Kur of Gor

Chapter, the Seventy-Ninth: THE LITANY; CECILY BETTER LEARNS HER COLLAR, AT THE DISCIPLINE POST; THE FEAST; CECILY DANCES; SOME ACCOUNT OF WHAT LATER OCCURRED BETWEEN A MASTER AND HIS SLAVE

"Kneel,” said Cabot, “there."

"Yes,” Master,” said the brunette slave, and knelt before him.

"Now,” he said, “you are kneeling, before a man."

"Yes, Master."

"Is it appropriate?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why?

"Because I am a woman, Master."

"And what else?"

"A slave, Master."

"Keep your knees together,” he said, “closely."

"Yes, Master,” she said, and pressed her knees together, closely.

"What is your name?"

"Cecily,” she said, “—if it pleases Master."

"And what name would you like?"

"Whatever name Master wishes,” she said.

"You are Cecily,” he said.

"I am Cecily,” she said. “Thank you, Master."

"I believe,” he said, “you received some training in the pleasure cylinder."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"There are many litanies of servitude,” he said. “I believe you were taught one of these in the pleasure cylinder."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"We will now recite it,” he said.

"Yes, Master,” she whispered.

As Cabot noted, there are many such litanies, or exchanges of questions and responses, or such. On the assumption that the reader might be curious as to the litany used in this particular instance, it went as follows:

Q: What is that on your neck?

A: A collar.

Q: What sort of collar?

A: A slave collar.

Q: Why is it on you?

A: It is on me because I am a slave.

Q: What is a slave?

A: Property.

Q: And what are the duties of such a property?

A: To please her master, in all ways, to the best of her ability.

Q: Whose collar do you wear?

A: I wear your collar, Master.

Q: And what does that mean?

A: That I am your slave, Master.

Q: What, then, are your duties?

A: To please you, in all ways, to the best of my ability.

Q: Do you beg to be permitted to do this?

A: I do so beg, Master.

Q: And are you aware of the penalties for failing to be found fully pleasing, in all ways, to the best of your ability?

A: Yes, Master.

Q: And are you afraid?

A: Yes, Master.

"You did well,” said Cabot. “If you had not done well, you would have been switched, and then, later, examined again, and if you did not do well then, you would be switched, again, and so on. Soon, you would do it well. You would do it perfectly."

"I was switched, more than once, in the cylinder,” she said.

"Do you recall the sting of those blows, even now?” he asked.

She shuddered. “Yes, Master,” she said.

"Spread your knees,” he said, “kneel straight, back on your heels, head up, palms of your hands down on your thighs."

The slave began to tremble.

"Head up!” he said. “Do you wish to be put in a high collar, to keep your head up?"

"No, Master,” she said, quickly.

Such collars are common with Kur pets. They are also used from time to time in slave training.

"Do you know in what position you have been placed?” he asked.

Certainly this was a rhetorical question, for she would have learned this position in the pleasure cylinder, and Cabot, himself, in the pleasure cylinder, near Lake Fear, and elsewhere, had put her in it often enough.

"The position of a Gorean pleasure slave,” she said. “Am I a pleasure slave?"

"Are you?” he asked.

"I would hope to give pleasure to my master,” she said.

"You,” he said, “a woman of Earth, desire to give pleasure to a master?"

"Surely that is not unusual for a woman of Earth,” she said. “In the history of that world millions of women have been held in bondage, and even now it is not known how many are in bondage. And in countless places, throughout that world, there are countless slaves, secret slaves, at the feet of their masters. It is not so rare, really, for there are men and women, and where there are men and women, there are masters and slaves. And untold millions of women fantasize themselves helpless in the chains of masters, fearing the whips of their owners, and millions, as well, are the slaves of their lovers, as they wish to be, though they dare not acknowledge this truth even to the unsuspecting lover. She fears being scorned for her realities and needs. She knows it is a slave he holds in his arms, but she is afraid to tell him so. How her heart cries out to kneel before him, to kiss his feet, to be bound by him, to feel the stroke of his switch, to be mastered by him, and yet she dares not speak. It then is only she who knows that about her neck, unseen, quite invisible, but as real as steel, is the collar of a slave."

"You seem to have inquired into these things,” he said.

"I have long known myself a slave, Master,” she said.

"As I recall,” he said, “your name was once Virginia Cecily Jean Pym."

"Yes, Master,” she said, “but I am now Cecily."

"That is a slave name,” he said.

"I understand that, Master."

"And you are a slave."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"A slave's duties,” he said, “are to serve and please her master, in all ways, to the best of her ability."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"Have you done so?"

"Master?"

"To all fours,” he said, angrily, “and crawl to the post of discipline."

"What are you going to do?” she said, frightened. Then she said, quickly, “Yes, Master!” And crawled, her master on his feet beside her, to the foot of the post. She was familiar with the post. She had been fastened to it her first day in the camp; she had been fastened, standing, to it, belly facing it, during the duel of Cabot and Flavion, and during the arrival and vengeance of Lord Grendel; and she had been chained to it often enough since then, sometimes with other slaves, usually by an ankle, the left, which is the customary chaining ankle for a female slave.

When she had reached the post, he said, “Kneel, facing the post."

"Yes, Master,” she said, uncertainly.

He braceleted her left wrist and passed the other bracelet through the post's lower ring and then snapped it about her right wrist. She was then before the post, kneeling, fastened to it.

"What are you going to do?” she asked.

"Whip you,” he said, and then left her there, leaving to fetch an appropriate implement.

He did not return for some time.

When he did return she could see that he carried a five-stranded Gorean slave lash, with broad blades. She had seen such a thing in the pleasure cylinder. It is designed for the disciplining of female slaves. It punishes nicely, but does not mark, for that might lower the slave's sales value.

"You are of Earth,” she said. “I am of Earth! You cannot be serious!"

"I have not fastened you standing at the post,” he said, “your hands over your head, for I feared you might be driven against the post, and injured."

She scarcely registered what he had said. It was only later that she better understood its import.

She jerked at the bracelets, angrily. It seemed she might wish to rise, but she could not, of course, fastened as she was, have stood erect.

"Remain kneeling,” he said, “or go to your belly."

"You are joking!” she insisted.

"If you wish,” he said, “you may brace your hands against the post, or your shoulder, to prevent being dashed against it. Later, you may wish to go to your belly in the dirt. It is permitted."

"I am of Earth!” she cried.

"No longer,” he said.

"I am sorry I ran away!” she said. “I am sorry if I spoke to you with insufficient respect! I am sorry if I did not perform obeisance when it was appropriate to do so! I am sorry that I foolishly used your name in addressing you! I am sorry if I have displeased you in any way! Forgive me! Please, forgive me!"

"Do not do this!” she said. “You cannot do it, for I am from Earth, and such things are not for me. I am from Earth and such things cannot be done to me! Do you think I am no more than a Gorean girl, some simple slave, to be put without a second thought beneath the lash? I am from Earth, from Earth!"

