by John Norman
Then the two girls who had pulled Targo to the circle leaped on Lana and stripped her, throwing her to the grass before Targo. Another girl leaped up and pretended to beat her while Lana wiggled, and squirmed and howled, in mock pain. Then, when she was released she crawled rapidly to Targo, shuddering, thrust her head to his feet, seized his foot and began to cover his sandal with kisses.
The girls howled with amusement.
Several of them looked at me, to see my reaction. I looked away.
Targo clapped his hands twice and, once again, there were masters and slave girls.
A box of combs and brushes was brought. Then the girls, in pairs, began to comb and brush one another's hair. Several vied to comb and brush Lana's hair. I was given a comb.
Timidly I went to Ute. There were tears in my eyes. I could not even speak her language. I could not tell her I was sorry that I had shirked in the harness, trying to let others work for me. I could not even tell her I was desperately unhappy, that I was lonely. I could not tell her that I wanted her, more than anything, to be my friend.
In the stream she had rejected me, turning away from me.
I went to Ute, and she turned and looked at me. Timidly, fearing that she might turn away again, I indicated that I wished to be allowed to comb her hair, if I might, if it might please her for me to do so.
She looked at me, coldly.
Sobbing, I fell to my knees before her, unable to speak to her, and put my head to her feet.
Then she was kneeling before me, and lifted my head. There were tears, too, in her eyes.
"El-in-or," she said, and kissed me.
I wept, and kissed her.
Then she turned, still kneeling, and permitted me to comb her hair.
When I had finished, she took the comb, and combed mine.
My two favorites among the girls were Ute and Inge, who was of the scribes. These two names are, in sound at least, German names. Neither of the girls, however, spoke German, of which I had learned a few words, or French, which I can speak with some fluency. Both were Gorean girls, totally. Neither, of course, knew English. Many Gorean names are apparently of Earth origin.
Almost immediately Ute, and Inge, as well, began to teach me Gorean.
It took many days to reach the banks of the Laurius.
We encountered four more caravans, and, at each, Targo put forth his display chain. I was fourth on the chain. I wished that Lana would be sold. I hoped that Ute and Inge would not be.
With these caravans there were slave girls, who would sometimes come to look at us, with their masters. How I envied them their freedom, unchained, to run and laugh and walk as they pleased. How beautiful they were in their brief slave tunics, with the loop on the left shoulder. How smug they were, in their lock collars, on the arms of their masters, regarding us. How they looked down on us, kneeling on the grass, fastened in the display chain, naked, unbought girls.
Strangely I gave little thought to the possibility that I might be sold. Once, however, after I had lifted my head, smiled prettily, and uttered the ritual phrase of the inspected slave girl, "Buy me, Master," my heart nearly stopped. The man had not continued on. He was still regarding me. Further, with horror, I realized that he was regarding me with some interest.
I could tell this by his eyes, his expression, his attentiveness, the way his look, like a hand, appraised me.
I was terrified.
I was being looked upon as a slave girl.
To be sure, that is what I was, and am.
But until that moment I think I had not fully understood what it might be to be a slave.
I had grown accustomed, of course, from Targo, and the guards, to being looked upon as a slave girl.
Men look upon slave girls, of course, in a way which is quite other than the way they look upon free women. One grows accustomed to that.
A man might look upon an attractive free woman, and want her, but, on the whole, she will be inaccessible, little more than a brief, troubling torment, but when a man looks upon a slave girl he knows that it is quite possible that he may obtain her, that she is quite likely to be obtainable, for a suitable price, which he may be able, perhaps with some sacrifice, to afford. She will then, in all her beauty, be his, to do with as he pleases. And even if he does not move to obtain her he knows that some male, if not he, has the pleasure and mastery of her, and this pleases him.
As I knelt before the male, I had suddenly realized how I might look to him, at his feet, chained, vulnerable, purchasable, a slave.
How attractive, how interesting, how delicious, I feared I might appear to him.
And suddenly, the thought struck me, and seemed to shake me, as it had not before, that I was merchandise, that I could be sold, and would then belong, like a dog, or a cat, or a pig, to a master, and would then be his to do with as he pleased—perfectly.
