by John Norman
The coffle line looped up to the neck of the first girl. She was Arlene; the second was Audrey; the third was Barbara; Constance was fourth; Belinda was fifth; she who had been the Lady Rosa was sixth. They were all clad in furs. The snow blew gently about them.
I went to the rear of the coffle line and took the last girl on the line gently in my arms. I put my lips, gently, to hers. They were cool, in the cold night. Yet beneath mine they yielded, as a slave's. Already had she who had been the Lady Rosa learned much. There is a difference between the kiss of the free woman and the kiss of the slave girl; the slave girl yields to her master; the difference is unmistakable. It is said that he whose lips have never touched those of a slave girl does not know, truly, what it is to hold a woman in his arms.
"What shall I call you?" I asked. "Rosita? Pepita?"
"Call me whatever you wish, Master," she said. "I am wholly yours."
I touched her thigh through the furs. "When we reach Port Kar," I told her, "I will brand you."
"Yes, Master," she said.
I went to the fifth girl on the coffle, Belinda, whom I had obtained in the complex, whom I had first enjoyed in the steel corridors of the complex, while her throat was still chained to the overhead slave track. I took her in my arms, gently, and kissed her, as I had the last girl on the line.
"You are already branded," I told her.
"Brand me a thousand times," she said, "each time I will be more yours."
"One brand," I said, "is enough to make clear the slave of you."
"Yes, Master," she said. "But each time you touch me you brand me. Each time you touch me you make me more a slave. Each time you touch me I am the more yours."
"You are a slave," I said. "It would be the same for any master."
She put her head down. "Yes, Master," she said.
I pushed up her chin with my thumb. She was crying. "Hope that you will one day fall into the power of your love master," I said. "For there is in you, I sense, a superb love slave."
"Thank you, Master," she said. She pressed her lips to the back of my mittened hand.
I went to Constance, who was the fourth girl on the coffle.
I kissed her.
"You, like Belinda, are already a branded slave girl," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she said. "Master," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"You were going to sell me in Lydius," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Are you still going to do so?" she asked, frightened.
"No," I said. "I will take you back to Port Kar," I said.
"Thank you, Master," she breathed.
"Port Kar has excellent markets," I told her.
"Will you not keep me?" she begged.
"Perhaps, for a time," I said.
"I will try so hard to be pleasing to you," she said.
"You will do so, or you will wish that you had done so," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I looked at her.
"It is said the women of Kassau make excellent slaves," I said.
"I will show you that it is true, Master," she said.
"Properly trained, you might make an excellent gift for one of Torvaldsland," I said.
She looked at me, frightened. "We women of Kassau fear the mighty raiders," she said.
"You would look well at their feet," I said.
She shuddered.
I regarded her. Perhaps I would have her trained as an exquisite pleasure slave, trained in sensuous dance and the thousand arts of pleasure. She might then be sent, formerly of Kassau, now trained, perfumed and silked, to one of the fierce Torvaldsland rovers. Perhaps Ivar Forkbeard, my friend, might enjoy her licking at his boots. Girls make lovely gifts. I usually kept some in my house, in Port Kar, for such purposes.
But perhaps I would keep her, for a time. Or, perhaps I would put her on a block in Port Kar. I did not know.
"I will try to please you," she said.
"In Port Kar," I said, "a girl who is not pleasing is not unoften bound hand and foot, and thrown naked, as garbage, to the urts in the canals."
"I will try to be pleasing," she smiled.
I laughed, and gently cuffed the side of her head. She kissed at my mitten.
"When I sell you," I said, "if I should sell you, I will sell you south, into a perfumed slavery."
"Thank you, Master," she said.
I was fond of Constance. Why should she herd verr and churn butter in Torvaldsland? Let her serve naked and loving, bangled, perfumed, made-up, on the multicolored tiles of some southern domicile. Let her crawl naked, collared, to the feet of a southern master.
It would be sufficient.
But perhaps I would keep her. I did not know. I could decide that later, at my convenience.
I went to Barbara, and took her in my arms, and kissed her, gently.
"I will brand you in Port Kar," I told her.
"I await the iron with eagerness, Master," she said.
