Conspirators of Gor

Chapter Eight

It was two days after my red-silking that I was again hooded. I was aligned with other girls, I supposed some five or six. My wrists were pulled behind me and I was back-braceleted. I had not been permitted clothing after my red-silking. The ribbon, however, was removed from my collar. It is the common presumption that a female slave is “red-silk.” My head was forced up, and the house collar, now a new house collar, submitting to a bolt and key, was thrust up, under my chin. This new house collar was quite different from the original house collar in which I had been placed, the high, heavy, iron collar, which had been hammered about my neck. That had been removed in the house’s metal shop the morning following my red-silking. I was much pleased to be relieved of the original collar. The new collar was not the light, lovely, secure embondment signification of the common collar but it was a considerable improvement over its high, weighty predecessor. The removal of the original collar suggested that my sale might be imminent. This speculation had proved to be warranted. One role of the original collar was presumably to encourage a girl to do well in her lessons, that she may the sooner be brought to the block. Would such a collar not be likely to produce such an effect? Should it not make one eager to escape the house? Yet I, personally, feared to leave the house, as I knew not what might be found for one such as I outside its walls. In the house there was a certain comfort, and security. One supposes that a girl might be left uncollared, of course, between the conclusion of her training and her departure from the house, as she is marked, and in the house, and her escape is unthinkable, but Goreans, it seems, do not see it so. They feel that a kajira should be in a collar, and know herself collared. It helps her to keep in mind that she is a slave. Too, a kajira soon comes to understand that it is appropriate for her to be collared, that she belongs in a collar. Is she not a slave? Too, without a collar, she might feel naked, insecure, and frightened. What terrible things might happen to her, were she to be mistaken for a free woman! I then felt another collar, a coffle collar, for one could sense the weight of the attendant chain, a light chain, for we were women, snapped about my neck. The house collar was then removed.

“What is happening, Masters?” I asked, in the coffle, back-braceleted, unable to see, for the hood.

My question received in response only the sharp sting of a switch on my right shoulder.

I realized, then, as I should have before, that I should be silent. Had I been given permission to speak? Too, is it not said that curiosity is not becoming in a kajira?

When we began to move we began our climb to higher levels of the house, and this continued so, for some Ehn. I heard us pass through some four gates, and, from the sound of it, from the weight on the hinges, two heavy portals, and then, after the second portal, the last, I suddenly felt the fresh air, and wind, of what must be the streets, and I sensed the warmth of the sun, Tor-tu-Gor, on my body. We were out of the house!

“Surely you know what you are doing here,” an instructress once said to me.

“Mistress?” I had said.

“You are a slave, are you not?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” I had said.

“And only a slave?” she said.

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

“And what is a slave?” she asked.

“Mistress?” I asked.

“A property,” she said. “Goods, merchandise.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“So now you surely know what you are doing here?” she said.

“I am being trained,” I said.

“For what?” she said.

“That I may be pleasing to a master,” I said.

“We would like you to live past your first night at his slave ring,” she said.

“I will try to be pleasing,” I said.

“Very pleasing?”

“Yes, Mistress!”

“Wholly pleasing, in every way?” she said.

“To the best of my ability,” I said.

“So, then,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

“Mistress?”

“You are goods, merchandise,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “I am goods, merchandise.” It was true; that is what I now was.

“So now you understand what you are doing here,” she said.

“Mistress?” I said.

“You are being readied for sale,” she said.

I well knew myself a slave, of course. I had sensed this even on Earth, and there was obviously no doubt about it here, on Gor. Here I might or might not wish to be a slave, but, in either case, it was what I was. Here my will was nothing. Whether I might kiss my fingertips and press them to my collar, or sob and scream, and try to tear it from my neck, it was on me. And my thigh was marked, with the Kef, the most common slave brand on Gor, a mark which showed all who might look upon it what I was, and only was, kajira. Still I had not thought, actively, or very actively, of being sold.

Now, as I was being marched through streets I could not see, naked, back-braceleted, a bead fastened in this small slaver’s necklace, the wind and sunlight on my bared body, I knew I was being taken, for the first time, to market, a market where I would not buy but be bought, as much as a verr, or a basket of suls.

Still I was delighted to be out of the house.

I wondered who might buy me.

I was soon to be owned, the property of a particular master.

“I regret,” had said one of the mistresses, “that we did not have more time to train you.”

“You are pretty,” said another, “and you will do your best to please, will you not?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“Many men do not object to a half-trained girl,” said another. “They are cheaper, and they may train them to their taste.”

“There are others coming in,” said another, “who must be prepared.”

“A city fell,” said another.

“You are a barbarian, Allison,” said another, “and barbarians are apt pupils, as they are already three-quarters slaves, but the new arrivals will be former Gorean free women.”

“I see,” I said.

“How we will love to have them under our switches,” said another.

“We will teach them that they are now slaves,” said another.

It was hard for me to imagine such women as slaves, from what I had heard of them, but I knew, too, that there were few bred slaves, at least in the sense of being the products of the slave farms. The overwhelming majority of female slaves on Gor would have once been Gorean free women, of one caste or another. Too, Gorean free women, whatever might be the expectations of their society concerning them, were surely women, with all the instincts, needs, desires, and drives of the human female, all the complex genetic codings of such latent in each cell of their bodies. And I had heard guards exchanging remarks, after the passage of one free woman or another in the house, perhaps shopping for a serving slave, or a silk slave, speculating on her possible value on the block. It was just as well our exalted visitors had remained oblivious of such conversations. Within the robes of concealment, it seems, following the views of the guards, there was always a slave, lacking only the collar.

“The slave, Allison,” I said, “thanks Mistresses for the training they have given her.”

They had kissed me, and, shortly thereafter, one of the guards arrived, the hood dangling in his hand.

We continued to make our way through the streets.

At that time, hooded, I did not realize the striking beauty of a Gorean city, how so many of its buildings, the lofty towers and graceful bridges, the spacious porticoes, the splendid colonnades, and such, were bright with color, nor was I aware of the wealth of colors in clothing, both that of men and women. I did realize, of course, from the house, that slave tunics came in a variety of cuts and colors, in samples of which I had been forced to pose before mirrors, but each was commonly of one color. They were, after all, slave tunics. The house tunics, incidentally, those worn in the house, were commonly drab, usually being brown or gray. There are fashions in such things, of course, for both the free and the slaves, with respect to colors, textures, materials, cuts, hemlines, and so on. How and when fashions changed, and why they changed, was not clear. Doubtless there were setters of trends, say, highly placed officials, wealthy Merchants, Actors, Singers, and Poets, certain women of noble family and high caste, and such, but why should one option rather than another succeed in being adopted, however transiently? Perhaps the higher, better fixed, more established or influential members of the Cloth Workers had something to do with it, with hints, with words dropped now and then, with boulevard posters, with some judiciously distributed free garmenture, here and there, and so on. Doubtless each time a fashion changed at least the high Cloth Workers, masters of the foremost garment houses, would sell more garmenture, at least to the fashion conscious, to those who were concerned to keep up with the times, to those who feared to be pitied or ridiculed for being out of style, and such. With respect to slave tunics, for example, it was several years, apparently, since the common slave tunic was white with black striping, usually with a diagonal striping. And, of course, if masters and mistresses might be concerned with the garmenture of their kajirae, as simple and brief, and as revealing and demeaning, as it might be, one can well imagine their concern with their own garmenture, particularly if they were of high caste.

The coffle chain was a girl chain, and, accordingly, light. Nonetheless it would hold us, its prisoners, in a perfect, neck-linked custody. This is not unusual, incidentally, the lightness. The custodial hardware of Gor, where kajirae are concerned, is commonly light. It is also, of course, strong, or strong enough, at least, to well exceed the strength of women. It is also, commonly, graceful, even lovely, and is designed to set off and enhance the beauty of its prisoner, while putting her wholly at the mercy of the free. She is, after all, a slave. Its usual purpose, then, is not merely to hold the lovely prisoner but to make it clear to any observer, casual or otherwise, that she is powerless, vulnerable, defenseless, and unprotected, accordingly, not merely to confine her, but to expose her, or should one say, in the case of a slave, as she is goods, to display her. For example, the slave bracelets we wore, which pinioned our wrists so helplessly behind our backs, were attractive. One might have mistaken them for ornaments or jewelry, were it not for the inflexible metal links which joined them.

I have wondered sometimes if free women do not sometimes wonder what it would be to find themselves in such “ornaments” or “jewelry,” stripped and helpless within them.

Did they realize that they might be that beautiful?

Perhaps an iron is being heated, and a collar has already been removed from its peg.

It is common, incidentally, to fasten a girl’s hands behind her back. In that way she is more helpless, her arms nicely drawn back, and her beauty, obviously, is better exhibited, more exposed to sight and touch. Too, of course, braceleted as she is, she is incapable of fending away or resisting caresses, even if she, unwisely, should wish to do so. I did not know my place in the coffle, other than the fact that I was neither first nor last, for I could feel the weight of the coffle chain on both the front and back ring of the coffle collar. It was the only collar I now wore. When I had been aligned in the house, awaiting my chaining, I had been hooded. Therefore I was not only ignorant of the number of girls in the coffle, but of the construction of the coffle, as well. Sometimes the most beautiful girl is first on the coffle, sometimes last. Sometimes the coffle is arranged merely in order of height, the tallest girl then placed first.

Interestingly, as I was hooded, I was very little self-conscious in this march. Had I not been hooded I would have been terribly, miserably, self-conscious. Naked slaves are sometimes seen in the streets but that is usually only the case with a new girl or one being punished. Clothing, of course, is at the discretion of the master, whether or not it is to be permitted, and, if so, its nature, whether say, a modest tunic, or a camisk, or slave strip. A new girl, sent into the streets naked, is well apprised of her bondage, and may soon be depended upon to be at her master’s feet, zealous to improve her performance and service a thousandfold, that she may be granted a garment, some garment, even the brief, disgraceful tunic of a slave, perhaps hitherto scorned. We are, as it is said, not permitted modesty, no more than a she-sleen or she-tarsk, but we will do much for a garment, however scanty. So much we are in the power of our masters! As I could not see, interestingly, I was concerned very little that I might be seen. Too, I was with others, as bared and helpless as I. In the hood, and with others, I had a sense of anonymity.

By now, I was sure we had been in the streets for at least twenty Ehn. Even coffled we must have been marched for better than a pasang. We had, so far, as far as I could tell, attracted no particular attention. I gathered then that such sights, a coffle of nude slaves, were not uncommon in the streets. Not uncommon, too, might be a line of roped verr, a string of tethered kaiila, or such. Our house was on the Street of Brands but, as I was given to understand, this is more a reference to a district or a part of a district than an actual street. To be sure, apparently several slave houses were in the same vicinity. One also heard of a Street of Coins, of which a similar observation would seem warranted. This, too, seemed to refer more to a particular district, than a particular street, one in which several money houses were to be found. In passing, I will note something of interest, at least to a barbarian. On your world pieces of paper, even with impressive printing on them, are seldom accepted in exchange for actual goods. The Gorean thinks generally in terms of metal, copper, silver, and gold, something obdurate and solid, which can be handled, split, quartered, shaved, and weighed, or else in terms of actual goods. It would be dangerous to try to buy a sleen or slave, or a sul or larma, from a Gorean for no more than a piece of paper. On the other hand, notes are exchanged amongst various coin houses, or banking houses, without difficulty. Sometimes the wealth of a city has been transferred from Jad to Ar, or Ar to Jad, in the form of a piece of paper, sewn into the lining of a robe. In such a way wealth can be exchanged, even back and forth, without a tarsk-bit changing hands.

We continued our march.

We did not know our destination, or destinations. Would you explain such things to sleen or kaiila?

I did note that the footing was now less smooth, less polished, more irregular. Too, more than once I felt dampness, or grime. In this part of the city, wherever it was, it seemed the shopkeepers, or residents, were less scrupulous in their housekeeping. It is understood that the streets in a Gorean city, local bridges, and such, are the responsibility of those in the neighborhood, not of the city or state. The responsibilities of the city and state tend to be limited, mostly to protection, civil and municipal, and arbitration. Whereas a city will often have a coinage, so, too, may private citizens. For example, the golden tarn disk of the banker Publius may be more valuable than that of Ar itself, or, at least, that of the Ar of the occupation, when someone named Talena graced the throne of Ar. Charity, care of the simple, the needy, and such, is handled privately, usually by clan lines, or caste councils. As the city or state is managed by men, and is armed, it is feared. Goreans prefer to be governed as little as possible. The city or state, on the other hand, which has properties, farms, and such, as well as it support from taxes, often supports public festivals, concerts, performances, and contests, competitions, for example, of strength, speed of foot, archery, javelin casting, riding, singing, drama, poetry, dancing, and such.

I occasionally heard men and women about. Conversation. Some bargaining. One fellow was hawking tastas, which is a confection, mounted on a stick. Sometimes female slaves are referred to as tastas.

I could hear the chain on its rings as we moved.

I felt myself prodded by a switch.

In many respects I did not know where I was, not only the district in which I might be, but even the city. I was sure, from the size of the house in which I had been trained, the city was large, at least by Gorean standards. It would take a large city with a substantial commerce to support a house so complex and impressive. I would learn it was Ar. Even were I familiar with the city, which I was not, I would have been thoroughly disoriented given the hood and the many twists and turns of the narrow streets. I was sure, of course, from my secret reading, that I was on Gor. I was still shaken by the comprehension that such a world actually existed. On it I found myself hooded, naked, and coffled, a slave. How could such a world exist and not be known, or, I thought, is it known? Perhaps it is known, but as a guarded secret, official or governmental, to be kept from the general public? Is it the will of the Priest-Kings, the alleged lords of this world, I wondered, that the existence of their world be known or not? Were the Gorean manuscripts intended to be hints of Gor, allusions to that world, a modality by means of which possibly alarming facts, facts for which a general population might not be ready, might be concealed under the veil of fiction? Or were such manuscripts somehow dangerously smuggled to Earth, against the will of, and without the consent of, Priest-Kings? I supposed, on balance, the existence of such manuscripts did not concern entities as mighty and mysterious as the supposed Priest-Kings. Doubtless they knew of them, but thought little of them one way or another. What difference might such thing make to them, the remote and disengaged gods of a world? But I now, at least, was in no doubt as to the reality of Gor. I felt it beneath my bared feet. I twisted my head a bit inside the hood I wore. I could not see. I was helpless. I jerked a little at the bracelets which held my hands behind my back. I, once Allison Ashton-Baker, once a member of a prestigious, wealthy sorority at an exclusive educational institution on the planet Earth, once a scion of the envied upper classes on my world, was helpless, and on Gor, a manacled, hooded, coffled slave!

“Oh!” I cried, suddenly pelted with gravel.

“Kajirae, kajirae!” I heard, a sing-song, mocking chanting of children. “Kajirae, kajirae!” Small stones, stinging, one after another, apparently from almost at my elbow, were hurled against me, and, from the disturbance in the coffle, the rattle of chain, and cries of surprise and pain, I knew I was not the only victim of this petty aggression. “Kajirae, kajirae!” they mocked, running beside us, now on each side. I cried out with pain, struck by a supple, barkless branch, a child’s makeshift switch. I heard the sound of such implements strike elsewhere, as well. “Please, no, Masters!” cried out more than one member of the coffle. They had addressed the word ‘Masters’ to children! Then I realized the children were doubtless free persons. “Please be kind, please be kind, Masters!” I wept, stung twice again. “Be off with you,” said one of the guards to our young assailants. “If you would beat a slave, buy your own!” There was laughter, from adults about. We tried to hurry, stumbling on. “Do not gaze upon such worthless, disgusting things!” I heard a woman’s voice say, perhaps admonishing a daughter, a child, one paused to look upon the coffle. Then we were beyond the children.

We continued on.

My body still stung.

The coffle was stopped, twice, before discharging one or more of its occupants, once when, apparently, a line of wagons was passing near us. They were probably produce wagons. We were pressed to the side, against a wall to our left. Some such wagons are driven by teamsters, others are conducted by small boys, with sticks. In the better part of the city such wagons move only at night, when they are less obstructive of traffic. I heard the creaking of wheels, their sound on the stones, and some grunting, and snorting, apparently of large beasts. These were draft tharlarion as I now realize, but I had not, at the time, seen such animals. Most Gorean streets are narrow, winding, and crooked. The boulevards, on the other hand, are spacious and straight, often with plantings. Many Gorean streets have no names, really, other than, say, the street of the “smithy of Marcus,” the alley “where Decius the cobbler has his shop,” and so on. The streets are familiar, of course, to those who live in their vicinity. Others may inquire their way, or fee a guide. The second time we were stopped we were ordered to the side, and ordered to kneel, our heads to the stones. The palanquin of a free woman was passing. It stopped. Perhaps the free woman had parted the curtains of the palanquin for a moment, to regard us. The palanquin then moved on.

“Up, beasts,” we heard.

We struggled to our feet.

We continued on, for another twenty Ehn, or so.

In what district of the city might we be?

I was sure we had passed through more than one.

