"Punish me," I said. "You own me."
"Do not fear," he said. "You will be punished, for Corcyrus, and for your insolence."
I shrank down in the ropes, trying to make myself appear smaller. I feared now that perhaps Drusus Rencius had bought me primarily for the purposes of vengeance.
"Even now," he said, "still, when you are helpless, in my ropes, I find you exquisitely desirable, exquisitely beautiful."
"Thank you, Master," I whispered.
"You ruin me," he said. "You tear me apart!"
I put down my head, frightened.
"You make me a slave!" he cried.
"It is I who am the slave," I said.
"I hate you!" he cried.
"I do not think so," I said.
"As Sheila, who was the true Tatrix of Corcyrus, was to Ligurious, so, too, are you to me!" he said.
"No!" I said. "There is a great difference!"
"What?" he demanded.
"I love you!" I said.
"Sly, clever slave!" he sneered.
"I do love you!" I cried.
"Cunning, insidious slut," he said. "You fear for your own hide! You know that you are now, at least, within my power. You fear that it will be done to you as you deserve, that you will be thrown to sleen!"
"No!" I wept.
"Sweat and squirm now, luscious slut," he said. "Cry out your love for me. Perhaps I will be moved to be merciful, and keep you as the lowest and most worthless slave on Gor!"
"I do love you!" I wept.
"Lying slave!" he cried. He leapt across the room, and, with the flat of his hand, savagely, struck me from my knees. My right shoulder struck the tiles. I tasted blood in my mouth. I lay there, bound, frightened. It had been only a slap, but I felt as though my head might have been almost taken from me. I was awe-stricken. I had not realized how strong he was. What if he had truly struck me? I knew I must obey him with perfection.
"On your back," he said, "knees raised, heels on the floor."
I then lay before him, in a standard, supine capture position.
"You look well at my feet, Slut," he said.
"Thank you, Master," I said.
"Have you reconsidered the telling of truth?" he asked.
"I love you," I whispered.
"Lying slut!" he hissed. He then, with the side of his foot, kicked me. I recoiled, crying out. I would doubtless, for several days, bear a fine bruise there, evidence of his displeasure.
I turned to my side. I put down my head. I kissed the foot that had kicked me. Then I returned to my former position.
He turned away from me and went to a chair, the only chair in the room, a curule chair, with ornate, curved arms.
Chairs, it might be mentioned, are not common in Gorean dwellings, which tend to be simple and sparsely furnished, that as a matter of choice rather than frugality. This suggests space, and certainly a lack of clutter. One reclines most often on cushions, or mats. Compartments, or at least many of them, tend to be light and airy, and often have bright walls and a flooring of broad, multicolored tiles.
Goreans tend to be fond of color. The towers, streets, and bridges are often bright with color, strikingly in contrast with the passive urban monochromes, the browns and grays, with which you may be familiar. The Gorean city somehow encourages exuberance and vitality, not depression, anxiety, fear, negativity, and boredom. Similarly sandals, utensils, stalls, plates, clothing, wagons, carts, the trappings of animals, and such, are often decorative and attractive. The Gorean responds to beauty, even in small things, like the carving on the handle of a spoon, the weaving on a market basket, the clasp on a cloak, and that is perhaps why he surrounds himself with it.
And naturally, the female slave, collared, scantily clad, if clad, hair loose, for slaves commonly wear their hair thusly, exercised and dieted, groomed, graceful and trained, obedient, devoted, and passionate, fits in well with these various interests and preferences.
One of the delights of a city, it seems, at least from the man's point of view, is her slave girls.
Young men occasionally travel from city to city, to assess the slaves.
Many cities vie in these matters, each claiming to have within their walls the most beautiful slaves. On the other hand, I doubt that there is really much to choose from in this respect, that there is that much difference, really, at least amongst the high cities, or tower cities. On Gor female slaves are abundant, and beautiful.
There are many of us.
Men want it that way.
There is no doubt that numerous, lovely, scarcely clad slaves, in the streets and boulevards, in the plazas and parks, on the bridges and amongst the towers, perhaps hurrying on errands, perhaps casting shy glances over their shoulders at young men, perhaps visiting or shopping with their masters, arm in arm, perhaps rushing here or there, on a rumor, hoping to catch sight of a famous actor or poet, or ubar, or administrator, or lofty lady of high rank, perhaps inspecting new chains of women brought in, in the Street of Brands, many perhaps not yet even marked, comparing them with themselves, doubtless unfavorably, perhaps wandering amongst the stalls at a bazaar, or laden with flowers or vegetables, coming back from a market, or perhaps chained to slave rings, in the shade, outside public buildings, awaiting the return of their masters, or perhaps kneeling at the public fountains, to drink from the lower basins, reserved for sleen and slaves, or perhaps heeling masters, or perhaps preceding them proudly, exhibited on leashes, or such, redound significantly to the reputation of a city.
A well-curved slave, as the saying goes, is to be preferred to a well-carved spoon.
Though both are nice.
