Lady Tutina smiled at me.
I, too, smiled at her.
“Do you like me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. I thought, properly trained and disciplined, she would make an excellent slave.
“I wish that slave would hurry,” she said.
“I’m sure she will be back in a moment,” I said.
“Perhaps you should beat her,” she said.
“An excellent suggestion,” I said, “but let us give her a few more Ihn.”
“I think I shall soon be in the mood,” she whispered, confidingly, intimately.
“Excellent,” I said. It amused me to hear her speak of moods, and such. I wondered if she might think, perhaps for the first few Ihn of bondage, until the hand, the whip or boot taught her differently, that she might make a master wait upon her pleasure, until, say, she might be in the “mood,” or something like that. She would be at his disposal constantly, at his merest beck and call, and whim. Her personal inclinations and feelings would be of no account, no more than those of a sleen or tharlarion, or any other sort of animal. She is a mere slave. If she really wanted to be in “the mood,” she would be well advised to learn how to get in the mood as quickly as the time it takes for a master to snap his fingers or run her by the hair to the foot of his couch.
“I suspect,” she said, looking into my eyes, intimately, “that this meeting may change my life.”
“It is not impossible,” I said.
“Master,” said Louise, arriving at the table, kneeling, another small bottle of wine on her tray. I removed it from the tray and set it near me. I then dismissed her.
I poured two small glasses of wine. I did not know how skilled the Lady Tutina was. I had known at least one fellow, Boots Tarsk-Bit, who was marvelously skilled at such things as misdirection and sleight of hand.
“She is rather pretty, isn’t she?” asked the Lady Tutina, looking after Louise. She, the Earth-girl slave, nude and collared, hard to see in the flickering reddish light, carrying the tray over her head, was making her way back among the tables and mats to the bar. “In a trivial, servile way, suitable for a slave, of course,” added the Lady Tutina.
“Perhaps,” I said. I looked after Louise.
“That fellow seems to think so,” said the Lady Tutina. A fellow had reached out to touch Louise’s branded flank as she moved past his table. She withdrew, frightened, hurrying on, from the touch. Then the fellow sprawled to the side, drunk.
“Yes,” I said.
Louise was lovely, indeed. She had not yet, however, I suspected, fully learned her collar. I did not think she, as yet, realized fully, in the depths of her, that she was a slave girl, and only that, and what that meant. She could, of course, be taught.
“She is a bit skinny,” said the woman.
I shrugged. She was not skinny. She was slight, and slender. But such often make superb slaves. Certainly for her size and weight, she was well curved.
“Let us drink,” said the Lady Tutina. I decided that she was not particularly skilled after all. It is no great trick to put something in someone’s drink when they are not looking. Boots, I was sure, could have managed it while engaged in face-to-face conversation. He, of course, was unusually good at that sort of thing.
“To you,” breathed the Lady Tutina, smiling.
“No,” I smiled, “to you.”
She then sipped the wine. I, on the other hand, after lifting it toward my lips, merely returned it to the table.
“This is not the same wine,” she said, lowering the glass. “It is different.”
“Yes,” I said. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Of course. It is wonderful.”
“Perhaps you will come to like it,” I said. In the beginning perhaps it would be poured down her throat, her head held back by the hair, by masters. Later, she might find herself wheedling and groveling for it, grateful to have anything that good.
“You haven’t touched your wine,” she said, reproachfully.
“Come here,” I said. She came about the table, kneeling near me. It was the first time she had obeyed me. It pleased me to have her obeying me.
“Close,” I said.
She came then quite close to me.
“Cuddle,” I said.
She snuggled up against me. Her nearness made me master hot. Her breasts were exciting. I put my arm about her, that I might hold her to me. She looked up into my eyes. “You haven’t touched your wine,” she pouted.
“Oh?” I said.
“Drink, drink,” she wheedled, picking up the glass, lifting it toward my lips. “Drink,” she said, “and then we may hurry to your room, where I may serve you, even as a slave.”
