What sort of man could he be?
Was he even a man, as she had known men?
Perhaps he was something far more masculine, more virile and dangerous, more dominant?
What then might be the relation of such a man to a woman?
Perhaps he was the sort of man who would simply master a woman?
She thought of herself as mastered, and shuddered, with pleasure.
Then she cast such thoughts from herself, indignantly.
Surely she was not such that she could be mastered! She was educated, and civilized, and such!
But what if it was done to her?
Her dreams had left her in no doubt that it could be done to her, and with perfection.
Surely she would fear the whip.
She would be choiceless.
Never before had she encountered such a man.
Could she be longing for a master?
Was that what it was to be a woman, to be a slave?
Then she, a civilized beauty of station, position, and class, the young, spoiled, pampered, proud, self-righteous scion of a pathological acculturation, put aside such thoughts as offensive and absurd, and considered her present predicament and vulnerability.
She was imprisoned, helplessly, perfectly, why or how she had no idea. She had no evidence, even, of the number or nature of her captors, or owners.
She looked at the heavy, glassine walls, closely curving about her, within whose compass she and the others were confined.
She was a member of a miniscule social group, in a tiny, inescapable environment, subject to a technological ecology she was incapable of altering. What might be the social relations in such a world, in such a small, stout, encircling, transparent world?
And what might be the consequences to herself of these social relations?
She became extremely frightened. What if she were marginalized, or neglected? What if the little animal should become, so to speak, his favorite? How would this affect her plans, her role, in this tiny space? There was a single male, and two females.
Must she not somehow compete for his favor?
At this point, she seemed to speak to him, but in response she received only his smile, which disconcerted her.
She then drew back, miserably, against the wall of the thick, glassine barrier, and, for some time, watched the little blonde, with her soft, pink tongue, licking at the male's knee.
She became more and more agitated.
She seems then to have said something to Tarl Cabot, which displeased him, for he seems to have spoken back to her, sharply.
She then, upset, drew back, again.
Perhaps no man had spoken to her in that fashion before.
She began to cry.
He paid her no attention.
Later, she seems to have said something to him again, but he only shrugged, noncommittally.
She tried to plead with him, it seemed, but he looked away.
Tears stained her cheeks.
Had she been found displeasing?
Never had that happened before.
Clearly then she understood, perhaps as never before, save in her dreams, her femaleness in relation to a male's maleness, that she was a female, and that she, if she would please, or even survive, had best relate to the male as a female.
She was startled.
He was dominant.
Never before had she sensed a male dominant over her, but she sensed it now.
He controlled the container, or could, if he wished.
It must have been clear to her then that she might be isolated, excluded, that her standing in this tiny world might be in jeopardy.
What if she were not fed?
Then, after a time, the brunette, covering her breasts, as she could, with one arm, put out her hand and took one of the hands of Tarl Cabot.
Looking at him, she drew it timidly to her mouth, and, putting her head down, began to lick at its palm, perhaps to obtain any residue of the gelatinous provender which it had hitherto held.
Then she looked up at him, frightened, and then, again, submissively, put her head down and licked his palm.
Could she at one time have even conceived of herself doing this?
Could it be she, behaving so?
Oddly, she felt sexually enflamed.
She was trying to please a male.
How would the males she had hitherto known react to this, those she had treated with such coolness, with such contempt and condescension, whom she had routinely disdained, belittled, and spurned, whom she had treated as so much beneath her, to whom she had postured herself as their lofty, haughty superior, seeing her naked, fearful, degraded, attempting to please a male? Would they not have cried out with pleasure, and perhaps removed their belts, that they might have served as whips?
Tarl Cabot did not withdraw his hand, but he looked at her, closely. Slaves sometimes try to call themselves so to the attention of their master. It was a slave's gesture, a slave's act. Cabot wondered if she knew what she was doing. It is erotic, of course, to feel that soft tongue in the palm of one's hand. It, too, this gesture or act, is often used not simply as a device of placation, but as a way of petitioning to be caressed.
The blonde, half asleep, contented, did not even object to the brunette's solicitation, her apology, and begging for forgiveness.
The brunette was then, in her view, no more than another pet. And she was not concerned at the moment, in her own contentment, with driving her away.
The male put his left hand on the brunette's forehead and, holding it in place, gently drew his right hand away.
The brunette looked up, timidly.
He smiled at her, and she put her head down, quickly, beside his leg. He then gently drew her hands apart that she, kneeling now beside him, need no longer prolong her pretense of modesty, so out of place in their tiny world, that she need no longer struggle so absurdly to hide her beauty from him.
She did not then grasp herself as before, in that preposterous fashion, trying to conceal herself from him, for he had seemed to discountenance it, but she did press herself against his leg, putting her head down, so that he could not see the full slave of her.
This amused him.
Did she not know that he could seize her, and hold her, and turn her, and examine her, minutely, and then, his assessment done, discard her, casting her to the side of the container as one might a slave?
But he recalled she was a free woman.
She looked up at him, timidly, tears in her eyes. And then put her head down and softly licked the side of his leg. She then put up her head again, timidly, to see his reaction.
It was the sort of thing a slave might do.
Would her solicitation be accepted, or might he be annoyed, and cuff her from his leg?
He put his hand gently on her hair, and then she felt, in a moment, his hand close within her hair, holding it, tightly.
She was helpless.
She winced.
He seemed to struggle with himself. He wants me, she thought, trying to hold her head very still, quite aware that if she made any sudden movement or made the least attempt to escape, it would hurt even more, and that he, if he wished, with a mere tightening or twist, could subject her to the torment of hundreds of tiny scalding knives of pain, to avoid which she would do anything. Then he released her hair. She was, after all, a free woman.
She crouched as she could in the container, against his leg.
She was startled, confused.
He could have done with her what he wanted, but he had not.
She put down her head.
She kissed his leg, again.
She had strange, unaccountable sensations.
This is what it is, she thought, to be a female.
Then she thought, I want him to claim me. I want to wear his collar. Lash me, she thought, prove to me you own me.