Kneeling in the clearing lit by the early morning light were the new slaves we had taken.
Two were Shemites; they had the light brown skin and black hair of Gulf Arabs. Two were Shang; tall girls with hair like black silk. Next was a dark-haired beauty with the Iberian good looks of a South American beauty queen; a tall, dark-skinned Darfuri; and Naya.
The Shemites and the Shangs knelt in the Shemite fashion. This was one ankle crossed over the other, and their wrists crossed behind their backs; backs bent forward with the breasts pressed firmly to the ground, and the head turned to the right, cheek against the dirt. I noticed one of the Shemite girls was shivering, her body covered in sweat. Her skin seemed pale compared to the other.
The other girls (except for Naya) knelt like Dafuri-owned slaves: knees apart, palms flat on the ground between the thighs, back at a 45° angle, like pet dogs.
Naya was on her hands and knees, her wrists and ankles tied to wooden stakes hammered into the ground. Her back and legs had the red marks of whip strokes. She stared at the ground, sullen and angry.
Off to a corner, kneeling in a row, were the slaves we had brought with us. All knelt quietly, each female’s throat chained to the next one’s.
Fogrim regarded the shivering Shemite, frowning. He shook his head, drew his knife, and started towards her.
"What are you doing?!" I sprang to my feet.
Fogrim stared at me, and eyebrow raised.
"That one is sick."
"So?" I stepped between Fogrim and her
"So she must be culled."
"Like hell!" I crouched down beside the shivering Shemite. She was a petite girl with delicate arms and legs. Her breasts were small but well developed. I picked her up in my arms: her skin was burning. She moaned, eyes closed. A lock of dark hair fell across her face.
"Do not be a fool, Gerard. She cannot travel."
"I'll put her on my horse, I can walk."
"Gerard, you cannot bring diseased livestock. It will spread sickness the rest of the flock. You," he turned and motioned to Naya, "why were you keeping that one alive?"
"In the morning," she cleared her throat, "Zuru was going to eat her."
We could guess who ‘Zuru’ was.
"Look, all she has is a fever," I laid her down on my bedroll. "Give her a day or two to get better. If she doesn't, then, by all means, cull her."
"In two days we will have reached Ebugal." Said Fogrim.
"Even better. Look, her skin is clear. If you kill her at Ebugal, you can have her skinned and sell the pelt to a leather tanner."
Fogrim folded his arms.
"Fine. But if the disease spreads, I will take pains to remind you of this conversation. I own good women, Gerard. As do you."
"Then they'll be fine."
I went to Amber and unchained her from the coffle.
"Take care of her," I pointed to the sick Shemite. "Use a wet cloth to lower her fever," I broke into English, "and crush some berries and add some salt and water to it; make sure she drinks it and stays hydrated."
"Yes, Master," the Ohioan replied, quickly running over to her patient.
"Are you quite done?" Asked Fogrim.
"Yes, I'm done Goddammit."
"Then let us get back to judging the slaves."
He turned back to face the new women.
"On your hands and knees, Slaves!" Fogrim cracked his whip in the air.
When Hyperboreans capture females, they put them to a quick examination. Are they sick? Maimed? Unattractive? Will they survive the journey to market or harem? Any females who fail this judgment are immediately put to death. This simple, brutal eugenics had been practiced here for thousands of years. There were no unattractive Hyperboreans, especially among slave women.
We approached the slaves. The remaining six were now as commanded on their hands and knees as if readying themselves to be used, doggy style (Naya, bound to the stakes, was already in this position). Fogrim crouched in front of a Shang; she was a tall, ivory-skinned Amazon, she had long limbs, and her body was well toned. Her black hair had been pulled up through a copper ring and fell in a high ponytail.
Fogrim put his hand under her chin and forced her mouth open with his fingers. She stared into his eyes, mouth open wide. Fogrim studied her teeth. Then he looked at her eyes, left, then right.
Neither of us had any medical knowledge; not that that mattered. In the judging, deviance is what’s noticed: obvious signs of poor health. This was all it was needed for.
Fogrim moved to the Shang girl’s side, caressing her ample buttocks. He lowered his head to where her buttocks ended and her back began, stuck out his tongue, and pressed it down to her skin. In a single, slow motion, he licked her spine all the way up to the back of her head. He took his time, pressing down with his tongue.
I did not know if licking a girl really told anyone anything, but many slavers swear by it, saying they can tell a girl's health, age, and even if she is fertile based on her taste. I could tell none of these things, but nevertheless, I enjoyed doing it: when taking a female, there is no downside to making clear to her that she is property.
