Prize of Gor coc-27

by John Norman

  The soldier who had earlier hungrily regarded Ellen, he who had been warned by the officer to take his eyes from her, went to her, roughly turned her about, as one may a slave despite her delicacy, snapped a slave bracelet on her right wrist, untied her hands, and then lifted her and put her on her back, on the surface of the inverted wagon, and thrust her hands up and back, over her head, until they were on each side of the wheel. He then attached the free bracelet to her left wrist, and she was braceleted in such a way that the chain went behind the wheel, and thus, of course, between two spokes. He looked down at her.

  “Do not detunick her,” said the officer.

  With a last look the soldier turned away.

  Ellen, squirming, tried to force the tunic down, further, about her upper thighs. She felt the rough boards through the tunic, against her back. She was pleased to be free of the tightness, the pressure, of the ropes, but was now bound even more helplessly, her wrists closely encircled in slender, graceful steel.

  “You,” said the officer, speaking slowly, and clearly, to the three beasts. “You stay — here. Stay here. Down! Rest! Stay. Here. Stay. Do you understand?”

  They gave no obvious sign that they could comprehend speech, but from one, Kardok, it seemed there might have emanated some small, scarcely audible bestial sound, a half-heard growl, something which, if it were speech, could have been constituted by no more than two or three syllables.

  “Good lads,” said the officer, as the beasts lay down. “They are clever,” he said to a soldier. “Well trained.”

  Ellen, turning her head, saw the large, round eyes of Kardok upon her. She looked quickly away.

  The sun was now dipping into the grasslands in the west, as the sun, Tor-tu-Gor, Light-Upon-the-Home-Stone, the common star of Gor and Earth, now took its rest after its diurnal labors, as the first knowledge would have it, or, as the second knowledge would have it, as the planet rotated eastward. There is rumored to be a third knowledge, as well, but it seems that this is reserved to those whom the men of this world commonly speak of in hushed tones, the Priest-Kings of Gor.

  Watchful were the soldiers. There were no fires. They did not stand upright. They fed on simple meal and water. The night was cloudy. The moons were often obscured.

  Twice was the watch changed.

  When Ellen dared again to look to Kardok, she saw, again, that his eyes were upon her.

  At last, overcome by exhaustion, Ellen slept, but it seemed that scarcely had she closed her eyes than she awakened, suddenly, frightened, unable to cry out, a heavy, masculine hand held tightly over her mouth. “Make no sound, little vulo,” whispered a voice. She nodded, pitifully, understanding, in acquiescence, her eyes wide over the weight and firmness of the oppressive hand by means of which she was denied access to articulate speech. “Have no fear,” whispered the voice, “I will not detunick you.” She recognized, even in the darkness, the soldier who had so openly regarded her slaveness earlier.

  She could neither speak nor cry out for she, a slave, had been warned to silence. Tears of helplessness sprang into her eyes. She felt his powerful hands thrust up her brief tunic to her waist.

  He turned the wheel, lifting her as he wanted her, she braceleted about the wheel, her wrists entangled, braceleted, amongst the spokes, and then she was before him, curved over the wheel, her back against the rim.

  He thrust her legs apart.

  Slaves may be had variously, one supposes, in theory, in an infinite variety of ways. One might perhaps, however, for the sake of simplicity, distinguish between two general sorts of havings, first, those in which a master teaches a slave that she is nothing by simply using her as an at-hand convenience, a lovely convenience, often unconcernedly, often casually, briefly, abruptly, sometimes rudely, brutally, and then spurns her, she half-aroused and weeping, to the side, and, second, those in which the master teaches the slave that she is nothing in a different way, by removing her wholly from herself and turning her into ecstatic, submitted, writhing slave meat, a conquered, begging female he can play upon as though upon a musical instrument, one who soon pleads piteously, with all her heart, as a degraded slave, for his least touch.

  Ellen looked at the master. Their eyes met, and then she looked away. She pulled at the bracelets. How far she was from Earth! From the corridors of academia! From the politicized seminars! From the ideological pretenses! From weak, confused, uncertain, conflicted men! She had seen in his eyes that he was not disposed to be kind to her. Then she felt his first touch.

