Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  The mother kissed her, and caressed her hair, softly, soothingly.

  “I am a terrible person,” said the girl.

  “Such feelings are perfectly natural,” said the mother. “Do not be ashamed of them. They tell you what you are. It is not wrong to be what you are. It is good to be what you are, exactly what you are, whatever it may be.”

  “Have you ever had such feelings?” asked the girl.

  “Yes,” said the mother.

  “What can possibly be their meaning?” asked the girl, frightened.

  “It is simple,” said the mother.

  “What?” asked the girl.

  “Again, that we are females,” said the mother.

  “Females?” said the daughter.

  “Yes,” said the mother. “Such feelings, of need and helplessness, are natural for us. Do not be afraid of them. They tell us what we are.”

  “Are we—are we slaves, Mother?” asked the girl.

  “Hush,” said the mother, quickly. “One approaches—a guard!”

  Quickly they separated, each looking down. The mother rested now on her right thigh and hip, her hands on the floor of the Semnium, the girl on her left thigh and hip, her hands, too, on the Semnium’s floor. They did not lift their heads. They did not wish to risk meeting the eyes of the guard, calling attention to themselves. They looked well in the collars, both affixed to the chain.

  The woman near me, on the marble bench, grasped it more tightly. The padlock on her collar moved on the marble. The guard was removing her ankle shackles. He then sat her upright, and unchained her wrists. The ankle chain and wrist chain he left lying over the bench, in front of her. He then took her by the hair and drew her from the bench. He walked her, bent over, to a place on the chain. A second padlock was there, marking what had been her place. He knelt her there, and then opened the padlock on the chain. Without removing it from the chain he pushed its bolt through the ring on her collar and snapped it shut. She was again a part of the chain. She lay down on the floor, in her place. The guard looked over the nearby women. None met his eyes. He was the same fellow who, earlier, had brought in the newest arrival, bound and leashed, in the Semnium.

  “261,” he said.

  “Please, no,” she said.

  He regarded her.

  “Master,” she said, putting her head down.

  A young girl, near her, gasped, hearing her mother use this word to a man.

  261 was freed from the chain. He sat her on the bench, straddling it.

  “Please,” she said, “do not. My daughter is near.” Then her ankles were shackled, the chain running under the heavy fixed-position bench. Then her wrists were enclosed in the wrist rings, the chain from them, too, running under the bench. He then put her down on the bench. She lay on it, on her stomach, her legs on either side of it. Her throat still wore the padlocked collar. The other padlock, that which had held the collar to the chain, he left on the chain. It marked the place to which she would be returned. He then left her.

  In a few Ahn it would be dawn. I had not slept well. I must make the decision soon, whether or not to carry certain letters. I gathered this couriership might be not without its dangers.

  I glanced at the female on the bench. She was lusciously desirable. I put her from my mind.

  I had reservations about taking Hurtha and Boabissia into danger. Even if they were willing, and informed, at least to the extent I was, I did not think I should permit them to accompany me. It might be too perilous for them, how perilous, of course, I did not know.

  The female stirred on the bench. There was a tiny sound of chain. I forced the thought of her from my mind. She was excitingly desirable.

  I had little doubt, however, that Hurtha would cheerfully come along, if asked, and perhaps if not asked, abounding with his customary indefatigable optimism whatever might be the odds. He had already complained, more than once, that his ax was getting rusty. This is an Alar way, I took it, of saying that it had not been used lately. That was perhaps just as well. If Hurtha came with me, however, it seemed that Boabissia should be left behind. If she were left behind, however, I did not doubt but what she would soon find herself in a collar. She was that attractive. I put the woman on the bench again from my mind. I wondered what Boabissia would look like on a bench, in such a predicament. Rather well, I supposed. I might slip from the city, without them, I thought. In that way I would not carry them into danger. That would be thoughtful on my part. If I did that, of course, I might miss out on some of Hurtha’s new poems. That, of course, could not be helped. I put the woman again from my mind. I wondered if I should carry the letters. I wondered if I should speak to Hurtha and Boabissia. I wondered if I should slip from the city. I did not know what to do. It was hard to sleep.

  “Oh!” said the woman on the bench, stiffening, my hand on her.

  “Do not relax your body,” I said. “Keep it tight against my hand.”

  She moaned.

  “You are a free woman, are you not?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You may relax your body,” I said.

  Quickly she drew herself forward on the bench, frightened, an inch or so.

  “Move back,” I said.

  She moaned, and slid back a tiny bit.

  “More,” I said.

  She complied, fearfully.

  “More,” I said.

  She was now back muchly where she had been before. “I do not know where your hand is,” she said.

  “It is here,” I said.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “You look well in a collar, and chains,” I said.

  “Please,” she said. “Do not touch me.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “My daughter is near,” she said.

  “What is that to me?” I asked.

