Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Fat honey bees buzzed, a robin trilled, the air perfumed by honeysuckle and roses – the gardens returning to flower. Tufts of grass emerged from the gaps between paving stones – soft and hard textures under my feet. Towering cloudbanks dominated the sky to the west, suggesting rain for later in the day. A zephyr, and warmth from the early sun, caressed my skin – another good morning to be harnessed rather than clothed.

Hartlisse was working hard, donkey stoning the steps, my responsibility to supervise. Her bottom, thrust up in my direction, bore only two fresh weals from my cane. During her first couple of weeks as my bond locker, she’d received a great deal more. Now, not only did she give less cause for complaint, but my anger was spent.

“You’re not making too bad a job of that, Hartlisse,” I said.

“Thank you, bond mistress.”

“You can call me Tuerqui, if you like.”

“Thank you, Tuerqui.”

“Hartlisse – why’re you working so hard?”

“Truthfully, Tuerqui?”

“Of course, truthfully. An advantage of slavery is that it liberates you from lies. A wise person once said to me that a slave lying to her mistress would be a treason against her submission. A mistress to lying to her slave would be beneath her dignity.”

“Whatever. The reason I’m working hard is that, if I don’t, you’ll hit me. Why else?”

“How about loving our mistress and valuing your slavery?”

“Yeah, right. As if! Well – I’d better not say what I think of Isobel Ironhand.”

“Hartlisse, I promise you this – I’ll never punish you for speaking the truth. Did you meet our mistress while you were in personage? I suppose you didn’t much like her.”

“Of course we met! We were both empers. In the top ninety of Surrey politics.”

“Oh, yes, Hartlisse, I was forgetting. Truthfully, what did you think of Lady Isobel?”

“I hated the bitch! She’s so far up Bernice’s arse!”

“Hartlisse, last week I wouldn’t have told you this, because I still hated you then – but it’s not in my nature to keep that up for ever. You’re just making yourself miserable. The only way you’ll ever find happiness is if you can love your mistress and value your slavery.”

“Like I’m ever going to value my slavery. I was a great lady!”

“And a right mess you made of it, too. You caused me so much misery – and plenty of other slaves, too. Then you fell out with Berenice and got mixed up with Nadine. Looks to me like you were a slave all along, and went crazy without the authority of a mistress.”

“Yeah, Tuerqui. What would you know of being a great lady?”

“I was a princess – the daughter of the usurper of the Blood Victoria. But it feels now as though I was a slave all along. And, although you weren’t a slave from birth, it’s hard to see how you won’t be one till you die. If you can’t, at least, accept slavery your life’s going to be miserable – but it doesn’t have to be.”

“Thanks, Tuerqui, I know you’re trying to help. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, Hartlisse, sorry for what? Your negativity?”

“Yes, I am. But that wasn’t what I meant. I was thinking of the misery I’ve caused you. And, somehow, you seem to’ve forgiven me.”

Switi emerged from the house before I had time to respond to this, leaving me wondering whether I’d really forgiven Hartlisse. No revenge, in all my life, had left me feeling better for more than a brief period. Admittedly, as a child, that was largely owing to the way in which action against Judith invariably misfired, sooner or later. The question remained as to whether no longer desiring vengeance amounted to forgiveness.

“Mistress wants you in her study,” said Switi. “If you like, I’ll keep an eye on your bond locker while you’re gone.”

“Yeah, do that, Switi, but don’t be too hard on her.”

“How can I be too hard on her? She’s every slave’s enemy.”

“She was every slave’s enemy. Now she’s one of us. It’s about time she started to accept her slavery. Work her hard, but be nice.”

Glancing back as I entered the building, Switi was staring after me, while Hartlisse continued to donkey stone with undiminished effort. Tuerquelle, taking a bunny cloth to the balustrade, smiled in my direction – I ruffled her hair in passing. Veronica Melchet appearing round a bend in the staircase, I paused to allow her to pass, and curtsied. A few moments later, I knocked upon Lady Isobel’s study door.

“Enter!” she said, and then, as I obeyed, “Ah Tuerqui! Now that it comes to it, I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Mistress, I don’t suppose it helps – but, I wasn’t sure where to start my memoirs.”

“And, if I remember rightly, you eventually settled on your earliest memory. No – that doesn’t help. I’ll start with the coronation. You remember Empress Berenice giving me several documents?”

