Witness of Gor

16

The doors to his quarters, double doors, were opened before me, each by a deferential slave girl, her head down. They were briefly silked.

I had approached down a long, carpeted corridor. Flanking me, but a just a little behind, were two guards.

I wore rich silks, which muchly covered me. These were not altogether unlike the free woman’s robes of concealment but the materials were not so inflexible and ornate. Far softer they were. Too, I had been veiled. The veil that I had been granted, however, was not of the sort commonly adorning free woman, heavy and opaque, but was of light silk. Beneath it the lineaments of my features might be subtly discerned. The girl who was to be introduced into his apartments was not a free woman, but a meticulously adorned, exquisitely veiled slave.

I could see him within, reclining on a divan.

“Welcome, my dear,” he called, and, with a gesture, invited me within.

The two slave girls closed the doors behind me, and slipped away. I was not followed into the room by the guards. I would suppose that they turned about, and returned to their duties, perhaps by the outer doors, those at the end of the hall.

Before the divan, but a bit to the right, as I faced it, was a low table, on which there were beverages and fruits, and tiny bowls and plates, filled with an assortment of viands. I felt momentarily giddy with the smell of the roasted meats, the breads and pastry.

We were not wholly alone in the room together for, to my right, back, near the divan, but not so close to it as the table, sitting on cushions, cross-legged, were three musicians.

I approached the figure on the divan, which wore longing robes and knelt before him, my head down.

“Kneel with your knees close,” he said, kindly. This seemed fitting, as I was dressed.

I closed my knees. I kept my head down.

He must have given some signal to the musicians, for they began to play, softly, in the background.

‘You may serve,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I then began, in the manners of this world, as I had learned them in the pens, to serve, deferentially, self-effacingly, proffering drink and food, sensitive to, and obedient to, his least inclination, his least word or glance. How different these things were from the provender of the pens, of the pits! There was no gruel here, no dried mush, no pellets. And I had not been fed since morning. I hated the silken veil then, despite its beauty, for it sealed my lips from food. I would have preferred, I assure you, primitivisms more typical of this world, such as the barbaric banquets of soldiers and guards, in which we must serve naked. There, at least, we might kneel and whimper, begging food. There, at least, we might hope, at least if we were found sufficiently pleasing, to be fed by hand or thrown scraps. But here I was ravening, and I dared not speak.

He dropped a tiny bone, sucked free of meat, onto a small, golden plate.

“You serve well, Earth woman,” he said.

I handed him, at his gesture, a glistening napkin and he touched it to his lips.

I felt almost faint with hunger.

But these men, of course, do not spoil their slaves.

At his indication I held forth the tiny golden finger bowl, and he dipped his fingers within it, and then dried them on the napkin.

I replaced the finger bowl and the napkin on the small table. I then knelt before him.

The music was very soft, unobtrusive, in the background. The melodies of this world tend to be barbarically sensuous.

I sensed his eyes upon me, but did not look up.

The room was a large, rich room with a smoothly tiled, glossy floor. Small rugs and cushions were here and there. There were numerous, rich hangings. In places slender pillars rose to graceful arches. At the walls, at places, there were ornate chests. Some screens with open grillwork were to one side. There were some side portals, with beaded hangings. It was through one of these that the slave girls had slipped away. In the left, rear part of the room there was a window. Outside it I could see lights in some of the tower buildings of the city. There was also an entryway in the back part of the room to what seemed to be an open porch. I could see more lights through this aperture, in the distance. Some of those lights, I think, may have been on the walls of the city itself.

I kept my head down.

I was well aware of myself as a slave.

I could see the coverings, and cushions, at the foot of the divan.

The music was subtle, insistent.

I lifted my eyes, pleadingly, to the male, who was to me, though I belonged to the state, in this time and place, as Master.

“You may speak,” he said.

I held the veil more closely about my features, as thought this might the better conceal me. But, of course, as I instantly realized, this was foolish. I had seen it in the mirror. My features, my lips, could be discerned within it. It did seem to provide me with some protection from his gaze, but its actual effect, of course, was primarily symbolic, that there was a veil. If anything my gesture might, for an instant, have rendered my features more visible to him. I quickly lowered my hands, the veil, as it were, adjusted.

“I am hungry, Master,” I said.

“Does the Earth woman beg food?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He let me remain kneeling before him, my head down.

I could hear the music.

In it were reflected the nature and values of a complex civilization.

“Stand,” said he, “and go there, and face me.”

He pointed to a place on the glossy tiles, some feet before the divan.

“Remove your veil,” he said.

