How strange how a single moment, a chance encounter, can alter a consciousness and transform a life, reordering an existence and its meaning. Even then, I supposed, somewhere, there reposed an iron by which my thigh would be marked, chains which might encircle my limbs, collars which might enclasp my throat. Was there not, even then, a large, heavy, towering block waiting, somewhere, whose sawdust my bare feet might tread, from which I might be vended?
I stirred, bound.
I recalled how I had lain at his feet, supine, stripped and tied, hand and foot, looking up at him, in something like a warehouse.
I had seen him but once more, through the bars of an exposition cage, prior to my sale, in a place called Brundisium.
I had no doubt it was he who had brought me to Gor, to bondage, and the sales block. I supposed I should have hated him, but instead I knew, rather, I wanted his collar.
Surely he had seen me as a slave.
Would that he had seen me as his slave!
He had summoned me to the bars of the exposition cage, and looked upon me, but had then dismissed me, casually, as the slave I was.
That night I had been sold.
I had not seen him since.
I would never see him again.
One of the girls had said I wanted a master. That was doubtless true. What slave does not long for her master? And what man does not long for his slave?
I had begun to sense, frequently now, stirrings in my belly, discomforts which I feared might grow intolerable and insupportable. How fearful, I suspected, are the needs of a female slave, and how helpless she is in their grasp. Surely I must resist the growing of slave fires within me! How merciless are the men to us! And how amused they are at what they have done to us. Was it not better to be a free woman of ice, refined and composed, at ease with her body, untroubled, inert, and serene? What is it about the collar, and finding oneself owned, as a beast is owned, which so transforms us, which puts us so piteously and helplessly at the feet of masters? From the school I could remember the moans and cries, the scratchings and beggings, of slaves. I must never let myself suffer so, must never permit myself to become no more than the negligible, pleading toy of an imperious brute. But, resist it as I could, and dread it as I might, I feared it could be done with me, and would be done with me. I was kajira! But, I wondered, are free women, really, so different? How many, I wondered, in their loneliness, sob and twist within their coverlets, moan, and pummel their silken, tear-dampened pillows with frustration?
It was late.
In the house I had been taught something of the pleasing of men, and the guards, under supervision, as is customary, had tried me out, testing me, and seemed pleased with my responsiveness, rudimentary and incipient though it might have been. The last time I had begged him not to leave me, but he had thrust me from him, laughing. Certainly by the time I reached the block, I had some understanding of what I was, and what would be expected of me. The guards in the dungeon were more merciful, and I, and the others, sometimes vied to please them.
I twisted about in the leaves, under the moons.
Surely my body was telling me of my need of a master. I supposed, in time, it would beg for a master.
I remembered one man beyond the others, beyond all others.
But he had not put me to his pleasure.
How foolish that a girl should desire a certain master, that there should be one to whose feet she most desired to press her lips.
Does she not know she is a mere slave, an object, a utensil for a male’s pleasure, for any male’s pleasure?
I would never see him again.
In the exposition cage I had been dismissed. We were now somewhere, far to the north. Brundisium was far behind us. I did not know our destination, save that it was spoken of as Tarncamp.
I would never see him again.
I wept, an unwanted, neglected, barbarian slave.
I pulled a little at the ropes. It was meaningless, of course. I had been tied by a Gorean male. I was helpless, utterly so.
I heard the guard being changed, and then I fell asleep.
