Prize of Gor

Chapter 11 A SUPPER IS SERVED, IN AN UNUSUAL APARTMENT; SHE IS SPOKEN WITH BY HER MASTER

“What a pretty little thing she is!” laughed the woman. “Is she to serve us?”

“Yes,” said Mirus.

“What monsters you men are!” laughed the woman.

Ellen, crouching down, set forth the plates of hors d’oeuvres and the tiny glasses of sherry on the coffee table before her master, Mirus, and his guests, a man and a woman. Tutina sat nearby, in an arm chair, with purple upholstery.

It had been explained to Ellen how she was to serve, how to speak, if spoken to, and how to conduct herself throughout the evening. In the adjoining room there were two guards, with their own supper. That room gave access, as well, through a short corridor, to the kitchen. A serving cart was used to bring the food from the kitchen, through the corridor and adjoining room, into the apartment.

Ellen had been quite startled to see the apartment, entering it for the first time, for it might well have been one on Earth, in the house or mansion of some leisured, comfortable, wealthy individual. Surely it was tastefully and elegantly appointed, and the quality of the rug, the furnishings, and such, was, without being obtrusive, obvious. The oddity of it was that it was on Gor. She had been reminded, entering it for the first time, of pictures in large, glossy magazines, the sort claimedly and pretentiously devoted to the arts of gracious living, those magazines intended to supply apparently desperately desired and much-needed instruction to the ignorant affluent, informing them in what ways they might most appropriately expend their abundant resources, what should be the nature and location of their residences, how they were to be landscaped and furnished, what automobiles they should buy, the type of music and artwork which should be in evidence, what books and how many, how their pantries were to be stocked, the arrangements of tennis courts and pools, many such things. Doubtless, she supposed, serving, there must be some reason this room has been designed as it has. She wondered if it were some subtle joke, some irony. But, if it was, it had apparently been lost on the woman in the room whom she did not know. Perhaps that woman was used to such surroundings, and took them for granted, not really seeing them any longer. Generally one does not see, really see, one’s familiar surroundings. One takes them so much for granted. Perhaps, on the whole, that is just as well. But sometimes she supposed that even husbands and wives, on her old world, did not really see one another any longer, either, but simply took one another for granted, much like the walls, the furniture. Such things would be muchly different, of course, she supposed, if their relationship were to be changed, radically, for example, if the husband were to make his wife, at least in the secrecy of his own home, an obvious, explicit slave. Is that not what many vociferous proclaimers of her former ideology maintained that wives were, anyway, slaves? How silly that was, what infantile semantic slight of hand! Is there no better way to abolish the family and surrender children to the centrally designed, and centrally directed, conditioning programs of the state, the state they expected to put to their own purposes, using it, with its legal monopoly on violence and coercion, to promote their own self-serving agendas? So saying, they seemed to believe that they had manufactured an argument against marriage, refuted matrimony with a lie. But, she wondered, suppose men believed that lie. It did not follow from that, that if they should take it seriously, that they would immediately forgo their genetically conditioned proprietary inclinations, selected for in millions of years of primate evolution, and promptly terminate long-term, intimate relationships with desirable women and abolish families. Rather, might they not choose to accept that view of the matter, the feminist view, so to speak, and rearrange the institutions of society accordingly?

Mirus, her master, indicated that she might withdraw, and so she stood to one side. For some reason she was not to kneel.

The woman at the coffee table bantered lightly with the two men, her companion and Mirus. Tutina sat to one side, smiling. Ellen made certain she did not meet the eyes of Tutina. She stood to one side, keeping her head down. If she were to be summoned, a word would suffice.

But suppose the husband did make the wife, within their marriage, his slave, explicitly. Then, surely, their relationship would have changed, considerably. No longer might they not really see one another. No longer could they overlook one another, so to speak. No longer could they take one another for granted. The slave cannot take the master for granted because he owns her, and she must be diligent in his service, and be desperate to please him. And the master does not take the slave for granted for he now owns her; she has now become to him a source of delight and pleasure. And if she prove momentarily troublesome she may be disciplined as the slave she is. Let her beg naked to enter his bed and serve his pleasure. And if he does seem to take her for granted, it is only that she may zealously, piteously increase her efforts to be even more pleasing.

She supposed, serving, that such an arrangement would not merely freshen a stale marriage, not simply renew a flagging relationship, but that it would alter it utterly, transform it beyond recognition, catapult it into hitherto unsuspected, astonishing dimensions, replacing the wearying familiarities and tepid placidities of accustomed rounds and routines with a new, moving, exciting, dramatic, startling reality, replacing them with an altogether new life, one incontrovertibly meaningful, as the participants suddenly found themselves the inhabitants of a newer, deeper, more natural world, one of intense emotion and unbelievable feelings, one of perfectly clear identities and relationships, one of abject obedience and strict command, one of absolute submissiveness and uncompromising mastery.

She wondered what might be the reactions of her former feminist colleagues if society were to take seriously their effusive, tiresome, repetitive, propagandistic allegations pertaining to matrimony as slavery, and the general position of women in society as one of being held in bondage, and decide to make them true. What would they think if they were to suddenly find it necessary to be licensed to men, or simply owned outright, as women?

Mirus, her master, suggested that the group rise and go to table.

The table, long, with sparkling linen, polished silver, candles and flowers, was in the same room.

Mirus indicated that Ellen might ready herself to pour wine at the table.

‘Mirus’ is an extremely common male name on Gor. It is doubtless the name of thousands of individuals. Indeed, that consideration might have figured in its selection. It was the Gorean name, so to speak, of her master. His Earth name is not to be included in this narrative, no more than that name which had once been Ellen’s on Earth. The ‘us’ ending is the most common ending for a male name on Gor. The most common ending for a Gorean female name is ‘a’. There are, of course, numerous exceptions.

Ellen poured the wine, beginning with the woman, and then Tutina, and then the man she did not know, and then her master. The order had been prescribed. The woman, surely, did not know Tutina’s status. The woman had speculated that the bandage on Tutina’s left ankle must be the result of some earlier injury, and Tutina, smiling, did not disabuse her of this plausible surmise.

The new woman, whom Ellen did not know, had glanced at her at various times during the evening, curious, interested, but Ellen had kept her head down, serving silently, deferentially.

After a time Mirus indicated that Ellen might serve the soup, which, she began to do, ladling it from a large tureen on a serving cart, filling the bowls one by one, and placing them on the table, in the order prescribed.

Once, on her former world, in an officelike room, Ellen had relished being served by the hated Tutina, coffee and pastries, and had, in her manner, subtly and abundantly exploited the situation in such a way as to make abundantly clear to Tutina the servile nature of the task, and her own implicit superiority to her.

Now, of course, Ellen must suffer before Tutina, whom she must struggle to please with her serving.

And Tutina was not easily pleased.

Ellen was in misery, but she had no alternative but to serve with all the perfection of which she was capable. She was in the presence of her master. Too, later she knew, she might have to face the switch of Tutina. She feared that even a drop might be spilled upon the tablecloth. The subtleties between Ellen and Tutina doubtless escaped the attention of the guests, though, one supposes, from his amused expression, not that of their master.

Masters are often amused by such things, the small rivalries, altercations, frictions and tensenesses among their properties.

As the meal continued Ellen continued to serve the various courses, bringing them to the table.

At one point her master indicated the coffee table, and said, “You may clear, Ellen.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, and went to clear the glasses, the plates and such, left earlier from the hors d’oeuvres and the sherry, from the coffee table. She referred to him as ‘Sir’, as she had been told.

She supposed that the room might have been arranged, as it was, in order that the new woman would be pleased, and feel more comfortable, more at home. It was certainly not Gorean in style, appointments, furnishings, and such. Gorean decor varies from latitude to latitude, from city to city, and home to home, but, in general, it tends to simplicity and openness, this presumably a heritage deriving from some remote tradition.

Ellen, quietly, deferentially, soon returned to the larger table, with its sparkling linen and elegant appointments, and, as appropriate, resumed her duties there, continuing to attend unobtrusively to the various courses. It was a lovely supper, surely, in its stateliness, gentility and sophistication, and might have been pleasantly, congenially served in almost any affluent, elegant home on her former world.

When spoken to she would quietly and respectfully respond with titles she had been told were to be used, ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’. She used ‘Ma’am’ also to Tutina.

She had now come to the fourth meat course.

It might be mentioned that the diners’ clothing was elegantly congruent with their surroundings. The two men wore tuxedos. The two women wore evening gowns. It was apparently a celebration of some sort, perhaps one at the conclusion of some piece of business brought to a successful conclusion, or some piece of work that was now finished, and with which they might be well satisfied.

In all the appointments and furnishings, in all the garmentures of the diners, and such, in all that seemed so elegant, so nicely arranged, so well fitted together, there was only one oddity, or anomaly, in the room.

“You men are monsters,” laughed the new woman, she unknown to Ellen.

“How is that” smiled her benign companion.

“Come now!” she laughed. “I have been silent long enough!”

Ellen’s master indicated that she should continue serving.

“No, no,” said the woman. “Your name is ‘Ellen’?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Stop what you are doing,” said the woman, “and come here, and stand beside me.”

Ellen looked to her master, who indicated she should comply, and so, in a moment she had come about the table, and was standing beside the chair of the new woman, she unknown to her.

The one oddity, or anomaly, in the room was Ellen, for she was naked. She wore only a narrow band on her neck, a slave collar.

“You’re very pretty, Ellen,” said the woman.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Why have you not been given clothing?” she asked.

