"That is true," she said, thoughtfully.
"Too, even if you were outside the palisade, I do not think you would get too far, naked, with a chain on your neck, the identifying tag, and so on." "May I turn about?" she asked.
"Very well," I said.
"Am I attractive?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"For a free woman?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"I wish," she whispered, "that I was attractive, even for a slave." "I would not trouble myself, if I were you," I said, "about my lack of slave attractiveness."
"The warrior in the paga room," she said, "did not want me. He rejected me!" "You are only a free woman," I reminded her.
"You received kisses from the women outside, those chained to the rings," she said, "Amina, Rimice, and the others, if I may believe you."
"Yes," I said.
"And I told you," she said, "that you would never receive one from me." "Yes," I said. "I recall that."
"I relent," she said.
"Oh?" I said.
"Yes," she said. "You may kiss me."
I did not kiss her.
"May I kiss you?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
Softly her lips met mine. It was a brief, delicate kiss, frightened. Then she drew back.
"What is wrong? I asked.
"I am afraid of my feelings," she said.
"They are a part of you," I said. "Do not be afraid of them."
"Let us get on with it," she said, suddenly, angrily.
"With what?" I asked.
"Your use of me," she said.
"I see," I said. "I owe a silver tarsk, five," she said, miserably. "If you have paid only a tarsk bit for my use, it will take me, at that rate, months to earn my redemption from the keeper."
I was silent.
"So take me in your cruel arms like iron," she said. "Force me to pant and sweat, and kiss. Hurry!"
"There is something I think you must understand, first," I said.
"What is that?" she asked.
"You owe a silver tarsk, five," I said, "and I have paid a tarsk bit for your use, for an Ahn, but that does not mean that you are then reducing your debt by a tarsk bit."
"What?" she said.
"The usual arrangement in such matters," I said, "which doubtless obtains, unless you have been informed differently, is that the money you are earning, you are earning not for yourself, but for the keeper. It does not in any way diminish your debt."
"No!" she said.
"Yes," I said. "In this way the keeper gets some good out of you. Too, in this way he is less likely to lose money on, say, your feed."
"Then," she said, "he could keep me here as long as he wants! I could be kept here at his mercy, in this terrible place, as long as it is his will!" "You might, of course, be redeemed," I pointed out.
"Yes!" she said, eagerly. "I must fine a splendid gentleman, and piteously beg that!"
I did not, personally, think she would now be as successful in that sort of thing as she might have been earlier, when fully clothed. It is one thing for a free woman, tearfully, while in the dignity of robes and veil, to attempt to impose on a fellow's gullibility or good nature, and quite another for her to do so when she is unclothed. When a woman is naked it is sometimes hard for a man not to see her as a female. Clearly, too, the Lady Temione's body suggested the exquisite latency of slave curves.
"Perhaps you will find some fellow willing to do so," I said, "who will then expect that you will fling yourself into his arms, agreeing to be his companion."
"Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "I gather that that sort of thing has worked for you before," I said. "Yes," she said.
"And his reward then," I speculated, "would be a grateful peek through your veil?"
"I am a free woman," she said. "I trust not."
"Perhaps, then, a grateful glance, a squeezing of a hand, a heartfelt utterance of thanks?"
"The important thing," she said, "is to make certain that your bills have been paid, and that you are in the clear. After that, you may simply leave. I often merely turn my back upon them, for they are fools. They stand there then, knowing they have been tricked."
"I would suppose that that sort of thing might not work with all men," I said, "perhaps not with even all gentlemen."
"True," she said, "it is wise to reward some with at least the squeezing of the hand, an expression of gratitude, or such, before hurrying away."
"You must leave a few frustrated fellows in your wake," I speculated. "I enjoy frustrating me," she said, angrily. I gathered from her vehemence that she was disappointed in men, that she had decided to despise them, that she wished to hold them in contempt. I gathered, too, however, that she was fascinated with them, and that something in her feared them, or what they might be.
"Fortunately I managed to elude them," she said.
"I wonder what they had on their mind," I said.
"I have no idea," she said.
On Earth, as I understand it, there are certain romantic notions about, for example, that heroes may expect to «in» damsels in distress, so to speak, by the performance of certain heroic behaviors, which, for example, might bode little good to dragons, evil wizards, wicked knights, and such. These damsels in distress, once rescued, are then expected to elatedly bestow their fervent affections on the blushing, bashful heroes, and so on. Needless to say, in real life, to the disappointment, and sometimes chagrin, of the blushing, bashful heroes, this denouement often fails to materialize. Although such notions are not unknown on Gor, the average Gorean tends to be somewhat more practical and businesslike then the average hero of such stories, if we may believe the stories. For example, the damsel of Earth, if she found herself rescued on Gor, might not have to spend a great deal of time gravely considering whether or not to bestow herself on the rescuer. She might rather find her wrists, to her surprise, being chained behind her, her clothing being removed and a rope being put on her neck. She might then find herself hurrying along on foot, beside his mount, roped by the neck to his stirrup. If he finds her pleasing, he might keep her, at least for a time. If he does not, she will be soon sold.
"I must find a gentleman to redeem me," she said, "a true gentleman, one who will take pity on me and nobly buy me out of my difficulties."
"Another fool?" I asked.
"Yes!" she laughed.
I was silent.
"But do you think I will find one?" she asked, anxiously. "Never before have I been stripped and put in a chain collar."
"Perhaps," I said.
"I must!" she said, firmly.
There are many mythologies having to do with human beings. Many function like ideological garments, designed to conceal or misrepresent reality. The misrepresentations and concealments, of course, are then called "truth." Truth, crushed to earth, is supposed to rise again, but if it didn't, we wouldn't know it. Indeed, if it did have the temerity to show up, it could probably count on being suppressed again as rapidly as possible, in the name, of course, of "truth." The name of truth all prize; the face of truth most fear. Yet I think the nature of truth is not that terrible. It is just that it is different, and more beautiful than the lies. The demythologization of a man has yet to take place. His reality exceeds the myths; it is reality which is darker and more dangerous than the myths; but it is also glorious and more real.
"But what am I to do until I can find such a fool?" she asked.
"It is true," I asked, "that sometimes, when a fellow bought you out of your difficulties, you merely turned your back upon him?"
"Yes," she said.
"Turn your back upon me, now," I said.
"Please!" she said.
"Do so, now," I said.
She did so. "Oh!" she said, gripped.
"Bend forward," I said.
She obeyed.
"I think I can give you some idea," I said, "as to what you will be doing until you find such a fool."