by John Norman
“Kneel,” said a stern voice, and I instantly knelt. I felt the boards of the dock on my knees. I kept my head down, and clutched the bota.
“Head up,” he said, and I was permitted to lift my head. When the head is lifted, one may commonly meet the eyes of the master.
“Tal, Laura,” he said.
“Tal, Master,” I said. All free males are Master; all free women are Mistress.
The men knew the names of several of us, who were commonly about the docks. We were often accosted in our work, called to, summoned, teased, commented upon, and such. Familiarities were often taken with us. I had often been sped on my way with a smack below the small of my back. It was common to be delayed in our duties, to be embraced, fondled, and kissed. We were, after all, slaves. It was more difficult for some former free women of Ar who were hooted at, cuffed, and jeered. The memories of men were long, particularly those who were veterans of the former occupational forces in Ar, and they wished to well impress upon the women that they were no longer proud, free, noble, and untouchable, but were now mere properties and animals, slaves.
“What have you in your bota?” he inquired.
“It is empty,” I said. Surely that was clear.
“You will replenish it,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“I saw you sold,” he said.
I had been purchased, as had many others, by agents of the Pani. There were private slaves in Tarncamp and Shipcamp, but I, like most, was one of the public slaves.
“I hope Master found me pleasing,” I said.
“I bid on you,” he said, “twenty tarsks. What did you go for?”
“Forty-eight,” I said.
“That would be about right, at the time,” he said.
“Master was seeking a bargain,” I suggested.
“Of course,” he said. “You would go for more now.”
“Master?” I asked.
“You are trimmer now,” he said, “sleeker, better toned, more alive, more beautiful, more slave.”
“I have been longer in the collar, Master,” I said.
“Doubtless you are more helpless now,” he said, “more responsive.”
I put my head down.
“One can tell such things,” he said.
I bent down and kissed his right foot, softly, and then his left. It pleased me to do this, for such a male, so strong, so powerful.
“Now,” he said, “you might go for close to a silver tarsk.”
I then knelt up. “A slave is grateful,” I said, “if Master is pleased.”
I did not dare meet his eyes. How attractive were so many Gorean men! I knew their eyes had often been upon me, and more so in the last weeks, but I, too, often cast my glances shyly, unnoticed I trust, upon them. I did not think this was different from other slaves. There are, after all, men, and there are women, and it is natural that each should feel desire, the man the desire of the master, and the woman the desire of the slave. How marvelous, I had thought, to be owned by one of them, to be the slave of just one man, to be his alone, to be his to be done with as he pleased. And often, at night, in the long, low kennel, chained with others, I would think of one particular man, one whom I recalled from long ago. Never had I forgotten him. His memory was ever with me. I did not even know his name. I had first seen him in an emporium on a far world. I had once lain at his feet, bound. I had seen him through the bars of an exhibition cage, prior to my sale. I had no doubt that he had been somehow instrumental in my transition to Gor, in my collaring. He had not recognized me in the cage. He had not even remembered me. I was nothing to him, only another beast to be acquired, to be herded about, to be bought and sold.
“And with what,” he asked, “will you replenish your bota?”
“With water, surely, Master,” I said.
He looked about, as though warily. “Mix in paga,” he said.
“It is early,” I said.
“Nonetheless,” he said.
“There is to be no paga on the dock,” I said.
“Just a little,” he said.
“There is to be no paga on the dock,” I said.
I dared to look up at him, and then quickly turned my eyes away, down. I feared he was not pleased. I was not a paga girl. This was not a tavern. I could be lashed for even approaching a paga vat. “We are not to be used on the dock,” I whispered.
“Fear not, pretty tasta,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I begged.
“Will you try?” he asked.
I was terribly afraid.
“Well?” he asked.
“I will try,” I whispered.
“It seems you should be lashed,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“Do you not know that there is to be no paga on the dock?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, confused.
“Then why would you fetch some?” he asked.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Do you want to be lashed?” he asked.
“No, Master!” I said.
He slapped his knee, and laughed, uproariously. I now saw two other men about, and they, too, were amused.
I reddened.
“On your way!” he laughed.
I sprang up, tears in my eyes, and fled down the dock, away from the men. I heard them laughing behind me.
I later, in anger, in acute frustration and chagrin, recounted this incident, in all its humiliation, to Relia and Janina. “Do not be concerned,” said Relia. “You are becoming more attractive. The men are noticing you. I have seen heads turn as you pass.” “It is a joke,” said Janina. “We are poor kajirae. The men make sport of us; they frighten us, they tease us.” “They mean no harm,” said Relia. “They cannot use you. It is a way of having to do with you. It is a way of flirting.”
