“Cease your hysteria, your silliness, you narcissistic little bitch,” he said.
She regarded him, from position, tears in her eyes.
“Women are narcissistic,” he said. “Even on Earth, consider their obsessive concern with their appearance, with their ever-present desire to present themselves attractively before men, their concern with the right make-up, the right jewelry, the right earrings, the correct, fashionable clothing, their concern with their hosiery, their shoes, their concern even with the nature and lovely delicacy of their undergarments. And there is nothing critical affected in this. They should be narcissistic. They are beautiful. They are women. They wish to allure, to be attractive prey to men, the predator sex. The true woman should be pleased with her beauty, proud of it, and desirous of showing it off. My criticism of you, little slave, is not that you are narcissistic, for that, as a female, you should be, but that you are a little bitch.”
“I am sorry, Master,” she whispered.
“Surely you were aware this evening,” he said, “that our guest, Jeffrey, admired you.”
“He had eyes mostly, I thought,” she said, “for his friend.”
Mirus laughed, and she did not understand his laugh.
“But you must have noticed, sometime,” he said, “that he was looking at you.”
“It seemed so, Master,” she said.
Indeed, who could have doubted it?
“He was regarding you with desire, sexual desire, if you can understand that, you stupid little bitch,” he said.
I am not a stupid little bitch, she thought. Have I not seen desire in the eyes of the guards? Does he think I do not know I am a slave, and how slaves are seen by men? Does he think, truly, I am a stupid little bitch? I fear so. But I am not a stupid little bitch. Must I admit everything? Must I be so open? I am from Earth! What does he want? The collar has not been long on my neck!
“Bitch?” said he.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you think you are sexually desirable?” he asked.
“It is not for a slave to say,” she said.
“Do you know you are in a collar?”
“Yes, Master!”
“Speak,” he said.
“It is a slave’s hope that she will be found pleasing to masters,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said.
“Thank you, Master.”
“You are intelligent,” he said, “actually quite intelligent.”
“Thank you, Master.”
Gorean men, she had learned, prize high intelligence in a woman, and seek it in their slaves. The intelligent woman, taken in hand, overwhelmed, subdued and mastered, taught her womanhood, wholly submitted, understanding now what she is, fully, makes an excellent slave. Certainly they sell for more.
Had she claimed she was sexually desirable, she might have been reprimanded for conceit; had she denied it she might as easily have been punished for lying.
“But in many respects,” he said, “you are quite stupid.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you think you are sexually desirable?”
“I do not know, Master!” she sobbed.
“You are,” he said.
“Thank you, Master.”
“As any slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Had his friend not been present, he might have seized your ankle and dragged you under the table.”
“So simply?”
“It was a Gorean feast,” he said. “Surely you do not think that those women of whom we spoke earlier, serving their conquerors naked, simply returned that evening with impunity to their kennels and cells.
She lowered her head.
“They would be seized, ravished, and enjoyed,” he said. “They would be seized by the hair, knelt, wine poured down their throats, spilling over their breasts and bodies, forced to dance drunkenly, put to their bellies, their lips to the feet of men, and ordered to beg for use. Then, huddled together, kept in place with the lash, they might be gambled for. And the evening might then end pleasantly as they, the winnings of men, caressed into supplicatory beasts, thrashed on the carpets and rushes. And then, toward morning, when the fires had burned low, and the room was gray, damp and cold, when those who had won them would be asleep, sated with the repast of pleasures derived from their winnings, their hands tied behind their bodies, their necks roped to the left ankles of their new masters, they might rest. Later, bent over, held in leading position, by groggy, stumbling masters, they would be conducted to their new dispositions. They are the women of a conquered foe. Thus, as prizes, they belong to the victors.”
“Yes, Master,” whispered the slave.
“In a sense,” he said, “as I suggested earlier, it is similar with you.”
“Master?”
“I am the victor here, am I not?” he asked.
“Master?”
“And you were a woman of the enemy?”
“The enemy?”
“Of Earth,” he said, “but in a sense larger than you know.”
“Master?”
“Surely you remember my earlier remarks,” he said, “when I was explaining the lack of attire in a charming waitress.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Your lies, your ideology, your manipulations, your slynesses, your schemings, your trickeries, your agendas, your subversions.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, tears in her eyes.
She wondered if the indoctrinated, servile men of Earth were even worthy to be accounted enemies.
They were so manipulable, and weak.
It was embarrassing for her to think of herself as a woman of them.
But would most not wish weak foes? Only Goreans, she supposed, desired strong foes, perhaps that they might be the better tested, that an ensuing victory might be the more worth winning.
She thought of so many of the men of Earth, such mindlessly herded dupes, taught to deny their blood, hastening sellers of birthrights, so whiningly eager to win a smile from those who despised them for the very weakness they sought to promote in them.
She wondered if it might not be better for such a subverted, betrayed world to perish.
No, she thought. Wait. Mayhap one day it will awaken, rise up, shout, and be reborn. Let it be reborn, she thought. Let it be reborn!