by John Norman
“We could not interfere,” said Emerald. “Darla and Tuza are stronger, quicker. They would kill us.”
“Tuza drugged Darla,” said Hiza.
“What a brave way to challenge for leadership,” said Donna. “Are javelins in the forest no longer in order; are sticks no longer available to draw a killing circle, a circle of decision, in the camp?”
“Away, slave!” said Tuza.
“You are in the presence of free persons,” screamed Darla. “Kneel, as befits a slave!”
But Donna remained on her feet. “This is Tuza’s switch,” she said. “I remember it well. I felt it often enough on the trek to the selling poles.”
“She does not kneel,” said Tuza, frightened.
“She is to be freed, for finding us,” Darla whispered.
“It is her reward,” said Tuza.
“Of course,” said Darla.
At that point the leader gave a great laugh, and stepped forward. He put out his hand and Donna immediately surrendered the switch to him, and knelt at his side.
“Do you wish to be freed?” he asked, looking down at her, possessively.
“No, Master,” she said. “Please do not free me!”
“Have no fear,” he said.
“Would you free me, Master,” she asked, “if I begged to be freed?”
“No,” he said.
“Good,” she said.
“You are too beautiful, too exciting, too desirable, to be freed,” he said.
“I hope to please my master,” she said.
She then held his leg, and licked his thigh.
“Slave!” said Tuza.
“Disgusting!” said Darla.
“I am a slave,” she said. “It fulfills me to lick my master’s thigh.”
“Yes,” whispered Emerald, softly.
“Who knows,” said Donna to Tuza and Darla, “the time may come when you two will beg to lick a master’s thigh.”
Emerald moaned, softly.
“What is wrong with you?” Hiza asked Emerald.
“Do not be concerned, Hiza,” said Donna. “There is a nice turn to your belly, and, in time, your hair will grow out.”
“I cut it short!” she said.
“Who knows?” said Donna. “A master might not permit that.”
Hiza shrank back a bit in her bonds, and pulled at the laces confining her wrists behind her back.
“Perhaps,” said Donna, “you will long for longer hair, that you may be more pleasing to him.”
The leader then motioned that Donna should rise. She did so. He then returned the switch to her.
This was regarded with some apprehension by the prisoners, as the switch may easily be taken not simply as an instrument of improvement, and such, but a symbol of authority.
“Put them in close shackles,” said the leader, “and then free their hands. Keep the rope on their necks. If they attempt to remove it, cut off their hands.”
Shortly thereafter the ankles of each prisoner had been shackled. The play of chain would allow them only small steps. Their hands were then freed. They remained kneeling, in coffle.
Donna stood over them, switch in hand.
“Do you think it wise,” said Tuza, rubbing her wrists, “that we should be granted such freedom? We are Panther Women.”
“Do you still think you are Panther Women?” asked Donna.
“Of course,” said Tuza.
“Interesting,” said Donna.
“Are we not?” asked Tuza.
“No,” said Donna.
“You would dare to grant us the freedom of our hands?” said Tuza.
“Yes,” said Donna.
“But why?” asked Tuza.
“That you might busy yourselves about the camp,” she said.
“I do not understand,” said Tuza.
“There are many things to do,” said Donna. “Water is to be fetched, berries are to be picked, wood is to be gathered, the fire is to be tended, meals are to be prepared, the camp is to be tidied, soft boughs are to be gathered for the men to recline upon, many things.”
“You cannot be serious,” said Tuza.
“We are free women,” said Darla.
“We dare not go into the forest shackled, naked, and unarmed,” said Tuza. “There are wild tarsk, sleen, forest bosk, panthers!”
“A man will accompany you,” said Donna. “He will protect you. Your lives will be in his hands, completely.”
“Give us clothing,” said Tuza. “Men look upon us with impunity.”
“It is much like being a slave, is it not?” asked Donna.
“Give us back at least the shreds of our forest raiment, that it be resewn, that we may be covered,” said Darla.
“You would be again presumptuously and arrogantly garmented in the skins of beasts, as though you were men, proud hunters and rovers?” said Donna.
“Please,” said Tuza.
