Witness of Gor

by John Norman

  "There are guards about," I informed her, though I supposed she must be aware of this.

  "Yes," she said.

  She did not seem particularly haughty or arrogant. A great transformation, it seemed, had come over her since the first time I had seen her, at the pool.

  "Do not try to escape," I said. The door was, after all, now open.

  "I will not," she said.

  "You cannot escape," I said. "Escape is impossible for you."

  "I know," she said.

  "Kneel," I said.

  She knelt.

  I let her remain kneeling for a few moments, looking at me. I then came toward her and put the food down, on the floor, before her.

  "Do not touch it yet," I said.

  She drew back her hands.

  I was standing before her.

  She looked up at me.

  "Remove your veil," I said.

  She unwound the veil from her features, carefully, gently, where she had wrapped it about herself, and brushed back the hood of her robes of concealment.

  She then looked up at me. She did not seem angry, or offended.

  "You are the barbarian," she said.

  "The one whom you had punished," I said.

  "Yes," she said.

  "I was whipped," I said.

  "You have face-stripped me," she said.

  "Doubtless you did not then expect to be where you are now."

  "No," she said.

  "I am the one," I said, "who speaks so terribly."

  "You speak beautifully," she said.

  "I have an accent," I said.

  "Yes," she said. "You have an accent."

  "A slave accent!" I said.

  "It is a lovely accent," she said.

  "But it is a slave accent!" I said.

  "Yes," she said. "It is a slave accent."

  "You think my accent is acceptable?" I asked.

  "It is a beautiful accent," she said.

  "I think you are trying to lie," I said.

  "No," she said. "I am trying to accustom myself to telling the truth."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "It does not matter, does it?" she asked.

  "No," I said. "I suppose not." She looked at the food. "But it is a slave accent," I said.

  "Yes," she said. "It is a slave accent."

  I did not think she had eaten since last night. She must be ravening.

  "You may eat," I said.

  She lost no time in addressing herself to the food, but, rather to my surprise, and irritation, she did so with delicacy. She had a certain breeding and refinement, it seemed, of a sort which one might not expect to find in my sort, in slaves. I supposed that if she were a slave, the signs in her manner of such breeding and refinement might be of interest to a master, not that they would make her any the less a slave. Similarly a high-caste accent, with all its elegance and refinement, would not make her any the less a slave either. Such learn to leap and obey as quickly as the rest of us.

  "You eat with delicacy," I said.

  Too, this refinement, this elegance, seemed so natural in her. Such, doubtless, was the effect of breeding.

  "Your features are not unattractive," I said.

  It had been in consequence of my orders that she must remove her veil, exposing her features. But this was not as momentous as it might seem. I was, after all, a woman. It was not as though I were a man, a brutal masculine captor, who had torn away her veil, that he might assess her promise for the collar. Too, many free women would think nothing of appearing unveiled before their serving slaves. Yet I was sure it would not have been lost upon her that she had had to remove her veil, that so precious thing to a free woman, at my command. But she had not seemed dismayed to remove it. Was she concerned, I wondered, to make clear to us the authenticity of her new understanding, that she must obey. Or, perhaps, did she find it appropriate, for some reason, that her features be bared?

  She looked up at me, timidly.

  "I am not lying," I said. "I am not a free woman. I am a slave. I can be punished terribly for lying."

  She threw me a grateful glance.

  "Am I pretty?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Am I beautiful?" she asked.

  "That would be a judgment," said I, "best made by masters." And then I added, maliciously, "—when you are stripped on a slave block."

  "Am I beautiful?" she pressed.

  "I would think so, yes," I said.

  She put her hands to the throat of her robes, closing them more tightly. "Do you think I might," she asked, "be beautiful enough to be—to be a—a slave?"

  "Shame," cried I, "free woman," scandalized.

  "Please!" she begged.

  "I would suppose so," I said. "I do not know."

  She drew her robes yet more closely about her. She put her head down, trembling.

  "Finish your food," I suggested.

  She again addressed herself to her light repast.

  "I thought of stealing some of your food," I said, "but I did not do so."

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  "The diet here has doubtless slimmed you," I said, "but I do not think they are planning on selling you. I think they are waiting for your ransom."

  She kept her head down, eating.

  It seemed as though she might have wished to raise her head, to speak, but she did not do so.

  I knelt down, across from her.

  I was sure she wished to speak to me, but she refrained from doing so.

  In a bit she had finished the modest collation I had set before her. She pushed back the empty dish, the drained goblet. It had held only water.

  "Doubtless," I said, "it is not what you were hitherto accustomed to."

  "I am grateful to be fed," she said.

  That seemed to me insightful on her part.

  "Is this that on which you are fed?" she asked.

  "It is better," I said. "Often we have only slave pellets and slave gruel."

  "I am sorry," she said.

  "We are slaves," I said.

