by John Norman
You are less prissy and proud now, aren't you, Cabot thought. Would that the males whom you belittled and abused on your world, whom you treated with such disdain and insolence, whom you teased and tormented, could see you now, naked, groveling and begging, before beasts!
Why have the Kurii come to the Prison Moon, Cabot asked himself.
Surely not to rescue a pet.
Why then? For what? To probe the defenses of Priest-Kings, to test equipment, to train and season pilots and task squads, to enact a trial of courage, to fling before Priest-Kings some sort of an act of defiance, what?
Where are the Priest-Kings, Cabot asked himself.
"Masters!” cried the brunette, suddenly, squirming in terror, on the metal floor, and drawing up her legs, the breath of the beast hot on her body, “Masters!"
Cabot was startled.
Had he heard what was said?
Had she said that—what he had thought he had heard?
"Please, Masters!” she screamed, “do not eat me! I will be your slave! Keep me as a slave! Make me your slave! I will be a slave! No, no, I am a slave! I am a slave! Keep me for yourselves, or sell me to men! Do not eat me! Keep me, or sell me! I beg to be your slave, to be kept or sold, as it might please you!"
These words came from her as though from her dreams, wild, tearful, and unutterably heartfelt, but they were cried out in full consciousness, in full waking reality, as she writhed, terrified, on the metal flooring of the hallway, at the clawed feet of fanged Kurii.
She is a slave, thought Cabot. The beautiful, curved, petty, snobbish thing is a slave! Excellent! Does she not know those words cannot be unspoken? She has bespoken herself slave. In all legality the little slut is now a slave. Does she understand that? The words have done it. She is now subject to claimancy. She is now no more than an unclaimed slave!
The closest beast to her, who had put down his head, probably merely to smell her sweat and terror, and the lingering, offensive odors of the container, for most Kurii are less fastidious in such matters than many humans, extended his long, dark tongue and ran it over the side of her body on the left, and she shrieked in terror.
He put his large paw over her face, to silence her, and one could see her eyes, wild, over that hairy appendage which covered most of her face.
She seemed paralyzed with fear.
It then removed its paw from the mouth of the former Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym, now, unbeknownst to herself, no longer a free woman, but now only a nameless slave, subject to claimancy.
It stood up.
It wanted salt, thought Cabot.
The Kurii looked about, uneasily.
One of them said something to his fellows, and several of them turned toward the burned, torn metal at the end of the hallway.
They are leaving, thought Cabot.
He remained motionless in the clutch of the Kur who held him, not struggling, passive, seemingly docile, seemingly resigned to his fate, whatever it might be.
One of the Kurii reached down and seized the brunette by the right ankle, lifted it, and, by its means, turned her to her belly. Her eyes were frantic, her ankle lifted and held behind her, and she stretched out her hands to Tarl Cabot, piteously.
He remained inert.
"Mr. Cabot!” she cried. “Mr. Cabot!"
How dared she, a slave, so speak a man's name?
She was half lifted from the floor, facing him.
He did not move, nor gave he any indication he was concerned with her plight.
"Mr. Cabot!” she wept. “Mr. Cabot!"
Again she had dared to use his name!
A girl once collared would fear to do so. A slave addresses free men as Master, free women as Mistress. She would use their name, normally, only when kneeling, and in response to interrogation.
"Slave."
"Yes, Master?"
"What is your name?"
"Margaret, Master."
"Who is your master?"
"Rutilius, Rutilius of Venna, Master."
The Kur who held her ankle turned about and, the ankle retained in his grasp, began to follow those who had already departed the hallway.
"Help me!” screamed the brunette, being dragged away, backwards, on her belly, by the grasped ankle, over the metal flooring, down the hallway, toward the opening. “Help me!” she cried. “What are they going to do with me? What are they going to do with me?"
"They must leave,” said Cabot. That seemed obvious to him, given their unease, their behavior.
"What are they going to do with me?” she shrieked.
