Gods of Gor Chapter Nine

 

Gods of Gor: Pillow Talk

 

The jungle pressed in on us like a living, breathing beast, its emerald heart throbbing with heat and hidden life. Vines thicker than a man's thigh draped from the canopy in lazy, sinuous loops, heavy with clusters of blood-red orchids that wept nectar in slow, glistening drops, each one catching a fractured spear of moonlight. The air itself was a warm, wet soup, saturated with the sweet rot of fallen fruit, the sharp green bite of crushed ferns, the faint metallic copper of river mud, and the ever-present musk of unseen animals: jaguar piss sharp as vinegar, the heavy animal sweetness of black larl fur, the sour tang of fermenting sap where a tree had been scored by tusk or claw.

 

Every breath tasted different. In the darkness the air cooled slightly, carrying the clean mineral chill of moss-covered stone and the faint iron scent of hidden springs. Step into a sun-dappled clearing during the day and the heat slammed down like a physical weight - humid, suffocating, making sweat spring instantly along the spine, behind the knees, under my breasts. Insects filled the gaps: the high, metallic whine of mosquitoes orbiting like tiny silver knives, the low, throbbing drone of cicadas that rose and fell in waves, the sudden dry rattle of a stick insect unfolding wings the colour of dead leaves. But at night the air was cooler, more bearable.

 

The sounds never stopped, of course. Somewhere a howler monkey screamed - a raw, ascending wail that ripped through the green like a blade, answered by the softer, questioning hoots of smaller primates. Birds flashed overhead - scarlet macaws with wings like torn flame, tospore birds trailing iridescent plumes that shimmered violet and emerald as they darted between shafts of moonlight. Beneath it all ran the constant rustle: leaves shivering as something large moved just out of sight, the soft plop of fruit dropping into dark pools, the slow creak of branches bending under the weight of unseen bodies.

 

The ground was treacherous beauty. Ferns as tall as a man unfurled fronds like green fans, their edges serrated and glistening with dew that never quite dried. Moss grew in thick emerald carpets over fallen logs, soft and spongy underfoot until you stepped wrong and sank ankle-deep into black, sucking mud that smelled of decay and iron. Roots arched across the path like the ribs of drowned giants, slick with slime and studded with tiny white orchids no bigger than a thumbnail. Every few paces a strangler fig had wrapped itself around an older tree, its pale, rope-like roots constricting the host in slow, patient murder, the bark beneath already cracking open like parched earth.

 

I lay beside my Master tonight, feeling at peace with the world after having enjoyed the most delicious slave orgasm. 

 

My body still trembled from the aftershocks - deep, rolling waves that radiated outward from my core, each one softer than the last, yet no less intense. The slave orgasm he had forced from me had been merciless in its perfection: drawn out by his slow, deliberate thrusts, his fingers tenderly circling between my thighs, his voice low and commanding in my ear until I shattered, silently at first, then with a broken cry I could not stifle. My inner muscles had clenched around him in helpless spasms, milking him even as my own pleasure crested again and again, wave upon wave, until tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and my thighs quivered uncontrollably. He had held me through it, one hand fisted in my hair to keep my gaze locked on his, the other pinning my hip so I could not escape the relentless rhythm. When he finally allowed his own release, it flooded through me in hot, pulsing surges that made me whimper and arch, my body drinking him in as though starved.

 

Now the afterglow lingered like a slow-burning fire through my limbs. My skin felt hypersensitive - every brush of grass against my back, every shift of his arm across my ribs, every faint breeze that stirred the long blades and cooled the sweat between my breasts sent fresh shivers racing through me. My inner thighs were slick with our juices, the scent of our joining rising between us - salty, intimate, primal - mingling with the jungle's night perfume. My breasts ached sweetly where his mouth had been, nipples still peaked and tender, brushing against the inside of his forearm with every breath I took. Inside me, the memory of him throbbed, a deep, satisfied ache that made me clench involuntarily, drawing a soft, amused rumble from his chest.

