Renegades of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “I see,” I said.

  “But you have not embonded me!” she chided.

  “No,” I said.

  “If I were stolen,” she said, “I wager that that oversight would soon be remedied.”

  “Probably,” I said. “Particularly if it were done by a professional slaver.”

  She hummed a little tune.

  “Surely you fear the whip,” I said, “and the hazards of the collar?”

  “The whip is good for us,” she said. “Perhaps it is hard for you to understand that, as you are not a woman. It makes our womanhood a hundred times more meaningful. The essential point here is not being whipped, of course, which hurts, but being subject to the whip, and being truly subject to it. You see the distinction, I am sure. We know that men are by nature sovereign over us. That comprehension requires no great insight. Accordingly, men must then either fulfill their nature, or deny it, and in denying their nature, deny us ours, for ours is the complement to theirs. Accordingly we despise men who surrender their natural sovereignty. Surely we would not be so stupid, would not be such weaklings and fools as to do that, if we were men. It would be too valuable and glorious a thing to give up. Its surrender would be a tragedy. But we are not men! We are women, and want, truly, with everything in our hearts and bellies, to be women, and we cannot be women truly if men are not truly men! Accordingly, I would not want a man who could not whip me. I would not have the least respect for a man who was too weak to use it on me. Lay down the whip, and we will attack you, and undermine you, and use your own laws, institutions and rhetorics to destroy you, inch by inch. Lift it, and we will lick your feet in gratitude. Own us, dominate us! Enslave us, properly, so that we may love you as women are meant to love, wholly and irreservedly, totally, without a thought for ourselves!” She looked at me, tears in her eyes. “Is it so wrong to want to be ourselves?”

  “But there are hazards in slavery,” I said.

  “I accept them,” she said, “and would try to please my master.”

  “You would be well advised to do so,” I said.

  “I know,” she smiled.

  “Attend to the porridge,” I said.

  She removed it from the fire and covered it, to let it stand for a bit. She then set out two bowls, with spoons, and two trenchers, for some bread.

  She served, deferentially.

  I considered her flanks, and breasts. They were excellent.

  Although her garmenture was assuredly scanty, she was more extensively clothed than many of the women in the camp. There were men here.

  She spooned the porridge into the bowls and set the bread, wedges, from a round, flat loaf, on the trenchers, and knelt back. She would wait, of course, until I had taken the first bite.

  Considering the size of the besieging force there were not as many women in the camp as might have been expected. I hoped this would work in my favor. The paucity of women, relatively, rent slaves even bringing a copper tarsk a night, had largely to do with the coming and going of the slave wagons, which tended to carry off most of the captures, apprehended refugees, women who had fled from Ar’s Station for food, giving themselves into bondage for a crust of bread, and such, to a dozen or so scattered markets, markets such as Ven, Besnit, Port Olni, and Harfax.

  I bit into the bread and Phoebe then, too, began to eat, taking a small spoonful of the porridge.

  It had become dark now.

  We could hear the pleasure cries of a woman a few tents away.

  “Do you think she is free?” asked Phoebe.

  “Probably,” I said. “There are not too many slaves in the camp now.”

  “What do you think he is doing to her?” she asked.

  “Mastering her,” I said.

  “Do you think she is tied?” she asked.

  “Probably,” I said.

  She looked down, shuddering, blushing. The intensification of sexual pleasure, both physically and psychologically, by the application of selected restraints is well known.

  “The women I have seen in this camp,” she said, “do not appear to be overdressed.”

  “They are the prisoners of strong men,” I said.

  She listened to the girl’s cries.

  “She is passionate,” said Phoebe.

  “She has probably been given little choice,” I said.

  “Nonetheless,” said Phoebe, “she is passionate.”

  “Her destiny is doubtless to be the collar,” I said.

  “So, too, I would were mine,” said Phoebe, boldly.

  “You are already a captive and servant, a full servant,” I said.

  “I would go beyond that,” she said, “to my ultimate meaningfulness, that of the slave.”

  “Eat,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I considered, again, the women from the Crooked Tarn. They had knelt well, their knees spread as those of slaves. Liadne had done well with them. I had wanted them to learn, of course, not only discipline, but something of the arts of pleasing men. Liadne, herself, was not an experienced slave, for, I recalled, she had been startled to find herself utilized, and well, with her ankles chained, but she would still, presumably, be worlds of sensuousness beyond the simple free women in her charge. What could she have shown them in so short a time, only a few days? Something, I supposed. Perhaps little more than how to make slave lips and do a little squirming, naked. That might be enough, however, for my purposes. The Cosians in the front trenches, and behind the earthworks and hurdles, who would have borne the brunt of the sorties in the past, and had doubtless contributed more than their share to the assaults, would not, I thought, be averse to finding a woman among them, particularly one naked and on a chain.

