"I suppose so," I smiled. I supposed a girl had better know the touch of her master.

"But did you know it was I?" she asked, archly.

"Of course," I said.

"From the strap on my throat?" she said.

"I would have known without that," I said.

"How?" she asked.

"From the feel of you," I told her.

'The master knows the feel of his slave," she said.

"Certainly," I said.

"I would have thought all slaves, all miserable girls in bondage would be alike," she said.

"No," I said. "Each girl wears her bondage differently. Each girl is unique and excitingly different."

"How can that be?" she asked.

"I do not know," I said. "Perhaps bondage releases a woman's uniqueness and individuality. It releases her from the constrictions of verbalisms and stereotypes and permits her to be truly herself, within of course the latitudes of her nature, that of slave."

"Do you think women are truly slaves?" she asked.

"Ultimately and profoundly," I said. "That does not agree with the principles you have been taught, principles developed to facilitate a certain sort of society, or perhaps even with your immediate intuitions on the matter, a function of your conditioning to accept these principles, but it stands up to the test of life experiences."

"I sense that it is so," she whispered.

"Why else," I asked, "would women dream of chains and the collar?"

"I do not know," she said.

"Why else do you think," I asked, "that many highly intelligent women, functioning brilliantly in their world, are yet in the privacy of their own homes the secret slaves of their husbands?"

"I do not know," she said.

"But you are not a secret slave," I said.

"No," she smiled, "I am openly and publicly a slave, yours or any other man's, to whom you might give or sell me."

"Absolute power is held over you," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said. "I am in your absolute power."

"Or in that of any other who should own you," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

"How do you feel about this?" I asked.

"It frightens me," she said.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"It thrills me," she whispered.

"Of course," I said.

"Is this a sign that I am truly a slave?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"I feared it might be," she said. She looked up at me, chidingly. "You are bringing me along slowly, aren't you?" she asked. "You are liberating my slavery slowly, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why do you not have done with it," she asked, "and make me a complete slave?"

"Perhaps, in time," I said.

"The girl must wait upon the will of the master?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"Of course," she said. "What a slave you make me!" she exclaimed, bitterly.

"Of course," I said.

"Yes, of course," she said.

People were getting up around us, but I did not let her up.

"You caught me," she said. "It is now time for the captured women to serve their captors boiled meat."

"I will choose how you will serve me," I told her.

"Of course," she smiled. "It is you who will choose. You are the master."

I lifted her up in my arms.

"Do you think I think only of food?" I asked her.

"I have never been under that delusion, Master," she said.

I took her to the side of the feasting house, out of the way, and put her on her back again in the dirt. She held my arms. "Before me," she said, "you caught Thimble in the dark."

"Yes," I said.

"Did she and you know one another?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"You caught Thistle, too," she said. "Did she, the little vixen, and you, too, know one another?"

"Yes," I told her. Thistle and I, or Audrey and I. as I usually thought of her, using her former name as a slave name, had, too, recognized one another immediately, even in the darkness.

"I would like to switch her!" said Arlene.

"Why?" I asked.

"What a little slave she is," said Arlene.

"She will indeed prove to be a superb slave," I said. "But so, too, will you."

"I would like to beat her," said Arlene.

"You and she," I said, "are quite evenly matched. Perhaps you are a little stronger. I do not know."

"I can beat her," said Arlene.

"I do not know," I said. "Perhaps she could now beat you."

"That would be terrible," said Arlene. "I could not stand to call her 'Mistress.'" When one slave girl is beaten by another the loser commonly finds herself forced to call the winner 'Mistress'. In slave kennels and pleasure gardens the beaten girl is often expected to obey and serve the stronger girL Such cruel devices help to keep order among female slaves.

"You and Thistle," I said, "are extremely well matched. Perhaps that is why you hate her so."

"She wants your hands on her!" said Arlene.

"Are you jealous?" I asked.

"You are my master, not hers," she said.

"You and Thistle had better watch your step," I warned her, "or I will have Thimble thrash you both."

"Yes, Master," smiled Arlene. She feared Thimble, whom she knew could easily best her.

I looked about. I saw Thimble, or Barbara, serving a hunter, and Thistle, or Audrey, bringing meat to anotber. Poalu served Imnak.

"I note." I said, "that Poalu is bringing meat to Imnak."

"That makes five times in a row," smiled Arlene, looking up at me.

"Yes," I said.

"It is possible he has not played the game fairly," she smiled.

"Yes," I said, "I think that is possible."

"I think he is a scoundrel, like all men," said Arlene.

"Beware how you speak of men, Slave Girl," said I.

"Is a slave not expected to tell the truth?"

"Yes," I said, irritably.

"Surely then you have no objection to a girl's recognizing the objective truth that all men are scoundrels."

"I suppose not," I granted.

"How outrageous that such lovely creatures as I must come into the power of such scoundrels," she said.

"I do not regard it as all that outrageous," I said.

"But that is because you are a scoundrel," she pointed out.

"Perhaps," I admitted.

"But you are sometimes a nice scoundrel," she said.

"We all have our weaker moments," I admitted.

"I am not the first slave girl you have owned, am I?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Doubtless you have forced many girls to submit to your lust," she said.

"Of course," I said.

"Bold scoundrel," she said, "how I admire you doing what you want with us."

'That is a bold admission for an Earth girl," I said.

"I am no longer an Earth girl," she said. "I am a Gorean slave."

"That is true," I said. It was true.

I put my hand in her hair and turned her head to the side, to see the beauty of her profile.

"Strength in men, not weakness," she said, "excites me. You are the strongest man I have ever known."

"I am sure there are many men stronger than I," I said.

"Physical strength," she said, "is only a small part of what I mean, though it is not unimportant. I mean strength of will. Many men who are strong physically are spineless weaklings, tortured and dominated by women, and ideas. Women, despite what they may feel obligated to proclaim publicly, detest such men, for they betray their dominance, their genetic heritage as male primates, thus cheating not only themselves of the fulfillment of their nature but precluding the woman from also fulfilling hers. It is no wonder that women, in their helplessness and frustration, their own confusions, turn upon such men, hurting them and making them miserable. This, of course, causes such men, who do not understand the problem, to redouble their efforts to be accommodating and pleasing to the females, to give them whatever they want, and to reassure them of anything and everything they wish to hear. A vicious cycle is thus generated."