Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  She had been given bread and tea by Targo in the afternoon. Her hunger then, she supposed, while certainly active, would be less than that of her chain sisters.

  Her back still hurt from the lashing she had been given hours earlier.

  Tears came to her eyes.

  She had felt the whip.

  She would obey, and obey instantly and perfectly.

  The fiery lesson of the broad-bladed, five-stranded Gorean slave whip, designed to be applied to such as she, had not been lost on her.

  Earlier in the day the sun had been fierce. She had scarcely been able to keep her eyes open. She feared that she, and doubtless the others, had burned on the shelf. Surely that would not improve her price, she thought, bitterly. She remembered the coolness of the house, the baths required, and the creams and lotions, designed to keep the skin of a slave girl soft, smooth and caressable, pleasing to the touch of a master.

  In the coffle she had been between Lydia and Cichek, and she was now between them, as well, each neck-ringed to their respective floor rings.

  She was pleased in a way, because, as they were secured, neither they nor the others could attack her, as Cichek had threatened. Certainly she had not deliberately tried to distract the soldier from attending to the others. Or, at least she did not think so, at least not on a conscious level! She was a bit frightened, however, and was uneasy, that her behavior may have belied her conscious intentions, that a deeper self, or a deeper need, or a deeper desire, without her knowledge, without her consent, had presented her, and revealed her, to his consideration as rightfully and natively bond. Perhaps her slavery, beneath the level of her conscious awareness, unbidden, had insisted on calling itself to his attention, presenting itself, offering itself, for his consideration. Perhaps her slavery had spoken to him in a language she did not even dare to consider, let alone recognize. Certainly her sister slaves had been furious. Had they seen something she had not? But surely she could not help it that it was she whom he had put to second obeisance position, bellying, before him, that it was she to whom he gave the back of his hand to lick. It was not her fault, at least by intent, as far as she knew. She did not want to be bought by him. She would be terrified to belong to such a man.

  “Cichek,” she whispered.

  “Be silent, barbarian,” said Cichek.

  “Lydia,” she whispered.

  “What do you want?” asked Lydia.

  “Do not speak to her,” said Emris.

  “We have not been ordered to silence,” said Lydia.

  “We are hungry,” said Emris. “She was fed!”

  “I am hungry, too,” said Ellen.

  “Not so hungry as we,” said Zara, unpleasantly.

  “Forgive me, Mistresses,” whispered Ellen.

  “What do you want?” asked Lydia.

  “You are crying,” said Ellen. “What is wrong?”

  “She was put through slave paces, and not purchased,” said Emris.

  “She was found wanting,” said Cichek.

  “So much for your blond hair and blue eyes,” said Emris.

  “She is an ice maiden,” said Cichek.

  “No,” said Lydia, “I need and want a master as much as any of you!”

  “Men often put a woman through slave paces, when they have no intention of buying her,” said Zara. “They simply enjoy exercising their power over her, and it amuses them to see her perform, at their mercy, not knowing their will or intent. Perhaps they are just bored and are looking for something to do. It has been done to me, and I am the most beautiful of you all.”

  “Why then are you still on the chain?” asked Cichek.

  “What is it that you wanted to know?” asked Lydia.

  “Where are Cotina and Jasmine?” asked Ellen.

  “Gone,” said Lydia.

  “Gone?” asked Ellen.

  “Sold,” said Lydia.

  Chapter 17

  A BARBARIAN SLAVE GIRL IS VENDED

  It was now Ellen’s third day on the shelf.

  She stood at the back of the shelf, against the wall of the tenement, her back to the wall of the tenement, she then facing outward, her wrists chained over her head to a ring set in the tenement wall. Her arms were sore, and her legs ached. Targo was not much pleased with her.

  Surely she should have been sold by now.

  On the morning of her second day in Targo’s ownership, after his charges were coffled, and then freed from the neck-rings that held their heads so close to the floor, they had been permitted, in turn, the use of the wastes bucket, and then, afterward, fed and watered, on all fours, heads down, from two long, narrow troughlike pans. Following this Ellen had had to apply soothing oil to the backs of her sister slaves, to assuage the pain of their burns and give them some protection on the shelf. Targo had perhaps realized that miserable slaves with roughened skin, scarcely able to move, red and peeling, would have less sales appeal. On the other hand it could well have been that he now felt more financially comfortable, or even secure, having disposed of Cotina and Jasmine, and could afford this amenity. Too, as we have noted, Targo was not, all things considered, an unkind master. He would not hesitate, of course, to have a woman branded, or whipped, and such. Such things go with the mastery. None of the slaves were willing to apply the soothing oil to Ellen, but Barzak had ordered Cichek, who, with Emris, were perhaps the slaves who disliked Ellen the most, she being a barbarian, to do so. They did not care for barbarians, which was not uncommon, but, too, they, perhaps more intensely than Zara and Lydia, were sensitive to the humiliation of sharing a chain with one. Cichek, who had been deliberately assigned this duty by Barzak, that she might be the better reminded of her nothingness, her lowliness and bondage, was not gentle.

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” had said Ellen, wincing.

