“Yes,” he said, “for this, a mere slave.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A Scribe Concludes an Account
“Wine, Master?” said my slave.
“Wine, Master?” said the slave of the stranger.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” said the stranger.
They served the wine well, kneeling beside the two small tables, behind which we sat, cross-legged, touching the goblet softly, tenderly, appropriately, to their body, then lifting it, and licking and kissing the goblet’s rim, as they looked over the rim, into the eyes of their masters, then lowering their heads humbly between their extended arms, both hands on the goblet, proffering the goblets to the masters.
My slave had done well in the market, and I was quite pleased. The ka-la-na, for example, was excellent. I was impressed as she was a barbarian. I wondered if the slave of the stranger would have done as well. For example, when she had been free, given her station, she had probably had few experiences making her way amongst the stalls and baskets.
The ka-la-na was indeed excellent.
I wondered how much that had to do with her market skills, and how much might have had to do with her smiles and the brevity of her tunic. To be sure, for a slave, one supposed a sharp distinction amongst such things might not be warranted.
* * * *
It had taken Callias only a moment, in the back room of the warehouse, at the side of the slave, to cut away her bonds, and tear loose the blindfold and gag.
“Master! Master! Master!” she had wept, joyfully, clutching him, melting against him.
“Oh!” she cried.
“Do not break her back,” I warned, for he held her with possessive address, with ferocity.
I supposed few free women had ever been so held, unless they were on their way to the marking iron, the collar.
She drew back for a moment and her lips were reddened, and bruised, and the lower lip bleeding, and then she thrust them, again, wildly to his.
“Stand,” I said to Callias. “She is a slave. Put her to your feet!”
But, both kneeling, they clung to one another, kissing, each weeping.
I stood to one side, embarrassed, if not dismayed, at this demonstration.
“It is only a slave,” I said.
“Yes!” he gasped.
“Are you going to keep it?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “yes!”
“For a time, at any rate,” I said.
“Yes!” he said. “Yes!”
I feared he was not attending much to me.
“I take it,” I said, “that that is Alcinoë. That was the name, at any rate, on the collar.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I gather you do not need now to journey to the World’s End, as it, so to speak, has been brought to you.”
He mumbled something, but the words were blurred, as he had his mouth on the side of her neck, under her hair.
“I suppose Lord Nishida, and perhaps Tarl Cabot, suspected you had some interest in this slave. Otherwise, certainly her presence here would seem fortuitous. Are you listening to me? She is a well-formed slave, but you could probably trade her in, at a slave house, for a better, given an extra coin or two.”
“No,” I think he said.
“I do not much care for that tunic,” I said, “it is too long, too heavy, too opaque. A scrap of silk would better remind her that she is a slave.”
He then put her at arm’s length, and looked upon her, enraptured.
“What color are her eyes?” I asked.
But I received no answer, for they were again in one another’s arms. Her eyes, as I later ascertained, were brown. It seemed difficult to communicate with Callias at the time.
“Is she white silk?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he mumbled.
“Surely you are interested,” I said. To be sure, a white-silk slave is quite rare.
I was having not much fortune in conversing with Callias, and so I thought I might try it with the slave. “May she speak?” I asked Callias.
“Yes,” he said. “Certainly.”
I was alarmed for Callias. Apparently he had given the matter very little thought. In any event, it seemed he accorded her a standing permission to speak. Many masters do, but, of course, with the understanding that that permission is revocable at any time. He had not even made the slave wait, in unsettled apprehension, for a time, to see what might be his decision in the matter. Whereas many masters do accord their girls a standing permission to speak, many others do not, but expect the slave, under normal conditions, at least, to request permission to speak, before speaking. Fewer things make it clearer to a woman that she is truly a slave, than that she may not speak without her master’s permission.
“Slave,” I said.
“Master?” she said.
“Are you white silk or red silk?”
“White, white, white!” she said, continuing with her kisses, then licking at the shoulder of her master, thereby confessing herself the more his loving, begging beast.
That answer, it seemed to me, was clear enough. I supposed that she had been kept white silk deliberately. I would not have guessed, however, from the sheen of sweat on her body, her avidity, the eagerness of her kisses, the wetness of her hair back against her neck, that she was white silk. As mentioned, white-silk slaves are rare. Often there is not one in a slave house.
Given the look of this slave, who was quite beautiful, though I had seen many better, it seemed unlikely she was truly white silk. Her body, its deliciousness, its vitality, its movements, its pressings and brushings, its piteous closures with, and its desperate touchings against, the master, its pleadings, did not suggest white silk. To be sure, there is a simple test for such things, often conducted by slavers. If she were truly white silk now, it was interesting to speculate on what she might be if red silk, if become the victim of irresistible slave fires. How easily a slave may be managed, and controlled, by such things! Must she wait? Will one choose to satisfy them, and how often, and in what way, and to what extent? A red-silk slave is often deprived of attention for some days, say, four or five, before being brought to the block, that she may writhe in the sawdust, extend her hands pathetically, and howl her need to the buyers.
