Witness of Gor

by John Norman

  I lay on the small, square iron floor of a confinement.

  Here was a becaged slave. Could she be I?

  Here was a slave, behind bars, in this tiny prison, naked and chained. Surely she could not be I!

  She wore a slave collar, and was branded. Surely she could not be I!

  But it was I!

  I sobbed, afraid. I must do as I was told. I must obey. I must fear the whip.

  Then, trembling, frightened, I recalled the use to which the monster had put me.

  Oh, he had well had his will with me!

  I recalled the feelings, uneasily. Even now they made me squirm.

  My ears were pierced.

  I reddened in the darkness, heated and sweating. How I had yielded to him, as such a slave!

  He had made me his!

  I had been conquered and enraptured, destroyed and renewed, rent in fragments and made whole, freed and enslaved, broken and created.

  And in the end, overwhelmed, struggling to comprehend, I had found myself more a slave than ever. The strongest chains, you see, are not those of iron, nor the strongest bonds those of steel. How frail are such things compared to the chains of desire, the bonds of need! Even now, as fulfilled as I had been, I could sense a growing restlessness in my body. To be sure, it can be dangerous to be too importunate. One can be whipped for it. But what men can do to a woman, had surely, in me, been at least begun. How natural it is, once one understands these things, to fall to one's knees, begging plaintively.

  I knew myself, as I lay there, to be wholly a slave. It was what I should be, and was.

  How fortunate I was to have been made what I was!

  How few women have been made what they are!

  I had been named, but did not know my name.

  In time the beast, the monster, closed the scroll, tying it shut with a string.

  He lowered the lamp a little, but left it on the table. There was only a little light now in the chamber. His shadow seemed wild, deformed, exaggerated, on the walls. He glanced once toward me, but I pretended to be asleep. The other slaves, I think, were asleep. I saw him crouch near the brunette and then he took her by the upper arms, and pulled her to a sitting position. She made a little cry, half in her sleep. There was a rustle of chain. I saw her arms raise as her tunic was drawn up, over her head, and then discarded. He then pulled her by the upper arms, the chain leaving its coil by the ring, toward the center of the furs. Then her arms were about him, to my horror. But she was a slave. She must obey! I heard him grunt, in satisfaction. She uttered a tiny cry. I did not know if she were fully awake or not. But then I saw her, to my dismay, press her lips to that monstrous visage. Had she been commanded to do so? I did not know. I had heard no command. Once, in training, I had had to lavish loving kisses on a discarded sandal. To be sure, it had been appropriate to do so, and I had been pleased to do it, for it had been a man's sandal. Too, I would have begged to have done it, even at that stage of my training, and would have done it gratefully, had it been the sandal of he whose whip I had first kissed, but, alas, it had not been. I could see the two of them, together, in the dimness, in the flickering glow of the tiny lamp. She was held tightly in his arms. Escape would have been impossible for her, even had she not been chained. But, too, it seemed she pressed her beauty, even eagerly, against that grotesque body. Her curves were superb, even for those of a slave. I did not doubt her value in a market. She had been seized in her sleep, and drawn to him. He had wished her. Nothing more need be said. We are at the convenience of the master, fully, wherever, however, and whenever he may please.

  I lay very quietly in the cage. I did not want to stir, and move the chain.

  I could hear them together, some feet away, on the furs. They made tiny sounds. I sometimes heard the movement of the chain.

  It was she, it seemed, who was slept at his feet, but, as the whim might seize him, I was sure he might have availed himself of any of the women in this place, state slaves, but here, in this place, as his own slaves. He might have drawn forth one of the blondes from her kennel, he might have utilized one of the women at the wall, perhaps she who had sneered at me, she as lowly, and as much at his mercy, as any other, or, indeed, he might have opened my cage and drawn me forth, as well, the new girl, the barbarian, to use me as he saw fit, perhaps on a blanket, perhaps on the stone floor itself.

  In time he put her from him and she found her tunic and put it on, pulling it down, over her head. She then crept to the foot of the furs and lay there.

  I saw her reach up, as though to touch his foot, but then she drew her hand back.

  Doubtless she had a name. But I did not know it. I did not know that of the others, either. I did not even know my own name!

  I lay very quietly, in my chains, in the cage.

  How small it was!

  I was no more than any of the women here, no more than a slave. Indeed, in a way, I was less than they, for I was a barbarian, and my ears were pierced.

  But I felt strangely excited, and moved, and stirred.

  Whereas I was terrified to be exactly where I was, to be here, in this specific place, in the depths below the fortress, or city, at the mercy of some misshapen beast, I was not at all discontented that I had been brought to this world, nor was I discontented, though I grasped its perils, to be a slave. Even in the little I had seen of it I had found myself falling in love with this world, with its honesty, its truth and beauty. Surely a brand and collar is a small price to pay for being permitted to come here, to tread such soils, to breathe such air. And here, too, I had learned to be alive, and to feel and experience, with a keenness, and with depths and heights, I would never have believed possible on my old world. Too, here, in this place, I had, for the first time in my life, come to understand my own most profound reality, that which had been concealed beneath the veneers of civilization, that which had called out to me in secret moments, crying out even in my dreams. I had been told I must live a lie. I had been told I must pretend to be what I was not. But here I had learned I must live the truth, and must be true to myself.

