by John Norman
The auctioneer shook out the coils of the whip. He then, rapidly, loudly, clearly, in a series of orders, sometimes cracking the whip, commanded the girl, one by one, swiftly, to assume an intricately patterned series of postures and attitudes. Seldom, I think, in so brief a compass, could a woman be displayed so fully as a female. He then cracked his whip and, ordered her to stand straight upon the platform sucking in her gut. She was breathing heavily; there were tears in her eyes; she was trembling; she was covered with sweat and sawdust. He had permitted her no respite or quarter. The buyers now well understood the nature of the goods on which they were bidding.
“Twenty-two tarsks!” called a man.
“Twenty-three!” called another.
So stunned I was that I had not even entered the bidding. I had never dreamed she could be so beautiful. What fools are the men of Earth, I thought, for the woman on the block was an Earth woman, to let their women off so lightly. What fools they are not to own their women and force them to manifest the true fullness and desirability of their beauty. The woman on the block was an Earth woman. Did she not show, in her own person, how beautiful women of Earth could be. And yet I knew that on Earth such women commonly languished, their beauty denied its meaning and fulfillment, their beauty not summoned forth, not commanded forth, for the pleasure, the sport and service of strong men.
“Twenty-five tarsks!”
“Twenty-six!”
“Twenty-seven!”
“Twenty-eight!”
“Thirty!”
“Buy her,” a voice seemed to say to me. “Buy the slave! Make her yours!”
“No, no!” I said, half aloud. “I cannot!”
“What did you say?” asked the man next to me. “Nothing, nothing!” I said.
“Thirty-five!” I heard.
“Forty!” I heard.
“Forty two!”
I could not even enter the bidding. I could scarcely breathe. My heart was pounding. I had never dreamed she could be so beautiful. It seemed I could not even speak. I could not take my eyes off the girl under the torches, the collar and sales disk at her throat. I was trembling.
“Forty-four!” I heard.
“Forty-six!”
I trembled. I had seen Miss Beverly Henderson kiss the whip. I had seen her put through slave paces.
“Forty-seven!” I heard.
“Forty-eight!”
“Fifty!”
Suddenly the girl cried out, startled. Her reflex had been spasmodic, uncontrollable. Then she put her head in her hands, weeping. Her entire body, under the torches, turned a creamy crimson in color.
“Ninety tarsks!” called a man.
The auctioneer stepped back from the girl, the whip in his hand.
“I have ninety tarsks,” he called.
“She is not so cold,” said the man next to me.
“No,” I said, “no.”
“Ninety-two tarsks!” called a man.
“Ninety-four!” called another.
“I have ninety-four tarsks,” called the auctioneer. “Do I have more? Do I have more?”
There was silence.
“I prepare to close my hand,” called the auctioneer.
“Ninety-eight!” I cried out, suddenly. I was startled to hear my own voice.
The girl lifted her head, dully.
“Ninety-eight, I have ninety-eight,” called the auctioneer. “Do I hear more? Do I hear more?”
There was silence.
“I prepare to close my hand,” said the auctioneer. “I close my hand!”
I owned Miss Henderson.
Chapter 10 - WE LEAVE THE SALES BARN OF LYSANDER; MISS HENDERSON WILL SHARE MY LODGINGS
Miss Henderson was thrust from the block. I made my way toward the foot of the block. My head seemed to swim. I was scarcely conscious of my movements. I moved as though in a dream.
“Jason?” she asked, from within the bars of the holding cage at the right of the sales block. Already her left ankle had been shackled. “Jason?”
I handed the receipt to the cage attendant. At the table I had paid ninety-eight tarsks.
I saw the sales disk removed from her collar and put in a small, wooden box. I saw the shackle removed from her ankle. I saw the door to the cage open and saw her pushed forth, before me.
“Do you not know enough to kneel before your master?” asked the attendant.
Swiftly she knelt.
I lifted her to her feet and held her in my arms. “Is it you, Jason?” she whispered. “Is it truly you?”
“Yes,” I said. “It is I.”
She began to weep, and I held her close to me. She shuddered in my arms. She sobbed. I felt her tears through my tunic. “Jason,” she sobbed, “Jason, Jason.”
I held her to me, and caressed her head. “I am so happy,” she said. “I am so happy!”
“Yes,” I said, “Yes.” I continued to caress her head, and hold her to me.
“You purchased me. You own me, Jason,” she said. “I am your slave.” I scarcely understood what she was saying. “I know that you will be strong with me, but I will try to serve you well,” she said.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“I will try to be pleasing to you,” she said. “I do not want to be whipped.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
She drew back a bit in my arms and lifted her head. There were tears in her eyes. Her lips trembled. She seemed incredibly happy. “I remember the girl at the shop of Philebus, in Ar,” she said, “she who, wrists bound, was neck-leashed to the ring. Doubtless I now, too, as the mood seizes you, now that you own me, will be subjected to such ruthless and peremptory considerations. Doubtless you will respect my will no more than hers and rape me, too, when it pleases you.”
