A Number's Game Ch. 04

Chapter IV -- A Humbling Prelude to Hygiene

Thirty-Seven was right. My stomach has shrunk. It took some time to find the bread in this darkness, and by the time I did, my hunger had faded. I took only one bite, chewing slowly to savor its rich fennel flavor and only reluctantly washing it down with a few sips of water.

Now I wait, but I know not what for. The waiting is torture in and of itself. In the darkness, my mind paints pictures of the life I left behind. I imagine my mother and father, both proud and concerned. Allura is no doubt already dreaming of the riches and scheming of ways to spend them for me. On my Emancipation Day, I'm sure her smile will be the biggest—and falsest—of them all.

Emancipation. A thought I had dreaded. It seems strange now to be afraid of freedom, now that I have realized my childish dream was just that. I was a fool to think that Master Twelve would love me as I have loved him. How could he? To him, I am just another plaything--a conglomeration of parts for his amusement. Not a person, but a thing that doesn't mind being locked away in the dark when not in use.

I should have listened to Allura. I am not good enough to be a Tithe. Not only weak and without purpose, but also immature and idealistic. This household has no place for a toy that is already broken, and that is what I am--a defective rag doll that no one would want to play with. What I saved as a gift for my Master isn't fit for a farm slave.

I hear the lock rattle outside. Are they coming to take me to the farm already? Or will it be straight to the village brothel to be bound to a pommel horse, kept oiled so that I am always ready to accept the cock of any man with a coin in his pocket who doesn't mind looking at a wooden box instead of a lover's face?

The door opens and the gaslights flare to life. I curl into the corner and hide my face.

"You poor girl," says a soft baritone voice. "You've no need to hide from me."

His footfalls are soft and as he approaches, the scent of lavender fills my nostrils. I chance a look.

"My! You are the pretty one," he says as he stretches his slender torso. "Come now. Let me have a better look at you, please."

He laughs. A gentle, warm sound. "Didn't think you'd hear that word again, did you?"

His smile sets me at ease. Almost. "How am I to address you?"

"My name is Eighty-Eight. I am your groomer," he says. "You should address me simply as 'sir.' Not that it bothers me personally, but I must insist that you refer to yourself as 'this girl.' It really is in your best interest to get in the habit of it."

"Yes, sir," I say. "This girl is sorry."

"It's alright, Two Seventy-Six," he says and pats me gently on the head. He looks at his palm with disgust, pulls a cloth from his pocket and begins to wipe his hand as he walks away. "What isn't alright is the state of your hair. When is the last time you bathed?"

"This girl cannot remember, sir."

"Well, that is something we shall have to remedy," he says. "Now, come here so that I may get a better look at you."

I like this man. I want to please him, so I try to remember all of the instructions Thirty-Seven gave me regarding the proper way to crawl. His smile widens as I approach him.

"Very good, Two Seventy-Six," he says. "You're a quick study. Now stand for me."

I do. He gently takes my face in his hand and turns it first left, then right.

"Nice bone structure," he says. He runs his hand down my neck to my chest. "I just wish I couldn't see so much of it."

He looks me in the eye. I look away.

"Now don't you worry," he says and reaches into his belt pouch. He unfolds a small gray paper, revealing a small, blackish ball. "Close your eyes and open your mouth, girl."

He places the ball on my tongue and it is heaven. Pure, melting heaven. I don't know what this is called, but I like it.

"Ahh... you should do that more often," he says. "Ghandrillian chocolate always makes me smile, too."

Am I smiling? Yes. Amazingly, this gentle man has found a way to make me smile, even through this.

"Not a word of this to anyone. It's very expensive and Tithes aren't technically allowed to have it. I only wish it wasn't so fattening," he says, "but in your case... those mindless train guards! I doubt they even once stop to think of what difficult work they make for me."

Reluctantly, I swallow the chocolate, trying to memorize the sensation. Good memories seem hard to come by in this place. "Thank you, sir. It was delicious. This girl won't speak of it to anyone."

"I know you won't," he says. "If for no other reason than you believe there is more where that came from."

I hadn't even considered that. Though I like the thought of more chocolate, I don't like the thought that this man might believe my desire for more is the only thing that will keep my silence. Is that how things are here? Does no one do anything simply because it is the right thing to do? I shake the thought from my head. I have to believe this man's kindness is his nature, not merely his job.

"Now kneel for me," he says. "It's time to get you clean."

I kneel and he fixes a worn, red leather collar around my neck, attaches a chain leash and locks both into place. "This is just a training collar. It's seen better days. I'm sure Master will have a much nicer one for you at your ceremony."

Master Twelve. My Master. "When will that be, sir?"

"When you are ready," he says. "Anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. It all depends on you. Come along."

He opens the door, gives a gentle tug on the leash and I follow him out into the light. Sunlight! As a girl working in my father's fields, I grew to hate the sun on hot days. I take back my every curse about it. The morning air is crisp, but the sun's glow is warm upon my back. The grass here is immaculately kept and feels soft beneath my sore knees.

