Of Bondlings and Blesh Ch 11

Chapter 11

Around mid-day, two harassed-looking slaves wheeled a trolley into the tent. Their hair was wet – and what must have been very cold rain water trickled down their bodies. More of the rain rattled on the canvas – and, here and there, found its way inside. Quite an appetising smell – certainly food of some kind – wafted from the direction of the newcomers, but they hugged their burden too closely for me to see what it was.

My focus on the trolley slaves – and their cargo – was broken by someone running a finger up my spine. Turning, I saw an attractive slave, her belly flat – unlike most of our companions. The name Funbuns was branded on her thigh. She winked at me lasciviously, and I had the idea that we would be pleasuring one another that night.

The trolley slaves stepped back to reveal a large covered pan which they had surely hugged for its warmth. Dankfog is a cold month, and that day was no exception. The pair retraced their steps, but hesitated at the tent flap. A baleful look from an overseer had them scurrying back into the rain with no need to use her whip.

At a sign from the overseer, we put our work to one side and queued for our meal. My place was immediately behind a slave with a distended belly and the name Muqui branded on her thigh. I ached to ask her whether I was pregnant, but felt shy. Biting my lower lip, I urged myself to speak, but we were almost at the serving pan before I found my voice.

“Err… Excuse me… I was wondering… That is…”

“Come on, love,” she almost shouted, “spit it out. We’re all slaves tergevver, ’ere. Ain’t no standin’ on ceremony!”

“Am I…? Are we all pregnant?”

“That’s a good ’un,” she yelled after laughing coarsely and slapping her enormous belly. “Yer a scream, an’ no mistake! Yer don’t get one o’ ’ese,” she patted her stomach meaningfully, be suckin’ the trahzer lolly. Ain’t none o’ us are virgins ’ere, ducky – we’ve all ’ad a rogerin’ or twenn’y – and t’ain’t one o’ us ain’t gorra bun in ’er oven.”

“Really, Muqui!” the words were spoken from behind us in a would-be refined accent. “Must you be so vulgar? One’s life is bad enough – carried off into slavery, vilely used, impregnated by filthy wretches – without bringing vulgarity into every department of one’s miserable existence.”

“Oh ’ark at Lady Slutte. The way she talks you’d fink she was a proper polly[1], an’ no mistake… ’Er pappy sold fish in Arrer Dell. I reckon they called ’er Slutte ’cos o’ the stink o’ rotten fish – an’ it weren’t all fish, neiver!”

“Be quiet, you… you… you harridan! I came from decent folk – it wasn’t me who lifted her skirts for a few coppers…”

At this point the overseers plied their whips, settling hostilities before slave could strike slave. Standing too close, a single hard but inaccurate lash stung my flank. My mouth opened with a sense of injustice, but I didn’t voice my protest. I wondered why Muqui and Slutte had been allowed to come so close to blows – perhaps our guardians enjoyed their quarrel.

“Blimey!” the irrepressible Muqui continued in a lower and more kindly tone, “but that lass ’oo swatted me knows ’ow ter ’urt. Not ’alf! Still – don’t yer fret too much on account o’ what Slutte says, pet, it ain’t all ’urt an’ misery… There’s tricks as yer can play on the slave minders, an’…”

“Muqui! You know they’re listening,” I hissed in alarm, not wishing to see her whipped for an indiscreet remark – or receive another inaccurate lash myself.

“Oh, they know about me fun an’ games,” she said. “Anyway, there’s the rogerin’s an’ all – they’ve gotta give yer a bit o’ fun every time they want yer up the duff. Blimey, yer shoulda seen the last ’un as stuffed it up me – like a prize vegetable marrer it were! I ain’t kiddin’ duck – mine’ I like ’em big…”

Muqui reached the head of the queue, her bowl was filled, and she started to drink the way that she did everything – noisily. Then it was my turn. I was surprised to be given a soup of meat and vegetables, with a hunk of bread, instead of my usual swill. It even smelt tempting.

I sat next to a pretty girl, whose belly was only a little swollen, the name Whipfelle on her thigh. The soup was reasonably palatable, although a person would have considered it insipid, and it had a slightly acrid under taste. Moving a little closer to Whipfelle, my thigh brushed against hers, and she made no move to retreat. With thoughts of her as a lover, I tried to think of a remark.

“This is good swill,” was my lame conversational gambit.

“It’s not swill,” she said with a bewitching smile I longed to kiss. “It’s ante-natal broth. All the ingredients are carefully controlled – everything a healthy mother-to-be needs. There are special spices, as well, to make sure our babies are born docile and good, as slaves should be.”

