Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  Dorna returned with a small dish in which there were some tiny bits of meat.

  She handed this to the occupant of the great chair.

  He regarded me, and I looked up at him, from all fours, from the floor below the dais.

  “She has pretty hair,” he said.

  “Mine is better,” said the woman.

  We were both dark brunettes. Indeed, our hair was almost the same color. Perhaps hers was a little darker. I suddenly realized that our complexions must, too, be similar. I then suspected, naturally enough, immediately, that perhaps we were both of the “type” in which the personage in the chair might have an interest. Some men, it seems, are interested in certain “types” of women. On this world men have little difficulty in finding the types in which they might be interested. Here there are many markets, some of them even specialty markets, catering to particular tastes. One may accordingly, at one’s convenience, browse though various markets, seeking wares to one’s liking. A fellow, sooner or later, is almost certain to find an item, fastened to one ring or another, which will conform to his particular taste. Too, as an option, “want lists” may be circulated. Some women of Earth, I suspect, owe their very presence on this world, their very brand and collar, to the fact that they happen to satisfy, unbeknownst to themselves, in virtue of some particular configuration of properties, features and such, to a greater or lesser degree, the requirements of such a list. To be sure, these are doubtless delivered to specific customers. If there is a consolation or advantage in this it is that they are almost certain to find that they are exactly, or almost exactly, what someone wants. I did think that my figure might be superior to hers, at least from the point of view of what seemed to be the common preferences of men of this world.

  The occupant of the chair tossed one of the pieces of meat to the floor.

  I went to it, on all fours, and put down my head, and picked it up.

  The next tidbit of meat he tossed to the first step of the dais, where I retrieved it.

  I looked up at him, the palms of my hands on the firs step of the dais, my knees on the flagging below the dais.

  He tossed the next piece of meat on the second step.

  Obediently I took it. He was drawing me upward.

  The next tidbit he threw to the floor of the dais, before his chair. I crawled to the floor of the dais and put down my head and picked up the bit of meat. I was grateful for it. I had not had beat since the pens. I looked up at him. My hair fell before my shoulders. I was nude. My neck was innocent of a collar. On my thigh there was, of course, the brand. Once or twice in the pens I had been given a candy, a hard candy, and once, a part of a pastry. I did not hope for such items here, of course, at least at this time. He now held the next piece of meat between his fingers. I was to approach him, and take the it from his hand. I crawled to him, and knelt before him, and dared to put my hands upon his left knee. Dorna, the high slave, was a little before me, and to my right. She was standing beside the arm of the thronelike chair, at his left. I put my head forward, delicately, to take the piece of meat, but he drew back his hand a little. I then drew back my head a little, and looked up at him.

  “You are from the world called “Earth”?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “What have you learned of our world?” he asked.

  “Very little, Master,” I said.

  “But you have learned how to obey, have you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Are the women of your world obedient?” he asked.

  “Doubtless some, Master,” I said.

  “But you were not,” he said.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “But you have now learned to obey, have you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And you now obey very well, do you not?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Instantaneously, and unquestioningly?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He then put the bit of meat into my mouth.

  I took it, gratefully. I finished it. I looked up at him. I hoped that he found me of interest. Women such as I, on this world, must please men. It is what we are for.

  “Do not concern yourself with her,” said Dorna. “She is totally unworthy of your attention. She is nothing, only a slut from Earth.”

  The broad-shouldered, large-handed man looked down upon me. How tiny I felt before him. He had been referred to as an “officer” by the jailer. Those large hands, I suspected, were not unpracticed in the techniques of weaponry. Certainly they seemed rough, and strong. I feared to sense what they might feel like on my body.

  At his least touch I knew I would respond to him as what I was, a kajira.

  Then I put my head down, quickly, for I sensed that he understood this, as well. Indeed, he could doubtless read women such as myself with ease. He had undoubtedly subjugated many of us in his time, reducing us to helpless, spasmodic, begging slaves.

  “She has no status, even as a slave,” said Dorna. “Put her from your mind. She is only from Earth. She is entirely worthless.”

  The fellow smiled at the insistence of the slave.

  “They are the coldest of the cold,” said Dorna.

  Two or three of the men about burst into laughter at this remark. They had experienced, and perhaps even owned, I gathered, women such as I, from Earth. Indeed, perhaps they kept one or more in their domiciles now. I doubted that we were brought to this world because we were cold. If anything, for another reason. I kept my head down. I reddened.

  “Sometimes women learn heat in a collar,” said a man.

  “I have heard that of a slave named “Dorna,”” said another. There was laughter. Dorna looked away, angrily.

  “Are you “cold,” little kajira?” asked the man.

  “I do not think so, Master,” I said.

  I wondered if some women did not, indeed, learn their heat in a collar.

  “They are the hottest of the hot,” said a man.

  “It depends on the particular woman,” said a man.

  That, I supposed, was true.