My Gorean was acute enough, now, to detect some differences in accents. The local diction, with its lapses, and grammar, and vulgarities, its rapidities, its simplicities, its contractions, its elisions, unusual words, and vulgarities, was quite other than that of my instructresses, intelligent women who uniformly spoke, as nearly as I could determine, an educated, excellent Gorean. Four had supposedly attained to the “Second Knowledge,” whatever that was. All could write. I had some difficulty in even understanding the speech about me. I would learn that some members of some castes even reveled in a deliberately barbarous or vulgar Gorean, as though this were some badge of quality or superiority by means of which they might distinguish themselves from their despised “betters.” It was sometimes said that the power of Marlenus, the Ubar himself, rested ultimately on the lower castes, whom he cultivated and flattered. Is it not, ultimately, in the mass that the power lies? Who else, at a word, might swarm into the streets, armed with paving stones and clubs? Woe to the former free Gorean woman of high caste who, enslaved, might fall into the power of her hitherto despised “inferiors.” Each Gorean caste, interestingly, regards itself as equal to, or superior to, all other castes. Accordingly, each member of each caste is likely to have his caste pride. In some sense this doubtless contributes to social stability, and, surely, it tends to make the average fellow content with his own person, profession, background, antecedents, and such. He respects himself, and these things. Even the Peasants, commonly regarded as the lowest of castes, regards itself proudly, and with justification, as “the ox on which the Home Stone rests.” A casteless society, an open society, in which elevation, wealth, and success is supposed to depend, or does depend, on the outcome of merit and free competition will obviously generate an enormous amount of frustration, jealousy, envy, and hostility. In such a society most will fail to fulfill their ambitions and must almost inevitably fall short of achieving at least the greatest rewards and highest honors which such a society has to bestow. In an open race to which all are invited and in which all are free to run there will be only one winner, and many losers. It is natural then for the loser to blame not himself but the course, the starter, the conditions, the judge, the rules of the race, even that there is a race, at all.

The free woman of a high caste and the free woman of a lower caste commonly have one thing in common which unites them, securely, as free women. That is their contempt of, and hatred for, the female slave.

How strange they find it that men should prefer the helpless female slave, lovely, obedient, needful, desperate to please, to themselves!

How could such a thing be?

But it seems that it might be.

Do the free men not attend the auctions, do they not scout the exposition cages, do they not saunter to the gates, to witness the arriving coffles, to see the former free women of another city being marched naked to local markets, do they not want a shapely collar slut trembling at their slave ring, do they not frequent the paga taverns, and surely not always for conversation or kaissa. How detestable, think the free women, are slaves! How horrifying to want to be owned, to want to belong to a man, wholly, and desire to love and serve him, forever, abjectly, and unquestioningly, to the best of one’s ability! And how terrible men are that they should unaccountably prefer a cringing collar beauty, perhaps shackled, desperate to please them wholly, and as a female, to one of their own kind, forward, noble, splendid, proud, and free. What is so special about their terrified, groveling rival, licking and kissing at her master’s feet, with her marked thigh, and band-encircled throat? What could she, a slave, an animal, possibly have, or offer, that might begin to compete with the accorded favor of a free woman, standing on her dignity, and jealous of her rights? Why then, given such clear options, between the noble and the worthy, and the despicable and the meaningless, will men seek the despicable and the meaningless, the slave? Why then will they seek so zealously to leash and bracelet her, the slave, to rope her, hand and foot, to kneel her, to collar her? Why will they bid so zealously, and recklessly, to purchase her? Why do they fight to possess such things? Why are they willing to kill for them?

I cried out in sudden sharp pain. I knew the stroke. It was across my right shoulder. I had felt it often enough when I had displeased the instructresses, or made some error in diction, serving, position, or such. It was the result of a blow not from some child’s makeshift implement, a plaything, a pretended disciplinary device, but from an actual device of the sort his diversion mimicked, a supple, nicely crafted leather switch, an instrument designed to improve the discipline and service of a female slave. We most fear the whip but it is not pleasant, either, I assure you, to feel the corrective blow of the switch.

We will do much to please our masters!

“Sluts!” I heard, a woman’s angry voice. “Sluts! Sluts!”

I heard the sound of more blows, cries of pain.

“Wriggle to that!” screamed the woman. “Jump to the pleasure of that, you filthy sluts!”

“Please forgive us, Mistress!” cried a member of the coffle. But this plea, I gathered, did no more than earn its source another two or three blows.

I had been informed by the instructresses that free women were to be feared. If accosted by one, particularly if accosted unpleasantly, it is wise not only to kneel, as before a man, to ascertain his interests, intentions, or wishes, perhaps he wishes directions, or such, but to put one’s head to her feet, to, in effect, assume first obeisance position. In no way, either by word, tone of voice, act, expression, or attitude is one to show the least disrespect. The slightest suggestion of such a thing may result in severe and prolonged punishment. The woman is free, while one is a slave.

“She-tarsks!” cried the woman. “She-tarsks! She-tarsks!”

I heard the sound of more blows, cries of pain.

“Oh!” I wept, struck as well.

“Let them alone,” said a man.

“There are better things to do with little vulos than beat them,” said a fellow.

“Yes,” cried the woman. “You would know about that!”

“Mercy, Mistress!” begged one of the slaves. “Oh!” she cried, struck.

I was silent. I sensed the figure pass me.

Some fellow off to my right began to sing a little song about “Tastas.”

“Be silent!” screamed the woman.

“Demetrius will be home soon,” said a fellow, reassuringly.

I and one or two others were then struck again. I bent over, as I could, for the chain, cringing.

“Move the chain,” said someone to the side. “Move the chain.”

There was laughter.

“Give me back the switch!” screamed the woman. “Give me back the switch!”

“Move the chain!” a fellow urged, again.

“Step!” said one of the guards, and, gratefully, we moved forward.

“Give me the switch!” demanded the woman, now behind us.

We hurried forward, as we could.

I remembered a remark from one of the instructresses. I had not been more than two days in the house. “Be beautiful, and desirable,” she had said. “It is the men who will protect you.”

“Please the men,” said another. “It is the men to whom you will belong.”

“They will protect you from the women,” said another.

“If you are pleasing,” added another.

I was frightened from what I had heard of free women. I resolved to be pleasing to the men, as pleasing as I could be, and I understood what that meant, to be as pleasing as one could, and as a slave.

Soon the coffle was stopped, and, apparently, one individual was removed from it. We then continued on our way

I shortly became aware that another was removed from the coffle. We were apparently being delivered to different addresses. Some of the girls might have been purchased within the house. Usually a girl is sold in-house when the price offered seems clearly superior to what might be expected from vending her off an open block. Too, such a sale requires few arrangements, and little time. Sometimes, too, the capture and enslavement of a woman has been arranged by an enemy or admirer, and, in such a case, it is usually that particular woman that is wanted. She may have been paid for in advance, the price having been earlier negotiated and agreed upon. There is little difficulty in delivering such women through the streets, as they are hooded. Rich men, to whom money is of less interest than what it might purchase, sometimes buy in-house, putting out three or four times what a girl might bring in the open market. But most on the coffle, I supposed, and perhaps all, were being delivered to local markets, some possibly owned by the house itself.

As girls were removed from the coffle, their chaining, with the bracelets and coffle collars, was hung about the neck and shoulders of others. In the vicinity of the Tenth Ahn, as I guessed, I was alone, several loops of chaining, and such, slung about me or wrapped about my body. This was not pleasant, but, too, it was not much of a burden, as the chain was light, being girl chain. We were quite helpless in such bonds, but a man, it seemed, or some men, might have been able to pull apart such links. This is a way in which a woman may begin to understand that she is not a man. The sexes are quite different, and on Gor such picayune details have their role in helping to make the distinction clear. One is suitably master; one is suitably slave.

I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder.

I was also aware that the chaining which I was carrying was being unlooped, and unwound, from my body.

I gathered I was at my destination, wherever it might be. I did not inquire, of course. I did not wish to be struck. I had not been given permission to speak.

There had been two guards with the coffle.

One or both must now carry the chaining and such back to the house.

In the beginning, hooded, I did not know the number of beads on the small necklace. Counting their removal, and adding myself, there had been six.

I felt the coffle collar removed.

I stood there.

Now I was only hooded, and back-braceleted.

I felt a man’s hand on my left arm. “There are steps here, kajira,” he said. He then guided me, carefully, and assisted me up some five or six steps, onto a circular platform, cement, it seemed, but covered with a carpet, or heavy cloth, and then to the left. I heard a gate open, I would see later it was one of bars, and was conducted through it. Within he removed his hand from my arm, and I stood still. I stood on cement. The bracelets were removed.

“You have the papers?” a voice asked.

“Here,” said the guard.

I heard a movement of papers.

“Barbarian,” said the first voice.

“Yes,” said the guard.

“Is she any good,” asked the first voice.

“I do not know,” said the guard. “I have not put her to slave use.”

“I see she is red-silk,” said the first voice. That, I thought, must be on the papers. What right had they to know that?

“Recently,” said the guard.

“Good,” said the first voice. “There is no place for virgins here.”

I heard feminine laughter, from a few feet away.

On the whole, they had not been unkind to me in the Room of White-Silk. I had been handled with authority, of course, and was left in no doubt that I was within the grasp of masters, Gorean masters. I was not sure how many, as I had been hooded, had utilized me for slave pleasure, as some may have done so more than once. It was done to me in various ways. I was not freed of the ankle shackle until they were finished with me, and left, and the instructresses summoned, to unhood me and conduct me to my new domicile, a small, iron cage. I had occupied that cage, at night, until this morning, and my hooding and coffling. The cushions and furs in the Room of White-Silk had been deep. Occasionally the wrist and ankle rings were used, perhaps to accustom me to helpless slave service. I could still remember the feel of the heavy bar of the trestle against my belly. Toward the end, when I was half drunk, lost between confusion and disbelief, with the shocking and flooding of my belly, scarcely able to feel, I was thrown to the cushions and, for a time, left alone.

“Masters?” I said.

Were they done with me?

I was aware of blood on my thigh.

Some of it had been thrust to my lips, and into my mouth, that I might taste my virgin blood, which could be shed but once.

“Masters?” I whispered. Were they still in the room?

Strong hands put me on my back, over the cushions, my head back, and down. My ankles were pulled apart, widely. I left them as they had been placed. I supposed I was again to be put to use, routine, meaningless, forcible use.

I waited.

I did not know how many times it had been done to me.

Then I felt a gentle, soft, moist, caressing touch, and I cried out, startled, drew my legs together, as I could, and reached out, and felt my fingers close in a man’s hair.

“Oh,” I said, softly.

Surely such a caress would never be inflicted on a free woman. It would be disgracefully inappropriate to subject a free woman to such an indignity. It might pull them out of themselves, and make them beg for the collar. It was not for free women. It was fit only for slaves.

“Please, Master,” I whispered. “Again!”

“Oh, yes!” I whispered, my fingers in his hair.

At least, I thought, I was not chained helplessly in place. It was hard to imagine what might be the sensations which a master might inflict, even casually, upon a helpless slave, one wholly at his mercy, their subtlety, their variety, their length, and nature.

How helpless she would be, so in his power!

I feared to be so chained. I wanted to be so chained!

How many ways a man has to conquer a woman I thought, the chain, the whip, the switch, the commanding her to her knees, her lips to his feet, a gesture, admitting no questioning, the casting to her of a rag, fit only for a slave, the ordering of her to her tasks, the masterful seizure of her beauty, a kind word, a caress!

“More, more, more, Master!” I begged. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, Master!”

Well now was I aware of how I might have responded had they been concerned less to routinely open a young slave and had they been more patient, slower, less merciful. What if they had been tortuously slow, reading my body, playing upon it, as on a czehar or kalika, bringing forth what music they wished? Could I help what I was, female, and slave? A thousand modalities attend the mastership, and the slave learns a thousand yieldings, and submissions. She may be seized, and put to use in any place, at any time, in any way. She may be used abruptly, and cast aside, and rejoices to have been granted even so much. Does this not inform her, to her delight, that she is a slave? This thrills her that she is such, only slave, that she may be so used. And she may be utilized at length, should he wish, for Ahn at a time. The master may put aside days for slave sport, mastering her in a hundred ways at his leisure. She learns the blindfold, the gag, ropes, wrapped silken cords, thongs, bracelets, and chains. She learns to bring the master the whip in her teeth, crawling to him, on all fours. She cooks, and sews, launders and cleans, and he may observe her at her lowly, servile tasks, until he summons her to his arms, that she may attend to her truest task, the pleasing and pleasuring of her master. She will bathe him, and he may comb her hair. Her garmenture, if she be granted such, depends upon his will. He may dress her and undress her, considering how she may best be displayed. He is concerned with her appearance. In the promenades she must look well on her leash. Perhaps he will have her taught the kalika, or dance, dance such as is appropriate for such as she, slave dance.

“Please, more, Master!” I begged.

Had I been capable of wondering, on Earth, if I were a slave, a rightful slave, a slave by nature? How foolish now seemed such abstract, idle ruminations! It was now confirmed upon me, that I, the former Allison Ashton-Baker, was a slave, and not only by law, however absolute that legal shackle might be, but by right, by nature! Not only was I slave, but I needed to be a slave!

“Master?” I asked, within the hood, the light of a lamp dimly sensed through the closed, buckled artifact.

I lifted my belly, pathetically, piteously, shamelessly, in the darkness.

“Masters?” I said.

But they were gone.

Later the instructresses came to free me of the shackle, and conduct me from the room. They did not ask me anything. I was left alone with my thoughts.

I stood now, hands free, but hooded, on the cement flooring of what I supposed to be a holding area, or cell, of some sort.

There were some about, at least two men, and some women.

I tried to stand proudly.

I was chagrined with how I had behaved, particularly later, in the Room of White-Silk.

I resolved that I must never again behave as might have a slave.

I must never again let myself be so shamed.

I found it hard to believe that I had begged. How shameful! Happily that lapse would remain a secret of the house. I resolved that that indiscretion must never be repeated.

But even in my righteous self-castigations, which I, of Earth, deemed I should proclaim, at least to myself, and even behind the fragile curtain of that resolve which I thought to interpose between what I supposed I should be and what I suspected I was, there seemed a subtle, elusive whispering, mocking and insistent, kajira, kajira. Then I stood less proudly, and lowered my head. Already, in the scarlet swirl of memory, rising and falling like some warm fluid, I was uneasy. In my belly were clear stirrings. Had I not sensed the beginning of such things, even before my red-silking? Does not being barefoot, tunicked, and collared have its effect, in knowing that one, so degraded, is a slave? What was going on in my body? How was I changing? What had been done to me? I remembered the arms of the guards, so strong about me, I so weak in their grasp. And I remembered those last, brief sensations, casually bestowed on a slave, so unexpected, so different, so startling, so irresistible, which I had so wanted to have prolonged, which I had piteously begged might be continued. Something within me knew, or suspected, that such things might be not only riches in themselves, exquisite and transformative, but were, as well, the promise, the hint, of something beyond them, the explosions and creations of worlds.

What right had I, I asked myself, to arrogate to myself the prerogatives and prides of the free woman?

And the slave, I reminded myself, does not belong to herself. She belongs to her master. She has no self to defend, no honor to preserve, no person to strive to keep isolated and inviolate.

I am not a free woman, I thought.

In a sense, I have never been one.

I was not free.

I did not want to be free.

I was content to be a shamed slave. It was what I was and wanted to be. Then I was no longer chagrined at my behavior in the Room of White-Silk. I regretted only that I might not have been as pleasing as possible to the masters.

Too, I had begun to suspect what I might become, and was willing to become, and wanted to become, in their arms, a slave.

The hood was removed, and I drew in a deep breath, and shut my eyes against the hurtful light.

Some cloth was thrust against me, and I took it.

Blinking, clutching the cloth, I looked about myself.

I was in a cell, a relatively small cell, about eight feet square, with a wall of bars on one side, facing a street. The floor of the cell was some four feet above the level of the street. In this way what was in the cell, given the bars, could be easily viewed from the street. To the left of the bars was a cement platform, at the same level as the floor of the cell, too, about four feet high, on which was spread a worn, soiled scarlet rug. There were steps on the outside leading up to this circular, cement platform, the steps which I had doubtless recently ascended, assisted by the guard. The guards had gone. A barred gate, to the left of the cell, would open to a small passage, which connected with the platform. It was through this passage that I had been introduced into the cell.

I looked about. There were six other girls in the cell. I looked up at a large man, stripped to the waist, who was regarding me.

He would be a slaver’s man.

I clutched the cloth.

Each of the girls wore a brief, wrap-around tunic, and each had, either about herself, or at hand, a short, white sheet.

What I held was such a tunic, and such a sheet.

“She is stupid,” laughed one of the girls.

I did not know what to do.

I desperately wanted to clothe myself. Now that I was not hooded, I was suddenly muchly aware of my nudity. I stood there in anguish. I did not have even a collar. What if someone should look into the cell, from the outside? I was, of course, well marked.

“How stupid,” said another girl.

“She is a barbarian,” said another.

“May I clothe myself, Master?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and turned away. In a moment he had left the cell, closing and locking the gate behind him.

I had remembered, belatedly, that a slave may not clothe herself without permission. Most slaves, of course, have a standing permission to clothe themselves, a permission which is subject to revocation by the master. It is a bit like speech. A slave is not to speak without permission, but many have a standing permission to speak, a permission which may, of course, be revoked at any time. For those who might be interested in such matters, the standing permission to clothe oneself is more often granted than the standing permission to speak. There are few things more likely to convince a woman of her bondage than the need to request permission to speak. Sometimes a standing permission to speak is revoked for a few Ahn or a day, or even a week, that she may be the better conscious that permission is required, and need not be granted. Perhaps she is desperate to speak. “May I speak, Master?” “No,” she is informed. She is then well reminded of her collar and mark.

I glanced through the bars, out to the street. There were men, and women, here and there, passing, and, at some stalls, shopping, these on the other side of the street, but none seemed interested in the cell, or its occupants.

I quickly, gratefully, drew the brief, wrap-around tunic about me, tucking it in on the side. It occurred to me how simply it might be parted, and removed. I then clutched the sheet about me. It came midway to my thighs.

The bars were sturdy, some six inches apart, reinforced every ten horts or so by horizontally placed, flat, narrow plates of ironwork. The cell would have held men.

That made me feel particularly helpless.

I looked out, through the bars. Save for the bars the wall was open. It was easy to look out, into the street. And I was very much aware, as well, obviously, that it would be as easy to look within. Anyone outside might simply look within, and see us. Given the shape of the cell, there was nowhere to hide. I was suddenly reminded of a shop window on Earth, a window before which passers-by might stop, and, at their leisure, peruse what might be for sale.

