Slave Girl of Gor

by John Norman

  "Move," said the slaver's man.

  We moved again.

  Most girls are sold singly, but sometimes they are sold in groups, in matched pairs or larger sets, usually with a theme, such as blond hair or a given dialect. Sets may also be composed of girls once of complementary castes or those marked with diverse, representative brands. When a girl is enslaved she loses caste, of course, as well as citizenship, rights and personhood; when she is enslaved she becomes an animal, subject to the whips and wills of masters. Most groups, however, are sold for field and kitchen work. The Curulean did not handle such latter groups. We did have two pairs to be sold tonight, one consisting of a singer and her lyre player, and another of identical twins, from the island of Tabor, named for its resemblance to the small Gorean drum of that name.

  I could not yet hear the calls of the auctioneer. The occasional response of the crowd, however, carried through the tunnel.

  The girl on my left, the slender, virginal girl, in fluff, began to cry. Instantly the slaver's man was upon her, lifting his whip. She shrank back against the cement wall. She must not stain or smear her make-up. Angrily, with a small cloth, he dabbed her face. "Save your tears for the block, sleek little animal," he said. "Yes, Master," she said.

  I was Girl 91 on the chain. It was a good position. The sales begin in the early evening and usually, unless there is something special for sale, they begin a bit slowly. Men are, commonly, still entering the market at that point. Often the seats are not entirely filled until the second Ahn of the sale. I was a bit puzzled about the apparent speed of the sales. There was, as far as I knew, nothing special for sale this evening. It was, as far as I knew, a normal night at the market. At any rate, usually, it is not regarded as desirable to be among the first twenty girls on the chain; sometimes these are sold to an almost half-empty house; a reciprocity tends to become involved; the slavers tend to put their least valuable girls up first, because of the smallness of the house in the early market, and many men tend to come later because, normally, the least interesting girls are put up first; this often presents a merchandising dilemma but it was not one which hurt the slavers of the Curulean very much, for their merchandise tends to be generally of high quality and the reputation of their house is such that, even in the early hours of the market, they tend to have a sizable number of bidders on hand. Sometimes an extraordinary girl or girls are marketed almost immediately, to encourage buyers to come early. Although this does tend to bring in larger early crowds the slavers feel that, often, they do not get on these girls what they might have, had their sale taken place later in the evening, in the heat and press of more determined bidding. At any rate, from the girl's point of view, any chain position after forty and before one hundred would be good. The ideal, of course, is to be sold at the height of the sale. With one hundred and twenty girls the most serious bidding would presumably come somewhere between Girl 80 and Girl 95. Late in the sale, of course, it is not uncommon for buyers to be weary and to begin to drift away. These remarks, incidentally, pertain to a normal "long" sale, usually held four times a week at a large house. They are not meant to apply to special sales, private sales, and in-house sales. Sometimes special sales, well-publicized, are held, in which as few as fifteen or twenty girls, of great quality or interest, are sold. All Ar, it is said, tries to fill the house upon such occasions. If a Ubara of a conquered city, for example, were to be sold, it would, customarily, be in such a special sale, unless the victorious Ubar, he who had conquered her city and captured her, chose to have her sold, for his amusement, in a common sale and from an unimportant block. Normally, of course, the conquering Ubar would keep such a regal wench, now collared and debased to slavery, in his own pleasure gardens, as a delicious memento of his victory, and as a woman.

  "Stand," said the slaver's man.

  My group stood.

  "Move to the next position," he said.

  We hurried to the next position.

