Savages of Gor

by John Norman

  I did not look back.

  13

  Blankets and Bonds;

  I Do a Favor for Grunt

  I lay on one elbow.

  When she reached my vicinity she knelt down, in the brief brown slave tunic.

  She trembled. She did not speak.

  I regarded her for a time. Her head was down. I then lay back on my blankets, on the grass. I put my hands under the back of my head, on the folded saddle blanket beneath my head. The kaiila saddle and the kaiila quirt lay to one side. I looked up at the stars, and the three moons of Gor. It is difficult to convey the majesty of a Gorean night in the Barrens, because of the vastness of the sky and the depth of the blackness, and the contrasting brightness of the stars. The large extents of wilderness on the surface of Gor and the absence of large-scale artificial illuminations, of course, permit starlit nights, almost anywhere, to manifest themselves with a splendor that would be almost breath-taking to one accustomed to the drab, half-gray, polluted, semi-illuminated, dim, nocturnal atmospheres of Earth. In the Barrens, however, and in places such as the Tahari, probably because of the relative levelness of the terrain, horizon to horizon, these effects seem even more accentuated, even more stupendous, more spectacular, more unbelievable and astounding.

  I did not speak to the girl. I did not wish to hurry her. I let her continue to kneel there in the grass, a few feet from me.

  I heard one of the kaiila moving about on its tether, biting at the grass, pawing the turf.

  I continued to regard the stars.

  "Master," she said.

  "Yes," I said. She had spoken in Gorean.

  "I have been sent to your blankets," she said.

  I rose on one elbow, to regard her. Her lower lip trembled. She looked very lovely, in the brief brown slave tunic. Her throat was bare, having been released from the collar in the coffle.

  "I have been sent to your blankets," she whispered.

  "I understand," I said.

  She tried, with her small fists, to pull together the sides of the tunic, to protect, as she could, the rounded, interior contours of her softness from the garment's apparently thoughtless disclosure. I smiled. Did she not know it was a slave's garment? Did she not understand the statement that was made by that deep, V-shaped, plunging division in the tunic, terminating only at her belly, that the woman who wore it was owned by men, that she was a slave?

  At a gesture from me she removed her hands from the sides of the garment and placed them on her thighs.

  She then knelt there in the grass, and I looked at her.

  She put her head down, not meeting my eyes. She, a new slave, was not yet used to being looked at, truly looked at, as a woman, by a Gorean master.

  I continued to regard her.

  I found her reserve charming.

  She lifted her head, frightened.

  At as little as a snapping of my fingers, she must strip herself and hurry naked, licking and kissing, to my arms.

  It is pleasant to own women.

  "I do not know what to do, or what to say," she moaned, to herself, in English.

  We had now been five nights in the Barrens. This woman, and the others, tutored by Ginger and Evelyn, had now picked up a smattering of Gorean. I was pleased with her progress in the language, and it seemed to me the best of her chained peers. Yet it was still, of course, piteously limited. The phrase which she had repeated more than once, "I have been sent to your blankets," for example, had not been spoken as a slave girl in full cognizance of its meaning, humbly making it clear that her nearness to the male was not illicit, and begging him to consider her for his pleasure-use, but rather as though it might have been spoken by rote, merely a set of words committed to memory, and as though she was desperate not to forget it or mispronounce it. She had doubtless learned the phrase by repetition, from Ginger or Evelyn. Still, doubtless, they would also have taught her its meaning, or at least as much of its meaning as could be absorbed by a raw Earth slave in her present stage of training. She doubtless thus understood its meaning, but did not, presumably, understand it in its full meaning, as what it might mean, fully, to present herself as a Gorean slave girl for the pleasure of a master.

  "I cannot even speak your language," she said, miserably, in English. "I am stupid. I cannot remember anything. It is all gone from me!"

  I saw that in her terror the little Gorean that she knew had eluded her.

  "Forgive me, Master," she then said, suddenly, in Gorean. "Forgive me, Master. Forgive me, Master."

  I was pleased to see that she could remember at least that much Gorean.

  She put her head down, trembling.

  I saw that I would not be able, at least for the time, to communicate with her in Gorean. Obviously the Gorean she knew was largely unavailable to her now and it was, moreover, extremely limited in any case, given her current rudimentary stage of linguistic development.

  "Forgive me, Master," she wept, in Gorean.

  I smiled. That simple phrase had doubtless on many occasions, though not always, saved many stripped, collared slaves from fearful punishments.

  Her shoulders shook. Her head was down.

  It is not necessary, of course, to be able to communicate verbally with a woman to teach her that she is a slave. Women are highly intelligent. They quickly understand such objects as the chain and the whip. Indeed, much may be done with means so simple even as the stroke of a hand, the twisting of an arm, the manner in which her body is penetrated. Yes, she can learn much, even before she has learned to speak your language.

  I considered the girl kneeling in the grass, trembling. I glanced to the nearby kaiila saddle, and the quirt. I could always strip her and throw her on her belly or back over the polished leather of the saddle. I might then, with the aid of the quirt, and caressing her, begin to induce in her some modicum of understanding concerning her condition.

