by John Norman
Women make perfect slaves. But that is not to be wondered at, for it is for that that nature has designed them.
The girl was already being tied at the post.
I saw little evidence of actual training going on in the camp, that is, of typical "benign" or "improvement" training, so to speak, such as training in walking, standing, kneeling, posture, gracefulness, attitude, and such. But such was not to be expected in a temporary field camp. It is better conducted in slavers' houses, on colorful, smooth-tiled floors, in spacious rooms, often encircled with mirrors, so that the girls may gather some sense of how lovely they are, and how beautiful and desirable they are becoming, in their training, and, indeed, must become.
I did, however, see, through the flaps of a tent, a girl on her back on the ornate rug being taught to move. She was being guided by a pointed stick.
"Take your place in line," said a slaver's man, at the assessment platform.
We heard the lash falling on a girl, doubtless the one recently tied at the post.
"Please stop! Please stop!" we heard. "I will be good, Masters! I will be good, Masters!"
"What are you?" demanded a rough voice.
"A slave! A slave, Masters!"
"Aught else?"
"No, Masters! No, Masters!"
We heard the lash fall three more times.
The girl screamed with each blow.
"Will you be a good slave?"
"Yes, yes, Masters!"
"Will you be better than a good slave?"
"Yes, Masters!"
"Will you be a superb slave, a marvelous slave?"
"I will try, Masters! I will try, Masters!"
The lash fell no more.
"Are you improved?" she was asked.
"Yes, Masters!" she sobbed.
"Are you not grateful?" she was asked.
"Yes, Masters," she said. "Thank you, Masters. Thank you for beating me, Masters."
She was then untied from the post. She sank to her knees, her eyes glazed.
She clung to the post in disbelief.
The beating, of course, had been brief, even minimal. Yet it was a token of what might be done to her. She had now felt the lash, and realized what it could do to her.
No woman forgets this.
I had little doubt that the fear of the lash had now been instilled in her.
She would now doubtless sell well, and serve well.
I conjectured that some fellow somewhere, probably in Ar, would be lucky to obtain her.
I took my place in line, holding the Lady Florence close to me by her leash.
We heard the scream of a girl being branded. That was the second we had heard since entering the camp.
"A good catch," said the man in front of me, nodding at the Lady Florence.
"She is not without interest," I said. I then regarded the short, luscious, dark-haired beauty kneeling beside him, on a short leash. "She is superb," I said, indicating his own catch.
"She is not without interest," he shrugged. The girl looked up at me, as a slave.
The Lady Florence gasped. "May I kneel, Master?" she asked.
"Of course," I said.
Swiftly she knelt between me and the dark-haired girl.
"Your master is handsome," said the dark-haired girl to her.
"Your master, too, is handsome," said the Lady Florence to her.
"I am to be sold," said the dark-haired girl.
"I, too, am to be sold," said the Lady Florence.
I saw a blond girl, shackled and sobbing, being led past on a chain leash.
"I can give a man much pleasure," said the dark-haired girl.
"I, too, can give a man much pleasure," said the Lady Florence.
"I do not doubt it," said the dark-haired girl. "You are very beautiful."
"You, too, are very beautiful," said the Lady Florence.
"You, there!" said a voice, that of a slaver's man, approaching me. Behind him I saw Tenalion, stripped to the waist, on the assessment platform, paused in his labors, looking at me.
"You are Jason, the fighting slave, are you not?" asked the man who had approached me. He, too, like Tenalion, was stripped to the waist. He wore a blue-and-yellow wristlet. He carried a whip, coiled, in his right hand. I recognized him. He was Ronald. He had been with Tenalion in the house of the Lady Florence, his man.
"I am Jason," I said, "the free man."
"Jason," called Tenalion, from the platform, "bring your capture forward."
I moved forward, drawing the Lady Florence to her feet behind me. Then, in a moment, trembling, she had stepped upon the assessment platform.
"You are free now, Jason?" asked Tenalion.
"Yes," I said, standing below the platform.
Tenalion then turned to a bound, dark-haired woman who had been standing on the platform, her head down, her hair over her eyes. He thrust her from the platform. "Ten copper tarsks," he said to a scribe at a small table nearby, with papers and a box of coins. The scribe counted out ten copper tarsks to a fellow at the table. "Brand her, common Kajira mark, strap-collar her and put her in Pen Six," said Tenalion to one of his men. "Yes, Tenalion," said he, and took the woman by the hair and, bending her over, led her away.
Tenalion then turned to the other woman on the platform, the auburn-haired beauty who was trembling.
"What have we here?" he asked me.
"A female, for your consideration," I said.
"Stand straight," he told her, and placed his hand under her chin, forcing it up.
"What is your name?" he asked her.
"I am the Lady Florence of Vonda," she said.
"Why have you been brought to my camp?" he asked.
"To be sold into slavery," she said.
"Are you hot, Lady Florence?" he asked.
"Please, Master," she said.
"Excellent," said Tenalion. "She already addresses free men as Master."
The Lady Florence put down her head.
"Well, speak!" he said.
