lovely, are relatively similar, and relatively anonymous, whereas the face is likely to be unique, individual, personal, distinct, and special. Moreover, it is revealing, in its thousand mixtures, and subtleties, of expression. Surely a woman is a thousand times more revealed in her features, these revealing her thousand whims, moods, and secrets, than in her body, however exciting and marvelous it may be. And Gorean men savor and relish, and own, and master, the whole. In the face of the woman men read the slave. It is the whole woman, inside and outside, face, body, mind, thoughts, needs, emotions, which is wanted, which is desired, which is collared. Accordingly, the first thing that is done with a captured free woman, unless she is to be held for ransom, or delivered veiled to another for the pleasure, is to face-strip her. After this, so shamed, many women, of their own volition, kneel to be collared. Many, it seems, have waited their entire life to be collared. How often the happiness and radiance of the slave, caressed and mastered, outrages the free woman.
***
“Please do not touch me,” I begged.
“You writhe well,” he said.
I scratched at the coarse fibers of the mat.
“I cannot help myself,” I protested.
“You are not permitted to do so,” he informed me.
“Stop, Master!” I begged.
“Very well,” he said.
“No, no, no!” I begged. “Do not stop! Please, please, do not stop!”
“You beg that I should continue?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” I said.
“As a slave?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said, squirming in shame, in conflict, and need.
“We will see what we can do here,” he said.
“Be merciful,” I begged.
“You are a new slave, are you not?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered, intensely.
“Clearly you feel pleasure,” he said, “whether or not you wish to do so.”
“Forgive me,” I said. How could a man respect a woman who is no more than a helpless, spasmodic toy in his grasp, squirming and begging? Where was refinement, sophistication, self-control, dignity, pride, personhood, and respect? How could a woman respect herself when she reveals herself as no more than a helpless, uncontrollable, pleasure animal, a slave?
What is she good for then, but love, service, and submission?
“Your body lubricates nicely,” he said. “It has welcomed me, and clasped me. Too, though it is early, it has rewarded me with a number of spasmodic responses.”
“‘Early’?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“There is more?” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Certainly you are aware that you juice readily, and nicely,” he said.
“Let me alone,” I begged.
“I think, in time,” he said, “you will prove to be a hot little urt.”
“No, no!” I said.
“Perhaps not so much now,” he said. “But later.”
“Be merciful,” I begged. “Please, be merciful!”
“It is easy to see,” he said, “even at this point, why they have chained you in a slave house.”
“When will you be done with me?” I wept.
“You are afraid, are you not?” he said.
“Yes!” I said.
“Let us try this caress,” he said.
“Ai!” I wept.
“Subside,” he said. “Lie still, relax. Let there be a calm before the storm, little vulo.”
***
How mighty was the ship!
How tiny we were on the dock, bearing our burdens, coming and going, serving the workmen, carrying supplies, and food and water, in the shadow of that curved, towering structure rearing above us.
“See,” called Relia, pointing.
“What?” I said.
“Ice,” she said, “ice in the river.”
“It was washed down from a tributary,” said Janina, shading her eyes. “At this time of year there is already ice farther north.”
“It is warm enough here,” I said. We were still tunicked. I supposed it must have been a large piece of ice, broken free, that it would be in the river, here in the Alexandra, this far south.
“Soon the season will change,” said Janina.
“Masters hasten,” said Relia. “The Alexandra will freeze, and the ship will be trapped. She might be crushed.”
“It is still warm,” I said.
“Now,” said Janina.
Clearly colder weather was anticipated. We had been issued woolen materials, woven from the fleece of the bounding hurt, with awls and string, from which we were to fashion winter garmenture for ourselves. The nature of this projected garmenture, as might have been anticipated, was clearly specified. A cloth worker measured us and cut the patterns, as we were not permitted scissors. Under his supervision we sewed the garments. The awls were allotted, counted, and returned. Our work must be approved by the cloth worker. I had to remove stitches twice, and resew them. In any event, we, though slaves, would be well bundled. When we were finished