Renegades of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Greetings,” I said.

  “You must flee!” she whispered. “Save yourself! I am known! Do not concern yourself for me!”

  I removed the leash and collar from her.

  “Do not stop for me!” she begged. “Flee!”

  I began to remove the rope from her.

  “The executioner may arrive at any moment,” she said, miserably.

  “He is more likely to think I am binding you, than unbinding you,” I said.

  She moaned.

  Then she was free of the rope. I looked at her, closely, as a master at a slave, and she shrank back. I saw that, indeed, she would bring a high price in a slave market.

  “You must leave me behind!” she said.

  “You are too pretty to leave behind,” I said.

  She looked at me, wildly, elatedly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She laughed, and smiled at me, through tears. “I am pleased if master finds me pleasing,” she whispered.

  “Where did you ever hear talk like that?” I asked.

  “I once heard a slave girl speak so to her master,” she said.

  “And what did you do then?” I asked.

  “I ran home to my bed,” she said, “to strike it with my fists, and to weep and squirm with frustration.”

  “Such words are appropriate for you, too, to say,” I said.

  “I know!” she said. “I know!”

  I looked in the fellow’s wallet, which I now wore at my belt. There was, as I had hoped, a crust of bread in it. Such things, in Ar’s Station, in these days, might be kept in such places. It might be his secret horde, or day’s ration. It was probably worth more to him than gold. I gave it to Lady Claudia and she, with two hands, gratefully, thrust it in her mouth, crumbs at the side of her mouth. “Look in the pouches of those other fellows, too,” I said. “They might have some food. If so, eat it. Then come join me.”

  Quickly she did as she was told. It amused me to see with what alacrity she sprang up to do my bidding. It was as though, suddenly, she was a new person.

  I then went to stand near our warder, lying on her stomach in the straw, her head to the wall, her legs spread, her head covered with her hands and arms. Aware of my approach she widened her legs further. This pulled her artfully contrived rags, with their points, higher on her legs. I noted that she had excellent calves and ankles.

  “There is food here,” called Lady Claudia, softly, elatedly, from where she crouched, near the guards.

  “Good,” I said. “Eat it.”

  She thrust the bit of food into her mouth, feeding on it like a voracious little animal. She fed with the eagerness of a half-starved slave girl.

  I looked down at the warder. “Put your legs together,” I said, “and your arms at your sides—palms up.”

  She had held her palms defensively against the sides of her garments.

  “Please, no,” she said.

  “Palms up,” I said.

  As a woman she understood this matter, and well, if only on a scarcely suspected, but turbulent, subterranean level. The sweet, soft, concave palms of the feminine hand are very sensitive. Touching them softly, in the center, perhaps tracing a pattern there, can be very unsettling to her, or, if she is aroused, stimulatory to her. In any event, to expose them to the male, almost as in a slave’s invitation, increases a sense of sexual vulnerability.

  For example, when a slave girl lies supine before a male, her arms at her side, her palms will almost invariably be exposed to him. This, in its way, is analogous to, and is usually a portion of, a presentation of displayed, proffered slave loveliness. “I am yours, and I lie before you, your slave, my Master. Do with me as you will.”

  She obeyed.

  I then crouched down, beside her.

  I did not touch her in the exposed palms of the hands, but I let her consider that she might be so touched.

  This sort of thing, these sorts of awarenesses, seem instinctual in a female. I rather doubt that she had ever been before a male in this fashion before. But I had little doubt that she sensed what might be involved.

  Such things subtly suggest to the woman what she is, and what she may be for.

  Lastly it might be noted that many Gorean free women, particularly those of high caste, wear gloves outside the home, this shielding the softness of the palms, and concealing as well the lovely area at the wrist, between the hand and the forearm, where one might conveniently, and snugly, clasp slave bracelets. Commonly slaves do not wear gloves, save for utilitarian purposes, as in work, say, clearing brush, or for warmth, in inclement or freezing weather. The normal master is muchly concerned to protect his animals, his girls, his sleen, his verr, and so on.

