Prize of Gor

Chapter 12 SHE DECIDES TO BEG

She feared her hands and arms might be ruined forever, from the heat, the suds and water. How reddened, how rough, how wrinkled, they seemed to be. How could a master care for them? She and the other girls, you see, in this terrible place, were not permitted lotions. How hard and rough were her hands. How hard and rough they might be on his body, not soft, silken, as should be the hands of a slave. Would a master not recoil from contact with such hands? Surely we should have at least lotions, she thought. That is not so much. Are we not slaves? Surely the touch of a slave should be as soft as the timid pressing of her lips on the master’s chest or thigh, as gentle, as stimulating, as caressing as the flow of scented slave silk drawn across his belly, as piteously sweet as a tender whisper in the night, at his feet, from the slave ring, begging for his touch.

Suddenly she cried out in pain, for the whip had struck her back.

She wept, and plunged her arms down again, to the elbows, into the hot water. Though she was still within the house the laundering went clearly beyond what might be the needs of the guards, trainers, servants and slaves. She had little doubt, as the gigantic bundles, bulging with tunics, blankets, himations, veils, shawls, robes and scarves, were brought in that most of the work had its origins on the outside.

Most of the slaves at the tubs were naked, save for their collars. She, too, was naked, except for one device, other than her collar, which had been locked upon her.

She knelt on her mat, beside her tub.

She was a slave laundress.

She could not leave her mat without permission. Too, at the command “Mat!” she and the others must scurry to their mats and kneel upon them. Failure to do this promptly was cause for discipline. She had seen two of the girls tied to rings and lashed. She herself had always gone quickly, obediently, to her mat.

She lifted the garment she was washing, dripping and hot, from the suds. It was a garment doubtless of a free woman. The material was of high quality, and so the woman must be of reasonable station, if not of high caste. She herself did not even know how to put on such a garment, how to drape it, and such. Such women, she supposed, were above menial chores. They would not, for example, do their own laundry. High-caste women, in general, or those of the Merchants, she supposed, would not do their own laundry either, but they might have a slave, or slaves, in their own domiciles to attend to such work. Perhaps this woman had fallen on hard times and had had to sell a slave, and must now send her robes and veils to a commercial laundry. But perhaps she lived alone and thus chose to have the work sent out. Certainly the work came back well-aired, clean-smelling, bright with sunlight, pressed and folded. Ellen, sweating, almost fainting with the heat, the hot, dripping garment in her hands, knelt back for a moment, and, in the hot, moist, close, steaming atmosphere of the low-ceilinged room, gasped for breath. The cost of the laundry work, she conjectured, would be minimal, even negligible, to the laundry’s patrons, particularly given its volume. Certainly on such as she the laundry lost little money. She, like the others, was fed on slave gruel and, on all fours, must drink from a pan on the floor.

“Do you dally in your work, little Ellen?” asked a voice.

“No, Master! No, Master!” she cried, and returned the garment to the tub, frenziedly rubbing its folds together.

She had seen the shadow of the legs of Gart, the work-master, on the side of her tub, and the shadow of his whip.

He was a short, gross, blocklike man with a massive bared chest and heavy legs. He wore a half tunic, and bootlike sandals. He had often had her kiss his feet.

She put the back of her hand to her forehead. She gasped, and moaned. She was afraid she might pass out, from the heat, the steam. Her body was soaked with sweat. She could not see it, for there were no mirrors in the laundry, but she supposed that her face, as that of many of the other girls, particularly the fair-complexioned ones, such as she, was red, blotched with red, grossly mottled with red patches, irregular patches painfully, roaringly scarlet, from the heat, from the closeness of the laundry, the oppressive, tropical atmosphere of the cemented, low-ceilinged room.

I do not want to faint, she thought.

I must not faint.

I might be beaten.

A girl who had fainted at her tub was commonly lashed back to consciousness, recalled by the impatient, implacable leather to her labors.

She lifted the garment a bit again from the water.

It was the garment of a free woman. How different it was from the small tunics, the camisks, common and Turian, the scandalous ta-teeras, or slave rags, the slave strips, little more than a shred of cloth and a string, so frequently allotted to slaves, assuming that they were permitted clothing.

She herself did not even know how to wear the garment of a free woman.

One of the girls had, two weeks ago, stood and held such a garment before her, posing, in play. “See!” she had called. “Look here! I am a free woman!” We had laughed in relief, at the delight and farcicality of this, but, unfortunately, Gart, unbeknownst to us, had returned. “We shall see if you are free!” he had roared. “No, no, Master, please, no, Master!” she had cried. “Mat!” had cried Gart, and we all fled to our mats. He then took the slave by the hair and drew her sobbing, and crying out, beneath the high ring. In a moment she was on her tip toes, extended painfully, her wrists crossed and bound, tied to the ring. “It was a joke, Master!” she cried. “Have mercy! Have mercy!” “It is not for kajirae to make sport of free women!” he told her. “Never forget that they are a thousand times, an infinite amount of times, your superiors! Now we will see how the joke turns out.” “Mercy, Master!” she pleaded. “Beg the whip to forgive you,” he suggested. “Perhaps the whip will be merciful.” “Oh, dear whip!” she cried. “Please forgive me, dear whip! It was a joke! Be merciful, dear whip! Please forgive me, dear whip!” “What a stupid girl you are,” said Gart. “Do you not know that a whip cannot hear you, that it has no ears?” And he then put the leather to her, and not pleasantly. She spun in her bonds, weeping, lashed. When he had finished he released her and she fell to his feet. “You may now thank me for your beating,” he informed her. She licked and kissed his feet. “Thank you for beating me, Master,” she said.

