The Gorean master is commonly concerned with his slave, as he would be with any animal he owns. He usually seeks to improve her, and that not simply with an eye to improving her marketability. He gets more pleasure from her as she becomes a better and better slave. So he is determined that she shall become the most precious and marvelous of his properties. He attends then carefully and demandingly to matters of her grooming, cleanliness, beauty, health, service, devotion, and heat. She must strive to come up to his standards. It is such concerns which commonly underlie and motivate his efforts. Finally she, an intelligent and vulnerable beauty, becomes a marvel for him. Finally he cannot even look upon her without desire and pride. She is now so exciting and beautiful that it is hard for him to keep his hands off her. And frequently he does not do so. Muchly will she be fondled, embraced, and put to use. For him she is perfect. She is, yes, now an excellent property. One could honestly say that. Would not any master be proud to have his collar on her? See how she walks, kneels, and bellies. See the perfection with which she carries herself. How well she wears her tunic and moves within it. Is she a dancer? Perhaps he should have her trained in dance, that form of dance appropriate for one such as she, slave dance. Note her shy, timid, submissive glances. She now well knows her place among men. Smile at the pleading need in her eyes. Admire the softness, the sweetness, the loveliness, of her voice, the rightful tone of desire and subservience within it, the deference and clarity of her diction. How she has blossomed! How astoundingly, beautifully feminine, invitingly female, she has become! See how she serves his table. As soon as his guests leave she is seized and put to his pleasure. How had he managed to wait so long?
What a superb slave, what a marvelous slave, and she is his!
His!
Let us suppose now he loves her, and she him. She is a dream for him, and he for her. They are lovers. They would die for one another.
What fate, then, is hers?
Gor is not Earth.
She remains, of course, always, and categorically, a slave, helplessly a slave, a full and complete slave. That is how he will have her, for he is Gorean.
To be sure, occasionally a slave may be struck with the switch or whip merely to remind her that she is a slave. This sort of thing helps her to keep her bondage in mind. Sometimes, too, a slave will desire to be tied and whipped, for this reassures her as few other things would that she is her master’s slave, that she truly belongs to him, that she is his to whip, and as he might please, for she is his slave. Sometimes a slave will say something like, "I want him to whip me, for I love him." In such a context, she presumably wishes to feel his whip because it confirms his ownership of her, reminding her that she is his slave, that she is his to whip.
One might mention one of the most powerful controls held over the slave by the master, what might be called the chain or shackle of sex. Slaves are not free women. In the bellies of the slaves slave fires have been set, and they periodically burn. These, too, you may be sure, bring the slave to heel, and keep her on her knees.
And love as you might suppose is the most perdurable and inescapable chain of all.
The most securely tethered of all women is she who wears it.
Of all she is most slave.
"She is obviously a slave, and is both comely and desirable," I said. "Too, she is of Ar, and all of the women of Ar should be slaves."
She then knelt before us, the palms of her hands on the stones, her head down to them, as well.
"Doubtless she has seen slaves kneel in such a way," said Marcus.
"Probably," I said. It was a common position of slave obeisance.
"She is a slave," he said.
"She is frightened," I said.
"She is a slave," he said.
"That, too," I granted him.
"Look up, girl," said Marcus.
She looked up, frightened.
"Are you a slave?" asked Marcus.
Her lip trembled.
"She is legally free," I pointed out.
"Are you a slave?" pressed Marcus.
"Yes," she whispered.
" 'Yes', what?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," she whispered. I suspected she had used that word to men before only in her imagination, or speaking it softly to her pillow in the night.
"Legally free," he said, "but still a slave, and rightfully so?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"Lacking only the legalities of the brand and collar?" he asked.
"Yes, Master!" she said.
"Yet she is young to be a slave," I said.
"Do you think we cannot be slaves?" she asked.
"Some men enjoy them," said Marcus, "squirming in the furs, panting, begging for more."
The girl closed her eyes, and sobbed. I wondered if she understood these things.
"She is young," I said.
