Conspirators of Gor

Chapter Four

“Slave,” she said. “Kneel!”

“You are not a free woman!” I said. “Are you so different from me? That bit of cloth you wear is as much a mockery of a garment as that which clings about me! Do I not see a metal circlet clasped close about your neck, which, I trust, is locked in place? If it is not, remove it, and I will kneel before you.”

“Barbarian!” she said.

“We are no different,” I said. “We are now the same, whether barbarian or Gorean!”

“No!” she said.

“I might sell for as much, or more than you!” I said.

She put her hands on her collar, her eyes flashing. “I was once free!” she said.

“So, too, once, on my world, was I!” I exclaimed.

“Liar!” she said. “See your upper left arm. You came here with that brand!”

“It is not a brand,” I said. “It is a medical thing, a trace, a mark, the residue of a medical procedure, called a vaccination.”

“It is a blemish,” she said.

“It is very tiny!” I said.

“By such things, tiny, betraying brands, marking them as slaves,” she said, “many barbarians are recognized.”

“They are not brands,” I said.

“Perhaps by such brands,” she said, “the hunters recognize slaves.”

“That is unlikely,” I said, “for women on my world do not rush about, unclothed.”

“What a liar, you are!” she said. “Many of your women are unveiled. Many times their arms are bared. I have seen slave garments exhibited which were concealed beneath the clothing of women on your world, obvious slave garments, garments so tiny, so soft, so smooth, so stimulating to the base, possessive instincts of men. And your hands and ankles might be noted on your world, or often so. And what of the beaches on your world, where slaves are exposed by their masters with little garmenture?”

“Few would be slaves,” I said.

“Then proto-slaves,” she said, “exhibiting themselves for prospective masters, displaying themselves brazenly, hoping that they might thereby come to the attention of masters.”

“I assure you,” I said, “my world is as complex as yours, perhaps more so.”

“In the markets,” she said, “I have seen chained barbarians exhibited in such garments.”

I did not respond. I was unfamiliar with such markets, save from the inside.

“To be sure,” she said, “only a fool would buy a clothed slave.”

I had, of course, as doubtless she had as well, been sold naked. Few such experiences are as telling in making clear to one one’s femaleness.

“Perhaps, on the other hand,” she said, “it is by such brands that the hunters mark out their picks, their selections, their prey, for a later, convenient acquisition, a preliminary, provisional mark, scarcely noticeable, which will do, until a more appropriate marking, in the pens.”

“No,” I said. “Such marks often go back to childhood.”

“They select them so young?” she said, interested.

“No,” I said. “And men of my world are often similarly marked.”

“Male silk slaves?” she said.

“Not at all,” I said.

“I have seen such milky, frightened things in the markets,” she said. “Some women like them. But they are men, of course, and there is always the danger that one of them, seeing here what men may be, may revert, and turn on one.”

“Many men on my world are capable of being masters,” I said, “and doubtless some are masters.”

“It must be a fearful experience,” she said, “when one’s silk slave turns on one, perhaps binds one and disposes of one in a small market, taking the coins and departing the city.”

“Perhaps few would have such courage,” I said.

“Let us hope so,” she said.

“I think that mark was a brand,” she said, “by which the hunters recognized you as a slave.”

“Not at all,” I said. “It would not have been visible. It would have been concealed by the clothing I wore.”

“How then did they recognize you as a slave?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I said, though, in truth, I had an idea of such matters. Who could not have seen the slave beneath my clothing? Could not a practiced eye have discerned saleable lineaments beneath that cloth? Who could not have looked upon my throat and not speculated on how fittingly it would have been encircled by a metal collar? Who could not have looked into my eyes, severely, and not seen the trembling, waiting slave?

“You must have been assessed,” she said.

“Doubtless,” I said.

“Where, when, how?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I said. I did not know. It might have been anywhere, at any time, perhaps when I least suspected it, on a bus, in a subway, on the street, shopping, waiting for a light to change, stepping in or out of a taxi, in a corridor, in the aisle of a market, in a classroom, on the campus, anywhere, anytime.

But then I was sure I knew.

It had been at a party, in the house, if nowhere else.

“It is unusual that you would not have been assessed naked,” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

