Kitty Collar

Grr’segna clan Polk (Ginger, to the Anglic speakers) sat in the green room, waiting for her turn on the auction block. Not that she could do anything else. Her wrists were secured in binders attached to the chair’s locked restraining belt. Her ankles were shackled above her unshod feet. Over her softly-furred body she wore a light slave-robe, which would be removed for her sale, and a psi-tronic slave collar, which would be removed only in extreme circumstances.

At least the chair had a provision for her tail.

Ginger was the only feline present. The others were seven humans, four green-skinned celtans, and two blue venusians with silver-white hair. All of the women were natives of Iowa, in the sense of having been born on the planet.

Iowa was one of the Steel Worlds, settled by multiple species and ruled by a robotic nobility. Men were commoners on the Steel Worlds, and women were second-class subjects – except on Bismarck, Yamato, and Iowa itself, where they were full chattel slaves.

Among the commoners, species didn’t matter. Ginger’s old master had been a venusian, and while she might hope that her next owner would be a narnow, a feline like herself, it wouldn’t be a disappointment if he wasn’t.

“Ginger clan Polk,” a voice spoke from the empty air. “Number SCU-519-551-856. Please depart by the indicated exit.” A click, and the restraining belt fell away, along with the wrist binders.

“Yes, sir.” Ginger stood, stretched, and started for the hologram-marked doorway. Her ankle-hobbles slowed her progress, giving her imagination time to work. The auctioneer might or might not allow her to comb her mane before making her strip. It would be a snap judgment on his part; a gamble as to whether an unkempt mane would be more or less attractive to the bidders. Whatever his decision, Ginger would mount the block in just a few minutes, nude and bathed in bright lights while the auctioneer praised her features and her skills. A sense of smug ran through her and propped her ears up. An all-natural smug, one that didn’t owe anything to her collar. Not this time.

Not every woman was a natural slave, and even those that were needed an occasional bit of help. Thus the slave collars that every woman wore. A woman could beg her collar for help, and the psycho-electronics concealed within it would feed soothing signals into her brain. Those psycho-circuits could also sense when a woman was being abused, sending an alarm to the robotic liege-lord of her master. Then the ‘bot-Lords would crack down hard. The inorganic nobility of Iowa wanted their organic subjects to be happy, and this was the peculiar method they’d chosen.

Ginger had never been abused. That didn’t mean she was always happy, of course. At times she’d been angry, or frustrated, or sad, or otherwise not-happy, but those had been over things that could happen to anyone, even to free women on other planets. Then there had been her two previous sales. She’d been over-excited and (to be honest) a little frightened for those, and she had welcomed a touch of electronic tranquilization. But this time she didn’t need it, and that made her feel even more smug.

“Your new owner is a human named Eric Crawford,” the attendant said as he locked Ginger in the after-sale cage. “He’ll be along in a few minutes.”

The cage was really a changing booth with bars. Or rather a dressing booth, since Ginger wasn’t wearing anything except her collar. It was too small to pace in, but it did have a shelf-seat and a higher shelf that she could lean on. Or she could try to rattle the bars in a show of frustration. Except that she’d be faking the frustration. Ginger didn’t really mind the after-sale cage; it was traditional, and some traditions were worth keeping.

Here came a human now, carrying a package under his arm. He stood a dozen centimeters taller than Ginger, or perhaps a few more. Short for a human man, he was stoutly-muscled to make up for it, with brown-gold skin and eyes as green as Ginger’s own. But human eyes, not feline. His dress was male-casual and short-sleeved in this warm season, and he wore a master’s control-band on his left wrist.

“I am Eric Crawford. Are you Ginger: Number SCU-519-551-856?” His voice was mock-stern, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes, master.” Ginger offered her best ‘meek and obedient look.’

“Good!” Pretense vanished, and they exchanged grins. Ginger’s ears perked up as Master Eric slid his package through the bars. “Now put these on.”

“Of course, master.”

As she opened the package, Ginger made a mental shrug. She would have guessed her new owner to be a ‘hands-on’ master. But if he wanted to watch her dress, instead of dressing her himself, then she would cheerfully obey.

