by John Norman
"Are you interested in free females?" she asked.
"Not particularly," I said.
"Let us show you one," she said. "Esne," she called. "Bring Lady Labiena." In a few moments one of the hostesses had emerged from a side door leading a lovely woman, barefoot, in a wrap-around tunic, on a neck chain. She was brought to my table where, unbidden, she knelt.
"She is attractive, is she not?" asked my hostess.
"Yes," I said.
"She is a captive free woman," said my hostess. "We are keeping her for a friend."
"I see," I said.
"Open your tunic," said my hostess.
The woman parted her tunic, and held it to the sides.
"She is pretty, isn't she?" asked my hostess.
"Yes," I said. "Widen your knees," I told the woman. She did so, continuing to hold her tunic open.
"Are you sure she is free?" I asked.
"Yes," said my hostess.
I regarded the woman. "It seems she might as well be a slave," I said. The woman threw me a look of gratitude.
"No, she is free," said my hostess, "though now, to be (pg 315) sure, she doubtless has some notion of what a slave's life might be like."
"One can have no adequate notion of that," I said, "Until one has been truly enslaved.
"True," said my hostess.
"What is your life like here?" I asked the woman.
"I wear a neck chain," she said.
"I see," I said.
"You may lower your hands, but do not close your tunic," said my hostess. "In what manner does she serve here, in this house?" I asked. To be sure she was barefoot, and was naked but for a tunic, and had a chain on her neck. These things suggested some answers to my question."
"Much as a slave, but with little of their skill," said my hostess.
"They will not tell me their secrets," said the woman.
"They have been ordered not to," said my hostess, "our orders countermanding any which she might give them."
"But they are pleased not to tell me!" she wept.
"Of course," said my hostess. "They are slaves, and you are merely free. Too, often the secrets of slaves are perhaps best kept between themselves and their masters."
"We will not even give her training," said the hostess who had brought her in. "That has cost me many beatings," said the free woman.
"Why not train her?" I asked.
"Training would be inappropriate for her, as she is a free woman," said my hostess. "Too, it might scandalize and horrify her. We would certainly not want that. Too, it is not likely that it would even be fully meaningful to her, as she is free, and would thus not be able to fully understand it as it is meant to be understood, in the helpless depths of an owned belly."
"Is she being held for ransom?" I asked.
"No," said my hostess. "But that was your hope, in the beginning, wasn't it, Lady Labiena?"
"No," said the woman, putting her head down.
"But when it was learned that she had been captured," said my hostess, "she was cast off by her family, and sworn from the Home Stone."
"My life as a free person was unsatisfactory to me," said the woman.
"Watch your tongue, prisoner," said the female holding her neck chain. "It seems now," I said, "that you are neither fully a free person nor a slave." "It amuses them," she said, "to keep me as a free person in their power, for their customers."
"Occasionally such women are available in these places," I said.
"You do not know what I have done here," she said, looking up, "what I have been made to do!"
"I can speculate," I assured her.
"But much of what she has done here," said the woman holding her neck chain, "has been simply servile. For example, we enjoy having her naked, on all fours, on a chain, scrubbing floors."
"But surely she has been put upon occasion to the uses of your customers," I said.
"Of course," said the woman holding the neck chain, "haven't you, Lady Labiena." "Yes," said the kneeling woman, her knees wide, her tunic parted.
I regarded her.
"But I have learned things here," she said, "that I never dreamed of as a free woman. I have been able to sense here the ecstasies of bondage, the ecstasies of a life obligatorily sensual, a life under strict discipline, a life where I must obey, a life where I will, and must, surrender myself totally and, subject to penalties, and even death, if I am displeasing, live thenceforth solely for service and love."
"You sing the joys of a love slave, surely," I said, "not the woes of a woman who must crawl beneath the whip of a hated master."
"Do you not think a love slave crawls fearfully beneath the whip of her master?" she asked. "The love slave is still a slave, you see," I said, "and perhaps more a slave than any other."
