by John Norman
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“In the beginning,” he said, “I think I will permit you to be touched by men only infrequently.”
“As Master wishes,” I whispered.
“We shall see how you serve.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Lift your head,” he said.
I did so, but I did not look at him.
“Lift your hair, and turn your head from side to side.”
I put my chained hands to my hair, and lifted it, and turned my head from side to side.
“Pierced-ear girl,” he murmured.
Then he said, “You may lower your hands.”
With a movement of my head, I tossed my hair down, about my shoulders. I adjusted it a little, with my hands, they close together. I kept my head up. I had not received permission to lower it. I did not, of course, look upon him.
“You are pretty,” he said.
“Am I pretty?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Am I handsome?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”
“For speaking the truth?”
“The opinion of a slave is worthless,” I said.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“I do not wish to offend Master,” I said.
“Do you think, because you have been put in a collar, you become less intelligent?”
“No,” I said.
“Slavery has many effects on a woman,” he said, “It softens her, it enhances her beauty, it gives her a profound sense of herself, it fulfills her, it increases, considerably, her sexual responsiveness, it increases a thousandfold her capacities to love, but one effect it does not have, it does not reduce her intelligence.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Why should it?” he asked.
“I do not know, Master,” I said.
“It does not.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“There is a sense,” he said, “in which the opinion of a slave is worthless, and another sense in which it might not be worthless is the sense in which it might be true, or insightful, or helpful, such things. But in that sense the opinion of an urt or sleen, or any other form of animal, might not be worthless. It might be true, or insightful, or helpful. Such things. The sense in which the opinion of a slave, or other form of animal, is worthless is the sense in which it is just that, the opinion of a slave, or animal. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” I said. My thoughts, like my feelings, did not count. They were only those of a slave.
How these men, these brutes on this world who had never relinquished their manhood, dominated us! How totally, how uncompromisingly, they dominated us! How deliciously they dominated us!
“Intelligent women,” he said, “make excellent slaves.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“They understand what has been done to them, what they then are, how they must be, and so on.”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
“And they are quick to grasp the impossibility of escape, and the irreversibility, by their own efforts, of what has been done to them.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. But did he not understand how much more there was to it than this? Did he not understand the need for the master, the longing for him, the yearning for him? Did he not understand the need to serve, and love, selflessly?
“You look quite well in chains.”
“Thank you, Master,”
“You belong in them.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You know that, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered. I was such a woman. Even had it not been for such things as the desire to serve the love wholly, with no thought of self, only with thought for the happiness of the master, I would have belonged in chains. I knew that I had been petty, and vain, and selfish, and doubtless, to some extent, still was. I had little doubt of that if I had been permitted to retain my freedom I would have abused it, almost certainly so in my old world. How fitting then, I recognized, that men, in their arrogance, not wishing to accept such insult and folly on my part, had simply made me a slave, had simply branded me and put me in a collar. I now wore chains. I was now subject to the whip. I would obey, and be pleasing. These things had been decided by men.
“Master!” I begged.
“Yes?” he said.
“For what reason have I been brought here?”
“Here?” he asked.
“To this city, this place,” I said.
“To this particular city, and this particular place?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You will learn in time,” he said.
“Master!” I begged.
“Yes?” said he.
“I do not know my name,” I said.
“It is on the collar,” he said. He indicated that I should move closely approach the bars. I put my right cheek against them, my eyes closed. I felt his pawlike hand slide the kajira collar up, beneath the sirik collar. “There it is,” he said, lifting the lamp a bit. “It is there, your name, on the collar, which you cannot remove from your neck.”
Of course I could not remove the kajira collar! Such collars are not made to be removed by a girl. They are locked. The lock is at the back of the neck. Such collars are light, close-fitting, and attractive. They are pretty. One does not slip them.
I knew that the name was on the collar, and that, thus, in a sense, my name was on me, clearly and obdurately, for anyone to see, anyone who might be literate and care to peruse the collar. In this way a girl may be more easily recognized, and remembered, or identified or traced, or such. She is denied the refuge of a gracious and sheltering anonymity.
And of course I could not remove the sirik collar either. It was locked on me, as well.
The brute knew this. He was merely reminding me of my helplessness. It was doubtless an excellent lesson to be administered to a slave, and particularly, I supposed, to one such as I, an Earth-girl slave.
“It was shown to me,” I said, “but I cannot read. I am illiterate! It was never told to me.”
“Even if you could read,” he said, “you cold not see it now, for it is on your collar.”
“Please, Master,” I said, my eyes closed. “I would know my name.”
