“Yes, Master,” I said.
“He contracts with several towers, for serving slaves,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I had occasionally been out of the restaurant, on errands, and had marveled at the lofty towers of Ar, so lovely and colorful, and yet so stately, solid, and formidable, each, in its way, a defensible keep, with its reservoirs, and emergency stores. It would take years to reduce even one to submission. These towers, at various levels, were joined by narrow, graceful bridges. In times of peace, one might move from one tower to another, through one tower to another, by means of these bridges, to many parts of the city, without once descending to the streets. The bridges for the most part are unrailed but traversed with ease by urban Goreans used to them. I myself would have been terrified to set foot upon almost any one of them, the streets so far below. They were of different widths, some ten feet in width, many four to five feet in width. They have colored lanterns on them, spaced here and there, which are commonly lit at night. It is very lovely. On my former world, Earth, there are similar walks, but they are on the ground. Few of Earth would think twice about traversing such walks. On the other hand, if such walks were elevated, I suspect few would care to try them. One supposes it is largely a matter of that to which one grows accustomed. In any event, you traverse the high bridges with the same thoughtless nonchalance with which those of Earth traverse their own walks. Your bridges, slender and graceful, are often arched and curved, almost like branches in a forest, for you have an aesthetic sense, it seems, in so much that you do, evinced in things as intricate as the soaring melody of a skyline to things as simple as the carving on an oar or a wooden spoon. To be sure, you have your realms of crowding, ugliness, and danger as well, the dank, odorous, ill-lit insulae, steaming in the summer, clammy and cold in the winter, smelling of offal and urine, and the dark, cluttered, filthy, winding streets of some of the low districts. Sometimes the towers seem to be giants, standing proudly, independent and mighty, soaring to the sky, touching clouds, their feet in garbage. Much depends, of course, on the district. In many respects Ar is a city of wonder, of beauty and grace, of soaring towers, large parks and gardens, and broad boulevards. It is in terms of those that one numbers her amongst the “high cities.” But she is, too, a city in which poverty and wealth, surfeit and want, cleanliness and dirt, may be juxtaposed. A silken palanquin, with closed curtains, may be borne through slime. Here and there women, unattended, grace the bridges in their promenades, while below a troop of guardsmen may tread with care. Praetors preside in the markets, dispensing justice, while here and there, beneath their feet, in sewers, like urts, others wait for darkness. Much depends on the district, and the time of day. I suppose that cities are similar, on whatever worlds they may be found. Here a tunicked slave might wander about in the night without fear, there a guardsman is reluctant to enter at the Tenth Ahn. One thing I did not realize originally about your bridges is the military utility involved in their design, that they may be blocked and defended by small groups of armed men; five may defend against a hundred, because of the hundred only five can engage at a time. Too, the bridges may be broken, this preventing access to the towers, turning each into a solitary, soaring, nigh-impregnable citadel.
I supposed then that Astrinax, as I gathered his name was, was jobbing for some tower or another, presumably on the lookout for girls who might make acceptable tower slaves. There tends to be turnover in such slaves, as, in their work, in the corridors, on the stairwells, and in the apartments, they may come to the attention of one fellow or another, who will take them for a private slave. Being a tower slave is usually regarded as a plausible route, even a promising route, to obtaining a private master. Most slaves, as you know, or may suspect, long to be the slave, and wholly so, of one man alone. This is the joy of the slave, to kneel naked at the feet of her master, to lick and kiss his whip, and his feet, and then to lie before him, helpless in his chains.
To be sure, she hopes to be his only slave, as well!
I had occasionally seen tower slaves in the streets, in their white, knee-length, modest, demure tunics.
It was easy to see why a fellow might want to get them out of those tunics. Properly caressed, and long denied passion, it was said they were commonly as hot as paga sluts.
I did not think I would mind being a tower slave.
Surely, as one cleaned an apartment, dusted a bit, arranged furniture, and such, it seemed a clever girl might find ample opportunities for calling herself to the attention of one fellow or another.
A smile, an ankle seemingly inadvertently extended, colored string wound about it, a touching of one’s collar, a shy glance, a way of turning, of looking over one’s shoulder.
Such things.
“Split your knees,” said Astrinax.
“Master?” I said. Then I went to “position,” not wanting to be cuffed for dallying.
“Astrinax also,” said Menon, “scouts and buys for the taverns and brothels, as well.”
“Yes, Master,” I said, uneasily.
“Do you think you would make a good paga girl, or brothel slut?” asked Menon.
“I do not think so, Master,” I said.
“Do not worry about it,” said Menon. “The lash quickly teaches a girl to be accommodating, and grateful.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“The paga slave quickly becomes a passion slut,” said Menon.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I already had sensed that such things might be possible. But my body, too, had assured me that not all passion sluts would be in the taverns or brothels. Surely often enough, at night, I had lain uneasily in my chains.
What would it be to be in the arms of a master, my own master?
I would strive desperately to be pleasing to him.
It was not so much that I feared being beaten, should I be found wanting in some respect. Rather it was because I sensed myself a slave, and wanted his touch.
“We are not thinking about the taverns or brothels,” said Astrinax.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Perhaps later,” said Astrinax.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Knees,” said Menon, gently.
Quickly I widened my knees again.
I gathered Astrinax was not thinking in terms of tower slaves. Tower slaves do not kneel so. Another sort of slave kneels so, a familiar form of Gorean slave, the pleasure slave.
This was, of course, the sort of slavery for which, on the whole, I had been trained.
I supposed the same would be so of my sisters, from the sorority, from the college, doubtless brought to collars on Gor as well as I. I recalled Eve and Jane, from the party, in their improvised camisks. Surely I had seen the eyes of the boys on them, as well as on myself. They were young and beautiful. I did not doubt but what masters would find them pleasing. Too, Nora, and her friends, doubtless, would no longer be so resplendent in those ample, abundant, lovely garments worn at the party, put together to suggest the robes of Gorean free women. Perhaps here, on this world, they would be fortunate enough to be granted a tunic. I suspected that Nora would go for a high price.
I was pleased to think of her as collared, and owned.
So, if Astrinax was not thinking in terms of the towers, and was not thinking, at least at present, in terms of the taverns or brothels, in what terms might he be thinking?
“You are a barbarian are you not?” asked Astrinax.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Barbarians,” said Astrinax, “have inferior moral characters.”
“Surely not,” I said.
“When you thought yourself free, on your former world, prior to your rightful collaring,” said Astrinax, “for you are obviously a slave, you had some sort of relationship with the men of your world, did you not?”