Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 28

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

I was silent.

  “I suppose,” he said, pleasantly enough, “they might have had poor of eyesight,

  or perhaps it was just very dark.”

  I did not speak.

  “What is your Home Stone?” he asked.

  I thought quickly. I did not want to identify myself with Corcyrus, of course,

  or any cities or towns in that area, even Argentum. Too, I knew we had flown

  northwest. I then took, most out of the air, a city far to the north, one I had

  heard of but one, unfortunately, that I knew little about. The name had been

  mentioned, I did recall, on the tarn platform, in the

  imp of Miles of Argentum. Perhaps that is what suggested it

  My mind.

  “That of Lydius,” I said.

  “What is the location of Lydius?” he asked.

  “North,” I said. “North.”

  “And where in the north?” he asked.

  I was silent.

  “On what lake does Lydius lie?” he asked.’

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “It does not lie on a lake,” he said.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “On what river does it lie?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t lie on a river,” I said.

  “It is on the Laurius,” he said.

  I was silent.

  “What is the first major town east of Lydius?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember,” I said.

  “Vonda,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Vonda is on the Olvi. It is Laura.”

  “Yes,” I said, sick and hungry, chained.

  “You are certain that you are a free woman?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where is your escort, your guards?” be asked.

  “I was traveling alone,” I said.

  “That is unusual for a free woman,” he said.

  I was silent.

  “What were you doing on this road?” he asked.

  “Traveling,” I said. “Visiting.”

  “And where did you think you were going?” asked the man.

  “I don’t know,” I sobbed. I did not even know what towns lay along this road. I

  did not even know where I was.

  “Look here,” said the fellow. He turned me about. I saw he was a brawny, blond

  youth. He did not seem angry or cruel. He crouched down and, with one finger,

  near the bottom of the ditch, made a precise marking, or drawing, in the mud.

  “What letter is that?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “Al-ka,” he said.

  “I cannot read,” I said.

  “Most free women can read,” he said.

  “I was not taught,” I said.

  “You have a luscious body,” he said.

  “Please unchain me,” I said.

  “It has delicious slave curves,” he said.

  “Unchain me, please,” I begged.

  “Your body does not suggest that it is the body of a free woman,” he said. “It

  suggests, rather, that it is the body of a natural slave.”

  “I beg to be unchained,” I said. “You can see that I am a free woman. My body is

  unbranded. I do not wear a collarl”

  f

  “Some masters,” said he, “are so foolish as not to brand and collar their

  women.”

  “That would be stupid,” I said.

  “I think so,” he said.

  “So you can see, then,” I said, “that I, uncollared, unbranded, must be free.”

  “Not necessarily,” he smiled.

  “Unchain me,” I begged.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Lita,” I said. I remembered this name from the time that Drusus Rencius had

  taken me to the house of Kliomenes in Corcyrus. It was the name he had chosen

  for me there, Lady Lita, of Corcyrus. It had sprung into my mind probably

  because of that trip. Too, I recalled that both Publius and Drusus Rencius had

  thought that it would be a good name for me.

  Both of the men then laughed, he standing now before me as I sat on the bank,

  and he, who was apparently alone, on the surface of the road.

  “What is wrong?” I asked.

  “That is a slave name,” he said.

  “Nol” I said.

  “It is a common slave name,” he said. “Indeed, it is one of the names popular

  with the masters for unusually juicy and helpless slaves.”

  “It is also the name of some free women,” I said.

  “It is possible, I suppose,” said the man.

  “Please unchain me,” I begged.

  “Lita,” said the man.

  “Lady Lita,” I said.

  “Lita,” said he.

  I looked at him in misery.

  “It seems clear you are a slave, Lita,” he said. “You are naked. You apparently

  have no Home Stone. You do not know where you are. You cannot even read. Your

  name is even that of a slave.”

  “Nol” I said.

  “But it is,” he said. “Therefore, since it seems clear that you are a runaway

  slave, you will henceforth address us as ‘Master.”’

  “Please, no,” I said.

  “If you are actually a free woman, as you claim,” he said, no great harm will be

  done.

  “You spoke to me,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Forgive me, kind lady. No one has read me the legend posted over

  my head. I beg you to do so.”

  She lifted her robes and climbed to the cement platform.

  She was about two inches taller than I. She stood then before me.

