Kajirus of Gor Chapter Thirty

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re interested in this area of the city,” remarked Chelsea as she led me down the street in the direction of the Dautium square. “You may be in a collar, but you are still a man, with a fascination, I suppose, for scantily clad slave girls.”

 

“Mistress is kind to take me there,” I said. 

 

A few days ago I had innocently enough broached the subject of paga taverns, and the Dautium in particular, speculating on what that area of the city might look like. As I suspected, Chelsea wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea of spending an afternoon walking the streets and squares of the Dautium, if she had some innocent enough excuse to do so – for example, treating her silk slave to the sights there. I think she now had a fascination for the Dautium quarter, from having spent time there masquerading as a kajira. The thought of walking those same streets in the formal robes and gowns and veils of a Free Woman probably appealed to her sense of mischief. Would she see her friends, when she returned as a Free Woman? They wouldn’t recognise her, of course, but she would know them. No doubt she was intrigued to observe them from a detached viewpoint, when they weren’t relating to her as a sister in bondage. 

 

And so I planted the idea in her mind, and a few days later Chelsea announced casually that she would grant my wish.

 

“You can look on the slave girls for an ahn or two. But remember, they are not yours to touch, Roland. You, too, are a slave.”

 

Chelsea knew the way to the Dautium perfectly well, but acted as if she didn’t. She stopped occasionally to ask directions, and laughed an amused laugh when a man asked her what she was doing visiting an area renowned for its paga taverns. “I have no interest in the place, myself,” she replied, dismissing the possibility out of hand with a little wiggle of her fingers. “But my silk slave deserves a treat, and I promised him an ahn or so when he might look upon the chained beauties on display there. He has been a good slave these past few weeks.”

 

The man nodded, seeming to understand that. “Do not let him too close to a chained kajira,” he advised. “Your silk slave is still a man. He may be hard to control.”

 

“Oh, I think Roland is very obedient. He wouldn’t dare so much as pull on his leash, would you, Roland?”

 

“No, Mistress,” I said as I lowered my head. I was of course leashed. It was humiliating to be led around on a leash by a Free Woman. 

 

“He’s very tame,” Chelsea added, proudly. 

 

And so we walked on. The main square itself is rather large, and the centre of it is congested with a number of platforms and stalls belonging to some of the businesses lining the sides. The platforms tend to be three steps high and no larger than ten square feet. On these platforms are examples of the girls that might be found within some of the paga taverns. 

 

Girls are also displayed on short chains outside the broad frontages of the buildings. Most paga taverns in Argentum have built a narrow display platform at the front of the building for this purpose. Some of the girls would call out to passing men, extoling the virtues of the establishment they belonged to.

 

“Enter the Silver Sleen, handsome master,” cried a girl with a Scandinavian tone to her accent. “The girls inside are hot and hungry for your touch!”

 

“Do you think that girl is on display because she is more attractive than the ones inside, or because she is not good enough to serve in a pleasure alcove?” asked Chelsea as we passed by the Silver Sleen.

 

“I would have thought because she is more attractive, Mistress. It pays to advertise with your most beautiful girl.”

 

“But then men would be disappointed once they are inside?”

 

“I suspect it’s reasonably dark inside, Mistress, that the differences are not as obvious as they might be if all the girls were lined up on a display chain in the daylight.”

 

“It must be terrible to work in a paga tavern,” she speculated, imagining perhaps, what it might be like to be naked, collared, taken to a pleasure alcove and chained inside to await the touch of a man. As a Free Woman, she would not be tolerated inside, and therefore she had no better idea of what the interior might look like than I did. Slaves, on the other hand - female slaves at least - can and do enter such places, if they have a reason to do so. 

 

“I imagine so, Mistress, for a slave at least. They are available to any man who can afford the price of a cup of paga.”

 

“They are worth so little?”

 

“They are slaves, Mistress.”

 

We passed by another paga tavern, and this one had a barred window through which two naked beauties, kneeling on a red cushion, peered out. Like the paga girls chained on the narrow display platform, they were there it seemed to thrust their hands out through the bars and cry out with need. Either they were good actresses or they had earlier been skilfully aroused by men and left simmering with slave need, for their cries were most convincing.

 

“Please Master, kind Master,” cried a blonde girl to a man dressed in the caste colours of the Builders. “Step inside, and ask for Kenya! Kenya begs to please you!”

