Kajira of Gor coc-19

by John Norman

  “Do you think I cannot see what you are?” she asked. “Do you think it is unclear to anyone who looks upon you? Do you think I am stupid? Anyone could see that you are a slave! It is obvious!” Then she lashed me across the face and mouth with her gloves, several times. It did not really hurt so much, but it did sting, and, of course, it was terribly humiliating. I began to cry. “And you did not kneel!” she cried. She struck me twice again. I hung in the shackles, sobbing. I was most afraid that she might call the Archon’s man. He might, if requested, I feared, use a whip on me. She then, angrily, withdrew from the platform and resumed her journey down the street.

  “What was that all about?” asked the Archon’s man.

  “I spoke to her, Master,” I said. I called him “Master” for he, like the young men who had caught me at the edge of the Viktel Aria, had made it clear to me that I was to address, whether I was free or not, with a slave’s respect.

  “But she is a free woman,” he observed.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. With a rustle of chain I again got my feet under me.

  “It was foolish of you,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I sobbed.

  “Your face is red,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  Later in the afternoon, after I had been fed and watered, standing in the shackles, I decided to once again essay the decipherment of the legend on the post. This time, having earned my lesson, I would not trouble a free woman in the matter. I knew that I was pretty and I had little doubt, even though I was tired and my arms were now sore, that, chained as I was, displayed as I was, my attractions might be of interest to passing males. Men of Earth, I knew, would often strive to please even a scantily clad woman, for example, one wearing a sun suit or a bathing suit. I, for example, had had this experience on summer weekends and at the beach.

  “Sir, Master!” I called to a man. He seemed a friendly enough looking fellow.

  He approached me, climbing to the platform. “Yes?” he inquired.

  “I am a free woman,” I said, “but nonetheless I will call you ‘Master’.”

  “I hoped that this would flatter him.

  “Whatever you wish,” he said.

  “And you are surely a very handsome Master,” I said. He was, as a matter of fact, very handsome. On the other hand, I was out to get my way. Men, incidentally, will believe anything they are told.

  “Why, thank you,” he said.

  “There is a legend over my head,” I said.

  “Yes, there is,” he agreed.

  “Can you read it?” I wheedled.

  “Why, yes,” he said. “I can.”

  “Please, please,” I wheedled. “Please read it for little Lita.” I referred to myself by this name. It was the name I had given to the two young men on the road, and also, if only to be consistent, to the Archon’s man. On the other hand I did not mind the name. I rather liked it. It excited me.

  “It says,” said the man, “‘Whip me, if I speak without permission.’”

  I turned white.

  He smiled.

  “It does not really say that, does it?” I asked, frightened.

  “No,” he said.

  “Please tell me what it says,” I said.

  “We shall assume, for purposes of this discussion, that you are a slave,” he said.

  “Very well, Master,” I said, puzzled.

  “Do you believe that slaves should serve free persons,” he asked, “or that free persons should serve slaves.”

  “I believe it is the slaves who should serve the free persons,” I said, hastily, “not the other way around.” I certainly did not want to have the flesh whipped off my bones.

  “And if I read that legend for you,” he said, “I would be serving you, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And you would not want that, would you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then,” he said, “you do not want me to read the legend for you.”

  “No, Master,” I said, miserably.

  “Very well,” He said and, chuckling, left.

  I shook the chains in frustration. He seemed to be a very kind man. If I had not tried to be so clever, if I had not tried to trick him, he probably would have read the legend for me.

  I watched him walking off.

  He had not seemed eager, even desperate to please me, in spite of the fact that I was naked. I then realized, with a strange feeling deep within me, something akin to fear and excitement, that on this world it was the naked women, or scantily clad women, women who would be slaves, or would be presumed to be slaves, women such as I, who must serve and please the men. This was not Earth; it was Gor.

  “Oh, Lady!” I called. “Please, Lady!”

  The slave, alone, in the brief, sleeveless red tunic, with sides split to the waist, turned, to see whom I might be addressing.

  “Lady!” I called to her.

  “I am not a lady,” she said. “I am a slave.”

  “Please,” I said. “Can you read the legend posted over my head?”

  “Cannot you read?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. I looked at her. She was nicely curved, with brown hair and eyes. She wore a close-fitting steel collar.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I cannot either. I was never taught.” She then sped on her way.

  “What is going on?” asked the Archon’s man.

  “Nothing, Master,” I said.

  “If you delay slaves in their errands, and they are late,” he said, “they might be whipped.”

  “I am sorry, Master,” I said.

  “Why did you delay her?” he asked.

  “I wanted her to read the sign posted over my head,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you ask me?” he asked.

  “I was afraid,” I said. “You did not read it to me. I thought then perhaps you did not want me to know what it said.”

  “And, without determining whether that was true or not,” he said, “you nonetheless sought, perhaps thereby circumventing my will, to determine its contents?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master!”

  “You should be whipped,” he said. He unclipped the coiled slave whip from his belt.

