Mercenaries of Gor coc-21

by John Norman

  "That is a thought," I said. That much, surely at least, could be said for it. I conjectured what she might look like, stark naked, save for chains, perhaps, holding her as a tight love bundle, for a master's pleasure, at a ring, and the locked, steel slave collar that belonged on her neck.

  She looked at me, gratefully. In my imagination I tightened her chains a notch or two.

  "Is it true that you are drawn to me?" I asked.

  "Yes!" she whispered, daring to touch my hand.

  "Then shall we leave this place," I asked, "and to venture to your domicile?" She drew back. As I had anticipated, she would not find a suggestion of this sort acceptable. She would not want her address known. That might put her at the mercy of furious, outraged victims. Too, it could make it simple for guardsmen, acting on complaints, to bring her in for identification and questioning, these details doubtless, in her case, to be followed by a hearing and sentencing, an almost inevitable reduction to bondage and then perhaps, initially, while her disposition is being more carefully considered, a placement in the public slave gardens.

  "Perhaps then my room?" I suggested. "It is nearby."

  "Sir!" she said, reproachfully. As I had thought, this would not be satisfactory either. She would prefer to complete her work here, where apparently it was tolerated, with the stealth of a drug, rather than go to the expense of employing confederates outside or take the risk of being recognized by others who might be in the vicinity of the victim's environs. "What sort of girl do you think I am?"

  "Forgive me," I said, earnestly. "I did not mean to offend you." She was skillful at this type of game, it seemed, to provoke a male response, and then to claim she had been misunderstood, and was offended, thus confusing the male, keeping him off balance, and, in general, thusly guaranteeing, with a glance or tear, that she would have things her own way. She was, at least, manipulative in a feminine fashion. That I granted her. It said something for her femaleness. It is pleasant later, of course, to manipulate such women in a masculine fashion, by command and the whip.

  "I knew I should not have come here," she sobbed, wiping away a tear, one at least in theory, from the corner of her eye. She made as though to rise but, as I did not restrain her, she remained where she was.

  "I have been clumsy," I said.

  "I do not really blame you," she sobbed. "What else could you think, meeting me here? Surely you must think me the same as these other, lower women."

  "No, certainly not," I said. "You are quite different, obviously, from them." "Thank you," she whispered.

  I nodded. Of course she was quite different from them. That was obvious. She was not yet nude. She did not yet have a slave collar on her neck. She had not probably never yet, in her life, felt a slave whip.

  "Perhaps you are wondering," she said, wiping away yet another supposed tear, "what I, a gentlewoman, of breeding and refinement, am doing in this place?" "Perhaps," I said, encouragingly. I tried to look puzzled. Actually I had a rather clear idea what she was doing in this place.

  She looked down. "I think the real reason," she said, "under everything, as you may have suspected, is that I was driven here, almost helplessly, a woman in desperate need of love, daring to enter this terrible place, but one where I knew men were, by my desire to meet a kindly man, by my loneliness."

  "Yes," I said.

  "But I should never have come."

  "But then we would never have met." I said.

  "Yes," she whispered, again touching my hand. "That is true."

  "You spoke of a real reason," I said, "that having to do with your need of love, and such. That suggests, then, I take it, that there was some other reason, or pretended reason, for coming."

  She smiled, ruefully. "Yes," she said. "I am a proud free woman. I could not permit myself to recognize such things as my loneliness, or need for love. I must tell myself there was another reason for coming."

  "And what was that?" I asked.

  "I am in need of money," she said. "I have a ring. I told myself that I would try to sell it, that I would try to find a buyer in this place."

  "I see," I said.

  "But I have never been able to bring myself to part with it," she said. "It is one of the few things left to me from the time when I was proud and wealthy. It is so laden with memories. I could never really bring myself to part with it." "I understand," I said.

  "Would you like to see it?" she asked.

  "It is not necessary," I said.

  "Please, let me show it to you," she said.

  "Very well," I said.

  From the tiny pouch, hung on strings at her belt, she produced the ring. She slipped it on her finger.

