I still lay at the ring.

I did not know if I could move.

The purpose of the beating I am sure, and thereby the intent, the rationale, of its inclusion in my induction here, so to speak, was neither unprecedented nor unusual. It was to help me understand certain things very clearly from the very beginning, that I was subject to the whip, that the men in this place were fully capable of using it on me, and that, if they saw fit, or felt so disposed, would do so. As I have suggested this lesson is neither unprecedented nor unusual. It is often thought to be a valuable lesson for a girl, particularly when she is brought into a new house.

Then I cried out as the jailer pulled me up to all fours by the hair and then, his fist in my hair, hurried me back to the dais.

I was now on all fours, at the foot of the dais. I looked up, though my hair, it muchly before my face now, and my tears, at he in the great chair.

“Do you wish to be beaten again?” he asked.

“No, Master! No, Master!” I said.

“Kneel,” said he.

I obeyed.

“To whom do you belong?” he asked.

“To the state, Master,” I said. To be sure, I did not know what state.

“Are you important?” he asked.

“No, master,” I said.

“Put your head to the floor,” he said. “Clasp your hands behind the back of your neck.”

I wept, and obeyed.

“Tenrik,” said the fellow in the chair.

“Yes, Captain,” said Tenrik.

I cried out.

Dorna laughed.

“Keep your hands clasped behind the back of your neck,” warned Tenrik.

“Yes, Master,” I wept.

My eyes widened.

“Oh!” I said.

“Steady,” said Tenrik. “Clasp your hands.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You feel that?” asked Tenrik.

“Yes, Master!” I said. “Yes, Master!”

I tried to hold myself still.

“Steady,” said Tenrik.

“Yes, Master,” I whimpered.

“Permit her to squirm,” said the man in the chair.

“You may move,” said Tenrik.

I began then, gratefully, to move, almost beside myself. I began to gasp.

“She is a pretty little thing,” said the fellow in the chair.

“Yes,” said one of the men near him.

“Oh!” I said.

“See the Earth slut!” said Dorna.

I began to cry out, softly, helplessly.

“Listen to her!” laughed Dorna.

I tried to stifle my cries.

“See her move,” said a man.

“She cannot help herself,” said a man.

“No,” said another.

“A kajira,” said a man.

“Yes,” said another.

“She is pretty in her collar,” said another.

“They all are,” another reminded him.

“True,” agreed the other.

Dorna made an angry noise.

There was laughter.

But no one paid her much attention.

“Oh!” I said.

“A quite pretty kajira,” said another.

“Yes,” agreed another.

“Oh!” I cried.

“There!” laughed a man. “She is over the brink!”

“She cannot return now,” said another.

“She has gone too far. Tenrik has her now. She is lost!”

“No,” said another. “She is on the verge.”

“Please,” I begged “Please!”

“See?” said the man.

“Yes,” said the other.

“Please, Master!” I begged.

“Captain?” asked Tenrik.

“Very well,” said the man in the chair.

“Ohhh!” I cried.

“Now she is lost,” said one of the men.

“Yes,” said another.

“Ha!” cried Tenrik, a sudden cry, more that of a beast than a man.

I cried out. His hands were on me like iron. I could not have been held more helplessly in the vise of a branding rack. It seemed I was struck again and again.

Then I was left whimpering on the floor before the dais.

“Good,” said Tenrik, appreciatively, now on his feet, his voice husky.

“You find the kajira satisfactory?” asked the man in the chair.

“Even in such a way, in such a time,” said Tenrik. “It may only be conjectured to what lengths she might be brought, given different circumstances, and more time.”

“Do you think she will soon reach the point where she is totally helpless?” asked the man in the chair.

“Yes,” said Tenrik.

I lay before the dais. It was with bitterness, and chagrin, I heard myself so discussed. It was done so publicly, so candidly. Did they not know I was present? Did they not know others were present? I was being discussed as publicly, as candidly, as though I might be an animal. Then I realized again, of course, that I was an animal. I trembled. I already felt that I was, in such modalities, helpless. I was startled to learn I might become even more so. What then could I do? What then would I be? I had learned in the pens that I had an unusual potentiality for vitality, that somehow beneath the encrustations of a subtle, pervasive, insidious conditioning program, one to which I had been mercilessly subjected from childhood on, beneath, and in spite of, all the antibiological values, all the instilled inhibitions, reservations, hesitations and guilts, there lurked a primitive, powerful, natural, healthy responsiveness. This conditioning program, and its effects, now, bit by bit, fragment by shattered fragment, had been broken away from me. In its ruins I had emerged, like a beautiful thing, innocent from the sea. To be sure, I had emerged as something real, not mythical, something which found itself in a very real world, a world in which I learned I was a certain sort of thing, vulnerable, precious and beautiful, and not at all the same as certain other sorts of things which were quite as real as I, and the world, but quite different, as well.

“How worthless she is!” said Dorna.

“Not altogether,” said a man.

There was laughter.

“Look at her body,” said a man.

I knelt, covering my body as I could. I was muchly flushed. I covered my breasts. I did not want them to see the erection of my nipples. I was gentle. They were tender. I kept my head down.

“Position,” said the man in the chair.

I must obey, instantly.

I knelt now with my back straight, back on my heels. My hands, now, were down on my thighs. My knees were spread. I kept my head down.

“Head up,” said the man in the chair.

I lifted my head. There were tears in my eyes.

I knelt, collared, before masters.

“See her,” said a man, considering the condition of my body.

“Yes,” said another.

“She is a new slave?” asked a man.

“She is just out of the pens,” said a fellow.

“We had her on her first retail sale,” said another.

“Her brand is still smoking,” laughed another. It was a saying.

“She was delivered, hooded, only a few days ago,” said another.

“It is hard to believe that she is new to her collar,” said a man.

“It is so certified,” remarked another.

“I have seen her papers,” said a fellow.

I knew I had papers but, of course, I could not read them. Such papers, as I understood it, begin with a girl’s arrival in the pens. That is when her meaningful existence, her slave existence, begins. Nothing before that counts. There is no interest in our origins, save that we are of Earth, nor in our history or background. Such things have no relevance, or importance. They are all behind us. We are no longer free women. What interests them is merely that we are slaves, and our slave properties. A number of things are commonly found on papers, which may be more or less detailed, for example, our brand type, a number of measurements, the sorts of training we have received, and such. There is also, usually, a place for sales endorsements, for when a girl changes hands. There is also a “remarks section.” where miscellaneous information may be recorded.

“And already, so soon,” said another, “she cannot help herself.”

“She is hot,” said another. “Slave hot.”

“Superb,” added another.

I blushed, even more.

“Yes,” said one of the men, considering me, “a hot slave.”

He could they speak of me so?