Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt Page 52

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

“He needn’t have been as ribald as he was,” said Marcus.

  “There are at least two reasons for what he did,” I said. “First, the length of

  his tirade gave him time to study the Home Stone, in all its details. Secondly,

  it established a character. If he come back during the same watch, as he

  presumably will, the guards will remember him, and expect a show.”

  “Then they will be more attentive,” said Marcus.

  “But to him, not to the Home Stone,” I said.

  “You said ‘at least two reasons,’” said Marcus. “That suggests there might be at

  least one other.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, evasively.

  “What?” he asked, not pleasantly.

  “He was enjoying himself,” I said.

  “He should have been impaled!” said Marcus.

  “Master,” begged Phoebe.

  “I should have run him through!” exclaimed Marcus.

  “Master!” whimpered Phoebe.

  The new slave whimpered, too, urgently, helplessly, plaintively, to call her

  needs, and herself, to my attention.

  “I think it would be better if you were not present when the attempt is made on

  the Home Stone,” I said.

  “You are in one of your rational moods,” said Marcus, disgustedly.

  “Almost everyone has them occasionally,” I said. “Also, I thought you were

  supposed to be the rational one.”

  “I shall think about it,” he said.

  “The important thing here,” I said, “is not your sense of honor, which seems a

  bit touchy, but the rescue of the Home Stone.”

  “This is more of Your Kaissa,” he said.

  “Master,” begged Phoebe.

  He looked down at her, fiercely.

  “A slave begs,” she said, “that her master consent to enter her.”

  (pg. 351) “Oh!” she cried, as Marcus, fiercely, took her in his arms.

  “It is I who am impaled,” she laughed. “It is I who am run through!”

  “But as befits female slaves!” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” she laughed. Then she closed her eyes. “Oh, yes!” she said. She

  gasped. She sighed, softly. “Deign to use me, unworthy slave though I am,” she

  whispered, “as the cover for your spear, as your sheath and scabbard.”

  “And it is done, is it not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “And in the manner befitting female slaves?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  He kissed her, his head down, fiercely about the throat.

  Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. “I have received my master,” she said.

  “I, too, would receive my master,” whispered the new slave.

  “I will write the letter for you,” mumbled Marcus, his words lost somewhere in

  Phoebe’s neck.

  I will require further assistance, as well,” I said.

  “It is yours,” he said.

  “I do not think it will interfere in any way with the recovery of the Home

  Stone,” I said.

  “Yes,” mumbled Marcus. “Yes, yes,”

  I regarded the new slave. She turned her head toward me. Her eyes were filled

  with tears. She whimpered. I seized her, turned her and threw her to her back,

  with a sound of the chain, beside me, on the blanket, spread over the boards. I

  touched her, lightly, and she lifted her body, piteously. She looked up at me.

  She whimpered. I gently touched her breasts. Again she whimpered. They were very

  beautiful, and their condition, like that of her whole body, signified her

  readiness, and need. Tears of supplication welled in her eyes.

  I touched her lightly about the waist, and she moved almost as though she might

  have been burned. Even the chain had jerked.

  “You are a hot slave,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I touched her.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “And you juice exceedingly well,” I said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  I looked down at her. How amazing, how astonishing, and wonderful are female

  slaves. How, too, this woman’s life had changed! What a dramatic volte-face,

  from a free woman to a slave! How different she was from a free woman, this

  slave, (pg. 352) hot, needful, beautiful, owned, obedient, begging. Too, had not

  been that long in bondage.

  I looked down upon her.

  “Are you a slave?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she whimpered. “Subjugate me.”

  I then took her in my arms.

  “Now I, too, am impaled,” she whispered. “Now I, too, have been run through.

  Now, I, too, have received my master. Now, I, too, am cover to his spear. Now,

  I, too, serve him as sheath and scabbard!”

  “But such things in manners befitting the female slave,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered, ecstatically.

  “You may move as you wish,” I said.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “Hold!” I said.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Hold, a little,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she moaned.