“How could I forget, mistress? I was your fan bearer! In any case, one of them was the deed to Hartlisse.”

“Another was a licence have gynozoa produced from my substance and another woman of my choice. This is a precious opportunity that may not come my way again. Do you understand that, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress… At least, I know that gynozoa is a way to produce babies from the essences of two women. But there’s something I don’t understand about what you just said, mistress.”

“Yes, Tuerqui?”

“The University is where they’ve done to the gynozoa research, mistress. And you’re the Chancellor of the University. Is it an opportunity that may not come your way again? Mistress, do you really need a licence?”

“Yes, Tuerqui, I most certainly do. There was the idea of making gynozoa available to any woman who wanted it. The radicals wanted all the men in Surrey-held territory to be trimmed so that they couldn’t have children. Then, all babies would have been from gynozoa, and all would have been girls.”

“Mistress, that doesn’t seem a bad thing to me. I’ve liked a few men – but, by and large…”

“I take your point, Tuerqui. But when Nadine wanted a gynozoa daughter, Berenice wasn’t prepared to allow such a thing, except for a heavy political price. That led to Nadine’s troops attacking the University.”

“Yes, mistress, that’s why the regiment was camped here.”

“Exactly, Tuerqui. After that, Nadine sided with the radicals, and Berenice wanted gynozoa restricted. That’s why I need a licence. And if I mess up the opportunity, I may not get the chance again.”

“And if you had gynozoa produced without permission, mistress?”

“Berenice would not be amused. It would be abuse of my position at the University. Enslavement for sure.”

“Of course, she might not find out, mistress.”

“A leaf may fall in Surrey without her knowing – but not much escapes her imperial majesty. You remember that she knew where the pollygoggers were?”

“Yes, I remember, mistress. So this might be your only chance to have a child – apart from doing that horrible thing with a man?”

“Precisely, Tuerqui. So I need to be careful about my choice of co-mother. Who is she to be?”

“I don’t know, mistress,” I answered, perplexed – she looked as though expecting an answer from me. “A great lady, I suppose.”

“Well, I thought about the ladies of my acquaintance – and there are many. But you’re the one I love best. You’re the natural choice, my love.”

“Mistress, you can’t mean… But they said that I couldn’t have another baby.”

“People say a good many things, Tuerqui. Some of them are true, but more than half are wrong. Maybe you can have a baby, maybe you can’t. We need to find out.”

“Oh mistress! If only… But what would persons say, mistress?”

“Never mind that. There’s nothing in the world you’d like better than another baby. I can see it in your eyes. I’m right, aren’t I?

“Yes, mistress. There’s nothing in the world I’d like better than your baby.”

“And there’s no one in the world I’d rather have my baby. The next question is whether it’s possible. Eliza Downtree is the one to answer that.”

The gentle vet had given me a general health check soon after my return to the University – she had found nothing worrying, and there had been no cause for a further examination. That afternoon, she commenced a series of intrusive and uncomfortable gynaecological probes, although not as painful as some previous ones conducted by both vets and physicians. My thinking that this was a step towards having my mistress’ baby simultaneously helped and hindered. The thought gave me determination, but the worry that I might no longer be able to bear a child left me very tense.

“Tuerqui,” Miss Downtree said during my second examination, “this would be a lot easier if you could relax.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but this is my baby – or not.”

“I know it’s hard, Tuerqui, and I’m trying to be as gentle as possible.”

My third examination, and most of them thereafter, was conducted in a surgery in the vet’s compound – a whitewashed building set in a quiet garden. It took me several minutes to recognise the slave working as Eliza Downtree’s assistant. Only after noticing her RBS mark did I identify her as Giggli – my friend from Berenice’s whip-making tent and the Laughing Phallus. She looked much older, but was obviously well, and receiving good care.

“Giggli!” I said. “How are you? It’s been so long.”

“As you see, Tuerqui. And my mistress is wonderful. How about you?”

“I’m great, Giggli, apart from my fertility.”

