I looked down at the new slave, who was lying on the blanket, on the floor. I gestured that she should stand. When she had done so, I handed her the tunic. "Hold this against you," I said.
She did so, with both hands, closely, one above her breasts and one below.
I regarded her.
"Master?" she asked.
"You could make a rock sizzle," I said.
She flushed. "Thank you, Master," she said.
I continued to regard her.
She would be fetching, indeed, in that tunic. The Cosians, I thought, had to some extent miscalculated. Did they really think that the excitingness of a slave could be reduced by such a triviality as the addition of a few horts of material to a tunic? Did they not realize it would still be the single garment she wore, the one piece of cloth she was permitted, and that it would have no nether closure? And even more significantly did they not understand that her true excitingness did not depend on such things as a collar and a particular sort of livery, as telling, and revealing and lovely, as these things were, but on her condition itself, that she was slave? That she was slave, the essence and perfection of the female, was what made her such an extraordinary, special, incomparable object of desire, and that would be so whether she were kneeling in a ta-teera, clad in an evening gown or concealed from head to toe in the dark haik of the Tahari, peeping out through a tiny screen of black lace. I then, in a moment, took back the garment, and dropped it to the side, where Phoebe had been working, near the small sewing basket there. I indicated that the slave might kneel and she did, her hands on her thighs, her knees in the appropriate position.
Phoebe was now gasping at one side of the room.
"Master?" said the new slave.
"Yes?" I said.
"Was I pleasing?"
"Yes," I said.
"Do you think another man might find me pleasing, as well?" she asked.
"It is possible," I said.
"I am not now as stupid, as ignorant, as I was, am I?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"I am a much better slave now, am I not?"
"Yes," I said.
"I am grateful for my training," she said.
"It is nothing," I said.
"It is my hope that I have profited from it," she said.
"You have," I said, "considerably."
"Then you think I might not, under certain circumstances, at least, be found displeasing by another man?"
"No," I said.
She put down her head, shyly.
"I would not get my hopes up," I said. "It is your business to obey me, and your primary objective, in the first phase of our operations, is merely to deliver the message."
"I understand, Master," she said.
"In the course of this delivery," I said, "you may behave much as you wish. That I leave to you."
"Yes, Master," she said, shyly.
There was a sudden noise at the side of the room and I looked there, quickly. Marcus, turning, rolling, Phoebe locked in his arms, had struck into the wall there.
"Approach me, on all fours," I said to the new slave. She did so, dragging the ankle chain behind her.
I indicated a flat leather box to one side. "Knee crawl," I said. "Fetch it here."
She went to the box on her knees and picked it up, and returned to a place before me. It had been a simple knee crawl. I was briefly reminded, however, of the Turian knee walk, sometimes used by slave dancers. I considered the slave. I did not doubt but what she might be taught to dance.
"Master?" she asked.
"Give it to me," I said.
But I did not take it.
She looked at me, puzzled.
"Forgive me, Master!" she said.
She then, kneeling before me, her knees widely spread, lifted and extended her arms, proffering me the box. Her head was down, between her lifted, extended arms.
"It seems you still have much to learn," I said.
"Forgive me, Master," she said.
I took the box.
She then knelt back, her hands on her thighs, her head still bowed.
"Your training will continue," I said.
"Thank you, Master," she said.
"But it seems that perhaps it should be sharpened with the whip," I said.
"As master wishes," she said, trembling.
The whip is an excellent mnemonic device. The girl who receives a lash, or lashes, for an error, seldom repeats it.
"To all fours," I said. "And stay here close, where I can reach you."
I then put out my hand and touched the collar on her neck. It was one of three collars I had for her. The other two, with their keys, were in the flat box. The collar on her neck bore the legend, "RETURN ME TO TARL AT THE INSULA OF TORBON." I then removed the first of the other two collars from the box and, reaching out, put it on her neck, next to the other collar, but ahead of it, closer to the chin. I snapped it shut. It fit well. It was now on her, locked. Its legend read, "RETURN ME TO THE WHIP MASTER OF THE CENTRAL CYLINDER." I then turned it and, inserting the key, opened it, and removed it from her neck. I then lifted the second collar from the box, putting the first, with the key, back in it. This second collar I then put on her neck, next to the original collar, and ahead of it, closer to the chin, as I had the one a moment before. Then I snapped it shut. It, too, fit well, and was now on her, locked. Its legend read, "RETURN ME TO APPANIUS OF AR." I then let her remain that way for a little while, on all fours, in the two collars.
Phoebe was moaning to one side. She turned her head from one side to the other, her eyes closed. She was delirious with pleasure, slave to her master.
I then took the key to the second of the two collars which had been in the box, that which I had put most recently on her, the Appanius collar, and removed it from her neck. I put it back in the box, under the first collar. I dropped the key in the box. I closed the box.
"Claim me!" wept Phoebe. "I beg it! I am your slave! Use me as the helpless vessel of your pleasure!"
"Do not move," I said to the new slave.
She remained as she was, on all fours.
"I yield me your slave!" wept Phoebe. "I yield me your slave!"