  “I am a free woman!” I told him.

  “You have a slave’s body,” he said.

  “Even so, I am a free woman,” I said.

  “Perhaps you are a free woman,” he said. “It is hard to imagine a slave being so stupid.”

  “Do not whip me,” I begged.

  I saw him recoiling the blades of the whip. I viewed this action with unspeakable relief.

  He then thrust it before my face. “Lick it, and kiss it,” he said.

  “Please,” I begged.

  “You will do so now,” he said, “or after you have been beaten with it.”

  I then reached my head forward and, delicately, licked and kissed the whip. He then replaced the stern, supple disciplinary device on his belt.

  “Master,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why did you not tell me what the sign said?” I asked.

  “I showed it to you,” he said. “It did not occur to me that you could not read.”

  “But I cannot,” I said. “Please tell me what it says!”

  “Not now, pretty Lita,” he said. “Not now.” He then walked away. I stomped with my right foot. I shook the chains, angrily. Tears came to my eyes. I was being frustrated, as though I might be a slave.

  The afternoon wore on.

  My body and arms began to ache miserably.

  From time to time one man or another in the crowd would pause to gaze on me. I usually looked away from them but, even so, it seemed I could sometimes sense their eyes on me, roving me with impunity. I chained as I was, was exposed to their gaze as any stripped slave.

  Sometimes they would come up to the platform, to examine me more closely. The Archon’s man, however, would not per
mit them to touch my body or test my slave reflexes. Similarly, I was not required to respond to certain sorts of commands, for example, to make “slave lips,” pursing my lips for kissing, or to writhe slowly before my viewers. It was still regarded as a theoretical possibility, I gathered, that I might be free. “She is not for sale,” the Archon’s man told one fellow. “Too bad,” had said the fellow. “Not now,” had added the Archon’s man. “Perhaps later,” said the fellow. “Perhaps,” had agreed the Archon’s man.

  It was late in the afternoon when, suddenly, my body stiffened in terror. I put my head down, swiftly, trembling. I wanted to hide but, Of course, I was held perfectly where I was, exposed, helpless in the shackles.

  He must not have seen me! He must not have seen me!

  I turned away a little, in the chains, as though merely to change my position.

  My heart was pounding in terror.

  He, of all people!

  Surely he had not noticed me. Surely he had not seen me. He must not have seen me!

  “Let the churl be stripped,” I had said, imperiously, “and a sign be put about his neck, proclaiming him a fraud. Then let him be marched naked, before the spears of guards, through the great gate of Corcyrus, not to be permitted to return before the second passage hand!”

  But I could not run now. I, helpless, naked, chained in place, was being publicly displayed.

  A Corcyran merchant had brought charges against him, a matter having to do with a bowl, purportedly silver, but only plated, and one bearing a forged mark, misrepresenting it as the work of the silversmiths of Ar.

  Surely he must now have passed by.

  Further inquiries had been made and it was found that he had among his goods a set of false weights.

  He must now have gone. He must!

  Too, it had been discovered that he had sold slave hair to the public, representing it as that of free women.

  I was safe. He must have gone by now.

  How pleased I was to have sentenced him to his humiliation, pronouncing the judgment of the Tatrix against him! How pleased I was to have seen him dragged by guards from my august presence.

  How splendid, too, to have men serving one, obeying one, in this fashion! He had been an itinerant peddler, an obsequious, cringing, ugly, small, vile man with a twisted body. Surely he was one of the most detestable human beings I had ever seen.

  I stiffened, again, in terror. Someone had joined me on the cement platform. I kept my head down. Then, as had happened two or three times before, I felt a thumb under my chin. My head was pushed up.

  I found myself looking into the eyes of the peddler, Speusippus of Turia.

  Chapter 18 - THE LEASH

  Speusippus stepped back and regarded me. I kept my head up, looking at him.

  He glanced up at the sign over my head. He could doubtless read it.

  He then looked me over possessively, and slowly and with pleasure. He began to rub his hands together.

  “Sir?” I asked.

  “Sir!” he laughed. “It is now ‘Sir’ is it? ‘Sir’ for Speusippus. Excellent!”

  I moved in the shackles. I felt so helpless!

  “It seems our fortunes have changed somewhat,” he said. “Excellent.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “How did you get here, so far away?” he asked. “How did this delightful shift in your circumstances come about?”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” I said. “I do not know you. I have never seen you before in my life.”

  “Now it is you who are naked and helpless,” he said. “Splendid!”

  “I think you have me confused with someone else, Sir,” I said. “I have never seen you before in my life.”

  I then shrank back. He stood quite close to me. I felt his breath on my cheek.

  “I am not stupid,” he whispered. “do not play games with me.”

  “Sir?” I asked.

  “I know who you are,” he said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Sheila,” said he, whispering in my ear. “You are Sheila, Tatrix of Corcyrus!”

  “No,” I whispered. “No!”

