by John Norman
“Nothing,” I said. “They are not my memories. They are someone else’s memories. Perhaps he could bring them to mind, whoever owns them, but I cannot. I experience them, but I do not own them. They aren’t mine.”
“Thank you for your time, and effort,” he said.
“I should go?”
“You may go,” he said.
“What about the case?” I asked.
He closed the folder. He looked across the desk at me. “It is another one,” he said, “but an odd one. Another miss, another loss, another unsolved crime.”
A Collar is Secondarily Applied
She gasped, and looked up at me, wildly.
“There,” I said, “it is done.” I drew away from her.
Her eyes were open, widely.
“You understand now,” I said, “what can be done to you.”
I had not taken time with her. What did it matter?
She looked at me, reproachfully, bitterly, hatred in her eyes.
“Apparently you received great pleasure,” she said.
“It is what you are for,” I said.
“I see,” she said.
“It was not so terrible, was it?” I asked.
She bit her lip, and turned her head away.
“On your belly,” I said, “hands at your sides.”
I turned her to her belly and adjusted her hands, and then knelt across her body.
“You may now be collared,” I said.
“Should I not have been collared first?” she asked.
“In your case,” I said, “I thought it best that you be collared second, in order that it be after you are taught what can be done to you, and what you henceforth are going to be for.”
She gasped with bitterness, and tears dampened the furs on which I had put her.
She was absolutely helpless, and knew herself so.
She sobbed as I brushed her hair forward, exposing the back of her neck.
The small hairs there were attractive. I have always found them so.
“Please, do not!” she said.
I put the collar about her throat.
“Please, no!” she said.
“Listen to the click,” I said.
“Please, no! Please, no!” she said.
I then closed the collar.
“Did you hear it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
I did not think it likely she would forget that sound.
She could not reach the collar, as I knelt across her body, pinning her arms to her sides.
Perhaps I should have collared her first. But she had displeased me, long ago, at a song drama, so the collar had been secondarily applied.
Surely she knew she had displeased me, and had intended to do so.
Doubtless, from time to time, she had recalled the incident, perhaps with pleasure.
It had happened some months ago.
Doubtless it had later slipped her mind.
But I had remembered.
Doubtless she thought the matter forgotten.
But it had not been forgotten.
I had not forgotten.
I had waited.
I had ruminated often on the incident, recalling details. I remembered her carriage, the attitude of her body, the tilt of her head, the tone of her voice, the words, the flash of her eyes, dark and bright, over the veil.
I had been irritated.
I had stepped back, surveying her, the sweetness of the shoulders, the hint of the turn of a pleasant hip, inside the robes.
How furious she had been.
I stayed the small gloved hand, catching her wrist, holding it just a bit, just long enough that she would know herself held, helplessly, and then released it.
She turned away, angrily, and moved down the tier.
How angry she was.
How insolent she was.
I wondered if she might be of interest, as a woman might be of interest to a man.
I sensed her intelligence was quite high.
Excellent.
Does one not prize high intelligence in any animal?
She had moved away, well.
I wondered if she knew that.
I suspect they do.
Does the tabuk doe not take her leave from the inquisitive buck thusly, darting away, inviting pursuit?
Certainly I had speculated on the likelihood of acceptable lineaments there, hoping that they might be of a certain quality; it is difficult to tell such things, given those absurd, voluminous, pompous, preposterous folds and layers of the Robes of Concealment. Who is to know if what is hidden is dross, or a treasure, perhaps fit even for the block. It is different with the collar girls, dressed for the pleasure of men. Little speculation is needed there. How lovely they are, so humiliatingly revealed, so uncompromisingly exhibited, so deliciously exposed, so feminine, so helpless, so vital, so alive, so at one’s mercy, so perfect, so owned. How they stir the blood! It is different, too, with the females of the world, Earth, to which I have been twice. They are ready slave stock, presenting themselves beautifully and excitingly, I wondered if they realized that, for a man’s consideration, slave stock whose garmentures leave little to a fellow’s imagination. It is little wonder that the slave routes to and from Earth are well plied, by professionals, by hunters, and merchants.
The orchards are unguarded, and luscious fruit hangs in view, to be assessed, and selected, as one pleases.
It is almost like a slave shelf, in a common market.
It is not hard to fill one’s basket.
I looked at her.
I was not disappointed.
Suitably trained, she might prove, indeed, a treasure, or bauble, if you like, yes, fit even for the block. I was pleased. I do not find the women of my world, though obviously more civilized and modest, more refined and informed, more worthy and noble, incidentally, at all inferior in beauty and excitements to the lovely barbarians from Earth, bid upon so heatedly, from the polluted slave world, brought suitably, as the game they are, the selected, plucked fruit, to our markets. To be sure, that is to be expected, as they are all of the same species.
