"Please, Master," I begged, "take me!"
"Remain immobile," he said. "Do not move so much as a muscle."
I gritted my teeth. "Yes, Master," I whispered. Every bit of me wanted to cry out and explode. I held myself absolutely rigid. I wanted to explode. I was not permitted to move.
"Too," said he, "an intelligent girl, a highly intelligent one, such as yourself, is capable of truly understanding her slavery. A dull girl has no true insight into the bondage relation. She knows she is a slave. She recognizes the institution, and is cognizant of its legalities. She is familiar with chains, and has worn them; she sees the whip, and has felt it. But does she truly understand her slavery?"
"Forgive me, Master," I said, barely able to speak, "but any woman who is a slave truly understands her slavery."
"Is this true?" he asked.
"In the belly of her," I said, "any woman who is slave knows her slavery. It has naught to do with intelligence, but only with being a slave and a woman. It is an indescribable, helpless feeling in the belly of us, being owned. One need not be intelligent to have this emotion, nor to respond, nor to feel."
"Perhaps," he said.
I wanted to scream. "Please, Master," I said.
"Do not move," said he.
"Yes, Master," I said, obeying.
I held myself rigid. Could the peasant boys have been more cruel?
"You do not think," he asked, "that the dull woman confuses slavery with the chains and the whip?"
"No, Master," I said. I moaned in helplessness. "I am not now chained," I said. "I am not now being whipped. But I could not be more a slave than now if I were chained to a whipping post and the lash being laid upon me. I am owned. I am completely in your power. I dare not even move. I must obey. This could be understood by any woman in my place."
"But perhaps," said he, musing, "your understanding of your slavery, in virtue of your intelligence, your sensitivity, is much more intense, much deeper and richer than would be that of a duller woman?"
"Perhaps, Master," I said. "I do not know!"
"Do you wish to be permitted to move?" he asked.
"Yes," I wept. "Yes! Yes!"
"But you are not yet permitted to move," he said.
"Yes, Master," I sobbed.
"It is pleasant to own a beautiful Earth woman such as you," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"To whom do you belong?" he asked.
"To you! To you, Master!" I said.
"But you are of Earth," he said. "How can you belong to a man?"
"I belong to you, to you, Master!" I said.
"In the past weeks," he said, "you have begun to disturb me."
"Master?" I asked.
"Do not move," he said.
"No, Master," I sobbed.
"I do not understand it," he said. "It is very strange. Today I grew angry with you, and you had merely behaved as a slave."
He referred to my yielding to the soldier in the morning.
"I am a slave, Master," I said. "I could not help myself."
"I know," he said. "Why then should I be angry?"
"I do not know, Master," I said.
He then touched me, and I cried out.
"Do not move," he said.
"Have mercy on your girl, Master!" I begged.
With his touch he had again brought my sensations to the point at which I wanted to shatter and writhe and scream, and yet I must remain at his side, immobile, absolutely motionless.
"You are not important," he said,
"No, Master," I said.
"You are a worthless slave girl," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"You can be bought or sold in any market," he said, "for a handful of copper tarsks."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Why then," he asked, "do I concern myself with you?"
"I do not know, Master," I said.
"You may move, Slave Girl," he said.
With a wanton cry I pressed myself against him.
"You see," he said, "the women of Earth are natural slaves."
"Yes, Master," I wept.
"You are obviously only a common girl," he said.
"Yes, Master!" I cried softly.
I began to lick at him beneath the chin and kiss him. I clutched at him. I wept and laughed and writhed, holding him.
"Only a common girl," he said. "Only a common slave." I put my tear-stained cheek against the hardness of his chest, holding him. I could feel the hair on his chest between his body and the softness of my cheek. "Yes, Master," I whispered.
"You do not even have a name," he said.
"No, Master," I said.
"Of what importance is a nameless animal?" he asked.
"None, Master," I said.
"How can you be of interest?" he asked.
"I do not know, Master," I said.
"And yet you are a pretty little animal," he said.
"Thank you, Master," I said.
"I shall conquer you," he said.
