“Is she white silk?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he mumbled.
“Surely you are interested,” I said. To be sure, a white-silk slave is quite rare.
I was having not much fortune in conversing with Callias, and so I thought I might try it with the slave. “May she speak?” I asked Callias.
“Yes,” he said. “Certainly.”
I was alarmed for Callias. Apparently he had given the matter very little thought. In any event, it seemed he accorded her a standing permission to speak. Many masters do, but, of course, with the understanding that that permission is revocable at any time. He had not even made the slave wait, in unsettled apprehension, for a time, to see what might be his decision in the matter. Whereas many masters do accord their girls a standing permission to speak, many others do not, but expect the slave, under normal conditions, at least, to request permission to speak, before speaking. Fewer things make it clearer to a woman that she is truly a slave, than that she may not speak without her master’s permission.
“Slave,” I said.
“Master?” she said.
“Are you white silk or red silk?”
“White, white, white!” she said, continuing with her kisses, then licking at the shoulder of her master, thereby confessing herself the more his loving, begging beast.
That answer, it seemed to me, was clear enough. I supposed that she had been kept white silk deliberately. I would not have guessed, however, from the sheen of sweat on her body, her avidity, the eagerness of her kisses, the wetness of her hair back against her neck, that she was white silk. As mentioned, white-silk slaves are rare. Often there is not one in a slave house.
Given the look of this slave, who was quite beautiful, though I had seen many better, it seemed unlikely she was truly white silk. Her body, its deliciousness, its vitality, its movements, its pressings and brushings, its piteous closures with, and its desperate touchings against, the master, its pleadings, did not suggest white silk. To be sure, there is a simple test for such things, often conducted by slavers. If she were truly white silk now, it was interesting to speculate on what she might be if red silk, if become the victim of irresistible slave fires. How easily a slave may be managed, and controlled, by such things! Must she wait? Will one choose to satisfy them, and how often, and in what way, and to what extent? A red-silk slave is often deprived of attention for some days, say, four or five, before being brought to the block, that she may writhe in the sawdust, extend her hands pathetically, and howl her need to the buyers.
“Have you had your slave wine?” I inquired.
I thought this a judicious question, and one that might not occur to Callias, and the slave, given the reckless pitch of their activities. A sober head is not amiss in such matters. It also seemed a good question to ask, too, as the slave, if white silk, did not seem destined to long remain in that condition.
“Yes, Master,” cried the slave, gasping, “that horrid stuff was forced down my throat shortly after my first collaring, and when I first came aboard the great ship, that of Tersites, and before I was landed, at the World’s End, and again, here at Brundisium, before I was brought ashore.”
I was well satisfied in this. Indeed, given improvements in slave wine, dating back some years, brewed from the sip root, the first administering of the wine would be sufficient indefinitely, until the administration of a releaser, which removes its effects. The releaser, I am told, unlike slave wine, which is quite bitter, is quite pleasant, rather like a sweet wine, or fruit liqueur. It is usually administered when it is decided that the slave is to be bred. Sometimes slave wine is administered more than once. There could be several reasons for this, for example, one might not know if it has been administered before, and one might wish to make sure of the matter, or one might simply wish additional security in the matter, which seemed to explain the dosage at the World’s End, or that before bringing the slave ashore in Brundisium. Too, one might administer it as a punishment, rather like a whipping or a night in close chains. Needless to say, if the slave comes with papers, a certification with respect to slave wine, and the date of its most recent administration, will usually be included in the papers.
“She seems a passionate little thing,” I said. “Are you going to breed her?”
“Yes, breed me, breed me, Master,” she wept, kissing him.
“I do not think she understands,” I said to the stranger, Callias. “Are you going to put her out for breeding?”
“Put me out for breeding?” she said, startled.
“It is a way of increasing one’s stock of slaves,” I said. “To be sure, there would be a fee for the use of the male slave.”
“I could be bred?” she said.
“Of course,” I said, “you are slave stock.”
This sort of thing, on the whole, however, is usually done by fellows who have many female slaves and do not know them, often the proprietors of large farms. The slaves, then, are bred with the same attention to lines, and properties, as other domestic animals, tarsk, verr, hurt, kaiila, tharlarion, and such. This sort of thing is independent of the sort of thing practiced on the great slave farms. Some bred slaves have pedigrees going back several generations.
“Master, Master,” she wept, “do not breed me. Keep me for yourself!”
“He will do as he wishes, slave,” I informed her.
Usually, in slave breeding, both the male and female slave are chained in a breeding stall, and hooded, that neither may know the other. The breeding takes place under the supervision of masters, or their agents, and the slaves, of course, are forbidden to speak to one another. If the breeding is successful, the mother is hooded during labor, and never sees the child, which is taken from her, to be tended, and cared for, elsewhere.
“I am so a slave, so a slave!” she said.
I frankly doubted that Callias would put her out for breeding. Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if he would release her from his arms.
“It may be done with you, kajira,” I assured her.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened. It seemed I had suggested to her a new dimension of being a slave, to which she had hitherto devoted little thought.
“Keep me, keep me for yourself alone,” she begged Callias. “I would be yours alone!”
“Do you think you could be a good slave?” I asked her.
“Yes, yes,” she said, “Master!”
I supposed this was possible. Most private slaves, after a time, are hopelessly devoted to their masters. Doubtless this has to do with the collar.
It is hard to be in a man’s collar and, after a time, not come to be his slave, not merely in law, but in heart. And it is hard to have a woman in one’s collar without noticing, after a time, how well she looks on her knees before you.
“I fear, dear Callias,” I said to the stranger, “that you are weak.”
“I?” he said.
“Do not forget that this curvaceous little thing you have in your arms is not a free woman, nothing warranting respect and dignity, but a beast, a worthless slave, only that.”
“Is she not lovely,” said Callias.
“I have seen many better,” I said, “on the shelves, in the cages, on the block, even in secondary markets.”
“Surely she is the most beautiful woman in the world,” said Callias.
“Not to everyone, surely,” I said.
“Who better?” he asked, annoyed.
“Thousands,” I said.
“Do you have an example?” he asked.
“Certainly,” I said. “What of the barbarian in The Sea Sleen, the slender brunette, the exquisite paga girl, whom you had decamisk herself before you?”
“She cannot even speak Gorean properly,” said Callias.
“She can learn,” I said, now myself annoyed.