What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Nine

 

Chapter Nine: The Kajira

 

Several Years Ago:

 

I was fifteen years old, going on sixteen, when my father showed me a kajira for the first time. Julia and I were enjoying a half term break from Ravenscourt school for girls and were trying to relax from the stress of our upcoming exams. 

 

The Manor, as Father always called it, or Chessington Grange, as the postman knew it, was a sprawling 18th-century pile deep in the Wiltshire countryside, with its high ceilings, polished oak floors, and walls lined with portraits of stern ancestors who had no idea what secrets their descendants would keep. The air smelled of beeswax polish and the faint lavender from Mother's sachets, but today there was something else - a subtle, unfamiliar perfume, like exotic spices from one of Father's hidden shipments. Julia was beside me, her arm linked through mine, her usual bubbly energy subdued into wide-eyed curiosity. We had been summoned here after lunch, and just before we were due to play tennis, Father saying it was time for us to ‘understand more about the worlds we serve’. Coming of age, he called it. We'd grown up hearing whispers about Gor, of course - the hidden planet, and the Steel Worlds orbiting the Jupiter belt, where our benevolent patrons, the Kurii suffered in exile, but much of it was abstract, like stories from one of those forbidden books in the library. Until now.

 

Father sat in his favourite wingback chair by the fireplace, the one with the carved lions' heads on the arms, looking every inch the Inner Party elite in his tailored suit, hair impeccably combed, a glass of single malt in his hand. His eyes, sharp and calculating as always, flicked to us with a nod. "Come in, girls. Rebecca, Julia – please sit. There's someone I want you to meet."

 

That's when I saw her. She was kneeling on the tiled floor in front of him, perfectly still, like a statue carved from some forbidden dream. She was naked except for a brief tunic of ivory white silk that barely reached her thighs, clinging to her body in a way that made my cheeks flush. A simple, unadorned steel collar encircled her throat and her hands rested palms down on her knees, head bowed, long straight dark hair cascading down her back like a veil. My breath caught. That hair - it was just like mine. The same length, the same glossy dark brown sheen, falling in smooth waves that I knew from my own mirror. If I knelt like that, dressed in that scrap of silk, with that collar choking my neck... I shuddered, the thought sending a chill down my spine despite the room's warmth. We didn't look alike exactly – she was older by maybe ten years, and her features were softer, more rounded, with high cheekbones and full lips that spoke of some exotic heritage, but the hair made her a distorted mirror, a version of me stripped bare and humbled. It was unsettling, like glimpsing an alternative future version of myself.

 

Julia gasped softly beside me, her grip tightening on my arm. "Is that a...?" she whispered, but Father cut her off with a raised hand.

 

"This is Mira," he said, his voice calm, almost professorial, as if introducing a new piece of art for the collection. "A kajira. I acquired her last week through... discreet channels in London. She's trained to serve, and she'll be resident here now."

 

I sank into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly weak, Julia dropping beside me on the settee. A kajira. We'd heard the term growing up - Father's late-night talks with his Inner Party friends, the coded messages about "acquisitions" from the Steel Worlds. Gor was real – I knew that much, of course - a planet hidden by the Kurii, where men were masters and women... well, some women were like this. Slaves. But seeing one here, in our drawing room, on the tiled floor where I'd played as a child... it made my stomach twist. Mira didn't move, didn't look up. Her breathing was even, controlled, as if she were a machine waiting to be activated. 

 

Father leaned forward, setting his glass down with a soft clink on the mahogany table. "You've both almost come of age, Rebecca especially. When you turn sixteen you will be entitled to carry a switch, so it's time you understood the norms that govern our allies on Gor. The Kurii value these traditions - strength, dominance, submission. Kajirae like Mira are the epitome of that. They are trained from capture or birth to serve men absolutely, without question. Their bodies, their wills, everything about them belongs to their master."

 

Julia leaned in, her eyes bright with a curiosity that bordered on fascination, tempered with naivety. "How are they trained, Mr. Palmer? Do they... choose this?"

 

Father chuckled, a low sound that always made me feel small. "Choice? On Gor, for a kajira, there is no choice. They are branded - see here." He gestured lazily, and Mira lifted her tunic without a word, exposing her left thigh. There it was: a small, elegant mark, like a stylized "K," burned into her skin, healed but raised, and now a permanent scar. I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. Branded like cattle. "The Kef," Father explained. "It means 'kajira.' Once marked, she is slave forever. She can be trained in pleasure pens – learning positions of submission, arts of the furs, obedience under the whip. I won’t go into the details, Julia. Such things are not for your delicate sensibilities. Mira here will be a pleasure slave in time, skilled in ways that would make your cheeks burn, girls."