 

Brinn shifted beside me, pulling me closer until my back moulded perfectly to his front, his thigh sliding between mine, the coarse hair there rasping against my inner skin. His hand drifted lazily down my belly, fingers splaying possessively over the brand on my thigh, thumb tracing the raised edges of the Kef as though reminding me – again - of what I was – slave – his slave – his property - legally so and absolute. His lips brushed my ear, voice rough with satisfaction and the last edge of command. "Still trembling, little kajira?"

 

I could only nod, a small, helpless sound escaping me. Words felt too heavy, too clumsy for what still echoed inside. He chuckled, low, warm, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of my throat, tasting the salt of my sweat. "Good," he murmured. "I like you like this, Emma - soft, open, mine."

 

It felt glorious.

 

“I think Tijani is… disappointed with me,” said Brinn, slowly, in the darkness. 

 

It was times like this when all the noise in my head – the fear, the stress, the anxiety – all faded away to a sense of exquisite calm. And it was at times like this that Brinn actually opened up to me about his own concerns.

 

“Are we having one of those talks, Master?” I was referring to the fact that after sex we often spoke openly as a couple on Earth might. Yes, I was still his slave, but Brinn became more receptive and actually interested in my opinions. 

 

“I value your opinion, Emma. You know that.”

 

Well, after sex he does. But not so much in front of other people. 

 

“You want me to speak honestly?”

 

“You know you can speak honestly, Emma.”

 

“Until the point you tell me to remember who and what I am?”

 

“Well, yes, there are limits. You are a slave. But you will always receive fair warning when you approach them.”

 

How lovely. 

 

“When was the last time I whipped you for honestly answering a question?” asked Brinn.

 

“Never, Master. In fact, I can’t recall the last time you whipped me. When was it?”

 

Brinn smiled in the darkness. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

 

“Oh, no, Master, you’re never wrong when you decide I shouldn’t be whipped.”

 

Brinn laughed softly. He understood my sense of humour. 

 

“Since you ask - you handled things badly, Master. Mina’s translation didn’t help. She didn’t understand the subtleties in speech.” I hadn’t yet made up my mind whether Mina had done so deliberately, or if she simply didn’t understand the complexities of the various Gorean tongues. 

 

“Am I subtle, Emma?”

 

“Well, no, not as such.” Now it was my turn to laugh. “Subtle isn’t a word I would ever use to describe you, Master.” I licked my lips. I could still feel the glow of my orgasm. “And definitely not when you have me in the furs. You’re not… subtle… when you take me.”

 

“My valuable little slut.” Brinn turned me to face him, kissed me in the darkness and then traced his fingers over the collar I wore. “Who do you belong to?”

 

“Brinn of the Sardar,” I said. 

 

“And who is Brinn of the Sardar?”

 

“A horny goat who drinks too much.”

 

Brinn frowned. “The other slaves would tell me I’m the greatest warrior in all of Gor.”

 

“I’m sure they would. And yet you come back to me, time and time again,” I said, kissing him back. “I must be doing something right.”

 

“The Lady Meralisha was a good woman. I abused her trust. And now her brother is dead. None of that was my intention.”

 

Yes, we really were having that conversation. “You could have listened to me, Master. I was trying to bring about a peaceful resolution. You have a habit of dismissing my advice in heated situations, especially if you feel your honour has been sullied.”

 

“These are very daring words from a kajira.” He touched my nose with the tip of one finger. 

 

“Yes, they are.” I knew he wasn’t going to whip me. I could speak freely tonight. “You could have got us all killed. I’m still amazed we were able to walk out of there alive after you killed Kwame.”

 

“It was an honour duel. Men respect the outcome of such things. You wouldn’t understand, Emma. You are a simple barbarian, and barbarians do not have honour.”

 

“That’s really quite insulting, Master. I have known many honourable people on Earth. Don’t you think I’m honourable?”

