I could not take my eyes from the beast.
It regarded me, sleepily, and returned to the grooming of its paw.
It seemed incredibly huge, even more so in the small hut then earlier outside of Targo's compound. It was like a glistening, somnolent, boulder of fur, alive, hundreds of pounds in weight. The eyes were large, black, round, the snout wide, two-nostriled and leathery. I shuddered at its mouth, and fangs, the upper two protruding downwards at the sides of its jaws. Its lips were wet from the saliva from its long, dark tongue, which, with its teeth, it was using to groom the fur on its right paw. The strike of those jaws could, with one wrenching twist, have torn away the shoulder of a man.
I trembled, terrified, my back pressed against the rough boards.
Elinor Brinton, trembled, terrified, naked and bound, her back pressed against the rough boards, a cowering slave girl.
"Good evening, Miss Brinton," said the man. He had spoken in English. "You!" I cried.
"Hello, Cookie," he said.
"You! I whispered. It was the smaller man, one of those who had originally captured, and had bound me on my own bed in the penthouse. It was he who had entered the syringe in my right side, in the back, between my waist and hip, drugging me. It was he who had touched me intimately, who had been warned away from me by the larger man. It was he who had taken my matches and cigarettes, who had leaned over me, and had blown smoke, as I had lain nude before him, bound and gagged, into my face.
His ferret eyes regarded me, looking me over.
"You're a pretty little cookie," he said.
I could not speak. "Kajira!" he snapped in Gorean. Every muscle in my body tensed. He suddenly snapper his fingers and, in the swift double gesture of a Gorean master, pointed to a place on the dirt floor before him, almost simultaneously turning his hand, spreading his first and index fingers, pointing downwards. I fled to him and knelt before him, my knees in the dirt, in the position of the pleasure slave, my head down, trembling.
"It is interesting," he mused, "the effect of slavery on a woman."
"Yes, Master," I whispered.
"Excellent," he said.
"The proud, arrogant, rich Miss Brinton," he remarked, speaking in English. "No, Master," I whispered, in English.
"Are you not Miss Brinton?" he asked.
"Yes," I whispered, "I am Elinor Brinton."
"What is she?" he asked.
"Only a Gorean slave," I said.
"I never thought to have you at my feet," he said.
"No, Master," I whispered.
"It is not unpleasant," he said.
"No, Master," I whispered.
He went to a side of the room and picked up a small bench, which he brought forward and set before me. He then sat on this bench and, for some time, regarded me. I did not move.
Then he rose from the bench and went again to the side of the room, where there was a pile of cut logs. He took one and put it on the fire at the side of the room, in a shallow, rimmed stone hearth. There was a shower of sparks. Smoke found its way upward through a rudely fitted stone venting.
I was tense, frightened. I did not move. He returned and sat again before me. Then he said, "Stand."
Immediately I leaped to my feet. "Turn," he said.
I did so.
To my surprise, he unbound my wrists. My hands were numb. I could scarcely move my fingers.
He sat on the bench, and I stood before him. I rubbed my wrists and moved my fingers, trying to restore their circulation.
He did not speak to me.
I stood before him for a long time.
"Step back," he said.
Terrified, because it brought me nearer the beast, I did so, trembling. "Attack!" he shouted in Gorean to the beast.
It howled and lunged for me, jaws snapping, great black, furred arms gasping. I screamed hysterically and found myself in the corner of the room, screaming, wedged in the corner, on my knees, my hands in front of me, scratching at the boards with my fingernail, weeping, screaming and weeping.
"Do not be afraid," he said.
I screamed and screamed.
"Do not be afraid," he repeated.
"What do you want with me!" I cried. "What do you want with me!" I shuddered, and shook with tears, and fear. "What do you want with me?" I begged. "What do you want with me?"
"Miss Brinton," he said, kindly.
I tried to breathe.
"Goreans are barbarians," he said. "They have compromised your modesty." His voice was solicitous, apologetic, concerned, kindly.
Numbly I turned to face him.
He stood near the bench. In his arms he held a red-silk full-length, belted lounging robe, with a high, throat-inclosing figured, brocade collar. "Please," he invited.
I approached him numbly, and turned. He held the robe for me, as might have an escort. He helped me slip it on. "It's mine," I whispered. I remembered the robe.
"It was yours," he said.
I looked at him. What he said was true. I could own nothing. It was rather I, who was owned.
I belted the robe.
"You are lovely," he commented.
I fastened the high, figured, brocade collar about my throat.
I regarded him, once again my own woman.
"Yes," he said, "you are very lovely, Miss Brinton."
I watched him as he went again to the side of the room, and brought forward a small table, and another small bench. He gestured that I should join him at the table. He seated me.
I sat at the table, and watched him as he threw another log on the fire. Again there was a shower of sparks, and the smoke climbing upward toward the venting. The beast now lay curled in its place, on straw. Its eyes were closed, but it did not seem to be asleep. It would move occasionally, or yawn or change its position.
"Cigarette?" asked the man.
I looked at him. "Yes," I whispered.
He produced two cigarettes from a flat, golden case. They were my brand. With a small match, he lit my cigarette for me, and then his. He threw the match into the fire.
I fumbled with the cigarette. My hand shook.
"Are you nervous?" he asked.
"Return me to Earth!" I whispered.
"Are you not puzzled as to why you were brought to this world?" he asked. "Please!" I begged.
He regarded me.
"I will pay you anything," I whispered.
"Money?" he asked.
"Yes!" I said. "Yes!"
"Money is unimportant," he said.
I looked anguished.
"Smoke your cigarette," he said. I drew on the cigarette.
"Were you startled the morning you awakened and found yourself branded?" he inquired.
"Yes," I whispered. My hand inadvertently touched the mark on my thigh, under my robe.
"Perhaps you are curious as to how it was done?"
"Yes," I whispered.
"The device," said he, "is not much larger than this." He indicated the small, flat box of cigarettes. "A handle, containing the heating element, is fixed into the back of the marking surface. It switches on and off, much like a common flashlight." He smiled at me. "It generates a flesh-searing heat in five seconds."
"I felt nothing," I said.
"You were fully anesthetized," he said.
"Oh," I said.
"I personally think a girl should be fully conscious when being branded," he said.
I looked down.
"The psychological impact is more satisfactory," he said.
I could say nothing.
"Salve was applied to the wound. It healed quickly and cleanly. You went to bed a free woman." He looked at me, unpleasantly. "You awakened a Kajira." "The collar?" I asked.
"You were lying unconscious before the mirror," he said. "We re-entered your apartment by means of the terrace." He smiled. "It is not hard to collar a girl."