Plunder of Gor (83 page)

“No!” she wept. “It is on my neck as much as yours.”

“Surely you wish a private master,” I said, “before whom you might kneel, whose feet you might cover with kisses.”

She squirmed, and sobbed, uncontrollably.

“Is it not true?” I said.

“Yes,” she wept, “even in my robes and veils, I thought such things, and in countless dreams I found myself so.”

“In a restaurant, as in a tavern,” I said, “you have an opportunity to present yourself, humbly and hopefully, beautifully, before men. Do you not think some of those men would wish to lead you home with them? Might not a man offer your master coin for you, coin that he would be unlikely to refuse?”

“It is too late,” she said. “I am caught. I am bound.”

“I see the lamp of guardsmen, afar,” said Kurik. “They return.”

The slave put down her head, and moaned.

I looked up to my master, my eyes, I fear, bright with tears. “Dear Master,” I said, “in the restaurant, you inquired of this slave if there were an Exchange House in the vicinity, and having been informed that this was so, you commanded her to slip from the restaurant, and, meeting outside, to conduct you there personally, to be returned to the restaurant when this errand was completed.”

“Oh?” said Kurik.

“Yes,” I said.

“Who would believe that?” he asked.

“Who would doubt the word of a free man?” I asked.

“Is this what you want, Phyllis?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Kurik then bent to the bonds of the slave, and freed her, wholly.

“Now,” I said. “We are going back to the restaurant. Get up, and walk along with us, nicely.”

“Do so,” said Kurik. “You may live. And if you live, you owe your life to a barbarian.”

The slave, unsteady, trembling, rose to her feet.

“There is nothing out of the ordinary in this,” I said to the slave. “Our pace is leisurely.”

I looked back.

Happily the lamp of the guardsmen was far behind.

In a few Ehn we were near the main portal of the restaurant, that giving access to the restaurant from the facing street.

Some four or five individuals were outside the portal. Two held lamps.

“Open your mouth,” said Kurik, my master, to the slave.

She did so, and Kurik slipped a coin in her mouth. This is not that unusual or unseemly; slave girls, and even many free persons, often carry coins in the mouth. Slave tunics lack pockets and so, too, do most Gorean garments, a prominent exception being the tunics of craftsmen. A slave girl shopping, for example, will almost always carry the buying coins in her mouth, or clutched in her hand, perhaps wrapped in a handkerchief or, in the case of some coins, threaded on a string. The disadvantage of carrying the coins visibly is that their obvious presence might encourage buffeting and theft, particularly where slaves are concerned. Most free Goreans will carry a purse, or wallet, usually slung on a string, strap, or cord, commonly attached to a belt, or girdle. Some thieves are proficient a cutting such attachments, or, even, the purse or wallet itself.

“What are you doing?” I asked my master.

“That is a tarsk, a whole copper tarsk,” said my master, apparently determined that I might not overlook the extent of his generosity, “a gratuity for the use of the slave.”

“Ho!” called a fellow, stepping forth from the group. “I see you have caught —.”

“Not at all,” said Kurik. “I am merely accompanying her, to see that she reaches your chains safely. I would not wish her, after her aid to me, on your behalf, to be seized in the darkness, and carried off.”

“I do not understand,” he said.

The fellow cast a proprietary glance on the slave, who lowered her head, and I assumed he was her master.

Both the slave and I then knelt, as we were in the presence of free persons.

“She ran away,” said the fellow.

“Certainly not,” said Kurik. “I was interested in visiting a local Exchange House. As the slave knew of such an establishment I thought it would be convenient to prevail upon her to guide me to it, which I did.”

“How dared she act so?” demanded her owner.

“How could she dare not do so?” inquired Kurik. “Would you have her, on your own premises, deny a legitimate command issued by a free person?”

“I should have been informed,” said the man.

“Doubtless,” said Kurik. “The fault is mine. I commanded instant obedience. What choice had she? Surely your slaves understand instant obedience.”

“They do,” said the fellow.

“I am sorry that I did not realize that her absence, so brief, might have been of concern,” said Kurik. “For that I apologize. On the other hand, I appreciate the use of the slave, and am pleased to show my appreciation.”

