She made an angry noise.
"Perhaps to keep you safe,” he suggested.
"From what?"
"I do not know,” he said.
"You attempted to rescue me,” she said.
"But failed to do so,” said Cabot.
"Obviously,” she said.
"At least you have not been eaten, at least as yet,” said Cabot.
She turned white.
"Do you think—?” she asked.
"Possibly,” he said.
"But not yet?"
"No,” he said. “I think they have other purposes in mind for us, at least as of now.
"What purposes?"
"I do not know."
"Why are you clothed?” she asked.
"I do not know,” he said. He wore a brief, gray tunic, a Gorean man's tunic. He had no weapons.
He regarded her.
Women look well on a chain.
She reddened. She covered her breasts. “Do not look at me!” she said.
"I will do as I please,” he said.
"You are not a gentleman!” she said.
He looked away.
"Thank you,” she said, coldly.
He looked back at her. It was pleasant to look upon her, particularly as she was on a chain.
"Please!” she protested.
Cabot shrugged. He supposed he might not be a gentleman. It was not of great concern to him. Too, what had gentlemanliness to do with this? She was a slave. She was a domestic animal; she might be chained in a public market, for the inspection of all and sundry.
She had bespoke herself slave.
She was slave.
"What do you suppose your beauty is for?” he asked.
Angrily, she tightened her arms and hands against her body. She does not know she is a slave, he thought. That is all right. She can always learn later. A slave may not conceal her body from a master, of course, without his permission. Her beauty is not hers; it is owned by the master.
Cabot went to the foot of the chain, as she drew back, and ascertained that it was fastened to a heavy ring bolt, anchored in the floor.
"Yes,” she said, irritably, “it is fastened quite securely."
Did she not know she could be lashed for speaking in that tone of voice to a free man? Did she think she was a free woman. Yes, thought Cabot, of course, she thinks she is a free woman.
"I am not clothed, and you are,” she said.
"Yes?” he said.
Did she not know that she was beautiful, and he was not? And she was, of course, a slave, a chained slave.
"I will see,” he said, “if I can arrange some clothing for you."
"Thank you,” she said, acidly. “I would be extremely grateful."
He smiled. Did she not know the clothing he would arrange? He thought she would look quite well in a brief slave tunic. Certainly the fellows she had known on Earth would think so.
A slave tunic can be quite fetching on a woman. To be sure, they are designed for that purpose. They display the legs, usually generously, and often the thighs, and do little to conceal the bosom, and her soft, fair shoulders. They leave little to the imagination, and what little they leave calls attention to what is concealed in so delightful and provocative a fashion that the tunic is almost an invitation to its own removal. Some feel that a slave tunic can make a woman look even more naked and vulnerable than when she is stripped. Such tunics, too, despite their brevity, lack a nether closure. In this way, the slave is reminded in yet another little way that she is to be always at the convenience of the master.
"You are not chained,” she said.
"No,” he said.
"Why?"
"I do not know."
"Please stop looking at me!” she said.
"Why?"
"'Why'!” she exclaimed.
"Yes."
"Beast!"
"Yes,” he said.
She gasped, and drew back, clenching her arms yet more tightly about her. After a time, she said, petulantly, sullenly, “You are no gentleman."
"No,” he said.
"What are you?” she asked, angrily.
"Gorean,” he said.
"What is that?"
"If you live long enough,” he said, “you will be taught."
She looked at him, for a moment, quizzically, but did not pursue her question. She knelt back, on her heels.
Excellent, thought Cabot, excellent.
She did not remove her arms and hands from her body, but she straightened her body, and lifted her head, and shook her head a little, to throw her hair behind her.
Good, thought Cabot, good.
She smiled a little smile, at him. He supposed it was to be taken as a shy, rueful, resigned smile. Surely it was artful.
He found her tormentingly attractive to him, but had she not been selected to be so?
She is playing her little game, he thought. She is sensing her power. Doubtless such things in her past well served her purposes. They are less likely to be effective now.
He considered how she would look in a collar, and was pleased. In it her beauty would be much improved. But does not the collar enhance the beauty of any woman, the contrast with her softness, its irremovability, and its meaning?
It is little wonder, he thought, that Merchant Law prescribes that the fair throats of female slaves will know the collar, that their fair throats be clasped within such lovely, indicatory, uncompromising, irremovable, possessive encirclements.
"I suppose,” she said, lightly, “you are looking at me because I am beautiful."
"You will do,” he said.
"'Do'!” she cried.
"Yes,” he said.
"Am I not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?” she demanded.
"No,” he said.
"I have been told by many men,” she said, angrily, “that I was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen!"
"They had not seen the women of Gor,” he said. To be sure, beauty is more than a mere combination of external relationships, the eyes to the hair, the thigh to the forearm, and such. Beyond such things, of course, it is difficult to define but then, so, too, is almost anything of importance. It is perhaps more analogous to an illumination, or a whisper, or a kiss, than a measurement. Slavery, incidentally, often brings a woman to beauty, for a variety of reasons. Most trivially, within it she is seldom permitted the straining, disfiguring uglinesses common to the free woman, nastiness, arrogance, brassiness, and so on. Such unpleasantries can be lashed out of her, for they are not pleasing to the master. More importantly, more profoundly, in slavery she finds herself in her place in nature, at her master's feet; in slavery she finds herself returned to her womanhood, to her mastered femininity. Perhaps such things explain the common contentment of the slave, so incomprehensible to many free women, her devotion to the master, her instant obedience, her zealous service, her happiness, her love, and so on, and, doubtless, too, her helpless, spasmodic yieldings to his peremptory possession of his property. The slave, perhaps even roped or chained down, may be used in many ways, as the master might please, perhaps tantalized for writhing hours, until she begs for release, or perhaps, if he wishes, merely put to his purposes briefly, perhaps, her tunic torn away, simply flung to the floor, there to be subordinated as the property she is to his authority. Free women sense, perhaps to their rage, but cannot fully comprehend, the pervasive and profound sexuality of the slave, which irradiates and suffuses her entire existence, even in such small things as the touching of a collar, the feel of a tunic, the touch of tiles on her knees or belly, the leathery taste on her tongue as she slowly, humbly, softly, gratefully licks the whip, the sense of fulfillment in kneeling, and bowing her head before her master. It is beyond their ken, unless they should one day find themselves in the collar.
"Gor?” she asked.
"Yes,” he said, “a world, one quite different from that with which you have hitherto been familiar."
"This is not Earth,” she said.
"No,” said Cabot.