Alice Sinclair Gorean style BDSM fiction

I watched as the patron played the sex game.

He (wisely) left his clay bowl of beer at the table - though his friends had insisted he was not a real man unless he did it with his drink in hand. Alas, for my sales, the patron was too smart to be normed by such weak bullying. 

He had taken a space in the gaming space. This was a white stone circle 9 feet in diameter with its bounds marked in red paint. A blue circle had been painted at the center; this was the player's position. The man stood inside it, his hand down his pants. The fabric stretched back and forth as he masturbated.

Facing him, in an arc, were three slave girls. Each was in their own sector. Each had an iron shackle around one ankle that went to a fastening ring. All three knelt with their backs straight, buttocks resting on the heels, thighs parted wide.

One was an ivory-skinned, Zidonese girl. Zigzag blue tattoos around her biceps muscles showed that she had been a member of the Ice Wolf clan. However, the stamped copper medallions hanging from her black collar showed that the Bone Serpent clan had enslaved her. Her black, shiny hair fell past her shoulders. She laughed and clicked her tongue at the man, a fight challenge from the glaciers. Her dark eyes twinkled, and she ran her finger down between her labia for him to see.

The second girl was a tall, pale-skinned, Siberian blonde. Her eyes were light green, her cheekbones and jawline elegant. She shook her long hair this way and that, moving to the drumbeat from the dancing pit. She gripped her breasts and lifted them up for the patron as offerings. Her collar was simple, rough, iron. Her only adornment was an "X" brand on her thigh. She was just another piece of market-glutted, collar trash. In time, if she worked at it, she would stand out and be given a name. If not, kneeling cuffed at the ankle in the pleasure stalls would be the rest of her life. 

The third girl was Belled Pet. She did nothing to draw the patron's attention; she just stared at his crotch, frowning. She rose to her knees. Her back was tense as a drawn bowstring. Her hands hovered over the floor, fingers spread.

"Get on with it!" Yelled a fellow from the man's table.

"It's too small; he'll have to stick his fingers at the end to make it look longer!" Yelled another.

"Shall I come over and do it for you?" Said a third.

The nearest tables cheered/jeered with them.

I can best translate the game's name as "shoot it." It is an old, traditional game on Hyperborea. It is played at harvest festivals, weddings, and after large business agreements are concluded. All I did was make it a bar game.

The player's job was to ejaculate past the girls that were aligned to block him. If any semen landed behind them, he got a point. If, however, he managed to both shoot past them but also get his seed on a girl's body, he won two points.

With one point, his drink was free. With two points, he would not have to pay to use the girl that would be licking his semen off her body.

The slaves also played. If they managed to intercept all his seed, the man had to pay for his drink. If, however, the slave also managed to get his semen into her mouth by catching it in the air, then the man would also have to give her a treat.

The treat was what got the girls interested. It made them try harder. This made the game that much more fun to play - and to watch.

The man, at last, pulled down his pants, and the spectators cheered. He tensed as he came close to ejaculation, his penis aimed at Belled Pet. At the last instant, he turned and sprayed between the other two girls.

It was the kind of clumsiness first-time players came up with. The blonde and Zidonese girl, though, were sharks. The blonde blocked, leaning forward. The Zidonese girl leaned back. Both raised their arms to block his seed. The crowd booed (and cheered).

The Zidonese girl licked the man's semen from her shoulder, sticking her tongue out as far she could, making slow, exaggerated movements.

The blonde's chest had also been sprayed. Semen glistened in the firelight as it made tracks running down her breasts and belly. There was some on her left cheek and chin. Her mouth was shut tight.

The man stared at her, one eyebrow raised.

The spectators became silent.

The room's attention was hers; the blonde threw her head back and stuck out her tongue. It was covered in milky-white. She closed her mouth and swallowed, and that showed a clean tongue as the spectators chaired.

I clapped as well; it was a good performance.

The man smiled and pulled his pants back up. He turned to a small, wooden table behind him. On this, in small clay bowls, with the treats.

In one was the off-white, mangled insides of a giant caterpillar's innards. It had been sprinkled with brown cinnamon dust. Staring up out of the second bowl was a fish eye steeped in salt water and vinegar. In the final bowl was (we claimed) dog semen mixed with crushed mint leaves.

The man picked the 'dog' semen bowl.

"You know what this is?" He held it in front of her face, moving it in circles. 

The blonde nodded. She knew as little about its true contents as the patrons did. 

