Kajira of Gor

by Norman, John;

  "You do it very well," he said.

  I lifted my head, tears in my eyes. "But I do beg for love!" I said. 'I have not been contented in weeks!"

  "How many of you other girls," asked the whip master, regarding the class, "beg for love?"

  "I, Master!" cried a girl. "I, Master!" cried others.

  "How many?" he asked.

  And there was not one girl, naked and in her collar, in the entire class who did not raise her hand.

  "Good," said the whip master. "Then you are hungry."

  Our training then continued.

  * * * *

  "No two masters are the same," said the whip master, "except in so far as each is the total master, just as no two slaves are the same, except that each is a total slave."

  We all sat facing him, our backs against the wall of the training room. The palms of our hands were flat on the floor at our sides and our legs were extended before us, the ankles crossed, as though bound.

  "You must, accordingly, strive to understand, relate to, serve and please the unique master in each man. You must bring your own individual personalities and talents to bear on this challenge. Try in your uniqueness to be perfect and special for him in his uniqueness. Read him. Learn him. Become acutely aware of him. Be sensitive to his moods, and their changes. Find out what he wants from you, and then see that he gets it, and more. Find out what he wants you to be, and then be it, beyond his wildest dreams. Remember that you are the slave. You exist for his service and pleasure."

  * * * *

  "That is it, Tiffany," he said. "Stretch your limbs. Examine their fairness. Now look at the master. That is how you take a bath before a man. Will he drag you forth and have you on the slippery tiles or will he take you in the bath itself?"

  * * * *

  "Do not forget to kiss the sandal, humbly, before tying it on his foot," said the whip master, "just as, when you remove them, you kiss them, before putting them away."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  * * * *

  "Gently, Tiffany," said the whip master. "You are not rubbing down a tharlarion."

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "Use the sponge well," he said. "Remember that it must not only clean but caress, and do not forget, in this service, to fondle and kiss the master, humbly and lovingly."

  I kissed the wet shoulder of the man in the bath, and then kissed his cheek, through the wet canvas hood drawn over his face. He moaned. He was a male slave.

  "Similarly," said the whip master, "do not forget to press your body sometimes against that of the master, sometimes seemingly inadvertently. Along these lines, for example, it is easy, seemingly accidentally, to brush his lips with a pendant breast. If his lips should part you might then press it more closely against him, begging. You might then be cuffed back in the water, but later you will doubtless be well used."

  * * * *

  I knelt before the whip master, anxiously lifting the tray to him. He picked up one of the biscuits. He turned it over. "This biscuit is burned on the bottom," he said. "If this happens again, you will be whipped."

  "Yes, Master," I said. "Forgive me, Master."

  * * * *

  "Good, Ruby," said the whip master. "That is how to remove a man's tunic. Make it a sensuous experience for him, in which you show him your slavery and your eagerness to serve. You may replace your tunic, Abdar."

  "Yes, Master," said the hooded slave.

  "You next, Tiffany," said the whip master.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  * * * *

  "These biscuits are acceptable," he said. "In fact, they are good."

  "Thank you, Master!" I said.

  * * * *

  "Good, Tiffany," said the whip master. "That is how you belly to a man. Put your head down, now. Let me feel your lips and tongue." "Master," I whimpered. "Good," he said. "Later, too, when your hair reaches a suitable length, make certain that it falls about the master's sandals." "Yes, Master," I said.

  I sensed that our training was coming to an end. We were returning to various basics, almost as elementary as scales to the musician, such things as basic kisses, caresses, positions, attitudes and movements.

  "Good," he said.

  I had once been Miss Tiffany Collins, of Earth. I now lay on my belly on the tiles, naked and in a collar, licking and kissing at the feet of a Gorean male. It was my hope that he would find me pleasing, totally.

  * * * *

  "Attention, Class," said the whip master.

  We all straightened up, sitting, facing him, our backs against the wall of the training room. The palms of our hands were flat on the floor at our sides and our legs were extended before us, the ankles crossed, as though bound.

  "The results of your tests, your examinations, are now in. It is my pleasure to inform you that you have all passed."

  We dared not break position, so well trained we were, but we cried out with pleasure. We had worked hard. We did not wish to be fed to sleen, or, perhaps, if our internal slavery was adequate, but our external performances insufficient, being sent to a laundry or returned to a mill, where we might have to remain perhaps indefinitely.

  "It is an excellent class, one of the best I have had," he said.

  "Thank you, Master," said several of the girls.

  "Too," he said, "there is not one of you, as the tests have shown, who is not an authentic slave; there is not one of you who, from the bottom of her pretty belly, does not belong in a collar."

  I knew this was true of me. I did not know, of course, if it were true of the other girls or not. Any last doubts on the rightness of the collar on my neck had been dispelled in my training. I now knew it belonged there. I was pleased to have been brought to Gor where I, whether I wished it or not, with absolutely no compromise, would be put in it.

  "I am proud of all of you," said the whip master. "You are all luscious and exciting sluts. Indeed, I think there is not one of you would not bring a silver tarsk on the open market."