It is not to be thought, however, that women are enslaved primarily for their aesthetic contributions to a decor, urban or domestic. That is merely a delightful ancillary accompaniment to their primary purposes which are those of love, pleasure and service.
Nature has designed woman to attract and seduce man; thus she has designed her as beautiful.
And the man desires to have her as his own.
This he achieves with the brand and collar.
Commonly one or more low tables are in evidence, which serve the usual purposes of such objects, conviviality, conversation, dining, and such. Storage is usually accommodated by chests at the sides of a room. Hangings are not unusual, which serve not only for purposes of decoration, but also for the division of spaces, and the concealment of doorways, alcoves, and such.
The presence in the room of a curule chair designated the room, in effect, as one to be appropriately occupied by an individual of some importance, or official standing, which assuredly was Drusus Rencius, my master. One might expect such chairs to be occupied by administrators, praetors, high officers, masters of large households, and so on.
How fortunate I was, only a girl of Earth, one amongst lonely millions, little different from myself, to have been brought to this world! How fortunate I was to have at last encountered true men, the masters of women! How few women do! How meaningful and joyful now seemed to me the auction blocks, the cords, the thongs, the discipline, the collars and chains!
The men of Gor know well how to treat women. They know, and relish, what women are for.
They teach us ourselves, and we are left in no doubt as to what we are for.
I was only a meaningless barbarian.
How unworthy I was to wear a collar of Gor, to have my limbs locked in her weighty, obdurate shackles!
Yet, to my joy, I had learned that I was one who might not be found unfitting for the slave markets of this world!
Had I not seen this in the eyes of masters? Had I not learned it in my helplessness under their uncompromising, possessive caresses?
I had some value here, if only as collared wares, fit to be auctioned to the highest bidder!
How fortunate I was to have been brought here! How fortunate I was to find myself as I was! How fortunate I was to be the slave of a Gorean male!
How few women, subdued and conquered, col
lared, could know such ecstasy!
I was the slave of Drusus Rencius, he of Ar. I was wares. He had bought me. I was his. I belonged to him!
How I wanted to serve him!
I wonder how many women of Earth can understand this.
But perhaps they have never had a master.
Can they understand the desire to be owned, and mastered, to selflessly love and selflessly serve?
Perhaps.
One does not know.
Can they understand, too, what it is to be so desirable, so sought, and so lusted for, that nothing less than their ownership will satisfy the male?
Perhaps.
One does not know.
Can they understand what it is to long to bare oneself before a master, to be branded, to be put in his collar, to kneel before him, to cover his feet with kisses, to hope to please him?
Can they understand what it would be to be owned, and well mastered?
Perhaps.
One does not know.
Slaves, of course, would not be permitted to sit on such a chair, and, often, are not permitted to sit on chairs of any description. Chairs are for free persons.
The very thought of being seated on a chair caused me great uneasiness. They were not for such as I.
It does not take an Earth girl long to accustom herself to Gorean proprieties. Goreans see to it that she learns her collar quickly, and well.
I trust it will not be amiss to reveal a Gorean secret.
What of the master's couch?
In theory its surface is for the master and a free companion, and it is true that the slave is often chained at its foot, where she belongs as an animal, and is usually enjoyed on the furs there. The secret, however, which seems to elude many free women, though perhaps they suspect the truth, to their fury, is that preferred slaves, or favored slaves, though no more than owned animals, perhaps purchased in a market, as might be goods of any sort, do sometimes share the surface of the couch. To be sure, they are expected to kneel, and kiss the coverlets, first, before ascending to its surface. The free companion regards access to the surface of the couch as her undisputed right, and justifiably so. How fortunate the fellow who has a free companion, one who, however reluctantly, and at whatever sacrifice to her self-esteem and dignity, deigns to share it with him, nobly, bravely permitting herself thereupon to be subjected to the embarrassing and brief unpleasantries of carnality. But for the slave access to the surface of the couch is an inestimable privilege, and she enters upon its surface gratefully and in trepidation, deferentially, determined thankfully to prove to her master the probity of his judgment, by according to him thereupon subtle and complex raptures of sensuous delight, by demonstrating herself thereupon to be the lascivious fulfillment of a man's most profound dreams of unutterable, inordinate pleasure, in short, to serve him as his slave.
Indeed, it is a rare master, I suspect, who does not, eventually, relish having his girl, naked and in her collar, soft, and warm, beside him. Free women do not need to know everything.
I, my head turned to the side, watched him. He sat down in the chair, his hands on the arms, and regarded me.
"Should you not be on your knees, Slut?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said. I struggled to my knees and knelt, facing him.
He regarded me. He seemed weary.
"And thus it is," he said, "that slaves conquer warriors."
"It is I who am conquered, Master," I told him, "not you."
"You make me weak," he said, wearily.
"Unbind me," I suggested, smiling, "and I will make you strong."
"She-sleen," he smiled.
"Yes, Master," I said.
He looked to one side of the room, moodily, lost in thought. "How strange has been the course of events," he said. "I took you for a Tatrix, and my enemy. Then, as it pleased you, in the fullness of feminine cruelty, when I could not have you, when you thought me a mere guard, you amused yourself with me, taunting me with your beauty, torturing me with desire. Now, months later, you have come into my power, as my naked slave."