The first two items in the package were a short skirt and a halter top, both in blue and trimmed with hologlitter. Ginger slipped into them and then considered the restraints: A set of slave-thimbles that would keep her from extending her claws, and a pair of matching wrist-and ankle-cuffs. The slave-thimbles were half-symbolic: As befitted a captive and domesticated narnow woman, Ginger kept her claws short and well-rounded. But… she did have claws.

The wrist- and ankle-cuffs were lined for comfort and connected by chains of old-fashioned steel. They were also set to lock when snapped shut. Ginger gave Master Eric an apologetic look, and he tapped his master-band to unlock the ankle-cuff she had prematurely secured around empty air.

Once the ankle-cuffs were in place, Ginger sat to put on the slave-thimbles. Both sets of restraints were comfortable; Master Eric had not economized. Ginger then fastened her right wrist and, after a moment’s hesitation, reached around to complete the wrist-cuffing behind her back. She looked up to find Master Eric watching with appreciation.

“Very good,” he said as he opened the cage door. “Now I can take you home. Normally I fly myself, but this time I’ve called an air-cab.”

Once they were seated in the air-cab, Master Eric scritched behind Ginger’s ears, while his other hand stroked the fur of her exposed midriff. He was a hands-on master, and watching her dress had been a case of his deliberately holding himself back.

“My personal theory is that humans have a ‘social grooming’ instinct, inherited from our hairy-ape ancestors.” Master Eric said as his fingers ran through Ginger’s mane. “It’s not the same as the narnow version, but it’s nearly as strong. Celtans have a weaker version, and…”

Ginger only half-listened, paying more attention to her new master’s fingers. Those fingers withdrew when the air-cab landed at Master Eric’s home. Her home as well, now, Ginger realized as he carried her inside. He was strong enough to follow that tradition without needing an anti-grav cheat. Ginger purred, obscurely pleased that this was so. As Master Eric set her on the couch, she tugged on her wrist-cuffs to remind herself that she was under security.

Looking around, Ginger noted the mechanical atmosphere of a self-cleaning house, mitigated by the traditional ‘round-corner’ styling of the furniture. An overstuffed chair matched the couch, and a pair of low tables complemented them both. Fixtures for entertainment built into the walls, a carpet of semi-shag, and a polished wooden case of actual, ancient-style books completed the room.

Ginger looked back at her new owner. “I am yours to command, master.”

“Look at me, then,” Master Eric said as he took the chair. “Study me. Memorize what I look like, so that you’ll always be able to recognize me.”

“Yes master!” Ginger’s eyes drank Master Eric in, and her ears came up to focus on him as well. She squirmed a bit in happy anticipation. The other way a slave woman’s collar could give her a pleasure-signal was if her master commanded it.

Ginger watched as her owner’s finger touched his master-band… and nothing happened.

She turned her attention inward. Her collar was there, as it always had been. Her restraints were plenty comfortable, and to the familiarity of their form was added a touch of excitement from their newness. But she hadn’t felt the pleasure-jolt. She wiggled her fingers, capped with slave-thimbles, and frowned narnow-style. After a long moment of hesitation, she said, “Master? Nothing happened. Or at least I didn’t feel anything.”

Master Eric frowned human-style. Not at Ginger, but at his master-band. He stood to give her another scritching caress behind her ears. “Are you comfortable? Do you like this?”

“Yes, master,” Ginger purred. “Yes to both questions.”

“Good.” To Ginger’s disappointment, the ear-caress stopped. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

During Master Eric’s absence, Ginger considered standing and walking around the living room. Well, mincing around, in the short steps imposed by her hobbles. She quickly decided against it; she still had to learn where her new owner drew the line between amusing rebelliousness and the sort that annoyed him. Instead, she lifted her legs, using her bare toes to toy with the ankle-chain.

Master Eric returned within the minute he promised, carrying two notebook-sized boxes. The top box was a gadget that connected to Ginger’s collar with an actual physical cord. He typed into the gadget’s keyboard and frowned at the display.

“Master?” Ginger asked as curiosity overcame her.

