Rebels of Gor

by John Norman

  “What are you doing, Master?” she cried. “I am helpless, I am naked, I cannot resist! No! No! How dare you! I am the daughter of Lord Yamada, Shogun of the Islands. Oh! I hate you! I hate you!”

  How careless she had been, I recalled, to have cast that beribboned missive from the outer parapet.

  “Please, Master, stop!” she cried. “Desist, stop, stop! Yes! Thank you, Master! You are kind! Master is kind! No, no, not again! I beg you to stop! Stop! Please, Master!”

  “Interesting,” said Tajima. “Do you know how you just moved, how you yanked against the thongs?”

  “Tarsk!” she screamed. “Let me go!”

  “I do not think you wish to be unbound,” he said.

  “I hate you,” she cried. “I hate you! Oh!”

  “Interesting,” he said. “Let us see.”

  “No!” she cried. “Oh!”

  “I thought I saw your little belly leap, and jerk,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “No!”

  “I must have been mistaken,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh! Oh!”

  “No,” he said. “I was correct. I was not mistaken.”

  “Let me go!” she said.

  “I think you are going to writhe,” he said.

  “No!” she said.

  “Do you think you are a free woman?” he asked.

  “Let me go!” she said.

  “Dullness, inertness, a lack of feeling, insensibility, passivity, dormancy, the suppression of nature, self-fear, self-denial, frigidity, torpidity, and such, is acceptable in a free woman,” he said.

  “Let me go!” she begged. “Oh!”

  “Indeed,” he said, “I know of places where such biological denials and maimings are the object of indoctrinations, and are to be praised, where nature is to be subordinated to superstition and ideology, in the interests of pathological minorities, whose interests and livelihoods are involved, where women are encouraged to take pride in their inertness, and deride their more natural, more vital, helpless sisters.”

  “What are you doing to me?” she wept.

  “We shall rest,” he said. “Did your belly lift?”

  “No, no!” she said.

  “You draw back in the thongs,” he said.

  “Let me go!” she begged.

  “But you look pretty, tied so,” he said.

  “Please,” she wept.

  “When you were in the elegant, sedate robes of a contract woman,” he said, “I wondered what you might look like, so fastened.”

  “And perhaps when I was in the robes of a shogun’s daughter?” she said.

  “Possibly,” he said.

  “Beast!” she said.

  “It is on your throat that I detect a collar. It seems it is you who are the beast.”

  “Beast!” she cried.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but a free beast, as opposed to an owned beast, a domestic animal which may be penned, given away, or sold.”

  “I hate you!” she said.

  “Such things I spoke of,” he said, “dormancy, and such, are acceptable in a free woman.”

  “Please, untie me,” she said.

  “Do you think you are a free woman?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I am a slave!”

  “But perhaps you do not know much of bondage yet,” he said.

  “I am naked,” she said. “I am collared! I am branded!”

  “But perhaps you know little of bondage at this point,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Do you think it is merely a lack of clothing, a ring or band on your neck, a mark on your thigh?”

  “Let me go,” she begged.

  “It is a condition,” he said, “a form of being, an entirety, an existence, a suffused reality, a wholeness.”

  “Please be kind to me, Master,” she said. “Oh!”

  “Do not protest,” he said. “What has the slave to say of such things? In all things she is subject to the master’s pleasure. It is done to her, and will be done to her, as the master wills.”

  “Please untie me, Master!”

  “The slave,” he said, “is wholly different from the free woman. The free woman is free, the slave is a belonging, a property. The free woman does as she pleases; the slave hopes to be found pleasing. The free woman stands proudly; the slave kneels at the feet of her master, submissively, her head down. The free woman is a person; the slave is a purchasable, vendible animal, a domestic beast.”

  “Please do not hurt me,” she said. “I know I am now a beast. I will try to be a pleasing beast.”

  “What of this?” he asked.

  “Master?” she said. “Ai!”

  “Interesting,” he said. “Would you prefer to be blindfolded?”

  “No!” she said.

  “The correct response,” he said, “is ‘As Master pleases’.”

  “As Master pleases!” she cried.

  “No,” he said, “I think we will dispense with the blindfold. Perhaps some other time, for that involves a different modality of sensations. I enjoy studying your features, which, Nezumi, slave girl, I admit are exquisite, surely marvelous, the thousand subtleties of expression, the soundless words and cries of the eyes, the turning of the head, the trembling of the lips.”

  “Mercy,” she said.

  “But such things as I mentioned with respect to free women,” he said, “dormancy, and such, are not acceptable in a slave.”

  “I cannot help how I am!” she said. “Oh!”

  “I do not think you know how you are,” he said, “but I think you suspect.”

  “No!” she said.

  “Have you heard of slave fires?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “I gather,” he said, “they can be quite tormenting to a woman.”

