She whimpered again, as he had not released her hair. She closed her eyes, perhaps that her eyes not meet his. “There are numbers written on my body,” she said. “Please tell me what they mean.”
“Have you requested permission to speak?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she said.
“Perhaps you should consider doing so,” he said.
“May I speak!” she begged. “My I speak!”
“No,” he said.
He released her hair and she bent far over, sobbing, the better I assume to hide her body. But his hand in her hair straightened her up again. She was to remain kneeling upright, it seemed. He released her hair. She kept her back straight, regarded. Again her hands jerked futilely at the shackles. He then crouched down, beside her. She did not meet his eyes. There are many reasons for back-shackling, of course. The primary effects are custodial, psychological, utilitarian and aesthetic. The custodial effectiveness of the arrangement requires no comment. The psychological aspect of impressing the captive’s helplessness upon her has already been mentioned. She is, for example, in this arrangement, unable to feed herself in any normal manner or to fend away those who might wish to touch or examine her. The utilitarian aspects of this arrangement are largely accounted for by the conveniences it affords the captor, for example, in facilitating examinations, inquiries, displays, leashings, chainings, and such. The aesthetic aspects, too, are obvious, for such ties, as is the case, for example, with the hands-over-the-head ties, have a tendency to call attention to, accentuate, and enhance certain aspects of a woman’s beauty. Needless to say, these various aspects, and others, symbolic and otherwise, do not function independently of one another but tend, naturally enough, to function in such a manner that each deepens and strengthens the effects of the other. The dock worker, his examination completed, now rose to his feet, and went to the next woman in the coffle. “Do you beg water?” he said. “I am to be addressed as ‘sir’.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
As the free man continued down the line we rose to our feet.
“Girl,” said the free woman to our number.
“Yes?” asked the one addressed.
“I am sorry I called you stupid,” said the free woman.
“That is all right, girl,” said the slave.
“Girl!” said the free woman.
“Certainly,” said the slave. “Did you not see how you were looked at? You now, too, are only a “girl.”
“I am a free woman!” said the free woman.
The slave laughed. “Girl,” she said, “girl!”
“I said I was sorry,” said the free woman. “I am hungry. Let me have part of one of your apricots!”
“Do you acknowledge that you are a girl?” asked the slave.
“-Yes,” said the free woman.
“Do so,” said the slave.
“I am a-a girl,” said the free woman.
“A chained girl!” laughed another of the slaves.
“Yes, yes,” wept the free woman. “I am only a chained girl! I am only a chained girl! Now, please, please give me even a part of one of your apricots!”
“Why should we give anything so precious to one who is only a chained girl?” inquired one of the slaves.
The free woman cast her a glance of consternation.
“Command me,” said the girl who had been first addressed by the free woman.
“Give me one of your apricots,” said the free woman.
“No,” said the girl.
“Please!” said the free woman.
“Beg your own,” said the girl. She then turned away. I, and two others, then remained in the vicinity of the free woman.
“Please give me something to eat,” said the free woman to the rest of us.
“You will be fed in the pens,” said one of the girls.
“Probably some slave gruel,” said another.
The free woman looked at them wildly.
“She has very pretty hair,” said the first of the two other girls.
“I wonder if they will have it sheared,” said the other.
“Would they do that?” asked the free woman, anxiously.
“They might,” said the first girl.
“But, why?” asked the free woman, aghast. I gathered she was, indeed, fond of her hair.
“To make a wig for a free woman,” speculated one.
“But I am a free woman!” said the free woman.
“They could even certify it honestly as the hair of a free woman, and then brand you a moment later.”
“Brand me?” asked the free woman, weakly.
“Surely you do not expect not to be branded and collared?” said the second girl.
Most of the hairpieces, and wigs, and such, affected by free women are certified as being from the hair of free women. Most on the other hand, I am reasonably confident, are from the hair of slaves.
“They might also use it for catapult cordage,” said one of the girls.
The free woman shuddered.
Anything, of course, could be done with her. She was now, for all practical purposes, though her body had not yet been marked, the property of masters.
I touched my own hair, nervously. I, too, of course, could be shorn. Some masters harvest the hair of their slaves every two or three years, understanding this, I suppose, as a part of the productivity of the slave. To be sure, most Gorean masters like long hair on their slaves, and pleasure slaves are seldom shorn, except as a punishment or discipline. Some girls do have their hair cropped, for example, such as might work in the factories, the laundries, and such. Too, girls transported in slave ships are commonly shaved completely, to protect them from vermin below decks. It is not unknown for shorter-haired slaves to ascent the blocks, slaves whose hair, for one reason or another, has been cut short, but they are the exception. Also, they are usually low girls, stable slaves, field slaves, kettle-and-mat girls and such.
“Farewell, girl,” said one of the two slaves.
“Farewell, girl,” said the other.
Then they left.
I alone, of the original group, was now with the free woman.
That I had lingered would, I supposed, suggest to the free woman that I might have done so for a purpose. To be sure, this was true. But it was not for any purpose which she was likely to suppose.
The information I wished I could not well obtain from either a free person, without great risk, or, indeed, from a slave either, for they would presume that anything so obvious must either be known to me or for some reason forbidden to me. They would not wish to risk telling me what I wished to know. What if the masters should find out? Curiosity, I recalled, was supposedly not becoming in a kajira. Yet we are, I suspect, among the most inquisitive of creatures.
“You dally, slave,” said the free woman.
I shrugged.
“Perhaps you enjoy seeing free women in coffle, stripped and shackled.” She said.
“It is where they belong,” I said.
“Had I my whip,” she said, “I would make you rue that remark!”
“That would not make it less true,” I said.
She cried out with rage.
“It is no longer yours to hold the whip,” I said. “It is now in the hands of others.”
She jerked at the shackles, angrily.
“Did you used to whip slaves?” I asked.
“Yes!” she said.
“It is now you who must fear the whip,” I said.
She looked up at me.
“It is such that it may now be used upon you,” I said. “It will be interesting to see how you like it.”
She looked down. She shuddered. “I do not want to be whipped.” She said.
“Please the masters,” I said.
“They would not give me water, unless I said ‘sir’ to them,” she said, wonderingly.
“Yes,” I said. That seemed like a small enough thing to me.
“I have never before in my life addressed men in such a way,” she said.
“With respect?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I have strange feelings,” she said, “when I address men in that fashion.”