by John Norman
The tiers were now half emptied. Men brushed past me, to climb the steps to the exits. Attendants, below and to the sides, waited to extinguish the torches. I could see four or five figures below, and at the side of the block, the left, as we faced it, at the foot of its stairs. These would be the last to be sold.
“Twenty, twenty, twenty?” called the auctioneer.
The item had been clearly identified as a first-sale barbarian. She was brown-haired and brown-eyed. Nothing special there. Auburn hair is usually prized in the markets. Had she been auburn she would doubtless have been placed in the third or fourth segment of the sale. Her measurements had been publicized. Such measurements include not only those for hips, waist, and bosom, but those for ankle, wrist, and throat, these relevant to wrist rings, ankle rings, and collar. Her progress in Gorean, to date, was proclaimed to be excellent. I was pleased. This bespoke high intelligence. Intelligence is a major criterion in terms of which we select slaves. Who would wish a stupid slave? The intelligent slave learns her master’s language quickly, learns swiftly how to please him, and perfectly, in all ways, and, being intelligent, is more likely to be in tune with her basic femaleness, and its profound needs. She is the first to lick and kiss the chains which bind her.
“Twenty, twenty, yes, twenty-five,” called the auctioneer. “Thirty, thirty?”
Not unexpectedly the slave was red-silk. Sometimes white-silkers cost more, though for no reason that seems clear. Who cares about such things in the case of a slave? Is the virginity of a tarsk or verr of interest? Who cares who is first to open them?
Then casually, unexpectedly, the auctioneer, behind the slave, his left hand in her hair, holding her head back a bit, gently, but firmly, with the blades of the coiled whip, subjected her to the “slaver’s caress.”
She shrieked with misery, and twisted, and leaped.
“Stop, stop!” she cried.
But the gentle touch, firm and implacable, was relentless. She rose to the tips of her toes, as though she would withdraw from the touch. Then she kicked out, wildly, protestingly, and would have lost her footing was it not for the hand in her hair. She tried to turn and face the auctioneer, but, as she was held, could not do so. She was then held before the tiers, facing them, squirming, helpless, sobbing. “No, no, no!” she begged. There was laughter from those remaining in the tiers.
“Please, no!” she begged.
“‘Please, no’, what?” asked the auctioneer.
“Please, no, Master!” she cried. “Please, no, Master! Master!”
He released her and she, her body a wracked, scarlet, sobbing hue, went to her knees in the sawdust, shaking her head, covering her face with her hands.
Several of those remaining in the tiers laughed at the discomfiture of the slave.
As I had conjectured, the item was excellently responsive. Such things raise a girl’s price. It was interesting to speculate what she might be like, once well in a collar.
“Thirty-five!” called a man.
“Thirty-six!” called another.
I was pleased the auctioneer had not punished her for her lapse. The slave, of course, addresses all free men as ‘Master’, all free women as ‘Mistress’.
She was on her knees on the block, sobbing.
Surely a slave must realize that a potential buyer is interested in all a slave’s properties.
Why was she upset, that she had been shown to be healthy, and vital?
I then recalled she came from a world in which frigidity and inertness were esteemed, at least publicly, in which formality, withdrawal, hesitation, reticence, fear, and an inability to feel were reckoned matters of merit. So might a kaiila be praised for lameness, a sleen for the inability to track even a wounded tabuk, a tarn for not daring to spread its wings and fly.
“Forty-five!” called a fellow from the tiers, below me and to my right.
She finally went for forty-eight, forty-eight copper tarsks. I had conjectured that she would bring, as a first sale girl, and a barbarian, a half tarsk, half a silver tarsk. She had fallen short of this by two full copper tarsks, but I was not disappointed. Markets vary. She might just as well have brought a tarsk plus two, two copper tarsks over a silver tarsk. When she had been presented, many buyers had left, and, of those remaining, the purses of several might have been earlier lightened. Professional buyers, speculators, tavern keepers, camp suppliers, and such, often buy more than one item.
She was purchased by an agent, one bidding on behalf of those strangely garbed fellows who had apparently been mistaken, by some, for Tuchuks.
I climbed the stairs, and exited the emporium.
I recalled that her lot number had been 119.
Chapter Five
How could he think I would not recognize him!
