Preparation

I cut her hair again.

I did so once before, giving Jenny the moniker 'She' when we were in Jort's Ferry more than a year ago. I was more considerate about shape and style during that incident. I had intended for her to be seen then, just not as Jenny of Gor, once slave to a Tarnsman, once slave to a Builder. She would become 'She.' She had dark, short hair, cut in a short, but delightful style. It drew attention to the collar on her throat and the lines of her torso. I was pleased with the work that I had done. Last night, her hair was not cut for any aesthetic reasons. Since the time it was cut last, it had grown past her shoulders into a sleek, healthy mane. I bound up the ends in my fist and cut it, leaving her shoulders, once again, bare. I was not concerned about the aesthetics, neither the shape nor the style. It would be short. The ends discarded. I had a wealth of patience. Now, I am broke.

She is in the bowels of Samsara presently. There are only a handful of cells in that sub-level of the house, amid the pillars of the west foundation. It is scarcely frequented, but the events leading up to this were not unanticipated. The cell was prepared. There is bedding, fresh hay and an old blanket woven from the wool of the bounding hurt. Too, her name has been scratched upon the metal plate bolted to the bars. Past residents, occupants of that cell before her, were scratched off beforehand. Elise will be in charge of the day-to-day maintenance of the girl. Feeding her. Ensuring her hygiene does not become lax. That sort of thing.

"Can you handle this bitch?" I inquired.

"I think so, Master, yes. With a gag and a switch," she answered.

"You will be given a quirt," I informed her.

You can hold a woman's face in your hands and look directly into her eyes, telling her that she is owned, that it is futile to struggle. You can cuff her about the cheek, rattling her teeth as she is thrown to her side from the impact of the blow. You can beat her ass until she is striped from the back of her ankles to the top of her spine. Some, despite their apparent intelligence, do not learn. Some continue to manipulate, strategize and form agendas even when there is no rationality for it. Put them on half rations, assign them to modalities of she-quadrupeds, gag them, bind them, or command them to go about nude. None of it really matters. Some women will simply resist, refuse to be cognizant of their place. They need absolute proof that you own them. They will push, prod and test you. Debate, rationalize and qualify every action, incident and event in their life leading up to the moment of confrontation. 'Make me,' they seem to be saying. What they fail to understand is that you are not on their schedule. They are not entitled to goals or aspirations that are at cross-purposes with your own. They are, in the end, animals. Chattels. Beasts. In a word, slaves. If they continually veer toward obstinance, recalcitrance, and the folly of testing the patience of the one who owns them, the options left to a responsible owner are considerably reduced.