Conspirators of Gor

Chapter Fifty-Two

I cried out, in misery.

I was tied on my knees, my hands before me, fastened to the ring, in the small, bright courtyard, behind a house on Clive, that in which Desmond of Harfax had rented a room.

The lash fell again.

“Know that you are a slave,” said Desmond of Harfax.

Again the lash fell.

“Yes, Master,” I wept, “I know I am a slave! I am whipped! I am whipped! I am whipped as the slave I am! I am a slave, a slave!”

“And who whips you?” he asked.

“He who owns me!” I cried. “Desmond of Harfax!”

He then gave me another stroke.

“Yes, Master!” I wept. How deeply, and well, I then understood the word ‘Master’!

I was a slave, and he was my master.

He then left me with my thoughts, and the pain.

“Please whip me, Master,” I had said.

“Why?” he had asked.

“That I may know myself a slave,” I said, “and yours.”

“The whip hurts,” he said.

“No one is more aware of that than I,” I said.

“Why then would you be whipped?” he asked.

“That I may know myself a slave,” I had said, “and yours.”

“You will have no doubt about that,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I had said.

* * * *

After some Ehn he returned.

“Please do not whip me any more!” I said.

“You are content?” he said.

“Yes, yes!” I said.

“You do not wish to be whipped further?” he said.

“No, no, Master!” I wept.

“I see,” he said.

“Please do not whip me any more!” I begged.

“It hurts does it not?” he said.

“Yes, Master!” I said.

“But you are now,” he said, “well aware that you are a slave, and my slave.”

“Yes, Master!” I said. “It is done. No more, please! Do not whip me further! I beg it!”

“This is the whip,” he said, holding it before me.

I shuddered in the bonds. “I fear it,” I said, “the very sight of it.”

“You may kiss it,” he said.

I kissed the whip, fervently.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you will try to be a good slave.”

“I will strive to be a good slave,” I said.

“You have been whipped,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I wept.

“You must expect such things if you are not fully pleasing,” he said.

“I will strive to be fully pleasing!”

“Who will strive to be fully pleasing?” he asked.

“Allison will strive to be fully pleasing,” I said.

“Do you think you have been fully pleasing?” he asked.

“I fear not,” I said.

“As I recall,” he said, “you were long aware of my transparent machinations, my childish programs, and such?”

“Please forgive the foolish words of a foolish slave,” I said.

“And you secretly despised me all the while?” he said.

He then again put the whip to my lips, again I kissed it, fervently. “No, Master!” I said.

“More lingeringly,” he said. “And lick it, devotedly, as the pretty little slut and slave beast you are.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And if you came into my power,” he said, “you would strive to be the worst possible slave to me?”

“No, Master,” I said. “I would strive to be the best possible slave to you, a slave of slaves to you!”

“And there was much else,” he said. “Was I not to be petty, sly, crass, duplicitous, dishonorable, ignoble, a hypocrite, a fraud, a monster, and such?”

“I did not speak, Master,” I said. “It was my rage, my disappointment, my loneliness, my sense of loss, my thought of being unwanted, of being ignored and abandoned, such things which spoke.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “you should be again whipped, and richly whipped.”

“Please no, Master,” I said.

“You are afraid, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I am a slave,” I said. “I have felt the whip. I know what it is like. I shall do my best to be pleasing to my master.”

He then undid the flat, narrow leather straps which had bound my wrists to the ring.

I then turned about, gratefully, to kneel before him. It was my hope he might later permit me clothing. I would do my best to be worthy of a garment, be it only a slave strip.

He was looking upon me.

“Master?” I said.

“I find you of slave interest,” he said.

“A slave is pleased,” I said.

There were trees, and grass, in the small courtyard, and flowers, mostly talenders, and dinas, some veminium. A tiled walk wound its way through the vegetation. Flowering shrubbery was about. Here and there, there were small, concealed nooks in the garden. In one corner, there was a small reservoir, with a slatted wooden lid. The day was warm. A light wind rustled through the leaves overhead. The courtyard, like most Gorean courtyards, was rather small. It backed the domicile, which had four floors. At the rear of the courtyard was a small, opaque, wooden gate. Two of its walls were common walls with adjoining domiciles. The back wall was adjacent to an alley, access to which was provided by the rear gate.

I sensed I was being looked upon as one looks upon what I was, a slave. I did not object. We are not free women.

How warm, and pleasurable, it is to be looked upon as an object, one which is owned by a master.

We are not free women.

“May I speak?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Where has Master been, for so many weeks?” I asked.

“About,” he said, “even to Port Kar.”

“But Master did not forget a slave,” I said.

