Free Swordsmen of Gor by John Norman Page B

not be regarded, or, perhaps better, should not be regarded, as a breach of discipline if the slave were to remonstrate against, or at least question, the advisability of a master’s putting his own life or welfare in jeopardy. Few slaves will happily bring a master his cloak if he is in no condition to walk the high bridges, or, more dangerously, enter for some reason unarmed amongst enemies. In the end, of course, the master’s will is definitive. It is for the slave to hear and obey. In all such matters, ideally, however, common sense and judgment should hold sway.
    “Head down,” I said to Constantina.
    She put her head down, before me.
    I waited for a few moments, and then took the trencher. “Draw back,” I said to her. “And wait, kneeling.”
    She moved back a little, regarding me with fury, but obeyed.
    “You look well on your knees,” I said.
    She made a tiny, angry noise, but remained as placed.
    I glanced to Pertinax, to see if he objected to my treatment of the slave. But his eyes were alight. I wondered if he had never seen his own slave so.
    I wondered if she were a slave.
    Pertinax was not a forester.
    “Perhaps the slaves may now feed,” said Pertinax.
    “Surely,” I said.
    It was at that time that Cecily, regarding her trencher, first became aware of its lightness. Constantina had given her little, and, I suspected, that little was not of the best.
    After a bit I snapped my fingers that Cecily should approach me, and then, bit by bit, as she knelt by me, and extended her head, delicately, I fed her. She was not to use her hands, of course. Such homely practices remind the slave that she is dependent on the master for all things, not only for her collar, her clothing, if any, and her life, but even the tiniest morsel of food. Bit by bit I fed Cecily and watched her take the food gently, delicately, between her small, fine white teeth. Some of the sul I let her lick from my fingers.
    I stole a glance at Pertinax, and noted that he, as I had suspected would be the case, was almost aflame with admiration and awe, with delight and envy. To have a beautiful woman so at one’s mercy, so much in one’s power, so much one’s own, fills a man with triumph and joy, even with exultation. He then begins to understand what it can be, to be what he is, a man. To be sure, Goreans take this sort of thing much for granted.
    Cecily took the food gratefully from me, and seemed almost dreamily content. Sometimes, head down, she kissed softly at my hand, and fingers.
    “Slave, slave!” hissed Constantina.
    “Yours, Master,” Cecily whispered to me.
    “Slave!” cried Constantina.
    “Perhaps,” I said to Pertinax, “you might similarly feed your girl.”
    “Never!” said Constantina.
    “That will not be necessary,” said Pertinax.
    “Perhaps it is time for paga,” I said.
    Pertinax made as though to rise, but I motioned him to remain as he was, and he, with a glance at Constantina, a glance almost apologetic, resumed his position.
    “Cecily,” I said.
    She rose, and went to the side. In a moment she had removed the lid from the vessel, set it aside, and half-filled two goblets. One she placed where Constantina might reach it, and the other she brought to my place, holding it, and knelt there. She lifted her eyes to me, to see if the serving ritual might begin, but my eyes cautioned her to wait.
    I glanced back at Constantina, where she knelt, seething with rage, with humiliation.
    “Is she a pleasure slave?” I asked Pertinax.
    “Scarcely,” he said, almost laughing, as though the idea were somehow preposterous.
    Constantina cast him an ugly glance.
    I had told from her manner of kneeling, of course, that she was not a pleasure slave. There are a variety of ways in which a pleasure slave may kneel, but the most common is back on her heels, knees spread, back straight, head up, the palms of her hands down, on her thighs. Sometimes, when her needs are muchly upon her, she may kneel muchly like