Finally, Fogrim squatted behind her and pushed her legs apart, wide. He pressed her buttocks aside and studied her vagina. The Shang had pronounced labia that extended out of her clitoris. Fogrim ran his thumb and index finger up and down it.
The beauty stiffened and turned her head from side to side. Her lips parted, and she made a small cry as he slipped his finger inside her vagina, feeling around inside her. A girl new to slavery always reacts to having her vagina examined so. More experienced slaves do not react; they are quite used to it. He stroked her pelvis.
"Look at this," he got to his feet and stood over her. Gripping her by her throat and hair, he pulled her up to kneel between his legs.
"See," he pointed to her pelvis.
An upside down triangular brand had been burned into the smooth, hairless skin. A straight line rose from the pointed bottom, up to the center of the triangle. This simple hieroglyphic of a vagina was the Shemite mark for a slave girl. The brand went back to ancient Sumeria.
"It is well done. But why is it not done on her back?"
"Because she is what is called a ‘brothels and beds’ girl,” he answered. “Look how long and graceful her limbs are," he pushed her back onto her hands and knees. "See this long, elegant neck. A beauty like this is taught the Snake style and must be rested, or she will form of calluses on her hands and knees from all the men using her."
I went to Naya. She quickly glanced up at me and then away, her oval face sullen.
I took hold of a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back. She looked up into my eyes, breasts rising and falling with her breath. Her nipples had gone erect.
"Open your mouth, Slave."
She did not.
I slapped her; she winced and glared at me.
"I said, open your mouth, Slave."
Nothing.
“Uh!” the second slap threw her head to the side. Blood gleamed at the corner of her mouth.
"Open your mouth, Slave."
She opened her mouth.
"What do you say when your master gives you an order?"
She regarded me but said nothing.
I raised my hand to strike her again.
“Yes, Master," she said quickly, her words were ice-covered knives.
"Very good. Now, open your mouth."
"Yes, Master," she opened her mouth wide.
I studied her teeth. They were in excellent condition. Her wisdom teeth were just coming in
"How old are you, Slave?"
"22. Master."
I studied her eyes. They were the lightest blue: was her ancestry Icelandic? Siberian? Her hair was midnight black, thick, gently curling. It was so soft it felt like smoke in my fist.
I let go of her hair and drew my whip. I let it fall in front of her face, the end dragging on the ground. She looked at it and then up at me.
"You want me to lick you now," I said. "What do you want, Slave?"
"I want you to lick me, Master."
"When I lick you, you will enjoy it. You will want me to lick you again. What will you want, Slave?"
She said nothing.
I stroked her cheek with the whip.
“Do not think I won’t whip you in your face, Slave.”
"I will ask you to lick me again, Master."
"Good."
I crouched by her side and gripped her by her throat and thigh. I placed my tongue at the base of her spine where her large, soft, buttocks ended. Her skin was salty, cool.
Slowly, savoring the moment, I ran my tongue up her spine. I squeezed her throat as I did so, making my dominance more visceral. I reached her neck and my tongue found her hair.
"You taste good. Do you have anything to say?"
"I enjoyed it, Master," the words fell from her lips like stone blocks. "Please lick me again."
I put my tongue to her spine and licked her a second time. Then, I licked the side of her face and her forahead.
"Do you have anything to say, Slave?”
She said nothing.
I rubbed the grip of the whip across her lips.
"I liked it, Master. Will you lick me again?"
And so I did, a third time.
This form of slave training was for breaking strong-willed females. It is called "begging for collars." The slave is made to beg her master to punish, degrade, or order her about. The focus is on tasks she specifically finds distasteful and crushing, such as licking her master's feet, drinking his spit or urine, or begging to be whipped. Because the slave must ask for these commands to be given, it makes her an accessory to her own breaking. Especially if the girl is a sexual submissive, the process does not take long. By getting a submissive to ask for her degradation, you help her bridge the gap between her pantomime defiance at the start, and her eager, excited submission that comes later.
I got behind her and forced her legs apart. I took hold of her buttocks: they were smooth, soft, quite ample. I spread them apart and studied her clitoris. It looked perfectly healthy to me.
"You want me to examine your cunt. What do you want?"
"I want you to examine my cunt, Master."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Master."
I spat on my finger and slipped it into her. Her vagina was tight, the soft walls folded around my finger. I began stroking inside her, pumping my finger back and forth.