I then went to the second girl on the coffle line, Audrey. I took her in my arms and, gently, kissed her.
She clutched me. "I beg your brand," she said, hoarsely.
"Are you not the former rich girl of Earth?" I asked.
"I am a Gorean slut and a slave, only that, no more!" she said. "And as such, meaningless and helpless, I beg your brand."
She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. "All my wealth on Earth," she said, "could not buy me a collar, or a brand. Here I have nothing and yet they will be put upon me, because men please to do so."
"Yes," I said.
"Brand me," she said.
"I will," I said.
"I dare not ask your collar," she said. "After I am branded discard me or sell me, if you will. I shall always remember with joy the moment of pain in which I knew that I, though only an inconsequential, trivial, and lowly slave, had been found worthy of your iron."
"I will keep you for a time, at least, in my collar," I said. "You are not without interest as a female slave. My men may find you amusing. And perhaps I will occasionally permit you to serve me in my quarters."
"Thank you, Master," she said.
"Then I think I will sell you," I said. "I think you will profit from knowing many masters, and many slaveries, for you are superb and exquisite slave meat."
"Thank you, Master," she said.
I had no doubt the former rich young woman would make a fine slave. She would be a splendid purchase for a competent master. How delighted he would be to learn, and soon, the quality of his buy. Sometimes the auctions are something of a lottery. One does not really know the value of a purchase until she is chained at your slave ring. But he who eventually acquired lovely Audrey, I did not doubt, would be well satisfied with his purchase. He would know his coins well spent. Let him then, if vain, congratulate himself on his astute eye, his unerring appraisal of exhibited, helpless, vended slave flesh, or, if more modest, let him simply thank the Priest-Kings for his unexpected good fortune. In either event, witting or no, he would discover that Audrey was marvelous slave goods. She was an excellent buy.
How far she was now from the naive, chained beauty in a brief, white platform tunic, exhibited on a wooden slave shelf, long ago, at the Fair of En'Kara, first learning what she now was, a slave, and that she must fear and obey men.
How well she had done.
She had come far in her bondage.
I was proud of her.
She should not now sell for copper, really; if men knew her, she should now bring silver, perhaps as much as three or four silver tarsks. But, untrained, and in an early sale, she would doubtless go for no more than a handful, though perhaps a double handful, of copper tarsks.
For she was beautiful.
What a bargain thusly would the formerly rich young woman prove to be!
Fortunate then the fellow whose collar she would wear, at whose feet she would kneel, whose whip, held before her, she would gratefully reverence with the softness of her submitted tongue
and lips.
I was sure that Audrey, like many women, would find her fulfillment and redemption, and joy, in the helplessness of the slave collar.
Too, it was my speculation that she had in her the makings of the most precious of all slaves, the love slave.
What a joy for the master who would own her and see to it that she fulfilled her nature!
A Gorean master, of course, would see to it.
I went to Arlene, who led the coffle. The double line looped up to her throat from the left-hand, rear upright of the sled.
She looked up at me. I brushed the hood, fur-trimmed, back about her shoulders. How incredibly beautiful she was. There was a light snow about. Some of the snow fell in her hair. I brushed back some hair from the left side of her face.
"My thigh has not been marked," she said. "Will Master brand me, too, in Port Kar?"
"Yes," I said.
"A girl is pleased," she said.
"Truly?" I asked, holding her head between my hands.
"Yes," she said, "it is a great honor for a girl to be branded by a Warrior, and one who is a Captain."
I shrugged. I supposed, objectively, what she said was true. I was of a high caste, that of the Warriors, and was a captain.
It was a vanity of mine, I suppose, that I had let such things slip.
A boast among slave girls is "My brand was put upon me by a Warrior." Another is, "I was found beautiful enough for a Warrior to brand!"
Girls compete, so to speak, with one another in many ways, the quality and nature of their brands, the comfort, lightness, and attractiveness of their collars; at whose command they were branded and collared, the quality and texture of their clothing, if permitted it; the caste, prestige, standing, and wealth of their masters, the location and quality of their domiciles, the beauty of their faces and figures, the length and sheen of their hair, their cost in the markets, their skills in love, and so on.