Gart had then had her crawl back to her tub.

Ellen did not want to be beaten.

She feared that if she fainted she might be beaten.

Surreptitiously Ellen viewed the garment of the free woman. She hoped she had not been too rough with it, in her fear of Gart. It must, above all, not be rent. Even a tiny tear at a seam, she knew, could earn her a beating, but a real beating, not just the two or three strokes that might awaken a girl from a faint.

She heard a girl crying out, a few tubs from her, and, looking over, she saw blond, blue-eyed Nelsa flung on her belly over the water, she gripping the sides of the tub, desperately, to keep from falling into the water. Behind her, Gart had lifted and spread her legs. Ellen shuddered, and looked away.

Ellen was thankful for the device she wore, though sometimes she felt like crying out in misery, because of discomfort, its weight and heat.

She had seen her master only once since the evening in the special room, that so like a room on Earth, in which she had suitably, properly served a lovely supper, stripped.

It had been the morning following that supper, when he had come to her cage, released her, and had her stand, bent forward, gripping the roof of the cage, her back to him, her legs widely spread.

He had been carrying an object whose nature was not immediately clear to her.

Facing away from him, her legs widely spread, she had become aware of him reaching in front of her, and then of two circular, hinged, straplike bands being put about her waist, and then being brought together, front to back, behind her. Another piece of the apparatus dangled before her, but it was, in a moment, on its hinge, drawn up between her legs. She felt the object being jerked about, and, with two hands, being adjusted on her. These three parts of the apparatus were then fitted together, the two side straps over a staple welded to the central portion of the device which had been lifted up between her legs and was now at the small of her back. She then felt the bolt of a heavy padlock thrust through the staple and snapped shut, this holding the pieces of the apparatus together, at the small of her back. When she moved she was conscious of the padlock, its weight, and how it moved, against the three parts it secured in place. Again the object was moved about, and adjusted, with two hands, on her body.

“A good fit,” said a guard.

“Yes,” had said her master.

“Master?” she had asked.

“You have not been given permission to speak,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she had said.

Because of the narrowness of her waist, and the natural flare of her hips, she could not hope to elude the device.

She wore the iron belt.

“Send her to the laundry,” had said her master.

****

When she had been presented to Gart, and performed obeisance before him, had kissed his feet and had begged to be permitted to serve in the laundry, he had growled in rage, regarding her. He had thrown her to her side and examined, in detail, the device she wore.

“What is this?” he had snarled.

The guard had merely shrugged.

Ellen, lying frightened on her side, locked in the device, at his feet, had no delusions with respect to the work-master’s displeasure.

A glance at the room, as soon as she had entered, she almost suddenly overcome, almost suddenly fainting, from the heat and the steam, had shown her, almost as through a hot fog, that there were several girls in the room, that they were naked, that many were apparently lovely, and that all were kneeling, sweating, their hair streaming down, limp, working at tubs.

Ellen had been struck with horror at this environment. Then she had knelt down, performing obeisance.

“How am I to tub this one?” asked the work-master.

“Tub the others,” suggested the guard.

“A virgin?” asked the work-master, incredulously.

“I think so,” said the guard. “As you can see, she is quite young, little more than a girl.”

“Kneel up,” ordered the work-master.

Ellen assumed position.

“I do not like virgins,” the work-master informed her.

Then Ellen cried out, cuffed, struck to the side. She could not maintain her balance, but fell to her right side. She could taste blood in her mouth, from her lip.

“To my feet,” said the work-master. “Beg my forgiveness for being a virgin.”

Ellen went to her belly before him, her lips over his feet. “Forgive me for being a virgin, Master,” she said. “Please forgive me for being a virgin!” Then, fearfully, terrified before this man, she kissed his feet.

He stepped back then, angry, but mollified.

“We will get her a mat and put her to a tub,” he said.

****

Ellen drew back, suddenly, crying out, for a stream of hot water, poured from a ewer, streamed into her tub, almost scalding her.

“Please, Mistress!” protested Ellen. She was the least in the laundry, because of the youth of her body, and that she was newest at the tubs. Accordingly, she must address her sister laundresses with such respect, though they, too, were but slaves.

“Why did you look when Gart put me to his pleasure?” demanded Nelsa.

“I looked away, Mistress!” cried Ellen.

“Not soon enough!” said Nelsa. “Do you think I like being put to the pleasure of such a brute?”

