Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Yes, “ I said. “You took care to swiftly correct the quality of your performance.”

  “‘Behavior’? ‘Performance’?” she laughed.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You make it sound as though it were merely a matter of physical actions,” she said. “How little you men know! Behavior! Will you men never learn that love is inside of a woman? Performance, indeed! That was not a performance! That was my femaleness, my cries, my needs, my desires, my wants, my passions, manifesting themselves.”

  I said nothing. It is sometimes pleasant, of course, to enforce such behaviors and performances on a woman, even when, and sometimes especially when, in the case of a certain woman, you know she is raging inside against you. She dares not exhibit, of course, after the first time or two, the least recalcitrance. There is a sense of great power in this. And then, eventually, when she learns that there is no rescue for her, and she has begun to sense the lure of submission, and then its rightfulness, and its power, and eventually its joy, and its fulfillment for her, her self, soon, if she is intelligent, recognizing the stupidity and futility of resistance, she follows at first docilely in the leash of her body, and then, in time, in what, when it is clearly recognized, comes sometimes as a mind-staggering volte-face for her, she realizes that what is kneeling at her master’s feet, wholly herself, is a slave, and only a slave. There are subtle cues as to the authenticity of this inward transformation, behavioral and physical. It cannot be faked. She has then been restored to her femaleness. She has then come home to herself. She may then be kept, or sold, as the master pleases.”

  “You did not refrain from whipping me then because I was an Earth girl?” she said.

  “Certainly not,” I said. “Indeed, as you are an Earth girl I might have been tempted to use the whip on you even more quickly than if you were Gorean, as I might have suspected that you might have been less inclined than she, at least initially, to believe a master means business.”

  She laughed. “Do not fear,” she said. “We Earth girls are not stupid. In the collar we learn almost immediately that the men of Gor, so different form the men of Earth, “mean business,” as you put it. We learn almost immediately that there will be no compromise where we are concerned, that we are slaves, totally, and that we must obey with perfection and strive to be pleasing, to the utmost of our abilities.”

  “Excellent,” I said. It pleased me that Earth girls on Gor were soon taught their basic lessons. That would make the transition easier for them, I thought, from the emptiness and meaninglessness of their former lives to the rigors and significances of Gorean servitude.

  “But whether of Gor or Earth, I am a woman,” she said.

  I kissed her. There was no doubt about her sex, at least now.

  “But as I am a woman,” she said, kissing me, “could you have really whipped me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But would you have done so?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “You would have whipped me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That is exactly what I thought,” she smiled.

  I shrugged. These things seemed self-evident where a master and a slave were concerned.

  “Thank you, for not whipping me,” she said. “Thank you for showing me kindness.”

  “Beware of using such words to men,” I said. “Do you think we are weak?”

  “No, not on Gor!” she laughed. “And my back and body know it.”

  “Do you think to try to weaken us with such words?” I asked.

  “No, Master,” she smiled.

  “You might not be shown such kindness next time,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  Kindness becomes most meaningful, of course, particularly when warranted, against a general background of firmness sand strictness, against which it can then be understood as the gift it is. Constant and universal kindness degenerates swiftly into permissiveness and then indulgence. It is subversive of discipline and order. The child, for example, who is not raised with firmness but with a misguided “kindness,” not in its own long-term best interest, grows into the conceited, spoiled, selfish, obnoxious, irresponsible, self-complacent, degenerate adult, the demanding, petulant adult, still basically a child, impatient of delay, seeking only its own gratification, quick to manipulate moral rhetorics to achieve its own ends, willing to profit from the pain and sacrifice of others, contributing nothing itself, and generally insensitive of duty and honor.

  “Do you wish to be whipped?” I asked.

  “No!” she said.

  “I see,” I said.

  “But,” she said, whispering softly in my ear, “I want to belong to a man who can, and will, whip me, if I am not pleasing to him.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “It is right that I be controlled, and punished, if I am not pleasing,” she said.

  “I agree,” I said, considering her.

  “It is such strength, strength so great, that I long for in a man,” she said. “I know in my heart that nature intended me to be the property of such a man. It is by such a man that nature has decreed that I be owned.”