 

Brinn laughed. “You’re a slave.”

 

“And slaves can’t be honourable?”

 

“Slaves are just slaves. The question is irrelevant.”

 

I squirmed angrily beside him. 

 

“Ah… I have upset your slave pride.”

 

“You are the most pig-headed man I’ve ever met.”

 

“Thank you, Emma.”

 

For fuck’s sake – he was taking that as a compliment. “It’s not a compliment!” I squirmed again as I felt myself being held. “What are you doing?”

 

“I like you when you are just a little bit angry with me,” said Brinn. “The way you pout, simmer with frustration, but are ultimately so helpless to enforce your anger. It really is delicious.” He began kissing me. 

 

“I am angry with you!” I said, knowing where this was leading – knowing that my annoyance was a turn on for him. I felt his stiff penis rise suddenly and press against my sex, and then felt him slide halfway inside me. I gasped and trembled, feeling the first of his eager thrusts. I pretended to resist, for I knew he liked that. “Don’t!” I said, before he laughed and pressed his lips to my mouth, silencing me. I tried to force him away, and felt him growing even harder inside of me. And then neither of us spoke for a while as Brinn simply thrust inside me with a steady and heated rhythm, and I rocked my hips to match his thrusts. 

 

I was deliberately loud as I came.

 

I wanted Mina and Saffron to know that I was with Brinn tonight.

 

We lay together in silence for a while, with Brinn just stroking my thighs. He knew I relished the moments following sex when I could just squirm and settle within his arms, letting the afterglow of my orgasm flow through me. 

 

“Mina can’t do what you do, Emma,” said Brinn, after a while.

 

I smiled in the darkness as I heard him say that.

 

“And Saffron?” I asked, innocently. “She’s the Cosian slut with the annoyingly lovely hair, just in case you’ve forgotten.”

 

“You know she is incapable of matching you in the furs, proud little slut,” added Brinn. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

 

“Perhaps” I snuggled closer to my Master. “Tell me I’m the best kajira you’ve ever had.”

 

Brinn laughed softly. “I have had many kajirae. Many before I had even met you.”

 

“Was I your first barbarian?” I lay my head on his chest.

 

“No.”

 

“Your first blonde barbarian?”

 

“No.”

 

I screwed my nose, trying to imagine another blonde barbarian in Brinn’s arms. “Did she wear your collar, or was she just a paga slave?”

 

“She wore my collar. In the days when I worked as an agent of the Priest Kings in then Tahari. When I went by an alias. I owned her for several years.”

 

“What happened to her?”

 

“I sold her.”

 

“Oh.” I said nothing for a while but then I had to ask. “Why? Did she disappoint you?”

 

“No.” I felt Brinn’s fingers in my hair, stroking softly. “She did not disappoint me.”

 

“Then why?”

 

“I had another mission – one that took me from the Tahari. The one where I first met you on the estate owned by Kurgus. I could not take her with me, so I sold her. I did not have an estate in those days, or men that could look after her while I was gone.”

 

“That was cruel of you.”

 

“She was just a slave, Emma. Slaves are bought and sold all the time.”

 

“Did you see me as a replacement for her?”

 

“No. You were my enemy. You were an arrogant Kurii bitch. It was fitting that I put you in a collar. Tarl would have done the same. This is where you belong – mastered and submissive to me.”

 

“Do you ever wonder where she is now? Your nameless, blonde, barbarian slave?” I knew he wasn’t going to tell me her name. 

 

“No.” He continued to play with my hair, and I stiffened a little as he said that. I knew the subtleties of his voice very well.

 

“You’re lying to me, Master.”

 

“I am not lying to you, Emma.”

 

But he was. 

 

Brinn has never been any good at lying to me. 