“I am to serve as I am, Ma’am,” said Ellen, head down. She fought to hold back tears. Why, indeed, wondered Ellen, had her master had her serve in this fashion, naked, before strangers, before his guests, one of them a woman? Surely this could not be a common thing. Then she feared that it might be a common thing, or that it would be a common thing, at least for her. Can he hate me so much, she asked herself. Does it please him, she wondered, to treat me so ignominiously, to so unmitigatedly subjugate me, to so completely and absolutely humiliate me in this fashion, forcing me to serve as a naked slave? Then the thought came to her that of course it pleased him, and richly pleased him. He would derive from it much pleasure. She remembered their past. Yes, he would indeed enjoy having her serve guests as his naked slave! And then she had a sense of the powers and pleasures of the master.

But then she wondered, and this frightened her even more. Perhaps her master had had her serve so for no particular reason that had to do with her personally. At least in the one case, she would have some importance to him. At least in that case, she would have his attention, and interest. But perhaps he had merely had her serve naked in order to show her off, to display her, much as any lovely object one owns might be displayed. And if that were the case there was nothing particularly personal in his decision. Perhaps she was in no way special to him, but was now only another of perhaps several properties.

But then she thought, no, he wanted me here, me, exactly. He is doing this to me, personally. He wants me to feel the power and might of his will, and what he can have of me, what he can, if he wishes, make me do.

How he must hate me, she thought.

But I would rather have him hate me than ignore me, she thought. I love him. I love him!

“At least you have been given a piece of jewelry,” said the woman. “It sets you off nicely. It is extremely attractive. It is a collar of some sort, is it not?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Bend down, here, near me,” said the woman, “so that I may have a closer look.”

Ellen complied, and the woman, then turned about in her chair, began to examine the flat, close-fitting, narrow band on her neck.

“Lower,” said the woman.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

Ellen felt her hair, at the back of her neck, brushed aside.

“There is a lock here,” said the woman, surprised.

“Yes,” said Mirus.

“Can you remove the collar, Ellen?” asked the woman.

“She cannot remove it,” said Mirus. “To be sure, it may be removed by means of the key, or by means of appropriate tools.”

The woman indicated that Ellen might straighten up, but did not dismiss her. Accordingly, Ellen must remain where she was, beside her.

“Shame on you, Mirus,” smiled the woman, “for not giving this pretty little thing clothing, for making her serve us naked.”

“Do not concern yourself,” said Mirus.

“And for putting her in a locked collar!”

“It is a slave collar,” said Mirus.

“A slave collar?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” said Mirus. “She is a slave girl.”

“You have female slavery on Gor?” said the woman.

“And male slavery,” said her companion, lifting his wine glass to her, as though toasting her.

“At least you are consistent!” she laughed.

“Male slaves,” said Mirus, “are less in evidence. It is not unusual for them to be kept chained, and put to heavy labors, in the fields, the quarries, the galleys, such places.”

“Female slaves, on the other hand, like our pretty little Ellen here,” said her companion, “are usually set to less arduous labors, though perhaps to tasks commonly more repetitive and servile. They are useful for domestic labors. Too, of course, they can be used with great frequency for purposes which comport with their beauty.”

“You can’t be serious,” said the woman.

“They are slave girls,” said her companion.

“They must do as they are told?” she asked.

“Yes,” said her companion, “absolutely, and instantly.”

“Are you a female slave, Ellen?” asked the woman.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Then you must obey in all things, absolutely and instantly?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“I thought that slaves were branded,” said the woman to Mirus.

“Not all,” said Mirus, “though it is recommended by Merchant Law. Turn your left thigh to our guest, Ellen. Look high, just under the hip.

“She is branded!” said the woman.

“Yes,” said Mirus.

“What a beautiful mark!” said the woman.

“It is the most common brand for a female slave on Gor,” said Mirus. “It is the cursive kef. ‘Kef’ is the first letter in the Gorean expression ‘kajira’, which means ‘slave girl’.”

“How beautifully it sets her off,” said the woman.

“It is recognized throughout Gor,” said Mirus. “It instantly, anywhere on this world, identifies its wearer as a female slave.”

So, thought Ellen, I have been given a common brand, that appropriate for any low girl! So that is how he thinks of me! That is how he rates me! But it is beautiful! And it is doubtless, if it is indeed the most common brand, worn by thousands, at least, of girls on this world. A common brand! But, of course, she thought, that is exactly the brand he would see to it that I would have!

He is that sort of master!

Ellen recalled that the first words she had been taught on Gor were ‘La kajira’ —’I am a slave girl.’ She had not understood at the time what they meant. How she had cried out with terror and misery when she had learned! It had occurred in the lesson where she was learning to bring a switch to a man in her teeth. She had had, of course, little doubt as to her nature and condition before that, but it had never been made so simply, so explicitly, clear to her. Perhaps it had been best left unsaid? Perhaps she was only being trained to be some sort of intimate servant? But surely that seemed unlikely, that the young man would have accorded her so exalted a status as “servant.” Not as his eyes had feasted upon her! Perhaps it was all a joke, or a dream? But then she heard the word, explicitly, and realized that slave was what she was, that that was now her absolute and incontrovertible identity, and that this identity, mercilessly imposed upon her, had behind it the full force of law.

It was interesting, she thought, that these words had been required of her so early, so soon after her arrival on Gor. Even then, it seemed, despite her reputation, her professionalism, her credentials, her achievements, her years, even then, it seemed, they had thought of her as no more than a slave girl.

So, thought Ellen, not all slaves are branded. But she supposed that most were, doubtless the overwhelming majority of them. Certainly in her case, it was easy to note, indeed, one had but to look in the mirror, that her master had not seen fit to exempt her from that apparently optional mercantile and social convenience, from bearing, it burned nicely into her thigh, that lovely, small, simple token of her condition. To be sure, it has its effects on the slave, as well. It impresses upon her that she is a slave, no more than a marked property, and this understanding profoundly affects her concept of herself, that she is only, but exactly, slave, giving it, perhaps to her terror and misery, structure, identity, depth, substance and meaning. She is no longer something vague, uncertain, confused, free-floating, unanchored, intangible, a nothing, a troubled, unhappy cipher, humanly meaningless, something without purpose, without definition, without direction. She is now something, and very precisely so. It informs her sense of her own body, its richness, vulnerability and beauty; it affects her thoughts, her feelings, her needs, her emotions, her entire existence. She now knows herself, in the very depths of her heart, something — slave.

How routinely she had been branded and collared!

To be sure, he had waited until he had had his fill of amusement, or vengeance, exploiting her, humiliating her, commanding her, exhibiting her before his guests, having her perform before them.

Then she had been routinely branded and collared.

Is it so obvious, she had asked herself, that I am a slave, that I should be a slave?

But on a world such as this what could a woman such as I be but a slave?

Is that not the purpose for which women such as I are brought to this world, to be the helpless, rightless slaves of absolute and sovereign masters?

But had he not, apart from such things, aside from all such considerations, such general things, simply looked upon me long ago, personally, individually, uniquely, and seen that I was a slave, and should be a slave?

Had he conjectured me then, I wonder, stripped, perhaps bound helplessly, hand and foot, lying before him, at his feet, his?

Certainly there had been little ceremony about it. It was rather as though it were to be expected, as though it were something to be taken for granted, something obvious, something to be accomplished in the normal course of things, at least with one such as she. She had been taken to a room, where she had been stripped and had had her hands braceleted behind her; she had then been placed in the rack, in which her left leg had been held immobile. The marking itself took only a few moments. While she was gasping, and sobbing, and crying, shuddering, trying to comprehend the enormity of what had been done to her, the collar had been put on her neck, and locked. The anklet was then removed. It was apparently no longer needed. Her tunic had then been put in her mouth and she had been returned, bent over, in leading position, a guard’s hand in her hair, to her cage. In the hall a girl laughed and said, “You are now no different from us!” Another said, “See the one who was the pretentious little Ubara, now only another marked slut!” “Are you humbled now, Collar Meat?” inquired another. “Put the little Ubara up for sale!” said another. “She is well ready!” “Beat her and throw her to a master,” called another. “Mind them not,” called another. “You are exquisite!” “The sleek little beast has been well marked,” said another. “It is high time,” laughed another.” “Why did they wait?” asked another. “Who knows?” “Do not question masters,” said another. “They do as they wish!” “You have a lovely brand!” called another. “Do I, Master?” begged Ellen. “Yes,” he said. “You are now no different from us,” cried another. “See the collar! See the collar!” laughed another. “More collar meat!” cried another. “For the masters!” added another. “See the collar!” “How nicely it fits!” “Slip it, slut!” “Oh, you cannot, can you?” moaned another in mock sympathy. “Poor kajira!” “It looks well on you, little Ubara!” “It looks nice on you!” “Get used to collars, Earth slut! You will doubtless wear dozens!” “Your collar is pretty,” said another, “but not so pretty as mine!” “Master?” asked Ellen. “No,” said the guard. “Yours is quite as pretty, perhaps more so.” Ellen could not even feel the collar on her neck, but she turned her head, and moved it, as she could, the hand so tight in her hair, to feel it. It was there. Her thigh still stung, but that would pass in a day or two. “How beautiful she is,” said a girl, from within a cell. “She should bring a high price,” commented another. “No,” said a third, “she is too young!” “And she is too stupid and ignorant,” said another. “She is from Earth, no more than a little barbarian!” “But she is pretty!” said another. “A very pretty girl!” “Men will prefer a woman,” said another. “She is a woman,” said another, “and men will find her delicious.” “She will writhe well beneath their whips,” said another. “See yourself, see yourself!” called another. “See yourself as you are now, pretentious little Earth slut!” “Kajira! Kajira!” called another. “May I see, Master? May I see, Master?” she had begged. “No,” he had said. So she must wait. The bracelets would not be removed until the next morning. At her first opportunity, the next day, she hurried to her training room, to take advantage of the mirrors there. And she beheld in one of the great mirrors — as she gasped, as she stood there, stunned, even disbelievingly — a startlingly beautiful young female slave. The Gorean culture, with its penchant for naturalness and beauty, and with skills doubtless honed in slave houses over generations, had learned well how to dress and adorn its lovely chattels, so natural, and essential, and beautiful a part of its rich and complex world. There would be no mistake about such things. She regarded herself in the mirror, taken aback, almost in awe. Could it be she? It was she, she realized, it was! It could be no other! It was she! How the collar enhanced her beauty, in a thousand ways, aesthetically and psychologically, and how delicately, unmistakably, and beautifully, too, was her status, condition, and nature made clear, fixedly and absolutely, by the tiny, tasteful mark placed in her body, in her thigh, just beneath the hip, a site recommended by Merchant Law, a mark proclaiming her the most exciting and beautiful of women, kajira.