  “True,” I said.

  “I wait for my master,” she whispered.

  “I do not think, now, given the recent confirmation of these insights in you, you will have to wait long for your rightful chains, but, in the meantime, you will well serve the customers in the Tunnels.”

  “The ‘customers’!” she wept.

  “Yes,” I said, and then I turned her over, putting her again on her belly on the mat.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Yes, the customers,” I said, “of whom I am one.”

  “Yes, Master!” she said. “Oh! Oh! Ohhhhh!”

  “Excellent,” I said.

  I saw that her fingernails had scratched at the mat. I put my hand on the mat, near her face. The mat was damp there, from tears.

  “Master well knows how to use a slave,” she said.

  “You yielded well,” I said.

  “I cannot help myself,” she said. “I am a slave.”

  “And only that?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I gently parted her hair, putting it delicately on either side of her neck. In this way I could see the collar on her neck, and the small, sturdy lock at the back of the neck.

  “I wonder who truly loves himself, and women,” she whispered, “he who is true to himself and his nature, refusing to deny it or pretend it doesn’t exist, and who fulfills women, as what they really are, or he who betrays himself, who lies to himself and who denies the true needs of women?”

  “Aside from special definitions, definitions which plead political causes,” I said, “the answer seems fairly obvious. He most loves himself and respects himself who is true to himself, and he most loves women, and cares for them, it would seem, who understands them for what they are, truly, and fulfills them, as what they truly are.”

  “That would seem so to me, too,” she said.

  “Love is not necessarily conjoined with weakness as those who wish to weaken men would have you believe,” I said. “Love can be conjoined with strength. And that is the love of the strong man, the master, not the weakling. And this will remain true, always, in its own place, and in its own terms, regardless of the lies taught children, the restriction of educational posts to adherents, the pervasive propaganda, the selective allocation of research grants, the denial of freedoms and the suppression of alternative views, the furthering of approved opinions and careers, and the engineered distortions of language, intended to subvert nature, language used as a conditioning device, to brainwash future generations and preclude them from access even to concepts and categories in which they might strive to understand reality as it is, as facts, and not as the preferences of weaklings, dazzled by abstractions, the celebrants of verbalisms, the devotees of the unnatural, the mindlessly contented victim of a priori absurdities, would ha
ve it. Nature is real. Denying it does not make it go away. To be sure, some may derive comfort from pretending it does not exist. This comfort, however, may be short-lived. It is safer to deny the heat of fire than the truths of nature. Who knows what conflagrations and explosions may be consequent upon the denial of nature? Or will the end be only a continual weakening, a sickness, and then death? Only one thing seems reasonably clear. The causes of these catastrophes will be denied. None will accept guilt for them, particularly the most guilty. They will be explained rather by an imperfect allegiance to the lies and absurdities that brought them about.”

  “I am the sort of woman,” she said, “who wants love conjoined with strength. The man who gives me this, that is the only sort of man I could truly love. I understand that now. He is the true man. And he makes me the true woman.”

  “But,” I said, “alas, such love, like any love, is rare and precious. Compared to real love, of any sort, in its many varieties, gold is as abundant as sand.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “The occasional existence of such love, and its possibility, however,” I said, “and many men fear it, because of its momentous and binding nature, just as many women long for it, because of their desire to pair bond, should not cause us to overlook the many commoner prerogatives of nature, those never to be denied, those of dominance and submission, of mastery and service, of proprietor and property, of owner and owned.”

  “Women, then,” she said, “are to be kept and used as slaves?”

  “Of course,” I said. “And the love slave perhaps even more than others.”

  “That is what I would want,” she purred.

  “The gratifications of the mastery,” I said, “the ownership and command of women, so fulfilling to the master—”

  “And to the slave,” she whispered.

  “—do not require the total form of love, found in the relationship of the love slave and love master.”

  “True,” she said.

  “Power is its own pleasure, and its own reward,” I said. “Those who have tasted it know it.”

  “For men,” she said. “For women, it is different. For women it is to know oneself subjected to such power, and helplessly, in the order of nature, by her masters.”

