"At least for a time," he said.
"I presume," I said, "that at least one of the purposes for which you purchased me was to make use of me."
"Perhaps," he said.
"I am ready," I said. "Begin my slavery."
He regarded me, not speaking.
"You see me in a collar," I said, angrily. "You know what a collar does to a woman!"
He smiled.
"I see you do!" I said, bitterly.
Again he smiled.
"Beast!" I cried.
"Slut," he said, softly.
"Yes, I am a slut!" I cried.
"That is well known to me," he said.
"I have been owned," I said. "I have had masters. They have made me this way!"
"So," said he, "slave fires have been lit in your pretty belly?"
"Please do not use such words of me," I begged.
"Speak," said he.
"Yes, yes!" I wept. "Slave fires have been lit in my belly!"
"Excellent," said he, the beast.
I wept.
"So men do have their vengeance," he said. "The scheming beauty is needful."
"Yes!" I said.
"Speak clearly," he said.
"I am needful," I said.
"You are more than needful," he said.
"You may or may not believe I love you," I said, "but about my arousal, my need, there is no disputing."
"That is true," he said. "You are obviously, now, a needful slave."
"Please," I begged.
I was truly needful.
Free women, perhaps, cannot understand such things. But slaves can. I suppose it has to do with many things, but perhaps mostly with the arousing, enflaming condition of bondage itself, with knowing oneself now in one's place in nature, with knowing oneself wholly owned, with knowing oneself at the mercy of another, with being dependent on the other, with understanding what good one is to be as a slave, what one's purpose is, what is expected of one, how one must please, and so forth. In bondage, the woman's sexuality is not only liberated, but enjoined. Her sexuality is not only freed, usually for the first time in her life, but required. The slave realizes that she must now be sexual. She must now be what she has always wanted to be. The depths of female sexuality are profound. For political and social reasons societies and cultures have often conspired, by means of a variety of devices, to suppress the natural woman, to use the woman herself to imprison her own being, to instill in her an insidious inertness, or frigidity, to inculcate in her a guilt concerning, and a suspicion of, and fear of, herself, and her nature. Self-deception is equated with rectitude. Self-betrayal is lauded as virtue. The paradox of the collar is that the woman hitherto indoctrinated, and enculturated, to be self-incarcerated is then freed to be at last herself. No longer does she languish beneath the neglect of an abstract, invisible master, society, with its rules and pressures, but now finds her fulfillment in the arms of an actual, visible master. For thousands of years the needs, the appetitiveness, the dangerousness, the tempting seductiveness of the female have been recognized, in myths, in stories, in teachings, in folk lore, in histories, in practices. It was only substantially, in a given tradition, in a given world, in little more than a recent period, that she has been taught to deny herself, and suspect her most natural urges and impulses, as natural to her as her breathing and the beating of her heart, and to claim to prize life-denying, pathological virtues, imposed upon her from without. But, too, there is little doubt that once these social conventions, cultural encrustations, and imprisonments, are shattered, are at last vanquished and torn away, she is then ready to feel, and be. And I had traversed such a journey in my own heart. But, too, lamentably or not, whether I willed it or not, men, masters, had taken me in hand and made me the victim of my own needs, and in this had made me their own. As an analogy, let us suppose that somehow, by magic if you wish, or some sort of hibernation, or through some sort of suspended animation, that one had never had food or drink, and then suppose that suddenly, somehow, someone had changed all that, that someone had done something to you, and that suddenly you needed food and drink, and could not live without them. To be sure, this is only an analogy but it conveys something of what I intend. As a slave I now found men not only excruciatingly desirable, but I found I now needed their attentions, and touch. My needs now regularly surfaced, and welled up within me, frequently, periodically, irresistibly, and I would now feel acute discomfort, and misery, until they were satisfied. I now needed men, and was miserable without them. How many men of Earth, I thought, used only to the stunted sexuality of their inert, chilled, reduced females would be astonished at discovering and encountering the needful, collared sluts of Gor. Sometimes they must be cuffed from one's feet, lest their pleading and insistence, however softly piteous, become too annoying. Men of Earth, were they to come to Gor, would find the relationships they are accustomed to between the sexes muchly reversed, at least in the case of slaves. In the case of free women, I suppose they would be substantially similar. On Earth the male sues for the favor of the female, and hopes eventually to receive some surcease, some assuagement, of his needs, doubtless doled out, bit by bit, if she wishes, in minims or grams, so to speak, at her pleasure, and perhaps in a way deliberately, even callously, calculated to achieve her own ends. On Gor, it is the man who commonly decides, and grants, or does not grant, as he wishes, his attentions to the woman, at least if she is a slave. The girl, in her brief silk, if permitted so much, and collar, closed about her neck and locked on her, owned, is commonly the supplicant. He may, of course, also command what he wishes, at as little as the snapping of his fingers. I speak of a situation in which the women are slaves, of course. If he wishes to treat with free women then, as I understand it, he is little better off than his counterpart on Earth. On Earth a free woman bargains with her beauty; on Gor, commonly, a woman does not bargain with her beauty; a slaver will bargain with it, and