"Do not fear,” he said, shaking out the blades of the supple tool. “You will not be beaten as a man is beaten, with the fullness of a man's strength, and such, nor with a whip such as is used on men, say, the snake. This whip is for female slaves, and has been developed over a long period of time, perhaps centuries, to attend nicely to their discipline. Similarly I will not whip you at great length, but only to the extent you deserve, so richly, and to the extent which I hope will rectify your behavior."

"Do not whip me!” she pleaded.

"A crossbar fastened between two posts is often used, to which the slave, kneeling or standing, may be fastened,” he said. “In this way they will not be bruised, or torn, as they might be, against a post, or a wall, such things. An overhead ring might also be used with the same end in view. Such rings are found in many Gorean dwellings."

She then recalled that before, in the forest, when she had been put in whip position, she had been fastened, her hands over her head, rather in the open, to a thick, overhead branch. Only now was the purpose of that, in virtue of the remarks of her master, earlier and now, fully, consciously clear to her, as she might writhe and try to flee the whip, to protect her from forcible contact with a hard surface.

"You cannot whip me!” she cried. “You did not punish me before! You will not punish me now!"

"It is true,” he said, “that I did not punish you before."

"Just touch my back, if you must,” she said, “as you did before. That is enough! It is more than enough!"

He did not respond.

"I need not be punished,” she said. “It is not necessary to punish me. Punishment is not necessary. I will mend my ways!"

Again he did not see fit to respond to the anxious declarations and protestations of the lovely, distraught, braceleted beast.

"I will strive to be pleasing!” she said.

"I trust so,” he said.

"I am sorry I was displeasing!” she said.

"But you were displeasing,” he said. “You are a slave. Did you expect to be displeasing, and not be punished?"

"You cannot punish me!” she said. “I am from Earth!"

"You may find this quite unpleasant,” he said. “Accordingly, it is my hope that in the future you will go to great lengths to avoid incurring repetitions of this experience, at least too frequently, and will be muchly concerned to monitor and improve your behavior, that in such a way as to better serve and please your master, in all ways, to the best of your ability."

"Let me go!” she said, jerking the linkage of the bracelets against the ring.

"To be sure,” he said, “it is often difficult for the slave to avoid displeasing her master, even inadvertently. And occasionally a slave slips somewhat, and becomes lax, and such things are inappropriate, and are not to be tolerated."

"Let me go! Let me go!"

"She is always subject to the whip, you see. Too, as you may not realize, the slave, as she is a slave, may be whipped at any time, for any reason, or for no reason. That helps her to understand she is a slave. Also, occasionally, she may be whipped for no other reason than to remind her that she is a slave."

"You cannot whip me,” she cried. “I am from Earth!"

"From Earth,” he said, “you should be clearly aware, here, as would you be on Gor, that you are only a slave."

"Surely you are not going to whip me, truly, not as a slave!"

"You are a slave,” he said, “and it is as the slave you are that you will be whipped."

"Master!” she cried.

"You are kajira,” he said.

"Please, no, Master!” she wept.

He then put the whip to her.

* * * *

"Viands, Master,” she said, kneeling and lifting the plate to him, her head down.

He took what pleased him, and dismissed her, and she stood, near him, for a moment, uncertain, and then another called to her, from across the great fire, about which the men sat, being served, and she, casting a forlorn glance at him, hurried to serve the other, to whom she had been summoned.

She served identically, as all the others.

There was the music of flutes, and a tabor, and one kalika, and a slave, she of one of Peisistratus’ men, stamped her feet, and turned, and danced in the firelight. Bangles clashed upon her bared ankles. It is beautiful to see a slave dancing in the firelight. Or in the light of torches, or candles, in some such natural light. How beautiful are women, thought Cabot. It is a rare Gorean camp, incidentally, which does not have its slaves, for, as noted, Gorean men are fond of them, and reluctant to forgo their services and pleasures.

"Wine, Master?” inquired Corinna, kneeling before him, lifting the goblet in two hands, her head down, between her extended arms.

In the goblet, of course, was actually paga.

"Peisistratus sent you to me?” said Cabot.

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"Thank him for me,” said Cabot, “but I think I will have wine later."

"Yes, Master,” said Corinna, smiling. “Later in the feast I will send her to you."

Cabot nodded, dismissing the beauteous Corinna. He hoped to see her dance, later.

"Paga!” called men. “Viands!” demanded others. “Bread, meat!” cried others.

It was a small feast, with no more than twenty men, and some five or six slaves, but it was a ready, merry one, with the usual raucous gusto of strong, healthy, uninhibited men. Cabot thought that many of Earth might have regarded such as barbarians, but they, Goreans, had much the same views of those of Earth. Who but barbarians would poison their foods, pollute the air they breathed and the water they drank, would live lives of unhealthy deprivation and misery, would wrap their bodies in clumsy, malformed, constricting garments, would congratulate themselves on denying themselves the natural gratifications of their species, would feel unworthy, belittled, and ashamed for having the most natural impulses and feelings of their kind, would allow free women to go about unveiled, as though they might be slaves, and would unthinkingly sacrifice themselves for foolish, preposterous, and contradictory ideologies and creeds? Too, they did not speak Gorean, an infallible sign in many Gorean minds of barbarism. Still, despite the many faults of that barbarian world there was something to be said for it. It was a source world for superb slaves. Certainly its women sold well in the Gorean markets. But that was not to be wondered at, for it is common knowledge that from barbarian shores are not unoften harvested the finest of slaves.

Lord Grendel was not at the feast, for he had returned to the habitats, doubtless on business, say, with Lords Arcesilaus and Zarendargar, or perhaps to participate further in the festivals, or, perhaps, more simply, to be near the Lady Bina.

Near the gate the great sleen, Ramar, had been given a huge haunch of roast tarsk.

Muchly about the fire were conversations, shoutings, songs, recitations, games, proposals, projections, and plans.

Some discussion concerned the respective merits of weapons, particularly the crossbow and the peasant bow. There was discussion, as well, of poets. I trust this is not surprising, that hardy men, skilled with weapons, who often lived with peril, might have such concerns. On Gor and in the world poetry is not the labored, esoteric possession of a delicate, pretentious minority, as it might prove to be in less civilized or more decadent climes, but is a matter of life, robust pride, and zestful living. In any event, in the world, and on Gor, as well, poetry, like music, and song, is familiar, public, and popular. It has not yet fled into eccentric byways. It has not yet been taken away from the people. To be sure, much of the conversation was far more prosaic, involving matters of trade, commensurabilities of currencies, tharlarion versus kaiila races, pen procedures for acclimating new girls to their collars, the best seasons and cities for the marketing of women, whether or not the slave girls of Ar were superior to those of Turia, and what not.

Cabot observed the slaves, serving, the firelight reflected from their bared skins, and glinting and flashing at times, suddenly, from their collars.

How beautiful they were, and how well they served.

And she of most interest to him moved amongst them, no more or less than any other.