“Perhaps, Mistress,” said Ellen. “Surely I have seen you wriggle well, lifted at the tub, his arms about your legs.” Nelsa was certainly one of Gart’s favorites.

“I hate him!” said Nelsa.

“Is that why you whimper, moan and cry out as you do?” asked Ellen.

“I cannot help it if he masters me,” said Nelsa, angrily.

“Then you must be a slave,” said Ellen. “No!” cried Ellen.

Nelsa had lifted the ewer of boiling water.

“Stay on your mat!” said Nelsa.

“Please, no, Mistress!” cried Ellen.

“You will not be so pretty when you are a mass of scar tissue!” snarled Nelsa. “Stay on your mat!”

“Please, no, Mistress!” cried Ellen.

“Do not be stupid, Nelsa,” said a shapely redhead, kneeling at a nearby tub. “Let the child alone!”

“Do your work,” snapped Nelsa.

“If you damage her you will be boiled alive,” said the redhead.

“Look,” said Nelsa. “She has moved part way from her mat. Gart must hear of this!”

Ellen scrambled back, that she might be on her mat, fully. For once she wished that Gart was in the room. She looked upward, apprehensively, at the poised ewer.

Then Nelsa lowered the ewer.

“You think you are so special, little she-urt,” said Nelsa to Ellen, “because you are belted! Well, there are many ways in which a slave can give pleasure to a man. And you are not in lock-gag!”

Ellen did not know what an urt was.

There are several varieties of lock-gags. One common variety consists of a short, leather-sheathed metal chain which, at its center, passes through a heavy ball-like packing. The packing is thrust back in the slave’s mouth, over the tongue, filling the oral orifice, making it impossible for her to do more than moan or whimper. The two ends of the short chain are then drawn back, tightly, back between the teeth, this holding the packing in place. The ends of the chain are then taken back about the sides of the neck and brought together behind the back of the neck where they are fastened together with a small padlock. The gag’s dislodgment must then, since it is locked on the slave, await the master’s pleasure. Another common variety of lock-gag involves a pair of narrow, rounded, curved, hinged rods, the hinge embedded in a heavy, leather, ball-like packing. This packing, as before, is inserted into the slave’s mouth and thrust back, over the tongue, denying her any capacity to speak. The rods, which are back, between the teeth, holding the packing in place, curve back about the sides of the face and meet behind the back of the neck, where the ends may lock together, or, if a padlock is used, be locked together. An advantage of a lock-gag is, of course, that the slave, while totally unable to speak, may yet attend to whatever other duties her master may set her. To be sure, a simple tie gag, which the slave is forbidden to remove, has the same effect. Too, of course, her mouth may be simply taped shut. Similarly, more mercifully, and at greater convenience to the master, she may be “gagged by the master’s will.” In that case she is simply forbidden to speak, save perhaps for moans and whimpers. She may, of course, speak later, once she has received permission to do so. If the slave is in lock-gag, one understands, there are certain pleasures she is unable to give the master. Doubtless it was with respect to these pleasures that the remark of Nelsa had reference.

“I do not think that master would approve,” whispered Ellen, frightened.

She would have loved to have pleased her master in this intimate fashion, and had dreamed of begging to do so, but Gart, or another, would surely be a different matter.

Giving the master such pleasures, and many others, is fitting for a slave.

“So you think I wriggle well?” said Nelsa.

“It seemed so to me, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“And how do you wriggle, little belted pudding?”

“I have never wriggled, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“Men can teach you to wriggle,” said Nelsa.

Ellen put down her head.

“So you think I am a slave?” asked Nelsa.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen, shyly.

“Do you think I can help how I now am?” asked Nelsa.

“I am sure I do not know, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“Do you not understand, you stupid little virgin, how men can enflame a woman, can make her helpless, can make her crave their least touch?”

“Perhaps if she is a slave,” said Ellen.

Nelsa’s hands tightened on the handle of the ewer.

“Do not hurt her,” said the redhead.

“She was off her mat,” said Nelsa. “I will tell!”

“You, too, have been off your mat when Gart was not in the room,” said the redhead. “And if you tell, we, too, can tell!”

There was assent to this from several of the slaves at the tubs.

One was an auburn-haired beauty who claimed to have once served the pleasure of Chenbar of Kasra, Chenbar the Sea-Sleen, Ubar of Tyros. More likely, some said, she had served in a prison on Tyros, and had been periodically cast to the prisoners, and handed about, amongst them, to reduce their unruliness. Ellen supposed both stories might be true. Perhaps the woman, who was very beautiful, had once served in the pleasure gardens of Chenbar, but had then in some small way displeased him, or perhaps he had merely tired of her. Later, as others might replace her in her prison duties, she might be sold on the mainland, and thence south. Another was a lovely slave of mixed blood, whose eyes bore the epicanthic fold. Another was a black woman with a chain collar and disk. It was said she had already been spoken for by a black merchant. Two others were sisters from a city called Venna, taken when returning from a pilgrimage to the Sardar Mountains. They would presumably be separated in the markets.

