“Then you do not think the less of me?” she asked.
“No, I admire you. I admire you!” he said, admiring her.
“And thus,” she said, “do we free women show men our modesty.”
“And you have a very lovely modesty,” affirmed Boots admiringly.
“Oh!” she cried, suddenly, as though in the most acute embarrassment, and, crouching down, hastily pulled her skirt down about her ankles.
“I thought you were a free woman,” exclaimed Boots.
“I am!” she cried. “I am!”
“And you go face-stripped before a strange man?” he inquired.
“Oh!” she cried, miserably, leaping up, once more pulling her skirt up, high about her face, using it once more to conceal her features.
“Ah!” cried Boots, appreciatively.
“Oh!” she cried in misery, thrusting her skirt down as though in great embarrassment.
“Face-stripped!” cried Boots, as though scandalized.
Up went the skirt.
“Ah!” cried Boots. “Ah!”
Down came the skirt.
“Face-stripped,” said Boots, reprovingly.
“What is a poor girl to do!” cried the Brigella. “What is a poor girl to do!”
The skirt’s hem, clutched in her small hands, she moaning with misery and frustration, leapt up and down, again and again, in ever-shortening cycles until she held it, frustratedly, between her bosom and throat. In this fashion, of course, to the amusement of most of the crowd, it concealed neither her “modesty,” so to speak, nor her features.
It must be understood, of course, to fully appreciate what was going on, that the public exposure of the features of a free woman, particularly one of high caste, or with some pretense to position or status, is a socially serious matter in many Gorean localities. Indeed, in some cities an unveiled free woman is susceptible to being taken into custody by guardsmen, then to be veiled, by force if necessary, and publicly conducted back to her home. Indeed, in some cities she is marched back to her home stripped, except for the face veil which has been put on her. In these cases a crowd usually follows, to see to what home it is that she is to be returned. Repeated offenses in such a city usually result in the enslavement of the female. Such serious measures, of course, are seldom required to protect such familiar Gorean proprieties. Custom, by itself, normally suffices.
Social pressures, too, in various ways, contribute to the same end. An unveiled woman, for example, may find other women turning away from her in a market, perhaps with expressions of disgust. Indeed, she may not even be waited upon, or dealt with, in a market by a free woman unless she first kneels. It would not be unusual for her, in a crowded place, to overhear remarks, perhaps whispers or sneers, of which she is the obvious object, such as “Shameless slut,” “Brazen baggage,” “As immodest as a slave,” “I wonder who her master is,” and “Put a collar on her!” And if she should attempt to confront or challenge her assailants, she will merely find such remarks repeated articulately and clearly to her face.
Slaves, incidentally, are commonly forbidden facial veiling. Their features are commonly kept naked, exposed fully to public view. In this way they may be looked upon by men, even casually, whenever and however they might be pleased to do so. That the Earth girl commonly thinks little of this exposure of her features, incidentally, is one of the many reasons that many Goreans think of her as a natural slave. For a Gorean girl that she is now, suddenly, no longer entitled to facial veiling, unless it pleases the master to grant it to her, is one of the most fearful and significant aspects of her transition into bondage. Her features, in all their sensitivity and beauty, so intimate, personal and private to her, so revelatory of her deepest and most secret thoughts, feelings and emotions, are now exposed to public view, to be looked upon, and read, by whomsoever may be pleased to do so.
It is interesting to note that even some Earth girls on Gor, after a short while, tend to become sensitive to this sort of thing. It is usually interpreted by both sorts of girls, then, for a time, as a part of the “shame” of the collar. In a little longer while, of course, neither sort of girl, the Gorean girl or the Earth girl now sensitive to the subtler implications of facial exposure, thinks anything more about it, or at least not normally. Both have now learned that they are naught but slaves, and that that is all there is to it. No longer do they aspire to the prerogatives of the free woman. Their exposure, their human legibility, so to speak, like their obedience, service, love and discipline, is part of their condition. In a sense they find it liberating. It frees them from the temptations of deceit, pretense and restraint. Seldom now do they think, among themselves, of the “shame” of the collar. Rather, now, in their place in the perfection of nature, yielded fully, helplessly, choicelessly, if you like, submitted at the feet of men, their deepest sexuality and needs recognized, attended to and fulfilled, they tend to think of its joy. No longer now do they aspire to the privileges and prerogatives of the free woman; let her continue to live in her house of inhibition and convention; let her have her frigidities, jealousies and shams; they have found something a thousand times more precious, their meaning, their significance, their happiness, their joy, their fulfillment, their collars.
“What am I to do?” called the lovely Brigella to the crowd, the hem of her garment clutched up about her neck. Her lovely lips pouted. It seemed she was almost in tears. How seemingly distraught she was, how seemingly dismayed she was with her dilemma!
“Kneel down!” called a man jovially.
“Take off your clothes!” called another.
“Lick his feet!” suggested another.
“Slave!” said the free woman, coldly, imperiously, obviously addressing the Brigella, and in no uncertain terms.
“Mistress,” responded the girl immediately, frightened, breaking out of character, turning about and kneeling down. She had been addressed by a free woman.