Had I never forgotten him, even from Earth, when I saw him, in the aisle, but a few feet away? I feared it was he, he of my dreams. I felt myself small and helpless, and what I was, female, radically and only female, weakly female, helplessly female, and I knew myself incomparably less than he. Who would want to relate otherwise to a man? And who could relate otherwise to such a man? Why had I never felt this way before other men? I felt him different from the men I had known, so different! I was suddenly aware, as I had not been before, of the radical centrality of sex to the human condition, the mighty division and chasm which separates the sexes. How real it was! How simple it was to see, once looked upon, once dared to be looked upon. I felt as though the lies of my acculturation were collapsing about me. Would he find me of interest? I feared so. What would he do with me? I feared I knew. He had turned. Our eyes had met. I had felt myself not merely seen, but considered, appraised. I felt myself looked upon not simply as a female, even one small, weak, and helpless, but as what I had so often thought myself to be, beyond that, a slave. Surely he could not know my secret thoughts, the nature of my most inadmissible, my most fearful, and fulfilling, dreams. Never had I known a man who had so looked upon me. Under his glance I felt seen, truly seen, for the first time. I felt stripped by that look. How different we are from men, from such men! How he was seeing me! Did he conjecture me naked, frightened, crouching at his feet, at a ring, bound for whipping, on a platform, exhibited before buyers? I fought the mad impulse to kneel before him, lowering my head. I feared to be punished. I strove to study him, but was not well able to do so. I was trembling. I knew I could not have spoken to him, without faltering, without stammering, even if I had wished to do so. And perhaps I would not have been permitted to do so, not without permission. As our eyes had met, I should have smiled, approached him, and, as we are trained to do, asked if I might be of service. “May I help you, sir?” I could not do so. I felt as though it was improper, somehow, to be standing in his presence. That might be acceptable, even, appropriate, for some women, but, I suspected, not for me, not for a woman such as I. I tried to break this odd spell in which I felt myself bound. Should it not be easy enough to do? Was he not merely another modern man, another approved man, another permitted man, another joke on masculinity, another travesty on, and betrayal of, what might have been? How many bodies looked like those of men, and proved no more than a facade, behind which lay a shambles, pusillanimity or nothing. Surely many men would be as tall, as large, as narrow-waisted and broadly shouldered, as muscular, as darkly handsome, as large handed, as he. What then was different about him? He appeared agile, and strong, but do not many? How might he make his living? What skills might he have? I wondered about that. He seemed misplaced in this time, in this place. I thought he might seem one less familiar with escalators than mountains, less at home with engines and calculators than with horses and falcons, than with fire, bows, and steel. There seemed something about him of a foreign flavor. Had he spoken I would not have been surprised if I had detected the trace of an accent, but he did not speak. I tried to be amused that he wore his clothing awkwardly. It seemed tailored, and yet, somehow, ill-fitting. He did not seem at ease in it, certainly. Perhaps he would h
ave preferred something less confining, something in which a man might move freely, with speed, and assurance.
He looked upon me.
I sensed he saw me as other men had not.
I sensed that he saw the slave within my garments.
How frightening it was to be so seen, so recognized, for what I was!
Surely I had misunderstood.
It could not be!
Then, at last, frightened, I had turned, broken away, and hurried, indeed fled, between the counters, the goods, the shoppers, to the other side of the store. My haste, I fear, attracted attention. I gasped for breath. That fearful moment, the interval of our interaction, brief but seemingly prolonged, which had seemed oddly fixed in time and space, must be swept away, and forgotten as soon as possible.
But I had been unable to forget.
How could I forget those keen, dark, quiet eyes which had so surveyed me, seeing me as I had sensed I had never been seen before?
Did he seem amused, that I might stand in his presence, presenting myself as though I might be a free woman?
I suspected he knew better.
