Kajira of Gor

by Norman, John;

  "You eat slave gruel well," said the first men. There was laughter from the chained women.

  I put down my head. The bowl was taken from me. So that was slave gruel, I thought. I knew that it, with its various supplements, was extremely nourishing. It had been designed for the feeding of slaves, to keep them healthy, sleek and trim. On the other hand, although I had devoured it eagerly, I could see where a slave who was not starving might, after a time, desperately strive to improve her services to the master, that he might see fit, in his kindness, to grant her at least the scraps of a more customary diet.

  "Do you still claim to be a free woman?" asked the first man.

  "Yes," I said.

  "You have the body of a slave," he said.

  "It is not my fault," I said, "that I have the body of a slave."

  "Can you read?" he asked.

  "No," I said.

  "What is your name?" he asked.

  I thought wildly for a moment. Then I said, "Tiffany, Lady Tiffany!"

  "What sort of name is that?" he asked.

  "I do not know," I said.

  "It is an unusual name," he said.

  "Maybe it is a barbarian name," suggested Durbar.

  "Are you a barbarian?" asked the first man.

  "Maybe," I said. I saw scorn in the faces of several of the chained women.

  "Look," said the first man, taking me by the upper left arm, and turning it to the light. "The barbarian brand."

  I did not see how I could explain this vaccination mark to the men without making clear that my origin was not Gorean. The vaccination was in connection with a disease which, too, as far as I knew, did not even exist on Gor.

  "Get on your feet, here by the lantern," said the first man. "And open your mouth, widely."

  I complied.

  "Durbar, come up here," said the first man. He was joined by his fellow. "Back there, see?" he asked Durbar.

  "Yes," said Durbar.

  As a child I had had some fillings in the molar area, on the lower left side.

  "They are common in barbarians," said the first man.

  "Yes," said Durbar. "But, those of the caste of physicians can do such things. I have seen them in some Gorean girls."

  "That is true," admitted the first man.

  These fellows must also know that doubtless such things might be found occasionally in the mouths of some Gorean men. On the other hand, of course, they would not have been likely to have seen them there. They would have seen them, presumably, only in the mouths of girls, slaves. One of the things that a master commonly checks in a female he is considering buying is the number and condition of her teeth.

  "Lie back down," said the first man, "on your back, as before."

  I did so.

  "Are you a barbarian?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said. I did not see how I could, in the light of the facts, hope to conceal this from them.

  Several of the women laughed. Barbarians, I gathered, were to be held in contempt. The men, however, I noted, somewhat to my uneasiness, did not seem to be viewing me with contempt. They were viewing me, rather, with definite interest. I did not understand clearly, at that time, the rather special position on Gor occupied by barbarian slaves. Servile and low, and trained to sensuous wonders, they often brought high prices; to many Gorean men they seemed ideal objects, or among such, on which to slake their most primitive and brutal sexual lusts.

  "You speak the language very well," said the first man. "I could not even place your accent. Indeed, I was not even certain it was barbarian."

  "It is," I said. "Thank you."

  As I lay at their feet, on the blanket, on the boards of the slave wagon, they were looking down at me. I was aware that it was very much as a female that I was being looked at.

  "What are you going to do with me?" I asked.

  The first man shrugged. "Turn you over to the authorities," he said.

  "Please do not do so," I begged. "Please!"

  They continued to look at me.

  "Please," I begged. "Please, please," I whimpered. I lifted my body, piteously, to them.

  "Slut!" hissed one of the chained slaves.

