Tribesmen of Gor

by Norman, John;

  I held up the iron, white hot, for the girl’s inspection.

  “You will soon be branded, Girl,” I told her.

  “I have already been branded,” she said. “My thigh bears the brand of the four bosk horns!”

  “Alas, I cannot remove it,” I said. “But we can put above it the common Kajira mark.”

  “Not the common mark,” she cried. “Not for me! Not for me!”

  “Yes,” I assured her, examining the iron, “for you.”

  “No,” she cried.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I have already been branded,” she cried.

  “But not with this mark,” I said.

  “It is a degrading mark!”

  “Not at all,” I said. “It is a beautiful mark, perhaps the most beautiful of all. It is, however, granted, a common mark, familiar, typical, customary, widely used, popular, that sort of thing. It is almost universal in the north. Many beautiful slaves wear this brand, even high slaves.”

  “Don’t brand me!” she cried. “Please don’t brand me!” She wept.

  Hassan regarded her with interest.

  It was true that she was already marked. But I thought she might understand this mark better than the other.

  Bondage does not, of course, depend upon the brand, or the collar. Whereas the brand, and the collar, can effectuate bondage, neither is essential to the condition, which is that of being owned. Not all slaves are marked or collared. But I think that there is little doubt that values, of various sorts, accompany collaring and marking. For example, when a woman is collared it is hard for her to conceive of herself as other than she is, a slave; similarly, when a woman is marked slave, either with an iron or by the tattoo needle, this has a useful psychological effect on her. She need only look upon her body to find visible, explicit evidence of her status, to be reminded of her station, and servitude. She is marked as property, and is property.

  “We are now ready,” I told her.

  She looked at me, then at the glowing, white-hot marking surface of the iron. She watched it with horror, as it approached her.

  I held it poised at her thigh.

  “Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t!”

  “You are now to be branded, Slave Girl,” I told her. “No,” she screamed. Then I branded her. For five long Ihn I held the iron, pressing it in. I watched it sink in her thigh, smoking and crackling and hissing. It was a larger brand than that of the four bosk horns; I made sure it marked her more deeply. We three, Hassan, I and the girl, smelled the marked, burned slave flesh of her. Then, swiftly, cleanly, I withdrew it. Her head was back. She was screaming and weeping. “A perfect brand,” said Hassan, looking on. “Perfect!” I was pleased. Such a brand would be envied by other girls. It would improve the sleek little animal’s value.

  I opened the locking devices, releasing her thigh. I freed her of the snap bracelets. I carried her, naked, branded, weeping, to the small cell where I had thrown her tiny garment, to be retrieved later. I put her down on the straw. Her throat was bare, for I had had, the preceding night, the collar of Ibn Saran removed from her throat.

  “Assume the posture of female submission,” I told her. She did so, kneeling back on her heels, her arms extended, wrists crossed, her head between them, down. She was weeping.

  “Repeat after me,” I told her, “‘I, once Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of the planet Earth—’”

  “I, once Miss Elizabeth Cardwell of the planet Earth—” she said.

  “‘—herewith submit myself, completely and totally, in all things—’”

  “—herewith submit myself, completely and totally, in all things—” she said.

  “‘—to him who is now known here as Hakim of Tor—’”

  “—to him who is now known here as Hakim of Tor—” she said.

  “‘—his girl, his slave, an article of his property, his to do with as he pleases—’”

  “—his girl, his slave, an article of his property, his to do with as he pleases,” she said.

  Hassan handed me the collar. It was inscribed ‘I am the property of Hakim of Tor’. I showed it to the girl. She could not read Taharic script. I read it to her. I put it about her neck. I snapped it shut.

  “‘I am yours, Master,’” I said to the girl.

  She looked up at me, tears in her eyes, her neck in my locked collar. “I am yours, Master,” she said.

  “Congratulations on your slave!” said Hassan. “She is lovely meat. Now I must attend to my own slave.” He laughed, and left.

  The girl sank to the straw, and looked up at me. Her eyes were soft with tears.

  “May I use your name now, if but once, Master?” she asked.

  “Very well,” I said.

  “I am yours now, Tarl,” she whispered. “You own me. You truly own me.”

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Whatever master wishes,” she whispered.

  “I will call you ‘Vella’,” I said.

  “I am Vella,” she said, her head down. After a time she lifted her head. “May I call you ‘Tarl’?” she asked.

  “Only if given permission,” I told her. This was normal Gorean slave custom. Generally, of course, such permission is not even asked, and, if asked, would be denied. Sometimes a girl is whipped for even daring to ask this permission.

  “A girl asks permission to call her Master by his name,” she said.

  “It is denied,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. I would not permit the slave girl to speak my name. It is not fitting that the name of the master be soiled by being touched by the lips of a slave girl.

  I looked at her in the straw. “You were displeasing,” I told her.

  “A girl has been punished by her master,” she said.