  She moved, uneasily, but kept position.

  “These rags,” I said, “are doubtless contrived in such a way that they may easily be removed.”

  She squirmed in anger.

  I did not touch them, however.

  I pulled back the warder’s scarflike turban which, I had assumed, was worn to cover and hide a closely cropped head. “Oh!” she said. To my surprise, however, her hair, loosened from under the turban, would have, had she been standing, fallen well beneath her shoulders.

  “Oh,” said Lady Claudia, interested, come now to my side, a piece of crust in her hand.

  “Yes,” I said. “Her hair has not been cropped.”

  The warder squirmed a little, angrily.

  “As I recall,” I said to Lady Claudia, “you had not had yours cut either.”

  “No,” said Lady Claudia, smiling. “I did not want it cut. I was too vain. I was too proud of it. I thought it too pretty to cut. Too, I did not want my appearance impaired. I did not want to look like one of those girls who carries water in a quarry, or works in a mill or laundry, in the heat. Let other women sacrifice their hair, not me. But when I was caught on the wall it was cut quickly enough.”

  “Then as a punishment,” I said.

  “Doubtless,” she said, “but, too, they had need of catapult cordage.”

  “What is your name, prisoner?” I asked our warder.

  “‘Prisoner’?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Publia,” she said.

  “Are you free?” I asked.

  “Of course!” she said.

  “You will forgive me,” I said, “but the most common brand sites are covered by your rags.”

  “Do you think,” I asked Lady Claudia, “that Lady Publia’s motivations in the matter of keeping her hair were similar to yours?”

  “I suppose so,” said Lady Claudia, finishing the bit of bread.

  “And you are probably correct,” I said, “but there was one other, too, perhaps, which had not occurred to you?”

  The prisoner moved a little, angrily.

  “What was that?” asked Lady Claudia.

  But I addressed a question to our prone captive. “What is your caste?” I asked.

  “The Merchants,” she said.

  “That, on the whole, is a quite well-to-do caste,” I said.

  “It is mine, too,” said Lady Claudia.

  I jerked the pouch from the prisoner’s belt, breaking the strings. It was a weighty pouch. I tossed it to Lady Claudia, who examined its contents.

  “There is much gold here,” she said.

  “Put it in my pouch,” I said.

  Lady Claudia did so.

  “How is it, Lady Publia,” I asked, “that you, a member of the Merchants, and one who until a moment ago had a heavy purse, are barefoot, and clad in rags?”

  She did not respond.

  “And such artful rags?” I asked.

  She did not answer.

  I fingered them. “I doubt that you sewed these yourself,” I said. “They were probably done by a cloth worker. Consider the stitching, the tightness of the stitches, its regularity and fineness. It seems very professional. Doubtless though it was done according to your directions. The outfit is calculated to give the appearance of
rags but, upon close examination, we discover it is more in the nature of a costume.” I smiled inwardly. Slave girls, too, I knew, occasionally practiced such wiles with their brief, scandalous ta-teeras, supposedly mere rags, befitting their degraded status. Yet I knew they often labored on such rags in such a way as to show an inch here, and conceal an inch there, in such a way that a masterpiece of sensitivity, vulnerability and provocation was achieved. By such means and many others do the luscious, loving, collared little brutes save themselves many a beating and drive their masters half mad with passion and desire. “I congratulate you,” I said. “The entire ensemble, the points and such, and the varying lengths thusly achieved, and the consequent, now-and-then baring of your calves, and such, is extremely well done. The entire ensemble reveals marvelous imagination and exquisite taste.”

  The prisoner made a small, pleased noise.

  “The question remains, of course, as to why you might do such a thing.”

  She lay very quietly, not moving.

  “The question may be easily enough decided, of course,” I said, “by seeing whether or not these garments, unlike the garments of free women, can be easily, swiftly and provocatively removed, and, say, whether or not, in the typical fashion of free women, even of the lower castes, you are wearing underrobes.”