 

“Mistress.” The girl lowered her eyes as I rose from my seat and approached her. She knelt on the tiles, resting on the back of her heels, with her knees together. The deep, plunging neckline of her brief silken garment did nothing to disguise her cleavage. But it was the smooth, featureless, steel collar around her throat that fascinated me. 

 

“Is that locked?” I asked my father.

 

“Why, yes, Rebecca, it is. The slave cannot remove it. Go ahead, take a look. She won’t bite.”

 

The slave was barefoot, and clearly wasn’t wearing a brassiere. 

 

“She seems scared of me,” I said, looking up.

 

“Why, yes, Rebecca, she probably is scared of you. Kajirae typically fear Free Women.”

 

“Why?” I didn’t understand why she might be afraid of me. My father simply smiled. 

 

“You’ll understand one day, Rebecca.”

 

I reached out my hand and traced my fingers over the steel collar. I found a small lock at the side. “Does it hurt?” I asked. “Wearing that?”

 

“No, Mistress.”

 

“Why did you buy her, father?” I asked.

 

“She’s an investment.”

 

An investment. I walked slowly around the kneeling girl, noticing how straight her back was, how pleasing she tried to be in my presence. 

 

“I don’t understand, father. Where did you buy her? Where are slaves sold?”

 

“There are markets, Rebecca, if one knows where to look. Secret markets. I attended one such market run by a Gorean slaver called Scipio Metellus. Actually, I bought a whole coffle of girls, but I thought it was time to show you one of them. You’re old enough now, so go on, take a good look. Speak to her if you like. She will obey you in all things.”

 

I turned a quizzical gaze at Julia. Like me, she stood close by, and like me she seemed astonished by the sight of this collared girl on her knees.

 

“Where is she from?” asked Julia.

 

“A good question,” said my father, beaming a smile of approval at Julia’s interest. “Mira – answer the Free Woman.”

 

“I lived in Reading, Mistress. Before I was enslaved.” 

 

“And how did that happen?” sked Julia. She seemed more curious than I was.

 

“I’m not sure, Mistress. I suppose I came to the attention of a slaver. He would have watched me for a time, and then when he was certain he wanted me, he took me.”

 

“Where were you when you were taken?”

 

“In my bedroom, mistress. I was asleep. Until I woke, struggling, with a drugged cloth pressed over my mouth and nose.”

 

Julia looked at me as if to say something, but then didn’t. He eyes seemed to sparkle with the same delight I’d seen before when she had ridden a pony for the first time at age fourteen. 

 

“Show me your brand again.” And so she did, turning her left thigh slightly, and raising the split herm of her tunic dress. The brand was small, perfectly healed, and intrusive in her flesh. 

 

“Were you given anaesthetic?” I asked.

 

For a moment the slave seemed surprised by the question. But then she simply answered it. “No, Mistress. I was fully conscious when I was branded.”

 

“Father, that’s so barbaric.” I was actually shocked at the cruelty involved. 

 

“No at all, Rebecca. Remember, that girl kneeling before you is common livestock. The branding of a slave should be a powerful moment that she will never forget. It is the moment her true identity is enforced upon her. She has always been a natural slave, but now she is a slave in a full legal sense. There is no going back for her now.”

 

I looked down at her again. Her hair was so very like mine. 

 

“How much?” asked Julia. She was addressing my father.

 

“Well, I’m not sure I should discuss the purchase price,” said my father with an amused chuckle. “You don’t work for the Inland Revenue, do you, Julia?” He had always liked Julia. At times I think he wished she had been a second daughter and part of our family. 

 

“Oh please, Mr Palmer, Mister Palmer, you can tell me. Pretty please.” Julia smiled in that enticing way she was very good at. Men often went along with her wishes when she acted like that. 

 

“She wasn’t cheap, I’ll tell you that much.”

 

“Did she cost more than a pony?” I asked. My father immediately sensed the trap. 

 

“We don’t have a stable, Rebecca. Now, we’ve been through this, haven’t we?”

 

“And where do you keep this slave, then?” I asked, pouting. “As we don’t have a stable for a pony.”

 

“Well, there are options. We have a basement, and…”

 

“Please, Mister Palmer. We need to know what slaves cost,” said Julia. “What’s the point of showing her to us, if you don’t tell us anything about the practicalities of slave ownership?”

