“No,” I said.
“You are not going to accompany me then?” she asked, disappointed.
“I will come with you,” I said.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“You will precede me,” I said.
“Of course,” she laughed. “You do not know the way.”
“Of course,” I said.
She laughed. “That is not the true reason, is it?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“I have seen masters walking their girls before them in the streets,” she laughed. “Doubtless they enjoy seeing them walk before them.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
“That is your reason, isn’t it?” she laughed.
“Yes,” I said.
“You do find me attractive, do you not?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I will try to walk well before you, Master,” she smiled.
“Do not call me ‘Master’,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she smiled.
“Let us go,” I said.
“I will never forget this place,” she said. “It was here I became a woman, and learned my slavery.”
“Let us go,” I said.
“Take me to a slaver’s,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Shall I now precede my Master?” she asked.
“You may precede me,” I said.
She then preceded me from the back passage, into the larger passage, running between the buildings, leading to the Avenue of Turia. She did walk well. I wondered why I had decided to accompany her to her dwelling. I was not certain about the matter. Surely she could have found her way there safely, and particularly now, in the full daylight. I did have extra binding fiber in my pouch.
On the Avenue of Turia, to the left, we saw a small crowd. “Wait,” I said. “Let us investigate that.” We went a bit closer. Then, between people, we saw the hostess from the Tunnels. She was still on her knees, tied to the slave ring. Though it must have been the tenth Ahn, she had not yet been released. Her head was down. Much, I gathered, had she been suitably mocked. “Look, Mother,” said a child. “She is naked!”
“Come away,” said the mother.
“I know her,” said a man. “She is from the Tunnels.”
“Look,” said another fellow, “she has a tarsk bit tied on her belly!”
“Yes!” laughed another. I did not think that that free woman would be likely to return to her work at the Tunnels. That sort of thing, I thought, was behind her. I did not think that she would be any longer wearing leather. Other garmentures would now be more appropriate for her, I speculated, such as tiny rags of rep-cloth or brief tunics of silk, bound with girdlings of binding fiber, and perhaps, about her neck, closed closely about it and locked shut, a graceful ornament of steel, a slave collar.
“Let us continue on our way,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” said the blonde.
She then took her way in the opposite direction, which would have been to the right, as we had emerged between the buildings. Behind her I was in an excellent position to see the looks she received, which were many, the admiring glances, the intakes of breath, the sudden delights at seeing such a female. To be sure, she walked well. She did belong in a collar, I thought. I put the binding fiber in my pouch from my mind. I must not think of it. She was a free woman. Yet, to be sure, she was desirable and exciting, and should be a slave.
“It is here,” she said, after a long walk.
“In that tower?” I asked. We were on one of the lower bridges.
“Yes,” she said.
It seemed to soar to the clouds.
“You must be wealthy,” I said. We were in one of Ar’s finest residential districts, that of the seventeen Tabidian Towers.
She shrugged.
“Quite wealthy,” I said.
“Yesterday, I thought so,” she smiled.
“That seems a strange thing to say,” I said.
“Oh, in one way I suppose I am one of the wealthiest women in Ar,” she laughed. “But in another I think I am perhaps one of the most miserable and poorest.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“My life was unsatisfactory,” she said. “It seemed empty and meaningless. I only this morning learned what happiness, and fulfillment could be.”
“Helpless on the mat of a slave?” I said.
“Yes,” she smiled.
“Perhaps it was the masculine domination, and you finding yourself in your place in nature, as what you are, a female,” I said.
“Perhaps,” she said.
“I wish you well, female,” I said.
“I must climb the high bridge alone?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I think it is better that I leave you now, quickly.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I think I do not trust myself,” I said.
“Oh?” she asked.
“You are an exciting female,” I said.
“Do you really think so, truly?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She came close to me. She looked up at me. “Bind me then,” she whispered. “Take me to a slaver’s.”
“No,” I said.
