by John Norman
The slave, kneeling before him, head down, pulled at the binding fiber.
“Do you truly think you can free yourself?” he asked.
She ceased her efforts, putting her head down even further. She whimpered twice.
“You might be interested in knowing,” said he, “my former lofty, rich lady, that your rival, the one I prefer a thousand times to you, is one amongst the lowliest of slaves, and one, it seems, amongst the most despised of slaves, one clad when most often I saw her only in a collar and rags, and never in more than a simple tunic. Her name, not that it matters, is ‘Tuta’.”
The slave began to tremble, uncontrollably.
“What is wrong?” he asked, puzzled.
The slave seemed in much agitation. How she pulled at the binding fiber, so desperately, yet so futilely. She made tiny noises, they muffled in the gag.
I myself had drawn back on my knees. What I had feared, what I had hoped, had come true!
He regarded the slave, puzzled, she kneeling, head down, before him.
“I do not understand,” he said.
She whimpered piteously, desperately.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked. “Doubtless she wishes to plead,” he mused. “It will do her no good.” He looked down upon her.
“Do not expect the least of kindnesses or considerations in our house, new slave.”
She squirmed.
“Perhaps she wishes to raise her head,” he speculated.
She whimpered once, desperately.
“So soon she desires to exert the wiles of a slave!” he said, angrily.
She whimpered, in misery.
“Ah, yes,” he said, “ I have heard rumors to the effect that the Lady Constanzia of Besnit might have slave curves concealed beneath her robes. Would one not have guessed? And how appropriate! And how fortunate for her! Perhaps if she grovels well she may be lashed less frequently! Perhaps she desires to now exhibit them, that they might win for her some lenience? Do you think I am so easily put off, so easily swayed, dear little thing, that I might be seduced from my resolution by the luscious contours of a begging slave? But do not fear, for I have every intention of putting them frequently and well to my pleasure. But they will never compare with those for my love! To her gold, no matter how luscious and exciting might prove to be the curves of your perfidious, despicable body, you can never be more than a meaningless tarsk-bit of shaved copper!”
The body of the slave shook, trembling with emotion.
“See,” he said, scornfully. “How quickly she learns! She is clever, no doubt! Oh, yes, she is highly intelligent, but now her intelligence will have a different object, not that of seeking wealth and power, but that of pleasing a master! Scarcely has she been branded and collared put on her than she hopes to sway me with the pathetic artifices, the piteous beggings, of a trembling slave, but her cunning will avail her naught!”
Clearly the slave wishes to raise her head, but dared not do so. I was pleased that I had given the Lady Constanzia some slave training in the pens, in answer to her desperate request that I do so.
She had desperately desired to learn how to be more pleasing to a certain visitor to Treve.
I had found her an apt pupil.
I showed her a few things, but not too many. She was, after all, a free woman.
In particular I tried to appraise her of the psychology of these matters from which, in a sense, all else flows.
“Your internal states,” I told her, “are important, your mind, your emotions, and desires.”
“In bondage it is your heart, your love, that blossoms,” I said.
I spoke to her of nature, and her laws, and of health, and dominance and submission.
On the behavioral level, I called her attention to a variety of attitudes and modalities of deference, some as simple as kneeling and bowing the head.
“Be submissive, and feminine,” I had told her.
“Be a slave,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “be a slave.”
Another thing I had told her was to listen.
That is because she was a free woman.
One need not tell a slave that. The slave is in a collar. If she is inattentive, she may be lashed. Too, it is extremely important for her to listen to the master, for he is her master.
“It is not only we who wish to be listened to,” I told her, “but men, as well.”
And I did not tell her this but, commonly, aside from considerations of prudence, the slave wants to listen. Most slaves soon become loving slaves and it is one of the happienesses of the loving slave to have the master speak to her. And who is more important to her than her master?
We want the master to be kind and loving, but also to keep us under a strict, perfect discipline, even to the whip. We wish there to be no mistake about the matter that we are slaves, fully, nor any doubt about to whom we belong.
That is how we will to have it.
And so it is with care and attention, and pleasure, that we listen to the master.
Too, of course, as we are only slaves, and animals, we are grateful to be spoken to.
In addition, of course, it may be easier for the slave to listen, for she is seldom allowed to speak, unless she has been given permission to do so. Subjected to this condition we are muchly aware of the authenticity and rigors of our bondage. Few things more impress upon us that we are slaves. We are animals and goods. What better to remind us of this than that we may not speak without permission?
“Perhaps you think I can be moved by a piteous glance?” he said.
She made tiny whimpering noises, begging.
“Do you wish to look upon me?” he asked.
She whimpered once, plaintively, desperately.
“We must leave the city by sundown,” he said.
She whimpered again, begging.
“You are doubtless curious to see to whom you belong,” he said.
She whimpered, once.
“I suppose that sometime, sooner or later, you must be permitted to look upon my features,” he said.
She uttered a tiny noise, a single whimper.
“Do you wish permission to lift your head?”
