by John Norman
I shuddered.
He then put my wrists together, crossing them, and held them in one hand, and drew me across the tiles to the slave ring at the foot of his couch. There, cunningly, looping the chain about my throat, he fastened me, by the neck, on my knees, closely to the slave ring. He then, too, braceleted my hands to the slave ring. I could, thus, even if I were tempted to do so, do little to assuage the almost intolerable passions he had aroused in me. I looked at him, piteously. He laughed, and left. Then I was kneeling there, bewildered, alone, chained. I was a slave I must await his return. He did not, of course, tell me where he was going or when he would be back.
***
“You understand, do you not,” he asked, “that this is a symbolic re-enactment and that it in no way compromises your slavery?”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“For example,” he said, “for your treatment of me in Corcyrus, and for various insolences, and lapses, you must still answer to me, and to my whip.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You are now dressed, are you not,” he asked, “fully in the garments of the Tatrix, even to the nature, the subtlety and delicacy of the undergarments?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And beneath those,” he said, “in the eccentric undergarments of Earth, in garments similar to those which you, a barbarian, doubtless once wore there?”
“Yes,” I said. These undergarments had once belonged to Sheila. They had been, brought to Argentum by Menicius, for the inquiry. I supposed that now, technically, they might be the property of the state of Argentum. I, at any rate, did not own them. I could own nothing.
Rather it was I who was owned. Fortunately, Sheila and I were almost identically figured.
“Turn, Tatrix,” said Drusus Rencius.
I turned, obediently, before him. He sat in the curule chair, across, the room. I had been given the slave name, “Tatrix.” I had been given no choice in the matter, and I must respond to it, perfectly.
“Good,” he said. “Now walk back and forth, slowly.”
I did so.
Many of the garments I wore had been those which I myself had worn, when I had been playing the role of the Tatrix. This pleased Drusus Rencius. He remembered me in them.
“Good,” he said. “You may now stop.”
I stood then again before him, facing him.
“Turn again,” he said.
I did so.
“Good,” he said.
I wore no bond. He had even removed from me his collar. It hung now on the arm of the curule chair. There was no doubt, however, that I was a slave, or whose slave I was. I was branded, and I was paid for.
“You will now strip yourself naked, slowly,” he said. “I intend to enjoy this.”
I reached to the pins, at the side of the veil. One by one, I removed them. I then put the veil with its pins, to one side. I then, with both hands, putting back my head, brushed back the hood of the robes. I shook my head and arranged my hair. I then faced Drusus Rencius, face-stripped.
“Continue,” he said.
One by one I removed the garments of the Tatrix. Then I stood before him clad only in undergarments of Earth, in a brassiere and panties.
Drusus Rencius nodded.
I removed the brassiere, and straightened my body.
“Excellent,” he said.
I faced him.
“Now remove the last veil,” he said.
I bent down and, in a moment, stepped from the panties. I then, again, straightened myself before him. I hoped he liked what he saw. He owned it.
“Superb,” he said. “Superb!”
I smiled.
His face grew hard. “Kneel,” he said.
Swiftly I knelt, in the position of the pleasure slave.
I swallowed, hard. I saw that he had no intention of permitting my beauty, if beauty it was, which had at one time apparently been so tormenting to him, when it had been inaccessible, diminish in any way the perfections of his mastery of me.
He went to a chest at the side of the room, and drew forth a small, gray garment, which he threw to me. I caught it against my body. I shook it out, happily. “You kept it, Master!”
I laughed, delighted. It was the brief slave tunic, sleeveless and gray, which I had worn in the house of Kliomenes, so long ago, in Corcyrus.
“Yes,” he said, “for when you were my true slave.”
“I love it!” I said. To some, I suppose, it would have seemed a scandalous rag, unseemly and degrading, but I found it very beautiful, not only because of the lovely and sensitive way in which it enhanced and displayed the beauty of the female figure but because of memories with which it was associated, memories which, for me, at least, were very precious.
“Put it on,” he said.
Still kneeling, I drew it happily over my head. Then, slipped into it, I smoothed it down about my body.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “Stand.”
I stood, and pulled it down more about my thighs. “It is rather short, though, isn’t it?” I said.
“It will be shorter,” he said, drawing out a knife.
“Master!” I protested, but he, with the knife, cutting and tearing, must have shortened it by at least two horts.
I looked down, dismayed.
“Later,” he said, “sewing, smooth out the hem.”
“But if I take up the hem,” I said, “it will be even shorter!”
“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.
“No, my master!” I said.
He then stepped back, to regard me.
I pulled down at the sides of the garment. If it had been much shorter, I feared my brand might have shown!
“Stand straight,” he said.
I did so, my hands at my side.
“A great improvement,” he said. “Even though it is perhaps a bit long it is now, at least, within the normal ranges for slave lengths. Yes, I think it is now, even though a bit long, acceptable for a slave, even perhaps suitable for one. Before, of course, it was suitable, intentionally, only for a free woman pretending to be a slave.”