  This was true. I suppose it might be wondered if men should put such fires into the belly of a woman. Perhaps it is cruel. Doubtless this should not be done to a free woman, unless as a prelude to her collaring. The slave, of course, is a different matter. One need not concern oneself with slaves. One does with them as one pleases. They are only slaves, and exist only for the service and pleasure of masters. Indeed, such fires are almost always lit in the belly of slaves, as it improves the stock. Hot slaves bring higher prices. It is pleasant, incidentally, to see a woman in the throes of slave fires. How piteous she can be, before one, helpless, suffering with need. To be sure, such fires are seldom instilled in the women of my former world, unless, of course, they are embonded. Then they are as helpless as any other slave. Earth males, I conjecture, though I have not polled the matter, seldom encounter women, helpless, beautiful, and naked, crawling to their feet, pleading for relief. It is common in slave houses, prior to sales, to deprive the merchandise of relief for two or three, even for four or five days, prior to the sale. Such a girl, brought to the block, so poignantly alive, so needful, is likely to leap to the slightest touch of the auctioneer’s whip.

  “I know nothing of such things,” she said.

  “Perhaps you might speculate,” he said.

  “No!” she said. “Oh!”

  “Did not your hips jerk?” he inquired.

  “No,” she said, “no, no!”

  “Let us see,” he said.

  “Aii!” she exclaimed.

  “That is clearly such a response,” he said.

  “Tarsk!” she said.

  “One would think you had been six months in the collar,” he said, “not a few days.”

  “I hate you,” she said.

  “Are you aware,” he asked, “that you have lifted your belly to me?”

  “Never!” she said.

  “I shall press it back down, to the grass,” he said. “There. Keep it down, worthless slut!”

  “Do not speak so to me!” she said. “I cannot help myself! You are doing this to me! I am naked, I am bound! I have no choice! Oh, oh!”

  “Do you want a choice?” h
e asked.

  “—No,” she said.

  “What are you?” he said.

  “A slut,” she said. “A worthless slut, your worthless slut!”

  “You are less,” he said, “a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, “I am less than a worthless slut. I am a slave.”

  “Whose slave?” he asked.

  “Yours, Master!” she cried.

  “Remain still,” he said.

  “I cannot!” she wept.

  “Do so,” he said.

  “Permit me to move, Master,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Please, please,” she said.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “Ahhh, yes!” she wept. “Oh, yes!”

  “Are you grateful?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes!” she said. “Thank you, Master!”

  “Shall I untie you?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  There was silence, for a time.

  Doubtless he was continuing to address attentions to the slave.

  “Aii!” she said.

  “Steady,” he said.

  “I do not understand this,” she said. “Oh!”

  “Steady,” he said.

  “What is going on in my body?” she said.

  “Little, as yet,” he said.

  “No!” she cried. “What are you doing to my body?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “What have you done to my body?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “I am different!” she exclaimed.

  “Possibly,” he said.

  “I am sweating,” she said. “I am enflamed!”

  “You should see your body,” he said, “and its condition.”

  “Oh!” she cried.

  “Steady,” he said.

  “I am afraid,” she said. “I do not think I can endure this!”

  “You are in no position to resist,” he said.

  “What are you doing to my body!” she said.

  “Awakening it,” he said.

  “Master!” she said, frightened, awed.

  “I think you will soon whimper and moan,” he said. “Later you may plead, and beg.”

  “I do not know what is going on in my body,” she said. “I have never had such feelings, such sensations.”

  “It is nothing to fear,” said Tajima. “It is all quite natural, quite normal.”

  “I am afraid,” she said.

  “Be not so,” he said. “I think we are now ready for subtler caresses.”

  “Ohh,” she said, softly.

  I heard nothing more for a time, but then heard a small cry, and a rhapsodic series of soft whimpers.

  “Shall I stop?” inquired Tajima.

  “No, no, Master,” she moaned. “Do not stop, please do not stop!”

  “You realize your helplessness?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  The slave was wholly at the mercy of her master.

  “You plead, you beg?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “yes, Master!”

  “I shall carry you to the summit of the mountain,” he said, “to the edge of the cliff, to the brink of the bridge.”

  “Yes,” she said, “yes!”

  “And then,” he said, “I shall abandon you.”

  “I do not understand,” she said. “Ohhh, Master, Master!”

  A bit later, she cried, softly, questioningly, wonderingly, poignantly, “Master?”

  I hoped Tajima would be merciful to the slave.

  I suspected, by now, the lightning, set to the bowstring of the heavy, dark, surging, turbulent clouds, was prepared to flash, the thunder to roll forth, to the beat of its drums, roaring like an avalanche in the Voltai, precipitating its tons of falling rocks to the valley below.

  “Please, Master!” she cried suddenly, frightened, miserably. “Continue! Do not stop! I am there, there! I am ready! I am poised! I shall burst! I cannot help myself! I am bound! I am helpless! I ache! I cannot stand it! Be merciful, Master! Be merciful! Please, Master, be merciful to your slave!”

  I waited for a time, uneasily, and then, to my satisfaction I heard the slave cry out, suddenly, explosively, wildly, joyously, disbelievingly, her cry almost instantly stifled by Tajima, presumably his hand clapped over her mouth. Who knew what might lurk about, in this pleasant grove, with its small pool?

  There was silence for a time.

