by John Norman
I did not respond to my captor. He need not know how sexually stimulatory to me was the leash in which I found myself, proclaiming me a leashed animal, the slave bracelets which confined my hands behind my back, the weight of chains that I had occasionally worn, even the chain on my ankle in the kennel. How I was stimulated by the bars of a cage, by ropes on my body, by the commands of a master, by the lightness and brevity of a tunic, by my nudity! And my bondage itself, the very condition itself, as I had anticipated even on my former world, that I would be owned and must obey, was a joy to me. How I then pitied free women, and began to understand why they hated us so. We were the most joyful, and truest of women, the slaves of our masters.
“You will return me to my kennel,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“You will be kept in another way,” he said.
“Please,” I said, “keep Laura — keep her for yourself!”
“I do not own you,” he said.
“She would be yours,” I said, “your slave!”
“I thought you hated me,” he said.
“I love you!” I sobbed.
My left cheek, my head struck to the side, stung with the sudden, fierce, angry, open-handed slap of his smiting right hand, and I might have reeled and fallen, save that his left hand, its grip close to the leash collar, held me upright, in place. Tears streamed from my eyes, and my cheek burned with pain. He relaxed his grip, enough that I could get to my knees, and I knelt before him. I must look up at him, for the leash was pulled up, taut, and tight, gripped in his fist. “Forgive me, Master,” I said.
He looked down upon me, with a savage, angry, ferocious light in his eyes, with all the contempt with which the free may regard a slave.
“Even a beast may love her master,” I said.
“Do not dare speak of love, you blasphemous she-tarsk,” he said. “You are not a free woman but what you should be, a meaningless slave. You are an article to be used, an object purchased for work and pleasure, for inordinate raptures of unspeakable pleasure, to be derived from your body whenever and however a master might please.”
“So use me!” I begged.
He drew back his right hand, again, angrily.
“Please do not strike me, Master!” I said.
He lowered his hand, but he kept the leash taut. I was unable to lower my head.
“Does Master not want Laura?” I asked.
“You should be fed to sleen,” he said.
“You muchly caressed me in the forest,” I said. “You made me such that I could not help but respond to you as a slave girl to her master.”
“As you would do to any man,” he said.
“We are slaves,” I said.
“There was no other at hand,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He relaxed the leash, and I put down my head, gratefully.
“I thought Master might want Laura,” I said.
“Laura,” he said, “is worthless.”
“Still,” I whispered.
“We must see to your keeping,” he said.
“Buy me,” I begged.
He laughed, but I did not care. In begging to be bought, one acknowledges that one can be bought, and thus acknowledges that one is a slave. But I did not care. I was a slave. I had known this from long ago, from the time transforming changes had occurred in my body, a consequence of which was my realization that I belonged in a man’s collar.
“Who would want a worthless slave?” he said.
“I think many men,” I said.
“Your face is acceptable,” he said, “and you are not badly curved.”
“Surely,” I said, “there is a slave ring anchored in the floor of your hut, to which I might be chained.”
“To the same ring to which Asperiche is chained?” he said.
“If it be Master’s wish,” I said.
“I do not chain just anything to a slave ring,” he said.
“I am sure many men would find me acceptable at such a ring,” I said. “And was it not Master who brought me to the collar?”
“You are an insolent she-sleen,” he said.
“The whip will teach me timidity and deference,” I said.
“On your feet,” he said.
I rose up, and stood before him, head down.
“I am not to be returned to my kennel?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“And I am not to be taken to your hut?”
“No,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
He then turned about, and I followed, on the leash. He began to descend toward the river. On the way, we passed a number of slave girls, several of whom smiled contemptuously as I was led by. “Fool,” said one. “Caught slave,” said another.
At the shore I looked across the broad Alexandra. The remains of the framework in which the great ship had been built were to my left, and, a hundred paces or so to my right, was the eastern end of the long dock at which the great ship was moored. North of the dock, amongst some of the shops, and workers’ huts, I saw the high pole at which was flown the long, some yards long, unfurled, wind-whipped, scarlet triangle of silk, which I had been informed was the “ready banner,” the banner that was put in place three days before departure. But neither, at that time, my captor nor myself knew when it had been hoisted into place. He would doubtless soon learn, whereas I, if I were to inquire of a free person, might be cuffed. Curiosity, as it is said, is not becoming in a kajira.
Standing at the edge of the shore, I could see, across the river, some of the buildings, and the mysterious stockade, which had excited my curiosity in the past. I gathered that there might be special supplies stored there, even treasure. One story was that slaves were held there who were too beautiful to risk holding in Tarncamp or Shipcamp, for fear men might mutiny to claim them. I thought it quite possible that high slaves might be housed there, and perhaps unusually beautiful slaves, or exotics, or such, but I did not think there would be that much difference between one girl on a block and another. Unusual prices are usually the results of unusual goods, or unusual market situations. One would expect, for example, that an unusual dancer, a trained physician, the daughter of a defeated general, or such, might go for more than another slave, even if the other slave might, for most intents and purposes, be an equivalent, even a better, buy. For example, two of my friends, sister slaves, kennel sisters, Relia and Janina, I thought, were quite beautiful. I did not expect many slaves to be more beautiful than they. Too, men may see beauty differently. One man’s pleasure slave may be another man’s pot girl, or kettle-and-mat girl.