"Master?" she asked, looking up.
"Are you hot, Lady Florence?"
"Master?" she asked, frightened.
"Hot, slave hot," he said.
"I trust not, Master," she said.
"You had better be," he warned her.
"Master?" she said, frightened.
But his hands were upon her, holding her.
"Oh!" she said.
"I see you have already taught her a little about what it is to be a slave," he said.
"A little," I said.
Tears in her eyes, the Lady Florence regarded me.
"She already has the makings of a mat girl," said Tenalion. "And when the ice and filth of the free woman are scoured out of her, there is no telling what her potential may be."
Slaves, it might be mentioned, are usually cleanly and appetitious. Their scanty garmenture permits much air to reach the skin, and the slave well knows, or soon learns, that a clean body is an attractive body, and that if she does not keep herself in an attractive and hygienic condition she is subject to discipline, usually the whip.
Perhaps a remark or two on the Gorean slave girl would be in order, as it may shed additional light on Gorean society and its nature, and, too, perhaps, it might be of independent interest.
Her position is sanctioned in law.
She is absolutely rightless.
Whereas politics may be concerned with her, her acquisition, marketing, health, and such, she herself has no direct influence on politics, no more than, say, a dog or cat would have on the politics of Earth.
This is appropriate for she, like the dog and cat, is a domestic animal.
Gorean slave girls, on the other hand, do have a significant role in the Gorean economy, rather as domestic animals in general. They perform useful labors of many sorts and, given their abundance, most men can afford one or more. Whereas the slave is a domestic animal, it is clear, of course, that they are of much greater interest to the average fellow than, say, a verr o
r tarsk. Their values, of course, as that of other domestic animals, tend to fluctuate with market conditions.
Perhaps of greater interest is the fact that, despite their lack of legal standing, and their strict status as no more than a vendible commodity, no more than a curvaceous, collared property, they are acclaimed and celebrated, and relished and sought after, with gold and leather, with lust and intelligence, with cunning and steel.
It would probably be hard for a woman of Earth to understand how a mere slave girl, nothing but a commodity in a snatch of silk and a light, lovely, narrow, locked collar, could be so admired and prized. The culture of Earth has not prepared its women to understand how delicious, vital, beautiful, desirable and exciting their sex can be. They would find it difficult to believe that any woman could be such, let alone one such as themselves.
I trust that the abundance of slave girls on Gor will not seem surprising. It is precisely what one would expect to find in a powerful, male-dominated society. Strong men like slaves, you see, and, accordingly, see to it that they will have them. Not surprisingly then, slaves are a frequent and familiar sight on Gor, in the streets and markets, in the taverns and shops, in the fields and on the roads, and so on, almost everywhere, and certainly one expects to find them in private houses, engaged in domestic labors and deferentially serving. Even a lowly domicile which cannot afford a silken beauty is likely to have a lovely kettle-and-mat girl. Certainly one of the pleasures of Gor is her many slaves. And just as it is not unusual for a given master to claim that, say, his slave is the most beautiful and desirable in the entire city, and he probably believes this, so, too, it is not unusual for a city to claim that its slaves are the most beautiful and desirable of all slaves on Gor. Certainly one of the great pleasures of visiting a new Gorean city is to gaze upon, consider, and appraise her slaves, comparing them doubtless to those of one's own city. Too, an appraised girl, one knowing herself under scrutiny, but often pretending to be totally unaware of this, walks very well. All women doubtless have a streak of the she-sleen in them. That is one reason to keep them in collars. To be sure, a girl may be whipped anytime for not walking well. She is, after all, a slave. It is interesting to note, while on this topic, that on the occasion of the arrival in one city of an important delegation from another city it often seems as though special arrangements have been made in certain particulars. In any event it then often seems that the visited city's slaves are unusually abundant and visible, almost everywhere, in freshly laundered, well-pressed tunics, perhaps shortened somewhat for the occasion, and so on.
It would be difficult to imagine Gor without her slaves, and without her beauty, her freshness, and her accord with nature. And the girls themselves, of course, are well aware, those beauties in their collars, the luscious little beasts, that they are an important and precious, and valuable and beautiful, element in Gorean society, domestic animal or no, and accordingly they commonly walk with pride. Most Gorean slave girls, once they make the adjustment to the collar, are radiantly happy. Society, particularly its males, rejoices in their existence. The male fulfills himself in the mastery, and the girl, sheltered, and cared for and nurtured, and commonly loved, even madly, though masters usually attempt to conceal this from their slaves, receives the strict, uncompromising domination without which she cannot attain her full womanhood. Society approves of their status, and they themselves desire it. No wonder they walk with grace and beauty; no wonder they walk proudly. They have been found woman enough, and feminine enough, and exciting enough, and desirable enough, and beautiful enough to be put in the collar.
The collar, in its way, you see, is a badge of quality; it attests to and confirms the beauty and desirability of the woman. Even free women thrill to the flattering, telling accolade—"beautiful enough to collar."
What healthy, red-blooded man does not truly desire his slave, or slaves? What feminine, hormonally rich woman does not truly desire her master?