I obeyed, standing before him, a few feet before him. I removed the veil first from my features, opening it, and brushing it to the sides, and then, with almost the same gesture, I lifted it and put it back, behind me. It was then upon me, behind my neck, and before, resting over my shoulders. This veil, like many of the veils on this world, was quite large. It was some six feet in length and three or four feet in width. It was designed in such a way that it might be, if the wearer wishes, wrapped about the entire head, shoulders, and upper body. A smaller veil may be used, of course, with hooded robes of concealment. It is bound or pinned about the face, within the hood. Many robes of concealment are hooded. The hood may be either an integral part of the garment or an independent accessory. There is an entire lore of veils, having to do with their nature, opacity, style, coverage, and such, as with fans on my old world, in former centuries, much may be done with them by a clever woman. In typical, modest veiling, that called for by most properties, only the eyes and the upper part of the bridge of the nose are exposed. It was in that way that I had been veiled in my serving. When I had parted my veil, and brushed it back, and put it behind me, I could hear, in the music to my right, in a ripple of interest and approval, of delight and excitement, the musician’s reaction. I lifted and brushed back my hair, freeing it. I adjusted it, too, with a toss of my head. Perhaps it was a vain gesture. One of the musicians chuckled.

I then stood before he who was to me as Master.

“Let us see the collar on your neck,” he said.

I adjusted the silks so that it would be clearly visible.

One of the musicians laughed.

I did not need to be reminded that I was collared.

The musicians, it seemed, were pleased. I was sure of that, from the music. To be sure, it was not they whom I must please, not at this moment, in this place.

I looked at the foot of the divan, at the cushions which were there.

I did not even know the name of he who reclined upon the divan. But what needed I to know, other than the fact that he was a free man, and I would address him as “Master”? He knew my name, of course, the only name I had, which had been put on me in this place, ‘Janice’.

I was barefoot. There were bangles on my ankles.

“The Earth woman is hungry?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And would be fed?”

“Yes, Master,”

“We shall see how you perform,” he said.

“Master?” I asked.

“Do you know how to use your veil?” he asked.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Discard it then,” he said.

I removed the veil from about my shoulders, and dropped it to the side. It floated to the glossy tiles, and lay there, lightly, crumpled.

“Remove your outer silks,” he said.

I obeyed, and put them to the side.

The music rippled.

I wore now a skirt of filmy silk, which would swirl as I moved. It was open to my left. My midriff was muchly bared. My breasts were haltered high. Tiny straps came over my shoulders. In such garments one might serve at more decorous banquets, though, to be sure, most likely not if free women were present. When free women are present, one usually serves gowned, or tunicked. At less decorous banquets one might expect to serve differently, in a ta-teera, in rags, in a slave strip, naked, in such ways. I wore bracelets, an armlet, bangles. Too, I had been given earrings, golden rings.

“Do you know the name of this world?” he asked.

“Gor,” I said.

“Do you know how to dance?” he asked.

“No!” I said.

“Surely they taught you something in the pens,” he said.

“I am not a dancer!” I wept.

“Surely you know something of the basic steps,” he said, “the walks, the glides, the presentations, the turns, the arm movements?”

“A little, Master,” I said, in misery. To be sure, one is not likely to escape the pens without being taught such rudiments.

“You are going to dance for me, Earth woman,” he said.

“I do not know how to dance!” I protested.

There was a tiny, skeptical skirl from one of the instruments.

“Beginning position!” he snapped.

There are several such. I swiftly flexed my knees, lifted my rib cage, and put my hands together, wrists crossed, over my head, the backs of my hands facing out, the palm of my right hand over the palm of my left hand.

He rose from the divan, as I stood thusly before the divan, so posed, and went to the side of the room. From one of the ornate chests he fetched forth a thick, single-bladed, snakelike slave whip. I watched him with terror as he approached. Then he stood to one side. Then, suddenly, at the side, he snapped the whip. The report was like the crack of a rifle. I nearly fainted. I sobbed.

“You are going to dance for me, Earth woman,” he said, menacingly, “and as what you are, and what you are only, an Earth-girl slave before her Gorean master.” He then snapped the whip again. “Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” I wept.

He then returned to the divan, on which he reclined, the whip on the silks beside him, inches from his grasp.

“Begin,” he said.

I danced.

At one point he lifted his finger and the music stopped, and I stopped.

“Do you know the use of finger cymbals?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“Continue,” he said.

