Prize of Gor

Chapter 15 SHE BEGS;

What Occurred After She Begged

Ellen was drawn forward a bit, into the room.

Then the guard released her arm, and stepped back.

The room seemed much as before, except that now there was a long, narrow red carpet leading toward the curule chair.

Ellen gasped, and trembled, seeing her master. She stood still, and fought to keep her breath, and to control herself. Her legs felt weak. She feared she might fall. It was he who held all power over her. It was he who owned her.

“The slave, Ellen,” said the guard, from behind her. The instructrices had not entered the room. She did not know if they were waiting outside or not. She supposed they had returned to their cells.

Ellen’s master, Mirus, had apparently been reading a scroll. One portion of the roll was in his left hand, and the other in his right. There were two lamps behind the curule chair, one on each side. To the left of the curule chair was a small table, on which there was a decanter of colored glass. Beside it there was a small glass, also colored, matching the decanter. On the table there was also a whip. The whip, like the chain, is a symbol of the mastery.

Mirus indicated that the slave might approach.

Ellen walked down the long rug, approaching the chair. She walked as a slave. She bit her lip. She saw a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth. But she did not change her walk. She was a slave.

“Stop,” he said.

She was a few feet before the dais.

“Remain standing,” he said. Commonly, when a girl is told to stop, she kneels. That is common when the slave is before a free person.

“Turn, slowly, before me,” he said.

She turned, slowly, before him.

She was in a slave tunic, and her wrists were braceleted behind her. She had been scrubbed, brushed, and combed. She had been perfumed, a slave perfume, of course, one appropriate for her.

“Again,” he said.

Again the slave turned, slowly.

Men, she did not doubt, enjoyed seeing a woman display herself before them, particularly when commanded to do so, and in a particular fashion. Masters are lustful, appraising brutes, and slaves must hope to be found pleasing. Too, she did not doubt but what men enjoyed seeing a woman’s hands braceleted behind her. This bespoke the woman’s helplessness, and how at their mercy she was. Such things appeal well to natural glories, their sense of power and pleasure. And it would be superficial, of course, to overlook the effect of such impediments upon the woman herself, how they, like lipstick or eye shadow, accentuate the dichotomies of nature, call attention to the disparities of a radical sexual dimorphism, and deliciously enforce upon her an almost overwhelmingly welcome sense of her own sex, its desirability, beauty and weakness. It is little wonder that women welcome bonds on their body, collars, tunics, camisks, and such. In them they feel most man’s, and thus most woman. Such things heat their thighs and ready them for the embrace of masters.

This is what they want, to be so desired that they will be made a man’s slave.

Ellen knew she had a sweet figure, and lovely legs. And the tunic, in its brevity, did little to conceal her charms. Too, she knew, she had a lovely, sensitive, expressive face.

Too, she supposed she was intelligent.

Certainly she hoped so.

Gorean men, she had learned, prized intelligence in women. Such women they valued most on their knees before them. There is nothing hard to understand in that. Such women tend to be reflective and introspective, and tend thus to be in closer touch with their needs, desires and emotions than simpler women. They are commonly much aware of their slave, and long for her liberation. Thus, much of the master’s work has already been done, even before they are ankleted and brought to Gor. No wonder they learn the collar quickly. In their dreams they have often worn it. In such women refractoriness is short-lived, particularly as they learn it is not permitted, which is, of course, what they desire. Too, such women are usually lovely and, given the complexity and sophistication of their nervous systems, are easily ignitable, and can shortly be made the prisoners of their passions. It is little wonder then that intelligent women are sought for the collar, and bring good prices in the market. Too, they on their tethers and such, one can talk with them.

I am acceptable as a slave, surely, she thought.

In some respects, at least.

Certainly that had seemed the assessment of the guards.

She hoped Mirus was pleased with her.

“Approach,” he said.

Before the dais, before the chair, she knelt and put her head down to the rug, in obeisance. This lifted her braceleted hands high behind her.

She did not doubt but what this sight, her obeisance, and that of her wrists braceleted high behind her as she knelt, had its effect upon her master, Mirus. Indeed, she did not doubt but what the sight of a woman’s braceleted wrists, either behind her or before her, had its effect on men. She wondered, however, if men realized the effect of her braceleting on the woman herself, its feel and look, how it made her feel helpless, and female, and slave, and desired and beautiful, and ready, and needful. Sometimes the mere thonging or braceleting of a woman, even one hitherto reluctant or inert, is all that is required to release and ignite her slave.

But perhaps men know this, she thought, at least the men of this world, of Gor.

“You are perfumed,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Surely he had specified that.

She kept her head down to the carpet.

“An excellent scent,” he said, “for a slut.”

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

He had doubtless specified the scent, as well. She thought it was a beautiful perfume, but here, on Gor, she had no doubt but what it was common and cheap. It was a slave perfume, as she had been informed, and it was doubtless not an expensive one, but one which might be accorded to low slaves.

Still she had the sense that on her old world it might have been costly.

“Thank you, Master,” she said, keeping her head down.

The guard had followed her, staying a step or two behind her.

“Whip,” said Mirus, taking the implement from the small table to his right.

The slave then rose gracefully to her feet, ascended the dais, and knelt before the chair. There, her hands pinioned behind her, she licked and kissed the whip for several seconds.

Her master then put the whip to the side again, on the small table, and indicated that she might withdraw. She backed down the stairs and then knelt again before the dais, as she had before, in obeisance.

“You are pretty in slave bracelets, Ellen,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“You wear them well,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“You wear them as though you might have been a born slave.”

She was silent.

“But you are a born slave, aren’t you?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “I am a born slave.”

“Now properly embonded?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Remove her bracelets,” he said to the guard.

“Kneel up,” said the guard.

Ellen went to first position, as nearly as she could, braceleted, the cloth of the cut tunic falling between her widely spread thighs. The guard freed the key from her collar and, crouching behind her, removed the bracelets. As soon as the bracelets were removed Ellen, unbidden, went to first obeisance position, head down to the rug, the palms of her hands now on the rug, on either side of her head. She heard the guard replace the bracelets, and, presumably, the key, in his pouch. She supposed that he must have received some signal from her master to do this. The guard then withdrew, apparently having received some signal to do this from her master. She knelt in first obeisance position, excited, apprehensive, thrilled, alone with her master.