Then she was trembling, and gasping for breath, clinging to Marcus. He, too, gasped, and then suddenly he laughed, a mighty laugh, almost a roar, a laugh of triumph, like an exultant larl, joyful in his mastery of the beauty.
"Such may be done to slaves," I said to the new slave.
"Yes, Master," she said, on all fours.
"The other garment, I take it," I said to the new slave, "is finished."
"Yes, Master," she said. "Mistress finished it yesterday."
"Put it on for me," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said. She rose to her feet and went to the side of the room where she knelt by a chest and took from it a white garment, of the wool of the bounding hurt.
I looked away, as she stood up, to slip it over her head and arms, and smooth it down on her body. I did not wish to look until it was on her.
"Master," she announced.
"Excellent!" I said.
It came to a bit above the knees, and had a high, modest neckline. In some respects it was rather in the style set for the tunics of state slaves. That I thought might fit in well with my plans.
"Turn," I said.
"Yes," I mused. "Excellent." Perhaps even more importantly it was the sort of garment in which a slave might dare to appear before a free woman. It was not the sort of garment that would be likely to unduly excite the envy or anger of free women. It was not the sort of garment which sometimes provokes free women to rush at slaves in the street, crying out and lashing at them with switches. It was decorous, and yet clearly the garment of a mere slave.
"Mistress has sewed it," she said.
"You have done well, Phoebe," I said. "It is perfect."
"Thank you, Master," gasped Phoebe. She was lying next to Marcus. She was covered with a sheen of sweat. Her body was covered with red blotches,
from the recent racing of her blood, the excited distention of thousands of capillaries. Her lovely nipples were not yet subsident.
"Your skin is blotchy," I said to Phoebe.
She laughed, ruefully. "Yes, Master," she said.
The new slave, her head down, smiled.
"Remove the garment," I said to her. "Replace it in the chest. Then resume your position here, beside me, on all fours."
"Yes, Master," she said.
I then again, in a bit, regarded her. No longer was she in the dignity of a garment. Her breasts, in her present position, that which I had dictated, were beautifully pendant.
"Can you write?" I asked her.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I reached to her.
"Oh," she said, softly. "Oh!" I had taken her nipples gently, first one and then the other, between my thumb and forefinger. They, too, it seemed, had not forgotten their state of but a few moments ago. Or, perhaps it was but the fact that the meaning of her present position was intrusive in her consciousness.
"Surely you are interested in the nature of the messages you will carry," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"That is natural," I said.
"Yes, Master!" she said. I had touched her, lightly, at the side of the waist.
"One need not concern you," I said, "as you will be the mere instrument of its delivery. On the other hand, I think you will have little doubt as to its general import."
"I am not to know its contents?"
"You may conjecture as you wish," I said.
"I see," she said, tears springing to her eyes.
"You are a slave," I reminded her.
"Yes, Master," she said, biting her lip.
Did she, a slave, expect to be privy to the councils of masters?
Such as she, surely she knew, had other uses.
I found her beautiful.
"Oh!" she said.
She squirmed. It is pleasant to own a woman.
"You will deliver it to the female I designate," I said, "and to her personally."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"To make it more likely you will be admitted into her presence, the message will be carried about your neck, in a message tube, and your hands will be back-braceleted."
"As Master wishes," she said.
It is not unusual that slaves deliver messages in this fashion. Indeed, the message may pertain to the slave herself. Perhaps it says, "Give this slave ten lashes." Perhaps it says, "Here is the slave you purchased yesterday."
"But even so," I said, "before being admitted to her presence, you may be double leashed, one on each side, that you cannot touch, or approach, the woman, except as permitted."
"I understand, Master," she said.
"Do you think she will be admitted to her presence?" asked Marcus.
"Given her story, and her collar," I said, "I think so."
"The note she carries is to be written in a man's hand," said Marcus.
"Of course," I smiled.
"Doubtless in your deft script," he said, lying on his back, looking at the low, peeling ceiling above him.
"I was hoping someone might be prevailed upon to provide a more convincing communication," I said.
"Oh!" said the new slave. She moved uneasily, tensely, but did not break position.
"The handwriting must suggest a correspondent who is educated, charming, witty, elegant and suave," I said.
"That sounds like a job for your own block script," he said. "It has many virtues. I have known peasants who could not do as well. Or, if you prefer, you could use your inimitable cursive script, with its unusual alternate lines. Its humorous suggestion of complete illiteracy adds to it a piquant charm all its own."
"My master has an excellent hand!" volunteered Phoebe.
"Were you asked to speak?" inquired Marcus.
"No, Master," she said. "Forgive me, Master." She then lay small and quiet beside him. She did not wish to be cuffed or whipped.
"It was my hope, Phoebe," said I, "that your master, exactly, might be prevailed upon to lend his expertise to this endeavor."
"Yes, Master," she whispered.
"I write a simple hand," said Marcus.
"Perhaps you could add a few flourishes, or something," I suggested.
"No," said Marcus.
"Do you want me to write it?" I asked.