And so again the music began, and again I danced. Alas, I, so little trained in the art form, fro an art form it is, was only too painfully aware of how far short my efforts must fall from those of a skilled performer. Could I do more than squirm, and writhe, and plead with my body, for mercy? But perhaps my desperation might amuse him? Perhaps he was merely interested in registering, with bemused tolerance, the inept, pathetic strivings of an Earth-girl slave to please him, hoping not to be beaten. Perhaps he was having me do this merely that he might at the end, for my clumsiness, lash me? Yet, too, I did not want to betray the dance. I loved it. It is so beautiful. I wanted, thusly, to suggest, within my limits, at least, something of the richness, the complexity, the profound sensuousness of such dance. Such dance can be a revelation to those who are unfamiliar with it, who have never seen it. Some never suspect how beautiful and exciting a woman can be until they see her in such dance. In few ways better than in such dance is it made more evident what an incredibly beautiful, marvelous, precious, wonderful thing a woman is. It is no wonder they want to get their chains on us. And, too, of course, I was frightened of him. I did want to display myself, and present myself, well before him. I did not want to be whipped. But, too, I confess, I wanted him to want me. I was stirred by him, powerfully, sexually, as I was by many on this world, such men, and I wanted, thusly, to please him and excite him. He, as many men on this world, set fires in my belly. I danced before him. He helped himself, from time to time, to some of the food left on the table, a grape, a tiny viand, keeping his eyes on me. I must remember the hand and arm movements, the spins, the circles, the lifts, the thrusts! And then, at some point, perhaps when I was kneeling before him, moving my arms, and head and shoulders, I think I became one with the music and the dance. Startled I rose to my feet and began to move about the room. Were there hundreds present? Did they feast their eyes on this dancer? I went even to the musicians and moved, presenting myself as a slave, before them. Were they not, too, men, and thus such as before whom it was appropriate that I present myself, hoping for their approbation?In the eyes of the musicians I read something that I had not expected to find, that they were not displeased with the sight of the slave before them. How this made me hope, and how my heart was filled with a sudden surge of elation!

But it was not these men whom I must most desperately strive to please. It was another. I returned, to move before him. Then, again, I whirled away, going about the divan, to the narrow window and dancing before it. Doubtless there were none out there who saw me so move. The lights were beautiful. I then, in my dance, utilized the corners and surfaces of chests, and the walls of the room. I saw, beside the divan, a coil of chain. I danced away from it, terrified. Then it seemed I was alone with the dance, and my joy in it. And then, a moment later, wildly, it seemed again that I must dance for many. Did I hear the striking of the shoulders in applause, the pounding of goblets on low tables, the urgent cries of men? What power, I thought, must a dancer, a true dancer, exercise over men! How she must arouse them, how she must drive them mad with passion! But what power, ultimately, is hers, for she is in her collar? When the music stops is she not then, clearly, once again, only a slave at the feet of men? And is not the central, nonrepudiable message of this dance, in its entire concept, in its beauty, in its presentation of the female in all her marvelous sensuousness that man is the master? This form of dance, on this world, is called “slave dance.” That is perhaps partly because, on this world, it is permitted only to slaves, but I think it is more likely because, in it, the nature of women is clearly manifested as slave. One might also mention that the dancer, in this form of dance, on this world, is commonly expected to satisfy the passions which she may have aroused. The submission which commonly figures in the finale of her dance, on this world, is not, I assure you, purely symbolic.

I danced out, only the porch, overlooking the city, the lights. I now saw that some of the lights, indeed, were on the distant walls of the city. They were beacons. Their primary purpose is to guide in the warriors, mounted on the gigantic saddlebirds, to enable them to safely negotiate the defenses of stakes and wire on the walls. The stars were very beautiful. I looked up and gasped, for then, for the first time, I saw the three moons. I had learned there were three moons here but this was the first time I had seen them.One does not see the moons in the pens, or in the depths, and, if they were visible, I had not noticed them during the light of the day.

“Return, slave,” I heard.

I swiftly whirled about, and re-entered the room there were three moons here! But then, in a moment, I was, again, before he upon the divan.

He lifted his finger and the music stopped, and I, too, stopped.

There is one aspect to slave dance to which I have neglected to call explicit attention, but it is one which, I suspect, at least implicitly, is clear to all. Slave dance is arousing to the female who dances it. Once cannot move as in slave dance without becoming sexually aroused. In this sense, twofold effect occurs when we dance before masters. One has not only an arousal display but an arousal activity. And there is a reciprocal, mutually reinforcing, interaction between these things, as one understands that one is arousing, and he understands that you are also being aroused, and you know that he understands this, and so on. Indeed, slave dance can function as a cure for frigidity. It relieves inhibitions, improves confidence, and, I suppose, to some extent, literally stirs and stimulates organs. It is difficult for a body which has been trained in slave dance, for example, to be stiff and unresponsive. To be sure, there are many cures for frigidity. An obvious one is the condition of bondage itself. Another is the whip, and switch.

“Remove your upper silk,” he said.

I undid the halter, and slipped it away.

I saw that I would, indeed, dance as an Earth-girl slave before her Gorean master.

For a time I danced in this fashion, and then, again, he lifted his finger and the music stopped, and, I too, stopped.

I looked at the remains of the food on the low table. I was very hungry.

“Remove your silk,” said he, “Earth woman.”

