Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  He then replaced the lid on the capsule, and once more it dangled from her collar.

  He lifted his hand and she rose, turned about, and returned to the streets, to make her way back to the Tower of Corridon. Bonto seemed a kindly man, simple and gentle. Ellen liked him. Men are so different, she thought. And I could belong to any man, any man who might buy me. I wonder what it would be like to belong to Bonto. He is muchly different from Portus Canio, my master. I think he would be kind to me, though, of course, I would have to render him perfect slave service. If I were less than perfect, I do not doubt but what he would use the switch, or whip, on me. He is, after all, Gorean. But I think I prefer Portus Canio, my master. I think he is sterner, I think he is more severe. Kneeling before him any woman would know herself a slave. At least I do not belong to Selius Arconious, that supercilious, handsome, vain, arrogant beast! How I detest Selius Arconious! And yet if he were to buy me, I would be his slave, and would have to render him perfections of service. I do not think he would be patient with me, not at all, even as patient as Portus Canio. How I hate him, that young, handsome, vain beast, Selius Arconious, he thinking he is so good-looking, so clever and mighty! How I hold him in contempt, how I detest him! And yet it is hard for me to remain standing before him! I grow weak! He makes me feel helpless! His nearness makes me feel faint! I grow giddy! I wish to flee! I wish to kneel! I wish to put my head down! I must fight the desire to tear away my tunic and throw myself to my belly before him! He is insensitive. He does not understand me. He cares for me not at all, save as an object of lust. Even his least glance treats me as a slave. Why is it then that I writhe in the straw at the thought of him? Why is it then that I dream of his whip upon me, lashing me, claiming me, marking me as his?

  “Hold, slave girl,” said a voice behind her, a man’s voice. “Do not turn about.”

  Ellen, frightened, stood still.

  “Are your thighs hot?” she heard the voice ask.

  “Master?” she asked, frightened.

  “Are your thighs hot?” he asked.

  “— I am a slave girl, Master,” she whispered.

  “You will continue to walk in your current direction,” said the voice. “At the next corner you will turn left, and enter the third door on your left. You will not look behind you.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen. She had the vague notion that she might have heard the voice before, but she did not recognize it.

  When Ellen arrived at the designated door, she saw that it hung awry on its hinges, was half broken, and boarded over. It gave access to what, now abandoned, might once have been a small, shuttered, unpretentious place of business. The windows were boarded over. Bills, mostly advertising tharlarion races and paga taverns, adhered to the exterior walls, and, in two places, to the door itself.

  “Enter and do not look back,” said the voice.

  Ellen entered the room, thrusting against the door with her shoulder. The man followed her within. She heard the door closed behind her. It was rather dark in the room; it was lit only by narrow blades of light coming through cracks in the imperfectly shuttered windows. It was musty and gloomy. There was miscellaneous debris on the floor, a shallow, bent pan, perhaps once used by slaves for drinking, some boards, some papers, and such. In the center of the room there was a table. There was much dust, everywhere. She felt the dust, thick, deep, soft, beneath her bare feet. She did not know when this room had been last entered. She noted motes of dust adrift in the light. She heard a rustle of leather behind her and then could see no more as she had been hooded. She was lifted from her feet and carried to the table, on the surface of which she was placed, on her back. Almost immediately she heard others approach, it seemed from an inner room. She half reared up as she felt her ankles firmly, rudely grasped. She was forced back to the surface of the table. Her tunic was thrust up, about her hips. Then, her ankles cruelly, widely spread, held far apart, she could feel the edges of the table on each side, the object which Portus Canio had inserted within her was drawn free. The message capsule which had held the sandal order for Bonto of the Leather Workers, tied to her collar, hung to one side.

  “Remain as you are, slave girl,” said the man’s voice, that of he who had directed her to this place.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, within the hood. She must obey, she remembered, without demur. And, indeed, where men are concerned, at least free men, and these men were presumably free, what alternative does a slave girl have other than instant and perfect obedience?

