I continued to listen. I now heard nothing.
I think both of these fellows had probably been reasonably skillful. They probably knew their business. I did not think this task would have been assigned novices. They had just mistaken their victim.
I continued to listen patiently for a few Ehn. It was now quiet outside the alcove. I heard nothing. Then I heard a tiny sound behind me. I had not realized I was not alone in the alcove. I spun about, quiva ready. It was now again quiet. I put the quiva in my left hand, extending my left arm. I then silently drew my sword. The quiva presumably could act as a probe and defense. The sword, the quick, short, double-edged Gorean gladius, was drawn back for a thrust.
“Who is there?” I asked. It was absolutely quiet. “Speak,” I said, “or I strike.” I then heard a tiny, almost inaudible, desperate, protesting, whimpering sound. I heard, too, the desperate movement of bare feet, moving back and forth, and pounding, on the stones. I heard, too, the jerk of chain against a ring.
With the sword and quiva, protecting myself first with one and then the other, and probing about, using them alternately, and generally keeping away from the source of the sound, I determined to my satisfaction that the alcove was empty save for myself and the source of the sound. Then, using the side of the sword, moving it twice laterally in the darkness, touching the object in the darkness on either side, as it hastily and fearfully, scrambling, pulled its legs back, and up, and whimpered, I specifically located the source of the sound. I sheathed the sword.
I then silently approached the object on its right side. Reaching forth I took it by its hair that I might locate it and hold it in place and moved the point of the quiva, the blade held sideways, that it might slip between the ribs, a tiny bit into its side, about half the width of a drop of blood. There was a protesting whimper. The object did not move, held in place. I let it feel the point a little more. It was then absolutely quiet, and immobile. I drew the point back a bit, but kept it muchly where it was. The object could feel it in contact with its skin. I then moved my left hand downward from its hair to check the wrists. They were shackled behind its back, chained to a ring. I tested the shackles. They were light shackles. But they would be quite effective, if locked, for such an object. They were locked. It was sitting then in the alcove, its hands back-shackled, its back to the alcove wall, close against it, its knees drawn up. I sheathed the quiva. I then felt round to the object’s mouth. It was well gagged, with Gorean efficiency, with packing and binding. It made tiny whimpers. These whimpers, of course, had been female noises. They are unmistakable, even with the gagging, that stern impediment to expression which her captor, or captors, had chosen to impose upon her, that device, inflicted upon her, by means of which it had been decided that she would not be able to speak. I lowered my hands. She whimpered, perhaps trying to call attention to her desire to speak. “Be silent,” I said. I crouched beside her in the darkness. I wondered if she were a slave. I moved my hands up her body, to determine whether or not she was collared. She whimpered, in desperate protest. “Be silent,” I said, “or you will be cuffed.” She was silent. I felt her throat. It was innocent of any metallic circlet of bondage. She had been nicely breasted.
“Are you a free woman?” I asked, interested.
She made some noises, which I took to be affirmative whimpers.
I recalled the device that my hostess had used in communicating with the slave, Lale, a not uncommon one, or, at least, one of a not uncommon type, for females put in the modality of the she-quadruped. “You will whimper once for ‘Yes,’” I said, “and twice for ‘No.’ Do you understand?”
She whimpered once.
“Would you like to have your gag removed?” I asked.
She whimpered once, eagerly.
“Are you a free woman?” I asked.
She whimpered once.
Then she scrambled back against the wall, pushing back against it, uttering urgent, protesting whimpers.