When I first arrived in Ghandril it was already dark. For the first time, I see the village in full bloom. Everywhere I look, citizens are going about their business: opening shop windows, sweeping out the dust of night, laughing over breakfast. It seems odd at first, but it is just like any other morning and very much like my home village of Palsinore. I guess I was expecting everyone here to be a Tithe like me, but as far as I can see, I am the only one on a leash. I am not the only one who has noticed this.

As Eighty-Eight leads me through town, eyes follow us. I can feel the critical stares of the village women, every inch of me on display for them to compare and reject. Some men glance and return to work, some stare long and hard. A hoot from an alley startles me. A drunk mocks masturbating as I pass. He doesn't bother me. What bothers me is the children in the schoolyard -- pointing, laughing and occasionally barking at this naked girl on a leash.

At length, we reach what looks like a storefront with a large window. Eighty-Eight leads me in and commands me to climb onto an oak table before the window and then kneel in the salutation position, cupping my breasts in my hands.

"In case not everyone got a good look at you," he says with a wink. He tethers my leash to a heavy iron rod that protrudes from the wall, takes a heavy padlock from atop the table, and locks the leash into place. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

He chuckles as he leaves the building, locking the door behind him. As I am secured to the wall by a chain, I assume that this is not to keep me in, but to keep others out. It isn't long before my suspicions are confirmed by the small crowd gathering outside the window. Within minutes, a sea of faces stares in at me--faces of both sexes and of all ages.

One old crone squints through the window and cracks a toothless smile. "They lower the harvest age again? My son has bigger tits than that!"

The crowd roars with laughter.

"It's true," says a dirty, bearded, giant of a man as he lifts his shirt. "See?"

"Put those away before you make me throw up," says a foppish young gentleman dressed from head to toe in the finest sky blue silk I've ever seen.

"What's the matter, Jaryll?" The giant scowls. "Got a problem with my tits, you little cocksucker?"

"Oh no," the younger man says with a smirk. "I love a big chest on a man. I was talking to the mousey little thing in the window!"

The giant roars with laughter. "I bet she squeaks when she takes it up the ass just like you do!"

To my surprise, the giant claps the young man, Jaryll, on the shoulder and they laugh together, then turn back to me.

"Eek! Eek!" the old crone says, pointing at me.

My lip begins to tremble. All eyes are on me. I can't stand their stares and their condescending laughter. My face burns with shame. I try to hide myself, covering my breasts with my hands and the crowd cheers.

The bearded giant shouts. "She's a contestant!"

I don't understand what he means, but his tone one of sadistic delight. I curl in on myself, trying to hide as much of my nakedness as I can as the crowd begins to chant. "Hide and shriek! Hide and shriek!"

Shriek is exactly what I want to do. I want to scream at them to shut up. I squeeze my eyes closed and try to shut out their mindless chanting, so loud that I don't hear the lock on the door rattle. The booming voice that follows is unmistakable.

"Now... I know you didn't give her permission for this."

Kennelmaster lumbers into the stone room and sets a large wooden tub of water on the floor, then turns to my groomer who has come in with him. He smiles wickedly. "You tell her she could hide herself like that?"

My groomer lowers his eyes and shakes his head. He sighs. "No sir, I didn't."

Kennelmaster's smile widens. He walks to the window and faces the crowd. "Everyone get a good, long look?"

A few excited voices reply. "No!"

Kennelmaster folds his arms and his back muscles ripple. "So she's been bad, has she?"

The crowd laughs and the chant begins again. "Hide and shriek! Hide and shriek!"

Kennelmaster motions for silence and gets it. "Well, the hide part's over with."

The crowd cheers as Kennelmaster turns to me.

"Time for the shriek," he says as he leers at me. "Unlock her leash, Eighty-Eight."

"Yes, sir," my groomer says. He unlocks my leash from the bar and hands it to Kennelmaster.

"Time for walkies," Kennelmaster says with a leering grin.

He turns to head out the door and the leash pulls taught, choking me. I quickly scramble from the table to avoid being dragged to the floor. Crawling, I can barely keep pace with Kennelmaster's long stride. By the time he stops, I am gasping, but I have no time to catch my breath before I am hoisted to my feet. The crowd parts before me and I understand their chant now, for I kneel before a whipping post.

Kennelmaster grabs my shoulders, spins me to face the crowd, and begins a speech that was obviously written by someone with a much keener intellect than his. The mob grows silent as he speaks.

"The good townspeople of Ghandril are honest and hardworking," he shouts. "You grow the crops that feed a nation. You are skilled weavers and leatherworkers. You are craftsmen. You are artisans. You are soldiers. You are husbands and wives, sons and daughter, all loyal to The One and to one another. You deserve only the best, and yet the best was not delivered unto you."

A voice erupts from the crowd. "Get on with it!"