  "Lovely," I said. Its oval stone was of white porcelain, mounted in a red-metal bezel. On the porcelain, very delicately done, in red, was the representation of a Tur tree. The band was gold.

  "It was wrought in Turia," she said. I found that easy to believe. It had the Tur tree, emblem of Turia, in the southern hemisphere, on the porcelain stone. Too, I knew such rings were manufactured in Turia. Indeed, I had even seen them there. Rings of this design, however, though perhaps not of this purpose, were rare in Ar, in the northern hemisphere. Most fellows of Ar would not recognize the ring, or suspect its purpose. She had probably purchased it in an import shop on the Avenue of Turia, which was nearby. To be sure, perhaps the setting was solid, and not hollow. Many rings of this appearance are totally innocent. "Would you let me buy it?" I asked. "Surely you could use the money." "Do not tempt me," she smiled. "I could never bring myself to part with it."

  "I am sorry," I said.

  "How fortunate I am to meet a man such as you," she said. "How understanding you are."

  I shrugged.

  "I am becoming excited," she whispered.

  "Oh?" I said.

  "I want to go to your room," she whispered.

  "Let us go," I said.

  "Oh, the wine is gone," she pouted.

  That was true.

  "May we have more wine?" she wheedled. "It would help me to get even more into the mood. With a little more wine I do not know if I could control myself. I might find myself hurrying after you, going to your room, heeling you through the streets like an amorous slave!"

  "I will get some more wine," I said. I glanced over to the left. In a moment or two, I had managed to catch the eye of Louise. She had not, of course, after her initial command, been concentrating on our table. I was pleased that she was not in use. I enjoyed having her serve me. Had she been, of course, I would have made do with another girl, say, Ita or Tia. They were both very nice slaves. Louise was now looking at me, aware that I was looking at her. I lifted my hand. She leaped up, hurrying toward me. I noticed the fellow nearby, slumped over the table. He had not yet stirred. He might be out for another Ahn or so. I leaned over to where Louise now knelt and gave her the wine order. The collar, such fine, strong steel, looked nice under her right ear.

  Lady Tutina smiled at me.

  I, too, smiled at her.

  "Do you like me?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said. I thought, properly trained and disciplined, she would make an excellent slave.

  "I wish that slave would hurry," she said.

  "I'm sure she will be back in a moment," I said.

  "Perhaps you should beat her," she said. "An excellent suggestion," I said, "but let us give her a few more Ihn."

  "I think I shall soon be in the mood," she whispered, confidingly, intimately. "Excellent," I said. It amused me to hear her speak of moods, and such. I wondered if she might think, perhaps for the first few Ihn of bondage, until the hand, the whip or boot taught her differently, that she might make a master wait upon her pleasure, until, say, she might be in the "mood," or something like that.

  "I suspect," she said, looking into my eyes, intimately, "that this meeting may change my life."

  "It is not impossible," I said.

  "Master," said Louise, arriving at the table, kneeling, another small bottle of wine on her
tray. I removed it from the tray and set it near me. I then dismissed her.

  I poured two small glasses of wine. I did not know how skilled the Lady Tutina was. I had known at least one fellow, Boots Tarsk-Bit, who was marvelously skilled at such things as misdirection and sleight of hand.

  "She is rather pretty, isn't she?" asked the Lady Tutina, looking after Louise. She, the Earth-girl slave, nude and collared, hard to see in the flickering reddish light, carrying the tray over her head, was making her way back among the tables and mats to the bar. "In a trivial, servile way, suitable for a slave, of course," added the Lady Tutina.

  "Perhaps," I said. I looked after Louise.

  "That fellow seems to think so," said the Lady Tutina. A fellow had reached out to touch Louise's branded flank as she moved past his table. She withdrew, frightened, hurrying on, from the touch. Then the fellow sprawled to the side, drunk.

  "Yes," I said.

  Louise was lovely, indeed. She had not yet, however, I suspected, fully learned her collar. I did not think she, as yet, realized fully, in the depths of her, that she was a slave girl, and only that, and what that meant. She could, of course, be taught.

