by John Norman
A short while after the exit of the attendant, perhaps the enclave constable or bailiff, a tunicked slave came through the small door in the gate.
Cornhair noted, to her apprehension, that the slave carried a switch.
“You are the new girl,” said the slave.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“As I understand it,” she said, “you are a bitch of the Calasalii.”
“I was once of the Calasalii,” said Cornhair. “I am now a slave, only a slave.”
“Like the other bitches in your family,” she said.
“I do not know,” said Cornhair.
“What are you here for,” she asked, “for the kitchen, for the fields?”
“I do not know,” said Cornhair.
“Kneel,” said the slave. “Get your head up.”
Cornhair knelt. She wanted to touch her collar, but did not dare do so.
“Back on your heels, straighten your back, keep your head up, your hands, palms down, on your thighs!”
Cornhair complied.
“You are pretty,” said the slave, “in a cheap way.”
“I was of the Calasalii,” said Cornhair, “of the honestori, the patricians, even of the senatorial class!”
“Yes,” said the slave, “you are pretty, in a cheap way. Remain as you are.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
Even had she been a free woman, she would have felt herself a slave, kneeling so.
“What would it be like,” she wondered, “to be a man and see a woman kneeling before him so, and knowing she was a slave?”
She suspected then, something of the heat of the male.
“And what would it be like, to kneel so before a man, one who is your Master?” she wondered.
“And can the man,” she wondered, “suspect something of the heat of the slave?”
How it excited a slave to be a slave!
Dare men know that?
“Split your knees,” said the slave.
“Surely not!” exclaimed Cornhair.
The switch was lifted.
“Good,” said the slave.
The switch was lowered, to Cornhair’s relief.
“I do not see you for the kitchen, or the fields,” said the slave. “I see you, Calasalii bitch, as a Thong Girl, a Couch-Ring Girl, a Split-Knees Girl. Rejoice, or despair, as the notion strikes you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“Do you think you can please a man?” she asked.
“I do not know, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I am a slave. I will try to be found pleasing. I do not wish to be beaten, or tortured.”
“I know your type,” she said. “You need not fear being beaten or tortured. You will fear only that he may not touch you.”
Cornhair tasted a drop of blood on her lip. She had bitten herself.
“Follow me,” said the slave, turning about.
Cornhair leapt up, and followed the slave. As she sped forward, she felt, touching it, the collar on her neck, the lock at the back of the neck. It was a light, close-fitting collar, and was comfortable, as most slave collars. The point of the collar is to identify its occupant as a slave and, commonly, her owner. It also, to be sure, enhances the beauty of its occupant. It is designed, in part, with that in mind. The common slave collar is so light and comfortable that one would often forget that it was there. But it would be there.
The slave, at the small door fixed in the large second gate, turned, and faced Cornhair.
“Adjust your collar,” she said.
Cornhair did so, carefully. She knew that she was so slave, and so vain, that she would wear her collar well. Slave girls are entitled to their vanity as well as free women.
“It is a Farnichi collar,” said the slave. “You are now a Farnichi girl. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“I do not envy you, Calasalii bitch,” she said.
“Mistress?” said Cornhair.
“Follow me,” she said, turning. “We must clean you up and feed you, and make you presentable.”
“Your tunic is lovely,” said Cornhair. “May I hope to be so clothed?”
“You will probably be kept naked,” said the slave.
“Why, Mistress?” asked Cornhair.
“Because you were Calasalii,” she said. “The Farnichi enjoy owning the women of their enemies.”
The slave then exited through the small door in the large, second gate, and Cornhair followed her.
Cornhair stood behind the large, double doors leading to the audience chamber, waiting to be formally presented to her Master, and selected retainers. She had been washed, and brushed and combed, and well fed, on fresh, hot bread and warm slave gruel. There are many forms of, and recipes for, slave gruel, as one would expect, and the mixtures and consistencies vary considerably, ranging from little more than thickened water to rich, weighty porridges. Whereas some slave gruels, usually weak, with inferior ingredients, may be fed to prisoners and slaves under discipline, most, as one would expect, are substantial and nourishing. Certainly a husbandman will normally take care to see that his stock is well cared for. Most slave gruels, the primary ingredients for which, grains, are commonly sold in bulk, in large sacks, are intended to constitute a portion of a carefully supervised, controlled diet with the end in view of the stock’s vigor, health, and general wellbeing. Accordingly, the quantity and quality of provender supplied to the slave is regulated, as is the case with other domestic animals. An enslaved free woman commonly finds her figure, whether she wishes it or not, is becoming slave lovely, of greater interest to Masters, and the slave finds she is in little danger of losing a figure which would sell well off the block. Masters see to such things. There is little to be surprised at, that the average slave is trim, healthy, energetic, and appetitious. The average slave’s diet, of course, as that of her Master, is likely to be varied and delicious. Indeed, most private slaves eat substantially the same meals as their Master, if only because they are likely to have prepared those meals. Mealtime differences are usually independent of the food. For example, the first bite is to be taken by the Master, the slave may feed on her knees, the seat of a chair serving as her table, and so on. Slave gruels do tend to have one thing in common. They are bland. They may be seasoned of course, if the Master permits it. Too, meat, fruit, and vegetables may be mixed with the gruel. Indeed, a slave’s diet often contains generous amounts of fruits, nuts, and vegetables. A slave’s zeal to obtain occasional treats and rewards, such as a candy from her Master’s hand, may be attributed, one supposes, at least in part to the frequent plainness of her diet, and, in part, one supposes, to the fact that she is a slave.