I had, of course, put the thought of her from me, or, at least, intended to do so. Surely the only reason I had taken ship north was from curiosity, or an intriguing sense of possible adventure. Too, I had, somehow, not made my way to Daphne, of the farther islands, to rendezvous with one of the sky ships. I trusted it had made its departure successfully. If there is a blockade, it seems porous. It is almost as though the attention of the guardians of the clouds, if they exist, is intermittent, or differs in its severity, from time to time. It is pleasant, of course, to scout the offerings of the slave world, to consider them, and make selections, limited, of course, by the number of capsules in the slave hold. How innocent they are, and how naive, and unsuspecting. Some are vain, pretty little things. Some are unusually beautiful, and sophisticated. It is hard to be sophisticated, of course, when one is kneeling, head down, and one’s throat is clasped in the slave band. I suppose that many never think of the block, though I am not sure of this, or what, turned about and exhibited, they might bring. I suppose few consider themselves as they might be, as a belonging, suitably marked, fittingly collared, though it is hard to be sure of this, as they are obviously slaves. Perhaps, being slaves, they consider such matters frequently. It is hard to know. In any event, it is pleasant to pick slave fruit, to net shapely slave beasts, and bring them to market. We commonly veil and protect our free women. Those of the slave world display them for our assessment, and acquisition. Perhaps if they realized they were slaves, they would collar them themselves, and then protect them better. It is hard to know. At any rate, I had surely not come north to track a slave, a meaningless slut, even a barbarian. That would be unthinkable. She was nothing to me. Who would want her? She was cheap goods. She had not even sold for a full tarsk. Probably I had come north for the coin, or for curiosity, or, at least, for adventure. Certainly not for a slave. Perhaps she was not even here, and, if not, what would it matter, and who would find that of interest? Why, I wondered, had I signed articles, to ply the trade in such a far place, again and again. What had I hoped to find? Why, I wondered, now, was I unconcerned, even indifferent to the matter, that my unaccountable dalliance in Brundisium had resulted in my failure to keep the rendezvous on Daphne? Usually I am reliable, even scrupulous, in such matters. One could always, again, of course, later, consider the perusal of the slave orchards, the culling of the far slave herds. Undoubtedly I would do so. There are pleasant aspects to the work, and it pays well.
But perhaps I would not do so.
I did not know.
I had seen no sign of her in Tarncamp.
I wondered if she were here. What did it matter?
The Pani seldom touch us, for we are inferior. I am not even sure that they respect their mercenaries, and laborers.
On the fourth day, after the shore of Thassa, we reached the large, sprawling, extensive set of buildings and shops called Tarncamp. I now wore a Tarncamp collar. To my joy I was cast a tunic which I eagerly donned. It was the first I had worn since the house. I suppose it scarcely rates the appellation of a garment, but it is precious to us. As animals we need not be permitted clothing, but, I am informed, many cities recommend the clothing of slaves in public, assuming that the clothing makes it clear that we are slaves, which injunction the masters see to, to their satisfaction. Presumably that we are attired, after a fashion, is to spare the sensibilities of free women and, perhaps, to reduce, to some extent, the accostings, encounters, provocations, and such, which might be attendant on the public exhibition of wholly bared, collared properties. To be sure, slaves, particularly formerly free Gorean women, are sometimes publicly paraded naked, saving for their locked neck bands, that they may the better understand that they are now slaves. Too, this is sometimes done for a slave who has in some way failed to be fully pleasing. We try to be fully pleasing. And one, after a time, desires to be found fully pleasing. One hopes to be a pleasing, desired slave. It is a warm, precious, beautiful thing to be. I, and the others of my rope, had been given brief, common tunics. As most such tunics, these were sleeveless and, of course, lacked a nether closure. The slave is to understand herself as always available to the master. The tunics were brown, of cheap rep-cloth. They were not wrap-around tunics, nor the sort with a disrobing loop at the left shoulder, for the convenience of a right-handed master. These slipped over the head. This did not really afford an impediment to our use, as they might be easily thrust up to our waist. I think there is little doubt that the slave tunic, in its variations, is an attractive, provocative garment. How can a woman be displayed more attractively, or be made more aware of her womanhood, than being placed in the garment of a slave? It is sometimes thought that in such a garment a woman is more naked than naked, at least in the sense that it leaves few of her charms to the imagination, invites attention, and suggests the pleasures that might await its removal. Still we were pleased, extremely pleased, that the masters had seen fit to clothe us, though, of course, fittingly, as slaves.