"You are being saved for later,” he said.
"What are they going to do with me!” she cried.
"Presumably you will be eaten,” he said.
She shrieked, wildly.
At this point Cabot, who had hitherto for some time remained inert, seemingly crushed and defeated, reconciled to whatever might lie in store for him, in the grasp of his captor, suddenly lashed back with his elbow, striking sharply, heavily, as an ax, into the ribs of the Kur who held him, who, startled, grunting in pain, released him.
A common principle of warfare is surprise, others being such things as concealment, deception, and so on.
In a moment Cabot, perhaps foolishly, had raced after the Kur who was drawing the sobbing, hapless brunette toward the opening at the end of the corridor. It turned suddenly, aware of the sound on the flooring, and threw up its arm before Cabot's thumbs could gouge through its eyes. Such slaves as the brunette belong more properly, after all, to human males, not to Kurii.
Cabot was smote back, and sank groggily to the flooring.
He was aware of the beast reaching for a heat knife, and saw it glow white, almost instantaneously. At the same time he heard the rapid scrape of claws on the flooring behind him, and an enraged bellowing, as of fury and pain, as the Kur he had eluded rushed forward.
Too, he became aware of a large shape, like a boulder of fur, in the doorway, behind the Kur he had attacked.
The brunette screamed in misery, crawling to the side.
He could feel the blistering heat of the knife, and his vision was blinded with its light, which was wildly reflected about, leaping on the walls of the corridor.
One is not to look at the blade of a heat knife, for that is one of its features, and advantages, that it may temporarily blind its target.
Cabot tried to leap up, blindly, but, at that moment, before he could regain his feet, the Kur behind him seized him, lifting him, and holding his arms helplessly to his sides.
Scarcely could Cabot see through the whirlpool and chaos of light which seemed to blaze before him.
He did see the arm with the knife approach.
It will be the heart, he thought, sought within the cavern of exploded ribs, severed from its vessels, and extracted with a paw, to be crammed into a fanged mouth.
But a large paw rested gently on the arm that held the knife, and the knife suddenly turned red, and then gray.
Cabot struggled, weakly, unable to escape the grip of his captor.
He shook his head, trying to restore his vision, trying to resist the saberlike afterimages which seemed to slide and glow, and emerge again and again, on the walls and surfaces of the world before him.
He became aware that a Kur had taken the brunette by the hair and pulled her to her feet, and that she then, bent over, her hair grasped tightly, cruelly, in a paw, was being conducted rapidly, she running beside him, sobbing, from the hallway.
It is a common slave leading position, thought Cabot. A slave's hair is not only beautiful, and may be used for a number of erotic purposes, and, if long enough, for custodial purposes, as well, but it also makes it easy to control her, punish her, and such. When a girl is put into such a leading position, in which she is humiliated, mortified, and helpless, and knows her least recalcitrance may bring her excruciating pain, she is well reminded that she is not a free woman, but a slave.
It was doubtless the first time that the b
runette had been put in slave leading position.
It would not be the last.
Cabot struggled to free himself, to pursue the beast in whose keeping was the former Miss Pym.
One really wonders about the rationality of the human species. What could he, alone, weaponless, have done in her behalf, or in his own?
Perhaps there are genetic predispositions to madness in the human species. To be sure, Kurii, too, can be guilty of such indiscretions. Are we not dark brothers?
Cabot shook his head, to clear his vision.
From somewhere he heard a sirenlike whine. It was a signal, doubtless, perhaps of warning, of alarm, perhaps a sign of urgency, perhaps a signal for recall, for regrouping or retreat.
Cabot became aware of a large, shaggy head peering at him, but inches from his face.
The massive, fanged jaws before him seemed twisted into some contorted configuration. Was it meaningless, or did it betoken menace, or was it a smile?
"Half-Ear!” exclaimed Cabot.
He was then cuffed into unconsciousness.
