by John Norman
She moaned.
"How does the garment make you feel?" I asked.
"Please, Jason," she begged.
"Feel it on your body," I told her, "its texture, its meaning, how it touches you."
"Jason," she protested.
"Close your eyes," I told her. "Pay close attention to your sensations, to the fabric, its brevity, its snugness, to the feel of it on your body, to the feel, too, of where it is not on your body, to what, too, it proclaims about the woman who wears it."
She shuddered, her eyes closed. "Would you have whipped me?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She shuddered, and opened her eyes.
"How does such a garment make you feel?" I asked.
"It is the first time I have ever worn such a garment," she whispered.
"How does it make you feel?" I asked.
"Vulnerable!" she said. "Helpless!"
"And?" I asked.
"Do not make me speak," she begged.
"Speak," I said.
Her voice became a whisper. "And warm, and receptive," she said.
I smiled. That is a common feature of many female slave garments, most of which are brief and open at the bottom. It has been discovered that a woman who has been placed in such a garment can usually be brought to a succession of orgasms much more quickly than one who has been more traditionally clothed. Perhaps that is why masters often put their slave girls in such garments. Two other features of such garments, of course, are that they teach the woman who wears them that she is a slave and that they expose her beauty brazenly and deliciously to the vision of masters.
I trust that those of other cultures, if any of such cultures might perchance come upon these reflections, will find no untowardness in, nor will they be inclined to object to, this latter, briefly mentioned observation, our reference to the custom of slave display. It is an innocent and lovely custom. And certainly, too, it is a custom which is widely spread on Gor, apparently even in more remote and outlying areas of this world where the most common language of the planet, Gorean, is infrequently spoken, if at all. And it is not surprising that this custom should be associated with the institution of female slavery. Indeed, it seems almost to be an expected accompaniment of that institution. Needless to say, the institution of female slavery is a familiar one on Gor, with a tradition behind it, it seems, of thousands of years. It has proven to be an especially viable social institution, contributing to the stability and practicality of society, and it is honored in mores and sanctioned in law. I know of only one Gorean city which did not, at least for a time, practice the institution of female slavery, Tharna, but apparently after a time of tumult and chaos, and revolution, the institution was established, or restored, in that city. Indeed, it is said that all women in Tharna are bond, with the exception of her Tatrix, a woman named Lara. Indeed, even foreign women who enter her gates must be temporarily collared and registered, and accompanied by a free male who, for the time they are in the city, is to them as master. The men of Tharna may be recognized in their city and abroad by the two yellow cords worn at the belt, each some eighteen inches in length, devices useful in tethering women, hand and foot. Women fear the men of Tharna. It is said they make uncompromising masters. They are determined, it seems, having won their sovereignty in battle, even in street-to-street bloody frays, never to relinquish it again. Interestingly the women of Tharna, presumably held in one of the most abject slaveries on the planet, are said to be among the most loving and content of all women.
But we digress.
We were discussing, as I recall, the lovely and widely spread custom of slave display. The brevity of slave garments, when the slave is permitted garments, serves, obviously, to exhibit her beauty. In passing, of course, one notes, as we did not earlier, that they also, obviously, identify her as a slave, and thus, in their way, act as an additional bond on her and, of course, smooth over social interactions, as it would not do at all for slaves and free women to be in any way confused. One treats them quite differently, naturally, as is appropriate, for they are quite different.
Now that certain things, hopefully, are understood, there will be no objection raised to an earlier observation, the utility of slave garments in the way of showing off the slave, so to speak.
Certainly women, even when pretending disinterest in such matters, love to dress attractively and take great pains to do so.
The Gorean customs then are not so different, except perhaps that in the case of slaves the woman is dressed, whether she wishes it or not, for the blatant pleasure of men.
But I do not think the slaves, truthfully, object to the barings of their masters' goods. What slave, truly, objects to the gasps of men, the dilation of their pupils, the sweat upon their foreheads, the clenchings of their hands, the licking of their lips, the excitement, interest and approval so obvious in their keenly admiring glances, which follows them everywhere. To be sure, those are Gorean men and they may think in terms of ropes and collars. Hopefully, however, they share a Home Stone with her master, which gives her perhaps the only safety and security she can rely upon.
Honor is taken seriously among Goreans.
Perhaps some will find that foolish, or incomprehensible, or quaint. Others will understand it.
And there is much that can be done, of course, with an attractive collar, and a simple, brief, lovely, well-draped, nicely cut tunic.
The slave is owned.
So why then should she not be displayed? Is not the vanity of the master, indeed, of any man, innocently gratified by the display of his treasures? He proudly exhibits his belongings, and thus shares his joy with others. He shows his house, his gardens, his fountains, his trophies, his paintings, his carvings, his statuary, his gems, his many treasures, and so why not his silken kaiila, his sinuous sleen, his slim, lithe, well-curved, scantily clad, closely collared hot-eyed slaves?
"What are you going to do with me, Jason?" she asked. "No!" she wept. "Not that! Please, no!"
"I won many bouts for which I was not adequately rewarded," I said.