“Some slaves,” he said, “are hard to forget.”

“A slave is pleased,” I said.

“I should get rid of her,” he said. “I should sell her.”

“Please do not do so,” I said.

“There is something about you,” he said, “which is of interest to me.”

“Of slave interest,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“Doubtless a slave’s body,” I said. On Gor my body had been freshened, trimmed, toned, vitalized, and turned into an instrument for a man’s pleasure.

“It is more than that,” he said. “Such things may be purchased off any block.”

“What then?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “it is now in Master’s collar.” I was well aware that it is the whole slave which is owned, every strand of hair, every drop of blood, every fear, every hope, every tremor, every feeling, every thought.

“You are, of course, a barbarian,” he said.

“And I cannot even read,” I said.

“And you will be kept that way,” he said.

“As Master pleases,” I said.

I kept my knees closely together. It was in this fashion that I had been accustomed, over the past months, to kneel.

“Master did not forget me,” I said.

“No,” he said.

I was pleased to see that he was folding the five blades of the slave whip about the staff, which might easily accommodate a two-handed grip.

“I think Master cares for me,” I said.

“Do not be foolish,” he said.

“I understand that Master finds me of interest,” I said.

“Of slave interest,” he said.

“Perhaps a slave might be freed,” I suggested.

“I am not a fool,” he said.

There is a saying, of course, that only a fool frees a slave girl. I wonder if it is not true. What man truly, honestly, does not want a slave?

“Perhaps Master finds me of companion interest,” I said.

“You are a barbarian,” he said.

“Even so,” I said.

He walked about me, a bit, and then, again, stood before me. “You are nicely marked, and collared,” he said.

“Will you not free me?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I uneasily noted that he was slowly, thoughtfully, unwrapping the blades of the slave whip.

“Master?” I said.

I saw him shake loose the blades of the whip, and they dangled. I could see the shadow of the blades on the ground.

“But I may sell you,” he said.

“Please do not,” I said.

“Do you wish to be freed?” he asked.

“I have learned on Gor what I suspected on Earth,” I said. “I am a slave. I need a master.”

“Any man will do,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Any man will do. I am such as can be owned, and mastered. But every slave hopes for the master of her secret dreams, the master of her heart, he for whose collar her throat was bred for millennia.”

“And every master,” he said, “for she who was born to wear his collar.”

“A slave,” I said, “wants to be owned, to belong, to love, to serve, to be helpless, to be mastered, to be subject to discipline, to be dominated without qualification, concession, or compromise, to be treated as the female she is, to be overwhelmed, taught, controlled, and commanded. What woman wants to relate to a man by whom she is not so wanted, wanted with such force and power, with such demand and uncompromising will, with such desire, with such lust, that nothing less than her absolute possession will satisfy him? The master will be satisfied with nothing less than his slave, and the slave with nothing less than her master.”

“Do you expect me to be easy with you?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“You understand clearly, do you not,” he asked, “that you have been bought, that you have been purchased?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And for a normal price,” he said, “one which might typically take one such as you off the block?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you realize how you have tortured me these many months?” he asked.

“Perhaps I have been tortured, as well,” I said.

“Even before the Sul Market,” he said, “I saw you, and watched you, conjectured your lineaments beneath your tunic, considered the motion of your body as you walked, observed the carriage of your body, the attitude of your head, those of a trained slave, the nice encirclement of a band of metal on your neck.”

I was silent.

“I wanted you,” he said. “How could I sleep, how could I eat? But, oh yes, too, I knew of the monster. And I knew there were other such things. I had heard of sky vessels, not those of Priest-Kings. Masses of half-melted, disrupted metal had been found, though sometimes quickly buried or borne away. In the air, occasionally, were the hints of rumors. I learned of others, others also suspecting dangers, dangers undreamt of by most. Contacts were made. Should investigations not be initiated? Should some surveillance, of a type, where possible, not be attempted? Were such suspicions foolish? One does not suspect sleen and larls of intrigue and infamy. Was there peril here, at all? And, if so, of what dimension? And how might it be countered, if at all? So, discovering the strange pet, or guard, of the Lady Bina, a beast whose presence had been noted by several, one actually about in the streets of Ar, I sought to learn its nature, its plans and projects, if any, its relation to others, and such. I soon learned that it was rational, and could communicate in Gorean, by means of a translator. And later I learned it might, when it wished, dispense with the translator. Soon I discovered that the Lady Bina, who seemed somehow associated with the beast, owned a barbarian slave, the very one whose flanks and carriage had tormented me. I confronted them in the Sul Market, and knelt the slave, she then half-naked. I looked down upon her and knew that I must have her in my collar. I must make her mine! I must own her! But what was her relationship to the Lady Bina and the monster? Surely she was a shapely thrall, but what else? I feared she might be in some terrible danger.”