 

Again, my father seemed impressed by Julia’s keen interest.

 

“Forty thousand pounds. Plus commission. But she’s an investment. With the right training…”

 

“Sexual training?” said Julia, but somehow the question seemed innocent coming from her.

 

“Well, ahem… well…” father looked uncomfortable now. We were only fifteen after all. I must have looked startled. Obviously I knew that some men kept sexual slaves, but what would mother think? Surely father wasn’t planning to… I looked at Mira again, but this time with anger, imagining her as some plaything in my father’s bed. The slave saw the look on my face and shrank back in fear. Father had bought her. She would live here, in our house and be… intimate with him? The image flashed unbidden - Mira in my parents’ bed, that hair spilling across his pillows. My stomach churned. What about Mother? She was away in London, "handling Party business," but how would she feel? Betrayed? Indifferent? The Inner Party had its secrets, its indulgences, but this felt too close, too real. I glanced at Julia, expecting her to share my discomfort, but she was leaning forward, eyes alight, bombarding Father with questions:

 

"So, do they all have brands? What about collars - hers looks so... permanent. And the training - do they learn dances? Positions? How do they know what to do?"

 

Father smiled indulgently, answering each one. "Yes, all kajirae are branded—it's law on Gor. Collars vary. Training is intensive - pleasure pens in the great cities like Ar teach them everything: from the slave orgasm, to tantric breaths that prolong a master's ecstasy. They learn to anticipate desires, to serve without word, to find joy in submission."

 

Julia nodded eagerly, her questions flowing like water. "And do they feel... happy? Or is it all force?" I stared at her, surprised by her intensity. She seemed unusually interested, almost hungry for details, her cheeks flushed in the lamplight.

 

I sat frozen on the settee, my hands clenched so tightly in my lap that my nails left half-moons in my palms. Julia was leaning forward again, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, eyes wide and glittering like she was watching the most fascinating documentary of her life. Father had refilled his whisky glass and now held it loosely, swirling the amber liquid while he looked at us both with that calm, almost amused patience he always had when explaining something he considered both obvious and profound.

Mira had been repositioned slightly, still kneeling, but now facing us more directly, the white silk tunic hiked just high enough to keep the Kef brand visible on her left thigh. The mark was small, elegant, almost artistic in its cursive sweep, but the raised, glossy scar tissue made it impossible to pretend it was anything other than what it was: a burn that had healed into ownership.

 

Father took a slow sip, then set the glass down with a soft clink.

 

“You asked about the brand earlier, Julia,” he said, voice measured, professorial. “Would you like to understand the process? The actual moment it happens?”

 

Julia nodded instantly—too quickly. “Yes, please, Mr Palmer.”

 

I wanted to sink into the cushions and disappear. Instead I stayed perfectly still, barely breathing.

 

Father gestured toward Mira without looking at her. “The branding of a kajira is not done in haste or anger. It is deliberate. Ceremonial. Final. The girl is brought, already stripped, already collared if the collar came first, to a small, private room. No windows. Low light. Only the brazier for illumination. Two handlers secure her to the branding rack.”

 

He paused, letting the words settle as he gazed at Julia, gauging her reactions.

 

“The rack is simple but effective. Sturdy wood, padded where it presses against her back. She is laid on her back, legs spread wide, ankles and thighs strapped down so the left leg is held rigid and her thigh fully exposed. Wrists are cuffed above her head. She cannot move. Not even a tremor is permitted to spoil the mark.”

 

Julia’s lips parted slightly. Her breathing had grown shallower.

 

“The iron itself,” Father continued, “is small, about an inch and a half high, half an inch wide. Pure steel, shaped in the graceful cursive Kef: a vertical stem with two upward-curling fronds at the base, like petals or a lyre. It is placed in the brazier until it glows white-hot. Not red. White. Anything less and the burn is sloppy; too long and it chars the flesh unnecessarily.”

 

He looked at Mira for the first time since beginning.

 

“The master is almost always present. Sometimes, if he is skilled in such matters, he applies the iron himself, as it can be a deeply personal act between master and slave. He stands between her thighs, close enough to see her face. He tells her to look at him.” Father’s voice dropped slightly, intimate, as though he were speaking only to us.

“He says something like this: ‘This is your last moment as a Free Woman. When the iron is lifted, you are kajira forever. Scream if you must. It is permitted. But know that when it is done, you belong to me in a way no collar alone can achieve.’”

 

I felt my own throat tighten. I could almost hear the words spoken to Mira - perhaps had been spoken to her - calm, certain, final.

