Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  And our slave needs, as noted, put us much at the mercy of the master.

  How frequently, and how intensely, our slave fires burn!

  Can you not imagine then our piteous supplications, our pleas to be permitted to serve him? We petition him to be put to his use. We beg our use.

  And as we are slaves, for what uses do we beg?

  Not the uses of free women, never, but the uses which are fit for us, the uses which we now need and want, for which we plead, the uses of slaves.

  The uses for which we petition, you see, as we are slaves, will be very different from the tamenesses which would be appropriately accorded to a free woman, uses conformable to her status and dignity. We wish to be handled quite otherwise. We wish to be handled as slaves. We wish to be positioned, turned about, knelt, spread, bound, such things. We wish to be treated as the slaves we are. As with the kaiila the masters will have a firm hand, so to speak, on our reins. Too, as with the kaiila, and not merely “so to speak,” the quirt will be at hand. We will be done with as our masters please. We will be treated then not as free women, but as owned women, which we are. Our uses will leave us in no doubt as to our bondage. We will be choiceless in these matters, but this choicelessness, as we are slaves, is precious to us. It is what we want. We do not want the tepid, boring experiences of the free woman. Leave them to her. We beg rather for the ecstasy of the slave. We wish to be used then not as free women but as ruthlessly mastered chattels, for that is precisely what we are, and would be. We are not free women who may adjust and regulate, as we please, beneath our sheets and within our modesty robes, the delicate and respectful attentions of some fellow fortunate enough to have been admitted to our chamber.

  Does the free woman sometimes feel an uneasiness, is she sometimes restless, does she sometimes experience a discomfort, one perhaps not even fully understood?

  The slave can know agony.

  Let the free woman twist and squirm in bed, and drench her pillow with tears.

  The slave prostrates herself before the master, her hair about his sandals, hoping he will be merciful, that he will take pity on her.

  Does the free woman sometimes wonder what it would be to be a slave, to be utterly rightless and vulnerable, to have to serve and please? Does she wonder sometimes what it might be to find her beauty, perhaps stripped and collared, looked upon with interest and satisfaction, with approval and anticipation, to find it thusly, helplessly, within the regard of a man who owns it, whose property it is, her master?

  Never before has she been so looked upon.

  Let her now understand, perhaps for the first time, that she is beautiful, that she is delicious and well-curved, that she is tormentingly desirable, that she is a fit meat for masters.

  Surely she now understands why she has been collared.

  Does she sense what it would be then to have his hands reaching for her, what it would be to be taken within his arms?

  Perhaps.

  One does not know.

  But put aside thoughts of free women, and their wants, and tragedies.

  We are not free women.

  We are slaves.

  We are commanded. We are naked and collared. We may be danced; we may be ordered to perform in any number of intimate modalities. We must hope to please our masters. If we do not, we must expect to be whipped. We are slaves. Not unoften we are chained or bound, mercilessly exposed for the master’s pleasure, his property displayed for his delectation. When he puts us to use, we are left in no doubt as to our subjugation. He is kind to us. He will grant us his caress, though we are only slaves. We are grateful for his touch, and we cry ourselves his, again and again, in the blinding delirium of our joy, in the ecstasy of the mastered slave.

  But our slave needs, thought Ellen, are not simply such needs, the needs of a pathetically aroused and cruelly intensified sexuality, as obvious as these things are. There are also subtler needs involved, those to belong, to be ruled, to be owned.

  Can free women, Ellen wondered, understand anything of this?

  Perhaps.

  One does not know.

  How fine and noble, how lofty and exalted, are free women, thought Ellen, and how I am nothing before them, but for all their status and glory I would not trade my collar.

  But then Ellen grew fearful.

  How long had she been beneath the blanket, so kept in place?

  She feared now for her master, and his friends, and allies. To linger longer in this place, this now-disturbed, now-fearful, now-sobered festival camp, would be, she feared, grievously dangerous.

  Was this not clear, even to an ignorant young slave?

  The fire crackled. It had been twice stirred, and twice replenished. Ellen wished desperately to speak, to urge flight, but she dared not do so. Too, she feared she might be left as she was, beneath the blanket, abandoned. She knew she could not keep up with the men if they chose to begin a rapid, severe trek afoot. But she had understood that they, if they followed the stated plan, would leave the camp in a leisurely manner. That recollection reassured her. Too, abandoning baggage or a slave might suggest a suspicious, precipitate haste. She could always be abandoned, of course, if one wished, on the trail. She could be bound hand and foot, and left to the side, subject to claimancy by others, should they happen by. That was possible. But this would normally be done only with an unwanted slave. How piteously then might they call out to strangers. But many would pass them by, not wanting another man’s leavings. Such an experience, of course, is likely to be instructive to a slave, and if she should be so fortunate as to be accepted by some passing traveler, she is likely to be to him amongst the most grateful, devoted and zealous of slaves. Too, of course, the sleen tends to prowl at night. But Ellen did not think she would be an unwanted slave. Surely she had seen the eyes of men upon her. She was no stranger to the frankly appraisive glances of masters.

