I once dreamt that I was a butterfly, flitting and fluttering around, happy with myself and doing as I pleased. But suddenly I woke up and I was myself again. But now I wonder, am I a man who dreamt he was a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming I am a man? – The Book of Zhuangzi

The Fasthold

A crash of drums and the bray of trumpets greeted the riders at the entrance to the Fasthold. The Captain in his finest livery and two dozen Guardians met them at the gateway to the Citadel. Welcoming chants followed them across threshold into the Sanctum, and in their wake marched, with banners unfurled, the Priests and Heralds, the Companions and Guildsmen.

Ishara glanced up from the great cauldron, blinking her sweat and the steam of the roiling pottage from her eyes. The girls on either side kept their gaze fixed firmly upon the swirling of their ladles through the churning broth. They showed no interest in the pageant on the hillside. Ishara pitied and resented and envied their dull-witted indifference. Had they already forgotten the days when the proud towers still stood and the great city held dominion from the burning desert wastelands of the south to the frozen northern wilderness, from the mountain ramparts in the west to the vast eastern sea? Did they not recall the delicate silks, the grand houses, the graceful manners, those carefree times of parades and festivals and games and jaunts on the river before it ran crimson with the blood of the fallen?

“Pay heed to your work, girl!”

The voice of the ancient hag bellowed in her ear. She braced for the sting of the cane upon the bare skin of her back. Nearby, the boys who been idling close to the kitchen laughed. Ishara gritted her teeth and held back her tears, not permitting them the pleasure of her pain. Yet defying the rod, she watched them file into the schoolhouse behind the gaunt, gnarled tutor who had emerged to summon them. How splendid they looked, in their handsome blue tunics and leather breeches and scarlet cloaks. How noble. How fortunate. One of them would likely be her brother, whom she had not seen since his Initiation. Would she recognize him still? She remembered the terrified child she had led by the hand to safety through the flaming ruins of the dying city. Now he had reached thirteen years, the age of apprenticeship, the first degree of manhood. Though she no longer knew him, she would be proud of him – of this she had no doubt.

The sun was past its zenith when the gates of the Citadel yawned once more. Ishara and her fellow slavegirls had finished cleaning up after the Cadets’ midday repast and were preparing for the evening feast. She stole another glance, and she felt a thrill of anticipation as the majestic strangers and their colourful entourage descended towards the kitchens. The old crone scuttled about, frantically barking orders and making liberal use of her rod, as the young women hurried to form their silent ranks. A late winter breeze curled about the hillside and around their naked bodies, and they shivered. But from long practice, and for fear of the cane, they did not show it.

Ishara kept her eyes downcast as the men passed along the lines, inspecting each of the girls in turn, but she could still admire the quality of their woollen capes, the fine-woven trousers and polished boots. They stopped in front of her and did not move on.

“This is the one,” said the Captain. He spoke with a deep voice and great authority. No more words were needed.

Terror seized Ishara, as the other girls were dismissed to return to their chores, and she was left alone, surrounded by these men. Her head bowed, her arms rigidly by her side, her fists clenched, her jaws set, her lips quivering, she followed the masters as one beckoned, with a curt flick of a gauntleted hand, up the slope towards the Citadel. Rarely had she seen a female pass through that portal; hardly ever had she seen one return.

They paused at the threshold. One of the men nudged her on the shoulder and she turned about. Even as she did so, her arms were seized and pulled behind her back. The shock threw her off balance, but strong hands kept her from falling. Her wrists were crossed and tied with a leather strap. She had been bound many times, but this was not the coarse rawhide normally used to truss and tether slavegirls. It was smooth and refined, like the strangers’ raiment. Yet the men were not gentle. A wad of oily, foul-tasting cloth was rudely thrust between her lips and into her mouth. With a practised reflex, she sharply exhaled and clamped her teeth into the gag to keep it out the back of her throat.

A length of braided cord was looped about her neck as a halter, and by this she was led across the verge, into the Sanctum. Though she kept her eyes turned to the ground, she could see that they were passing along a street lined with buildings of both wood and stone, wide enough to take a dozen horsemen in line of advance. Though her feet had become toughened in the years since her satin slippers had glided across glistening marble in the halls of Shalmirane, the sharp cobblestones bit and tore at her soles.

The roadway began to ascend, with broad steps cut into the surface to keep it level with the floors of the shops and houses. She heard shouting and laughter from the windows of the tenements that loomed above her. Men’s voices. They made crude jokes and recited lewd rhymes about her, and she shifted closer to the man leading her, till she stared directly down upon the heels of his shiny boots.

“Apologies, your Lordships,” said one of the Heralds, an obese creature whom she knew as the cruellest of the masters. In the company of his betters, he was ingratiating like the kitchen mistress, as cringing as any of the slavegirls.

“Just be sure they do not impede us,” the Captain answered curtly.

The sounds of the mob receded as they veered off the main street and passed through a narrow portal which led into a spacious courtyard. Though nothing to compare with the gardens and terraces where she had once strolled with her family and played with her friends and flirted with the young men, it was a haven of peace and pleasure amidst the noisy, congested confines of the Citadel and the grim desolation beyond its parapets. In the middle, a fountain bubbled merrily. She had not seen anything like it since entering the Fasthold, even if its sparkling waters were the colour of the earth and not the sky.

The party halted and formed a circle around Ishara once more. Someone tapped her lightly, and obediently she lowered herself to her knees.

The men were engaged in an animated debate. One of the visitors sounded familiar, but she dared not look up to see his face.

“But a FEE-male?” It was another of the strangers. She felt the spittle of his contempt spray across her bare shoulders. “What need have we of this...?” It was as if he could not repeat the word, for fear of bewitchment.

The Captain replied in a tone that was at once courteous and condescending.

“This one will be useful. She has learning...”

“Learning!” The stranger spat again.

The Captain ignored him. “The girl is fluent in several tongues, I’m told, and is believed to have some intelligence. Her mother was a Senator. She will be of great value once we have crossed the frontier.”

Frontier? Ishara trembled. She had not left the Fasthold since she was brought here, in chains. This place could never be her home, but what lay beyond its province – the dank, primeval forest, the barren plains, the shrouded peaks and misty valleys of the high country – terrified her. As a child she had read and dreamt of romantic adventures in those mysterious, enchanted lands; but in the years since the razing of her city, they had been overrun by countless tribes of barbarous Outlanders. Even the stout-hearted warriors of the Fasthold feared to venture very far into their domain.

