Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “I trust that my Master, the noble Portus Canio, your employer,” said Ellen to Selius Arconious, “does not inquire of me as to your behavior, and if you have been attentive to your duties, for I, as a slave, however reluctantly, knelt down to speak the truth, would have to admit that you have been lax, and that you have a tendency to dally, quite unconscionably.”

  Selius picked up a loop of harness and held it in his hands. The leather was black, and glossy, some half of an inch in thickness, and some three to four inches in width, and there were buckles attached, for its fastening on tarns. He fingered the leather, while regarding her, and, to her unease, snapped it taut in his hands. More than once he, and others, had put her in portions of such harnessings, for their uses. With all a slave’s sensuousness, and a slave’s sensitivity to surfaces and textures, she had relished its tightness, and feel, and her slave’s helplessness in such bonds, even the cut of the buckle in her flesh. Such things, like cords and chains, perhaps partly for physical reasons, but surely, too, for psychological reasons, cruelly fan the flames of a woman’s bondage. They tell her, you are slave, you are owned, you are mine, you have no choice, you will obey, you will yield, you will be punished, and terribly, if you hold anything back, you will have orgasms such that you have never dreamed of, orgasms that you have hitherto not understood were possible, you will have the orgasms of a surrendering, conquered slave.

  “Well,” said Ellen, lightly, “I must be about my duties.”

  She then turned away, but, after a step, stopped, looked back over her shoulder and smiled, slyly, and then, saucily, suddenly, bid Selius farewell with a toss, beneath her brief, thin tunic, of her small, well-outlined derrière.

  “She-sleen!” he cried, taking a step toward her, but she sped away. “You do not own me!” she laughed, “and I do not think you will soon, after today, have my use either!”

  “She-sleen! She-urt!” he cried.

  Ellen was well pleased with herself. “Let him suffer, and stew about,” she laughed to herself. “He thinks he is so handsome, so important. He is only a tarnster, a driver! A lowly employee of my master! Let him roll and twist, and mutter angrily, in his blankets. Let him stew, and cry out, and suffer! He cannot have me! I am not for such lowly sorts! Suffer, Selius Arconious, suffer! You cannot have me!”

  In the barred feeding area, the gate shut against the housing for returning tarns, Ellen put the basket of meat on the floor, and, moving about, and climbing, ascending, placed the meat, piece by piece, heavy strip by heavy strip, on the hooks in the wall. From those hooks, sometimes as they fluttered in the feeding area, feet from the floor, it would be torn by the feeding tarns. Sometimes, too, when the tarns were in the feeding area, she would throw the meat upward, between the bars to them. In such a case they tended to seize it in the air, with their beaks. If a piece fell to the floor, they would hover above it, seize it in their talons, and then crouch over it, holding it in place with a taloned foot, while tearing it to pieces with their beaks. “We all fear tarns,” Portus Canio had told her once, on the platform. Ellen did not doubt it. She knew that she was terrified of the great winged beasts. She was reluctant to approach them, even with bars between them.

  While Ellen climbed and placed the meat, she wondered what it would be like, to be owned by Selius Arconious. She did not even like him, of course. She wondered if he would use the switch, or a whip, on her, if he would beat her. He might, of course. She was, after all, a slave.

  She fixed another piece of meat in place.

  She was a woman of Earth, and had been an intellectual, a person of stature and importance. How was it then, she wondered, given her obvious excellence and quality, her obvious value, that she had not been purchased by a rich man, someone important, a statesman, a general or a great merchant, surely by some significant personage in Ar. Surely she should serve in a mansion or palace, or a great cylinder, in rich quarters. Did they truly not know her worth, what she deserved? How was it then that she had been purchased by a tarnmaster, a fellow not even of high caste? She wondered what he had paid for her. Then she realized that these matters of Earth were of no interest here, on this world. Here she was a young barbarian, naive, poorly trained and illiterate. What could she expect, here? She had not even been the best meat on Targo’s shelf. Surely she had not been the first sold. Indeed, it seemed that he had, at times, almost despaired of disposing of her. She wondered what she had gone for. Mirus had let her go, it seemed, for a mere ten copper tarsks, such as might be paid for a worthless girl. To be sure, Mirus, as part of his vengeance and amusement, had doubtless wanted her sold so, as a worthless slut. Then she realized that her value on this world was not a function of her value elsewhere, under different conditions. Here she had been sold simply for what she now was, as that and nothing else, as raw female. This, doubtless, was what she was worth, in herself. It occurred to her that she had perhaps been fortunate, given her unimportance and her lack of value here, to have been purchased by a tarnkeeper. She might have been purchased by a peasant, slept chained in a hovel, and, harnessed, struggled to plow his fields.

