Vagabonds of Gor coc-24

by John Norman

  "Jasmine, Feize!" called Philebus.

  "I cannot present myself," wept Temione to me.

  "Do you prefer the lash?" I asked.

  "He scorns me, he holds me in contempt," she said. "He would laugh at me. He would ridicule and mock me! He threw me from him in disgust! He thinks of me as ugly, as fat, as stupid, as a she-sleen, as one who is not worth sleen feed, as one so ugly and disgusting that he would have me taken from his sight!"

  "But now," I said, "you are a slave."

  She looked at me, wildly.

  "Temione!" called Philebus.

  Instantly Temione, in a sensuous flash of beauty, was on her feet.

  I gasped.

  "Ah!" cried several of the men.

  She was a slave, and totally!

  She moved about, away and among the men, in her moment in the parade of slaves, on that dirt circuit among masters, Goreans, larls among men, uncrippled, unsoftened, untamed beasts, categorical, uncompromising owners of women, and she a woman, inutterably desirable and vulnerable, soft and beautiful, owned, such as they might have at their feet, among them!

  "Aiii!" said a fellow.

  But she had drawn back from him, as though fearfully, but yet in such a way that he was under no delusion that her wholeness, in his grasp, or in that of another, would yield untold pleasure.

  I forced myself to look about.

  The burly fellow had lowered his goblet.

  Philebus himself seemed startled. I think he had not realized what he had owned, until then.

  The kneeling girls in the back, too, watched, some rising up from their heels. They looked at Temione, and at one another. Some gasped. Some seemed startled, others stunned. It was as though they could not believe their eyes. They had not, until then, I gathered, no more than Philebus, nor I, suspected the depth and extent of the female, and slave, in Temione. Some of them tore open their silk, and squirmed on their knees, in the dirt, in need. Seeing how beautiful a woman could be, and how desirable, they, too, wanted so to writhe and move, and, in doing so, to bring themselves, too, to the attention of masters, that they might beg some assuagement for their needs of submission and love.

  There was the sound of the flute and drum. There was the firelight, the men about, the enclosure, the Vosk in the background, the firelight and the slave.

  "So beautiful," whispered a man.

  "Gold pieces," said another man, appraising the luscious property slut.

  "Yes, yes!" agreed another, excitedly.

  She paused before me, in her circuit, her hands moving on her thighs, her shoulders and breasts moving.

  I sipped paga. Then I dismissed her, with a small movement of my head.

  She spun away.

  Now she was approaching the burly fellow.

  It was pleasant to observe her, the owned, collared, silked, barefoot beauty.

  Then the slave stood before the burly fellow, her shoulders back, her head up, proud in her slavery, unabashedly exultant in it, her body seeming hardly to move, but yet revealing, and obedient to, as must be the body of a slave in the parade, the music.

  "Ah!" said the burly fellow, his eyes shining.

  She regarded him. Surely he must recognize her!

  Then she moved, back and forth, before him. His hand was tight on the goblet. The girls in the back murmured. He did not dismiss Temione. He kept her before him.

  Men looked at one another, grinning.

  Temione moved before the fellow, here and there, in one direction or another, twirling about, walking, approaching, withdrawing, approaching. Still he did not dismiss her. Once, as she moved away from the fellow, our eyes met. She seemed startled, puzzled. It seemed she had expected he must surely recognize her! Doubtless she had been prepared to be again scorned, to be rebuffed, to be ordered from his sight, to be sent away, perhaps even struck, but he had not yet even released her from the prime display area, that before him, near the center of the circle. In another moment, as she again faced me, I could not help but take in, in a glance, together with her consternation and puzzlement, the excitingness of her shapely, bared legs, her exquisite ankles and feet, the marvelous lineaments of her hips, waist and breasts, well betrayed by the silk she wore, that mockery of a garment, suitable for a slave, the sweetness of her upper arms and forearms, the smallness of her hands and fingers, her shoulders, her throat, encircled by its collar, her delicate, sensitive, beautiful face, the total marvelousness of her! Perhaps it was understandable then, I thought, that he had not recognized, in this beautiful and exciting slave, the mere free woman he had earlier so scorned and abused. Perhaps few men would have, at least at first. And yet she was, in a sense, the same woman, only now fixed helplessly in bondage.