Chapter, the Third:
THE STALL
"Why am I on a chain?” she asked.
Cabot shook his head, and tried to bundle his thoughts together, trying to piece a number of diverse shreds and particles into a coherent picture of reality.
He sat up in the straw.
The gravity, he sensed, was much like that of Gor, and much the same as on the Prison Moon. But he did not think he was on Gor, or on the Prison Moon.
He found himself in an open, but low, some four feet in height were the walls, three-sided, boxlike enclosure. It had a wooden floor, which was covered with a heavy layer of straw. It was an enclosure such as might have been used for the bedding of animals, and perhaps, in its way, it was. Following one of the selections of our translator, we shall refer to it as a stall.
A dim light was provided by lamps. They are akin to the energy lamps of Gor, he thought.
Cabot looked across the stall at the brunette, who was kneeling, her knees and thighs obscured by the straw, to his right.
On her neck, closed, was a sturdy metal collar. On this collar there was a heavy collar ring, and to this collar ring there was attached a heavy, black chain, which presumably was fastened to a ring or mount under the straw.
She held the chain near the collar ring and jerked it twice, angrily, against the collar ring. “Explain this!” she demanded. “What is the meaning of this?"
"It is a collar, and chain,” said Cabot.
"I am well aware of that,” she said. “What is its purpose?"
"To keep you where you are,” said Cabot.
She pulled at the chain, angrily. “I am well aware of that!” she snapped.
"Why then did you ask?” said Cabot.
She made an angry noise.
"Perhaps to keep you safe,” he suggested.
"From what?"
"I do not know,” he said.
"You attempted to rescue me,” she said.
"But failed to do so,” said Cabot.
"Obviously,” she said.
"At least you have not been eaten, at least as yet,” said Cabot.
She turned white.
"Do you think—?” she asked.
"Possibly,” he said.
"But not yet?"
"No,” he said. “I think they have other purposes in mind for us, at least as of now.
"What purposes?"
"I do not know."
"Why are you clothed?” she asked.
"I do not know,” he said. He wore a brief, gray tunic, a Gorean man's tunic. He had no weapons.
He regarded her.
Women look well on a chain.
She reddened. She covered her breasts. “Do not look at me!” she said.
"I will do as I please,” he said.
"You are not a gentleman!” she said.
He looked away.
"Thank you,” she said, coldly.
He looked back at her. It was pleasant to look upon her, particularly as she was on a chain.
"Please!” she protested.
Cabot shrugged. He supposed he might not be a gentleman. It was not of great concern to him. Too, what had gentlemanliness to do with this? She was a slave. She was a domestic animal; she might be chained in a public market, for the inspection of all and sundry.
She had bespoke herself slave.
She was slave.
"What do you suppose your beauty is for?” he asked.
Angrily, she tightened her arms and hands against her body. She does not know she is a slave, he thought. That is all right. She can always learn later. A slave may not conceal her body from a master, of course, without his permission. Her beauty is not hers; it is owned by the master.
Cabot went to the foot of the chain, as she drew back, and ascertained that it was fastened to a heavy ring bolt, anchored in the floor.
"Yes,” she said, irritably, “it is fastened quite securely."
Did she not know she could be lashed for speaking in that tone of voice to a free man? Did she think she was a free woman. Yes, thought Cabot, of course, she thinks she is a free woman.
"I am not clothed, and you are,” she said.
"Yes?” he said.
Did she not know that she was beautiful, and he was not? And she was, of course, a slave, a chained slave.
"I will see,” he said, “if I can arrange some clothing for you."
"Thank you,” she said, acidly. “I would be extremely grateful."
He smiled. Did she not know the clothing he would arrange? He thought she would look quite well in a brief slave tunic. Certainly the fellows she had known on Earth would think so.
