by John Norman
I turned my head to the side.
“Do you still insist that it was you who entered my holding, posing as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard?” inquired Policrates.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes!”
“We know that that is not true,” said Policrates.
“How can you know that?” I asked. Certainly I was prepared to corroborate my claim, if need be, with descriptions of the holding, and accounts of the feast and of our conversations, descriptions and accounts much too detailed to have been likely to have been extracted from a captive.
“There are many reasons,” said Policrates. “One is that you are a man of Earth, and no man from that dismal, terrorized world, where men are mean and small, could have dared to enter this holding.”
“How do you know I am from Earth?” I asked.
“We know that from Beverly, a slave in this holding,” said Policrates.
“Nonetheless,” I said, “it was I who entered this holding and deceived you, in the guise of the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.”
“Impossible,” said Policrates.
“It is true,” I answered.
It angered me that Policrates and Kliomenes, and the others, could not even accept this possibility. Surely not every man of Earth was as meaningless, as trivial, as obedient, as unquestioning, as well trained, as emasculated and effete as their various political imprisonments demanded. I had little doubt but that somewhere on Earth, in spite of censorship, media control, manipulated education and outright political suppression, and the almost nonexistent channels for expressing alternative viewpoints, some males remained men. Not every man can forget he is a man, even when he is instructed to do so. Why, he might ask, should I forget it? Indeed, why should I not be a man? It is, after all, what I really am. You may not like it, but that does not make it wrong. Do you truly know better than nature? There seems no guarantee that the perversion of nature is more likely to lead to general human happiness than its recognition and celebration. Only in remaining true to nature can we remain true to ourselves. All else must be falsehood and pathology.
“I crossed swords with the courier of Ragnar Voskjard in the great hall,” said Kliomenes. “He was not unskilled. Jason of Victoria, on the other hand, does not know the sword.”
“Accordingly, it could not have been I?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” said Kliomenes.
“We have information,” said Policrates, “that it was the true courier of Ragnar Voskjard who came to the holding, independently of the evidence that it was he who gave us the topaz, which stone presumably could have been only in the possession of the true courier.”
“Information?” I asked.
“Which, further,” said Policrates, “has assured us that the true courier was captured, and is now being held by those in league with Tasdron and Glyco.”
Suddenly I began to understand what must be the case. Whoever had betrayed us must be, or be in contact with, the courier of Ragnar Voskjard, he who had tried to obtain the topaz from me on the wharves of Victoria. And it must have been he, or one in league with him, who had communicated with Policrates. Of course, the true courier would not wish it known that he had lost the topaz, that a false courier had gained access to the holding. The true courier, in this respect, was protecting himself. Doubtless he did not wish to be bound to the shearing blade of one of Ragnar Voskjard’s galleys. He could always maintain later that he had managed to escape from Tasdron’s confinement.
An idea suddenly sprang into my mind, one of a possible modality of escape for myself.
“No, it was I,” I said, but I faltered, or seemed to falter, as I said this.
Policrates smiled. “Do not be afraid, Master,” said the red-haired girl at my side. “No, Master,” said Bikkie, the dark-haired wench, so lasciviously active on my left, “you are only chained helplessly before your enemies.”
“Do you still maintain the pretense of having posed as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard?” inquired Policrates.
“Yes,” I said. “I mean, ‘It is not a pretense’ It was I!” I made my voice tremble, as though I had been found out.
“Beware,” said Policrates, “there are tortures in this holding to which you might be subjected other than the caresses of slave girls, the twisting of chains, of burning irons, of knives.”
The girls laughed.
“Make the fool writhe,” said Policrates. I gritted my teeth.
“Beverly!” called Policrates, sharply. I tried to control myself.
Then I saw she who had once been Beverly Henderson hurry into the room, commanded by her master.
She ran immediately to the tiles before the dais on which reposed the large, curule chair of Policrates. Swiftly she knelt there, head down, small and beautiful. She wore a tiny bit of yellow silk, a steel collar, and her brand. “Yes, Master,” she said.
“Rise, and turn about, Slave, and regard a prisoner,” said Policrates.
Gracefully, swiftly, the girl did so. She looked at me, startled. The girls, as she had entered, had desisted in their attentions to my body. They would resume their ministrations upon the indication of Policrates.
My fists clenched in the chains.
“Do you know him?” asked Policrates.
“Yes, my Master,” said the pirate’s slave. “He is Jason, from Victoria. Once he was of Earth, as I, your slave.”
Policrates lifted a finger and the girls about me again began to fondle, and to kiss and caress at my body.
Beverly, as her masters had chosen to call her, regarded me, unmoved.
“How do you regard the men of Earth?” Policrates asked her.
“I hold them in contempt,” she said.
“To whom do you belong?” asked Policrates.
“To Gorean men,” she said, “who are my natural masters.”
I tried to resist the caresses of the slave girls.
“Could you ever yield to one such as he?” asked Policrates.
“Never,” she said.
