by John Norman
“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ he growled.
He bolted the door behind him, shutting and locking the seraglio from the outside. There were two guards, I noted, at the door. Down the corridor, some fifty yards of tile and hangings, there was the outer door. This was knocked upon, and, from the outside, opened. There were two guards there, too.
“Come now,” I said, “truly, is your mistress pretty?”
“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ said the guard.
“I am Tarna,” said the woman. She reclined on the wide couch, resting on one elbow, regarding me.
I looked about the room. I went to the window, and looked down, into the courtyard.
“The drop,” she said, “is some seventy feet.”
I examined the walls, the door.
“The door,” said she, “by the guards outside, opens only to my signal.”
“Come,” said she, “stand at the foot of my couch.”
“We are alone?” I asked.
“Guards stand outside the door,” she said, puzzled.
“That is acceptable,” I said.
I regarded her. “You are a strange slave,” she said. She reclined, resting, on one elbow. She wore a soft gown, flowing, yellow, long, of Turian silk; it was sheer and, with its deep neckline, and about the hips, well betrayed her. Her hair was black, and long, and rich, and well displayed against the yellow cushion behind her.
I was pleased to see that she was not as ugly as a sand sleen. I was pleased to see, contrarywise, that she was stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were very dark.
“I own you,” she said.
“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me tonight,” I told her.
“You are a strange slave,” she said.
“There is another kasbah nearby,” I said, “one which lies within two pasangs.
Whose kasbah is it?”
“It does not matter,” she said. “Do you like being a slave?” she asked.
There were red silken sheets on the great couch, on which she reclined. At its foot there was a slave ring.
“It is my understanding, following merchant law, and Tahari custom,” I said, “that I am not a slave, for though I am a prisoner, I have been neither branded nor collared, nor have I performed a gesture of submission.”
“My bold slave,” she said.
I shrugged.
“Do you find me pleasing,” she asked, “out of mannish desert garb?”
I regarded her. “Yes,” I said.
In her hands I saw she held a kaiila crop. “I am mistress,” she said.
“You are quite beautiful,” I said. “You should be a slave girl.”
She put back her head and laughed. “Bold, bold slave.” said she. “I like you!
You seem different from the others. Perhaps I will not, even, give you a girl’s name.”
“Perhaps not,” I admitted.
“I have wondered, sometimes,” said she, “what it would be like to be a woman.”
“Surely you are a woman,” I said.
“Am I attractive?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know that, with a scimitar,” she asked, “I am quite skilled, more skilled than any man?”
“No,” I said, “I did not know that.”
“But I have wondered sometimes,” she said. “What it would be like to be a woman.”
I smiled.
“A true woman,” she said, “at the mercy of a man.”
“Oh?” I asked. I looked about the room. There were, here and there, in coffers, scarves, and, from which the hangings depended, suitable cords.
The guards would have to be dealt with.
Then her manner changed. She became arrogant, angry. “Serve me wine, Slave,” she said.
I went to the wine table and, from the curved vessel, poured a small cup of wine. I gave this to her. She sat, on the edge of the couch, and sipped it. Then her eyes became irritated. “Orders I gave,” said she, “that you were to be presented to me this night in yellow slave beads. I see that I must have the seraglio mistress beaten in the morning.”
“No,” I said. “I have them here, inside my tunic.”
“Put them on,” she said.
“No,” I said.
She put down the wine. “No?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
She laughed. “But I may have you whipped,” she said, “tortured, destroyed.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Kneel to the whip,” she said. She lifted the crop.
“No,” I said.
She stood back. She did not attempt to strike me. “I do not understand,” she said. “Surely you must understand that, in this room, in this kasbah, in the Tahari, you are mine, to do with as I please. I have complete power over you!
You are my slave, absolutely!”
“No,” I said.
“What a fantastic slave you are,” she said. “I do not know if I should have you killed or not.” She looked at me. “Are you not afraid?”
“No,” I said.
“You are different,” she said, “different from all the others. I must handle you carefully. I do not even know if it would be wise to break you, to make you cringe and grovel.” She seemed lost in thought.
I poured myself a small cup of the wine, and drank it, replacing the cup on the table.
“You are beautiful,” I said, looking at her. “Your lips,” I said, “are interesting.” They were a bit full, protruding, pouting. They would crush well beneath a man’s teeth.
“How is that?” she asked.
“It would be easy,” I said, “to bring blood from them in a master’s kiss.”
Her eyes flashed. “Go to the slave ring!” she hissed.
“No,” I said.
She stood back, as though stunned. “I will call the guards,” she said.
“Do so,” I suggested.
But it was clear she did not wish to do this.
“You do not obey me,” she said.
“You are the woman,” I said. “It is you who must obey.”
“Insolent sleen!” she cried, turning away, gown swirling. “Insolent sleen!” Then she faced me. “I shall call the guards, now,” she said, “to enter and destroy you!”