 

“Then the iron is pressed firmly to the girl's thigh and held for three slow counts. No hesitation. No counting aloud. Just… three heartbeats. The sound is a sharp hiss - wet, immediate. The smell is unmistakable: burning skin, burning hair. Acrid. Sickening. The pain is total. White. Blinding. She will scream - most do - until her voice breaks. Her body will arch against the restraints, every muscle straining. Tears stream into her hair. She may thrash, but the rack holds her perfectly. The iron is lifted cleanly. No twisting. No dragging.”

 

Julia’s eyes were huge. She was barely blinking.

 

“The wound is immediately swabbed with salve that is cool, stinging, but necessary to prevent infection. Then she is released. Her legs will buckle; she is caught or allowed to slump. The master lowers her to her knees before him. The collar - steel, possibly engraved with his name of ownership - is locked at that moment if it has not been already. A single click. Final.”

 

Father paused, letting the silence stretch. “Then he lifts her chin and says: ‘Speak it.’” He looked at Mira.

 

Mira lifted her head slightly - eyes still downcast - and spoke in a soft, melodic voice that carried no tremor.

 

“I am yours, Master. I am branded kajira.”

 

Father nodded once, as though she had recited a simple fact. “Those are the words. Always. After that, she clings to him, shaking, sobbing, the pain still throbbing like a second heartbeat. But beneath it… something new wakes. Certainty. Belonging. She is no longer the girl she was. She is kajira. Irrevocably.”

 

Julia exhaled shakily. “And… after that? Does it hurt for long?”

 

“A week, perhaps two. The wound is kept clean, salved, lightly bandaged. When it heals, it is slightly raised, glossy, permanent. It never fades. It is never removed. It becomes part of her - visible proof that she is owned. Concealable if she wears a long tunic or robe, yes, but easily exposed for inspection or display.”

 

Julia stared at the brand again, then at me. Her eyes were glassy, pupils wide.

 

“It’s… beautiful,” she whispered. “In a terrible way.”

 

Father smiled at Julia. “Exactly.”

 

I felt sick. I felt hot. I felt something else I refused to name.

 

Julia turned back to Father, voice barely audible. “And… once it’s done… there’s no going back?”

 

“None,” Father said gently. “The brand is the final seal. A collared but unbranded girl is still technically a captive. Once the iron has kissed her thigh, she is kajira forever. There is no legal path back to freedom short of manumission—and that is rare. Very rare.”

 

Julia swallowed again. Her hands were shaking now. “Thank you, Mr. Palmer,” she said softly. “For explaining.”

 

Father inclined his head, amused. “You’re welcome, Julia. Understanding is the first step.”

 

 But my mind raced elsewhere. Mira's hair was so like mine. If I were in her place, kneeling there, tunic barely covering me, waiting for a man's command... the idea troubled me deeply, arousing a conflict I couldn't name. Pity for her, yes, but also an uncomfortable feeling. The thought of her intimacy with my father made bile rise in my throat. Mother would be furious, or heartbroken. Or would she? The Party had its ways; perhaps this was normal. But it felt wrong, invasive, like a crack in the perfect facade of our life.

 

“I’ve spoken to your mother,” said father, somehow sensing my rising objections. “She understands the situation. On Gor men have slaves as well as a Free Companion.”

 

I suddenly hated the slave who knelt on the floor. 

 

“Please  Mistress,” she begged piteously, seeing the change in my expression as I looked down at her. 

 

“Slut,” I said suddenly and without warning. “Filthy little slut!” It was now my father’s turn to look startled. And then he smiled to himself.

 

“Perhaps you now understand why kajirae fear Free Women, Rebecca?”

 

--------------------------------

 

 

“Are you okay?” asked Julia as she followed me across the lawn towards the sanctuary and respite offered by the Sumer House.

 

“I don’t want that slut in the house!” I said as I stomped across the grass in my clean white tennis shoes. I didn’t care if I got grass stains on them. Father would just have to buy me another pair. “It’s not fair to my mother!”

 

Julia caught up with me and took hold of my hand to slow my pace.

 

“Men own slaves, Becca. It’s just the way the world works. Remember what Mrs Carrington told us: men are lustful beasts and they have uncontrollable desires. It’s better that they have slaves that can satisfy those desires.”

 

“Your father hasn’t bought a slave!” 

 

“Well, not yet. I’m sure he’s used many slaves, though, when he’s away at the weekend with other Inner Party members. I’d be naive to think otherwise.”

