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

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 38

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

  special for him in his uniqueness. Read him. Learn him. Be one acutely aware of

  him. Be sensitive to his moods, and their changes. Find out what he wants from

  you, and then see that he gets it, and more. Find out what he wants you to be

  and then be it, beyond his wildest dreams. Remember that you are the slave. You

  exist for his service and pleasure.”

  “That is it, Tiffany,” he said. “Stretch your limbs. Examine their fairness. Now

  look at the master. That is how you take bath before a man. Will he drag you

  forth and have you on lie slippery tiles or will he take you in the bath

  itself?”

  “Do not forget to kiss the sandal, humbly, before eyeing it on his foot,” said

  the whip master, “just as, when you remove them, you kiss them, before putting

  them away.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Gently, Tiffany,” said the whip master. “You are not rubbing down a

  tharlarion.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Use the sponge well,” he said. “Remember that it must not only clean but

  caress, and do not forget, in this service, to fondle and kiss the master,

  humbly and lovingly.”

  I kissed the wet shoulder of the man in the bath, and then kissed his cheek,

  through the wet canvas hood drawn over his face. He moaned. He was a male slave.

  “Similarly,” said the whip master, “do not forget to press your body sometimes

  against that of the master, sometimes seemingly inadvertently. Along these

  lines, for example, it is easy, seemingly accidentally, to brush his lips with a

  pendant breast. if his lips should part you might then press it more closely

  against him, begging. You might then be cuffed back in the water, but later you

  will doubtless ‘be well used.”

  I knelt before the whip master, anxiously lifting the tray to him. He picked up

  one of the biscuits. He turned it over.

  “This biscuit is burned on the bottom,” he said. “If this happens again, you

  will be whipped.”

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

  “Good, Ruby,” said the whip master. “That is how to remove a man’s tunic. Make

  it a sensuous experience for him, in which you show him your slavery and your

  eagerness to serve. You may replace your tunic, Abdar.”

  “Yes, Master,” said the hooded slave.

  “You next, Tiffany,” said the whip master.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “These biscuits are acceptable,” he said. “In fact, they are good.”

  ‘Thank you, Master!” I said.

  “Good, Tiffany,” said the whip master. “That is how you belly to a man. Put your

  head down, now. Let me feel your lips and tongue.” “Yes, Master,” I whimpered.

  “Good,” he said.

  “Later, too, when your hair reaches a suitable length, make certain that it

  falls about the master’s sandals.” “Yes, Master,” I said.

  I sensed that our training was coming to an end. We were returning to various

  basics, almost as elementary as scales to the musician, such things as basic

  kisses, caresses, position, attitudes and movement.

  “Good,” he said.

  I had once been Miss Tiffany Collins, of Earth. I now lay on my belly on the

  tiles, naked and in a collar, licking and kissing at the feet of a Gorean male.

  It was my hope that he would find me pleasing, totally.

  “Attention, Class,” said the whip master.

  We all straightened up, sitting, facing him, our backs against the wall of the

  training room. The palms of our hands, were flat on the floor at our sides and

  our legs were extended before us, the ankles crossed, as though bound.’

  “The results of your tests, your examinations, are now in. It is my pleasure to

  inform you that you have all passed.”

  We dared not break position, so well trained we were, but we cried out with

  pleasure. We had worked hard. We did not wish to be fed to sleen, or, perhaps,

  if our internal slavery was adequate, but our external performances

  insufficient, being sent to a laundry or returned to a mill, where we might have

  to remain perhaps indefinitely.

  “It is an excellent class, one of the best I have had,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master,” said several of the girls.

  “Too,” he said, “there is not one of you, as the tests have shown, who is not an

  authentic slave; there is not one of you who, from the bottom of her pretty

  belly, does not belong in a collar.”

  I knew this was true of me. I did not know, of course, if it were true of the

  other girl or not. And the last doubts on the rightness of the collar on my neck

  had been dispelled in my training. I now knew it belonged there. I was pleased

  to have been brought to Gor where I, whether I wished it or not, with absolutely

  no compromise, would be put in it.

  “I am proud of all of you,” said the whip master. “You are all luscious and

  exciting sluts. Indeed, I think there is not one of you would not bring a silver

  tarsk on the open market.”

  We cried out, elated, to hear this. We looked at one another, joy in our faces.

  I almost lifted the palms of my hands from the floor and uncrossed my ankles,

  but, of course I did not do so. How pleased we were. What high praise this was.

