by John Norman
“We were put on the racks as free women,” she said, “that we, the women of the enemy, be properly humiliated. Too, is it not a rich joke for the men of Ar that more than a thousand of the free women of Vonda adorn their pleasure racks, fastened down like slave girls, their use available for a tarsk bit to the passers-by?”
“Yes,” I smiled, “it is a rich joke.” The men of Gor are fond of such jokes.
“And only after this, our profound humiliation,” she said, “will the men of Ar, if it should please them, see fit to permit us to be divided into lots, and be branded and collared, and sold into slavery throughout the towns and cities of Gor.”
“Splendid,” I said. “Splendid!”
She looked at me with horror. “Are you a man of Gor?” she asked.
I shrugged. I did not know.
Then again, suddenly, she lifted her body to me. “You have aroused me,” she whispered. “You know you have aroused me, and cruelly.”
“You lift your body like a female slave, Lady Tima,” I said.
She groaned, and lay back. She moaned.
The blonde a few racks down was now sobbing with pleasure. She was alone. “Masters, Masters,” she called. “I am only a tarsk bit! Please touch me!”
“What a slut she is,” I said.
“Yes, Jason,” whispered the Lady Tima.
“These straps seem to hold you quite well,” I said.
“I am absolutely helpless,” she said. “Touch me, I beg you!”
“The pleasure rack is an interesting device,” I said. I examined the wooden wheels, the levers. In virtue of the axes of the device and the various gears and pinions, and the joints, braces, fitted, sliding boards, notches and lock points, it can be adjusted to a variety of positions. To be sure not all the pleasure racks were as sophisticated as that on which was bound my former Mistress, the former female slaver, the Lady Tima of Vonda. This device, like some of the others, had doubtless been brought from the city, perhaps dragged forth by shackled men of Vonda hauling on wagon ropes.
“Jason,” begged the Lady Tima.
“I have never seen one this close before,” I said.
“Jason!” she cried.
“You look well on your knees before me,” I said.
“Jason,” she wept.
I then bent her backward, and then, lifting and turning her, examined the left side of her beauty, and then the right. I then put her through a variety of positions, more experimenting with the possibilities of the apparatus than anything else, though the experiments had their aesthetic value, for the Lady Tima was a lovely woman. “Fascinating,” I said. “Jason!”, she protested. I then, as I had grown more proficient with the device, used it for one of its two major purposes, that of exhibiting and displaying its helpless prisoner. Its second major purpose, of course, is to hold the woman in any position one pleases. I rotated her to her back. I then turned away. “Jason!” she cried. “Jason!”
I turned back, again, to face her.
“You have humiliated and abused me,” she said. “You have turned me about and examined me on the rack as though I might be a slave girl! You have cruelly aroused me! You cannot leave me now!”
“I can,” I told her.
“Please come back,” she wept. “Touch me! Touch me!”
“Do you beg it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“As a slave?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I beg it as a slave!”
“But that is lower than a mere slut,” I said. “Surely you remember the blonde girl,” I said, indicating the girl some racks from her.
“I beg it as both a slut and a slave,” she said.
I then went slowly to the rack. She looked up at me, frightened. Then I fastened her in position, spreading her legs uncomfortably apart. Then, looking down upon her, I spread her legs by another four inches.
Then I had her.
Chapter 3 - THE FOOD TENT
“Over here,” I told the Lady Gina. “Kneel down.” I indicated a place on the straw, at the wall of the food tent, a clear place, between other couples.
She knelt before me, looking up at me. “You are the first man who has ordered me to the straw,” she said.
“Do you think you are unattractive?” I asked.
“I know I am unattractive,” she said.
“To many men,” I said, “you could be very attractive.”
“I am a naked and shackled prisoner,” she said, “soon perhaps, if it should please the men of Ar, to be branded a slave. I have waited upon your table, and brought you food and drink. Beyond these things, I beg you not to insult and torture me.”
“You performed your duties as a naked waitress well,” I said, “expertly and deferentially.”
“I do not wish to be killed,” she said.
“You were a fine trainer,” I said. “You taught me much.”
“And now,” she smiled, “is it your intention to give your trainer a little training?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I have never had the feelings of a normal woman,” she said.
“Lie down,” I told her.
“I obey,” she said. She looked up at me. “You do not seem angry with me,” she said.
I sat beside her. “I am not,” I said. “Keeper!” I called. “Give me the key to the shackles of this one.”
He came to me and gave me a key, with which I removed the shackle from her right ankle. I returned the key to him. I did not unlock the shackle on her left ankle. She continued to wear it, with its short chain and the opened right shackle.
“He did not seem surprised or startled,” I said, “that I should open your shackle.”
“No,” she said, bewildered. “He did not.”
