Prize of Gor

Chapter 18 INTRIGUE

“Ellen,” said Selius Arconious, chewing on a straw, leaning against the jamb of the great portal, leading to the platform outside, “remove your tunic, to the floor, slave paces.”

“Yes, Master!” said Ellen, delightedly.

She put down her basket, heavy with layers of meat, and quickly, laughing, slipped the brief brown tunic over her head, it was all she wore save her slave collar, and went immediately to the floor, and, half kneeling, half lying, the palms of her hands on the floor, looked up at Arconious, expectantly, eager, a slave, awaiting his commands. Sometimes the slave is instructed, even commanded, to the snapping of a whip, but at other times she is permitted to display herself, as it moves her to do so. The ingenuity of the human female in such matters is well known. Most important is that she knows herself a property, and an attractive one. Then she enthusiastically and provocatively displays, with skills that might be the envy of a dancer, sometimes with seeming shyness, timidity, reluctance or fear, the well-curved, delectable merchandise which is herself. She presents herself, as goods, to her best advantage. It is in her best interest, of course, to be as beautiful and stimulating as she can. She desires, in her wonderful vanity, to be so, as all hormonally sufficient women desire to be attractive to men, though some might fear this feeling and be terrified to recognize its obvious, deeper meaning, but, even if she did not, she is subject to discipline. There is always the whip, the switch, the discipline of food, the discipline of blindfolds, gags, ropes and chains. When the slave is commanded, the slave obeys. There is nothing unusual, untoward or surprising in this. She is a slave.

“Master?” inquired Ellen, expectantly, looking up, delighted. Selius Arconious was an assistant to the tarnmaster. He was young and handsome, and no stranger to the handling of lovely slaves.

More than once she had writhed moaning, crying out, gasping, begging, in slave rapture in his arms.

“What is going on here?” called a gruff voice, that of a large, bearded man in a brown tunic, with wristlets, and a tarn goad dangling from his belt. “Dress, slut,” said Portus Canio, tarnmaster of the Tower of Corridon.

“Yes, Master!” said Ellen quickly, and scrambled to her feet. In an instant she had pulled the tiny tunic over her head, and pulled it down at the hems, as though this might conceal a thread’s width, or more, of her muchly bared thighs. She was barefoot. “Surely you have duties, slut,” said Portus Canio.

“Yes, my Master,” said Ellen, and, crouching down, for one must move carefully in so brief a garment as a slave tunic, picked up the basket of meat. It was heavy.

On Ellen’s throat was a light, inexpensive, engraved, metal collar. It was locked on her, fastened behind the back of the neck. The legend of the collar read “I am Ellen, the slave of Portus Canio.” To be sure, the reader familiar with Gorean conventions might have noted that Ellen, in her understandable unease, having been discovered, though through no obvious fault of her own, in what might seem a dalliance, or a laxity in her duties, had responded to Canio with the phrase ‘my Master’. The slave addresses all free men as “Master” and all free women as “Mistress.” The phrase ‘my Master,’ when used, is commonly addressed to one’s personal master, one’s owner. Similarly, if the slave is owned by a woman, the phrase ‘my Mistress’ is commonly addressed only to the slave’s actual mistress. To be sure, the slave commonly refers to her owner as she refers to free men and free women in general, namely, simply as “Master” or “Mistress.”

“What is your name?” had asked Portus Canio, some weeks ago, when Ellen, freed of the hood, had knelt, head to the floor, still chained by the neck, still back-braceleted, before him in the stall.

“Whatever Master pleases,” she had replied. That was the judicious response, as a slave has no name in her own right, but may be named as the Master wishes.

“What have you been called?” Portus Canio had inquired.

“‘Ellen,’” she had responded.

“A barbarian name,” he had said. “And a pretty name, a name suitable for a pretty little barbarian slave girl.”

Ellen dared not speak.

“Very well then, you are “Ellen,” he said. “What is your name?”

“‘Ellen’, Master,” had said Ellen, now named, named again, as a sleen, or kaiila, might be named.

“Lift your head,” he said. The slave obeyed, and found a whip before her lips. Obediently, unbidden, she licked and kissed the whip, for some moments, deferentially, submissively, timidly, lovingly, until it was withdrawn.

“You will be fed and watered,” he said. “And then you will be instructed in your duties.”

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

The pans would be put on the floor, and she, neck chained, and back-braceleted, must put down her head to feed, to drink.

She looked after Portus Canio, doubtless her master, whose name she would learn only later, and from others.

She trembled. She had, of course, kissed the whip before, and had even been trained to do so, but this time, oddly, it seemed momentously significant to her. She had knelt before a mighty man and licked and kissed his whip. The symbolism of this act, she on her knees before him, naked and helpless, chained, back-braceleted, suddenly overwhelmed her. Never before, it seemed, had she felt so radically, vulnerably, rawly female. They are the masters, she thought. We are, fittingly, their slaves.

“Ho!” said Portus Canio, turning and glaring at young Selius Arconious. “Are there not harnesses to repair?”

“To be sure, Portus,” grinned Selius.

“You do not earn your copper tarsks by amusing yourself with slave girls!”

Selius grinned.

“See if she is sent to your blankets soon,” said Portus.

Ellen, lifting the basket of meat, smiled at the discomfort of young Selius. Surely he, a mere assistant, should be more circumspect with his employer’s properties. In the last weeks she had become muchly aware of her increasing charms, though they were, of course, collared and owned. She was not insensitive to the tumult, the distress, that a smile, a glance over the shoulder, the movement of a well-turned ankle, might produce in a young man, particularly in one who did not own her. The slave girl, you see, is not without her powers.

“It matters not,” said Selius. “There are hundreds better in the paga taverns!”

Ellen, who had lingered, did not care to hear this.

“The paga taverns are being emptied,” said Portus, “the best girls being shipped to Cos and Tyros, to Brundisium, and elsewhere.”

Selius shrugged.

“If you were not one of the best tarnsters in Ar,” said Portus, “I would throw you from the platform.”

Selius laughed. “I have harnesses to repair,” he said.

Portus then turned about and left the area, going to adjacent rooms.

Selius Arconious, as we recall, at the time of his accosting a young slave, had been in the vicinity of the great portal, that leading outward to the long, curving platform, outside, ledgelike, about the cylinder or tower, with its several perches. Within the portal was the “tarncot,” so to speak, of Portus Canio, which was, in effect, for the most part, a large, lofty, barnlike area, certainly that within the great portal. To the left, as one might look outward from the great portal, barred and gated, was the general housing for tarns, with its perches and roosting areas, hooks for meat, reservoirs for water, and such. There were also, in the vicinity, similarly provisioned, some individual cages. Occasionally a tarn must be isolated, particularly a male tarn, from its fellows. Such individual cages, too, are often used with new birds, in their training, in accustoming them to saddling and harnessing, and such. They are also valuable given the occasional necessity of tending ill or wounded birds. The area directly within the great portal, a large area, as one might suppose, served for the departure and entry of tarns. In this area also, against the walls, were various stalls, slave stalls, in one of which Ellen commonly slept, now usually unchained, when not ordered to her master’s slave ring, that in which she had been originally placed, hooded, chained and back-braceleted, and a variety of storage areas. Too, to one side there were many stacked tarn baskets. The enterprise of Portus in the Corridon Tower was, so to speak, a livery stable and transportation outlet. The tarns were largely draft tarns, large, relatively slow birds, controlled either from a saddle or, by reins, from the tarn basket, slung below the bird. Birds and baskets could be rented, or purchased, and drivers, or tarnsters, hired. There were also, these accessible from the larger area, some hallways, and a number of ancillary rooms, a kitchen, a pantry, living quarters, a workroom, sometimes used, the office of Portus Canio, and so on.

On the second day of her service in the establishment, before she had been permitted clothing, Ellen had screamed and fled from one of the birds, when it had turned its head, sharply, to view her. She had run madly away, in panic, blindly, but struck into Portus, before whom, in terror, she had knelt. “Do not have me with tarns, Master!” she begged. “I fear them so!” Saying nothing he had dragged her to her feet, she half bent over, his hand in her hair, twisted there, painfully, cruelly, and she then, bent over, thus controlled, this being a common slave leading position, was hurried stumbling out onto the platform, to its very edge, where she, to her horror, teetering on that perilous brink, steadied only by the cruel hand in her hair, could look down, down, and see the street, some four hundred feet below, the pavement.

“Do you think you can fly, little vulo?” he inquired.

“No, Master!” she screamed.

“Shall I hurl you to the street?” he asked.

“Please, no, Master!” she screamed. “Do not kill me, Master! Forgive me, Master! Please forgive me! Please, Master, show me mercy!”

