Rogue of Gor

by John Norman

  "Thank you, Master," she said.

  "Who is your master?" I asked.

  "Miles of Vonda," she said.

  "I thought he might be," I said.

  "He purchased me at a secret auction," she said, "held in the camp of Tenalion, the Slaver."

  "What did he bid?" I asked.

  "A hundred pieces of gold," she said, smiling, not lifting her head.

  "Vain little she-sleen," I laughed.

  "It is true," she smiled.

  "Marvelous," I said. "I myself received only ten silver tarsks for you when I sold you to Tenalion."

  "The gold was doubtless much more than I was worth," she said.

  "Not to Miles of Vonda," I smiled.

  "No," she said, smiling.

  "Are you happy?" I asked.

  She lifted her head, happily. "Oh, yes," she said, "yes, yes! I am so happy! I am so happy, Master!"

  "Wonderful," I said.

  "He stripped me, and put me under his whip, and taught me instantly that I was his slave, his total slave."

  "I am very happy for you," I said.

  "I had never dreamed, when I was free, that he could be such a man. Had I even suspected it I would have torn away my clothes and thrown myself to his feet, begging his collar."

  "Had you been free," I said, "he could not have been such a man."

  "That is true," she said. "Had I been free he could not have handled me and treated me as he wished, and as I wished, as his lovely beast, to be ravished, and trained and taught her duties."

  I nodded. Enmeshed in legalities, negativities and socialized expectations it was difficult to relate as biological human beings. But the slave girl, standing outside the protections of such devices, stands before her master as an exposed, raw human female, without rights, his to do with as he pleases. Similarly the master, owing the slave nothing, and knowing that she is completely his, his very property, may relate to her freely in the order of nature. In his treatment of her he is untrammeled by either conscience or law, and this she knows, and loves, and, accordingly, hastens to obey and be pleasing. She knows that she is owned, and that he is her unqualified master. The order of nature, and the obdurate and thematic equations of dominance and submission, denied though they might be, and even if hysterically repudiated, will continue to lurk in the microstructures of every cell in the human body. The master/slave relationship is the institutionalization of dominance and submission. It is, under the enhancements of civilization, the institutionalization of the primitive biological relationship of the human male and female, he the master, she the slave. How lonely is the man who has not yet found his slave; how forlorn is the woman who has not yet found her master.

  "I am pleased that you are so happy," I said.

  "But he is strict with me," she said. "I must obey him in all things."

  "Of course," I said.

  "I fear only that he will tire of me, or sell me," she said. "I try so hard to please him."

  "You do not wish to be whipped," I said.

  "I love him," she said. "I love Miles of Vonda!"

  "With the love of a free companion?" I asked.

  "Certainly not," she said, "rather with the helpless and total love of the slave girl for her master."

  "He is a fortunate man," I said.

  "I am his, fully," she said. She smiled, shyly. The auburn-haired beauty was radiant. I looked at her. How marvelous is the transformation which slavery works in a woman.

  "What are you called now?" I asked.

  "'Florence'," she said.

  "He put your old name on you, as a slave name," I said.

  "Was it not appropriate?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Yes," she laughed, delightedly, "it was fully appropriate. I was a slave before, when I was free. I knew it in my heart, even then, that I was a slave. It is thus fully appropriate that I now wear my old name openly, and with full explicitness, as a slave name."

  "That pleases you, doesn't it?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master," she said, happily. "It pleases me very much."

  "Florence, the slave," I said.

  "Yes, Florence, the slave," she said.

  "How is Miles of Vonda?" I asked.

  Her eyes clouded. "He has fallen on hard times," she said. "Warriors of Ar made hostel in his holdings, in their withdrawal to the south. He, in anger, spoke ill of Ar in their presence. Accordingly they burned his holdings and scattered his hurt and tharlarion."

  "What is he doing in Victoria?" I asked.

  "He is on his way west on the river," she said, "to Turmus, where he has friends, that he may negotiate a loan to rebuild and replenish his holdings."

