"Is she really free?" asked the young man.

"Yes," said Drusus Rencius, putting the pass and license in his pouch. "Interesting," said the young man.

"Do you find it surprising?" asked Drusus Rencius.

"Yes," said the young man.

The guard then stood up and came about the table. I backed away a foot or tHe crouched down near me, and then stood up, regarding I blushed, helpless.

"Such curves," he said, "should not be wasted on a free woman."

"I do not think Publius will believe she is free," laughed the young man. I looked at Drusus Rencius.

"Publius," said Drusus Rencius, "is the house master. I know him from Ar." "He would like to see you, after your tour," said the young man, "to drink a cup of paga."

"I shall be delighted," said Drusus Rencius. He did not ask me for my permission to do this, I noted.

"She is truly free?" asked the guard.

"Yes," averred Drusus Rencius.

"It is a shame," said the guard. "Curves like that should be up for sale." "From what I have heard of her," said Drusus Rencius, smiling, "she is the sort of a woman who has her price." I wondered what lie meant by that.

"Hermidorus will accompany you in the house," said the young man, "if we can tear him away from his scrolls."

He understands, does he not," asked Drusus Rencius, "that the woman is free and, accordingly, certain things are not to be seen."

"Of course," smiled the young man. "Hermidorust" he called, loudly. Swiftly I put down my head again and winced as Drusus fastened his hand in my hair.

Thus again was I led past a stranger in the alleys. As we passed the stranger, be approaching us, be was on our right.

Goreans commonly pass in this fashion, the sword arms of right-handed individuals being thus on the side of the approaching stranger.

I saw some girls rummaging through a garbage can. They wore short tunics but they were not slaves. Goreans sometimes refer to such women as "strays." They are civic nuisances. They are occasionally rounded up, guardsmen appearing at opposite ends of an alley, trapping them, and collared.

"Buy me, Master," begged the girl, kneeling before Drusus Rencius. "I will give you much pleasure."

"Next!" barked the trainer, in the house of Kliomenesy The next girl hurried forward and knelt before Drusus Rencius, kissing his feet, and then lifting her head, piteously, to him. "Buy me, Master," she said. "I will give you much pleasure…"

"Next!" barked the trainer.

The next woman then hurried to Drusus and, threw herself to her belly before him, kissing his feet. She then rose slowly to her knees, kissing him from the ankles to the waist.

Kneeling before him, then, close to him, holding his legs she looked up at him. "Buy me, Master," she whispered. "I will give you much pleasure." How furious I was that these women were being sent to the feet of Drusus Rencius. They were naked and beautiful, but who would want to buy them? They were only slaves. That could be told by the collars they wore, bars of rounded iron which, here, in the house, had been curved about their necks and hammered shut. I stood in the background, angry, braceleted, helpless.

"You!" said the trainer, gesturing to another girl with his Whip. "To his feetl Beg for love!"

This girl hurried forward and knelt before Drusus Rencius.

"I beg for love, Master," she whispered.

"You!" said the trainer, indicating another girl. She, too, hurried forward. She knelt before Drusus Rencius, her palms on the floor, her head to the very tiles. "I beg for love," she whispered. "I beg for love, Master."

I was startled. I realized, suddenly, that these two women, indeed, were begging for love. "Beg elsewhere, sluts!" I thought. "Leave Drusus Rencius alone!" And how offensive that a woman should beg for love! Surely her intimate, desperate needs for attention, for affection and love were better concealed even from herself, if possible, and certainly, at least, from others! And if they must beg, the helpless sluts, did they not know how a woman be~, by looks, by glances, by small, hopeful services. Surely a woman should not be expected to speak honestly in such matters. What brute would force her to such extremities? Too, how vulnerable a woman would make herself, placing herself so at the mercy of men, subject to being spurned, subject to his scorn and rejection.

Yet how simple, how straightforward and liberating might be such a confession. How beautiful it might be to so express one's vulnerability, and femininity, so tenderly, so piteously, so openly. To be sure, one would expect such a confession only from a woman whose needs were both desperate and deep, a woman who had needs such as might characterize slaves.

"Come along," said Hermidorus.

"Please, Drusus," I said. "My hands have been braceleted long enough. I am beginning to feel too helpless, too much like a slave. Please release me." "I will release you in the room," he said. I then continued to follow him, still braceleted, through the alleys, toward the inn of Lysias.

"Slowly, more humbly," cautioned the trainer, half crouching over, watching carefully, moving slowly beside the girl. Then he moved about her, more quickly, varying his perspective. Then he moved to the end of the room, where he might wait for her to approach. "Head lower," he said. "Better, better." I watched her approach him, head down, on her hands and knees, her breasts depending beautifully. Then she dropped the whip from her teeth before his booted feet. She then remained there, head down, in position. "Better," he said. He then picked up the whip and tossed it across the tiles. "Again," he said. She then rose lightly to her feet and hurried to the whip, where, once more, she dropped to her hands and knees. She picked up the whip delicately in her teeth, and looked at him. He snapped his fingers. Again, then, head down, slowly, she approached him, the whip held in her mouth.

"Kneel, back on your heels," said the trainer to the dark haired woman. "Straighten your back, suck in your gut, put your shoulders back, thrust out your breasts, spread your knees, widely, lift your chin, put your hands on your thighs.

You are not going to be sold as a tower slave, Lady Tina. You are going to be sold as a pleasure slave."

The whip cracked, and I jumped. But it had not touched the girl, only startled her.

She knelt behind the dark, smooth post, facing it, her knees on either side of it, her belly and breasts against it, her hands embracing it.

"this may be done to music," said Hermidorus, "and, as you know, there are many versions to the post dance, or pole dance, singly, or with more than one girl, with or without bonds, wand so on, but here we are using it merely as a training exercise.

The whip cracked again and the girl, suddenly and lasciviously, became active. I gasped.

She began to writhe about the pole. "Kiss it, caress it, love It!" commanded the trainer, snapping the whip. "Now more slowly, now scarcely moving, now use your thighs, and breasts more, moving all about it, holding it. Touch it with your tongue, lick it! Use the inside of your thighs more, your breasts, turn about it, slowly, sensuously. Lift your hands above your head, palms to the pole, caressing it. Turn about the pole! Twist about it! Now to your knees, holding it!" He then cracked the whip again. "Enough!" he said. She was then as she had been before, kneeling behind the post, her knees on either side of it, her belly and breasts pressed against it, her hands embracing it. The girl was looking at me. She was wondering, perhaps, if I were the next to be put to the post. I looked away, angrily. Did she not know I was not a lowly thing like she? Did she not know I was free?

"It is a useful exercise," said Hermidorus to Drusus.

"Obviously," agreed Drusus.

I looked back at the girl. She was now looking away. I looked at the post. It was dark, and shiny. It had been polished smooth, apparently, by the bodies of many girls.