He drew her back a yard from the edge and released her. Unable to stand she sank to her knees in terror and grasped his leg, as much to reassure herself, by clinging to this support, as to a stanchion, of some modicum of safety, as in supplication.

“Whom do you fear more,” he asked, “tarns, or men?”

“Men, Master!” she wept. “I am a slave! I fear men more!”

“Your duties, little vulo,” said he, “do not, and will not, involve you in great danger, or at least not from tarns. That is not my intention. I would not risk a woman, even a slave, with such beasts. They would seem too tempting, too delicious, a morsel. Still, in empty cages, or in sparsely occupied cages, while a man stands watch, with a goad, you will have ample opportunity, during long hours, to prove your value as a work slave, removing masses of soiled straw, shoveling excrement, scraping and scrubbing floors, supplying and spreading bundles of fresh, dry straw, carrying water for the reservoirs, replenishing salt stones, climbing the wall railings to hang meat on the feeding hooks, and such.”

Ellen looked up at him, fearfully.

“Of course,” said he, “you will have other duties, as well, cooking, cleaning, mending, sewing, laundering, and such.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. She was grateful to have been shown the rudiments of such matters in her training. She had been switched more than once for her lack of skill in such matters. She had known little of these homely domestic tasks while a female on Earth. Indeed, she had taken a certain pride in her ineptness in such matters, an ineptness which had seemed appropriate to her for one of her education, interests and station. Such tasks were surely below a female intellectual, which she had then been. Then, in training, under the switch, crying out in pain, weeping under the frequent smartness of the strokes, she had struggled to master them. Needless to say, these are skills routinely expected of a slave, any slave, even one whose price is largely indexed to her passion and beauty.

“Oh, too,” he had said, “there are other duties, as well.”

“Master?” she asked.

He glanced at her knees, as she knelt before him, and quickly, blushing, she spread them, and then, as he continued to look, she spread them more widely, and then as widely as she could.

In this place, she then understood, she would never be allowed to forget that she was first and foremost what Mirus had decided she would be, a pleasure slave.

He then turned away.

“Master,” she called plaintively after him, “may I speak?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I still fear tarns!” she said.

“We all fear tarns,” he said, and he then left the platform, re-entering the lofty barnlike area.

She closed her knees and went to all fours and crawled after him, not daring to trust her legs, not daring to try to stand.

On the fourth day of her slavery in this place she was knelt down and collared. Portus read the collar to her, before putting it on her, as she was illiterate. That had been established even before she had been purchased from the shelf of Targo. It said, as we recall, “I am Ellen, the slave of Portus Canio.” It pleased her, somehow, to be naked and collared. The nakedness suggested her vulnerability and, very much, her femaleness. The collar gave her a sense of belonging, a sense of security; too, it was, in its way, a proclamation of her value; it testified that men wanted her, that she had been found fair enough to collar, that she was desired as a female, that she had been found worth enslaving; too, it made it clear, to her and others, that certain issues of her life had been settled for her, that she was already “spoken for,” so to speak, that others need not think of her, that she was already owned. In its way, the collar has some of the symbolic aspects of the marriage ring, except, of course, that that ring is a symbol worn by a free woman who is the putative equal of a man, whereas the collar is worn by a slave, and, aside from such things as its identificatory purposes, important in Merchant Law, is a symbol of the natural woman, the woman who is categorically owned by a man, her master.

To be sure, it is one thing to be naked before the master, wearing only his collar, which you both know identifies you as his, and another thing to be naked in the streets. Ellen was expected to run errands below, to shop, to do the laundry at the public laundering pools, and such. In the first weeks she was not permitted clothing, only her collar. In descending to the street she never used the outside ladder which Portus, who disliked the confinements of the long spiral staircases within the cylinders, had used to bring her originally to the tarn cot. One did not often meet individuals on those staircases, and, when one did, one needed only kneel down, head down, as befitted a slave. Most inhabitants of the tower, free and slave, would leave the tower at various levels, utilizing the bridges amongst them, those stretching from tower to tower, or using them to descend to the street. The city was divided, in this area, in effect, into levels or terraces, and some individuals seldom set foot on the ground, but utilized high markets and such. Ellen avoided these bridges as they were often frighteningly narrow, at least from her point of view, and lacked railings. Goreans, of course, as used to them as those of Earth to their sidewalks, utilized them almost invariably. Even though they might be several feet wide in places, Ellen tended to avoid them. They frightened her.

It required great courage, and resolve, though of course she really had no choice, for Ellen to go into the streets naked, save for her collar. The first time, she stood alone within the lower portal, back in the shadows, cringing, miserable, terrified, for more than fifteen Ehn. How could she, with her background, her antecedents, her education, her former status and station, her delicacy, her beauty, her shyness, her inhibitions, even think of leaving the cylinder, of going forth as she was? Then, after that time, sobbing, fearing she might be whipped for dallying, she stepped boldly out into the sunlight, a stripped slave in the streets. She avoided contact, of course, with the free persons, taking care not to brush against them, not to inconvenience them, not to impede their passage in any way. She was especially careful where free women were concerned. If her eyes might inadvertently meet those of a free person, she immediately lowered her head, and hurried on. Sometimes she knelt, hurriedly, in first-obeisance position. Once, in such a contretemps, she had found herself under the eyes of a free woman, the woman’s eyes cold with contempt. “Be on your way, slave girl,” had said the free woman, coldly, after a time. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress,” had said Ellen. But when Ellen hurried on she thought to herself, “Take away your clothes, free woman. Put you in a collar. Then I do not think we would be so different!” Ellen decided she hated free women. But then that was appropriate enough, she supposed, for, clearly, free women hated slaves, and perhaps, oddly enough, feared them, as well. Perhaps they saw themselves in the slave. Ellen did see briefly tunicked female slaves in the street. “How beautiful they are,” she thought to herself. “How natural, how radiant, how free, how happy, they seem!” Many of the female slaves had long hair, as masters tend to favor such hair in slaves. Much can be done with such hair, not merely with respect to enhancing the beauty of the slave, as it may be arranged variously, but also with respect to its uses in the furs. Some of the girls smiled at Ellen, but then they probably did not know she was a barbarian. But, too, Ellen wondered if any of the slaves she passed might be, like herself, from Earth. That was surely possible. But how could one tell them from Gorean beauties? Did they not all seem lovely in their collars? Ellen knew that some Goreans referred to Earth as a “slave planet.” She did not know if this was because those of Earth, both men and women, tended to live unwittingly in eccentric, unnatural cultural prisons, products of monstrous, lingering historicalities, denying themselves and their natures, submitting mindlessly, uncritically, to pathological, stunting, life-shortening conventions, fearing to live, or if it merely referred to Earth as a welcome, vulnerable resource for the predations of slavers, a world where lovely animals, perhaps rather such as she herself now was, might be netted with impunity, and chained, or crated, and brought to distant markets for their sale. “Stand straight, slave girl,” whispered a yellow-tunicked, long-legged slave, as she passed. “Yes, Mistress,” whispered Ellen. Ellen did see, from time to time, it reassuring her, other naked slaves in the street. To be sure, she supposed them low slaves, or perhaps slaves under discipline, perhaps denied clothing for several days as a consequence of some imperfection, or possible imperfection, in their service. Then she saw a proud slave girl preceding her master, her shoulders back, her head high, her long hair blowing about her back. She was stark naked. She was on a leash. “She is leashed!” thought Ellen. Her thighs, to her embarrassment, heated. She found herself muchly aroused by the sight of the leashed beauty. Yes, yes, she thought. That is what I want. I want to be leashed, too. It would be so exciting. To be leashed! Their eyes met, and the leashed slave looked away. The leashed beauty was being marched naked through the streets, insolently, brazenly. She is being walked, walked like a dog, thought Ellen. Just like a dog! And she is a slave, an animal, too, like a dog! Her master is doubtless proud of her, and doubtless it pleases his male vanity, the beast, to display his lovely property, his beautiful slave, his good fortune, his exquisite taste, to the world. Ellen leaned back against a wall, weak. “I want to be beaten, I want to be leashed,” she thought. Then she thrust such thoughts away. She wanted to hurry back to Portus, or Selius, or one of the others, and beg use. But she must do her errand. It was a simple errand, the first time, merely to obtain an answer from a shopkeeper as to when an order of buckles would be ready. She then hurried back to the tower. But she was not used, merely put to cooking for the men. After the dishes were washed, she was returned to her stall, and there chained. Later, though Ellen continued to envy the slaves who were permitted at least a rag to cover themselves in the streets, she grew more free, and more brazen, in her demeanor. After all, she was not the only slave so sent among the crowds. She was occasionally, of course, and understandably, for many seemed to find her beautiful, accosted, commented upon with cheerful vulgarity, pinched, sometimes cruelly, brushed, touched, caressed, and such, but, invariably, as she could, she hurried on. She also attended to the laundry at the public pools, soaking, beating and rinsing garments, with other slaves. If a Cosian guardsman were in the vicinity they must work in silence. Otherwise the girls would chat merrily. Ellen did not participate in this socialization, as she feared her accent would reveal her as a barbarian, with perhaps serious consequences to her person, or worse, to her laundry. Then, after a time, Ellen would go to the pools, balancing the basket on her head with one hand, easily, proudly. Let Mirus see me now, she thought. Let him see me as I now am, as a naked slave, carrying laundry through the streets of Ar! Would he be amused? Or would he want to put a chain on me? Let him see a lovely, proud slave! Let him see what he has lost! Then she laughed to herself. What would my ideological sisters say if they could see me here, in Ar, a naked slave! I am pleased to be such! Let them cry out in anger, in scorn, in contempt! I would not give the peel of a larma for all that they might think! But see if you, dear, righteous sisters, would behave any differently, if you were stripped, and owned, and collared! Yes, dear sisters, I would like to see you stripped, and owned, and collared! I would like to see what you would do, if you met a real man, a genuinely real man, and felt his chains on your limbs! Do not denounce slaves, until you yourselves have been owned, and mastered! Do not denounce slaves, until you yourselves have learned what it is to be a true woman, pressing your lips timidly, placatingly, to the feet of a man, your master!