 

But I was pleased with what he had said when he had compared me to Mina and Saffron in the furs. I was a Pleasure Slave, after all, trained in Banu Hashim, and I had ten years’ experience on either of those sluts. In the slave pens of Banu Hashim, I had been initiated into the arts of Tantric sex. Those practices, whispered from the veiled scrolls of distant Earth or gleaned from the esoteric traditions of Gorean slavers, are not mere indulgences but disciplined rituals taught to the most skilled slaves in the pleasure pens of the Tahari, in particular. A kajira learns them not for her own liberation, but to prolong the ecstasy of union, to weave threads of sensation that bind her master's pleasure to her own yielding form, extending the dance of dominance and surrender into realms of sublime endurance. Through breath, touch, gaze, and the sacred control of sexual energy, a Pleasure Slave transforms the act from fleeting conquest to an eternal flame, where every gasp and tremble serves her master’s will while awakening depths of bliss within her chained soul.

 

The foundation of these tantric arts lies first in various breathing techniques drilled into kajirae during their training under the watchful eyes of slavers or guidance from a First Girl. The slave kneels in nadu - thighs parted, back arched, palms upturned on knees - and begins the rhythmic inhalation, drawing air deeply into her belly, not in hurried gasps but in slow, deliberate waves, expanding her core as if filling it with the essence of her submission. This breath, known as the Kapalbhati in ancient tongues, involves forceful exhalations through the mouth to clear the body's channels, followed by automatic inhales that flood her with vitality. For the kajira, it serves to heighten her sensitivity, awakening every nerve from the Kef brand on her thigh to the tips of her fingers, while calming the mind's chatter. As her master first touches her, she synchronizes her breath with his - inhaling as he exhales, creating a circuit of energy that flows between them like the unseen currents of the Ushindi. This prolongs his arousal, delaying the peak of release, allowing him to savour the build of tension as her body responds with quivers and soft moans, her pleasure a mirror to amplify his own.

 

From these breathing techniques flows the Gaze of Eternal Yielding, where the kajira locks her eyes with her master's, unblinking and vulnerable, as he positions her beneath him or astride his lap. In the central cities, like Corcyrus, where Free Women veil their faces in layers of opaque cloth, a slave's gaze is her most intimate offering - naked, unwavering, and a sublime portal to her soul. Trained to hold this connection without faltering, a Pleasure Slave stares into her Master’s depths, her pupils dilating like night-blooming flowers, reflecting back his dominance while drawing him into her surrender. This eye contact, sustained through the slow undulations of her hips or the gentle rocking of their joined bodies, builds an invisible bridge of energy. Sensations intensify: the brush of his fingers on her breast becomes a spark that races through her veins, the pressure of his thighs against hers a wave that crests without breaking. For the master, this gaze prolongs his endurance, turning mere physical friction into a spiritual merging, where time stretches like tanned leather under the sun. The kajira, meanwhile, feels her own pleasure deepen, waves of warmth radiating from her core, not exploding in quick release but building in layers that leave her trembling, begging with silent eyes for permission to orgasm - permission he may withhold to extend the exquisite torment.

 

Touch, in these tantric rites, becomes ritualised, where the kajira explores her master's form not with haste but with the reverence of a pilgrim tracing sacred paths. Before union, she often  massages him with oils scented with Tahari spices or Schendi orchids rubbed into his skin with slow, circular motions that awaken every meridian. Her hands glide over his chest, thighs, and back, pressing firmly to release tension while channelling energy upward from his base. In return, if he chooses, he may touch her similarly, but for the Pleasure Slave, the focus is outward - her pleasure derived from his rising arousal. During the act, she employs edging: as the master nears climax, she slows her movements, contracting her inner muscles in rhythmic pulses learned from the pleasure trainers of Patashqar, drawing him back from the edge. This technique, akin to the ancient Earth's ‘valley orgasm,’ allows him to experience peaks without release, waves of bliss that build upon one another, possibly prolonging the session for hours. For her, the control heightens her own sensations - each withheld peak sending shivers through her body, her moans a symphony that fuels his dominance, her submission a vessel for shared ecstasy.