“You, too, will learn to beg and scratch, little tasta,” said Nelsa to Ellen.

Ellen did not know what a tasta was. Later she learned that it was a confection, a small, soft candy mounted on a stick.

Ellen pulled back, suddenly, softly crying out, shielding her face as Nelsa, in a sudden, plunging stream, too close to her, water splashing and hissing, emptied the ewer into the tub.

“Get to work, slave,” sneered Nelsa.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen. Then she cried out with pain. “It is too hot, Mistress,” she said. “I can not put my hands in the water!”

Nelsa had turned away.

Another slave, an exotic, bred for stripes, put more laundry beside her.

Ellen looked up in misery. There was so much!

She shrank down beside her tub, on her mat. She wished it was night so that she might be alone in her bin, with her blanket.

She supposed that women of low caste must do their own laundry.

Why had her master put her here, in this terrible place, she wondered. Perhaps she was being punished, but for what? Had she been put here for instructional purposes, that she might better understand her bondage? Why did he hate her so? Or did he hate her? Or could there be another reason? I must be special to him, somehow, she thought, that he has done this to me. Then she thought, fearfully, but perhaps I am not special to him, at all. Perhaps he does not even think of me. Perhaps I am here because I am not special at all. Perhaps I am to him only another meaningless slave. No, she said, I am here because it amuses him to put me here, his former teacher, one he perhaps found, to his irritation, troublesomely, even disturbingly attractive, to put me here in this terrible place, here in the laundry, miserable, sweating, no more than a naked work-slave, set to the meanest and lowest of duties. But he brought me to this world, she thought. He remembered me. I think he wants me! Yes she thought, wants, as a man wants a woman, or rather, she thought, thrilled, as a master wants a slave. Oh, I hope so, I hope so! I love him so! He is my master! She lay on her side, on the mat, beside the tub. She felt the heavy device locked on her body. She lightly traced with her finger the narrow curved plate between her legs, with its curved, long, slender, saw-toothed opening. The saw-toothed edges were sharp. Twice, in cleaning herself, she had cut herself. Then she had learned to go above and behind the edges, pulling the belt down and away a little. This can be managed by pulling it down an inch or so at the waist, but then, of course, it can go only so far, being stopped by the width of the hips, which she had, more than once, abraded. He put the belt on me, she thought, happily. Oh, I hate it, for its weight, its clumsiness, its bulkiness, its embarrassment, its inconvenience, but does it not show that I am special to him? Is he not keeping my virginity for himself? Or, to use the vulgar Gorean expression, at least as applied to slaves, does he not wish to be the first to open me?

At this point she pauses briefly in the narrative.

The saying is given more fully, commonly, as “open for the uses of men.” She adds this, it occurring to her that some who read this might feel that she was overly delicate, or insufficiently explicit or informative, at this point. She fears she might be chided for a lack of candor, and perhaps with the leather.

She was glad Gart was not in the room.

There was much laundry beside her tub, but he would have no way of knowing, upon his return, that it had not been just placed there.

Surely Kiri, the exotic, would not volunteer this information. If explicitly questioned, of course, she must, kneeling, head to the floor, tell the truth.

She wished that it was night and that she was in her cement bin. It was so much cooler there. The blanket gave her some protection from the cement. The bins had no gates or ceilings. Their walls were about four feet high, but one could not see over them once one had been chained by the neck to the ring at the back. The chain was about two feet in length. One could do little more than rise to one’s knees, perform obeisance, and such things. The girls were forbidden to speak to one another when in their bins. This rule tended to be scrupulously kept, for it was difficult to tell, chained low as one was, when a guard might be in the vicinity, behind the bins. One would dread, looking up and back, seeing the sight of his upper body and angry frown suddenly appearing, looming, over the back wall of one’s bin. Soon he would appear in front of the bins, with his whip, and the errant slaves, to their dismay, their pleas for mercy unheeded, would be appropriately admonished. In the laundry Gart was more tolerant, though he did not encourage frivolous discourse. When he was absent, of course, the frenzy of work slowed and the buds of conversation, warily, timidly, began to open.

She thought again of the garments of the free woman. She did not even know how to arrange such garments on her body. Too, she had no footwear. Too, there was no place to hide such garments, the tubs being turned and emptied at night. Too, such garments were counted, and would be soon missed.

Although Ellen had never been outside the house she understood that there was no escape for the Gorean slave girl, even outside. There was the brand, the collar, the garmenture. More importantly, there was no place to go, no place to hide, no place to run. The legal rights of the masters were everywhere acknowledged, respected and enforced. At their back was the full power of custom, tradition and law. The most that a girl might hope for would be a change of masters. If she managed to elude one master, and were not, when captured, returned to him, perhaps for mutilation and hamstringing, she would soon find herself in the power of another, and doubtless one far less likely than the first to treat her with trust and lenience, to mistakenly indulge her with abusable privileges. It is not pleasant to wear close shackles or a double-padlocked six-inch chain joining one’s ankles. The Gorean slave girl has no way to free herself or earn her freedom. She is simply and categorically slave. Her freedom, if she is to be accorded freedom, is always in the hands of another. Too, there is a Gorean saying that only a fool frees a slave girl.

