Prize of Gor

Chapter 26 WE MUST DEPART THE CAMP

“My master is going to call me ‘Melanie’,” she said.

“That is now a slave name,” said Ellen.

To be sure, Ellen was half numb with fatigue and misery. And she was afraid, for she knew who it was who had bought her.

“Yes, of course,” she said, happily. “I wear it now only upon my master’s sufferance.”

“You understand that?” asked Ellen.

“Yes, fully, completely!” she said, happily.

“Excellent,” said Ellen, weakly.

Ellen, with other slaves, sold women, wrist-chained, was in a holding area. They were awaiting their pick-ups. Several had already been removed from the chain. A receipt is tendered, and the slave is delivered. This was the morning after their sale, something like an Ahn before noon. Slaves are not always promptly claimed. There may be collars to prepare, chains to be measured, whips to be purchased, arrangements to be made.

Ellen was confused, dismayed, frightened.

Selius Arconious, it seemed, for whatever reason, as was the case, it seemed, with a number of other masters, as well, was in no hurry to claim his slave.

She wondered if he would come to the area in person, to claim her.

She wanted to be claimed, and was frightened that she would be claimed.

“I was sold to one from Venna!” Melanie said.

“That is far from Brundisium,” said Ellen.

“Yes,” she cried, delightedly. “And there I can be only a slave!”

“I assure you,” said Ellen, “even if you were sold to someone in Brundisium, you would be there, in your former city, no more than a slave, as well. No more, even there, would the briefly tunicked, collared slave Melanie be confused with the former free woman, the proud, heavily robed Lady Melanie of Brundisium. If anything, you would be treated even more harshly, more cruelly, in Brundisium.”

“He is strong, and handsome, my master,” she said. “I am so happy! I have always wanted to be so beautiful, so desirable, that men would find me beautiful enough and desirable enough to take me and enslave me! And now it has been done! I have always wanted to be owned, to belong to a man, to be completely subject to him. I have always wanted to belong to a man strong enough to dominate and master me. I have always wanted to belong to a man who will require of me, casually and without a second thought, the fullness of my womanhood. I have always wanted to serve and love — fully, will-lessly, selflessly. And now I belong to a man whom I shall so serve and love, one who will have everything from me, which is what I long to give. I am happy, happy!”

“I am happy for you,” said Ellen.

Melanie threw Ellen a kiss in the Gorean fashion, brushing it to her with her hand.

Ellen returned the kiss, similarly.

The slaves could not reach one another, for their chaining.

“Hold still,” Ellen heard.

Ellen stiffened. She was kneeling. She could not see behind her, and dared not turn.

“Hood the slut,” she heard.

A leather slave hood was thrust over her head and pulled downward. In moments it was buckled tightly about her neck. She then heard a lock snap behind her neck, through the buckle rings. It was then on her. She could not remove it. The hood was opaque. It is an efficient control device. In it she would be disoriented and helpless. She lifted her right hand and touched the ring on the front of the device, to which a leash might be attached.

The manacle on her left wrist was unlocked. It dropped to one side. She had remained on her knees, of course. She had neither been given permission to rise, nor had she been ordered to do so. Someone crouched down behind her. She spread her knees, thinking it best to do so, without having been ordered to do so. Too, it was appropriate. Men had left her in no doubt as to the sort of slave she was. Too, she did not know if Selius Arconious was in the vicinity. He was her master, and she knew that he would be strict with her. He was not the sort of man who would permit a slave even the smallest of laxities. Too, though she tried to brush away the thought, she had a sudden sense that she wanted to spread her knees before him, perhaps even supplicatingly. She excused herself on this count, with the recognition that Selius Arconious was the sort of man before whom women naturally felt an impulse to kneel, and spread-kneed. She felt her wrists drawn together. Then they were tied behind her back, it seemed with some loops of a leather string. It was more than sufficient to hold a female slave. Whoever it was was then before her, standing one supposes. She felt something snap about the ring on the front of the hood. Briefly a leather strap brushed her right breast.

“On your feet, slave girl,” said a voice.

She rose. It was not the voice of Selius Arconious.

Then, guided by a pressure at the ring on the front of the hood’s neck strap, she followed, as she must, as helpless as a tethered verr.

She must have followed for several hundred yards, stripped, bound, hooded, leashed. She conjectured she was then in the outer reaches of the camp, or perhaps beyond them, for she felt grass beneath her feet.

Then she was told to kneel, head down, and she did so.

“Are you obedient and docile?” she was asked. The voice was the same as that of the man who had ordered her to her feet, presumably he who had also led her to this place.

“Yes, Master,” she said. And it was true. The battles, the wars, were done. And she was pleased that it was so. The superficialities of the conventions were at an end. The pretenses were over. On this world men ruled, or at least ruled such as she. They would tolerate no affronts to nature. Here they had refused to relinquish their rightful, natural sovereignty. Here they were hardy, virile masters. It was so, it was incontestable. Ellen, head down, was content.

“May I speak?” asked Ellen.

There was no answer, so she remained silent. She did not know if she were alone or not.

It was hot in the hood, stifling. Her small hands twisted behind her, in their bonds. She could feel the leash dangling between her breasts.

After a time she heard a man approach. She looked up in the hood, struggling a little.

“Master?” she asked.

“It is pleasant to hear that suitable, appropriate word on your tongue, kajira, particularly as addressed to me,” said a man’s voice.

Ellen sobbed with relief, then fear.

It was the voice of Selius Arconious.

“May I speak, Master?” she asked.

“It is suitable that you should ask permission to speak,” he said. “It is good that you have learned at least that much. And, as I recall, you remembered to ask permission to speak on the block. But apparently you did not remember to wait until you had received that permission before you dared to speak. Had you also remembered that you might have saved yourself a cuffing.”

Ellen was silent.

“You are a stupid slave,” he said.

Ellen was silent.

“Yes, you may speak,” he said.

“Portus Canio and Fel Doron are in this camp, in chains,” said Ellen, hastily, fearing to be interrupted, the words spilling out. “They were on some obscure mission northward. They were betrayed by Tersius Major. It seems he is in the service of Cos. Beware of Tersius Major! Portus Canio and Fel Doron are even now awaiting transportation to Cos or Tyros, perhaps to the quarries!”

“Do not concern yourself about such things, slave girl,” said Selius Arconious.

“Portus Canio and Fel Doron are your friends!” said Ellen.

“I attempted to dissuade them,” said Selius Arconious. “But, nonetheless, they have inadvertently played their role in such things.”

“I do not understand,” said Ellen.

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” said Selius Arconious.

“What brought you to this camp?” asked Ellen.

“An impulse to travel,” said Selius Arconious.

“Please untie me, Master,” Ellen begged. She pulled a little against the loops of narrow leather which held her wrists behind her.

“No,” he said.

“Please, then,” she said. “Remove, at least, my hood!”

“No,” he said.

“I beg it, Master,” said Ellen.

“No,” he said.

“Did you come to seek me out? To buy a slave?”

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

Her heart leapt. Could he care for her? She was in torment, confused as to her feelings for him, who now owned her.

“It is a long way from Ar,” she said. “We are far from Ar!”

“Do you wish to have your bonds and hood removed?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Remain in them,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Master.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You bought me.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Surely for some purpose.”

“Or purposes,” he said.

“Why did you buy me?”

“Are you so stupid as not to know?” he asked.

“Please, Master!”

“Perhaps I thought you would look well under my whip.”

“Do you not hold me in contempt, do you not hate me?”

“No,” he said. “You are beneath contempt.”

“Oh,” said Ellen.

“And why,” he asked, “should one hate a pretty, curvaceous little piece of slave meat one owns? There would be no point in it.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“And what are your feelings, slave girl?” he asked.

“My feelings do not matter, Master,” said Ellen.

“True,” he said, quietly.

“I will do my best to serve my master well,” said Ellen.

“I am sure of it,” he said. And he laughed, and the laugh made Ellen’s blood run cold.

“How could you afford me?” asked Ellen.

“I think you will soon know,” said Selius Arconious. “Indeed, I suspect, within hours, the entire camp will know.”

“I do not understand,” said Ellen.

“It will not be wise to remain long in the camp,” said Selius Arconious, “but, unfortunately, there is no help for it. If all goes well, we should be able to leave in a few Ahn, hopefully in the early morning.”

“Yes Master,” said Ellen. She understood nothing of what was going on. But then it is not uncommon for masters to keep their slaves in ignorance.

“Master,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Thank you for buying my whip strokes from the scribe, at the dancing circle,” said Ellen. “Otherwise I fear I would have been whipped.”

“You should be whipped,” he said.

Ellen was silent.

“Before a woman is sold, it is common to starve her of sex,” said Selius Arconious.

“Perhaps, Master,” said Ellen.

“Was that done with you?” he asked.

“Yes,” whispered Ellen.

“I thought so,” he said.

Ellen put her head down, in the hood.

“Then your sexual needs have been long left unsatisfied,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” said Ellen. She lifted her head to her master, pathetically, blindly in the hood.

The thought crossed her mind that the sexual needs of her sisters on Earth, in their countless thousands, in their millions, in the loneliness of their empty, sterile freedoms, were similarly, commonly left unsatisfied. How much tragedy there was on that barren world! Did the women there not understand the meaning of their anxieties, their depressions, their displacements, their projections, their confusions, their sense of futility, their anomie, their emotional starvation, their sense of loss, of estrangement, of lack of connection, of unreality? The arms of ideology are cold and ultimately unsatisfying. There were women on that world who did not even understand the meaning of their misery and who found themselves forbidden to search for it in the most obvious place, in the denial of nature, in the frustration and starvation of their most basic personal needs. The natural human female, Ellen supposed, is not a social artifact, despite what she had been taught to mindlessly repeat, not a construct of social engineers who neither understand her nor care for her, creatures interested ultimately only in their own power and influence; she is not, ideally, a twisted, inadequate, unnatural, pathetic, neurotic replica of a different sex; she is rather herself, a creature of nature, needful and beautiful, in her way unique, precious and glorious; are the codes of nature so hard to read? Are these things truly such perilous secrets? Why should they be so dangerous to recognize and enunciate? Why should it be so dangerous to even speak of them? Why should conformity be enforced with such relentless hysteria? Why should careers be destroyed, appointments be denied, positions lost, for lack of orthodoxy? Who could these truths frighten, only those who can profit from their concealment. Not since the insane asylum of the Middle Ages has sexuality been so feared and deplored. There were women on Earth, Ellen understood, who, literally, had never experienced an orgasm. And there were countless millions, as the statistics would have it, who lived in a veritable sexual wasteland, in a parched, lonely erotic wilderness.

But Ellen was not on Earth any longer.

She was a slave on Gor, and her sexual needs, as those of other slaves, had been, whether she willed it or not, uncovered, displayed and ignited. In her belly the slave fires had been lit and now, irremediably, with an insistent, frequent periodicity, powerfully, irresistibly, they emerged, squirmed, and cried out piteously for their satisfaction.

It is hard to be a female slave on Gor. One is so much at the mercy of men. They will have it so.

Ellen moaned.

“Would you care to receive sexual relief?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” said Ellen.

“Are you prepared to beg to be caressed?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” whispered Ellen, softly.

“Then do so,” he said.

“I beg to be caressed, Master,” whispered Ellen.

“Speak up, so I can hear you,” he said.

“I beg to be caressed, Master,” said Ellen, clearly, her voice breaking, tears forming in her eyes, running down her cheeks, inside the hood.

“Surely you can do better than that,” he said.

“Ellen, the slave, your slave, Master, begs to be caressed by her master, Selius Arconious, of Ar,” said Ellen.

“Do women of your world often beg to be caressed?” asked Selius Arconious.

“Doubtless, if they are slaves, Master,” said Ellen.

“I have other matters to attend to,” he said.

“Master?” moaned Ellen.

“In the meantime,” he said, “I will see to it that you are well-warmed.”

“Master?” asked Ellen.

She felt his hand take the leash at her neck, and she felt it tossed back, between her legs.

“No,” she said, suddenly frightened. “Please, no!”

The leash was then pulled down, tightly, from the leash ring.

“Please, no!” she wept.

“Ai!” she cried.

The leash had been pulled up behind her, forcibly, fiercely, tightly, snugly. One hand had kept her on her knees.

“Please, no!” she sobbed.

And it was then tied closely, securely, to her bound wrists.

“No, Master, please, no, Master! Please have mercy, Master!”

But he had none, as she knew he would not.

This is sometimes used as a leading tie.

She was then thrust down on the grass, on her stomach, and her legs were pulled up behind her, the ankles crossed. In a moment, her legs bent up closely behind her, her ankles were lashed together. He then bound her ankles to her wrists. In this way she was not only helpless even to try to rise, but any movements of her bound ankles would exert pressure on her bound wrists, which would, in turn, exert pressure on the leash strap, which was attached to her wrists. Thus, in short, the leash ran from the ring at the front of her neck, the ring on the hood straps, down, tightly between her breasts, tightly between her legs, and tightly up to her crossed, bound wrists. But her wrists were also attached to her crossed, bound ankles, and thus, with respect to her ankles, she was limited to two options, first, to try to keep her ankles close to her body, which was uncomfortable, and did nothing to relieve the warm, creasing, implacable stress of the leash between her legs, or, second, to try to move her ankles a bit away from her body, to relieve the pressure on her bent, aching legs, which, in turn, in virtue of the ankles’ attachment to the wrists, would produce a further warm, stirring, arousing, sawing, excitatory motion of the leash. So, as she moved, or squirmed, or sought some comfort, or respite, for her bent, bound legs, held so closely to her body, the leash would move as well, tautly, effectively, doing more of its work.

“Master!” called Ellen. “Master!” But there was no response. He had doubtless left the area. She turned to her side, and tried not to move.

Then suddenly she began to writhe, and thrash about, weeping. What a helpless, pathetic slave she was! I hate him, she thought. I hate Selius Arconious! I hate him! I hate him! Then she cried aloud, in the hood, “Oh, please, Master, have mercy on me! Come back! Hold me! Touch me! Help me! I will obey well! I will be a good slave! Fulfill me! Give me my slave’s release! I beg it! I am your slave! Be kind to your slave! Be ruthless if you will! I care not! Put me to slave service! Use me! I beg use! I beg use! Master! I beg use, Master!”