 

“My mother has to put up with this! That slut will be in her bed!”

 

“Probably not. I don’t think your father would allow a slave to use your mother’s bed. He’ll put her to use somewhere else.”

 

“I hate her! I hate her! I can’t wait until I’m sixteen and I’ll be permitted to carry a switch!”

 

“That’s the spirit,” laughed Julia. She seemed excited at the thought. The daughters of Inner Party members would be entitled to carry a switch on their sixteenth birthdays. This was more symbolic than anything else if the household in question didn’t own slaves. But it was a sign of our growing maturity. 

 

“And she has hair like mine!”

 

“Slave hair,” mocked Julia. “Kajira hair.”

 

“Oooh, you’re so going to be punched!” I turned and made a play punch at Julia, but she danced quickly out oof the way, still mocking me. 

 

“You have such lovely slave hair, Becca! Pretty kajira!”

 

“Father is going to have to do something about that slut’s hair! Cut it short or something! I’m not going to have her parading about the house with hair that looks like mine! I won’t stand for it! Its humiliating!”

 

“Her hair is loose, Becca. Yours is tied back.”

 

“But that’s the only difference! What was father thinking! You wouldn’t find it so funny if the slut had blonde hair like yours.”

 

“My hair isn’t slave hair,” teased Julia. “I’m a Free Woman!”

 

Sensing my anger, Marcus, the family dog, came bounding own the lawn barking at us. He ran straight up to me and lifted himself up on his hind legs, placing his front paws up against my breasts as he began barking in support.

 

“Not now, Marcus! Not now!” But I had to fuss him for a few minutes otherwise he wouldn’t calm down. Even then, he insisted on running around my feet, barking up at me.

 

“You know something, if it wasn’t for the fact she has bigger breasts than you, and she’s probably in her early twenties, I think that’s what you’d look like if you wore a slave tunic and a steel collar. More or less. Different shape nose and fuller lips, though. Interesting, don’t you think?”

 

“I’m really going off you, Julia!” Marcus had lunged up at me again with his front paws. I was doing my best not to be knocked over onto the grass.

 

“Did you feel a little excited looking at yourself, kneeling on the floor?”

 

“Stop it!”

 

“Oh come on, you must have at least thought of it?”

 

“No!” I ran into the open summer house and sat quickly down on one of the chairs, fuming.

 

“I’ve obviously got more of a vivid imagination than you,” said Julia as she took the other chair and reached for a bottle of lemonade from a nearby crate. “Just imagine having to wear that scandalous bit of silk, and having a collar about your throat that you couldn’t remove. And to know that you’ll always be branded clearly on your left thigh. Just imagine…”

 

“Give me a lemonade.”

 

Julia passed me a bottle. “They’re not like us, you know. Mrs Carrington was very clear about that. They’ve been bred for the collar over thousands of years. They’re livestock. They can’t help themselves.”

 

“I suppose. But I don’t want her in the house.”

 

Julia sighed. “Well, term begins again in eight days. You won’t see her for a while after that. And who knows, your father might get bored of her.”

 

“As if,” I said in a snarky voice. “Anyway, didn’t you hear? He bought an entire coffle! As an investment! He’ll just choose another one to live here.”

 

“When you turn sixteen you’ll have switch rights over them. And even now she’ll know that. She’ll keep out of your way because she knows you’ll have a switch soon. She won’t want to displease you.”

 

“She has already displeased me just by…. ohhhh… this is so frustrating! My poor, poor mother!”

 

“Men have strong urges,” said Julia. “It wouldn’t be fair on your mother for your father to enact those urges on his companion. You know that, Becca. It’s better that he has a slave that he can satisfy himself with. It’ll be the same for both of us when we have companions. Our men will use slaves to spare us the indignity of sex, after we’ve given them children, of course.”

 

“Julia…” I hesitated with my next question. “Do. you think there’s something wrong with us?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you know… we’ve both… played with ourselves at night… under our bedsheets… in our room at Ravenscourt. We’ve talked about it afterwards. How thrilling it feels. I’m sometimes afraid we’re not supposed to feel that intensity. Not if we’re normal.”

 

“It’s not the same thing,” said Julia, quickly. But I could see she had been troubled by similar thoughts in the past. “Slaves feel slave orgasms. That’s very different from what you or I feel with our own fingers. We can never really understand or comprehend what slaves feel when men put them to use. How could we?”

 

“But it does feel good, Julia. Very, very good.”