“Position,” said Mirus.

Immediately she knelt in the first position before him, the first position of the pleasure slave.

Their eyes met.

Some Gorean masters do not permit their girls to look into their eyes unless bidden to do so, but this is rare. More often the discipline or punishment is not to permit the girl to look into the eyes of the master, which increases her apprehension and, of course, severely limits her capacity to read his moods. That is somewhat analogous to denying her food, or a particular food, taking something away from her. In standard first position the Gorean slave girl kneels with her head up, unless forbidden to do so. One of the great pleasures of the master/slave relationship is the unparalleled intimacy which obtains between the participants, an intimacy which is naturally much enhanced by the ability to see and react to one another’s expressions, body language, and such, these things so indicative of thoughts and feelings. Men desire complete slaves, it seems, and this means total, vital, feeling, thinking females at their feet; that is apparently what one wants there; few if any men, it seems, desire a mere body, a puppet, a doll, an empty slave; who could be satisfied with such? Where would be the triumph, the pleasure, the value? What then, in such circumstances, could be the master’s joy in owning us? Ellen had been told that she had very beautiful eyes. They were gray. Her hair was a very dark brown. The hair and eyes of Mirus, as those of most men, were brown.

Ellen looked into the eyes of Mirus. His expression seemed severe. She averted her gaze.

One reason to look into the eyes of a slave girl is to see if there is welcome in them, happiness, anticipation, shyness, mendacity, slyness, deception, joy, confusion, uncertainty, apprehension, fear. If one cannot look into the eyes of a slave, how can one well read her, how can one adequately master her? To be sure, much can be gained from body language. But then more can surely be gained from both her face and body. And from the slave’s point of view, how can one best please a master, if one cannot truly see him?

Ellen was certain that her master had seen fear in her eyes. She looked past the chair, frightened.

“Do you enjoy the laundry?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“What is your impression of Gart?” he asked.

“He to whom you refer, our work-master,” she said, “is efficient. He is severe, but firm, and in his way, I think, kind. He has been good to me.”

“You did not use his name.”

“It is not fitting that the name of a free person should be soiled by the tongue of a slave,” she said.

“You are clever,” he said.

It had been a test.

“Has he whipped you?”

“I have felt his lash four times, in single strokes,” she said.

“When you were lax in your labors?”

“Yes, Master.”

“It is then appropriate that you were lashed?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You then redoubled your efforts?”

“Yes, Master.”

He lifted the scroll, which he had laid across his lap. He rerolled it, toward the center, saving his place.

“This is the Prition of Clearchus of Cos,” he said.

“Master?”

“You have not been taught to read, have you?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said. Surely he knew that.

“You are illiterate,” he said.

“Yes, Master.”

“Would you like to learn how to read?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, Master!” she exclaimed.

“The proper answer,” he said, “is ‘Only if Master pleases’.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.” Tears came into her eyes. She should have been more alert. She had failed that test.

“Most Earth females brought to Gor are not taught to read,” he said.

“For what purpose are most Earth females brought to Gor?” she asked.

“Surely you can guess,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“For the collar, for the markets,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“We keep them as low slaves, uneducated and illiterate, fit at best for the simplest of tasks.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Considering their status on Earth, their machinations, and such, that seems to me both amusing and fitting.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And that is how I see you,” he said. “As a low slave.”

“As Master wishes,” she said.

“Do you aspire higher?”

“No, Master!”

“Good,” he said. “That will make your life easier.”

She did not understand this.

“I understand,” he said, “that you are now ready to beg.”

Ellen, I fear, turned white.

“Before you beg, if, indeed, you are going to beg, is there anything you would like to say to me, or ask me?”

“May I speak freely, Master?”

“For the moment,” he said.

“First, allow me to thank you for bringing me to this beautiful world, be it only to have made me your slave. And thank you, too, for giving me back my youth, my suppleness, my appetite, my health.”

“And your slave beauty,” he said.

“My slave beauty?”

“Yes.”

“Am I beautiful?” she begged.

“Did I not assure you of that before?” he asked.

“Yes, Master. Forgive me, Master.”

“But there are many,” he said, “who are far more beautiful.”

“Of course, Master,” she said. Surely she had seen enough women in the pens, in their collars, to accept that, to realize that.

“I could, of course,” he said, “have demeaned your beauty, disparaged it, caused you to doubt your own value, put you in consternation concerning your worth, and such, but I did not do so.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“I prefer to let you know how beautiful you are, not to inflate your vanity, pretty slut, which is doubtless already excessive, but to increase your sense of vulnerability.”

“Master?”

“As a Gorean slave girl, and one of unusual beauty, I want you to realize clearly the peril in which you stand.”

“Peril, Master?”

“Certainly,” he said. “You will be as hot, fresh meat, juicy and steaming, amongst ravenous wolves!”

“And that is part of your vengeance upon me, to see that I am so placed, Master?”

“Of course.”

“I do not care, Master.”

“Consider yourself on a street, barefoot, collared, tunicked, not amongst the men of Earth, but amongst Gorean males.”

“It is my hope that masters will find me pleasing.”

“You are a slave girl,” he said.

“Yes, Master.”

“Slut,” he said, “slut.”

“Yes, Master.”

He regarded her, moodily.

“And you have grown more and more beautiful.”

“Master?”

“And what woman is truly beautiful until she is in a slave collar?” he asked.

“Surely Master jests.”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Was I not beautiful before, Master, if I was, long ago, when I was a free woman?”

“I assure you, my dear, that you are a thousand times more beautiful now, with that collar on your neck, than you ever were, or could be, as a free woman.”

“Master!”

“Surely you understand its meaning.”

“Yes, Master. I think so, Master.”

“Then you can sense how, in it, you are more beautiful.”

“I think so, Master,” she whispered.

She had begun to sense how men might now view her, as a slave.

“And this goes far beyond the mere aesthetics of the collar. In it you are not simply seen differently, you are different, in a thousand ways.”

“Yes, Master.” She sensed how this was true. She was aware of the startling transformation which had taken place, and was taking place, within her. A slave girl, you see, is not a free woman.

