Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “I understand,” she said.

  “But in general it is similar with all the penalties,” I said, “even those which are seldom, if ever, inflicted. She must know that they exist, and that, for her, they are real possibilities. She must know, whether they are inflicted upon her or not, that she is truly subject to them.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “This is the sense in which she knows that anything can be done with her, that she might even be killed.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Without this,” I said, “her slavery would be incomplete. She would not be a total slave.”

  “That is true,” she whispered.

  “Most simply put,” I said, “she belongs to the master, fully, totally.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “So let us now return to your residence,” I said.

  “I could accept that risk,” she said. “It would be part of my fulfillment. Indeed, without it, I could not truly, fully, belong to him.”

  “You are so confident of your ability to please?” I asked.

  “I am confident of my ability to try desperately to please,” she said.

  “We must be on our way,” I said, sitting up.

  “Take me to a slaver’s,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you a true man?” she said, petulantly, rising up on her knees.

  I regarded her.

  “Are you?” she challenged.

  “You belong in a collar,” I said.

  “Take me to a slaver’s!” she said. “See that I am put in one!”

  I did not speak.

  “Let it be such that I cannot remove it!” she said.

  “It would be such, I assure you,” I said.

  “Take me to a slaver’s!” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you afraid?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Look upon me,” she said. “Am I not the sort of woman who might suitably be taken to a slaver’s?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Do so,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Look,” she said, but inches from me, as I sat there, observing her. She suddenly rose up a bit on her knees and thrust her belly forward, toward me. “There!” she said. “Would any but a slave do that?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. Perhaps it would have been better for her, I thought, if she had not done that. She was attractive.

  “Take me then to a slaver’s,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “You are no true man!” she said.

  I then stood up before her. She looked up at me, puzzled, I then, after regarding her for a time, suddenly, with the back of my hand, struck her fiercely back from the mat, she twisting and falling back, flung to the side from her knees, almost half on her feet for an instant, then losing her balance, then falling back into the trash at the side of the wall. She, from the midst of the garbage, half on her side, looked at me wildly, her hand at her mouth, blood between her fingers.

  I pointed to the mat. “Here,” I said. “Kneel.”

  She hastened back to the mat and knelt before me. She looked up at me in wonder, blood at her mouth. She had been cuffed. “Did you strike me because I challenged your manhood?” she asked. “I did not really mean it. It is only that I was terribly angry. I did not think.”

  “You were not struck for such an absurd reason,” I said. “You are, after all, a free woman, and free women are entitled to insult, and to attempt to demean and destroy men. It is one of their freedoms, unless men, of course, should decide to take it from them. You were struck, rather, because you were attempting to manipulate me.”

  She nodded, putting her head down.

  “Do you recognize your guilt, and the suitability of your punishment?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Also,” I said, “I would not, if I were a free woman, go about moving like that before men.”

  “But I am not really a free woman,” she whispered.

  “You are at this time in your life,” I said, “legally free. Do not forget it.”

  “Yes,” she said, “—Master.”

  “Do not call me ‘Master,’” I said. “That is for slaves.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You seem to have a curiosity as to the slave experience,” I said.

  “I am a slave,” she said. “It is only natural that I would have some curiosity about what it is to be a slave.” She put down her head. She wiped some of the blood from her mouth.

  “You have no idea,” I said, “about what it is like, truly, to be a slave.”

  She did not respond.

  “Perhaps I can change your mind about its desirability,” I said.

  “Master?” she asked.

  I then took her by the hair and, twisting her about, as she cried out, flung her forcibly, on her back, on the mat. I then, ruthlessly, angrily, swiftly, caring nothing for her feelings or sensibilities, exploiting her, employing her in the role of a mere, lovely object, used her unilaterally for my pleasure. I then, in a moment or two, stood up beside her, and rolled her to her side, spurning her, with my foot. She lay there on the mat, gasping, her legs drawn up.

  “So,” I asked, “Free Woman, what do you think?”

  She turned about and looked up at me, through her hair.