"Yes," whispered the woman.
"She is held in her bondage by the strongest of all bonds," I said, "that of love."
"Yes," she said.
"It is stronger than the chain on your neck," I said.
"I know," she said.
"It must then be very strong," laughed the woman who held her chain. She gave it a tug, jerking it against the side of the woman's neck.
"It is," I said.
"They give me to anyone here," said the woman. "Some are hideous, some smell, in the fetid breath of some I almost choke and die, and yet I must serve them, unquestioningly, although a free woman, according to whatever their dictates and whims."
I regarded the woman.
"I want a private master," she said. "I want my own master."
"It is a natural desire on the part of a female." I said.
Then she looked up, suddenly, piteously, at the woman who was holding her neck chain. "I want a collar," she said to her. "You know that. I have begged for it. Why will you not give me a collar? You have made me, in effect, a slave. Now I am good for nothing else. I have learned too much! Why deny me the mark, the collar? Why do you so shame me? Put me in a collar, that what I now know I am may be proclaimed to the world! I want to be sold! I want to find a master! I am ready to serve, and fully!"
"Be silent," said the woman who held her chain. "That is no way for a free woman to speak. Put your head to the floor, pull your tunic up over your head!" Frightened, the woman did as she was told. The woman who had her in her keeping then called to another of the hostesses. "Three strokes," she told her. That woman then, with her whip, struck Lady Labiena three times.
"Replace your tunic and kneel straightly," said her keeper.
Lady Labiena, tears running down her cheeks, complied. "We have told you, Lady Labiena," said my hostess. "We are merely keeping you for a friend."
"For whom are you keeping me?" she begged.
"That is for us to know, and for you to wonder," she said.
"Tell him, if you would," she said, "that his capture is now ready to be imbonded, that she is now ready to lick his feet and beg a collar, that she is ready to be used, or sold, whatever be his will."
"That is Lady Labiena," said my hostess. "See how feminine she is? See how right she is for a man?"
"Yes," I said.
"Chain her at his mat's slave ring," said my hostess.
"No," I said.
"What?" asked my hostess.
"No," I said.
"Clearly she is fit for the collar," said my hostess.
"True," I said. "But she is not yet in a collar. She is a mere free woman. She does not yet know the collar. She does not yet feel it in every part of her. Its meaning has not yet soaked into her brain, her skin, her belly, even to the tips of her toes."
"You are not interested in free females?" she said.
"Not particularly," I reminded her. This is not that unusual in one who has tasted of slaves. As women, there is no comparison between a free woman and her imbonded sister. Perhaps that is why free women so hate slaves. To be sure, there is something to be said for free women. It is enjoyable to capture, enslave and train them. That is interesting. But then, of course, i
n a matter of time, one is not then dealing any longer with a free woman, but only another slave.
"Close your tunic, you brazen slut," said my hostess to the Lady Labiena, who hurriedly drew it together, obeying. Then she said to the woman who held her chain. "Take her away."
The Lady Labiena was led from the floor, through the door from which she had earlier emerged. Presumably she would be fastened by her neck chain to a wall or floor ring within, until she was brought forth again on the floor.
My hostess then lifted her head and looked to the left of the open space, where several females huddled. It was hard to tell in the light, but I thought they were naked. She cracked her whip, and they scurried swiftly to the table, where they knelt. They were naked.
"Now these are slaves," I said. I examined them. How incredibly beautiful and sensuous they were, how soft and vulnerable, how owned. It was not merely that they were nude and that their necks were locked in steel collars. It was something else, almost indefinable, but very real, about them, which marked them as slaves, something which seemed to say, "We are slaves, Masters. We are yours. Do with us as you will."
The woman cracked her whip again and the girls inadvertently cringed and shrank back. They were slaves, and knew well that sound. Two of them had even cried out in fear. The woman then went to the line. "Straighten your bodies," she said. "You are in the presence of a man." She touched more than one with the whip coils, adjusting her posture, and, with the coils, lifted up the chin of another. Then she turned to me. "These are available," she said. "Perhaps you find one or more of them pleasing?"
