Vagabonds of Gor

by Norman, John;

  "Beautiful!" said a man.

  Temione was pleased.

  The collar looked well on her neck. It belonged there. There was no doubt about it.

  How she looked at the burly fellow! He was now so taken with her he could hardly move.

  Now the exquisite slut began to sense her power, that of her beauty and desirability.

  She had determined, I now realized, from the first moment she had leaped to her feet, obedient to the command of her master, Philebus, that she would make test of her womanhood, that she would, courageously, regardless of the consequences, risking contempt and perhaps even punishment, display herself before him, this rude fellow who had once so scorned and tyrannized her as a free woman, as what she now was, ultimately and solely, female and slave. To be sure, she, new to her slavery, had perhaps not fully realized that she had really no choice in this matter but, willing or not, must do so, and to the best of her ability, in total perfection.

  Borton moaned in desire, scarcely daring to move, his eyes glistening, fixed on the dancing slave.

  How bondage had transformed Temione! What is the magic, the mystery of the brand, the collar, I wondered, that by means of them such marvels might be wrought? It had to do, I supposed, with the nature of woman, her deepest needs, with the order of nature, with the pervasive themes of dominance and submission. In bondage woman is in her place in nature, and she will not be truly happy until she is there. Given this, it may be seen that, in a sense, the brand and collar, as lovely and decorative as they are, and as exciting and profoundly meaningful as they are, when they are fixed on a woman, and she wears them, and as obviously important as they are from the point of view of property law, may be viewed not so much as instituting or producing bondage as recognizing it, as serving, in a way, as tokens, or outward signs, of these marvelous inward truths, these ultimate realities. The true slave knows that her slavery, her natural slavery, is not a matter of the brand and collar, which have more to do with legalities, but of herself. She may love her brand and collar, and beg them, and rejoice in them, but I do not think this is merely because they make her so exciting, desirable and beautiful; I think it is also, at least, because they proclaim publicly to the world what she is, because by means of them her deepest truth, freeing her of concealments and deceits, cutting through confusions, resolving doubts, ending hesitancies, making her at last whole and one, to her joy, is marked openly upon her. The true slave is within the woman. She knows it is there. She will not be happy until she terminates inward dissonances, until she casts out rending contradictions, until she achieves emotional, moral, physiological and psychological consistency, until she surrenders to her inward truths.

  "May I speak, Master?" Temione asked of the burly fellow, swaying before him.

  How bold she was!

  "Yes," he said, huskily.

  "Does Master find a slave pleasing?" he asked.

  "Yes!" he said.

  "Perhaps even exciting?" she inquired.

  "Yes, yes!" he said, almost in pain.

  "I am not too fat, am I?" she asked.

  "No!" he said. "No!" It might be mentioned that as a slave girl is a domestic animal her diet is subject to supervision. Most masters will give some attention to the girl's diet, her rest, exercises, training, and so on. Some slavers, with certain markets in mind, such as certain of the Tahari markets, deliberately fatten slaves before their sale, sometimes keeping them in small cages, sometimes even force-feeding them, and so on. Most masters, on the other hand, will try to keep their slaves at whatever dimensions and weights are thought to be optimum for her health and beauty.

  "Perhaps Master thinks I am stupid," she said.

  "No," he said. "No!" Properties such as intelligence and imagination are prized in female slaves. It helps them, obviously, to be better slaves. Too, it is pleasant to dominate such women, totally.

  "Does Master think I am a she-tarsk?" she asked.

  "No!" he cried.

  "Beware," Philebus cautioned her, his whip in hand.

  "Let her speak, let her speak," said the burly fellow, tensely.

  I did not think the swaying slave would be likely to be mistaken for a she-tarsk. She might, however, as she was acting, be mistaken for something of a she-sleen. To be sure, the whip can quickly take that sort of thing from a woman.

  "Alas," she lamented, "I am not worth even sleen feed!"

  "No!" cried the burly fellow. "Do not say that! You are exquisite!"

  "But such a charge has been cited against me," she moaned.

  "By some wretch I wager!" said he, angrily.