I wondered if he whom I well remembered, he who had so obviously dismissed and forgotten me, that mighty figure, would have behaved so. I supposed so. Doubtless he, too, the handsome, virile, monster, would have laughed. Doubtless he, too, would think nothing of using me, a poor, kneeling, frightened, half-clad kajira, for his amusement. Perhaps he, too, might have designed so cruel a jest, or even one more amusing. We were so utterly helpless. We were slaves. Relia had suggested that they were flirting with me. I wondered if that were true. If they had owned me, they would not have bothered with such things. They would have merely put me to their purposes. I wondered if I were truly becoming more attractive. If it were so, I certainly did not object. Certainly the more appealing, the more beautiful, the more pleasing a slave is, the better is likely to be her life and lot. Certainly she hopes to be pleasing to her master, and strives to be so. She hopes to be a good slave. Too, she does not wish to be lashed.
Two days later, I was halted in my work, and knelt, on the dock, in the presence of a stately fellow with blue robes, who carried a clipboard. He was of the caste of Scribes. He was followed by two men at arms.
“Your lot number, in Brundisium,” he said, scanning the board, with its attached papers, “was 119.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You are Laura,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”
“Barbarian,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Stand,” he said, “and cross your wrists behind you.”
One complies.
In a moment my wrists were tied together, behind my back. This accentuates the figure, more than a frontal tie. Too, it is stimulatory, as the captive is more helpless, and more vulnerably displayed. The free end of the rope was then brought about, and looped twice and knotted about my throat. Enough rope, some five or six feet was left, to serve as a leash.
I did not understand what was occurring. I was frightened.
“May I speak?” I asked.
“No,” I was told.
“Take her to the end of the dock and back,” the Scribe said.
In our journey
we passed several workmen, and some slaves. Some of the workmen struck their left shoulder with their right hand. Others grinned. “Nice,” said one. “Excellent,” said another. Some of the slaves seemed amused, and then turned away, again, to their tasks.
At last, I was returned to where I had originally been knelt, near the eastern end of the long dock. The scribe and the other armsmen were there.
“Master,” I begged the Scribe, “may I speak?”
“No,” he said. Then he said to the armsman who had the care of my rude leash. “Take her to the slave house.”
“No!” I had begged. “No! Please, no!”
“She is a shapely slut,” he said. “Let it be done.”
I was then led on my leash from the dock.
How aware I then was of the collar on my neck!
***
“Gently,” he said, “gently.”
“Master!” I protested.
His hands were strong, and I knew myself slave, only slave. How faraway now was my former world, my former self!
I must reassert myself, I thought, wildly. I cannot be this! I cannot be here, in the darkness, on a chain! How strong his hands were! How helpless I was in his grasp!
No, no, I thought, and then yes, yes, please.
We are removed, from time to time, we are changed. Even since I was here, girls had come and gone.
“Oh!” I said.
“Good,” he said.
I wanted to resist, and I did not want to resist.
I cannot be this, I thought, but I knew it was what I was. My thigh was marked, clearly, incisively. Clearly there was no mistaking that. I wore a heavy metal collar, to which was attached a chain, fixed to a stout ring, anchored at the side of my mat. Beneath that collar was a light, close-fitting metal collar. It was there, visible, locked, even when I might be up and about the camp, being summoned, fetching and carrying, cleaning, laundering, ironing, digging roots, picking berries, tidying, being about whatever duties might be given me. And there would be the tunic, so exciting to men, in which I felt so exposed, and so vulnerable! Well was I displayed for their perusal! I scratched at the mat, tears in my eyes. And how exciting were such things to me, as well, the mark, the collar, the tunic! How right they seemed to me! How female I felt, marked, collared, and tunicked, how much then a distinctive, lovely part of nature, so different from men!
How could I have felt more woman?
And how thrilled I was, so set forth. Never on my world had I felt so female, so woman! Here I was what I was, at last, gladly, rightfully, woman, owned, helpless, slave!
No, I thought, no! I must escape. I must escape!
“Oh, oh!” I said.
“Easy, little vulo,” he said.
“Ai!” I said.
“We are going to fly, are we not, little vulo?” he asked.
“You have done enough to me,” I said. “Let me subside!”
“I am curious to see what you are,” he said.
I felt myself lifted, turned about, and thrust down, on my back, for his convenience, as the meaningless object, and animal, I was.
“I will show you what I am!” I cried, angrily, rearing up.
I was thrust back, rudely.
I was given three strokes of the switch. I recoiled beneath them, turned to my side, and tried to make myself small.
“Forgive me, Master!” I begged.
He laid aside the switch, but it was at hand.
“Let us see what may be done with you,” he said.
He was patient, and his hands were strong. His touch was sure. Gorean, he was well practiced in the handling of slaves. He had perhaps had hundreds of helpless slaves at his mercy, as I was now. How could we help ourselves, even if it were permitted?
I whimpered a little, and then, suddenly, gasped.