I did not tell her of a troubling dream I had had, weeks ago, after the party. I had dreamed I had been sedated, and stripped in my own bed, in the house, in my room, and, in the light of a flashlight, a sort of torch without fire, held by one man, had been turned about, and, roughly, in one way and another, handled as expertly and casually as might have been a slave, by two others, even measured. The men had then tied me, supine, my hands and ankles fastened well apart, to the posts at the head and foot of the bed. It seemed I was struggling, futilely, trying to regain consciousness, trying to awaken, unsuccessfully, while the men conversed nearby, with low voices. I sensed they had come to some sort of agreement. Notations were made, on some sort of device. I twisted, and squirmed, and bucked and thrashed, wildly, jerking against the cords, fastened several times about my wrists and ankles. Then I lay back, knowing that I could not free myself. I was helpless, absolutely helpless. The flashlight was turned on me. Two of the men laughed. I then fully lost consciousness. I awakened in the early morning, in the house, in what, in your reckoning, would have been something like the Fifth Ahn, whimpering, and then suddenly I screamed, before I realized, with unbounded relief, that I was safe, so safe, in my own room. But somehow, inexplicably, I was naked. Somehow, in the night, I had slipped from my night gown. I did not see how that could be. I shuddered. I felt small, and helpless, and frightened, and quietly, not moving, lay in the bed, my legs drawn up. It had been a most unusual, and frightening, dream. I was still uneasy. I still felt its terror. But in a few moments I had recovered myself sufficiently to regard the dream with amusement, but then, suddenly, a moment later, cried out with horror. Two of the other girls entered the room, Eve and Jane, and the house mother, Mrs. Rawlinson. I drew the covers about me. “A dream,” I explained. “A dream!” My two friends, Eve and Jane, looked to one another, and then left. The house mother, Mrs. Rawlinson, however, dallied a bit, and regarded me, the covers drawn up about my neck, and smiled, and, as it seems to me now, knowingly. I and two others of my sisters in the house, my sorority sisters, for a sorority is a sort of club, my friends, Eve and Jane, had had, some days ago, a fearful contretemps with the house mother. Examining our rooms in our absence, while we were in class, certain books had been discovered, literature certainly inappropriate for our prestigious house, one of the most exclusive and inaccessible on campus, and inappropriate, as well, for our small, expensive, illustrious, private institution, one of the most selective in the northern hemisphere of my former world, save for certain reluctant concessions to political pressures, abetted by special grants and fellowships, and inappropriate, as well, for members of our class, that of my sisters and myself, our social station. I think there was no girl in our house who did not derive from a background of refinement and great wealth. Too, I think I should mention that our sorority was generally recognized as the richest and most desirable sorority on campus, amongst several others, of similar repute. We lived arrogant, tasteful, condescending lives, in keeping with our superiority. On the other hand, we underwent much supervision by our peers, and house mother, Mrs. Rawlinson, and much attention was devoted to our activities. Though we were undeniably privileged and special, we were not as much at liberty as might be supposed, for our freedoms were limited in certain ways, that as a natural function of our station and the reputation of the house. For example, our classes, interests, books, majors, and such, were to be such as were suitable for us; our charity work, if done, was to be restricted to suitable charities; our acquaintances were to be proper, of a suitable class, position, background, appearance, and such; and, in particular, one must be judicious in dating. We were not to date beneath our station, for, just as you have castes, we have social divisions which, in their way, are also strict. Certainly we were expected to behave in such a manner as to, at all times, maintain the dignity, prestige, and reputation of the house. Accordingly, our social activities, where the men, or boys, were concerned, were to be limited to a small set of men’s clubs or fraternities, in their ranking comparable to ours. The girls of our sorority, or club, I might add, were not only rich, but, too, tended to be aloof, refined, aristocratic, spoiled, and vain. That is clearer to me now than it was at that time. Also, there seemed to be another criterion imposed on membership in our house, but, as obvious and generally recognized as it was, it was never mentioned explicitly. Each of our girls was extremely beautiful. We were the Ubaras of the campus, so to speak. To date one of us was a coup for the lucky fellow, and one of our common pleasures was to disdainfully refuse such dates, unless, of course, requested by young men whose wealth and social position was superior to ours. What is the point of beauty, if not to open doors, to bargain, and to enhance one’s prospects? Were we not prostitutes, in a way, ready to sell ourselves, high-priced merchandise, for power, position, station, and wealth?

You have probably guessed the nature of the “inappropriate literature” discovered by the house mother. But perhaps not.

Just as many of you doubt the existence of a world called Terra, or Earth, so, too, many on my world doubt the existence of your world. Indeed, I did so, as well, until I found myself here, naked in a slave pen, chains on my limbs. In any event, though the evidence for your world doubtless exists, in many ways, on my world, what evidence is recognized is, as far as I know, subjected to alternative explanations, ignored, or explained away, in one way or another. This is not to say, of course, that Goreans are not here and there on Earth. My presence here, for example, makes that clear, or, at least, that there are those on Earth who know of Gor, and are familiar with her. This is not to deny, of course, that better information might be housed in various intelligence communities on Earth, evidence which it would be wise to treat with circumspection. In any event, various manuscripts pertaining to your world have appeared, in a variety of languages, on my former world, despite efforts to suppress them, to deny them to the reading public. And even if such efforts should prove overtly successful it is not unlikely that some copies will elude the insecure and bigoted, and will continue to circulate, as an underground literature, if nothing else, hidden here and there, and passed secretly from hand to hand, a badge of understanding and brotherhood, in defiance of haters and tyrants concerned to engineer a pathology congenial to their political ambitions.

In any event, in my room, and apparently in those of Eve and Jane, Mrs. Rawlinson had discovered certain of these books, apparently, as I then thought, to her astonishment, embarrassment, dismay, and indignation. Certainly I had hidden the books, I had thought well, in a trunk, covered with clothing, had confessed to no one that I had read such things, and was terribly self-conscious at having done so. I was miserably embarrassed that this secret was discovered. What would Mrs. Rawlinson, my sisters, others, think of me?

Worse, I could be publicly humiliated, disdained, ostracized, and summarily expelled from the sorority, with all the devastating social consequences which that might entail.

A delicate and fragile world, carefully constructed and maintained with an eye to the future, might tumble about me.

I was frightened.

I was suddenly, for the first time in my life, vulnerable, at risk.

I would be on the outside, alone, ignored and despised, the gates shut against me.

How delighted would be Nora, and certain others of my sisters, at my downfall, my discomfiture!

How rapidly and eagerly would this welcome news of my exposure be broadcast about the campus!

I had come upon such books by accident, in a store dealing with old books. I was curious. I looked into one or more. I was startled. I could not believe, even from the first pages, the nature of what I read. I did not understand how the authors, Tarl Cabot, and others, might have dared to write what they did. Did they not know the formulas? Were they unaware of the political requirements imposed on contemporary literature? Were such so obscure, or difficult to discern? What an unexpected paradox, to put aside the rules, to deny orthodoxy, to speak so plainly, so simply and quietly, and naturally, of a culture so different from ours, and to speak of it not to denounce it, but to understand it, to speak of it from the inside, instead of disparaging it from the outside, from the alleged vantage point of some arrogant, unargued, unquestioned position or posture whose credentials were not only dubious but nonexistent. What of the simple test of life consequences? Is it obvious that an unnatural culture which produces vehemence, confusion, hysteria, sickness, treachery, hypocrisy, mass murder, and hatred is obviously superior to a culture compatible with nature, and her kinds and differences, a culture in which nature is recognized and celebrated, and enhanced by all the ennobling sophistications of civilization, rather than denied?

