Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “Please let me go, Master!” wept Ellen. “It is a mistake, a terrible mistake! I am not even a dancer! Ai! Ai!”

  She had heard of the al-ka and ba-ta circles, named for the first two letters in the Gorean alphabet. They were not like most of the other circles, which were in the open, where naked slaves swayed to distant music for the delectation of masters. The al-ka and ba-ta circles were enclosed, surrounded by walls of silk, held on poles. Men had to pay a fee to enter, for within those confines they were to be treated to the finest exponents of the intricacies of slave dance. Similarly reserved, but for less skilled dancers, were the gamma and delka circles. In these first four circles the dancers were even clothed, that their beauties, if but ill-concealed, might be cunningly enhanced. Each of these circles had its own group of musicians. In the open circles, if a girl was displeasing, which few were, for only dancers were permitted in them, she might be merely hooted from the sand, or pelted with garbage, or perhaps dragged to the side and cuffed, but in the silken circles there were whip masters. Their function it was to see to it that, if not the finest, the most stimulating, the most gratifying, of performances would be elicited from their silked, bangled charges, then there would be elicited from them at least performances which, perhaps to the lash of the whip, would bring howls of pleasure from the drunken, lustful brutes who had crowded into the enclosure, determined to have recompense a thousandfold for the bit of copper with which they had purchased their ostraka of admission.

  “Please, no, Master!” wept Ellen. “It is a mistake! I am not a dancer! I am not a dancer! Please, no, Master!”

  But he drew her rapidly, mercilessly, through the crowds, she in tears, stumbling, painfully bent over, held in common leading position, her head at his hip, his hand cruelly twisted in her hair.

  ****

  “Here are silks, and veils,” said a whip master. “There, in the chests, are bells, anklets, armlets, bracelets. Adorn yourself, girl. Cosmetics, too! There! Apply them swiftly. Kneel there, before the cosmetics tables. Hurry! The performance is soon to begin!”

  Ellen was now within a small, silken enclosure, separated from the dancing area, but adjacent to it. She could see the men outside through a parting in the silken curtain. There were eight or nine girls of exceeding loveliness within.

  “Master,” begged Ellen, going to her knees before the whip master, “I am not a dancer!”

  Two or three of the other girls turned to look at her. Others were intent on preparing for their summonses to the sand, adjusting their costumes, some tying cords of bells about their ankles, others having others tie such cords of bells about their wrists, regarding themselves in the mirrors, considering their makeup. Ellen heard a rustle of bells as one of the dancers stood and moved. Ellen had not understood that a woman could move so sensuously.

  She had heard numbers called throughout the camp, with the associated letters of the circles. On her way to the circle she had heard her number called more than once, announcing that she would be danced, and in the ba-ta circle. She had little doubt but what several of those who had made bids on her might then attend the performance, curious to gather further data on a commodity of possible interest. She had not been advertised as a dancer, of course. And she had not been put in an exhibition cage with dancers. When her attributes had been recorded, her height, weight, measurements, identifying marks, collar size, languages, literacy, skills and such, she had been asked about dancing but she had, of course, responded negatively. And now she found herself, to her misery, waiting outside the ba-ta circle!

  “Master!” begged Ellen.

  “Be silent, slave,” snarled the whip master. “You would not be here if you were not a superb dancer. This is the ba-ta circle.”

  “It is a mistake, Master!” protested Ellen.

  He looked at her left breast. “You are 117 — Ellen — are you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” sobbed Ellen.

  “Let us see,” he said. He turned to one of the poles supporting the silk of the small enclosure. A list was attached to this pole, tacked there, a little above eye level. “Yes, it is here,” he said. “117 — Ellen. You are here on the list, added at the end. Ah, you must be good, very good. You are to dance last.”

  “No, no, Master!”

  “Prepare yourself, slave girl,” he said.

  Moaning, Ellen looked down at the silks which lay at her knees, cast before her by the whip master.

  “Hurry!” said the whip master.

  Men began to shout impatiently outside.

  There was a skirl of music from the musicians outside, to one side of the sand, flutes, czehars, two kalikas, a tabor.

  Men shouted in eagerness.

  “Ita, are you ready?” asked the whip master. This was the second whip master, he who had his post within the preparation enclosure. The first whip master was outside, and would supervise the actual performances.