“I do not detect any brands on your body,” I said, “at least in the normal brand sites. Perhaps you are telling the truth.” The most common marking sites for a Gorean slave are on the left or right thigh, high, near the hip. Others may wear their brands variously, for example, low on the left abdomen, on the inside of the left forearm, on the left breast, or, very tiny, behind the left ear. I myself do not approve of brands on the breast. A woman’s breasts, in my opinion, are too beautiful for a brand. On the other hand I do not object to temporarily marking them in such a place, say, with a grease pencil, lipstick or paint, as many slavers do. The ideal, of course, given the necessity of marking women, the importance of which anyone recognizes, is to do it in such a fashion that it does not detract from a woman’s beauty, but rather enhances it, and considerably. The thigh brand, for one, has this effect. It also, put in her flank, below her waist, helps her to understand what her slavery is all about. Her breasts, of course, in which so much of her luscious femaleness is naturally manifested, do not escape notice in her bondage. They are as open and available to the master as any other part of her. After all, he owns the whole slave. Accordingly she knows that they, so sweet and soft, so delicious and marvelous, so wonderful and exciting, will, like the rest of her, without a second thought, be submitted to attentions appropriate to her status. For example, they may be lovingly handled, and kissed and caressed by the master however and as long as he pleases. Too, they might be emphasized and accentuated by various forms of garments and bindings. The tying of slave girdles, for example, and the arrangement of binding fiber, often has this subtle, delicious feature in mind. Too, of course, they may be confined, if one wishes, in open brassieres of cord, or netting.
She whimpered once, angrily.
“Surely you cannot criticize my curiosity,” I said. “One does not usually expect to find a free woman chained naked in a slave alcove in a brothel.” My investigations concerning brand sites had, as a side effect, of course, informed me that she was unclothed, except for her shackles.
She made a number of angry noises.
“Are you displeased?” I asked.
She whimpered, once, angrily.
“Are you angry?” I asked.
She whimpered again, once, even more angrily. Then she made a number of other angry noises.
“Do you wish to speak?” I asked.
She whimpered once, angrily.
“You would like me to remove your gag?” I asked.
She made a single, short noise, very insistently. I waited. She repeated it.
“Oh,” I said. “You do not want me to remove your gag.”
She then whimpered twice, insistently.
“You do want me to remove your gag?” I asked.
She whimpered once, very definitely, very clearly, just once.
“But I have not done so, have I?” I asked. “Perhaps you think I have forgotten to do so, that it has somehow slipped my mind. That is not it at all, however. I was merely inquiring, before and now, if you would like to have it removed. That is what I was interested in. That is all. I have never had any intention of removing it. I am not interested, for example, in hearing from you.”
There was a startled noise, and some puzzled ones.
“No,” I said.
I then put my right hand on her neck under her chin and forced her head up and back.
She made a frightened noise.
“You are in no position,” I said, “to be displeased, or angry, or impatient, or peremptory, in any way.”
She was silent.
I then put my hand on her, and she whimpered, and drew back, pushing back, frightened against the wall of the alcove. I then took her ankles in my hands. I let her try for a moment to resist me. Then I spread her ankles, widely. “Do you understand?” I asked.
She whimpered once, frightened.
“Good,” I said. I then released her ankles and she drew them hastily back and together, pulling her knees up, and close together, and, as she could, turned her right side to me.
“Were you the female who was brought in in a sack, earlier this evening?” I asked.
She whimpered once.
“Are you beautiful?” I asked.
She whimpered twice.
“Then there would be no point in my having my way with you, would there?” I asked.
She whimpered twice.
“I think that I shall strike a light,” I said.
She whimpered twice, piteously.
“And if I find that you have lied, and that you are beautiful, I shall use you—and as a slave.”
Two whimpers.
“Very well,” I said. “I shall give you another chance. Are you beautiful?”
She whimpered once, in defeat.
“Or at least you think you are beautiful,” I said.
She whimpered once.
“Then perhaps I should use you,” I said.
She whimpered twice, piteously.
“If you are a free woman,” I said, “then, from what I have heard, there may be something around here.” I felt about the alcove. “Yes,” I said, “here it is.” I had located some binding fiber at the side, and a leather thong, with a coin, presumably a tarsk bit, threaded on it. That was to be used, I recalled having heard from my hostess, if she was used in her stay in the brothel. “There is some binding fiber here,” I said. “Do you know what it is for?”
She whimpered twice, frightened.
“For binding you,” I said. “If you are used tonight you are to be put out naked in the morning, in the alley, your hands tied behind your back with this binding fiber.”
She whimpered twice, in protest.
“There is also a coin here, a tarsk bit, I think, threaded on a leather thong. Do you know what that is for?”
She whimpered twice.
