Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  “Untie her ankles,” said the voice, and the thing straightened itself a little.

  The woman placed the torch in a holder on a nearby wall, near the exit of the passage.

  She then crouched down, near my feet. The large, bent thing stood before the torch. I could see only the misshapen shadow, like something between a boulder and an animal.

  “You need not look upon his face,” she whispered to me, “unless commanded to do so.”

  “Mistress?” I asked.

  “He does not care to have his face gazed upon,” she said.

  “Is he a beast in the service of the pit master?” I asked.

  “He is the pit master,” she whispered. “All here who are slave are as though his. In the pits his word is law for us. He is to be obeyed with perfection in all things, instantly, uquestioningly, with no appeal. He is here, in this place, as master.”

  “Master,” I whispered, frightened.

  “Yes,” she said. “That is the power he has here, total power over us, in all ways, the power of the master! We are his, fully, to do with as he pleases.”

  “The state is my master,” I whispered.

  “Here,” said she, “he is as the state.”

  I trembled.

  “This is his world,” she said, “the pits, the darkness. He has power here not only over such as we, but over the prisoners, as well.”

  “Prisoners?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “And thus is order kept in this place.”

  “Is he human?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What are you saying there?” asked the slurring voice, almost like that of a beast.

  “Nothing, Master,” she said.

  “Nothing?” asked he.

  “It is only the meaningless drivel of a slave,” she averred.

  “What have you said to her?” asked he.

  “Only little things,” she said. “She may desire to live.”

  “Are you untying her ankles?” asked he.

  “I bend to my task, Master,” she said.

  She knelt by my ankles, bending forward. Her small fingers struggling with the knots. They would not be easy to undo. They had been jerked tight by a man.

  “Wait,” said he.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Does she appear to you sensitive, extremely feminine, even high strung?”

  I looked up at the slave, startled.

  “Yes, Master,” responded the slave, after a moment, thoughtfully.

  “Are her ankles still tightly bound?” he asked.

  “Alas, yes, Master,” said the slave, frightened.

  “Desist in your efforts to free her, for the moment,” said he.

  “Yes, Master,” said the slave.

  “You are a newcomer to our world, are you not?” it asked.

  “Is she not of the Peasants?” called the free woman from her cage, angrily, suspended of the dark waters.

  But none paid her attention.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “But you have learned to call men ‘Master’?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “This world is very different from yours, is it not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “But you are learning to fit in, are you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “And you belong in a world such as this, do you not?” he asked.

  “I fear so, Master,” I whispered. It made no sound.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And as what you are?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. It was true.

  “Your ankles are tightly tied, are they not?” he asked.

  I moved them, a tiny bit. How helpless I was! How tight the cords were!

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Before her ankles are untied,” he said, “let her look upon my face.”

  “Yes, Master,” said the slave at my ankles.

  I half reared up, my hands bound behind me.

  “Courage,” whispered the slave, rising to her feet. She went to the torch behind the beastlike figure and removed it from the holder. He approached me, his face in darkness. I moved back a little. I could feel the toils of the net beneath me. How terrifying to be a slave! How helpless we are! His face was now close to mine. The woman then brought the torch forward, so that it was, lifted, a little behind me, near the wall. In this fashion were the features of the pit master illuminated.

  I screamed, and tried to scramble back, bound as I was. His hand, on the bound ankle, drew me forward, over the net, on the stones. I twisted and thrashed for a moment, and then, in misery, in disbelief, looking up, past the torch, toward the recesses of the ceiling, lay still. I felt his heavy, pawlike hand. It moved about. I shuddered. “She has smooth skin,” he said. He then put a hand to my hair and, by my hair drew me up, sitting, before him. In my hair his hand was tight. I did not complain. A slave is not a free woman. She does not expect to be handled gently. I did not wish to be cuffed. I kept my hands closed, desperately. He drew my head forward, closer to his. I could feel the heat of his breath on my face. I sobbed. I gasped. Burning tears forced themselves from between my tightly pressed eyelids. “Open your eyes, it said. I could tell that it was not pleased. His hand was now cruelly tight in my hair. I was well held. My ankles fought the cords on them. My hands were tied behind my back. I could not press him away, or even try to do so. I could not leap up. I could not run. He tightened his grip yet more on my hair and, instantly sobbing, I ceased to struggle. I held as still as I could. The least movement would have caused me excruciating agony.