“You are luscious, and tempting,” I said.
“Drink,” she said.
I forced myself to remember that she was for the other fellow, the one slumped across the nearby table.
“Drink,” she whispered.
I took the glass from her. I set it down on the table.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
“Encourage me,” I said.
She then began to kiss me, and lick me, about the face and neck. She did it quite well. With training she would do it much better.
“Do you know the wine?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
I turned the bottle so that she might read the label. It was a small bottle of Boleto’s Nectar of the Public Slave Gardens. Boleto is a well-known viniculturist from the vicinity of Ar. He is famous for the production of a large number of reasonably good, medium-grade ka-la-nas. This was one of the major wines, and perhaps the best, served in Ar’s public slave gardens; indeed, it had originally been commissioned for that market; hence the name.
“Oh,” she said.
“I hope you like it,” I said.
“It is very nice,” she said.
“I am glad you like it,” I said.
“Here,” she said, picking up the glass, “hurry, drink. I wish to hurry to your room.”
“Let us go to the room now,” I said. I considered giving her this option, this chance to save herself. Did she accept it I would release her from the ring in the morning, with perhaps no more than an admonitory bruise or two.
“Hurry,” she whispered. She lifted the glass to my lips. “Drink,” she whispered, invitingly, seductively.
I smiled to myself. She had had her chance. To be sure, I had offered it to her only as an irony and amusement. That would doubtless sometime become quite clear to her. I had known she would not accept it.
“Drink,” she whispered. I took the glass from her hand. “Drink,” she whispered.
“But it is for you,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“I bought the wine for you,” I said.
“But I have had some,” she said.
“Have some more,” I said.
“You may pour me some,” she said, uneasily.
“Take mine,” I said.
“I could not do that,” she said.
“Of course you could,” I said.
“I do not want any more,” she said.
“You were willing, a moment ago, to have me pour you more,” I reminded her.
“I have really had enough,” she said. She squirmed a bit. She was locked, kneeling, in my arm.
“No,” I said, “you have not.”
She looked at me, frightened. “I do not want it,” she said.
“Of course you do,” I said.
“No,” she said.
“Is there anything wrong with it?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Of course not.”
“Then drink,” I told her. I lifted the glass toward her lips. She tried to pull back. “What is wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Drink,” I said.
“No,” she said.
“You are going to drink this,” I told her.
“No!” she said.
; “Shall I call for a slave tube?” I asked.
“No,” she begged. My grip on her was merciless. The slave tube is a device for force-feeding a slave. It is not a pleasant device. A round, cylindrical, truncated cushion, usually of cork or leather, with a circular hole in its center, is forced into the slave’s mouth. This prevents her from closing her teeth on the tube. The tube is then introduced through the circular opening in the bite cushion into her mouth and run down to her stomach. There is a funnel at the mouth-end of the tube. It may be used for such purposes as feeding a recalcitrant slave liquids, such as juices and broths. Some tubes come, too, however, with plungers, so that semisolid food, such as slave gruel or stews, or even damp bread and tiny pieces of meat, indeed, about anything the master may please, may be forced into her stomach. The girl is usually on her knees when this is done, with her head held back and her hands tied or braceleted behind her. Afterwards her hands are usually left confined for an Ahn or so in this fashion, so that she cannot rid herself of the nourishment.
“Drink,” I said.
“Please, no,” she wept.
“Then you desire the slave tube?” I inquired.
“No!” she said. “Mercy!”
I moved my left hand to her hair and pushed her head down to the table. The left side of her face was against the table. She tried to twist away but suddenly cried out in pain. She could not rise. I held her at the table. She could not get her feet under her. I kept her on her knees, beside me. One can do much with the hair of a woman. One learns such things in the handling of slaves.
“Please!” she wept.