Days I had spent, uneasy, distracted, ill at ease, remembering, struggling to brush aside the cruel insistencies of recollection; how often I censured myself for my misunderstandings, my foolishness. How easy it is to misconstrue and magnify the smallest incidents, the most meaningless things! Yet, too, somehow, I sensed the matter was not done. I had the odd sensation, from time to time, that I might be the subject of inquiries, that I might be under surveillance. Perhaps photos had been taken. Perhaps somewhere, in one place or another, I had been filmed, perhaps more than once. I dismissed, as I could, such apprehensions as unfounded, even absurd. But, too, at the same time, I found that my curiosity was engaged, and my vanity piqued. Might it be true that I was watched? I did not think so, but I thought I would play a game, one which might be amusing, one which might show me the absurdity of my fears. I would meet the matter directly, and pretend to myself that I was truly under surveillance, that I was beautiful enough and desirable enough to be subjected to such scrutiny. Accordingly, I began to give more attention to my appearance than was customary. I purchased new outfits and shoes. I was attentive to my movements and my expressions. It is a simple thing to sit and rise, to stand, turn, and walk with grace. Certainly I would not dare do otherwise now, here. And I probably could not, even if I wished it, given the training. It becomes a part of one, as one is changed. It is a simple thing, too, of course, to smile, to speak clearly, and listen attentively. And so, I thought, in a variety of ways, I would act a part, and thus diminish, and then dismiss, my concerns. What could not be I would pretend was. If I were not truly beautiful, I would act as though I was, even to insolence and defiance; if I was not desirable, I would act as though I was, even to arousing interest and then, mockingly, frustrating it. And so I gave attention to my figure, with diet and exercise, gave attention to my hair, improved my makeup, enlarged my wardrobe, and made it a point to dress flatteringly. I was careful now with respect to my posture, my speech, and demeanor, and carried my head high, as might a lofty, frigid free woman. How meretricious that was, as I knew myself, in my heart, a slave. My head should have been bowed! And I should have feared the lash! But it was a game, a form of acting, you must understand. Was I not legally free! I was free! I behaved so, as I did, you must understand, merely in order to mitigate my fears, to face, taunt, defy, and deny them, to ridicule them, to prove them groundless, only that. How horrifying then if, despite my intentions, so well-meaning and innocent, it might have been this very charade which has brought me to my chains, in a Gorean dungeon, awaiting shipment, with others, we know not where. I do know we are near the docks, for I can hear waves washing against pilings, and smell the sea. We are naked, the chains are heavy. They are on our necks, our wrists and ankles. But forgive me, Masters. Forgive my vain heart. What have I done? I know I am not permitted to lie. Free women may lie, but not I. Why, truly, had I behaved as I did, so blatantly, so insolently, so provocatively? I wished, of course, as I now understand, to interest and intrigue possible watchers. I wanted to impress them. Did they know that? I suspect they did. Perhaps they were amused. Surely slave dispositions are important in being a slave. Should not those who should be slaves make the best slaves? Why should we fight our slave dispositions? Why should we pretend to be other than we are, better than we are? I suppose it is clear then why I acted as I did. I did not truly act in order to confront and overcome fear, but, rather, to display myself. If I were under surveillance, truly, and it might be so, I could hope that I wished to be found pleasing. I wished the report to be favorable. Even the pretense to freedom, arrogance, contempt, inaccessibility, frigidity, and such, was intended to be provocative. I supposed some men might enjoy taking such a woman in hand, and turning her into a stripped, collared, humbled, aroused, begging slave.
I think I played my role well.
But how alien it was to my needs.
How strange that I, lonely, lost in my uncaring world, aching for the touch of a man, should have pretended to indifference, disdain, and contempt!
I think I was closer to myself than many, and nearer to the feet of a master.
For several days I continued the game, growing, for no reason I clearly understood at the time, ever less hopeful, and more despondent. Surely I should be much pleased. Surely I had been successful. I had shown to myself that there was nothing to fear, that my apprehensions and concerns had been groundless. How relieved, and pleased, I should be! Did I understand then what I had truly been doing, what I really wanted? I do not think so. I understand now. Then, one night, clutching my pillow, bursting into tears, I ended the game, realizing its meaninglessness and futility, and accepted, sorrowing, the drabness, the boredom, the pointlessness, the impoverishment, the emptiness, the reality of my life.
How pathetic that I, a forlorn, wandering slave, should find myself on a world without masters. How was it that one such as I had been born here, in this place, in this time? Must it not be a mistake? I was not, and did not wish to be, an identical, a neuter, an artifact, a product, a role, an adversary, an enemy, a foe. I had striven to be these things, what I was not, what I was told to be, what was prescribed for me, but I had failed. I found myself exiled in my native land.
Surely the commands were clear.
My body obeyed them, my heart could not.
I truly believe he did not think I recognized him.
Did he think me stupid?
I am not stupid. I am intelligent, I think quite intelligent. Do they not want us so?
Surely an intelligent woman should bring a higher price, should be worth more in a collar, a slave collar.
