Pierced-Ear Girls

originally posted August 7, 2006

It used to be far more scandalous, in my opinion, than it is now. 'Pierced-ear girl' held a lot more weight, derisively speaking, years ago. It was less common when I was a boy, but Sa'na, the girl who served the domicile of my father's home, wore them. Hoops. Small, steel. They glinted and swung back and forth with her slightest movement. My mother hated them. She beat her, I suspect, more than a few times, for the mere offense of wearing what was put upon her. My mother, you understand, was not terribly cruel to her most of the time. Sa'na was not, truthfully, much noticed by my father. That saved her backside many times, I think. Still, the earrings grated upon my mother's sensibilities. It did not matter that she was not a neglected free woman, a mere provider of heirs for my father. The earrings were lewd, even to a woman of low caste. I did not share this opinion, of course. Earrings are a fitting symbol of their bondage, in my opinion. Not unlike the brand that marks them irreversibly, they will always wear the mark of penetration even if a subsequent owner sees fit to remove the bina from their lobe. It will be there, however faint. Unmistakable. And like the collar, earrings cannot help but improve their beauty. It occurs on two levels. First, they are ornamental. They draw the eye. Second, more importantly, much like the collar, they confirm her status both inwardly and outwardly. Anyone can see she is a slave, a pierced-ear girl. How can she not respond to this, and most profoundly, in her very depths. They are like beacons to men.
"Here is a slave. See her collar. See her brand. Note, fellows, the very lobes of her ears are penetrated and then, for good measure, ornamented for your pleasure. Look upon her."
I pierced Elise's ears the other night on a whim. More correctly, I had them re-pierced. A Leather Worker, affable fellow, that I happened upon while enjoying a walk through the narrow, quaint streets of Port Olni's Merchant's Row suggested it. Joy was with me. Samantha and Six, too, along with Elise. He complimented me, noting them, and asked if I would want any of them pierced. He was, I suspect, planting the idea in a potential customer's head. You cannot blame a fellow. He is a craftsman, an Artisan, diligently employing the work of his Caste. I commanded the four of them to stand in profile, putting the hair over their ear that he might inspect them. Joy's large steel hoops glinted beautifully against her tan flesh.Samantha's dangling bina were a lewd invitation, to be sure. Six bore, still, the twisted wire that was put on her when she was last pierced. Even that speaks volumes. Is the penetration any less significant whether the finest bana adorns it or the cheapest bina or, in Six's case, the simplest bit of twisted wire? I do not think so. It was Elise that he gazed upon last. She was once pierced. The mark of penetration, faint, remained. One does not become red silk and then, for lack of use, revert to the status of white silk. Once penetrated, always penetrated. Once pierced, always pierced. It was a non-event, really. She was commanded to bend at the waist and turn her head, resting her cheek on the surface the Leather Worker worked from. He put aside what he was doing, a bit of stitch work on a pair of sandals, dipped the needle in a small bowl of alcohol brought to him by an apprentice, and poked the girl's lobe, re-opening the hole. He threaded the wire through the hole remade and twisted it below the lobe. In a moment, her head turned to the other side, the process was repeated. Done and done, as it were. He would accept only a tarsk bit, explaining to me that the work was already done. He merely redid it. There was even a ready target.
I think they should all be pierced, really. Slaves. Perhaps I will do it to another of the women I own. Let her, like Elise, months from now, recall her time in Port Olni with something more tangible than a mere memory.