by John Norman
"Wine," had said Rask of Treve.
I had poured him wine.
"Wine," had said Verna.
I served her.
I went to the side of the low table, and knelt there. I hated Talena! I wanted to throw myself upon her and scratch out her eyes, and tear her hair and bite and kick her until she screamed and screamed, and fled away! The daughter of a Ubar! She was only a slave! I was as good as she! I hated her! I hated her! I hated her!
"Your slave seems disturbed," said Verna, smiling.
I put my head down.
"Slave," said Verna.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"It is said, among the other girls, that you have told them that you are not as other women, that you do not have their weaknesses."
I recalled that once, in anger, I had told them this. I looked at Verna. I hated her. I knew, and she knew, that I had once seen her in the forest, helpless in her need. She was not likely to forget that, nor was I eager that she do so. I smiled. Rask of Treve had given me some pleasure, of course. But, still, I was, I knew, not as other women. I was not as they. I did not have their weaknesses. "I cannot help the way I am," I told Verna, looking down, deferentially.
Rask of Treve smiled.
"Let her be chained under the moons of Gor," had said Verna.
I looked at her, in anger.
Rask of Treve laughed. "Guard!" he called.
A guard entered the tent.
Rask of Treve indicated me. "Chain her," he said, "under the moons of Gor."
"Come, Girl," said the guard.
I followed him.
I could now see the moons beginning to rise over the points of the palisade.
What did I care that the girl, Talena, was tonight sent to the tent of Rask of Treve?
I hated him!
I hated her, even more than him!
I wished the guard had not taken my clothes.
But when a girl is chained under the moons of Gor, she is chained naked.
I did not understand their intention.
I lay back in the grass. I felt it with my hands. I closed my eyes.
I smiled.
I was furious, of course, with what he had done to me, but also, I could not have helped responding to him as I had. He had, cruelly, mercilessly, unfairly, giving me no option, elicited from me fantastic depths of sensation of which I had not even realized my body was capable. His touch, as that of a master, had commanded my body, totally, and I had swum in sensation, clutching him, fearing that I might drown with pleasure in his arms. Laugh if you will, but I could call him nothing but "Master." Do not scorn me, nor mock me, until you yourself, perhaps, on a distant world, someday wear a collar, until you, yourself, as a slave, have known the touch of such a man as Rask of Treve.
I opened my eyes. The moons now reared over the palisade, low in the night sky, looming.
My throat had been encircled with slave steel, and I had been taught its meaning. I recalled, long ago, how, in a motel on Earth, I had regarded myself naked, branded, collared, in a mirror, and had wondered, frightened, what it would be like to lie in the arms of a barbarian, helpless, so stripped, so marked, so collared. I now knew! I cried out, and tore a handful of grass from the knoll.
Why did he not send for me?
Had I not pleased him? I could do more for him, more!
The moons were now high in the night sky, the looming three, dominating, fierce moons of Gor.
I felt my nudity beneath them, and the grass.
My chained, naked body, that of a slave, restless, squirming, supine, was bathed in the light of the three, bright moons of Gor.
I cried out with misery.
"Send for me, Rask of Treve!" I whimpered. "Send for me!" I rolled on my stomach in the grass. "I want to serve you," I wept. I bit at the grass.
I looked up at the moons, tears in my eyes.
The lights of the camp were now, for the most part, extinguished. I could see, here and there, in the distance, the embers of cooking fires. In some few tents there glowed a dim redness, through the canvas sides of the tent, the light of the tiny fire bowls within. The night was hot. I heard night insects. I was alone. Far off, in the tarn compound, a tarn screamed, and then there was only the silence, except for the sounds of the insects.
On the grassy knoll I was chained, alone.
If I could free myself I would run to Rask of Treve! I would beg him for his touch! I pulled at the chain, so heavy on my ankle. It was some eight feet long. I could not slip the manacle from my ankle; I could not free the chain from its ring.
I wept.