 

Sound and movement weave the final threads of these practices. The kajira is taught low vocalizations that vibrate through her throat and chest, harmonizing with her breath to move sexual energy in spirals through their joined bodies. As he thrusts slowly - deliberate, unhurried - she matches his rhythm with undulations of her hips, circling rather than pounding, creating a vortex of sensation that draws pleasure upward from their union to crown them both in a sense of shared euphoria. Positions vary: she astride him in the position of the she-quadruped, controlling the pace to edge them both; or on her back in full submission, legs wrapped around him as she breathes the word, ‘Master’, like a mantra. These techniques prolong and enrich the experience, turning minutes into eternities, where orgasm is not the end but a gateway - multiple for her, controlled and explosive for him when he chooses.

 

In Banu Hashim, I had been trained in muscle control - daily exercises that strengthened and trained my vaginal and anal sphincters. I was taught ‘milking’ grips - rhythmic contractions that rippled along the length of a trainer’s phallus. Wooden phalli of graduated sizes were routinely used inside of me, sometimes weighted or heated, inserted for hours while I knelt in nadu or performed household tasks.

 

I was taught edging and denial — where I was brought repeatedly to the brink of orgasm by a trainer and then denied. This built unbearable sensitivity and taught me to channel my own unmet needs into greater service. Once release was permitted, I was trained to come multiple times in a single session, each peak higher than the last, until I was left trembling and weeping in overload. Ultimately, this teaches a slave’s body to respond instantly and repeatedly to a man's desire.

 

And then there were the oral skills — endless practice with phalli, men, and other slaves. I learnt every variation: slow worship of the head, deep-throating without gagging, tongue patterns along the underside, gentle sucking of a man’s balls, swallowing without spilling a drop. And I was taught to maintain eye contact during oral service unless ordered otherwise.

 

And then there were the lessons that taught the most exciting positions and transitions where I learned to flow seamlessly from one position to another on command or at the slightest touch of instruction. Each position accentuated a different aspect of my body - breasts lifted, back arched, thighs spread wide, hips presented for spanking or deeper penetration.

 

So, yes, Mina and Saffron – you have no idea at all. 

 

“You’re quiet, Emma,” said Brinn.

 

“I was remembering my time in Banu Hashim, Master. My training.”

 

I felt Brinn touch my kef brand. I had been branded in the city of Patashqar, in the Tahari. And then I had been sold for the very first time. 

 

“They trained you well, Emma.”

 

“I know.” I kissed him softly. “But it is always good to hear you remind me.”

 

“You’re a vain little slut.”

 

“Kajirae often are, Master. We learn to love our bodies and what we can do with them for men – our masters.”

 

------------------------------------------

 

The next day we pulled our canoe ashore at a small bend in the Nyoka River. Brinn had decided to make camp early that day – another indication that he was beginning to have doubts about the way he had abused Merlisha’s trust. I sensed he was brooding, which was never a good thing. His broad shouldered body was clearly marked with the scratches from the black larl hunt, and the subsequent fight with Kwame. Mina and I knelt in the shade of a broad-leafed fern, our cloth wraps damp and clinging about our hips, as Saffron and Chloe worked nearby, fetching water from the river's edge, their movements graceful under Tijani's watchful eye. The Nyoka flowed lazily here, its brown waters murmuring over submerged roots, carrying the distant roar of cataracts that promised wilder stretches ahead.

 

It began with a low, rhythmic chant echoing upstream - a sound that vibrated through the trees, deep and resonant, like the call of hidden drums. Brinn straightened from where he lounged against the canoe, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as he scanned the bend. "Company," he muttered, hand drifting to his sword hilt. 