  “She can see, she can hear!” she whispered. “Ohh!” She shuddered, caressed.

  “You are a lusciously bodied female,” I said.

  “Please, no,” she said. “My daughter is near! Oh!”

  “In a distribution line,” I said, “I suspect you would be one of the first picked out.”

  She lifted her head a little, as though startled.

  “Yes,” I said, “or if you were allotted I expect it would be as a particularly delicious gift.”

  “Not I, not I,” she said. “Oh! Your hand!”

  “But it is highly likely that you will be sold,” I said.

  “Please do not touch me,” she wept. “I am before my daughter!”

  “I anticipate that you would be held rather toward the end of the sales,” I said, “saved for toward the last, when the men are well in the mood, and the bidding is likely to be heated.”

  “No,” she said.

  “It is then that I suspect you would be thrust to the height of the block and there, well exhibited, displayed naked, turned about and posed, sold to the highest bidder.”

  “No,” she wept.

  “And I think you will bring your seller a good price,” I said.

  “No, no,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You speak of me as though I were goods,” she said.

  “You are goods,” I said.

  She moaned.

  “And I think you would bring a higher price than your daughter,” I said.

  I heard a sudden, tiny gasp, of protest, or alarm, from the side.

  “No,” said the woman. “Never!”

  “Perhaps not eventually,” I said, “but now she is only a little green fruit.”

  “No!” I heard whispered, from the side, in indignation.

  “I heard your conversation, from the side,” I said. “I am not clear on how any man would not find you superbly desirable.”

  “My companion did not,” she said.

  “He must have been a fool,” I said.

  “Must you hold me in this fashion?” she sobbed.

  “It is as a slave may be held,” I said.

  �
��I am a free woman,” she said. “Oh!”

  “Your response,” I said, “does not seem to be that of a free woman. It is more that of a slave.”

  She moaned. Then she suddenly cried out, softly.

  “See?” I said.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Mother!” protested the girl, from the side. “Do you not know that I am here, that I can see and hear? Do not shock me! Do not disgust me! Do not shame me! Am I to understand that my mother is so weak and contemptible, so low, so disgusting, so despicable? Resist him!”

  “I am not attractive,” she said.

  “Now it is you who are being the fool,” I said. “You are extremely attractive. Have you not suspected that, pondering yourself before the mirror. Have you never thought of yourself in a slave collar? What man would not find you desirable?”

  “Please,” she wept. “Do not touch me so! My daughter is present! Oh!”

  “You have a well-turned body,” I said.

  “My daughter!” she whispered, intensely.

  “Consider these curves,” I said.

  “Please,” she wept.

  “Very nice, excellent,” I said. “Surely you know what sort of curves these are.”

  “No!” she said.

  “They are slave curves,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “No, no!”

  “Yes,” I assured her. “You have an excellent body for a slave. You have a slave’s body.”

  She shook her head, the padlock scraped on the marble bench.

  “Breeders breed for such features,” I said. “But nature is the best breeder, and she has been breeding slaves for men for thousands of years. None have surpassed her.”

  She suddenly half reared up on the bench.

  “Steady,” I said, soothingly.

  “Please,” she wept.

  “It is easy to see from whence the beauty of your daughter derives,” I said. “One uses beauties to breed beauties.”

  “Aii!” she cried.

  “She, too,” I said, “has an excellent body for a slave, a slave’s body. The breeding tells.”

  “Aiii!” cried the woman, softly.

  “Excellent,” I said. “I wonder if your daughter knows that her mother, perhaps within days, will be a hot, needful slut.”

  “Please do not speak so, not before her,” begged the woman.

  “Why not?” I asked. “Within days,” I speculated, “her own cold little body, in the hands of a master, to his least touch, will leap and squirm.”

  “No!” wept the girl.

  “Oh!” cried the woman. “Please stop!”

  “No,” I said.

  “Not before my daughter!” she begged.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Resist him, Mother!” called the girl.

  “I am a female!” she said. “I cannot! I cannot!”

  I paused.

  She lay there, suddenly, tensely, waiting.

  “Do you wish me to stop?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes!” she said. “Of course! Yes!”

  I had anticipated such a response, and had thought it best to permit it to her. Was it not appropriate that I permit her to do what she thought was expected of her, to raise and flutter defiantly, predictably, however reluctantly, for a moment, the futile, pathetic, meaningless little flag of the supposedly righteous free woman, to permit her to enact her pretense, to protect her image, to salve her pride, to claim what she thought she should claim, rather than beg as a slave for what was truly in her heart, what she hoped to receive, and what she more than anything truly wanted.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  I then desisted in my attentions.

  “Sir?” she said, startled.

  She clutched the edges of the bench and squirmed a little.

  “Steady,” I said.

  “Sir?” she asked.