Cabot mused, that she had been put with him in the container, on the Prison Moon. She had been selected with care by Priest-Kings, doubtless from many thousands, with him in mind. She would doubtless constitute for any male an almost irresistible temptation, but for him, Tarl Cabot, she had been actually picked out, chosen with all the insidious wisdom and callous astuteness of an advanced science, the science of Priest-Kings. If she was an almost irresistible temptation for any male, what must she be then to him, he for whom she, unbeknownst to herself, had been selected, readied, and prepared? Cabot wondered if in a sense she had not, unbeknownst to herself, been bred for him. Too, clearly she was a slave, to those who could remark such things, the sort of woman to be seized by the hair, thrown to a fellow's feet, stripped, and collared. And, too, of course, the matching, to be most successful, would presumably be one of designed reciprocation, not only she to him, but he to her. She was to have been, as a free woman, a challenge to his honor, the means by which, sooner or later, it must be inevitably lost, but now there was no longer a need to concern oneself with such things, for now, as a slave, she was as open to him or to any other who might own her, as any other slave.

He watched her serving, and he supposed that many of the young men she had so belittled and tormented, led on and then frustrated, for her vanity and amusement, would have enjoyed sitting with others at that feast, seeing her serve with others, as what she was, a slave.

Perhaps, too, they would have enjoyed seeing her at the post, earlier in the afternoon, being punished for having been displeasing.

After only the second stroke she had gone to her belly.

Cabot had left her there for an Ahn, and had then freed her from the post, that she might assist her collar sisters in preparing the feast.

One of the fellows started up a song, and it was taken up by the others, a song of Cos, a rowing song, from which island Ubarate derived Peisistratus and some three or four of his fellows. The song, however, was well known, certainly on Tyros and Tabor, named for its shape, and in other places. Cabot had heard it in Port Kar, but attributed there judiciously to another origin, as little love was lost between Cos and Port Kar. It must not be supposed that the crews of Peisistratus, which composed somewhere between four and five hundred men, most of whom were still in the habitats, enjoying the festival, were all Cosian. They had been recruited widely, and carefully. That is common with the slavers of the ships. The men he had brought into the forest, to abet the mission of Lord Grendel, were thus a tiny fraction of his men; but they were picked men, men muchly trusted, men often relied on.

"Paga!” called a fellow, and a slave, with her vessel, hurried to him, to serve him.

There were no free women present at this feast, of course, so the slaves need not be attired in decorous tunics, or even gowns, nor needed they serve so deferentially and unobtrusively that they might almost not be present, in order that free women not be distressed or disturbed. Too, of course, this was a remote forest camp, away from the habitats, and free Kur females, and the men were, after all, Goreans.

Accordingly the slaves served as one would expect at such a feast, naked, save for their collars.

He observed one of the slaves, she whom he had named ‘Cecily', hurrying to one of the fellows, to replenish his plate.

He was pleased.

She would learn to serve masters unquestioningly, thusly.

If he had her back on Gor, in a holding, and was entertaining, and free women were present, she would, of course, rather as suggested, serve quite differently. Indeed, in a refined supper, or entertainment, female slaves, if not gowned, are usually tunicked rather demurely, the tunics often reaching to the knees. The common slave tunic, on the other hand, usually comes well above the knees, because men enjoy seeing the legs of slaves. In some houses the slaves, in serving, as indicated, might be clad in gowns, indeed, in long, lovely, flowing gowns. When kneeling unobtrusively to the side, or in the background, waiting to serve, the slaves in the long gowns will lift and arrange the gowns in such a way, gracefully, that they are about and over their knees, that in order that it will be their knees which are in direct contact with the tiles, and that the gown, thusly, not be pressed to the tiles by their weight. This protects the gown. The serving garments, whether tunics or gowns, are almost invariably white. This is supposed to make it clear to the free women present that the slaves are modest, quiet girls, bashful and retiring, of a sort a fellow would scarcely notice. It would not do to have them serve in, say, slave red. The arms of the serving slaves are almost always bare, however, as this tends to be cultural for slaves. Too, the collar must always be visible to free women, for they like to see collars on slaves. On such occasions, too, of course, if free women are present, the slave, even if she is her master's pleasure slave, will kneel with her knees modestly closed. Indeed, to look upon her there, so quiet, so decorous and demure, one would scarcely guess what she is like, stripped and chained, begging, at the foot of her master's couch. The free woman at such entertainments, too, will usually have her customs and preferences. A common custom is to scarcely notice the slave, and have her serve, in so far as possible, almost as though she did not exist. And the free woman will often prefer to have the serving slaves be women obtained from some enemy city. This assures them of the nature of such women, that they are worthy only of wearing collars and serving their betters, and, thus, in the same way, in this, they find, inversely, evidence of their own incomparable worth and innate superiority. Sometimes they will buy such a woman, to have her as a serving slave, or, as it is sometimes put, a sandal slave. Slave girls dread to be purchased by a free woman. A man is likely to punish a girl only if she has failed in some way to please him, but a free woman may whip her for no other reason than that she is a lovely slave and men might desire her. It is well known that it is much harder for a girl to please a mistress than a master. The master is, after all, a man. The sandal slave is likely to be whipped if she so much as looks at a male. On her leash she may be expected to keep her eyes modestly down, on the pavement. Too, even if a slave fails to please a master in some way she may well succeed, it must be admitted, in averting his wrath, in managing to placate him, in a variety of ways, by tearful contrition, the display of her beauty, by covering his feet with kisses, and such. But such stratagems, often so effective with males, are unlikely to prove availing with an owner of her own sex. The beauty and the thousand tender, sweet, ingratiating charms of the female slave, as timid and fearful as she may be, often so effective in dealing with masters, are likely with a mistress to earn her only angry, additional strokes of the switch.

Lastly it might be mentioned that free women, at suppers, banquets, and such, also enjoy being served by Earth-girl slaves. Many would like them, as well, it seems, as serving, or sandal, slaves, to demean and abuse, as they seem to hate them almost as much, or perhaps even more, than their Gorean collar sisters, but most Earth-girl slaves, given their reputation as terrified, but hot, trainable sluts, starved for sex on their old world, are purchased by males. In Gorean collars they soon learn what it is to be a man's slave.

Corinna was now dancing.

Rhythmic clapping accompanied her dance.

She had been granted a veil and used it superbly, even tormentingly, until it was torn away by her master, Peisistratus, who had had enough, and he dragged her from the fire, into the darkness.

Cabot hoped she would soon return to the feast, as he did not think that she had, as yet, informed another slave that he was to be served wine.

Another girl, and another girl, was summoned to dance.

Cabot summoned the brunette to him. Naturally, she knelt, instantly. But he indicated she should stand. She then, frightened, for she did not know why she had been summoned, and she had felt his whip, stood before him, stood as she had been taught in the pleasure cylinder, as a slave before a master, soft, graceful, and submissive, sweetly lissome, supple, and lithe, displaying for his appraisal a property, the lovely property which was she, her back straight, her shoulders back, her small hands at her sides, her head up, turned slightly to the left, that she not meet the master's eyes directly.

Cabot then walked behind her, and after considering the delights of her form, gave his attention more carefully to her back.

It was facing the fire, and the fire light danced upon it.

He then held her from behind, by the arms, that she would not move, and would know herself held.

His grip was stern.

He could feel her begin to tremble in his grasp.

"Master?” she said.

She had no understanding of his intent.

