“That is not unusual,” I said. Such men, of course, commonly know their business.
“I spotted a tabuk, and set off in hot pursuit, across the fields,” she said. “It was an agile, wily beast, and it led me a splendid chase. Intent upon it I did not note the other riders, closing in upon me. The tabuk harried to exhaustion, helpless, lying gasping on the grass, I rode to it, my crossbow ready. It would not be a difficult shot. I would enter my bolt into its heart. I took aim. But the bow was lifted from me. ‘Greetings,’ said a man. ‘How dare you interfere!’ I cried. ‘The tabuk is mine!’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘it is you who are ours.’ ‘What?’ I cried. ‘Greetings,’ said he then, ‘slave.’ ‘What!’ I cried. But I felt then two ropes, from opposite sides, encircle my neck. I was dragged back off the tharlarion into the grass. I sprang to my feet. I reached for my dagger, but it had been removed from my sheath! I stood there, wild, on the grass, between them, the two ropes on my neck. Then in short order I was stripped and bound, my ankles together and my hands before me. I saw the exhausted tabuk recover and rise unsteadily to its feet, and trot away. I, on the other hand, was thrown on my back before the saddle of the leader of these men. Both my bound ankles and wrists were thonged to rings. I was in the place in which I would have brought home the tabuk, save I would have had him on his belly, so bound. My captor had put me on my back, I suppose, so that I might see him. We then began to move slowly toward a distant wood, that of Nina. It was in that place that they had their camp. ‘Oh!’ I cried. I had never before felt the hands of a man on my body. ‘You cannot do this to me!’ I cried. ‘I am a free woman!’ ‘Be silent,’ said he, ‘slave.’ I struggled wildly. Then he leaned down and seized me by the hair with his left hand, and pulled my head up, and then, then with the flat of his right hand, cuffed me, and then flung me back where I had been, as though I might have been a mere object. I could not believe it. He had cuffed me! Me! A woman from the villas of Noviminae! I lay there before him. We rode slowly. I could not believe what he was doing to me. I was a free woman! I dared not protest. I had learned my captor was not a weakling, and that he was quite capable of punishing me. Soon I began to squirm before the saddle. I could not even begin to understand such feelings. Some of the men laughed. At last, as we entered among the trees of the woods of Nina, he gave me respite. ‘Thank you,’ I said pridefully, in haughty irony. But in a moment I jerked helplessly, writhing, looking up at him, in frustration against the rings. The men laughed. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘Nothing!’ I said. I dared not confess to him how distressed I was at the stoppage of his touch, at the cessation of those intriguing, unfamiliar, troubling sensations which seemed to irradiate through my entire body, seeming to change everything within me and my whole concept of myself. I dared not beg for more. We were then at his camp, and I was put bound on the leaves of the woods’ floor. They had brought my tharlarion along. I supposed they would sell it. I wondered what my own fate would be.”
My hostess laughed.
“Go on,” I said.
“There were other girls, too, in this camp,” she said, “but they appeared to be mere peasant lasses. They were on a common neck chain, stripped, fastened between two trees. They seemed, unlike myself, suitable candidates for slavery.”
My hostess smiled.
“Continue,” I told the slave.
“‘You will now beg to wear shackles and cook,’ said the leader. ‘Never,’ I said. They then untied me, but only to string me up by the ankles to a tree branch. In moments I begged to wear shackles and cook. They took me down, and, in horror, I saw the metal put on my ankles. They were close shackles, and gave me a play of no more than three horts. They need not fear I would run away. I then, though I was of the villas of Noviminae, cooked. It was the first time I had ever served men.”
“How did you feel about this?” I asked.
She looked down.
“Speak,” said my hostess, sternly.
“I was unutterably thrilled, so to serve men,” she whispered.
“Of course,” said my hostess, “for you were not truly a huntress. You were only a slave pretending to be a huntress.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said the woman in the collar.