Kennelmaster pauses and eyes the crowd mercilessly, but does not call out the offender. He has no authority to punish a citizen. No doubt he'll do so anyway later, behind the tavern and off the record.

"On behalf of the Hierarchy," Kennelmaster says, "I apologize for this girl's behavior. And now... she will atone."

The crowd roars as Kennelmaster drags me to the post and tethers my leash to an iron spike near the top. I have to stand tiptoe to avoid choking. He wraps my arms around the post and ties them together with a piece of rawhide.

"There," he says. "Now no one can see your pathetic little tits. Happy?"

No. I am not happy. I am terrified, and my horror increases as he unfurls a braided leather bullwhip for me to see. "Please," I beg him. "I'm sorry, Kennelmaster."

"Ten lashes," he says coldly. "Plus one for saying 'I'm.'"

"This girl is sorry!" I shriek. "Please, Kennelmaster!"

"You're still getting an extra one," he says as he steps back. "Now, apologize to the people. If you're lucky, they'll let you off easy."

I shout to the crowd. "This girl is sorry!"

The crowd goes silent as Kennelmaster unwinds the whip, tracing circles in the dust with its knotted tip. I cringe as I hear the lash whistle and suddenly my back erupts with leather fire. The first blow is so excruciating that I can't imagine anything hurting worse. I know I won't have to imagine for long. I scream.

Kennelmaster shouts. "Apologize!"

"This girl is sorry! Please! This girl is-"

The second blow lands. The sting is like that of a thousand pyre ants. Already, I can feel myself growing dizzy. Another blow. My back feels like it is dissolving into ash. My voice is shaky. "This girl is sorry!"

On the fourth blow, my legs give out and I begin to strangle. Still, I try to apologize. "This girl... is..."

CRACK!

"Sorry..."

Pain is a powerful learning tool. Even as I begin to lose consciousness, my mind has processed that when Kennelmaster swings a bullwhip, it whistles twice--once on the back swing, once on the descent. I hear the first whistle, but not the second before I black out. The pain of the lash awakens me, but not for long. I welcome the darkness and want to let it overtake me, but the sharp tang of ammonia burns my nostrils and I inhale sharply. My vision is blurry, but I can see Eighty-Eight, my groomer, waving something in front of me. Smelling salts. I instinctively recoil from the source of the smell and feel my head bump against something hard, yet yielding.

"Stand up now," Kennelmaster says, speaking softly into my ear as he holds me against his chest. He loosens his grip on my shoulders, forcing me to support my own weight on trembling legs, then reaches above me and unties the leash, letting it fall.

"People of Ghandril," Kennelmaster says, "the Tithe wishes to speak. May she?"

The crowd affirms. Kennelmaster cuts the bonds from my wrists and I fall to the ground. He lifts my limp body and holds me up facing the crowd so that all may see me. I haven't the strength to hide myself from them anymore.

Kennelmaster forces me to kneel facing the crowd. He leans close. "Now, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six... explain what you did wrong, why it was wrong, and apologize sincerely. If they accept, then you won't have to take the rest of the lashes you owe them."

The crowd is silent. I look up at them. Some wear expressions of concern, others wear grins of smug satisfaction. Still others are red-faced and breathless with arousal. Kennelmaster slowly relaxes his grip. I am able to kneel on my own as I address them.

"People of Ghandril, I... this girl has failed you," I say as I stare at the earth beneath me, being careful not to meet anyone's gaze. "Your taxes provide for the Hierarchy, and the Hierarchy provides for Tithes and their families. This girl's family will never want, thanks to the generosity of the citizenry and of this girl's master. If Master Twelve wishes to share this girl's nakedness with you as thanks, this girl has no right to deny you his gift. With all of her heart, this girl is sorry and begs your forgiveness."

It seems like an eternity before anyone responds, and the response that I get startles me. One by one, they begin to clap. Someone from the crowd leans close and speaks.

"That was beautiful," he says, his voice soft.

Though my strength is leaving me, I look up. My eyes meet Jaryll's. They are the same blue as his fine silk clothing and sparkle just as brightly as the magnificent diamond ring he flashes before my face.

"Seven lashes is tough, but there'll be worse. Just try to remember... It hurts right now, but it's worth every minute in the end." He winks, then turns to walk away, shouting over the noise of the crowd. "Beautiful words from a beautiful girl!"

My mind reels. Did I really take seven lashes? I only counted six. Was I completely unconscious for one of them? With all these thoughts rattling through my head, it takes a moment to sink in.

He called me beautiful.

Kennelmaster's words, however, register immediately, but I greet the thirteenth whistle with a smile.

"This one's for the 'I'm,'" he says.

The fourteenth whistle. The crack of the bullwhip against my already torn flesh. One last shriek and the seventh lash is done. There will be no salts to wake me this time. As I fall forward to embrace the dusty ground, I welcome my favorite lover--the darkness of sleep--with open arms.