Kur of Gor coc-28

by John Norman

  The space was closed with a heavy leather curtain. This was buckled shut, on the inside.

  "And I am collared!” she said.

  "Yes,” he said.

  "You put me on all fours, my head down,” she said, “and then collared me, as though I might have been a dog."

  "You are less than a dog,” he said. “You are a slave."

  "Yes, Master."

  "You trembled, as it was closed."

  "The sound, Master!” she breathed. “It is a sound which surely no woman ever forgets! Is it not the most meaningful of sounds, that snap, that click, as the collar is closed on one, and one realizes that it is now on one, and that one is collared?"

  "There are many meaningful sounds,” said Cabot, “the snarl of the sleen, the roar of the mountain larl, the scream of the tarn, the drums of war, the clash of steel on steel, the crash of waves, the creak of a vessel's timbers, the sound of bright canvas awakening to a sudden wind after calm, the whisper of silk on a slave's body."

  "I do not understand much of what you have said,” she said.

  "It does not matter,” he said.

  The collar was a common Gorean collar, of the sort favored in particular in her northern hemisphere, flat, light, sturdy, about a half to three-quarters of an inch in height, close-fitting, locked, the lock at the back of the neck.

  "The legend on the collar was shown to me,” she said. “But I could not read it."

  "It was read to you,” he said.

  "Yes,” she said. “'I am the property of Tarl Cabot.’”

  "It is true,” he said.

  "Yes, Master,” she said. “Master."

  "Yes?"

  "I have always wanted to be owned,” she said.

  "Have no fear,” he said. “You are owned."

  "I could not even read my collar,” she said.

  "It matters not,” he said. “You are illiterate in the language."

  "Will you teach me to read Gorean?"

  "No,” he said.

  "I am to be kept illiterate?"

  "Yes,” he said, “many Earth-girl slaves on Gor are kept illiterate. They need not be literate for what the master wants them for."

  "I see,” she smiled.

  "Free women prefer it that way, too,” he said, “that the distinction between themselves and the meaningless slave be the more clearly drawn."

  "I see,” she said.

  "Too,” said he, “curiosity is not becoming in a slave girl."

  "I have been told that,” she laughed. “But, too, I suspect we are muchly subject to curiosity."

  "Yes,” said he, “sometimes to the correction of the whip."

  "It is a strange feeling,” she said, “being a slave, and being in a slave collar."

  "The collar marks you as slave,” he said, “and identifies the master."

  "And,” she said, “if I am not mistaken, it is extremely attractive."

  "Yes,” he said, “both for its aesthetics, and its meaning."

  "I understand, Master,” she said. “And I am sure, too, a man enjoys seeing a slave collar on a woman."

  "Of course,” said Cabot.

  "There is something else, too,” she said.

  "What is that?” he asked.

  "How it affects the woman,” she said, “how it stimulates her, arouses her, informs her, and frees her."

  "Frees her?"

  "Yes,” she said. “It is hard to explain, but I never felt so free, as a woman, until I was in this collar."

  "Interesting,” he said.

  "What you did to me!” she smiled.

  "It was nothing,” he said.

  "Nothing!” she said. “You so aroused me that I begged piteously for my own deflowering!"

  "Do not use so absurd an expression,” he said. “One can no more deflower a slave than a she-tarsk."

  "I see,” she said.

  "But it is true you are now no more a virgin slave."

  "I am now ‘red silk,'” she said.

  "As is common with slaves,” he said.

  "But I do not have a thread of red silk on my body,” she chided.

  "A red-silk slave,” he said, “is red silk even if naked."

  "Yes, Master,” she said.

  "I have arranged with Peisistratus for a tunic for you,” he said.

  "Oh, Master!” she breathed, delighted.

  "It is a cast-off tunic,” he said, “sleeveless, gray, and rather short, doubtless you will find it so, but I think you will be fetching in it."

  "I will hope to please my master,” she said.

