Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  Ellen looked into the eyes of Mirus. His expression seemed severe. She averted her gaze.

  One reason to look into the eyes of a slave girl is to see if there is welcome in them, happiness, anticipation, shyness, mendacity, slyness, deception, joy, confusion, uncertainty, apprehension, fear. If one cannot look into the eyes of a slave, how can one well read her, how can one adequately master her? To be sure, much can be gained from body language. But then more can surely be gained from both her face and body. And from the slave’s point of view, how can one best please a master, if one cannot truly see him?

  Ellen was certain that her master had seen fear in her eyes. She looked past the chair, frightened.

  “Do you enjoy the laundry?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “What is your impression of Gart?” he asked.

  “He to whom you refer, our work-master,” she said, “is efficient. He is severe, but firm, and in his way, I think, kind. He has been good to me.”

  “You did not use his name.”

  “It is not fitting that the name of a free person should be soiled by the tongue of a slave,” she said.

  “You are clever,” he said.

  It had been a test.

  “Has he whipped you?”

  “I have felt his lash four times, in single strokes,” she said.

  “When you were lax in your labors?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “It is then appropriate that you were lashed?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You then redoubled your efforts?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  He lifted the scroll, which he had laid across his lap. He rerolled it, toward the center, saving his place.

  “This is the Prition of Clearchus of Cos,” he said.

  “Master?”

  “You have not been taught to read, have you?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said. Surely he knew that.

  “You are illiterate,” he said.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Would you like to learn how to read?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, Master!” she exclaimed.

  “The proper answer,” he said, “is ‘Only if Master pleases’.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.” Tears came into her eyes. She should have been more alert. She had failed that test.

  “Most Earth females brought to Gor are not taught to read,” he said.

  “For what purpose are most Earth females brought to Gor?” she asked.

  “Surely you can guess,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “For the collar, for the markets,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “We keep them as low slaves, uneducated and illiterate, fit at best for the simplest of tasks.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Considering their status on Earth, their machinations, and such, that seems to me both amusing and fitting.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And that is how I see you,” he said. “As a low slave.”

  “As Master wishes,” she said.

  “Do you aspire higher?”

  “No, Master!”

  “Good,” he said. “That will make your life easier.”

  She did not understand this.

  “I understand,” he said, “that you are now ready to beg.”

  Ellen, I fear, turned white.

  “Before you beg, if, indeed, you are going to beg, is there anything you would like to say to me, or ask me?”

  “May I speak freely, Master?”

  “For the moment,” he said.

  “First, allow me to thank you for bringing me to this beautiful world, be it only to have made me your slave. And thank you, too, for giving me back my youth, my suppleness, my appetite, my health.”

  “And your slave beauty,” he said.

  “My slave beauty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I beautiful?” she begged.

  “Did I not assure you of that before?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master. Forgive me, Master.”

  “But there are many,” he said, “who are far more beautiful.”

  “Of course, Master,” she said. Surely she had seen enough women in the pens, in their collars, to accept that, to realize that.

  “I could, of course,” he said, “have demeaned your beauty, disparaged it, caused you to doubt your own value, put you in consternation concerning your worth, and such, but I did not do so.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “I prefer to let you know how beautiful you are, not to inflate your vanity, pretty slut, which is doubtless already excessive, but to increase your sense of vulnerability.”

  “Master?”

  “As a Gorean slave girl, and one of unusual beauty, I want you to realize clearly the peril in which you stand.”

  “Peril, Master?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “You will be as hot, fresh meat, juicy and steaming, amongst ravenous wolves!”

  “And that is part of your vengeance upon me, to see that I am so placed, Master?”

  “Of course.”

  “I do not care, Master.”

  “Consider yourself on a street, barefoot, collared, tunicked, not amongst the men of Earth, but amongst Gorean males.”

  “It is my hope that masters will find me pleasing.”

  “You are a slave girl,” he said.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Slut,” he said, “slut.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  He regarded her, moodily.

  “And you have grown more and more beautiful.”

  “Master?”

  “And what woman is truly beautiful until she is in a slave collar?” he asked.

  “Surely Master jests.”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “Was I not beautiful before, Master, if I was, long ago, when I was a free woman?”

  “I assure you, my dear, that you are a thousand times more beautiful now, with that collar on your neck, than you ever were, or could be, as a free woman.”

  “Master!”

  “Surely you understand its meaning.”

  “Yes, Master. I think so, Master.”

  “Then you can sense how, in it, you are more beautiful.”

