by John Norman
He, with his two hands, removed his helmet.
"I do not know you," I whispered.
I was terribly frightened. I had not understood his face could be so strong. He was powerful. He had a large head. The eyes were darkly fierce, his hair a pelt of shaggy sable.
I cried out with misery, suddenly frightened that I had fallen to such a man.
He laughed. The teeth in his darkly tanned, wind-burned face seemed large and white, and strong.
I trembled.
I feared what they would feel like on my body.
I felt again weak. I felt like a golden-pelted tabuk, lying between the paws of the black-maned mountain larl.
I moaned with misery, for suddenly I understood the foolishness of my fantasies in the pens of Ko-ro-ba, and in the caravan of Targo, that I would conquer, that I might, by the withholding of my favors, or the fervor of my favors, reduce a master to bondage, turning him into a needful slave desperate for my smiles and pliant to my will. I realized with a blaze of misery, and self-pity, that to such a man it was only I who could be the slave. He was totally and utterly masculine, and before him I could be only totally and utterly feminine. I had no choice. My will was helpless. I suppose that a woman, like a man, has buried instincts, of which they may not even become aware, but these instincts lie within them, dispositions to respond, dispositions locked into the very genetic codes of her being, instincts awaiting only the proper stimulus situation to be elicited and emerge, overpoweringly, irresistibly, sweeping her, perhaps to her astonishment and horror, in a biological flood to her destiny, a destiny once triggered as incontrovertible and uncontrollable as the secretion of her glands and the mad beating of her heart.
I knew then that he was dominant over me. This had nothing to do with the fact that I lay stripped before him, wrists and ankles lashed, his prisoner. It had to do with the fact that he was totally masculine, and in the presence of such a stimulus, my body would permit me to be only totally feminine. I wished that he had been one of the weak men of Earth, trained in feminine values, and not a Gorean male.
I felt a mad impulse to beg him to use me.
"So you do not recognize me?" he laughed.
"No," I whispered.
He fastened his helmet to the side of the saddle and, from his saddle pack, withdrew a roll of leather. He wrapped this about his head, covering his left eye.
I remembered then, the tall figure in the blue and yellow silk, with the leather covering one eye.
"Soron of Ar!" I cried.
He smiled, removing the leather, replacing it in the saddle pack.
"You are the Slaver, Soron of Ar!" I said.
I recalled I had knelt before him, as a slave girl, and he had forced me to do it twice, saying "Buy me, Master." It had only been to me that he had said, curtly, "No," so offending me! And he had looked at me, afterward, and I had tossed my head and looked angrily away, but when I had looked again, he was still observing me, nude, standing on the straw of the slave cage, and I had felt vulnerable, and frightened.
And I remembered how, on the night before we left the pens of Ko-ro-ba, I had dreamed of him and had awakened in terror. "Purchase me!" I had begged, in the dream, "Purchase me!" "No," he had said. Then he had captured me. I had awakened, crying out.
Now I lay before him, in reality, fully captured, his, his helpless, bound prisoner.
"When first I saw you," said my captor, "I decided I would have you. When first you knelt before me, and said 'Buy me, Master,' I resolved to own you. Then, later, when I looked upon you and you tossed your head and angrily looked away, I knew I would not rest until you were mine." He smiled. "You will pay well for that snub, my dear," he said.
"I didn't know, Master!" I said.
"No," he said, "I expect you did not know then that you would soon be at my mercy, tied naked across my saddle."
"No, Master," I said.
"Perhaps you would then have been more deferent."
"Yes, Master!" I said.
"Yes," he said, "I think so."
"Please forgive me, Master!" I begged. "I knew no better. I was only a stupid, ignorant girl."
"Clearly you knew no better," said he. "And it was well known in the pens that El-in-or was ignorant and stupid."
"Master!" I protested.
"And you were not only a stupid, ignorant girl," said he, "but you still are so."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"But," said he, "I find your body to be not without interest."
I was horrified, to hear myself so simply, so reductively assessed.
Too, I was furious.
