Magicians of Gor

20 The Slave Will Obey

"I love my collar!" she wept. "I love my collar!"

"You understand what you are to do?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she wept.

I lifted my hand and her body leaped up, to resume contact with it.

But I pushed her down, my thumb on her belly, to the blanket, spread on the floor of our quarters in the insula of Torbon, in the Metallan district. She squirmed, writhing there in frustration. I held her in place with my thumb. She looked up, wildly.

"Please!" she wept.

She drew back her left ankle and there was the sound of the links of chain rattling and scraping on the floor, that chain run betwixt her ankle rings and the stout slave ring, anchored in the floor.

"Oh, yes!" she wept, softly, in gratitude. "Oh, yes, my master! Oh, yes, my master!"

"She is pretty," commented Marcus, from the side of the room.

"Yes," granted Phoebe, kneeling nearly, some sewing across her knees.

"Thank you, Mistress," said the slave. Phoebe, of course, was first girl. "For a cheap slave," said Phoebe.

"Yes, Mistress," said the girl. "Oh! Oh!"

The slave looked up at me in wonder and joy. Slaves are lovely.

"How you own me!" she wept. "I did not know it could be like this! How you have made me feel! How you have trained me! How much you have taught me! How much better a slave I am now!"

"Some women," I said, "think that the joys of bondage are primarily those of submission and selfless service, the loving and the unstinted giving, the surrendering to the master, the being wholly his, but now you see that there are additional feelings as well."

"Yes, Master!" she cried. "Please do not stop!"

"Her hair is too short," said Phoebe.

"Free women know nothing of this!" wept the slave. "They cannot begin to understand the raptures of bondage!"

"I think they are not as ignorant as you think," I said. "And surely you can recall your own speculations, and suspicions, and sensings, and dreams, when you were free."

"Only glimmers of terror, and longing," she said.

"Speak," I said.

"Of course in my belly," she said, "I felt the appeal of bondage. I was intrigued by thoughts of it, and lured by them. Often did I linger lovingly upon such thoughts. Often was I fascinated to consider how it might be with me if I should become a slave, be owned and have no options but to obey."

"Then you did understand much of these things," I said, "even when you were a free woman."

"No," she said, "I understood nothing, nothing!"

"Oh," I said.

"Aiii!" she wept, rearing up. "Nothing! Nothing! Oh, my my master, thank you, thank you! Be kind! Be kind to your slave, she begs you!"

I was silent.

"How helpless I am!" she said.

The chain moved a little again, on the floor. I glanced to her ankle. The ankle ring looked well there. She reached up, to put her arms more about me. She was stripped, save for her collar and the ankle ring.

"I desire to be found acceptable, Master," she whispered.

"You are acceptable," I assured her.

"Her skin is blotchy," said Phoebe.

"Steady," I whispered to the slave.

"Master?" she asked.

I put her arms gently away from me. I moved my right hand. "Oh!" she said. I felt the pressure of her left thigh against my hand. I moved my hand again. "Oh," she said softly. The chain moved on the floor. I moistened my tongue. I lowered my lips to her lower belly.

"Oh, Master," she whispered.

"Steady," I said.

She moaned, given no choice but to submit to the pleasure I chose to inflict upon her.

"Steady," I cautioned her.

"You know I shall not be able to resist you," she said.

"You will be whipped, if you even try," I said.

"Yes, Master!" she said, in joy. I felt her small fingers, clutching in my hair. "Oh, Master!" she suddenly wept. And then she began to twist and moan, and try to remain still, and thrust against me, and to hold my head where it was not letting it go and her fingers were tight in my hair and this hurt but I did not beat her but relished her so moaning and then bucking and trying to remain still and thrusting against me and how needful and helpless she was and so much in my power and so responsive and how such helpless movements and cries could be elicited by such tiny, persistent, patient, delicate attentions and she cried out begging me and I took her hands from my hair and looked down into her wild pleading eyes.

"What is it you wish?" I asked.

"I juice, my master! I gape, my master!" she said.

"Do you wish to serve?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Yes!"

"Do you beg to serve?" I asked.

"Yes, Master," she said. "I beg to serve." She lifter her belly, piteously. I looked down upon her.

"Please, Master," she said.

I was silent.

"I am only slave," she said. "You have done this to me! I am only a girl in a collar. I am helpless. I belong to you! I am yours to do with as you wish! I will do anything for you! I beg you to have pity on me!"

"I have tested your responses, slave," I said.

"Oh, Master!" she wept, in misery.

"I have found them satisfactory," I said.

"Thank you, Master," she said.

"Once triggered," I said, "they were involuntary, reflexive, beyond your control."

"Yes, Master," she wept.

"Such responses will much improve your value," I said.

"I am pleased, Master," she wept.

"And they appear still beyond your control," I said. I regarded her.

"They are, Master!" she said, tears in her eyes. Her body moved. She squirmed. Even to look upon her seemed to make her move. She was aroused, clearly, simply finding herself under the eyes of the master."

"But surely," she said, "you have not addressed these attentions to me merely to assess the nature and specificity of my slave responses?"

"No," I admitted.

"Let me serve! Let me serve!" she begged.

I regarded her.

"I beg to serve, Master!" she said.

I entered her.

"My Master!" she said.

I then informed her, in a modality of the mastery, of my ownership of her. "I yield me yours, your slave!" she cried.

