I found her personally of interest, but I doubted if, in a first sale, she would bring more than a half tarsk.
Perhaps if she had been strikingly beautiful? Several were. Still, a woman often becomes more beautiful. That is not unusual. It has to do, one supposes, with the life, with admission, with openness, with honesty, with fulfillment, with happiness.
Yes, I thought, in time she might become truly beautiful.
I recalled how she had kissed the whip, frightened, to be sure, but, too, seemingly gratefully. She had placed her soft lips upon it, gently, truly, fully, and had kissed it tenderly, deferently. In short, she had kissed it well. She had then completed the small ceremony, as instructed, saying “
La kajira
.” She had said this softly, obediently. She would not know what it meant. In time she would learn.
Perhaps she suspected its meaning. One does not know. She was extremely intelligent and, latently, despite the indoctrinations and conditionings of her unusual culture, profoundly, biologically feminine.
I soon learned to call men ‘Master’ and, shortly thereafter, free women ‘Mistress’. The gulf between free and slave is profound and momentous, and such as I were brought, at least on the whole, to this unbelievably fresh and beautiful world, so bracing and green, as goods, no more than livestock, to be disposed of in markets. I was soon branded, that there would be no mistaking me, for what I was. How that simple mark transformed me! I was then different, radically so, from what I had been! And I knew myself so, and, yes, gratefully. Oh, I cried with pain, of course, helpless in the iron grip of the vise, my wrists fastened behind me, in the snug, unslippable metal bracelets, and sobbed, but, in my tears, did they know this, I sobbed, as well, with joy. At last it had been done to me. At last I was free! In a thousand dreams, had this not been done to me? Had I not, in a thousand dreams, been so marked, so designated, so proclaimed, so identified?
Am I terrible?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
Is it so strange that I, then humbled, then reduced, then subject to chains, the whip, the collar, was now free, at last free!
It was a freedom in which I had had no decision, but one forced upon me, and I would not have had it otherwise.
I was grateful to have been taken in hand, and simply treated as what I was, routinely, a female, only that, and gloriously so.
They would have of me what they wanted, and this was what I, too, wanted.
Since puberty I had sensed the radical difference between women and men, and had resented, but dared not rebel against, the lies, the pervasive, insisted-upon, venerated falsities with which I was regaled, and the pretentious, uncomfortable, alien roles which I was expected to assume.
I do not presume to speak for a sex, but I trust I may speak for an individual, myself. Doubtless women are quite different. One may wish for something which another does not. One may envy men, and another may find this emotion incomprehensible. One may hope to be served, and another to serve. One may hate, and another love. There are many things I have never understood, and how ignorant and stupid seem the ideologues, the tyrants, and fools, who see complexity in terms of conditioned, programmed simplicities. Who are the social engineers? Who appoints them? What shall be engineered? Who reviews their work? Need anything be engineered? Why should anything be engineered? Who will engineer a flower, or truth? Whose fingers draw the secret strings? How gross, narrow, and transparently self-serving, are so many manufactured values, principles, and injunctions. What are the credentials of a dictatorship which would review thought, circumscribe belief, and capture the coercive powers of a state in order to protect and propagate a favored orthodoxy? Yet, to be sure, such crimes are muchly precedent in the history of a world; they are perennially familiar to the troubled biography of a species. How many oppressions have been enforced, heresies persecuted, beliefs proscribed, truths denied, absurdities proclaimed! Behind the glistening veils may crouch an unnatural beast.
How naive I am, how unpolitical I am.
Why does the chain lure me? Why does the sight of the whip, and the knowledge that it may be used upon me, thrill me?
I wonder if my feelings are unique.
I do not think so.
How pathological the world from which I have been derived!
How many extend the hand of welcome, a knife clenched behind the back!
How is one to judge what brings about happiness, other than by the test of living, that of life consequences?
I wonder if I speak only for myself.
Perhaps, perhaps not.
But I will, at last, speak.