“Yes,” he said, “someday you will be a hot little urt.”
A whimper escaped me.
“One day,” he said, “you will crawl to men, begging, the bondage knot in your hair.”
Surely not, surely not, I thought.
“You are not a fine, noble, proud, free Gorean woman,” he said. “You are only a barbarian.”
Did he think Gorean women any different, I wondered. Did he not know we were all women? Did he not understand that in this very slave house almost all the slaves, perhaps all but I, writhing, bucking, begging, crying out, pleading, had been such “fine, noble, proud, free Gorean women”? Doubtless he meant free women, women not yet collared. There, I supposed, was a dramatic difference. I had had no encounters with Gorean free women, but I had been much apprised by my instructresses, and many fellow slaves, of their alleged nature. These putative informants had entertained what I supposed to be not only a dim, but a radically distorted, and, I hoped, a certainly extreme view, of Gorean free women, regarding them to be haughty, short-tempered, impatient, supercilious, rigid, demanding, unbending, arrogant, boastful, pretentious, hostile, suspicious, cruel, severe, unhappy, unfulfilled, egotistical, and self-centered. Perhaps this evaluation, insofar as it might pertain to anyone, pertained only to certain free women of the high cities, and, perhaps then, of the higher castes. I did not know. I did think it likely that Gorean free women, given the culture, were probably far more conscious of their position and status, of their freedom, their exalted station, and such, than those of my former world. Consequently their reduction to slavery, a condition alleged to be universally despised, would seem to constitute, culturally, a cataclysmic reversal in fortune, one likely to be particularly traumatic and devastating. On the other hand, many, it is said, “court the collar,” and it seems to be the case that “free captures,” in their hundreds or thousands, as in the wars, the raids of slavers, the seizures of caravans, the depredations of pirates, the fall of cities, and such, once collared, once owned, find fulfillments until then no more than suspected. In any event, Gorean or barbarian, we were all women, and once collared, once owned, it seemed there was little to choose between us. Certainly we went for similar prices.
“Yes,” he said, “you will crawl to men.”
I suddenly feared I might.
Were slave fires growing in me? Surely not! What if they should begin to rage? I would be their victim, and prisoner! How helpless I would be! I recalled slaves pleading for the touch of a guard, begging to be brought soon to the block.
At the first opportunity, I thought, before it is too late, while I yet retain a shred of my former self, I must attempt to escape! But who would want to escape, I thought. What had freedom to offer, which might compare with the fulfillments of belonging to, of being possessed by, a master? I had heard of slaves, pathetic collared animals, mere properties, who had undertaken long journeys, undergone terrible hardships, and braved fearful dangers, to find their way back to the feet of a master.
I suddenly, unexpectedly, moaned.
I felt my hips lift, pathetically.
“Steady,” he said. “Wait.”
“Oh,” I said. “Please, now!”
“Soon,” he said, softly, soothingly.
I began to whimper, pleadingly.
“What shall we do with you?” he asked.
I was about to speak, to cry out, to beg, but his hand cupped itself over my mouth. I looked up at him, in the light of the taper. My eyes must have been wild, pleading, over his hand. “Beware,” he said. “Think before you speak.” He then removed his hand from over my mouth. “You may now speak,” he said. “What is your wish?”
“That it be done with me as master pleases,” I whispered.
“Only that?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” I sobbed. “Yes, Master!”
I was sweating, and quivering, in expectation. My body was alive, my belly begging.
I tensed.
He must not leave me so! Please, Master, I thought. Do not leave me so!
I did not know him, save that he was now my master. I knew him not, not from the market, not from the dungeon, not from the ship, not from the camp, not
from the dock.
He could be anyone, and I could be any slave.
Surely it was not he for whom I longed in whose power I was. It was not he whose voice it seemed I had heard a hundred times, only to discover myself mistaken, not he whose image I had conjured up so often, he before whom I had hastened to kneel in my dreams. It was not he in whose power I longed to lie helpless, whose voice and image had so often figured in my hopes and heart. I recalled him from the emporium on my former world, from a warehouse, from an exposition cage! It was on his chain that I longed to yield; it was in his ropes that I yearned to find myself cast on the altar of his lust, a helpless offering to his mightiness.
No, no, I thought. I must hate them all, all, even he whom I had unsuccessfully attempted to banish from my least thoughts. How I must hate him, I thought. Was it not he who brought me choiceless to this world, on which I was marked, collared, and sold! Was it not he who had brought me even to this chain, to this degradation, to this rude, primitive place, on a far world?
What fate is this, I asked myself.
How could one such as I, intelligent, educated, refined, sensitive, proud, be here?
“You are ready,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered. Be merciful, Master, I thought. Do not leave me like this!
“I wonder if you think yourself a free woman,” he said.
“Master?” I said.