And so Ellen was now in attendance at table, waiting on her master and his guests in an unusual room. The linens, crystal and tableware, the tasteful appointments and gracious furnishings, the general decor, were all very much, as we have noted, as though of Earth. Surely as far as she could tell, they were indistinguishable in quality and nature from the finest which her former world might have offered. It would not have been surprising to have found such a room in the suburban mansion of a man of wealth and position. She wondered if it might not be a reconstruction of such a room. Perhaps its furnishings, and such, had been brought from Earth? Everything was much as it might have been on Earth. There was one anomaly, of course, as we recall, she, herself. Ellen, amongst fully clothed, elegantly attired guests, serving, was naked, and branded and collared.

This was doubtless as he wanted her, as it amused him to have her, as it pleased him to have her.

To be sure, men are fond of looking upon their properties, their houses, their works of art, their collections, their lands, their gardens, their forests, their dogs and horses, their women.

Too, men, the vain beasts, enjoy showing off their possessions.

Oh, she had little doubt that her master enjoyed showing her off, but his pleasure, she was sure, extended well beyond the simple pleasures and vanities of displaying a possession. It involved, as well, she was sure, a sense of exultant triumph, that had much to do with their biographies. It was not then simply a matter of display, but of triumph, of the sweet taste of total victory, as well. She was being paraded, if only the two of them understood that, rather as a subjugated antagonist, a conquered foe, a former fair opponent now vanquished and helplessly enslaved. Conceive, if you will, the analogy of a once-haughty, once-vain princess, her armies now scattered and crushed, chained naked to the chariot of a general, being led in triumph through jubilant crowds. How soon she would hope that this noise, this pressing and raucous clamor, might end and that she then, a lowly, unimportant slave, might be permitted to simply lose herself amongst other slaves, and become what she, in her chains, has now discovered herself to be, a female, and the rightful property of a man.

She wondered if he had sometimes, in the classroom, so long ago, pondered what she might look like, nude, so marked, so collared. Perhaps he had imagined her, long ago, in the classroom, as she moved about before the class, as being so, as being naked, and branded and collared. She no longer wore the anklet. But it had not been removed until she had been branded and collared. Thus, there had remained, at all times, some token of bondage on her body.

“Then, Ellen,” laughed the woman, “you are nothing but livestock, nothing but a pretty little piece of livestock, nothing but a domestic animal, nothing but a pretty little branded domestic animal!”

Tears sprang to Ellen’s eyes. But she must stand in her collar where she was. She flung a piteous, begging look at her master.

“Answer our guest, Ellen,” he said, kindly.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Ellen sobbed.

“Please forgive Ellen,” said Mirus, her master. “She has not been so long in the collar. Much is new to her. She may not yet fully understand the meaning of the band on her neck, the mark on her thigh.”

“But is it not unusual that you would have her serve naked?” asked the woman.

“Gorean feasts are often served by naked slaves,” said Mirus.

“Why?” demanded the woman, angrily.

“It improves the appetite,” said Mirus, smiling.

“Of course!” she said, angrily.

Her formally dressed companion, who had been muchly silent, but muchly, too, intent upon her, laughed.

“Do not encourage him,” she chided.

“If you were a man,” he said, “you would understand how it is very pleasant to be served by a naked slave.”

“I do not doubt it,” she said, coldly.

“It can be very pleasant for the slave, as well,” said Mirus. “It can give her many warm and delicious feelings, the honor of being permitted to approach and serve masters, the understanding that she is wanted, and desired, and owned, the gratification of being enabled to display herself, in the order of nature, as an acknowledged and total female before strong men, and so on.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the woman, angrily.

Ellen noted that the woman was very beautiful. She wore an off-the-shoulder evening dress, and her shoulders were sweetly wide and soft, perhaps alluringly so. The charms of her bosom were amply but subtly, not vulgarly, suggested. She was doubtless a woman of high intelligence and exquisite taste. Her companion seemed unable to take his eyes from her. About her throat there was a tasteful, close-fitting, single strand of pearls.

Ellen thought to herself, somewhat reluctantly, that she had perhaps not minded so serving as much as she might have supposed. To be sure, there had been an intense sting of humiliation as she understood what she was to do, and that she must obey unquestioningly, and that her helpless service and abject obedience would amuse and gratify her master, but, after her initial confusion, shame and blushings, and stumbling once, and almost dropping a plate, she was aware, bit by bit, that she did not mind, so much, what she was doing. She had begun to feel warm sensations, and a sense of her place in these things, and her specialness. She was pleased, too, to be naked before her master, and she did not doubt that he “found her flanks of interest,” and the gaze of the other man had certainly been, at the least, warmly approbatory. After their eyes had met once, fully, she had not dared to look at him again, not so openly or directly. But several times during the evening, when his attentions were not completely absorbed by his charming companion, she had sensed his eyes, those of a powerful male, on her youthful, well-turned, stripped body. So she did have some sense of what it might be to serve masters thusly, and she found herself, in her way, appreciated and prized. And so she served shyly, sometimes fighting strange sensations in her body. She could not deny that serving men as a naked slave called up from deep within her strange, surprising, unfamiliar feelings. It disturbed her in some very unsettling, but warm and pleasant, and deliciously troubling, way. It made her feel terribly feminine, helplessly and beautifully feminine. She wondered if this might be an erotic experience for her. What a strange thing, she thought, and so surprisingly beautiful, to begin to feel the warmth and wonder of one’s own sex. How few women, she feared, felt their femininity. It had been denied to them for centuries by one sort of fanatics and now it was again being denied to them, on her own world, by a new form of fanatics, building on the insanities, cruelties and envy of their predecessors, utilizing the poisons of the past in the interests of unnatural, self-serving political objectives. What are these strange feelings, she wondered, which I am beginning to feel, these enticing, delightfully tormenting feelings? Will I be able to resist them? Will they take me over, will they conquer me, will they put a rope on my neck and drag me zealously, helplessly, eagerly, panting after them? Am I to become their captive, their victim and prisoner? Am I to wear their leash, their bonds, as a helpless slave? Am I to become one of those low girls who whimper and scratch at the sides of their kennels? She was beginning, she feared, to feel sensations sometimes referred to vulgarly in Gorean as the burning, or the fires, in the slave belly. If she had been alone with her master, so serving, she would have begged for his least caress. Even had he impatiently cuffed her to the side, she felt that she might, in gratitude, have crawled back, begging to lick and kiss the hand that had administered the blow.

She loved him. He was her master. She was his slave.

“Surely you are aware,” said Mirus, her master, to the woman whom she did not know, she in the lovely off-the-shoulder gown, “that in the history of Earth, for thousands of years, slavery was an accepted, approved, and prized institution.”

“No longer,” she said.

“In certain parts of the world it still is,” he said, “but, more to the point, the intelligence of the ancients and medievals, and such, was not inferior to our own, and, in many respects, most would grant, many of them, perhaps the majority, were morally superior to large numbers of our lying, cheating, thieving, greedy, envious contemporary representatives of manufactured “mass man.” Most of them had no objection to slavery, and, indeed, saw its values. Certainly you can understand how it might alleviate many social problems, one among many being that of expanding, uncontrolled populations intent on transforming a once verdant, lovely planet into arid, sterile ecological garbage. To be sure, there are many ways of solving social problems, and Earth is clearly moving to imperialistic centralization, to statism, collectivism and authoritarianism, in which, to control matters, human beings will become in fact, if not in name, slaves of the state. An alternative to both a lying world in which it is claimed that all are free, when they are not, a world hastening to disaster, and a world in which all are slaves, would be a world in which masters are masters and slaves are slaves.”

“Such things are not possible on Earth,” she said.

“They were,” he said, “and may be again. Propaganda mills, as you know, may be quickly adjusted. Reality occasionally intrudes. Houses of cards do not well withstand the winds of a changing world. Obvious historical imperatives may dictate policy, at least to those capable of understanding them, and with the power to act upon them. The media will run like dogs to the whistles of their masters, whether it be their audiences, their advertisers or the state. What is seen as necessary will be adopted. Falsity and absurdity can be defended, so why not truth and practicality? If certain words are offensive, those particular words need not be used; I prefer them because I like to speak plainly; I prefer ‘master’ and ‘slave’ to ‘servant of the people’ and ‘citizen’.”

“You have never spoken to me like this before,” she said.

“This is a memorable night,” he said lifting his wine glass to her. “I do not think you will ever forget it.”

“For me?” she asked.

“For all of us,” said her companion, he, too, lifting his glass to her in a pleasant salute.

“Putting aside deeper matters,” said Mirus, “you expressed interest in Ellen and in the fact that she must serve naked.”

The woman looked at him. She, too, had lifted her glass of wine, though, to be sure, merely to take from it a tiny, dainty sip.

“We are all familiar with war,” he said. “In war, it is a familiar practice for the victors to despoil the conquered. They take from them what they desire, whatever seems of value. For example, in this fashion, it has been a familiar practice of victors to take the women of conquered men from them and make them their slaves. Surely you are aware of this.”

“Of course,” said the woman.

Ellen wondered if the woman was aware of her companion’s gaze, of how his eyes seemed to glitter upon her.

Would she not have screamed in terror, and fled?

