Mariners of Gor

they do their best to smile with their voices, banter pleasantly, and hint with a deft word or two how astute is the tradesman, and how attractive he is, and how grateful they would be, mere weak, defenseless women, and possible beauties, should he unbend a bit and relax his adamancy by a tarsk-bit or so. And sometimes, it must be mentioned, a veil might slip a little, or require some hasty, furtive, readjustment. They, too, as the kajirae, are women, and, accordingly, not above wheedling a favor, pleading a cause, or improving an occasion, by means of their sex. It is such considerations which influence many a tradesman, in his imagination, to pierce the robes of so cunning a creature and imagine her before them as what she should be, a stripped, collared slave. One wonders if the free women sense that. One supposes not. Else they might hurry from the market to their domicile, remove their robes, stand before a mirror, touch their throat, and wonder what it might be, to belong to a man. One is reminded of the saying that a free woman is but a slave without a collar.

“So,” I said, “you use your smiles?”

“Certainly, Master,” she said.

Many men would do much to win a smile from a beautiful slave. How cunning are the delicious brutes.

“That is less easy for a free woman,” I said.

“It is not I who veil them,” she said.

“Surely you, or such as you, historically, have had something to do with the matter, however indirectly,” I said. “They are muchly concerned that they not be confused with such as you.”

“-a mere beast,” she said.

“In the view of some,” I said, “you are less than a beast.”

“Master?”

“-a slave.”

“I see,” she said.

“But have no fear,” I said. “In my view, and in that of most, and certainly in the eyes of the law, your status is clear.”

“Master?”

“You are an animal, a beast.”

“But no more?” she said.

“Certainly not,” I said. “You are collared, you may be bought and sold.”

“I see,” she said.

“You would sell for far less than a tarn, and much less than a sleen or kaiila, but more, usually, than a tarsk or verr.”

“I see,” she said.

“To be sure,” I said, “much depends on the market.”

“Doubtless,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

“So I am a beast,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “and only that.”

“On Earth,” she said, “I did not think of myself as a beast.”

“On Earth,” I said, “you were not a beast.”

“But here I am such,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“And only such,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“But I am a pretty beast, am I not?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

There was no gainsaying that. There were few men who would not want one or more, such as she. Who would want an empty slave ring at the foot or one’s couch? And there are many in the market, assuredly, and affordable, whose trim ankle would fit well within the ring.

“On your world,” I said, “you were free, were you not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Interesting,” I said.

“‘Interesting’?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “as you obviously belong at a man’s feet, as a slave.”

“I assure you,” she said, “I was free.”

“What is wrong with the men of Earth?” I asked. “Why would they not take their most desirable women and collar them? Do they not want them?”

“It seems,” she said, “they do not want them that much.”

“Perhaps some women are slaves, even there,” I said, “and wholly, but the matter is kept from public view.”

“As the relationship seems quite natural,” she said, “and seems embedded in the human psyche, I suppose that is possible.”

“But let us leave that unusual world to its own devices, its own prevarications, inhibitions, and deceits,” I said.

“You think I am a natural slave, do you not?” she said.

“You are a female, of course,” I said.

“I feel I am a natural slave,” she said.

“And in your feeling,” I said, “is found the truth.”

“My world,” she said, “does not even permit me to entertain such thoughts.”

“But you did entertain them, and do entertain them, do you not?” I asked.

She lifted her head, boldly. “Yes, Master!” she said.

“Put your head down,” I said.

She lowered her head.

“Your body is rich with the curves of a natural slave,” I said. “Consider what you are, your softness, your thoughts, your hopes, the most secret of your secret dreams, your desire to be owned, your desire to belong to a master, your desire to kneel and serve, your desire to be found pleasing, your desire to be uncompromisingly possessed, yes, possessed, and to be treated as, and ravished as, a slave, your femininity.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Think carefully,” I said. “Are you a natural slave?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Then,” said I, “you should be a slave, and it is right that you should be a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And on this world,” I said, “what is fitting and right for you has been imposed on you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“So here on this world,” I said, “you are a slave, and choicelessly, a well-collared slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You have pretty legs, slave girl,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

“Were you, and such as you, veiled on Earth?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Really?” I said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“That must make things quite easy for slavers,” I said.

“Doubtless,” she said.

“You must have been scouted, reviewed, considered, entered on a slave list,” I said.

“I know nothing,” she said. “I was returning one evening from a library, sensed something behind me, was held, so tightly, found it difficult to breathe for a moment, and lost consciousness. When I awakened, I found myself nude and chained, in a slave pen.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you did not veil yourself in your world. Did you not know you were attractive?”