"I beg use," she whispered.

"Do you protest your love?" he inquired. His hand was open, where she could see it. It was poised. She saw it. He was ready, if necessary, again to cuff her. "No, Master," she said, hastily.

"Not even the love of a slave girl?" he asked.

"No, Master," she said.

"And in any event," he said, "the love a slave girl is worthless, is it not?"

"Yes, Master," she whispered, tears in her eyes. This was absurd, of course, as the love of a slave girl is the deepest and most profound love that any woman can give a man. Love makes a woman a man's slave, and the wholeness of that love requires that she be, in truth, his slave. With nothing less can she be fully, and institutionally, content.

"You do not then protest your love," he said, "not even the love of a slave girl."

"No, Master," she whispered.

"What then?" asked he, casually.

"I beg simple use," she said.

"I see," he said.

"I am a slave in desperate need," she said. "I am at your mercy. You are my master. In piteous need I beg use!"

"So," said he, scornfully, "the slut of Cos, on her knees, begs use of her Master, one of Ar's Station."

"Yes, Master!" she said.

"You will wait," he said.

"Yes, Master," she moaned.

"I hear music, outside, the instruments of peasants, I believe," said Marcus, turning to me. "Perhaps they are holding fair or festival, such as they may, in such times."

"Perhaps," I said.

"Let us investigate," suggested Marcus.

"Very well," I said.

"Oh, yes," said he, looking down, "what of this slave?" She squirmed. It seemed she had slipped his mind.

"Bring her along," I suggested.

"You are an ignorant and unworthy slave, are you not?" asked Marcus.

"Yes, Master," she said. She was flushed and helplessly needful, even trembling. "Better surely," said Marcus, "that she be stripped and left here, behind, alone, bound hand and foot."

"Perhaps if you have a slave ring to chain her to," I said.

"You think there is danger of theft?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"You think she might be of interest to others?" he asked.

"Undoubtedly," I said.

"On your feet," he said to the girl.

Groaning, scarcely able to stand straight, so wrought with need she was, she stood.

"There will be darkness and crowds," mused Marcus. "Do you think you will try to escape?" he asked the girl.

"No, Master," she said.

"Straighten up," he said, "put your shoulders back, pull in your belly, thrust forth your breasts."

"She is a delicacy," I said, "worth at least two silver tarsks, in any market."

"I will try not to escape, Master," said the girl.

"I wonder," mused Marcus.

"I am collared," she said. "I am branded."

"True," said Marcus.

In this way she had suggested that even if she might desire to escape such a hope would be forlorn for her. She was reminding him of the categoricality of her condition, of its absoluteness, of the hopelessness of escape for such as she, a female held in Gorean bondage. For example, there are not only such obvious things as the brand and collar, and the distinctive garbing of the slave, or the lack of garbing, but, far more significantly, the extreme closeness of the society, with its scrutiny of strangers, and the general nature of an uncompromising and inflexible enforcement of, her condition. There is, accordingly, for all practical purposes, no escape for the Gorean slave girl. At best she might, at great risk to her own life, succeed in obtaining a new chaining, a new master, and one who, in view of her flight, will undoubtedly see to it that she is incarcerated in a harsher bondage that from which she fled, to which now, under her new strictures, she is likely to look back upon longingly. Similarly the penalties for attempted escape, particularly for a second attempt, are severe, usually involving hamstringing. Only the most stupid of women dares to even think of escape, and then seldom more than once.

"Will it be necessary to bind you?" asked Marcus.

"No, Master," she said.

"Turn about, and put your hands, wrists crossed, behind you," he said.

He then, whipping a short length of binding fiber from his pouch, with two single loops, and a double knot, a warrior's capture knot, tied her hands together.

"Will it be necessary to leash you?" he asked.

"No, Master," she said.

He then turned her about and put a leather leash collar, with its attached lead, now dangling before her, on her neck.

Although I did not think that Phoebe, who was a highly intelligent girl, would be likely to attempt an escape, even if she were not bound to Marcus by chains a thousand times stronger than those of iron, the chains of love, she might be stolen. Slave girls are lovely properties, and slave theft, the stealing of beautiful female slaves, is not unknown on Gor.

She tried to press against him, but he pressed her back, with one hand.

"Yes, Master," she sobbed. She was not now, without his permission, to so much as touch him.

"Let us be on our way," said Marcus.

The girl moaned with need.

"Very well," I said.

"Outside," said Marcus to the girl, "stand and walk well."

"Yes, Master," she said.

She was flushed, and needful, but I did not know if this would be readily apparent outside, among the moving bodies, in the darkness, in the wayward shadows, in the uncertain light of campfires.

"You are sure you do not wish to remain in the tent for a bit?" I asked. "Please, Master!" begged Phoebe.

"No," said Marcus.

Phoebe was quite beautiful in the tunic. It was adjusted on her by a slave girdle, in one of its common ties.

The girl looked at her master, piteously.

"Let us be on our way," said Marcus.

We left the tent, the girl following, bound, on the leash. She whimpered once, softly, piteously, beggingly, to which sound, however, her master, if he heard it, paid no heed.

"Stones! Guess stones!" called a fellow. "Who will play stones?"

This is a guessing game, in which a certain number of a given number of "stones," usually from two to five, is held in the hand and the opponent is to guess the number. There are many variations of "Stones," but usually one receives one point for a correct guess. If one guesses successfully, one may guess again. If one does not guess successfully, one holds the «stones» and the opponent takes his turn. The game is usually set at a given number of points, usually fifty. Whereas the «stones» are often tiny pebbles, they may be any small object. Sometimes beads are used, sometimes even gems. Intricately carved and painted game boxes containing carefully wrought «stones» are available for the affluent enthusiast. The game, as it is played on Gor, is not an idle pastime. Psychological subtleties, and strategies, are involved. Estates have sometimes changed hands as a result of "stones." Similarly, certain individuals are recognized as champions of the game. In certain cites, tournaments are held. I wiped my mouth with my forearm and rose to my feet. I was now much refreshed. "Do not leave me, I beg you," said the girl at my feet, on the mat. Her hands were about my ankle. "I would kneel to you," she said.

"You do not have permission even to rise to your knees," I reminded her. She groaned.

"Paga! Paga!" called a fellow, with a large bota of paga slung over his shoulder.

"I belly for you!" said the girl, her head down, over my foot.

She held still to my ankle, her small hands about it. Her hair was about my foot. I felt her hot lips press again and again to my foot. She looked up. "Buy me," she begged. "Buy me!" the marks of the rush mat were on her back. She was a blonde, and short, voluptuously curvaceous. She drew her legs up then, and lay curled on her side, looking up at me, her hands still on my ankle. "Buy me," she begged.