I recalled the incident in virtue of which, unbeknownst to her, she had been marked for my claiming.
One wonders, sometimes, why women should act so.
Do they wish to be taken in hand, and taught they are females?
Is this what they long for?
Is it that without which they know themselves incomplete?
Are they never content, truly, except at our feet?
She rose to her knees, on the furs, beside me, as I lay on an elbow, regarding her, and she put her small hands on the collar. She felt it, she pulled at it. It encircled her neck closely, but not tightly.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Do you not remember?” I said. “In the month of Hesius, a song drama, a contretemps in the tiers?”
“You!” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“For that,” she said, seizing the collar, looking at me, “this?”
“Yes,” I said.
She struggled with the collar.
“Do not hurt yourself,” I warned her.
She looked at me, angrily, her small fingers hooked on the flat, narrow, gleaming band.
Surely she, given her background, not being a naive female of Earth, fresh to her new condition, so alien to her former life, should well understand the futility of such efforts, the obduracy of such devices, the sturdiness of the small locks, the perfection and security with which they are designed to encircle and clasp the throats of their fair occupants.
“It is on you,” I said. “Doubtless your own girls wore them.”
“Yes,” she said, angrily.
“But you n
ever thought to wear one yourself.”
“No,” she said.
“It is not uncomfortable,” I said. “One does not wish the girls to be in the least bit uncomfortable.”
“You are thoughtful,” she said, bitterly.
“As you were with yours,” I said.
She jerked at the collar.
“In time,” I said, “you will not even think about it, or seldom, no more than the rings you once wore.”
Such things had been removed from her, of course. They had some value.
If she wore such things in the future, they would not be hers, but would be worn by the permission and indulgence of another.
To be sure, I doubted that she would be soon granted adornments, save, of course, the collar, and perhaps earrings, which have a special significance here.
“But it is there!” she hissed.
“Certainly,” I said.
“And locked!”
“Would you rather have had something heavier, and riveted about your neck?”
“No!” she said.
“Or something even heavier, shaped by a smith about your neck, hammered shut?”
“No, no,” she said.
“Such could be easily arranged,” I said.
“I am sure of it,” she said.
“Your hair is much before your face,” I said. “Lift your hands, and, with both hands, brush it back, behind your shoulders.”
She looked at me, angrily.
“I would see the collar on your neck,” I said.
“Good” I said. “Keep your hands as they are. Yes. It is very pretty.”
She was an extremely attractive woman, and the collar, of course, much enhances the beauty of a woman. This is doubtless in part a matter of simple aesthetics, contrasts, and such, but I think the meaning is even more important, what it proclaims about that which is within it, what it makes clear about the woman about whose throat it is locked.
“May I lower my arms?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What you did to me!” she said.
“You will not forget the sensations,” I said. “You will be more and more curious about them, what they were like. You will remember them. Do you remember them accurately? You will find yourself hoping for their repetition. You will dream of yourself as you were. Your belly will grow uneasy. You will hope to be remembered. You will hope to be summoned, to be washed, and perfumed, and such, to be brought before me.”
“Never,” she cried, “never!” But her eyes belied her words.
“In time,” I said, “you will long for such things. In time, you will come on your knees, or belly, and beg for them.”
“Never!” she said.
Let her first uses, I thought, be cursory, that she may learn what she is, and what may be done to her, when and as others wish.
There would be time later, if one wished, for one’s amusement, to spend a morning, or an afternoon, with her, to have her writhing and begging for another touch, even the gentlest, the least, of such.
“I pride myself on my frigidity,” she said.
“You are not frigid,” I said.
“You, or another,” she said, “will never light the slave fires in my belly!”
“They have already been lit,” I informed her. “In a week, that will be quite clear to you.”
“I will never be so helpless,” she said. “I will never so belong to men!”
“You already do,” I said.
“No!” she said.
“You may now report to the kitchen master, to be put to work,” I said.
“‘Kitchen’?” she sobbed. “I—to the kitchen? I—to work?”
“A man waits outside,” I said. “He will blindfold you and take you to the kitchen.”
The house was complex. There was no need that she understand its passages, and such.
She moved from the furs, to the side, to the tiles and stood, unsteadily, wavering.
“Do you wish to be whipped?” I asked.
“No!” she said.
“Get out,” I said.
She stood there.
“Do you obey?” I asked.
“Yes,” she wept, “I obey!”
“You obey, what?” I inquired.
“I obey,” she said, “—Master!”