  She moaned softly.

  “Be silent,” he cautioned her.

  Surely Ellen felt that she should resist him. He was not even her master. He must not do this to her! She saw him lick a finger, moistening it. Wide-eyed, she felt his second touch. Quickly she turned away. Slave girls are not permitted to resist. They must feel, and feel to the heights of their passion, emotion and sensitivity. They must yield, and in the fullness of their being. The masters permit them no choice. Too, their responses, their reflexes, are honed, and trained. Soon, they cannot help themselves, even if they would, or dared. They are slaves. Too, society accepts them, and has a place for them and their nature, and reinforces their condition with all the irrefragable power of custom and law. They are collared, they are owned. Everything, from their garmenture, to the lovely circlets enclosing their throats, to their small, graceful feminine brands, incised in their bodies, to their required deferences and behaviors, combines to remind them of what they are, and calls them to themselves, to their deepest selves. The slave is herself — fully herself — liberated, loving, one, complete, whole and profound. But this man was not my master! Oh, forgive me, I mean he was not her master! “I have not given you permission to fight me,” he whispered. Then he touched her again. “Ohh,” she said, softly. Perhaps you think that Ellen should have resisted. Oh, yes! But Ellen, you see, was now a slave! It is not only that she was not permitted to resist, but that, now, she could not resist. The masters had had their way with her, you see; they had won. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Collar slut,” he whispered to her, softly, contemptuously, in her ear. Then Ellen realized with a sudden spasm that she was now no more than a slave, a helpless slave! What mattered her thoughts, her feelings, her recognition that he was not her master! No longer could she help herself. How far this female was from Earth! She thought her need must be soaking her thighs.

  She thought of herself groveling and kneeling, at the snap of a whip. How quickly she had learned to do that, how naturally!

  The grasslands are commonly dry, but this was in the spring, and storms sometimes erupt, and, when they do, it is often with a sudden rage, a blackening of the sky, a rising of wind, a rushing of clouds, a shattering of lightning, a beating, pounding, of fierce, torrential rains.

  And the wind was now rising.

  He continued to touch her.

  The slave began to writhe against the wheel. His mouth closed on hers. She felt the first pattering of rain.

  Slaves are responsive. It is for such things that they are purchased. A girl who is more responsive will commonly bring a higher price than one who is less responsive. To be sure, sooner or later, the slaves fires are kindled in every girl and eventually even those who took the greatest pride in the inertness of their bellies will come weeping to the master’s feet. It is an interesting experience, doubtless, for a proud, cold woman who has loathed men to find herself now become a heated, dependent slave hopelessly in love with her master, so different from the men she had known, and in desperate need of his touch.

  Her lips met his, though they were not those of her master. Tongue met tongue. His hands were hard, imperious upon her.

  Let us not think ill of her, for she was a female slave. She could not help herself, nor did she wish to help herself. She pressed her lips madly upon him, gratefully. She gasped, and thrust her body against him, as she could.

  He was a Gorean master, and she a female slave.

  She recalled herself, long ago, b
efore Mirus, and the two scribes, when she had been brought from the laundry. “I am eager to beg,” she had said. “I am Ellen, the slave girl of Mirus of Ar. I beg to please a man, any man.”

  Yes, yes, she thought, gasping, slave eager, frenziedly grateful, a man, any man!

  On Earth, at her current age, some eighteen or nineteen years of age, she might have been a freshman in college, being doubtless noticed by upperclassmen.

  A young, beautiful girl.

  Here, on Gor, she was a young, beautiful slave, and one whose lovely body had been well honed to quiver and squirm in responsiveness.

  How different she would have been from Earth!

  How the young men might have cried out, could they have seen her as she was now!

  “Slave,” he whispered, contemptuously.

  The wind blew her hair to the side, whipping it away from the wheel. “Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes, Master!”

  “Oh!” she said, lifted, lowered, penetrated.