She heard a man laugh, passing by, amused at the discomfiture of the squirming slave.

I hate Selius Arconious, she thought. He has made me a spectacle! He has made me a laughing stock! How sweet his vengeance must be! Why cannot I be as I was on Earth, frigid and cold! But men have done this to me! They have made me a slave! Now I am naught but an aroused, passionate slave!

I hate men, she thought. I hate them! I hate them!

But then she thought of the house of Mirus, long ago. Clearly she was now ready to beg to serve a man, any man!

You monsters, she thought. You monsters! You magnificent monsters! You know well, do you not, you monsters, that this slave girl is yours!

And thus she thrashed about, weeping and bound.

Ellen for a time could do little but squirm in misery, tethered helplessly, hand and foot. Then, mercifully, she slept, but dreamed of herself as a bound slave girl. Then, after a time, she was not sure how long, she awakened, finding herself a bound slave girl, to the sounds of excited voices. “Oh!” she cried, softly, squirming tearfully, finding the leash still persistently, mercilessly, active upon her. Then, pressing her heels as closely as she could to her body, to try to relieve a bit of the stress of the leash, she listened to the voices.

“The pay for the garrison at Ar has been purloined!” she heard.

“It cannot be,” cried a man. “No alarms have been sounded! There has been no attack on us!”

All of this made little sense to Ellen, for she had supposed that the confiscated, gathered wealth of a dozen cities, and hundreds of smaller communities, destined for the troops of Cos and Tyros, and the regiments of mercenaries in Ar abetting their occupation, was in this very camp, that because of the numerous guards, the tharlarion, the war tarns. She suspected that Portus Canio and Fel Doron had been under this impression as well. Indeed, she suspected, though it was scarcely a matter of which slaves might speak, that Portus Canio and Fel Doron, and, supposedly, Tersius Major, had planned to strike at this treasure, in order to weaken and worsen the occupation in Ar, to outrage the garrison posted there, to outrage both the mercenaries and regulars, and perhaps even sow discord amongst them.

“It was not here,” she heard. “That was a ruse, it seems, a hoax, to draw bandits fruitlessly to our tents, where they might be discovered and snared, while in the subtlety of Cos the gold made its way safely, elsewise, to the coffers of Myron, polemarkos at Ar.”

“It seems the plan was penetrated, said a man, excitedly.

“Perhaps all routes were watched, the skies scrutinized,” speculated a man.

“What force could seize the gold of Cos?” asked a man, incredulously.

“What force would dare?” asked another.

“The garrison at Ar is large,” said a man. “Much gold would it take to weight their purses!”

“Thousands of gold pieces,” said a man. “Many fresh from the mints of Jad!”

“When did this occur?” asked another.

“Some days ago,” said a man. “But only now the news reaches us.”

“In the sales last night,” said a man suddenly, “a fellow, a drayman or tarnster I think, gave five gold pieces for a slave!”

“Where would such a fellow obtain such wealth?” asked a man.

“Who knows?” said another.

“Doubtless he is even now being sought,” said a man.

“Doubtless,” said another. And then the voices left the vicinity. Ellen also heard the creak of wagon wheels, and various sounds about her, as of the breaking of a camp, or parts of it.

Far off it seemed she did hear alarm bars sounding, which must have had their source in Brundisium.

Ellen lay quietly, in consternation, not daring to move. In the hood she did not know what time it was. She did not know how long she had slept. The grass on which she lay had been pressed down by her body. It had not been damp with dew when she had first knelt upon it. She moved her small, bound wrists pathetically, helplessly. “Oh!” she said, inadvertently, for she had moved. Why has he tied me like this, she asked herself, but dared not move, lest the answer be made even more clear to her.

It was a simple arousal tie, the sort of tie which well reminds a woman she is a slave. To be sure, it was perhaps a bit more severe, or cruel, than was necessary, and scarcely one in which one would be likely to place a beloved slave. But we must remember that the feelings of Selius Arconious toward his recent purchase were rather ambivalent. It is a tie, incidentally, not unfamiliar to slavers, particularly with captured free women, whom they are endeavoring to begin to acquaint with what is to be the nature of their new life, that of a sexual creature, that of a man’s plaything and chattel.

But bonds, in general, are sexually arousing to a woman, as they speak to her of her vulnerability and helplessness, and of her subjection to the power of men. Simply leaving a woman alone, bound, perhaps for the time put out of one’s mind, say, neglected or forgotten, is sexually charging for her. And there are hundreds of passion ties. The numerous psychological dimensions of sexuality, well understood by, and well exploited by, Gorean masters, enhance a thousand times the sexual experiences of their chattels. The human female is an incredibly rich, lovely complexus of mind, body and emotions, and her sexual life is a rich one, limited not to a handful of Ahn, now and then, but one which can enrich and inform her entire existence. Indeed, the very condition of bondage itself, and what it means to a female, enflames her in a thousand ways.

She belongs, as she wishes, to a master.

He has accepted her.

She is grateful.

She will serve him with devotion and zeal.

She will hope he will attend to her needs, of various sorts, as to the needs of any animal he might own.

****

Perhaps a word might be said pertaining to the collar.

The slave girl is an animal.

And are not animals suitably collared?

And so then, might not the slave girl, who is an animal, be suitably collared?

Certainly.

Then it is done.

Behold, the collar is on her neck!

The value of the collar extends far beyond the mere marking of its occupant as slave, and, usually, the identifying of her master. Such features are obvious, and require little attention.

It is locked, of course, and that, as you might well suppose, is meaningful.

She cannot remove her collar.

Would you not find that meaningful?

I do.

Similarly certain other aspects of the collar would seem so obvious as to require no lengthy explication, such as its various aesthetic and psychological features, which have an impact on both the wearer and he beneath whose scrutiny she falls. The collar is a beautiful ornament, of course, and muchly enhances the loveliness of she who must wear it. Consider the zest and attention devoted by the women of Earth to lovely throat-encircling enhancements, beads, bands, chains, and such, with which to bedeck themselves. I have often thought, incidentally, that a Gorean slave collar might be prized as an ornament on Earth. One supposes it would be expensive there, which seems amusing, given its commonness on Gor. Too, doubtless it would have to be called something else. I wonder if a woman of Earth would understand its meaning. I suspect that she might experience strange sensations when she put it about her neck, and heard it close. Surely, fearfully, she would wish to keep the key close at hand. But what if the giver chose to put it on her and retain the key? But I suspect that any woman, even a free woman, of Earth, who wore such a thing would be suddenly aware, this perhaps frightening her, of the slave within her. Too, at home, after, say, her attendance at a dinner or cocktail party, or such, she might remove the device in fear, recalling how men had, perhaps for the first time in her life, at least in that particular way, in so unsettling and predatory a way, looked upon her, and approached her, and had circled about her, as might have ravening wolves about a young and vulnerable hind. She might then dare to wear it only naked, before her mirror, or stripped, in bed, weeping. But perhaps she would one day see her master and put on the device and approach him, and kneel before him, handing him the key. “I give you the key to my collar, Master. I would be your slave. It is my hope that you might find me acceptable.” Gorean free women, incidentally, will seldom encircle their throats with jewelry of any sort, even in the privacy of their quarters, I suspect, as such things in their culture, speak to them of bondage. Slavers have often commented on the fondness of the women of Earth for throat encirclements, necklaces, and such, particularly for those which require a fastening and cannot be lifted away, over the head. They seem to take this as significant. Perhaps it is. I do not know. Certainly there is beauty there and an analogy to the collar of a slave. The throat is, of course, the ideal mounting point for an insignia of bondage, as it is both secure and prominent. The psychological aspects involved in these matters have been hinted at. I think we need not elaborate on them, as they seem reasonably clear.

Let us now turn, as we originally intended, to matters which are interesting, at least in my view, but, I fear, which may be less obvious than those with which we have hitherto dealt.

It is my hope that some attention to these cultural matters may be found illuminating, and add, in their way, to your deeper understanding of this narrative, and, certainly, of the Gorean culture.

It may be a culture quite different from that with which you are likely to be familiar. Yet, I am sure it has affinities with your culture, and, in an obscure way, perhaps biologically, it may lie ingredient within your own. It is, in any event, a human culture, and thus it cannot be utterly alien to you.

In a collar, and I hope this will not be surprising, a woman may find clarity and comfort, and her meaning and redemption. I wonder if that is hard to understand. I hope not.

As these matters are complex and subtle I will mention no more than a tiny corner of the concealed fabric, of the vast hidden tapestry into which are woven so many persistent, whispering truths.

In the collar she has a precisely defined cultural reality. Perhaps for the first time in her life she is something perfectly comprehensible and actual, something specific and unambiguous. It gives her an exact identity, and an articulated, and clearly understood, position in society, a society in which she finds herself, whether she wishes it or not, a familiar, prized and beautiful ingredient. Men follow her about, in her errands and peregrinations, and look upon her, and admire and value her, and speculate upon her lineaments and the coins that might bring them to their slave ring. She is scorned and celebrated, the victim of ropes and the subject of songs, the lowliest of beasts and the most desiderated of possessions. She is a slave. For her, now, at last, all ambiguities, uncertainties, confusions, pretensions, hypocrisies, vyings, and such, the banes of a free woman’s existence, are at an end. She is slave.

In it she knows she has been found attractive, and is desired. She is wanted. A man has seen fit to put her in his collar.

In this she is reassured indisputably of her femininity.

She knows now what she is, and what she must do, and what she must be.

And at the feet of a man, as his slave, she is fulfilled in her womanhood.

She receives the guidance, domination, nurturance, discipline and mastering for which she yearns, which she needs, and for which she has been bred.

She is now where she belongs, at a master’s feet, and is obedient, and humbly content.

Perhaps one might also note something further, but hope, as well, that this further observation will not be found disturbing, or disconcerting, to free women, might these recollections and reflections, however unlikely, come somehow someday within their ken, that of creatures so noble and refined, so lofty, so exalted and esteemed, so beyond one such as I, a slave, creatures who have never stood naked upon a slave block, hearing bids being taken on them, who have never worn a chain at a man’s feet.

The collar has this cast or aura, too, one always recognized, but seldom expressed, perhaps because it is too obvious.

The collar states that its wearer is, and must be, a sexual creature.

The frigidities and inertnesses, the prides and loftinesses, of the free woman are not permitted to her.

The woman in a collar cannot deny her sexuality. It is proclaimed of her as obviously, as visibly, as the prominence of the band encircling her throat.

Why do you think women are enslaved?

The collar cries aloud of female sexuality.

Any woman in a collar understands that she is viewed as a sexual creature.

Pretenses, games, are at an end.

Surely women understand for what they are captured, or purchased.

Please do not be offended.

I must speak the truth.

Why do you think men enslave women? One supposes there are many reasons but it seems clear that not the least amongst them is the desire to keep them for the pleasure they can provide.

The collar states clearly that its occupant is sexual, that she is a sexual creature, and of sexual interest. Women without sexual interest are seldom collared. Of sexuality the collar cries aloud. “This woman has been found desirable; men want her; men will have her.”

The female slave is openly acknowledged as a sexual creature. She must be such. She is given no other choice.

So do not forget this meaning of the collar.

The female slave is not permitted to forget it, nor does she wish to forget it. She loves it. She can be, at last, freely, openly, honestly, the sexual creature she has always desired to be.

“Caress me, Master, I beg it.”

****

Surely, she thought, Selius Arconious knows something of these things! And he paid five pieces of gold, of gold, for me! Perhaps he had a hundred, and they were no more than tarsk-bits to him! What then does that make me worth? Must I not now reassess myself? Am I not again no more than a cheap, meaningless slave! How he has insulted me, buying me with what to him is no more than trash or sand! So that is what he thinks of me! But perhaps he knows nothing of the Cosian gold? Perhaps he stole the gold elsewhere, perhaps he gambled with unusual success, perhaps he found loot discarded by alarmed, fleeing brigands? In any event she knew she was his, as a dog, a pig, a tarsk, or a verr, or a slave belongs to a man.

It was a little later when she smelled the smoke of cooking fires, so she was sure it must be the fifteenth or sixteenth Ahn.

She was suddenly aware she was terribly thirsty, and hungry.

She heard someone approaching, and lay very still. Then someone crouched beside her. She felt strong, masculine hands thrust up the straps of the hood, exposing an inch or so of her throat. She tried to press her bound ankles up, tightly, against her derrière, as she lay. She felt a metal collar put roughly about her neck. It fitted snugly. It was locked shut. She was collared.

“Master?” she asked.

A small noise warned her to silence. She was drawn, whimpering, to a kneeling position.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as her wrists were pulled up behind her, and she squirmed unwillingly as a slave before him. But he then, with this bit of slack, merely untied the leash from her bound wrists and, at last, the creasing, agitating pressure was gone. “Thank you, Master. Thank you, Master,” she murmured, then to that extent again her own woman, as much as any slave can be her own woman. But then she knew, in an instant, that she wanted to be taken into his arms, dominated as a slave and penetrated. She whimpered. She hoped he could not smell her need. The strap had done its work well. Then she felt the lock at the back of the hood opened, and the hood was pulled up, but only enough to expose her mouth. She could still not see. “Master?” she asked. She pursed her lips, humbly. Would her lips be now raped with the kiss of the master, he imperiously claiming his property? There was a small, soft laugh, a man’s laugh. “Slave,” he whispered. Then the spigot of a bota was thrust between her teeth, and, head back, she drank gratefully. Too soon it seemed the spigot was withdrawn. “Open your mouth, slave,” she heard, and she, head back, obeyed. A handful of slave pellets was thrust into her mouth. He then pulled the hood back down, and, as she, within the hood, dealt with this simple, nutritious form of slave feed, that which had been permitted her, had it again in place. She felt it locked again, behind the back of her neck.

After a time she had finished the pellets.

“Are you warmed?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, Master,” she said.

“Well warmed?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, yes, Master,” she said.

“We must be on our way,” he said. She gave a small cry as she felt the leash snapped forward, between her thighs. It was then before her, dangling from the strap ring at the front of her throat. She then felt him free her ankles from her wrists. How wonderful that felt! He then unbound her ankles. She was muchly pleased. With a sob of relief she moved her feet, and then, whimpering, suddenly, inadvertently, pressed her thighs together. He must not know her condition, what he, her master, had done to her.

