"Slaves," I said, "are generally quite open, and loving about their bodies. They tend to understand themselves, and their nature, and they love it."

"I am not a slave," she reminded me.

"That is true," I said.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.

"What do you think?" I asked her.

"Will you be kind to me?" she asked.

"Not particularly," I said.

She looked at me, startled. Then I pressed her back, down, on her back, onto the mat.

"I am a virgin," she whispered.

I kissed her.

"You will be kind to me, won't you?" she asked.

"Not particularly," I said.

"This mat is hard," she said. "It is rough," She squirmed a little, moving her back upon it, on its rough fibers.

"It was designed for the instruction of a slave," I said, "not for her comfort." "I am not a slave," she smiled.

"The mat does not know that," I said.

"It is my hope that you know it," she smiled. "Oh!"

"I have forgotten it," I told her.

"Be kind!" she said. "I am not a slave."

"You will be treated as I please," I said, "and exactly so. Now be silent." "I have strange feelings," she whispered. "I feel that I should call you Master."

"Do not do so," I said. "That is only for slaves."

"Yes," she whispered, "a€”Master."

"Very well," I said. "Oh, yes! she cried, softly.

"Never let me go," she wept, clinging to me.

I thrust her back, gently, to the mat, disentangling her from me.

"Let me hold you," she begged.

"Not now," I said. "Keep your arms at your sides."

"In your armsa€”" she said, "in your armsa€”!"

"It is not I," I said. "It could have been any man. It is rather that you were ready."

"I am prepared to be a love slave!" she said.

"Keep your hands at your sides," I said.

Her small hands and arms writhed at her sides. "I want to touch you. I want to hold you!" she said.

"Keep them at your sides," I said.

"Be my love master," she begged.

"You are a free woman," I reminded her.

"Please, please be my love master," she begged.

"Doubtless he somewhere exists," I said. "But I am not he."

She moaned.

"Do not be so overwhelmed," I said. "This is only a simple initiation into the world of the senses."

"Simple?" she asked. "Initiation?"

"Yes," I said.

"I did not know there was anything in all of life like this," she said. "And you are not yet even a slave," I said.

"I want my love master," she moaned.

"Search for him," I whispered. "Perhaps you will find hima€”after a thousand collars."

"Let me hold you," she begged.

"You may do so," I said.

She put her arms about me, pulling me toward her, that I be pressed against her softness.

"Ohh," she said. "You are strong again."

"You are very beautiful," I explained. "You are calm now?" I said.

"Yes," she said, "you have calmed me."

"A woman sometimes finds her first experience, of the sort you had before," I said, "before the last one, that is, one of unusual emotional impact, at least compared to what she has hitherto experienced."

"I understand," she said.

"So then," I said, "now that you are in a calm frame of mind, and are fully rational, and the experience is at some distance, what are your feelings?" I asked.

"They are quite simple," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"I want to be collared. I want to be branded. I want to be a slave."

"I see," I said.

"Do you think a woman can forget such an experience?" she asked. "That she is stupid, that she cannot remember it in the belly of her, that she is incapable of learning from it?"

"No," I said.

"It is what I know I am," she said.

"I see," I said.

"And you knew it before, didn't you?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"I suppose some men are better than others at seeing the slave in a female," she said.

"Perhaps," I said. To be sure, some men are quite remarkable at this. Certain slavers, for example, at a glance, find it easy to assess slave potential. Otherwise, I suppose, it would be very difficult to explain their unusual success in deciding which women, even of women in crowds, and veiled and clad in the robes of concealment, are likely to be the most beautiful and make the best slaves, and those women, of course, are the ones most profitably stalked. It is their business, of course.

"Oh," she said, "you are not calming me now!"

"Oh?" I said.

"No," she said. "You are exciting me! You are doing it to me again! How dare you! I am a free woman! Is this how you want me, as an irresponsible, helpless, whimpering, yelping squirming animal, unable to help herself, leaping and crying out, half mad, beside herself with passion, responding almost as a slave in your arms?"

"Yes," I said.

"Beast!" she said.

"Oh, yes!" she cried. "Yes!" This time it seemed it had taken her hardly any time at all. Her reflexes were clearly honable.

"Shhh," I said. "Someone is passing by, in the passage between the buildings." To be sure, they couldn't see us where we were, unless they had entered this particular side passage and followed it to its termination.

"The shops may be open on the Avenue of Turia by now," I said.

"Yes," she said sweetly, her head on my chest.

We could see the sunlight on the walls high above us. It was now warm between the buildings.

"What time do you think it is?" I asked.

"The eighth or ninth Ahn," she said.

"Probably," I said.

"How will I get home?" she asked. "There will be many people about now? Will you buy me robes and a veil and bring them back here?"

"Do not count on it," I said.

"Do you think the free woman you tied at the slave ring has been freed by now?" she asked.

"Probably," I said. "I do not know."

"Do you remember the second time I kissed you," she asked, "the time when you told me that if a slave had not kissed better than that she would have been whipped?"

"Yes," I said. That was the time she had tried to strike me, and I had not permitted it, but instead had punished her. I had shortly thereafter carried her to the slave mat.

"Is that true?" she asked.

"It depends on many things," I said, "such as the master, the familiarity of the girl with her collar, for example, has she yet learned how to kiss, and the mood, the situation, and so on." "But some slaves," she said, "might have been whipped for not kissing better than that?" she said.

"Certainly," I said.

"How do I kiss now?" She asked, kissing me.

"Much better," I said.

"As good as a slave?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Oh?" she asked.

"No," I said. "You will not kiss as well as a slave, until you have become a slave, and then, probably, only after you have learned your collar for a few months, and perhaps even have had some training. Also, there is a whole indefinable modality to the kisses of slaves, that has to do with bondage and that they are literally the properties of the master. It is an entirely different sort of kissing from that of a free woman."

"I understand," she said. "Perhaps one day I will be a slave. And then I will kiss like a slave."

"Perhaps," I said.

"I know that I am a slave," she said. "I have learned it here, on this mat, in this place."

I said nothing.

"So what should I do?" she asked.

"What do you man?" I asked.

"What does a free woman do," she asked, "when she learns she is a slave?" "You are free," I said. "The decision is yours. But beware of certain decisions, for if you make them, you would then no longer be free. Your decisions then might rather be concerned with such things as how to best please your master, within certain latitudes which he might permit you."

She was quiet, her head on my chest.

"The self-enslavement decision is an interesting one," I said, "for it is a decision which is freely made, being made by a free individual, but, once made, it is irrevocable, for the individual is then no longer free, but only a property."