Kajira of Gor coc-19

by John Norman

  I bit on the meat he had dropped into the trunk and I had grasped. I had not been punished. Rather, I had been rewarded.

  I was pleased at how well I had done. I wondered if, as Publius, of the house of Kliomenes in Corcyrus, had thought, I might be a natural slave.

  I had discovered, at least, that I was a slut. I did not know if, beyond that, I might also be a slave.

  I chewed on the meat.

  I was no longer a virgin now. My virginity had been taken from me by Speusippus of Turia. When he had grown angry and would seize me and throw me beneath him, making me helpless, he would then, without further ado, imperiously, with little regard for my feelings, have me. Well then was I, held helpless and penetrated, reminded who held the final power.

  In these assaults on me, of which there had been three, I was firmly and fixedly had. On the other hand, in spite of his clear conquest of me, and my physical and psychological acknowledgement of this fact, I did not feel as much as I had thought I might. Perhaps this was because he had taken too little time with my body. On the other hand, I was excited and aroused, just from serving him. For example, my body had received him swiftly and obediently. Too, I responded emotionally and psychologically, in a rather global sense, to what he had done to me.

  The last time, however, I had been frightened, for that time I had begun to sense, deep within me, terrifying me, something that began to hint at what might be the nature of a slave’s yielding. I now lay in the trunk, in the darkness, helpless, finishing the piece of meat.

  No longer was I a virgin. I had now been opened, as the Goreans might say, for the uses of men. Speusippus of Turia had done it to me.

  I finished the meat. I was uneasy and restless in my small prison. I tried to thrust from my mind the memory of that insinuative, incipient sensation, that rudimentary physiological hint, that primitive, inchoate anticipation of what it might be possible for a woman to feel. I must never permit, I vowed, slave fires to be lit in my belly. I began to anticipate how inutterably piteous and helpless they might make a woman. I rubbed my thighs together. I did know I wanted to have more experiences of the sort I had had tonight.

  Speusippus of Turia was despicable. He was detestable. Why, then, I asked myself, was I hopeful that I had been pleasing to him, why did I find myself, undeniably, wanting to be pleasing to him? He was even going to shear me in the morning. I wondered why he was going to do that. Perhaps it had to do with his vengeance on me. Too, perhaps he was greedy, and was eager for even the little bit of money my hair might bring him. On the other hand, doubtless he did not want me to be recognized. Shearing would presumably help to prevent that. It might be a good idea to be sheared.

  At any rate, the decision was his, not mine. He knew my secret. He knew who I was. He, therefore, could do with me as he pleased.

  Similarly I, though a, free woman, because of this power he held over me, must serve him as a slave. I clenched my fists, angrily, in the trunk.

  I was suddenly almost overcome with the humiliation of what was being done to me. I was not a slave! I was a free woman! Yet I must serve him as a slave! How rich, how glorious, was his vengeance on the Tatrix of Corcyrus. In the morning, he would even shear her like a slut!

  I suddenly cried out with rage and struck at the insides of the trunk.

  Speusippus, awakened, came over to the trunk, and, frightening me, beat on its top with something heavy, perhaps a staff or club.

  “Be silent in there,” he said, “or I will pour two inches of water through the air holes.”

  “Yes, Master!” I cried. “Forgive me, Master!” The sound of the object beating on the trunk had been fearfully magnified inside it. I had been almost overwhelmed by the sound. I had tried to cover my ears with my hands. My ears still hurt.

  I now lay shuddering on the blanket in the bottom of the trunk. How absurd my outburst had been.

  What a fool I was. Did I not know I was in his power? What did I need to convince myself of that, a marked thigh and a band of steel, which I could not remove, locked on my neck?

  I lay there on the blanket. I lifted it, briefly, about my face and nose.

  I inhaled deeply. Yes, there was the smell of other bodies on it, bodies probably as small, and soft and curved as mine. But those bodies, I suspected, had worn brands and had had their necks encircled with collars. Slaves, doubtless, had lain here. Now it was my turn, that of the Tatrix of Corcyrus. I smoothed out the blanket and paid close attention to its texture and the feel of it against my cheek and body. The sweat and odors which I might leave in this cloth, I thought, would probably not differ much from those of my predecessors. I might be free but here, in this confinement, it would do me no good. Here I, the Tatrix of Corcyrus, doubtless to the amusement of Speusippus, would squirm, and sweat and stink no differently from a slave. Indeed, from the point of view of a new occupant, any lingering traces of my sojourn here would doubtless be interpreted as indicating the earlier tenancy of merely another slave, no different from others.

  I felt the blanket lightly with my finger tips.

  It excited me, somehow, that I lay where slaves had lain. I touched my neck. I wondered what it would feel like to feel a collar there, and know that I belonged to someone.

  I remembered serving Speusippus and then, quickly, I tried to force from my mind the memory of that incipient sensation which, in his third having of me, I had started to feel. I twisted in the trunk. I was restless. I moaned.

  I was the Tatrix of Corcyrus!

  And yet I had been worked like a slave, and used like a slave, and had served as a slave!

  I had been degraded and humiliated. I was a free woman. I was not a slave! I was not a slave!