I have perhaps not made clear enough the nature of the men of this world. They are muchly different from the men of Earth. They tend, on the whole, to be large, strong, virile, confident, uncompromising, powerful men. Yet the major differences between them and the men of Earth are not those of size or strength, but rather those of character and psychology. They are differently acculturated. They live, for example, in a world in which female slavery is acknowledged, recognized and celebrated. They are accustomed to seeing beautiful women in bondage, their limbs and beauty well revealed by slave garb, their necks locked in collars. And there is nothing, of course, which so enflames the virility of a man as the sight of a slave girl, let alone the thought of taking her in his arms. It is no surprise then that on this world men commonly, naturally, familiarly, immediately, innocently, taking such things for granted, not even thinking about it, it being part of their world, look largely upon women, even free women, in terms of their possible value as slaves, their possible value as "auction stock," as adornments for a slave ring at the foot of one's couch, as squirming "collar meat." It is no surprise then that the Gorean male thinks in terms of the mastery.
It is their culture. They have never surrendered their manhood. They have never seen fit to relinquish their natural biological sovereignty. The Gorean culture does not deny nature but accepts it, acclaims it, relishes it, and enhances it.
And as I knelt on the chain, before this man, I realized, again, and again, the thought devastating me, that I was an item of merchandise, that I, Elinor Brinton, was for sale, that I could be bought.
Moreover, he was a Gorean male, and would see me, Elinor Brinton, not in terms of my antecedents, background, education, sophistication, wealth, dignity and refinements, but in terms of the collar, and pleasure!
Moreover, if he bought me, I would have to serve him, and perfectly, as what I would then be, his slave.
I had a terrible, sinking feeling. I turned white. I wanted to get up and cry out, and run, dragging wildly at the chain. Then, to my unspeakable relief, he was no longer in front of me, but was inspecting the next girl. I heard her "Buy me, Master." I began to shudder. He also stopped before another girl, the ninth on the chain. When he had traversed the chain, he returned to stand before me. It was as though I was made of wood. I could not meet his eyes. I was terrified. I could not even repeat, "Buy me, Master." He was then further down the chain again, before the ninth girl. He purchased her. Targo sold two girls that afternoon. I saw moneys exchange hands. I saw the ninth girl released from the chain. I saw her kneeling before her buyer, back on her heels, head down, arms extended, wrists crossed, as though for binding. It was the submission of the girl to her new master. He put slave bracelets on her, fastening her wrists together, and put a leash on her throat. I saw him lock the leash to a ring on the side of his wagon. She wanted to touch him, but he cuffed her away. She seemed timid, but happy. It had been a long time since she had been owned by a master. I wondered what it would be like to belong to a man. I shuddered. The girl knelt in the shade of the wagon until the caravan moved, and then, getting up, leashed, walked beside the wagon. She turned o
nce, lifting her braceleted wrists. We waved to her. She seemed happy.
Twice we stopped at palisaded villages, those of simple bosk herders. I liked these stops, for there we would have fresh bosk milk, still hot, and would have a roof over our heads for a night, be it only of grass. These villagers would always spread fresh straw in the hut in which we would be chained for the night. It smelled clean, and was dry. I loved to lie on it, after the canvas spread over the hard boards of the wagons.