“Your collar is working fine,” Master Eric said. “The only issue is that it’s set to the 20th percentile, while your records list you as needing a 25th percentile setting. A 20th percentile brain-buzz is actually quite a bit more subtle, so I’m not surprised that you missed it.”

“That must be it, master,” Ginger said slowly.

“All right.” Master Eric removed the cable and set the gadget aside. “Now let’s get you out of those chains and into something more restrictive.” He opened the second box to reveal a set of felt-fiber straps.

A few minutes work confirmed that those straps really were more restrictive. Ginger giggled and purred as they went on: Around her ankles, around her legs just above her knees, and around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. She still wore the slave-thimbles, but the cuffs and shackles now sat on the low table, beside the gadget and the strap-box.

Master Eric began to massage Ginger’s feet. Unlike her hands, her feet had no claws. Almost all narnow – both male and female – had their feet declawed as kittens so that they could wear shoes and boots like civilized beings. Ginger’s old owner had kept her in high heels. Master Eric, on the other hand, hadn’t included footwear in the clothing he had given her, and Ginger didn’t think this was an oversight.

The foot-massage felt more soothing than exciting. Ginger purred. Then she began to squirm: Tiny little squirms at first, then stronger ones. The straps had a memory-plastic core, under the felt-fiber, and Master Eric’s touch was making her aware of just how restrictive they were.

Ginger heard Master Eric say, “Time to move on.” She felt his hands close on her tail, giving it a touch with a different texture. A stronger, more teasing touch that made her gasp. Then came a long, relaxing caress, and the feel of fingers running through her mane. She was lying belly-down on the couch, and she could see Master Eric’s legs. Human legs. Male legs to go with the male scent she breathed in. She could hear her master’s chuckle and her own purrs. She could smell the growing female of her own scent. Over all, she could feel Master Eric’s hands. Hands on her arms and legs and feet and tail. Fingers running through her mane and scritching her ears. The gentle touch kept her aware of the straps holding her helpless and the slave-thimbles that kept her claws from extending. Her purring grew louder.

“Do you think you’re ready for a cuddle now, Ginger?” Master Eric asked.

“Yes master! Yes master!” Ginger gasped. “Please!” She wanted badly – very badly – to return the affection her owner was bestowing on her.

Master Eric pulled her up and into his lap. The straps kept Ginger from embracing him in return, but she did press against him as best she could.

Ginger spent the next two days studying her new owner.

“I studied you before spending my hard-earned money at the auction,” Master Eric had told her. “So turnabout is fair play.”

“Thank you, master,” Ginger answered. “I’d much rather learn things the easy way rather than the hard way.”

“You’re welcome. And we’re well-matched in that: I’d prefer not to teach you the hard way.” They exchanged grins, and Ginger had started in on her studies.

Sometimes Ginger studied while lying on the couch. Mostly, however, she sat on the cheap new chair Master Eric had bought – one with a cutout for her tail. She read the reports and personal files that he had unlocked for her. She exchanged messages with his previous slave woman: A human named Cynthia Hope. She viewed small-screen vids of his favorite recipes, including one for chove-pods that Ginger couldn’t touch: Modern narnow weren’t as purely carnivorous as their prehistoric ancestors, but they were still very much a meat-and-starch-root people. Fortunately for Ginger, Master Eric was the same way. Mostly. Except for those chove-pods.

Master Eric kept Ginger barefoot and ankle-hobbled; the lack of shoes in the initial clothing-package hadn’t been an oversight. He mostly dispensed with the wrist-binders and slave-thimbles, but they were always there and occasionally put to use. Overall, it was more than enough to keep Ginger aware of her captive status.

Yesterday, Master Eric had stayed at home with Ginger and had set the chain on her hobbles to forty centimeters. Today he was at work and had shortened the chain to only twenty-eight. Ginger found that shortness to be both frustrating and amusing as she entered the kitchen to inventory the staples there. She wanted to make pancakes for Master’s breakfast tomorrow morning. Pancakes with eggs and lots of bacon.

“That was good,” Master Eric said.

“Thank you master,” Ginger said as she ate the last bite of her own pancakes. She had taken only two, with extra bacon and extra maple syrup.

