Conspirators of Gor

Chapter Seven

The cages, of heavy, cable-like woven wire, are made for tarsks, not kajirae. One cannot stand in them. They are long, narrow, and low. Thus, more than one can be placed on a sideless, flat-bedded wagon, roped in place. Too, like the common slave cages designed for kajirae, they may be stacked.

I hooked my fingers in the wire, and looked out, frightened, from my knees. The Tarsk Market has its name, obviously enough, I suppose, because it is a general market for tarsks. Certainly the smell of tarsk was all about. And there was little doubt, from the condition of the cage, that the previous occupants of the cage had been tarsks.

Needless to say, it is only low slaves who are vended from such a market.

I lay down in the cage, on my right side, in the straw, facing the back wall of the warehouse.

How vulnerable we were, as slaves!

But, had we been free women I did not doubt but what we would have been abandoned, left in the house, to perish in the flames.

The marks on our thighs, our collars, had saved us. We had been saved, but only as animals.

It is often safer to be a slave than a free person. Who, for example, would bother slaying a tarsk, or a kaiila?

Instead, one would herd them, or rope them. One would appropriate them.

It is for such a reason that free women, trapped in a burning city, a fallen city, being sacked, will not unoften steal collars from their girls, and fasten them on their own necks, hoping to be taken for slaves, to be spared as slaves.

I had recognized two of the soldiers, and the officer. They had been patrons of the house.

They had lost heavily.

Of course we were guilty! Did we not know of the manipulation of the tables’ spins, of the dishonest stones, the fraudulent dice, the ostraka which, to the informed eye, could be read?

Did we not invite in the patrons, at the door, with our smiles, the glances over our shoulders, our fingers lightly touching our brands beneath the cloth, not silk, but rep cloth, for ours was a shabby den for its purposes. We served as the slaves we were in the wide, low-ceilinged, ill-lit interior of the outer room. We would bring the gamesters paga and ka-la-na, and platters of meat and bread, and cakes and sweets, to keep them at the tables. We pretended zestful enthusiasm for their playing, as if it might be our own. How we rubbed against them, so inadvertently, laughed, joked, touched their arms, and hands, applauded their boldness, pretended dismay at a loss, pretended chagrin and sorrow when they made to leave the tables. Rather they should choose and again match ostraka, hazard another turn of the wheel, another placement of the stones, another roll of the dice! We must serve our paga and ka-la-na modestly, of course, for the men must be kept at the games. Indeed, we served it in the manner that Eve, Jane, and I had been instructed by Mrs. Rawlinson to serve beverages at the party, kneeling, our head down, extending the goblet, held in both hands, between our extended arms. I suspected that Mrs. Rawlinson, at the party, had been amused, seeing us so. This posture and attitude, I suspected, was not unknown to her. Perhaps she, watching, envisioned us so serving at another time, in another locale. But even so, would not anyone seeing us so have found the behavior interesting and not without meaning? Did it not seem clear, the sort of female who must serve so? But even so, our service must be modest. We must not so excite the men, that they might be distracted. We were not paga slaves who, if too frequently spurned, may expect their master’s whip after closing. But more than once I had felt Tela’s switch, and had been driven from the outer room, to the holding area, weeping and shamed, while the men laughed, to be chained, supperless, to the ring by my mat. I could not help myself. I was now other than I had been on Earth. Men had seen to that.

How the fellow who had accompanied me in the van would have been amused, to see his prisoner, the vain, aristocratic young lady, indeed, the debutant, afflicted by need, slave need!

As the reader, if reader there may be, may have gathered, I had been much troubled on Earth, not knowing who I might be, or what might be my nature. I had been alarmed by casual thoughts, sometimes stealing upon me when I was unprepared to resist them, certain frequently recurring daydreams, and surely the strange, wild, unaccountable realities revealed to me in the astonishments of my troubled slumber. It was at such times, that I found it difficult, despite my upbringing, my education, and background, to see myself, and feel myself, as I had learned I should see myself, and feel myself. Who were others, to tell me who I was? How was this a freedom, to be told how to be? How strangely false and unsatisfying seemed the culture to which I was expected to conform, and that which I was expected to perpetuate! Was I truly an artifact, a meaningless, unhappy puppet of a dismal world, responsive to strings I had neither designed nor requested? Perhaps humanity, in its flight from nature, into its thousands of ideologies, superstitions, and pretenses, had unknowingly betrayed itself, building up about itself, brick by subtle brick, its invisible prison, satisfying only those who might profit by its exploitation. But perhaps, too, there are no prisons, other than those we ourselves make, or will accept. It would be interesting if the walls we most fear, within which we feel ourselves the most constrained, within which we most lament, do not exist. In any event, I knew that I carried in my body, as other human beings, a history and a heritage extending back to the first blind, reproducing forms of life, ages prior to the complex marvels of the unicellular organism. To such an organism could biology be irrelevant? Surely templates must exist in the human organism, as in other forms of life, perhaps subtler and vaster, but just as real. Could my behavior, my promptings, what would satisfy me, what I would need, be wholly independent of my form of life, be unique amongst all living forms, merely accidents and oddities imposed upon me from the outside, beginning with the first flash of light, the first breath, the sobbing birth cry of a small, bloody animal? That did not seem likely. The cultures which denied men and women to themselves, for their own purposes, in their own interests, inertial, self-perpetuating structures, productive of misery and alienation, were inventions of recent date, the mere tick of a clock, marking a moment in millenniums. If there was a human nature, had it been fabricated, truly, so recently? Might it not have been formed in other times and other places, a consequence of other conditions, as an entailment of alternative realities? Might we have been formed for one world and precipitated into another, a quite different world, an alien world, one in which our form of life finds itself homeless, finds itself in exile?

I saw no need for civilization and nature to be incompatible, to be enemies.

Might not a civilization be possible in which nature was recognized, refined, enhanced, and celebrated? In such a civilization surely there would be a place not simply for seasons and tides, for surf and wind, but for men and women, as well.

I had not been long on Gor before I was brought naked and back-braceleted into a round chamber. Its diameter may have been ten feet, or so. It was a plain room. The ceiling was domed, perhaps fifteen feet above my head. The walls were bare, but penetrated by two small, barred windows, some feet over my head, through which light fell dimly. The flooring was of large flat stones, as in my cell. The guard then turned about and left me there. The door was closed behind him, and I heard the bolt put into place.

I saw no one, but I was sure I was seen.

I lifted my head. “I am a free woman!” I said. “Return me to Earth!”

My declaration received no response.

I do not know how long I remained in the room.

The guard eventually returned, and, holding me by the left upper arm, conducted me back to my cell.

We stood without.