My hands went to the hip band and undid the clasp there. I lifted the silk to the side. I dropped it to the tiles.

He indicated to the musicians that they should again play. This time, doubtless in virtue of some arrangement with, or signal conveyed to, the musicians, it was an extreme adagio melody to which I must move. I remained in place, so dancing, almost without movement.

He picked up the whip, and walked about me, scrutinizing the slave.

I was terribly afraid I would be struck.

Then he was again before me, back some five feet or so, that he might have an excellent view.

The whip, coiled, was in his right hand.

“Do the women of your world often dance thusly, naked before their males?” he asked.

“I do not know, Master,” I said.

“Doubtless they will have them dance thusly, for they are men,” he mused.

I was silent.

“And do they whip the women if they are not pleasing?” he asked.

“I do not know, Master,” I said.

“You seem to know very little of your world,” he said.

“It is very different from this world, Master,” I said.

“But you know that you will be whipped, here on this world, Earth woman, if you are not pleasing, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master!” I said.

With a motion of his wrist he flicked out the blade of the whip, uncoiling it. He observed it. The end of the blade, snakelike, narrow and tapering, was upon the tiles. He then, with another movement of his wrist, lifted it from the tiles.

“Please, do not whip me, Master,” I begged. “I will try to be pleasing!”

“I am sure you will,” said he, “Earth woman.”

He then returned to the divan, and reclined thereupon. He indicated to the musicians that they might increase the tempo, which they did.

I danced.

How helpless we are!

How these men master us!

I wore my collar. It was narrow, close-fitting, locked. It was a state collar. On it was my name, that name which had been given to me, ‘Janice’. I had been a free woman of Earth. I had then been brought to this world. I was now only a slave.

I danced.

How incredibly free and female I felt.

I danced.

I had been sent to his quarters.

I danced before him.

I wondered how I looked to him. I hoped desperately that he might find me pleasing. I wondered how women such as I looked to males. Well, I conjectured, in our collars, obeying, hoping to please, striving desperately to please. How exciting, how glorious, how joyful, how real, how meaningful it must be to be a male on a world such as this, I thought, a world in which they had such power, at least over such as I. Here, you see, they had kept their mastery, in the order of nature. Here males were men, and here females, at least those such as I, could only be women, their women. How was it, I wondered, that these men had never relinquished their nature, that they had never surrendered their manhood, that they had never betrayed their blood, that they had never permitted themselves to be diminished and reduced, destroyed and crippled? I did not know. But they had not. Did they sense the danger we might pose to them, if they were weak, or permissive, or lenient? Was that why they were as they were? Was that why they put us in collars and kept us at their feet, because they knew us so well? But how could we be women if they were not men? Or had they profited from some hideous illustration of nature gone awry, from the dismal instruction of some tragic lesson, from the clear example of some pathological mistake, one they would simply not permit to occur in their won world? Or, perhaps, it was merely that this world had developed as it had, drawing strength and meaning from nature, rather than trying to live, dry and rootless, apart from her? But, as I danced before him, I did not think merely how exciting, how glorious, how joyful, how real, how meaningful it must be to be a male on this world but also, despite its dangers, its terrors, how exciting, how glorious, how joyful, how real, how meaningful it was to be a woman on this world! I had never begun to feel so fulfilled on my old world as I had here. It was only on this world, it seemed, that I had, in my small, lowly way, begun to feel fully meaningful. It was here that someone, deeper and more real than names, had found herself.

I knew who she was.

It was fully fitting that she danced as she did, before such a man. It was not merely he who knew this, you see. It was I, as well.

“To the floor,” said he, “Earth woman.”

The Earth woman then, to the music, slowly and gracefully lowered herself to the floor, and there, to those sensuous strains, speaking so unabashedly to the blood of men and women, continued her dance.

He clapped his hands, ending the music.

I rose to all fours, before hi, on the glossy tiles.

“You are not now closely silked,” he said.

So I knelt now before him, my back straight, my head down, the palms of my hands down on my thighs, my knees properly, widely spread.

I heard him speak to the musicians. I head the clinking of what was doubtless a small sack of coins. One by one the three musicians left. One said, “A pretty slave.” Another said, “Yes,” He before whom I had performed said, “She has much to learn.” “Doubtless she will be well taught,” said the leader of the musicians.

“I wish you well,” said the officer to them. “We wish you well,” said the leader of the musicians. They had then left.

I remained kneeling before the divan, head down.

I heard something strike the tiles before me. It was a tiny leg of roast fowl.

I looked up at him, knowing that I dare not yet break position.

I was ravenously hungry. I was starving.

But I could not yet reach for the food.

I had not yet received permission.

“You may feed,” he said.

I bent forward, and snatched up the bit of meat, and, holding it in my right hand, steadying it with my left, with my head down, began to feed upon it.

