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cloak, Mr.
Constant told him, before leading me quickly and silently
to the elevator and outside the hotel, down a few crowded,
brightly lit downtown streets to a restaurant. Showtime.
    I followed the maitre d' across the floor, the big ring in
my collar catching the light of candles on tables, Mr. Constant
walking close behind me like an impresario, my cloak over
his arm. I could hear murmurs. I blushed, but kept my chin
lifted, even higher than the collar forced me to. I could feel
my nipples stiffen, my cunt get wet, my whole body open and
swell under the stares directed at me.
    An image floated into my mind. I guess I thought of it
because we were going to Greece the next day, but it was from
an old fantasy, one I'd played over and over again, late in bed at
night, during high school. I was naked, chained from a collar
much like the one I was wearing now, the chain tugging me along behind a chariot. Booty of war, a slave captured at Troy,
following barefoot behind the warrior who'd loaded me on
his ship. He'd also got a wagon full of pottery and weavings,
and some sheep and goats. The little Greek island kings had
squabbled, had even come to blows once, over how to divide
the spoils, especially the pottery. It had been raucous, cruel, violent, petty-like the rest of the war. They'd enjoyed it. And now,
ship safely in harbor, we were marching through the gates of his
city in a victory parade. The crowd lining the road seemed huge
to me-I tried not to look at them, but I could hear, I could feel
them-drunk, laughing, jeering. I thought I could hear them
that night in the restaurant, though it was really just the tinkle
of silver and china and crystal, and perhaps a few polite gasps.

    Chill, people, I thought. If I can deal with it, so can you.
But it's probably easier for me. Because I have to concentrate
on walking in these shoes, and breathing in this dress, while
you can hang out at your tables feeling... well, what are you
feeling? Shamed curiosity, self-shielding contempt, outraged
desire? Or envy, which is what Mr. Constant is really hoping
for. He wants you to desire me, and to envy him terribly.
And I know this because it's what I want too.
    It couldn't have taken more than two minutes for the
maitre d' to guide us across the restaurant. But it felt like an
hour, with that Technicolor epic running in my head. And its
coda, when everything caught up with me.
    As we entered the private dining room at the back of the
restaurant, Mr. Constant whispered, "Bravo." I smiled. It was
the first thing he'd said to me.
    A waiter held a chair for me. I lifted the stiff, oddly smooth,
and crinkly skirt when I sat down-it wasn't exactly something you'd sit on. The seat cushion tickled my bare ass. My cunt
was moist; I was going to leave a sticky little wet spot on the
dusty-rose velvet. I sat as straight as I could while the waiter
fussed with the flowers and glassware.

    "And pull her dress down," Mr. Constant added, "so that
I can see her breasts."
    The waiter's hands were deft, circumspect. He used a finger to lift each of my breasts out of the bra cup that held it,
and to fold the stiff cloth below it. My breasts rose under Mr.
Constant's gaze, their painted nipples standing at obedient
attention. I kept my eyes down while the waiter answered all
of Mr. Constant's questions about the menu, and disappeared
silently.
    Mr. Constant and I looked at each other across the table.
That is, I looked at the flowers, the silverware, his hands,
everywhere but his face. And I felt him looking at me all
over, sternly, while I struggled to manage my body, my eyes. I
realized that he was speaking to me.
    "...Much better," he seemed to be saying. "I'm glad you
take instruction so well. You'll have to learn a great deal of
patience and control. But you seem to be making a good
start.
    "You can look at me tonight," he continued. "I know
you've been waiting for me to tell you a little about