  I could scarcely understand what I had done. It had been done so naturally, almost reflexively! I felt suddenly shamed, miserable, and revealed, exposed, vulnerable, piteous, displayed! Why had I done that? Had it to do with the changes in me which had been wrought by Speusippus of Turia? Had it to do with those sensations which he had induced in me? Had it to do with that frightening, intriguing horizon I had sensed in the hut, the sense of distant, remote, ecstatically unspeakable sensations, of piteous, wild, strange, insistent truths, of far ragings of emotions and feelings, like approaching storms, in which I might be swept up and caught, of possible realities in the grasp of which one could be no more in command of oneself than a bit of helpless, buoyant cork lifted and swirled on the waves of primeval seas. Or was it the action of a terrified woman sensing she had no option, if she would live, merely the act of a woman desperately bargaining for her very life with the only coin at her disposal, her beauty. Or was it the act of a natural prostitute, a worthless slut, who would think nothing of bartering flesh for an advantage, however negligible? Or was it an act sprung from a woman's deepest being, of mind and body, a revelation of her most secret and profound latencies, a cry from her core, from the structure of her very nature. I feared I had sensed in me what might be the glimmerings of what Goreans speak of as slave fires. I feared, and trusted not. How helpless I would be if such began periodically to burn within me.

  I had clearly lifted my body to the men.

  I lay before them on the floor of the wagon. They loomed over me. They were strong, handsome, powerful men.

  It is difficult to describe the nature of my feelings, so much was turbulence, and misery, and terror, and, I own, profound need, and helpless, piteous desire.

  Could I be a slave?

  Were these not the feelings of a slave?

  I feared I might be a slave.

  Could it be that what lay at their feet was, after all, no more than a common slave?

  Could I be one of those unworthy, terrible women who needed a man, who could find her happiness only at the feet of one, wanting to be his in all ways, desiring to please him, and to love and serve him with her whole heart? I recalled a thousand dreams, and fantasies. I recalled kneeling at the foot of the couch in Corcyrus and lifting and kissing, tenderly, the slave ring bolted into its massive, sturdy frame.

  What was I?

  Did I belong in a collar? Was it right for me?

  Surely not!

  Did I already wear one, though invisibly?

  Surely not!

  But, if so, then why not visibly? What a sense of liberation would that bring!

  Would it not be a badge of being?

  Was it so different, I wondered, than a wedding ring. Were they not, in their way, much the same?

  No, I thought, no, no, no!

  I supposed there might be cultures where the token of bondage was a ring, or bracelet.

  But how much more honest, and beautiful, I thought, is the Gorean collar!

  I wondered what it would be like, to wear one.

  It locks, of course. The girl cannot remove it.

  She is claimed, and owned. And knows herself so. She knows she is the property of the master.

  Not every woman is collared.

  Not every woman is that desirable.

  I wondered if I were desirable enough to collar. What a frightful thought! But I well knew that many men had found me so.

  I thought I might bring a good price.

  What was I?

  I did not know!

  "Slut! Slut!" said more than one of the women.

  I again lifted my body, deliberately, piteously.

  I was frightened.

  "See her offer herself!" said one of the women.

  "See her beg!" said another.

  There was laughter.

  "She i
s a slave," laughed several, amused.

  "I hope she is beaten for lying!" said another.

  The men looked down upon me.

  "Please," I whimpered. "Please!"

  "We'll give you a trial," said the first man. "You first, Durbar."

  I reached up for him as he crouched down, swiftly, between my legs. Durbar was not first in the camp, I realized. He would warm me for the use of the other. It was he whom I must especially please.

  A few Ehn later, in the arms of the leader, the first driver, I suddenly cried out with fear and surprise. It had been my intention to be especially pleasing to him but, suddenly, it seemed as though I were being taken away from myself. "No!" I said, suddenly. "Please, stop!" But I clutched him desperately. "Stop!" I begged. "Oh, stop!" I gritted my teeth. My fingernails cut into his arm and back. "Slut!" hissed one of the slaves. "Slut!"

  "The feelings!" I cried. "The feelings! Please, stop!" But the brute laughed, and did not stop.

  "I cannot stand it!" I cried.

  But still the beast did not desist!

  The sensation that Speusippus had begun to induce in me long ago, that which had struck such terror into me, now, seemingly from somewhere deep in my belly, began to emerge irresistibly. I had not known what it would be like in its larger effect, let alone its resolution.

  "No!" I cried.

  And then I yielded to him.

