“Wake up, Allison,” said Master Desmond.

“Wake up, Allison,” said Master Desmond.
“I am not asleep,” I said, acidly, rising to my knees.
I had resolved never to speak to him again, unless, of course, commanded to do so. I was not eager to sustain the attentions of a displeased free person. They tend to be quick with instruments of correction, usually of braided leather.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
“I do not like her tone of voice,” said Lykos.
“Beat her.”
“Please, no, Master!” I said, quickly, frightened.

“Please do not whip me,” I said.
“Is there something wrong?” asked he in whose charge I was. I looked away.
“Beat her,” said Lykos.
“Please, no!” I said.
“Did she not fail to answer a question?” asked Lykos.
I knew Eve was to report to Lykos. I did not envy her.
“What is wrong?” inquired Master Desmond.
“How do you think I feel,” I asked, “kneeling down, my eyes closed, my head to the floor, my hands behind me, wrists crossed, and then you abandon me.”
“And alcove the girl, Kalligone,” laughed Astrinax.
“You were not abandoned,” said he in whose charge I was.
“Astrinax and Lykos were here.”
“And no one cares how you feel, girl,” said Lykos. Again, I did not envy Eve.
“Have you no interest in my body?” I asked he in whose charge I was.
“Of course your body is of some interest,” said he in whose charge I was.
“For example, your ankles shackle well. Of greater interest is the whole of you, which I think it might be interesting to own.”
“Master,” I said, uncertainly.
“To own the whole of you,” he said, “as a slave is owned.”
“So completely?” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“That goes far beyond law,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“It is in law, as well, that the whole slave is owned.”
“I see,” I said.
“She needs a beating,” said Lykos.
“Quite possibly,” said he in whose keeping I was.
“No!” I said.
“She is a trim little thing,” said Lykos, “and I suspect, with a bit of proper stimulation, she would be writhingly helpless.”
“Surely not!” I said.

To be sure, what did I know of such things? I did sense that if he in whose keeping I was were to touch me, I might cry out helplessly, and, a grateful, shameless slave, press myself piteously to him. But I hated him! He had knelt me, eyes closed, head to the floor, wrists crossed behind me, awaiting their pinioning, and then, when I had been released from this custody, I had seen him thrust a stripped, frightened, thonged Kalligone before him to an alcove! I was quite angry. How I had been treated! I resolved to speak as little to Master Desmond thenceforth as possible.
I would have to be subtle, of course. The lash is unpleasant. Let him then, over the coming days, puzzle over my coolness, my distance, my aloofness. Surely a free woman could make a man so suffer. Why then might not a slave? Let him try to fathom the mystery of my remoteness, my indifference, my troubling, inexplicable detachment. Perhaps he would then, eventually, regret his treatment of me!

Conspirators of Gor, p.358-360

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