Norman, John - Gor 20 - Players of Gor.txt

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by Players of Gor [lit]


  she said.

  The chain was about a yard long. It ran between the ankle ring, locked snugly on

  her ankle, and a long, heavy stake. The stake was driven deeply into the ground.

  About five inches of it showed above the surface. It was placed about a yard

  within, and

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  to the left of, facing outward, the entrance to the small, striped tent. The

  girls was stripped, save for her ankle ring and collar. She lay on a mat, spread

  on a blanket, spread over the grass. She awaits within, to see who will open the

  flaps of the tent. That will be he who has paid her current use fee, that set by

  her master. We were some two hundred pasangs west of the fairgrounds, at the

  edge of the woods of Clearchus, just off the road of Clearchus.

  “Oh, yes,” she wept, clutching me. Her collar was a simple one. It read, “If you

  find me, return me to Boots Tarsk-Bit. Reward.” Boots used such collars for all

  his slaves. “Aiii!” she cried, suddenly. My touch had been light. I saw that she

  was ready for more. She was in a condition of slave arousal. She looked a me,

  wildly. “Yes,” I said. “There is more.” She began to squirm and shudder. “We now

  begin again,” I aid. “How can I feel more?” she wept. “You have not yet even

  experienced the fullness of a slave orgasm,” I said. Then, in moments, building

  on her earlier sensitivity, I conducted her perforce to a height where she might

  sense, but not yet experience, a new horizon. I held her there, on the brink,

  for a time, as it pleased me, sometimes permitting her to subside a bit, and

  then again, when I wished, with the cruelty of the master, almost as though

  beckoning her, a command she could not refuse, bringing her back to the edge,

  where, almost in madness, she quivered and pleaded for release.

  “Not yet,” I told her.

  “Yes, Master,” she wept. The decision was mine. She was totally in my power. She

  was a slave.

  “In any event,” I had said to Boots Tarsk-Bit, a few days ago, “let me show you

  the girl.”

  “That would be very nice of you,” he had said.

  “Perhaps, too,” I said, “you will change your mind.”

  “Never,” he had said.

  I had then conducted Boots to the area where the agents of Samos had his hundred

  girls on sale, sent out from Port Kar for vending during the Fair of En’Kara. I

  had checked the location earlier in the afternoon. It was among the southwestern

  sections of the Pavilion of Beauty, more specifically on the Shu-27 platforms.

  The girls were all on their hands and knees on the long, narrow platforms,

  uniformly positioned, facing outwards, a short chain on the neck of each,

  running down to individual rings anchored in the thick planks. They had been

  forbidden to speak among themselves. Agents of Samos walked here and there among

  them, with whips. “There is the girl,” I said. She had

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  not yet been sold. A white “holding disk” was wired to her collar. Some of the

  collars which had held women near her earlier were empty.

  “You!” she had said, earlier, around noon, when I had first seen her there.

  “You remember me?” I had said.

  “A girl never forgets the first man who puts the whip to her,” she had smiled.

  “How are the sales going?” I had asked her.

  “I do not really know, Master,” she had said, “as we are kept in separate slave

  boxes, and are usually brought forth only to be exercised or exhibited. I myself

  was first put on display only this morning.”

  “I have seen some empty collars about, on the other platforms,” I said.

  “Perhaps the sales, then, are going well,” she said. “I dare not turn my head to

  look. One girl was beaten fearfully for that, only an Ahn ago.”

  The matter of the empty collars was not an easy one to interpret. If there are

  no empty collars then customers may think that no one else in interested in the

  merchandise, perhaps that something might be wrong with it, and then go

  elsewhere. If there are only y a few girls left, and many empty collars, they

  may get the impression, perhaps mistakenly, that nothing much of interest is

  likely to be left. The ideal impression to convey to the customer is perhaps

  that you have marvelous merchandise for sale, that even now many people are

  interested and buying, that it is moving fast, and that if he sees a girl he

  wants, perhaps he should snatch her up before someone else does. If you see a

  female locked in her platform collar, with its chain, of course, and in a while

  you see the collar empty, it is not irrational to suppose that she has been

  sold. Sometimes a woman who has been sold is not immediately removed from the

  platform but only, in one way or another, marked “Sold.” There are several ways

  in which this can be done. For example, she may be placed in a white hood

  bearing the word “Sold” in red letters, a red tag, bearing the inscription,

  “Sold,” may be wired to her collar, or the word “Sold” may be simply written in

  grease pencil on her body, usually, by convention, on her left breast.

  “I think the sales are not going as well as they might,” I said.

  “Master?” she asked, frightened.