“You know I am a slave,” she whispered, “that I am truly a slave, that I belong in a collar!”
I did not speak.
“Please!” she begged.
“Turn yourself over to a slaver,” I said. She looked down in frustration. She kicked with her right foot at the flooring of the bridge. Her feet were bare. “I cannot,” she said. “I cannot!”
“Farewell,” I said.
“Do not go!” she pleaded.
I turned to face her.
“Some women can do that!” she said. “I cannot!”
“Very well,” I said.
“I am afraid!” she cried.
“I understand,” I said.
“Please!” she said.
“Do you not desire freedom?” I asked.
“No!” she said. “I want slavery!”
“Is freedom not precious?” I asked.
“Perhaps for others,” she said. “To me it would be a thousand times less precious than my slavery.”
I looked at her.
“I want my master to be free,” she said, “but as for me, I want to belong to him, totally, to be his, fully, like a sandal or a sleen!”
I did not respond to her.
“Let him treat me as he pleases,” she said. “I do not care. It is his prerogative. He is the master. Let him neglect me or be cruel to me. Let him whip me or chain me. Let him do with me as he wills. I do not care. I want to belong to him. I will kiss his whip with joy! I want to love him, with all that I have to give as a woman. I want to serve and love him, selflessly, only his mastered slave!”
“Turn yourself over to a slaver,” I said.
“No!” she wept.
“Very well,” I said.
“Help me!” she begged.
“No,” I said.
She wept, and raised her fists as though to strike me, but then she put her hands down, quickly, frightened, thinking, perhaps fearing that I might not be pleased, and might punish her. She had learned earlier that not all men will accept humiliation at the hands of a woman, even a free woman.
“It is not just a matter of courage,” she said. “If it were just that, perhaps I could manage it. Enough women have. It is also a matter of what seems to be the appropriate proprieties for a given female, what she needs and wants in her heart.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“For some women,” she said, “the self-surrender of herself into the chains of the slaver is doubtless not only a courageous act but a marvelously beautiful and self-fulfilling one, being a public confession of her nature, and her joyful acceptance of, and recognition of, what, in the light of that nature, is to be appropriately inflicted upon her.”
“I see,” I said.
“But other women,” she said, “others who perhaps desire it as deeply and desperately as the first may wish it to be done to them. They may wish not to have a choice in the matter. That may seem to mar the initial perfection of the subjection to the masculine will. They may wish simply to be taken in hand, chained, and thrown to the feet of masters, there to learn their slavery, swiftly and in terror. They do not want a choice in the matter. It will be done to them whether they wish it or not. That may be part of what bondage means to them. I think I am such a woman.”
“Do not fear,” I said. “In both cases the subjection to the masculine will is both perfect and complete. Similarly, both women, at the first instant of enslavement, identically, are completely and categorically slaves.”
“Too,” she said, “I do not think I could bear turning myself over to a slaver.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“What if he did not want me?” she asked. “What if he did not find me of sufficient interest? What if he refused me?”
“I do not think you would have to fear,” I said.
“But to prostrate oneself before a man and not be accepted!” she said.
“I understand,” I said.
“A girl simply brought in would not face that risk surely?” she said.
“No,” I said. “Something, surely, would have to be done with her, even if she were sold for a tarsk bit, as a kettle-and-mat girl, or a pot girl, or laundress, out of a cage in a public market.”
“Exactly,” she said. “She would have her collar.”
“You are afraid your vanity might be injured?” I smiled.
“Yes,” she said, angrily.
“I do not think you, personally, would have to worry about that,” I smiled.