Suddenly she held me, closely. "Oh, Master," she wept, "it has nothing to do, truly, with caste. It has to do, rather, with the kind of man you are. You could be a peasant, an Iron worker. It would not matter. When you look at a girl she wants your brand. When your eyes fall upon a girl she wants to be your slave. Girls dream of being branded by a man such as you. We dream of being the slaves of men such as you."
"Those are the dreams of slave girls," I said.
"Of course," she said.
"Slave girls should beware of speaking their dreams," I said, "lest they be overheard by a master."
"Every slave girl should boldly speak her dream," she said.
"But a master may be listening," I said.
"Let us hope, for her sake, that he is," said she. "Why else should a slave girl cry out, if not to be overheard by a master?"
"I find women mysterious," I said.
"The answer to our riddle," she said, "is a strong man, and a collar."
"I think it is true," I said.
"I had no real choice," she said. "In the snow you made me a slave."
"Of course," I said.
"I love you for it," she said, "—Master." I kissed her, gently, on the lips. She looked up at me, her eyes moist. "Will you keep me?" she asked.
"For a time, perhaps," I said.
"Yes," she said, ruefully, "I know, perhaps to amuse your men, and perhaps occasionally, if you are so moved, to serve you in the furs."
"Perhaps," I said.
"And then perhaps you will sell me," she said.
"Perhaps," I said.
"And then I would have to go to whom I am sold, and serve him—and as a complete slave, in the fullest sense of the word."
"Of course," I said.
"My own desires and feelings would be meaningless," she said.
"Of course," I said. "You are a slave."
"Yes," she said, "I am a slave." She wiped a tear away from her cheek. "Doubtless," she laughed, "I, like Audrey, would profit from many masters, and many slaveries."
"Doubtless," I agreed.
"For I, like Audrey," she asked, "am superb, exquisite slave meat?"
"Yes," I said.
"On Earth I was nothing," she said. "Here, at least, I am valued for my qualities as a slave."
"In so far as a girl has value," I said.
"Yes," she said, "—in so far as a girl has value." Suddenly her eyes flashed. "Surely I would bring a high price!" she said.
"You could, currently," I said, "be bought and sold for a handful of copper coins."
"Oh," she said.
"You are untrained," I pointed out.
She bit her lip.
"But I would see that you had a bit of training before I would put you on the block," I said.
"It would help me survive," she said.
"Yes," I said. "It would also raise your price."
"I see," she said.
"There is in you, and in these other girls," I said, surveying the coffle, "a superb love slave. If you pass through many hands, and many slaveries, your chance of being acquired by one who will be to you your true love master is much increased."
"Do you sell us because you are cruel, or because you are kind?" she asked.
"If I sell you," I said, "it will be done as I wish, when I wish, and because I wish."
"Yes, Master," she said, putting her head down.
"I could sell you to make money," I said. "I could sell you because I am tired of you. I could sell you because it amused me. I could sell you because I would be curious to see what you would look like standing naked in the sawdust on an auction block."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"I have sold girls for all of those reasons, and many others," I said.
"Of course, Master," she said. "Forgive me. We are slaves."
I pulled the hood of her parka up, over her head. "Fasten the hood," I said. "The trek will be cold."
"Yes, Master," she said.
I lightly kissed her lips. Our lips, momentarily, lingered together. Then I took her fully in my arms, and lengthily kissed her. "I will try to be pleasing to you, Master," she said.
I heard the sleen scratching at the ice. Ram coughed. The red hunters set their mittened hands to the uprights on their sleds.
"Be silent, Slave," I said, pushing her from me.
"Yes, Master," she said. She stumbled back, the double coffle line on her neck.
I turned about, to look once more behind me. It is a trick of red hunters, to see what the return journey will look like. But I did not think I would come this way again.
I saw the ice of the polar sea, and the stars, and the feasting house, within which Imnak sang.
Then I turned about and lifted my arm. To my left, in the east, was the first, tiniest glimmering of light, a dawn that would begin the long day of the arctic spring and summer. The night was over.
I lowered my arm. "On!" I said. "On!" The eight sleds left the area of the camp. I moved behind the sled. The girls, behind the sled, and to its left, moved with me.
Our departure was not noticed.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1978 by John Norman
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0006-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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