Slave Girl of Gor

by John Norman

  The men looked at one another, and smiled.

  My left wrist was again locked in its wrist ring.

  "Am I free of the pox, Masters?" I asked.

  "Yes," said the physician.

  The tall man removed a marking stick from his pouch and, on the interior of the left shoulder, on its softness, of the auburn-haired girl, wrote a word. "Your name is Narla," he said. That was the word, I gathered, which he wrote on her shoulder. "Yes, Master," she said. Then he turned to me and, with the same marking stick, wrote on the interior of my left shoulder. "You are the girl, Yata," he said. "Yes, Master," I said. I gathered it was this name which he had written on my body. The stain of the marking stick would last until it was washed off.

  The men then rose to their feet and left the room. They met the merchant by the door.

  "There are penalties for this sort of thing," the tall man warned the merchant.

  "Please, Masters," whined the merchant.

  "Do you have more gold?" asked the tall man.

  "Yes, yes, Masters!" cried the merchant.

  Then the door closed and, again, we were left in the darkness. I could still feel the press of the marking stick in my flesh. I gathered that a name had been written there, the name "Yata." I was Yata.

  * * * *

  "What is your name?" asked the man of the auburn-haired girl.

  "Narla," she said, "if it pleases Master."

  "It is acceptable," he said.

  "What is your name?" asked the man of me.

  "Yata," I said, "if it pleases Master."

  "It is acceptable," he said.

  "I had them from the fine slaver, Alexander of Teletus," said the merchant, "but their papers were lost in transit."

  "I will take them both," said the man. He did not much haggle over price. Soon Narla and I, sharing a common neck leash, two collars, with a strap with center grip, stood outside the long, low room, in the corridor. The leash dangled between us, depending from our leather collars. Our hands were braceleted behind our backs.

  "Is it a long voyage to Telnus, Master?" I asked.

  "You little fool," he said, "you are in Telnus."

  "Why have you bought us, Master?" I asked.

  "To work in my establishment as paga girls," he said.

  Narla groaned.

  I smiled. "And what is the name of your establishment, Master, if a girl may ask?"

  "It is the finest in all Telnus," he said.

  "Yes, Master?' I asked.

  "It is called the Chatka and Curla," he said.

  "Thank you, Master," I said.

  The hood and cloak was then tossed over Narla. The hood was brought about and fastened under her chin, effectively hooding her. She would thus not know from what establishment she had been taken. The lower portion of the cloak was then snapped under her chin, below the leash. The cloak, which was brief, had four circled oval cutouts. It was a tantalizing garment. There was writing on the cloak. I had little doubt but what it advertised the Chatka and Curla. I, too, was then hooded and cloaked. I could see nothing within the hood. I could feel the cloak brief on my thighs. I could sense the air through the cutouts. Then I began to walk, responding to the leash of the master.

  I was in Telnus.

  18

  The Slave Sack

  I moved carefully, the tray over my head, between the tables.

  The Chatka and Curla is a large paga tavern. It is built on four levels, a large, open court, wooden floored, an encircling dais, some twenty feet deep, and, over the dais, two encircling balconies, each some ten feet deep.

  We were crowded tonight.

  The tavern is dimly lit, by wagon lanterns, paneled with red glass, which hang on chains from the ceilings and balconies.

  The crowd was boisterous.

  I made my way toward the second balcony. I brushed against other girls, and customers, coming and going on the wooden ramps; I managed the tray with care; it is not well to drop a tray; many girls worked at the Chatka and Curla, more than one hundred; I climbed carefully; the ramps have raised, slatted ridges; these are spaced some twenty inches apart, for better footage.

  I heard a girl scream in one of the alcoves.

