Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  The cords binding my wrists were freed from the ring, and then the cords were removed from my wrists.

  I still lay at the ring.

  I did not know if I could move.

  The purpose of the beating I am sure, and thereby the intent, the rationale, of its inclusion in my induction here, so to speak, was neither unprecedented nor unusual. It was to help me understand certain things very clearly from the very beginning, that I was subject to the whip, that the men in this place were fully capable of using it on me, and that, if they saw fit, or felt so disposed, would do so. As I have suggested this lesson is neither unprecedented nor unusual. It is often thought to be a valuable lesson for a girl, particularly when she is brought into a new house.

  Then I cried out as the jailer pulled me up to all fours by the hair and then, his fist in my hair, hurried me back to the dais.

  I was now on all fours, at the foot of the dais. I looked up, though my hair, it muchly before my face now, and my tears, at he in the great chair.

  “Do you wish to be beaten again?” he asked.

  “No, Master! No, Master!” I said.

  “Kneel,” said he.

  I obeyed.

  “To whom do you belong?” he asked.

  “To the state, Master,” I said. To be sure, I did not know what state.

  “Are you important?” he asked.

  “No, master,” I said.

  “Put your head to the floor,” he said. “Clasp your hands behind the back of your neck.”

  I wept, and obeyed.

  “Tenrik,” said the fellow in the chair.

  “Yes, Captain,” said Tenrik.

  I cried out.

  Dorna laughed.

  “Keep your hands clasped behind the back of your neck,” warned Tenrik.

  “Yes, Master,” I wept.

  My eyes widened.

  “Oh!” I said.

  “Steady,” said Tenrik. “Clasp your hands.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You feel that?” asked Tenrik.

  “Yes, Master!” I said. “Yes, Master!”

  I tried to hold myself still.

  “Steady,” said Tenrik.

  “Yes, Master,” I whimpered.

  “Permit her to squirm,” said the man in the chair.

  “You may move,” said Tenrik.

  I began then, gratefully, to move, almost beside myself. I began to gasp.

  “She is a pretty little thing,” said the fellow in the chair.

  “Yes,” said one of the men near him.

  “Oh!” I said.

  “See the Earth slut!” said Dorna.

  I began to cry out, softly, helplessly.

  “Listen to her!” laughed Dorna.

  I tried to stifle my cries.

  “See her move,” said a man.

  “She cannot help herself,” said a man.

  “No,” said another.

  “A kajira,” said a man.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “She is pretty in her collar,” said another.

  “They all are,” another reminded him.

  “True,” agreed the other.

  Dorna made an angry noise.

  There was laughter.

  But no one paid her much attention.

  “Oh!” I said.

  “A quite pretty kajira,” said another.

  “Yes,” agreed another.

  “Oh!” I cried.

  “There!” laughed a man. “She is over the brink!”

  “She cannot return now,” said another.

  “She has gone too far. Tenrik has her now. She is lost!”

  “No,” said another. “She is on the verge.”

  “Please,” I begged “Please!”

  “See?” said the man.

  “Yes,” said the other.

  “Please, Master!” I begged.

  “Captain?” asked Tenrik.

  “Very well,” said the man in the chair.

  “Ohhh!” I cried.

  “Now she is lost,” said one of the men.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “Ha!” cried Tenrik, a sudden cry, more that of a beast than a man.

  I cried out. His hands were on me like iron. I could not have been held more helplessly in the vise of a branding rack. It seemed I was struck again and again.

  Then I was left whimpering on the floor before the dais.

  “Good,” said Tenrik, appreciatively, now on his feet, his voice husky.

  “You find the kajira satisfactory?” asked the man in the chair.

  “Even in such a way, in such a time,” said Tenrik. “It may only be conjectured to what lengths she might be brought, given different circumstances, and more time.”

  “Do you think she will soon reach the point where she is totally helpless?” asked the man in the chair.

  “Yes,” said Tenrik.

  I lay before the dais. It was with bitterness, and chagrin, I heard myself so discussed. It was done so publicly, so candidly. Did they not know I was present? Did they not know others were present? I was being discussed as publicly, as candidly, as though I might be an animal. Then I realized again, of course, that I was an animal. I trembled. I already felt that I was, in such modalities, helpless. I was startled to learn I might become even more so. What then could I do? What then would I be? I had learned in the pens that I had an unusual potentiality for vitality, that somehow beneath the encrustations of a subtle, pervasive, insidious conditioning program, one to which I had been mercilessly subjected from childhood on, beneath, and in spite of, all the antibiological values, all the instilled inhibitions, reservations, hesitations and guilts, there lurked a primitive, powerful, natural, healthy responsiveness. This conditioning program, and its effects, now, bit by bit, fragment by shattered fragment, had been broken away from me. In its ruins I had emerged, like a beautiful thing, innocent from the sea. To be sure, I had emerged as something real, not mythical, something which found itself in a very real world, a world in which I learned I was a certain sort of thing, vulnerable, precious and beautiful, and not at all the same as certain other sorts of things which were quite as real as I, and the world, but quite different, as well.