There was no more talk among the men. The Captain had spoken. They took Ishara back along the cobbled street, and out through the gates of the Citadel. She glanced down the hill towards the kitchens. Her fellow slavegirls were, as ever, hard at work. Across the field, the Cadets had finished their lessons for the day and were chasing, tackling and wrestling each other. They stopped to watch as a small convoy of horses, carts and covered wagons meandered its way up the slope along the narrow dirt track. The animals were tended by a dozen or so Stewards, and the column was escorted by an equal number of Guardsmen.

Trailing behind one of the vehicles were ten girls, of Ishara’s age, like her naked and bound. They were tethered to each other and the leading girl to the wagon by a rope looped around their necks. They were bunched close enough that they were forced to march in step so as not to tread upon each other’s heels. Though their heads were bent forward, she could clearly see their faces, taut and pale. Theirs was a countenance she knew so well, the vapid, wasted look of utter despair. She, as they, understood their fate, as night-time amusement for the travellers and trade offerings to the Outlanders.

She expected that she would take her place at the end of the line, but the Captain led her instead to the rear of the wagon. Her removed her leash and took the gag from her mouth. He gestured towards the step and she climbed up into the carriage. With her hands tied behind her back, it was not easy, and the Captain helped her with a steadying hand. He was uncommonly gentle.

The floor was covered in a thick fleece, stained and stinking with mud and sweat and grease, but warm and soft. She closed her eyes and imagined...

“Girl!” The Captain’s bark jolted her back to the present. For a second her eyes flickered upwards and looked into his. They were dark and strangely dull, framed by lines and furrows. His face was thin and careworn, the handsomeness of youth long since faded, the depredations of old age not yet manifest.

Realizing what she’d done, too late she snapped her head forward, and flinched to take the blows for dishonouring a master. But they did not come.

“Girl,” he repeated. He spoke as if no violation had occurred. “Back there, in the courtyard, I detected... you recognized one of the envoys.”

“Yes, Master, as you please...”

“Enough of that snivelling as-you-please nonsense,” he growled. “Who is he?”

“Master, his name is Servan. When I was a child, my mother received an embassy...” She used the slightly slurred speech and rising inflexion that a slavegirl used to impart facts to a master, reassuring him of her abject shame for knowing something that he did not.

“I understand,” he said. “Speak no more of this.”

“No, Master...”

But he had already departed. She raised her eyes to glimpse the disappearing edge of his billowing cloak. The carriage lurched forward and she was tossed onto her side. They were moving down the hill, along the winding, rutted road that led out of the Fasthold, in half a day’s journey to the edge of the province, and after that, into the vastness of the unknown.

The Château

A black limousine awaited them outside the apartment, engine idling with monotonous languor. A light breeze and a sprinkle of rain tickled and tingled on her face; but otherwise, the night was quiet and still. The avenue was deserted, the amber light cast by the streetlamps subdued and distorted by the drizzle.

The tall man in the dark suit, the one her lover had addressed as Steffen, was standing beside the car. One hand rested on the open door, the other shook the rain off his umbrella.

“Get in,” he commanded.

He climbed in behind her. Paul had gone round to the other side, and she found herself in the middle, braced between the two men.

“No seat-belt,” Steffen said, as she started to reach down, and even as she heard the men’s snap into place.

The other man, the one in grey, took the driver’s seat.

As they slowly pulled away from the kerb, Paul half-turned towards her, and he gently stroked her arm. She thought he was about to kiss her, but he leant back. There was a dim light shining in the car, and she could see the driver watching through the rear-view mirror. Steffen stared out the window, into the deepening gloom.

“Give me your purse,” Paul whispered to her, after they had driven a while.

She handed over her bag, and he passed it to Steffen, across her lap. The man rummaged through it, for no good reason she could discern, then tossed it rudely to the floor. The contents spilled around her feet.

“You won’t be needing it,” he said.

She did not dare reply.

“Take off your jewellery,” Paul instructed.

She removed her watch and earrings and pendant, and dropped them into his hand. He put them in his coat pocket.

“Now your shoes.”

She kicked them off.

“And your stockings.”

“I’m wearing pantyhose,” she said.

He did not respond.

She raised herself slightly, pushing with her shoulders and the backs of her knees against the seat. She reached under her skirt and pushed the nylon down her thighs. When she had rolled it down to her knees, Paul touched her hand with his.

“Leave it there.”

They were heading out into the country, along a narrowing, winding road. Trees loomed out of the dark across the path, menacing silhouettes against the diffuse orange glow seeping into the sky from the receding lights of the city.

“Don’t sit on your skirt. You mustn’t do that.”

She did not question him. She lifted herself again and drew back the skirt from under her. The upholstery felt slick and cold and sticky against her bare skin. It peeled away as the car rounded a bend, and clung again as she sank back into the seat when the road straightened.

Her lover’s fingers rested lightly on her right knee, then slowly moved up her thigh, under the edge of her skirt. It made her shiver, and he pulled away, but only to reach for the collar of her blouse. He fondled it for a moment, then slowly moved his hand downwards. He opened her blouse, taking his time, popping each button with tender care; and when he’d finished, he pulled the two sides apart. He traced his fingers upwards over her belly and her chest, pausing to play with the straps of her brassiere. His hand slid over her breasts and seized the gore between the cups.

She must have sighed, or flinched, because he was all of a sudden angry.

“Sit still,” he growled. It startled her, and frightened her.

Steffen did not react. He sat without moving, without saying a word.

Paul tugged brusquely on the front of her bra to strip it off, and she jerked forward. It did not break free, and the straps burned into her shoulders as he wrenched it again and again.

“Please...” she said finally. He relented, but his hand remained where it was. She leaned forward and reached behind her back, under her blouse. She unfastened the clasp. He pulled again, and this time the shoulder straps broke and her brassiere came away. He let it fall to the floor.

Her breasts, naked and free, quivered and swayed to the motion of the car. The inside edges of her parted blouse caressed her nipples; the seat leather tickled her bottom and thighs. It was a queerly erotic sensation, as she sat there in the semi-darkness, feeling exposed between the two men.

They drove on for a long time in silence.