"Please do not whip me,” she begged.

"You are not marked,” he informed her, and then let her go.

With a cry of fear, she fled from him, away, to the other side of the fire, whence she turned to look at him, her eyes wide, her hand, palm out, before her mouth.

She now feared her master.

She had not been pleasing.

She had then, of course, been whipped.

She would be muchly concerned to better please him in the future.

She had now learned, you see, what it was to be under a man's whip. That simple, supple, tool is an excellent device for encouraging attention, care, and dutifulness in a girl.

That a slave is subject to the whip is commonly all that is required to obtain the marvels which are at her disposal to dispense. She will go to great lengths to see to it that it remains quietly on its peg.

Too, she soon desires to serve her master not from fear, but from emotions into which she dares not inquire, and which, surely, she dares not reveal to her master.

After she had been whipped she had lain in the dirt, at the post, “I have been whipped,” she had whispered to herself. “I am a whipped slave. He is my master. He is my master."

Too, her name, ‘Cecily', had now, with the whipping, been well associated with her bondage.

It was she, Cecily, who had been whipped.

"Cecily has been whipped by her master,” she then whispered to herself. “Cecily now well knows who is her master. Cecily now well knows whose slave she is."

She had learned, too, of course, that if a girl is not pleasing to her master, she may expect to be punished.

"Cecily,” she had then whispered to herself, “now knows herself a slave, and she is well content."

"Cecily,” she whispered to herself, “I will tell you a little secret, which, I trust, does not alarm or disconcert you. You wanted to be whipped, Cecily. You wanted him to whip you. Now you know that even if he is not yours, that you are his. There is no doubt now that you are his slave. His whip is over you. It is he who is your master."

Well had the whip, you see, taught her to whom she belonged.

And that is why, it seems, she had wanted to feel his whip, that it would confirm upon her his unique and indisputable ownership.

Yet, too, as noted, she mightily feared the whip, and would surely do much to escape the renewed kiss of the slashing leather blades. How small and soft she was, and how terribly they hurt her! She had wept, a punished slave, and had yet been reassured by the pain of his interest and attention. That he was concerned to punish her, and thereby improve her, bespoke a possible intent to keep her on his chain. She might not then, she hoped, be sold, or gambled away, perhaps this very night. She now well understood that could be done. But it seemed he cared enough for her to punish her, to see to her discipline. But how the whip hurt! If he cared to admonish her in the future, she hoped he would be content, at least for the most part, to use a stroke or two of the switch, as had the girls in the pleasure cylinder, charged with improving her Gorean. Surely the instruction of the switch's swift, stinging admonitions would be more than sufficient for her control, management, and improvement. Assiduously would she attend to its lessons and strive to correct her behavior, that she might become more pleasing to her master. In short, the slave, as most slaves, had very ambivalent feelings toward the whip, that unmistakable symbol of the mastery, that he was master and they were slave. They loved and revered it as a symbol of their treasured bondage, of the preciousness of their collars, put on them, and kept on them, by masters, but would do much to evade its stroke. Yet, too, oddly, through their whimpering and tears, they might sometimes rejoice as it might be applied to them, as it left in them no doubt that they were truly in their collars, truly the slaves of their master. Their status, their condition, their reality was then well confirmed upon them. So Cecily feared the whip, but was pleased that she was subject to it, and that it would be used upon her if she were not pleasing. She now well understood, given the events of the afternoon, that she, though an Earth girl, was the abject slave of a Gorean master. The slave fears the whip, but is thrilled to be subject to it.

She sees the simple device, always present in her milieu, suspended on its peg. She sees it with apprehension, and yet, too, with reassurance and ecstasy. She is profoundly reassured of her specialness, her worth, her importance, her identity, slave, her desirability, her womanhood. She is now, perhaps for the first time in her life, overjoyed to be a female, now acknowledging herself, openly and honestly, as a member of the suitably submitted sex, the slave sex. She finds her natural fulfilment in bondage. She is grateful to be wanted, grateful to be a property, grateful to be goods, grateful to be a slave, grateful to belong to a man, his, like a sleen or kaiila, her master, at whose feet she will kneel, whose collar she wears.

From time to time, commanded, she will kneel, and lick and kiss the whip, it held to her lips by her master, licking and kissing it as his slave, in which simple, familiar ceremony, that of kissing the whip, in lingeringly, attentively, obediently, and humbly caressing it with her soft lips and delicate tongue, she acknowledges that she is subject to its rule.

So the slave notes it, the whip, suspended quietly on its peg. She smiles. She knows the best way to keep it on its peg. She is to be diligent in her duties and strive, to the best of her ability, to please her master.

Is that not what a slave is for?

And what slave, eventually, does not wish to please her master as a slave, for the inexpressible joy of serving him as what she is, his slave.

This transcends the whip, but, to her joy, this reassuring her, she knows the whip is always there, in the background, ready should it be needed, there like the world, her world, for she is a slave.

Be strict with me, my master, thought Cecily. It is to such a man that I, a slave, wish to belong. It is such a man's collar I wish to wear. It is such a man whose chains I wish to weight my limbs. It is before such a man I desire, naked, collared, and chained, hand and foot, to kneel. It is such a man whose feet I beg to kiss.

A girl who had been writhing before her master, in the firelight, was seized by him, and pulled to the side, away from the fire.

Other fellows then looked around, drunkenly, for another dancer. There must surely be one, somewhere. “You!” cried more than one, pointing to the brunette. “No, no!” she screamed, and fled into the darkness.

Cabot rose from his place, and followed her, and found her crouched in the darkness, shuddering, against the wall of the palisade.

"The slave! The slave!” he heard, from the group about the fire. Too, he heard the flute skirl an invitation.

"They wish to see you dance, Cecily,” he said, kindly.

"I cannot dance, Master!” she wept.

"It is true you are far from Oxford,” he said. “But many maidens of Oxford might envy you the opportunity to dance before such men."

"I am naked, Master,” she whimpered.

"So, too, are the others,” he said. “Think of the many fellows you knew on Earth. They are not here, but do you not think they would like to see you dance naked before them, in a collar? You might imagine them here. Do you not think it would be a nice restitution to them, for how you treated them?"

She put down her head and moaned.

"The slave! The slave!” they heard.

"It would be nice,” he said, “had you a scarlet halter, earrings, bangles and bracelets, necklaces, a belt of coins, a scarlet skirt, one of Turian drape, such things, but you do not, and so you must do without, and do the best you can."

"The slave!” they heard.

"They want to see you,” said Cabot.

"The Earth slut!” they heard. “Let us see barbarian collar-meat! Let us see the shapely she-tarsk! Five tarsk-bits for the slut! Six, if she is pleasing! Put her on her back! Kneel her, give her to us!"

"You will dance,” Cabot informed her.

Cecily then sprang up, and, in tears, ran to the fire, and stood before the men. “I cannot dance, Masters!” she wept.

Cabot followed her to the fire, and sat down, cross-legged, in his place.

