by John Norman
Then, suddenly, the wagon stopped. I could sense the movements of other girls, by the chain on my neck, the sounds, the vibrations, those tiny physical transmissions, indicative of their stirrings, through the flooring of the metal cage. They were all frightened, I think, as I was. We had arrived, somewhere. They were adjusting their postures. I, too, tried to improve mine, even further.
We heard voices. The driver seemed to descend from the wagon box. We waited. There was very little sound now. We were very quiet. There was occasionally the tiny sound of the stirring of links of chain, from the chain on our necks. I moved a little, to feel the tiny metal tag, slung on its tiny closed chain, the chain closed about my collar, move delicately, lightly, on my skin, just below my neck. It had something to do with my transportation, or disposition. We all had such tags, now, on our collars.
We heard some canvas being thrust up, near the gate. "Sit, or lie, as you will, sluts," said a man's voice. He was a fellow from the house. I recognized the voice. The canvas was then pulled down, again. We would be here for a while, it seemed. We adjusted our positions, as we could. I lay down on my side. My knees were sore from the metal flooring, and the movements of the vehicle. The smell of salt air was strong here.
We waited, doubtless in various postures of ease. The others, I would suppose, were as grateful as I to break position. It seemed nothing was happening. Doubtless outside the wagon, though, something was happening, if only an inquiry into a delay, a tallying or accounting, a certification of papers, a checking of arrangements, something. Inside the wagon, we waited.
I thought again of the woman who had cried out, beating on the side of the wagon.
I moved the leather ball about a bit in my mouth, it held in my mouth by its strap, pulled back between my teeth, buckled behind the back of my neck. I felt it behind my lips and teeth, over my tongue, obstructing my oral orifice. I could not speak. Indeed, I could make very little noise at all. I pressed up on it with my tongue. I moved my lips and teeth about it. I could not begin to dislodge it. It is a secure, effective device. It does its job well, as it is designed to do. My head, in its hood, now rested on the metal flooring. I could feel the flooring through the leather.
I was afraid, remembering the woman who had beaten on the wagon. I thought that probably I, and women like me, would have much to fear from such women. I did not think she was, really, as I might have hoped, an isolated aberration. Who could protect me then from such as she, only men, surely. She, too, thus, in her way, regardless of her intentions, would be putting me all the more at the mercy of my masters, men. I feared her, and such as she. How shrill and ugly she had sounded! I did not know, of course, but I suspected she might have been coarse-featured, or homely. She had even sounded ugly. I was pretty. That made me even more afraid of her, and her kind. I thought they might resent me, and hate me, for being pretty. Too, I was apparently a type of woman, short, with shapely legs, and nicely breasted, which men on this world often found attractive. That, too, might be held against me. Such things, of course, are not that unusual. For example, if one is not strong, one might tend to disparage strength, or claim that it is not important. Indeed, one might, grotesquely enough, even resent it so in others, as to come to hate those who are strong. Similarly, if one is not beautiful, or attractive, one might tend to disparage beauty, or attractiveness, or claim that it is not important. Similarly, one might, grotesquely enough, resent such things so in others as, sooner or later, to come to hate those who are beautiful or attractive. On Earth those who espoused such eccentric and paradoxical perspectives might, on the whole, unless they became politically powerful, be ignored or avoided. Here, however, I feared, the beautiful, and attractive, might find themselves at their mercy. The terrors of this situation were further impressed upon me by the understanding that it was most likely the beautiful, and the attractive, who would be sought out for impressment into helpless bondage. They would be the prizes. I myself, I knew, in some sense, was such a prize. Teibar had told me that he was paid, in effect, for bringing in "first-class females." I was thus, it seemed, at least from the perspective of this world, a "first-class female." I recalled he had used such expressions to me as "little charmer" and "cuddly slut." These expressions, though probably intended to humiliate me, and demean me, and put me in my place, as a female, nonetheless seemed to attest to his finding me of genuine sexual interest. To be sure, he had not seen fit to keep me. Ulrick, though, had assured me, and I think truthfully, of my attractiveness, and had even done me the kindness of speculating somewhat skeptically on the soundness of Teibar's judgment in the matter. He, at any rate, had regarded me as being pretty enough to wear Teibar's collar. Too, more than once one of the guards at the house had angrily tested the security of the iron belt on me, and then, finding it secure, had thrust me from him, then taking another girl in hand, one not in such a belt, for the satisfaction of his fierce needs.