  “Courage!” whispered the female slave.

  “Must a command be repeated?” he inquired.

  “No, Master!” I whispered.

  I then opened my eyes and now, for the first time, confirming the horror or my earlier, briefest glimpse, looking fully upon the features of the pit master.

  It was in the power of this ting that I was!

  A convulsive shudder overcame me.

  I lost consciousness.

  13

  I awakened, kicked.

  “Awaken,” said a voice, “weak-stomached slut.”

  “I am awake, Master!” I wept.

  “Oh!” I cried, again kicked.

  I lay on the walkway, on the toils of the net, on my stomach. I was still bound, as I had been.

  “Kneel,” said he.

  “Master!” I begged.

  But he did not qualify, or rescind, his order.

  I struggled to comply. Twice I fell, groaning. I feared I might be beaten. Masters are seldom patient with us.

  “Master!” I begged, again.

  But he was silent.

  Again I struggled to comply.

  Then, sore, and gasping, I was successful!

  A frightened slave girl now knelt before him, naked, and bound hand and foot.

  It was I.

  I dared not look again on that monstrous head, with its hideous features. The female slave, standing nearby with the torch, had said I need not look upon it, unless commanded to do so.

  I kept my eyes down.

  He was standing before me.

  I could see his sandals.

  I bent forward, from the waist, and, putting my head down, pressed my lips to his sandals, licking and kissing them.

  And thus did I, a slave girl on an exotic world, seek to placate he who was to me in this place as master.

  “Do the women of your world seek to placate thusly the men of their world?” he asked.

  “Doubtless some, Master,” I said.

  “But it is done rarely?” he asked.

  “I do not know, Master,” I said.

  “But it is not done rarely on this world,” he said.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “And you are now of this world,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You lick and kiss well,�
� he said.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said. I loved to render such obeisance to men. It seemed, somehow, so very real, and fulfilling to me. In such a humble act I acknowledged, and honored, not only the maleness of a given individual, of a given master, but, in a sense, all maleness, and the might of the mastery, and expressed, lovingly, in joy and tenderness, my femaleness. There is something profoundly symbolic in this simple act. I find it very moving. To be sure, it can be performed under many quite different circumstances and conditions. Sometimes one performs it in timidity, or even terror. Sometimes one may perform it as a way of pleading, even, for one’s life. And this thing to which I now addressed these attentions, I knew, might not even be human. It seemed to me, in effect, a monster. But it seemed to me, still, this way of rendering obeisance, to be a way of expressing even to it, even to what was perhaps some sort of monster, that I was a slave, and desired to be pleasing. I was, after all, subject to its domination, as I would have been to an individual master, one who had, say, bought me off a block.

  He bent down and lifted me up, and then sat me back, my back against the retaining wall, separating the well-like enclosure from the walkway.

  “Can you untie her ankles?” he asked the female slave.

  “I do not think so,” she whispered. She has struggled futilely with the knots. They were, it seemed, beyond her strength.

  The shape then bent down and, with its great hands, undid the knots. He did this easily.

  I was then lifted to my feet. I stood unsteadily.

  “We will show her the pool,” said the creature.

  I did not look at him. I kept my eyes away from his visage.

  “Yes, Master,” said the slave with the torch.

  The three of us stood then near the wall. I was still unsteady. The walkway went all about the well-like enclosure. I could see other passages opening from it, here and there.

  “Beat her!” called the free woman from the cage.

  The pit master regarded her. The slave with the torch lifted it higher.

  “She told me she was a free woman!” said the free woman.

  “Did you tell her that?” asked the creature.

  “No!” I said, frightened. “I did not tell her that!”

  “Do you think you are a free woman?” he asked.

  “No, Master!” I said.

  “What are you?”

  “A slave, Master!” I cried.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said, “only a slave, only that!”

