“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You wear a collar,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What are you?” I asked.
“I am a female slave,” she said, “a slave girl.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said. “Only that.”
“It is true,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I saw in her eyes that she now knew these things to be true, that she now truly knew that she was a slave girl, that and only that.
“What am I to do, Master?” she asked.
“Go to your Master,” I said, “and beg him to forgive you for having been displeasing.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. She rose painfully to her feet and went slowly, painfully, to where Boots was sitting cross-legged, near the small fire between the wagons. He was now in the midst of enjoying a second breakfast. Chino and Andronicus were with him. She knelt down near him, her bound wrists on her thighs. She dared not speak. After a time, Boots, sucking his fingers, removing the grease from fried tarsk strips from them, turned about. She quickly, under the eyes of her master, put her head down to the dirt. “Did you wish something, girl?” asked Boots.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You may speak,” said Boots.
“I beg your forgiveness, Master,” she said, her head still down, “for having been displeasing.”
“Mend your ways in the future,” cautioned Boots, sternly. “Next time it may not go as easily with you.”
“Yes, Master,” she said, trembling.
Boots then helped himself to some more rolls and slices of fried tarsk.
Lady Telitsia, as it seemed she would be called now, at least for the time, then lifted her head and straightened her body. She remained kneeling, of course, in the immediate vicinity of her master.
“Good rolls,” said Boots to Chino.
“Yes,” agreed Chino, helping himself to another, as well.
“Excellent vulo eggs, excellent tarsk,” said Boots, his mouth full.
“Quite,” agreed Andronicus, wiping his fingers fastidiously on his tunic.
Lady Telitsia eyed the food, hungrily, piteously. She squirmed. I heard her small, lovely, rounded belly growling.
“Did you say something, my dear?” asked Boots.
“No, Master,” she said, quickly.
Boots returned to his repast. I wondered how long it had been since Lady Telitsia had been fed.
More noises emanated from her pretty belly. She put down her head in embarrassment.
“Lady Telitsia,” said Boots. “Clean my hands.”
She came forward and began to lick his cupped hands and then to suck his fingers, removing the grease from them. Meanwhile he continued to talk with Chino and Andronicus.
“Slowly and more sensuously,” said Boots.
“Yes, Master,” she groaned. She looked up at him. Their eyes met. Their exchange of glances was quite meaningful. Then she complied, as best she could, given that she had only recently been a free woman. She, apparently half starved, had been too eagerly licking and sucking at the grease on his hands and fingers.
“Better,” he said. “Better.” Then he dried his hands, partly on her body, partly on her hair, and returned his attention to his companions. As he had touched her body I had noted that she had gasped and, ever so slightly, had pressed against his hand. I do not think, however, this action had been lost on Boots, either. The slave, “Lady Telitsia,” had in her, I suspected, superb slave potential. Up to now, of course, as a free woman, given her conditioning and what was expected of her in her culture, she had undoubtedly, possibly even agonizingly, resisted her sexuality, fighting to control and suppress her slave drives. Now, of course, now that she had been freed of the psychological chains, the confining restrictions, the imprisoning inhibitions of the free woman, I had little doubt that she, and perhaps even soon, would prove to be a helplessly arousable, helplessly yielding slave, a joy both to herself and her masters.
“That is enough,” said Boots.
“Master,” she said.
“Yes?” said Boots.
“May I have permission to speak, Master?” she asked.
“You need only ask—sometimes,” said Boots.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, gratefully. “Master—”
“Were you given permission to speak?” asked Boots.
“No, Master,” she whispered. “Forgive me, Master.”
Boots regarded her, sternly.
“But you said I need only ask,” she whispered, frightened.
“I said, ‘You need only ask—sometimes,’” said Boots. “This is not one of those times. You may not now speak.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.” She then knelt back on her heels, not permitted to speak, a chastened slave.
“Ah,” said Boots, seeing me. “Are you hungry? Come join us.”
“Thank you,” I said, and sat down with them, cross-legged. It was still rather early. Soon I was helping myself to a heaping serving of vulo eggs, tarsk strips and rolls.
“Perhaps you should feed your captive soon,” said Boots. He referred to the free woman, the Lady Yanina, shackled and chained by the neck under my wagon.
“Yes,” I said. “I will take her a plate of food when I am finished.” One must show concern for her, of course. Or, at least I supposed so. She was, after all, a free woman.
I supposed that she, under the wagon, on her chain, must be famished by now.
She had doubtless not been fed any more recently than the former Lady Telitsia of Asperiche, Boots’s new collar slut.
I thought that the former Lady Telitsia of Asperiche, incidentally, was not only remarkably lovely but highly intelligent. That boded well, of course, for the pleasures she could provide a master.