 

“Well, yes.” And now she blushed a bit. “But to a slave what we feel would be nothing. Their responses are off the scale compared to what we feel. It’s just not the same. Now let’s have that game of tennis!”

 

But that tiny lingering doubt in the back of my mind just wouldn’t go away. 

 

---------------------------------------------

 

 

I sat on the edge of my bed in the east wing after the tennis match, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the late-afternoon light, the room dim enough that the gilt mirror on the opposite wall reflected only shadows. My hands were folded tightly in my lap, nails digging into my palms, but I barely felt the sting. Downstairs, Mira was still kneeling in the drawing room where Father had left her - kneeling exactly as he had positioned her, head bowed, hands resting palms-down on her thighs, the white silk tunic barely covering the tops of her legs. 

 

Julia had returned to the study and had asked Father a dozen more questions - about the brand, about the training, about whether Mira could be made to come on command in front of guests - and her voice had been bright, eager, almost hungry. I had wanted to drag her out of the room, to tell her to stop sounding so fascinated, but I stayed silent because part of me was listening too. Listening, and hating myself for it.

 

The mirror showed me my own reflection: long, straight black hair falling past my shoulders, just like Mira's. Same glossy sheen, same way it caught the light and lay smooth against my back. If I knelt the way she did - thighs parted, back arched, eyes lowered - people would see the resemblance immediately. Not in the face - hers was softer, more rounded, lips fuller - but in the hair, in the posture I could so easily assume. I had tried it just now, alone in my room, curious what it might feel like. I had removed my dress, so I was just wearing my underwear. I had unbound my hair so it hung loose, and I had knelt on the carpet in front of the mirror, knees together, hands on thighs, chin down. The position felt foreign and intimate at once, like trying on someone else's skin. My reflection had stared back at me - Rebecca Palmer, privileged daughter of the Inner Party, suddenly looking... small. Available. Owned.

 

I hated how natural it looked.

 

I hated even more that some part of me - buried deep, where I refused to look - found the sight of myself beautiful.

 

Mira didn't have to think. That was the thing that kept circling back to me, sharp and relentless. She didn't have to decide what to wear, what to say, whether to smile or frown, whether her opinions mattered. She had no opinions. She had only obedience. When Father spoke, she obeyed. When he touched her, she yielded. If he used her - because he would, I knew he would - her body would respond exactly as trained, every muscle, every breath, every soft cry shaped to please him. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No fear of being "too much" or "not enough." Just perfect, absolute surrender.

 

And she was happy in it. I had seen it in her eyes when Father stroked her hair earlier, a small, involuntary softening, a flicker of gratitude that made my stomach turn over. She was grateful to be touched. Grateful for the collar. Grateful for the brand that marked her as property forever. How could anyone feel that way? How could anyone want to be reduced to a thing of pleasure and service?

 

Yet the question gnawed at me: what would it feel like?

 

I thought of my life - the endless round of etiquette lessons, approved friendships, carefully curated appearances, the constant pressure to be perfect without ever being allowed to be vulnerable. I was free, yes - free to choose my clothes (within limits), free to speak (within limits), free to dream (within limits). But every choice carried weight, every decision a risk of disappointing Father, of failing the Party, of proving myself unworthy of the future they had planned for me. Mira had no such burden. Her only task was to please. If she pleased, she was rewarded - with a soft touch, with approval, with the quiet certainty of being exactly what she was meant to be. If she failed, she was punished, and even that punishment served a purpose: it corrected her, returned her to the path of service. There was no ambiguity, no grey area. Just clear lines, clear consequences, clear belonging.

 

I told myself how horrible it would be. The slut should be ashamed of herself.

 

I hated the slut. 

 

And the hair. That damned hair. Every time I looked at her, I saw myself stripped down to essentials - hair unbound, tunic clinging, collar locked, knees spread wide. The image haunted me. What would it feel like, that steel band around my throat? Cold at first, then warming to my skin, a constant reminder of ownership. What would it feel like to kneel before a man - not my father, never that - but someone else who saw me only as kajira, only as pleasure, only as his? To have no need to speak unless spoken to, no need to decide, no need to pretend. Just to yield. Completely. Irrevocably.

 

I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away. This was wrong. I was Rebecca Palmer. I had tutors, gowns, a future in the Party's inner circles. I was not a slave. I would never be a slave.

 

I dropped my hands and stared at my reflection in the tall mirror. Long dark hair, falling straight and smooth. Just like hers.

 

I looked away. But the image stayed. And so did the feeling of acute shame for even just having these thoughts.