The Mystery of Free Women

In many ways, the free woman is a greater mystery than the slave girl. That should be prefaced, perhaps. A slave girl can potentially be a delight to a man for the length of his life or, at least, several years of it. She is a conquered thing, constantly striving to please. She enhances her essential self for her owner's pleasure and at her owner's pleasure. If he wishes her to be literate, she will be beaten until she can read, write and speak intelligently on a variety of topics. If he wishes her to cook, she will learn his favorite dishes and also learn to anticipate what he might find pleasing to eat, providing that to him in hopes she has learned his palate enough to delight him with something new now and again. And she will, in time, on his schedule, not her own, reveal every nuance of herself to him. Yes, he may spend months dallying over her physicality. Memorizing every curve and valley, every scent and sensation her body has to offer, but eventually he will plumb her depths. He will want to know her intimately, because he owns her. She is his. It is true that some men do not wait more than a few ehn to tear down a slave girl's walls, baring her soul. And some never bother to do so at all. In general, most men will want full value whether the girl was purchased or otherwise acquired. They will own her fully and, in doing so, will know her. Her mystery, whether she believes it or not, will be known to him.

The free woman, however, remains a mystery. For some, that seems like a good thing. A quality. Something to strive toward. I think it is an emptiness, however. A lack of fulfillment. Without the bravery to step forward and admit what she is, what all women, in essence, truly are, she must content herself with being a mystery. Hidden behind veils, she is constrained by the laws and social mores of her city, the expectations of her family. I admit to observing them, wondering after them. What man hasn't caught sight of an inadvertantly exposed ankle and pondered what else lay beneath the heavy brocade? Having seen an errant strand of hair, loose from its pins, would not most men consider her mane? I think most would. I have done so. However strong a draw the mystery is, the free woman is not a female slave. It takes very little to draw one's thoughts from contemplating a free woman. The scent of a slave girl's perfume on the air or even the sight of such a woman walking in her short, revealing garment is generally enough to distract any man. It is no wonder such women are sometimes cruel to their sisters of the brand and the collar. Sexual congress with a free woman may be enjoyable. It might even prove to be an excellent way to spend one's time. Such relationships with slave girls, however, are guaranteed to be pleasing. If not the slave may be severely beaten. The free woman, normally, would suffer no consequence for being less than adequate. It would be, in fact, somewhat suspect if she were skilled at pleasing a man past the rudimentary mechanics of the act.

I saw two free women in the Teiban Sul Market last evening, each with an agenda. Lady Tia of the Bakers wished to have a discussion, the topic of which was never revealed. I told her my door was open to her. I will speak with her, I assume, before the end of this hand. Noemi, too, wished to speak of matters not thoroughly explored at our last meeting. She also wished to bestow gifts upon the Girl Six and Elise. I am a particular fellow when it comes to garmenting and accessorizing my property. Scheduling meetings for the remainder of the hand as my trip to market concluded for the day was not the only event of note last evening. The rivalry between Noemi and Tia was a rather revealing incident. Tiffs between free women are generally limited to such things as a pointed scoff or disdain, public displays like the refusal to greet one another or the aversion of eyes, coupled by a haughty lift of chin. Occasionally, insults are tossed lightly at one another, stinging little barbs that point out the supposed inadequacy of one another's behavior. Noemi and Tia, however, were anything but limited in their vitriol. It was the pointed dismissal of Noemi by the Baker, turning her back to the woman, that escalated the affair. As it was a squabble between women, it was neither my place nor my inclination to get involved. When food was thrown and a market basket full of ripe, juicy peaches was used as a weapon, I did step between them, cautioning them to act in a more proprietous manner. We were, after all, in a public place. Were they slave girls, I might have taken a quirt to each of their behinds. Not for squabbling, of course. Nobody cares that slave girls fight, so long as they do not inflict serious injury or permanently mar one another's appearance. When it moves beyond a squabble and becomes a distraction that, for example, might require a free person to divert his path to avoid their tousle, then correction becomes necessary. They are only slaves. Free women, however, are generally separated by their Guards and conducted home, that they do not further embarass themselves in public, that their mystery be maintained.