Conspirators of Gor by John Norman

beautiful. But then, at that time, I did not understand the general high quality of Gorean kajirae. What gifts they are for men!
    “Do not despair, Allison,” said one of the instructresses. “You will grow more sensuous, more beautiful, in your collar.”
    “In my collar?” I said.
    “Of course,” said one of the instructresses.
    “The masters know what they are doing,” said another.
    I had been permitted the name, Allison, but it had been made clear to me that it was now only a slave name. Somehow this seemed very meaningful to me, that ‘Allison’ was now a slave name.
    As my progress in Gorean continued, and I became more adept in servile skills, being permitted to launder for the guards, and do some simple cooking for their mess, I was granted a tunic. Doubtless it had been worn by others before me, but, to me, it was inordinately precious. Certainly I would do much to keep it.
    One of the first things I had done, when introduced into a training room, one walled with mirrors, was to hurry to the side, and examine my thigh.
    “Vain slave!” laughed an instructress.
    In the mirror one achieves a certain distance from the brand, and sees it rather as another might look upon it. In the mirror I saw a branded slave girl, and, a moment later, with a frisson of recognition, I realized the branded slave girl was I.
    “It is a nice mark, Allison,” said one of the instructresses.
    “Sometimes such things are bungled,” said another.
    “Not by our iron master,” said another. I recalled that it was rumored that she was not unoften in his arms.
    How frightful, I thought, to be badly branded. To be sure, such things seldom occurred. Most marking is done by members of the caste of Metal Workers. Most such shops will have a slaving iron, and it is often at hand, and, if not heated, ready to be thrust into the glowing coals of his forge. The Metal Workers, too, do most of the collar work, measuring, fitting, and such. Some free women are branded and collared within an Ahn of their taking.
    I regarded the mark.
    I recognized that it clearly enhanced my beauty, perhaps a thousandfold. The matter, however, was not purely aesthetic. I did not doubt that much more might have to do with its meaning, what it proclaimed about its bearer!
    I examined the mark. It was small, fine, lovely, and tasteful, and telling in its meaning.
    And it was on me.
    “We have work to do, Allison,” said one of the instructresses.
    “By nightfall,” said another, “you must learn to bathe a man, care for his leather, and kiss his feet.”
    Could there really be more than one way to kiss a man’s feet, I wondered.
    I would learn there was.
    I looked into the mirror.
    The slave, I knew, is the most seductive and desirable of women.
    How can free women compete with her? The free man may find the free woman of interest, for example, in matters of family, position, power, and wealth, but is it not the despised, meaningless slave to whom he turns for pleasure?
    Is it not the slave which his biological heritage demands?
    I sensed the power of the slave.
    Can we not drive men mad with pleasure?
    I considered the brand. What jewel, what ring, what necklace, I wondered, has the free woman, to compete with that?
    But consider the slave.
    Consider her plight.
    She is owned.
    She well understands that she is property. The collar is hers, the whip is his. Is it any wonder she is concerned to be found pleasing?
    Too, if she need not fear the competition of the free woman, she must fear that of other slaves. What if she is found lacking? Will she not be thrown into the market, and another purchased?
    Are not animals such as she cheap?
    “Keep me, Master!” she begs. But perhaps he is tired of her. Perhaps he now wants another. She has failed, failed to be such that he would never think of selling her. So back to the block with her!
    She pleads, but she is slave, and he master.
    I had wondered if it is not the slave which the male’s biological