A woman’s hair is not only beautiful, but it also affords a man a useful control device. The hair of a female slave is normally worn long, and unbound. Much can thusly be done with it, not only aesthetically, but in the furs. Too, if of suitable length, it may function as a bond. It can tie wrists and ankles, and it may also be used as a temporary tether, fastening the slave to a ring, or, say, to a small tree. A familiar tie in a camp is to bind the slave hand and foot and kneel her under a branch, or horizontal pole, about which her hair is tied, this holding her well in place.
I yanked her head up, and back, keeping her on her knees.
“Oh!” she cried.
She looked at me. She tried to shake her head. Her eyes were widely opened, protesting, wild, frightened.
“Open your mouth,” I said. “Do not spill a drop.”
She squirmed, helplessly. Her teeth were gritted.
“I see that it is your intention to be difficult,” I said.
She struggled but then, by the hair, not pleasantly I am sure, I held her precisely where I wanted her. Her mouth remained tightly closed. I gathered she did not wish for so much as a drop of that liquid to cross her lips. It must be rather strong, I surmised. To be sure, the dosage had been intended for a male.
I looked up, and noted Louise, who had been returning to her place to the left of the open space, coming back from the bar. She was standing there, observing me with horror.
With my head I gestured that she should approach.
Reluctantly, and with trepidation, she did so.
“We are going to give her a little drink,” I said to Louise.
“Master?” asked Louise, frightened.
“The slave tube is not going to be necessary after all,” I told the Lady Tutina. She looked at me wildly, her mouth tightly shut.
“A simpler, more primitive method, quite suitable for small amounts, is at our disposal,” I told her.
“No!” she said.
I put the tiny glass of wine to the side, on the floor.
“Slave,” I said to Louise.
“Master?” she said.
“Take the Lady Tutina’s belt,” I said, “and tie her hands behind her back.”
“Master!” protested Louise.
“No!” cried the Lady Tutina.
“She is free,” said Louise.
“Must a command be repeated?” I asked Louise.
“No, Master!” she said.
She took the Lady Tutina’s belt off and pulled her hands behind her back, and tied them there.
“Good,” I said. The Lady Tutina squirmed, on her knees, her hands tied behind her.
“Master,” moaned Louise, frightened.
“Here,” I said, handing her the tiny glass of wine. “Obey me, unquestioningly, when I speak.”
“Yes, Master,” whispered Louise.
“No!” said the Lady Tutina. “Oh!” I had then, reaching about her head with my left hand, pinched her nostrils tightly together between my fingers. She could now not breathe through her nose. With this same grip, and its afforded leverage, I pulled her head back. Perhaps I was not as gentle as I might have been, considering she was free. Still it might do her some good, like the binding of her hands behind her, to accustom her to being handled in this fashion. She gasped for air. I then wedged my right hand in her mouth and, with my thumb and fingers, my thumb on her upper teeth, my fingers on her lower teeth, forced it open, very widely. Held so, she could not bite.
“Now,” I said to Louise. “Now.”
The Lady Tutina whimpered. She squirmed. She tried to shake her head, but I held it in position, exactly as I wanted it. Louise carefully poured the wine into that lovely, widely opened orifice, that lovely, widely opened vessel that was the mouth of the Lady Tutina.
“Good,” I said to Louise.
Louise looked at me, gratefully. She would not be immediately beaten, at least. She was pretty, naked.
I continued to hold the head of the Lady Tutina in place. As I had timed the matter she had not had a breath left at that point to exhale or blow the fluid from her mouth. She looked at me, wildly.
“I would suppose, sooner or later,” I said, “that you would like to breathe. No breath, however, can enter your lungs until you have first cleared your mouth of the fluid in it. There is only one way for you to do that, in your present predicament. That is to swallow it. Perhaps your body will make the decision for you.”
She whimpered piteously in protest.
“There is not really much point in holding your breath,” I said. “The matter is one of inevitability.”
Another whimper.
“You are very pretty,” I informed her.
Then wildly, tears plunging down her cheeks, she swallowed the liquid and, choking, gasped wildly for breath.
“You may now unbelt the hands of the Lady Tutina,” I said to Louise.