At last Steffen spoke. “Lean forward. More.”

She bent her body until her chin was between her knees.

“Put your hands behind you.”

She crossed her arms over the small of her back. It was Paul who bound them. He looped the cord around and between her wrists. He was gentle, but he drew the ends and cinched the knot tightly. She didn’t understand why it was necessary that her hands be tied, since she was already helpless and had no intention of disobeying; but she do not resist. He blindfolded her with a silken cloth, brushing his fingers tenderly across her trembling cheeks.

She tried to sit up, but a hand between her shoulder blades brusquely held her down.

“Stay as you are,” her lover commanded.

“We are almost there,” Steffen informed them.

But it seemed like half an eternity had passed before, after a sharp turn, there was a crunching of pebbles under tyres, a scraping of low-slung tree branches across the roof of the car, the rasping of iron gates swinging on rusted hinges. Abruptly, the engine cut out and they rolled to a halt. Rain was tapping insistently upon the roof of the vehicle, and she could hear it spattering on pavement. Leaves rustled in the wind.

“Here we are,” Steffen said, as if it could be otherwise. He was already sliding sideways. “Out.”

The men helped her, half dragged her, from the car. It wasn’t easy, with her hands bound. The pantyhose bunched at her knees fell to her ankles as she stood upright. Neither man made any attempt to free her feet, or to assist her to do so, as she shuffled along the gravel driveway. She managed to kick away the nylon only just before losing her footing.

Her lover placed a firm hand around her left arm, just above the elbow, and steered her onto a cobbled path. The stones were jagged under her bare feet, and greasy from the rain. Several times she slipped; and he did nothing to warn her when they reached a porch and, sightless, she stumbled at the bottom step. Her shins knocked painfully against the sharp edge.

Steffen spoke: “We will leave you here. Whomever opens the door, do what you’re told. If you hesitate or refuse, they will take you anyway. If you don’t comply immediately, and without question, they will make you. If you disobey, you will be punished. Do you understand? Don’t say a word, just nod or shake your head.”

She nodded. There was something familiar about this, like a half-remembered dream.

Steffen continued. “You are here of your own free will. No one has forced you.”

She nodded again. She was in no position to debate what constitutes free will.

“We will be along later. Don’t worry about your bag and shoes. You won’t need them.”

No one knocked or rang a doorbell. So she waited. At least she was out of the rain. The men’s footsteps retreated, but in what direction she could not tell. She did not hear the car start up and move off. Yet she knew she was alone. She had no idea where she was, cold and wet and afraid. Her pinioned arms ached; her bound wrists felt numb and swollen. The wounds on her legs had begun to throb.

It was some time before the door creaked open. She felt the warmth of a heated room and could faintly discern a bright light as dull radiance beyond her blindfold. Two pairs of hands took hold of her arms and guided her over the threshold. No words were spoken, but the fingers were slender and subtle and soothing, and a delicate fragrance drifted over her as the night air wafted in. The carpet was thick and friendly between her toes, although water trickled still down her legs and formed a sodden patch beneath her feet. Her attendants did not seem to mind as they undressed her. The skirt came away without any trouble, but with her hands still tied behind her back, the blouse could only be torn away. Before it was, one of the unknown women fondled the wet silk for a moment. She felt soft hands brush against her breasts as the woman did so.

Now she was naked, but for the blindfold and the cord binding her wrists.

The women began drying her hair and body with a soft towel. They dabbed her bosom, stroked her back and shoulders, padded her most intimate parts. Fingernails tingled on her bare skin. One of them tended to her shins, daubing the abrasions with a damp cloth and gently applying some sort of ointment. They were fastidious and unhurried. They said not a word as they prepared her.

Then it came to her. She knew this place.

The Market

Her owner led her into the market square, by a rope looped around her neck. She was naked but for a rude cotton robe thrown carelessly over her shoulders. The folds hung loosely on her body, down to her knees, caressing and teasing her skin with its coarse texture. The tiny stones that paved the square were painful but oddly sensual under her bare feet. Fearful as she, her heart was racing, her flesh clammy, her limbs trembling in a strange excitement.

Prospective buyers crowded about, her master fending off prying hands with his wooden staff. When the anticipation had built to an appropriate pitch, with a flourish he tugged at the robe. It fell away from her body, drawing a clamour of delight and admiration from the audience. She was flushed with pride that she should elicit such a response, yet shamed by her wantonness. She tried feebly to conceal her humiliation with her hands, but her owner brushed them away.

“Are you intending to buy, sir?” he demanded of the tall, dark, bearded man who now stood over her, glaring down from a regal height. The vast size, weathered face and exotic raiment marked him as not from this city, perhaps from out the desert or down from the mountains.

His stern gaze met her timid glance.

“Eyes down, girl,” her owner scolded, prodding her with his staff. “An unruly one, this, sir,” he apologized. “She will need discipline.”

The man merely nodded, and placed his enormous hands upon her bare shoulders. They were rough and cold and she shuddered at his touch. He ignored her flinch, running his fingers down across her breasts, fondling and squeezing the hardening nipples. His probing fingers glided across her belly and played between her thighs. She gasped and jerked forward, as a spasm of agony and pleasure swept through her. A whack from her owner’s staff forced her back upright and brought tears to her eyes.

“Not well-trained,” the man observed, “which will affect the price, of course.”

“Of course, sir.” Her obsequious owner rubbed his hands together, in expectation of a nonetheless tidy profit.

Other potential customers had retreated in deference to the stranger, content now to be spectators. He pried apart her jaws. There was a familiar astringency to the taste of the exploring fingers. He frowned, stroking his massive chin. His expression darkened.

“These are not the teeth of a peasant girl.”

Her owner shifted uncomfortably. His demeanour could not disguise a sudden foreboding.

“Sh...she was captured as a child... by brigands. We...we know not from where.”

“I am sure you understand, better than I, the penalty for trafficking in merchandise of high pedigree without a royal warrant.”

“I assure you, sir, she is not of the nobility.” There was a tremor of panic in his voice.

“Yet you know not her origin...”

Her owner was flustered. “Perhaps a barbarian princess.”

“Unlikely,” the stranger mused, but he did not press the matter. “One thousand...”

It was a settlement, not an offer. Their exchange had been attracting a swelling congregation, and her owner knew better than to stay and haggle.