“You are no longer entitled to such pretenses and posturings,” said Donna. “Your garmenture henceforth, if garmenture is permitted to you, will be in accord with your sex.”
“Not the bundling absurdities inflicted on allegedly free women!” said Tuza.
“No!” cried Darla. “You would not dare to put us in such degrading garments, so enveloping, so cumbersome, so abundant, so hobbling, so layered, with hoods and veils, the garments of small, soft creatures of interest to men, educated, perfumed, pampered, and refined, meaningless, weak little animals, conforming little animals, mindlessly trapped in the cages of convention.”
“When such come to us, we sell them,” scoffed Tuza.
“Men like them,” said Darla. “They crawl nicely under the whip. They are pretty in chains.”
“They are not large, strong, hard, and coarse,” said Tuza.
“Do you think me hard and coarse?” asked Donna.
“No longer,” said Tuza, scornfully. “Now you are soft!”
“I like being soft,” said Donna.
“Slave!” said Tuza.
“And you, too, are soft,” said Donna.
“No!” said Tuza and Darla.
“Regard yourself in a mirror, your reflection in still water,” said Donna.
“Do not put us in the garmenture of the women of the cities,” said Tuza.
“We will not wear such degrading, colorful, cumbersome, lengthy, inhibiting, silken things, the vanities and affectations of weak, meaningless women,” said Darla.
“Then, go naked,” said Donna.
“No!” wept Tuza.
“We might wear such things, perhaps for a time!” said Darla.
“Surely,” laughed Donna, “you do not think we carry about the wardrobes of free women in the forest.”
“Cruel slave!” said Tuza.
“Such things were never an option,” wept Darla.
“Certainly not,” said Donna.
“You are clothed!” said Tuza.
“If you can call it that,” said Darla.
“My master has permitted it,” said Donna. “Do you like it? Is it not attractive? It is easy to move in such a garment.”
“It is scarcely a scrap of cloth,” said Tuza.
“It is enough for me,” said Donna. “It is appropriate for me. I am a slave.”
“Clothe us!” begged Tuza.
“With what?” asked Donna.
Tuza, turning, on her knees, pointed to us. “There!” she said.
“But there are only three tunics there,” she said.
“One for me,” said Tuza, “one for Darla, and let Emerald and Hiza cast a moistened pebble for the last.”
“You would be willing to wear the rags of slaves?” asked Donna.
I doubt that Tula and Mila, any more than I, were pleased at this turn of discourse. Perhaps slaves are not permitted modesty, but few of us are without it. It is perhaps a bit like curiosity, which is supposedly unbecoming to a kajira, but who of us is without it? Certainly few of us would relish public nudity. Indeed, that is sometimes use
d as a discipline, sending us on errands so, and such. Our garmenture is precious to us, and we strive to be worthy of it. Indeed, Gorean slaves, even pleasure slaves, are often clothed far more modestly than many free women of my former world. Much of this is cultural, of course. A simple example would be veiling. Statistically, few women on my former world veil their features, but, on Gor, free women, particularly of upper caste, commonly veil themselves in public. On Gor a woman’s lips are commonly regarded as sexually stimulatory. Thus veiling is common. On the other hand, slaves are not permitted veiling. They may not conceal their lips. Their lips, in all their erotic provocativeness, are to be publicly visible. They are slaves. Interestingly, nudity is not that unusual on Gor amongst manual laborers on hot days. It is more familiar than, and one thinks less of it than, the occasional, usually rare, public nudity of female slaves. Even paga girls are normally clothed, save in the alcoves. In private, in the confines of her master’s domicile, of course, the slave may or may not be clothed. Some masters like to have a slave clothed, and others not. If she is clothed, of course, then the master may have the pleasure of removing the clothing. My own tunic, for example, like many, had a disrobing loop at its left shoulder. This is convenient for most men, as they are right-handed. Others, it seems, enjoy seeing their property about, clad only in its collar.
“But,” said Donna, “you have not earned a tunic.”
“We are free women,” said Darla.
“I think it is time for us to be about our work,” said Donna. “I think the first thing for us to do will be to gather soft boughs for the masters, that they may the better rest upon retiring. Then we may draw water, and fetch wood.”
“Never!” said Tuza.