“Position,” said he, and she, whimpering, went as much to position as her bound wrists permitted her. Would he not allow her even that much modesty, that much relief?

“Would you like to be braceleted?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, pulling at the tight loops of leather string that bound her wrists, hot and sweating, the one to the other.

“Would you like to be front-braceleted or back-braceleted?” he asked.

“Assuredly, Master,” she said, “front-braceleted!”

She felt his fingers forcibly widen a space between the loops of leather string that held her wrists behind her. Then, against the exposed flesh, between the loops, she felt metal, pressing closely, the opened curves of slave bracelets. Then the devices snapped shut about her wrists, closely, snugly, and she was braceleted, back-braceleted. And only then were the loops of leather string removed from her sweating wrists, only after her wrists had been securely enclosed in slave bracelets. This is not that unusual in Gorean custody, the slave being kept in one bond until another is in place. A similar custom is generally observed with respect to identificatory hardware, for example, with respect to collars, bracelets, anklets, and such. For example, if one is going to anklet a slave, one would normally keep the bracelet or collar on her until the anklet is in place, and so on. In this way there is always at least one token of bondage on her, other than the brand. Doubtless this is what had been done with Tutina, on Earth, or before bringing her to Earth. Ellen remembered that Tutina had been ankleted. Bandages had covered it, outside the house. Ellen recalled that she, too, in the house of Mirus on Earth, had found herself ankleted, but she had not, of course, at that time, understood the significance of the device. Perhaps a collar would have been clearer to her.

So Ellen knelt, wide-kneed, back-braceleted, somewhere, she supposed on the outskirts of the festival camp. Although he had not seen fit, in the master’s prerogative, to accede to her request for front-braceleting, she was nonetheless grateful for her braceleting, for the encircling metal wristlets were far more comfortable than the tight loops of leather string had been. To be sure, she was now more his than before. Anyone might cut leather bonds, a brigand, or such, but she now wore slave bracelets. These could not be removed without a key, or a tool.

She pulled a bit, against the bracelets.

I am braceleted, she thought.

Even in the house of Mirus, long ago, she could not help but respond to her braceleting. Even then, however reluctantly, she had found the bracelets stimulatory. How delicious it was, how exciting it was, that feeling of being braceleted, of being helpless, utterly helpless, of having her small wrists fastened together, locked together, particularly behind her back, her beauty then so exposed, so unguarded and defenseless, in those linked, obdurate, sturdy, uncompromising bracelets — slave bracelets. It spoke to her of her vulnerability, her helplessness, of her subjection to men, of her condition, slave, of her nature, female.

I love being braceleted, she thought.

Ellen sensed that her master was then standing before her, the leash presumably in his hand, she gathering that from the tiny draw on the hood’s strap ring. Too, she did not feel the leash against her body.

“Master, may I speak?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“There is confusion in the camp,” she said. “I heard men speak. The gold for the troops in Ar has been stolen!”

“You look well,” he said, “kneeling before me in suitable position, naked, hooded, leashed, back-braceleted.”

“Master!” she protested.

“Do not concern yourself with such matters,” he said. “They are not the concern of slaves.”

“But men may seek you, for you possessed gold, coins which, it seems, may have borne the quality and weight certifications of Jad, on Cos!”

“Do not concern yourself with such matters,” he said.

“You may be seized, Master!”

“Then you will doubtless be resold, and will have another master, slut. Do not forget that you are a mere chattel. As such you are trivial and meaningless. These matters have no more to do with you than they would with a tarsk, a creature more valuable than yourself.”

“Few tarsks go for as much as five gold pieces, Master,” said Ellen.

“The gold was meaningless,” said he, “save as a gesture, as an insult to Cos, which I suspect that only now they comprehend.”

“An insult?” asked Ellen.

“Certainly,” said he. “Thus one of Ar shows his contempt for the coins of Cos, that he uses them to buy no more than a worthless slave.”

“There were silver tarsks bid for me!” said Ellen.

“That is true,” he said. “Perhaps you are worth a handful of silver tarsks.”

“Surely you purchased me for something!” said Ellen.

“Perhaps you will amuse me for a time,” he said, “until I tire of you.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, sobbing.

“Know yourself a slave, little vulo,” said he.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. “Master.”

“Yes,” said he.

“It is your collar on me, is it not?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Perhaps you care for me a little, to put your collar on me?”

“It is common to collar slaves,” he said.

“Do I have a name?” asked Ellen.

“‘Ellen’ will do,” he said. “It will serve to summon and command you as well as any other name.”

“Is that name on my collar?” she asked.

“Do you think that would be wise?” he asked.

“No, Master,” said Ellen. She knew she had been sold under that name, that that name was on the records of scribes.

“Also, that way,” he said, “the collar may be used for an indefinite number of female chattels.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, angrily.

“To be sure,” he said, “one could always use the name ‘Ellen’ for any number of kajirae.”

“Certainly, Master,” said Ellen, angrily. “May I ask what the collar says?”

“Perhaps you can make it out one day, deciphering it in a pool or mirror,” he said.

“Please, Master!” protested Ellen.

“Ah,” he said, “I had forgotten that you are illiterate.”

“Master?” she asked.

“It says,” said he, “‘I am the property of Selius Arconious, of Ar.’”

For a moment Ellen’s heart leaped within her bosom, incomprehensibly, with joy, that she would be such, and publicly designated as such. She had forgotten, for the moment, it seems, that she hated him. But then she asked, “Is that wise, Master?”

“They do not know me,” said he. “Too, a blank collar might arouse even more suspicion. Besides, it pleases me to have the little barbarian slut in my collar, and in one which identifies her as mine.”

“I hope to wear your collar worthily, Master,” said Ellen.

Then she cried out within the hood as she was drawn roughly to her feet. “Do not lie to me, little slut,” said he.

“No, Master!” she cried.

“Do you think I do not know what the women of Earth do to the men of Earth?” he asked. “You, Earth slut, will be a slave amongst slaves!”

“As Master wishes,” said Ellen. “I am his!”

“It is pleasant to own women,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“Did the leash warm you?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” sobbed Ellen.

“Good,” he said, angrily. And then he cupped her, casually, possessively, holding her in place with his left hand behind her back. She sobbed, and whimpered, and squirmed, helpless in the bracelets. “I see that it is true,” he said.

“Please, Master,” cried Ellen, “be kind to me!”

“Be silent,” said he, “female.”

It seemed he had little intention of treating her with gentleness. He then held her by her upper left arm, not even bothering with the leash, and drew her forcibly, she stumbling, beside him. She was thusly dragged for some twenty yards. Seldom had she felt more female, thus helpless, thusly imperiously handled. What men can do with us, she thought. Then she was thrust down, on her stomach over some surface, that of seemingly a large, felled log. She felt the rough bark on her belly. She was helpless. She squirmed. He pushed up her braceleted wrists and entered her. He had told her she would be a slave amongst slaves. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh!”

He growled like an animal and she was claimed.

Then he withdrew and she sank to her knees beside the log, pressing the hood against it. She could feel particles of bark on her belly, and grass beneath her knees. She was aware of his collar on her neck.

“Oh, Master, Master,” she sobbed softly.

“There is no time,” he said. “Do not fear, Earth slut. I am looking forward to pegging you down and having you writhe and scream yourself mine. I will bring you to the point of yielding a hundred times before I permit you relief, if I choose to do so at all. I will impose a domination on you that you will never forget. When I am through with you, Earth slut, you will know who your master is.”

She wept in the hood.

“Please do not be cruel to me, Master,” she whimpered. “I am only a slave.”

“So the little barbarian slut acknowledges herself a slave?” he said.

“Yes, Master!”

“Say it,” he said.

“I am a slave, Master,” said Ellen.

“Are you obedient and docile?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Are you hot, devoted and dutiful?” he asked.

“I will do my best to be so, Master,” she said.

“Earth woman,” he laughed.

“No, Master,” said Ellen. “No more am I an Earth woman. I am now only a woman, and a slave.”

“Stand,” said he, “kajira.”

Ellen rose to her feet. She quivered. She was unsteady. She pressed her thighs together. She whimpered. “Master muchly denies me,” she whispered.

“Follow,” said he, and she felt a tug on the leash.

Why is he cruel to me, she asked herself. Does he not know that I am now no more than a slave?

And so she followed her master, on his leash. She wondered if any of the women of Earth knew such men, masters. How many, she wondered, clung to their tear-stained pillows, longing for the domination, the mastering, that would complete them, that would give meaning to their lives.

She was led for some ten to fifteen Ehn. Sometimes she sensed the smoke of fires, sometimes their warmth. The odor of roast bosk penetrated the leather of the hood. Once the odor of scalding kal-da came to her nostrils. Sometimes she heard men talking. Once she heard the laughter of a woman, in this camp doubtless a slave. Once she trod through cooling ash. She supposed it would be dark, or nearly dark, by now. Too, something in the feel of the air on her body suggested the dampness of the coastal evening. She realized that, in the hood, it was not likely she could be recognized, either as the dancer of two nights afore, nor as the slave for whom, yesterday evening, such a surprising price had been paid. She wondered if Selius Arconious, whom she supposed still held her leash, was disguised, or wore about his features the hoodlike folds of a cloak. She suspected he was not alone. Surely he, alone, could not have obtained the loot of Cos. He must have confederates! Had not another brought her away from the holding area? But he must have risked much to have secured her, she thought, in open auction, and to have dared to use gold, whether that of Cos or no, to buy her. She did not take too seriously the thought of his suggested insult to Cos, though she did not doubt but what that might have provided some sort of pleasant, subsidiary satisfaction. That was just too pat, too convenient. There would have been too much risk involved, surely, to justify a mere gesture, even for a Gorean. Too, with such wealth at his disposal, he might have bought any offered slave, or a great number of offered slaves, in the camp. He could have purchased enough girls to have set himself up in business, chaining them together, and then seeing what he might get for them in other venues. Many Goreans buy women on speculation. That is not uncommon. And, indeed, do not many slavers do just this, those who buy them, rather than hunting them down, say, like horses. To be sure, it is not unusual, as I understand it, that a slaver will note and then pick out a particular woman for himself, keeping her at least for a time. I do not think this is surprising. Such would seem an opportunity unlikely to be neglected. Indeed, is such not a privilege of his position, an entitlement, in its way, of his sort of enterprise? This doubtless happens with some Gorean women, and, I would suppose, with some Earth women, as well. Certainly some unusually beautiful Earth woman, all unaware of such matters, and, like others, scouted without her least knowledge or suspicion, might find, upon her arrival on Gor, after her initial terror and consternation, discovering herself stripped and chained, a slave, that a rather different or uncommon fate was in store for her, that she had been selected out, and a reserve, so to speak, placed on her, that she had been brought to Gor not like her sisters for the markets, at least immediately, but rather, it seems, for the personal service and delectation of a particular fellow, one by whom in the mysteries of such matters she had been found, totally unbeknownst to herself, appealing, presumably some slaver. She must then wait to discover to whom she belongs. To be sure, most are doubtless acquired with an eye to profit. Slaving, after all, is a business; accordingly the great majority of women brought to Gor would be put up for sale, usually publicly.

Yes, Selius Arconious could have done much with his gold, she thought.

But he had bought her.

He had bought her!

He must have wanted me very much, she thought. Very much, indeed. Could that be true, she asked herself. Perhaps. She smiled within the hood. Her steps became light. She knew she hated him, of course, but, still, he was very strong, and very handsome, and, too, of course, he owned her. And a slave must always be very careful of who owns one. He is, after all, the master.

But surely it did not hurt that he was strong and handsome. One could do worse than be the slave of such a man.

I hate him, of course, she reassured herself.

It excited her that he would be her master. But how the brute had tormented her with the leash strap!

She had no doubt what she would be to him!

In his casual, insolent way, he would well know how to handle, and keep, a slave.

I hate him, she thought.

But perhaps she did not hate him, really, that much.

In any event she must strive to please him, and perfectly, with every bit of her intelligence and beauty.

She was, after all, a slave, and his slave.

Then she became afraid, for she sensed that matters perilous were afoot in this disturbed camp of Cos.

There might be brigands who had seen him with gold. And she remembered the men who had been with Mirus. Perhaps somehow, without understanding it, she had seen too much. Too, there were the beasts, the terrible beasts.

And guardsmen might even now be seeking the mysterious stranger, the seemingly lowly fellow, who had had coins from the mint at Jad.

Then there was no longer a sense of the leash draw on the hood ring, and so Ellen stopped, and knelt. This was appropriate. There might be free men present.

Some men, she understood, in a moment, were indeed about.

“Have you secured the guards?” she heard Selius Arconious ask.

“Yes,” said a voice.

As Ellen knelt she felt the leash strap between her breasts. She felt it best to widen her knees, and so did so. This proclaimed her a pleasure slave, but then that was what she was. She did not wish to risk a cuffing for having neglected the position which was appropriate for her. Too, though she hated Selius Arconious, she was sure, it nonetheless pleased her to kneel thusly before him. After all, she was his, and it was only fitting that she display his property suitably before him. Someone was standing, she was sure, before her. Perhaps it was Selius Arconious, her master. She straightened her body even more. Then, in a bit, the leash was unsnapped from the ring at the front of the hood. No longer then was the leash against her body. Presumably it was coiled and put somewhere. Then Ellen felt hands at the back of her neck. The hood lock was undone, and then, to her relief, but fear, the hood was pulled up, over her head, and removed.

It was rather dark, but one could see somewhat. One of the moons was visible through a break in the clouds.

The fresh air was glorious on her uplifted countenance, and she breathed it in, deeply, gratefully. Her face was doubtless reddened, blotched, from the confinement of the hood. Too, her face would be tear-stained.

Selius Arconious was to one side, placing the hood in a pack. There was a cloak about his shoulders, but the hood of the cloak was thrown back about his shoulders.

“Masters!” breathed Ellen.

But Portus Canio and Fel Doron, each in the garb of a Cosian guardsman, cautioned her to silence. Other men were about, their chains apparently removed. Two others, too, wore the garb of guardsmen.

Ellen then observed two more men approaching the group. They must have belonged with it, for their arrival caused no stir. One was dark-haired and lithe. The other was a large man, a strong, a dangerous-appearing man, who moved with the grace of a larl. He was red-haired, and was wiping a dagger on his thigh, which he then sheathed.