And I, and the others, would be for sale!

I looked to the other occupants, the other merchandise, six girls, in the cell. Each was in a wrap-around tunic. Four were brunets, and two blondes, one a darker blond, one lighter. None were collared. But I had no doubt each was well marked. Gorean merchants do not neglect such details.

I folded the sheet, and put it about my shoulders. I was tunicked, and the tunic, while “slave short,” was not unusual. A girl would not be likely to expect more, unless she were a lady’s serving slave.

I went to the bars, grasped them, and looked out.

I was not pleased with what I saw. This could be no high market. One might as well have been chained on a slave shelf!

Surely a mistake had been made.

This was not a market in which such as I was to be sold. This was surely not the Curulean, a market of which I had been apprised, a palace of an emporium with its statues, carvings, columns, fountains, tapestries, and cushioned tiers, with its exposition cages of silver bars, with its great, torch-lit, golden auditorium which might hold more than two thousand buyers, with its great central block, with its height and dignity, from which might be expertly vended even the stripped daughters of Ubars. I looked about. The slaver’s man was nowhere in sight. I must complain. I must call their attention to their mistake.

I thought of calling out, but thought the better of it.

What if there had been no mistake?

I had been the last on the coffle to be delivered.

I had dared to suppose then that I was the best, that saved for last. But what if I had been saved for last, as I had been thought not the best, but the least? Could it be that others might regard me as less beautiful, less desirable, than I regarded myself? Was I less beautiful, less desirable, than I had thought? Surely I had been regarded as one of the most beautiful girls in my sorority! But, of course, we had never been put beside Gorean slaves. I did not know my ranking in the coffle, nor if I had a ranking in the coffle. I had no idea of the quality of the coffle as I had been hooded.

I looked about.

“What do they call you?” asked one of the girls, one of the brunettes.

“Allison,” I said.

“You are a barbarian,” said one of the girls.

“I am from Earth,” I said.

“Where is Earth?” she asked.

“It is far away,” I said.

“Barbarians are ugly, and stupid,” said the darker blonde.

“I am neither ugly nor stupid,” I said.

“If she were ugly and stupid,” said another of the brunettes, “she would not have been put under the iron, she would not be here, she would not be kajira.” I could not place her accent.

“She has skinny legs,” said another of the brunettes.

“No,” said the brunette, she with the unusual accent, “they are shapely and slender. Many men like that.”

“Well,” said the first brunette, “they are well exposed.”

“True,” said the girl with the accent, “and it goes nicely with her height.”

I was not especially tall. I was of medium height. Nora was taller than I. So, too, was Jane. I had been a bit taller than Eve. I was pleased to hear that my legs might be acceptable to a man. Some doubtless bought with such things in mind.

“I do not want to be sold with a barbarian,” said the light blonde. “It is humiliating.”

“I would rather be sold with a barbarian than with you, traitress!” snarled the darker blonde.

“I was high in the Merchants!” said the light blonde.

“And you are now yourself merchandise,” laughed one of the brunettes.

Tears brightened the eyes of the light blonde.

“You are fortunate to be such,” said another of the brunettes. “You misread your politics. You thought Ar irrecoverably fallen. You betrayed your Home Stone, as much as Talena of Ar or Flavia of Ar. You cast your lot with the occupation, abetting their crimes, conniving with the enemy, flattering officers, feasting and jesting, profiteering, exploiting a starving citizenry, battening on the misery of a confused, leaderless, beaten, subdued populace.”

“One must do what one can! One must look out for one’s self!” wept the light blonde.

“You did not know Marlenus would return,” said one of the brunettes, unpleasantly.

“None did,” said another.

“I am not a slave,” wept the light blonde. “I am the Lady Persinna, high in the Merchants, the Lady Persinna of Four Towers!”

One of the brunettes laughed. “Listen to the branded piece of collar meat,” she said.

“No!” said the former Lady Persinna.

“You are now only goods, goods, slut,” said one of the brunettes.

“No! No!” said the former Lady Persinna.

“And you are fortunate to be goods,” said the darker blonde. “You were on the proscription lists. You should have been impaled!”

“Perhaps you were saved because you had pretty flanks,” said one of the brunettes.

“Perhaps,” said another, “because someone wanted you at his slave ring.”

She who had been the former Lady Persinna paled. Perhaps she knew of someone of which such a suggestion might be true.

I understood little of this at the time, but it became clearer later. Before I had been brought to Gor it seems a revolution had taken place in the city, Ar, in which upheaval an occupying force deriving from, or given fee by, the island ubarates of Cos and Tyros, and perhaps other states, had been ejected. It seems that a former Ubar, one named Marlenus, had returned from banishment or exile, or some prolonged absence, had rallied the city, and, in several days of fierce and bloody fighting, had cast out the invaders. Even while war was waged in the streets proscription lists had been posted and many traitors, profiteers, and such, hundreds, were seized by maddened citizens and publicly impaled. Later, the invaders flighted and the blood lust of an outraged citizenry largely spent, numbers of surviving profiteers and collaborators, as apprehended, were placed in several underground dungeons scattered throughout the city. Many were later executed by impalement, but others were embonded, men usually destined to the quarries or galleys, and women remanded to slave houses.

“It must be near the Tenth Ahn,” said a brunette.

I supposed that so. There were few shadows in the street. So what did it matter, if it were near the Tenth Ahn, noon?

Was that, in some way, important?

One girl, one of the brunettes, went to stand near the bars, sideways, fingering her hair. I saw her smile at a fellow, who seemed scarcely to notice, and did not stop from his way. She tossed her head, annoyed. Her sheet was at her ankles. Another girl stood at the bars, her hands over her head, holding to the bars, her sheet about her shoulders. Her hands might have been fastened there. She had her right cheek pressed against a bar. Another girl, one of the brunettes, now sat a bit back from the bars, her head up and back, leaning back on her hands, her knees slightly bent, her legs extended. Then she would sit differently, her knees drawn up, her hands clasped about them, looking out, between the bars. Her sheet was beside her. The dark blonde now reclined back, a few feet from the bars, on one elbow, on her sheet, her legs partly extended, one more than the other, looking out. She did this in such a way that the view of her between the bars would not be much obstructed by the positions of the other girls. It seemed she would not be much interested in what might lie outside the bars. What was that to her? Her attention seemed casual, at best. I suddenly recalled that I had been taught that pose. It is languid, but seductive. It lifts the hip nicely, in such a way that the hip-waist curve is nicely emphasized, this drawing attention to the promising delights of her love cradle.

I, and two others, were now at the back of the cell, by the rear cement wall. I and the brunette who had spoken for me were standing. To my right, kneeling, was the light blonde, a lovely female, the former Lady Persinna, of the Merchants. I supposed someone would be glad to get his hands on her. She seemed to be trying to make herself small. She was frightened. I, too, was frightened. The brunette with us, too, seemed frightened.

I gathered that this might have something to do with the approach of the Tenth Ahn.

“Look at them,” whispered the former Lady Persinna, regarding the others, the other three brunettes, and the dark blonde, all nearer the wall of bars. “See them! See them, the disgusting sluts!”

“They are slaves,” said the brunette with us.

“Disgusting sluts!” said the former Lady Persinna.

“You, too, are a slave,” said the brunette.

“No,” said the blonde. “I am free, a free woman! I am the Lady Persinna, of the Merchants, of Four Towers.”

“If you wish to obtain a good master,” said the brunette, “perhaps you, too, should strive to present yourself well, subtly, of course.”

“No, no!” said the blonde.

“You are not so presenting yourself,” I observed.

“No,” said the brunette. “I am afraid.”

“I, too, am afraid,” I said.

“I do not want to be sold,” she said.

“Nor I,” I said.

Yet what else might we expect, as we were slaves?

My feelings concerning my bondage, at that time, as you may have surmised, were highly ambivalent. I was frightened to be a slave. Did it not hold its terrors, to be a property, to be owned! Yet I knew myself a woman who should be a property, who should be owned! I knew that I was a slave, and should be a slave. My entire Earth conditioning had informed me that I should lament my bondage, that I should regard it as a condition of unmitigated misery and woe. But I knew in my heart this was far from so. I could not, and would not, speak for all women, but I could speak for myself. And why should I allow others to speak for me, to tell me how I should feel, to decide how I should be? I was a female. I wanted to belong to a man, a master, wholly and unconditionally, to be his in the fullest sense that a female can belong to a man, as his rightless slave. Nothing short of this could fulfill the secret needs of my heart. But now, to my terror, on this world, it was done. I was a slave! I would be subject to a collar, and bonds, the rightless chattel of a master! The sense of this was devastating and overwhelming. And I would have nothing to say as to my disposition. This frightened me, alarmed me, terribly, but, too, as I waited with the others, in the cell, filled with a slave’s anxiety and apprehension, knowing she may soon be sold, I felt an unspeakable thrill. And then, again, I was terrified! Here, on this world, I was only a slave!

“They cannot sell me, they cannot sell me,” said the former Lady Persinna.

“You are mistaken,” said the brunette.

“Your accent is not like that of the others,” I said to the brunette.

“I am of the islands, from Tabor,” she said.

“A tabor is a drum,” I said.

“It is from the shape of the island,” she said. “I and others were taken at sea, by corsairs of Port Kar, not more than five pasangs from shore.”

“They were bold,” I said.

“They were of Port Kar,” she said.

I knew little of Gor. I had heard of Port Kar. It was well to the north and west, where the waterways of the Vosk’s delta drained into the Tamber Gulf, the city’s sea walls fronting the gulf on the south, Thassa, the sea, on the west. Was it not from the sea gates of Port Kar that the galleys of the dreaded Bosk, Bosk of Port Kar, clove the dark waters of restless Thassa?

“At least,” she said, “I was not sold in Port Kar.”

It is said the chains of a slave girl are heaviest in Port Kar.

“You must have been sold, several times,” I said.

“From one slaver to another,” she said, “not like this.”

“It is my understanding that none here are virgins,” I said.

“Perhaps the Lady Persinna,” she said.

“No,” said the light blonde, bitterly. “I was first opened in a dungeon, where I lay chained in the darkness.”

“No time was wasted with me, or the others,” said the brunette. “We were first used on the deck of the corsair itself.”

I shuddered.

“What of you?” she asked.

“In a slave house,” I said, “recently, in a room set aside for the red-silking of virgin slaves.”

“How was it?” she asked.

I was silent.

“I see,” she said.

“Beasts gather,” said the light blonde.

I looked out. Some men had approached the circular cement platform to the left of the cell, four or five.

I saw there were tears in the eyes of the brunette. “Who will own me?” she asked.

The brunette who had been seated, her chin on her clasped, raised knees, now rose to her feet and stretched, lifting her hands over her head, and arching her back.

“The slut!” whispered the former Lady Persinna.

Two or three more men had now joined the few near the platform.

“It is near the Tenth Ahn, I am sure,” said the brunette with us.

The girl who was to the left, at the bars, put her hair back, about her shoulders, and then pressed a bit, softly, against the bars.

That, I supposed, the softness against the iron, the helplessness of the softness, confined, and such, would excite a fellow. She was a confined female, who would be for sale. In my training I had been chained from time to time, in one way or another, utterly helplessly, perfectly, by guards. It was clear my helplessness stimulated them. And I am sure that they, Goreans, realized that my vulnerability, my utter helplessness, stimulated me, as well. There are, after all, masters, and there are slaves.

There were now four slaves, the three brunettes and the dark blonde, at the bars. Three were standing, and one kneeling, one of the brunettes, who was clutching the bars.

There were now some ten or eleven men outside the bars. They were close. I was reminded of visitors at a zoo, peering through the bars. The analogy was imperfect, of course, as we were for sale. A better analogy would doubtless be a sales kennel.

One of the fellows reached through the bar and seized a brunette’s ankle. “Oh!” she protested, trying to draw back, but she could not free herself of the grip. He then released her, grinning.

“Buy me first, Master,” she said.

There was laughter.

They are flirting, I thought, all of them. And is not flirting, I thought, even on my former world, an act of display, hinting, alluding, presenting oneself as something vivacious, attractive, sparkling, as something of interest, something worth investigating, and acquiring, an object of desire? I had muchly enjoyed such games, the suggesting, the teasing, the luring, the playing with the feelings of men, the sensing of the power of my beauty and its effect on them, how it could arouse, disturb, excite, and torment them, and then, when weary of the sport, the pleasure one could take in the chilling, the turning away, the feigned surprise and indignation. How I had despised the boys. How pleasant it was to make them suffer. But now I was a slave, and would probably belong to a man, one who might exact from me, at a mere snapping of fingers, everything that a frightened, docile slave might give. I did remember occasions when it was I who had been rebuffed. How that had stung! Did they think I was unworthy of them, because they were richer, of a better-known, more-distinguished family, or such? How I hated them! I did not think, really, on the other hand, that they were that immune to my charm, my beauty, and such. Now, I supposed, if they might recall me, and find me of some interest, they might buy me, and hide me from their wives.

“See them!” said the former Lady Persinna of the girls at the front of the cell, those near the bars. “Disgusting! Disgusting!”

It is a received wisdom that the higher the price for which one goes the more likely it is to obtain a richer, better-fixed master, and to find oneself in a larger, better-appointed, wealthier household where the labors are likely to be lighter and less frequent. Accordingly, it is recommended, as a prudential matter, to display oneself in one’s sale as attractively as possible. There is much to be said for this, particularly when one might be sold at night, under torchlight, and one cannot well make out the buyers, save for some on the first tiers. One often hears only the calls from the darkness. Who is bidding? One might discover one’s master only when one is unhooded, in a strange domicile.

It is not unknown, of course, even on my world, for a girl to barter her beauty for gain, for access to exclusive, desirable precincts, to use it in such a way that it might obtain for her advantages and advancement, to win for her wealth and position, and such. Surely I and my sisters in the sorority were well aware of such things. I certainly endeavored to apply my beauty to such purposes, if unsuccessfully, as did they. If one were to obtain our beauty, one would pay our price. We had no intention of selling ourselves cheaply. And how furious I had been when my overtures, so to speak, had been rejected, or worse, ignored. Could they not see the value of what I was offering? On Gor, of course, to my chagrin, I realized that the profit on my beauty, if any, would accrue not to me, but to another. It is that way when one is oneself merchandise. Still, it is commonly to one’s advantage, as noted, to present oneself well on the block, hoping thereby to obtain a richer master, a better house, lighter duties, and such. Yet, at times, how meaningless are these prudential, mercenary considerations! Does the slave not hope that she will be purchased by a strong, handsome, powerful, virile master, rich or not, who will know well what to do with her, before whom she will know herself well in her collar? Are we not all looking for the master who will weaken our knees and heat our thighs, the master before whom we know we can be only slave, and desire to be no more? And what, too, of the love slave and the love master? In such cases, who can understand the mysterious chemistries involved? Let us suppose that a fellow is examining women on a slave shelf. They are kneeling, cringing, shackled, head down. Who can explain how it is that he, pulling up the head of one after another, by the hair, that her features may be examined, suddenly pauses, startled. What is different about this particular cringing, shackled slave? How is she different from another? She looks up, her eyes widened. He sees before him, his hand in her hair, his love slave, and she, looking up, tears in her eyes, for the first time, sees her love master. How is she more than merely another helpless, cringing, shackled slave, and how is he more than merely another male, another possible buyer, in his robes, so free, and strong, looking down on her? But he has found his love slave, and she, to her joy, has been found by her love master. Who can explain such things? Perhaps he has been keeping a collar for just such a one? Certainly a girl can attempt to interest a buyer; consider the differential zeal of the “Buy me, Masters,” as one fellow or another peruses a sales line; but, in the end, despite our efforts and hopes, we are not the buyers, but the bought. It is they who will choose, not we.

“Ah!” cried one of the slaves.

The bar had begun its sounding.

Some more men began to move toward us, gathering about the circular cement platform.

“It is the Tenth Ahn!” said the darker blonde.

There were few shadows in the street now. Tor-tu-Gor was at its zenith.

The former Lady Persinna burst into tears, and put her head in her hands. I wondered that one such as she, one apparently once of some prominence, was with us. I clutched the sheet more closely about me. I wished it was longer. My legs were not well concealed. Was it to demean her that she was put with us? Or did some estimate her beauty as equivalent to ours, worthy only of such a vending? I wondered if some might be interested in her, tracking her, informing themselves as to her market, and time of sale. I supposed that some men, for reasons other than her beauty and her promise as a slave, might be interested in obtaining her, perhaps an enemy, perhaps one reduced or ruined by her in her time of power, perhaps one she had once slighted, and did not even recall. Perhaps some lowly clerk once in her employ, mistreated, despised, scorned, and overworked, had saved some money and thought it might be pleasant to have her, once so socially and economically superior to him, chained at the foot of his couch.

I heard the second and third soundings of the bar.

Outside, approaching, I saw the slaver’s man, he stripped to the waist.

The bar was struck again.

That sound would carry for better than two or three pasangs, and I could hear, in the distance, other bars, taking up the ringing.

“I do not even know where I am,” I said to the girl from Tabor.

“The Metellan district,” she said.

“I do not even know the city,” I said, in misery. Curiosity, I recalled, was not becoming in a kajira.

“Ar, of course,” said she from Tabor.

I had thought that. But why had I not been told that in the house? Was that not a simple enough thing to tell a girl?

Ar, I knew from my reading, was the largest city in the northern hemisphere of Gor. It was the center of many trade routes. I was to be sold in Ar! Given the size of the city, and its many markets, I supposed it constituted a major market. Certainly it would be a convenient, easy place in which to sell a slave.

“What is the Metellan district?” I asked.

“Look about you,” she said. “I am from Tabor.”

I groaned.

The bar rang again.

“It is a shabby district,” she said, “but there are many worse, worse, and more dangerous. It is not much patrolled. Many free women arrange their trysts and assignations to take place in this district. It is a popular venue for such ventures. Few questions are asked. Little, if any, attention is paid to strangers.”