 

The barge appeared around the curve like a vision from some ancient tapestry, gliding on the current with an effortless grace that made our simple canoe seem like a child's toy. It was gilded extravagantly, the wooden hull carved with swirling patterns of serpents and blooming flowers, edges rimmed in what looked like hammered gold leaf that caught the dappled sunlight and threw it back in shimmering flashes. The barge was broad and flat-bottomed, propelled by long poles wielded by two bare-chested warriors at the stern, their dark muscles glistening with sweat and oil, bodies painted in white and red ochre stripes that mimicked the river's ripples. At the bow, a canopy of dyed rep-cloth - rich crimson and indigo, fringed with tospore feathers that shifted iridescently in the breeze - sheltered the central figure from the sun's relentless gaze.

 

Seated there in splendour was Lady Taleisha, a vision of haughty magnificence that made my stomach twist with old resentment. She lounged on a throne-like chair piled with soft furs - rich, spotted hides from jungle panthers and sleek river otters - her posture regal, back straight as a spear shaft, chin lifted in aloof disdain as though the very river bowed to her passage. Her long garments were a riot of colour and texture, inspired by the vibrant traditions of her Himba tribe: a wrap of deep blue cloth draped elegantly over one shoulder, leaving the other bare to display intricate patterns of red ochre painted across her dark skin in swirling motifs of vines and stars. Golden beads - traded from Schendi merchants - adorned her neck in heavy layers, cascading down to her breasts, where they caught the light and tinkled softly with each sway of the barge. Bracelets of carved ivory and polished river stones encircled her wrists and ankles, and her hair was braided into elaborate coils interwoven with feathers and tiny bells that chimed like distant wind chimes. She looked unapproachable - her full lips set in a line of serene superiority, her dark eyes scanning the banks with the indifference of a queen surveying lesser realms. No smile touched her face; she was a statue of beauty and power, remote as the moons themselves.

 

Surrounding her were several kajirae handmaidens - all natives of enemy tribes who had been captured and enslaved in raids, their dark skin oiled to a sheen that mirrored the river's gloss. They knelt or sat at her feet in positions of graceful attendance, fanning her with broad palm leaves that whispered through the air, offering sips of water from a carved gourd, or arranging the folds of her garments with gentle touches. Their brief garments clung to their curves, but to my astonishment, most wore no steel collars at their throats. Only one or two bore the simple bands I knew from Schendi traders - plain iron or bronze, purchased at great cost from the coastal markets. The rest were uncollared, their necks bare save for strands of beads or feathers, a freedom that seemed almost defiant in this world of chains and brands. Yet there could be no doubt what they were: kajirae, slaves through and through. I knew from bitter experience that beneath their tunics, high on their left thighs, the Kef brand would mark them, seared into their flesh with heated irons forged in distant fires, a mark as eternal as the river itself. The Himba, like many river tribes, lacked the smelters and forges to craft steel collars; such luxuries came only from Schendi's merchants, traded for pearls or hides. But the slave brand - that was universal on Gor, a searing promise that no absence of collar could erase.

 

The barge carried more than its regal passenger; it bore her dowry, a fortune in the jungle's riches, piled in ornate baskets and crates lashed to the deck. Rich furs cascaded from one - spotted larl hides, sleek otter pelts, the soft white underbelly of river beasts - soft as clouds and warm as breath. Beside them stood fine sculptures carved from dark river wood: serpents coiling around fertility symbols, warriors frozen in mid-spear throw, their surfaces polished to a gleam that caught the light like oil on water. Precious stones glittered in small chests - uncut emeralds the colour of the jungle canopy, river pearls as large as my thumbnail, flecks of gold panned from upstream sands. And slaves—more kajirae, chained lightly in a group at the stern, their eyes downcast, bodies swaying with the barge's gentle rock. They were part of the dowry, gifts to seal the union with Jafari of the Kuumu tribe, a warrior whose name echoed in river legends for his prowess with the war spear.