Alarmed, I placed my bowl on the floor. I knew that slaves were given drugs in their swill designed to promote docility. That much seemed acceptable – and inevitable. The idea of affecting an unborn child in the same way was another matter.

“Don’t worry about the spices,” she said with a little laugh, “they’re for the best – really – a docile slave is a happy slave. These…” she indicated the other slaves with a wave of her hand, “only make themselves miserable with their petty rebellions. They don’t know it, but we who received the spices in our mothers’ wombs are the happiest slaves.”

“You were born a slave?” I asked incredulously.

Hitherto, I had only spoken – slave to slave – with bondlings. All had been seized by slavers – albeit most of them from lives of less luxury than the one that had formerly been mine. Indeed, some lived in greater comfort as slaves than they had as persons – but, for all of that, the idea of knowing nothing but bondage seemed dreadful almost beyond imagining. Apart from that, Whipfelle seemed so well-spoken.

“Yes,” she nodded, “and now you will despise me, like the others. It doesn’t matter – I know that I have the best of it. Bondlings rarely find contentment.”

“No, I won’t despise you. All the same, it’s hard to imagine knowing nothing but captivity. Aren’t you sad – at all the things you’ve missed?”

“From what I’ve heard, personage is no great gift. A person’s freedom is liberty to fret, worry, be plagued by decisions. Happiness lies within you – or nowhere – not with external things. The slave needs only to obey – she is liberated from fretting, and free to look inside herself for true happiness.”

“All the same, Whipfelle – if our mistress granted you personage – even you would take it, surely?”

“No – why should I? What would I do as a person? My slavery is true freedom… Their seeing my freedom is why the others will have nothing to do with me – now that you know you will also shun me – and such is my freedom that I won’t care.”

Looking her in eye, I saw that she did – indeed – have a freedom denied to the rest of us. I envied her that. However, there was a loneliness, too, denied the company of her kind. My envy was mingled with sympathy – and a strong sexual attraction: she was amongst the loveliest slaves I’d seen.

Something deeper drew me to Whipfelle, as I slowly realised during the following weeks. Having yet to frame the thought, at some level I recognised that my unborn child would have much in common with my companion. Whipfelle’s happiness reassured me. A mother needs hope for her baby.

Later, I was to discover that many pregnant bondlings comfort themselves with fantasies of escape or rescue for their unborn children. While they dream such nonsense, they pass the special spices to their wombs, ensuring that that their babies will no more desire personage than did Whipfelle. I did not care for lies and needed to be content that my child would share Whipfelle’s inner serenity.

“I won’t disown you, Whipfelle,” I assured her.

Her lips twitched into a smile more captivating than before. I longed – more than ever – to kiss her, but restrained the impulse. Sure, now, that I’d read her loneliness correctly, sympathy overwhelmed my envy. I hoped, too, that my unborn child would find sympathetic friends in the years to come.

“You’re nice,” she said, “what’s your name?”

I realised, for the first time, that she couldn’t read the name branded on my thigh. Of course, no one teaches a slave child to read. Why should they? The literature of slavery is the work of bomdlings.

“Tuerqui,” I said.

Picking up my bowl, I drained the last of my broth. Then it was time to return to work. Already, my whip making skill was returning, so that I needed less frequent painful reminders from the overseers. I had considerable respect for the light weight whips of the ante-natal tent.

At the next meal break, I sat with Whipfelle again, in spite of the inevitable mutterings of catter lover[2]. Although trying to ignore my companions’ antagonism, I wondered whether I was acting wisely. Funbuns was as hostile as any of the bondlings – and was definitely off my menu. You bondlings fret too much, I thought, then laughed – Whipfelle really did have the best of it.

“Whipfelle,” I asked “is it really true that we’re all pregnant? Am I going to have a baby? Could there be some mistake?”

Deep down, I hadn’t entirely accepted that a baby was growing in my womb. Whipfelle seemed the best slave to ask. I trusted her – immediately and entirely. Her freedom from bondling concerns left her with no reason to mislead me.

“There’s no need to fret on that account, Tuerqui. What a whipping they’d give the vet if she’d got it wrong. No – there can be no mistake, somewhere down there…” her hand brushed my abdomen pleasantly, “little Tuerquster or Tuerquelle is developing.”