“They make me wait,” said Cornhair, standing before the heavy, varnished, paneled double door leading to the audience chamber.
“Do not complain, do not be in a hurry,” said the slave with the switch, she in the lovely tunic. “Inside, you may be whipped.”
“What are they doing inside?” asked Cornhair.
“Business, discussion, a meeting, conferring,” said the slave. “Who knows what the Masters do. When they are finished with the work of men, that will be time for you.”
“What shall I do?” asked Cornhair.
“We are slaves,” she said. “We will kneel, and wait.”
Cornhair and the slave then went to their knees, to the side of the door.
Cornhair stood alone, small, forlorn, nude, collared, in the portal, at the end of the long carpet leading toward the thronelike chair at the far end of the audience chamber, the large, double doors now closed behind her.
“The slave,” said he whom, earlier, between the two outer gates, Cornhair had conjectured to be the enclave’s constable or bailiff. It was he who had put her in her new collar.
“Approach your Master,” said he whom we shall now refer to as the constable, “on all fours, naked and collared, as befits a woman once of the Calasalii, before one of the Farnichi.”
Cornhair went to all fours. She raised her head to look to the far end of the room. There, on a dais, was a large, thronelike chair. On this chair, though now in informal robes, simple house robes, not a uniform, was the officer she remembered from Tenrik’s market, he whose subordinate, on his behalf, had dealt with Tenrik. Flanking the thronelike chair were several men, some in uniform, some in house robes, as well. Of these men, some were to the right of the chair, others to the left of the chair, some on the dais, others on the floor. She was the only woman in the room.
“Head down,” said the constable.
So, head down, on all fours, Cornhair began the long journey down the long carpet to the foot of the dais.
The constable accompanied her.
“Stop,” he said.
Cornhair could see the first step of the dais before her, the robes and sandals of the constable to her left. She kept her head down.
“A bitch, once of the Calasalii, naked and collared, fittingly so, before her Masters, the Farnichi,” said the constable.
“Speak your former status, slave,” said the figure on the thronelike chair.
“I was once the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii,” said Cornhair, “of the honestori, of the patricians, of the senatorial class.”
“How is that?” he asked.
“Master?” she said.
“You were not on the rolls of the Calasalii,” said the officer.
“I fear not,” said Cornhair.
“We utilized these rolls to prepare the Morning of the Great Apprehension, that morning on which, on three worlds, every identifiable, locatable scion of the Calasalii, male, female, and child, was taken into custody.”
“I was removed from the rolls,” she said, “for profligacy, for irresponsibility, for scandal, for bringing disgrace, discredit, on the family. I would no longer be recognized or received. I was allotted a pittance, and denied all contact with the family.”
“Unfortunately,” said the officer, “we did not seize you on the Morning of Apprehension, in the full glory of your freedom. It would have pleased us to strip and brand you, and then fasten your neck in its first collar.”
“I fear,” she said, “I was already marked and collared before what you call the Morning of Apprehension.”
“How came you to the collar?” he said.
“I was party to a political intrigue,” she said, “in which I thought myself, in judicious masquerade, to play the part of a slave girl, but I later discovered that the legalities inflicted on me were authentic, and I had been truly enslaved.”
“Where did this take place?”
“On Inez IV,” she said.
“Continue,” he said.
“I first discovered myself truly a slave,” she said, “on Tangara, when the plot of the intrigue was foiled. I was then marked. I was sold to Heruls, a dreadful, fearful form of life, who later sold me to a dealer from Venitzia, the provincial capital of Tangara. In Venitzia I was sold to an agent, or agents, of Bondage Flowers. I and others were shipped to Telnar. I subsequently found myself in various collars. Most recently, as Master is aware, I was purchased from the sales shelf of Tenrik’s Woman Market, in Telnar.”