  “Yes, Master,” she responded.

  “Go,” she was told, and she hastened out through the parting of the silk, onto the sand. There was a raucous cry of pleasure from the crowd. The sand was lit with the light of torches.

  Ellen reached into the chest for a bracelet, but another girl seized it before her. “That is mine!” she hissed.

  “Forgive me,” said Ellen, kneeling, dropping back on her heels, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Barbarian,” said the girl.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

  Slaves, of course, owned nothing. The materials in the chest were for the use of all the dancers. But Ellen did not want to be scratched or bitten, or thrown to the rug within the enclosure and have her hair torn from her head. The other girl was larger than she.

  Ellen then put her head in her hands, and wept.

  “What is wrong?” asked one of the dancers.

  “I do not even know how to put on silks and veils,” wept Ellen, red-eyed.

  “I will help you,” said the girl.

  “Mistress!” said Ellen, gratefully.

  “I am not “Mistress,” said the girl. “I am Feike.” She lifted a swirling skirt of diaphanous dancing silk, scarlet, and shook it out.

  “I am not a dancer,” said Ellen.

  “Surely you have had some training,” said the girl. “That is common in most houses.”

  “No!” wept Ellen.

  “But surely you have seen such dance?” she said.

  “A little,” said Ellen. “But then I was beaten, and not permitted to watch.”

  “Why was that?” she asked.

  “I was to be kept ignorant,” she said, “that I would be a low slave, a cheaper slave, a poorer slave, at best no more than the lowest of kettle-and-mat girls.”

  “Your master must have hated you very much,” she said.

  “I was sold for ten copper tarsks,” said Ellen.

  “That is hard to believe,” said the girl. “You are quite pretty.”

  Tears sprang anew to Ellen’s eyes.

  “Do your best,” said the girl.

  “I do not know what to do,” said Ellen.

  “Stand,” said the girl.

  Ellen regarded the dancing silk. She gasped. In it she felt she might be more naked than naked.

  “There,” said the girl.

  “I do not know what to do!” wept Ellen.

  “Be a slave,” said the girl, absently. “Good. There. That is pretty. We want your left leg to show, your brand leg. You have lovely legs. Yes, you are pretty, very pretty.”

  Ellen smiled, weakly, in gratitude.

  “Lift your arms,” said the girl.

  “Good,” said the girl. Ellen’s breasts were now closely haltered, in scarlet silk.

  Feike then dug about in the chest, and found some bells, on their thongs, an armlet, several bracelets. Before the mirror Ellen found herself, bit by bit, undergoing a remarkable, exotic, barbaric transformation.

  “Do you know veil work?” asked Feike.

  “No,” said Ellen
. “No.”

  “Do your best,” said Feike. “Each of us is a different slave. Each of us is unique. Each of us is precious, no matter what the beasts say. Certainly they bid hard enough to own us, they fight wars to possess us, they risk their lives to steal us, they fight for us, they kill for us, do not let them tell you you are not important and valuable! Each of us is different, and special. Each must try to be the slave she is, not another slave, but the slave she is, the deepest and most profound slave, which is her deepest self. Remember, there is no other slave such as I, and there is no other slave such as you.”

  “Adele, Lois!” called the interior whip master.

  Two slaves looked at him, frightened, nodding.

  Those were Earth names, Ellen realized. To be sure, she did not know if the slaves were from Earth or not. She supposed not. Earth names, she had learned, were understood on Gor as slave names. So it was not that unusual to find such names worn by Gorean slaves. Another example, Ellen realized, was ‘Ellen’. Adele was then called forth onto the sand. Ita returned, flushed, covered with sweat, and sank down on the rug, trying to regain her breath. Each of the girls would dance, three times, in order. Costumes and jewelry might be changed. Ellen saw Adele out on the sand, through the narrow parting in the silk.

  “She is beautiful,” whispered Ellen to Feike.

  “Yes,” said Feike.

  “I am a barbarian,” said Ellen.

  “That is obvious,” said Feike.

  “Are Adele and Lois?” asked Ellen.

  “No,” said Feike.

  “What of the others?” asked Ellen.