“To be sure, you were very beautiful,” he said, “but the beauty of a free woman, you must understand, is no more than the promise, the hint, of what her beauty would be as a slave. A slave is a thousand times more beautiful than a free woman.”

“You saw me even then, as a slave.”

“Yes,” he said, “for you were a slave. It was obvious, slut. How stupid of the men of Earth to permit you and others like you your charade of freedom! Your life as a free woman is behind you. On Earth you were worthless. Here you are no longer worthless. Here on Gor, I assure you, you will be good for something!”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You may now thank me,” he said, “for your slave beauty.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said, “for my beauty.”

“For your slave beauty.”

“Master?”

“It is no common beauty,” he said. “It is a slave beauty.”

“Yes, then,” she whispered, “I thank you, Master, for my beauty, be it only a slave beauty.”

She recalled how she had seen herself before the great mirror, on the morning after her branding and collaring. How startled she had been. In the mirror she had seen what had so startled her, an exquisitely beautiful young slave.

What would men pay for me, she wondered.

“A girl is grateful,” she said, “that her master finds her beautiful, if only as a slave.”

He smiled.

How could a man find a woman more beautiful than as a slave?

“Thank you, Master, thank you, Master,” she said.

He shrugged.

What, after all, is the gratitude of a girl, and of one who is only a slave?

But she herself was elated. Her master had admitted that he found her beautiful, if only as a slave. But how could a woman be more beautiful, she asked herself, delighted, than as that most exquisite, perfect and feminine of all creatures, the female slave?

“You have given me a second chance at life,” she said.

He shrugged. Again, this seemed of little interest to him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Is this trivia all you wish to speak of?” he asked.

“How is it trivia, Master,” she asked, “that I have been made again a young woman!”

“Do not flatter yourself,” he said. “You are not a woman. You are a girl. I have seen to that.”

“And I have lost some money on that,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“But it pleased me.”

“Master?”

“Have you heard of the Prition of Clearchus of Cos?” he asked, placing the scroll on the table to his right, her left, near the glass and decanter.

“No, Master.”

“It is a reasonably well-known treatise, one of several in fact, dealing with the ownership and domination of the human female.”

“There are manuals for such things?” she asked.

“Certainly,” said he, “as there are manuals for agricultural practices, military tactics, cartography, navigation, kaissa and such.”

“Kaissa?”

“A board game,” he said.

“Is there anything in the Prition, Master,” she asked, “pertaining to a woman — a girl — such as myself?”

“You are all alike,” he said.

“Oh,” she said.

“Before you are granted an opportunity to beg,” he said, “is there anything else of which you would care to speak?”

Ellen’s mind raced. How could she speak of the deepest things in her heart to this man? Her thigh was branded. Her throat was locked in his collar. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she had longed to be his slave even from the first time she had seen him, so many years ago. But how could a lady reveal her most intimate thoughts and feelings, particularly if they were of such a kind? What would he think? Must he not then hold her in contempt? Must he not then be shocked? Must he not then despise her? How could he respect her if he knew she wanted to kneel, that she loved to kneel, as a helpless slave at his feet? He must never know that! He must never know that she was so helplessly his, that she loved her brand, his collar on her neck, that she longed to be pinioned helplessly in his bracelets, that she wanted his shackles, that she longed to be neck-chained at the foot of his couch, that she hoped even, sometimes, for the admonitory, flashing bite of his whip.

I love strong sensations, she thought. And I now know that they can exist.

I love being a woman, she thought.

I want to be owned, and dominated, she thought. Only here, on this beautiful, natural world have I understood, for the first time, my body, my mind, my feelings, my deepest being, my very soul, my sex.

No, I cannot even hint at such things!

I do not want to lose him forever.

I cannot reveal to him what a woman is, truly.

I dare not!

“Well?” said he.

She began to speak, but could scarcely understand what she was saying, so confused, so overwrought she was. It seemed she heard herself, as though it were not she herself, but another who was speaking.

“I am your slave,” she said. “You can do with me what you want. You can order me as you please. You remembered me. You brought me here. You gave me back my youth, and my beauty, if beauty it be. You have made me young again. You have given me a second chance at life. Why? I think you like me! I am sure you want me. Are my flanks not of interest? Perhaps you love me. Certainly you desire me. You have given me a lovely name, ‘Ellen’. You had me put in the iron belt, doubtless to save me for yourself. Admit to me that you love me! You have done all this! Surely you love me! Surely you love me!”

“Do not speak stupidities,” he said.

“Master?”

“Do not dare to jest with your master.”

“Master!”

“Do not presume to flatter yourself, worthless slave.”

“Do you not love me?” she asked.

“‘Do you not love me’ what?” he asked.

“Do you not love me — Master?” she whispered.

“Love, for a slave?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He threw back his head and laughed. She shrank back, disconcerted, dismayed.

“You poor, little, stupid, arrogant piece of flesh-trash,” he said.

Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

She dared not meet his eyes, his gaze was so fierce.

“Is there something you fear, Master?” she asked.

“What?” he said.

“Do you fear me, Master?” she asked.

He regarded her, angrily.

“Surely you do not fear me, Master,” she said, “a half-naked, collared slave girl.”

He reached for the whip, but drew back his hand.

“Can it be that you fear yourself, Master?” she said.

“As I understand it,” he said, “you are now ready to beg.”

“Can we not speak further, Master?” she begged. She wanted to cry out that she loved him, with all the helpless, vulnerable love of a female slave, that she wanted to serve him, to love him, to live for him.

But of course she dared not do so. How he would then hate her, despise her, understand the lowly, groveling, needful thing she was!

He had laughed at her. And how preposterous it was, indeed, that any man might love such as she, might love a mere, worthless, abject slave!

She must not let him know that she was such.

And yet she must beg!

Or would she beg?

Not the laundry again, not for days, or weeks, or months, or years, or life, not that, she wept to herself. What does he want of me, she asked herself. I want to give him whatever he wants. I am his slave! He is my master!

“Are you ready to beg?” he asked.

“Surely you do not wish me to beg!” she cried.

“You may do as you wish,” he said.

“Surely you would want me as a free woman!” she cried.

