"Sometimes my heart palpitates and my breath quickens," she said. "Sometimes my entire skin seems suddenly suffused with warmth. It seems my breasts and thighs want to be touched. I want to be held. I want to be caressed. My belly grows hot and receptive. I feel desire. I am open, and wet. The smell of my needs is upon me."
"Kiss my feet," I told her.
She bent down and kissed my feet. She then lifted her head, and looked at me, tears in her eyes.
"Do such feelings disturb you?" I asked.
"Sometimes," she said, "I am so ashamed of these changes in my body."
"They are nothing to be ashamed of," I said. "Be pleased, rather, that your body, at last, freed of inhibitions, constrictions and rigidities, is in perfect working order."
"Perfect working order?" she asked.
"Of course," I said. "The feelings you describe, and many others, like them, are the natural and spontaneous reactions of the healthy and passionate woman in the presence of an attractive male. Rather than feel shame at experiencing them you should feel concern if you did not. The failure to feel such feelings, in situations in which it would be natural to feel them, would presumably be a clue as to the presence of some unfortunate barrier or blockage, either physical or, more likely, psychological."
"But do good women have such feelings?" she asked.
"I do not know," I said. "But sick women do not."
She looked at me.
"What is a 'good woman,'" I asked, "one who is natural, spontaneous, feminine and loving, or one who conforms to certain cultural stereotypes, the results, usually, of attempts on the part of aggressive mental cases to impose their maladies, from which they seem unable to escape, on others?"
She did not speak.
"Some virtues," I said, "require a cure."
"But such feelings," she said, "could make a woman a slave."
"Yes," I said.
"I see why some women fear them," she said.
"So do I," I said. "But you are a slave, so you need not be concerned about such matters. Enslaved, you are free, interestingly and paradoxically, to be free."
"You make me feel free," she said.
"Beware you are not whipped," I said.
She contritely kissed my feet.
"Master," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I do feel distress," she said.
"I know," I said.
"Real distress," she said.
"You are a female of strong, though once rigidly suppressed, drives, who has been enslaved," I said.
"Master?" she said.
"Too," I said, "the feelings of the normal woman, under the condition of forthright and explicit slavery, are often multiplied a hundred fold, and, in some women, it seems, a thousand fold."
"I cannot stand it, Master," she said.
"Grovel," I told her.
"Surely you would not make me do that?" she said.
I pointed to the ground at my feet, uncompromisingly. She slipped to her belly before me. I felt her lips and tongue on my feet.
"The important thing," I said, "is to be what you are. If you are a slave, be a slave."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"What are you?" I asked.
"A slave," she whimpered, kissing at my feet.
"Then be a slave," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
The collar looked well on her neck, under her hair.
"You treat me," she said, "as though I were—as though I were—"
"A slave," I said.
"Yes," she said.
"You are a slave," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"So expect to be treated as one," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I let her please me for a time in this fashion, bellying before me, kissing, and licking and sucking at my feet.
"You grovel well, Slave," I said.
"Thank you, Master," she said.
"You would not begrudge a fellow the enjoyment of his sovereignty, would you?" I asked.
"No, Master," she said.
"You look well at a man's feet," I said.
She moaned in humiliation, and in severe sexual distress.
"You may thank me," I said.
"Thank you, Master," she said.
"You are welcome," I said.
"You enjoy my debasement," she said. "You enjoy it!"
"Yes," I said. "So do you."
Her small shoulders shook. I saw that what I had said was true.
"You may kneel before me," I said.
She rose to a kneeling position before me. "You have not touched me," she said, "and yet you have much aroused me."
I did not respond to her. Human females are such rich and wonderful creatures. Their sexual life, and feelings, are subtle, complex and deep. How naive is the man who believes that having sex with a woman is so little or brief a thing as to fall within the parameters of a horizontal plane, the simple stimulations of a skin, the results attendant upon a simplistic manual dexterity. How woefully ignorant are the engineers of sexuality. How much to learn have even her artists and poets! Women are so inordinately precious. They are so sensitive, so beautiful, so intelligent and needful. No man has yet counted the dimensions of a woman's love. Who can measure the horizons of her heart? Few things, I suspect, are more real than those which seem most intangible.
"Without even touching me," she said, "you have much aroused me. And now I kneel helplessly before you."
Her distress was obvious. She was a slave, and needed desperately to be taken. And yet I had done little but treat her as a woman, and impress, categorically, male domination upon her. I did not think she was now in doubt as to her sex.
"When I led you behind the lodge," she said, "I was grateful and happy. It was my intention to make you a gift, of my own free will, of my pleasures. But now you have made me needful. Now you have put me at your mercy!"
"It is suitable, Slave," I said.
"Will you not be kind?" she asked.
I did not speak to her.
"You see me helpless and needful," she said, "—begging."
"It befits you," I said, "Slave."
"Men do this to us," she said. "They make us this way, and then they decide whether or not they will even touch us!"
"Sometimes, too, as I understand it," I said, "a girl is made to perform."
"Perform?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "she is made, so to speak, to earn her havings."
"Yes, Master," she said. "That is not uncommon."