"Do not put the collar on me," she begged. "Please, no!"
She was backed against the rear of the stall. I stood quite close to her. I encircled her neck with the collar, but I did not yet close it.
"I am sorry!" she wept. "Please, Jason, do not close the collar!"
"Do you remember Telitsia?" I asked.
"Do not close the collar," she begged.
"Do you remember Telitsia?" I asked.
"Yes, Jason," she said.
"She pleased me," I said. "You sold her."
"No!" she wept, as the collar snapped shut about her throat. Then I threw her to my feet. Instantly I crouched beside her and, with the chain and ring in the stall, snapping the chain lock about the ring on her collar, fastened her in place. I then stood up. She, on her knees, tears in her eyes, trembling, her small hands on the chain depending now from her collar, looked up at me. "I am the Lady Florence," she said, disbelievingly. "You have chained me at your feet as—as a stable slut!"
"I won many bouts for which I was not adequately rewarded," I said. "Too, I was fond of Telitsia, whom you sold."
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.
"I am going to see that you yourself serve me well the pleasures which you denied me from others."
"You are going to make me stand proxy for the services of Telitsia and others?" she asked.
"Precisely," I told her.
"I cannot do that," she said. "I am free."
I crouched then beside her and thrust her back in the straw. I thrust the scrap of a slave rag she wore up over her hips. "I would have to serve you as a slave," she said, horrified.
"You will," I told her, "and many times."
* * * *
She lay in my arms.
"You have treated me these many times as a slave," she chided.
"Yes," I said.
"Touch me again," she begged.
"As a free woman?"
I asked.
"No," she said, with her left hand moving the chain on her collar, which lay partly across her body, to her left, "as a slave."
"Do you beg it?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Yes, what?" I asked.
"Yes, yes—yes, Master," she said.
* * * *
"Master," she whispered.
"Yes," I said.
"What time do you think it is?" she asked.
"I think it must be about the second Ahn," I said. The lantern had burned out. We were in the darkness.
"Let your girl please you again," she begged. "Oh!" she cried, delighted.
"Very well," I said. Then suddenly I seized her.
"Aiii!" she suddenly cried.
"So soon?" I marveled. She shuddered in my arms. Then I realized she had been lying heated at my side, awaiting my least touch.
"Ho, there!" I heard. "Do not move!"
We sprang apart.
"Do not move!" said the voice. A lantern, unshuttered, was lifted. We were in the pool of its light, lying in the straw. The girl gasped, and drew her legs up, tightly, under her. "A pretty one," said a voice. I tensed. "Do not move," warned another voice. I could see, dimly, that there were some five men a few feet from us. Three held drawn crossbows. The quarrels were trained on me.
"Are you a brigand?" asked a voice.
"No," I said. "You then, too," I asked, "are not brigands?"
"Call Miles," said a voice. One of the men left the barn. When he left, through the large door, I could see that it was still dark out. I saw the light of the Gorean moons on the earth outside. The stars were still bright in the sky.
"You, then, are not brigands?" I asked.
"No," said the man.
"Are you guardsmen then?" I asked. I did not think they were guardsmen. Too, I did not think guardsmen would be likely to arrive before morning. Too, many estates in the area may have been struck by the brigands.
"No," said the man.
A tall figure then entered the barn. With him there were some five men, two with lanterns. One of the men was he who had gone to fetch another man, he called Miles. This Miles, I assumed, was the tall man. He was, too, I assumed, their leader.
"These are the only two upon the estate," said one of the men. "Even the tharlarion were turned loose and scattered."
"The brigands were cruel, and thorough," said another.
Two more lanterns were lifted, and unshuttered, well exposing the girl and me in the straw. I blinked against the light. I could not well see the features of the tall man. He carried a drawn sword in one hand, and, in the other, his left, a dangling set of light slave chains, suitable for a female.
"Who are you?" asked the man.
"I am Jason," I said.
"The fighting slave?" he asked.
"I was freed," I said.
The tall man's gaze wandered to the girl beside me, the chain depending from her collar. His gaze lingered upon her, examining her beauty casually. She shrank back. "Does she not know she is in the presence of free men?" he asked.
"Position, Slut!" I snapped to the girl.
Swiftly the Lady Florence, frightened, knelt in the straw. She knelt back on her heels, her back straight, her head up, her hands on her thighs. She knelt in the position of the house slave. I looked at her sternly. Swiftly she spread her knees. She knelt now in the position of the pleasure slave, the slave of interest to men.
"Lift your chin, Jason," said the man. "Bring a lantern closer," he said to one of his fellows.
I did as he commanded.
"Indeed," said the man. "Your throat no longer wears a collar."
"The mistress freed me," I said, "even before the brigands departed from the estates."
"I wonder if that is true," said the man.
"It is," I said. "Had I been a slave, interested in flight, surely I would not have dallied upon the estates."
"It is true," said one of the men. "He is known here, and in this area."
"You fought well today, Jason," said the man. "You cost me many tarn disks."
"You are Miles of Vonda, are you not?" I asked.
"Yes," said the man.