 

The girls could see the steel collar locked around my throat, and so they ignored me as I passed by. None of them would call out to a male slave, except perhaps to tease him. 

 

“I suppose you find some of these sights arousing,” said Chelsea with some disdain.

 

“I am a man, Mistress. I can’t help feeling that way.”

 

“Tch. Typical. I have heard men say that the collar makes any girl more desirable.”

 

“I think that is true, Mistress. But that is only part of it.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“There is the brand, too. The kef.” I regarded her. “A woman is many times more beautiful in a collar, but many times more again if she also has a brand on her thigh.”

 

“Is there any girl here more beautiful than me?” She smiled as she saw my discomfort. “You have my permission to speak freely, Roland. It is not a trap. I am simply curious. Who here is more beautiful than me?” 

 

“It is not a fair comparison, Mistress. You do not wear a collar. You do not have a brand.”

 

“Speaking objectively, then, leaving aside the brand, the collar.”

 

“I cannot separate such things from the slaves, Mistress.” I glanced around me. The sights were breath-taking. “The girls would be very different in robes and gowns and veils. I would have to imagine you, instead, like them, collared, branded, kneeling on a rough wooden platform, perhaps chained to an iron ring set in a post.”

 

“It would be difficult for you to imagine me like that, I suppose.”

 

“Of course, Mistress,” I lied. 

 

“I am very different from these girls.”

 

“That is true, Mistress.” I lied again.

 

“These girls are natural slaves. They have needs that Free Women do not.”

 

“Of course, Mistress.”

 

We walked on through the square, and I could see that my mistress was looking out for the two slave girls that she met once a week. I wondered what her chosen slave name was when she walked through the Dautium in a collar and tunic. No doubt she didn’t call herself Savanna. That would have been too close to home. 

 

As I’ve mentioned before, the central hub of the Dautum is the large square, around which the more reputable paga taverns can be found, but spreading out from the square are a number of side streets, and from those side streets, a number of narrow alleyways. In essence, then, the Dautium resembles a web like pattern emanating from a central hub. As the square gives way to side streets, they in turn give way to alleyways, and so the quality of the establishments decrease, as do the prices.

 

You could spend five copper tarsks for a cup of paga, and the quality of the girl who served you would be impressive. Or you could pay a single tarsk and be served by a girl who, well, was ample in her charms, but would never sell for a silver tarsk coin in any market. 

 

I began to notice that passing men gazed at Chelsea with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. Free Women did not commonly walk through the Dautium. They were tolerated, but not really welcome. This was a place for men to go, to get away from their Free Women.

 

“You said earlier, Roland, that the collar makes any girl more desirable. Any girl? Truly?”

 

“That is true, Mistress.” We paused by the side of the Shackle and Chain. Three girls were fastened by their collar rings to a central pole, from where they called out to passing men. They ignored Chelsea and me, of course.

 

“By implication that includes me?”

 

“I do not want to be whipped, Mistress.”

 

“You may speak freely.”

 

“Mistress would be many, many times more desirable, if she wore a collar.” I saw Chelsea flinch as I said that. “I am sorry, Mistress.”

 

“Why did you say that?”

 

“Because it is true of any woman. The collar enhances a woman’s beauty. It makes her more desirable.”

 

“That is ridiculous.”

 

“I am a man, Mistress. I know how men think.”

 

“How could I be more desirable in a collar?”

 

“I suppose it is more natural, Mistress.”

 

“Natural?”

 

“For a woman to wear a slave collar. Goreans believe women belong in collars.” I shrugged. “I am not Gorean, of course.”

 

“Of course.” Chelsea sniffed as she considered the philosophy. “Slaves belong in collars. I am not a slave.”

 

“Of course not, Mistress.”

 

We walked on further through the square, gazing now at the establishment referred to as the Pleasure Silk. Two girls were chained at the frontage of the building. They cried out, promising to give pleasure to any man who entered and asked for them by name.

 

“These girls are not simply on display,” said Chelsea, after a while. “They can also be chosen to serve inside, yes?”

 

“I think so, Mistress.” It made sense, then, to chain the most prized beauties outside of a tavern, enticing customers inside, especially if the girls in question were available for use. 

 

“They are lewd and shameful,” said Chelsea. “Look how they call out to the men, begging for use. No wonder they are in collars.”