On Earth many men, I knew, had sought eagerly, thrilled, to catch a glimpse of me, even elegantly, smartly, fashionably clothed. Miniskirts seemed made for me. My designer wear I wore well. At private beaches I had enjoyed tormenting men. In expensive shopping districts I had enjoyed, as the saying goes, "turning many heads." I occasionally, informally, wore little things, brief, elastic-waist shorts, simple single-color tank tops, such things. I remembered the tan slacks, the black, buttoning, bare-midriff blouse. A bit of belly is useful, to taunt a man. It was amusing to stare them down, coldly, when I caught them trying to sneak a sly glance at what I had, of course, deliberately displayed with the obvious intent of arousing and troubling them. I hated and despised men, but I was muchly pleasured to provoke and deny them. That was power. I was inordinately vain of my face and figure. I had been, in my own view, though doubtless such things are subjective, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, until I had found myself on Gor. Here, to my anger, I had found many who were far more beautiful. Here I found I was, on the whole, rather a common girl. It had been different on Earth! Certainly there thousands of men must have been thrilled to see the sight of me, and conjecture the nature of the luscious but cold secrets concealed within the elegancies of those expensive, artfully arranged habiliments. They might look upon my beauty, and marvel. Then let them, in deprivation, suffer! They were men. I had thought it might be amusing to model. So, after graduation, roads were smoothed for me. I had little difficulty, with my connections and beauty, in obtaining invitations and assignments. Indeed, I began to find myself in demand. One of my favorite assignments was to model lingerie. I enjoyed such sessions. It was a pleasure to pose before men, that sex I despised, so excitingly revealed. In between shootings, we commonly wear a robe. Before they began, I would occasionally look at them, with disdain, and then whip off the robe, like a slave girl on a block, revealing myself in the session's prescribed garments. Sometimes an auctioneer commands the girl to market herself, and woe to her if she does not obtain a good price. Too, I liked the feel of such garments on my body, so flimsy, scanty, silken, seductive. Sometimes one of the photographers would gasp or whistle. This amused me. It was pleasant to pose thusly, muchly revealed, in such silken, seductive garments. Let men suffer! But my career as a model was brief, lasting only some weeks. In one assignment, I was to model a line of swimwear, but the morning before I was to do so I had discovered, to my horror, that I was branded.
"Yes," said he, "not without interest."
Not without interest, I thought, in fury. Only that? Only that?
Tears then welled in my eyes, salty in the wind. Could such a man have no interest in the whole slave of me? Was that all that might be of interest to a man, merely the embonded curves of my branded body?
I looked up at him, reproachfully.
He was looking down on me.
I could not meet his eyes, and I turned my head to the side.
I blushed, so seen, even in the rushing wind, on tarnback. I fought against the pervasive, radiating, uncontrollable, vulnerable heat that was suffusing my body.
He was clearly a master.
It is perhaps difficult to convey the helplessness which a woman feels, so bound, so surveyed by such a man.
There was nothing furtive in his appraisal. He looked upon my bared, arched, supine, strap-restrained flesh with the objectivity of a Gorean.
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I wanted to lift my belly to him, in the mute plea of the helpless, aroused slave girl.
I wanted to beg him to deign to caress me.
But I did not do so.
"I am only a slave!" I wept. "Please have mercy on me, Master!"
He looked down upon me.
"Your body is well curved," he said. "They did a good job with your diet and exercises."
I was silent, tears sprang to my eyes.
"Do you ravish well?" he inquired.
"I am white silk! I am white silk!" I cried.
He laughed.
"What are you going to do with me?" I whispered.
He shrugged. "I shall keep you for a time, I suppose," he said, "for my interest and sport, and then, when I weary of you, dispose of you."
"Sell me in Ar," I begged.
"I think rather," said he, "I will give you to a village of peasants."
I remembered the peasants, with their switches and sticks. I trembled. I knew, too, that such men often used girls, with the bosk, or alone, to pull plows, under whips. At night, unclothed, when not being used, they were commonly chained in log kennels, small, low, sunken wooden kennels; the interior of these kennels would be a yard or so in height, and a yard or two in width; their length would be longer, to accommodate more girls; the girls would normally be manacled and shackled; the interior is unlit; the door is barred, after the girls are put in the kennel; there is a layer of dirt and straw placed over the logs of the floor.
I did not want to be red and raw, and wind-burned, and awakened before dawn and worked until dark, and be kept in such a place. The best I might hope for, I supposed, would be to be kept in the hut at night, on a slave mat, chained at my master's feet.
I feared to be owned by peasants.
"I am worth gold," I said. "Sell me in Ar!"
