Slave Girl of Gor

by John Norman

  I rose to kneel before him. "Master," I said. I did not think I could dissuade him. I wore a brief street tunic, his collar.

  I put my head upon his knee. I felt his hand in my hair. There was a tear in my eye.

  "You trouble me," he said.

  "I am sorry," I said, "if I have displeased you."

  "I do not understand the feeling I have toward you," he said. He held my head between his hands, and looked down at me. "You are a mere slave," he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  He thrust me from him, to the floor. I looked up at him.

  "And you are of Earth," he said, "only a wench of Earth, collared and enslaved."

  "Yes, Master," I said, softly.

  He stood, angrily. He had, in the past days, treated me with great brutality.

  "I fear you," he said, suddenly.

  I was startled.

  "I fear myself," he said, angrily. "I fear you, and myself," he said. He glared down at me.

  I shrank back from him, for I was a slave.

  "You make me weak," he said, angrily. "I am a warrior of Ar."

  "A slave laughs at her master's weakness," I shouted, angrily.

  "Fetch the whip!" he cried in fury.

  I ran to the whip and brought it to him, kneeling before him, thrusting it into his hands. I looked up at him, angrily. His hand seized my tunic at the neck and shoulder and prepared to tear it from me, that I might be hurled to the floor at his feet, to be put writhing beneath the sharp discipline of his domination. His hand was on my tunic, the whip was uplifted. Then he released my tunic and threw the whip from him. He held my head between his hands. "Oh," he said, "you are an interesting and clever slave! That is one of the reasons you are so dangerous, Dina. You are so clever, so intelligent."

  "Whip me," I begged.

  "No," he said, angrily.

  "Does Master care for Dina?" I asked.

  "How could I, Clitus Vitellius, a captain of Ar, care for a slave?" he demanded.

  "Forgive a girl, Master," I said.

  "Should I free you?" he asked.

  "No, Master," I said. "I could not then help myself. I would oppose my will to yours. I would strive against you."

  "Do not fear," he said to me. "I am Clitus Vitellius, of Ar. I do not free slaves."

  On the way to the Curulean we stopped at the Belled Collar. There Clitus Vitellius untied my hands, that I might, as though I were still a paga girl there, serve him.

  "Will you not force me to the alcove?" I asked him.

  "She-sleen," he smiled, sipping his paga.

  I saw Slave Beads serving men. It was early afternoon.

  "I was quite good as a paga girl," I said.

  "I do not doubt it," he said.

  Various of the girls whom I remembered, and Slave Beads in particular, had, with the permission of Busebius, the tavern master, spoken with me and kissed me. I think several of them envied me my master, but I informed them that I was being taken to the Curulean, there to be sold.

  "Do you need a slave girl, Master," asked Helen, the Earth-girl dancer at the Belled Collar. She put out her hand, timidly, to touch his knee. "Buy me," she whispered. "I will serve you well." He cuffed her sharply back, bringing blood to her mouth. She looked up, frightened, from the floor. "Dance for us, Earth wench," he said. Her accent had betrayed her. "Yes, Master," she said. Before the table, to the music of some four musicians, Helen, commanded, danced before a Gorean master. There were tears in her eyes. Then he dismissed her, and she fled away. I was not displeased.

  I saw Bran Loort entering the tavern with a basket of vegetables. He saw me, and looked away. He went to the kitchens. He did small work at the tavern.

  "Where is Marla, Master?" I asked. I had regarded her as my greatest rival where Clitus Vitellius had been concerned.

  "I sold her to a slaver," said he, "who specializes in the training of dancing girls."

  I remembered Marla's long dark hair, her beautiful face, her stunning figure. She would look well, belled, in the dancing sand, I thought. She would be a marvelous dancer.

  "I gave Eta," said Clitus Vitellius, "to the guard, Mirus."

  "I am pleased, Master," I said. I remembered the young, blond giant, Mirus, how he had put her on the coffle in Tabuk's Ford. I had seen they had been intensely attracted to one another. Now he owned her. I thought Eta would be extremely happy. I was much pleased for her. Mirus, I had thought, had been the most attractive of the men of Clitus Vitellius, saving himself, of course.

  "Slave Beads, as you know," said Clitus Vitellius, "is now owned by Busebius."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "Lehna, and Donna and Chanda," said Clitus Vitellius, "I gave to two of my men, Lehna to one, and Donna and Chanda to the other, for good service in war."

  I nodded. It is not unusual among warriors to bestow beautiful slave girls as rewards for good service or valor. Slave girls make lovely gifts.

  "Are we to leave soon for the Curulean, Master?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said. "But first I am awaiting the arrival of a friend."

  "May I ask whom, Master?" I asked.

  "Only if you wish to be whipped," he said.

  I was silent.