In any event, if only to my dismay, and fear, the books spoke to me.

Too, they spoke to me of secrets I had long concealed from myself. My life was boring and empty, and largely mapped out for me. I was on a road, cold, glittering, metallic, and arid, which I did not much care to follow. I did not know myself. Perhaps I was afraid to discover myself. What might I learn, what might I find? I did know that I was a scion of a series of species bred for thousands of generations for a world quite different from the one in which I found myself, a world less populated, greener, more open, more perilous perhaps, and certainly more beautiful. And I knew, too, that there were men and women, and that each had been bred beside the other, for countless generations, each in the light of the other, and I suspected, from my thoughts, my needs, and dreams, that they were not identical, but that each sex, so radically dimorphic, had its own wonderful nature, each nature complementary to the other. What of relationships, so pervasive amongst mammals? Had such things not been selected for? Was nature so hard to read? Did the consequences of denying her lead to happiness, or fulfillment? It did not seem so.

But, still, I had been caught.

Books had been found in my room.

Mrs. Rawlinson had sternly summoned me, and Eve and Jane, before her. We were then alone, frightened, in the room with her. The room was not well lit. Her straight, menacing figure was outlined against the wide window behind her. I soon realized, from the books on her desk, that Eve and Jane, too, were familiar with such books. I wondered how many other women, and men, knew of such things.

Could it be that I was not alone, that I was not an isolated, shameful exception to the pompous glories of political orthodoxy?

How rare is courage!

How mighty is the shuffling, drifting, dull, pressing herd!

Eve, Jane, and I exchanged frightened glances.

Oddly, I wondered which of us might be found most beautiful on a Gorean slave block. Do not women wonder about such things?

And what of Nora, and my enemies in the house?

Would they be so different, barefoot in the sawdust, turned, exhibited, in the torchlight, being bid upon?

“Shame! Shame!” said Mrs. Rawlinson, pointing to the books on the desk before her, the window behind her.

“What have you to say for yourselves?” she asked.

There seemed little for us to say. I felt tears of shame course my cheeks. Eve and Jane, too, sobbed.

“I thought so,” she said. “Know that there is no place for such as you in this house. This is terrible, terrible! You are an insult to the house, to your sisters, to the national organization. You are finished here, disgraced. You will go to your rooms, pack your belongings, and leave the premises before nightfall.”

“No,” we wept. “Please, no!”

“Tomorrow morning I shall bring the matter to the attention of the house board, and your sisters, following which the evidence will be presented, and the vote taken, the outcome of which I do not doubt will be to publicly and officially expel you from the house, and, concomitantly, the national organization.”

“Forgive us!” begged Eve.

“We are sorry!” said Jane.

“For offenses less meaningful, less heinous, expulsion is in order,” she said.

“Is it truly so great a matter?” I wept.

“Quite,” she said. “You may now leave the room,” she said.

“Please, no!” we wept.

She pointed to the door and, shuddering, stumbling, numb, we turned about, unable to speak, unable to comprehend the dissolution of our reality, the sudden and catastrophic loss of our position and status, taken as given and unassailable but moments ago.

We had been everything, and now, in moments, we would be nothing, we would be despised and negligible, would be then no more than others, inferiors. The shame of this expulsion would be general knowledge, and certain of our sisters, I thought I knew which ones, Nora, and others, would see to it that the cause of our expulsion would be well publicized. Our continued presence at the school would be intolerable.

“What do you think you are,” asked Mrs. Rawlinson, “reading such things?”

We turned back to face her.

Something had been different about her voice. She suddenly seemed other than she had been.

“We are sorry, very sorry!” said Eve, hopefully.

“You are silly little bitches,” said the house mother. “I wonder what you are good for?”

This was not the tone of voice, nor the diction, to which we had become accustomed. Her carriage, oddly, now seemed slimily lithe, her voice younger.

She was new to the house, as of the beginning of the semester. I was suddenly less clear as to her age.

“Do you wish to be reported, and expelled?” she inquired.

“No,” we said. “No!”

“Remove your shoes,” she said.

We looked to one another, in consternation.

“I see you must vacate the premises,” she said.

We removed our shoes.

“Now,” she said, “kneel before me.”

“It is acceptable,” she said. “I am a free woman.”

I did not understand this, nor, I suspect, did Eve or Jane. Surely we were all free, all of us. Who was not free?

She came about the desk, and pointed to the rug, at her feet.

“Here,” she said.

Scarcely understanding what we were doing, almost numbly, we knelt before her.

It was the first time I had ever knelt before another person. I suddenly felt, overwhelmingly, the significance of this, placing oneself before another human being, in what was clearly a posture of submission. I was shaken. It was as though I had been struck a blow by nature. Was I in my place? Were Eve and Jane? I almost fainted, with understanding, and uncontrollable, suffusing emotion.

“So,” she said, “you think you know of the Gorean world?”

We looked up at her.

“Get your heads down, to the carpet,” she said, “and place the palms of your hands beside your head.”

We were thus kneeling before her in what I would later learn was the first position of obeisance.

“Now you are as you should be,” she said.

We trembled before her, but, too, it now seemed clear that we would not be required to leave the house, that no motion for expulsion would be brought to the floor in the morning, before the board, before our assembled sisters.

“You think you know something of the Gorean world,” she said, “but you know nothing.”

I suddenly realized that she before whom we knelt was not incognizant of the world of which she spoke.

I suddenly suspected that she, too, was a reader of this unusual literature, in which one encountered a different world, a natural world, one so far removed from the negativities and artificialities of our own.

I was very much aware of my forehead pressed to the carpet.

“What little sluts you are,” she said. “It is clear what you are good for, and the only thing you are good for.”

How dared she call us “sluts”?

Then, to our astonishment, she laughed.

“Girls will be girls,” she said.

A laugh escaped me, one of relief. It was a merry jest. But, somehow, we did not raise our heads.