I took the thong and coin and, putting my arms about her, tied the thong about her waist, fastening it behind her back. The coin was then at her belly. With my thumb I pushed it back into her belly, that she might clearly feel its shape and know its location. Then I let it dangle there, resting on her belly. “This coin,” I said, “when you were put out in the morning, if you were used tonight, was to be tied there. It signifies to all who see it that you have served a man. You are given the coin because you are a free woman. That is your payment. To be sure, it is the smallest-denomination coin in common circulation. It is, thus, a comment on your value.”
She moaned in protest.
“It is also a common charge for renting a low slave,” I said.
I heard an angry noise.
“Doubtless you know that,” I said.
She whimpered once, angrily.
“But a slave,” I said, “is superbly responsive. It is not simply that they know that they had better be, or will know the whip or worse, if they are not, but that the poor, lovely things, after a few days in the collar, cannot really help themselves. Slave fires have been lit in their bellies. They will kick and squeak, and gasp and moan, at a touch. Finding themselves under the scrutiny of a male they juice. It is a consequence of the collar. A glance can bring them to their knees, heated. One can enflame them with a word.”
I heard a small sound, a tiny, futile pulling against the wrist shackles, the ring in the wall.
“Perhaps that is one reason why free women so hate them,” I said.
There were, of course, many reasons for the hostility borne to female slaves by their free sisters, not just the envy of their needs, health, and vitality. They envied them, interestingly, for their greater freedom, in its way, their emotional liberties, their honesty, their masters, their domination, their profound fulfillments, their radiance, their happiness. Too, it did not help that men, however inexplicably, seemed to care more for, and seek more avidly, and prize more highly, these lowly slaves, purchasable in markets, than themselves, in all their inestimable regalias of freedom and power.
Yes, there many reasons for the implicit warfare between the proud free woman and the helplessly embonded beauty.
And let the beauty beware, for she is slave.
“Such has been done to them,” I said. “Slave fire burns in their bellies.”
There was silence in the alcove.
“It is no wonder that men are fond of them.”
Again there was silence in the alcove.
“Have slave fires been lit in your belly,” I asked.
There were two whimpers, indignant.
“Would you like slave fires to be lit in your belly?” I asked.
There were two whimpers, bursting forth, frightened, almost hysterical.
I sensed her head shaking back and forth, wildly. I felt her hair in the darkness, from the wild tossing of her head.
I put my hand on her body.
There was a sudden, wild yanking at the shackles and chain, and ring.
“I wonder,” I said.
I removed my hand from her body.
She pulled back.
“If there were a common coin more easily available than the tarsk bit,” I said, “that would be the one punched and tied at the belly of one such as you. It seems that a tarsk bit, a whole tarsk bit, tied on you is something of an insult to the slave, for the renter’s tarsk bit will garner him far more pleasure from her than his tarsk bit would from one such as you.”
She was silent.
“In short,” I said, “the tarsk bit is far more than your use would be worth.”
She twisted angrily.
“It is interesting,” I said, “that free women should consider their favors of such magnitude, when they are in fact so shabby, flat, and jejune. Free women are so naive, so untutored, so uninformed, so unrealistic, so ignorant.”
I thought I heard a sob.
“But perhaps,” I said, “it is a matter rather of the innate and signal superiority of the free woman, that she scorns such unspeakable vulgarities, that such things are not for her, that she is too lofty for them, that she is above such things.”
She whimpered once, but I thought pathetically.
“Are you a creature of ice?” I inquired.
She whimpered once, defensively.
“Ice melts quickly under the branding iron,” I said. “And should any remain its fragments may be lashed away quickly with the whip.”
A tiny moan escaped her.
“Sexual anesthesia, sexual inertness, frigidity, such things,” I said, “are not permitted to a woman in a collar.”
She whimpered once. She was Gorean. She knew that. It is something, too, incidentally, that Earth-girl slaves quickly learn.
“But you are not in a collar,” I said.
One whimper.
“You are a free woman.”
Another whimper.
“Would you like to be relieved of this degrading thong,” I asked, “which holds this tiny, humiliating coin at your belly.”
One whimper.