  She recalled with satisfaction, with pleasure, how she had tormented Selius Arconious. She laughed to herself. Oh, dear Mirus, my erstwhile master, she thought to herself, what would you have made of that? Would you have recognized your Ellen, she whom you brought to Gor and so transformed and reduced, in that enticing, insolent, saucy little flirt? One who well knows how to torment a man? Would you have known me? Would you have been surprised? Would you have been outraged? Do you think I might similarly torment you? Perhaps. After all, I am no longer your slave, my dear Mirus.

  “Ho, slave!” called Fel Doron. “I see the first of the birds in the distance. Hurry!”

  “Yes, Master!” cried Ellen.

  ****

  Ellen, as she was a slave, was not permitted to leave the stable, or cot, without permission. This was quite normal, of course. Slaves, almost invariably, are not allowed to leave the residence of, or the grounds of, the master without receiving permission. When such permission is granted, the slave is expected to specify her destination, her business and her expected time of return. Such things may always be checked. The slave’s life is a controlled life. The slave is not a wife, but a property, and, accordingly, as she is not an autonomous, independent contractee but a valued possession, she commonly finds herself an object of jealous regard on the part of the master. She is not respected, but, rather, sheltered, safeguarded and treasured. Masters, as with other valuable possessions, tend to take a detailed personal interest in their slaves, sometimes washing them, as one might a dog, combing their hair for the pleasure they derive from this activity, dressing them for their pleasure, having them display their beauty in a variety of aspects and attitudes upon command, and so on. Masters commonly wish to know everything there is to know about their slaves. To make a trivial comparison, few husbands take the time to really look at their wives, for example, to inspect, scrutinize and truly examine the bodies of their wives, and, one supposes, such attentions might be found disturbing by many wives, who might fear or resist such interests. On the other hand, the master will commonly have examined the bodies of his slaves with great care, familiarizing himself with each subtle, delicious curve. He is likely to note even the tiny hairs at the back of her neck, beneath her collar, pulling her collar out a little to see them. He will know, too, her every tiny blemish, and will commonly see them as interesting and delightful, as making her different or special in her way, or perhaps as beauty marks or patches, whose presence cunningly serves to enhance, by striking contrast, the beauty of the owned wholeness of her. Too, of course, as she is not a wife, but a chained slave, he may experiment with her, subjecting her, she willing or not, to a variety of erotic techniques, until he finds what she cannot resist, and what renders her helpless, what will drive her wild with passion, what might rob her of her last pathetic vestige of self and turn her into a writhing, ecstatic, spasmodic, begging slave. And so, you see
, masters are muchly concerned with their slaves, and control them, and regulate and supervise them, with much attention and great care. They are not wives, they are properties. And thus they wish to know, it seems at all times, their activities, whereabouts, and such. It would not do, for example, to have them sneaking off for an assignation with a groom or drover. That is not their privilege, you see. They belong to the master.

  Just as Ellen was not permitted, nor would be many slaves, to leave the domicile of the master without permission, so, too, she was not permitted, without express permission, to open the interior door of the apartments of Portus Canio, that leading to the interior stairwell, giving access to various bridges, and, eventually, at its foot, to the street. One does not know who might be on the other side of the door. She can, of course, keep the door, ascertain the nature of callers, and, if given permission, open the door.

  We mention the matter of the interior door because, interestingly, usually in the evening, sometimes late at night, unidentified visitors, sometimes several of them, would arrive at the door, visitors who may not have, in their approach, availed themselves of the outside bridges. Portus Canio, himself, would admit these visitors, but only, whether it were early evening or late at night, after he had hooded Ellen, back-braceleted her and chained her in her stall. This puzzled Ellen because, normally, at least after her first few days in the stable, or cot, she was not even chained in her stall. To be sure, where was there for a slave girl to run? The collar and chain, of course, were always there, beneath the straw. Portus Canio entertained these visitors in the kitchen, apparently about the table there. Ellen, from her stall, could hear nothing of what was said.

  One morning, when Ellen was sweeping in the kitchen, she bent down and picked up what seemed to be a shard of white pottery.

  “What have you there?” asked Portus Canio.

  “I do not know, Master,” said Ellen.

  He put out his hand and Ellen put down the broom, and went and knelt before him, as that is how the girl commonly approaches the master when summoned, and, lifting her hand, gave him the object.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “It is an ostrakon,” he said.

