Kajira of Gor

by Norman, John;

  There were tears in my eyes. I pulled futilely against the thongs on my wrists.

  "You are very pretty, as a slave," he said, regarding me, musingly, his hands on my ankles. He moved my ankles, tight in his grip, slowly, widely apart. I could not prevent this. Then angrily, he closed them. "No," he said. "It would be too much like having her." Then, with a loop of thong, he crossed my ankles and tied them together. I could not rise to my feet now. He then looped a thong from my ankles to a slave ring near the foot of the dais. I could not now even squirm from my place. "Doubtless she will be naked in the sack," he muttered to himself, "as naked as a slave. The inhuman beasts will have done that to her. I must try not to look at her more than is necessary."

  He then, quickly, rose from my side and went to the side of the room. He loosed the rope there, that rope going up to a ring in the ceiling, and then down to the sack.

  I fought frenziedly to free myself. I could not do so.

  Hand by hand, he lowered the golden sack to the tiles. He then opened it and drew forth from it the vulnerable, quivering body of a naked woman. She looked wildly at him. She was bound hand and foot. She was gagged.

  "They have put you in a collar!" he said. "How dare they have done this!"

  She struggled to kneel to him. I do not even know if he, in his agitation, realized this.

  The collar, of course, was the collar of Hassan. He had put it on her in Ar, and had apparently never removed it.

  "No!" cried Ligurious. "The beasts! The beasts! They have put your fair thigh under the iron!"

  I recalled that Hassan, in Ar, had informed her that they would make a stop first, before proceeding to his lodgings. That stop, I now realized, must have been the shop of a metal worker. There the slave mark would have been burned into her thigh. It would already be on her, thus, when she was carried over his threshold, naked and on his shoulder, as a slave.

  The hands of Ligurious fumbled at the cords on her ankles, and then on her hands. He was sweating. She knelt, frightened, her back to him.

  "What have they done to you!" he cried. "What have they done to you!"

  She knelt with her back to him, her head down, frightened.

  Could he not see what they had done to her?

  She was not the same woman he had known. He had known a cold, supercilious, arrogant woman, one who had been petulant and harsh, one who had been cruel, severe and demanding, an imperious and haughty slut. This, now, was not she.

  There were many differences. For example, she knelt now, rather than stood, and she was now naked, rather than regally robed and bedecked. Too, of course, on her neck, now, there was a locked, close-fitting, steel slave collar, and on her thigh, of course, might be found a certain meaningful mark, one apprising all who might find it of interest of her status, that it was bond. Too, for those who might find such things interesting, it might have been noted that her master, Hassan, apparently had her on a careful diet and exercise program. Her body was now vital and healthy, and excitingly curved, far beyond anything that one commonly expects in a free woman. But all of these things, in their way, were perhaps rather trivial or external. The most important differences about her now were internal differences, deep, profound differences, differences which manifested themselves beautifully and unmistakably in such things as appearance, carriage, attitude and behavior. These differences were doubtless consequences of having been helplessly in the hands of Hassan, the Slave Hunter. These were the major differences in her. She was now soft and vulnerable; she was now extremely feminine; she was now informed and mastered; she was now, in the thousand ways in which this can be true of a woman, a slave.

  I was startled.

  It was the first time I had well looked on the former Tatrix of Corcyrus.

  I saw now that we were indeed very similar, in size and figure, in facial features. As I had thought before we might have been fraternal twins, or sisters. In a slave market we might have been sold as a matched set. Beautiful twins are not unoften sold in such a way. To be sure, mercifully, such sets are usually soon broken up. It is cruel to have sisters pitted miserably, competitively, against one another for a master's attention and affection. Sometimes brothers will pool their resources, to buy such a set. Sometimes a doting parent buys such a set for sons, that neither will seem to be receiving the most valuable gift. But too often I fear, such sets are purchased for aesthetic purposes, perhaps being used as display slaves, perhaps, among other applications, to be placed in brief, charmingly revealing tunics and neck-chained to the back of a rich man's palanquin, thus forming a lovely addition to his entourage.