Then I held her quietly, her body trembling in my arms. "Ecstasy, ecstasy," she breathed.

"You see," I said, "there are feelings involved."

"It was unbelievable," she said.

"You are learning to feel," I said.

She looked at me, startled.

"It is true," I said. "You are still a new slave."

"Then I think I must just die," she said.

"Slaves have survived such things, and more," I said.

She laughed softly, and pressed against me.

"There have been slaves for thousands of years," I said.

"And there is another now," she said.

"Yes," I said. There was no doubt about that.

"I have never been so happy in my life," she said.

"Your feelings do not matter," I said.

"Master?" she asked.

"They are those only of a slave."

"Yes, Master," she said.

She then lay quietly beside me, her head on my chest.

"But if free women could understand these things," she said, "they would all put themselves to the feet of me and beg their collars."

"But they cannot understand them," I said. "They are not slaves."

"I assure you that I had some understanding of this sort of thing when I was a free woman," she said.

"Anything like the understanding you have now?" I asked.

"No, Master," she said. "Nothing like my understanding now!"

"That is my point," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

"The experience is a totalistic one, which occurs in an entire context," I said. "It is thus that a woman does not fully understand what it is to be a slave until she becomes a slave. Once she is owned, of course, and subject to the whip, she will learn her condition. Kneeling before her master, she will soon apprehended something of its joys, duties and terrors."

"It is true, Master," she said.

"Kneel," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

I lay on one elbow, regarding her.

"It is my hope that I have pleased my master," she said.

"You have pleased me," I said.

"Then the slave, too, is pleased," she whispered.

"She is very pretty," said Marcus.

"Her skin is still blotchy," said Phoebe.

"It is much better now," I said. We had purchased soothing, healing lotions. "And her hair is much too short," said Phoebe.

"That is true," I said.

The slave kept her head down.

"But I suppose she is pretty enough," said Phoebe, "for a cheap girl."

"Thank you, Mistress," said the slave.

"What did you cost?" asked Phoebe.

"Oh, come now," said Marcus, irritatedly. Phoebe knew very well, of course, what I had paid for her. Indeed, she had not rested from the moment we had brought her in, braceleted and on a leash, until she had learned, and to her immense satisfaction, how little it had been.

"Five copper tarsks, Mistress," said the girl.

"I myself," said Phoebe, "sold for a hundred pieces of gold."

"That was under very special circumstances," I said.

"But that is what was paid!" she said.

"True," I said.

Much of the weightiness of this was lost on the new slave, of course, for she had very little notion of the prices of women. As she had come into the keeping of Appanius in virtue of the couching laws, she had had only one sale, that to me for a few copper tarsks. She would, of course, recognize that a hundred pieces of gold was an incredible amount of money. In a sense a woman is worth as much or as little as someone is willing to pay for her. In typical markets, if it is helpful for purposes of comparison, an excellent woman, suitable, say, for the paga taverns, would sell for between one and three silver tarsks. In such a market I thought that Phoebe would probably go for something like two or two and half silver tarsks, and that the other girl, if her hair was grown out and her skin healed, for something like two silver tarsks.

"Mistress is very pretty," said the slave.

Phoebe tossed her head, smoothing her hair about. She was pretty. I had always thought so.

"I did not know Cosians girls could be so pretty," said the slave.

Phoebe cried out with rage, and rushed to the wall to seize up a switch there. She rushed to the new slave, the switch raised. The new slave cried out in misery, putting her head down. But no blow fell. Marcus intercepted Phoebe's descending wrist. Phoebe cried out in pain and dropped the switch. But she looked down at the new slave. "Cos defeated Ar!" she said. "That is clear!"

"No longer are you of Cos," said Marcus, sternly. "Nor is she any longer of Ar. You are both only slaves, only animals!"

Phoebe struggled, angrily in his arms.

"Is it not true?" he asked.

She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "Yes, Master!" she said.

She struggled a bit more, but was now pinioned tightly in his grasp. She could do little more now than squirm, futilely. She made a tiny, angry noise. As well might her lovely body have been wrapped in cables of iron. The sewing she had been attending to had been spilled to the side, when she had leaped to seize the switch. Originally Phoebe had known little, if anything, of sewing, but when she had become slave she must learn such things. The new slave, too, knew little of such labors. I would see to it that she received instruction of Phoebe. One expects a slave to know such things.

Phoebe ceased struggling and Marcus released her, stepped back a pace and regarded her.

She stood before him, angrily, defiantly, her small fists clenched.

"I suppose you could be thought of, as of Cos," he mused, "in the sense that you were once of Cos."

She trembled.

"So in that sense," said he, "take off your clothes, female of Cos, and get to your belly, with your legs widely spread."

"I am not of Cos!" she said, suddenly. "I am only a slave, Master!"

He regarded her, unwaveringly.

Swiftly she drew off her tunic, over her head, and put herself to her belly and as he had stipulated.

He looked down upon her.

She sobbed, subdued.

The other slave was very quiet. It seemed she scarcely dared to breathe. "Perhaps the wrong girl is first girl," said Marcus.

Phoebe sobbed, her head to the side.

"May I speak, Master," whispered the new slave.

He looked at her. "Yes," he said.

She went to her belly before him and reached out her tiny hand, timidly, to touch his foot.

"Yes?" he said.

"Have pity on her, Master," she said.

"You would speak for her?" asked Marcus.

