Conspirators of Gor

by John Norman

  I sensed he was angry with himself.

  He was perhaps furious with himself, to find himself attracted to me. Did he despise himself for this? Could he not help himself? Was I, I wondered, as irresistible to him, as he was to me?

  Could that be?

  I was beneath his gaze.

  I was naked before him, and kneeling.

  I fear I trembled.

  I knew myself desired, and not as a free woman might be desired, in all her lofty, precious, august dignity, encircled with customs, codes, traditions, conventions, proprieties, and rights, but as a slave is desired, with all the raw, uncompromising, unmitigated lust with which a slave is desired, a rightless animal whose obedience is to be instantaneous and unquestioning, who hopes to be pleasing, who hopes to serve the master, whose passion is to be unqualified and unrestrained, who exists, as a belonging, an owned female, to give him inordinate pleasures.

  “You are a despicable, vain, pretentious, tormenting little she-sleen,” he said, “but, little she-sleen, your time of tormenting is now over.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “You have played your games enough,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Get your knees apart,” he snarled.

  “Master?” I said.

  “Now,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Now,” he said, “that is the way you should be.”

  Yes, I thought to myself, this is how I should be, and how I want to be. On Earth I had been a slave, not collared. I had been exploitative, selfish, shallow, petty, and nasty. Then, suitably enough, appropriately enough, I was brought to Gor and must wear the collar for which I was born.

  “I am in the position of a slave, a pleasure slave,” I said, “before my Master.”

  “You were trained as a pleasure slave, were you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, “in the house of Tenalion, in Ar.”

  “Stand,” he said, “face away from me, put your hands behind your back.”

  I did so, and was braceleted.

  He then took me by the hair, forced my head down to his hip and then, I in leading position, he drew me beside him deeper into the courtyard, and then, in a concealed place, on the thick, soft, flowing grass, so rich and deep, so living, threw me to his feet.

  I looked up at him.

  I jerked a little at the bracelets.

  “Here, Master?” I said.

  “I am tired of being tortured,” he said. “You may be worthless, but you are an interesting piece of meat, on which I intend to feast.”

  Then he took me in his arms, and I felt ecstasy.

  * * * *

  “Yes, yes, Master!” I cried out, a third time.

  “Please free my hands!” I begged.

  “No,” he said.

  * * * *

  Later, my hands freed, I clung to him, under the moons of Gor. Later he let me creep to his thigh. Still later, he lifted me in his arms, almost as though I might be free, and he carried me into the domicile, and up to his room. There he lit a lamp, and chained me by an ankle, to the ring at the foot of his couch. I gathered I would be slept there, chained at his feet.

  “Thank you, Master,” I wept.

  In the collar I had found my fulfillment, my joy, and my redemption.

  “Oh, please, Master, again,” I begged.

  He then drew me to him, again.

  * * * *

  “Surely I am not to be back-braceleted again?” I said.

  Then my wrists were again braceleted behind my back.

  “On the furs,” he said. “Kneel, get your head down!”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  His hands were then on me.

  I jerked at the bracelets, but was helpless within them.

  “Ohh,” I cried, softly. “Oh! Oh! Yes, Master, yes!”

  * * * *

  “Master will not sell me, will he?” I said, frightened.

  “How good are you?” he asked.

  “Surely Master has formed some sense of my possible value,” I said.

  “We shall see,” he said.

  “Oh!” I cried.

  * * * *

  “Are you suitably humbled?” he asked.

  “I have been long humbled,” I said. “I was humbled as soon as I was collared. A slave is not permitted pride.”

  “Still,” he said, “I occasionally felt you were a bit pretentious.”

  “It is hard to be pretentious,” I said, “when one is muchly bared, in a slave tunic.”

  “I occasionally thought you an arrogant little slut,” he said, “when you were in my keeping, you knowing that you would not be touched.”

  “I was angry,” I said.

  “You wanted to be touched,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You were a tempting little tasta,” he said.

  “Perhaps I taunted you a little, a subtle movement, a way of turning, a glance over my shoulder, a smile.”

  “I was well aware of such things,” he said.

  “I hoped you would be,” I said.

  “It is one thing for a free woman to do such things,” he said. “It is quite another for a slave.”

  “I do not think so,” I said.

  “A slave might be simply taken in hand,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You are seductive little brutes,” he said.

  “We are slaves,” I said.

  “Slaves want to be touched,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said. “Oh!” I said, for I was touched, and as a slave might be touched.

  How helpless we are!

  “It is pleasant to touch you,” he said.

  “I assure you,” I said, “I am now well touched.”

  “It is a beginning,” he said.

  “You will not sell me, will you?”

  “Now that you have been reduced, shattered, and well used, again and again, and have cried out, piteously, for more, and more, again, and again,” he said, “it would be amusing to take you to the market, and rid myself of you.”