Ute and Inge, and Ute in particular, were patient, indefatigable teachers. They taught me Gorean for hours a day, and, of course, I heard nothing but this language. I soon found myself saying things in Gorean without thinking about it. I was taught the language as a child is taught, who has no language at his disposal. Accordingly I learned the language directly and immediately, fluidly, not as an architecture of grammatical cases and a series of vocabulary lists, in which foreign terms stood matched with English terms. Ute and Inge, not knowing English, could not have presented me with an abstract structure of transformations and linguistic equations if they had wished. Knowing no English themselves, they had no choice but to teach me a living language, in life, as practical and concrete as a tool, as expressive and beautiful as flowers and clouds. It was not long before I caught myself, upon occasion, thinking in Gorean. And, only some ten days after my lessons had begun, I had my first dream in which intelligible Gorean was spoken to me and I responded, spontaneously, without thinking, in the same tongue. Interestingly, it was a dream in which I had managed to steal a candy and blame Lana, and she was beaten for it. I enjoyed the dream, but then it seemed Targo was coming for me, with the straps swinging in his hand. I awakened in a cold sweat, but safely chained in the wagon, on the canvas. It was raining outside, and I could hear the rain beat on the squarish roof of red rain canvas stretched over our heads. I could hear the breathing of the other girls in the wagon. I snuggled down again on the folded canvas beneath my body and, with a rustle of chain, listening to the rain, soon fell asleep again. In the beginning my grammar was not particularly good, but Inge helped me improve it. After a time, I could even detect certain regional differences in the dialects of the girls and the guards. My vocabulary would gradually become far more extensive, but I was pleased with myself. In only a few days, under the intensive tutelage of Ute and Inge, I had, to my delight and surprise, learned to speak passable Gorean. There was a special reason, of course, why I was so eager to learn the language. I wished to make contact with men who could return me to Earth. I was certain that I could, with my resources on Earth, purchase swift passage back to my home planet.
Once I noted, speaking to Inge, that Ute, regularly, made certain grammatical errors.
"Yes," said Inge, matter-of-factly, "she is of the leather workers."
I then felt superior to Ute. I myself would not make those mistakes. I was Elinor Brinton.
"I will speak high-caste Gorean," I told Inge.
"But you are a barbarian," said Inge.
Briefly I hated her.
I told myself that Inge, with all her pretensions, she of the scribes, would still be a chained slave girl, at the beck and call of a master, when I, Elinor Brinton, was safe on Earth, once again in my snug penthouse. And Ute, too! Foolish, stupid little Ute, who could not even speak her own language correctly! What could that meaningless little thing, pretty as she was, ever be but a man's toy? She was a natural slave girl! She belonged in chains. And Inge, too, for she was arrogant! They would remain on Gor, mastered girls, while I, Elinor Brinton, rich and clever, secure and safe, laughed in my penthouse a world away! How amusing that would be!
"Why does El-in-or laugh?" asked Ute, looking up.
"Elinor," I corrected her.
"Elinor," smiled Ute.
"It is nothing," I said.
We heard one of the guards shouting outside. We also heard, in the distance, some bosk bells.
"A retinue!" shouted one of the guards.
"There is a free woman with the retinue!" shouted another.
I heard Targo crying out. "Slaves out!"
I was thrilled. I had never seen, at that time, a Gorean free woman. A guard hastily unlocked one end of the ankle bar and lifted it. One by one, we slid along the bar and to the back edge of the wagon, where the gate had been dropped. My ankles, and those of the other girls, were still joined, of course, by about a foot of chain and two ankle rings. As we left the wagon, each of us, one by one, we were thonged in a line, by binding fiber, in throat coffle. Then, craning for a look, we lined up beside the wagon. The girls from the other wagon, ahead of us, Lana among them, were already on the grass, looking.
We could see a large, flat wagon, drawn by four huge, beautifully groomed black bosk.
On the wagon, under a fringed, silken canopy, on a curule chair, there sat a woman.
The wagon was flanked by perhaps forty warriors, with spears, twenty to a side.
We could hear the bosk bells, on the harness of the bosk, quite clearly now. The retinue would pass close by. Targo had gone out, his blue and yellow robe swirling, part way to meet it.
"Kneel," said one of the guards.
We did so, as in the display chain.
A Gorean slave girl in the presence of a free man or woman always kneels, unless excused from doing so. I had even learned to kneel when addressed by the guards and, of course, always, when approached by Targo, my master. A Gorean slave, incidentally, always addresses free men as "Master," and all free women as "Mistress."
I watched the flat wagon rolling closer.
The woman sat regally on the curule chair, wrapped in resplendent, many-colored silks. Her raiment might have cost more than any three or four of us together were worth. She was, moreover, veiled.
"Do you dare look upon a free woman?" asked a guard.