“You are perhaps also aware that at the victory feasts of conquerors not unoften the women of the enemy, the women of the conquered, and, ideally, those formerly of the highest station, the most aristocratic of the enemy’s women, those of the richest and most exalted blood, the noblest and the proudest, the most envied, as well as the most beautiful, all now embonded, must serve their new masters.”

“I knew something of this, vaguely,” she said.

“But did you know,” he asked, “that they must serve their new masters naked?”

“Yes,” she said, reddening, “I knew something of that.”

“Well,” said Mirus. “That is much what is the case with our little Ellen here.”

“You have taken her from conquered men?” she asked.

“In a sense, I suppose so,” he said. “For the men of her world have for the most part been conquered by their women. Thus they are conquered men, or many of them. And all I have done is to take one of those “conquering women” and bring her here, to return her, for my amusement, to her place in the order of nature. I thought I might let her see what it is like to be among true men.”

Ellen trembled.

She was a slave — utterly — and on Gor.

“Ellen, of course,” said he, “is not of the upper classes, or such, such as yourself, though we occasionally take in such, but she makes an excellent example of a type. She was a feminist, and was accordingly, in a sense, engaged in a war with men. To be sure, not an open war, not an honest, war. That war, however, for her, is over. And so she is for me a prize of war. She lost. To the victor belong the spoils. I have made her mine, as a slave. Thusly, compatible with historical precedent, I have her serve at my feast, my victory feast, naked.”

“Bravo!” said the other man.

“Have we not business to attend to?” asked the woman.

“But supper is not yet over,” said her companion. “Surely you would not deprive us of further courses, nor of our dessert?”

“No,” she laughed. “Of course not!”

“Ellen,” said Mirus.

“Sir?” said Ellen.

“You will continue to serve,” he said. “After dessert, we will have the coffee and liqueurs at the coffee table.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Ellen.

****

“It is beautiful,” said the woman, she in the off-the-shoulder white gown, admiring the twenty weighty double ingots of gold.

They had been carried in, ingot by ingot, and stacked on the rug, near the coffee table, by two guards.

“These, too,” said the woman’s companion, “were, as I recall, a part of our arrangement.” He produced a small leather pouch and, loosening its draw strings, opened it. Into the palm of his hand he poured a small shower of scintillating diamonds.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed.

He returned them, carefully, to the pouch, and handed them to her. She put them into her small, white, matching dress purse.

“Thusly are you paid,” said her companion.

“Even were you not heretofore a rich woman,” said Mirus, “you would be now.”

“You are surely generous,” laughed the woman.

Tutina stood nearby, smiling.

Ellen was to one side, standing. She had not yet been given permission to clear. She had struggled, during the evening, to understand the conversation. It was in English and so there was no difficulty in her following the words, only the meanings. It was not as though they took care to speak guardedly in her presence, for she was only a slave. It was rather that they understood so much among themselves, and took so much for granted, that to the uninitiated, to the outsider, such as the slave, Ellen, it very little made sense. Too much was implicit. Ellen did gather that clandestine business arrangements of considerable scope were afoot. The concerns, or tentacles, of whatever combine or conglomerate, or organization, was involved seemed to have far-reaching ramifications, ramifications affecting worlds. Surely it had its representatives, or outposts, or offices, on her former world as well as on this, her new world. Many highly placed individuals on both worlds, it seemed, for example, on Earth, in government and business, were not only apprised of, but implicated in, these matters. They extended far beyond the trivia of harvesting lovely women for vending in Gorean markets. The business of capturing, transporting and selling well-curved, helpless living flesh might, she suspected, be little more than a byproduct of more serious enterprises. To be sure, it doubtless had its at least minimally significant place in the economy of their schemes. There was doubtless money to be made in such matters. Her collar, for example, was quite real. She accepted that she was property, and could be sold. There was no gainsaying that. On the other hand, she was confident that her master would not sell her. Surely he had not brought her here to sell her, not after their relationship of long ago. She suspected that he must somehow love her, though perhaps in his own hard, severe, uncompromising, possessive way. Surely she loved him, and, doubtless, even from the first, though such things had not been so clear to her then, as a vulnerable, submissive slave. I think he loves me, she thought, though this may now be unbeknownst to himself. And even if he did not love her, she had little doubt that he “found her flanks of interest.” And this did not dismay her. Rather she welcomed it. She, his slave, wanted to be an object of commanding, unabashed lust to him, wanted to be to him an object of powerful, violent sexual desire. On this world she had become so aware of the stirrings in her own blood, confronted with his physicality, that she, in her own complementary, soft, vulnerable, beautiful physicality, longed to be taken in his arms, longed to yield to him as the property he owned, longed to be put ecstatically, in rapture, to the ruthless pleasures of her beloved master.

“But as you know,” laughed the young woman in the white, off-the-shoulder gown, “I never joined you as a mercenary. I am not the sort of person who would work for mere pay. On Earth, I am quite amply provided for, independently. Your riches, marvelous as they may be, were not the lure that brought me to your endeavors.”

“We understand,” said her companion, “that it was not mere gain, worthless pelf, which brought you into our service.”

“Into your endeavors,” she smiled. “No,” she said, “it was for the adventure of the thing. Life was so boring for me. I had everything, and so it held so little. But here I found excitement, intrigue. I require stimulation. I thrive on danger.”

“Oh?” said her companion.

“Yes,” she said. “It was to escape boredom that I joined your cause, that I became a secret, unsuspected agent in your cause.”

“Your contacts were useful,” said her companion. “They were of great value to us.”

“I also appreciated your attention to some small details,” she said.

“The women, the debutantes, certain women who had dared to be critical of your life and behavior, certain gossips, certain rivals you disapproved of, those you called to our attention?”

“Yes,” she said. “You did not hurt them, I trust.”

“They would not be hurt by us,” he said.

“Not by you?” she asked.

“At least in no way that was not in their new long-term interest.”

“What did you do with them?” she asked.

“Guess,” he suggested.

She then caught sight of Ellen, standing to the side, unobtrusively awaiting the command to clear. Ellen looked down, immediately. Something in her belly, which she did not entirely understand, made her apprehensive in the presence of a free woman. A free woman, in her status, in her loftiness and power, in her glory and might, was another form of being altogether, quite different from herself.

“No!” exclaimed the woman, delightedly.

“Yes,” smiled her companion, “we made them slaves. Some changes had to be made in some of them, as you would suppose, recourse had to certain serums, and such, to make them acceptable for the markets, but it was all taken care of, in good order.”

“What of Annette?” she asked.

“She wears her collar on the island of Cos.”

“Annette in a collar!” she said. “How delightful!”

“She is fetching in it, as other desirable slaves.”

“And Marjorie?”

“Sold south to Schendi, where she now serves a black master.”

“Allison?”

“To the Barrens, for two hides.”

“Michelle?”

“To Torvaldsland, as a bondmaid, for a keg of salted parsit fish.”

“And Gillian?”

“The columnist?”

“Yes.”

“The serums worked well for her. She became quite comely.”

“Do you know her disposition?”

“She was sold south to Turia, but the caravan was ambushed by Tuchuks, a fierce nomadic people. I would not worry about her. She will doubtless show up, eventually, in one of the southern markets.”

“Perhaps one of Turia’s markets itself,” said Mirus.

“I would not doubt it,” said the woman’s companion. “And have no fear but what the others were judiciously distributed, as well.”

“Did you let them know my role in this, that it was I who designated them for their fates?”

“Certainly,” he said, “and you may well conjecture their dismay, their wild cries, and tears, their helpless rage, how they pulled at their chains, trying to rise, or seized and shook, in futile fury, the bars of their tiny cages.”

“Wonderful! Wonderful!” said the woman. “Jeffrey, you are such a dear!” She then gave him a quick, affectionate kiss on the left cheek. “You are a darling!” she said.

This was the first time Ellen had heard the name of her companion.

“I will arrange to have the gold delivered to your chamber,” said Mirus, “where you will spend the night.”

“I must thank you for your hospitality,” she said to Mirus, warmly. “It was a lovely supper. It is a beautiful room. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.” She turned to Tutina. “You have been terribly quiet all evening, my dear,” she said. “I feel so terribly guilty. But the men and I had so much to talk about. You understand. But still you should not have allowed us to monopolize the conversation.”

Tutina smiled.

“I hope your ankle improves quickly,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said Tutina.

“You may clear, Ellen,” said Mirus.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” she said. She set about clearing the table, putting the various utensils, vessels and plates on the serving cart. She would later clear the coffee table.

“Good-bye, Ellen,” called the woman in the off-the-shoulder gown, sweetly.

“Good-bye, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

Happily, the woman’s pleasant, dismissive tone of voice had been absolutely clear. Else Ellen might have been terribly frightened. But the utterance had clearly involved no suggested recognition of Ellen as a person, suggesting that she might be a human being in her own right, instead of the animal she was, for that would have been improper, and would have frightened Ellen, particularly as she was in the presence of her master. But, happily, the utterance had been no more than a casually generous, almost thoughtless, unbegrudged gift from a superior to an inferior. And surely it was. For Ellen knew herself as her absolute inferior, as the woman was free, and she, Ellen, was bond. Ellen cast a quick, frightened glance at her master but his gaze reassured her that her response had been apt. Indeed, she saw, with mixed feelings, that he regarded her as a quick, bright slave. She feared that that might put him more on his guard against her. But surely he must understand that the intelligence of a woman did not disappear in the searing moment her flesh took the iron, or the instant that her small neck felt clasped upon it a steel band.

Ellen, head down, continued to clear. She made as little noise as possible.

“It has all been so exciting,” said the woman. “I have been so stimulated. I used to be so bored, but now I am not bored, at all!”

“Excellent,” said her companion.

“I have enjoyed the intrigue, being a secret agent!” she laughed.

“And you have done well,” said her companion. “Because of you the politics of two worlds are now subtly different from before. The Kurii are grateful to you. In their wars with Priest-Kings you have served them well.”