There were about twelve of these sessions, spaced over three weeks – Eliza Downtree was, clearly, not arriving at an ill-considered prognosis. The vet was unwilling to reveal her conclusions to me, but naturally I attempted to gauge them from her manner. Sometimes it appeared that she was taking a pessimistic view, at others she seemed cheerful, while the fact of her making so many examinations presumably implied that my case was neither hopeless nor easily resolved. When, finally, I was summoned to Lady Isobel’s study, and found Miss Downtree with my mistress, some sort of resolution had clearly arrived.

“Ah, Tuerqui, my love,” Lady Isobel said. “Miss Downtree’s just given me her prognosis. She thinks that you could carry another child, but… Well – maybe she’d better tell you.”

“Tuerqui,” the vet began, “someone’s made quite a mess of you – possibly when Tuerquelle was born. I recognised the problem quite quickly – mostly, I’ve been making sure that nothing else was amiss. Now, I’m sure there isn’t a second trouble – and I can repair the damage. Unfortunately, it’ll mean surgery.”

“Surgery, miss?”

“Yes, surgery, an operation. I need to cut you open to reach your fallopian tubes. Of course, I’d give you cordials to grant oblivion. It would hurt afterwards, though, and there is the possibility of your dying under the knife.”

“If you survive,” my mistress added, “you’ll be too weak to work for a while – or do anything very much. As your owner, I could order you to have the operation, but several things hold me back. For a start, I’m afraid of losing you.”

“I’ll still be yours in the World to Come, mistress.”

“I suppose so. But my daughter must be conceived in love, there will be no coercion at any point. Miss Downtree tells me, too, that your chances of survival depend on your will to live. What do you say, Tuerqui?”

“Mistress, you honour me as no slave was ever honoured before. Nothing would give me greater joy than to carry your child. If I may be allowed the surgery, I’ll take the chances gladly.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to think it over, Tuerqui? Miss Downtree will cut as gently as anyone could – but there’ll be pain, and you may not pull through.”

“No, mistress, I don’t need to think. I’ll willingly endure any pain or weakness, and put my faith in the goddess against death. She’s delivered me from danger and personage – if she wants to take me now, so be it, but I don’t think she will. In any case, as I said, I’ll still be yours in the World to Come.”

“Tuerqui, you put all my doubts to shame. The only other thing to consider is the legal position of our child. Do you know why Tuerquelle is a slave, for all of her father being a high born ally of Surrey?”

“I think, mistress, that slavery or personage is inherited from the mother. Since I’m a slave, so is Tuerquelle.”

“That’s right, according to the laws of Surrey, everything, property as well as slavery or personage, descends through the female line. But a gynozoa child has two female parents. Berenice’s decree says that the mother – for purposes of inheritance – is the woman granted the gynozoa licence. Which ever of us carries the child, I will legally be counted as the mother.”

“Then our daughter will be a person, mistress?”

“That’s right, Tuerqui. How do you feel about it?”

“My only worry is how Tuerquelle would feel about having a person as a half sister.”

“Then you must ask her, Tuerqui.”

“Eventually, I suppose, our baby would own Tuerquelle.”

“I suppose so, Tuerqui. Tuerquelle is my personal property, and would pass to our daughter when I die. If it comes to that, so would you, if you outlive me. How would you feel about being your daughter’s property?”

“Who better to own me, mistress, if you should die before me? Of course, she would need to accept that I’ll be your property in the World to Come, not hers.”

“These are important questions, Tuerqui. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bit longer to think about them?”

“No, mistress. If Tuerquelle is happy, I’ll have no doubts.”

“In that case,” said Miss Downtree, “Tuerquelle willing, I’ll take you into my care tomorrow and operate the day after.”

Rarely, in the course of human affairs, has so much rested on the reactions of a seven year old slave child. There was a challenge in explaining matters so that Tuerquelle could understand, whilst remaining reasonably accurate. Paradoxically, I was aided by her knowing little of ordinary, two sex, reproduction. The idea of two women producing a child didn’t seem to strike her as unusual.

“Mummy,” she said, “you’re the best slave in all the world, and Lady Isobel is the best person. How could I be owned by a better person than your daughter?”

“All the same, my love, something’s worrying you, isn’t it?”

“Mummy it’s just that… Well – you wouldn’t love me less for having a baby person?”

“Of course I wouldn’t, my treasure!” I exclaimed, clutching her tightly, eyes filling with tears that were neither sorrow nor joy.

