"Do you wish me to put on pleasure silk?" she asked, icily.
"No," I said.
She tossed her head.
"In many Gorean taverns," I said, "the paga slaves serve naked."
"Yes," she said, slowly, "they do."
"Did they not teach you how to do that?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"I would see evidence of your skills," I said.
"Very well," she said, angrily, in her vanity, taunted.
She slipped from the clogs, and was barefoot. She slipped from the black slacks, and removed the black, buttoned top. She slipped from the panties and, in a moment, had discarded her brassiere. She was furious, but yet I could see, too, as doubtless could the others, that she was sexually charged. She was naked, before clothed men. This can be sexually stimulating to a woman. It is hard for her, in such circumstances, not to see them as her masters and herself, before them, as an exposed slave. Similarly she knew that, in a moment, she would be, naked, on her knees, serving them. For reasons that have to do with nature these things can be erotically momentous to a woman. The relation of master and slave, of course, in a psychophysical organism, of a high order of intelligence, such as the human being, is a beautiful and profound expression of the fundamental and central truth of animal nature, that of order and structure, and dominance and submission. It is merely the articulated, legalized expression, to be expected in rational organisms, of the biological context in which human sexuality developed, a context which can be betrayed but can never, because of the ingrained nature of genetic dispositions, be fully forgotten or, in the long run, successfully denied. In denying it we deny our own nature. In betraying it we betray no one but ourselves. The master will never be happy until be is a master. The slave will never be happy until she is a slave. It is what we are.
I looked upon the girl. She bit her lip. I saw that she was lovely.
"Wait," said Msaliti, "one more item is needed to complete the effect."
"Of course," said Shaba.
He left the room and, in a moment, returned with the collar. "Oh!" she said, as he, from behind, snapped it about her throat. I noted that he slipped the key into his pouch. I did not think it would be soon removed from the girl.
Msaliti joined us at the table.
The girl stood, loftily, before us. "Do I meet with the approval of Masters?" she asked.
"Serve us paga, Slave," said Msaliti.
She stiffened. Then she smiled. "Yes, Master," she said.
I, too, smiled. I saw that she thought she was playing a role. Did she not know that she had been truly branded and that, in the touch of the iron, as it marked her, she had been made truly a slave? I sensed now that her slavery, latent until now, was soon to be specifically activated. Indeed, it had now been activated, but she did not know it. She thought herself a free woman, serving as a slave. She did not know that she was truly a slave, who, amusingly, still thought herself free. It was a rich joke on the proud girl, one fitting to be played on an insolent slave.
"Paga, Master?" she asked, kneeling before me, the metal cup held before her, in her two hands.
"Yes," I said.
She proffered the cup to me. She knelt back on her heels, her knees wide, and extended her arms to me, the cup in her hands.
"Did you not neglect to kiss it? I asked her.
She drew back the cup and, pressing her lips to it, kissed it.
"Is that how a slave kisses the cup of a master?" I asked.
She again turned her head to the side and pressed her lips softly, lingeringly, against it. Then she kissed it. I saw a tremor course through her body. I think, then, for the first time, she had begun to understand what it might be truly, to kiss the cup of a master. Then again, kneeling back on her heels, her knees wide, extending her arms to me, the cup in her hands, she proffered me the drink.
"Your head should be down, between your arms," I said. She put her head down. Again I saw a small movement in her body, a tremor, subtle. She had put her head down before a man. Another consequence of this position is that the girl's eyes, in the specific act of her serving, do not meet those of the master. They are lowered before his, as one who submits.
This is also reminiscent, in an experienced girl, of her training. Often, in training, a girl is not permitted to look into the eyes of the trainer, unless he should specifically extend this permission. Indeed, in some cities, the girl in training may not raise her eyes above the trainer's belt, unless, again, specifically accorded this permission.
"Speak," I said to her.
"Your paga, Master," she said.
But I did not take the paga. "Do you know other phrases?" I asked. There were many, actually, and they tended to vary from tavern to tavern, and from city to city. There was, really, no standardization in such matters.
She trembled, head down, proffering me the paga.
"Your girl brings you drink, Master," she said.
"Any others?" I asked.
"Here is your drink, Master," she said. "I beg to serve you further in any way I may."
"Another," I said.
"Do not forget I come with the price of the cup," she said. "Use me as you will, Master."
"Another," I said sharply.
"For your pleasure," she said, "I bring you paga and a slave."
"Personalized phrase," I said.
"E.," she said.
"Evelyn," I corrected her.
"Evelyn tenders drink humbly to Master," she said. "Evelyn hopes Master will later find her suitable to give him pleasure."
"Another," I said.
"I am Evelyn," she said. "I serve you, naked and collared. Take me later to the alcove. I beg to be taught my slavery."
I then took the paga. "You may now serve others," I said to her.
"You made her serve well," said Shaba.
"Thank you," I said.
The girl trembled, and then regained her composure. Then, in turn, as a naked paga slave, she served Msaliti and Shaba. I observed her technique. I thought she could probably survive in a paga tavern, under real conditions, not those artificial conditions under which she had served in the tavern of Pembe, the Golden Kailiauk, though doubtless she would be often beaten in the beginning.
When the girl had finished serving Shaba she straightenedup and came about the table, to where her cup rested on the low wood.
She reached for it, but Msaliti moved it out of her reach. She looked at him, puzzled.
"Does a paga slave drink at the table of masters?" he asked.
She laughed. "Of course not," she said.
"You could be whipped for that," he said.
"Yes," she said, "that is true." She smiled. She then went to where her clothing had been discarded, on the floor. She bent to pick it up, to reclothe herself.
"Do not dress," said Msaliti.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Kneel there," said Msaliti, indicating a place about a yard from the table.
"Why?" she asked.
"There," he said.
She knelt there, puzzled. It was about where a paga slave might kneel, close enough to be ready to serve at the merest signal, far enough away to be unobtrusive.
"You see," she said to me, "I have been well trained."
"Yes," I said.
"You were not given permission to speak," said Msaliti to the girl.
She looked at him, puzzled.
"You could be whipped also for that," he said.
"Of course," she laughed. Then she looked over to the blond-haired barbarian. The blond-haired girl, miserable, still blindfolded, knelt by the wall. Her slender ankles were shackled. Her hands were tied behind her back. A rope, looped through her collar, tied her to a slave ring behind her, about a yard off the floor. "Do you want her whipped again?" asked the dark-haired girl.
"No," said Msaliti.
"I thought you said the whip was to be used again tonight," she said.
"I did," said Msaliti.
"Are you going to beat her?" she asked.
"No," he said.
"I do not understand," she said.
Msaliti looked at her. "It is nearly time, my dear," he said, "for you to be returned to the tavern of Pembe."