"We have had a collar prepared for her,” said Peisistratus. “The legend says ‘I am the property of Tarl Cabot'."
"I do not want her,” muttered Cabot.
The girl stifled a sob.
"If unclaimed,” said Peisistratus, “she must be disposed of, and soon."
It seemed the girl would cry out, or speak, but she remained silent. Several times she had been switched for speaking without permission.
It is one of the first things a slave learns, that it is not always permitted to her to speak, when and as she wishes.
She is slave.
"Let another claim her,” said Cabot, sullenly.
"None will have her,” said Peisistratus.
"Is she such a tharlarion?” asked Cabot.
"Her hair is too short,” said Peisistratus.
"It is short,” said Cabot, leaning forward.
"Set the goblet aside,” said Peisistratus to the kneeling slave. “Split your knees, more widely! Straighten your back!"
"Yes, Master!” she said.
"Quickly, slut!” he snapped. “More quickly!"
"Yes, Master!” she wept.
"Move the coins to the side, with both hands,” said Peisistratus, “so that we may examine your breasts."
"Yes, Master!” she sobbed.
"She is not bad,” said Peisistratus.
"Perhaps not,” granted Cabot.
"I think,” said Peisistratus, “that few would confuse her with a tharlarion."
"I want the paga,” said Cabot. “Paga!"
"Do you wish to be whipped?” Peisistratus asked the distressed, trembling slave.
"No, no!” she cried. It seemed clear she had felt the whip.
"Stand, pose!” he snapped.
Instantly the slave complied. It seemed that she had learned something of what it was to be a slave.
Such as she, slaves, obey instantly, unquestioningly. They are slave.
She had obviously been taught something of what it was to be a female slave.
Certainly she posed well.
Perhaps she had so posed in her dreams.
"Enough,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes, Master,” she said, and then stood before masters, waiting to be returned to position.
"She seems to understand something of her body,” said Cabot.
"Use her,” said Peisistratus.
"No,” said Cabot, shaking his head, slowly.
"Men would pay good money for her,” said Peisistratus. “Perhaps as much as two silver tarsks."
"Keep her,” said Cabot.
"She is a well-curved slut,” said Peisistratus.
"So, too, are thousands of others,” said Cabot.
"I thought she might be special to you,” said Peisistratus.
"No,” said Cabot.
"As I understand it,” said Peisistratus, “from Arcesilaus, and others, she was enclosed with you on the Prison Moon."
"That is true,” said Cabot.
"Surely that was no mere happenstance. She would have been selected for you, selected for you by Priest-Kings, and doubtless with great care, with all their shrewdness, and science, selected to be irresistible to you, a slut of your dreams, that you might be tempted from your honor."
"Perhaps,” said Cabot, angrily.
"The Priest-Kings are cruel,” said Peisistratus.
"True,” said Cabot.
"She is English, is she not?"
"Yes."
"Intelligent, highly educated, and such?"
"Yes."
"Nicely curved?"
"Doubtless."
"And extremely beautiful?"
"Perhaps."
"She is, too, as I understand it, a self-confessed slave."
"Yes,” said Cabot, “the words were spoken on the Prison Moon itself."
"Here,” said Peisistratus, “you may have her for nothing. She is goods, and honor, I assure you, is no longer in the least involved."
"True,” said Cabot.
"So take her,” said Peisistratus.
"No,” said Cabot.
"Surely you want her in your arms,” said Peisistratus.
Cabot shook his head.
"Surely you want her at your feet, on her belly, licking and kissing, whimpering, begging,” said Peisistratus.
"She is a vain, cold, haughty bitch,” said Cabot.
"No, Master!” wept the slave, inadvertently.
Gone surely then was her facade of disdain, of boredom, and such.
She was then much alive, and vulnerable.
She then, quickly, fearfully, put her head down, doubtless fearing to be beaten.
"Look up, slut,” said Peisistratus.
The slave lifted her head.
"See that throat, and those features,” said Peisistratus. “Perhaps two and a half silver tarsks?"
It is difficult to speculate on these matters, but it seems clear she was a beauty, given the limitations of her species. To be sure, she was fresh to her bondage, had received little training, and knew little, at that time, of a slave's major concern, that of serving and pleasing, selflessly, intimately and inordinately, the males of her species.
"Keep her,” said Cabot.
"To be sure,” mused Peisistratus. “Doubtless the slave fires have not yet been kindled in that lovely little belly."
"May I speak, Master?” begged the slave.
Peisistratus nodded.
"I fear, Master,” she said, “I already feel such fires."
"And when did this first come about?” inquired Peisistratus.
"On the Prison Moon,” she said, softly, “when first I acknowledged myself—explicitly, publicly—slave."
"You do not yet know what it is to feel slave fire,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes, Master,” she whispered.
"Have the other girls taught you nothing of interesting men?” asked Peisistratus.
"A little, Master,” she said, shyly, not meeting his eyes.
"You posed well,” he said.
"Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
"Now,” he said, “we shall see if you can dance."
"Please, no, Master!” she wept, suddenly, frightened.
Peisistratus gestured to the musicians, who reached for their instruments.
"No, Master, please!” she cried. “I do not know how to dance!"
"All women know how to dance,” said Peisistratus. “Make certain the coins jangle well."
"Please, no, Master!” she wept.
"She is a pretty slut,” said Peisistratus.
"I want paga,” said Cabot, angrily.
Peisistratus gestured to the musicians, and they touched memories of Gor, of her rivers and lakes, her trails, her valleys and mountains.
"Dance!” commanded Peisistratus.
And the slave danced, as she could, danced for fear of the whip, for fear of her life, danced for the pleasure of men, hoping to please them, hoping that they might see how beautiful and desirable she was, and would be kind to her, and then for the sudden desperation of her awakened needs, and danced as what she was, a slave.
"Enough,” said Peisistratus.
The musicians put aside their instruments, and the slave had collapsed, sobbing, to the floor.
"You are right,” said Peisistratus. “She is not much good."
The slave, prostrate, wept. Her small body had tried to please. Surely they knew she was not a dancer, not a trained dancer, one whose smallest, subtlest motions might drive a man mad with desire. The coins, dangling from her throat, made a tiny sound, on the flooring.
"Paga,” said Cabot.
"You have had too much,” said Peisistratus.
"Paga,” said Cabot.
"Paga,” repeated Peisistratus, summoning the slave with a gesture.
Quickly, summoned, she hurried to the small table, knelt, and retrieved the goblet.
"You cannot even see her clearly, can you?” asked Peisistratus.
Doubtless the form of the slave, bedecked with coins, her only garment, swam before his eyes.
"It is truly she?” said Cabot, uncertainly.
"Yes,” said Peisistratus.
"Why have none claimed her?"
"I have forbidden it,” said Peisistratus. “I have given the orders."