Then she cried out with pain as Donna savagely struck her, four times, with the switch she carried. Tuza bent down, low, her body trembling, her hands over her head, her hair to the dirt, and began to cry.
Two or three of the men about looked over, but none made any attempt to interfere.
Donna gave Tuza two more strokes.
I was in consternation. I was frightened. A slave is not to strike a free person. A slave’s hands, and ears, and nose may be cut off. It is often regarded as a capital offense.
“A free woman has been struck!” Darla shouted to the men about. “A free woman has been struck by a slave, by a slave!”
The leader, who was in converse with two of his men, turned about, annoyed. “Beat her,” he said.
“Bend over,” said Donna to Darla, “grasp your right wrist with your left hand, head to the dirt!”
“Please, no,” said Darla.
Donna then struck her four times, with measured strokes.
“But we are free women,” wept Darla.
“Perhaps you are not free women,” said Donna.
“But we are free women!” cried Tuza.
“If you are free women,” said Donna, “you are captures, and, if so, you will not be the first free women to have felt the switch of a slave. It will help you to learn discipline, and prepare you for the collar.”
“I will not be collared,” cried Tuza. “I will never wear the collar!”
“You may not have the opportunity,” said Donna.
“What?” said Tuza.
“Well, Mistresses,” said Donna, turning to Emerald and Hiza, “do you wish to feel the switch?”
“No,” said Emerald.
“No,” said Hiza.
“Then kiss it,” said Donna, “to show your fear of it, and your respect for it.”
“Never!” said Hiza.
The switch was then thrust to her lips, and Hiza, sullenly, kissed it. “Lick it, as well,” said Donna, not pleasantly.
I then watched the small, soft tongue of Hiza applying itself reluctantly, but obediently, to the supple instrument of discipline and authority.
The switch was then held a few inches before the face of Emerald, who bent forward and kissed it, and then, unbidden, licked it, carefully, delicately, tenderly. Emerald, I thought, is already in the collar.
How she might have driven a man mad with passion.
What a fine price she might bring!
“Like slaves!” said Tuza, regarding Hiza and Emerald with contempt.
“You, next,” said Donna to Tuza, and the switch was thrust against her lips.
“No!” said Tuza.
“Now,” said Donna.
Tuza then, as had Hiza and Emerald, kissed the switch. She was not required to do more. Perhaps it was felt that a tongue such as hers was unworthy of the switch.
“Mistress,” said Donna, to Darla, and Darla, then, as had Tuza, kissed the switch. She, too, was not required to do more.
“Suppose,” said Donna to the prisoners, “it had been not I, but a male who had held the switch.”
I saw from the reaction of Tuza and Darla that they had some sense of what the difference would have been. Are not men the natural masters? Too, men are seldom patient with us. Emerald trembled, and the knees of Hiza moved, uneasily in the dirt.
Memories flooded back upon me, as I had witnessed the preceding ritual. I recalled a warehouse, on a far world, when not a switch, but a whip, had been held before me, as I had lain on my back, bound helplessly, and I had lifted my head a little, and kissed it. “La Kajira,” I had said, as I had been bidden. At the time I did not know what it meant. I would soon learn. Those are commonly the first Gorean words a barbarian must utter. She will later learn their meaning. “I am a kajira,” “I am a female slave,” “I am a slave girl.” Let us suppose a city has fallen, buildings are roaring with flame, blood is in the streets, walls collapse, the air is thick with choking, stinging smoke. Perhaps a free woman flings herself to her knees, before the reddened sword of a helmeted enemy, ready to strike, drunk with the lust of killing and looting. The blade is poised. She throws back her hood and tears away her veils, and her mouth is exposed to the conqueror. “La kajira!” she cries. “I am a slave girl!” This formula, once spoken, is irrevocable. She is then a self-pronounced slave. A quick, abrupt gesture of the sword and she must disrobe, immediately, completely. Her hands are then tied behind her, and she must hurry behind her captor, struggling to keep up, later to be penned with other slaves amongst whom, as she lacks the brand and collar, she is unlikely to be well treated. Her first sale, as her captor may wish to put her up for sale, might occur that very night, following her marking and collaring. Her life has changed.