  “It is true,” I said. “There are two sexes, and they are quite different.”

  “Is that not heresy, for a man of Earth, to say that?” she asked.

  “This is Gor,” I said. I pulled at her collar a little. “Are you not aware of that, slave?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “I am aware of it.”

  “In a world where nature is free, a world not subjected to ideological poisonings, a world where she is not crippled, and hobbled,” I said, “what is the place of women?”

  “At the feet of men, Master,” she said.

  “And where are you, Louise?” I asked.

  “At the feet of men,” she said.

  “Such does not prove, of course,” I said, “that Gor is the ideal world, but it does indicate that Gor possesses at least one feature of the ideal world.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “To be sure,” I said, “it is not unknown for females, free women, of course, to seek power.”

  “Such pursuits, to me,” she said, “seem disgusting and unnatural in a woman.”

  “They are,” I said. “But perhaps they are to be forgiven when men abdicate their responsibilities. Perhaps it is fit then that they be destroyed as males.”

  “No, Master!” she said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “For then we cannot be truly women, Master. The equations of nature would be disrupted. It would be madness and sickness. It could mean the end of a world.”

  “What do you think would happen if you were to seek power, Louise?” I asked.

  “Doubtless I would be whipped and used,” she said, “and then thrown naked, chained, into a tiny cage or slave box, and kept there until I learned my lesson, and begged to be suitably subservient. I might even be killed.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but then you, of course, are a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You are not a free woman.”

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “That makes a great difference,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “They may do much what they please,” I said, “even if its ultimate objective is clearly the subversion of nature, involving the reduction and debilitation of an entire sex, a sex crime than which, it seems, none could be more heinous.”

  “How filled with hate they must be,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Unable to be men,” she said, “they try to destroy them. In this they fail also to be women.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”

  “They will attempt to use law,” she said, “using men against men, using them as their dupes and tools, until the last man can be destroyed.”

  “That seems the intent,” I said. “It is not even well concealed.”

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “It is an interesting concept,” I said, “that legislation could be passed against manhood, that nature can be dismissed with a statute, that her reality and aristocracy can be declared illegal. Surely there is some sort of category confusion here. Laws cannot validly be passed against facts. Any such law is automatically null and void. It is like the English king who in the legend sat upon the beach and forbade the incoming waves to touch his robes.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “He got wet,” I said. “To be sure, he may have ordered the waves beaten, but, as far as we know, the ocean failed to take note of this.”

  “At least he moved before he was drowned,” she said.

  “Let us hope that all kings, however stupid they may be, would have that much sense at least.”

  “Surely they would,” she said.

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “If they are sufficiently stupid, and sufficiently strongly conditioned, closing their minds to options, and such, they might remain right where they were, proceeding righteously to a watery grave. Such things are not unknown. Many people have given their lives for absurdities. Some are called heroes.”

  “Surely at least some of them were idiots,” she said.

  “That might seem a juster appraisal, scientifically,” I admitted. “Still one might regret the tragedy involved, even in the case of the idiot.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I stood up.

  “Master is leaving?” she asked.

  I brushed her waist and flank with my foot. She shrank back a bit, on her belly, to the side. Women are so unutterably beautiful. I then put my foot on her, and let her feel a little of my weight, but not much. I then thrust down a bit, and stepped away from her. It had been an admiring, spurning caress. She lay there, the chain on her neck, on the mat. “I am through with you now,” I said. “The hostess will soon come to unchain you, and send you back to your waiting station. The key is on its nail.”

  “And thus you leave me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I glanced over to the nearby table. The fellow who had been unconscious there, the free woman, the Lady Tutina, now chained half naked at his slave ring, she still unconscious, was showing some signs of reviving.

  “Master!” said the girl.