I heard voices outside, but, it seemed, nothing was being done with us. We must wait.
I was truly afraid of women such as she who had beaten on the wagon. I did not even have a cloth to put on my body before her. I would be naked to her stick or switch. And even the instructresses I had seen had been barefoot and worn only brief tunics. Women such as I, I feared, thus, even if clothed, would be clothed in distinctive manners, manners which would be particular to us, manners which would mark us out, and make us prominent and visible, manners which would leave no doubt as to our condition, and status, and generally, I suspected, scantily, and revealingly, as the instructresses had been, for the pleasures of men.
We waited gagged, stripped, hooded and chained.
Perhaps the woman who had beaten on the wagon was really not so different from us, I thought. Perhaps it was only that she had not been taken in hand, imperiously, and branded and put in a collar. Perhaps, on some level, in some way, she was jealous of us and wanted to be like us, a woman whom men might conceivably find of interest. Perhaps somewhere in her there was even a true woman. Perhaps somewhere in her there was, too, a slave, who yearned to serve at the feet of masters. I did not even think it mattered whether or not she might be homely or plain. Men are sometimes fools, I think, putting too much store, at least at first, by such superficialities. One need not be beautiful, I was sure, to be a loving, slave treasure.
But regardless of what the truth in these matters might have been, I was certainly not eager, now, to make the acquaintance of such women. After they were stripped and in chains, and crouching fearfully, with branded thighs, their necks in collars, fearing the whips of men, that would be soon enough for me, if ever! We were, at least as of now, regardless of what might be the fundamental and ultimate truth in these matters, quite different sorts of women. Social chasms separated us, social chasms unbridgeable except by the brand and collar.
We waited.
I wondered why we had been hooded, and had had heavy ball gags thrust in our mouths, and buckled back, in place. I did not think our hooding was to conceal our beauty from the casual glances of men. Men such as these, I had gathered, were seldom reluctant to show off the beauty of the baubles on the "slaver's necklace." Too, we were stripped, and, even so, I was sure, were being kept in a covered cage. I supposed the motivation of the hooding, in part, might have been to remind us that we were slaves, and men could do these things to us, but, too, I suspected, it was to keep us in "slave ignorance," a condition often deemed appropriate for women in bondage. At any rate none of us knew where we were, or where we had been. We did not even know the name of the house where we had been trained, or the name of its master. In this sense, we did not even know who owned us. The Gorean girls had tried to read one another's collars, but the markings on them had apparently been in coded symbols, incomprehensible even to them. That seemed strange to me. Though I was learning to speak Gorean, incidentally, I could not read it. Neither I, nor any of the other Earth girls in my group, had, as far as I knew, in spite of the intensity and frequency of our lessons, received any in
struction whatsoever in reading it, even in an elementary way. We were illiterate. I suspected we would be kept that way. Still, the degree of "slave ignorance" in which we were being kept, not even knowing the name of our master, for example, seemed extreme, if not absurd. It was connected, then, I reasoned, with some sort of measures of security. This might explain, too, the gags, which were perhaps not simply a way of men telling us that we are subject to them, and may be gagged, as we might be blindfolded, chained, tied or beaten, at their pleasure, but rather to keep us from speaking with one another, particularly the Gorean girls, perhaps exchanging information or speculations, or, more likely, daring to call out to others, perhaps passers-by in the vicinity of the wagon, teasing them, bantering with them, begging prettily, perhaps, for tiny bits of information.
I adjusted my position a little. The metal flooring was hard on my shoulder and thigh. I wished I had had my blanket, which had been in my kennel, with my pan of water. It had much eased the harshness of the kennel's cement flooring.
I went to my back. I felt the flooring on my shoulder blades. I pulled my wrists up, in their linked rings, taking advantage of the space at the small of my back.