One day, on her way to the local laundry pools, as she commonly went, the pools less than a pasang from the Tower of Corridon, within which Portus Canio, her master, conducted his business, she, gracefully balancing her basket on her head as was her wont, steadying it with one hand, passed a familiar wall, only that day, to her surprise, she saw a large, irregular, thick, black triangle scrawled on the wall, some several feet in its dimensions. Apparently it had been placed there in haste; one could even see where paint had run in several places, in descending rivulets, from the bottom of the triangle. Those in the crowd seemed not to notice it, in their passing. Indeed, they seemed deliberately oblivious of its presence. Indeed, they seemed even to hurry, to increase their pace, until they were no longer in its vicinity. She stopped to look at the triangle. It surprised her, and made her a little angry. On her old world, in what had been her city of residence, unauthorized scrawlings, blatant obscenities, defiling letterings, ignorant vandalisms and such were common, these things exhibiting hatred, incivility, a disrespect for property, a petty, ugly desire to defile, to destroy and such, but they were, as far as she knew, rare in Gorean cities. In Gorean cities, you see, there are Home Stones. As a slave, of course, she could not have a Home Stone, no more than any other animal. Her master, however, Portus Canio, she knew, had a Home Stone. His Home Stone was the Home Stone of Ar. “Do not linger here, slave girl,” whispered a man, passing her. “Yes, Master,” she said, and hurried on. The next time she passed the wall, the scrawled triangle had been removed.

It had been only two weeks ago that Portus Canio, apparently satisfied with her service, perhaps even pleased, had thrown a small wad of cloth before her, as she had knelt in her stall. She did not even know what it was until after he had left, and she lifted it, and shook it out. She cried out with delight, and hugged it to her bosom, tears flowing from her eyes. “Thank you, Master! Thank you, Master!” she had cried out, hoping he could hear. It was a small, brown slave tunic.

The next morning, when freed, the chain off her neck, she had hastened to don the tiny garment and had run to Portus, seeking him out, and knelt before him, covering his feet with kisses. “Thank you, my Master. Thank you, my Master!” she had wept, again and again.

He had then made her stand, and walk about, and turn, and display herself in the tunic to himself and his three men, these being Fel Doron, Tersius Major and Selius Arconious.

Ellen complied, delightedly.

“She is actually rather pretty,” said Fel Doron, assessingly.

“She has nice legs, and a pretty ass,” said Tersius Major, speaking vulgarly.

Ellen laughed.

“I like her better without it,” said Selius Arconious.

Ellen frowned. Who did he think he was? He did not own her!

She was muchly pleased with the garment, and she could tell, from the men, that she was extremely attractive in it. She had certainly seen many slave girls in the streets in such garments. Indeed, such garments were standard slave garb. And how beautiful, how exciting, she had found them! Now she herself had such a garment! Now she could be merely another slave in the streets, proud, head up, hair flowing, not that different from others, perhaps prettier than some, doubtless less pretty than others.

With her two hands she pulled down at the hem of the garment. “Is the garment not rather short, Master?” she asked, timidly.

“It can be shorter,” said Portus Canio.

“Yes, Master,” she smiled.

“It can be taken from you,” said Portus.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. “I understand, Master.” This was a reference to the discipline of clothing, a reminder of her dependence in all things.

Then she knelt before them. “Thank you, Masters,” she said.

“We must to our chores,” said Portus. “Boil sa-tarna. Call us when it is ready.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

It is not unusual for slave girls denied clothing to beg piteously for a rag with which to cover themselves, at least when they dare to do so, but Ellen had not importuned Portus Canio with respect to this privilege, fearing the exasperation of his patience, fearing to be beaten. This was in part, doubtless, a function of her newness to her bondage, and an understandable desire to tread softly, to wait and learn, to test boundaries, if she dared to test them at all, with great delicacy and care. If he saw fit to give her covering for her body, she reasoned, he would; if he did not, he would not. After all, she was slave, and he master.

Ellen felt a suffusion of modesty return to her now that she had a garment. It was extremely precious to her. To be sure, it was only of rep-cloth, a cottonlike material, thin and loosely woven, open at the neck, sleeveless, and scandalously brief. Too, it was split at the hips, which bared more thigh, but allowed her to kneel with her knees widely spread, as was appropriate for her form of slavery. But as she attended to her work in the kitchen she felt that she now was, and realized that she now was, even more vulnerable than she had been before. A privilege granted may be a privilege withdrawn. The tiny garment, so precious to her, might be removed from her, at so little as a word from the master.

****

And so Ellen reached down and picked up the heavy basket of meat, which she must carry to the feeding area, a section within the housing for tarns, and set forth, piece by piece, climbing the wall railings, impaling it on the hooks, for the mighty birds, seven of them, due to return with their empty baskets within the Ahn.

Portus Canio had left but Selius Arconious was still standing in the vicinity of the great portal. Ellen was well aware, and not at all displeased, that he had his eyes on her. She was, after all, a slave.

“We must be about our chores,” she said, saucily.

“I think I will save my money and buy you,” he said.

“I hope not!” she said.

“If I owned you,” he said, “you would obey me well.”

“Of course,” she said. “All slaves must obey their masters.”

He was looking across the straw-strewn floor at an object near one wall. Ellen reddened. It was a large, smooth, glossy tarn saddle, with its straps and rings. Ellen was quite familiar with that object. In her first experience of it, however, she, in the slave hood, had not even understood what it was. Shortly after her introduction into the tarn area, she had been whipped, that to inform her that she was now in the domicile where she would be slave. Then, sobbing, she had been flung over the object, the artifact, the large saddle, on her belly, and subjected to peremptory attentions, brutally, unceremoniously ravished as the meaningless slave she was. That had been done by Portus Canio, her master, of course. There was no doubt about that. But, too, by now, she well knew the feel of his hands on her body. Now she looked at the broad, smooth, glossy, rounded surface and blushed.

Selius Arconious was regarding it, too. And it was not difficult to read his thoughts.

“Do you not have harnesses to mend,” she asked, “— Master?”

“Your face, and arms, and legs are red,” said he, “slave girl.”

Ellen blushed more, her entire exposed body, where it was not concealed with the brief tunic, reddening even more embarrassingly.

