Conspirators of Gor (13 page)

“I do not understand, Mistress,” I said. “Am I not beautiful?”

“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses.

“Being beautiful and being attractive are not the same thing,” said an instructress. “Some extremely beautiful women are not attractive, and some extremely attractive women are not beautiful.”

“But I am attractive, am I not?” I asked.

“Do you wish to be attractive?” asked an instructress.

“Do not all women?” I asked. I knew that even cold women, and women who professed to hate men, wanted to be found attractive, if only to torment men, or further their own ends.

“Of course,” said an instructress.

“Am I not attractive?” I asked.

“You are attractive,” said an instructress. “Otherwise you would not be in your collar. But the masters feel that your current attractiveness does not measure up to your beauty.”

My head was at the floor. I had not received permission to lift it.

“Doubtless, in time, it will do so,” said an instructress. “We have great hopes for you. You are clearly a born slave. And, eventually, you should be an exquisitely desirable slave.”

“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses, again.

“Kneel up,” said an instructress.

Gratefully I knelt up.

“Belly in, shoulders back, head up,” said an instructress.

I complied.

My knees were clenched closely together.

I kept my eyes straight ahead.

“What are you doing, Mistress?” I asked.

“I am removing the white ribbon,” she said.

“Mistress?” I asked.

The instructresses were about, looking at me.

“What do you think?” asked one of the instructresses.

“She is pretty,” said one.

“Better than a kettle girl, or a pot-and-mat girl,” said another.

“A Tarnster, or Drover,” speculated another.

“If the price were right,” said another.

“Spread your knees, Allison,” said an instructress.

“Surely not, Mistress!” I exclaimed.

“Now,” she said.

I felt enormously vulnerable, and, oddly, subtly enflamed.

How could I, the former Allison Ashton-Baker be placed in such a position?

What sort of slave would kneel in such a position?

I feared I knew.

She who had removed the white ribbon now approached.

“Do not move, Allison,” she said.

I saw that in her hand she had a different ribbon, a red ribbon.

“I am not red-silk!” I said. “I am not red-silk!”

“Do not move,” she said, again.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, a slave, commanded.

I was very much aware of the position and attitude in which I had been placed.

To be sure, it could not be appropriate for me.

It must be some mistake.

I was from Earth.

It is strange, how, when one is a slave, small things are noticed, the nap of a rug, the feel of tiles beneath one’s knees, one’s body then so alive.

I regarded the instructress, apprehensively.

The red ribbon, of dyed rep-cloth, not silk, was doubled, and then threaded under and over my collar. Its loose ends were then threaded through the loop, and I felt it jerked tight, against the collar.

“There,” said the instructress, and stood up. She and the others then stood back, a bit, looking at me. “What do you think?” she asked. “Is she satisfactory, will men like her?”

“She may do,” said another.

“Sooner or later,” said another.

I did not understand. Had I not been one of the most beautiful girls in my sorority, a sorority noted on campus for its beauties? Certainly I had not lacked for the attentions of young men. A week would not pass without my declining several offers for outings, afternoons or evenings, with such, while I would select from amongst such offers those few which I deemed suitable, those which might prove eventually to be to my advantage, those from suitably positioned young men, young men worth interesting and cultivating, young men whose background and assets exceeded my own. Oddly, though I had pretended to be interested in them, laughed at their jokes, and such, I had seldom received a second invitation from them. I did not understand this. Did they not realize my quality, the honor I paid to them, how fortunate they were, that I would permit them to share my company, however briefly? Surely there were many who would have rejoiced to be granted such an opportunity. How ungrateful, how foolish, how stupid they were!

“Keep those knees split, slave,” said one of the instructresses.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered.

“Wider,” snapped another.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

At least no man was present, to see me so. What would he think, should he see me so? Did I not know? Would it not be clear what I was, and what I was for?

How vulnerable a woman is in such a position!

Too, I felt decidedly uneasy.

I squirmed.

“Steady,” said an instructress.

“She is heating,” said another.

“Mistress?” I said.

“The little tart is cooking,” said another.

“Wait until she knows what a man’s touch is,” said another.

“She is ready, nearly ready,” said another.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“She has nice slave curves,” said one.

“She has the flanks of a slave who will heat well,” said another.

“Mistress,” I said.

“Yes?” said the instructress who had placed the ribbon.

“Mistress has erred,” I said. “I am not red-silk.”

“Who speaks?” asked an instructress.

“Allison,” I said. “This slave speaks.” I felt tears form in my eyes.

“And what has she to say?” asked an instructress.

“She says,” I said, “that she is not red-silk, that she is white-silk.”

“The slave is correct,” said an instructress.

“Yes,” said she who had placed the ribbon.

“Please then, Mistress,” I said, “replace the white ribbon.”

“It is dirty, grimy,” said the first instructress, she who had placed the ribbon. “Surely you do not want such a ribbon on your collar?”

“Perhaps another ribbon then,” I said.

“You have another ribbon now,” she said.

“A white ribbon,” I said, “another white ribbon!”

“No,” she said.

