Mariners of Gor cog[oc-30

by John Norman

  I looked upon my slave, and my slave knew herself looked upon, and as a slave.

  She trembled, but retained position.

  “Slave,” I said.

  She looked at me, frightened. Her lips trembled a little, but formed no sound. She looked wildly, frightened, to Callias. I recalled she had been forbidden to speak. Clearly she did not wish to feel the lash.

  “It is I who now own you,” I said. “Do you understand, female?” So addressed, as “female,” the woman, whether free or slave, is forcibly reminded of what she is, radically and basically, and that it is quite different from something else, that of being a male. And this recollection, on the part of a slave, who is vulnerable, helpless, and owned, is even more devastating, for she is not only a female, but a female who is a slave.

  The slave swiftly nodded, frightened. Her hair moved about her shoulders as she did this. I wanted to seize her in my arms, fling her to the floor, and cover her with kisses.

  “You have, as of now,” I said, “a standing permission to speak.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

  “Revocable at any time,” I added.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You may speak,” I said. “Speak.”

  “I am afraid,” she said.

  “We will have to improve your Gorean,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “It is reasonably fluent at present,” I said.

  “That is my hope,” she said, “Master.”

  “I am going to be about for bit,” said Callias. “In that time, Alcinoe will work with her.”

  “She is a barbarian, Master!” said Alcinoe.

  “No matter,” said Callias, touching his belt.

  “Yes, Master,” said Alcinoe, quickly.

  Callias then seized up one of the heaped comforters, spread it a bit, and then slung it to the side, on the floor.

  “Lie there,” said Callias to his slave, Alcinoe, pointing to the comforter.

  Quickly she hurried to the comforter, and lay upon it, I thought rather seductively, considering that she has recently been white silk.

  “It is late,” announced Callias.

  “It is my hope,” she said, “that I may be permitted to give pleasure to my master.”

  Callias drew off his belt and tunic, and took his position on the comforter, and Alcinoe crawled eagerly to his side, but his hand, in her hair, held her for a time at his thigh, which she licked and kissed hopefully, and then, after a bit, he put her to his pleasure, with patience, until, at last, wild-eyed, looking toward the ceiling, gasping, she begged to be permitted to yield, as his slave. She then cried out with the sobbing joy of the well-ravished slave. I did not think he was so quickly through with her, but, as Callias had noted, it was late.

  “Master?” said my slave.

  I took another comforter, and then another, and arranged them on the floor, rather off from where Callias and Alcinoe were still tangled together.

  No, I thought to myself, he is not yet finished with her.

  I removed the Scribe’s satchel, my purse, the Scribe’s robes, and lay upon the comforter and, on one elbow, regarded the slave.

  “Am I to be whipped?” she asked.

  “Do you wish to be whipped?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “no, Master.”

  “I do not have a whip,” I said.

  “A slave is pleased,” she said.

  “I shall obtain one shortly,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I am of the Scribes,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “Do you know much of Scribes?” I asked.

  “Only that they make me serve well in the alcove,” she said.

  “But that is not unusual, is it?” I asked. “With fellows of any caste?”

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “You,” I said, “have an affinity with the Scribes.”

  “Master?” she said.

  “I think you are the sort of female who would appeal to a Scribe,” I said.

  “I will try to please my master,” she said.

  “You were a student, of sorts?” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, “one spoken of as a graduate student. I was in what is called a university. I was in what is called a department, for in my old world knowledge is often put in departments, its wholeness, doubtless of necessity, being ignored or neglected. My department, in which I studied, was one devoted to classical studies. One attended classes, one heard lectures, one participated in what are called seminars, smaller courses, more informal courses, where students might participate in discussions, commonly held about tables.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “It is a way of doing things,” she said.

  “One gathers then, that many might be in such places.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Would there be more than one, or, say, two students, with a teacher?”

  “Often several,” she said.

  “They do not live together?”

  “No,” she said. “They meet at appropriate times and places, according to schedules, beginning when clocks strike or bells ring, and ending when they strike or ring again.”

  “As hiring space on a passenger wagon?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  This account seemed strange to me, but I supposed she had no reason to lie to me. I had spent several years in the household of my teacher, who would accept no pay, because, for our caste, knowledge is priceless. One day he had said to me, “You may leave now,” and I knew then that I was of the Scribes.

  “Are there many students at these places?” I asked.

  “Sometimes thousands,” she said.

  “There are so many,” I asked, “who hunger so for knowledge, and so avidly seek it?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “By far the greatest number have little or no interest in learning whatsoever.”