  "I have been sent to your blankets, Master," whispered the girl, in Gorean, lifting her head.

  She was not yet ready for the saddle and the quirt, I saw. Yet, if I assessed her correctly, I thought, it would not be long. She was good slave stuff.

  I think that had been clear for days.

  Had I not noted her glances, and the frightened turning away of her head when she had been discovered? Had I not sensed the slave in her body language, how she moved in the tunic, and turned, and straightened her body, and posed, pretending to be unaware of my eyes and those of Grunt, her master, upon her? Had I not seen how her small, lovely hands had sometimes gone to the chain on her neck? To be sure, some of the other girls, as well, were behaving similarly. My favorite, however, and she most advanced, I was sure, was the lovely, former Miss Millicent Aubrey-Welles. I think that I had suspected these latencies in her even from the time I first saw her, suspended by the wrists, fully clothed, near the central block in the compound of the slaver in Kailiauk, Ram Seibar. The slavers, I thought, had done well. They had brought a slave to Gor.

  I supposed it was difficult to be a female slave, branded, half naked, muchly exposed in a tiny one-piece tunic, and on a chain, and having had some acquaintance with a switch or lash, and not be very much aware of the opposite sex. In such circumstances, the natural desire of women to be attractive to men is considerably augmented. This doubtless has to do with dominance/submission ratios, and the stimulation of a now clearly recognized and divulged sexual dimorphism. Under such circumstances sexuality is not only clearly understood, perhaps for the first time, but it is keenly felt, as well, undeniably so, even overwhelmingly so. Too, of course, the men own them, and it is natural for an owned animal to desire to be found pleasing by its master. Too, it is not merely that the woman's desire to be attractive, and her efforts to be so, are accentuated in bondage, and extremely so, but that men, for some women for the first time, at least in a serious way, begin to be attractive to them, often acutely, even painfully, so. This, too, doubtless has to do with recognition, and nature and place, with dominance and submission, with sexua
l dimorphism, with genetic codings going back to caves, and such. It is not surprising that nature has selected for the master and the slave. Those are winning numbers, so to speak. Thus speaketh the genetic lotteries. The most that can be done is to deny and obscure the relationship. But it lurks, every time a man and a woman look upon one another.

  I looked upon the former Miss Millicent Aubrey-Welles.

  She was beautiful.

  She was incomplete as she was, of course.

  I knew what she needed.

  She needed a master.

  I beckoned to her, gently.

  Timidly the girl, on her hands and knees, crawled to me through the grass. I then took her in my arms and, gently, put her to her back beside me. She was tense. She made as though to lift her lips to me, timidly, but I put my hand over her mouth. She looked up at me, frightened. My hand was tight over her mouth. She was held motionless. She could not begin to speak.

  "I speak your language," I said to her, very quietly. Her eyes widened. I had spoken in English. I did not let her speak. "This is not particularly important," I said, "but you are not, without my permission, to speak of it to anyone. Do you understand?"

  She nodded her head, as she could, my hand tight over her mouth. I then removed my hand from her mouth.

  "You speak English," she said, wonderingly.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Is it your intention to rescue me, and the other girls?" she whispered. "Oh!" she said. Her head was forced back, my hand under her chin, my fingers tight at the sides of her jaw.

  "Where is your collar?" I asked.

  "In the coffle," she said.

  "In the coffle, what?" I asked.

  "In the coffle—Master!" she said.

  "What are you?" I asked.

  "I am informed I am a slave," she said, my hand tight under her chin. "Oh!" she said, her head forced farther back, my grip tightened.

  "What are you?" I asked.

  "A slave!" she said, tensely. 'I am a slave, Master!"

  "Do you think, now," I asked, "that you are to be rescued?"

  "No, Master," she said. "No, Master!"

  "There is no rescue for you," I said, "nor for the other slaves on your chain."

  "No, Master," she said. "We are slaves."

  "Does it disturb you to speak of your slavery in your native language?" I asked.

  "No, Master," she said.

  I looked down into her eyes. She averted her gaze. "Why did you think I might consider rescuing you?" I asked.

  "Were you not once of Earth?" she asked.

  "Once," I said.

  "Surely then," she said, "you must be sensitive to our plight, embonded women of Earth."

  "Women of Earth have often been embonded," I said. "Bondage is no novelty for the Earth female. Her fittingness for the collar has long been recognized. On Earth at this very moment many women are held in public bondage, and many others, it is difficult to conjecture their number, serve in secret bondages. Too, throughout the course of human history, in the past, as well as today, many women have found themselves enslaved. Your predicament, or plight, if you please, is thus far from unique. You, and those with you, are merely another handful of slaves, embonded females, merely new and fresh instances of a historically familiar commodity."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  I removed my hand from her throat and face. She gasped, fearfully, but did not stir from my side. Her breasts heaved, under the thin rep-cloth of the slave tunic.

  "You may now begin again," I said. "Return to your original position. You may speak in English."

