Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  “Come here,” said the man in the chair. I regarded him, but he was looking at Dorna.

  “Master?” she said.

  He pointed to the floor of the dais, before the chair.

  Frightened, she hurried there, and knelt before him. He drew her more closely to him, she still kneeling, and he bent forward. He took her head in his hands and brushed back her hair. “Master?” she said, uncertainly. He turned her head to one side, and then to the other.

  “Pretty,” he said.

  “No!” she said. “No!”

  He turned to one of the men to the side. “Let her ears be pierced,” he said.

  “No!” cried Dorna. “No!” she leaped to her feet and turned about, fleeing, stumbling down the steps of the dais and then, at its foot, half bent over, turned about, facing the man in the chair. “No!” she cried. “No!”

  He regarded her.

  “No, please, no!” she said. She did not seem so haughty then, so arrogant, so imperious, so hard. She seemed then only what she was, a female, in the hands of men.

  He did not speak, but continued to regard her.

  She then drew herself up, proudly, as though she might be other than what she was. “Never!” she said. “Never!”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “you would prefer to go to the ring.” She took a step backward, aghast.

  “I am Dorna,” she said.

  “That may be changed,” he said.

  “I am a high slave!”

  “That, too, may be changed,’ he said.

  “No!” she said.

  “Does Dorna want to go to the ring?” he asked.

  “No!” she said, shuddering.

  “What?” he inquired.

  “Dorna does not want to go to the ring,” she whispered.

  “You seemed to find it amusing when the Earth slave was at the ring,” he said.

  “Be kind,” she begged.

  “But then she is only an Earth slave,” said the man.

  “Yes! Yes!” said Dorna.

  “But you would doubtless wriggle at the ring, as well as she,” he said.

  I did not want to meet the eyes of any of them. I was frightened, kneeling before the dais. Dorna and I were the only two women on the terrace. We were both slaves.

  “Please, no, Master!” said Dorna. I noted she called him “Master.”

  “Perhaps you would enjoy being at the ring, and then being publicly utilized, as she was,” said the man in the chair.

  “No, Master!” cried Dorna.

  “Your silk can be taken from you,” said the man in the chair.

  “Please, no, Master!” she said.

  “Perhaps it could be given to the Earth slave.”

  “No, Master, please!” said Dorna. She case me a wild glance. I saw she was genuinely frightened.

  “The Earth girl might be made a high slave and you a low slave,” he said.

  “Please, no, Master!” she said.

  “The word ‘Master’ sounds well on your tongue,” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” she said. “Thank you, Master!”

  “I think you do not use it frequently enough,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master!” she said. “I will try to improve my behavior, Master!”

  “Does Dorna want to keep her silk?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  He regarded her.

  “Dorna wants to keep her silk!” she cried. She clutched the silk about her, desperately.

  “But perhaps I have a better idea,” he mused.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Perhaps you should be returned to Tharna in chains,” he said.

  At this Dorna turned white and flung herself to her knees at the foot of the dais.

  “Oh, no, Master!” she cried.

  “They might enjoy seeing you again,” he said.

  She began to weep and tremble. She looked small, and piteous, and female, at the foot of the dais.

  “Look up,” he said.

  She did, through wild tears.

  “They might enjoy having you again within their walls,” he mused.

  “No,” she sobbed.

  “I wonder what it might be, after the procession though the streets, you naked, in chains, on a chain neck-tether, conducted through the jeering crowds, goaded by spear points, hastened by whips, and after the public humiliations, would it be torture and the spear? Presumably not, as that is too simple. Too, that is too honorable. And you are now merely bond. Perhaps then you might be nailed to the great gate or to the public boards. It can take days to die in such a fashion. There is little bleeding. Or, more quickly, you might be cast to sleen, or fed to starving urts, or be flung to the fangs of dry, thirsting leech plants.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Please, no.”

  “You might be spared,” he said. “You might be enclosed in a cage, suspended in the piazza. Others might then learn from your fate a lesson. You might be put in a dozen chains and flung into the deepest dungeon in the city. Perhaps then, eventually, you would be forgotten, save perhaps by a warden and some urts. You might even be kept chained in the public tarsk pens, in the mud, for years, there to compete naked, mocked by all, for your swill.”

  She put her head down, trembling.

  “To be sure,” said he, “as you are only a slave, it might be amusing for them to keep you chained to a ring in the lowest brothel in the city, your use free to any and all.”

  “Lift your head,” he said sharply.

  She looked up. Tears streamed down her face.

  “Your face is bared,” he said.

  She sobbed.

