"I will call you ‘Cecily,'” he said.
Cabot had seen more than one girl from England chained in a Gorean market whose name had been Cecily. It was a not unprecedented name for Gorean slave girls from that part of the Earth. So, too, I am told, are names such as Jane, as suggested, and others, Jean, Joan, Margaret, Helen, Elizabeth, Marjorie, Allison, Corinne, Constance, and such. Those may not have been their original names, of course. Masters name their girls as they please. To be sure, such names are also not unknown, as I am informed, in the colonies, or former colonies, of that place, too, one of the Englands. Perhaps in her present predicament, naked and chained, she reminded Cabot of one or more of the girls he had seen in the markets. Or perhaps he just thought it would be a name acceptable for her, at least temporarily.
"What if I do not choose to respond to that name,” she said.
"Then I will beat you,” he said.
"Beat me?"
"Yes."
"I am Virginia Cecily Jean Pym!” she said. “—Beat me?"
"Yes."
"You would not dare!"
"You are mistaken."
"You are, of course, larger and stronger than I."
"Yes."
"You would beat me?"
"Certainly."
"You may call me ‘Cecily,'” she said.
"It is what I will call you,” he said.
"Very well,” she said. She drew back, abashed, uncertain of her feelings.
She put her hands on the chain, and pulled it a little against the collar ring. She was well fastened in place.
She would be addressed as men pleased. This, thought Cabot, is a good lesson for her. She is not having her own way. She is unaccustomed to being under male discipline. To be sure, she had been positioned in the container, when he had been examining her for slave marks. And later, for a time. She is trying to understand her feelings, he thought. She is sexually aroused, and she does not clearly understand how it has come about. Women respond well to male domination. They are, after all, females. She would make an excellent slave, thought Cabot. And Cabot, of course, at that time, did not well understand that the female had not only the profound sexual needs and drives of a lovely, helpless, vulnerable slave, and remarkably so, but that she had been chosen for him, and for him in particular, with exactly such things in mind.
How helplessly she would find herself his!
Are the Priest-Kings not cruel?
"May I call you ‘Tarl'?” she inquired.
"For now,” he said.
It would be time enough later, to let her know what she had done on the Prison Moon, that she had bespoken herself slave, and in so doing had renounced her freedom, irrecoverably, that it had been an act which it was now wholly beyond her power to revoke, amend or qualify in any way. It would be time enough later to let her know that she was now property, merely unclaimed property.
He did not think the fellows she had known on Earth would have objected to this.
Would they not have liked to have her kneeling naked at their feet, collared, fearing the lash, if she were found in the least displeasing?
Tarl Cabot rose to his feet, and looked about himself.
"What do you see?” she asked.
Curiosity, he thought, is not becoming in a kajira. Yet they tend to be persistently, delightfully, sometimes annoyingly, incorrigibly, curious.
"More stalls,” he said. “A passageway, wooden, between them. This is, I think, a stable."
"A stable!"
"Surely, does it not seem so?"
"I, in a stable!"
"It would seem so,” he said.
He then turned about.
"Where are you going!” she called. She stood up, frantically, clumsily, and found herself partly bent over, for the length of the chain did not permit her to stand erect. She must have felt she looked absurd, for she quickly knelt, again.
She clutched her arms about herself.
So might a lovely tabuk doe be tethered in the straw, thought Cabot, though for such, lacking hands, a light strand on the neck might do.
To be sure, a much lighter chain would have held her. She was a female.
How lovely they are, he thought. They are so different from us. They are made by nature to be our slaves.
To be sure, they can be nuisances, until they are collared.
"Do not leave me!” she cried.
"Are you afraid?” he asked.
"Of course not!” she said.
"Then you are stupid,” he said.
"Are you afraid?” she asked.
"Yes,” he said.
"I am afraid,” she said.
"Good,” he said.
He turned about, again.
"Do not leave me alone!” she cried.
He moved toward the opening of the stall.
"Don't go!” she cried. “If you leave me I shall scream!” she said.
He turned back, toward her.
He had at his disposal no convenient means with which to bind her, hand and foot, and gag her.
He read her body.
Binding and gagging a woman, and leaving her alone, for an Ahn or so, can be instructive to her.
He had little doubt but what the former Miss Pym would find it so. She was clearly highly intelligent.
But he had no convenient means for such at his disposal.
He regarded her, closely.
She knelt before him, looking up at him.
Again he read her body, her slave body.
She does not know it, he thought, but she is ready, nearly ready, for the mastering.
"I would not scream,” he said. “You do not know who or what might hear."
"I am prepared to accept that risk,” she said.
"I am not,” he said.
"Do not leave me!” she said. “What are you going to do!” she cried, drawing back, alarmed, as he approached her.
He took a large handful of dry, bristling straw and placed it, crosswise, in her mouth. He then stood up, and looked down at her, she looking up at him, disbelievingly, her eyes wide, her mouth filled with the stallage. “Do not expel that,” he said, “until given permission. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
He then left the stall and began to make his way down the passageway between stalls, for there were several in the structure.
After a time he returned.
He knelt beside the brunette and drew the damp, partly crushed straw from her mouth. Then she put her head to the side, and, fingering within her mouth, and spitting, she ridded herself of the residue of the straw.
Then she looked at him reproachfully. “What you did to me!” she said.
"We had little but straw to work with,” he said. “I regret that."
"I am not prepared to accept your apology,” she said.
"I do not apologize, nor should I,” said he. “It is only that I regret that proper materials were not at hand. I think you would have looked quite nice, bound, hand and foot, and gagged, lying in the straw on your chain."
"What manner of man are you?” she asked, angrily.
"Gorean,” he said. “And you are a female."
"What did you learn?” she asked.
"I looked about,” he said. “There is no escape. There are bars. The stable is of wood, but it is within what seems to be a housing of iron or steel. I could see very little outside the stable."
"Are we—on Gor?” she asked.
"I do not think so,” he said.
"Are we to starve here?” she asked.
"I would not think so,” he said.
"What is to be done with us?"
"I do not know."
"Must you look at me so?"
"You have nice curves,” he said.
She looked away, angrily.
"Do you know what such curves are called, on Gor?"
"No,” she said.
"Slave curves,” he said.
"How vulgar, how horrid!” she exclaimed.
"Not at all,” he said. “You have a lovely body, lovely enough to be that of a slave.” He continued to scrutinize her. “Yes,” he said, “you have an excellent body, a slave body."