  “When you were brought in,” I said, casually, conversationally, as though her arousal and need were now out of mind, indeed, as though it had never occurred, “it seems your wrists were quite tightly bound behind you, more than with the customary tightness ample to keep a female in perfect custody.”

  “Sir?” she asked.

  Binding, chaining, collaring, and such, for a variety of psychological and physiological reasons, considerably augments female response. Some women, for example, have never experienced an orgasm before being braceleted, bound or collared. The binding, the chaining, the braceleting, or such, of course, while appropriately uncompromisingly effective, must not be such as to interfere with, or diminish, the responsiveness of the slave. That would be to commit a self-defeating error. That would be to work against oneself. One wishes, by means of her helplessness, and such, to increase and intensify her responsiveness, to have her thrashingly beside herself, perhaps almost to the point of madness, not reduce or qualify it. In particular, the slave, who has value, is not to be in any way impaired or injured. Even punishment is not to be administered in such a way as to lower her value. She is an investment, as any other animal. One must keep in mind that one may wish to sell her later. She is, of course, to be kept under close discipline, and must expect, if she is not fully pleasing, to be promptly and effectively punished, sometimes severely, that is, to be dealt with as she deserves, and as the slave she is.

  “You may call me Master,” I said.

  “‘Master’?” she said.

  “The way you rubbed your wrists, that suggests you were not merely bound with customary tightness, but punishment bound.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “Perhaps you had showed less than absolutely perfect deference to men?” I speculated.

  “No, Master,” she said. “I am not a fool.”

  “I would guess then,” I said, caressing her, but just for moment, though she nonetheless bucked beneath my hand, which amused me, “that the tie was intended to be an informative, or admonitory one, one from which you were to gather something of the meaning of your reduction in station.”

  “Yes!” she said, tensely.

  “Doubtless, then, you were formerly of some importance.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was important.”

  “Are you important now?” I asked.

  “No!” she gasped.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes!” she gasped.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I am—I am 261!” she said.

  I pulled her to a sitting position, before me, and then bent her backward and turned her body. “Yes,” I said, “you are 261.” I then put her back on her stomach. “And who is your daughter?” I asked.

  “437,” she said.

  “Are you more beautiful than your daughter?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” she wept, clutching the bench.

  I heard a gasp from the side, from our right, from among the other women.

  But moments ago, I was sure, she would have denied, perhaps sincerely, that her beauty could begin to compare with that of her daughter, whom I was sure she truly loved, however undeserving might be the little tart to be the recipient of such a love. But now, confused, troubled, and learning, seemingly for the first time, of her own beauty, and desirability, she knew not how to respond.

  It was amusing.

  Surely she did not wish to distress, or outrage, her daughter, but, too, she did not wish to perjure herself. In a collar, she knew she might be beaten for lying.

  I took it she did not really know.

  In any event her views on such matters, from the practical and economic point of view, whatever they might be, must defer to those of the holders of whips, the keepers of chains, men.

  They would make the definitive pronouncements on such things.

  “You are both, of course, clearly beauties,” I said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

  I stepped from the bench, looking at the other women. “You,” I said to a girl there. “Kneel, straighten your back, put your chin up, thr
ow your hair behind your back.” She did these things. “You are 437,” I said, reading her number.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes, what?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, quickly.

  “You are a pretty little thing,” I said.

  She looked up at me.

  “You may thank me,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said, “—Master.”

  I turned about, facing the bench.

  “Yes,” I said to the woman on the bench, “she has something of your beauty.”

  “Something!” gasped the girl behind me.

  How interesting, I thought, is the vanity of slaves. How competitive they are.

  “You are both quite beautiful,” I said to the woman on the bench, returning to her. “I suppose it would be difficult to say who, ultimately, under proper slave disciplines, will prove the most beautiful, but, clearly, now, at the moment, if these things are pertinent to the issue, you would bring the highest price.”

  “I?” asked the woman before me, wonderingly.

  “Yes,” I said. “But she has something of your coloring and characteristics, and is quite beautiful, and I think it likely, in time, with more experience in life and love, she might aspire to equal your beauty.”

  The girl gasped.

  “Please,” said the woman. “We are mother and daughter.”

  “You are only two women,” I said, “two women in collars, and, at this time, you, my chained beauty, would bring a higher price on the auction block, a price she could not hope, for perhaps years, to equal or excel. To be sure, I think you are both excellent collar meat.”

  They sobbed.

  I then renewed my attentions to her body.

  “Ahh,” she said.

  “You like that?”

  “Do not make me speak.”

  “Speak.”

  “—Yes,” she whispered.

  There was a gasp of disbelief, of denial, of outrage, of protest from the side.

  “You may then thank me,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you—Master.”

  “Mother!” exclaimed the girl.

  “I gather it has been a long time since you have been touched,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Are you disappointed in me? Do I take too long to respond?”