The bracelets were removed.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

I was bent down, his hand in my hair, and I was thrust within the cell, and the door was closed, and locked.

I no longer wore chains within the cell, but I was left, as before, in darkness.

I felt about in the darkness, hoping to find food. There was a depression in the floor, which contained some water. Obviously I could not lift it, and, after trying to cup water in my hands, with little success, given the shallowness of the depression, I bent down, and lapped at it. I felt about and located the food pan, which contained some porridge-like material, and a thick crust of bread.

How could they treat me in this fashion? Did they not know who I was? Did they think me some waitress, some clerk, or secretary?

I would soon learn they thought me a thousand times less.

I cried out, in anger.

“I am a free woman! Let me go! Release me! Free me! Give me clothing! Give me decent food! Return me to Earth!”

My voice rang against the stones, in the small space. But I received no response to my cries.

I determined that I would show them what a woman of Earth could be, and a woman of my background, of my class, of my position, of my intelligence, and education. I would resist them.

Though I had often sensed myself a slave, and a rightful slave, I must now permit no countenance to such thoughts, to such suspicions, to such secret fears. I am a free woman, I told myself, over and over again. I am a free woman. I am a free woman. I am not a slave. I am a free woman!

I must be a free woman, I sobbed. I must be a free woman!

But what, I wondered, if I were not? What if I were a slave? What if I should be, as I had often feared, a slave, a rightful slave?

From time to time, in the darkness, I felt the white ribbon which had been twice knotted about my neck in the sorority house. Now it seemed grimy, and damp, from the cell. But it was still there.

The rounded, steel anklet which had been snapped about my left ankle in the house was gone when I awakened on Gor. I gathered that it had served its purpose, whatever that purpose might be.

I held to the ribbon.

What if I should be a slave, I asked myself, a slave?

The next day I was introduced again into the rounded chamber, similarly unclothed, my wrists, as before, braceleted behind my back.

The guard told me to kneel in the center of the room, and put my head to the floor.

As he left, I remained standing.

What free woman, I asked myself, as I was, would do such a thing?

When he returned I shrugged my shoulders, and lifted my head, proudly. I would show them what a woman of Earth could be, particularly one of my refinement, intelligence, education, and class, and a member of my sorority. And thus I was returned to my cell.

The next morning I was routinely branded, and then returned to the cell. I could not believe the casualness with which I had been marked. I might have been any domestic animal! A moment after the iron had marked me, and I was screaming in disbelief and pain, a scarf was placed over my eyes, and I could not even see the mark, which now made me, I sensed, somehow, radically and irremediably different than I had been.

I would learn later that I wore in my thigh, small, but clear, imprinted there, the cursive kef. I would learn, too, it is a common brand, marking common slaves.

Following my marking, still blindfolded, my thigh burning, I was returned to my cell, but now, by means of a belly chain and bracelets, my wrists were fastened behind me, closely, at the small of my back. Thus, I could not reach the brand. Another chain, something like a yard in length, run from the belly chain, held me to the wall behind me. My feet were then joined, pulled forward, and chained to another ring. A consequence of this chaining was that I could not much move from my place. I could lift my knees, draw back a bit, and sit up. I could also lie on my left or right side.

As I could not reach the water, or feed myself, I was tended by a young, tunicked woman. In the light, small as it was, that came through the opened door, I caught the glint of light on metal. Something was on her neck. Then I realized the woman was collared!

“Have mercy on me,” I whispered to her. “You must understand my plight. Be kind! You are a female, as I!”

She placed her fingers lightly across my mouth.

Then she held a pan with water to my lips, and I drank.

“Do you speak English?” I begged.

I hoped, of course, that anyone sent to tend me might be familiar with my language.

A thick wedge of dried bread was thrust to my lips, and then forced into my mouth. It gagged me as effectively as leather or cloth.

“You were displeasing,” she whispered to me, frightened. “You did not kneel as requested. Fortunately this fault was committed before you were marked. I advise you not to be so foolish in the future. You have been marked.”

I tried to speak, as I was desperate to do, but could not do so, for the bread. Then she was gone, and the door locked.

The next day I was again conducted to the round chamber, as before, stripped, back-braceleted.

How had they known I had not knelt as requested?

Clearly, as I had suspected, they must be able to see into the chamber.

Before the guard left me in the room, I was again instructed to kneel in the center of the room, my head the floor.

The heavy door closed. It was bolted.

As far as I could tell, I was alone, and yet, as before, I sensed I might somehow be under surveillance.

I was afraid. My knees felt weak. I was afraid I might fall. I pulled against the bracelets. I looked about, searching for tiny cracks, or openings. There might be any number of such, undetectable from where I stood. I might be seen, and as I was, stripped and braceleted, from a thousand places. I felt the stones beneath my bare feet, was conscious of a tiny movement of air on my body.

How alive, I thought, must be the body of a slave!

How alive to small things, a breath of air, a scent, subtle, scarcely noticed, the texture of a bit of cloth on her body, the feeling of a carpet or tiles beneath her bared feet, a rustle of chain in an outer room, are they coming for her, the weight of a manacle on her small wrist, the solid, cold feeling of bars clutched in fear.

And what, if she were bound and blindfolded, the touch of a master?

I wanted to throw myself to my knees and put my head down to the stones.

I felt a desperate desire to prostrate myself before the unseen others, if they were there.

It seemed every muscle and nerve in my body cried out to me to kneel, to place myself in a posture of submission.

It seemed to me that I belonged in such a posture.

“It is what you are,” something seemed to say to me. “Be what you are! Do not fight what you are! Do you not know, Miss Allison Ashton-Baker, for all your pretensions, you are a slave. You belong on your knees!”

No, no, I thought.

“Do not be afraid,” something seemed to say to me. “Acknowledge your reality! It is not wrong to be what you truly are. Only then will you know yourself whole, and, enslaved, most free.”

No, I cried out, to myself.

“Do you really think you will be given a choice?” asked the small, insistent, internal voice.

I am a free woman, I said to myself.

“You know you belong on your knees before men,” said the secret voice. “You have wanted to kneel before them, and submit yourself to them, as a slave, for years, since the first hopeful budding of your body.”

Certainly not, I said to myself.

“Have you not dreamed of masters?” asked the voice.

Do not torment me, I said to myself.

“You wish the men, then, to see to it?” asked the voice.

I do not understand, I wept to myself.

“Perhaps they will help you,” suggested the voice.

I do not understand, I said to myself.

“Apparently you wish for them to do so,” said the voice.

I sensed myself on a threshold, tottering on a brink, between conditions and realities, between what I was and what, for years, I had been told I should be, what, for years, I had pretended to be.

Then I straightened my body, and threw back my head, proudly. “I am a free woman!” I cried. “I am a free woman!”