"He cost me twenty copper tarsks," said another man.
"And me fifteen," said another.
"It was a splendid fight," said another man, admiringly.
"Yes," agreed another.
"Thank you," I said. I now felt somewhat relieved. I did not feel these men were motivated by any particularly hostile intent. If I watched my step, I did not think I truly had anything to fear from them.
"Why are you here?" asked the girl.
"Your slave needs discipline," said Miles of Vonda.
I turned about and took the startled girl by the chain at her collar. Swiftly I lashed her face, back and forth, striking her twice, first with the palm of my hand, and then with the back of it. Then I threw her to her side in the straw. She looked up at me in disbelief, horrified. There was blood at her mouth. I do not think she had ever been struck by a man before. Indeed, as a Gorean free woman, it is possible that she had never been struck, truly and seriously, by anyone before.
"Position," I told her.
Then she struggled to her knees and knelt again in the position of the pleasure slave, that of a woman who is of interest to men.
"Why are you here?" I asked Miles of Vonda.
He smiled. "It is of no concern of yours," he said. "Where is she who was your mistress?"
"I do not know," I said. The girl trembled. Miles of Vonda, of course, would not be likely to recognize her, for, hitherto, he would have seen her only in the robes of a free woman and heavily and modestly veiled. I did not think him likely to identify the lofty Lady Florence, a rich, high-born woman of Vonda, with the scantily-clad, exciting, punished girl who knelt chained as a slut beside me.
"Did she escape?" he asked.
"I think she escaped the brigands," I said.
"Where is she now?" he asked.
"Perhaps safe in Vonda, or in its vicinity," I said. "Why do you seek her?"
"These are hard times," said Miles of Vonda. "There is a breakdown of law and order."
"I see," I said. "But why, in such times, would you be searching for she who was once my mistress?"
"Who knows what could happen to a woman in such times?" he asked. He lifted the light slave chains before me. They rustled in the palm of his hand.
"I see," I said.
"She is not here," said Miles of Vonda to his men. "We shall search elsewhere, in the vicinity, in the brush near the roads leading to Vonda." He turned again to face me. "Enjoy your slut, Jason," said he. He smiled. "You have well earned her."
"Thank you," said I, "Miles of Vonda."
The men then departed from the barn. I took the back of the girl's neck, over the collar, in one hand, and held my other hand over her mouth, that she might not speak until I was sure the men had gone. Finally, after several Ehn, I removed my hands from the back of her neck and mouth.
"Did you see that?" she whispered. "He was looking for me, and he was carrying slave chains."
"Yes," I said. I smiled. Miles of Vonda had been one of several unsuccessful suitors for the hand of the proud Lady Florence of Vonda. He had not been successful in winning her to be his in Free Companionship, nor had his many competitors. The Lady Florence had held herself to be too good for men. Now, perhaps he reasoned, if she could not be enticed to kneel across from him at his table in the honorable resplendent robes of free companionship she might at least, perhaps, more appropriately, crawl to him naked, on her belly, under the whip, across the tiles of his slave quarters.
She looked at me, frightened.
"On your back, Slut," I told her.
She lay back in the straw, the chain on her throat. She brushed it to one side with her hand.
"You struck me," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I was never struck before," she said. "It is a strange feeling, to have been s
truck by a man."
I looked down at her.
"I must obey you, mustn't I?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Are you going to strike me again?" she asked.
"If it pleases me," I said.
"Do not strike me again," she said. "Kiss and caress me instead."
"I will do either, or both, as it might please me," I said.
"Then I am, in your arms, no better than a slave," she said.
"Yes," I said.
She sat up, angrily, pulling at the collar that encircled her throat. It remained well fastened on her.
"Do you really think to remove it?" I asked her.
"No," she said, angrily. She sat forward, holding her knees. "What a fool Miles of Vonda is," she said. "He looked upon me and could not even tell the difference between the Lady Florence of Vonda and a mere slave girl."
"The light was poor," I said. "He did not examine your thigh for a brand."
"But he looked at me!" she said.
"That is true," I admitted, smiling. I well remembered the casual care with which the chained beauty at my side had been examined.
"How could he not have recognized me as a free woman?" she asked.
"He did not examine your thigh," I said.
"Light the lantern, Jason," she said, "please."
I found the lantern on its outjutting perpendicular and, in a few Ehn, adding some oil, turning up the wick and striking some pyrites together, relit it. I rehung the lantern on the perpendicular.
"Look at me, Jason," she said. "Do you think that I am a slave?"
"I know that you are a free woman," I said. Then I snapped, "Position!"
Angrily she assumed the position of the house slave. I continued to look at her. Angrily she spread her knees.
"It is difficult to talk to a man as a free woman in this position," she said.
"Doubtless that is true," I said.
"May I assume another position?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Look at me, Jason," she said. "Can you not see that I am a free woman?"
"I know that you are a free woman," I said.
She tossed her head, irritably. There was a sound of metal, that of the collar with its ring, and of the chain, with its lock, depending from the ring. "Suppose you did not know," she said. "Then what would you think?"