Caravan Living

originally posted March 6, 2006

The caravan heading north is a colorful one. Much of the wagons are those of Merchants of all sorts of goods. While they do not make an overt effort to display their goods each night, the ahns available to market their wares few and the labor involved in setting up tables great, their items are for sale.
I provided a wallet to the girl, Joy, pendant by a cord on her neck, to seek out fabric from a cloth merchant. There is a note, of course. I have need for canvasses to paint background settings for a future play. Too, material is needed for costuming. She will purchase what she needs and provide change. Receipts, too, will be expected. It is not that I do not trust her to be frugal, she has been my slave for many years. It is only that she is a slave. The mandate was fully expected by her.
"Of course, Master," she said.
She also suggested that a trade of goods for services could be offered as Portia, an excellent seamstress from her time before the whip and collar, would be accompanying her. Joy is her Master's slave. Indeed. Were Portia present to hear her body offered up as currency, I cannot imagine she would be insulted or otherwise offended. It never ceases to amaze me how eagerly she takes to instruction and how sweetly she savors the abject conditions I keep her under. Still, I have sent Joy forth with a wallet that is pendant on a cord about her neck. Portia accompanies her. I do not doubt the wenches will convince the cloth merchant to pull the tarp from his wagons and cut for them, from his many bolts, what they require to do my bidding.
Other saleable goods, of course, are always available for view. One need not ask the Merchant to pull back the tarp. He does so readily and without the bidding of prospective buyers. I speak of Slavers. They are among the first to show off their wares. The scarce ahns available for commerce at the end of a day's trek do not deter them. It is worth the labor to have them coffled in the grass, nude, with their chins up and eyes abeyant. Perhaps he will place them in cages, displaying their beauty within as if they are only animals. They are, of course, only animals so it is fitting. And delicious. Why does he do this? He may sell a wench or two on the road. If there be beauties in the cage and he is able to obtain the price he forecasted for them, he undoubtedly will. Still, it is not only that he might augment his pouch with coins on the road that he displays his merchandise. Someof them are new to the collar. Some are seasoned sluts who may have even felt the sawdust beneath their feet at a great block. Most fall somewhere between those types. All of them, however, benefit from being displayed. Assessed. Spoken about casually as one speaks about the ripeness of produce or the quality of vellum. It improves their price, it is thought, for them to know their place.
There are a numbered of palanquin-borne free women on the journey, so fine and haughty in their heavy garmenture, most disdaining to even leave the comfort of their coaches, amongst the caravan as well. The wretches carrying them, kajiri all, are much whipped about the back and legs for the slightest jostle to their lofty cargo's conveyance. Some of them, doubtless, have forgotten what it is to be men and content themselves with that servile life, hating themselves, forsaking better. I warned the blonde girl, Samantha, against tormenting such fellows. Slaves, I know, enjoy such sport. Such a wretch can be slain for so much as laying eyes on a girl. It is not often done as the threat of such is normally enough and, from time to time, these men are even given girls that they don't become so hopelessly dejected as to become completely worthless. Free Women can be cruel, however. Who knows how irrational one might become beneath her many veils and heavy brocade? Should she have one of her wretches slain for becoming aroused by the torment of a girl, I would not enjoy being asked for the coins of recompense, commensurate of his value, no matter how little that might be. Also, there is another threat.
"Men such as this, men who have forgotten what it is to be men, sometimes recall it," I told Samantha. "It would not do the tormenting slave well to happen upon such a fellow when he is not bound."
I smiled. I think she truly understood the threat. Most slave girls enjoy to tease such fellows and I do not begrudge them their sport, honestly. Let them kick and spit at the chained wretches. Let them, too, sting their thighs with switches. I think, only, it is prudent for them to understand that comeuppance is a hard dish to swallow.
Of note, as well, was the slave She's most recent inquiry. She wondered if at some point, now that we are no longer in Jort's Ferry, a brocaded free woman might be joining our party; one that once had a mane of silver hair and was indulged with finely slippered feet.
"The slave She, black-haired and nearly bare-assed in wrinkled yellow silk, is exciting and beautiful," I told her.
She argued, foolish 'genius on two planets' that she claims to be, that 'She' was not truly black-haired and that she was not, therefore, beautiful and exciting. Stupid girl. I thought it was odd that she didn't notice as everyone around her, slave or free, did. The black-dye was only cosmetic, I told her, no different that the paint on her mouth or kohl rimming her eye lids. Drastic as the change was, She was, ironically, uncovered by the layers of dye and cosmetic applied to her. I saw the way she walked in Jort's Ferry when allowed off the chain in the room I rented. Placed in the coffle, amid the other baubles, she was as beautiful and exciting as any other on that chain. I have plans for her, of course, that she need not be made aware of. Curiousity, it is said, is unbecoming in a slave girl. She might even be beaten for it. I am not so cruel, however, that I didn't seek to ease her frustration, her wondering.
"Do not worry, She. If you are sold, I will note it on your papers in bold letters what your true hair color is," I told her. "Accordingly, the fellow purchasing you might decide to let the natural color grow back, trimming away the black as it does, or simply shave your head bald."
Oddly enough, judging by the way she pleaded and keened, informing me in emphatic tones and sobbing cries that 'She is Beautiful!' and 'She is Exciting!' she was not soothed by my reassurances at all. Women are strange.