"Do you scorn me for my youth?" she asked. "Do you think we do not have feelings? Do you think we are not yet capable of love, that we are not yet women? You are wrong! How little you understand us! We are young and desirable, and ready to serve!"
"You are young," I said. "Your surrender cannot be the full surrender of the mature woman, the woman experienced in life, the woman who has come to understand the barrenness of the conventions by which she is expected to abide, who has discerned the vacuity of the principles to which she is expected to mindlessly subscribe, who has learned the emptiness of the roles imposed upon her by society, roles alien to, and inimical to, the needs of her deepest self. You are not such a woman, a full, mature, knowledgeable, cognizant woman, a woman profoundly in touch with her passions and deepest self, one who has come to understand that her only hope for true happiness and fulfillment lies in obedience, love and service, one craving the collar, one yearning for a master."
"No, no, no!" she wept. "I am young, but I am a woman, and alive! Do you think that intelligence and maturity are prerogatives only of such as you! No! I am quick at my studies! I am alert! I think much! I am dutiful! I want to make a man happy, truly happy, in the fullest dimensions of his being, not a part of him, leaving the rest to hide, or shrivel and die! I cannot know my bondage if he does not learn his mastery! Why should his birthright be denied to him, and mine to me? As the master needs the slave so, too, the slave needs the master!"
I was taken aback by her words. I recalled how quietly she had lain in the box, that her veil had been disarranged when first the guardsmen, and Marcus and myself, had looked upon her. She was undoubtedly of high intelligence. Such is valued considerably, of course, in a slave. It makes them much better slaves. How much more tactful, sensitive and inventive are intelligent slaves! Indeed, the intelligence of some slaves blossoms in bondage, seemingly at last finding the apt environment for its flowering. To be sure, when a girl knows she may feel the lash for a mistake, she tends to become considerably more alert.
"What have we here," asked Marcus, "a little scribe?"
"I am no stranger to scrolls," she said.
"You are still young," I said.
"That does not mean I cannot feel," she said. "That does not mean I am stupid."
I had no doubt that in time she would make an excellent slave. Indeed, I could well imagine her, even now, serving in a house, deferentially, with belled ankles.
"I heard one speaking earlier," she said, "of the loot area in the district of Anbar."
"Can you not wait to be shackled and thrown into the loot pits with other women, to await the collar and brand?" inquired Marcus.
"Take me there!" she demanded.
Instantly, appropriately, he lashed her head to the side with the back of his right hand.
She was struck to the ground with the force of the blow and at a snapping of his fingers, and his gesture, she struggled again to her knees before us, her mouth bloody. Her eyes were wide. It was perhaps the first time she had been cuffed.
Marcus glared down at her. He did not have much patience with slaves. Phoebe had often learned that to her di
smay. To be sure, she was scarcely ever struck or beaten now. She had become a superb slave in the past few months, under Marcus' tutelage.
"Forgive me, Master," she said. "I was not respectful. It was appropriate that I be cuffed."
In her eyes there were awe and admiration for Marcus. She saw that he would not hesitate to impose discipline upon her.
"It is common," I said, "for a slave to request permission to speak."
"Forgive me, Master," she said, putting down her head.
"You said you were no stranger to scrolls," I said.
"To some, Master," she said. "I did not mean to be arrogant. If I have not been pleasing, lash me."
"Have you read," I asked, "the Manuals of the Pens of Mira, Leonora's Compendium, the Songs of Dina, or Hargon's The Nature and Arts of the Female Slave?"
