had been taught. This is one of the first things a slave learns. It lifts the breasts nicely. The men like it.
I must not hurry. I must not stumble. I must give no indication of the fear, and tumult, within me.
The ground would be soft from the rains. The worst had been four nights ago, the night of the great storm. I would be near the wands, permissibly so.
The weather had turned warm the last two days. There was much humidity in the air. The planks of the dock felt warm to my bare feet. A light breeze blew my tunic back against me. One could feel the moist air through it. It was of rep-cloth, a not uncommon material for the garments of slaves. It is light, porous, loosely woven, and clinging. The garment was sleeveless, and came high on my thighs. Such tunics leave little to the imagination. The disrobing loop, for I now wore one, was at my left shoulder, where it would be convenient to the hand of a right-handed man. Such garments, too, of course, lack a nether closure. We are to be at the convenience of our masters. In such a tunic it is said that a woman is more naked than naked. This is untrue, of course, and we treasure whatever scraps of cloth we may be permitted, but the saying has a point, which is that the tunic proclaims the woman a slave. It says, in effect, “I am a slave; I am such that you may do with me as you will.” Is she not then, in her way, naked before the free, more naked than naked in her tiny tunic, naked psychologically, societally, socially? The morning was bright, and my heart was beating rapidly. I could see the end of the dock before me. On Gor, a slave, tunicked and collared, I was far more aware of my surroundings and their multiple ambiences than I had been on Earth, where noise and glitter, and clutter and filth, and garments which I was beginning to feel were outlandishly barbaric, seemed to shut away the natural world. Here, muchly bared, and owned, I was keenly aware of a gentle wind, the splash of rain, the feel of wet grass on one’s feet, the scent of a flower, the texture of a piece of cloth, than I had ever been on my former world. How fresh and clean was the world, this world, how rich and sensuous it was. And there were other textures, and feelings, too, the knowledge that one is owned, and must obey, and the realization that one will be punished if one is not satisfactory, and little things, like the feel of wood on one’s knees as one knelt before the free, the sense of a strap cinched tight on one’s body, the clasp of slave bracelets, the weight of a shackle, the fiber of cordage in which one lay, bound, and helpless.
“Tal, vulo,” said a man.
“Tal, Master,” I said.
“Tal, tasta,” said another.
“Tal, Master,” I said.
“Tal, collar-girl,” said another.
“Tal, Master,” I said. One of my first instructresses had told us the difference between a woman and a girl. The girl is in a collar.
I was careful not to meet the eyes of a free man. That can be presumptuous. A slave girl will usually not meet the eyes of a free man unless she is commanded to do so. And that can be frightening. We are slaves. And I am told that it can be even more frightening to meet the eyes of a free woman. I had never met a free woman, and I did not care to do so. Meeting the eyes of a free woman, uncommanded, I am told, is likely to result in the stroke of a switch, which many of them carry with them. They hate us. And we, of course, our bodies muchly bared, our necks in collars, owned, helpless animals, are much at their mercy. It is our hope that the masters will protect us.
I stopped to look up at the great ship, like a mountain of wood beside the dock. High above, I could see a man looking over the rail. He was watching a line of men, on my level, climbing a boarding plank, carrying sacks.
It was early in the morning.
The ship, in the current, tugged at its moorings. I understood that it would soon depart. If so, there was little time to lose. If I dallied until nightfall I