When night came, aware that this was likely to be my last time for several weeks, Passibelle, Honeyminge, Gusibelle and I all shared Lady Isobel’s bed. Group sex involving a person and four slaves requires a great deal of care, if no one is to feel neglected – to be candid, it usually seems more trouble than it’s worth. On this occasion, I was glad to have the complexities of four other people’s feelings with which to contend, as a way of taking my mind from the forthcoming operation. Fivesomes rarely work very well for all of those involved, but I believe that session was the exception – each of us needed distraction from troubling thoughts.

After breakfast, I spent some time with Tuerquelle, who seemed to have no clear conception of the dangers involved in surgery. Briefly, I wondered whether she should be told, but could see no purpose in distressing her. Rather, I trusted to the goddess to deliver me or, failing that, to extend her protection to my daughter. Parting from the child, I handed care of Hartlisse to Honeyminge, thus settling my affairs.

“Honeyminge,” I said, “correct her when she needs it, but don’t be too harsh. Whatever she may once have been, Hartlisse is now a slave like us.”

“Don’t worry, Tuerqui,” said Honeyminge, “you can count on me.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, Tuerqui,” said Hartlisse. “You’ve been so kind recently. I really hope your operation is a success.”

“Thank you, Hartlisse. I do my best. Accept your slavery, and try to be happy. Honeyminge is lovely.”

Smiling over my shoulder at my friend and my bond locker, I passed through the front door, and down the steps. Thence my way took me through gardens in full flower, and past Fiona who, as always, sang wordlessly to the plants. A green painted door in a red brick wall, on which clematis ran riot, took me into the quiet of the vet’s compound. Elisa Downtree sat on the step of the whitewashed surgery – the venue for my more intrusive gynaecological examinations.

“Tuerqui,” she said, “welcome! Your operation isn’t till tomorrow, but I need you here until then. I have to monitor your heart and bodily functions, calm you and make sure you don’t eat.”

“I can’t eat, miss?”

“No, Tuerqui, I’m afraid not. Being sick on the operating table could kill you. But I’ll give you a relaxing cordial… Giggli!”

“Yes, mistress,” said my old friend, appearing at the doorway.

“Fetch Tuerqui a two gill measure of the number twelve relaxing cordial, please, Giggli. Then, perhaps you could sit with her, out here in the garden. She needs to be calm for tomorrow.”

“Yes, mistress. Of course, mistress.”

With only occasional orders from the vet, I was placed in Giggli’s care for the remainder of that day. She took my pulse and my temperature repeatedly, listened to my chest, and plied me with doses of the relaxing cordial. In between these duties, she sat with me in the garden and we talked of our lives, hopes and fears. After perhaps the first half hour, I slipped into a dream-like state, still able to talk and enjoy my friend’s company, but feeling cocooned from the world, almost numb.

During the afternoon, in a moment of clarity, I realised that I’d been talking nonsense for quite some time. Oddly, I felt detached from the realisation, as though observing the ramblings of another slave. Then darkness fell after what seemed a matter of minutes, but was probably several hours. Eventually, Giggli gave me a measure of a different, much sweeter, cordial and I fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

Awakening to bright morning sunlight, Giggli was handing me the medicine glass again – this time, it tasted bitter. Fully immersed in dream, now, nothing around me had the air of reality. When the next dose of cordial arrived – it could have been seconds or weeks later – my mouth seemed too swollen to receive it. Making a supreme effort, I gulped the liquid down – after that, oblivion took me.

Then I awoke, seemingly seconds later, without any definite sensations. My first thought was that Eliza Downtree had changed her mind, and not performed the operation. Lying on my back, I wondered what was happening until, levering myself up, my belly came into view. A large piece of blood-soaked gauze, taped into position, told me that the vet had cut me open.

Not long afterwards, the pain began – as though someone had danced upon my stomach, whilst my arms had been ripped from my shoulders and inexpertly replaced. Trying to move, supposing that nothing could hurt more, I discovered myself to be mistaken. After that, I lay still until I heard a door open and close. Shifting my head in curiosity, attempting to ignore how much that hurt, I saw Eliza Downtree standing over me, Giggli a pace behind.

“Don’t move, Tuerqui,” she told me unnecessarily. “I’m pretty sure I’ve fixed your trouble, but you’ll have to take it very easy for the next three weeks, at least. You’re a good slave, I know, and you’ll want to return to your duties as soon as you feel a bit better, but you mustn’t – is that understood? And how’re you feeling?”

