and sat up, and tore the thorns from my leg, throwing them, and their pod and vine away. The coils on my ankles drew tighter, and I rolled to my belly and, scratching at the ground, digging into it with my fingers, dragged myself away, inch by inch, pulling at the vines until they were taut. I was sure the thing was a plant and not a free-moving animal. It would live primarily by photosynthesis, and the water and minerals it could extract from the soil. I had pulled the vines partly from the soil, perhaps a foot or so, when, suddenly, they fell away. In such a form of life certain mechanisms had doubtless been selected for. The behaviors of agitation and attack had doubtless been selected for, but so, too, I gathered, triggered by tensions likely to accompany or precede uprooting, had been a release and withdrawal. It was almost as though the plant wished to feed but not at the cost of its own demise. Doubtless these things were random at one time, but there are differences amongst behaviors; some are in the best interest of the organism, and others not. Then, statistically, over time, behaviors in the best interest of the organism, its health, longevity, replication, and survival, would tend to be favored. I slid back, away, further, from the plant. The coils which had looped about my ankles, and constricted there, withdrew into the tangle. Other tendrils stretched toward me, but, like restless, disappointed, anchored snakes, could move no further than their length, some a few feet, others some yards. I stood up, and backed away, my leg bleeding. I looked back at the restless tangle of growth, trembled, felt suddenly ill, and threw up. Fortunately, having found the thick tangle, perhaps a foot deep and some yards in width, ugly, and repellant, I had chosen to wrest away from it, but, it seemed, not far enough. Had I been closer to the tangle I do not doubt but what I would have been drawn into it, been covered by it, and, wrapped in its coils, drained of blood, and whatever other life fluids from which the growth might derive nourishment. Though I had never seen a life form of its sort before, I had little doubt what it must be. No wonder I had seen none about Tarncamp, or Shipcamp. They were such as would be cleared away from inhabited areas. I shuddered. There are many dire fates to which a displeasing slave might be subjected. One often hears of two. She might be fed alive to ravenous sleen; and sometimes she might be stripped, bound, and cast alive to leech plants. These things I had encountered were, I did not doubt, leech plants. Now I understood, better than before, why slave girls strive to be pleasing, fully pleasing, and as the slaves they are, to their masters. Yet, as I understood it, at least from my instructresses, free women do not understand, really, why slaves strive to be pleasing. Free women tend to think it is because of fear, fear of the switch or whip, of close chains, of unpleasant bindings, of restricted rations, heavy labors, enforced public nudity, and such. To be sure, one does fear such things, and they are at the disposal of the master. Else we would not be slaves. But the real reason the slave strives to be pleasing, fully pleasing, to her master, is because he is her master and she is a slave. It is profoundly rewarding to her to be a slave, to be owned, dominated, and mastered. She knows she has no choice in such matters but to be what she, in her deepest heart, most desires to be, a slave.
Why is it that we make such excellent slaves? Surely it is because it is what we want to be, and are.
Certainly I knew I wanted to kneel, and be owned, and had known this even from my former world. Being brought to Gor was thus for me, in its way, more than a dream come true; it was a restoration of human biological reality, a recovery of a rightfulness of nature, a returning of me to the path of my heart, a bringing of me to a world in which I would have no choice but to be myself. Here, I found myself at the feet of men, where I belonged; here I knew my identity as a female.
I touched my collar.
I was