I surveyed the women.
"Such," she said, "are fit for men."
"Yes," I said.
"They are pleasant, meaningless creatures," she said.
I did not respond to the woman. There was a sense, of course, in which the slave girl is meaningless, the sense in which she is nothing, the sense in which she is a mere property, a rightless object, fittingly to be scorned, to be treated as one pleases, to be made to serve, to be disciplined or whipped, to be kept or cast away, as one might choose, and yet, in another sense, what meaning could a free woman even begin to have, compared to that of a slave at one's feet? "Are they not pretty?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
I regarded the slaves.
They knelt before me, in the half darkness, in a line. They had been well positioned. Their collars glinted, the steel reflecting the dim, reddish light of the tiny lamps. Their flesh, too, that of offerings of the house, so cheaply available, revealed the effects of this same dim illumination. The free woman, Ludmilla proprietress of this establishment, and of several others on the street, had some concept, it seemed, as to at least one way in which female slaves might be presented before men. One does not, of course, buy a woman in such light. Preferably one considers them in strong light with great care. Indeed, preferably one does not put out any money until one has carefully examined every inch of her fair body. Even girls who are to be auctioned are commonly available, in exposition cages or display spaces, and sometimes for handling, for inspection before a sale, that one may determine whether or not he wishes to make a bid, and, also, of course, how high he might be willing to go to acquire her.
The woman turned about, and, lifting her whip, signaled to the musicians at the right side of the room. They began to play. She then cracked the whip again and the slaves sprang to their feet and began to dance before me, as only slaves can dance before men.
"How meaningless they are," laughed the free woman.
How incredibly meaningful, how explosively and thunderingly meaningful, how devastatingly meaningful, how momentously significant they were, these females of my species, presenting themselves before me in the modalities incumbent upon them, modalities constituting civilized and delicious refinements of relationships instituted and determined eons ago by nature, modalities which will always, in one way or another, in one nomenclature or another, be required of beautiful women by strong men, modalities most simply and directly though of, and most honestly thought of, as those of slave and master. One of the glories of the Gorean culture is that it has a body of law, sanctioned by tradition and mercilessly enforced, pertaining, without evasion or subterfuge, to this relationship.
"Yartel," said the woman, motioning to one of the girls who then, obediently, moved forward, writhing before me. She was a short-legged, creamy-skinned, voluptuous blonde. One difference between Gorean sexual tastes and those of earth, I might mention, is that Gorean sexual tastes, at least in my opinion, are much broader and more tolerant than those of Earth, or at least of Western Civilization, and tend to run toward the statistical norms of the human female. For example, many women on Earth who are implicitly taught by their culture, for example, through pictures and accounts, that they do not fulfill culturally approved stereotypes of feminine desirability and beauty, might discover, presumably to their horror, that they would bring a high price in a Gorean slave market. If they should have any lingering doubts about the matter, and think perhaps to escape a discipline more appropriately applied to "true beauties," because they do not regard themselves as such, their delusions are likely to be dispelled under their master's whip. Also, although I suppose the matter is neither here nor there, Goreans also tend to prize women for such things as their intelligence, emotional depth, charm and personality. It is a pleasure to own such a female.
The most fundamental property prized by Goreans in women, I suppose, though little is said about it, is her need for love, and her capacity for love. How much does she need love? And how deep and loving is she? That is the kind of woman a man wants, ultimately, one who is helplessly and totally love's captive, in his collar.
To be sure, it is also pleasurable, particularly in the beginning, to bend a woman, and to teach her her place. Few pleasures can compare, for example, with that of taking an unwilling female, preferably one who hates you, and, against her will, forcing her to yield to you the total and exquisite perfections of slave service. One may then, after she has learned herself a slave, after she has been brought to this self-understanding, do what one wishes with her, say, keeping her or selling her, doubtless now making a profit on her, and putting her into the markets, where, eventually, if she is fortunate, she might eventually become into the hands of an excellent master for her, one whose devoted love slave she will beg to be.