“Hurts,” I croaked, answering her second question first, painfully and with difficulty. “Unnerstan’.”

“Good girl… Now, don’t try to talk any more. Giggli will give you something to send you back to sleep. When you wake, you should feel a little bit better.”

Giggli pressed something hard to my lips, I gulped with difficulty and my mouth was filled with an acrid taste. It felt as though more of the cordial dribbled round the corners of my mouth than went down my throat but, however little I swallowed, sleep soon closed my eyes. Awakening, I did feel a little better, although not much. It occurred to me to wonder how much time had passed, but speaking even a few words was so painful that I didn’t consider asking.

“You’ve got to eat,” Giggli said, proffering a bowl and spoon.

“Cah,” I replied, “hur…”

“I know it’ll hurt. Maybe you can’t eat, maybe you can – but you can certainly try. You’ve got to build up your strength.”

It hurt a great deal to lever myself up into a convenient posture for eating, but I accomplished the task. Extending a hand to take the bowl, I would have dropped it, had Giggli let go – as it was, only a little was slopped. There was insufficient strength in my hand to support an ordinary size portion of food, but I was able to grip the spoon. Bringing the utensil to my mouth, much of its contents dribbled down my chin, but a little passed my lips.

“Swi,” I said “goo swi…”

“It’s good, but it’s not swill, it’s a special broth, just for you. Prescription food. Eat as much as you can, Tuerqui.”

After I’d eaten as much as possible, Giggli remained with me, talking. Able to follow her remarks only intermittently, I was nevertheless comforted by the flow of sound. Eventually, I must have drifted off to sleep again – something that might have escaped my notice had my bedside company remained constant. Giggli seemed to vanish suddenly, to be replaced by Tuerquelle and my mistress.

“Mih,” I said, “Tuer…”

“Don’t try to talk,” Lady Isobel said, “we’ve just come to see how you are.”

“Get well soon, mummy,” Tuerquelle added.

Remaining in the vet’s surgery for another week and a half, it was soon clear that I was on the mend. Eliza Downtree examined me morning and evening, her touch always gentle. Lady Isobel found the time to visit me repeatedly, and was kind enough to allow Tuerquelle and my friends to come every day. My daughter seemed to have the idea that I was already pregnant – something it seemed better to neither confirm nor deny.

Lisa-Louise, Jane, Diqui and Barguin all appeared at my bedside – and even Tipsi came, taking a break from her duties at the Imperial Spa. Jane, who was working on gynozoa science, told me a great deal of how I could carry Lady Isobel’s baby, but unfortunately most of it was beyond my comprehension. Lisa-Louise’s studies were taking her into an entirely different field – to do with the properties of light and chemicals, and how they could be combined to make images in an art, lost since the Old Time, called photography. While grateful to be told about such things, I wasn’t sorry that my other visitors restricted themselves to topics that were easy to understand.

The first couple of days having passed, I spent quite a lot of time out of bed, pleased to be able to sit in a chair whilst chatting to visitors. Four or five days after the operation, I was permitted to leave the building, to enjoy the soft breeze on my skin in the quiet garden. Much of my time thereafter was spent on a bench under the leafy canopy of a horse chestnut tree. It was while seated there that I had a surprise visit from Hartlisse.

“Hartlisse!” I exclaimed, as she appeared through the green door in the red brick wall.

“Hello, Tuerqui. You sound really pleased to see me. I thought maybe you wouldn’t.”

“Why ever not, Hartlisse?”

“Because I treated you so… well… heartlessly. Separated you from Tuerquelle, sent you to market, where you were bought by a whoremonger. You’ve plenty of reason to hate me, Tuerqui.”

“Yes, I have, now that you mention it. And, when our mistress put you in my charge, I did hate you. But now that’s passed. In the service of a common mistress, we can be friends, I’m sure.”

“Would you like to be my friend, Tuerqui?”

“I’d like it very much, Hartlisse,” I said, twitching the hair back from her eyes, and realising that it was true.

“You’re lovely, Tuerqui. And, to tell the truth, for the first time in my life, I really need friends. I’m sorry about everything, really I am.”

“Well, it’s worked out well in the end. I think maybe you should try to make your peace with Giggli while you’re here, though. She was also your victim.”