“You were followed,” said the lithe, dark-haired fellow who had just arrived with his companion.

“I know,” smiled Selius Arconious. “But I knew you were in attendance.”

“What occurred?” asked Portus Canio. He had a sword, presumably that of a guardsman, slung at his left shoulder.

“He is no longer followed,” said the red-haired man quietly.

“Who were they?” asked Fel Doron.

The dark-haired man shrugged. “Brigands,” he said.

“It was clever of you to publicly purchase this slave, with Cosian gold,” said one of the men about, indicating Ellen, who remained immobile, tense. “Thus, the camp will be looking for a tarnster.”

“Has Tersius Major, the traitor, been apprehended?” asked a man.

“He is in custody,” said the red-haired man. “He will be clad as Selius Arconious, gagged, tied in the saddle of a tarn and set aflight.”

“That will provide the incident needed to begin the disruption of the camp,” said one of the men.

“I would prefer to cut his throat,” said Portus Canio.

“If he can turn his head about and squirm a little that will lend plausibility to the diversion,” said a man.

“Perhaps you can cut his throat later,” said Fel Doron, slapping Portus Canio jovially on the shoulder, and Portus Canio grinned, and snorted in disgust.

“Are the wagons ready?” asked Selius Arconious.

“They are in place,” said a man. “Tarns will be released later and put aflight, and thus pursuit will presumably be directed to the skies, which Cos controls.”

“Then,” said a man, “we will disperse with the hundreds of others, who will break camp tomorrow.”

“The Cosian forces here will presumably march on Ar, to reinforce the occupation, and prevent mutiny,” said another.

“Is it true,” asked Selius Arconious, of the red-haired man, “that Marlenus has been found near Ar?”

“It seems so,” said the red-haired man. “He was discerned by a slave, who had tended him while he was imprisoned in Treve. It seems he escaped and made his way toward Ar, but somehow he seems unaware of the political realities in the city, and neither to understand nor know his true self.”

“We must regain him,” said a man. “He is needed as a symbol of resistance, as a rallying point.”

“Without him, how can Ar be restored?” asked another.

“He is needed to give the people courage, to ignite them, to rouse them to war, to cast out the Cosian sleen and their allies!”

“We need Marlenus of Ar!” exclaimed another. “He is the leader, the Ubar! None can stand against him!”

“Without him, what hope is there?” asked a man.

“He must lead us!” said another.

“Down with Talena, the traitress Ubara!” hissed a man.

“Our vengeance on her will be sweet,” said a man, grimly.

Ellen shuddered at the tones of the voices she heard.

“Death to the traitress!” said a man. “Death to the Ubara!”

“She shall know the penalties for betraying the Home Stone, those to be suitably inflicted upon a traitorous free person,” said a man.

“Perhaps she is not a free person,” said the red-haired man. “Perhaps she is only someone’s slave.”

“Absurd,” said a man.

“She is Ubara,” said another.

“Perhaps she who sits upon the throne of Ar,” said the red-haired man, thoughtfully, smiling, “is only a slave.”

“How would she dare?” asked a man.

“Let her fear then to be unmasked,” said another, softly.

“Yes,” said the red-haired man, thoughtfully. “Let her fear to be unmasked.”

“What would be the penalties for a slave, pretending to be a Ubara,” asked a man.

“It is difficult to conjecture,” said a fellow.

“I would not wish to be she,” said another.

Again Ellen shuddered.

“Is there to be a change of the guard here?” asked the dark-haired man of Portus Canio.

“Not until morning,” said a man.

“Good,” said the dark-haired man. “That will give us time.”

“Have garments been brought for the former prisoners?” asked the red-haired man.

“Yes,” said a fellow, “a variety of such.”

“Have them distributed,” said the red-haired man.

The fellow to whom he spoke left the area.

Ellen, from her knees, looked up to Selius Arconious. “May I speak, Master?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Did you purchase me,” she asked, “as only part of a plan?”

“Do you think you are important?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said. “Master.”

“Yes?” said he.

“Did you not want me, just a little, if only to beat and whip me?”

“Think,” said he, “stupid little slut.”

“Master?” she asked.

“I could have bid with the same effect, with no compromise to a plan, upon hundreds of other women,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” breathed Ellen, kneeling before him, suddenly again helplessly alive in her belly. She had suspected this earlier, of course, but she had wished to hear it from his lips, those of her master.

“Things fell nicely into place,” he said. “I purchased a worthless slave with a plenitude of Cosian gold, thus felicitously insulting the state of Cos. I arranged matters so that suspicion would fall upon a tarnster, as soon as the news of the theft of Cosian gold would reach the camp. This will help to create a useful diversion. And I obtained a cuddly slut, one who was once troublesome, but one who will now be well advised to learn to serve me zealously, with detailed, abject perfection.”

“You wanted to own me?” asked Ellen, happily.

“Yes,” said he, angrily, “meaningless slut. I have wanted to own you since the first time I laid eyes upon you. I do not know why. Surely there is no good reason for this aberration on my part. I am sure it is irrational. But ever since I first saw you I wanted to own you. I wanted you in my collar, and that is now where you are.”

“Yes, my master!” breathed Ellen.

“Have you not overlooked something?” asked Portus Canio, grinning.

“What?” asked Selius Arconious.

“Let us consider the matter,” said Portus Canio. “She was taken from me by confiscation in Ar,” he said.

“Yes?” said Selius Arconious, warily.

“Now I surely acknowledge that the confiscation was within the letter of the law, given the current sorry state of Ar and the ordinances of the occupation; and I acknowledge further that she has been out of my hands for more than the number of days which, in Merchant Law, legitimate her seizure and claiming by another, and I recognize, further, of course, that she has passed through one or more hands in this time, as his or their slave, and that she was honestly purchased in open auction, in good faith, from her actual and completely legitimate owner, the state of Cos.”

“You see then,” said Selius Arconious, “that you no longer have any claim to her.”

“Of course not,” said Portus Canio. “That is clear. On the other hand, we do share a Home Stone.”

“Very well,” said Selius Arconious. “She is yours. I give her to you.”

“Master!” protested Ellen. Then she swiftly put down her head. “Forgive me, Masters,” she said.

“But,” said Portus Canio, “I might be willing to sell her to you.”

Ellen lifted her head, hopefully.

“How much?” asked Selius Arconious. “Six gold pieces? I paid five.”

“What was the highest bid in silver for her?” asked Portus.

“Twenty,” said Selius.

“Very well, I will ask twenty-one, in the coin of Ar.”

“But that is my own money!” protested Selius.

“That is my price,” said Portus.

“You should have left him in the chains of Cos,” smiled Fel Doron.

“She is pretty, but she is not worth that much,” said a man.

Slowly, as Ellen watched, delighted, Selius Arconious, angrily, reluctantly, removing them one by one from his purse, placed twenty-one silver tarsks, of Ar, in the hands of Portus Canio.

Portus Canio looked down at Ellen. “You see, little vulo,” he said, “you are worth that much.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Ellen, kissing his sandals.

When she raised her head, Selius Arconious was looking down at her, in fury. She looked away, innocently.

“Do you think you are worth that much?” he asked.

“As a slave girl,” she said, “I dare not speculate on such matters. My value, if value I have, will be determined by men.”

“Gloat now, little she-sleen,” said Selius Arconious, angrily, “but do not forget that it is in my bracelets that your wrists are locked.”

“No, Master,” said Ellen, happily.

“I wanted to see how much you wanted her,” said Portus Canio. “Here are your silver tarsks back. I will sell her to you for less.”

“I do not understand,” said Selius Arconious.

“Give me a tarsk-bit,” smiled Portus Canio. Fel Doron laughed. One of the other men about slapped Selius Arconious good-naturedly on the back. There was much laughter.

Selius Arconious, reddening, replaced the silver in his purse. Ellen stiffened as he then gave a tarsk-bit, the hundredth part of a mere copper tarsk, to Portus Canio. Portus took the coin and put it in the guardsman’s wallet at his belt.

“That is doubtless, objectively, what she is worth,” said Portus Canio.

“Alas,” said Selius Arconious, “there is no smaller coin.”

Ellen looked angrily, from her knees, she back-braceleted, from Portus Canio to Selius Arconious.

“To the feet of your master, slut,” snapped Portus Canio.

And quickly, frightened, Ellen put down her head and began to lick and kiss the sandals of Selius Arconious, once again a slave, once again reminded of the absoluteness of her bondage.

“I am yours,” she said. “I will try to be pleasing to you.”

And as she performed this simple, homely act of respect and obeisance, common amongst female slaves, she groaned inwardly with need. How arousing it was to her to so kneel, naked, back-braceleted, head down, rendering submission to a man, her master. She felt incredibly female, incredibly feminine, incredibly thrilled and fulfilled. Men on this world, she thought, know the proper handling of women. She wondered if these men even realized what such postures, acts and rituals, so much taken for granted on this world, did to a woman. The culture of Gor was not devised to deny nature but to fulfill her. What might seem convention, taken for granted, and scarcely understood, by many on Gor, were profoundly symbolic acts, deeply moving acts, expressions of, and enhancements of, nature, which in their beautiful ways, and forms, stated, and celebrated, profound truths. Even chains, and the whip, were largely symbolic, the woman thusly understanding herself slave, and subject appropriately, as nature would have it, to the will of the dominant sex.

She lifted her head and looked up into the eyes of her master. Tears formed in her eyes. He looked away.

“Some of our men, clad as Cosian guardsmen,” said Fel Doron, “will raise a cry that the suspect tarnster has been seen. Shortly thereafter our friend, Tersius Major, gagged and bound, clad appropriately, will be put aflight on a tarn. There will doubtless be a pursuit. It should take some time to bring the tarn down. Later, say, an Ahn later, other tarns will be freed. This will be taken as the actual departure from the camp of the conspirators, and a new pursuit will be mustered. In the general confusion, and disbandment, of the camp, the former prisoners and the rest of our men will go their hundred ways, afoot, some of the Cosian gold divided amongst them. Those of Ar will attempt to severally work their way southeast to Ar. Our friends, Marcus, of Ar’s Station, and Bosk, of Port Kar, who have been instrumental, with others, in the purloining of the gold, and its subsequent temporary concealment, will in a few days attend a prearranged rendezvous with diverse cohorts, at a place of concealed tarns. There they will convey information as to the location of the great bulk of the gold, in its temporary cache, to these cohorts, who will then, as planned, see to its movement and disposition. Our friends of the scarlet caste will then attempt to return to Ar by tarn, traveling at night, utilizing the cover of darkness.”

The “scarlet caste” was a way of referring to the caste of Warriors, the expression being suggested by the usual color of their tunics. Ellen had seen many scarlet tunics in Ar, mostly those of mercenaries and Cosian regulars. As Portus Canio had referred to Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus, of Ar’s Station, as friends of the “scarlet caste,” they must be then, thought Ellen, of the Warriors. She had, of course, suspected as much earlier. They were large and powerful, and had the look about them of men not unaccustomed to look upon war, men not unfamiliar with the darker uses of steel. They were not, however, now in the scarlet of their caste, but wore simple brown tunics. In a sense, she supposed, they were incognito. Doubtless that was wise in a Cosian camp, if they were not of Cos, even though the camp was in theory an open camp. To be sure, in raids, in battle, red is not always worn. Much depends, as would be expected, on the terrain, the situation, the objective, the mission, and such.

“Have arrangements been made for me?” asked Selius.

He did not mention Ellen, for she was property, and, as property, might, or might not, be brought along, as the master chose.

“Yes,” said Portus Canio. “You will come with me, in a prepared wagon, and Fel Doron will accompany us. Too, until it is time for their departure for the rendezvous point, the place of concealed tarns, we will have at our disposal the swords of our friends, Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus, of Ar’s station.”

“Can one trust one of Port Kar?” asked Selius Arconious.

“He is with us, for whatever reason,” said Portus Canio.

“In Port Kar,” said the red-haired man, he like a larl, “there is now a Home Stone.”

“I did not know,” said Selius Arconious. “Forgive me.”

“It is nothing,” said the red-haired man.

The red-haired man frightened Ellen. She would have feared to belong to him. His speech had a foreign flavor, almost as though his Gorean had the trace, impossibly enough, of an English accent. But there are many accents on Gor. It did not seem likely that he would have a barbarian origin. He was too Gorean.

He glanced at her, and she, kneeling, quickly put down her head, unable to meet his eyes. She felt, beneath his gaze, as beneath that of many others, strong men, masters, completely slave. She knew that Gorean men saw her as a slave, and she knew in her heart that they saw her truly.

“There is little to do now,” said Portus Canio. “In the morning, after the alarms of the night, if all goes well, we will make our way to the wagons and, with thousands of others, unnoticed in the general thronging, leave the camp.”

“How many of our men are in the camp?” asked Selius Arconious.

“Not counting the freed prisoners, fifty,” said Portus Canio. He then turned aside, to speak to others.

“May I speak, Master,” whispered Ellen, softly, looking up to Selius Arconious.

“Very well,” he said.

“I think Master finds me of interest,” she said.

“Oh?” he said, skeptically.

“He could have purchased others in the auction. He purchased me. He was willing to pay twenty-one silver tarsks, of his own money, for this girl.”

“He is a fool,” said Selius Arconious.

“I hope not,” she said, “for he is my master.”

“Do you want a taste of the leather?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“I had you for a tarsk-bit,” he said, “no more. You are only a tarsk-bit girl. Do not forget it.”

“I sold for more than that the first time,” she said.

“Then someone paid more for you than you are worth.”

“I think Master may like me a little,” she said.

“Absurd,” he said.

“Just a little — perhaps, Master?”

“Do not presume,” he said.

“At least it seems that Master may want me,” she said.

“That is an altogether different thing from “liking,” he said.

“True,” she said, “but it pleases a slave that she should at least be wanted.”

“Good,” said he. “Be pleased, slave.”

“Perhaps you want me muchly?” she said.

“Absurd,” he said.

“Twenty-one silver tarsks is a great deal of money,” she said.

“It was a momentary act of madness,” he said, angrily. “Nothing more.”

“But did he not tell Ellen, his slave, and in the presence of Master Canio, and others, that he wanted her, and seemingly badly, in his collar?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Surely Master must have had something in mind,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“What?” she asked.

