We observed her.
She stood on the ball of her left foot. The left leg was slightly, subtly, flexed, and her right leg was flexed, too, and much more than the left. Her head was turned slightly to the right, as though she might wish, did she dare, to look over her right shoulder. I noted the hamstrings. They were not tight. They were lovely, beautifully resilient. Marlenus played a savage game. I was pleased that they had not bee severed.
“You see?” asked Marlenus.
“Yes,” I said.
“There is now a readiness,” said Marlenus. “She is still a raw girl, an ignorant girl, but now there is a readiness.” I nodded. “Face us,” said Marlenus.
“Yes, Master,” said Verna. I marveled. Her lips were parted. She faced Marlenus. I saw her breathing. She was excited. A girl in a collar is not permitted inhibitions. Simply standing before her master, in his collar, she was visibly excited. I could scarcely conjecture the helplessness and violence of her responses to Marlenus, should he deign to touch her.
“Do you sense in yourself a readiness,” Marlenus asked her, “to serve as a slave girl?” “Yes,” she said, “yes, Master!” “Clothe yourself,” said Marlenus.
Unsteadily, tears in her eyes, she did so.
Marlenus’ attention was again upon the board of the game.
“Ubara’s Builder to Ubara’s Builder Nine,” said Marlenus. He moved the piece. I responded to this with Scribe to Ubara’s Builder Two.
Marlenus looked up. He glanced at the girl, absently.
“Serve us wine,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I observed the board.
I wondered at women. It seems that they, in reality, care for tender, loving men, who treat them with great consideration and solicitude. Yes, in their dreams, it seems they find themselves forced to surrender, totally, to fierce, dominating masters, who insolently and cruelly, though often with ironic courtesy and tenderness, exact from their bodies, over a period of hours, every last minute sensation of response of which their bodies are capable, strong men, warriors, who, patiently, permit them no shield, who permit them to withhold nothing, who permit them to save not a particle of their honor, who will force them to yield themselves totally, helplessly, in complete and utter surrender. Gorean culture, of course, differs greatly from Earth culture. On Gor, for better or for worse, the reality in which a woman, terrified, might find herself is not altogether unlike that of her feared dreams on Earth, but on Gor it is not a dream; it is as real as the steel of slave bracelets and the commanding touch of a master.
I looked at Marlenus of Ar.
He was lost in the game, his attention on the board. I had not thought much of it before, but I now realized that he must be attractive, enormously attractive, to women. He was broad and strong. He was fierce and highly intelligent. He was as insolent, and rugged and handsome as the crags of the mighty Voltai. He was uncompromising; he was powerful; he was wealthy’ he controlled cities and men’ he was a tarnsman, master of the great, predatory saddlebirds of Gor. He had taken, and owned many women. He seemed a natural master of female flesh. Many women, just seeing him, had a spontaneous desire to yield to him. Some high-born beauties of Ar, I knew, had begged for his collar.
“Ubara to Ubara Four,” said Marlenus.
I moved my Ubar’s Physician to my Ubara Six, interposing it between the Ubara and the Home Stone.
Marlenus and I watched her pour the wine. She poured it differently than she had before. She knelt, her head down, the hair forward. I could see it in her shoulders. She, a slave girl, poured wine for masters. That she was owned was revealed, beautifully, in her serving.
I saw his collar gleaming at her throat.
Marlenus looked at me and smiled. I nodded. Verna was a slave.
She lifted her eyes to him, helplessly.
“Later,” said Marlenus. “I must finish this game.”
“Yes, Master!” she whispered.
She withdrew, kneeling, and watched. Her eyes were on the board, but I could see that she did not understand the game. It was only pieces to her. Yet she sensed the struggle.
Sometimes she looked away from the board. She was breathing deeply. Her fists would clench and unclench. There was a light sheen of sweat on her body. The slave silk clung to her the more closely. She put her head back. Her thighs moved. She was in the torment of her need, often visible in a female slave. “Tarnsman to Ubara Six,” said Marlenus. He moved his tarnsman to his Ubara Six, my Ubara Four.
“Capture of the Home Stone,” said Marlenus.
I had been crushed.
I shrugged. I stood up.