Shortly after having arrived at Tarncamp, after our collaring, and before we were given tunics, we were put in examination position, standing, feet spread, head back, hands clasped behind the back of our head. Aligned so, we were examined, measured, and, I fear, assessed, and also, I gather, registered in some way, as records were kept.
I, and some of the others, sometimes gasped, or whimpered, even moaned, in the course of our examination.
“Oh,” I had said, suddenly. “Oh!” I had cried.
My hips had jerked. This was inadvertent. I could not help the response of my body. I had half bent over at the waist. I had almost freed my hands from the clasping behind the back of my head. Fortunately I had not done so. Otherwise I might have been lashed.
“Straighten your body,” I was told. “Hold position.”
“Yes, Master,” I had said.
Then again my head was up, and back. Tears formed in my eyes. Again I could see little but clouds, and the blue sky. I was aware of the men about.
“How is she?” asked the fellow who stood back a bit, he who held the board, who was taking notes.
“Are you a new slave?” asked he who was my examiner, who had handled me as a slave may be handled.
“Yes, Master,” I had said.
I had lost track of time, and did not understand the calendar of my masters. In my reckoning, it had been something like five or six weeks since I had been brought to this strange, fresh, unusual, beautiful world, brought as a slave.
“For a new slave, then, excellent,” said my examiner.
“Good,” said the fellow with the board, the marking stick.
I wanted to beg him, he closest to me, he who had touched me, as an owner of women touches women, to be again touched, but I dared not do so. I had not been given permission to speak.
“She has been well selected,” said a fellow.
“They all are,” commented another.
I later, in my turn, was told I might kneel, which I gratefully did. How natural it now seemed to me to kneel before a free male! It now seemed to me right that I should be so positioned. Before such men I, a slave, belonged so. I would have been considerably uneasy, even frightened, to be standing in his presence. How presumptuous, how insolent, how perilous that would have been! On my world, I had occasionally, though very, very seldom, felt an inclination to kneel before a man, one man or another, to assume before him this appropriate posture of respect and submission, appropriate for a female before a male, but, of course, I had not done so. I doubted if the men of my former world would even have understood this. Perhaps, confused, stammering, embarrassed, they would have chidingly hastened me to my feet, rather than commanding me, one submitted, to minister to theirs. Surely I remembered one man, one man encountered on my former world, though a man not of that world, one encountered in the aisle of a large emporium, before whom, startled, I could barely stand, and before whom I had felt I should kneel, head down, submitting myself to his survey and power, his authority, his manhood, but I had not done so. I had turned about, terrified, and fled. Later I had looked up at him, naked, on my back, bound hand and foot. It seems, after all, that I had been found of interest, if only as a slave, a property, a possession, a toy. In any event, there seemed few men of my former world before whom one would have been tempted to kneel, before whom it would have seemed appropriate to kneel. But then I had not realized at that time that such men as Goreans could exist. Perhaps they were such as men might once have been, on my old world, but no longer were. In any event I knew that I, at least as a slave, belonged at their feet. It was my place. They understood this, and I did, as well. It was reassuring to be so before them. I was then where I belonged.
I looked up at him, the free male.
“You have not been long in the collar,” he said.
“No, Master,” I said.
“You are a barbarian,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You do not have a name,” he said.
“No, Master,” I said.
I was as yet an unnamed animal. My name would be decided upon, and placed on me, by the free.
“How have you been known?” he asked.
“My lot number, from a market in Brundisium,” I said, “was 119.”
“A slave should have a name,” he said.
“It will be as masters wish,” I said.
“Numbers are not sensual,” he said. “A female slave should have a female name, and one which makes clear that she is a slave.”
“As masters wish,” I said.
“Were you a slave on your former world?” he asked.
When you are a female kneeling before a male, the dominance hierarchy is quite clear, even, I suppose, if you are a free woman. It is certainly clear when you are a slave. I understand that a free woman is forced to kneel naked before a man, before she is collared.