“I was curious to know what you would look like, bound and whipped.”

“Whip me if I deserve it, Master,” she said.

“I will whip you if, and when, I wish,” he said, “whether you deserve it or not.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you think that you are not a slave?” he asked. “Do you think that you will have an easy slavery with me, if I decide to keep you, for more than a night of abuse, selling you in the morning?”

“I know I am a slave, Master,” she said, suddenly frightened.

“And you will learn it,” he said. “Portus! Portus Canio!”

“Yes,” said Portus, turning about.

“How many guards were there with the prisoners?”

“Four,” said Portus. “They are now bound and gagged, concealed in that declivity, and stripped, of course, for we required their uniforms.”

“To them, and please them,” said Selius Arconious, “with your kisses, and lips, and tongue and mouth. Draw their seed forth, and leave no traces, for we do not wish them to be slain in the morning, signs of pleasure about their bodies.”

“Master!” protested Ellen, in horror. “You cannot be serious!”

“They are doubtless good fellows,” said Selius Arconious. “And surely they should receive at least some small recompense for their help, their cooperation, in our endeavors this night.”

“I beg to give you such pleasures, and a thousand other intimate, and beautiful, and precious pleasures, my Master, no limit of pleasure for you, for I am yours, but I beg you, do not ask me to so serve! Not others! Recall that I was not only a woman of Earth, but a lady, a lady of Earth!” She hoped that that expression would turn him from his intent, for the station of “lady,” on Gor, is a lofty one. He need not know that it had a lesser status on Earth.

She pressed her head down to his sandals. “Please, no, Master!” she begged. “I was a lady on Earth,” she said. “Please do not ask me to so serve!”

“You may have been a lady on Earth,” he said, “but you are a slave girl on Gor. And you will serve whomever, and however, I please.”

“Master, please!” she begged, head down.

“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.

“No, Master!” she said, frightened. In his tone there was ice, and iron, and she then knew what she was to him, and would be to him, what he would have her as, an uncompromised full slave.

Sobbing she sprang to her feet and hurried some yards away, to the indicated declivity. The clouds were more open now, and two of the three moons were visible. She had no difficulty in locating the bound guardsmen. They were tied apart, bound hand and foot, fastened in a row, tied by the neck and feet to two notched poles, so they could not reach one another. When she knelt near the first, she a naked slave, bending over him, her small hands braceleted behind her, the guardsman, sensing what was to be done, began to struggle fiercely, angrily. His eyes, over the gag, against which he helplessly fought, glared savagely at her. She was frightened, but she was even more frightened of her master, Selius Arconious, whom she now understood was not to be trifled with. He was to be obeyed categorically, instantly, unquestioningly, perfectly. She had no doubt now that he would use the whip on her, and without a second thought. She was, after all, his slave. “Forgive me, Master,” she whispered to the first man. “It will do you no good to struggle. You are helplessly bound, hand and foot, and though I am only a weak slave, know that you are now fully at my mercy. You cannot prevent me from doing what I will do. Please, forgive me, Master.”

Then, as he reared up in futile protest, she bent to his body.

Ellen then, to the best of her ability, pleased him. She tried to remember the lessons of her training, limited though they might have been, the kisses, the pneumaticities, the subtleties, the delicacies, the gentleness, the deeper grasps, the swirlings of the tongue, the touchings with the side of her face, the caress of her breasts and hair, the occasional, seemingly inadvertent brushing even of the eyelashes, light as feathers, her face beside him. “Please forgive me, Master,” she whispered. “I must do what I am told. Please forgive me.” And as she dealt with him she noted his responses, his twistings and turnings, and struggles, even the smallest movements of his body, and, even though he was gagged, the myriad subtleties and wealth of his expressions, resistant, demanding, furious, startled, disbelieving, helpless. “I hope to give you pleasure,” she whispered. “I am a pleasure slave, and I exist to please and serve men. It is what I am for, Master. It is accordingly my hope that I may please and serve you.” They guide you, she thought, through signs, even gagged. You can read the book of their pleasure, whether they wish it or not. He is teaching me! In his eyes she saw a reluctant, belligerent, begrudging admiration. I, a mere slave, she thought, am well pleasing a master. The thought crossed her mind then, as it had upon occasion before, that it was likely, at least for the most part, that only highly intelligent women were brought to this planet, to wear the collars of Gor. Who would wish to be served by a stupid slave? Certainly I am intelligent, she thought. At least I would suppose so. I would hope so. And others surely are, as well. We are not stupid. And slavers know that, she thought, the imperious, glorious, uncompromising, virile monsters! Even what I am doing, to do it well, she thought, requires sensitivity, attentiveness, intelligence. Even to serve as I am requires intelligence. Men will expect us to do such things well. A stupid girl might well diminish or bungle his pleasures. Then she swiftly, fearfully, dismissed such thoughts, those of the desiderata against which the values of slaves might be assessed and measured. Pay attention to what you are doing, slave girl, she thought. You do not wish to be beaten. How right I am in my collar, she thought. How right we are in our collars, she thought.

And she continued to serve.

She wondered what her former colleagues and students would have thought of her, could they see her now, kneeling, bent, stripped, back-braceleted, deliciously serving. Would they even have recognized her, their former colleague and teacher, now a commanded, performing slave girl? Would her female students weep with need and desire to so serve as well, to find therein one of the thousand rewarding, fulfilling, beautiful meanings of their sex? Would not her male colleagues have cried out with envy, sensing how forlorn, tricked and deprived they were, screaming with misery that they did not live on a natural world where one might own such women? Seldom had Ellen felt so female as then, commanded, helpless, pleasing intimately, beautifully. Such an act brings home a woman’s slavery to her. Her subject suddenly reared, twisted, and emitted a soft, guttural, indescribable noise. “Thank you, Master,” said Ellen. He then lay back, his head back, trying to catch his breath. Ellen, as is common with slave girls, humbly, gratefully, joyfully, took into her body, imbibing it, relishing it, the gift she had been given. Too, she knew that there was to be no sign of his pleasure found on his body in the morning. In attending to his body, cleaning it with her lips and tongue, she was suddenly startled, for he had again become strong. Then, again, of course, she pleased him.

She then went to the second guardsman, who, doubtless aware of the futility of resistance, turned his head angrily away. “Forgive me, Master,” said Ellen. In a moment, however, he raised his head, and moaned softly. “A slave begs to please Master,” she whispered. “But, alas, even if he does not wish it, she must please him, for she is so commanded. He has no choice. She has no choice. Both are choiceless, he bound, she commanded. Forgive me, Master.” Then in a moment, she said, “Oh,” softly. “Forgive a slave, but she thinks that master is pleased. She hopes that that is the case. Surely she will do her best to give him pleasure.”

In a little while she went to the third guardsman, and then to the fourth. Kneeling beside the fourth, her wrists moved a little in the closely fitting, light steel bracelets behind her. It was a tiny thing, but, as often, it was muchly arousing to her. So simply was she reminded that she was embonded. She then felt herself very much a slave, felt herself very much what she was. Then, putting her head down, she bent humbly to his body, to please him.

****

Scarcely had Ellen backed away, on her knees, bent humbly, head down, from the fourth guardsman, that she might not rise to her feet at his side, this perhaps being taken as insolence, he supine and bound, than she heard, vaguely, obscurely, not really registering it at first, as she now recalls it, some sounds, some sort of commotion in the camp, in the distance. She stood up, unsteadily. Her dark hair, slave long now, was about her face. She tossed her head, trying to throw it behind her. She smiled. She hoped she had done well. Certainly she, a slave, might be severely punished if she had not done well. She had certainly tried to do well. Perhaps one of the most difficult things for an Earth woman to understand in the case of the female slave, unless of course she herself is a slave, is that one of the most significant fears known to the female slave is that she may not be found fully pleasing. You see, there are consequences for such lapses. Anything less than perfection of performance is not accepted in a kajira. They are not, after all, inert, vain, independent, quiescent, smug, bored, exalted, spoiled free women. For example, they are not permitted indifference to sex, indifference to appearance, indifference to movement, and such. They are trained and marketed for the service and pleasure of men. It is what they are for. The sounds were far off. She did not pay them much attention at first. She did not think they would have anything to do with her. It was still rather dark. Clouds raced overhead. The night was damp. Two of the three moons were visible. The grass was wet and cold beneath her feet. She touched the bracelets, behind her, to her body. They were cold, and damp. She supposed dew was on them. She licked her lips. On them she could taste the soft, lovely, adhering residue of her service. She shivered a little, in the darkness. She moved her neck in her collar. It identified her as the property of a Gorean, Selius Arconious. I hate him, of course, she thought. Indeed, consider what he has just made me do. But still I am his slave, and must strive to please him. What a lamentable fate, she thought, and smiled. Then suddenly she gathered her wits about her, and strained to listen. Two of the guardsmen must have heard the sounds, too, for they were struggling to free themselves. Quickly then Ellen hurried from the declivity concealing the guardsmen. A few yards away there was a small fire, and several men were gathered about it. There were some wagons rolled about, as well, but they were muchly dark, in the shadows.

Ellen hurried to the fire, and knelt.

Selius Arconious was there, and Portus Canio, and Fel Doron, and others, including the red-haired man, he so much like a larl, claimedly from Port Kar, it seemed of the Warriors, and his fellow, the dark-haired, lithe man, said to be of Ar’s Station, also it seemed of the Warriors, which was somewhere to the north. Ellen’s arrival was no more noticed than might have been that of a dog.

She knelt beside Selius Arconious, knees wide, her head down.

“The sought tarnster has been detected!” she heard, a cry from several yards away.

“He is escaping!” she heard.

“He has stolen a tarn!”

“Pursuit will be mounted!” called another man, from somewhere in the darkness.

“He will be apprehended!” someone shouted. “Tarnsmen will be aflight in moments!”

“Should we not exhibit some interest in these matters?” asked Fel Doron.

“Certainly,” grinned Portus Canio, and rose to his feet. “What is going on?” he called into the darkness.

“The fellow who had Cosian gold is trying to escape the camp!” said a tharlarion driver, coming into the circle of firelight.

“And well he might,” said another fellow, coming toward the fire. “He would doubtless be turned up promptly enough with the coming of daylight.”

“I wonder if they will catch him,” said Selius Arconious.

Ellen shuddered.

“The slave is cold,” said one of the newcomers.

Selius Arconious took a blanket and threw it about Ellen’s shoulders. She welcomed its warmth.

Can it be that my master cares for me, she asked herself. As much would be done for a shivering kaiila, of course, she told herself. But she then thought that it would much more likely have been done for a shivering kaiila than for a slave, the kaiila being likely to be a much more valuable animal. Indeed, sometimes the slave is left shivering, that she may the better understand herself as a slave, and all the more dependent on the master. But he gave me a blanket, she thought. Perhaps I will be able to dominate him? Then she fearfully put aside that thought, for she knew she would never be able to dominate Selius Arconious, or any Gorean male. She could never be before such anything but a docile, humble, obedient, frightened, conquered, submitting slave. They were such men. But perhaps he likes me, she thought. He has given me a blanket. I must keep clearly in mind that I hate him! Then she put her head down and tried not to move, not wishing to lose the blanket. She could not hold it, or adjust it, with her hands, as they were still braceleted behind her. There is a technique which might be mentioned, for those interested in such matters, by which a back-braceleted slave girl can wrap herself in a blanket if she is permitted to lie down. One spreads the blanket out and grasps it at the bottom between one’s feet, in the center with one’s braceleted hands, and toward the top with one’s teeth, or between the chin and neck, and then rolls oneself in the blanket. This is not taught to us but is something one learns to do quickly enough if one is cold, in a camp, say, or at the foot of the master’s couch. Ellen tried to reach the blanket with her teeth, but could not do so without breaking position. And it slipped down a little, which did not please her.

“He went toward Ar,” said a man.

“They will catch him,” said another.

Their informants then took their leave, hurrying toward other fires in the camp.

“They did not recognize you,” said Portus Canio to Selius Arconious.

“They are not looking for me here,” said Selius Arconious. “Thus they do not see me here.”

“Perhaps we should leave now,” said a man, uneasily. He rose to his feet, looking about.

Another man, too, rose to his feet.

“Yes, perhaps we should leave,” said another fellow, looking at Portus Canio.

“We could travel light,” said another.

“We could leave the baggage, and wagons,” said another.

“And the animals,” said another.

“And the slave,” said another. “She could not keep up with us.”

Ellen moved, apprehensively. The blanket fell from her. She was frightened. She moved toward Selius Arconious, on her knees, facing him, and lifted her chin.

“What is wrong?” asked Selius Arconious.

“Should we not flee, Master?” asked Ellen.

“‘We’?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, leaning forward, and raising her chin yet more.

“It seems you are ready to be leashed,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. “Leash me. I beg to be leashed!”

“A woman of Earth begs to be leashed?” he asked, amused.

“Yes, Master!” Ellen assured him.

“You are afraid you will not be taken with us?” asked Selius Arconious.

Ellen was silent.

Selius Arconious reached to the blanket and drew it completely over Ellen. She moaned, within the blanket. She dared not shrug it off, for it had been cast over her as it had, in that special way, by her master.

Blankets, sheets, and such, of course, may be used as hooding devices. Sometimes they are placed over the head and tied about the neck; sometimes they are placed over the head and tied about the belly, the woman’s hands and arms within them. The simplest hooding with a blanket, of course, is that to which Ellen had found herself subjected, a simple covering. She did know that when she was covered in such a way she was not to be heard from. A woman might be so covered for a variety of reasons. Perhaps, as she was not now hooded, her master did not wish her to be recognized as the slave purchased the preceding night for so great a sum. But in the darkness, and such, she supposed she had been so covered merely to dismiss her, so to speak. Yes, she thought. I hate Selius Arconious. It is not unusual on Gor, however, to conceal women, either free or slave. Do not peasants upon occasion hide their daughters? Do not the men of the Tahari order their slaves to the tents upon the approach of strangers, and so on?