  “She is quiet now,” said Phoebe.

  “He is probably letting her subside,” I said.

  “She is probably licking and kissing him now, clinging to him,” said Phoebe, “afraid that he might thrust her away.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Such may be done with prisoners and slaves,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She shuddered. A tear coursed down her cheek.

  “It is a hazard of the collar,” I smiled.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “The slave is nothing,” I said. “Nothing.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “And are you so willing to be that nothing?” I asked.

  “That nothing would be my everything,” she said.

  I regarded her.

  “I want to be a slave,” she said.

  “Eat,” I said.

  “How could I tell her, truly, that that nothing was indeed everything.

  Then I put such kindly thoughts from me. They were to be kept in collars, and under the whip.

  “What is that?” she asked, suddenly, lifting her head.

  “War trumpets,” I said. I rose up and went outside the tent. She followed.

  Others, too, about, from others of the small tents, had emerged.

  From Ar’s Station came the sounds of trumpets, far off. “It is a night assault,” I said.

  We looked toward the city.

  We could see lights there. These were probably bundles of sticks set afire by defenders, and thrown, suspended on chains, over the walls, to illuminate them.

  “There must be many women left in Ar’s Station,” she said.

  “Doubtless,” I said.

  “How they must be afraid,” she said, “hearing such alarms.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “There are many encampments of slavers, and slavers’ men, and cages, and slave wagons about,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  The women of a city are, of course, among its prize loot. The women in Ar’s Station, even the youngest and most beautiful, might now be pale, and drawn and scrawny, but water, and slave gruel, forced down their throats if necessary, could bring back their color, and fatten them for the block. Females, of course, ma
ke superb acquisitions, and gifts. This intelligence is not unfamiliar to males.

  We listened for a time to the distant trumpets, watched the small spots of light in the distance.

  Those about us, one after another, returned to their tents. It was only another attack, far off.

  “Men are dying there,” I said, looking toward Ar’s Station.

  “I am afraid,” she said.

  “Go into the tent,” I said.

  We reentered the tent and finished our meal, in silence.

  “Do not try to enter the city,” she said.

  “Your thigh would probably look well, roped to a post, awaiting the branding iron,” I said.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Do not move when the iron presses into you,” I said.

  “Am I to be enslaved?” she asked.

  “My remarks are general,” I said.

  “You are planning on leaving me!” she said.

  “I do not know if I will see you again or not,” I said.

  “Do not try to enter the city!” she said.

  “Come here,” I said. “On your knees.”

  She approached me, as commanded. She then knelt there, slimly, beside me.

  “Clasp your hands behind the back of your neck,” I said, “and do not interfere.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Kneel up, off your heels,” I said.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “This garment you are wearing,” I said, “what is, in effect, a chatka, I am shortening and transforming into two slave strips.” I drew the long strip before the cord in front back over the cord so that it would no longer hang midway, or about midway, between her knees and ankles but was now about eighteen inches long. The garment then looped below her body. I then cut the garment a bit behind and below the cord in front. I then moved her about and treated the garment similarly in the back, drawing the strip back over the cord so that it was now only about eighteen inches long, and then cutting it off a bit below and behind the cord. She now wore two slave strips, each about eighteen inches long, one over the cord in front, one over it in back.

  “Face me,” I said.

  She obeyed.

  “What have you done?” she asked.

  “Exactly what you think I have done,” I said.

  “You have removed nether shielding from me!” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Restore it,” she said. “Quickly! There is enough left of the cloth! Please!”

  She gasped.

  I had thrown the remaining portion of the cloth into the fire.

  She watched it burn, in dismay.

  “Do you feel vulnerable?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “In such ways may one increase the passion of a female,” I said.

  She shuddered.

  “You are aware, of course,” I said, “that these pieces of cloth might be pulled away, easily.”

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Keep your hands clasped behind the back of your neck,” I said.

  “Now what are you doing?” she cried.

  “In the future,” I said, “the cord will be tied in this fashion, or in some equivalent fashion.”

  She moaned, looking down.

  I had refastened it in a simple bowknot, a sort of knot which on Gor, in certain contexts, as in the present context, is spoken of as a slave knot. It is called that, I think, because it is sometimes prescribed by masters for the fastening of slave garments. Its advantage, of course, is that it may be easily undone, by anyone. It is fastened at the left side of the girl’s waist, where it is handy for a right-handed male, facing her. “Now,” I said, “it is possible not only to remove the pieces of cloth singly, but, if one wishes, one may easily, with a casual tug, remove the cord and, with it, both cloths together, simultaneously, expeditiously.”

  “Stripping me!” she said.