  "But you know him," said Clitus Vitellius.

  I looked at Clitus Vitellius, curious. But I did not ask. I did not wish to be whipped, certainly not before the other girls. There are diverse philosophies of discipline. Some masters believe a girl should be whipped only privately. Others believe she should be whipped whenever and wherever she deserves it, immediately, while her offense, such as it is, is fresh in her mind. Clitus Vitellius, perhaps wisely, believed it depended upon the girl and the context. Sometimes punishment is much more effective when a girl must wait for it. Generally a girl is not whipped before another girl who is owned by the same master. They only know, when the door is closed, that their sister in bondage is to be whipped. That is enough for them. I had little doubt, however, that Clitus Vitellius, in the present context, would hesitate to whip me in the Belled Collar itself. He knew I would not care to be exposed and publicly put under the leather here where I had worked, and certainly not before the girls I knew. To be whipped with Helen watching, for example, would be almost unspeakable agony. I was very quiet.

  Soon I heard a roisterous peasant singing. Thurnus, whatever might have been his virtues, was not skilled in melody. "It is Thurnus!" I laughed. "Yes," Clitus Vitellius. "Do not give me to him again!" I begged. "Do not fear, little slave," said Clitus Vitellius. He leaped to his feet and he and Thurnus, who was carrying his great staff, met, embracing, among the tables.

  In moments they had come to our table. Thurnus was already drunk, I thought. It seemed strange to me that they had met here, though I knew that they were friends. Thurnus, clearly, was in Ar on some business. "Greetings, little Dina," he roared. "Greetings, Master," I said.

  He looked powerful and hardy, and was much pleased with himself. I knew the drought had been broken. The fields, I suspected, were doing well.

  I wondered on what business it was that he had come to Ar. It was in the Fall now.

  I noted Bran Loort peering out from the kitchens, but he then withdrew, his face in misery. He dared not be seen in this place, performing the chores of a churl. He had been of the peasants. I recalled the dishonor and agony in which Bran Loort had been banished from Tabuk's Ford. Rather than permit himself to be seen in tavern work by Thurnus, Caste Leader of Tabuk's Ford, I thought he might choose death.

  I looked to Slave Beads. She was busily engaged in serving Thandar of Ti, of the Salerian Confederation, and four of his men. When in Ar, negotiating commercial arrangements between Ar and the Confederation, it seemed he regularly patronized the Belled Collar. There was a girl there to whom he had taken a liking. Her name was Slave Beads.

  "Sul paga!" cried Thurnus, pounding on the small table with his great staff.

  "Be quiet," said a fellow at a nearby table. He was drinking with some five companions. />
  "Sul paga!" shouted Thurnus, pounding on the table.

  "Be silent!" said some fellow at another table.

  "Sul paga! Sul paga!" cried Thurnus. The great staff banged on the table.

  Busebius rushed to the table. "Master," said he, "we have many pagas, those of Ar and Tyros, and Ko-ro-ba, and Helmutsport, and Anango, and Tharna!"

  "Sul paga!" shouted Thurnus. Several men about, at various tables, regarded him, most unpleasantly. I had worked in the Belled Collar, and, later, in the Chatka and Curla, in Cos. It did not require a great deal of experience to sense that Thurnus must soon be quiet or there would be trouble.

  The pagas mentioned by Busebius were all, of course, Sa-Tarna pagas, of various sorts and localities, varying largely in the blend.

  "Sul paga!" demanded Thurnus. Sul paga, as anyone knew, is seldom available outside of a peasant village, where it is brewed. Sul paga would slow a tharlarion. To stay on your feet after a mouthful of Sul paga it is said one must be of the peasants, and then for several generations. And even then, it is said, it is difficult to manage. There is a joke about the baby of a peasant father being born drunk nine months later.

  "Sul paga!" shouted Thurnus.

  "Silence!" cried a brawny fellow, some two tables away.

  "Please, Master," said Busebius, "we do not have Sul paga here."

  Thurnus rose to his feet, his face a maze of conflicting emotions, disbelief and incredulity chief among them.

  "Sit down!" cried one critic.

  "Eject him," cried another.

  "No Sul paga?" said Thurnus.

  "No, Master," said Busebius.

  "Then I shall sing," said Thurnus.

  I thought this a splendid threat.