  After a few Ehn she again felt her legs spread and the tube, or one similar to it, was again inserted within her. She then heard the men withdraw, with one exception. She was carried to the door, and stood upright, facing it. Her tunic was smoothed down. The door was opened. Then, after a moment, warned not to look about, the hood was removed, and she was ordered to return, as though nothing had occurred, to her master. Ellen needed no urging and quickly left the room, not looking back. She restrained her impulse to run back to the Tower of Corridon, to seek the security of the loft, of her stall, of the kitchen. She tried to walk naturally. She could feel, subtly, the small object which had been placed within her. She had been fully at the mercy of the men, but they had not made use of her. She had not been put to their pleasure. She wondered if that were because she was the property of Portus Canio, or merely because these were serious men, who had more important things on their minds than such as she. At the tower, as chance would have it, though she wondered if he were waiting for her, it was Selius Arconious who opened the interior door to admit her. She saw how he looked at her, and she backed against the wall, near the door. She pulled a little against the bracelets and there was a tiny sound of chain, emphasizing her helplessness and captivity, and her movements, too, of course, drew the belly chain back, more tightly, about her, reining in her belly, which, in emphasizing the narrowness of her waist, the contrasting flare of her hips, the swelling, lovely ascent to her bosom, and her condition as bound thrall, presumably did not much help either. Selius Arconious took her casually, masterfully, possessively, in his arms, and she turned her head to the side, trying to turn away from him. How small her body seemed in his mighty grasp. “No, Master!” she said. “No, Master! Do not, Master!”

  “Struggle if you will, little vulo,” he said. “You are only a slave.”

  He then pressed his lips to hers greedily, as though he would devour her. “You are only a slave,” he whispered.

  “What is going on here?” said Portus Canio, entering the room.

  Selius Arconious thrust Ellen from him, and stepped back. Ellen tried to catch her breath. She sank back against the wall, weakly. In another moment, she feared, every fiber in her vulnerable, enslaved body, the entirety of her vulnerable, enslaved self, might have yielded to him. She stood then straight, as Portus Canio was present, reddening, looking embarrassed, trying to look indignant.

  “Well?” said Portus.

  “I was hungry,” said Selius Arconious, “for a snack of slave.”

  “Seek provender at the taverns, at the brothels,” said Portus. He then turned, angrily, to Ellen, who immediately knelt, with her head to the floor. “And what of this is your fault?” he inquired.

  “Please do not whip me, Master!” begged Ellen. Her small wrists, behind her, pulled against the bracelets.

  “Oh, I do not blame you, slut,” said Portus. “You cannot help what you are.”

  “Master?” said Ellen.

  “It was my fault,” said Selius Arconious.

  “The sight of you to a man,” said Portus Canio to Ellen, “is like thrusting a torch into straw. How can it not burn?”

  Then he said, “I go to the office. Join me there.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  Portus Canio then left.

  When Ellen looked up, she found herself kneeling before Selius Arconious.

  “You look well at my feet, slave girl,” he said.

 
“My master awaits me,” said Ellen.

  “Split your knees, more widely,” said Selius Arconious. “Yes,” said he, “you look well there, and thusly.”

  “I am under command,” said Ellen. “I must hasten to my master!”

  Selius indicated that she might rise, and she scrambled, angrily, to her feet.

  “May I speak?” she inquired, angrily, looking up a him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Dare never again to take me in your arms! I will complain to my master! I hate you! You are a vain, arrogant beast! You are a brute! You are ignorant, stupid and homely! You think you are so grand! You are not! You are only a tarnster! You are an ugly tarnster! You are nothing! I loathe your touch! The sight of you makes my skin crawl! Better to be seized in the claws of a tharlarion! I detest you!”

  “Do you think I do not know the feel of a slave in my arms who is on the brink of yielding?” he inquired.

  “No!” she cried. “False! False!”

  “So the little vulo would pretend that she is a figurine of ice, carved in the form of a slave girl?”