“But you will not then learn,” I said, “what it is to be a woman, a true woman-at the mercy of men.”
She went to the window angrily, furiously, and looked out, over the walls of the kasbah to the sands silvered by the light of the three moons. Overhead the stars were bright.
She turned to face me, fists clenched, her right fist on the kaiila crop.
“Surely you have been curious to learn, sometime, what it would be like to be a true woman-at the mercy of men.”
“Never!” she cried. “Never! I am Tarna. I do not have such thoughts! I am Tarna!
I am Tarna!”
She turned away, to the window.
“Call the guards,” I said.
She turned to face me. “Teach me to be a woman,” she said.
“Come here,” I said. She came and stood before me, angry. I put out my hand. She looked at it. Then slowly she put the long, supple, leather kaiila crop into my hand.
“Would you dare to strike me?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I said.
“Is it your intention to strike me?” she asked.
“If you do not obey,” I said.
“You would,” she said. “You would!”
“Yes,” I said.
“I will obey,” she said.
I threw the kaiila crop to one side, to the floor. It slid along the tiles. She watched it.
“Fetch me the crop,” I said.
She did so, and again placed it in my hand. “Turn about,” I told her. “Go to the couch, lie upon it.”
Her shoulders shook with defiance. But then she turned about, and went to the couch, lying upon it.
I let her lie there for a moment, I watched her eyes. I had l
ittle doubt, from her eyes, and her breathing, that if I were to touch her body, intimately, my hand would be hot and soaked with the helplessness of her arousal. Seldom had I seen a woman so ready.
Tarna, I gathered, had waited long to be a woman.
I threw aside the kaiila crop.
“Do you not want the crop,” she asked, “to discipline me?”
“Fetch it,” I said.
She rose from the bed, scarcely able to stand, bent over, so much was her need upon her.
“No,” I said.
She looked at me.
“On your knees,” I said. “In your teeth.”
She crawled to the crop and, putting her head down, sideways, took it in her teeth. She, on her hands and knees, brought it to me. I took it roughly from her mouth. “Get on the couch,” I told her.
“Yes, Warrior.” she whispered, again crawling upon the scarlet sheets. I put the crop beside the couch, at hand. I doubted that it would be necessary to use it.
I went to one of the coffers and picked out two scarves.
“What are they for?” she asked.
“You will see,” I told her.
I dropped them to the pillow beside her. “You made me fetch a kaiila crop,” she said, “on my hands and knees, and in my mouth, as though I might be a she-sleen.”
“You are a she-sleen,” I said. “You will be treated as one.”
“I am not in the habit,” she said, “of fetching kaiila crops in my teeth for men.”
“If you knew more men,” I said, “true men, the experience would be less unfamiliar.”
“I see,” she said.
“The she-sleen,” I said, “is a sinuous and beautiful animal, and very dangerous, one cannot show weakness with such an animal. They will turn and rend the master. One must keep them under perfect discipline.”
“And if one keeps the she-sleen under perfect discipline?” asked Tarna.
“Then,” said I, “it is a superb, and beautiful, and most pleasing pet.”
“And I am the she-sleen?” she asked.
“Yes.” I said.
“And,” she asked, “am I, your she-sleen, to be kept under perfect discipline?”
“Of course,” I said.
“You are a beast,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“If I were a she-sleen,” she said, snuggling back into the pillow, “I think I would like a master such as you.”
“You are a she-sleen,” I said.
“And you?” she asked.
“I am your master,” I said.
“Keep me under perfect discipline, Master,” she said.
“I will,” I said.
She looked up at me, her lips parted, her eyes bright.
“I give you my permission,” she said, “to do with me what you want.”
“I do not need your permission,” I said.
Her hands were beside her bead, on the pillow. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“You will see,” I told her. I stood beside the couch, looming over her, looking down upon her.
I saw she wished to say something. I waited. She rose up, on her elbows.
“I have never felt this way before,” she said.
I shrugged. I had no interest in her feelings.
“You are different from the others,” she whispered, “the docile, weak ones.”
“It is you, a female,” I said, “who is weak, and it will be you who will be docile.”
“A she-sleen?” she smiled.
“You are not truly a she-sleen,” I said.
“Oh?” she asked. “What am I, truly?”
“What do you feel like?” I asked.
“I have strange feelings,” she said. “I have never felt them before.”
She looked at me. “I feel, before you,” she said, “weak, vulnerable. I want to be overwhelmed by you, and held. I imagine a slave girl must have some such feelings, before a strong master.”
I smiled.
“You are so different,” she said, “so different from the others, the weak, docile ones.”
“It is you,” I told her, “who is weak.” I held her hands down, pinned, under mine, beside her head. She could not free herself.
“Yes,” she said, “I am weak.” She smiled up at me.
“And it is you,” I told her, “who will be docile.”
“Yes,” she said, “I will be docile.”
I freed her hands, and looked down at her.