I gazed upon my still flat belly in wonder, stirred by the thought of the new life within me. Minutes before, I’d dreaded being told this. Now, I was surprised to discover nothing but joy in carrying Lady Nerys’ half brother or half sister. For the first time, a tear in token my parting from Lady Nerys trickled down my cheek, and I whispered something I had failed to say.

“I loved you, Nerys.”

“What’s that?” Whipfelle asked softly.

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied, flicking at my eyes. “I was just thinking about the father’s family, and feeling glad for my baby.”

This was the first time I’d said my baby. I repeated the phrase under my breath, eyes growing misty. Maternal yearnings – of which I had not suspected myself capable – gripped me tightly. Wiping my eyes again, I tried to sound matter of fact.

I asked: “Why Tuerquelle or Tuerquster?”

“I’m glad you’re happy,” she replied, ignoring my question for now. “You must enjoy your baby. Try to value your slavery, too. Try to be happy…”

She broke off, perhaps with emotion, I’m not sure. I was gazing at my belly, not upon Whipfelle’s face. Seeing my skin as that of a slowly ripening fruit – in truth, I was happy. After a short pause she told me about the names.

“They name the baby for her – or his – mother, by a regular system – chopping off the end of your name, unless it’s only one syllable, and adding something in its place. Elle is a first born girl, ster a first born boy.”

“Then you were your mother’s first daughter?”

“That’s right. My mother is Whipfodder, a bondling.”

“And your baby – if this is your first – will be Whipfelle of Whipster?”

“Whipfette or Whipster. This will be my first baby, but a slave child is never given the mother’s name in full. If she’s a girl, she’ll have to take the second born girl’s name.

“Would you prefer Whipfette or Whipster?”

“Whipfette, I think. How about you – Tuerquelle or Tuerquster? Not that we have the choice. In this, our servitude is the lot of all women – slave or person.”

“I haven’t really thought about it… and, as you say, we have no choice… and yet…” Lady Nerys’ face – round and pretty – swam into my thoughts. “I think I’d like a Tuerquelle, but as long as it’s a baby. I don’t mind. I do want this baby.”

“Come on, girls,” an overseer interrupted, speaking almost kindly. “It’s nearly time to return to work. You’ve hardly eaten enough for one apiece. Don’t forget each of you is eating for two – and that makes four.”

Before the almost perfunctory lash fell, I was devouring my broth as quickly as I could. Not a drop must be wasted. My baby would want nothing it was in my power to provide. Almost as an afterthought, I stuffed the hunk of bread into my mouth – it seemed like mere bulk, but surely contained something for little Tuerquelle or Tuerquster.

“Don’t worry,” I said, as distinctly as I could, with my mouth full. “My baby won’t starve.”

“That’s the spirit,” the overseer replied, ruffling my hair affectionately.

“My baby,” I murmured, still marvelling at the phrase.

“Your baby,” Whipfelle echoed, “our babies, Tuerqui.”

“Whipfelle – this is the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Tuerqui, it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.”

Once the first whip of my pregnancy was complete, I found myself assigned to make an ante-natal one, as used by our overseers. It was a delicate instrument, designed to correct – as befitted a slave – without damaging the unborn child. I was relieved to know that, however much my faults required a chiding lash, my baby would not suffer. The result of my work pleased me – a thing of beauty, and exquisitely painful.

It gave me pleasure when the third whip assigned to me was a torment instrument: a bellerole, certainly not the most difficult whip to make, but it tested my skills to their limit. The leather was of finer quality than any I had previously touched – at least with my hands. I was delighted with the result, something that would not have disgraced one of Melissa Lovett’s tormentors. Learning how to tune the whip was fascinating.

While I was working on the bellerole, I kissed Whipfelle for the first time. I had observed that, provided we were reasonably discreet, the overseers did not object to slaves pleasuring one another during the night. Uncertain as to whether Whipfelle enjoyed my attentions, I didn’t advance beyond kissing for another couple of nights. When I did go further, she proved less ready to respond than had Lady Isobel or Lady Nerys.

As I well as I could gather, she preferred the attention of men to those of her own sex – in so far as she allowed herself to have preferences. I found that difficult to understand, although I tried. Whipfelle, starved of affection, and genuinely fond of me, was evidently doing her best to reciprocate. She was not, however, an enthusiastic lover.

What I found most disturbing about Whipfelle as a partner in pleasure was her insistence on obedience, and refusal to make decisions. The initiative to make love was wholly mine, her lot to obey my wish. It removed much of the delight from lying with her. I came to see why Lewis Ironhand might have been dissatisfied with my submission to his lust.