"Yes, Master," she said.

Phoebe looked at her, in wonder.

"It is only that she loves you so much," she said.

"I do not understand," said Marcus.

Phoebe sobbed, looking away.

"She is telling you that Phoebe is jealous of her," I said.

Marcus crouched down beside Phoebe.

"Is that true?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," sobbed Phoebe, her eyes closed.

"But you are my love slave," he said to her.

She sobbed, with joy. He touched her and she trembled beneath his touch like a vulo.

He then rose to his feet, and removed a coiled slave whip from the wall. This he threw down beside Phoebe, the coils of the leather cracking on the floor, beside her head, to the right.

"You will serve," he said.

"Yes, Master!" she whispered.

He then put his hand to her hair, letting her feel the tightness of his grasp, and turning her head from one side to the other. Then he put his hand on the back of her neck, letting her feel this grip. He then took her right ankle in his hand and lifted it, bending her lower leg, his grip like an ankle ring, toward her body. Then he released it, and let it return to its former position. She lay there very quietly. Then she made a soft noise, as he had begun to caress her, audaciously and masterfully.

I went over and picked up the sewing which Phoebe had dropped to the floor, when she had leaped to her feet. It was a tunic resembling that of a state slave, done in the new fashion. The garmenture of the state slave, that of a girl owned by the city itself, some time ago, had been brief, sleeveless and gray, slashed to the waist. The collar worn by such slaves had been gray, matching the tunic, and it had been customary to lock about their left ankle a steel band, also gray, from which depended five small bells, also of gray metal. Fashions in such things tended to change, of course, even in normal times. For example, the hemlines might go up and down a bit, the garments might be accented or trimmed with color, or not, the number of bells on the ankle might be increased, say, to seven, or be returned to the original five, and so on. Currently, however, the garmenture of the state slaves, as one might have expected, given the defeat of Ar and the hegemony of Cos, had been considerably altered. No longer were the tunics slashed to the waist. Now the necklines were high, and about the throat. Similarly the hemlines had been considerably lowered, just above the knee. These alterations had been introduced to assist in the subjugation of the men of Ar, by seeking to depress their sexual vitality. Similarly, of course, no longer were the left ankles of the slaves belled. the sound of slave bells on a woman's ankle tends to be sexually stimulating to a male. To be sure, of late, with the rise of the Delta Brigade, and the undercurrent of unrest in Ar, there seethed in the city, doubtless to the dismay of Cos, a surgency of male energies. As I have mentioned earlier, many masters, not, no longer sent their slaves unescorted about the city, until they had fastened them in the iron belt. The slave tunic of the state slave was still sleeveless, however. That is common with slave garments.

I looked down at the new slave, who was lying on the blanket, on the floor. I gestured that she should stand. When she had done so, I handed her the tunic. "Hold this against you," I said.

She did so, with both hands, closely, one above her breasts and one below. I regarded her.

"Master?" she asked.

"You could make a rock sizzle," I said.

She flushed. "Thank you, Master," she said.

I continued to regard her.

She would be fetching, indeed, in that tunic. The Cosians, I thought, had to some extent miscalculated. Did they really think that the excitingness of a slave could be reduced by such a triviality as the addition of a few horts of material to a tunic? Did they not realize it would still be the single garment she wore, the one piece of cloth she was permitted, and that it would have no nether closure? And even more significantly did they not understand that her true excitingness did not depend on such things as a collar and a particularly sort of livery, as telling, and revealing and lovely, as these things were, but on her condition itself, that she was slave? That she was slave, the essence and perfection of the female, was what made her such an extraordinary, special, incomparable object of desire, and that would be so whether she were kneeling in a ta-teera, clad in an evening gown or concealed from head to toe in the dark haik of the Tahira, peeping out through a tiny screen of black lace. I then, in a moment, took back the garment, and dropped it to the side, where Phoebe had been working, near the small sewing basket there. I indicated that the slave might kneel and she did, her hands on her thighs, her knees in the appropriate position.

Phoebe was now gasping at one side of the room.

"Master?" said the new slave.

"Yes?" I said.

"Was I pleasing?"

"Yes," I said.

"Do you think another man might find me pleasing, as well?" she asked.

"It is possible," I said.

"I am not now as stupid, or ignorant, as I was, am I?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"I am a much better slave now, am I not?"

"Yes," I said.

"I am grateful for my training," she said.

"It is nothing," I said.

"It is my hope that I have profited from it," she said.

"You have," I said, "considerably."

"Then you think I might not, under certain circumstances, at least, be found displeasing by another man?"

"No," I said.

She put down her head, shyly.

"I would not get my hopes up," I said. "It is your business to obey me, and your primary objective, in the first phase of our operations, is merely to deliver the message."

"I understand, Master," she said.

"In the course of this delivery," I said, "you may behave as you wish. That I leave to you."

"Yes, Master," she said, shyly.

There was a sudden noise at the side of the room and I looked there, quickly. Marcus, turning, rolling. Phoebe locked in his arms, had struck into the wall there.

"Approach me, on all fours," I said to the new slave. She did so, dragging the ankle chain behind her.

I indicated a flat leather box to one side. "Knee crawl," I said. "Fetch it here."

She went to the box on her knees and picked it up, and returned to a place before me. It had been a simple knee crawl. I was briefly reminded, however, of the Turian knee walk, sometimes used by slave dancers. I considered the slave. I did not doubt but what she might be taught to dance.