Almost at the same time, the voice which had so tormented me, that small, insistent, inward voice, somehow within me, again spoke. “Foolish slave,” it said, “do you not know slaves are not permitted to lie?”

I remembered reading, in the confiscated books, that there were penalties for such failures and faults in a slave.

Then I looked about, in terror.

I remembered that I had been marked.

Had I been less than fully pleasing?

I feared so.

Hopefully no one had heard me, hopefully no one would know!

Scarcely had my cry ceased to ring within the stones when the bolt was thrown back, and the guard entered.

He put his hand tightly, painfully, in my hair, and forced my head down, to his hip. Then I was dragged, stumbling, from the chamber. I remembered, from the books, something of what was being done to me. I was being conducted somewhere, where I did not know, in the helpless, shameful, leading position commonly used with a female slave. “Forgive me,” I cried. “Please do not hurt me, Master!” How easily those words escaped me. Might they not have escaped the lips of a frightened slave? And how naturally I had addressed a free man as “Master!” I recalled, from the party, that all free males were to be addressed as “Master,” and all free females as “Mistress!”

I was taken to a side chamber. One of my hands was freed from the bracelets, and then both hands were fastened together again, but before me. I was placed before a dangling rope. I looked up. It was threaded through a heavy metal ring over my head. Most of the rope was on the other side of the ring. It ran to the opposite wall, where it was looped, loosely, about a large hook. The end of the rope near me was fastened about the chain of the bracelets.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

A moment later I felt my braceleted wrists being pulled upward, toward the ring. The guard hauled on the rope until I was stretched, and I could just feel the stones of the flooring with the tips of my toes. He then secured the rope, fastening it about the hook on the opposite wall, holding me in position. I was well extended. What position could this be? He then tied together my ankles, and fastened them to a ring on the floor.

Why was I fastened in this way?

What could he intend?

I feared I knew.

“Please,” I said. “Forgive me! I will try to be a good slave!”

Had I not been marked?

He was behind me. I sensed he had something in his hand, perhaps retrieved from a peg on the wall.

“Forgive me, Master,” I wept. “Please, Master!”

I had never been struck in my life, until the party, when I had been subjected to the lashing of Nora’s angry switch.

I would have done almost anything to escape that switching. I remembered, in the pain, blind with misery, acknowledging her Mistress, and myself slave.

She, my enemy, and rival, being acknowledged Mistress! And I no more than a groveling, frightened, beaten slave at her feet! What a triumph that must have been for her, to see her despised rival, in beauty, in popularity, cringing at her feet, belled, collared, half naked, weeping, a slave with no option but to endure the displeasure of her Mistress!

That beating had been unpleasant, to be sure. And I could well understand how a slave will dread the switch, and do much to escape it.

Surely I would do so!

I had no wish to feel it again!

I tried to turn, to look behind me. I could not well see what he had in his hand. “What are you going to do, Master?” I asked, frightened.

Then I was put under the slave whip of Gor.

I am sure the beating was light, and intended to be more informative than anything else, but, still, I had, for the first time in my life, felt the flexible, broad-bladed, five-stranded Gorean slave lash, designed specifically for the discipline of female slaves, a lash designed to punish but not to mark.

Released from the rope, and my ankles freed from the ring, I sank to the floor. I was scarcely aware that my hands were once more being fastened behind my back. I lay there, my body afire, a whipped chattel, a slave.

I could not believe the pain.

I now knew the penalties which might attach to a slave’s lapses.

I would now strive to be a good slave, a pleasing slave.

I now knew I could be whipped, and would be whipped, if I were not pleasing.

I would do my best to be pleasing.

I could see the boot-like sandals of the guard, near me.

How small, vulnerable, dependent, and weak then seemed my sex. How different we were from men!

How obviously, if they chose, they were the masters!

And here, on this world, they had so chosen.

I struggled to my feet, sobbing, and hysterical, looked about, past the guard, and ran to the opened door of the small chamber, and, barefoot, ran down the hall. I was not striving to escape. I came to the opened door of the rounded room and stumbled through it, and knelt in the center of the room, trembling, my back aching, with my head down to the stones.

In a few minutes I was joined by the guard.

“Your training will begin in the morning,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

“You may thank me,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

I now knew I was a slave. It had been well taught to me. My only hope, now, was not to permit myself to be mastered. To be sure, I would have masters, as I was a slave. But it is one thing to be a slave, and have masters, and it is another, I thought, to be mastered.

I must never permit myself to be mastered, I thought.

And yet, as I knelt there, I knew I wanted to be mastered.

Yes, Allison, I thought, you want a master.

Since puberty you have wanted a master.

And now I suspected, a slave, I might be easily mastered.

You know, Allison, I said to myself, you may have many masters, and be mastered by any or all of them, as they might please.

Yes, Allison, I thought, you will doubtless be mastered many times. Then I thought to myself, you are no longer “Allison,” slave, for slaves have no names but at the pleasure of their masters. You are now nameless. It is masters who will name you, as any property, or beast, if they please, and as they please.

My training will not be detailed. Interestingly, it lasted only a few days. One learns the kisses and caresses, the kneelings, the manner of tying sandals, of dressing and bathing masters, and such, but most attention was devoted, interestingly, to the acquisition of Gorean, and a number of servile skills, such as cooking, sewing, cleaning, laundering, and such. The point of Gorean, I suppose, was to provide a barbarian slave with enough linguistic skill to make her survival more likely. It was not hard for me, and I suppose for other female barbarians, to adapt myself to Gorean. I do not think there was anything surprising or anomalous in this, for the linguistic skills of women, for whatever reason, tend to be considerable. Is not language the art, and joy, of women? To be sure, the intensity of the instruction, and the immersion in the speech world of Gor were doubtless relevant. Perhaps of importance, as well, was the natural way it was taught. I learned it much as a child learns his native language, in the beginning by ostension, and then by metaphor, correction, refinement, and intuition. Even throughout human history on Earth, women, I realized, as I now, must strive to learn the languages of conquerors and masters. It seems not unlikely then that the women who most swiftly and successfully learned the languages of their captors and masters, and were then most successful in pleasing and placating them, would be those most likely to survive and breed. Whatever may be the truth in such matters, my skills proceeded apace. To be sure, I was highly motivated. I wished to survive. Too, I did not care for the occasional impatient admonition of the switch when I badly misused a word, confusing similar sounds, or found myself guilty of some lapse in grammar. On the whole, I enjoyed the lessons in Gorean, but, initially, tended to resent the instruction in domestic felicities. I came from a class in which such things were for other sorts of women, low women, and such skills were, however important they might be, below me, and my kind. Certainly I knew nothing of cooking, and such things. Such things were the concern of servants, whom we hired, inferior women, of one sort or another. I tried to make this clear to my instructresses, who found my reluctance amusing. “For servants?” one said. “But you are less than a servant. You are a thousand times below a servant, for you are a slave!” And another said, “A master will expect you to do such things, and well, and I do not think it would be wise to disappoint him.” Another said, “If your master is not satisfied with your meals you may expect to be whipped. You are a slave, not a free companion, lofty in her dignity, who may be as clumsy and inept as she wishes.” “Do you understand?” asked another. “Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Keep your stitches small and neat,” said another, “and do not burn your food.” “Yes, Mistress,” I said, and then addressed myself diligently to those tasks to which I had hitherto regarded myself as superior.