  “The faces of slaves should be bared,” he said, “that their tiniest expressions may be read.”

  Again she wept.

  “No longer,” said he, “can you hide behind a mask of silver, or gold.”

  “No, Master,” she wept.

  “Your face is bared,” he said, “as is fitting for the face of a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “But there is another possibility,” he mused, “an interesting one, one other than merely returning you in chains to Tharna.”

  “Master?” she asked, frightened.

  “You could be returned to he from whom you were stolen,” he said.

  “No!” she screamed, in terror. “No! No!” she suddenly, wildly, crawled up the steps of the dais, and flung herself to her belly before the man in the chair. She pressed her lips again and again to his feet, fervently, in terror, covering them with frantic kisses. “NO,” she begged. “Please, no, Master!”

  “Do you not know how to kiss a man’s feet?” he inquired.

  She sobbed, and then delicately, humbly, softly, submissively, devotedly, with much care, with great attentiveness, with exquisite sensuousness, with her tongue as well as lips, addressed her ministrations to his feet and sandals.

  “Better,” said he.

  I was frightened at the terror exhibited by the slave. The mere thought of being returned to some former master, from whom, I gathered, she had been stolen, was apparently more dreadful to her, more fearful to her, than the assemblage of fates which had just been outlined before her, those possibly consequent upon her being returned to Tharna, some city into the power of which, it seemed, she would be ill-advised to fall.

  “I would think you might enjoy being returned to your former master,” said the man in the chair, “he who first captured you, and put the collar on you.”

  “No! No!” she said.

  “He is rumored to be one of the finest swordsmen in the world,” said the man.

  She sobbed, and continued to kiss his feet.

  “Did he not slay a retinue of one hundred men before he reached the curtains of your palanquin, to tear them aside?”

  She did not raise her head, but trembled.

  “It was he who first removed the mask from you,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered, shuddering.

  “And did
you not, even as a free woman, kneel in the dust beside the palanquin, your mask taken from you, and kiss and lick the blood from his sword?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I wonder that he was interested in you,” said the man.

  “Master?” she asked, lifting her head a little.

  “His sword could have won him many women, women whose attractions he would presumably have had little difficulty in detecting,” he said.

  I assumed he meant women such as I — slaves, suitably clad, lightly and revealingly, women of whose charms there could be little doubt.

  “Could he have known that you were as beautiful as you are?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “It would not seem so,” he said.

  “But doubtless he was pleased to see that you were beautiful,” he said.

  “Perhaps, Master,” she said.

  “But he must originally have had you in mind for some other purpose,” he said. “He must have had some use in mind for you.”

  “Master?” she asked.

  “But the first use was doubtless merely that you would follow him naked, and collared, bearing his shield.”

  “That was the second use,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I would think,” he said, “ that you would have enjoyed belonging to him.”

  “No!” she said, in terror.

  I was frightened to think of such a master, one who inspired such terror. I shuddered. What manner of man might he be? As slaves, of course, it is appropriate, and not at all unusual, for us to retain a healthy fear of our masters, particularly if we suspect we may have been in some detail remiss or may have been in some respect less than perfectly pleasing, for we are, after all, their slaves. We are totally dependent on them in all things, and they have absolute power over us. More simply put, they are master.

  “For you two would seem to have much in common,” he said.

  “Do not return me to him,” she wept.

  “But you would seem much the same as he.”

  “No, no!” she said.

  “No?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “I am a female.”

  “You now understand that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It seems he knows how to keep a slave,” said the man.

  She shuddered.

  “What did he want you for, other than the usual purposes of a slave?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” she said.

  “Perhaps we are too lenient with you here,” he mused.

  “No, no,” she whispered.

  To be sure, it did not seem likely to me that this was a place in which men might be criticized for being too lenient with their slaves.

  “I wonder what we should do with you,” he said.

  “Do not return me to him, I beg it!” she wept.

  I saw she was terrified. I thought of the master she feared. From her reactions even I, who did not even know him, began to tremble. From her fear I was afraid. I was afraid even to think of such a man. Then I thought that perhaps I now better understood men in this place, that they might steal from such a man. To be sure, I did not know the whole story. Perhaps her former owner, he under discussion, was ignorant of the identity of her thief. Or perhaps the men here had merely purchased her, or captured her later, from another. Between the man she feared and this place she might have changed hands a dozen times, as any property.

  “I wonder what I should do with you,” he said.

  “Keep me!” she begged.