  Then she was again before him.

  No, he did not recognize her.

  Then she stood boldly before him, as though challenging him to recognize her!

  But he still did not recognize her!

  Then boldly, suddenly, she tore back her silk before him. The girls in the background gasped. Men leaned forward. The hand of Philebus tightened on the whip he held. He half lifted it.

  But the girl noted him not. Her eyes were on the burly fellow, and his on her, raptly, startled, stunned.

  Then she put herself to the dirt before him in what, had she been a dancer, and on a different surface, might have been termed "floor movements," such things as turnings and twistings, rollings and crawlings, sometimes on her hands and knees, sometimes on her stomach; sometimes, too, she would be kneeling, sitting, or lying, or half sitting, half lying, or half kneeling, half lying; I saw her on her back and stomach, sometimes lifting her body; I noted, too, she was excellent on her side, one and the other, both facing him, and away, in her movements; I regarded her crawling, on her hands and knees, or on her stomach, sometimes lifting her body; sometimes she would look back over her shoulder, perhaps as though in fear or even, it seemed, sometimes, challenging him to recognize her; sometimes she would approach him, crawling, head down, sometimes head up, or turned demurely to the side; then she would be again sitting, or kneeling, or lying, extending her limbs, displaying them, drawing them back, flexing them; sometimes she recoiled or contracted, as though into herself, drawing attention to herself, to her smallness and vulnerability, her curves, as a helpless, compact, delicious love bundle; I saw, too, that she knew the Turian knee walk. Men cried out with pleasure. And in all this, of course, time was kept with the music.

  I glanced to the burly fellow. His knuckles were white on goblet, his hand so clenched upon it.

  "Is master pleased?" inquired Philebus.

  "Yes! Yes!" cried the burly fellow.

  "Yes!" cried others.

  With his goblet the burly fellow indicated that the slave might rise.

  She stood then before him. Though she scarcely moved, in her body yet was the music. I did not think Philebus would use the whip on her for having parted her silk, unbidden, or for having put herself to the dirt before Borton, his customer. Such delicious spontaneities, incidentally, are often encouraged in a slave by a private master. Bondage is a condition in which imagination and inventiveness in a slave are highly appropriate. Indeed some masters encourage them with the whip. In a public situation, however, as in a paga tavern, it is advisable that the girl be very careful, at least in her master's presence. She must not let it appear that she is, even for an instant, out of the master's complete control, and, of course, in the ultimate sense, this is entirely true. She is, in the end, his, and completely. If a girl, say, one new to slavery, does not know this, she soon learns it, and well.

  "Come, come," said Borton, gesturing with his left hand and the goblet in his right, "bring them all forward!"

  Philebus, with the whip, gestured the girls in the background forward and they hurried forward, in their silk, their feet soft in the dirt, and they knelt, in a semicircle behind, and about, Temione, her silk parted, who still stood.

  "Perhaps master is ready to make a choice for the evenin
g?" asked Philebus.

  There was laughter.

  The question, surely, was rhetorical.

  With his coiled whip Philebus, expansively, indicated the girls, like a merchant displaying wares, or a confectioner displaying candies, and, in a sense, I suppose, he was both.

  There was more laughter.

  I did not think there was much doubt what the burly fellow's choice would be.

  The two fellows who had supplied the music were silent. One wiped the flute, the other was addressing himself to the tabor, loosening some pegs, relaxing the tension of the drumhead. The drumhead is usually made of verrskin, as most often are wineskins.

  "Can they dance?" asked the burly fellow, as though his mind might not yet be made up.

  The taborist looked up.

  "Alas, no," cried Philebus, in mock dismay, "none of my girls are dancers!"

  The taborist continued his work.

  There were cries of mock disappointment from the crowd.

  "I will dance," said Temione.

  The slave girls shrank back, gasping. There was silence in the enclosure. Philebus, in rage, lifted his whip. But the burly fellow indicated that he should lower it.