  I took the chain and collar in the cell, and locked it on her throat, over her close-fitting steel collar, that identifying her as mine. She was, thus, chained to the wall.

  “I have not begun to punish you,” I told her, looking down at her.

  “I hate you,” she said, sullenly. “I hate you!” She looked up at me. “You caused me much pain,” she said. “You whipped me. You branded me.” She turned her head to one side. “I am confused,” she said. “I do not know what to think.”

  “How is that?” I asked.

  “It hurt terribly to be whipped, and branded,” she said.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “And yet, because of these things, I stand wonderfully and vulnerably in awe of you, and of men in general,” she said.

  “What thrills you,” I said, “is not the whip, not the iron, not pain, but masculine domination. It is that to which you, unknown to yourself, are responding. What is not important is whether the master whips you or not, but that you know he is fully capable of whipping you, and will, if you are not pleasing.”

  “Yes,” she said, “that is it—not the pain—but my weakness, and the strength of men, and that I am under their will, and that, if I am not pleasing, I know that he is man enough and powerful enough to put me under harsh discipline, and, should I not be pleasing, will, without a thought, do so.”

  “Your body is now hot, Slave Girl,” I said.

  “No!” she said.

  I touched her and she writhed in the straw, turning away from me, pulling her legs up. I touched her on the shoulder, and she shuddered. Every inch of her was alive. “Slave Girl,” I sneered.

  “Yes, Slave Girl!” she cried, turning on her back, throwing her body angrily, brazenly, open to me.

  “You seem little of Earth now,” I said.

  “No longer am I of Earth,” she said. “I am now only a Gorean slave girl.” And then she added, angrily, “And have not you done your part to bring that about?”

  “The slave was within you,” I said. “I, and others, have done little more than release her.”

  “Or command her forth,” she said, angrily.

  “She hurried forth, gratefully,” I said.

  “No!�
�� she said.

  “Would you conceal her forever?” I asked.

  “Probably,” she said.

  “Why,” I asked.

  “It is a frightening thing,” she said, “to confess to a man that one wants to be a slave.”

  “That one should be a slave, that one is a slave?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And so you would conceal the slave?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “On Gor it is not permitted,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “on Gor it is not permitted.”

  “You are a slave, and have always been such,” I said. “Biologically speaking, this is an IRM, an Innate Releasing Mechanism. The slave in a woman emerges in the presence of a master. She has no choice. She can conceal it, but she knows it is there. It is then only a question as to whether or not she will confess it, and fulfill herself—or continue to starve herself in misery and frustration.”

  She threw her head to the side, in the chain and collar, on the straw.

  “If a woman is truly a slave,” I said, “then it would seem best that she not deny this truth, this reality, but rather accept it, and then be joyfully the best slave she can be. It is better to embrace nature and fulfill her than deny her. It cannot be wrong to be what you are. If it is your biological destiny to obey, and serve, and love, then your happiness will not be found elsewhere.”

  “May I not speak your name?” she begged.

  “No,” I said. “And lest you be misled by my apparently speaking to you intimately of important things, disabuse yourself of any presumption of standing in my estimation. You are a slave with me, pretty little former enemy, lovely little slut, only that, no more than a slave. Abandon any expectations of lenience, let alone favoritism. Understand clearly my beauty, my former enemy, now my slave, that I now own you, that you are my property, and you are no more than an animal to me, a piece of helplessly, arousable slave meat, with which I may sport and toy, with which I may amuse myself, and which I may humiliate and abuse, as I please. Your feelings concerning, and your views of, your bondage, whether favorable or not, whether elating or terrifying, are of no interest or importance to me. You may be worked from morning until night. You may be used to swill tarsks and clean stables. You may be hot in the summer and cold in the winter. You may be fed on gruel and forced to eat and drink from pans. You may beg for clothing and be denied it. You may accommodate yourself to bracelets and leashes. You may be bound, and blindfolded and gagged. You will be subject to discipline, and liable to punishment for the least infraction of house policy and rules, or for any failure whatsoever to be less than fully pleasing. You may lament your condition by day and beweep yourself at night in your chains. Such things are immaterial to me. Know that in my house you will be a full slave. Rage or cry, it means naught. In your collar, you are mine, and it will be done with you as I please.”

  “I love you,” she said. “I want your love!”

  “In what way do you want to love me?” I asked.

  “I dare not speak it,” she said.

  “As a noble free woman?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Then as what?” I asked.

  “Please do not make me speak,” she said.

  I did not press her further.

  “I gathered from Ibn Saran,” I said, “that you are pleasant on the cushions.”

  “I am now on stinking straw,” she said.

  “It is my understanding,” I said, “that you crawl well to a man.”

  “It is hard,” she said, “to crawl well when one is fastened as I am, chained by the neck to a wall in a dungeon cell.”

  “It might be interesting to see you crawl,” I said.