  The men of Earth, she thought, are often circumspect, even furtive, when looking upon women, as well they might be, given the entanglements, the risks and absurdities, of their pathological environment. Some, suitably conditioned, would even feel guilt, upon, say, an occasion’s having arisen when they had, however briefly, indulged in one of nature’s most ingredient inclinations, the human male’s perusal of the human female. The Gorean male, on the other hand, looks upon women openly and honestly, particularly slaves. Many was the time when Ellen, even tunicked, had felt herself speculatively undressed by a fellow’s regard.

  The men of Earth think nothing of looking frankly upon dogs and horses, so why should they not look as frankly upon another form of domestic animal, the female slave? But perhaps they have never seen a female slave? If so, that is their misfortune, for such beasts are often very beautiful.

  To be sure, the Gorean slave tunic leaves few of its occupant’s charms to the imagination. But, too, many was the time that Ellen had seen men considering even cumbersomely robed, gloved and veiled free women. Doubtless they were considering the hidden slave. To her amusement, Ellen had noted that such free women, sensing themselves within a male’s regard, while pretending to be unaware of the fact, tended to straighten their body, hold their head up, walk well, and such. They, too, are slaves, Ellen had thought, with much satisfaction. Let them too, then, be collared and put in tunics! Then they would truly learn how to hold their bodies and walk. Certainly Ellen had been taught, to the sting of a switch, how to walk in a tunic, in the house of Mirus.

  One of the delights of a Gorean city, at least from a male point of view, is the scrutiny of its slaves. Males enjoy looking upon lovely women, particularly if they are lightly, briefly clad, revealingly clad. It gives them pleasure. Thus, if the women are slaves, they will have them so clad, “slave clad,” as the expression is. The garmenture of the slave, of course, at least officially, or at any rate in the lore of free women, is intended to be shameful, and to demean the slave. I do not think, of course, that it actually has this effect, or anything like it. To be sure, sometimes a slave new to
her collar, a recent free woman, must be whipped from the house before she can bring herself to appear so clad on the street. Her discomfiture, of course, muchly delights other slaves, who may then follow her about, publicly calling attention to her legs, and such.

  And in such garments, certainly, we must acknowledge that the slave, by intent, in accord with the imperious will of masters, is well-bared, that she is muchly exposed, that she is well exhibited, that she is well displayed, and such. But I do not think that such garmenture, slave garments, is demeaning, or shameful, at least not for a slave. Rather, they are appropriate for a slave, as they should be. If the slave is permitted garments, it is certainly appropriate, do you not agree, that they should be garments fit for a slave, namely, be simple, lovely, exciting, and revealing. After all, she is a slave, and she will often, doubtless, find herself before men. In such garments, too, given their brevity and such, it is usually easy, if one is interested, to see why she has been put in a collar. Most slaves, we should note, love their tunics, their ta-teeras, their camisks, and such. Usually they wear them with pleasure and pride, as visible tokens of their interest to men, as badges, unassuming as they are, of their desirability. In them they are exciting and beautiful, and they are well aware of this. The slave tunic, and such garmentures, rather as the collar, too, proclaims its occupant a woman who has been found worth capturing, worth collaring, worth buying and selling, worth owning, and so on. And do not think that slaves do not take pride in this.

  Whereas they may at first shudder in their pens and jerk helplessly, weeping, at their chains, they know, too, on some level, at least, and this appeals profoundly to their vanity, and to the yearning, secret slave within, perhaps hitherto fearing she might be valueless, perhaps hitherto fearing that no man might want her, perhaps hitherto fearing that no man would enslave her, that they have been found worth penning and chaining. Has not every woman wondered if she were attractive enough, or interesting enough, to be a slave?

  Even the most insolent and beautiful of women, one inordinately vain, one supremely confident of her worth and beauty, even inveterately, snobbishly so, in her customary interactions and relations with despised males, must tremble, wondering what it would be to find herself kneeling naked and collared at the feet of a true man, regarding her skeptically, whip in hand. Is she now so sure of her beauty? Would it be sufficient for that male, whom hitherto she has seen only in her dreams?

  But she is now penned, now on a chain.

  So perhaps she will learn.

  They now know they have been found beautiful enough to be put on a sales block and publicly sold. They now know they are lovely enough for the collar. In such things they find keen gratification. Are they not entitled to take some pleasure in recognizing that strong, lustful men will be satisfied with nothing less than owning them? Do they not understand now that they are amongst the most beautiful and desirable of women, women who, by the will of men, will be kept as they should be kept, as slaves?