“I can tell that you’ve made these before.” Master Eric nodded at Ginger’s plate.

“Yes, master. Master Auvas – Mr. Masndat I should say now – really liked my pancakes.” Without maple syrup, Ginger didn’t add. Venusians didn’t care for the taste. But the sweetener was popular among the other species on Iowa, and Ginger had missed it.

Master Eric started to stand. “Once you take care of the dishes, I’ll want you to–”

A warbling alarm from Ginger’s collar interrupted him. The alarm repeated three times, followed by the cheerful ‘Started up and all is well’ tune common to all electronics.

“Strike that,” Master Eric said. “Leave the dishes for now and go to the living room couch. I’ll meet you there and we’ll run another diagnostic.” He left the table, moving quickly.

Ginger finished her last two bites of bacon and stopped by the kitchen sink to wash the sticky maple syrup from her hands. Her ankle cuffs hindered her only slightly as she headed for the couch as ordered: Master Eric had given her a generous forty-five centimeters of chain this morning.

As Master Eric connected the gadget box to her collar, Ginger asked, “Do you think it’s broken, master?”

“I’m sure it is,” Master Eric answered. “My only questions are ‘how badly,’ and ‘can I convince Baron Natti.’” He tapped the keyboard. “Hmm, yes. We have corruption in the log file. That should be enough. I hope.” He looked at Ginger. “I’m going to shut things down. Then I’m going to make an appointment. Ninety-nine point nine nine percent of the time these collars fail safe. It’s the remaining fraction of a percent that creates the urban legends. So scream if you feel anything wrong.”

“Yes master.”

Ginger concentrated on her ankle-hobbles as Master Eric typed in more commands. “I should be able to request an appointment from here. Yes. Sent. Now for the shutdown. Shutting down… Complete.”

The ankle hobbles continued to feel interesting. “I don’t feel any changes, master,” Ginger said. Then, “Yes I do. The ankle-cuffs still feel good, master, but the collar… it’s like it isn’t there, any more.” Ginger reached up to touch it.

“I will allow you one touch.” Master Eric caressed Ginger’s ears, taking away the sting from his words. “If I catch you again, your wrists are going into binders. Do I need to do that right now?”

“No master,” Ginger said at once. A moment later she offered her best guileless look. “Maybe yes, master. If it amuses you.”

Master Eric flashed her a grin and gave her another ear-caress. “In that case–” The gadget-box pinged. “Ha! That was quick.” Master Eric said. “We have our appointment.”

They didn’t meet directly with Baron Natti, but rather with Sir U2, a Horatio-class ‘bot who was one of the Baron’s many networked avatars. Ginger wore her blue skirt and halter top, as those were her only clothes, but Master Eric had allowed her a pair of sandals. He had also locked her in a star-chain: Wrists, ankles, and the now-deactivated collar connected to a central ring at the level of her belly-button

Master Eric revealed his own nervousness by his choice of a formal suit for this appointment. But Sir U2, his metallic glitter enhanced by the contrast with the organic woods and fabrics of his office, turned out to be quite understanding.

“Certainly we will replace the collar of your lady property,” Sir U2 said in the deliberately synthetic tones affected by the ‘bot-Lords of the Steel Worlds. “She is Grr’segna clan Polk, Number SCU-519-551-856, permanent nickname ‘Ginger,’ yes?”

“Yes, my lord,” Master Eric said.

“Of course. Alert flags had been raised even before your disablement of the collar, and if you had not contacted us, we would have contacted you. A replacement collar is entirely in order, and will be arriving momentarily.”

“I am greatly obliged, my lord,” Master Eric said.

“Not at all,” Sir U2 answered. “However, you must first oblige me by unlocking the star-chain from you Ginger and directing her to unshod herself. Then you will lock her wrists behind her. This binding will be temporary, but it is important that Ginger both be and feel herself to be under security.”

As Master Eric prepared Ginger, Sir U2 raised a metallic finger in a deliberately dramatic gesture. A drone entered the office. As Ginger watched, it placed a cushion on the carpeted floor and a wooden collar-chest on the desk. Sir U2 gestured again and a pillar rose from the floor, stopping when it reached a height of perhaps two-thirds of a meter.

