The former Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym smiled. She was far, now, from her antecedents, from Mayfair, from Oxford.
She was now naught but a Gorean slave girl, on a world on which men knew what to do with such as she.
I did not, incidentally, despite Miss Wentworth’s command, or behest, give Cecily permission to reclothe herself. Without that permission she would remain naked.
Cecily was quite attractive.
And this is not surprising.
Is not a woman most attractive when she is naked, in a slave collar?
“Slut, then!” said Miss Wentworth.
“Every good slave,” I said, “should be a slut at her master’s feet.”
“Disgusting!” said Miss Wentworth.
“Not at all,” I said.
“Is that what men want, sluts?” said Miss Wentworth.
“Far more than that,” I said, “a slave. Every man wants a slave, a helpless, vulnerable, ardent, needful slave.”
“White,” she said, “does not!”
“I am Pertinax,” said Pertinax.
“What?” said Miss Wentworth.
“There is no ship,” he said.
“There will be a ship!” she cried. “I shall demand it!”
“I am Pertinax,” he said.
“You are mad!” she said. “That is over!”
“No,” he said, quietly. “It has just begun.”
“Pertinax,” she said, angrily, “is a man of Earth. He is civilized!”
“High civilizations,” I said, “have invariably held slaves.”
“He is a gentleman!” she said. “He would not want a slave.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, “have often held slaves.”
“Reassure him, Pertinax,” she snapped. “Tell him that no true man would want a slave!”
I thought it interesting, how words could be twisted about, and used as levers, as cudgels, as whips, and such.
“I am not sure of that,” he said. “Perhaps it is otherwise. Perhaps it is rather that any man who does not want a slave is not a true man.”
“Certainly men desire slaves,” I said to Miss Wentworth. “I think that is clear. Beyond that the dispute seems to me verbal. I suppose one could define the true tarn as one that does not fly, the true larl as one that does not hunt, and so on, but this does not seem helpful in understanding the world. Putting aside cultural and historical considerations, as somehow irrelevant, surprisingly so, or illegitimate, astonishingly so, one might ponder whether or not biology is relevant to the matter, for example the radical sexual dimorphism of the human species, genetic predispositions, the pervasive relationships in nature of dominance and submission, and so on.”
“I am a free woman!” said Miss Wentworth.
I was not clear as to the pertinence of her claim, which was uttered almost hysterically.
“There is also,” I said, “the test of life consequences. For example, what are the effects of one modality of life as opposed to another? Suppose one way of life reduces vitality, produces unhappiness, boredom, even misery, and anomie, a sense of meaninglessness, and another modality of life increases vitality, enhances life, produces happiness, charges one with energy, gives meaningfulness to one’s existence, and so on. Which is to be preferred?”
“I am a free woman!” she cried.
I was not disputing that. I wondered at her outburst.
She was still, of course, in her tunic.
Perhaps that was what motivated her outburst. Perhaps she wanted to utter something which might seem to belie her appearance, an appearance which doubtless made her uneasy, or somehow troubled her. Certainly Pertinax and I had no difficulty in accepting that she was a free woman. It did not seem, then, that she should be trying to convince us of that. Who then was she trying to convince? Pertinax naturally, from his background, I supposed, the antecedents of our situation, and so on, would think of her as a free woman. And I, too, thought of her as a free woman, particularly in view of her awkwardness, clumsiness, stiffness, and such, to say nothing of her manifest psychological and emotional problems. The contrast with Cecily was obvious. Cecily, now, not only accepted her sex, but rejoiced in it. At a man’s feet, owned, and mastered, she had found herself.
She had wanted to end her confusions and conflicts, and had discovered the sweetness and wholeness of a total surrender to the male, her master.
She kissed his feet and became herself.
“I am a free woman,” said Miss Wentworth, “a free woman, a free woman!”
“Of course,” I said.
“I wonder,” said Pertinax, thoughtfully.
Pertinax’s remark surprised me. I had not expected it.
“What?” cried Miss Wentworth.
“In the offices, amongst the desks,” said he, “did I not imagine you often not in your svelte business wear, and high heels, so chic and yet so provocative, so arrogantly, insolently, calculatedly, deliberately provocative, but rather barefoot on the carpeting, naked and collared?”
“You beast, White!” she screamed.
“You will address me as Pertinax,” he said.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“There is no ship,” he said. “Much has changed.”
“There will be a ship!” she cried. “Nothing has changed!”
“I have changed,” he said.
I had the thought, now, that Pertinax might leave a hut, to look after a trussed property, even were a sleen in the vicinity.
And certainly a property, helplessly trussed, lying outside in the darkness, might fervently hope that he might do so.
“I trust,” said Miss Wentworth to Pertinax, “you are not toying with contemplating the possible meaning of your bestial strength, that you are not tempted to acknowledge your desires.”
Pertinax regarded her, angrily.
How fortunate she was that he was not Gorean!
“Your strength and desires must be ignored,” said Miss Wentworth. “It is best if you can convince yourself that they do not exist. Struggle desperately to do that. If that is not possible, you must put them to the side. One must choose sorrow and righteous grief over opportunity and gratification.”
Yes, very fortunate.
“Why?” asked Pertinax.
“Because you are of Earth!” she said.
“Perhaps an Earth which has too long ignored certain truths,” he said, “an Earth in sorry need of recollection, of reformation.”
“You are a cultural artifact,” she said, “engineered to conform to imposed standards, as much as an envelope or motor.”
“No,” he said, “I am a man.”
“A cultural construct!” she said. “A manufactured product, designed to cohere with a complex set of systematically interrelated roles.”
“Surely,” I said, “a test of cultural value should have some relevance to the happiness and fulfillment of human beings.”
“No,” she said.
“To what then?” I asked.