  "If Master will have it so," she demurred.

  "Would that I had him here," he said. "I would well chastise him, and with blows, did he not retract his judgment, belabor him for his lack of taste!" In fairness to the burly fellow, it had been Temione the free woman against whom he had leveled that charge, not Temione, the slave. There was obviously a great deal of difference between the two, even if Temione herself was not yet that aware of it.

  "Alas that I am so ugly!" she said.

  "Absurd!" he cried. "You are beautiful!"

  "Master is too kind," she said.

  "You are the most beautiful slave I have ever seen!" When he said this I noted that a pleased look came over the features of Philebus. He would not now, I suspected, be willing to let Temione go easily, if at all.

  "Surely Master speaks so to all the slaves," she said.

  "No!" he said.

  "That you will have the poor slaves open and gush with oil at your least touch."

  "No!" he cried. She did not understand as yet, I gathered, given her newness to slavery, that such, emotional and physical responsiveness, was expected of, and required of, all slaves, at the touch of any master.

  "Can it be then, Master," she asked, "that you do not wish to cast me from you?"

  "I do not understand," he said.

  "Will you not order me from your presence," she asked, "or have me dragged from your sight?"

  "No!" he cried.

  "Then Master finds me of some interest?" she asked.

  "Yes!" he howled in pain.

  I saw that he wanted to leap to his feet and seize her. I did not think he would be able to get her even as far as one of the small alcove tents within the enclosure. More likely, she would be flung to the dirt and publicly ravished, before the fire, even where she had danced. She might then, in a moment, bruised in his ardor, gasping in her collar, be dragged to an alcove, and forced again and again to serve, until dawn, until at last she might lie soft against him, by his thigh, in her collar, having served to quench for a time the flames of so mighty a lust, one which she, as a slave, had aroused and which she, as a slave, must satisfy.

  "A girl is pleased," she said.

  The music stopped, and the girl, instinctively, among the others, fell to the dirt and lay there before him, on her back, looking at him, her breasts heaving, a submitted slave.

  The burly fellow threw aside his goblet and leaped to his feet.

  Men rose up, crying out with pleasure, striking their left shoulders.

  "I must have her!" cried the burly fellow.

  The girls about Temione looked at one another, excited, but fearfully. Tonight the paga would flow. Tonight they would hurry about, serving well. Tonight much pleasuring would take place within the enclosure. Let them prepare to work, and hard. And let them anticipate their helplessness in the grasp of strong masters.

  "Superb!" called out a man.

  "Superb!" cried another.

  Temione now was on her hands and knees, frightened.

  "I will buy her!" cried out the burly fellow.

  "She is not for sale!" cried Philebus.

  "Name your price!" cried the burly fellow.

  Temione, on her hands and knees, looked up, frightened, at her master. She could, of course, be sold as easily as a sleen or tarsk.

  "She is not for sale," said Philebus.

  "A silver tarsk!" cried the burly
fellow. Men whistled at the price he was willing to put out for the slave, particularly in a time and place where there was no dearth of beautiful women, a time and place in which they were plentiful, and cheap. "Two!" said the burly fellow.

  Temione shuddered.

  "She is not for sale!" said Philebus.

  "Show her to me!" said the burly fellow.

  Philebus, not gently, jerked Temione back on her heels, so that she was kneeling, kicked apart her knees, which she, in her terror, had neglected to open, and thrust up her chin. She looked at the burly fellow, her knees apart.

  "I know you from somewhere, do I not?" he said.

  "Perhaps, Master," she stammered.

  "What is the color of your hair?" he asked, peering at it in the flickering light, in the half darkness.

  "Auburn, Master," she said.

  "A natural auburn?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master," she said. It is not wise for a girl to lie about such things. She may be easily found out. There are penalties, incidentally, for a slaver passing off a girl for an auburn slave when she is not truly so. Auburn hair, as I have indicated, is prized in slave markets. The fact that Temione's hair, like that of the other debtor sluts at the Crooked Tarn, had been shaved off, to be sold for catapult cordage, may have been one reason that the burly fellow had not recognized her. At the Crooked Tarn, when he had seen her, she had had her full head of hair. It had been very beautiful, even shorn, hanging on the rack in the courtyard of the Crooked Tarn.

