“And you love it!” laughed a man.
“Yes!” she cried. “I love it! You cannot know how I love it! I come from a world where there are almost no true men, a world where manhood is almost educated and conditioned out of existence. I come from a world of love-starved women. I did not know what true men were until I came to Gor, and was put in a collar! Here I am disciplined and trained, here I am owned and fulfilled! Here I am happy! I pity even my free sisters of Gor, who are so far above me, for they cannot know the overwhelming joys and fulfillments which are mine, and I pity a thousand times more my miserable free sisters of Earth, so far away, longing for their collars and masters!”
There was then silence. She hurried to the side of the girl kneeling on the tiles. She crouched beside her, putting her arm about her shoulders. She then looked at us. “But this is only a poor slave,” she said. “She is new to her condition. She is trying to please. It is just that she does not yet know how. Please be kind to her. Give her some time. Let her learn. Is she not beautiful? Do you not think she could learn to be pleasing? Show her mercy!”
It was then again silent.
Numbly, Linda rose to her feet and walked back about the tables. She knelt behind our table, her head down.
“With your permission,” I said to Samos. I rose to my feet and went to the girl, now prone, red-eyed, on the tiles. I crouched down beside her.
“Oh!” she cried.
I turned her over, handling her with authority, as a slave is handled.
She looked up at me.
Never before, doubtless, had she been handled like this. “Her face is beautiful,” I said, “her body is curvaceous, her limbs are fair. It seems she should bring a good price.”
She gasped, appraised as a female.
“But what is inside a woman is more important,” said a man.
“That is true,” I said. Some of the most succulent and exciting slaves I had known were, I suppose, at least compared with some of their sisters in bondage, comparatively plain in appearance. Such women constitute marvelous bargains in a slave market. They cost far less than many of their higher-priced sisters and yet, in the long run, are worth far more. Many men, upon returning home, thinking they have bought an average girl within their means, discover instead, to their delight, that they have purchased a dream. To be sure, the matter is complicated. Slavery, for example, marvelously, subtly, tends to bring out the beauty in a woman. Many women, after a year or two in bondage, become so beautiful that they can double or triple their price.
“Men desire women,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And you belong to that sex,” I said, “which is maddeningly, exquisitely desirable.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And you are,” I said, “I think, objectively, a beautiful member of that sex.”
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
“It therefore seems not inconceivable that men might find you desirable.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Truly desirable,” I said.
She reddened. “Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Does that please you?” I asked.
“It terrifies me,” she said.
“Do you understand that you are a slave?” I asked her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you have normal feelings toward men?” I asked.
“I think so, Master,” she said.
“Now that you are a slave,” I said, “it is not only permissible for you to yield to these feelings, but you must do so.”
“Master!” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said, “for you are now a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, shuddering.
“That makes quite a difference, does it not?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“An enormous difference, does it not?” I asked.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“She does not have slave reflexes,” said a man.
I pulled her by the hair up to a sitting position, and then, by the hair, bent her head back.
“Oh!” she winced.
“Keep the palms of your hands on the tiles,” I said. She did so. Her knees were slightly flexed.
“Oh! Oh!” she cried suddenly.
“Keep your palms on the tiles,” I said.
“Yes, Master!” she said. “Yes, Master!”
“She does have slave reflexes,” I reported.
“Yes,” said the man.
“Yes,” said another man.
“Are men now of greater interest to you?” I asked.
“What you have done to me!” she said.
“Answer my question, female,” said I.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“We are now going to put these things together,” I said. “First, you are an exquisitely desirable woman. You are the sort of woman who could drive a man mad with passion. You are the sort of woman to possess whom men might kill. Furthermore, your beauty and desirability is increased a thousandfold because you are now a property girl, a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Oh, Master!”
“Men are now of even greater interest to you, are they not?” I asked.
She looked at me wildly, disbelievingly.
“Answer my question,” I said.
“Yes, Master!” she wept. “Oh, yes, Master! Yes, Master!”
She squirmed.
“Keep the palms of your hands on the floor,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“That handles things from the point of view of the man,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Now,” I said, “second, let us consider things from the point of view of the woman, from your point of view.”
“Master!” she cried.
“Keep the palms of your hands on the floor,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she whimpered.
“As a slave,” I said, “it is not only permissible for you to yield to your deepest, most stirring, most primitive, most overwhelmingly feminine urges, but you must do so, shamelessly, unqualifiedly, completely.”
“Yes, Master,” she cried, and thrust herself suddenly, piteously, against my hand.
Several of the men laughed. Some of the slave girls cried out with pleasure. Two clapped their hands with delight. Others shifted uneasily, and cast piteous glances, petitionary glances, at the guards, but the attention of the guards, and such, was centered on the newly embonded, now-nameless, blond-haired beauty, who but shortly before had been the lofty, arrogant Lady Rowena of Lydius. One of the girls, on all fours, moved a bit, that she might be the more easily seen, behind the exploited scion of Lydius. She wished to be noticed by one of the guards, it seems, doubtless one in whose arms she wished to lie as a stripped, grateful, yielding slave. Tears were in her eyes. She bit her lip. There was a tiny spot of blood on her lower lip. Another girl went to her belly, lifting her hand toward a guard, a common obeisance-begging position. But he, too, failed to notice.