  “You were put out only this morning,” I said. “That suggests that the goods are

  not moving as rapidly as they might. Too, it is my impression, from what I have

  seen here and elsewhere, that

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  there is an unusual amount of high-quality merchandise available this spring. I

  suspect that many of the lots, even large lots, literal bevies of luscious

  slaves, chained together forty or fifty in a lot, may end up being simply

  purchased by slavers at rock-bottom prices, for purposes of later speculation.”

  She groaned. “I am afraid the masters will be displeased,” she said.

  Her apprehension was understandable. She was a slave.

  “Are you interested in this slave?” asked one of the men on the platform, coming

  over, his whip in hand. I did not think he was of the house of Samos. I did not,

  at any rate, know him. He was probably a slaver’s agent, licensed for work at

  the fair. There are many fellows who, seasonally, do this work. At other times

  they normally work in slaver’s houses. He may, of course, have been one of the

  fellows on the fairs’ permanent staff. there are four such fairs, administered

  by the merchants, held annually in the vicinity of the Sardar, those of En’Kara,

  En’Var, Se’Kara and Se’Var. The girl was immediately very still, and very quiet,

  on all fours.

  “I think I can find a buyer for her,” I said.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Come now,” I said. “Let us not be naive.”

  “Do you want a commission?” he asked. “We are very careful about that sort of

  business.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said, pleased. What he feared, of cours
e, particularly since he did not

  know me, is the trick of two friends cooperating in the purchase of a slave. One

  attempts to obtain a finder’s commission from the merchant which he then, of

  course, turns back to his friend, the buyer. In this way, the salve is purchased

  more cheaply. AS it was, since I was not bargaining for a commission w2ith him,

  he presumably supposed that I would obtain a finder’s fee from the buyer. Some

  people actually make their living in this way, acting as buying agents,

  providing services such as locating rare slaves for collectors and filling the

  “want lists” of rich men.

  “I would appreciate it, however,” I said, “if you would put a ‘hold’ on her

  until, say, the eighteenth Ahn.”

  “Impossible,” he said. “Look at her. See the curves, the lines.” He tapped her

  with the whip. “Superb slave meat.”

  “I cannot get the buyer here until then,” I said.

  “Ten copper tarsks, to hold her until then,” he said.

  “Absurd,” I said.

  “It is refundable,” he said.

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  “Under what conditions?” I asked.

  “That you bring your buyer to the platform before the eighteenth Ahn,” he said.

  “What if he doesn’t want her?” I asked. Actually, I was pretty confident he

  would want her.

  “I will not hold you responsible for that,” he said. “I will still give you back

  your tarsks.”

  “Good,” I said. I then gave him the ten copper tarsks. His reasonableness in

  this matter, I suspect, was due at least in part to the slowness of the market.

  Indeed, some of the girls in the market, I suspected, would go for as little as

  that same ten copper tarsks.

  “Hold still, Girl,” said the man to the girl. I watched him while he, crouching

  down beside her, wired a circular, white tag, a holding disk, to her collar. He

  had placed his whip behind her. Some men place the whip where the slave can see

  it, noting its heavy-leather blades or coils, that she may understand its

  menace. Others, like this fellow, place the whip behind her, where she does not

  know precisely where it is, but knows very well that it is there. The second

  placement is perhaps, generally somewhat more to be dreaded by the female. There

  are no hard-and-fast rules in this sort of thing. Much can depend on the girl,

  on her intelligence and imagination, on the stage of her training, on the

  specific occasion in question, and so on. Sometimes it is desirable to have the

  female look very closely and clearly on the whip and, at other times, it is

  better for her merely to understand that it is in her immediate vicinity,

  somewhere, and that she may not, now, turn about to determine its specific

  location.

  The tag on its wire now dangled some four inches below her collar. It had been

  one of several such tags in a small bag hooked to his belt. It had an inked

  “Eighteen” on it. Some of the white tags were blank, and might be written on.

  The red tags carry the inscription “sold.” A black tag is sometimes used to

  indicate that a girl is ill. A yellow tag sometimes indicates that a girl is not

  to be sold without prior consultation with the slaver. Tags are sometimes, too,

  used to indicate distinctions among slaves, at least among slavers themselves,

  being correlated to the classes or grades of slaves. For example, a brown tag

  commonly signifies a low slave, such as a mere kettle-and-mat girl or a pot

  girl, little more than female work slaves, and so on, whereas a gold tag

  commonly signifies a much higher grade of slave, usually a trained pleasure

  slave or a dancer. There is, however, to be perfectly honest, no absolutely

  uniform color coding in these

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  matters. different houses have their own conventions. It is unusual,

  incidentally, for a woman to be tagged in a regular market, except in so far as

  she might be marked “Sold” or have a “Hold” put on her. It is not hard in a

  Gorean market, for example, where the women are usually stripped, or will be

  stripped for they buyer’s inspection, to see who is most beautiful or

  interesting. Too, of course, women in such a market can be literally made to

  display their beauty and pose and perform in various ways for the viewers. This,

  too, makes it easier to make choices amongst them.