  I remembered the sensation I had begun to feel. I moaned, from somewhere deep within me.

  I touched the inside of the front side of the trunk with my finger tips.

  I had done this on a thought. Sure enough, as I had thought might be the case, I felt there the furrowing of fingernails. I then lay back in the trunk, on my back, my knees up. I had heard of such things. The marks did not seem to be connected with any desperate effort at escape.

  They seemed more like the helpless scratchings of a woman in frustration. One or more women, I suspected, at one or more times in the past, had crouched inside this trunk scratching at its interior wall, perhaps whining to be released, that they might serve the pleasure of Speusippus of Turia. How horrifying to be so much at the mercy of men, I thought.

  I then, in terror, tried to force the memory of that rudimentary sensation, that merest hint of a sensation, from my mind.

  “I am not a slave!” I told myself. “I am not a slave!”

  I lay then again on my side on the blanket. I hoped that Speusippus was not displeased with me. I must try to please him better, I thought.

  Chapter 20 - THE STREAM; THE STONE

  I knelt on a flat rock near the side of a small stream, pounding and rinsing a tunic. This one belonged to Speusippus. There were other girls, too, along the banks of the stream. It was a campsite about twenty pasangs west of the Viktel Aria. There were several wagons back from the stream, including that of Speusippus. Two slave girls, naked, stood downstream, splashing and pouring water on themselves, washing. I rinsed the tunic of Speusippus and took up another, one of several which were thrown there, beside me. He had, as at the previous campsite, volunteered my services as a laundress generally to men who did not have slaves with them. For my services he received small gratuities, such as tarsk bits and swigs of paga. It amused him putting me, the Tatrix of Corcyrus, to work in this fashion. He did not, interestingly enough, similarly make me available for more general services. Had he done so, I would have been obedient and dutiful.

  “Your master is a beast, Lita,” called a girl down the way, picking up her laundry. “You will never be finished.”

  “I will finish,” I laughed, dipping and rinsing another tunic.

  She then went her way.

  I was pleased that we
were no longer traveling south on the Viktel Aria. Last night I had begged Speusippus on my knees not to take me to Ar. He had seen how terrified I was to go to Ar. “I will not take you to Ar,” he said. He had then permitted me to lick and kiss his feet in gratitude.

  This morning we had turned west off the Viktel Aria.

  Five days now I had been in the charge of Speusippus of Turia.

  Interestingly enough, he had not made intimate use of me since the first night in the shack. I had stayed rather close to him, when possible, particularly after my first full day in his power. I sometimes brushed against him, or touched him, seemingly inadvertently. Yesterday I had knelt behind him and licked at the back of his knee, then looked up at him. But he had only walked angrily away.

  “Remember that you are the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and not a slave,” he had later said to me, when I was humbly serving him his supper. “Yes, Master,” I had said, lowering my head, as a slave.

  But surely, except in the modalities of intimacy, except in the forcings from me of helpless yieldings, and such, he had dealt with me as a slave. He had even made me do slave exercises, that my body might be as shapely, firmed and vital as that of a slave. I had been treated as a slave, worked as a slave and even abused as a slave. He cuffed me when it pleased him. Once I had even seen him toying with a whip. I then redoubled my efforts to be pleasing to him. It must have amused him to see the Tatrix of Corcyrus so zealous to please him, so much in his power. But, except for the first night, he had not put me to his intimate pleasures. How fortunate that was for me, I thought. How lucky I am! Then, at night, I would sometimes moan and whimper, locked in the trunk, kept now in his wagon.

  “Greetings, Lita,” said a girl, coming with some laundry, to kneel down near me.

  “Greetings, Tina,” I said. She was a curvaceous little brute, owned by Lactantius, a teamster from Ar’s Station. Recently they had been coming north from Ar; then they, too, had turned west. I had met her earlier, around supper time, back among the wagons. She, like some of the other slaves, initially, had been frightened of me. I was not branded and collared. Might I be free? I had assured them, however, lying well, I thought, that I, too, was only a slave. It was only that my Master had not yet seen fit to collar and brand me.

  Somewhat to my surprise they, looking at me, and once assured of my bond status, seemed to find no difficulty whatsoever in accepting the premise that I was indeed a slave. To them, slaves themselves, I looked like a slave. Looking at me, I realized, and somewhat to my consternation, they saw me easily, unquestioningly, naturally, and obviously, as a slave. “I knew even before I was told,” had said one of the girls. “You could see it.” How amusing, I had later thought, irritatedly, that they could not tell the difference between me and them. Surely to a discerning eye it must be clear that I was free, and they bond. How stupid they were. But then, of course they were only slaves.

  “Your master is surely one of the ugliest men I have ever seen,” said Tina.

  “He is not so bad,” I said, lifting a tunic, dripping, from the water.

  “How your skin must crawl when he forces you to his intimate service,” she said, dipping a tunic in the water.

  “I do not think his whip would permit that,” I said, wringing out the tunic.

  “It must be horrifying to have to serve him,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “Not really.”

  “He is not bad?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. Surely he had been strong with me, and had made me obey him well.