  "Slut, slut, slut!" hissed one of the slaves.

  I then clutched him, startled and astounded. I could hardly believe what I had felt. I held tightly to him. "Please do not let me go," I begged. "Hold me, if only for a moment! Hold me! Hold me, please!"

  "What a slut she is," said a woman.

  "Yes," said another.

  I held tightly to the man. I tried to cope with my feelings and understandings. It had been my intention merely to be very pleasing to him; I had desired, really, to do little but give him great pleasure. Then something had happened. It seemed somehow as though he had suddenly taken me away from myself. He had taken command of me. He had suddenly begun to make me move and respond according to his will, not mine. He had literally given me no choice. He had forced my yielding. He had made me come to him and rather, I was afraid, like a slave. I was a bit disappointed in one way. It was I who was in the position of the slave. I had wanted to serve him, to please him, to bring him pleasure. Instead I myself had been forced to feel pleasure and even, choiceless, to yield.

  "Did I please you?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said. I licked and kissed at his shoulder in gratitude. Even though he had given me little opportunity to please him he had still, apparently, found me pleasing. Women, I supposed, might be found pleasing by men in many ways. Perhaps that is one way for a woman to be pleasing, I thought, that the man does with her what he wishes, that he chooses, as he wishes, to please himself with her.

  I kissed him, helplessly. He drew back a bit from me. I saw a chain snapped onto the common chain of the women. At the end of this shorter chain there was an open collar. It was then put about my neck and snapped shut. I touched it. I was now on the same chain with the other women.

  He stood up. I lay at his feet, on the floor of the slave wagon, on the blanket, chained. I had been well had. I did not know what he would do with me now. Perhaps it would amuse him to turn me over to the authorities now. I did not know.

  "Do you still claim to be a free woman, Tiffany?" he asked.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because you have the responses and reflexes of a slave," he said.

  "I claim nothing," I said, vanquished and chained.

  "Are you really free?" he asked.

  "It doesn't matter now, does it?" I asked.

  "Not at all," he said.

  "What do you think?" I asked him.

  "I think you are a slave," he said.

  "I am not branded and collared," I reminded him, "except, of course, for the holding-chain collar."

  "We will do something about that," he said, "outside of Ar."

  I looked at him, startled. Quickly I scrambled to my knees before him, the palms of my hands on the floor of the wagon.

  "Accustom yourself to calling free men 'Master' and free women 'Mistress,'" he said.

  "Yes, Master!" I said.

  "And you are low girl here," he said, "so you will address your chain sisters as 'Mistress' as well."

  "Yes, Master!" I cried.

  "You are a mill girl now, Tiffany," he said.

  "Yes, Master! Thank you, Master!" I sobbed, and put down my head, covering his feet with kisses of gratitude.

  He then withdrew, taking the lantern with him. Durbar accompanied him.

  I then lay down with my chain sisters. I tried to gather my thoughts. I had been captured, and this terrified me. Furthermore I now could entertain few realistic thoughts of escape. I did not think that any mysterious men would suddenly appear to free me, as at the camp of Miles of Argentum. Similarly these men seemed to be professionals in the handling of women. I did not think they, like Speusippus, for example, would be likely to use a wooden trunk for a slave kennel. Furthermore I knew the security in the mills, behind those high, gray walls, was for most practical purposes absolute. Similarly, there presumably I would be branded, collared and, if permitted clothing, put in distinctive garb. Thus, even if one did manage to get beyond the walls, one would presumably be apprehended swiftly and returned to the mill masters. Similarly the mills had their own sleen, both for patrolling the yard at night and, if need be, trailing slaves. No, girls did not escape from the mills. Too, I was horrified at the thought of going to the mills, for they were one of the lowest and hardest slaveries on Gor. That would be the end of Tiffany Collins, I feared, a slave in a Gorean mill. On the other hand I had, honestly, and joyfully, kissed at the driver's feet for the mercy shown to me. Had he turned me over to the authorities I would doubtless have eventually been returned to Speusippus as his strayed Lita, and then conveyed by him, probably in chains, to Argentum, there presumably to be commended to the attentions of the impaling spear. As it was, in the mill, in Ar, I should be hidden, and safe. There, though a slave, I would be concealed, fed and protected. I did not think anyone would think of looking in a mill for the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and certainly not one in Ar. My feelings were thus mixed in this matter. I was relieved, too, in a way, of course, that I now no longer needed fear capture. It had happened to me. I must now abide its consequences. Too, no longer now need I forage for food and shelter as an ignorant, naked fugitive, often fearful, miserable, cold and hungry. I supposed it had been only a matter of time until someone had caught me. Perhaps it was just as well that it had happened as it did.

