“Have you, woman of the enemy, been defeated?”
“Yes, Master,” she said. The answer to that was obvious, as obvious as the gleaming, snug, obdurate band encircling her throat. What she did not tell him was that she had wished, in her deepest heart, to be defeated.
“So,” said he, “should I have you slain, or kept as a slave?”
“It is my hope,” she said, “to be kept as a slave.”
He looked her over, carefully.
She reddened.
“Perhaps,” he said. “You are well-curved.”
She was silent.
“Those are slave curves,” he said.
“It is my hope,” she said, “that Master will find me pleasing.”
He laughed. “Long ago, on Earth,” he said, “in your classes, in the corridors, in the cafeteria, in your office, on the streets, on the avenues and boulevards, in the library, I suspect you did not anticipate that one day you would kneel before a man and express such a wish.”
“No, Master,” she said. She had not anticipated that. She had, however, longed for it.
He laughed, again, and leaned back in the chair.
“How did you feel, to know that you were the object of Jeffrey’s interest, in that way?”
“Please, Master, have mercy on a new slave!” she begged.
“Speak,” he said.
“It pleased me!” she wept.
“Of course it did,” he snarled, “for you are a slave!”
“Is it true?” she asked. “Did Master Jeffrey desire me?”
“Yes,” he said, angrily.
She looked down.
It pleased her that he was angry. Could he be jealous of another man’s interest in her? Surely she hoped so.
“And you might be sent to him,” he added.
She lifted her head, to regard him with fear.
“Yes,” he said.
She knew more then, in that moment, of what it could be, to be a slave.
It could be done to her.
She was slave.
“May I speak?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Might Master Mirus desire me, as well?” she whispered.
“What?” he asked, disbelievingly.
“Nothing, Master,” she said, quickly.
“You, me?” he asked.
“Forgive me, Master! It is well known, the contempt in which Master holds his slave!”
“Are you now begging, you, with all that you were, now begging as an amorous slave to be used?” he asked.
“No, Master,” she said, quickly.
She resolved that she must not let him know the depth of the slave she was.
How could he then respect her?
But how absurd was such a concern!
Dignity, respect, and such, were not for slaves. Did she not know that? One did not respect slaves; one commanded them, worked them, ravished them, perhaps loved them.
She might demand respect from weaklings of Earth; before Gorean men she would kneel, and hope to be found pleasing.
She was in torment.
She must remember she was of Earth!
Did she truly desire the tepidities and formalities of respect, she wondered. Perhaps, rather, she wished something else, say, a radical fullness of life, wished rather fulfillment, wished, rather, to be coveted, prized, and relished, owned.
No, she must insist on respect!
“I think, Ellen,” he said, “that you have not been lashed enough.”
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“Perhaps you think that you may be a saucy slave,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“Sometimes,” said he, “a slave girl needs the whip.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“It is good for their behavior, and their comprehensions.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You are a virgin, are you not?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said. Surely that was clear from her papers.
“But,” said he, “of the many things that may be done to a female slave, whipping is only one.”
“Oh?” she said.
“You tread a thin line, slave girl,” he said.
“Oh?” she asked.
“You are a bright, pretty little slave,” he said.
The monster, she thought. I was his teacher. To be sure, what am I now, with my eighteen-year-old body, but a bright, pretty, little slave? It is true, true! That is what he has made me!
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“Are you prepared to beg to please a man, any man?” he asked.
“I am a slave,” she said. “Surely Master can force me. He can bend me to his will. A mere snapping of the fingers will suffice. I must obey, with all the perfection with which I am capable, and instantly.”
“I am awaiting a response to my question,” he said.
“Is the man my master?” she asked.
“You have heard the question,” he said.
I am of Earth, she thought. I am of Earth!
She decided that this would be the moment to convince him of her value, of her nobility, of her loftiness, of her worthiness, the moment to earn his respect. She must lead him to believe that she was essentially a free woman who unfortunately, inexplicably, astonishingly, found herself in a collar. That way he would doubtless respect her. She now wanted his respect, desperately. She must never let him know that there knelt before him on the rug a woman who in her deepest heart of hearts was a helpless, vulnerable, submissive, craving, begging slave girl.
“Master may of course order me to beg,” she said. “Then I must beg, as I am a slave.”
“Then you would not choose to beg?” he asked.
“Certainly not,” she said, tossing her head.
She was frightened by the sternness of his gaze.
“I may, of course, be subjected to slave rape,” she said, quickly. Indeed, she hoped that he would simply take her and work his will upon her, a will she longed to satisfy. She desired desperately to be taken in hand and put to his purposes, to be ravished by him, uncompromisingly, thoroughly, ruthlessly, as befitted her slaveness, by him, her master.
I love him, she thought.
He brought me here. He must want me. Perhaps he loves me. No, that could not be. But he must like me a little. Oh, I hope that he likes me, if only just a little! Please, Master, like me, if only a little!
Take me, she thought. Take me! I am your slave! You are my Master! We are your slaves, oh Masters. Do you not use us as you wish, ravishing us whenever, and however, it might please you to do so?
Oh, take me, beloved Master, she thought. I am yours! I am ready! Be merciless! Be ruthless! Take me! Take me!
“Perhaps you were curious,” he said, “as to the modalities of discourse required of you at supper this evening,” he said.
“Master?” she said.
Inwardly she reeled, in shock.
She had expected, at any moment, to be thrown back, to feel the rug’s harsh nap on her back, to feel her ankles seized and her legs, he laughing with exultation, spread cruelly, widely.
Why had he not, at least, issued the “Sula!” command? That was one of several commands she had been trained to respond to instantly. Upon hearing this command, the slave immediately assumes a supine position, her hands at her sides, palms up, her legs open.
“You understood very little of what transpired this evening, I would suppose,” he said.
“Yes, Master, very little,” she said.
“These are matters of war,” he said. “Involved are the fates of two planets, Earth and Gor.”
“Master?” she asked.
“You are a slave,” he said. “It is no concern of yours.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“No matter how things turn out you will still be in a collar.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You are of no more account in these things than a pig or a horse.”