She was surely much better informed than I.

Perhaps her former masters had been less strict with her.

The bar sounded twice more.

Several men, now some twenty or so, perhaps more, had gathered about the circular platform.

“We will soon be on the block,” said the girl from Tabor.

“That circle of cement,” I said, “that is the block?”

“Of course,” she said. “This is not a high market.”

“Are we worth so little?” I asked.

“Ask the masters,” she said.

The bar rang again.

The former Lady Persinna was weeping.

I saw a small, wiry fellow, with a straggly beard, in soiled blue and yellow robes, approaching. He wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve. In his right hand he held an implement I recognized well. It was a switch.

“It is he who will auction us,” said the girl from Tabor.

That seemed likely to me.

Certainly he wore the colors of the Slavers.

The small fellow, at the foot of the platform, conferred briefly with the slaver’s man.

I did not know if the small fellow owned the market, or owned us, or both. For all I knew I was still owned by the house, and I was merely being vended through this outlet, and the small fellow might be merely a professional auctioneer, hired for each sale. I supposed, beside his fee, he might receive some sort of commission on the sales. That meant he would be likely to do his best to get a good price. It also suggested to me that he might, then, be quick with his switch.

“I will not go on that block,” said the Lady Persinna, resolutely, sobbing.

“You will,” the girl from Tabor assured her.

“No!” she said.

“Have you ever felt the slave whip?” asked the girl from Tabor.

The former Lady Persinna paled.

“If summoned, you will hasten to the block,” said the girl from Tabor. “And you will smile, pose, and perform.”

“As a slave?” she moaned.

“As any slave,” said the girl from Tabor.

“No, no,” whispered the former Lady Persinna.

I wondered what she would bring, standing on that scarlet rug, on the platform, being displayed.

I recalled that on Earth it had been speculated that I would sell for between forty and sixty. I had supposed, at the time, that meant between forty and sixty thousand dollars. Here I conjectured that I might sell for between forty and sixty pieces of gold, or, given this market, and that I was not much trained, and was a new slave, perhaps only between forty and sixty silver tarsks.

The bar rang again, I think the ninth ring.

Would she bring more than I? I did not think so. She was a mere barbarian, a scion of a primitive culture, and I was a civilized woman of Earth, of the upper classes, young, beautiful, educated, intelligent, sensitive, well-bred, refined, now somehow inexplicably entrapped in a barbarian world, a world where I was denied the protection of the law, a world where my Earth rights were not only ignored, but did not exist. On this world I was a property. Thus, here, the law, in all its power and rigor, in all its weight and majesty, would be used not for me but against me, for example, to hunt me down and return me to a master.

“I can hardly stand,” I said. “I can hardly move. I will be unable to perform, even should I try to do so.”

“This is a low market,” said the girl from Tabor. “They may ask little of us. We may only have to stand, and turn.”

“At least,” I said, “we have our tunics, the sheets.”

“Now,” she said.

“Now?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

I recalled that the bar had again sounded.

“The bar rang,” I said. “It was the ninth ringing, the ninth stroke, was it not?”

“I think so,” she said.

“What if we are not sold?” I asked.

“The masters would be displeased,” she said. “It is common to whip a girl who is not sold.”

“I see,” I said, frightened.

“One then tries, the next time, desperately, to be sold.”

I was suddenly overcome with the sense of my helplessness. I was wholly at the mercy of others. Anything could be done with me! How was it that I, a woman of Earth, was here, in a cell, on another world, with a marked thigh, caged with slaves? And how could it be that I, of Earth, was here, on this other world, also a slave, as much as they?

“I do not want to be sold!” I said.

“Do you wish to be whipped?” she asked.

“No, no!” I said.

“Then you should want to be sold,” she said.

“I am afraid,” I said.

“That is not unusual,” she said. “One does not know who will buy one, before whom one must kneel.”

Once again the bar rang out.

I seemed to feel the ringing in my whole body.

I looked out, through the bars.

And I said to myself, be silent, slave. You know that it is here that you belong, here with a marked thigh, in a cell, waiting to be sold.

This is right for you.

No, no, I whispered to myself.

Yes, yes, I thought.

Are you a slave, I asked myself, sternly.

Yes, Mistress, I whispered to myself, I am a slave.

I then well knew myself, though of Earth, a slave, a common slave.

I looked to the girl from Tabor.

“Perhaps someone from Tabor will buy you, and free you,” I said.

“You know little of Gor,” she said.

“He would not free you?” I asked.

“My left thigh bears the slave mark,” she said.

“Even so,” I said.

“Apparently you know little of Gor,” she said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“I was once a free woman,” she said. “Men much enjoy keeping former free women as helpless slaves.”

“But,” I protested.

“I am marked,” she said.

“So?” I said.

“My own family would not free me,” she said. “They would see that I was sold elsewhere, in my shame and degradation.”

I regarded her.

“I am marked,” she said. “Are you not marked?”

“Yes,” I said, “I am marked.”

“Then understand it,” she said. “You are no longer what you were.”

I suddenly became aware that the bar was no longer sounding.

The short fellow had ascended to the height of the cement platform.

“Noble Masters, noble Masters, noble Masters,” he called, “approach, approach, gather about!”

Some twenty, or so, fellows were already clustered about the platform. Some others, from across the street, now approached.

“We have here for your consideration, and delectation, this lovely afternoon, seven beauties!”

There was laughter.

“The finest beads drawn from the finest of the slavers’ necklaces, each worthy of the central block of the Curulean, each fit for the Pleasure Garden of a Ubar,” said the auctioneer.

There was more laughter.

“Pot girls!” jibed a fellow.

“Have you not, several of you, examined these beauties earlier in the morning, and pondered your bids?”

“Yes,” said a fellow, “a copper tarsk for the lot!”

“You may ask,” said the auctioneer, “how is it that such goods, goods of such quality, could be offered here?”

“No other market would have them!” called a fellow.

“It is true, noble Masters, that our modest market, as the slave shelves, is noted for its bargains,” said the auctioneer, “but that is your good fortune and our pleasure, to serve you better. Would you not prefer to pay less for more? Would you not be pleased to obtain an exquisite pleasure slave, trim, responsive, and vital, for the price of a pot girl, a kettle-and-mat girl? Those who know how to buy know where to buy, and here is where to buy!”

“Begin!” called a man.

“Slaves,” called the auctioneer, “come to the bars, smile, press against them, reach out to the noble masters. Good. Can you not see, noble Masters, how ready they are, how they hope to be well purchased?”

I, the girl from Tabor, and the kneeling blonde, shaking with sobs, the former Lady Persinna, of the Merchants, remained at the back of the cell.

I saw the slaver’s man looking at us, from the level of the street. I shuddered. The girl from Tabor saw him, too. She then hurried to the bars, to join the other slaves. I saw her straighten her body, and lift her chin. She was beautiful.

“You may plead, needful beauties, to be purchased,” the auctioneer informed the girls.

“Buy me, Master,” they called to the men.

I saw the dark blonde extending both her hands through the bars, and call out, piteously, to a handsome fellow in the front row, “Buy me, Master!” He smiled. “I am prettier, Master!” called out one of the brunettes. “No, I, I, buy me, Master!” called out the dark blonde. I supposed it was pleasant to be a man, to whom women would beg to belong. I wondered what it would be, to be owned by him. One of my cellmates, I supposed, might learn. Perhaps I would learn! Other girls at the bars seemed to present themselves to one fellow or another. Most, I assumed, would fail to be purchased by the particular master of their choice. They would be purchased by whoever bid the most for them.

It is so with slaves.

It would be so with me.

“Enough!” called the auctioneer, suddenly, sharply. “Be silent. Go back in the cell, away from the bars! Huddle there, together, in the back, away from the bars. As you can, crowd together, and try to hide! Crowd together! Do not speak!”

Frightened, the girls did as they were told. All of us now were together, standing, except for the former Lady Persinna, who still knelt, perhaps unable to rise, toward the back of the cell, away from the bars.

We could not be seen so well now, for the bars, and the distance.

I supposed there was an order to the sales.

The slaver’s man entered the cell, took one of the brunettes by the wrist, and drew her from the cell, through the short passage, and led her to the block, where she stood, small, seeming isolated, much alone, though the auctioneer was near, on the red carpet.

The slaver’s man, he stripped to the waist, did not bother to close the gate, but none of us essayed the portal. We huddled together, at the back of the cell. One obeys the masters. Too, it would be unutterably foolish, insanity, to try to flee. We were tunicked, sheeted, and marked. What would one do? Where would one go? Where would one run? There is no escape for the Gorean slave girl, and I now well knew myself such.

“A choice item,” the auctioneer was saying. He extolled her, the brunette, as he turned her about. Shortly, he removed the sheet which she had clutched about her, continuing to exhibit her. Shortly thereafter he gracefully removed the wrap-around tunic, again turning her about.

She is merchandise, I thought.

It is said that only a fool buys a woman clothed.

He then put her to all fours on the red carpet.

“See her, noble Masters,” said the auctioneer. “Would you not like her crawling to your feet, begging not to be whipped?”

He then began to solicit bids.

The dark blonde was next taken by the wrist and drawn to the block. The fellow she had tried to interest did not bid on her. A fat fellow purchased her. I saw her hold forth her wrists and slave bracelets were clapped on them. She then followed her new master. She looked over her shoulder at the fellow she had hoped would buy her, but he did not notice her. His attention was again on the block. I did not feel sorry for her, as she had been unpleasant to me earlier, in the cell.

The girl from Tabor was next brought to the block, and, as the others, exhibited. At one point, she put her hands behind the back of her head, and bent backward. This well exhibited her figure, which was lovely. Bids increased. She would be, doubtless, a good buy. How dare she so display herself, I thought. But, if she were not sold, I thought, she would be whipped. Slavers are seldom lenient with their goods. They are not out to coddle them, but to make coin on them. What if I were not sold? I did not wish to be bound, and whipped. To my right, the Lady Persinna, still kneeling, head down, was weeping, her head again in her hands. I, too, suddenly felt like crying. I looked about, wildly, at the open gate, then through the bars, to the street outside, to the men, intent upon the object for sale. I considered running. Then I moved back, even further. I felt the cement wall of the back of the cage against my back. I would remain where I was. Somehow, the gate open, I felt a thousand times more helpless than before.

I did not see to whom the girl from Tabor went.

The auctioneer, in his introduction of the item which was the girl from Tabor, had mentioned her origin on Tabor, and inquired if there might be any from Tabor present. Apparently there were none. The auctioneer then remarked that her slavery then would doubtless be far easier. Laughter had greeted this remark. I liked the girl from Tabor. She had spoken well to me, earlier in the cell, despite the fact that I was a “barbarian,” and, too, we were both, so to speak, far from home.

The slaver’s man again entered the cell, and looked about. I was terrified that it would be my wrist which he would seize, in his large, manacle-like hand. But he took another brunette.

She brought less than the girl from Tabor.

Perhaps, I thought, a girl from the islands, with her accent, would have an exotic flavor at a fellow’s slave ring.

The brunette was purchased, I gathered, for a restaurant, or tavern, of some sort. “May she serve her goblets well, and nicely grace the chains of your alcoves,” had said the auctioneer to her buyer, while his man led her down the steps to the street, into his keeping.

Next, to her misery, the Lady Persinna was seized and drawn to the block. She was clutching the short sheet closely about her, and was shrieking, and sobbing. “I cannot be sold!” she cried. “I am a free woman, a free woman!”

“What is it that she is saying?” asked the auctioneer.

“I am free,” she wept. “I am free!”

“Ah!” said the auctioneer. “Can it be that she is free?”

“Yes,” she cried. “Yes!”

The slaver’s man then, holding her by the upper left arm with his right hand faced her left side to the crowd.

“No!” she cried.

He then, with his left hand, drew up the sheet, and the hem of her tunic, to the waist.

There was much laughter.

“It seems we have here only another slave,” said the auctioneer.

The former Lady Persinna fell to her knees before the auctioneer, holding the sheet closely about her. “Do not sell me!” she cried.

“‘Do not sell me’ what?” inquired the auctioneer.

She looked stricken, before him. “Do not sell me-Master,” she said.

There was much laughter.

The slaver’s man pulled her to her feet. She clutched the sheet closely about her. It seemed she could hardly stand.

The auctioneer surveyed the crowd.

“What am I offered for this slave?” he asked.

“A tarsk-bit!” called a man.

“Surely more!” laughed the auctioneer. “Surely the sheet does not much hide the legs of this slave!”

She threw back her head, sobbing.

The auctioneer then gestured, annoyed, to his man, who seized the former Lady Persinna by the hair, to hold her in place, and then he, carefully, measuredly, cuffed her, twice, once snapping her head to the right, and then to the left.

“Be silent!” said the auctioneer.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

The slaver’s man then released her, and stepped back.

“We have an unusual slave here,” said the auctioneer. “This slut was once the Lady Persinna, of the high Merchants, housed even in Four Towers. You know her well for her betrayal of the Home Stone, for her profiteering, for her collaboration with the hated invaders. Recall the shortages, the high costs, the adulterated goods!”

Angry murmurs seethed in the small crowd.

Given the seeming importance of the former Lady Persinna I did not understand how it was that she was being vended in such a market.

Was it, in spite of its appearance, a high market?

Perhaps, I thought, for how could one such as I be sold in any but a high market? Surely I was much too beautiful to be sold in any but a high market. I was now muchly pleased that I had not complained about the market, earlier.

“Behold her,” said the auctioneer.

The former Lady Persinna stood, miserable, small, a slave, the sheet clutched about her.

Then, a moment later, looking about myself, at the buyers, the street, the local buildings, the crowded shops across the way, I realized how foolish were my conjectures. In no way could this barred cell and that circular cement platform be thought a high market. We might almost as well have been chained on a slave shelf, where buyers might have examined our teeth, felt our limbs for firmness, and such.

How then, I wondered, could it be that the former Lady Persinna was even now on that simple cement platform, before buyers?

“You know her sycophancy,” said the auctioneer, “her privileges, her position in the court of the hated Talena, false Ubara! You know the favors she received, the contracts accorded her by Cos and Tyros.”

“Yes,” said more than one man.

“She was on the proscription lists,” said the auctioneer, “but she has been saved for your pleasure.”

The girl held the sheet tightly about her.

The auctioneer lifted the hair of the slave, displaying it.

“Golden hair,” he said, “sparkling as ripe Sa-Tarna.”

“Shave her head!” called a man.

“Consider it as a sheet of pleasure, which might be spread about your body,” said the auctioneer, “or its value as a bond, fastening her wrists behind the back of her neck.”

“Cut it off,” said a fellow. “Use it for catapult cordage, that she may be good for something.”

“Throw her to leech plants!” called a man.

“Feed her to sleen!” cried another.

I knew nothing, at the time, of leech plants, and I had not yet beheld a sleen.

“Come now, noble Masters,” said the auctioneer, “regard her ankles, her calves, her small hands, so tight on the sheet, the exquisite delicacy of her features.”

The men were silent.

“What are we offered for this traitress?” called the auctioneer.

“Let us see her!” called a man.

The sheet was whipped away from the slave, half turning her about.

Then she was turned before the crowd.

She was praised, as one might praise an animal. Then I realized that, as a slave, she was an animal. And I realized that I, too, was now an animal.

This thrilled me, that I should now be no more than an animal.

The men cried out with pleasure, at the removal of the wrap-around tunic. Now, it seemed, there was no more talk of leech plants, of sleen, or such. What they saw now, it seemed, was a slave.

The former Lady Persinna was put to all fours on the red carpet, while the bids were forthcoming.

A little later, she cried out, in misery, and terror, from all fours, not permitted to rise. “No, no! Not to him! Not to him! Do not sell me to him! Please! Please! Sell me to anyone, but not to him!”

But it was to that fellow that she was sold.

He came to the edge of the platform. “Perhaps you remember me,” he said.

She would have scrambled back, on the carpet, but it was too late. The leash had been snapped on her neck.

I saw her being led away.

I now suspected that the fellow who had bought her, despite the shabbiness of his nondescript robes, had come prepared, in such a market, in such a district, to outbid all likely competition. Apparently he had realized she would be sold in this market on this day. I supposed that was not common knowledge. It seemed probable to me that this matter had been arranged, perhaps even with the collusion of a praetor, if not the Ubar himself. Perhaps the fellow had requested, or been granted, such a favor, that he would purchase the former Lady Persinna, to her humiliation, in a low market, for a handful of coins. Indeed, I wondered if the coins, even, were his. Perhaps it amused someone, perhaps an important personage, if the former Lady Persinna should find herself in the collar of that fellow, or someone like him.

Thus, I conjectured a plausible explanation for the apparent anomaly of one such as the former Lady Persinna, of the Merchants, of Four Towers, which, I gathered, must be an exclusive residence, or an exclusive residential area, being vended in such a market. It was to demean and humiliate her. Let her learn quickly, and well, that she was now only a slave.

As the slaves had been sold, even the former Lady Persinna, much in the street had gone on as it had before the Tenth Ahn. Many men, and women, had come and gone, and shopped, and bargained, without attending to, or, apparently, even noticing, what was going on on our side of the street. A sale of slaves, particularly in a low market, was a familiar, commonplace thing, I gathered, worthy of no particular attention. A lad, drawing a cart, had stopped for a time, to look on, but had then gone ahead.

Suddenly I was much aware that only two remained in the cell, myself and another brunette, a darker, taller brunette. I felt the back of the cell wall against my back. I looked to my left, to the opened gate.

The portal was empty.