“Yes, Master!” she said, hastening to do so.
“Oh, no, Lady Tutina,” I said, holding her hands now. “You would not want to do that.”
She jerked her hands, but could not remove them from my grasp. “I hate you!” she said. “I hate you!”
“There is nothing to fear,” I said, “unless there might have been something in the wine.”
“I hate you,” she sobbed. She threw a wild look at the fellow slumped over the nearby table. He was still unconscious. She was clearly frightened. The dosage she had imbibed, assuming there might have been one in the drink, would doubtless have been one fit for a male. Accordingly, her own period of unconsciousness, given this possibility, might possibly last several Ahn, more than enough time to be carried to a cell in a praetor’s holding area. She jerked her hands again, wildly, but I held them tightly.
“I hate you!” she hissed.
“Do not forget your loneliness, and your need for love,” I said.
“Sleen! Sleen!” she hissed. She again tried to free her hands, and again, of course, could not. How could she expect to do so, with her strength, only that of a female? But this time, even so, it seemed to me she had pulled less strongly than before. Even her small woman’s strength seemed now less than it had been. Apparently there had indeed been something in the wine. It was beginning, it seemed, to take effect. She seemed suddenly unsteady.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“When you awaken,” I said, “you will disc
over what has been done with you.”
“I love you,” she said, suddenly. “Take me to your room. It was not necessary to drug me. I would have gone happily.”
“It is nice to hear that,” I said.
“I love you,” she said. “You are going to take me to your room, are you not?”
I regarded her, not speaking.
“I will serve you there—even as a slave!” she whispered. “Then you will let me go in the morning.”
I did not answer her.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
I did not answer her.
“You are going to take me to your room, aren’t you?” she pleaded.
“No,” I said.
“Then what are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“I do not think I am going to do much of anything with you,” I said.
She looked at me, puzzled. She wavered.
I glanced at the fellow slumped over the nearby table.
“No!” she said. “No!”
“It is a pretty ring,” I said. I then removed it from her hand. I put the ring on the floor. She leaned back. I did not think she could get up. She watched as I crushed it beneath my heel.
I glanced at Louise, who was kneeling to the side, frightened.
I looked again to the Lady Tutina. She was now slipped to the floor, beside the table, on the tiles, unconscious.
I took the unconscious Lady Tutina by the wrist and pulled her over a bit, onto a nearby mat, to the left of a nearby table. It was the table, of course, across which the unconscious fellow lay slumped. There was a heavy slave ring there, too, fixed in the floor. It was near the head of the mat. The mat and ring, both, of course, were those appropriate to the fellow’s table. There, she lying on the mat, I pulled down her now-beltless dress until it was about her knees. In doing this I retrieved his purse. I tied it about her neck. I then, with some binding fiber, cored with wire, from my wallet, bound her wrists tightly together and then tied them tightly to the ring. In tying the hands tightly to the ring it makes it harder for the female to get her teeth on the binding fiber. But of course, even if she should manage this, trying desperately, determinedly and elatedly, with wild hopes, to free herself, she would discover shortly, at least in this case, this discovery dashing these wild, absurd hopes, mocking all her efforts, and plunging her into despair, the fiber’s stern wire coring. She was not tied there, in such a fashion, by a man, she would then learn, that she might escape. It seemed to me extremely unlikely that she would recover consciousness before the fellow. If that should, however, somehow occur, she would still be found at his ring, awaiting his pleasure. I looked down upon her. She lay there then, on her belly, mostly stripped, her arms extended over her head, her head turned to the side, her wrists crossed and bound tightly together, lashed to the slave ring, his purse about her neck. I considered matters. I then pulled the mat from beneath her, and with my foot, thrust it to the side. She would lie naked on the tiles, I had decided. Such a woman was not worthy of a mat. I also kicked her belt over beside her. It was a small detail, but it, like her dress, like herself, like all she was and all she would be, now lay at the disposal of the fellow slumped across the table.
Mercenaries of Gor Page 42