“Served?” she smiled.

“Let us say then that you have proved yourself a useful, valuable agent.”

“That is better,” said the woman.

This puzzled Ellen.

She had heard of Priest-Kings, but did not believe they existed. Supposedly they were strange men of some sort, and lived in a remote area called the Sardar Mountains. She understood them to be a part of the mythology of this strange world, nonexistent, like sleen, tarns, and such. Kurii she had never heard of, at all. Perhaps they were another sort of strange men, who lived somewhere else. Since they were mentioned in connection with Priest-Kings, she thought that perhaps they did not exist either. Such expressions, she surmised, might be code names for competitive organizations or factions. That hypothesis pleased her, though she was not clear why free persons should have recourse to code names before a mere slave.

“Alas, now,” smiled the woman, “I fear I must return to my daily, boring round of parties, and such.”

“Surely there must be uses to which you could still be put,” said her companion.

“I hope so,” she said, warmly.

“I am sure of it,” he said.

“I do crave excitement,” she said. “I want stimulation. I hate being bored.”

“I suspect,” said her companion, “that there is more excitement in store for you, and I doubt that you will, in the future, lack for stimulation. And whatever your problems might prove to be in the future, I doubt that boredom will rank high amongst them.”

“You are such a dear, Jeffrey,” she smiled.

“Surely I can be rewarded with another kiss,” said her companion, as though plaintively.

“Naughty boy!” she chided.

“Please,” he wheedled.

“Very well,” she said. Again she touched him briefly on the left cheek, a flick of a kiss, a tiny peck. “There!” she said.

How beautiful and white her shoulders, thought Ellen. How she must excite a man. I wish I were so beautiful. I wonder what a man would pay for her, a great deal I would suppose.

“I fear it is late,” said her companion, the man called Jeffrey.

“Yes,” she agreed.

The woman then bid good-night to Mirus and Tutina.

“The gold will be delivered to your chamber, where you will be spending the night,” said Mirus.

“Thank you,” she said.

Various leave-taking pleasantries were exchanged. Ellen, in this leave taking, to her relief, was ignored.

“On the way to your chamber,” said her companion, “there is another chamber, too, which I would like to show you.”

“Very well,” she said.

A moment later, Tutina, too, with a glance at Mirus, left.

Then Ellen and her master were alone.

He went to the long table, and took the chair at the head of the table, which he had occupied during dinner, and pulled it a bit away from the table. He then sat within it, seemingly lost in thought.

Ellen supposed that he had drawn the chair away from the table, before reposing in it, to enable her the more easily to clear the table. It only became clear to her later that he had wanted the chair more in the center of the room, for a different reason, that there might then be a cleared space before it, on the rug.

When the guests had departed the two guards returned and, ingot by ingot, picked up the gold, and, slowly, carefully, carried it into the next room. A broad, flat wagon was there, too large to fit flat through the smaller door, that leading from the room to the corridor and kitchen. There was another portal, one wider and more auspicious, in the room, a double door of some dark wood, that through which the guests and Mirus had originally entered. Ellen had, of course, used the smaller door in her serving, that giving eventual access to the kitchen. Interestingly, the woman’s companion, conducting her, had exited with her through the smaller door. That led to the corridor, and thence to the kitchen, and various other corridors, and to several areas more in the back of the house.

Ellen worked to clear the table.

She did not rush to do this.

At times, at least, she was sure that her master’s eyes were upon her.

Whereas a slave may be forced to humiliating haste, perhaps crawling in terror before the strokes of a whip, unseemly hurryings, the industrial frenzies, so to speak, of technological cultures, are generally alien to the Gorean consciousness. Theirs is not a clock-ridden culture; on Gor life tends to be genially paced, regulated more by the season of the year and the position of the sun; it is not conceived of in terms of metaphors drawn from factories, in material terms, in terms of input and output, in terms of units of product processed over units of time. Its rhythms are less the periodic turbulences of rush hours, the blinkings of colored, regulatory lights, carefully timed, the staccato clickings and hammerings, the stops and starts, of the assembly line, than those of tides, and winds, and clouds and rain, the appearance and disappearance of stars, the comings and goings of light and darkness, the cycles of hunger, the cycles of desire, those of the beating of the heart and the circulation of the blood.

Ellen did not hasten in her work but took care, rather, to do it well. To be sure, she knew that clumsiness was not tolerated in a female slave. If she should drop a plate or break a glass, or spill a beverage, or even move awkwardly, she knew she might expect to be tied to a ring and beaten.

Above all, though this may seems strange to some, the female slave is not permitted to move with the abruptness, the clumsiness, the awkwardness, the gross, unconscionable, offensive, mannish motions permitted to a free woman. As a female slave she is expected to be muchly aware of her very different, very lovely, very special body, so exciting and wondrous, and to carry it, and present it, beautifully. She is not a free woman. She is a female, and must move as such. The female slave is a female, and thus femininity is required of her. She is trained to be aware of her body and to move well. Sometimes men do not know why they are so exciting, but sense, somehow, that each movement, each nuance of expression, bespeaks subtly their profound, released femininity.

And so Ellen worked, muchly aware that she was a slave, muchly aware that she was in the presence of her master.

She had never felt so beautiful and feminine as she had on Gor.

Never before had she even begun to sense the depths of her sex. There had been nothing of this, surely, in the courses she had taught, in the texts she had read.

Strange, she thought, how those who on her world made so much of women were oblivious, as far as she could tell, of these things, to these sensations, and feelings. Perhaps they had never met a true man, she thought.

She wondered if women of her own world, or many of them, realized that they might be graceful and beautiful, and feminine. Did they understand that even small labors, like clearing a table, might be performed beautifully, gracefully? Did they understand that anytime, at their various activities, even, say, during their day, at their various forms of work, or play, or whatever, they might be beautiful, and graceful, and women?

Or did they fear the scorn, the ridicule, the cruelty, of the female haters of their own sex?

She hoped that her sisters on a far world might one day become conscious of themselves, truly, despite what might be the consequences attendant upon such an awakening.

“You move well, slut,” snarled Mirus.

She had not doubted that he was watching her.

“Is master aroused?” she asked.

“You will rue that,” he said.

“You have had me trained,” she said, “at least to some extent. I find that I move unconsciously now in certain ways. I do not even think of it any longer. Given my training, how could I help but move as I do now? Surely you do not object. And did I not move in this way now, did I not now move in a way natural for my body, would I not be beaten?”

“Continue your work,” he said.

“I shall be finished shortly,” she said.

She did not know this at the time but many Goreans can tell the difference between free women and female slaves, even when the latter are clothed in the garments of the former, so internalized, so ingredient, so manifest is femininity in the female slave. Sometimes fleeing female slaves, runaways, attempting to escape hated masters in the clothing of free women are simply stopped, unceremoniously, and stripped, their brands and collars then revealed. They are then returned to the dreaded mercies of their masters. The garmenture of free women and slaves, of course, differs considerably, that of the slave tending to be far briefer and more revealing. Incidentally, a slave can be slain for putting on the garment of a free woman. It is permissible, though frowned upon, for a free woman to put on the garb of a slave. Also, it is quite dangerous to do so. Many free women, so garmenting themselves, as an adventure, thinking to have the run of the city, to go into areas forbidden to free women, to see the insides of paga taverns, and such, have, to their horror, found themselves, gagged and blindfolded, struggling futilely in the tight ropes of slavers.

A slave may also be slain for touching a weapon.

She did not doubt but what her master found her of interest.

No longer, of course, did she feel it incumbent upon her to pretend to indignation or dismay, such hypocrisies and dishonesties, when she sensed a man’s interest in her. She now, as a slave, was well aware that she might be found of interest. Indeed, given her beauty, and her current status and condition, she took it as a matter of course that she would be found of interest. Who would not find a slave of interest, particularly one such as she? How boldly and with what pleasure men now looked upon her! Too, she now expected to be so viewed and hoped that she would be so viewed. Indeed, she might fear that she might not be so viewed, that she might not be found of interest. Her very life, as she now knew, might depend on such things.

Perhaps long ago,” she said, “you imagined what I might look like, as a naked slave, yours, obeying, doing your bidding, as I am now, knowing that I had no choice, too, but to move as a female slave before you.”

“You have not yet finished your work,” he said.

“To be sure,” she said, “Master could not have known what I would have looked like at the age of eighteen.”

“It seems the slave is garrulous,” he said.

“I trust that Master is not disappointed with the body of an eighteen-year-old slave,” she said.

“You are a pretty eighteen-year-old slave, Ellen,” he said.

She finished the table, putting the last plates on the serving cart. How strange, she thought, that I should have this eighteen-year-old body. And yet it is mine, or, better, I suppose, it is now what I am. To be sure, its neck is in a slave collar. Or, better, I, I myself, am in a slave collar. I myself, what I now am, am in a slave collar. She dared not tell him that she loved to be in a slave collar, to be a slave. She dared not tell him that she had now come to recognize herself as a natural slave, who should, in all propriety, and in view of all rights whatsoever, wear a collar. She loved her new condition, and her collar. How could she tell him that? How could he respect her, if he knew that? She wanted his respect. Thus, surely she must pretend to be a lamenting free woman inappropriately subjected, however categorically, to an unfortunate fate.

“It is customary for a slave to thank a free person for a compliment,” he said. “You may thank me,” he said. His remarks were not really critical; rather, they seemed instructional, their intent seeming to be merely to help an ignorant girl to better understand her collar.

“I should thank you for making me an eighteen-year-old slave?” she asked.

“For pointing out that you are a pretty eighteen-year-old slave,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said. She had blushed, totally, suffused with warmth and pleasure, when he had commended her. She hoped that it had not been obvious, in the subdued light of the room. Then she had pretended, of course, to be reluctant to acknowledge the compliment.