“Have you had your slave wine?” I inquired.
I thought this a judicious question, and one that might not occur to Callias, and the slave, given the reckless pitch of their activities. A sober head is not amiss in such matters. It also seemed a good question to ask, too, as the slave, if white silk, did not seem destined to long remain in that condition.
“Yes, Master,” cried the slave, gasping, “that horrid stuff was forced down my throat shortly after my first collaring, and when I first came aboard the great ship, that of Tersites, and before I was landed, at the World’s End, and again, here at Brundisium, before I was brought ashore.”
I was well satisfied in this. Indeed, given improvements in slave wine, dating back some years, brewed from the sip root, the first administering of the wine would be sufficient indefinitely, until the administration of a releaser, which removes its effects. The releaser, I am told, unlike slave wine, which is quite bitter, is quite pleasant, rather like a sweet wine, or fruit liqueur. It is usually administered when it is decided that the slave is to be bred. Sometimes slave wine is administered more than once. There could be several reasons for this, for example, one might not know if it has been administered before, and one might wish to make sure of the matter, or one might simply wish additional security in the matter, which seemed to explain the dosage at the World’s End, or that before bringing the slave ashore in Brundisium. Too, one might administer it as a punishment, rather like a whipping or a night in close chains. Needless to say, if the slave comes with papers, a certification with respect to slave wine, and the date of its most recent administration, will usually be included in the papers.
“She seems a passionate little thing,” I s
aid. “Are you going to breed her?”
“Yes, breed me, breed me, Master,” she wept, kissing him.
“I do not think she understands,” I said to the stranger, Callias. “Are you going to put her out for breeding?”
“Put me out for breeding?” she said, startled.
“It is a way of increasing one’s stock of slaves,” I said. “To be sure, there would be a fee for the use of the male slave.”
“I could be bred?” she said.
“Of course,” I said, “you are slave stock.”
This sort of thing, on the whole, however, is usually done by fellows who have many female slaves and do not know them, often the proprietors of large farms. The slaves, then, are bred with the same attention to lines, and properties, as other domestic animals, tarsk, verr, hurt, kaiila, tharlarion, and such. This sort of thing is independent of the sort of thing practiced on the great slave farms. Some bred slaves have pedigrees going back several generations.
“Master, Master,” she wept, “do not breed me. Keep me for yourself!”
“He will do as he wishes, slave,” I informed her.
Usually, in slave breeding, both the male and female slave are chained in a breeding stall, and hooded, that neither may know the other. The breeding takes place under the supervision of masters, or their agents, and the slaves, of course, are forbidden to speak to one another. If the breeding is successful, the mother is hooded during labor, and never sees the child, which is taken from her, to be tended, and cared for, elsewhere.
“I am so a slave, so a slave!” she said.
I frankly doubted that Callias would put her out for breeding. Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if he would release her from his arms.
“It may be done with you, kajira,” I assured her.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened. It seemed I had suggested to her a new dimension of being a slave, to which she had hitherto devoted little thought.
“Keep me, keep me for yourself alone,” she begged Callias. “I would be yours alone!”
“Do you think you could be a good slave?” I asked her.
“Yes, yes,” she said, “Master!”
I supposed this was possible. Most private slaves, after a time, are hopelessly devoted to their masters. Doubtless this has to do with the collar.
It is hard to be in a man’s collar and, after a time, not come to be his slave, not merely in law, but in heart. And it is hard to have a woman in one’s collar without noticing, after a time, how well she looks on her knees before you.
“I fear, dear Callias,” I said to the stranger, “that you are weak.”
“I?” he said.
“Do not forget that this curvaceous little thing you have in your arms is not a free woman, nothing warranting respect and dignity, but a beast, a worthless slave, only that.”
“Is she not lovely,” said Callias.
“I have seen many better,” I said, “on the shelves, in the cages, on the block, even in secondary markets.”
“Surely she is the most beautiful woman in the world,” said Callias.
“Not to everyone, surely,” I said.
“Who better?” he asked, annoyed.
“Thousands,” I said.
“Do you have an example?” he asked.
“Certainly,” I said. “What of the barbarian in The Sea Sleen, the slender brunette, the exquisite paga girl, whom you had decamisk herself before you?”
“She cannot even speak Gorean properly,” said Callias.
“She can learn,” I said, now myself annoyed.
“Let her be whipped, regularly,” said Callias, “until her diction becomes passable.”
“Perhaps your Alcinoë could do with a bout with the whip,” I said.
“Master!” protested Alcinoë.
“Did I hear a slave speak without permission?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “she may speak as she will, until such permission might be revoked.”
“It does not seem to me that she has had the time to earn such a privilege,” I said.
“I grant it,” he said.
“Too quickly, too easily,” I suggested.
