Troco, as in truculence

"Me sacas de aqui ?"
"Pregunte a los chicas."

The girl in the pearly white dress sunk to her knees with a faint whiz in her chest, a little air release making her sound like a cat spinning up her purring engine. She then leaned forward, hands on her hips, her nose just about level with the other's basin. Then, lifting her eyes,

"Por favor, mami. Permita-me que me saque de aqui."
"Me comes la cona ?"
"Mil veces!"
"Vale."
"Comienzo ya o despues ?" she then inquired, matter of factedly, as she moved her arms on the other's perch, her hands cupping her thighs.
"Te gusta mucho comerla ?"
"Yo no se, nunca intento antes."

The slave turned to her bemused owner surveying the intergender proceedings, a glint in her eye.
"De donde sacas todas estas putas ?!"
"De sus mamas, quien sabe... yo no se nada."

"Venga aqui ciquitita." called out the other one.
"Ya vengo!" and the excitedly willing captive lapped that way in her dressy restraint, on all fours, her thick body vaguely evoking a seal's.
"Permita-me por favor que..."
"A mi me vas confessar todo."
"Todo ?"
"Absolutamente todo. No tienes mas derecho de piensar solo para ti, hay que decirme lo todo y completo."
"Pero se puede esto ?"
"Yo non se, nunca intento antes."
"Es su primera ves tambien ?"
"Eh.. si, nunca antes me pregunte nadie nada a mi."
"Hacemos troco ? Yo a ti, y tu a mi. Todo."
"Ehh... yo la mitad, y tu, el todo tuyo."
"Vale!"
"Puta que non sos otro".
"Si, mami."
"Besa-me los pies."

The kneeling girl proceeded to removing the various straps, and then by degrees the day's measure of sweat and the city's gifts of silt and soot off her new mistress' bare feet.
"You drive a pretty hard bargain..."
"Apparently... I had no idea." Then, lifting her eyes, "May we have her for a proving spell ?"
"Are you going to vouch for her ?"
"I... I..."
"Why are you such a coward, anyways ?"

The slavegirl with wet feet was turning reddish by degrees, of rheum and choler and irritated blood.
"She was born that way." proffered the other one, calmly, almost-disdain sparkling like frost throughout her timbre. "Everyone ever is."

The girl on the floor, working her tongue awkwardly through every crease of her mistress' feet that her mind knew and recognized (while ignoring all the rest) looked up. She didn't think she was a coward, herself -- and if her momentary circumstance wasn't proof what else would ever be ? She didn't know the other's history, as she didn't know any history at all, which is in the end how her peculiarly amusing notions as to what things are even came to be in the first place.

"I'll vouch for her." Then, turning to the ministrating fucktoy at her feet, "Me oigas, puta ? Que yo me comprometi para ti."
"No te vas arrepenter nunca en la vida."
"Toda ? O la mitad ?"
"De primera ves, la primera mitad. Y de secunda, la secunda."
"What the fuck is she ? Yet another oracle ?"
"Si senora. A veces esto me pasa a mi, saber lo que va a pasar."

The other two women watching very tensely the tense proceedings took to nodding, as if this were an established fact within their tribe.

"Me esclavizas ahora, por favor, senor ?"

The man looked at her, then said, to his other women,

"Yeah. Take her to the car, cuff her in the back seat. I'll pay and come over."
"Harsh ?"
"Middling. Put clamps on her, for sure. That udder of hers desperately needs some attention." Then, turning towards the most recent acquisition, "Sigue-los."
"Sin zapatos ?"

The man gave her a look, the first of a long string of looks that'll control the limits, the outer limits of her coming, and going, for the rest of her happy life, invisible whip strands, imponderable wire fences of the slave's path. She paddled gingerly behind the others, under his gaze, picking up speed by degrees. The man then turned to the shopgirl, working her way through a list of handwritten product codes, prices in foreign currencies and assorted other notation. Between the nine digit identifiers attached to the grosse or two actually present items for absolutely no conceivable reasonⁱ and the six or seven figures describing prices in a weird alt-world (of the future) where a bottle of water costs in the thousands, and of course the double entry system where there's a pre-tax and a post-tax column for each price (except meaninglessly, as each pre-tax price is post-figured by a peculiar incantation of buttons applied to the only price anyone ever conceptualizes as the price), there were a good two dozen digits written by the shopgirl's hand on the paper for each single article of clothing purchased (the articles of clothing in the sense of going over the articles of clothing in the sense of being clothed -- these later articles always coming for a certain kind of free). Eventually a (very reasonable, by any lights) total was computed. The man fished a small pile of bills out of the solid brick in his pocket, fingered his hat in the general direction of the matron flashing hotter than she ever had, and found his own way out -- the path towards wherever the car was parked not in the slightest trying to discern, because while he had paid no mind to where it was being parked, back when it was being parked, nevertheless now there were fresh barefoot young girl feet prints leading uninterruptedly that way.

"Perhaps I should have them say πόρνη", he mused to himself.

1. It's how they do it in America! where they actually have shops the floor space of a Costa Rican town, containin perhaps millions of distinct items. And where it's all automated and digital, so no shop girl ever has to draw them out by hand, like they do here. [↩]