 

“I suspect they were not always in collars, Mistress. Many of them would once have been free.”

 

This is of course true. Few women are born to slavery. The majority are former Free Women taken as slaves during war, conquest, or raids. Some are debtors who forfeit their freedom to settle what they owe. Some, even, are publicly enslaved by magistrates for conduct unbecoming a Free Woman.

 

We paced three times around the crowded square, before Chelsea gave up looking for her slave friends. After the third circle of the buildings, we paused before a raised platform where a play was being performed. It seemed slapstick entertainment, pantomime farce even, by a group of players who were enacting some ramshackle comedy in which a Free Woman gradually lost her clothing. I noticed that all the female parts were played by slaves. This is because no Gorean Free Woman would demean herself by performing in such bawdy theatre. 

 

We had missed most of the play, but it seemed to involve a Free Woman having to masquerade as her personal slave girl in order to spy on her Free Companion, who she suspected of having an affair with a low caste girl who sold pastries at a market stall. Through a series of farcical coincidences, she happened to be locked out of her home while she was in a collar and tunic, and found herself about to be rounded up by the city Slave Catcher. 

 

“What’s a city Slave Catcher?” asked Chelsea. 

 

“I have no idea, Mistress.” The character seemed to be a pantomime villain, complete with twirly moustaches, a ridiculous stovepipe hat, and a long trail of jingling chains dangling from his belt that trailed along the ground. He seemed to walk the streets after the bells for the sixteenth ahn were sounded, rounding up stray slaves for the Lost and Found pens. I don’t think any such man is actually employed in Argentum, but this farce was supposed to be taking place in Corcyrus. Who knows, maybe the administrators of Corcyrus do employ a city Slave Catcher. 

 

“This is insulting to Free Women,” remarked Chelsea as she watched the farce proceed at a bawdy pace.

 

“I suppose it is, Mistress.”

 

“Look at the way she squeals, and hops and jumps, each time the Slave Catcher slaps her thighs with his switch. No free Woman would make a sound like that or wiggle her bottom in such a way.”

 

“Possibly not, Mistress.”

 

“And every time she insists she’s not a slave to anyone she meets, she keeps touching herself between her thighs! What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Why are you watching it, then, if you don’t like it?” snarled a man who was getting tired of Chelsea talking all the way through the performance.

 

“Mind your tongue. I am a Free Woman,” she replied, tersely. “I am offering constructive criticism.”

 

“We’ve noticed,” he grumbled. 

 

“I came here to get away from Free Women,” complained a second man. 

 

“As did I,” said a third. They all glared at Chelsea, but when she glared back, they apologetically looked away. She was a Free Woman, after all, and can expect to be shown respect and deference by the men of her city.

 

The Free Women of the central cities seem to enjoy considerable liberty when it comes to speaking their mind. Gorean men may not like what a Free Woman has to say, and they may grumble and complain, but they will inevitably put up with her opinions and remarks, even when they border on being rude. This respect shown to the opinions of Free Women far exceeds any such respect they might enjoy on Earth. 

 

And despite the irritation men might show when Free Women speak their minds, those very same men would, for the most part, expend considerable effort to protect those very same Free Women if they were threatened. Why is this? Goreans have a strong bond with the Home Stone, and they feel protective towards the women of their Home Stone. This responsibility is taught to them from an early age. Every young boy is told it is his duty to protect the women of his city. The Free Women of the city, that is. Free Women on Gor are a precious and finite resource. Without Free Women there would be few children, and without a plentiful supply of children, a city would wither and die. A Free Woman’s duty is to provide and care for children to ensure the city remains capable of facing off its enemies in the future. In a sense then, the Free Woman is as precious as gold, or salt or steel – a resource that must be safeguarded against men of other Home Stones who would steal those women for themselves. For Free Women have a secondary value to raiders – that of juicy, squirming, wriggling slaves. No city on Gor would ever claim to have enough slaves to satisfy the demands of their men. And so Free Women of other Home Stones constantly live under the threat of abduction and enslavement.     

 

“I have every right to be here, and every right to complain about the nature of this ridiculous play,” said Chelsea. “Who is responsible for it?”