“Oh?” said the fellow.

Kurik snapped his fingers, and the girl dropped the coin from her mouth into the palm of her hand, and, head down, lifted it to her master.

One of the fellows whistled, softly.

It was not a tarsk-bit, or two, but an entire copper tarsk.

“For such a gratuity,” said her owner, “I would let her run all over —.”

Some of the fellows with the master laughed.

“She is quite beautiful,” said Kurik. “If I were you, I would have her wait on prime customers, serve at the better tables, and so on. You might, in time, make a nice profit on her, even though she is from the loathsome city of —.”

“May its gates break from their hinges,” said a man.

“May its walls collapse,” said another.

“May its wells go dry,” said another.

“May its women grace our coffles,” said another.

“I wish you well,” said Kurik, pleasantly.

Such wishes were mutually proffered, amongst all present.

“—,” said the master, “it is late, time to retire.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are a pretty thing,” he said, “despite your origin. I think I will change your station tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

She was then alone with us, on the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” she said, putting her head down, to Kurik's feet.

“You might thank another, as well,” said Kurik.

The slave knelt up, and, tears in her eyes, kissed her fingertips and pressed them lightly on my left cheek.

“I am a barbarian,” I reminded her, tears in my eyes.

“I wish you well,” she said.

“I wish you well,” I said.

“I must to my cage,” she said, and sprang up, and hastened within the restaurant.

Kurik looked down at me, and smiled. “What a weakling you are,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, happily.

At that point the two guardsmen, one with the guardsman's lamp, arrived.

“The slave is back,” said Kurik to them. “She did not run away. It was all a misunderstanding.”

“I thought so,” said one of the guardsmen. “I would hate to think that any slave was so stupid that she thought she could escape.”

On this world, it is true, I thought, there was no place to which she could escape.

The guardsmen then continued on their way.

Kurik, my master, then turned away, to return the way we had come, and I heeled him. As I followed him, I tied the loose, simple bondage knot in my hair. When we reached the domicile, I trusted that he would notice.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

“Thank you, Master,” I said, grateful for the pleasure he had given me.

“You did not wish to see the slave, the restaurant girl, suitably punished?” he said.

“I did not want her to be slain, or hamstrung,” I said.

“I was testing you,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“You were a sly, clever, inventive little slave,” he said. “That is one of the dangers of having an intelligent slave. Indeed, some are so clever, they sometimes manage to elude the whip, though seldom for long.”

“It is not pleasant to be whipped,” I said. “Am I to understand that you would have disapproved of having had the slave fed to eels, or such?”

“Certainly,” he said. “Why not? Few men could not think of something better to do with a lovely slave than feeding her to eels.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“Had I not proposed my plan,” I said, “might you have thought of intervening?”

“Possibly,” he said.

“Oh?” I said.

“If one were interested,” he said, “there are many ways in which one might intervene, or attempt to do so. One might claim capture rights; one might index a recovery fee to conditions as to the slave's punishment, and so on, a high fee, even a prohibitive or exorbitant one if a severe punishment was in prospect, which an owner would be unwilling or unable to pay, a low fee if some lenience were granted. Such agreements are put in writing, of course, before a praetor's man. One could even keep the slave, or hide her and then sell her privately. If one were a warrior, one might even issue a challenge, a challenge in virtue of sword right, the right of beauty to be claimed by means of the sword. If worse came to worse, one might even consider buying the slave.”

“So extreme a course of action?” I asked.

“It is an interesting fact,” he said, “how a slave's value goes up when one is interested in buying her.”

“As high as four silver tarsks?” I asked.

“Beware,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“But clearly,” he said, “flight is unacceptable. Many punishments are condign. Whippings, close chains, onerous tasks, restriction of diet in quantity and quality, or both, unpleasant slave modalities, shaving the head, denying clothing, public nudity, and such. Afterwards, of course, if the offense should be repeated, one can always think of hamstringing, the removal of feet, the feeding to eels or sleen, or such. One of the best discouragements of flight, of course, is prompt recapture, this convincing the slave that flight is pointless, and impractical. Too, of course, there is always the danger, if one manages to elude one master, of falling into a more severe, more grievous bondage, which is almost certain to be inflicted on an apprehended fugitive slave.