“Look up,” she said.

We did so, but did not rise to our feet. We had not received permission to do so.

“What naughty young women you are,” she said, “to read such books,” indicating those on her desk.

We struggled to smile.

“Remain on your knees,” she snapped.

We did so.

“Surely you understand how inconsistent such things are with the certain dictates and dogmas of our culture,” she said, “with, say, certain principles and notions which are to be taken as beyond question or review, principles and notions which are to be accepted uncritically, mindlessly, without inquiry or investigation, because they have somehow come to exist, and understand, as well, how they might frighten some individuals, individuals of certain sorts. At the least they are not clearly in accord with various prescribed political proprieties.”

We nodded, but remained on our knees.

“Still,” she said, “I am prepared to be lenient.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rawlinson,” whispered Eve.

“Please,” I said.

“Please,” said Jane.

“Expulsion may not be necessary,” she said.

“No!” I said.

“I am not unaware,” she said, “of the stresses and pressures imposed upon young women, even proper young ladies, refined and well-bred, such as yourselves, by biology. Indeed, how could you escape them? What could you do other than pretend they do not exist? But such pretensions would be unavailing. They will have their way, in one way or another. They will frequent your thoughts; they will emerge in your dreams.”

We dared not respond.

How could Mrs. Rawlinson, a house mother in a sorority such as ours, dare call attention to such things?

“Do you know what such things tell you?” asked Mrs. Rawlinson.

“No,” said Eve, uncertainly.

“That you are females,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “And doubtless, in young men, stresses and pressures also exist, quite different from those which trouble you, which you strive to ignore or repudiate, but complementary to them. They, too, in this world, have their different whisperings, which they, too, are expected to strive to ignore or repudiate. But it is hard for them, as for you, to ignore the drums of nature, pounding in the blood.”

It struck me as strange that she had used the expression ‘in this world’? What other world could there be? Could there be another world, one in which one need not strive to ignore or repudiate what one truly was? Was it so wrong, to be true to one’s nature, whatever it might be?

Was nature so terrible?

Had it not preserved extant species for countless generations?

“Too,” she said, “you are young, intelligent, healthy, curious, and hormonally active. Too, perhaps you are not wholly happy, or at ease with yourselves. Perhaps you are miserable, bored, unsatisfied. Perhaps you are uneasy, and know not why. It is understandable, then, that you might wish to look into such things.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rawlinson,” said Eve.

Then she put her head down, quickly, frightened.

“Your interest in such matters,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “despite what you might think, is not unusual. Many thousands know of these things, here and abroad, in Europe and Asia, and elsewhere. To you, it seems it is a secret. But surely it is a strange “secret” which is unbeknownst shared by multitudes, each of its keepers perhaps unaware of the others. But, too, there are many places where the enemies of nature are less entrenched and powerful than here, places where it does not occur to men and women that obvious biotruths, such as the complementary nature of the sexes, are to be routinely suppressed.”

“We thank you for your understanding,” said Eve.

“Yes, thank you,” said Jane.

“So much!” I said, fervently, gratefully.

“Still,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “you are guilty. You have had in your possession literature quite improper for this house and the school.”

“Yes, Miss Rawlinson,” said Eve.

“Moreover,” she said, “you are not common, ordinary young women. You are very special young women, young women of high intelligence, education, refinement, wealth, taste, and breeding. Indeed, you are ladies, but not ladies in so exalted and powerful a sense that such as you would grovel and tremble in the very presence of such.”

I did not understand this.

“Rather,” she said, “you are ladies, here, young ladies, in a somewhat archaic sense of the term, a term associated with station, quality, and gentry.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rawlinson!” said Eve.

“And, as such,” she said, “in the possession of such literature, well aware of its political impropriety, you have behaved inexcusably.”

“Mrs. Rawlinson!” protested Jane.

“Stay on your knees, sluts,” she said.

“Sluts!” protested Jane.

She had called us this before.

“Who else would read such things?” she asked.

Eve burst into tears.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “‘sluts,’ all of you, and less than that, far less, if you but knew.”

I did not understand her.

I was afraid.

“You must be punished,” she said.

“No!” said Jane.

“No!” I said.

“I see,” said she, “that expulsion from the house is in order.”

“No!” we cried. “Please, no!”

It is difficult to convey my feelings, and, I suspect, the same might have been said for Eve and Jane. We were afraid, uncertain, and confused. In a moment we might be lost. In a sense, we were helpless. We were before the house mother, awaiting her pleasure and decision, on which our future might depend, and, as she would have it, unshod, and on our knees.

The thought came to me, unbidden, sudden, that I was where I belonged, on my knees.

“Be kind!” I begged.

“You will be punished,” she said, “all of you, and exquisitely, in a way which will be wholly appropriate to your fault, in a way which will both conceal you and reveal you.”

We understood nothing of this.

“I will see to it that you will pay for your indiscretion,” she said. “I will see to it that you will suffer for it. I will see to it that you will be profoundly and exquisitely humiliated, that you, all of you, will be openly and publicly shamed, excruciatingly so, deliciously so, and yet in such a way that only we, you and I, understand fully what is occurring.”

Eve, Jane, and I exchanged frightened glances.

“You are familiar to some extent with the Gorean world,” she said. “That is clear from the books found in your rooms. Therefore, it is only fitting that such things be considered in your punishment.”

“Mrs. Rawlinson?” stammered Eve.

“We shall arrange a party,” she said. “To some, perhaps more than you suspect, it will be clear that it is a Gorean party; to others it will be no more than a delightful, exquisite entertainment, a costume affair, with a Roman or Greek flavor, hosted by the house, to which selected members of particular fraternities will be invited.”

Such parties, and others, I knew, innocent and pleasant, but subtly, implicitly, and unmistakably stimulating, were not unknown on prestigious, sophisticated campuses

Needless to say, we were much relieved.

