consructions and rigidities, is in perfect working order.'
'Perfect working order?' she asked.
'Of course,' I said. 'The feelings you describe, and many others, like them, are the natural and spontaneous reactions of healthy and passionate woman in the presence of an attractive male. Rather than feel shame at experiencing them you should feel concern if you did not. The failure to feel such feelings, in situations in which it would be natural to feel them, would presumably be a clue as to the presence of some unfortunate barrier or blockage, either physical or, more likely psychological.'
'But do good women have such feelings?' she asked.
'I do not know,' I said. 'But sick women do not.'
She looked at me.
'What is a 'good woman, ' I asked, 'one who is natural, spontatneous, feminine and loving, or one who conforms to certain cultural stereotypes, the results, usually, of attempts on the part of aggressive mental cases to impose their maladies, from which they seem unable to escape, on others?'
She did not speak.
'Some virtues,' I said, 'require a cure.'
'But such feelings,' she said, 'could make a woman a slave.'
'Yes,' I said.
'I see why some women fear them,' she said.
'So do I,' I said. 'But you are a slave, so you need not be concerned about such matters. Enslaved, you are free, interestingly and paradoxically, to be free.'
'You make me feel free,' she said.
'Beware you are not whipped,' I said.
She contritely kissed my feet.
'Master,' she said.
'Yes,' I said.
'I do feel distress,' she sid.
'I know,' I said.
'Real distress,' she said.
'You are a female of strong, though once rigidly suppressed, drives, who has been enslaved,' I said.
'Master?' she said.
'Too,' I said, 'the feelings of the normal woman, under the conditions of forthright and explicit slavery, are often multiplied a hundred fold, and, in some women, it seems, a thousand fold.'
'I cannot stand it, Master,' she said.
'Grovel,' I told her.
'Surely you would not make me do that?' she said.
I pointed to the ground at my feet, uncompromisingly. She slipped to her belly before me. I felt her lips and tongue on my feet.
'The important thing,' I said, 'is to be what you are. If you are a slave, be a slave.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'What are you?' I asked.
'A slave,' she whimpered, kissing at my feet.
'Then be a slave,' I said.
'Yes, Master,' she said.
The collar looked well on her neck, under her hair.
'You treat me,' she said, 'like I was-like I was-'
'A slave,' I said.
'Yes,' she said.
'You are a slave,' I said.
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'So expect to be treated as one,' I said.
'Yes, Master,' she said.
I let her please me for a time in this fashion, bellying before me, kissing, and licking and suckling at my feet.
'You grovel well, Slave,' I said.
'Thank you, Master,' she said.
'You would not begrudge a fellow the enjoyment of his sovereignty, would you?' I asked.
'No, Master,' she said.
'You look well at a man's feet,' I said.
She moaned in humiliation, and in severe sexual destress.
'You may thank me,' I said.
'Thank you, Master,' she said.
'You're welcome,' I said.
'You enjoy my debasement,' she said. 'You enjoy it!'
'Yes,' I said. 'So do you.'
Her small shoulders shook. I saw that what I had said was true.
'You may kneel before me,' I said.
She rose to a kneeling position before me. 'You have not touched me,' she said, 'and yet you have much aroused me.'
I did not respond to her. Human females are such rich and wonderful creatures. Their sexual life, and feelings, are subtle, complex and deep. How naive is the man who believes that having sex with a woman is so little or brief a thing as to fall within the parameters of a horizontal plane, the simple stimulations of a skin, the results attendant upon a simplistic manual dexterity. How woefully ignorant are he engineers of sexuality. How much to learn have even her artists and poets! Women are so inordinately precious. They are so sensitive, so beautiful, so intelligent and needful. No man has yet counted the dimentions of a woman's love. Who can measure the horizons of her heart? Few things, I suspect, are more real than those which seem most intangible.
'Without even touching me,' she said, 'you have much aroused me. And now I kneel helplessly before you.'
Her distress was obviousl. She was a slave, and needed desperately to be taken. And yet I had done little but treat her as a woman, and impress, categorically, male domination upon her. I did not think she was now in doubt as to her sex.
'When I led you behind the lodge,' she said, 'I was grateful and happy. It was my intention to make you a gift, of my own free will, of my pleasures. But now you ahve made me needful. Now you have put me at your mercy!'
'It is suitable, Slave,' I said.
'Will you not be kind?' she asked.
I did not speak to her.
'You see me helpless and needful,' she said, 'begging.'
'It beifts you,' I said, 'Slave.'
'Men do this to us,' she said. 'They make us this way, and then they decide whether or not they will even touch us!'
'Sometimes, too, as I understand it,' I said, 'a girl is made to perform.'
'Perform?' she asked.
'Yes,' I said, 'she is made, so to speak, to earn her havings.'
'Yes, Master,' she said. 'That is not uncommon.'
'Are you prepared to work for your havings,' I asked, 'to earn them?'
'Yes, Master,' she said. 'I will do anything.'
'But you must do anything anyway,' I said, 'for you are a slave.'
'Yes, Master,' she moaned. 'Yes, Master.'
I looked down upon her.