“Master was solicitous for the welfare of a slave?” I asked.

“Merely for the integrity and welfare of a pleasant set of curves,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

“Such have value,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

“They sell well,” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“But I thought it possible, as well,” he said, “that the shapely slut might be less innocent, not only that she might be implicated, but that she might be a cognizant villainess, a knowing part of some nefarious scheme. And for such things there are serious consequences, even for a slave.”

“Lord Grendel,” I said, “meant no harm to men, or the world.”

“I did not know that,” he said. “And I learned that he contemplated a mysterious trip to the Voltai.”

“On behalf of a blinded beast,” I said, “that he might succor him, and return him to his fellows.”

“More was involved in the Voltai,” said Desmond of Harfax.

“The blinded Kur knew that,” I said. “Lord Grendel, and the others, did not.”

“It was my intention,” he said, “to join, or somehow follow, this expedition, that I might keep it under surveillance. Accordingly, learning that it was being outfitted and organized by Astrinax, I petitioned service, as a Teamster.”

“You were accepted,” I said.

“It was not difficult,” he said. “Few in Ar were interested in hazarding the perils of the Voltai, particularly in the late summer or fall, and fewer yet when the nature of the expedition, its purpose, its destination, its length, and its time of return, seemed not only obscure, but secret. You may remember that the expedition was still short of guardsmen when it reached Venna.”

“Trachinos and Akesinos were placed in fee,” I said.

“Bandits,” he said, “whose intention was despoliation.”

“You were Teamster for the slave wagon,” I said.

“I permitted Astrinax to know that the curves of a slave were of interest to me,” he said. “He was accommodating.”

“I see,” I said.

“Your ankles,” he said, “which are attractively slender, looked well shackled to the central bar.”

“I was given into your charge by the Lady Bina,” I said.

“That was natural,” he said, “as I was driving the slave wagon.”

“It seems things worked out rather well for you,” I said.

“Quite,” he said. “I was well placed to monitor the expedition and, at the same time, to find myself in the vicinity of a particular slave.”

“Who was placed in your keeping,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“But you never put her to your pleasure,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Honor?” I said.

“Certainly,” he said, “I did not own her. Her keeping was mine, not her use.”

“But you came to understand, I trust,” I said, “that she was not some sort of traitress to a species or world, a cognizant conspirator, a cooperating, malevolent, unscrupulous villainess?”

“That sort of thing would have serious consequences,” he said, “for a free woman, one supposes impalement, and, for a slave, as she is a beast, presumably something like heavy chains and drawing ore carts in the mines.”

“I am pleased that you then understood her to be innocent,” I said.

“In any event,” he said, “I no longer feared that she might be knowingly implicated in some planetary felony, some broadcast treason, some subversive, global malefaction.”

“Good,” I said.

“I found her too simple, too petty, too shallow, too trivial, for such things,” he said. “She would lack the depth, the force, the power, for such calculations, such intrigues, and risks.”

“I see,” I said.

“She was only a meaningless, worthless little barbarian collar slut,” he said. “What conspirators would entrust matters of import to one such as she?”

“Indeed,” I said, annoyed.

“Only a self-centered, simple, shallow, naive little brute,” he said, “a trivial, selfish little beast, of inferior character, who would steal a candy from a sister slave, if it might be done with impunity.”

“You listened to Astrinax,” I said.

“He made clear to me what you were, in that pretty collar,” he said.

“I am different now,” I said.

“How I wanted to take you in my arms,” he said, “and teach you what it was to be a slave!”

“But you did not do so!” I said.

“Can you imagine the torture,” he said, “what it was to be with you, each day, day in and day out, Ahn by Ahn, so close, wanting to get my hands on you, wanting to seize you, and ravish you, again and again, to take your meaningless pettiness in hand, and make it cry out, and moan, and leap spasmodically, helplessly, in my arms, gasping, and begging for more, fearing only that I might, for my amusement, too soon desist in the depredations to which your body was subjected.”

“It was not only you who were tortured,” I said. “You speak of torment! What do you know of torment? What do you know of a woman’s slave fires, once men have kindled them, and forced them to burn? Can you imagine what it is to feel such things, not just in one’s belly, but throughout one’s helpless slave’s body? We cannot seize and command a master! We cannot exceed the length of our chains! We can only beg! And will men be kind to us, or not? It is up to them and not us, for we are slaves! Can you imagine what it was to be naked in a slave wagon, shackled within reach of you? Can you understand what it is to serve a master, to cook for him, to serve him food, to fetch and carry for him, and not be touched? Can you understand what it is for a woman to wear a man’s bonds, and not be exploited at his whim? Can you imagine what it is to be half stripped, and collared, only a slave, readied by an entire society for service and sex, and be ignored? Can you imagine what it is to be clad only in a tunic, or a camisk, as in the Cave, near one to whom you would beg to belong, and not be so much as touched?”