  Here I was given no alternative but to be what I was.

  I was grateful, and joyful.

  But what mattered such reflections? What matters it whether I am pleased, or fulfilled, or satisfied? It matters not at all. I am a slave, and must serve.

  I am choiceless. My will means nothing. How delicious this is to me! I am excited, and thrilled, and stimulated in all my senses, to understand the uncompromising domination to which I am subject. I am owned and must obey, and with perfection! I would not have it otherwise. But even if I wished, I could not have it otherwise. On my neck is a Gorean collar.

  Even if I screamed and cried out, and struggled, and wept, and pulled futilely against my chains, and beat on the bars of my cage, nothing would be changed, save that I would be whipped to silence.

  It had been done to me.

  I was here.

  On my neck was a Gorean collar.

  The brunet slave lay quietly at the foot of the furs, the chain running from her left ankle to the ring. I think she was asleep. I am sure the others were, as well. The monster, bent over, picked up the tiny lamp, its flame long lowered, from the table, and, moving slowly, went to the kennels which, one by one, lifting the lamp a little, he checked. From where I was I could not see two of the women in the kennels. They must have been toward the back of the kennel. I could see the shadows of the bars on the kennel walls, from the lamplight. I did see the figure of one of the women, the chained, kenneled brunette. The shadows of the bars fell across her body, the shadows moving with the movement of the tiny lamp. Then the monster shambled toward the wall. I saw the tiny lamp lifted and saw, at the wall, the women there, the five of them, chained. They lay in various attitudes. Three lay upon their blankets, doubled. The bodies of two of them were partly covered with a fold of blanket, the belly of one, the calves of another. One of the women, she using her blanket doubled, lifted her head a little, blinking, but
then put it down again, on the blanket. Such nocturnal checks are not unusual in the pens, of course. I had awakened once or twice in the pens, early in my training, to see the light of a lamp on the walls, the shadows cast there by the bars. But then, after a time, one tends to sleep through such things. One knows, of course, that one's presence in the kennel is likely to be verified during the night. Too, one knows, as a slave, that one is not permitted modesty, not even in one's sleep, that one's beauty may be looked in upon, that as one lies there, exposed, behind the bars, it may be subjected to the consideration and scrutiny of men, as they please. We are, in our way, public. Sometimes even buyers, I have heard, scrutinize us in our sleep. I think those who had purchased me from the pens, for this place, may have so regarded me, once or twice, in my sleep. It is said that sometimes slavers enter the boudoir of a free woman and scrutinize her in her sleep, in this considering what value, if any, she might hold as a slave. How does she move in her sleep, how does she twist, or turn, what tiny noises does she make? Perhaps her movements, and her tiny cries, and such, suggest needs, and latencies, of interest. He regards her. Yes, she is a slave. She needs only the brand, the collar. Should he take her then, or should he merely enter her name on the list, to be picked up later, at one's convenience? I would suppose that men might sometimes find it pleasant, to look in upon us, in our helplessness, and our sleep. Sometimes, too, we might find that we had, even in our sleep, all unbeknownst to ourselves, aroused their desire. Sometimes, indeed, the guard had awakened me, by a gentle tapping on the bars. He had then brought me forth, to serve him. Sometimes, of course, I would suppose that he had planned this earlier, looking forward to the time when he might draw me forth. But, at other times, I am reasonably confident that my use was merely a matter of the interest of the moment. But sometimes, too, I had waited, anxiously, for him, to plead in whispers for his attention, not wanting to awaken the others. Sometimes my plea would be granted. At other times it would be denied. I had heard there were guards in the pits, or depths. Doubtless they had their rounds to make, of the cells or whatever incarceratory devices might be found in this place. I did not think they would check this area. This was the place of the pit master. He would doubtless strictly control the gratifications of the women here, as much as, or perhaps even more so than, their food and bonds. I saw the pit master turn toward me. I was very frightened. He terrified me. But I, too, one of his charges, as much as the others, would doubtless be looked in upon. I pretended to be asleep. I heard him approach the cage. I was sure, then, he was quite close to me. Through my closed eyelids I was aware of the lamp. But he did not turn away! For better than a minute he stood there. Then, frightened, I rose to my knees in the cage and, facing him, put my head down to the tiny iron floor, performing obeisance.

  "Why did you pretend to be asleep?" he asked.

  "Forgive me, Master," I said. He was silent.

  "I was afraid," I said. "Forgive me!"

  "How is your belly?" he asked.

  "My back, Master?" I asked. I thought I must have misunderstood him.

  "Your belly," he said.

  "Master?" I asked. Then I said, "It is all right, Master. Thank you, Master."

  "You have a hot belly," he said, "particularly for one so new to the collar."

  I kept my head down. I was silent.

  "You may be easily controlled by it," he said. "It puts you much at our mercy."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "In the beginning," he said, "I think I will permit you to be touched by men only infrequently."

  "As Master wishes," I whispered.