  “Did you let her believe you to be a free woman?” asked the creature.

  “Yes, Master” I moaned.

  “See!” cried the free woman.

  “You should have informed her instantly that you were only a slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “She told me she was of the Peasants!” said the free woman.

  “No!” I cried. “I never said that!”

  “You permitted her to believe it?” asked the pit master.

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered.

  “You should not have done that,” he said.

  “I am new to your world, Master!” I said.

  “You must learn our ways more quickly,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You must be punished,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And was she never even of the Peasants?” asked the free woman.

  “No,” said the pit master. “She has always been casteless.”

  “She was not even once of the lowest of castes?” inquired the free woman, puzzled.

  “She has always been casteless, completely,” said the pit master.

  I could sense that this puzzled the free woman.

  “As an animal?” asked the free woman.

  “Yes,” said the pit master.

  I thought of the woman of my world. Certainly the vast majority of us did not have caste. How natural then that we should be put in collars! And even if we had caste our castes would doubtless not be respected by these men. They would simply take them from us, making us their slaves. There had been two girls from India, beauties both, in my training group. Certainly they had not found themselves regarded any different, or treated any differently, from the rest of us, whether from Germany, or Japan, or the United States, or elsewhere. Their caste had been taken from them. They, too, as we, were now only slaves. They learned to lick and kiss the whip as quickly, as delicately, as the rest of us. And, indeed, the vast majority of female slaves on this world would surely be native to this world, and would, thus, presumable, have once had caste. But, in being enslaved, they were stripped of their caste. In the end, it seemed, there were no castes, only men, and women.

  “She is a barbarian?” asked the woman.

  “Yes,” said the pit master. He spoke to her, I supposed, because she was free.

  “I knew that!” she said. “I could tell from her accent, which is terrible.”

  “She speaks well,” said the pit master.

  I undoubtedly did have an accent. On the other hand, I gathered that I spoke the language quite well, considering my limited time on this world. One might mention that the language, as far as I can tell, is spoken with a great variety of accents. For example, the men in the pens spoke quite differently from those I had encountered on the surface of the tower. Too, there seemed to be class differences even in given areas. I had heard my accent spoken of, incidentally, as a “slave accent,” of which there were apparently several. On the other hand, the free woman had apparently not take it as such. Perhaps if she had seen me in a slave tunic, kneeling before her, she might have done so. I supposed it would be impossible for me to ever completely eradicate the “slave accent” from my speech. I had not, for example, learned the language as a child. Too, there were certain words, and combinations of words, in this language I found it impossible to pronounce like a native speaker. Too, if I grew excited, or confused, I would surely betray myself by some slip. Too, some utterance in my native tongue might escape me in dreaming. And there were numerous other ways, too, physical and otherwise, in which my origins might be betrayed, such as a vaccination mark and two tiny fillings. The latter, for example, would surely be discovered when a possible buyer checked the condition of my teeth. Too, I would be ignorant of thousands of things which would be common knowledge to natives of this world. Too, I would never had an opportunity to learn many of these things, secret sayings and such, for it is forbidden to teach them to slaves. The important thing, of course, is not the accent, or what one knows, but what one is. Even the most informed and sophisticated women of this world, you see, once she is enslaved, becomes instantly, doubtless to her horror, no more than a property, an animal, that which must serve, that which may be done with as the master pleases.

  “Fellow,” said the free woman.

  “Yes?” said the pit master.

  “What nonsense was it,” asked the free woman, “your talk about another “world” or such?”

  “It is not nonsense,” said the pit master. “She comes from another world.”

  “I have heard of such things,” said the free woman. “Are they true?”

  “Yes,” said the pit master. He then put his hand in my hair and forced me forward, more in the light of the torch. I literally now felt the height of the wall against my thighs. I did not like standing so close to it. A small pressure could have forced me over the wall, tumbling to the dark waters below. To be sure, his hand was in my hair, holding me. I felt very helpless. My hands were still tied tightly behind my back. “Here is the proof,” he said. By his grasp on my hair he pressed me further forward, more tightly against the wall, and then, holding me there, he pulled my head back by the hair, to better show my collar. “A barbarian slave girl,” he said.