She must keep from him what she was in her heart, a natural slave, a rightful slave.

She would later learn to live for such things, a kind word, an approving glance, a crust cast to the floor before her, a caress.

She had now moved the cart about the long table, and to the front of the coffee table. There, bending down, crouching gracefully, under her master’s eye, she cleared the smaller table.

He enjoys seeing me do this sort of work, she thought. He enjoys seeing me perform such small, trivial domestic labors. I was once his teacher. Now I must clear his tables, and such. He is having an erotic experience, watching me do this, she thought. Surely she, herself, was having an erotic experience, so serving. She understood then something of the subtle, radiating, profound, pervasive eroticism of female bondage. It was an ambiance, a condition, in its way, of her life.

“You have now reverted, I note,” said he, “to the normal modalities of discourse, the use of ‘Master’ to the master, and such.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are a bright slave, Ellen,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

It had seemed to her that ‘Sir’, and such expressions, for whatever reasons they were used during the supper, would not now be appropriate, and might even be offensive, if not inexcusable. It was her sense that she should return to the normal, appropriate modalities of discourse, those normal and appropriate for such as she. That she did so without explicit permission she trusted would not be an occasion for the imposition of discipline. To have asked would have seemed to her, in the circumstances, stupid, and she did not wish to appear a stupid slave before her master. There are many delicacies, many subtleties, in the relationship in which she found herself, that of abject slave to total master, and slaves, as you may suppose, come very quickly to appreciate them. Commonly the slave will ask permission to speak, but not always; she may behave in one way before her master if a free woman is present, in another way if only another man is present, and in yet another way if she and the master are alone; sometimes she knows her master delights to hear her speak eloquently and lyrically before him, even for Ahn at a time, and is eager to attend to, share and relish, the smallest of her thoughts and feelings; at other times she knows that so little as a raised head may bring her a stroke of the lash; at times the master will wish to be alone; at other times she knows it will be acceptable for her to crawl to him and whimper, beggingly, of her needs. She soon learns, or suffers for the failure to do so, to read the whims and moods of the master. This is common, of course, in a variety of other domestic animals, as well.

“You have finished with the clearing,” he said. “Take the cart back to the kitchen.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “When I have done so, should I report back to my cage?”

“You want the leather, don’t you?” he asked.

“No, Master!” she said.

“You will return here, and kneel before me.”

He indicated the place on the rug before his chair.

“Yes, Master!” she said. Then she put down her head, quickly, that he might not see how elated she was.

In a moment she had wheeled the cart to the smaller of the two doors, and worked it through, and was soon in the hall outside.

There were two guards outside.

She knelt and put her head to the stones of the floor. “I am expected to return, Masters,” she said. When she looked up she saw the expressions of the guards. Had she not expected to return?

Quickly she leaped up and sped the cart down the corridor. Then she slowed her pace, as she heard the guards laugh. She was embarrassed to show herself an eager slave, hurrying to return to the master’s presence. But as soon as she rounded a bend in the corridor, she once again began to hurry. Are you an eager slave, Ellen, she asked herself, for she was now Ellen, and thought of herself as such. Of course not, she told herself! I would not run to him like a common, amorous slave, a helpless, panting bitch beside herself with heat! But she did not slow her pace. It would not do to keep the master waiting, she told herself. Indeed, it might not be wise to do so. If I dally in my return, he might give me the leather! This thought, that she might be beaten if she were late, thrilled her. It was not that she wished to feel the leather, certainly not now, but rather that she was thrilled to be such, a slave, that she must fear it. He is so strong, so commanding. I must obey him, she thought. Over me he is totally dominant. Before him I can be only what I am, a helpless, submissive slave! I wonder, she thought. I wonder if I am in heat? Could I, given what I was on Earth, that lofty, respectable, cool, remote, formal, inert, frigid thing, now be in heat, be simply in heat? Could I now be only another low girl, another common, amorous slave, another bitch beside herself with heat! Not I, surely. But perhaps I am in heat! In any event it will be wise for me to return to my master soon. It charmed her that she thought of him so simply, so directly, as her master. But then she shuddered, for she knew that in truth, in reality, he was her master. He owned her.

****

She knelt naked before him, on the rug before his chair.

She knelt before him, in her collar, in the basic position of the Gorean pleasure slave, back on her heels, her back straight, her head up, the palms of her hands on her thighs, her knees spread, widely.

A rather different sort of slave, familiar in the “high cities,” in the “cylinder cities,” one more domestically oriented, is the “tower slave.” She is permitted to kneel with her knees closed. On the other hand, when her master, perhaps one evening, orders her to spread her knees, she understands that the scope of her duties has been enlarged. Ellen was under no delusion as to the sort of slave she was. Her duties would doubtless include those of the tower slave, but would, given the sort of slave she was, a spread-knees slave, so to speak, extend well beyond them. Even before Ellen had been told that she was a pleasure slave, it had not been difficult to gather from the nature of her training the sort of slave she was intended to be. It is hard for a girl to kneel with her knees spread widely before a man and be in the least doubt as to this point. Too, she recalled the young man from class, so long ago, and how he had looked at her. She had little doubt as to the nature of the slavery he would have from her.

And now he owned her.

Now she knelt before him, in basic position.

“How did you like serving, as you did this evening,” he asked, “naked, in such a room, the men in tuxedos, the women in evening gowns.”

“May I speak with some freedom, Master?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “at least for the moment.”

“You truly own me, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Certainly.”

“I was humiliated,” she said.

“You must learn to serve naked,” he said. “You are a slave.”

“Did you enjoy having me so serve?” she asked.

“Certainly,” he said.

“You enjoyed making me do that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Seeing you serve naked gave me a great deal of pleasure. There are many satisfactions connected with the mastery. Such things, my dear former teacher, are amongst them.”

“You are hateful!” she exclaimed, tears welling into her eyes. She wanted to cover her eyes with her hands and weep, but was afraid to break position.

“Is my pretty little slave upset?” he asked.

“Yes!” she cried. “Your pretty little slave is upset!” She moved her head wildly, lifting it, seeing the ceiling, throwing it back and forth, but dared not lower it.

“I see you are under some stress, pretty Ellen,” he said. “Accordingly I permit you some latitude in position.”

Immediately, uncontrollably, she put her head down and buried her face in her hands, weeping.

“Knees,” he cautioned, gently.

With a cry of misery she widened her knees.

“I gather,” he said, “that you found your service humiliating, but did you find that it had other aspects, as well?”

She looked at him, through her hands, as though she would cry out some hysterical denial, but did not do so.

“I see that you found your service welcome, warming, elating, reassuring, fitting, even delicious,” he said.

“Master!” she protested.

“You enjoyed serving as a naked slave,” he said. “You enjoyed, so subtly, so deferentially, so seemingly involuntarily, so seemingly helplessly, exhibiting your beauty.”

She sobbed.

“You are very beautiful,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” she whispered.

“So it is very natural that you would wish to show your beauty,” he said. “It is natural that it would give you great pleasure to do so. Surely, too, you must rejoice in the happiness, and pleasure, that the sight of it brings to others.”

“But it could also bring me into great peril, could it not, Master?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “particularly on this world. It makes you an object of enormous interest, of almost uncontrollable desire. This is particularly dangerous for you, inasmuch as you are only a slave. It is not as though you were a free person, and had a Home Stone.”

“A Home Stone, Master?”

“Commonality of Home Stone extends beyond concepts with which you are familiar, such as shared citizenship, for example. It is more like brotherhood, but not so much in the attenuated, cheap, abstract sense in which those of Earth commonly speak glibly, so loosely, of brotherhood. It is more analogous to brotherhood in the sense of jealously guarded membership in a proud, ancient family, one that has endured through centuries, a family bound together by fidelity, honor, history and tradition.”

“I see,” she whispered.

“So do not concern yourself with Home Stones,” he said. “They are beyond your ken. You are only a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Surely,” said he, “you are not only aware of your beauty, but you must be excited by it, happy with it, and proud of it, and love it.”

She thought it well not to respond to his words.

She put her head down.

“And you must, too, begin to suspect what power it might give you over men.”

“I have little power,” she said.

“More than you know,” he said. “But remember this, slave. Ultimately all power is with the master. It is he who holds the whip.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

This, incidentally, is exactly and perfectly true on this world, as I have learned, forgive me, as she has learned.

“And, too,” he said, “you are growing intrigued by, and pleased with, your sexiness.”

“My sexiness, Master?” she asked.

“Do not play your silly Earth games with me,” he said, angrily. “Do not pretend to be stupid. On this world there are two sexes. Here one need not pretend to celebrate androgyny or make it a point to flourish pompous, hypocritical puritanical platitudes. Let those who are now as you once were mouth bromides in their classes and ignore realities under their very noses. The pretense to blindness must ultimately fail in a world where sight persists. To be sure, most people will see what they are told to see. So many people blindfold themselves with words; so few look upon the world as it is, radiant and real, with its own nature. The sight of a woman like you, and thousands like you, will enflame a man. Let those of Earth denounce and castigate straw for burning when it is set afire. Goreans do not. They would find that incomprehensibly stupid. You are very well aware, slave, of your sexiness. Do not feign ignorance. You are well aware that you are beautiful and desirable, that you are, whether this pleases you or not, but I do not doubt but what it pleases you, and well pleases you, excruciatingly sexually stimulatory, that men will see you and want you, that your neck calls for the collar, your flank for the brand, your wrists for slave bracelets, your ankles for the shackles of masters!”

She cried out in terror, and misery, and, shrinking down, covered her breasts with her arms, crossed before her body.

“Palms on thighs,” he said.

Then she was again in position.