Generally, the more intelligent the woman the better the slave. The more intelligent woman is more likely to be in touch with her feelings and needs than a duller, more inert woman. She is also likely to be less socially controlled, so more willing to explore these needs and desires, and such, than a less intelligent woman. Too, from the man’s point of view, it is desirable to have a more intelligent woman as a slave, for a variety of reasons. They tend to be attractive; they tend to have strong needs; they train quickly, and well; it is seldom necessary to whip them, though it is useful, for their own instruction and benefit, to occasionally do so; it is easier to hone their slave reflexes; they come to orgasm more quickly and helplessly; they are useful in anticipating your desires and are inventive and devoted in their service. It is also, of course, pleasant, as they are intelligent, to engage them in intimate, and often intellectual, discourse, often for long periods at a time. Such discussions often have an interesting ambiance when the female is naked and collared.
Female Ph.D.’s, incidentally, make excellent slaves. Their life can be a paradox, openly aggressively feminist, as is expected of them, and required for advancement in the current academic world, and playing that role well, but privately being their master’s obedient chattel. It might amuse their students, could they see them eating from pans on the floor, hurrying to serve, perhaps expedited by a stroke of a switch across their naked flanks, kneeling before a man, waiting to be commanded, on their hands and knees, naked, collared, scrubbing his floors, polishing his boots, cleaning his toilets, lying at his feet, kissing them, supplicating, bucking and writhing in slave chains, helpless to resist his patient, skillful caresses.
But this is true of professional women, on the whole. Many of them in their private life, are their master’s contented and loving, grateful, slave.
But all slaves, as slaves, regardless of the level of their intelligence, are to be held in effective and flawless bondage. No privilege whatsoever is extended to the slave on the grounds of her high intelligence, or even brilliance. The most intelligent, the most brilliant, is in her collar still only a slave. She, as the least o
f her sisters, is held in strict subservience; she, as they, will learn herself completely and superbly mastered.
I was enjoying my breakfast.
I must remember, I thought, to take my captive, the Lady Yanina, some food. She was, after all, as Boots had pointed out, a free woman. I supposed, all things considered, that that should count for something.
She was doubtless quite hungry by now.
It is not merely slaves who can feel the pangs of hunger.
Free women can beg for food as readily as a slave.
In a besieged city starvation has brought more than one free woman to the collar. Perhaps she begs admittance to the house of a rich man. Admitted, she kneels before him and addresses him thusly: “Please feed me—Master.” At a gesture from him she pulls her robes down, to the waist, or calves. She tries to kneel straightly, beautifully, before him. She tries to kneel, as well as she can, as a slave. He assesses her. With the formula she has uttered she has begged bondage. He regards her. If he is pleased, he lets her feed from his hand, she taking the food delicately in her mouth, not permitted to use her hands, or he throws it to the floor, and she falls upon it, eagerly, again not permitted to use her hands. She is then his slave.
“You are going with us at least as far as Brundisium?” said Boots.
“That is my plan,” I said.
“What takes you to Brundisium?” asked Boots.
“Mainly Petrucchio’s wagon, I would suppose,” I said, “and his tharlarion. He was kind enough to loan them to me. I may walk part of the way, of course.”
“Seriously,” said Boots.
“I am quite serious,” I said. “Walking is an excellent exercise.”
“It is early in the morning for wit as scintillating as yours,” observed Boots.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Have you ever considered a career upon the stage?” he inquired.
“No,” I said.
“It is probably just as well,” he speculated.
“Perhaps,” I admitted, somewhat grudgingly, not altogether convinced.
“What are you going to do in Brundisium?” asked Boots.
“That will depend, I expect,” I said, “on what I find in Brundisium.”
“Come now,” said Boots.
“Business,” I informed him.
“I see,” said Boots. “I am glad that is cleared up.”
I bit on some crisp tarsk strips.
“You are certainly a communicative fellow this morning,” said Boots.
“The tarsk is good,” I said.
“I am glad you like it,” said Boots. “Brundisium, as I have warned you earlier, may be dangerous. They seem quite suspicious of strangers the last year or so.”
“You do not know why, though?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“You are a good fellow, Boots,” I said. “I appreciate your concern.”
“I think I know how you intend to use your captive, at least as far as your participation in our show is concerned,” said Boots, “but beware. If she is of Brundisium, or is known in Brundisium, it could be very dangerous for you there.”
“In the vicinity of Brundisium, or within her walls,” I said, “I could keep her hooded. If it seemed desirable, too, of course, I could always have her reduced to slavery before nearing, or entering, the city. She would then be of no legal interest to anyone, for she would then be only a slave, only chattel.”
“Of course,” said Boots.
“It was a good breakfast,” I said. “I had better take her some food now.”
“Yes,” said Boots. “You must not keep her hungry. You must show her consideration. She is a free woman.”
“Of course,” I said.
I slowly, carefully, piled a plate high with rolls, eggs and fried tarsk strips. It had probably been a long time since the Lady Yanina had eaten. She had been, as had the former Lady Telitsia of Asperiche, in the care of the brigands. She then, as embarrassing as she might find it, and it would surely be boorish to call it to her attention, was doubtless as hungry as Boots’s new collar tart.
If she were not, I supposed I could make do with a second breakfast.
But I was prepared to be generous.