I looked at her, puzzled.
She again put her head against me, pressing her cheek against my shoulder. “All the things that you may have wanted to do with me,” she said, “you may now do. Everything that you may have wanted from a woman I must now give. You may do with me as you please. I must obey you in all things.” She lifted her head again. There were tears in her eyes. “Show me no mercy,” she said. “See that I serve you well.”
“Key!” I cried. “Key!”
“What will you name me?” she asked.
“Key!” I cried.
“Key?” she asked. “Master?”
The key to the sales collar was placed into my hand by one of the cage attendants. I saw the snug fit of the steel on her throat. It was incredibly exciting. She could not remove it. Then, sweating, getting a grip on myself, hurriedly, fumbling, I thrust the tiny key into the lock.
“Master?” she asked, frightened.
“Do not call me ‘Master’!” I said, almost shouting. My voice choked.
Men looked at us.
I turned the key and opened the tiny, heavy, single-action, seven-bolt lock on the collar. Each of the bolts is said to stand for one of the letters in the spelling of ‘Kajira’, the most common Gorean expression for a slave girl.
“Where is your collar for me?” she asked.
“I have no collar for you,” I said.
“Master?” she asked.
“Do not call me ‘Master’!” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “I mean ‘Yes, Jason!”
I put my hands on the collar, to tear it from her throat. But she clutched at the collar, holding it on her throat.
“Master?” she asked. “Jason?”
“You are a woman of Earth,” I said. “You know how to behave and act.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“Do not speak to me of pleasing me,” I said. “Do not speak to me of obeying me or serving me.”
“But I am a slave,” she said, “and you own me!”
“No,” I said.
“I am branded,” she said.
“It is nothing,” I said.
“Be a girl, and wear a brand,” she said, “and you will see
if it is nothing!”
“It is not your fault that you are branded,” I said.
“But it is the fault of men,” she said, “and I am nonetheless branded!”
I went to pull the collar from her throat and, again, her small hands tightened on it.
“You own me,” she said. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Free you,” I said. “I will give you what your heart most desires, your total liberation and freedom!”
She looked at me, aghast.
I pulled away the collar and flung it, the key in the lock, to the side.
“You do not want me,” she whispered.
“Have no fear,” I said. “I will not take advantage of you, nor abuse you, nor exploit you. You will be accorded all dignity and respect. In all things you will be my full and lovely equal.” Then I realized I had made an error. “Excuse me,” I said, “I did not mean to demean you. I did not mean to say ‘lovely’. You will be in all things, simply, and straightforwardly, my equal.”
“How can a slave be the equal of her master?” she asked.
“You are free,” I told her.
“I might have been bought by a Gorean man,” she said, “one who might have treasured me, and cherished me, and made me serve him well, and used me richly.”
“I have freed you,” I said. “Are you not happy?” I asked, puzzled.
“I am naked,” she said.
“Forgive me,” I cried. Quickly I hurried to one of the cage attendants. For a tarsk bit I purchased one of the discarded sheets torn from the slave beauties who were still being sold from the block.
I hurried back to the girl and stood before her, the sheet in my hand. For the briefest instant I felt sick. She was so beautiful. Should I not have marched her through the streets of Victoria naked, an exhibited slave, for my own joy, that of her master, and that men might rejoice in her beauty and call out to me their congratulations, commending me on the splendid fortune that was mine, that of having such a woman in my total power?
“Please,” she said.
I stepped more closely to her and, standing before her, held the sheet behind her, preparing to draw it about her.
“Do not look at me, you lustful beast,” she said. “Cover me, quickly!”
Swiftly I drew the sheet about her and she, from within it, clutched it even more closely about herself. I could see, as she had gathered the sheet, the outline of her small fists beneath it.
“Do not look at my calves and ankles,” she said, “please.”
“Forgive me,” I said. “Let us hurry from this place.”
“Yes,” she said, “it is offensive. I smell here the stinking of slaves.”
Quickly we left the sales barn of Lysander.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“I have taken a small room, near the wharves,” I said.
“I, too, will need a room,” she said.
“I cannot afford much,” I said.
“Then we shall manage to divide the room,” she said, “somehow, with a screen, or partition, of some sort.”
“Of course,” I said.
“You must, too, go out and purchase me clothing,” she said. “I cannot wear a sheet.”
“What about a slave tunic?” I asked.
“Do not jest, Jason,” she said.
“It is in this direction,” I said, indicating a street leading toward the river front.
“I have no money,” she said “And I have no Home Stone. What is that?” she asked.
We heard the sound of a bell, and then, a moment later, that of coins in a metal box. A girl in a brown rag, slave, emerged from the shadows. About her neck, chained, there was a bronze bell, hollow, flattish, with sloping sides, with a flat top and ring, and a slotted, metal coin box, locked. Swiftly she knelt before me. She bit at my tunic, and licked at the side of my leg. She lifted her head. “Have me for a tarsk bit, Master,” she begged. Her hands were braceleted behind her back.
