Mariners of Gor (70 page)

To be sure, the mastery of her, and the enjoyment of her.

“Your slave begs to be caressed,” she whispered. “Would master be pleased to caress his slave?”

How much she was a slave!

And how perfect she was in her collar!

“Please, Master,” she whispered.

At one time I supposed she had never dreamed that she would one day be a slave, and on a world far from her own.

How far she was today from the noise, the pollutions, the lies, the corruptions, the hypocrisies, and falsifications of her world!

“Please, Master,” she said. “Your slave begs your caress. She would be touched.”

“I take it your need is on you well,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You will go to the market,” I said, “and buy tur-pah, tospits, suls, and a bottle of ka-la-na.”

“Yes, Master,” she moaned.

I watched her rise, and go to the chest at the side of the room, kneel there, and count some coins into her hand.

She turned, on her knees, to face me, the coins clutched in her hand.

“May I wear a tunic?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The blue tunic, the short one, with the ragged hem, of rep-cloth.”

“Thank you, Master,” she smiled.

I thought that would turn some heads in the market. It is pleasant to witness the admiring glances which might fondle one’s slave, as she busied herself on my business in the market. Sometimes I took her out, leashed, on the promenade, her hands braceleted behind her. Occasionally on such outings I permitted her a tunic. The tunic I had prescribed for her today was the tiny one, of blue rep-cloth. It would not hurt for idlers and passers-by to guess, from the color of her scrap of clothing, that she was a Scribe’s girl.

“Hold,” I said, she at the door, and I rose to walk about her, and inspect her. “Stand taller,” I said, “lift your head, and put your shoulders back. Be proud. You are not a free woman. You are a slave. A female found worth being collared by men.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And remember,” I said, “you are a reflection on me.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She stood nicely, lissome, and appealing.

Her feet were small, and bare.

I unhooked the switch from its peg, and, returning to her, standing behind her, slapped it twice in the palm of my hand.

She winced each time, but the useful, supple implement had not touched her.

“Bargain well,” I told her.

“I will try, Master,” she said.

“If you do not, in my view,” I said, “you will be well stung upon your return.”

“I do not know your world,” she said. “And the market is different, day to day. Perhaps suls will be in short supply. And some in the stalls will attempt to cheat a slave, who would dare no such thing with a free woman!”

“And particularly,” I conjectured, “one whose accent might betray her as a barbarian.”

“I fear so, Master,” she said.

“Linger about,” I said, “sense the prices, the market, see what goods go for, question other slaves, ones who might speak to you, perhaps another barbarian, if you can find one, do not be afraid to thank the Merchant, respectfully, and prepare to leave. If your offer is reasonable, you will be hailed to return, however begrudgingly. Do not then pretend to victory, but be deferent, and grateful, that mercy has been taken on you.”

“I have done well with smiles, too, Master,” she said.

“That is one of the few advantages you have over free women,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

The face of the slave, by law, must be naked. Free women insist on that. They are not to be confused with animals, with collared beasts. The features of free women, presumably so exquisite, precious, and marvelous, are not to be exhibited to common view. Accordingly, given the depth of their veiling, and the opacity of the common street veil, they cannot well prevail upon, or influence, the peddler or merchant, the fellow sitting behind his goods, spread upon a rug or cloth, or the stallsman, behind his counter, with the loveliness of a woman’s smile. To be sure, they do their best to smile with their voices, banter pleasantly, and hint with a deft word or two how astute is the tradesman, and how attractive he is, and how grateful they would be, mere weak, defenseless women, and possible beauties, should he unbend a bit and relax his adamancy by a tarsk-bit or so. And sometimes, it must be mentioned, a veil might slip a little, or require some hasty, furtive, readjustment. They, too, as the
kajirae
, are women, and, accordingly, not above wheedling a favor, pleading a cause, or improving an occasion, by means of their sex. It is such considerations which influence many a tradesman, in his imagination, to pierce the robes of so cunning a creature and imagine her before them as what she should be, a stripped, collared slave. One wonders if the free women sense that. One supposes not. Else they might hurry from the market to their domicile, remove their robes, stand before a mirror, touch their throat, and wonder what it might be, to belong to a man. One is reminded of the saying that a free woman is but a slave without a collar.

“So,” I said, “you use your smiles?”

“Certainly, Master,” she said.

Many men would do much to win a smile from a beautiful slave. How cunning are the delicious brutes.

“That is less easy for a free woman,” I said.

“It is not I who veil them,” she said.

“Surely you, or such as you, historically, have had something to do with the matter, however indirectly,” I said. “They are muchly concerned that they not be confused with such as you.”

“—a mere beast,” she said.

“In the view of some,” I said, “you are less than a beast.”

“Master?”

“—a slave.”

“I see,” she said.

“But have no fear,” I said. “In my view, and in that of most, and certainly in the eyes of the law, your status is clear.”

“Master?”

“You are an animal, a beast.”

“But no more?” she said.