  "One detail must be attended to,” he said, “before you receive the tunic."

  "What is that, Master?"

  "You must be branded."

  "Branded!"

  "Certainly,” he said. “We would not want you to be confused with a free woman."

  "I must be branded?"

  "Certainly,” he said. “You are a slave."

  "I am afraid."

  "It will not take long, only a moment or two. It is a small, tasteful mark. I will have it placed high on the left thigh, under the hip."

  "Will it not disfigure me?"

  "No, it will enhance your beauty."

  "It is a small mark?"

  "Yes,” he said, “small, but clear, and, I assure you, unmistakable. It will mark you perfectly, as slave."

  "We are leaving in the morning?” she said.

  "Yes,” he said, “Peisistratus thought it best."

  "You were thinking of leaving earlier,” she said.

  "I considered it,” he said.

  "And the opportunity of bringing me to the alcove did not influence your judgment?"

  "I deferred to the judgment of Peisistratus,” he said.

  "I see,” she said.

  "To be sure,” he said, “the sight of you in a collar did not dissuade me."

  "Seeing us in collars arouses men, does it not?” she asked.

  "Of course,” he said, “in a thousand ways."

  "It is as though we were animals,” she said, reproachfully.

  "The slave girl is an animal,” he said.

  "Yes,” she said. “And I am excited to be such."

  "I learned from Peisistratus,” he said, “that shortly after coming to the cylinder you were given slave wine and the inoculations pertinent to the stabilization serums."

  "Slave wine, that bitter drought,” she said, “that I might not be bred except as masters might please."

  "Yes,” he said.

  "But I may be bred, as masters might please."

  "Of course,” he said.

  "For I am a slave."

  "Yes."

  "An animal."

  "Yes."

  "What was the purport of the inoculations?"

  "You do not know?"

  "No,” she said.

  "You are familiar with the utility of inoculations in the prevention of certain diseases, surely,” he said.

  "Certainly,” she said.

  "Goreans, of the caste of physicians,” he said, “long regarded ageing not as a fatality to which they must be naively resigned, but merely as another malady to which their craft might be addressed, one to be remedied."

  "I have heard of such research on Earth,” she whispered.

  "It has come to a successful conclusion on Gor,” he said.

  "Forgive me, Master,” she said. “I cannot believe that."

  "It does not matter whether you believe it or not,” he said.

  "Oh!” she said.

  "Your body is very sensitive,” he said, “as is fitting for a female slave."

  "You are going to make me cry out, and beg again?"

  "If it pleases me,” he said.

  "I am immortal?” she said.

  "Not at all,” he said. “You are human, very human. You are extremely mortal. It is only that you are now, assuming the serums hold, immune to the ravages of age."

  "'If'?” she said.

  "They do not always hold,” he said, “
but, commonly, they do."

  "I can understand,” she said, “why free persons might avail themselves of such achievements, but why would they be bestowed on slaves?"

  "Clearly,” he said, “to keep up their value, in the case of a male slave, his strength, in the case of a female slave, her beauty."

  She gasped.

  "Your touch!” she said.

  "Do you like that?” he asked.

  "Yes,” she said. “Yes!"

  "You are an extremely beautiful young woman,” he said. “And in bondage you will inevitably increase in beauty, and, as you increase in beauty, your desirability to men will increase as well, and you will become more and more valuable on the auction block."

  "I do not want to be sold,” she said.

  "It will be done with you as masters please,” he said.

  "Yes, Master,” she said.

  "Surely you can understand,” he said, “how men would not want your beauty to fade, for in such a way they would lose on their investment. Your value must be kept up, if only for the auction block."

  "I am frightened,” she said.

  "And so your youth and beauty will be retained,” he said.

  "To be kept in a collar,” she said.

  "Of course,” he said.

  "I love my collar,” she whispered.

  Then she suddenly looked wildly at Cabot, and pulled at her chains, but she could move only inches in them.

