Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  “She is illiterate!” said one of the slaves.

  “How insulting that she should be put with us!” said another.

  “Beware,” said the pit master.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said, quickly.

  “What was her caste?” asked one of the women.

  “She never had one,” said the pit master. “She has always been casteless.”

  “Ai!” said the women, softly in disbelief.

  “So utterably low?” asked another women.

  “Yes,” said the pit master.

  “What was her Home Stone?” asked the woman.

  “She comes from a world without Home Stones,” said the pit master.

  I sensed that this information was met with disbelief. It was not my fault if I came from a world without Home Stones, whatever they might be!

  “She is not from our world?” asked one of the women. It was one of those who were kenneled, the brunette. She was just within the bars, kneeling there. In her kennel, as in most, one, even a woman, cannot stand upright. I could see the shadows of the bars on her face and body. Her hands were on the bars of the kennel gate. I gathered that this was permitted.

  “No,” said the pit master.

  “Master jests with his girls,” said one of the women, reproachfully, one at the wall, in her chains.

  “No,” he said.

  “I knew such a slave once,” said one of the women at the wall. “She was sold in the same auction as I. She brought a high price.”

  “They often do,” said another woman, bitterly.

  “Some men like them,” said another. “They look for them in the markets.”

  “In some cities they are popular,” said another.

  “It is only a matter of supply and demand,” said another. “There are so few of them.”

  “They are rare,” said another. “But their numbers increase.”

  “More must be being brought in,” said another.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “Who would want a barbarian girl?” asked one of the women.

  “There is obviously a market for them,” said one of the others.

  “I understand that men are quite strict with them,” said one of the women.

  “Yes,” said another.

  I trembled.

  “What is that beneath her hair?” inquired one.

  The pit master gathered together my hair gently, and lifted it, and held it, bunched, behind my head. I could feel the stress on the hundreds of tiny hairs at the sides of my head, taut, drawn back, but he did not hurt me.

  “Yes!” said one of the women. “See! See!”

  “Her ears are pierced?” asked another.

  “Yes,” said the pit master.

  “Not only a barbarian, but a pierced-ear girl!” exclaimed another.

  “Yes!” said another.

  “Do not keep such a slut with us!” cried one of the slaves.

  “No!” cried another.

  “No!” protested yet another, one from the kennels.

  “I think I shall summon the leather worker,” said the pit master.

  “Master?” said one of the women, frightened.

  “That the ears of all of you may be pierced, that adornments may be hung from them.”

  “No, Master!” cried more than one of the women.

  “Forgive us, Master!” cried others.

  They shrank back, those at the wall to the very rings to which they were chained, those in the kennels back in the kennels, well behind the bars.

  I remained at the ring. I had been put there.

  I was confident, though I may have been mistaken, of course, that the reaction to the threat of the pit master had not been one of unmitigated scandal and horror. I thought I detected something else which was involved. The feelings of the women, I gathered, were not unmixed. To be sure, I did not doubt but what on one level they feared and dreaded the very notion of the piercing of their ears but, too, on another level, a much deeper level, I think they were deeply fascinated, and deeply stirred, by the idea. I think they found it disturbing exciting, and arousing. I sensed this, seeing how some knelt back trembling, quivering, against the wall, and others lifted their fingers to their ear lobes, as though, even now, they might feel adornments fixed there. Their feelings with respect to the piercing of their ears seemed to me, in short, profoundly ambivalent. Did they sense, trembling, how exciting they might seem to men if they were so adorned, how much this might increase the desire which they might provoke in masters? And were they not, all, slaves? Did they not want to be exciting, beautiful, that desirable? Did they not understand the perils and terrors which might be consequent upon such a thing, upon being so fiercely coveted, so fiercely sought, so fiercely desired? Were they prepared, in their hearts, to be such, to have so much demanded of them? Did they dare to be such, the first to be summoned froth from captive herds, the first to be assessed, the first to be chained? Were they not such as to be the first to be thrown to the furs? Were they not such that the whips snapped more fiercely about them? How could they dare to be such? Would they not swoon in terror, understanding how men might view them? Did they truly dare to be such as to be fiercely thrust to the surface of the sales block, to hear the men screaming with need, vying to own them?

  “Prepare the new girl some gruel,” said the pit master.

  “Yes, Master,” said the brunette, she who had held the torch.

  The monster crouched down, near me. He undid the rope which ran from my bound wrists to my collar and brought it forward, between my legs, in front of me. I whimpered as his hand touched the interior of my left thigh. I felt stirred. How needful is a slave! I kept my head down. I trembled. I muchly feared him. He then, the rope now before me, threaded it beneath the ring, again over my collar, once more under the ring, and then tied its circuit closed. It was now looped twice about the collar and ring. I could left my head a little more, but not much. My collar, the double strand of rope taut, was about a foot from the ring. I then felt him undo my bound wrists. These he brought before me and bound them there, tightly, crossed, before my body. My heart began to sink. I could hear the brunette slave, to one side, pouring some meal into a dish or bowl.

  “Master?”I begged.

