Plunder of Gor (81 page)

Chapter Sixty-Eight

“You are a slave, Phyllis,” he said.

“Yes, Master?” I said.

There could be little doubt of that.

“Are you content as a slave?” he asked.

“Very much so,” I said.

He rose, went to the side of the room, removed the whip from its peg, and cast it to the floor, a few feet away. “Go to the whip,” he said, “on all fours, put your head down, lick and kiss it, and then lift it in your teeth, and bring it to me, on all fours.”

I did so.

I belonged to him.

He could do with me as he wished. I would have it no other way.

He then sat down, cross-legged, and put the whip to the side.

I then knelt before him, in nadu.

“Is freedom not precious?” he asked.

“Surely,” I said.

“Do you not desire freedom?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“My collar,” I said, “is a thousand times more precious.”

“You were once free,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Now,” he said, “you can be bought and sold.”

“I am a slave,” I said.

“I am troubled,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“I fear I may grow fond of you,” he said.

“Do not sell me!” I begged.

“You know my caste,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“I have assisted in the acquisition, and processing, of hundreds of women,” he said. “I have had my pick of them, and enjoyed them frequently, and as I pleased.”

“Of course,” I said, “they are slaves, or soon to be slaves.”

“But now,” he said, “I am thinking of withdrawing from the work of my caste.”

“Master?” I said.

“At least temporarily,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“I was searching,” he said, “for my slave.”

“It is my hope,” I whispered, “that you have now found her.”

“I am thinking of freeing you,” he said.

“Do not,” I said, frightened. “I am a thousand times more content, and free, in my collar, than I ever was, or could be, as a free woman. Let them have the emptiness and bondage of their freedom. Let me keep the fullness and riches of my collar. Let me keep my rightful subservience, my welcomed subjugation, the privilege of my joyful submission.”

He regarded me.

“Here, on this world,” I said, “I have found myself. Do not, I beg you, take me away from myself! I wish to be a man's belonging. I want to love and serve, selflessly. I want to be owned, and mastered!”

“Why is that?” he asked.

“Because I am a woman,” I said.

“Serve me wine,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

It was late in the evening.

I will not specify our location. It could be any one of hundreds of cities and towns. Too, we were not, as I understood it, to remain long in this place. Similarly, I will, from time to time, omit details that might, if one were to investigate, supply clues as to our location, or route.

“In this restaurant,” said Kurik, my master, “you will note that the waitresses are briefly tunicked.”

“No less so than I,” I said.

Kurik sat at the small, rather private table, to one side of the broad, pillared, low-ceilinged dining room. A single candle was on our table. I knelt by his side.

“Thus, as in a tavern,” said Kurik, “free women are not permitted.”

“We would not wish to scandalize them,” I said.

To be sure, I did not mind scandalizing them. Let them, in their fine robes and veils, fume and fret. Let them wonder what it might be, to be so beautiful, so desirable, to be wanted so fiercely, that men would take away their clothes and dress them, if they chose to dress them, for their pleasure, to have them before them as they wanted them; let them wonder what it might be, to be so wanted that men would seize them and turn them into properties, into will-less, rightless possessions; let them wonder what it might be to be so wanted that they would be seized, taken in hand, stripped, collared, and branded, and put to a man's feet, in their place in nature, where they belonged, owned and mastered.

“Sometimes,” said he, “a bold free woman will insist on entering a tavern. Sometimes they even disguise themselves as slave girls. Not unoften then they are seized, and enslaved, and sometimes they discover themselves as collared paga girls in the very tavern into which they sought, illicitly, to intrude.”

“There are many ways to court a collar,” I said. “What woman, in her deepest heart, does not long for her master?”

“There is something interesting about the waitresses here,” said Kurik.

“What?” I asked.

He then explained to me that this city, in which was the restaurant, had been long at war, for generations, with another city. I shall not specify the names of the two cities. There are many cases of such instances on Gor.

“So, what is interesting, Master,” I asked, “about the waitresses here?”

“They all have something in common,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

He then explained to me that they had all once been free women of the enemy city.

The free women of the enemy are always accounted high amongst the loot of conquerors. What better loot can one have than the women of the enemy, naked, and chained at your feet as slaves?

“I should think,” I said, “that men would fear to eat here, lest the waitresses, who may have access to materials in the kitchen, say, knives, might attack them.”

“It would be difficult,” said Kurik, “for a slave to conceal a weapon in a tunic, or, better, if she is naked to the collar.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

“Being served by such women,” said Kurik, “adds a piquant sauce to the food. Too, it is pleasant to consider their feelings, as they now, as degraded, abject, meaningless slaves, must serve those who, from childhood, they have been taught to despise and regard as inferiors.”

“I would suppose so,” I said.

At that point, a briefly tunicked brunette, of the sort that men, the beasts, might regard as luscious, knelt before our table, and, head down, placed her tray on the floor, and then began placing the plates, utensils, and cups on the table.

“Girl,” said Kurik.

“Master?” she said, not raising her head.

“Did you mix a bit of gravy in my slave's gruel?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

My master was often thoughtful. I muchly loved him, and I suspected he might care for me, at least a little, but it was not wise, of course, to enter into such matters. I would not have cared to be hooded and led to a market.

So much I loved him; so much I was his!

“My slave,” he said to our waitress, “is a barbarian.”

The waitress, on her knees, stiffened in anger.

“Serve her,” he said. “Lift up the bowl, and hand it to her.”

“That is not necessary, Master,” I said.

“Be silent,” said Kurik.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

“Say,” said Kurik, to the slave, “‘I, once a free woman, of the high city of —',” and here we omit the name of the city, “‘now a slave, serve, as a slave, on my knees, another slave, a barbarian slave'.”