  “How worthless she is!” said Dorna.

  “Not altogether,” said a man.

  There was laughter.

  “Look at her body,” said a man.

  I knelt, covering my body as I could. I was muchly flushed. I covered my breasts. I did not want them to see the erection of my nipples. I was gentle. They were tender. I kept my head down.

  “Position,” said the man in the chair.

  I must obey, instantly.

  I knelt now with my back straight, back on my heels. My hands, now, were down on my thighs. My knees were spread. I kept my head down.

  “Head up,” said the man in the chair.

  I lifted my head. There were tears in my eyes.

  I knelt, collared, before masters.

  “See her,” said a man, considering the condition of my body.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “She is a new slave?” asked a man.

  “She is just out of the pens,” said a fellow.

  “We had her on her first retail sale,” said another.

  “Her brand is still smoking,” laughed another. It was a saying.

  “She was delivered, hooded, only a few days ago,” said another.

  “It is hard to believe that she is new to her collar,” said a man.

  “It is so certified,” remarked another.

  “I have seen her papers,” said a fellow.

  I knew I had papers but, of course, I could not read them. Such papers, as I understood it, begin with a girl’s arrival in the pens. That is when her meaningful existence, her slave existence, begins. Nothing before that counts. There is no interest in our origins, save that we are of Earth, nor in our history or background. Such things have no relevance, or importance. They are all behind us. We are no lon
ger free women. What interests them is merely that we are slaves, and our slave properties. A number of things are commonly found on papers, which may be more or less detailed, for example, our brand type, a number of measurements, the sorts of training we have received, and such. There is also, usually, a place for sales endorsements, for when a girl changes hands. There is also a “remarks section.” where miscellaneous information may be recorded.

  “And already, so soon,” said another, “she cannot help herself.”

  “She is hot,” said another. “Slave hot.”

  “Superb,” added another.

  I blushed, even more.

  “Yes,” said one of the men, considering me, “a hot slave.”

  He could they speak of me so?

  But, of course, I was an animal!

  “Consider what she will be when the slave fires have been truly lit in her belly,” said another.

  “See,” said a fellow, “she is afraid!”

  “But see, as well,” said another, “she is intrigued.”

  “Yes,” said another. “She wants it. She wants it.”

  “And helplessly, desperately!” said another.

  “Yes!” laughed another.

  I tried not to meet the eyes of any of the men.

  Could they so read me?

  And could there be more? Could I be more helplessly theirs than I was now?

  And what were “slave fires”?

  I dared not speculate.

  “She might easily be a silver-tarsk girl,” said a fellow.

  I did not understand the allusion, but gathered that a silver tarsk was a coin, and might be a good price for me.

  Not only could my face and body, my beauty, if beauty it be, my dispositions, my talents, my capacities, my intelligence, my feelings, my emotions, my service, my pleasure, be sold! My heat, too, could be sold. It, too, could be put up for sale!

  Men could buy it!

  It could be purchased with the rest of me.

  It is all of her, you see, the whole slave, that is sold.

  “See her!” laughed a fellow.

  My entire body, I fear, was a rage of subsiding arousal, and scarlet shame.

  Could I help it if my body was so alive, and so much at their mercy? Too, had they not done much, the men of this world, to bring me to this helplessness?

  They had not permitted me to hide from myself! They had forced me to be myself!

  - slave.

  “She is an Earth slut,” said Dorna. “That is the way Earth sluts are. They are all like that!”

  “I do not object,” said a man.

  “Nor I,” said another.

  There was laughter.

  I wondered what I was supposed to do. Should I have tired to be unresponsive and frigid, and thus, in some absurd or perverted sense, have attempted to uphold the honor of the women of Earth? And it was not merely that in the pens many of my inhibitions had been forcibly removed from me and that my natural sexuality had been freed and encouraged, permitted to grow, to thrive and blossom, but that my reflexes had actually been honed, so to speak, to greater sensitivity. I was now no stranger to arousal and responsiveness. I had even received training. Besides, I was a kajira! If I proved to be displeasing, I could be punished severely, even slain.

  And so I knelt before them, naked, in a position of submission and subservience, a collared slave girl.

  I had a name, but I did not know it.

  “A hot, curvaceous slut,” said a man.

  I knelt before them.

  My body was no longer my own, but belonged now to the masters.

  I must obey. I must serve.

  How far away now was my old world, how far away now were the boutiques, the shops, the malls!

  I wondered how my old friends Jean, and Sandra, and Priscilla and Sally, would have looked, kneeling as I was. Doubtless much the same.

  “See the whipped slave!” laughed Dorna. “See the utilized slave! See the Earth-slut slave!”

  I stared ahead. I did not look at her.

  “How are you kajira?” inquired Dorna.

  “I will obey! I will try to be pleasing!” I said.

  “Do women kneel thusly, before masters, on your world?” inquired Dorna.

  “Some, perhaps,” I said. “I do not know!”

  “Did you?” asked Dorna.

  “No,” I said.

  “What is wrong with the men of your world?” she asked. “Are they not men?”

  “I do not know!” I said.