  On his manhood was then the slave impaled.

  A bolt of lighting momentarily illuminated the prairie.

  He held her under the arms, they braceleted over her head, moving her. She was ground back against the wheel rim. She turned her head to the side, and then from side to side.

  He was mighty and she, slave, obediently receptive as she must be, welcomed him, bent back, fastened, over the wheel, as the yielding, helpless, collared vessel of his pleasure.

  Rain slashed downward in torrents. Lightning flashed. Thunder, the wild drums of the sky, crashed about them.

  “I beg mercy, Master!” wept Ellen.

  “You will receive none, slave,” he snarled.

  “Aiii!” cried the slave.

  In that moment, in a great flash of lightning, she saw a figure, that of the officer, hurling aside his blankets, rising angrily to his feet.

  And at the same time she heard a cry of rage from beneath the boards of the inverted wagon, and the entire surface beneath her, seemed to shudder, and buck, once, twice, exerting force upon the straining ropes fastened to the stakes, and then the wagon rose up, suddenly, the ropes tautening and dragging stakes from the softened, rain-drenched earth.

  “Alert!” cried the officer, his weapon drawn, momentarily illuminated in another chainlike, frightening blazing in the sky.

  The soldier, the armsman, cursing, leapt from its surface.

  The wagon was then up, suddenly on its side, the open wagon bed momentarily facing the officer, and his mustering men. Ellen, terrified, half-blinded in the rain, braceleted as she was, was twisted about, dragged to the side. The wagon rocked. She saw the dark figures of men about. She clung to the wheel to which she was fastened, and it spun beneath her, and she turned with it, and then, to her misery, she felt the wagon rock backward, and it was falling away, toward the ground, and she nearly slipped from the wheel to which she clung, and then, as the wagon heavily righted itself, striking into the earth, she was on her knees in the soaked grass.

  “Do not move, sleen of Ar!” she heard the officer cry.

  His men had encircled the now upright wagon, weapons at the ready.

  Selius Arconious was momentarily illuminated in a flash of lightning, looking wildly about, his fists clenched.

  “You are a fool!” cried the sleenmaster, now freed like the others from beneath the wagon.

  “Steady, steady!” said Portus Canio to Selius Arconious.

  “If any move, kill them!” said the officer to his men.

  Ellen, through the spokes of the wheel, now on the far side of the wagon, saw the beasts. Their fur was matted and glistening from the rain. They were so closely together that it was only with difficulty that she saw there were three there.

  Ellen had undergone the shifting of the wagon with no serious injury. In a few moments she would be aware of an aching in her right thigh, which had been bruised, but she was not aware of it in those first moments. She was fortunate, not to have been seriously injured, as, in the turning of the wagon, an arm might have been torn from its socket or an arm or wrist broken.

  She pulled back, suddenly, frightened, as the two gray hunting sleen, slithering, bellies close to the grass, moved past her, to take shelter beneath the wagon. They looked at her, with large eyes. Sleen, in general, are not fond of water. It does not deter them, however, in the tenacity of pursuit; when hunting they will enter the water, and swim, unhesitatingly, single-mindedly. There is, however, an animal called the sea sleen, which is aquatic. There seems to be some dispute as to whether the sea sleen is a true sleen or not. The usual view, as she understands it, is that it is a true sleen, adapted to an aquatic environment. She felt the drenched fur of one of the sleen rub against her arm. There was a powerful odor to the two beasts, accentuated doubtless by the dampening of the fur. This odor was very clear in the cool, washed air. She pulled at the bracelets. They held her to the wheel. She was sure the sleen were harmless at present, particularly if she did not make sudden moves, or annoy them. On the other hand, she knew that at a mere command such beasts might unhesitantly tear her to pieces.

  “Kneel, crowd together!” said the officer to those who had been confined.

  Reluctantly they did so. There were bows bent taut, arrows at the cord, whipped with silk. Swords were drawn. Spears were ready for the thrust.

