Witness of Gor

by John Norman

  "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 of my earlier, briefest glimpse, looked fully upon the features of the pit master.

  It was in the power of this thing 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 had 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 women 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 differently, 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, presumably, 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 taken 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 have 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 woman 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 no 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 think her free, letting me think 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 it 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 derrière, 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.

  "She is new to our world," said the pit master, somewhat angrily.

  "She should know better!" screamed the free woman.

  "True," said the pit master.

  "She is stupid!" cried the woman. "She is stupid!"

  "She is extremely intelligent," said the pit master, "considering what she is, a slave." He had doubtless been expecting me here, and had doubtless been apprised of the contents of my papers. I was glad to learn that I might be thought to be intelligent, if only for a slave. Such things, I had learned, considerably improve a girl's price. The men on this world relish intelligent women. We make, it is said, the best slaves. How they make us serve and obey!

  More is expected, you see, of an intelligent slave. Demands are placed on her intelligence. It is challenged, and exploited. She is in the beginning perhaps its lamenting victim, for she is treated with such impatient severity and so much is expected of her, but is soon, as she grows, blossoms and thrives in her bondage, and as her master is more pleased with her, the joyful recipient of its attendant benefactions. Intelligent, she derives more from the uncompromising completeness of her state and the deliciousness of her domination. She is expected, you see, to serve with sensitivities, delicacies, diligences and subtleties beyond the ken of simpler women. Our intelligence, interestingly, makes us more the properties of our masters, just as one will demand, and have, more from an intelligent animal than from one less intelligent; we are more easily controlled in a thousand ways by as little as a glance or gesture, because we grasp what is required; our bodies, too, tend to be mo
re sensitive, and this puts us the more at the mercy of our masters, and any disciplines he may choose to impose upon us; if we attempt to conceal our intelligence, in order to have less expected of us, we are whipped; our service is to be perfect, and well beyond that of a less intelligent woman; too, our faults or shortcomings are dealt with more severely, for we should know better. Too, for what it is worth, intelligent women are commonly better looking than less intelligent women, a feature which is not without its appeal to masters, and one which makes them more likely candidates for the slavers' ropes and irons; too, they also tend to be more helplessly responsive in the arms of a master. They tend, as well, to be more in touch with their inner selves and secret needs, and less the victims of negativistic conditioning programs. The intelligent woman often knows what she is missing and what she wants, whereas the less intelligent woman is often little more than the troubled, unwitting victim of the prescriptions and pathologies of a negativistic culture within which she is, unbeknownst to herself, imprisoned.

  "I am a helpless free woman," said the free woman, wheedlingly, "and you are a free man. I have been insulted. I must depend upon you to see that my honor is suitably satisfied."

  "The barbarian slave will be suitably punished," he said.

  "Excellent!" she said.

  The pit master, in spite of the power which he doubtless held in this place, even over prisoners, as I had been informed, seemed concerned to treat the free woman with respect. This, I gathered, might be cultural, or perhaps he, somehow, oddly, despite his grotesque appearance, might be sensitive to some subtle canons of gentility. I had noted that the guards in the pens had similarly shown great deference to free women. To be sure, those free women might have been important, and they were certainly not prisoners. This deference, it might be mentioned, had not precluded, later, and the next day, the women gone, a number of rude jokes pertaining to them, nor some rather explicit speculations as to what they might look like, chained naked to a floor ring. The respect commonly shown to free women on this world is not, of course, accorded to slaves. It would never have occurred to the pit master, or to other men of this world, to treat me as other than what I was, a slave. How different we are from free women! And yet, interestingly, how artificial, and how fragile, and how culturally precarious, is the distinction between the free woman and the slave. Do the free women understand that that distinction is not part of nature, like dominance and submission, but that it depends merely on the will of men? Do they not understand that their lofty status requires the permission of males, and, in a sense, depends upon the whims of males? There is a thin line, and a short distance, between the free woman and the slave, a line as thin as slave silk, a distance as short as the three links joining slave bracelets.