Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  “Well,” called the auctioneer to the crowd, “it will take at least thirty-five copper tarsks to rescue her!”

  There was laughter from the crowd.

  “I will rescue her for the whip!” called a man. “Thirty-six tarsks!”

  “And I will rescue her for my pleasure gardens!” called a fellow. “Thirty-seven!”

  “I think I would rescue her for the kitchen!” called another man. “Ten copper tarsks!” There was laughter. That had been the auctioneer’s suggested opening bid.

  “Was she taken from within the walls of Brundisium?” called a man.

  “No,” responded the auctioneer. “But even had it been so, the brand is already upon her!”

  There was laughter from the crowd.

  “You affirm,” said a man, “that she has been properly embonded, and that all legal proprieties have been satisfied?”

  “Yes,” said the auctioneer. “All is in impeccable order, to the last detail.”

  “Please, sirs!” cried the woman. “Take pity on me!”

  “I will take pity on you with a whip!” called a fellow. “Thirty-eight copper tarsks!”

  The woman cried out with misery.

  “How came she here?” called a man.

  “She came alone, unguarded, of her own choosing, to the camp,” responded the auctioneer.

  “Thirty-eight copper tarsks is too much for so stupid a woman!” called a man.

  This observation was greeted with laughter.

  “Please, sirs, save me!” called out the woman. “Someone, please, save me!”

  “Do you beg to be purchased, my dear,” said the auctioneer, solicitously, but in a voice which could easily be heard well out into the crowd.

  “Oh, yes!” she cried. “Yes! Yes! I beg to be purchased!”

  There was much laughter from the crowd.

  “Only slaves beg to be purchased,” the auctioneer informed her.

  “No!” she cried.

  “On your knees, slave girl!” snapped the auctioneer.

  Ellen supposed that the woman must have knelt, instantly. There was laughter from the crowd. There was no stroke of the whip.

  “Please,” she cried again, perhaps now on her knees, her hands perhaps extended piteously to the crowd. “I will repay you a hundred times for whatever you give for me!” she cried.

  “You then acknowledge yourself a slave?” asked the auctioneer.

  “Yes!” wept the woman.

  “Yes, what?” he inquired.

  “Yes — Master!” she cried.

  “Do you mean, repay in coin?” asked the auctioneer.

  “Yes,” she cried. “Yes, Master!”

  “Surely you know,” said the auctioneer, “that you no longer have economic means at your disposal, no more than a kaiila or tarsk. A slave owns nothing, not even her collar.”

  “No!” she cried. “No, no!”

  “Pose her,” said the auctioneer. Ellen, huddled with the others beside the block, at its foot, and at its right, as one would face the crowd, heard a cry of misery from the woman, and supposed that she had been pulled to her feet, probably by the auctioneer’s assistant.

  “Consider the line of her body,” the auctioneer advised the crowd. “Turn her,” he said, presumably to his fellow on the block.

  “Forty copper tarsks!” called a voice.

  “Forty-five!” cried another.

  “You will indeed, of course, my dear,” said the auctioneer to the woman on the block, “repay your purchaser for purchasing you, as will any slave. You will repay him with extensive, servile, intimate services. You will repay him, day in and day out, night in and night out, lavishly and abundantly, and endlessly. You will be hot, devoted and dutiful. You will be a perfection to him. You will be his possession, and his toy. You will be his cook, and laundress, his housekeeper and maid, and, fear not, the answer to his most secret dreams of pleasure.”

  There was a raucous cry from the crowd.

  Ellen did not know what was taking place on the block.

  “Let us see if she is vital,” called the auctioneer.

  Ellen shuddered.

  “Stand facing the masters,” said the auctioneer, “stand straight, straighter, legs spread, more widely, clasp your hands behind the back of your head, head back, hold that position!”

  In a moment Ellen heard the woman shriek.

  “Hold position!” said the auctioneer.

  The woman cried out in shame, in misery, in wonder.

  “Hold her,” said the auctioneer, doubtless to his fellow. “Steady, steady, little vulo,” said the auctioneer, soothingly.