  “Why then are they there?” I asked. “What are they doing there?”

  “It is expected of them,” she said. “It is something to be done.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “One supposes there are many reasons,” she said. “If one does not perform certain actions, enact certain rituals, spend time in certain places, and obtain legal evidence that one has done so, one may be culturally disadvantaged.”

  “And what do these actions, these rituals, or such, have to do with learning?”

  “In most cases,” she said, “very little, if anything.”

  “Might they not just as well do other things for the same amount of time,” I asked, “jump up and down, or sing songs, or such?”

  “I had not thought about it,” she said, “but one supposes so.”

  “It is a cultural thing?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Is there not some sort of monstrous mistake, or deceit, or fraud, involved in all this?” I asked.

  “It is a way of doing things,” she said.

  “Is this not a misunderstanding of learning, a disparagement of learning, an insult to learning, a cheapening of learning, a prostitution of learning?” I asked.

  “Some care,” she said.

  “Even there?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You were interested in far worlds,” I said, “ancient worlds, ancient to your former world, their culture, their languages, their way of life, their beliefs.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I approve of that,” I said.

  “I am pleased,” she said.

  “Who is pleased?” I asked.

  “A slave is pleased,” she said.

  “Perhaps, someday, you will speak to me, at length, of such things.”

  “Surely Master is not interested in my interests, my feelings, my mind?” she said.

  “In that question,” I said, “I detect the pathology of your world.”

  “Mas
ter?”

  “A Gorean,” I said, “wants all of a slave, and owns all of a slave.”

  She looked at me, startled.

  “All of her is in his collar,” I said.

  “A slave is pleased,” she said, “that a master would lock his collar on the whole of her.”

  “Few men would want less,” I said.

  “I did not gather that,” she said, “from the alcove.”

  “You did not have a private master,” I said.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “As a student, a graduate student, or such, on Earth,” I said, “I would suppose you did not anticipate that you would one day be on Gor, kneeling naked before a man, his slave.”

  “No, Master,” she said, “but in secret moments I dreamed of such things.”

  “Did you know of Gor?” I asked.

  “I thought it only in books,” she said.

  “What do you think now?” I asked.

  “I have felt the thongs of a Gorean master on my limbs,” she said, “I have been collared, I have served on the floor of a Gorean tavern, I have striven in the alcove to be found pleasing by my master’s customers, I am no longer of the opinion that Gor exists only in books.”

  “You are very pretty,” I said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “Of your fellow female graduate students,” I said, “I wonder if you were the only one found worthy to be put in a Gorean collar.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “I do not know.”

  “So,” I said, “you were a student, a graduate student?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Spread your knees more widely,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You obey promptly,” I observed.

  “I hope to please my master,” she said.

  “What do you think of dancing naked?” I asked.

  “I would have to obey my master,” she said.

  “But what do you think of it?” I asked.

  “I would hope to please my master,” she said.

  “Do you know how to play the kalika?” I asked.

  “No, Master.”

  “You do not know slave dance, I take it,” I said.

  “No,” she said.

  “You may be taught such things,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Slave dance,” I said, “is very attractive in a woman.”

  “I doubt that I could be so beautiful,” she said.

  “One does not expect every woman to bring a hundred pieces of gold as a dancer,” I said.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “I have seen many dancers, even public dancers, brothel dancers, street dancers, tavern dancers, who were not as beautiful as you.”

  “I do not know how to dance,” she said.

  “Perhaps, with the encouragement of the lash, you could learn,” I said.

  “The slave who desires to please her master,” she said, “does not require the encouragement of the lash.”

  “You would do your best?” I said.

  “Certainly, Master,” she said.

  “Would you like to dance-as a slave?” I asked.

  “On Earth,” she said, “I dreamed of such things.”

  “Speak,” I said.

  “I thought of myself, frequently enough, as a property, as owned, as a girl who must unquestioningly, fearfully, obey masters, who might dance for their pleasure, about campfires in lonely places, on streets in shabby districts, to a master’s flute, on the decks of galleys, to the clapping of hands, on the floor of taverns, to music, silks swirling, bangles clashing, to shouts, to hands reaching for me, to the clash of goblets and the spilling of drink, to the cries of aroused men, pleased to look upon me as I would then be, a vulnerable, helpless slave, desperate to be found pleasing.”

  “And did you dream of yourself helpless in the chains, or arms, of a master?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, putting down her head.

  “Where were you sold?” I asked.