  “No,” said Feike. “We must comb your hair. There is a broken comb there. Kneel down, facing away from me. Then we must hurry with the cosmetics.”

  Ellen knelt down, facing away from Feike. The hair of slaves is usually combed while they are kneeling. Interestingly, masters often comb the hair of their slaves, grooming them. Masters seem to enjoy this, and the slaves, too, tend to relish it, the intimacy and such, though the slave understands that she is being groomed, as her master’s animal, much as might be a kaiila or pet sleen. Sometimes masters wash their slaves, as well, much as a dog might be washed on Earth. This is sometimes done before slave exhibitions, or competitions. Sometimes it is done for the simple pleasure of it. Sometimes the slave is washed while bound, say, with her hands tied behind her. It is difficult to convey the psychological impact of this on a woman, say, standing, kneeling or sitting in a shallow wooden tub, perhaps out of doors, pinioned, while her body is being carefully and thoroughly washed by a man. She certainly understands herself slave in such a situation. Sometimes the master so arouses the slave in this situation that she crawls to him on the grass, untoweled, her body glistening, still wet, begging to serve his pleasure. Ultimately, of course, the slave is responsible for her own appearance, cleanliness and such. She must keep herself clean, neat and attractive. The carelessness or slovenliness of a free woman is not permitted to her. Laxity in such matters is a cause for discipline. Needless to say, the diet, rest and exercise of a slave are also carefully supervised.

  Ellen moaned.

  Then, thought Ellen, I will be the only Earth woman here tonight to dance in this circle before these men. I am so frightened! I am only from Earth. These men, these Goreans, these brutes, are so different from the men of my world. They are frighteningly, gloriously different! They are not mindlessly amiable and forgiving. They know what they want and will have it. Certainly they will have it from me, and from any slave! They are severe and demanding. And I must obey! They are innocently possessive, powerful, ambitious, uncompromising. Honor and loyalty inform their ethos. How different from Earth! They refuse to be confused, tricked, crippled, tamed, enfeebled! They think in terms of things and realities, not words. They are the sorts who could see through the bombardments of gaudy rhetorics, unmasking pathological agendas. They are acute, sometimes brilliant, passionate, unconquered men, men who are close to nature, who know her, and believe in her, and will not leave her side, men who have never forgotten what women are for, and what is to be done with them.

  And I am a woman, thought Ellen, and here on their world, not mine. And I am to dance before them, such men. Nothing on Earth has prepared me for this.

  “Yes, you are very pretty,” said Feike.

  “Thank you,” said Ellen.

  “Are you frightened?”

  “Yes,” said Ellen.

  “I understand,” said Feike.

  Ellen was silent.

  Feike combed Ellen’s hair, with long, deep strokes.

  “It is said,” said Feike, smiling, “that no barbarian knows how to please a man.”

  “That is not true!” said Ellen.

  “Good,” said Feike. “Show them.”

  Ellen bit her lip.

  She was miserable.

  How could this have happened to her? She was a woman of Earth! She had been plucked from civilization, as it had been understood by her former peers, plucked from a busy, complex, crowded, polluted, industrial society, and set down in a very different world, in a fresh, green, natural, primitive world. And here, on this world, she, a woman of Earth, a woman of education and sophistication, that behind her now, would soon be thrust through silken curtains, sent to torchlit sand, to dance barefoot, belled, silked and bangled, as no more than an adorned slave before barbarians!

  I am from Earth, she thought, in misery. I will never be able to please them.

  “Lois,” said the interior whip master, and, as Adele returned, her head thrown back, gasping, but obviously delighted, Lois hurried through the silk, onto the sand.

  Ellen clutched the veil about her, shawl-like.

  “Face me,” said Feike.

  The two girls knelt facing one another, and Feike, having recourse to the tiny pans and dishes, and the pencil-like applicators on the low cosmetics table, applied her skills to the countenance of the barbarian.

  “Purse your lips,” said Feike, “hold still.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” smiled Ellen.

  Feike laughed.

  “Feike!” snapped the whip master.

  “Done!” said Feike. “Look in the mirror! See a slave!”

  Feike then stood up and lifted her arms, took a deep breath, and twirled, and stamped her feet twice into the rug.

  There was a jangle of slave bells.