  Perhaps they are trinkets and baubles, but they are trinkets and baubles which are zealously coveted, and relentlessly sought. Do you think they do not know that when a city falls and they are led forth in their chains, herded along, perhaps cruelly prodded, with other domestic animals, that they are esteemed the most luscious of booty and loot, the most relished of prizes and treasures? Can they not see the eyes of the conquering soldiers upon them? Can they not hear their cries of pleasure and anticipation? Certainly, too, they are the customary quarry of slavers, the primary object of raiders. Men risk their lives for them; men fight for them; men kill for them. They are the possession men want most. What man would not want them at his slave ring? And in time, ruled and owned, disciplined and possessed, they find their own fulfillment, as they had dreamed, at the feet of their master.

  In bondage a woman finds her reassurance and meaning.

  In the collar of a master is the belly of a woman best stirred.

  In the ropes of her lord a woman is most secure.

  The free woman may think herself a thousand times above the slave, and may be justified in doing so, and, indeed, in many ways, but the slave, kneeling frightened before the free woman, her head to her sandals, knows that it is she, and not the free woman, who has been collared.

  Lastly it might be noted that the garmenture of the slave, amongst its other features, has this one, too. It distinguishes her clearly from the free woman. In the Gorean culture this is extremely important. This is a distinction which must never be unclear or confused. The free woman is a person; she is a citizen; she has standing before the law; she has a Home Stone; she is noble, lofty, and exalted. The slave, on the other hand, is a property, an animal.

  But she does have her collar.

  Ellen hoped she would be neither left behind nor abandoned on the road.

  She would do her best, she knew, to keep up with the men.

  She would endeavor to be so pleasing, so obedient and helpful, so docile and servile, and so sensual, sensual as she had been taught in the pens of Mirus, sensual as only a slave can be sensual, that they would not wish to do without her.

  A slave, you see, in her way, by her appearance, demeanor, and service, may exert a considerable influence on the value and quality of her life.

  A slave who is pleasing will normally be well cared for, fed, clothed, and caressed. Too, it is not unusual for a pleasing slave to be cherished, cherished as only a slave can be cherished, cherished as a free woman cannot be cherished, cherished in a way forever denied to a free woman.

  And, too, is the slave not often ambushed by love? Is her path not beset with its thousand snares? Is she not often trapped, a helpless possession, within the nets of her needs? She lives with a man on terms of obedience and intimacy. She belongs to him. She knows herself his. She must please and serve. She lives thus in a radiant world enflamed with emotion. In such a world are forged the stoutest and most inescapable of chains. Talenders blossom in the meadow of her bondage. Such a world, that of bondage, is congenial to her deepest needs, and her sense of self. She senses she is where she belongs, and where she wants to be. She has longed to be put to her knees naked before a master. She has longed to press her lips in obeisance to his sandals. She is now so before him, and is content.

  She lifts her head to him, her eyes shining, in gratitude.

  Perhaps he will caress her.

  She may hope so.

  Perhaps he will keep her.

  She may hope so.

  But, too, he may not do these things.

  She must wait to learn. She is, after all, only a slave.

  She may be loved, or hated. She may be noticed or ignored. She may be silked or kept stripped. Her limbs may be kept free, or they may be held tightly to her body by coarse ropes; indeed, as she is a slave she might be swathed with merciless cordage, or perhaps chained, cruelly spread-eagled, on tiles. She may be called upon, to her delight, to dance for her master’s friends or acquaintances. How decorously she will dance if free women are present, and how like a slave, if they are not! Perhaps her master will permit her much latitude; perhaps she may be allowed to run freely about the city. Or perhaps he will keep her confined to the house, in shackles, or perhaps give her the run of a chain in the yard. Perhaps he will permit her to heel him on outings, joyfully, comfortably, or perhaps he will run her, hands tied behind her back, weeping and gasping beside his kaiila, on a short leash, tethered to his stirrup. She might be brought perfumed to his slave ring. She might be neglected in the filth of a kennel. She might be caressed. She might be lashed. She might be kept. She might be sold. She is a slave.

  Slaves are slaves, only slaves.

  And Ellen, kneeling naked, back-braceleted, concealed under the blanket, knew herself, too, such, and only such.

  She was a slave.

  She could be left behind.

  Would she be left behind?

  They must take me with them, she thought. They must, they must!

  You are a burden, she said to
herself. You are a slight slave, more fit for the furs, there squirming and moaning, than trekking beside masters for long days and nights. You will be left behind, or abandoned.

  No, no, she cried to herself, within the blanket.

  I can keep up with them, she said to herself. I must keep up with them!

  She did not want to be left behind.

  They must not leave her behind!

  But she did not think they would leave her.

  Too, there were wagons, and she might be permitted to ride. Too, Selius Arconious had been willing to pay twenty-one silver tarsks for her. Twenty-one! Do not forget that, she told herself. Despite his arrogance and disclaimers, I am sure you are important to him, she thought. No tarnster casts aside twenty-one silver tarsks. Perhaps I am pretty. Perhaps I am even a desirable slave. Can that be? I think it is possible. There were twenty silver tarsks bid on me in open auction. For most Goreans that is a considerable amount of money. To be sure, she thought, a kaiila would bring more, and a tarn a great deal more.