  “I will deal with you later!” shouted the officer, amidst the lightning, amongst the claps of thunder, to the soldier who had pleasured himself with the slave.

  “It was not my watch!” he shouted back.

  “Later,” said the officer.

  “She is only a slave,” said the soldier.

  “Later,” the officer assured him.

  “You did not forbid her to us,” said one of the soldiers, angrily.

  “He did not detunick her,” said another. “Is it not that which was forbidden?”

  “She is only a slave,” another reiterated, furiously.

  The officer turned his attention to the group of kneeling prisoners. “And who amongst you,” he asked, “organized, or instigated, the lifting of the wagon?”

  “I,” said Selius Arconious. “She is my slave.”

  “I see,” said the officer.

  “I did not give my permission for her use.”

  Ellen gasped. Does he care for me, she thought. No, she thought. But it is a point of honor with him, that his property was used without his permission. Then she moved closer to the wheel and with the fingers of her braceleted hands delicately touched the collar on her neck, beneath the rope. But I am his slave, she thought. It is his collar on my neck. I am collared. I wear the collar of my master!

  “Bind the prisoners, hand and foot, all but our angry young fellow,” said the officer to his men. “Then free the slave from the wagon, and bring her before me, back-braceleted.”

  In a few moments Ellen was kneeling, back-braceleted, before the officer.

  “Now bring forward our jealous young master,” said the officer. “Take him to the wagon wheel. Tie him there, his hands behind his back. Where he may see.”

  When this was done he turned to Selius Arconious. “Ar belongs to Cos,” he said, “and all that belongs to Ar belongs to Cos, and thus the slaves of Ar are the slaves of Cos.”

  “Yes!” said more than one of the soldiers.

  Selius Arconious struggled at the wheel, his muscles lunging against the ropes.

  There were many lightnings and crashes of thunder.

  “Beg now,” said the officer to Ellen, “as the degraded slave of a master of Ar for the inestimable privilege, unworthy though you are, of serving masters of Cos.”

  Tears, mixing with the rain, streamed down the face of the kneeling, back-braceleted slave.

  Ellen threw her master an agonized glance. He was furious, bound at the wheel, but feet away.

  “Slut!” said the officer.

  “I am the degraded slave of a master of Ar,” cried Ellen. “I beg the inestimable privilege, unworthy though I a
m, of serving masters of Cos!”

  “And you will do so, as each may please,” said the officer.

  “Yes, Master!” said Ellen.

  The slave moaned to herself. Surely not before my own master, she thought, not publicly, not before him!

  The officer then indicated one of his men.

  “On your back, slut, and throw your legs apart,” said the first soldier.

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen, in misery, and went to her back in the rain and mud.

  “More widely!” he ordered.

  “Yes, Master!”

  “What is going on here?” said Tersius Major, coming forward.

  “So you are no longer hiding in your blankets,” said the officer. “There is nothing here which concerns you.”

  “I will have my turn!” he said.

  “No,” said the officer. “Only a man is worthy of using a slave.”

  Tersius Major whipped the pistol from beneath his cloak.

  “Use it once, and it is gone,” said the officer. “Next!”

  “Kneel, open your mouth,” said the next soldier.

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen, struggling to her knees in the mud.

  The storm, meanwhile, was somewhat abating, and though a steady rain fell, there was a lessening of, and then a desistance of, the earlier atmospheric chaos of thunder, wind, and electricity.

  “Next,” called the officer, and then, again, “Next!”

  If ever, Ellen would have wished to resist, but her body betrayed her, with its secretions and spasms, and then, moments later, despite herself, every last pathetic psychological possibility of defense was gone; every last brittle barrier of reserve and dignity was shattered; and the last thin veil-like wall was rent, and taken from her, with the ease with which a slave strip might be torn from the body of an auctioned girl, and the entire needful psychosexual fabric of her femininity, yielded, was revealed to masters. She cried out, a ravished slave.

  “Squirm,” said a man.

  “Yes, Master!”

  “Aiii,” he cried.

  Not before my master, not before my master, she wept to herself, and then, again, yielded.