by John Norman
Then tears sprang to her eyes.
I hate you, Selius Arconious, she said, to herself. I hate you, I hate you!
But neither, she supposed, neither Mirus or Selius Arconious, were here. Or, if they were, what was it to her? Both despised her, surely, as she despised them! And Mirus would be too proud, or would be too ashamed, to bid upon her, and so confess his foolishness in letting her out of his collar. Too, he might be outbid. There were many rich men in the crowd, dealers and others. And she need not concern herself at all with Selius Arconious, a lowly tarnster. He would be fortunate to be able to put together a handful of copper tarsk-bits. He was as impecunious as a field urt. She need not fear falling into his hands. And, too, she hated him. So she was safe from them both! How suddenly secure, and free, this made her feel, a strange attitude perhaps for a woman on a sales block. But Ellen laughed to herself. How pleased she was!
So perform, slave girl, she thought. Show these rugged, virile brutes that your slightness and softness, on sale before them, are worth at least a silver tarsk!
Earn yourself a rich master, Ellen!
Perform, thought Ellen. Perform!
Ellen dared not call out to the crowd, of course, as she had not been given permission to speak, but her eyes spoke to the men, and her body.
Some men shouted with pleasure.
Suddenly Ellen was startled. You enjoy doing what you are doing, don’t you, she asked herself. Yes, she thought. Why, you brazen hussy, she thought. You shameless slut! You narcissistic little bitch! You have truly become a slave girl, haven’t you? Yes! Yes, she thought. It is what you are! You have become a slave girl. You are truly a slave girl! Yes, she thought, on this world I have been put in my place, precisely where I belong, at the feet of powerful men. And my will means nothing here! These things have been done to me whether I wish them to be done to me or not, and would have been done to me whether I willed them or not! They have been done unilaterally, by the will of masters. And, lo! Here, on this world, where there are true men, on this world of masters, I have found out, for the first time in my life, what it is to be a woman, a true woman. And I am pleased, and proud, and gloriously happy to be what I am, a woman!
“Stand as you were before,” she was told.
She did so.
“Hot and needful,” she heard.
She tossed her head, a bit angrily, a bit insolently. Did they have to know that? Could that not be left as her secret, to be revealed only, whether she willed it or not, in the arms of a dominant male? She wondered at the knowledge of the slavers. How could they know such things? It seemed they could see in a woman what she could scarcely admit to herself, even in her most secret dreams. Doubtless there were subtle cues in a woman’s body, in her movements, in her discourse, her carriage, her expressions and such. She had been told that slavers on Earth occasionally passed by beautiful women, to take as prey women perhaps less beautiful, but more intelligent, more latently passionate, those who, in their view, would make better slaves. Passion, of course, is required in a slave. Too, if she does not have it to begin with, she will soon acquire it. The master, the whip, will see to it. All women, at least latently, are passionate slaves. To be sure, much depends on the master. Some women know their master at a glance, others learn it at his feet. Bondage, in itself, is devastatingly arousing in the female. She recognizes it as her fitting condition. To the slaver’s practiced eye there must be ways of telling. But, indeed, even a man of Earth can occasionally sense, incontrovertibly, suppressed needs, latent passion, in a woman. And they are not even slavers, whose professional concerns require a considerable degree of accuracy in such judgments. But, to be sure, Ellen had doubtless squirmed at night, on her chain, cried out in her sleep, wept with need, and such, publicly enough. Too, she recalled, in the Cosian camp, days ago, before being coffled, having been bent over and tied at a trestle. Unwilling though she might have been to reveal her arousal under such conditions, it had doubtless been clear enough from the state of her body. She wondered if her new master would bind her so, occasionally, over a trestle. It is difficult for a girl to retain her dignity in such a position, but then Ellen recalled that a slave is not permitted dignity. Rather, expected of her is unquestioning obedience, delicious service and helpless passion.