She looked at the rounded surface. She had been several times on that surface, and generally on her belly. It was a useful place to teach a slave what she was, it seemed. More embarrassingly Ellen, despite her initial dismay, her resentment, and distress, at Portus’s first use of her there, had gradually, in the vicinity of this object, and in certain other places where men had put her to their purposes, begun to be disturbed by slave heat rising within her. Whereas her conscious mind might feign resentment and humiliation at such usages her unconscious mind, the emotions of her depths, seemed insistently, irresistibly, to crave them. A frequent thought in her mind, one she often tried to banish, was “Use me as a slave! Use me as the slave I am!” How startled, and seemingly upset, she had been upon occasion when she was dragged to the saddle for use, to discover, despite her seeming resistance, her trying to hang back, her wrist tight in their grip, that she wished to be taken there. Even more startled she was when, at no more than a tiny touch, the men informed her, she over the saddle, embarrassingly on her belly, her tunic thrust up about her hips, that she was “juicing,” “oiling,” “lubricating,” that she was “slave ready.” “No, no!” she wept, but she had then begun to enjoy her uses. To her horror, later, she found her body responding, first with tiny, begging movements, and then, as she was forced to higher levels of excitement, and arousal, with brazen supplicatory liftings, with obvious, shameless petitionary presentations of her body, which the masters, unnecessarily in her view, found amusing. “Oh!” she cried. “You wriggle well, slave girl,” she was informed. Then, when permitted, clinging to a ring, eyes clenched shut, lost in her sensations, she served, twisting, grinding, bucking, begging, crying out, until, her fingers white and tight on the ring, she screamed her submission and slavehood. Mental associations are interesting, how one thing may be associated with another, how one may remember things, how one thought may suggest another, how emotions and feelings, and thoughts, may be associated with one place or another, or with one object or another. As the mere sight of the saddle had come to be arousing to Ellen, so, too, with slaves, the mere being in a place or the mere seeing or touching of an article may affect them in a profound manner, disturbing them, rendering them uneasy, rendering them helplessly, grievously needful. The sight of her chains, of a whip, the touching of her collar, the fingering of her brand, even in the absence of the master, can arouse a slave. So, too, the sight of a place she remembers, a grassy knoll, a place behind a shed, a ditch, a stall, the surface of a long, narrow wooden bench, the floor, fur-strewn, at the foot of the master’s couch, she not permitted on its surface, that privilege usually reserved for free companions, or perhaps high slaves, such things, can all affect her profoundly, can all heat her, and torment her with the longing, the yearning, of the needful slave, fearful of, but grateful for, the slave fires men have ignited in her belly. But one need not be a slave to be so affected, to feel these things. To be sure, the female slave is the most sexual, loving, vulnerable, helpless and feminine of all women, but such things are not confined to those whose lovely throats are clasped securely within the circlet of bondage. Free women, too, can feel such things. For example, the mere secret touching of a slave tunic can make a free woman sob with need. Sexuality in a woman, and I wish this were clear to all men, is an entirety, a totalistic phenomenon. It is not limited to portions of our body, or moments of our day. It is pervasive; most simply, it is we. Be severe with us, if you will, Masters, but understand what it is you own. It is all of us that you own. It is all of us, our entirety, our wholeness, which you, to our undying gratitude, have put in your collars.

“I trust that my Master, the noble Portus Canio, your employer,” said Ellen to Selius Arconious, “does not inquire of me as to your behavior, and if you have been attentive to your duties, for I, as a slave, however reluctantly, knelt down to speak the truth, would have to admit that you have been lax, and that you have a tendency to dally, quite unconscionably.”

Selius picked up a loop of harness and held it in his hands. The leather was black, and glossy, some half of an inch in thickness, and some three to four inches in width, and there were buckles attached, for its fastening on tarns. He fingered the leather, while regarding her, and, to her unease, snapped it taut in his hands. More than once he, and others, had put her in portions of such harnessings, for their uses. With all a slave’s sensuousness, and a slave’s sensitivity to surfaces and textures, she had relished its tightness, and feel, and her slave’s helplessness in such bonds, even the cut of the buckle in her flesh. Such things, like cords and chains, perhaps partly for physical reasons, but surely, too, for psychological reasons, cruelly fan the flames of a woman’s bondage. They tell her, you are slave, you are owned, you are mine, you have no choice, you will obey, you will yield, you will be punished, and terribly, if you hold anything back, you will have orgasms such that you have never dreamed of, orgasms that you have hitherto not understood were possible, you will have the orgasms of a surrendering, conquered slave.

“Well,” said Ellen, lightly, “I must be about my duties.”

She then turned away, but, after a step, stopped, looked back over her shoulder and smiled, slyly, and then, saucily, suddenly, bid Selius farewell with a toss, beneath her brief, thin tunic, of her small, well-outlined derrière.

“She-sleen!” he cried, taking a step toward her, but she sped away. “You do not own me!” she laughed, “and I do not think you will soon, after today, have my use either!”

“She-sleen! She-urt!” he cried.

Ellen was well pleased with herself. “Let him suffer, and stew about,” she laughed to herself. “He thinks he is so handsome, so important. He is only a tarnster, a driver! A lowly employee of my master! Let him roll and twist, and mutter angrily, in his blankets. Let him stew, and cry out, and suffer! He cannot have me! I am not for such lowly sorts! Suffer, Selius Arconious, suffer! You cannot have me!”

In the barred feeding area, the gate shut against the housing for returning tarns, Ellen put the basket of meat on the floor, and, moving about, and climbing, ascending, placed the meat, piece by piece, heavy strip by heavy strip, on the hooks in the wall. From those hooks, sometimes as they fluttered in the feeding area, feet from the floor, it would be torn by the feeding tarns. Sometimes, too, when the tarns were in the feeding area, she would throw the meat upward, between the bars to them. In such a case they tended to seize it in the air, with their beaks. If a piece fell to the floor, they would hover above it, seize it in their talons, and then crouch over it, holding it in place with a taloned foot, while tearing it to pieces with their beaks. “We all fear tarns,” Portus Canio had told her once, on the platform. Ellen did not doubt it. She knew that she was terrified of the great winged beasts. She was reluctant to approach them, even with bars between them.

While Ellen climbed and placed the meat, she wondered what it would be like, to be owned by Selius Arconious. She did not even like him, of course. She wondered if he would use the switch, or a whip, on her, if he would beat her. He might, of course. She was, after all, a slave.

She fixed another piece of meat in place.

She was a woman of Earth, and had been an intellectual, a person of stature and importance. How was it then, she wondered, given her obvious excellence and quality, her obvious value, that she had not been purchased by a rich man, someone important, a statesman, a general or a great merchant, surely by some significant personage in Ar. Surely she should serve in a mansion or palace, or a great cylinder, in rich quarters. Did they truly not know her worth, what she deserved? How was it then that she had been purchased by a tarnmaster, a fellow not even of high caste? She wondered what he had paid for her. Then she realized that these matters of Earth were of no interest here, on this world. Here she was a young barbarian, naive, poorly trained and illiterate. What could she expect, here? She had not even been the best meat on Targo’s shelf. Surely she had not been the first sold. Indeed, it seemed that he had, at times, almost despaired of disposing of her. She wondered what she had gone for. Mirus had let her go, it seemed, for a mere ten copper tarsks, such as might be paid for a worthless girl. To be sure, Mirus, as part of his vengeance and amusement, had doubtless wanted her sold so, as a worthless slut. Then she realized that her value on this world was not a function of her value elsewhere, under different conditions. Here she had been sold simply for what she now was, as that and nothing else, as raw female. This, doubtless, was what she was worth, in herself. It occurred to her that she had perhaps been fortunate, given her unimportance and her lack of value here, to have been purchased by a tarnkeeper. She might have been purchased by a peasant, slept chained in a hovel, and, harnessed, struggled to plow his fields.

She recalled with satisfaction, with pleasure, how she had tormented Selius Arconious. She laughed to herself. Oh, dear Mirus, my erstwhile master, she thought to herself, what would you have made of that? Would you have recognized your Ellen, she whom you brought to Gor and so transformed and reduced, in that enticing, insolent, saucy little flirt? One who well knows how to torment a man? Would you have known me? Would you have been surprised? Would you have been outraged? Do you think I might similarly torment you? Perhaps. After all, I am no longer your slave, my dear Mirus.

“Ho, slave!” called Fel Doron. “I see the first of the birds in the distance. Hurry!”

“Yes, Master!” cried Ellen.