  Her small fists clenched in fury.

  “Accordingly,” I said, “rise up on your knees, and turn and face me.”

  She did so, in fury.

  I looked down upon her.

  I waited a few seconds.

  I wanted to give her time to understand herself on her knees, before a man.

  Women look well on their knees, before men.

  It is common with female slaves.

  “Beast!” she hissed.

  “How do you feel, kneeling before a man?” I asked.

  “Beast!” she exclaimed.

  “Fittingly,” I added.

  “I hate you,” she said.

  “We will now see about the nature of your garments, will we not?” I said.

  “Never!” she cried.

  “But first,” I said, “there is the matter of the veil.”

  “My veil?”

  “It interferes with my vision.”

  “I am a free woman!” she said.

  “Over the past few days I have been curious to know what you might look like,” I said.

  “I am a free person!” she said. “I have the privileges of my status! I am unique and precious! I am priceless!”

  “You may be unique and precious,” I said, “one does not know about that, but I doubt that you are priceless.”

  “Wretch!”

  “It is hard to read a woman who is veiled,” I said.

  “Do not dare to touch me, wretch!” she said.

  Veiling is not permitted to slave girls, of course. Their features, their slightest expression, is bared to free persons. This denial of veiling is part of the master’s will, imposed upon them, facilitating their management, and indicative of his control over them. Too, it has its symbolic aspects, that she is not entitled to the veil, that it is not for her. It makes clear, in the home and on the street, her status, that of a slave, that of a domestic animal.

  “No!” she cried. “Beast! Beast!”

  Then her fury turned to fear, timidity and docility as I held her veil. I drew it toward me, gently. Instantly, she fell forward, to all fours, to relieve pressure on the veil, to keep it on her. Her eyes were now wild over it, it held out from her. “No,” she said, “please do not take my veil.”

  “I shall not do so,” I said.

  She gasped with relief.

  “Lady Claudia will do so,” I said.

  Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  “Surely you have looked upon her, unveiled,” I said.

  The prisoner sobbed.

  “Stay on all fours,” I cautioned her. In this way she would be unable to interfere. Too, she could not put her hands before her face.

  The prisoner sobbed, and trembled.

  “Remove the veil, carefully,” I cautioned Lady Claudia. I had my reasons for not wanting it damaged.

  “Please, no!” begged the prisoner.

  The veil was fastened with a string and Lady Claudia, with two hands, lifted it gently from the head of our prisoner.

  “She is beautiful!” said Lady Claudia.

  “Please do not look at my lips!” sobbed the prisoner. But my hand was in her hair, holding her head up.

  “She has excellent lips,” I said. “Properly trained, she could probably kiss well.”

  “How beautiful she is!” breathed Lady Claudia.

  “No more beautiful than you,” I said.

  “Truly?” asked Lady Claudia.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Lady Claudia caught her breath for an instant, suspecting then, perhaps, how attractive she herself might be.

  “You may kneel back,” I told the prisoner, releasing her hair.

  She lost no time in scrambling back to her kneeling position, and put her two hands before her face.

  “Put your hands down,” I said.

  “I do not have my veil!” she said.

  Her lips, her mouth, her features, in all their expressiveness, with all their delicacy, sensuousness and beauty, it was true, should she lower her hands, would be bared. They would be exposed. One could look upon them, even idly. She had been face-stripped. Her face was now naked, as much so as that of a slave.

  “Now,” I said.

  She lowered her hands, sobbing.

  I had denied her the delicacy, the modesty, the shield and defense of the veil, just as it is denied to slaves.

  “Did you not expect to tear off your veil before Cosians?” I asked.

  She looked at me, angrily.

  “I see you did,” I said.

  “One grows used to being without the veil,” said Lady Claudia.

  “Slave!” cried Lady Publia.

  “I am as free as you!” retorted Lady Claudia.