 

“Boots Tarsk Bit,” remarked the first man. “He is an excellent playwright. Possibly Gor’s finest. Perhaps his subtle and whimsical writing style cannot easily be appreciated by the female mind, which on the whole is more concerned with the purchase of sparkling slippers and gowns?”

 

“I find your tone insulting,” remarked Chelsea. “Must I make a complaint to the local magistrate?”

 

“There is no need,” said the man, with another frown, waving away her protest. “We are only here to watch the play.”

 

“Then kindly pay attention to the play and stop interrupting me when I’m complaining about it.”

 

“Free Women,” muttered another man. “They should all be in collars.’

“I HEARD THAT,” said Chelsea.  

 

The girl on stage – a slave, obviously – was now pacing about the front of the stage in monologue, making stage whispers to the audience, from the back of her hand, as if we were perhaps her inner mind, as the city Slave Catcher circled ever nearer with dramatic flourishes of his fingers through his moustaches. “Oh, what a supercilious man, this city Slave Catcher is, with his grim moustaches and arrogant hat! How his chains jingle and jangle every time he comes near me! How is it he mistakes me for a common slave? How can this be?” she said.

 

“Because you wear a collar!” cried out a man from the audience.

 

“Because you’re a slut!” cried another man. 

 

Audience participation in Gorean theatre is part and parcel of the experience, and actors on stage are well used to rebuffing or perhaps incorporating elements of the good natured heckling in their in character responses.

 

“Surely not!” She said as she now adopted a pose of mock outrage, with one hand on her shapely hip, facing the men who had just called out to her. She seemed scandalised now, or at least as scandalised as a slave, playing a Free Woman, who was dressed as a slave, could be. “Little does the city Slave Catcher realise that I am in fact the noble and respectable Lady Liliana of Corcyrus, and I commonly wear the most fabulousjewelled slippers!”

 

“Well, you’re not wearing them now!” roared another man in the audience.

 

“Take your tunic off, too!” cried another. “Show us your breasts!” He made a cupping motion with both his hands. 

 

“But I am a gentle and chaste Lady of Corcyrus!” she cried out, almost breaking character as she offered the audience a little wiggle of her bottom. There was much cheering and applause, for her bottom did wiggle very well, indeed. 

 

“Did you see the way she wiggled, like that?” said Chelsea. “It was not in character.”

 

“I’m sure it wasn’t, Mistress.”

 

“She is supposed to be playing a Free Woman. We do not wiggle or pout.”

 

My mistress was unaware, it seems, how differently she walked through the streets when she wore a slave tunic and collar. I had observed an unconscious wiggle to her hips that day when Amara and I followed her in secret. Interestingly, this salacious wiggle was most pronounced on the occasions she walked closely past strong handsome men. I felt sure she didn’t know her body was responding that way. How could she? She was a Free Woman. Free Women are largely unconscious of their own sexuality, according to Gorean logic. Only a slave girl is in touch with her true needs and feelings. 

 

The play continued now as the hapless Free Woman, rashly disguised as a slave girl, was confronted by the moustache twirling Slave Catcher. As he approached her, chains jingling and jangling at his belt, the girl responded with the raising of her open palm, ordering him to stop in a brash and imperious manner that was quite funny, considering the way she was attired.

 

“One moment, Sir!” she remarked as the bemused Slave Catcher twirled his moustaches once again. Had a slave girl really ordered him to stop? “I wish to save you from making an unfortunate mistake, one that could possibly reflect badly on your career prospects in the future.”

 

“Oh?” said the Slave Catcher, as he jingled his chains for dramatic effect.

 

“It is possible that you may be regarding me as you would regard a kajira?”

 

“That is indeed possible,” conceded the Slave Catcher. Again, he jingled his chains, which caused the slave actress to frown and turn back to the audience to confide in us once more in private.

 

“I do wish he would stop jingling his chains.” She remarked to us. “I am sensitive to such sounds and find them wholly unpleasant.”

 

There was much laughter following that line. The girl now turned back to the Slave Catcher and placed her determined fists on her hips to make it quite clear that despite her brief slave tunic and collar, she was to be treated with respect. “Be not fooled by my current choice of attire. Such things are misleading.”

 

“Attire? I was looking at your slave collar, actually,” remarked the Slave Catcher to the delight of the audience.

 

“That too.” The actress dismissed the collar as trivial. “May I confide in you, Sir?”