Donna then stepped back.
“On your feet, dear, noble Mistresses,” she said. “There is work to be done. First you will gather boughs, to make soft beds for the masters. I have seen promising boughs near the edge of the camp. That will make things easy for you. You will not even need a guard.”
The prisoners rose to their feet, in their rope coffle. Then, following a gesture of the switch, they began to move toward the side of the camp, away from the river. I saw, with some satisfaction, they did not know how to move in coffle. Even slaves know that, especially, I supposed, slaves. “Stop, stupid Mistresses!” called Donna. “Left foot, the first step is with the left foot! Do you know nothing? You are being marched. Later, in gathering boughs, you may move independently. We will begin again. Now, move!”
The four prisoners then, with short steps, and a rustle of shackle chains, began to move again, carefully, slowly, toward the edge of the camp.
“Better,” said Donna.
They must pass amongst the men to exit the camp. I saw their bodies tighten. Their heads were up, and they looked straight ahead. This is common in coffle. The attention of coffle beasts is not to rove about. They are not free persons. Too, in this way they are less likely to make eye contact with a free person. With the prisoners, however, I expected that this behavior was less to be attributed to the customs and decorum of the coffle, instilled in coffle beasts, than an apprehension of the gauntlet through which they, coffled, were passing. Certainly they knew they were under the scrutiny of men, though the scrutiny, for the most part, seeme
d to be relatively casual. It was not as though they were prize kajirae, four-or-five-silver-tarsk girls, perhaps even some gold-piece girls, say, being disembarked from slave wagons, whose arrival in a city had been long awaited, perhaps even having been heralded by a great number of wall bills.
“Oh!” cried Emerald, startled. She almost fell. “Ai!” gasped Hiza, the last in the line. Kajirae, of course, are familiar with such attentions, and may not object. Emerald and Hiza, on the other hand, were free women. I supposed Emerald and Hiza would be the first to be put upon the block, if that were the fate in store for them.
“Harta, faster,” said Donna.
The prisoners, with their short steps, tried to hasten.
Tula, Mila, and I exchanged pleased glances. It gave us great pleasure to see our former mistresses so discomfited.
“Let them do our work,” whispered Tula.
Yes, I thought, “our work,” the work which befits such as we, the work which is ours, fit for Tula, Mila, and myself, the work of slaves.
I hoped the mistresses would also be made to bear burdens. Such may be done in coffle. I trusted that Tula, Mila, and myself would not be the only pack animals in camp.
I noted that the coffle had now exited the camp. It was from that direction that the earlier attack had sprung.
I looked about.
The men paid us little attention.
No longer neck-roped, there was nothing to keep me from slipping away into the forest. How much the masters took us for granted. Did they not know we might bolt as quickly as graceful tabuk, disappearing amongst the trees? I must wait my chance. I did suppose that, as in the march to Tarncamp, we might be secured at night. Still, it should be easy, sooner or later, preferably sooner, for me to complete the escape I had planned, and boldly ventured upon. The masters did not know me. They did not even know I was a barbarian. Had they known that they would doubtless not take me so much for granted. That was their mistake. I was not a Gorean girl. I was from Earth. I would escape!
At this point we heard the screams of women from the forest, the prisoners, I supposed, these coming from the direction they had exited the camp. Some sort of commotion was there. I did not know what was going on. Men rose up, seizing weapons, turning to face the sound. We heard a breaking through branches, cries of fear and misery, these again, I supposed, from the prisoners. “Slower, go slowly!” cried Donna. “Together, move together, step, step!” I saw the shackled prisoners then, on their neck rope. It seemed they could not move quickly enough to regain the camp, perhaps the protection of the men’s spears. How helpless they were, how distressed, frightened, and frantic, trying to hurry, impeded by their closely chained ankles. Then near the edge of the camp they fell, tangled together, weeping. Donna stood between them and the forest. “Get up,” she said. “Move slowly, to the center of the camp.” I did not know what was in the forest. I took it Donna could see it. She kept herself between the forest and the prisoners. How brave she was. The leader went to her, with his spear, and thrust her behind him, and to the side. Then he, too, backed away, slowly.