  “Beat her!” cried the free woman. “Beat her!” she wrung her hands. “How she humiliated me,” she cried, “letting me thing her free, letting me thing
she held caste! How demeaned I have been, speaking to one who was only bond!”

  He pulled my head back, further.

  I whimpered.

  He held me there, thusly. And thus was I exhibited naked, and bound and collared, in the torchlight, in that dark place, before another woman, I only a barbarian slave.

  “Insolent slave!” cried the free woman. “Insolent slave!”

  The cage actually moved on its chain, so incensed she was.

  “I was speaking to a barbarian slave!” cried the free woman, in misery, dismayed, furious.

  I had not known what I should have done! I had been frightened, and bound, in the darkness. But of course I should have known what I should have done! Certainly I had been fearful enough in the darkness, filled with enough trepidation concerning her presumptions. Did I not know the differences between such as I and such as she? Was I not such that I would at best be privileged to serve her deferentially at table-briefly tunicked, were men present, were she a thoughtful hostess, for their pleasure-my head down, not meeting her eyes, not even daring to speak to her? Or perhaps one such as she might have me serve garbed in a long, sleeveless demurely white serving gown, my hair bound back, that I not be too distractive to the males, save perhaps for the collar on my neck. She would not wish to remove the collar, of course, but, too, she must know its effect on males, that is says that she who wears it is kajira, in effect, theirs. Most slave garments, incidentally, are sleeveless. I am not sure why that is, but it seems to be another way of drawing a distinction between slave and free. I suppose it has to do with the baring of flesh, which is regarded not only as acceptable for a slave, but, in the case of an animal, which she is, appropriate. It is also a way of helping the slave keep in mind that she is a slave. The contrast with the robes of concealment is obvious. I think, incidentally, that the robes of concealment must be terribly uncomfortable in the summer. In hot weather free women often wear sliplike garments in the privacy of their own quarters. In slavers’ raids they are not unoften surprised and discommoded in such a state of charming dishabille. Their appearance is so fetching in such garments that they are sometimes permitted to retain them until caged in the hunting camp. They might also be presented in such garments in their sale-at the beginning, I should say, of their sale. One might mention, in passing, that Gorean men find the entire female sexually stimulating, not just, say, the legs, the bosom, the derriere, and so on. They can also be excited by the throat, a wrist, and certainly the arms, and so on. Too, perhaps surprisingly, from the point of view of at least some men of Earth, they are interested in what is going on inside of her, as well, in her internal world, so to speak, in her thoughts, her feelings, her emotions, and such. These women are properties, you see, and men, as is well known, take a great interest in their properties. Why not, they belong to them, they own them. I think it is indisputable that the average Gorean master knows a great deal more about his slave or slaves, inside and out, so to speak, than the average husband does of his wife. How many husbands, for example, will kneel their wife down naked and have her talk to him for two or three hours at a time? One, of course, learns a great deal about a woman in this way, and very quickly. The whole slave is bared to the master, not just her lovely body. She cannot help this, this exposure of her so fully, for she must keep talking. She will reveal more and more of herself, regardless of her wishes. One cannot help that. The speaking, too, of course, may be directed by questions and commands, and, if necessary, with blows of the switch. A woman under this regimen, so fiercely dominated, cannot keep shut the doors of her heart. She must open them, sooner or later, whether she wishes to or not. She finds that she is helpless. She must bare more and more of herself to the master. He will have it no other way, and thus he learns her, and she, before him, on her knees, knows herself learned. Too, this practice has its effect on the slave as, by its means, she finds herself, despite what she may initially will, becoming more and more his. After as little as a few days, subject to this enforced and prolonged intimacy, she begins to find the master irresistible, and she longs to give herself to him. But he may starve her for physical contact until one day he snaps the whip and permits her to crawl to his feet, as she fervently wishes to do, and beg to serve him. She wears his collar. Will he not permit her to please him? She begs him to effectuate the mastery, as though he had not already done so, and put her to his pleasure.