  Originally an ostrakon was merely a shard of pottery, often glazed, used for one purpose or another, say, for a token, a ticket, or such. On the other hand, they may be, and often are, prepared deliberately, fired in great numbers for admission tokens, tickets, or such, to restricted festivals, private markets, song dramas, and such. The object in question, clearly, seemed to be an actual shard. It was glazed white, on one side.

  Portus held the shard before her, the glazed side facing her. On it was a design, a letter or mark.

  “Can you read this?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “You have not seen this,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  He put the shard in his pouch. “You may return to your work,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

  As she swept the floor of the kitchen, she recalled the design on the ostrakon. It was small, of course, no more than an inch or so in height, but she had seen the mark before, on a wall, a titanic mark scrawled there, as though angry and defiant, in dimensions of several feet. It was a black triangle.

  ****

  “Master?” asked Ellen.

  “Assume the standard position for the examination of a standing slave,” said Portus Canio.

  Ellen, in her tunic, puzzled, stood then before him, her legs widely, painfully spread. The split hems of the tunic, slit at the sides, permitted this position. Ellen clasped her hands behind the back of her head, and held her head up and back, in this position looking rather at the height of the great portal, leading into the barn area, from the platform outside. In this position it is convenient to examine the slave. She cannot easily move without losing her balance. The position of her hands prevents her from interfering with the examination. The raised head, held back, makes it difficult for her to know, or guess, the position of the examiner’s hands, where they are, and what they might do, for example, how and when she might be touched, caressed, or tested. Needless to say, this position is normally assumed when the slave is nude.

  “Steady,” said Portus Canio.

  “Oh!” cried Ellen.

  “A tiny tube has been inserted in your body,” said Portus Canio. “At its base is a tiny leather loop, not visible from the outside, by means of which it may be withdrawn. You may now stand naturally before me.”

  Ellen then stood as an erect, graceful slave before her master. From his pouch he withdrew a light belly chain, which hooked in front, with attached slave bracelets at the back of the chain. He then put her in the belly chain and bracelets, her hands braceleted behind her, at the small of her back. Given the flare of her hips, her hands would be kept there, at the small of her back. Accordingly, she was unable to reach whatever it was which Portus Canio had placed in her body.

  “I do not understand, Master,” she said.

  “When someone says to you, ‘Are your thighs hot?’ you are to reply, ‘I am a slave girl, Master,’ and obey him, without demur. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “Are your thighs hot?” asked Portus Canio.

  “I am a slave girl, Master,” she said.

  “Good,” said Portus. Then from his pouch he drew forth a small message capsule, about a half inch in width and two and a half inches in length, with its screw lid and the loop of string by means of which it might be looped about, or tied to, a slave’s collar. He tied it about her collar. He tied it in such a way that it would dangle between her tunicked breasts. This technique is, of course, more stimulatory when the slave is naked. She is thus more acutely aware of the movements of the object upon her, fastened in such a way as to remind her constantly of both the errand and the master. Ellen, of course, could feel it through the rep-cloth, which is quite thin, “slave thin,” as it is sometimes said. Rep-cloth, like slave silk, leaves few of a slave’s charms to the imagination.

  “This message,” said Portus, “is to be carried to Bonto, the Cobbler, of the Leather Workers, in Hesius Street. You have been there, you know the place.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “It is an order for work sandals, for the men, with their sizes, and such,” said Portus Canio. He then went through the barn area, and the inner rooms, until he reached the interior door, which he opened. Ellen followed him. “Be on your way,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  Never before had she been sent forth so, braceleted. Normally she delivered her messages by word of mouth, though, upon occasion, she had been given a scrap of paper, which she normally held in one hand. There are no pockets, of course, in a slave tunic. Similarly, naturally, there is no nether closure in such a tunic, as one of the purposes of such a tunic is to remind the slave that she is to be instantly, readily available to men.

  Perhaps a word might be added with respect to this matter.

  It is not an accident, of course. Like other aspects of the garment, its brevity, simplicity and such, it has its meaning, its role and symbolism.

  The slave is, you see, to be instantly available to men; her inviting, luscious intimacies, so sweet and warm between her thighs, belong not to her but to the master; she is not a free woman who may wrap and bundle herself, and shield and guard herself; she is a slave and thus she is to be instantly, vulnerably, readily accessible to men; she is no more than an object or toy, no more than a possession, no more than a lovely animal, subject to the least whim and convenience of masters.

  Does not the tunic make such things clear to her?