts! His cry might bring down the guards upon us!
I looked at him, frightened, my teeth clenched on the silk. He must not cry out!
I shook my head, wildly.
But he paid me no heed. His eyes were fierce. I might have been nothing in his grip!
Then I began to feel my own helplessness.
I knew that I was but a moment from being again conquered.
How piteously I looked up at him, and how well, I am sure, he read my helplessness.
He paused.
I tried not to move.
I tried not to feel.
I looked at him.
He must not tell that I was near the wall! He must not tell that I was near the wall!
I had been quiet and obedient.
I had not cried out.
I had not called for guards.
Was I not pleasing him?
He must not tell that I had been by the wall!
What more could I do?
He must be quiet.
He must not make noise.
This place was not safe.
How long had we lain together?
Did he not know that we could be seen from the wall?
I feared that guards might see!
The rest period must be nearly over.
Others will be coming into the garden.
What if the one who was first amongst us should come to the garden?
What if we should be discovered?
But it was the helplessness which precedes the yielding.
All was in his hands.
I moaned.
I looked up at him.
He had brought me to the point where he could do with me what he wanted.
I was now his.
How it must amuse them, and please them, I thought, to have such power over us! But I clung to him in my helplessness. He could do with me what he wished. All was in his hands.
Oh, let him be merciful! Let him be merciful!
How they can wring from us our surrender!
Let him be kind! Oh, please, be kind! Please be kind!
He looked down at me, I fastened in his arms.
With my eyes I begged him, piteously.
I wondered suddenly if he had come to steal me, or one like me.
To pluck a flower, to seize, and make away with, a luscious fruit of the garden? But such things are almost impossible to do. To be sure, sometimes a flower would disappear, but then so, too, usually, would have a guard, or a member of the staff. That was dangerous, but possible. But he was not of the house, or of the staff, or the guards, I was sure of that. How, thusly, without the knowledge of the house, without the keys, the passwords, perhaps even friends within, could he hope to get me over the wall, or though the gate, past the guards? How could he even hope to ascend the wall himself, with the uncurved knives at the summit? But he had said he was known in the house. Could that be true? If it were so, then I supposed that he might, quite unlike one such as I, simply take his leave. Perhaps, waiting, he had wandered into the garden, to pass the time. He might then have seen me by the wall, and, perhaps taken with my beauty, as some men were, decided, on a whim, to accost and enjoy me.
How hateful he was!
But now I was his.
Helplessly!
He had brought me to this point.
He could now do with me what he wanted.
But I knew in my heart that I had wanted him perhaps a thousand times more than he had wanted me.
He was a man of this world, and the sight of one can wrench out our insides.
We are made for such men.
He moved slightly.
I whimpered, begging.
I sensed whispers of he yielding, tiny whispers, becoming more insistent.
Already I was within the throes of the helplessness, that helplessness which precedes the yielding, which heralds its proximity, which warns of its imminence, that helplessness which sometimes seems to hold one fixed in place, where one, as though chained to a wall, knows that there is no escape, which sometimes seems to place one on a brink, bound hand and foot, in the utmost delicacy of balance, at the mercy of so little as the whisper of another’s breath.
I bit on the silk.
He moved, slightly.
I whimpered, gratefully, eagerly.
I looked up at him.
No heed did he pay me.
I clutched him.
How could I be brought more closely to the yielding?
I wanted it!
My eyes begged it.
I thought I heard voices from the house. I groaned.
Was this some torture to which he was subjecting me?
It may as well have been, so helpless I was, so much at his mercy.
To be sure, I was nothing, only a girl in a garden.
I had, of course, in chains, and in ropes, learned what such as he could do to me, how they could bring me again and again, gently, surely, cruelly, as it might amuse them, to such a point, to such a delicate, exact point, to the very threshold of release, to the very edge of ecstasy, to where I was only the cry of a nerve away, begging, and then, if they wished, simply abandon me there, letting me try to cling there, in place, until, protesting, suffering, weeping I would slip back, only after a time, if it might again amuse them, sometimes with so little as a few deft touches, to be forced to begin again the same ascent. Considering such power held over us by men, it is perhaps clearer now why women such as I strive desperately to be pleasing. Not all instruments of torture are of iron, not all implements of discipline are of leather. An analogue may be noted, of course, between such torture and the treatment often inflicted upon the males of my old world by women of my old world, in pursuit of their own purposes. But such matters need not concern us here. Rather they lie between the women of my old world and the men, or males, of that world. Here, as you might suppose, such techniques are not at the disposal of women such as I. The prerogatives of such torture, if it is to be inflicted, lie not in our hands but in those of men. We have been vanquished. I would not have it otherwise.
I heard again the sounds of voices, from the house. The rest period must be over!
I looked wildly, frantically, at he in whos arms I was captive.
He looked down upon me.
It was as though I was helpless, chained to the wall, at his mercy. It was as though I were on the ledge, bound hand and foot.