"Master?" she asked.

"Give it to me," I said.

But I did not take it.

She looked at me, puzzled.

"Forgive me, Master!" she said.

She then, kneeling before me, her knees widely spread, lifted and extended her arms, proffering me the box. Her head was down, between her lifted, extended arms.

"It seem you still have much to learn," I said.

"Forgive me, Master," she said.

I took the box.

She then knelt back, her hands on her thighs, her head still bowed.

"Your training will continue," I said.

"Thank you, Master," she said.

"But it seems that perhaps it should be sharpened with the whip," I said. "As master wishes," she said, trembling.

The whip is an excellent mnemonic device. The girl who receives a lash, or lashes, for an error, seldom repeats it.

"To all fours," I said. "And stay here close, where I can reach you."

I then put out my hand and touched the collar on her neck. It was one of three collars I had for her. The other two, with their keys, were in the flat box. The collar on her neck bore the legend, "RETURN ME TO TARL AT THE INSULA OF TORBON." I then removed the first of the other two collars from the box and, reaching out, put it on her neck, next to the other collar, but ahead of it, closer to the chin. I snapped it shut. It fit well. It was now on her, locked. Its legend read, "RETURN ME TO THE WHIP MASTER OF THE CENTRAL CYLINDER." I then turned it and, inserting the key, opened it, and removed it from her neck. I then lifted the second collar form the box, putting the first, with the key, back in it. This second collar I then put on her neck, next to the original collar, and ahead of it, closer to the chin, as I had the one a moment before. Then I snapped it shut. It, too, fit well, and was now on her, locked. Its legend read, "RETURN ME TO APPANIUS OF AR." I then let her remain that way for a little while, on all fours, in the two collars.

Phoebe was moaning on one side. She turned her head from one side to the other, her eyes closed. She was delirious with pleasure, slave to her master.

I then took the key to the second of the two collars which had been in the box, that which I had put most recently on her, the Appanius collar, and removed it from her neck. I put it back in the box, under the first collar. I dropped the key in the box. I closed the box.

"Claim me!" wept Phoebe. "I beg it! I am your slave! Use me as the helpless vessel of your pleasure!"

"Do not move," I said to the new slave.

She remained as she was, on all fours.

"I yield me your slave!" wept Phoebe. "I yield me your slave!"

Then she was trembling, and gasping for breath, clinging to Marcus. He, too, gasped, and then suddenly he laughed, a might laugh, almost a roar, a laugh of triumph, like an exultant larl, joyful in his mastery of the beauty.

"Such may be done to slaves," I said to the new slave.

"Yes, Master," she said, on all fours.

"The other garment, I take it," I said to the new slave," is finished."

"Yes, Master," she said. "Mistress finished it yesterday."

"Put it on for me," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said. She rose to her feet and went to the side of the room where she knelt by a chest and took from it a white garment, of the wool of the bounding hurt.

I looked away, as she stood up, to slip it over her head and arms, and smooth it down on her body. I did not wish to look until it was on her.

"Master," she announced.

"Excellent!" I said.

It came to a bit above the knees, and had a high, modest neckline. It some respects it was rather in the style set for the tunic of state slaves. That I thought might fit in well with my plans.

"Turn," I said.

"Yes," I mused. "Excellent." Perhaps even more importantly it was the sort of garment in which a slave might dare to appear before a free woman. It was not the sort of garment that would be likely to excite the envy or anger of free women. It was not the sort of garment which sometimes provokes free women to rush at slaves in the street, crying out and lashing at them with switches. It was decorous, and yet clearly the garment of a mere slave.

"Mistress has sewed it," she said.

"You have done well, Phoebe," I said. "It is perfect."

"Thank you, Master," gasped Phoebe. She was lying next to Marcus. She was covered with a sheen of sweat. Her body was covered with red blotches, from the recent racing of her blood, the excited distention of thousands of capillaries. Her lovely nipples were not yet subsident.

"Your skin is blotchy," I said to Phoebe.

She laughed, ruefully. "Yes, Master," she said.

The new slave, her head down, smiled.

"Remove the garment," I said to her. "Replace it in the chest. Then resume your position here, beside me, on all fours."

"Yes, Master," she said.

I then again, in a bit, regarded her. No longer was she in the dignity of the garment. Her breasts, in her present position, that which I had indicated, were beautifully, pendant.

"Can you write?" I asked her.

"Yes, Master," she said.

I reached to her.

"Oh," she said, softly. "Oh!" I had taken her nipples gently, first one, and then the other, between my thumb and forefinger. They, too, it seemed, had not forgotten their state of but a few moments ago. Or, perhaps it was but the fact that the meaning of her present condition was intrusive in her consciousness.

"Surely you are interested in the nature of the messages you will carry," I said.

"Yes, Master!" she said. I had touched her, lightly, at the side of the waist. "One need not concern you," I said, "as you will be the mere instrument of its delivery. On the other hand, I think you will have a little doubt as to its general import."

"Yes, Master," she said.

"You will deliver it to the female I designate," I said, "and to her personally."

"Yes, Master," she said.

"To make it more likely you will be admitted into her presence, the message will be carried about your neck, in a message tube, and your hands will be back-braceleted."

"As Master wishes," she said.

"But even so," I said, "before being admitted to her presence, you may be double leashed, one on each side, that you cannot touch, or approach, the woman, except as permitted."

