bracelets, perhaps ankle rings, and, surely, an attractive leash. In time, if she proved satisfactory, I might even consider a tunic, or two, the sort of tunic men choose for owned women. I doubted if, when on her own world, her old world, that no longer her world, as she was now of Gor, she had anticipated her present helplessness, and the absoluteness of her new condition, that of a Gorean
She looked small, half concealed in the bedding, that within which she had been placed.
I held up the lamp, and, in its light, examined her, from the smallness of her thonged feet, to the curves of her calves, and thighs, the sweetness of her love cradle, the narrowness of her waist, the delights of a small but ample, well-proportioned, exciting bosom, which would be so vulnerable to the caresses, the lips, and kisses of a master, to her rounded forearms, half pulled behind her, her soft shoulders, the white throat, yet to be closely clasped in a signet of bondage, her exquisite features, her lips, and eyes, her wide, frightened eyes, and her dark hair, which I supposed had not been cut since her arrival in some slave pen, as Gorean masters commonly like long hair in a slave. She presumably did not even know the pen, or its location, in which she had first learned that she was now a property, goods, to be disposed of as men might see fit.
“I trust,” said Callias, “she is the right one.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!”
“Good,” he said.
“You bought her!” I said.
“For you,” he said. “The barbarian is yours.”
“I can never pay you back,” I said.
“You could,” he said, “as the tarn disk in your wallet, which you were so careless with a moment ago, would buy several such as she.”
“Allow me to recompense you,” I said.
“No,” he said. “She is a gift. And one of not much importance.”
“She is the world to me,” I exclaimed.
“Continue her examination,” he said.
“‘Continue’?” I said.
“Turn her,” he said, “put her on her belly.”
I did so.
“A bit slender,” he said, “but lovely lines.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Sit up, girl,” said Callias, and the slave turned about and struggled to a sitting position before us. Her hair was partly before her face. She drew back a little, from my hand, frightened. I brushed the hair to the side.
“I did not allow her to speak,” said Callias.
I nodded. She had been then, as it is said, gagged by the master’s will.
“Perhaps she has heard more than we might like, words which might frighten her, or go to her head,” he said, “but I did not wish to leave her lying about, just anywhere.”
“Certainly, Master,” said Alcinoe, “it will not hurt her to know that she has been found of interest by free men, and is desired.”
“No,” said Callias, “so much is known by any woman who is bought off the block or pulled by the hair from her cage.”
“Even muchly desired?” smiled Alcinoe.
“You will need a whip, of course,” said Callias.
“Of course,” I said.
Fear showed in the slave’s eyes. I gathered she had been whipped, perhaps in the slave pen, long ago, to help her understand she was a slave, and perhaps in the paga tavern, to assist in her training. She impressed me as a frightened, timid, bashful slave, who well knew herself a slave, and would be muchly concerned to be found pleasing by her masters. Such slaves scarcely ever feel the lash. There would be no point to it. The slave is to be worked, mastered, and enjoyed. If one is not interested in relishing and cherishing a slave, why own one?
“To be sure,” said Callias, “she may have heard too much, but if she is wise she will not attempt to grow bold, or presume on a master’s indulgence. It is a simple thing, when she is in your collar, to correct such mistakes. Let her be in no doubt that when she is in your presence, she is, so to speak, to be on her knees. Too, perhaps, we overspoke ourselves, or your mind may change, and the whim of one day be unknown to the whim of another day. Keep her as the slave she is, and all should go well.”
“I see,” I said.
“Besides,” he said, “you have not owned her before. Perhaps you have overestimated her. Perhaps she will not prove to be satisfactory.”
“She is so beautiful,” I said.
“Then you could sell her,” he said.
“Master!” said Alcinoe.
“So let her rejoice, hope that all will go well, and tread softly,” he said. Then he turned to the seated, bound slave, who shrank back. Callias, when he wished, could be intimidating. “You are no longer a paga girl,” he told her. “You have been purchased. I bought you. You are a gift.” He then indicated me. “I bought you for him. You are now his. You belong to him,” he said. “Do you understand?”
The slave nodded.
“I have not given her permission to speak,” said Callias.
“I see,” I said.
“You are in the presence of your master,” said Callias. “Get on your knees, and put your head down, to the floor.”
The slave struggled to comply.
How beautiful she was, so before me.
“Step back,” said Callias to me.
I moved back, a few feet, across the floor.
“Now,” said Callias to the kneeling girl, bent over, her head down to the floor, “to your belly, and wriggle across the floor, to your master, and then put your head down, and lick and kiss his feet, until you are permitted to stop.”
I stood back, and watched this dream of pleasure, bit by bit, struggling, approach me, as a bound slave, and then that beautiful dark hair was about my feet, and I felt her lips and tongue, those of this beautiful animal, a slave, my beautiful belonging, caress my feet.
There are many gestures of submission.
The common submission of a free woman, usually rendered in terror of her life, as amidst the flames of a burning city, is to kneel before the male, and lift her crossed wrists to him, her head bowed between her arms. In this way her submission is clear, and she is hoping to buy her life with her beauty, the crossed wrists, ready for binding, indicating that she is pleading to be accepted as a slave. If she is accepted, the wrists are usually bound, and she is expected to follow her captor docilely. Sometimes, of course, after this gesture, she is put to her belly, her wrists are bound indeed, but behind her, and a rope is put on her neck, or, sometimes, a nose ring, on a cord, is affixed, such things functioning as a leash or tether.
She continued, on her belly, bound, to tender a slave’s deference to a free man.
Looking down upon her, I thought how strange it was that she, from a far world, be here, thusly. I wondered what her fellow students, from her own world, those supposedly so superior to beauty, its naturalness, and purpose, might think of her now, she to whom they had regarded themselves so superior, on the grounds of ignorant doctrines, labored concealments, and falsifications of nature, as she now was, a frightened, bound slave, understanding herself subject to the uncompromising domination of a male. Could they understand the needs, the joy, the readiness, the responsiveness, the passion, of a woman mastered? Perhaps they would be indignant, offended, outraged. Or perhaps they would be amused, and think her fate one well deserved, a fate well deserved by one whom they suspected did not share their views. But then, at night, would they dream of themselves so, at the feet of masters?
“It is enough,” I said.
I then lifted her to her knees, before me.
I then went behind her, and, with some difficulty, undid the knots binding her ankles together, and then those