“What is your name?” inquired the auctioneer of Ellen.
“‘Ellen’, Master,” she said, “if it pleases Master.”
“It is acceptable,” said the auctioneer. Then he turned to the crowd. Ellen looked uneasily at the whip, in his right hand. “We have here, Ellen, a young barbarian, small, curvaceous, brunet, gray-eyed, semi-trained, common mark, red-silk, responsive. There is interest in this slut, for there were several bids on her before she was removed from the exhibition cage.” He then turned to his assistant. “How many?” he asked.
“Twenty-one,” said the assistant, consulting papers. These were sometimes carried, but there was a small stand at the back of the platform where they might be deposited. Actual sales were recorded, and payments arranged, or made, at a table on the ground level, to the left of the block, as one would face the crowd.
Some of the men reacted to this, and leaned forward. It is, of course, easier to see a girl in the exhibition cage, where, if she is not restrained, one may even call her to the bars, than from most of the positions in the tiers, at night, as she is shown illuminated in the torchlight of the sales block. That, of course, is the purpose of the exhibition cage, to exhibit. One may then take note, under favorable conditions, of merchandise in which one might be interested. Ellen, of course, could not have been called to the bars in the exhibition cage, as she had been braceleted about one of the stanchions. She had, of course, had to caress the stanchion, kiss it, writhe about it, and such, responding to the commands of the fellows peering in, in their robes, from outside the bars. Had she been uncooperative an attendant would have entered the cage and put the whip to her. She had not been uncooperative. She, like the other women in the cage, had been stripped. Goreans do not buy clothed women. They wish to see what they are getting.
“Mostly from dealers,” said the assistant.
That pleased Ellen, as dealers might generally be expected to be relatively objective in their assessments. Such bids should be a good index to at least her wholesale value. To be sure, she did not know the nature of the bids.
“What was highest bid?” asked the auctioneer. That would be the bid at which the open bidding would begin.
“Two silver tarsks, fifty copper tarsks,” said the assistant.
Ellen nearly fainted. She trembled. Her knees buckled for a moment. She tried to regain her balance.
“Two and a half!” called the auctioneer. “Two and three-quarters?”
It is a mistake, thought Ellen. It must be a mistake. I do not want to be sold for so much! Masters will expect too much of me! I am not trained. I am only a common girl, and a barbarian!
Although these matters differ considerably from city to city, and silver and gold is often weighed by merchants, common ratios in the vicinity of Brundisium at the time of this writing, given the inflation of the unsettled times, are a hundred tarsk-bits to a copper tarsk, and a hundred copper tarsks to a silver tarsk. Depending on the nature of the silver tarsk, there will usually be ten to a hundred for a golden tarn disk. For the common silver tarsk, the smaller tarsk, the coin pertinent to the bidding in question, the ratio was one hundred such tarsks to the golden tarn disk, at least that of Ar or Jad, on Cos, and certain other major cities, including Brundisium.
In a moment, it seemed the auctioneer had his invited bid of two and three-quarters, and, a moment later, three.
Ellen, frightened, backed toward the auctioneer’s assistant. “May I speak?” she whispered.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I think there is some mistake, Master,” said Ellen.
“No,” he said.
The auctioneer’s assistant then raised his hand, and called out, “Four!”
“He is not permitted to bid!” cried a man.
“Five,” came from the crowd, somewhere.
“I rule my colleague may bid, subject to review by the camp polemarkos,” said the auctioneer. “But the point is moot, as we have a bid of five.” He looked about, at his assistant. The assistant shook his head. The auctioneer lifted his hand for a moment’s respite, and turned to his assistant. They conferred in low tones, and Ellen looked away, indeed, moved away from the small table. “Do you want her for yourself?” asked the auctioneer. “I could claim a defect, an error in the records.”
“You would have a riot on your hands,” said his assistant.
“Did you want her for yourself?” asked the auctioneer.