“We will want a name for you,” he said. “What were you most recently called?”
“Cornhair, Master,” she said.
“It will do,” he said. “What is your name?”
“‘Cornhair’, Master,” she said.
“The highest women of the Calasalii,” he said, “are worthless tarts and belong in collars, at the feet of Masters. Their noblest and finest deserve no better than to be the degraded slaves of the Farnichi.”
“I fear, Master,” said Cornhair, “that I am not amongst their noblest and finest. Indeed, I have been removed from the rolls of the Calasalii.”
“But once?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “once.”
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, lifting an object which had been reposing on the right arm of his chair.
“Yes, Master,” she said, “it is a slave switch.” Surely there was no mistaking the nature of the artifact. Any Telnarian would be familiar with such things. And surely she knew it well from her miserable days in the collar of the Lady Gia Alexia of the Telnar Darsai.
The officer then cast the switch to the side. “Fetch,” he said, “and bring it to me, in your teeth.”
Cornhair crawled to the artifact, put down her head, and picked up the object in her teeth. She held it crosswise between her teeth, evenly, and aesthetically, as is expected, when a slave is put to this simple task.
“See the Calasalii bitch,” laughed a man.
Cornhair, the switch between her teeth, crawled to the dais, and climbed upon it, and, when she was before her Master, at his knees, she lifted her head, proffering him the implement, which he took, and put across his knees.
“You may now beg to be beaten,” he said.
“I beg to be beaten,” she said, “Master.”
“Do you truly wish to be beaten?” he asked.
“No, no, Master!” she said. “Please do not beat me.”
Men about the thronelike chair laughed.
“But you are a slave,” said the officer.
“Even so, Master!” said Cornhair.
“Why do you wish not to be beaten?” he asked.
“Because it hurts,” she said. “Because it hurts, terribly, Master.”
“Back off the dais,” he said. “Go down, to the floor, some feet before the dais, where we can all see you, and well.”
Cornhair, shuddering, complied.
“On your belly,” he said.
Cornhair then lay prone before her Master.
“A fitting posture of a Calasalii woman before one of the Farnichi,” said a man.
“You are unclothed,” said the officer.
“I have not been given clothing, Master,” said Cornhair.
“On your back,” he said.
Cornhair could now see the vaulted ceiling above her. She felt very vulnerable, lying so.
“You, and you,” said the officer, addressing himself to two of the men in uniform. “Fetch each of you a slave whip, and position yourselves a few feet from the slave, one on each side.”
A minute or so later, perhaps following some sign given by the officer on the thronelike chair, which chair Cornhair could not see, both whips were suddenly unexpectedly, snapped.
Cornhair, startled, cried out in misery. She had not been touched.
“You do not wish to be beaten?” he said.
“No, Master!” said Cornhair.
“We shall see,” he said. “Are you willing to try not to be beaten, and try in the way of the slave?”
“Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” said Cornhair.
“You are not to rise to your feet,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“Begin,” he said.
A few minutes later, the officer said, “Stop,” and Cornhair lay on the carpet before the dais, on her belly, gasping for breath, drenched with sweat. She realized, half failing to understand it, that the leather had not touched her once. She also tried to grasp what had occurred, and what might be its import. She knew she had never felt more female than she had before these men, unclothed, and collared, writhing, begging, rolling, kneeling, extending limbs for scrutiny, casting glances, engaging in the display behaviors of the female slave. How thrilled she was to be so free, to exhibit herself as the purchasable object she was. How devastatingly was she then aware of her sex, and its fundamental, radical difference from that of the male. How could it not be so, as
she was naked and collared, vulnerable and helpless, commanded, under the will of Masters. She was not exploited. She was owned, and must obey. Never before had she been so aware of her sex, its nature, and its meaning. She was satisfied with herself, and lay there gasping, and sweating, joyful to be a woman and a slave, rejoicing that she wore a man’s collar.
It was so much what she wanted, and it was on her neck, and, owned, she could not remove it.
“You have been trained,” said the officer.
“No,” said Cornhair, gasping, “no, Master.”
“You belong in a collar,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” whispered Cornhair, “I belong in a collar.”
The officer turned to a subordinate. “Take her away,” he said, “and see that she is cleaned, rested, and fed. Then, tonight, at the tenth hour, bring her to my chambers. There, on her knees, this woman, naked and collared, once of the Larial Calasalii, will serve me kana.”