“I want you to be my master!” she wept.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” she said, “I–I-”
“Yes?” I said.
“Nothing, Master,” she whispered.
“What a stupid little slave you are,” I said, “but one well-curved.”
“You dare to speak so,” she said, suddenly, abruptly, eyes flashing, “to she who was once the Lady Flavia of Ar?”
“Certainly,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Have your keepers,” I said, “in your training, not put you naked before a mirror, and bound, that you might look upon yourself?”
“Yes,” she said, “and made me struggle in my bonds.”
“Surely then,” I said, “you are aware of your slave curves.”
“I have known,” she said, “since puberty, that I was a slave, and should be a slave.”
“That is often denied,” I said, “but it is not unusual.”
“Are all women slaves?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said, “but surely many are.”
“I am one such,” she said.
“And such,” I said, “will never be fulfilled, until they are at the feet of a master.”
“I would be at your feet,” she said.
“Any man will do,” I said.
“Do you think,” she said, “that a master makes no difference to a slave?”
“You speak of the feelings of a slave,” I said. “Her feelings are unimportant. They are nothing. She is merely a slave. Let her kneel, and hope to please.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“One buys a slave for work and pleasure,” I said.
“The slave seeks love,” she said.
“What the slave seeks is unimportant,” I said.
“How can a slave work for her master, know his domination, obey him, wear his collar, kneel before him, be put to his pleasure, squirm and kick, begging, in his chains, and not succumb to him, not fall in love with him?”
“Such things can take place without love,” I said.
“We want our love master!” she wept. “Do not masters search for their love slave?”
“Speak of love,” I said, “and you may be lashed.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.”
I grew muchly uneasy, and angry. The slave is a work object and a pleasure object, nothing more. That must be kept in mind. She is a meaningless, purchased beast. See that you treat her as one. She is an animal. See that you train her as one. Dress her, if you do, for her exposure and exhibition, publicly and privately, and for your pleasure. She is to wear her hair, and such, as you please. Belittle and mock her, if you wish. Scorn and detest her, if you wish. Do not be easy to please. Never let her forget that she is a slave, only that. Command her. Master her. Yours is the whip. Hers is the collar. Do not let her forget this. Work her well, and derive much pleasure from her, inordinate pleasure. She is your slave.
“The slave is nothing,” I said. “You must clearly understand that.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do not speak of love,” I said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“You are, of course,” I said, “not displeasing to look upon.”
“Master?”
“As an exciting, tender morsel of collar meat.”
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
“Excellent slave curves,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“It pleasant to have you on your knees before me.”
“A girl is pleased, if she is found pleasing,” she said.
“You kneel well,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“With one exception,” I said.
“Master?”
“Your knees,” I said, “split them,”
“Yes, Master.”
“More.”
“More, Master?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“How do you feel now?” I asked.
“I have known for years that I was a slave, and should be a slave,” she said, “but until this moment, in this place, I did not expect these feelings, as they are now, which irradiate my body. I am enflamed, Master, helplessly enflamed.”
“Describe your feelings,” I said.
“I feel slave,” she said. “I feel slave.”
“You are slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“A slave,” I said, “yearns for her master.”
“I would,” she said, “that you would be the master of my slave, the slave that I am.”
“You are not an unattractive slave,” I said.
“Choose me!” she begged.
“As what?” I asked.
“As a mere slave,” she said, “surrendering all, giving all, to her master, asking nothing, expecting nothing, of her master.”
“I see,” I said.
“Choose me, choose me!” she begged.
“Slaves do not choose their masters,” I said. “Masters choose their slaves.”
“Choose me!” she wept.
“I cannot,” I said. “You belong to the Pani, to the ship.”
She bent over, before me, her head down. Tears fell to the dirt.
After a time, she looked up, her face tear-stained.
I pointed to my feet, and she bent down, and kissed them. Tears were on my boots.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered, sensitive of the privilege which had been accorded to her, however unworthy she might be. She, a mere slave, had been permitted to kiss the feet of a free man.
“Master,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“All women are slaves,” she whispered.
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“I did not know that,” I said.
“It is true,” she said.
“Excellent,” I said.
I smiled. I had thought that a secret shared only by strong free men, the sort who have women only as slaves, the sort before whom a woman can be only a slave, the sort before whom they remove their clothing and