“Janice is hungry,” he observed.

In a few moments I looked up at him, hopefully. I felt a wing, another scrap from his plate, strike my body. It fell between my thighs. I seized it up. And so I was fed, on scraps from his meal, some tossed to me, as I have indicated, and others, later, I having been permitted to approach him on my knees, and kneel before him, fed to me by hand. In such a feeding, the slave, of course, is not permitted ot use her hands. She takes the food in her mouth, delicately. Masters usually make the bites tiny. In this way it takes time to complete such feeding. One utility of such modes of feeding is that it impresses clearly upon the slave who it is to whom she owes her food.

I ate eagerly and gratefully.

I looked again at him, hopefully.

But he had decided I had had enough.

“We must be concerned with your figure, mustn’t we, sleek little animal?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He then poured some water from a small pitcher into a shallow bowl, and put the bowl upon the tiles. As he had not placed it on the table, nor handed it to me, I understood how I must drink. I knelt before the bowl, and, my hands on the floor, put down my head and drank. He then had me kneel straight, and, with the same napkin which he himself had used, wiped my lips. He then gave me the napkin that I might clean myself, my fingers and my body.

“The earrings are pretty,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

He looked at the armlet, and bracelets on my wrists.

I think he was pleased.

Then he looked to my ankle. “Bangles look well on your ankle, Earth woman,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“Do many women of your world wear bangles?” he asked.

“I do not know, Master,” I said. I supposed that some might, in certain places, in certain cultures.

“Secretly, perhaps,” he said.

“Perhaps, Master,” I said. “I do not know.”

“They are quite sensual,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Stand,” he said.

I obeyed. I stood then before the divan.

He fetched the whip from the divan and, slowly, as he had before, walked about me. Few women on Earth, I suspect, have ever been looked at as these men look at a woman. It can be frightening to be looked upon in this fashion, but it can also be profoundly stirring, profoundly gratifying. I stood straight, with my head up. A slave is expected to be beautiful. She is expected to be worth owning. How reassuring, incidentally, that one is here recognized as being sufficient interest and importance to be looked at, really looked at. One is here regarded as being worthy of attention, literally, and is actually accorded it. On my old world everyone, it seems, is regarded as being infinitely important but no one pays much attention to anyone else. How tragic, I thought, that so few of the women of Earth are ever truly looked at. It is not that they are invisible. It is only that no one pays them any attention.

I supposed that I might be a little more flushed now, from the food. My belly, doubtless, was a bit more rounded.

I felt the whip, coiled, move along my left flank, and then my waist. He was a bit to my left. He stood there. He lifted the whip to my lips. Quickly I kissed it. He then withdrew again to my left and then to a bit behind me. I looked straight ahead, over the divan, to the wall behind. “Oh!” I suddenly said. My entire body jerked. “Steady,” said he. He held the implement in place. I moaned. Then, slowly, he lowered it, sliding it downward, against the interior of my left thigh. I flexed my knees, and half sank down, trying to keep contact with it. Then it was gone. I stood straight again, but unsteadily. “Salve,” he said. His remark was an observation, not a mode of address. They make us like this, I thought, angrily. And then they mock us for being so! But then I thought they did not make us this way. This was the way we were. It was only that they would not permit us to be other than we were. They did not permit us, so to speak, to lie. But then why would they mock us for what we were? We could not help what we were, that we were slaves!

He was then again before me. He lifted the coiled whip before him. He smelled the moist, hot, glossy leather, and looked at me, over the coil, and smiled.

I looked away, distraught.

“It seems,” said he, “that the Earth woman is a ready slave.”

I looked away. It was true.

“I thought that Earth women were supposed to pride themselves on their frigidity,” he said.

“Not here, Master!” I said.

“They are not permitted frigidity here, are they?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“It is not tolerated.”

“No, Master,” I said. Why did he torment me? I knew that frigidity was not permitted to female salves, of whatever origin, that we could be beaten for it, that we could be slain for it. Too, why did he speak as he did? Surely he knew that I, as slave, whether an Earth woman or not, could not begin to resist men such as he, even if it were permitted. Too, surely he knew that I was a “hot slave.” That information, like my eye and hair color, was on my papers. He would know that I was helpless under the caresses of men such as he, that I could not help myself, that I was the sort of woman, pleading, helpless, vulnerable and spasmodic, who must, to a master, yield the totality of herself, sans reservation, sans qualification. Many times had I surrendered wholly to them. They could completely conquer me.

“I wonder if you should be whipped,” he said, musingly, lifting the whip.

“Please, no, Master,” I said.

He held the whip before me, and I put forth my head and lips, and kissed it twice, quickly, fervently.

“Earth woman,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

He regarded me.

I kept my eyes forward, not daring to meet his.