I not only dared, but I was eager to do so. But, nudged by his foot, as the wagon approached, I lowered my head to the grass, as did the other girls.
The wagon, and the retinue, stopped only a few feet opposite us.
I did not dare to raise my head.
I suddenly then understood that I was not as she. For the first time in my life I suddenly understood, kneeling in the grass in a Gorean field, the thundering, devastating realities of social institutions. I suddenly understood, as I had not before, how on Earth my position and my wealth had created an aura about me, that made lesser people respect me and move aside when I wished to pass, that made them deferential to me, eager to please me, fearful should they fail to do so. How naturally I had carried myself differently than they, better, more arrogantly. I was better! I was their superior! But now I was taken from my world.
"Lift your head, Child," said a woman's voice.
I did so.
She was no older than I, I am sure, but she addressed me as a child.
The guard's foot nudged me again.
"Buy me, Mistress," I stammered.
I was suddenly afraid that she might buy me. I did not want to be bought by a woman! But that thought startled me. Surely I would prefer to be owned by a woman, perhaps to be her serving slave, to brush and comb her long hair, to dress her, to adorn her, to fetch her cosmetics, to carry her messages and run her errands, but then I realized I did not want that at all! I did not want to be owned by a woman! But why not? What was the alternative? Did I want, really, rather, to be the trembling, fearful slave of one of these handsome, virile, powerful Gorean brutes, who takes everything from a woman, leaving her nothing? Surely not!
But the thought came to me, however, surprising me, that I would indeed prefer that, prefer being the slave of a man, to being the slave of a woman.
How wicked I must be, I thought.
Surely I am not beginning to find myself responsive to these handsome, virile, dominating, masterful brutes! And surely not when I am naught but a meaningless slave! No, I told myself, never, no, no, no! But I had already begun to sense, fearing the comprehension, how the slave girl sees men, how she responds to the comple
mentarity between their power and her utter vulnerability, between their cruel strength and her helpless beauty, between their owning and her being owned. She knows she is the property of men. One dominates; one submits. The mastery is his, the submission hers. In her condition she is subject to the laws of nature, not the artifacts of convention. To the slave girl men are not only of interest, but inordinately attractive. At his feet, their heads bowed, they receive the domination without which they are incomplete.
But, too, I sensed that, apart from my preferences, I was such that I was fittingly, appropriately, a man's slave.
Even though I might rage against this I sensed that it was true.
And the guards had led me to believe that I would most likely go to a male.
"Why, Master?" I had asked.
"Despite how plain you are," one said, "you give the impression that, when you learn your bondage better, and understand it is truly on you, you will serve splendidly, and will thrash and moan well in the furs."
"Master!" I protested.
Ute had informed me, though I had been aware of such things before, even on Earth, that the most desirable women are not always those of incredible beauty. Desirability is a function of many factors, many of them subtle. Goreans believe, or many of them do, that each woman carries a slave within themselves, but that the slave in some is more desperate for her release than in others. It is said that some slavers, standing before a captured, stripped free woman, can make this determination. They take her by the arms and command her to look into their eyes; then, if she is ready, so soon, in her eyes, frightened and tear-filled, they can see the slave longing for her collar, begging for it. In any event, it is obvious that some of the most desirable of slaves, loving, needful and devoted, helplessly responsive to a master's least touch, are not those who might be chosen for the purposes of display, perhaps in a pleasure garden or on a silver neckchain bolted to a palanquin. Many an angry young man of modest means returns, disappointed and frustrated, from the market, leading home on his tether the most that he can afford, an item of what he takes to be second-rate merchandise; but he discovers, perhaps after introducing her to the house, and tying her and giving her the customary ceremonial beating that she may know herself slave there, something surprising; released, she crawls to his feet and covers them, and his legs, with kisses, and then, holding his legs timidly, she looks up into his eyes, her own tear-filled; and, startled, he sees suddenly at his feet something priceless, that fortune is his, that in the lotteries of the market he has been unaccountably victorious; at his feet there kneels a slave of slaves, one who may become to him, in time, even a love slave.