And, of course, the slave, as the others at their mats, was bared to the vision of free men. How different they are from us, I thought, and was therein well pleased. It also occurred to me that women go to great lengths, almost always, unless subglandular, moronic, insane, culturally suppressed, or somehow ideologically perverted, to dress themselves attractively. For example, the robes of concealment, prescribed for, and almost universally accepted by, Gorean free women, certainly of the higher castes, were not uniform, drab garmentures imposed on them by, say, an oppressive society which regarded women as inferior, unclean, and morally dangerous, but, in their abundance, in their layers and veilings, in their arrangements and drapings, were tasteful and attractive, and, above all, surely, bright and colorful. One may not see that much of a woman in the robes of concealment but there is no doubt that there is one in there somewhere, and there is no missing that. Yes, a woman can be quite attractive in the robes of concealment, and there is no doubt of that. Once again we note that not all slaves are collared. To be sure, the robes of concealment are, in their way, a tease, a provocation. Surely the women are not unaware of that. Perhaps that is one reason that men so relish the removal of such garments and the placing of their occupants in the more revealing and delightful garmentures of slaves. “You will tease no more. I will now look upon you as I wish, for you are now no longer yours, but are now ours, the property of men. Rejoice, the games are over. You are beautiful. Know yourself exhibited, and owned.”
But the girls on the mats, of course, were not even accorded a slave strip. They were mat slaves, and bared suitably.
Was her body not enough?
In a sense, one supposed, surely, but, so far beyond that, so far indeed, were the fluidities and graces, the appetitions, the performances, the subtleties, the movements, the needs, the readinesses, the petitions, of the female slave!
“In one sense,” I said, “your body is enough, and more than enough, but, in another sense, and one more important than that of brief, mindless couplings, that body is no more than a beginning, something needed, but something not enough in itself, something far from enough in itself.”
“But, why, Master?” she asked.
“Because you are no longer a free woman,” I said. “Because you are now a slave.”
“I do not understand,” she whispered.
“Because you are now a thousand times more female than before,” I said.
“Master?” she said.
“Because you are now a slave,” I said.
“Have pity on me!” she wept.
“Display yourself,” I said, “girl.”
“I do not know how!” she said.
“It is instinctual in you,” I said. “It is in your blood. You are a female.”
“Do not so humiliate me!” she begged.
“Begin,” said I, “slave.”
“Yes,” she wept, “I am a slave!”
“Now,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she wept.
“Ah,” I said, “I see you have thought of these things before, perhaps in your dreams, perhaps in the secrecy of your boudoir, perhaps in your imaginings, perhaps in putting the loop of a strap about your left wrist, and, suddenly, dramatically, drawing it tight.”
She sobbed.
“Excellent,” I said. “It is a shapely limb, is it not? Would it not look well in an ankle shackle?”
“Have mercy!” she begged.
“You are well aware, are you not, of the weight of the chain on your collar, of the sound of its links, and how you are fastened to the floor ring, naked, before a male?”
“Master!” she protested.
“Continue,” I said.
“Must I?” she said.
“Now,” I said.
“I was free,” she said. “You are making me behave as a slave!”
“And how are you behaving?” I asked.
“As a slave!” she said. “I am behaving as a slave!”
“Is it not appropriate?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I am a slave!” she said.
She collapsed to the mat, sobbing.
“Kneel up,” I said to her, kindly. “You did well.”
She then knelt before me.
“Keep your knees together,” I advised her. I was, after all, only human. I then put the switch before her, and she leaned forward and, timidly, licked and kissed the supple leather implement.
She looked up. “Have me,” she whispered. “Please.”
There was a small stand, near the mat, in which a taper might be held.
“As a free woman?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said, “as what I am, a slave.”
I gathered she had often thought of what it might be, to be a slave in the arms of a master.
“You are,” I said, “the former Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers.”
She regarded me, terrified.
“Do not deny it,” I said. “I know it is true.”
“Do not kill me!” she begged.
“That is not my intention,” I said.
“You are of Ar?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“You want me, for a bounty,” she said.
I supposed there were bounties on certain citizens of Ar, who had managed to escape the wrath of vengeful crowds, the pursuits of licensed and unlicensed capture squads.
“No,” I said. “And, as far as I know, there is no bounty on you.”
“I saw my name on a proscription list, posted on the public boards,” she said.
“I do not doubt it,” I said.
“They want me, to kill me,” she said.
“Perhaps in the heat of the moment,” I said. “But I would suppose, after a time, that their sense of vengeance would be more than satisfied if they found you wore a collar in the north. Indeed, I have learned from others that various women of your sort were merely publicly flogged and collared, some then to become state slaves, most to be sold out of the city, to be distributed with contempt amongst inferior markets.”
“Does the proscription list not mean death?” she asked.
“Strictly,” I said, “it means apprehension, but it is true, that it is commonly a warrant for death, certainly for males, and often for women, free women.”
“They wanted our blood,” she said.
“At the time, in the rage of the crowd, I do not doubt it,” I said. “But, now, you might rather be brought before a praetor, for the iron and the collar.”
“Is that true?” she said.
“I do not know,” I said. “We could always take you there, and see.”
“No,” she said. “No!”
I smiled.
“I am not what I was,” she said. “The Kef has been fixed in my thigh, the steel is on my neck.”
“It is true,” I said. “You are not what you were.”
“I was not high amongst the Serisii,” she said. “I did not enter into their business. I was a lowly daughter, pampered and spoiled, given to a life of luxury and indolence! I had no control over the affairs of the house!”
“But you bore the name,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I bore the name.”
“But no longer,” I said.
“No,” she said, “no longer.” This was true. There was no longer a Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers. She was gone. There was now, not even really in her place, only an animal, a lovely animal. As far as I knew Torgus had not even, as yet, seen fit to give her a name. She then regarded me, frightened. “You know me,” she said, “or who I was. What do you want of me? If you do not want my blood, or to bind me, and trade me for a bounty, what do you want? Why have you sought me out?”