  "It is now dangerous to travel on the river," I said. "River pirates are now bold and active."

  "We must take our chances," she said.

  "How large is his retinue?" I asked. This could make a difference with respect to the security of his venture.

  "Only myself," she said, "and Krondar, a fighting slave."

  "Only two?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "He sold his other slaves, to obtain moneys for the journey."

  "But he did not sell you," I said.

  "He kept me," she smiled, moving in the chains.

  "And Krondar," I said.

  "Yes," she said. "He is fond of Krondar, and a fighting slave may be useful upon the river."

  "That is true," I said.

  I remembered Krondar. Indeed, I had once fought him in the pit of leather and blood, when I, too, had been a fighting slave. Krondar was a veteran of the fighting pits of Ar. He had fought even with the spiked cestae and the knife gauntlets. He was a short, stout, thick-bodied, powerful man. His face and upper body were disfigured with masses of scar tissue, lingering records of a bloody history in the pits.

  "You should not leave Victoria," I said, "until several ships, in convoy, are prepared to move westward."

  "My master is impatient," she said.

  "It has been wonderful to see you," I said, adding, "Female Slave." I stood up.

  "It has been wonderful for me to see you, too, Master," she said.

  I turned away.

  "Master," she said.

  I turned back to regard her.

  "Thank you," she said, "for, long ago, having captured and sold me. It was you who first taught me my womanhood. It was you who first taught me, incontrovertibly, that I belonged to men."

  I shrugged.

  "If it were not for you," she said, "I might never have come into the possession of my master, Miles of Vonda."

  "I wish you well, Slave Girl," I smiled.

  "And I, too, wish you well, Master," she said.

  I then left the tavern. Outside, looking about, I saw a burly, crouched figure, one crouching near some bundles by the tavern wall. I grinned. I approached the figure, and it lifted its head. It growled, and opened its hands, warning me not to approach more closely.

  "Krondar!" I said.

  The heavy head, scarred, whitishly streaked in the moonlight by the wall, looked at me, puzzled. On its throat was a heavy metal collar. "Master?" it asked.

  "Do not call me 'Master'," I said. "I am Jason, now free. Once near Vonda we fought."

  "Free?" asked the brute. Then it knelt.

  I drew him to his feet. "I am Jason," I said. "Can you remember Jason?" I asked.

  It looked at me, in the moonlight. Then there was a heavy chuckle in its throat. "It was a good fight," he said.

  In the moonlight, then, we embraced. We had shared the fellowship of the pit of leather and blood.

  "It is good to see you, Krondar," I said.

  "It is good to see you—Jason," said he.

  I turned suddenly for I heard steel slipping from a sheath behind me.

  Miles of Vonda, angry, stood there, his sword drawn. Behind him, frightened, in her brief gray slave tunic, stood his lovely slave, Florence.

  I stepped away from Krondar, and backed up a step. Miles of Vonda, sword ready, advanced a step.


  "In the tavern," said Miles of Vonda, "was it not you who accosted my slave?"

  "I spoke with her," I said.

  "Draw your weapon," said he.

  "Do you not know me?" I asked.

  "You are Jason," said he, "who was once a fighting slave."

  "Yes," I said.

  "Draw your weapon," said he.

  "Please, Master," begged the slave. "He meant no harm! Please!"

  "Be silent, Slave," he snapped.

  "Yes, Master," she said, miserably.

  Two or three other men had now gathered about.

  "Will it be necessary to slay you with your sword in your sheath?" inquired Miles of Vonda.

  "Please, no, Master!" wept Florence, falling to her knees beside him, clutching at him. He spurned her to the side with his foot. She lay there, then, on the stones, weeping. She had spoken without permission. She had sought to interfere in the affairs of men. Tonight she would doubtless be whipped.

  "Draw your weapon," said Miles of Vonda.