“No,” said the assistant. “I like blondes. I thought only to turn a profit on her.”
“Then we shall let the matter stand,” said the auctioneer.
“Yes,” said his assistant.
“Buy something as good, for less, when the crowd is smaller,” said the auctioneer.
The assistant nodded.
“And there may be leftovers, to be distributed,” said the auctioneer. “Possibly one or more blondes.”
“True,” said the assistant.
The auctioneer then turned to Ellen. “Go to the front of the block, where buyers can get a better look at you,” he said.
Ellen obeyed.
“We have a bid of five!” called the auctioneer, “a mere five tarsks for this exquisite little barbarian bauble. Would you not like to have her crawling to you, bringing you your sandals in her teeth! Imagine her before you, on her belly, licking and kissing your feet, begging to serve your pleasure!”
“Oh!” cried Ellen, for one of the men near the front of the block had grasped her ankle. She dared not, of course, protest. If she had tried to kick at the man her foot might have been removed.
But the eye of the auctioneer was quick. “Do not handle the merchandise,” said he, laughing, “until you own it.”
Grinning, the man removed his hand. “Six,” said the man.
But in a moment there was a bid of seven from the crowd.
Ellen was dazed.
The thought passed her mind of her lectures in the classroom, her former demeanor, her former prim attire. So faraway, so different! And then the strange image came to her of herself, stripped as she now was, but standing on the cool, flat, smooth surface of the desk in the classroom, being exhibited as a slave. In that image it seemed that, somehow, there were several young men then in the classroom, as there had not been, considering her, having her turn about, and so on. The female students in the room, many of whom she remembered, seemed timid, small, shy, quiet, subdued, fearful, withdrawn, but were regarding her with fascination. And from time to time the young women in the classroom looked about themselves, at the young men. Did they ask themselves what it would be, to belong to one or another of them? As they regarded her, with wide, fearful, attentive, shining eyes, did they expect, or await, or fear, their own turn upon that platform, similarly, blatantly, coarsely, displayed. And then the image was gone, and Ellen was again herself, on the exotic world of perilous, barbaric Gor, illuminated in the light of torches, standing on the concave surface of the block, her ankles in sawdust, the lights of Brundisium in the distance, the men calling out, being offered for sale, being sold.
She scarcely realized that there was now a bid on her of ten silver tarsks. That is too much, she thought, too much! That was a full tenth of a golden tarn disk!
There was then a lull in the bidding.
“More? More?” inquired the auctioneer, though it seemed he did not, really, expect more.
Ellen did not think that many girls sold in this camp would go for so much. Perhaps a hundred, or a hundred and fifty, perhaps high slaves, perhaps exquisitely, lengthily trained pleasure slaves, perhaps skilled dancers, perhaps such, but surely not she! Accordingly, instead of being excited and thrilled, she was apprehensive. There must be some mistake, she thought. I am not worth that much, she thought. To be sure, she told herself, it is men who will decide what you are worth, not you. How much I must have changed, she thought, if men, particularly in a general, improvised camp such as this, are willing to bid so much!
Dare I think such thoughts? Dare I accept myself as being that attractive? Surely I must dismiss such thoughts. They are far too bold for a slave! There must be a mistake, a mistake of some sort!
“Here, kajira,” snapped the auctioneer, behind her.
Quickly Ellen backed to him, that she might not cease to face the men, until she sensed that he was a foot or so behind her, to her right.
She felt his hand in her hair, behind her shoulders, his hand then lifting, looping the hair several times about his fist, until his fist was tightly at the back of her head. She put her head back a little, apprehensively, to ease the pressure. Then she cried out suddenly in pain as his hand twisted tightly, cruelly, in her hair, bending her backward, exhibiting the bow of her beauty to the men. She tried to reach back to her hair, twisting, sobbing.
“Place your wrists behind you, crossed,” said the auctioneer, and Ellen, the slave, complied, bound by the will of the master.
