“I cannot go out,” said Pertinax, turning white. “I am no hunter, no sleen master. I am no match for a sleen. It would kill me!”
“Do not be concerned,” I said. “I saw it when I went out. The sleen is a tenacious hunter. It clearly had another trail in which it was interested. At the most it will investigate your Constantina, poking her a bit with its snout, or such. In its hunt she will be no more than an inconvenience or distraction. It might not even be hungry. It is probably gone by now.”
“Bring her in,” said Pertinax. “I beg you!”
“She is only a slave,” I reminded him.
“Please!” he said.
“To be sure,” I said, “she will not be worth much on the block if she has been mauled by a sleen.”
“Please!” he insisted.
“I saw the beast,” I said. “I watched it. There is no danger.”
“Please!” he insisted.
“It was otherwise occupied,” I said.
“There might be another,” he said.
“The sleen is territorial,” I said. “It is unlikely there would be another in the vicinity.”
“Please! Please!” he said.
“Very well,” I said. I then left the hut and went to where I had left the girl. The sleen was gone, as I had anticipated. I could see a little, from one of the moons, which was ascendant, but not yet full. The leaves about her were muchly crushed, which suggested she had done, at least at first, a good deal of squirming and, as she could, rolling about. I also saw sleen tracks near her, and could smell sleen on the leaves. She had been unable to call attention to what she must have deemed her harrowing predicament, given the gag. One might have heard something if one were quite close to her. When I came to her she had fainted. I picked her up, and carried her into the hut, and Pertinax, gratefully, closed and bolted the door. I removed the bonds and gag from the unconscious girl and replaced the binding fiber in my pouch, and left the gag out, to dry. She murmured then, in misery, and, half- conscious, huddled, trembling, on the floor of the hut.
“Let us see more of her legs,” I suggested.
“No!” cried Pertinax.
I thrust up the tunic so that I could see more of her legs. She was nicely legged, but one expects that in a slave.
The girl whimpered, but, terrified, made no effort to readjust her tunic. It was as though she realized that various things might be done to her as others might please, and that she must abide their will.
Pertinax regarded her with visible excitement. Had he never seen a slave?
“It is late,” I suggested. “Perhaps we should retire.”
“There are blankets,” said Pertinax.
“Good,” I said.
“And there are two mattresses, filled with grass,” he said.
“Why do you have two?” I asked.
Pertinax did not respond.
“Cecily and I,” I said, “if you have no objection, will share this mattress.”
“Certainly,” said Pertinax.
“Surely you should have the mattress, Master,” said Cecily, “and I should sleep at your feet.”
What she had in mind was doubtless a common arrangement in a Gorean dwelling, of which she had been apprised by other slaves while in the Pleasure Cylinder associated with the Steel World from which we had recently departed. It is common for the slave to be slept at the foot of the master’s couch, chained there to a slave ring. But in such a situation she is likely to have at least a mat and, commonly, deep, luxurious furs on which to recline. Indeed, the slave is often put to service on such furs, which are commonly spoken of as “love furs.” If she has been displeasing, of course, she may be slept naked at the foot of the couch, on her chain, on the bare tiles or stones of the floor. That is not so pleasant, and, of course, it gives the slave some time to consider how she might endeavor to be more pleasing to the master. It is a sign of favor with the master for a slave to be allowed to share the surface of the couch. On the other hand, I suspect it is commonly done, except perhaps in a house with many slaves. Certainly it is pleasant to have a slave at one’s side, of whom one may make use at any Ahn of the night or morning. It is a cusp in a slave’s bondage when she is first permitted to the surface of the master’s couch.
“Later, perhaps,” I said. “I have not had you in more than twenty Ahn.”
“Yes, Master,” she said, pleased.
Pertinax crouched down beside Constantina.
She lay still, as though frightened, disbelieving, or numb.
“Let me help you to your couch,” he said.
“No,” I said, standing up, approaching them. “You, Pertinax, are master. It is you who will have the couch, and not the slave. She will sleep at the foot of the couch, on the floor, or outside.”
“Surely not,” protested Pertinax.
I nudged the slave with my foot, not gently, and she reacted, and whimpered. “Do you understand, slave?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “Master.”
“Then crawl to your master,” I said, “kiss his feet, and beg to be permitted to sleep at the foot of his couch.”
Constantina, on all fours, head down, her long hair to the floor, crawled to Pertinax, bent down, and kissed his feet. “I beg to be permitted to sleep at the foot of your couch, Master,” she said.
“Ai!” cried Pertinax, half in consternation, half in delight.
“Well?” I asked Pertinax. “A slave awaits an answer to her petition.”
“You may do so,” said Pertinax, his voice unsteady.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, and went to her place.
Cecily drew away her tunic, like the beautiful, uninhibited, shameless little animal she was, and knelt beside the mattress, at its lower left side, and lifted it a bit, and kissed it. She looked at me, expectantly, hopefully, to learn my will, and I reached down and seized her by the hair and, as she winced, in pain and delight, I drew her beside me on the mattress.
Even in the Pleasure Cylinder the slave fires had been well lit in Cecily’s lovely, helpless, vulnerable little belly, and she had soon found herself, as is common with female slaves, their victim and prisoner.
How the flames of their needs goad slaves to the feet of masters, even to the feet of those they may loathe.
I did not begrudge Cecily her ecstasies, nor would I hinder them. Some masters try to shame their slaves for what they cannot help, indeed for responses for which the master himself may have been significantly responsible, particularly if they have known them as lofty, frigid free women, now, by their will, reduced to begging animals. That, however, seems to me cruel. It does help the slave, of course, to see herself as a slave, in misery and shame, as she recalls her former contempt for such things in slaves. Now she herself understands what it is to be in the throes of being mastered.
And at a given point she throws her head back and says, “Yes, yes!” to the collar, and is whole.
Cecily, in her yieldings, was muchly pleasured, and her master, too, if it must be known, was well pleased with his slave.
Constantina had risen to her knees and was looking, hollow-eyed, dry-eyed, across the hut at us. There was a little light, from the embers of the fire.
“She is a slave, a slave!” said Constantina.
“Yes, yes, yes,” gasped Cecily, beside herself with collar rapture.
“Disgusting! Disgusting!” said Constantina.
“Pertinax,” I said, “take your slave, and put her to use.”
“No, no!” said Pertinax, frightened.
I then rolled to the side, and struggled with the vital thing in my arms, kissing, and licking me, gasping, wanting more, and more.
Later, an Ahn or more later, Cecily was asleep, and, I gathered, so, too, was Constantina. I lay awake,