"You have conquered me long ago," I said.
"I shall conquer you anew," he said.
"Every time you look upon me, or touch me," I said, "I am conquered anew." I felt his chest beneath my cheek. I held him in the darkness. "I am your conquest, fully and completely, Master," I said. "I am your slave."
"Perhaps my slave should have a name," he said.
"As Master wills," I said.
He took me by the shoulders and lifted and turned me. He put me beneath him. I felt the furs and the ground beneath my back. I felt his arms about me. I moaned as my body received and clasped him.
"Do not move," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said. I wanted to yield.
"I shall name you," he said.
I lay in the darkness, helpless, imprisoned in the strength of his arms, waiting to learn whom I would be.
"The name," he said, "for you are a common girl, and worthless, should be an unimportant name, one plain and simple, one fitting for a valueless girl, an ignorant, branded she-slave such as you."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"You are even a barbarian," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Some men," he said, "enjoy putting a barbarian girl through her paces."
"Put me through my paces, I beg of you, Master!" I wept.
"Do not move," he cautioned.
"Yes, Master," I wept. I so wanted to yield to him. I was on the brink of yielding, but he would not let me move. It was as though I wanted to burst.
"I myself," he smiled, "enjoy putting any girl, civilized or barbarian, through her paces."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Did you know," he asked, "that in the throes of slave orgasm there is no difference between a civilized and barbarian girl?"
"No, Master," I said.
"It is interesting," he said. "In slave orgasm they are spasmodically identical."
"We are all women, only women," I said, "in the arms of our masters."
"Doubtless that is it," he mused.
"Permit me to yield!" I begged.
"Do not move," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said, through gritted teeth. I was so much his! Why would he not have me?
"You speak Gorean with an accent," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said. "Forgive me, Master," I begged.
"Do not change," he said. "The accent becomes you. It marks you as different and makes you more interesting."
"Perhaps that is what Master finds interesting about his girl," I said.
"Perhaps," he said. "But I have owned barbarian girls before."
"Other girls from the planet Earth?" I whispered.
"Of course," he said. "Do not move."
"No, Master," I said. Suddenly I resented and hated those other girls from the bottom of my heart. How angry and jealous I was!
"The little slave is angry," he said. "Do not move."
"No, Master," I said.
I lay in the darkness,
in his arms, trying not to move.
"What became of the Earth girls whom you owned before me, Master?" I asked.
"Was a slave given permission to speak?" he asked.
"Forgive me, Master," I said. "May a slave speak?"
"Yes," he said.
"You owned other Earth girls," I said. "Where are they?"
"I do not know," he said.
"What did you do with them?" I asked.
"I have had five such women, not including yourself, my dear," he said. "I gave two away, and sold off three."
"Are you going to sell me, or give me away?" I asked.
"Perhaps," he said.
I moaned. He could do what he wished, of course.
"Did they love you?" I asked.
"I do not know," he said. "Perhaps. Perhaps, not."
"Did they protest their love to you?" I asked.
"Of course," he said. "That sort of thing is common among slave girls."
"And yet you gave them away, or sold them?"
"Yes."
"How could you do that, Master?" I asked.
"They were only slaves," he said in explanation.
I uttered a cry of anguish. I could be discarded as easily. "You were cruel," I said, "Master."
"How can one be cruel to a slave?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "How can one be cruel to a slave?"
"You're crying," he said.
"Forgive me, Master," I said.
We lay together in the darkness, I not permitted to move. I heard the peasant boys finishing with my sisters in bondage. Afterwards they would be put in slave hobbles.
"What was your barbarian name?" he asked.
"Judy Thornton," I said, "Master."
"How came you into my possession?" he asked.
"You won me in challenge, Master," I said. "Then you made me your slave."
"Ah, yes," he said. What a beast he was, me so naked, so helpless in his arms.
"Barbarians have such complicated names," he said.
"It is two names, Master," I said. "My first name was Judy, my second name was Thornton."
"Barbarous," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"I do not like those names," he said. "Therefore they will not be yours."