“Head to the boards!” snapped the free woman.
Immediately the girl put her head down to the boards. She trembled. Such women are totally at the mercy of free persons.
“Are you the owner of this slave?” asked the free woman of Boots Tarsk-Bit.
“Yes, Lady,” he said.
“I suggest that she be beaten,” she said.
“Perhaps an excellent suggestion,” said Boots Tarsk-Bit, “as she is a slave, but have you any special reason in mind, not that one needs one, of course.”
“I do not care for her performance,” said the free woman.
“It is difficult to please everyone,” Boots admitted. “But I assure you that if I, her master, am not fully satisfied with her performance, I will personally tie her and see that she is well whipped.”
“I find her performance disgusting,” she said.
“Yes, Lady,” said Boots.
“And I find it an insult to free women!” said the free woman.
“Yes, Lady,” said Boots, patiently.
“Let us see the rest of the play,” said a man.
“So beat her!” said the free woman.
“I see no reason to beat her,” said Boots. “She is doing precisely what she is supposed to be doing. She is obeying. She is being obedient. If she were not being obedient, then I would beat her, then I would see to it that she were suitably and lengthily lashed.”
“Beat her!” demanded the free woman.
“Shall I beat her?” inquired Boots of the crowd.
“No!” called a man.
“No!” shouted another.
“On with the play!” shouted another.
“Have you a license for this performance?” inquired the free woman.
“Have mercy on me, Lady,” said Boots. “I am come on hard times. Only yesterday I had to sell my golden courtesan, just to make ends meet.”
It is difficult to run a Gorean company of Boots’s sort without a golden courtesan. That is one of the major stock characters in this form of drama. That character occurs prob
ably in fifty to sixty percent of the farces constituting the repertory of such a company. It would be like trying to get along without a comic merchant, a Brigella, a Bina, a Lecchio or a Chino. I already knew of Boots’s difficulty. I had learned of it yesterday evening. Indeed, I had already seen fit, for reasons of my own, to engage in certain actions pertinent to the matter.
“Have you a license?” pressed the free woman.
“Last year I did not have one, admittedly, due to some fearful inadvertence,” admitted Boots, “but I would not risk that twice at the Sardar Fair. I have settled my debts here. Indeed, no sooner had I settled one than it seemed that a thousand creditors, guardsmen at their backs, descended upon me, like jards upon an unwatched roast. At the point of their steel I became enamored with the satisfactions attendant upon the pursuit of punctilious honesty. And destitution, when all is said and done, is doubtless a negligible price to pay for so glorious a boon as the improvement of one’s character.”
“You do have a license then?” she asked.
“I had to sell my golden courtesan to purchase one,” said Boots.
“You have one then?” she asked.
“Yes, kind lady!” said Boots.
“It is my intention to see that it is revoked,” she said.
“Good,” said one of the men. “Go off, and see to it.”
“Get on with the play!” called another.
“Have mercy, kind lady,” begged Boots.
“I do not think that I will see fit to show you mercy in this matter,” she said.
“Take off that blue tent of hers and put her under the whip,” said a man.
Blue is the color of the scribes.
Her robes did seem a bit unnecessarily voluminous, even for Robes of Concealment. It was difficult, beneath all those obscurations, to conjecture her lineaments.
I wondered if she were attractive.
It was difficult to tell, as she was dressed. It is easier to make that determination if a woman is in slave silk, or nude, in a collar.
I did sense that she was intelligent, and that often accompanies beauty.
I wondered if, stripped, she might be found pleasing by men.
She was at least, at least as far as I could tell, intelligent. That always adds promise to a woman.
Perhaps then she was beautiful.
One could always hope so.
“Beat her!” called a man.
“Enslave her,” growled another.
“Silence, silence, rabble!” she cried, turning about, facing the crowd.
“Rabble?” inquired a fellow. Assuredly the crowd was composed mostly of free men.
“Rabble!” said another fellow, angrily.
“Beasts and scum!” she cried.
“Enslave her!” said a man.
“Get her a collar,” said a man. “She will then quickly mend her ways.”
“Take off her clothes,” said another. “Bracelet her. Put her on a leash.”
“I have bracelets and a leash here,” said a man.
“Put them on her,” said another. “Conduct her to an iron worker.”
“I will pay for her branding,” said another.
“I will share the cost,” said another.
“I am Telitsia, Lady of Asperiche,” she said. “I am a free woman! I am not afraid of men!”
I smiled to myself. She was perfectly safe, of course, for she was within the perimeters of the Sardar Fair. How brave women can be within the context of conventions! I wondered if they understood the artificiality, the fragility, the tentativeness, the revocability of those subtle ramparts. Did they truly confuse them with walls of stone and the forces of weaponry? Did they understand the differences between the lines and colors on maps and the realities of a physical terrain? To what extent did they comprehend the fictional or mythical nature of those castles within which they took refuge, from the heights of which they sought to impress their will on worlds? Did they not know that one day men might say to them, “The castle does not exist,” and that they might then find themselves once again, the patience of men ended, the folly concluded, the game over, struck to their place in nature, gazing upward at masters? Asperiche, incidentally, is an exchange island, or free island, in Thassa. It is south of Teletus and Tabor. It is administered by merchants.