I then, by the hair, pulled the former Lady Rowena of Lydius about and threw her lengthwise, prone, to the tiles.
She looked up at me, over her shoulder. I saw wildness in her eyes. I saw that she had begun to sense what it might be to be an aroused slave.
And she had not even been branded or collared. Not once yet had she been sold.
“Whip,” I said, to a man, the fellow who had earlier disciplined the foolish slave who had permitted herself, without permission, to display merriment over the plight of a free woman.
The whip was placed in my hand.
“Master?” asked the girl, apprehensively.
“I do not believe you were given permission to stop dancing earlier,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“As you are a stupid girl and new to your condition, your punishment, this time, will be light. Three lashes.”
“Do not expect masters to be so lenient with your stupidity in the future,” I said.
“No, Master,” she wept.
Then, doubtless for the first time in her life, she who had been the proud free woman, the Lady Rowena of Lydius, naked, and on her belly on the tiles, felt, like the common girl she now was, the slave whip of Gor.
“Stand,” I told her. “Back straight, belly in, breasts out. Lift your hands to your shoulders, flex your knees.”
“I have been whipped,” she said, disbelievingly.
“See the difference?” said a man to another at his table. “How she stands?”
“Yes,” said the other.
I touched her here and there, with the whip, deftly, correcting a line, or the tension of a curve.
She shrank back from the touch of the whip. She now knew what it could to do to her. She had felt it. After a girl has once felt the whip the mere sight of it is usually enough to bring her immediately into line. “What hangs upon the wall?” a master might ask. “The slave whip, Master,” she responds. “How may I be more pleasing?”
I handed the whip back to the fellow who had had it, and returned to my place at the table of Samos.
He signaled the musicians, and they began, again, to play.
I gave my attention to the board. It was my move. I did not bother, then, to glance at the former Lady Rowena of Lydius. She was a mere slave, dancing for masters. Doubtless, too, as the evening wore on, other girls, too, perhaps Tula, and Susan, and Linda, would be ordered to the floor, to dance before strong men, then perhaps, each in her turn, one by one, to be dragged to the tables.
I must concentrate on the game.
It was my move.
Clearly the slaves had been aroused.
They would serve well.
To be sure, the arousal of a Gorean slave is seldom far below the surface. As the saying is, slave fires have been lit in their bellies. Predictably, periodically, these fires burst into open flame. One of the strongest chains binding a slave, even to a hated master, is her need for sexual relief; she is, after all, a slave; frequently, and perhaps even to her misery, if the master is hated, she begins to sense her growing restlessness, her uneasiness and discomfort; she may fight it, but it is beginning, and she knows, perhaps to her fury, that it will have its way; it is inexorable, like the tides, like the circuits of planets, the risings and settings of the sun, Sol, or Tor-tu-Gor, Light-Upon-the-Home-Stone; and soon she is in the throes of its grasp; she is now its helpless victim, the victim of an acute and desperate need for sexual relief, for some mitigation, however brief, of her intensifying, perhaps even wholly unwelcome, fervor and ardor, some surcease, however temporary, of the tumult, torment and vehemence of her passions. She then bellies, helpless, even to a hated master, kissing and licking his feet, petitioning his caress. He regards her, perhaps with contempt, or bemusement. Will he satisfy her or not? It is up to him, as he is her master. The strongest chain binding a slave, however, is doubtless love. Some slaves have endured great hardships and traversed hundreds of pasangs to return to their master. To be sure, in speaking of chains, and such, those of sex and love, one must not overlook more prosaic bonds. For example, thongs, binding her hand and foot, are useful; the shackling of a five-ringed sirik is lovely; and a metal chain, attaching her by the neck or ankle to a slave ring at the foot of her master’s couch, is not ineffective.
Their service would be prompt, and deferential and silent. They would kneel beautifully. The hair of more than one might fall across the shoulder of a guard at table. Might there not be an inadvertent brushing of a rough hand by a small, soft hand placing a plate or goblet? “Forgive me, Master,” she might whisper. But could she free her small wrist from his sudden grip, as he might stand, and force her to her knees before him, and then slowly down, to her back?
It is pleasant for strong men to be served by slaves.
No free women were present. This was not unusual in a slaver’s house, of course. Free women do not frequent such precincts, unless accompanied and guarded. It would be dangerous otherwise to do so. Too, the presence of a free woman at a dinner or banquet, tends to inhibit the slaves. It is hard to be a lovely slave under the cold, contemptuous glare of a disapproving free woman. Accordingly, free women are forbidden at many feasts. They may, of course, speculate on the nature of the festivities from which their presence is precluded. Too, free women are not permitted in the paga taverns. Sometimes, as a lark, a girl slips into such a feast, disguised as a slave, or into a paga tavern, similarly disguised, perhaps even to the collar. These escapades, of course, are not without their dangers. More than one young, shapely prankster has been seized and rudely conducted, by an arm or wrist, or by the hair, to an alcove, there to be gagged and chained. A bit of arm, a bit of leg, the lines of a slave tunic on a fair young body, the sight of a collar on a neck, sometimes have consequences which seem obvious enough to many, but may not have been fully understood or clearly enough anticipated by the lovely, young intruder.