  "She is bit skinny," said the woman.

  I shrugged. She was not skinny. She was slight, and slender. But such often make superb slaves. Certainly for her size and weight, she was well curved.

  "Let us drink," said the Lady Tutina. I decided that she was not particularly skilled after all. It is no great trick to put something in someone's drink when they are not looking. Boots, I was sure, could have managed it while engaged in face-to-face conversation. He, of course, was unusually good at that sort of thing.

  "To you," breathed the Lady Tutina, smiling.

  "No," I smiled, "to you."

  She then sipped the wine. I, on the other hand, after lifting it toward my lips, merely returned it to the table.

  "This is not the same wine," she said, lowering the glass. "It is different." "Yes," I said. "Do you like it?"

  "Yes," she said, smiling. "Of course. It is wonderful."

  "Perhaps you will come to like it," I said. In the beginning perhaps it would be down her throat, her head held back by the hair, by masters. Later, she might find herself wheedling and groveling for it, grateful to have anything that good.

  "You haven't touched your wine," she said, reproachfully.

  "Come here," I said.

  She came about the table, kneeling near me. It was the first time she had obeyed me. It pleased me to have her obeying me.

  "Close," I said.

  She then became quite close to me.

  "Cuddle," I said.

  She snuggled up close to me. Her nearness made me master hot. Her breasts were exciting. I put my arm about her, that I might hold her to me. She looked up into my eyes. "You haven't touched your wine," she pouted.

  "Oh?" I said.

  "Drink, drink," she wheedled, picking up the glass, lifting it toward my lips. "Drink," she said, "and then we may hurry to your room, where I may serve you, even as a slave."

  "You are luscious, and tempting," I said. "Drink," she said.

  I forced myself to remember that she was for the other fellow, the one slumped across the nearby table.

  "Drink," she whispered.

  I took the glass from her. I set it down on the table.

  "What is wrong?" she asked.

  "Encourage me," I said.

  She then began to kiss me, and lick me, about the face and neck. She did it quite well. With training she would do it much better.

  "Do you know the wine?" I asked.

  "No," she said.

  I turned the bottle so that she might read the label. It was a small bottle of Boleto's Nectar of the Public Slave Gardens. Boleto is a well-known winegrower from the vicinity of Ar. He is famous for the production of a large number of reasonably good, medium-grade ka-la-nas. This was one of the major wines, and perhaps the best, served in Ar's public slave gardens; indeed, it had originally been commissioned for that market; hence the name.

  "Oh," she said.

  "I hope you like it," I said.

  "It's very nice," she said.

  "I'm glad you like it," I said.

  "Here," she said, picking up the glass, "hurry, drink. I wish to hurry to your room."

  "Let us go to the room now," I said. I considered giving her this option, this chance to save herself. Did she accept it I would release her from the ring in the morning, with perhaps no more than an admonitory bruise or two.

  "Hurry," she whispered. She lifted the glass to my lips. "Drink," she whispered, invitingly, seductively.

  I smiled to myself. She had had her chance. To be sure, I had offered it to her only as an irony and amusement. That would doubtless sometime become quite clear to her. I had known she would not accept it.

  "Drink," she whispered. I took the glass from her hand. "Drink," she whispered. "But it is for you," I said. "What?" she said.

  "I bought the wine for you," I said.

  "But I have had some," she said.

  "Have some more," I said.

  "You may pour me some," she said, uneasily.

  "Take mine," I said.

  "I could not do that," she said.

  "Of course you could," I said.

  "I do not want any more," she said.

  "You were willing, a moment ago, to have me pour you more," I reminded her. "I have really had enough," she said. She squirmed a bit. She was locked, kneeling, in my arm.

  "No," I said, "you have not."

  She looked at me, frightened. "I do not want it," she said.

  "Of course you do," I said.

  "No," she said.

  "Is there anything wrong with it?" I asked.

  "No," she said. "Of course not."

  "Then drink," I told her. I lifted the glass toward her lips. She tried to pull back. "What is wrong?" I asked.