  “You squirm well,” I said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “It seems you are already on the brink,” I said.

  “I was there even before you put me to my back,” she said.

  “Even from such small things as keeping you in a certain position, checking your

  ankle ring and collar, touching you a little now and then, here and there?”

  “It is not just such things,” she said. “Even more, it is my entire condition!”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “I have become hot, submissive, sexual and obedient,” she said.

  “I see,” I said.

  “I am a slave and needful,” she said.

  “I see,” I said.

  “You have done this to me!” she said.

  “I?” I asked.

  “You, and others,” she said. “Men, masters.”

  “These things are within you,” I said. “They are born in you. Surely you have

  sensed them in yourself, or hints of them, even when you were a free woman.”

  “Then I have always been a slave,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was only that you were waiting for a master, or masters.”

  She was silent.

  “Too,” I said, “even though these things are within you, they (pg. 353) did not

  have their beginning with you. They are very ancient things. They go back at

  least to the cave and the stone knife.”

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “As master wishes,” she said.

  How far we were from the cave and the stone knife, I thought, and yet. Again, in

  a way, how close! Could one not see in the blade of steel, so much keener and

  more dangerous, the knife of stone? Could one not recollect in the spacious />
  courts of the palace the dim recesses of limestone caves? And who moves barefoot

  and graceful upon the tiles of the palace? Is it the hunter’s mate, clad in her

  skins, kept, and cuffed and obedient, cowering lovingly at her master’s feet,

  his in the sense of rain and stones? No, it is the curvaceous, perfumed, silked,

  collared slave, owned in law, hurrying to do her master’s bidding.

  “You may now again move,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, Master!” she said, gratefully.

  But in a short while I counseled her once again to desist, which she did,

  reluctantly.

  “Surely you did not learn to move and moan like that as a free women,” I said.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “Speak,” I said.

  “I am excited, and cannot help myself,” she said. “It is muchly reflexive,

  involuntary.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I beg my master’s pardon,” she said. “The sensations, the feelings, are

  incredible! Then my movements become such that I cannot even control them. It is

  not like it is I who move, but rather than it is I who am moved. It is like

  hands jerking me about. I am wild inside and helpless and my body cries out

  silently and moves as it wishes! Sometimes it is almost as though I were being

  beaten, or struck!”

  “They are simple slave reflexes,” I said. “I effect nothing critical.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “Have you even seen slave dance?” I asked.

  “No, Master,” she said. “But I have heard of it.”

  “You have no idea, then,” I said, “of its incredible sensuousness and beauty,

  and of how a woman appears in it, how exciting, desirable and owned, and of how

  men, seeing it, can cry out with need?”

  “Only what I have heard,” she said.

  “As you were in the house of Appanius, who is a rich man,” I said, “it is

  surprising that you never observed such dancers.”

  (pg. 354) She was silent.

  “Surely he could have afforded to bring them in, or even to own his own.”

  “I would think so, Master,” she said.

  “Not even at the banquets?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Or at the small suppers, later to be chained to rings near the guests?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I see,” I said.

  This information fitted in with certain surmises I had formed earlier. If my

  surmises were correct, it would fit in well with my plans.

  “Why does Master ask?” she asked.

  “Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” I said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “My question was suggested to me,” I said, “by the helplessness of your slave

  responses.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “There are various movements in slave dance,” I said, “of the hips, the belly,

  and such, indeed, of the entire body, which are clearly akin to, and reminiscent

  of, the movements of love and need.”

  “Yes, Master?” she said.

  “To be sure, in the dance,” I said, “these movements tend to be under much

  stricter control. The dance is, after all, an art form. Nonetheless it is clear

  that the sexuality of the dancer is not uncommonly aroused. After all, it is

  hard for a woman to be beautiful and sensuous without having her sexuality

  ignited. Indeed, few are the dancers who have not upon occasion, even in the

  dance itself, succumbed to orgasmic helplessness. This can occur to them while

  they are on their feet, but more often it will occur during floor movements or

  when they are on their knees.”