  “You did not kneel before men,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “But now you do,” said Dorna.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes, what?” she snapped.

  “Yes, Mistress?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said. I must then, it seems, address her as ‘Mistress’. She was not free, of course. It was rather that I was so much less then she. I did not think she was “first girl” over me. I would have dreaded that. It seemed rather that I was a low slave, and she was a high slave. And, perhaps she wished to be addressed as ‘Mistress’ by me because I was from Earth. She seemed to hate Earth, and those from Earth. I had gathered one from Earth might once have been involved in some shift in her fortunes. Now, of course, she had one before her who was from that world, and only a helpless kajira. I trusted that the men might protect me from her. After all, it was they who were the masters of us both.

  “Earth slave!” sneered Dorna.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I whispered, frightened.

  It was true that that was what I was, and all that I was.

  Dorna turned about and hurried up the steps of the dais. I did not care for the expression I detected on her countenance the moment before she turned away. Then she was at the left side of the great chair, which it seemed was where she belonged, and there she turned about, and was now facing me, looking down at me. But she addressed herself to the man in the chair. “She is the lowest of the low, is she not! Master?” asked Dorna.

  “Yes,” said the man.

  Dorna smiled and leaned down, confidentially to him, and whispered something.

  He smiled.

  She then hurried down the stairs, and, going behind me, seized my hair and held it up over my head, knotted securely in her grip, with both hands. I winced. She turned my head to the right and held it back, exposing the left side of my head to the chair. She then retaining her grip on my hair with her right hand, with her left, with the tips of her fingers, her palm up, indicated, and lifted slightly, the lobe of my left ear. It was almost as though she might be a slaver, or a slaver’s man, calling attention to some feather which might be of interest to a buyer. I did not understand what she was doing. “Pretty?” she asked. “Yes,” said the man in the chair. Then she returned both hands to my hair and, still holding it up, over my head, twisted my head to the left, and back, thus exposing now the right side of my head to the chair. She kept her left hand in my hair, and I whimpered, at the rightness of her grip, and then displayed, in the fashion she had earlier, the right side of my head, indicating, and lifting, slightly, the lobe of my right ear. “Pretty?” she asked, again. “Yes,” said the man in the chair. She returned both hands to my hair and held my head back, forcibly, cruelly, before the dais. “Let her ears be pierced!” she cried.

  I heard cries of protest, of dismay, from several of the men about.

  She held my head back, painfully, as she had before.

  “Let her ears be pierced!” she cried.

  “Yes!” suddenly said one of the men, almost inaudibly.

  “She is very pretty,” said a man.

  “Why not?” suggested another.

  “Can you imagine what she would look like, thusly?” said another.

  “Excellent,” said another man.

  “She is only from Earth,” said another.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “Let her ears be pierced!” urged another. />
  “Yes!” said another eagerly.

  There was silence.

  “Yes” smiled the man in the chair, musingly, looking down upon me, with such a look of power, of possessiveness of mastery and desire, that even held as I was I almost fainted. “Yes,” he said musingly, “let her ears be pierced.”

  “Excellent!” cried Dorna, releasing my hair and stepping away from me, looking down at me with triumph.

  “Excellent,” said more than one man. I heard the striking of shoulders behind me. It was done with the flat hand, the left shoulder with the right hand.

  I understood very little of this. I had not had my ears pierced on Earth, but I had considered it from time to time. I had not had the courage to do so. I suppose I regarded it as too barbaric, too sensuous. After all, I was not then owned. Such an act, too, it seemed to me, would be to make too public certain secrets of one. It would have seemed to me, in effect, to acknowledge one’s inner realities, to call attention to what lay within one, to proclaim one’s inner self publicly, to offer oneself for bondage, to beg, in a way, the collar. I certainly had no objection to having my ears pierced. Did this mean that I was so obviously a slave? I assumed, of course, they had in mind some natural sort of piercing, and not some grotesque mutilation. But I did not think that was involved here.

  The men of this world, with all their barbaric animal heat, with all their ardor, and power and mastery, loved and desired women, and relished them, and prized them. The last thing they would want to do would be to decrease the beauty or value of a woman. Even their strictest and most sever devices of punishment and discipline were designed with the protection of such features in mind. Indeed, if anything, these men insisted on the women making themselves, and keeping themselves, as desirable, attractive and beautiful as possible. This is the way they want us and, if necessary, even to the imposition of punishments and disciplines, that is the way they will see to it that we remain. To be sure, I was so poor a woman of Earth that I did not mind being desirable and beautiful. Indeed, I was eager to be such that I would bring a high price on a slave block. Indeed, as I am a slave, even on Earth I had wanted to be such, desirable and beautiful, and such as would bring a good price from lustful, bidding masters. But what distressed me now was the sense I gathered of the response of the men to the suggestion that my ears be pierced. I realized now, only too clearly, that this primitive, barbaric, homely little detail, seemingly so tiny in itself, the piercing of the ears, making possible the affixing of certain forms of ornaments, seemed, for some reason, quite momentous to them. I gathered that once my ears were pierced there would then be, at least from their point of view, something quite different about me.