for as much as he can get. The man may, of course, frequent the paga taverns or, if he wishes, buy himself a girl, usually at an affordable price. On Gor, perhaps given the wars, and raids, there is usually no dearth of attractive women in the markets. It is usually, I understand, a buyer's market. Before a girl's sale she is often denied the touch of men. Not unoften they scratch and moan in their kennels, extending their small arms through the bars, supplicating the attentions of guards. And then they are well readied for their sale, each vying to best display her master's merchandise. Throughout human history the lovely and seductive dangers of the human female have been well recognized. There are two major societal procedures for managing her, one is to defeminize her, to psychologically castrate her, so to speak, to condition her into inertness and frigidity, to utilize techniques of social engineering to turn her into her own jailer, with consequent deprivation, frustration and damage, and the other way is to let her be herself, and rejoice, but make sure she is kept in a collar. That is the Gorean way. In two ways then may the risk, the danger, and the delicious seductive menace of her beauty be dealt with and managed. In the first way she is destroyed as a woman, to the misery of both sexes, and, in the second way, the man's way, the master's way, she is fulfilled as a woman, ultimately to the satisfaction and fulfillment of both sexes. Whereas the man doubtless thinks in terms of the collar, in order to take no chances with the dangerous, lovely little beast, and to have completely what he wants of her, he may not always fully understand that her mastering is also that for which she in her heart longs. Why does she make such a marvelous, exquisite, loving, devoted, heated slave? It is because that is what she wants. It is what she needs. Why is it she thrives in bondage? Why is it she flourishes as her master's slave? It is because that is what she is. The collar of her master, in a civilized context, bespeaks nature's design for her. All women, in their heart desire to yield to their master. To whom else might one yield, truly?
Is it not of masters, powerful, lustful, demanding, indifferent, careless, magnificent, and overwhelming, that women dream?
So the collar had freed me to be myself, and to recognize my desire for, and need of, men, and then men, whether I willed it or not, had brought me to the point where I had become, in effect, the victim and prisoner of my needs.
They had lit slave fires in my belly.
I had sensed incipiently the existence of such fires, and had wanted them lit, and had longed for them to be lit, and then they had been lit, whether I willed it or not, and I was now aflame, and must accept the consequences of what had been done to me, and what I had become.
And so I was needful.
It had been done to me.
The slave fires burned in my belly.
I was now at the mercy of men.
It had been done to me.
He left the chair and, crouching beside me, not hurrying, freed me of the ropes.
"Touch neither me nor yourself," he said.
"Yes, Master," I moaned. My body was flaming with desire.
He regarded me for a few moments. I moaned.
Then, for a brief moment, he took me in his arms. His hand was upon me, intimately. "I love you! I love you! I love you!" I cried, jerking in his hands, pressing against him, trying to cover him with kisses.
"Stop," he said. "To your belly."
Then I was on my belly, on the tiles, my hands at the sides of my head, prone, before his curule chair. He resumed his seat.
I lifted my head and upper body, wildly, agonized, to regard him.
"You are a hot slave," he said.
I regarded him wildly, pathetically, unbelievingly, speechlessly.
"Do you beg a man's touch?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "yes!"
"Then beg," he said.
"I beg your touch," I wept. "I beg your touch! Please touch me, Master! I beg it!"
"Truly?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I beg your touch, truly, Master! I beg it, truly! Please, touch me, Master! Please! Please!"
"No," he said.
I collapsed then to the tiles, sobbing, helpless, quivering with need.
"And thus," said he, "may a hated slave be denied."
I then became aware that he had left his chair, that he was standing near me.
I lay at his feet, aroused, almost unbelievably impassioned, denied.
I understood then better than ever before how it was that some women could tear at the walls of their kennels with their fingernails, how they could reach out through the bars, begging piteously for the least touch of a rude guard, how they could, under the deft touches of an auctioneer's whip, scream their passion on a slave block, begging to be bought.
"You deserve this," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Do you know now what it is to be in a collar?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Hereafter," he said, "do not try to play stupid games with me."
"Master?" I asked.
I felt myself jerked to a sitting position, his hands on my upper arms. "How stupid do you think I am?" he asked. "Do you think I could not tell you were playing some sort of game?"
"My arousal was real!" I said, startled.
"I am well aware of that," he said.
"Oh!" I cried, as he touched me. Then he thrust me back from him.
"You are a slave," he said. "We will do things my way, not yours."
"I do not understand," I said.
"I considered this," he said, "even before I bought you. I now see, as I thought, that it is necessary."
"I do not understand," I said.
"We shall begin again," he said. "I shall make my determination with care."
"I do not understand," I wept.
"You are fortunate," he said, "that I am less stupid than you thought. Had I not seen through your subterfuges you might have been flinging yourself to the jaws of sleen, or guaranteeing the signing of your papers for the mines."
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 s
lave 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 sides.
"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.
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