“It is not thus so unthinkable,” I said, “that a man might desire to free your legs.”
She looked at me, frightened.
“Remember,” I said, “you are not now carrying a whip and keys, clad in black leather, in a position of power, men at your mercy.”
“No,” she whispered.
“And even in that guise,” I said, “it is not so improbable but what men might wish to take your whip from you and throw you down, and teach you what it is to be a woman.”
“I wanted them to do so,” she said. “I wanted them to make me a woman.”
“You are a woman,” I told her. “Dare to be it.”
“No!” she said. “It means surrender to men!”
“Of course,” I told her.
“I do not have the feelings of normal women!” she said.
“Perhaps it is only that you are afraid to have them,” I said.
“No, no!” she said.
“Then have them,” I said.
“No!” she said. “The Lady Gina will never be a submitted slave!”
“You are too proud to be a woman?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Even though you are, in truth, a woman?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is wrong to be a woman! It is wrong to be a woman!”
“You could always pretend that to be a woman is to be like a man,” I said.
“I am not a fool,” she said.
“Do you really think it is wrong for a woman to be a true woman?”
“Yes,” she said, “for it is to be a woman, and not a man!”
“But you are not, in fact, a man,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“Be a woman, then,” I said.
“I dare not,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said.
“Is it such a terrible thing to be a woman?” I asked.
“Yes, yes!” she said.
“No,” I said, “it is not terrible. It is deeply and profoundly marvelous.”
She trembled.
“Take your place in the order of nature,” I said.
“At the feet of men!” she said.
“It is where you belong,” I sa
id.
She began to shudder at my side. “I begin to feel such emotions, such feelings,” she said. “They frighten me. They threaten to overwhelm me.”
“It is uncontrollable. It is like a storm,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yield to them,” I said.
“I do not want to be a woman!” she wept. “I do not want to be a woman!”
“How fared the House of Andronicus?” I asked her.
She looked at me, startled. “The goods and the slaves fled or were taken,” she said. “The House itself was destroyed.”
“And Andronicus?” I asked.
“He fled,” she said, “with others.”
“How did Lola fare?” I asked.
“She fled,” she said. “I do not know if she was taken by the looters or not.”
“Do you think she managed to escape?” I asked.
“The looters, perhaps,” she said. “But she wears a collar.”
I nodded. Lola was attractive. By now she was doubtless on someone’s chain. Lovely female slaves do not remain long at large.
“Did you know she sometimes cried your name aloud in her sleep?” asked the Lady Gina.
“No,” I said.
“Yet you failed her as a master,” she said.
“That is true,” I said.
“It was long ago,” she said.
“True,” I said.
“You seem much different now,” she said.
I shrugged. “Perhaps,” I said.
“Jason,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
“You freed my legs,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “but it was a mistake.”
“Why?” she asked.
“You do not have the feelings of a normal woman,” I said. “It is doubtless nothing that you can help.” I then bent to reshackle her. Quickly she drew her legs back. “What is wrong?” I asked her.
“Please do not reshackle me, just yet,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I want to be a woman,” she whispered.
“Truly?” I asked.
“Yes, truly,” she sobbed.
“Then,” I said, “you must be prepared, holding nothing back, to yield to your deepest and most profound feelings.”
“But then,” she said, “I would be only a submitted slave, overwhelmed and mastered.”
I took her in my arms. She was tense, and frightened. “You’re trembling,” I said.
“I am only a woman, and a prisoner,” she said.
“Do not forget it,” I told her.
“No, Jason,” she said.
“You do not seem large and strong,” I said.
“I am not large and strong,” she said.
“Your body is soft,” I said, “and feels good in my hands.” I jerked her by the arms to a sitting position, and looked at her.
“Could a man find me desirable?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Escape me!” She struggled, futilely.
“I cannot escape you,” she said. “You know that!”
I threw her then down to her back in the straw.
“Do not be rough with me, Jason,” she said.
“You will now be treated as men please,” I told her.
“Yes, Jason,” she said.
“Accustom yourself to obedience and submission,” I said.
“Yes, Jason,” she said.
“Will it be necessary to whip you?” I asked.
“No, Jason,” she said.
“Prepare now to yield to your deepest and most profound feelings,” I said.
“I will try,” she said. “Oh!” she cried, my hands in her hair.
“You will not merely try,” I told her. “You will yield to them.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, what?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You yielded well, Lady Gina,” I said.
“I would never have believed I could have such feelings,” she said. “I did not know such feelings could exist.”
“Surely you have seen writhing, screaming slave girls?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “but not until moments ago did I have more than an inkling of what they might be feeling.” She smiled. “It is no wonder the luscious little sluts are so fond of their collars.”