 

“You may.” As the Slave Catcher spoke he produced a long measuring tape and began to measure the circumference of the girl’s wrists and ankles.

 

“Oh, why is he doing that?” said the girl, as she turned back to the audience and confided in us again, while her left wrist was being carefully measured “It is the height of rudeness!”

 

“A number two wrist shackle, I feel,” remarked the Slave Catcher as he wound his measuring tape back around his neck.

 

“What? What has that to do with anything? I was about to confide in you!”

 

“My apologies.” The Slave Catcher gestured politely. “You were saying?”

 

“Would it shock you to know I am not truly a slave girl?”

 

Many men in the audience began to laugh. A few called out with the cries of, “oh yes she is!”

 

Now it was the turn of the moustache twirling Slave Catcher to turn and address the audience with a stage whisper. “I thought as much, gentlemen, but thank you for confirming it.”

 

“She takes a number two wrist shackle!” called out one of the men who had spoken to Chelsea. “As does this Free Woman, I think,” he said, pointing to Chelsea. Many men turned round and laughed as Chelsea found herself now the subject of this joke. She did not seem happy.

 

“I do not take a number two slave shackle!” she cried. 

 

“Oh, do you have fat wrists then?” suggested the man.

 

As more laughter broke out at Chelsea’s expense, the actors on stage kindly paused from their lines for a few moments to allow the side show to play out. So long as an audience is having a good time, actors will adapt their performance accordingly.

 

“My wrists are not fat!” exclaimed Chelsea. 

 

“Skinny then?”

“No!”

 

“So on the balance of probability, Lady, you would agree a number two slave shackle would be appropriate for your well-proportioned wrists?” The logic, I suppose, was evident enough.

 

“You’re spoiling the performance of the play!” said Chelsea. I noticed she lowered her wrists from view. Many men were gazing at them now. A woman’s wrists are considered very beautiful to Goreans, which is why so many women keep them gloved and covered by long floppy sleeves. “Look, the actors are waiting to continue!”

 

“I am a metal worker by trade,” remarked another man who had spoken to Chelsea earlier, “if you wish to call upon me at your convenience, I can offer a free fitting to assuage your curiosity as to shackle size.”

 

“I am not curious what shackle size I would take!”

 

“Obviously a number two wrist ring,” agreed many of the men. But now they turned back to allow the play to continue.

 

“The audience is even worse than the play,” said Chelsea to me. “As if that’s even possible.”

 

“Do you wish to move on, Mistress?”

 

“No, I wish to see the rest of this play, to confirm to myself just how offensive it is. You can look around the Square if you wish, Roland, but don’t stray too far, and return here when the bells ring the next ahn.” She touched me lightly on my chest. 

 

“Thank you, Mistress.”

 

I left Chelsea to enjoy being offended, and took a leisurely circuit around the Square once more, but this time freely enjoying the sights and sounds without having to worry about what my mistress might think. There were so many lovely slave girls chained outside of the paga taverns. Occasionally one might see me in her peripheral view, turn and begin to make an appeal to me, but then freeze when she saw the collar locked around my neck. She would then scowl and make a motion to ‘shoo’ me away.

 

“I am not for you, slave!” she would say, dismissively. And as I continued to gaze at her she would grow angry. “Do not look at me, slave! Look away!”

 

But I did not. The girls were shackled in place and none of them could prevent me at least enjoying the sight of them. One girl picked up a stone and threw it at me. Another girl hissed and made motions to scratch me if I came too close.

 

My mind wasn’t completely on the lovely sights set out at the front of the taverns. I had by now come up with a plan that I hoped would lead ultimately to my freedom. I had run the plan through my head many times, and there was only one point at which it might fail. And that point was whether or not I could trust Chelsea’s sworn word. That was the sticking point. Ideally I needed some form of leverage to ensure she might keep her word, but nothing sprang to mind. 

 

The formulation of my plan was simple enough. I would obtain, by theft if necessary, a small metal working file. Then, at the first opportunity, I would lift up the loose floorboard in our apartment, where the slave collar, tunic and keys were hidden away. I would unpick the hem of the brief slave garment where I was sure I would find the second collar key. Then, with the file, I would file down just enough of the key so that it would no longer open or close the collar. Ideally I needed to file away as little as possible, so there was no doubt the key was the original. Then I would replace it and sew the hem back. I had learned to do simple sewing as Chelsea’s silk slave. 