  “Yes, Master,” whispered the girl.

  “And your movement,” I said, “suggested to me that you might make a dancer.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “You also have an excellent body for a dancer,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “Would you like to trained for the dance?” I asked.

  “I do not know, Master,” she said, frightened.

  “Or would you dare to be so beautiful?”

  (pg. 355) “I am a slave,” she whispered. “It will be done with me as masters

  wish.”

  “But would you like it?” I asked.

  “Perhaps, Master,” she whispered, fearfully.

  “It is something to keep in mind,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  Phoebe was moaning to one side, locked in the arms of Marcus.

  I moved a little.

  The girl in my arms gasped. “Oh,” she whispered. She looked at me, beggingly.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Please continue my subjugation,” she said.

  “Are you certain you wish it?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I am a slave,” she said. “It is appropriate that I be subjugated!”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I understand my sex, and its meaning,” she said.

  “In bondage,” I said, “you have discovered these things?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I see,” I said.

  “And I have been given little choice, Master,” she smiled.

  “True,” I said.

  “Please!” she suddenly wept.

  “Incidentally,” I said, “when you kneel before the free woman, in your carefully

  prepared modest garb, fit for a lowly slave, as you must soon do, to convey to

  her the message which will be inserted in the message tube about your neck, be

  certain to kneel with your knees closely together.”

  “Certainly, Master,” she said. “She is a female, not a male.”

  “But even more importantly,” I said, “insofar as you can, before her, and before

  any other free woman who might be in attendance upon her, conceal your

  sexuality. Do not let them suspect it. Let them think that you are as inert and

  meaningless as they are.”

  “That is common by slave girls before free women, Master,” she said. “It does

  not take us long to learn that, once we are in the collar.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “But I do not think they are always fooled,” she said.

  “Perhaps not,” I said.

  “Even as long ago as in the house of Appanius,” she said, “I (pg. 356) was twice

  switched by free women who had come to see him on business.”

  “Do the best you can,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Seem to be merely a modest, deferential girl, demurely clad, awed perhaps,

  discharging your errand.”

  “Have no fear,” she said, “but what I shall be awed in such a presence.”

  “She is only another woman,” I said, “and if she were stripped and
in a collar,

  she would be no different from you.”

  “Master!” protested the slave.

  “Indeed, you might be first girl over her,” I said.

  “Please, Master!” she protested.

  “It is true,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Another thing,” I said. “I do not think it would be in your best interest for

  you to convey to her in any way, inadvertently or otherwise, even in feminine

  vanity, the hint, to be sure, the false hint, that there might be anything

  between you and the putative master of the note you bear.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You are to be only a humble messenger.”

  “Yes, Maser,” she said.

  “I would not wish for you to be cut to pieces, or boiled in oil,” I said.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “What is wrong?” I asked.

  It seemed to me that tears had sprung afresh in the eyes of the slave.

  “No more need I fear, Master,” she said, “that I might be of interest to he who

  is to be the supposed author of the note in question. Now I am only a lowly

  slave. At best I could expect only to be spurned by his foot from his path.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “But I would be grateful to him,” she said, “for even so small a touch.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I would kiss the unstrapped, discarded sandal that had kicked me.”

  “You may move,” said I, “Lavinia,” for that was the name I had kept on her.

  She then, released from the enforced, tense quiescence I had imposed upon her,

  clutched me gratefully, sobbing with relief and joy. In a few moments she wept.

  “I yield me, Master!” and I then held her like iron and cried out with joy and

  she sobbed (pg. 357)

  “I am helpless and taken!” and Phoebe, too, in the arms of Marcus, cried out,

  herself as well taken, and he, too, uttered a wild cry and a then sudden, low,

  satisfying growl, and the sounds of Phoebe and Marcus and of Lavinia and myself

  mingled in the tiny room and it had been done to the slaves once more.

  “I am yours,” said Phoebe to Marcus.

  “I am subjugated, and am your slave, Master,” said Lavinia to me.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, “our project begins.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

 

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