She then turned about, and scurried, weeping, barefoot, from the chamber.
I smiled to myself, for she knew little of herself. She would eventually be fulfilled in her heart, to become what she was.
I thought, in a time, and not in too a long a time, I would get a good price for her.
I would have her ears pierced.
She would be made a pierced-ear girl.
She had displeased me.
In time she would grow accustomed to that, even pleased. Too, that should improve her price somewhat. Men expect much from a pierced-ear girl.
To the male belongs the female.
It is so deemed by nature.
In the tiers, she had not recognized my caste. But then one does not always wear one’s robes publicly.
A Gorean Encounter
It was a fall day.
On a certain world, in that season, it would have been a lovely fall day, the air bright and crisp, and the leaves a thousand colors. On the particular world on which this brief encounter occurred, it was, it will be admitted, for that world, not a bad day. It was cool, at least. The air was foul, as usual, but those accustomed to that did not much notice it. They were used to it, and had little with which to compare it. The leaves were somewhat sooted, and this muted the colors, but, again, individuals on the world in question were so familiar with this sort of thing that they, again, at least on the whole, did not much notice it.
Perhaps she should not have been walking, alone, in the woods. That is not, really, a wise thing to do. On the other hand, actually, it would not have really made much difference. One place or time, actually, is quite as good as another. Indeed, a great many individuals involved in this sort of thing do not even realize until long afterwards that an encounter took place. At the time they were utterly unaware of it. Only later is the evidence indisputable that it occurred.
She turned about, a little startled, and realized for the first time that he was there.
He was rather close to her.
She knew she could not run. If she had turned to run, he could have had his hands on her instantly.
He was quite large, and she was acutely aware of her smallness before him. He seemed very different from the men with whom she was familiar. He seemed to have a terrible look of power, of virility, about him.
But, too, he seemed a pleasant enough fellow.
That reassured her.
She might have screamed, or started to scream, one supposes, but what would have been the reason for that? Certainly she had no obvious reason, or justification, at least at that time. But, too, at the first sight of such an intention, widened eyes, a look of fear, a trembling lip, the taking in of air to scream, and such, he could have had her in the compass of an arm, and a large hand might have been placed firmly across her mouth, stifling any possible outcry. She might then have been struck, or threatened, or warned to silence, before being thrust down, terrified, to the leaves.
But he did not seem particularly threatening in his attitude or demeanor, only perhaps, if at all, in that fierce masculinity before which she felt unsettled, and weak.
She did what almost any woman would do, one supposes, in such a situation, what almost any woman, fearing herself trapped, but sure of nothing, might do. It is a common response of the uncertain female before the strange male, unaccountably present. Indeed, it is a common response of any uneasy female before almost any male, whose maleness is suddenly, clearly recognized. It has doubtless been selected f
or in the course of evolution. It is a complaisance behavior. It signifies docility, and a desire to please. It tends to avert wrath. In effect, it says, though doubtless much on the unconscious level, “Look at me. I am pretty, and a female, and smaller than you, and I could be a source of great pleasure for you, and so please, please, do not hurt me.”
The lives of many women have doubtless been so saved.
Does it not say, in its way, “Think of me in terms of service and pleasure. Do not hurt me. Keep me, instead. I will serve you well and give you much pleasure. Keep me. I am a female. I will do my best to make you happy. That is what I am for. So please do not hurt me. Keep me—keep me for your service and pleasure, Master.”
The behavior was a simple one, presumably once randomly distributed, but later, given the cruel filtering of differential survivals, coming in a great many women, indeed, in an overwhelming majority, to be an instinctual response.
It was a simple behavior.
She smiled.
It was a very pretty smile, and she was not unaware of its effects. Certainly it had always had, at least in the past, served her well, to delight males, to disarm them, to please them, to influence them, to make them eager to serve her.
Men were so easy to manipulate, with such small things as a smile, a movement of the head, a hand lifted to the hair, such things.
She might not have the strength and size of a male, but she had other ways to have her way, and obtain power over them.
Men were such foolish creatures.
What things they would do, simply to win one of those smiles, and bask in its glow.
The large fellow facing her in the woods did not seem in any way hostile, or overtly threatening, but he did not return the smile.
She did not sense that he was being uncivil, or boorish, or purposely ignoring her lovely overture.
It was rather as though he had noted it, and approved it, perhaps even regarded it as excellent, but, after noting and approving it, had turned it aside, as a weapon, as easily as the stern shield of Ares might have turned aside a straw flung from the bow of some designing, meretricious Cupid.
This was the first time she could recall that that had occurred.
This puzzled her.
Too, it annoyed her, and, too, it frightened her.