“What makes you think I might want you as anything?” he asked.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Men, you should understand,” he said, “are lustful and possessive. You may like this or not, but it is the way they are. Those who do not seem so are glandular defectives, less than men, or are liars and hypocrites. Any man who truly desires a woman, who truly wants a woman, who wants her in the robust, vigorous fullness of powerful masculine desire, wants her wholly, all of her, wants to possess her, totally, wants to have her all to himself, wants to literally own her. Thus, what a man wants in a woman is the most precious, coveted and treasured of all possessions, the female slave.”

“Surely such things dare not be said,” whispered Ellen, frightened.

“You are not now on your old world of falsities and convention,” he said. “On this world the truth may be spoken.”

“I am a slave,” said Ellen.

“That is known to me,” he said.

“How can you respect me if I am a slave!”

“You are goods,” he said. “I do not respect you.”

“If I do not beg, what will be done with me?”

“You will be returned to the laundry,” he said.

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

“Yes,” he said.

“And if I beg?”

“Then, too, you may be returned to the laundry,” he said.

“Of course,” cried Ellen, “it will be as Master decides!”

“Are you ready to beg?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

Could he so humiliate her, having her perform this act, and then, amused, satisfied, simply return her to the misery of the laundry?

Yes, he could. He was master.

But I love him, she thought. I love him!

But of what interest or importance might that be, the foolish love of a helpless slave, to one such as he, a master?

“You understand,” he said, “that this begging has nothing to do with whether you are a slave or not. That is a matter of indisputable fact. Similarly, personally and psychologically, your condition is well-established and well understood. You are a natural slave.”

“Yes, Master.”

“That was apparent the first moment I saw you.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And now you have been fittingly embonded.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“The begging then is for your benefit, slave girl. It is admonitory, and instructional. Still it will be amusing to hear you so beg.”

“You have such power over me!” she wept.

“Such is the relationship in which you find yourself,” he said, “slave girl.”

“Is it not a way, simply, for me to confess that I am a sexual creature, that I have sexual needs, and,” and here Ellen put down her head, and lowered her voice, “— and that I desire sexual experience?”

“You have not yet begun to understand your sexuality,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And do you, little Ellen, desire sexual experience?”

She was silent, in consternation.

“Speak up, now, loudly, clearly!”

“Yes, Master,” cried Ellen. “I desire sexual experience!”

In that moment it seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from her. She regarded her master, in terror.

“You need not fear you will be a stranger to sexual experience,” he said. “You are a slave girl on Gor.”

“Is the begging not some sort of test, Master?” asked Ellen.

“Perhaps, in a way,” he said.

He wants me, she thought. He wants me to beg, and then, when I have been so reduced, so humiliated, have so degraded and debased myself, he will be satisfied and keep me for himself. He will then keep me as the slave he wants and as the slave I long to be, worthless but helplessly his, helplessly devoted, helplessly loving. He will then, this test passed, keep me for himself, put me to his slave ring and own me, completely. At his slave ring, chained there by the neck, he will teach me undreamt of dimensions of my collar and begin the fuller mastering of a surrendered, conquered, helpless slave.

Perhaps, she thought, suddenly, wildly, I could pretend to be his slave; I could merely let him think that he is my master! Could I not keep myself a free woman, though branded, though in my collar? But then she almost choked with the silliness, the absurdity, the meaninglessness of this. How foreign to her reality would be such a pretense, how irrelevant to fact would be such a silly inward game! It would be a falsification of truth. Who cared if a dog or a pig pretended not to be owned? Reality remained unchanged. Too, how dishonorable to deny truth! How unworthy, as well as stupid, in the face of facts, to lie to oneself! No, she knew she was owned, owned in fact, owned in perfect, clear, indisputable fact. That was what she was, slave. And she knew, too, that that was what she had always wanted to be, to be owned, and to serve. She acknowledged that she was a natural slave, and that she had now been, as her master had called to her attention, fittingly embonded. Too, she did not believe that she could, even if she wished, even if it were possible, even if it were permitted, keep a corner of herself to herself. The masters seemed capable of looking through a woman, of understanding her better even than she understood herself. They seemed to have an uncanny sense of her emotions, of her thoughts and feelings. Could she hide nothing from their gaze? This had been brought home to her even in her training. Why could Gorean men not be more like the men of Earth, and look at a woman and not really see her? Perhaps that was because they did not own their women. It is hard to hide from men when one is stripped before them and fiercely questioned. Gorean men seemed interested, as Earth men were not, in paying attention to their women, in spending time with them and listening to them, and, in virtue of delightfully prolonged intimacies, understanding them, learning them, knowing them, truly understanding them, learning them, knowing them. Perhaps that is because they own them, and it is well known the attention and care, and the devotion of sorts, which men lavish on their possessions. Who does not wish to know everything there is to know about his property, about his treasure? Too, of course, this makes it much easier to master the female. The skilled master can read a woman like a book. One cannot hide from him. It seems there is no nook or cranny in a woman’s soul into which the master, whip in hand, cannot enter.

They make us slaves, and we are slaves.

Ellen, for whatever reason, because of her intelligence, or her dispositions, or whatever it might have been, had made the transition from freedom to slavery with relative ease. That is perhaps because she had been sensitive to the appropriateness of slavery for her, on some level or another, since puberty. On Earth she had been, in effect, like countless others, a slave without a collar.

In some women, of course, their slavery is more suppressed, more deliberately concealed, more desperately denied and hidden, than it is in others. They are perhaps more frightened of themselves, and more in ideological and cultural bondage, than an emotionally freer woman, more in touch with her deeper self and feelings. But it is said that even in such women there eventually comes a moment in their bondage when the emotional cataclysm occurs, when the breakthrough takes place, when the depths of the unconscious open up, when the surgent, rising earthquake of the liberated spirit totters and collapses the fragile, brittle walls of their psychological prisons, when the moment of truth blazes before them like sunrise, and shuddering and sobbing with gratitude and misery they understand themselves for the first time in their lives, understand that they are women, and belong to men, men who will see to it that they fulfill their natures. They must then accept what they are, with all its marvels, beauties and vulnerabilities. They are not men. They are quite different, quite wonderfully different. They can then no longer hide, either from themselves or others. How unfortunate that this insight comes so late for some women, say, as they lie sobbing, beaten, their wrists bound to a whipping ring anchored in heavy planks, or as they lie cold and hungry, curled up, clutching a tiny blanket about themselves, on the cement flooring of a kennel, or as they are drawn by the hair to the height of an auction block and find themselves displayed as an object for sale, displayed, and fully, to frenzied, bidding men.