  “In the south,” I said, “the women of the Wagon Peoples, even the free women, do not wear veils.”

  “Slave!” cried Lady Publia again to Lady Claudia.

  “My face is no more naked than yours!” retorted Lady Claudia.

  “Naked face!” cried Lady Publia.

  “Naked face!” responded Lady Claudia.

  “On the other hand,” I said, “the free women of the Wagon Peoples do wear clothes.”

  Lady Publia looked at me, suddenly, sharply.

  “Those are pretty rags,” I said.

  She said nothing.

  “Remove them,” I told her.

  Angrily Lady Publia removed the belt from her waist. It was a sturdy belt, flat, white, woven of ropelike material, quite capable of supporting the purse she had carried. It was, however, a hook-fastened belt. And she had unhooked it in an instant and, thus, freed, it fell back, behind her. She then, angrily, put her hands to the sides of her garment, up about the neck. It was a wraparound garment. She undid one hook there and, in fury, with her two hands, swiftly, easily, insolently, gracefully, slipped the garment away.

  “Ah,” said Lady Claudia, softly, admiringly.

  Lady Publia straightened her body, pleased.

  “Did you notice how she could do that, on her knees?” I asked Lady Claudia. “The garment is designed to allow that. You could perhaps imagine the difficulty of getting out of the customary robes of concealment while on your knees.”

  “She is so beautiful,” said Lady Claudia.

  “You removed your garment well, Lady Publia,” I said. “Doubtless you have practiced it many times. If I were a Cosian, however, I think you would have done it somewhat less insolently.”

  “Doubtless,” she said.

  “Under different circumstances,” I said, “and if we had more time, it might be interesting to put you in a bit of slave silk, and teach you how to disrobe properly before a man.”

  She tossed her head.

&nbs
p; “What formulas had you in mind to use to the Cosians?” I asked.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” she said.

  “Doubtless you rehearsed them well,” I speculated.

  She looked at me, angrily.

  “Yes,” I smiled. “I am sure you did.”

  “Formulas?” asked Lady Claudia.

  “‘I bare my breasts before you. Make me a slave,’ ‘I surrender to you, naked. Spare me. I beg bondage,’ ‘I have endeavored to conceal my true nature from men, that I am a slave. Visit justice upon me,’ ‘I have stripped myself before you. Let me live, that I may serve you as the most abject and loving of slaves,’ and such sayings,” I said.

  “Such sayings stir my belly,” said Lady Claudia.

  “That is because it is the belly of a slave!” snapped Lady Publia.

  “It would be easy enough to tell,” I said, “if your belly, too, is that of a slave. I need only place my hand on you, and have you say such things, slowly, deeply and with feeling.”

  She regarded me with horror.

  “But you are, of course, a free woman,” I said.

  “Yes!” she said. “Yes!”

  I saw then the nature of her belly, that she feared it would betray her.

  “Had you never considered such sayings?” I asked Lady Claudia.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling, “often, but I had never really thought of them in such a formal way.”

  “But you never dared to kneel naked before a man, and say such things?”

  “No,” she said, shyly. “I was much afraid. Bondage is a great step for a woman. It is so absolute, and different. It is natural for her to fear it. And now that I long to do so, he who is to me as master has forbidden it. It seems he wants to keep me as a free woman, at least for a time, for some reason.”

  That was true. I had my reasons.

  “What did you expect to do,” I asked, “if, say, Cosians, or others, in darkened buildings or flaming streets, came upon you?”

  “I had thought I would have had my letter of safety,” she said.

  “Do you think looting soldiers would have stopped to read your letter?” I asked.

  “Perhaps not,” she smiled.

  “So what would you have done?” I asked.

  “What I suppose most any woman would do,” she said. “I would have stripped myself and knelt, begging to be kept as a slave. Then, if I were fortunate, I suppose I would soon thereafter, my hands bound behind me, be following my master, on a cord and nose ring.”