Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Be silent,” said the woman who held her chain. “That is no way for a free woman to speak. Put your head to the floor, pull your tunic up over your head!”

  Frightened, the woman did as she was told. The woman who had her in her keeping then called to another of the hostesses. “Three strokes,” she told her. That woman then, with her whip, struck Lady Labiena three times.

  “Replace your tunic and kneel straightly,” said her keeper.

  Lady Labiena, tears running down her cheeks, complied.

  “We have told you, Lady Labiena,” said my hostess. “We are merely keeping you for a friend.”

  “For whom are you keeping me?” she begged.

  “That is for us to know, and for you to wonder,” she said.

  “Tell him, if you would,” she said, “that his capture is now ready to be embonded, that she is now ready to lick his feet and beg a collar, that she is ready to be used, or sold, whatever be his will.”

  “That is Lady Labiena,” said my hostess. “See how feminine she is? See how right she is for a man?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Chain her at his mat’s slave ring,” said my hostess.

  “No,” I said.

  “What?” asked my hostess.

  “No,” I said.

  “Clearly she is fit for the collar,” said my hostess.

  “True,” I said. “But she is not yet in a collar. She is a mere free woman. She does not yet know the collar. She does not yet feel it in every part of her. Its meaning has not yet soaked into her brain, her skin, her belly, even to the tips of her toes.”

  “You are not interested in free females?” she said.

  “Not particularly,” I reminded her. This is not that unusual in one who has tasted of slaves. As women, there is no comparison between a free woman and her embonded sister. Perhaps that is why free women so hate slaves. To be sure, there is something to be said for free women. It is enjoyable to capture, enslave and train them. That is interesting. But then, of course, in a matter of time, one is not then dealing any longer with a free woman, but only another slave.

  “Close your tunic, you brazen slut,” said my hostess to the Lady Labiena, who hurriedly drew it together, obeying. Then she said to the woman who held her chain. “Take her away.”

  The Lady Labiena was led from the floor, through the door from which she had earlier emerged. Presumably she would be fastened by her neck chain to a wall or floor ring within, until she was brought forth again, to the floor.

  My hostess then lifted her head and looked to the left of the open space, where several females huddled. It was hard to tell in the light, but I thought they were naked. She cracked her whip, and they scurried swiftly to the table, where they knelt. They were naked.

  “Now these are slaves,” I said. I examined them. How incredibly beautiful and sensuous they were, how soft and vulnerable, how owned. It was not merely that they were nude and that their necks were locked in steel collars. It was something else, almost indefinable, but very real, about them, which marked them as slaves, something which seemed to say, “We are slaves, Masters. We are yours. Do with us as you will.”

  The woman cracked her whip again and the girls inadvertently cringed and shrank back. They were slaves, and knew well that sound. Two of them had even cried out in fear. The woman then went to the line. “Straighten your bodies,” she said. “You are in the presence of a man.” She touched more than one with the whip coils, adjusting her posture, and, with the coils, lifted up the chin of another. Then she turned to me. “These are available,” she said. “Perhaps you find one or more of them pleasing?”

  I surveyed the women.

  “Such,” she said, “are fit for men.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They are pleasant, meaningless creatures,” she said.

  I did not respond to the woman. There was a sense, of course, in which the slave girl is meaningless, the sense in which she is nothing, the sense in which she is a mere property, a rightless object, fittingly to be scorned, to be treated as one pleases, to be made to serve, to be disciplined or whipped, to be kept or cast away, as one might choose, and yet, in another sense, what meaning could a free woman even begin to have, compared to that of a slave at one’s feet?

  “Are they not pretty?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  I regarded the slaves.

  They knelt before me, in the half darkness, in a line. They had been well positioned. Their collars glinted, the steel reflecting the dim, reddish light of the tiny lamps. Their flesh, too, that of offerings of the house, so cheaply available, revealed the effects of this same dim illumination. The free woman, Ludmilla, proprietress of this establishment, and of several others on the street, had some concept, it seemed, as to at least one way in which female slaves might be presented before men. One does not, of course, buy a woman in such light. Preferably one considers them in strong light with great care. Indeed, preferably one does not put out any money until one has carefully examined every inch of her fair body. Even girls who are to be auctioned are commonly available, in exposition cages or display spaces, for inspection before a sale, that one may determine whether or not he wishes to make a bid, and, also, of course, how high he might be willing to go to acquire her.

  In “purple-booth sales,” the potential buyer, or his agent, may actually handle the girl, and try her out. Such sales are private, of course, and usually involve high-grade merchandise being proposed to an affluent clientele.

  One must not infer, however, that all girls are either auctioned, or entitled to the distinction of the purple booth.

  Many girls are sold directly from slave houses, from cells and cages, from stalls in a bazaar, from public hawkings in a plaza, from open-air markets, from wagons, at festivals and fairs, from slave camps, in fields, at the edges of busy roads, outside city gates, and so on.