  We cried out, elated, to hear this. We looked at one another, joy in our faces. I almost lifted the palms of my hands from the floor and uncrossed my ankles, but, of course I did not do so. How pleased we were. What high praise this was. We had not understood how valuable we might have become as women.

  "But, remember," said the whip master, "you have, really, learned only a little. You have been familiarized with only a small selection of basic skills, apprised of only a handful of fundamentals. Your education, when you leave here, is not complete, but only begun. You may learn more in your first few days out of school, in the practical contexts of bondage, under the control and whips of masters, than you have here in five weeks. But even then, remember that you, in your collars, are still amateurs at slavery. You could not begin to compete with an experienced girl. Continue to apply yourself, to learn, to work, to love and serve. Some years from now you may begin to grasp an inkling of what can be the skills, the sensitivities and talents, the emotions, the depths of feeling, of the slave. The other side of the coin of freedom is bondage. One cannot exist without the other. The master is free and you are slave."

  We looked at one another. There was much in what he said. We must strive desperately to please. We were, for most practical purposes, new girls, untutored in our collars. Most of us, even, were from the mills. We would be zealous to please. Most masters are sensitive to this. They are likely to be kinder to an unskilled girl zealous to please than a skilled one who permits her performances to lapse from standards of perfection. She may, of course, at the master's whim, by various correctional devices, be swiftly restored to zealousness. Sometimes, too, of course, she is merely sold into a lower slavery, that she may earnestly endeavor, perhaps through years of effort, to work her way up again to, say, a single-master-single-slave relationship. The mistake of even minutely relaxing or reducing the quality of her service is not one a girl is likely to make twice.

  "All that remains now," said the whip master, "is to give you some experience in t
he types of situations in which you are likely, at least in your initial bondage applications, to find yourself."

  28

  School;

  I Have Graduated

  "I am so tired," I said.

  "So, too, am I," said Crystal.

  "We all are," said Tupa.

  It was now late at night. We had been serving this mock banquet, under the directions of a floor manager, our whip master generally to one side, looking on, since early morning. It was done in the training room, with tables set up. We did not serve actual food, of course, though we carried trays and dishes, and such.

  "You are Tiffany?" asked the floor manager.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "Fruit, there," he said, pointing to a place at the table. One of his aides was there, playing the role of a banqueter.

  "Yes, Master," I said. I, and the rest of the class, was naked, save for our collars and strings of slave bells tied about our left ankles. It was not thought necessary to soil slave silks in what, in effect, was a successive series of rehearsals. The floor manager did wish to make certain, of course, that we moved well, belled. The floor manager, or banquet manager, or feast master, as one may think of him, is extremely important in this type of affair. He controls the arrangement and order of the banquet, the catering, if any is required, and the musicians, dancers and serving slaves. Our class, twenty girls, were acting as the serving slaves. Another class, the next cycle in the training program, was kneeling to one side, observing. I wanted desperately to talk to one member of that next class. The musicians were no longer playing. Similarly the dancers were off to one side, many of them now sleeping. The musicians were free. Musicians on Gor, that is, members of the caste of musicians, are seldom, if ever, enslaved. Their immunity from bondage, or practical immunity from bondage, is a matter of custom. There is a saying to the effect that he who makes music must, like the tarn and the Vosk gull, be free. This is a saying, however, which I suspect was invented by the caste of musicians, to protect itself from bondage. For example, there are many musicians on Gor, not members of the caste, who are enslaved. For example, it is quite common on Gor to train a slave girl in the use of a musical instrument, that she might be more pleasing to masters. It never seems to occur to anyone that she should then be freed. Indeed, it is felt that since she is in a collar, it will make her performance, her playing, and perhaps her singing, even more superb. Too, some male slaves are fine musicians. The only other caste on Gor which is generally considered, for most practical purposes, as immune from bondage is the caste of players. These are the fellows who make their living from the game of Kaissa, playing it for prizes, charging for games, giving instruction and exhibitions, annotating games, and so on. They are usually poor fellows but generally have little trouble securing a night's food and lodging for a game or two. The general affection and respect which Goreans feel for the game of Kaissa is probably the explanation for the practical immunity from bondage commonly accorded the members of the caste of players. Slaves are seldom permitted to play Kaissa. In some cities it is against the law for them to do so. It is often thought to be an insult to the game to even let them touch the pieces. The dancers, on the other hand, several of whom were sleeping to the side, were all females, and slaves. Few free women, I suspect, would dare to dance the dances of Gor before strong men. If they did so, how long could they expect to remain free? Any woman who dares to appear so before men, and dance, it is said, is in her heart a slave. Let her then be collared! Whatever may be the truth in these matters it is a fact that almost all of the dancers on Gor are slaves. Indeed, many of the most beautiful and exciting slaves on Gor are dancers. They bring their masters much gold.

  I now knelt before the low table, before the floor manager's aide. I carried a round, empty silver platter, about eighteen inches in diameter. The floor manager accompanied me to the place, and crouched down, beside me, watching.