I must, I knew, hear my name first from the lips of a man.
“Do you beg to know the slave’s name?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “I beg to know the slave’s name.”
“It is a barbarian name,” he said, “short, luscious, and splendidly fitting for a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He was silent.
“I beg to know the slave’s name,” I said.
“It is ‘Janice’,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“’Janice’,” I said.
“That is the sort of name beneath which a slave squirms well,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said. I felt the chain from my wrists between my thighs. Thence it ran back to my shackled ankles.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Janice, Master,” I said.
“Go to sleep now,” he said, “Janice.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
In a bit he had returned to his furs. He blew out the tiny flame of the lamp.
We were then in utter darkness.
I lay there for a time, and then lifted the chain on my wrists a little. I pressed my lips to it, and then to the manacles on my wrists, one after the other. I was ignorant of many things, but now, at least, I was no longer ignorant of my own name. I now knew who I was. I was Janice.
I then fell asleep.
14
“How free slaves are!” she cried, delightedly.
“Shhh, Mistress,” I cautioned her.
“You must not call me ‘Mistress’!” she whispere
d.
“Forgive me,” I said. Such things, from training, and from force of habit, sometimes slip out.
“And do not ask for my forgiveness,” she whispered. “Please! Someone might hear! Think of me only as a slave in your charge.”
“I will try,” I said. We had come from the bazaar with its sights and sounds, and booths and stalls, and the crowding, and the music. I much enjoyed that part of the city. We were now climbing steps to the upper terraces and courts. From there one may obtain a grand view of the mountains.
“I am so grateful to you!” she said.
I held her leash, preceding her. Her hands were braceleted behind her.
“It was your aide,” I said. “I only conveyed your please to the depth warden. Had I not do so, in some failure to comply with your request, I might have risked serious discipline.”
“Nonetheless, I am grateful!” she exclaimed. “You need not, I am sure, have conveyed my pleas. You might even have managed somehow to escape punishment for the inadvertence. Since my care was put in your keeping I have not even seen the depth warden. He might never have known. You might have pretended to misunderstand, or forget, or you might have denied that such pleas were made.”
“In such a matter,” I said, “your word would be taken over mine.”
“How vulnerable are slaves!” she marveled.
“Yes,” I said, climbing upward. “We are vulnerable.”
“But you could have conveyed my pleas in such a manner as to have had them discounted, or rejected as haughty demands, or such.
I was silent.
“You must have enjoined them upon the depth warden with sympathy.”
I supposed that was possible. She had been so pathetic.
“Oh! She suddenly exclaimed, in pain.
“Do you wish to pause?” I asked.
“No,” she said, looking at me, wincing, lifting one foot a little.
“Your feet are not yet toughened,” I said. She was barefoot, of course. This was in accord with her guise.
“Do you wish to wait?” I asked.
“Someone is coming,” she said.
Coming down the stairs was a man.
“Come, slave!” I said. “Do not dawdle!”
with a little cry of pain she followed me up the stairs, the leash straight between us. Little consideration is shown to slaves. The fellow glanced at us, sizing us up, as men do, as slave meat, in passing. We looked down. Had he stopped, we would have knelt.
“Is your foot all right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
I think that the very first day on which I had seen the free woman, several days ago, over the pool, had been the same day on which a transformation had begun to be wrought in her. There were doubtless several causes for this, not to mention a certain ripening of her understanding, of how she was fully, truly, even though a prisoner, at the mercy of men. Specifically, I think it was useful to have had to explicitly, frequently, and humbly address the depth warden as “sir,” which practice apparently, in its present authentic form, began on that day, to know that she was not permitted to attempt to interfere with the latching of the cage, and might thus, at any moment, walking or sleeping, be plunged into the pool, to the creatures which frequented it, and, perhaps most significantly, to learn that she, though a free woman, was being housed in a slave cage. This latter comprehension, in itself, it seemed, had acted profoundly upon her consciousness. She had began soon after that, as I had learned from the brunette, Fina, she preferred by the pit master, who slept at his feet, to kneel in the cage at the approach of the pit master, the depth warden, who commonly attended to her. Further, she began, aside from the courtesy expressed in the use of the expression “sir,” to address him with great deference, and to importune him, when she dared, in suitable humility. Too, as she now used the word “sir” there could be no hint within it, as there might have been, as I understand it, before the day of her instruction at the pool, of irony or insult. Now no longer did she use it exaggeratedly, or pointedly, or sneeringly. It now emerged from her lips with sincerity, with understanding and respect.
