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

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 33

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

  “what are you doing here, crawling about with slaves?”

  “I was afraid,” I said.

  “If you are truly a free woman,” said the first man, “what were you afraid of?”

  “You are right,” I said. “I am a free woman. I should not have been afraid.”

  The two men laughed, and the chained women, as well. I looked about, at them,

  from face to face. I saw their amusement. I saw the collars and chains on their

  necks. How foolish I felt. I had again been tricked. obviously, in a situation

  like this, a free woman might have a great deal to fear.

  “I am hungry,” I said. “I am desperately hungry. I am starving. Please give me

  something to cat.”

  “Bring her something to eat,” said the first man to him called Durbar “something

  appropriate.”

  Durbar left. In a few moments be returned with a small wooden bowl filled with

  dried, precooked meal. He poured some water into this.

  I was then handed the bowl.

  Some of the women laughed.

  “Mix it with your fingers,” said the first man. Then be turned to Durbar. “Look

  about the camp,” he said. “See if there are any more skulking about.”

  “I am alone,” I told them.

  But Durbar went to check.

  I, mixing the water with the precooked meal, formed a sort of cold porridge or

  gruel. I then, with my fingers, and putting the bowl even to my lips, fed

  eagerly upon that thick, bland, moist substance.

  By the time Durbar had returned I had finished, even to the desperate wiping and

  licking of the bowl, that I might secure every last particle of that simple,

  precious, vitalizing provender.

  “You eat slave gruel well,” said the first men. There was laughter from the

  chained women.

  I put down my head. The bowl was taken from me. So that was slave gruel, I

  thought. I knew that it, with its various supplements, was extremely nourishing.

  It had been designed for the feeding of slaves, to keep them healthy, slim and

  trim. On the other hand, although I had devoured it eagerly, I could see where a

  slave who was not starving might, after a time, desperately strive to improve

  her services to the master, that he might see fit, in his kindness, to grant her

  at least the scraps of a more customary diet.

  “Do you still claim to be a free woman?” asked the first man.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You have the body of a slave,” be said.

  “It is not my fault,” I said, “that I have the body of a slave.”

  “Can you read?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  I thought wildly for a moment. Then I said, “Tiffany, La Tiffany!”

  “What sort of name is that?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “It is an unusual name,” he said.

  “Maybe it is a barbarian name,” suggested Durbar.

  “Are you a barbarian?” asked the first man.

  “Maybe,” I said. I saw scorn in the faces of several of I chained women.

  “Look,” said the first man, taking me by the upper arm, and turning it to the

  light. “The barbarian brand.”

  I did not see how I could explain this vaccination mark the men without making

  clear that my origin was not Gorean. The vaccination was in connection with a

  disease which, too, as far as I knew, did not even exist on Gor.

  “Get on your feet, here by the lantern,” said the first m

  “And open your mouth, widely.”

  I complied.

  “Durbar, come up here,” said the first man. He was joined by his fellow. “Back

  there, see?” he asked Durbar.

  “Yes,” said Durbar.

  As a child I had had some fillings in the molar area, on lower left side.

  “They are common in barbarians,” said the first man.

  “Yes,” said Durbar. “But, those of the caste of physician do such things. I have

  seen them in some Gorean girls.”

  “That is true,” admitted the first man.

  These fellows must also know that doubtless such things might be found

  occasionally in the mouths of some Gorean men. On the other hand, of course,

  they would not have been likely to have seen them there. They would have seen

  them presumably, only in the mouths of girls, slaves. One of things that a

  master commonly checks in a female he is considering buying is the number and

  condition of her teeth.

  “Lie back down,” said the first man, “on your back, as before.”

  I did so.

  “Are you a barbarian?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I did not see how I could, in the light of facts, hope to conceal

  this from them.

  Several of the women laughed. Barbarians, I gather were to be held in contempt.

  The men, however, I no somewhat to my uneasiness, did not seem to be viewing

  with contempt. They were viewing me, rather, with definite interest. I did not

  understand clearly, at that time, the rather special position on Gor occupied by

  barbarian slaves. Servile and low, and trained to sensuous wonders, they often

  brought high prices; to many Gorean men they seemed ideal objects, or among

  such, on which to slake their most primitive and brutal sexual lusts.

  “You speak the language very well,” said the first man. “I could not even place

  your accent. indeed, I was not even certain it was barbarian.”

  “It is,” I said. “Thank you.”

  As I lay at their feet, on the blanket, on the boards of the slave wagon, they

  were looking down at me. I was aware that it was very much as a female that I

  was being looked at.

  “what are you going to do with me?” I asked.