  One form of tagging is fairly common, however, during sales, and that is tagging

  during auctions, or in preparation for large sales, as when the girls are in

  exhibition cages, before being brought, usually serially, later, before the

  public. This form of tagging is the sales disk. It bears the girl’s lot number

  on it. It is usually wired to her collar. This provides not only the seller with

  a convenience, helping to make certain his records remain clear, but it can be h

  elpful to the buyer also, who may then, presumably already having established

  his interests, perhaps in virtue of commands earlier addressed to the lovely

  chattels in the exhibition cages, simply bid by number.

  I regarded the girl. She was quite beautiful, in all fours on the platform, the

  short chain on her neck descending to its ring in the heavy planks. There was a

  white disk dangling from her collar. She would be held until the eighteenth Ahn.

  The slaver’s man was now again on h is feet. He had retrieved his whip.

  I turned away.

  “I know wear a holding tag, Master,” she said to the slaver’s man. “May I break

  position?”

  I heard the lash fall upon her. “Forgive me, Master!” she cried.

  How stupid her question had been. Did she not know that the prospective buyer

  might not prove to be interested in her, and that she might in the meantime, by

  lax postures or attitudes, be discouraging other occurrences of interest; too,

  what of the other slaves and the aesthetic integrity of the display line; too,

  the prospective buyer might appear earlier than was anticipated. Too, did she

  think her discipline would be relaxed because someone might be interested in

  her? No! It would be trebled!

  “Ah!” had cried Boots, later, about the seventeenth Ahn, when he had first seen

  her. “But wait! She wears a holding disk!”

  “Do not fear,” I had said, “It is for your inspection that she is being held.”

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  “Oh?” said Boots.

  “I arranged it,” I said.

  “Let us take a look at her,” said Boots.

  In the end Boots got her for two silver tarsks. This is a high price for an

  untrained slave but, to be sure, all things considered, she was an excellent

  buy. Too, she seemed ideal for Boots’s purposes. She would doubtless make a

  splendid “golden courtesan” and, after performances, there was little doubt but

  what she would prove popular in the sex tents. Too, getting her for two silver

  tarsks, though perhaps somewhat more than Boots cared to pay, left him a full

  three silver tarsks, the residue of his profit from the sale of the B
rigella.

  Three silver tarsks would surely tide him over, and his company, until the next

  performances, presumably to take place somewhere other than on the fairgrounds.

  “I do not know what I shall do without my Brigella,” moaned Boots, preparing to

  pay the slaver’s man.

  “Look at it this way,” I said. “You are at least getting a golden courtesan.”

  “There are more Brigella roles,” said Boots.

  “Well, this girl is not a Brigella,” I said.

  “True,” lamented Boots.

  “Perhaps you should not have sold your Brigella,” I said.

  “I needed the money,” said Boots.

  “Two silver tarsks,” said the slaver’s man.

  “The price is steep,” said Boots. “Could we not reconsider the matter?”

  “Two silver tarsks,” said the man.

  “Would you care to make it double or nothing, on the basis of some wager of your

  choosing, such as in cups and pebbles?” he asked.

  “Two,” said the man.

  “I have the cups and a pebble, by some stroke of luck, in my wallet,” said

  Boots.

  “Two,” said the fellow. This game, like many such games, of various types,

  involves guessing. Small, inverted metal cups are used. A coin, pebble, or small

  object is supposedly placed beneath one of the cups. They are then moved about,

  rapidly. The odds are with the “house,” so to speak, particularly if the coin or

  pebble is not placed under one of the cups. I was already familiar with Boots’s

  skill in slight-of-hand manipulations from Port Kar. “Two,” repeated the man.

  Boots then paid him. The slaver’s man, of course, was well pleased with the

  sale. It was a good price, and it was a particularly good one for a slow market.

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  I had no difficulty in recovering m ten copper t5arsks, put down to hold the

  girl for Boots’s later inspection.

  “Are you pleased with your buy?” I asked Boots later, when we were leaving the

  market, the girl following behind us, heeling us, her wrists tied behind her

  back with a string.

  “She was pretty expensive,” said Boots.

  “But you are pleased, are you not?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Are you grateful?” I asked.

 

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