  But whatever might be the pros and cons of this matter they were now mostly academic. I had again, as a matter of fact, fallen into the power of men. I lay in a slave wagon. Their chain was on my neck.

  I wondered, too, on what sort of creature it was that they had their chain.

  I did not think that I was the same Tiffany Collins as I had been earlier.

  The second fellow who had had me, the leader of the two drivers, had taught me much. I now knew, to some extent, what could be done to me. I did not think I was likely to forget it. I could be forced to yield myself to a man as a slave. This made me feel very helpless. Men are, I supposed, the masters. But, too, I remembered clearly that wild, surging, overwhelming sensation I had felt. I certainly, desperately, wanted to feel that again. Too, I sensed, it frightening me somewhat, but also exciting and intriguing me almost to the point of madness, that behind that sensation there might be others, indeed, that there might lie beyond that sensation almost indefinite vistas of kindred emotions and feelings. Who, I wondered, has plumbed the depths of feelings' oceans or has successfully mapped the countries of love? I found that I, and this frightened me, wanted to submit to men and yield to them as a slave. This was not a simple matter of sentience, incidentally, but involved an entire matrix of feeling, thought and emotion. I wanted to love and serve, to be fully ple
asing not merely in a sexual manner but in all ways, to ask nothing and give all. But, too, it must be admitted that powerful physical feelings were also involved. I bit at the blanket and squirmed.

  "Lie still," said a woman.

  "Yes, Mistress," I said. "Forgive me, Mistress."

  I must not let them make me a slave, I thought. I must fight these feelings, these sensations. I must try to be more like a free woman, I told myself. I must try to be inert and cold.

  But what chance will I have, I asked myself, if I am branded and they put a collar on my neck, and I am subject to the whip, and to the uncompromising disciplines of Gorean masters?

  I must not permit them to light slave fires in my belly, I thought.

  But what can I do if they should simply choose to do so, I thought. Then they would be lit, and that would be all there would be to it, I told myself. Then, Tiffany, poor girl, you would be a slave for certain. "You are already a slave for certain, Tiffany, and you know it," a voice seemed to say from within me, that voice which in the past had seemed to speak to me, too, though usually in the quarters of the Tatrix, as when it had ordered me, and I had complied, to kiss a whip or the slave ring. "Perhaps," I said to the voice, to myself.

  It was near dawn now. The wagon would proceed east on the Argentum road, reach the Viktel Aria, and turn south. Then, in time, it would arrive in Ar. Soon I would be enslaved, legally. I would be, totally, legally, a slave on Gor.

  I found myself looking forward to the collar and the brand. They were now unavoidable. I would have no choice in the matter. They would simply be put on me. I hoped I would look well in my collar. I hoped I would look well in my brand. Most women are stunning in them, and I did not think I would be different. I wondered if I were truly a slave. I wondered if the collar and brand belonged on me. "Perhaps," I thought. I hoped it would not hurt too much to be branded. It was the mark that stayed, of course, not the pain.

  I considered the mark.

  It would be one recognized everywhere. It was a strong recommendation of Merchant Law that slaves be marked. I would be a slave. I would be marked.

  I was frightened but intrigued to think of myself marked.

  How the identity of bondage would then be on me! That would then be clearly what I was. Collars might come and go, but the mark would stay; it would continue to designate me bond.