"Louise," said the woman with the whip.
A short, slender, exquisite, very white-skinned, red-haired girl moved forth immediately from the line, dancing before me.
"Louise" is an Earth-girl name. I wondered if she were from Earth. Often, of course, Earth-girl names are given to Gorean female slaves. They are almost uniformly regarded as suitable slave names. Similarly, girls who wear them are taken to be slaves. It is sometimes amusing to Goreans when an Earth girl shows up in a Gorean slave market, insisting that her name is such and such, a name taken on Gor to be a slave name. It is as though she were confessing her bondage. She may be given the name afresh, but now to be worn as a slave name chosen by her master, or, sometimes, presumably that she may better understand her dependence on men's will, and her subjection to male domination, she may be given another Earth-girl name. When more than one Earth girl is in the same lot, their names may be switched, the name "Audrey', for example, being given to the former Karen, and the name "Karen' now being given to the former Audrey. Most often, however, the Earth girls are given Gorean names, and usually Gorean slave names. Many masters discover that this procedure often smoothes and hastens the transition between the background of Earth freedoms, such as they are, and the new reality of absolute bondage. When the former Stacy Smith or Betty Lou Madison discover that they are now, say, Sabita, Dilek, Tuka, Cicek, or Lita, it helps to convince them that their old life is now behind them, and is gone forever. They then hurry, and are well advised to do so, to become the finest, the most superb, the most desirable Sabita, Dilek, Tuka, Cicek or Lita they can.
I regarded the slender gir
l dancing before me. Her breasts were small, and well formed. The reddish light was particularly lovely, in its shifting hues, reflecting from so fair-skinned a body. The steel collar looked well on her neck.
"Are you from Earth?" I asked her, in English.
"Yes!" she said, startled.
"Do not stop dancing," I told her, in English.
"Are you from Earth?" she asked, wildly.
"Once," I said. "I am an Earth woman!" she said. "Behold me in bondage!" "I do," I said. "And you are very pretty in bondage."
Her fists clenched over her head, as she writhed before me. "Right this wrong!" she begged.
"What wrong?" I asked.
"That I am in bondage!" she cried.
"Dance more superbly," I told her.
She writhed yet more lasciviously, more deliciously, before me.
"You look well in a collar," I informed her.
"Please," she protested.
"Quite well," I said.
"Rescue me from bondage!" she cried.
"No," I said.
"What!" she cried.
"Dance," I told her.
She wept, and danced, and danced well.
I examined her movements. Clearly they were those of a slave.
"The only wrong, my dear," I said, "would have been if you had not been reduced to bondage."
"Please!" she wept.
"How do you address me?" I asked.
"Master!" she wept.
I motioned that she might return to the line, and, sobbing, dancing, she did so. The collar looked well on her neck. Clearly it belonged there. In time she would come to understand that and would then, fearfully, live in love, rejoicing. "Birsen," said the woman with the whip.
A tall thin girl, then, with brown hair about her shoulders, came forward. On Earth such a type, of such a structure, and with her beauty, I surmised, might have become a high fashion model. I indicated that she might return to the line. "Demet," said the woman.
A short, dark-skinned girl, plump and meaty, one about whose femaleness there could be no doubt, with long, swirling black hair, spun forward and writhed before me. She had soft, full, pouting lips, of the sort that seem made for the raping of the master's kiss. If she had ever been a free woman, doubtless she had been warned to keep those lips veiled, lest they attract the attention of slavers. I forced myself to remember that I had come here in response to a message, that I was expected to be partner to some sort of rendezvous. I had left Hurtha at the insula, with Feiqa, though by now, a lusty fellow, he was doubtless somewhere else on the street, Feiqa left behind, chained to her ring in the room. I did not know if there would be any danger, or not. At any rate, if there were to be any danger, it did not seem to me appropriate that I should enter my hearty companion of the road into it. Such perils, if they existed, were properly mine.