"That it is not from a man but a stray dog?"

The slave nodded again.

"You are a bitch. This is what you deserve."

He beckoned her forward, calling to her as if he would a dog.

The blonde crawled forward on her hands and knees. The chain at her ankle went taut. She threw her hair back and lowered her head to the cup, and ate it, leaves and all.

The room cheered. 

The man looked down at her, smiling, and stroked her cheek. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and blushed. The best girls learn to blush on cue.

The man put five copper pieces down on the floor. Then, he unfastened the blonde's ankle and led her away by her hair. She crawled beside him on her hands and knees as he led her right past his table and to the pleasure stalls.

Belled Pet seemed deflated. She brought her hand up to her bell, her finger playing with the ringer. It was, I'd noticed, a displacement activity with her.

I went over to her.

She noticed me, and her eyes became wide. She quickly changed her stance in an instant: back straight, resting back on her heels, wrists crossed behind her head.

"Greetings, Master! I am sorry I did not win."

"I wouldn't say that," I reached out and stroked her hair. It was like soft, brown smoke. With my thumb, I moved aside a lock that tended to fall across her face. "The customers know you are good. They won't play against you. He paid for his drink - and more. I think everyone won that game."

"Yes, Master," her tone suggested that she thought otherwise.

"I just wanted to let you know that your father is an excellent worker."

"My father!" Her eyes brightened. "How is he?"

"He is well. I'm making sure he eats more; life in the camp has made him thin... He would not eat meat at first. I think out of guilt. Now, he is better. He has more energy. He takes his work quite seriously."

"Thank you, Master," Belled Pet broke stance. She leaned forward, one hand on the floor, the other hand touching my foot. She stared up at me. "Thank you. You've given him purpose, Master."

"Once he is done with his service and you are returned to him, I will ask him if he will stay on."

At the mention of her impending resale, there was a slight tensing of her facial muscles. It is what a slave does when she is trying to hide her thoughts from you.

"May I ask, Master, when I might be sold back to my father?"

"You mean freed?" 

She said nothing, but her eyes did not waver from mine.

"It depends on your father, but given his dedication and hard work, I think I will have to release you early as a bonus to him."

Her eyes lit up again. She sat back on her heels and clapped her hands.

"Thank you, Master!"

I found the idea of losing her quite saddening. Part of me much regretted, very much, having made that deal... Oh well. 

"Until then, Slave, do not expect to be treated any different from the other meat!"

"Yes, Master!" She returned to her stance.

I reached down and uncuffed her ankle. Then, I took hold of her by her bell.

"Come."

I led the beauty away.

***

I shut the heavy wooden door behind me and bolted it.

It was a fair-sized room. A frosted window allowed the midday gloom to fill the room without displaying its occupants to the world outside. Hyperborean men are not bothered by having others watch as they fuck their slaves, so this room puzzled them. I kept it for my own use. The thick, wooden walls dampened the sounds of the outside world almost to nothing. It was a good way to escape from the pressure of all those people. It was, also, I found, a good way to have a slave girl completely focused on you - and whatever you are doing to her.

Four cuffs hung from the ceiling on black chains. On a wooden shelf built into the wall were half-burned-down candles for both light and torture. They shared the shelf with bronze clamps, a reed cane, and a six-flailed play whip of dark brown leather. The end of each flail was flared. Carved into them and stained in black were stylized images of obedience stances.

Beneath this shelf was another that held stoppered bottles. The scent of jasmine and lavender came from a large, blue bottle of massage oil. Beside it was a half-empty bottle of dirty, yellow liquid. The tip of a giant scorpion's tail floated in it. A little smeared between a hogtied slave girl's buttocks made for interesting and sustained wriggling. I like using scorpion oil with a newly captured girl this way. It made her expend her energy and kept her up all night. Come morning, it takes a lot less trouble to make her, now thoroughly exhausted, lie at your feet and lick them.

In the center of the room was a large bed covered in white furs. At each of the bed, posts was a chaining ring with an attached shackle.

"Onto the bed," I said.

"Yes, Master," the bell at her throat tinkled as she climbed onto the bed. 

She turned to face me, sitting with her knees drawn up. Her ankles were crossed. She propped herself up with her hands behind her. Her eyes glittered. 

I took her ankle; the skin was soft and warm in my hand. I felt the elastic strength of her Achilles tendon. I pressed the manacle over it and snapped it shut.