  I picked up the plate and goblet. I stood up.

  "The provender of slaves," I said, "is designed to keep us healthy, trim, and vital, as the masters want us. It would be the same with other animals."

  "Animals!" she breathed.

  "Of course," I said. "But we get other things, too. The masters may feed us by hand, from their own plates, as we kneel by their tables, or throw us scraps, such things. Occasionally we may be given a candy, a pastry, such things. It depends on the master."

  She nodded, frightened.

  I turned to go.

  "Please!" she said.

  I turned back, to face her.

  "Slaves are exercised, are they not?" she asked.

  "We must exercise, yes," I said. Such is important for muscle tone, improvement of the figure, responsiveness, and such. We are not permitted to neglect such matters. Masters would not permit it."

  "You are very clean," she said.

  "We are not free women," I said. "We must wash frequently. We must keep ourselves pleasing, in so far as we can, for masters."

  "I am miserable," she said.

  I looked at her, puzzled.

  "I have been cramped in for so long," she said.

  "This cell is large," I said.

  "I feel dirty," she said.

  I shrugged.

  "Look at me!" she said.

  I regarded her.

  "I'm filthy," she said.

  "Yes," I admitted.

  Her clothing, perhaps the very garments in which she had been originally captured, had, in her continual wearing of it, in her sleeping in it, in its contact with the floors of cages and cells, and such, become much soiled. It was thickly begrimed with weeks of wear and filth. Too, it was wrinkled, and faded, and torn. She was, in these things, a sorry sight.

  How different was her appearance now, I thought, from what it must have been when she had long ago entered the fateful shop in Besnit.
<
br />   "I must smell," she said.

  "I am a slave," I said. "It would not be wise for me to notice."

  "I must smell," she said.

  "Yes, you do," I admitted.

  She looked down, miserable.

  "Do not be afraid," I said. "It is not as though you were a slave. You are a free woman. It is not as though you must, under discipline, groom yourself, attend to your appearance, keep your body clean, such things. Have no fear. Your neglect of such things, as you are a free woman, will not be punished."

  "Perhaps," she said, softly, to herself, "I would that I were such that I might be punished for the neglect of such things."

  "What?" I asked.

  "Nothing!" she said. She shrank back, putting her finger tips to her lips, as though she might have chided them for what they, sweet, unwary guards, had permitted to pass their portal.

  I stood there for a moment. I thought she might have wished to speak further. But she said nothing.

  I then turned about, and went to the door of the cell.

  "Janice!" she called.

  I turned about again, and once more faced her.

  "May I call you 'Janice'?"

  "It is my name," I said.

  "This morning," she said, falteringly, "you licked—and kissed—the feet of a man."

  "Yes," I said.

  "I have never licked and kissed the feet of a man," she said.

  "You are a free woman," I said.

  She regarded me.

  "It is a not uncommon act for a slave," I said.

  "It is surely very symbolic," she said.

  "There are many symbolisms involved," I said. "It is not merely that it is a way in which a given woman makes clear her relation to a given man, that she is his slave, that he is her master. It is far more than this. It is, for example, a way in which our femininity avails itself of an opportunity to express, in the particular act with a particular master, something far broader and more profound, its deference toward, and its submission to, the very principle of masculinity. In this way its significance extends far beyond a particular couple. It has to do with men and women, and masculinity and femininity, and the order of nature itself."

  I saw her tremble. I did not understand her agitation.

  "Janice!" she cried.

  But she did not speak.

  "Janice," she then whispered.

  "Yes," I said.

  I saw that this would not be what she might first have thought to say. To be sure, it would perhaps be related.

  "I fear a guard is coming!" I suddenly exclaimed. "Quickly, hide your face!"

  She looked at me.

  "Quickly, quickly!" I said.

  Hurriedly she muffled her features in the veil, holding it in place with both small hands.

  "No!" I said, suddenly. "He has gone another way! But I fear I must get back, quickly. I must return the key to the pit master."

  She lowered her hands, and the veil.

  "You were slow to veil yourself," I said. "He might have seen."

  "Perhaps I should have let him see," she said.

  "Do not be shameless!" I said.

  "You are not veiled," she said.

  "Nor should I be," I said. "I am naught but a slave."

  "Do not go yet!" she begged.

  "Stay on your knees," I said.

  She remained on her knees.

  "Janice!" she called.

  "Yes?" I said.

  "I would be exercised!" she said.

  "It is difficult to exercise in the robes of concealment," I said.

  "Perhaps something else might be devised," she said.

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "You must wash somewhere," she said.

  "There is a cistern," I said.

  "Might I not, too, be permitted to wash there."

  "Slaves wash there," I said. "Animals."

  "I do not mind!" she said.

  "Perhaps I could take you there when it is not being used," I said. "I would have to speak to the pit master."

  "Please, please do!" she begged.

  "Very well," I said.

  "Janice!"