I had now been fitted with a collar of the house, one which had been hammered about my neck. It was large, high, heavy, and uncomfortable. I could scarcely lower my chin. It was quite different from the light, lovely, comfortable, but quite secure, common collars which Gorean masters commonly lock about the throats of their kajirae, collars, for example, of the sort which I envied in my instructresses. Perhaps the point of such collars, the house collars, was to make their trainees eager to be brought to the block.

The grimy white ribbon which had identified me as “white-silk,” had been cut from my throat, before my head and neck had been laid across the anvil, for the hammering shut of the house collar. But then, when the house collar was in place, a smaller ribbon, also white, had been looped and knotted about the house collar. It, at least, was clean.

“It is only of rep cloth,” said one of the instructresses.

“Not of silk,” said another.

“She is too plain,” said one of them.

“No,” I said, “I am beautiful!”

“She will do,” said another.

I did not understand this. I knew myself to be extremely beautiful. But then, at that time, I did not understand the general high quality of Gorean kajirae. What gifts they are for men!

“Do not despair, Allison,” said one of the instructresses. “You will grow more sensuous, more beautiful, in your collar.”

“In my collar?” I said.

“Of course,” said one of the instructresses.

“The masters know what they are doing,” said another.

I had been permitted the name, Allison, but it had been made clear to me that it was now only a slave name. Somehow this seemed very meaningful to me, that ‘Allison’ was now a slave name.

As my progress in Gorean continued, and I became more adept in servile skills, being permitted to launder for the guards, and do some simple cooking for their mess, I was granted a tunic. Doubtless it had been worn by others before me, but, to me, it was inordinately precious. Certainly I would do much to keep it.

One of the first things I had done, when introduced into a training room, one walled with mirrors, was to hurry to the side, and examine my thigh.

“Vain slave!” laughed an instructress.

In the mirror one achieves a certain distance from the brand, and sees it rather as another might look upon it. In the mirror I saw a branded slave girl, and, a moment later, with a frisson of recognition, I realized the branded slave girl was I.

“It is a nice mark, Allison,” said one of the instructresses.

“Sometimes such things are bungled,” said another.

“Not by our iron master,” said another. I recalled that it was rumored that she was not unoften in his arms.

How frightful, I thought, to be badly branded. To be sure, such things seldom occurred. Most marking is done by members of the caste of Metal Workers. Most such shops will have a slaving iron, and it is often at hand, and, if not heated, ready to be thrust into the glowing coals of his forge. The Metal Workers, too, do most of the collar work, measuring, fitting, and such. Some free women are branded and collared within an Ahn of their taking.

I regarded the mark.

I recognized that it clearly enhanced my beauty, perhaps a thousandfold. The matter, however, was not purely aesthetic. I did not doubt that much more might have to do with its meaning, what it proclaimed about its bearer!

I examined the mark. It was small, fine, lovely, and tasteful, and telling in its meaning.

And it was on me.

“We have work to do, Allison,” said one of the instructresses.

“By nightfall,” said another, “you must learn to bathe a man, care for his leather, and kiss his feet.”

Could there really be more than one way to kiss a man’s feet, I wondered.

I would learn there was.

I looked into the mirror.

The slave, I knew, is the most seductive and desirable of women.

How can free women compete with her? The free man may find the free woman of interest, for example, in matters of family, position, power, and wealth, but is it not the despised, meaningless slave to whom he turns for pleasure?

Is it not the slave which his biological heritage demands?

I sensed the power of the slave.

Can we not drive men mad with pleasure?

I considered the brand. What jewel, what ring, what necklace, I wondered, has the free woman, to compete with that?

But consider the slave.

Consider her plight.

She is owned.

She well understands that she is property. The collar is hers, the whip is his. Is it any wonder she is concerned to be found pleasing?

Too, if she need not fear the competition of the free woman, she must fear that of other slaves. What if she is found lacking? Will she not be thrown into the market, and another purchased?

Are not animals such as she cheap?

“Keep me, Master!” she begs. But perhaps he is tired of her. Perhaps he now wants another. She has failed, failed to be such that he would never think of selling her. So back to the block with her!

She pleads, but she is slave, and he master.

I had wondered if it is not the slave which the male’s biological heritage demands. But, if this were so, I asked myself, it seems unlikely such a thing could exist in isolation, as some sort of biological anomaly. What then of the female, what then of the woman? Might there not be then, as well, something which is demanded there, or longed for there, by the woman, a consequence of her own biological heritage? If the male’s heritage demands the slave, might not the heritage of the woman demand, or long for, the master?

Are there not genetic insistencies which whisper about our hearts?

At this point in my training I thought mostly of the male, learning how to be appealing to him, learning how to please him, and such.

This is surely comprehensible.

I had felt the Gorean slave whip.

I did not, at the time, understandably enough, sense what might be done to the slave, what might be done with me.

I had needs, of course, but little more was involved, at first, than curiosity and uneasiness. When I was a girl I did not even comprehend, nor was I informed, as to the nature of the changes in my body, changes which were preparing me for men. Much of this, in the beginning, was little more than an unfocused restlessness. I felt stirrings within me into which I was not to inquire. It was not appropriate for a woman to do so. If they existed, they were to be, at best, sources of dismay and regret. Did not I, and my acquaintances, laud our superiority to such things, in effect competing with one another in our alleged frigidities? To be sure, at least from high school on, I was alarmed at intrusive thoughts, thoughts so unlike me, so improper for me, which I tried to dismiss, and, too, by incomprehensible dreams for which there could be no possible explanation, dreams in which I found myself in chains, dreams in which I found myself in the arms of masters. Certainly I was taught to suspect and fear certain embarrassing suspicions and promptings. Such were not suitable for one of my sex and class. These suspicions and promptings, such thoughts, were not only incompatible with my dignity and self-respect, but incompatible with the conventions and proprieties in terms of which my life was to be managed. Indeed, for years I had been taught to ignore my needs, to minimize them, to conceal them, to suppress them, even deny them. I must pretend to others that I was untroubled by such things, which were only to be found, if at all, in the lowest and most despicable of women. I feared I, in my discomforts and afflictions, might be unique amongst other young women of my acquaintance. Surely they were superior to such embarrassing weaknesses. Or were they lying to me, as I was lying to them?