The slave repeated the words.

“Do you hesitate?” asked Kurik. “Shall we summon the manager and report your hesitation? Perhaps you have been roped and whipped before.”

“I do not hesitate,” she said, quickly, handing me the bowl. In it was a spoon. That, like the gravy, had been specified by Kurik, and was, surely, another indication of his thoughtfulness. I feared he might grow weak with me. He must not do so. He must not do so!

“Speak,” said Kurik, sharply.

“Your supper,” said the slave, lowering her head.

“Speak,” said Kurik, even more sharply, more menacingly.

“Your supper,
Mistress
,” said the slave.

“Go,” said Kurik to the waitress. “Then return, and kneel, from time to time, to see if we would be further served.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, frightened, and swiftly withdrew.

“Was Master not hard with a slave?” I asked.

“She does not yet realize she is a slave,” said Kurik.

“She probably does not yet have a private master,” I said. How frightful, I thought, to be on a common chain, uncared for, uncaressed.

“She is probably stupid,” said Kurik. “It takes a stupid girl longer to learn her collar, as they are slower to learn anything.”

“I do not think she is stupid,” I said. I suspected it took longer for some women, particularly Gorean free women, with their pompous, exaggerated self-image, their ponderous, inculcated sense of self-importance, to realize that there was now a collar on their neck. The whip, of course, makes such lessons much easier.

“A woman may maintain for weeks the delusion that she is somehow free,” said Kurik. “Then one night she goes to sleep, thinking she is somehow free, and, in the morning, awakens, knowing that she is truly a slave.”

“If they would only listen to their blood, their heart,” I said.

“There are layers of lies,” said Kurik. “Much must, in some cases, be broken through, gross husks to be peeled away, one after another, until the true woman, soft, vulnerable, open, needful, ready, hoping, is revealed.”

“I am grateful for my warm, flavored gruel,” I said. “I am grateful to have been permitted a spoon. I am pleased that my master has brought me here, that he has let me kneel so close to him.”

Indeed, he could have reached out and touched me.

“Keep your knees spread a bit,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Perhaps this was a subtle thing, but it helped to remind me that I was not only a slave, but a particular sort of slave, a pleasure slave. What girl does not wish to be her master's pleasure slave? How this position reassures a girl of her master's interest; and how she must tremble when he allows her a laxity in such matters. Must he not then be thinking of ridding himself of her? Must he not then be thinking of giving her to someone, or taking her to a girl exchange or market?

“Would you like a honey cake, and a small vessel of ruby ka-la-na?” he asked.

“It will be as Master pleases,” I said.

There was a snap of a whip from the kitchen, and a cry of pain.

“Master?” I said.

“I suspect a waitress has been encouraged to be more attentive to guests,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

A moment later our waitress reappeared, tears on her cheeks, her hair half obscuring her countenance, and knelt at our table, inquiring if we might desire aught else.

“You are learning deference,” said Kurik.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He then specified some items, with which we might conclude our pleasant, but modest repast.

“Such waitresses,” said Kurik, “other than those to whom you were accustomed on your former world, do not expect tips. They hope, rather, not to be beaten.”

I was silent.

Later, we left the restaurant, and were walking back, to our rental. It was about the eighteenth Ahn. I was not leashed.

“Would you like to walk beside me?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said. “It is the place of a slave to heel her master, or, if he wishes to display her, as on a promenade, to precede him, leashed.”

“Would you like to be so displayed?” he asked.

“I am not a display slave,” I said. I thought of Paula, of course. She had been purchased in the Curulean, to be a display slave. Only on Gor had I come to realize how beautiful Paula was, with her high intelligence, her passion, her profound slave needs. “I am better behind you,” I said, “in heeling position.”

“You are not a bad looking slave,” he said.

I could still relish the taste of the tiny honey cake, and the sips of ka-la-na I had been allowed. When one is a slave, small things can be important, and precious, to one. I suspected that a slave might value such things, small things, a pastry, a candy, a bit of honey cake, more than a well-to-do free woman, particularly of a high caste, might the expensive delicacies and sumptuous fare that were at her disposal, and to which she might be accustomed.

“Master has seen to my figure, and my posture and carriage,” I said.

Indeed, a slave is expected to appear as, and walk as, a slave. It is no wonder free women so hate us. They do not dare present themselves as a slave must, or be punished, a way in which we soon revel, as women. We learn grace, and deference, and our diction is to be soft, clear, and modest, suitable for slaves.

It had been a cheap ka-la-na, as ka-la-nas go, but even so the taste and bouquet had been exquisite, surely as good, or better, than any wine I had known on my former world, at least before my acquisition. I had had a similar experience, startling me, in the holding of the slavers, before I had been shipped as stock, as cargo, to Gor.

A slave, apparently bent on an errand, hurried past, but turned, to look after my master. “Keep your eyes to yourself!” I hissed at her. “That will be enough of that,” said my master, and then I cried out in pain, for my master had put his hand in my hair, and I was bent back, helplessly, in the position of the slave bow, which position well accentuates a slave's figure. It is often used in auction houses and on slave shelves. The slave laughed merrily, and spun about, hurrying on.

“Excellent,” said a passing fellow, regarding me, helpless, in the slave bow. “I will give you a quarter of a tarsk-bit for her.”

Kurik laughed and put me in leading position, his hand in my hair, my head held closely at his hip. One is not only helpless in this position, but it is awkward, and humiliating. In it, one is well reminded one is a slave. “She looked at you, she looked at you!” I said.

“And so men look at you,” he said.