He was pleased to see that Corinna and Peisistratus had rejoined the group. Peisistratus had not kept her long. Perhaps Corinna had only herself to blame, as her veil work had driven her master mad with instant need. Doubtless, after the feast, as he had regained his composure, she would serve him again, for perhaps one or two Ahn, or more, perhaps until the forest, in its softness, and dampness, was ready to awaken.

The tabor joined the flute, and then, suddenly, too, the kalika.

"Dance!” cried men.

And then, in tears, terrified, as she could, Cecily, a naked Earth-girl slave, danced before masters, Gorean men, men who knew what to do with women, and would have uncompromisingly what they wished from them.

It was true the Earth girl was not skilled in slave dance, but it takes years to master its subtleties.

But she was young, and beautiful, and stripped, and collared, and in the firelight.

The darkness doubtless covered many flaws, but then she was not really dancing, in any event, as dancers might think of dance.

She was naked in the firelight, and moving, in such a way she hoped might be found acceptable.

"Whip her!” called a fellow.

"Please, no, Masters!” she cried.

"She has felt it!” laughed a fellow.

"Only this afternoon,” said another.

"Whip her, again,” laughed a man.

"No, Masters!” wept the slave. “Please, no! I am trying to please you!"

"You are not a bad-looking piece of collar meat, you shapely slut,” said a man. “Make us want you!"

"'Want me'?” she said, aghast.

"She is stupid,” said a man.

"She is from Earth,” said another.

"What do you think slave dance is about?” asked another.

"Show them you are worth owning!” called Cabot, laughing.

"Here, before me!” laughed a fellow. “Here! Show me your belly! Beg with it!"

"Let it jerk in need!” said a fellow.

"Surely you have experienced slave spasms!” said another.

"Rotate your belly, slowly!” called another.

"You are a slave,” called Cabot. “Writhe! Let your body beg to be caressed!"

"Here!” called a fellow.

"Here!” called another.

She moved, as bidden, terrified, trying to please, about the circle.

She was then before Cabot.

She tried then to obey the others, but before her master.

Suddenly, reflexively, beyond her control, unexpectedly, her hips jerked, and she cried out with misery.

She then fled about the circle, frightened, trying to writhe before others.

There was much laughter.

"Let me dance!” cried out another girl, leaping to her feet, and Cecily fled to Cabot's side, and lay down, small, and frightened, trembling, beside him.

"Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.

"You are not a dancer,” said Cabot. “You gave us what we wanted, to see you in the firelight, naked, a slave, in the music. Do not mind the men. They were pleased. All were pleased."

"Was my master pleased?” she asked.

"He was pleased,” said Cabot.

"I am not to be whipped?” she asked.

"No,” said Cabot, “but if, in six months, you do not do better, I will put the lash to you."

"Do not whip me,” she said. “Please do not whip me."

"Slaves are not free women,” said Cabot. “They are subject to the whip. To be sure, much of this is in your control. The more pleasing you are, the less likely you will be whipped. If you are displeasing in some way, you must, as a slave, expect to be whipped. Too, a slave may be occasionally whipped, if only to remind her that she is a slave."

"My hips, once, when I was before you, moved suddenly, strangely, Master,” she said. “I could not help it. I did not do that on purpose, as with my other movements, my deliberate, intended movements of hips and belly. It just happened. I could not control it."

"Do not concern yourself,” said Cabot.

"I do not understand it,” she said

"It was a simple slave spasm,” said Cabot.

"May I speak, Master?"

"Certainly,” he said. “As before you unwisely left the compound, months ago,” he said, “I now, again, accord you a general permission to speak, but this privilege must be used with discretion."

"Yes, Master,” she said. “But I must always speak as what I am, a slave."

"Certainly,” said Cabot, “for you are a slave."

"And that permission may be instantly revoked, at any time, at your least discretion."

"Yes,” said Cabot, “and then you would have to ask specifically for permission to speak."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"What did you wish to say?” asked Cabot.

"I feel so strange,” she said. “I lie beside you, helpless. I am frightened. My whole body seems alive. If you were to touch me, I would cry out, and sob, and squirm in the dirt beside you! My belly is hot, and begs! Please touch me, Master! Give me the surcease my body pleads for! I am your slave! I knew I was your slave from the first moment I saw you, in that cruel container, in that terrible place."

"The Prison Moon,” said Cabot.

"I have tried to fight my bondage,” she said. “But I have failed! It is what I am, a slave, and yours! Touch me, my master! I beg it! When first I saw you I knew you were my master! Did you not, as well, know I was your slave?"

"It was no accident,” said Cabot, “that we found ourselves together there."

"I do not understand,” she said.

"Perhaps I will one day explain it to you,” said Cabot. “But this is neither the time nor place. I will tell you, however, that our conjoint presence in that small receptacle was no accident. We were matched."

"Matched?"

"Yes, by a vast intelligence, one beyond our grasp."

"How matched?” she asked. “As lovers?"

"As beasts entrapped by the will of others, placed together for their purposes, not ours."

"Beasts?"

"Biologically paired,” he said.

"As lovers, Master?"

"Of a sort,” he said.

"It is a complementarity, is it not?” she asked.

"Yes,” he said.

"Long ago,” she said, “I read of something like this, in an Asian philosophy, a harmony, a rightness, a propriety, a balance and reciprocity, a way of the world. It was spoken of as yin and yang."

"I gather there are many such complementarities,” said Cabot.

"One,” she said, “is man and woman, and there is another, which I fear is the same."

"What is that?” asked Cabot.

"Master and slave,” she said.

"Interesting,” said Cabot.

"I know nothing of such things,” she said. “But I do know I am your slave."

"That is clear,” said Cabot. “My collar is locked about your pretty little neck."

"I was your slave when first I looked upon you,” she said, “long before you closed that device upon me."

"Perhaps, in a sense,” he said.

"And you whipped me,” she said.

"That is meaningless,” he said.

"It was not meaningless to me,” she said.

"What is important,” he said, “are the legalities, the brand, the collar, such things. It is those things which are important. They are what make you wholly and perfectly a slave. A lashing is nothing. It is merely something which may be done to a slave, a mere hazard to which a slave is subject, particularly if she fails to be pleasing in some way."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"To be sure, a slave may have an emotional reaction to many things, a lashing, a cuffing, clothing, caging, food, errands, commands, almost anything."

"I had an emotional reaction to my beating,” she said.

"Oh?"

"I sensed then how much I was yours."

"You were no more or less my slave before or after the beating,” he said.

"My emotions seemed different,” she said.

"Such things are irrelevant to the realities involved,” he said.

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"It does not matter what you feel or do not feel. It does not matter whether you are beaten or not, cuffed or not, clothed or not, chained or not, kept as a house slave or a field slave, kept as a pot girl or a pleasure slave, pampered or well ruled. You can be bought and sold, and done with as might please me."

"Yes, Master."

"Any master who owns you might be expected, at one time or another, to give you a lashing."

"Any master?"

"Certainly."

"I do not want to be sold,” she said.

"I am thinking of selling you,” he said.

"Why?"

"You are not a bad-looking slave,” he said. “I think I could get a good price for you."

"Please, no!” she wept.

"Do not fear,” he said. “Many slaves have had several masters. And I assure you, you will be zealous to please any master whose collar is put about your neck and snapped shut."