She whimpered once.
“It is not granted,” he said.
She moaned.
“It will be rather in compliance to my command that you will lift your head,” he said.
“Lift your head,” he said.
She lifted her head, commanded, wildly, gazing upon him.
“What misery!” he cried. “Your eyes! They are like hers. They remind me of hers!”
But she now, unbidden, sobbing had flung herself to her belly before him, pressing he veiled, gagged mouth to his sandals, again and again.
“It seems the slut understands in what danger she stands,” he said.
She ministered as she could to his sandals.
“She who was the proud Lady Constanzia now has some understanding of her new condition, it seems.”
Sobs wracked the figure at his feet, but they were, I think, unbeknownst to him, sobs of joy.
He prodded her from him, angrily, with his foot. “Misery!” he said. “her very eyes are like those of my beloved slave!”
She lay on her side, her hands bound behind her, looking up at him. The outer robe she wore had become somewhat disarranged, and it was now, as she lay, above her knees. I speculated that she was indeed naked beneath it.
“I see that you can stimulate a man’s desire, Constanzia,” he said, menacingly, in fury.
He reached eown and seized her, and pulled her up, to her knees, looking closely at her.
“I suppose, too,” he said, “your hair will be dark, as hers.” Then his voice became soft. It almost broke. “Perhaps,” he said, “your eyes, your hair, if it be dark, truly dark, as hers, that you remind me of her, will gain you, you hated slut, a lenience which you might not obtain by other menas. Perhaps, at times I will give you a tidbit at the table, or perhaps, at times, ev
en hold the whip, for that you remind me of her.”
Then he stood up, angrily.
“No!” he suddenly cried, in fury. “You will not weaken me! I shall not be weak! I will not be weak! You have been the enemy of our house, and are now my slave! No lenience for you, hated slut! No indulgence for the new slave, Constanzia!” he looked down at her, in fury. “I should put you to my pleasure now,” he cried, “and in the manner you deserve, with ruthless authority, on the very tiles of the court!” But he did not seize her. Rather, angrily, he jerked her to her feet. He then drew a leash from his pouch and put it on her. “We must to the dock,” he said, angrily. “Do you step forward, eagerly? So close to me? Do you look up to me so? Your eyes are filled with tears. Well should they be, with tears of fear and misery!” He turned about. She hastened to follow. He turned back. “You do not drag on the leash?” he asked. “You do not require a cuffing, to remind you that you are a leashed slave?”
She shook her head, it seemed, happily.
He drew back his hand, but then he lowered it, angrily. “I would not stand so close to me,” he said. “Do you not realize that but a moment ago, but for a wisp of will, blowing one way or another, you could have been put to my pleasure? Do you not think I can sense your nearness?”
But, as she had not been commanded, she stood her ground, near to him. She lowered her head, submissively, as his slave.
“Yes,” he said, “I do not doubt that you will prove of interest in the furs, and to our friends, our guests, our business associates, as well.”
She shrank back.
“Surely you understand, my dear Constanzia,” he said, “that you are now a slave.”
She regarded him.
“Indeed,” he said, angrily, “what is the meaning of these trappings you wear, this robe, this hood, this veil? Are they not presumptuous on one such as you have become? Do they not do you unwonted honor? Surely you understand that you are no longer entitled to such dignities.”
He dropped the leash, and it dangled down from her neck, before her.
He put his hands on the hood.
“It was thought,” said he, “that you might first be stripped in Harfax, but surely we need not so long postpone that small detail, so salutary in its effects upon a female.”
His hands tightened on the hood.
“Do you not pull back, do you not plead?” he asked.
But she kept her head down.
“What a strange effect you have upon me,” he mused. “It is doubtless because of she of whom you remind me. But I ignore this. I steel myself. I remind myself that you were once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit. So may you learn, new slave, what it is to be owned! So let it be told at the fairs, let it be remembered in the annals of the Merchants, that she who was once the proud Lady Constanzia of Besnit, who defrauded and nearly brought to ruin the house of William, in Harfax, was led though the streets of Treve on a leash, naked and bound, then the slave of Henry, least in that house!”
he thrust back the hood. The shape of her head, her throat and such, could now be much better discerned. The color of her hair, on the other hand, as the veil was arranged, it swathing her head, enclosing it save for her eyes and the very top of the bridge of her nose, could not be determined. The veil was not pinned back, nor merely bound about her lower face, the hood concealing the hair, but enclosed it, as noted, save for the eyes and a bit of the bridge of the nose. She was, of course, more revealed than before, the shape of her head, the loveliness of its positioning, its setting, and such.
He thrust the dangling leash back, over her left shoulder.
She shuddered a little.
His hands then grasped her robes, at the collar.
She regarded hi.
Then, angrily, he tore them down from her shoulders, and then stood for a moment, as though in awe, she before him, erect, slim, and lovely, the robes hung down now behind her, from her bound wrists, held by the sleeves. She had, indeed, been naked beneath them.
“Ai!” he said. “It would indeed have been the collar for you!”