The slaver’s man was at the foot of the circular platform. The auctioneer stood on the surface of the platform. A small breeze moved the blue-and-yellow robes. The auctioneer and the slaver’s man, and some of the others, as well, now turned about, were witnessing the departure of the former Lady Persinna, naked on her leash, and her master. Three or four of the fellows who had been at the platform were following the pair, jeering at the miserable slave. I saw her spat upon, and one fellow cast dirt upon her. The only bond she wore was her leash, and, with her hands, and arms, she tried to cover her head. The leash was not taut. She tried to follow her master as closely as she could. It is the master who will protect the slave, as any other animal, should he choose to do so. Her current master, however, seemed not to notice the abuse to which his lovely acquisition was subjected, and she, of course, not having been granted the appropriate permission, would not dare to speak.

Then, after a time, the fellows who had hung about the departing pair stood still, shook their fists, and, looking after the couple, the slave and her master, called out some final words, which, I gathered, may have been foul.

I knew little about the former Lady Persinna, or the affairs, political and otherwise, which had brought her to a tiny, readying cell in the Metellan district, but I hoped that her master would put a different name on her. Given the veiling, and half-veiling, particularly amongst higher-caste women, I would suppose that few in the city would recognize the former Lady Persinna in just another scantily clad collar-girl, one amongst many, hurrying about her errands, fearing to dally, in teeming Ar. Perhaps many might suppose the Lady Persinna had perished in the revolution, or in her imprisonment, in some obscure dungeon, perhaps strangled there, or had perhaps eventually met her end writhing on some obscure impaling stake. Perhaps her secret, that of her former identity, would be known to few. Indeed, perhaps, eventually, for most practical purposes, it would be a secret shared primarily between the slave and her master. Then, as she knelt, and kissed and licked at his feet, she might hope that he would not see fit to reveal her former identity. Could she be so pleasing to him? Too, her life had been transformed. She was now only the slave of a master. Perhaps she might find in this those fulfillments of which a free woman scarcely dares to dream. In the collar she might find her happiness, and a thousand times more freedom, though an abject slave, than she had ever known in her former life. She did have “golden hair,” which was rare, but surely not unknown. That would probably not be enough to identify her to strangers. “Golden hair” tends to raise prices in the south, but not in the north, where it is more common. “Golden hair,” I suspected, had brought more than one girl into the collar, at least in the south. Interestingly, auburn hair is that pelting, so to speak, which tends to be most favored in the markets. I am not sure why that is. It is probably a matter of its rarity, as it tends to be even more rare than “golden hair.” One thing that I learned of your world, which struck me as of much interest, is your preference for honesty, or truth, or your dislike of fraud, or what you think of as fraud. On my former world, for example, it is quite common for a brunette to dye her hair blond, and, so to speak, pass herself off as a blonde. No one thinks much of this, or much objects to this. On your world, on the other hand, at least amongst slaves, such things are taken seriously. If a barbarian slave is brought to the markets and she has dyed hair, this is made clear to possible buyers, and is commonly taken as a defect. Sometimes her head is shaved. If it is thought the girl did this of her own will on her own world, dyed her hair or had it dyed, it is taken as evidence of her deceitful and meretricious nature, and, accordingly, the rightfulness of embonding so duplicitous and worthless a creature. Masters, incidentally, take seriously the moral character of their slaves, and commonly regard themselves responsible for its supervision and improvement, by the whip, if necessary. Interestingly, to me at least, a slaver who misrepresents merchandise, for example, claiming former high caste for a girl who was actually formerly of low caste, or who tries to pass off a dyed blonde for a natural blonde, may be banished and ruined, his goods confiscated, his house burned to the ground. On your world, honesty, truth, and such, are obviously of great moment. Still, I have heard rumors that some free women dye their hair. They may do as they wish, of course, for they are free.

The fellows who had for a time pursued the former Lady Persinna, and discomfited her so cruelly, she now only a slave, were now returning to the area of the block. Too, the fellows there, who had watched, but had not left the vicinity of the block, now turned about again, and began to gather again, now more closely, about the block. Some looked through the bars. We, the other brunette and I, were at the back of the cell, standing, close together. We could be seen, but perhaps not well. Though muchly clothed, as such things go, for slaves, in the wrap-around tunic, and covered as much as possible by the sheet, I was uneasy at how I sensed myself being regarded. In the house I had often found myself well viewed as a slave by men, but here, in the cell, it seemed different, and somehow more meaningful. One of the men outside, looking through the bars, considering my ankles, and such, might buy me. And what would be done with me if I failed to please him, and fully, and as a slave? The slaver’s man was on the street level, and the auctioneer, on the surface of the block, looking down, conferred with him.

We, the other brunette, the darker, taller brunette, and I, exchanged glances, but did not speak. At the beginning of the sales, the slaves had been warned to silence. That injunction had not been rescinded. We remained silent.

Was she as frightened as I? Did she, as I, desire desperately to speak, so that we might comfort one another, that we might share our apprehension, our fear? But we, slaves, must be silent.

I smiled at her, timidly, bravely, wanting to be her friend, if only for a moment, hoping for some understanding, some small comfort, in our common plight.

But then she looked away, regally, disdainfully.

Tears formed in my eyes.

I recalled that I was, in her view, a barbarian.

How different was I from she!

Even though we were both slaves, worlds separated us.

When I better learned your language, I was surprised to learn that you tend to regard the women of my world as natural slaves, and thus legitimate and appropriate prey for slavers. There are apparently a large number of reasons for this, aside from such obvious matters as the frequent dying of hair. The fact that women of my world seldom veil themselves, but bare their faces, that often their ankles, their wrists and hands, and such, are bared, that they often conceal soft garments, slave garments, beneath their clothing, is taken as evidence that they are, and should be, slaves. Indeed, some women of my own world have, of their own free will, with their own consent, though you may find this hard to believe, pierced ears, which, on your world, is commonly taken as a sign of the most worthless and degraded of slaves. Without daring to comment on these matters, I have heard, from men, of course, that all women are natural slaves, and should be slaves, that they are the natural properties of the dominant sex, that they are designed by nature to be owned, and pleasing, that they are all slaves, only that some are not yet collared. I dare not comment on so bold, but so common, a view. If there is anything in it, and if it should be true, even obviously so, to an informed view, it may be only that the women of my world, in baring their faces, and such, in presenting themselves as attractive objects, thus encouraging men to their acquisition, are more open about their nature than yours, and, if this is so, would the women of my world not be, on the whole, more honest than yours? I trust my master will not beat me for this speculation. I do not think, ultimately, that there is that much difference, if any, between the free woman of Earth and the free woman of Gor. We are all women, and, being women, might we not be, all of us, appropriately, the slaves of men, the slaves of our masters?

The auctioneer stood up, and the slaver’s man ascended the steps of the block, and disappeared into the short passage to the left.

In a moment he entered the cell.

The other brunette and I both shrank back, but he seized her left wrist, and I saw her drawn from the cell. In a moment she appeared on the block before the small crowd, and the auctioneer began her sale.

I was then alone in the cell. I clutched the sheet about me, tightly. My heart was beating wildly.

I closed my eyes that I should not see what was occurring outside, beyond the bars, to the left.

I could, of course, hear the auctioneer.

A murmur of approval coursed through the small crowd.

Then, unable to help myself, I opened my eyes. The slave’s sheet had been removed.

The highest price, so far, had been brought by the former Lady Persinna, who had gone for three and a half silver tarsks, three silver tarsks and fifty copper tarsks. Most of the other girls had sold for one to two silver tarsks.

Whereas I had recognized that my cellmates were all beautiful, as was common with Gorean female slaves, I had not regarded myself as inferior to any of them. Indeed, I supposed myself the most beautiful. And had I not been saved for last? Is the very best not saved for last? I was pleased that the masters apparently shared my judgment, as to the quality of my beauty. But, then, was the matter not obvious?

I closed my eyes briefly, and then looked quickly away, to the right, through the bars, that I not see the now-bared slave on the block.

I did hope that I would not be so exposed to the men. I was different. I was from Earth! But then I recalled the saying, that only a fool buys a woman clothed.

How was it that one of my beauty was in this market, such a market?

I wondered how it was that a price, an actual, finite price, could be set on beauty such as mine.

Surely it was priceless!

Then I recalled that only the beauty of a free woman was priceless. But it was priceless only as long as she was free. Once it was embonded, it would have a price, whatever men would pay for it.

I did recall that it had been estimated, on Earth, that I would go from between forty and sixty. Here, of course, I realized they did not deal in dollars, forty to sixty thousand dollars. Here, presumably, one would go for silver or gold. I accordingly had conjectured that I might go from between forty to sixty gold pieces, or, possibly, given my level of training, and such, from between forty and sixty silver tarsks. I was, after all, in their view, a barbarian. Too, although I had begun to sense, to my apprehension and excitement, what might be the whimperings and moanings of an aroused belly, natural to a slave, it seemed reasonably clear to me that I was not yet the helpless victim of what the instructresses had referred to as “slave fires.” As a woman of Earth I did not believe that such things could exist. Surely I, of Earth, could never be so victimized. Too, I was sure, even if such things could exist, in some women, I could resist them. I did not realize, at the time, that men might not permit it. I did not realize at the time what they could do to my body, how they could force it to be, as it might please them, irremediably that of a begging, needful slave. And I did not realize at the time that already such things, such fires, slave fires, had been kindled, subtly, in my belly, but, merely, had not yet leaped into flame.

I became aware, suddenly, that the auctioneer was no longer taking bids. I returned my attention to the block. A fellow below the block extended his hand, and assisted the slave down the steps. I was struck with the courtesy, the solicitude, the apparent gentlemanliness, of this gesture. It might have been done so, I thought, by a fellow of Earth. Perhaps I would be so fortunate as to have such a master, though I did not think I wanted such a one. A slave wants to know that she is a slave, that she belongs to a man, categorically, absolutely, wholly. I wondered if he was weak. At the foot of the block, the brunette was facing him, looking up at him. Though taller than I, she seemed quite small before him, he in his swathing of robes. The fingers of her left hand still rested in his right hand. Was that not almost tender? She smiled up at him. I saw that she, as I, suspected that that he might be weak. I sensed that she was confident that her bondage, if she were clever, pouted rightly, and such, would prove to be a lax and light one. She had been unpleasant to me, earlier in the cell, and just before her sale. I hated her. He then put his hands on her shoulders, turned her about, rudely, drew her wrists behind her, and braceleted her. She pulled against the bracelets, startled. Our eyes met, she on the street, I back in the cell, behind the bars. You have a master, slave, I thought. Learn it! You will be well collared, and will know yourself well collared, and you understand, do you not, that I know that you will be well-collared, and know, too, that you will know yourself well-collared, and that that pleases me, much pleases me. Indeed, I was much pleased. She straightened her body, and shrugged her shoulders, and, for a moment, glared at me, wildly, angrily, helplessly, but a word must have been spoken, perhaps sharply, for she swiftly turned about and knelt before her master, her wrists braceleted high behind her, and pressed her lips to his sandals. He then turned about, and strode away, and she rose to her feet, and, casting one look back at me, the look of a now-aware, frightened slave, who might now, I thought, welcome some small token of understanding or sympathy, hurried after him. No longer did I hate her. She was now only another braceleted slave. She increased her pace, to close the gap between herself and her master, that she might follow in prescribed heeling position. Failure to do so may, of course, result in punishment.

I trusted that the sales were over.

There was, at least, a lacuna in the proceedings.

Might I not now be returned to the house?

I had not been offered, so I should not be beaten, having not been sold.

Some men, I was pleased to note, had now turned away, and were leaving the vicinity of the block. Two others, however, I noted, were crossing the street, approaching.

Then the slaver’s man had entered the cell, and, taking me by the left wrist, drew me after him, and I was beyond the portal, and in the short passage, and then I was in the sunlight, outside, and I felt the nap of the worn, faded, scarlet rug beneath my bare feet. I blinked against the light, and put down my head. Then I felt the switch of the auctioneer beneath my chin, and I lifted my head, and opened my eyes, looking over the heads of the men.

Much of what then went on remains a blur. At times I did not even understand the auctioneer. This was doubtless in part a function of my Gorean, which was new, and limited, with its unfamiliar grammar, and my vocabulary consisting at that time of only a few hundred words, but, too, I think, part of it was an unwillingness, or refusal, to understand what was being said, or done. My native tongue is called “English,” and I am not sure that I would have allowed myself to understand the auctioneer even had he been speaking in that tongue. I had, incidentally, interestingly, understood him quite well, almost always, when he was vending others. To be sure, even if I had known not a word of Gorean, but had found myself somehow on that platform, so clad, so regarded, perhaps having been magically transported from my own world, wafted away, somehow, from chatting, strolling, or shopping, it would not have been difficult to understand what was occurring. I was a female being sold.

The auctioneer was not cruel with me.

The sale proceeds in three phases, in each of which the girl is turned, and exhibited, first in the brief sheet, then, the sheet removed, in the tunic, and, lastly, neither in the sheet nor tunic. The whole process takes no more than a few Ehn. I understood matters in disjointed patches of intelligibility. I did learn, for the first time, that I had been brought from the House of Tenalion, apparently a slaver of Ar. I was clearly identified as a barbarian, which I sensed was of some interest to the men. To be sure, I have gathered that we are no longer the novelties in the markets that we once were. Strictly, a “barbarian,” I have been given to understand, is one whose native tongue is not Gorean, a language spoken pervasively but not universally on your world. The pervasiveness of Gorean on your world, as I understand it, has something to do with your gods, the Priest-Kings, laired in the Sardar Mountains. These beings, it seems, encourage Gorean, perhaps that they might the more conveniently make known their will on this world. The caste of Initiates, it is said, act as the intermediaries between Priest-Kings and men, appointing festivals, prophesying, uttering oracles, accepting offerings, selling blessings, performing sacrifices, and such. Much remains unclear, however, as I understand it, concerning the actual relationship, if any, between the Initiates and the Priest-Kings. It is clear, however, that the Priest-Kings are not to be taken lightly. Violations of their weapon, transportation, and communication laws are often, when discovered, followed by sanctions of fearsome import, the destructions of cities, the seizures and flingings of tides, the melting of mountains, the geysers and floodings of fiery magma, inexplicable bursts of flame, and such. The standardization of Gorean is accomplished largely in virtue of the meetings of Scribes four times a year on the neutral ground of the great seasonal fairs held in the vicinity of the Sardar itself. This tends to standardize lexicons and prevent phonetic drift. On the other hand, it is also clear that the connotations of the term ‘barbarian’, if not its literal meaning, extend well beyond the matter of what might be one’s native language. As I have learned, “barbarians” are commonly taken to be simple, stupid, ignorant, uncouth, crude, unrefined, untutored, uncivilized, and, in general, worthless, and far inferior to native Goreans. But even your physicians, your men of medicine and health, the members of your green caste, will assure you that we are much the same as you. Had I been born on Gor and you on Earth, would I not, then, be the Gorean and you the barbarian? It is not our fault if we do not know what you know, your caste customs, your legends, your political arrangements, the histories of your cities, your holidays, your famous generals, musicians, poets, and such. How could we? We may be ignorant, but we are not stupid. To you we may seem lacking, to be simple, primitive, and barbarous, and, doubtless, in a way, we are, but these differences, I assure you, have to do with our history and background, not with what we are in ourselves, apart from such things. If we are so obviously inferior to you, it is a cultural inferiority, and only that. Certainly we have certain qualities which you recognize, which have value. You buy us, do you not? Perhaps in some respects we are objectionable. Yet I do not think you mind us in the furs, in our collars. It is generally understood we beg, squirm, and moan well. If you despise us for this I would suggest you put your precious, priceless, exalted, lofty free women at a slave ring and see if they are any different! Please, Master, do not beat me for this observation.

The sheet was pulled from me.

I was turned about.

“Behold this barbarian vulo,” said the auctioneer. “Surely she is of some interest. Might she not be useful as a third or fourth slave in your house, to relieve higher, better slaves of disagreeable tasks? Perhaps she might do as a starter slave, for a son, or a gift for a son or nephew, returning from his studies in Harfax, Venna, Besnit, or Brundisium.”

It was called to the attention of the men that I was new to bondage and only partly trained, but these defects were somehow transformed into advantages, that a master might then have the exquisite pleasure of teaching a new girl what it was to be in a collar, that one might then train me more specifically to his own tastes, and such.

“Speculate,” said the auctioneer. “Would she not look well in a camisk, or less?”

I recalled I had been put in a camisk by Mrs. Rawlinson at the party on Earth, when I had been forced, as a part of my punishment, for having dared to read of your world, to serve the guests half-naked, as though I might be a slave.

“Less!” called a man. “Let us see!”

“Part your tunic, my dear,” said the auctioneer.

“Please, no, Master,” I said.

Laughter greeted my request.

“Gracefully,” said the auctioneer.

I looked over the heads of the men, to the shops across the street. I dared not meet the eyes of any of the men. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“Posture,” said the auctioneer.

I straightened my body.

I felt tears running down my cheeks.

“Perhaps you suspect,” said the auctioneer, “that this is her first sale.”

There was laughter.

I supposed it was obvious.

“Turn about,” said the auctioneer. “Now face the masters.”

“A bit slender perhaps,” said the auctioneer, “but not, I think, disagreeably so.”

Surely I had had one of the best figures in the sorority!

“Let us see all of her,” said a fellow.

He did not seem excited. The request seemed very matter-of-fact. Were they unaware of my feelings? Did they not realize what was occurring? I was a female! I was a slave! I was being sold!

“The tunic, my dear,” said the auctioneer.

“Master!” I begged!

“Gracefully,” he said.

The tunic was handed to the slaver’s man, who stood to the left, behind, on the platform.

“Consider her,” said the auctioneer. “Barbarian. Slim, lovely. Darkly pelted, glossy hair. Partly trained, recently red-silked.”

I dared not look into the eyes of any of the men.

“Turn about, slowly,” said the auctioneer.

“Surely worth something,” said the auctioneer. “She is a barbarian, a mere barbarian. She has been harvested from the slave world for one purpose, and one purpose only, to serve your pleasure, wholly, in all ways. It is all she is for. She has no Home Stone. She has never had a Home Stone. Do what you will with her, without a second thought, use her variously, however you might wish. Keep her nude for a year, if you wish. Conceive of her, neck-chained, ankle-chained, at your slave ring. Consider her soft lips, and tongue, obedient and moist, on your feet, on your body. Is she not of interest? Consider her crawling to you, begging not to be whipped.”