“It seems,” said he, “that we have tortured one another.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“If you are telling the truth,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“You do not think I trust you, do you?” he asked.

“It would be my hope that a Master might trust his slave,” I said. “Surely she would be punished, if found untrustworthy.”

“And severely,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He looked away, angrily. I could not see his face.

“Slaves are not free women,” he said. “Slaves are meaningless. Why should one care for them?”

“Men are sometimes fond of their possessions,” I said.

I knew that some men, while professing to despise their slaves, scoffing at the very thought that they might find them of interest, would risk their lives for them, even die for them. How precious then must be a mere collar slut, marketable goods, to some men! Who then is slave and who is master? It becomes clear, of course, when the whip is removed from its peg.

One might risk one’s life or die for a free woman because she is free, or because a Home Stone is shared, or because it is expected, or because it is thought to be a duty, or a matter of honor, but why might one risk one’s life for, or die for, a slave?

What could be the reason?

She is no more than her master’s beast. She strives selflessly to serve her master. She is submitted. She is worked. She is owned. She is under discipline. She is dominated, and as a slave is dominated. She strives to be found pleasing. She is needful. Well she knows the restlessness and agony of slave fires, imposed on her by men. She is ready on her chain. She knows herself no more than his meaningless, begging pleasure object. She is an eager and subservient passion beast.

How utterly different is the exalted, noble, proud free woman, suspicious and demanding, bargaining and calculating, insisting on her hundred rights, jealous of a thousand prerogatives!

How strange then that men would be willing to risk their lives, even die, for the slave, no more than a collared chattel.

“Why should a man care for you, not that one does?” he asked.

“I do not know,” I said.

He turned about, and I lowered my head, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Perhaps as an investment,” he said. “One might improve you, with chain training, whip training, slave dance, and such, and then sell you for a profit.”

“Perhaps, Master,” I said.

“You are poor stuff,” he said.

I looked up.

“Might I not now bring a good price on the block?” I asked.

“That would be easy enough to see,” he said.

“Please do not do so,” I said.

“Poor meaningless stuff,” he said, looking down upon me.

“You bought me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “I bought you.”

“I know you had the means to buy others, Master,” I said. “Why then did you not buy them?”

“Do you wish to be beaten?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“I do not know why,” he said. “The pens are filled with slaves, well worth collaring, and training to one’s taste.”

“Yet Master did not forget me,” I said.

“You are shoddy, inferior, meaningless merchandise.”

“Perhaps less so now than before,” I said.

“Speak,” he said.

“I remain unimportant, and meaningless, of course, as I am a slave, Master,” I said, “but I think I am different now from what I was, perhaps a little better, perhaps a bit more worth owning. Perhaps I am not now so shallow, so sly, so cunning, so petty, so selfish, so trivial, so worthless, as I once was. I have learned much in the collar. In the collar a slave is well taught. I want now to be worthy of my collar. It is a gift bestowed upon me by a man. I want now to be pleasing to my Master. I would hope to be worthy of wearing his collar, not only in service, devotion, and helpless passion, but in character. I desperately want him to approve of me. I will try to be a slave who is worthy of his ownership!”

“How clever you are,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Do you think I do not know you?” he asked. “From Ar, from the wagons, from the Voltai, from the small feast in the domicile of Epicrates?”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You are a lying little slut,” he said.

“No, Master!” I said.

I wondered how much this had to do with me, and how much it had to do with him. Was he fighting his own feelings? Might that be? Was he afraid of himself, and his feelings, standing before one who was no more than a kneeling, helpless, collared, branded animal? Did he now fear that he might care for a mere slave?

How absurd!

What had he to fear? The collar was on my neck, and his was the whip.

“I have waited a long time to own you,” he said.

“And have I not waited a long time to be owned?” I said.

I looked up at him, and was suddenly afraid.

How bright his eyes were, how tense his body!

Might not a starving larl so gaze upon a tethered tabuk doe, a hungry sleen upon a penned verr?

In the streets of Ar I had once seen a leashed slave being dragged running and stumbling, weeping, toward a domicile, but the master found himself unable to wait, and she was thrown to the paving stones of the street, there to be publicly and rudely ravished. I had turned aside, and hurried away, but had been stirred. I had heard, too, of purchases made off the block which were unable even to reach the holding rings or slave cages, but were enjoyed in the very aisles of the market.

