Conspirators of Gor

by John Norman

  “Is that why the women of your world make such excellent slaves, why they lick and kiss our whips and feet, why they beg to be subdued and chained, owned and mastered, why they writhe in grateful ecstasy in the thongs and silken cords that render them helpless?” he asked.

  “Ah!” said Astrinax. “See that one!”

  “But, yes!” agreed he in whose care I was.

  “You knew me in Ar,” I said. “You must have agreed to my keeping and management.”

  “I like having you cook for me,” he said, “and I enjoy shackling you, such things.”

  “I see,” I said. “I have heard that some men, for whatever reason, see a woman as their slave, as delicious, incomparable collar meat, special to them, and will not rest until she is chained at their feet.”

  “And I have heard,” said he, “that some women, for whatever reason, look up at a fellow, from their knees, and recognize him as their master.”

  “There is another beauty,” said Astrinax, indicating another paga girl.

  “She has brown hair,” I said.

  “At least,” said he in whose charge I was, “it is more than a hort or two in length.”

  “My hair will grow,” I said.

  “I think,” said he, “I will ask the Lady Bina to have it shaved off again.”

  “Please do not, Master!” I said.

  “You are going to be deferent, docile, obedient, humble, zealous, eager to please, and such, are you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “What lovely girls,” said Astrinax.

  “Superb,” said he in whose charge I was.

  “But we have obtained no new men, no new swords,” said Lykos.

  “Are all taverns like this, Master?” I asked Astrinax. I suspected not, for the apparent quality of the girls.

  “No,” he said. “The prices here are such that the place should be burned down. In a typical tavern a drink is a single tarsk-bit, with which drink a girl may go, if you want her. Here, a drink is five tarsk-bits, five! And for all I know, the girl is extra.”

  “No,” said Lykos. “She goes with the drink.”

  “But five tarsk-bits!” said Astrinax.

  “True,” granted Lykos, resignedly.

  At that moment there was an exciting skirl of music, a flash of bells, a burst of color, a jangle of beads, and a cry of enthusiasm from the patrons, and a dancer was on the floor. After her entry she stood silent, not moving, posed, ready, on the floor. I could sense the anticipation, even the difference in breathing, of the men. Then the music began, softly, slowly, and the dancer, looking about herself, began to move, obedient to the melody of masters.

  “Is she a slave?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” said he in whose charge I was. “It may be hard to see, beneath the necklaces, so many of them, but there is a collar there, close-fitting, steel, and locked.”

  “Much as mine,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “She is so beautiful,” I said. “She is so soft, so feminine, so utterly female, so vulnerable, so needful.”

  “A slave,” said Lykos.

  “It is so beautiful,” I said. “What is it called?”

  “It is a form of dance fit for slaves, is it not?” he said.

  “Yes,” I breathed, awed, rapt.

  “Slave dance,” said he in whose charge I was.

  “Slave dance,” I whispered.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I have seen something like it,” I said, “on my former world, but I scarcely dared look upon it.”

  “It spoke to you of things which stirred you, things for which you longed, but which you feared, spoke to you of a distant, or forgotten, world, one a thousand times more real, I suspect, than that which you knew. It spoke to you of how women might be before men, as slaves, and how men might look upon women, as masters.”

  “Yes,” I whispered, “but here it seems somehow different.”

  “It is different here,” he said, “for this is such a world.”

  “I think I know this dance, or sort of dance,” said Astrinax. “It will have its phases, its swiftness, and its slowness, its emotions, insolence, pride, defiance, apprehension, recognition, fear, struggle, defeat, surrender, and submission.”

  I heard, it startling me, the cracking of a whip. The dancer reacted, as though struck, but the blade had not touched her. Occasionally it snapped again, and again, and, at the end of the dance, as is often the case in such dance, the dancer is prostrate, clearly submitted and owned. In this particular dance she was kneeling and the fellow with the whip was behind her. He placed the whip, coiled, against the back of her neck, and she lowered her head. The men about voiced their approval, and several smote their left shoulders with their right hand. Others uttered trilling noises or staccato bursts of sound. Others pounded on the tables. She then sprang to her feet and hurried from the floor, followed by the fellow with the whip.

  “Paga, Master?” asked a girl.

  She had not been summoned to our table!

  Sometimes a master will summon a particular girl to his table. Masters have choices, of course, even if they are interested only in paga. I suppose it is natural for a master to wish to be served by one girl, rather than another. On the other hand, more than paga might be involved. The particular girl, summoned, is well aware that the fellow may be considering her for alcoving, as well.

  The slave had addressed herself to he in whose charge I was! To be sure, a girl might approach a table, unsummoned. But how dared she? I remained, of course, on my knees. I had no permission to rise.

  She glanced at me, condescendingly, and smiled, with the look of a high-priced girl upon one of lesser value, perhaps one who might regard herself as fortunate that men had deigned to put a collar on her, at all.

  I recognize her soft, light, loose sheen of swirling, diaphanous yellow silk. It had been insolently cast before me earlier, and drawn across my face.

  It was doubtless her way her of showing contempt for a lesser girl, and calling Master Desmond’s attention to the difference amongst slaves.