  “Doubtless master will sometimes avail himself of the opportunity to observe.”

  “I wonder if all girls crawl well,” I said.

  “If masters desire that a girl crawls well,” she said, “the girl will crawl well.”

  “You will crawl, Slave,” I assured her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “And well,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Do you crawl best on all fours,” I asked, “or on your belly, or, as a she-sleen, in an intermediate position?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “Doubtless Master will make a judgment on the matter.”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “And will improve me, so that I am skilled in all.”

  “Surely,” I said.

  The girl usually begins several feet, or some yards, from the master.

  “Ibn Saran used to use a long leash,” she said.

  “A pleasant thing for one of the Tahari to do with a white-skinned slave,” I speculated.

  “Or any man with any slave,” she said.

  “Doubtless,” I said.

  “Do women enjoy crawling to men,” I asked.

  “Much depends on the man,” she said. “There are some men to whom a woman can do little but crawl.”

  “Ibn Saran, I speculate,” I said, “was such a man.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He was such a man.”

  “You crawled well to him,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And doubtless with a special anxiety, that you be pleasing, when your heat was upon you.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, irritably.

  “I understand you are a hot slave,” I said.

  “Please, do not speak of me so,” she said.

  “Do you object to being a hot slave?” I asked.

  “Men have done it to me!” she exclaimed, defensively, angrily.

  “Have you had slave fires lit in your belly?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said, angrily.

  “I wonder if Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, on Earth, that lovely, innocent, naive little secretary, with her pencil and steno pad, ever dreamed that she would have slave fires lit in her belly.”

  “Doubtless not,” she said, angrily.

  “Do you object to being a hot slave?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. And then she exclaimed suddenly, defiantly, “I love it!”

  “You should,” I said. “It indicates your vitality, and health.”

  “Please do not speak so openly of such intimate matters,” she said, irritably.

  “The responsiveness of a slave,” I said, “is a public matter. It is entered, often enough, even on her sales papers. It is a topic of casual conversation among men in the fora, the squares, the piazzas, the markets, even while they are walking the very slaves on leashes, who cannot, of course, help but overhear these assessments, and at their suppers, as well, even, again, within the hearing of the very slaves in question, while they must silently, deferentially, serve the meals.”

  I thought tears welled in her eyes.

  “Would you rather be physically, psychologically and emotionally inert?” I asked.

  “It is not my fault,” she said. “Men made me this way. I was given no choice!”

  “Men did it to you?”

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Others prepared the way?”

  “Yes!” she cried.

  “Good,” I said. “I am not unwilling to reap the benefit of the work of other men.”

  “And thus my master will profit from the labors of others, who have honed the reflexes of a slave?”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “But perhaps he will improve her further,” she speculated.

  “It is possible,” I said.

  “She desires to be improved,” she whispered.

  “Good,” I said. “It will make her more valuable.”

  She regarded me, in the half-darkness of the dungeon cell, reproachfully. “Do you hate me?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you dislike me?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Remember, you are now merely a new slave. I will try you out, with others. We will see how you work out.”

  “
I am so little to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you tire of me?”

  “Then I will give you away, or sell you,” I said.

  “You would!” she said.

  “Of course,” I said, “you are only a common slave.”

  She put her small hands on the chain that ran to her collar. She drew it gently, almost lovingly, against the collar ring.

  “You are well chained,” I said.

  “And yet,” she said, “you have faced much peril, and undertaken much labor to acquire a common slave.”

  “Do you care, now, to blow me a kiss from a window in a kasbah,” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “I think I will have your head shaved, and use you in my kitchens, at Port Kar,” I said.

  “Master may do with his girl what he pleases,” she said.

  “But first I think I will have you and that other slut, the red-haired girl, Zaya, both nude, serve black wine and sugars, attending on me, while I sport with a better slave, Tafa.”

  “No!” she cried.

  “Are you jealous?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Of course not!”

  “But what if that should please me?” I asked.

  “Then Master will do as he wishes,” she said.

  “Do you object?”

  “No, I am nothing, only master’s slave.”

  “And only a common slave,” I said.

  “Oh?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “To you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  “Attempt to do so,” I said.

  “I think I am special to you,” she said.

  “Do not delude yourself,” I said.

  “How could I not be so?” she asked.

  “Easily,” I said.

  “And yet,” she said, “despite all, I believe you could give me away, or sell me.”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “I think I am special to you now,” she said, “though you deny it, special to you now if only for you to vent your hatred on me, for Klima. But I am afraid that I might not remain special to you. Oh, I do not doubt but what you will amuse yourself with me for a time, having me at your feet and serving you, with all the attentions, the labors and intimacies of the slave girl, dear Master, but what then? What if you should weary of me? Surely that is not impossible. I am only a slave. Or what if, in time, your sense of vengeance for Klima is satisfied? I fear then that you might, if you wished, simply have me hooded and leashed, and led to the market, as any other girl.”