I looked at Beverly, the slave, standing on the tiles, bare foot, in the bit of silk, almost naked. The collar was very beautiful on her throat, and her dark hair, loose and soft, as a slave’s hair is commonly worn, was soft and lovely about her shoulders. I almost gasped at the sight of her beauty, the lineaments of her face, and the exquisite curves of her body.
I recalled, long ago, how we had met in a restaurant on Earth, and she had desired to speak intimately to me, of fears and dreams, and matters which troubled her. I suspected that there might have been at least one matter of which she had not spoken to me, to which she had perhaps implicitly alluded, but of which she had refused to explicitly speak. I wondered what it might have been.
Then I remembered how she had looked, with her hair drawn severely back, and fastened in a bun, but wearing a svelte, feminine, off-the-shoulder, white, satin-sheath gown. Too, she had worn a bit of lipstick and eye shadow, and had worn a tiny bit of perfume. On her feet had been golden pumps, fastened with a lace of golden straps. She had carried a small, silver-beaded purse. The linen had been very white, and the silver soft and lustrous in the flickering candlelight.
Had I been able to see her then as I was now enabled, by my Gorean experience, to see her now, I would have been able to see instantly through the trappings of her freedom to the slave beneath. I would have known for certain then as I knew for certain now that she belonged in the collar. Then, as now, though I was not able to recognize it clearly then, Beverly Henderson was the sort of woman who belonged to men, the sort of woman who should be put naked upon the block and sold to the highest bidder. What an exultant pleasure to own such a woman, and to have her at your bidding, your slave, among your treasures.
“This fellow claims to have impersonated the courier of Ragnar Voskjard, and to have deceived us all,” said Policrates to the girl.
The girl regarded me in astonishment, in disbelief. “That is absurd, Master,” she said.
“You were given to the courier
of Ragnar Voskjard for the night, were you not?” asked Policrates.
“Yes, Master,” said the girl. “That was your command. You had me sent to his chambers.”
“Did he make you yield?” inquired Policrates.
“Yes, Master,” she said, head down. “He made me yield, and many times, and he made me yield totally, and abjectly, and as his full slave.”
“Did you find the evening instructive?” inquired Policrates.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “I learned that I was a woman, and a slave.”
“And?” inquired Policrates.
“And, Master,” she said, keeping her head down, “that I loved being a woman, and a slave.”
“Was this the man who used you,” asked Policrates, “this man chained here before you?”
“Of course not, Master!” she said, lifting her head, scandalized.
“Are you certain?” asked Policrates.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “He is a man of Earth. No man of Earth could make me yield like that.”
“Are you sure?” asked Policrates.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “The arms that held me, Master,” she said, proudly, “were Gorean.”
“I thought so,” smiled Policrates.
I now began to writhe, unable to help myself, beneath the caresses of the slaves.
“May I now withdraw, Master,” she asked. “The sight of this weakling offends me.”
“Remove your silk, Slave,” said Policrates.
Instantly she did so, frightened, commanded.
“To him, Slave,” said Policrates.
“But he is only a man of Earth, Master!” she cried, protesting.
Policrates regarded her.
“Forgive me, Master!” she cried, and fled to kneel beside me, with the other girls. Then I felt the lips, too, of she who had once been Beverly Henderson upon my body.
I clenched my fists. I gritted my teeth, but how could I resist them?
“Describe to me, if you were truly one who posed as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard, the nature and furnishings of the chambers in which he reposed the night in which we guested him within the holding,” said Policrates.
“I cannot. I cannot!” I said. This was in accord with my plan.
Policrates and Kliomenes laughed. Surely now none would believe that it had been I who had brought the topaz to them. Let them, at least for the time, believe that they had received it from the true courier of Ragnar Voskjard.
I shook and shuddered beneath the attentions of the slave girls. I pulled against the chains. I could not free myself. I writhed and twisted in the chains, helpless before my enemy, being aroused for his amusement.
“Please him, Beverly,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I looked at her. I remembered her from the restaurant, long ago, the svelte, off-the-shoulder, white, satin-sheath gown, the candlelight, the beaded purse. I saw her lower her head, the dark hair falling upon my body. I saw the close-fitting steel collar on her throat. Then I felt her lips upon me.
“Oh,” I said. “Aiii!” And I cried out with humiliation, and shame, and with rage, and pleasure and joy.
I looked at Beverly. I knew her from Earth. She was to me the most exquisitely beautiful and sexually exciting girl I had ever seen. On Earth I had never kissed her. On Earth I had scarcely dared to touch her hand. Here, on Gor, she was a slave. Here, on Gor, unquestioningly, commanded by her master, she had pleasured me, and well. I had learned on Gor, in the secrecy of a chamber in the holding of Policrates, when posing as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard, that she was a true slave. I wished that I had known that on Earth. It might have made quite a difference in our relationship.