  “I think so, Master,” she whispered.

  She had begun to sense how men might now view her, as a slave.

  “And this goes far beyond the mere aesthetics of the collar. In it you are not simply seen differently, you are different, in a thousand ways.”

  “Yes, Master.” She sensed how this was true. She was aware of the startling transformation which had taken place, and was taking place, within her. A slave girl, you see, is not a free woman.

  “To be sure, you were very beautiful,” he said, “but the beauty of a free woman, you must understand, is no more than the promise, the hint, of what her beauty would be as a slave. A slave is a thousand times more beautiful than a free woman.”

  “You saw me even then, as a slave.”

  “Yes,” he said, “for you were a slave. It was obvious, slut. How stupid of the men of Earth to permit you and others like you your charade of freedom! Your life as a free woman is behind you. On Earth you were worthless. Here you are no longer worthless. Here on Gor, I assure you, you will be good for something!”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You may now thank me,” he said, “for your slave beauty.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she said, “for my beauty.”

  “For your slave beauty.”

  “Master?”

  “It is no common beauty,” he said. “It is a slave beauty.”

  “Yes, then,” she whispered, “I thank you, Master, for my beauty, be it only a slave beauty.”

  She recalled how she had seen herself before the great mirror, on the morning after her branding and collaring. How startled she had been. In the mi
rror she had seen what had so startled her, an exquisitely beautiful young slave.

  What would men pay for me, she wondered.

  “A girl is grateful,” she said, “that her master finds her beautiful, if only as a slave.”

  He smiled.

  How could a man find a woman more beautiful than as a slave?

  “Thank you, Master, thank you, Master,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  What, after all, is the gratitude of a girl, and of one who is only a slave?

  But she herself was elated. Her master had admitted that he found her beautiful, if only as a slave. But how could a woman be more beautiful, she asked herself, delighted, than as that most exquisite, perfect and feminine of all creatures, the female slave?

  “You have given me a second chance at life,” she said.

  He shrugged. Again, this seemed of little interest to him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Is this trivia all you wish to speak of?” he asked.

  “How is it trivia, Master,” she asked, “that I have been made again a young woman!”

  “Do not flatter yourself,” he said. “You are not a woman. You are a girl. I have seen to that.”

  “And I have lost some money on that,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “But it pleased me.”

  “Master?”

  “Have you heard of the Prition of Clearchus of Cos?” he asked, placing the scroll on the table to his right, her left, near the glass and decanter.

  “No, Master.”

  “It is a reasonably well-known treatise, one of several in fact, dealing with the ownership and domination of the human female.”

  “There are manuals for such things?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” said he, “as there are manuals for agricultural practices, military tactics, cartography, navigation, kaissa and such.”

  “Kaissa?”

  “A board game,” he said.

  “Is there anything in the Prition, Master,” she asked, “pertaining to a woman — a girl — such as myself?”

  “You are all alike,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Before you are granted an opportunity to beg,” he said, “is there anything else of which you would care to speak?”

  Ellen’s mind raced. How could she speak of the deepest things in her heart to this man? Her thigh was branded. Her throat was locked in his collar. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she had longed to be his slave even from the first time she had seen him, so many years ago. But how could a lady reveal her most intimate thoughts and feelings, particularly if they were of such a kind? What would he think? Must he not then hold her in contempt? Must he not then be shocked? Must he not then despise her? How could he respect her if he knew she wanted to kneel, that she loved to kneel, as a helpless slave at his feet? He must never know that! He must never know that she was so helplessly his, that she loved her brand, his collar on her neck, that she longed to be pinioned helplessly in his bracelets, that she wanted his shackles, that she longed to be neck-chained at the foot of his couch, that she hoped even, sometimes, for the admonitory, flashing bite of his whip.

  I love strong sensations, she thought. And I now know that they can exist.

  I love being a woman, she thought.

  I want to be owned, and dominated, she thought. Only here, on this beautiful, natural world have I understood, for the first time, my body, my mind, my feelings, my deepest being, my very soul, my sex.

  No, I cannot even hint at such things!

  I do not want to lose him forever.

  I cannot reveal to him what a woman is, truly.

  I dare not!

  “Well?” said he.

  She began to speak, but could scarcely understand what she was saying, so confused, so overwrought she was. It seemed she heard herself, as though it were not she herself, but another who was speaking.

