In my second pass I hovered near the front of the inn building on the left, as one would enter. It was there that several sets of chains had enjoyed the possession of fair occupants, whose names, as I had learned in the paga room from the Lady Temione, were Rimice, Klio and Liomache, all from Cos, Elene, from Tyros, and Amina, a citizeness of Venna. These chains were now empty. I had taken the liberty early this morning, acting through my agent, a sutler, a splendid, if somewhat put-upon and long-suffering, chap, whose name was Ephialtes, to redeem them all, my expenses in the matter, 182 C.T. for the five of them, being considerably defrayed by means of the loot I had acquired from the gang of Andron the evening before. Doubtless they were initially delighted to find that they had been redeemed. Perhaps they had laughed and clapped their hands with joy. Their delight, however, had doubtless been tempered somewhat by finding their necks were being put in iron collars, collars on a chain. As I briefly hovered there, over the court, I could see, too, partly to my irritation, and partly to my amusement, to one side, some additional evidence of the business acumen of the keeper. He had not simply permitted the women to be redeemed. He had gotten something of value from them, perhaps as a penalty fee, or as something in the way of compensation for the inconvenience they had caused him, over and above the amount of their unpaid bills. There, to one side, on a rack, long and lovely, hung pelts of female hair. Such, as I have mentioned, particularly in times of siege, though there is always a market for it on Gor, is highly prized for the making of catapult ropes. I had little doubt that the fellow, given my suppositions as to his probable thoroughness in such matters, would not even have had the graciousness to shear the heads of the ladies. In shearing, you see, one might lose a fifth of a hort or so of hair. Doubtless he had had their heads shaved. In having power over women, of course, one may do what one wants with them. Just as one controls such things as their clothing, whether or not they are permitted any, and, if so, its amount and type, so, too, one controls their hair, whether or not they are permitted any, and, if so, how much, and how it is to be dressed, and so on. It is an additional power men have over women. Many girls will strive hard to please, for example, to be permitted to keep their hair, or to be permitted to let it grow out again. There were six pelts on the rack. The sixth was a lengthy and lovely auburn. I had also, by means of Ephialtes, redeemed Lady Temione. Her redemption had cost me a silver tarsk, five. This was expensive, but she would look well on her knees, collared. All told then, at the exchange rate of 100 C.T. per silver tarsk, the women had cost me two silver tarsks, 87 C.T. These women were now, if all had gone well, on their way to Ar’s Station, probably chained behind, and attached to, the wagon of Ephialtes. The shaving of their heads would doubtless lower their value, but I did not object, because I was not particularly concerned with whether I made a profit on them or not. That was not their essential role in my plans. Indeed, if their heads were shaved, that might be just as well. That might suggest that they had come into the keeping of an exploitable fellow, one in desperate need of funds.
On the third flight in the vicinity of the inn I examined, hovering briefly, the area near the foot of the plateau, by the bridge. There were still some wagons there. I was particularly interested in one. At the side of it now, a stocky blond woman was kneeling. She was naked. A heavy chain was on her neck. It went back, under the wagon, where it was fastened. A fellow stood before her, holding a whip. I saw her put down her head, frightened, and kiss his feet. She was not the slender, dark-haired slave beauty who had been under the wagon last night, huddling in the tarpaulin, in the storm. That one Ephialtes, if all had gone well, had purchased this morning. She would be made first girl over the coffle of “free women,” the Lady Temione, and the others, that she might teach them something of discipline and the basic arts of giving pleasure to men, lessons which might soon make a serious difference not only with respect to the quality of their lives, but to the very existence of those lives, as well. The canvas covering of the wagon had been drawn back, probably to air the contents from the dampness of the storm. No one seemed to be within the wagon, or about it, other than the pair at the side of it. I had little doubt, accordingly, that the blond woman kneeling before the fellow with the whip was his free companion, or former free companion. The girl who had been beneath the wagon last night, and whom Ephialtes had, hopefully, purchased for me this morning, had been formerly purchased, and primarily purchased, I had suspected, in an attempt, and perhaps a somewhat foolish, and somewhat misdirected, attempt, I thought, by the fellow to encourage his companion to take her relationship with him more seriously. She had apparently done so, at least to the extent of treating the slave with great cruelty. But now the slave was gone, and there was a chain on her neck. He had apparently now gone to the heart of the matter. If she were still his free companion, it seemed she would now be kept in the modality of bondage, but perhaps she was now only his former free companion, and had been reduced to actual bondage, now being subject to purchase by anyone. I recalled how she had bent in terror to kiss his feet. There was no doubt that she would now take her relationship to him seriously. It is difficult not to do so when one is owned, and subject to the whip. The woman would now discover that her companion, or former companion, a fellow perhaps hitherto taken somewhat too lightly, one perhaps hitherto accorded insufficient attention and respect, one perhaps hitherto neglected and ignored, even despised and scorned, was indeed a man, and one who now would see to it that she served him well, one who would now own and command her, one who would summon forth the woman in her, and claim from her, and receive from her, the total entitlements of the master.
