Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  “I shall do my best to be pleasing in all ways,” she said.

  “You will endeavor to prove acceptable?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “But I require more than mere acceptability in the performances of my women,” he said.

  “That is well known amongst us, Master,” she said.

  “It will be a test, will it not be?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “What level do you think you must attain to pass this test?” he inquired.

  “I know that I must be superb!” she sobbed.

  “And do you think you can attain such a level?” he asked.

  “I will do my best, Master,” she said.

  He then spoke to one of the fellows near the great chair, the same to whom he had given the keys to my collar. “Take this slave away,” he said, indicating Dorna. “Send her to me tonight, bathed and perfumed, in earrings, with but a single veil.”

  “Yes, Captain,” said the man. “Slave,” said he to Dorna, indicating a location near the wall, where a flat trap had now been thrown back, revealing a stairwell. “Yes, Master,” said Dorna to the man. Then she put her head down quickly, kissed each of the feet of the man in the chair. “Thank you, Master!” she said. Then she leaped up, and hurried to the stairwell, preceding the man down. She would not dally, nor make him wait. She was a slave.

  Attention was then returned to me, and, instantly, frightened, I adjusted my position, so that I knelt with perfection. Under the gaze of he in the chair I subtly, frightened, widened my knees, slightly. One feels terribly vulnerable kneeling before men in the common position. It makes it so clear that one is a slave, and, too, so clear, the sort of slave one is.

  I did not know where I was. I did not know my name. I did not know why I had been purchased. I did recall that he in the chair had speculated to Dorna, before his displeasure had been incurred, that she would not be displeased with my disposition. That did not reassure me. To be sure, perhaps it meant only that I as not to be entered into his household. I was, I had learned, a property of the state in this place, whatever place it might be. Dorna was now no longer on the terrace. She would thus, not immediately, at least, learn my disposition. To be sure, sometime or another it might well come within her purview. Perhaps then, I thought, swallowing hard, she might not be displeased to learn it. I had thought of her immediately as a rival, and doubtless she had thought of me in this fashion, as well, even though I might be a new slave. Indeed, even in the pens I had looked upon the others, and doubtless they upon me, or most of them, as rivals. But I suppose this is natural enough for women, even on my world. Even those who seem most hostile to men also seem, perhaps paradoxically, to desire to be pleasing to them. Perhaps this is an implicit recognition, even in such unlikely quarters, that men are the masters. But the matter is clear on this world, at least with women such as I, and she, Dorna. Here it is obvious that we are the slaves and men the masters, and that we are to please the masters. In this fashion it is not only the case that kajriae within the same house are likely to find themselves in rivalry, but that in the culture as a whole, wherever we are, on whatever chain, fastened to whatever wall, running whatever errand, heeling whatever masters, we tend to have a sense of such things. For example, we commonly strive on the sales block to bring the highest prices. I do not think this merely because we wish to be purchased by more affluent masters, which suggests that our life may be easier, but because of the personal vanities involved. Each wishes to be the most precious, the most costly. This is perhaps not so different from my old world, except that here women do not vend themselves, and take the profit on them. How many women, I wonder, marry truly for love, and only love? Do we not consider many other matters-the finances of our potential spouse, his education, his family connections, his positions in society, the likely location of his domicile, the presumed trajectory of his career, the prestige of the match, and such? But here, as I have suggested, we do not sell ourselves, reaping our own profits. No, here we are sold by others, and it is these others who will reap the profits. It is they who make the money. It is ours, rather, to be fully pleasing, and see that we obey with perfection.

  “She kneels well,” said a man, observing me.

  “She is from Earth,” said another.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “That is a land,” said one.

  “Where is it?” asked another.

  “To the south,” said a fellow.

  “No,” said another. “It is a world.”

  “A world?”

  “Yes, a different world.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,”

  “Do not be foolish,” said another.

  “No,” said another. “He is right.”

  “Tarns can fly there?” asked one.

  “No,” said another,” it is reached in ships.”

  “Slave ships?” said one.

  “Perhaps among others,” said a man.

  “Tarns do not care to leave the sight of land,” said another, as though reminding his peer of something.

  “Of course,” said the fellow.

  “If it is another world,” said a fellow, “how can ships sail there?”

  “They are special ships,” he was informed. “They float on clouds, as other ships on water.”

  “Oh,” said the man.

