sometimes, though rarely, outside the wall, but I did not know what accents they might be. Indeed, I had heard a variety of diverse accents on this world.
My fears flooded back, again, upon me. What could be his interest in such matters? "Turn your head from side to side," he said.
I obeyed, held, frightened.
"Your earrings are pretty," he said.
They were tiny, and of gold. They matched the bangles, the armlet the bracelets.
"They contrast very nicely with the darkness of your hair," he said.
I looked up at him, pleadingly.
I did not understand him.
Of course he knew I was a pierced-ear girl, with all that that, on this world, implied. He would have known that before he had ordered me to disrobe.
He must release me!
No he must continue to hold me, if only for a moment!
No, no, he must release me!
We were in the garden!
Did he not realize the danger? "Were your ears pierced when you came to our world," he asked.
"No," I said.
"They were pierced in the pens?" he asked.
"No," I whispered.
There was, at the pens in which I was first trained, I had learned, an additional charge for that, as there would have been for the piercing of the septum, permitting the insertion of a nose ring.
"Where were they pierced?" he asked.
"Not there!" I said.
He looked down at me.
"I do not know what you want," I wept. "I am not special," I protested.
"I am not different from thousands of others.”
He drew back a little, and surveyed me. "Do not underestimate yourself," he said. "You would bring a quite good price.”
I regarded him, in anguish.
"But, essentially," he said, "what you say is true. You are, in your essentials, in what you are, no different from thousands of others.”
"Please let me go!" I begged.
"But that would have been to have been expected," he said.
"Please," I begged. He looked up.
"Please!" I begged, squirming, twisting.
"Ah!" he said, suddenly.
But I had not meant to excite him!
But then again I felt him surgent within me and found myself again, even as I heard approaching voices, put to his purposes.
I then clung again to him, sobbing, helpless. Did he not know the danger? He looked at me, suddenly, fiercely. "Are you Janice?" he asked.
"I am Gail!" I said. "Gail!”
"Have you ever been called Janice?" he asked.
"No!" I said.
"Are you lying?" he said.
"No!" I said.
"Do you know the penalties for one such as you who lies?" he asked.
"Yes!" I moaned.
"But you are not lying?”
"No!" I said.
"Do you know a girl, one of your sort, who is called 'Janice'?”
"No!" I wept. I had been told how I must respond to such questions, if they were asked.
"Have you ever been to the city of Treve?" he asked.
"No! No!" I said. I had been warned of the possibility of such questions. I had been instructed as to how to respond. To be sure, it had not seemed likely to me, nor, I think, to those who had instructed me, that I would ever find myself in a situation in which I might be expected to respond to such inquiries. How could such matters be of interest to anyone? Why should such information be regarded as sensitive, or confidential? These things made no sense to me. I understood nothing of them. Perhaps those who had instructed me were mad. I knew nothing of interest or importance to anyone. I was not important. I was not special. I was no different from thousands of others, save, perhaps, in being such that I might, in certain situations, bring a higher price than certain others.
I looked up at him.
Let him not concern himself with such things!
I was only what I was, nothing more.
But might not that suffice, for the little that it might be worth? I, his, in his arms, seas in the garden. I was confused, frightened at his questions. But, too, I was shaken, with my sensations and myself. I had found myself, one such as I, once again put deliberately, and with perfection, to the pleasure of one such as he.
My station, my condition, was unmistakable. I had been reminded, clearly, in no uncertain
My fears flooded back, again, upon me. What could be his interest in such matters? "Turn your head from side to side," he said.
I obeyed, held, frightened.
"Your earrings are pretty," he said.
They were tiny, and of gold. They matched the bangles, the armlet the bracelets.
"They contrast very nicely with the darkness of your hair," he said.
I looked up at him, pleadingly.
I did not understand him.
Of course he knew I was a pierced-ear girl, with all that that, on this world, implied. He would have known that before he had ordered me to disrobe.
He must release me!
No he must continue to hold me, if only for a moment!
No, no, he must release me!
We were in the garden!
Did he not realize the danger? "Were your ears pierced when you came to our world," he asked.
"No," I said.
"They were pierced in the pens?" he asked.
"No," I whispered.
There was, at the pens in which I was first trained, I had learned, an additional charge for that, as there would have been for the piercing of the septum, permitting the insertion of a nose ring.
"Where were they pierced?" he asked.
"Not there!" I said.
He looked down at me.
"I do not know what you want," I wept. "I am not special," I protested.
"I am not different from thousands of others.”
He drew back a little, and surveyed me. "Do not underestimate yourself," he said. "You would bring a quite good price.”
I regarded him, in anguish.
"But, essentially," he said, "what you say is true. You are, in your essentials, in what you are, no different from thousands of others.”
"Please let me go!" I begged.
"But that would have been to have been expected," he said.
"Please," I begged. He looked up.
"Please!" I begged, squirming, twisting.
"Ah!" he said, suddenly.
But I had not meant to excite him!
But then again I felt him surgent within me and found myself again, even as I heard approaching voices, put to his purposes.
I then clung again to him, sobbing, helpless. Did he not know the danger? He looked at me, suddenly, fiercely. "Are you Janice?" he asked.
"I am Gail!" I said. "Gail!”
"Have you ever been called Janice?" he asked.
"No!" I said.
"Are you lying?" he said.
"No!" I said.
"Do you know the penalties for one such as you who lies?" he asked.
"Yes!" I moaned.
"But you are not lying?”
"No!" I said.
"Do you know a girl, one of your sort, who is called 'Janice'?”
"No!" I wept. I had been told how I must respond to such questions, if they were asked.
"Have you ever been to the city of Treve?" he asked.
"No! No!" I said. I had been warned of the possibility of such questions. I had been instructed as to how to respond. To be sure, it had not seemed likely to me, nor, I think, to those who had instructed me, that I would ever find myself in a situation in which I might be expected to respond to such inquiries. How could such matters be of interest to anyone? Why should such information be regarded as sensitive, or confidential? These things made no sense to me. I understood nothing of them. Perhaps those who had instructed me were mad. I knew nothing of interest or importance to anyone. I was not important. I was not special. I was no different from thousands of others, save, perhaps, in being such that I might, in certain situations, bring a higher price than certain others.
I looked up at him.
Let him not concern himself with such things!
I was only what I was, nothing more.
But might not that suffice, for the little that it might be worth? I, his, in his arms, seas in the garden. I was confused, frightened at his questions. But, too, I was shaken, with my sensations and myself. I had found myself, one such as I, once again put deliberately, and with perfection, to the pleasure of one such as he.
My station, my condition, was unmistakable. I had been reminded, clearly, in no uncertain
Similar Books
