“You take me with bitterness, Master,” she said. “Has Peggy displeased you?”
“No,” I said. “I am angry.”
“Ah,” she said, “then ventilate your emotions upon me, for I am only a slave.” She kissed me. “I must submit to whatever men choose to do to me. Do you wish to whip me?”
“No,” I said. “It is not you whom I should make suffer.”
“Some free woman has displeased you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then take your vengeance upon her,” she said. “Collar her. Make her your slave.”
“She is from Earth,” I said.
“We are not different from other women,” she said, “unless it might be, perhaps, that we make better slaves.” She leaned back on the furs of the alcove. “Is this the same female concerning whom we once spoke, she who was with you in the restaurant?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The pretty little beast,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you have not yet enslaved her? Master is dilatory.”
“Do you think so?” I asked.
“A Gorean man would soon have her lovely little throat locked in his steel collar,” she said.
“But she is from Earth,” I said.
“Master is quaint,” she laughed. “Forgive me, Master,” she smiled.
“Very well,” I said.
“What did she do?” asked Peggy.
I then grew again bitter. “She sold a slave of mine,” I said, “unknown to me, and without right.”
“For a man,” said Peggy, “such an offense is punishable by exile. For a woman, remanded to a praetor, the penalty is commonly that she herself will then wear the collar.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Enslave her.”
“I cannot,” I said. “She is from Earth.”
“The women of Earth,” she smiled, “are never to be punished, no matter what they do?”
“No,” I said.
“Gorean men,” she laughed, “are not so tolerant of our flaws. We may be severely punished even for displeasing them in the slightest.”
“You may be severely punished even at their whim,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“But you are slaves,” I reminded her.
“That is true,” she said. “We were brought to Gor to be collared, and made slaves.”
“She is free,” I reminded her.
“Enslave her,” said Peggy.
“But then she would be only another Gorean slave girl,” I said, “no different from others.”
“True,” said Peggy.
“And she would be mine, to do with exactly as I pleased,” I said, “totally.”
“Precisely,” said Peggy. “Oh,” she said, suddenly, “you are so strong.”
“I must put such thoughts from my head,” I said.
“Why?” she asked, clutching me, pressing closely against me.
“Men must not think such thoughts,” I said.
“Why?” she asked. “Because they so considerably increase their virility?”
She held to me, tightly. “I would rather they put thoughts from their heads,” she said, “which made them miserable and weak. How can thoughts be good which make men miserable and weak? How can thoughts be wrong which make men great and strong? I am a slave in your arms. Does your blood not call you to your destiny, my Master? My blood, racing in my weakened body, opened like a flower to you, yielding, calls me to mine. I submit to you, my Master. I beg you to be strong with me, to own me. Peggy begs Master to take her!”
I then took her, and she screamed with pleasure, a taken slave.
Later I held her closely. “Are you a contented slave?” I asked her.
“I am a slave,” she whispered, “whether I am contented or not.”
“Speak,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, softly, “I am a contented slave.”