“The highest fraternities!” said Eve.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

These would be the fellows from whom even we hoped for attention, and dates.

Such a party, eagerly arranged and planned by our sisters, would be the talk of the campus, and the envy of other sororities, our rivals, which, I suspected, would soon address themselves to similar affairs.

“It will take some days to prepare,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “There is the question of a proper decor, an apt menu, and such. It will not be difficult to arrange music. Dancers, too, may be obtained.”

“Is this a punishment?” asked Eve.

“For you three, yes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“I do not understand,” I said. “May I rise to my feet?”

“No,” she said.

“There would be the matter of costumes?” said Jane.

“Quite right,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“How could one come by a proper wardrobe?” asked Jane.

“It would have to be improvised,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“Robes, and such,” said Eve.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“But the women would have to be veiled,” said Jane.

Mrs. Rawlinson regarded her.

“It must be unpleasant to drink through a veil,” said Jane.

“It shows crudeness, to be sure,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “but low-caste women, in public, commonly do so. But do not be concerned. Our party will be intimate, and private. In such circumstances high-caste women commonly dispense with veiling.”

“But they might enter, veiled?” said Jane.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “and, if they wish, they may eat and drink behind the veil.”

“I did not know that,” said Jane.

I did not know it, either.

“Much may be done with a veil,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “at the discretion of its owner, an adjustment, an inadvertence, a slight laxity, a glimpsed cherry lip, a sparkling eye, and the knife is turned about in the heart of some luckless fellow.”

“Delightful,” said Eve.

“How will we distribute the garments, the roles?” asked Jane.

“Would not everyone choose those of high caste, even those of Ubaras?” I asked.

“We will select the roles, and distribute them by lot,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“Very well,” said Jane. “That seems fair. It would not do to have thirty Ubaras in the house.”

“The lots, to some extent,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “will be rigged.”

“How is that?” asked Eve.

“I think that Nora will be our Ubara,” she said, “and certain of her friends the Ubara’s confidantes, or attendants.”

“Why is that?” asked Jane.

“My choice,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“Oh,” said Jane.

I was sure that Mrs. Rawlinson was very much aware of certain interpersonal relationships obtaining in the house. There was no secret about such things.

“I hope,” said Eve, “I will be of the Merchants. Their robes are yellow and white, or gold and white. I think I would look stunning in such robes.”

Eve had strikingly dark hair.

“I trust I will be of the Builders,” said Jane. “Their robes are yellow.”

“Their official caste robes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “Goreans do not always wear their caste’s colors.”

“I did not know that,” said Jane.

Mrs. Rawlinson looked at me. “And you?” she said. “Perhaps you would care for the robes of the Scribes?”

“No,” I said. “They are poor. I do not know why they are a high caste.”

“Perhaps then,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “the green of the Physicians. They are a high caste.”

“No,” I said. “They, too, are not rich enough. I gather their pleasure is in their healings, and not in their fees. They are too devoted to their work, to their research, serums, and medicines, and distributing the benefits of their administrations and learnings indiscriminately, denying such to no one.”

“That is in their caste codes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“They are fools,” I said. “People sometimes need their skills and knowledge, even desperately. That is when they could make others pay, and well.”

“Yet they seldom do so,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“To neglect such opportunities seems to me unwise, and scarcely comprehensible.”

“The caste has its traditions, and codes,” she said.

“Such practices, and refrainings,” I said, “seem an unlikely route to the prestige of a high caste.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“Where is their wealth, their power?”

“The personal physicians of Ubars do well,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“But the others?” I said.

“There are the traditions, the codes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“Wealth is power,” I said.

“Only if it can purchase steel,” she said.

“In any event,” I said, “I would like, like Eve, to be of the Merchants. Surely there could be more than one.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

I, too, had dark hair. I thought it would look well against white and yellow, or white and gold.

I had little doubt that the Merchants was the wealthiest caste. It seemed to me, then, that it should be the highest caste. Of what value, for example, was the Scarlet Caste, the caste of Warriors, if not to protect the gold, the wealth, of the Merchants?

“None of you,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “will be of high caste.”

“But,” said Eve, “if we are of low caste, of the Metal Workers, the Cloth Workers, the Workers in Wood, the Leather Workers, the Bakers, the Tarnsters, or such, we would have to be placed lower at the tables.”

“But,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “you will not be placed at the tables, at all. As mentioned, the lots will be arranged. It will seem that it was merely your fortune, a matter of chance, that the lots fell as they did.”

“No!” said Eve.

“Never!” said Jane.

“Certainly not!” I said.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “It will be your role to serve the feast. You will serve attentively, efficiently, and humbly. You will be alert to the needs of the guests, an empty plate, a glass in need of refilling. You will be swift to respond to summoning, of any sort, for example, to bring a laver of scented water to a place, that the guest may rinse his hands, or to lend your body, clothing, or hair, if a guest wishes, to wipe grease from his fingers. You will not speak unless you are spoken to. If spoken to, you will respond softly, with deference. Your head is to be lowered, unless you are ordered to raise it; you are not to meet the eyes of a guest, unless commanded to do so. You are to be self-effacing. You are prohibited from participating in the feast, in any way, either by eating or drinking, unless commanded by a guest. One may wish to feed you by hand, or cast scraps to the floor, which you are to retrieve on all fours, without the use of your hands. If a pan of water is set on the floor for you, you are to approach it on all fours, bow your head, and drink from it, humbly, as an animal. Each guest will be furnished with a switch, which he may use on you, if he is in any way dissatisfied with your service, or, if he wishes, for no reason at all.”

“Never!” said Eve.

“This is your punishment,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “There is still time for you to leave the house.”

Jane began to sob.

“The guests, and your sisters, will think this all a matter of the lots,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “Thus, in a sense, your fault, your punishment, will be concealed, and yet, in a way, its consequences will be well revealed.”

“You would have us be as kajirae?” said Jane, aghast.