“The pretense is now over,” said my hostess.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“What occurred then?” I asked the slave.
“There is little more to tell,” she said. “After the meal I lay at the feet of my captors. I was docile. I hoped that they would touch me. After they had drunk they removed the shackles from me and I was passed about, amongst them. I could not believe the things I did, nor the feelings I experienced. There were cries of rage, and denunciation, from the other girls, who could see everything. But I did not care. I could not help myself. They had a wagon, with a cage on it. They would leave the camp after darkness. When they left, I, and the others, were bound hand and foot, and put in gag hoods, so that we could neither see nor speak. We were then put in the wagon cage. It was locked. We then were taken from the woods of Nina. Eventually, when our solicitations for aid would be meaningless, for who cares about the lamentations of unknown females, our gag hoods and bonds were removed. Then, still sturdily encaged, but mercifully now only stripped, we were brought south. It was a long trip. In the beginning I was much at the mercy of the other girls, and was much beaten by them. They resented my behavior in the woods. Then, at a night camp, another girl was taken from the wagon, for the pleasure of the captors. She learned, too, she was a woman. There were then two to abuse, and beat. Then there were three. And, soon, there were more in the cage who knew themselves than did not. The beatings then must stop, save for those administered, and often harshly, by the captors. Then, in time, there were none in the cage who had still to learn the meaning of their sex, none who had not now learned that they were slaves, and fully.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“We even began to beg for the attentions of our captors.”
“Of course,” I said.
“What had begun in the vicinity of Lydius, as, with the possible exception of myself, a cage of free women had become, by the time we had reached Venna, on the Viktel Aria, a cage of competitive, amorous slaves.”
“Was it at Venna that you were legally embonded?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “it was there that the legal details were attended to. Our captors, quite rightly, adjudged us now ready for our brands and collars. The technicalities were attended to. We were legal slaves.”
“I see,” I said.
“It was only a short trip then,” she said, “to the sales rooms of Ar.”
“I understand,” I said.
She, kneeling there in the cage, her hands on the bars, looked up at me. “I had been a rich woman of the villas of Noviminae,” she said. “I think my captor enjoyed selling me to a brothel.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
She moved back a bit from the bars. She put down her head.
“What did you pay for her?” I asked.
“Three silver tarsks,” said my hostess.
“That is a high price,” I said.
“You had better be worth it on the floor, Mina,” said my hostess.
“I will try, Mistress,” said Mina.
“Perhaps you will come into the keeping of a private master someday,” I said.
She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “Such men,” she said, “seldom buy girls out of brothels.”
“Some might,” I said. I looked at my hostess. “If someone were interested in her,” I asked, “would she be for sale?”
“She is the only wench we have from the villas of Noviminae,” said my hostess. “That is a rather special background. It is almost like once having been of high caste. That background is likely to be of interest to many of our customers. We expect her to be in frequent demand.” She looked down at the slave. “Perhaps you can tell them of the beauty of the villas, and of how spoiled and rich you were,” she said, “while you squirm in thei
r arms.”
“Yes, Mistress,” whispered the girl.
“But if an offer were made?” I asked.
“It would depend, of course,” she said, “on the offer.”
“She is then for sale?” I asked.
“All our slaves are for sale,” said my hostess.
“You could sell any of them to anyone then?” I asked.
“Of course,” said my hostess. “To anyone who has the price.”
We then proceeded to the next cage. It was the last one which was currently occupied.
This girl, like Mina, was a sweetly bodied slut, with luscious swelling breasts, a stocky, but considerably narrower waist, and wide hips, nursing a marvelous love cradle in which a man might lose himself with pleasure. She, too, like Mina, was nicely thighed. She, too, like Mina, was a brunette. She, too, like Mina, wore a close-fitting steel collar. She, kneeling in her cage, had not been unaware, of course, of our progress. When we appeared before her cage, she put her head down to the blanket, the palms of her hands on the floor of the cage, beside her head. It is a lovely gesture of obeisance, and required by many masters of their women.