 

Accompanying the barge was a single canoe, sleek and low in the water, paddled by several Himba warriors, their bodies painted in bold white and red patterns that mimicked the serpents they revered. They served as her honour guard, spears propped beside them, shields of woven reed and hide resting at their feet. Their eyes scanned the banks with vigilant sharpness, muscles taut beneath oiled skin, ready to defend their lady against river saurians or rival tribes. The chant I had heard earlier rose from them now - a low, rhythmic song in the Himba tongue, praising the river spirits for safe passage, invoking blessings for the union ahead.

 

As the barge drew level with our resting spot, Lady Taleisha's gaze swept over us - aloof, haughty, unseeing at first. Then her eyes locked on me, kneeling in the grass, and recognition flickered there, cold as a river stone. My stomach twisted with old hatred. I recalled her whip all too well, from the days when our paths had crossed in her village, when she had commanded me as a passing slave, her lashes falling across my back for some imagined slight, the leather biting like fire, her voice sharp and disdainful. She was unapproachable then, as now—a lady of the Himba, proud and remote, her beauty a weapon she wielded with the same precision as her whip. I disliked her intensely - the way she had looked down on me, a branded kajira, as though I were less than the mud on her feet. 

 

The barge glided past, the handmaidens' fans whispering through the air, the warriors' chant fading as they rounded the next bend. 

 

“She’s magnificent,” said Tijani with a broad grin. I had seen him salute the barge as it passed by, and, I think, the sight of Tijani acknowledging the Lady’s passing had pleased her. There had been the slightest curl of a smile on her lips, but she had of course kept her gaze straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge Tijani, for she was en-route now to her companionship and it would not do for her to be seen to be looking at another man. “Now THAT is a Free Woman!”

 

“If you say so,” said Brinn. 

 

“Oh, come now, friend Brinn, I know the circumstances of your first meeting were not to your liking, but you must admit that the Lady is…”

 

But Brinn had already turned away to examine some tooth marks on the edge of our canoe. I watched as he ran his hand over the indentations, as if they were suddenly interesting. 

 

“I don’t like her, either, Master,” I said softly. “She is haughty, arrogant, and…”

 

“She is a Free Woman,” snapped Brinn. “It is not for you to pass judgement on her, Emma. Remember your place.”

 

“I was only agreeing with you!” 

 

Brinn turned around, and I could suddenly see he was angry. “She is a Free Woman! Whether I like her or not makes no difference to the way a kajira is expected to behave. Do not speak of her – or any other Free Woman – in that way again.”

 

And then I rolled my eyes in annoyance. 

 

That was a mistake. I know that now.

 

“Fetch the whip, Emma.” Brinn glared at me.

 

“What?”

 

“Are you deaf as well as insolent? The whip, Emma! NOW!”

 

Brinn didn’t whip me. Brinn never whipped me. He whipped other slaves, yes, but never me. 

 

I stood rooted to the spot for a moment.

 

“Master, I… I’m sorry…”

 

“Not good enough, Emma. The whip.”

 

I choked back a sob as I went to the canoe and took the whip from the leather satchel where I knew it lay. I carried it back to Brinn, still believing he would change his mind. He couldn’t whip me. Not after all we’d been through over the years. I was the mother of his children, after all.

 

“Please, Master…”

 

“Kneel to the whip, Emma.”

 

How long had it been? A very long time. A very, very long time. 

 

Brinn simply did not whip me. There was never any need.

 

There was a stillness in the air. Chloe understood just how significant this moment was. Emma – the favourite - was going to be whipped. 

 

Brinn raised his arm, raised the leather in his right hand and then brought the whip down, hard, across my back.

 

I screamed!

 

Oh, God, how I screamed. 

 

You have to understand that my Master is very strong. 

 

And I am not strong.

 

Not strong at all.

 

Brinn looked at me then. He looked at the whip in his hand and the red mark across my back. 

 

No one spoke.

 

“Kiss the whip, Emma.” He held it before my face. 

 

I kissed and licked it, tasting my own sweat on the leather strand. I was crying in front of my Master. 

 

“Do not insult, displease, or disrespect a Free Woman again, or next time it will be ten strokes.”