  I feared that I needed now only that my hair be thrown forward, before my shoulders.

  It was done.

  I moaned.

  I heard the brunette slave, behind me, at the table, pouring some water into a bowl.

  “Would you prefer to be beaten tomorrow?” he asked me.

  “No, Master,” I said. I wanted to get it over with.

  He went behind me, doubtless to the wall. In a few moments he returned. I saw, on the flooring before me, the shadow of the whip, in his hand.

  I watched the shadow, waiting for the lash to rise. When it descended I would shut my eyes. I was pleased that I could see the shadow. Sometimes we do not know when the blows will fall. It is so much harder then! Too, if we do not know the number of blows! It is most merciful when we know the number of blows and they are delivered with predictable periodicity. Sometimes we must, as we can, count the blows. Sometimes, too, we must, as we can, if we can, state the reasons for the blows, if there are reasons for them. There are many ways, of course, in which discourse can figure in such episodes. “Why are you being beaten?” “That I do not forget that I am a slave.” Sometimes, too, we must beg for our punishment. It is terrifying to crawl to a man, the whip in one’s teeth.

  But I saw the whip put down on the stone beside me.

  I nearly fainted. Was I not to be beaten? The free woman would never know, of course! But I recalled that the monster had assured the free woman that I would be punished. Again my heard sank. The men of this world do not give their world lightly. There would be no escape for me. I would be punished.

  But what was the delay?

  I felt his hands on my and he turned me to my side, and then put me to my back, my head by the ring, tied to i
t by the collar. He bent over me. No, he must not, I thought. Please, no! I pressed up at him a little, weakly, with my bound hands. I could not have forced him away, of course, nor would I have had the courage to try. My gesture was no more than a tiny, futile, almost inadvertent protest. I hoped I would not be beaten for it. I even drew my fingers back a little. I turned my head to the side, in order that I not look upon his features. I was at his mercy. He cold do with me as he wished. I belonged, I had learned, to the state, and in this place, I had learned, he was as the state. In this place then he was to me as master, with all privileges, rights, and powers, I helpless and nothing before them, that that entailed on this world. In this place, for all practical purposes, I was his. In this place, for all practical purposes, I belonged to him. He held my head, lifted it a little, and turned it back toward him. I kept my eyes closed. I heard a snuffling, grunting sound. It was as though a beast bent over me. I could feel its breath upon me. Why did it not begin? How merciless would it be? Let it pity me! I was only a slave! Then it made a little noise, as of satisfied curiosity.

  I did not understand this.

  I heard the brunette slave now stirring the water and meal.

  The monster then put me back on my knees, my head down, near the ring. A strand of hair, out of place, he brushed forward.

  Now again my hair was before my body.

  “Her gruel is ready,” said the brunette.

  I did not understand why he had, a moment ago, put me on my back.

  He had been, it seemed, curious about something.

  “It is best,” he said to me, “that you not eat first.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I might not, otherwise, be able to retain the provender, even as simple and bland as it might be.

  I saw, in the shadow, the whip, now once again in his hand.

  “This slave,” said he, to the other women in the room, “has been errant. She, in a darkness, did not reveal her condition, bond, to a free woman. She permitted the free woman, in ignorance, to speak freely to her. She permitted her not only to think that she was free, but even of a given caste.”

  The women at the wall looked at one another.

  I suddenly realized why I had been put on my back. He had read my collar. He, then, could read. He knew my name, that which I had been given, that on my collar, which, perhaps, had been worn by many others before me! I recalled that some of the guards in the pens did not care to administer a formal whipping to a woman, as opposed to some admonitory blows now and then, until they knew her name, assuming she had been given one. Punishment on this world is often construed in a somewhat personal fashion, as something passing from a particular master to a particular slave. This has a way of making it more meaningful to the slave. Too, of course, knowing the name, if the slave has one, makes it easier, particularly in a situation such as the pens, to keep track of things, to inform others, and such, for the punishment for later infractions may be considerably more severe if it seems the slave has failed to profit from her earlier discipline, and so on. I did not know my name. But he knew it.

  “Why did she do that?” asked one of the women by the wall.

  “Why did you do that?” asked the pit master.

  “I was afraid!” I said. “I did not know better! I should have known better! I should have known better!”

  “You did not think that you were the same as she,” said the pit master.

  “No!” I assured him.

  “You understand clearly that you are only a slave, an animal, and nothing more?”

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “She is a new slave,” said the pit master to the women in the room.

  “Let her learn her collar!” said one of the women.

  I felt the coil of the whip touch my back. I shuddered.

  I was indeed a new slave. I had undoubtedly much to learn. But I did not think that I was rally a stranger to the collar. I had, I was confident, as all women, an instinctive grasp of its import. I felt that I had, thus, in a sense, understood it even before it was on me. Had I not considered it in countless thoughts? Had I not worn it in a thousand dreams? To be sure, it doubtless had many meanings, rich and complex, subtle and deep, which only gradually, bit by bit, as they were revealed to me, I might come to understand, and love.

  “Perhaps, Master,” said the slave who had borne the torch, “as she is a new slave, and did not know better, one might, this time omit her punishment.”