Sometimes, in some cities, discovered, these fair pranksters are turned over to guardsmen, to be led in public shame bound and naked through the city, under explanatory placards, and then taken back to their homes. More than one has then been refused recognition by their mortified families, who remand them to praetors, for the justice and suitability of proper enslavement.
More often, however, in almost all cities, discovered, these fair pranksters are simply bound and gagged and smuggled out of the city, to be vended in distant markets. Their sly joke has had then an unanticipated denouement.
Commonly the market they are sold in is one in a city enemy to their own. The commercial relations of slavers are general, tolerant, and widely sorted and they have little reference to the politics of particular municipalities. Owning, mastering and humbling the beautiful women of enemies, turning them into loving, dutiful, needful slaves, is relished by Goreans. And in such a fashion one or more woman may be obtained simply, you see, without sorties and attacks, without war, without raids, or even solitary tarn strikes. To be sure, the Gorean warrior usually prefers to steal his own, such a feat being regarded as a coup, a bold affrontery to an enemy, and a victory for himself, the successful culmination of a stimulating adventure, quite apart from the pleasures of enjoying the female.
The joke then, I suppose, might be said to have been on them. They find themselves on an auction block, stripped, displayed, being bid upon. Gorean men find such things amusing. Certainly it makes good telling in the taverns.
It is little wonder that Gorean free women avoid paga taverns, and hurry past them.
In them there are men and slaves.
To be sure, this is presumably a way of, as it is said, “courting the collar.” On some level, in some stratum of their being, perhaps far from their conscious speculations, plans, surmises and rationalizations, it seems clear that they, the excited, daring intruders, and such, wish to be enslaved. This seems a likely explanation, too, for the women who frequent lonely bridges at night, or dangerous areas of a city, or, say, publicly provoke and challenge strong young men, treating them badly, pretending to detest them, but perhaps, on some level, longing for their bonds.
I moved my Ubara’s Rider of the High Tharlarion to Ubara’s Scribe Three. This, supporting the center, would also open a file, developing the Ubara’s Builder. The Gorean dancer is expected, usually, to satisfy the passions she arouses. “It is your move,” I said to Samos. I gathered, from the cries of pleasure, from the clapping of hands, the striking of hands on shoulders, that the new slave might be proving not unacceptable. “How is she doing?” I asked. “I do not think it will be necessary, at least immediately, to throw her to sleen,” said Samos. He was regarding the dancer. “It is your move,” I said. Samos put his chin on his fists and examined the board. I lifted my head and looked across the room.
I saw that it was a slave who danced before the men. She gyrated but inches from a burl
y oarsman, then leaped back, eluding his drunken grasp. She moved between the tables, a slave, an owned woman. Then she was kneeling beside a man, kissing and caressing him, and then, as though it were involuntary, as though her hands were tied behind her and she was being pulled back, away from him, by a rope, she retreated from him. In a moment she was showering another man with her hair and kisses. Then she offered a man wine, holding the goblet, pressing it against her belly, swaying sensuously before him. She was then again in the center of the tiles, among the tables. She made as if to speak, and then, suddenly, stopped, as though startled. Then she took a wad of her long, golden hair and, swiftly balling it, thrust it, as though insolently, in her mouth. She then looked at the men reproachfully. It was as though a man, perhaps not desiring to hear her speak, had gagged her with her own hair. There was laughter. She drew the hair from her mouth, drawing some of it, in loosening it, deeply back between her teeth, with her head back, as though she might have been in the constraint of a gag strap, all this to the music, and then her hair was free, and, with a movement of her head and movements of her hands, beautifully, she draped and spread it about her. It seemed then she withdrew modestly, frightened, behind the hair, drawing it like a cloak or sheet about her, as though by means of this piteous device she might hope desperately to conceal at least some minimal particle of her beauty from the rude scrutiny of masters.
But it was not to be permitted.
To a swirl of music, taking her hair to the sides, holding it, parting it, with clenched fists thrust behind her, twisting, her body thrust forward, her beauty was suddenly, it seemed as though by command, or by the action of another, brazenly bared. “Good!” said more than one man. There was a striking of shoulders in Gorean applause. Even some of the slave girls cried out with pleasure. The girl had done it well. Then she was again dancing among the tables. Her movements gave much pleasure. She entertained well. If Samos had known she would prove this good he might have put her in bells or a chain. I doubted that some of the things she had done, in all their abundance and richness, had been merely thought up on the spur of the moment. I suspected that many times in her dreams and fantasies she had danced thus before men, as a slave. Then, lo, one night in Port Kar she found herself truly a slave, and so dancing, and for her life.
Players of Gor Page 3