"But have we not been matched?” she asked.

Cabot looked at her, suddenly, angrily.

"How then were we matched?” she asked. “If you are the master to my slave, as I knew when first I looked upon you, must I not be similarly matched, to you, as the slave to your master?"

"It is true,” said Cabot, “that I find you, as would most men, of interest as a female, and a slave."

"Only that?” she said.

"I do not like being manipulated,” said Cabot, “even by vast, incomprehensible intelligences."

"And so you would reject me?"

"It would be a way of mocking them, of defying their will."

"What then will be done with me?"

"I might give you away,” said Cabot. “But I think I would sell you. I would be curious to see what you would bring, objectively, apart from my interest in you, amongst other women."

"You do have an interest in me!” she said.

"You are a comely piece of collar meat,” said Cabot. “What man would not?"

"Am I not special to you?"

"That is what I fear,” said Cabot, “and what angers me. I would that it were I, and not others, who had picked you out. I would rather I had collared you amongst the collapsing walls of a burning city, that I had bought you off a block in Ar! A thousand times better I had discovered you for myself, in an exposition cage in Venna, or as you were being marched naked down the gangplank of a corsair in Port Kar, having been taken as a prize with others on gleaming Thassa, or as you were being whip-herded, blistered and burned, neck-chained and belled, with a thousand others, on a great Tahari coffle!"

"You might never have found me,” she said.

"There are doubtless thousands who would be as special to me,” said Cabot.

She touched her collar. “It is true we are slaves,” she whispered.

Cabot made an angry noise, a fist was clenched.

"But what difference do such things make?” she asked. “What difference does it make, really, how I came into your collar?"

"It makes a difference,” he snarled.

"Could you not suppose you had found me in a hundred other places, in a hundred other situations?"

"But I did not find you so,” he said.

"But I am still the same!” she wept.

"You were put in my way by intelligences you cannot even conceive of,” he said.

"I rejoice,” she said.

"For purposes beyond your comprehension,” he snarled.

"I gather,” she said, “that as a free woman I was to be a temptation to you, one which would somehow bring about your downfall. But clearly that is over. I am no longer a free woman. I am a slave, and if I remain a temptation, it is certainly one which need not frustrate you; it is one which you can command to your feet, and enjoy at your leisure."

"I did not find you myself!” he said.

"What difference does that make?” she said. “Millions of women have throughout the history of Earth, and doubtless of Gor, been picked out for others, for marriages, companionships, and such. And doubtless millions of female slaves have been picked out for others, matched to others, to the best of the purchaser's ability, a slave who sings and recites, and plays the lyre, for a fellow who loves poetry and music, a skilled dancer for a fellow who is fond of dance, a brilliant, informed, educated slave, perhaps once of the scribes, who, now collared and without caste, would be a delightful little beast to have in a scribe's house, affording her master many pleasures, those of conversation and intellectual engagement, as well as those which she, inevitably subdued, will provide at his slave ring, moaning and thrashing in his arms."

"It is different,” said Cabot. “There are forces involved here which you do not understand, forces concerned even with worlds."

"What of my feelings!” she cried.

"They are unimportant,” said Cabot. “They are the feelings of a slave."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"You were picked for me, and put with me, you must understand,” he said, angrily, “in accordance not with my will, or yours, or ours, but in accordance with the will of others."

"What difference should it make?"

"Should it not make a difference?"

"No!” she cried.

"Perhaps it does,” he said, angrily.

"Surely their schemes were foiled,” said the brunette, “when we were removed from the Prison Moon. Perhaps I was once the tool of someone or something to demean or destroy you, or serve some purpose not known to me, I do not know, but I am no longer such. I am now only a female slave, though perhaps one still well matched, through no fault of her own, to your bracelets and chain. So, can you not now accept me as a gift, if nothing else, as a pretty pebble you might stoop to pick up, as a small silken animal you find at your feet, her neck on your leash?"

"I think, indeed,” said Cabot, “we were well matched, I as master to your slave, you as slave to my master."

"You can do with me as you wish,” she said, “for I am a slave. But if we were so well matched, I know you must find me pleasing."

"I think I will lash you,” he said.

"Please do not,” she said.

"I have had, and have, many slaves,” said Cabot, musingly.

"Keep me then amongst them,” she said. “Let me be the least of the slaves in your house. Set me the most disagreeable of tasks. I want you for myself alone, but I would rather share you with a hundred slaves more beautiful than myself, if I am beautiful, than be apart from you."

"One of my slaves, though I have not claimed her,” said Cabot, “was once, until disowned, the daughter of a Ubar."

"What is a Ubar?” she asked. “A king?"

"More powerful than a king,” said Cabot.

"Until disowned?"

"She shamed him, her father, the Ubar."

"How so?"

"Once, enslaved, she begged to be purchased, a slave's act, and so, once purchased and freed, she was disowned."

"I do not think I understand this,” she said.

"Conceive of it,” said Cabot, “first, the daughter of a Ubar a slave! Is that not shameful enough?"

"Master?"

"Consider the shame to the Ubar!” he said. “Put such daughters aside! Leave them in their collars! Let them be sold thousands of pasangs away! Their bondage must not be allowed to besmirch a noble house! Let them not be spoken of, seen, or heard of again! Leave them on their chains. Let it be as though they had never existed!"

"But many must be the daughters of Ubars who find themselves slaves,” she said, “given the fortunes of war."

"Certainly,” said Cabot. “The victors make them slaves, and some are even marketed."

"Doubtless they bring high prices."

"Sometimes, for the amusement of the victors, they are sold for almost nothing."

"A considerable alteration in their circumstances,” she said, “from the luxury of a court to the exposure of the auction block."

"But, too,” said Cabot, “she begged to be purchased."

"I could conceive of myself begging to be purchased,” she said, regarding him, “if it were a certain man."

"But you are a rightful slave,” he said.

"Yes, Master."

"Sometimes,” said he, “slaves must beg to be purchased. Indeed, a common phrase expected of an inspected slave is, ‘Buy me, Master'."

"I could conceive of a man,” she said, “to whom I might address such a plea, and in a most heartfelt manner, and with earnestness and hope."

"But you are a slave, you see,” he said.

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"I think you cannot even conceive of how the free Gorean views the slave,” he said.

"But surely girls in their collars are of interest?” she said.

"Certainly,” said Cabot. “What Gorean male does not find female slaves of interest?"

His she-beast trembled at his side.

"Clearly the girl was no longer fit to be the daughter of a Ubar, and so, when freed, she was disowned. She was then sequestered, and kept from public view. But the Ubar disappeared. None know his whereabouts. The city, betrayed by many within, who sought advantage, fell to foes, and the former daughter, a conspirator as well, was brought forth by the traitors and victors and placed as a puppet on the throne."

"How is she a slave?"