  I could not even sense the twisting of the body in the grass, nor hear the pulling of the leather against the stakes.

  “Oh, Master!” said Nezumi. “Master!”

  “Rest now,” he said. “Descend slowly. I shall unbind you, and neck chain you, as usual. Later we must trek.”

  “Yes, Master,” she had said.

  * * *

  “More sake,” said the leader of the three Ashigaru, foragers for Lord Yamada’s march.

  Inside the inn, near its door, as noted earlier, were several sacks of rice, while, outside, a handcart waited.

  “Have you not had enough?” asked Tajima, pleasantly.

  “Perhaps we should think of reporting,” said one of the Ashigaru to his leader.

  “Rice is gathered,” said the leader. “There is plenty of time.”

  “True,” said the fellow, sleepily.

  “I am sure,” said the innkeeper, “the noble one, he of two swords, is generous, as are all of his quality, and would not mind an additional round of sake, to warm friends on the road.”

  “Certainly not,” said Tajima.

  Behind the dragon screen, with Haruki, I was annoyed, as the innkeeper seemed clearly interested in selling another vessel of sake. I was not surprised, however, as, in these perilous times, this inn, off the northern road, might well be less frequently patronized. In unsettled times, dangerous times of unrest and war, the routes of merchants are often altered. There would be less to sell, particularly items of value, in the fortresses, villages, and towns of local daimyos if the daimyos, and most of their officers and Ashigaru, might be absent, not to mention that the approaches to such places would become more hazardous. In such times roads are lonely and bandits grow bold.

  “So then, perhaps another round,” said the leader of the Ashigaru, with affable incoherence.

  “By all means,” said Tajima.

  But I sensed he was anxious to be on his way.

  We might be pursued, and, in any event, there might be others about, other foragers, perhaps less congenial than those with Tajima, even scouts or patrols, assigned to flank the march of Lord Yamada.

  “Must we not load the rice and report to the storage master?” said the third Ashigaru to the leader, stumbling somewhat in his diction.

  “It is true,” said the second, gloomily. “It would not be well to be missed.” His articulation was not much superior to that of his fellow.

  “There is time,” said the leader, “time, time, time.”

  I feared that one or another might fall asleep.

  “Perhaps not,” said Tajima. “We are well met, but I must not detain you from your duty.”

  “Duty,” said the leader, “is for warriors, for officers, for those of quality.”

  “Perhaps we should be on our way,” said one of his fellows. But I did not think he was eager to, or cared to, or was able to, spring up, rush to the rice, place it on the cart, seize up the handles, and haul it away.

  “Another round?” proposed the innkeeper.

  “Yes, yes!” said the leader.

  “Of course,” said Tajima, pleasantly enough.

  Nezumi then must have filled another vessel, and replenished the cups. I suspected Tajima himself had drunk little. It would be important for him to keep his wits about him. I supposed the innkeeper was secluding his own girls, probably locked in a shed somewhere. There was no need for their presence or services, as Nezumi was at hand. Too, it is difficult to assess th
e nature of armed men, and their interests, particularly in troubled times. They are not local folks come for an evening or the common patronage of an isolated inn. Some may even be bandits, not Ashigaru, and one cannot always be sure of Ashigaru either, particularly out of the sight of officers. Some are likely to be unwilling recruits, in effect, impressed from their villages for various terms of service. Indeed, bandits are largely derived from the peasantry. Many a throat has been cut for a fukuro of rice. Occasionally common folk are beaten or killed, houses plundered and burned, women and stock stolen. Even isolated warriors, particularly if ronin, or fugitives from lost battles, may be set upon, robbed and killed, with relative impunity. What daimyo is there to protect them, or proceed with the dark retaliations of the Pani? The three fellows with Tajima, on the other hand, seemed good fellows. To be sure, if the guests were to spend the night, the innkeeper’s girls would doubtless be demanded, for he would surely have some, and they would be turned out. In many inns on the continent there is an extra charge for the girl; here I suspected, but did not know, certainly for this inn, what might be the case. The innkeeper, of course, was well aware that Haruki and I were about, but, as we were behind the screen, I doubted that the Ashigaru were aware of our presence, or, if aware of it, were in the least concerned. Our separation from Tajima and Nezumi had been thought to be judicious, given that my presence might have occasioned curiosity amongst other patrons of the inn, should such materialize. As it turned out, this separation would prove fortunate.

  I heard Nezumi suddenly cry out in alarm.

  I leaped to my feet, but Haruki’s hand, seizing my sleeve, gave me pause.

  “Do not squirm, girl!” said the leader of the Ashigaru.

  “Here now,” called Tajima, as though drunk himself.

  “Give her to us,” said the leader. “We will sell her in the camp, and divide the price.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” said Tajima. “But I fear she would bring so little that the profit would not justify the bother.”

  “True,” said the leader. “Look at her hair.”

  I gathered then that he must have released Nezumi.

  I did not think her hair was all that miserable now, as Tajima had tried to remedy the vengeful butchery of his earlier barbering, or, at any rate, not all that miserable, at least for a field slave.

  “I am tired,” said the leader. “I think I shall rest.”