by John Norman
“No!” we wept.
“Would you prefer to serve naked?” she inquired.
“No, no!” we said.
“It is not unusual for a Gorean feast to be so served by kajirae,” she said.
I did not doubt that.
“Many men claim it improves the appetite,” she said.
“No, no,” whimpered Eve, tears coursing down her cheeks.
“I am told so,” said Mrs. Rawlinson.
“Relent, be kind,” pleaded Jane.
“But many,” she said, “prefer the tunic, or camisk. It gives them something to remove.”
“You would punish us so?” I wept.
“Your fault was grievous,” she said. “You may beg to be permitted a camisk.”
“I beg to be permitted a camisk,” said Eve.
“I beg to be permitted a camisk,” said Jane.
“I beg,” I said, “to be permitted a camisk.”
“It is all in good fun,” she said.
Jane, Eve, and I exchanged glances, of dismay, and misery. We would be almost nude, exhibited, as might be slaves, and the others would be fully clothed, veiled, robed, and such.
Clearly she had conceived a suitable punishment for such as we, a punishment fully appropriate, given our fault, having dared to read of a natural world.
“Your left ankles,” she said, “will be encircled several times with small, colored cords, on which bells will be threaded. Slaves are often belled. It stimulates the men.”
We looked at one another, miserable.
“Collars, too, would be appropriate,” she said. “One would not wish your necks to be naked. Common dog collars will do for you, particularly as you are bitches. But they will be locked on your neck. You will know yourself well in them. Small padlocks will do, to which I shall hold the key.”
Eve began to cry.
“I assume you will all know enough to kneel in the presence of free persons, save when you are serving, fetching, and such.”
I nodded, in misery.
And Nora, and her clique, and the others, would be such, free persons!
“You will all need a little coaching,” she said, “in posture, grace, and such, which I shall supply, but the important thing is that you should know yourself as slaves, that you should understand that, fully, in the deepest roots of you. Given that understanding, much will come quite naturally. Most of your serving, I assure you, will be quite proper, quite innocent. For example, in serving wine to a male you need only do so on your knees, your head down, extending the goblet, held in both hands, between your extended arms. You need have little fear that you will be expected to serve wine in the typical Gorean fashion, which is so stimulating to a male, and, I might observe, in passing, too, so helplessly and erotically stimulating to the slave as well. One would not wish you to be dragged to the kitchen by the hair, and enjoyed on the linoleum, would we?”
“No,” we whispered.
“But Mrs. Rawlinson,” said Eve, “if the boys see us thusly, how will they see us?”
“As lusciously desirable,” said Mrs. Rawlinson, “but only as slaves.”
“What if we do not do well?” said Jane.
“I am sure you will do well, very well,” said Mrs. Rawlinson. “And remember, the guests will be furnished with switches.”
We recalled this.
“It is unpleasant to be switched,” she said. “You will try to do your best, will you not?”
We looked to one another.
“Yes,” we said.
“And remember,” she said, “you are to address all free males as Master, and all free females as Mistress. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” we said.
“Yes, Mrs. Rawlinson,” she suggested.
“Yes, Mrs. Rawlinson,” we said.
Several days later, the party took place, and Eve, Jane, and I, half-naked, belled, and collared, served as kajirae. Our punishment, as Mrs. Rawlinson had suggested, was exquisite. As she had anticipated, we were well shamed, excruciatingly so. We knew we were being punished; the guests did not. I supposed I should have been grateful.
I learned, for the first time in my life, at that party, something of what it might be to be looked upon as a slave. I could not remove the collar, of course, unless I had recourse to tools. Accordingly, it was well on me. It was the first time, of course, that I had ever been in a locked collar. Interestingly, though I would have told no one at the time, I was erotically charged, even in my shame. Could I be, I wondered, a slut, or less? The bells, too, with their subtle rustle, marked the least of my movements. It was a strange feeling, to be belled. In some strange way that, too, aroused me. Did they not say, so to speak, ‘You are a slave, a belled slave’?
Eve, Jane, and I were, I suppose, quite popular at the party, at least with the young men. Many times, unnecessarily I was sure, we were summoned to serve one or another of them. I think this did not much please several of our sisters, also at the tables.
“Slave,” called Nora, in her sumptuous robes, as our Ubara, “to me!”
I hurried to her, and knelt before her, head down.
How pleased, I thought, must she, my enemy, be to have me so before her!
“My hands are greasy from the meat,” she said. “Come closer.”
Then, while she chatted with the young man beside her, she pulled me by the hair closer, and held me, painfully, my face down, at the table, and wiped her hands, carefully and firmly, in my hair.
Then, turning to me, as though she had just then noticed me, she said, “Get out!”
I withdrew to the side, kneeling.
My eyes were hot with tears. I kept my head down.
“To me,” she called again, later. “Stop!” she then said, when I was a few feet from her. I knew enough, from Mrs. Rawlinson, to kneel, immediately.
“You must be hungry,” she laughed.
