I then bent her leg, that I might, as I wished, display for my pleasure, she willing or not, the marvelous curves of her calf.
She tried to pull her leg away, but she could not. It would move only as I pleased.
"Please, Tarl," she said.
"You are going to be mine," I said.
"Please," she said, "let me go." My grip on her ankle was not cruel but in all her womanness she knew herself held.
"Please," she said again, "let me go."
I smiled to myself. "Be silent, Slave," said I.
Elizabeth Cardwell gasped.
I smiled.
"So you are stronger than I," she scoffed. "It means nothing!"
I then began to kiss her foot, and the inside of her ankle, beneath the bone, and she trembled momentarily.
"Let me go!" she cried.
But I only kissed her, holding her, my lips moving to the back of her leg, low where it joins the foot, where an ankle ring would be locked.
"A true man," she cried out suddenly, "would no behave so! No! A true man is gentle, kind, tender, respectful at all times, sweet and solicitous! That is a true man!"
I smiled at her defenses, so classical, so typical of the modern, unhappy, civilized female, desperately frightened of being truly a woman in a man's arms, trying to decide and determine manhood not by the nature of man and his desire, and her nature as the object of that desire, but by her own fears, trying to make man what she could find acceptable, trying to remake him in her own image.
"You are a female," I said casually. "I do not accept your definition of man."
She made an angry noise.
"Argue," I suggested, "explain-speak names."
She moaned.
"It is strange," I said, "that when the full blood of a man is upon him, and he sees his female, and will have her, that it should be then that he is not a true man."
She cried out in misery.
Then, as I had expected, she suddenly wept, and doubtless with great sincerity. I supposed at this time many men of Earth, properly conditioned, would have been shaken, and would have fallen promptly to this keen weapon, shamed, retreating stricken with guilt, with misgivings, as the female wished. But, smiling to myself, I knew that on this night her weeping, the little vixen, would gain her no respite.
I smiled at her.
She looked at me, horrified, frightened, tears in her eyes.
"You are a pretty little slave," I said.
She struggled furiously, but could not escape.
When her struggles had subsided I began, half biting, half kissing, to move up her calf to the delights of the sensitive areas behind her knees.
"Please!" she wept.
"Be quiet, pretty little Slave Girl," I mumbled.
Then, kissing, but letting her feel the teeth which could, if I chose, tear at her flesh, I moved to the interior of her thigh. Slowly, with my mouth, by inches, I began to claim her.
"Please," she said.
"What is wrong?" I asked.
"I find I want to yield to you," she whispered.
"Do not be frightened," I told her.
"No," she said. "You do not understand."
I was puzzled.
"I want to yield to you," she whispered, "-as a slave girl!"
"You will yield to me," I told her, "as a slave girl to her Master."
"No!" she cried. "No! No!"
I continued to kiss her, to touch her.
"Please stop," she wept.
"Why?" I asked.
"You are making me a slave," she whispered.
"I will not stop," I told her.
"Please," she wept. "Please!"
"Perhaps," I said to her, "the Goreans were right?"
"No!" she cried. "No!"
"Perhaps that is what you desire," I said, "to yield with the utterness of a female slave."
"Never!" she cried, weeping in fury. "Leave me!"
"Not until you have become a slave," I told her.