  "Forgive me, Master," said Temione. She had spoken without permission.

  "You do not know how to dance," said Philebus.

  "Please, Master," said Temione.

  "You beg permission to dance before this man?" asked Philebus.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Let her dance!" called a man.

  "Let her dance!" called another.

  "Yes!" said others.

  Philebus looked to Borton, the burly fellow. "Let her dance," he said.

  Philebus glanced at his fellows, and the one tried a short schedule of notes on the flute, the other retightened the pegs on the tabor.

  Borton looked quizzically at the girl before him, so beautiful, and owned.

  She did not meet his eyes.

  "Let the melody be soft, and slow, and simple," said Philebus to the flutist, who nodded.

  "May I speak, Master," asked Temione.

  "Yes," said Philebus.

  "May the melody also be," said she, "one in which a slave may be well displayed."

  "A block melody?" asked the flutist, addressing his question to Philebus.

  "No," said Philebus, "nothing so sensuous. Rather, say, the "Hope of Tina."»

  Approval from the crowd met this proposal. The reference to "block melodies" had to do with certain melodies which are commonly used in slave markets, in the display of the merchandise. Some were apparently developed for the purpose, and others simply utilized for it. Such melodies tend to be sexually stimulating, and powerfully so, both for the merchandise being vended, who must dance to them, and for the buyers. It is a joke of young Goreans to sometimes whistle, or hum, such melodies, apparently innocently, in the presence of free women who, of course, are not familiar with them, and do not understand their origins or significance, and then to watch them become restless, and, usually, after a time, disturbed and apprehensive, hurry away. Such women, of course, will doubtless recall such melodies, and at last understand the joke, if they find themselves naked on the sales block, in house collars, dancing to them. Some women, free women, interestingly, even when they do not fully understand such melodies, are fascinated with them and try to learn them. Such melodies, in a sense, call out to them. They hum them to themselves. They sing them in private, and so on. Too, not unoften, on one level or another, they begin to grow careless of their security and safety; they begin, in one way or another, to court the collar. The "Hope of Tina," a melody of Cos which would surely be popular with most of the fellows present, on the other hand, was an excellent choice. It was supposedly the expression of the yearning, or hope, of a young girl that she may be so beautiful, and so feminine, and marvelous, that she will prove acceptable as a slave. As Temione was from Cos I had little doubt that she would be familiar with the melody. To be sure, it did have something of the sensuousness of a block melody about it. Yet I thought, even so, she would probably know it. It was the sort of melody of which free women often claim to be completely ignorant but, when pressed, prove to be familiar, surprisingly perhaps, with its every note.

  "Why do you wish to dance before me?" asked the burly fellow of the slave.

  "Did Master not wish to see a woman dance?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Surely then," she said, "that is reason enough."

  He regarded her, puzzled. It was clear he did not recall her, but also clear, for he was no fool, that he suspected more was afoot than a mere compliance with a masterly whim, even though such whims, for the slave, in many contexts, constitute orders of iron.

  "Why do you wish to dance?" he asked.

  "Perhaps," she said, "it is that a master may be pleased, perhaps it is simply that I am a slave."

  I saw Philebus' hand tighten on the handle of the whip.

  "Do I know you?" asked Borton.

  "I think not, Master," she said, truthfully enough.

  She put her hands over her head, her wrists back to back.

  "She is beautiful!" said a fellow.

  "Dance, Slave," said Philebus.

  "Ah!" cried men.

  To be sure, Temione was not a dancer, not in the strict, or trained sense, but she could move, and marvelously, and so, somehow, she did, swaying before him, and turning, but usually facing him, as though she wished not to miss an expression or an emotion that might cross his countenance. Yet, too, uncompromisingly, she was one with the music, and, particularly in the beginning, with the story, seeming to examine her own charms, timidly, as if, like the «Tina» of the song, she might be considering her possible merits, whether or not she might qualify for bondage, whether or not she might somehow prove worthy of it, if only, perhaps, by inward compensations of zeal and love, whether or not she might, with some justification, aspire to the collar. Then later it seemed she danced her slavery openly, unabashedly, sensuously, so slowly, and so excitingly, before the men and, in particular, before the burly fellow. Surely now, all doubts resolved, there was no longer a question about the suitability of bondage for such a woman.