Belled Pet's chest rose and fell with her breath. She stared at me, her lips parted.

"Spread," I commanded.

In an instant, she uncrossed her ankles and spread her legs wide.

I didn't see how this girl could ever return to life as a free woman!

I pushed her back and got down on top of her, my hand pressed around her warm throat.

She sank back on the bed and didn't try to rise. Instead, she crossed her wrists behind her head against the sheets. It was a submission stance. 

Our eyes closed as I brought my head down to kiss her. Her lips were so full! She moaned as I kissed them. My tongue pushed in. She responded with energy, moaning. She brought up one leg and threw it around my waist. Her other foot stroked my leg, the soft skin running up and down against me.

I kept my eyes closed, savoring her taste. I enjoyed the warmth of her skin; it was scented with a Jasmine-like perfume. I broke the kiss and licked her throat: the taste of her skin went with the perfume. This was no coincidence: her scent had been picked based on her taste. Hyperboreans are good with such pairings.

"Master?" She raised her head. "Let me kiss you again, Master!"

My hand had not left her throat. I held her down, her collar under my fingers.

"Please, Master!" She whined.

I moved my hand from her throat to grip her, instead, by her face. I slipped my thumb between her lips.

She pressed them around it, tight. She began to suck my thumb.

Her hands came down to stroke my arms and back. Beneath me, she tried to squirm. Her crotch rubbed against my penis. This is how they were trained: using their whole bodies to arouse. The Hyperborean slave girl seeks to please her master as quick as she can. If she takes too long, or he becomes bored or distracted, he will decide that it is she who is the problem.

I straddled her waist. Her breasts were large, the nipples a light brown. I took them in my hands and kneaded them. Milk formed and rolled down the sides of her breasts. She squealed and turned to watch as it ran.

I licked the milk: it was the flavor and feel of melted ice cream. I closed my lips around her left breast and worked it with my fingers. My mouth filled with her milk; so warm, so rich!

"I am so happy, Master! So happy to please you!"

My answer was to drain her right breast, too.

"You are happy, Slave?" I moved up, sitting over her breasts, her head locked between my thighs. My penis pressed against her cheek. I took hold of her wrists and pressed them down on the bed, pinning her. "Why does that make you happy?"

Before she could answer, I shoved my penis into her mouth. I pushed in, deep, the tip pushing past her tonsils.

She did not gag: the reflex had been conditioned out of her. Her eyes twinkled at me as I began.

"What is it that makes you happy, Slave? Tell me."

She made sounds, but they were not words. Obedient slut; she was trying.

I pulled out after a few more thrusts. Her face was flushed. Thick strings of saliva dripped from the head of my cock, onto her lips and cheek.

She tilted her head back, tongue extended, trying to lick me clean. I let her rub the tip of her tongue back and forth and along the underside of my penis. She did it with slow, teasing care. She knew how to make the sensation as intense and focused as possible.

"You will answer, Slave."

"It is all I want, master," she replied. "All I want, more than anything else, is to please you, Master. No one else. When I see you, it is like the sun has returned to push away the ash! I do not feel hungry. I do not feel the beating from the whip on my back. When you smile at me, I feel I am a bird above the clouds! When you do not, I am crushed."

Could it be?

I lowered my head over hers. I could feel the warmth of her breath. The heat from her flushed cheeks. She stared at me, her eyes darting back and forth as she gazed into mine.

"Are you in love, Slave?"

"Yes!" She said it as if doing so brought her a great release. Her face took on the relaxed angelic quality like a slave girl's does after an orgasm. 

I stroked her hair. Belled Pet was just 18 years old. For all I knew, I was the first man she'd ever fall in love with. It was not surprising - slaves often fell in love with their masters. It is, I think, a survival mechanism. It helps protect their mental health and makes them much more enjoyable to own (in turn, improving their safety). 

However, my contact with this beauty had been limited. The girls I had spent the most time with were those in my breedery. It showed the sheer impact I'd had on her life; I was the center of her universe.

"Good," was all I said. Then, I slipped my penis back into her mouth and began thrusting.

I kept going until I ejaculated. I gripped her head with both hands, pulling her face to me as I came. After five good spurts, I was done. I pulled out and wiped myself under her chin and on her throat.

"Good Slave," I said as if praising a dog.

I lay back in the bed and pulled her against me, her back against my chest. I locked my arm around her throat to keep her in place. 

