“Mistress?” I had said.
“You are a slave, are you not?” she asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” I had said.
“And only a slave?” she said.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, “only a slave.”
“And what is a slave?” she asked.
“Mistress?” I asked.
“A property,” she said. “Goods, merchandise.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“So now you surely know what you are doing here?” she said.
“I am being trained,” I said.
“For what?” she said.
“That I may be pleasing to a master,” I said.
“We would like you to live past your first night at his slave ring,” she said.
“I will try to be pleasing,” I said.
“Very pleasing?”
“Yes, Mistress!”
“Wholly pleasing, in every way?” she said.
“To the best of my ability,” I said.
“So, then,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
“Mistress?”
“You are goods, merchandise,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “I am goods, merchandise.” It was true; that is what I now was.
“So now you understand what you are doing here,” she said.
“Mistress?” I said.
“You are being readied for sale,” she said.
I well knew myself a slave, of course. I had sensed this even on Earth, and there was obviously no doubt about it here, on Gor. Here I might or might not wish to be a slave, but, in either case, it was what I was. Here my will was nothing. Whether I might kiss my fingertips and press them to my collar, or sob and scream, and try to tear it from my neck, it was on me. And my thigh was marked, with the Kef, the most common slave brand on Gor, a mark which showed all who might look upon it what I was, and only was, kajira. Still I had not thought, actively, or very actively, of being sold.
Now, as I was being marched through streets I could not see, naked, back-braceleted, a bead fastened in this small slaver’s necklace, the wind and sunlight on my bared body, I knew I was being taken, for the first time, to market, a market where I would not buy but be bought, as much as a verr, or a basket of suls.
Still I was delighted to be out of the house.
I wondered who might buy me.
I was soon to be owned, the property of a particular master.
“I regret,” had said one of the mistresses, “that we did not have more time to train you.”
“You are pretty,” said another, “and you will do your best to please, will you not?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“Many men do not object to a half-trained girl,” said another. “They are cheaper, and they may train them to their taste.”
“There are others coming in,” said another, “who must be prepared.”
“A city fell,” said another.
“You are a barbarian, Allison,” said another, “and barbarians are apt pupils, as they are already three- quarters slaves, but the new arrivals will be former Gorean free women.”
“I see,” I said.
“How we will love to have them under our switches,” said another.
“We will teach them that they are now slaves,” said another.
It was hard for me to imagine such women as slaves, from what I had heard of them, but I knew, too, that there were few bred slaves, at least in the sense of being the products of the slave farms. The overwhelming majority of female slaves on Gor would have once been Gorean free women, of one caste or another. Too, Gorean free women, whatever might be the expectations of their society concerning them, were surely women, with all the instincts, needs, desires, and drives of the human female, all the complex genetic codings of such latent in each cell of their bodies. And I had heard guards exchanging remarks, after the passage of one free woman or another in the house, perhaps shopping for a serving slave, or a silk slave, speculating on her possible value on the block. It was just as well our exalted visitors had remained oblivious of such conversations. Within the robes of concealment, it seems, following the views of the guards, there was always a slave, lacking only the collar.
“The slave, Allison,” I said, “thanks Mistresses for the training they have given her.”
They had kissed me, and, shortly thereafter, one of the guards arrived, the hood dangling in his hand.
We continued to make our way through the streets.
At that time, hooded, I did not realize the striking beauty of a Gorean city, how so many of its buildings, the lofty towers and graceful bridges, the spacious porticoes, the splendid colonnades, and such, were bright with color, nor was I aware of the wealth of colors in clothing, both that of men and women. I did realize, of course, from the house, that slave tunics came in a variety of cuts and colors, in samples of which I had been forced to pose before mirrors, but each was commonly of one color. They were, after all, slave tunics. The house tunics, incidentally, those worn in the house, were commonly drab, usually being brown or gray. There are fashions in such things, of course, for both the free and the slaves, with respect to colors, textures, materials, cuts, hemlines, and so on. How and when fashions changed, and why they changed, was not clear. Doubtless there were setters of trends, say, highly placed officials, wealthy Merchants, Actors, Singers, and Poets, certain women of noble family and high caste, and such, but why should one option rather than another succeed in being adopted, however transiently? Perhaps the higher, better fixed, more established or influential members of the Cloth Workers had something to do with it, with hints, with words dropped now and then, with boulevard posters, with some judiciously distributed free garmenture, here and there, and so on. Doubtless each time a fashion changed at least the high Cloth Workers, masters of the foremost garment houses, would sell more garmenture, at least to the fashion conscious, to those who were concerned to keep up with the times, to those who feared to be pitied or ridiculed for being out of style, and such. With respect to slave tunics, for example, it was several years, apparently, since the common slave tunic was white with black striping, usually with a diagonal striping. And, of course, if masters and mistresses might be concerned with the garmenture of their kajirae, as simple and brief, and as revealing and demeaning, as it might be, one can well imagine their concern with their own garmenture, particularly if they were of high caste.
The coffle chain was a girl chain, and, accordingly, light. Nonetheless it would hold us, its prisoners, in a perfect, neck-linked custody. This is not unusual, incidentally, the lightness. The custodial hardware of Gor, where kajirae are concerned, is commonly light. It is also, of course, strong, or strong enough, at least, to well exceed the strength of women. It is also, commonly, graceful, even lovely, and is designed to set off and enhance the beauty of its prisoner, while putting her wholly at the mercy of the free. She is, after all, a slave. Its usual purpose, then, is not merely to hold the lovely prisoner but to make it clear to any observer, casual or otherwise, that she is powerless, vulnerable, defenseless, and unprotected, accordingly, not merely to confine her, but to expose her, or should one say, in the case of a slave, as she is goods, to display her. For example, the slave bracelets we wore, which pinioned our wrists so helplessly behind our backs, were attractive. One might have mistaken them for ornaments or jewelry, were it not for the inflexible metal links which joined them.
I have wondered sometimes if free women do not sometimes wonder what it would be to find themselves in such “ornaments” or “jewelry,” stripped and helpless within them.
Did they realize that they might be that beautiful?
Perhaps an iron is being heated, and a collar has already been removed from its peg.
It is common, incidentally, to fasten a girl’s hands behind her back. In that way she is more helpless, her arms nicely drawn back, and her beauty, obviously, is better exhibited, more exposed to sight and touch. Too, of course, braceleted as she is, she is incapable of fending away or resisting caresses, even if she, unwisely, should wish to do so. I did not know my place in the coffle, other than the fact that I was neither first nor last, for I could
