Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Mother!” cried the girl, scandalized.

  “You are not a slave,” I said. “You do not have trained, honed reflexes. Smoldering fires have not been set in your belly, never far from the surface, ready to leap into flame at the smallest touch. You are a free woman. I do not expect much of you.”

  “Oh!” she cried, suddenly.

  “Still,” I said, “you seem to have in you the promise of vitality. But then I think that was established earlier.”

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Oh!” she said. “Oh!”

  “It seems,” I said, “as in all women, there is a slave in you.”

  She moaned.

  “Or perhaps it is not so much that there is a slave in you,” I mused, “as that you are simply a slave.”

  “Please do not make me yield!” she begged, suddenly. I continued to caress her.

  “Do not yield, Mother!” cried the girl.

  “Be silent!” she said. “Be silent! Can you not see I am in the hands of a man!”

  “Mother!” cried the girl.

  “Oh!” cried the woman.

  “You squirm like a slut!” cried the girl.

  “What you are doing to me!” cried the woman, half rearing up on the palms of her hands, the chains on her wrists.

  “Lie down,” I instructed her.

  She then lay there, on the cool marble, clutching it, tensely, her eyes wild, her head to the left.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked.

  She lay extremely still, almost rigid, tensely, on the bench. She gripped the marble tightly. It seemed she did not dare to move.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Do not make me yield,” she begged. She was very beautiful, and very helpless. Such a female would indeed, I thought, bring a high price.

  “Why?” I asked.

  She moaned.

  “Why?” I pressed. It was not necessary to beat her for not having responded promptly to my question. She was a free woman. Such tardiness in a slave, of course, is not acceptable. It can mean the whip for her.

  “Please,” she said.

  “You want to yield, do you not?” I asked.

  “No, no,” she said.

  “I think it has been a long time since you have yielded, if ever before you have truly yielded to a man.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Did you ever before, truly, yield to a man?” I asked.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “I think you now suspect what it might be like to do so,” I said.

  “Yes, yes,” she whispered, tensely.

  I touched her, slightly. “Oh!” she said, grasping the marble even more tightly.

  “Be strong, Mother,” called the girl.

  Tears fell from the woman’s eyes, falling to the marble. The padlock, holding her in the close-fitting metal collar, moved a little on the smooth marble. It made a small sound. She had long, dark hair.

  “I think you want to yield,” I said.

  “No, no,” she said.

  I touched her, gently. “Ohhh,” she said.

  “I think you want to yield,” I said.

  “No, no!” she said.

  I again caressed her, this time with an exquisite delicacy, a brief, sweet touch that brought her, in her present condition, to the brink of an uncontrollable response. If I should continue I had little doubt but what she would, in a moment or two, be jerking on her belly, crying out in a rattle of chain, writhing helplessly on the marble, then bruising and marking the soft interiors of her lovely thighs against it, so tightly gripping it.

  “No man can make you yield, Mother!” cried the girl.

  I gathered she was a mere virgin. Doubtless in the next few weeks she would learn better.

  “Be silent, you stupid girl!” wept the mother.

  “Mother!” protested the girl.

  “Why do you not wish to yield?” I asked the woman.

  “My daughter,” she gasped. “My daughter is here!”

  “But you would be willing to yield if she were not present,” I asked.

  “Yes, yes!” said the woman. “A thousand times yes!”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Mother!” protested the girl, horrified.

  “Do you think I should have her removed from the room?” I asked.

  “Please!” said the woman.

  “No,” I said.

  She moaned.

  “Do you not want her to know what a pleasure and a joy you can be to a man?” I asked.

  “I am her mother!” she wept.

  “You are only another woman in a collar,” I said. “And, soon, you will be going your different ways. Besides, I do not think she is your equal in these things. Perhaps sometime she might possibly be your equal. I do not know. Perhaps you, in your love, could hope that for her, and even give her training, and advice. At present, however, dear lady, it is you, I assure you, who are the prize, you whom strong men would relish most on her belly before them. Who knows? Perhaps you will both find yourselves eventually in the same household. It might be interesting to see you competing for the favor of the same master. I have little doubt it would be you, properly enslaved, my dear, and not she, who would be most often drawn by the hair to the master’s couch.”

  The woman sobbed.

  “What has been the relationship between you and your daughter?” I asked.

  The woman did not respond.

  “I gather it has been distant,” I said. “I gather that your love for her has been little reciprocated, that your sacrifices, your concerns and efforts in her behalf, have been little understood or appreciated. I gather that she, in the customary, unquestioning self-centeredness and vanity of her youth, seemingly so inevitable in the young, has given little concern to your feelings, to your reality as an independent woman and human being, that she has scarcely thought of you, or understood you, in these ways, that she has, typically, muchly taken you for granted, considering you often as little more than a convenience, a tool and fixture, in her world, as little more than her servant and satellite.”

  “No, no!” said the daughter.

  The woman was silent.

  “But such things are over now,” I said.

  “Yes,” whispered the woman.

