It is interesting to note that it comes as a revelation to many young Earth females brought to Gor as slaves that Gorean males are quite unlike the males they are familiar with from their home planet. The differences, of course, at least in my opinion, are primarily cultural. The young Earth females discover that Gorean males are neither weak nor pliant, nor desperately concerned to please them, nor ready to redirect, even ruin, their lives to accommodate themselves to the frets, notions, whims and caprices of the desirable and fair. They learn that immediately, perhaps with the first lash of a whip. On Earth the women were accustomed to manipulable nonentities; on Gor they find something else; they find masters. They will kneel, and serve.
“Turn,” I said. “Now, turn back.”
She clutched the wagon wheel to keep her balance, now again facing me.
“How can I be attractive in this?” she asked.
Last night, after bringing her to the camp, I had removed the offensive, light white gown from her body, that to which she, a free woman, so objected, that in which the brigands to her dismay had insolently clothed her, and, from something I found in the camp, prepared her new garment. I had cut a hole in the material for her head, and two more holes for her arms. I had then had her put her arms over her head and had pulled the garment down over her body. She was then in it. She was then standing there, regarding me with rage. “Excellent,” I had said. I had then chained her by the neck under the wagon and had gone to bed.
“I do not know,” I said, “but you are managing.”
“It is a sack!” she cried. “Only a sack!”
That was true. It was a long, yellow, closely woven Sa-Tarna sack. If there could have been any doubt about it such doubts would have been dispelled by the thick, black, stenciled lettering on the bag, giving a bold and unmistakable account of its earlier contents, together with their grind and grade, and the signs of the processing mill and its associated wholesaler.
“Am I to gather that you are dissatisfied?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, acidly.
“The yellow sets off your hair nicely,” I said. Perhaps if I enslaved her, I would put her in yellow slave silk. She was a beautiful woman.
“This makes me look ridiculous,” she said.
“It is not unknown for free teen-age girls of poor families, in rural areas, to wear such garments,” I said. Also, of course, it was not unknown for such girls to put themselves in the way of slavers, that they might be caught, and carried to cities, to be sold. Too often, however, it seemed they were merely sold to peasants in distant villages as sex and work slaves.
“I am not the simple, dirty, barefoot, unkempt, scrawny teen-age daughter of some destitute peasant in some out-of-the-way place,” she said. “I am the Lady Yanina of Brundisium!”
“You are barefoot,” I said. Prisoners, as well as slaves, are often kept that way on Gor.
“This garment makes me look ridiculous,” she said.
“You might look a little silly,” I said, “but you do not look all that ridiculous. Indeed, I have never seen anyone wear a Sa-Tarna sack better.”
“Thank you,” she said, in fury.
“You are welcome,” I said.
“Give me back the white gown,” she said, “that in which the brigands put me!” she said. “I prefer that!”
“That garment,” I reminded her, “is strikingly attractive. It excitingly sets off your beauty. No free woman would consider wearing such a garment unless she was implicitly begging, pleading, for a collar. The brigands put you in it, I suspect, because they were planning on bringing you to the attention of a slaver. An excellent display garment, surely. Showing off the merchandise cleverly, alluringly. It was surely an attractive garment, and an intriguing one, and one quite revealing while meretriciously pretending to be nonrevealing. I suppose on any world women understand such things, choosing garments with care and intent, displaying themselves as sexual merchandise, and then pretending confusion, dismay, outraged innocence, and such, when the display is only too clearly understood. It is surely an excellent garment, too, in which to present a woman for appraisal, and do not the woman’s curves within it call for its imminent removal and upon its removal the unimpeded revelation of their vulnerable excitements? Surely it was a garment in all ways appropriate to a woman’s inspection and subsequent enslavement.”
“I prefer it,” she said, angrily.
“Are you a slave?” I asked.
“No!” she said.
“Why, then, would you wish to wear it?” I asked.
“It is pretty,” she said, defensively.
I smiled. It was actually tauntingly, brazenly sensuous. “Why would you wish to wear something pretty?” I asked.
“To look nice,” she said.
“Why do you wish to look nice?” I asked.
“I think better of myself then,” she said.
“How do you know when something is pretty?” I asked.
“I just see that it is pretty,” she said, puzzled.
“Think more deeply,” I said.
“When it makes me attractive,” she said. “Then it is pretty.”
“It seems then that the test for prettiness is the enhancement of your appearance, and this is understood in terms of increasing your attractiveness.”
“Perhaps,” she said, cautiously.
“Attractiveness to what end?” I asked. “Attractiveness to whom?”
“I do not know,” she said, sullenly.
“Come now,” I encouraged her.
“I am a full-grown woman,” she said, angrily. “I like to be attractive to men!”
“You dress then,” I speculated, “in certain ways, in order to be attractive to men.”
“Perhaps,” she said, angrily.