I was afraid but stirred, too, as only a slave can be stirred, for she knows herself helpless and choiceless, that it will be done with her as masters will. She is without recourse.

Gorean men, I knew, had not been culturally reduced, societally diminished, confused, crippled, taught to mistrust themselves, to doubt themselves, to castigate themselves for the simplest and most natural feelings and desires, to misinterpret and fear them, not taught to betray themselves and their manhood. As well, for the purposes of the deficient, insane, or eccentric, might one be taught the wrongness of breathing, of eyesight, of the circulating of blood, the pumping of a living heart?

It had not occurred to Gorean men, I knew, to denounce manhood, no more than to proclaim it. They just lived it, as they were men. And without men, how could there be women?

How frightening it can be to be a slave, but, too, how can one feel more female?

I looked up at him, and was frightened.

How I sensed that I was seen!

“Master?” I said.

How he was looking upon me!

He did think me unworthy, still, I realized, a liar, a would-be thief, a deceitful, self-centered, manipulative, worthless, little hypocrite.

That was how he saw me!

Perhaps I had been such, more so on Earth than here, but I did not think I was such now.

“No, Master,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, Master.”

Of course, he was looking upon me as a purchasable chattel, for that is what I was, but, too, he seemed to see me now not as a mere chattel, but as a particularly worthless one, one suitably despised, yet one that he found, despite himself, and perhaps against his best judgment, one of interest, of slave interest, of keen slave interest.

I sensed he was angry with himself.

He was perhaps furious with himself, to find himself attracted to me. Did he despise himself for this? Could he not help himself? Was I, I wondered, as irresistible to him, as he was to me?

Could that be?

I was beneath his gaze.

I was naked before him, and kneeling.

I fear I trembled.

I knew myself desired, and not as a free woman might be desired, in all her lofty, precious, august dignity, encircled with customs, codes, traditions, conventions, proprieties, and rights, but as a slave is desired, with all the raw, uncompromising, unmitigated lust with which a slave is desired, a rightless animal whose obedience is to be instantaneous and unquestioning, who hopes to be pleasing, who hopes to serve the master, whose passion is to be unqualified and unrestrained, who exists, as a belonging, an owned female, to give him inordinate pleasures.

“You are a despicable, vain, pretentious, tormenting little she-sleen,” he said, “but, little she-sleen, your time of tormenting is now over.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You have played your games enough,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Get your knees apart,” he snarled.

“Master?” I said.

“Now,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Now,” he said, “that is the way you should be.”

Yes, I thought to myself, this is how I should be, and how I want to be. On Earth I had been a slave, not collared. I had been exploitative, selfish, shallow, petty, and nasty. Then, suitably enough, appropriately enough, I was brought to Gor and must wear the collar for which I was born.

“I am in the position of a slave, a pleasure slave,” I said, “before my Master.”

“You were trained as a pleasure slave, were you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said, “in the house of Tenalion, in Ar.”

“Stand,” he said, “face away from me, put your hands behind your back.”

I did so, and was braceleted.

He then took me by the hair, forced my head down to his hip and then, I in leading position, he drew me beside him deeper into the courtyard, and then, in a concealed place, on the thick, soft, flowing grass, so rich and deep, so living, threw me to his feet.

I looked up at him.

I jerked a little at the bracelets.

“Here, Master?” I said.

“I am tired of being tortured,” he said. “You may be worthless, but you are an interesting piece of meat, on which I intend to feast.”

Then he took me in his arms, and I felt ecstasy.

“Yes, yes, Master!” I cried out, a third time.

“Please free my hands!” I begged.

“No,” he said.

Later, my hands freed, I clung to him, under the moons of Gor. Later he let me creep to his thigh. Still later, he lifted me in his arms, almost as though I might be free, and he carried me into the domicile, and up to his room. There he lit a lamp, and chained me by an ankle, to the ring at the foot of his couch. I gathered I would be slept there, chained at his feet.

“Thank you, Master,” I wept.

In the collar I had found my fulfillment, my joy, and my redemption.

“Oh, please, Master, again,” I begged.

He then drew me to him, again.

“Surely I am not to be back-braceleted again?” I said.

Then my wrists were again braceleted behind my back.

“On the furs,” he said. “Kneel, get your head down!”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

His hands were then on me.

I jerked at the bracelets, but was helpless within them.

“Ohh,” I cried, softly. “Oh! Oh! Yes, Master, yes!”

“Master will not sell me, will he?” I said, frightened.