From whence, to one of my intelligence, education, refinement, class, and breeding, could come such thoughts?

I thought of the history of a race.

Somewhere within me could there be a weeping slave, yearning for her master?

In any event, in my early weeks on Gor I was startled at the openness of my instructresses, eagerly discussing the attractions of the guards, the pleasures derived from their attentions, their joyful helplessness in the arms of one or another, their hopes, sometimes pathetic, of being summoned to this slave ring or that, their misery at being ignored, their plaintive agony if denied, for more than a day or two, a man’s touch.

Indeed, I saw one crawl on her belly to a guard, place his foot on her head, and beg to be caressed.

I understood little of this, at least on a fully conscious level, though I do not doubt but what I understood it well enough on a deeper level, but I did not think it wise to question the instructresses.

But at the same time I began to feel, in my own belly, ever more insistent sensations.

This was internal to me, not merely a pretence or calculation, designed to avoid the whip’s fiery, encircling coils.

It was also very troubling to me.

It is hard, of course, to pretend to indifference in certain matters when one is barefoot, collared, and clad in the brief rag of a slave.

The slave’s very condition is imbued with sensuality.

To merely look upon her is to see her as sensuous.

What is the very meaning of her collar, her condition, and tunic? Does it not say, “Here Masters, behold, here is a female slave. She exists for your pleasure. She is a property. She is yours. Do with her as you will.”

She is the most needful, the most helpless, the most sexual of women.

“You will learn to obey, will you not, Allison?” inquired one of my instructresses, early in my training.

“I have already learned, Mistress,” I said. I had felt the slave whip of Gor.

“Intelligent women,” said another, “learn swiftly to obey.”

“It takes stupid women a little longer,” said another.

“But only a little longer,” laughed another.

“And why do you obey, Allison?” asked the first instructress.

“Because I am a slave, Mistress,” I said.

“You are terrified not to obey?” asked one.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“You do not wish to be punished?”

“No, Mistress,” I said. Surely that was an excellent reason. I was not a free woman. If I were not pleasing, I must expect to be punished, properly and appropriately, and often immediately.

“You think of punishment,” said one of the instructresses, “in terms of the switch, the whip, close chains, the denial of clothing, the affixing of a collar with points, a reduction in rations, being sent naked into the streets, being denied speech, being put in the modality of the she-tarsk, such things?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, shuddering. To be sure, I had only heard about some of these things.

“I will tell you of another punishment,” she said, “one you will not even understand now.”

“Mistress?” I said.

“You have sexual needs, do you not?” she said.

“Must I speak?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“-I suppose so,” I said.

One of the instructresses laughed.

I was annoyed that she had laughed.

“Later,” said the instructress who had laughed, “you will not be in any doubt about the matter.”

“Yes,” I said. “I have sexual needs.” I was oddly relieved to have said this. Indeed, it was the first time I had explicitly acknowledged this, aloud, before others. I felt an unusual sense of liberation, of freedom, having said this. To be sure, there was no doubt, on Gor, about this matter. My condition, my treatment, my training, my collar, my tunic, my brand, doubtless played some role in an awakening within my body that I sensed, day by day, was becoming ever more obvious and irresistible. I knew, too, of course, that I was not permitted to lie, as I was a slave.

“Your slave fires,” said one of the instructresses, “have not yet been lit.”

“If you think you are helpless now,” said another, “wait until that occurs.”

“You do not yet suspect the power that men will have over you,” said another.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“It will occur sooner or later,” said another.

“And from the look of your flanks,” said another, “I think it will occur sooner.”

“The time will come, Allison,” said the first instructress, “when you will want to obey.”

“You will be the prisoner and victim of your needs,” said another. “You will do anything to have them satisfied, if only for the time, before they again rage within your belly.”

“You will beg, grovel, and plead to be caressed,” said another.

“As the slave you are,” said another.

I found this hard to believe.

Could a woman be so reduced, rendered so needful, so helpless, transformed into so vulnerable and despicable an object, little more than an animal in heat?

Perhaps, I thought to myself, in fear, if she is a slave.

“Some slaves, many slaves,” said another of the instructresses, wistfully, “fall in love with their masters.”

“It is hard to be at the feet of a man, and be mastered, and not do so,” said another of the instructresses, “particularly if he should show you some kindness.”

“To be sure,” said another of the instructresses, “the slave is not to be loved, as she is worthless, no more than an animal.”

“Love is for free persons, companions,” said another, “not for animals and their masters.”

“Men fear to care for a slave,” said another. “Consider how their friends will laugh and make sport of them.”

“The girl will soon again be on the block,” said another.

“If you should love your master, Allison,” said another, “it would be wise for you to conceal your feelings.”

“I will never love a master,” I said. I was derived from a class of women who did not think in terms of love, but in terms of advancement, in terms of practicality, in terms of position, station, prospects, power, and wealth. What was a woman’s beauty for, if not to obtain advantages in a competitive marriage market? This was why Eve, Jane, and I were so terrified that we might be expelled from our sorority. That would have been socially calamitous. The sorority stood as one important step, among several, to a splendid future.

But how could I hope for such a future now, as I was on another world, a collared slave?

Tears sprang into my eyes.

And yet I suspected that a life lay before me, with all its unknowns and perils, which was a thousand times more real than the structured banalities and tediums to which I had been taught to aspire.

“What do you think of this room, Allison?” asked one of the instructresses, one morning, midway in my training. We had paused before an opened door on our way to our usual training room. “What is it for?” I asked. “It is called the Room of White-Silk,” said an instructress. “What is it for?” I asked. One of the instructresses laughed. There was not much in the room. A ring, or two, some chains, a trestle or two, and a number of deep, heaped, rich furs. It was certainly not as alarming as certain of the discipline rooms I had seen, with their devices and cages.

It was toward the end of my training, the few days of my training, that I was summoned by my instructresses to one of the training rooms. “Stand,” said one of them. “As a slave,” said another. “Please no,” I said. “Now,” said another. So I stood as a slave. “She still must learn to stand appropriately,” said another. “Do not fear, Allison,” said another. “It will soon be natural for you.” “Already,” said another, “perhaps unknown to yourself, you are beginning to stand, and move, and kneel, and carry yourself, with the loveliness and grace of a slave, with her subtlety, her lack of pretense, her softness, her deference, her awareness of what she is, her profound and vulnerable, and helpless, femininity.”

How terrible, I thought, to be feminine!

