Conspirators of Gor

by John Norman

Too, the owner of the voice must have seen my sale some weeks ago.

  “How would you like to leave the kitchen, the tables, Allison?” said Menon.

  “It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.

  “Kneel,” said Menon. “Face our guest.”

  I knelt, my knees closely together. I did not cover my breasts, of course, for they were those of a slave.

  “How, my dear,” asked the stranger, “would you like a new chain, a new cage?”

  “It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.

  “How, my dear,” said the voice, “would you like to be chained to a loom in the mills of Mintar, with cropped hair, or be placed in one of the public laundries, or sent to the mines of Argentum, or the tharlarion stables at Venna?”

  “It will be done with me as masters please,” I said.

  “But you would not be too pleased?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “Have no fear,” he said, “it is not to such a place I would send you.”

  “A slave is grateful,” I said.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  How absurd, I thought, that one should ask that of a slave.

  “Perhaps, Masters,” I said, “I might be purchased as a private slave, to serve a private master?”

  “You would like that, would you not, kajira?” asked the stranger.

  “Oh, yes, Master,” I said, “yes, Master!”

  It was for such a favor, such a delight, such a privilege, that I had plied the tables in my serving. I dared to look up and see the stranger. He was stocky, broad-shouldered, and powerful. He was blond-haired. He was not bad looking. Immediately I began to wonder what it might be, to be owned by him. How glorious, I thought, to have a private master, him or another, to whom one might devote oneself, assiduously, as his slave.

  He seemed typically Gorean. He would see to it that a woman served him well, and doubtless with perfection, should she be a slave.

  “I would try to serve Master well,” I said.

  “Astrinax,” said Menon, “whom I have long known, is an agent, who receives orders, requests and such, screens merchandise, and buys for others.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “He contracts with several towers, for serving slaves,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  I had occasionally been out of the restaurant, on errands, and had marveled at the lofty towers of Ar, so lovely and colorful, and yet so stately, solid, and formidable, each, in its way, a defensible keep, with its reservoirs, and emergency stores. It would take years to reduce even one to submission. These towers, at various levels, were joined by narrow, graceful bridges. In times of peace, one might move from one tower to another, through one tower to another, by means of these bridges, to many parts of the city, without once descending to the streets. The bridges for the most part are unrailed but traversed with ease by urban Goreans used to them. I myself would have been terrified to set foot upon almost any one of them, the streets so far below. They were of different widths, some ten feet in width, many four to five feet in width. They have colored lanterns on them, spaced here and there, which are commonly lit at night. It is very lovely. On my former world, Earth, there are similar walks, but they are on the ground. Few of Earth would think twice about traversing such walks. On the other hand, if such walks were elevated, I suspect few would care to try them. One supposes it is largely a matter of that to which one grows accustomed. In any event, you traverse the high bridges with the same thoughtless nonchalance with which those of Earth traverse their own walks. Your bridges, slender and graceful, are often arched and curved, almost like branches in a forest, for you have an aesthetic sense, it seems, in so much that you do, evinced in things as intricate as the soaring melody of a skyline to things as simple as the carving on an oar or a wooden spoon. To be sure, you have your realms of crowding, ugliness, and danger as well, the dank, odorous, ill-lit insulae, steaming in the summer, clammy and cold in the winter, smelling of offal and urine, and the dark, cluttered, filthy, winding streets of some of the low districts. Sometimes the towers seem to be giants, standing proudly, independent and mighty, soaring to the sky, touching clouds, their feet in garbage. Much depends, of course, on the district. In many respects Ar is a city of wonder, of beauty and grace, of soaring towers, large parks and gardens, and broad boulevards. It is in terms of those that one numbers her amongst the “high cities.” But she is, too, a city in which poverty and wealth, surfeit and want, cleanliness and dirt, may be juxtaposed. A silken palanquin, with closed curtains, may be borne through slime. Here and there women, unattended, grace the bridges in their promenades, while below a troop of guardsmen may tread with care. Praetors preside in the markets, dispensing justice, while here and there, beneath their feet, in sewers, like urts, others wait for darkness. Much depends on the district, and the time of day. I suppose that cities are similar, on whatever worlds they may be found. Here a tunicked slave might wander about in the night without fear, there a guardsman is reluctant to enter at the Tenth Ahn. One thing I did not realize originally about your bridges is the military utility involved in their design, that they may be blocked and defended by small groups of armed men; five may defend against a hundred, because of the hundred only five can engage at a time. Too, the bridges may be broken, this preventing access to the towers, turning each into a solitary, soaring, nigh-impregnable citadel.

  I supposed then that Astrinax, as I gathered his name was, was jobbing for some tower or another, presumably on the lookout for girls who might make acceptable tower slaves. There tends to be turnover in such slaves, as, in their work, in the corridors, on the stairwells, and in the apartments, they may come to the attention of one fellow or another, who will take them for a private slave. Being a tower slave is usually regarded as a plausible route, even a promising route, to obtaining a private master. Most slaves, as you know, or may suspect, long to be the slave, and wholly so, of one man alone. This is the joy of the slave, to kneel naked at the feet of her master, to lick and kiss his whip, and his feet, and then to lie before him, helpless in his chains.