“Very well,” I said. I removed the thong and coin from her waist. I laid it, with the binding fiber, to the side.
She whimpered gratefully.
“I know you are a free woman,” I said, “but are you prepared now, all things considered, in the light of your recent experiences, and our conversation, such as it has been, to reform your behavior, to be at least minimally polite, to observe certain basic amenities, and to conduct your life and business at least generally in accordance with simple canons of common civility and courtesy?”
She was silent.
I put my hand on her.
She whimpered once, quickly.
“Good,” I said. “Since someone put you here, presumably as a punishment, I gather you have been something of a nuisance, or inconvenience.”
She whimpered once.
“Or perhaps,” I said, “even something of a she-sleen.”
She whimpered once.
“But that is going to change now, isn’t it?” I asked.
One whimper.
“You see,” I said, putting my hand on her thigh, she trying to pull back, “this
is not really much of a punishment. Many other things could have been done to you. For example, from a place such as this, it would be no great trick for you to be delivered to a slaver. Indeed, perhaps a slaver has an appointment with you in this alcove before morning. I do not know.”
She whimpered in fear.
“You could be branded and collared before morning,” I said, “and shipped out of the city, then a slave, hooded, gagged, and helpless, for your first sale.”
Two whimpers.
“Indeed,” I said, “perhaps I am that slaver.”
She whimpered twice, wildly.
“But I am not,” I said. “Oh yes, I have done slaving, and doubtless will again. There are few occupations so pleasant and rewarding.”
She was silent, trembling.
“Would you look well at a man’s feet?” I asked. I put my hand on her throat. “Answer truthfully,” I warned her.
She whimpered once, in agony.
“Or you think you would?” I asked.
One whimper, a fearful whimper, in misery.
“But do not be afraid,” I said. “I have no intention, at least at present, of carrying you into bondage. Are you grateful?”
She whimpered once.
“Besides,” I said, “I have not even seen you.”
She whimpered in fear.
“Accordingly I reserve the right of carrying you into bondage later, if I wish,” I said. “Perhaps you are too beautiful to be free. I do not know.”
She whimpered twice, fearfully, protestingly.
“Be quiet,” I whispered. “Someone is coming.” Down the tunnel I could see a flicker of light, doubtless from a tharlarion-oil lamp. Although it was a very small light, it seemed very bright in the darkness.
I heard a woman gasp, seeing, I suppose, at least the first body in the tunnel. “Ai!” she cried in a moment, the wash of the light moving, lifting, in the darkness outside. I saw it reflecting on the other side of the tunnel, and a bit into the alcove. She had then seen, a bit further down the tunnel, I suppose, the second body. I moved back, to the side of the alcove entrance. I saw the light approaching more closely. “What has gone on here?” she asked, under her breath, not really speaking to anyone. I gathered she was alone. Her surprise seemed genuine. She made no attempt to call back to anyone. She was now close to the alcove entrance. “Are you all right in there, little slut?” she cooed. “Are your chains too tight? Would you like to be let loose from the nasty old slave ring? Have you learned now what it is to serve men? Have you squirmed well? Is your pretty little body tired of being chained? Is it sore? Does it ache? It is getting late, my beauty. Would you like some clothing? Of course you would! I have some pretty binding fiber in there for you to wear and, if you have given pleasure to a man, as seems likely by now, a pretty coin to tie on your belly. It is cold out in the alley this morning, and gray. The binding fiber will help keep your wrists nice and warm.” She lifted the lamp outside the alcove. “There you are,” she said. The girl, whom I now saw was blond, slender and lovely, with sweet breasts and beautiful thighs and calves, shrank back against the alcove wall. I told myself I could have had her in the darkness, but had not done so! Had I realized how attractive she was I might have done so. She did have the look of a wench that belonged in a collar. She had nice slave curves. I thought that she, objectively considered, would make a very nice slab of slave meat. I would not have minded, for example, seeing her naked on a block, in chains, being put through her paces, under whip discipline, dancing, writhing, squirming lasciviously for the interest of men, being auctioned to the highest bidder. I myself might have made a bid. I forced myself to remember that she was free.
Mercenaries of Gor Page 46