  She cried out, in protest, in shame, in relief, in gratitude, in joy.

  “Now to your belly, curvaceous little slut,” said the auctioneer, “and you may beg the masters to be purchased. Surely you are not unfamiliar with the way in which this may be done.”

  Whereas Gorean free women commonly scorn and hate female slaves, and profess no interest in them, it is clear that there are few topics of greater interest to them. When with free men the free women seldom neglect an opportunity to speak loftily and disparagingly of slaves. How tedious it must be for the men to hear them so incessantly denigrate and castigate the innocent, helpless, scantily clad kajirae, sometimes even when being served by such. Naturally they wish the men to share their views but most Gorean men refrain from discussing the matter with them, except perhaps to dismiss the matter with some remark, such as “Do not concern yourself with them. Let them be beneath your notice. You are priceless, and free. They are only meaningless slaves, only domestic animals.” Despite their profession of disinterest in such matters, free women, it seems clear, seek avidly to learn all they can about female slaves and their lives. What do they do? How do they serve their masters? What goes on behind those closed doors? What is it like to have to obey? What is it like to be in a collar? When the free women are alone with one another, and no young free females are present, they speak of little else. It seems they are obsessed with their embonded sisters. If they are truly free, why is it that they find the topic of the slave girl so extraordinarily fascinating? Doubtless it would be presumptuous for Ellen, who is only a slave, to speculate on such matters. She will, however, note in passing, that this antipathy and fascination is not limited to Gorean free women. Ellen recalls that many of her former female colleagues seemed obsessed with decrying women as slaves and chattels, and such, even when the women were obviously among the best fixed, the most comfortable, the richest and most free of the population. Is it because they want the collar put on them, truly? Too, even amongst her former colleagues, there had been an inordinate fascination with the female slave, when evidence of such might occasionally arise, even amongst the gray piles, the densely inhabited cliffs and busy, noisy canyons of their own civilization. Indeed, stripped, collared slaves served masters in their own cities, sometimes in the most expensive and prized of domiciles, in penthouses, and such. On marbled floors might patter the feet of bangled slaves. On rich rugs, amidst glass and chromium, and high bookcases, might they kneel. Surely they knew that. Did they dare guess how many? Did they really think they could shame a true man, a virile, rational man, one who thinks for himself, into not keeping a slave, should he be so fortunate as to acquire one? After once having had a taste of the mastery? No. That taste is not forgotten. That is clear to me. What can compare with it? Compliance with pathological politicized prescriptions, designed to promote the power of unscrupulous, self-seeking misfits? All the social engineering, all the establishments in charge of controlling minds, all the power of the media melt away before the sight of a slave at one’s feet. With what would you reward a man who betrays his manhood? What will you give him that is worth more than his manhood? And I do not even comment on the other side of the coin, except to say that it is one coin, and it has another side. There are men and there are women, and the needs and desires of one are complementary to the needs and desires of the other. Each is a gift to the other,
bestowed by nature, the slave to the master and the master to the slave. Ellen wonders, sometimes, how many of her former colleagues, in their private lives, in their secret lives, repudiate the falsity, foolishness and treason of their public lives. How many, she wonders, are dominated, stripped, belted in slave cuffs, and thrown to the bed, and from this surface look upward, into the eyes of masters?

  But let us put such speculations aside.

  Accordingly, the former free woman, as other Gorean free women, would doubtless have heard of, or been apprised of, doubtless to her scandal and horror, and doubtless in whispers, behaviors sometimes attributed to slave girls on the block.

  And so the former free woman begged to be purchased. And it seemed, as far as Ellen could gather, that she was not, as the auctioneer had speculated, unfamiliar with the way in which this might be done.

  Free women, after all, if only in virtue of hushed, furtive, scandalous rumors, would not be all that unacquainted with at least the possibility of such a thing.

  Though they might decline to believe it.

  But even supposing such things might actually occur, which seemed so improbable, surely she had never dreamed that one day it would be she on the block, she herself, then only a branded slave, who must perform so, who must behave in such a manner.

