Marcus now, roughly, took the forward ends of the cord, where they dangled before her, and put them back, beneath her arms, through the back loop, and drew them forward where he tied them, snugly, beneath her breasts.
"Oh!" she said.
"You are pretty, slut of Cos," he said, standing back, admiring his handiwork.
"I wish that I had a mirror," she said.
"You may see yourself, in a sense," I said, "in the mirror of his desire."
"Yes," she whispered, shyly.
"And this," said Marcus, loosening the cord, "is perhaps the most common way of wearing the slave girdle." He then took the forward ends of the cord, again free, and this time crossed them, over the bosom, before placing them again through the loop at the back, drawing them forward and, once more, fastening them, perhaps more snugly than was necessary, before her.
"Ohh," he said. "Yes."
"Aii," I whispered. I then needed a woman. I must leave the tent and search for one, perhaps a girl in one of the open-air brothels, forbidden without permission to leave her mat or even to rise to her knees.
"Is it pretty?" asked Phoebe.
"It is a perhaps not unpleasing effect," said Marcus.
"Yes," I agreed.
"There are, of course, numerous other ways in which to tie slave girdles," said Marcus.
"True," I said. To be sure they tended to have certain things in common, such as the accentuation and enhancement of the slave's figure.
Phoebe moved about in the tent, delighted. She could perhaps suspect what she might look like.
"You see," I said, "there is some point in permitting a female clothing."
"Yes," said he, "providing it may be swiftly, and at one's will, removed."
"Of course," I said.
I wished to leave the tent.
Phoebe then, beside herself with passion, knelt swiftly before Marcus. "Please, Master!" she said.
I saw that Marcus was in agony to have her. He could scarcely control himself.
"Please!" wept the slave.
I expected him to leap upon her and fling her to her back to the dirt, ravishing her with the power of the master.
"Please, please, Master!" wept the slave, squirming in piteous need before him.
"What do you want?" asked Marcus then, drawing himself up, coldly, looking down at her. It amazed me that he was capable of this.
"Master?" she asked.
He regarded her, coldly.
"I beg use," she whispered.
"Do you protest your love?" he inquired. His hand was open, where she could see it. It was poised. She saw it. He was ready, if necessary, again to cuff her.
"No, Master," she said, hastily.
"Not even the love of a slave girl?" he asked.
"No, Master," she said.
"And in any event," he said, "the love a slave girl is worthless, is it not?"
"Yes, Master," she whispered, tears in her eyes. This was absurd, of course, as the love of a slave girl is the deepest and most profound love that any woman can give a man. Love makes a woman a man's slave, and the wholeness of that love requires that she be, in truth, his slave. With nothing less can she be fully, and institutionally, content.
"You do not then protest your love," he said, "not even the love of a slave girl?"
"No, Master," she whispered.
"What then?" asked he, casually.
"I beg simple use," she said.
"I see," he said.
"I am a slave in desperate need," she said. "I am at your mercy. You are my master. In piteous need I beg use!"
"So," said he, scornfully, "the slut of Cos, on her knees, begs use of her Master, one of Ar's Station."
"Yes, Master!" she said.
"You will wait," he said.
"Yes, Master," she moaned.
"I hear music outside, the instruments of peasants, I believe," said Marcus, turning to me. "Perhaps they are holding fair or festival, such as they may, in such times."
"Perhaps," I said.
"Let us investigate," suggested Marcus.
"Very well," I said.
The sooner we left the tent the better, in my view. Outside there would be rent slaves aplenty.
"Oh, yes," said he, looking down, "what of this slave?" She squirmed. It seemed she had slipped his mind.
"Bring her along," I suggested.
I was well ready to be on my way.
"You are an ignorant and unworthy slave, are you not?" asked Marcus.
"Yes, Master," she said. She was flushed and helplessly needful, even trembling.
"Better surely," said Marcus, "that she be stripped and left here, behind, alone, bound hand and foot."
"Perhaps if you have a slave ring to chain her to," I said.
"You think there is danger of theft?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"You think she might be of interest to others?" he asked.
"Undoubtedly," I said.
"On your feet," he said to the girl.
Groaning, scarcely able to stand straight, so wrought with need she was, she stood.
"There will be darkness and crowds," mused Marcus. "Do you think you will try to escape?" he asked the girl.
"No, Master," she said.
"Straighten up," he said, "put your shoulders back, pull in your belly, thrust forth your breasts."
"She is a delicacy," I said, "worth at least two silver tarsks, in any market."
"I will not try to escape, Master," said the girl.
"I wonder," mused Marcus.
"I am collared," she said. "I am branded."
"True," said Marcus.
In this way she had suggested that even if she might desire to escape such a hope would be forlorn for her. She was reminding him of the categoricality of her condition, of its absoluteness, of the hopelessness of escape for such as she, a female held in Gorean bondage. For example, there are not only such obvious things as the brand and collar, and the distinctive garbing of the slave, or the lack of garbing, but, far more significantly, the extreme closeness of the society, with its scrutiny of strangers, and the general nature of an uncompromising culture, with its social, legal and institutional recognition of, and inflexible enforcement of, her condition. There is, accordingly, for all practical purposes, no escape for the Gorean slave girl. At best she might, at great risk to her own life, succeed in obtaining a new chaining, a new master, and one who, in view of her flight, will undoubtedly see to it that she is incarcerated in a harsher bondage than that from which she fled, to which now, under her new strictures, she is likely to look back upon longingly. Similarly the penalties for attempted escape, particularly for a second attempt, are severe, usually involving hamstringing. Only the most stupid of women dares to even think of escape, and then seldom more than once.