  "Touch me again so, Master!” she begged. “Touch a meaningless slave so, again! She begs it!"

  "Yes!” she cried. “Yes! Again, again!"

  But Cabot lay back, regarding the low ceiling of the alcove.

  She reared in the chains. “Please, Master!” she begged.

  "A man of Peisistratus will attempt to contact Lord Arcesilaus in the morning, in the cylinder day, openly, a fellow not to be suspected by Kur guards, as I might be."

  The slave whimpered.

  "Much depends on whether Grendel has been taken or not,” said Cabot. “If he remains at large, the conspiracy is safe, if only for the moment."

  "Please, Master,” she whispered.

  "I think Peisistratus is right,” said Cabot, “that we wait until morning."

  "Master,” she whimpered.

  "Very well,” said Cabot.

  "Master!” she cried.

  * * * *

  "Your body,” said Cabot, “is now the body of a slave."

  "I am now any man's slave,” she wept.

  Under the hand of any man, you see, the slave is helpless.

  "I am worthless,” she said, miserably.

  "No,” said Cabot. “That is merely the absurdity of your former culture speaking. It is only now that you have any true value."

  "Perhaps as much as two silver tarsks,” she said.

  "In your former culture,” said Cabot, “only males were thought to have value, really, and thus the female was supposed to become a pretend male, with male properties and virtues, a counterfeit male, a facsimile male, and so arose all the nonsense of identity, a farce transparent even to children, but one of value in promoting an agenda based on envy and greed, an agenda of distortions, of unrelenting propaganda, of lies and law, to bring to ruination societies, societies to be so transformed then as to foster the ends of the unnatural, the disturbed, the psychologically malformed, the haters and misfits."

  "This is the first happiness I have ever known,” she said, “to lie as a slave at the mercy of my master."

  "Rest,” said Cabot.

  "You are unchaining me?"

  He freed the lovely slave then of her impediments.

  "Do you not fear I will run away?” she asked.

  "The collar on your neck would bring you back to me, quickly enough,” said Cabot.

  She touched the collar. “Yes,” she said, softly, thoughtfully, “it would.” She then understood something of the helplessness of a female slave. She then snuggled down beside Cabot, her lips at his waist. “But I do not want to run away,” she said.

  "Good,” he said.

  "And I want to be branded,” she whispered.

  "You will be,” he said.

  "I am worthless,” she smiled.

  "No,” said Cabot, softly.

  "I may be worthless,” she said, “but I am fulfilled."

  "No woman who is fulfilled,” said Cabot, “is worthless."

  "No,” she smiled. “I am not worthless. I may be worth as much as a silver tarsk."

  "Perhaps two,” said Cabot.

  "Thank you, Master,” she said.

  Cabot kissed her, and her lips were soft, and yielding.

  "Is it permissible,” she asked, “for one who is a slave, to be a slave?"

  "Certainly,” said Cabot.

  "And then for one who is a master, to be a master?"

  "Yes,” said Cabot.

  "What right have any to deny such truths?” she asked.

  "None,” said Cabot.

  "Please, caress me, Master,” she whispered.

  "Do you beg it?"

  "Yes, Master."

  "As an abject, rightless slave?"

  "Yes, Master."

  "Very well,” he said.

  She leaped in her chains, crying out in gratitude.

  Chapter, the Twenty-Eighth:

  THE SEEKING OF GRENDEL

  "She is pretty,” said Peisistratus.

  "Yes,” said Cabot.

  "The tunic well sets her off,” said Peisistratus. “I see there is a smear of blood on her thigh."

  "She can be washed, later,” said Cabot.

  "You had her taste her virgin blood?"

  "Of course,” said Cabot. “Stand straight,” he said to the slave. “You are under the gaze of a free man."

  "The tunic is quite short,” said Peisistratus.

  "She has excellent legs,” said Cabot.