  The first man shrugged. “Turn you over to the authorities,” he said.

  “Please do not do so,” I begged. “Please!”

  They continued to look at me.

  “Please,” I begged. “Please, please,” I whimpered. I lifted my body, piteously,

  to them.

  “Slut!” hissed one of the chained slaves.

  “Please,” I whimpered. “Please!”

  “We’ll give you a trial,” said the first man. “You first, Durbar.”

  I reached up for him as he crouched down, swiftly, between my legs. Durbar was

  not first in the camp, I realized.

  He would warm me for the use of the other. It was he whom I must especially

  please.

  A few Ehn later, in the arms of the leader, the first driver, I suddenly cried

  out with fear and surprise. It had been my intention to be especially pleasing

  to him but, suddenly, it seemed as though I were being taken away from myself.

  “No!” I said, suddenly. “Please, stop!” But I clutched him desperately. “Stop!”

  I begged. “Oh, stop!” I gritted my teeth.

  My fingernails cut into his arm and back. “Slut!” hissed one of the slaves.

  “Slut!”

  â€
œThe feelings!” I cried. “The feelings! Please, stop!” But the brute laughed,

  and did not stop.

  “I cannot stand it!” I cried

  But still the beast did not desist!

  The sensation that Speusippus had begun to induce in me long ago, that which had

  struck such terror into me, now, seemingly from somewhere deep in my belly,

  began to emerge irresistibly. I had not known what it would be like in its

  larger effect, let alone its resolution.

  “No!” I cried.

  And then I yielded to him.

  “Slut, slut, slut!” hissed one of the slaves.

  I then clutched him, startled and astounded. I could hardly believe what I had

  felt. I held tightly to him. “Please do not let me go,” I begged. “Hold me, if

  only for a moment! Hold me! Hold me, please!”

  “what a slut she is,” said a woman.

  “Yes,” said another.

  I held tightly to the man. I tried to cope with my feelings and understandings.

  It had been my intention merely to be very pleasing to him; I had desired,

  really, to do little but give him great pleasure. Then something had happened.

  It seemed somehow as though he had suddenly taken me away from myself. He had

  taken command of me. He had suddenly begun to make me move and respond according

  to his will, not mine. He had literally given me no choice. He had forced my

  yielding. He had made me come to him and rather, I was afraid, like a slave. I

  was a bit disappointed in one way. It was I who was in the position of the

  slave. I had wanted to serve him, to please him, to bring him pleasure. Instead

  I myself had been forced to feel pleasure and even, choiceless, to yield.

  “Did I please you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. I licked and kissed at his shoulder in gratitude. Even though he

  had given me little opportunity to please him he had still, apparently, found me

  pleasing.

  Women, I supposed, might be found pleasing by men in many ways. Perhaps that is

  one way for a woman to be pleasing, I thought, that the man does with her what

  he wishes, that he chooses, as he wishes, to please himself with her.

  I kissed him, helplessly. He drew back a bit from me. I saw a chain snapped onto

  the common chain of the women.

  At the end of this shorter chain there was an open collar. It was then put about

  my neck and snapped shut. I touched it. I was now on the same chain with the

  other women.

  He stood up. I lay at his feet, on the floor of the slave wagon, on the blanket,

  chained. I had been well had. I did not know what he would do with me now.

  Perhaps it would amuse him to turn me over to the authorities now. I did not

  know.

  “Do you still claim to be a free woman, Tiffany?” he asked.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you have the responses and reflexes of a slave,” he said.

  “I claim nothing,” I said, vanquished and chained.

  “Are you really free?” he asked.

  “it doesn’t matter now, does it?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “What do you think?” I asked him.

  “I think you are a slave,” he said.

  “I am not branded and collared,” I reminded him, “except, of course, for the

  holding-chain collar.”

  “We will do something about that,” he said, “outside of Ar.”

  I looked at him, startled. Quickly I scrambled to my knees before him, the palms

  of my hands on the floor of the wagon.

  “Accustom yourself to calling free men ‘Master’ and free women ‘Mistress,’” he

  said

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “And you are low girl here,” he said, “so you will address your chain sisters as

  ‘Mistress’ as well.”

  “Yes, Master!” I cried.

  “You are a mill girl now, Tiffany,” he said.

  “Yes, Master! Thank you, Master!” I sobbed, and put down my head, covering his

  feet with kisses of gratitude.

  He then withdrew, taking the lantern with him. Durbar accompanied him.