He turned his head slowly towards me. Then he regarded me, slowly, fully, every bit of me.
"Are you well roped?" he asked.
"I am roped perfectly, and am absolutely helpless," I said. "It was done to me by Drusus Rencius, of Ar, my master."
"It is a suitable answer," he said.
I was silent.
"Perhaps I will keep you," he said.
"Do, please," I said. I loved him.
"If I keep you," he said, "you will be kept as a slave. Do you understand what that means, my dear?"
"Yes, Master," I said. I would be kept in the absolute perfections of Gorean slave discipline. I would have to be perfect for him, in all ways. I shuddered.
"Do you believe it?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"That is well," he said, "for it is true."
"Yes, Master," I whispered.
"You seem to be afraid," he said.
"I am," I said.
"But you were not before," he said.
"No," I said.
"But you are now?"
"Yes," I said.
"Why?"
"Because now I sense, as I did not before, that you are strong enough to control me, and to punish me, terribly, if I do wrong, or am not fully pleasing."
"Believe it," he said, quietly.
"I do!" I said.
"I wonder if you will make a good slave," he said.
"I will try my best, Master," I said.
Then he continued to look at me, appraising me.
I straightened my body.
How marvelous it must be for a man, I thought, to have such absolute power over a woman, to have her so subjected to him, even to having her in the perfection of his bonds. And how marvelous it was for me, too, to know myself so much his, to know myself, will-lessly, eagerly, at his pleasure. And what woman does not want a man a thousand times more than she, one to whom she must submit, one whom she must fear, one whom she must love?
I looked at him.
"It is different from Corcyrus, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
He looked away, again, again seemingly lost in thought.
"May I speak?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Is it truly so tragic, to care for a slave, just a little?" I asked.
"You have done enough," he said. "Do not seek further to make a fool of me."
I was silent.
He put his head down, in his hands.
How painful, complex and subtle can be the relationships between human beings. I tried to understand how he must view me. He saw me, it seemed, as one who, if she were free, and immune from punishment, and held power, would torment and scorn him, exploiting him, despising him, amusing herself with him. As far as I knew I had done little to provoke these feelings, at least until he had refused my advances. I had given him reason, to be sure, in Corcyrus, to believe me contemptible and petty. I had made certain Earth values, to his irritation, clear to him, such as an amoral expediency and a mockery of honor. My smallness, my contemptuousness, I had unwittingly flaunted before him, regarding such things at that time as signs of my depth and cleverness. Too, he seemed to find me, in some way, and I did not fully understand it, maddeningly desirable. This had to do, it seemed, with some unusual and subtle relationship between us. These things, doubtless in part because of his pride and self-image, his reluctance to accept tenderness, his fear of feeling and sentiment, his lofty conceptions of the attitudes and behaviors proper to his caste, had driven him half mad with frustration. Yet, too, he had, with Menicius, risked his life in the camp of Miles of Argentum to free me, and he had sought desperately to protect and defend me in the inquiry with Claudius and the high council. It was clear, I think, he cared for me deeply. In all this, of course, he regarded me as little more than a curvaceous, scheming slave, one who did not care for him, but one who, to protect herself, would do anyt
hing, even pretend falsely to love. He did not know I truly loved him.
I resolved upon a bold plan. I would attempt to get him to cure himself of the false Sheila, that the way might then be open for a poor, nameless slave who so much loved him.
"Free me," I said, angrily, pulling at the ropes.
He looked at me.
"Free yourself," he said.
"I cannot!" I said.
"Why do you wish to be freed?" he asked.
"I do not love you!" I said.
"Now, at last, you speak the truth," he said.
"Not only do I not love you," I cried, "but I hate you! I despise you! I hold you in contempt as a piteous weakling! I always have!"
He smiled.
"I am tired of trying to fool you," I said. "Now, free me!"
"Why should I free you?" he asked.
"Because I am a free woman!" I said.
"That is not true," he said. "I saw you jerk in the hands of the soldier."
"I could not help myself," I said.
"Only a natural slave could not have helped herself," he said.
"I do not want to belong to you," I said.
"I have an alternative in mind," he said. "I think I shall give you to the department of the mines. There, naked and yoked, you shall carry water."
"No!" I cried.
"Do you beg to be kept in my collar?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I whispered.
"Then we shall let it stand at that, shall we not?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said. I had not counted on the possibility of being sent to the mines.
I knelt back in the ropes. I looked at Drusus Rencius. He was quite capable, I realized, suddenly, of sending me to the mines. I did not want that to happen. Too, looking at him then, I saw him suddenly not only as the man I loved but, also, independently, as a strong and powerful master. I found, then, that I had squirmed in the ropes, inadvertently, reflexively, my thighs moving. I hoped that he had not noticed.
"What is wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing!" I said. I felt the heat of the slave in me. I hoped he could not detect the signs in my body. I hoped he could not smell me.
He was silent.
"May I speak?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"I gather," I said, "that you intend to keep me."
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