"Will it be necessary to bind you?" asked Marcus.
"No, Master," she said.
"Turn about, and put your hands, wrists crossed, behind you," he said.
He then, whipping a short length of binding fiber from his pouch, with two simple loops, and a double knot, a warrior's capture knot, tied her hands together.
"Will it be necessary to leash you?" he asked.
"No, Master," she said.
He then turned her about and put a leather leash collar, with its attached lead, now dangling before her, on her neck.
Although I did not think that Phoebe, who was a highly intelligent girl, would be likely to attempt an escape, even if she were not bound to Marcus by chains a thousand times stronger than those of iron, the chains of love, she might be stolen. Slave girls are lovely properties, and slave theft, the stealing of beautiful female slaves, is not unknown on Gor.
She tried to press against him, but he pressed her back, with one hand.
"Yes, Master," she sobbed. She was not now, without his permission, to so much as touch him.
"Let us be on our way," said Marcus.
The girl moaned with need.
"Good," I said.
"Outside," said Marcus to the girl, "stand and walk well."
"Yes, Master," she said.
She was flushed, and needful, but I did not know if this would be readily apparent outside, among the moving bodies, in the darkness, in the wayward shadows, in the uncertain light of campfires.
"You are sure you do not wish to remain in the tent for a bit?" I asked.
"Please, Master!" begged Phoebe.
"No," said Marcus.
Phoebe was quite beautiful in the tunic. It was adjusted on her by a slave girdle, in one of its common ties.
The girl looked at her master, piteously.
"Let us be on our way," said Marcus.
We left the tent, the girl following, bound, on the leash. She whimpered once, softly, piteously, beggingly, to which sound, however, her master, if he heard it, paid no heed.
3
The Camp
"Stones! Guess stones!" called a fellow. "Who will play stones?"
This is a guessing game, in which a certain number of a given number of "stones," usually from two to five, is held in the hand and the opponent is to guess the number. There are many variations of "Stones," but usually one receives one point for a correct guess. If one guesses successfully, one may guess again. If one does not guess successfully, one holds the "stones" and the opponent takes his turn. The game is usually set at a given number of points, usually fifty. Whereas the "stones" are often tiny pebbles, they may be any small object. Sometimes beads are used, sometimes even gems. Intricately carved and painted game boxes containing carefully wrought "stones" are available for the affluent enthusiast. The game, as it is played on Gor, is not an idle pastime. Psychological subtleties, and strategies, are involved. Estates have sometimes changed hands as a result of "stones." Similarly, certain individuals are recognized as champions of the game. In certain cities, tournaments are held.
I wiped my mouth with my forearm and rose to my feet. I was now much refreshed.
"Do not leave me, I beg you," said the girl at my feet, on the mat. Her hands were about my ankle. "I would kneel to you!" she said.
"You do not have permission even to rise to your knees," I reminded her. She groaned.
"Paga! Paga!" called a fellow, with a large bota of paga slung over his shoulder.
"I belly to you!” said the girl, her head down, over my foot. She held still to my ankle, her small hands about it. Her hair was about my foot. I felt her hot lips press again and again to my foot. She looked up. "Buy me," she begged. "Buy me!" The marks of the rush mat were on her back. She was a blonde, and short, voluptuously curvaceous. She drew her legs up then, and lay curled on her side, looking up at me, her hands still on my ankle. "Buy me," she begged.
"Lie on your back," I told her, "your arms at your sides, the palms of your hands up, your left knee raised."
She did so.
"Buy me!" she begged.
I could now walk away from her.
"Please," she begged.
Her words puzzled me. Why would she want me to buy her? Certainly I had not accorded her dignity or respect, or such things. Indeed, it had not even occurred to me to do so, nor would it have been appropriate, as she was a mere slave. Similarly I had not handled her gently. Indeed, at least in my second usage of her, purchased with a second tarsk bit placed in the shallow copper bowl beside her, she had been put through fierce, severe, uncompromising slave paces. Once, when she had seemed for an instant hesitant, I had even cuffed her.
"I want to be your slave," she said. "Please buy me!"
I considered her. She was certainly a hot slave.
"Please, Master," she begged.
"Are you finished?" asked a fellow behind me.
I looked again at the female, luscious, collared, on the mat.
"Please buy me!" she begged.
I considered my purposes in coming to Ar, the dangers that would be involved.
"I do not think it would be practical," I said.
She sobbed.
"Are you finished?" asked the fellow, again.
"Yes," I said.
"Master!" she wept.
As I left, slinging about me my accouterments, I heard a new coin entered into the copper bowl.