  Once, I supposed, there might have been considerable differences of other sorts, not physical, separating us, differences of demeanor and attitude, differences of posture, or body language, of expression, of command or regality, and surely so, from what I had heard of the imperious, tyrannous Sheila, Tatrix of Tharna.

  But now I saw such differences were gone, and we were now more closely matched than one might have conceived possible.

  We were both now naught but reduced, frightened slaves.

  Ligurious tore the gag from her.

  "Master," she sobbed.

  "You know me," he said. "I am Ligurious!"

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Do not call me 'Master,'" he said, his voice throaty with emotion. I saw that he was only too eager to hear this word from her.

  What true man does not want to hear this word from a beautiful woman, one from whom it emanates appropriately? What true man does not desire the mastery, and absolute power over a beautiful woman? What true man does not wish to own, and fully, the most exciting woman he has ever seen, to have her at his feet, stripped, and in his collar?

  Is this not what lurks beneath the veils and pretensions, the conventions and hypocrisies; is it not what is hinted at, beneath the lies and denials?

  And what woman, too, does not in her most secret heart long for the man who is her natural, perfect master, who so lusts for her that nothing less than having her as his own, even as his mere wares, will satisfy him? What woman does not in her most secret heart long for he to whom she must, and cannot but helplessly, and rapturously, submit?

  Are these whispers and secrets truly so strange or inaccessible? One supposes not.

  He was fighting himself. But even this innocent title, doing little more than recognizing the place of his maleness in the order of primate nature, and surely a suitable expression on the lips of a female slave, such as she now was, alarmed him. Too long had he idolized this woman. He was not yet ready to see that she had become real; it seemed he desperately wished to keep her as some remote, cherished illusion. On the other hand, there was a painful ambiguity in his relationship to her, probably one that she had once fully exploited. This had been evident in his attitudes toward me. He had, at various times, I had understood, seriously considered subjecting me to his pleasure and, rather clearly, I think, in the modality of the uncompromising master. In this, he had, I think clearly evidenced his desire to use her in the same fashion. He had wished to use me as a proxy for his longed-for domination of her. Our resemblances, however, had apparently been too close. Each time he had refrained from doing so. I do not think he truly desired me, or at least not other than as a man might casually desire a girl he sees in a paga tavern or, say, one of the girls he might notice chained in a row on their mats on a side street, but he did desire her. Ligurious was truly a master; he had proved this with other women; similarly, in most circumstances, had he so much as snapped his fingers at me, I would have thrown my legs apart for him; this was not the modality though, for whatever reason, in which he related to this other woman; he seemed to see her as some frosty ideal of perfection, as something finer than and different from all other women, as something of which he might scarcely be worthy, as something to which he should perhaps dare not aspire, as something almost untouchable and abstract. In his mind he condemned her to perfection; in this fashion he kept her from being a woman. Has
san, of course, did not see her in this fashion. In his arms she would not find herself cheated of herself. This is not all that unusual, incidentally. A woman revered by one man as an icy goddess is often another man's pleading, licking slave. Ligurious, to his fury, as a timid swain, would never get a hundredth from her of what Hassan, her master, might command with a casual word. But this, of course, was only to be expected. She was, after all, Hassan's slave.

  "But you are a free man," she whispered. "What are you doing here? What are you doing? Where is Hassan, my master?"

  "Do you wish to be impaled?" he asked.

  "No!" she said.

  "Your body!" he suddenly cried, looking at her. "It is that of a slave!"

  "Yes, Master," she wept, trying to crouch down and cover her breasts with her hands.

  "And the collar on your throat, and the brand, superb!"

  "Thank you, Master," she wept.