"I understand, Master," she said.

"Do you think she will be admitted to her presence?" asked Marcus.

"Given her story, and her collar," I said. "I think so."

"The note she carries is to be written in a man's hand," said Marcus.

"Of course," I smiled.

"Doubtless in your deft script," he said, lying on his back, looking at the low, peeling ceiling above him.

"I was hoping someone might be prevailed upon to provide a more convincing communication," I said.

"Oh!" said the new slave. She moved uneasily, tensely, but did not break position.

"The handwriting must suggest a correspondent who is educated, charming, witty, elegant and suave," I said.

"That sounds like a job for your own block script," he said. "It has many virtues. I have known peasants who could not do as well. Or, if you prefer, you could use your inimitable cursive script, with its unusual alternate lines. Its humorous suggestion of complete illiteracy adds to it's a piquant charm all of its own."

"My master has an excellent hand!" volunteered Phoebe.

"Were you asked to speak?" inquired Marcus.

"No, Master," she said. "Forgive me, Master." She then lay small and quiet beside him. She did not wish to be cuffed or whipped.

"It was my hope, Phoebe," said I, "that your master, exactly, might be prevailed upon to lend his expertise to this endeavor.

"Yes, Master," she whispered.

"I write a simple hand," said Marcus.

"Perhaps you could add a few flourishes, or something," I suggested.

"No," said Marcus.

"Do you want me to write it?" I asked.

"That would be disastrous," he said.

"Also," I said, "my handwriting might be recognized."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Marcus.

"You will do it then?" I asked.

"I will write only my own hand," he said.

"That will be perfect," I said.

"What if she has seen the handwriting of the putative correspondent?" asked Marcus.

"That is highly unlikely," I said. It was unthinkable that the putative correspondent would initiate such a correspondence. In such a relationship the first note, if there were to be notes, given the risks involved, would surely issue from the free person.

I touched the slave near me, on all fours, on the side of the leg.

"You," I said to her, "will be under no doubt, however, as to the contents of the other message."

"Yes, Master," she said. She moved, uneasily. I moved a bit, and looked at the ankle ring on her left ankle. I then put my hand on the ring, and then pressed my thumb a little into her leg. I then turned the ring a little on her ankle, shifting it a bit. There was about a quarter of an inch of slippage between the metal and her ankle. I then lifted the chain, a little, one of its links hammered shut about the ring's staple, and let it drop to the floor. She shuddered at the tiny sound. I then jerked twice, softly, on the chain, that she might feel this small force exerted on the ring, and subsequently on her ankle, within it. Below the ring, behind it, her foot was small and soft. I regarded it, the hell, the sole, her toes. It was a small, shapely, lovely foot. And then, above it, close about the ankle, locked, was the ankle ring. I then touched her collar, and turned it a little, back and forth. She was very quiet while I did this. It, like the other collars, was an excellent fit. I then readjusted it, carefully. The lock was now again centered, at the back of the neck. I then touched her. "Oh, oh!" she said.

"Steady," I said.

She moaned.

"Because," I said, "you will write it."

"Yes, Master," she said.

"I will dictate the contents to you," I said, "or, if you wish, you may compose it, subject, of course, to my approval."

"As master wishes!" she said.

"Do not break position," I warned her.

Marcus and I had agreed that Phoebe would not write the letter. It was better that it was done by a woman who had been at one time a citizeness of Ar, her penmanship influenced by the private schools of the city. It is a well-known fact, on the world, Earth, that the cursive script of diverse nationalities, such as the English, French and Italian, tend to differ in certain general ways, quite aside from the individual characteristics of particular writers. Certain letters, for example, tend to be formed differently, and so on. Much the same thing, predictably, and perhaps even more so, given the isolation of so many of her cities, occurs on Gor. for example, Phoebe had a beautiful, feminine hand, but it was natural for her, and easiest for her, of course, to write it Cosian script. It was not that Cosian script, was illegible, say, to folks of Ko-ro-ba or Ar, but rather that it was recognizably different. Thus, rather than have Phoebe try to disguise her hand and write in the script of Ar, Marcus and I had decided that the note, or letter, would be written by the new slave, whose background, and education, were of Ar, the same as those of the putative writer of the note, or letter. In the formation of most cursive letters, incidentally, there are few, if any, differences among the various cities. The differences tent to have more to do with the "cast' of the hand, so to speak, its general appearance, a function of a number of things, such as size, spacing of letters, linkages among them, lengths of loops, nature of end strokes, and such. Also, certain letters, at least for commercial or legal, if not personal purposes, tended to be standardized. An excellent example are those standing for various weights and measures. Another familiar example is the tiny, lovely, cursive "kef' which is the same whether it is put on a girl in Cos, or Ar, or Ko-ro-ba, or Thentis or Turia.

"Oh, Master!" sobbed the slave.

"Master!" said Phoebe, suddenly, taken by Marcus and thrust down, forcibly, to the boards. He looked down into her eyes, fiercely. "Yes, Master," she said, lifting her arms to put them about his neck.

"When do you think your friend, the noble Tarsk-Bit, will be prepared to act?" asked Marcus, evenly.

"Please enter your slave, Master," said Phoebe.