  “You are now only two women,” I said, “each in the custody of impartial iron, each presumably destined to stand by herself on the sawdust of the slave block, each, separately, to helplessly submit to, and endure, the objective scrutiny of buyers. There it will not matter that you are mother and daughter. Probably you will not even be sold in proximity to one another, but in the order of your numbers, or in some order deemed aesthetically or commercially appropriate by professional slavers. There you will be evaluated, bid upon and purchased, as different animals, as separate properties, merely as independent items up for sale, solely on your own merits. Then you will go your own ways, doubtless never to see one another again, doubtless each to the chains of a separate master. I wonder who will make the better slave?”

  I then touched her, gently, again.

  “Ohhh,” she said, softly.

  “Who would be best?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” said the woman.

  “Mother!” scolded the girl.

  “Doubtless, in the end, under the suitable tutelage of strong men, you will both become superb,” I speculated.

  “Yes,” whispered the woman.

  “Mother!” said the girl.

  “Perhaps, in the end, when you are both marvelous, there will be little to choose from between you,” I speculated.

  The woman said nothing.

  “But now,” I said, “there is a great deal to choose from, between you.”

  The girl cried out, in anger.

  The woman groaned, clutching the bench.

  “Can you imagine your daughter in slave silk?” I asked the woman. “Can you imagine her in a collar, kneeling and obeying?”
r />   “Yes,” whispered the woman.

  “Do not speak so,” begged the daughter.

  “Can you imagine her naked, kicking in her chains,” I asked, “crying out, begging for a man’s touch?”

  “Yes,” said the woman.

  The daughter put her head in her hands, sobbing.

  “Hush, dear,” said the woman. “It will be so.”

  “Men are horrid,” wept the girl.

  “No,” she said, “they are the masters. They are as they are, as we are as we are.”

  “I will never yield to them,” wept the girl.

  “Then you will be killed,” said the woman.

  The girl gasped, shrinking back in the chains. “I could pretend to yield,” she whispered.

  “That is the crime of false yielding,” said the mother. “It is easy to detect, by infallible physiological signs. It is punishable by death.”

  “What, then, can I do?” she wept.

  “Yield truly, or die,” she said.

  “What chance have I, then?” asked the girl.

  “None,” said the mother. “You will be a slave.”

  “I do not wish to be so helpless,” cried the girl. “I do not wish to be so devastated, and mastered. I do not want to be taken out of myself.”

  “It will be done to you,” she said.

  “I do not wish to be robbed of myself!”

  “It is only in their arms that you will find yourself,” she said.

  “I hate men!” cried the girl.

  “In time,” said the woman, “you will live to please men, and desire to do so. You will wish to yield to them, for they are your masters. You will in time beg to serve their pleasure. You will hint and wheedle. You will beg for your havings, you will yearn to render your yieldings to your master.”

  “No, no!” said the girl.

  “If you like,” I said to the woman, “I can go over there and, in moments, one hand on the back of her neck, my other hand free, have her leaping like a child’s toy.”

  “No,” said the woman. “It will be soon enough done to her, such things. She will learn, soon enough, what it is, a bond-maid, to be owned by men.”

  “Do not worry so much about her,” I said.

  “I am her mother,” she said.

  “I would worry more about myself, if I were you,” I said. “I think you will find that you will prove to be, and doubtless for some time, a much more frequent object of male aggression than she.”

  “Surely not!” she said.

  “Conceive of yourself, uncollared,” I said, “but in a snatch of slave silk, a tunic, a camisk.”

  “Master?”

  “Merely to see you then would be to want to strip you and put you in a collar.”

  “Surely not!” gasped the woman.

  “I am a man, and I can vouch for it,” I said. I gave her an intimate, friendly pat.

  “Please!” she said.

  “Be silent,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I assure you,” I said, “you are at present much more likely to excite the predations of men, to be viewed as a mere embonded lust object, than your daughter. You are much more likely than she, at least at present, in my opinion, to discover that you have, perhaps to your terror and distress, and with predictable consequences to yourself, then a slave, occasioned their interest.”

  “No!” said the girl.

  “Be silent, low slave,” I said to her.

  “Low slave!” she cried.

  “I am now attending to this other woman,” I said. “I find her of interest.”

  “You are a free woman, Mother,” said the girl. “You are not a slave. You do not have to yield to him. Resist him. Do not yield to him.”

  “Do not fret, daughter,” said the woman. “Can you not see? Even though he is a man, he consents to speak kindly to us. Appreciate such things, for you do not know when you will hear such words again.”

  “He is a brute!” said the daughter.

  “The master is merciful to me,” said the mother. “Can you not see? In virtue of your presence, and in respect for the delicacy of our situation, he has permitted me to almost entirely subside.”

  “‘Subside’!” said the daughter, scandalized.

  “Yes,” said the woman. “Thank you, Master.”