  The red cord, or Curla, was knotted about my waist, tightly, the knot, a slip knot which might be loosened with a single tug, over my left hip. Over the Curla in front, slipping under the body and between the legs, and passing over the Curla in the back, was the Chatka, or narrow strip of black leather, some six inches in width, some five feet or so in length; it was drawn tight; when a girl wears the Curla and Chatka, the brand, whether on left or right thigh, is fully visible, for the inspection of masters. I also wore a brief, open, sleeveless vest of black leather, the Kalmak; a patron parted it, holding it open, as I tried to move past him on the ramp; I stood, quietly, stopped helplessly, the tray held over my head; he kissed me twice; "Little beauty," he said; "A girl would rejoice if she were permitted to please you in an alcove," I said; it was a line taught us, and expected of us, but I uttered it not without some genuine sincerity; he had had me before, several days ago, when first I had been sent out upon the floor of the Chatka and Curla; he well knew how to get much from the helpless beauty of a slave girl; "Later," he said, "Slave"; "Yes, Master," I whispered; I continued on my way; in addition to the Curla, the Chatka and Kalmak, I was belled and collared, in a black, enameled ankle ring, with five, black, enameled bells, on tiny golden chains, and a black, enameled Turian collar, it, too, with five bells, black and enameled, on five tiny golden chains. My hair had begun to grow out, from having been shaved away for the voyage on the slave ship, but it was still quite short; I wore a broad Koora, which, kerchieflike, covered most of my head. When I had come to the Chatka and Curla I, and Narla, too, had been dipped and scrubbed, to clear us of ship lice and the residues of filth accumulated from the voyage and our consequent captivity; the dip was of water saturated with chemicals toxic to ship lice; we did not open our eyes or mouth when held under by the girls cleaning us; they controlled us by a clamp placed on the right ear lobe; later we were permitted to bathe ourselves; few baths in my life had I appreciated more than that one.

  "Paga!" cried a man.

  "I shall tell a girl, Master," I said, passing him on the first balcony, making my way to the second, which was the fourth level of the tavern.

  On the ramp to the high balcony I passed Narla, returning from that level.

  "The man at Table Six on the first balcony wants paga," I said, "Slave."

  "Fetch it yourself," she said, "Slave."

  "I am occupied," I said, "Slave."

  "Too bad," she said, "Slave."

  "He has a whip," I said, "Slave."

  Her face went white. Some patrons bring whips or quirts to the tavern. If they are not pleased, the girls are informed; a slave ring, with thongs, is fixed in the edge of every table; we strive to wait the tables well. I smiled to myself, seeing Narla hurry down the ramp to fetch his paga; on the slave ship she, in her deck cage, had once insulted me, demeaning my beauty and referring to me as a "Below-Deck Girl." It was not my fault that my hair had been shaved off, nor that I was not blond or auburn-haired, like herself. Those hair colors tend to bring higher girl-prices. I thought that I, when my hair was again dark and glossy, would surely be her equal or superior in beauty; and I had little doubt that I could bring a master more pleasure.

  I knelt before the table on the second balcony, placing the tray on the floor and quickly, deferentially, placing its contents on the table, the assorted meats and cheese, the sauces and fruits, and wines and nuts.

  "Do Masters desire more from Yata, their slave?" I asked.

  "Leave, Slave Girl," said the woman's voice, that of a free woman, kneeling in her robes and veil at the table with her escorts, who sat behind it, cross-legged. Free women came sometimes, escorted, to the Chatka and Curla. Her voice had not been pleasant. "Yes, Mistress," I whispered, picking up the tray and, head down, withdrawing. The men I thought, had she no
t been with them, might indeed have wanted more from Yata, their slave. Often, to the irritation of other patrons, they had kept me at their table, binding my wrists at the slave ring, keeping me for later.

  I went to the balcony railing and looked down. I was some twenty-five feet or more above the wooden flooring. Dancers in the Chatka and Curla, and there are several, move between and among the tables; sometimes a dancer, if she is indeed superb, is displayed solo in the center of the scarlet wooden flooring, within the painted, yellow ring of the slave circle.

  Men came and went. I stood there, on the high balcony, with the tray beneath my arm.

  I had not been contacted. I did not know why this was. For all I knew I was merely another lowly paga girl. I served as the others did, fully, no differently.