  We were now coffled in groups of ten. Early in the sale, for the first twenty girls, the chain had been intact, one chain for us all. With each sale we had moved one position. Each time we had moved one or two positions on the bench we knew that one or two of our sisters had been sold. The psychological effect of this, methodical and relentless, tends to produce anticipation and anxiety, even in an experienced girl. No girl ever grows completely used to being exhibited and sold. Then, after the first twenty girls, when our nerves were keen and taut, we were separated into coffles of ten. We might then seem to relax. But when our nerves had eased and we might seem to breathe a bit more easily, the coffle, as a whole, would be ordered to its feet and moved ten spaces toward the end of the tunnel. The effect of this, being for a time relatively at ease, and then being forced suddenly to move ten times closer to the block tends, suddenly, to whet one's fears and anticipations anew; when one, psychologically, in spite of herself, had begun to feel a little safe one is suddenly hurried even closer to her exhibition and sale, and all it means, the uncertainty, the danger, the not knowing, the being sold, the being owned anew, by someone who can do with you what he pleases.

  I could now hear the calls of the auctioneer quite clearly. I could hear individuals, too, in the crowd. A vendor was hawking sherbets.

  I was now in the point coffle, that at the end of the tunnel. The sales were doing well.

  The girl to my right, she in the house tunic, sat tense beside me. Her fingernails dug into the wood of the bench. Her make-up was inspected and touched up. Then she was removed from the coffle, the collar, and the length of chain on her left, attaching her to me, placed to one side. A man stood near the end of the tunnel, with a tablet and marking stick. He indicated that she should approach him. She did. He inspected her chain number, used in the Curulean as a sales number, which, tiny, was written under her left ear in lipstick. The Curulean does not use sales collars. She was Girl 90.

  I heard a roar of approval and I knew the girl on the block had been sold. Another girl, Girl 89, had been waiting at the foot of the block. A man with a whip prodded her to climb to its height. She moved carefully, feeling the stairs, creeping upward. She wore a slave scarf, as a blindfold. It was all she wore. The man with the tablet quickly thrust the girl in the house tunic from the tunnel to the foot of the stairs leading to the block.

  "Look at me," said a man.

  I sat very still, looking at him. He examined my make-up. Deftly, he improved it.

  "You are beautiful," he said.

  "Thank you, Master," I whispered.

  Another man removed my collar, with the chain that fastened me to the girl on my left, the virginal girl in a bit of white fluff. The man with the tablet indicated that I should stand near him, and I did. From where I stood, at the end of the tunnel, I could see the ceiling of the Curulean, and some of the buyers, crowded in the higher tiers.

  Their excitement frightened me. The sales were going too well.

  The crowd roared. The girl on the block, naked, was being forced to perform blindfolded before the men.

  She screamed with misery when the blindfold was removed, looking out upon buyers.

  She was soon sold.

  The girl in the house tunic was hurried to the height of the block.

  "What have we here?" cried the auctioneer. "Surely there is some mistake. This is only a meaningless little house slave!"

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  The man with the tablet listened intently. He did not order me immediately to the foot of the stairs, those leading to the surface of the great block at the Curulean.

  He glanced back at the slender, frightened girl, in the bit of white fluff, still in chain and collar, on the bench. She looked away from him, frightened, looking straight ahead.

  I wished my hair were longer.

  I listened to the sale of the girl in the house tunic. It would soon be torn from her.

  "Number," said the man with the tablet to me.

  I turned, and put my head to the side, that he migh
t read the tiny number printed in lipstick beneath my left ear.

  "Ninety-one," he said. He jotted it down on the sales sheets.

  I heard the tunic torn from the girl on the block, the roar of the crowd.

  She was now being exhibited naked.

  The man with the tablet thrust me toward the foot of the block, and I stumbled to the place at the foot of its stairs. I stood, that I not disarrange the bands of silk so cunningly looped about me. The man with the tablet had apparently decided not to alter the order of sales. I think this was wise on his part. The girl in the house tunic, seemingly not yet broken in, not yet humbled and trained to the collar of pleasure, might have whetted the appetite of the buyers for an even more virginal, innocent form of merchandise, but, on the block, as I gathered from the remarks of the auctioneer and the responses of the crowd there was now little illusion left lingering of her formality or restraint, or reluctance; only too clearly, she starved for male domination, was she eager and ready for the slave ring at the foot of a man's couch.