Following instructions, Ginger knelt on the cushion, resting her chin on the top of the pillar and crossing her ankles behind her. She felt Master Eric lock a set of crossed-ankle binders in place, binders that had a provision for securing her tail as well. Not that she could have done anything with her tail, but now she really couldn’t do anything with it.

Rings slipped easily onto Ginger’s toes, and then she felt the peculiar vibration of a grav-lock. She squirmed as her toes were secured. Master Eric’s hands were in her fur and her mane, and his voice whispered much-appreciated reassurances into her ear. But the bare soles of her bare feet now felt terribly vulnerable. Well, Sir U2 did want her to feel herself under security. And she did. Master Eric could do anything to her, now, and there was very little that she could do to resist. And soon, Ginger sensed, that ‘very little’ would become ‘nothing at all.’

Master Eric freed Ginger’s wrists. Briefly, very briefly, for within moments the binders secured them again: In front of the pillar, out of Ginger’s sight. But she could hear the click as they were attached to an anchor point there. Ginger struggled experimentally, playfully, trying to pull her wrists up and away. She was unsuccessful, of course, and she heard both Master Eric and Sir U2 chuckle.

“A curious catgirl,” Sir U2 commented.

“Curiosity can be becoming, in a slavegirl,” Master Eric said.

“Indeed it can be. Time is pressing, however. Proceed, Mr. Crawford.”

Master Eric sat down on the opposite side of the pillar. Ginger felt, rather than seeing, the set of slave-thimbles he pushed into place, making her just a bit more helpless. She smiled at her owner, and he grinned back, reaching over to give her mane a friendly ruffle.

The drone came forward again to place a metal fixture on top of the pillar, a fixture topped with a rubbery gag-ball. Master Eric frowned at it and made a slight adjustment before the grav-clamp anchored it in place.

“Bite,” Master Eric commanded.

Ginger bit. Her teeth pressed into the tasteless elastic of the gag-ball. Master Eric stood and fastened the straps behind her neck. Now Ginger was completely secured. Completely helpless. She could not pull the gag away from the top of the pillar. Her hands were secured to the pillar’s side. Behind her, her ankles and tail were secured in a second binder, and her toes were grav-locked in the toe rings.

Master Eric bent down to give Ginger’s bare soles a light stroke with the tips of his fingers. It tickled, a little, and made her very aware of her vulnerability. She mewed into the gag, and Master Eric scritched her ears and whispered a reassurance. “This shouldn’t last long.”

Ginger felt a surprising pang of disappointment. She didn’t want this to end too soon. It felt good to be secured and helpless, to be unable to do more than make tiny purring noises. It felt good for Master Eric’s fingers to gently demonstrate his casual ownership of her. Her eyes slitted shut in appreciation of that gentle touch; in appreciation of being helpless and helplessly his.

Then Ginger’s eyes opened wide as her collar fell away. A stab of panic ran through her. Ginger tried to leap away, and couldn’t. Thankfully, she couldn’t. Her wrists were held in place. Her ankles were held in place. The toe-rings kept her bare toes grav-locked. The slave-thimbles on her fingers kept her claws from extending. The gag filled her mouth, holding her head in place at the top of the pillar.

Ginger felt the new collar slip into place. “Here it comes,” Master Eric whispered to her. The collar locked, and Ginger felt the soothing pulse it fed directly into her brain. The pulse faded, but Ginger thought she could still feel a trickle-tickle. Maybe.

“Mrrr?” she asked into her gag.

“No, your new collar is on standby, now,” Master Eric said. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Ginger saw him press his master band, and she felt a new pulse. “Mrrr!” she purred happily.

“Yes,” Master Eric agreed.

Sir U2 said something that Ginger couldn’t make out. The grav-locks released her from the pillar, and the pillar sank back into the floor. Master Eric took her into his arms, her wrists and ankles and tail still locked in the binders. With slave-thimbles on her fingers and a gag-ball filling her mouth, Ginger was helpless and happy. Bound and collared happily ever after.