At the edge of the shore, there were several small boats tied in place, to stakes anchored in the beach, some, long boats, propelled by several oars, and others, smaller boats, propelled by a pair of oars. These boats sufficed for traffic across the river. They were not equipped with the weights and cords, the water-tight cabinets for marking tools and charts, used by the fellows who regularly plotted, and sounded, the river’s sometimes treacherous depths and channels.
“Master?” I said, gazing across the broad, shimmering waters.
“Oh!” I cried, taken by the hair and flung down, on my back on the beach. I squirmed, trying to avoid the pebbles.
“Master!” I said.
But several coils of rope were tying my ankles together and then more rope was being tied about my calves and thighs. I was then put to my stomach, and I felt the small key inserted into the locks of the slave bracelets, and they were removed and, I suppose, placed in his wallet or pack. Then my hands were tied behind my back, and more coils of rope, as I was being positioned, rolled, and turned, were being put about my body, binding my forearms in place, and reaching, in coil after coil, even to my shoulders. These were no lovely, silken cords, supple, delightful cords, bright with color slave cords, suitable for the attractive binding of a secured, helpless slave, but were a common, coarse
ropage, the same, it seemed, as that which tethered the boats in place. “Please, Master!” I begged. I squirmed, swathed in the coarse constraints. I was uncomfortable. “Please, Master,” I said, “the ropes are coarse. They scratch. I am tightly bound. I can hardly move.” He had left the leash collar and leash on me, and now, by it, pulled me to a sitting position on the beach. “Please, free me, Master!” I said.
“You are a she-tarsk,” he said. “Does a she-tarsk object to being bound as what she is, a she-tarsk?”
“Master!” I said.
Then he pulled me to my feet by the leash under my chin, and I could not stand upright, as I was bound, my ankles closely crossed, save for his left hand on my arm, and his right hand on the leash, close to the collar.
“I am only a female slave,” I said. “I am much smaller and weaker than you. Please show me mercy!”
He then scooped me up, lightly, and carried me to one of the nearby small boats, one with two oars, and put me on my back, roughly, on the boards, at the bottom of the boat. The lower part of my body would then be between his feet, and partly under his seat.
He must then have freed the boat from its mooring, for he was wading beside it, thrusting it into the river, and then he entered the boat, took his seat, freed the oars, set them in place, and began to row.
As he was rowing he was facing me, naturally, and the closer shore. He could not see where the small craft was going without turning about. I, on the other hand, as I was situated, might I struggle to a sitting position, could see around him to the opposite shore.
I tried to struggle up a bit, to see, but his foot pressed me back to the boards. Yes, I thought, angrily, curiosity is not becoming in a kajira! So I lay back on the boards. I looked up. The sky was quite blue, and cloudless.
We had been some Ehn on the water, when I realized he was looking at me.
“You are a pretty package, partly tucked beneath the thwart,” he said.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “What are you going to do with me?”
He smiled.
“Yes, yes,” I said, “but we are curious!”
“But it is not becoming, is it?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said. I roiled in frustration, with helpless frustration. The boards were rough, and hot from the afternoon sun. Our lives, our destinies, our fates, are in the hands of the masters! Do they think we have no interest in what is going on, in what is to take place, in what is to be done with us? I twisted futilely in the ropes, unanswered, uninformed.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“How you torture us!” I said.
“How so?” he asked.
“Where are we going, what is to be done with me?” I cried.
“You are in a collar,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“One does not explain things to beasts,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” I said. There are many sorts of things involved in this practice, of course. For example, in not explaining things to a slave it is made further clear to her, as if she needed further proof, that she is negligible, that she is a slave, an animal, a beast. Would one, for example, feel it incumbent on one to explain things to a sleen, a kaiila, or verr? Too, of course, if the slave is kept ignorant, or uninformed, one has much more control over her. She is more helpless, more at one’s mercy. But surely, too, the masters enjoy treating us as the slaves we are, in their thousand small ways. Is it not part of the pleasures of the mastery, finding amusement in keeping us in ignorance, in frustrating our desire to know? Why should we know, we are slaves! It is a small thing, but it is very real. So let us suffer in our unease, our anxiety, and our helpless frustration. Let it be so; we are slaves! But, too, I wondered, lying before him, bound, do we not want it so, and is it not pleasant in its way, finding ourselves helplessly subject to this deprivation and torment; is it not a reassurance to us that we are truly what we wish to be, slaves.
In a few more Ehn, I felt the bottom of the boat grate against the shore. The oars were drawn inboard, and my captor left the boat, and, wading, drew it high, onto the beach.
As I lay supine, apparently as my captor wished, I could see little but the inside of the boat, and the sky.
I did realize we were now on the southern shore of the river. So, I thought, I have, at last, managed to cross the river!
