this other bowl away,” she said.
“Not yet,” I said.
“Sir?” she asked.
I rose to my feet and pressed her back to the tiles, and pulled her wrist chain
down, lifting up her feet. I then slipped the wrist chain behind her feet and
ankles, and pulled it up behind her back. This held her hands rather behind her,
at the sides. I then put her again to her knees.
“Sir?” she asked.
“You do have auburn hair, don’t you?” I said.
Then I picked up the original porridge and held it in the palm of my left hand
and took her firmly at the back of her head, by the hair, with my right.
“No!” she cried.
I plunged her face downward, fully into the porridge.
I held the bowl firmly, pressed upwards. I held her hands firmly, pressing her
face down into the bowl. She struggled unavailingly. Then I let her lift her
head, sputtering, choking, coughing, gasping for air, her face a mass of
porridge. “I can’t breath!” she wept. “I’m choking!”
Then I thrust her face again into the bowl.
“Eat,” I said. “Eat.”
(pg. 74) Wildly she began to try and take the material into her mouth. Then she
twisted her head to the side. “It’s inedible!” she wept. I turned her head
again, and pushed it down. “Eat!” I said. I supposed it was possible someone
could drown in a bowl of porridge. I pulled her head up then, so she could
breathe, and she gasped for breath. “Please!” she wept, through the glutinous
mask on her face. Again I pushed her head down, and again, she strove to get the
stuff in her mouth. Then I put the bowl on the floor before her, and put her to
her belly before it, and put my foot on her back, so that she could not rise.
Her face was at the bowl. “Eat,” I said. She put her head down over the bowl
and, lapping, and biting at the substance, fed. When I removed my foot from her
back, she looked up at me. “Please!” she begged. “Eat,” I said, then kicked her
with the side of my foot, and, as she addressed herself again to the contents of
the bowl I settled myself before the low table, cross-legged, and returned to my
own repast. Once again she looked up at me, frightened, through the paste of
porridge, it thick about her face and on her eyelashes. “I’m on fire!” she wept.
“Water! I beg it!”
“Eat,” I said.
Frightened, she again lowered her face to the bowl.
After a time I had finished my own porridge.
When I glanced again at her she had rather finished her porridge, and was lying
on her belly, her head turned toward me, looking at me.
“You are a monster,” she said.
“Lick your bowl,” I said.
Miserably she did so.
“Some porridge has been spilled,” I said. “It doubtlessly overflowed that sides
of the bowl when you pressed your face into it. That can happen when one feeds
too greedily, too enthusiastically. One expects a woman to feed more delicately,
more daintily. To be sure, you are a free woman, and may eat much as you wish.
Still, such feeding habits would disgust a tarsk. If a slave fed anything like
that, she would be under the whip within an Ehn.”
She looked at me, frightened.
“You can see porridge about, here and there,” I said. “ Do not let it go to
waste.”
She moaned, and, on her belly, lowered her face to the (pg.75) floor. Her tongue
was small, and lovely. Trained, it might do well on a man’s body.
“Are you finished?” I asked her, after a time.
“Yes,” she whispered, in her chains, on her belly, looking up at me.
“Rejoice that you are a free woman, and not a slave,” I said. “Had you been a
slave, you might have been killed for what you did earlier.”
She was silent.
“Do you understand?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Approach me, on your belly,” I said.
She squirmed to the table, her hands still behind her.
I then reached behind her and drew the wrist chain down and, forcing her legs
tightly back against her body, put it back in front of her legs. It was then
“Not yet,” I said.
“Sir?” she asked.
I rose to my feet and pressed her back to the tiles, and pulled her wrist chain
down, lifting up her feet. I then slipped the wrist chain behind her feet and
ankles, and pulled it up behind her back. This held her hands rather behind her,
at the sides. I then put her again to her knees.
“Sir?” she asked.
“You do have auburn hair, don’t you?” I said.
Then I picked up the original porridge and held it in the palm of my left hand
and took her firmly at the back of her head, by the hair, with my right.
“No!” she cried.
I plunged her face downward, fully into the porridge.
I held the bowl firmly, pressed upwards. I held her hands firmly, pressing her
face down into the bowl. She struggled unavailingly. Then I let her lift her
head, sputtering, choking, coughing, gasping for air, her face a mass of
porridge. “I can’t breath!” she wept. “I’m choking!”
Then I thrust her face again into the bowl.
“Eat,” I said. “Eat.”
(pg. 74) Wildly she began to try and take the material into her mouth. Then she
twisted her head to the side. “It’s inedible!” she wept. I turned her head
again, and pushed it down. “Eat!” I said. I supposed it was possible someone
could drown in a bowl of porridge. I pulled her head up then, so she could
breathe, and she gasped for breath. “Please!” she wept, through the glutinous
mask on her face. Again I pushed her head down, and again, she strove to get the
stuff in her mouth. Then I put the bowl on the floor before her, and put her to
her belly before it, and put my foot on her back, so that she could not rise.
Her face was at the bowl. “Eat,” I said. She put her head down over the bowl
and, lapping, and biting at the substance, fed. When I removed my foot from her
back, she looked up at me. “Please!” she begged. “Eat,” I said, then kicked her
with the side of my foot, and, as she addressed herself again to the contents of
the bowl I settled myself before the low table, cross-legged, and returned to my
own repast. Once again she looked up at me, frightened, through the paste of
porridge, it thick about her face and on her eyelashes. “I’m on fire!” she wept.
“Water! I beg it!”
“Eat,” I said.
Frightened, she again lowered her face to the bowl.
After a time I had finished my own porridge.
When I glanced again at her she had rather finished her porridge, and was lying
on her belly, her head turned toward me, looking at me.
“You are a monster,” she said.
“Lick your bowl,” I said.
Miserably she did so.
“Some porridge has been spilled,” I said. “It doubtlessly overflowed that sides
of the bowl when you pressed your face into it. That can happen when one feeds
too greedily, too enthusiastically. One expects a woman to feed more delicately,
more daintily. To be sure, you are a free woman, and may eat much as you wish.
Still, such feeding habits would disgust a tarsk. If a slave fed anything like
that, she would be under the whip within an Ehn.”
She looked at me, frightened.
“You can see porridge about, here and there,” I said. “ Do not let it go to
waste.”
She moaned, and, on her belly, lowered her face to the (pg.75) floor. Her tongue
was small, and lovely. Trained, it might do well on a man’s body.
“Are you finished?” I asked her, after a time.
“Yes,” she whispered, in her chains, on her belly, looking up at me.
“Rejoice that you are a free woman, and not a slave,” I said. “Had you been a
slave, you might have been killed for what you did earlier.”
She was silent.
“Do you understand?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Approach me, on your belly,” I said.
She squirmed to the table, her hands still behind her.
I then reached behind her and drew the wrist chain down and, forcing her legs
tightly back against her body, put it back in front of her legs. It was then
Similar Books
