Women & Place

originally posted July 6, 2005

Women, perhaps all of them, wish to know their place and, once knowing it, wish to be kept there. It is a truism of the fairer sex that is just too conclusive to be argued. Slave or free, low caste, no caste or high, they wish that one unifying thing; to be held. Not in a romantic sense, mind you, though many pine for that as well, but in an absolute sense. This is why the free woman will speak with impudence to whomever she pleases. Not because she is legally able to do so, though in many cases she is, but because she wishes to raise the ire of the fellows about her to see what they might do. Is she above them? Equal to them; beneath them? What is her place? How does she know? Men do not take well to direction from females. Whether the woman has earned the station by birthright or otherwise does not seem to matter. It is innately ridiculous to be ordered about by a woman. She knows it and so do the men around her. Even the woman shown her place is still prone to rebellion.
“I ate a sugared date,” The Lady Jenny informed me cautiously. “And more than once was given juice.”
She was certain I was angered over some imagined infraction she perpetrated. She continued to unburden herself with every slight she could recall, trying to gauge what I might know. Some of the petty crimes, I was well aware of. Others, I had only assumed. None of them, truly, surprised me. While I was not particularly happy about the manner she was skirting her dietary restrictions, for example, I really did not mind. This sort of thing is expected. She was begging correction, to be shown her place. Eventually, I will give it to her and show it to her in that order. I am not an unreasonable fellow, but I see no reason to handle her discipline at her convenience either.
Each of the whores attached to my chain, too, continues to grow in their respective submissions to me and to their own natures. Nirah aches for an outlet for her creativity. She defaced a wall in the room she sleeps with one of the most lurid & blatant displays of sexuality a woman could create without spreading her thighs or opening her mouth. To her shock, I told her to paint much where she pleased on the second floor, the whore floor of The Boarding House, with few restrictions. I directed Jenny to purchase whatever paints she might need to express herself. There are many ways to force a woman to look deeper at herself, at her own instinctual nature. It is not always the right decision, in my mind, to beat a woman; at least not initially. If her artwork is somehow not genuine or markedly marginal, mediocre or half-hearted, I will certainly lash her and soundly. I wonder if she knows it? I think she must, but it does not matter.
Evona, my Four Copper Girl, too matures. For an earth-girl, she has improved with measured, rarely faltering strides. She is a popular choice for customers in her scandalously worn pink silk and oft-plaited, blonde hair. I told her that ‘once petulant women, intime, often make the best slave girls’. She is beginning to prove my point. Once rebellious and smart-mouthed, using her supposed naivete to her advantage, she has become soft and docile; touchable rather than challenging.
Portia, the former debtor and now scandalous whore on my chain, earns a great deal of coin. She once was fearful that she would never be able to compete for the attentions of fellows with such lewd & eager sisters sharing the chain. I remedied it by mandating that she must be first to offer service to each and every patron that walks through the red doors; provided she is not already engaged. It has worked famously. The accounting shows Portia earns consistently as much or more than any woman in the House. She no longer fears possible rejection as greatly as she once did. She once feared that she was not beautiful enough. She now fears not being found beautiful enough and seeks to improve further.
Sana continues to struggle, but I think she will be alright. I am very demanding of her as she is truly a girl of House Samsara, my primary domicile. She has put herself low of late, crawling about on her belly that she not assume anything with regard to her station. It is wise of her. Like Nirah, I did not choose to beat her for her previous infraction. Nirah expressed her need with defacement, Sana with debasement. Both were given leave to exhaust themselves. As Sana ends this journey, the girl, Nirah, begins it.
“I gave you paint,” I told Nirah. “I expected you to paint.”
Similarly, I presented Sana with a challenge. I expected her to be challenged.
There is little to say of either Kawena or Vulo. I am aware that they continue to work with obedience and beauty, but little beyond that. That last I saw of Vulo, for example, was her place on the runner of the second floor. I chained her there before retiring to my library. It must have been two hands, perhaps three. As Master of The Boarding House and all within it, I do not have time to dote on each and every one of them every single day nor even every single hand of days. My time is precious, dear to me.
There is more to my life than my whores.
My work, ‘The Fall of Agamedes’, has been received well in nearby Venna. It will run there, perhaps, for several months. The profits are modest, perhaps on par with the weekly profit from my other venture. It would be ironic if at the end of its Vennan run, I could secure for myself a villa in that very city. It has long been adream of mine; an aspiration. I once considered it lofty, unimaginable for a fellow of my station. Now it seems to be merely a matter of time.
Now that I am mostly satisfied with the way the bordello operates, I indulge myself more time at Samsara as well. I enjoy taking the girl, Joy, on my arm to the park or to the Stadium of Blades to watch fellows engage one another.
“Do you ever spar, my Master?” she asked me just last night.
She then wondered if Dukkarr, famed Warrior and Master of the Curulean, was someone I might engage. I suppose it was his friendly demeanor as he approached me that ignited the thought in her mind. While I would not fear to lose a battle of fisticuffs with him, one that would leave me much bruised and perhaps bloodied, I would not think to engage him with arms. It is testament to her love, I think, her singular devotion that she sees little difference in his stature to my own. I am eminently average relative to other men of Ar. Physically fit, to be certain, some might say strong or, if stretching their assumptions, even athletic. I am not, however, of the Warriors. Where I painted the delka in defiance and, too, hurled stones at the backs of the invaders, Dukkarr would have faced them with steel in mortal combat. Some might read this and wonder why I would admit another fellow my better. They would be mistaken. We each have our strengths, our indefatigable qualities. My patriotism, my unflagging devotion to the city of Ar, my hymns and my praises, sharpen his steel. Without him, I have no city to praise. Without me, he has no city to defend.
“I have enjoyed our conversation and, too, drinking with you, friend,” I said to him as I prepared to leave. “However, I have matters that need tending to.”
We wished one another well and his slaves, lovely, beautiful Elise and a raw barbarian he calls ‘Rae’ exchanged pleasantries with Joy. I sit here now, oil in my lamp waning, writing these last words for the evening. I have a matter that needs tending to. Her shoulders are pressed to my furs, feet planted flat; thighs spread. The riotously curled auburn mane atop her head frames her face deliciously and…