“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 little 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 how
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 s
wung 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.
There was a reddish stain down the interior of the left thigh of the one girl,
she who had handled the oils of the bath.
“She was virginal,” I remarked.
“Yes,” said Hassan.
“What of this one?” I asked Hassan, indicating Lana.
“I tested her,” said Hassan. “She, too, is virginal. I left her for you.”
Lana shrank back against the pillar.
“What have we here?” I asked. I noted one silken fellow, he with the ruby
necklace, trying furtively to slip about the side of the room to the door.
He broke into a run, but I managed to trip him, and Hassan leaped upon him and
carried him, squirming, to the bath. “We will be beaten,” whimpered the fellow.
“Give the alarm!” he shouted to his fellow males. Two or three stood about, but
they did not cry out. Hassan took the fellow and threw him on his belly by the
bath and held his head under water, for about an Ehn. When he pulled the
fellow’s head up, he said to him, “You might be drowned in the bath. Such
accidents can happen.” Then he thrust his head again under the water. When he
pulled it up the second time the fellow cried out for mercy. Hassan threw him to
two of the other males. “If be attempts to give the alarm,” said Hassan, “drown
him.” “Very well,” said one of the other fellows. I gathered there was little
lost affection for the fellow in the ruby necklace in the seraglio of Tarna. He
was, I had learned, a weak fellow, an informer, one constantly alert to
opportunities to ingratiate himself with the mistress who despised him, one of
her most obsequious pets, held in contempt by all. “You may blame his drowning
on us, of course,” said Hassan. “Naturally,” said one of the silken fellows. The
fellow in the ruby necklace shuddered. “I will be silent,” he said. “You will be
Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt Page 27