  “Keep your hands clasped behind the back of your neck,” I said. “Yes.”

  She looked at me, tears brimming in her eyes.

  “Do you object to your new garmenture?” I asked.

  “Surely I am entitled to object!” she said.

  “Turn about,” I said.

  She obeyed. “Oh!” she said.

  “You may again face me,” I said.

  She turned about, again, quickly, on her knees. She looked in dismay at the strip of cloth which I had taken from the back of the cord, as it now flared, and then turned black and crumbled, in the fire.

  “Do you still feel that you are entitled to object?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “No!”

  “And why not?” I asked.

  “I am your captive, and servant, your full servant!” she said.

  I removed my hand from the strip of cloth tucked behind the cord, at her belly.

  “Keep your hands behind your neck,” I said.

  “Why are you doing this?” she moaned.

  “You still have more to wear than most women in this camp,” I said.

  She choked back a sob.

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said, “your neck will be in a coffle collar.”

  She looked at me, wildly.

  “You will be on a chain, with other free women. You will be in the keeping of my friend, and agent, Ephialtes, a sutler. He will take care of you, or sell you, or whatever, as seems appropriate. It was my intention that you be put in slave strips in order that your sense of vulnerability, and your passion, suitably, might be increased. Too, in this fashion, I am, to some extent, preparing you for the terrors and exposures of the coffle. I have removed one slave strip as a punishment, and a sign of my power over you. To be sure, this will even further increase your sense of vulnerability, and your passion. Too, it may also better prepare you for what you might experience on the coffle, the scrutiny and attentions of men, for example. The other women, incidentally, will be stripped, totally, and their heads have been shaved. As you will, at least for a time, have a slave strip, and your hair, you will be regarded as the ‘first’ of the free women. All of you, however, will be subject to Liadne, a slave. She will be ‘first girl’ over you. She has whip rights, and so on, over you, and behind her is the power of men.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “She has also been given a slave tunic,” I said.

  “How often,” smiled Phoebe, “did I, as a free woman, feel repulsion and horror at even the sight of such scanty, revealing garments, in which slaves were put. Now I would be grateful for so much.”

  I smiled. The tunic, in its way, put Liadne a thousand times above her charges.

  “But she is a slave, is she not?” asked Phoebe.

  “Yes,” I said. Thus Liadne, tunic or not, was infinitely far beneath her. Indeed, they were not even comparable. They were not even on the same scale. One was a person, the other was an animal.

  “I would that I were as she,” she said.

  “Perhaps, someday, you will be,” I said.

  “My arms are weary,” she said. “May I lower them?”

  “No,” I said.

  “May I confess something to you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “When in Cos, and elsewhere, as a free woman,” she said, “I saw slaves in slave tunics I told you that I felt horror and repulsion.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “But even more,” she said, “I wanted myself to be put in such a tunic, and be similarly subject to men!”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “As I am a free woman,” she said, “I am shamed, keenly, to wear what I now wear, but, if I were a slave, I do not think I would be shamed. I think, rather, I would be grateful, for I might as easily have been accorded nothing. Similarly, I do not really think I would object, if I were a slave, and not a free woman, to being naked on a chain. I think, rather, I would feel very grateful, and very proud, that men had found me attractive enough, and exciting enough, to put me there.
”

  “There are many aspects to slavery,” I said.

  “I think I am aware of aspects, from the point of view of my female fulfillments, that you, as a man, may not fully understand,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “I do know that women make excellent slaves.”

  “Have you never wondered why?” she asked.

  “Perhaps because they are slaves,” I said.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Such as you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yet, even so,” I said, “I suspect that there are senses of slavery, and aspects of slavery, that one can never fully fathom or anticipate until the experience is real for one.”

  “Doubtless,” she said, shuddering.

  I regarded her. She was lovely, kneeling before me, in the slave strip and cord, her hands clasped behind the back of her neck.

  “May I lower my arms now?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You are training me, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “I am afraid,” she said.

  “Do you know why I had you kneel as you are?” I asked.

  “That you might busy yourself with my garmenture, without interference,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Too,” she said, “doubtless that I might know myself a woman commanded.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And that I might be suitably lifted, and exposed, for your pleasure?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You are perceptive.”

  She reddened.

  “Are you modest?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “I am a free woman.”

  “But when you first presented yourself before me, at the inn,” I said, “you had bared your breasts.”

  “I think I have pretty breasts,” she said.

  “You do,” I said.

  “I bared them,” she said, “because I did not wish to risk rejection.”

  “So that is the sort of woman you are,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So now,” I said, “how you could possibly object if you must display them again, and as I see fit, even as a slave?”

  She put down her head.

  “You may lower your arms,” I said.

  She lowered her arms, and knelt back, on her heels.