“Turn,” he said.
I did so.
“Yes,” he said, “I think it is now suitable, or will be, when you have attended to the hem, shortening it still further.”
I knew that I must learn to go forth in such garments, the garments of slaves.
I stole a furtive glance at a mirror. The garment, I saw, to my pleasure, set me off beautifully, though, to be sure, as what I was, a slave.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes!” I said.
“You may now remove it,” he said, “and kneel again, as you were before, before me.”
“Yes, Master,” I said, He returned to the curule chair.
I was then again before him as I had been, naked and kneeling.
“You are aware, doubtless,” he said, “that my feelings toward you are, or were, extremely complex.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. “And if I may speak of such matters, in my opinion, you have understood me very well in some things, and very little in others. Also, it seems you have sometimes wanted me to be, or expected me to be, things which I was not.”
“Do you understand what we are doing here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. It was now clear to me. He had seen me as a Tatrix, he had seen me stripped, he had seen me again in the garment, subsequently shortened to slave length, which I had worn in the house of Kliomenes and in the room in the inn of Lysias.
“When we have completed this symbolic re-enactment,” he said, “you, regardless of what you may or may not have been, will be, in my mind and in yours, my slave, in a modality which I find acceptable.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. I was, of course, already his slave, legally, totally, and in my heart. I suspected that he might now have come to sense this, but that he was not sure of it. Accordingly, he would take no chances with me. I would be put through processes of ens
lavement, and rites of submission, the, outcome of which, no matter what might be my nature, motivations or dispositions, would be to make clear to me my condition, that I was, whatever I was, scheming woman or loving female, his slave, and totally.
“Three things will now be done to you, matter-of-factly, and in order,” he said.
I looked at him, puzzled.
“Down on all fours,” he said, “and crawl here, head down, to the foot of the chair.”
I did so and there, unceremoniously, he crouching down, behind me and to my left, I was collared. He was not gentle with me.
“Kneel back on your heels,” he said, “and extend your arms, wrists crossed.”
I looked at him, startled, protestingly, as my wrists, with one end of a long leather strap, were lashed together.
“Stand up,” he said. I was pulled to a position at the side of the room. The long end of the strap was tossed up, through a ring fixed in a beam, and then put through another ring. Drusus Rencius then drew on the strap and my bound wrists were drawn up, above my head. He then looped and knotted the long end of the strap about a hook, on the side. I then stood there, at the side of the room, naked, in the collar, my hands bound together, held over my head. “Master,” I said, “this is not like you! Where is your concern for me?”
“Were you given permission to speak?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master!” I looked up at my bound hands. The strap was dark on them. I jerked at it. I could not free myself. I was tied in place. My entire body, suddenly, felt very bare, very exposed, very vulnerable. I looked over my shoulder. I was frightened. This was clearly a whipping position.
“Please, Master!” I whimpered.
“Kiss the whip,” he said.
I did so, fearfully.
I recalled that only an Ahn before I had begged his lash, in my joy at learning myself his. I had pleaded for the stroke of the whip that I might, in my joy and pain, in tears, reveling, experience his dominance over me, and know myself his. Now, however, this seemed very different. I had been put in place as though I might have been anyone, any slave! Did I mean so little to him? Was I so unimportant?
Then behind me, before I was fully set for it, I heard the hiss of the five supple blades. I screamed, struck, sobbing! I knew he had not struck me with his full strength. I could tell that from the sound. Still my back seemed to burst into flame. The blades had seemed, too, to encircle me, scalding and tearing at me. “No more!” I begged. Then I was again struck.
Had I stolen a pastry? Had I not cleaned my kennel well enough? Had I not pleased some master well enough in the furs?
I was struck again.
“Oh,” I sobbed, in misery.
Then twice more was I struck. Drusus Rencius did not much vary the locus of the impact nor the timing. He did not exploit the psychological aspects of the whipping. It was done simply, routinely. Then it was over.
When he freed my hands of the strap I sank to my knees on the tiles under the ring. I was half in shock. I knew he had not struck me with his full strength and, indeed, I had been struck only five times. It had been little or nothing as beatings go. Had I truly stolen a pastry, or done something displeasing, I would doubtless have been much more seriously beaten. The beating had been little more than informative in nature, not even really admonitory. Still I had felt it keenly. I had now felt the Gorean slave whip. No woman who has felt it ever forgets it. If I had had any doubts about the wisdom of being pleasing to masters these blows, few and light though they might have been, would have dispelled them. The beating had been little or nothing. Still, and I knew it, I had been under the whip.
He gave me scarcely a moment to recover. Then, crawling, swiftly, crying out, half dragged, I was pulled by the hair to the center of the room.
He knelt me there.
“Put your head down, to the floor,” he said. “Clasp your hands, firmly, behind the back of your neck.”