On Gor, it might be mentioned, that some of these things might be better understood, women tend to be regarded as goods and prizes, as loot and booty, particularly if one does not share a Home Stone with them. The capture of the enemy’s women is a common feature of Gorean warfare. Indeed, wars have been fought to obtain female slaves. And raids to obtain women are commonplace. Indeed, among men, the monsters, there is much here that has a sporting cast. Too, the possession of women is often taken as an index of wealth, rather as, in other times and places, might have been cattle or horses. There is much loneliness and misery, I suspect, in the pleasure gardens of wealthy men. Certainly Gorean cities vie with one another not only with respect to the splendor of their promenades and parks, their fountains and architectures, but with respect, as well, to the number and beauty of their slaves.

“It is not time yet,” said Portus Canio.

“Our friends from Port Kar and Ar’s Station must yet flight tarns,” said Fel Doron, “which should convince our Cosian friends that we, their undetected but suspected foes, presumed allies of the pursued tarnster, who presumably did not work alone, have also taken our departure from the camp, and similarly. But then, while Cosians scour the clouds themselves, we, below, in daylight, mixing with hundreds of others, shall quietly, unhurriedly, calmly, take our leave afoot.”

“I am afraid,” said a man.

“Morning, morning,” said Fel Doron.

“How long until morning?” said a man.

“Two Ahn, two and a half Ahn, something like that,” said Portus Canio.

Ellen, under the blanket, could see nothing, but she gathered from small sounds that the counsel of Portus Canio and Fel Doron had prevailed, and that their uneasy fellows had now returned to their places by the fire.

“Master,” she whispered, from within the blanket, “may I speak?”

“No,” he said.

She then knelt under the blanket, small and soft, in darkness, a collared slave, not permitted to speak. He is strong, she thought. He masters me. I am no more to him than a pig or dog. I must try to please him well.

He is Selius Arconious, my master!

How strange she then thought that I, of Earth, should be here, on another world, a far, beautiful world, one many of Earth do not even know exists, kneeling on its grass, naked, back-braceleted, covered with a blanket, dismissed from attention, unable to see, waiting, a slave.

How different I now am from what I was, how much has been done to me!

How much has changed!

I am now a girl, she thought, as once I was, I have seen myself in the mirror, a girl of no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age.

On Earth I might have been a freshman in college, a new student, with her books, one being noticed by upperclassmen.

A beautiful girl.

But here I am a slave.

A beautiful young slave.

My name is Ellen.

It is my hope that masters will find this girl pleasing.

If they do not, she fears she will be slain.

But how the master heated me, she thought, angrily, with the cruelty of an arousal tie, a stimulation tie! Men have done this to me. Master, be kind to me. How lordlike they are to their slaves! How much we are at their mercy! Men have made us dependent upon them, not only for our food and drink, for even a rag to wear, but, too, in other ways, ways far more profound, dependent upon them for the assuagement of cruel and desperate needs, needs routinely released in bondage, needs, insistencies, urgencies, and torments, in the grip of which we find ourselves pathetically helpless. Men, for their pleasure and amusement, kindle the tinder of our needs. As it pleases them, and doubtless because it will improve our price, they set slave fires in our belly. And then they step aside, as though noticing nothing, while these fires periodically rage. They make us the victims of our own needs, and use them to bring us choicelessly to their feet.

How cruel they are!

How I need, want and love them!

On Earth, I tried to hate them, as my sisters wished, but would not say, but even in my determination to conform to these sororal demands, and in the midst of my prescribed, routinely uttered critiques and denunciations, I found them fascinating.

I wondered even then what it would be to belong to them, fully, as a chattel, as so many women in history, my sisters, belonged to them.

I found it hard to believe that human nature was a mistake, and biology incorrect. Could an entire species be in error?

And I knew too much history, over a thousand generations, to suppose that the biography of a race was an inexplicable accident, a mere haphazard contingency that might as easily have been otherwise, that it was without meaning or foundation, that there no reason why it was as it was.

And I wondered if I had not on Earth betrayed my truths and sold my happiness to please others. What reward will compensate one for that? Lies are expensive, and sorely purchased! There are gains and losses, always, but the gain of the few may be the loss of the many, and one wonders if the few have truly gained.

Can hunger and unhappiness, sorrow and misery, hatred and pain, illness and tragedy, really be the evidential insignia of health and truth?

It does not seem likely.

But Ellen then squirmed beneath the blanket.

On her neck was a collar, and slave fires burned in her belly. But she did not envy or desire the sluggish, aloof tranquility of the free woman, so much a stranger to need and life. Let them in their pride and separateness scorn the vitality of slaves, she thought. Let them, if they wish, prize and cultivate a winter within their robes. Let them congratulate themselves on ice and inertness. What would they care for, or could they know of, the feelings of a slave? What could they know of the needs of slaves? Would such needs not be so alien to them that they must find them incomprehensible? Perhaps thought Ellen, but perhaps too, in their way, they have some sense of such things, for they, too, are women; perhaps then they have at least some dim sense of what it might be to scratch at a kennel’s walls and howl to be touched.

To be sure, how cruel these needs! With them and in them I suffer, well do I know their anguish, but I would not exchange them for the soporific quiescence, the quietude and repose, the numb and frosty serenity, of the unperturbed free woman. I would not exchange my slave needs for the world, for with them, and in them, I am intensely aware, awake and alive, a thousand times more so than I would have thought possible. With them I am a fabric spread to the weathers of the world, to its vibrant, vital multiplicity and wealth. How alive the collar makes us! How welcoming and sentient we become in so many ways in this so sentient world! We welcome its myriads of sensations, its aromas, its colors, its sounds, its textures and tastes, the feel of wet sand beneath our bared feet, that of the wind on our bared arms and legs, rushing landward from sparkling, salty Thassa, the pull on our leash as we are led behind our masters, the smell of high, rain-drenched grass in the fields, the luster of delicate talenders blossoming in the spring, the creaking of a heavy wagon, the sound of kaiila bells, the feel of the fur at the foot of the master’s couch, the feel on our belly of the tiles as we crawl toward him, close encirclements of leather on our bound wrists, confining our hands behind our body, the taste and texture of his sandals on our lips and tongue.

On this world we respond to, and welcome, its myriad sensations. Every inch of us is alive.

Slave needs, of course, as any unsatisfied need, can cause suffering, who knows better than a helpless slave, but I would not be without such needs. In this suffering, and anguish, if nothing else, I know myself intensely alive.

Imagine now, if you can, the concern, and hopes, of the slave that such needs, such cruel needs, will be recognized by the master, and that he will be moved to attend to them.

How different things are for the slave and free!

The free male, should he have an interest in free women, perhaps he has no access to slaves, usually initiates the sexual encounter. He petitions the free woman, so to speak, who may or may not accede to his petition. In the master/slave relationship, on the other hand, it is the woman, the slave, who often puts herself to the feet of the free man, begging for sex. What a pleasant turnabout this must be for the fellow who has never before owned a woman. The man, of course, in a master/slave relationship never petitions or solicits. As he is master he commands, and often that the woman will prepare herself, in one fashion or another, perhaps presenting herself in a certain manner, say, silked or belled, or putting out certain articles, or such, for his use, perhaps a given variety of chains or cuffs, and perhaps a switch, to be used upon her if she is insufficiently pleasing. If he is in a certain mood, or in a hurry, he may simply, abruptly, put her to use. A slave, of course, may be ravished in any way, and at any time and place, at the master’s pleasure. This is one of the appurtenances of the mastery. It might be added that the slave finds this lovely jeopardy appropriate and exciting. The piquancy of an unexpected encounter adds spice to the collar life. Too, it is extremely important to her, as it may not be to a free woman, to be frequently reassured that she remains sexually desirable, even disturbingly so, even maddeningly so, to her master. And his frequent uses of her leave her in little doubt as to her attractions. Neglected, she weeps and fears. Has he tired of her? Is he thinking of selling her? But she loves him! She dares not speak her love to him, of course. She is a mere slave. She does not wish to be lashed. She redoubles her efforts to please.

And our slave needs, as noted, put us much at the mercy of the master.

How frequently, and how intensely, our slave fires burn!

Can you not imagine then our piteous supplications, our pleas to be permitted to serve him? We petition him to be put to his use. We beg our use.

And as we are slaves, for what uses do we beg?

Not the uses of free women, never, but the uses which are fit for us, the uses which we now need and want, for which we plead, the uses of slaves.

The uses for which we petition, you see, as we are slaves, will be very different from the tamenesses which would be appropriately accorded to a free woman, uses conformable to her status and dignity. We wish to be handled quite otherwise. We wish to be handled as slaves. We wish to be positioned, turned about, knelt, spread, bound, such things. We wish to be treated as the slaves we are. As with the kaiila the masters will have a firm hand, so to speak, on our reins. Too, as with the kaiila, and not merely “so to speak,” the quirt will be at hand. We will be done with as our masters please. We will be treated then not as free women, but as owned women, which we are. Our uses will leave us in no doubt as to our bondage. We will be choiceless in these matters, but this choicelessness, as we are slaves, is precious to us. It is what we want. We do not want the tepid, boring experiences of the free woman. Leave them to her. We beg rather for the ecstasy of the slave. We wish to be used then not as free women but as ruthlessly mastered chattels, for that is precisely what we are, and would be. We are not free women who may adjust and regulate, as we please, beneath our sheets and within our modesty robes, the delicate and respectful attentions of some fellow fortunate enough to have been admitted to our chamber.

Does the free woman sometimes feel an uneasiness, is she sometimes restless, does she sometimes experience a discomfort, one perhaps not even fully understood?

The slave can know agony.

Let the free woman twist and squirm in bed, and drench her pillow with tears.

The slave prostrates herself before the master, her hair about his sandals, hoping he will be merciful, that he will take pity on her.

Does the free woman sometimes wonder what it would be to be a slave, to be utterly rightless and vulnerable, to have to serve and please? Does she wonder sometimes what it might be to find her beauty, perhaps stripped and collared, looked upon with interest and satisfaction, with approval and anticipation, to find it thusly, helplessly, within the regard of a man who owns it, whose property it is, her master?

Never before has she been so looked upon.

Let her now understand, perhaps for the first time, that she is beautiful, that she is delicious and well-curved, that she is tormentingly desirable, that she is a fit meat for masters.

Surely she now understands why she has been collared.

Does she sense what it would be then to have his hands reaching for her, what it would be to be taken within his arms?

Perhaps.

One does not know.

But put aside thoughts of free women, and their wants, and tragedies.

We are not free women.

We are slaves.

We are commanded. We are naked and collared. We may be danced; we may be ordered to perform in any number of intimate modalities. We must hope to please our masters. If we do not, we must expect to be whipped. We are slaves. Not unoften we are chained or bound, mercilessly exposed for the master’s pleasure, his property displayed for his delectation. When he puts us to use, we are left in no doubt as to our subjugation. He is kind to us. He will grant us his caress, though we are only slaves. We are grateful for his touch, and we cry ourselves his, again and again, in the blinding delirium of our joy, in the ecstasy of the mastered slave.

But our slave needs, thought Ellen, are not simply such needs, the needs of a pathetically aroused and cruelly intensified sexuality, as obvious as these things are. There are also subtler needs involved, those to belong, to be ruled, to be owned.

Can free women, Ellen wondered, understand anything of this?

Perhaps.

One does not know.

How fine and noble, how lofty and exalted, are free women, thought Ellen, and how I am nothing before them, but for all their status and glory I would not trade my collar.

But then Ellen grew fearful.

How long had she been beneath the blanket, so kept in place?

She feared now for her master, and his friends, and allies. To linger longer in this place, this now-disturbed, now-fearful, now-sobered festival camp, would be, she feared, grievously dangerous.

Was this not clear, even to an ignorant young slave?

The fire crackled. It had been twice stirred, and twice replenished. Ellen wished desperately to speak, to urge flight, but she dared not do so. Too, she feared she might be left as she was, beneath the blanket, abandoned. She knew she could not keep up with the men if they chose to begin a rapid, severe trek afoot. But she had understood that they, if they followed the stated plan, would leave the camp in a leisurely manner. That recollection reassured her. Too, abandoning baggage or a slave might suggest a suspicious, precipitate haste. She could always be abandoned, of course, if one wished, on the trail. She could be bound hand and foot, and left to the side, subject to claimancy by others, should they happen by. That was possible. But this would normally be done only with an unwanted slave. How piteously then might they call out to strangers. But many would pass them by, not wanting another man’s leavings. Such an experience, of course, is likely to be instructive to a slave, and if she should be so fortunate as to be accepted by some passing traveler, she is likely to be to him amongst the most grateful, devoted and zealous of slaves. Too, of course, the sleen tends to prowl at night. But Ellen did not think she would be an unwanted slave. Surely she had seen the eyes of men upon her. She was no stranger to the frankly appraisive glances of masters.

The men of Earth, she thought, are often circumspect, even furtive, when looking upon women, as well they might be, given the entanglements, the risks and absurdities, of their pathological environment. Some, suitably conditioned, would even feel guilt, upon, say, an occasion’s having arisen when they had, however briefly, indulged in one of nature’s most ingredient inclinations, the human male’s perusal of the human female. The Gorean male, on the other hand, looks upon women openly and honestly, particularly slaves. Many was the time when Ellen, even tunicked, had felt herself speculatively undressed by a fellow’s regard.

The men of Earth think nothing of looking frankly upon dogs and horses, so why should they not look as frankly upon another form of domestic animal, the female slave? But perhaps they have never seen a female slave? If so, that is their misfortune, for such beasts are often very beautiful.

To be sure, the Gorean slave tunic leaves few of its occupant’s charms to the imagination. But, too, many was the time that Ellen had seen men considering even cumbersomely robed, gloved and veiled free women. Doubtless they were considering the hidden slave. To her amusement, Ellen had noted that such free women, sensing themselves within a male’s regard, while pretending to be unaware of the fact, tended to straighten their body, hold their head up, walk well, and such. They, too, are slaves, Ellen had thought, with much satisfaction. Let them too, then, be collared and put in tunics! Then they would truly learn how to hold their bodies and walk. Certainly Ellen had been taught, to the sting of a switch, how to walk in a tunic, in the house of Mirus.

