he thrust back the hood. The shape of her head, her throat and such, could now be much better discerned. The color of her hair, on the other hand, as the veil was arranged, it swathing her head, enclosing it save for her eyes and the very top of the bridge of her nose, could not be determined. The veil was not pinned back, nor merely bound about her lower face, the hood concealing the hair, but enclosed it, as noted, save for the eyes and a bit of the bridge of the nose. She was, of course, more revealed than before, the shape of her head, the loveliness of its positioning, its setting, and such.
He thrust the dangling leash back, over her left shoulder.
She shuddered a little.
His hands then grasped her robes, at the collar.
She regarded hi.
Then, angrily, he tore them down from her shoulders, and then stood for a moment, as though in awe, she before him, erect, slim, and lovely, the robes hung down now behind her, from her bound wrists, held by the sleeves. She had, indeed, been naked beneath them.
“Ai!” he said. “It would indeed have been the collar for you!”
She straightened herself, even a little more.
Her slave curves were exquisite.
“You are beautiful,” he said. “Indeed,” he cried, “you are slave beautiful! You should never have been a free woman! How absurd that freedom should have been permitted to you! What a woeful mistake! Such a body is born for the collar! It is incomplete without it!
She stood silent before him, scrutinized, inspected.
“You would bring a high price on the block,” he said. But then he said, menacingly, “But you are not for sale.”
She lifted her head a little, almost as though proffering her veiled countenance to him, as though she was eager to place the veil which she could not remove within his power.
“Oh, you can whine, and beg, and kneel, and grovel and weep, and plead to be sold,” he said, “to anyone other than the house of William, in Harfax, for as little as a tarsk-bit to anyone, for any service, but you are not for sale! We have waited long to obtain you. We have plans for you, slave!”
She whimpered, futilely, fighting the gag.
But she could not speak.
It had been put on her by a Gorean.
“Beg if you wish,” he said, “to be the girl of a keeper of tarsks, to be the property of a sewer master, to be sold for the cleaning of tharlarion stables, but you are destined rather for the those you so defrauded, for the house of those you so wronged, for the house of your most dire enemies! You are ours, and you will remain ours, to do with as we please, and fully, you may be sure, even though a ubar should bid upon you!”
she regarded him, her hands tied behind her, well and closely held by the binding fiber.
“Let us see if the former Lady Constanzia has been well marked,” he said.
There was a tremor in her body, one almost of shyness. She had not long been a slave.
She must submit her brand, fresh in her body, for the inspection of her master.
He had not yet seen it.
Would it be found acceptable? Would it meet with his approval?
She trembled.
She must hope he would find it pleasing.
It seemed she could scarcely move.
“Turn your left flank to me, slave,” he said.
She complied.
“Ah!” he said, suddenly, appreciatively. “Yes, yes!”
She whimpered, gratefully.
The slave was much relieved.
“Yes,” he said, “you are well branded, an incisive, clean mark. There is no mistaking it. And common kajira mark! Of course! Excellent, and superbly fitting! The former Lady Constanzia of Besnit-marked as a common slave! — Excellent!”
the common kajira mark, of course, which I myself wore, is a lovely brand. It may be the most familiar brand on Gor for a female slave, but that does not make it any the less beautiful. Indeed, I suspect it is the most common brand because it is the most beautiful, or surely one of the most beautiful. Just as the male beasts wish us to be attractive, and dress us for their pleasure, when permitting us clothing, and such, so, too, they brand us for beauty, as well. The brand, small and tasteful, but momentous in its meaning, much enhances the beauty of a woman, both aesthetically and cognitively-in the latter dimension marking her as slave, and thus latently, implicitly, indicatively hinting at, or, better, starting, the pleasures, the joys, one may have of her. The most common brand site is the left thigh, under the hip. This site is analogous to that used on a multitude of other forms of domestic animal, verr, tarsks, bosk, and such. Sometimes boys enjoy surprising slaves in the streets or markets and flip their tunics, to ascertain the brand, and, doubtless, to treat themselves to a flash of thigh. It is a game for them. As they are free persons they could simply put the girl to her knees and issue the command, “Brand,” to which the girl must respond by revealing her slave mark. But this would take time. And the pack of them are afoot, racing about and frolicking. It is irritating to be sometimes struck by a free woman or women after this has occurred, as though we could help it! Though we are doubtless quite sensitive to matters of modesty we, as slave, are not permitted modesty. It is one thing to be bared for our masters, and another for strangers.
“Now,” said he, “face me, again.”
She complied.
He then approached her and reached to the veil.
“It is your face now,” said he, “the utmost delicacy, and least expression, of your features, which are to be exposed.”
She did not pull back.
“Perhaps you do not understand,” he said. “Your features are to be publicly exposed, such that anyone, the least of the workers at the docks, even a male slave, may look freely, and as he pleases, upon them.”
She stood a little closer to him.
“You will be able to hid nothing,” he said.
She even lifted her chin.
“Are you truly prepared,” he asked, “so easily, to be face-stripped?”
She lifted her chin a little more, looking up at him.
“Strange,” he said, “that you do not cringe, that you do not try to flee, that I need not use the leash, to hold you here. Have you learned so soon the futility, the meaninglessness, of recalcitrance, of disobedience? Perhaps you have felt the whip. Or perhaps you understand, already, the brand, the collar.” He pulled away part of the veil from about her throat, freeing it from under the collar. “It is with pleasure, as you may well conjecture,” he said, “that I now bare the face of she who was once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit. I have dreamed of unveiling her, of stripping her face, of exposing it, of making it naked.” He continued to unwrap the veil. “In a moment now, my dear,” he said, “your face will be naked, as is fitting for what you are now, a slave.”
“Aiii!” he cried, in astonishment, dropping the veil to one side.
Instantly she fell to her knees before him.
He tore the gag from her, pulling out the wadding, discarding the binding.
Her head then was down to his feet, she weeping, covering them with kisses. The leash, fixed on her, fell to the floor. “I love you, my master!” she wept. “I love you!”
He drew her up to her knees and he crouched before her, holding her by the upper arms.
“What madness is this!” he cried, in consternation. “I do not understand! Are you not my Tuta!”
“I am whoever you will have me be!” she wept.
“But what of the Lady Constanzia of Besnit!”
“I was she,” she cried.
“You are Tuta!” he said.
“She was the Lady Constanzia of Besnit,” she wept.
“Tuta was a slave!”
“No! She was free! By the kindness of the pit master she was permitted to go abroad in the city, though only if collared, and clothed as a slave! I assure you there was no danger of her escaping!”