  The new slave, Jill, who had been a paga slave at the Iron Collar, had not been burned, but she, too, was treated, to protect her during the day.

  “I do not wish to be touched by a barbarian,” had said Jill.

  “You are no better than a barbarian,” had said Cichek. “You have a barbarian name! ‘Jill’! ‘Jill’! ‘Jill’! And it makes you hot, doesn’t it? ‘Jill’! ‘Jill’!”

  “Yes, yes,” wept the new slave. “I am no better than a barbarian. I can tell it from my yieldings.”

  Cichek and Emris then laughed merrily, and the new slave, kneeling, head down, submitted to Ellen’s ministrations.

  Goreans, of course, are of human stock. Their presence on Gor was originally due to the Voyages of Acquisition, apparently undertaken for scientific or aesthetic reasons by the mysterious Priest-Kings, whoever they might be. This is in accord with the Second Knowledge, parts of which had been conveyed to Ellen in her training, that she might be a more comprehending slave. The point of this brief digression is merely to inform the reader that there is no reason to believe that there would be any difference whatsoever in the capacity of Gorean women and Earth women for sexual arousal and responsiveness. Physiology has dictated capacity; beyond this the differences will be those of culture and environment. There is little doubt that the average Gorean woman is raised in a culture which is much more open, much freer and much more acceptive of sexuality. If an Earth male were to encounter a Gorean woman he would undoubtedly be extraordinarily delighted by her great interest in, and desire for, frequent and profound sexual experience. Similarly, if a Gorean male were to encounter an Earth woman, free, in her own environment, he would probably be exceedingly puzzled by her inertnesses and frigidities, her culturally conditioned inhibitions, reservations, negativities and such. Indeed, he would probably regard her as defective or insane.

  Putting her to her belly at his feet, of course, in her proper place, perhaps as an experiment, he might find that she, fearfully and gratefully licking and kissing, was actually a woman, a true woman, with a true woman’s needs, desires, and responses, something quite different from what he had originally conjectured. Hopefully he would then bring her to Gor, mer
cifully, that she might not thereafter be left behind to languish and suffer on Earth, unfulfilled, tortured by memories, afflicted by loneliness, poignantly recalling what was no longer hers, denied a master.

  It is true, however, that Earth women, brought to Gor as slaves, eagerly and joyfully blossom sexually. On Gor they are free to be the women they have hitherto been commanded to deny and conceal, the women they have always wanted to be, the women they have always been in their hearts. On Gor they find that they are far freer and happier as branded chattels than they were as putatively free women on Earth. In their collars, kneeling before men, they find their liberation and freedom as females. No longer do they starve in a sexual desert. They are so eager to serve true men, which many of them had not even realized existed until they were brought to Gor, men so different from the general run of culturally intimidated, negatively conditioned, sexually crippled males they have met on Earth, that they generate an image in the markets, and the general Gorean milieu, of helpless, ready appetition, of docile, servile, eager, begging sluts, of low women hot in their collars, who give an almost new meaning to bondage. Indeed, some Gorean slave girls regard the barbarians as dangerous and hated rivals. They are furious with the interest shown in them by some Gorean males. The Gorean males, on the other hand, the monsters, tend to remain complacent, content to let these slaves compete with one another, each trying to outdo the other, each trying to see if it cannot be she who most pleases the master.

  Ellen pulled a little, weakly, at her chained wrists.

  Targo had come to the shelf, to assist a buyer who was examining Emris.

  Please, Master,” begged Ellen. “Do not keep me chained like this.”

  “Be silent,” he said, “else I will chain you facing the wall. Perhaps men would like you better then.”

  Ellen put down her head.

  Not a great deal had gone on, on her second day on the shelf. To be sure, Zara had been sold, though Ellen did not know the final agreed-upon price. So, she thought, perhaps Zara had been indeed the most beautiful of them all. The new girl, Jill, had been chained to her left, where Cotina had been.

  Yesterday, on the shelf, however, she had had some unpleasant experiences, which had perhaps contributed to her present predicament, that of being chained upright, standing, at the back of the shelf.

  In the morning, shortly after they had been brought in coffle to the surface of the shelf, thence to be chained as before to various rings, a boy, surely no more than ten or eleven years old, had come to stand before the shelf.

  She was in first position, or in something rather like it, rather near the front edge of the shelf, the chain attached to her shackle ring trailing behind her to its ring.

  The boy continued to stare at her.

  “Go away, little boy,” she said, irritatedly. “This place is not for you.”

  “Split your knees, slave girl,” said he to her.

  “What?” she said, in disbelief.

  He repeated his instruction, granting that she might not have heard him properly.

  “Never,” she said, “you little urt.” She drew her legs together and covered her breasts with her hands.

  “What is going on here?” asked Barzak, approaching. His whip, on its staff ring, blades folded back, and clipped, against the staff, which is long enough to be held with both hands, was at his belt.

  “Nothing,” said the boy.

  “‘Nothing’!” said Ellen. “This little urt was looking at me. He told me to split my knees!”

  “And you did not do so?”

  “Certainly not!” cried Ellen.

  Barzak looked at her, sternly.

  “He is only a little boy!” she said.