  I did not believe, of course, that the women of my world were cold. Certainly, at least, they did not seem to be once they had come to this world. To be sure, there were doubtless many reasons for this. On this world we found ourselves in a true world, a biologically natural world, a world in which nature was fulfilled, and celebrated, not outlawed, denied, and denounced. Here a natural sexuality was acceptable. Indeed, it was required of us. Here, for example, we need not pretend to subscribe to the pathologies of identicalism, neuterism and personism. Here we found ourselves in the order of nature where, biologically, we belonged. And here, too, at last, after having lived for years in a sexual desert, unhappy, frustrated, deprived and starved, we find ourselves in a land of plenty. How eagerly we eat! How joyously we drink! But, too, of course, we have little choice in these matters. Heat is here required of us. Just as total passion and complete surrender were, in effect, forbidden to us on our old world, here they are, quite precisely, required of us. Do we have reservations, or scruples? Are there lingering vestiges of the barbaric conditioning programs to which we, even as innocent children, were subjected? Such reservations, such scruples, such vestiges, may be quickly removed with the lash.

  “They are all cold,” insisted Dorna.

  The fellow in the chair reached out and I watched his hand, with apprehension. Then he placed it on my body.

  I gasped and drew back. I trembled. I closed my eyes, whimpered.

  I tried to hold myself still. He must remove his hand! He must! He must!

  “She would be hot in her chains,” laughed a man.

  In another moment I felt I must thrust myself against him, again and again, desperately, kissing and whimpering.

  Then, mercifully, he removed his hand from my body.

  I looked up at him and, my eyes wide, licked and kissed his hand.

/>   “They are all meaningless, hot-bellied sluts!” said Dorna. “That is all they are good for, rolling about, kicking, screaming, moaning, gasping, begging, in the furs!”

  “They have many uses,” said a fellow.

  “Yes,” laughed another.

  “Slave belly!” snapped Dorna.

  “I thought you said they were all cold,” said a man.

  “No,” said Dorna. “It is rather that they are all trivially, meaninglessly hot.”

  “They are the hottest of the hot,” said another man.

  “It depends on the individual woman,” repeated another.

  Again that seemed to me true.

  “They are the lowest of the low!” said Dorna.

  “That is true,” said a man.

  “Yes,” agreed another.

  “Are you the lowest of the low?” asked the man.

  “I do not know, Master,” I said.

  “You are,” he assured me.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. If I had had any doubt as to how I had stood on this world before, I had none now.

  Dorna laughed.

  The fellow in the chair still held, in the palm of his left hand, some tidbits of meat.

  He took one of these between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and held it out to me.

  I took it, and ate it.

  I looked up at him. I wondered if he would again touch me.

  I took the next piece of meat.

  “You take your food from men,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He then held another piece.

  “See her being fed by hand!” said Dorna to those about.

  I took the next piece of meat.

  “Feed, little Earth beast!” laughed Dorna.

  Suddenly the occupant of the chair turned toward Dorna and regarded her.

  She turned white.

  Her switch was taken from her.

  Then the proud Dorna knelt beside me and, putting forth her head, angrily, in fury, was fed as I.

  “You take your food from men,” the occupant of the chair informed the proud woman kneeling beside me.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. That admission, I conjectured, had cost her much.

  About us some men laughed, and some smote their left shoulders in approval.

  In order that the matter be lost on no one, the occupant of the chair, of the last three pieces of meat, casting each to the floor of the dais, cast the first to the six-legged beast, which lapped it up instantly with its tongue, scarcely a scrap to such a maw, the second to me and the third to Dorna. Dorna and I, then, on all fours, from where we had retrieved that largesse which had been granted to us, cast to the floor of the dais, looked up at he who occupied the chair.

  “May I rise, Master?” she asked.

  Though a high slave it seemed she thought it wise, under the circumstances, to request this permission.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She leaped to her feet.

  I remained on all fours, before the chair.

  Dorna was regarding me with fury. She was not pleased to have been knelt beside me, and fed as I was, nor to have to have pursued a bit of meat thrown to the floor, just as I had, as one might expect of a low girl. And there were others about. It was not as though she were naked, and alone with him.

  I saw that she was very angry with me. Surely she must blame me for her humiliation. Too, I suspected she might, for some reason, be jealous of me. Was it my fault if I might be more beautiful or desirable than she? Did she resent the interest of the men in me? Did she fear that I might turn the head of the fellow in the chair? Might that be it? Did she fear that she might cease to be his preferred slave, if, indeed, she was that? I did not think that she was likely to have been a bread slave, except insofar as every woman, being a woman, is a bred slave. Perhaps she had once been a high free woman. But now, of course, somehow, it seemed that she had come into the collar. Perhaps her life now was quite different from what it had once been. Perhaps once she had even possessed some sort of authority, perhaps even over certain men. But now, it seemed, she must obey men, strive to please them and hope to be fed. Perhaps she hated me because I was from Earth. It was not that uncommon for women of this world to hate us, I had gathered. Perhaps they regarded us rivals, or something? Perhaps we were resented because many men of this world seemed to prize us, though, to be sure, they kept us under strict discipline, as perfect slaves.