We waited, caged, in your hoods and chains.
I thought again of the woman who had frightened me so, she who had beaten on the side of the wagon.
Certainly, as of now, at any rate, we were quite different sorts of women.
I wondered at what the nature of the delay might be. I wondered what it might be that we were waiting for.
We were not passengers, of course, who might inquire, perhaps impatiently, into the nature of delays, perhaps even demanding explanations; we were only animals, being shipped; we were cargo.
I moved again to my side.
I pulled again, a little, at those lovely, stern impediments of steel, linked together by a small sturdy chain, which held my wrists behind my back. How well they confined me! The chain, too, was on my neck, keeping me with others. Too, with others, I was caged, I had heard the door, or gate, being locked. The cage, too, I conjectured, judging from the metal flooring, from the weighty, efficient sounds of the closing and locking of the gate, from the feel of the stout bars behind me, was quite sturdy. It would probably hold men, and with perfection, let alone females.
I struggled to sit up. I managed it. My shoulder hurt. My thigh was sore. I then put my back against the bars.
I had gathered that female slaves in transit, in general, must look forward to bonds or confinements. But the usual arrangement in these particulars, I had gathered, was a simple coffle chain, most commonly a neck coffle, but sometimes a wrist or ankle coffle; a slave cage, mounted on a wagon, in which the girls were free; or a slave wagon, within which, stripped, their ankles were chained about a movable, central bar, it fixed in place, locked, during transit. Surely it was not typical that they were treated to the attentions which we enjoyed, being gagged, hooded, neck-chained, manacled and caged. This, too, I supposed, might represent some sort of security measure, but, if so, it seemed to me, of a depth and degree which must be unusual. Perhaps, on the other hand, it had to do, simply, with our being new slaves. New slaves are often treated with great harshness. It helps them learn quickly that they are slaves. Later, when the girl is well trained and her services become perfections she may be treated more leniently, even lovingly, like a dog. To be sure, if she should become in the least bit lax, the original strictures, or worse, will be instantly reimposed, or instituted.
The ten of us had been in the wagon now, even after it had stopped, at least an hour, perhaps two.
I thought of Teibar.
He, and men like him, were unutterably superior to me. I had not known such men could exist. I had only dreamed of them. Before such men, I, a refined, educated, highly intelligent woman of Earth, knew myself nothing. I could be, in effect, no more than a dog at their feet.
I pressed back against the bars.
And, interestingly enough, I was not discontented. I could have wished, I suppose, for lesser men but I did not really want lesser men. I wanted the mightiest men, the most powerful men, the most glorious men, the most ferocious, grandest men. I did not want men who were like me, I wanted men who were like men, men in whose arms, ravished, loving, crying out, overwhelmed, mastered, I could be myself, and find myself. I wanted such men, and knew in my heart that I belonged to them. I wanted a man who was greater than I, and incomparably so, one whom I must, in the order of nature, obey, one to whom I must look up. And I did not care if it was from my knees, black with dust, a collar on my neck, naked, that I looked up to his glory. I wished, tears in my eyes, that Teibar had kept me, his "modern woman," as a pet, as his bitch. I would have tried to serve him well. I would have been overjoyed to have been to him the only thing I could really be to men such as he, the lowly bitch of such men. I would have brought his sandals to him in my teeth. I would have begged to clean his feet with my tongue. I would strive to show him that the "modern woman" was gone, and that in her place was now his bitch, his legal property, his woman, his woman in all ways, helpless and loving beyond loving.
I lay down again on the metal flooring.