I threw myself against the chain, running toward his tent, and fell in the grass, my ankle burning, scraped, from the steel that obdurately clasped it. On my hands and knees I tried to crawl to the tent. My left leg stretched taut behind me, held. I cried out with frustration, and pounded the grassy earth, weeping, with my fists.
I, Elinor Brinton, wanted to crawl to the tent of my master, to go to my belly before him, to put my head down, weeping, over his sandals, to lick and kiss his feet, in supplication, begging him to deign to bestow upon me, an unworthy, miserable, piteous slave, and only a girl of Earth, his least touch.
But I could not leave the small hillock.
Masters had chained me here.
Had I been able I would have cried outside his tent, struggling even with the guard for entrance. But my puny strength would have availed me naught. Doubtless I would be cuffed and taken to a post, and knelt there, my back against it, opposite the low tying ring. I would then be gagged, and have my wrists taken behind me, and bound there, together, behind the post, to the tying ring, that I might not even be able to rise to my feet, that I might be well held in place, on my knees, until it might please masters to free me, perhaps to work, perhaps to be beaten. My needs, those of a slave, were of no interest to the men. They would decide when, and if, they were to be satisfied.
I wanted to seek the feet of Rask of Treve, on my belly, abjectly, as befits a slave; I wanted to cover them with soft, abundant cascades of hair, water them with salty, plentiful tears; I wanted to lick them, deferentially, lengthily, with a small, warm tongue; I wanted to kiss them, timidly, tenderly, again and again, over and over, pressing moist, hot, pleading, hopeful lips to them, not even daring to raise my eyes to his.
Please want me, Rask of Treve, I whispered to myself. Please want me, Master!
I rolled on my back and looked up at the moons.
I lay there, my fists clenched.
Then I closed my eyes. I could not dare to look upon them again, the great, white, looming moons of Gor, dominating the sky.
I pounded the grass with the sides of my fists, in misery.
Then I dared to look again upon the vast, looming moons of Gor. What choice had I? I was only a girl who had been chained naked beneath them.
I screamed and leaped to my feet, my hands extended to the moons. I stood helplessly beneath them, chained, naked, reaching for them.
Then I began to dance the madness of my need, writhing beneath the moons of Gor, clutching at them, turning, stamping my feet, swirling, crying out.
And when I could dance no more I fell to the grass, writhing, tearing at it, whimpering.
And as I gasped, and wept, I saw, suddenly, in the shadows, watching me, Verna, the panther girl.
"It seems your body moves as might that of a Kajira," said Verna.
"I am a Kajira," I whispered, "Mistress."
"You are not as other women," said Verna. "You are strong. You do not have their weaknesses."
I knelt before Verna. I extended my hands to her. "Have pity on me, Mistress," I wept.
Her eyes were hard.
I put down my head. "I am as other women," I said. "I am not strong." I swallowed. "I have the weaknesses of my sex," I said. "Indeed, I am perhaps more weak than any."
"Now you speak truly, El-in-or," said Verna. Her voice was not unkind. "Sometimes," said Verna, "it requires a man such as Rask
of Treve to teach a woman this weakness."
"I have been well taught," I whispered.
"I have fought this weakness in myself," said Verna.
"I will not fight it," I said. "I will yield to it."
"Rask of Treve," said Verna, smiling, "has given you no choice."
"That is true," I said. It was true. Rask of Treve, my Gorean master, had not seen fit to permit me choice in the matter of my helpless surrender.
I put my head down.
"You have been conquered," said Verna.
"Yes," I said, "I have been conquered."
"I am leaving the camp tonight," said Verna.
I looked at her, startled.
She indicated a kneeling figure several yards away, bent over, facing the other direction. She wore crossed ankle rings, not permitting her to rise. Her wrists were braceleted behind her back. About her throat was a light, chain slave leash. Across the back of her dark hair I could see leather gag straps.
"I am taking Talena with me," said Verna. "Rask of Treve has given her to me. I am taking her to the northern forests, as a slave."
"As a slave, Mistress?" I gasped.