Ellen thought, again, of the garment of the free woman.

She shuddered.

Even to put on such a garment, she knew, could be a capital offense for such as she.

No, Ellen did not think of freedom, for she knew that on this world that was not possible for her.

But more significantly she knew herself slave.

It was what she was, and wanted to be. It was right for her.

Too, for many years she had been free. Certainly she knew, and understood, and had enjoyed all that that condition could possibly bestow upon anyone. There was nothing in that condition which was unknown to her, or unfamiliar to her. Freedom, in itself, while undeniably precious, and doubtless a value, and doubtless appropriate for males, whom she now understood, having met true men, were the natural masters of women, tended, in itself, to be an abstraction, a possibility, an emptiness, in its way. It might be no more than a rootless boredom, in itself an invitation to nothing. Certainly those on her former world who most shamelessly exploited the rhetoric of freedom did not lack freedom, but rather wanted to use such rhetorics, and allied pressures and subterfuges, in order to have goods, unfair advantages, special privileges, and such, given to them, such as economic resources, prestige, and power. Their test for freedom was the receipt of ever-greater amounts of politically engineered unearned benefits. She had been free, and had not been fulfilled, or happy. Now, as a female slave, she suspected that her true fulfillment, her true happiness, might lie in a totally different, unexpected direction. The question, you see, was one of simple, empirical fact. Its solution was not essentially a consequence of a particular conditioning program, one of a possibly infinite number of such, or the inevitable result of some supposedly self-evident, axiomatic proposition, or some supposedly a priori theory, but of the world, the nature of things, of simple, empirical fact. Perhaps freedom was not the ideal for everyone. Was that so impossible to conceive of? Perhaps people, perhaps the sexes, were really different. Certainly they seemed very different. One had to struggle not to see that. What if what might be best for one was not truly the best for the other? What was best for one, it seems, might depend, really, not on politics and conditioning, not on cultural accidents and the idiosyncrasies of an ephemeral historical situation, but on other things, say, nature, truth, fact, such things. Perhaps human beings had a nature, like other species. If so, what was her nature? Presumably, whatever it was, it would be a fact about her. She did recognize, of course, that freedom was not an absolute, and that even the most free, so to speak, were subject to countless limitations. At best, freedom was relative, even for the free. But these considerations were not germane to what concerned her most. She had been free. She knew what it was like. She had tried it, and found it wanting. She had been free, and had been free and lonely, free and unwanted, free and unnoticed, free and undesired, free and terribly miserable. Something within her had begged to belong, actually, to be overwhelmed and owned, something within her had cried out to love and serve, totally and helplessly, to give herself unreservedly, totally and helplessly to another. But her world had denied that freedom to her. It had denied the cry of her deepest heart. It had told her, rather, not to listen to her heart, but to deny it, told her, rather, to be different, and mannish. One freedom had been denied to her, the freedom not to be free. That freedom had been denied to her. Freedom had been imposed upon her, socially, legally. She could not have given up her freedom even if she had wished to do so. Freedom was doubtless precious. But, so, too, she thought, was love. And she did not desire the tepidities which might exist between contractual partners. The notion of a democracy of two was absurd. One might pretend that absolute equality could be imposed upon absolute unequals, but it could never be more than a pretense. That myth would have to be hedged about with so many conventions, sanctions, rules and laws as to be a biological joke. It is a farce to claim that absolute sameness, for that is what equality means, could be imposed rationally on creatures as unlike as a man and a woman. To speak as though absolute equality, save doubtless in merit, or value, each marvelous in their own very different way, could exist between absolute unequals, things as diverse as a male and a female, was at best an idle social ritual, and, at worst, a pathological lie which, if taken seriously, if acted upon, would have, by its deleterious effects on the gene pool, wide-spread, devastating consequences for the inclusive fitness of a species. But such far-flung considerations were far from Ellen’s thoughts at the time. She did know enough sociology, and enough history, to know, though she would not have dared to mention it in her classes, that human happiness, statistically, bears no essential relationship to freedom whatsoever, but is rather a function of doing what one feels like doing, with the reinforcement and support of social expectations. Ellen wondered if she were a terrible woman, because she wanted love, because she wanted to serve, wholly and helplessly, because she was eager to be devoted and dutiful, because she wanted to make a man happy, to please a master, because she wanted to literally be his, to be owned by him, to be his complete property, to belong to him, in every way. She wondered if it were such a terrible thing, to desire to surrender herself inextricably, wholly to love. In her heart, it seemed, there had begun to burn, even then, in a small way, small at first, like a tiny glowing flame, not fully understood, the longing to know the deepest and most profound of loves, the most complete of loves, the most helpless and self-surrendering of all loves, a slave’s love.