****

Ellen, as she was a slave, was not permitted to leave the stable, or cot, without permission. This was quite normal, of course. Slaves, almost invariably, are not allowed to leave the residence of, or the grounds of, the master without receiving permission. When such permission is granted, the slave is expected to specify her destination, her business and her expected time of return. Such things may always be checked. The slave’s life is a controlled life. The slave is not a wife, but a property, and, accordingly, as she is not an autonomous, independent contractee but a valued possession, she commonly finds herself an object of jealous regard on the part of the master. She is not respected, but, rather, sheltered, safeguarded and treasured. Masters, as with other valuable possessions, tend to take a detailed personal interest in their slaves, sometimes washing them, as one might a dog, combing their hair for the pleasure they derive from this activity, dressing them for their pleasure, having them display their beauty in a variety of aspects and attitudes upon command, and so on. Masters commonly wish to know everything there is to know about their slaves. To make a trivial comparison, few husbands take the time to really look at their wives, for example, to inspect, scrutinize and truly examine the bodies of their wives, and, one supposes, such attentions might be found disturbing by many wives, who might fear or resist such interests. On the other hand, the master will commonly have examined the bodies of his slaves with great care, familiarizing himself with each subtle, delicious curve. He is likely to note even the tiny hairs at the back of her neck, beneath her collar, pulling her collar out a little to see them. He will know, too, her every tiny blemish, and will commonly see them as interesting and delightful, as making her different or special in her way, or perhaps as beauty marks or patches, whose presence cunningly serves to enhance, by striking contrast, the beauty of the owned wholeness of her. Too, of course, as she is not a wife, but a chained slave, he may experiment with her, subjecting her, she willing or not, to a variety of erotic techniques, until he finds what she cannot resist, and what renders her helpless, what will drive her wild with passion, what might rob her of her last pathetic vestige of self and turn her into a writhing, ecstatic, spasmodic, begging slave. And so, you see, masters are muchly concerned with their slaves, and control them, and regulate and supervise them, with much attention and great care. They are not wives, they are properties. And thus they wish to know, it seems at all times, their activities, whereabouts, and such. It would not do, for example, to have them sneaking off for an assignation with a groom or drover. That is not their privilege, you see. They belong to the master.

Just as Ellen was not permitted, nor would be many slaves, to leave the domicile of the master without permission, so, too, she was not permitted, without express permission, to open the interior door of the apartments of Portus Canio, that leading to the interior stairwell, giving access to various bridges, and, eventually, at its foot, to the street. One does not know who might be on the other side of the door. She can, of course, keep the door, ascertain the nature of callers, and, if given permission, open the door.

We mention the matter of the interior door because, interestingly, usually in the evening, sometimes late at night, unidentified visitors, sometimes several of them, would arrive at the door, visitors who may not have, in their approach, availed themselves of the outside bridges. Portus Canio, himself, would admit these visitors, but only, whether it were early evening or late at night, after he had hooded Ellen, back-braceleted her and chained her in her stall. This puzzled Ellen because, normally, at least after her first few days in the stable, or cot, she was not even chained in her stall. To be sure, where was there for a slave girl to run? The collar and chain, of course, were always there, beneath the straw. Portus Canio entertained these visitors in the kitchen, apparently about the table there. Ellen, from her stall, could hear nothing of what was said.

One morning, when Ellen was sweeping in the kitchen, she bent down and picked up what seemed to be a shard of white pottery.

“What have you there?” asked Portus Canio.

“I do not know, Master,” said Ellen.

He put out his hand and Ellen put down the broom, and went and knelt before him, as that is how the girl commonly approaches the master when summoned, and, lifting her hand, gave him the object.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“It is an ostrakon,” he said.

Originally an ostrakon was merely a shard of pottery, often glazed, used for one purpose or another, say, for a token, a ticket, or such. On the other hand, they may be, and often are, prepared deliberately, fired in great numbers for admission tokens, tickets, or such, to restricted festivals, private markets, song dramas, and such. The object in question, clearly, seemed to be an actual shard. It was glazed white, on one side.

Portus held the shard before her, the glazed side facing her. On it was a design, a letter or mark.

“Can you read this?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“You have not seen this,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He put the shard in his pouch. “You may return to your work,” he said.

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

As she swept the floor of the kitchen, she recalled the design on the ostrakon. It was small, of course, no more than an inch or so in height, but she had seen the mark before, on a wall, a titanic mark scrawled there, as though angry and defiant, in dimensions of several feet. It was a black triangle.

****

“Master?” asked Ellen.

“Assume the standard position for the examination of a standing slave,” said Portus Canio.

Ellen, in her tunic, puzzled, stood then before him, her legs widely, painfully spread. The split hems of the tunic, slit at the sides, permitted this position. Ellen clasped her hands behind the back of her head, and held her head up and back, in this position looking rather at the height of the great portal, leading into the barn area, from the platform outside. In this position it is convenient to examine the slave. She cannot easily move without losing her balance. The position of her hands prevents her from interfering with the examination. The raised head, held back, makes it difficult for her to know, or guess, the position of the examiner’s hands, where they are, and what they might do, for example, how and when she might be touched, caressed, or tested. Needless to say, this position is normally assumed when the slave is nude.

“Steady,” said Portus Canio.

“Oh!” cried Ellen.

“A tiny tube has been inserted in your body,” said Portus Canio. “At its base is a tiny leather loop, not visible from the outside, by means of which it may be withdrawn. You may now stand naturally before me.”

Ellen then stood as an erect, graceful slave before her master. From his pouch he withdrew a light belly chain, which hooked in front, with attached slave bracelets at the back of the chain. He then put her in the belly chain and bracelets, her hands braceleted behind her, at the small of her back. Given the flare of her hips, her hands would be kept there, at the small of her back. Accordingly, she was unable to reach whatever it was which Portus Canio had placed in her body.

“I do not understand, Master,” she said.

“When someone says to you, ‘Are your thighs hot?’ you are to reply, ‘I am a slave girl, Master,’ and obey him, without demur. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“Are your thighs hot?” asked Portus Canio.

“I am a slave girl, Master,” she said.

“Good,” said Portus. Then from his pouch he drew forth a small message capsule, about a half inch in width and two and a half inches in length, with its screw lid and the loop of string by means of which it might be looped about, or tied to, a slave’s collar. He tied it about her collar. He tied it in such a way that it would dangle between her tunicked breasts. This technique is, of course, more stimulatory when the slave is naked. She is thus more acutely aware of the movements of the object upon her, fastened in such a way as to remind her constantly of both the errand and the master. Ellen, of course, could feel it through the rep-cloth, which is quite thin, “slave thin,” as it is sometimes said. Rep-cloth, like slave silk, leaves few of a slave’s charms to the imagination.

“This message,” said Portus, “is to be carried to Bonto, the Cobbler, of the Leather Workers, in Hesius Street. You have been there, you know the place.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“It is an order for work sandals, for the men, with their sizes, and such,” said Portus Canio. He then went through the barn area, and the inner rooms, until he reached the interior door, which he opened. Ellen followed him. “Be on your way,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

Never before had she been sent forth so, braceleted. Normally she delivered her messages by word of mouth, though, upon occasion, she had been given a scrap of paper, which she normally held in one hand. There are no pockets, of course, in a slave tunic. Similarly, naturally, there is no nether closure in such a tunic, as one of the purposes of such a tunic is to remind the slave that she is to be instantly, readily available to men.

Perhaps a word might be added with respect to this matter.

It is not an accident, of course. Like other aspects of the garment, its brevity, simplicity and such, it has its meaning, its role and symbolism.

The slave is, you see, to be instantly available to men; her inviting, luscious intimacies, so sweet and warm between her thighs, belong not to her but to the master; she is not a free woman who may wrap and bundle herself, and shield and guard herself; she is a slave and thus she is to be instantly, vulnerably, readily accessible to men; she is no more than an object or toy, no more than a possession, no more than a lovely animal, subject to the least whim and convenience of masters.

Does not the tunic make such things clear to her?

In such a garment she is well aware of her vulnerability; she lives in a state of sexual awareness, and often, whether in despite of her wishes or not, she finds herself in a state of helpless sexual arousal.

Men, it seems, respect free women, but seek slaves, they venerate the citizeness, but it is we whom they buy; they esteem the free woman but it is we whom they rope and leash, and lead home.

It is little wonder free women hate slaves, and slaves fear free women.

Ellen descended, carefully, her wrists fastened behind her, the long spiral staircase within the cylinder, and, at the ground level, thrust open the swinging portal with her shoulder, and went into the streets. She had seen other girls running errands clad as she, in their tunics, and back-braceleted, with a message capsule slung about their neck or tied to their collar, but this was the first time she had been so sent forth. She was pleased that she had not been sent forth naked and back-braceleted, with a message capsule. She had occasionally seen slaves on errands, so exposed, so restrained.

In a few minutes she had come to the open shop of Bonto and knelt before him. “Tal, Ellen,” said he, for he knew her from previous errands. “Tal, Master,” she responded. He unscrewed the cap on the message capsule, removed the tiny paper within and studied it. “Convey my greetings to Portus Canio, your master,” said he, “and inform him that the order will be filled by the tenth Ahn, the second day from this.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He then replaced the lid on the capsule, and once more it dangled from her collar.