  More men had now gathered about. One of them had muttered something angrily, when Miles of Vonda had spoken as he had. I saw the hands of several on their swords. I suddenly realized, with a certain amount of gratification, that these fellows were not pleased with what was ensuing. I had learned from Peggy that I was not unknown in Victoria. Men, I now gathered, knew me from the docks. Too, perhaps they had learned of my dismissal of Grat, the Swift, the thief, from Victoria, and how I had entered the tavern of Hibron to extract Miss Henderson from her danger there, though in this I had been unsuccessful. Perhaps they knew, too, of my outspoken displeasure at the wharves when the pirates had looted and burned there, punishing Victoria for having at that time refused their demands for tribute. With some of these fellows I had drunk, and worked.

  "Draw," said Miles of Vonda.

  I do not think Miles of Vonda knew the danger he was in. My major concern now was to save his life.

  "I had thought you a man of honor," I said.

  "It is my hope that I am so," said Miles of Vonda.

  "I work on the docks," I said. Out of the corner of my eye I noted Krondar squaring about, to face several of the men tensed about us. He, at least, knew the danger in which his master stood. I had little doubt Krondar would charge against several of these men, though he might take five swords in his chest doing so. "How then, as I am a worker on the docks, could I have had the leisure to develop skills with the blade which might be the match of yours?"

  Angrily Miles of Vonda thrust his sword back in its sheath. He need not know that I had taken the leisure, and much of it, as it pleased me, to develop blade skills, nor need he know I was, for my times of training, reasonably adept with the blade. Callimachus was a master and he had lavished intelligence and time on my development. Too, I had discovered, as did not displease me, perhaps as a result of my reflexes and aggressions, that I possessed something of an aptitude for the manipulation of that wicked Gorean blade. Indeed, I suspected that I might find myself at no disadvantage in bladed contest with the proud Vondan. Indeed, I was curious to know if I might kill him. On the other hand, I had no wish to do him injury. And beyond these things, I did not wish for those of Victoria to know of my skills with the blade. Jason, the worker on the docks, and a fellow of some popularity in Victoria, was not thought to be skilled with the blade. As Callimachus pretended still to dereliction to further our projects so, too, I must pretend to ineptness with the blade.

  "I shall not kill you," said Miles of Vonda, irritably.

  "That is welcome news," I said.

  I saw the men about relax. Miles of Vonda, although he did not know it, had just saved his own life, and that of Krondar, and possibly that of the slave. Before he could have reached me a dozen blades might have cut him down.

  I felt a fondness then for the men of Victoria.

  "Krondar," said Miles of Vonda, indicating me, "beat him."

  "I shall attack him if you wish, Master," said Krondar, "but I cannot beat him."

  "How then," asked Miles of Vonda, looking at me, "is my honor in this matter to be satisfied?"

  "I do not know," I said.

  He walked up to me and, with the flat of his right hand, gave me a stinging slap. He then drew back and spit upon me. Men cried out angrily. Krondar gasped. Florence cried out with misery. I tensed, but did not respond.

  Miles of Vonda then turned about and, gesturing to Krondar to shoulder the burdens he had been guarding, left, walking down the avenue of Lycurgus, followed by Florence, and then later, a few feet behind, by Krondar, bearing his gear.

  I wiped my tunic, and then wiped my hand on my thigh.

  "Why didn't you break his neck?" asked one of the men about.

  "He is really a good fellow," I said. "Besides," I added, "look at the slave girl." We looked after her, the scantily clad, auburn-haired beauty heeling her master. "Who would not be jealous of such a slave?" I asked.

  "Perhaps you are right," grinned the man beside me.

  27

  What Occurred on the Wharves, Shortly before Midnight

  It was now the nineteenth Ahn, an Ahn before the twentieth Ahn, the Gorean midnight.

  I was more careless than I should have been. I had been thinking of Miles of Vonda and the slave he owned, who had once been the Lady Florence of Vonda. I was pleased with her happiness, and regarded him as a fortunate fellow.

  "Hold!" said a voice, menacingly.

  I spun about, near a pile of lumber on the wharves. It was lonely there now.

  I had no opportunity to draw my sword. The point of the other's blade was entered into my gut. I backed against the lumber.

