The slave nodded.
“I have not given her permission to speak,” said Callias.
“I see,” I said.
“You are in the presence of your master,” said Callias. “Get on your knees, and put your head down, to the floor.”
The slave struggled to comply.
How beautiful she was, so before me.
“Step back,” said Callias to me.
I moved back, a few feet, across the floor.
“Now,” said Callias to the kneeling girl, bent over, her head down to the floor, “to your belly, and wriggle across the floor, to your master, and then put your head down, and lick and kiss his feet, until you are permitted to stop.”
I stood back, and watched this dream of pleasure, bit by bit, struggling, approach me, as a bound slave, and then that beautiful dark hair was about my feet, and I felt her lips and tongue, those of this beautiful animal, a slave, my beautiful belonging, caress my feet.
There are many gestures of submission.
The common submission of a free woman, usually rendered in terror of her life, as amidst the flames of a burning city, is to kneel before the male, and lift her crossed wrists to him, her head bowed between her arms. In this way her submission is clear, and she is hoping to buy her life with her beauty, the crossed wrists, ready for binding, indicating that she is pleading to be accepted as a slave. If she is accepted, the wrists are usually bound, and she is expected to follow her captor docilely. Sometimes, of course, after this gesture, she is put to her belly, her wrists are bound indeed, but behind her, and a rope is put on her neck, or, sometimes, a nose ring, on a cord, is affixed, such things functioning as a leash or tether.
She continued, on her belly, bound, to tender a slave’s deference to a free man.
Looking down upon her, I thought how strange it was that she, from a far world, be here, thusly. I wondered what her fellow students, from her own world, those supposedly so superior to beauty, its naturalness, and purpose, might think of her now, she to whom they had regarded themselves so superior, on the grounds of ignorant doctrines, labored concealments, and falsifications of nature, as she now was, a frightened, bound slave, understanding herself subject to the uncompromising domination of a male. Could they understand the needs, the joy, the readiness, the responsiveness, the passion, of a woman mastered? Perhaps they would be indignant, offended, outraged. Or perhaps they would be amused, and think her fate one well deserved, a fate well deserved by one whom they suspected did not share their views. But then, at night, would they dream of themselves so, at the feet of masters?
“It is enough,” I said.
I then lifted her to her knees, before me.
I then went behind her, and, with some difficulty, undid the knots binding her ankles together, and then those confining her small wrists.
She moved her ankles, and rubbed her wrists, looking up at me.
“Position,” said Callias, sharply.
Instantly, frightened, she went to position. I noted, interestingly that Alcinoe, reflexively, had also gone to position. She seemed nonplussed for a moment, but remained in position. I did see that this pleased her master.
My slave seemed apprehensive. This night she had changed hands. She may well have been unaware of the transaction, until she was called forth, and delivered into the hands of Callias.
Callias scowled at her, at the gift he had made me. I gathered he wished to make sure that it was a good one.
“Your knees,” he said. “Widen them. What sort of slave do you think you are?”
Obediently she spread her knees more widely.
I supposed she had no doubt now, but what she had been purchased for a pleasure slave. To be sure, this should have been anticipated by any paga girl. I forced myself to remember that she was a barbarian, and, as I recalled, had not been long in bondage. Indeed, on her own world, I supposed she had been free, as free, at any rate, as such women could be, in such a world, where, I gathered, their values, views, attitudes, dress, behavior, and such were dictated, as nearly as I could tell, by lunatics who, in fear of themselves, lived in hiding, walled away from nature, and her fulfillments. One gathered they somehow supposed that nature was a mistake, the foe of happiness, rather than its foundation and truth. How such an aberration might come about seemed inexplicable. Doubtless there had been cultural turnings, misdirections, roads wrongly taken. Doubtless there were historical reasons underlying this phenomenon, reasons by means of which a suitably informed scholar might intelligently speculate on the matter.
She was before me, in position, kneeling back on her heels, her back straight, her head up, looking ahead, the palms of her hands down on her thighs, her knees spread, this making clear the nature of her bondage. Alcinoe, too, to the side, was in position.
Both were lovely slaves.
I regarded my slave, rapt.
I wondered if women could begin to understand how they appeared to men, and what they meant to men.
I supposed not.
How could they?
They were not men.
They could know, of course, that they were desired, sought, hunted, captured, bound, chained, bought and sold, owned, and mastered.
Perhaps that would give them a sense of things. Free, of course, distracted, confused, uneasy, restless, discontented, suspicious, and unhappy, and not knowing why, their beauty was extremely dangerous, and could easily be misused to torment and divide men, to influence and manipulate them, to discomfort and afflict them, for not all wounds and bruises, blows and goadings, are the results of steel or leather. The question then is a simple one, which is “Who shall be master?” The man is mightier, and, in his heart, wishes to own the female. The female, is weaker, smaller, softer, and, in her heart, longs to be owned, and mastered. She is content only at the feet of a strong male. Accordingly, the relationship of the male master and the female slave is appropriate, a relationship in which nature is fulfilled, to the benefit of both. The female responds to the master, as his slave, and the master revels in the possession and mastery of the female, his slave. The war is done. She kneels before him, wearing his collar.
I looked upon my slave, and my slave knew herself looked upon, and as a slave.
She trembled, but retained position.
“Slave,” I said.
She looked at me, frightened. Her lips trembled a little, but formed no sound. She looked wildly, frightened, to Callias. I recalled she had been forbidden to speak. Clearly she did not wish to feel the lash.
“It is I who now own you,” I said. “Do you understand, female?” So addressed, as “female,” the woman, whether free or slave, is forcibly reminded of what she is, radically and basically, and that it is quite different from something else, that of being a male. And this recollection, on the part of a slave, who is vulnerable, helpless, and owned, is even more devastating, for she is not only a female, but a female who is a slave.
The slave swiftly nodded, frightened. Her hair moved about her shoulders as she did this. I wanted to seize her in my arms, fling her to the floor, and cover her with kisses.
“You have, as of now,” I said, “a standing permission to speak.”
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
“Revocable at any time,” I added.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You may speak,” I said. “Speak.”
“I am afraid,” she said.
“We will have to improve your Gorean,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“It is reasonably fluent at present,” I said.
“That is my hope,” she said, “Master.”
“I am going to be about for bit,” said Callias. “In that time, Alcinoe will work with her.”
“She is a barbarian, Master!” said Alcinoe.
“No matter,” said Callias, touching his belt.