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meaningfulness, as profound as that sense might be, and as comprehensible as such a sense would be, given the circumstances, but, rather, startling me, and frightening me, one of fittingness, of propriety, of rightfulness!
    Could it be that I, despite my antecedents and background, my upbringing, education, and indoctrination, was a slave?
    Since puberty I had suspected that some women were slaves. Were not the blossoming subtleties of my body, and those of others, such that they had been carved out over countless generations by the lusts of men? Were we not delightful prizes, goods, like fruit and animals, to be seized and exploited? Had we not been selected to be delights to possessors? Had we not been selected to be roped and snared? Had we not been, in our way, bred for the auction block?
    Yes, I thought, there must be rightful slaves, women who cannot be whole, cannot be fulfilled, who will never know true happiness except at the feet of men, owned, and mastered.
    Could I be one such?
    Never, never!
    Surely not, surely not!
    It went against everything I had been told, everything I had been taught.
    Could it be that what I had been told was false, that what I had been taught was untrue?
    Who was I?
    What was I?
    I sensed Nora walking about me, and was confident she had in her possession her switch.
    In a moment I heard a pan placed on the floor near me.
    I looked up, from all fours.
    I felt the tip of her switch beneath my chin, and, responsive to its pressure, I lifted my head, and then, on all fours, my head up, guided by the switch, by its gentle pressure, first on one side of my face and then the other, I was moved about, faced to the left, and then to the right, and then, again, ahead, being exhibited to those at the low tables, the men cross-legged, the women kneeling, some guests lounging, bemused, on an elbow.
    “She is a pretty thing, is she not?” said Nora.
    There was a generous assent to this, particularly from the young men.
    Our sorority was quite particular about such things. No one was accepted as a pledge, let alone initiated, who did not meet certain standards.
    Our house was envied on campus, and, by some, held in contempt. Sometimes it was referred to as “the house of meaningless beauty,” sometimes as “the harem,” sometimes as “the slave market,” which, I supposed, was a reference to a girl’s judiciously selling herself, so to speak, to the highest bidder. One fellow had referred to it, jokingly, as “the pleasure garden.” I had gathered, then, that I might not be the only one about who might be familiar with certain forms of forbidden literature. But the expression, of course, is familiar, and well-known. I did not inquire into the matter, for I would have been frightened to meet a male who might be familiar with such things. I wondered, though, what it might be like to be within the walls of such a place, waiting for the bell, sounding my particular notes, that I must hasten to the room of preparation, to be prepared for the slave ring of my master.
    “I think she looks nice in a collar, don’t you?” asked Nora. “I think she belongs in one, don’t you?”
    I could not remove it. It was locked on me.
    I saw Mrs. Rawlinson, in the background. She was smiling. I recalled that I was being punished, well punished.
    I suspected that the sight of a woman in a collar was stimulating to men. I wondered if they knew that being in a collar had a similar effect on its occupant.
    I had little doubt that orgasms were easily obtained from an obedient, yielding, helpless slave.
    What choice had she?
    None!
    But did the men know how eagerly the slave sought the embrace of her master’s arms? One supposes so. Surely they must know the need, the passion, of the slave. How helpless is a woman once her slave fires have been ignited. Do the masters truly not understand the slave’s uneasiness, her whimpering, her sidelong glances, the bondage knot in her hair, her kneeling before him, the