"No, Master," she said, eagerly. Such texts, and numerous others, like them, are sometimes utilized in a girl's training, particularly by professional slavers. Sometimes they are read aloud in training sessions by a scribe, a whip master in attendance. Most girls are eager to acquire such knowledge. Indeed, they often ply one another for secrets of love, makeup, costuming, perfuming, dance, and such, as each wishes to be as perfect for her master as it lies within her power to be. Also, of course, such diligence is prudential on her part. She will be lashed if she is not pleasing. Also, her very life, literally, is in his hands. Perhaps a word is in order pertaining to the Songs of Dina. Some free women claim that this book, which is supposedly written by Dina, "a slave," which continues to appear in various editions and revisions, because of its intelligence and sensitivity, is actually, and must have been, written by a free woman. I suspect, on the other hand, that it is truly by a slave, as is claimed on the title page. There are two reasons for this. First, 'Dina' is a common slave name, often given to girls with the "Dina" brand, which is a small roselike brand. Second, the nature of the songs themselves. No free woman could have sung of chains and love, and the lash, and the glory of masters as she. Those are songs which, in my opinion, could be written only by a woman who knew what it was to be at a man's slave ring. As to the matter of the poetess' intelligence and sensitivity, I surely grant them to the free women, but maintain that such are entirely possible in a slave, and even more to expected in her than in them. I suspect their position may even be inconsistent. When a woman is enslaved, for example, surely they do not suppose that her intelligence and sensitivity disappear. Surely they would not expect theirs to do so, if they had them. No, she still has them. Also, it has been my personal experience, for what it is worth, that slaves are almost always more intelligent and sensitive than free women, who often, at least until taken in hand, tend to be ignorant, smug, vain and stupid. Also, it might be noted that many women are enslaved not simply because it is convenient to do so, the ropes are handy, so to speak, or because they are beautiful of face and figure, but actually because of their intelligence and sensitivity, qualities which appeal to many Gorean men. Indeed, such qualities commonly raise a girl's price. Also, as I have suggested, the intelligence and sensitivity of many women actually tends to blossom in bondage, finding within it the apt environment for its expression, for its flowering. This may have to do with such matters as the release of inhibitions, happiness, fulfillment, and such. I do not know.
"What of the Prition of Clearchus of Cos?" I asked.
"A Cosian?" said Marcus.
"Yes," I said.
"That will not be found in Ar," he said.
"It used to be," I said, "at least before the war."
"Yes, Master," she beamed. "I have read it!"
"You, a free girl, have read it?" I asked. To be sure, the book is a classic.
"Yes, Master!" she smiled.
"Does your father know you have read it?" I asked.
"No, Master," she said.
"What do you suppose he would do to you, if he found out?" I asked.
"I think he would sell me, Master," she said.
"And appropriately," I said.
"Yes, Master," she smiled.
"Stand," I said. "Turn about. Cross your wrists behind you."
"Yes, Master!" she said, eagerly, complying.
"Oh!" she said, bound.
"Turn about," I said.
Swiftly she did so, and looked shyly up at me. She tested the fiber on her wrists, subtly, attempting to do so inconspicuously, trying its snugness and strength, its effectiveness. She put down her head and suddenly, inadvertently, shuddered with pleasure. I had used capture knots. She knew herself helpless. I supposed it was the first time she had ever been bound.
"May I speak?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"I am tied as a slave is tied, am I not?" she asked.
"As slaves are sometimes tied," I said.
This comprehension was suddenly reflected, or exhibited, in her entire body, in fear, and desire and pleasure, she flexing her knees, twisting, her shoulders moving, and then, again, she stood before me, looking up at me, but now trembling.
"It is appropriate is it not?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"To be sure," I said, "the tie is also effective with free women."
"Are not all slave ties?" she asked.
"Of course," I said, "but they are not always appropriate for free women." I thought, briefly, of certain ties which were humiliation ties, or punishment ties. It would certainly be inappropriate to place a free woman in such a tie. To be sure, it could be amusing to do so, particularly if it were useful in informing her that her freedom was likely to be brief duration, perhaps that within twenty yards an iron was heating for her, and a collar was waiting for her, with others, looped on a collar pole. The collars are usually closed on the pole, with the keys in the locks. The poles themselves are usually marked off in segments, for different size collars. A tape measure is usually used to measure the woman’s neck, and then an appropriate collar is removed from the pole.
I regarded her.
She looked away.