  I then lay down with my chain sisters. I tried to gather my thoughts. I had been

  captured, and this terrified me. Furthermore I now could entertain few realistic

  thoughts of escape. I did not think that any mysterious men would suddenly

  appear to free me, as at the camp of Miles of Argentum. Similarly these men

  seemed to be professionals in the handling of women. I did not think they, like

  Speusippus, for example, would be likely to use a wooden trunk for a slave

  kennel.

  Furthermore I knew the security in the mills, behind those high, gray walls, was

  for most practical purposes absolute.

  Similarly, there presumably I would be branded, collared and, if permitted

  clothing, put in distinctive garb. Thus, even if one did manage to get beyond

  the wails, one would presumably be apprehended swiftly and returned to the mill

  masters.

  Similarly the mills had their own sleen, both for patrolling the yard at night

  and, if need be, trailing slaves. No, girls did not escape from the mills. Too,

  I was horrified at the thought of going to the mills, for they were one of the

  lowest and hardest slaveries on Gor. That would be the end of Tiffany Collins, I

  feared, a slave in a Gorean mill. On the other hand I had, honestly, and

  joyfully, kissed at the driver’s feet for the mercy shown to me. Had he turned

  me over to the authorities I would doubtless have eventually been returned to

  Speusippus as his strayed Lita, and then conveyed by him, probably in chains, to

  Argentum, there presumably to be commended to the attentions of the impaling

  spear As it was, in the mill, in Ar, I should be hidden and safe. There, though

  a slave, I would be concealed, fed and protected. I did not think anyone would

  think of looking in a mill for the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and certainly not one in

  Ar. My feelings were thus mixed in this matter. I was relieved, too, in a way,

  of course, that I now no longer needed fear capture. It had happened to me. I

  must now abide its consequences. Too, no longer now need I forage for food and

  shelter as an ignorant, naked fugitive, often fearful, miserable, cold and

  hungry. I supposed it had been only a matter of time until someone had caught

  me. Perhaps it was just as well that it had happened as it did.

  But whatever might be the pros and cons of this matter they were now mostly

  academic. I had again, as a matter of fact, fallen into the power of men. I lay

  in a slave wagon.

  Their chain was on my neck.

  I wondered, too, on what sort of creature it was that they had their chain.

  I did not think that I was the same Tiffany Collins as I had been earlier.

  The second fellow who had had me, the leader of the two drivers, had taught me

  much. I now knew, to some extent, what could be done to me. I did not think I

  was likely to forget it. I could be forced to yield myself to a man as a slave.

  This made me feel very helpless. Men are, I supposed, the masters. But, too, I

  remembered clearly that wi
ld, surging, overwhelming sensation I had felt. I

  certainly, desperately, wanted to feel that again. Too, I sensed, it frightening

  me somewhat, but also exciting and intriguing me almost to the point of madness,

  that behind that sensation there might be others, indeed, that there might lie

  beyond that sensation almost indefinite vistas of kindred emotions and feelings.

  who, I wondered, has plumbed the depths of feelings’ oceans or has successfully

  mapped the countries of love? I found that I, and this frightened me, wanted to

  submit to men and yield to then’ as a slave. This was not a simple matter of

  sentience, incidentally, but involved an entire matrix of feeling, thought and

  emotion. I wanted to love and serve, to be fully pleasing not merely in a sexual

  manner but in all ways, to ask nothing and give all. But, too, it must be

  admitted that powerful physical feelings were also involved. I bit at the

  blanket and squirmed.

  “Lie still,” said a woman.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Forgive me, Mistress.”

  I must not let them make me a slave, I thought. I must fight these feelings,

  these sensations. I must try to be more like a free woman, I told myself. I must

  try to be inert and cold.

  But what chance will I have, I asked myself, if I am branded and they put a

  collar on my neck, and I am subject to the whip, and to the uncompromising

  disciplines of Gorean masters?

  I must not permit them to light slave fires in my belly, I thought.

  But what can I do if they should simply choose to do so, I thought. Then they

  would be lit, and that would be all there was to it, I told myself. Then,

  Tiffany, poor girl, you would be a slave for certain. “You are already a slave

  for certain, Tiffany, and you know it, a voice seemed to say from within me,

  that voice which in the past had seemed to speak to me, too, though usually in

  the quarters of the Tatrix, as when it had ordered me, and I had complied, to

  kiss a whip or the slave ring. “Perhaps,” I said to the voice, to myself.

  It was near dawn now. The wagon would proceed east on the Argentum road, reach

  the Viktel Aria, and turn south.

  Then, in time, it would arrive in Ar. Soon I would be enslaved, legally. I would

  be, totally, legally, a slave on Gor.

  I found myself looking forward to the collar and the brand. They were now

 

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