  “In Market of Semris,” she said.

  “In what pen, or slave house, were you first marked?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” she said. “I, with other slaves-”

  “Barbarians?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “-were transported naked and collared in a closed slave wagon, with blue and yellow silk, our ankles chained to a central bar, it run the length of the wagon bed. We traveled for days. At night, in camps, we were chained in the open, to trees or the wagon wheels. One or another of us were hooded and removed from the bar in one place or another. We were, I take it, distributed amongst various markets. Only three were left in the wagon when the hood was buckled about my head and I was lifted from the wagon. I felt the dust of a road beneath my feet. My hands were braceleted before me, and I was tethered by the bracelets to the stirrup of some large, four-footed beast, which I later learned was a kaiila. After some weary hours on the dusty road I was brought to a sales barn, where my tether was freed of the stirrup, and I was unhooded and debraceleted. Shortly thereafter, I was fed, watered, and rested. Later I was processed, washed, brushed, combed, and such, preparing me for my sale.”

  “Which was in Market of Semris,” I said.

  “That is my understanding,” she said.

  “Did you enjoy your sale?” I asked.

  “I was terrified,” she said. “I found myself turned about, and positioned, delicately, expertly, by the auctioneer’s whip, exhibited as merchandise, displayed, as a slave, while men cried out, and called bids on me.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “And then,” she said, “the auctioneer touched me, unexpectedly, and I leaped with a cry of misery, in piteous response, which delighted the men. I could not help myself! ‘Pleasure slave,’ I heard call. ‘To the taverns with her!’ I put my head in my hands, and bent over, and sobbed. I could not help myself. Then I was apparently sold, for I was conducted from the platform.”

  “What did you go for?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” she said. “But I gather it was for less than a silver tarsk.”

  “You were purchased for a paga slut,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I was interested in this information not simply because it pertained to the slave, but because it seemed not untypical of certain mysteries commonly obtaining in the case of barbarian slaves. Many things seemed obscure about such barbarians, or reasonably so, for example, the location of their first acquisition, apparently a far world, the means by which they were brought to Gor, where they were initially housed on our world, why they seemed to be distributed about, almost tracelessly, and such. As nearly as I could determine they were derived from several places on the far world, and brought by different ships, or by some method of conveyance, at different times, to many different locations on Gor. Subtleties or secrecies seemed to be involved. In any event, I knew little of these matters, and, if others knew, they were apparently less than communicative.

  “I have never had a private master,” she said to me.

  “I have never owned a slave,” I said.

  “Master must have seen me many times in the paga tavern,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She put down her head, shyly.

  “Did he find me of slave interest?”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “If he found me of slave interest,” she said, “why was it that he never snapped his fingers, summoning me to his table, why did he not bind me, and thrust me before him to an alcove?”

  “I did not want you thusly,” I said, “a girl for a coin, to be relinquished after some Ehn or an Ahn, or so, to be ceded in her turn to another, to be surrendered at the closing of a tavern’s portal. I wanted you whole, and mine, indisputably, legally, in every way. I did not want to rent you for the price of a drink. I wanted more. I wanted all. I wanted everything. I wanted to own you, completely, every stra
nd of hair, every bit of you.”

  “You sensed something in me?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I noticed your eyes upon me,” she said, “as one would look upon a slave one would own.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  She lifted her head.

  “Surely you noted me putting myself before you often enough,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. How tormenting had been that flash of thigh, that whisk of a camisk as she turned, the flash of the bells tied about her left ankle.

  “In my cage,” she said, “I hoped you would bid on me.”

  “I am a poor man,” I said, “a low Scribe, one who labors in the registry. I could not afford you.”

  “I thought that you might understand me, as others could not,” she said.

  “Do not expect to be too much understood,” I said, “as you are a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  Surely she knew that her feelings, her thoughts, her hopes, her desires, her dreams, and such, were meaningless, and of no consequence, as she was a slave.

  “I saw you look upon me,” she said, “as a master looks upon a slave, and I trembled, and shivered, and wondered, and I feared, and hoped, that you would be my master.”

  I did not respond.

  “I may be from Earth,” she said, “but I have learned here, as I suspected on Earth, that women are slaves, and that I am a woman, and a slave. I want to be what I am, a slave. I will try to serve you well, and please you so.”

  To the side Callias and Alcinoe were asleep, in one another’s arms.

  “It was with joy,” said the slave, “that I, my presence unknown to you, heard you speak of ineluctable, mysterious matchings, and sensings.”