Kajira of Gor (6 page)

“Yours, Mistress,” said the girl.

“There are bars at the window,” I said.

“They are for your protection, Mistress,” said the girl. “Such bars are not

unusual in the rooms of women in Corcyrus.

I looked at the girl in the light, floral-print tunic, kneeling a few feet from

the bed. It was almost diaphanous. It was not difficult to detect the lineaments

of her beauty beneath it. seemed a garment which was, in its way, demure and

yet, the same time, extremely provocative. To see a woman such a garment, I

suspected, might drive a man half mad with passion. I wondered what was

concealed in the silken sheath about her neck.

“Why have I been brought here?” I asked. “What am I doing here?”

“I do not know, Mistress,” said the girl. “I am not one such as would be

informed.”

“Oh,” I said. I did not fully understand her response.

“Is Mistress hungry?” she inquired.

“Yes,” I said. I was ravenous.

Smiling the girl rose lightly to her feet and left the room.

I left the bed and stood then on the tiles, near the bed, the coverlet still

held about me, almost like a great cloak. The tiles felt cool to the bottoms of

my feet. The weather seemed warm and sultry. I wondered if I might be in Africa

or Asia.

I looked at the rings on the couch, at the ring in the floor, and the two rings

in the wall, one about a yard from the floor and one about six feet from the

floor.

I looked at the door. There was a handle on my side of the door, but no way to

lock or bar it, at least from my side.

I heard a noise, and stepped back.

The door opened and the girl, carrying a tray, smiling, entered.

“Mistress is up,” she said. She then set the tray down on the small table. She

arranged the articles on the tray, and then brought a cushion from the side of

the room and placed it by the table. There was, on the tray, a plate of fruit,

some yellow, wedge-shaped bread, and a bowl of hot, rich-looking, dark-brown,

almost-black fluid.

“Let me relieve Mistress of the coverlet,” she said, approaching me.

I shrank back.

“It is too warm for it,” she smiled, reaching for it.

I again stepped back.

“I have washed Mistress many times,” she said. “And Mistress is very beautiful.

Please.”

I let the coverlet slip to my hips. There was no mistaking the admiration in the

eyes of the girl. This pleased me. I let her remove it from me. “Yes,” she said,

“Mistress is quite beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She folded the coverlet and placed it on the great couch.

“Susan,” I said. “That is your name?”

“Yes, Mistress,” smiled the girl.

“What are these rings?” I asked, indicating the heavy ring in the floor, and the

two rings in the wall.

“They are slave rings, Mistress,” said the girl.

“What is their purpose?” I asked, frightened.

“Slaves may be tied or chained to them,” said the girl.

“There are slaves, then, in this place?” I asked. This thought, somehow, alarmed

me, terribly. Yet, too, at the same time, I found it inordinately moving and

exciting. The thought of myself as a slave and what this might mean suddenly

Hashed through my mind. For an instant I was so thrilled, so shaken with the

significance of this, that I could scarcely stand.

“There are true men in this place,” explained the girl.

“Oh,” I said. I did not understand her remark. Did she not know that true men

repudiated their natural sovereignty, forsook their manhood and conformed to

prescribed stereotypes? Was she not familiar with the political definitions? I

wondered then if there might not be another sort of true men, true men, like

true lions, who, innocent of negativistic conditionings, simply fulfilled

themselves in the way of nature. Such men. I supposed, of course, could not

exist. They, presumably, in the way of nature, would be less likely to pretend

that women were the same as themselves than to simply relish them, to keep them,

to dominate, own and treasure them, perhaps like horses or dogs, or, I thought,

with a shudder, women.

“Would Mistress care to partake now of her breakfast?” asked the girl.

I was looking, fascinated, at the heavy ring set in the tiles.

“If Mistress wishes,” said the girl, “she may tie me to it and whip me.”

I looked at her, startled. “No,” I said. “No!”

“I shall tidy the room,” said the girl, “and prepare it for the convenience of

Mistress.”

She turned about and went to the side of the room. She began to take articles

from the vanity, such as, combs and brushes, and vials, and place them on its

surface, before the mirror. She moved with incredible grace.

Glancing in the mirror she saw me behind her, watching her. “Mistress?” she

asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

She continued her work. She straightened pillows at the side of the room. She

then went to one of the sliding doors at the side of the room and moved one back

a few inches. She reached inside and, from the interior of the door, where it

had doubtless been hanging, from a loop on its handle, removed an object.

I gasped.

“Mistress?” she asked.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A whip,” she said, puzzled. Seeing my interest she brought it towards me. I

stepped back. She held it across her body. Its handle was about eighteen inches

long. It was white, and trimmed with yellow beads. Depending from this handle,

at one end, were five, pliant yellow straps, or lashes. Each was about two and a

half feet long, and one and a half inches, wide.

I trembled.

I could scarcely conjecture what that might feel laid to my body.

“Am I to be whipped?” I asked. I was terribly conscious of my nudity, my

vulnerability.

“I do not think so, Mistress,” laughed the girl.

I regarded the whip. I wished that she had been more affirmative in her

response.

“Whos whip is it?” I asked.

“Yours, Mistress,” said the girl.

“But for what purpose is it to be used?” I asked.

“It is for whipping me,” she said. “It is my hope, however, that I will be so

pleasing to Mistress that she will not wish to use it, or not often, on me.”

“Take it away,” I said. It frightened me.

The girl went to a wall and, near the large door, by a loop on its butt end,

hung it from a hook. I had not noticed the hook before.

“There,” said the girl, smiling. “It is prominently displayed, where we both,

many times a day, may see it.”

I nodded. I regarded the object. There was little mistaking its meaning.

“Susan,” I said.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said.