"She fell afoul of a law, one of her own father's laws, that she who couches with, or readies herself to couch with, a slave, becomes the slave of the slave's master, the couching slave in this case, whom I had purchased in order to compromise and entrap the Ubara, was a famed and handsome actor. Afterwards, as had been my intent, I freed him, but this, in accord with the law and my plan, left her my slave. The matter was duly witnessed and processed, but then I permitted her to be recovered, and returned to the throne of the city. So now she who sits upon that throne, supposedly a Ubara, is only a slave, who must with uneasiness await her reclaiming."

"It is hard to understand how her father could disown her,” she said.

"She fell slave, and begged to be purchased,” said Cabot. “This was an enormity, twice an unconscionable affront to her father's honor, and shamed him. Doubtless he was merciful to have her sequestered, and not slain."

"Is it such a shameful thing, to be a slave?” she asked.

"Certainly,” said Cabot. “The slave is only a beast, as you are, a nothing, an object, mere goods, to be bought and sold."

"And you hope to reclaim her?"

"Why not? I own her, legally. And once she was unkind to me. And so I hope to have her naked on her knees before me, in slave bracelets."

"Doubtless she is very beautiful."

"Quite so,” said Cabot. “Certainly worth a collar, as many others."

"But is she not a great and noble woman?"

"Doubtless she seems so to the world,” said Cabot, “but now, under her father's own laws, she is only another slave."

"She sits upon the throne?"

"And desecrates it,” said Cabot. “Can you conceive the ignominy of this? Commonly, even in low-caste households, a slave is not permitted to sit on a bench or chair, and certainly would not be permitted to recline on a supper couch. Indeed, in many domiciles, a slave is not even allowed on her master's couch, but is used at its foot."

"Yet,” said the slave, “she sits upon the throne?"

"Uneasily, I trust,” said Cabot, “in terror, lest her secret be discovered."

"In the garb of a free woman?"

"Did the girls in the pleasure cylinder not speak to you of such things,” he asked, “when they were measuring you for a tunic, teaching you how to belt a camisk, and such?"

"Yes, Master,” she said, “slaves must be distinctively garbed, that there be no mistaking them for free women."

"It can be a capital offense,” said Cabot, “for a slave to present herself as a free woman, to pretend to be a free woman, to garb herself as a free woman, or such."

"Surely she must know this,” said the slave, fearfully.

"Of course,” said Cabot.

"And you hope to bring her to your holding?"

"Certainly,” he said.

"Let me be her sandal slave,” said the brunette.

"No,” said Cabot. “You are clearly a man's slave."

"Yes, Master,” she smiled.

"Trust that you never become the sandal slave of a free woman,” said Cabot.

"I gather from Corinna,” she said, “that that would be unpleasant."

"You have little to fear there,” said Cabot, “as you are ignorant of the intricacies of the free woman's toilette, the arrangements of robes, their foldings, drapings, and closures, the subtleties of various veils, the choice of scents, many things."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"A not unknown punishment for a slave,” said Cabot, “is to sell her to a free woman."

"I see,” she said.

"The mere fear of that,” said Cabot, “motivates many a slave to increase many times her efforts to please her master."

"The slave, being a slave,” said the brunette, “must in any event strive to serve and please her master!"

"And?” said Cabot.

"—in all ways, to the best of her ability,” said the slave.

"Yes,” said Cabot.

They were then silent, for a time. Cabot seemed angry, and lost in thought, and the slave was at first reluctant to speak.

"I grieve that Master is distressed,” she said, at last. “And I fear I do not, at least to my satisfaction, understand wholly the causes of his concern. The considerations which seem to motivate him do not seem to me coercive, even weighty."

"You are not a man,” he said, “nor are you of my caste, the scarlet caste, nor are you Gorean."

"It seems, to me,” she said, “that I am like a piece of fruit, in some lovely orchard, dangling on a branch before you, perhaps luscious fruit, certainly within reach, which you might pluck or not, as you pleased. Why then would you not reach out your hand, and seize me, and pluck me from the branch? Some men, I am sure, would enjoy having me at their feet. I knew men on Earth who would, I am sure, have reveled in my bondage, and striven to buy me."

"I did not seek you in the markets, or hunt you, or capture you,” said Cabot.

"Release me into the forest,” she suggested. “With a word to Ramar he will bring me back, bleeding, to your feet."

"I did not choose you,” said Cabot.

"Choose me now,” she said.

"—Now?” said Cabot.

"Choose me now,” she said. “See if I prove satisfactory. Slave girls, surely, are often tried out by masters, to see if they are satisfactory, and, if they are not, the master may seek another. Can you not try me out?"

"—Perhaps,” said Cabot.

"Are not some girls rented, or put out, on a trial basis?"

"Yes,” said Cabot.

"It is now your free choice,” she said, eagerly, “to choose me or not."

"Interesting,” said Cabot.

"Others may have brought me to your attention,” she said. “But the choice is yours. You may accept me or not, and for a given time or not. It is up to you."

"True,” said Cabot.

"You may then, later, if you wish,” she said, “give me away, or, better, as I understand it, sell me, to get some better sense of my value, what I might bring on the sales block."

"True,” said Cabot.

"Put others, and their thoughts, or plans, or projects, from your mind,” she said. “If you let such things, their fulfillment, or their defiance, the acceptance of their views, or the repudiation of their views, influence you, it is they, you see, who determined you, not you yourself. You are Master. Not they! If you find a slave of interest, keep her, if only for an Ahn, or if you do not find her of interest, it is a simple thing to rid yourself of her. She is a slave. Return her to the markets. Perhaps another might find her of interest."

"You are a clever slave, Cecily,” he said. “But that is not unusual for a girl in a collar. It is a pleasure to have them under our whips."

"I do not know if I am clever or not,” she said, “but I am a slave, and yours."

"True,” said Cabot.

"I am a human female, at your feet,” she said. “Is this not where you want us?"

"It is,” said Cabot.

"And it is where we want to be,” she said.

"As an abject slave?"

"Certainly,” she said, “and the more abject the better, the more abject the more owned, the more helpless, the more possessed, the more as we want to be, the more as we want to know ourselves, the female of a master!"

"Interesting,” said Cabot.

"We do not dream of weaklings,” she said. “We dream of masters."

"What you say is true,” said Cabot, “that is, that it is I who should decide, as I wish, and not be forced, or guided, in one way or another, into, or from, channels wrought by others."

"You are Master,” she said. “Not they, whoever or whatever they might be."

"Men are sometimes blinded by their vanity,” said Cabot. “Sometimes they fear being tricked or manipulated, of being lured into pathways and projects not their own. Sometimes they stumble over themselves. Sometimes, too often, I fear, they are their own most grievous foes."

"Sometimes, Master,” she said, “what lies in plainest view, most open to all, is most concealed to some, who refuse to see it."

"I think that is true,” said Cabot.

"A stranger, a bystander, a child, might see such things,” she said.

"Even a slave,” said Cabot.

"Yes, Master,” she said, “even a slave."

"And perhaps particularly,” said Cabot, “one who is keenly motivated, one who fears to be put into the markets, who is reluctant to ascend to the height of the auction block."

"It is true,” she said, “that I hope my master will keep me. I will strive zealously to please him."

"Why do you wish to be kept?” he asked. “Perhaps you fear being exhibited naked, under the torches, standing in the sawdust of the block, being bid upon, being displayed by the auctioneer?"