“Are you ready to beg, slave girl?” he asked, severely.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

He then turned to the side, where, some yards away, across the room, there was a narrow ancillary door.

“Ho!” he called.

In a moment or two there proceeded through the door two men, clad in blue robes. One carried a small rectangular board on which he held some papers. At his belt there hung a small case, containing at least pens, and a tiny horn, which, as Ellen later realized, was an inkhorn. Ellen had seen such papers before, when she had been examined in great detail, apparently partly to ascertain identifying marks, subjected to numerous measurements, and fingerprinted and toeprinted. She had little doubt that they were her slave papers. Such papers, as may have been mentioned, are unnecessary and are not kept on the vast majority of slaves. They can provide a convenience to buyers and sellers, however, as they will provide a good deal of information, with respect to background, caste, education, languages, training levels, physical descriptions, collar sizes, ankle-and wrist-ring sizes, and such, on the slave in question. Sometimes brochures and sales sheets for public postings are compiled from them by judicious selections. Such papers assume greater importance, of course, in the case of pedigree slaves or exotics. The bloodlines of some pedigree slaves go back several generations. Collectors, too, tend to be interested in the background of exotics, for example, who bred them, and where they were bred, and such.

Ellen had scarcely a moment to note the two entering men, in their blue robes, before she was ordered to first obeisance position.

She was then kneeling on the rug before the dais, on which reposed the curule chair, her head to the rug, the palms of her hands on the rug, too, on either side of her head.

“Are you eager to beg?” he asked.

She almost lifted her head but did not dare to lose contact with the rug. She wanted so much to look into his eyes, but she did not dare. She was aware of the two blue-robed men, to the left of his chair, to his left, as he was facing her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Speak up,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Identify yourself, and your master, clearly, and specify, clearly, what you are doing,” said one of the blue-robed men.

“I am the slave girl, Ellen. My master is Mirus, of Ar. I kneel before him. I am eager to beg.”

“You may beg,” said her master.

“I am Ellen,” she said, “the slave girl of Mirus of Ar. I beg to please a man, any man.”

Tears burst from her eyes. She trembled. It was done! She had begged to serve a man, any man! How shamed she felt, how humiliated, how debased, how degraded. How worthless she was, she thought. How could she now be anything but the lowest and most worthless of slaves, in the eyes of her master, in the eyes of the witnesses, in her own eyes, in the eyes of anyone? She heard the pen moving on the paper. That she had so begged was now on her papers. The second man in blue robes added a note, or signature, or certification, to the papers.

This is what he wanted, she told herself. What more could he want? Scorn me now, Master, she thought. Now, she thought, you can hold me in contempt to whatever degree might please you. How could I be such now that you might despise me more? You have made me nothing! Your vengeance on me, my Master, if vengeance it is, is surely now complete!

“Thank you,” said Mirus to the two men who, shortly, withdrew.

“Position,” said Mirus.

Ellen struggled to first position, sobbing, her body shaking with misery. She wanted to throw herself to the floor, covering her face, sobbing.

First position, she thought. I must hold my head up.

He wants to see my face, she thought.

It must be red, and tear-stained. Does that please him?

She dared to look at her master. His expression seemed noncommittal. It was hard to read.

“I have begged,” she sobbed.

“As I knew you would, slave girl,” he said.

“Please be kind to a slave!” she wept.

“Why?” he asked.

She choked back a sob, and looked past him, past his shoulder, past the curule chair, to the wall several yards behind.

“May I speak, Master?” she sobbed.

“For the moment,” he said.

“I have begged,” she said. “Now I beg to please my Master.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“In any way he may desire,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I beg to be permitted to enter your arms.”

“You wish to please me — sexually?” he said.

“Yes, Master.”

“Second obeisance position,” he said.

Ellen went prone, before him, her hands at the sides of her head.

“You may now speak, and speak clearly, slave girl,” he said.

“I am Ellen, the slave girl,” she said. “I belong to Mirus of Ar. I belly before him, my master. I beg to please him — sexually.”

“But you are a virgin,” he said. “That would lower your price.”

“Master?” said Ellen, startled.

“To be sure,” he said. “It does seem a bit silly. Why should some men want to be the first to open a slave? What difference does it make? The slave will probably have very little feeling the first time. It may even cause her pain. Later she may jump and juice, and scratch, and beg for the least caress. Why should one not pay more for that, since it is the enjoyment of a much more delicious, more helpless, more eager pudding, and yet when one locks one’s chains on such a one and thrusts her back to the furs, one simply takes her responses for granted, giving it not another thought. It is all very strange.”

“Master?” asked Ellen.

“To be sure,” he said, “I have already lost money on you, for had I had you returned to, say, your early twenties, you would doubtless bring a better price. You would be taken more seriously as block-meat.”

“Please do not speak of a slave as such,” she wept.

“But, as it is, you are something like eighteen. Who could take you seriously? You are no more than a pretty girl.”

“But even so, perhaps master finds me of interest,” she said.

“Oh you are learning to be a slave,” he growled.

“Forgive me, Master,” said Ellen. She feared something in his voice. The work-master’s voice had occasionally taken on such a tone, usually shortly before he had rudely seized, and tubbed, or put to his pleasure, one of his charges, often the now-abducted Nelsa.

“No, no,” he said. “You are learning. It is perfect.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said, hesitantly. She knew that she had aroused men in her training, but they had not been, she gathered, authorized to seize her, and make use of her, to assuage the passions and tensions she may have aroused in them. They must seek out other slaves. The other slaves had not seemed to mind. She wondered if she might ever become like that, so grateful for the touch of a man, even if it were not she in the first place who had aroused his passions. It was said that young men enamored of free women, perhaps having glimpsed an ankle, or a bit of throat or chin as the wind indiscreetly lifted a veil, sometimes sought out the girls in the paga taverns to lessen the pangs of love, to lessen their miseries. Many times clutching, grateful, gasping slaves heard the names of women they did not know cried out as free men used them to climax their pleasures. Briefly there flashed through her mind the tarnsman from Brundisium who, apparently enamored of a free woman, had taken a different action, seizing the woman, to make her his slave, she then to be herself perhaps no more to him than a paga girl. And later she, Ellen, had even been put in the iron belt, probably as she had progressed in her lessons and had become, if only unconsciously and inadvertently, far more desirable, far more provocative, feminine, and sensuous. She was pleased, of course, but a little frightened, to know that she had this effect on men. But now she was alone with her master. No longer was he her defense and shield. And there is none to defend or shield the slave, you see, from the master. She was utterly vulnerable. Anything might be done to her. She was his.