I cried out, softly, in misery.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“I am now prepared to accept bids,” said the auctioneer.

None had been forthcoming yet.

I saw two or three of the men turn about, and leave, chatting.

“Begin, begin, begin,” said the auctioneer. “Twenty, twenty, twenty.”

I stood there, weak, almost faltering.

The auctioneer occasionally held my upper left arm, steadying me. I might otherwise have fallen.

I knew myself a slave, but, still, the enormity of what was being done to me seemed almost incomprehensible. Where was Earth, my familiar surroundings, the college, the classes, my fellow students, the sorority?

I stood there, under the eyes of buyers.

I wondered if some of the young men I had known might have wondered how I, so aloof, so superior, so unapproachable, might have appeared on an auction block, reduced, rightless, stripped, a slave displayed for the perusal of buyers. I was not so lofty, so proud, now. They might have been amused to see me so, frightened, being vended. I wondered if some might have bid upon me. What if one had purchased me? I would then have been his, helplessly.

“Twenty-five, twenty-five, thirty,” was saying the auctioneer.

I feared I might fall.

The auctioneer’s hand steadied me.

“Thirty, thirty-five,” he was saying.

I heard coins, being rattled against one another, in the palm of someone’s hand.

So I stood there, naked, on the platform, only half understanding what was being done.

Was this being done to someone else?

Then I realized that it was I, I, who was being sold!

I recalled Mrs. Rawlinson.

How, in her mind’s eye, she must have smiled, considering the fate she was arranging for her lovely, vain, shallow, spoiled charges, the markets of Gor!

In the beginning, we had looked down on her, she merely a house mother, an employee, a servant of sorts, far beneath us, a woman hired to manage the house, to regulate mundane and domestic matters, to look after, even regulate and supervise, to some extent, a number of aristocratic, supercilious, patronizing young women, her social betters. But soon, whether because of the force of her personality, or the uncompromising, confident sternness of her demeanor, we began to fear the influence she might bring to bear, the power she might exercise. We had soon begun to treat her with respect, even awe. We followed her instructions, and did as we might be told. Even Nora feared her. The board, it seemed clear, for we, in our resentment and annoyance, had sought this information, was behind her. It became clear to us that however she had been emplaced, and however she had been empowered, that the house, and its occupants, were hers to rule. In that tiny world her word would be law. The board would accommodate itself to her recommendations, whatever they might be. A word from her, a charge from her, would initiate a sequence of actions which might culminate in one’s expulsion from the house, with the shame and ruin which might be consequent on such a disgrace. She might disrupt our plans; she might jeopardize our very future. Imagine then my terror, and that of Jane and Eve, when forbidden literature, secret, suspect literature, literature inappropriate for such as we, improper, scandalous literature, was discovered in our rooms! We were then at her mercy!

I wondered if she thought of us, I and the others, from time to time, now on Gor, owned, doubtless all of us, now the property of masters.

She had done her work well.

Perhaps she was now similarly employed, elsewhere.

That seemed not impossible.

The slave nets are carefully woven, with stout inescapable cordage, and they are cast with skill.

One does not escape their coils.

And so, as I stood naked on a block in the Metellan district, in Ar, the worn carpet beneath my feet, the afternoon sun on my body, warm, shadows across the street, the men about, some people passing by, not noticing me, exposed to buyers, being sold, I thought of Mrs. Rawlinson.

Yes, I thought, Mrs. Rawlinson, you are Mistress. You are a free woman, and here, on this world, as I had not on Earth, I have begun to sense what that might be, its unchallenged force, and pride, and power, and here I am a slave, only that, and here, naked on an auction block, being sold, I have begun to sense what that might be.

“Forty, forty,” said the auctioneer. “Forty-two, no more? No more? No more? Done!”

I realized I had been sold.

At least, I thought, I have gone for forty-two. I dared not suppose it would have been forty-two pieces of gold, for I was new to my condition, had not been extensively trained, and had only recently been opened, in what I now had come to understand was the house of Tenalion, in Ar.

I did not fear pregnancy, for early in my sojourn in the house I had been given Slave Wine. Understanding its nature, I had imbibed it willingly enough, as disgusting and foul a brew as it was. Its effects are removed, I am told, if one is given a Releaser, which, I am told, is palatable, even delicious. As a slave, an animal, I knew I could be bred, as any other animal. It is done with us as masters please. But I was not now apprehensive. I had not been administered a Releaser. The breeding of slaves, as you know, as other animals, is carefully controlled. I would be bred only if the masters so pleased.

I took forty-two silver tarsks to be a considerable amount of coin, particularly for a new slave.

My estimation of my extraordinary beauty, I was pleased to note, was now well confirmed, confirmed objectively, in virtue of a block price, in virtue of a sober economic transaction. The matter was now beyond argument. The former Lady Persinna, as I recalled, whom I had thought very beautiful, had gone for only three and a half silver tarsks.

I recalled that it had been estimated, even on Earth, that I would go from between forty and sixty, an amount which I had then mistakenly interpreted as dollars, thousands of dollars, a form of Earth currency.

I heard coins being counted out, one upon the other.

I could not resist looking. Might it not, though improbable perhaps, be gold?

“Master!” I protested. Then I was frightened, for I had spoken without permission. “Forgive me, Master!” I said.

The coins being counted into the palms of the auctioneer were neither of gold nor silver. They were copper.

“Forty-two,” said a fellow, thick-bodied, short-bearded, in a brown robe, girded up to his knees. His arms were bare. His left arm was scarred.

“Forty-two copper tarsks,” confirmed the auctioneer.

I could not believe that I had brought so little.

“A splendid buy,” the auctioneer assured the buyer. “Fortune has smiled upon your bidding.”

“An untutored barbarian,” said the fellow.

“We had hoped to get fifty for her,” said the auctioneer.

“She is not worth so much,” said the fellow.

“I trust she will prove satisfactory,” said the auctioneer. “If not, we will buy her back.”

“For how much?” asked the fellow, warily.

“Twenty,” speculated the auctioneer.

“How much Gorean does she have?” asked the man.

“Enough,” said the auctioneer. To be sure, I do not know how he knew that. And I surely hoped it would be enough. It is hard to be pleasing, if one cannot understand what is expected of one.

“She will prove satisfactory,” said the fellow. “The whip will see to it.”

The slaver’s man, from behind, took me by the arms, lifted me up, my feet some inches above the surface of the platform, and descended the steps of the platform, to the street, and placed me before the bearded fellow in the short, girded-up robe.

He was looking at me.

I did not know what to do.

“She is stupid,” said the bearded fellow to the auctioneer.

I quickly knelt down before the man and, the palms of my hands down on the street, pressed my lips to his sandals, kissing them.

“On all fours,” he said.

I had not yet dared to look into the eyes of my master.

As I was on all fours, before him, he removed something from within his robes, and bent down.

There was a click, and a collar had been fastened about my neck. I was now collared. The collar proclaimed me slave, even should I be clothed, and, doubtless, it bore certain information, perhaps something as simple, as “I am the slave of so-and-so,” “I belong to so-and-so,” or such. If it contained a name, that would doubtless be the name I would be given.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Whatever Master pleases,” I said.

“You see,” said the slaver’s man, “she is not stupid.”

“What are you called?” asked the fellow.

“I have been called ‘Allison’,” I said.

“A barbarian name,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are Allison,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Thank you, Master.”

“Look up,” he said.

I did so.

It can be frightening to look up, into the eyes of someone who owns you.

“Are you any good in the furs?” he asked.

“I fear not, Master,” I said. That seemed the safest response I could manage.

“The whip can change that,” he said.

“I will try to be pleasing to my Master,” I said.

“You looked well at my feet,” he said. “I think you will be responsive.”

I shuddered. I feared I might be responsive, and as a slave.

He then turned about, and strode away.

I was not braceleted, or leashed. I hurried after him, heeling him. With two hands I felt the collar on my neck. It was the first standard Gorean slave collar I had worn. It was a flat band which closely encircled my throat. Such collars are common in the north. It was sturdy, but light, and not uncomfortable. Soon I would forget I wore such a device, but it was there. It was, of course, locked. I had determined that, almost immediately.

Hurrying behind my master, I did not feel as self-conscious as I might have otherwise. It is hard to go naked in the streets, alone, on errands, and such. Too, there is always the danger that one might encounter a free woman.

I was a little curious as to why I had not been bound, in one way or another, perhaps put on a wrist leash, or something. Did he have such confidence in me, that I would not try to run away? To be sure, I would have been afraid to run away. The instructresses had well impressed on me, in the house, that there was no escape for the Gorean slave girl, barbarian or not. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. In my case, it would not be merely the brand, the garmenture, the collar, the closely knit society, and such, but the very Gorean I had been taught was quite possibly a slave Gorean, subtly different in certain ways from the Gorean spoken by the free. In this respect a Gorean woman enslaved had an advantage over me. But, just as there were barbarian accents, aside from deliberately inserted, betraying subtleties, even the enslaved Gorean girls would usually have an accent different from that of their masters. I recalled that the girl from Tabor, the island, had had a different accent. And I had heard that the island accents of, say, Tyros and Cos, were clearly different from those of, say, Ar or Venna. Turia in the south was different, as well, and surely, so, too, would be those of Torvaldsland, in the north. Still, as I hurried behind my master, I continued to ponder why no bond had been put on me. And then I realized that I did wear a bond, two bonds, the most inescapable bonds of all, a mark fixed in my thigh, and a collar, locked about my neck.

My first master was Menon, of the Peasants. He did not have a holding, nor did he till the fields. If he had, he would have looked for a larger, sturdier girl than I, one who in harness, alone or with another, might drag a hoeing plow. Menon maintained a public eating house near the sun gate, so spoken of because it is opened at dawn and closed at dusk. Several girls worked in the large kitchen, behind the eating hall, amongst whom I was placed. Our Ahn were long, and we were chained at night. I was the only barbarian in the kitchen, and I was much abused. While the kitchen master occasionally put me to his use, I think he preferred others. When I tried to call myself to his attention, placing myself before him, making inquiries, simply to be near him, and such, this was noticed by the other girls, and I paid for my forwardness when we were alone. My hair was jerked and twisted, short of being torn from my head, which would have been a punishable offense, and my body was much bruised, by small, angry fists, and, often enough, from the blows of ladles and stirring spoons. When I put myself to my belly before the kitchen master, pressing my lips to his feet, and complaining, or simply begging to be protected, I would receive little comfort. I was not Gorean. “Masters,” he would say, smiling, “do not much mix in the squabbles of slaves.” Had there been a “first girl,” I might have assisted her in her tasks, done much of her work, flattered her, cultivated her, petitioned her, and so on, but there was no first girl. The nearest thing to a first girl was Marcella, who did not care for me, and was the favorite of the kitchen master. It was not much comfort to me that she might regard me as a rival; rather, it was a source of considerable apprehension.

As you might suppose, girls are eager to escape the labors of the great kitchen, and make the most of their turns at serving the long tables, hoping to come to the attention of one or another of the guests. I, like the others, in such welcome opportunities to enter the eating hall, rare in my case, would hitch up my tunic, and be somewhat negligent in the adjustment of the disrobing loop. It need not be drawn up too tightly, nor knotted too securely. I was learning to move, and smile, and, too, the men, many of them so strong and virile, made me more and more uneasy, and more and more conscious of my bondage. The unquestioning simplicity and naturalness with which they looked upon me, and accepted me, spoke to me, and commanded me, as a slave, and excited me. I was a female slave, and knew myself more so each day, and they were males, and masters. Sometimes I twisted in my chains at night, moaned, and scratched at the straw and the wooden flooring, remembering one or another of them.

As is well known, free women are not permitted in the paga taverns or brothels, and it is dangerous for them to enter them, even for those bold enough to disguise themselves as slaves, but similar restrictions do not apply to the public eating houses. Even so, free women of high caste seldom patronize them, not because of any explicit impropriety in doing so, but, rather, because of the narrowness and plainness of the offerings, the rudeness of the appointments, and the general vulgarity of the diners. Such reservations, however, are seldom entertained by men of high caste, who welcome an opportunity to obtain a cheap, convenient meal, particularly during the workday. Paga may not be served in the eating houses, but a variety of cheap ka-la-nas is usually available.

Long tables are commonly used in the eating houses, with benches, rather as in Torvaldsland. In such an arrangement, the patron usually spends less time eating. There is no lingering over paga, taking time for a game of kaissa or stones, trying out one or another of the proprietor’s girls in an alcove, or such. One is usually in and out, without much ado, which usually means more coins per Ahn in the entry kettle. Two ostraka may be purchased. One pays upon entry. The basic ostrakon entitles one to the general meal of the day, with a mug of kal-da, and costs a tarsk-bit. The second ostrakon, or the ostrakon of privilege, costs two tarsk-bits, and entitles the patron to a choice amongst a number of offerings, and a glass of ka-la-na. Most patrons purchase the basic ostrakon. The ostrakon in question, the basic ostrakon or the ostrakon of privilege, is presented to the girl who serves that section of the patron’s table.

“Is Master pleased?” I asked.

“You are a pretty slave,” he said.

“A slave is pleased should she be found pleasing by a master,” I said.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“‘Allison’, if it pleases Master,” I said.

“I have not seen you here before,” he said.

“Allison is seldom permitted to serve a table,” I said.

“You are a barbarian,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Are barbarians any good?” he asked.

“Perhaps Master would care to try one, and see,” I said.

“You are apparently eager to escape the kitchen,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Fetch more suls,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

At the sorority my sisters and I, as thoughtful, informed individuals, had set ourselves to increase our wealth and advance our station in life. Certainly we had not come to college in order to familiarize ourselves with Medieval French poetry, learn about Roman band instruments, and such. The route to these ends, the assurance of a future of comfort and influence, was obviously to contract a match with a suitable young man, one of wealth and family. Accordingly, in the social circles of an exclusive, prestigious institution, located high in the tiers of a subtly hierarchical society, one given to denying its hierarchicality, and are not all societies inevitably hierarchical, we, and others, competed for the attentions of promising young men. It was a race or game of sorts, but certainly not one of simple vanity, entered into for the sake of outdoing others, of testing one’s charms and such, but one, too, with significant consequences, bearing importantly on one’s future. The sorority, with its prestige, and its relationship with the most exclusive fraternities, was an excellent platform from which to conduct our operations. In this light, then, as suggested earlier, an expulsion from the sorority, with its shame, and such, would constitute a social calamity to be avoided at all costs. All that, of course, was now far behind me. I was now half-clad in a Gorean eating house, a slave band encircling my throat. Still, I saw, and was well aware, that certain similar constants and practicalities characterized my current existence. Certainly I was not the only girl who hoped to escape the eating house. What means, what tools, or weapons, has a female slave at her disposal? Only her charm and beauty. She owns nothing, not even the collar on her neck. It is she, rather, who is owned. She has little to offer a man but herself. Once again, as before, I was competing with other women for prizes we could not obtain for ourselves, but only through men. The nature of our life would again depend on men. Here the difference was that we were slaves. Men were still the masters, but now not subtly, almost invisibly, as on Earth, but now openly, visibly, in the full force of law. Our futures, our hopes, depended on men. And we were literally collared. How clear then, without obfuscation, the pretenses put aside, the veils now removed, became the nature of reality, culturally, socially, and biologically.

“Hitch up your disrobing loop, properly, pull down the hem of your tunic,” said the free woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

I hoped she would finish quickly.

Gorean free women of high caste almost invariably veil themselves in public. Gorean free women of the lower castes tend to be less fastidious, or strict, in such matters. Whereas some will emulate the high-caste women, others will veil themselves more casually, or loosely, exposing more of their features. This is sometimes referred to as half-veiling. In privacy, of course, free women seldom veil themselves. In public, it is easy to eat and drink behind the veil. It may be done with delicacy and grace. It is commonly done in the eating houses. I have seen low-caste free women drink through the veil, but this is rare. It is regarded as barbarous. I have seen some free women, of low caste, on hot days, who will eschew the veil altogether. This is, however, rare. As is well known the female slave may not veil herself even should she wish to do so. That would be an insult to free women. Too, one would not, for example, veil a tarsk.

I moved quickly away from the free woman.

She had come to the eating house alone. I was not surprised. I could see something of her face. What fellow would want her in his bracelets?

There is little room between the tables and one, making one’s way, usually slowly, for the crowding, taking orders, carrying platters, and such, often brushes against the patrons. There was a small, oval, bronze mirror in the kitchen, fixed on a wall, and I often regarded myself in its reflection, turning my face one way or another, brushing back my hair, arranging it, and such. It seemed to me that certain changes were occurring in me. It is said that bondage makes a woman more beautiful, and I suspect that that is true. This is doubtless, in part, a function of appearance, and behavior, but I think it extends well beyond a certain deference, a tone of voice, a betraying garmenture, a collar, suitable postures, lowering the head, and such. Bondage, whatever might be its numerous effects, feminizes a woman, radically, and the feminine woman is the most female, the most beautiful, of all women. She becomes soft, graceful, vulnerable, and eager to please. The collar removes many conflicts, which trouble, tighten, and coarsen a woman. She knows what she is, and how she is to behave. Allowed nothing else, and soon desiring nothing else, she accepts herself joyfully as what she is, a female, and a slave, her master’s slave, her master’s possession. She is radiant. She has never been so happy. She pities the free women, lacking masters. Too, she now understands herself as a natural, intensely sexual creature. The slave’s sexual needs are as natural, and persistent and irresistible, as her needs to eat and drink. In one sense she is at peace with her sex, but, in another sense, periodically, if her slave fires burn, she is its helpless victim, a tormented slave, who will crawl even to a hated master, for his least touch. She now not only wants sex, but needs it, and will beg for it, and strive to be sufficiently pleasing, that it may be granted to her. She is grateful, in her chains or thongs, to be her master’s pleasure object, his possession, and plaything. She knows herself his property, and would be nothing else. Who can recount the ecstasies of the possessed slave? Knowing herself a slave, she wishes to belong to a master. She could be satisfied with no man who would be contented with less than owning her, wholly. Gorean men are such. She sings at her work.