"Do not be angry with him," I said. "He had to revile the Home Stone to see it, to examine it. "I had encouraged Marcus not to be present when this was done, but he had, of course, insisted upon it. In so far as it was practical it seemed he wished to be present at, and, in a sense, supervise, all phases of this delicate and, I thought at least, perilous operation. No detail was too unimportant to him to overlook. What could compare in importance for Marcus, for example, to the recovery of his Home Stone, its rescue from its captivity in Ar? To be sure, I think Boots had overdone the matter a bit. He, exuberant in his performance, probably did not realize that I was struggling a few yards behind him to keep Marcus from leaping upon him, blade in hand. Most of those about, of course, also taking no note of the reactions of Marcus, the fire in his eyes, and such, had been muchly amused. Boots had made a great show of his contempt for the Home Stone of the treacherous Ar's station. His insults had been numerous, well thought out, stinging, and delivered with flair. He had even been applauded. It was fortunate that Marcus had not reached him. In so simple a manner had Boots, unbeknownst to himself, escaped unscathed, for example, without having had his heart slashed out of his living body.

"When will he be prepared to act?" asked Marcus.

"He did not mean it, what he said," I said.

"He sounded convincing," said Marcus, grimly.

"Would you have preferred that he sounded unconvincing?" I asked.

"Master," begged Phoebe.

"Master!" said the new slave, suddenly. She must not, of course, break position. "When will he be prepared to act?" asked Marcus.

"The facsimile must be prepared," I said. "That takes time."

"When will he be prepared to act?" asked Marcus.

"Soon, I am sure," I said.

"Perhaps he has already left the city," said Marcus.

"No," I said.

"Your slave begs," said Phoebe to Marcus.

"Your slave begs, too!" said the slave near me.

The new slave, beside me, was on all fours. She was in this position by my will. I had been keeping her in this position. It is a position which a woman understands. I had, furthermore, checked her ankle ring, and collar. Such things are very meaningful to a woman. such attentions, seemingly small in themselves, subtly, explosively, erupt in the cognizances of her belly. Bu means of them is her bondage recalled to her. By means of them she understands herself the better, and to whom she belongs. Also, such things would commonly be checked as a simple matter of course, just as one might check the tether on a verr, or the chain on a sleen. Beyond this, of course, I had, from time to time, as I had spoken with her, and discussed matters with Marcus, touched her, sometimes almost idly, while concerned with other matters. But now her body was tense. "Oh!" she said. Her lovely flanks quivered. She could not resist my touch, even involuntarily, as her knees and the palms of her hands must remain in contact with the floor.

"He had better not," said Marcus.

"He will not," I said. "But if he chose to do so, surely one could not blame him. It is not his Home Stone. He is not a soldier. You are not his officer, or Ubar, or some such."

"True," said Marcus.

"Be grateful," I said, "if he is willing to be of assistance."

"I wish to owe him little," said Marcus. "I will see that he is well paid."

"Very well," I said.

"Do you think he can be prevailed upon to accept money?" asked Marcus.

"Doubtless, if we are strenuous enough in our insistence on the matter," I said. "Good," he said, grimly.

"He is really not a bad fellow," I said.

Marcus made an angry noise.

"I think it would be better if you were not present when he makes the attempt on the Home Stone," I said.

"I will be there," said Marcus. "He may need help."

"It will not be much help," I said, "if you drop him on the spot."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"If he does manage to obtain the Home Stone and you run him through, and it drops out of his cloak on the street, and it becomes immediately apparent to the guards about that there appear to be two Home Stones of Ar's Station in the vicinity, what then?"

"I shall seize it up and make away," he said.

"There may be a hundred guards about," I said.

"Doubtless you will be at hand," he said.

"But what if there are one hundred and one guards about?" I said.

"You jest," he said.

"What do you think your chances will be of getting the stone out of the city, let alone to Port Cos?"

"I do not know," he admitted.

"The alarm would be sounded within Ihn," I said.

"Doubtless," he granted.

"You would be fortunate if you managed to get the stone as far as the Teiban Market," I said. "If I did not know your skill with the sword, I would have placed a bet you would not get it as far as Clive." This street actually entered the Avenue of the Central Cylinder, from the west.

"I have nerves of steel," said Marcus. "I can control my emotions with perfection."

"As five days ago?" I asked.

"He needn't have been as ribald as he was," said Marcus.

"There are at least two reasons for what he did," I said. "First, the length of his tirade gave him time to study the Home Stone, in all its details. Secondly, it established a character. If he come back during the same watch, as he presumably will, the guards will remember him, and expect a show."

"Then they will be more attentive," said Marcus.

"But to him, not to the Home Stone," I said.

"You said "at least two reasons, " said Marcus. "That suggests there might be at least one other."

"Perhaps," I said, evasively.

"What?" he asked, not pleasantly.

"He was enjoying himself," I said.

"He should have been impaled!" said Marcus.

"Master," begged Phoebe.

"I should have run him through!" exclaimed Marcus.

"Master!" whimpered Phoebe.

The new slave whimpered, too, urgently, helplessly, plaintively, to call her needs, and herself, to my attention.

"I think it would be better if you were not present when the attempt is made on the Home Stone," I said.

"You are in one of your rational moods," said Marcus, disgustedly.

"Almost everyone has them occasionally," I said. "Also, I thought you were supposed to be the rational one."

"I shall think about it," he said.

"The important thing here," I said, "is not your sense of honor, which seems a bit touchy, but the rescue of the Home Stone."

