“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “I was. And so I want to thank you for not using me.”
“That is all right,” I said.
“But you were thinking about it, were you not?” she said.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“But you did not do so,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“What?” I asked.
“Why not?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said. “I suppose because you were free, and so helpless.”
“My helplessness would not have made a difference if I were a slave, would it?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “One often makes a slave absolutely helpless, and then does what one wants with her. One commands and uses a slave totally. That is what they are for. They must serve completely. They must convey, at so little as a word or gesture, immediately and unquestioningly, whatever the master desires. One gets from a slave all that a man could possibly want from a woman, and more, simply taking it from her, or ordering her to provide it.”
“She is so helpless,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. “She is a slave.”
“But you did not use me,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Because I was free?” she said.
“I suppose so,” I said. “I did not know how attractive you were, of course.”
“Had you known,” she asked, “would you have used me?”
“I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps. I am only human.”
“Is that why you have dressed me as you have?” she asked. She looked down, demurely, pulling down at the short hem of the leather she wore.
“Yes,” I said.
“This is very revealing,” she said. She pulled together the sides of the neckline, closing the garment there to some extent.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“It bares my arms and shoulders,” she said. “That would generally be done only with a slave.”
“True,” I admitted. She did not mention it, but it was not merely her arms and shoulders which were bared. One could see a good bit of her legs, a sweet suggestion of her shapely breasts and, at the sides, going to the waist, a high slash of thigh.
She looked at me.
“It is a bit large,” I said. The hostess had been a larger woman than she.
She pulled it more closely about herself. This more accentuated her figure.
“You put me in this garment,” she said. “And it is the sort of garment a slave might be put in.”
“Probably not in leather, however,” I said.
She nodded. Leather is generally not permitted to slaves. Softer and more feminine fabrics, silk, rep-cloth, and such, often brief and clinging, not only stunningly attractive and aesthetically pleasing, but also indicative of, and reflective of, their subjection to masculine domination, are generally required of them.
“But I see what you mean,” I said.
“Do you think I am a slave?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
“Oh, I do not mean legally,” she said. “I mean really.”
“Oh,” I said, “then of course.”
“Of course!” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Beware!” she said. “I am a free woman!”
“Not really,” I said.
“Not really?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “You are really a slave. All you lack are some minor legal technicalities, such as the collar.”
“This garment,” she said, looking down, quickly. “It is so brief, so revealing. It makes me feel so strange.”
I shrugged.
“How dare you have put me in such a garment?” she asked.
“It pleased me,” I said.
“It calls attention to my sexuality,” she said.
“It calls attention, at least,” I said, “to the potentiality of your sexuality.”
“Am I beautiful?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Am I sexually desirable?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Am I beautiful enough and sexually desirable enough,” she asked, “to be a slave?”
“That is a strange question for a free woman to ask,” I said.
“Am I?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” she said.
“You are welcome,” I said.
“Could you really have carried me into slavery,” she asked, “as you intimated in the alcove?”
“I could still do so,” I said. “We are not far from the Street of Brands. Within the Ahn I could deliver you into the clutches and metal of a slaver. He would take one look at you, as you are now, and there would be no questions asked.”
“You would then get money for me?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But it is not your intention to do so?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“I do not need the money,” I said.
“Please,” she said.
“You are free,” I shrugged.
“It is cold,” she said, shivering.
“It will grow warmer later in the day,” I said.
“What time do you think it is?” she asked.
“Somewhere between the fourth and the fifth Ahn,” I said.
“It is so cold,” she said, “and so dark and gray.”
I turned away.
“Wait!” she called.
I turned back. “What?” I asked.
“I do not live in that direction,” she said.
“So?” I said.
“Where then are you going?” she asked.
“To my room,” I said. “It is late.”
“No!” she said.
“No?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Are you not going to take me home?”
“Can you find your way home from here?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then do so,” I said.
“Wait!” she called.
“Yes?” I said.
“See how I am clad!” she said.
“I do see,” I said.
“I cannot go through the streets like this,” she said.
“Many women,” I said, “in collars, go through the streets with much less, and in full daylight, among crowds.”
“They are slaves!” she said.
“And so, too, really,” I said, “are you.”
She looked at me, angrily.
“Would you rather do it naked?” I asked. “That can be arranged.” I took a step towards her.
“No!” she said, putting out her hand, stepping back.
“Very well,” I said. It did amuse me to think of her trying to make her way back to wherever she lived, probably a good way from here, as she seemed an educated, refined, perhaps affluent woman.