One cannot help, you must understand, in the closeness of the quarters, the small space between the benches, brushing against a master now and then. There is so little room.

“Oh,” I gasped, startled.

His large hand had closed on my leg, above the knee.

“Please, Master,” I whispered, smiling, protesting.

Then I shuddered. His grip was strong, commanding. It would be difficult to free myself. I was holding a large platter of strips of roast bosk, fastened in threes with wooden skewers, one of the choices for the second ostrakon.

I saw Marcella approaching, in the narrow aisle. She was carrying a vessel of steaming kal-da.

She did not look pleasant.

“Struggle,” said he.

“I might spill the platter,” I said.

“You are rather pretty for an eating-house girl,” he said.

In the past such compliments had been few. Of late, they had been more frequent. Too, of late, I had been more often assigned to the tables. Who knows how often fellows will come to the eating house, or why they will seek one table rather than another?

“Would Master not like to have me at his slave ring?” I whispered. “I would try to please him.”

He grinned, and removed his hand from my leg.

“May I serve Master?” I asked.

“What have you?” he asked.

“Roast bosk,” I said.

“I have paid only the first ostrakon,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Be off, pretty slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Infamous she-sleen!” said a woman.

I had not noticed that the unpleasant free woman, she who, some days ago, had castigated me for a too-casual tunicking, was again in the vicinity. Once again, which did not surprise me, she was alone.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Forgive me, Mistress.”

I quickly tried to hurry away, and Marcella, who was now near, between the benches, stood to one side, I supposed that I might pass. I smiled at her. Usually she would have expected me to turn about and move back, retracing my steps, removing myself from her path. I did not really want the attentions of the kitchen master, even though he had, of late, discouraged the other girls from bullying me. Surely she must understand that. She could have him. I wanted better game, higher game.

“Thank you,” I said to Marcella, smiling, as I went to move past her, anxious to remove myself as quickly as possible from the vicinity of the free woman.

“Oh!” I cried, in misery, stumbling, plunging over Marcella’s extended foot, sprawling between the benches, the platter of steaming meat flying ahead of me, meat and gravy showering about, then the platter clattering between the benches. Two or three men stood up, angrily wiping gravy and hot meat from their backs and shoulders. Marcella, simultaneously, had screamed, and turned, as though it might have been she who had been so discomfited. And I, too, screamed, but in pain, as the scalding kal-da soaked and burned through my tunic, and drenched my calves and ankles. “Clumsy slave!” cried Marcella. “You tripped me!” I cried. “I did not! You tripped me!” she screamed. Several of the masters laughed, some brushing themselves off, some others helping themselves to a three of skewered slices of the roast bosk, which they retrieved from the table, the floor, their laps. I was on my hands and knees, in pain, from the scalding, tears bursting from my eyes. Masters, I knew, did not look lightly on clumsiness in a slave. Too, to make matters worse, if they could be worse, the roast bosk was an item available only for the second ostrakon. I recalled that one of the girls in the kitchen, who had spilled porridge, had been put under the five-stranded Gorean slave lash. I had felt it once, in the house of Tenalion. “You tripped me!” I cried to Marcella. I did not want to be whipped! “You tripped me!” screamed Marcella. “No!” I cried. “Yes!” she screamed. She did not wish to be whipped either. “I saw the whole thing!” said the free woman. “That one,” she said, pointing at me, “is to blame!” “No, Mistress,” I sobbed. “That one, that one!” repeated the free woman, indicating me. I did not see how she, from her location, could have seen what occurred. I did know that she did not like me. A free woman, of course, may lie, for they are free. Marcella was lying, of course, but she had the words of a free woman spoken on her behalf. “Thank you, Mistress,” said Marcella, respectfully, much pleased at the course events were taking. I was sobbing, and still in pain. I did not want to be stripped, tied, and put under the whip. I feared the pain, and terribly, but, too, it is humiliating to be beaten for clumsiness, to be beaten as an inept slave, one who has failed to be pleasing. The slave is to be both beautiful and graceful. If she is not, let the lash instruct her. She is a slave. She is not permitted the woodenness, the awkwardness, of the free woman. “You should be sold for sleen feed!” said the free woman, coming angrily from her place, and hurrying about the table. I was still on the floor, on all fours, miserable, in pain. The boards were greasy. The tunic, in back, was wet, with warm fluid. It clung to my body. My legs hurt.

“Forgive me, Mistress!” I begged.

I felt the slipper of the free woman kick me, twice, viciously, in the left thigh. There would be marks there. I sensed she had spit upon me.

“I am sorry, Mistress!” I said. “Please, forgive me, Mistress!”

I went to my belly, in the grease and scraps, between the benches.

“Oh!” I wept, again kicked.

“Thank you, Mistress!” I said. “Thank you, Mistress!”

Should a slave not be grateful for her improvement?

“Aii!” I wept, again kicked.

“Thank you, Mistress!” I sobbed. “Thank you, Mistress!”

“What is going on here?” demanded a voice. Someone was making his way toward us, pushing, between the benches. My heart sank. It was the voice of Menon, my master. I had been several weeks in his establishment, but he seldom appeared in the kitchen. I was not sure he would remember the miserable, frightened slave purchased in the Metellan district. I struggled to my knees, held them closely together, and kept my head down.

“This slave tripped me, Master,” said Marcella, indicating me.

“Have you received permission to speak?” inquired Menon.

“No, Master,” said Marcella, turning white, dropping to her knees, head down.

“Well, Masters?” inquired Menon.

“They were passing between the benches,” said a fellow. “One of the girls tripped, and fell.”

“That one,” said the free woman, presumably indicating me, “tripped the other!”

“I see,” said Menon.

I kept my head down.

“You saw?” inquired Menon.

“Certainly,” said the free woman.

Menon turned about, a bit. I took him to be noting the place, across the table, with its dish and mug, where the free woman had been sitting.

“Did any others see?” inquired Menon.

No one volunteered to speak. Most, of course, would have had their backs turned to the aisle.

“That one,” said the free woman, presumably indicating me, “should be lashed bloody, to the bone, and fed to sleen!”

“There would not be much nourishment there,” said a fellow.

There was laughter.

I could not help it if I were slighter than many slaves, more slender. Many men, of late, I had been given to understand, did not find fault with me on this score. Certainly I had been one of the most beautiful girls in the sorority, and here, in the garmenture of slaves, what beauty I might possess, as that of other female slaves, left little to conjecture.

“Be silent!” screamed the free woman to the men.

There was silence.

I was afraid. As I was now well aware I was a female slave and what that meant on Gor, I would have been terrified to address a free man or men in that tone of voice, let alone utter words bearing such an import.

What would have been done with me?

But she was free.

There was no band on her neck.

She was not an animal.

She was not purchasable.

She was not owned.

“The house,” said Menon, “is distressed that your views have been shown less deference than they deserve.”

“You know,” said the free woman, “that she, that one, is a she-tarsk, a she-urt, a she-sleen, one who tunicks herself provocatively, who brushes against masters, who lingers in serving, who leans too closely to the diners, who puts her half-naked body before them shamelessly, who smiles so prettily, like a paga slut at the loading docks, advertising her master’s tavern.”

“And she is a barbarian, as well,” said Menon.

“Yes,” said the free woman, triumphantly. “A barbarian!”

Menon recalled I was a barbarian.

“My Home Stone,” she said, “is that of Ar.”

Menon nodded. Although his establishment was within the walls of Ar, it was not likely he shared its Home Stone. As he was of the Peasants, I supposed his Home Stone, the community stone, so to speak, not that of his domicile, would be that of some village in the environs of Ar.

“Is there no way to assuage your wrath?” asked Menon.

“No,” said the free woman.

Menon drew his pouch on its strings up from his belt, and opened it.

“No,” she said.

Menon fetched from within the pouch a handful of copper tarsk-bits.

“Perhaps,” said the free woman, “she needs only to be well lashed.”

Menon dropped the coins into the palm of the free woman.

“The master, of course,” she said, “will decide, as he pleases, what is to be the fate of a neck-banded she-tarsk.”

“Thank you, Lady,” said he.

I do not know if she looked again at me, but she hurried about the table, to her place and, a moment later, made away.

Menon was crouching near Marcella, who was shaking.

“There is a mark here,” said Menon to her, “on the outside of your right leg, above the ankle.”

Marcella said nothing.

Menon lifted up my left leg. “This mark,” he said, “is on the front of your left leg, just above the ankle.”

My heart leapt. It must be, then, that I had struck against Marcella’s ankle, thrust into my path, as I had tried to hurry past.

“You must have been hurrying,” said Menon to me.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“What happened?” he asked.

I sensed he knew well what happened.

“I stumbled,” I said.

Marcella gasped, gratefully, softly.

“I see,” said Menon. He smiled. “You should be more careful,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You, too,” he said to Marcella.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“It would not do,” he said, evenly, “for another slave to stumble in your vicinity.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you understand?” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she said, pale.

Menon turned to me. “You are Allison, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”

“You are to come with me,” he said. “Leading position.”

I rose to my feet, and bent over, that my hair might be easily grasped. I felt his hand lock itself in my hair. My head was down, at his left thigh.

“Marcella,” he said.

“Master?” she said, apprehensively.

“You will return to the kitchen, and return naked, with a pan of water, and no rags,” he said, “and clean this mess.”

“No rags?” she said.

“Your hair will do,” he said.

Marcella had long glossy, dark hair, which fell well behind her. She was very proud of it. We envied her for it.

“Too,” said he, “when this is done, you are to inform the kitchen master that you are to serve the tables daily for the next twenty days, but, in this period, you are not to be permitted clothing.”

“Master!” she wept.

“And as your hair will be soiled,” he said, “you will have the kitchen master crop it short, as short as that of a mill girl.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And at night, for this period, of twenty days, you are to be put in close chains.”

“Please, no, Master!” she wept.

“Would you prefer all this, and the lash, as well, once daily, for the next twenty days?”

“No, Master!” she said.

“Perhaps, in the future, you will be more careful,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.

“Come along, Allison,” said he, and began to make his way between the tables, and I, in the sullied, soaked tunic, stumbled along at his side, sometimes brushing into patrons, sometimes striking against benches, jutting out, in the narrow space between the tables.

“May I speak, may I speak?” I gasped, dragged along, at his side.

“Yes,” he said.

“Please do not whip me!” I said.

“Do you deserve to be whipped?” he asked.

“I trust not, Master!” I said.

“Do not all kajirae deserve to be whipped?” he asked.

“I trust not, Master!” I said.

“But they are slaves,” he said.

“Even so,” I said.

“Surely they know what they have done, or failed to do, even if masters do not,” he said, “and thus well know, given their lapses and faults, however infrequent or slight, which may have escaped the notice of the masters, how richly they deserve to be whipped, and, accordingly, should have no objection whatsoever to having the lash at any time well laid upon them.”

“I trust Master jests,” I said, stumbling along, my hair hurting.

He laughed.

How helpless we are in the hands of men, if they but choose to be masters! How they play with us, and use us as they please!

We are so different from them!

We are so small, so helpless in their power!

Yet I would not trade the Gorean man, with all his might and will, all his arrogance and power, all his virility and masculinity, all his forcefulness and possessiveness, all his ambition and aggression, all his energy and intelligence, his seeing us as women, and astonishingly different, and rightly, deliciously ownable, for all the males I knew on Earth.

“Surely, surely Master jests,” I said.

“Come along,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, as if I had any choice!

Slaves, as other animals, are seldom whipped on Gor. The reason for that is simple, and obvious. The slave, subject to the whip, and knowing herself so, is careful to avoid it, insofar as it lies in her power. She does her best to satisfy her master, and in all the ways of the slave, all of them. And, obviously, she who satisfies a man fully has little, if anything, to fear. Thus, it is she who is primarily responsible for keeping the whip on its peg. She is, of course, subject to discipline, and this encourages diligence. The female slave is far more likely to be beaten by a free woman than a free man. To the free man she is a joy and treasure; to the free woman she is a hated reproach and rival.

Menon’s office was not far from the paying counter, where ostraka were vended, to be redeemed for meals.

He pushed open the swinging partition leading to the interior, and threw me to the floor before a chair.

They are not always gentle with us.

We are slaves.

I kept my eyes down. I had never been in the office before.

“Is this the one?” asked Menon.

“Yes,” said a voice.

The back of my legs still hurt, from the scalding of the kal-da.

“Remove your tunic, my dear,” said the voice.

I instantly and unquestioningly disrobed. One of the first things a girl learns on Gor is that she is to instantly and unquestioningly obey. It is not Earth, and the college, and the sorority, were far away.

Here men were the masters, at least of women such as I, totally, and absolutely.

One knows oneself their slave, unequivocally, totally, and absolutely.

“Show him something,” said Menon.

“Master?” I said.

“As in slave paces,” said Menon, “posings, stretchings, curlings, liftings, twistings, floor movements, such things.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

After a short time, from the voice, I heard, “Enough.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I had exhibited myself as the slave I now was. How faraway was the college, and the sorority!

“She is blushing,” said the voice.

“She is a new slave, and a barbarian,” said Menon.

“Yet she did well,” said the voice.

“She is born collar meat,” said Menon.

“She is of increased attractiveness,” said the voice, “different from the Metellan market.”

“Yes,” said Menon.

I had sensed, earlier, that I was changing. The collar causes such things in a female.

Too, the owner of the voice must have seen my sale some weeks ago.

“How would you like to leave the kitchen, the tables, Allison?” said Menon.

“It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.

“Kneel,” said Menon. “Face our guest.”

I knelt, my knees closely together. I did not cover my breasts, of course, for they were those of a slave.

“How, my dear,” asked the stranger, “would you like a new chain, a new cage?”

“It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.

“How, my dear,” said the voice, “would you like to be chained to a loom in the mills of Mintar, with cropped hair, or be placed in one of the public laundries, or sent to the mines of Argentum, or the tharlarion stables at Venna?”

“It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.

“But you would not be too pleased?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“Have no fear,” he said, “it is not to such a place I would send you.”

“A slave is grateful,” I said.

“What would you like?” he asked.

How absurd, I thought, that one should ask that of a slave.

“Perhaps, Masters,” I said, “I might be purchased as a private slave, to serve a private master?”

“You would like that, would you not, kajira?” asked the stranger.

“Oh, yes, Master,” I said, “yes, Master!”

It was for such a favor, such a delight, such a privilege, that I had plied the tables in my serving. I dared to look up and see the stranger. He was stocky, broad-shouldered, and powerful. He was blond-haired. He was not bad looking. Immediately I began to wonder what it might be, to be owned by him. How glorious, I thought, to have a private master, him or another, to whom one might devote oneself, assiduously, as his slave.

He seemed typically Gorean. He would see to it that a woman served him well, and doubtless with perfection, should she be a slave.

“I would try to serve Master well,” I said.

“Astrinax,” said Menon, “whom I have long known, is an agent, who receives orders, requests and such, screens merchandise, and buys for others.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“He contracts with several towers, for serving slaves,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I had occasionally been out of the restaurant, on errands, and had marveled at the lofty towers of Ar, so lovely and colorful, and yet so stately, solid, and formidable, each, in its way, a defensible keep, with its reservoirs, and emergency stores. It would take years to reduce even one to submission. These towers, at various levels, were joined by narrow, graceful bridges. In times of peace, one might move from one tower to another, through one tower to another, by means of these bridges, to many parts of the city, without once descending to the streets. The bridges for the most part are unrailed but traversed with ease by urban Goreans used to them. I myself would have been terrified to set foot upon almost any one of them, the streets so far below. They were of different widths, some ten feet in width, many four to five feet in width. They have colored lanterns on them, spaced here and there, which are commonly lit at night. It is very lovely. On my former world, Earth, there are similar walks, but they are on the ground. Few of Earth would think twice about traversing such walks. On the other hand, if such walks were elevated, I suspect few would care to try them. One supposes it is largely a matter of that to which one grows accustomed. In any event, you traverse the high bridges with the same thoughtless nonchalance with which those of Earth traverse their own walks. Your bridges, slender and graceful, are often arched and curved, almost like branches in a forest, for you have an aesthetic sense, it seems, in so much that you do, evinced in things as intricate as the soaring melody of a skyline to things as simple as the carving on an oar or a wooden spoon. To be sure, you have your realms of crowding, ugliness, and danger as well, the dank, odorous, ill-lit insulae, steaming in the summer, clammy and cold in the winter, smelling of offal and urine, and the dark, cluttered, filthy, winding streets of some of the low districts. Sometimes the towers seem to be giants, standing proudly, independent and mighty, soaring to the sky, touching clouds, their feet in garbage. Much depends, of course, on the district. In many respects Ar is a city of wonder, of beauty and grace, of soaring towers, large parks and gardens, and broad boulevards. It is in terms of those that one numbers her amongst the “high cities.” But she is, too, a city in which poverty and wealth, surfeit and want, cleanliness and dirt, may be juxtaposed. A silken palanquin, with closed curtains, may be borne through slime. Here and there women, unattended, grace the bridges in their promenades, while below a troop of guardsmen may tread with care. Praetors preside in the markets, dispensing justice, while here and there, beneath their feet, in sewers, like urts, others wait for darkness. Much depends on the district, and the time of day. I suppose that cities are similar, on whatever worlds they may be found. Here a tunicked slave might wander about in the night without fear, there a guardsman is reluctant to enter at the Tenth Ahn. One thing I did not realize originally about your bridges is the military utility involved in their design, that they may be blocked and defended by small groups of armed men; five may defend against a hundred, because of the hundred only five can engage at a time. Too, the bridges may be broken, this preventing access to the towers, turning each into a solitary, soaring, nigh-impregnable citadel.