He then, to my relief, tossed the whip to one side. He lifted me up, sweeping me quickly from my feet. He then held me in his arms, looking down at me. I felt momentarily giddy. I was naked and collared. I felt very small in his arms. He was very strong. My weight was as nothing to him. I could see hair upon his chest, in the parting of the lounging robes. How different we are, I thought, my smallness and softness, and his lean, mighty frame, the breadth of the shoulders, the thickness of his arms. One has no contact with the floor. In one sense this is disconcerting, in another it is absolutely thrilling. One knows one can be carried, and placed where he wishes. His left arm was behind my back, his right beneath the backs of my knees. I dared to put my arms about his neck and kiss him, timidly.

“I melt in your arms, Master,” I whispered. I hoped not to offend him.

He carried me to the rear portion of the divan, and placed me down upon it, on my back.

He then sat at the edge of the divan, the palm of his left hand on the divan, resting on it, across my body. His right hand was on his right knee.

“You did not dance badly,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“It is slave dance,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“The Earth women dance it well,” he said.

“She is a slave, Master,” I said.

“Is slave dance danced on your world?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Did you understand the meaning of slave dance on your old world?” he asked.

“I think so, Master,” I said. Here, on this world, of course, there was no doubt as to what its meaning was.

“Do many woman dance slave dance on your world?” he asked.

“Not many,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“They are afraid to be so beautiful before men,” I said.

“They are afraid to be women?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Were you afraid?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“That is unutterably stupid,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He regarded me. “You are a woman, I assure you,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you object?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“Do you want to be a woman?” he asked.

“I am a woman,” I said.

“But do you want to be a woman?” he asked.

“Feel?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“I love being a woman,” I said.

“Good,” he said.

Until I had been brought here I had not understood what a marvelous, glorious, wonderful thing it was to be a woman. To be sure, I had learned this, as perhaps one must, in bondage. A female slave, you see, is not permitted to deny her sex. Only here, for the first time in my life, had I found it possible to fulfill my sex. Indeed, here I had no choice in the matter. I must fulfill it, wholly and irreservedly. It was no wonder then that, in spite of the dangers in which I might stand, I was so joyful.

He rose from the edge of the divan and picked up the length of chain looped beside it. This chain was some seven feet in length. There was a lock clip at one end and a collar at the other. I lay there. He made me wait for the collar. By means of the lock clip he fastened the chain to a ring fixed in the divan, one near the floor, on the right, as one faced the divan. He then took the chain about the head of the divan and there, at one point, placed a link over a stout hook, part of an integral slide-ring mounted there. In this way, it was, in effect, as though the chain was mounted at the head of the divan, but, ultimately, on a long chain, run from the side ring. This is a convenience in chaining for masters. One need not, then, locking and unlocking them, spend a great deal of time changing chains. The amount of chain allotted to me from the hook would be about three feet, and from the side ring, if the chain were freed of the hook, about seven feet. There were various rings and hooks about the divan, permitting a large degree of flexibility in custodial and pleasure arrangements. The slave is commonly prohibited from touching the slide-rings and, in the event, remains attached to the divan, by means of the longer chain. Also, of course, the slide-rings may not be available to her, depending on how she is secured, what she can reach, the number of chains, and so on. As an analogy, it would be quite easy for a girl to unbuckle certain sorts of leather wristlets and anklets, but if she is unable to reach the buckles, as, for example, if she is spread-eagled between rings, she is as helpless as if she were held by locked steel. Slide-rings, too, it might be mentioned, can be locked shut, either with their own locks, or, more commonly, with external clip locks. He then put the collar about my neck, and closed it. I was then chained by the neck to the divan, held about a yard from the slide-ring at the head of the divan, and held, ultimately, by the lock clip, to the side ring.

He stood beside the divan. He looked down upon me.

“Your not a trained dancer, of course,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said.

“Yet,” said he, “I did not find your dance displeasing.”

“The slave is grateful if she has not been found entirely displeasing,” I whispered.

“I am now going to have you, Earth woman,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I was well had and soon screamed my submission and my begging for more. His least touch, that of a master, set me on fire. Occasionally he tortured me, as it amused him, bringing me to the point of yielding, and then desisting, as I writhed, pleading, before hi, lifting my body, begging for relief, for mercy. Four times he roared, laughing within me, as I clutched him. In the manner of these men with their slaves, almost in moments, I had been made wholly his. Numerous times, sweating in my collar, I yielded.

The minimalities, the tepidities, accepted by men of Earth in their females were not, by men such as these, permitted to us.

They choose to own us, wholly.

Then, though I clutched him still, he wearied of me.

He undid the chain from the slide-ring at the head of the divan and thrust me from the divan to the floor. I looked up at him, above me, from the tiles.

“You will sleep there tonight,” he said.

