Plunder of Gor (12 page)

“Apparently,” I said.

“You are a bitch, are you not?” he said.

I was silent.

“You are stupid,” he said.

“No,” I said, “I am not stupid.”

“In any event,” he said, “you have not yet learned your collar.”

“I do not expect to learn it,” I said.

“That is typical, at first,” he said, “with some, with the more stupid ones.”

“I am not stupid,” I said.

“It is soon, of course,” he said.

I looked away. I put my hands on the chain dangling down from the ring on the metal collar about my neck. The chain seemed heavy. It would doubtless have held a man.

“Have you ever been whipped?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“That is sometimes helpful,” he said.

“Doubtless,” I said.

“In any event,” he said, “tomorrow I will remand you to a training house. There you will be trained.”

“I will not be trained,” I said. “I am not an animal!”

He looked at me.

“What you did to me!” I cried.

“It was good to get it out of the way,” he said. “Accustom yourself to such things. You are a slave. Free women will envy you.”

“I was a free woman!” I said.

“Not really,” he said. “I have a good eye for such things.”

“Free!” I said.

“In some trivial, legal sense, perhaps,” he said. “But you are not a free woman now. You are a different sort of woman now.”

“Free!”

“Once you are collared and branded,” he said, “you may see things differently.”

“I will not accept being trained as an animal,” I said.

He looked down at me, wearily. I lowered my eyes, sullenly, defiantly. He then turned and went to a chest, at the side of the room. Such things are much more common in Gorean domiciles than closets and cabinets. He put back the lid of the chest, and reached within it, withdrawing a handful of what appeared to be shackles, and manacles, and a few short lengths of chain, apparently adjustable.

He dropped this paraphernalia beside me, and, kneeling beside me, grasped my right wrist, which he twisted behind my back. I felt one of the manacles clasped about it. Then my left ankle was seized and drawn back, and shackled, fastened to my right wrist.

“What are you doing?” I asked, uneasily. “Oh!” I said, as my left wrist was pulled back, close to my right ankle.

I heard a snap, as it was fastened there.

“‘Master'?” he asked.

“Master,” I said.

“You use the word ‘Master',” he said. “But you do not yet understand it.”

“Master?” I asked.

“But you will,” he said, “girl.”

“What are you doing, Master?” I asked. “Oh!” I said, as another adjustment was made.

“Putting you in close chains,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You require discipline,” he said.

“Oh!” I said, wincing.

“In the morning,” he said, “you will beg training.”

“Never!” I said. “Never!” I could scarcely move. “Release me!” I demanded. “Oh!” I cried, as, with snaps, he further adjusted the apparatus in which he had seen fit to place me, even more tightly.

“Release me!” I said. “Release me!” I then begged. “Please, please release me, now!”

He stood up, towering over the knot of slave at his feet.

“Until the morning,” he said.

“Do not leave me like this!” I cried.

“You are chained,” he said, “close chained. As in any chaining you cannot free yourself. But do not struggle, do not fight the chains. I do not want you marked, bloodied, or scarred. If you are marked, your profitability, such as it is, will be reduced, and I will be displeased. Indeed, if I find you marked, you will be whipped as few women have been whipped. It is yours to lie quietly, and endure. You have now been warned.”

“Do not leave me like this!” I begged, again, more piteously.

I heard the door close.

I squirmed, scarcely capable of movement.

Chapter Eight

He tossed a sandal to the floor, some feet to my right.

“Go to it, on all fours, kiss it, and bring it to me, on all fours, in your teeth,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

It is easy to move so, in a slave tunic.

He then cast the second sandal to the floor, some feet to my left, and I fetched it, similarly, and, putting down my head, deposited it, too, at his feet.

I then knelt before him.

“In your training,” he said, “were you taught how to lace a master's sandals?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You may sandal me,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

In a few moments I had laced the sandals in place.

A slave is grateful for the privilege of serving her master.

“What did they call you in the training house?” he asked.

“‘Phyllis',” I said. It is not unusual for a girl's former name, in a sense, particularly in the case of barbarians, to be kept on her. To be sure, technically, it is not the same name, as the legal name vanishes with the girl's freedom. ‘Phyllis' was now a slave name, bestowed at the discretion of a master or mistress, as any animal might be named by its master or mistress. The retention of a former name is convenient, of course, as easily solving a naming problem, and a barbarian slave is well identified by being given a barbarian name, which is commonly done, her former name, or another such name. Sometimes an enslaved Gorean woman is given a barbarian name, to enforce upon her the lowliness, the humiliation, and degradation, of her new status. The societal position of the Gorean free woman, incidentally, particularly in the high cities, is far higher than that of the average free woman of Earth. Accordingly her reduction to bondage is likely to be far more devastating to her than such a reduction in the case of the average woman of Earth. Many of the women of Earth, for example, think little of baring their features, and their ankles, in public, an exhibitionism which would be unthinkable for most Gorean free women, and certainly for those of the higher castes. One can well imagine the feelings of a former Gorean free woman, who might have, in daring, scandalous boldness, occasionally allowed a glove to slip a little, affording a glimpse of wrist, finding herself exposed in public, tunicked and collared, only another slave.