  And then she found herself such.

  How ironic, thought Ellen, how perfect!

  And Ellen knew that on the block there was at least one man who had a whip, and would be willing to use it, instantly, on an errant girl.

  Perfect, thought Ellen.

  “Buy me, Masters!” called the slave. “Please buy me, Masters!”

  It is unfortunate, thought Ellen, that there are no free women in the audience, for her former friends might be interested in seeing her so.

  Doubtless they would find her predicament amusing and delicious. But let them beware, lest they find themselves sharing her fate.

  Yes, thought Ellen, it is unfortunate that she is not before free women, as well, for such a contrast, with its excruciating, unspeakable humiliation, particularly at this time in her bondage, might help her to learn her slavery more quickly. But, no matter, for she will doubtless have many experiences before free women, kneeling, serving, obeying and such, and such experiences will send her even more needfully, even more gratefully, even more piteously, to the feet of a master.

  “Buy me, Masters!” cried the slave on the block, presumably now on her belly, one hand perhaps extended to the crowd. “Buy me, Masters! Please, Masters, I beg to be purchased! Buy me, Masters! Please buy me, Masters!”

  She went for two silver tarsks, surely a considerable sum for a new girl, an untrained slave.

  Ellen was pleased with the sale of the slave. Had she not, when a free woman, once been haughty to her? To be sure, she was now only another slave.

  “Oh!” cried Ellen, as her arm was seized. She tried to pull away a little, but she was helpless. The grip was like a vise. Marks would be left upon her arm. A second attendant thrust a key into the iron cuff which clasped her left wrist, and the metal fell away, loose on the chain. In a moment she was being dragged up the broad steps to the surface of the large block from which livestock, fleshstock, such as she was being vended. Briefly, wildly, she thought of Earth. How can this be happening to me, she thought. Then she recalled that she was now naught but a Gorean slave girl. Be proud, be beautiful, she thought. Show them that you are worth a high price! There were twenty-one bids on you, even from the exhibition cage. Show them that their bids were not mistaken. Show them you are worth even more!

  She stood then before the men, apprehensive, but slave beautiful.

  She heard murmurs of interest.

  She knew that she was an object of desire, that she, stripped and standing before them, was of interest to men, to strong, virile men, men who knew what to do with women such as she.

  But it is not unusual for a female slave to be desirable. They are usually selected for, as obviously they will usually be priced for, their desirability. In Gorean there is even an expression “slave desirable,” which means, of course, desirable enough even to be a female slave.

  Doubtless many Gorean women, and doubtless many of Earth, as well, have stood naked before a mirror, regarding themselves, and asked themselves if they were worth enslaving, if they were beautiful enough to be a female slave. Would they have value? If so, how much? What would they bring?

  The sawdust was deep, about her ankles. There was a little dampness, perhaps from first-sale girls who had preceded her on the block. She was pleased that she had been given the opportunity, and had even been required, to relieve herself earlier, in the lines, between the ribbons.

  What would the quoted bid be, she wondered. It would be the highest of the twenty-one bids from the exhibition cage.

  She heard herself being praised, as slave meat, and as a toy of possible interest. I am intelligent, she thought, quite intelligent. Tell them that! Then she wondered if her intelligence, really, was that much higher than that of her chain sisters. The brutes, she thought, they are taking my intelligence for granted. That given, their interest seems to be in the pleasures which I seem to promise!

  She heard herself described in some detail, by the auctioneer’s assistant, who read from papers, presumably extracted from scribes’ records. Various measurements were iterated matter-of-factly, for example, those of her bosom, waist and hips, and those of her neck, wrists and ankles, the latter primarily of interest with respect to the dimensions of appropriate identificatory or custodial hardware, the collar, wrist rings and ankle rings.

  She blinked against the torchlight. The block was well illuminated. It was harder for her to see the crowd. Faces in the front rows were adequately visible. Some men were standing literally at the front edge of the block.