He lifted his hand and she rose, turned about, and returned to the streets, to make her way back to the Tower of Corridon. Bonto seemed a kindly man, simple and gentle. Ellen liked him. Men are so different, she thought. And I could belong to any man, any man who might buy me. I wonder what it would be like to belong to Bonto. He is muchly different from Portus Canio, my master. I think he would be kind to me, though, of course, I would have to render him perfect slave service. If I were less than perfect, I do not doubt but what he would use the switch, or whip, on me. He is, after all, Gorean. But I think I prefer Portus Canio, my master. I think he is sterner, I think he is more severe. Kneeling before him any woman would know herself a slave. At least I do not belong to Selius Arconious, that supercilious, handsome, vain, arrogant beast! How I detest Selius Arconious! And yet if he were to buy me, I would be his slave, and would have to render him perfections of service. I do not think he would be patient with me, not at all, even as patient as Portus Canio. How I hate him, that young, handsome, vain beast, Selius Arconious, he thinking he is so good-looking, so clever and mighty! How I hold him in contempt, how I detest him! And yet it is hard for me to remain standing before him! I grow weak! He makes me feel helpless! His nearness makes me feel faint! I grow giddy! I wish to flee! I wish to kneel! I wish to put my head down! I must fight the desire to tear away my tunic and throw myself to my belly before him! He is insensitive. He does not understand me. He cares for me not at all, save as an object of lust. Even his least glance treats me as a slave. Why is it then that I writhe in the straw at the thought of him? Why is it then that I dream of his whip upon me, lashing me, claiming me, marking me as his?

“Hold, slave girl,” said a voice behind her, a man’s voice. “Do not turn about.”

Ellen, frightened, stood still.

“Are your thighs hot?” she heard the voice ask.

“Master?” she asked, frightened.

“Are your thighs hot?” he asked.

“— I am a slave girl, Master,” she whispered.

“You will continue to walk in your current direction,” said the voice. “At the next corner you will turn left, and enter the third door on your left. You will not look behind you.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. She had the vague notion that she might have heard the voice before, but she did not recognize it.

When Ellen arrived at the designated door, she saw that it hung awry on its hinges, was half broken, and boarded over. It gave access to what, now abandoned, might once have been a small, shuttered, unpretentious place of business. The windows were boarded over. Bills, mostly advertising tharlarion races and paga taverns, adhered to the exterior walls, and, in two places, to the door itself.

“Enter and do not look back,” said the voice.

Ellen entered the room, thrusting against the door with her shoulder. The man followed her within. She heard the door closed behind her. It was rather dark in the room; it was lit only by narrow blades of light coming through cracks in the imperfectly shuttered windows. It was musty and gloomy. There was miscellaneous debris on the floor, a shallow, bent pan, perhaps once used by slaves for drinking, some boards, some papers, and such. In the center of the room there was a table. There was much dust, everywhere. She felt the dust, thick, deep, soft, beneath her bare feet. She did not know when this room had been last entered. She noted motes of dust adrift in the light. She heard a rustle of leather behind her and then could see no more as she had been hooded. She was lifted from her feet and carried to the table, on the surface of which she was placed, on her back. Almost immediately she heard others approach, it seemed from an inner room. She half reared up as she felt her ankles firmly, rudely grasped. She was forced back to the surface of the table. Her tunic was thrust up, about her hips. Then, her ankles cruelly, widely spread, held far apart, she could feel the edges of the table on each side, the object which Portus Canio had inserted within her was drawn free. The message capsule which had held the sandal order for Bonto of the Leather Workers, tied to her collar, hung to one side.

“Remain as you are, slave girl,” said the man’s voice, that of he who had directed her to this place.

“Yes, Master,” she said, within the hood. She must obey, she remembered, without demur. And, indeed, where men are concerned, at least free men, and these men were presumably free, what alternative does a slave girl have other than instant and perfect obedience?

After a few Ehn she again felt her legs spread and the tube, or one similar to it, was again inserted within her. She then heard the men withdraw, with one exception. She was carried to the door, and stood upright, facing it. Her tunic was smoothed down. The door was opened. Then, after a moment, warned not to look about, the hood was removed, and she was ordered to return, as though nothing had occurred, to her master. Ellen needed no urging and quickly left the room, not looking back. She restrained her impulse to run back to the Tower of Corridon, to seek the security of the loft, of her stall, of the kitchen. She tried to walk naturally. She could feel, subtly, the small object which had been placed within her. She had been fully at the mercy of the men, but they had not made use of her. She had not been put to their pleasure. She wondered if that were because she was the property of Portus Canio, or merely because these were serious men, who had more important things on their minds than such as she. At the tower, as chance would have it, though she wondered if he were waiting for her, it was Selius Arconious who opened the interior door to admit her. She saw how he looked at her, and she backed against the wall, near the door. She pulled a little against the bracelets and there was a tiny sound of chain, emphasizing her helplessness and captivity, and her movements, too, of course, drew the belly chain back, more tightly, about her, reining in her belly, which, in emphasizing the narrowness of her waist, the contrasting flare of her hips, the swelling, lovely ascent to her bosom, and her condition as bound thrall, presumably did not much help either. Selius Arconious took her casually, masterfully, possessively, in his arms, and she turned her head to the side, trying to turn away from him. How small her body seemed in his mighty grasp. “No, Master!” she said. “No, Master! Do not, Master!”

“Struggle if you will, little vulo,” he said. “You are only a slave.”

He then pressed his lips to hers greedily, as though he would devour her. “You are only a slave,” he whispered.

“What is going on here?” said Portus Canio, entering the room.

Selius Arconious thrust Ellen from him, and stepped back. Ellen tried to catch her breath. She sank back against the wall, weakly. In another moment, she feared, every fiber in her vulnerable, enslaved body, the entirety of her vulnerable, enslaved self, might have yielded to him. She stood then straight, as Portus Canio was present, reddening, looking embarrassed, trying to look indignant.

“Well?” said Portus.

“I was hungry,” said Selius Arconious, “for a snack of slave.”

“Seek provender at the taverns, at the brothels,” said Portus. He then turned, angrily, to Ellen, who immediately knelt, with her head to the floor. “And what of this is your fault?” he inquired.

“Please do not whip me, Master!” begged Ellen. Her small wrists, behind her, pulled against the bracelets.

“Oh, I do not blame you, slut,” said Portus. “You cannot help what you are.”

“Master?” said Ellen.

“It was my fault,” said Selius Arconious.

“The sight of you to a man,” said Portus Canio to Ellen, “is like thrusting a torch into straw. How can it not burn?”

Then he said, “I go to the office. Join me there.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

Portus Canio then left.

When Ellen looked up, she found herself kneeling before Selius Arconious.

“You look well at my feet, slave girl,” he said.

“My master awaits me,” said Ellen.

“Split your knees, more widely,” said Selius Arconious. “Yes,” said he, “you look well there, and thusly.”

“I am under command,” said Ellen. “I must hasten to my master!”

Selius indicated that she might rise, and she scrambled, angrily, to her feet.

“May I speak?” she inquired, angrily, looking up a him.

“Yes,” he said.

“Dare never again to take me in your arms! I will complain to my master! I hate you! You are a vain, arrogant beast! You are a brute! You are ignorant, stupid and homely! You think you are so grand! You are not! You are only a tarnster! You are an ugly tarnster! You are nothing! I loathe your touch! The sight of you makes my skin crawl! Better to be seized in the claws of a tharlarion! I detest you!”

“Do you think I do not know the feel of a slave in my arms who is on the brink of yielding?” he inquired.

“No!” she cried. “False! False!”

“So the little vulo would pretend that she is a figurine of ice, carved in the form of a slave girl?”

“I hate you!”

“But a touch,” he said, reaching out, “ever so gentle, ever so soft, will prove to me, and to any who might be interested, that you are a hot little slut.”

“Do not touch me!” said Ellen.

She backed away, frightened.

“You are a barbarian,” he said. “You are worthless, but you might serve some simple purposes, as a slave.”

“If you touch me again, I will tell my master,” she said. “Consider that, vain, handsome beast!”

He regarded her, angrily. And she stepped farther away, and stood straight. She tossed her head, insolently, and her hair, which was longer now, which had never been cut on Gor, save to be trimmed and shaped, danced about her shoulders.

“You may, of course,” she said, “look upon me, and frequently, I trust, and I shall find that amusing, for I know that you may not have me. Indeed, I may move with particular interest before you, to insult and taunt you, subtly, of course, so that my master will not notice. I think that will be a frolic. And thus will I avenge myself on you, paying you back for your arrogance, and your unacceptable liberties, by torturing you with the beauty of a slave girl, forever beyond your reach! Oh, I shall relish your agony! Do not smile! Whatever you may say to me, I know that I am not the poorest meat in a collar! I have seen the eyes of men in the streets upon me. I have heard their calls. I have felt their cruel pinches, darted away from their hands, and touches! And I know, too, that whatever I may be, and whatever may be my quality, or whatever price I might bring in a market, you, handsome master, desire me, and heatedly. Good! And you may not have me! I am owned by another! Roll in your blankets and think of me! Moan in your sleep! Dream of what you cannot possess! Let your straw burn, handsome master. Let it burn — fiercely! Suffer, thinking of me! I know that you desire me, and mightily, but know that I detest you, and that you cannot have me! You will never have me! I am not yours! I belong to another!”