“She who is concerned with such matters,” I said, “she who dresses in certain ways in order to make herself attractive to men, she who dresses herself in certain ways in order that she may be pleasing to them, is in her heart a slave.”
“Then all females are slaves at heart,” she said, angrily.
“Yes,” I said.
“No!” she cried.
“And they will never be fully content,” I said, “until they are embonded.”
“No, no, no!” she cried. “No! No!”
I let her cry out in misery, resisting my suggestions. It was good for her.
Then she wiped her forearm across her eyes. “You distract me from the issue,” she said. “The issue is my wardrobe.”
“Very well,” I said.
“Give me something else to wear,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“I am the Lady Yanina of Brundisium,” she said. “I do not wear sacks.”
“Oh?” I said.
“I will wear nothing for a garment before I will wear a sack,” she said.
“That can be arranged,” I said.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why are you drawing your knife?”
“To remove the sack from you,” I said. “Nakedness in your chains is acceptable to me.”
“No,” she said, taking a step backward, clinging to the wagon wheel. “I will wear it!”
I sheathed the knife. “Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
I reached down and picked up the breakfast which I had put to the side before commencing her chain check.
“It is cold,” she said. “Take it away, and bring me another.”
“This is your breakfast this morning,” I said, “and your only breakfast this morning. Eat it, and as it is, or not, as it pleases you.”
“Are you serious?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Give it to me,” she said. I handed her the plate. She began to attack the food voraciously. She might have been a starving slave. I supposed, as I had surmised, that she, like “Lady Telitsia,” had been fed sparingly by the brigands.
That might have been done for many reasons, perhaps to conserve food, p
erhaps to make them more needful and docile, perhaps to apprise them of their dependence on their captors, perhaps even to slim their figures somewhat before their projected sale.
I watched her eat. In the Tahari a woman is often stuffed with food for days before her sale, even force fed, if necessary. Many of the men of the Tahari relish soft, pretty, meaty little slaves.
“Why are you looking at my ankles?” she asked.
“They are pretty,” I said. Too, the gyves, sturdy and snug, looked nice on them, both from the aesthetic point of view and from the point of view of their significance, for example, that they were mine and that the beauty, confined, wore them. “Too,” I said, “I was thinking that perhaps I should remove them, that you could be exercised.”
“Doubtless I am to be exercised in the tall grass or in the brush,” she said.
“Do not be apprehensive,” I said.
“I am to be held in honor,” she reminded me.
“At least for the time,” I reminded her.
“Yes,” she smiled, “at least for the time.”
“If you do not wish to be exercised,” I said, “I shall not force it upon you. You are a free woman. Not a slave.”
“I may continue then to wear the shackles,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “at least for the time.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Do you enjoy your breakfast?” I asked.
“It is cold,” she said.
“Do you enjoy it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Later,” I said, “I will give you something briefer and prettier to wear.”
“That will be nice,” she said.
“While we are performing,” I said.
“Performing?” she asked. “In what way?”
“You will see,” I said.
“I am not a performer,” she said. “I do not know anything about performing.”
“Your role will not be difficult,” I said.
“I have had no experience in such matters,” she said.
“Do not fear,” I said, “you will do just splendidly.”
“I am not a slave,” she said.
“This role calls for a free woman,” I said, “otherwise it would not be nearly so interesting or impressive.”
“I see,” she said, pleased.
She wiped her plate with a crust of one of the rolls. She did not wish to leave a particle of food on that homely tin surface.
“Do you know the slave in camp, she called Lady Telitsia?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“She has not yet eaten,” I said.
“So?” asked the lady Yanina.
“She is probably quite hungry by now,” I said.
“So?” she asked.
“I do not think her master would permit her to beg food until a certain free woman, a prisoner in the camp, was fed.”
“Probably not,” said the Lady Yanina. “Why are you bringing the matter up?”
“I thought it might be of interest to you,” I said.
“It is not,” she said.
“You were common captives of the brigands,” I said. “I thought you might have some concern for her.”
“No,” she said.
“I see,” I said.
The Lady Yanina looked at me, and smiled. She put the piece of crust in her mouth and nibbled on it, slowly. “Let her wait,” she said. “She is a slave. Slaves are nothing.”
I did not gainsay the Lady Yanina, of course. What she had said was true. I had only brought up the matter as a form of test for her, to satisfy my own curiosity. I wished to more exactly ascertain her self-image. It was, as I had expected, that of the lofty free woman, separating herself, at least publicly, by dimensions and worlds from mere slaves. This was particularly interesting to me in view of the fact that she was herself, obviously, a highly appropriate candidate for the collar. Did she think, truly, she was that different from the slave who, but Ehn ago, had been tied and lashed?
The Lady Yanina handed me the cleaned plate. I put it to one side. “If I had not eaten the breakfast, you would have taken it away, and not brought me another, wouldn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you will keep me in this pathetic, degrading garment as long as it pleases you, won’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“And if I object, you might take it from me, and give me no other.”