"I will dispose of you as I please," he said.
"Yes, Warrior," I said.
I looked again up at him.
"Why did you not buy me from Targo?" I inquired.
He looked down at me. "I do not buy women," he said.
"But you are a slaver!" I said.
"No," he said.
"Yes," I cried. "You are Soron of Ar, the Slaver."
"Soron of Ar," he said, "does not exist."
I looked at him with horror.
"Who are you?" I asked.
I shall never forget the words he spoke, which so terrorized me.
"Lo Rask," said he, "Rarius, Civitatis Trevis."
"I am Rask," he said, "of the caste of warriors, of the city of Treve."
14
I Must Submit
This was now my second day in the secret war camp of Rask of Treve.
When his tarn had dropped, wings beating, into the clearing among the tents, they ringed with a palisade of sharpened logs, some twelve feet high, there had been much shouting, much welcome.
Rask of Treve was popular with his men.
I saw, too, among the warriors, slave girls, collared, in brief rep-cloth tunics. They, too, seemed pleased. Their eyes shone. They crowded near.
Laughing, raising his hands, Rask of Treve acknowledged the greetings of his camp.
I could smell roast bosk. It was in the late afternoon.
He untied my ankles from the right-hand saddle ring. He then unbound the strap that lashed my wrists to the left-hand saddle ring, but he did not untie my wrists themselves. My hands, then, were still bound, before my body. He then took me lightly in his arms and slid from the back of the tarn. He set me on my feet at the side of the saddle. He did not throw me to my belly or put his foot on the back of my neck, or force me to kneel.
I dared not look at him.
"A pretty one," said a voice. It was a woman's voice. She was incredibly beautiful. She wore a collar. Her garment was white, and came to her ankles, in classic folds. She did not wear the brief work tunic of the other girls. I gathered she was high girl in the camp and that I, and the other girls, would have to obey her. It is not uncommon, where several girls are concerned, to put a woman over them. Men do not care to direct us in our small tasks. They only wish to see that they are done.
I hated men!
"Kneel," said the woman.
I did so.
Some of the men murmured appreciatively.
"I see she is trained," said the woman.
I reddened. I hated men! But my body, subconsciously, had been trained to be attractive to them.
"She is a pleasure slave," said Rask of Treve, "though of a poor sort. Her name is El-in-or. Also, she is a sly girl, and a liar and a thief."
I was furious.
The woman took my head in her hands, and turned it from side to side. "Her ears are pierced," she said, in irritation.
Some of the men laughed. I did not care for their laughter. It frightened me.
I gathered that, because my ears were pierced, they would feel free to do anything they pleased with me.
"Men are beasts," said the woman.
Rask of Treve threw back his great head, like the head of a larl, and laughed.
"And you, Handsome Rask," said she, "are the greatest of the beasts."
How bold she was! Would she not be beaten?
Rask laughed again, and wiped his face with the back of his right hand.
The woman was again looking at me. "So, Pretty One, you are a liar and a thief?" she asked.
I put my head down, swiftly. I could not look her in the face.
"Regard me," she said.
I lifted my head, frightened, and looked at her.
"Is it your intention to lie and steal in this camp?" she asked.
I shook my head fiercely, negatively.
The men laughed.
"If you do," she said, "you will be punished, and promptly, and your punishment will not be pleasant."
"You will be beaten," said one of the girls nearby, her eyes wide, "and put in the slave box!"
This news, whatever it meant, did not much reassure me.
"No, Mistress," I cried, "I will not lie and steal."
"Good," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"She is dirty and she smells," said Rask of Treve. "Clean her and groom her."
"Is it your intention to put her in your collar," asked the woman.
There was a pause. I put my head down. "Yes," I heard Rask of Treve say.
He then turned away, and, with him, the others.
"Come with me to the tent of the women," said the woman.
I arose and, wrists bound, followed her to the women's tent.
* * * *
The slave girl, with a touch of her finger, put perfume behind my ears.
It was now the morning of my second day in the war camp of Rask of Treve.
This was the day of my collaring.
I was not permitted cosmetics.
Kneeling within, slave girls preparing me, I looked through the tied-back opening of the tent of the women. Outside, I could see men, and girls, passing back and forth. The day was sunny and warm. There were soft breezes.
Today Elinor Brinton would be collared.