  We had not understood how valuable we might have become as women.

  “But, remember,” said the whip master, “you have, really, learned only a little.

  You have been familiarized with only a small selection of basic skills, apprised

  of only a handful of fundamentals. Your education, when you leave here, is not

  complete, but only begun. You may learn more in your first few days out of

  school, in the practical contexts of bondage, under the control and whips of

  masters, than you have here in five weeks. But even then, remember that you, in

  your collars, are still amateurs at slavery. You could not begin to compete with

  an experienced girl. Continue to apply yourself, to learn, to work, to love and

  serve. Some years from now you may begin to grasp an inkling of what can be the

  skills, the sensitivities and talents, the emotions, the depths of feeling, of

  the slave The other side of the coin of freedom is bondage. One cannot exist

  without the other. The master is free and you are slave.”

  We looked at one another. There was much in what he said. We must strive

  desperately to please. We were, for most practical purposes, new girls,

  untutored in our collars. Most of us, even, were from the mills. We would be

  zealous to please. Most masters are sensitive to this. They are likely to be

  kinder to an unskilled girl zealous to please than a skilled one who permits her

  performances to lapse from standards of perfection. She may, of course, at the

  master’s whim, by various correctional devices, be swiftly restored to

  zealousness.

  Sometimes, too, of course, she is merely sold into a lower slavery, that she may

  earnestly endeavor, perhaps through
years of effort, to work her way up again

  to, say, a single-master-single-slave relationship. The ‘mistake of even

  minutely relaxing or reducing the quality of her service is not one a girl is

  likely to make twice.

  “All that remains now,” said the whip master, “is to give you some experience in

  the types of situations in which you are likely, at least in your initial

  bondage applications, to find yourself.”

  28 School; I Have Graduated

  29 Hassan, The Slave Hunter

  30 Sheila, The Tatrix of Corcyrus

  31 Argentum

  “Remove your silk,” he said.

  I did so.

  “Kneel,” he said.

  I did so.

  Straighten your body,” he said.

  I did so. I knelt naked before Miles of Argentum, before his thronelike chair,

  on the tiles in his quarters, in Argentum.

  “Your knees,” he said.

  I spread my knees even more widely before him.

  “You are now known as Tiffany, I believe,” he said, “of Feast Slaves, of the

  Enterprises of Aemilianus.”

  “I am Tiffany,” I said, “of Feast Slaves, of the Enterprises of Aemilianus.”

  I never forget a face,” he said. I was silent.

  My entire group had been brought from Ar to Argentum, I thought to entertain.

  This had been done at the expense of Miles of Argentum.

  Furthermore, much to the surprise and displeasure of the girls, who were perhaps

  by now somewhat spoiled, we had been brought under heavy security. We had never,

  from the time we had left the agency in Ar to the time we entered the grounds of

  the palace in Argentum, been out of chains of one sort or another. I supposed

  that it was only I, of all the girls, and perhaps of all those on the staff of

  the agency itself, who suspected the reasons for this trip to Argentum and the

  rationale of the security. I did not think Miles of Argentum was particularly

  interested in feast slaves, per se. Surely such might be rented in Argentum

  itself. I think rather he was interested particularly in one feast slave.

  Tonight I had been brought to him, leashed and braceleted. My keeper, a fellow

  from the agency, had then, in his quarters, freed me of these bonds and turned

  me over to him. He had rented me for the night.

  “Thrust out Your breasts, Tiffany,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I lifted and straightened my back even more, sucking in

  my gut and putting back my shoulders, this lifting the softness of my bosom

  brazenly to him, that of a slave girl, for his consideration or attentions.

  “You are pretty, Tiffany,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said.

  “I enjoy commanding you,” he said. “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Are you a good lay, Tiffany?” he asked.

  “Sonic men have found me acceptable, Master,” I said.

  “We are going to play a little game, Tiffany,” he said.

  “We are going to pretend that you are Sheila, the Tatrix of Corcyrus,” he

  smiled.

  “But I am Tiffany,” I said, frightened, “of Feast Slaves, of the Enterprises of

  Aemilianus!”

  “But we are going to pretend, aren’t we?” he asked.

  “As Master wishes,” I said, frightened.

  “Stand,” he said.

  I did so.

  “Straighter,” he said.

  I straightened up, even more.