Some peasants were to one side. Every now and then, presumably at some joke, or recounted anecdote, perhaps one about some tax collector thrown into a well, they would laugh uproariously.
A fellow brushed past me, drawing behind him two slaves, their wrists extended before them, closely together, pulled forward, the lead chains attached to their wrist shackles.
I was looking about for Marcus and Phoebe.
I glanced over to the walls of Ar, some hundred or so yards away, rearing up in the darkness. Here and there fires were lit on the walls, beacons serving to guide tarnsmen. The last time I had been to Ar, that time I had received the spurious message, to be delivered to Aemilianus, in Ar's Station, there had been no need of yellow ostraka, or permits, to enter the city. Such devices, or precautions, had in the interim apparently been deemed necessary, doubtless for purposes of security or to control the number of refugees pouring into the city which, even earlier, had been considerable. Many had slept in the streets. I had rented, at that time, a room in the insula of Achiates. One permitted residence in Ar received the identificatory ostrakon, for example, citizens, ambassadors, resident aliens, trade agents, and such. Such ostraka, of course, were only for free persons. The permitted residency of slaves, in their kennels, and such, was a function of their owner's possession of such ostraka. Others might enter the city on permits, usually for a day, commencing at dawn and concluding at sundown. Records were kept of visitors. A visitor whose permit had expired was the object of the search of guardsmen. Too, guardsmen might, at their option, request the presentation of either ostraka or permits. Ostraka were sometimes purchased illegally. Sometimes men killed for them. The nature of the ostraka, in virtue of such possibilities, was changed periodically, for example, taking different shapes, having different colors, being recoded, and so on.
I saw some fellows gathered about a filled, greased wineskin. There was much laughter. I went over to watch. He who manages to balance on it for a given time, usually an Ehn, wins both the skin and its contents. One pays a tarsk bit for the chance to compete. It is extremely difficult, incidentally, to balance on such an object, not only because of the slickness of the skin, heavily coated with grease, but even more so because of its rotundity and unpredictable movements, the wine surging within it. "Aii!" cried a fellow flailing about and then spilling from its surface. There was much laughter. "Who is next?" called the owner of the skin. This sort of thing is a sport common at peasant festivals, incidentally, though there, of course, usually far from a city, within the circle of the palisade, the competition is free, the skin and wine being donated by one fellow or another, usually as his gift to the festival to which all in one way or another contribute, for example, by the donation of produce, meat or firewood. At such festivals there are often various games, and contests and prizes. Archery is popular with the peasants and combats with the great staff. Sometimes there is a choice of donated prizes for the victors. For example, a bolt of red cloth, a tethered verr or a slave. More than one urban girl, formerly a perfumed slave, sold into the countryside, who held herself above peasants, despising them for their supposed filth and stink, has found herself, kneeling and muchly roped, among such a set of prizes. And, to her chagrin, she is likely to find that she is not the first chosen.
I was brushed by a fellow in the darkness. While I could still see him I checked my wallet. It was there, intact. The two usual modalities in which such folks work are to cut the strings of the wallet from the belt, carrying it away, or to slit the bottom of the wallet, allowing the contents to slip into their hand. Both actions require skill.
I saw a line of five slave girls, kneeling, abreast, their hands tied behind their backs. Bits of meat were thrown to them, one after the other. A catch scored two points for the mas
ter. A missed piece might be sought by any of the girls, scrambling about, on their bellies. She who managed to obtain it received one point for her master. The girls were encouraged from the sidelines, not only by their masters but by the crowd as well, some of whom placed bets on the outcome.
"Would you like to purchase a yellow ostrakon?" asked a fellow. I had hardly heard him. I looked about, regarding him. His hood was muchly pulled about his face. Were his offer genuine, I would indeed be eager to purchase such an object.
"Such are valuable," I said.
"Only a silver tarsk," he said.
"Are you resident in Ar?" I asked.
"I am leaving the city," he said. "I fear Cos."
"But Cos is to be met and defeated on the march to Ar," I said.
"I am leaving the city," he said. "I have no longer a need for the ostrakon."
"Let me see it," I said.
Surreptitiously, scarcely opening his hand, he showed it to me.
"Bring it here, by the light," I said.
Unwillingly he did so. I took it from his hand.
"Do not show it about so freely," he whispered.
I struck him heavily in the gut and he bent over, and sank to his knees. He put down his head. He gasped. He threw up into the dirt near the fire.
"If you cannot hold your paga, go elsewhere," growled a peasant.
The fellow, in pain, in confusion, in agony, looked up at me.
"It is indeed a yellow ostrakon," I said, "and oval in shape, as are the current ostraka."
"Pay me," he gasped.
"Only this morning I was at the sun gate," I told him, "where the current lists are posted, the intent of which is to preclude such fraud as you would perpetrate."
"No," he said.
"The series of this ostrakon," I said, "was discontinued, probably months ago."
"No," he said.
"You could have retrieved from a carnarium," I said. This was one of the great refuse pits outside the walls.
I broke the ostrakon in two and cast the pieces into the fire.
"Begone," I said to the fellow.
He staggered to his feet and, bent over, hobbled quickly away. I had not killed him.
Magicians of Gor Page 4