  I lowered my head and body, from the waist down, humbly, and then, slowly, gracefully, lifted my body and head to where I might look up into the eyes of the aide. I then lifted the tray upward and toward him, proffering it to him, as though it might contain luscious fruit, at the same time lifting my body subtly to him. "Fruit, Master?" I asked.

  "How did it look?" asked the floor manager.

  "Good," said the aide. "Do you wish to take this perspective?"

  The floor manager stepped over the low table, going behind it. "Again, Tiffany," he said.

  I withdrew and, again, performed.

  "Yes," he said. "That is good." It must be understood, of course, that the girl is offering not merely the luscious fruits on the plate to the guest but, too, if he should be interested, the fruits of her beauty. Similar offerings and invitations are ingredient in such expressions as "Meat, Master," "A tender morsel, Master," "Viands for your delectation, Master," and so on. An almost classical instance of this sort of thing occurs when the girl approaches from the side and back, and whispers "Wine, Master?" into the man's ear. This is to be contrasted with the common wine service in which the girl kneels, knees wide, before the man, kisses the cup, if permitted, and then, head down, humbly, arms extended, submissively, proffers it to him. In both services, of course, it is clear that the girl is a slave, and is at the disposal of the master, in all senses.

  "Suppose, now," said the floor manager, "he reaches out and touches you."

  I closed my eyes, and parted my lips. "Yes, Master," I whispered. "Thank you, Master! Please, Master!"

  "You must be capable of variations on that," said the floor manager.

  "Yes, Master," I said. I wished he had let the aide actually touch me. I was starving for the touch of a man.

  "Perhaps what you have to serve is of interest," said the aide, playing the role of a banqueter. "I do not know. Display it for me."

  I then put the tray down on the table and slipped back, on my knees, a foot or two. I looked at the aide. I pretended to slip slave silk from my shoulders. I then, sometimes on the floor, and never rising higher than my knees, displayed my limbs, and moved and turned before him, showing myself to him in various postures and attitudes. In this type of display expressions, too, are quite important, and being keenly alert to the possibilities of interactions with the master. For example, how do you act when you see his eye roving you, and you note indications of interest? Do you dare to seem to express outrage or resentment under his frank examination, do you feign boredom and mechanical compliance, that he may be tempted to turn you into a squirming slut begging for his least touch, are you brazen in your display, an insolent slave, are you proud to exhibit the beauty of your master's merchandise, do you show fear before this strange man, before whom you must so vulnerably perform, do you permit him to glimpse needs, do you beg him, in your performance, for his touch, and so on. On Gor it is the whole woman who is enslaved, in the fullness and depth of her intelligence and emotions. On Gor it is the whole woman who is collared. Gorean masters will have it no other way. I performed then before the floor manager's aide, totally a slave. In short, I put myself through slave paces before him, presenting myself as a total female for his interest and consideration.

  Though it was late and we were tired I saw sweat on the brow of the floor manager's aide. I saw his hands move, the fingers wiping sweat from them.

  "Very good, Tiffany," said the floor manager. "You may rest now."

  "Thank you, Master," I said.

  I then retrieved the tray and withdrew. As soon as I had replaced the tray on the serving table, I hurried to where the girls from the next class, that which was next in the training cycle, knelt.

  I knelt down with them. "Emily," I said. "What are you doing here?"

  "How beautiful you all are," said Emily. "We will never be able to be so beautiful."

  "Nonsense," I said. "You, too, will be beautiful. It is just that you have not yet been trained."

  "Perhaps," said Emily. Her eyes seemed red with weeping.

  "Why are you here?" I asked. />
  "I do not know," she said. "I must have displeased Aemilianus. Men came for me. I was taken from the house. I was brought to the school yesterday."

  "Do you still wear his collar?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "He still owns me." She looked about herself, at the other members of her class. "Like the others," she added.

  "I thought he liked you," I said.

  "I thought he did, too," she smiled.

  "Do you like him?" I asked.

  "I love him," she said, "but he has sent me away."

  I nodded. Such may be done with a slave. She is completely at the master's will.

  "He is young," I said. "Perhaps he feared your love."

  "Perhaps," she smiled.

  We watched Crystal displaying herself, after the pretended serving of fruit.

  "How beautiful you girls are," said Emily.

  "We have been taught our collars," I said.

  "I wonder if we can ever become as beautiful," said a girl, one in Emily's class.

  "Of course you can," I said.

  "I am almost jealous of you, Tiffany," said Emily, "how you look, how you move, how you carry yourself, how exciting and beautiful you have become, how owned, how slavelike!"

  "I am the same Tiffany I was," I said.

  "No," she said. "You are not."

  "Perhaps not," I said.

  "Musicians and dancers may leave," called the floor manager. "Tupa to serve fruit. Tupa to the table."

  The musicians were soon filing out of the room. The dancers, eleven of them, put on a light neck-chain, dangling between them, followed them.

  Another whip master, not he who had supervised the training of our class, appeared. "Class, rise," he said. "Form a single line."