“Yes,” said another. “She is becoming feminine.”

“A slave,” said another.

“Yes,” said the first.

What was being done to me?

I suspected I was being released, to be myself, not an awkward, clumsy neuter, or a prescribed, facsimile male, but a natural woman in a natural world.

Surely I must resist!

But why, I asked myself. Why should I not be what I truly am?

Because it was frowned upon, or forbidden?

But here, on this world, such things were not frowned upon or forbidden. Here on this world, was I not free, though collared, to be myself?

“First obeisance position!” snapped one of the instructresses.

Swiftly I knelt, my head to the floor, the palms of my hands on the floor, at the sides of my head.

“You are changing, pretty Allison,” said an instructress.

“A transformation is being wrought in you, shapely barbarian,” said another.

“Are you aware of this, Allison?” asked another.

“No, Mistress,” I said. Then, by means of a shadow, I saw a switch lifted. “Perhaps, Mistress!” I sobbed. “Perhaps, Mistress!”

To my relief, the switch was lowered.

“She perhaps does not understand how she is changing,” said one of the instructresses.

I feared I was beginning to understand, only too well. The instructresses, of course, could be aware only of attitudes, postures, behaviors, speech, and such. On the other hand, it was becoming clear to me that these externalities, as profound as they might be, were no longer the simple result of intent and design, but were now beginning to emerge as the inevitable consequence of internal realities. My behavior, I sensed, was now becoming less the imitation of a slave’s behavior; and more the behavior of a slave.

“Do not be concerned, Allison,” said the first instructress. “There is nothing wrong with being graceful, beautiful, vulnerable, soft, passionate, and wholly, wholly female.”

“In short,” said another, “in being a slave.”

“Her transition is well underway,” said another.

“Men like women as women,” said one of the instructresses.

“And do we not like men as men?” asked another.

“True,” laughed another.

“Much of this you do not understand now,” said one of the instructresses, “but in time it will become clear.”

“Changes are being wrought in you,” said another, “that will become part of you, and improve your price on the block, how you move, smile, turn your head, and such.”

“You will not even be aware of these things,” said another.

“But one can tell a slave by such things,” said another.

“Sometimes guardsmen do so,” said another, uneasily. “Sometimes they simply command a woman to walk before them, back and forth, and thus detect the slave, even within the robes of a free woman.”

“Barbarians, such as you,” said another, “are even easier to detect, apart from the marks often placed on your upper arm, or the tiny bits of metal often found in your teeth. You do not know the drapings, the foldings, the layerings, and fastenings of the robes of concealment, the arrangement of the veils, and such.”

“There is much more to such things than the donning of a tunic or a camisk,” said one of the instructresses.

“Does Mistress know of such things?” I asked.

“Once,” she smiled. “But I would not now trade my tunic for the robes of a Ubara.”

I could not understand this.

Was not a Ubara a free woman, and one of consequence?

“There are a thousand things a native Gorean would know, of which a barbarian would be ignorant,” said an instructress.

“Too,” said another, “the Gorean taught to barbarians is often subtly different from that spoken by native Goreans, for example, in the pronunciation of certain words.”

“Have you taught me such a subtly different Gorean?” I asked.

“Curiosity,” she said, “is not becoming in a kajira.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“I wish we had more time to train her,” said one of the instructresses.

“Mistress?” I said.

“Market conditions change, orders vary, what is wanted at one time is not wanted at another time, what sold yesterday may not sell today, what sells today may not sell tomorrow.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You are a virgin, are you not?” asked one of the instructresses.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“You do not look like a virgin,” said one.

“Most do not,” said an instructress.

“True,” said another.

“Unbeknownst to you,” said an instructress, “you have been observed by masters.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. I had not known this, but, surely, I had suspected as much. Would they not observe me, with certain ends in view?

“You have much to gain in attractiveness,” said one of the instructresses.

“I do not understand, Mistress,” I said. “Am I not beautiful?”

“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses.

“Being beautiful and being attractive are not the same thing,” said an instructress. “Some extremely beautiful women are not attractive, and some extremely attractive women are not beautiful.”

“But I am attractive, am I not?” I asked.

“Do you wish to be attractive?” asked an instructress.

“Do not all women?” I asked. I knew that even cold women, and women who professed to hate men, wanted to be found attractive, if only to torment men, or further their own ends.

“Of course,” said an instructress.

“Am I not attractive?” I asked.

“You are attractive,” said an instructress. “Otherwise you would not be in your collar. But the masters feel that your current attractiveness does not measure up to your beauty.”

My head was at the floor. I had not received permission to lift it.

“Doubtless, in time, it will do so,” said an instructress. “We have great hopes for you. You are clearly a born slave. And, eventually, you should be an exquisitely desirable slave.”

“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses, again.

“Kneel up,” said an instructress.

Gratefully I knelt up.

“Belly in, shoulders back, head up,” said an instructress.

I complied.

My knees were clenched closely together.

I kept my eyes straight ahead.

“What are you doing, Mistress?” I asked.

“I am removing the white ribbon,” she said.

“Mistress?” I asked.

The instructresses were about, looking at me.

“What do you think?” asked one of the instructresses.

“She is pretty,” said one.

“Better than a kettle girl, or a pot-and-mat girl,” said another.

“A Tarnster, or Drover,” speculated another.

“If the price were right,” said another.

“Spread your knees, Allison,” said an instructress.

“Surely not, Mistress!” I exclaimed.

“Now,” she said.

I felt enormously vulnerable, and, oddly, subtly enflamed.

How could I, the former Allison Ashton-Baker be placed in such a position?

What sort of slave would kneel in such a position?

I feared I knew.

She who had removed the white ribbon now approached.

“Do not move, Allison,” she said.

I saw that in her hand she had a different ribbon, a red ribbon.

“I am not red-silk!” I said. “I am not red-silk!”

“Do not move,” she said, again.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, a slave, commanded.

I was very much aware of the position and attitude in which I had been placed.

To be sure, it could not be appropriate for me.

It must be some mistake.

I was from Earth.

It is strange, how, when one is a slave, small things are noticed, the nap of a rug, the feel of tiles beneath one’s knees, one’s body then so alive.

I regarded the instructress, apprehensively.

The red ribbon, of dyed rep-cloth, not silk, was doubled, and then threaded under and over my collar. Its loose ends were then threaded through the loop, and I felt it jerked tight, against the collar.

“There,” said the instructress, and stood up. She and the others then stood back, a bit, looking at me. “What do you think?” she asked. “Is she satisfactory, will men like her?”

“She may do,” said another.

“Sooner or later,” said another.

