“Perhaps Master would care to try one, and see,” I said.
“You are apparently eager to escape the kitchen,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“Fetch more suls,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
At the sorority my sisters and I, as thoughtful, informed individuals, had set ourselves to increase our wealth and advance our station in life. Certainly we had not come to college in order to familiarize ourselves with Medieval French poetry, learn about Roman band instruments, and such. The route to these ends, the assurance of a future of comfort and influence, was obviously to contract a match with a suitable young man, one of wealth and family. Accordingly, in the social circles of an exclusive, prestigious institution, located high in the tiers of a subtly hierarchical society, one given to denying its hierarchicality, and are not all societies inevitably hierarchical, we, and others, competed for the attentions of promising young men. It was a race or game of sorts, but certainly not one of simple vanity, entered into for the sake of outdoing others, of testing one’s charms and such, but one, too, with significant consequences, bearing importantly on one’s future. The sorority, with its prestige, and its relationship with the most exclusive fraternities, was an excellent platform from which to conduct our operations. In this light, then, as suggested earlier, an expulsion from the sorority, with its shame, and such, would constitute a social calamity to be avoided at all costs. All that, of course, was now far behind me. I was now half-clad in a Gorean eating house, a slave band encircling my throat. Still, I saw, and was well aware, that certain similar constants and practicalities characterized my current existence. Certainly I was not the only girl who hoped to escape the eating house. What means, what tools, or weapons, has a female slave at her disposal? Only her charm and beauty. She owns nothing, not even the collar on her neck. It is she, rather, who is owned. She has little to offer a man but herself. Once again, as before, I was competing with other women for prizes we could not obtain for ourselves, but only through men. The nature of our life would again depend on men. Here the difference was that we were slaves. Men were still the masters, but now not subtly, almost invisibly, as on Earth, but now openly, visibly, in the full force of law. Our futures, our hopes, depended on men. And we were literally collared. How clear then, without obfuscation, the pretenses put aside, the veils now removed, became the nature of reality, culturally, socially, and biologically.
“Hitch up your disrobing loop, properly, pull down the hem of your tunic,” said the free woman.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
I hoped she would finish quickly.
Gorean free women of high caste almost invariably veil themselves in public. Gorean free women of the lower castes tend to be less fastidious, or strict, in such matters. Whereas some will emulate the high-caste women, others will veil themselves more casually, or loosely, exposing more of their features. This is sometimes referred to as half-veiling. In privacy, of course, free women seldom veil themselves. In public, it is easy to eat and drink behind the veil. It may be done with delicacy and grace. It is commonly done in the eating houses. I have seen low-caste free women drink through the veil, but this is rare. It is regarded as barbarous. I have seen some free women, of low caste, on hot days, who will eschew the veil altogether. This is, however, rare. As is well known the female slave may not veil herself even should she wish to do so. That would be an insult to free women. Too, one would not, for example, veil a tarsk.
I moved quickly away from the free woman.
She had come to the eating house alone. I was not surprised. I could see something of her face. What fellow would want her in his bracelets?
There is little room between the tables and one, making one’s way, usually slowly, for the crowding, taking orders, carrying platters, and such, often brushes against the patrons. There was a small, oval, bronze mirror in the kitchen, fixed on a wall, and I often regarded myself in its reflection, turning my face one way or another, brushing back my hair, arranging it, and such. It seemed to me that certain changes were occurring in me. It is said that bondage makes a woman more beautiful, and I suspect that that is true. This is doubtless, in part, a function of appearance, and behavior, but I think it extends well beyond a certain deference, a tone of voice, a betraying garmenture, a collar, suitable postures, lowering the head, and such. Bondage, whatever might be its numerous effects, feminizes a woman, radically, and the feminine woman is the most female, the most beautiful, of all women. She becomes soft, graceful, vulnerable, and eager to please. The collar removes many conflicts, which trouble, tighten, and coarsen a woman. She knows what she is, and how she is to behave. Allowed nothing else, and soon desiring nothing else, she accepts herself joyfully as what she is, a female, and a slave, her master’s slave, her master’s possession. She is radiant. She has never been so happy. She pities the free women, lacking masters. Too, she now understands herself as a natural, intensely sexual creature. The slave’s sexual needs are as natural, and persistent and irresistible, as her needs to eat and drink. In one sense she is at peace with her sex, but, in another sense, periodically, if her slave fires burn, she is its helpless victim, a tormented slave, who will crawl even to a hated master, for his least touch. She now not only wants sex, but needs it, and will beg for it, and strive to be sufficiently pleasing, that it may be granted to her. She is grateful, in her chains or thongs, to be her master’s pleasure object, his possession, and plaything. She knows herself his property, and would be nothing else. Who can recount the ecstasies of the possessed slave? Knowing herself a slave, she wishes to belong to a master. She could be satisfied with no man who would be contented with less than owning her, wholly. Gorean men are such. She sings at her work.
One cannot help, you must understand, in the closeness of the quarters, the small space between the benches, brushing against a master now and then. There is so little room.
“Oh,” I gasped, startled.
His large hand had closed on my leg, above the knee.
“Please, Master,” I whispered, smiling, protesting.
Then I shuddered. His grip was strong, commanding. It would be difficult to free myself. I was holding a large platter of strips of roast bosk, fastened in threes with wooden skewers, one of the choices for the second ostrakon.
I saw Marcella approaching, in the narrow aisle. She was carrying a vessel of steaming kal-da.
She did not look pleasant.
“Struggle,” said he.
“I might spill the platter,” I said.
“You are rather pretty for an eating-house girl,” he said.
In the past such compliments had been few. Of late, they had been more frequent. Too, of late, I had been more often assigned to the tables. Who knows how often fellows will come to the eating house, or why they will seek one table rather than another?
“Would Master not like to have me at his slave ring?” I whispered. “I would try to please him.”
He grinned, and removed his hand from my leg.
“May I serve Master?” I asked.
“What have you?” he asked.
“Roast bosk,” I said.
“I have paid only the first ostrakon,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“Be off, pretty slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Infamous she-sleen!” said a woman.
I had not noticed that the unpleasant free woman, she who, some days ago, had castigated me for a too- casual tunicking, was again in the vicinity. Once again, which did not surprise me, she was alone.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Forgive me, Mistress.”
I quickly tried to hurry away, and Marcella, who was now near, between the benches, stood to one side, I supposed that I might pass. I smiled at her. Usually she would have expected me to turn about and move back, retracing my steps, removing myself from her path. I did not really want the attentions of the kitchen master, even though he had, of late, discouraged the other girls from bullying me. Surely she must understand that. She could have him. I wanted better game, higher game.
“Thank you,” I said to Marcella, smiling, as I went to move past her, anxious to remove myself as quickly as possible from the vicinity of the free woman.