  "Yes, Master," she whispered. Fearfully she then crept from my side. In a moment she knelt as she had before, a few feet from me, in the grass.

  "Master," she said.

  "Yes?" I said.

  "I am a slave girl," she said. "I have been sent to your blankets."

  "Excellent," I said. "You are a pretty slave."

  "Thank you, Master," she said.

  "Approach, Slave," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said, and, on her hands and knees, crawled to my side.

  I then took her in my arms and, as I had before, put her to her back, beside me.

  "I am a virgin," she said.

  "I know," I said. "The results of your body's testing, shortly after your purchase, were made known to me by Grunt, your master."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Such information is public among masters," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  I held the cloth of the slave tunic, moving it between my fingers. "This is thin, flimsy cloth," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "It reveals you well," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "You know the nature of the garment you are in, do you not?" I inquired.

  "Yes, Master," she said. "It is a slave tunic."

  "Is it a fit garment for you?"

  "Yes, Master, for I am a slave."

  "Did you expect, on Earth, ever," I asked, "to wear a slave tunic?"

  "No, Master."

  "Did you ever think of yourself in one?" I asked.

  "—Yes, Master," she whispered.

  "It seems, then," I said, "that you were a slave—even on Earth."

  "Please, Master!" she protested.

  "Were you not?" I asked.

  "—Yes," she whispered, "yes, Master."

  "And you have pretty legs," I said.

  "Thank you, Master," she said.

  "You are tense," I said.

  "Forgive me, Master," she said.

  "Do you know what is to be done to you tonight?" I asked.

  "I am to be deflowered," she said.

  "That is a ridiculous expression," I said. "It is absurd. Rather, you are to be opened, an act which, in the case of a slave, is in the interest of all men."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "This is unlikely to be painful," I said, "but, if it is, the pain will be brief, and the soreness will be temporary."

  "I understand," she said.

  "If you should prove unusual in some respect, although this is extremely rare," I said, "we can, tomorrow, grind one of Grunt's trading knives into a lancet."

  "I understand," she shuddered. This seemed to me better than leaving the matter to the red savages. They tend to be impatient in such respects, even with their own women. A homemade lancet, sterilized in boiling water, seemed to me preferable to a sharpened kailiauk bone or a whittled lodge peg.

  "But your penetration is, obviously," I said, "only a mere technicality."

  "Obviously," she said, I thought a bit ironically.

  "But," I said, "beyond that incidental triviality, do you understand why you have been sent to my blankets, what the purpose is from your point of view, what is the purpose on which you are to be intent?"

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I am to please you with my body," she said.

  "You do not understand," I said.

  "Master?" she asked.

  "That is far too limited," I said. "You are to please me with the wholeness of your womanhood, in the fullness of your slavery."

  "The Gorean master, then," she said, "would desire, and own, all of me."

  "Yes," I said.

  "I had hoped it might be so," she whispered.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Nothing, Master," she whispered.

  "It is only on your former world, if anywhere," I said, "that a man is interested only in a woman's body."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "And I doubt that," I said, "even on that muchly perverted dismal orb."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "To be sure," I said, "the bodies of women are not without interest, and they look well in slave chains."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "But you must understand that what wears the chains, so curvaceous, beautiful and helpless, is the whole woman."

  "I understand, Master," s
he said.

  "You do not have a name yet, do you?" I asked.

  "No," she said. "My master has not yet named me."

  "What was your former name?" I asked.

  "Millicent Aubrey-Welles," she said. "Oh!" she said. "Your hand!"

  "Do you object?" I asked.

  "No," she said. "I am only a slave. I may not object."

  "That is an unusual name," I said. My hand rested, softly, on her left thigh.

  "Such names are not unusual in the social stratum which once was mine," she said.

  "I see," I said.

  "My family is from the upper classes, the very upper classes, of my world."

  "I see," I said.

  "I now lie beside you in a slave tunic," she said. "But I am an upper-class girl, a very upper-class girl. You must understand that."

  "Once you were," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "You are now only a nameless slave," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  I smiled.

  "I was a debutante," she said.

  "I understand," I said.

  "We are used to consolidate family alliances," she said, "and are given as awards, in matings, to energetic young men, often rising in our fathers' companies."

  "A form of slavery," I said, "but without the honesty of the collar."

  "Yes," she said, bitterly.

  "Women have often been used for such purposes," I said.

  "My aunt told me that it was all that I was good for," she said.

  "Your aunt was mistaken," I said.

  "Master?"

  "Your aunt, doubtless, did not consider how good you might be beyond such trivial social conveniences and applications, how good you might be in an honest, straightforward slave collar."

  "Master!" she protested.

  "Do you think she considered that?" I asked.

  "No," she said, "I do not think she did."

  "An oversight on her part," I speculated.

  "Doubtless," she said.

  "We shall see," I said. "I suspect that you will have some value in that modality."

  "In that of an explicit, legal slave?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Doubtless it is Master's intent to discern that," she said.