  "We shall see how you serve."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "Lift your head," he said.

  I did so, but I did not look at him.

  "Lift your hair, and turn your head from side to side."

  I put my chained hands to my hair, and lifted it, and turned my head from side to side.

  "Pierced-ear girl," he murmured.

  Then he said, "You may lower your hands."

  With a movement of my head, I tossed my hair down, about my shoulders. I adjusted it a little, with my hands, they close together. I kept my head up. I had not received permission to lower it. I did not, of course, look upon him.

  "You are pretty," he said.

  "Am I pretty?" he asked.

  "No," I said.

  "Am I handsome?" he asked.

  "No," I said. "Forgive me, Master."

  "For speaking the truth?"

  "The opinion of a slave is worthless," I said.

  "Why do you say that?" he asked.

  "I do not wish to offend Master," I said.

  "Do you think, because you have been put in a collar, you become less intelligent?"

  "No," I said.

  "Slavery has many effects on a woman," he said, "It softens her, it enhances her beauty, it gives her a profound sense of herself, it fulfills her, it increases, considerably, her sexual responsiveness, it increases a thousandfold her capacities to love, but one effect it does not have, it does not reduce her intelligence."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "Why should it?" he asked.

  "I do not know, Master," I said.

  "It does not."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "There is a sense," he said, "in which the opinion of a slave is worthless, and another sense in which it might not be worthless. The sense in which it might not be worthless is the sense in which it might be true, or insightful, or helpful, such things. But in that sense the opinion of an urt or sleen, or any other form of animal, might not be worthless. It might be true, or insightful, or helpful, such things. The sense in which the opinion of a slave, or other form of animal, is worthless is the sense in which it is just that, the opinion of a slave, or animal. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Master," I said. My thoughts, like my feelings, did not count. They were only those of a slave.

  How these men, these brutes on this world who had never relinquished their manhood, dominated us! How totally, how uncompromisingly, they dominated us! How deliciously they dominated us!

  "Intelligent women," he said, "make excellent slaves."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "They understand what has been done to them, what they then are, how they must be, and so on."

  "Yes, Master," I whispered.

  "And they are quick to grasp the impossibility of escape, and the irreversibility, by their own efforts, of what has been done to them."

  "Yes, Master," I said. But did he not understand how much more there was to it than this? Did he not understand the need for the master, the longing for him, the yearning for him? Did he not understand the need to serve, and love, selflessly?

  "You look quite well in chains."

  "Thank you, Master."

  "You belong in them."

  "Yes, Master."

  "You know that, don't you?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master," I whispered. I was such a woman. Even had it not been for such things as the desire to serve and love wholly, with no thought of self, only with thought for the happiness of the master, I would have belonged in chains. I knew that. I had been petty, and vain, and selfish, and doubtless, to some extent, still was. I had little doubt that if I had been permitted to retain my freedom I would have abused it, almost certainly so in my old world. How fitting then, I recognized, that men, in their arrogance, not wishing to accept such insult and folly on my part, had simply made me a slave, had simply branded me and put me in a collar. I now wore chains. I was now subject to the whip. I would obey, and be pleasing. These things had been decided by men.

  "Master!" I begged.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "For what reason have I been brought here?"

  "Here?" he asked.

  "To this city, this place," I said.

  "To this particular city, and this particular place?" he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "You will learn in time," he said.

  "
Master!" I begged.

  "Yes?" said he.

  "I do not know my name," I said.

  "It is on the collar," he said. He indicated that I should more closely approach the bars. I put my right cheek against them, my eyes closed. I felt his pawlike hand slide the kajira collar up, beneath the sirik collar. "There it is," he said, lifting the lamp a bit. "It is there, your name, on the collar, which you cannot remove from your neck."

  Of course I could not remove the kajira collar! Such collars are not made to be removed by a girl. They are locked. The lock is at the back of the neck. Such collars are light, close-fitting, and attractive. They are pretty. One does not slip them.

  I knew that the name was on the collar, and that, thus, in a sense, my name was on me, clearly and obdurately, for anyone to see, anyone who might be literate and care to peruse the collar. In this way a girl may be more easily recognized, and remembered, or identified or traced, or such. She is denied the refuge of a gracious and sheltering anonymity.

  And of course I could not remove the sirik collar either. It was locked on me, as well.

  The brute knew this. He was merely reminding me of my helplessness. It was doubtless an excellent lesson to be administered to a slave, and particularly, I supposed, to one such as I, an Earth-girl slave.

  "It was shown to me," I said, "but I cannot read. I am illiterate! It was never told to me."

  "Even if you could read," he said, "you could not see it now, for it is on your collar."

  "Please, Master," I said, my eyes closed. "I would know my name."

  I must, I knew, hear my name first from the lips of a man.

  "Do you beg to know the slave's name?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master," I said. "I beg to know the slave's name."

  "It is a barbarian name," he said, "short, luscious, and splendidly fitting for a slave."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  He was silent.

  "I beg to know the slave's name," I said.

  "It is 'Janice'," he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "What is your name?" he asked.

  "'Janice'," I said.

  "That is the sort of name beneath which a slave squirms well," he said.