“But it pleased me,” he said, “to have had you made as young as you are, to give you such a meaningless, trivial age, a mere lovely eighteen, though I cost myself some coins in the business. It was a delicious part of my vengeance upon you.”

“Vengeance, Master?” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Master?” she asked.

“And so,” said he, thoughtfully, as though pondering some matter, “what would be the loss of a coin or two more?”

“I do not understand what you are saying, Master,” whispered the slave.

“Yes,” he said, apparently having come to some decision. “Why not? Yes, what is a coin or two, measured against the pleasure of teaching you what you now are, a worthless slave, of instructively demeaning you even further, of reducing your value yet again, even in a market, and thus exacting an even sweeter, richer, more delicious vengeance upon you?”

“Master?” cried the slave, frightened.

“Turn about,” he said. “Face away from me, kneeling. Put your head to the rug. Clasp your hands behind the back of your neck!”

“Please, no, Master!” she wept.

“Good,” he said. She heard him, she now facing away from him, head down, hands clasped behind the back of her neck, rise from the curule chair. She heard, too, the fall of garments upon the chair, dropped to the side, the robes heavier, the tunic almost inaudible.

He crouched behind her.

She felt the tunic pulled up and thrust forward, and down, until it was about her head and clasped wrists.

“Please, no, Master!” she begged.

“So,” said he, “here we have our little feminist, poised for the penetration of her master.”

“I am no longer a feminist!” she wept. “I have learned that I am a woman!”

“A girl?” he asked.

“Yes, Master, a girl! A girl! You have done that to me!”

“So here we have my former teacher then,” he mused, “prettily positioned. You look well, former teacher. I like you like this. What former student would not like you like this?”

“Please be kind, Master!”

“And, too, of course, here we have our little Ph.D., with her doctorate in gender studies, kneeling down obediently, facing away, awaiting the penetration of her master. Did they teach you of this in your gender studies?”

“No, Master.”

“Such studies were then incomplete, were they not?”

“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.

“And, of course,” he said, “we have here, too, our pretty little slave girl.”

She felt his hands seize her, about her narrow waist. He was extremely strong, and she did not doubt but what there would be marks on her body, from where he held her.

“Please, no, Master!” she begged. “Not like this, not like this, Master! I beg you! Not like this, my Master!”

“Who begs?” he asked.

“Ellen, Ellen, the slave, begs!” she wept.

“Whose are you?”

“Yours, Master!”

“Speak more clearly,” he said.

“Ellen, the slave, your slave, the slave of Mirus of Ar, begs her master, begs you, her master, Mirus of Ar, for mercy!” she wept.

“You have a pretty ass, slave girl,” he said.

“Please do not speak so, Master!”

“You have been complimented,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she wept.

Strangely she had never really thought of herself in such a way. She was, of course, pleased, perhaps inordinately so, with the fresh, lissome contours of her new figure. But how vulgar had seemed his compliment. To be sure, the young, slim, sweet curvatures of her body were of a piece, of a whole, an indissoluble, coherent delight, from her small feet and ankles, to her calves and thighs, her hips, her love cradle, her narrow waist, and sweet bosom, to her soft, white shoulders and lovely throat, all a melody of softness, texture and line, and surely no part of her was without its role and portion in the new and exquisite she of her. She recalled, briefly, fashions of centuries in which clothing itself had been designed to call attention to, and emphasize, just such features. She recalled the pleasure with which she had regarded herself in the mirror, her trimness, her excitements.

But how vulgar had been his compliment!

Yet could she deny that she was pleased?

But in what a shameful position she had been placed!

She thought of the rude, efficient, coital positions of many animals. Was it so different?

And, she realized, too, she was now an animal, a slave, and an attractive one.

But he could not be serious!

What could he have in mind!

Surely he could not be doing this to her, not to her, not to her!

Had he no respect for her? What of her dignity?

Was he not of Earth?

Could he not remember Earth?

“Please, Master!” she wept. “Not like this! Not like this!”

“Please, no!” she cried.

“We are of Earth,” she cried, “we are both of Earth!”

“No longer,” he said.

“Mercy, Master!” she begged.

“You are going to be red-silked, girl,” he said.

“Not like this, Master,” she begged. “Please, no! No! Not like this, not like this! Please, Master, not like this!”

“Oh!” she cried, suddenly.

“You are now “red silk,” he informed her.

“Do not break position,” he growled. His hands were on her like iron.

In a few moments she lay on her right side on the rug, at the foot of the dais, sobbing.

He had drawn on his tunic, but not his robes, and was sitting in the curule chair, looking down upon her.

“You are a tight, cold little thing,” he said.

Her body was wracked with sobs.

“Remove your garment,” he said.

Crying, she half sat up, and pulled her slave garment, the tiny, cut tunic, over her head, from where it was, about her neck and shoulders, and put it beside her. Then again she lay on the rug, on her side, trying to control her tears. There was a bit of blood upon her, and a smeared stain of blood on the interior of her left thigh.

“Taste your virgin blood,” he said.

She looked at him, red-eyed, not comprehending.

From within his tunic, from what may have been an interior enclosure there, he drew forth a ribbon and what seemed to be a length or two of binding fiber. He came down from the dais and crouched beside her.

She shrank back a little.

“Oh!” she said.

“Here,” he said, putting two fingers to her mouth. “Taste it, the blood of a virgin slave.”

Obediently, sobbing, she did as she was told. It was thick, sticky, warm from her body, a little salty, and bore more than a tiny hint of the oils of her nether intimacies. It was not a moment she would ever forget.

“Sit up,” he said. And so she sat up on the rug, before him. He was now kneeling beside her.

He held up the ribbon before her. It was about eight or ten inches long, an inch wide, and of red silk.