We were hungry, for we were not permitted to participate in the feast. Too, on Mrs. Rawlinson’s instructions, we had been denied lunch, and, later, kept locked in a room behind the kitchen, until we had been brought forth, covered by a large sheet, and introduced into the common room, now arranged as a banquet hall. We had been knelt, and the sheet, swirling, lifted away, revealing us, camisked, collared, and belled. “Slaves!” had said Mrs. Rawlinson, in her own robes, with an expansive gesture, and there had been much laughter, and some gasps, for even our sisters had not been apprised of how we would appear, and, too, there was some hooting from the young men, and vulgar noises, and an appreciative, even enthusiastic, clapping of hands.
Then, at a sharp clapping of Mrs. Rawlinson’s hands, we leapt up and hurried to the kitchen, to bring forth the fare, the sweets, the candies, the nuts, the bowls of fruit, the herbs, the bread, flat, circular loaves of bread, which would be divided into eight wedges, the many covered dishes of boiled vegetables and hot meat, the vessels of wine, and such, and placed these on the serving table, from which place we began to serve the guests.
“Are you hungry?” inquired Nora.
I did not know what to do.
“You may speak, slave,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “—Mistress.” I had been informed by Mrs. Rawlinson that those in collars must tell the truth. How vulnerable this makes them. They are not free women.
She then took some scraps from her plate and cast them about, on the floor.
“Feed,” she said.
Burning with shame, but yet, too, eager for food, I crawled to the scraps and, head down, without my hands, fed. That was the first time I had fed thusly. Oddly, I was glad to feed, even grateful.
Could I be, I wondered, a slave?
And how significant this would have been, I thought, had the scraps been cast to the floor not by Nora, but by a man!
I was suddenly overcome, almost unable to move.
I was overwhelmed by a sudden, momentous sense of meaningfulness.
How meaningful suddenly seemed my posture, my garmenture, the bells on my ankl
e, the collar on my neck.
How small I seemed, how degraded and mocked, and how worthless, how helpless!
And my sense was not just one of meaningfulness, as profound as that sense might be, and as comprehensible as such a sense would be, given the circumstances, but, rather, startling me, and frightening me, one of fittingness, of propriety, of rightfulness!
Could it be that I, despite my antecedents and background, my upbringing, education, and indoctrination, was a slave?
Since puberty I had suspected that some women were slaves. Were not the blossoming subtleties of my body, and those of others, such that they had been carved out over countless generations by the lusts of men? Were we not delightful prizes, goods, like fruit and animals, to be seized and exploited? Had we not been selected to be delights to possessors? Had we not been selected to be roped and snared? Had we not been, in our way, bred for the auction block?
Yes, I thought, there must be rightful slaves, women who cannot be whole, cannot be fulfilled, who will never know true happiness except at the feet of men, owned, and mastered.
Could I be one such?
Never, never!
Surely not, surely not!
It went against everything I had been told, everything I had been taught.
Could it be that what I had been told was false, that what I had been taught was untrue?
Who was I?
What was I?
I sensed Nora walking about me, and was confident she had in her possession her switch.
In a moment I heard a pan placed on the floor near me.
I looked up, from all fours.
I felt the tip of her switch beneath my chin, and, responsive to its pressure, I lifted my head, and then, on all fours, my head up, guided by the switch, by its gentle pressure, first on one side of my face and then the other, I was moved about, faced to the left, and then to the right, and then, again, ahead, being exhibited to those at the low tables, the men cross-legged, the women kneeling, some guests lounging, bemused, on an elbow.
“She is a pretty thing, is she not?” said Nora.
There was a generous assent to this, particularly from the young men.
Our sorority was quite particular about such things. No one was accepted as a pledge, let alone initiated, who did not meet certain standards.
Our house was envied on campus, and, by some, held in contempt. Sometimes it was referred to as “the house of meaningless beauty,” sometimes as “the harem,” sometimes as “the slave market,” which, I supposed, was a reference to a girl’s judiciously selling herself, so to speak, to the highest bidder. One fellow had referred to it, jokingly, as “the pleasure garden.” I had gathered, then, that I might not be the only one about who might be familiar with certain forms of forbidden literature. But the expression, of course, is familiar, and well-known. I did not inquire into the matter, for I would have been frightened to meet a male who might be familiar with such things. I wondered, though, what it might be like to be within the walls of such a place, waiting for the bell, sounding my particular notes, that I must hasten to the room of preparation, to be prepared for the slave ring of my master.
“I think she looks nice in a collar, don’t you?” asked Nora. “I think she belongs in one, don’t you?”
I could not remove it. It was locked on me.
I saw Mrs. Rawlinson, in the background. She was smiling. I recalled that I was being punished, well punished.
I suspected that the sight of a woman in a collar was stimulating to men. I wondered if they knew that being in a collar had a similar effect on its occupant.
I had little doubt that orgasms were easily obtained from an obedient, yielding, helpless slave.
What choice had she?
None!
But did the men know how eagerly the slave sought the embrace of her master’s arms? One supposes so. Surely they must know the need, the passion, of the slave. How helpless is a woman once her slave fires have been ignited. Do the masters truly not understand the slave’s uneasiness, her whimpering, her sidelong glances, the bondage knot in her hair, her kneeling before him, the pathetic way she presses her lips to his feet, hoping to call herself to his attention?