  “It may be done with me,” I said, “as Master pleases, for I am a slave.”

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  “Keep me in your collar,” I begged. “I have been yours, even from the Sul Market!”

  “Do you think you might be a good slave?” he asked.

  “I will try my best, Master!” I said.

  “Very well,” he said. “Please me, and as the slave you are.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, gratefully.

  * * * *

  “On your world,” he said, “I would suppose you were literate.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And you had station and resources, were refined, and educated, might come and go as you pleased, muchly had your way, were elegantly clothed and shod, and such?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And here you are a naked slave,” he said.

  “It is my hope,” I said, “that my Master, if I prove sufficiently pleasing, may grant me a garment.”

  “A rag, or such,” he said, “provided, of course, that you are fully pleasing.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  I had sensed, on Earth, that I should be the slave of men such as those of Gor, but I had not anticipated my transposition to Gor, and my marketing.

  “Here,” he said, “you are illiterate.”

  “I cannot even read my collar,” I said.

  “You do not need to read it,” he said, “as long as you know what it says.”

  “May I ask what it says?” I asked.

  “It says,” he said, “‘I belong to Desmond of Harfax.’“

  “I hope to please him,” I said.

  It is a common way, amongst slave girls, when inquiring another girl’s master, to ask, “Who whips you?” I would then answer, “Desmond of Harfax,” or “My master
is Desmond of Harfax.” To be sure, the girl may never have felt the whip, at all. If a girl is pleasing she would be seldom, if ever, whipped. And, naturally, we try our best to be pleasing and hope to be found pleasing. It is in our best interest to be found pleasing. We are not free women. We are slaves. To be sure, whereas one may surely hope to be found pleasing because one fears the whip, I think it is common, particularly after one has been in a master’s collar for a time, to hope to be found pleasing because one wishes to be found pleasing, and not for fear of the whip, but for another reason, one perhaps best concealed from the master.

  “We are soon to Harfax,” he said.

  “I do not even know the caste of my Master,” I said.

  “It is what I wish it to be,” he said, “a Metal Worker, a Forester, a Poet, or Singer, a Cloth Worker, a Peasant, a Scribe, such things.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “It is sometimes convenient to be of one caste, sometimes of another.”

  “It is a disguise,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said. “In some ventures, in some pursuits, it is well to blend in, to attract less attention.”

  “But Master must have a caste,” I said.

  “My robes,” he said, “were I to wear them, would be white and gold.”

  “They would indeed stand out,” I said.

  “As you might suppose,” he said, “in Merchantry, particularly in high Merchantry, one may become aware of many things. One becomes familiar with routes and cities, with goods and markets, with customs and politics, with fears and rumors. One hears much, one sees much, one learns much. I have dealt with men from Torvaldsland, from Bazi, Schendi, and Turia. It became reasonably clear, in Merchant councils, met at the fairs, that scattered, unusual purchases were being made, and that caravans were occasionally being embarked for obscure destinations, which would seem outside familiar markets. Some feared the prerogatives of our caste were being eroded, others that sources of gain were being ignored, or concealed from the caste, others that mysterious doings were afoot which might warrant some investigation. I had learned of mysterious ships, and had come to know of the existence of a Kur presence on our world. Uneasy, I feared subversion, and alien intrigue. I ventured to Ar, which I thought likely to be the center of such things, if they existed. In Ar, rather inadvertently, in a tavern, from a man named Petranos, I learned of the Lady Bina and Grendel.”

  “Master frequents taverns?” I said.

  “Perhaps I will sell you to one,” he said.

  “Please do not do so,” I said.

  “I thought it advisable to look into the matter,” he said. “Meanwhile I had discerned a troublesomely attractive slave girl, who, absurdly enough, was a woman’s slave. Clearly she should have been a man’s slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, snuggling closer to him.

  “Much of the rest,” he said, “you know.”

  “Master has made contacts,” I said. “Master has been as far as Port Kar. A slave conjectures that what was learned in the Voltai has been communicated to others and may be acted upon by many who are concerned with such things.”

  “That is my understanding,” he said.

  “The matters of kaissa sheets, of plans, of subversion, have been made known,” I said.

  “I, and others, have done what we can,” he said. “I think that, by now, the councils of a hundred cities have at least been contacted. To be sure, I suspect that the faction-ridden councils of most will ignore the matter, regarding it as ludicrous, dismissing it as the unimportant, irrelevant product of farce, hoax, or hysteria, perhaps, at best, as unwarranted alarms broadcast by madmen.”

  “Master has done what he can,” I said.

  “As of now,” he said. “Meanwhile, my affairs have been long neglected.”

  “Master will to Harfax?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “In the guise of a wainwright.”

  “That is one who builds wagons, or tends to them,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Few then will suspect that he carries riches with him from the Voltai.”