“Yes,” I said.
“And if I give you trouble, or inconvenience you in any way, in spite of the fact that I am free, you will—you will—whip me, will you not?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I have always had my own way with men,” she said.
“Are you sure you were dealing with men?” I asked.
“Perhaps not,” she said.
“Some women do not realize what men are until they must kneel before them and obey.”
“Do you find me attractive?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I want these shackles off,” she said, suddenly.
“Do you understand what you are asking?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
She averted her eyes. “I do not want to be chained under the wagon at night,” she said. “It is hard to sleep on the ground. It is uncomfortable. Too, it is cold and miserable.”
“I see,” I said.
She looked up at me. “I am willing to do whatever is necessary to be permitted in the wagon, where it is warm and dry,” she said.
“Speak clearly,” I said.
“Remove my shackles,” she said. “I am ready to be kept as a full prisoner.”
With the key from my pouch I removed her shackles and then, too, removed the collar from her neck.
“Precede me up the steps into the wagon,” I said.
She preceded me up the several steps. She drew the hem of her dress up about her calves, perhaps that she not trip. They were shapely, and curved nicely to her slim ankles. She was barefoot. I had not permitted her foot covering. Then we were inside the wagon. I locked her hands behind her back. I locked them there with slave bracelets. I did not have another form of manacles for her.
“So you are ready to be a full prisoner?” I said.
“Yes,” she said, resignedly.
“Oh!” she said. I pulled up her garment and drew it up under her arms and over her breasts, and then put it up, over her head. I then knotted it with itself, over her head, thus enclosing her head within it. I then, although it was not really necessary, put a strap twice about her throat, under her chin, and buckled it in back. This held the improvised apparatus more closely about her neck, making it impossible for her to see under it. It was also, in my view, more aesthetically attractive.
“I am hooded,” she said, acidly.
Commonly, of course, only slaves are hooded.
“Forgive me, Lady,” I said, “the lack of a proper slave hood.”
Women, of course, may be diversely hooded, and with as little as a piece of opaque cloth thrown over the head, and tied under the chin.
“If you had one, I would be in it, would I not?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I assured her.
“It seems that I am fortunate that you do not have one,” she said.
“We must make do with what we have,” I said.
“I have begged to be permitted in the wagon,” she said. “I am grateful for your indulgence. I understand, of course, what is involved. I must pay for my lodging. I am muchly naked, I am hooded, and I am back-braceleted. I am at the mercy of my captor. I await the clasp of his hands on my body.”
“Apparently,” I said.
“I suspect,” she said, “you do not realize the value and rarity of what you have obtained as a prize.”
“I would not use the word ‘prize,’” I said, “as that expression is commonly used in connection with a female slave.”
“Very well,” she said.
“It is interesting,” I said, “that you used it so naturally of yourself.”
“I am a beautiful woman,” she said. “I have had wealth, and power. I expect to have them again. I will have you know that men have come for pasangs just to look upon my palanquin, that rumors of my beauty have enflamed a hundred cities, that hundreds of rich men have offered me the wine of companionship, that some would have paid a thousand gold pieces for so much as a glimpse my ankle.”
“It is a nice ankle,” I granted her.
“Beast!” she cried.
“Thousands of slaves,” said I, “are your superior in beauty.”
“Perhaps,” she cried. “But they can be bought and sold!”
“True,” I said.
“I am ready to pay for my lodging,” she said.
“I have no girl in the camp,” I said. “You will have to do. I need a girl to cook for me, and to dust, to launder and iron, and sew, to run and fetch, to perform menial chores, to gather wood, and water, to tend fires, to wash utensils, to tidy the wagon, and such.”
“I am not a kettle-and-mat girl!” she cried.
“Yes, you are,” I said.
“No!” she cried.
“Then it is back under the wagon with you,” I informed her.
“Do you not find me attractive?” she inquired.
“Certainly, I do,” I said.
“But you will keep me as a kettle-and-mat girl?”
“Certainly,” I said, “but do not fear, I have no intention of neglecting the matter of the mat.”
“I see,” she said.
“I am sure there is slave wine in the camp,” I said.
“I already have a free woman’s protection,” she assured me.
“Nonetheless,” I informed her, “you will have an ample and generous dose of slave wine.”
Slave wines have been developed by the caste of physicians to regulate and control slave breeding. The wines are effective. The effect of most lasts several years, but the dose is commonly renewed annually, often on the evening before the master’s birthday. Slave wines are based on a derivative of the sip root. They are quite bitter, as is thought good for the girls. Free women use, I understand it, a sweetened form of the wines. When one wishes to breed a slave she is administered a releaser. Otherwise she may be put to pleasure frequently, and repeatedly, by any male, or number of males, at any time or place. It is the main thing a slave is for.
Players of Gor Page 29