“A fair price, sir,” he conceded, but his tone was more sullen than relieved that a bargain had been struck.

The outlander nodded in satisfaction and snapped his fingers. A retainer, youthful and clean shaven but of similar bearing, emerged from the crowd. He carried a stout leather bag and from it he counted out the gold coins. A chorus of shocked voices accompanied this daring act. Only men of the warrior class would be so bold as to carry such riches upon their persons, and to display them so openly.

“Prepare her,” the new master commanded, turning his back on her with a studied indifference.

The younger man secured the purse to his belt. From inside his tunic he drew a slim leather strap. She held out her hands, glancing hopefully at the robe discarded at her feet. He shrugged off her unspoken plea, but she glimpsed faint remorse in his eyes before she lowered her head. He was of her age, and she could sense his thoughts, that she might be his sister or a childhood playmate or his own beloved. Yet she was but a naked slavegirl, a mere chattel, to be bought and sold and used at her master’s pleasure.

Wordless, the young man motioned for her to face about, and as she did so, he took hold of her arms and pulled them behind her back. His grip was firm but uncommonly gentle, almost tender. He crossed her wrists and bound them. A second strap was looped around her upper arms and pulled so tightly that her elbows almost met behind her. She whimpered at the pain, and at the indignity of having her exposed breasts thus thrust outwards. He turned her about again to face him. His expression was contrite, but his manner was unbending.

Suddenly, the senior man strode off across the quadrangle. She and the young man followed, pausing only for her escort to gather up her empty robe. He tossed it casually to a grateful street vendor.

The stares of market-goers and passers-by traced their path through congested alleyways, past looks of curiosity at these imposing strangers, lustful gapings at her nakedness, expressions of pity for her shame. Sometimes they had to push their way through a choked passage, and ungentle hands pummelled and probed her. Her bound arms ached as though the muscles were afire, and her feet were stung by the sharp-edged gravel.

Finally, like the entrance to Paradise or the portal of Hades, the city gates loomed before them. At the threshold, a dozen horsemen bided their time, their mounts shifting impatiently. Potently armed and of ferocious mien, the men inspected their leader’s acquisition and swapped lewd critiques. She dared not look into those savage eyes. She trembled for the fate of her poor body, to be held and had by these rough-hewn foreigners.

Her new owner climbed into the saddle. His apprentice nudged her toward the master’s mount and, grasping her waist, lifted her upwards. She was hauled into her place, slung on her belly across the shoulders of the horse, her head and feet dangling to either side. The smell of the beast and of oiled, sweat-stained leather assaulted her nostrils. The horn of the saddle pressed into her side. Her master’s hands, grasping the reins, rested on her naked back, between her pinioned arms.

She was able to slightly raise her head, and she gazed out towards the afternoon sun sinking into the western hills with a flourish of crimson and gold. It reminded her of days long past, of elegant refinements and simple delights that she would never know again. For beyond the darkening horizon lay an unknown destination and an unknowable fate.

The Boudoir

“Just once... just once I wish I could be born a male.”

Her friends looked at her blankly, then quizzically, and finally with darkening expressions of concern.

“What did I [i]say[/i]?” she demanded with a practised pout.

“You said you wished...”

“I know what I [i]said[/i]!”

Chastened, little Miri shrank back into the cushions.

“But why did you all react like that?”

Her friends laughed, relieved, and she felt her face becoming flushed. “No, no... I wasn’t trying to... I really mean it.”

“Born a male? What brought this on?” The lovely Tera stared at her through the sandy fringe that veiled her crystal blue eyes.

Shari studied the naked, reposing form, a sensuous alliance of finely chiselled facial features and voluptuous curves. She always felt intimidated by the sharp intelligence behind that beauty.

“Just musing.”

“No, it’s more than that. I can sense it.”

The other girls were beginning to shift uneasily on the plush velvet, their chains tinkling to the movement. Playful Riki suppressed a giggle, with a penitent shrug of her slim shoulders. Shy Kari’s eyes darted about the room, seeking refuge in the extraneous. Statuesque Lyssa, already bored, suppressed a yawn.

“You think too much.” Tera smiled with a tender disdain.

“Is it wrong for a girl to think?”

“About some things, yes.”

Shari turned to face Lyssa. “Why?”

Lyssa rolled her eyes. “What purpose does it serve? How many lives has it been? A thousand? Ten thousand? Has anything ever changed? Can there ever be change?”

“My mother told me once that the cycle is endless,” Miri offered. “It started at the beginning of time and will go on to infinity.”

Lyssa scoffed. “Mystical nonsense.”

“I lost count at fourteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty-nine.”

Incredulous faces turned towards Riki. Except Lyssa’s, of course.

“As I was about to say, this eternity stuff has no scientific basis.”

“Since when have you studied science?”

Lyssa glared across the room at Kari, who was already recoiling from her own bravado.

“I’ve read some of my brothers’ books,” she said, in a suitable tone of wounded pride. The ebony sheen of her exquisite skin took on a sudden rosy hue.

“It does not matter,” Tera interjected. “After the first few lifetimes they start to blend; and then you have only a few blurred images and fleeting sensations. Centuries, millennia, forever, they become meaningless. So we live the life we have now. Forget the past, don’t concern yourself with the future.”

“Maybe it was better when people didn’t know.”

“Was there such a time?”

“Yes, long ago.”

“Funny, I don’t remember.”

No one was sure if Riki was being serious or silly. As usual.

“That must have been strange, living one life and not knowing about any other.”

“But to them it wouldn’t have been strange.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”

“Such an odd expression.”

“I read it somewhere.”

“Your brothers’ books again?”

Shari can almost feel the sharp edge of Lyssa’s tongue lashing her bare flesh. She looked about the room, her eyes shifting from one girl to the next. Each reclined in her velvet nest of pillows, as veils of gossamer drapery wafted and swirled about them. The austere metallic gleam of the pearl-white lamps and the stannic glitter of the chains showed harsh against the fine fabrics, the delicate filaments that adorned the cushions and curtains and the soft, smooth undulations of the nude bodies glowing under the lights with a placid, silken lustre.

Tera was frowning. She tried to wave off the discussion, forgetting in her impatience that her arms were pinioned behind her back. Her shoulders twitched and twisted against the resistance, and her splendid breasts swayed languidly to the rhythm of the brief struggle with her shackles.