“You can probably not even dance nude,” said Selius Arconious.

With a cry of anger, Ellen spun about and hurried to the office of Portus Canio. There he put her on her knees, her head to the floor, and, from behind her, removed the object from her body. He then, as the thought struck him, rather as an afterthought, seized her at the hips and briefly made use of her; he then, after a moment or two, freed her of the belly chain and bracelets and sent her to the kitchen, to prepare the men’s supper. After supper, while Ellen was busying herself, cleaning up, attending to the dishes, and such, she thought of Selius Arconious. How I detest him, how I hate him, she thought. To be sure, he was young, and strong and handsome. When she was near him she felt weak, “slave weak.” He was the sort of a man who made a woman quite conscious of the brand on her thigh, the collar on her neck. She recalled her training. She had not even been shown the rudiments of dance. That had been denied her. Accordingly she was no dancer. Too, Goreans have high standards for slave dance. On the other hand, she thought to herself, I am not such poor stuff. I could show him how a woman of Earth, yes, of Earth, if trained, can dance before men! I could show him how a woman of Earth, as much as any Gorean woman, can drive a man mad with passion!

It might be mentioned that the errand just described was merely the first errand of its type which was required of Ellen. Over the next few weeks she found herself, several times, embarked on similar obscure ventures. There were some differences, of course. For example, she was sent to different shops and places of business, and professional activity, but each time, of course, with some ostensible, public purpose, usually connected, at least officially, with her master’s interests or work, a purpose which might be ascertained, for example, by guardsmen, were they inclined to inquire. And then each time, she having discharged her public business, she would be, sometimes even near the Tower of Corridon, addressed from behind, and directed, always by the unseen observer, to a rendezvous elsewhere, in one place or another, at which point the small tube would be removed from her body and then, later, reinserted. She did not know if she were carrying messages back to her master or not, as he never opened the tube in her presence. He did not warn her to silence about these fascinating matters but she was, we may suppose, highly intelligent, or at least intelligent, and surely warily discreet. Too, she did not wish to be smothered, or strangled, or suffer an unfortunate, fearful accident, for example, falling from the platform to the street so far below.

It is perhaps appropriate to mention, however briefly, one further matter, which it seems may have been important with respect to various events which were soon to transpire in Ar and its vicinity.

Ellen was at the public laundry pools on a given morning, those local to her district, toward the ninth Ahn, something before noon, kneeling on a towel, working on the laundry for Portus Canio and his men. This she did weekly. There were several slaves similarly engaged, perhaps two dozen, here and there, about the small pools, and, as there were no guardsmen in the vicinity, these were quite vocal, gossiping, chatting delightedly, exchanging small secrets, playing, splashing water, and so on. Too, they were doubtless not unaware that several young men were about, who, as was common, had come down to the pools to watch the girls in their collars work. It is pleasant to see beautiful women engaged in simple tasks, particularly if they are permitted no more clothing than a slave tunic. Too, Ellen realized, women become more animate, and beautiful, and charming, when they know themselves under the scrutiny of men. They are performing, thought Ellen, they are displaying themselves, as females. How stimulated they are, how pleased they are to do this, she thought. Even free women, she knew, behaved so. She recalled such things even from Earth, even amongst, surprisingly enough, her ideological colleagues. So many of them, she recalled, seemed so different in the presence of men. They are trying to please men, she had thought. And then she had thought, as well, but is that not what we all want to do, please men? Too, she had sometimes marked various changes in their behavior, such as a self-conscious awkwardness, a sudden uneasiness, a stumbling of speech, unfamiliar gestures, of a surprisingly, rather obviously feminine sort, flirtatious expressions and attitudes, a straining for wit and cleverness. Sometimes they burst into uneasy laughter, exhibiting an unnatural hilarity which bordered on nervous hysteria. What they needed, thought Ellen, working on a tunic of Fel Doron, was to have their clothing removed, and to be tied at the feet of men. That is what they needed!

There were, of course, streets in the vicinity of the pools, and these streets had their traffic, of pedestrians, carts, and such. Normally heavy wagons and such were allowed in the streets only after dark, to avoid congestion.

Ellen did not, as we have suggested, join in the pleasant confabulations of the enslaved beauties at the pools, fearing that her accent would betray her as a barbarian, with perhaps unfortunate consequences, even if only so minor as contempt and ostracization. She did, of course, smile when smiled at, and took care to present herself at the pools as merely another pleasant, dutiful slave, engaged in her domestic labors, only another Gorean slave girl. And then she thought once, I may be a barbarian, but, in the end, that, too, is all I really am, only another Gorean slave girl! Too, Ellen knew no one at the pools. Many of the other girls seemed to have their friends, and know one another, and perhaps, being freer than Ellen, even arranged to meet their friends at the pools, seizing such pleasant opportunities to chat, gossip, socialize, and such.

Ellen angrily took from the heap of clothing to her right a tunic of Selius Arconious. He was in the employ of Portus Canio, her master, and, given her duties, there was no way she could avoid doing his laundry. She lifted it to her face, and slowly, deeply, drew in its scent, her eyes closed, and pressed her lips submissively to the cloth.

She heard a bright laugh from beside her, and she quickly thrust the cloth down.

“That must be the tunic of your master!” laughed a girl next to her. The kneeling slave, to her right, she who had spoken, had dark eyes, regarding her, now sparkling, dancing, with amusement. She was dark-haired, beautifully formed and exquisitely beautiful. She wore a light, yellow, brief tunic, with a disrobing loop at the left shoulder, as most masters are right-handed. Ellen thought that she, stripped on a slave block, would doubtless bring a high price. Ellen felt a surge of jealousy.

“No!” said Ellen. “It is the tunic of a hateful brute!” Then Ellen was alarmed, for she saw the girl look at her, sharply. Doubtless she had recognized that Ellen spoke with an accent.

“You seem to have an unusual accent!” said Ellen, defensively, to the girl.

“So, too, do you,” she said, not unpleasantly, but a bit narrowly.

“What is your accent?” asked Ellen.

“Your accent seems of Ar, in a way,” said the girl.

“But what is your accent?” asked Ellen.

“I fear it is Cosian,” said the girl.

“Then you are Cosian!” said Ellen. She knew how those of Cos were hated in Ar.

“How I can be Cosian?” laughed the girl. “I can no more be Cosian than a kaiila. I am a slave.”

Ellen smiled, despite her anxiety, her defensiveness.

“But I learned my first Gorean,” said the girl, “in slave pens, in Telnus, the capital of Cos.”

“‘Learned’?” said Ellen, startled.

“Yes,” said the girl. “I come from another world. I am a barbarian. Such are now no strangers to Gorean markets.”

“I, too, am a barbarian!” said Ellen.

“I thought so!” laughed the girl. “I am from a place called America.”

“I too am from America!” cried Ellen. “We are both from America!” She then, suddenly, as though something had broken within her, tears running down her cheeks, fell weeping into the arms of the other girl. “They have taken us and brought us here,” she wept. “How terrible they are! How wicked they are! They have branded us, and collared us, and made us slaves!”

“Yes,” smiled the other girl. “We are now slaves. But do not weep. There is no going back. We are now here. And this is now our world. If we would live, we must try to be good slaves.”

Ellen wept, uncontrollably.

“Surely there are worse worlds,” said the girl, consolingly, soothingly. “Consider the beauty of this world, how fresh and glorious it is! Have you known such a place on Earth, surely not many. What a boon, what a privilege it is, to breathe such air, such exuberant air, to see such sights, so striking, so splendid and colorful, to taste fresh, natural foods, not aged and stale, not tasteless, not saturated with alien chemicals! And see how these men love their world and their cities, their fields and forests, how they keep them, how they care for them, and love them, how they will not destroy them, how they will not cut and burn them, nor diminish and exhaust them. There are surely worse worlds than this.”

“But we have been brought here as slaves!” said Ellen.

“Yes,” smiled the girl.

“By what right?” demanded Ellen.

“By the right of their will, it seems,” said the girl. “These are men. They do much what they please, and take much what they want.”

Ellen sobbed.

“As foxes are the natural prey of fox hunters, as deer are the natural prey of deer hunters, so women are the natural prey of slave hunters,” said the girl.

