"Paga, Master?” asked the slave.
Cabot looked up, blearily.
"Do you not recognize her?” asked Peisistratus.
Cabot rubbed his eyes, and tried to focus.
"No,” said Cabot.
"We are keeping her a virgin for you,” said Peisistratus.
"A virgin slave?” smiled Cabot.
"White silk,” Peisistratus assured him. “Any time you wish her, you may drag her to an alcove, fling her down amidst the chains, fasten her in place, and teach her to writhe."
The slave shuddered.
"Did I not have her before?” asked Cabot.
"No,” said Peisistratus.
"I thought I did,” said Cabot.
The slave regarded him, angrily. Was she no more than one slave amongst others?
But, yes, that was all she now was.
"No,” said Peisistratus, “others, others."
"I do not remember,” said Cabot.
"You were drunk,” said Peisistratus.
"I had her?” asked Cabot.
"No,” said Peisistratus.
"How long have I been here?” asked Cabot.
"You have been with us for three days now, mostly drinking, and sleeping."
"I remember the arena,” said Cabot, slowly. “I was not pleased."
"Few were pleased,” said Peisistratus. “You drank to forget, too much, too long, but one does not forget."
"No,” said Cabot, slowly. “One does not forget."
"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus, “it is time to remember."
"No,” said Cabot, sullenly.
"Are you not of the Warriors?” asked Peisistratus.
"Once,” muttered Cabot.
"Always,” said Peisistratus.
Cabot tried to see the slave. “She is not collared, is she?” he asked, puzzled.
"Those are coins,” said Peisistratus.
"For each use of her, after the red-silking of her,” asked Cabot, “the coins then to her master?"
"She is not a coin girl,” said Peisistratus. “If she were, the coin box would be chained about her neck and locked. She would have no access to the coins."
"Why are there strings of coins about her neck?” asked Cabot.
"They are useful, to remind her that she is a slave, that she has economic value, that she can be bought and sold, and such. Let her think of herself as, in effect, similar to the coins, an object, a property."
"I see,” said Cabot.
"There are twelve strings of coins, your winnings,” said Peisistratus. “From the arena."
"I do not want them,” said Cabot.
"Nonetheless, they are yours."
"Why are they about her neck?"
"I told you,” said Peisistratus. “I would throw her in with the coins."
"It is she?"
"Yes."
"The brunette?"
"Yes."
The slave straightened her body, and lifted her head, and looked away. She assumed an aspect of irritation, of resignation, of disinterest, of frigidity, of disdain, even of boredom.
She was determined to give masters no pleasure.
How naive she was!
Did she not understand how she could not help but give them pleasure, how even her ruthless, helpless subordination to their will would give them pleasure, and how, if they chose, in their patience, she could be inevitably transformed into a squirming, begging instrument of delight, thereafter to be vulnerably, hopelessly dependent on a man's touch?
"Beware, slave,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes, Master,” she said, frightened.
"I do not want her,” said Cabot.
The slave gasped, and drew back.
She regarded him, startled, disbelievingly.
Could a man not want her?
She drew back, further. Her assumed mien of boredom, of disinterest, and such, was now well vanished. She now seemed confused, frightened, disbelieving. How could this be? Had she heard aright? She was kneeling, she, who, quite possibly, had regarded herself as the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, she who had known herself excruciatingly desired, who had taken great pleasure in leading males on, and tormenting them, and then rejecting them, was now kneeling before a male, utterly vulnerable, she now a slave, at the mercy of masters, strings of coins about her throat, and he had not cried out with pleasure at the prospect of her use, had not seized her by the hair and drawn her rudely, instantly, to the privacy of one of the small, enclosed, lamp-lit alcoves.
Was she lacking, was she not attractive?
Was she not such that she could make men her toys?
Or was it now that she was the toy, with whom men might choose to play, or not to play?
She seemed uncomprehending. Momentarily she was angry. Then she was afraid, terribly afraid.
She was now a slave, and helpless. What if she was not wanted? What would be done with her? Too, she now knew that her beauty, in this place, was not that unusual. Here, she was but one slave amongst others.
Slaves are chosen for their beauty, you see. The collars on their necks are not easily purchased.
Too, she was here before a man, and men, such as she had while on Earth met only in her dreams, men of will, and force, men before whom such as she, she realized, could be but a slave.
But he had not wanted her?
She wanted to be wanted.
She must be wanted!
She needed to be wanted!
She knew that she, if necessary, would beg to be wanted!
Despite her pretences from Earth, you see, clung to hitherto so futilely, she was now muchly different from what she had been.
Even in her virginal state, her belly was muchly stirred. Effusions of desire, of readiness, of desires to please, in this so unnatural, and yet so natural, a place, had begun to afflict her with intimations of submission and ecstasy.
Here, in this place, her feigning, her pretenses of bravado, her postures of indifference, and such, suddenly seemed pointless and absurd, even to her.
And what if masters chose not to accept them?
Here she was not as she had been on Earth.
These men would not be likely to be patient with her.
Here she found herself a woman, and a slave, amongst true men.
And she knew such men would expect much of a slave.
And she must strive desperately to please them!
How paradoxical it all seemed to her. Here, where her body was subject to shackles, she found her needs, long denied and desperately, even fearfully, suppressed, unshackled. Here they were allowed to emerge, and run free, into the daylight of nature. Here she could be a joyful, shameless animal, which, as a slave she was.
Indeed, those needs must emerge.
They could be commanded forth.