  "Well then to display them,” said Peisistratus. “She seems prettier now than yesterday, in the cylinder."

  "She has learned something of the meaning of chains,” said Cabot.

  "Left thigh,” said Peisistratus. “Lift up your skirt."

  The slave complied.

  "Excellent,” said Peisistratus. “She is well marked."

  It was tiny and lovely. It was the common kajira mark.

  "You may lower your skirt, and kneel,” Cabot informed the slave.

  She lowered her skirt, and smoothed it, delicately, carefully, and then knelt beside her burden, supplies from the cylinder, which she would bear, as her master's lovely beast.

  How vain they are, and how beautiful, thought Cabot.

  "Kneel more straightly,” Cabot admonished the slave. “Good,” he said. The slave had much to learn, but she was highly intelligent, and would doubtless learn quickly. One of the most difficult things for a female slave, incidentally, is to be under her master's discipline while in the presence of a free woman. She knows the free woman despises her for being a slave, but, also, envies her, to the point of hatred, for her bondage, and the superb, uncompromising domination to which she is subject.

  "Her hair, of course, is too short,” said Peisistratus.

  "It will grow,” said Cabot.

  "Corinna is better,” said Peisistratus.

  Corinna, as one might recall, was a cylinder slave, one perhaps favored by Peisistratus. She was a skilled dancer. I believe we may have noted this, earlier.

  "Perhaps,” said Cabot.

  The slave stiffened, angrily.

  How vain they are, thought Cabot. And how delicious. It was no wonder that men made them slaves, and had them serve them with perfection.

  One of the nicest of gifts, incidentally, is a lovely female slave. Too, they are cheaper than a kaiila, or trained sleen, and far less expensive than a tarn, one of Gor's mighty saddle birds.

  A chain of twenty or more beauties might be exchanged for a single tarn.

  And how, Cabot thought, they learn to compete with one another, each to be more pleasing to the masters, each to bring
a higher price on the sales block. They will fight over a brush or comb, an eye shadow or lipstick, or earrings, or a ribbon. They will tear hair for a bangle.

  Yes, he thought, how delicious are slaves. Who would wish to live without them?

  And the love of a slave for her master!

  Who can understand that love, who has not had a slave at his feet?

  Peisistratus looked about.

  "I think,” said Peisistratus, “I should accompany you no further."

  "It seems quiet,” said Cabot.

  "Unnaturally so,” said Peisistratus.

  Cabot looked up at the forests overhead. “Your men are about their errands?” he asked.

  "Yes, since last night,” said Peisistratus.

  "You are attempting to contact Lord Arcesilaus?"

  "A man is on his way to his lodgings now,” said Peisistratus.

  "It is strange,” said Cabot, “but while it is so quiet here, elsewhere, amongst the darknesses separating the worlds, fleets may be locked in dire, fearsome war, a thousand vessels exploding and burning, casting about debris and crews, fleets maneuvering, calculating, firing, escaping, dying, withdrawing, advancing, doing what men and Kurii do, conducting their affairs as usual, affairs so momentous to transitory civilizations, the universe indifferent, not noticing, or caring, blooming and dying, again and again, never noticing or caring, according to its own long laws."

  "But we have been here,” said Peisistratus. “Nothing can change that."

  "Yes,” said Cabot. “Nothing can change that."

  "I think that is important,” said Peisistratus.

  "I think so, too,” said Cabot. “We are part of it, and we know something of it, while it knows nothing of us."

  "In us,” said Peisistratus, “as we are of it, it knows something of itself, and, in its way, of us."

  "Perhaps,” said Cabot.

  "We are the torch by means of which it explores its own caverns,” said Peisistratus.

  "Perhaps,” said Cabot.

  "I wonder if Grendel has been taken,” said Peisistratus.

  "I do not know,” said Cabot.

  "If he has been taken,” said Peisistratus, “his little blonde she-urt will have lost no time in uttering all she knows, to save her worthless hide."