I had been coached in the simple collaring ceremony of Treve. Ena, the high girl, who wore the garment of white, had not been much pleased that I did not have a caste, and could not claim a familiar city as my place of origin.
"But it cannot be helped," she said.
Accordingly, it had been decided that I should identify myself by my actual city, and by my barbarian title and name. In the ceremony then I should refer to myself as Miss Elinor Brinton of New York City. I smiled to myself. I wondered how often, on this rude world, I would have the opportunity to so refer to myself. The proud Miss Elinor Brinton, of New York City, seemed so far away from me. And yet I knew she was not. I was she. Miss Elinor Brinton, incredibly, incomprehensibly, found herself kneeling in a barbarian tent, on a distant world, myself, being prepared for her collaring. The fact that New York City was of Earth, and that Treve was of Gor, would
not even enter into the ceremony. Scarcely anything would enter into the ceremony save that I was female, and he was male, and that I would wear his collar.
Yesterday, by slave girls, under the direction of Ena, who was high girl, I had been washed and combed, and then fed. The food had been good, bread and bosk meat, roasted, and cheese, and larma fruit. I, famished from my trials in the wilderness, had fed well. I had even been given a swallow of Ka-la-na wine, which exquisite beverage I had not tasted since the time of my capture, long ago, by Verna outside of Targo's compound.
I had been frightened, but I had been well treated. I had not dared to speak.
After I had been washed and combed, and fed, Ena had said to me, "You have the freedom of the camp, if you wish."
I had been startled. I had expected to be close-chained. She seemed amused, regarding my astonishment.
"You will not escape," she smiled.
"No, Mistress," I said.
Then I looked down. I did not wish to leave the women's tent.
Ena went to a chest, opened it, and drew forth a folded piece of striped rep-cloth, a rectangle some two and a half by four feet.
"Stand," she said.
I did so.
"Lift your arms," she said.
I did so, and to my pleasure, she wrapped the piece of cloth about me, snugly, and fastened it with a pin behind my right shoulder blade. She then fastened it again, with another pin, behind my right hip.
"Lower your arms," she said.
I did so, and stood straight before her.
"You are pretty," she said. "Now run along and see the camp."
"Thank you, Mistress," I cried, and turned, and sped from the tent.
I wandered about the camp. It was a war camp, lying in a remote, hilly area, covered with trees. I supposed it to be somewhere in the realm of Ar, perhaps to its northeast, among the foothills of the Voltai range. It was a typical Gorean war camp, though small. It had its compound where tarns were hobbled, and its cooking and washing sheds. There were many warriors about, perhaps a hundred or more, the men of Rask of Treve, and perhaps some twenty girls, lovely ones, in brief work tunics, busying themselves with their tasks, cooking, cleaning leather, polishing shields. Treve, I knew, was, nominally, at war with several cities. Strife is common among the Gorean cities, each tending to be belligerent and suspicious of others. Rask of Treve, in his way, as other raiders of Treve, carried the war to the enemy. Earlier, I knew, he had despoiled the fields and attacked the caravans of Ko-ro-ba. He was now in the realm of Ar. He was a bold tarnsman indeed. I expected Marlenus of Ar, its Ubar, said to be the Ubar of Ubars, would give much to know the location of this small, palisaded camp. I enjoyed the smells of the camp, and its sounds. I watched two warriors practicing with their swift, short blades on a square of sand. The ringing of the metal excited and frightened me, the swiftness and cruelty of it. How brave men must be, I thought, to stand so to one another, so close, in combat so near, face to face, wrist to wrist, eye to eye, short, vicious, sharpened ringing blade to short, vicious, sharpened ringing blade. I could not have done this. I would have cried out and fled. What could a woman be but the prize of such men? For a moment I wished myself back on Earth where there was little for a man to do which could not be done as well, or better, by a woman. But then, as I watched the warriors at their practice, something deep in me did not wish this. Something deep in me, primitive, helpless, and vulnerable, rejoiced that I stood not on Earth, but on Gor, where there were such men. Suddenly my legs felt very bare, and my arms. I was suddenly frightened. What if they should finish their sport, and turn to look upon me, and command me to serve them? Would I not, as a woman, have to give them immediate response? Could I have helped myself, kept myself from yielding immediately and completely to them? When such men command, what could a woman do?