 

When Chelsea next sneaked out in her collar and tunic, I would wait close by, and, assuming she would place the key to the apartment on the same lintel in the side alley as before, I would let myself back into the apartment while she was away meeting her slave friends. The second key – the one she would have used to lock the collar in place – that would be hidden under the floor boards. I would then use the metal file on it in exactly the same way as the one secreted in her tunic hem. Now neither key would open the collar.

 

When she returned to her apartment, Chelsea would be horrified to discover she could no longer open her collar. It would remain locked on her. The keys were obviously still the originals, and with both keys failing, she would presume the fault was not with the keys, but with the locking mechanism. 

 

What could she do? She had no way of picking the lock. She could not cut a collar from her throat. And there is no way a Free Woman could call upon a locksmith or metal worker with a collar about her throat. Questions would be asked. A magistrate would be involved. There is no one Chelsea could turn to for help, other than me. 

 

The idea would have to come from her, of course. I could not make the suggestion, but it would be the obvious course of action, and I would plant the seeds of the idea in her mind if necessary. If she couldn’t go to a metal worker as a Free Woman, she would have to go there as a slave, in the custody of her Master. I could have the collar removed from her neck. But I would have to appear to be a free man to do so. And she would have to trust me, because she would be, to all intents and purposes, a slave girl with a faulty collar locked around her throat, in the custody of her master. 

 

Could she trust me? Well, yes. What could I do to betray her that wouldn’t doom me as well? Reveal her secret? Yes, she would be enslaved, but then what would happen to me? I would remain a slave and be sold to another mistress. Could I simply escape when she removed the collar from my neck so that I could pose as a free man? Hardly. Where would I go? I was a barbarian in a city I didn’t understand. I had no friends I could appeal to for sanctuary. I had no money for food. My accent marked me out as a stranger. I would not be able to leave the city quarter, for I had no papers of citizenship or residency. And I would be an escaped slave fugitive once Chelsea reported me. I would not remain free for long. So, yes, she could trust me to keep my side of the bargain, for I would have an incentive to ensure the collar was removed safely from her neck, without anyone knowing the truth – I would ask that afterwards, after I did this for her, she would free me.

 

The question was, could I trust her word? I didn’t know. At the worst, even if she backed out, I would for a while be without a collar, and I would have a chance, however slim, to try and escape. It was better than nothing. And at best? At best Chelsea would honour her side of the deal and sign papers of freedom for me. 

 

Would I stay with Chelsea after that? Possibly. I had nowhere else to go. I think I would. We were both aliens on this planet, and I think we needed each other. That would be my appeal to her. She wouldn’t necessarily lose me. I simply wouldn’t be a slave any more. 

 

But I still didn’t know whether I could trust her word. 

 

I really didn’t know.

 

All the risk was mine, but it was the only chance of freedom I was ever likely to get. 

 

So I had a lot on my mind as I walked around the square and, on impulse, I took to one of the side streets where the lesser paga taverns plied their own trade. Here prices were cheaper, and the girls not as skilled as in the more prestigious establishments. 

 

I walked past the Tavern of Two Chains, past the Chatka and Curla, and then as the side street was about to give way to branching sets of alleyways (where the paga taverns would be as cheap as they would ever get), I saw a single slave chained outside the Jewelled Ankle Ring. She was naked, with a length of chain fastening her to an iron ring set into the stone wall. She knelt, possibly bored, for few men ventured this far down the side street. There were simply too many other taverns competing for a man’s attention before he might even discover the existence of the Jewelled Ankle Ring. The girl sensed or heard my footsteps and automatically raised her head, breaking out into a welcoming smile as she extended her arms towards me, eyes lowered, reciting the words she undoubtedly spoke many times each day.

 

“Welcome to the Jewelled Ankle Ring, Master. I beg to serve your pleasure. I am hot and needy and beg to crawl to your feet, to be put to use. Ask for Fliss to serve you. Ask for Fliss to crawl to your pleasure alcove.”

 

“Felicity?” I gazed down at the awesome sight of Miss Felicity Emery, naked, collared, kneeling, begging me to use her. Her eyes looked up in astonishment, seeing me properly now, for the first time. 

 

“Roland?! Oh, God!” She clasped her hands to her lipstick coated mouth in shock.