“Surely you see,” he said, “how lovely she is!”
“There are many better,” I said, “for example, the barbarian at The Sea Sleen, who heard your story.”
“She cannot even begin to compare with Alcinoë,” he said. “And she is not even Gorean.”
“I think she is Gorean now,” I said. “She is now no more than another collared Gorean slave girl.”
“You admit she is beautiful,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. From the tone of his voice I thought it well to concede this. Besides, I supposed she was beautiful.
“Very beautiful,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I said, “but now she is sweaty and heated, and her hair is wet, and there are still thong marks on her ankles and wrists.”
I noted, too, that her body was imbued with desire. To be sure, this adds to the appeal of a slave.
“Perhaps,” I said, “you are thinking of freeing her.”
“No,” cried the slave, frightened. “Do not free me, Master! Keep me! I am your slave! I belong to you! Your collar has been put on my neck! It is locked on me, and I cannot remove it! But I do not want to remove it! I want it there for all to see, that all may know that I am a slave, and that you are my master! I love my collar! I am proud of it! I want to be owned! I want to be possessed, utterly, and without qualification. I know myself, by beauty, by blood, by thought, by dreams, by needs, to be naturally the property of men, and it is your property I wish to be!”
He held her out, again, from him, both of them on their knees, on the planks of the dark, polished floor.
“What do you see?” she laughed.
“A slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master!” she laughed, and leaned forward, as she could, straining to reach him with her lips.
“I am not a fool,” he said.
“No, Master!” she said.
This was doubtless an allusion to the well-known proverb, that only a fool frees a slave girl.
“All my life,” he said, “I have waited for such a slave.”
“All my life,” she said, “I have waited for such a master.”
“So why, then, should I free you?” he asked.
“You should not,” she said.
“I will not,” he said.
“A girl is grateful,” she whispered.
“Some women are too beautiful, too desirable, to free,” he said.
“It is my hope,” she said, “that I am such a one.”
“The collar proclaims you such,” he said.
“The heart of an eager and willing, but choiceless, slave rejoices,” she said.
“You understand,” he said, “the meaning of your condition?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Unquestioning and instantaneous obedience?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Subjectability to discipline, even to the whip and chain?”
“Yes, Master.”
“The slave is not a free woman,” he said.
“No, Master.”
“What, then, is the duty of a slave?”
“Master?”
“To be a dream of pleasure to her master.”
“I will strive to be pleasing to my master,” she said.
“And if you fail?”
“Then I trust that the master will better train me, will correct my behavior, and see to my improvement,” she said.
“It will be so,” he said.
“I will do my best,” she said.
“No one can ask more than that,” he said.
“Such words fall delightfully on the ears of a slave,” she said.
“But it will be I, and I alone,” he said, “who will decide whether or not you have done your best.”
“I understand, Master,” she said.
“Beware, my friend, dea
r Callias,” I said. “I suspect you are in danger.”
“How so?” said he.
“I do not claim, of course,” I said, “that you are subject to this danger.”
“What danger?” said he.
“Some men, doubtless fools and weaklings,” I said, “are particularly subject to this danger, the danger of becoming enamored of a slave. It is quite enough to lust for them, desire them, master them, and rule them, quite enough to rope and chain them, and pleasure yourself with them, as frequently and variously, and as inordinately, as you wish, and derive from their conquest, their helplessness, and submission the thousand satisfactions and delights, the triumphs, of the mastery, of owning and governing such a property, of enjoying such a vulnerable, shapely beast, but it is quite another to care for one.”
“Do you think,” he asked, “that I am a fool and weakling?”
“In general, no,” I said, “but men wiser and stronger than you, I am sure, and men perhaps wiser and stronger than I, have succumbed to eyes bright with tears, a strand of hair brushed piteously aside, a faltering syllable, a trembling lip.”
“But she is Alcinoë,” he said.
“And Tula is Tula, and Lana is Lana, and Iris is Iris, and Lita is Lita, and so on,” I said. “They are all soft, subtle, cunning, dangerous beasts.”
“You feel I am in danger?”
“That is my surmise,” I said.
“Surely I am not uniquely in danger?”
“Doubtless not,” I said. “But see that the stern resolution which takes the beast from the block does not melt when it lies at your slave ring. Deprive the she-sleen of her domination and she will become confused, and bitter, denied her coveted meaning as your beast. She will turn on you. She will scorn your weakness, and mock your frailty. Unmastered she is an angry leaf in the wind, without direction, no better than a free woman, flung about, tormented and unfulfilled. She longs to obey, to love and serve. Deny her this and you deny her to herself. She understands will, and the whip. See that she is never in doubt as to either. The slave is never content until she lies naked at the feet of a man.”
There was then a knocking at the jamb of the open portal, and Captain Nakamura appeared in the opening. He carried with him a small package.
Gor 30 - Mariners of Gor Page 58