Yoked Slavegirl

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“Greetings, Master,” said Thimble.

“Greetings,” I said to her.

She was dressed, save for her bondage strings, in much the same way as most of the women of the red hunters, bare-breasted, with high boots and panties. Thistle, however, behind her, was naked, in a northern yoke and on a leather leash. The northern yoke is either of wood or bone, and is drilled in three places. The one Thistle wore was of wood. It was not heavy. It passed behind her neck at which point one of the drilled holes occurred. The other two holes occurred at the terminations of the yoke. A leather strap is knotted about the girl’s wrist, passed through the drilled hole at one end of the yoke, usually that on her left, taken up through the hole behind the neck, looped twice about her neck, threaded back down through the center hole, taken up through the other hole at the end, usually the one at her right, and tied about her right wrist. She is thus fastened in the yoke. From each end of the yoke hung a large sack.

“We are going to pick moss and grass,” she said. Moss is used as wicks for the lamps. Grass, dried, is used for insulation between the inner soles of the boots and the bottom of the fur stockings in the winter.

“That is good,” I said. “Why is Thistle yoked?”

“It pleased me, Master,” said Thimble, first girl. There was little love lost between the girls.

“Was she insubordinate?” I asked.

“She said a sharp word to me,” said Thimble.

“Did you switch her, too?” I asked.

“Of course, Master,” said Thimble.

“Excellent,” I said. Discipline must be kept in the tent.

I looked at Thistle. She met my eyes, briefly, and then looked down. She was quite attractive. I had not as yet had either Thimble or Thistle.

“Is Imnak finished yet with the new slave girl?” I asked, referring to Arlene.

“I think so, Master,” said Thimble, smiling. “At least he has tied her to a pole behind the tent.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“I do not think she is much good, Master,” said Thimble, one slave girl appraising another.

“Do not let me detain you from your labors,” I said.

Thistle, suddenly, knelt down before me, yoked, and put her lips to my boot. Her head was jerked up by the leash in the hand of Thimble. Her eyes were moist “Master!” she begged.

“Come, Slave!” snapped Thimble, and pulled her to her feet and dragged her away, behind her. Thistle looked over her shoulder, at me. I gave no sign of response. She stumbled away, on Thimble’s leash. I smiled to myself. Thistle, as I had expected, was the first of the girls to begin to understand and feel her slavery.

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