As her treatments had progressed she had become aware that she had become of considerable sexual interest to men. She did not think it made much difference, really, whether she had been stabilized at thirty-eight years of age, or twenty-eight, or eighteen. In each of these ages, she knew, she was lovely, and of considerable interest. In each of these ages, she had little doubt that men, thousands of men, would have enjoyed having her before them, rendering slave obeisance. She thought that many men might have preferred her at twenty-eight, the age when she had first met her master, he then a student in one of her courses. On the other hand, most Gorean slave girls, she had gathered, were as though in their early twenties. Most of the older women, she gathered, had been returned to that point and stabilized there. On the other hand, there was also doubtless something to be said for a virginal, dewy, youthful eighteen, not so much perhaps from the point of view of the slave herself, as she would tend to be looked down upon, and be regarded as relatively inconsequential, even by her sister slaves, but from the point of view of masters, who tend to be less exacting, less demanding, in such matters, generously not tending to hold her youthfulness against her, provided, of course, it is lovely and helplessly responsive to their touch, as should be the body of any slave. In any event, it was where her master had chosen to have her stabilized, and so that is exactly where she was stabilized. Perhaps he wished her so, as he had suggested, as a part of his vengeance upon her, that in virtue of her youth she might be rendered negligible, inconsequential, and thus demeaned. In any event, whatever may be the truth in these matters, she found herself by his will made a young slave, one who could be no more than a girl to his man.

“Cease your hysteria, your silliness, you narcissistic little bitch,” he said.

She regarded him, from position, tears in her eyes.

“Women are narcissistic,” he said. “Even on Earth, consider their obsessive concern with their appearance, with their ever-present desire to present themselves attractively before men, their concern with the right make-up, the right jewelry, the right earrings, the correct, fashionable clothing, their concern with their hosiery, their shoes, their concern even with the nature and lovely delicacy of their undergarments. And there is nothing critical affected in this. They should be narcissistic. They are beautiful. They are women. They wish to allure, to be attractive prey to men, the predator sex. The true woman should be pleased with her beauty, proud of it, and desirous of showing it off. My criticism of you, little slave, is not that you are narcissistic, for that, as a female, you should be, but that you are a little bitch.”

“I am sorry, Master,” she whispered.

“Surely you were aware this evening,” he said, “that our guest, Jeffrey, admired you.”

“He had eyes mostly, I thought,” she said, “for his friend.”

Mirus laughed, and she did not understand his laugh.

“But you must have noticed, sometime,” he said, “that he was looking at you.”

“It seemed so, Master,” she said.

Indeed, who could have doubted it?

“He was regarding you with desire, sexual desire, if you can understand that, you stupid little bitch,” he said.

I am not a stupid little bitch, she thought. Have I not seen desire in the eyes of the guards? Does he think I do not know I am a slave, and how slaves are seen by men? Does he think, truly, I am a stupid little bitch? I fear so. But I am not a stupid little bitch. Must I admit everything? Must I be so open? I am from Earth! What does he want? The collar has not been long on my neck!

“Bitch?” said he.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you think you are sexually desirable?” he asked.

“It is not for a slave to say,” she said.

“Do you know you are in a collar?”

“Yes, Master!”

“Speak,” he said.

“It is a slave’s hope that she will be found pleasing to masters,” she said.

“Excellent,” he said.

“Thank you, Master.”

“You are intelligent,” he said, “actually quite intelligent.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Gorean men, she had learned, prize high intelligence in a woman, and seek it in their slaves. The intelligent woman, taken in hand, overwhelmed, subdued and mastered, taught her womanhood, wholly submitted, understanding now what she is, fully, makes an excellent slave. Certainly they sell for more.

Had she claimed she was sexually desirable, she might have been reprimanded for conceit; had she denied it she might as easily have been punished for lying.

“But in many respects,” he said, “you are quite stupid.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you think you are sexually desirable?”

“I do not know, Master!” she sobbed.

“You are,” he said.

“Thank you, Master.”

“As any slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Had his friend not been present, he might have seized your ankle and dragged you under the table.”

“So simply?”

“It was a Gorean feast,” he said. “Surely you do not think that those women of whom we spoke earlier, serving their conquerors naked, simply returned that evening with impunity to their kennels and cells.

She lowered her head.

“They would be seized, ravished, and enjoyed,” he said. “They would be seized by the hair, knelt, wine poured down their throats, spilling over their breasts and bodies, forced to dance drunkenly, put to their bellies, their lips to the feet of men, and ordered to beg for use. Then, huddled together, kept in place with the lash, they might be gambled for. And the evening might then end pleasantly as they, the winnings of men, caressed into supplicatory beasts, thrashed on the carpets and rushes. And then, toward morning, when the fires had burned low, and the room was gray, damp and cold, when those who had won them would be asleep, sated with the repast of pleasures derived from their winnings, their hands tied behind their bodies, their necks roped to the left ankles of their new masters, they might rest. Later, bent over, held in leading position, by groggy, stumbling masters, they would be conducted to their new dispositions. They are the women of a conquered foe. Thus, as prizes, they belong to the victors.”

“Yes, Master,” whispered the slave.

“In a sense,” he said, “as I suggested earlier, it is similar with you.”

“Master?”

“I am the victor here, am I not?” he asked.

“Master?”

“And you were a woman of the enemy?”

“The enemy?”

“Of Earth,” he said, “but in a sense larger than you know.”

“Master?”

“Surely you remember my earlier remarks,” he said, “when I was explaining the lack of attire in a charming waitress.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Your lies, your ideology, your manipulations, your slynesses, your schemings, your trickeries, your agendas, your subversions.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, tears in her eyes.

She wondered if the indoctrinated, servile men of Earth were even worthy to be accounted enemies.

They were so manipulable, and weak.

It was embarrassing for her to think of herself as a woman of them.

But would most not wish weak foes? Only Goreans, she supposed, desired strong foes, perhaps that they might be the better tested, that an ensuing victory might be the more worth winning.

She thought of so many of the men of Earth, such mindlessly herded dupes, taught to deny their blood, hastening sellers of birthrights, so whiningly eager to win a smile from those who despised them for the very weakness they sought to promote in them.

She wondered if it might not be better for such a subverted, betrayed world to perish.

No, she thought. Wait. Mayhap one day it will awaken, rise up, shout, and be reborn. Let it be reborn, she thought. Let it be reborn!

“Have you, woman of the enemy, been defeated?”

“Yes, Master,” she said. The answer to that was obvious, as obvious as the gleaming, snug, obdurate band encircling her throat. What she did not tell him was that she had wished, in her deepest heart, to be defeated.

“So,” said he, “should I have you slain, or kept as a slave?”

“It is my hope,” she said, “to be kept as a slave.”

He looked her over, carefully.

She reddened.

“Perhaps,” he said. “You are well-curved.”

She was silent.

“Those are slave curves,” he said.

“It is my hope,” she said, “that Master will find me pleasing.”

He laughed. “Long ago, on Earth,” he said, “in your classes, in the corridors, in the cafeteria, in your office, on the streets, on the avenues and boulevards, in the library, I suspect you did not anticipate that one day you would kneel before a man and express such a wish.”

“No, Master,” she said. She had not anticipated that. She had, however, longed for it.

He laughed, again, and leaned back in the chair.

“How did you feel, to know that you were the object of Jeffrey’s interest, in that way?”

“Please, Master, have mercy on a new slave!” she begged.

“Speak,” he said.

“It pleased me!” she wept.

“Of course it did,” he snarled, “for you are a slave!”

“Is it true?” she asked. “Did Master Jeffrey desire me?”

“Yes,” he said, angrily.

She looked down.

It pleased her that he was angry. Could he be jealous of another man’s interest in her? Surely she hoped so.

“And you might be sent to him,” he added.

She lifted her head, to regard him with fear.

“Yes,” he said.

She knew more then, in that moment, of what it could be, to be a slave.

It could be done to her.

She was slave.

“May I speak?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Might Master Mirus desire me, as well?” she whispered.

“What?” he asked, disbelievingly.

“Nothing, Master,” she said, quickly.

“You, me?” he asked.

“Forgive me, Master! It is well known, the contempt in which Master holds his slave!”

“Are you now begging, you, with all that you were, now begging as an amorous slave to be used?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said, quickly.

She resolved that she must not let him know the depth of the slave she was.

How could he then respect her?

But how absurd was such a concern!

Dignity, respect, and such, were not for slaves. Did she not know that? One did not respect slaves; one commanded them, worked them, ravished them, perhaps loved them.

She might demand respect from weaklings of Earth; before Gorean men she would kneel, and hope to be found pleasing.

She was in torment.

She must remember she was of Earth!

Did she truly desire the tepidities and formalities of respect, she wondered. Perhaps, rather, she wished something else, say, a radical fullness of life, wished rather fulfillment, wished, rather, to be coveted, prized, and relished, owned.

No, she must insist on respect!

“I think, Ellen,” he said, “that you have not been lashed enough.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Perhaps you think that you may be a saucy slave,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Sometimes,” said he, “a slave girl needs the whip.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It is good for their behavior, and their comprehensions.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are a virgin, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. Surely that was clear from her papers.

“But,” said he, “of the many things that may be done to a female slave, whipping is only one.”

“Oh?” she said.

“You tread a thin line, slave girl,” he said.

“Oh?” she asked.

“You are a bright, pretty little slave,” he said.

The monster, she thought. I was his teacher. To be sure, what am I now, with my eighteen-year-old body, but a bright, pretty, little slave? It is true, true! That is what he has made me!

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Are you prepared to beg to please a man, any man?” he asked.

“I am a slave,” she said. “Surely Master can force me. He can bend me to his will. A mere snapping of the fingers will suffice. I must obey, with all the perfection with which I am capable, and instantly.”

“I am awaiting a response to my question,” he said.

“Is the man my master?” she asked.

“You have heard the question,” he said.

I am of Earth, she thought. I am of Earth!