I did not understand. Had I not been one of the most beautiful girls in my sorority, a sorority noted on campus for its beauties? Certainly I had not lacked for the attentions of young men. A week would not pass without my declining several offers for outings, afternoons or evenings, with such, while I would select from amongst such offers those few which I deemed suitable, those which might prove eventually to be to my advantage, those from suitably positioned young men, young men worth interesting and cultivating, young men whose background and assets exceeded my own. Oddly, though I had pretended to be interested in them, laughed at their jokes, and such, I had seldom received a second invitation from them. I did not understand this. Did they not realize my quality, the honor I paid to them, how fortunate they were, that I would permit them to share my company, however briefly? Surely there were many who would have rejoiced to be granted such an opportunity. How ungrateful, how foolish, how stupid they were!

“Keep those knees split, slave,” said one of the instructresses.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered.

“Wider,” snapped another.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

At least no man was present, to see me so. What would he think, should he see me so? Did I not know? Would it not be clear what I was, and what I was for?

How vulnerable a woman is in such a position!

Too, I felt decidedly uneasy.

I squirmed.

“Steady,” said an instructress.

“She is heating,” said another.

“Mistress?” I said.

“The little tart is cooking,” said another.

“Wait until she knows what a man’s touch is,” said another.

“She is ready, nearly ready,” said another.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“She has nice slave curves,” said one.

“She has the flanks of a slave who will heat well,” said another.

“Mistress,” I said.

“Yes?” said the instructress who had placed the ribbon.

“Mistress has erred,” I said. “I am not red-silk.”

“Who speaks?” asked an instructress.

“Allison,” I said. “This slave speaks.” I felt tears form in my eyes.

“And what has she to say?” asked an instructress.

“She says,” I said, “that she is not red-silk, that she is white-silk.”

“The slave is correct,” said an instructress.

“Yes,” said she who had placed the ribbon.

“Please then, Mistress,” I said, “replace the white ribbon.”

“It is dirty, grimy,” said the first instructress, she who had placed the ribbon. “Surely you do not want such a ribbon on your collar?”

“Perhaps another ribbon then,” I said.

“You have another ribbon now,” she said.

“A white ribbon,” I said, “another white ribbon!”

“No,” she said.

“Put back the old ribbon then,” I said. “It is all right. I do not mind!”

“It goes to another girl,” she said, “one who is white-silk.”

“I am white-silk!” I said.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.

“The men, the guards,” I said. “They may think me red-silk!”

“The market,” said an instructress, “is now slow for white-silks.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Do you not think you have been white-silk long enough?” asked an instructress.

“Mistress?” I said.

“Oh!” I cried, startled, for something of cloth and leather, enclosing, muchly opaque, was pulled over my head, from behind, by one of the instructresses. I heard it buckled shut, and the sound of a tiny padlock being snapped shut, doubtless linking two rings.

“Steady, steady!” warned an instructress.

“Position!” snapped another.

And then I knelt, as I had before, in position, hooded.

“Should we remove her garment?” asked an instructress.

“The men will do that,” said another.

“Stand up, Allison,” said the first instructress, gently. I felt her hand on my upper left arm. I was then being guided from the training room, and turned left, and, in a moment, I felt the smooth, worn, flat tiles of the corridor beneath my bare feet. We made two further turnings, and then we stopped.

“Here,” said the first instructress.

I heard a door opened, and I was conducted within, and released, some feet within the portal.

Where was I?

“Mistresses!” I pleaded. “Mistresses!”

I heard the door shut, and, from the outside, a bar put in place.

“Mistresses!” I cried.

I stood in the room, perhaps near its center, alone, hooded, frightened, disoriented.

“Mistresses! Mistresses!”

I turned, and felt my way, hands extended, stumbling, toward the door, which was heavy, and shut, and locked, barred on the outside.

I pounded on the door, and cried out, again and again, but, if any heard, none responded.

I attempted to tear the hood from my head, but such are not meant to be removed by such as I.

I, fearing to fall, went to all fours, that I might explore my small world. In short order, I felt a carpet, and then furs, and cushions. Such things seemed luxurious, and abundant. Here and there, too, I felt chains, and wrist and ankle rings. At one side of the room, I reached up, and, bit by bit, felt the structure of a heavy, low, sturdy trestle.

I tore futilely at the hood.

I was in the Room of White-Silk.

“Do you not think you have been white-silk long enough?” had asked an instructress.

I trembled. I heard a soft moan, mine.

Helpless, and hooded, I realized what I was here for, what was to be done to me.

I lay on the cushions alone, for a time.

I supposed the guards, some of them, perhaps some who had noted me, or were curious about me, would visit me, when convenient, perhaps with the turn of the watch, when their duties were done.

I am not sure how long I lay alone in the room, hooded, amidst the cushions and furs.

Bars rang, and midbars.

I was tunicked. I did not know if the tunic would be left to me. It might be. It is a simple thing for a master to thrust up the short skirt of the tunic, to the slave’s waist. I wondered if they would be quick.

I clutched at a silken coverlet.

My fingers clenched it.

I dared not cover myself.

The masters might not be pleased.

They might wish to look upon my legs, my ankles, my arms, my throat.

Accordingly, I dared not cover myself.

I knew that a slave is usually expected, on a couch, on a slave mat, on furs, to wait naked, wholly uncovered, for her master.

Tunicked, one is already half naked.

I would not cover myself.

How long must I wait, alone?

Then I seemed suddenly to awaken.

The door had been opened.

I knew they would not talk to me. I must not realize who they were. It is better that way. Awareness is better reserved for a master.

I struggled to my feet.

I sensed there were several in the room.

They must have brought lanterns or lamps. I heard the fire strikers snap more than once. Too, I heard some tiny sounds, some suggesting the placing of lamps on shelves, others the hanging of lanterns on ceiling hooks. I sensed men looking at me, and moving about me. They said nothing. There would not be a great deal of illumination, but it would be soft, and ample, that of lamps and lanterns, two or three, I supposed.

“Masters?” I said.

I was not answered.

I felt my left ankle grasped, and I stiffened. A shackle was closed about it. Some loops of chain were thrown down, beside me. I gathered there was a good length of chain between the shackle and its ring. I do not know why I was shackled. Perhaps because I was a slave, and it was thought fit that I be shackled. I wondered if, later, the wrist rings and ankle rings would be used. I supposed that the length of chain allowed me would not be sufficient to allow me to reach the door, which might now be unbarred. I wondered if others, guards, passing by, might enter.

I knew little of how free women were handled. Perhaps much depends on the caste, or city. I had never encountered a Gorean free woman in any meaningful way, though, from time to time, one had visited the house. At such a time, if one were near, we must kneel in first obeisance position, head to the floor. I had been aware of little more than the almost inaudible sound of a soft slipper on the tiles, a rustle of silks passing me. My knowledge of free women was limited almost entirely to the hints, and gossip, of instructresses, which I had overheard. I gathered that there was little love lost between the slave and the free woman.