“It has a Cosian ring to it,” he said.

I did not understand this.

“I am told some free women have that name,” I said.

“Cosians, perhaps,” he said.

I knew little of Gor at that time. I would later learn that Cos was a major state, somewhere to the east. At that time I did not even know where I was. Curiosity, I had been told, is not becoming in a kajira.

“Your Gorean is coming along nicely,” he said.

“In the training house, the switch often abetted my learning,” I said.

“You must strive to become adept in the language of your masters,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you hope to please your master?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I well knew the penalties for being displeasing. Yet, interestingly, I found I wanted to be pleasing to men, and that I hoped to become more so. It seemed to me, now, right and fitting that I should be owned, that I should submit, and serve.

I was different from men, very different.

This very obvious difference, on my former world, had been ignored, or denied. Here I found myself in a place where such differences were recognized. Men were not women, and women were not men. Is it not strange that there are worlds where such an observation should appear surprising, and be hailed as a profound insight? And this, I would learn, that men were not women, and women were not men, was the case amongst even the free. But for women such as I, in this place, women who were not free, such differences were profound. Our differences from men were not only acknowledged by society, but, by brand, collar, and tunic, confirmed and celebrated. Women such as I, not being free, were not permitted to deny or dismiss the truths, needs, and passions of our sex. For women such as I, such pretenses would be no more than a laughable hypocrisy. Needs and passions, desires and yearnings, should be no more things of shame than health and beauty. Too, women such as I were not encased in proprieties and conventions, not hedged in by society, not permitted to hide ourselves behind veils, or within cumbersome robes, not permitted to bargain, to tease and taunt, to barter our favors for social or economic advancement. We could be bought and sold. We were the most female of all women, the most basic and fundamental of all women, and would find ourselves in our natural place, there where we belonged, at the feet of men, their slaves.

“Brand!” he snapped.

Instantly, without even thinking, I shifted my weight to my right knee and extended my left leg, fully, drawing the tunic to the hip.

“Excellent,” he said.

I had been marked my first morning in the house of training, and a house collar, a training collar, had been hammered about my throat.

Female slaves on Gor are commonly collared.

I hated the training collar.

I now wore a light metal band, flat, and close-fitting, on my throat, secured with a small lock at the back of the neck.

It was a very common Gorean collar. I would later learn that, in the south, collars were often rounded, and looser. These are usually referred to, in their varieties, as “Turian collars.” Turia, I would learn, was a large city in the southern hemisphere.

“You may kneel again,” he said.

I did so.

“You kneel,” he said, “with your knees closely together.”

That was commonly referred to, for some reason, as the position of the tower slave. Girls, of course, may be commanded to one position or another. I did not know, at that time, why the position was referred to as the position of the tower slave. From the training house I had been brought to the domicile of my master, hooded.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I felt a tear form at my left eye. I feared it might move down my cheek. My master showed little inclination to beat me, but I had no desire to do anything that might prompt him to do so.

“What do you think of your collar?” he asked.

“It is attractive, Master,” I said.

“Women look well in collars,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Is it comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “It is light, and comfortable. Commonly I do not even know it is on me.”

“But it is,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do many women on your former world wear collars?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said. Surely he knew that.

“That is unfortunate,” he said. “A collar much enhances the beauty of a woman.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do slaves on your world wear collars?” he asked.

“I do not think so,” I said.

“At least not publicly,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” I said.

How did I know what might occur when a door was closed?

“Every slave should have her collar,” he said. “It reminds them they are slaves.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“On Gor,” he said, “it would not do for a slave to forget that she is a slave.”

“No, Master,” I said.

“So she wears her collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“It marks her well,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“It would not do to have her confused with a free woman,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said.

I did not speak, but there seemed little doubt, as well, that a woman clad in a slave tunic would not be likely to be confused with a free woman. Too, there was always the brand. My brand was small and delicate, but unmistakable. It had been placed high on my left thigh, just below the hip. It was an attractive mark. It had a vague resemblance to a cursive ‘k' in English. I was told it was a ‘Kef', which is the first letter in the Gorean expression, ‘kajira'. It was also, apparently, a very common brand. I was, accordingly, not privileged, or distinguished, by a special or unusual brand.