“Certainly not,” I said. “You are collared, you may be bought and sold.”

“I see,” she said.

“You would sell for far less than a tarn, and much less than a sleen or kaiila, but more, usually, than a tarsk or verr.”

“I see,” she said.

“To be sure,” I said, “much depends on the market.”

“Doubtless,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

“So I am a beast,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “and only that.”

“On Earth,” she said, “I did not think of myself as a beast.”

“On Earth,” I said, “you were not a beast.”

“But here I am such,” she said.
 

“Yes,” I said.

“And only such,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“But I am a pretty beast, am I not?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

There was no gainsaying that. There were few men who would not want one or more, such as she. Who would want an empty slave ring at the foot or one’s couch? And there are many in the market, assuredly, and affordable, whose trim ankle would fit well within the ring.

“On your world,” I said, “you were free, were you not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Interesting,” I said.

“‘Interesting’?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “as you obviously belong at a man’s feet, as a slave.”

“I assure you,” she said, “I was free.”

“What is wrong with the men of Earth?” I asked. “Why would they not take their most desirable women and collar them? Do they not want them?”

“It seems,” she said, “they do not want them that much.”

“Perhaps some women are slaves, even there,” I said, “and wholly, but the matter is kept from public view.”

“As the relationship seems quite natural,” she said, “and seems embedded in the human psyche, I suppose that is possible.”

“But let us leave that unusual world to its own devices, its own prevarications, inhibitions, and deceits,” I said.

“You think I am a natural slave, do you not?” she said.

“You are a female, of course,” I said.

“I feel I am a natural slave,” she said.

“And in your feeling,” I said, “is found the truth.”

“My world,” she said, “does not even permit me to entertain such thoughts.”

“But you did entertain them, and do entertain them, do you not?” I asked.

She lifted her head, boldly. “Yes, Master!” she said.

“Put your head down,” I said.

She lowered her head.

“Your body is rich with the curves of a natural slave,” I said. “Consider what you are, your softness, your thoughts, your hopes, the most secret of your secret dreams, your desire to be owned, your desire to belong to a master, your desire to kneel and serve, your desire to be found pleasing, your desire to be uncompromisingly possessed, yes, possessed, and to be treated as, and ravished as, a slave, your femininity.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Think carefully,” I said. “Are you a natural slave?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Then,” said I, “you should be a slave, and it is right that you should be a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And on this world,” I said, “what is fitting and right for you has been imposed on you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“So here on this world,” I said, “you are a slave, and choicelessly, a well-collared slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You have pretty legs, slave girl,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

“Were you, and such as you, veiled on Earth?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Really?” I said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“That must make things quite easy for slavers,” I said.

“Doubtless,” she said.

“You must have been scouted, reviewed, considered, entered on a slave list,” I said.

“I know nothing,” she said. “I was returning one evening from a library, sensed something behind me, was held, so tightly, found it difficult to breathe for a moment, and lost consciousness. When I awakened, I found myself nude and chained, in a slave pen.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you did not veil yourself in your world. Did you not know you were attractive?”

“I had hoped I might be,” she said, “but I struggled to put such thoughts from me, as unworthy of a woman. We are not supposed to think of such things in my world.”

“Doubtless,” I said, “that is a prescription of those who are unattractive.”

“Many of my fellow female students,” she said, “made clear to me the unimportance of beauty.”

“It is quite important on the block,” I said.

“And they lost no opportunity to scorn and disparage it.”

“And so,” I said, “the lame might denounce the swift, and the weak the strong.”

“I do not know,” she said.

“Were you popular?” I asked.

“Certainly not with my fellow female students,” she said.

“That is because you are beautiful,” I said.

She was silent.

“On this world,” I said, “we do not object to beauty. Too, on this world, beauty is abundant, and well exhibited, and well owned. That makes things pleasant for men.”

“I am pleased to be on a world,” she said, “where one is not expected to neglect or ignore beauty, nor pretend that it is meaningless, nor apologize for it, nor belittle it, nor treat it as some flaw, or defect.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “they hated you not simply for your beauty, but because they sensed in you the ancient, natural woman, the yearning, needful woman, who cannot help but respond to men as a slave to her master, something they much feared in themselves, something that terrified them, something they would struggle to resist with informative, betraying ferocity.”

“You think they sensed in me,” she said, “that I should most appropriately be a belonging of men, a female slave?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I think what they sensed in you was what they most feared in themselves.”

“I wonder,” she said, “how they might fare in the collar.”

“Most, I conjecture,” I said, “would not be adjudged worthy of a collar. Forget them. And I suspect that those on whom it was found fit to be placed would soon learn the vacuity of their former views, the artificiality and poverty of their previous ideology, and hasten to press their lips fearfully upon the feet of masters.”

“It is my hope,” she said, “that they would find happiness.”

“It matters not,” I said, “as they would then be slaves.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“So you did not veil yourself?” I said.

“No, Master,” she said, “and, in my part of the world, in my civilization, it is not customary to do so.”