There could be little doubt that Funbuns would have made a much more satisfactory lover. I often regretted that her advances on my first day in the ante-natal tent had come to nothing. There was no point in regrets – they no more than futile bondling fretting. Funbuns spoke of me often enough, but wouldn’t speak to me.

As my belly began to swell, I vomited with increasing frequency. I became worried that I might not be keeping down enough food for my baby. Even at the time, I realised that my concerns were unfounded – but that didn’t help. The overseers’ bland reassurances helped even less.

Whipfelle’s inevitable response: “You bondlings are always fretting – try to be happy…” didn’t help, either.

Seeing my tummy swell pleased me, however – its smooth roundness a continuing joy. When I felt the first kick from within me, I was transfixed with astonishment. I cried in exultation. The overseers turned in surprise and – I saw for the first time – envy that I carried the precious gift of life.

Thereafter, I regarded the overseers with a degree of pity, and attempted to treat them with more consideration. By contrast, someone for whom I felt no compunction was Henrietta Heartless – I would have gladly tortured her. To my dismay, she appeared in the ante-natal tent with her clipboard, pen and watch. After her departure no more torment instruments were started, and the quality of the leather declined.

I subsequently discovered that the manufacture of torment instruments is scarcely a commercial proposition. While the beautiful objects command high prices, the sums are barely enough to cover the hours of skilled labour and enormously expensive hides. They are made more to satisfy the craving for perfection in a mistress whip maker than to make a profit. All of us were saddened on being set to make common whips.

Even the coarse Muqui said: “Fuck it! I ’ate’s makin’ ’ese fings. It’s jes’ catter work[3], in it?”

All of we ante-natal slaves were subject to food cravings which, to my surprise, were sometimes indulged. At other times, we were offered a so-called substitute that bore only a tenuous connection with the reported craving. When I asked for a sandwich of coal dust and dandelion leaves, it was brought to me – although it was a little early in the year for dandelions. On another occasion, I claimed to have a craving for lobster, but was given a mess of boiled pond fish and half raw turnip.

“Nearest the cook’s got,” the overseer said with a chuckle, plying her whip almost playfully.

One by one, we were taken to the maternity tent as we went into labour. In spite of this, our numbers remained steady as fresh slaves replaced the familiar faces. Amongst the new arrivals was only one girl I knew – Fuquibelle, from Cap’n Gentle’s boat. Some newcomers were old hands, knowing exactly what the score was, others were as confused as I had been on my first day.

Camp gossip circulated as well in the ante-natal tent as it did elsewhere. News of the babies didn’t take long to arrive – Muqui gave birth to her third daughter, Muquila. The snooty Slutte, already the mother of two girls – Sluttelle and Sluttette – bore her first son, Slutster. I also learned, from Fuquibelle, that Leggi was now one of Berenice’s body slaves.

Eventually, Whipfelle’s time came, and I was pleased to hear that she’d born twin girls – Whipfette and Whipfela – both healthy and bonny. Her departure also saddened me – not only as a separation from a friend and bed mate, but because the others generally shunned me as a catter lover. Even Fuquibelle had little to do with me and my final weeks in the ante-natal tent were rather a lonely time. I might have felt bitter but for the joy of the life within me.

Then, one afternoon, convulsed with pain, I too was carried out. The interior of the maternity tent was dazzlingly white – a strange contrast to the usual black of Berenice’s camp. A vet pressed a bottle to my lips. Gulping the cordial, it seemed to help a little.

The spasms and contractions were growing worse and I was dripping with sweat. A second gulp of the cordial didn’t seem to help at all. There was a spattering of scarlet on the white sheets of my bed. The tent seemed to grow hazy, I could no longer focus my eyes properly.

“This is a bad one,” I heard the vet say. “Give her a swig of full strength. I’m going to have to cut.”

For a third time, the hard rim of a bottle was pressed to my lips. It was becoming more difficult to drink – the more so as liquid fire was now being poured into my mouth. The stuff burnt and stung, I choked, spraying a little on the hand holding the bottle – but most went down my throat. Dimly, as though far off, I saw a point of light descending.

When the new pain began, I realised that I’d seen light reflected on the blade of a scalpel. Looking down through a haze of tears, I could see little apart from there seeming to be a lot of blood. Perhaps I would not have survived but for desiring my child with a desperation I had not previously fixed upon anything – or anyone. Then there was a great wrench.