  “The office of the Archon will doubtless be pleased to learn the identity of its lovely prisoner,” he said.

  “They will not believe it,” I said.

  “They will conduct inquiries,” he said, “with rather clear consequences, I think, for yourself.”

  “Do not tell them, I beg you,” I said. “They will take me to Argentum for impalement!”

  He smiled.

  “Please, do not tell them, Speusippus,” I begged.

  “Sir?” he asked.

  “Please, do not tell them, Sir,” I begged.

  “It is pleasant for one such as I to be called ‘Sir’ by the Tatrix of Corcyrus,” he said.

  “Please do not tell them,” I begged, “—Sir!”

  “Who are you supposed to be?” he asked.

  “The Lady Lita, of Lydius,” I said.

  “‘Lita’?” he grinned. “That is a splendid name for you. Excellent.”

  I trembled. That name, especially when not prefixed by Lady, I felt, somehow, did seem to have a certain rightness for me; I wondered if, in some sense, I was a “Lita,” or, say, a “Tuka,” or a “Lana,” other common names for slaves on Gor. Earth-girl names, too, incidentally, are commonly used as slave names on Gor, such as Jean, Joan, Priscilla, Sally, Deborah, Lois, Sandra and Stacy. At any rate the name did make me feel slightly uneasy, and excited, and rather like a slave. This was perhaps a function of its simplicity, loveliness and femininity. I hardly dared speculate what I might feel like if it were actually put upon me and I were then to discover that, by a master’s will, I had become “Lita.” The name was originally given to me, I recalled, by Drusus Rencius, put upon me as a part of my disguise, and for the purposes of my licensing, in the house of Kliomenes. I felt momentarily angry. The beast must have known that it was a common slave name.

  “Where were you caught?” he asked.

  “North of Venna,” I said, “on the Viktel Aria.”

  “Well,” said Speusippus, “I think I will now call the Archon’s man and tell him who you are.”

  “Please, do not, Sir,” I begged.

  “And if I do not,” asked Speusippus, “what will you do?”

  “Anything,” I whispered.

  “Anything?” he asked, smiling.

  “Anything!” I whispered.

  “You may now begin to call me ‘Master,’ ” he said.

  “‘Master’?” I asked, in horror.

  “Yes,” he said. “It will be useful in your disguise.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “You will be a free woman,” he said. “I would have it no other way. But your disguise will be quite thorough.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “It will be delicious,” he said, “having the Tatrix of Corcyrus, a free woman, serve me as though she might be a mere slave, and with the full offices and services of the slave.”

  “Do not so shame me,” I said. “If you must, simply enslave me.”

  “No,” he said. “It is as a free woman that you will so serve me.”

  “Never as a free woman!” I said.

  “Very well,” he said. “I shall now call the Archon’s man.”

  “No,” I said. “No.”

  “Does Lady Sheila accept my terms?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes, what?” he asked.

  “Yes—Master,” I sobbed.

  “I see you have caught her,” Speusippus called to the Archon’s man. “Good work!”

  “Do you know her?” asked the man, coming over to the platform.

  “Yes,” said Speusippus. “She ran away a few days ago.”

  “Who owns her?” asked the Archon’s man.

  “I do,” said Speusippus. “She is mine.”

  “What is her name?” asked the Archon’s man
.

  “Lita,” said Speusippus.

  “It is not improbable that that is her name,” said the Archon’s man. “She was using it.”

  “That was foolish, wasn’t it, Lita?” asked Speusippus.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Where did you lose her?” asked the Archon’s man.

  “North, on the great road,” said Speusippus.

  “That is where she was caught,” said the Archon’s man. “She is apparently yours. Do you have papers on her?”

  “No,” said Speusippus.

  “Do you have friends who can vouch for you, that she is yours?”

  “I am from Turia,” said Speusippus. “I am a stranger in this beautiful city.”

  “Things, then, are not so simple,” said the Archon’s man. “As you can see she is not even collared or branded. She is claiming to be a free woman.”

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “Perhaps I could hold her for ten days,” said the Archon’s man, “and then, if there are no other claimants, turn her over to you.” He looked at me. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “I am not a free woman, Master,” I said. “I am a slave.”

  “There are still problems,” said the Archon’s man. “She will deny that she is your slave.”

  “No, Master,” I said. “I am his.” I almost choked on the words. Too, the words themselves frightened me, terribly. I knew that I was lying, of course, but still they frightened me. How fearful it would be, I thought, to say such words and know that they were true, that one did belong, fully, to a man.

  “Do you admit that you are his slave?” the Archon’s man asked me. “Do you acknowledge that, and freely, and not under torture?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. “I am his slave.”

  “Then you were lying to us before,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He unclipped the whip from his belt.

  “No, no,” smiled Speusippus. “That will not be necessary. I am sure that little Lita has learned her lesson. Haven’t you, Lita?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I twisted in the chains, making sure that the Archon’s man had returned the whip to his belt. He had done so, I noted with relief.