She drew back her head, angrily. I regretted only that it was not I who owned her. “I hate you,” she whispered. Yes, she was a true slave. I determined that she would one day wear my collar, that one day it would not be Policrates, but I, who would own her. I remembered the wench from the restaurant. Yes, it would be pleasant to have her at my feet, on this barbaric world, collared and branded, as a helpless Gorean slave girl.
“Take him, and chain him to the windlass,” said Policrates. “And let us hope, for his sake, that the courier of Ragnar Voskjard is not harmed.”
The girls drew back from me, and stood to one side. Two men began to unfasten the manacles at my wrists. “You pleasured him well,” said the red-haired girl to Beverly. “Yes,” said Bikkie. Actually she had done so too swiftly. I would instruct her in the proper pleasurings of a master, when I owned her. “It is humiliating to be forced to give pleasures to a man of Earth,” said Beverly. “He seems strong and handsome,” said the red-haired girl. “I do not think I would mind being his slave,” said Bikkie. “You do not know him as I do,” said Beverly. “I despise him. He is a weakling, and a man of Earth. We are the rightful properties only of men such as those of Gor.”
My hands were manacled behind my back. The shackles on my ankles were then removed, and I was dragged to my feet.
Policrates was talking with Kliomenes.
“You received pleasure from what you did, did you not?” asked the red-haired girl.
“The only pleasure I received,” said Beverly, “was in being obedient to my master’s command.”
“You received pleasure beyond that,” said Bikkie. “I saw.”
“No!” said Beverly.
“You swallowed, did you not?” asked the red-haired girl.
“I had to,” said Beverly. “I am a slave girl.”
“You are so low,” laughed the red-haired girl, “that you could receive pleasure from even a man of Earth!”
“No!” said Beverly.
“We saw!” laughed Bikkie.
“No!” said Beverly.
“Even if he is from Earth,” said the red-haired girl, “he is handsome and strong.”
“I think,” said Bikkie, “too, that there might be a master in him.”
“Not in him,” sneered Beverly. “If he owned you, the first thing he would do would be to free you.”
“Free us?” laughed the red-haired girl.
“Free us?” asked another of the girls, amused, touching her collar.
“What man does not want a beautiful slave?” asked Tais.
“He must indeed be stupid, or a total fool,” said another girl.
“Men are the masters, and we are the slaves,” said another girl, “does he not know that?”
“He knows nothing,” said Beverly, tossing her head.
“I do not believe you,” said Bikkie.
“He once freed me,” said Beverly.
“If he owned me,” said Bikkie, “he would not free me. He might give me away, or sell me, but he would not free me,”
“Why?” asked Beverly, angrily.
“I am too desirable to free,” said Bikkie.
Beverly, with a cry of anger, drew back her hand to slap at Bikkie, but another girl seized her hand, that she could not do so. “Do not fight, Slave Girls,” said one of the men about. “Yes, Master,” said several of the girls.
“Master,” said Bikkie, approaching me. “If you owned me, would you free me?”
“No,” I said.
“May I ask why not, Master,” she inquired.
“Surely,” I said.
“Why not, Master?” she asked.
I looked at Beverly, but spoke to Bikkie. “Because you are too desirable to free,” I told her.
Beverly looked at me in fury, and Bikkie turned to her in triumph. “See?” asked Bikkie. There are slaves, and slaves, it seems!”
“So it seems,” said Beverly. I smiled inwardly. Should she come again into my power let her try to break the chains in which I would put her.
“Have you ever been mastered, Beverly?” asked the red haired girl.
“Of course. Many men have mastered me,” said Beverly. “I am a slave girl.”
“To me,” said Bikkie, “you seemed a true slave girl, fully, only when you had emer
ged from the chambers of the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.”
Beverly smiled. “It was he who first fully mastered me,” she said. “He was fully dominant over me. He was over whelming, and I nothing, only an amorous, compliant, frightened slave in his arms. I had not known such a man could exist. He made me weep myself his, it seemed a hundred times, in his arms. That night I was devastated, and taught my collar. It was in that night that I first truly learned my womanhood, and my slavery.”
“I see that you have never forgotten him,” said one of the girls.
“No,” she said.
“Do you love him?” asked the red-haired girl.
“Yes,” she said. I was pleased that she had said this. To be sure, I had made her yield, as the slave she was.
“Perhaps sometime you will be his,” said one of the girls, softly.
“He did not try to buy me, nor did he ask Policrates to give me to him,” said Beverly. “To him I am only another female slave, a meaningless slut, doubtless already forgotten, with whom he pleasured himself one night in a strange holding.”
“It is sometimes hard to be a slave,” said one of the girls.
“We are all slaves,” said another girl.
“The masters are all, and we are nothing,” said another.
“Yes,” said another.
“I will take our fleet east on the river,” said Policrates to Kliomenes. “That will discourage interference from towns east on the river.”
“Yes, Captain,” said Kliomenes.
Policrates then turned about and regarded me. “Do not look for pretty slaves in the chamber of the windlass,” he said.
I was silent.
“Oh, Beverly,” said Policrates.
“Yes, Master,” said the girl, hurrying forward and falling to her knees before him.