“Collar them,” she said.
The collaring of a woman is almost always done by a man. There are few things which make a woman more conscious of her sex than being collared by a man. The collar functions on many levels. It is an identificatory device, of course, which proclaims her bondage, and often identifies her master. But more subtly it is a symbol of her womanhood, what she is, what she is for, and such. It is a symbol of a natural relationship, the female in submission to the male, or, within the institutions of a natural civilization, within the legalities of a natural culture, the relationship of the slave to the master.
We were not collared gently.
Each of us heard the snap of the collar lock.
Each of us was now recollared.
Each of us wore a Kur collar.
I supposed it was no coincidence that the fellow who had collared us was one of the hunters of Kleomenes. From the wagons, days before, we knew the sort of men who might dare to mount and manage the bipedalian hunting tharlarion, the sort of men who, armed with a slender lance, would match themselves against Voltai tarsk. We were females, small and soft, perhaps lovely, so different from them; they are large, strong, impatient, possessive, demanding, uncompromising, and dangerous. It was obvious with such men, as with Goreans generally, that it was we who would be owned, and collared.
The hunter, done with our collaring, took his leave, paying no attention to Nora. She wore the talmit but, to him, she was only another slave.
The door closed behind the fellow.
“He is gone!” cried Jane, delightedly, in English, one of the barbarian tongues, one we shared. “Dear Nora! Dear Nora!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” cried Eve, happily, “dear, dear Nora!” She, too, had spoken in English.
“Remain kneeling,” said Nora. “Keep your hands down, on your thighs.” It took me a moment to realize that she had spoken in Gorean.
Jane and Eve, puzzled, knelt back, on their heels.
We then felt bits of cloth with tangles of thong thrown against our bodies.
We let them fall, against us. They lay upon our thighs. We did not pick them up. We had not received permission to do so.
“Nora?” said Jane.
“Nora?” said Eve.
“Put them on,” said Nora.
We slipped the narrow rectangles of cloth, with their simple, centered, circular openings, over our heads, and then wrapped the long leather thong twice about our waist, and knotted it at our left hip. The knot is to be a simple bowknot, so that it may be easily loosened by a man’s casual tug. It is at the left hip because most men are right handed. The length of the thong, or cord, or binding fiber, whatever is used, is intended to allow for a variety of slave ties, or tetherings, hand and foot, or whatever the master may please.
“Nora?” said Eve, uncertainly.
“Be silent,” said Nora.
Nora then surveyed us.
“You are to speak in Gorean,” said Nora, “for it is the language of your masters.”
I sensed that Eve wanted muchly to speak, but she did not do so.
“It is my understanding,” said Nora, “that you have been named Jane, Eve, and Allison.”
These were now, of course, slave names, only that, no more. The slave, as an animal, has no name in her own right, but, as any animal, may be given any name the master pleases.
“Those names will do,” she said. “I am Nora,” she said.
She walked about us, and then was again before us.
“It is a long time,” she said, “since I have seen you three in camisks. It was at a party, as I recall. You looked well in them. You are the sort of women who should be in camisks. All of you! They are suitable for such as you.”
Did she think of herself as a free woman, I wondered. Did she not know that she, too, was now camisked, now collared?
“Allison,” she said, “straighten your body.”
I knelt more straightly.
“Is that how you belt a camisk?” she asked. “Belt it more closely, more snugly. Men prefer it that way.”
I fumbled at the thong,
“Must I do it for you?” she asked.
“No!” I said.
“‘No’?” she asked.
“No, Mistress,” I said.
Jane and Eve gasped.
I then drew the double thong more tightly about me, and knotted it, closely, at the left hip.
“You may thank me,” she said.
“Thank you, Mistress,” I said.
“Who thanks me?” she asked.
“Allison, the slave, thanks Mistress,” I said.
“You are here, all of you,” said Nora, “to work, and please men. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” we said.
“Who is first girl?” she asked.
“You, Mistress,” we said.
Nora then held the switch to our lips, those of Jane, Eve, and Allison. We all kissed it, with deference.
Nora wore the talmit. She was first girl.
“Jane, Eve,” she said. “Go through the far door. You will find the slave quarters. You will find three empty cages there, with the gates ajar, against the left wall, as you enter. Jane, enter the first, Eve, the second. Once within, pull the gate shut. It will lock, automatically. Go.”
Jane and Eve, confused, shaken, distraught, disbelieving, rose up. I would have risen, too, but Nora’s switch, lightly on my left shoulder, indicated I should remain where I was. “The slave girl, Allison, will follow you shortly,” she said.
Nora waited until Jane and Eve had disappeared through the far door which, as it had been closed, they closed, again, behind themselves. Nora and I were then alone in the large room.
She walked about me, and then, again, stood before me.
I think she was pleased to do so. Too, I had the sense that I had been assessed, as a slave.
She struck the switch into the palm of her left hand, sharply.
I winced.
“Do you wish to be switched?” she asked.
“No, Mistress,” I said.
“On the old world, in the house, on the campus, at the college, in the town,” she said, “you thought yourself more beautiful than I, more attractive.”
“You were always more beautiful than I,” I said. “Perhaps I was more attractive.”
“More fit for a collar, at a man’s feet,” she said.
“I do not know,” I said.
“I wear the talmit!” she said.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“How annoying and contemptible I found you,” she said, “laughing and smiling, so pretentiously suave, so fraudulently refined, so feignedly clever, so aristocratically chatting and gossiping, so pointlessly sparkling, so calling attention to yourself, so posing and posturing, so carrying on, and, too, so irritatingly and prescribedly slender, just as the fashion magazines would require, so pert and trim, so well-dressed, so tasteful, so refined, so chic, not a hair out of place, your makeup invariably subtle, scarcely existing, and perfect, looking about, over your shoulder, those glances, what an actress, your little movements, flirting with the boys, leading them on, amusing yourself at their