"Perhaps, Master,” she said.

"Millions of women, in numerous cultures, on various worlds, have had this experience,” said Cabot, “some of them several times."

"Yes, Master."

"The female is a familiar and popular commodity,” said Cabot.

"I know enough of the history of Earth,” she said, “to be well aware of the market value of my sex."

"And if you knew more of Gor,” he said, “you would be even more clearly aware of it."

"My master may exhibit me, and put me up for sale,” she said. “I know that. But I hope he will not do so."

"Why?” he asked.

She looked away. “Please do not make a slave speak,” she said.

"You need not speak,” he said.

"Thank you, Master."

"I think I should lash you,” he said.

"Please, do not, Master,” she said.

"I do not think men alone are plagued by such self-deceit,” said Cabot.

"No, Master,” she said, “I knew long I was a slave, before I was knelt before masters. Thousands of times I screamed aloud in my mind against the quiet, insistent whisper, the amused, mocking whisper, which came, again and again, from the mind beneath my mind. ‘You are a slave,’ it said. ‘Do you not know it? Look in the mirror! Strip yourself and kneel. Do you not see a slave there, and it is you who are the slave!’ Long I denied the needs of my belly. Long I fought my heart's pleas! And then, strangely, fragments and planets away from Earth, in a cylindrical world, a world made of steel, I found my lips pressed at last to the whip. It was there I was rightfully knelt."

"As you should have been, on Earth,” he said.

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"In a way,” said Cabot, “one could see all this as a splendid joke."

"Master?"

"In attempting to manipulate me,” he said, “they, whom you need not know, for you are a slave, they, in all their wisdom and cunning, may have succeeded in little other than putting in my way a pleasant little slave, one on whose neck my collar looks well, and with whom I may do as I please."

"Master?” she said, suddenly frightened.

"For that is all you are, now, in my view,” he said, “a pleasant little slave."

"Surely more than that, Master!” she wept.

"To be sure, one who is nicely curved."

"Master!” she protested.

"You do have nice slave curves, Cecily,” he said.

"Surely I am more to you than just any slave!” she said.

"Why?” he asked.

"Have we not been matched?"

"Certainly,” he said.

"Have I not been selected, with you in mind?” she said.

"Yes,” said he, “and my thanks to those who have done so."

"Surely, then,” she said, “I am not just another slave to you!"

"You have been nicely selected,” he said. “And that is very nice. Certainly I appreciate that. Who would not? But when all is said and done, that is all you are, just another slave to me."

"Please, no, Master!” she wept. “Please, no, no, Master!"

"Perhaps you understand better now, what it is to be a slave."

"Master!"

"Get up,” he said. “The feast is not yet done. Return to your serving."

"Master!"

"Now."

"But my needs, Master!” she wept.

"Needs?” he asked.

"My needs, my slave needs!” she cried. “Please! Be kind! Have mercy! Surely you have some sense of my misery, what I feel! I am only a slave! Is it not you who put slave needs into me? Is it not you who have done this to me? Do you think I am any longer a free woman? I am not! I am a slave! I beg you! Be kind! Please be kind to me! If nothing else, touch my arm, my hip, my thigh, that I might cry out, and weep!"

"Resume your service, slave,” he said. “Now."

"Yes, Master,” she wept, and leapt up, and hurried to resume her duties.

"Paga!” called a fellow.

"Yes, Master!” she wept, and went to the vat, to obtain a pitcher.

It was something like an Ahn later, and more than one fellow had retired from the circle, to his blankets.

Cabot had watched the brunette in her service. Her movements now were stiff, almost wooden. Tears had coursed down her cheeks. She did not meet his eyes. He did not summon her to him.

Only seven or eight fellows, mostly half asleep, were still about the fire. Some three slaves were about, in case anything might be needed.

Corinna, who had remained at service, looked to Cabot, and he nodded.

Corinna then fetched a goblet of paga, and went to the brunette slave, and spoke to her. The brunette shook her head piteously, negatively, but Corinna was firm, and was not to be gainsaid, and pressed the goblet into her hands, and indicated Cabot.

The brunette approached Cabot, and knelt before him. She lifted the goblet toward him, holding it in both hands. Her head was down, between her extended arms.

"Wine, Master?” she said.

"It seems paga,” said Cabot.

The slave looked up, and drew back the goblet a bit.

"We have no wine,” she said.

"That is known to me,” said Cabot.

Again she put down her head, and offered the goblet.

"Wine, Master,” she said.

"You understand this, do you not?” asked Cabot.

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"You offer me your wine,” said Cabot.

"Yes, Master,” she said. “But reject my wine, as I know you will. Do not play longer with me. I have suffered enough. I know now you despise me. You have not touched me. I know I am only an ignorant Earth-girl, who finds herself unaccountably in a man's collar. I cannot dance. I do not know the kisses. I cannot compete with the Corinnas of the camp. I am not Gorean. I am only an ignorant Earth girl."

"You might try to interest me,” said Cabot.

"Please do not mock me,” she said.

"Kiss the goblet,” said Cabot, kindly. “Lingeringly. And regard me while you do so. Now lift your head and touch the goblet, lightly, to your collar, so that you hear the sound."

"Please do not make me do these things!” she said. “You do not know what it is doing to me, how it makes me feel!"

"You have lovely breasts,” said Cabot. “Now touch the goblet lightly to each of them, first the left, then the right. Make certain you clearly feel the touch, pressing it in a bit."

"Master!” she protested.

"Now lower the goblet to your belly,” he said, “and, while first looking at me, and then, secondly, down to the goblet, press the rim into your belly, firmly."

Tears coursed down her cheeks.

"You may now,” he said, “offer me wine."

She then put her head down, again, between her extended arms, the goblet grasped with both hands.

"Wine, Master?” she said.

Cabot did not respond, and the slave kept her head down.

"I offer you my wine, Master,” she said. “Please accept my wine, Master. Please, Master, accept my wine!"

She gasped as Cabot, gently, took the goblet from her hands. She looked up at him, lips trembling, tears in her eyes. He took a tiny sip of the drink, and then handed the goblet to a fellow next to him, who seized it gratefully, groggily, drunkenly.

"You stupid girl,” called Corinna to her, laughing, from across the fire. “Hurry to his blankets!"

The slave sped into the darkness.

Cabot rose, and went to his blankets, where the slave, in the darkness, was waiting for him.

He took the slave in his arms.

"Choose me, choose me,” she begged.

"Perhaps,” he said.

She lifted her lips to his.

"What are you?” he asked.

"Kajira,” she whispered. “ Kajira, Master."

"Anything else, or other, or different?” he asked.

"No, Master,” she said. “Kajira, only kajira."

"Good,” he said. “That is how we want women."

"And that,” she said, “is how men such as you will have us, and how we would be!"

"Speak,” he said, softly.

"La kajira,” she said. “ La kajira!"

"I am a female slave,” she said. “I am a female slave!"

"I am a slave girl,” she said. “I am a slave girl!"

"And whose?” he asked.

"Yours, Master,” she said. “Yours, Master."