"This is more of Your Kaissa," he said.

"Master," begged Phoebe.

He looked down at her, fiercely.

"A slave begs," she said, "that her master consent to enter her."

"Oh!" she cried, as Marcus, fiercely, took her in his arms.

"It is I who am impaled," she laughed. "It is I who am run through!"

"But as befits female slaves!" he said.

"Yes, Master!" she laughed. Then she closed her eyes. "Oh, yes!" she said. She gasped. She sighed, softly. "Deign to use me, unworthy slave though I am," she whispered, "as the cover for your spear, as your sheath and scabbard."

"And it is done, is it not?" he asked.

"Yes, Master!" she said.

"And in the manner befitting female slaves?" he asked.

"Yes, Master!" she said.

He kissed her, his head down, fiercely about the throat.

Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. "I have received my master," she said. "I, too, would receive my master," whispered the new slave.

"I will write the letter for you," mumbled Marcus, his words lost somewhere in Phoebe's neck.

I will require further assistance, as well," I said.

"It is yours," he said.

"I do not think it will interfere in any way with the recovery of the Home Stone," I said.

"Yes," mumbled Marcus. "Yes, yes,"

I regarded the new slave. She turned her head toward me. Her eyes were filled with tears. She whimpered. I seized her, turned her and threw her to her back, with a sound of the chain, beside me, on the blanket, spread over the boards. I touched her, lightly, and she lifted her body, piteously. She looked up at me. She whimpered. I gently touched her breasts. Again she whimpered. They were very beautiful, and their condition, like that of her whole body, signified her readiness, and need. Tears of supplication welled in her eyes.

I touched her lightly about the waist, and she moved almost as though she might have been burned. Even the chain had jerked.

"You are a hot slave," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

I touched her.

"Oh!" she said.

"And you juice exceedingly well," I said.

"Thank you, Master," she said.

I looked down at her. How amazing, how astonishing, and wonderful are female slaves. How, too, this woman's life had changed! What a dramatic volte-face, from a free woman to a slave! How different she was from a free woman, this slave, hot, needful, beautiful, owned, obedient, begging. Too, had not been that long in bondage.

I looked down upon her.

"Are you a slave?" I asked.

"Yes," she whimpered. "Subjugate me."

I then took her in my arms.

"Now I, too, am impaled," she whispered. "Now I, too, have been run through. Now, I, too, have received my master. Now, I, too, am cover to his spear. Now, I, too, serve him as sheath and scabbard!"

"But such things in manners befitting the female slave," I said.

"Yes, Master," she whispered, ecstatically.

"You may move as you wish," I said.

"Yes, Master!" she said.

"Hold!" I said.

"Master?" she asked.

"Hold, a little," I said.

"Yes, Master," she moaned.

"You squirm well," I said.

"Thank you, Master," she said.

"It seems you are already on the brink," I said.

"I was there even before you put me to my back," she said.

"Even from such small things as keeping you in a certain position, checking your ankle ring and collar, touching you a little now and then, here and there?"

"It is not just such things," she said. "Even more, it is my entire condition!"

"Interesting," I said.

"I have become hot, submissive, sexual and obedient," she said.

"I see," I said.

"I am a slave and needful," she said.

"I see," I said.

"You have done this to me!" she said.

"I?" I asked.

"You, and others," she said. "Men, masters."

"These things are within you," I said. "They are born in you. Surely you have sensed them in yourself, or hints of them, even when you were a free woman."

"Then I have always been a slave," she said.

"Yes," I said. "It was only that you were waiting for a master, or masters." She was silent.

"Too," I said, "even though these things are within you, they did not have their beginning with you. They are very ancient things. They go back at least to the cave and the stone knife."

"Master?" she asked.

"Never mind," I said.

"As master wishes," she said.

How far we were from the cave and the stone knife, I thought, and yet. Again, in a way, how close! Could one not see in the blade of steel, so much keener and more dangerous, the knife of stone? Could one not recollect in the spacious courts of the palace the dim recesses of limestone caves? And who moves barefoot and graceful upon the tiles of the palace? Is it the hunter's mate, clad in her skins, kept, and cuffed and obedient, cowering lovingly at her master's feet, his in the sense of rain and stones? No, it is the curvaceous, perfumed, silked, collared slave, owned in law, hurrying to do her master's bidding.

"You may now again move," I said.

"Oh, yes, Master!" she said, gratefully.

But in a short while I counseled her once again to desist, which she did, reluctantly.

"Surely you did not learn to move and moan like that as a free women," I said. "No, Master," she said.

"Speak," I said.

"I am excited, and cannot help myself," she said. "It is muchly reflexive, involuntary."

"I see," I said.

"I beg my master's pardon," she said. "The sensations, the feelings, are incredible! Then my movements become such that I cannot even control them. It is not like it is I who move, but rather than it is I who am moved. It is like hands jerking me about. I am wild inside and helpless and my body cries out silently and moves as it wishes! Sometimes it is almost as though I were being beaten, or struck!"

"They are simple slave reflexes," I said. "I effect nothing critical."

"Thank you, Master," she said.

"Have you even seen slave dance?" I asked.

"No, Master," she said. "But I have heard of it."

"You have no idea, then," I said, "of its incredible sensuousness and beauty, and of how a woman appears in it, how exciting, desirable and owned, and of how men, seeing it, can cry out with need?"

"Only what I have heard," she said.