  I had occasionally heard conversations of this sort in the pens, particularly among the lower guards. The men of this world, I had gathered, differed considerably among themselves in their sophistication and information. Some seemed quiet aware of the nature of my world, its civilizations, its views as to the correct relations among the sexes, and so on, and others seemed astoundingly illinformed and naive. I suspected that the man in the chair, and certainly the higher officers and guards in the pens, were quite cognizant of most of the pertinent realities of my world of origin. This world seemed one of technological paradox. I had been brought here by a technology which currently, at least in certain dimensions, exceeded that of my own world. And yet here many men, if not most, seemed unclear as to its nature, if not completely ignorant of its very existence. How astonishingly paradoxical seemed my situation! Here on this world, where men seemed so proud, so untamed, so unbroken, so free, so mighty, so hot-blooded, on this world seemingly so primitive, so splendid and barbaric, on this world of leather, and silk and iron, not of plastics and synthetic fibers, of heat and love, not tepidity and hypocrisy, of ardor and skill, not of boredom and gadgetry, on this world where men had mastered monsters and seemed ready, at a word, to adjudicate disputes with edged weapons, I knelt before a dais, naked and collared, as a barbarian slave girl. Yet I could not have been brought here except in virtue of an obviously advance technology. It was almost as though I had been somehow magically flung into the past, into a world quite different from my own, a world whose ways I must speedily learn and in which I must learn, if I would survive, to be obedient and pleasing. But there was no magic here, no enchanted rings or sorcerer’s wands. Things here were quite real, as real as the stone flagging beneath my knees, as real as the mark in my left thigh. A sophisticated technology may have brought me here but I knelt here, literally knelt, and on my throat was a steel collar. Clearly, or, at least, so it seemed, the technology was not the property of all the men of this world but, at best, of some of the. Too, it might be furnished, I supposed, by others, say, allies or confederates, not of this world itself. That, too, I supposed, was a possibility.

  “But what matters it,” asked a man, “the place from which she came, and whether it is a land, and where it might be, to the south, or elsewhere, or a world, and wherever it might be?”

  “It matters naught,” said another man.

  “It is enough,” said another, “that it be a suitable orchard from which slave fruit may be plucked, a suitable field from which may be harvested crops of slaves, a place of suitable herds, from which may be selected slave meat.”
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  “True,” said another.

  “Women from Earth make good slaves,” said another.

  “Excellent slaves,” said another.

  “Yes,” said another.

  I supposed there were reasons for this. Yet, I think, ultimately, the matter has to do not with geographies but with biology, not with origins but with nature. If we made good slaves it did not have ultimately to do with the fact that we were from Earth, even given its terrible conditioning programs, but that we were women. Ultimately, there are women, and there are men.

  “A pretty kajira,” said one.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “Yes,” agreed another.

  I knelt there helplessly. I was very conscious of my nudity, my collar, my brand.

  “Yes,” said another.

  How helpless one is!

  “Yes,” said yet another.

  I was very afraid. Men on this world, you see, had not surrendered their sovereignty.

  “She is quite desirable,” said another.

  “Yes,” said another.

  This frightened me, but I was pleased, as well. What woman does not wish to hear that she is desirable?

  But women here must fear. Men here, you see, had not surrendered their sovereignty!

  They had power, and women, at least those such as I, did not.

  They could do with us as they pleased. We were slave. They were master.

  Some of the men walked about me. I did not dare to meet their eyes. A kajira knows when she is being appraised, frankly and openly, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.

  “Lovely hair,” said one.

  “Not the perfection of the figure,” said another.

  And thus they did assess the property and animal before them.

  “Superb,” said one.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “It is a shame that one had to pay for her,” said another.

  “True,” said another.

  They preferred, it seemed, to take their women, perhaps to stalk them with stealth, as game, then to spring the nets or snares at some time of their choosing, some moment of unsuspected ripeness, or to seize them in capture strike, or to take them by theft, perhaps roping and gagging them in their own beds, there to enjoy them, and then to hood them and carry them off, bound hand and foot, to this aerie, or at sword point, in open challenge, or even to obtain them in raids and war, perhaps as incidental loot or perhaps, even, as the principal object of such endeavors, for women on this world, you see, even free women, not just women such as I, count as an accustomed and legitimate form of loot of booty, as much, or more, than gold and silver, and fine cloth, and such things. Indeed, wars have been fought to obtain us. These are often referred to as “slave wars.”

  The men stepped back.

  Many seemed interested in me. I wondered if I would be sent to any of them. I wondered if he in the chair might sometime, recalling me, have me sent to him, perhaps, as he had suggested with Dorna, in earrings and a single veil, if that. I would surely try to please him. But I feared the feel of such hands on my. I feared I might begin to spasm at the first sight of him.

  You must understand. We are totally theirs.

  I lifted my eyes, timidly, to he in the great chair. But he had now turned to others. He was conversing with them. Their business, I gathered, had nothing to do with me. A wave of irritation coursed through me. I had been much the center of attention, but now, it seemed, I was forgotten. It was strange to be kneeling so conspicuously before the dais, but neglected. One was, of course familiar with the studied inconspicuousness of the serving slave, for I had learned it in the pens. One serves humbly, self-effacingly, eyes cast downward. When not serving one kneels deferentially, silently, well back, and to the side, of the low tables. When then one is summoned to further service, by perhaps so little as a glance or snapping of fingers, one leaps up and hurries forward, perhaps then, on one’s knees, to clear, or perhaps to fetch and then serve, again kneeling, the tiny cups of strong coffees, or black wines, the shallow silver bowls of white and yellow sherbet.

  And so I knelt there, in correct position, naked and collared.

  My thoughts wandered back to my old world, to my life there, to my classes and classmates, to the shops, the malls, to my friends, Jean, and Priscilla, and Sandra, and Sally.