For years I have wanted to be at the feet of men, to kneel naked, collared, subservient and submitted, before them, to put my head down and lick and kiss their feet, to be bound at their pleasure, to squirm helplessly in their grasp, to serve them in all ways, instantly and unquestioningly, to be commanded, to be owned, to be mastered.
The mark is placed high on the left leg, on the thigh, just beneath the hip. I have also been fastened, from time to time, in a variety of collars. My mark is the cursive kef, the common kajira mark, worn by most slaves. It is sometimes called the staff and fronds, beauty subject to discipline. It is a lovely mark. It looks well on me, and on others. It is, of course, only one of many marks. It is natural that not every property should be marked identically. But it is recommended that each property be marked. That is prescribed in Merchant Law. In the training house, a heavy metal collar, of rounded iron, was hammered about my neck. That is temporary, but it has its effect on us. When I was once displeasing, foolishly, this was replaced with a heavy, iron, point collar, which was very unpleasant. I do not know why I was displeasing. Perhaps I thought it required of me, to comply with some image, alien to my deepest self, which, on my former world, I had been expected to project. Perhaps I was merely curious to see what might occur, if I failed to comply in some particular, if I might hazard some show of resistance or recalcitrance. Certainly I learned, quickly enough. Perhaps I merely wished to ascertain certain perimeters or limits, the length of a leash, so to speak. I speak metaphorically, but it is not unusual that we are leashed. Often we are promenaded publicly. Our masters are often proud of us, and enjoy showing us off. Would it not be the same with horses and dogs, animals of my former world? We must hold our head up, and walk well. Sometimes our hands are free. In any event, these boundaries, the length of a leash, and such, so to speak, were expeditiously brought to my attention. Interestingly, I was not chagrined by the consequences of my small experiment, but, rather, reassured, even heartened. And I was very grateful when I earned my first, more typical, collar, light, flat, and close-fitting. How relieved and proud I was, when, graduated from training, it was first locked on my neck. I knew myself, and I wanted it there. I knew I belonged in a collar. I had suspected that, even on my former world, Earth.
Clearly she had never been sold before. It is not hard to tell a new girl. It is not that they struggle, or scream, for that sort of thing is done with after the second or third day in their training. It is not acceptable. Those who behave so deplorably, so stupidly and futilely, so foolishly, are usually those who are only a day or so off the marching chain, who have not been in the houses, but in the camps, those who lack instruction, those as yet deprived of training.
A stroke or two of the whip and they are silent, and obedient. Another stroke or two and they are on their bellies, extending their hands to the buyers, begging to be purchased.
The difference, rather, in most cases, is various, wonder, uncertainty, hesitation, timidity, inertness, woodenness, a lack of grace, a lack of presentation, of readiness, of eagerness.
Some are clearly in misery, frightened. Some cannot hold their water. Some retch. The bowels of some are involuntarily, uncontrollably evacuated. It is not for no reason that they are ankle deep in sawdust.
How damp and foul may be the sawdust for subsequent items!
To be sure, such things are rare, probably because the sales have been rehearsed. In that way the items are aware of what will be expected of them. They are not fully informed, of course. There is always room for surprise, and spontaneity. One does not inform a new item of everything which may be done with them on the block.
I would suppose the items are not likely to forget their first sale. For most, I would suppose, as well, the first sale is the most difficult. This is not always the case, of course, for much can depend on the house, the auctioneer, the market, the mood of the buyers, and such. If it is learned that a given item was once a free woman of an enemy city, even a third or fourth sale may be terrifying.
Many, of course, are frightened, even overcome, shamed and humiliated, at their exposure, and that, interestingly, despite their training. What would they expect? Who would buy a clothed slave? Perhaps they did not expect the thing to be done so blatantly; perhaps they did not expect to be handled, and presented, in the way they are. Perhaps, too, it has to do with the whole of the thing, its reality, its newness, the sensations, the torchlight, the auctioneer, the cries of the men, the bidding.
Some of the items seem numb, almost in shock.
That makes it difficult for the auctioneer.
Are they even aware of the deft touches of his whip, that a chin be lifted, an arm raised, a body turned, a leg extended?