Tears came to my eyes.

“I may want you again, toward morning,” he said.

I looked up at him.

“Turn about,” he said, “so that you lie with your head toward the foot of the couch.”

I rose to all fours, and turned about, and then lay down on the tiles, on my left side, so that I might face the divan. The chain was on my neck, holding me to the divan.

I drew my legs up.

He tossed me a sheet. I gratefully clutched it about me. I then lay there, huddled in the sheet, on the tiles, my head toward the bottom of the divan.

He was soon asleep.

I lay there for a long time, trying to understand my feelings.

But, too, it seemed, this last time, he had too soon finished with me.

He had wearied of me and then thrust me from him, before I had completed.

I squirmed a little, and moaned softly.

He did not hear me, for he was asleep. And, if he had heard me, he might have ordered me to silence. Or perhaps kicked or beaten me.

I had seen two other girls as I had entered. They had then slipped away. I had no doubt that, in this place, they would be prize slaves, not ignorant girls from the pits. How I envied the, serving in their light silks in a place such as this. Might I not be able, sometime, to so serve, in some such place? Was I so inferior to them? Could I not serve wine, and tend to the cleaning, and polish silver, as well as they? How much better to be slave in a place such as this than in the pits! And how much better, too, I thought, might it be to be merely the slave of a quiet, simple man, not even a rich one, and serve him, and keep his compartments, and love him. I wondered where the slave, Dorna, was, whom I had met on the surface of the tower. I wondered if she sometimes lay here, beside the divan, as I. I wondered if she was kenneled tonight. I did not think she would be pleased, if she learned who it was who now lay here, beside the divan.

I then fell asleep.

Toward dawn I awakened.

I lay there on the tiles. A bit of light crept into the room from the window and porch.

I heard him stirring.

I lay there, tensely. It would be he who would decide what was to be done.

He stood up, beside the divan. He lifted me in his arms, and turned me about, so that my head was toward the head of the divan. He then, with a rattle of chain, flung me upon it.

He must have slept well.

He was indeed refreshed!

But his day would doubtless be a busy one. He was an important man. He would have much planned. He had little time now for a slave. He was quick with me. But I had been restless during the night, it had almost been as though I had been waiting for him, hoping for him. My response was grateful, almost instantaneous. But then he was done with me. He thrust me from the surface of the divan, to my knees, beside it. I was grateful for whatever crumbs or morsels I had been thrown. He unlocked the collar from my throat. I was free now of the divan. “Fetch the street sandals,” he said, indicating a pair of sandals across the room. I went to all fours and crawled to the sandals, and picked them up in my teeth, and, on all fours, brought them back to him, and dropped them at his feet. I had been taught to fetch sandals in the pens.

He looked down at me.

I knelt before him.

I picked up one of the sandals, and kissed it, and then, humbly, head down, placed it on his foot. I did the same with the second sandal.

I then looked up at him.

“You fetch, kiss, and tie sandals well, Earth woman,” he said.

“Please do not call me an Earth woman, Master,” I begged. “Surely, by now, it is clear what I have become, that I am only a Gorean salve girl!”

“But we will keep an Earth-girl name on you,” he said.

“As Master pleases,” I said.

“It may serve, from time to time, to remind you of your origins.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

In a short time he was prepared to leave his compartments.

“Guards will come for you shortly,” he said.

He carried some things, and motioned that I should lie upon my stomach in the vicinity of the double door. He crouched beside me and crossed my wrists. He jerked tight knots on them. He then crossed my ankles, and pulled them up, close to my wrists. In a moment, with a few quick movements, my ankles had been tied tightly together and fastened to my wrists. He then put me to my side. I looked up at him.

“Slave,” said he.

“Yes, Master?” I said.

“You did not dance badly,” he said, “and it is clear that you are familiar with slave movement,” I supposed that slave movement, its subtlety, its grace, its sensuousness, was now a part of me, in part trained into me, in part naturally manifesting itself, in my current condition. I was no longer even aware of it, really. Slaves are not permitted to move with the rigidity, the awkwardness, of free woman. Indeed, it is said that a skilled slaver can tell the difference between a free woman in the robes of concealment and a slave in them merely by having them walk about. Even so subtle a thing, you see, militates against a slave’s possibility of escape. To be sure, a slave might escape one master, to fall into the hands of another. She might change her collar, so to speak. But then the new master, knowing her for an escaped slave, is likely to keep her in close chains, and treat her with great harshness and cruelty. Indeed, after he has pleasured himself with her for some weeks he may simply return her in chains to her former master, for her punishment.

“Master?” I asked.

“It was not merely for your ignorance that you were purchased,” he said. “We also wanted one who was beautiful and desirable, and such things.”

I was silent.

“You are a natural slave,” he said, “and you have come along well. We are pleased.”