  "No," he suddenly cried, much to himself. "It cannot be!" Then, not looking at her, he angrily pointed to the tunic, on the tiles near me. "Put that on," he said. "Be quick! In the halls they will think you are she."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  I struggled again to free myself, and, again, could not begin to do so.

  Let those who have been tied by a Gorean master understand such things.

  In a moment Ligurious had freed my ankles of the thong that fastened me to the slave ring and dragged me by the arm across the tiles to the golden sack. There, putting me to my stomach, he began to replace my bonds with those she had worn. This, presumably, is what Hassan would have done had he himself been effecting this change of slaves.

  "It is so small," she said, pulling down at the sides of the slave tunic.

  Had she never worn a slave tunic?

  I looked up at her, angrily. It was the slave tunic Miles of Argentum put us all in. We all wore it, all of his girls. To be sure, in it she was well displayed, and as what she now was, a slave.

  My gag was then replaced with the one which she had worn. The wadding was packed into my mouth. It was still wet from her saliva. It was then secured in place. I was then thrust feet first into the golden slave sack. My head was thrust down. The sack was tied shut over my head. In a moment I felt myself, bit by bit, helpless in the sack, being hoisted upward. The rope was then secured, and, miserable and frightened, I swung slowly back and forth in the darkness of the sack until, eventually, there was little more movement than that connected with the tension of the rope, and my own small, occasional movements.

  * * * *

  I felt the sack being lowered.

  I do not think I had been in it for even an Ahn. Surely it was not yet time for the great feast.

  Then the sack was on the floor.

  It was opened.

  My eyes widened. I could not cry out, gagged. I was drawn from the sack by Drusus Rencius. Behind him, naked, bound hand and foot, gagged, kneeling, was Sheila, the former Tatrix of Corcyrus.

  Drusus Rencius removed my bonds and, lastly, my gag. "Be silent," he said.

  I nodded, and knelt before him, as the slave I was, before a master.

  I then saw him, and not gently, replace the bonds on Sheila, she now on her belly on the tiles, with those I had worn, even to the gag, packed then tightly in her mouth, wet and sopping, and secured there. He then thrust her in the sack, tied it shut and, in moments, had hoisted her high to the ceiling, its enclosed and helpless prisoner.

  I reached out, timidly, to touch Drusus Rencius. "May I speak?" I whispered. I did not wish to be cuffed.

  "Yes," he said.

  "I am not the Tatrix of Corcyrus," I said.

  "I am sure you are not," he said. "I have been a dupe and a fool, as I am sure so, too, have been many of us."

  "Where is Ligurious?" I asked, frightened.

  "He is with his cronies from Corcyrus, those pretending to be envoys from Turia," he said. "Fortunately they did not see me. I recognized them, of course. Indeed, I have been keeping a close eye on Ligurious ever since I discovered he was in the palace. I saw him, for example, enter the throne room, and saw you enter later. I then, later, saw him leaving the throne room with the other woman, she whom, after he left his quarters, I took the liberty of replacing in the sack where she belongs. He was in his banquet robes when he left his quarters. Accordingly I do not think he will discover her new whereabouts until the sack is opened."

  "It is intended," I said, "that the cohorts of Ligurious detain Hassan, and prevent him from attending the banquet."

  "Hassan, I am sure," said Drusus Rencius, "can take care of himself."

  I looked at him, wildly.

  "Stand," he said.

  I did so.

  "I believe this is yours," said Drusus Rencius, lifting the skimpy tunic which, doubtless but shortly before, he had removed from Sheila, probably binding and gagging her.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "Put it on," he said, throwing it against my body.

  I caught it. "Yes, Master," I said. In a moment I was in it. It does not take long to don such a garment. I adjusted it on my body. Then I straightened up. I saw I was being inspected, as a slave.

  "Turn, slowly," he said.

  I did so, displaying as well as I could one of the properties of Miles of Argentum.

  "Have you been named?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "'Sheila,' Master," I said.