  "Nothing," she said.

  "Drink," I said.

  "No," she said.

  "You are going to drink this," I told her.

  "No!" she said.

  "Shall I call for a slave tube?" I asked.

  "No," she begged. My grip on her was merciless. The slave tube is a device for force-feeding a slave. It is not a pleasant device. A round, cylindrical, truncated cushion, usually of cork or leather, with a circular hole in its center, is forced into the slave's mouth. This prevents her from closing her teeth on the tube. The tube is then introduced through the circular opening in the bite cushion into her mouth and run down to her stomach. There is a funnel at the mouth-end of the tube. It may be used for such purposes as feeding a recalcitrant slave liquids, such as juices or broths. Some tubes come, too, however, with plungers, so that semisolid food, such as slave gruel, or hash, or even damp bread and tiny pieces of meat, indeed, about anything the master may please, may be forced into her stomach. The girl is usually on her knees when this is done, with her head back and her hands tied or braceleted behind her. Afterwards her hands are usually left confined for an Ahn or so in this fashion, so that she cannot rid herself of the nourishment.

  "Drink," I said.

  "Please, no," she wept.

  "Then you desire the slave tube?" I inquired.

  "No," she said. "Mercy!"

  I pulled her head back, by the hair, with my left hand. "Open your mouth," I said. "Do not spill a drop."

  She squirmed, helplessly. Her teeth were gritted.

  "I see that it is your intention to be difficult," I said.

  She struggled but then, by the hair, I held her precisely; where I wanted her. Her mouth remained tightly closed. I gathered she did not wish for so much as a drop of that liquid to cross her lips. It must be rather strong, I surmised. To be sure, the dosage had been intended for a male.

  I looked up, and noted Louise, who had been returning to her place to the left of the open space, coming back from the bar. She was standing there, observing me with horror.

  "We are going to give her a little dri
nk," I said to Louise.

  "Master?" asked Louise, frightened.

  "The slave tube is not going to be necessary after all," I told the Lady Tutina. She looked at me wildly, her mouth tightly shut.

  "A simpler, more primitive method, quite suitable for small amounts, is at our disposal," I told her.

  "No!" she said.

  I put the tiny glass of wine to the side, on the floor.

  "Slave," I said to Louise.

  "Master?" she said.

  "Take the Lady Tutina's belt," I said, "and tie her hands behind her back." "Master!" protested Louise.

  "No!" cried the Lady Tutina.

  "She is free," said Louise.

  "Must a command be repeated?" I asked Louise. "No, Master!" she said.

  She took the Lady Tutina's belt off and pulled her hands behind her back, and tied them there.

  "Good," I said. The Lady Tutina squirmed, on her knees, her hands tied behind her.

  "Master," moaned Louise, frightened.

  "Here," I said, handing her the tiny glass of wine. "Obey me, unquestioningly, when I speak."

  "Yes, Master," whispered Louise.

  "No!" said the Lady Tutina. "Oh!" I had then, reaching about her head with my left hand, pinched her nostrils tightly together between my fingers. She could now not breathe through her nose. With this same grip, and its afforded leverage, I pulled her head back. Perhaps I was not as gentle as I might have been, considering she was free. Still it might do her some good, like the binding of her hands behind her, to accustom her to being handled in this fashion. She gasped for air. I then wedged my right hand in her mouth and, with my thumb and fingers, my thumb on her upper teeth, my fingers on her lower teeth, forced it open, very widely. Held so, she could not bite.

  "Now," I said to Louise. "Now."

  The Lady Tutina whimpered. She squirmed. She tried to shake her head, but I held it in position, exactly as I wanted it. Louise carefully poured the wine into that lovely, widely opened orifice, that lovely, widely opened vessel that was the mouth of the Lady Tutina.

  "Good," I said to Louise.

  Louise looked at me, gratefully. She would not be immediately beaten, at least. She was pretty, naked.

  I continued to hold the head of the Lady Tutina in place. As I had timed the matter she had not had a breath left at that point to exhale or blow the fluid from her mouth. She looked at me, wildly.