She decided that this would be the moment to convince him of her value, of her nobility, of her loftiness, of her worthiness, the moment to earn his respect. She must lead him to believe that she was essentially a free woman who unfortunately, inexplicably, astonishingly, found herself in a collar. That way he would doubtless respect her. She now wanted his respect, desperately. She must never let him know that there knelt before him on the rug a woman who in her deepest heart of hearts was a helpless, vulnerable, submissive, craving, begging slave girl.

“Master may of course order me to beg,” she said. “Then I must beg, as I am a slave.”

“Then you would not choose to beg?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” she said, tossing her head.

She was frightened by the sternness of his gaze.

“I may, of course, be subjected to slave rape,” she said, quickly. Indeed, she hoped that he would simply take her and work his will upon her, a will she longed to satisfy. She desired desperately to be taken in hand and put to his purposes, to be ravished by him, uncompromisingly, thoroughly, ruthlessly, as befitted her slaveness, by him, her master.

I love him, she thought.

He brought me here. He must want me. Perhaps he loves me. No, that could not be. But he must like me a little. Oh, I hope that he likes me, if only just a little! Please, Master, like me, if only a little!

Take me, she thought. Take me! I am your slave! You are my Master! We are your slaves, oh Masters. Do you not use us as you wish, ravishing us whenever, and however, it might please you to do so?

Oh, take me, beloved Master, she thought. I am yours! I am ready! Be merciless! Be ruthless! Take me! Take me!

“Perhaps you were curious,” he said, “as to the modalities of discourse required of you at supper this evening,” he said.

“Master?” she said.

Inwardly she reeled, in shock.

She had expected, at any moment, to be thrown back, to feel the rug’s harsh nap on her back, to feel her ankles seized and her legs, he laughing with exultation, spread cruelly, widely.

Why had he not, at least, issued the “Sula!” command? That was one of several commands she had been trained to respond to instantly. Upon hearing this command, the slave immediately assumes a supine position, her hands at her sides, palms up, her legs open.

“You understood very little of what transpired this evening, I would suppose,” he said.

“Yes, Master, very little,” she said.

“These are matters of war,” he said. “Involved are the fates of two planets, Earth and Gor.”

“Master?” she asked.

“You are a slave,” he said. “It is no concern of yours.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“No matter how things turn out you will still be in a collar.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You are of no more account in these things than a pig or a horse.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Perhaps you are curious as to why the room is as it is, and why you were required to use certain forms of address to myself, and our guests, and Tutina, this evening.”

“Certainly, Master,” she said, eagerly.

“Curiosity is not becoming in a slave girl,” he said.

“Please, Master!” she begged.

“You silken little beast,” he said.

“Please, Master!”

“You are all the same,” he said. “The room was to reassure, and comfort, our fair guest, whose name is to be ‘Evelyn’.”

“Whose name is to be ‘Evelyn’?” she asked.

“Too, in a way, it is to put her off guard, psychologically, of course, for there is no way she could guard herself now, at this point, in any practical fashion.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“In its way, too, it is a joke on Jeffrey’s part, for he has had to put up with her for several months, rather on her terms. His role, I fear, has been rather an embarrassing, frustrating one, much like that in which many Earth males spend their lives, but he is patient, and knew that his patience would be eventually rewarded.”

“I understand nothing of this, Master,” she said.

“Surely you noticed that she was strikingly beautiful?”

“Yes, Master.” There was no gainsaying that.

“And quite bright?”

The slave nodded.

“But perhaps a bit bitchy,” he said.

“Master?” she asked.

“The whip can take that out of a woman,” he said.

“The whip?”

“The Kurii, in whose service I labor,” he said, “tend to be quite tolerant of the interests and dispositions of their human agents.”

“The Kurii are not human?” she asked.

“I gather not,” he said, thoughtfully. “To be sure, I am not clear on the matter. I have never met one in person. At least to this time. That may change in the future. I do not know.” He then returned his attention lightly to Ellen, who knelt before him, his stripped chattel. “In any event, they allow their human agents a considerable amount of latitude in their work, at least in matters in which they feel it unimportant to involve themselves. As a result we, and those akin to us, tend to seek out, and recruit, as female agents women who are on the whole unusually beautiful and desirable. It pleases us to work with such. To be sure, with the developments in the serums over the last few years, our options have been multiplied. For example, if, through photographs, or such, we can determine that a woman was once beautiful and desirable, she may still be of considerable interest to us, for we may always return her to her former youth and beauty. One might add, as well, that while beauty is of great importance, desirability is not always linked with beauty. For example, some women, for no reason that is fully clear to us, are not beautiful, but are extremely desirable. Just to look at them is to want them naked at your slave ring. And desirability is surely most important. On the other hand, if one can conjoin such desirability with remarkable beauty, then that is so much the better for the markets.”

“For the markets?”

“Yes.”

“Are you not speaking strangely of Mistress Evelyn, Master?” she asked.

“The female agents, who are commonly egotistical, petty, vain, self-seeking and mercenary, need not be informed of their eventual disposition. They will discover it in good time.”

“Master?”

“The female agents, thus, do not really consume our resources, so much as, in the end, add to them. You seem frightened. You seem dismayed. She whom you referred to judiciously as Mistress Evelyn, you must understand, has served her purpose. No longer do we need her. She was exceedingly helpful, particularly because of her connections, her many affiliations, in the worlds of society, business and finance. But we have now absorbed, and profited from, and will continue to profit from, those connections and affiliations. She is no longer needed. Too, Jeffrey wanted her.”

“You are betraying her?”

“Not really,” he said. “It is merely that the entire arrangement was never fully explained to her.”

“But the gold, the diamonds!” she said.

“We kept our word,” he said. “She was paid for her work.”

“She will soon with her treasures then be returned to Earth?”

“Sometimes I think that you are very stupid, Ellen.”

“Forgive me, Master.”

“The gold and diamonds were hers,” he said. “That is true. That was our part of the bargain.”

“I understand so little of this,” said Ellen.

“Surely you recall that he whom you judiciously refer to as Master Jeffrey, you see, you are learning, Ellen, informed our fair guest that, on the way to her chamber, that in which she would spend the night, there was another chamber which he would like to show her.”

“Yes,” she said, uncertainly.

“And she will indeed be shown that chamber.”

“And what manner of chamber might that be, Master?”

“It is, of course, a slaving chamber,” he said. “There our fair guest will be stripped, fingerprinted and toeprinted, measured with care, and papers prepared on her. She will then be branded and collared, following which the final certifications will be placed on the papers. She will then be taken in chains to the chamber where she will spend the night, a cell. The gold will be waiting in the cell, all the twenty double-weight ingots of it, carefully stacked. Too, after she has been chained to the wall, she may notice that, dangling from the ceiling, before her, just out of her reach, is the sack of diamonds We do not want her to be able to reach them lest she should attempt something foolish, such as trying to hide some of them in her body. It will be soon enough tomorrow for her to learn that she belongs to Jeffrey.”

“How could you do this to her?” she asked.

“I do not understand the difficulty,” he said.

“Master!” protested the slave.

“It is appropriate for her,” he said. “She is a female. All females should be slaves.”

“Yes Master,” moaned the slave.

“It is right for them.”

“Yes, Master,” said the slave.

She shuddered, kneeling naked before him, in his collar. She knew that she was a slave, in the deepest heart and belly of her. But could what was so obviously right for her, so obviously true of her, she wondered, be right, or true, for all women? Already, in her heart, she had begun to fear free women. They must be so proud, so wondrous, so lofty and formidable, she thought. But then she wondered if they could, truly, be so different from she. Did they not bear in every cell in their bodies, those billions of cells, the same genetic heritage, going back to thongs and caves? She suspected that perhaps they were not so different from her, really. Would they be so different from me, she wondered, if they were, too, as I, on their knees, naked and collared, owned, before an uncompromising, powerful, virile master.

“Did you see how pleased she was to learn that certain selected female rivals, enemies, and such, women she had listed, had been abducted, brought to this world and embonded?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Now she is simply following them in her turn.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. She could well imagine the horror, the dismay, the consternation, which might be felt by the fair guest when her disposition, what men had decided for her, was made clear to her. How her misery would mingle with the viselike grasp of the opened, then closed, spun shut, tightened, then locked-closed branding rack on her thigh, the meticulous, brief, carefully controlled, searing fury of the marking iron, the futile pulling at the light, attractive bracelets that held her hands confined so perfectly behind her, and the sudden awareness of the clasp of a metal band snapped shut, locked, about her neck!

“But you promised her the gold, the diamonds,” said the slave.

“And, for a time,” said he, “she possessed them. To be sure, now, she does not, for a slave owns nothing. Rather it is she, herself, who is owned. She does not even own her collar, or the pans on the floor from which, tomorrow, we will have her eat and drink.”

The slave nodded.

“Certainly you see that she would make a beautiful and desirable slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. There was no doubt about that. The fair guest would make a most beautiful and desirable slave, a luscious bit of collar-meat, a veritable prize of flesh-loot. She would doubtless attract much attention in a public cage.

“So all is in order,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Who knows?” said he. “Perhaps, in time, Evelyn, for that is the name Jeffrey has selected for her, and she will learn her name tomorrow, that will be soon enough, may eventually serve naked in this room, as you did this evening.”

“Yes, Master,” whispered the slave.

“And now, Ellen,” said he, “do you beg to serve the pleasure of a man, any man?”

She determined to convince him of her worthiness, that he would respect her, that she was worthy of attention, of consideration, perhaps even of love, that there was a great deal more to her than he might be aware of, that she was not merely a small, well-curved, owned, despised little animal which must squirm helplessly in rapture, writhing within the chains of a master.

“What do you think I am?” she asked.

“I know what you are,” he said. “What is your response to my question?”

“Certainly not,” she said.

“Very well,” he said. “Return to your cage.”

“Master?” she cried, in dismay.

But with a small gesture he dismissed her.

She leaped up and, in consternation, hurried to her cage.