  He was a handsome fellow. Might he not be interested in buying her?

  “Yes,” said Desmond, “paga.”

  She then backed away, smiling, and then turned about, making her way to the paga vat.

  “An excellent choice, Kalligone,” said a tavern’s man, as the five tarsk-bits were placed in his hand. Before he left, he dropped a slender silken cord, short, coiled, on the table. There was little doubt what such a cord was for. Most masters, on the other hand, brought their own cords, bracelets, laces or thongs to a table. The tavern’s man then left the table.

  “Master!” I protested, tears in my eyes.

  “What is wrong?” asked he in whose charge I was.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Shortly, the slave, whose name I took to be Kalligone, returned, and, two hands on the goblet, knelt before Master Desmond. Her knees, beneath the sheen of silk, were clearly spread. Of course, I thought, angrily, she is a pleasure slave! But then are not all paga girls pleasure slaves? Was pleasure not what men paid for? Was it not with pleasure in mind, inordinate pleasure, that men put collars on such women?

  Kalligone did not neglect to glance at the cord, and smiled.

  “Here,” said Master Desmond, holding out his hand.

  “Master?” she said, startled.

  “Here,” he said. He then took the goblet, and placed it on the table.

  “Master?” she asked, again.

  “Leave,” he said, “but remain on the floor. I may want you later. Go, quickly, on your pretty little feet, and jangle your bells.”

  “You refuse Kalligone?” she said.

  “Go,” he said, “while I permit you to retain your silks.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, frightened, and withdrew, to a jangle of bells.

  “They are belled, like animals,” I said.

  “Be quiet, or you, too, will be belled, li
ttle beast,” he said.

  “I thank Master,” I said, looking after Kalligone.

  “I think now,” he said, “you are avenged.”

  “Well avenged!” I laughed. “Allison thanks Master.”

  To be sure, how could a man refuse the tavern’s gift of a Kalligone? Perhaps, I thought, because there is another slave who, for whatever reason, is a thousand times more desirable, at least to him?

  “But who, now,” he asked, “will serve me paga?”

  “Allison,” I said, happily, reaching for the goblet, and holding it out to him.

  “Put it down,” he said.

  I placed it, puzzled, on the table. Astrinax and Lykos laughed. I did not care for the sound of their laughter. Some others, too, at the nearby tables, were looking on.

  “Master?” I said, uneasily.

  “Remove your tunic,” he said.

  “Here,” I said, “Master?”

  “Now,” he said.

  I was then naked. Some had gathered around, amongst them the girl, Kalligone.

  “What was your former name?” he asked.

  “Allison,” I said. “Allison Ashton-Baker.”

  “You are a barbarian, are you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “What were you on your former world?” he asked.

  He knew, surely, for I had spoken to him of such things, in the camp, when I had lain beside him that night, “bound by his will,” when he had, so to speak, stripped me of myself, and I had lain open before him, in so many ways.

  “A student,” I said, “at a small school, called a college, an expensive, exclusive college, and a member of an organization at the college to which only women might belong, called a sorority, and it the most expensive and exclusive of the college’s sororities.”

  “You stood high in your world,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You had position, station, resources,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “I was of what one spoke of as the upper classes.”

  “And you stood high in such classes,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. “Quite high.”

  “Very high?” he said.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And what are you here?” he asked.

  I touched my collar. “Kajira, Master,” I said.

  There was laughter from those about.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You are now going to serve a man paga,” he said.

  “I know nothing of such things,” I wept.

  “Take the goblet in two hands,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Now back away a little,” he said, “and spread your knees.”

  “I am not a pleasure slave!” I said.

  “Are you white-silk?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “Spread your knees,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Good,” said Astrinax.

  “Good,” said Lykos.

  “Now,” said he in whose charge I was, “I could not tell you from a pleasure slave.”

  “See her turn red!” laughed one of the paga girls.

  “Now take the goblet,” said he in whose charge I was, “and press it firmly, deeply, into your lower belly.”

  The goblet was metal, and hard, and cold, and, within it, the paga swirled.

  “Do not spill it, or you will be beaten,” he said. “Now,” said he, “lift the goblet, and touch it lightly to your left breast, and then to the right breast, and then lift it, and, looking at me over the rim, lick and kiss the goblet, slowly, softly, tenderly, lingeringly, and then, after a time, extend the goblet to me, arms extended, head down, bowed, between your extended arms.”

  “As a submitted woman!” I said.

  “As far more than that,” he said, “as one who is only a slave.”

  I felt him remove the goblet from my hands, and then I knelt back.

  “Now,” said he, “close your eyes, turn about, put your head to the floor, and place your hands behind you, wrists crossed.”

  I glanced, frightened, at the coil of cord on the table.

  I then obeyed.

  “Alcove her,” said a fellow.

  I remained for a time, eyes closed, as I had been placed, but I felt no bit of cord whipped about my wrists, fastening them together.

  “You may open your eyes, Allison,” said Astrinax, “and kneel at the table, as you will, knees together, if you wish.”

