“But not at the moment,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said.
It was not unusual now to see slaves on deck. I took it this was an additional indication that some change was nigh. It was only later that I began to suspect the rationale for this surprising liberty.
I had her on her knees before me. A slave commonly speaks to a free man only from her knees.
“Are you in need of discipline?” I asked.
“I trust not,” she said.
The slave had often been in my vicinity, even when it seemed there was no cause for this proximity.
I wondered at this.
When I might glance in her direction, she would put her head down, shyly. Seeing my eyes clearly upon her, she would immediately kneel, her head to the deck. This behavior, of course, is not inappropriate in a slave. Whereas this sort of thing, frequenting the vicinity of a free man, is not unusual in an enamored slave, desperate to fall within the purview of a master’s glance, hoping to be noticed, though she be only slave, it seemed unaccountable in the case of one who had once been the Lady Flavia of Ar. Did she not know that such behavior might be misunderstood, that it might be construed as a plea to be enfolded in a man’s arms, to be purchased, to be put on his chain? The slave cannot choose her master, but she has many ways in which to plead that it will be she who is chosen.
The slave is not as helpless as she may seem. She has the weapon of her beauty, the tool of her desirability.
Could she be such a slave?
“It is fortunate,” I said to her, “that in the Raging Sea, the Sea of Fire, you were not washed from the deck.”
“Warned,” she said, “I had time to seize the storm rope.”
Seeing the suddenly opening valley in the sea before us, I had cried out a warning.
“Master saved my life,” she said.
“The warning,” I said, “was of general import.”
“Even so,” she said.
“But I am pleased,” I said, “that you survived.”
“The heart of a slave is gladdened,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” she said, “a slave is of concern to Master.”
“How could that be,” I asked, “as she is a slave?”
“Were you not pleased?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I said.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“You are an item of ship’s property,” I said. “In saving you, I saved an item of ship’s property.”
“Is that all?” she asked.
“What more could there be?” I asked.
“I see,” she said.
“You should not have been on deck in the first place,” I said. “You dallied. You lingered. You did not accompany your chain sisters below. I trust that after you were cleaned and tended, the backs of your pretty thighs were kissed with the switch for that.”
“They were!” she said.
“Why did you linger?” I asked.
“Can Master not guess?” she said.
This answer annoyed me. There is a fine line between deference and boldness, as between boldness and sauciness, and between sauciness and insolence. I considered cuffing her.
“Master?” she said.
How innocent she looked.
Yes, I thought, a cuffing might do her some good.
I recalled that she had proclaimed her love for me, the helpless love of a worthless slave.
What a liar was the collared slut!
Could she have truly risked the switch, that she might be longer in my view? That she might be longer in my presence, that she might be nearer to me, that she might, for a time, in effect, despite the breadth of the deck and the height of the high watch, be alone with me?
Even when the storm ropes were strung?
Did she think that I would be so much a fool that I would take her for an enamored slave, the sort of slave who begs to be at a master’s feet?
Doubtless she muchly feared that I might one day take her to Ar, for the bounty.
How clever she was in her collar.
Perhaps, I thought, I should take her to Ar, and cast her to the feet of the great Marlenus. She was no Talena, but she had stood high in the realms of treachery which had so beleaguered glorious Ar.
I had told her that I did not care for gold washed in blood, but I supposed she had not believed me. What might a man favor more than gold, a slave at his feet? Perhaps, I thought.
Could the slave, I wondered, be truly enwrapped in the toils of love?
How absurd that would be!
But I knew that no love could compare with the love of a slave for her master, the love of a vulnerable, helpless slave, who may be beaten or sold on a whim, for her master.
Is it not the most profound, the most helpless, the deepest, of all loves?
But the love of a slave, I knew, was to be scorned.
For she is a slave.
“Can Master not guess?” she asked, again.
“I think not,” I said.
“I see,” she said.
She was not the only slave who had been about me. Iole, too, had often been about, as had other slaves about other men. I saw the fellow who had been flogged on account of the blond slave, whom he had kissed with a might that suggested she might have been his, several days ago, and the blond slave who had been put under the slave lash for so provoking him. When he had not been looking, she had heeled him. When he turned, she knelt, her head to the deck. Then she had lifted her eyes to him, filled with tears. Twice he had cuffed her away, but each time she had returned to him, putting her hair about his feet. Once Iole had dared to brush against me, as though inadvertently, and had then, as though in contrition and terror, knelt before me, begging forgiveness. Shortly thereafter I heard men cry out and, turning, I saw her and Alcinoe rolling about on the deck, tearing at one another’s hair, screaming, kicking, biting, and scratching. “Behold,” laughed a man, “young, unmated she-sleen!” “Yes,” said another, “in the late spring!”
I guessed it was not easy to reach into that turning, twisting, rolling, screaming, sobbing, hysterical, biting, scratching frenzy but one fellow managed to get one hand in Iole’s hair and one in that of Alcinoe, and dragged them apart, and, as they shrieked with pain, held them apart, while they tried, sobbing, their bodies wracked with pain and frustration, to kick the other. Suddenly one fellow said, sharply, “Position!” Instantly, reflexively, Iole and Alcinoe, frightened, knelt, back on their heels, knees spread, back straight, head up, looking ahead, neither to the left or right, the palms of their hands down, firmly, on their thighs. Both slaves, in the presence of the other, tried to spread their knees as little as possible, while still maintaining position, as though each might thereby seem superior to the other, as being closer to the position of a free woman. Both were breathing heavily, gasping, and the cheeks of each ran with tears, of anger, pain, and frustration. Both were bloodied, and the brief tunic of each was half torn from her fair form. I had little doubt that both would be well attended to later. “Oh!” cried Iole. “Oh!” cried Alcinoe. The fellow who had put them in position with a single word had, first Iole, and then Alcinoe, kicked their knees apart, far apart. And thus each was reminded of, or informed of, the sort of slave they were. I saw a sudden look of surprise, and then understanding, manifest itself in the features of Alcinoe. Though she might be white-silk, she was a pleasure slave. Had she truly thought that she, and her some two hundred collar sisters, on their chains, so beautiful, so vital, so carefully selected, had been brought across the breadth of mighty Thassa, all the way from continental, known Gor, merely to be tower slaves? I did not think it likely she would soon forget the two booted blows which had publicly spread her thighs, and their import.
“Are you in need of discipline?” I had asked.
“I trust not,” she had said.
“What was the business between you and Iole?” I asked.
Their fight had occurred two days ago.
Both were now cleaned and tended, both brushed and combed, and both now in a fresh, pressed tunic.