the slave house to the hut, looped up, to my hand.
She was, of course, the former Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers, of Ar, of the house of the Serisii, now vanished.
“Whip her,” I suggested, tossing Pertinax a whip, “so that she understand she is your slave.”
“My slave?” he said.
Pertinax, having become a student in the school of Nodachi, for some weeks now, no longer assisted in the logging, but, at my request, had become resident with Cecily and myself, occupying with us the hut which had originally been put at our disposal by Lord Nishida.
“Yes,” I said. “I bought her for you, from Torgus, from the slave house.”
“For me?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Do not be concerned. She did not cost much.”
Indeed, I had had her for a handful of copper tarsks, to be sure, not tarsk-bits, but tarsks.
“I was Portia,” said the slave, “Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers, of Ar, of the Serisii!”
I gave her a slight kick, in the side, and she put down her head again, quickly.
“She has much to learn,” I said. “She just now spoke without permission. Perhaps you wish to punish her for that.”
“She was important?” said Pertinax.
“I was entertained many times in the Central Cylinder itself!” said the slave, her face judiciously to the floor. “I was known personally to the Ubara. I shared her table. I drank her wine! I conversed with her!”
“Actually,” I said, “she was really never more than a pampered, spoiled brat, the young, meaningless, but surely shapely, offspring of a wealthy family.”
“Master!” she protested.
“But now,” I said, “she has no more than her slave worth, and that is very little.”
“He is a barbarian, Master!” said the slave.
“I suggest you use the whip on her,” I said, “that she may learn that bondage to a barbarian, just as that to a more civilized fellow, may be quite meaningful, and sometimes distinctly unpleasant. Indeed, she has much to learn, and there is no reason why she should not begin to learn it at the feet of a barbarian. That may prove quite instructive to her.”
“She is very pretty, Master,” said Cecily. “You did buy her for Master Pertinax, did you not?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” she said.
The kneeling slave cast a quick look at Cecily.
“Where did you find her?” asked Cecily.
“I first noted her on the beach,” I said, “at the time of the landing of the ship bearing Torgus, and several others. She was one of a chain of slaves.”
“But more recently?” inquired Cecily.
“In the slave house,” I said.
“I suspected as much,” said Cecily.
“Do you object?” I asked.
“I do not like it,” she said, “but I may not object. I am a slave.”
“I trust you are in no danger of forgetting it,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said. “I am in no danger of forgetting it. And certainly not now. I suppose you put her to your pleasure.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Was she any good?”
The new slave looked up at me, suddenly, startled, indignant, embarrassed, angry. “Please!” she begged.
Cecily, incidentally, in the sense she had in mind, was quite good, even exquisitely, helplessly precious. A touch could ignite her, and she had grown in her bondage, and, clearly, was still growing. Indeed, there is no end to such things, as the horizons of the collar are forever beckoning, and are endless. Too, Cecily and I had been matched to one another, as tormentingly attracted lovers, by the wisdom, cruelty, and science of Priest-Kings. Indeed, she had originally been intended, as a free woman, unbeknownst to herself, to tempt and torture me from my codes, to play a role in my humiliation and downfall. I could not have indefinitely resisted the taking of her, despite the fact that she was at that time free. The intervention of Kurii, in a raid on the Prison Moon, where we were captive, prevented this situation from reaching its inevitable denouement. Later, after having been appropriately thigh-marked on the Steel World, she had come into my collar.
“Yes,” I said.
“Master!” she wept.
Whereas such questions would be highly impertinent, and, indeed, improper, asked of a free woman, they are appropriately asked of a slave. A slave, unlike a free woman, is expected to be good for something, to have her utilities.
“I trust,” I said to Pertinax, “you do not mind that she is red silk, that she is not white silk.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Virgin slaves,” I said, “are very rare.”
“Oh,” he said, “I see.”
“At least,” I said, “she does not have her ears pierced.”
“At least,” he agreed, puzzled.
Commonly, on Gor, it is only the lowest of slaves who have their ears pierced. On Gor pierced ears are regarded by many as a mark of shame and degradation exceeding even the brand. Slave brands are familiar, and taken for granted. They are routine in the marking of a slave. The piercing of ears is not. The brand, too, is covered by the common tunic, whereas the piercing of ears is exposed to all, to the contempt of free women and the interest and stimulation of men. This is cultural, of course, and Earth girls whose ears are pierced, something they have generally thought little of, are often startled when they are brought to Gor, to learn how this tiny thing, to which they have usually attached little importance, at least consciously or explicitly, can provoke unusual interest and lust in males. Certainly the mounting of earrings in a slave’s ears can adorn her nicely. But, too, the puncturing of the softness of the lobes by the rigid bars anchoring the adornments has its symbolic bespeakments. Naturally it is the master who selects the adornments. Some slavers, noting that pierced-ear girls sell well, have the slaves’ ears, whether they be in origin of Earth or Gor, subjected to this simple, homely operation. Initially this is likely to produce a great deal of dismay and stress in Gorean girls. This passes, however, when they discover how much more exciting these things make them. Indeed, some girls are so thrilled with these enhancements to their meaning as a slave and their beauty as a slave that they wear them before men almost insolently, or brazenly, or defiantly, or tauntingly. “Yes, here I am. I am owned. I am a slave. What are you going to do with me?” She relates to free women, of course, quite differently, and there, kneeling before them, will commonly attempt to convey to them a sense of her own self-acknowledged worthlessness, as a pierced-ear girl. In this fashion, thus seeming to accept and share the view of the free woman as to her abysmal degradation, she is less likely to be switched. It is well known that free women often have troubled dreams, inexplicable, unaccountable, frightening dreams, that they dream of themselves, to their embarrassment upon awakening, as having been shamefully branded and collared. One supposes they might, too, sometimes, dream of themselves not only as branded and collared, but as pierced- ear girls, as well. Goreans, incidentally, accept nose rings without any particular ado. Indeed, amongst the Wagon Peoples, where veiling is unknown, such rings are common even with free women.
“At any rate,” I said, “she is yours.”
“Mine?” said Pertinax, uncertainly.
“Yes,” I said.
“What would I do with a slave?” asked Pertinax.
The slave looked up at him, startled.
Did he truly not know what to do with a slave?
“You, Cecily,” I said, “will be first girl.”
“She, too, is a barbarian!” said the slave. “I can tell.”
“Life is hard,” I informed the slave.