"What do you say?" I whispered into her ear. Her long, brown hair tickled against my face.

"Thank you, Master," she gripped my arm with both hands. "Before Azathoth wakes to end Creation, may all your enemies lie sleepless at night, screaming your name!"

She turned her head (as best she could) to look at me. Her eyes were filled with adoration.

"Good Slave," I let her turn around to embrace me.

She buried her head against my chest, licking it and running her elegant fingers through my chest hair. The other hand went down to fondle my testicles.

"I would that this moment last forever, Master," she said to my chest, eyes closed.

I stroked her thighs. My hand slipped around them to fondle her buttocks.

"Bold words from a girl who will be freed, and likely soon," I said.

She looked up at me - her expression was stricken, wounded.

Overly so, I thought.

"You had me fooled," I smiled. "You have learned to perform well in this place."

"No!"

"How many other men have you claimed to be in love with?"

"No, Master!" She sat on her knees, clutching at my arms. "It is not true! I love you, Master!"

"Then turn away from your father," I said. "When the day comes, even as I pronounce you free, you must fall on your hands and knees and beg me to enslave you."

She stared at me, frozen.

"Ha! I did not think so."

She crawled back from me, her eyes wide.

"Do not worry; I will not thrash you. You have learned to play these games well, and you have made me much gold - and are the favorite of many men. Come," I beckoned.

She crawled forward; her eyes were still cautious.

I took hold of her by her hair, forcing her head back. With my other hand, I pulled her wrist behind her back and crossed them, holding them in place. I held her this way and kissed her. Again our eyes closed. 

Why did this girl want to be free? Had she even asked herself if that was what she truly wanted? Would she indeed, on the day I released her, beg to stay and keep her belled collar? 

I broke the kiss. She lowered her forehead to the sheets before me. Her thighs were parted wide, her well-shaped ass in the air. I still held her wrists crossed behind her back. The chain at her ankle gleamed.

"I am sorry, Master," she said to the sheets. "I love my father. He is everything to me. I would not disappoint him - even for you." She looked up at me, her eyes large. "But otherwise, I would be your slave. I would lick your seed even as it drips from the cunts of other girls. I would rush to the whipping post to deny them, so I may look at the beatings and see only your touch upon my body. I would be one of your breeding slaves."

"You know nothing of bearing a child," I said.

"Yet, your child is all that I see when I close my eyes and dream. But, Master, I love my father. He would never understand. It would break him - and he has lost everything. I cannot be so cruel to him. I would give up my happiness to save his."

I said nothing and just nodded.

"You have reminded me why I agreed to free you. Your father is a very noble person. I have not heard before of any Hyperborean wanting to see their enslaved daughter be freed."

She looked down. There was a heaviness to her expression. It seemed, very much, a look of shame.

When a Hyperborean girl submits to slavery, she becomes persona non-gratis with her community, friends, and family. By submitting, she becomes something on par with common livestock. She shames them. If she were to fall back in their hands, they would resell or murder her. It is not, in essence, much different from the honor-killing customs of Central and Southern Asia in my own time. 

It is hard for those who have not been raised in cultures where ostracism, social death, and reputation loss have great power over not just a person's life but the lives of those around that person. They are punished alongside them if society's rules are opposed. This is how Hyperborean cultures work, as well. 

I remembered Fogrim had once been very disappointed that I had given my word to a female prisoner, then went back on it to enslave her. At the time, I had thought nothing of it and that he was being a fool. Now, I know what stigma I would've placed on him had others seen my actions and then punished him for them, as well.

Breaking one's word, though, was nothing compared to submitting to slavery. Once her father took her back, they would both be persona non grata among the Armanean refugees. Dura was not the kind of place you wanted to be without friends.

Yet, against all this, her father could swallow his pride and forfeit his own prospects - in a time of great and indefinite suffering - to save his daughter.

"You are not very different from your father at all. It will be a shame to see you go - I would very much like to keep you chained to my bed, Pretty One," I run my hand through her hair. "I would enjoy tying you down by your wrists and ankles and then breeding you. But-" I stopped and shook my head. "You are young. One day, when you are far away from this place, you will fall in love again with someone."

"Master truly thinks so? I cannot imagine such a thing!"

It is always amazing just how naïve Hyperborean women can be. This is what happens in a world where most are illiterate; have never traveled more than a mile from their birthplace, and live in villages of less than a thousand souls. 