  I knelt up, blinking, just in time to see a frightened, stripped Kalligone, cast me a look over her left shoulder. Her hands were tied behind her. She was thrust, stumbling, toward an alcove. I did not think Master Desmond would be easy with her. He had, of course, paid his five tarsk-bits, and she, if wanted, would go with the drink.

  “Masters!” I said.

  “Do not be concerned,” said Astrinax.

  “He does not own you,” Lykos reminded me.

  “I was afraid he was going to alcove you,” said Astrinax. “You are not an unattractive little slut.”

  “I hate him, I hate him, Masters!” I said.

  “Put your tunic on,” said Astrinax.

  I did so, in humiliation, and rage. I feared I tore it a bit, in my haste. A typical Gorean free woman, I was sure, later, had I belonged to one, would have lashed me for that, for such clumsiness. The Lady Bina, on the other hand, would simply locate me a needle and some thread.

  “I must be about my recruiting,” said Astrinax.

  “May fortune be with you,” said Lykos, but he did not seem hopeful. It was growing late.

  * * * *

  “Dear friends,” said a tavern’s man, “we must, in ten Ehn, extinguish the lamps.”

  I was half asleep, lying beside the table.

  I did not so much as glance at he in whose charge I was, Master Desmond, whom I supposed of the Metal Workers. He had returned from the alcove, after an Ahn or so, in a splendid mood. Certainly I well loathed him, he in whose charge I was. Might I not be better placed in the charge of another, but who? Jane, as I understood it, would report to Astrinax, and Eve to Lykos. Both, of course, as I, were owned by the Lady Bina. In Venna I had seen nothing of Lord Grendel or the blind Kur. To be sure, I had not sought them. A few Ehn after Master Desmond had emerged from the alcove, a slaver’s man had entered, and freed Kalligone, who, perhaps as specified by Master Desmond, was to return on all fours to her cage, her silk clenched between her teeth. It would be removed, doubtless, before the cage door would shut behind her. Such cages are tiny, as I understood it, and this encourages the girls, for an additional reason, to be zealous in the alcoves, that they might strive to obtain a private master. Certainly Kalligone had approached Master Desmond without having been summoned. I supposed I should feel sorry for her. Rather, I was pleased that she was back in a cage. I hoped that it was small. In most, as I understood it, a girl can do little more than kneel, or sit or lie down, with her legs drawn closely up. In such constraints a girl is kept well apprised that she is a slave. To be sure, such a cage is luxurious compared to the “slave box,” usually used for punishment. Even the proudest and most recalcitrant of slaves, usually a recent free woman, of high caste, is quickly broken in such a device, and emerges a readied, humbled, and trembling slave, fearful only that she will not be found fully pleasing, and in all ways. In the kitchen, at the eating house of Menon, we had our chains and mats. Menon was a kind man. He was often criticized for being too lenient with his girls. There was, of course, a whip in the kitchen.

  “Probably we should return to the wagons,” said Desmond.

  “I have failed,” said Astrinax, wearily. “We have offered good fee, but none seem interested in essaying the Voltai, at least as of now.”

  “Perhaps it is the season,” said Lykos.

  “Wake up, Allison,” said Master Desmond.

  “I am not asleep,” I s
aid, acidly, rising to my knees.

  I had resolved never to speak to him again, unless, of course, commanded to do so. I was not eager to sustain the attentions of a displeased free person. They tend to be quick with instruments of correction, usually of braided leather.

  “What is wrong?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said.

  “Good,” he said.

  “I do not like her tone of voice,” said Lykos. “Beat her.”

  “Please, no, Master!” I said, quickly, frightened.

  It had been made clear to me, quite clear, in the house of Tenalion, that a slave must speak to free persons as the slave she is. She is not to forget that. She is not a free woman, who might speak in any way she wishes. She is a slave, only that. A sharp or unpleasant word may bring her a lashing. Her voice, as her behavior, as a whole, must show that she is a slave, and knows herself such. She is to speak softly, politely, respectfully, humbly, and clearly, with excellent diction. She is not allowed the mumbling, the indecipherable gibberish, the ambiguities, the false starts and stops, the slovenliness allowed to the free woman. She is to address free persons always in the clear understanding that there is a collar on her neck, that she is subject to discipline, and that it will be inflicted upon her if he is found in any way displeasing.

  “Please do not whip me,” I said.

  “Is there something wrong?” asked he in whose charge I was.

  I looked away.

  “Beat her,” said Lykos.

  “Please, no!” I said.

  “Did she not fail to answer a question?” asked Lykos.

  I knew Eve was to report to Lykos. I did not envy her.

  “What is wrong?” inquired Master Desmond.

  “How do you think I feel,” I asked, “kneeling down, my eyes closed, my head to the floor, my hands behind me, wrists crossed, and then you abandon me.”

  “And alcove the girl, Kalligone,” laughed Astrinax.

  “You were not abandoned,” said he in whose charge I was. “Astrinax and Lykos were here.”

  “And no one cares how you feel, girl,” said Lykos. Again, I did not envy Eve.

  “Have you no interest in my body?” I asked he in whose charge I was.

  “Of course your body is of some interest,” said he in whose charge I was. “For example, your ankles shackle well. Of greater interest is the whole of you, which I think it might be interesting to own.”