But I knew in my heart that I had wanted him perhaps a thousand times more than he had wanted me.

He was a man of this world, and the sight of one can wrench out our insides.

We are made for such men.

He moved slightly.

I whimpered, begging.

I sensed whispers of the yielding, tiny whispers, becoming more insistent, Already I was within the throes of the helplessness, that helplessness which precedes the yielding, which heralds its proximity, which warns of its imminence, that helplessness which sometimes seems to hold one fixed in place, where one, as though chained to a wall, knows that there is no escape, which sometimes seems to place one on a brink, bound hand and foot, in the utmost delicacy of balance, at the mercy of so little as the whisper of another's breath.

I bit on the silk.

He moved, slightly.

I whimpered, gratefully, eagerly.

I looked up at him.

No heed did he pay me.

I clutched him.

How could I be brought more closely to the yielding? I wanted it!

My eyes begged it.

I thought I heard voices from the house. I groaned.

Was this some torture to which he was subjecting me? It may as well have been, so helpless I was, so much at his mercy.

To be sure, I was nothing, only a girl in a garden.

I had, of course, in chains, and in ropes, learned what such as he could do to me, how they could bring me again and again, gently, surely, cruelly, as it might amuse them, to such a point, to such a delicate, exact point, to the very threshold of release, to the very edge of ecstasy, to where I was only the cry of a nerve away, begging, and then, if they wished, simply abandon me there, letting me try to cling there, in place, until, protesting, suffering, weeping I would slip back, only after a time, if it might again amuse them, sometimes with so little as a few deft touches, to be forced to begin again the same ascent.

Considering such power held over us by men, it is perhaps clearer now why women such as I strive desperately to be pleasing. Not all instruments of torture are of iron not all implements of discipline are of leather. An a.n.a.logue may be noted, of course, between such torture and the treatment often inflicted upon the males of my old world by women of my old world, in pursuit of their own purposes. But such matters need not concern us here. Rather they lie between the women of my old world and the men, or males, of that world. Here, as you might suppose, such techniques are not at the disposal of women such as I. The prerogatives of such torture, if it is to be inflicted, lie not in our hands but in those of men. We have been vanquished. I would not have it otherwise.

I heard again the sounds of voices, from the house. The rest period must be over!

I looked wildly, frantically, at he in whose arms I was captive.

He looked down upon me.

It was as though I was helpless, chained to the wall, at his mercy. It was as though I were on the ledge, bound hand and foot.

He moved, slightly.

And then suddenly there was a different helplessness, one which seemed for an instant to recognize, and then flee in terror before what could not be stopped.

And then it was as though it stood to the side in awe.

I clutched him!

It was the yielding, and that of one of my kind!

Again and again I wept and sobbed.

No longer did I then, in those moments, care for the danger, or whether I cried Out, or if he cried out, or about the guards, or who might enter the garden! Nothing mattered, nothing was real but the feeling, the sensations, the moment!

I only then became aware of the might of him, too, as though molten, charged and flooding, within me.

I held to him.

He looked down at me.

My surrender, I gather, had been found satisfactory.

I did not want him to let me go, but, too, I was terrified now. We were in the garden!

I tried to pull back, a little bit.

He pulled the wet silk from my mouth. He lifted it a little, to the side, and the folds fell out, and he dropped it to the gra.s.s, beside us.

I was helpless, of course, pinioned. And then, again, he had both his arms about me.

I could not now understand his expression, as he looked down upon me.

"In the house, where you first trained," he said, "did those there speak as I do?"

What had this to do with anything? Did he not understand the danger? I could not move. I was helpless in his arms.

I wanted to flee, and yet, too, I wanted to remain there, held. He had had me, and now was interrogating me. What was his intent regarding me? How much at his mercy I was! Clearly his interest in me was more than a fancy of a moment, a whim in a garden. I was frightened. He had put me to his pleasure almost casually because I was there, a matter of convenience. But his primary interest in me, I was certain, went well beyond the gratification and entertainment, slyly stolen, he might derive from one of a garden's casually encountered, exquisitely figured, frightened, helplessly responsive flowers. I had been put to his pleasure almost as a matter of course. Now that he had done with me, he returned to his questions. Well then was I reminded of my own triviality and meaninglessness.