“Put back the old ribbon then,” I said. “It is all right. I do not mind!”

“It goes to another girl,” she said, “one who is white-silk.”

“I am white-silk!” I said.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.

“The men, the guards,” I said. “They may think me red-silk!”

“The market,” said an instructress, “is now slow for white-silks.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Do you not think you have been white-silk long enough?” asked an instructress.

“Mistress?” I said.

“Oh!” I cried, startled, for something of cloth and leather, enclosing, muchly opaque, was pulled over my head, from behind, by one of the instructresses. I heard it buckled shut, and the sound of a tiny padlock being snapped shut, doubtless linking two rings.

“Steady, steady!” warned an instructress.

“Position!” snapped another.

And then I knelt, as I had before, in position, hooded.

“Should we remove her garment?” asked an instructress.

“The men will do that,” said another.

“Stand up, Allison,” said the first instructress, gently. I felt her hand on my upper left arm. I was then being guided from the training room, and turned left, and, in a moment, I felt the smooth, worn, flat tiles of the corridor beneath my bare feet. We made two further turnings, and then we stopped.

“Here,” said the first instructress.

I heard a door opened, and I was conducted within, and released, some feet within the portal.

Where was I?

“Mistresses!” I pleaded. “Mistresses!”

I heard the door shut, and, from the outside, a bar put in place.

“Mistresses!” I cried.

I stood in the room, perhaps near its center, alone, hooded, frightened, disoriented.

“Mistresses! Mistresses!”

I turned, and felt my way, hands extended, stumbling, toward the door, which was heavy, and shut, and locked, barred on the outside.

I pounded on the door, and cried out, again and again, but, if any heard, none responded.

I attempted to tear the hood from my head, but such are not meant to be removed by such as I.

I, fearing to fall, went to all fours, that I might explore my small world. In short order, I felt a carpet, and then furs, and cushions. Such things seemed luxurious, and abundant. Here and there, too, I felt chains, and wrist and ankle rings. At one side of the room, I reached up, and, bit by bit, felt the structure of a heavy, low, sturdy trestle.

I tore futilely at the hood.

I was in the Room of White-Silk.

“Do you not think you have been white-silk long enough?” had asked an instructress.

I trembled. I heard a soft moan, mine.

Helpless, and hooded, I realized what I was here for, what was to be done to me.

I lay on the cushions alone, for a time.

I supposed the guards, some of them, perhaps some who had noted me, or were curious about me, would visit me, when convenient, perhaps with the turn of the watch, when their duties were done.

I am not sure how long I lay alone in the room, hooded, amidst the cushions and furs.

Bars rang, and midbars.

I was tunicked. I did not know if the tunic would be left to me. It might be. It is a simple thing for a master to thrust up the short skirt of the tunic, to the slave’s waist. I wondered if they would be quick.

I clutched at a silken coverlet.

My fingers clenched it.

I dared not cover myself.

The masters might not be pleased.

They might wish to look upon my legs, my ankles, my arms, my throat.

Accordingly, I dared not cover myself.

I knew that a slave is usually expected, on a couch, on a slave mat, on furs, to wait naked, wholly uncovered, for her master.

Tunicked, one is already half naked.

I would not cover myself.

How long must I wait, alone?

Then I seemed suddenly to awaken.

The door had been opened.

I knew they would not talk to me. I must not realize who they were. It is better that way. Awareness is better reserved for a master.

I struggled to my feet.

I sensed there were several in the room.

They must have brought lanterns or lamps. I heard the fire strikers snap more than once. Too, I heard some tiny sounds, some suggesting the placing of lamps on shelves, others the hanging of lanterns on ceiling hooks. I sensed men looking at me, and moving about me. They said nothing. There would not be a great deal of illumination, but it would be soft, and ample, that of lamps and lanterns, two or three, I supposed.

“Masters?” I said.

I was not answered.

I felt my left ankle grasped, and I stiffened. A shackle was closed about it. Some loops of chain were thrown down, beside me. I gathered there was a good length of chain between the shackle and its ring. I do not know why I was shackled. Perhaps because I was a slave, and it was thought fit that I be shackled. I wondered if, later, the wrist rings and ankle rings would be used. I supposed that the length of chain allowed me would not be sufficient to allow me to reach the door, which might now be unbarred. I wondered if others, guards, passing by, might enter.

I knew little of how free women were handled. Perhaps much depends on the caste, or city. I had never encountered a Gorean free woman in any meaningful way, though, from time to time, one had visited the house. At such a time, if one were near, we must kneel in first obeisance position, head to the floor. I had been aware of little more than the almost inaudible sound of a soft slipper on the tiles, a rustle of silks passing me. My knowledge of free women was limited almost entirely to the hints, and gossip, of instructresses, which I had overheard. I gathered that there was little love lost between the slave and the free woman.

I sensed the men standing there, about me.

I did not know if I should kneel, or not.

Should I assume obeisance position, first obeisance position, kneeling, head to the tiles, hands to floor, perhaps second obeisance position, belly to the floor, palms down, beside my head, where one might reach inch forth, to press one’s lips to his feet?