I thought again of the woman who had beaten on the side of the wagon. How afraid she had made me! How different she seemed from us, from the ten of us, chained in this cage. She was, I was sure, free. She must have been free, to have been permitted to scream like that, and carry on like that. There seemed to be no other possible explanation. The thought made me shudder. She was then, even if stupid and ugly, worlds above and beyond us. She would be priceless. Our value, even if we were desirable and beautiful, on the other hand, would be finite, a function quite simply of fluctuations in the market, and what men were willing to pay for us. We were properties. She, I supposed, was not. That would seem to be the major difference between us. We could be bought and sold. She, I supposed, could not, unless, of course, men saw fit to reduce her, too, to bondage, and then, of course, she would be no different from us, and our competitions would be reduced to the same common denominator, that of mere females. I lay there, hooded, a new slave, trying to understand, down in my belly, what it was, truly, to be a property. I could thus come into the ownership of anyone who had the wherewithal to buy me, male or female. Too, I had little doubt that not all the men on this world could be of the nature of Teibars and Ulricks, and the guards in the house where I had been trained. Doubtless there were men here, too, if not as on Earth, men who might be fretful, petty and weak, men the very sight and smell of which I might find offensive, men whose appearance and least touch I might find literally sickening, men I might find unutterably disgusting, men who were unclean, who were cruel, and loathsome and gross, who might be hideous and frightful, men I might find myself shrinking from, almost vomiting in disgust and terror, but they would own me, as much as any other, and I would be obliged, as a slave, to bring myself warmly and unquestioningly into their arms, and bring my lips obediently and hotly to theirs, to submit wholly to them, to give myself wholly to them, to surrender wholly to them, holding back nothing, to please them, fully, and intimately. These things were simple attachments of my condition, consequences of what I was. I could not change them. They were simply part of what it meant to be what I was, a slave. We do not choose our masters nor is it up to us, whether or not we will please them, or to what degree. We must strive to be perfection all ways, for anyone. That is part of what is to be a slave. In reconciling myself to bondage I had, also, to reconcile myself to this condition. It is a part of bondage. It is something which the slave must accept. Without it there can be no true slavery. I had accepted this condition, at least theoretically, verbally acknowledging its incumbency on me, in my training. Somehow, interestingly, this acceptance, too, seemed liberating to me. It made my bondage much more real to me. Too, interestingly, in its way, it also made it seem much more precious to me.
Still, I supposed one could not truly understand what being a property was until one had been sold, and had come in
to the keeping of masters. Doubtless Teibar's "modern woman," his arrogant, pretentious Earth female, as he had thought, his despised catch, would come to understand what that was. How amused he would be from time to time, I supposed, thinking of what he had done to me, the fate into which he had brought me. I tried to hate him, but could not. I wanted rather to kiss his feet. But then perhaps he did not even remember me. Perhaps he had forgotten me! Perhaps I was now alone, totally alone, on this world, having been brought here for a price and then, having earned my coins for others, discarded, cast into the markets, set adrift in uncertain weathers, on trackless seas, to vanish from sight, to disappear tracelessly, with no one noticing or caring, at the mercy of whatever course winds and currents, and fortune, and the will and interests of men, might take me. But I would never forget Teibar. I would remember him, always, even as I moaned in my dreams.
I jerked suddenly, frightened, in the manacles. I could belong to anyone, to anyone who could pay for me! Surely that was wrong for a woman of Earth! How could it have come about that I was now only a lowly slave? I had been a woman of Earth! Of Earth! How could it have come about then that I was now, on this world, only a collared animal, stripped and chained, at the mercy of masters? Could it truly be I here, in this cage, in chains? Had I gone mad? Could I be dreaming? But I pushed up with my tongue, straining my tongue, against the bottom of the leather ball in my mouth, fixed there so mercilessly, so effectively. I moved my lips and teeth about it. I could feel its shape and size. But I could not dislodge it. I shook my head a little, moving the chain on my neck. It was on me. I hurt my wrists, pulling against the manacles that confined them. But I could not relieve their stern clasp in the least, nor extend by an iota the tiny span their links allotted me. I moved my shoulder and thigh on the metal flooring. My shoulder was sore, and my thigh was sensitive, and perhaps red. The flooring gave us a very obdurate surface. It was very solid. It was plated, and heavy. I supposed it might be of iron. The plates, I conjectured, judging from the apparent weight and solidity of them, must be an inch thick, at least. No, I was not dreaming. It was I, here, truly, in this place, now a slave. Then again I was content. How had Teibar, and others, I wondered, have known that I was a slave? It had not been hard to tell, I had gathered. I was frightened, but, too, I knew I was where I belonged, in bondage.