  "So you have followed me, Miles of Vonda," I said. He did not respond.

  "The mask is not necessary," I said. "It is dark here, and we are alone."

  The blade drew back a few inches. "Hold your hands at your sides, and kneel, very slowly," said the man.

  I did so.

  "Now, slowly, very slowly, place your sword belt and scabbard on the boards," said the voice.

  I slowly slipped the belt and scabbard, with the sheathed blade, from my shoulder, and placed them on the boards.

  "You are not Miles of Vonda," I said. I could now tell that it was not his voice. "Who are you," I asked, "a brigand?"

  He said nothing. I watched the sword.

  "I have some money with me," I said. "I will give it to you. You do not need to slay me."

  "Do not be a fool," he said. "Where is it?" he said.

  "What?" I asked.

  "The topaz," he said.

  "You are the courier of Ragnar Voskjard," I said. It would have been he who would have, to protect himself during the search of the tavern of Cleanthes, by the guardsmen of Ar's Station, placed the topaz in my pouch. I had not been searched within the tavern because I, like certain others, had been searched outside the tavern, but moments before. He would presumably be an important man, and the security of his identity a closely guarded secret.

  "Where is the topaz?" he pressed.

  "It was you, was it not," I asked, "who raided my house, who ransacked it, and put the Lady Beverly under interrogation in the matter of the topaz?"

  "I did not find it there," he said, menacingly.

  "But you received something for your trouble," I reminded him. "You tied the Lady Beverly as a slave and made her beg for her rape, after which you courteously acceded to her request."

  "She was not displeasing," he said.

  "The rape of a free woman is a serious offense," I said.

  "I know women," he said. "She was a natural slave."

  "I cannot gainsay it," I said. I had learned in the stronghold of Policrates, the pirate, that the beautiful Miss Henderson was, in her heart, a slave among slaves. It was not inappropriate, thus, but quite appropriate, that she had been subjected to merciless slave rape.

  The most complete, overwhelming and shattering orgasm of which a woman is capable is the slave orgasm. Once it has been experien
ced a woman remains the captive of its memory and will do anything to know again its ecstatic torments. She lives in the desperate hope that her master will deign again to subject her to the those merciless storms of degrading, possessing, obliterating sensations available only to a slave in her collar. It is little wonder that she may often beg on her knees or belly for her master's touch. The sexual needs of the female, as is well known, are amongst the strongest chains in a woman's bondage. The only stronger chains are those of love, that of the slave for her master. Besides such things the roughness of hemp, the weight of iron, the cruel, tight clasp of the closely encircling leather straps, are bonds as of gossamer.

  One makes love in many ways, in many moods, to a slave, gently, brutally, cruelly, lovingly, with abrupt disdain, with lengthy, patient, irresistible ministrations.

  And one of the attentions to which a slave may occasionally look forward is slave rape. For example, a master may simply seize her, tear her bit of cloth away and fling her to the floor or carpet, putting her to peremptory slave use. That, of course, is a swift use. Some slave rapes are leisurely affairs, which may last two or three days. It depends on what the master pleases.

  It might be mentioned, in passing, that the slave is to be readily available to the master at all times. Indeed, most Gorean slave garments have no nether closure. One of the rare exceptions is the Turian camisk. Indeed, it is often the case that a slave tunic will have a disrobing loop at the left shoulder, convenient to the hand of right-handed master. A tug drops the garment to the girl's ankles.

  "Remove your garments. I want you now," are words familiar to a slave girl, and words she hopes to hear.

  "Strip," she might hear.

  She hastens to comply.

  Dalliance is not acceptable in a slave.

  "The guardsmen of Port Cos, who, too, searched your house, and the gardens, upon the informings of the Lady Beverly, who turned against you, were no more successful."

  "You are well informed," I said.

  "Where then is the topaz?" he asked.

  "Safe," I said. He surely need not know I had delivered it, in accord with a plan, to Policrates myself.

  "Do you wish to be slain now?" he asked.

  "If you slay me," I said, "how, then, will you find the topaz?"