“Where is this leading?”

“Shari wishes to be reborn as a male,” Miri volunteered.

“Just once... no... I’m not saying... I don’t really...”

Tera gave everyone in turn a scornful look. “Well, that’s not even possible. You are what you are... forever.”

“You mean we remain the same in every lifetime?”

“Not exactly. But your essence is unchanged.”

“The soul...”

“If that’s what they call it.”

“Or life force?”

“Biopattern?”

“Whatever! The essential nature of... of the soul... is what it is immutable.”

“And the soul is forever male or female?”

“Our sex is the most fundamental element of our being. That doesn’t change from one lifetime to the next.”

“But can a female soul be born into a male body?”

“Or the other way round?”

“Do we have to use the word [i]soul[/i]?”

“It’s just an expression.”

“Anyway, I don’t agree,” Miri proclaimed. “The... whatever... is surely transcendent. During migration it can have no form, no true substance, so it cannot carry information. We are not talking about the genes and chromosomes that decide the form our bodies take.”

“What’s a chrono...chroso...?”

“Chromosomes.”

“It appears that Lyssa is not the only one who’s been reading her brothers’ books.”

“So, do you agree or disagree with Shari?”

She started to protest. “I never said what I believe or don’t believe.”

“But in wishing, you allowed the possibility...”

Lyssa shook her head vigorously. She leaned forward, until the chain tethering her to the wall became taut, and her collar tightened about her throat, and her voice faded to a whisper.

“This is nothing but mysticism. Tera’s right. We are what we are; it is what we’ve always been, what we will always be.”

Kari, ever so politely and respectfully, cleared her throat. “The karmic cycle.”

There was only silence, except for Lyssa. “More mysticism,” she sneered.

“Why?” Kari responds with a defensive pursing of the lips. “People knew about the cycle of rebirth long before your books.”

“My brothers’ books.”

Kari nodded. “Our memories may fade, our personalities may evolve, we may alter our behaviour, but we cannot change what we are, our essence.”

“We are female in this lifetime. Have always been female. Always will be female. Is this what you’re saying?”

“Well, yes.”

“For eternity?”

“Well, yes.”

“So Shari’s wish is mere nonsense.”

“I was just expressing a thought.”

She looked around uneasily at each of her friends, searching their faces for reproach, or disgust, or pity. There was only incomprehension. “You don’t think about this?”

“There’s no point. It’s like wanting to change the colour of the sky.”

“I like it blue.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Are you unhappy?”

“No... of course not.”

“So why would you want to change?”

She thought about it, as they all did, in silence. I was born as I am, always have been, always will be, accepting what is, never questioning, never regretting what I am and what an not and never will be, never yearning for what cannot be. Why would things ever change, why would I change or want to change? It would no longer be me...

They were still deep within their thoughts when there was a sound beyond the walls. In a reflex honed over ten thousand lifetimes, their minds and their bodies prepared for the arrival. A narrow sliver appeared in the wall directly behind Miri, and her tiny figure scampered as far as her chain permitted from the widening cleft. As the molecular structure dissolved into a doorway, an anthropoid form began to slowly take shape on the threshold.

By the time Jarmokudran and his brother had fully materialized, Shari and her friends had prostrated themselves. The wall chains detached automatically from their collars so they could remove themselves from the comfort of the cushions. The tiles were cold and hard beneath their naked flesh. Those parts inflamed from last night’s entertainment stung at the marble’s frigid touch.

Jarmokudran tapped the nearest girl on the behind with his baton. Tera lifted herself to a kneeling position, bowed to kiss the mud-caked boots, then rose to a standing position, never lifting her gaze from the floor. She was nearly a head taller than Kernaseramon, the younger brother. His steel-rimmed gauntlets probed her but she did not flinch. Riki was next, followed by Miri and Kari, and then Shari. Having done obeisance at their feet, she raised herself onto her knees, licking the mud residue from her lips. It had an astringency that intrigued her senses. What games had the Masters been playing?

When they were ready for her, letting her know with a slap from the baton, she stood, her eyes downcast. She pushed her shoulders back, pulled in her belly and thrust her chest and hips forward, in the time-honoured pose. One of the brothers, Kernaseramon, explored those parts that made her his property. She shivered and gasped at his touch, and feared that she would be punished for that, but he was pleased.

Only the proud Lyssa showed any defiance, but briefly, before submitting to the lordship of her two young brothers.

As Jarmokudran bound her elbows, knees and ankles, and as the darkness of the hood descended over her eyes, Shari felt an odd tingling deep within her. It was different from anything she remembered, and yet it seemed oddly familiar. Some sensation from her childhood, or more likely from another lifetime. It was so hard now to tell where one existence had ended and another begun. She thought she recalled a time before the cycle... but how could that be? How can there have been anything before the beginning of everything?

And yet she knew that while some things began, other things have always been. Maybe there was an age when Men did not travel the cosmos in pursuit of their sport. Perhaps there was an era, now forgotten except in a few fleeting sensations, before the gates of new perception opened upon a vista of unlimited worlds. She had heard legends, vague and disjointed, of an epoch when Men’s freedom was a pleasure to be savoured, and not a void to be filled. But human nature had never changed. Lyssa was right about that. No matter how much the world may or may not have altered, what she was now was what she had always been, what she always would be.

The brothers herded them out of the room. It was cold in the corridor. Shari’s skin prickled and her body quivered. The girls shuffled and hobbled in their fetters. They did not need to be prodded, but they were prodded just the same, with the occasional smack across the rear end, as a reminder to them and as amusement for the Masters. Shari revelled in the rush of pain. It swept away the strange ideas that filled her head and did her no good. She braced her body and her mind for the games ahead, when all her sensations would fuse into a singular state of exquisite torment.

What was that thought she’d had? She could not remember. But it didn’t seem important any more, whatever it was.

The Office

The meeting had dragged on through the morning into early afternoon. She was getting bored and drowsy. Her eyes flickered and her mind wandered. The client, Mr Holdek, was going on about something to do with architraves, but she was no longer listening. She squirmed in her chair. The leather was hot and sticky against the naked skin of her thighs, between the tops of her stockings and the hem of her skirt. Her stiff collar chafed. Tiny beads of perspiration congealed on her forehead, trickled down her cheeks and onto her pristine blouse; but with her wrists shackled to the band that encircled her waist, there was nothing she could do.