She straightened herself, even a little more.
Her slave curves were exquisite.
“You are beautiful,” he said. “Indeed,” he cried, “you are slave beautiful! You should never have been a free woman! How absurd that freedom should have been permitted to you! What a woeful mistake! Such a body is born for the collar! It is incomplete without it!
She stood silent before him, scrutinized, inspected.
“You would bring a high price on the block,” he said. But then he said, menacingly, “But you are not for sale.”
She lifted her head a little, almost as though proffering her veiled countenance to him, as though she was eager to place the veil which she could not remove within his power.
“Oh, you can whine, and beg, and kneel, and grovel and weep, and plead to be sold,” he said, “to anyone other than the house of William, in Harfax, for as little as a tarsk-bit to anyone, for any service, but you are not for sale! We have waited long to obtain you. We have plans for you, slave!”
She whimpered, futilely, fighting the gag.
But she could not speak.
It had been put on her by a Gorean.
“Beg if you wish,” he said, “to be the girl of a keeper of tarsks, to be the property of a sewer master, to be sold for the cleaning of tharlarion stables, but you are destined rather for the those you so defrauded, for the house of those you so wronged, for the house of your most dire enemies! You are ours, and you will remain ours, to do with as we please, and fully, you may be sure, even though a ubar should bid upon you!”
she regarded him, her hands tied behind her, well and closely held by the binding fiber.
“Let us see if the former Lady Constanzia has been well marked,” he said.
There was a tremor in her body, one almost of shyness. She had not long been a slave.
She must submit her brand, fresh in her body, for the inspection of her master.
He had not yet seen it.
Would it be found acceptable? Would it meet with his approval?
She trembled.
She must hope he would find it pleasing.
It seemed she could scarcely move.
“Turn your left flank to me, slave,” he said.
She complied.
“Ah!” he said, suddenly, appreciatively. “Yes, yes!”
She whimpered, gratefully.
The slave was much relieved.
“Yes,” he said, “you are well branded, an incisive, clean mark. There is no mistaking it. And common kajira mark! Of course! Excellent, and superbly fitting! The former Lady Constanzia of Besnit-marked as a common slave! — Excellent!”
the common kajira mark, of course, which I myself wore, is a lovely brand. It may be the most familiar brand on Gor for a female slave, but that does not make it any the less beautiful. Indeed, I suspect it is the most common brand because it is the most beautiful, or surely one of the most beautiful. Just as the male beasts wish us to be attractive, and dress us for their pleasure, when permitting us clothing, and such, so, too, they brand us for beauty, as well. The brand, small and tasteful, but momentous in its meaning, much enhances the beauty of a woman, both aesthetically and cognitively-in the latter dimension marking her as slave, and thus latently, implicitly, indicatively hinting at, or, better, starting, the pleasures, the joys, one may have of her. The most common brand site is the left thigh, under the hip. This site is analogous to that used on a multitude of other forms of domestic animal, verr, tarsks, bosk, and such. Sometimes boys enjoy surprising slaves in the streets or markets and flip their tunics, to ascertain the brand, and, doubtless, to treat themselves to a flash of thigh. It is a game for them. As they are free persons they could simply put the girl to her knees and issue the command, “Brand,” to which the girl must respond by revealing her slave mark. But this would take time. And the pack of them are afoot, racing about and frolicking. It is irritating to be sometimes str
uck by a free woman or women after this has occurred, as though we could help it! Though we are doubtless quite sensitive to matters of modesty we, as slave, are not permitted modesty. It is one thing to be bared for our masters, and another for strangers.
“Now,” said he, “face me, again.”
She complied.
He then approached her and reached to the veil.
“It is your face now,” said he, “the utmost delicacy, and least expression, of your features, which are to be exposed.”
She did not pull back.
“Perhaps you do not understand,” he said. “Your features are to be publicly exposed, such that anyone, the least of the workers at the docks, even a male slave, may look freely, and as he pleases, upon them.”
She stood a little closer to him.
“You will be able to hid nothing,” he said.
She even lifted her chin.
“Are you truly prepared,” he asked, “so easily, to be face-stripped?”
She lifted her chin a little more, looking up at him.
“Strange,” he said, “that you do not cringe, that you do not try to flee, that I need not use the leash, to hold you here. Have you learned so soon the futility, the meaninglessness, of recalcitrance, of disobedience? Perhaps you have felt the whip. Or perhaps you understand, already, the brand, the collar.” He pulled away part of the veil from about her throat, freeing it from under the collar. “It is with pleasure, as you may well conjecture,” he said, “that I now bare the face of she who was once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit. I have dreamed of unveiling her, of stripping her face, of exposing it, of making it naked.” He continued to unwrap the veil. “In a moment now, my dear,” he said, “your face will be naked, as is fitting for what you are now, a slave.”
“Aiii!” he cried, in astonishment, dropping the veil to one side.
Instantly she fell to her knees before him.
He tore the gag from her, pulling out the wadding, discarding the binding.