Slave girls are the most remarkable, exciting, and luscious of all women. No wonder free women hate them; no wonder men pay for them, and demand them.
Indeed, on Gor, wars are fought for them, and cities raided to obtain them.
Surely they are Gor's most delicious commodity, her most precious merchandise.
Which is not to deny that a good kaiila or sleen may sell for more.
"What do you want for her?" he asked.
I had nothing against Tenalion, but I needed money, so I decided to ask for an outrageous price, and then, as proved necessary, to bargain considerably downwards. "Five silver tarsks," I said, boldly.
"Give him ten," said Tenalion to the scribe. "Do you want your leash and binding fiber?" he asked.
"No," I said.
He then thrust the Lady Florence from the platform. One of his men took her into custody there. He turned her about, so that she might hear Tenalion's decisions regarding her. "Brand her," said he, "common Kajira mark, and strap-collar her."
"In what pen shall I place her?" he asked.
"Chain her in my tent," he said. "Tonight, Lady Florence," he said to her, "you will, then a slave girl, serve me wine."
"Yes, Master," she said. She looked wildly at me. Then she was turned about and pulled by the arm from the area of the platform.
"What will you do with so much money?" asked Tenalion.
"I seek a girl," I said, "one I knew on a far world, one called Earth."
"A slave?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "The poor girl has been enslaved."
"Your task is hopeless," he said. "Many girls wear their collars on Gor."
"Her name," I said, "is Beverly Henderson."
Tenalion smiled. Her name might now be anything. And she might be anywhere. Was I to seek for her in every city and village and town on Gor, in every building, in every tent, on every barge? In what stray corner might she be chained? On what obscure square of sand might she be squirming for masters?
"I do not anticipate difficulties," I said. "I know her owner, a merchant, one called Oneander, of your own city, Glorious Ar."
"Some of Oneander's girls are in this very camp," he said.
"Perhaps she whom I seek is among them!" I said.
"None is an Earth girl," he said.
"May I see them? May I question them?" I asked.
"Of course," he said. He went to the scribe and looked through his papers, noting numbers. "They are all in Pen Two," he said. "Pay him," he said, too, to the scribe. The scribe handed me ten silver tarsks. It was a considerable sum. "Give me your whip," said Tenalion to his assistant, who handed him the whip. "Continue the work," Tenalion told him. "Next!" called the man, and another girl stepped upon the platform.
I followed Tenalion to a stout pen. A guard opened it for him and Tenalion stepped inside, suddenly cracking the whip. The girls within, stripped, wearing straplike collars of iron hammered about their necks, fled away from him, huddling together, against the palings. They were female slaves. They knew the feel of the whip.
"217, 218 and 219," said Tenalion, gesturing with the whip, "kneel by the back wall, facing me, backs straight, knees wide, hands clasped behind the back of your head."
Three girls, crying out with misery, rushed to obey him. Each had a number painted on the concave softness at her left shoulder. It was in red paint. The same number, in white paint, was on her collar.
"These were Oneander's girls," said Tenalion. "They were sold in the neighborhood of Vonda several days ago."
I did not recognize them, but a man such as Oneander would doubtless own many girls.
"Why were you sold?" I asked them.
"We do not know," said one of them, miserably, her eye on Tenalion's whip.
"Oneander," said Tenalion, "is a salt and leather merchant. He is known to me. He had many dealings with Vonda. His business, in recent months, as you might suspect, has been much disrupted."
"His contracts failing, he needed ready cash?" I asked.
"I would think so," said Tenalion.<
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"Where is Beverly Henderson?" I asked them.
"We do not know of her," said one of the girls, frightened.
"The woman Beverly!" I said.
"We know no woman, Beverly," said one.
'The slave girl, Beverly!" I said, angrily.
"We know no slave, Beverly," said one of them.
"She is small, and dark-haired, and exquisitely beautiful," I said.
"Veminia?" asked one of them, to another.
"She is from Earth," I said.
"Veminia!" said one.
"The barbarian!" said another.
"Yes," I said.
"She who came in chains from some market in Vonda?" asked another.
"That would doubtless be she," I said. "Where is she?"
"We do not know," said one.
I cried out in anger, and Tenalion lifted his whip.
"We do not know!" cried the first girl, shrinking back.
"Was she sold with you?" I asked.
"No, Master!" cried the first girl.
"Where is Oneander?" I demanded.
"We do not know!" wept the first girl. "Please do not whip us, our Masters!"
"Where do you think he is?" I asked.
"He was returning to Ar," said the first girl. "He is perhaps there."
I looked to Tenalion. "I would suppose he would be in Ar," said Tenalion, "but I would not know."
"I do not think I need to question these slaves further," I said.
Tenalion nodded, and he turned and went to the gate of the pen. When the door was opened he turned about and looked at the three girls kneeling by the palings. "You may break position," he told them.
"Thank you, Master," they said, lowering their arms, frightened.
"I must venture to Ar," I said to Tenalion, once outside the pen. "I think it likely that she whom I seek is in that city."