  "She can dance!" said a man.

  "She should be trained!" said another.

  "See her," said another.

  "Has she not had training?" asked one of Philebus.

  "No," said Philebus. "Only days ago I bought her free."

  "See her," said yet another.

  "It is instinctual in a woman," said another.

  I tended to agree with the fellow about the instinctuality of erotic dance in a female. The question is difficult, to be sure, but I am confident that there are genetic codings which are germane to such matters. Certainly the swiftness and skill with which women attain significant levels of proficiency in the art form argues for the involvement of biological latencies. It is easy to speculate, in general terms, on such latencies having been selected for in a variety of ways, for example, in noting their affinity with movements of love and luring, their value in displaying the female, their capacity to stimulate the male, their utility in pleasing and placating men, and such. The woman who can move well, who can dance well, so to speak, and please men in many ways, is more likely to be spared, and bred. Many is the woman who has survived by dancing naked before conquerors in the hot ashes of a burning city, who, perhaps ostensibly lamenting, but inwardly thrilled, sensing the appropriateness and perfection of her imminent bondage, has put forth her fair limbs for the clasp of chains and her lovely neck for the closure of the collar. Yes, I thought, there is, in the belly of every woman, somewhere, a dancer. Too, I was not unaware that in certain cases, as in that of Temione now, as she was not as yet really skilled, and was certainly untrained, the man himself might make a difference. One man might, and another might not, at her present stage, call forth the dancing slave in her. What woman has not considered to herself what it might be like to dance naked before some man or another, one b
efore whom she knows she could be naught but his slave?

  "Beautiful!" said a man.

  Temione was pleased.

  The collar looked well on her neck. It belonged there. There was no doubt about it.

  How she looked at the burly fellow! He was now so taken with her he could hardly move.

  Now the exquisite slut began to sense her power, that of her beauty and desirability.

  She had determined, I now realized, from the first moment she had leaped to her feet, obedient to the command of her master, Philebus, that she would make test of her womanhood, that she would, courageously, regardless of the consequences, risking contempt and perhaps even punishment, display herself before him, this rude fellow who had once so scorned and tyrannized her as a free woman, as what she now was, ultimately and solely, female and slave. To be sure, she, new to her slavery, had perhaps not fully realized that she had really no choice in this matter but, willing or not, must do so, and to the best of her ability, in total perfection.

  Borton moaned in desire, scarcely daring to move, his eyes glistening, fixed on the dancing slave.

  How bondage had transformed Temione! What is the magic, the mystery of the brand, the collar, I wondered, that by means of them such marvels might be wrought? It had to do, I supposed, with the nature of woman, her deepest needs, with the order of nature, with the pervasive themes of dominance and submission. In bondage woman is in her place in nature, and she will not be truly happy until she is there. Given this, it may be seen that, in a sense, the brand and collar, as lovely and decorative as they are, and as exciting and profoundly meaningful as they are, when they are fixed on a woman, and she wears them, and as obviously important as they are from the point of view of property law, may be viewed not so much as instituting or producing bondage as recognizing it, as serving, in a way, as tokens, or outward signs, of these marvelous inward truths, these ultimate realities. The true slave knows that her slavery, her natural slavery, is not a matter of the brand and collar, which have more to do with legalities, but of herself. She may love her brand and collar, and beg them, and rejoice in them, but I do not think this is merely because they make her so exciting, desirable and beautiful; I think it is also, at least, because they proclaim publicly to the world what she is, because by means of them her deepest truth, freeing her of concealments and deceits, cutting through confusions, resolving doubts, ending hesitancies, making her at last whole and one, to her joy, is marked openly upon her. The true slave is within the woman. She knows it is there. She will not be happy until she terminates inward dissonances, until she casts out rending contradictions, until she achieves emotional, moral, physiological and psychological consistency, until she surrenders to her inward truths.