I then turned the tarn, and brought it to a suitable cruising altitude. Below me now lay the Vosk Road, and we flew north. It would take a regiment of Gorean infantry, in normal marches, given time for the fortification of a camp in the late afternoons, and so on, three days to reach Ar’s Station from the Crooked Tarn. I supposed that the wagon of Ephialtes, particularly if he let the girls ride, as he probably would, later, would make the same time. The common marches of Gorean infantrymen, for example, are usually accompanied by wagons, those of their supply train, proper, and vehicles such as those of sutlers and masters of camp slaves.
I did not know what the name of the girl whom I had used under the wagon last night had been. It did not really matter, as she was a slave. I had not bothered to inquire. Now, however, if I were to own her, I should probably give her a name. It is better, I think, for a girl to have some name to answer to. It is more convenient, too, for the master, I think, to give her a name. It is thus, for example, easier to refer to her, and to summon her and command her. Too, that she has a name put on her by your power, and that she understands the meaning of this, has a good effect on her. “Who obeys?” “Tina obeys!” I suppose, too, one has upon occasion seen a lovely woman and wished that she might have a certain name, for one might think that an excellent name for her. If she is a slave, of course, and one owns her, one can give her any name of one’s choosing, indeed, perhaps that very name which is, at least in your opinion, ideal for her. Too, she might beg a name she has always wanted, and, if it is acceptable to the master, he might put it upon her. Names, too, of course, may be used to humble and punish a woman, and such names, humbling names, and punishing names, are as much real names as the most beautiful of names. That is, then, who she is. Perhaps in the future she will try much harder to be pleasing, that she might be given a better name. I considered the lovely girl whom I had enjoyed last night under the wagon, in the storm. I thought she looked rather like a “Liadne.” That was a beautiful name. I thought I would give it to her. I decided upon it. She was now, although she did not yet know it, Liadne.
I looked down at the Vosk Road, below. There were fewer refugees on it now than last night. Perhaps many had passed through the area last night. Perhaps now, for most practical purposes, the route was cut off.
My attention was then drawn to the girl on the saddle before me. She was bent low, co
wering over the pommel, sobbing, grasping it with both hands. She had had a very difficult time of it. There was no gainsaying that. I took her by the hair and straightened her, and, turning her head, twisting her body, looked upon her. The blindfold was still well in place. She moaned. Her cheeks, under the dampened blindfold, were run with tears. These, too, had run upon her body. I then turned her about again.
We flew northward, in silence.
She sobbed.
I considered feeling pity for her, and then dismissed the thought, for it was weakness. She was a woman. Her wrists, too, were in my bracelets.
We flew further, in silence.
She wept.
I saw that she, though slender, was well curved, and beautiful.
“You may beg,” I informed her.
“What?” she said.
“You may now beg to be caressed,” I said.
“Now?” she said. “Now? Now? Now you give me permission to beg! Permission! After how you have treated me? You are mad!”
“Is it your intention to be difficult?” I asked.
She pulled at the bracelets, jerking a little at the obdurate, inflexible links. Women feel so helpless in such bracelets! This is, of course, one of their points, that she should have these feelings. Too, of course, she is in fact literally helpless in them, and she realizes that, as well, but the interesting point, here, is the feelings involved.
The psychology of domination is well understood by Gorean males. Making a woman helpless, aside from a complex variety of purposes which this might serve, keeping her in place and such, has its effect on the psychology of the woman. It releases her femaleness. Indeed, feeling helpless, whether bound or not, increases her sense of sexual vulnerability, and this awareness of sexual vulnerability is erotically stimulatory to her; it stimulates readiness, and receptivity. For example, aside from bonds, and such, the simple fact of realizing she is a slave is erotically stimulatory to a woman. Can she be unaware of the implications of her condition? It tells her that she is essentially helpless, and at the mercy of men. This is easy to understand then, that the very condition of bondage itself would have a profound psychological effect on a woman, producing a sense of radical helplessness. She is in a sense their object, their toy, their plaything. This sense of vulnerability is enhanced by a number of things, for example, the revealing nature of most slave garb, muchly baring the beauty of the lovely beast, the absence of a nether closure in most slave garments, the brand, the collar, the being owned, and such. Frigidity, incidentally, is not permitted to slaves. But this pathology, except sometimes among recently embonded free women, is seldom found among slaves. It does not need to be prohibited, really, because, for the most part, it does not exist among slaves, because it is swiftly overcome and dissipated in the condition of bondage itself. This is one of the great objections free women have to slave girls, and one of the reasons they hate them so, that the slave girls are so sexually alive and needful, indeed, intensely so, helplessly so, beggingly so. How terrible they cry, that a woman should be so much the slave of men, so much the prisoner of her passions! And that they should be purchasable, and owned, owned, as well! Certainly they are slaves, slaves. Once “slave fires,” so to speak, have been lit in the belly of a slave, you see, she becomes helplessly needful, indeed, desperately needful. It is much more common to cuff an importunate slave from one’s feet than to use the heat of the whip to lash away the lingering, icy sludge of physiological inertness. To be sure, the whip is occasionally useful in the beginning, with a new slave. Some apparently wish to be simply reassured that no options are permitted to them in these matters.