"Are you prepared to work for your havings," I asked, "to earn them?"
"Yes, Master," she said. "I will do anything."
"But you must do anything anyway," I said, "for you are a slave."
"Yes, Master," she moaned. "Yes, Master."
I looked down upon her.
She squirmed, and clenched her small fists. There were tears in her eyes.
"I am in need," she said.
I crouched next to her, and felt her, gently. She pressed her small, hot, wet, rounded belly into my hand, her eyes closed.
"I see that you do not lie," I said.
"No, Master," she said.
"The collar looks well on your neck," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"And your hair is beautiful," I said.
"Thank you, Master," she said.
"Do you beg to be had?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"Are you prepared to earn your having?" I asked.
"I will do anything," she said.
"Kiss me," I said.
"For so little," she asked, "I can earn my having?"
"But it must be the kiss of a slave," I informed her.
"Yes, Master," she said.
Our lips then met, sweetly and tenderly, fully, lingeringly. Her lips, opened, soft, those of a submitting slave, at first met mine timidly, and then, as she understood that she was not to be spurned, or struck, more fully, more boldly,
until her kiss was deep, helpless and warm, and she seemed one with the kiss, and lost within it, and then, again, timidly, she drew back, having proffered herself to me as a slave, to observe what might be my reaction, to see in my eyes if she had been found pleasing, and what would be her fate.
She looked at me.
I was pleased with her. She had not even been taught the kisses of a slave.
I lowered her gently to her back.
I looked down upon her.
"Touch me," she pleaded. "Please, touch me. I beg you to touch me, Master."
"I do not think that much touching will be necessary," I said.
Then no sooner than I had entered her, she, as I had expected, given her condition of arousal, clutching me, and gasping, exploded into orgasm.
"Yes, Master," she said. "Yes, Master! Thank you, Master! Yes, Master!"
I thought I had done a good job with her. I thought her master would be pleased with her. She had once been a frigid free woman. She was now a promising slave.
Some red savages passed us from time to time, going about their business, but they paid us little attention. We were only slaves.
* * * *
"Thank you, Master, for touching me," she whispered, "for consenting to put me to your uses."
"You served well, Slave," I said.
"I am pleased," she said, "if I have served you well, and in the way of a woman."
"And of a slave," I said.
"Yes, Master," she smiled, kissing me.
She drew back, then, and lay on her side, with her legs drawn up. The marvelous, turned breadth of her thigh was beautiful. How delicious are such creatures. How natural it is that men should choose to institutionalize their ownership.
"Things are going well for the Kaiila," I said. "Your master has acquired a beautiful white slave. My Master, and friend, Canka, of the Isbu, has retained his own slave and love, a girl named Winyela, also a luscious white slave, and my friend, Cuwignaka, after years of waiting is, at last, going to enter the lodge of the great dance." I smiled to myself. How naturally I had thought of the former Miss Millicent Aubrey-Welles, of high family, and once a debutante in Pennsylvania, as only another luscious white slave in the Barrens. This was appropriate, of course, for that was now all she was, that and her master's love.
"I am happy for him," she said.
"There is plenty of meat in the camp," I said, "and this is a time of festivals and dances, of feasts, of visitings and giveaways."
"I myself was exchanged in a giveaway," she smiled.
"Much to the chagrin, as it turned out, of your former master, I understand," I said.
"Yes," she smiled.
"And perhaps most splendidly," I said, "it seems that there is soon to be peace between the Kaiila and the Yellow Knives. Even now civil chiefs of the Yellow Knives are in the camp."
"They are not civil chiefs," she said.
"What?" I asked.
"I have seen the Yellow-Knife chieftains in the camp," she said. "I saw them coming to the camp days ago, when I was in the herd. I saw them last night at a late feast, when I was being brought to my master's lodge. I saw them this morning, near the lodge of Watonka, in the Isanna camp. They are not civil chieftains."
"You are mistaken," I said.
"I was a slave of Yellow Knives for a time," she said. "I know."
"They are not civil chieftains?" I asked.
"I saw the civil chieftains of the Yellow Knives at a council," she said. "It was only some weeks ago. Shortly thereafter I was taken by Isanna warriors in a raid."
"It seems too early for there to have been a council," I said.
"There was a council," she said.
"Had the Pte arrived?" I asked. I would have expected such a council to be correlated with the coming of the Pte and the gathering of Yellow-Knife bands for the great hunts. The Pte would be expected to arrive in the territories of the Kaiila before arriving in those of the Yellow Knives.
"No," she said.
"Interesting," I said. "Do you know the topic or topics of the council?"
"No," she said.
"Some weeks ago," I said, "there was a raid on a large wagon train and a mercenary column of soldiers. Do you know of this?"
"Yes," she said. "Captives were brought to the Yellow-Knife camp."
"Was the council before or after the raid?" I asked.
"Several days after it," she said.
"That, too, is interesting," I said. "You are certain that you do not know what the council was about?"
"No, Master," she said. "I was not taught to speak Yellow Knife. I know almost nothing of it. Among them I performed, on the whole, only the most menial of labors, commonly guided in my work only by cuffings and the blows of whips. To them I was only a kind of she-kaiila, a two-legged beast of burden."