Someone was holding a tiny, but indistinct, body which I knew to be my baby even before I heard the first cry. My tears, now, were of joy as well as pain. Just as I was starting to relax, there was fresh hurt which, I realised a moment later, was the vet sewing the incision. Someone was rubbing me down with a cloth, another was washing the infant.

My baby was placed on my breast and, at once, was suckling happily. In spite of all my pain as the process of stitching continued, fresh tears of happiness came to my eyes. I couldn’t imagine anything more satisfying than nurturing my baby on my own milk. The vet finished sewing me up, but still my child sucked.

As a slave, a domestic animal, nobody bothered to tell me whether my child was a girl or a boy. Doing so, I imagine, would have seemed as whimsical as saying to a mare it’s a filly or it’s a colt. Whimsy is not the most common quality in those who live by dealing with slaves. I tried to look at my baby to ascertain the sex – but my eyes were too misted with tears, and the child curled too close to my breast.

“It doesn’t matter, my sweet,” I whispered, “as long as you are strong and healthy.”

Eventually someone lifted the baby from my breast. For a moment I was distressed, then very sleepy. A bowl of gruel was being presented to me. I shook my head.

“It’s to make your baby big and strong.” The voice sounded kind. “Get it down, or your milk’ll be as weak as bitty ale[4].”

Draining the bowl, I feel asleep. Awakening, I had the impression of having slept dreamlessly for a long time. For all of that, I still felt weary. Someone was shaking me.

Painfully, I levered myself up to take my baby. Bringing the child to my to my breast, dry eyed now, I saw for the first time that she was a girl. Gazing upon her in contentment, I started to see family resemblances both to my kin and to Lady Nerys – my mother’s nose, the Welsh girls’ eyes, and so on. Tuerquelle’s eyes were bright with intelligence, every limb and feature perfectly formed, her hands especially lovely – dispelling an anxiety which had been at the back of my mind for months.

“Pretty little, Tuerquelle,” I cooed, “suck deep. You’ll be the happy slave I can’t ever quite manage to be.”

I broke off, crying – not wholly with joy. By the time someone took Tuerquelle away, my tears had dried. A vet examined me, probing gently, but hurting all the same. She shook her head, tossing a mane of dark glossy hair.

“It’s been a bad one,” she said to an assistant. “She won’t have another.”

The assistant made a note on a pad of paper. A serving slave handed me a bowl of gruel into which I proceeded to cry. The tears made it salty, but I drank it all for the sake of my precious Tuerquelle. In spite of the pain, I ached for more babies – but, it seemed, Tuerquelle would be my only child.

There followed a period during which I was, by turns, elated and depressed. Of course, Tuerquelle was my great solace – she was lovely and almost unbelievably good. All of the babies were well behaved, seldom crying, but I was sure that Tuerquelle was the best. No doubt, the infants’ docility owed much to the spices we had consumed in the ante-natal tents.

Further spices, I knew, were in our post-natal gruel. Our babies were sucking the virtues of servitude – tractability and obedience – along with our milk. They also sucked nourishment and love. Each mother clearly loved her baby, I had never seen a group of slaves so content.

Not only were most of the other mothers in my post-natal tent unfamiliar as far as I was concerned, but slaves I expected to join me failed to arrive. Clearly, there was more than one tent for new mothers. I wondered how large Berenice’s slave breeding programme was. The thought left me feeling more a piece of livestock than ever.

There were some familiar faces in the post-natal tent, amongst them Funbuns – my never-to-be lover. I watched her suckling Funster, even the tiniest movement oozing love for her son. Who’s the catter lover now, I thought – but didn’t say it. Probably she didn’t regard him as a catter, but that – of course – was exactly what he was.

A slave shrieked, then – a moment later – came the first cry of a newborn child. The duty vet passed, an early brown leaf of approaching autumn stuck to her wet boot. Tuerquelle grasped my finger, her face creased into a smile. As I stroked her nose, the wind howled and rain drummed upon the canvas.

[1] Polly: a pol or polly was an ornamental bird, kept in a cage, and, by extension, enslaved former lords and ladies were also known as pols or pollies. Bondlings of humble origin were, by contrast, sometimes called spogs or spoggies (that is to say sparrows).

[2] Catter lover: an abusive term for a bondling who associated with those born into slavery. See also Chapter 1 note 4.

[3] Catter work: bondling slang for menial tasks requiring neither skill nor intelligence.

[4] Bitty ale: A type of weak and insipid beer.

For Chapter 12 click here:
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2006/12/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-12.html