“Slave girls-Gorean slave girls?” whispered Eve, scarcely daring to form the words.

“Precisely,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“But the fellows would not stand for such a thing,” said Eve. “They would object. They would rush to rescue us.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “I think they will see it as all in the spirit of good fun. Too, I suspect that most will be pleased to see you, or any number of other young women, so. Further, the young men will be informed that any attempt to interfere with matters will result in their immediate ejection. I think things will go splendidly.”

“How will we be clothed?” I asked.

“I have decided that,” she said.

“As I understand it,” I said, “kajirae are commonly clothed sedately, in long gowns, if with bared arms, at such feasts, that is, if free women should be present?”

One scarcely dared conjecture how they might serve, if free women were not present.

“Not always,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “particularly if the kajirae would be recent captures from an enemy city, or, say, enslaved rivals of the free women attending the feast, or such.”

“I gather,” I said, “that we are not then to be allowed the dignity of lengthy, concealing gowns.”

“No,” she said.

“You would dare have us appear in public in less?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“No, no!” said Jane.

“It is all in good fun,” she said.

“How then,” asked Eve, “are we to be clothed?”

“Obviously then,” I said, “in a garmenture appropriate to slaves.”

“Tunics, then,” said Jane, in misery, “tunics fit for slaves, slave tunics.”

“I am sure,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “that you would all look quite fetching in such tunics, slave tunics, particularly of the sort designed by men, by means of which the beasts boast of the lineaments of their properties.”

“I will never put such a thing on!” exclaimed Jane.

“Never!” said Eve.

“Never!” I said.

“We might perish of mortification!” said Jane.

“Scarcely so,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“Still!” I exclaimed.

The thought of myself in such a garment was shocking, insupportable, so exhibited, so displayed! How unthinkable, would be such a thing!

It would be as though I were a slave!

“I gather, from men,” she said, “that such things are extremely attractive.”

“They demean a woman,” said Jane.

“How can one demean a slave?” she asked.

“But you need have no fear,” she said. “I have no intention of putting you in slave tunics.”

We exchanged glances, of relief.

“You will not wear slave tunics,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rawlinson,” we said.

“No,” she said, “you will not be allowed such dignity. You will serve in camisks, all of you, in the common camisk.”

“Never!” we cried.

“Remain on your knees,” she said.

The camisk is a narrow rectangle of cloth, with an opening in the center. It is slipped over the head, and belted snugly, commonly with a double loop of thong or binding fiber, this fastened with a slip knot at the left hip, that it may be convenient to a right-handed man. The double loop provides enough thong or binding fiber to bind the occupant, helplessly, hand and foot. The slip knot at the waist of the camisk is similar to the disrobing loop at the left shoulder of some slave tunics, by means of which the garment may be conveniently removed, a simple tug loosening it, permitting it to fall gracefully about the ankles of its occupant.

“We will never wear such things,” said Eve.

“It seems expulsion is in order,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“No!” we wept.

“Would you prefer to serve naked?” she inquired.

“No, no!” we said.

“It is not unusual for a Gorean feast to be so served by kajirae,” she said.

I did not doubt that.

“Many men claim it improves the appetite,” she said.

“No, no,” whimpered Eve, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“I am told so,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.

“Relent, be kind,” pleaded Jane.

“But many,” she said, “prefer the tunic, or camisk. It gives them something to remove.”

“You would punish us so?” I wept.

“Your fault was grievous,” she said. “You may beg to be permitted a camisk.”

“I beg to be permitted a camisk,” said Eve.

“I beg to be permitted a camisk,” said Jane.

“I beg,” I said, “to be permitted a camisk.”

“It is all in good fun,” she said.

Jane, Eve, and I exchanged glances, of dismay, and misery. We would be almost nude, exhibited, as might be slaves, and the others would be fully clothed, veiled, robed, and such.

Clearly she had conceived a suitable punishment for such as we, a punishment fully appropriate, given our fault, having dared to read of a natural world.

“Your left ankles,” she said, “will be encircled several times with small, colored cords, on which bells will be threaded. Slaves are often belled. It stimulates the men.”

We looked at one another, miserable.

“Collars, too, would be appropriate,” she said. “One would not wish your necks to be naked. Common dog collars will do for you, particularly as you are bitches. But they will be locked on your neck. You will know yourself well in them. Small padlocks will do, to which I shall hold the key.”

Eve began to cry.

“I assume you will all know enough to kneel in the presence of free persons, save when you are serving, fetching, and such.”

I nodded, in misery.

And Nora, and her clique, and the others, would be such, free persons!

“You will all need a little coaching,” she said, “in posture, grace, and such, which I shall supply, but the important thing is that you should know yourself as slaves, that you should understand that, fully, in the deepest roots of you. Given that understanding, much will come quite naturally. Most of your serving, I assure you, will be quite proper, quite innocent. For example, in serving wine to a male you need only do so on your knees, your head down, extending the goblet, held in both hands, between your extended arms. You need have little fear that you will be expected to serve wine in the typical Gorean fashion, which is so stimulating to a male, and, I might observe, in passing, too, so helplessly and erotically stimulating to the slave as well. One would not wish you to be dragged to the kitchen by the hair, and enjoyed on the linoleum, would we?”

“No,” we whispered.

“But Mrs. Rawlinson,” said Eve, “if the boys see us thusly, how will they see us?”

“As lusciously desirable,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “but only as slaves.”

“What if we do not do well?” said Jane.

“I am sure you will do well, very well,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “And remember, the guests will be furnished with switches.”

We recalled this.

“It is unpleasant to be switched,” she said. “You will try to do your best, will you not?”

We looked to one another.

“Yes,” we said.

“And remember,” she said, “you are to address all free males as Master, and all free females as Mistress. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” we said.

“Yes, Mrs. Rawlinson,” she suggested.

“Yes, Mrs. Rawlinson,” we said.