  She was described as semi-trained. This pleased her, for she did not want her new master to expect too much of her, and be disappointed. He could always train her to his particular pleasures. That was always pleasant for a master. She would desperately strive, as any slave girl, to learn how to please him, to prepare his meals, to arrange his furs, to lie provocatively at his slave ring, to use her hands and hair, her lips and tongue as he might wish, and so on.

  “Walk about, pose,” she was told.

  She did so.

  “Barbarian,” she heard.

  “They do not have to beat me, to have me show myself to the crowd,” she thought.

  There was a cry of pleasure from some of the men.

  “Red silk,” she heard.

  “That is obvious,” called a man.

  There was laughter.

  It was Mirus who had first opened her, for the uses of men.

  “A slave not without interest!” called a man.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “Am I brazen?” she thought. “Very well, should that be the case. I do not mind. And are not such expressions merely disparaging expressions, from a distant Puritanical world, fearing life and beauty? Have they not been invented by the homely and inhibited, the ugly and inert, as weapons against the proud, the beautiful, the soft and vulnerable, the eager and passionate, to conceal their own grayness, their own flatness and uninteresting mediocrity? Am I a narcissistic little bitch, as Mirus, once my master, might claim? Perhaps. If so, I do not mind. No, I do not mind being beautiful, and delicious, and provocative. That pleases me. I like it. It makes me happy. What is wrong with that? Put aside the mediocrity’s armament of vengeful semantics. See life as it is, directly, in its beauty, if only for a sudden, startling moment, perhaps as men might have seen it before language, before the subtle, altering, translucent barriers of words, the invisible wall that so liberates, but yet confines and shapes, was interposed between the mind and existence, not through the distortive prisms of the sluggish, fearful and defective. Would that there could be a new language, or new words, a lexicon of light that would allow us to see the world as it might be seen, in its innocence, profundity and glor
y.”

  How humiliating this is, she thought. How shamed you should be, Ellen! But you tramp, you slut, you tart, you are not! How terrible you are!

  There was no mistaking the interest of the buyers. Suddenly it seemed she could almost feel the heat of their interest, like waves of heat emanating from the door of a furnace she had inadvertently opened.

  She felt suddenly she might run from the block, but she could not, of course, do so.

  “Apparently, she has some skill in slave dance,” called the auctioneer’s assistant.

  Ellen hoped the buyers did not take that too seriously. To be sure, she would not have objected to being taught something of slave dance. It had suddenly seemed, last night, as though a world had been opened up before her, a wondrously exciting, sensuous, vital world. She had felt very female, very feminine, in the dance, pleasing men, performing, a slave before masters.

  “Fluent in Gorean,” was called to the crowd. “Small scar on the upper left arm.” That would be her vaccination mark, from childhood, on Earth.

  I wonder if Mirus and Selius Arconious are among the men, she thought. I suspect so. Or have they even bothered to attend?

  “Brand, the kef,” called the attendant.

  That was the most common kajira brand, the “kef” being the first letter in the expression ‘kajira’. Mirus, of course, had seen to it that she would wear the common kef, which he regarded as fitting for her; he had seen to it that she should be marked as it pleased him, as a common slave.

  Perform, she thought. I wonder if dear Mirus and dear Selius Arconious, the arrogant, imperious pigs, are here. Perhaps! Then show dear Mirus what he gave up, what a fool he was to let something like me slip away! If he would have me now he will pay and pay! He will pay dearly! I do not care if he would empty his purse! But he will not bid upon me because he would look like a fool to do so, after letting me go! So be it. I care not a whit. That means nothing to me now! And let me show dear Selius Arconious what he shall not own! I hate him, the arrogant Gorean tarsk! Hurt him! Hurt Selius Arconious! Let him see what he cannot afford! I hate you, Selius Arconious! Grind your teeth, clench your fists, sweat, moan, tear your clothing, burn in needful misery, dear Selius Arconious, as I perform, delectably, exquisitely, as I do now, but know that you shall not have this slave! No! You cannot afford her!