  “You spoke to me,” she said. “Yes, kind lady,” I said.

  “Where you come from,” she said, “do slaves not address free women as

  ‘Mistress’?”

  “I am a free woman, too,” I said. “I am not a slave.”

  “Naked, lying slave!” hissed the woman.

  I beg you for kindness,” I said. “Even if I were a slave, which I am not, we

  share the same sex. We are both women.”

  “I am a woman,” she said. “You are an animal.”

  “Take pity on me,” I said. “We have in common at least that we are females.”

  “Do not dare to see me in terms of such a denominator,” she said. “It is not my

  fault that I share a sex with she-sleen and she-tarsks, and, lower than either,

  with she-slaves.”

  “I am not a slave,” I said. “I am free. I am not collared. I am not branded!”

  “If I owned you,” she snapped, “you would soon be collared and branded, and then

  you would be sent to the stables or scullery, where you belongl”

  Forgive me,” I said.

  “Forgive you, what?” she said. in fury.

  “Mistress!” I said.

  “I know your type,” she said, in fury. “You are the sort for whom my companion

  forsakes me! You
are the sort he runs panting after in the taverns, the sort

  whose bodies their masters sell for the price of a drinkl”

  “No,” I said. “Nol”

  “You are the sort of woman who likes men, aren’t you?” she said.

  “No, Mistress,” I cried. “No! No!”

  “Why aren’t you kneeling, Slut?” she asked.

  “I’m chained,” I cried. “I can’t!”

  “Kneel,” ordered the free woman, coldly.

  “I can’t, Mistress!” I wept. I let myself hang from the shackles, my knees bent,

  piteously.

  “You should not have accosted a free woman,” she said. She then removed her

  gloves and, with them, struck me across the face. Tears sprang to my eyes.

  “You must also address her as ‘Mistress,’” she said. I was then struck again.

  “You have denied your slavery,” she said. “You have dared to compare yourself

  with me, insulting me by calling to my attention that we are both females. You

  have denied that you arc of the category of the sensuous slut! You have denied,

  lyingly, that you are eager to serve menl” She then struck me four times. “Do

  you think I cannot see what you are?” she asked. “Do you think it is unclear to

  anyone who looks upon you? Do you think I am stupid? Anyone could see that you

  are a slavel It is obviousl” Then she lashed me across the face and mouth with

  her gloves, several times. It did not really hurt so much, but it did sting,

  and, of course, it was terribly humiliating. I began to cry. “And you did not

  kneel!” she cried. She struck me twice again. I hung in the shackles, sobbing. I

  was most afraid that she might call the Archon’s man. He might, if requested, I

  feared, use a whip on me. She then, angrily, withdrew from the platform and

  resumed her journey down the street.

  “What was that all about?” asked the Archon’s man.

  “I spoke to her, Master,” I said. I called him “Master” for he, like the young

  men who had caught me at the edge of the Viktel Aria, had made it clear to me

  that I was to address , whether I was free or not, with a slave’s respect.

  “But she is a free woman,” he observed.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. With a rustle of chain I again got my feet under me.

  “It was foolish of you,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I sobbed.

  “Your face is red,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  Later in the afternoon, after I bad been fed and watered, landing in the

  shackles, I decided to once again essay the de.iplicrment of the legend on the

  post. This time, having earned my lesson, I would not trouble a free woman in

  the matter. I knew that I was pretty and I had little doubt, even bough I was

  tired and my arms were now sore-, that, chained ~s I was, displayed as I was, my

  attractions might be of interest to passing males. Men of Earth, I knew, would

  often strive to please even a scantily clad woman, for example, one wearing a

  sun suit or a bathing suit. I, for example, had had this experience on summer

  weekends and at the beach.

  “Sir, Masterl” I called to a man. He seemed a friendly enough looking fellow.

  He approached me, climbing to the platform. “Yes?” he inquired.

  “I am a free woman,” I said, “but nonetheless I will call you ‘Master.’”

  “I hoped that this would flatter him.

  “Whatever you wish,” he said.

  “And you are surely a very handsome Master,” I said. He was, as a matter of

  fact, very handsome. On the other hand, I was out to get my way. Men,

  incidentally, will believe anything they are told.

  “Why, thank you,” he said.

  “There is a legend over my head,” I said.

  “Yes, there is,” he agreed.