  Thurnus, as good as his word, broke into wondrous song. At this point, unable to help himself, one of the fellows at another table leaped bodily upon Thurnus and began to pummel him. He was joined shortly in this endeavor by several others. Clitus Vitellius, to my surprise, slipped to one side. I crawled between the legs of fighting men. I saw some two men fly off their feet, held up toward the ceiling by Thurnus. Their heads made a dull sound as they were struck together. A slave girl screamed. Then I saw Thurnus go down under a pile of attackers. A blur, brown and huge, leaped past me. I covered my head and backed away. I saw Bran Loort seize a man by the collar and loft him into the air, the fellow flying backward, then falling, crashing, skidding across two tables. "I am done for," cried Thurnus, from somewhere under the pile. But I saw his hand reach out and seize a paga cup which he drained while men fought over him, struggling to pound upon him, largely striking one another. "Do not fear, Caste Leader!" cried Bran Loort. He hurled another fellow away, headfirst into a wall. He seized two by the collars, pounding their heads together. I winced at the sound. He spun another man about and the fellow had little time to register the large hamlike fist which rearranged his features. I saw two teeth fly out of the mouth of the next man struck. Bran Loort fought like a madman. "Do not fear, Caste Leader!" he cried. "I am here!" Thurnus, by this time, had extricated himself from beneath the pile of bodies and stood to one side, a goblet of paga in his hand. "He fights well," said Thurnus to Clitus Vitellius. "Yes," said Clitus Vitellius, moving his head to one side to avoid a flying bottle. Then we saw Bran Loort backed against the wall, with what must have been twenty angry men of Ar encircling him. He looked wildly about himself. He saw Thurnus. "There are only twenty!" called Thurnus. "And you are of the peasants!" He flung his staff to Bran Loort, who caught it. Out stabbed the staff. A man screamed. About swung the staff and men tried to struggle backward. The staff whirled about, almost invisible, a branch lashed in a hurricane. I saw teeth flying, and blood, and a jaw broken. One man howled with misery, a shin shattered. More than one, I think, must have received a broken leg. The staff punched out, thrusting into another man's stomach. It lashed to the side and I heard ribs crack. Men crept to the side to outflank the young peasant. Thurnus broke a table over the head of one. Busebius was weeping. "Stop, stop, Masters!" he cried. Then Thurnus and Bran Loort were fighting back to back, the goblet of Thurnus left in the hands of Clitus Vitellius. Bran Loort held the staff and, behind him, using half of the broken table, Thurnus protected him, fending blows and thrusting out, now and again, with the shattered table. At last he split the remainder of the table over the head of a brute who staggered back. Then Thurnus and Bran Loort, the wall at their back, stood side by side.

  I heard a sword leave its sheath. Then I heard six swords more leap from the sheaths. I was frightened.

  "No," said Thandar of Ti, standing on a table. He had drawn his own blade. Then, so, too, one after the other, did the four men with him. All were of the warriors.

  The men of Ar looked angrily at Thandar of Ti and his men.

  "No," said Thandar of Ti, again.

  The sword, too, of Clitus Vitellius, my master, the captain of Ar, had left its sheath. He had placed Thurnus's paga on a nearby table. He stood between Thurnus and Bran Loort, and the men threatening them.

  "I must agree with my fellow of the warriors," said Clitus Vitellius. "It is not proper that you should attack with steel those who defend themselves with wood."

  "What he says is true," said a man. "We are of Ar!" He resheathed his blade.

  "Free paga for all!" cried Thandar of Ti.

  "And I," called Clitus Vitellius, "will fee the second round of cups!"

  "Cheers for the peasants!" cried a man, with bloody face.

  "Cheers for the peasants!" they cried. Then they surrounded Thurnus and Bran Loort, pounding them on the back.

  "I shall not sing," promised Thurnus.

  "Bring paga!" cried Busebius to the girls, who had drawn back, frightened. With a scurrying flight of bells they hurried to their work.

  "And what are you doing here, miserable Bran Loort?" demanded Thurnus.

  Bran Loort put down his head. "I have taken service here," he said. "I am shamed that you should find me here."

  "Rightfully so," roared Thurnus. He had retrieved his goblet now, handed to him by Clitus Vitellius, and, throwing his head back, splashed its contents down his throat.

  "What are you doing here?" asked Bran Loort. "Is it not time to harvest the Sa-Tarna?"

  "I thought you might have forgotten," said Thurnus.

  "No," said Bran Loort.

  Thurnus regarded the young man. "It is certainly a great surprise to me," he said, "to find you here. But, as it turned out, it was fortunate."

  "I am pleased," said Bran Loort, "if I could be of service."

  "An amazing coincidence," marveled Thurnus. Clitus Vitellius smiled.

  "Yes," admitted Bran Loort, puzzled.

  "More paga!" called Thurnus. A girl filled his cup. Swiftly again the contents vanished.

  "But what are you doing here?" asked Bran Loort, suddenly, shrewdly. "It is time to harvest the Sa-Tarna."

  "I am looking for men," he said, "to aid in the harvest."

  "I am strong," said Bran Loort. There were tears in his eyes.

  "Good," said Thurnus. Bran Loort embraced him, weeping. "Drink a cup of paga," said Thurnus. "Then we must go. The Sa-Tarna grows impatient."