"As you were in the house of Appanius, who is a rich man," I said, "it is surprising that you never observed such dancers."

She was silent.

"Surely he could have afforded to bring them in, or even to own his own."

"I would think so, Master," she said.

"Not even at the banquets?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"Or at the small suppers, later to be chained to rings near the guests?"

"No," she said.

"I see," I said.

This information fitted in with certain surmises I had formed earlier. If my surmises were correct, it would fit in well with my plans.

"Why does Master ask?" she asked.

"Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira," I said.

"Forgive me, Master," she said.

"My question was suggested to me," I said, "by the helplessness of your slave responses."

"I do not understand," she said.

"There are various movements in slave dance," I said, "of the hips, the belly, and such, indeed, of the entire body, which are clearly akin to, and reminiscent of, the movements of love and need."

"Yes, Master?" she said.

"To be sure, in the dance," I said, "these movements tend to be under much stricter control. The dance is, after all, an art form. Nonetheless it is clear that the sexuality of the dancer is not uncommonly aroused. After all, it is hard for a woman to be beautiful and sensuous without having her sexuality ignited. Indeed, few are the dancers who have not upon occasion, even in the dance itself, succumbed to orgasmic helplessness. This can occur to them while they are on their feet, but more often it will occur during floor movements or when they are on their knees."

"Yes, Master," whispered the girl.

"And your movement," I said, "suggested to me that you might make a dancer."

"I see," she said.

"You also have an excellent body for a dancer," I said.

"Yes, Master," she whispered.

"Would you like to trained for the dance?" I asked.

"I do not know, Master," she said, frightened.

"Or would you dare to be so beautiful?"

"I am a slave," she whispered. "It will be done with me as masters wish."

"But would you like it?" I asked.

"Perhaps, Master," she whispered, fearfully.

"It is something to keep in mind," I said.

"Yes, Master," she whispered.

Phoebe was moaning to one side, locked in the arms of Marcus.

I moved a little.

The girl in my arms gasped. "Oh," she whispered. She looked at me, beggingly. "Please," she whispered.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Please continue my subjugation," she said.

"Are you certain you wish it?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said.

"Why?" I asked.

"I am a slave," she said. "It is appropriate that I be subjugated!"

"I see," I said.

"I understand my sex, and its meaning," she said.

"In bondage," I said, "you have discovered these things?"

"Yes, Master," she said.

"I see," I said.

"And I have been given little choice, Master," she smiled.

"True," I said.

"Please!" she suddenly wept.

"Incidentally," I said, "when you kneel before the free woman, in your carefully prepared modest garb, fit for a lowly slave, as you must soon do, to convey to her the message which will be inserted in the message tube about your neck, be certain to kneel with your knees closely together."

"Certainly, Master," she said. "She is a female, not a male."

"But even more importantly," I said, "insofar as you can, before her, and before any other free woman who might be in attendance upon her, conceal your sexuality. Do not let them suspect it. Let them think that you are as inert and meaningless as they are."

"That is common by slave girls before free women, Master," she said. "It does not take us long to learn that, once we are in the collar."

"I see," I said.

"But I do not think they are always fooled," she said.

"Perhaps not," I said.

"Even as long ago as in the house of Appanius," she said, "I was twice switched by free women who had come to see him on business."

"Do the best you can," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

"Seem to be merely a modest, deferential girl, demurely clad, awed perhaps, discharging your errand."

"Have no fear," she said, "but what I shall be awed in such a presence."

"She is only another woman," I said, "and if she were stripped and in a collar, she would be no different from you."

"Master!" protested the slave.

"Indeed, you might be first girl over her," I said.

"Please, Master!" she protested.

"It is true," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

"Another thing," I said. "I do not think it would be in your best interest for you to convey to her in any way, inadvertently or otherwise, even in feminine vanity, the hint, to be sure, the false hint, that there might be anything between you and the putative master of the note you bear."

"Yes, Master," she said.

"You are to be only a humble messenger."

"Yes, Maser," she said.

"I would not wish for you to be cut to pieces, or boiled in oil," I said. "No, Master," she said.

"What is wrong?" I asked.

It seemed to me that tears had sprung afresh in the eyes of the slave.

"No more need I fear, Master," she said, "that I might be of interest to he who is to be the supposed author of the note in question. Now I am only a lowly slave. At best I could expect only to be spurned by his foot from his path."

"I see," I said.

"But I would be grateful to him," she said, "for even so small a touch."

"I see," I said.

"I would kiss the unstrapped, discarded sandal that had kicked me."

"You may move," said I, "Lavinia," for that was the name I had kept on her. She then, released from the enforced, tense quiescence I had imposed upon her, clutched me gratefully, sobbing with relief and joy. In a few moments she wept. "I yield me, Master!" and I then held her like iron and cried out with joy and she sobbed "I am helpless and taken!" and Phoebe, too, in the arms of Marcus, cried out, herself as well taken, and he, too, uttered a wild cry and a then sudden, low, satisfying growl, and the sounds of Phoebe and Marcus and of Lavinia and myself mingled in the tiny room and it had been done to the slaves once more.

"I am yours," said Phoebe to Marcus.

"I am subjugated, and am your slave, Master," said Lavinia to me.

"Tomorrow," I said, "our project begins."

"Yes, Master," she said.

"You will obey," I informed her.

"Yes, Master," she said. "Your slave will obey."