whispers, as Priest-Kings. I suppose this is a myth of some sort, but, myth or not, an explanation of some sort would seem to be required. Perhaps ancient humans once possessed an advanced technology, which was somehow lost. One has heard of Mu, Atlantis, and such places. In any event, it seems clear that the human female, whether Gorean or not, tends to be regarded by many Gorean men as the natural property of males. To be sure, this surmise, or conviction, is seldom expressed openly to Gorean women, particularly to those of station, high caste, and such. In any event, once collared, there would seem little to choose between us. We both learn our collars quickly. The Gorean woman may have an advantage in some ways, for she is familiar with the culture; indeed, she may have owned her own slaves, male or female. She is likely to better realize, then, as a woman of my world might not, the nature of female bondage, and what is expected of the female slave. It would seldom occur to a Gorean woman, once enslaved, to dare to be less than fully pleasing to her master. Barbarians, of course, may be less aware of this, at least at first. It is, however, quickly taught to us.
“We will need a barbarian name for you,” he said, “as you are a barbarian. It would not do to waste a fine Gorean name on you.”
I was silent.
“The name must be short, and simple, an obvious slave name, and one that makes clear that you are without significance or importance, that you are a mere, negligible, chattel. Yet, we want the name to be sexually stimulatory, one which will elicit masculine interest, and aggression. We want it, in effect, to say, ‘Here is a helpless, vulnerable slave, is she not lovely, is she not exciting, do with her as you will.’ We want it to suggest that you will be helpless and pleasant at the end of chain, or attractive, bound helplessly, a nicely tethered love bundle, in the furs. Sometimes barbarians are placed in unusually revealing tunics. Their masters often like to show them off, and help them to keep in mind that they are slaves. They do nicely on leashes.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I hoped I might stand, walk, kneel, lie, or writhe well on my leash. How natural that animals be leashed!
“Position!” he snapped.
Instantly, reflexively, I went to position, kneeling back on my heels, back straight, head up, hands palm down on thighs, looking forward, not meeting his eyes, knees spread.
My body must have reacted, somehow, when I had thought of myself on a leash.
I was now, again, in position.
How could a woman be more presented as a slave? Seeing a woman so positioned, what else could she be?
Strangely, the thought crossed my mind of myself, naked, on my former world, in the aisle of the great store, on a master’s leash, and then, as he paused, kneeling at his thigh, head down, docilely. Others, moving about, fully clothed, if they noticed me, would have recognized me as a slave. I wondered if such might one day occur on my former world, that sort of thing. Clearly cultural adjustments would have taken place. Such scenes are not unprecedented on Gor, though commonly the slave would have been tunicked, revealingly, and scantily, of course, as would be appropriate for her condition and status.
The fellow backed away from me, and surveyed me, and spoke, over his shoulder, to his fellows, of which there were two, one of whom was keeping the notes, or records.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Nice,” said the fellow who was not keeping the notes, or records.
I held position, gracefully, but determinedly. It is not pleasant to be cuffed, or switched. And it is less pleasant to be put under the lash.
“What is she?” asked he who had been addressing me, of the fellow with the board, the marking stick, the papers, the notes, and such. To that fellow he seemed to defer.
“A Laura,” said the fellow with the papers, and such.
“You are Laura,” said the fellow who had been addressing me. “What is your name?”
“Laura,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”
He then went to the next girl in line. I remained in position. I had been named. I was Laura.
Chapter Fourteen
The ax bit the wood.
“Good stroke,” said Tyrtaios. “Many would take three to go that deep.”
“These logs,” I said, “are not being dressed.”
“Sawyers are elsewhere,” said Tyrtaios. “They will see to the