Ellen regarded her, red-eyed, shaken.

“It is easy to see why they took you,” said the girl. “You are very beautiful.”

“Oh?” said Ellen.

“Yes,” said the girl. “And I do not know about you,” she said, “but I belong in a collar.”

“No!” cried Ellen.

“Oh, yes, I am appropriately in my collar,” said the girl. “I am a natural slave. How fortunate I am to have been brought here!”

“No!” protested Ellen.

“But yes,” laughed the girl. “Here I have found love, and the domination I need and crave.”

Ellen regarded her, awed.

“I had not known, from Earth,” said the girl, joyfully, “that men like these could exist, such natural men, such innocently biological males, such intelligent, remarkable, powerful, virile, demanding, uncompromising, magnificent beasts. Such rightfully see such as we as their slaves, and before such men, natural masters, what could such as we be but slaves?”

Ellen sank back, on her heels.

“And,” she laughed, “did I not see you press your lips to the tunic of a male?”

“I hate him!” said Ellen.

“I think we are both slaves,” smiled the girl.

“Who is your master?” asked Ellen.

“Aeschines of Cos,” she replied. “Who is your master?”

“Portus Canio, of Ar,” said Ellen.

“My master is of the Warriors,” she said, “but like many of that caste, he has done various works. Many caste members, as you know, do not concern themselves specifically with caste business. He is not now in fee.”

“My master,” said Ellen, “is of the tarnkeepers.”

“What is your name?” asked the girl.

“‘Ellen.’”

“I am now called ‘Corinne’,” said the girl. “But I have had various names. I have been known as Janice, and, before my current master acquired me, as Gail. I have served in Cos, in the city of Treve, and now in Ar.”

“I fear I have been only in Ar,” smiled Ellen.

“We are not the only barbarians amongst these slaves,” said the girl. “See that one there. She is Priscilla. She is from England. Next to her is Sumomo, from Japan.”

“They are beautiful,” breathed Ellen.

“No more beautiful than you, slave girl,” said the girl.

“You said you were a natural slave!” said Ellen, chidingly.

“Of course,” laughed her interlocutor. “We are women. We are all natural slaves. We are the slave sex. It is in our genes. Surely you know that. We can never be fully happy without our collars.”

“No, no!” wept Ellen.

Then a shadow fell across the kneeling women. Both became silent, instantly. “Be on with your work, slave girls,” said a voice.

The embonded women looked up.

It was a guardsman, of Cos.

“Yes, Master!” said Corinne, frightened.

“Yes, Master!” said Ellen.

They then, as with the others, also now silent, bent to their labors with renewed vigor.

As Ellen attended rather irritably to the tunic of Selius Arconious she realized, with a bit of a start, that she and the other girl, her new friend, Corinne, had been conversing in Gorean, naturally, and without thought. To be sure, it was appropriate that they did so. Their language now, appropriately, was to be the language of their masters.

Ellen angrily soaked, and kneaded, and soaked and kneaded, the tunic of Selius Arconious. Then, twisting water out of it, she slapped it down angrily on the sloping cement shelf before her, beyond her knees, on their towel. “There, Selius Arconious!” she thought. “Take that!” And then she was frightened that she might break threads in the garment, or cause a tiny rent to appear in the fabric. Then she cried out, softly, angrily, to herself. “I must always fear the whip!” she thought. “If my master feels I have been careless with a garment, or have injured it in some way, I will be lashed as a clumsy slave. I would like to rip the garment of the brute, Selius Arconious, to pieces, but if I so much as break a thread I may be punished. I would be whipped, and then, carefully, with needle and thread, my body in agony, I would have to repair the garment, as well. I am helpless. I am so helpless!” She examined the garment with great care, and, to her relief, assured herself that it was undamaged. She then rinsed it, and twisted it, gently, ridding it of water, and placed it in the basket to her left, containing damp, clean laundry. But she resolved to be, when her master was not present, even more provocative before Selius Arconious. In that way she could make him suffer. And she had no doubt but what she had caused him, in the past few days, considerable uneasiness. Just yesterday she had sat in the straw, in the open barn area, sitting to one side of him, as he had worked nearby, and extended her left leg, partly bent, her tunic dropping away, split as it was, to reveal a good deal of thigh. She had then, with apparent interest, seemed to be considering her ankle, and she had then turned to him, her hands at her ankle, and inquired, innocently, “Do you think, Master, that my ankle would look well in a golden shackle?” He had risen, not speaking, and turned away. She had called after him. “I am thinking of asking my master for bells. Do you think I would look well, belled?” Then, angrily, not looking at her, his shoulders tight with fury, he had left the room. She had laughed to herself. That evening, after supper, she knelt before Portus Canio, and asked if she might be belled. “Why?” asked Portus Canio. She had shrugged. “I do not know, Master,” she said. “I just thought it might be pretty.” “You are not a paga slave,” he said. “Master!” she wheedled. “They might annoy the tarns,” he said. “Yes, Master,” she had replied, defeated.

As I have mentioned, there were streets in the vicinity of the laundry pools and these streets, as was to be expected, had their share of various forms of traffic, carts, pedestrians, and such. She had even seen, once this morning, the palanquin of a free woman, being borne by male slaves. The heavy outer curtains, and even the light inner curtains, of the palanquin were drawn open and, from her knees, as she worked on the laundry, she could see a free woman reclining within the palanquin, veiled, hooded, clad in the Robes of Concealment. She lay on one elbow, and seemed bored, and indolent. Her eyes, below the hood, above the veil, idly, briefly surveyed the girls at the pools. Then she looked away, apparently weary, apparently bored. “Perhaps one day, fine lady,” thought Ellen, “you will wear a skimpy tunic with no nether closure, and a collar, and be doing the laundry at the pools! Then let the fine ladies look at you on your knees, working! We will see if you are such a fine lady then!”

Suddenly, to her surprise, she heard, to her right, Corinne gasp. Ellen looked over, curious, frightened, and saw Corinne’s eyes wide, looking toward the street, her small, delicate hand before her mouth.

Ellen looked then toward the street, to see what might have produced this effect in her new friend. But she saw little that seemed likely to have precipitated this response. Ellen looked about, and made certain no guardsmen were present. “What is wrong?” she whispered to Corinne.

“Look!” whispered Corinne. It seemed she would have lifted her hand, and pointed, but then she visibly, as with an act of will, restrained such a movement.

“What is it?” whispered Ellen.

“See him, the peasant, there, he, the fourth in the line, those men carrying suls!”

Ellen did indeed see the figure referred to by her companion, but noted little of interest, or little out of the ordinary. To be sure, the man who was fourth in the line, a line of some ten or eleven men, was a very large man, an unusually large man, but many of those of the Peasants are well built, even massive. His hair was long and unkempt, his tunic ragged. He was bearded. He was partly bent over, as were the others, carrying, tied on a frame, in a large, open, netlike sack, large and bulging, a considerable quantity of suls, these golden-skinned, suls, a common, tuberous Gorean vegetable. They were doubtless on their way, coming from one of the nearby villages, to one of the wholesale sul markets in the city.

Ellen became nervous seeing the open, netlike sacks. They reminded her of the heavily corded, open slave sacks she had once seen in her training. She had once been put in one, bound hand and foot, her knees drawn up, it then tied shut, in one of the training rooms. She had then been instructed as to how she might move pathetically, provocatively within such an environment. It had seemed to her that one needed no instruction as to how to act pathetically in such a confinement, for in such an environment she certainly felt, and was, pathetically helpless. Too, she was not clear, as well, how one could even occupy such a close, inhibitory prison, even trying to remain still, without being provocative. Clearly she would be seen as a netted “catch.” There were also open slave sacks of woven, metal cable, cables a quarter of an inch in thickness, some silverish, some black, some steel-colored, with apertures in the form of two to four-inch diamonds, which could be padlocked shut at the top. She wondered what the woman in the palanquin would look like, stripped, eyes wide, terrified, confined in such a sack, crouching there, her fingers hooked through the apertures. Perhaps then, Ellen thought, she would not be so weary, so bored. Perhaps that would add some interest to her life, some spice to her life, the spice of the collar, of chains and the whip.

“It is he!” whispered Corinne.

“Who?” asked Ellen.

“He! It is he!” cried Corinne, softly.

“Who?” asked Ellen.

“I must hurry to my master!” said Corinne, and she, hastily, with two hands, gathered together her laundry, much of it not yet done, and thrust it into her basket. In a moment, to Ellen’s puzzlement, Corinne, clutching her basket, had rushed away.

Ellen looked again to the street but the line of men, bearing suls, had disappeared.

Ellen then returned to her work.