Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  “1242,” said the slave.

  “That is a high number,” said Ellen.

  “I received it late, after most numbers were assigned,” she said.

  Ellen nodded.

  “Had I been embonded earlier I might have had a lower number,” she said.

  “I think so,” said Ellen.

  “Am I beautiful?” she asked.

  “That is for men to decide,” said Ellen.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Yes,” said Ellen. “You are beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” she said.

  “I think you will bring a high price.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” she said.

  Ellen noted, to her interest, that two lanes, not one, were now being readied for moving forward, to the block area. And the two lanes thus emptied were shortly thereafter repopulated with new chains.

  “The sales,” she thought, “might be moving too slowly.”

  Ellen lay then on the grass between the stakes, on which ribbons were strung, marking the lanes.

  “We will soon be moved forward,” she thought. “I have been starved for a master’s touch. The Cosians have seen to that. These Gorean beasts have released the slave in me, as they wished. They have fanned the slave fires in my belly which now rage fiercely, tormenting fires I cannot control, putting me helplessly at their mercy. The beasts! They have made me healthy, and now I suffer from my vitality. I need the touch of a master. I fear I might die in another day without it. I must be soon owned, or I may perish in need. I do not care who buys me. I hope he is rich. Whoever it is, I will beg prettily, helplessly, plaintively, to serve. Please be merciful to your slave, future master! I am suddenly so miserable. I cannot help myself. Why do they do this to a poor slave? That former free woman! What does she know of what will be done to her, of what passions will be kindled within her! What does she know now of being transformed into a man’s plaything, a helpless, piteous, begging, pleading toy?”

  She looked at the former free woman lying near her. “What an unaware, simple, naive thing, you are,” she thought. “Rest in ignorance. You will learn. You will learn, my dear. I am so miserable, so terribly miserable!”

  She thought of the scorn with which Mirus would regard her, the contempt in which he would hold her, she, his former teacher, with her once smug, prim attitudes, now the helpless victim of slave needs. But then she was not dissatisfied to be so female, and so alive. “I would rather feel than not,” she thought. “It is better to feel than not to feel. But I am miserable. Oh, future master, have pity on the slave you will buy! Assuage my needs! Content me, if only a little! Would you not caress any pet animal upon occasion, particularly if she begs prettily enough?”

  “Squat!” she heard, a man’s voice, from several yards away, from somewhere behind her. He was at the end of the line adjacent to hers.

  There the man had had the last slave in the line, that next to hers, on the left, stand and put her legs apart. Between them he had then thrust a large, round, porcelain vessel.

  Notice of this quickly coursed down both chains, and the girls looked back.

  Near the keeper was a slave with water, and a dipper.

  The line to the left will be moving out first, thought Ellen. But then she noted that the porcelain vessel was moved to the right and the last slave in her own line must assume the posture and perform the expected behavior, as well. Both lines would apparently be taken forward rather at the same time.

  The vessel then began to pass back and forth between the two lanes, moving forward. Following the wastes vessel was the slave with the water. Each slave in the chain, following her use of the wastes vessel, must kneel and drink from the dipper, draining it. Ellen looked forward to the water. She was thirsty, and she did not doubt but what this state was common on the chain. Soon, mercifully, the thirst of the chain would be assuaged. More importantly, she supposed, from the point of view of the keepers, the appearance of the girls would be freshened and improved. It is common to water stock, she knew, prior to its sale.

  “Stand,” said the keeper to the slave across from Ellen, the former free woman. “Get the bowl between your legs!”

  “Please!” begged the former free woman, looking about herself, in misery, wildly.

  “Squat,” he said. “Be quick, slave.”

  Reddening, the former free woman, tears running down her cheeks, squatted miserably over the bowl. Then, doubtless for the first time in her life, she publicly relieved herself. No one must watch her. But, when she cast a frightened glance about, conducting a furtive reconnaissance, she saw that several of the other girls were watching her. She saw that Ellen, too, was watching her, very frankly, with a lofty, superior mien, with an almost malicious pleasure. Tears sprang anew to her eyes. She would receive no sympathy from Ellen. Ellen, you see, was recalling her former haughtiness, and was not a little pleased and amused. It was a pleasant vengeance in its way, to watch this once-haughty creature, now reduced to a shamed slave, squatting over the porcelain bowl, performing this homely act upon command. Slaves are not permitted modesty.