I am not sure that all of the items, at first, even understand, at least fully, what is being done to them. This is strange, given the training, the rehearsals. Perhaps they do not care to believe it. It cannot be being done to them. Surely it is a dream. But it is not a dream. It is real. Then they understand. They are being sold.
They move as directed.
They are merchandise, being displayed.
The item is well illuminated, while the auditorium is not. Many of the cries come from unseen bidders, obscure in the crowd, unseen in the darkness. Often the item is not even aware to whom it has been sold, only that it has been sold.
Perhaps they are still unfamiliar with the weight of chains, with their shackling.
Yet, how beautiful they are, even so!
Things are much different, of course, with the slave who knows her collar, who has knelt and kissed a dozen whips. After a time her belly burns. Men have seen to it. She is no longer hers; she is then men’s. It is common, time permitting, the market conditions appropriate, to isolate such items, in their boxes or cages, for some days before their sale. Their needs are made clear by their scratching at the walls of kennels, their pressings against the bars of cages, their sobbings and entreaties before the guards, who will ignore them. They are well ready then, when brought to the block.
How piteously they strive to elicit interest.
It is natural, of course, for an item to wish to sell well. A well-presented item, other things being equal, is likely to bring a better price, and a richer master, with the likelihood of an easier life, less work, and greater prestige. Too, vanity courses brightly, rushing unobstructed, amongst such goods, familiar with such things, and each desires to win a fine price, and, particularly, one better than that garnered by rivals, or others of the house. Who does not wish to be the most beautiful, the most desirable? How proud is a top-price item! It is little wonder then that experienced items will compete on the block to excite buyers and outdo one another. How well they display the house’s merchandise, sometimes subtly, so cleverly, sometimes brazenly, so boldly, invitingly, seductively! Many men who lack the coin to make a realistic bid frequent the emporia, the selling wagons, the shelves, the cages, the platforms, the camps, and barns, to gather the foods on which dreams will live. Yet many items are cheap, and not just pot girls or kettle-and-mat girls, and might be afforded even within the means of a light purse.
Sometimes a rich man adjudges the performance of an arrogant, vain, marvelously beautiful item to be intrinsically meretricious, to be hollow, and hypocritical, even fraudulent. It may call forth moans of anguish from some men in the crowd but the connoisseur recognizes its duplicity. Yet the slave is quite beautiful. Perhaps something might be made of her, if she is taught her collar, and suitably humbled. How smug she is, to be taken from the block by so generous a bid! But at his villa she is cast a rag and put to the tending of verr or tarsk. Perhaps months later, now understanding that she is a slave, and no more, she is permitted to crawl, begging, to the foot of his couch.
Though it was late I lingered at the sales, though why I am not sure.
Toward the end of the evening, I noted that a short, widely-hipped, nicely bodied brunette was conducted to the block. I scrutinized her, from the middle tiers. I recalled her. She was one of those I had first scouted on the slave world, several weeks ago. She was not particularly beautiful, as such things go, but there was clearly a subtle attractiveness about her. I had not been fully sure of her, but my colleagues had confirmed my initial impression. She was suitable collar meat. One can see certain women, and see that they belong in a collar. She was such a woman.
I recalled her bound, well tethered, and turning her over with my foot, in the warehouse, putting her to her back. I do not think she remembered me, from the large store. Prior to my turning her she had remained in the
bara
position, and, as some others, had held that position when placed in it, even prior to her fastening. Such things are indicative of intelligence, and even more so, perhaps, of understanding.
Some women obey because they must, and others because they must, and wish to do so, and hope to do so, and long to do so.
The selection criteria are stringent.
And they exceed those beauties which might be captured by a mechanical painter. There are the beauties of movement and expression, subtle, evanescent, and lovely, like the movement of a brook between its banks, of grass bending in the wind, of rustling leaves. Each particle is alive and precious. And there are the beauties of the vitality of consciousness, of thought, of emotion, of need, of readiness, of hope, of desire, of latent passion.