Verna’s eyes shone. I had been defeated, and devastatingly, by her master. She did not play the game, but this much she knew. She could read it in the tone of Marlenus, the swiftness with which he had moved, his insolent handling of the pieces, the vigor and arrogance of his carriage. I had been driven before his attack, stumbling and reeling before him. I could not defend myself. I had been helpless. He had crushed me.
This Verna knew. She could not take her eyes from him.
Marlenus set aside the board, and looked upon her. He had now set aside the things of men, and was ready for her, a woman.
I walked to one side of the tent.
“Remove the silk,” said Marlenus, “and come to my arms.”
Verna parted the slave silk, and dropped it to the side. He was sitting cross-legged, and she crept to him, trembling. He took her and held her across his knees, cradling her in his left arm. She looked up at him, vulnerable, helpless. His right hand was at her thigh, over her brand. There was the slight sound of slave bells, locked on her left ankle.
“You seem a woman,” said Marlenus.
“I am a woman,” said Verna.
“Are you free?” asked Marlenus.
“No,” she whispered. “I am a slave. I am your slave.”
With his hand Marlenus turned her head from side to side. Her hair was back. “These are lovely earrings,” he said.
I could see, from across the tent, the tiny shadows, where the small golden wires were thrust through the softness of her ear lobes.
They were indeed beautiful.
“Yes,” whispered Verna, a lowly pierced-ear girl in the arms of her master. “Do you like them?” asked Marlenus.
“Yes,” she whispered. “They excite me. They excite me as a woman.”
“That is one of their purposes,” said Marlenus.
She attempted to lift her lips, delicately, to his, but his hand prevented them from touching his.
“Do you like your lipstick?” asked Marlenus.
“Yes,” she whispered, “yes, Master!”
“It, too, excites you, does it not?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“How is that?” he asked.
“It, like the earrings,” she whispered, “males me feel more female, more slave.” “You are female, and slave,” said Marlenus.
“Yes, Master, she whispered. “I know. I have been taught.”
He then, with his right hand, this first kiss that he placed upon the lips of his slave girl, a kiss in which she was, by intent, permitted no part, save to feel the bruising of it in her body. When he thrust her back there was blood at her mouth, and fear in her eyes. She was now frightened of him, terribly frightened. But he put her to her back, swiftly, casually, and his hand was at her body. Then, though there was fear in her eyes, her body, as though of its own will, began to leap to his touch, that of her master. Her body, as though of its own will, obeyed the touch of Marlenus. Then she cried out, “Oh yes, Master, yes!” Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. She twisted. “I love you, Master!” she wept, “I love you!” “Tomorrow,” said Marlenus, “you will put a talender in your hair.” “Yes, Master,” she cried. “I will. I will!” I slipped from the tent. I looked back once. I saw, to one side, a bowl of scarlet, five-petaled flaminiums.
As I walked into the darkness I heard Verna’s helpless cries of joy. I heard, too, the sound of slave bells. They had been locked on her left ankle. They could not be removed, save by a key in the keeping of Marlenus.
“I love you, Master,” I heard her cry. “I love you. I cannot help myself. I love you, Master! I love you, my Master!” I envied Marlenus his girl, Verna. She was a beauty, and, in time, would be a prize slave. I thought of Sheera. Many times the thought of her had crossed my mind. I had told her I was going to sell her in Lydius. Perhaps I would not. I found myself lonely for Sheera. I called myself a fool. She was only a slave. But she was a slave not without promise. I recalled her in my shelter beside the Tesephone, in the darkness, and in the following day. She was not displeasing. Perhaps, with training, something could be made of her. I reminded myself that it was said that panther girls, once conquered, made excellent slaves. Lying in the darkness, wrapped in my blankets, I heard, in the distance, Verna’s cries of pleasure.
I threw away the blankets. I walked through the camp, until I came to the chain of Verna’s girls, they in their skins, each chained by the right ankle, the long chain fastened between the two stakes.
They were asleep, on the ground. Marlenus had told me that any of the women in the camp, save Verna, were free to me.
I looked along the chain, until I found one that pleased me.
She was sweet-bodied, wide-shouldered, dark-haired, like Sheera.
I knelt beside her and place my hand over her mouth. She squirmed helplessly. I held her. She eyes, over my hand, were wild.
“Be silent,” I told her.
Then I removed my hand from her mouth. She looked up at me.
I took her skins by the shoulders, and drew them from her body, leaving them about her right ankle, where it was fastened to the chain.