  She did not request her freedom, of course. How insulting and absurd would have beensuch a request of men such as these. We wore our collars and would continue to wear them. They liked us in our collars, and found us precious in them. It would be as absurd and meaningless for us to be freed on this world as it would be for a dog or horse to be freed on my former world. It is said that only a fool frees a slave girl. It is true.

  “Keep me, Master,” she begged. “Keep me, Master.”

  she then, lowering her head again, began again, beggingly, pleadingly, submissively, with tears, desperately zealous to placate and please him, to lick and kiss his feet. She did this quite well, I thought. My fear did not prevent me from observing her carefully. I was only a collared Earth-girl kajira. One might even have said, as one had, as the saying has it, that my brand was still smoking. Surely it was fresh. I had much to learn. Knowing suitable placatory behaviors, sometimes necessary to pacify and appease these impatient men, these demanding and powerful masters, is something very much in a girl’s best interest. Indeed, being able to please and placate a male can sometimes mean the difference between life and death, between being ordered to the furs, there to be incontestably ravished and subjugated, there, gratefully, to be totally conquered — and being hurled to ravening sleen.

  She lifted her head to him, timidly, after a time, doubtless anxious to examine his visage for some clue, however faint, as to his mood, seeking there some trace, however tiny, which might hint at what was to be done with her.

  I myself could not determine what he might be thinking.

  “Have my ears pierced, Master!” suddenly said Dorna.

  “What?” he asked.

  She rose to her knees, begging, before him. “I beg to have my ears pierced, Master!” she said. “I beg it!” She turned her head before him, to one side and then to the other. She displayed herself, desperately, pleadingly. She indicated her ear lobes. “Let my beauty, if beauty it be,” said she, “be enhanced with earrings!”

  There was laughter behind her, but Dorna paid no attention to it.

  “Are you not curious to know what I might look like in earrings, Master?” she asked.

  “Do you not fear that such might enflame your belly?’ he asked.

  “Let it then be enflamed!” she said.

  “You do not care how much of a slave you become?” he asked.

  “No, Master!” she said.

  “Perhaps I could have your ears pierced, and have you put in earrings, and then have you returned to your former master,” he mused.

  “Oh, please, no!” she wept.

  She sank down, again, to her belly.

  “It is interesting to ponder what might be done with you,” he said.

  “I am a Master’s slave,” she said. “It will be done with me as Master pleases.”

  Dorna then, clearly, was not a state slave. He in the chair was clearly her master. I did not even know his name. He was an officer in this city, it seemed, a captain, or perhaps even a high captain.

  “Do you think you have been pleasing?” he asked.

  She lifted her head, tears in her eyes. “I have not been pleasing,” she said. “Forgive me, Master. Let me begin again. I beg to be permitted to begin again. Let me prove to Master how good a slave I can be.”

  “Kneel,” he said.

  She rose to her knees before him.

  “Speak,” said he.

  “I beg to have my ears pierced,” she said.

  He regarded her.

  “Dorna begs to have her ears pierced,” she said. “Dorna, who is Master’s humble and abject slave, begs to have her ears pierced.’

  “But it has already been decided,” said he, “that Dorna will have her ears pierced.”

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “What does Dorna wish?” asked he.

  “To be kept by Master!” she said.

  “I see,” he said.

  “Let me prove to you that I am a new slave,” she begged. “Let me prove to you that I am not totally worthless in your collar!”

  “Perhaps I shall make the decision tonight,” he said, “after your ears have been pierced.”

  “Yes, Master!” she exclaimed.

  “I am curious,” he said, “to see what you will look like in earrings.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “See Dorna on her knees,” said a man.

  �
�See her beg,” said another.

  “I would like to see her in earrings,” said another.

  “She belongs in them,” said another.

  “A bared face and earrings,” laughed one, “is a far cry from a mask of silver or gold.”

  “She might make an interesting slave,” speculated another, “a common slave, I mean.”

  “Yes,” said another.

  “I beg to be pleasing to Master,” said Dorna.

  “Hear Dorna begging to be pleasing to a man,” said a man.

  “Doubtless she did not foresee this when she fled Tharna,” said a man.

  “No,” laughed another.

  Doubtless Dorna could not have helped, on one level or another, to have been aware of the comments of the men. But if she was aware of them, she gave little, if any, indication of it. Her primary attention was clearly on he in whose power she lay totally, as a helpless slave.

  “Do you think you are capable of being pleasing?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “And you wish to be kept?”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “At least for a time?”

  “Yes Master!” she said.

  “Tonight,” said he, “I will give you an opportunity to please me.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “Your performance tonight will help me decide,” he said, “as to whether or not there is any point in keeping you among by women.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Do you think you will do well?” he asked.