Indeed, I saw one crawl on her belly to a guard, place his foot on her head, and beg to be caressed.
I understood little of this, at least on a fully conscious level, though I do not doubt but what I understood it well enough on a deeper level, but I did not think it wise to question the instructresses.
But at the same time I began to feel, in my own belly, ever more insistent sensations.
This was internal to me, not merely a pretence or calculation, designed to avoid the whip’s fiery, encircling coils.
It was also very troubling to me.
It is hard, of course, to pretend to indifference in certain matters when one is barefoot, collared, and clad in the brief rag of a slave.
The slave’s very condition is imbued with sensuality.
To merely look upon her is to see her as sensuous.
What is the very meaning of her collar, her condition, and tunic? Does it not say, “Here Masters, behold, here is a female slave. She exists for your pleasure. She is a property. She is yours. Do with her as you will.”
She is the most needful, the most helpless, the most sexual of women.
“You will learn to obey, will you not, Allison?” inquired one of my instructresses, early in my training.
“I have already learned, Mistress,” I said. I had felt the slave whip of Gor.
“Intelligent women,” said another, “learn swiftly to obey.”
“It takes stupid women a little longer,” said another.
“But only a little longer,” laughed another.
“And why do you obey, Allison?” asked the first instructress.
“Because I am a slave, Mistress,” I said.
“You are terrified not to obey?” asked one.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“You do not wish to be punished?”
“No, Mistress,” I said. Surely that was an excellent reason. I was not a free woman. If I were not pleasing, I must expect to be punished, properly and appropriately, and often immediately.
“You think of punishment,” said one of the instructresses, “in terms of the switch, the whip, close chains, the denial of clothing, the affixing of a collar with points, a reduction in rations, being sent naked into the streets, being denied speech, being put in the modality of the she-tarsk, such things?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, shuddering. To be sure, I had only heard about some of these things.
“I will tell you of another punishment,” she said, “one you will not even understand now.”
“Mistress?” I said.
“You have sexual needs, do you not?” she said.
“Must I speak?” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“-I suppose so,” I said.
One of the instructresses laughed.
I was annoyed that she had laughed.
“Later,” said the instructress who had laughed, “you will not be in any doubt about the matter.”
“Yes,” I said. “I have sexual needs.” I was oddly relieved to have said this. Indeed, it was the first time I had explicitly acknowledged this, aloud, before others. I felt an unusual sense of liberation, of freedom, having said this. To be sure, there was no doubt, on Gor, about this matter. My condition, my treatment, my training, my collar, my tunic, my brand, doubtless played some role in an awakening within my body that I sensed, day by day, was becoming ever more obvious and irresistible. I knew, too, of course, that I was not permitted to lie, as I was a slave.
“Your slave fires,” said one of the instructresses, “have not yet been lit.”
“If you think you are helpless now,” said another, “wait until that occurs.”
“You do not yet suspect the power that men will have over you,” said another.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It will occur sooner or later,” said another.
“And from the look of your flanks,” said another, “I think it will occur sooner.”
“The time will come, Allison,” said the first instructress, “when you will want to obey.”
“You will be the prisoner and victim of your needs,” said another. “You will do anything to have them satisfied, if only for the time, before they again rage within your belly.”
“You will beg, grovel, and plead to be caressed,” said another.
“As the slave you are,” said another.
I found this hard to believe.
Could a woman be so reduced, rendered so needful, so helpless, transformed into so vulnerable and despicable an object, little more than an animal in heat?
Perhaps, I thought to myself, in fear, if she is a slave.
“Some slaves, many slaves,” said another of the instructresses, wistfully, “fall in love with their masters.”
“It is hard to be at the feet of a man, and be mastered, and not do so,” said another of the instructresses, “particularly if he should show you some kindness.”
“To be sure,” said another of the instructresses, “the slave is not to be loved, as she is worthless, no more than an animal.”
“Love is for free persons, companions,” said another, “not for animals and their masters.”
“Men fear to care for a slave,” said another. “Consider how their friends will laugh and make sport of them.”
“The girl will soon again be on the block,” said another.
“If you should love your master, Allison,” said another, “it would be wise for you to conceal your feelings.”
“I will never love a master,” I said. I was derived from a class of women who did not think in terms of love, but in terms of advancement, in terms of practicality, in terms of position, station, prospects, power, and wealth. What was a woman’s beauty for, if not to obtain advantages in a competitive marriage market? This was why Eve, Jane, and I were so terrified that we might be expelled from our sorority. That would have been socially calamitous. The sorority stood as one important step, among several, to a splendid future.
But how could I hope for such a future now, as I was on another world, a collared slave?
Tears sprang into my eyes.
And yet I suspected that a life lay before me, with all its unknowns and perils, which was a thousand times more real than the structured banalities and tediums to which I had been taught to aspire.
“What do you think of this room, Allison?” asked one of the instructresses, one morning, midway in my training. We had paused before an opened door on our way to our usual training room. “What is it for?” I asked. “It is called the Room of White-Silk,” said an instructress. “What is it for?” I asked. One of the instructresses laughed. There was not much in the room. A ring, or two, some chains, a trestle or two, and a number of deep, heaped, rich furs. It was certainly not as alarming as certain of the discipline rooms I had seen, with their devices and cages.
It was toward the end of my training, the few days of my training, that I was summoned by my instructresses to one of the training rooms. “Stand,” said one of them. “As a slave,” said another. “Please no,” I said. “Now,” said another. So I stood as a slave. “She still must learn to stand appropriately,” said another. “Do not fear, Allison,” said another. “It will soon be natural for you.” “Already,” said another, “perhaps unknown to yourself, you are beginning to stand, and move, and kneel, and carry yourself, with the loveliness and grace of a slave, with her subtlety, her lack of pretense, her softness, her deference, her awareness of what she is, her profound and vulnerable, and helpless, femininity.”
How terrible, I thought, to be feminine!
“Yes,” said another. “She is becoming feminine.”
“A slave,” said another.
“Yes,” said the first.
What was being done to me?
I suspected I was being released, to be myself, not an awkward, clumsy neuter, or a prescribed, facsimile male, but a natural woman in a natural world.
Surely I must resist!
But why, I asked myself. Why should I not be what I truly am?
Because it was frowned upon, or forbidden?
But here, on this world, such things were not frowned upon or forbidden. Here on this world, was I not free, though collared, to be myself?