  “117,” said the keeper, reading Ellen’s lot number.

  Ellen took the bowl from the adjacent lane, and squatted over it. Now the eyes of the former free woman were upon her, and, it seemed, with a similar malicious satisfaction. It was now the turn of the former free woman to enjoy the discomfiture of a slave, and relish that slave’s embarrassment. Ellen was angry. She looked forward, pretending not to notice. She heard a soft laugh from her left, and was furious. Ellen turned to the former free woman and said, angrily, “So? We are both slaves!”

  “Yes, Mistress,” smiled the former free woman. Then she must kneel and drink, for the slave with the water had reached her place.

  You will look well in a collar, thought Ellen, irritably.

  Soon even the lovely 115 had been readied for the staging area.

  Two attendants then, with sticks, hurried the two lanes forward. The attendants cried out, angrily, making use of their sticks. Ellen cried out once, when struck across the back of the left shoulder. The former free woman, too, received a blow. But they could move no more quickly than the others on their respective chains! Soon the girls, the two chains, were crowded together, kneeling, at the side of the great block, at its right as one would look forward, toward the crowd. The crowd noise was close now, and loud, frighteningly loud. They could hear the calls of the auctioneer, bids, shouts. Ellen suddenly became terribly frightened. She was going to be sold, sold! Her shoulder stung from the blow she had received. All the girls, hurried as they had been, awkwardly, rushed, stumbling, were now kneeling huddled together, chained, frightened. They were disoriented, confused, fearfully intimidated. In this way there would be no doubt of their slavehood on the block, of their vulnerability and terror, nor of their eagerness to obey the auctioneer’s slightest suggestion or gesture. They would be instantly, unquestioningly obedient; there would be no doubt in the buyers’ minds of the docility, the piteous, abject servility, of the merchandise.

  So, thought Ellen, it seems that there may be yet another reason, other than time, and impatience, for rushing the chains forward, weeping, crying out, begging for mercy, stumbling, under blows, herding them so cruelly with jabs and blows to the block, to their sale, that we may show ourselves as frightened slaves before masters! But Ellen’s understanding of this, if understanding it was, did in no way diminish its effectiveness on her. She was fearful, frightened and intimidated. So this understanding, if understanding it was, certainly did not diminish reality. Rather it would make her so much the more aware of it. Such treatment, whether by intent or not, inevitably induced in her apprehensions and terrors which were fully suitable in one such as she on occasions such as this. She was terrified. She was a chained slave, soon to be offered to buyers. She shuddered. Her shoulder hurt. She knew she would obey on the block with abject alacrity, fearing only that she might be found displeasing in any respect. The blows and j
abbings had perhaps not been necessary, but they had reminded her of what she was, and what could be done to her.

  That was doubtless a more than adequate justification, if one were required, for the fierce, rushed herding.

  If such was its intent, to teach this lesson, what she was and what could be done to her, it had certainly succeeded.

  She was a chained, terrified slave.

  And in this she was no different from the others. Masters would see women on the block who well knew they were slaves.

  Ellen could see no order in the way girls were removed from the chains, to be dragged to the height of the block, one at a time. The light was now from torches. It illuminated the block, of course, and, partially, the pathetic goods clustered about it, to one side or the other. There was an attendant near the top of the block who could observe what was occurring, the type of girl being vended, the nature of the bids, and such. Perhaps he then made decisions as to who might most judiciously be next exhibited. Other attendants brought girls to the surface of the block, and, presumably, others conducted them from the block, on the other side. There seemed to be at least one attendant on the block, with the auctioneer, who, Ellen supposed, might upon occasion lend him assistance, perhaps posing a girl, or carrying one from the block who might be unable to walk, perhaps having succumbed to terror or having fainted.