“No,” I told her.
“Get away, you filthy thing,” said Miss Henderson.
“If I do not return with the equivalent of a copper tarsk,” said the girl kneeling before me, “I will be whipped.”
“Get away!” said Miss Henderson.
“Your slave requires discipline,” said the girl kneeling before me.
“She is not my slave,” I said.
“It seems she would make a good slave,” said the girl.
I drew out a copper tarsk, and prepared to place it in the girl’s coin box.
Swiftly the girl, before I could put the coin in the box, lay on her back, on the stones of the street, before me. “You must use me first,” she said, “and then put the coin in only if I please you.”
“Do not give away our money,” said Miss Henderson.
“It is my money,” I said.
“Do not squander our meager resources,” she said.
“They are my resources, not yours,” I pointed out. “I will do what I please with them.”
“Of course, Jason,” she said, irritatedly.
“I will not use you,” I told the girl, “but I will give you the coin.” I made as though to place the coin in the box, which now, as she lay, back on her elbows, hung beside her left breast, swelling against the thin slave cloth.
Quickly she scrambled back, and rose to her feet. “I am worth the tarsk bit,” she said. “And my master is a proud man. He does not send us into the streets to beg.”
“But you may be whipped,” I said.
“I will get the money elsewhere,” she said. “And if I were you I would whip the slave beside you.”
“Get out of here!” cried Miss Henderson.
The girl then fled with a sound of her bell and the jangling of the coins in the box.
“Disgusting! Disgusting!” said Miss Henderson. “Terrible! Disgusting!”
“Some men,” I said, “buy such girls and send them out into the streets. They keep them in kennels and send them out in the afternoon. It is how they earn their living.”
“Terrible! Disgusting!” said Miss Henderson.
“You were saying?” I asked.
“I was saying,” she said, “that I have no money, and that I have no Home Stone. Too, there is no practical trade of which I am the Mistress.”
“There is one trade, which is available to all women,” I said.
“Do not jest, Jason,” she said. “It is not amusing.”
“That of cook,” I said.
“Very funny,” she said.
“How do you expect to earn your keep?” I asked.
“I do not expect to earn my keep,” she said. “I expect you to earn my keep.”
“And what do you expect to do in return?” I asked.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” she said. “I did not ask to be purchased.”
“I see that you are scarcely likely to prove to be an economic asset,” I said.
“You could always, I suppose, put a bell and coin box about my neck and send me into the streets,” she said.
“It is a thought,” I admitted.
She made an angry noise, and we continued on, toward the river front.
“Have you a job?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“You must get one,” she said.
“I expect that would be advisable,” I said. I supposed I might work as an oarsman or a dock worker. I was strong. It no longer seemed a good way to make money by challenging fellows in the taverns. One might respond with a knife or sword. Tonight my life had been saved by a dissolute fellow, a man called Callimachus, perhaps from Port Cos, farther west on the river, a derelict. Had it not been for him I would doubtless have been slain by the pirate, Kliomenes.
“We will need the money,” she said.
I said nothing.
“You may call me ‘Beverly’,” she said.
“What about ‘Veminia’?” I asked. The veminium is a small, lovely Gorean flower, softly petaled and blue.
“That is a slave name,” she said. “That is what I was called in the house of Oneander of Ar.”
“Most Goreans,” I said, “would regard ‘Beverly’ as a slave name.”
“What of ‘Jason’?” she asked, angry.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but that is a not uncommon name on Gor, particularly, as I understand it, west on the river, and on the islands of Cos and Tyros.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Too,” I said, “it is commonly regarded as the name of a free man.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Unlike ‘Beverly’,” I said.
“I see,” she said, acidly.
“Beverly,” I added.
“The name ‘Beverly’ may be worn as a free name, as well as a slave name,” she said. “I shall wear it as a free name.”
“Very well,” I said.
“We shall have to make careful arrangements to govern our sharing common lodgings,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
“I shall bathe first,” she said.
“There is a small copper tub,” I said.
“And each of us shall do his own share of the cooking, the cleaning, and the housework,” she said. “Each will have full responsibility for his own portions of these labors.”
“I am to work the day,” I said, “and then, do half the work of the room or lodgings?”
“Do not expect me to perform menial labors for you,” she said. “I am a free woman. I shall take care of my things. And you shall take care of yours.”
“I see,” I said.
“I trust your room is not in this dismal structure,” she said, looking up at a swinging lantern hanging over an inn’s threshold.
“Yes,” I said.
“We shall have to do better than this,” she said. I looked down at her. I considered tearing the sheet from her. I wondered what she would look like with a bell and coin box on her neck. Then I reminded myself that she was a free woman, and that she was from the planet Earth, my old planet. She was not a Gorean girl, but something nobler and finer, an Earth woman.
“You did not even pay a full silver tarsk for me,” she said, looking up at me, angrily. “There were girls who were sold for as much as two or three silver tarsks.”
“They were very beautiful women,” I said, “and some were of high caste, two were exquisitely trained pleasure slaves.”