  To be sure, she hopes to be his only slave, as well!

  I had occasionally seen tower slaves in the streets, in their white, knee-length, modest, demure tunics.

  It was easy to see why a fellow might want to get them out of those tunics. Properly caressed, and long denied passion, it was said they were commonly as hot as paga sluts.

  I did not think I would mind being a tower slave.

  Surely, as one cleaned an apartment, dusted a bit, arranged furniture, and such, it seemed a clever girl might find ample opportunities for calling herself to the attention of one fellow or another.

  A smile, an ankle seemingly inadvertently extended, colored string wound about it, a touching of one’s collar, a shy glance, a way of turning, of looking over one’s shoulder.

  Such things.

  “Split your knees,” said Astrinax.

  “Master?” I said. Then I went to “position,” not wanting to be cuffed for dallying.

  “Astrinax also,” said Menon, “scouts and buys for the taverns and brothels, as well.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, uneasily.

  “Do you think you would make a good paga girl, or brothel slut?” asked Menon.

  “I do not think so, Master,” I said.

  “Do not worry about it,” said Menon. “The lash quickly teaches a girl to be accommodating, and grateful.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “The paga slave quickly becomes a passion slut,” said Menon.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  I already had sensed that such things might be possible. But my body, too, had assured me that not all passion sluts would be in the taverns or brothels. Surely often enough, at night, I had lain uneasily in my chains.

  What would it be to be in the arms of a master, my own master?

  I would strive desperately
to be pleasing to him.

  It was not so much that I feared being beaten, should I be found wanting in some respect. Rather it was because I sensed myself a slave, and wanted his touch.

  “We are not thinking about the taverns or brothels,” said Astrinax.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Perhaps later,” said Astrinax.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Knees,” said Menon, gently.

  Quickly I widened my knees again.

  I gathered Astrinax was not thinking in terms of tower slaves. Tower slaves do not kneel so. Another sort of slave kneels so, a familiar form of Gorean slave, the pleasure slave.

  This was, of course, the sort of slavery for which, on the whole, I had been trained.

  I supposed the same would be so of my sisters, from the sorority, from the college, doubtless brought to collars on Gor as well as I. I recalled Eve and Jane, from the party, in their improvised camisks. Surely I had seen the eyes of the boys on them, as well as on myself. They were young and beautiful. I did not doubt but what masters would find them pleasing. Too, Nora, and her friends, doubtless, would no longer be so resplendent in those ample, abundant, lovely garments worn at the party, put together to suggest the robes of Gorean free women. Perhaps here, on this world, they would be fortunate enough to be granted a tunic. I suspected that Nora would go for a high price.

  I was pleased to think of her as collared, and owned.

  So, if Astrinax was not thinking in terms of the towers, and was not thinking, at least at present, in terms of the taverns or brothels, in what terms might he be thinking?

  “You are a barbarian are you not?” asked Astrinax.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Barbarians,” said Astrinax, “have inferior moral characters.”

  “Surely not,” I said.

  “When you thought yourself free, on your former world, prior to your rightful collaring,” said Astrinax, “for you are obviously a slave, you had some sort of relationship with the men of your world, did you not?”

  “I was brought to Gor as white-silk,” I said. “I was red-silked in the house of Tenalion, Tenalion of Ar.”

  “I know the house,” said Astrinax. “What I have in mind is the nature of your social, economic, and political relationships to men.”

  “I am not sure I understand,” I said. “I think that certain relationships, involving certain intentions, prospects, efforts, plans, ambitions, and such, would have been typical for a young woman of my background, position, wealth, and class.”

  “But perhaps not for others?” said Astrinax.

  “Probably not for all others,” I said.

  “Tell me something of it,” said Astrinax.

  “I was of the upper classes on my world,” I said.

  “You look well in your collar,” said Astrinax.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said. “I belonged to a group of young women chosen, among other things, for their beauty.”

  “Slaves?” said Astrinax.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “We were privileged. We were to be sought by men, and would make judicious choices amongst them, seeking thereby our advantage, bartering our beauty for advancement, for greater wealth, more secure position, more power, such things.”

  “You were calculating in such matters,” said Astrinax. “You were selling yourself for profit, for gain.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “In Gorean we have a word for that,” said Astrinax.

  “Master?” I said.

  “‘Free woman’,” he said.

  “Men must try to please us, must pay for our meals, our entertainments, and such,” I said.

  “There is a politics involved in such things,” said Astrinax.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And to achieve your ends,” said Astrinax, “you would do what seemed useful, flatter, pretend, flirt, intrigue, invite, and such.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “And lie?”

  “I am no longer permitted to lie, Master,” I said, frightened.

  “But then,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You are not unattractive,” said Astrinax.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said.

  “And the men whom you knew had little or no experience with female slaves,” said Astrinax.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “Accordingly then,” said Astrinax, “you must have been extremely attractive to them.”

  “I think so, Master,” I said.

  “They knew no better,” said Astrinax.