And, too, even in the iron belt, she had begun to sense what might be the nature of a slave’s passion.

She wondered if she, too, as Nelsa had put it, would learn to beg and scratch. To her terror, she feared she might.

She squirmed a little in the belt. It seemed heavy on her. And yet how vulnerable she would feel, as she was, naked and collared, without it.

I must not let myself be a wicked woman, she thought. No, no, she thought. I cannot mean exactly that. She had long ago abandoned, at least in her official views, the acknowledgedly obsolescent category of “wicked,” with its suppressive, grotesque historical antecedents, but, on the other hand, it was difficult for her to clear her mind of the fumes, the noxious residue, of the past, particularly as these residues had been carefully encouraged, propagated, utilized and exploited by ideologues to advance their own political projects. And such was the victim, she, of years of lingeringly puritanical enculturation. And thus, so to speak, are the sins of the fathers, and of the mothers, visited upon succeeding generations.

To be sure, already on Gor, perhaps because of the air, or the water, or the simple, decent, nourishing food, or perhaps, primarily, because of the simple differences in this world, so fresh, natural and innocent, the immersion in a different culture, so very different from her own, with its different values and ethos, she had begun to suspect the existence of psychological freedoms and possibilities, of opennesses, which would have been forever beyond her ken on her former world.

But she was still, in many ways, a creature of that strange world.

I must keep myself above sex, she thought. I must not let myself become sexually aroused. I must never let myself become like Nelsa. I have seen her in Gart’s grasp. How terrible that would be if I should become like that! How terrible that would be if I should become sexually helpless in a man’s arms! I must never let myself become like that. I must never beg and scratch!

But, she thought, squirming in the belt, beside the tub, I am a slave girl! Passion will be required of me. I must yield, and wholly. If I am displeasing, I will doubtless be beaten, or slain. They will give me no choice! I must not keep myself above sex. It will not be permitted. I must let myself become sexually aroused. It will be required of me! I must become like Nelsa! I must become such that I am helpless in a man’s arms. Then, when they have made me such, when they have triggered and ignited my needs and, by their decision, and perhaps to their amusement, made me the helpless victim of them, those profound, terrible, wonderful, overwhelming, irresistible, ecstatic needs, when I must weep, and go half mad with desire, then perhaps I, too, will beg and scratch.

Could I, Ellen, learn to beg and scratch, she wondered.

Yes, she thought. I dimly sense that I, too, might learn to beg and scratch.

She lay beside her tub, thrilled, considering the sexual freedom of the Gorean slave girl. She felt a twinge of regret for free women. How unfortunate they are, she thought. How they must envy us, she thought. It is no wonder that they hate us as they do, or as I have been told they do.

She fingered her collar. How strange, she thought. I am naked, and in a collar, and yet I feel so free! I sense that I may be the freest and happiest, the most liberated, of all women. But then she shuddered, recalling that she was a slave, and subject to the whip and chains. She was an animal. She must obey. She could be bought and sold. It is strange, she thought. I seem to be the most free, and the least free, of all women.

She suddenly heard a small knock at the side of the tub. “Gart,” whispered Laura, the redhead.

Quickly Ellen scrambled up and thrust her hands into the soapy water. It was hot but she could now keep her hands and forearms submerged. She seized, and began to rub and work, the clothes in the tub.

She did not look up, but wished to seem intent on her work. All about her, too, she could sense the slaves return to their tasks. Ellen was pleased that there was no way, apparently, that the girls could be observed when Gart was out of the room.

She sensed him walking about, up and down the aisles, between the tubs. Then he had stopped, a bit behind her and to her left. She kept her head down, laundering, as though unaware of his presence. Then she felt his massive hand in her hair, tight, and he pulled her up to an erect kneeling position. His grip was painful in her hair but, as a slave, she dared not protest. Too, though the grip was painful, she sensed he was not trying to her hurt her, just hold her. It struck her as strange, in a way, that she should be so handled. On Earth, had a man so gripped her, she would have been affrighted and would have resisted; she would have screamed, and struggled, and, in a moment, doubtless a number of good fellows would have rushed to her succor, or surely a policeman, if one were in the vicinity. Here, on the other hand, she must submit uncomplainingly. It could be done to her, and she had no recourse. She was slave. In her training she had learned that slaves could be handled casually, and with assurance, and roughly, and brutally. They could be turned from side to side, flung to their belly, thrown to a wall, forced to assume any number of positions, sometimes their bodies being seized and literally placed, limb by limb, in the desired position, handled with an imperious handling, sometimes conjoined with a sharp word of instruction or admonishment. The slave’s body, for example, does not belong to her. It, like the entirety of her, belongs to the master. She then felt her body, her hair in his grip, his left hand on her left knee, bent backward, until she was helpless before him; the “slave bow,” as the expression is, of her vulnerable, owned beauty thusly exhibited for his attention, or assessment. “Yes,” he said, rather more to himself than to her, or another, “you are pretty.” She was thrilled, but a little frightened, to hear this. Someone must have said something to Gart, perhaps one of the guards, one who might have observed the girls at night, sleeping, chained by the neck, in their bins. Or perhaps one of the kitchen staff, who ladled gruel into the shallow depressions in the bins.