“You would disapprove of eels, and such,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “That would be a waste of slave. Too, not that it matters greatly, it would deprive the slave of her eventual fulfillment and joy. More importantly, it would deprive some master of her service, and the many pleasures to be derived from her body, her mind, her imagination and feelings.”

“You said, on the street, that I was a weakling,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well then,” I said, “are you not a weakling, as well?”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but a slain slave has no value. One wants to make money from the sale of women. Throwing a girl to eels or sleen scarcely improves her value.”

“I think you are kind,” I said.

He glanced to the whip, on its peg.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

He put his hand on my collar.

“Prepare yourself to serve your master's pleasure,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You may please me,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

I lay at the foot of his couch, on the blankets spread over the mat, on the floor, chained by the neck to his slave ring.

Then I rose up, to kneel at the foot of the couch.

“May I ascend the couch, Master?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I lay back on the blankets, on the mat, on the floor, restless.

I lay there for some time. I clenched my fists. I squirmed in the chain's collar. “May I speak?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said. He was awake.

“Touch me,” I said. “Caress me. I am a slave. I am afire. I beg the hands of my master on my body!”

He left the surface of the couch, and knelt before me, and pushed me to my back. He held my ankles up, and parted. So held, I could not approach him.

“You are my property,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. It was true, in full law.

“It is pleasant to have a woman as a property,” he said.

“A girl is pleased to be the property of her master,” I said.

He then turned me about, to my stomach.

Afterwards I turned to my side, facing him. I brushed my sweaty hair back, away from my face.

I bit my lip. “I fear,” I said, “you do not take me seriously.”

“I do take you seriously,” he said, “as a slave.”

He then reached for me, again.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes!”

I was then enraptured again with the joy of being my master's rightless slave.

The next morning I served him breakfast.

After we were finished, and I had cleared the table, and washed the ware, I knelt, before him, but a bit to one side, that he need not look upon me if he did not wish to do so.

“I am at Master's disposal,” I said.

“A slave is always at her master's disposal,” he said.

“Am I to be permitted clothing today?” I asked.

“I have not decided,” he said.

“Yesterday,” I said, “Master purchased me a lovely yellow tunic, though unnecessarily brief.”

“It will go nicely with your dark hair and eyes,” he said.

“It was slit to the hips,” I said. Being slit at the left hip, it might be easily brushed aside, to examine my mark. Slitting the garment at the right side, as well, is presumably done for a variety of purposes, to achieve balance, symmetry, and such. Also, of course, it shows more of the slave. There are various branding sites on Gor, but, by far, the most common is on the left thigh, below the hip. That is where I had been marked. Similarly, there are many slave brands on Gor, but the most common, by far, is the small, delicate, tasteful cursive Kef. It is small, and not obtrusive, but it means so much! How dramatically different I had become when it was put on me. ‘Kef', as earlier mentioned, is the first letter of the Gorean word ‘kajira'.

“Surely you do not object,” he said.

“I may not object,” I said. “I am a slave.”

“Your body is public,” he said, “as much as that of a tarsk or kaiila. You know that much from Merchant Law. Whether it is clothed or not, and to what extent, is up to the master.”

“I understand,” I said.

Then he looked at me fully, and, I think, appreciatively. It much pleases a slave to be looked upon appreciatively.

“You kneel nicely,” he said.

“I have been trained by my master,” I said. I was in nadu.

“You look well in your collar, Phyllis,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said. A kind word, a touch, a caress, can mean much to a slave.

“I knew you would,” he said, “even on your old world, when I first saw you, clothed, in the quaint fashion of your former world. I conjectured how you might look, clad only in a slave collar. And I was not disappointed. It is interesting, a woman clad in the silly raiment of your world and a fine Gorean woman, resplendent in the full robes of concealment. Removing the clothing from both, they are the same. And surely both would wear a collar well. There seems little to choose between them. Both are women. That is the most appropriate clothing for a woman, nothing but the collar of a slave. What clothing needs she other than that?”

“None, Master,” I said.