"You can think about such things when you're chained for the night in the kennels," I replied. "You've talked enough. Come, put your mouth to another use."

I took a pair of cuffs from the shelf and secured her wrists behind her back. Then, by her hair, I pulled her between my legs.

***

The slave tasked to Arad, House Stone's Master of Kennels, was an exceptional example of her people. One that suggested that further examination - and hunting - was merited.

She was 5 and a half feet tall - or would have been had she been permitted to stand. Her build was slight, her body trim. The muscles under her long, slender limbs had gentle tone. Just enough to give them a pleasing definition: the Hyperborean ideal of slave girl health and beauty. Fit enough to be taken for a dancer, but not so much as to serve as one. Wavy, black hair fell halfway down her back. It shined in the lamplight. Arad dug his hand into it. It was so thick that all below his wrist disappeared.

The girl looked up at him. Her skin was pale, her face an oval. High, gentle cheekbones framed an innocent face. Grey eyes looked up at Arad. Already, behind them, he could read the adoration.

Dark blue swirls were tattooed on her shoulders. A smaller marking like a starburst was on her throat, under her heavy, iron collar. Had Arad been able to read the markings, he would have known this meant she had (once) held the rank of First Wife to her marsh tribal husband. 

Arad looked down at the kneeling girl. Her knees were wide apart. The chain that held her wrist cuffs together clinked as she fidgeted. Her breasts were large and well-formed. Silver rings had been inserted through pink nipples.

A lock of black hair fell across her face. She shook it aside and stared up at him again. Her leash chain swung like a pendulum. Its metal was cool in Arad's hand.

He spat in her face.

The girl blinked but did not flinch. Spittle gleamed on her nose and cheek. Her tongue snaked out to try and lick it away. Failing, she wiped her cheek on her shoulder and then licked that clean.

She turned to stare back up at Arad and smiled. It was a large, perfect, toothy smile.

"You hot, fucking whore!" Arad shoved the girl's face to his crotch. Her mouth opened just in time. He felt her lips close around his cock. With both hands, he gripped her head and pressed it to him. His penis pushed up her tonsils and pressed to the back of her throat.

The marsh tribal girl gagged, spit flying from her lips.

"Suck it! Swallow it all, or I'll cut off your jaw, so it will be easier for you!"

The girl closed her eyes as if savoring a flavor. She choked again.

"Such a beautiful little -"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"By Set's dripping cunt!" Arad regarded the door. It was shut and barred.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"What do you want?!" Arad yelled. His voice seemed to shake the room.

The slave girl pulled away, turning to regard the door as she sat back on her heels.

She yelped as Arad grabbed her by her hair again and shoved her head back over his cock.

"Of all the demons that fall from the skies and climb out from the earth, what are you that disturbs a man at this hour?"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Arad put his hand against the girl's forehead and shoved her off. She cried out as she was thrown back and lay on her back. She tried to move backwards as Arad stood, but she was too slow. His kick caught her square in the thigh. The slave shrank back into a corner. Her hair down over her face was her only protection.

Naked, Arad went to the door, unbarred it, and flung it open.

On the other side was a small made, old, Armanean man. He wore a satchel filled with scrolls. 

"Master of Kennels, there is a miscount!" his voice was shaky. The accent was Armanean. "The number of slave girls is wrong!"

"What?" Arad asked less about the matter and more about the entire intrusion.

"The number of slaves is wrong. It is right here," the Armanean drew a scroll. "This is where the error appears. There is an extra girl after the morning feeding on the 12th."

Arad said nothing.

"See here," the Armanean man opened the scroll. It was covered in cuneiform marks. "After the feed, 33 girls were recorded chained in the second vault. Had more care been taken, it would have been noted that it was just 32 the previous day. See? We must go to the vault and double-check the count. There-"

"Curse you, you old bastard!" Arad yelled so loud the old man dropped the scroll and stepped back. "This is about a miscount - of one slave? Interrupt me again outside of working hours, and I'll make you eat your scrolls! Get out, you old cunt-licker! Go get yourself a woman - why not fuck your own daughter? Set knows; everyone else has!"

Arad slammed the door in the accountant's face.

The old Armanean, stunned, stood in the dark hall for a few moments, trying to understand what had just happened. On the other side of the thick, wooden door, he heard the sound of a whip striking flesh and a woman crying out.

"This matters," he muttered to himself, bending to pick up the fallen scroll. His knees complained. He grunted as he rose. "I'll do it myself, then."