  “Can you read it?” I wheedled.

  “Why, yes,” he said. “I can.”

  “Please, please,” I wheedled. “Please read it for little Lita.” I referred to

  myself by this name. It was the name I had given to the two young men on the

  road, and also, if only to be consistent, to the Archon’s man. On the other hand

  I did not mind the name. I rather liked it. It excited me.

  “It says,” said the man, “’Whip me, if I speak without permission.’

  I turned white

  He smiled.

  “It does not really say that, does it?” I asked, frightened.

  “No,” he said.

  “Please tell me what it says,” I said.

  “We shall assume, for purposes of this discussion, that you are a slave,” he

  said.

  “Very well, Master,” I said, puzzled.

  “Do you believe that slaves should serve free persons,” he asked, “or that free

  persons should serve slaves.”

  “I believe it is the slaves who should serve the free persons,” I said, hastily,

  “not the other way around.” I certainly did not want to have the flesh whipped

  off my bones.

  “And if I read that legend for you,” he said, “I would be serving you, wouldn’t

  IT’

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And you would not want that, would you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then,” he said, “you do not want me to read the legend for you.”

  “No, Master,” I said, miserably.

  “Very well,” He said and, Chuckling, left.

  I shook the chains in frustration. He seemed to be a very kind man.

  If I had not tried to be so clever, if I had not tried to trick him, he probably

  would have read the legend for me.

  I watched him walking off.

  He had not seemed eager, even desperate to please me, in spite of the fact that

  I was naked. I then realized, with a strange feeling deep within me, something

  akin to fear and excitement, that on this world it was the naked women, or

  scantily clad women, women who would be slaves, or would be presumed to be

  slaves, women such as I, who must serve and please the men. This was not Earth;

  it was Gor.

  “Oh, Ladyl” I called. “Please, Lady!”

  The slave, alone, in the brief, sleeveless red tunic, with sides split to the

  waist, turned, to see whom I might be addressing.

  “Lady!” I called to her.

  “I am not a lady,” she said. “I am a slave.”

  “Please,” I said. “Can you read the legend posted over my head?”

  “Cannot you read?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. I looked at her. She was nicely curved, with brown hair and eyes.

  She wore a close-fitting steel collar.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I cannot either. I was never taught.” She hen sped on

  her way.

  “What is going on?” asked the Archon’s man.

  “Nothing, Master,” I said.

  “If you delay slaves in their errands, and they are la
te,” he said, “they might

  be whipped.”

  “I am sorry, Master,” I said.

  “Why did you delay her?” he asked.

  “I wanted her to read the sign posted over my head,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you ask me?” he asked.

  “I was afraid,” I said. “You did not read it to me. I thought then perhaps you

  did not want me to know what it said.”

  “And, without determining whether that was true or not,” he said, “you

  nonetheless sought, perhaps thereby circumventing my will, to determine its

  contents?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Masterl”

  “You should be whipped,” he said. He unclipped the coiled slave whip from his

  belt.

  “I am a free woman!” I told him.

  “You have a slave’s body,” he said.

  “Even so, I am a free woman,” I said.

  “Perhaps you are a free woman,” he said. “It is hard to imagine a slave being so

  stupid.”

  “Do not whip me,” I begged.

  I saw him recoiling the blades of the whip. I viewed this action with

  unspeakable relief.

  He then thrust it before my face. “Lick it, and kiss it,” he said.

  “Please,” I begged.

  “You will do so now,” he said, “or after you have been beaten with it.”

  I then reached my head forward and, delicately, licked and kissed the whip. He

  then replaced the stern, supple disciplinary device on his belt.

  “Master,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why did you not tell me what the sign said?” I asked.

  “I showed it to you,” he said. “It did not occur to me that you could not read.”

  “But I cannot,” I said. “Please tell me what it says!”

  “Not now, pretty Lita,” he said. “Not now.” He then walked away. I stomped with

  my right foot. I shook the chains, angrily. Tears came to my eyes. I was being

  frustrated, as though I might be a slave.

  The afternoon wore on.

  My body and arms began to ache miserably.

  From time to time one man or another in the crowd would pause to gaze on me. I

  usually looked away from them but, even so, it seemed I could sometimes sense

  their eyes on me, roving me with impunity. I chained as I was, was exposed to

 

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