But to return to the “beauty bestowed by bondage,” understand that that the free woman scouted for bondage is almost always beautiful to begin with. Thus, it is not surprising that she will make a beautiful slave. But how is it that she will become even more beautiful in bondage? A number of things are involved, and only three will be mentioned, and but briefly. First, collared and “slave clad,” women are beautiful. The collar enhances their beauty not simply as a lovely ornament, attractive on any woman, but even more by its meaning, that its wearer is a slave, that she is merchandise. It thus adds dimensions of meaningfulness and stimulation to her appearance, both aesthetically and psychologically. Too, being “slave clad” enhances a woman’s beauty. Imagine, for example, seeing a woman in a severe, sober business suit and then seeing her revealed in a slave tunic. She is suddenly a hundred times more attractive. Second, the slave is commonly trained, at least to some extent. She learns to walk as a slave, move as a slave, kneel as a slave, speak as a slave, behave as a slave, and so on. She becomes obedient and deferent. She is graceful and feminine. All these things enhance her beauty. Lastly, and most important, as she learns her collar and is mastered, she comes to understand that she is a woman, deeply and truly, and in a sense far more profound than that of merely the attractions of her delicious lineaments, which have called her so to the attention of men, and have had their indisputable role in bringing her to the slaver’s platform, to the chains of a market. Gone then are the false starts and distractions, the conflicts and confusions, the dissonances consequent upon the imposition of false images, of political contrivances engineered by manipulators and haters. She has come home to herself. She has at last fulfilled the ancient template of her needs. She is now herself, at one with her nature. In bondage she finds her meaning and fulfillment. She has found happiness where she had never thought to look for it, in a collar. And happy, radiant, at one with herself, she has become more beautiful. In such ways then one might speak of the “beauty bestowed by bondage.” If a woman would be beautiful let her seek her master, and his collar.
****
Or was it that a lashing might be no more than merely another prosaic mnemonic device, one among many, reminding the slave, lest she might forget it, that she was truly a slave. Certainly, from the slave’s point of view there is little doubt that being subject to the lash of her master is a confirmation, in her own mind, as in that of others, like the collar and brand, of her condition. Interestingly, too, though Ellen feared the lash, and would go to great lengths to avoid it, she, in the complex subtleties and ambiguities of the master/slave relationship, in which she was so obviously implicated, and despite her constant explicit reassurances to herself that she must hate her master, the virile, arrogant, masterful beast, Selius Arconious, found it necessary to attempt to suppress within her own mind a frequent, poignant, astonishing refrain, “I want to be whipped. I want to be whipped. I love him. I love him. I want him to whip me. I love him. I want him to whip me.” Doubtless there were subconscious depths and mysteries here which eluded superficial explanations, which eluded the facile, at-hand, convenient, shallow categories of the ideologically conditioned understanding, which defied political mockeries of human nature, a reference to realities which lay deeply, restlessly, in the being of a species, realities which were perhaps born before the dwelling in caves, before the hunting of great, lumbering, tusked beasts, before the nurturing of sparks, and the lifting in triumph against the darkness, in a hairy paw, a burning brand.
“I think Master likes me,” said Ellen.
“Beware,” he said.
“Nights ago at the dancing circle,” said Ellen, “I recall that I was to be whipped. But Master saved me. My master is thoughtful, and kind. He rescued me. He bought my strokes from the scribe. A slave is grateful.”
“If I were you, slave,” said he, “I would not be too grateful.”
“Master?” asked Ellen.
“Watch,” said he. “Watch the skies.” Then he walked about her, and went beside the wagon. Ellen was troubled. Then she was mildly perplexed. Then she straightened her body, and walked well. Then she smiled. The thongs were on her wrists. She heard the tharlarion grunt. The wagon wheels creaked. They continued on their way.
In the next two or three days, sometime, presumably depending on the trekking, they should reach the vicinity of “the place of concealed tarns,” at which point Bosk, he of Port Kar, and Marcus, he of Ar’s Station, would leave the group, presumably proceeding thence to the rendezvous point. Portus Canio and the others, then, would presumably turn southeast, toward Ar, hoping to reach the great southern road, the Viktel Aria, Ar’s Victory.
****
The next morning Ellen was permitted to ride in the back of the wagon. She was in her tunic, and back-braceleted. She was lying mostly supine, nestled in bedrolls and blankets, in the wagon bed. About her were some tarpaulins, these covering various boxes and bundles, housing utensils, supplies and such. She was warm, and drowsy from the creaking and rocking of the wagon, and she opened her eyes a little, squinting against the morning sun. She was grateful for having been permitted to ride, and, as for the back-braceleting, slaves must expect such things. She did not think that they feared she might steal a biscuit. She thought, rather, that they merely enjoyed seeing her thusly. It surely made it difficult to keep the tunic down about her thighs, but it could be managed somewhat by a bit of judicious, if embarrassing, squirming. And the men seemed to enjoy that. Men are beasts, thought Ellen, who enjoy the discomfiture of a bound woman, aesthetically and otherwise, one put totally at their mercy, in accord with their imperious will. Back-braceleted, the slave knows herself helpless. Indeed, a common point of back-braceleting is just that, to impress her vulnerability and helplessness upon her. This also tends to be arousing to a woman. But Ellen’s master, for whatever reason, had not made use of her. This puzzled her, and troubled her, for she knew that her body, if not her mind, longed to serve his pleasure. Certainly her body eagerly, plaintively willed to be put to his slave use. It might be mentioned in passing that, whatever may be the ideological point of encouraging antimenite fantasies of martial prowess on a politicized world, for example, in popular entertainments, fantasies themselves, such fantasies have little grounding in reality, and, if acted upon, may have tragic consequences. Incidentally, the penalties for a slave’s striking, or attempting to strike, a free person are severe. They range from death to such lesser penalties as the amputation of a foot, the breaking of the teeth out of a jaw, and such. Women on Gor, whether slave or free, are in no doubt, on some level at least, that nature, for whatever reason, has made men their masters.
Ellen struggled to sit up.
Then she struggled to her knees, and then to her feet, trying to hold her balance in the wagon.
There seemed no mistaking the spots in the sky.
“Masters!” she cried.
Her shout instantly drew the attention of the men who, sheltering their eyes, followed her gaze.
“Do not break,” said Portus Canio. “Do not seize weapons. Keep your places. We are innocent travelers, returning home. We have nothing to fear. Pretend that you have not seen them.”
“They may pass over,” said a man.
“They may be merchants, carriers of precious commodities, too rich to risk on the ground. They may have no concern with us,” speculated Fel Doron.
The men kept their position about the wagon, facing in the direction of the trek. Fel Doron, who held the reins of the tharlarion, spoke soothingly to it. “On, gently now, you fat, beautiful gross wart. On, on, slowly, gently.”