  I hate Mirus, she thought. I hate Selius Arconious, she thought. I am going to be sold! How can they sell me? I am a woman! But, ah, Ellen, she thought, you are a woman who is a slave! Thus it is that you may be sold, and thus it is fitting for you to be sold! There were twenty-one bids on me! There is thus interest in owning me, perhaps considerable interest! Hundreds must have viewed me in the exhibition cage. I wonder who, of all those hundreds, made bids. I do not know. How could one tell? How could one be sure? The highest of those bids, whatever it might be, will be in a sense a reserve put on me, a bid below which others will not be accepted, the initial bid, that at which the bidding will begin. But surely it is not likely the bidding will both begin and end there. Beyond being seen braceleted to a pole in the exhibition cage, on the basis of which the twenty-one bids were made, I was later seen elsewhere, in the festival camp, for Ahn serving wine, from the vat of Callimachus, the number on my breast for all to note, and even later, I was danced, and in the ba-ta circle! Some, I am sure, will recall this slave when she ascends the block. Indeed, some, counting their coins, will doubtless be waiting for her to appear.

  I am to be sold, she thought. I am to be sold!

  The highest bid will be my opening bid. What will it be!

  I am suddenly afraid to ascend the block, to be shown to the men, to uninhibited, virile, powerful, lustful men, to men who are accustomed to the owning and the mastering of women. I am chained, I am stripped, I cannot flee!

  On this world I am a property, an animal!

  I am going to be sold, sold like a pig or horse!

  I am going to be sold! I am going to be sold!

  But of course I am going to be sold! I am a slave!

  How is it that I am here?

  How can this be, that I am here?

  Foolish vulo, she thought. You are here because you have been brought here, by men, as women for centuries, and doubtless on thousands of worlds, have been brought to such places.

  But why, why!

  Because they have found you of interest, and, accordingly, will have you in their collar.

  Surely they cannot sell me, she thought. Not I, not I!

  Can you not hear the biddings, the calls, she asked herself.

  They must not sell me, she thought.

  Why not, she asked herself. That you, a female, should be sold is fully within the rights of nature.

  Do you not know that such as you, dear Ellen, sweet, lovely Ellen, are the rightful property of men?

  Have you not understood this, have you not, for years, sensed it?

  Why, then, should you not be sold?

  How is it that I am a slave?

  Nature has made you such. Pity your impoverished sisters who have not yet met masters.

  Yes, yes, yes, thought Ellen. I well know myself slave, and rightfully so, but I am afraid to be sold!

  Who will buy me?

  Who will buy me?

  I am afraid to be sold, afraid!

  Afraid!

  Ellen half screamed, and turned away, but it was not her arm which the first of the two attendants seized, but that of a woman not inches from her, kneeling, cringing, the former free woman. There was the sound of a key thrust into the lock of the manacle, and turned, that by a second attendant. The manacle fell from her wrist. The former free woman was drawn to her feet, and held upright, as it seemed her legs might buckle. She looked down at Ellen, wild-eyed, trembling, weak, but in Ellen’s eyes she doubtless saw little but her own terror reflected. “I shall close my hand! I shall close my hand!” called the auctioneer. “My hand is closed! Sold!” The gong sounded from somewhere on the block, doubtless toward its back. There was a sound of sobbing, a sharp blow of the whip, a cry of pain. The former free woman raised her eyes piteously to the attendant who held her left upper arm in a grip of iron, perhaps then understanding what it was to be a woman and a slave, but he was not even aware of this, keeping his gaze fixed on the attendant toward the top of the stairs. There was a sudden gesture, imperative, impatient. Crying out, the former free woman was dragged toward and then, stumbling, up the steps. “It is too soon,” thought Ellen. “She has had little time to adjust to her bondage. She was marked only last night!” Ellen recalled the former free woman’s rich necklace, the jewels of her veils and robes. Surely a life of wealth, of luxury and pampering would have done little to prepare her for chains, exposure, degradation, the searing heat of the pressing, held, iron, for the sudden, sharp, instructive stroke of the whip, for the grasping, imperious hands of men, for the sawdust of the sales block. Then Ellen recalled the haughtiness of the former free woman, her former superciliousness, her almost intolerable arrogance, how she had treated Ellen, though she, too, beneath her robes was no more than another female, and thus a fit slave for men! Had she no understanding of herself? Had she never paused before a mirror, and therein observed the loveliness of her own unmistakable slave curves? How self satisfied she had been, she so loftily relying on the security of her station, she so complacently ensconced in the fortress of her status! How smug she had been, how superior! “She is a hypocrite,” thought Ellen. “She craved a collar, and now she will have one! Let her try to get it off! Be sold, slave girl! Be sold to the highest bidder!”