  “No, Master,” I said. Tears came to eyes.

  “Do not be upset,” said Astrinax. “You now have promise, even as a slave.”

  “You are much more beautiful than when I bought you,” said Menon. “You are becoming slave-beautiful, slave-exciting. Those young men who found you beautiful then, as you were then, on your own world, would scream with pleasure if they could see you now, as you are, as a slave. Slavery much enhances the beauty of a woman. Now, sweet Allison, those young men would sweat, and cry out, and bid recklessly for you, in the hope of bringing you into their collar.”

  I put down my head.

  “I gather you were a true ‘free woman’ on your world,” said Astrinax, “with all her vanities, pettinesses, impostures, ambitions, plans, manipulations, machinations, pretensions, schemes, deceits, and lies.”

  “Perhaps, Master,” I said.

  “But now,” he said, “you are no longer on your own world.”

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “It is common for free women on your world to misuse their power,” said Astrinax.

  “Perhaps, Master,” I said, frightened. I trusted I would not be punished on this world for faults which might have been mine on a former world. But, still, one does not know how men will see things, and they are the masters.

  “Free women on Gor,” said Astrinax, “misuse their power.”

  I thought of the free woman at the tables, who had caused me such discomfiture.

  “I dare not speculate, Master,” I said. “They are free, and I am a slave.”

  “But stripped and collared, and thrown to a man’s feet,” said Astrinax, “they are not so different from you.”

  “I dare not speculate, Master,” I said. “They are free, and I am a slave.”

  “You are all women,” said Astrinax. “Nothing more.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Allison,” said Astrinax, “suppose that one of your sister slaves, in the kitchen, had been given a candy, perhaps as a tip from a customer, from waiting on the tables.”

  “Yes, Master?” I said.

  Some of the customers, I knew, kept such small treats about their person, or in their pouches. These were usually hard candies, which might last a long time, slowly savored. Sometimes they would roll them on the floor and have a girl pursue them on all fours, putting her head down, and picking them up, gratefully, in her teeth. Sometimes they would have the girl kneel at the bench, put back her head, her eyes closed, tightly, and open her mouth, widely. She does not know, strictly, if she is to be cuffed or rewarded, but, as you may suppose, she usually has an excellent sense as to how matters will fall out. If her service is thought to have been insufficiently prompt, diligent or deferent, and she is likely to suspect that, she may be struck. “Forgive me, Master,” she then sobs, and is hastened about her duties, now intent on improving her service. At least she is not lashed. Usually, however, if so knelt, she is to be rewarded, a candy being placed in her mouth. “Thank you, Master,” she breathes, licking and kissing the hand which has deigned to bestow so precious a gift upon her. How proud she is then, the possessor of so rare a treat, and how envied she will be amongst her chain sisters!

  How she will nurse that treat, making it last as long as possible!

  To be sure, such tipping is frowned upon by the establishment, as the women are merely sla
ves.

  One wonders if the free can understand how important such a tidbit, negligible from their point of view, so tiny, savory, and sweet, can be to one of your despised collar girls.

  Even today such a thing is meaningful to me, and my master may or may not grant it to me, as it pleases him, but, at that time, in the place of Menon, so small a thing seemed inordinately precious, and important.

  I had not had such a sweet since Earth, since my “harvesting” as one of the ill-protected, exposed, dangling fruits so easily available to slavers in the “slave orchard of Earth,” no, not since my acquisition, my capture, my routine snaring, merely another sleek, defenseless animal, ignorant and unsuspecting, easily taken as the prize of methodical hunters.

  “Now,” said Astrinax, “let us suppose that the girl who has been given the candy wants to save it, to postpone the pleasure of eating it until later, perhaps to when her work is done, and hides it somewhere, perhaps in the straw of her mat, and you, unbeknownst to her, have observed this.”

  “Yes, Master?” I said, warily.

  “Let us further suppose that you might, unobserved, and unsuspected, and with utter impunity, steal it. Would you do so?”

  I did not care for this conversation. I was much afraid, to lie, or to tell the truth.

  “I must tell the truth?” I asked.

  “You are a slave,” said Menon.

  “And I would not be caught?” I asked.

  “No,” said Astrinax.

  “I am not stupid,” I said.

  “Of course not,” said Astrinax.

  It was well known that high intelligence was one of the properties sought in slaves. Who would want a stupid slave? Too, it was well known that highly intelligent women made the best slaves. Of all women they were the quickest to learn that the collar was truly on them, that they were now actually owned by a master, that society wholly supported and approved their condition, and that escape was impossible. They were now slaves, unqualifiedly. Too, once they had been truly knelt, their sexual drives and needs would begin to rage within them; they would become aware of their biological being and its nature, that they were biologically the properties of men; and, pursuant to these understandings and bodily changes, and knowing themselves choiceless, the collar on their necks, they yielded to their being and nature, submissive to, and responsive to, categorical male dominance, yielded helplessly and appetitiously to this, naturally, passionately, and gratefully, it being that for which they had longed for so long, that without they were incomplete, given the radical sexual dimorphism of the species.