With his left hand he grasped the cloak at my throat, holding me by it. With his right hand, he struck me thrice, first with the palm of his hand, then with the back of the hand, then, again, with the palm of his hand, lashing my head back and forth.

I looked up at him, my face stinging. I tasted blood in my mouth.

“Yes,” said he, angrily, “you would crawl to any man as a slave.”

He then, in fury, tore open the cloak and exposed me, before him.

He regarded me.

“Yes, yes,” said he. “You are a slave, a slave! That is what you are, a slave! It is no wonder that you worthless little things bring a good price on a market block!”

He then thrust me on the floor.

I lay there, afraid to move.

I heard him rummaging about the room. Then I heard the snap of a slave whip. I moaned. I tensed. He came and stood near me.

“Please be kind to me, my master,” I said.

“Barbarian slut,” he said, “Earth-girl slave, Earth-girl thrall!”

He knew then that I was not native to this world. He had understood this, perhaps, from my accent.

Yet I was not sure of this.

Could he have known this independently?

As he had spoken to me I had been at first startled. Then I had grown troubled.

Now that I had been several months on this world I was much more aware of the subtleties of diverse accents within the language of the masters, that language which I must learn, that I might the better obey, that I might the better understand what was required of me. This accent was not that of the local guards, those I had encountered in the house, nor that of the captors, nor that of those of Treve. Indeed, it reminded me in ways of my own early accent in this language, not with respect to my native tongue, which still influenced how I spoke the language, of course, but with respect to that which I had originally absorbed in learning the language, now so long ago. My speech had, however, over the months, been heavily influenced by my time in Treve, and, in the past weeks, doubtless, by that of this city itself.

The whip snapped again, a strict, sharp, loud sound, like the report of a firearm, a sound that seemed to ring, explosively from wall to wall.

I was terrified.

I did not want to feel it on me.

But the blow did not fall on me.

“You crawl to the feet of any man,” he snarled. “Crawl then, slut, to my feet, as well,”

“I am bound, hand and foot!” I wept.

“Crawl!” he commanded.

I could move only a bit at a time, laboriously, painfully, over the stones, toward him.

“You are slow!” he said.

The whip snapped again.

“Forgive me, Master!” I said.

At last I lay at his feet, on my side. I turned my head, that my lips might touch his sandals. But he stepped away from me, angrily.

“You are not yet at my feet, are you?” he asked.

“Forgive me, Master!” I said.

Again I tried, inch by inch, to reach him. But this time he seized my ankles and turned me to my stomach. My ankles were then up, behind me, fastened to my wrists. I saw the coils of the whip lying beside my head, to the left. I heard a knife slip from a sheath, a soft sound. I lay very still. The masters may do as they please. I do not wish to move unexpectedly, suddenly, and risk being cut, by accident. My ankles were held still, my left ankle in the grip of his left hand. A blade of apparently incredible sharpness moved through the bonds, quickly, deftly, on my ankles. They seemed to spring away. I then lay on my belly, facing away from him, my legs freed. The blade was returned to its sheath. I saw his hand pick up, again, the whip.

He stood up, he turned about, he moved back.

He was silent.

I was not unmindful, I assure you, of the command which had been imposed upon me, and had not been rescinded. Too, men such as these, who relate to women in the modality of the master, are not patient.

I was then on my knees before him.

“You crawl quickly to the feet of a man,” he sneered.

I had crawled to him on my knees. My hands were still bound behind my back. I knelt before him, and put my head down, to his feet.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You may beg use,” he said.

“I beg use,” I said.

I was very much aware that my ankles were freed.

“Why do you beg use?” he asked.

“I fear to be whipped,” I said.

“And if you were not afraid of being whipped?” he asked.

“I would still beg use,” I said.

‘Without even knowing who I am?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Slut and slave!” said he, in fury.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are worthless,” he said. “You are unutterably contemptible!”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“I always knew it,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“From the first!” he said, angrily.

“Master?”

“Earth-slut!” he said.

“Yes, master!” I said.

I was startled. Had I not heard this voice before? “Look up!” he commanded.

His eyes, within the mask, were fierce.

The whip, coiled, was thrust roughly before me. Instantly I licked and kissed it.

How long it had been since I had knelt before him! How long it had been since I had kissed that whip!

“I love you, I love you, my master!” I cried.

“You know me, do no not?” he said.

“Yes, Master!” I cried. I dared not lie to my master. I knew him now as well as if his fathers had been bared from the beginning. To be sure, I had never known his name, or his city. I had known little more of him than, in my heart, he was my master. It was he whose whip my lips had been first pressed on this world!

He tore the mask away from his features, casting it aside, looking down at me.

How fierce were his eyes!

That he had worn the mask suggested to me that perhaps it had not been intended that I recognize him. I hoped I had not placed my life in jeopardy by my admission that I was cognizant of his identity. But he must know that. Too, I dared not lie to him. He was my master.

How terrible seemed his anger!

“I love you!” I said.

“Liar!” said he, in rage.

“No, Master!” I protested.

He glared at me.

“You are my master!” I cried. “You have always been my master!”

“Liar! Liar!”

“No, Master!” I wept.

“But one thing you say is true,” he said.

“Master?’ I asked.

“That I am now your master.”

In his voice there seemed terrible menace.

“The slave rejoices!” I said. “She begs to serve!”

“How clever you are,” he said.

“I do not ask that you like me, even a little,” I said. “I only beg, unilaterally, with no hope of the least reciprocity, that you will permit me to be your helpless love slave!”

“It is little wonder, with your cleverness,” he said, “that you learned the language so quickly, that you so quickly and well learned the lessons of the pens.”

“I am well advised,” I said, “to learn the language of my masters as quickly as possible. It is not pleasant to be beaten. And surely I am not to be blamed if the slave in me was a little closer to the surface, a little more eager, a little less repressed than that in some others.”

“You belong in the collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“How well you look on your knees, bound.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“It is where you belong.”

“Yes, Master.”

He looked at me. It was difficult to read his eyes, his visage. He loosened the coils of the whip, but then, to my relief, slowly, wound them back together again.

“Am I to be whipped?” I asked.

He did not respond.

“I did not expect to see master again,” I said.

“Nor I you,” he said, “slave.”

“Is it but coincidence,” I said, “That she who has come into your power is I?”

“Not at all,” he said. “It is only to find you that I have come to this part of the world.”

I looked at him, suddenly, in wonder, and joy.