The whip snapped again, a strict, sharp, loud sound, like the report of a firearm, a sound that seemed to ring, explosively from wall to wall.
I was terrified.
I did not want to feel it on me.
But the blow did not fall on me.
“You crawl to the feet of any man,” he snarled. “Crawl then, slut, to my feet, as well,”
“I am bound, hand and foot!” I wept.
“Crawl!” he commanded.
I could move only a bit at a time, laboriously, painfully, over the stones, toward him.
“You are slow!” he said.
The whip snapped again.
“Forgive me, Master!” I said.
At last I lay at his feet, on my side. I turned my head, that my lips might touch his sandals. But he stepped away from me, angrily.
“You are not yet at my feet, are you?” he asked.
“Forgive me, Master!” I said.
Again I tried, inch by inch, to reach him. But this time he seized my ankles and turned me to my stomach. My ankles were then up, behind me, fastened to my wrists. I saw the coils of the whip lying beside my head, to the left. I heard a knife slip from a sheath, a soft sound. I lay very still. The masters may do as they please. I do not wish to move unexpectedly, suddenly, and risk being cut, by accident. My ankles were held still, my left ankle in the grip of his left hand. A blade of apparently incredible sharpness moved through the bonds, quickly, deftly, on my ankles. They seemed to spring away. I then lay on my belly, facing away from him, my legs freed. The blade was returned to its sheath. I saw his hand pick up, again, the whip.
He stood up, he turned about, he moved back.
He was silent.
I was not unmindful, I assure you, of the command which had been imposed upon me, and had not been rescinded. Too, men such as these, who relate to women in the modality of the master, are not patient.
I was then on my knees before him.
“You crawl quickly to the feet of a man,” he sneered.
I had crawled to him on my knees. My hands were still bound behind my back. I knelt before him, and put my head down, to his feet.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You may beg use,” he said.
“I beg use,” I said.
I was very much aware that my ankles were freed.
“Why do you beg use?” he asked.
“I fear to be whipped,” I said.
“And if you were not afraid of being whipped?” he asked.
“I would still beg use,” I said.
‘Without even knowing who I am?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Slut and slave!” said he, in fury.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You are worthless,” he said. “You are unutterably contemptible!”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“I always knew it,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“From the first!” he said, angrily.
“Master?”
“Earth-slut!” he said.
“Yes, master!” I said.
I was startled. Had I not heard this voice before? “Look up!” he commanded.
His eyes, within the mask, were fierce.
The whip, coiled, was thrust roughly before me. Instantly I licked and kissed it.
How long it had been since I had knelt before him! How long it had been since I had kissed that whip!
“I love you, I love you, my master!” I cried.
“You know me, do no not?” he said.
“Yes, Master!” I cried. I dared not lie to my master. I knew him now as well as if his fathers had been bared from the beginning. To be sure, I had never known his name, or his city. I had known little more of him than, in my heart, he was my master. It was he whose whip my lips had been first pressed on this world!
He tore the mask away from his features, casting it aside, looking down at me.
How fierce were his eyes!
That he had worn the mask suggested to me that perhaps it had not been intended that I recognize him. I hoped I had not placed my life in jeopardy by my admission that I was cognizant of his identity. But he must know that. Too, I dared not lie to him. He was my master.
How terrible seemed his anger!
“I love you!” I said.
“Liar!” said he, in rage.
“No, Master!” I protested.
He glared at me.
“You are my master!” I cried. “You have always been my master!”
“Liar! Liar!”
“No, Master!” I wept.
“But one thing you say is true,” he said.
“Master?’ I asked.
“That I am now your master.”
In his voice there seemed terrible menace.
“The slave rejoices!” I said. “She begs to serve!”
“How clever you are,” he said.
“I do not ask that you like me, even a little,” I said. “I only beg, unilaterally, with no hope of the least reciprocity, that you will permit me to be your helpless love slave!”
“It is little wonder, with your cleverness,” he said, “that you learned the language so quickly, that you so quickly and well learned the lessons of the pens.”
“I am well advised,” I said, “to learn the language of my masters as quickly as possible. It is not pleasant to be beaten. And surely I am not to be blamed if the slave in me was a little closer to the surface, a little more eager, a little less repressed than that in some others.”
“You belong in the collar,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“How well you look on your knees, bound.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“It is where you belong.”
“Yes, Master.”
He looked at me. It was difficult to read his eyes, his visage. He loosened the coils of the whip, but then, to my relief, slowly, wound them back together again.
“Am I to be whipped?” I asked.
He did not respond.
“I did not expect to see master again,” I said.
“Nor I you,” he said, “slave.”
“Is it but coincidence,” I said, “That she who has come into your power is I?”
“Not at all,” he said. “It is only to find you that I have come to this part of the world.”
I looked at him, suddenly, in wonder, and joy.
“Master has sought me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
He must then, I thought, share something of my feelings for him. Not lightly did one undertake lengthy journeys on this dangerous world.
“You have come far to acquire me,” I said, shyly.
He regarded me, not speaking.
“I thought that master did not care for me,” I said. I recalled the neglect, the contempt, the cruelty with which he had treated me in the pens. Of all the guards it seemed it was he alone who despised me, who held me in such disdain.
“You are a worthless slut,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, contentedly.
“Do you know my accent?” he asked. “It is not unlike your own.”
“I can recognize it, of course,” I said.
“It is an accent of Cos,” he said. “Your accent, too, despite the barbarian influences, and others, substantially a Cosian accent, for it is there you learned your Gorean. You were trained in pens in the capital city of Cos, Telnus.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. This was the first time I had heard the location of the pens which I had been trained. They were in a city named Telnus, on Cos, which I did know was an island.
“There has been a great war,” said he, “between Cos, and her allies, and Ar, and her allies. The victory has come to Cos, but for various reasons, having to do primarily with the volatility of mercenary forces, it is thought that the permanence of this victory is not assured. You know in what city you are?”
“In Ar,” I said. I knew that. I knew too, something of the occupation, and of the hardships in the city, though we had been much sheltered from the consequences of such in the gardens.
“What you perhaps do not know,” he said, “is that Ar was betrayed in this war, by traitors in high places.”
“No, Master,” I said.