I sensed the men standing there, about me.

I did not know if I should kneel, or not.

Should I assume obeisance position, first obeisance position, kneeling, head to the tiles, hands to floor, perhaps second obeisance position, belly to the floor, palms down, beside my head, where one might reach inch forth, to press one’s lips to his feet?

How slave I felt, waiting.

I wondered how free women were handled, or if they were handled, so to speak, at all.

Gorean men, I knew, preferred slaves.

That is the way, I gathered, with men.

They prefer us, slaves.

I sensed myself scrutinized.

I was aware of light, dimly, on my right, through the hood. A lamp or lantern was lifted near me. I felt a warmth on my right shoulder. That would be from the lamp or lantern.

I would be in the light.

I knew that men liked to see their slaves.

They delighted in each nuance, and inch, of them.

In the house I had grown accustomed to being regarded openly, and appraisingly, by the guards. How different it was from Earth! There was nothing secret, quick, shy, sly, or furtive about it. We were regarded with the innocence and interest that one might regard an animal, and, in the case of the female slave, an animal which one might consider owning, and having at one’s slave ring. At first I had been considerably disturbed at the frankness, the openness, the length, of such assessments, particularly if commanded, turned about, and posed, but of course, a slave, I dared not complain, nor evince, in any way, any objection to such detailed, candid perusals, even handlings. I had no wish to be cuffed, or beaten. This was not Earth, in which a battery of social and legal weaponry might be invoked against any fellow so unwary as to dare to look honestly, openly, frankly, naturally, on a woman.

I, of course, might be so looked upon, certainly here, on this world, on Gor, as I was an animal, a slave.

I was not a free woman, a person, a citizen, the possessor of a Home Stone. I was not a proud creature of dignity and station. I was not the sort of woman who was to be treated with esteem and respect, even awe, to whom would be accorded the many honors befitting her position. I was not veiled in public, that men might not look upon my beauty. I was not wrapped in the lengthy, ornate folds of the Robes of Concealment, that the lineaments of my figure should not betray the delicate canons of modesty, or no more so than might provoke inevitable speculation. I was not encircled with conventions and formalities; I was not one for whom strong men were to step deferently aside, who might be carried in a palanquin, for whom ways were to be cleared, one who was expected, I gathered, at least if of high caste, to speak boldly, even sharply, and with haughty contempt, one expected to hold oneself, and move, in stately disdain, one mighty in presence and power. I had gathered from the instructresses that such women, certainly those of high caste, of such exalted nobility, so taken with themselves, commonly prided themselves on their self-containment, their self-control, their freedom from many human weaknesses, their superiority to many of the elements commonly found in the nature of the female. In particular, many felt they must, as persons, view themselves as above a variety of allegedly lower, or baser, considerations. Accordingly, they would compete with one another, it seems, each attempting to outdo the other with respect to their imperviousness to the liabilities commonly associated with a lower nature, an animal nature. Many, I gathered, particularly of high caste, held themselves superior to sex, which they professed to find demeaning. It is difficult, I supposed, to regard oneself as an equal to, or a superior of, a male when one is smaller, softer, and weaker, and finds oneself clasped in the arms of such a beast, helpless, unable to free oneself, its prisoner, one’s softness clasped forcibly, mercilessly, to its hardness, the beast beside itself in its rage of possession and joy. And how unfree then should she feel herself if she sensed what it might be, so held, to be owned and mastered? How she must resist her body, her dispositions, her inclinations, her desires, her emotions, her feelings, lest they betray her, lest they threaten treason to her dignity and personhood. Accordingly, it was said that amongst many free women the taint of carnality was to be eschewed, even violently, as a thing of embarrassment and shame, unworthy of a free woman. One’s slave is to be denied, hysterically, if necessary. To acknowledge her, is it not to acknowledge that one should be suitably collared, that one is already, so to speak, in the collar. Accordingly, when the society’s demands were to be met, and the more embarrassing, regrettable aspects of companionship satisfied, those having to do with matchings, lines, alliances, and such, the proper free woman was to enter into carnal congress with disdain, resignation, and reluctance, or feigned disdain, resignation, and reluctance, insisting, at least, that such lamentable congress be as brief as possible, and take place in complete darkness, preferably while substantially clothed, and surely beneath coverlets. To be sure, theory and profession were one thing, and reality another. Upper-caste women doubtless were subject to the same needs and drives as other women, and I would learn that affairs and assignations were not infrequent amongst them, and that many free women, particularly those most sensitive to the demands of their codes, who had most internalized society’s expectations with respect to their behavior, often lived a life of frustration, loneliness, and misery, speaking the secrets of their needs only to the silence of damp, tear-stained pillows. Demands on lower-caste women, on the other hand, were less, as befitted their inferior status, and such women were more likely to enjoy a life of open flirtation, even of comparative vulgarity and bawdiness. Indeed, it was often thought that lower-caste women, for all their jollity and looseness, or perhaps in virtue of it, commonly tended to live a more genuinely satisfactory life than their sisters of the higher, nobler castes. To be sure, much depends on the particular woman, the caste, the city, and sometimes, I understand, even the neighborhood or district within the city, as a Gorean city, as many cities, often contains a medley of subcultures. I had encountered something of these distinctions on Earth, and even in the sorority, in which we had tended to pride ourselves on our station, our aloofness, and, in a sense, our frigidity. “No man will ever turn me into something like that,” I had heard, “some gasping, whimpering, squirming, moaning, begging plaything!” I had taken her seriously until I had inadvertently come upon her in one of the house’s bedrooms, late, during a party, naked, on her knees before a male, his belt wrapped and buckled about her neck, her hands tied behind her with a stocking, leaning forward, kissing at his legs, begging to be touched again. She had turned about, seeing me, tears in her eyes, frightened, agonized, discovered. I had turned away. Oddly, I did not feel dismayed at what I had seen. Rather, as I hurried back to the party I found myself wondering if a woman did not belong at a man’s feet, and if I, Allison, did not belong at a man’s feet, the feet of some man, or, perhaps any man. I assured her the next day I would keep her secret. She had graduated the following spring.

I stood very still.

The men were about me.

I could sense the light of the lamp through the hood.

There is a joke that in the light of a lamp even a free woman is beautiful.

And I was not a free woman.

I was such that I had been selected for the collar of Gor.

I knew that we were hated by free women.

I knew that men preferred slaves.

“Masters?” I said.

There was no response.

“It is a mistake, Masters,” I said. “I should not be here. I am white-silk. I am white-silk.”

The tunic was then torn from me.