She was trying to deal with her helplessness, to understand it, and its import. I wondered what her feelings would have been had she been a legal slave, and known herself totally at our mercy.
"Will it be necessary to leash you?" I asked.
"No," she said.
I then leashed her. "Now you will not run away," I said.
"I will not run away!" she said.
"I know," I said. I looped the long end of the leash three times. She looked at the swinging loops, apprehensively. Most slave leashes are long enough to serve not only as a leash but also as a lash. The length, too, permits them to facilitate a binding, both of hand and foot. A common technique is to run the leash through a slave ring and then complete the tie as one pleases, simply or complexly. Many leashes, such as the one I had just put on the girl, are cored with wire. This prevents them from being chewed through.
"Tarry here a moment," I said to Marcus. To the girl I said, "Precede me."
She went ahead of me some paces down the alley before I stopped her. "Do not turn about," I said.
I then turned back to face Marcus. I pointed to the remains of the chest and touched the knife at my side.
He nodded and drew his knife. On the lid of the chest he carved a delka, and then set the lid against the remains of the chest, that the sign might be prominently displayed. As we were not in the officer's chain of command, he in charge of the guardsmen of Ar whom we had earlier encountered, I did not think he would be likely to follow up the matter of the girl's disposition. He would presumably take it for granted, that she might even now be in the loot pits of the district of Anbar, awaiting the technicalities of her enslavement. Had he been interested in the matter he would doubtless have seen to it himself, or had his men see to it. Perhaps, on the other hand, he did not trust them, as they were of Ar. I did not know. If an investigation were initiated, which seemed to me unlikely, as many women were delivered on one pretext or another to the loot pits, and there would not be
likely to be much interest in any particular one of them, Marcus and I could always claim that she had come into the power of the Delta Brigade, and we had thought it best not to gainsay their will in the matter, and indeed, I suppose, in a sense, that was true, as Marcus and I were, or were of, as it seemed better to put it now, given the most recent information at our disposal, the Delta Brigade. Too, even if the matter were not pursued further, there would now be at least one more delka in Ar.
In a few moments we were out on the streets. Even though such sights were not rare in Ar, in the past months, a free woman, leashed, in the custody of guardsmen or auxiliaries, presumably having been appropriated for levies, or perhaps merely having been subjected to irrevocable, unappealable seizure at an officer's whim, yet men turned to regard her as we passed. In spite of her youth she was well formed. In four or five years I had no doubt she would constitute an extraordinarily luscious love bundle helplessly responding in a master's arms. A fellow made a quick noise with his mouth as he passed her. She lifted her head, startled, in the leash collar. The meaning of the sound would be unmistakable, even to a girl, signifying as it did the eagerness and relish which the mere sight of her inspired in him. Her face was soft and lovely, gently rounded. Her hair was long and dark.
"She moves well," commented Marcus.
"Yes," I said.
"I think she has just begun to sense how men might view her," mused Marcus.
"I think so," I said.
"It is interesting," he said, "when a woman first begins to sense her desirability."
"True," I said.
"And hers is such that a price can be put on it," he said.
"Yes," I said. Her desirability was so exciting that it could only be that of a slave.
"Look at her," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"She is ready for the block now."
"Perhaps," I said.
"I am sure she would perform well," said Marcus. "And if she were reluctant to do so, or hesitated for a moment, I am sure any lingering scruples would be promptly dissipated by the auctioneer's whip."
"Undoubtedly," I said. I had seen such transformations take place many times at the sales. It is not so much, I think, that the lash, in such a situation, as a punishment, changes the woman's behavior, that she obeys because she does not wish to be whipped, but rather that the whip convinces her that she is now free to be the sensuous, sexual, marvelous creature which she is in herself and has always desired to be. In this sense the whip does not oppress the woman but rather liberates her to be herself, wild, uninhibited, free in a sense, even though she may be bound in chains, and sexual. To be sure, the whip is also used to punish women, and they do fear it, and mightily, for such a reason. Sometimes it is used, too, of course, merely to remind them of what they are, slaves.
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