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Marcus, loosening the cord, “is perhaps the most common way of
    wearing the slave girdle.” He then took the forward ends of the cord, again
    free, and this time crossed them, over the bosom, before placing them again
    through the loop at the back, drawing them forward and, once more, fastening
    them, perhaps more snugly than was necessary, before her.
    “Ohh,” he said. “Yes.”
    “Aii,” I whispered. I then needed a woman. I must leave the tent and search for
    one, perhaps a girl in one of the open-air brothels, forbidden without
    permission to leave her mat or even to rise to her knees.
    “Is it pretty?” asked Phoebe.
    “It is a perhaps not unpleasing effect,” said Marcus.
    “Yes,” I agreed.
    “There are, of course, numerous ways in which to tie slave girls,” said Marcus.
    “True,” I said. To be sure they tended to have certain things in common, such as
    the accentuation and enhancement of the slave’s figure.
    (pg. 31) Phoebe moved about in the tent, delighted. She could perhaps suspect
    what she might look like.
    “You see,” I said, “there is some point in permitting a female clothing.”
    “Yes,” said he, “providing it may be swiftly, and at one’s will, removed.”
    “Of course,” I said.
    Phoebe then, beside herself with passion, knelt swiftly before Marcus. “Please,
    Master!” she said.
    I saw that Marcus was in agony to have her. He could scarcely control himself.
    “Please!” wept the slave.
    I expected him to leap upon her and fling her to her back to the dirt, ravishing
    her with the power of the master.
    Please, please, Master!” wept the slave, squirming in piteous need before him.
    “What do you want?” asked Marcus then, drawing himself up, coldly, looking down
    at her. It amazed me that he was capable of this.
    “Master?” she asked.
    He regarded her, coldly.
    “I beg use,” she whispered.
    “Do you protest your love?” he inquired. His hand was open, where she could see
    it. It was poised. She saw it. He was ready, if necessary, again to cuff her.
    “No, Master,” she said, hastily.
    “Not even the love of a slave girl?” he asked.
    “No, Master,” she said.
    “And in any event,” he said, “the love a slave girl is worthless, is it not?”
    “Yes, Master,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. This was absurd, of course, as
    the love of a slave girl is the deepest and most profound love that any woman
    can give a man. Love makes a woman a man’s slave, and the wholeness of that love
    requires that she be, in truth, his slave. With nothing less can she be fully,
    and institutionally, content.
    “You do not then protest your love,” he said, “not even the love of a slave
    girl.”
    “No, Master,” she whispered.
    “What then?” asked he, casually.
    “I beg simple use,” she said.
    “I see,” he said.
    “I am a slave in desperate need,” she said. “I am at your mercy. You are my
    master. In piteous need I beg use!”
    (pg. 32) “So,” said he, scornfully, “the slut of Cos, on her knees, begs use of
    her Master, one of Ar’s Station.”
    “Yes, Master!” she said.
    “You will wait,” he said.
    “Yes, Master,” she moaned.
    “I hear music, outside, the instruments of peasants, I believe,” said Marcus,
    turning to me. “Perhaps they are holding fair or festival, such as they may, in
    such times.”
    “Perhaps,” I said.
    “Let us investigate,” suggested Marcus.
    “Very well,” I said.
    “Oh, yes,” said he, looking down, “what of this slave?” She squirmed. It seemed
    she had slipped his mind.
    “Bring her along,” I suggested.
    “You are an ignorant and unworthy slave, are you not?” asked Marcus.
    “Yes, Master,” she said. She was flushed and helplessly needful, even
    trembling.’
    “Better surely,” said Marcus, “that she be stripped and left here, behind,
    alone, bound hand and foot.”
    “Perhaps if you have a slave ring to chain her to,” I said.
    “You think there is danger of theft?” he