“What if I am surprised?” she said. “What if I am caught? What if slavers pick me up?”
“I really do not think there is much chance of that,” I said, “not at the present hour, with it getting light. This is not an ideal hour, too, as you are probably aware, for the practice of activities such as slaving, raping, capturing, and such. It is just too miserably early. Don’t you really think so? What self-respecting rapist or slaver would be abroad at this hour? What would he expect to find? A miniature domestic sleen among the garbage cans? A brawny teamster bringing in produce from the country? Similarly I assume you live in a frequently patrolled, well-to-do district. I really do not believe you will be in any danger whatsoever. Run along.”
“Run along?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Just because I am dressed like this, do you think you can dismiss me—as though I might be a slave?”
“Be on your way,” I said.
“I am a free woman!” she said.
“You are a female,” I sa
id.
“I see,” she said, angrily.
“I would go while I can,” I said.
She looked at me, suddenly. “This is the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla,” she said. “Escort me at least back to the Avenue of Turia.”
“Very well,” I said.
She then led the way back across the street, to the opening between the buildings, one of several which joined the Avenue of Turia, in this section, with the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla. She walked well before me. A few yards into the passageway, which was winding, and about a hundred yards long, with some side passages, she stopped, and turned, and faced me.
“I am cold,” she said.
“Oh?” I said.
“Put your arms about me,” she said.
I did so. She fitted well within them.
“Is that better?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. She looked up at me. “You have saved me from an unspeakable fate,” she said, “one worse than death, that of a man having his way with me, against my will.”
“Do not be absurd,” I said. How seriously some free women took themselves! Such ridiculous vanity! A week in a collar would straighten her out on such matters. She would then know what women were for, and all about.
“However that may be,” she smiled, “it is to you that I owe my rescue from the shackles of a slave alcove.”
I began to think I had probably made a mistake. I should have left her there.
“I owe you much,” she said. “I am grateful. I would show my gratitude.”
“No thanks are necessary,” I said. I wondered if she knew what she was doing.
She lifted her lips. I felt her in my arms rising up on her toes. “There,” she said, kissing me.
“Beware of what you do,” I said, “dressed as you are.” Her body was luscious, rounded and slave soft. I forced myself not to seize it to me, and crush it in my arms.
“There,” she said, kissing me again, “can a slave kiss like that?” This second kiss, with its remark, was a mistake on her part, an irrevocable one.
“You know nothing of kissing,” I said. “If a slave could not do better than that, she would be whipped.”
“Sleen!” she cried, and tried to strike me. I caught her wrist with my right hand and twisted her suddenly and forcibly about, startling her. I took her left upper arm in my left hand, holding her, making her helpless, and with my right hand forced her right arm up suddenly and angrily behind her back. She cried out in sharp pain. I held her in this position for a moment, letting her know how helpless she was, keeping her in pain. She was high on her toes to relieve the pressure on her arm. She did not so much as move. Then I released her. She spun about, looking at me, wildly. She rubbed her arm. She had been in a man’s power. She looked small then. “You hurt me!” she said.
“Was it not your intention to hurt me?” I inquired.
She looked down. She seemed small, and beautiful. She continued to rub her arm.
“What you attempted to do would earn a slave a beating at least,” I said, “if her hands were not cut off, or if she were not fed to sleen.”
“I wouldn’t have done it, if I were a slave,” she pouted.
“No,” I said, “I do not think you would have, Free Woman.”
“Must I throw myself at you?” she asked.
“After that second kiss,” I said, “that would not be necessary.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I am going to give you what you want,” I said.
“No!” she said. “Not that! I mean— I mean—!” But I had swept her into my arms and carried her a few yards down the passageway and then into one of the side passages, where, protruding from a rear area, in a heap of litter and debris, mostly banked against a wall, in the midst of other garbage, refuse, and trash, I had seen the corner of a discarded, ragged, thick, roughly woven reed slave mat. “No!” she said. “Not now! Not this way!”
“Be silent,” I said. What was she complaining about? I had even carried her to this place in honor, in my arms, as a free woman. I had not thrown her over my shoulder, her ass to the front, her head scornfully to the rear, as properties are commonly carried, such as sacks of grain and female slaves.
With my foot, not yet putting her down, I dragged the mat free of the garbage and trash, and kicked it back to where I wanted it, back further in the rear area, between the high walls. I then threw her down upon it. “Get your clothes off,” I told her. “Be quick!”
Sobbing, she stripped herself.
“Please!” she begged. “No! Please!”
“Perform obeisance,” I said.
“I am a free woman!” she said.