“Let us continue with the play,” suggested a man, irritably.
“Yes, yes,” said others. “On with the play!” “Continue!” “Get on with the play!”
“I understand that your Brigella is good,” said a man. “I want to see her, fully.”
The Brigella trembled, but she, still kneeling, could not lift her head from the boards. She had not yet received permission to do so. She did not, accordingly, know who it was who had expressed interest in her. I had little doubt, however, that she would now perform marvelously, that she would now play superbly to the entire crowd, that she would now make a special effort to be as deliciously skillful and juicily appealing in her role as possible. Someone was out there, doubtless with money in his wallet, who might be interested in spending it on her, buying her. This doubtless thrilled her, and pleased her vanity. It is a great compliment to a woman to be willing to buy her. It is then up to the girl to see that the man gets a thousand times his money’s worth, and more. I licked my lips in anticipation.
“With your permission, Lady Telitsia?” inquired Boots, addressing himself politely to the haughty, rigid, proud, vain, heavily veiled, blue-clad free female standing in the front row below the stage.
“You may continue,” she said.
“But you may find what ensues offensive,” Boots warned her.
“Doubtless I will,” she said. “And have no fear, I shall include it in my complaint to the proper magistrates.”
“You wish to remain?” asked Boots, puzzled.
“Yes,” she said, “but do not expect a coin from me.”
I smiled. The Lady Telitsia was obviously as interested in seeing the rest of the play as the rest of us. I found this interesting.
“The simple beneficence of your presence, that of a noble free woman, is in itself a reward far beyond our deserving,” Boots assured her.
“What is he saying?” asked a man.
“He is saying that she is more than we deserve,” growled a fellow.
“That is true,” laughed a man.
“She could be taught to be pleasing,” said a man.
“True,” said a man.
“That might be amusing,” said a man.
“I would be willing to do it,” said a man.
“I, too,” said another.
“It is not difficult to improve a woman when one has total power over her,” said a man.
“True,” said a man.
“One can then make her perfect,” said another.
“Yes,” said another.
“You may continue,” said the Lady Telitsia, loftily, to Boots Tarsk-Bit, ignoring these remarks.
“Thank you, kind lady,” he said. He then turned to the Brigella. “Girl!” he snapped. His demeanor toward the Brigella was quite different from that toward the free woman. She, of course, was a slave. She leaped to her feet, clutching her skirt’s hem again up about her neck.
“Shameless,” said the free woman.
The Brigella anxiously surveyed the crowd, trying to guess who it might be who had expressed interest in her. It could, indeed, have been any one of several men. Then she smiled prettily and flexed her knees. It was very well done. I think she probably made every man in the audience want to get his hands on her. She then, pouting and affecting her expression of dainty, ladylike consternation, prepared to resume her role in the interrupted farce.
“Continue,” signaled Boots Tarsk-Bit, himself returning to his comedic role.
“If I lift my skirt it seems I must reveal my modesty to a stranger,” she wailed to the audience, “whereas should I lower it I must then, it seems, face-strip myself before him as brazenly as might a hussy! Oh, what is a po
or girl to do?”
“I myself, putatively lovely lady, have in my pack the answer to your very problem,” announced Boots.
“Pray, tell, good sir,” she cried, “what might it be?”
“A veil,” said he.
“That is just what I need!” she cried.
“But it is no ordinary veil,” he said.
“Let me see it,” she begged.
“I wonder if you will be able to see it,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“But, of course, you will be able to see it,” he said, “for you are obviously a free woman!”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“It is a veil woven by the magicians of Anango,” he said.
“Not them!” she cried.
“The same,” he agreed solemnly. Anango, like Asperiche, is an exchange, or free, island in Thassa, administered by members of the caste of merchants. It is, however, unlike Asperiche, very far away. It is far south of the equator, so far south as to almost beyond the ken of most Goreans, except as a place both remote and exotic. The jungles of the Anangoan interior serve as the setting for various fanciful tales, having to do with strange races, mysterious plants, and fabulous animals. The “magicians of Anango,” for what it is worth, seem to be well known everywhere on Gor except in Anango. In Anango itself it seems folks have never heard of them.
“And it is the special property of this veil,” Boots solemnly assured the girl, “that it is visible only to free persons.”
“It would not do then to wear it before slaves,” she said.
“Perhaps not,” said Boots, “but then who cares what slaves think?”
“True,” she said. “Let me see it! Let me see it!”
“But I have it here in my hand,” said Boots.
“How beautiful it is!” she cried. There was much laughter. The device of the invisible cloth, or invisible object, a stone, a sword, a garment, a house, a boat, supposedly visible only to those with special properties, is a commonplace in Gorean folklore. This type of story has many variations.
Boots held the supposed cloth up, turning it about, displaying it.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” asked Boots.
“No!” she said.
Players of Gor Page 17
