"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 enslavement, 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.
"Surely you can be more explicit," he said.
"Master?"
"Speak," he said.
"Thank you," I said.
"For what?" he inquired.
"Thank you for—for commending my ass," I wept.
"You are welcome," he said.
I sobbed.
"It is quite pretty, my charming little slut," he said. "Presumably it would add a few coins to your value."
"You belittle me!" I cried. "You shame me! You humiliate me!"
"Yes," he said.
"Do I mean nothing to you?"
"You are a slave," he said, dryly.
"Am I nothing else to you?"
"Certainly not," he 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 then, in the helplessness of my need, in shame and love, began to move. In moments I was tendering him my capitulation.
"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.
"Do you remember Susan?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Yes!" She was now the slave of Miles of Argentum.
"She speaks your native language," he said.
"Yes, Master?
" I said.
"She told me, upon request," he said, “how a slave might beg for use in your own tongue."
"Master?" I said.
He then, though with his accent, for the phonemes were not altogether the same in Gorean, uttered a phrase. It was not perfectly pronounced, but it was clearly recognizable.
"It must be correct," he said, "for you stiffen with recognition."
"Yes, Master!" I said, angrily.
"Susan told me what it means," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"I may not have the pronunciation precisely correct," he said.
"You have done very well," I told him, bitterly. He had.
"You may now say the phrase," he said.
"You would have me beg in my own tongue!" I said.
"Yes," he said. "I think it will do you good. And it will amuse me, Earth woman."
"Yes, Master," I said, bitterly.
And suddenly it seemed to me that I understood anew and ever more profoundly the word 'Master'. He was my master. He was my master, as much as, and no differently than, he might have been the master of a pig or dog. He owned me, exactly as one might own a pig or dog.
"Later," he said, "you will beg, and frequently, in Gorean, for that is the language of your masters, and thus will be far more appropriate and meaningful for you."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Speak," said he.
"I must?"
"Yes."
"Please, my master," I whispered, in English, "fuck your slave."
"So that is how that is pronounced," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Again," said he, "and more loudly, more clearly."
"Please, my master," I said, "fuck your slave."
"You beg it?" he asked.
"Yes, Master! Yes, Master!"
"I see," he said, regarding me with amusement.
"Susan told you how to assess my response, did she not?"
"Yes," he said. "And I confirmed the matter with another girl."
"Master is thorough," I said.
"Actually," said he, in clear English, "I speak a little of your tongue. Though very little. It is useful in dealing with slaves of certain origins."
"Such as myself?"
"Yes."
"Then this matter was a test?"
"Yes."
I was pleased that neither Susan nor myself had attempted to falsify or attenuate the matter. We had both been honest. To be sure, neither of us would have dared to be otherwise. Neither of us would have wished to be lashed, or slain.
"But you did beg," he said.
"Yes, Master!" I said.
He then snapped his fingers and pointed to the tiles before the chair, and I crawled to him.
He then subjected me again to his pleasure.
Later, throbbing and squirming, weeping, I pulled away from him. I scratched angrily at the tiles. I turned on my side and regarded him, reproachfully.
"What you made me do," I said, "making me beg, in my own language, to be ravished as a slave!"
"And you did," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said, "I did!"
"It was good for you," said he, "slut."
"Yes, Master," I whispered.
"Now," said he, "in the language of your masters."
"And how?" I asked.
"As you wish," he said. "Variously perhaps."
"Perhaps Master will deign to take his slave," I said. "She would serve your pleasure. She begs use. She hopes to be taught her collar. May she serve Master wine? She petitions to be put to her master's slave ring. May she crawl to Master, his whip in her teeth? May she not warm his furs? Master's slave knows girl hunger. Master's slave begs his touch. Master's slave begs his caress. Master's slave begs Master to take pity on her!"
He smiled, and I put down my head.
There are, as you may well imagine, many ways in which a girl may make known her needs, and desires, to her Master, and many of these are unvocalized, even by moans and whimpers, involving such things as tying the bondage knot in one's hair, lifting thongs piteously to him, touching and kissing his feet and ankles, licking at his wrist and hand, and thigh, moving in certain ways, staying close to him, kneeling before him, head down, squirming, and so on.
"So," said he, "it seems you do have some understanding of the iron that kissed you."
I flinched briefly, recalling the sudden, searing pain of my branding.