  “Remain on your stomach until unchained,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I then stepped away from her, looking about myself. I had received a note to come to this place. I had waited, but no one, it seemed, had attempted to make contact. There could, of course, be various reasons for this. I did not think, however, that among these reasons would have been the inability to recognize me. Presumably the individual, or individuals, would be familiar with my appearance, either from the plaza near the Central Cylinder or from a description. This made it seem plausible, then, as they had not yet c
ontacted me, that their business with me might be of a clandestine nature. One might think then in terms of the possible transmission of secret information, or, perhaps more likely, of the enterprise of the assassin, the covert business of unsheathed daggers. I looked about. I did not think there would be more than two of them. I considered the openings to the Tunnels. The main egress, which served also as the entryway, would surely be under observation. The hostess, in earlier speaking to me of the free woman brought in for a joke, had spoken of putting her out back in the morning, naked, and, if she had been used, with her hands tied behind her, with a punched tarsk bit tied on her belly. That suggested a rear exit. If they thought I were making for that they might move swiftly, hastily, too hastily. It would be dark in the tunnel. I glanced back at the Earth redhead on the mat. She was still on her belly, as she had been commanded. She looked back and up at me, pleadingly. I then left her. She was only a slave. I walked past the waiting station. The only girl there now, the only one not now on a chain, this testifying to the traffic of the house, was Birsen, the brown-haired girl who seemed as though she could have been a fashion model on Earth. “Head down,” I said. Immediately, kneeling, she put her head to the floor, the palms of her hands, too, resting on it. It is pleasant to own and master women. Too, it is correct to do so. Bondage is merely an institutional recognition and formalization of the proper and natural relationship between the sexes. In a moment I had come to the low opening of the Al-Ka Tunnel, the first tunnel. I glanced back. In the light I could not detect whether or not anyone was noting my entrance into the tunnel. Somehow I felt, however, that my entry therein would not go unnoticed.

  26

  I Take my Leave of the Tunnels;

  The Hostess;

  A Blonde

  In a moment I was into the tunnel. Behind me there was a bit of light coming from under the door.

  In a bit, however, I was beyond it. Soon I had to crawl. The ceiling of the tunnel, in this part, I now on all fours, was about a foot over my head. In parts the tunnel was carpeted, in other parts not, and one must move on the tile or stones. There were leather-curtained alcoves here and there along the tunnel, the openings of which were circular, and about two feet in width. Occasionally there was a small lamp within, its light detectable through the cracks in the leather curtain, and about it and under it, feebly illuminating the tunnel outside. For the most part, however, the tunnel was quite dark. In two or three of the alcoves, where there was a lamp, and the curtain was not fully drawn, I saw a master and a slave. One girl was kneeling naked with her back to the wall and her hands chained up and behind her, at the sides of her head, over her shoulders. She looked at me, wildly. Then she jerked back, the master caressing her with the whip. In another alcove a girl was chained on her back, her arms and legs widely apart, spread-eagled. She was lifting her body piteously to a man who now, apparently having aroused her to a point where she was in an agony of need, was merely toying with her. I supposed he might later concede to her pleas, if only because she was quite beautiful. In another alcove there was a girl on her stomach, her wrists tied to a slave ring. I did not know if she had been put in that position for love, or for punishment, or for both. Most of the alcoves, however, like the major lengths of the tunnel, were quite dark. Some were doubtless empty. I hoped so, for I might have need of them. On the other hand many of the alcoves which were in total darkness were not empty. From within many I could hear, as I moved past, the small sounds of chains, sometimes pathetic sounds, responding doubtless to the restricted, helpless movements of small, fair limbs on which they were locked, and the soft love moans of used slaves. Many of these women were doubtless forbidden to speak. They found themselves responding in the darkness to unseen masters merely as helpless, anonymous love objects. In some of the other alcoves, of course, those not empty, there were presumably slaves, girls waiting alone in the darkness, in their chains, knowing that they would be at the mercy of whoever might enter the alcove. In the Delka Tunnel, in Alcove Twenty-One, the girl, Lale, I supposed, she now reduced to the modality of the she-quadruped, might be so waiting. Too, in at least one of these alcoves, I recalled, though I did not know which one, in this very tunnel, there was a chained, gagged free woman. I was suddenly very quiet. I could hear something approaching me down the tunnel. I expected, of course, that anyone interested in me would be behind me. I unsheathed my quiva. I smelled paga. Then a fellow crawled past me in the tunnel.