She clenched her toes, and her vagina muscles squeezed around my finger.
"You like that. You don't want me to stop. Do you like that, Slave?"
"I like it. Don't stop."
"There are more females to judge," said Fogrim. “Play with that one, later.”
I pulled out my finger and wiped it on her back. I would have made her lick it clean, but I did not think I would still have my finger afterwards.
***
We finished judging the girls. All past: none would be slain. I was glad of this; I did not see how I would be able to make Fogrim relent a second time.
"If it pleases you, Masters," said the dark-skinned girl with the African features, "may I speak?"
Fogrim turned and looked at her.
"My name Ashtala I am not a slave," she broke position to put her hand to her throat. "I wear no collar, I have no brand. I am from a nearby farm. My father will pay well for my return."
I regarded her. Indeed, I could see no brand on her thigh, nor the tan lines of a slave collar.
Fogrim picked up a thick twig about 6 inches long. He walked over to Ashtala, pulling out a piece of rope tucked into his belt.
Ashtala looked up at him, eyes wide. She put her hand back down on the ground and looked away.
She gasped as Fogrim gripped her by her throat. He slipped the wood between her teeth and tied its ends, making a knot at the back of her head.
"No, Slave, you may not speak," he said. "If you speak again without leave, I will cut out your tongue."
"But wasn't she free?" I asked. “Surely you should let her go if she’s your neighbor.”
"All these slaves were free once," Fogrim grabbed the Spanish-looking girl by her dark hair. "And yet they were all born to be slaves. I know well who her father is. If he wants he can buy her at the market in Erdugal. Though, I don't think he will."
"Why not?"
Fogrim gave Ashtala a hard look, his eyes narrowing.
"A free woman does not beg for her release. A free woman does not submit in the first place!"
I glanced at Naya.
"But if Ashtala, - your neighbor – hadn’t, the bandits would have killed her."
"Do not call her that the slave has not been named yet. A free, Hyperborean woman does not submit to the collar for any reason, Gerard. She will rather die than dishonor her house. Now let us continue. We have judged these females good meat for the collar. Now, let us divide them between ourselves."
“Divide them up?” The thought struck me for the first time. I regarded the new girls, some of whom returned my gaze. Half of them, I supposed, were mine. "But what will I do with more slaves?"
"What can't you do with them. Any girls you may decide not to sell, you can keep at the farm until you want them back. I will put them to good use, raising crops and breeding childern. Come, let us choose! You have chosen first; the sick one is yours. Otherwise, she would be dead."
"Fair enough. Your turn to pick then.”
“This one," Fogrim seized the Shang Amazon by her topknot and made her kneel beside him. She stared up at him, her thoughts unreadable behind her large, round, brown eyes.
"No surprises there. Naya is mine, of course.
"That is without saying: you caught her on your own. Pick again."
The women looked up at me. I was making decisions over the rest of their lives the same way I would choose an apple from a basket.
This was power! The feeling was indescribable.
The dark-haired Iberian beauty made the mistake of eye contact, then quickly looked away.
"This one," her skin was warm against my hands as I gripped her by the back or her neck. Her skin had a lovely, even, tan. She crouched, threw back her hair, and began licking my foot. She did it with vigor, sticking her tongue all the way out, digging between my toes, and rubbing her cheek over my foot.
"Rona is yours, Master," she said.
"Lena," I replied. The name came to me at that moment. It was a task that warranted no greater effort. "Your name is now Lena."
"Yes, Master," said Lena.
I had erased her entire past with a single word.
Fogrim chose the Darfuri woman he had gagged with a piece of wood. He pointed to a space beside his Shang, and the girl crawled to it on her hands and knees. Fogrim gave her a kick the behind, she yelped and cowered.
"Your turn, Gerard." He said without looking away from her behind.
I went to the second Shang. She recoiled at my touch; skittish, eyes wide. She yelped as I grabbed her by her collar and forced her head down to kiss my foot. She and the other Shang quickly exchanged glances; they had realized their futures had forked. I wondered if they had known each other before they had been stolen by the landing beasts.
She kissed and licked, obedient meat.
That left the second Shemite. Fogrim beckoned to her, and she quickly crawled over to him. She licked his hands, legs, and feet. He let her take her time: Shemite slaves are taught to express their servility to their masters in no uncertain terms.
"That is all then,” he said, looking at his new women, smiling. "Let us set our new livestock to work now, and prepare to continue on our journey."