  I looked about at the decor of the tavern. It suggested the plains of Turia, or the lands of the Wagon Peoples. There were scenes of hunting, of caravan raiding, of girl taming; scenes were fixed there of the great bosk herds and the strings of the wagons of the fierce plains nomads; in one place there was fixed a painting of the walls and towers of Turia, and riders of the Wagon Peoples on hills, looking toward the city. The dress and costume of the paga girls, too, was intended to suggest the common garb worn by the enslaved beauties who well served the mounted, lance-bearing riders of the lofty, silken kaiila. In such a garb a girl was given no place to conceal a weapon and was well displayed, in her captive curves, to the eye of her master.

  Below on the first level two men began to shout and fight, squabbling over first master rights to their waitress, Lyrazina, an exquisite little collared blond from Teletus. She crouched, shrinking back, terrified, almost at their feet. Strabo, the floor master, at a sign from Aurelion, the proprietor and master of the Chatka and Curla, hurried to the combative couple, thrusting them apart. They seized at him, and I heard clothing tear. Another man from the tavern, a fellow who did odd jobs about, as Bran Loort did in Ar at the Belled Collar, leaped to the fray. Two more customers joined in.

  "Fight!" cried patrons. A girl screamed.

  Sometimes I had thought, in the midst of such a diversion, one might flee the tavern. But this was not possible, I had learned, at least not in the Chatka and Curla, for reasons I shall shortly indicate.

  Although most taverns are open and a girl might simply slip out the door and run, there is little prospect of her flight's being successful. She wears only a collar and a brand, and a bit of silk, and she flees into a society that will promptly return her to her owner, unless it chooses to keep her for itself.

  I wonder if those of Earth, should any of Earth ever read this, can begin to comprehend the categoricality of the bondage in which the Gorean slave girl is held. Perhaps not. Certainly there is little on Earth that will have prepared them to understand the nature of her bondage, its particular reality.

  Certainly its nature shook and transformed me, when I first discovered it, what I had become, what I was here. As I became acculturated to Gor, acclimated to her, so to speak, I soon realized the absoluteness of my condition. Indeed, it was quickly taught to me by bonds, and the whip. It does not depend on one's city, or such, or on one's beauty or intelligence, or such. For example, on Earth, in whatever village or hamlet, in whatever country, or continent, in whatever small town or great city, wherever it might be, an animal is an animal; a pig or a dog, for example, is that, simply that, a pig or a dog. So on Gor, where slaves are animals, if one is a slave, one is simply that, a slave.

  Can this be made clear, I wonder, to those of Earth?

  Categoricality is involved.

  The Gorean slave girl is a slave, a slave; can you understand that, in its fullness; I wonder; and she will remain a slave, that, a slave, unless freed. And that, of course, is fully at the discretion of free persons. And there is a Gorean saying that only a fool frees a slave girl. And I think that that is true. What man, fortunate enough to own a slave, with all the rights and privileges of the mastery, holding all power over a beautiful woman, even as to how she will wear her hair and whether or not she will be clothed, having at his least beck and call her beauty and its services, and having at his disposal the comforts of her devotion and the inordinate, extensive, diverse, inimitable raptures of her pleasures would willingly relinquish such a pleasant state, such unique, matchless joys? A thousand times better to cast diamonds and gold into the sea!

  There is no escape for the beauty.

  She may run, of course. But she will be caught, sooner or later, by one or another. Even should she attain her own city, she will be kept there as a slave, for she is then a slave, or, more likely, she will be soon sold out of the city, after having been muchly lashed, that she bring no more shame upon it. She is a Gorean slave girl. That is what she now is. There is no escape for her.

  Indeed, girls are often sent, unattended, in a brief rep-cloth tunic on errands for their masters. No one thinks twice about this. They return to their masters; there is nowhere else to go; also, interestingly, a girl who is well mastered will often undergo great privations and hardships to return to the brute whom she cannot help loving with every slave inch of her. Slave girls are often hopelessly in love with their masters.

  To understand this, perhaps one must first have been a slave. But I do not think so. I think some nonslaves can sense what is involved, what it might be to be such a slave.

  Do they squirm in their beds whispering secrets to tear-stained pillows?

  The strongest of chains, it is said, is the slave girl's love for her master.