  He smiled. "That would seem appropriate," he said, "at least from the point of view of Miles of Argentum. That, too, incidentally, is the name of the slave in the sack. It was put on her in Ar by her master, Hassan, the Slave Hunter."

  I nodded. I had not known that. He could have named her anything, of course. Daphne, Jean, Wanda, Marjorie, Tarsk Nose, Excrement, whatever he pleased. It had apparently amused him, however, perhaps as an irony, to put her old name back on her, this time, of course, as a mere cognomen in bondage, a convenience by means of which to refer to the animal she now was, a slave name.

  "You are very pretty, Sheila," he said.

  "Thank you, Master," I said. That was my current slave name.

  "The other Sheila, too, is very pretty," he said. "It will be interesting, tonight, to compare you, when you are both, naked and in chains, side by side, presented to Claudius and the high council."

  "Doubtless, Master," I said. In such a situation, men might, I supposed, make their appraisals and determinations under almost ideal conditions. The conditions would be almost as favorable as those of a slave market. We might even be measured and posed. When I was exhibited before him in this fashion it was my hope that Drusus Rencius would like what he saw.

  I knew that I loved him, and had loved him, even from so long ago as the corridors, the chambers, the stadiums, the theaters, the high, broad walls, of Corcyrus. My pride, and my freedom, had kept me from him. I knew so little of my womanhood then! Why had I not put myself to his feet, and begged his collar? I had even treated him abruptly, and with cruelty. How fearful I was now. Why should he not have his vengeance upon me? Why should he not rectify my errors. Did I not rightfully belong beneath his whip?

  I was now, after all, only a slave.

  He could do with me much what he wanted.

  I recalled that Emily had confided once to me that she wanted Aemilianus to whip her—because she loved him.

  I had understood that even then, though I had not admitted it.

  I wanted then, yes, to be claimed by the whip of Drusus Rencius, to gladly accept the pain, in tears, and to rejoice, bound or chained, that I had been found attractive enough to be so clearly and absolutely claimed. I wanted this proof of his categorical domination of me as a female, this obvious acceptance of me, this token that I had been found acceptable for his leather, this evidence that I was his, that he owned me, that I was his slave, and he was my master.

  I wanted him to whip me—because I loved him!

  She who truly loves wants to be owned.


  She who truly loves wants to serve her master.

  What else can satisfy her?

  I wonder if you can understand this.

  Perhaps so, young woman who might read this, if you are in your heart a slave, and are thus a slave.

  "What is wrong?" asked Drusus Rencius.

  "Nothing," I said, "nothing, Master."

  I loved Drusus Rencius.

  And I felt myself his slave!

  I knew I had wanted to be his slave from the first moment I had seen him.

  I am your slave, Drusus Rencius, I thought.

  Can you not see it? Do you not want me?

  I hoped he would find me pleasing.

  Want me, want me, Drusus Rencius, I begged in my heart.

  How I resolved to present whatever bit of beauty I might have shamelessly to the perusal of Drusus Rencius at the banquet.

  How I would attempt to lure him, and present myself before him for his consideration!

  How piteously helpless are slaves, I thought.

  What can we do, other than attempt to appeal to the chooser of slaves, to the desiderated buyer, to the man we desire, to the man we want, to the man we love?

  The decision is his.

  We are slaves.

  He held me by the upper arms and looked down, into my eyes. "It is a long time since Corcyrus," he said.

  "Yes, my master," I said.

  His hands tightened, mercilessly, on my arms.

  "Forgive me, Master," I said. "I meant, 'Yes, Master'!" The expression 'my master' is not an uncommon one among Gorean slave girls but it is almost invariably reserved for use with a legal master. How naturally and inadvertently it had slipped out in my response to him. But I was not his slave. I was another man's slave!

  "You are clever," he said.

  I looked at him with tears in my eyes.

  "Perhaps you are the Tatrix of Corcyrus," he mused. "Could it be?"