  How interesting, I thought, are women. She tried to sound pleased, or relieved, but her frustration, her disappointment, was obvious. She was aching on the bench, and primed to yield. To be sure, I had let her subside a little. This is a technique occasionally used in slave management, though I had not utilized it fully or at length, to play with the lovely thrall, to carry her upward a way, and then let her subside, and then carry her upward, again, but further, and let her subside again, but not to the same extent as before, and so on, until after a succession of these ever ascendant climbs and retreats, each ascent greater than before, and each retreat less than before, she is at last at the very brink of her ecstasy, and is screaming and begging to be permitted to yield, at which point the least touch, when the master chooses to bestow it, if he chooses to bestow it, will suffice to produce one of the most beautiful sights in the world, the yielding of a helpless, rapturous, grateful slave.

  “Oh!” said the woman.

  “Do you think I am merciful?” I asked her. I feared she had misunderstood my intent.

  “He is touching me again!” said the woman. She clutched the marble bench again.

  “Do you truly think I am merciful?” I asked.

  “No, no!” she said.

  “Do you think any true man would let a curvaceous, luscious beauty like you, a mere prisoner set out for pleasure, a future slave, circumvent his whims in a situation like this, that he would not exploit his advantage, so to speak,” I said.

  “Tell him that that is exactly what a true man would do!” said the daughter.

  “Do not be stupid,” said the woman. “We are not talking here about weaklings who call themselves ‘true men,’ trying to disguise their weakness under false titles, but true men.” Then she suddenly moaned. I found that of interest. She had not, apparently, subsided to the extent that either of us had thought. The coals of slave heat, it seemed, had not ceased to glow in her belly.

  “I ask mercy,” she said.

  “It is denied,” I informed her.

  “Resist him!” said the daughter.

  “His hands are strong and powerful,” said the woman. “He knows what he is doing! I am soft, and female!”

  “You wish to yield,” I told her. “It is not difficult to tell.”

  “I must not, Master,” she said. “My daughter is here. She would never again respect me! Ohh!”

  “Is it so wrong for her to know that her mother is a hot slut?” I asked.

  “Please,” she begged.

  “You are, you know,” I said, commending her.

  “I cannot help it!” she wept.

  “You are like a she-sleen in heat,” I said. “You squirm well. You are almost as hot as a slave. It is interesting to consider what you might be like when truly in bondage.”

  “Please,” she wept.

  “You belong in a collar,” I said.

  “I must try to resist,” she whispered tensely.

  “You could, instead, of course,” I said, “provide your daughter with an instructive exhibition of how a female can give incredible rapture to a man. She might profit from this lesson, carrying it to her advantage into slavery with her. You might even give her your impression, as far as your current understandings of such things might go, of such things as will soon be expected of her, of how a slave might respond to a master.”

  “If you take me,” she said, “I will remain inert. I will not participate in your pleasure.”

  “You do not seem very inert to me,” I said.

  She squirmed.

  “Was that a threat?” I asked. I lifted her head up by the hair, and turned her head, with both hands. The padlock on the collar swu
ng free. I could dash her brains out on the marble bench.

  “No,” she said. “No, Master!”

  I let her put her head down, as she would. The padlock again lay on the marble bench. There was a sound from the chains on her wrists. Beneath the bench the chain linking her ankles moved on the floor of the Semnium.

  “There are many ways to take a woman,” I said. “All of them are pleasurable. Much depends on the situation, and the time of day, and the preferences and tastes of the master. If you think that the pleasure of the man is inextricably linked with the pleasure of the woman you are naive. That is a common misunderstanding of the free woman. That is much like thinking that the fruit cannot be enjoyed if it has not first begged to be plucked from the tree. That is simply not true. One can simply take it and enjoy it. Indeed, there is something to be said for such takings. In them one simply imposes one’s will upon the helpless other. In them one senses imperiousness and power. Those who have felt such things know their value.”

  “I am yours to do with as you wish,” she said, “and you know it well.”

  “I wonder if I should force you to yield,” I mused.

  She lay quietly now, tense, muchly aroused, not knowing what my decision would be. Whatever it was, helpless as she was, she would abide it.

  Her wrists suddenly jerked up, and were then stopped by the chain. The chain under the bench, on her ankles, moved, too, as her feet moved under the bench.

  “Lie still,” I told her.

  I then began, with care, and exquisite delicacy, not hurrying, to exploit her profound needs, and the remarkable vitality of her body. I thought she would, in time, make a splendid slave. It would be a lucky fellow, who would have her in his collar.

  “He is making me yield!” she said.

  “Do not, Mother!” cried the girl.

  “This is what it must be,” she said. “I sense it. It is beginning. This must be what it is like! I cannot stop it.”

  “Do you want to stop it?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “No!”

  “Mother!” protested the girl.

  I continued to draw her gently, and as implacably as though she were bound and on a leash, up the long stairwell of her need and helplessness. It was as though, then, again, that I had brought her, whimpering and needful, with me, again in the Gorean fashion, down a long, patient, narrow-walled, heavily carpeted corridor, one in which her bare feet could feel the deep, soft piling of the carpeting, and through a heavy, barred door, one which I had locked behind me, showing her that there was no escape for her, and had then put her, mine, to her place at the foot of my couch.