  Then she was sold.

  I climbed to the height of the block. The block was very large. I had not realized how many were in the crowd. The crowd was silent. This frightened me.

  The auctioneer seemed puzzled, too, but only momentarily. "Someone, it seems," he said, "has sent us a gift." He indicated me with the whip. "Its contours," he said, "suggest that it is lovely." He looked out to the crowd. "Shall we see?" he asked.

  But the crowd, instead of urging him on, was quiet. His hand shook for a moment. I was frightened. I did not understand the mood of the crowd.

  "Let us see," he continued, with feigned humor. He lifted away loops of silk which concealed my head. There was a murmur of admiration from the crowd. I was too vain not to have been pleased. "A lovely face," he said, "feminine, soft, vulnerable, expressive. It would be easy to read in order to control her." He shrugged. "The hair, of course," said he, "is far too short, but I am assured, by officers of the Curulean, that it will grow."

  There was no laughter from the crowd.

  The auctioneer's hand trembled. He was nervous. I thrust my right leg forward, lifting it, pointing the toes, touching only the toes of my right foot to the floor. My left hip was turned out. I lifted and extended my left arm, wrist bent, palm to the left.

  Gracefully then did he unloop, bit by bit, the silk from my left arm.

  "A lovely limb," he said.

  The crowd seemed quiet, intense, watchful. The auctioneer was clearly disturbed.

  "Let us see if there is more of interest here," he said.

  I heard an intake of breath from the crowd, but there were no bids.

  We did not complete the choreography which had been planned. Much depends upon the crowd. It interacts in the drama of the block in a way that it, or many of its members, fails to understand. The auctioneer, puzzled, finally removed from my person the bands of silk. He did not spin me from them; he did not roll me from them at his feet.

  "This is the woman," he said. "What am I bid?"

  There was no bid.

  "Look!" cried a voice. The crowd turned, and I, and the auctioneer, looked as well. At the height of the center aisle, high, framed in the portal of the market hall, stood a warrior, in full panoply of war. He did not speak. He carried shield and spear. On his left shoulder hung the scabbard of the short sword. He was helmeted.

  "Master?" inquired the auctioneer. His voice faltered.

  The warrior did not speak.

  The auctioneer indicated me, taking his attention from the figure who had recently entered the hall.

  "This is the woman," he said, weakly. "What am I bid?"

  At this point the helmeted warrior began to descend the aisle. We watched him approach.

  In moments he stood, too, on the block, facing the crowd. He struck the butt of his great spear on the heavy wood. "Kajira canjellne!" he said. "Slave girl challenge!" He turned to look at me, and I knelt. I could not speak. I feared I might faint.

  He turned again to face the crowd.

  "I will have this woman," he said. "For her I will stand against all Ar, and all the world."

  "I love you, Clitus Vitellius!" I cried, tears in my eyes.

  "You were not given permission to speak!" cried the auctioneer. He lifted his whip to strike me.

  But the point of the spear of Clitus Vitellius lay at his throat. "Do not strike her," said Clitus Vitellius.

  "Yes, Master," said the auctioneer, white-faced, lowering his arm, frightened, backing away.

  Clitus Vitellius turned again to face the crowd of Ar. "Kajira canjellne," he said. "Slave girl challenge."

  There was no response from the crowd. Then one man rose to his feet, striking his left shoulder. And then another rose to his feet and did the same, and another and another. Soon the crowd was on its feet, cheering and striking their left shoulders. Clitus Vitellius stood straight on that great platform, his great, circular shield on his left arm, his mighty spear, seven feet in length, headed in tapering bronze, grasped in his right hand. His head was high, his eyes were shrewd and clear, those of a warrior.

  "She is yours, Master," said the auctioneer to Clitus Vitellius.

  I knelt at his feet, joyfully. He would now free me, and take me as his companion. He put aside his shield and spear, to lift me to my feet as his equal.

  "Your whip," said Clitus Vitellius to the auctioneer.