“Yes, Tuerqui, I’ll try. I was a very bad person, but I’m trying to be a good slave.”

“You didn’t think it was possible, but I reckon you may be starting to value your slavery.”

“Tuerqui – it’s strange. I really think I am. Like I said, I was a dreadful person. Now I have a whole new chance at life.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Hartlisse. You’re doing good – and I think we’re friends now. Really!”

“I hope so, Tuerqui.”

For most of my waking hours, I had Giggli’s company – our friendship blossoming afresh. We talked, amongst other things, of how we’d once been lovers although, for many reasons, neither of us now wished to lie with the other. Her time in the Laughing Phallus seemed to have deeply scarred Giggli’s attitude to sex, which left me wondering why it hadn’t had the same effect on me. For my own part, I was in too much pain to consider love making – and, in any case, felt entirely satisfied with my mistress and her concubines.

Back in University House, after ten or eleven days, I expected to return to work, but was disappointed. Another three weeks of enforced idleness passed before I was permitted even the lightest duties. Each afternoon, during that time, I wandered back to the surgery, to chat with Giggli as she went about her work. One of my pleasures, when not in my former lover’s company, was to see Hartlisse, now so well settled as a slave, working hard and making friends.

“You know, Tuerqui,” my mistress remarked, “as a pioneer of modern slave training, I shouldn’t say this… But Hartlisse seems to vindicate the old bond locker methods.”

“Mistress, I think it’s just that being enslaved helped her see what a bad person she’d been. Now, she’s taking her second chance at life. It’s rather lovely, mistress.”

“Yes, it is, Tuerqui. And you had a big part in her transformation.”

When finally permitted to do so, there was a great joy for me in returning to work, whatever my restrictions. Tuerquelle was very supportive, giving me a new measure of respect for my daughter – not even my mistress’ child could take her place in my affections. My friends – the concubines and household slaves alike – vied with one another to help me in my tasks, something that usually involved them in hard work. When someone donkey stoned the front steps, I was assigned to follow with a bunny cloth.

Three or four days after my return to work, a clearly important lady arrived, in a carriage drawn by high-stepping matched slaves. The coach, together with the harnesses and fittings of the team who drew it, was claret and gold. The girls at the shafts and the lady herself were curiously similar – tall, beautiful, with cascades of flame red hair tumbling down their backs. Hartlisse opened the door for her, while Tuerquelle and I hovered in the background, applying polish to wooden panels.

“Slave,” the visitor said, “tell your mistress that Lady Melanie of the Rock is here.”

“Yes, your ladyship,” Hartlisse replied, turning to obey.

“Wait, girl! You seem familiar. Before you go to your mistress, turn and face me.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Good goddess! You are! You’re Henrietta Heartless! To think that we used to be lovers – before you took up with Nadine and her treasonous cabal.”

“Yes, your ladyship. That is, I was Henrietta Heartless. Now, I’m just Hartlisse, redeemed through slavery.”

“Redeemed through slavery? Yes you are – I see it in your eyes. Well, if anyone knows how to train a slave, it should be your mistress. Off you go, girl, and announce my arrival.”

Naturally, I wondered about Lady Melanie of the Rock, and what her business was with Lady Isobel – questions that were to be answered the following day. Working in the laundry yard, Hartlisse had her hands in the tub, washing clothes, Tuerquelle passed the clean things through the mangle, while I hung them to dry. When the door from the house opened, I assumed that we were being joined by a fourth slave – persons were seldom seen in that place. To my surprise, the newcomer was Jane.

“Tuerqui,” she said, “I’ve come to take you to the gynozoa sciences department.”

“I don’t suppose you want me as a student. It must be time to take my substance to make a baby.”

“We don’t usually put it quite like that – but, yes. Come on!”

She led me back into the house, out via the University door, through the botanical sciences garden and into the study and research building. As Lady Isobel’s personal property, I’d never previously had any business in this place – the corridors severely functional, immaculately clean, but with no surfaces that needed polishing. Ascending a staircase, Jane brought me into a spacious, well-lit room, smelling of disinfectant. It was occupied by six women – my mistress, four I recognised as members of the academic staff, and Lady Melanie of the Rock, the last incongruous in a clinical white coat.