"That would be disastrous," he said.
"Also," I said, "my handwriting might be recognized."
"I had not thought of that," said Marcus.
"You will do it then?" I said.
"I will write only my own hand," he said.
"That will be perfect," I said.
"What if she has seen the handwriting of the putative correspondent?" asked Marcus.
"That is highly unlikely," I said. It was unthinkable that the putative correspondent would initiate such a correspondence. In such a relationship the first note, if there were to be notes, given the risks involved, would surely issue from the free person.
I touched the slave near me, on all fours, on the side of the leg.
"Ohh," she said, softly. It is interesting how alive are the bodies of slaves. In bondage a woman tends to explore and discover ranges of sensation and emotion far beyond those available to, or at least likely to be noted by, free women. It is as though her entire body became awakened to, and sensitized to, wide ranges of present but often ignored stimuli. This increase in feeling, in sensuality, of course, extends far beyond matters of the slave’s absolute sexual vulnerability, though it is doubtless associated with it. Some of this may have to do with something as simple and obvious as the greater amount of exposed skin, which is then much more aware of variations and subtleties in the atmosphere, and such, but it is rather, and primarily, a matter of the awakening of the entire, beautiful psychophysiological nature of the female, now understanding that she is in bondage, which is then reborn, kindled anew, freshened and called forth, to surprising and unprecedented ranges of feeling and awareness, to new horizons of sensation and emotion. The slave’s body becomes attuned to, and a marvelous receptor for, the complexity, subtlety, and richness of her environment. As an illustration, she becomes very much aware, as a free woman would not be, of subtleties of texture, little things, such as the softness of fur, the feel of rep-cloth, the corrugation and weaving of a mat, the knap of a rug, the smoothness of tiles, the movement of silk upon a body, how a camisk conceals and reveals, the snug encirclement of leather, the constraint of silken cords, the coarse fiber of a rope, the summoning tug of a leash, the clasp of slave bracelets, the feel of an ankle iron, the weight of a chain.
"You," I said to her, "will be under no doubt, however, as to the contents of the other message."
"Yes, Master," she said. She moved, uneasily. I moved a bit, and looked at the ankle ring on her left ankle. I then put my hand on the ring, and then pressed my thumb a little into her leg. I then turned the ring a little on her ankle, shifting it a bit. There was about a quarter of an inch of slippage between the metal and her ankle. I then lifted the chain, a little, one of its links hammered shut about the ring's staple, and let it drop to the floor. She shuddered at the tiny sound. I then jerked twice, softly, on the chain, that she might feel this small force exerted on the ring, and subsequently on her ankle, within it. Below the ring, behind it, her foot was small and soft. I regarded it, the heel, the sole, her toes. It was a small, shapely, lovely foot. And then, above it, close about the ankle, locked, was the ankle ring. I then touched her collar, and turned it a little, back and forth. She was very quiet while I did this. It, like the other collars, was an excellent fit. I then readjusted it, carefully. The lock was now again centered, at the back of the neck. I then touched her. "Oh, oh!" she said.
"Steady," I said.
She moaned.
"Because," I said, "you will write it."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"I will dictate the contents to you," I said, "or, if you wish, you may
compose it, subject, of course, to my approval."
"As master wishes!" she said.
"Do not break position," I warned her.
Marcus and I had agreed that Phoebe would not write the letter. It was better that it was done by a woman who had been at one time a citizeness of Ar, her penmanship influenced by the private schools of the city. It is a well-known fact, on the world, Earth, that the cursive script of diverse nationalities, such as the English, French and Italian, tend to differ in certain general ways, quite aside from the individual characteristics of particular writers. Certain letters, for example, tend to be formed differently, and so on. Much the same thing, predictably, and perhaps even more so, given the isolation of so many of her cities, occurs on Gor. For example, Phoebe had a beautiful, feminine hand, but it was natural for her, and easiest for her, of course, to write in Cosian script. It was not that Cosian script, was illegible, say, to folks of Ko-ro-ba or Ar, but rather that it was recognizably different. Thus, rather than have Phoebe try to disguise her hand and write in the script of Ar, Marcus and I had decided that the note, or letter, would be written by the new slave, whose background, and education, were of Ar, the same as those of the putative writer of the note, or letter. In the formation of most cursive letters, incidentally, there are few, if any, differences among the various cities. The differences tend to have more to do with the "cast" of the hand, so to speak, its general appearance, a function of a number of things, such as size, spacing of letters, linkages among them, length of loops, nature of end strokes, and such. Also, certain letters, at least for commercial or legal, if not personal, purposes, tended to be standardized. An excellent example are those standing for various weights and measures. Another familiar example is the tiny, lovely, cursive 'kef' which is the same whether it is put on a girl in Cos, or Ar, or Ko-ro-ba, or Thentis or Turia.
"Oh, Master!" sobbed the slave.
"Master!" said Phoebe, suddenly, taken by Marcus and thrust down, forcibly, to the boards. He looked down into her eyes, fiercely. "Yes, Master," she said, lifting her arms to put them about his neck.
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