"Rarely, if ever, does a slave run away," my Master continued. "And most of those who run wish to be caught. It's obvious. Defiance is the motive, boredom the incentive. The few who take the time to steal the Mistress's or Master's clothes succeed in their escape."
"But doesn't the Queen take out her wrath on their Kingdoms?" I asked. "My father himself told me the Queen was all-powerful, fearsome. Her request for slave Tributes couldn't be denied."
"Nonsense," he said. "The Queen isn't going to send her armies into war over one naked slave. All that happens is that the slave reaches his native country somewhat in disgrace. His parents are asked to send him back. If they don't, then the slave earns no great reward. That's all. No bag of gold. Obedient slaves are sent home with a great deal of gold. And of course there's often the parents' shame that their lovely has proved soft and inconstant. Brothers and sisters at home who have served as slaves resent the deserter. But what's all that to a strong young Prince who finds service intolerable?" He stopped his pacing and stared at me.
"A slave escaped yesterday," he said "It was a Princess, and they have now almost given up the search. She wasn't caught by the loyal peasants or any other village. She's reached the bordering Kingdom of King Lysius, where slaves are always given safe passage."
So what the slave pony Jerard had said was true! I sat, stunned, thinking about this. But I was even more stunned by the fact that the words had so little impact. My mind was in chaos.
He started to pace again, slowly, deep in his thoughts.
"Of course, there are slaves who would never take such a risk," he started up suddenly. "They cannot endure the thought of the search parties, the capture, the public humiliation and even worse punishment. And over and over again their passions are roused, fed, roused again, and fed again so they can no longer tell punishment from pleasure. That is what the Queen wants. And these slaves probably cannot endure the thought of reaching home only to try to convince an ignorant father or mother that service here was unendurable. How to describe what had been done? How to describe that they bore as much of it as they did, or the pleasure that was inevitably incited in them? Nevertheless, why do they accept it so readily? Why do they strain to please? Why are they caught up in the vision of the Queen, the visions of their Masters and Mistresses?"
My head was swimming. And it wasn't the wine that caused it.
"But you've shed much light upon the mind of the slave," he said looking at me again, his face earnest and simple and beautiful in the glow of the candles. "You've shown me that for the true slave, the rigors of the castle and the village become a great adventure. There is something undeniable in the true slave who worships those of unquestioned power. He or she longs for perfection even in the slave state, and perfection for a naked pleasure slave must be yielding to the most extreme punishments. The slave spiritualizes these ordeals, no matter how crude and painful. And all the torments of the village, even more than the more decorous humiliations of the castle, tumble fast one upon the other in an endless current of excitement."
He approached the bed. I think he could see the fear in my face as I looked up.
"And who understands power, worships it, more than those who have had it?" he said. "You who have had power understood it as you knelt at Lord Stefan's foot. Poor Lord Stefan."
I rose and he took me in his arms.
"Tristan," he whispered, "my beautiful Tristan." Our passions had been purged, but we kissed in a fever, our arms tight around each other, the affection overflowing.
"But there is more," I whispered in his ear as he kissed my face almost hungrily. "In this descent, it is the Master who creates the order, the Master who lifts the slave out of the engulfing chaos of abuse, and disciplines the slave, refines him, drives him further in ways that random punishments might never provide. It is the Master, not the punishments, who perfects him."
"Then it is not engulfing," he said, kissing me still. "It is embracing."
"Over and over we are lost," I said, "only to be retrieved by the Master."
"But even without that one all-powerful love," he insisted, "you are enfolded in a womb of relentless attention and pleasure."
"Yes," I agreed. I nodded, kissing his throat, his lips. "But it's glorious," I whispered, "if one adores one's Master, if the mystery is intensified by an irresistible figure at the core of it."
Our embrace was so rough and sweet, it didn't seem that passion could have been any better.
Very slowly, gently, he drew back.
"Get up," he said. "It's only midnight and the spring air is warm outside. I want to walk in the country."
UNDER THE STARS
Unfastening his breeches, he tucked in his shirt, laced it and laced his doublet. I hastened to lace his boots for him, but he did not acknowledge it. He gestured for me to rise again and follow him.
Within moments we were outside, and the air was warm and we were walking silently through the intertwining lanes, west, out of the village. I walked at his side with my hands clasped behind my back, and when we passed other dark figures, most often lone Masters with a single marching slave, I dropped my eyes, as seemed respectful.
Many lights burned in the little windows of the close-peaked-roofed houses. And when we turned into a broad street, I could see far away to the east the lights of the marketplace and hear the dull roar of the crowd in the Place of Public Punishment.
Even the sight of my Master's profile in the dark, the dull luminosity of his hair, excited me. My spent c**k was ready to come back to life. A touch, even a command, would have done it. And the concealed state of readiness heightened all of my senses.
We had come to the square of the Inns. There were suddenly bright lights all around us. Torches flared beneath the high painted Sign of the Lion, and the noise of a large crowd swelled through the open doorway.
I followed my Master to the entrance, and he gestured for me to kneel as he went inside, leaving me there. I rested back on my heels and peered into the gloom. Everywhere men laughed, talked, drank from their flagons. My Master was at the counter purchasing a full wineskin, which he already had in his hands as he spoke to the beautiful dark-haired woman with the red skirts whom I had seen that morning punishing Beauty.
And then, high on the wall behind the counter, I saw Beauty. She was bound to the wall, her hands above her head, her beautiful gold hair falling down behind her shoulders, and her legs were straddling the immense keg on which she sat, her eyes closed in pleasant sleep, it seemed, her luscious pink mouth half open. And on either side of her were other such slaves all dozing as if in deep fatigue, their whole attitude one of hopeless contentment.