  "Yes?"

  "I want to be your friend!"

  "There can be no friendship between us," I said. "You are free. I am a slave."

  "I am not so different from you!" she said.

  "I am far from free!" I laughed.

  "That is not what I meant," she whispered.

  I pondered this, but did not understand it.

  She was a free woman.

  I closed the door, and locked it, and put the key back about my neck.

  "You may rise," I told her. The door was now securely locked. The lock was heavy, the bars were thick. She was well held within the cell.

  I looked at her. She had remained on her knees.

  Somewhat to my surprise the pit master had been agreeable to the free woman's desire to bathe, and he permitted me, the next day, when the cistern was free, to take her there. How joyously she bathed!

  "Do you think now that I am beautiful enough to be a slave?" she had asked me later, happily, kneeling beside the cistern, throwing her washed hair behind her.

  "Yes," I had told her. "I think you would look well in a collar."

  She had laughed delightedly.

  I eyed her pile of garments. How filthy they were!

  "I shall launder these for you," I said.

  "No!" she said. "I shall clean them!"

  "You are a free woman," I said. "Free women, or at least such as you, do not attend to such matters."

  "Please," she said. "I want to!"

  "You want to work?" I said.

  "Yes," she said. "Work me! Work me—as a slave!"

  I regarded her, startled.

  "You have been taught how to work, have you not?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said. In my training I had been taught the performance of numerous servile tasks. I had, for example, by female slaves, been instructed in sewing, laundering, cleaning, cooking, the polishing of metal, and the grooming of leather. When one buys a woman, even a pleasure slave, one expects, as a foregone conclusion, that she will know how to do such things. Yes, even a pleasure slave, who might, in her more familiar modalities, drive a master mad with passion, may be expected, either out of his sight, or under his supervision, if he pleases, to make bread and repair a rent garment, such things.

  "Show me how to launder," she begged, "—as a slave!"

  "It is doubtless the same way in which free women of low caste launder," I said.

  "Show me," she begged.

  "Kneel beside the cistern," I said. "Knot your hair behind your head, that it not drag in the water. The garments must be soaked, and twisted, and kneaded, and beaten on the stone, again and again. One soaks the garments, one beats them. It is not easy work. It is hard work. It takes time. Begin."

  She took her veil first, and submerged it in the water.

  The next day, I came early to her cell. She had requested it. The pit master had given his permission. At my arrival she had knelt without being asked to do so, and had removed her veil.

  "Greetings," I said.

  "Greetings," said she.

  "May I stand?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  To my surprise she then removed her outer garments, putting them to one side. Then she stood before me in a light, silken, sliplike undergarment. It was quite brief. It was not, I thought, unlike a slave garment. I wondered if free women sometimes studied themselves in the mirror, in such garments. I recalled that I had, it now seemed long ago, wondering what I would look like if my wrists were roped, if there were a chain on my neck. She then, again, knelt.

  "What if the guard should see?" I said.

  "It does not matter," she said.

  "Do not be foolish," I said. "Do you not know what the sight of you, as you are now, might do to a man!"

  "What?" she asked.

  "Do not ask," I warned her. "You are a free woman!" I dared not tell her the might o
f the desires of men such as these, of their mercilessness and their power.

  "Janice," she said.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Exercise me," she said.

  "Do not be foolish," I said.

  "I know nothing of such things," she said. "Please!"

  "In what way would you be exercised?" I asked.

  "Exercise me," she said, "—as a slave."

  I considered this matter. I supposed that her body might, indeed, cry out for some exercise. She had been long incarcerated. But why, I asked myself, did she wish to be exercised in a certain way, as a slave? Surely that was incomprehensible. On the other hand, I asked myself, how often does a slave have this power over a free woman? Indeed, would it not be amusing to exercise her—and as a slave?

  "Stand!" I said. "Spread your legs widely! Put your arms out to the sides!"

  I feared I was not easy with her. And yet the harder I was upon her the more eager, the more zealous, the more compliant, the more helpless and obedient, she was. Afterwards I took her to the cistern that she might wash her body and her garment.

  After that she exercised regularly.

  Once she asked me, "What are slave paces?"

  "They are movements, attitudes, positions, poses, and such," I said, "designed to display a slave."

  "Put me through them!" she begged.

  "You, a free woman," I said, "ask to be put through slave paces?"

  "Yes!" she said.

  "You are mad!" I said.

  "Please!" she begged.

  "And that," I cried, a few minutes later, "is how a slave may be put through her paces."

  "Yes, yes!" she had cried, wide-eyed, gasping, fighting for breath, drenched with sweat, lying before me on her belly, on the stone.

  "To be sure," I said, "if you were really being put through your paces, you might expect certain things to be different. Presumably you would be naked and collared. I would be a man. I would have a whip or switch. There might very well be other men present, and so on."

  "I understand," she whispered.