“Yes, Master,” I moaned. He was then behind me. He put his hands, under my arms, on my breasts, sweetly and firmly. Then he moved his hands back, caressing my flanks. My head was down. My fingers were together, behind the back of my neck. I was in his collar. It was steel, I could not remove it. I belonged to him. My body hurt, from his whip, that of my master. My head hurt, from my hair, where I had been conducted, unceremoniously, to this location.
“Please, Master,” I sobbed. “Not like this! Not you, please!”
“The slave is pretty,” he remarked.
“Oh!” I cried. “Oh!”
“You have a lovely ass,” he said.
“Ohhh!” I said.
“You may thank me,” he said.
“Thank you, Master!” I said. I tried not to move. It was difficult. “Please do not treat me like this. Please do not handle me like this!”
“I will do with you as I please,” he said.
“Please do not make me yield like this, please! I love you!”
“Yield or not, as it pleases you,” he said, unconcernedly.
Then I began to whimper and moan.
“Do not move,” he said.
“Please,” I begged.
“You are a slave, aren’t you?” he asked. “And a natural one?”
“Yes, Master,” I said. “Yes, Master!”
“Very well,” he said, “you may move.”
“I beg to yield!” I sobbed.
“Very well,” he said.
I then, a few moments later, lay on my belly on the tiles. I tried to feel resentment toward Drusus Rencius. I failed.
I turned to my side and, the palms of my hands on the floor, regarded him. He was again sitting in the curule chair.
“You are now ready to begin your slavery,” he said. “Your name is ‘Lita’.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. I was now no longer “Tatrix.” I was “Lita.” I would respond well to this name. It had many memories for me. It almost turned me inside out with love for Drusus Rencius.
“You may serve me wine, Lita,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
A few moments later I knelt, lovingly, at the side of the curule chair. Drusus Rencius held the goblet of wine. I had even been permitted to drink from it, from the side opposite to that which had touched his lips.
“I know that you may not believe this,” I said, “and I do not wish to be struck for saying it, but I love you.”
“Now that you are my slave, and are in my collar,” he said, “it doesn’t matter, one way or the other, does it?”
“I suppose not,” I smiled. “But I do love you.”
“I thought you might,” he said.
“Why did you resist my advances in Corcyrus?” I asked.
“You were not toying with me?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“There were many reasons,” he said. “There was a discrepancy in our stations. I thought you a Tatrix. I was only a soldier. Too, deception was involved in my post. I was truly serving Argentum, and Ar, not Corcyrus. Too, though in a part of me I recognized the slave in you the first time I laid eyes on you, in another part of me, I supposed you actually, in spite of the evidence of my senses, to be a free woman. Thus, it was important, though it tortured me to do so under the circumstances, to accord you respect and dignity.”
“Rather would you have accorded me force and mastery,” I smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “Too, do not forget that on a certain level, or in a certain part of me, I recognized that you were, rather clearly, a slave. How then could I admit to myself that I, a warrior of Ar, might have certain feelings toward one such as you, only a slave? Too, that I discerned your pettiness, your cruelty and shallowness, dissuaded me from honestly admitting my feelings to myself. I did not wish to regard myself as a fool. Further, of course, you, seemingly so haughty and mighty a Tatrix, treated me with injustice and scorn. It is little wonder I dreamed of you in my collar, in my chains, under my whip.”
“Does it still distre
ss you that I am a slave?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Even a natural slave?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“You lost a silver tarsk to Publius on the matter,” I reminded him.
“It was a bet which, in my heart, I hoped to lose,” he said.
I licked at his knee, slowly, lovingly. Then I looked up at him.
He put down the goblet on the tiles, to the right of the chair.
He took my head between his hands, those large, strong hands.
“You are a superb natural slave,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“I do not object,” he said.
“Good,” I said.
“In fact, it pleases me,” he said.
“Good,” I whispered.
He held my head between his hands, like it was that of a dog.
“Do some men care for their slaves,” I asked, “just a little?”
“Some men care for them much more than a little,” he said.
“Even natural slaves?” I asked.
“Those are the best sort,” he said.
“I am glad to hear it,” I said.
“In every woman,” he said, “if one can but find it, I believe there is a natural slave.”
“I believe it is true, Master,” I said.
Then I felt myself drawn to his lips, and I was drawn half into the chair, and then he, holding my head, not releasing it, turned, and I felt myself moved backwards and to the side, to my knees, before the chair, and then he was crouching before me, and then I felt myself being lowered backwards to the floor. “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you, my master!”
***
“Do I make you weak?” I asked. I lay now on love furs, at the foot of his couch. He had put a chain on my neck.
“No,” he said.
I leaned over, and kissed him, delicately, intimately.
“Aiii!” he said.
“I see that my master speaks the truth,” I said.
“She-sleen!” he said, and then, with a rattle of chain, threw me again beneath him.
***
“I would be a hundred slaves to you,” I whispered, “a thousand!”