obvious possibility, a most likely route for escape, it would have been guarded against with zealous care.
“If she escaped, Master,” said the slave, “I think it unlikely she will long remain at large.”
I nodded. Her conjecture seemed to me plausible.
“I heard the masters speaking,” she said, “in the camps. A price of ten thousand tarn disks, of double weight, has been placed on the Ubara’s head.”
I nodded, again. I had heard that, too, from Torgus, on the beach. Every bounty hunter on Gor, professional or amateur, would seek the Ubara. Too, it was unlikely that she would be long shielded from discovery, given the price on her head, and the hostility with which she was so generally regarded. Her vanity, her arrogance, the insolence with which she had abused power, her betrayal of her Home Stone, and such, militated against her concealment. Perhaps, as Torgus had suggested, she had already been captured, and her captors were negotiating for an even higher remuneration.
“You have been helpful,” I told the slave.
“You are not going to take me back to Ar?”
“No,” I said. “Such things are behind you.”
I turned to go.
“Master,” she called, softly.
I turned back.
“What are slave fires?” she asked.
“Put your knees apart,” I told her.
She gasped, but obeyed.
She seemed pathetic, in the darkness, kneeling on the small, striped straw mat, her skin so white, illuminated in the light of the taper.
The light reflected from the chain, dangling from her neck.
“Can you not sense what slave fires might be?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I think so.”
“Fear them,” I said. “Resist them mightily. For once they burn in your belly, you can never again be truly free. You will always be a man’s slave.”
“I am not permitted to resist them,” she said, “for I am a slave.”
“That is true,” I granted her.
“Master,” she whispered.
“Yes?” I said.
“I can sense what they can be,” she said. “I do not want to resist them.”
“They will change you,” I said, “forever.”
“I want to be changed,” she whispered.
“Put your knees together, and go to first obeisance position,” I told her.
With a rustle of chain, she obeyed.
“You are a mat girl,” I told her. “You may now beg as one.”
“Master?” she said.
“You may kiss the free man’s feet, and beg to be found pleasing,” I said.
I then felt her lips at my feet.
“You may both kiss, and lick, lovingly, deferentially,” I said. “It is a great honor for a slave girl to do this, for he is a free man, and she is a mere slave.”
This was true, for some masters will not permit a slave to perform this simple act, even when she begs for the privilege. From the point of view of a free woman this act may seem humiliating, and perhaps it is, for a free woman, but, for the slave, it is a beautiful act of submission, even of love, in which she testifies to her joy in bondage, and expresses, humbly, and symbolically, her gratitude to her master, that he has consented to have her, one such as she, only a slave, in his collar.
Many free women cannot even begin to understand the love of a slave for her master, but it may be the deepest and most profound love possible between a human female and a human male. Indeed, in the view of many, it is exactly that, the deepest and most profound love possible between the human female and the human male, that of slave for master, and of master for slave.
What else can so fulfill the natures of both?
She knelt at my feet, her head down, her neck in the chain. There was a rustle of chain as she trembled, understanding where she was and what she was doing, and then she, again, bent to her task.
“What are you?” I inquired.
“A slave,” she whispered, “a mat girl.”
I considered her hair. It had not been well shortened. It was ragged, and uneven.
“It is enough,” I said. “Keep your head down.”
She was quite beautiful. That had been clear when she had knelt at the beach, the cold surf coming and going, washing up, now and again, about her thighs, feet, and calves. She was beautiful now, too, in the flickering light of the taper.
“You may beg,” I said.
“I beg to be found pleasing, Master,” she whispered.
Torgus and his fellows, in my opinion, had shown her, and her chain sisters, too little respect. They had regarded the chain as raw, poor stuff, as largely worthless slut merchandise, little better than free women. Could they not see the females as what they might become? Washed, combed, brushed, trained a bit, silked or tunicked, their slave fires ignited, taught to fear the whip, they might prove exemplary merchandise. I wondered again if Pertinax might like her. He had never owned a slave. How then could he know what it was to be a whole man?
“You may kneel up,” I told her.
“Master?” she said.
“You are beautiful, and you did well,” I said. “It is my hope that you will be permitted to live.”
“Surely you are not leaving,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But you sought me out!” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you not want my body?” she asked.
I smiled. How much like a foolish free woman was she still, who so often so little understood men. The Gorean master possesses the whole slave, and the slave understands she is wholly possessed. He will have everything out of her, her feelings and thoughts, her imaginings, her hopes, her dreams, her fears, everything, and, if necessary, he will have this out of her by the whip. And soon the slave desires, too, desperately, to convey the wholeness of her to the master. She knows her beauty is to be placed at his feet, his to do with as he pleases, but she learns that he will have, too, if it pleases him, as it may or may not, spilled at his feet like her tresses, the treasures of her inner life. It is a miserable slave who is kept as a mere body.
Much, of course, depends on the master and the slave.
Bondages are plentiful, and various.
A slave may be kept in contempt, as nothing. She may grovel in fear at her master’s presence. She may crawl to him, not knowing if she is to be struck or not.
She may be a delight to him, and be much as a companion, but at a mere word be naked before him, on her belly.
There are the slaves of great houses, those ornamenting pleasure gardens, those chained behind palanquins for display, those sold to brothels and taverns, those of the fields, and mines, and laundries and mills, those of the stables and barracks, and inns, those belonging to regiments, to shipping lines, to caravan masters, and so on. Many and various are the countries of bondage.
The master may have many slaves, but the slave may, by law, have but one master, even if it be the state, or some corporate entity.
Most slaves desire a private master, and they hope to be his only slave.
The most personal and intimate relationship possible between a man and a woman, is that she is his slave. What greater intimacy can there be between a man and a woman than that the woman is wholly his, that she is literally owned, that she is his possession, his slave?