One of the delights of a Gorean city, at least from a male point of view, is the scrutiny of its slaves. Males enjoy looking upon lovely women, particularly if they are lightly, briefly clad, revealingly clad. It gives them pleasure. Thus, if the women are slaves, they will have them so clad, “slave clad,” as the expression is. The garmenture of the slave, of course, at least officially, or at any rate in the lore of free women, is intended to be shameful, and to demean the slave. I do not think, of course, that it actually has this effect, or anything like it. To be sure, sometimes a slave new to her collar, a recent free woman, must be whipped from the house before she can bring herself to appear so clad on the street. Her discomfiture, of course, muchly delights other slaves, who may then follow her about, publicly calling attention to her legs, and such.

And in such garments, certainly, we must acknowledge that the slave, by intent, in accord with the imperious will of masters, is well-bared, that she is muchly exposed, that she is well exhibited, that she is well displayed, and such. But I do not think that such garmenture, slave garments, is demeaning, or shameful, at least not for a slave. Rather, they are appropriate for a slave, as they should be. If the slave is permitted garments, it is certainly appropriate, do you not agree, that they should be garments fit for a slave, namely, be simple, lovely, exciting, and revealing. After all, she is a slave, and she will often, doubtless, find herself before men. In such garments, too, given their brevity and such, it is usually easy, if one is interested, to see why she has been put in a collar. Most slaves, we should note, love their tunics, their ta-teeras, their camisks, and such. Usually they wear them with pleasure and pride, as visible tokens of their interest to men, as badges, unassuming as they are, of their desirability. In them they are exciting and beautiful, and they are well aware of this. The slave tunic, and such garmentures, rather as the collar, too, proclaims its occupant a woman who has been found worth capturing, worth collaring, worth buying and selling, worth owning, and so on. And do not think that slaves do not take pride in this.

Whereas they may at first shudder in their pens and jerk helplessly, weeping, at their chains, they know, too, on some level, at least, and this appeals profoundly to their vanity, and to the yearning, secret slave within, perhaps hitherto fearing she might be valueless, perhaps hitherto fearing that no man might want her, perhaps hitherto fearing that no man would enslave her, that they have been found worth penning and chaining. Has not every woman wondered if she were attractive enough, or interesting enough, to be a slave?

Even the most insolent and beautiful of women, one inordinately vain, one supremely confident of her worth and beauty, even inveterately, snobbishly so, in her customary interactions and relations with despised males, must tremble, wondering what it would be to find herself kneeling naked and collared at the feet of a true man, regarding her skeptically, whip in hand. Is she now so sure of her beauty? Would it be sufficient for that male, whom hitherto she has seen only in her dreams?

But she is now penned, now on a chain.

So perhaps she will learn.

They now know they have been found beautiful enough to be put on a sales block and publicly sold. They now know they are lovely enough for the collar. In such things they find keen gratification. Are they not entitled to take some pleasure in recognizing that strong, lustful men will be satisfied with nothing less than owning them? Do they not understand now that they are amongst the most beautiful and desirable of women, women who, by the will of men, will be kept as they should be kept, as slaves?

Perhaps they are trinkets and baubles, but they are trinkets and baubles which are zealously coveted, and relentlessly sought. Do you think they do not know that when a city falls and they are led forth in their chains, herded along, perhaps cruelly prodded, with other domestic animals, that they are esteemed the most luscious of booty and loot, the most relished of prizes and treasures? Can they not see the eyes of the conquering soldiers upon them? Can they not hear their cries of pleasure and anticipation? Certainly, too, they are the customary quarry of slavers, the primary object of raiders. Men risk their lives for them; men fight for them; men kill for them. They are the possession men want most. What man would not want them at his slave ring? And in time, ruled and owned, disciplined and possessed, they find their own fulfillment, as they had dreamed, at the feet of their master.

In bondage a woman finds her reassurance and meaning.

In the collar of a master is the belly of a woman best stirred.

In the ropes of her lord a woman is most secure.

The free woman may think herself a thousand times above the slave, and may be justified in doing so, and, indeed, in many ways, but the slave, kneeling frightened before the free woman, her head to her sandals, knows that it is she, and not the free woman, who has been collared.

Lastly it might be noted that the garmenture of the slave, amongst its other features, has this one, too. It distinguishes her clearly from the free woman. In the Gorean culture this is extremely important. This is a distinction which must never be unclear or confused. The free woman is a person; she is a citizen; she has standing before the law; she has a Home Stone; she is noble, lofty, and exalted. The slave, on the other hand, is a property, an animal.

But she does have her collar.

Ellen hoped she would be neither left behind nor abandoned on the road.

She would do her best, she knew, to keep up with the men.

She would endeavor to be so pleasing, so obedient and helpful, so docile and servile, and so sensual, sensual as she had been taught in the pens of Mirus, sensual as only a slave can be sensual, that they would not wish to do without her.

A slave, you see, in her way, by her appearance, demeanor, and service, may exert a considerable influence on the value and quality of her life.

A slave who is pleasing will normally be well cared for, fed, clothed, and caressed. Too, it is not unusual for a pleasing slave to be cherished, cherished as only a slave can be cherished, cherished as a free woman cannot be cherished, cherished in a way forever denied to a free woman.

And, too, is the slave not often ambushed by love? Is her path not beset with its thousand snares? Is she not often trapped, a helpless possession, within the nets of her needs? She lives with a man on terms of obedience and intimacy. She belongs to him. She knows herself his. She must please and serve. She lives thus in a radiant world enflamed with emotion. In such a world are forged the stoutest and most inescapable of chains. Talenders blossom in the meadow of her bondage. Such a world, that of bondage, is congenial to her deepest needs, and her sense of self. She senses she is where she belongs, and where she wants to be. She has longed to be put to her knees naked before a master. She has longed to press her lips in obeisance to his sandals. She is now so before him, and is content.

She lifts her head to him, her eyes shining, in gratitude.

Perhaps he will caress her.

She may hope so.

Perhaps he will keep her.

She may hope so.

But, too, he may not do these things.

She must wait to learn. She is, after all, only a slave.

She may be loved, or hated. She may be noticed or ignored. She may be silked or kept stripped. Her limbs may be kept free, or they may be held tightly to her body by coarse ropes; indeed, as she is a slave she might be swathed with merciless cordage, or perhaps chained, cruelly spread-eagled, on tiles. She may be called upon, to her delight, to dance for her master’s friends or acquaintances. How decorously she will dance if free women are present, and how like a slave, if they are not! Perhaps her master will permit her much latitude; perhaps she may be allowed to run freely about the city. Or perhaps he will keep her confined to the house, in shackles, or perhaps give her the run of a chain in the yard. Perhaps he will permit her to heel him on outings, joyfully, comfortably, or perhaps he will run her, hands tied behind her back, weeping and gasping beside his kaiila, on a short leash, tethered to his stirrup. She might be brought perfumed to his slave ring. She might be neglected in the filth of a kennel. She might be caressed. She might be lashed. She might be kept. She might be sold. She is a slave.

Slaves are slaves, only slaves.

And Ellen, kneeling naked, back-braceleted, concealed under the blanket, knew herself, too, such, and only such.

She was a slave.

She could be left behind.

Would she be left behind?

They must take me with them, she thought. They must, they must!

You are a burden, she said to herself. You are a slight slave, more fit for the furs, there squirming and moaning, than trekking beside masters for long days and nights. You will be left behind, or abandoned.

No, no, she cried to herself, within the blanket.

I can keep up with them, she said to herself. I must keep up with them!

She did not want to be left behind.

They must not leave her behind!

But she did not think they would leave her.

Too, there were wagons, and she might be permitted to ride. Too, Selius Arconious had been willing to pay twenty-one silver tarsks for her. Twenty-one! Do not forget that, she told herself. Despite his arrogance and disclaimers, I am sure you are important to him, she thought. No tarnster casts aside twenty-one silver tarsks. Perhaps I am pretty. Perhaps I am even a desirable slave. Can that be? I think it is possible. There were twenty silver tarsks bid on me in open auction. For most Goreans that is a considerable amount of money. To be sure, she thought, a kaiila would bring more, and a tarn a great deal more.

“Is it time to flight tarns?” asked Portus Canio.

“They must not be flighted too early,” said a man, whom Ellen, from the voice, knew to be the red-haired man. “We must not give the Cosians time to collect their wits before the camp breaks up, lest they close the camp. We must count on their confusion, until the camp is broken, and thousands are scattered in a hundred directions.”

“But soon,” said Fel Doron, uneasily.

“Yes, soon,” said the other.

“Well,” said Selius Arconious, “I think that I shall seek some rest.” Ellen heard someone rise, and make a noise, as of contentment, as in languorous stretching. She had little doubt it was her master.

“How can you rest?” asked a man.

“At such a time?” asked another.

“It is an excellent suggestion,” said the red-haired man.

“We might pretend to rest, as it is late,” said Portus Canio.

“We might pretend to awaken in consternation, given an alarm,” said Fel Doron.

“I am not going to sleep,” said a man.

“Tend the fire then,” suggested another.

“On your feet,” said Selius Arconious, and, from the tone of his voice, Ellen, even though beneath the blanket, had no doubt he was addressing her. It was the voice of one who anticipated no hesitation whatsoever, and would accept no hesitation whatsoever, in the addressee’s compliance. It was the voice of a master addressing a slave. Her response was instantaneous. She struggled to her feet as quickly as she could, given the impediments of the blanket and bracelets. The celerity of her response, despite the handicap of the blanket and bracelets, apparently occasioned neither stir nor interest on the part of the men, its promptitude being taken for granted by them, presumably not even being noticed by them. Such things were simply expected of her. She was a slave. Within the blanket Ellen bit her lip, in embarrassment at how quickly, and fearfully, she had obeyed. Yet, had the same command been given again, under the same circumstances, she would have responded in the same fashion, or perhaps even with greater alacrity. It was as if a dog had been commanded. Ellen realized that she, as other women brought to Gor for the diverse purposes of the collar, had learned to obey, and to obey immediately, and perfectly. How different this was from when she had been on Earth! She was now standing, still completely covered by the blanket, its lower folds now fallen about her ankles.

She felt a strong hand gathering together the portion of the blanket which was about her head, pulling it forward about her neck, and wadding it beneath her chin, where it was firmly grasped. In this way an arrangement was produced not unlike a hood with a throat-ring, a ring by means of pressure on which, by a leash or such, an occupant might be conducted about. She was drawn a few yards to one side. She stumbled once, but the hand at her throat, grasping the blanket, did not permit her to fall. There was now grass beneath her feet.

“Kneel,” said her master.

She was then kneeling beneath the blanket.

The blanket was then rearranged, put about her shoulders, and drawn about her, in such a way that she knelt within it, it open a bit before her, her throat and head exposed. He held it about her neck for a moment, and then released it. It remained rather as it had been. With his two hands he brushed her hair back, once more behind her shoulders. The gesture was almost tender. He looked into her eyes. She looked at him, frightened, pleadingly. She was his, and did not, truly, know him. She told herself that she hated him, that she despised him, but she knew herself his, and, for some reason, her eyes were moist with tears. He touched the side of her collar with the fingertips of his right hand, a gesture which, to her surprise, seemed almost loving. But then it seemed he caught himself, as though in a moment of indiscretion. He then laughed softly, harshly, even cruelly, mercilessly, in proprietorship, his eyes glistening and hard, and grasped the collar, possessively. There was a look of satisfaction on his face then, and she suddenly understood, trembling, that he was a true owner of women, not the sort of man who freed slaves. And certainly he would not free her, not this young, lovely barbarian which was she. Indeed, given the genuine opportunity to own her, what rational man would consider freeing her? She realized then, it startling her, that on this world she was too valuable, too precious, too desirable, to be free. Perhaps if she had been enveloped within, bundled within, the cumbersome Robes of Concealment? But surely not if they had once glimpsed her in the brief tunic of a slave, or seen her chained, in rags, in a market or exhibited nude on a block. Her face, her slave curves, betrayed her. Only too obviously such as she was the natural property of strong men. Too, she suspected that this man, her master, aside from social and institutional imperatives, literally, deeply, personally, for whatever reason, relished the owning of her. He would not let her go, she was sure. This frightened her, but thrilled her, as well. Few women on Earth, she suspected, other than slaves, had any inkling as to what it was to be so wanted, to be the object of such fierce desire, that of a master for a slave. He found her, she suspected, “slave desirable.” He desired her with such passion, with such lust, with such wanting, that she would be kept exactly as he wanted her, as his complete slave, until, of course, he might tire of her, and then she could be sold to another.

She was his.

He sat near her, before her, cross-legged, and reached his hands to her hair, and, by means of her hair, as she knelt, back-braceleted, drew her head downward a few inches, toward himself. Her head down, she lifted her eyes, looking into his eyes, questioningly. A tear coursed down her left cheek. She tried to draw back, a little, but he drew her head, by the hair, a few inches closer to his body.

“You pleased the guardsmen, I take it,” he said.

“A slave did her best to please them, Master,” said Ellen.

He then lay back on the grass. His hands were still in her hair, and her face, held, was now but inches from his body.

She bent to his body, her lips pursed.

His hands now held her from him. “Master?” she asked.

“It seems you intend to give pleasure, uncommanded, and of your own free will,” he said.

“Master?” asked Ellen, confused.

“Were you, a meaningless, wretched slave, given permission to touch the body of one whose Home Stone is that of Ar?” he asked.

“Master is clearly ready for pleasure,” whispered Ellen.

He was silent.

“Did not Master draw me to him?” she asked.

“It is one thing for me to send you to give pleasure to Cosian sleen,” he said, angrily. “It is another to permit you to touch a citizen of Ar.”

“I do not understand what I am to do,” said Ellen.

“Did you not lower your head to me, uncommanded, uncoerced?”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. “I thought —”

“Yes?” he said.

“I thought you might be pleased,” she whispered.

“Did you want to please me?” he asked.

“I think so, Master,” said Ellen, in tears.

“Why?” he asked. “To save your worthless hide? To ingratiate yourself with me? To practice your wiles, to ensnare me with pleasure, to purchase an easier life, to avoid beatings and chainings?”

“I do not know,” wept Ellen. “Master confuses me.”

“How well the word ‘Master’ sounds on your lips,” he said. “How fitting!”

“It is fitting,” said Ellen. “I am a slave. I have learned it on this world.”

“She-tarsk,” said he. “Conniving, hypocritical she-tarsk!”

“I am not conniving, Master,” she said. “And I do not think that I am hypocritical.”

“We hate one another, do we not?” he asked, angrily.

“Why did Master buy me then?” she asked.