How helpless we are!

"They spoke the language," I said. Here when one spoke of "the language" it was well understood what language was meant. Of course, those where I was trained spoke "the language." They were not barbarians. It was I who was the barbarian.

"No," he said. "I mean their accents."

"They spoke the language differently," I said.

"Did you recognize their accents?" he asked.

"No," I said.

To be sure, I had heard such accents here and there, after having left the pens, and had heard them even, sometimes, though rarely, outside the wall, but I did not know what accents they might be. Indeed, I had heard a variety of diverse accents on this world.

My fears flooded back, again, upon me. What could be his interest in such matters? "Turn your head from side to side," he said.

I obeyed, held, frightened.

"Your earrings are pretty," he said.

They were tiny, and of gold. They matched the bangles, the armlet the bracelets.

"They contrast very nicely with the darkness of your hair," he said.

I looked up at him, pleadingly.

I did not understand him.

Of course he knew I was a pierced-ear girl, with all that that, on this world, implied. He would have known that before he had ordered me to disrobe.

He must release me!

No he must continue to hold me, if only for a moment!

No, no, he must release me!

We were in the garden!

Did he not realize the danger? "Were your ears pierced when you came to our world," he asked.

"No," I said.

"They were pierced in the pens?" he asked.

"No," I whispered.

There was, at the pens in which I was first trained, I had learned, an additional charge for that, as there would have been for the piercing of the septum, permitting the insertion of a nose ring.

"Where were they pierced?" he asked.

"Not there!" I said.

He looked down at me.

"I do not know what you want," I wept. "I am not special," I protested.

"I am not different from thousands of others."

He drew back a little, and surveyed me. "Do not underestimate yourself," he said. "You would bring a quite good price."

I regarded him, in anguish.

"But, essentially," he said, "what you say is true. You are, in your essentials, in what you are, no different from thousands of others."

"Please let me go!" I begged.

"But that would have been to have been expected," he said.

"Please," I begged. He looked up.

"Please!" I begged, squirming, twisting.

"Ah!" he said, suddenly.

But I had not meant to excite him!

But then again I felt him surgent within me and found myself again, even as I heard approaching voices, put to his purposes.

I then clung again to him, sobbing, helpless. Did he not know the danger? He looked at me, suddenly, fiercely. "Are you Janice?" he asked.

"I am Gail!" I said. "Gail!"

"Have you ever been called Janice?" he asked.

"No!" I said.

"Are you lying?" he said.

"No!" I said.

"Do you know the penalties for one such as you who lies?" he asked.

"Yes!" I moaned.

"But you are not lying?"

"No!" I said.

"Do you know a girl, one of your sort, who is called 'Janice'?"

"No!" I wept. I had been told how I must respond to such questions, if they were asked.

"Have you ever been to the city of Treve?" he asked.

"No! No!" I said. I had been warned of the possibility of such questions. I had been instructed as to how to respond. To be sure, it had not seemed likely to me, nor, I think, to those who had instructed me, that I would ever find myself in a situation in which I might be expected to respond to such inquiries. How could such matters be of interest to anyone? Why should such information be regarded as sensitive, or confidential? These things made no sense to me. I understood nothing of them. Perhaps those who had instructed me were mad. I knew nothing of interest or importance to anyone. I was not important. I was not special. I was no different from thousands of others, save, perhaps, in being such that I might, in certain situations, bring a higher price than certain others.

I looked up at him.

Let him not concern himself with such things!

I was only what I was, nothing more.

But might not that suffice, for the little that it might be worth? I, his, in his arms, seas in the garden. I was confused, frightened at his questions. But, too, I was shaken, with my sensations and myself. I had found myself, one such as I, once again put deliberately, and with perfection, to the pleasure of one such as he.

My station, my condition, was unmistakable. I had been reminded, clearly, in no uncertain terms, of what I was. I lifted my lips timidly to his, gratefully, hoping to be permitted to touch them.