“You have been had,” he said, in English. And then he added, in Gorean, “You have now been opened for the uses of men, for the pleasures of men.”

“You are now a red-silk girl,” he said.

He then doubled the ribbon, looped it about her collar, and jerked it tight. There seemed something definitive about that, the way he did it.

“Bara!” he said.

She instantly responded to his command, as she had been trained to do. She was now on her belly, her wrists crossed behind her, her ankles, too, crossed.

She felt her wrists tied with one length of the binding fiber, and then, a moment later, her ankles bound with a second length. The pieces of binding fiber might have been each eighteen inches in length. Each, thusly, could be looped more than once about her wrists and ankles.

She was then lying before him, prone, a naked, bound, red-silk girl.

He then turned her to her side. Could it have been to give himself pleasure? Certainly he scrutinized her with care, and seemingly appreciatively. Doubtless he noted how she drew up her knees, and pointed her toes, accentuating the curve of her calf. Perhaps he wondered if she even knew she had done that. She had not even thought of it, at least not in the sense of carefully planning it, but had rather done it naturally, naturally, as a slave. He smiled. Her eyes stung afresh with tears. But she knew how she must be before a man, and wanted to be before a man. She was slave.

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the height of the dais, where he put her down, gently, on her knees, to the left of the curule chair, as one might look out from it, to the right of the curule chair, as one would face it.

One may recall that on the small table to his right there reposed a decanter of colored glass with its small, matching glass.

He took the stopper from the decanter, and poured a tiny bit of its contained liquid into the glass.

“You may speak,” he said.

“What you did to me!” she wept.

“You may not complain,” he said. “You are a slave.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You may now thank me for using you,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“For what?” he asked.

“For using me, Master.”

“As what?” he asked.

“As a slave, Master,” she said.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master.”

“Perhaps you understand a little better now what it is to be a slave?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Later,” said he, “when you have discovered more of yourself, and of your sexuality, you will beg such usages.”

“I doubt that,” she said.

“No,” he said. “The time will come when you will crawl backward to a master, naked, whimpering, elevating your lovely posterior, begging.”

She regarded him, aghast. Could she ever have such depths within her? It seemed impossible. Yet, to be sure, she had heard some of the girls in the cells and cages, and kennels, crying out, and moaning, and scratching. She had heard of the depths of, and intensity of, “slave needs.”

He held the glass toward her lips, and she shrank back, in her bonds.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“That is not a “releaser,” is it?” she asked.

“No,” he smiled. “It is ka-la-na.”

“Slave wine,” which, as administered to slaves, is terribly bitter, from the sip root, found in the Barrens, precluded conception. The “releaser,” which is commonly syrupy, and sweet, nullifies the effects of the “slave wine.” It is commonly administered to a slave after masters have agreed upon a crossing, and she is to be bred.

“Ka-la-na?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “A wine.”

There are many ka-la-nas, but the one in the colored glass, if it had been in a clear glass, would have been golden in color. The reddish color of the glass infused its contents with something of its own hue.

“From the wine trees of Gor,” he said.

She straightened up, as well as she could. She knew she was helpless. He had bound her well, surely as well as any Gorean might have, tightly, but not excessively tightly. There would be no danger of damaging the slave, of impairing her circulation, or risking possibilities of nerve or tissue damage, and, in the psychological dimension, she would have just enough latitude to tease her, and then frustrate her, as she might struggle, and then, eventually, realize she was, when all was said and done, utterly helpless, a slave girl bound by her master.

“You would have me drink wine, and from a glass?” she asked. “How is it that it is not water, put in a pan on the floor, which I must lap from the pan, forbidden to touch the pan with my hands?”

“You speak boldly, for a naked, bound slave,” he said.

She tossed her head.

“You have spirit,” he said. “That can be taken from a girl, if one wishes.”

She moved a little closer to him, and then, suddenly, beggingly, impulsively, as if she scarcely knew what she was doing, put her head to his right knee, turning her head and resting the side of her face, her left cheek, on his knee.

“It is not that I mind a bit of spirit in a slave,” he said. “It makes it all the more pleasant to bring them again to their belly, at your feet, kissing and begging.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, softly.

“But there must be not the least impairment in perfect discipline,” he said.

“No, Master,” she whispered.

He put the tiny glass on the table. She heard the small sound.

“You may speak,” he said.

“I love you,” she said, “my Master.”

“I have brought you here, that you might hate me, for what I have done to you,” he said.

“How could I hate you, Master?” she asked, her head to his knee. “You have rescued me. You have saved me. You have given me my rightful bondage. I have always been a slave, but now, at last, you have given me my brand, and my collar. You have given me to myself, in a world where I can be myself, and need not hide myself, even from myself. I am inordinately grateful to you, my Master.”

She whimpered, for she felt his hand clench in her hair, tightly, she feared angrily.

“Continue to speak,” he said, seemingly controlling his voice, keeping it calm, with an effort.

As he was holding her, she could not lift her head, to look into his eyes, to try to understand him.

She was frightened.

“Go on,” he said, quietly.

“I wanted to kneel to you,” she said, “even when you were a student. I sensed in you power, and virility, and uncompromised manhood, and, too, I think I sensed in you even then, surely on some level, then only dimly understood, the splendor and force of the mastery. Do you understand how devastating, how irresistible, how overwhelming this is to a woman? In you was manifested the very principle of masculinity to which all women, in virtue of their principle of femininity, long to succumb.”

His hand tightened even more in her hair. She winced.

“I love you, Master,” she said. “And I want to be your slave.”

“Oh!” she cried, in pain.

“Surely,” she wept, her head held down, cruelly, “you must have some feelings for me. You remembered me, after many years. You never forgot. You have brought me here. You have given me a second chance at life. You have rescued me. You have saved me. You have restored my youth, and beauty, if I be beautiful. You put me in the iron belt, that I might be protected in a house where men may do much what they please with the women at hand, where the use of slaves is little restricted. You keep me for yourself. You gave me a beautiful name. You have even inflicted peremptory and degrading usage upon me. Surely, then, you must have feelings for me. If you do not love me, Master, do you not like me, if only a little? Surely, at the least, you must find me of interest, as a master a slave. Surely you must want me. Surely you must desire me, if only as an object to rape, punish and abuse. You must find my body of interest. Look upon it, Master. You own it!”