  “I will buy a wagon, a tharlarion, and join a caravan,” he said.

  “Is Harfax beautiful?” I asked.

  “I find it so,” he said.

  “I shall look forward to seeing it,” I said.

  “You will first see it,” he said, “afoot, chained to the back of my wagon.”

  “I am to be chained to the back of a wagon?” I said.

  “Do you object?” he said.

  “No, Master,” I said. I had no wish to be beaten.

  “Harfax is beautiful?” I said.

  “I think so,” he said.

  “I suppose there are slaves there,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said. “Harfax is noted for the beauty of its slaves.”

  “I am jealous,” I said.

  “There will be many beautiful slaves,” he said. “Many will be for sale.”

  “Keep me, Master,” I begged.

  “See that you are worth keeping,” he said.

  “I will do my best,” I said.

  “Before we leave,” he said, “we will visit Grendel and the Lady Bina, and Astrinax, and Lykos, and perhaps some slaves.”

  “I would very much hope to do so,” I said.

  “A small feast, or two,” he said, “would be in order.”

  “There is a private dining room in the restaurant of Menon,” I said.

  “Excellent,” he said, “but I am thinking, too, of the garden behind the house.”

  “Master has pleasant memories of the garden?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “A slave is pleased,” I said.

  My master had taken much pleasure from his slave in the garden. Her feelings were unimportant, but how could she forget the grass, the smell of flowers, the wind in the leaves overhead, the strength of his arms, her helplessness, his hands, his touch, his lips, his caresses, his tongue, forcing her to endure a hundred intimacies, some anticipated, some unexpected, some imperious, some beautifully subtle. Often must her mouth be covered lest her cries, those of an uncompromisingly ravished, exploited chattel, annoy the neighborhood.

  “We might set up a table, and sit on mats,” he said.

  “But not in a certain place,” I said.

  “No,” he smiled, “not in a certain place.”

  That place, I gathered, quiet and secluded, with its soft grass and flowers, might be a private place, a very private place, one reserved for a master’s different feasting.

  “The Lady Bina may wish to entertain again,” I said.

  “I suspect so,” he said. “But eventually we must to Harfax.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “In a few days,” he said.

  “I am naked and shackled,” I said. “I am at Master’s mercy.”

  “So?” he said.

  “Is it not time for shackle check?” I asked.

  “She-sleen,” he smiled.

  “Master?” I said.

  He knelt beside me, and put his hand about my left ankle, and examined the enclosing shackle. My ankle was well grasped. I moved a little. I trembled, a little, from the closeness of my master. He then jerked the chain against the shackle ring, and then against the slave ring, set in the couch.

  He then stood up, and I put out my hand to him.

  “The slave is secured,” he said.

  “Master!” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  I put my head down. “Nothing,” I said.

  He turned away.

  “Master,” I said, frightened.

  “What is wrong?” he asked.

  I looked up.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I begin to sense,” I said, “what it might be, to be denied.”

  “Just now?” he asked.

  “Earlier, too, sometimes,” I said, “amongst the wagons, in camps, in the Voltai, in the Cave.”

 
“More so, now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You had subsided,” he said. “Now things are beginning, again.”

  “Did you do this to me?” I asked.

  “Not I alone,” he said. “You have felt such things before.”

  “Yes,” I said, uncertainly.

  “It is common,” he said. “Sometimes it begins as early as the block, your bare feet in the sawdust, the men bidding on you, you knowing that you are being sold, sometimes from as early as your first enclosure in a slave cage, you kneeling there, looking out, grasping the bars, sometimes with your stripping and the locking of the collar on your neck. Even on your old world you must have felt such things.”

  “Restlessness, desire, curiosity, a helplessness one attempted to dismiss,” I said.

  “But here it is different,” he said.

  “Here I am a slave,” I whispered.

  “You are aware of your vulnerability, of what is expected of you, of how you may now be, and must now be, what you have always wanted to be,” he said.

  “I am afraid,” I said.

  “Surely you have felt the restlessness, the agitation, the discomfort, the uneasiness of a female slave before,” he said.

  “It makes me helpless,” I said.

  “I expect your slave fires began to burn as long ago as the house of Tenalion,” he said.

  “One cannot help such things,” I said.

  “Nor should you,” he said.

  “One must try to suppress them, to deny and crush them,” I said.

  “You are no longer on Earth,” he said.

  “One must try!” I wept.

  “You are on Gor,” he said. “It is not permitted.”

  “One must try!” I said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I must crush them!”

  “You will not be able to do so.”

  “Surely you will be understanding with me, and kind to me,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “and neither will any other master.”

  How pleased I was to hear this, that I would have no choice but to be, and choicelessly so, as I wanted to be, a vulnerable slave, at my master’s mercy.