A slave tunic can be quite fetching on a woman. To be sure, they are designed for that purpose. They display the legs, usually generously, and often the thighs, and do little to conceal the bosom, and her soft, fair shoulders. They leave little to the imagination, and what little they leave calls attention to what is concealed in so delightful and provocative a fashion that the tunic is almost an invitation to its own removal. Some feel that a slave tunic can make a woman look even more naked and vulnerable than when she is stripped. Such tunics, too, despite their brevity, lack a nether closure. In this way, the slave is reminded in yet another little way that she is to be always at the convenience of the master.
"You are not chained,” she said.
"No,” he said.
"Why?"
"I do not know."
"Please stop looking at me!” she said.
"Why?"
"'Why'!” she exclaimed.
"Yes."
"Beast!"
"Yes,” he said.
She gasped, and drew back, clenching her arms yet more tightly about her. After a time, she said, petulantly, sullenly, “You are no gentleman."
"No,” he said.
"What are you?” she asked, angrily.
"Gorean,” he said.
"What is that?"
"If you live long enough,” he said, “you will be taught."
She looked at him, for a moment, quizzically, but did not pursue her question. She knelt back, on her heels.
Excellent, thought Cabot, excellent.
She did not remove her arms and hands from her body, but she straightened her body, and lifted her head, and shook her head a little, to throw her hair behind her.
Good, thought Cabot, good.
She smiled a little smile, at him. He supposed it was to be taken as a shy, rueful, resigned smile. Surely it was artful.
He found her tormentingly attractive to him, but had she not been selected to be so?
She is playing her little game, he thought. She is sensing her power. Doubtless such things in her past well served her purposes. They are less likely to be effective now.
He considered how she would look in a collar, and was pleased. In it her beauty would be much improved. But does not the collar enhance the beauty of any woman, the contrast with her softnes
s, its irremovability, and its meaning?
It is little wonder, he thought, that Merchant Law prescribes that the fair throats of female slaves will know the collar, that their fair throats be clasped within such lovely, indicatory, uncompromising, irremovable, possessive encirclements.
"I suppose,” she said, lightly, “you are looking at me because I am beautiful."
"You will do,” he said.
"'Do'!” she cried.
"Yes,” he said.
"Am I not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?” she demanded.
"No,” he said.
"I have been told by many men,” she said, angrily, “that I was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen!"
"They had not seen the women of Gor,” he said. To be sure, beauty is more than a mere combination of external relationships, the eyes to the hair, the thigh to the forearm, and such. Beyond such things, of course, it is difficult to define but then, so, too, is almost anything of importance. It is perhaps more analogous to an illumination, or a whisper, or a kiss, than a measurement. Slavery, incidentally, often brings a woman to beauty, for a variety of reasons. Most trivially, within it she is seldom permitted the straining, disfiguring uglinesses common to the free woman, nastiness, arrogance, brassiness, and so on. Such unpleasantries can be lashed out of her, for they are not pleasing to the master. More importantly, more profoundly, in slavery she finds herself in her place in nature, at her master's feet; in slavery she finds herself returned to her womanhood, to her mastered femininity. Perhaps such things explain the common contentment of the slave, so incomprehensible to many free women, her devotion to the master, her instant obedience, her zealous service, her happiness, her love, and so on, and, doubtless, too, her helpless, spasmodic yieldings to his peremptory possession of his property. The slave, perhaps even roped or chained down, may be used in many ways, as the master might please, perhaps tantalized for writhing hours, until she begs for release, or perhaps, if he wishes, merely put to his purposes briefly, perhaps, her tunic torn away, simply flung to the floor, there to be subordinated as the property she is to his authority. Free women sense, perhaps to their rage, but cannot fully comprehend, the pervasive and profound sexuality of the slave, which irradiates and suffuses her entire existence, even in such small things as the touching of a collar, the feel of a tunic, the touch of tiles on her knees or belly, the leathery taste on her tongue as she slowly, humbly, softly, gratefully licks the whip, the sense of fulfillment in kneeling, and bowing her head before her master. It is beyond their ken, unless they should one day find themselves in the collar.