  It is an advantage of the auction that in it one is likely to obtain the highest price for a given item, certainly if there is active bidding. Not every seller, on the other hand, cares to, or can afford to, auction his stock, as an auction is likely to involve a great deal of time and expense. For example, it requires a venue, the services of an auctioneer, which do not come cheap, ideally a large amount of merchandise, adequate holding facilities, and much organization, planning, staging, and policing, and preferably a good deal of advertising. And if the auction does not turn out well, because of foul weather, poor timing, considerable competition, market conditions, or such, one could be ruined. Auctions, like most business ventures, are gambles, and they are best left to those with experience in such matters and with the resources to gamble intelligently. Accordingly, most auctions occur under the auspices of established slave houses. To be sure, some houses hold regularly scheduled auctions, and this eliminates the need for special advertising.

  Private sales, of course, are common, and sometimes slaves are traded, one for another.

  It is interesting to note that most girls are not frequently sold. The Gorean master, whatever one may think of him, tends to keep a slave. This doubtless has something to do with the naturalness of the institution, for it is a civilized enhancement of a fundamental biological complementarity, and the tendency of the slave, categorically dominated and uncompromisingly possessed, as she longs to be, to fall in love with the master, and the tendency of the master, however reluctantly, and regretting the terrible shame involved, to begin to care for, and love, a mere slave. It is interesting how it is that a girl in a collar can so hold the heart of a man. I wonder if this is hard for a free woman to understand.

  The woman turned about, and, lifting her whip, signaled to the musicians at the right side of the room. They began to play. She then cracked the whip again and the slaves sprang to their feet and began to dance before me, as only slaves can dance before men.

  “How meaningless they are,” laughed the free woman.

  How incredibly meaningful, how explosively and thunderingly mea
ningful, how devastatingly meaningful, how momentously significant they were, these females of my species, presenting themselves before me in the modalities incumbent upon them, modalities constituting, as suggested, civilized and delicious refinements of relationships instituted and determined eons ago by nature, modalities which will always, in one way or another, in one nomenclature or another, be required of beautiful women by strong men, modalities most simply and directly thought of, and most honestly thought of, as those of the slave and master. One of the glories of the Gorean culture is that it has a body of law, sanctioned by tradition and mercilessly enforced, pertaining, without evasion or subterfuge, to this relationship.

  “Yartel,” said the woman, motioning to one of the girls who then, obediently, moved forward, writhing before me. She was a short-legged, creamy-skinned, voluptuous blonde. One difference between Gorean sexual tastes and those of Earth, I might mention, is that Gorean sexual tastes, at least in my opinion, are much broader and more tolerant than those of Earth, or at least those of Western Civilization, and tend to run toward the statistical norms of the human female. For example, many women on Earth who are implicitly taught by their culture, for example, through pictures and accounts, that they do not fulfill culturally approved stereotypes of feminine desirability and beauty, might discover, presumably to their horror, that they would bring a high price in a Gorean slave market. If they should have any lingering doubts about the matter, and think perhaps to escape a discipline more appropriately applied to “true beauties,” because they do not regard themselves as such, their delusions are likely to be quickly dispelled under their master’s whip. Also, although I suppose the matter is neither here nor there, Goreans also tend to prize women for such things as their intelligence, emotional depth, charm and personality. It is a pleasure to own such a female.

  The most fundamental property prized by Goreans in women, I suppose, though little is said about it, is her need for love, and her capacity for love. How much does she need love? And how deep and loving is she? That is the kind of woman a man wants, ultimately, one who is helplessly and totally love’s captive, in his collar.

  To be sure, it is also pleasurable, particularly in the beginning, to bend a woman, and to teach her her place. Few pleasures can compare, for example, with that of taking an unwilling female, preferably one who hates you, and, against her will, forcing her to yield to you the total and exquisite perfections of slave service. One may then, after she has learned herself a slave, after she has been brought to this self-understanding, do what one wishes with her, say, keeping her or selling her, doubtless now making a profit on her, and putting her into the markets, where, eventually, if she is fortunate, she might eventually come into the hands of an excellent master for her, one whose devoted love slave she will beg to be.

  “Louise,” said the woman with the whip.

  A short, slender, exquisite, very white-skinned, red-haired girl moved forth immediately from the line, dancing before me.

  ‘Louise’ is an Earth-girl name. I wondered if she were from Earth. Often, of course, Earth-girl names are given to Gorean female slaves. They are almost uniformly regarded as suitable slave names. Similarly, girls who wear them are taken to be slaves. It is sometimes amusing to Goreans when an Earth girl shows up in a Gorean slave market, insisting that her name is such and such, a name taken on Gor to be a slave name. It is as though she were confessing her bondage. She may be given the name afresh, but now to be worn as a slave name chosen by her master, or, sometimes, presumably that she may better understand her dependence on men’s will, and her subjection to male domination, she may be given another Earth-girl name. When more than one Earth girl is in the same lot, their names may be switched, the name ‘Audrey’, for example, being given to the former Karen, and the name ‘Karen’ now being given to the former Audrey. Most often, however, the Earth girls are given Gorean names, and usually Gorean slave names. Many masters discover that this procedure often smoothes and hastens the transition between the background of Earth freedoms, such as they are, and the new reality of absolute bondage. When the former Stacey Smith or Betty Lou Madison discover that they are now, say, Sabita, Dilek, Tuka, Cicek, or Lita, it helps to convince them that their old life is now behind them, and is gone forever. They then hurry, and are well advised to do so, to become the finest, the most superb, the most desirable Sabita, Dilek, Tuka, Cicek or Lita they can.