"Such labors," I said, "seem fittingly assigned to sexually inert slaves."
"Yes, Master," she said, "but they are imposed, too, sometimes, even on the most passionate of their women."
"Of course," I said.
"In this council," she said, "I saw the civil chieftains of the Yellow Knives. They are not the same men who are now in the camp."
"You are mistaken," I said.
"No, Master," she said.
"Have you seen these men in camp before," I asked, "the Yellow Knives?"
"Yes, Master," she said.
"They are civil chieftains," I said.
"No, Master," she said.
"Do you know what they are?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"What are they?" I asked.
"War chiefs," she said.
17
An Assessment of the Information of Oiputake
"Canka!" I cried. "Where is Canka!"
The young warrior was not in his lodge. Near it, sitting cross-legged, a robe well over his head, half concealing his face, rocking back and forth, was a figure.
"Akihoka," I cried, "where is Canka."
"He has gone hunting," said Akihoka.
"When will he be back?" I asked.
"He should not come back," moaned Akihoka. He rocked back and forth. "He was my friend," he moaned. "He was my friend."
"I do not understand," I said. "What has happened?"
"You are the second to seek him today," said Akihoka, bent over, muchly hidden in the robe.
"I do not understand," I said. "I have information. I must see him. It may mean nothing. It may mean much!"
"Sleen Soldiers came for him," moaned Akihoka. "But he was not here. He was hunting."
"Why should Sleen Soldiers come for Canka?" I asked, alarmed.
"He tried to kill Mahpiyasapa," moaned Akihoka, rocking in misery.
"That is preposterous," I said.
"They have the arrow which was shot at Mahpiyasapa," said Akihoka, rocking back and forth. "It is the arrow of Canka. Too, Hci saw Canka fleeing from the place."
"Canka would not shoot at Mahpiyasapa," I said. "Mahpiyasapa is his chief."
"It is said that he feared Mahpiyasapa would take the red-haired woman away from him."
"Mahpiyasapa would not do that against his will," I said, "and Canka knows that."
"Hci said that he would last night," said Akihoka.
"Hci," I said, "spoke in anger."
"Hci saw him fleeing from the place," said Akihoka, grief-stricken.
"I thought you said Canka had gone hunting," I said.
"It is said he shot at Mahpiyasapa, and then went hunting," said Akihoka.
"That is absurd," I said. "No one shoots an arrow at his chief, and then just rides off hunting."
"The arrow is the arrow of Canka," said Akihoka, almost chanting in grief. "Hci saw him running from the place."
"Who else saw him?" I asked.
"No one," said Akihoka.
"Does this seem likely to you," I asked, angrily, "in a crowded camp?"
"It was the arrow of Canka," said Akihoka. "They have the arrow. It is the arrow of Canka. H
ci saw him running from the place."
"Hci is a liar," I said.
"No," said Akihoka.
"Why not?" I asked.
"He has sworn by his shield," said Akihoka.
"Clearly it must have been Hci himself who fired the arrow," I said.
"Mahpiyasapa is the father of Hci," said Akihoka. "Hci would not try to kill him."
"I do not think he would try to kill him either," I said. "I think it was Hci's intention merely to make it seem that an attempt had been made on his life."
"Hci would not do that," said Akihoka.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Hci is Kaiila," said Akihoka. "Shame, shame," he moaned, rocking in the robe. "It is shame for Canka. It is shame for the All Comrades. I have sorrow for Canka. He was my friend. He was my friend."
"Hci," I said, firmly, "did not see Canka running from the place." I recalled that Canka had, on the first morning of the great hunt, inquired of Cuwignaka the location of one of his arrows. As long ago, then, as that time, it seemed to me that Hci had been fomenting his plan. In the openness of the living of the red savages, where things are not hidden and locked up, and where theft is not expected, and is generally regarded as almost unthinkable, it would not be a difficult matter, provided one was a bit careful, to take an arrow.
"Hci swears it," said Akihoka.
"Hci swears falsely," I said.
"Hci swears by his shield," said Akihoka.
"Then Hci swears falsely by his shield," I said.
Akihoka stopped rocking. He pulled the robe down from his head, about his shoulders. "You are white," he said. "You are only a slave. You know nothing of these things."
"In your heart you know as well as I," I said, "that Canka would not try to kill Mahpiyasapa. I am sure even Mahpiyasapa, in his heart, knows that, too."
"But Hci has sworn by his shield," he said.
"He has sworn falsely," I said.
"How can that be?" asked Akihoka, puzzled.
"It has to do, doubtless, with the vanity of Hci, and his hatred for Canka," I said.
Akihoka looked down at the dirt. It was not easy for him, a Kaiila warrior, to comprehend that such a thing, even though it seemed so plausible, might have taken place. It was as though his trust in deep things had been shaken.
"By the love you bear Canka," I said, "ride after him. Go out to meet him. Find him. Tell him what has occurred. I assure you he knows nothing of it. This was done now, indeed, I do not doubt, because he had left the camp."
Blood Brothers of Gor Page 23