“Yes,” she said, “I am helpless. I will be docile.”
“You would make a pretty slave,” I said.
“Would I?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“You will see,” I said.
“I beg your favor,” said she. “Warrior.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Tonight-please, Warrior,” she said, “tonight let me be truly as a female slave. Treat me not as your mistress, who owns you, but as only a slave girl, whom you own, at your mercy. Treat me as a slave girl! Please, Warrior, treat me as a slave girl!”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Teach me,” she begged, “to be a woman!”
“I do not have time,” I said.
She looked at me, wildly.
“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me this night,” I said. One of the scarves, which I had been surreptitiously wadding at the side, I thrust swiftly, deeply, into her mouth. She could not speak, but twisted, only tiny, fumbling sounds coming from her mouth. Kneeling across her, pinning her arms to her sides, I then, with the other scarf, tied the wadding securely in her mouth. Holding both her hands in my left hand I then dragged her from the couch to the side of the room where, with my right hand, I tore down some of the soft cords used to arrange the voluminous, decorative drapes and hangings which adorned the chamber. I then threw her to the slave ring and, with the cords, tied her wrists behind her back, and then, passing the cord through the ring, crossed and tied her ankles together, pulling them rather close to her bound wrists. I then put her on her knees, bound hand and foot, at the slave ring. She struggled to face me, squirming, her eyes wild with rage.
I looked to the door, considering the distance.
Swiftly I pulled the binding of the wadding free. I then, moving swiftly, so as to be in place, went to the door. Head down, furious, Tarna fought to expel the wadding, It took her a moment longer to do so than I had anticipated, but it did not disarrange my plans. She spit out the wet, heavy scarf. She threw back her head. “Guards!” she cried. “Guards!”
In a moment the door flew open and the two guards, scimitars drawn, entered the room.
They saw Tarna at the slave ring. They stopped, startled. I was behind them. I took the neck of each and, in the instant before they could react, struck together their heads, felling both.
I closed the door.
Tarna was looking at me, wildly. “You tricked me,” she cried, squirming at the ring.
I thrust the wadding back, deeply, in her mouth, securing it with the other scarf.
“Yes,” I said.
I dragged the two unconscious guards to the side. I took the garments of one, and tied both, gagging them, to one side. One of the luxurious hangings I flung over them.
I moved swiftly to the door, and, opening it a crack, reconnoitered.
I looked back to Tarna. She was enraged. She struggled. She had, of course, been bound by a warrior. She was helpless. Near the red silk I had cast aside, when donning the desert garments of the guard, on the tiles, I saw the vulgar, wooden, rounded, yellow slave beads, the necklace, which I had not chosen to permit being placed upon me.
Tarna shrank back. She shook her head. I scooped up the beads, which were in five strands, and, kneeling behind her, pulling down her gown a bit, from the shoulders, to better display them, fastened them tightly about her throat. I then set a large mirror across the room from her, that she might see ho
w beautiful she was. “Do not struggle overmuch,” I warned her, “or, when your men come, they will find you stripped to the thighs.”
I could not make out what she said, but it is perhaps just as well.
“Perhaps I shall return someday,” I said, “to make you a slave.”
She squirmed in the cords, writhing, enraged, then stopped suddenly, furious; in another move she would have stripped herself.
I blew her a kiss, in the Gorean fashion, brushing the kiss with my fingertips towards her.
Her eyes were wild over the gag, furious, enraged.
Perhaps I would return someday and make her a slave. I thought that she would make a pleasing slave girl.
I shut the door upon her.
I made my way, swiftly, through the palace, recalling the way from my being conducted earlier to the boudoir of this kasbah’s chieftainess, the much-feared Tarna.
It was late and I encountered few guards. The sand veil was high about my face, as though I were a messenger incognito. The garments were sufficient to permit me passage.
At the outer door of the seraglio I demanded entrance, to fetch the slave, Hassan, to the quarters of Tarna.
I was admitted. At the inner door, I was challenged.
“I have this letter of passage,” I said, reaching into my cloak. The letter of passage was the back of my hand, flying up and to the right, while, at the same time, with my left fist, I drove into the diaphragm of the man on my left. He could make no sound, doubled up. Before the man on my right could recover, or unsheathe his weapon, I had struck him unconscious; I then, at my leisure, did the same with the other fellow. I gagged and tied both of them.
I then swung open the inner door to the seraglio.
“Greetings,” said Hassan.
“Greetings,” I said.
“Did all go well?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Is all in order here?” I asked.
“It seems so,” he said.
I heard the muffled sounds of the two seraglio mistresses, Lana and she in whose charge had been the oils of the bath.
They had been bound and gagged with strips of their white garments. They stood, naked, each backed against one of the slender, lofty, cool marble pillars which supported the roof of the seraglio; their wrists were fastened behind them, about the pillars. Each uttered tiny sounds of protest; their eyes were wild over their gags.