  I could feel my hair blown about my shoulders by the wind sweeping across the terrace. It was now a bit before my face. I did not break position to adjust it.

  My back stung from the lash.

  On my neck was a steel collar. I could not remove it.

  “Slave,” said the man in the chair.

  “Yes, Master!” I said, eagerly.

  Once again I felt eyes upon me.

  “As you have doubtless surmised,” said he, “your disposition has been decided.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. He was the sort of man whom I think even a free woman might have found herself drawn to address as “Master.”

  “Perhaps you have guessed what it is to be?” he said.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  But naturally my mind raced ahead. I had learned in the pens that I was unusually beautiful and desirable. Similarly I had trained quickly and exceedingly well. Too, though I was often terrified, I, on the whole, loved my new life. In it I had my sex had for the first time in my life become truly meaningful. No longer was the most important thing I was to be regarded as an inconsequential accident, as a mere irrelevancy. Rather its significance was recognized and, by strong men, would be uncompromisingly enjoyed and exploited. I had found my life and my meaning in bondage. I had, in this far place, for the first time in my life, come home to myself. I had once in the pens jested with a guard, confiding to him that it seemed I was “born for the collar.’ I have not forgotten his reply. He said, simply, “So, too, are all women.” But with respect to my disposition I was sure, given my beauty and desirability, and my talents, even such as they were now, that it would be a lofty one. I was thinking in terms of the high slave, one of great value, one who might even expect sandals, to say nothing of costly, if revealing, silks, and perhaps even a golden collar. Had not that female, Dorna, a high slave, clearly exhibited jealousy of me? Perhaps I would be first girl in the slave quarters. I might receive further training. I might be displayed with pride to a master’s acquaintances, or perhaps, as a state slave, to foreign diplomats or merchants. I would not need to fear the lash like a common girl. I might be often called to the couch of high men, to kneel there, belled and perfumed, and kiss the coverlets, and then, bidden, to insinuate myself sinuously into their arms.

  “Beware, slave,” said the man in the chair, “of making a false step.”

  “Master?” I asked.

  “Hood her,” he said.

  Someone behind me, whom I did not see, placed a hood over my head and drew it down, over my features. It was then buckled shut, under my chin.

  In a moment then I was lifted in someone’s arms, perhaps those of the jailer, and carried about. In a moment or so I was disoriented in the hood.

  Some hoods are cruel but this was a simple, common hood, one which did not even contain a gag, part of its structure. Hoods are, of course, far more effective than the common blindfold. Sometimes we must kneel in hoods for hours, forbidden to move. We do not even know at such times whether we are under surveillance or not. Can we move with impunity, for no one is watching? Or is someone watching, and, if we move, we will be punished, terribly? We do not know. We kneel in the hood, unmoving, docile and obedient. There are many purposes for hoods. Sometimes we are put in them and handed about. I had worn on almost constantly in my journey to this place. Accordingly I had no idea how I had come here or what place this was. I have indicated, too, that such devices are frequently used in the matings of slaves.

  I was now set down, on my feet. I seemed to be standing on some sort of board. My hands were free, of course. But I had not received any permission to removed the hood.

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bsp; “Walk forward,” said a voice.

  The board seemed wide enough. It must have been twelve or fourteen inches in width. I felt its edges once or twice with one of the other of my feet.

  “She walks well,” said a man.

  I had, of course, been taught in the pens how to walk. I continued to walk forward. I was a little uneasy, as the board seemed to move a bit under my weight. “Masters?” I called.

  “Continue,” said a man.

  “Stop!” he said.

  Naturally I stopped.

  “Remove the hood,” said the voice.

  I unbuckled the hood, and drew it from my head.

  I screamed and staggered, and put out my hands, wildly.

  Below me yawned an immense drop, one of hundreds of feet, with jagged rocks below.

  In an instant, with rapid steps, sure-footedly, the jailer had reached me, lifted me up, turned about and returned me, trembling, wild-eyed, to the foot of the dais.

  “Beware of making a false step,” said he in the chair.

  “Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” I cried from my belly, a terrified slave girl.

  I had learned a lesson. This was not a place where, nor were these men among whom, false steps would be wise.

  The jailer, with some difficulty, pried my fingers from the hood, and handed it behind me to someone.

  “Tenrik,” said the man in the chair.

  “Captain,” said the jailer.

  “Bind her, hand and foot,” he said.

  My hands were pulled behind me and my wrists crossed. In a moment, with a dispatch and effectiveness that could only have been the result of long experience in such things, the knots had been jerked tight. Then my ankles were crossed, and, with a separate bit of cord, lashed together.

  “Carry her to the wall,” said a man in the chair.

  The jailer then lifted me up and carried me in his arms to the wall, on which he stood, I in his arms. The wind blew fiercely there. I whimpered piteously, terrified.

  “Look down, slave girl,” called the man in the chair.

  “Please, no, Master!” I cried.

  “Must a command be repeated?” he inquired.

  “No, Master!” I wept.