"Yes, Master," I said. I supposed such names did sound unfamiliar, and barbarous, to a Gorean ear.
"What was the name of your barbarian master?" he asked.
"I do not understand, Master," I stammered.
"The barbarian who owned you on Earth," he said. "Perhaps we can use his name."
"But I was not owned on Earth, Master," I said. "I was a free woman."
"Women such as you are permitted to be free on Earth?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Of what sort are the men of Earth?" he asked.
"Of a sort other than Gorean, Master," I said.
"I see," he said. "Are the men happy?" he asked.
"No," I told him.
"Are the women happy?" he asked.
"No," I told him.
"I see," he said.
"Do the men of Earth not find you beautiful and desirable?" he asked.
"They have been weakened," I told him. "I did not know what it was to be desired until I came to this world." I clutched him. "It is only in the arms of true men, such as you, Master," I said, "that I have learned what it is to be a woman."
"You may move," he said.
With a cry I began to respond spasmodically to him.
"Stop," he said.
"Master!" I cried.
"Do not move," he said.
I wept with misery. How cruel could he be. "Yes, Master!" I wept.
He had raised me to the point at which another instant's movement would have precipitated that most incredible and fantastic of sexual experiences to which a human female can attain, that in which she knows herself cognitively and physiologically submitted, fully and completely, absolutely, to a master, the psychological and somatic raptures of submission spasm, the slave orgasm.
"I must drive you from my mind," he said.
I moaned.
"What is your brand?" he asked.
"The Slave Flower, the Dina!" I cried. "The name," he had said, "for you are a common girl, and worthless, should be an unimportant name, one plain and simple, one fitting for a valueless girl, an ignorant, branded she-slave such as you."
"The Dina!" I cried.
He had begun to have me.
"Permit me to yield! Permit me to yield, Master!" I cried.
"No," he said.
I cried out with misery. I tried to hold myself immobile.
"You are going to be named," he said.
I could not even speak.
I was the only Dina among his girls. It was a common brand. Often girls who wore it were called Dina. For a low, common girl, one not to be distinguished from others, it was a suitable name. It was unimportant. It was simple. It was plain. I was common, and of little value. The name, too, was common, and of little value. It was thus not unfitting for a girl such as I, not unfitting for an ignorant, branded she-slave such as myself.
"You will not forget your name," he said.
"No, Master!" I said. I knew how he would impress my name upon me.
He had told me that I was without value, that I was worthless. I knew I could be bought and sold for a handful of copper tarsks.
I knew what he would name me.
He did not cease to have me.
At length I cried out, agonized. "I must yield, Master! I cannot help myself! I cannot help myself but yield to you!"
"Must you yield," he asked, "even though it might mean your death?"
"Yes, Master!" I cried.
"Then yield, Slave," said he.
With a cry I yielded to him.
"You are Dina," he said, laughing, his voice like a lion. "You are the slave Dina, whom I own." He laughed and cried out with pleasure in his triumph over the slave girl. "Yes, Master!" I cried. "I am Dina! I am Dina" I clutched him, joyously, his. "Dina loves Master!" I wept. "Dina loves Master!"
Later I lay in his arms, an owned slave girl, content beside the mightiness of her master.
How I loved him!
"Strange," he said, looking up at the Gorean stars.
"Master?" I asked.
"You are obviously only a common girl," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said. I began to kiss him gently about the shoulder.
"Only a common girl," he said.
It was true. He was Clitus Vitellius, a Captain, of the city of Ar. I was only Dina.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"I fear that I might begin to care for you," he said.
"If Dina has found favor with her master," I said, "she is pleased."
"I must fight this weakness," he said.
"Whip me," I said.
"No," he said.
"It is not you who is weak, Master," I said. "It is I, Dina, in your arms, who am without strength." I kissed him.
"I am a captain," he said. "I must be strong."
"I am a slave girl," I said. "I must be weak."
"I must be strong," he said.
"You did not seem weak to me, Master," I said, "when you laughed, and took me, and named me Dina. Then you seemed magnificent in your power and pride."
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