  And many slave girls do love their masters, wholly and helplessly. Does not the slave long for her love master, and the master for his love slave?

  The love slave does not wish to be freed. Rather she wishes to be totally dominated, owned and mastered, and to be pleasing to her master, and serve lovingly, devotedly and selflessly. Her collar is inordinately precious to her. Does she not sometimes press her finger tips to her lips and then tenderly touch her finger tips to the claiming band locked snugly on her throat? She fears only that she may be sold, or given away.

  I could not simply leave the tavern, not even in the tumult and confusion of a diversion.

  The Chatka and Curla, you see, did not resemble most paga taverns in their openness. It was not possible there for a girl to even step outside for a breath of air as it is in most taverns. There are double iron gates, and only the free may come and go as they please.

  Another deterrent to the escape of slave girls, of course, is the severity of the penalties connected with escape attempts. Whereas the first penalty is commonly only a severe beating, the second one often involves hamstringing, or the cutting of the tendons behind the knees; this cripples the girl and makes her generally useless save as a pathetic example to her sisters in bondage of the foolishness of attempted escape.

  I had been made aware of this sort of thing in Tabuk's Ford. I wished that I had been apprised of it earlier.

  The most interesting attempted escape which I know of, however, took place in a locked tavern, not unlike the Chatka and Curla. In it, a clever slave girl, taking advantage of just such a diversion as now rocked the Chatka and Curla, neck-thonged a free woman from behind and dragged her, helpless, to an alcove. There, intimidating and overpowering her, she stripped the free woman, and bound and gagged her. Then, in the confusion and noise of the brawl, she, pretending distaste at the activity of the ruffians involved, went to the gate, was released, and made away. She was free only a few hours, however, for, as an unescorted free woman, guardsmen swiftly went to her protection, prepared to help her safely home. In a few moments, they questioning her, it became clear to them that something was amiss. A free woman was found who thrust back her robe and veils. Her ears had been pierced. The free woman, then, as the guardsmen looked away, tore down her robes to the shoulder, revealing the collar, which bore, of course, the name of her master. She was swiftly returned to him for a severe beating. The most interesting portion of this tale deals with the free woman who ha
d been left, stripped, bound and gagged, in the alcove. In leaving the tavern the disguised slave girl, to cover her retreat, placed a discipline sign on the alcove occupied by the helpless free woman. It read "Take me, Masters." Sometimes a girl, as a punishment, is placed helplessly in an alcove, free for the use of all. Several of the men, patrons of the tavern, willing to oblige the tavern's proprietor, entered the alcove and, untying her ankles, well used the helpless free woman, they in the darkness not knowing the loftiness of her condition. This caused a great scandal in Ar. The slave who had so abused her was to be tortured and publicly impaled, but, to the amazement of the citizens of the city, the free woman herself spoke on the slave's behalf, and begged that she be only put lengthily under the leather. It was done in this manner, to satisfy the desires of the free woman; to the astonishment of all in the court, when the chained slave girl crept on her knees, head down, to render gratitude to the free woman, the free woman had knelt beside her and kissed her, and then turned away. Thereafter the free woman had seemed strange and restless. She began to take to walking upon the high bridges. Once, when a tarnsman snapped by, pursued by guardsmen, mounted, too, on tarns, she had torn the veils from her face and, boldly, supplicatingly, had lifted her robes, revealing her left thigh to the hip. The tarnsman, circling about, took mercy upon her and it is said she cried out with joy as his braided leather rope dropped about her and tightened on her body, jerking her, its prisoner, from the high bridge. The tarnsman, with his captive, escaped. He had returned to Ar later, when his city was at peace with Ar. With him was a beautiful slave girl who had once been the free woman of Ar. Much was she abused and spat upon by the free women of Ar in their fury but she did not seem unhappy. She had made her choice. Rendering love and service to a master had not seemed obviously inferior to her to the reduced sexuality and the squabbling competitiveness which had been expected of her as a free woman. Freedom and love are both estimable values. Some women choose freedom; others choose love. Let each make what choice seems best to her.