Several days after ending my “game,” after dismissing, as I could, the incident of the store which had so unaccountably stirred, troubled, and startled me, which had so foolishly stimulated and intrigued me, I returned, reconciled and resigned, to my old life, with its habits, predictabilities, and routines. From time to time, of course, I recalled the incident. It was not easy to forget. It idled its way through daydreams, and, more than once, recurred in my dreams, from which I, seemingly rooted in place and unable to flee, would abruptly waken.
I wondered how such dreams might have continued, had I dared to permit them to do so.
One night, I returned home, a Wednesday evening in November, a cool night, late from the store, for we had been open later than usual, for a sale, prepared a small supper, and then, weary from the day, retired. I am not clear what occurred then. It was perhaps the following morning that I awakened, but I am not sure. It may have been days later. It no longer seemed fall, or the same clime. I do not know. In some cases it is apparently days later. Similarly, transportation must be involved, of one extent or another. In any event I was awakening. I was half conscious. I stirred uneasily. Something, it seemed, was quite different. “This one is awakening,” said a voice, in English. I was startled for it was a man’s voice. I supposed myself
still dreaming. Then I was not sure. Then I realized I was not dreaming. I was naked, and on my stomach, lying on a hard, wooden floor. I half cried out, a tiny, frightened noise, and went to rise, but a foot on my back pressed down, pinning me to the floor. “Be silent,” said a voice. I was held in place, the boot on my back. Then, after a moment, it was removed. I did not move. I remained still, terrified. I sensed that I was not alone on the floor. There were other bodies about, some supine, some prone. All were female, and all were unclothed, as I, wholly. Some were clearly bound. “Cross your ankles,” said the voice, “and cross your wrists, behind your back, and look to your left.” I did so. I heard one girl scream, and begin to cry out, and then I heard an unmistakable sound, though one I had not heard before, the snapping of a lash on flesh, twice. There was then silence. I understood nothing of what was occurring. I remained in the position in which I had been placed. I must have remained in that position for several minutes, and then I sensed a man crouching near me. Loops of a light, silken cord, like lightning, were whipped about my wrists, and they were tethered together, and, a moment later, my ankles were similarly served. It had all been done with a swiftness, security, and assurance which must have betokened an almost thoughtless familiarity with such matters. Then the fellow was away, attending to another. I tested my bonds. I was helpless, absolutely helpless. Later, I was turned to my back by a man’s foot, shod in one of those thong-wound, sandal-like boots. He looked down upon me, naked, supine, and bound, at his feet. “A half tarsk,” he said, absently, in English. I did not understand him. Then he looked away. It was he, he from the store, from weeks earlier. I recognized him, of course. Had I not seen him a thousand times, in recollections, in casual reveries, in dreams? But I had not before lain at his feet, naked and bound. A bit later, a small ceremony, or what I took to be a small ceremony, was enacted. A coiled whip was placed to my lips. I was told to kiss the whip, and say, ‘La kajira’, with which instructions I readily complied. Had I not earlier heard the snapping of a whip? I feared it, and did not wish to feel it. Yet, too, and more importantly, and interestingly, though I hardly dared admit it to myself at the time, I was thrilled to place my lips, tenderly, submissively, on that imperious, stern leather. I was frightened, but, too, I felt somehow privileged to do so. I suspected the whip was held to the lips of few. The whip, clearly, was an image of, a symbol of, the mastery. Might a slave then not appropriately express and acknowledge her submission, her deference, her gratitude, her acceptance of, her celebration of, the unqualified, uncompromised might of the mastery, for which she had for so long yearned? Had I not waited years, surely since puberty, for such an opportunity? So I kissed the whip for the first time, lying on my back, naked and bound, lifting my head, kissed it tenderly, gratefully, submissively. Commonly the whip is kissed while one kneels. I did not know the meaning of the words ‘La kajira’, but it was not difficult, under the circumstances, to speculate on their nature. They would be, incidentally, the first words I would learn in my new language, Gorean, the language of my masters. Both ‘Lo kajirus’ and ‘La kajira’ may be translated “I am a slave.” ‘Lo kajirus’ is masculine; ‘La kajira’ is feminine. Accordingly, the first would be understood as “I am a male slave,” and the second as “I am a female slave.” Perhaps the best translation into English of ‘La kajira’, considering the contempt in which we are held, as we are vendible work and pleasure animals, might be “I am a slave girl.”