“I gather you cannot read your collar,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said. “Perhaps Master will teach me to read, or have me instructed.”

“No,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You know what it says?” he said.

“I have been told,” I said. I had been told it read ‘I am the slave of Kurik of Victoria'. At that time I knew little or nothing of my surroundings. I would later learn that Victoria was a large river port. Amongst other things it was a large clearing station for the handling of slaves. It was difficult to trace slaves through Victoria, most of whom were sold without papers. Indeed, many slaves in her holding pens wore no more than chain collars, or capture collars, which suggested dubious origins, at best. Victoria was a trading port in which few questions were either asked or answered.

I put down my head, before my master.

Once he had suggested I did not know the meaning of the word ‘Master', but that I would learn it.

I had learned it, in his case, and in the case of any man.

The morning after I had been “close chained,” at the foot of my master's couch, he had entered, and stood over me.

He did not speak.

“I beg training!” I had said, tensely, piteously.

“What sort of training?” he asked.

“Slave training,” I said.

“The training of a slave?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I do not know,” I said.

He then prepared to turn away.

“Because I am a slave!” I cried.

“Your response seems incomplete,” he said.

“Because I am a slave—Master!” I wept.

He then began to undo the fastenings.

“Thank you,” I whispered, “thank you, Master.”

I wept, trembled, and moaned, and cried out, inadvertently, with tiny cries of pain. I could scarcely move my limbs. His hands on my limbs were firm, and strong, and unhurried. He slowly stretched out my legs and arms, and, gently, carefully, rubbed them alive. I had fantasized that I might never be able to walk again, that I could not rise, that I had been crippled for life.

He then desisted in his work, and sat on the edge of the couch, and I lay at his feet.

I may have lain there for the better part of an hour.

He was patient. He did not hurry me.

At last, by the use of my hands, I managed to struggle, slowly, painfully, to my knees, before him, my head over his feet.

“I beg to lick and kiss the feet of my master,” I whispered.

“Very well,” he said.

I then addressed myself to this humble task, hoping that he would be pleased. I belonged to him. I now knew what I was, a property, an animal, an owned animal. I suppose I had been an animal on my own world, as well, but not an owned animal. And now I was an owned animal.

After a time, I looked up, tears in my eyes.

“Is Master pleased?” I asked.

“You have much to learn,” he said.

“I trust I will be taught,” I said.

“On Earth,” he said, “I called you a ‘bitch'.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“On Earth you were a bitch,” he said.

“I trust I am no longer a bitch,” I said.

“You cannot be a bitch in a collar,” he said. “The whip sees to that.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Perhaps you think yourself still a bitch,” he said.

“I hope not,” I said. “But if so, I am surely Master's bitch.”

“You are no longer a bitch,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“But not for the reason you might think,” he said. “A slave is far less than a bitch.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. Doubtless it was so.

“Shortly,” he had said, “I will hood you and take you to your house of training. It is not far. This training will take only a few days, and, at the end, you will be poorly trained, as we have little time, but well enough trained, I shall hope, to survive the block and your first weeks of bondage, in which time, applying yourself, you must strive earnestly to become a better and better, and a more and more pleasing, slave. The first several days will doubtless be the hardest, the most frightening, the most harrowing, the most difficult, but, if you are intelligent, diligent, devoted, hot, and dutiful, things should go well. You will have begun to learn your collar. Masters, of course, differ, and most will train a slave to their own tastes. You must attend well to such lessons. You will discover that a man wants everything from his kajira, and that is why he has purchased her, but you will also discover that he who has everything from his kajira is likely to be pleased, contented, and happy. Why not? What can a man want, beyond everything? Some men, fools, even become fond of their kajira. That is indeed difficult to understand.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Incredible,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“If you suspect your master is becoming fond of you,” he said, “you may expect to be beaten, or sold.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“One is not to care for a slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Slaves are worthless,” he said. “They are to be despised.”

“I understand, Master,” I said.

I had then been hooded and taken to the house of training.

“May I speak?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I know that curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” I said, “but, as Master is doubtless aware, curiosity is not unknown amongst kajirae.”

“I am aware of that,” he said.

“I am of Earth,” I said. “Yet I was brought here, and put in a collar to serve masters.”

“So?” he said.

“I gather I am not unique,” I said.

“Certainly not,” he said.