I had exhibited myself as the slave I now was. How faraway was the college, and the sorority!
“She is blushing,” said the voice.
“She is a new slave, and a barbarian,” said Menon.
“Yet she did well,” said the voice.
“She is born collar meat,” said Menon.
“She is of increased attractiveness,” said the voice, “different from the Metellan market.”
“Yes,” said Menon.
I had sensed, earlier, that I was changing. The collar causes such things in a female.
Too, the owner of the voice must have seen my sale some weeks ago.
“How would you like to leave the kitchen, the tables, Allison?” said Menon.
“It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.
“Kneel,” said Menon. “Face our guest.”
I knelt, my knees closely together. I did not cover my breasts, of course, for they were those of a slave.
“How, my dear,” asked the stranger, “would you like a new chain, a new cage?”
“It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.
“How, my dear,” said the voice, “would you like to be chained to a loom in the mills of Mintar, with cropped hair, or be placed in one of the public laundries, or sent to the mines of Argentum, or the tharlarion stables at Venna?”
“It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.
“But you would not be too pleased?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Have no fear,” he said, “it is not to such a place I would send you.”
“A slave is grateful,” I said.
“What would you like?” he asked.
How absurd, I thought, that one should ask that of a slave.
“Perhaps, Masters,” I said, “I might be purchased as a private slave, to serve a private master?”
“You would like that, would you not, kajira?” asked the stranger.
“Oh, yes, Master,” I said, “yes, Master!”
It was for such a favor, such a delight, such a privilege, that I had plied the tables in my serving. I dared to look up and see the stranger. He was stocky, broad-shouldered, and powerful. He was blond-haired. He was not bad looking. Immediately I began to wonder what it might be, to be owned by him. How glorious, I thought, to have a private master, him or another, to whom one might devote oneself, assiduously, as his slave.
He seemed typically Gorean. He would see to it that a woman served him well, and doubtless with perfection, should she be a slave.
“I would try to serve Master well,” I said.
“Astrinax,” said Menon, “whom I have long known, is an agent, who receives orders, requests and such, screens merchandise, and buys for others.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“He contracts with several towers, for serving slaves,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I had occasionally been out of the restaurant, on errands, and had marveled at the lofty towers of Ar, so lovely and colorful, and yet so stately, solid, and formidable, each, in its way, a defensible keep, with its reservoirs, and emergency stores. It would take years to reduce even one to submission. These towers, at various levels, were joined by narrow, graceful bridges. In times of peace, one might move from one tower to another, through one tower to another, by means of these bridges, to many parts of the city, without once descending to the streets. The bridges for the most part are unrailed but traversed with ease by urban Goreans used to them. I myself would have been terrified to set foot upon almost any one of them, the streets so far below. They were of different widths, some ten feet in width, many four to five feet in width. They have colored lanterns on them, spaced here and there, which are commonly lit at night. It is very lovely. On my former world, Earth, there are similar walks, but they are on the ground. Few of Earth would think twice about traversing such walks. On the other hand, if such walks were elevated, I suspect few would care to try them. One supposes it is largely a matter of that to which one grows accustomed. In any event, you traverse the high bridges with the same thoughtless nonchalance with which those of Earth traverse their own walks. Your bridges, slender and graceful, are often arched and curved, almost like branches in a forest, for you have an aesthetic sense, it seems, in so much that you do, evinced in things as intricate as the soaring melody of a skyline to things as simple as the carving on an oar or a wooden spoon. To be sure, you have your realms of crowding, ugliness, and danger as well, the dank, odorous, ill-lit insulae, steaming in the summer, clammy and cold in the winter, smelling of offal and urine, and the dark, cluttered, filthy, winding streets of some of the low districts. Sometimes the towers seem to be giants, standing proudly, independent and mighty, soaring to the sky, touching clouds, their feet in garbage. Much depends, of course, on the district. In many respects Ar is a city of wonder, of beauty and grace, of soaring towers, large parks and gardens, and broad boulevards. It is in terms of those that one numbers her amongst the “high cities.” But she is, too, a city in which poverty and wealth, surfeit and want, cleanliness and dirt, may be juxtaposed. A silken palanquin, with closed curtains, may be borne through slime. Here and there women, unattended, grace the bridges in their promenades, while below a troop of guardsmen may tread with care. Praetors preside in the markets, dispensing justice, while here and there, beneath their feet, in sewers, like urts, others wait for darkness. Much depends on the district, and the time of day. I suppose that cities are similar, on whatever worlds they may be found. Here a tunicked slave might wander about in the night without fear, there a guardsman is reluctant to enter at the Tenth Ahn. One thing I did not realize originally about your bridges is the military utility involved in their design, that they may be blocked and defended by small groups of armed men; five may defend against a hundred, because of the hundred only five can engage at a time. Too, the bridges may be broken, this preventing access to the towers, turning each into a solitary, soaring, nigh-impregnable citadel.
I supposed then that Astrinax, as I gathered his name was, was jobbing for some tower or another, presumably on the lookout for girls who might make acceptable tower slaves. There tends to be turnover in such slaves, as, in their work, in the corridors, on the stairwells, and in the apartments, they may come to the attention of one fellow or another, who will take them for a private slave. Being a tower slave is usually regarded as a plausible route, even a promising route, to obtaining a private master. Most slaves, as you know, or may suspect, long to be the slave, and wholly so, of one man alone. This is the joy of the slave, to kneel naked at the feet of her master, to lick and kiss his whip, and his feet, and then to lie before him, helpless in his chains.
To be sure, she hopes to be his only slave, as well!
I had occasionally seen tower slaves in the streets, in their white, knee-length, modest, demure tunics.
It was easy to see why a fellow might want to get them out of those tunics. Properly caressed, and long denied passion, it was said they were commonly as hot as paga sluts.
I did not think I would mind being a tower slave.
Surely, as one cleaned an apartment, dusted a bit, arranged furniture, and such, it seemed a clever girl might find ample opportunities for calling herself to the attention of one fellow or another.
A smile, an ankle seemingly inadvertently extended, colored string wound about it, a touching of one’s collar, a shy glance, a way of turning, of looking over one’s shoulder.
Such things.
“Split your knees,” said Astrinax.
“Master?” I said. Then I went to “position,” not wanting to be cuffed for dallying.
“Astrinax also,” said Menon, “scouts and buys for the taverns and brothels, as well.”
“Yes, Master,” I said, uneasily.
“Do you think you would make a good paga girl, or brothel slut?” asked Menon.
“I do not think so, Master,” I said.
“Do not worry about it,” said Menon. “The lash quickly teaches a girl to be accommodating, and grateful.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“The paga slave quickly becomes a passion slut,” said Menon.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