  "I think I know you," he said.

  "Perhaps, Master," she said. Then she cried out with fear, and bent over, cringing, in terror, for Philebus had cracked the whip near her.

  "Speak clearly, slave," said Philebus.

  "My hair is grown out a little now," she said, looking up, frightened, at the burly fellow. "It was shaved off before. It is grown out a little now!"

  "Speak, slave," said Philebus. "Where do you know him from?" He snapped the whip again, angrily.

  "From the Crooked Tarn, Master!" she cried, but looking, frightened, at the burly fellow.

  "You!" he cried.

  "Yes, Master!" she said.

  "The free woman!" he cried.

  "But now a slave, Master," she said, "now a slave!"

  "Ho!" cried he. "What a fool you have made of me!"

  "No, Master!" she said, fearfully.

  "You fooled me well!" he said.

  "No, Master!" she wept.

  "An amusing little slave," he commented.

  She dared not respond, nor meet his eyes.

  "A gold piece for her," said the burly fellow.

  The slave moaned.

  "Two," said the burly fellow. "Ten."

  "Do you think you are a special slave, or a high slave?" asked Philebus of the girl, moving the coils of the whip near her.

  "No, Master!" she said.

  "Twenty pieces of gold," said the burly fellow.

  "You are drunk," said Philebus.

  "No," said the burly fellow. "I have never been more sober in my life."

  The girl shuddered.

  "I want you," said Borton to the girl.

  "May I speak?" she asked.

  He nodded.

  "What would Master do with me?" she asked, quaveringly.

  "What I please," he said.

  "Do you have twenty pieces of gold, Borton?" called out one of the fellows nearby.

  Borton scowled, darkly.

  There was laughter. His finances, I gathered, may have been somewhat in arrears since the time of the Crooked Tarn.

  "Ten silver tarsks," said Borton, grinning.

  "That is a superb price, Philebus," said a fellow. "Sell her!"

  "Yes, sell her!" urged another.

  "She is not for sale," said Philebus.

  There were some cries of disappointment.

  "But perhaps," said Philebus to Borton, "you would care to use her for the evening?" This announcement was greeted with enthusiasm by the crowd. The girl, kneeling and small, trembled in her collar, in the midst of the men. Philebus handed the whip to Borton, who shook out the coils. "She is, you see," said Philebus, "merely one of my paga sluts."

  There was laughter. It was true, of course.

  "And there will be no charge!" he said.

  "Excellent, Philebus!" said more than one man.

  The girl looked at the whip, now in the hand of Borton, with a kind of awe.

  "May I speak?" she asked.

  "Yes," said Borton.

  "Is Master angry with the slave?" she asked.

  He smiled. He cracked the whip once, viciously. She drew back, fearfully.

  "Use it on her well, Borton, my friend," said Philebus. "It is well deserved by any slut and perhaps particularly so by one such as she. Did she not part her silk without permission? Did she not put herself to the dirt before you, unbidden? Did she not speak at least once without permission, either implicit or explicit?"

  "May I speak, Master?" asked Temione.

  He indicated that she might, with the tiniest flicker of an expression.

  "Forgive me, Master," she said, "if I have angered you. Forgive me, if I have offended you in any way. Forgive me, if I have failed to be fully pleasing."

  He moved the whip, slowly. She stared at it, terrified, mesmerized.

  "Am I to be beaten?" asked Temione.

  "Come here," he said, indicating a place on the dirt before him. She did not dare to rise to her feet. She went to her hands and knees that she might crawl to the spot he had specified.

  "Hold," I said, rising.

  All eyes turned toward me, startled.

  "She is serving me," I said.

  There were cries of astonishment.

  "Beware, fellow," said a man. "That is Borton!"

  "As I understand the common rules of a paga tavern, under which governances I understand this enclosure to function, I have use of this slave until I see fit to relinquish her, or until the common hour of closing, or dawn, as the case may be, unless I pay overage. Alternatives to such rules are to be made clear in advance, say, by announcement or public posting."