I supposed then that Astrinax, as I gathered his name was, was jobbing for some tower or another, presumably on the lookout for girls who might make acceptable tower slaves. There tends to be turnover in such slaves, as, in their work, in the corridors, on the stairwells, and in the apartments, they may come to the attention of one fellow or another, who will take them for a private slave. Being a tower slave is usually regarded as a plausible route, even a promising route, to obtaining a private master. Most slaves, as you know, or may suspect, long to be the slave, and wholly so, of one man alone. This is the joy of the slave, to kneel naked at the feet of her master, to lick and kiss his whip, and his feet, and then to lie before him, helpless in his chains.

To be sure, she hopes to be his only slave, as well!

I had occasionally seen tower slaves in the streets, in their white, knee-length, modest, demure tunics.

It was easy to see why a fellow might want to get them out of those tunics. Properly caressed, and long denied passion, it was said they were commonly as hot as paga sluts.

I did not think I would mind being a tower slave.

Surely, as one cleaned an apartment, dusted a bit, arranged furniture, and such, it seemed a clever girl might find ample opportunities for calling herself to the attention of one fellow or another.

A smile, an ankle seemingly inadvertently extended, colored string wound about it, a touching of one’s collar, a shy glance, a way of turning, of looking over one’s shoulder.

Such things.

“Split your knees,” said Astrinax.

“Master?” I said. Then I went to “position,” not wanting to be cuffed for dallying.

“Astrinax also,” said Menon, “scouts and buys for the taverns and brothels, as well.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, uneasily.

“Do you think you would make a good paga girl, or brothel slut?” asked Menon.

“I do not think so, Master,” I said.

“Do not worry about it,” said Menon. “The lash quickly teaches a girl to be accommodating, and grateful.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“The paga slave quickly becomes a passion slut,” said Menon.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I already had sensed that such things might be possible. But my body, too, had assured me that not all passion sluts would be in the taverns or brothels. Surely often enough, at night, I had lain uneasily in my chains.

What would it be to be in the arms of a master, my own master?

I would strive desperately to be pleasing to him.

It was not so much that I feared being beaten, should I be found wanting in some respect. Rather it was because I sensed myself a slave, and wanted his touch.

“We are not thinking about the taverns or brothels,” said Astrinax.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Perhaps later,” said Astrinax.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Knees,” said Menon, gently.

Quickly I widened my knees again.

I gathered Astrinax was not thinking in terms of tower slaves. Tower slaves do not kneel so. Another sort of slave kneels so, a familiar form of Gorean slave, the pleasure slave.

This was, of course, the sort of slavery for which, on the whole, I had been trained.

I supposed the same would be so of my sisters, from the sorority, from the college, doubtless brought to collars on Gor as well as I. I recalled Eve and Jane, from the party, in their improvised camisks. Surely I had seen the eyes of the boys on them, as well as on myself. They were young and beautiful. I did not doubt but what masters would find them pleasing. Too, Nora, and her friends, doubtless, would no longer be so resplendent in those ample, abundant, lovely garments worn at the party, put together to suggest the robes of Gorean free women. Perhaps here, on this world, they would be fortunate enough to be granted a tunic. I suspected that Nora would go for a high price.

I was pleased to think of her as collared, and owned.

So, if Astrinax was not thinking in terms of the towers, and was not thinking, at least at present, in terms of the taverns or brothels, in what terms might he be thinking?

“You are a barbarian are you not?” asked Astrinax.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Barbarians,” said Astrinax, “have inferior moral characters.”

“Surely not,” I said.

“When you thought yourself free, on your former world, prior to your rightful collaring,” said Astrinax, “for you are obviously a slave, you had some sort of relationship with the men of your world, did you not?”

“I was brought to Gor as white-silk,” I said. “I was red-silked in the house of Tenalion, Tenalion of Ar.”

“I know the house,” said Astrinax. “What I have in mind is the nature of your social, economic, and political relationships to men.”

“I am not sure I understand,” I said. “I think that certain relationships, involving certain intentions, prospects, efforts, plans, ambitions, and such, would have been typical for a young woman of my background, position, wealth, and class.”

“But perhaps not for others?” said Astrinax.

“Probably not for all others,” I said.

“Tell me something of it,” said Astrinax.

“I was of the upper classes on my world,” I said.

“You look well in your collar,” said Astrinax.

“Thank you, Master,” I said. “I belonged to a group of young women chosen, among other things, for their beauty.”

“Slaves?” said Astrinax.

“Perhaps,” I said. “We were privileged. We were to be sought by men, and would make judicious choices amongst them, seeking thereby our advantage, bartering our beauty for advancement, for greater wealth, more secure position, more power, such things.”

“You were calculating in such matters,” said Astrinax. “You were selling yourself for profit, for gain.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“In Gorean we have a word for that,” said Astrinax.

“Master?” I said.

“‘Free woman’,” he said.

“Men must try to please us, must pay for our meals, our entertainments, and such,” I said.

“There is a politics involved in such things,” said Astrinax.

“Yes,” I said.

“And to achieve your ends,” said Astrinax, “you would do what seemed useful, flatter, pretend, flirt, intrigue, invite, and such.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “And lie?”

“I am no longer permitted to lie, Master,” I said, frightened.

“But then,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are not unattractive,” said Astrinax.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“And the men whom you knew had little or no experience with female slaves,” said Astrinax.

“No, Master,” I said.

“Accordingly then,” said Astrinax, “you must have been extremely attractive to them.”

“I think so, Master,” I said.

“They knew no better,” said Astrinax.

“No, Master,” I said. Tears came to eyes.

“Do not be upset,” said Astrinax. “You now have promise, even as a slave.”

“You are much more beautiful than when I bought you,” said Menon. “You are becoming slave-beautiful, slave-exciting. Those young men who found you beautiful then, as you were then, on your own world, would scream with pleasure if they could see you now, as you are, as a slave. Slavery much enhances the beauty of a woman. Now, sweet Allison, those young men would sweat, and cry out, and bid recklessly for you, in the hope of bringing you into their collar.”

I put down my head.

“I gather you were a true ‘free woman’ on your world,” said Astrinax, “with all her vanities, pettinesses, impostures, ambitions, plans, manipulations, machinations, pretensions, schemes, deceits, and lies.”

“Perhaps, Master,” I said.

“But now,” he said, “you are no longer on your own world.”

“No, Master,” I said.

“It is common for free women on your world to misuse their power,” said Astrinax.

“Perhaps, Master,” I said, frightened. I trusted I would not be punished on this world for faults which might have been mine on a former world. But, still, one does not know how men will see things, and they are the masters.

“Free women on Gor,” said Astrinax, “misuse their power.”

I thought of the free woman at the tables, who had caused me such discomfiture.

“I dare not speculate, Master,” I said. “They are free, and I am a slave.”

“But stripped and collared, and thrown to a man’s feet,” said Astrinax, “they are not so different from you.”

“I dare not speculate, Master,” I said. “They are free, and I am a slave.”

“You are all women,” said Astrinax. “Nothing more.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Allison,” said Astrinax, “suppose that one of your sister slaves, in the kitchen, had been given a candy, perhaps as a tip from a customer, from waiting on the tables.”

“Yes, Master?” I said.

Some of the customers, I knew, kept such small treats about their person, or in their pouches. These were usually hard candies, which might last a long time, slowly savored. Sometimes they would roll them on the floor and have a girl pursue them on all fours, putting her head down, and picking them up, gratefully, in her teeth. Sometimes they would have the girl kneel at the bench, put back her head, her eyes closed, tightly, and open her mouth, widely. She does not know, strictly, if she is to be cuffed or rewarded, but, as you may suppose, she usually has an excellent sense as to how matters will fall out. If her service is thought to have been insufficiently prompt, diligent or deferent, and she is likely to suspect that, she may be struck. “Forgive me, Master,” she then sobs, and is hastened about her duties, now intent on improving her service. At least she is not lashed. Usually, however, if so knelt, she is to be rewarded, a candy being placed in her mouth. “Thank you, Master,” she breathes, licking and kissing the hand which has deigned to bestow so precious a gift upon her. How proud she is then, the possessor of so rare a treat, and how envied she will be amongst her chain sisters!

How she will nurse that treat, making it last as long as possible!

To be sure, such tipping is frowned upon by the establishment, as the women are merely slaves.

One wonders if the free can understand how important such a tidbit, negligible from their point of view, so tiny, savory, and sweet, can be to one of your despised collar girls.

Even today such a thing is meaningful to me, and my master may or may not grant it to me, as it pleases him, but, at that time, in the place of Menon, so small a thing seemed inordinately precious, and important.

I had not had such a sweet since Earth, since my “harvesting” as one of the ill-protected, exposed, dangling fruits so easily available to slavers in the “slave orchard of Earth,” no, not since my acquisition, my capture, my routine snaring, merely another sleek, defenseless animal, ignorant and unsuspecting, easily taken as the prize of methodical hunters.

“Now,” said Astrinax, “let us suppose that the girl who has been given the candy wants to save it, to postpone the pleasure of eating it until later, perhaps to when her work is done, and hides it somewhere, perhaps in the straw of her mat, and you, unbeknownst to her, have observed this.”

“Yes, Master?” I said, warily.

“Let us further suppose that you might, unobserved, and unsuspected, and with utter impunity, steal it. Would you do so?”

I did not care for this conversation. I was much afraid, to lie, or to tell the truth.

“I must tell the truth?” I asked.

“You are a slave,” said Menon.

“And I would not be caught?” I asked.

“No,” said Astrinax.

“I am not stupid,” I said.

“Of course not,” said Astrinax.

It was well known that high intelligence was one of the properties sought in slaves. Who would want a stupid slave? Too, it was well known that highly intelligent women made the best slaves. Of all women they were the quickest to learn that the collar was truly on them, that they were now actually owned by a master, that society wholly supported and approved their condition, and that escape was impossible. They were now slaves, unqualifiedly. Too, once they had been truly knelt, their sexual drives and needs would begin to rage within them; they would become aware of their biological being and its nature, that they were biologically the properties of men; and, pursuant to these understandings and bodily changes, and knowing themselves choiceless, the collar on their necks, they yielded to their being and nature, submissive to, and responsive to, categorical male dominance, yielded helplessly and appetitiously to this, naturally, passionately, and gratefully, it being that for which they had longed for so long, that without they were incomplete, given the radical sexual dimorphism of the species.

They would come to long for the chain, and the caress.

Even to beg for it.

“And she is only a slave,” I said.

“Of course,” said Astrinax.

“Then,” said I, “I would steal the candy. Who would not?”

“Many,” said Menon, regretfully.

“I think she will do very nicely,” said Astrinax.

“I fear so,” said Menon.

“Master?” I said, uneasily.

“Eventually,” said Menon, “you will have to grow more moral.”

“Master?” I said.

“You are a slave,” said Menon. “One expects a greater morality from a slave than a free woman.”

“Because they are afraid of being beaten?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“But, Master,” I said, “is the testimony of slaves in courts not taken under torture, that they will not dare to lie?”

“It would be better,” said Menon, “for the testimony of free women to be taken under torture, for they are famous for saying whatever pleases them.”

“Under torture,” said Astrinax, “one speaks not to say the truth, but to say whatever will stop the pain.”

“I am disappointed in you, Allison,” said Menon.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“She is a barbarian,” Astrinax reminded Menon.

“True,” said Menon.

“I am pleased to hear your response to my question,” said Astrinax.

“A slave is pleased if Master is pleased,” I said.

Surely a girl is entitled to look out for herself, avail herself of opportunities, improve her place, take advantage of things, and so on.

“I think you are a clever slave,” said Astrinax.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“Though perhaps not intelligent,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“But clever, surely,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

I wished he had said ‘intelligent’. ‘Clever’ had a suggestion of pettiness, of cunning, of smallness about it.

“And pretty,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“A pretty slave, and a clever one,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said. I was not sure I had been complimented. Was I not intelligent, was I not beautiful, at least amongst women of Earth, if not compared to Gorean collar girls?

But is the word ‘clever’ not a mere disparagement, on the part of some, of true intelligence, that which is expedient, and prudentially wise, that by means of which one may pursue one’s best interests with the least regard to extraneous impediments, principles, codes, rules, and such?

I was annoyed.

I knew myself to be quite intelligent. The girls in the sorority had not been selected merely on the basis of appearance, carriage, dressing smartly, being economically well stationed, and so on. We were selected, at least in part, to enhance the reputation of the sorority, as an established avenue to wealth and power. Membership, this presenting us as rare prizes in marital competitions, above lesser advantaged girls, much increased the likelihood of our obtaining an enviable match.

“On your former world,” said Astrinax, “one supposes you were adept in certain familiar female practices, commonly associated with free women, for example, that you were skilled in flattering males, in teasing them, manipulating them, playing on their feelings, raising their hopes, encouraging them to pursuits in your interest, or perhaps in the interest of your superiors, inducing them to certain activities, by glances, smiles, words, and such.”

“Perhaps, Master,” I said.

I had enjoyed such games, sometimes for gain, sometimes for sport. It was easy to find gratification in my effect on males, boys, and men.

Then, of course, I was not a vulnerable slave, owned, subject to discipline, and such.

Then I was free. I was not in a collar.

What one did then one might not dare in a collar.

“Do you think you could engage in such activities now,” asked Astrinax.

“I do not understand, Master,” I said. I did not want to be lashed.

“Could you smile upon men, bring them drinks, brush against them, be at their side, smile, laugh, pretend to share their anxieties, their joys, their disappointments, and keep them engaged in certain activities?”

“Master?” I said.

“Could you lie, if commanded, pretend interest where interest was not felt, simulate affection where none exists, use your beauty, for you now have beauty, yes, beauty, such as it is, to whisper, wheedle, stimulate, instigate, and influence men, even to their ruin, collapse, or destitution?”

“I do not think I understand Master,” I said.

“Astrinax,” said Menon, “is seeking slaves for a gambling house. It is one of several on the Street of Chance. In such a house, there are commonly slaves, beautiful slaves, to wait upon the men, to serve drinks and food, to contribute to the decor and pleasantness of the setting, to mingle with the patrons, to encourage betting, even to the point of recklessness.”

“I see,” I said.

“In the beginning,” he said, “you would be a lesser slave, though not hard to look upon, and might assist the other girls.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. I was pleased, at least, to learn that I was not hard to look upon. Perhaps in such a place I might attract a man and win for myself a private master. I could make my choice judiciously, finding a fellow both handsome and strong, and, in such a place, quite possibly one of wealth. A girl has ways of course, of influencing a fellow to think of buying her.

It was lonely in my chains, at night. Sometime I clutched them, hurting my hands, in frustration, those metal fastenings on me so fixedly, and thrashed on my mat.

“I think I know the house,” said Menon to Astrinax. “If it is the one I think it is, it is rumored to be dishonest.”

“If so,” smiled Astrinax, “I think our little Allison might fit in quite nicely.”

I remembered my response to the question about the candy.

“Doubtless,” said Menon.

I feared I had disappointed my master.

“You understand the sort of thing we have in mind, do you not, Allison?” asked Astrinax.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you think you could well fulfill your duties in such a place?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“I thought so,” he said.

“Slaves, there,” said Menon, “exist to loosen the strings on pouches, urge fellows to shower gold on the tables, to risk much, beyond reason, to pout and look away if there is evidence of hesitation or circumspection, to cry out in pleasure if an extra tarn disk is put in the plate, another card drawn, another flash of dice cast.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I did not see that that was my concern.

“Some will ply them with drink,” he said, “and bring them food, to keep them at the tables.”

“I understand,” I said.

“You may be expected to do such things,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And,” said Astrinax, “you would be expected to do such things well, with an appearance of delight and enthusiasm. Do you think you could manage that?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

In such a place might one not secure a suitable master, perhaps even one rich, though, to be sure, I would hope to be his only slave.

“The price agreed,” said Astrinax, “as I recall, was a silver tarsk.”

I looked up, startled.

I had originally sold for forty-two copper tarsks.

“The price, now,” said Menon, rising, looking down on me, “is fifty, fifty copper tarsks.”

“Oh?” said Astrinax, smiling.

“She is not worth a silver tarsk,” said Menon.

I knelt between them while the tarsks were counted out.

When the transaction had been completed, I dared to look up at Menon. “It is a shame,” said Menon, looking down upon me, “that the slavers consider little more than intelligence, beauty, and helpless, latent passion. Perhaps they should concern themselves more with the character of their prey.”

“Master?” I said.

“Women such as you,” he said, “belong beneath the whip.”

“Please do not whip me, Master,” I said.

“Take her away,” said Menon.

Astrinax stood up, and, from his pouch, he cast me a bit of purple cloth. There was not much to it. It had writing on the back, which I could not read. It barely covered me.

“Stand up, my dear,” said Astrinax.

I did so, hip turned, as I had been taught.

Astrinax regarded me, appraisingly. And I think he was satisfied.

“Come along,” said Astrinax, holding open the swinging panel, which led from the office.

“I wish you well, Master,” I said to Menon.

“Get out,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, and hurried after Astrinax, sobbing, my eyes filled with tears.

But, I thought, too, I am out of the kitchen, away from the tables. Too, I had little doubt I would be fetching in the sort of tunic I now wore. The angry glance of a free woman, outside the office, reassured me of this.

I felt so superior to her in that moment.

She was only a free woman. I was a slave, half clad, collared, shapely, desirable, ownable, the sort of woman men want, the sort of woman they prize, and buy.

I was a thousand times more than she.

I might be less than the dirt beneath her sandals, but I was a thousand times more than she.

It is no wonder they hate us so, and we fear them so.

How special it was to be a slave, and how right it was for me!

It was what I was, and should be.

If one is a slave, why should one not be a slave?