“Tuerqui,” my mistress said, “these persons are members of the gynozoa sciences department – apart from Lady Melanie of the Rock, who is Her Imperial Majesty’s Inspector General for Gynozoic Reproduction.”

“Are you sure you want a common slave as a co-mother?” Lady Melanie asked.

“Slave, Tuerqui certainly is,” my mistress replied, “common she is not. She’s special – and she’s my choice.”

Lady Isobel and I lay on hard couches, in an undignified posture, our feet raised in stirrups. My position didn’t allow me to see much of what happened, but either someone’s hand or a probe of some sort was inserted deep inside me. The process would have been uncomfortable at the best of times but – after my operation – it hurt a great deal. Biting my lip, I tried not to show my pain, and the business was done soon enough.

The following day, Jane brought us four gynozoa cultures, a slightly cloudy liquid combining Lady Isobel’s essence with mine. Each was in a tiny bottle swaddled in thick quilted material designed to prevent the precious substance from growing too hot or too cool. After that, it was a matter of counting the days from my period, to determine when I would be most fertile. Finally, my mistress squirted the contents of the first bottle deep inside me whilst I convulsed in orgasm – not only was this likely to increase my receptivity, but we needed our daughter to be conceived in love.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” I said between sobs, when the pregnancy test proved negative. “You should have used a proper fertile slave. I’ve ruined your chances of a daughter. I’m not fit for blesh stew!”

“Nonsense, Tuerqui, don’t be so silly. You were lucky to click first time with Tuerquelle. That’s why we have four cultures. Dry your eyes, and that’s an order – we’ll try again next month.”

When, the following month, a second attempt failed, Eliza Downtree thought that I might be too tense to conceive. Accordingly, she prescribed a cordial that relieved my heartache. It also made my days merge into one another, leaving me half in the land of dreams. In spite of not being properly present in the world, I didn’t neglect my prayers, aware of how sorely we needed the goddess’ bounty.

The night Lady Isobel squirted the precious fluid for a third time, I seemed – curiously – to have emerged from my month-long dream. My mistress worked well, leaving me thinking no greater extremity of pleasure possible, then the culture came, wet inside me. Instantly, I knew that I was pregnant, although it’s impossible to say how. At that moment I wept in joy, but, when a pregnancy test confirmed what I already knew, my reaction was merely a satisfied smile.

Knowing that I was going to have another baby, I contemplated my still flat belly in wonder and pride. Somewhere inside me, my second daughter was growing slowly. Soon enough, I began to swell like a ripening fruit. Awe struck, Lady Isobel ran her hands over my belly.

“Is she really in there?” she asked.

“She really is,” I replied.

Never, in all my life, had I known such bliss. The ill-effects of pregnancy came soon enough, of course – back ache, sickness, there’s no need for a complete list. No symptom could dent my delight – carrying my mistress’ daughter is the most wonderful thing in the world. My friends look enviously in my direction, but there’s nothing malicious in that.

“Tuerqui, I envy you,” my mistress said, echoing the feelings of the others. “You carry the best gift in the world.”

“Mistress, it’s perfectly true… But there’s always the fourth gynozoa culture.”

“Yes, Tuerqui, I’ve been thinking about that. I’m torn – I’ll be beyond consolation if I don’t conceive. On the other hand, I won’t conceive unless we try it. Tuerqui – I put myself in your hands – what do you think?”

After only a moment’s thought, I responded: “Mistress – give yourself to me, as I gave myself to you, and I’ll do my best to fill your belly with love.”

There doesn’t seem much to add. My mistress gave herself to me and, at the height of our passion, I squirted the culture deep within. Now we are both carrying our babies – the fruit of what seems to me a perfect love. We are mistress and slave, we are lovers, but – beyond that – there is between us the deepest bond two women could share.

A moment ago, sitting at this desk, pen upon the paper, I felt my new daughter stir inside me. On the other side of the room, Tuerquelle, Passibelle and Hartlisse, flicking feather dusters at picture frames and ornaments, harmonise with a wordless melody. Beyond the half open window, rain has left glistening droplets on nasturtium leaves, now sunshine breaks through the clouds. Perched on a fork handle, a cock blackbird calls – four high pitched squeaks, before a burst of glorious song.

For the Epilogue
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http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2008/02/of-bondlings-and-blesh-epilogue.html