Several days later, the party took place, and Eve, Jane, and I, half-naked, belled, and collared, served as kajirae. Our punishment, as Mrs. Rawlinson had suggested, was exquisite. As she had anticipated, we were well shamed, excruciatingly so. We knew we were being punished; the guests did not. I supposed I should have been grateful.

I learned, for the first time in my life, at that party, something of what it might be to be looked upon as a slave. I could not remove the collar, of course, unless I had recourse to tools. Accordingly, it was well on me. It was the first time, of course, that I had ever been in a locked collar. Interestingly, though I would have told no one at the time, I was erotically charged, even in my shame. Could I be, I wondered, a slut, or less? The bells, too, with their subtle rustle, marked the least of my movements. It was a strange feeling, to be belled. In some strange way that, too, aroused me. Did they not say, so to speak, ‘You are a slave, a belled slave’?

Eve, Jane, and I were, I suppose, quite popular at the party, at least with the young men. Many times, unnecessarily I was sure, we were summoned to serve one or another of them. I think this did not much please several of our sisters, also at the tables.

“Slave,” called Nora, in her sumptuous robes, as our Ubara, “to me!”

I hurried to her, and knelt before her, head down.

How pleased, I thought, must she, my enemy, be to have me so before her!

“My hands are greasy from the meat,” she said. “Come closer.”

Then, while she chatted with the young man beside her, she pulled me by the hair closer, and held me, painfully, my face down, at the table, and wiped her hands, carefully and firmly, in my hair.

Then, turning to me, as though she had just then noticed me, she said, “Get out!”

I withdrew to the side, kneeling.

My eyes were hot with tears. I kept my head down.

“To me,” she called again, later. “Stop!” she then said, when I was a few feet from her. I knew enough, from Mrs. Rawlinson, to kneel, immediately.

“You must be hungry,” she laughed.

We were hungry, for we were not permitted to participate in the feast. Too, on Mrs. Rawlinson’s instructions, we had been denied lunch, and, later, kept locked in a room behind the kitchen, until we had been brought forth, covered by a large sheet, and introduced into the common room, now arranged as a banquet hall. We had been knelt, and the sheet, swirling, lifted away, revealing us, camisked, collared, and belled. “Slaves!” had said Mrs. Rawlinson, in her own robes, with an expansive gesture, and there had been much laughter, and some gasps, for even our sisters had not been apprised of how we would appear, and, too, there was some hooting from the young men, and vulgar noises, and an appreciative, even enthusiastic, clapping of hands.

Then, at a sharp clapping of Mrs. Rawlinson’s hands, we leapt up and hurried to the kitchen, to bring forth the fare, the sweets, the candies, the nuts, the bowls of fruit, the herbs, the bread, flat, circular loaves of bread, which would be divided into eight wedges, the many covered dishes of boiled vegetables and hot meat, the vessels of wine, and such, and placed these on the serving table, from which place we began to serve the guests.

“Are you hungry?” inquired Nora.

I did not know what to do.

“You may speak, slave,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “-Mistress.” I had been informed by Mrs. Rawlinson that those in collars must tell the truth. How vulnerable this makes them. They are not free women.

She then took some scraps from her plate and cast them about, on the floor.

“Feed,” she said.

Burning with shame, but yet, too, eager for food, I crawled to the scraps and, head down, without my hands, fed. That was the first time I had fed thusly. Oddly, I was glad to feed, even grateful.

Could I be, I wondered, a slave?

And how significant this would have been, I thought, had the scraps been cast to the floor not by Nora, but by a man!

I was suddenly overcome, almost unable to move.

I was overwhelmed by a sudden, momentous sense of meaningfulness.

How meaningful suddenly seemed my posture, my garmenture, the bells on my ankle, the collar on my neck.

How small I seemed, how degraded and mocked, and how worthless, how helpless!

And my sense was not just one of meaningfulness, as profound as that sense might be, and as comprehensible as such a sense would be, given the circumstances, but, rather, startling me, and frightening me, one of fittingness, of propriety, of rightfulness!

Could it be that I, despite my antecedents and background, my upbringing, education, and indoctrination, was a slave?

Since puberty I had suspected that some women were slaves. Were not the blossoming subtleties of my body, and those of others, such that they had been carved out over countless generations by the lusts of men? Were we not delightful prizes, goods, like fruit and animals, to be seized and exploited? Had we not been selected to be delights to possessors? Had we not been selected to be roped and snared? Had we not been, in our way, bred for the auction block?

Yes, I thought, there must be rightful slaves, women who cannot be whole, cannot be fulfilled, who will never know true happiness except at the feet of men, owned, and mastered.

Could I be one such?

Never, never!

Surely not, surely not!

It went against everything I had been told, everything I had been taught.

Could it be that what I had been told was false, that what I had been taught was untrue?

Who was I?

What was I?

I sensed Nora walking about me, and was confident she had in her possession her switch.

In a moment I heard a pan placed on the floor near me.

I looked up, from all fours.

I felt the tip of her switch beneath my chin, and, responsive to its pressure, I lifted my head, and then, on all fours, my head up, guided by the switch, by its gentle pressure, first on one side of my face and then the other, I was moved about, faced to the left, and then to the right, and then, again, ahead, being exhibited to those at the low tables, the men cross-legged, the women kneeling, some guests lounging, bemused, on an elbow.

“She is a pretty thing, is she not?” said Nora.

There was a generous assent to this, particularly from the young men.

Our sorority was quite particular about such things. No one was accepted as a pledge, let alone initiated, who did not meet certain standards.

Our house was envied on campus, and, by some, held in contempt. Sometimes it was referred to as “the house of meaningless beauty,” sometimes as “the harem,” sometimes as “the slave market,” which, I supposed, was a reference to a girl’s judiciously selling herself, so to speak, to the highest bidder. One fellow had referred to it, jokingly, as “the pleasure garden.” I had gathered, then, that I might not be the only one about who might be familiar with certain forms of forbidden literature. But the expression, of course, is familiar, and well-known. I did not inquire into the matter, for I would have been frightened to meet a male who might be familiar with such things. I wondered, though, what it might be like to be within the walls of such a place, waiting for the bell, sounding my particular notes, that I must hasten to the room of preparation, to be prepared for the slave ring of my master.

