She threw back her head, haughtily. “It means nothing,” she said.
I smiled.
“A slave collar,” she said, lightly, “Might be snapped on the throat of any pretty girl.” “That is true,” I said.
She reacted as if struck.
“You do not understand,” she said.
“What is it that I do not understand?” I asked.
“Gorean girls,” she hissed, “may be slaves! Not the women of Earth! Earth women are different! They are better, finer, nobler, more refined, more delicate! You cannot make them common slaves!” “You regard yourself as better than Gorean girls?” I asked.
She looked at me, astonished. “Of course,” she said.
“That is interesting,” I said. “To me you seem less worthy, more slavish.” “You needn’t play games with me,” she said. “The others are asleep. We can speak frankly. We are compatriots of Earth. If you wish, for your vanity, I shall play the role of a slave girl when they are about, but I assure you that I am not a slave. I am not a slave! I am a free woman of Earth, different from them, and superior to them! I am better than they!” “And so,” I said, “I should show you special consideration?” “Certainly,” she said.
“I should be particularly kind to you,” I said, “and you should, doubtless be accorded special privileges.” “Yes,” she said. She smiled. “Be cruel to them,” she said, “but not to me. Be harsh to them, but not to me. Treat them as laves, but not me.” “Why should I treat them as slaves?” I asked.
She looked at me, puzzled. “Because they are slaves,” she said.
“And you are not?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“How should one treat slaves?” I asked.
“With great harshness and cruelty,” she said.
I looked at her. She stood in brief, diaphanous yellow slave silk, that of the paga slave. Her hair was very long and dark. Her skin was very light. She was slender.” “I do not accept being a slave girl,” she said.
“Your legs,” I said, “are beautiful enough,” I said, “to be a Gorean slave girl.” “Thank you,” she said.
I strode to her and pulled away the bit of silk. She gasped, but dared not interfere.
‘“I walked about her. “You are beautiful enough,” I said,to be a Gorean slave girl.” She was silent.
“You were brought by slavers to this world,” I said. “You were sold. You have been branded. You wear a collar.” She dared not speak.
I examined her, candidly. “I congratulate the slavers on their taste,” I said. “Thank you,” she whispered.
I looked at her, standing in the clearing, the bit of silk at her ankles, beautiful in the light of the three moons.
She was now frightened.
“I am glad,” I told her, “that the slavers brought you to Gor.”
“Why?’ she said.
“Because,” I said, “it is a pleasure to own you.”
“I cannot be owned,” she said. “I am not a slave girl!”
“Are you aware that the men of Gor look upon the women of Earth as natural slaves?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“How should one treat slaves?” I asked.
“With great harshness and cruelty,” she said, her head high.
“You wear a collar,” I said.
“I am not a slave!” she said.
“You are an exquisite slave,” I said.
“No!” she cried.
“Quite exquisite,” I said.
“Return me to Earth!” she cried.
“There is no escape,” I said, “for a Gorean slave girl.”
“I know what you want,” she said. “I will purchase my passage back to Earth!” “What have you to offer?” I asked.
“Myself,” she said. She shook her hair. “Obviously myself!” She looked at me. “I will serve your pleasure,” she said.
“As a slave girl?” I asked.
She tossed her head. “If you wish,” she said.
“Kneel, Slave,” said I, not pleasantly.
Uncertain of herself, she knelt. She looked up at me. There was fear in her eyes.
“Am I playing a role?” she asked.
“No,” I told her.
She tried to leap to her feet, but my hand was in her hair, painfully. When she stopped struggling, I released her. She smiled. “I’m not a slave girl,” she said.
“Do you know the penalty,” I asked, “for a slave girl who lies to her master?” She looked at me, no longer smiling. She was now apprehensive. “Whatever the master wishes,” she said.
“For the first offense,” I said, “the penalty is not usually severe, commonly only a whipping.” She looked down.
“Will it be necessary in the morning to have you trussed and switched?’ I asked. “Why looked up, suddenly. There were tears in her eyes. “Why are you not kind and solicitous like the men of Earth?” she asked.
“I am Gorean,” I told her.
“Will you show me no mercy?” she begged.
“No,” I told her.
She put her head down.
“I shall now ask you a question,” I said. “I advise you to think carefully before you answer.” She looked up at me.
“What are you, Ilene?” I asked.
She put down her head. “A Gorean slave girl,” she whispered.
I knelt then beside her and took her in my arms, and put her back to the grass. “Slaves,” I told her, “are to be treated with great harshness and cruelty, and you are a slave.” She moaned.
She lay on her back on the grass, and looked up at me. “Am I to receive nothing?” she asked. “Nothing?” “You are to receive nothing,” I told her. “Nothing.” In half an Ahn she was wild, moaning, weeping, submissive in my arms. And when in another half an Ahn she yielded it was with the helpless, uncontrollable yielding of the utterly vanquished Gorean slave girl. “I am a slave,” she wept, “ a slave,” she wept, “what will you do with me?” I did not respond to her.
“Will you return me to Earth?’ she asked.
“No,” I told her.
“Will you free me?’ she asked.
“No,” I told her.
“I am totally your slave,” she wept. “What will you do with me, Master?” “I will sell you in Port Kar,” I told her. I then left her.
I awakened shortly before dawn. It was muchly dark, but not as dark as the night. I was cold, and wet. I heard the call of some horned owls.
I rose on one elbow.
At my feet, to one side, a yard or two away, lay Ilene. Her head was on her right arm, and her eyes were open. She was watching me.
I knew the eyes of a slave girl in need.
I looked about. There was already, though before dawn, a dim filtering of light in the forest, the false dawn, the inchoate, fractionated light preceding the true dawn, when Tor-tu-Gor, the common star of two worlds, would, as a Gorean poet once said, fling its straight, warming, undeflected spears of the morning among the wet, cool branches of the forest.
I lay on my back.
The sky was now a darkish gray. I could see the edges of the trees clearly against it. I could detect dim, whitish clouds overhead.
I lifted myself again to my elbow. It was a chilly morning. Dew covered the grass and leaves. Everywhere drops glistened.
I again regarded Ilene. I read the need in her eyes. The bit of yellow pleasure silk, wet with dew, clung to her. Her hair was wet and straight, black, damp and matted back from her forehead, on both sides. Her face was damp. There was dew on her collar. Her legs were drawn up.
She crept to me and put her head to my waist. Then she lifted her head and looked at me. “Master?” she whispered. I did not speak to her. She lay beside me and put her arms timidly about my neck. Delicately, timidly, she kissed me. “Please, Master,” she said, “please.” Her eyes were pleading.
“I do not have time for you now,” I said.
“But I am ready,” she said. “I am ready!”
I took her in my arms and turned her to her back, and touched her. She tore the pleasure silk back that there be less between us.
I marveled. In the night it had taken a full Ahn to an Ahn and a half to bring her to the point of yielding. This morning she had crept to my side as a slave girl in need. To my slightest touch her body responded helplessly, spasmodically. Last night she had been an Earth woman who had had to be conquered, who had had to be taught her collar. This morning she was only a lovely Gorean slave girl, eager and moaning, begging piteously once again for her master’s touch, begging to yield again, and again. On Earth a thousand men might have sued for her hand. On Gor she belonged to only one man, was an article of his property, and was only one slave girl among others.