“May I speak?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I think,” I said, “Master cares for his slave.”

“Remain in position,” he said.

I did so.

“You think I might care for you?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Do not sell me.”

“Freedom is precious, is it not?” he asked.

“Doubtless,” I said. But how could freedom compare with the collar, with being owned, with being a belonging, with the helpless love of a slave for her master?

“Surely you desire freedom,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I am a woman. I want bondage.”

“Perhaps, before,” he said, “when I said I was thinking of freeing you, you thought me jesting.”

“I feared you were not,” I said, uneasily. “I hoped you were.”

“I was serious,” he said.

“Only a fool frees a slave girl,” I smiled. It was a Gorean saying. What rational man, fortunate enough to own a desirable woman, would let her out of his collar?

“I am serious,” he said.

“I am not a man,” I said. “I am a woman!”

“I can have you manumitted,” he said. “We can see a praetor tomorrow. I can buy you slippers, veils, robes, suitable raiment.”

“No!” I said. “No! Do not deny me my collar!”

He regarded me, angrily.

“Do not despise me for what I am,” I begged. “Or, if you will, despise me for what I am, a slave!”

“Slave!” he said.

“Yes, slave!” I said.

“How can I respect you, as a slave?” he said.

“I do not want to be respected,” I said. “I want to be owned, subdued, put to work, mastered, used as a vessel for your lust, a meaningless toy for your pleasures.”

He rose to his feet. His fists were clenched.

“Do not try to make me be like you!” I said. “Do not try to impose your values on me. I have my own values, my own nature and needs! Surely you do not want me to be what you are. I do not want to be what you are. I want to be what I am, and want to be, a woman, a slave!”

I could not see his face for he had turned away.

“Be kind,” I said.

He did not respond.

“Phyllis is a slave,” I said, “and she would be your slave!”

He continued to face away from me. Then he spoke. His voice was cold. “Do you wish to be freed, or sold?” he said.

“I do not want to be sold,” I said.

“Then,” he said, “you want to be freed.”

“No,” I said. “If you must either free me or sell me, sell me.”

He turned about, abruptly, startling me, his fists clenched, strode toward me, and stopped before me, looming over me, looking down at me. I averted my eyes, instantly. I did not think I had ever seen an expression so wild, so possessive, so claimant, so fierce, so exultant. “You Earth bitch!” he cried. And it took me a moment to realize he had spoken in English. “Yes, Master,” I responded, unthinkingly in English. “You are a slave,” he said in Gorean. “Yes, Master,” I said, in Gorean. “Free you?” he said in Gorean. “Free you, never! Who would be fool enough to free a slave? You are in a collar, and you belong in a collar, you Earth slut, and you will stay in a collar!”

“You want me as a slave, do you not?” I said.

He then went to the side, to the wall, and ripped the whip from its peg, and, returning to me, he took my hair in his left hand, and, by the hair, hurled me from nadu to my stomach on the floor, and then I was lashed.

He then returned the whip to its peg.

“The matter is now closed,” he said. “It is to be heard of no more.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And,” he said, “if, when you are worn and neglected, when you are scorned and humiliated, when you are chided and berated, when you are derided and mocked, when you are tired of sleeping on a rug or mat with only a sheet to cover you, when you are tired of slave gruel, lapped from a pan, in the shadow of a whip, when you smart from the switch, improving you in your lessons, when your chains are heavy and you cannot go where you wish to go, and you cannot move more than a yard from your slave ring, if I even suspect you are even thinking of freedom, you will be lashed again, and well lashed again, and as the slave you are.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Now,” he said, “please me, and as the slave you are.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I was once Phyllis Rodgers, a free woman of Earth. I am now simply ‘Phyllis,' and the name has been put on me, as a slave name, for the convenience of masters. Slaves have no names in their own right. Indeed, we have no rights. We belong to our masters. I was captured, and brought to the planet Gor. Here I am a branded, collared kajira, or slave girl.

Here, on this world, I have found my master.

Here, on this world, I have found my identity.

I am a slave, and it is what I want to be.

Scorn me if you wish.

I am complete.

I am happy.

I wish you well,

Phyllis