Holdek was still droning about the architraves. She wondered if he even knew what they were. She could not hold back a yawn, and was grateful for the large vinyl-rubber ball that filled her mouth, which stifled it before the pompous twit noticed.

“We understand your concern,” Jeff Robeson was saying, “and we guarantee you that it won’t be a problem. Ms Sharrett is the best in her field.”

“Yes, yes,” Holdek retorted with the impatience with stating the obvious and the superfluous that he only applied to others. “Nevertheless, I would be more reassured to hear that from the woman herself.”

Jeff frowned and he quickly stole a glance in her direction. Their eyes met and she replied with an ever so subtle nod. Her assistant stood up slowly – perhaps expecting Holdek to change his mind – and carefully smoothed out the creases in his trousers and brushed invisible dust from the sleeves of his jacket. He came up behind her and unfastened the buckle. He placed a hand on the back of her chair and spun her around. He tugged on the two ends of the strap until the ball squeezed out between her teeth and came free.

She licked the saliva that dribbled out with the ball from her lips. Using her feet, she swivelled back to face the client. She massaged the insides of her mouth with her tongue to may sure the words came out clearly.

“Mr Holdek, we have studied the architrave issue” – she barely contained a snigger – “and we are positive that we have the problem solved.” She continued with some carefully crafted waffle, gobbledygook and mumbo jumbo, to which the uncomprehending, supercilious old bore nodded gravely and interposed, every so often, an emphatic “Of course, of course.” Still, she had to give the man credit. The fact that she was, indeed, talking to him, who stood so solidly on formality, showed that on some things he was willing to let go of etiquette and convention. Maybe she should, indeed, reconsider the architraves.

Eventually, mercifully, the meeting drew to a close. As the client neatly stacked his files and arranged them meticulously in his briefcase, Jeff re-inserted his boss’s gag, then crouched down to detach her ankle chain from the base of the chair. He brushed his head against her left leg, from calf to thigh. She had no doubt it was deliberate. She could not suppress a shiver as his hair tickled her skin through the sheer silk. He helped her to her feet and she hobbled towards the door, following Holdek. Jeff dashed forward and opened it.

“Thank you for your time” – he could scarcely disguise the irony in his voice – “and we are ready to begin as soon as you give final approval.”

“Yes, yes, I will be in touch. Mr Robeson, Ms Sharrett.”

She made a little sound through her gag and wiggled her pinioned hands in a feeble good-bye wave.

“That went well,” Jeff said, closing the door and rolling his eyes. From now on, the watchword is – architraves!”

She tried to laugh, but it came out through her gag as an undignified snort.

“Coffee?”

She nodded and raised her eyebrows in thanks.

As he went into the kitchenette, she shuffled over to her desk. It was terribly difficult walking on the plush carpet in stiletto heels and fetters, but making a good impression on the client is part of owning and managing one of the city’s most prestigious small firms. She remembered that her chair was across the room and rather than make the torturous return journey, she sat instead on the edge of the table. Her feet didn’t touch the floor, and her feet began swinging. Her ankle chain swished back and forth across the carpet, and in her weariness she became mesmerized with its gentle rhythm.

“Here you go.” Jim’s voice hauled her back to reality. He placed the mug of steaming brew on the desktop beside her and loosened the strap of her gag. He didn’t take it off completely, but left it to hang around her neck. He picked up the mug again and held it carefully to her lips. She sipped just as cautiously. It was impossible to avoid drooling some of the hot liquid over her chin, and she yelped when a few drops spilled into her cleavage. That caused him to nearly drop the lot, so with an exasperated grumble, he put down the mug and freed her hands. That way, at least, he could enjoy his own.

The caffeine hit jolted her back to full awareness. She breathed a heavy sigh. “We have to get back to work. There’s a lot to get through.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been going flat out for weeks on this project. At least take the afternoon off. I insist.”

She smiled. “I don’t pay you to be my babysitter...”

“You don’t pay me enough for anything.”

She pouted and swivelled away from him.

“That’s it,” he declared, “I’m invoking article nine.”

“Oh no!” she cried. “You’ve got to be kidding... not now!”

“Sorry, this is the way it’s gotta be. You need the break and I gave you a chance.” He grinned. “Do I need to recite..?”

“No you don’t. I wrote the damn contract.”

“Don’t you take the credit.” He was enjoying himself. “It’s a standard clause. And say what you like, you’re not getting out of this.”

She gave up – not that she had much choice. The contract was binding in more ways than one. Directly behind her, Jeff was already clearing everything from the tabletop. He was meticulous, placing each item in a roughly equivalent setting on the sideboard, so each could be returned to its rightful position at the end of the session. When he was done, he took away her coffee, which she hadn’t finished. He handed her the tiny key that unlocked the chain belt and her ankle fetters. She dropped them onto the floor behind the desk.

“Clothes off?” she inquired.

He scratched his chin. “Let’s start with the skirt and blouse.”

She quickly took them off. Normally, she would make a performance of it, but she was too tired to show off. Jeff didn’t seem too disappointed. He shucked his tie, and placed it beside her. He took off his jacket, folded it neatly and laid it on the carpet, on top of her clothes.

“Stockings?” she asked.

“Unhitch them, but leave them on.”

She placed her hands flat on her right knee and drew them slowly up her thigh, over the top of the stocking to the first of the clasps on her garter belt. She snapped it open, then slid her fingers around to the next, lightly grazing the bare skin with her nails. When she had freed both stockings, she detached the belt and let it drop to the floor. Jeff watched her, licking his lips.

When he gave her no more commands, she swung her legs around, up onto the desk, rolled herself over onto her hands and knees, then lay down on her belly. It was a big desk and she was small, but her feet protruded beyond one edge. She turned her head to one side so that her left cheek rested soothingly on the cool glass surface. She put her hands behind her back, wrists crossed and elbows drawn together.

Jeff used his necktie to secure her wrists and the suspender belt to bind her upper arms. He thought for a moment, then pulled off her stockings, taking his time so she felt every centimetre being stripped from her legs. Her toes wiggled as he peeled the silk off her feet. He used one stocking to tie her ankles. The other he used to gag her (he didn’t like ball-gags), making a large knot in the middle which he stuffed into her mouth, wadding around it with the rest of the stocking. She was wriggling about, so he clamped a hand on her forehead and forced her head backwards to complete the process. It was rough treatment, but she had to be taught compliance. She whimpered and moaned, but settled down.