“I think she looks nice in a collar, don’t you?” asked Nora. “I think she belongs in one, don’t you?”

I could not remove it. It was locked on me.

I saw Mrs. Rawlinson, in the background. She was smiling. I recalled that I was being punished, well punished.

I suspected that the sight of a woman in a collar was stimulating to men. I wondered if they knew that being in a collar had a similar effect on its occupant.

I had little doubt that orgasms were easily obtained from an obedient, yielding, helpless slave.

What choice had she?

None!

But did the men know how eagerly the slave sought the embrace of her master’s arms? One supposes so. Surely they must know the need, the passion, of the slave. How helpless is a woman once her slave fires have been ignited. Do the masters truly not understand the slave’s uneasiness, her whimpering, her sidelong glances, the bondage knot in her hair, her kneeling before him, the pathetic way she presses her lips to his feet, hoping to call herself to his attention?

Surely the strongest chain on a slave is her nature and her needs.

And I wondered, suddenly, what it would be to encounter a man so virile and strong, so powerful and lustful, that he would be satisfied with nothing less than my absolute possession, with nothing less than owning me, with nothing less than having me as his slave.

And what would it be, to be at the feet of such a man?

Could there be such man? Could there be such a place, such a world?

Nora’s questions were greeted with obvious agreement.

The switch drew my attention, and that of the guests, to the pan which had been placed near me.

It was a pan of water.

“Drink,” said Nora.

“Please, no,” I protested.

“Please no, what?” inquired Nora.

“Please, no, Mistress,” I said.

“Drink,” said Nora, sternly.

I put down my head, and, on all fours, not using my hands, drank.

I was drinking as a slave. How strange to be in such a posture, I, a free woman, performing such an act. What feelings coursed through my body, strange feelings, unaccountable feelings. I could not understand them. But of course I was being punished. I must remember that. That must be all it was, all it could be. But such feelings, so broadcast, weakening, and suffusive! Could it be, I wondered, that I was a slave.

I had had only a swallow or two when Nora’s slipper swept across the floor and upset the pan.

“Clumsy slave!” she said.

Then, suddenly, I felt a stinging rain of leather cracking on my back, and then I was rolling on the floor, crying, turning about, trying to fend the blows which fell upon me, and then I struggled to my knees, and put my head down to the floor, covering it with my hands. She struck some more blows, lashing blows, on my arms, and calves, and back, and then, perhaps weary, returned to her place.

“What a careless, clumsy slave,” she remarked.

I shook with sobs, and pain. I was not brave. Nora had conquered. She had defeated me, I was shattered, and subdued. She had won. I did not even think of myself as a free person. I felt myself to be something different, something helpless, meaningless, and unworthy. I was camisked, collared, and belled. I was only a punished slave. I knew then that I would strive to please her.

The leather had taught me my place.

She was mistress. I was slave.

I wondered if Eve and Jane, in their exposure, their humiliation, and degradation, in their punishment, had suffered as I had. I did not doubt it. How could it be otherwise? Neither had been switched as I had, but each, more than once, when deemed less than fully pleasing, had felt a sharp stroke, sometimes a merry stroke, across the back of her legs. Certainly, though excruciatingly sensitive to our exposure and shame, we all strove to play our roles well, for we were all constantly under the exacting scrutiny of Mrs. Rawlinson. She retained our confiscated books, and might, we knew, at any time, initiate the proceedings which we were desperate to avoid. But I wondered, too, if Eve and Jane, now and again, in their serving, in their awareness of how they were looked upon, doubtless as never before, in their sense of exposure, of vulnerability and helplessness, in their hope to be found pleasing, and their fear of failing to be found so, had had feelings analogous to mine, those unaccountable feelings which a woman might feel, if she sensed her legs within no more than a scrap of cloth, if she lightly touched her finger tips to her throat, and found a collar there, if she were to understand, in its full moment, that she did not belong to herself but to another, that she was a property, and no more, that she was owned, that she was slave. I wondered if Mrs. Rawlinson knew what she had done to us, what she had forced us to feel, what she had forced us to suspect about ourselves.

At last the party was over, and the guests departed, and our sisters, laughing and chatting, weary but excited, retired to their rooms. Eve, Jane, and I were permitted to remove our bells and were placed in maid’s gingham uniforms, and set to clear the tables, tidy the room, and attend to the dishes. It was only when the work was complete that we were aligned, and Mrs. Rawlinson, behind us, one by one, removed our collars.

“You may thank me,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rawlinson,” we said, and then fled, sobbing, to our rooms.

It was some days after the party that I had had the troubling dream to which I earlier alluded, that in which it seemed that men were in my room, that in which I had sensed myself meticulously examined, and then, as I struggled to awaken, to escape the dream, bound helplessly, my wrists and ankles widely separated, while the men conferred. When I awakened, whimpering and frightened, I had screamed. Then I had realized, to my relief, that I was safe in my own room. Strangely I was naked, having apparently somehow slipped from my nightgown in the night. For some time, I remained in the bed, frightened and troubled, even though it was now clear to me that I was in my own room. After a bit, however, my alarm seemed foolish to me, and I regarded the dream, for all its seeming reality, with amusement. It was then, a moment later, that I had cried out with horror, this the outburst which had brought Eve and Jane, and Mrs. Rawlinson, to the room. I had drawn the covers up about me. “A dream,” I said, “a dream!” Mrs. Rawlinson had been the last to leave the room, and she had smiled before leaving, smiled knowingly, as it seemed to me at a later time. The reason for my outburst was simple. There were cord marks on my wrists and ankles.