  “Thank you, Feike!” said Ellen, looking up, and then, as Feike rushed through the silk, Lois returning, Ellen turned to look in the mirror.

  She gasped.

  “Stand slave, face me,” said the interior whip master.

  Ellen complied, frightened. How could she stand to have a man see her as she now was?

  “Excellent,” said the man.

  Ellen sank down to her knees, not daring to look again into the mirror.

  “If I had my way,” said the man, “that is the way they would be sold off the block, at least to begin with. They could be stripped, bit by bit, during the sale, until the buyers have no difficulty seeing what they are paying for. It is too bad that they do not permit cosmetics, eye shadow, lipstick, body paint, and such, on the block. We would get a great deal more for you sluts.” Ellen had been sold from the shelf of Targo without the benefit of cosmetics, of course. And she had understood that, whereas it was not unusual to strip a woman, little by little, during her sale, to increase the heat of the bids, that the slaves were always, when all was said and done, exhibited as only slave, raw. Goreans want to know what they are buying. An auction house in Venna was once burned down, she had heard, when it was discovered that it had sold women with dyed hair, especially as the house had not called this to the attention of the buyers. In the courts the owner’s claim of inadvertence was viewed skeptically. Considering the number of slaves to be vended over the next two or three days in the camp, Ellen did not think the agents of Cos would have time for the tantalizing allures of gradual unveilings. Such luxuries in any event were usually reserved for the sales of high sl
aves.

  “You are lovely,” said one of the girls, who had not noticed her before.

  “Thank you,” murmured Ellen.

  “Do you dance in the manner of Turia, or of Ar?” asked another of the slaves.

  “I do not think so,” said Ellen.

  “Perhaps,” said another, “in the manner of Schendi, or of the Tahari?”

  “I cannot even dance!” said Ellen, suddenly.

  “Oh, yes!” laughed one of the dancers, merrily.

  The others looked at her, strangely, and then turned away.

  “It is very crowded,” whispered one of the girls, peeping through the curtain.

  Ellen rose to her feet, and suddenly stopped, frightened by the sound of bells on her left ankle. It was the first time since her training that she had worn such things. There was no mistaking the meaning, the message, of that sensuous jangle. It was stimulatory, and insistently, proclaimedly, excitingly erotic. Some masters keep their slaves in bells in their private compartments. Others may bell them sometimes before putting them to the furs, enjoying the jangle of the bells while the slave writhes helplessly, beggingly, in the throes of her slave ecstasy. The bells bespeak, and would bespeak, of course, even in total darkness, the presence of a slave. Sometimes new slaves are kept for a time in bells, that they may become all the sooner accustomed to their new condition. It is hard to be belled, without knowing oneself female, and slave. Ellen, thus, was well marked for the occasion, and the dance. She was a belled slave.

  Then she, too, her movements marked by the sound of her affixed slave bells, went to the curtain.

  Feike was lovely.

  If only I could dance, thought Ellen, mournfully, to herself.

  She could not see the outside whip master, but she had no doubt that he was there, appraisingly there, ready to snap the whip in warning, or, if necessary, or thought useful, to put it to the back of a dancer.

  Ellen examined the crowd, desperately. There were many men there, perhaps better than two hundred, crowded within that rather small enclosure. In the front, in several half circles, they sat, closely together, cross-legged. In the back, they stood, some at the very poles at the rear of the enclosure. There was a variety of caste colors. Some soldiers were there, too. Many ostraka had been vended. There were no women in the crowd. Any gentling, refining influence which their presence might have exercised was thus absent. The slaves would thus be dancing for men, for Gorean men. Some of the men in the crowd she had seen before, here and there in the camp. She had served some of them near the vat of Callimachus. She saw the scribe who had been in charge of her in the exhibition cage. She did not see Mirus. “So,” she thought, “he has put me here, to be humiliated, and beaten, here where I will be exquisitely punished for my boldness before him, in daring to suggest that he might find me of interest, slave interest! And he further insults me by his absence! He does not even come to see me perform, and painfully receive the deserts he has measured out and arranged for me, as punishment for my supposed insolence. Well, noble Mirus, of Earth, so be it! But I think you do find this Earth slut of interest, regardless of what you might claim! Do you think a slave is not aware of the meaning of a master’s glances?”