I had sensed, on Earth, that I should be the slave of men such as those of Gor, but I had not anticipated my transposition to Gor, and my marketing.
“Here,” he said, “you are illiterate.”
“I cannot even read my collar,” I said.
“You do not need to read it,” he said, “as long as you know what it says.”
“May I ask what it says?” I asked.
“It says,” he said, “‘I belong to Desmond of Harfax.’“
“I hope to please him,” I said.
It is a common way, amongst slave girls, when inquiring another girl’s master, to ask, “Who whips you?” I would then answer, “Desmond of Harfax,” or “My master is Desmond of Harfax.” To be sure, the girl may never have felt the whip, at all. If a girl is pleasing she would be seldom, if ever, whipped. And, naturally, we try our best to be pleasing and hope to be found pleasing. It is in our best interest to be found pleasing. We are not free women. We are slaves. To be sure, whereas one may surely hope to be found pleasing because one fears the whip, I think it is common, particularly after one has been in a master’s collar for a time, to hope to be found pleasing because one wishes to be found pleasing, and not for fear of the whip, but for another reason, one perhaps best concealed from the master.
“We are soon to Harfax,” he said.
“I do not even know the caste of my Master,” I said.
“It is what I wish it to be,” he said, “a Metal Worker, a Forester, a Poet, or Singer, a Cloth Worker, a Peasant, a Scribe, such things.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It is sometimes convenient to be of one caste, sometimes of another.”
“It is a disguise,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. “In some ventures, in some pursuits, it is well to blend in, to attract less attention.”
“But Master must have a caste,” I said.
“My robes,” he said, “were I to wear them, would be white and gold.”
“They would indeed stand out,” I said.
“As you might suppose,” he said, “in Merchantry, particularly in high Merchantry, one may become aware of many things. One becomes familiar with routes and cities, with goods and markets, with customs and politics, with fears and rumors. One hears much, one sees much, one learns much. I have dealt with men from Torvaldsland, from Bazi, Schendi, and Turia. It became reasonably clear, in Merchant councils, met at the fairs, that scattered, unusual purchases were being made, and that caravans were occasionally being embarked for obscure destinations, which would seem outside familiar markets. Some feared the prerogatives of our caste were being eroded, others that sources of gain were being ignored, or concealed from the caste, others that mysterious doings were afoot which might warrant some investigation. I had learned of mysterious ships, and had come to know of the existence of a Kur presence on our world. Uneasy, I feared subversion, and alien intrigue. I ventured to Ar, which I thought likely to be the center of such things, if they existed. In Ar, rather inadvertently, in a tavern, from a man named Petranos, I learned of the Lady Bina and Grendel.”
“Master frequents taverns?” I said.
“Perhaps I will sell you to one,” he said.
“Please do not do so,” I said.
“I thought it advisable to look into the matter,” he said. “Meanwhile I had discerned a troublesomely attractive slave girl, who, absurdly enough, was a woman’s slave. Clearly she should have been a man’s slave.”
“Yes, Master,” I said, snuggling closer to him.
“Much of the rest,” he said, “you know.”
“Master has made contacts,” I said. “Master has been as far as Port Kar. A slave conjectures that what was learned in the Voltai has been communicated to others and may be acted upon by many who are concerned with such things.”
“That is my understanding,” he said.
“The matters of kaissa sheets, of plans, of subversion, have been made known,” I said.
“I, and others, have done what we can,” he said. “I think that, by now, the councils of a hundred cities have at least been contacted. To be sure, I suspect that the faction-ridden councils of most will ignore the matter, regarding it as ludicrous, dismissing it as the unimportant, irrelevant product of farce, hoax, or hysteria, perhaps, at best, as unwarranted alarms broadcast by madmen.”
“Master has done what he can,” I said.
“As of now,” he said. “Meanwhile, my affairs have been long neglected.”
“Master will to Harfax?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “In the guise of a wainwright.”
“That is one who builds wagons, or tends to them,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Few then will suspect that he carries riches with him from the Voltai.”
“I will buy a wagon, a tharlarion, and join a caravan,” he said.
“Is Harfax beautiful?” I asked.
“I find it so,” he said.
“I shall look forward to seeing it,” I said.
“You will first see it,” he said, “afoot, chained to the back of my wagon.”
“I am to be chained to the back of a wagon?” I said.
“Do you object?” he said.
“No, Master,” I said. I had no wish to be beaten.
“Harfax is beautiful?” I said.
“I think so,” he said.
“I suppose there are slaves there,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. “Harfax is noted for the beauty of its slaves.”
“I am jealous,” I said.
“There will be many beautiful slaves,” he said. “Many will be for sale.”
“Keep me, Master,” I begged.
“See that you are worth keeping,” he said.
“I will do my best,” I said.
“Before we leave,” he said, “we will visit Grendel and the Lady Bina, and Astrinax, and Lykos, and perhaps some slaves.”
“I would very much hope to do so,” I said.
“A small feast, or two,” he said, “would be in order.”
“There is a private dining room in the restaurant of Menon,” I said.
“Excellent,” he said, “but I am thinking, too, of the garden behind the house.”
“Master has pleasant memories of the garden?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“A slave is pleased,” I said.
My master had taken much pleasure from his slave in the garden. Her feelings were unimportant, but how could she forget the grass, the smell of flowers, the wind in the leaves overhead, the strength of his arms, her helplessness, his hands, his touch, his lips, his caresses, his tongue, forcing her to endure a hundred intimacies, some anticipated, some unexpected, some imperious, some beautifully subtle. Often must her mouth be covered lest her cries, those of an uncompromisingly ravished, exploited chattel, annoy the neighborhood.
“We might set up a table, and sit on mats,” he said.
“But not in a certain place,” I said.
“No,” he smiled, “not in a certain place.”
That place, I gathered, quiet and secluded, with its soft grass and flowers, might be a private place, a very private place, one reserved for a master’s different feasting.
