What Price, Freedom?

The pale pink stockings matched the garters of ribbons and ruffled lace. The slip was opaque, silky and blush-colored. It was less modest than normal, leaving a hint of thigh between the hem and the top of the garter. The gloves, too, were blush-colored and silky, with a tasteful, contrasting stitch. I covered the heavy collar in a length of pin-hole lace, tied off at the back of the neck with ribbons. Matching pink slippers, three shades darker than the gloves with a finely-tooled, leather sole cradled her feet. The bodice of the robe was tighter than it should have been, hugging her bosom, but the skirt flared by the multitude of pleats. It was a pale pink, brocaded tone-on-tone with dina blooms. There were five veils, but only the light veil, the one scandalously sheer and close to the face, was attached.
She could not breathe. As I moved to attach the Veil of Citizeness, she swooned and asked that I stop. Not long ago, she begged for her freedom. 'For one night,' she asked of me. She wished for the chance to prove that I would find more favor with her as a free woman than I do as a slave. It is, I think, impossible.
As a slave, she is a compulsion and a constant struggle of will. Not of her will against mine, of my own will against me. There are times that I am dizzy in her presence, so much so that I wonder if it is a trick of breeding. When I was the People's Magistrate, I conducted an audit of her papers. I know there is no trick, but there are times I can't help but wonder. When I look at her, I am already three steps into her future. She stares back at me boldly, blue eyes at times inquisitive, at times a challenge, but what she doesn't know, couldn't know, is that I can already see her on her belly, with my hands on her hips. By the time the distraction clears, I am already pushing her face to the pillow, my disposition decidedly rapacious.
I do not know how far I was willing to allow this illusion of freedom to go. I may have pinned all five veils, for example, but I would not have removed the collar from her throat. If her tone had taken on an air of superiority or even equality with me, I would have torn the whole ensemble from her, not paying mind to the workmanship of hook & eye closures, nor the fragility of pins. Clothing her essentially as a free woman was an experiment of sorts, but not to prove a point to her. I have no insecurity about my dominance over this woman. I have no need to force her into rote behavior, nor to beat any amount of submission into her that she does not sincerely offer on her own. I did wonder how far I could go. How far I could take it. I can't imagine I would have let it go on for long. She is a slave. While others chose to ignore that fact (and presumably some still do), I did not. The collar around her throat is mine. I put it there. Robes of concealment are at best a curiosity. I much prefer keeping her nude, or at least nearly so. After all, the only thing a woman's robes conceal, collar or no, is a slave girl.

prevarication

Carnviorous, in flux
Salivate

Ever-changing, never-rust
Wide-eyed and grieving
Slack-jawed, lust
You there
Lipchewer, venomspewer

Don't forget to breathe

Compulsory, implausibly drawn

Fact from friction
A predator predilection
Pretense & deprecation
Blended smooth
Shut-mouth satiation
Hunger-driven salivation

Something to prove

Open

I do not have a Sailor's love for Thassa, nor a Pirate's lust for her wide-open potentialities, but I do have an abiding admiration and respect. It is difficult to quantify how vast, how foreboding and yet, at the same time, how beautiful she is. No one knows just how far, nor just how deep. Mad shipbuilders conjure visions of a craft that sails to the World's End, but is it really the 'End?' Is there not another side to her? How many in Kassau or Laura or some other northern port have set sail, determined and hearty, only to end up on the well-mapped shores fronting the Ta-Thassa Mountains or, perhaps, landed on the beaches of Ianda or Anango? If anyone has made it to the other side, assuming there is another side, he has kept this knowledge to himself. We often tease our children with tales of what lies beyond the World's End; notions such as primitive cultures and wild, dangerous beasts. Some speak alternately of the beauty or hideousness of the people one might find there, if there are people at all. Some believe, even, that beyond the World's End is the place called 'Earth.' I have owned enough barbarians and read enough to be convinced this is not the case, but it is easy to see where the origins of such a thought might derive. Whether it is the World's End or another world altogether, both are strange, foreign concepts to most. I imagine there are people beyond the World's End. I think they must be quite similar to us. 'Us,' of course, being a relative term. Are the men of Ar not very different than the men of Torvaldsland? And are they, in turn, quite different from those of Schendi? Those of Schendi would not be mistaken for those of the Barrens or the Tahari regions. I think, perhaps, the people beyond the World's End are just another variation of 'us.'
It is easy to lose one's thoughts to such ideas where the land meets the sea. "Where the boneyard meets the mountain," I once penned. "An eroding faith survives. It thrives on hunger, feeds on swell, sustaining peace and a beat-down pride." It is here, in these unconquered places, these untamed wildernesses, that we truly live. Outside our zone of comfort, our scope of existence, where majesty and bewilderment taunt us, this is where we thrive.

South of Brundisium