  Then Ellen recalled that the former free woman was now no more than she, only another slave, and she feared for her.

  “I hope you get a strong and kindly master,” thought Ellen, “one who will see to your needs, one who will care for you, and love you, and cherish you, but one at whose feet you will never be permitted to forget that you are a female and a slave.”

  “Ten copper tarsks for this slut!” called the auctioneer. “Untrained! Never yet collared! Let yours be the first! Marked last night! Fresh meat off the iron! Fifteen copper tarsks! Seventeen! Had but once, and then as a free woman!”

  There was laughter from the crowd.

  A new slave, if taken for commercial purposes, is routinely subjected to a virginity check. In the slave’s case, Ellen could well imagine her horror, legs spread, undergoing this examination. The test in her case, of course, doubtless to her chagrin, shame and embarrassment, would have had a negative outcome. Ellen could then imagine her hysterically defending her respectability, that she had had such an experience but once, had not found it satisfying, muchly regretted it, had found it disgusting, and so on, the usual defenses of frigidity in a free woman. Wait until you feel slave heat, and crawl to a man, begging, thought Ellen. What the auctioneer had said about the slave’s sexual experience tallied, of course, with what she had told Ellen, in their earlier conversation. And Ellen did not doubt but what it was true. Indeed, why
otherwise would the slave, when a free woman, have come alone to the festival camp, if she had not, on a profound subconscious level, scarcely understanding her own action, been seeking more, a more which she was sure must exist.

  “Accordingly scarcely opened for the pleasures of men! Indeed, for most practical purposes, one might say ‘not yet opened for the pleasures of men,’ certainly not yet opened for the true pleasures of men, and certainly not opened as a slave is opened! Twenty copper tarsks! Be the first to open her as a slave is opened! Twenty-five! Consider this luscious slave! Look upon her! See her, there! She can be first opened as a slave but once! Be he who first opens her as a slave! Be the first to enjoy her as a slave! Twenty-eight! Thirty! Thirty-five!”

  But then, to Ellen’s trepidation, and shock, the former free woman herself called out to the crowd. “Sirs!” she called. “Kind sirs!”

  She would then, it seemed, dare to address the crowd!

  The auctioneer, somewhere on the surface of the block, was suddenly silent, doubtless taken aback, perhaps momentarily not even comprehending. Surely he would have been taken unawares.

  To the right of the block, at the foot of wide, low, rounded steps, the kneeling slaves, chained, jammed together, huddled together, exchanged sudden startled, fearful, glances. Surely the slave on the block had not received permission to speak!

  The crowd was suddenly quiet, alert, and this seemed even more fearful.

  Ellen moaned softly.

  It suddenly occurred to her that the life of the woman on the block might be in danger. She had not thought of that earlier.

  “Sirs!” called the former free woman from the block. “Succor! I beg succor! Behold me! I am not what I seem! I am a free woman, free!”

  Somewhere in the crowd a man laughed.

  “No!” she cried. “I am free! I am a free woman mistakenly, wrongly, brought before you, thusly exposed and degraded, as though I might be a naked slave! I am a free woman! I am the Lady Melanie of Brundisium. Fellow citizens, give me succor! I am in grievous distress! I call upon some noble, gallant citizen of Brundisium to rescue me! Please, please!”