  “I am your slave,” she said. “You can do with me what you want. You can order me as you please. You remembered me. You brought me here. You gave me back my youth, and my beauty, if beauty it be. You have made me young again. You have given me a second chance at life. Why? I think you like me! I am sure you want me. Are my flanks not of interest? Perhaps you love me. Certainly you desire me. You have given me a lovely name, ‘Ellen’. You had me put in the iron belt, doubtless to save me for yourself. Admit to me that you love me! You have done all this! Surely you love me! Surely you love me!”

  “Do not speak stupidities,” he said.

  “Master?”

  “Do not dare to jest with your master.”

  “Master!”

  “Do not presume to flatter yourself, worthless slave.”

  “Do you not love me?” she asked.

  “‘Do you not love me’ what?” he asked.

  “Do you not love me — Master?” she whispered.

  “Love, for a slave?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  He threw back his head and laughed. She shrank back, disconcerted, dismayed.

  “You poor, little, stupid, arrogant piece of flesh-trash,” he said.

  Tears sprang into her eyes.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  She dared not meet his eyes, his gaze was so fierce.

  “Is there something you fear, Master?” she asked.

  “What?” he said.

  “Do you fear me, Master?” she asked.

  He regarded her, angrily.

  “Surely you do not fear me, Master,” she said, “a half-naked, collared slave girl.”

  He reached for the whip, but drew back his hand.

  “Can it be that you fear yourself, Master?” she said.

  “As I understand it,” he said, “you are now ready to beg.”

  “Can we not speak further, Master?” she begged. She wanted to cry out that she loved him, with all the helpless, vulnerable love of a female slave, that she wanted to serve him, to love him, to live for him.

  But of course she dared not do so. How he would then hate her, despise her, understand the lowly, groveling, needful thing she was!

  He had laughed at her. And how preposterous it was, indeed, that any man might love such as she, might love a mere, worthless, abject slave!

  She must not let him know that she was such.

  And yet she must beg!

  Or would she beg?

  Not the laundry again, not for days, or weeks, or months, or years, or life, not that, she wept to herself. What does he want of me, she asked herself. I want to give him whatever he wants. I am his slave! He is my master!

  “Are you ready to beg?” he asked.

  “Surely you do not wish me to beg!” she cried.

  “You may do as you wish,” he said.

  “Surely you would want me as a free woman!” she cried.

  “What makes you think I might want you as anything?” he asked.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “Men, you should understand,” he said, “are lustful and possessive. You may like this or not, but it is the way they are. Those who do not seem so are glandular defectives, less than men, or are liars and hypocrites. Any man who truly desires a woman, who truly wants a woman, who wants her in the robust, vigorous fullness of powerful masculine desire, wants her wholly, all of her, wants to possess her, totally, wants to have her all to himself, wants to literally own her. Thus, what a man wants in a woman is the most precious, coveted and treasured of all possessions, the female slave.”

  “Surely such things dare not be said,” whispered Ellen, frightened.

  “You are not now on your old world of falsities and convention,” he said. “On this world the truth may be spoken.”

  “I am a slave,” said Ellen.

  “That is known to me,” he said.

  “How can you respect me if I am a slave!”

  “You are goods,” he said. “I do not respect y
ou.”

  “If I do not beg, what will be done with me?”

  “You will be returned to the laundry,” he said.

  “Please, please, no, Master!” she wept.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And if I beg?”

  “Then, too, you may be returned to the laundry,” he said.

  “Of course,” cried Ellen, “it will be as Master decides!”

  “Are you ready to beg?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  Could he so humiliate her, having her perform this act, and then, amused, satisfied, simply return her to the misery of the laundry?

  Yes, he could. He was master.

  But I love him, she thought. I love him!

  But of what interest or importance might that be, the foolish love of a helpless slave, to one such as he, a master?

  “You understand,” he said, “that this begging has nothing to do with whether you are a slave or not. That is a matter of indisputable fact. Similarly, personally and psychologically, your condition is well-established and well understood. You are a natural slave.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “That was apparent the first moment I saw you.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And now you have been fittingly embonded.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “The begging then is for your benefit, slave girl. It is admonitory, and instructional. Still it will be amusing to hear you so beg.”

  “You have such power over me!” she wept.

  “Such is the relationship in which you find yourself,” he said, “slave girl.”

  “Is it not a way, simply, for me to confess that I am a sexual creature, that I have sexual needs, and,” and here Ellen put down her head, and lowered her voice, “— and that I desire sexual experience?”

  “You have not yet begun to understand your sexuality,” he said.