“There can be progress in such matters,” I said. “Perhaps no woman has yet truly sounded the depths of slave joy.”
“Yes,” she said, “the joy of being owned by a man, of being in his power, completely, of being fully his, and of totally loving and serving him.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
She kissed me. “You handle a woman well, Jason,” she said. “You put me through my paces well.”
“Any captor or Master,” I said, “can put you through your paces.”
“It is true,” she said, and kissed me. She put her head on my belly. “I have seen women such as myself on the block,” she said. “We do not bring high prices.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“If I were sent to the kitchens, or the mills or laundries,” she said, “I would be under the will of my task master, would I not?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Perhaps I might, under his whip, pulling his plow, please a peasant,” she said, “or perhaps I might keep the hut of a dock worker, preparing his food and, when he wished, warming his mat.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Did I please you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you think I could please other men?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I know that I am not as desirable as most women,” she said.
“You are desirable,” I said. “And to some men you will be inutterably desirable.”
“How kind you are to a helpless female prisoner,” she said, “one soon likely, should it please the men of Ar, to be made a slave.”
“I speak the truth,” I said.
“You are kind,” she said.
I said nothing.
“I will try to please my masters well,” she said.
“I would recommend it,” I said. She shuddered, against me.
“The men of Ar,” she said, “took my freedom from me, when they made me a prisoner. You have taken my freedom from me, when you forced me to yield as a female slave.”
“Your yielding,” I said, “was not that of a female slave, for you are not yet, truly, a female slave. Yet it was, doubtless, the fullest yielding of which you were at this time capable.”
“Can there be more?” she asked.
“You cannot, at this time,” I said, “even begin to suspect the depths, the dimensions, the wonders and marvels of slave submission.”
“What you have done to me,” she said, “is irreversible. I can never go back, now, knowing what I do, to being a proud free woman.”
I shrugged. It was nothing to me.
“And yet,” she said, sobbing, “I am too plain to be a slave.”
“You are a woman,” I told her.
“Yes,” she said, “I am a woman. I did not know before, truly, what it was to be a woman.”
“It is not being a kind of man,” I told her.
“No,” she said, “it is being a full female, in the order of nature.”
“Yes,” I said.
“A slave,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
She sobbed.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“I want a master,” she said. “I want to be everything, and do everything, for him. I want to give him all of me, holding nothing back. I want to be nothing to him, only his owned slave, totally loving and serving him.”
“And so?” I said.
“But I am plain,” she said. “No man will want me.”
“Are you not done with her yet?” asked a rough voice.
We were startled, and looked up. There, at the edge of the straw, standing, was
a large, uncouth fellow, in the garments of the Tarn Keepers. “Yes,” I said. I smiled. I sat up and took the Lady Gina’s free shackle and jerked her ankles closely together. I prepared to close the open shackle about her right ankle. Her ankles would then be chained together, as before, with about eight inches of chain separating them. The shackles were large, and of heavy iron.
“Do not reshackle her,” he said.
“Very well,” I said, and got up.
“You look like a tasty pudding,” he said to the lady Gins. She looked up at him, from the straw.
“Are you branded yet, Female?” he asked her.
Her hand went inadvertently to her left thigh. “No,” she said, “no.”
“Is she any good?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said, “she is pretty good. And there is no telling how good she will be when she is properly enslaved and finds herself in the possession of the right master.”
“Of course,” he said. He again looked down at her. There was a startled, soft light in the eyes of the Lady Gina as she looked up at the fellow. Suddenly, to me, she seemed very soft, and very vulnerable, in the straw. It was as though a transformation, somehow, had come over her.
“She is beautiful,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, for, somehow, suddenly, perhaps with the sudden understanding and acceptance of her nature and condition, it had become true.
She gasped, and looked up at him, spoken of as beautiful. She trembled.
He then kicked her, and she cried out with pain. “Split your legs, Woman of Vonda,” he said. “You are to be had.”
“Yes, Master!” she cried out.
I watched for a moment, as she writhed in his arms. “You will look well on the block,” he told her.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Perhaps I will buy you,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Yes, Master!”
I left the two together, and began to thread my way through the tables, between the soldiers and merchants, and others, and the stripped, shackled women of Vonda, serving as waitresses, toward the opening in the food tent.
“Our forces have already moved north,” one man was saying. “The troops from Lara will not be here for two days,” said another. “By that time they will find here only the ashes of Vonda,” laughed another.
As I accidentally brushed against a woman of Vonda she trembled, and put down her head, and knelt swiftly. I continued past her.
“It is dangerous for merchant caravans,” a man was saying. “Many have been attacked,” said another. “It is rumored the river pirates are the worst,” said another. “They grow bold with the withdrawal of troops from Lara. They have struck even into Lara herself, then withdrawing to their galleys.”