  "She was not serving you!" said a fellow.

  "Were you serving me?" I asked the slave.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "And have I dismissed you from my service?" I asked.

  "No, Master," she said.

  "That is Borton!" said a man to me.

  "I am pleased to make his acquaintance," I said. Actually this was not entirely candid on my part.

  "Who are you?" asked Borton.

  "I am pleased to meet you," I assured him.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "A pleasant fellow," I said, "one not looking for trouble."

  Borton cast aside the whip. His sword left its sheath.

  Men moved back.

  "Aii!" cried a man. My sword, too, had left its sheath.

  "I did not see him draw!" said a man.

  "Let us not have trouble, gentlemen," urged Philebus.

  "Wait!" cried Borton, suddenly. "Wait! Wait! I know you! I know you!"

  I glanced quickly to my left. There was a fellow there. I thought I could use him.

  "It is he, too, who was at the Crooked Tarn!" cried Borton, wildly. "It is he who stole the dispatches, he who so discomfited me, he who made off with my coins, my clothing, my gear, my tarn!"

  I supposed Borton could not be blamed entirely for his ill will. The last time I had seen him, before this evening, I aflight, astride his tarn, hovering the bird, preparing shortly to make away, he had been in the yard of the Crooked Tarn, chained naked there, still soaked wet from the bath, to a sleen ring. It had been strong enough to hold him, despite his size and strength, even when he had seen me, which occurrence had apparently caused him agitation. I had waved the courier's pouch to him, cheerily. There had been no hard feelings on my part. I had not been able to make out what he had been howling upward, crouching there, chained, what with the wind, and the beating of the tarn's wings. Several of
the fellows at the Crooked Tarn had intercepted him, rushing through the yard, I suppose on his way to inquire after me. Coinless, chained, naked, utterly without means, absolutely helpless, he would have been held at the Crooked Tarn until his bills were paid or he himself disposed of, say, as a work slave, his sale to satisfy, as it could, his bills. He had been redeemed, I gathered, by other fellows in the command of Artemidorus, and then freed. Certainly he was here now, not in a good humor, and with a sword in his grasp.

  "He is a thief and spy!" cried Borton.

  Men leaped to their feet.

  "Spy!" I heard.

  "Seize him!" I heard.

  "Spy! Spy!"

  "Seize him!"

  I suddenly lost sight of Temione, buffeted aside, falling amongst the men. Borton was pressing toward me. I seized the fellow to my left by his robes and flung him across Borton's path. Fellows pressed in. Borton was in the dirt, expressing dissatisfaction. With my fist, clenched on the handle of the sword, I struck a fellow to my right. I heard bone. He spit teeth. There was no time to apologize. I spun about and fell to my hands and knees, men seizing one another over me. I rose up, spilling three or four fellows about. I then pushed and struck my way through men, most of whom I think could not clearly see me in the throng, broke free, and vaulted over the low railing, to hurry through the darkness toward the Vosk. "There he goes!" cried a fellow. I heard some girls crying out and screaming, in terror, some probably struck, or kicked or thrust aside, or stepped on, or trampled, in the confusion. Slave girls seldom care to find themselves, helpless curvaceous obstacles, half naked, collared and silked, in the midst of men and blades. It is their business to please men, and they well know it, not to prove impediments to their action. "He is heading toward the Vosk!" called a man. But by the time I had heard this I was no longer heading toward the Vosk. I had doubled back through the environing tents, most of which were empty, presumably thanks to the sounds of the paga enclosure and various hastily spreading rumors, such as that of Borton's generosity, that there was to be a parade of slaves, and that a curvaceous woman was now dancing her slavery before strong men. It is appropriate for a slave to express her slavery in slave dance, of course. It is one of the thousands of ways in which it may be expressed. I did, however, as soon as I was among them, sheath my sword and begin walking, pausing here and there to look back, particularly when in someone's vicinity, as though puzzled by the clamor coming from the vicinity of the enclosure. "What is going on back there?" asked a fellow.