  “I suppose there could be some pleasure in being forced to serve, and totally, such a twisted, despicable little brute,” she said, “the domination of you, the disregard of your will and preferences, the reminding of your femaleness that it is enslaved, that it must do what it is told, that it must, no matter what, be pleasing, and perfectly so, to the master.”

  “He is not really that bad,” I said, “really.” I did not see any reason to tell her that I had, yesterday, knelt behind him and licked at the back of his knees, begging his touch. Similarly I did not see any reason to tell her that it had been denied to me.

  “That is interesting,” said Tina. “It is sometimes so hard to tell about a master.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We then continued our work.

  I wore the brief gray tunic which Speusippus had let me put on, and had then ordered me to remove, the first night in the shack. My ankles were chained; some ten inches of chain separated them; the chain was fastened on them by means of two padlocks. I was the only girl in camp, as far as I knew, who was shackled. During the day, when the wagon was moving, my ankles were not shackled. Then, however, he would chain my wrists, a chain running from them then to the back of the wagon. I would walk then, generally, behind the wagon, chained to it. The road was fairly well traveled. Today, lifting my chained wrists, I had waved to the girls in an open slave wagon. Individual neck chains went to a common chain in the wagon. Interestingly enough, they, too, were sheared. Sometimes I would sneak a ride in the back of the wagon.

  Then I no longer did this. He caught me once there and informed me that if I did this again I would be punished. Thereafter I rode in the back of the wagon only when I had received his permission, generally after begging for it. This permission, however, he was usually lenient in granting. It was almost as though he did not wish me to be exhausted.

  It was almost as though he wanted to keep me fresh, almost as though he intended to deliver me somewhere.

  I wrung out another tunic and placed it behind me, on the rocks.

  It was hot and I rubbed my hand back over my head, feeling there the short, bristly stubble of hair. As he had promised, he had, on the first morning of my captivity, sheared me.

  “Lactantius,” said Tina, “is merciless with me. In his chains he makes me kick and scream with pleasure.”

  “That is nice,” I said.

  “Does your master force slave yieldings from you?” she asked.

  “He does with me what be pleases,” I said. “He is the master. I am the slave.” I was not even sure what slave yieldings were. I gathered they might be some peculiarly helpless form of orgasm.

  I looked to, the side, to a small pool of water, wherein I could see my face reflected. I again touched my head, feeling the short stubble of hair there. He had sheared me very closely, to within perhaps a quarter inch of my skin. In the days since the shearing the hair had not appreciably lengthened. I wondered if he would permit my hair to grow out, perhaps to cut it again in a few months, to add more of it to his stock, or if he would, perhaps for his amusement, or to keep my identity a better secret, keep me closely sheared. The decision, of course, was his. I was to him, in effect, as his slave.

  I wondered if the shortness of my hair, the result of the shearing, made me less attractive to Speusippus. I wondered if that were why he had not snapped his fingers and commanded me to his pleasure.

  “Am I ugly, Tina?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “My hair?” I asked.

  “It will grow back,” she said.

  “Do you think any man could want me, as I am?” I asked.

  “Surely you have seen the teamsters looking at your ass?” she said.

  “No!” I said.

  “You have a pretty ass,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You are very pretty as a whole,” she said. “You have a curvaceous figure, though a little short, and a lovely face. Have no fear. You would make a nice armful for a man. You are a piece of well-curved slave meat. You are a tasty pudding.”

  “Thank you,” I said. How scandalized I was to hear these things! I was not used to hearing myself spoken about in terms of the graphic simplicities often applied to slaves. To be sure, she did not know that I was not a slave. Tasty pudding, indeed! I wondered if I were a tasty pudding. Perhaps, I thought. I did know I was small and curvaceous, and could easily be picked up by men, and carried about, and, if they
wished, overpowered and put to their purposes. Perhaps to them, small and helpless, and desirable, I did look like a tasty pudding. Thinking of myself in those terms made me feel weak, vulnerable and excited.

  “Your master is not contenting you, is he?” asked Tina.

  “No,” I said.

  “Have you displeased him?” she asked.

  “I have tried not to,” I said.

  “Have you begged?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. Surely, in licking at him, as I had, I had begged for his touch. “But he has scorned me.”

  “Interesting,” said Tina. “Are you so unskilled, so inert, so like a free woman that you are not even worth having?”

  “I do not think so,” I said.

  “I do not understand it,” she said. “Surely he wants you to become more of a slave and not less of a slave.”

  “That is perhaps it,” I said, frightened. I recalled his words to me at supper yesterday evening. “Remember that you are the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and not a slave,” he had said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He may want to keep me more like a free woman,” I said.

  “Why would he want to do that?” she asked. “That would be stupid, since you are a slave.”

  “He has not branded me, or collared me,” I pointed out.

  That he had not done these things I had hitherto supposed was merely in accord with his avowed purposes of shaming and humiliating me, making me serve as a slave in spite of the fact that I was free. But now, I feared, these omissions might have a more complex motivation.

  “If he does not want you,” she said, “why does he not simply sell you?”

  “He may want me,” I whispered, “at least for a time.”