“How good are you?” he asked.

“Surely Master has formed some sense of my possible value,” I said.

“We shall see,” he said.

“Oh!” I cried.

“Are you suitably humbled?” he asked.

“I have been long humbled,” I said. “I was humbled as soon as I was collared. A slave is not permitted pride.”

“Still,” he said, “I occasionally felt you were a bit pretentious.”

“It is hard to be pretentious,” I said, “when one is muchly bared, in a slave tunic.”

“I occasionally thought you an arrogant little slut,” he said, “when you were in my keeping, you knowing that you would not be touched.”

“I was angry,” I said.

“You wanted to be touched,” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“You were a tempting little tasta,” he said.

“Perhaps I taunted you a little, a subtle movement, a way of turning, a glance over my shoulder, a smile.”

“I was well aware of such things,” he said.

“I hoped you would be,” I said.

“It is one thing for a free woman to do such things,” he said. “It is quite another for a slave.”

“I do not think so,” I said.

“A slave might be simply taken in hand,” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“You are seductive little brutes,” he said.

“We are slaves,” I said.

“Slaves want to be touched,” he said.

“Of course,” I said. “Oh!” I said, for I was touched, and as a slave might be touched.

How helpless we are!

“It is pleasant to touch you,” he said.

“I assure you,” I said, “I am now well touched.”

“It is a beginning,” he said.

“You will not sell me, will you?”

“Now that you have been reduced, shattered, and well used, again and again, and have cried out, piteously, for more, and more, again, and again,” he said, “it would be amusing to take you to the market, and rid myself of you.”

“It may be done with me,” I said, “as Master pleases, for I am a slave.”

“What would you like?” he asked.

“Keep me in your collar,” I begged. “I have been yours, even from the Sul Market!”

“Do you think you might be a good slave?” he asked.

“I will try my best, Master!” I said.

“Very well,” he said. “Please me, and as the slave you are.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, gratefully.

“On your world,” he said, “I would suppose you were literate.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And you had station and resources, were refined, and educated, might come and go as you pleased, muchly had your way, were elegantly clothed and shod, and such?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And here you are a naked slave,” he said.

“It is my hope,” I said, “that my Master, if I prove sufficiently pleasing, may grant me a garment.”

“A rag, or such,” he said, “provided, of course, that you are fully pleasing.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I had sensed, on Earth, that I should be the slave of men such as those of Gor, but I had not anticipated my transposition to Gor, and my marketing.

“Here,” he said, “you are illiterate.”

“I cannot even read my collar,” I said.

“You do not need to read it,” he said, “as long as you know what it says.”

“May I ask what it says?” I asked.

“It says,” he said, “‘I belong to Desmond of Harfax.’“

“I hope to please him,” I said.

It is a common way, amongst slave girls, when inquiring another girl’s master, to ask, “Who whips you?” I would then answer, “Desmond of Harfax,” or “My master is Desmond of Harfax.” To be sure, the girl may never have felt the whip, at all. If a girl is pleasing she would be seldom, if ever, whipped. And, naturally, we try our best to be pleasing and hope to be found pleasing. It is in our best interest to be found pleasing. We are not free women. We are slaves. To be sure, whereas one may surely hope to be found pleasing because one fears the whip, I think it is common, particularly after one has been in a master’s collar for a time, to hope to be found pleasing because one wishes to be found pleasing, and not for fear of the whip, but for another reason, one perhaps best concealed from the master.

“We are soon to Harfax,” he said.

“I do not even know the caste of my Master,” I said.

“It is what I wish it to be,” he said, “a Metal Worker, a Forester, a Poet, or Singer, a Cloth Worker, a Peasant, a Scribe, such things.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“It is sometimes convenient to be of one caste, sometimes of another.”

“It is a disguise,” I said.

“Of course,” he said. “In some ventures, in some pursuits, it is well to blend in, to attract less attention.”

“But Master must have a caste,” I said.

“My robes,” he said, “were I to wear them, would be white and gold.”

“They would indeed stand out,” I said.

“As you might suppose,” he said, “in Merchantry, particularly in high Merchantry, one may become aware of many things. One becomes familiar with routes and cities, with goods and markets, with customs and politics, with fears and rumors. One hears much, one sees much, one learns much. I have dealt with men from Torvaldsland, from Bazi, Schendi, and Turia. It became reasonably clear, in Merchant councils, met at the fairs, that scattered, unusual purchases were being made, and that caravans were occasionally being embarked for obscure destinations, which would seem outside familiar markets. Some feared the prerogatives of our caste were being eroded, others that sources of gain were being ignored, or concealed from the caste, others that mysterious doings were afoot which might warrant some investigation. I had learned of mysterious ships, and had come to know of the existence of a Kur presence on our world. Uneasy, I feared subversion, and alien intrigue. I ventured to Ar, which I thought likely to be the center of such things, if they existed. In Ar, rather inadvertently, in a tavern, from a man named Petranos, I learned of the Lady Bina and Grendel.”