"Certainly," she said. "That is what she is."
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
I knew, of course, that Talena was a slave in this camp, and had been slave to Rask of Treve. Too, I gathered that she had been given to Verna, and, of course, only animals, slaves and such, can be so given. Yet, to me, still, such a thing seemed incredible.
Talena was the daughter of a Ubar!
"Note how I have garbed her," she said.
"I see, Mistress," I said.
The beautiful Talena no longer wore her marvelous silks, her golden ornaments. She had been put in a common work tunic. She might have been no more than a work slave. To be sure, she would have been an uncommonly beautiful work slave. Doubtless, to be so garbed would have constituted a considerable blow to the exquisite vanity of the high-born, high-caste Talena, even the daughter of a Ubar. But doubtless even a greater blow was to have been given away by Rask of Treve, and to a woman! I did not doubt but what Verna appreciated the ironies of this situation. Doubtless she was much pleased to put the daughter of her enemy, Marlenus of Ar, he who had captured her in the northern forests, and had caged her, and exhibited her, in a simple rep-cloth work tunic. But also, of course, this made a great deal of sense. The work tunic would conceal the identity of her new acquisition, generously bestowed on her from the bounty of Rask of Treve. It would make it easier to bring her to the northern forests.
"But she is the favorite of Rask of Treve," I whispered.
"No," said Verna.
"Will you not stay in the camp," I asked, "as the comrade of Rask of Treve?"
She looked at me, and smiled. "No," she said. "My place is in the northern forests."
I did not speak.
"Is it pleasant," she asked, "to surrender to a man?"
I put my head down, shamed by joy.
"Ah," said Verna. Then she spoke to me softly. "Once," she said, "long ago, in the city of Ar, I saw a man, and, in seeing him, for the only time in my life, I was afraid, for I feared he might do to me, if he wished, what Rask of Treve has done to you. I have never feared this of another man."
I looked at her.
"And so I hated him," she said, "and I resolved, someday, to see who would conquer."
"What was his name?" I asked.
"Marlenus of Ar," she said.
I could not speak, so astonished I was.
She casually indicated the wretched girl bound to one side, beyond the bottom of the hillock. "This wench is bait," she said.
Verna turned away, and then she turned to face me again. "Farewell, Slave," said she.
I extended my hands to her, piteously.
"Should I see Rask of Treve," said Verna, "I will tell him that there is a chained girl who, beneath the moons of Gor, begs him for his touch."
"I wish you well, Mistress," I called. "I wish you well!"
Verna did not turn again, but went to the kneeling girl and unsnapped the crossed ankle rings, and put them in her pouch. She dragged the girl, wrists braceleted behind her back, to her feet.
It seemed for a moment the girl might resist, or consider for an instant being the least bit hesitant. One could tell something of that sort by the way she stood, her knees flexed, her wrists straining at the bracelets. Was that because Verna was a woman, I wondered. Certainly it would be unusual for a female slave even to suggest the possibility of resistance to a free male. No slave who has been familiarized with the meaning of her collar would dare to do so. It is simply theirs to obey, immediately, unquestioningly. Then Verna, with the light chain leash, lashed her suddenly, sharply, across the lovely, rounded backs of her calves. The slave winced, almost unbelievingly, in her whole body. I did not doubt but what that blow had been quite painful. Certainly I would not have cared to receive it. The slave threw back her head and, I am sure, had she not been gagged, a cry of misery would have carried throughout the camp. As it was, only the tiniest sound of pain, little more than a startled gasp, forcing its way about the stoppage of the leather, the wadding and straps, escaped her. Verna then, insolently, snapped the leash. The sound frightened the slave. The snapping of the leash, jerking against itself, or the leash's collar ring, is a common preparatory signal. This signal received, the slave knows that, imminently, she is to be walked. The slave then, so alerted, instantly stood ready, cognizant, apprehensive, frightened, on her tether. Not the least particle of resistance was now suggested in her posture or attitude. Rather, terrified docility was her mien. I watched her being led away, between the tents. I did not think the lovely Talena would soon again wish to tempt in the slightest the patience of her new mistress. Mistresses, like Masters, do not brook the least lack of deference in their properties. Indeed, I think, personally, that women tend to be far more cruel, and severe, with their female slaves than men. It seems they hate them, whereas men find them fascinating, delightful and useful; indeed the female slave, by her master, is usually regarded as a wonderful, delicious treasure. Indeed, it is not unusual for a master and his slave to love one another with a richness and depth perhaps unknown, perhaps impossible, amongst free couples. This has to do, in part, I suppose, with the biological proprieties of the master/slave relationship, and the pervasive, profound, glorious richness of the sexuality of the relationship. The master, entitled to, and receiving all he could want from the slave, and with the ultimate, clear power to see that he gets it, and more, is likely to be well content. The slave strives to avoid the whip, but is thrilled to know that she is subject to it.