Surely the strongest chain on a slave is her nature and her needs.
And I wondered, suddenly, what it would be to encounter a man so virile and strong, so powerful and lustful, that he would be satisfied with nothing less than my absolute possession, with nothing less than owning me, with nothing less than having me as his slave.
And what would it be, to be at the feet of such a man?
Could there be such man? Could there be such a place, such a world?
Nora’s questions were greeted with obvious agreement.
The switch drew my attention, and that of the guests, to the pan which had been placed near me.
It was a pan of water.
“Drink,” said Nora.
“Please, no,” I protested.
“Please no, what?” inquired Nora.
“Please, no, Mistress,” I said.
“Drink,” said Nora, sternly.
I put down my head, and, on all fours, not using my hands, drank.
I was drinking as a slave. How strange to be in such a posture, I, a free woman, performing such an act. What feelings coursed through my body, strange feelings, unaccountable feelings. I could not understand them. But of course I was being punished. I must remember that. That must be all it was, all it could be. But such feelings, so broadcast, weakening, and suffusive! Could it be, I wondered, that I was a slave.
I had had only a swallow or two when Nora’s slipper swept across the floor and upset the pan.
“Clumsy slave!” she said.
Then, suddenly, I felt a stinging rain of leather cracking on my back, and then I was rolling on the floor, crying, turning about, trying to fend the blows which fell upon me, and then I struggled to my knees, and put my head down to the floor, covering it with my hands. She struck some more blows, lashing blows, on my arms, and calves, and back, and then, perhaps weary, returned to her place.
“What a careless, clumsy slave,” she remarked.
I shook with sobs, and pain. I was not brave. Nora had conquered. She had defeated me, I was shattered, and subdued. She had won. I did not even think of myself as a free person. I felt myself to be something different, something helpless, meaningless, and unworthy. I was camisked, collared, and belled. I was only a punished slave. I knew then that I would strive to please her.
The leather had taught me my place.
She was mistress. I was slave.
I wondered if Eve and Jane, in their exposure, their humiliation, and degradation, in their punishment, had suffered as I had. I did not doubt it. How could it be otherwise? Neither had been switched as I had, but each, more than once, when deemed less than fully pleasing, had felt a sharp stroke, sometimes a merry stroke, across the back of her legs. Certainly, though excruciatingly sensitive to our exposure and shame, we all strove to play our roles well, for we were all constantly under the exacting scrutiny of Mrs. Rawlinson. She retained our confiscated books, and might, we knew, at any time, initiate the proceedings which we were desperate to avoid. But I wondered, too, if Eve and Jane, now and again, in their serving, in their awareness of how they were looked upon, doubtless as never before, in their sense of exposure, of vulnerability and helplessness, in their hope to be found pleasing, and their fear of failing to be found so, had had feelings analogous to mine, those unaccountable feelings which a woman might feel, if she sensed her legs within no more than a scrap of cloth, if she lightly touched her finger tips to her throat, and found a collar there, if she were to understand, in its full moment, that she did not belong to herself but to another, that she was a property, and no more, that she was owned, that she was slave. I wondered if Mrs. Rawlinson knew what she had done to us, what she had forced us to feel, what she had forced us to suspect about ourselves.
At last the party was over, and the gu
ests departed, and our sisters, laughing and chatting, weary but excited, retired to their rooms. Eve, Jane, and I were permitted to remove our bells and were placed in maid’s gingham uniforms, and set to clear the tables, tidy the room, and attend to the dishes. It was only when the work was complete that we were aligned, and Mrs. Rawlinson, behind us, one by one, removed our collars.
“You may thank me,” she said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rawlinson,” we said, and then fled, sobbing, to our rooms.
It was some days after the party that I had had the troubling dream to which I earlier alluded, that in which it seemed that men were in my room, that in which I had sensed myself meticulously examined, and then, as I struggled to awaken, to escape the dream, bound helplessly, my wrists and ankles widely separated, while the men conferred. When I awakened, whimpering and frightened, I had screamed. Then I had realized, to my relief, that I was safe in my own room. Strangely I was naked, having apparently somehow slipped from my nightgown in the night. For some time, I remained in the bed, frightened and troubled, even though it was now clear to me that I was in my own room. After a bit, however, my alarm seemed foolish to me, and I regarded the dream, for all its seeming reality, with amusement. It was then, a moment later, that I had cried out with horror, this the outburst which had brought Eve and Jane, and Mrs. Rawlinson, to the room. I had drawn the covers up about me. “A dream,” I said, “a dream!” Mrs. Rawlinson had been the last to leave the room, and she had smiled before leaving, smiled knowingly, as it seemed to me at a later time. The reason for my outburst was simple. There were cord marks on my wrists and ankles.
Chapter Five
“Slave,” she had said. “Kneel!”
“You are not a free woman!” I had said. “Are you so different from me? That bit of cloth you wear is as much a mockery of a garment as that which clings about me! Do I not see a metal circlet clasped close about your neck, which, I trust, is locked in place? If it is not, remove it, and I will kneel before you.”
“Barbarian!” she said.
“We are no different,” I said. “We are now the same, whether barbarian or Gorean!”