Gart released her and stood up.

Instantly Ellen went to first obeisance position.

“May I speak, Master?” she asked.

There were gasps from the girls about her. But she was not, she was sure, imperiling herself. She had sensed that this was a moment in which an opportunity to speak might be granted to her. Surely Gart seemed to be in a good, if somewhat bemused, mood. Too, a slave girl quickly learns how to use her body, to produce a mood, or to attempt to entice or encourage one, to stimulate, to placate, to lure, to arouse, and so on. To be sure, Ellen supposed that she had not intended to have any particular effect on Gart, at least fully consciously, certainly not, and, indeed, she had been helpless in his grip, had she not, but she realized, even then, even when she was so new to the collar, that the sight of her beauty must have some sort of effect upon men, and she might have, it seems possible, though she was not sure of it, and doubtless would have denied it at the time, and doubtless it did not take place, struggled a little, a tiny bit, pathetically, futilely, gasped plaintively, submissively, looked up, pathetically, permitted her lips to tremble slightly, and, bent back, drew in her gut, and quickly lifted her bosom, thus accentuating the line of the “slave bow.” She heard the auburn-haired slave gasp. Two other slaves laughed. What are they laughing about, Ellen had asked herself, angrily. In any event she had determined to profit from this moment, that won for her through no intent of her own, and despite her complete innocence and modesty, by her beauty. It is not unusual for a slave girl, incidentally, to capitalize upon, utilize and exploit her own beauty, making use of it for her own ends. Indeed, she has little else to use for such purposes. This is, of course, in no sense an admission that Ellen had put her beauty before Gart, that brute, the work-master, he who ruled the laundry and to whom she was fearfully subject, in any way that might have been intended to appeal to him, in any way that manifested her slaveness. How could she have done so? Would it not have been the act of a frightened slave? She was a woman of Earth! To be sure, she had by this time been collared. There are many ambiguities, many opacities, in human experience. So let us suppose that the surmises of her chain sisters were mistaken. Could she then, so long ago, have been such a slave? Surely not!

Forgive me, dear reader!

Forgive me, too, Masters!

I have been instructed to leave the above passage as it is, for purposes of comparison, but now to speak the truth. I must obey. How merciless they are!

Yes, Masters, Ellen put herself before Gart — as a slave! There, it is said!

I dare not lie. The masters will have the truth of me. The free woman may lie. I may not. I am slave. Is this so hard to understand, my terror in these matters, dear reader, that I dare not lie? I assure you that you will understand it, dear reader, and very well, should you one day find yourself in the collar.

The use of their sex, and desirability, to achieve their own ends is, of course, common with women generally, whether bond or free. One supposes, accordingly, in that sense, that all women are prostitutes. And men, it seems, do not object to this. Indeed, it seems to be one of the things they find most charming and endearing about the truly opposite sex. The slave girl, of course, is far less capable of profiting, certainly in a commercial manner, from her prostitute inclinations than is the free woman. The free woman, being free, can sell, barter or trade her beauty for favors or gain. The beauty of the slave girl, on the other hand, like she herself, is owned, and can thus be commanded by the master for his pleasure, at any time, in any way he may desire. Thus, though the slave girl has, like any other woman, her charming, delicious, ingrained, biologically selected-for prostitute tendencies, she is scarcely in a position to use them in order to garner for herself rich gifts, economic privileges, appointment preferences, status, prestige, advancements, power, and such; rather she might hope to have a pastry cast to the floor before her, to win a smile from her master, to be granted the modesty of a slave strip, to be permitted to elude, at least for a time, the whip. But despite sharing with her free sister her charming prostitute tendencies the slave is, in a more serious sense, not a prostitute. The prostitute is a thousand times above the slave. The prostitute is a free woman, and the slave is bond.

“Yes,” said Gart.

Ellen lifted her head a little and threw a glance at Nelsa, who turned white.

“While in the laundry I have seen girls come and go, Master,” she said. “Some stay longer, some less. How long, if I may ask, am I to work here?”

One of the sisters from Venna uttered a small inadvertent noise, one of shock, startled at the boldness of the young slave.

But Gart did not strike the young slave.

“I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps a day, perhaps a week, perhaps a month, perhaps a year, perhaps ten years, perhaps the rest of your life.”

Ellen, head down, moaned.

“Your master is Mirus, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. That information, she was sure, was on her collar.

“Perhaps he has forgotten about you,” said Gart.

“Could you not remind him that I am here, Master?” said Ellen.

“Do not be silly,” said Gart.

“Forgive me, Master,” said Ellen.

Gart made as though to turn away.

“Master!” called Ellen.

“Yes,” he said, turning about.

“If you should see him, tell him that Ellen is ready to beg!”

“What does that mean?”

“He will understand, Master.”

Gart fingered the whip at his belt.