I recalled that once, in my training, one of the girls in my group had dared to say the word “Master” to one of the guards in such a fashion that it was clear she did not mean it, in such a fashion that it constituted, in effect, a sneer. She was punished, terribly, and, in an instant, was blubbering for mercy, contrite, and fiercely instructed, begging with the utmost terror and authenticity to he who was then to her as master for mercy. Such insults, of course, are not tolerated for an instant in a slave. We quickly learn that the masters are truly “Master.”
“I am tired,” she said, climbing the stairs. Too, I think her foot hurt her.
I looked up and down the broad stairs. They were empty now, save for us.
“Let us rest,” I suggested.
She sat on the stairs.
“See,” she said, proudly, “how I hold my legs together, and to the side. Is it not attractive?”
“Seeing you thus,” I said, “I would think a man might be tempted to seize your ankles and part them.”
“Oh?” she said, pleased.
“It is more modest to kneel,” I said, kneeling on the broad step, my legs together.
“Should I be kneeling?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Immediately she knelt.
“As I hold the leash,” I said, “you should be on a stair lower than I.”
She descended one stair, happily.
“That is not how you kneel before men, is it?” she asked.
“You are inquisitive,” I said.
“Is it?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I am a slave of a sort which, I expect, you, as a free woman, many never have heard of.”
“You are a pleasure slave,” she said, helpfully.
“You have heard of us?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “My brother has two of you. He pits them against one another.”
“The beast!” I exclaimed.
“He is well served.” She said.
“Doubtless,” I agreed.
“All the female slaves below are pleasure slaves,” she said. “Fina told me.
“Fina is also a pleasure slave!” I said.
“Of course,” she said.
“The pit master will have it no other way,” I said.
“Of course not,” she said. “He is a strong, powerful man.”
“We are worked as though we might be field slaves!” I said.
“Oh, you are not worked so hard,” she said.
I knelt back, smiling. “Perhaps not,” I said.
“I think the pit master is kind,” she said.
“You have not felt his lash,” I said.
“It must be thrilling to be subject to the lash,” she said.
“I do not care for the lash,” I said. The thought of it even frightened me.
“But it must be thrilling,” she said, “to know that you must please, and that you are subject to it.”
I was silent.
“Is it not?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. Why must she, a free woman, pry so closely into these things? Too, what could one such as she understand of such matters?”
“But I think the pit master is kind,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“If he were not,” she said, “he would not permit us to be here, or do this, would he?”
“No,” I said. “I do not think so.”
“So,” she said, “that is not how you kneel before men, is it?”
“No,” I said. “I am a pleasure slave. It is expected, accordingly, that I will kneel before men with my legs spread, unless, perhaps, free women are present.”
“Like this?” she asked, eagerly.
I looked about, quickly, determining that none were about. It was warm, and late in the afternoon.
“No,” I said. “More widely.”
“Oh!�
� she said, softly, trembling.
“Yes,” I said. “Like that.”
“Thusly,” she asked, “and before men!”
“Yes,” I said, “or even more widely, depending on the master.”
“Ai,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
One of her knees was now off the stair.
“How it must make you feel!” she breathed, delightedly.
“Yes,” I said.
“How vulnerable you are!” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“It is very exciting,” she said.
“It helps us to keep in mind that we are slaves, and the sort of slaves we are,” I said.
“It is exciting,” she said.
“Exciting’?” I asked.
“Surely the intent of this exceeds mere mnemonics and instruction,” she said, “such things as a mere desire to demonstrate to the slave her vulnerability.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Surely at least a portion of its intent is to arouse the slave, to make her feel receptive, and helpless, kneeling thusly before a male.”
“I do not doubt,” I said, “that something of that sort has entered into the thinking of the beasts, those who force us to assume such a position before them.”
“Ah!” she said.
“It has its effect, too, upon the male,” I assured her.
“I am so pleased to hear it!” she said.
She looked down at her knees. Her hands were braceleted behind her. Her leash went to my hand.
“Janice,” she said.
“Yes?” I said.
“Do you like to kneel thusly before men?”
“Please!” I said.
“Please, tell me,” she said.
“Must I speak?” I asked.
“I cannot order you to do so, not now,” she said. “I am now naught but as a slave in your charge. That is the understanding, and the condition. But please, Janice! Please speak!”
“Yes,” I said. “I do enjoy so kneeling before men. I find it sexually arousing. Too, I find it is right for me. I find that it is fitting and proper for me.”
“It must make you feel very female,” she said.
“Yes, it does,” I said. “But it is all right for a woman to feel very female. There is nothing wrong with that.”
“I am a female,” she said. “I want to feel very female.”