“Too,” she said, angrily, “suppose you were a slave girl, and you were chained naked against a wall with other girls, and they begin to talk, this one and that one telling how she was captured by so-and-so, in such-and-such a place, and so on. Most, initially, presumably, would have been taken as free women by slavers or soldiers. They would have been considered of value, they would have been desired, they may have been stalked, they may have been sought, they would have been captured, and stripped, and assessed, and kept. They may have been led from cities in triumph as exquisite prizes, in slave lines as naked, luscious, collared loot, and then what would you have to say? That no one had found you pretty enough, or interesting enough, or desirable enough, to take you and bring you in for money? That you had to call upon a slaver yourself, and explicitly call yourself to his attention, that you has not been noticed until then? Imagine how difficult it might be under such circumstances to live with the girls. Imagine how they would laugh at you! Would one not almost die from mortification?”
I laughed.
“What is so funny?” she asked.
“You have a slave girl’s vanity,” I said.
“Well, I am a slave girl,” she said. “I learned that this morning. Only I am not collared.”
“You worry about such silly things,” I said.
“They are not silly to me,” she said.
“If you are really chained at a wall naked,” I said, “it will be easy enough to see whether or not you are desirable. Similarly, you, and others, such as masters, will be able to tell, presumably, and with some accuracy, whether or not you are more beautiful, or more intelligent, than your chain sisters. Thus who was captured by whom, and such, and how exactly you came to be in those exact chains and chained at that exact wall, is not important. Similarly, when you and your chain sisters are sold off the block you can see who brings the higher prices. Usually, though not always, the more desirable women will bring the higher prices. Also, slavers cannot possibly know in all cases, given the large numbers of free women, in various cities and villages, the veiling, the robes of concealment, and such, who is most beautiful or desirable. There are just too many women, if nothing else. Similarly many women are well guarded, or live in well-protected areas. Such women, of course, are less likely to be picked up than lower-caste women or street girls. Similarly, if one lives in a well-walled, well-defended city, one which is likely to resist attack and siege, such as Ar, one is less likely to risk the slaver’s noose. Many women, you see, would not be likely to ever know bondage unless they were self-submitted.”
“That is true,” she said.
“To be sure,” I said, “as soon as they are self-submitted, they are full slaves, totally and completely, just as much as if they had been taken and processed after a slave raid.”
“That is true,” she said.
“So,” I said, “turn yourself over to a slaver.”
“I do not want it done that way,” she said, tears in her eyes.
“Farewell,” I said.
“Farewell,” said she, looking up at me with tears in her eyes, “Master.”
“I have told you about calling me Master,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She turned about and began, slowly, to walk up the long bridge. The soaring, lovely tower, one of the seventeen Tabidian Towers, lay ahead of her. In it was located her residence. It would presumably be on the upper levels. Those are usually regarded as more exclusive, and safest from attack. They are usually approached only by the higher, narrower bridges. Her apartments, doubtless, would be luxurious and well appointed, perhaps involving portions of more than one level. Perhaps she might serve well as a slave in such a place, I thought. The particular bridge, colorfully paved, graceful, narrow and ascendant, on which she walked, barefoot, blonde, her hair moving in the wind, in her exquisitely brief leather, gave entrance to the tower at something over half its height; it was one of several such bridges about, some giving access at different levels to the same tower, and others leading to other towers, and to other bridges, and down to the streets. Gorean cities, given the bridges, can be traversed, often, at different levels. The bridges, like traceries amongst the soaring towers, are very beautiful. Such bridges, even the loftiest, are usually narrow, and railless. Goreans think no more of treading them than those of Earth might think of treading sidewalks. Such bridges, it might be mentioned in passing, also have their military applications. They can be easily defended, and, if wished, broken away, this isolating the cylinder in such a way as to transform it, in effect, into an almost inaccessible, well-provisioned fortress or keep. She looked very small, and forlorn. Part way up the bridge she turned about. She looked back. She lifted her hand. I did not deign to respond to this gesture. She was, after all, only a female. She then lowered her head and turned about, and, slowly, continued on her way up the bridge.
I caught up with her at the height of the bridge.
“Stop,” I said.
She stopped, startled.
“Do not turn around,” I said.
“You,” she said. “I know your voice.”
“Do not turn around,” I said.
