Tribesmen of Gor

by Norman, John;

  I released her and she, clumsily, in haste, applied the towels to my body. When she had finished she was at my feet, drying them. I lifted her to her feet and put her back against one of the cool, narrow marble columns supporting the arched roof of the seraglio. I stood close to her, our lips but an inch parted. With my finger tips, on either side, I caressed the sides of her throat. “This throat,” I said, “is aristocratic and beautiful. It would look well in a collar.” Her eyes met mine. “I wish it wore yours,” she said, “—Master.” I kissed her.

  I heard the bolt sliding back on the inner door. The other girl threw me the red-silk tunic and I slipped it on, dropping the yellow necklace inside the tunic.

  The door opened. Two guards stood there, in purple and yellow burnoose.

  “Is the slave ready?” asked one of the guards, looking about. “What is going on here?” asked the other, surveying the exposed beauty of Lana, the seraglio mistress. She, frightened, hands before her mouth, pressed back against the column.

  “She is preparing to bathe,” I told them. I went to her and took her by the left arm, over the elbow, and the right ankle, and upended the beauty, headfirst, into the pool.

  I glanced to Hassan, and to the other girl. “I shall return shortly,” I told him.

  “Very well,” he said, edging toward the other girl.

  “The mistress,” said one of the guards, “does not finish with her males shortly.”

  Lana’s head, sputtering, blinking, emerged from the bath.

  “She will tonight,” I told him. Then I turned to Hassan. “Be ready,” I told him. “We have a long kaiila ride this night.”

  “Very well,” he said. The guards looked at me as though I might be mad. He was now standing almost directly behind the other girl, she who had handled the bath oils.

  “Let us hurry,” said I to the guards. “We must not keep the mistress waiting.”

  “He is eager,” laughed one of the guards.

  “He is a fool,” said the other.

  Lana, dripping, head down, crawled from the bath. I saw Hassan measuring the distance between the two girls.

  I led the way, swiftly, through the inner door of the seraglio. “Is your mistress pretty?” I asked one of the guards, who was hurrying to follow.

  “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 yet further, resting back, lower, 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, contrariwise, that she was stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were very dark. Her complexion, her skin, was the light, lovely tan of the Tahari. She was a superb specimen of a Tahari female. She would have brought much on a northern block, or, indeed, on any block.

  “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 right hand 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.

  She stood up.

  “Kneel to the whip,” she said. She lifted the crop.

  “No,” I said.

  She did not attempt to strike me. She lowered the crop. She seemed more puzzled than anything, perhaps bemused. “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.

  “Are you stupid?” she asked.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  She lifted the crop, angrily, holding it behind her right shoulder. “I can teach you that you are a slave,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  She lowered the crop again.

  “You are different,” she said, “different from all the others. I must handle you carefully. I do not eve
n 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 hands and knees, female,” I said. “Down, now! Good. Now crawl to the crop, female, and bring it to me—in your teeth.”

  She crawled to the crop and, putting her head down, sideways, took it in her teeth. She then, on her hands and knees, brought it to me. She looked up at me, the crop between her teeth. 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 head, 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 sla
ve 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, almost inaudible, indistinct 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.