“Please do not make me speak, Master,” pleaded Ellen.

“Is this the standard begging?” asked Gart.

“I do not know what the standard begging is, Master,” said Ellen.

“To please a man, any man,” said Gart.

“Yes, Master,” whispered Ellen, head down.

“And you are now ready to so beg?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then you are not only truly a slave, which is obvious, but you are prepared to acknowledge that you are truly a slave,” said Gart.

“Yes Master,” said Ellen.

Gart removed his hand from the whip.

“If I see him, I will mention it,” said Gart. “But I doubt that it will be of much interest to him.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“Return to your work, slave.”

“Yes, Master.”

Ellen had arrived at a bold plan. That she was in the iron belt must be meaningful, an indication of her master’s interest in her, his solicitude for her, his reserving of her deflowering, or her “opening for the uses of men,” for himself alone. He must want her, as a special slave, perhaps even a preferred slave! He had put her in the laundry, why? He must be waiting for her to respond affirmatively to the question put to her that evening after supper, an affirmative response that would indicate her interest in, and desire for, sexual experience, in and for itself. What could that response mean, other than the fact that one was at last brave enough, courageous enough, to break through the shackles of Earth conditioning, to admit explicitly to oneself and others that one was a sexual creature, a human female with genuinely human female needs. Surely it could mean no more than that. Too, he presumably wanted her before him naked and kneeling, and uttering such a formula, to further humiliate her, to further pursue his program of vengeance upon her. That would give him an opportunity to again subject her to scorn, another opportunity to exhibit his contempt for her, another opportunity to force her to recognize the debasement, the degradation, to which he had brought her. She must, before him, confess herself the lowest of slaves. She must acknowledge freely what she had now become, make clear to herself, and others, her own abjectness. Very well, she thought. So be it! If that is what he wants I shall give it to him, and meaningfully, and freely. I am a slave. Why should I not admit it? Apparently I must stay where I am, in the laundry, as a naked, sweating work-slave, until I do this. I acknowledge that his will is stronger than mine. Of course it is. My will is nothing. It is that of a slave. He is master, I am slave. I do not want to remain another minute in this place. I will do anything he wants, anything to escape the misery of this room, the tubs and the heat! But, she told herself, smiling inwardly, I think this is in the nature of a test. He must like me. Perhaps he loves me! Once I beg to serve a man, any man, he will be satisfied, and then, of course, keep me for himself, for himself alone. I love him so! I want to be his slave and serve him. Even from the first time I saw him, so many years ago, something in me wanted to be his slave!

Later that day Gart was again out of the room.

Nelsa was now working at a nearby tub. The black woman, with the chain collar and disk, who was awaiting her consignment to a black merchant, was now carrying the ewer.

“So the little slave is now ready to beg?” asked Nelsa.

Ellen pretended not to hear.

“Slave,” sneered Nelsa.

“I did not tell on you, for nearly scalding me this morning,” said Ellen. “Perhaps I will do so when Gart returns.”

“Thank you for not telling on me,” said Nelsa, turning white.

“Perhaps I will do so when Gart returns,” said Ellen.

“Please do not do so,” said Nelsa.

“I understand,” said Ellen, “that if I had been damaged, you might have been boiled alive. As I was not damaged, I gather that your actual punishment may be less severe.”

“Please do not tell on me,” pleaded Nelsa.

“I think Gart likes me,” said Ellen.

“Please do not tell on me!” begged Nelsa.

“Please, what?” asked Ellen.

“Please — Mistress,” said Nelsa.

“I shall give the matter thought,” said Ellen, tossing her head.

“Thank you, Mistress,” whispered Nelsa.

“Now, get back to your work, slave,” said Ellen.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Nelsa.

“You are a stupid little slave, Ellen,” said Laura, the redhead.

“I think that Gart likes me,” said Ellen.

“Do not speak his name!” warned one of the sisters from Venna. “You could be beaten. One refers to free men as “Master” and free women as “Mistress,” unless given permission to use their names.”

“And that permission,” said the other sister, “is almost never granted. What free person would want their name soiled by the tongue of a slave? I never let my slaves refer to me by my name.”

“I think that Gart likes me,” said Ellen. “I have never been out of the house. Tomorrow I think will ask him to let me be one of the girls who airs and dries the washing, on the roof.”

“Bold slave!” said Laura.

“I think I can have men do what I want,” said Ellen.

“Beware,” said Laura. “Do not forget you are a slave!”

“Men are the masters,” said one of the sisters from Venna.

“They are the masters,” said the other sister, pleadingly.

“Perhaps,” said Ellen, lightly, tossing her head. “But we shall see, shan’t we?”

“Have no fear but what you will see, you stupid little slave,” said Laura.

“But I am a pretty slave, and a clever slave,” said Ellen.

“You are a pretty slave, yes,” said Laura. “You are a very pretty slave. But you are not a clever slave. You are a stupid slave.”

Ellen smiled, and tossed her head, dismissively.

When Gart returned to the room, the slaves, including Ellen, returned to their work.