Sometimes, however, she may beg to be tied and whipped, for this reassures her that she is still of interest to, and important to, the master. Better the whip and his anger than his coldness or indifference. "Have I not been pleasing to my master? I fear I may have been insufficiently pleasing. I beg, therefore, that he will see fit to instruct me, to admonish me, to reprove me, that my many faults, those of an unworthy slave, may to some extent be rectified, that I may be more pleasing to him. Therefore, I kneel unclothed before him, his bared property, his slave. I am contrite. I beg to be lashed."
She expects, and hopes, of course, understanding that she is a slave, and desiring to be a pleasing slave, that he will use the whip on her if there are any laxities or imperfections in her service; this reassures her that she is still meaningful, if only in her small way, to him, that he is concerned to attend to and correct her behavior, and that he will be prompt to deal with the least lapse in the perfection of her service.
She must know the whip is there, and will be used upon her, if she is not pleasing.
Without the reality of the whip how can she be a slave?
Indifference on the part of the master is often a sign that she is soon to be led to the market.
Sometimes, too, she desires to be tied and whipped, if merely to remind her that she is a slave. Her bondage is precious to her. And the
re is nothing like a lash or two to make it quite clear to her that she is indeed a slave, that her bondage is quite real.
She relishes his domination; she wants to be his; she rejoices to be owned; she loves to be his property, and to be regarded as, and treated as, what she is, his property. She is pleased to be subject to his discipline. She is pleased to know that there are penalties, and consequences, attached to any failure on her part to be pleasing. She wants it this way. This is, incidentally, extremely sexually stimulatory to her. Her bondage adds a particular dimension, a thrilling vividness, an edge, a special reality to her life, one unknown to free women. This is perhaps connected with the domination she craves, a relationship with a strong, uncompromising male, and the submission she yearns to yield, as a mastered female.
On Gor, of course, her relationship to the master is open, public, institutionalized, accepted, taken for granted, and celebrated, a matter of law.
On Earth, on the other hand, her bondage would normally be a private matter, between her and her master. To see her on the streets, or shopping in supermarkets, or such, one would not know she is a slave. But she knows. Many is the free woman of Earth who languishes in a sexual wilderness, who is bored, who finds her life, her work, her marriage, a drab, repetitious routine of tediums. That ends, of course, if she is placed in bondage. She now has a new, thrilling reality, perhaps a secret one, that enflames her, that makes her life worth living. She now has meaning, and worth, if only that of a slave. She kneels before the chair of her master, perhaps fully clothed, her hands clasped behind her, her head down, waiting for him to enter.
And I watched the proud Verna lead her humbled, chastened slave away, into the darkness, the gag straps tight over the back of her hair as she followed perfectly, beautifully, unquestioningly, frightened, on her leash. I had little doubt but what the magnificent Verna, leader of the panther girls, would bring her comely prize, apparently only another common slave, in a work tunic, successfully to the northern forests.
I knelt alone then, chained, on the summit of the grassy hillock, beneath the vast, looming moons.
I waited.
I wept.
I became then aware of a figure standing near me. I cried out, and reached for him.