He played with her for a while, tormenting her with tickle torture and a light spanking. He ran his fingernails along her back and legs to make her shiver. He toyed with her bra straps and panties before pulling them away from her torso, her brassiere down to her elbows and her panties to her knees. When he got bored with those games, he put her in a full hog-tie and left her to squirm and grunt and groan.

She lay trussed and helpless upon the table top for an hour or so, writhing in pleasure and pain. She refused to relax, although that would have eased the stress on her arms and legs, back and shoulders. In fact, she absorbed the strains from her bonds. She allowed the energy to build within her, until the intensity built to a crescendo of pure, ecstatic sensation. Jeff watched, enthralled, as her petite, bound, naked body twitched and quivered.

At last freed, she perched on the edge of the desk, clutching her underwear against her breasts. She was slowly, softly panting. Tiny beads of perspiration glistened on her bare skin. She looked up at him with moist, reddened eyes. He looked back at her with a carefully crafted diffidence.

“Well,” she thought, “that’s article nine of the contract fulfilled, for this week at least.” Not that she was in the mood to complain, but it was now almost an entire day that she had nothing to show for. What could get done in the time left?

Jeff must have read her mind, because his face bore an evil grin. He moved in closer and ran his hand up her thigh.

“Article ten,” he said.

The Bellatrix

They had taken two hits portside, and the ship had begun to list. In free fall, up and down have no meaning; but they were in such a tight orbit that misaligned thrusters could send them spiralling inwards, to a blistering, blazing demise. Yet as she watched the corrugated, pock-marked hull of the grey corsair loom larger in the viewscreen, the young ensign wondered if that might be the kinder fate.

“How long?” the Captain asked, barely above a hoarse whisper.

Saraya studied the readout. “Our trajectories will intersect in four minutes and thirteen seconds.”

“Is the identification confirmed?”

“Yes, ma’am... The Diaspar.”

The captain did not respond. She paced back and forward in front of the screen, absently brushing back strands of hair plastered by perspiration onto her furrowed brow, as she stared vacantly around the bridge, everywhere but at the approaching spacecraft.

Suddenly, she was composed and resolved. “Power down,” she commanded. “All weapons offline. Prepare for docking.” She began tapping at the keyboard on her console.

“Captain...”

“Those are my instructions, Lieutenant. I have logged the orders, so there won’t be any...”

“I know, Captain. Initiating power down sequence.” The Lieutenant’s voice began to choke.

“Thank you, Ny. You have the bridge.”

Even in her despair, Saraya was surprised. She had never heard the skipper call her 2-IC by his first name. But the woman was already heading for the exit, closing and straightening her tunic.

“Captain,” Luzi Charnas called out after her. “The commander of the Diaspar wishes to open a voice channel.”

The Captain paused in the doorway, turned and frowned. “No, we’ve nothing to say, and we know what they want. Carry on, but keep monitoring. Inform me immediately...” She did not need to complete the sentence. Instead she turned to Saraya. “Ensign, accompany me please.”

Saraya closed down her station and ran her fingers along the smooth, shiny surface of the panel. As she left the bridge she glanced back for a last look about – the antiseptic walls, the softly glowing consoles, the great view-screen filled with the luminous azure blue of Neptune’s vast orb but disfigured by the sinister, ugly silhouette of the raider vessel. She did not look into the faces of her fellow officers. There was nothing there to see that she did not feel inside herself.

She followed the Captain to the wardroom. All the passengers and the non-ops crewmembers had assembled there. It was a small room, it was crowded, the atmosphere was heavy with tension, and the air was thick with the smell of fear. But it was located in the core of the ship, so it was the safest, or at least the most comforting place to be.

Saraya felt a momentary surge of contempt as well as pity for the huddled, frightened civilians; but she knew that this was a projection of her own terror. The Captain, who could not afford the luxury of such emotions, had begun addressing the group in clear, concise, controlled language. She calmly explained what was likely to happen, and while there was no sign of panic, there were moans and stifled cries, especially from the women.

“No chance of putting up a fight?” It was one of the stewards. Like all the crew, he had been thoroughly briefed on situations like this and already knew the answer. Saraya guessed that he was asking on behalf of the passengers.

The Captain slowly shook her head. “We can’t match their firepower, and we cannot outrun them. It’s the Diaspar.”

There was a howl of dismay from one of the passengers. Saraya understood. The Diaspar was the swiftest and strongest ship in the spacer fleet, capable of taking on all but the most powerful of the Federation battle-cruisers. Against her, the Bellatrix faced but two options, surrender or destruction. How ironic, Saraya thought, that “Bellatrix” means “warrior woman”. It had been a calculated gamble, to attempt the dash to interstellar space without an escort, but these were desperate times. The risk increased a hundredfold during the boosting dive into the giant planet’s gravity well, and on this occasion the Diaspar had been waiting. There was no escape.

“Stay here until summoned,” the Captain said. Her words had ominous import. No one had any doubt that they would, indeed, be summoned. She strode from the cabin and Saraya followed close behind. Along the corridor, several of the crew had armed themselves and were awaiting orders. Saraya studied their expressions with admiration – there was apprehension, naturally, but also an iron-willed determination.

“Stand down! Return the weapons to the armoury.” the Captain snarled. “Those of you who are supposed to be on duty, go back to your stations. The rest of you, report to the wardroom. Help maintain order.” She scanned their uniforms to see who had seniority. “Arturo, do you have a station to go to?”

“No ma’am.”

“Then you’re in charge.’

“Yes, ma’am.” But the Captain, with Saraya trailing after her, was already at the end of the corridor.

The passageway narrowed. Saraya felt a shudder as the two vehicles made contact. She arrived on the hangar deck just as a wailing siren announced that the outer airlock gates had slammed shut. The hiss of air filling the docking chamber could be heard clearly through the bulkhead. As the inner doors began to slide open, she felt a tingle of anticipation, curiosity, excitement and dread. She had never beheld a spacer in the flesh. She was hardly out of the academy when she served on the Majestic to share in the Federation’s triumph at Ganymede; she had been cruising the Oort Cloud at the outbreak of the murderous Solar Flare Campaign; and she witnessed, in rage and trepidation, the scattering of the refugee convoys, as the Bellatrix and its sister ships lunged bravely into the mêlée to rescue handfuls of wretched survivors. But this was new to her, to be so close, and to feel so utterly desolate.