  I regarded the slender girl dancing before me. Her breasts were small, and well formed. The reddish light was particularly lovely, in its shifting hues, reflecting from so fair-skinned a body. The steel collar looked well on her neck.

  “Are you from Earth?” I asked her, in English.

  “Yes!” she said, startled.

  “Do not stop dancing,” I told her, in English.

  “Are you from Earth?” she asked, wildly.

  “Once,” I said.

  “I am an Earth woman!” she said. “Behold me in bondage!”

  “I do,” I said. “And you are very pretty in bondage.”

  Her fists clenched over her head, as she writhed before me. “Right this wrong!” she begged.

  “What wrong?” I asked.

  “That I am in bondage!” she cried.

  “Dance more superbly,” I told her.

  She writhed yet more lasciviously, more deliciously, before me.

  “You look well in a collar,” I informed her.

  “Please,” she protested.

  “Quite well,” I said.

  “Rescue me from bondage!” she cried.

  “No,” I said.

  “What!” she cried.

  “Dance,” I told her.

  She wept, and danced, and danced well.

  I examined her movements. Clearly they were those of a slave.

  “The only wrong, my dear,” I said, “would have been if you had not been reduced to bondage.”

  “Please!” she wept.

  “How do you address me?” I asked.

  “Master!” she wept.

  I motioned that she might return to the line, and, sobbing, dancing, she did so. The collar looked well on her neck. Clearly it belonged there. In time she would come to understand that and would then, fearfully, live in love, rejoicing.

  “Birsen,” said the woman with the whip.

  A tall thin girl, then, with brown hair about her shoulders, came forward. On Earth such a type, of such a structure, and with her beauty, I surmised, might have become a high-fashion model. I indicated that she might return to the line.

  “Demet,” said the woman.

  A short, dark-skinned girl, plump and meaty, one about whose femaleness there could be no doubt, with long, swirling black hair, spun forward and writhed before me. She had soft, full, pouting lips, of the sort that seem made for the raping of the master’s kiss. If she had ever been a free woman, doubtless she had been warned to keep those lips veiled, lest they attract the attention of slavers. I forced myself to remember that I had come here in response to a message, that I was expected to be partner to some sort of rendezvous. I had left Hurtha at the insula, with Feiqa, though by now, a lusty fellow, he was doubtless somewhere else on the street, Feiqa left behind, chained to her ring in the room. I did not know if there would be danger, or not. At any rate, if there were to be any danger, it did not seem to me appropriate that I should enter my hearty companion of the road into it. Such perils, if they existed, were properly mine.

  “I see that Demet interests you,” said my hostess. “She was once a high lady in the Tahari, but, as you can see, her lips made it inevitable that she would be sold into slavery.”

  I considered the movements of her sweetly broad love cradle.

  “Have you learned submission, Demet?” I asked.

  “Can you not read it in my eyes, Master?” she asked.

  “Speak,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “I have learned submission.”

  “You are one of our best girls, aren’t you, Demet?�
�� asked the woman with the whip, moving it on her belly as she danced.

  “I hope so, Mistress,” said Demet, frightened.

  “Are you happy as a slave?” I asked.

  “I beg to be sold,” she wept suddenly, “that I may have a private master.” Then she cried out in pain, lashed by the woman’s whip.

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” she begged. She did not stop dancing. The other girls, too, frightened, still dancing, shrank back a bit. I saw that the hostesses kept these feminine women under good discipline.

  “Let us have her chained to your mat ring,” said the woman with the whip.

  “Return her to the line,” I said.

  “Lale,” said the woman with the whip, summoning forward, with a gesture of the whip, the last of the slaves before me.

  “I am Lale,” said the girl, dancing meaningfully before me. “Examine me. I can give great pleasure.” I regarded her. She was a medium-sized, full-bodied, stunning brunette. I had no doubt that she could indeed give great pleasure. I observed her with care. How beautiful women are in slave dance. And what a splendid prelude it is to their subjugation and ravishment.

  “Master likes Lale,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  She then, suddenly, danced very close to me. “Have Lale chained to your ring,” she said.

  “Is the belly of Lale needful?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she whispered.

  I regarded her.

  “Please,” she said. “Lale has not been chosen in two nights.”

  “You would have yourself chosen not for my pleasure, but for your desperate need?” I asked.

  “For both, please, Master,” she said. “For both!”

  “Perhaps,” I said. She was quite beautiful. Until one has seen needful slaves, one has not seen women.