“Master frequents taverns?” I said.

“Perhaps I will sell you to one,” he said.

“Please do not do so,” I said.

“I thought it advisable to look into the matter,” he said. “Meanwhile I had discerned a troublesomely attractive slave girl, who, absurdly enough, was a woman’s slave. Clearly she should have been a man’s slave.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, snuggling closer to him.

“Much of the rest,” he said, “you know.”

“Master has made contacts,” I said. “Master has been as far as Port Kar. A slave conjectures that what was learned in the Voltai has been communicated to others and may be acted upon by many who are concerned with such things.”

“That is my understanding,” he said.

“The matters of kaissa sheets, of plans, of subversion, have been made known,” I said.

“I, and others, have done what we can,” he said. “I think that, by now, the councils of a hundred cities have at least been contacted. To be sure, I suspect that the faction-ridden councils of most will ignore the matter, regarding it as ludicrous, dismissing it as the unimportant, irrelevant product of farce, hoax, or hysteria, perhaps, at best, as unwarranted alarms broadcast by madmen.”

“Master has done what he can,” I said.

“As of now,” he said. “Meanwhile, my affairs have been long neglected.”

“Master will to Harfax?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “In the guise of a wainwright.”

“That is one who builds wagons, or tends to them,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Few then will suspect that he carries riches with him from the Voltai.”

“I will buy a wagon, a tharlarion, and join a caravan,” he said.

“Is Harfax beautiful?” I asked.

“I find it so,” he said.

“I shall look forward to seeing it,” I said.

“You will first see it,” he said, “afoot, chained to the back of my wagon.”

“I am to be chained to the back of a wagon?” I said.

“Do you object?” he said.

“No, Master,” I said. I had no wish to be beaten.

“Harfax is beautiful?” I said.

“I think so,” he said.

“I suppose there are slaves there,” I said.

“Of course,” he said. “Harfax is noted for the beauty of its slaves.”

“I am jealous,” I said.

“There will be many beautiful slaves,” he said. “Many will be for sale.”

“Keep me, Master,” I begged.

“See that you are worth keeping,” he said.

“I will do my best,” I said.

“Before we leave,” he said, “we will visit Grendel and the Lady Bina, and Astrinax, and Lykos, and perhaps some slaves.”

“I would very much hope to do so,” I said.

“A small feast, or two,” he said, “would be in order.”

“There is a private dining room in the restaurant of Menon,” I said.

“Excellent,” he said, “but I am thinking, too, of the garden behind the house.”

“Master has pleasant memories of the garden?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“A slave is pleased,” I said.

My master had taken much pleasure from his slave in the garden. Her feelings were unimportant, but how could she forget the grass, the smell of flowers, the wind in the leaves overhead, the strength of his arms, her helplessness, his hands, his touch, his lips, his caresses, his tongue, forcing her to endure a hundred intimacies, some anticipated, some unexpected, some imperious, some beautifully subtle. Often must her mouth be covered lest her cries, those of an uncompromisingly ravished, exploited chattel, annoy the neighborhood.

“We might set up a table, and sit on mats,” he said.

“But not in a certain place,” I said.

“No,” he smiled, “not in a certain place.”

That place, I gathered, quiet and secluded, with its soft grass and flowers, might be a private place, a very private place, one reserved for a master’s different feasting.

“The Lady Bina may wish to entertain again,” I said.

“I suspect so,” he said. “But eventually we must to Harfax.”

“When?” I asked.

“In a few days,” he said.

“I am naked and shackled,” I said. “I am at Master’s mercy.”

“So?” he said.

“Is it not time for shackle check?” I asked.

“She-sleen,” he smiled.

“Master?” I said.

He knelt beside me, and put his hand about my left ankle, and examined the enclosing shackle. My ankle was well grasped. I moved a little. I trembled, a little, from the closeness of my master. He then jerked the chain against the shackle ring, and then against the slave ring, set in the couch.

He then stood up, and I put out my hand to him.

“The slave is secured,” he said.

“Master!” I said.

“What?” he asked.

I put my head down. “Nothing,” I said.

He turned away.

“Master,” I said, frightened.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

I looked up.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I begin to sense,” I said, “what it might be, to be denied.”

“Just now?” he asked.