“Her name is ‘Candice’,” I said, reading the cage card. “That is an Earth-girl name. Is she an Earth girl?”
“No,” said my hostess. “She is from Tabor. We thought it a lovely name. We put it on her.”
I nodded. It was a lovely name. If any girl were to appear on Gor with such a name, of course, she would be immediately taken to be a slave, and would be treated as such. She would soon be in a collar. Her fate would be bondage.
“A very attractive slut,” I said.
“Yes,” said my hostess.
“How much did she cost?” I asked.
“Two silver tarsks,” said my hostess.
“Interesting,” I said. “Her beauty seems quite comparable to that of her chain sister, Mina, and yet Mina brought a full tarsk more.”
“It is the Noviminae background,” said the hostess.
“Interesting,” I said. “It seems then that sometimes what is being paid for is not the mere female herself.”
“Of course not,” said my hostess. “Suppose she was a ubar’s daughter.”
“I see,” I said.
“The daughter of a ubar may bring ten thousand pieces of gold in a private sale,” said the hostess, “but, as a woman, as a mere female on a chain, she may be worth far less than thousands of wenches one might lead home for a few copper tarsks.”
“That is true,” I said. And it is not unoften the case that such a common wench, of which little is expected, bought originally perhaps with the mere object of keeping her for a week or so and then reselling her, will be discovered to be an astounding value. Fortunate is the master who gets so much for so little. Fortunate is he who discovers that for his pittance he has purchased a treasure. He does not take her back in a week. She tugs at her chain; it is fastened securely to his ring. What counts ultimately, in my opinion, is not the cost of the merchandise, but its value, its quality; it is not what one pays that is ultimately important, but what gets for one’s money. One day he considers himself, looking down at the slave at his feet; it is he whom she struggles so hard to please, as a slave must; it is he in whose complete power she finds herself; it is he whom she must serve so humbly, and who is so strict with her; it is he who is her master; he looks down into her eyes; he sees that she, looking up at him, unable to help herself, has become his love slave. He smiles. He fingers his whip. He wonders if perhaps he is her love master. She bends down, kissing his feet. He knows he must guard against weakness. He must never forget the whip. She understands the whip. All slaves do. He watches her, her hair about his feet, and feels her lips and tongue. The sensations are not unpleasant. If he does not find the relationship satisfactory, of course, he may always sell her.
“I think I will return to the table,” I said. “Thank you for showing me these wenches. They seem superb merchandise. I think, in time, with training, they will all prove excellent upon the floor.”
“That is our hope,” said my hostess. “We want the Tunnels to be one of the best brothels on the entire Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla.”
“Who is Ludmilla?” I asked.
“I have never met her,” said my hostess.
We then returned to the floor. In our return we paused briefly by the girls at the side of the open space. “Yartel and Demet are now serving,” said my hostess. “These two others are now open, ready for new rings.” She indicated a blonde and a brunette. “Ita and Tia,” she said.
“Lovely,” I said.
Louise, the Earth girl there, looked at me, aghast. Then she looked away. I gather she had not known that men from Earth, or once from Earth, could look in such a way upon women.
The culture with which she had been familiar was, at that time unbeknownst to her, for lack of a contrast or alternative, a gray, arid, unnatural, mechanistic culture. She knew no other. Machines, in their way, have their own priorities and ideals. Such a culture has its trajectories and its internal dynamics which must be played out, until it collapses from its own alien meaninglessness, succumbing to the rebellions of a denied biology, or worse, to the rebellions of an outraged irrationality, of mindless superstition, of subversion, corruption, and hatred, of blind zealotry or intentionally inculcated fanaticism. A world of plastics and circuits, attacked, hemorrhages with human blood. A culture which fulfills the machine and not man is a culture in which man is alienated, a culture in which he is not himself but essentially an appendage to industry and technology, an emigrant from himself, a foreigner on the soil of his own soul. In the human condition sexuality is radically central, and the machine has no need of innate sexuality. To it sexuality is irrelevant and nonfunctional. It utilizes sexuality only to produce tenders of machines, mechanics, and repairmen, its own servants and slaves, thinking themselves free, while obeying the compulsions of process. Many things, as is well known, are the products of human action but not of human design. And these may be benign and salutary, but, too, they need not be so. And it is ironic that human action could mindlessly construct prisons that no rational being would willingly design. It is within its own walls, walls built without conscious intent, that the human spirit is most hopelessly confined.