“Are there truly slaves here, in this place, in this city, or country?”

“Yes, Mistress,” she said, “and generally.”

I did not understand what she meant by “generally.”

I felt the warm air on my body. I smelled the perfume, so delicately feminine,

which had been put on me.

“You said you had been ‘named’ Susan,” I said.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said.

“The way you said that,” I said, “it sounded as though you might have been named

anything.”

The girl shrugged, and smiled. “Of course, Mistress,” she said.

“You are very pretty, Susan,” I said.

“Thank you, Mistress,” she said.

“These other rings,” I said, indicating the rings about the couch, “are they

also slave rings?”

“Yes,” she said, approaching lightly, gracefully, “in their way, but most of

them are only anchor rings, to which, say, chains or cords might be attached.”

She then crouched by the heavy ring, that with.coiled chain beneath it, that

fastened at what might, perhaps, count as the bottom of the couch. “But this,”

she said, “more appropriately, is the more typical type of ring which one thinks

of as a slave ring. Do you see its resemblance to the others, that in the floor,

those at the wall?”

“Yes,” I said.

She lifted the ring. I could see that it was heavy. She then lowered it back

into place, so that it again, in its retaining ring, fastened in a metal plate,

bolted into the couch, hung parallel to t * he side of the couch. “By means of

such a ring,” she said, “a male silk slave might be chained at the foot of your

couch.”

The girl rose to her feet. “Surely Mistress is hungry,” she said.

The light from the barred window was behind her. I also saw the shadows of the

bars and crosspieces lying across the couch.

I turned and went to the low table where the tray had been placed.

“There are no chairs,” I said.

“There are few chairs in Corcyrus,” said the girl.

I turned to face her, almost in anguish. Something in this place terrified me.

“I have been unable to keep from noticing your garments,” I said.

“Mistress?” asked the girl.

“Forgive me,” I said, “but they leave little doubt as to your loveliness.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” said the girl.

“You are aware of how revealing they are, are you not?” I asked.

“I think so, Mistress,” said the girl.

“By them the lineaments of your beauty are made publicly clear,” I said.

“That is doubtless one of their intentions, Mistress,” said the girl.

I suddenly felt faint.

“Mistress?” asked the girl, alarmed.

“I am all right,” I said.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said, relieved.

I then, slowly, walked about her, frightened. She stood still, very straight,

her head up. She was incredibly lovely, and exquisitely figured.

“There is something on your left leg,” I said, “high, on the thigh, just under

the hip.” I saw this through the almost diaphanous, white, floral-print tunic

she wore.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said. “It is common for. girls such as I to be marked.”

“Marked?” I asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said. “Would Mistress care to see?”

Seeing my curiosity, my fascination, she drew up the skirt of the brief tunic,

with both bands, and looked down to her left thigh.

“What is it?” I asked. It was a delicate mark, almost floral, about an inch and

a half high and a half inch, or so, wide.

“It is my brand,” she said.

I gasped.

“It was put on me in Cos,” she said, “with a white-hot iron, two years ago.”

“Terrible,” I whispered.

“Girls such as I must expect to be marked,”’ she said. “It is In accord with the

recommendations of merchant law.”

“Merchant law?” I asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl. “May I lower my tunic?”

“Yes,” I said.

She smoothed down the light tunic.

“It is a beautiful mark,” I said.

“I think so, too,” she said. “Thank you, Mistress.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said.

“It doesn’t hurt now though, does it?” I asked.

“No, Mistress,” she said.

I reached out, timidly, toward her throat. I touched the object there.

“What is this?” I asked.

“The silk?” she asked. “That is a collar stocking, or a collar sleeve. They may

be made of many different materials. In a cooler climate they are sometimes of

velvet. in most cities they are not used.”

Under the silk I touched sturdy steel.

“That, Mistress, of course,” she said, “is my collar.”

“Would you take it off,” I asked, “please? I would like to see it.”

She laughed merrily. “Forgive me, Mistress,” she said. “I cannot take it off.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“It is locked on me,” she laughed. She turned about.

“See?” she asked.

Feverishly I thrust apart the two sides of the silken sleeve at the back of the

girl’s neck. To be sure, there, below her hair, at the back of her neck, at the

closure of the steel apparatus on her neck, there was a small, heavy, sturdy

lock. I saw the keyhole. It would take a tiny key.

“You do not have the key?” I asked.

“No, Mistress,” she laughed. “Of course not.”

“Then you have, personally, no way of removing this collar?” I said.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said. “I have no way of removing it.”

I shuddered.

“May I ask you ‘an intimate question, Susan?” I asked.

“Of course, Mistress,” she said.

“Are you a virgin?” I asked,

The girl laughed. “No, Mistress,” she said. “I was opened by men long ago for

their pleasures.”

“Opened?” I whispered.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said.

“For their pleasures?” I asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said.

You have called me ‘Mistress,’ I said. ‘Why

“That is the customary way in which girls such as I address all free women,” she

said.

“What sort of girl are you?” I asked.

“A good girl, I hope, Mistress,” she said. “I will try to serve you well.”

“Are- you a slave?” I whispered.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said.

I stepped back. I had tried to fight this understanding. I had told myself that

it could not be, that it must not be. And yet, now, how simple, how obvious and

plausible, seemed such an explanation of the girl’s garb, and of the mark on her

body, and of the collar on her neck.

“I am the slave of Ligurious, first minister of Corcyrus,” she said. She slid

the collar sleeve about the collar and, feeling with her fingers, indicated some

marks on the collar. I could see engraving there. I could not read the writing.

“That information,” she said, “is recorded here.”

“I see,” I said, trembling.

She slid the collar sleeve back about the collar, arranging it in place. “I was