“Then I, too, am pleased,” I said, “Master.”

“The peasant,” he said.

“Yes, Master?” I said.

“He is in your keeping,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. He was actually in the keeping of the pit master, the depth warden, of course, but it was I, it seemed, who would be attending to the servile trivialities of his keeping, his feeding, the emptying of his wastes bucket, and such.

“Do you recall how you are to appear before him?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “In a string and slave strip, if that.”

“And how are you to move before him?” he asked.

“Master?” I asked.

“You are to move well before him,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Surely I need not explain such things to a female slave,” he said.

“Master?” I asked.

“He is to be tortured,” he said.

I was silent.

“Let him, helpless in his chains, be mocked and taunted,” he said, fiercely, “as might be a helpless male slave by an insolent slave girl.”

I did not look up. My left cheek was upon the tiles. I saw only his feet.

“He is to suffer,” he said. “He is to well understand the contempt in which we hold him, the insult we do him.”

“Master?” I asked.

“He is my enemy,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

And so it seemed that I, a lowly slave, figured somehow, in no way I clearly understood, in some obscure affair of state. I now better understood, as well, my having been obtained. My beauty, of beauty it was, was intended to have its purpose in certain plans. It was, it seemed, to be as food exhibited to a starving man. And it seemed, too, that, from the point of view of those on this world, that some grievous insult was intended as well, first, doubtless, the general insult that he, a free man, would be attended by a mere slave, an insult common to those in the pits, and, second, that he, a free man, would be attended by such a slave, a mere pierced-ear girl, and one who would be clad in such a way before him, and behave in such a way before him, one whom he, to his misery, would be unable either to enjoy or punish. He must endure, even, it seemed, if they had their way, the provocations, the mockery, of a slave. How rich the joke! How delicious the insult! But I wondered, really, if the peasant, so simple, so huge, so remote, would even understand this sort of thing. Might it not all be lost upon him? I was not certain he understood he was in chains, in the depths. Perhaps in his mind, he was in some simple hut, far off, perhaps in some small, fertile valley, tending his fields.

“You understand what is required?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He turned away.

“Master!” I called to him.

He turned back to face me.

“What you did to me last night!” I cried. “What you made me do! What you made me feel!”

“It is nothing,” he said.

“I do not even know Master’s name,” I said.

“Your name is ‘Janice’,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He then left.

A few minutes later one of the slave girls entered the room. The other was a little behind her.

They busied themselves, picking up, tiding.

One of them came over and looked down at me. “You are a well-tied little vulo,” she said.

I did not respond.

“It stinks in here,” said the other, lightly. “There must be a pit slave somewhere.”

The two girls wee not twins, but they were clearly a matched set. They were similar in height, figure, hair and eye color. They also wore matching tunics, brief, of yellow silk. I wondered if they had been sold as a matched set, or if the officer had matched them himself. I wondered if they served his pleasure together. Many men, of course, won more than one woman. How they apply them, or mix them, is up to them.

“She is a pierced-ear girl,” said the girl standing near me.

“I wish he wouldn’t bring them here,” said the other. “It lowers the quality of the compartments.”

“You are an Earth slut, aren’t you?” asked the girl near me.

I did not respond.

“Oh!” I cried, in pain, kicked.

“Aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes!” I said.

“Yes, what?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress!” I said.

“Speak when you are spoken to, slut,” said the girl.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Forgive me Mistress.”

“Let us give her a switching,” said the other girl.

“No, Mistress!” I begged. ‘Please, no, Mistress!”

“You will be a good little slave, won’t you, Earth slut?’ asked the first girl.

“Yes, Mistress!” I assured her.

“What do the masters see in such curvaceous little sluts?” asked the second girl.

“They are pretty little bundles of slave curves.” Said the first.

“That is doubtless it,” said the second.

“But we are pretty too!” insisted the first.

“Yes,” agreed the second.

I did not think we were really so much different, either. Indeed, we are all rather similarly figures. Their yellow silk certainly did not do much to conceal their own “slave curves.” What difference did it make, really, if I was from Earth and they were not? In the end were we not all the same, all women, all slaves?

There was a knock on the door.

“That will be the guard,” said the first girl. “Bundle her silk!”

In a few moments I was standing, back-braceleted. A slave sheet was thrown over my head and body. It fell to my calves. It was held on me by a collar, fastened closely about my neck. To a ring on this collar a leash was attached.

The jewelry I had worn, the bracelets and the bangles, the armlet and the earrings, had been removed from me. They had been given, together with my silk, to the guard. He placed them in a pouch. These things would be returned to one place, and I to another.

I was then led from the compartments. I had been brought to them silked and veiled. I was taken away covered in a slave sheet. There would be few, thusly, who would be able to connect me with the officer.