  There was a silence.

  “Forgive me, Master!” she said, and knelt, her head to the stones, her beautiful hair upon them.

  “You will know better next time, will you not?” asked the pit master.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “How many blows should you receive?” he asked.

  If on suggests too few, one is almost certain to receive far more than one might otherwise receive. If one suggests too man, perhaps in the hope of receiving less, one may find that one receives precisely what one has requested. The master usually has some number in mind which seems appropriate to him. You will never receive less than that number, but you may very well, particularly if you try to manage matters cleverly, receive far more.

  “However many Master wishes,” I said. It was a response I had learned in the pens. One is a slave. One does not play games with the master. All depends on him. All depends on his will. One is a slave.

  I saw the shadow of the whip lift, and I closed my eyes.

  I received ten lashes.

  I lay there by the ring for several minutes afterward. I was on my belly. My cheeks were wet with tears, even the stone by the ring. I hurt. I sobbed. Yet he had not been cruel with me. The blows had been sharp, but clean. They had been mercifully arranged on my body, even predictably so. Too, they had been timed. It is particularly frightening when, as part of the punishment, one does not know where the blow will fall, or when. Too, mercifully, though he saw to it that I was well punished, he had not used his man’s strength on me. Only on the tenth stroke, which, before its delivery, he informed me was the last, he did let me glimpse even a particle of the strength with which a stroke, if he so chose, might be delivered. I had screamed, so struck. Then I had not been able to scream. I had knelt there, wide-eyed, in disbelief. Then, an instant later, I had sunk to my belly. “Mercy, Master!” I wept. “Mercy, Master, please mercy!” but the beating, of course, was done, for the tenth blow was the last. But still, hysterical, I wept. “Please, do not strike me again, Master! Please, Master, do not strike me again!” I realized then what, even with so small a portion of his strength, might be done to me. I had been well punished by the first nine strokes, I assure you, but the tenth stroke told me more than the first nine. It said, in effect, “Beware, let this be the tiniest hint of what might be done to you.” And so now, minutes later, I lay at the ring. I choked back tears. I had now well learned my lesson. I was only a punished slave. But the lesson I had learned extended, of course, as doubtless it was intended it should, far beyond the occasion of the moment. It had to do with more than the mere triviality of my having failed, in my confusion and fear, to make my condition clear to a free woman in the darkness. It had also informed me that I was not only subjected to punishment, but, when appropriate, would be punished. This reinforced, too, my understanding of my condition, which was bond, and its obvious concomitant, that of being subject to masters, fully, in all things. Lastly, I had been taught something more of the whip. I now understood, better than I had before, what it might do to me. I now feared it, terribly. I was afraid, now even to look upon it.

  “Kneel, barbarian,” said the brunette, not unkindly. I struggled to my knees, my hands bound before me, my neck still tied to the ring.

  “Feed, barbarian,” she said, placing a shallow bowl of gruel before me.

  I put down my head, and, not using my hands, fed.

  I ate, hungrily, obediently.

  But, too, from time to time, head down, pausing in my feeding, from licking at the sides of the bowl
, the gruel about my mouth, I trembled. Beyond the leather, I knew, even to the tiny extent that I now understood it, there were other things, things far more frightening and effective, to which I might be subjected, if it were the will of men. I moaned, and returned to my feeding. I ate eagerly, gratefully. Tears fell into the gruel. My punishment, I realized, however informative and momentous from my point of view, had doubtless been, from the point of view of the pit master, relatively light and perfunctory. My offense, it seemed, happily, had not been regarded as particularly heinous, particularly in a new slave. Indeed, I was even being permitted to feed.

  ‘Oh!” I said, suddenly, startled. I stiffened. “Master?” I said.

  My fingers twisted, startled, my hands bound before me.

  “Master,” I asked.

  “You may continue to feed, if you wish,” he said.

  “Oh!” I said. But I could not fee, of course! The rope on my collar pulled against the ring.

  He moved my hair about, away from my ears. “Pierced-ear girl,” he murmured.

  “Oh!” I said.

  His grip on me then was like iron.

  “Master!” I said.

  How absurd then suddenly seemed my earlier fear, when he had put me on my back! By what right might I have expected such dignity! But how absurd even was this thought, for a slave! Is it likely that we would be thrown on our backs for our dignity? No. Slaves are not permitted dignity. That is for free women. Rather, on our backs, if our masters desire, our subtlest nuances of expression, our helplessness, our fear, our joy, our yielding, our vulnerability, what we hope for, what we beg for, may be read! They may with their triumphant gaze ravish our helplessly bared features, surveying the myriad subtleties of our flushed countenances, taking account for our tremblings, our raptures and terrors, scrutinizing us in our misery, our ecstasy and helplessness, delighting in our tumult, we face-stripped, unveiled, before them, imprisoned in their arms, their slaves.

  He made a low, growling, bestial noise.

  Should I fight him, as I could?

  What would it matter, in the end?

  And might I not be beaten for the slightest show of resistance, unless, in its futility, he found it amusing.