  Bran Loort cried out with joy and whirled about, arms uplifted, like a child running and turning in the sun. He seized a cup and tore a vessel of paga from a startled girl and filled it himself. He threw his head back and drained the cup and flung it away.

  "He has much to learn," said Thurnus, "but someday he will be a caste leader. He will have, too, his own Home Stone."

  "I am pleased," said Clitus Vitellius, "to have been of service."

  Thurnus grasped his hand. "My thanks, Warrior!" said he.

  Bran Loort looked at me. "I am so happy!" he cried. "You are so beautiful, Dina! So beautiful!"

  "I am pleased if Master is pleased," I said. I was very happy for Bran Loort.

  Bran Loort looked to Clitus Vitellius and the warrior smiled, and lifted his hand.

  "Oh," I cried. Bran Loo
rt seized me by the hair, which was now long enough to permit a master to grasp it.

  "Come, Slave Beauty!" he cried and, bending me over, my hands trying to grasp his wrist, ran me, stumbling, to the nearest alcove. He did not even draw the curtain. I turned. I shrank back, my back against the rear wall of the alcove. I drew up my legs.

  "How beautiful you are, Dina!" he cried. "How beautiful you are! I am so happy, and you are so beautiful! You are so beautiful!"

  "Remove quickly your garment," he said, happily, "or I will tear it from your body!"

  I undid the five buttons, red, which ran from the throat of the garment to the waist. Buttons, interestingly, were a relatively recent innovation in some Gorean slavewear. They are not used on the garments of free persons. Most Gorean garments do not have buttons, but are slipped on, or held with brooches or pins. Hooks, however, are used with some frequency. Buttons, interestingly, are regarded as rather sensuous on Gor. Buttons, obviously, may be unbuttoned, or cut away with a knife, thus revealing the slave. Many masters do not permit a girl to button her tunic in the privacy of their compartments. When a slave opens the door of the master's compartment and kneels, head down, say, to admit a visitor, her garment may have been closed only an instant before. This is also true of a hooked slave garment. Slaves, too, may be kept nude in the compartments. These, before answering the door, will usually don a light tunic, slipping it over their heads or wrapping it about their shoulders. When one sees the slave one does not know if, a moment before, she has been beautifully naked in her slavery or if, when the door closes, she has again, behind the door, stripped herself for her master's pleasure. I undid, too, the red, rep-cloth sash of the tunic. The buttons and sash on the tunic were red. The tunic itself, sleeveless, was white.

  White, on Gor, when worn by a female slave, tends to suggest a "white-silk girl," that is a slave who has not yet been "opened for the uses of men." It is also not an uncommon color for a woman's slave. When Clitus Vitellius had come to the compartments of the former Lady Elicia of Six Towers to fetch a slave she, bound hand and foot, had been in white. The accents of red on my tunic, of course, the buttons and sash, made it clear that I was not a "white-silk girl." Too, I think that no Gorean male who laid eyes upon me would have taken me for such a girl. We muchly yearn for, and covet, and hunger for, and desperately need, and are excruciatingly miserable without, the touches and caresses, the attentions, of masters. The "slave fires," as it is said, have been lit in our bellies. These put us beggingly at the mercy of the brutes, our masters. Accordingly, our body language, our glances, the tones of our voice, make it evident, at least to a Gorean, one aware of such things, of our desires, and needs. There are many ways of conveying these needs, other than a glance, a seemingly inadvertent touch, and such, many of which are more or less stylized, and some of which involve clearly established conventions. One might, for example, linger, almost imperceptibly, in the placing of a plate of food before the master, that he may see our wrists in proximity, almost as though they might be braceleted; one might boldly, if fearfully, kneel a little more closely than is customary; one might, while kneeling, turn the palms of the hands subtly upward, revealing their vulnerable, concave softness, and such. Other ways of drawing oneself to the attention of the master are more culturally explicit, and in accord with recognized conventions; of these other ways some are verbal, and others behavioral. For example, there are numerous verbal formulas which may be used, ranging from such things as "May my Master's slave serve him wine?" or "May my Master's slave light the lamp of love?" to such things as "I beg use, Master" and "Please, my Master, rape your slave." Similarly, a slave's needs may also be expressed nonverbally, but again, of course, in this case, utilizing obvious conventions. For example, one might tie the bondage knot in one's hair, or, even more simply, kneel, head down, at the foot of the master's couch, by his slave ring. Subtleties, stylized modalities, and recourses to accepted conventions may, of course, be combined. Much depends on the girl and the master. It is not unknown for a red-silk girl to crawl naked to a master and cover his feet with kisses, begging that he, though free, have mercy upon her, she only a slave, and deign to caress her. Our needs, of course, give our masters much power over us.