  They wanted us that way, and saw to it that that would be the way we would be kept.

  Little on Earth prepares a woman for Gor.

  “Return to the foot of the dais, and stand,” said the man in the chair.

  I backed down the steps of the dais, on all fours, and then, at its foot, rose to my feet.

  “Bring slave wine,” he said.

  My heart leaped.

  Dorna, angrily, descended the steps of the dais behind the thronelike chair and went again to the table beneath the roofed defense work.

  I was pleased.

  I looked down, shyly.

  I had been given slave wine in the pens, of course, but it was not mine to call that to their attention. Indeed, the matter was undoubtedly noted on my papers. Perhaps these men merely wished to make sure of the matter. Or perhaps they merely wished to have me drink slave wine before them, either for their amusement, or because of he effects of this act, which were not only practical but symbolic. The effect of slave wines, at least those now in general use, seems to be indefinite, but they are commonly renewed annually, perhaps largely for symbolic purposes. One removes the effects of such wine by drinking a “releaser.” The wines themselves could be sweetened, but normally served bitter, which taste, as I understand it, is closer to that of the original root, the sip root, from which they are ultimately derived. The “releaser” or, at least the wine in which it is mixed, the “breeding wine” or “second wine,” is sweet. The breeding of slaves, like that of most domestic animals, is carefully supervised. Slave breeding usually takes place in silence, at least as far as speech is concerned. Similarly the slaves are normally hooded. They are not to know one another. This is thought useful in reducing, or precluding, certain possible emotional complications. The breeding takes place under the supervision of masters, or their agents, with endorsements being recorded on proper papers. I was pleased, of course, because, just as I took my feeding to be an indication that I was to be kept, if only for a time, so, too, I would interpret my being given slave wine as constituting something of a reassurance of my desirability something in the nature of an indication that I might have been found, these men looking upon me, not without promise as a kajira, even though I was a woman of Earth.

  Dorna handed me the goblet.

  I could be every bit as good as a woman of this world, I was sure!

  I did not even look at Dorna.

  Who needed to look upon her?

  I stood naked before the dais, and looked up at he who sat in the thronelike chair.

  What could a woman of my world be before such men but their slave?

  And they would have it so! Choiceless we would serve, docile, obedient, fearful, overwhelmed. They were our masters. Did they care what was in our secret hearts? Did they know we wished to be taken in hand, commanded, prized? Did they know we wished to be objects of such desire, that we wanted to be sought, tenaciously and powerfully, and relished? Did they know they had appeared in a thousand secret dreams, as our masters? Did they know that we were born for them, that we would be forever incomplete without them? I asked only, choicelessly, to love and serve such men.

  “Drink the wine, slut!” hissed Dorna.

  I did not look at her, but at the man in the chair. I felt suddenly very strong, and very powerful, though I was so small and weak. I had aroused the interest of these men as a kajira. I was sure of that. Let Doran fear then for her place on a chain! I would happily, eagerly, compete with her for the privilege of kneeling before such men!

  I lifted the win
e a little upward and toward the man in the chair. I then looked at him over the rim of the goblet. My eyes spoke to him, I think eloquently, over the rim of the goblet, telling him doubtless what he knew, that before him there stood a slave.

  I then drank. It was terribly bitter. I shook with the bitterness. I clutched the goblet with both hands.

  “Do not spill any,” warned Dorna.

  Tears came to my eyes.

  “Hurry, slave,” said Dorna. “More quickly!”

  I lifted the goblet again.

  It seemed more bitter than that I had had in the pens.

  “Hurry,” said Dorna.

  I could hardly take a sip.

  “Hurry,” she insisted.

  I looked to her for mercy, but in her eyes there was none.

  “Drink, slut,” she said.

  Then I tried to ruse the fluid, that I might be finished before I could fully taste it.

  It was mostly gone then and I held to the goblet, and shuddered, and coughed.

  There was laughter.

  In the cup there now remained only a tiny bit. I could even see the bottom of the goblet through what remained.

  I looked again to Dorna, but she was merciless.

  “Finish it,” said she. “Drain the cup. Drink it to the last drop.”

  I finished the liquid, to the last drop. Dorna swept the goblet from my hand and took it away. I stood before the men, half bend over. I could still taste the bitterness, palpably, like tiny, foul damp grains in my mouth, on my tongue, my lips. I put my hand over my face, as much to wipe away my tears as anything. I trembled. Then I took down my hands and straightened up. I looked about a little. I sensed now that the men looked upon me somewhat differently. Now doubtless I was more what they wanted, or, perhaps, actually, merely more assuredly so. Was I not now, even more obviously than before, a plaything or a possession, something that might figure in the most casual of gratifications, something which now might be utilized even in amusement or sport, with no fear whatsoever of any inconvenient consequences?