She did not turn, but continued to face the other way.
“The leather you are wearing is rather brief,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“It seems more fitting for a slave than a free woman,” I said.
“Yes!” she said.
“You may call me Master,” I said.
“Master?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Begin to form the habit of calling free men Master.”
“I do not understand!” she said.
“Place your wrists, crossed, behind your back,” I said.
She did so. “Oh!” she said. I had whipped binding fiber about them, securing them in place. “It is so tight,” she said.
“Now that you are bound,” I said, “you may turn and face me.”
She spun about, wildly, trying to free her hands.
“You cannot free yourself,” I said.
“No!” she cried, elatedly. “I cannot!”
“Try,” I encouraged her.
She struggled for a moment, futilely. “I cannot,” she said.
&nb
sp; I took her by the upper arms and rudely turned her about, so she was again facing away from me, toward the ascent of the bridge.
The bridge was lovely, narrow, ascendant, and colorful.
I let her stand that way for a moment.
“Oh!” she said. “What are you doing?”
“Have you ever been leashed?” I asked.
“Of course not!” she said.
“You are going to be leashed,” I said.
I placed the high, heavy leash collar about her neck, from behind. I pulled it back about her neck, snugly.
“It is not necessary to leash me,” she said.
“Be silent,” I said.
She half turned her head, startled.
I buckled the collar shut, snugly, behind the back of her neck, with its two buckles.
It was on her.
“The proper response,” I said, “is ‘Yes, Master.’”
“Yes, Master,” she said, wonderingly. “Master!”
“Did you ask permission to speak?” I asked.
“May I speak?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
I then turned her about, to face me.
I regarded her, and was not displeased.
The leash collar, not an unusual one, was a high, sturdy one, and fitted rather closely about her neck. Girls do not slip such collars. It had two buckle fastenings, as noted, which I had buckled shut behind the back of her neck. This had brought the sturdy leading ring, on its plate, riveted into the leather, to the front, under her chin.
I then snapped the slave leash, taken now from my pouch, about the leading ring.
“You are leashed,” I informed her.
I jerked the leash twice, rather hard, against the ring, this pulling the collar abruptly, sharply, against the back of her neck. This tests the ring, but is done largely for its psychological effect on the female. She is leashed.
I wrapped the leash two or three times about my fist.
I saw she wished, desperately, to speak, but she had not, of course, received permission to do so.
There are few things as frustrating, and miserable, for a woman as not being able to speak.
Speech is one of the houses of her beauty. With it, with its wit, eloquence, and lyricism, she is gifted and talented, loquacious and marvelous, and a creature of fire and delight. One loves to hear her speak. But it is also an arsenal of wiles, of cunning weapons and dangerous devices, of misdirections and subtleties, of snares and traps. How clever she is, how annoying, how wonderful. Her speech denied she is grievously disarmed. Muchly then is she deprived of her tender deceptions, her remarkable subterfuges and skillfully veiled artifices. Denied speech she is deprived of her most formidable defenses, and her will of its most troubling, manipulative weaponry. Denied speech she is much at your mercy. Without speech she knows herself substantially powerless. Few things so let her know how much she is in your power as removing from her the power of speech. Let her beauty then, upon occasion, be undefended and vulnerable. Let it shudder at its suddenly discovered impuissance. Too, aside from these things, like the enjoyment of putting her in bonds, it can be pleasant, upon occasion, to simply silence her. That, I assure you, is something she understands. Too, like all women, sometimes such endearing nuisances, sometimes so pertinacious and obtrusive, she is given occasionally to insistent questioning, the issuance of unwelcome, unsolicited, abundant observations and counsel, to prattle and wheedling, such things. When the master tires of this, he may simply revoke from her the privilege of speech. Sometimes he places a ball or block of wood in her mouth, which is to remain there at his discretion; if it is dropped, or removed before receiving his permission, she will be whipped.
Mercenaries of Gor Page 51