  "You did not wish her whipped," he said.

  "She is mine to whip," said Clitus Vitellius. The auctioneer placed his whip in the hands of Clitus Vitellius.

  "Master?" I said.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "Are you not going to free me?" I asked.

  "Only a fool," he said, "frees a slave girl."

  "Master!" I cried.

  "Kneel to the whip," he said.

  I obeyed. I put my head down, and, beneath my body, crossed my wrists, as though they were bound. My back was bowed, ready for whatever punishment he might see fit to administer to me. I was in consternation. I trembled. Could I be still a slave girl? Could he be serious? Was it his intention to keep me still as a slave?

  Surely not. Surely not!

  "I would not wish you to take a loss on her," he was saying to the auctioneer. "Here is something which may cover the cost of the miserable little slave."

  I heard a pouch, heavy, filled with metal, strike heavily on the smoothed beams of the surface of the block.

  "The gratitude of the house, Master!" cried the auctioneer. He untied the strings of the pouch and, crying out with pleasure, spilled coins of gold to the wood. Swiftly he sorted the coins, expertly. "There are a hundred tarn disks of gold here!" he cried.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  I cried, tears falling to the wood of the block, mixing in the sawdust. It was ten to a hundred times, or more, what I was worth. I saw then the extent of the regard of Clitus Vitellius for me. I wept with joy.

  I had not known that a man could desire a woman so much. Yet he kept me as a slave!

  Perhaps it is only a slave who can be so bought and sold, and so desired.

  Oh, the indescribable, incredible feeling of being owned, literally owned, by a man!

  I knelt, a slave ready for punishment.

  "Master is far too generous," said the auctioneer. "This is far more than the slave is worth."

  "You are right," said Clitus Vitellius.

  I shook with fury, but did not break the position.

  "Give me the next then, too, on your chain," he said.

  "No!" I cried.

  He turned to face me, and, again, I swiftly lowered my head. Could he truly mean to keep me as a slave? Could he truly be that strong? I could not believe it.

  "Gladly," cried the auctioneer. "Ninety-two," he cried.

  The virginal girl, slender, sweetly shouldered, lovely legged, terrified, crept to the surface of the block. The bit of fluff clung about her. It did not much conceal her. Her legs were well exposed to the inspection of masters,
and the sweetness of her breasts was evident, it but scarcely concealed in the wafting of insinuative, tantalizing fluff.

  The crowd roared its approval, and she shrank back on the block. I wondered what men saw in her. She was herself only a bit of fluff, to rape and serve.

  "Come here," said Clitus Vitellius to the girl.

  Swiftly she fled to him, to stand before him.

  "Position," he snapped.

  She dropped to her knees before him, in the position of the pleasure slave.

  "Get your back straighter," he said. She did so.

  He crouched beside her and, with his belt knife, cut away the strings which held the fluff about her. It floated to the surface of the block, stirring in the slight movements of air.

  He regarded the girl. He then looked, too, to me. "I will take both," he said.

  "Master!" I cried in protest.

  Then he stood over me, with the whip.

  I looked up into his eyes. Then I was frightened. I saw that he was a Gorean master. However much he might hold me in regard, however much he might desire me, I saw that I could be to him only a helpless slave girl. Whatever might be his feelings for me I saw that he would have me only at his feet as a slave. I would be uncompromisingly owned. He would have all, fully, from me. I would not be permitted to hold anything back, ever. He would be master, and I slave. No longer did I dare to suggest that I might be freed. No longer did I dare to think it. He was Gorean.

  I put my head down, kneeling to the whip.

  "Forgive me, Master," I whispered.

  "Once this evening," said he, "you, a slave, addressed me by my name, rather than as 'Master.'"

  "Forgive me, Master," I said. I trembled. I recalled I had cried out, "I love you, Clitus Vitellius!" How foolish I had been. It was a girl's mistake. It would not go unnoticed.

  "Too," he said, "more than once this evening you have spoken without permission."