She was then turned about, from side to side, that the men might better see.
I trust, she thought wildly, that neither Mirus nor Selius Arconious are among the buyers. Surely they must not see me so, not exhibited thusly!
Clearly the men were enflamed at the sight of the helpless, displayed slave.
“Eleven!” she heard.
“Twelve!”
“Thirteen!”
“Fourteen!”
“Fifteen!”
There was then again a lull in the bidding.
Ellen sobbed suddenly, again, held, twisted backward.
“Is there more?” called the auctioneer. “More?”
He released Ellen’s hair and took her by the upper left arm, and threw her to her hands and knees in the sawdust before him. Her knees were deep in the sawdust, and her hands were in it, to the wrists. She looked wildly out, through her fallen, dangling, scattered hair, into the crowd. Tears fell into the sawdust.
“More?” inquired the auctioneer. “I have fifteen! Do I hear more? My hand is lifted! I am preparing to close my hand!”
“Twenty,” said a voice.
There was a gasp from the crowd.
Ellen shook her head, trying to clear the hair from before her face. She looked out, into the crowd, trying to see. “No,” she wept. “No!”
Then she lay on her left side in the sawdust, facing away from the crowd, her knees drawn up, her head covered with her hands, at the feet of the auctioneer.
“Did I hear a bid of twenty?” asked the auctioneer.
“Twenty,” repeated the voice.
“This is a barbarian, not fully trained,” said the auctioneer.
“She can be trained!” laughed a voice.
“Twenty,” said again the first voice.
“Kneel, facing the men,” said the auctioneer.
Ellen then knelt, facing the men, but with her head down, her knees closely together, trembling, her arms crossed before her, trying to cover herself as best she could, trying to conceal as much of the slave as possible.
“Position,” said the auctioneer to Ellen.
And then Ellen, tears running down her cheeks, knelt appropriately before the men, as what she was, a Gorean pleasure slave, back on heels, back straight, head up, hands down on thighs, knees widely spread.
“I have twenty,” said the auctioneer. “I am preparing to close my hand!”
Ellen had recognized the voice. In a moment she would again belong to Mirus, he who had first opened her for the uses of men, her first master.
I do not want to belong to him, she thought, suddenly, wildly, no longer, no longer! And the thought, springing into her consciousness, startled her, and amazed her.
But she would
belong to whomsoever she was sold, he who would then have all rights to her embonded beauty, and he who would exercise all rights, he whose slave she would then be.
“I will now close my hand!” said the auctioneer.
“No!” called out another voice, from the crowd, firmly, clearly.
Men looked about, to see who had spoken, who might choose to challenge the preceding, remarkable bid.
Mirus turned about, to see as well, he several yards back, in the crowd, to Ellen’s left, as she faced the crowd.
Mirus clearly did not know his competitor.
The garments of Mirus were ample and splendid, robes which might well betoken his wealth and position.
The fellow who had halted the auctioneer was plainly clad, in a simple brown tunic, and was surely of low caste, perhaps of the peasants, or a drayman of sorts.
Mirus smiled.
Although the caste of Mirus might be unclear from the particular nature of his garmenture, Ellen supposed him of the slavers, which would be a subcaste of the Merchants, which caste was doubtless the wealthiest on Gor, and one which was often wont to view itself, perhaps in virtue of its wealth, if not as well in virtue of its influence and power, as a high caste, a tendency which, however, was not widely shared, save perhaps, at least publicly, by its clients and sycophants. Goreans respect wealth but tend to value other attributes more highly, and, indeed, to the credit of the Merchants, it should be noted that they usually do so, as well. One such attribute is fidelity; another is honor. Gor is not Earth.
In any event, aside from any cultural ambiguity which might attend the station or status of the Merchants, Mirus would presumably concede nothing in caste merit to the fellow who had just, it seemed, dared to gainsay him.
Mirus again regarded his apparent competitor, and again smiled.