“Earlier, too, sometimes,” I said, “amongst the wagons, in camps, in the Voltai, in the Cave.”

“More so, now?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You had subsided,” he said. “Now things are beginning, again.”

“Did you do this to me?” I asked.

“Not I alone,” he said. “You have felt such things before.”

“Yes,” I said, uncertainly.

“It is common,” he said. “Sometimes it begins as early as the block, your bare feet in the sawdust, the men bidding on you, you knowing that you are being sold, sometimes from as early as your first enclosure in a slave cage, you kneeling there, looking out, grasping the bars, sometimes with your stripping and the locking of the collar on your neck. Even on your old world you must have felt such things.”

“Restlessness, desire, curiosity, a helplessness one attempted to dismiss,” I said.

“But here it is different,” he said.

“Here I am a slave,” I whispered.

“You are aware of your vulnerability, of what is expected of you, of how you may now be, and must now be, what you have always wanted to be,” he said.

“I am afraid,” I said.

“Surely you have felt the restlessness, the agitation, the discomfort, the uneasiness of a female slave before,” he said.

“It makes me helpless,” I said.

“I expect your slave fires began to burn as long ago as the house of Tenalion,” he said.

“One cannot help such things,” I said.

“Nor should you,” he said.

“One must try to suppress them, to deny and crush them,” I said.

“You are no longer on Earth,” he said.

“One must try!” I wept.

“You are on Gor,” he said. “It is not permitted.”

“One must try!” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I must crush them!”

“You will not be able to do so.”

“Surely you will be understanding with me, and kind to me,” I said.

“No,” he said, “and neither will any other master.”

How pleased I was to hear this, that I would have no choice but to be, and choicelessly so, as I wanted to be, a vulnerable slave, at my master’s mercy.

“I think what you may not fully understand,” he said, “is, as I suggested earlier, that more is involved here than permissions, commands, and such. Once things have begun, as I think they have with you, they will take their course, as much as hunger or thirst.”

“One cannot die of such deprivation,” I said.

“Happily not,” he said, “or, as I gather, the population of females on your former world would be considerably diminished.”

I did not respond to this. I did know that many, if not most, women of my former world lived in a sexual desert. How astonished then were some for the discovery, on Gor, of true men, at whose feet, stripped and collared, they might gratefully kneel.

“They can, of course,” he said, “be miserable, know agony, suffer recurrent, excruciating discomfort.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. Often enough I had heard of deprived slaves, being readied for sale, moaning, and scratching at the walls of their kennels. I had heard, often enough, too, of beautiful slaves crawling to the feet of hated masters, begging piteously for the relief of a caress.

“Sooner or later,” he said, “slave fires begin to burn in the bellies of slaves. Then, over time, they become more frequent, and more intense. They will rage within you, and enwrap you, belly and body, in their enveloping, insistent flames.”

“Men are cruel,” I said.

“They are men,” he said.

“Masters!” I said.

“And women?” he asked.

“Slaves!” I said, angrily.

“I doubt that you are, at present, aware of this,” he said, “but the strongest bond on a female slave is not fiber, leather, cord, or iron. It is her slave needs.”

“Men have made her so!” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“But I would not,” I whispered, “have it otherwise.”

“It will not be otherwise,” he said.

“No wonder free women hate us so!” I said.

“They know women belong to men,” he said, “and in the slave it is manifest, for there before them is a woman who belongs to men.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Too,” he said, “they are furious that the slave’s beauty is public, as they secretly wish was theirs, and that men, when they want pleasure, rather than station, opportunity, advancement, position, prestige, and such, seek out not them, but the slave. They resent it, too, that the slave’s sexual needs are deep, profound, and blatant, and that she satisfies them. Too, they suspect the slave’s erotic ecstasies, afflicting her entire mind and body, the glow imbuing her entire yielded, subdued existence, the profundity of the submitted female’s succession of uncontrollable orgasms, the raptures of a begging, thrashing chattel’s responses, the daily joy, in large things and small, she knows in a master’s collar.”

“Master,” I whispered.

“Yes?” he said.

“Take me,” I begged.

“Your slave fires have begun to burn, have they not?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said.

“You have begun to sense what might be done with you, what you might become?” he said.

“Yes!” I said.

“Perhaps I should deny you,” he said.

“Please do not deny me, Master,” I said. “Be merciful, Master!”

“Do you, a former woman of Earth,” he said, “beg for sex?”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “I beg for sex. I beg for sex!”

“As a slave begs for sex?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “I beg for sex. I beg for sex, as a slave begs for sex!”

“Very well,” he said.

“Master, Master!” I sobbed, joyfully, gratefully.