and did not wish to feel it. Yet, too, and more importantly, and interestingly, though I hardly dared admit it to myself at the time, I was thrilled to place my lips, tenderly, submissively, on that imperious, stern leather. I was frightened, but, too, I felt somehow privileged to do so. I suspected the whip was held to the lips of few. The whip, clearly, was an image of, a symbol of, the mastery. Might a slave then not appropriately express and acknowledge her submission, her deference, her gratitude, her acceptance of, her celebration of, the unqualified, uncompromised might of the mastery, for which she had for so long yearned? Had I not waited years, surely since puberty, for such an opportunity? So I kissed the whip for the first time, lying on my back, naked and bound, lifting my head, kissed it tenderly, gratefully, submissively. Commonly the whip is kissed while one kneels. I did not know the meaning of the words ‘La kajira’, but it was not difficult, under the circumstances, to speculate on their nature. They would be, incidentally, the first words I would learn in my new language, Gorean, the language of my masters. Both ‘Lo kajirus’ and ‘La kajira’ may be translated “I am a slave.” ‘Lo kajirus’ is masculine; ‘La kajira’ is feminine. Accordingly, the first would be understood as “I am a male slave,” and the second as “I am a female slave.” Perhaps the best translation into English of ‘La kajira’, considering the contempt in which we are held, as we are vendible work and pleasure animals, might be “I am a slave girl.”
When I awakened on the wooden floor, in the high-ceilinged, spacious room, naked amongst others, and was positioned so that I might be conveniently bound, I realized that I, and these others, had been selected. Thus, having been selected, I supposed, as well, that we had been assessed, and, assessed, had been found acceptable.
But for what had we been found acceptable?
When the cords were knotted about my wrists and ankles there could be little doubt about the matter.
Then I had been turned to my back, and looked up at him. I lay before him, supine at his feet, naked, tethered.
It was he from the store!
I had never forgotten him.
How different was this interview, from that of the store!
“A half tarsk,” he had said, and turned away.
I wondered if he remembered me. Perhaps, perhaps not. I did not know. There were several on the floor, in their lines.
He must remember me, I have often thought. Sometimes I am extremely angry. How dare he not remember me! How could he forget? Was it not he who did this to me? Was it not he who brought me to my chains? Was it not he who is responsible for this radical transformation in my fortunes, my condition, and status, for my reduction and degradation? Should I not hate him! Should I not deplore my state, one so helpless, so without recourse, even on another world! I clutch my chains and shake them. But probably he has brought others, as well, perhaps hundreds, routinely, to similar straits, and plights. I am not special. I have now learned that. He may not remember me. Am I not only another meaningless “collar slut,” as I have been informed? But, yes, it is true. I am that, only that. Why should I be remembered?
Is the expression ‘collar slut’ not informative? I think so. Well does it tell me what I am, and what I am for.
How different are the men of this world from my former male acquaintances, co-workers, and such! I suppose there must be true men on Earth, many perhaps. But where were they? Why did I never meet them? I suppose the answers to such questions are obvious. On Earth the acculturation is arranged to humble, cripple, reduce, subdue, and diminish manhood. Manhood is to be repudiated and overcome, as it constitutes an impediment to the success of militant pathologies. Why should a man be ashamed of his feelings, and desires, and why should a woman be ashamed of her feelings and desires? Did it truly take ten thousand generations to discover that nature was a mistake? Is it not surprising to be taught the subversion of one’s nature, to be ashamed of, deny, and fight manhood, or womanhood? What is so attractive about a crippled lion, or a poisoned rose?
The men of Gor are, in many ways, much like those of Earth,