Kajira of Gor (59 page)

technically, they might be tho property of the state of Argentum, I, at any

rate, did not own them. I could own nothing.

Rather it was I who was owned. Fortunately, Sheila and I were almost identically

figured.

“Turn, Tatrix,” said Drusus Rencius.

I turned, obediently, before him. He sat in the eurule chair, across, the room.

I had been given the slave name, “Tatrix.” I had been given no choice in the

matter, and I must respond to it, perfectly.

“Good,” he said. “Now walk back and forth, slowly.”

I did so.

Many of the garments I wore had been those which I myself had worn, when I had

been playing the role of the Tatrix. This pleased Drusus Rencius. He remembered

me in them.

“Good,” he said. “You may now stop.”

I stood then again before him, facing him.

“Turn again,” he said.

I did so.

“Good,” he said.’

I wore no bond. He had even removed from me his collar. It hung now on the arm

of the curule chair. There was no doubt, however, that I was a slave, or whose

slave. I was. I was branded, and I was paid for.

“You will now strip yourself naked, slowly,” he said. “I in-tend to enjoy this.”

I reached to the pins, at the side of the veil. One by one, I removed them. I

then put the veil with its pins, to one side. I then, with both hands, putting

back my head, brushed back the hood of the ‘robes. I shook my head and arranged

my hair. I then faced Drusus Rencius, face-stripped.

“Continue,” he said.’

One by one I removed’ the garments of the Tatrix. Then I stood before him clad

only in undergarments of Earth, in a brassiere and panties.

Drusus Rencius nodded.

I removed the brassiere, and straightened my body.

“Excellent,” he said.

I faced him.

“Now remove the last veil,” he said.

I bent down and, in a moment, stepped from the panties. I then, again,

straightened myself before him. I hoped he liked what he saw. He owned it.

“Superb,” he said. “Superbi”

I smiled.

His face grew hard. “Kneel,” he said.

Swiftly I knelt, in the position of the pleasure slave.

I swallowed, hard. I saw that he had no intention of permitting my beauty, if

beauty it was, which had at one time apparently been so tormenting to him, when

it had been inaccessible, diminish in any way the perfections of his mastery of

me.

He went to a chest at the side of the room, and drew forth a small, gray

garment, which he threw to me. I caught it against my body. I shook it out,

happily. “You kept it, Master!”

I laughed, delighted. It was the brief slave tunic, sleeveless and gray, which I

had worn in the house of Kliomenes, so long ago, in Corcyrus.

“Yes,” he said, “for when you were my true slave.”

“I love it!” I said. To some, I suppose, it would have seemed a scandalous rag,

unseemly and degrading, but I found it very beautiful, not only because of the

lovely and sensitive way in which it enhanced and displayed the beauty of the

female figure but because of memories with which it was associated, memories

which, for me, at least, were very precious.

“Put it on,” be said.

Still kneeling, I drew it happily over my head. Then, slipped into it, I

smoothed it down about my body.

“You are so beautiful,” he said. “Stand.”

I stood, and pulled it down more about my thighs. “It is rather short, though,

isn’t it?” I said.

“It will be shorter,” he said, drawing out a knife.

“Master!” I protested, but he, with the knife, cutting and tearing, must have

shortened it by at least two horts.

I looked down, dismayed.

“Later,” he said, “sewing, smooth out the hem.”

“But if I take up the hem,” I said, “it will be even short” “Must a command be

repeated?” he asked.

“No, my master!” I said.

He then stepped back, to regard me.’

I pulled down at the sides of the garment. If it had been much shorter I feared

my brand might have shown!

“Stand straight,” he said.

I did so, my hands at my side.

“A great improvement,” he said. “Even though it is perhaps a bit long it is now,

at least, within the normal ranges for slave lengths. Yes, I think it is now,

even though a bit long, acceptable for a slave, even perhaps suitable for one.

Before, of course, it was suitable, intentionally, only for a free woman

pretending to be a slave.”

“Turn,” ‘he said.

I did so.

“Yes,” he said, “I think it is now suitable, or will be, when you’ have attended

to the hem, shortening it still further.”

I knew that I must learn to go forth in such garments, the garments of slaves.

I stole a furtive glance at a mirror. The garment, I saw, to my pleasure, set me

off beautifully, though, to be sure, as what I was, a slave.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said.

“You may now remove it,” he said, “and kneel again, as you were before, before

me.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, He returned to the curule chair.

I was then again before him as I had been, naked and kneeling.

“You are aware, doubtless,” he said, “that my feelings toward you are, or were,

extremely complex.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “And if I may speak of such matters, in my opinion, you

have understood me very well in some things, and very little in others. Also, it

seems you have sometimes wanted me to be, or expected me to be, things which I

was not.”

“Do you understand what we are doing here?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. It was now clear to me. He had seen me as a Tatrix, he had seen

me stripped, he had seen me again in the garment, subsequently shortened to

slave length, which I bad worn in the house of Kijomenes and in the room in the

inn of Lysias.

“When we have completed this symbolic re-enactment,” he said, “you, regardless

of what you may or m~ not have been, will be, in my mind and in yours, my slave,

in a modality which I find acceptable.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. I was, of course, already his slave, legally, totally,

and in my heart. I suspected that he might now have come to sense this, but that

he was not sure of it.

Accordingly, he would take no chances with me. I would be put through processes

of enslavement, and rites of submission, the, outcome of which, no matter what

might be my nature, motivations or dispositions, would be to make clear to me my

condition, that I was, whatever I was, scheming woman or loving female, his

slave, and totally.

“Three things will now be done to you, matter-of-factly, and in order,” he said.

I looked at him, puzzled.