The Earth girl, Louise, turned her head toward me, I gather, to see if I were still regarding the slaves. Our eyes met. In her eyes was reproach. The collar looked nice on her neck, an attractive, standard, close-fitting Gorean slave collar. How could I, a man of Earth, look upon women so, she doubtless wondered. Surely I was not another Gorean brute. I saw she expected me to be shamed, and look away, or slyly, furtively regard such as she, pretending not to do so.
I disappointed her.
In this she was confused, and flustered.
Doubtless, of course, she was well accustomed by now to the casual, assessive regard of Gorean males.
She was, after all, a slave.
But I was not Gorean!
But she saw that I regarded her openly and appraisingly, as what she was, a female, and a slave.
She was not accustomed to being so regarded by the males of Earth.
But I was no longer a male of Earth. I was now of Gor.
I continued to regard her, as one might look upon a fine horse, or dog. I continued to look upon her as a property, that property which was what she was, that property which was she.
I saw that she was now embarrassed, outraged, shamed, humiliated.
Her hands made a small movement, as though to attempt to cover herself, as she could, but she quickly returned them to her thighs. Doubtless she had been switched in the past for having tried to avail herself of just such a shielding, pathetically inadequate though it might have been.
The slave had much to learn.
I smiled.
Later, subject to such a regard, she would hope to be found pleasing.
The humans of Gor are of course human, mostly the scions of Earthlings brought t
o this world long ago by the Priest-Kings, in Voyages of Acquisition.
Although doubtless the Priest-Kings had on the whole been careful to select excellent specimens, intelligent and healthy, and so on, for introducing to Gor, the specimens were surely of typical Earth stock. In short the differences between the men of Earth and those of Gor were almost certain to be primarily cultural, and not physiological.
There was no reason as far as I could tell that the men of Gor, if acculturated similarly to those of Earth, if subjected to the same debilitating indoctrinations, the same negativistic educations, the same unnatural engineerings, the same calculated underminings of manhood, the same inconsistent conditioning programs, which so confuse and cripple an organism, the same subversive emasculative politics, which encourages a male to dread, suspect, and fear his most natural impulses and urges, would not be much like the statistically subdued, inhibited, reduced, pathetic, tragic males of Earth, and, too, I supposed that the men of Earth, if raised in a natural culture, and acculturated in ways congenial to nature and not antithetical to her, might be as robust, as healthy and whole, as those of Gor, might be as strong-willed, as unified, as powerful, as happy and free as those of Gor, indeed, might be much as the men of Gor.
To be sure, here and there, on Earth, I supposed, there must be men who saw through these educational traps and nets, these political endeavors and artifices, men who understood what their enemies were trying to do to them, and simply did not accept it.
Surely, on Earth, somewhere, there must be true men.
But the Earth girl, Louise, I gathered, had never met any.
But perhaps they concealed themselves, to avoid being pointed out, set upon, lacerated and destroyed. Perhaps they were biding their time, until a different day might dawn.
“But you will return to the table?” asked my hostess.
“Yes,” I said.
“I shall have one of the slaves fetch you a drink,” she said.
“That one,” I said, indicating Louise.
“Certainly,” she said. She snapped her fingers and Louise sprang up, and came to where we stood. Then she knelt.
Mercenaries of Gor Page 39
