"True,” said Cabot.
"You may then, later, if you wish,” she said, “give me away, or, better, as I understand it, sell me, to get some better sense of my value, what I might bring on the sales block."
"True,” said Cabot.
"Put others, and their thoughts, or plans, or projects, from your mind,” she said. “If you let such things, their fulfillment, or their defiance, the acceptance of their views, or the repudiation of their views, influence you, it is they, you see, who determined you, not you yourself. You are Master. Not they! If you find a slave of interest, keep her, if only for an Ahn, or if you do not find her of interest, it is a simple thing to rid yourself of her. She is a slave. Return her to the markets. Perhaps another might find her of interest."
"You are a clever slave, Cecily,” he said. “But that is not unusual for a girl in a collar. It is a pleasure to have them under our whips."
"I do not know if I am clever or not,” she said, “but I am a slave, and yours."
"True,” said Cabot.
"I am a human female, at your feet,” she said. “Is this not where you want us?"
"It is,” said Cabot.
"And it is where we want to be,” she said.
"As an abject slave?"
"Certainly,” she said, “and the more abject the better, the more abject the more owned, the more helpless, the more possessed, the more as we want to be, the more as we want to know ourselves, the female of a master!"
"Interesting,” said Cabot.
"We do not dream of weaklings,” she said. “We dream of masters."
"What you say is true,” said Cabot, “that is, that it is I who should decide, as I wish, and not be forced, or guided, in one way or another, into, or from, channels wrought by others."
"You are Master,” she said. “Not they, whoever or whatever they might be."
"Men are sometimes blinded by their vanity,” said Cabot. “Sometimes they fear being tricked or manipulated, of being lured into pathways and projects not their own. Sometimes they stumble over themselves. Sometimes, too often, I fear, they are their own most grievous foes."
"Sometimes, Master,” she said, “what lies in plainest view, most open to all, is most concealed to some, who refuse to see it."
"I think that is true,” said Cabot.
"A stranger, a bystander, a child, might see such things,” she said.
"Even a slave,” said Cabot.
"Yes, Master,” she said, “even a slave."
"And perhaps particularly,” said Cabot, “one who is keenly motivated, one who fears to be put into the markets, who is reluctant to ascend to the height of the auction block."
"It is true,” she said, “that I hope my master will keep me. I will strive zealously to please him."
"Why do you wish to be kept?” he asked. “Perhaps you fear being exhibited naked, under the torches, standing in the sawdust of the block, being bid upon, being displayed by the auctioneer?"
"Perhaps, Master,” she said.
"Millions of women, in numerous cultures, on various worlds, have had this experience,” said Cabot, “some of them several times."
"Yes, Master."
"The female is a familiar and popular commodity,” said Cabot.
"I know enough of the history of Earth,” she said, “to be well aware of the market value of my sex."
"And if you knew more of Gor,” he said, “you would be even more clearly aware of it."
"My master may exhibit me, and put me up for sale,” she said. “I know that. But I hope he will not do so."
"Why?” he asked.
She looked away. “Please do not make a slave speak,” she said.
"You need not speak,” he said.
"Thank you, Master."
"I think I should lash you,” he said.
"Please, do not, Master,” she said.
"I do not think men alone are plagued by such self-deceit,” said Cabot.
"No, Master,” she said, “I knew long I was a slave, before I was knelt before masters. Thousands of times I screamed aloud in my mind against the quiet, insistent whisper, the amused, mocking whisper, which came, again and again, from the mind beneath my mind. ‘You are a slave,’ it said. ‘Do you not know it? Look in the mirror! Strip yourself and kneel. Do you not see a slave there, and it is you who are the slave!’ Long I denied the needs of my belly. Long I fought my heart's pleas! And then, strangely, fragments and planets away from Earth, in a cylindrical world, a world made of steel, I found my lips pressed at last to the whip. It was there I was rightfully knelt."
"As you should have been, on Earth,” he said.
"Yes, Master,” she said.
"In a way,” said Cabot, “one could see all this as a splendid joke."
"Master?"
"In attempting to manipulate me,” he said, “they, whom you need not know, for you are a slave, they, in all their wisdom and cunning, may have succeeded in little other than putting in my way a pleasant little slave, one on whose neck my collar looks well, and with whom I may do as I please."
"Master?” she said, suddenly frightened.
"For that is all you are, now, in my view,” he said, “a pleasant little slave."
"Surely more than that, Master!” she wept.
"To be sure, one who is nicely curved."
"Master!” she protested.
"You do have nice slave curves, Cecily,” he said.
"Surely I am more to you than just any slave!” she said.
"Why?” he asked.
"Have we not been matched?"
"Certainly,” he said.
"Have I not been selected, with you in mind?” she said.
"Yes,” said he, “and my thanks to those who have done so."
"Surely, then,” she said, “I am not just another slave to you!"
"You have been nicely selected,” he said. “And that is very nice. Certainly I appreciate that. Who would not? But when all is said and done, that is all you are, just another slave to me."
"Please, no, Master!” she wept. “Please, no, no, Master!"
"Perhaps you understand better now, what it is to be a slave."
"Master!"
"Get up,” he said. “The feast is not yet done. Return to your serving."
"Master!"
"Now."
"But my needs, Master!” she wept.
"Needs?” he asked.
"My needs, my slave needs!” she cried. “Please! Be kind! Have mercy! Surely you have some sense of my misery, what I feel! I am only a slave! Is it not you who put slave needs into me? Is it not you who have done this to me? Do you think I am any longer a free woman? I am not! I am a slave! I beg you! Be kind! Please be kind to me! If nothing else, touch my arm, my hip, my thigh, that I might cry out, and weep!"
"Resume your service, slave,” he said. “Now."
"Yes, Master,” she wept, and leapt up, and hurried to resume her duties.
"Paga!” called a fellow.
"Yes, Master!” she wept, and went to the vat, to obtain a pitcher.
It was something like an Ahn later, and more than one fellow had retired from the circle, to his blankets.
Cabot had watched the brunette in her service. Her movements now were stiff, almost wooden. Tears had coursed down her cheeks. She did not meet his eyes. He did not summon her to him.
Only seven or eight fellows, mostly half asleep, were still about the fire. Some three slaves were about, in case anything might be needed.
Corinna, who had remained at service, looked to Cabot, and he nodded.
Corinna then fetched a goblet of paga, and went to the brunette slave, and spoke to her. The brunette shook her head piteously, negatively, but Corinna was firm, and was not to be gainsaid, and pressed the goblet into her hands, and indicated Cabot.
The brunette approached Cabot, and knelt before him. She lifted the goblet toward him, holding it in both hands. Her head was down, between her extended arms.