He stuffed the scroll back into his satchel and headed off down the corridor to the slave vaults.

***

"It can only be you."

The assassin knelt just as the slave girls did on either side of her. This was with her back straight; sitting back on her heels; her wrists crossed behind her head. Securing her was an iron shackle locked around her ankle. She stared at the accountant, her blue eyes open wide.

"Master?" She said. She changed her accent to sound Borderlander.

"You shouldn't be here," the Armanean accountant frowned and stepped up to her, looking her up and down.

"I - I do not understand, Master," she said, keeping her eyes large.

"When were you bought, Slave?"

"Two weeks ago, Master."

"For what price?" 

"Two gold, Master."

"Who brought you here?"

"He was - I don't know. I do not know his name."

"Can you describe them?"

"No, Master."

The accountant frowned.

"How much were you bought for, Slave?" There was a change in his tone. It was not a pleasant one.

"Two gold, Master."

"When were you brought here?"

"Two weeks ago."

"Who brought you?" 

"I don't know."

"Where are you from?"

"Darfur, Master."

"Where in Darfur?"

She said nothing.

"Where in Darfur, Slave?"

"Ebugal, Master!"

"How much did they sell you for?"

"Three gold, Master!" 

"Three gold?" The old man smiled. "You said two gold before. Twice. Let us see what the Master of Kennels says now!" He turned to leave.

"Wait!" The assassin sprang to her feet. 

Around her, the other slave girls gasped. The old man stared, his eyebrows raised.

"Please, Master!" The assassin threw her arms around the old man and kissed him full on the lips.

The old man grunted and tried to push her away.

She kept her arms locked around his neck.

The old man struggled to push her off. The assassin let him. The man stepped back, wiping his hand across his lips as if at an unusual taste.

"What is wrong with you?" He spat. "Kneel!"

The assassin did not. She tilted her head to the side, eyes fixing him. They twinkled.

The old man coughed. Then, he coughed again, bringing his hand up over his mouth. He brought his hand away, staring at the red spray. It dripped down his fingers. He coughed again and bent double, then fell to the ground. The scrolls rolled from his satchel as he began to convulse.

The slave girls in the vault began to scream.

The assassin waited till the old man was dead, prodding the body with her foot to be sure.

She turned left and then right, regarding the other slaves in the vault.

All were staring at her.

"They will not believe you. You are just Slaves," she said, hands on her hips. She did not hide her Armanean accent. "And then, they will leave - and you will be left with me. Do you understand, sluts?"

Replies of "Yes, Mistress!" broke out.

The assassin sat back down with her back against the wall.

She licked her lips and smiled.

***

It was a shock to learn that Belled Pet's father had died. It was unclear how; the healer suggested he had perhaps ingested something toxic. Or, perhaps, some Duran spice or herb that may have triggered an allergy. On his own down in the slave vaults, there was no one to hear or aid him. His death saddened me; he had seemed a ray of decency and strength. I had wanted him to rise above. I had been rooting for him to win and take his daughter out of here.

We located his son, now a hauler, at the docks. He had asked we help him cremate his father per the rites of the cult of Azathoth. I paid the costs, humble as they were; a pyre of wood, the arrangements for the temple space, gifts of food and salt for the priests conducting the rites. 

Juskar and I attended the cremation. Besides the son and a few of his friends, there was no one else. I had asked if he had wanted his sister to attend; this both shocked and angered him. The father may have set aside prejudice for the return of his daughter, but not the son.

This put me in something of an odd position. What happened now to Belled Pet? 

"You don't need to tell her anything," Juskar had said after the funeral. "Why would you even ask that?" 

"She should know her father is dead."

"She is a slave."

"You don't think she should know something like that?"

"Gerard, she is a slave!" 

I spent a day wondering what to do. I could have told her I was reneging on the deal and that I was keeping her, anyway. What did it matter if she thought me dishonorable? I owned her. Alternatively, I could speak ill of a dead man and soil her memory of him, saying that he had stolen from me and been sacked. 

My preference was, of course, to tell her the truth. However, it does not do well to make a slave girl grieve. At the very least, this makes her only good for kitchen and scrubbing duties for a period. At the worst, she will go into a depression that she will get no help with. As her performance drops, so does her value. The market, or a culling, will await her. 

In the end, I put off telling her anything. I would have to say something at some point, but that would happen on my own and best terms. 

She was, after all, just a slave.