Yet if she had been expecting monsters, she would have been confounded. As the boarding party gathered on the deck, they appeared anything but. They were well-armed and well-equipped; they were dressed in an assortment of costumes, some functional, others for show; but none wore pressure suits – a sign of their self-assurance. Few were much taller than Saraya herself. That was an adaptation to a century of breeding in the confines of their spaceships and asteroid bases, and to long periods of weightlessness before pseudo-gravity had been made practicable. The men were squat and muscular, the women lean and lithe. Their faces were hard but unlined; most were probably not much more than Saraya’s age. Their clothing, though varied, was not dissimilar to the fleet uniforms, which made sense given the exigencies of living, working and warring in the uncompromising vacuum of space.

The spacer commander stepped forward, and so did the Captain. Both knew very well that there was no time to engage in formalities. At this moment, Fleet would have dispatched its warships. But just as resistance was futile, so there was nothing to be gained by any attempt at delay, with the formidable weaponry of the Diaspar trained upon the helpless cruiser. On board the Bellatrix, the spacers were heavily outnumbered and likely outgunned, but that counted for nothing.

The Captain began to speak, but the man cut her off with a curt wave of his gloved hand.

“Assemble all personnel here, now.”

The Captain did not move, nor turn away from the spacer, but she nodded her head in a way that Saraya understood.

The young ensign made the announcement, “All passengers and crew are to report immediately to the dock; Captain’s orders; authentification code seventeen-theta-blue.”

It did not take long for the fifty-eight souls on board the Bellatrix to be gathered facing the dozen intruders. The latter were efficient and methodical, calmly composed despite their urgency to complete the business at hand. Their commander had been studying the payload manifest and selected what he needed. Two of the spacers were dispatched with a squad of crewmen to expedite the transfer. The rest of the hostages were split into two groups, men and boy to one side, women and girls to the other. The Captain started to protest, but her objections were met with a cold stare. She joined Saraya and the other females.

One of the spacers, a diminutive, flaxen-haired, waif-like creature in a bright orange jumpsuit, had the job of sorting the captives. Her face showed no expression as she picked out a dozen or so of the older women and younger girls and sent them across to reunite with their fathers, brothers, husbands and shipmates. These were of little value in the slave markets of the spacer colonies, so weren’t worth the cost of their transport. The rest, Saraya, the Captain and around fifteen others, were ordered to strip.

At first none made a move, until the Captain, with a sigh she could not suppress, removed her tunic, and they all followed. Saraya felt inclined to lower or turn her head in shame, but she resolved not to. The disgrace was not hers. A few of the men across the room could not help but watch, and Saraya did not blame them for that. But the spacers seemed to have no interest in the naked bodies of their prisoners. Saraya guessed that it was not done to humiliate or titillate; it was nothing more than expedience for security. Still, exposed, helpless and bereft of hope, she stood motionless, in silent despair, as her hands were bound behind her back.

Some of the women, and the teenage girls, were quietly weeping as they were hustled into the docking chamber. There were no hysterics and no resistance. Passengers called out final good-byes to their loved ones. Crew members, including Saraya herself, dictated quick messages for colleagues to deliver to families back home. The Captain continued to issue orders and advice to her deputy even as she disappeared through the hatchway; and the spacer commander, amused and maybe even a little awed by her self-possession, did not intervene. In any case, it didn’t matter. Within just a few minutes, the Diaspar and its female cargo would be far out of reach of the swiftest Federation interceptors.

Saraya knew there was no realistic hope of rescue, ever. In a hundred years, neither the Federation nor its hapless predecessors had broken the renegade alliance nor taken a single one of its strongholds. Dominion over the Asteroid Belt had long since been conceded to the spacers. She, the Captain and the other women, like tens of thousands before them, were destined to live out the rest of their existence as slaves in one or another of the asteroid communities, passed from one household to the next, or consigned to a workhouse or delivered to a... Saraya chose not to think about that.

A few – a very few – slaves had achieved status in spacer society. Because she was small, like her new masters, unusually intelligent and uncommonly pretty, Saraya might attain some measure of acceptance; but as an off-worlder, she could never be their equal and would never be free.

She felt the gangway vibrate as the two ships pulled apart. The engines of the Bellatrix had been disabled, but the ship would drift in a safe orbit high above Neptune until help arrived. Though the spacers were callous and could be brutal, they were not wanton killers. The commerce of the heavens did not require that sort of toll.

Deep inside the Diaspar, the captives were taken to a compartment just big enough for two dozen bunks arranged in tiers and a primitive toilet. Their hands were untied, but metal collars were put around their necks, with cables attached which bound them to a series of rings embedded in the walls. Their tethers were long enough to allow them to move about the room but not to proceed beyond the doorway. No clothing was provided. Saraya wondered if they would be confined here for the entire journey – it was at least ten days to even the nearest spacer base via the circuitous route taken to evade Federation pursuers. And she wondered if they would, in the meantime, be visited by lonely crewmembers.

She felt a hand gently stroking her bare shoulder. She looked up into warm, consoling eyes. The Captain forced a reassuring smile through pale, tensed lips. Stripped of her uniform, her freedom and her future, the woman retained her dignity and her strength. Saraya smiled in return. She lay down on the bed she had been arbitrarily assigned, touched her collar, rolled the restraining cable between her fingertips. She closed her eyes and fancied herself drifting, not in space but in time, to another world, another life. Weird images, strange visions, peculiar shapes and shadowy figures flitted past her and swirled about her. They jostled and merged.

How odd, she thought. It was as though she was not imagining, but rather remembering.

You dream that you are awake, you dream that you are asleep, and you do not realize you are dreaming because you are still in the dream. Indeed, when you do realize that this is all a dream, you will have already awakened. – Ramesh Balsekar, A Net of Jewels

If you’re interested, I am writing a novella called “Queen of Heaven” based on the Bellatrix segment of the Butterfly story.
Be warned, it is going to be very much adults-only.
It’s an expanded version of The Bellatrix, and I think more polished. Some names and details have been changed.
http://sarahstories-ishtar.blogspot.com/

Sarah