Men would have it so.
They would have her the helpless victim of her needs, so much then at their imperious mercy.
And what of these new desires, such remarkable consequences of the liberation of her deepest self?
Such desires!
Keen, insistent, irresistible, overwhelming desires!
How like torture, and ecstasy, they were!
Already she sensed she could become their prisoner, as much as though weighty chains had been locked upon her small, fair limbs.
Well would she be enshackled in them! How much they would place her at the mercy of masters!
For the first time in her life, other than in the joy of her dreams, she understood how a woman could kneel before a man, and place her lips tenderly, humbly, gratefully, submissively, to his feet, thanking him for his collar and the fulfillment he granted to her.
Too, she suspected how she, bound, might understand, and gratefully welcome, even the stroke of the whip, unfit for free women, but confirming for her as it would her status as object and property, as something subject to the whip, as something owned by her master.
Already, you see, she had begun to suspect, and well, what it might be, to be a woman, and a slave.
And, as the Priest-Kings, in their cruel wisdom, had chosen her for her desirability, and particularly to a man such as Cabot, indeed, had chosen her to be irresistible to him, so, too, in her way, she had been matched to Cabot, as slave to master, that he would be irresistible to her.
And now, as she knelt helpless before him, the choice wholly his, he had not accepted her. He had denied her acquisition.
She, however incomprehensibly, had been rejected! Tears of shock, of amazement, of confusion, of fear, of misery, of helplessness, sprang to her eyes, stung them, filled them, and ran down her cheeks.
"I fear you have distressed her,” said Peisistratus.
Cabot shrugged. What, after all, are the feelings of a slave?
"Stop crying,” said Peisistratus to the slave.
"Yes, Master,” sobbed the slave.
"Would you rather I had strung the coins on a post?” asked Peisistratus.
"Do whatever you want with them,” said Cabot, slowly.
"You could kill yourself, drinking like this,” said Peisistratus. “Men have."
"What would it matter?” said Cabot.
"It might matter much,” said Peisistratus.
"Is it truly her?” asked Cabot, trying to focus on the slave.
"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."
"Rescind them,” said Cabot.
"No,” said Peisistratus.
"Why not?"
"There are the quotas,” he said. “She is unclaimed."
"Surely you understand my position here,” said Cabot. “I can accept no slave."
"Your position, as I understand it,” said Peisistratus, in English, “is that you could become master of human Gor, that you could have armies, palaces, riches, hundreds of slaves."
"And she is part of the temptation, is she not?” asked Cabot.
"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus.
"I want paga,” said Cabot.
"It is a matter of honor, is it not?” inquired Peisistratus.
"There is nothing to be done,” said Cabot. “There is the cage. It is like the arena."
"I am to inform Agamemnon that you decline his offer?"
"You may do whatever you wish,” said Cabot.
"Drink no more, not now,” said Peisistratus.
"Paga!” demanded Cabot.
"Remember the arena,” said Peisistratus.
"Paga!” thundered Cabot, in fury.
Swiftly the slave pressed the goblet about her body, as she had been taught, associating the metallic, rigid cruelty of the goblet and the fire of the drink with the softness, the readiness, the warmth, and the desirability of her body, in this way making it clear that both goods were proffered, both placed at the disposal of the master, both the drink and the female. And the girl inadvertently gasped, startled, as the metal rim pressed into her belly, bespeaking the dominion to which she was subject, and she looked down into the swirling liquid in the cup, and Peisistratus smiled, for did not the fire in the goblet in its way stand token for another fire, and might she not suspect this, that which might burn in the grasping, liquid softness of a slave's belly?
The girl then lifted the goblet to her lips and kissed it slowly, humbly, regarding Cabot over its rim, and then she put down her head between her extended arms, and offered him the goblet.
"No,” begged Peisistratus.
Cabot reached out, and clutched at the goblet, and some paga spilled, to the right thigh of the slave.
"How do you choose to die?” asked Peisistratus. “One who herds tarsk would not choose to die so."
"It does not matter,” said Cabot. “There is nothing to be done."
"You are of the Warriors,” said Peisistratus.
"Once,” said Cabot.
"Still,” said Peisistratus.
"There is nothing to be done."
"Look into the paga,” said Peisistratus. “Do you like what you see there?"
"No,” said Cabot.
"Is that you?"
"Yes."
"No,” said Peisistratus. “The paga lies."
"How can it lie?” asked Cabot.
"It deceives you, it betrays you."
"Paga can betray no one,” said Cabot, patiently, forming the words very slowly.
"No,” said Peisistratus, “but it can show you one who betrays himself."
"I am he,” said Cabot, slowly.
"You are he,” said Peisistratus. “Now swirl the paga, and look again into it."
Cabot moved the fluid in the goblet, and peered into it. One supposes, in that troubled, swirling fluid, there was nothing to be seen, other perhaps than reflections, rivulets, small currents.
"What now do you see?” inquired Peisistratus.
"The arena,” said Cabot, slowly.
"Then you have not forgotten it?"
"No,” said Cabot. “I have not forgotten it."
He then slowly, carefully, poured the paga unto the table, and it ran from the table to the floor.
"Slut,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes, Master?"
"Get out!"
"Yes, Master,” cried the slave, and rose up, and, with a jangle of coins, fled from the table.
Cabot then cast the goblet from him, and it clattered on the flooring, several feet away, and rolled to the side.
He then slumped down, to the side of the table.
"Let him sleep,” said Peisistratus to one of his men.