  “I hate you!”

  “But a touch,” he said, reaching out, “ever so gentle, ever so soft, will prove to me, and to any who might be interested, that you are a hot little slut.”

  “Do not touch me!” said Ellen.

  She backed away, frightened.

  “You are a barbarian,” he said. “You are worthless, but you might serve some simple purposes, as a slave.”

  “If you touch me again, I will tell my master,” she said. “Consider that, vain, handsome beast!”

  He regarded her, angrily. And she stepped farther away, and stood straight. She tossed her head, insolently, and her hair, which was longer now, which had never been cut on Gor, save to be trimmed and shaped, danced about her shoulders.

  “You may, of course,” she said, “look upon me, and frequently, I trust, and I shall find that amusing, for I know that you may not have me. Indeed, I may move with particular interest before you, to insult and taunt you, subtly, of course, so that my master will not notice. I think that will be a frolic. And thus will I avenge myself on you, paying you back for your arrogance, and your unacceptable liberties, by torturing you with the beauty of a slave girl, forever beyond your reach! Oh, I shall relish your agony! Do not smile! Whatever you may say to me, I know that I am not the poorest meat in a collar! I have seen the eyes of men in the streets upon me. I have heard their calls. I have felt their cruel pinches, darted away from their hands, and touches! And I know, too, that whatever I may be, and whatever may be my quality, or whatever price I might bring in a market, you, handsome master, desire me, and heatedly. Good! And you may not have me! I am owned by another! Roll in your blankets and think of me! Moan in your sleep! Dream of what you cannot possess! Let your straw burn, handsome master. Let it burn — fiercely! Suffer, thinking of me! I know that you desire me, and mightily, but know that I detest you, and that you cannot have me! You will never have me! I am not yours! I belong to another!”

  “You can probably not even dance nude,” said Selius Arconious.

  With a cry of anger, Ellen spun about and hurried to the office of Portus Canio. There he put her on her knees, her head to the floor, and, from behind her, removed the object from her body. He then, as the thought struck him, rather as an afterthought, seized her at the hips and briefly made use of her; he then, after a moment or two, freed her of the belly chain and bracelets and sent her to the kitchen, to prepare the men’s supper. After supper, while Ellen was busying herself, cleaning up, attending to the dishes, and such, she thought of Selius Arconious. How I detest him, how I hate him, she thought. To be sure, he was young, and strong and handsome. When she was near him she felt weak, “slave weak.” He was the sort of a man who made a woman quite conscious of the brand on her thigh, the collar on her neck. She recalled her training. She had not even been shown the rudiments of dance. That had been denied her. Accordingly she was no dancer. Too, Goreans have high standards for slave dance. On the other hand, she thought to herself, I am not such poor stuff. I could show him how a woman of Earth, yes, of Earth, if trained, can dance before men! I could show him how a woman of Earth, as much as any Gorean woman, can drive a man mad with passion!

  It might be mentioned that the errand just described was merely the first errand of its type which was required of Ellen. Over the next few weeks she found herself, several times, embarked on similar obscure ventures. There were some differences, of course. For example, she was sent to different shops and places of business, and professional activity, but each time, of course, with some ostensible, public purpose, usually connected, at least officially, with her master’s interests or work, a purpose which might be ascertained, for example, by guardsmen, were they inclined to inquire. And then each time, she having discharged her public business, she would be, sometimes even near the Tower of Corridon, addressed from behind, and directed, always by the unseen observer, to a rendezvous elsewhere, in one place or another, at which point the small tube would be removed from her body and then, later, reinserted. She did not know if she were carrying messages back to her master or not, as he never opened the tube in her presence. He did not warn her to silence about these fascinating matters but she was, we may suppose, highly intelligent, or at least intelligent, and surely warily discreet. Too, she did not wish to be smothered, or strangled, or suffer an unfortunate, fearful accident, for example, falling from the platform to the street so far below.

  It is perhaps appropriate to mention, however briefly, one further matter, which it seems may have been important with respect to various events which were soon to transpire in Ar and its vicinity.