  He then, from a chest at the side of the room, fetched forth a lovely, yellow,

  silken sheet. This he draped, regally about my shoulders.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Tiffany!” I said. “Tiffany, of Feast Slaves, of the Enterprises of Aemilianus!”

  “But we are playing, aren’t we?” he asked. I shuddered.

  “Now,” said he, “who are you, really?”

  “Sheila,” I murmured. “Sheila, the Tatrix of Corcyrus.”

  “I thought so,” he said.

  I looked at him wildly, frightened.

  “Sit in the chair,” he said.

  “I dare not!” I said. The thought of sitting in such a chair terrified me. It

  was the chair of a free person. I was a slave. I might be whipped, or slain, for

  sitting in such a chair. The greatest honor I might expect in connection with

  such a chair was to be permitted to crouch or lie at its foot, or, perhaps, to

  be chained by the neck to its side.

  “Is a command to be repeated?” he asked.

  “No, Master!” I said. I hurried to the chair and, small and frightened, sat down

  within it.

  Sit up more straightly, more regally, and put your hands on the arms,” he said.

  “Good.”

  Then he came over to the chair and, bending over, care-fully adjusted the sheet

  about me. He then stepped back. “Good,” he said. Then he sat, cross-legged, on

  the tiles, a few feet from me.

  “Yes,” he said. “Good. That is it.” As he sat, he was below me. The angle would

  be similar to that which he had had from the floor of the great hall, or from

  the lower steps of the dais, looking up at me on the throne.

  “I never forget a face,” he reassured me.

  was silent.

  ‘Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Sheila,” I said, “the Tatrix of Corcyrus.”

  “Yes,” he said, “you are.”

  He then rose up and approached. me. He drew away the sheet and folded it,

  horizontally, again and again, until it formed, with several folds, a thick,

  long, narrow band, about six inches in height and the sheet’s length, about

  seven feet, in width.

  He then passed this band about my waist and about the back of the chair. He then

  tied me, snugly, back in the chair. He then resumed his place on the floor.

  “Yes,” he said, “clearly, at least a silver-tarsk girl.” I recalled that he had

  conjectured in the great hall, much to the fury of many of my retainers, that

  that might be about my value in a slave market.

  He then rose up, again, and approached the chair. I tried to back, even further,

  against the back of the chair. My hands and arms were free but the thick, yellow

  band, knotted tightly behind the back of the chair, held me helplessly in place.

  “You are not going to interfere, are you?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  Then he began to caress me.

  “There was quite a search for you,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “It was lucky that I found you in Ar, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “It is convenient that the addresses of many slaves are on their collars, isn’t

  it?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “It was thus easy to find you,” he said. “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “What is wrong?” he asked. “Nothing, Master!” I said.

  “You are squirming,” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

>   “Did you have a nice trip from’ Ar?’~ he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “Were you in chains all the way?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” I said tried to hold my body still. I dug my fingernails into

  arms of the chair.

  “It seems that you have been shorn,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. “It was done last to me a few months ago by Borkon, my

  whip master, in Mill 7, of the Enterprise of Mintar.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “Oh,” I sobbed. “Oh!” Then I could no longer control body.

  “You are squirming again,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I moaned. I writhed, helplessly, uncontrollably, held in place by

  the tight band of the sheet, my finger nails digging into the arms of the chair.

  “You respond like a slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “Who are you?’.’ he asked.

  “Sheila,” I said, “Tatrix of Corcyrus!”

  “I know,” he said.

  I tried to lift my body more to him, to make it easier him to touch.

  “That is enough for now,” he said. He removed his hands from my body.

  I looked at him wildly, piteously, pleadingly. He must stop now! Surely he knew

  what he was doing to me.

  “Now,” he said, “Lady Sheila, you are going to be leashed and then you are going

  to perform on your leash, and supply, and, after that, you are going to beg to

  please me, as a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He then went to a chest and from it fetched forth a thick, plain, black-leather

  collar with a lock closure. It was a sturdy ring attached to this collar, and,

  attached to ring, there was a long slave leash of black leather. It some fifteen

  feet in length. In most leadings, of course, this afliount of length would not

  be used, but would be coiled in the grasp of the master. The length is useful if

  the slave is expected to perform leash dances, is to be bound with the leash, or

  if, it doubled at the master’s end, it is to be used to train or discipline her.

  I sat back in the chair, held helplessly there by the thick bond of the yellow

  sheet. I watched him approach, with the collar and leash. He then stopped before

 

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