He then reentered the boat and undid the ropage which had bound my ankles and legs. The coils were then, in their several loops, cinched up, closely, about my waist. He lifted me over the side of the small craft and set me, standing, on the beach. I could feel the sand, and gravel, beneath my bare feet.
This was the first time I had been in a position to see the southern shore this closely. Some small boats were tied up on the shore, rather as they had been on the opposite shore. To one side, there was a steep wooden stairway, with broad steps, leading up from the beach to the level, where I could see something of the higher parts of the walls, and the roofs, of several small buildings, and the carved points of the palings of the stockade.
At the head of the walkway were two guards, who apparently recognized my captor.
I did not know his status at Shipcamp. I did not think he was a high officer, as there were few such, and most such posts were held by Pani. I did not think him a common member of the mercenary infantry, nor of the tarn cavalry. Yet he was recognized here, in an area prohibited to most, and had apparently experienced no difficulty in accompanying Master Axel into the forest. There might then be, I realized, groups within groups, or groups apart from groups.
A tug on my leash ring informed me that I was to follow my captor, who, to my relief, chose to avail himself of the wooden walkway.
As I climbed the steps of the stairway I wondered a little at the breadth of the steps. Then, to my unease, I realized the likely explanation for the width of the plankings. Such a footing would be suitable for conducting coffles of bound, blindfolded slaves.
I was soon at the height of the stairway, on the broad, wooden platform from which the stairway descended. At each side of this platform was a post to which was attached a slave ring. I was knelt near the post at the right and my leash was looped about the slave ring. My captor and the two guards then withdrew some paces, where they conversed together. In a few moments my captor had returned to my side, and the two guards were making their way toward the stockade.
My leash was unlooped from the ring. “On your feet, slave girl,” said my captor.
I struggled to my feet.
“Back on your knees,” snapped my captor, “and rise, properly.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I then rose, gracefully, as I had been taught, and stood before him, gracefully, and submissively, my head down.
Men may require different things from a slave, but, unless one has reason to believe otherwise, or has been instructed otherwise, the slave is to be softly spoken, deferent, docile, obedient, and submissive, quite submissive, utterly submissive. She is not a free woman; she is a slave, a belonging.
“You are a poor slave,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
At the gate of the stockade, I think that signs of some sort might have been exchanged. In any event, the gate was opened.
I felt a tug on the leash ring.
Shortly thereafter I was at the gate. One of the guards regarded me. “The slut has good legs,” he said. “It is hard to see much more,” said the other.
“Do not fear,” said my captor, “the ropes will soon be off.”
I looked back, from this height, across the river. Even the great ship looked small. I could detect the “ready banner” on its line, like a tiny, fluttering scarlet thread in the distance.
“Enter,” said a third guard, who was within the stockade. “Nicely marked,” he said, as I passed.
My brand was the small, tasteful, but unmistakable “Kef,” the “staff and fronds,” beauty subject to discipline. There are many sla
ve brands on Gor, but the “Kef,” is the most common. The joke is that it is the common brand for the common girl, but I knew that some of the highest, most expensive, and most beautiful girls wore it. In any event, it is a beautiful brand, and is commonly thought to muchly enhance the value and beauty of the goods it marks. “Kef,” I am informed, is the first letter in the Gorean word, ‘Kajira’. Whereas I now speak Gorean, as I must, as it is the language of the masters, I have not been taught to read the language. This sort of thing is not that unusual. Barbarian slaves, and illiterate slaves, usually extracted from the lower castes, are commonly kept illiterate. Would one teach a sleen, a kaiila, a verr, to read? Similarly, such slaves may be used to carry messages they cannot read. An additional security is that the message is often put in a sealed message capsule tied about the slave’s neck, the message being inaccessible to the slave, as she is back-braceleted. A slave may not be taught to read without her master’s permission. In any event, I am illiterate in Gorean. Does that not make me more a slave?
As I entered the gate, I could see, toward the rear wall of the stockade, something like a barracks or kennel, not unlike my kennel at Shipcamp, and, before it, within the palings, a clearing, which I supposed might function as an exercise yard, an inspection yard, a sales yard, or such. Near the gate, within it, to my right as I entered, was a low, flat, round tank, presumably for water, and a feed trough. I supposed their nearness to the gate was for the convenience of masters, to facilitate their replenishment, supplies being brought from the outside. In the yard, too, I saw what I took to be several kajirae. At least they were stripped and collared, and, I did not doubt, marked, as well. They turned about, and regarded me. I noted the height of the palings. I had not realized they were so high. They were at least twice the height of a male, and each was wickedly pointed. So, I thought, these are the special slaves, the precious slaves, those which might precipitate mutinies, which might cast woe and discord amongst the men of Tarncamp or Shipcamp. Yes, I thought, they are beautiful, but I did not think them that extraordinary, or different. I had seen many slaves in Tarncamp, and particularly in Shipcamp, where I had been housed, which seemed to me their equals, if not superiors. If that were the case, I thought, there must be more involved than what was circulated in the rumors, rumors perhaps deliberately circulated, in the camps. But what then could be the real reason for the isolation of these slaves?