Learning the absence of options they cheerfully, gratefully, fulfillingly, adapt to their collars.
At last they have a master, as they have always wanted.
They are content.
But actual bonds, leather thongs, silken cords, shackles, neck chains, and such, surely, too, have their place.
It is common, even with a free woman, that she will oil when braceleted. She cannot help it. She feels helpless, she feels vulnerable, she senses her implicit bondage, and the nearing of the mastery, and readies herself, even against her will, for her use.
Bonds are sexually stimulatory for a woman. That is probably why they are frequently used.
“You will not beat me, will you?” she said.
“I might,” I said.
“Do not beat me,” she said.
“You may now beg to be caressed,” I told her.
“Have I fallen into the hands of a monster?” she cried.
She was a legally free woman, but she was now before me, half naked, blindfolded and braceleted, my captive and servant. Indeed, she had even purchased her captivity and servitude. I wondered if she regretted what she had done. She now, at any rate, understood it more clearly.
“Beg,” I said.
“I am not in the mood,” she cried.
I laughed. How amusing are free women! Slaves learn to be in the “mood” instantaneously, at so little as a glance or a snapping of the fingers, and a pointing to the floor.
“Please,” she said. “Please!”
“Beg,” I said.
“You can make me beg, can you not?” she said, weeping.
“If necessary,” I said.
“I beg to be caressed,” she said, weeping.
I then began to caress her, she before me, weeping, trying to resist, captive and servant, clinging to the pommel.
“Monster,” she moaned. “Monster.” Then she sobbed, suddenly, partly with surprise, partly with sensation.
I chuckled. Her legs looked well, split, squirming, over the glossy saddle.
“Monster!” she wept, her head back.
Her hands jerked, the fingers moving. She could not reach me. I heard the small sounds of the links, jerking taut, then relaxing, then jerking taut again, joining the bracelets.
“Perhaps you are now more in the mood?” I asked.
“Do not stop!” she begged.
“I shall call you ‘Phoebe,’” I said.
“Do not stop, please!” she begged.
“You squirm well for a free woman,” I said.
“Do not stop, please, please!” she begged.
“And what shall you call me?” I wondered.
“Oh,” she moaned. “Ohhh!”
“Surely you are curious to know what you should call me,” I speculated.
She moaned, softly, half beside herself.
“Are you not?” I asked
“Yes!” she cried. “Yes! Yes! What shall I call you? Oh! Oh!”
“You may call me ‘Master,’” I said.
“Yes, yes!” she cried. “Master! Master!”
I then held her still, trying to calm her for a time.
“I called you ‘Master’!” she cried. “Am I yet legally free?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I think it will be well for you to accustom yourself to calling free men ‘Master.’”
“Yes,” she said, “—Master!”
“It is fitting, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Yes, yes!” she said. “Yes, Master!”
I decided that I would not yet grant her the collar, ripe for it though she might be. She was a free woman. I would make her wait longer, in frustration, for it.
“Please touch me again,” she begged.
“You liked it?” I asked.
“I have now felt it,” she said. “I now desperately need it.”
“Even to the surrender of all you are, and have been?” I asked.
“Because of the glory and victory of what I truly am, and now know myself to be!” she wept.
“Surely you desire to return to the splendors, and prides, of freedom?” I asked.
“Do not mock me,” she begged.
I was silent, considering her beauty.
“Show me mercy,” she said. “I beg it!”
I wondered if I should show her mercy. The true mercy for women, of course, is not the barr
enness of freedom, with its lies, but the whip and collar.
“You have tried out your tarn,” she said. “Now, try me out!”
I regarded her. I thought she would look well, naked, tied absolutely helplessly, on her back or belly, over the saddle of the tarn.
“Master?” she asked.
It was a fitting tie for such as she.
“Perhaps later,” I said.
I then folded my cloak about her, to protect her from the wind.
We continued northward.
9
The Camp of Cos
“Who is it?” she asked, kneeling in the darkness of the tiny tent, the large sack covering most of her body.
“It is I,” I said, reassuring her.
I crouched beside her and unfastened the drawstrings of the sack which I had tied under her body and about her thighs, to hold it on her. I then pulled it from her and unbraceleted her hands from behind her back.
“Were you successful?” she asked, shaking her head, loosening her hair.
“Cook,” I said.
I then sat, cross-legged, in the tiny tent. We were just within the fringes of the Cosian camp. There were, in this vicinity, clouds of tiny tents and shelters, some of them belonging to soldiers, most to civilians, sutlers, merchants, slavers, and such. The nearest investment trench was a half pasang away. One could see the walls of Ar’s Station from where we were. The girl busied herself, preparing food. It seemed peaceful here. It was difficult to believe that fighting took place daily in the vicinity of the walls, indeed, sometimes at night.
“There is little but porridge,” she said.
I nodded.
There would be even less, I supposed, in most homes in Ar’s Station.
“Have you heard anything?” she asked. She was putting twigs and leaves in a small pit outside the entrance of the tent.
“It is said the city will soon fall,” I said.
Renegades of Gor Page 17