“Down on all fours,” he said, “and crawl here, head down, to the foot of the

chair.”

I did so and there, unceremoniously, he crouching down, behind me and to my

left, I was collared. He was not gentle with me.

“Kneel back on your heels,” he said, “and extend your arms, wrists crossed.”

I looked at him, startled, protestingly, as my wrists, with one end of a long

leather strap, were lashed together.

“Stand up,” he said. I was pulled to a position at the side of the room. The

long end of the strap was tossed up, through a ring fixed in a beam, and then

put through another ring. Drusus Rencius then drew on the strap and my bound

wrists were drawn up, above my head. He then looped and knotted the long end of

the strap about a hook, on the side. I then stood there, at the side of the

room, naked, in the collar, my hands bound together, held over my head.

“Master,” I said, “this is not like you! Where is your concern for me?”

“Were you given permission to speak?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master!” I looked up at my bound hands. The

strap was dark on them. I jerked at it. I could not free myself. I was tied in

place. My entire body, suddenly, felt very bare, very exposed, very vulnerable.

I looked over my shoulder. I was frightened. This was clearly a whipping

position.

“Please, Master!” I whimpered.

“Kiss the whip,” he said.

I did so, fearfully.

I recalled that only an Ahn before I had begged his lash, in my joy at learning

myself his. I had pleaded for the stroke of the whip that I might, in my joy and

pain, in tears, reveling, experience his dominance over me, and know myself his.

Now, however, this seemed very different’ I had been put in place as though I

might have been anyone, any slave! Did I mean so little to him? Was I so

unimportant?

Then behind me, before I was fully set for it, I heard the hiss of the five

supple blades. I screamed, struck, sobbing! I knew he had not struck me with his

full strength. I could tell that from the sound. Still my back seemed to burst

into flame. The blades had seemed, too, to encircle me, scalding and tearing at

me. “No more!” I begged. Then I was again struck.

Had I stolen a pastry? Had I not cleaned my kennel well enough? Had I not

pleased some master well enough in the furs?

I was struck again.

“Oh,” I sobbed, in misery.

Then twice more was I struck~ Drusus Renc~s did no~ much vary the locus of the

impact nor the timing. He did not

When he freed my hands of the strap I sank to my knees on the tiles under the

ring.’ I was half in shock. I knew he had not struck me with his full strength

and, indeed, I had been struck only five times. It had been little or nothing as

beatings go. Had I truly stolen a pastry, or done something displeasing, I would

doubtless have been much more seriously beaten. The beating had been little more

than informative in nature, not even really admonitory. Still I had felt it

keenly. I had now felt the Gorean slave whip. No woman who has felt it ever

forgets it. If I had had any doubts about the wisdom of being pleasing to

masters these blows, few and light though they might have been, would have

dispelled them. The beating had been little or nothing. Still, and I knew it, I

had been under the whip.

He gave me scarcely a moment to recover. Then, crawling, swiftly, crying out,

half dragged, I was pulled by the hair to the center of the room.

He knelt me there.

“Put your head down, to the floor,” he said. “Clasp your hands, firmly, behind

the back of your neck.”

“Yes, Master,” I moaned. He was then behind me. He put his hands, under my arms,

on my breasts, sweetly and firmly. Then he moved his bands back, caressing my

flanks. My head was down. My fingers were together, behind the back of my neck.

I was in his collar. It was steel, I could not remove it. I belonged to him. My

body hurt, from his whip, that of my master. My head hurt, from my hair, where I

had been conducted, unceremoniously, to this location. “Please, Master,” I

sobbed. “Not like this! Not you, please!”

“The slave is pretty,” he remarked.

“Oh!” I cried. “Oh!”

“You have a lovely ass,” he said.

“Ohhh!” I said.

“You may thank me,” he said.

“Thank you, Master!” I said. I tried not to move. It was difficult. “Please do

not treat me like this. Please do not handle me like this!”

“I will do with you as I please,” he said:

“Please do not make me yield like this, please! I love you!”

“Yield or not, as it pleases you,” he said, unconcernedly.

Then I began to whimper and moan.

“Do not move,” he said.

“Please,” I begged.

“You are a slave, aren’t you?” he asked. ‘And a natural one?”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Yes, Master!”

“Very well,” he said, “you may move.”

“I beg to yield!” I sobbed.

“Very well,” he said.

I then, a few moments later, lay on my belly on the tiles. I tried to feel

resentment toward Drusus Rencius. I failed.

I turned to my side and, the palms of my hands on the floor, regarded him. He

was again sitting in the curule chair.

“You are now ready to begin your slavery,” he said. “Your name is ‘Lita’.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. I was now no longer “Tatrix.” I was “Lita.” would respond

well to this name. It had many memories for me. It almost turned me inside out

with love for Drusus Reneius.

“You may serve me wine, Lita,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

A few moments later I knelt, lovingly, at the side of the curule chair. Reucius

held the goblet of wine. I had even been permitted to drink from it, from the

side opposite to that which had touched his lips.

“I know that you may not believe this,” I said, “and I do not wish to be struck

for saying it, but I love you.”

“Now that you are my slave, and are in my collar,” he said, “it doesn’t matter,

one way or the other, does it?”

“I suppose not,” I smiled. “But I do love you.”

“I thought you might,” he said.

“Why did you resist my advances in Corcyrus?” I asked.

“You were not toying with me?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“There were many reasons,” he said. “There was a discrepancy in our stations. I

thought you a Tatrix. I was only a soldier. Too, deception was involved in my

post. I was truly serving Argentum, and Ar, not Corcyrus. Too, though in a part

of me I recognized the slave in you the first time I laid eyes on you, in

another part of me, I supposed you actually, in spite of the evidence of my

senses, to be a free woman.