  “He is a free person,” said Barzak.

  “Master?” asked Ellen.

  “Are you a slave girl?”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “And you have failed to obey a free person?”

  “He is a little boy!” she cried.

  “So you have failed to obey a free person,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “Don’t whip me, please!” she cried, seeing Barzak loosen the whip, removing the staff ring from the hook at his belt, and unclipping the blades.

  “It’s nothing,” said the boy. “Do not whip her. I do not want her whipped. She is probably just stupid.”

  “First obeisance position,” snapped Barzak. “Beg his forgiveness!”

  Instantly Ellen went to the first obeisance position, head down, palms of her hands on the cement. “Please forgive me, Master,” she begged, frightened.

  “Kneel up, first position,” said Barzak.

  Ellen went to first position, with all its revelatory delights.

  “Split your knees, slave girl,” said the boy.

  “They are split, Master,” said Ellen.

  “Split them much more widely, slave girl,” said the boy.

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “Turn to the side, as you are, kneeling, put your hands on the cement behind you,” said the boy, “lean back, arch your back, have your head back, farther.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “She has a nice line,” said the boy.

  “Yes,” said Barzak. “She is a pretty she-urt.”

  “You may break position,” said the boy.

  Quickly Ellen knelt up, and turned to face him, closing her knees, covering her breasts with her hands.

  Barzak wandered off.

  “I am only eleven,” said the boy. “You are too old for me. I would prefer a slave who is nine or ten.”

  He then turned about and disappeared into the crowd.

  Later a small girl had drifted to the front of the shelf. She was clad in a child’s version of the Robes of Concealment. The tips of purple slippers could be seen beneath the hem of the robes. She was veiled. Her head, forehead and hair were covered, too, as is common. Ellen could see her dark brown eyes, wide, looking at her, over the white veil. Ellen and the others were in first position. A woman, similarly attired, with robes and veil, presumably her mother, hurried up to her and seized her by the hand, pulling her forcibly away. “Don’t look at those terrible, nasty, dirty things in their collars and chains!” she scolded.

  Targo came about the front of the shelf. “Appeal, appeal!” he said to Ellen.

  Immediately then she began to utter the allure-call to the crowd, “Buy me, Master!”

  “You are very inept,” said Targo. “Have I not given you better instruction than that? Here are further considerations. Intermingle with, and enrich, your appeal, with additional phrases of enticement. For example, ‘Buy me, Master! I am needful! I want a master! I need a master! I beg a collar! Please, oh, please, Masters, buy me!’ and so on. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen, shuddering.

  “Too,” he said, “do not neglect to shift position, and pose provocatively, and call attention to your body, and its charms, extremely explicitly, by both word and gesture. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” moaned Ellen.

  How could anyone expect her to do such things?

  But surely she did not wish to be again whipped!

  But happily Barzak was now not about, and Targo, too, was no longer in evidence.

  She was glad for the soothing lotion.

  The day, however, was milder than the preceding day, and there was, now and then, a good deal of cloud cover.

  She thought of her former master, Mirus.

  She thought of her former life, and her teaching, the classrooms, and such. She thought of many of the men and women she had known on Earth, in particular colleagues and individuals met at various conferences and conventions having to do with gender issues, conventions which were not so scholarly, as she now understood, as political, organized to propagandize an ideology, supposedly scholarly meetings but ones in which political deviancy was not permitted, the participants each striving to outdo the others in procla
iming the prescribed orthodoxy. She wondered what some of the female participants might look like in slave silk and a collar, their small wrists confined tightly in slave bracelets, perhaps behind their back. She thought about the male feminists, the allegedly male participants in such travesties of conformist scholarship, wondering what might be their motivations. Did they really believe the absurdities of the antimenites? Were they interested, rather, in their own political futures, willing to be male camp followers, hoping to be permitted to share eventually in the loot of grants, appointments, and prestige? They had seemed so spineless, so ingratiating. Did they not know how they, such hypocrites, or pliant weaklings, were privately mocked and despised by the others? She did not think that that could be unknown to them. Would any of them, she wondered, know what to do with a woman at their slave ring? Or did they not want such power? If not, how could they be truly men? All men desired absolute power over women. Did they fear it? Would any of them, she wondered, know what to do with a whip and a woman? The thought crossed her mind of the superintendent in her apartment building. He, she thought, would have known what to do with me. And so she thought of the men and women that she had previously known, particularly those she had known professionally. How nicely and naturally she, with her affected severity of manner and her carefully chosen, mannish, businesslike tailored suits, had seemed to fit in with them! She was now chained on a shelf, a naked slave, for sale.

  Targo returned after a time, perhaps having had his tea. The slaves would be fed, usually, before being brought to the shelf and after being taken from it.

  Shortly after Targo had returned, a man, with a teen-aged boy with him, presumably his son, made his way through the crowd, toward the shelf.

  “Do you have any barbarians?” he asked.

  “I specialize in barbarians,” said Targo, “but, alas, I have only one on hand at the moment, lovely Ellen. Position, Ellen.”

  “I do not wish to purchase one,” said the man. “I was just telling my son about them, and how to recognize them. Do you mind if we look at this one?”