“I own all of you,” he snarled.

“Yes, Master,” she gasped, wincing.

He released her hair, and she drew back, gratefully, her hair twisted and tangled, in disarray, kneeling before him.

She then saw his eyes rove her, her hair, her face, her throat, her shoulders, her bosom, her waist, her love cradle, her thighs.

She put her shoulders back a little, that her figure might be accentuated.

She turned a little to the side, and lifted her head.

“Brazen slave,” said he.

She knelt very straightly. She was very conscious of the steel circlet clasping her throat.

“Surely my flanks are not without interest, Master,” she said, timidly. She moved her hands a little in their bonds, futilely.

“It is true, your flanks are not without interest, slave girl,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“You are a lovely slave,” he said.

“Thank you, Master!” she said.

“But there are thousands in the markets as lovely, or lovelier, than you,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. She did not doubt but what he said was true. Indeed, in this very house, she had seen many women with whose beauty she would not have dared to compare hers. She became aware that tears had sprung afresh to her eyes.

He reached to her and put his hand in her hair.

“Please do not hurt me more,” she begged. “I am a bound slave. My neck is in your collar. Please do not hurt me more!”

But he drew her closer to him, not cruelly, but firmly. Then, without removing his hand from her hair, he lifted the small glass of ka-la-na.

He swirled the wine a little in the glass, and held it before him, inhaling the bouquet. He then held the small glass before her.

“It is lovely, Master,” she said, breathing in the wine’s bouquet.

“It is a nice ka-la-na,” he said.

He then held it before her, the rim of the glass to her lips, and tipped it, slightly, that she might sip it.

“It is wonderful, Master,” she breathed. “The smoothness, the flavor, the fragrance, the body.”

“I thought you would like it,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she breathed.

He is kind to me, she thought. He gives me wine. He is gentle. He is tender. He loves me. My Master loves me! I want to be a wonderful slave to him! I want to be the most wonderful and loving slave on all Gor! Let him do with me as he pleases. Let him kick and beat me. I will rejoice! I will beg to lick the boot that kicks me, I will beg to kiss the hand that strikes me! Oh dominate me, and own me, my Master! I am yours, my Master!

Then suddenly it seemed the blood froze in her veins, as she met his eyes.

“Master?” she asked.

“You will now finish your bit of ka-la-na,” he said.

She felt his hand tighten in her hair, and pull back, lifting her head and bending it backward.

She saw the tiny glass before her, her head bent back.

His eyes were hard. In them there was no longer any hint of kindness, of tenderness, of gentleness. In them she now saw only severity and anger, even fury.

“Master?” she asked, frightened.

“Open your mouth,” said he. “Widely. Do not spill a drop.”

He slowly poured the residue of ka-la-na into her obediently lifted, opened mouth.

“Swallow,” said he. “Carefully, swallow. Swallow.”

Then he released her hair and replaced the tiny glass on the table.

She looked at him. She ran her tongue over her lips. She could taste the ka-la-na.

Already she thought she could feel its effects.

He was sitting in the curule chair, in the tunic, watching her.

“Master?” she said.

“I had thought,” he said, moodily, “it might take you years, and a hundred masters, to learn your slavery, my little feminist and ideologue. I had thought that you would cry out and rage against me for years in your chains and collars for what I had done to you. How that would have pleased me, your anger, your hatred, your misery, your frustration, your suffering, until, of course, eventually, perhaps years from now, in the arms of some master, a leather worker, a peasant, a sleen-breeder, your last psychological defenses would shatter and your womanhood, released, would cry out and claim you, reducing you to the welcomed, surrendered abject glory that is the right of your sex. But, instead, after but a moment, I find you an exquisite little slab of collar-meat, a willing, content, obedient little piece of flesh-trash, no different from thousands of other meaningless, silken little she-urts. Already you grovel at the snapping of fingers, and lick and kiss the whip with not only skill, but eagerness. Almost instantly you have begun to move as a slave girl. Already, at the sight of you, guards cry out in anger, and in need. Already you kneel with perfection and have become excruciatingly, inordinately, maddeningly, marvelously feminine.”

“But I am a slave, Master,” she whispered. She was kneeling. She felt a little unsteady. She shook her head. There seemed to be a bright, hazy glow about the lamps.

“Perhaps you rushed to your ideology in order to hide your deepest feelings and needs from yourself, the ideology constituting in its way a defense mechanism, as the expression is, a hysterical denial of inwardly sensed biotruths.”

“I do not know, Master,” she said, confused. “I feel faint, Master.”

“You may break position,” he said.

She sank to her side on the steps, before the curule chair.

“It is not simply ka-la-na which you have imbibed,” he said. “It was mixed with tassa power. You had some weeks ago, on Earth.”

She shook her head, trying to retain consciousness. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes.

“You have wondered why I brought you to Gor,” he said. “I will tell you. I brought you here because I hold you in contempt, because I despise you, because it amuses me to bring you here and make you a meaningless, youthful slave. Surely in your bracelets and chains you must understand how amusing that is, particularly given your subject matter, your teaching, your publications, your ideology. Here, in a collar, you can at last learn something true about men and women. You can at last learn your proper place in nature. You can learn it with a branded thigh, and an encircled neck, kneeling before masters.”

“Do you not love me, Master?” she gasped.

“No,” he said.

“Do you hate me?” she wept.

It seemed to be growing dark, about the edges of her vision.

“No,” he said. “You are not worth hating.”

“I love you!” she wept.

“Lying slut!” he said, in English. Then, rising angrily from the chair, with his bootlike sandal, he thrust her forcibly, rolling, down the steps of the dais to the floor at its foot.

He came down the steps, and, it seemed, was ready to spurn her yet again with the bootlike sandal.

She crawled, squirmed, as she could, to his feet, and, summoning what little strength remained within her, pressed her lips to the bootlike sandal which had spurned her.

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“What am I going to do with you — what?” he snarled.

“What are you going to do with me — Master?” she whispered.

“What I planned to do with you from the beginning,” he said.

“Master?”

“Complete my vengeance upon you.”

“Master?” she whispered.

“Can you not guess?” he said.

She put her head against the rug. She pulled a little against her bonds. Then she lost consciousness.