I could always watch her feedings later, giving attention to their possible effect on her figure. That would be if I decided, later, to turn her into a love captive, or, if it pleased me, a thousand times lower, nay, a thousand thousand times lower, nay, even uncountably times lower, nay, not even on the same scale, a slave. Boots’s slave, Lady Telitsia, eyed the plate hungrily, desperately. I thought I heard her whimper, softly. Certainly there were some piteous noises at any rate which suddenly, unexpectedly, perhaps to her embarrassment, emanated from her pretty belly.
“Did you say something?” asked Boots.
“No, Master,” she said, hastily. She had been warned to silence.
I rose to my feet.
“May I have the plate a moment?” asked Boots.
“Surely,” I said. I handed it to him.
He held it before Lady Telitsia. “It smells good, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said. She leaned forward, her eyes closed. She breathed in, deeply, relishing the odor of the fresh-cooked breakfast. She opened her eyes, looking at her master, piteously.
Boots handed the plate to me, and I carried it between the wagons until I came to my wagon.
There, beneath my wagon, sitting down, her knees drawn up, was the Lady Yanina, once my captor. On her neck was an iron collar. By means of this collar and its chain, the chain fastened about the wagon axle, she was secured in place.
I put down the plate of food. “Ankles,” I said.
She turned a little and, angrily, lowering her knees slightly, tugging the hem of her garment closely about her lower calves, extended her ankles toward me. I checked the gyves. All was in order. There was no sign of the metal having been tampered with, for example, scratched about the lock, or marked on the bands, as though having been struck futilely with a stone. Similarly her ankles were not cut or abraded as though she might have tried to slip the iron from her fair limbs. Such an action, of course, would have been ludicrously irrational. The Lady Yanina was not a foolish, panic-stricken Earth girl, new to bondage, its possibility scarcely having earlier entered her ken, frenziedly, absurdly trying to remove fetters from her body, but a Gorean woman. She well knew that females locked in Gorean iron do not escape. Its stern, inflexible clasp is not designed to be eluded by she whom it confines and ornaments. Women in such bonds must helplessly await the pleasure of their captors. I thrust back her ankles.
“As you can see,” she said, bitterly, “I continue to be held, perfectly.”
Her ankles looked beautiful, confined in the steel. Too, she had spoken the truth.
I then checked her collar, and the attachment points of the chain, both at the collar and at the double loop where it was fastened about the axle.
“I am perfectly secured,” she said, angrily.
“I am sorry if chain check distresses you,” I said. “You comprehend its rationale, of course.”
“Yes,” she said, angrily.
“It is procedurally recommended by the caste of slavers,” I said.
“I am not a slave,” she said.
“Chains, I suspect, do not much care whether it is a noble free woman whom they confine or a mere slave.”
“Are you satisfied?” she asked, insolently. “Do I pass chain check?”
“Yes,” I said. “You are perfectly secured.”
She looked frightened for a moment, and her two hands closed on the chain dangling from her collar. She drew on it a moment, almost inadvertently, and felt the tug at the collar ring. Then she removed her hands from the chain and regarded me, again the free woman, again insolent.
“See what you have given me to wear,” she said, angrily lifting the hem of the garment I had fashioned for her last night.
“I gathered you did not approve of
the thin white gown the brigands had put you in,” I said. “Surely it had little purpose other than to display you well for sale to a slaver and, in its piteousness, to invite its casual removal.”
“I am a rich woman,” she said, angrily. “I have status and position. In Brundisium I hold high station, being a member of the household of Belnar, her Ubar. I am highly intelligent. I am educated and refined. I have exquisite taste. I am accustomed to the finest silks, the most expensive materials. I have my gowns, my robes, even my veils, especially made for me by high cloth workers!”
“I am not a high cloth worker,” I said, “but I did make it especially for you.”
“Your skills leave something to be desired,” she said.
“You are probably right,” I said.
“I wear only the latest fashions!” she said.
“Perhaps you could start a new fashion,” I said.
“How dare you dress me as you have!” she said.
“At least it is opaque,” I said.
“That is true,” she said, ironically.
“And it is long,” I said, “and thus protective of your modesty.”
“I am certain that I am grateful,” she said.
“And so what is your complaint?” I inquired. As she was a free woman, it seemed I should be concerned, at least to some extent, with any complaints which she might have. A slave, of course, in distinction from a free woman, is not permitted complaints. She must try to obtain things in other ways, for example, by humble requests while kneeling or lying on her belly before her master.
She cried out angrily and jerked in frustration at the chain on her neck.
“It conceals your figure, at least to some degree,” I said.
“You could at least have given me a belt,” she said.
“It will conceal your figure better, unbelted,” I said.
“Please,” she said.
“No,” I said.
She cried out in anger, in frustration.
“Stand up,” I said.
“It is difficult to stand in close chains,” she said.
“There,” I said, not pleasantly, indicating a place beside the wheel, beside the wagon.
“Very well,” she said, rising, and clutching the wagon wheel, and pulling herself up, and around it. “One woman has been beaten in this camp this morning. I have no desire to be the second.” These words interested me. A woman behaves very differently toward a man whom she knows is capable of disciplining her and may, if it pleases him, do so, than toward one whom she knows she may treat with contempt and scorn with impunity.
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