How simple, how plain, and vulgar, how unimaginative, I thought, was the way he had had me beg in my own language for use. It had doubtless been good for me, of course, to degrade and shock me, to humiliate me, to further confirm my bondage upon me, as might the brand or collar, that of a mere female of Earth, negligible before him, a Gorean male, but the contrast with the lovely complexities and beauties of Gorean had been striking. The lowly slave's expressions of submission to her master, and her beggings, in Gorean, bespeak an articulate, rich civilization in which sexuality is a familiar, fundamental, open and joyous part of life, one not to be degraded and vulgarized with disdain and contempt, but celebrated with subtlety, attention, pleasure, energy, eloquence, poetry, and passion. Gorean sexuality seems to appeal to what is finest, and most patient in men and women, to what is most detailed and rich, to what is most human. On Gor sexuality is a study and an art, in its way, at least among masters and slaves. It is not limited, surely, to brief, ignorant, shameful, self-conscious couplings and gruntings in dark rooms, less to be esteemed because of the attendant vulgarity and shame than the honest couplings of heated, needful beasts. Gorean sexuality is accepting of desire, possessiveness, submission, dominance, ownership and the mastery, and inordinate pleasure, of the genetically coded orchestrations of nature, these enhanced within, and expressed within, an open, honest civilization, one emergent from nature, not one in contradiction to her. In Gorean sexuality, at least amongst masters and slaves, there is a respect for patience, for exploitable, meticulous leisure, for high intelligence, for attention and scrutiny, for mind and body, for craft and subtlety, for a passion so profound that it fulfills and ennobles biology rather than insults and subverts her. Sexuality on Gor is not brutish and dirty; such properties pertain only to the views of sexuality endemic in ascetic, fearing, self-congratulatory, pathological barbarisms. Gorean sexuality has a place for high intelligence, and rationality, and honesty, and truth, and profound, resilient human passion. Perhaps the most obvious difference between the common sexuality of Earth and that of Gor is that on Gor sexuality is fully animal and fully human, magnificently animal and human. For the human is a minded animal, a rational animal. How few of Earth have understood that, truly, most seeing only the animal or only the mind. Suppose that lions had a brilliant human consciousness. What then might be the nature of their couplings?
"Yes, Master," I said.
"I see you are now ready," he said.
"Master?"
"Ready to begin your slavery," he said.
"I thought I had well begun that instruction, long ago," I said.
"You have not yet begun to learn your slavery," he said.
"Yes, Master," I whispered, frightened.
"Your name is 'Lita'."
"Oh, thank you, Master, thank you, Master!" I breathed.
It was a name I loved. Simple, short, luscious, provocative, suitable, and a common slave name.
Who but a slave might bear such a name?
Was it not exciting?
Did it not hint of the steel of slave bracelets, the smell of thongs, held against the face, the clash of bangles, the rustle of silk?
What a delightful joke had Drusus Rencius played upon me, the beast, when he had thought me to be the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and had conducted me to the house of Kliomenes, when he had there introduced me under the name of the Lady Lita! I had understood so little then! On the Viktel Aria, when I had been apprehended, after my escape from the camp of Miles of Argentum, I had innocently given my name as "Lita," and my captors had laughed. It was
then that I had learned it was a common slave name. How was it that I had not understood that earlier?
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. In his hand 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.
"You Goreans enjoy having women in your collar, do you not?" I asked.
"Certainly," he said. "Women belong to men. And thus it is appropriate to put them in collars. The blood of men inclines them to the possession of women. Why then should they not be owned, and, if owned, collared?"
"It is like we are she-sleen!" I said.
"Only less valuable," said he.
I supposed that was true. In any event, a good sleen usually brings a higher price than a human female.
"Your collar is quite attractive on you," he said.
"I cannot remove it," I said.
"Try," he invited me.
I pulled at the collar.
"Try harder," said he.
I tested the collar. I exerted myself.
"It is locked," I said.
"Of course," he said.
He knew the collar was locked. He had put it on me. And he knew I knew the collar was locked. Certainly I had heard it snap shut in the courtyard below.
"I cannot remove it," I said.
Commonly only a new slave, or one in hysteria, fights the collar. It is foolish to do so. A girl soon learns it is on her.
"I cannot remove it!" I said.
"Of course not," he said. "It is a slave collar."
"Yes, Master."
"It is pretty on you," he said.
"Thank you, Master."
"You know that you are exceedingly attractive in a collar, do you not?" he asked.
"I am pleased, if Master is pleased," I said.
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