  Ellen was at the public laundry pools on a given morning, those local to her district, toward the ninth Ahn, something before noon, kneeling on a towel, working on the laundry for Portus Canio and his men. This she did weekly. There were several slaves similarly engaged, perhaps two dozen, here and there, about the small pools, and, as there were no guardsmen in the vicinity, these were quite vocal, gossiping, chatting delightedly, exchanging small secrets, playing, splashing water, and so on. Too, they were doubtless not unaware that several young men were about, who, as was common, had come down to the pools to watch the girls in their collars work. It is pleasant to see beautiful women engaged in simple tasks, particularly if they are permitted no more clothing than a slave tunic. Too, Ellen realized, women become more animate, and beautiful, and charming, when they know themselves under the scrutiny of men. They are performing, thought Ellen, they are displaying themselves, as females. How stimulated they are, how pleased they are to do this, she thought. Even free women, she knew, behaved so. She recalled such things even from Earth, even amongst, surprisingly enough, her ideological colleagues. So many of them, she recalled, seemed so different in the presence of men. They are trying to please men, she had thought. And then she had thought, as well, but is that not what we all want to do, please men? Too, she had sometimes marked various changes in their behavior, such as a self-conscious awkwardness, a sudden uneasiness, a stumbling of speech, unfamiliar gestures, of a surprisingly, rather obviously feminine sort, flirtatious expressions and attitudes, a straining for wit and cleverness. Sometimes they burst into uneasy laughter, exhibiting an unnatural hilarity which bordered on nervous hysteria. What they needed, thought Ellen, working on a tunic of Fel Doron, was to have their clothing removed, and to be tied at the feet of men. That is what they needed!

  There were, of course, streets in the vicinity of the pools, and these streets had their traffic, of pedestrians, carts, and such. Normally heavy wagons and such were allowed in the streets only after dark, to avoid congestion.

  Ellen did not, as we have suggested, join in the pleasant confabulations of the enslaved beauties at the pools, fearing that her accent would betray her as a barbarian, with perhaps unfortunate consequences, even if only so minor as contempt and ostracization. She did, of course, smile when smiled at, and took
care to present herself at the pools as merely another pleasant, dutiful slave, engaged in her domestic labors, only another Gorean slave girl. And then she thought once, I may be a barbarian, but, in the end, that, too, is all I really am, only another Gorean slave girl! Too, Ellen knew no one at the pools. Many of the other girls seemed to have their friends, and know one another, and perhaps, being freer than Ellen, even arranged to meet their friends at the pools, seizing such pleasant opportunities to chat, gossip, socialize, and such.

  Ellen angrily took from the heap of clothing to her right a tunic of Selius Arconious. He was in the employ of Portus Canio, her master, and, given her duties, there was no way she could avoid doing his laundry. She lifted it to her face, and slowly, deeply, drew in its scent, her eyes closed, and pressed her lips submissively to the cloth.

  She heard a bright laugh from beside her, and she quickly thrust the cloth down.

  “That must be the tunic of your master!” laughed a girl next to her. The kneeling slave, to her right, she who had spoken, had dark eyes, regarding her, now sparkling, dancing, with amusement. She was dark-haired, beautifully formed and exquisitely beautiful. She wore a light, yellow, brief tunic, with a disrobing loop at the left shoulder, as most masters are right-handed. Ellen thought that she, stripped on a slave block, would doubtless bring a high price. Ellen felt a surge of jealousy.

  “No!” said Ellen. “It is the tunic of a hateful brute!” Then Ellen was alarmed, for she saw the girl look at her, sharply. Doubtless she had recognized that Ellen spoke with an accent.

  “You seem to have an unusual accent!” said Ellen, defensively, to the girl.

  “So, too, do you,” she said, not unpleasantly, but a bit narrowly.

  “What is your accent?” asked Ellen.

  “Your accent seems of Ar, in a way,” said the girl.