“Out of your own mouth you have said it,” I said. “You are a woman.”
“I do not know how to do so!” she said.
“There are many ways to perform obeisance,” I said.
“I am a free woman,” she said. “I know none of them.”
“I shall instruct you briefly in three,” I said. “First, kneel before me, back on your heels, yes, with your knees wide, wider, your hands on your thighs, your back straight, your breasts out, good, your belly in, good, and now lower your head in deference, in submission.”
“Like a slave!” she said.
“Do it,” I said. She looked well. “Now that,” I said, “may not be exactly a performance of obeisance, for authorities do not all agree, but for our purposes we shall count it as one. It is, at any rate, a beautiful position, and it is, certainly, a common position of slave submission.”
“Slave submission!” she cried.
“Yes,” I said, “and you do it well. It looks natural on you.”
“Now,” I said, “and this is clearly a form of obeisance, bend forward and put your head to the mat, the palms of your hands on the mat. Good. Now lift your head a little and come forward, substantially keeping the position. Forward a little more.”
“But then my face will be at your feet,” she said. “My lips will be over them!”
“Yes,” I said. “Good. Now put your head down and lick and kiss my feet.”
“I am a free woman!” she said.
“You are a woman,” I said. “Now, softly, lingeringly and lovingly. Good.”
“I am not a slave,” she said.
“All women are slaves,” I said. “Imagine what this would be like if you were truly a collared slave.”
She gasped.
“Good,” I said. “Continue.”
Frightened, she did so.
“Now,” I said, “for a third form of obeisance. You may “belly” to me.”
“I do not understand,” she whispered.
“There are various forms of bellying,” I said, “and bellying may be suitably and pleasingly combined with other forms of floor movements, approaching the master on all fours, turning to your sides and back, writhing before him, and so on. We shall take a very simple variation, suitable for an ignorant free female who has not yet even begun to discover the depths of her sexuality.”
She looked up at me.
“On your belly,” I said. She backed off a bit, and went to her belly. Her hair was before her face, as she, now on her belly before me, looked up at me.
“Now inch forward,” I said, “remaining low on your belly, and when you reach my feet, once again, as before, lifting your head a little, tenderly and humbly, and beautifully, as though you were a slave, lick and kiss them. Good. Good. Now take my foot and place it gently on your head. Very good. Now place it again on the mat, and kiss it again. Good. You may now belly back a little, humbly. I have not yet given you permission to rise, of course.”
She looked up at me, through her blond hair. There was a sort of disbelief and awe in her eyes. I think she could not understand the emotions that had gone through her, as she had performed these overt actions, understanding and internalizing their meanings.
“You may now kneel,” I said.
She did so, obediently.
I then crouched down before her, and took her by the upper arms.
Our eyes met. “I did not know it could be like that,” she whispered.
I said nothing.
“I performed obeisance,” she said, shaken, wonderingly.
“Yes,” I said.
“I have never felt so female,” she said.
“You have not yet even begun to get in touch with your femaleness,” I said. “You will discover that it is a wonderful thing, that it is deep and marvelous, and, I think, fathomless. A voyage of discovery lies before you, through lands of love and untold sensuous wonders. A great adventure lies before you, filled with life and meaning. In this adventure you will find your fulfillment, as what you truly are, a female, not as something else, not as something different.”
“I understand,” she whispered.
I touched her.
“Ohh,” she said, softly.
“Interesting,” I said. “Though you are a free woman, you are rather vital, even at this stage.”
“Please do not embarrass me,” she said.
“In time,” I said, “it is my hope that you would grow proud of your body and its responses. I do not think you will find them embarrassing then, unless perhaps, say, strapped in a slave rack, you are forced to exhibit them publicly before scornful men or contemptuous free women. I think rather then that you would come to welcome them, and to exult in them, and rejoice in them.”
“Please,” she protested.
“Slaves,” I said, “are generally quite open, and loving about their bodies. They tend to understand themselves, and their nature, and love it.”
“I am not a slave,” she reminded me.
“That is true,” I said.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“What do you think?” I asked her.
“Will you be kind to me?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” I said.
She looked at me, startled. Then I pressed her back, down, on her back, onto the mat.
“I am a virgin,” she whispered.
I kissed her.
“You will be kind to me, won’t you?” she said.
“Not particularly,” I said.
“This mat is hard,” she said. “It is rough.” She squirmed a little, moving her back upon it, on its rough fibers.
“It was designed for the instruction of a slave,” I said, “not for her comfort.”
“I am not a slave,” she smiled.
Mercenaries of Gor Page 48