“Doubtless for the pleasure of owning and mastering you, for the pleasure of exacting from your hide compensations a thousandfold for frustrations you dealt me in Ar. Oh, yes, it will be pleasant to own you, Earth slut, to impose upon you a leisurely, prolonged vengeance, to subject you to a slavery so thorough and abject that you will creep to your kennel at night, and weep there for the smallest of your former indiscretions. Have no fear, slave girl! You will well know that you are owned!”

“I do not know what my feelings are, Master,” said Ellen. “I suppose I must hate you. I suppose I should hate you. I do not know! I have told myself that I hate you.”

“There!” said Selius Arconious.

“But I do not know if it is true or not!”

“What a silly, stupid little tasta, you are,” he snarled.

“Sometimes we tell ourselves what we think we should feel, but what we do not feel. Sometimes we tell lies to ourselves.”

“How can one tell lies to oneself?” he asked. “Do you not think you know what you feel? Who knows, if you do not?”

“Sometimes others know,” said Ellen. “Portus Canio might know.”

“More of you than you know?”

“And perhaps more of you than you know.”

“Absurd.”

“As Master will have it.”

“He knows nothing of us,” said Selius Arconious.

“Is Master so sure of his own feelings?” asked Ellen. “Forgive me, Master,” she added, hastily.

“Know that you are hated!” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“Why did you bend to me earlier?” he asked.

“It seemed to be what I should do!” she wept. “I do not know! I wanted to please my master! I wanted to give him pleasure! I do not know!”

“Did you want to do it?” he asked, rising to one elbow. “Truly?”

“I do not know! I think ‘Yes,’ Master!”

“Liar!” said he. “Slut and liar!”

“You own me now, Master,” wept Ellen. “I am yours and totally helpless. Please be kind to your slave!”

He then reached to her hair and drew her painfully, forcibly, to his body, until her lips were but an inch from the heat of him. He held her in such a way that she could neither approach him more closely nor withdraw.

“Put out your tongue, your moist, lying little tongue, and lick your upper lip, slowly,” he said. “Now, purse your lips and kiss, again and again, at me, but do not touch my body. Now, lick again your upper lip, and now, again, more slowly, yes, that is it, slave girl.”

Her hands twisted helplessly behind her in the bracelets. Her body became alive with need. Her thighs flamed. She was muchly aroused.

He then, with an angry sound, flung Ellen, painfully, by the hair, to his left side, and she lay there, her head at his left thigh.

“I am ready to please my Master,” she said. “Please let me do so.”

“No,” he said.

She dared to press her lips softly to his thigh. She hoped she would not be beaten.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“I think,” she said, “that a slave loves her master.”

“Liar,” he said softly. But he did not seem angry, nor did he strike her.

He then pulled the blanket away from her and spread it on the grass, in such way that it might be laid upon, and, when it was folded, it would cover them, as well. At his gesture, pointing, she took her place on the blanket, so that when he lay upon it, her head would be at his thigh. She was, of course, on the blanket to his left, as he was right-handed. In this way, by simply turning, he could easily handle, dominate and possess her. The closed side of the blanket was to his left, as well. In this way, the slave is confined between the closure of the blanket and the body of the master. Too, in this arrangement, the open side of the blanket being to his right, he could leave the blanket instantly, his sword hand free.

He then lay under the blanket, supine, it folded over the two of them. She lay on her side, at his side, back-braceleted, covered completely by the blanket, her head at his thigh. In this way, her head covered, she could not see what might transpire in the camp. She would be kept, suitably, in “slave ignorance.”

“Master,” she said.

“Yes?” he said.

“May I speak?”

“Yes.”

“I am collared, Master,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“I am an animal, Master,” she whispered.

“I am well aware of that,” he said.

“I am a collared animal, who cannot remove her collar,” she said.

“Certainly,” he said. “You are a slave.”

“Are not masters concerned for their animals? Are not masters kind to their animals?”

“To some, perhaps,” he said, “but you are a special sort of animal, a human female animal, a slave. One need not be concerned for such animals, nor need one be kind to them.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Perhaps you remember the tarsk pen, the railing, and the whip?”

“Yes, Master,” she said, frightened.

“You are a transparent, manipulative little slut,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master!”

Again she pressed her lips, softly, to his thigh.

“Master.”

“Yes?”

“Might the blanket not be turned a little, put aside a bit, so that I might the more easily speak to my master?”

“I can hear you,” he said.

“Master!”

“No,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She lay at his thigh, covered. Sometimes she could hear the small noises of the nearby fire. A breeze ruffled the leaves of a nearby tree. Occasional insect noises might be heard.

“Master.”

“Yes?”

“I am back-braceleted,” she said, “and am beside you, at your thigh, utterly helpless, a woman, and a slave.”

He was silent.

“Perhaps Master might make use of me,” she said.

“Why?” he said.

“I am pretty,” she said. “How is it that I do not please Master?”

“You are worthless,” he said.

“Master paid much for me,” she said.

“I cannot deny that it is pleasant to own you,” he said.

“I do not know what to do,” she wept. She pulled a bit at the bracelets, in frustration. How well aware she was of her helplessness, of her wrists’ captivity, they fastened so effectively, so closely, behind her, imprisoned so securely within their light, close-linked circlets.

“I do not understand,” he said.

“I am Master’s,” she said. “If I am not now pleasing, I beg to be informed as to how I may become pleasing.”

“You wish to be pleasing?”

“Yes, Master!”

“Liar,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said. “I do want to please you!”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I want you to want me,” she whispered. “I want to be attractive to Master. What can I do? I do not know what to do! Perhaps I might be adorned? Perhaps Master might bedeck me, according to his fancy or wont? Would that help? I do not know. I want to be attractive to him.”

“Perhaps some cheap bangles,” he said.

She recalled, from Earth, the two, small, golden loops she had once worn on her left wrist, in class.

“As Master pleases,” she said.

“Perhaps,” said he, “bells on an ankle.”

“Whatever pleases Master,” she said.

“Locked, in place,” he said.

“Certainly, Master.”

On Gor it is not unusual to bell a slave, and the erotic clash of such bells, slave bells, on an ankle, in the markets and parks, in the plazas and bazaars, is a frequently heard sound. And the same bells which serve so well to draw attention to a lovely, demurely tunicked slave in the sul market, her shopping basket balanced with one hand on her head, serve as well, doubtless, to record in their jangling her leapings and squirmings in the arms of her master.

“Perhaps I will buy you earrings,” he said.

“As Master wishes,” she said.

“You would be a pierced-ear girl?” he asked, surprised.

“I have no fear of such things,” she said.

“You are indeed a worthless slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Earrings, on Gor, interestingly, are placed on only the lowest of slaves. Nose rings, incidentally, for whatever reason, do not carry the same connotation of degradation, and such. Indeed, Ellen has been informed that in the southern hemisphere such rings are worn by even free women amongst certain nomadic tribes. Complex veiling and the Robes of Concealment are most common, of course, in urban areas, and particularly so amongst women of the higher castes. To be sure, even peasant women may veil themselves before strangers, and, one supposes, wisely.

Many Gorean slave girls live in terror of having their ears pierced. To be sure, this not unoften improves their price. Woe to the Earth girl brought to Gor whose ears are pierced. She will be sold publicly, as a “pierced-ear girl.”

Ellen, of course, had no objection to various adornments and enhancements. On Earth she would have deplored such things as politically scandalous, but, on the other hand, had often dreamed of herself so adorned. As in many facets of dress and ornamentation the effect of such things is stimulating to the woman as well as to he under whose gaze she finds herself.

“In my training,” she said, “the guards often bound me in pretty cords. This seemed to please them. I gather I looked well in them.” To be sure, Ellen knew she was remarkably fetching in such constraints, particularly when nude. Had she not seen herself in the mirrors, when ordered to struggle in them, and had she not noted the reactions of the guards? “You will tie me in pretty cords, will you not, sometimes, Master?” she wheedled. The sight of her helplessly bound in such cords, she hoped, might please him. Too, she, their helpless prisoner, had found them astonishingly arousing, as well.

“Coarse ropes will do for you, slut,” he said. “Squirm in them, by yourself, cold and miserable, alone in the woods, tied by your neck to a tree.”

“A slave wants to please her master,” she wept.

“Are your slave needs much upon you?” he inquired.

“Yes, Master!” she whispered, intensely.

“I find that amusing,” he said.

She jerked futilely, in fierce frustration, at the constraints on her wrists. The tiny sound of the links further excited her. The sides of her wrists hurt.

How helpless, and how needful, she was!

“Master!” she begged.

“It is pleasant to have a woman so beside one,” he remarked, dryly.

A wave of hatred for the brute, Selius Arconious, swept over her.

“We are far from the tarnloft, are we not, pretty slut?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, angrily.

“How you tormented me there,” he recalled.

She bit her lip, under the blanket, in frustration.

“Doubtless it was your worst nightmare,” he said, “that you might one day belong to me.”

“Yes, Master!” she said, angrily.

“And now you do,” he said, with obvious satisfaction.

“Yes, Master!” she wept. “Please, Master! Content a slave! She begs it!”

“Very well,” said he. “Beg, slut. It will please me to hear it.”

“Please, Master!” she protested.

“You are a needful slave?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You may then beg, if you wish,” he said.

Ellen thrashed in misery, but then turned again, to his thigh.

“Master’s girl begs to be taught her collar. Master’s girl petitions for her ravishing. Master’s girl begs for her subjugation. Master’s girl begs use. She wishes to be conquered. She begs to be mastered. She is Master’s property. She would learn, then, what this entails. She is Master’s possession. Apprise her then of the treatment to which she is subject. She is Master’s animal, his beast. Let her be trained then, leash-and whip-trained if he wishes, to his pleasure. She is Master’s collar slut, his shackle girl, his chain bitch. Teach her then what it is to be such. She begs to be put to his use, uncompromisingly, ruthlessly, that she may know herself no more than what she is, a worthless, meaningless slave.”

“You beg the use appropriate for you, as a slave?” he asked.

“Yes, Master.”

“You beg slave rape?” he asked.

“Fervently, humbly, Master.”

“No,” he said, quietly.

“Master?” she whispered.

“Others,” said he, “are not experiencing pleasure. The paga does not flow. Meat is not roasted. There are no hot, collared slaves, naked and aroused, seized in their arms, writhing, moaning, yielding. Danger is imminent.”

“Yes, Master,” whispered Ellen. “Forgive me, Master.”

A little later a thought came to Ellen. “Would Master like to send me to others, to give them pleasure,” she asked, as though innocently. He could do such, she knew, as he had done before.

“No,” he said, angrily.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, smiling to herself.

“She-sleen,” he growled.

“Perhaps Master is unduly possessive,” she speculated. “Perhaps he is jealous. Perhaps Master now regrets having sent his slave to please Cosians. Perhaps she did well. Perhaps she did very well. She is, after all, a slave. Perhaps Master now thinks that he may have made a mistake in that matter. Perhaps Master now wishes that it had been he himself who had received such pleasures. Perhaps Master now wishes to keep his slave to himself.”

“Beware,” said he, “lest I send you to give pleasure to the entire camp.”

“There are thousands of men in the camp, Master,” she said.

“Are you being troublesome?” he inquired.

“No, Master,” said Ellen. “Forgive me, Master.”

“You should be beaten, and beaten,” he said.

“As Master wishes,” said Ellen, and pressed her lips closely, again, to his thigh, beneath the blanket.

Later Ellen whispered, “Perhaps Master cares for his slave, a little.”

“No,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You may speak,” he said, after a time.

“Master’s slave loves him,” she whispered.

“Master’s slave,” he said, “is a liar.”

“No, Master,” she whispered.

“Do you contradict me?” he asked.

“A slave must speak the truth to her master,” she said.

“You cannot love,” he said. “You are an Earth woman.”

“What do you know of Earth women, or of the feelings of Earth women?” she asked.

“They are nasty and small, petty and vain,” he said.

“But we do make excellent slaves, do we not?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “You obtain some value, some small value, once you are in collars.”

“Then an Earth woman might have some value to you?”

“Perhaps as an abject slave,” he said.

“I do not think we are so different from your women, Master,” she said.

“Beware, slave,” said he. “Do not become presumptuous.”

“We are all women,” she said.

“The collar levels all sluts,” he said. “It makes them all the same.”

“Even before the collar we are the same,” she said.

“I suppose so,” he said.

“We are all women.”

“Yes.”

“And then you enslave us.”

“Some,” he said.

“Slaves have feelings,” she said.

“They are unimportant,” he said.

“Do you know how she feels, being a slave?”

“Her feelings are not important,” he said.

“Are you not curious, as to why we make such excellent slaves?”

“Such things are not important,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

She then again pressed her lips softly to his thigh.

“I wonder if any man understands the meaning to a woman of her brand and collar, the particular meaning to her, not to him, of being owned, how exciting and glorious it is, how it debases and dignifies us, how it reduces and exalts us, how it makes us meaningless and gives us meaning, how in denying us all it bestows upon us everything, how it enflames us. What, indeed, Master, do you, or any man, know of slaves, truly, and the feelings of slaves?”

“I know that they are to be owned, and mastered, totally,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, again kissing his thigh. “That is true, Master. It is that which makes us women. It is that which fulfills us.”

“And I wonder,” said he, “if any woman, or any slave, understands the glory of the mastery, truly, the rapture, the splendor, the joy of owning and commanding a woman.”

“Sometimes I think I have some sense of it, Master,” she said. “And it is you who own me, and is it I who am subject to your commands. It excites me, and exalts me. Doubtless it has similar effects on the man. Do we not fit together? Are we not two parts to a single whole? Are we not meaningless alone, but whole together? Are we not the lock to your key, and you the key to our lock? Only you can open us to ourselves, and only we can reveal to you the full meaning of your key.”

“It is not long until dawn,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Let us rest,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She did not think that Selius Arconious slept then. She surely did not. Perhaps an Ahn later, shortly before the first rays of Tor-tu-Gor, Light-Upon-the-Home-Stone, the common star of Earth and Gor, began to glimmer in the east, rising there as it does on Earth, they rose together, he suddenly to his feet, casting the blanket aside, she quickly to her knees, at his thigh, not daring to rise, as they heard the alarms, these sounding from within the camp.

“It has begun,” he said.