  “It is thus that a slave may be used,” I said.

  She looked up at me. In her eyes there were tears.

  “How did you like it?” I laughed.

  She went to her belly and reached for my foot. She put her lips over it and kissed it, tenderly. Then she looked up at me, again, her hair about her face. “I loved it,” she said.

  I cried out with rage, and pulled my foot away from her.

  “Put on your garment,” I told her, angrily.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  In a bit she had donned the brief leather garment. It amazed me that it could take her so long to get into so little. To be sure, she had had to smooth it out, and had not been hurrying. She looked down at the garment, now on her. She pulled down a bit at the sides. “It is not very large, is it?” she said.

  “Had it been designed for you,” I said, “it would have fit more snugly.” The woman from whose garment I had fashioned it was a larger woman.

  “It might be a little loose,” she said.

  “I think so,” I said.

  To be sure, though in a different fashion, many slave garments are very loose. A common form of slave tunic, hanging loose and free about the body of the slave, is free of the right shoulder and held at the left shoulder by a disrobing loop. It is not belted. A tug on the disrobing loop drops the garment. The disrobing loop is at the left shoulder as most men are right-handed. This form of tunic may be found anywhere, but it is often encountered in paga taverns. Some masters like to put new slaves in this form of tunic, that they may become more aware of their vulnerability.

  “It is terribly short,” she said.

  “I do not think so,” I said. I had managed its length with the quiva, of course. If one is to err in such matters, it is better to err on the short side. Even so, it was longer than many slave tunics.

  I regarded her.

  It was not a bad ensemble. It would have been better if a bit more closely fitting, and if it had been of cloth, say, silk or rep cloth. Too, the ensemble would have been more fetching if there had been a slave collar on her neck.

  A slave collar does a great deal for a woman’s attractiveness.

  She looked down at the skirt’s hem.

  She folded her arms defensively about herself. I had not permitted her sleeves in the garment, and her shoulders and arms were well bared. On Gor it is commonly, among women, only female slaves whose arms and shoulders are bared. In good weather, few slave garments had sleeves. I supposed she would not be much used to the feel of air on her skin. She was not a slave. I had a
lso slashed the garment to the belly. In this way I wished to suggest more than a little of the not inconsiderable delights of her bosom. Too, I had slit the sides of the skirt. This, too, is useful in suggesting the beauty of a woman. The camisk, incidentally, which is short and open-sided, is ideal for such purposes, it well exposing the girl’s flanks, and, indeed, her, on both sides, from the shoulders to the ankles. But she, of course, was a free woman, and one hoped to protect her modesty, at least to the extent to which I saw fit. These were matters which I would decide. Too, on her behalf, I thought she might find these arrangements instructive, and that they would help her, to the extent possible for a free woman, to be reminded of her femaleness.

  “This garment is not very large,” she said, “is it?”

  “No,” I said.

  As she had recurred to this observation, I assumed it concerned her. It was, doubtless, a way of suggesting the possibility, perhaps even the desirability, of some addition or amendment to her current apparel. Indeed, it hinted, possibly, at the suggestion of an actual reservation or caveat. She was, I assume, distinctly uneasy, if not stricken with fear, at the thought of being so seen, at least in public.

  “You mean, I take it,” I said, “that the garment is too small, too tiny, too brief, too ill-concealing, that it is objectionably exhibitory.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It could be made more so,” I said.

  “Please do not!” she said.

  “In any event,” I said, “you are simply wrong. If anything, the garment is too ample. Surely you know many slaves wear less.”

  “It is too small,” she said.

  “Let us remove it, then,” I said.

  “No!” she said. “It is fine!”

  “You see,” I said.

  As you may note, she was modest, which is not at all that unusual for a free woman, either of Gor or Earth. Interestingly, the Gorean slave girl, while technically not entitled to modesty, and often delightfully shameless with her master, also has her modesties. For example, in public, she can be as jealous of her brief tunic as a free woman of her veil and robes of concealment.

  There is a delicate distinction here, but one which is not obscure. The slave girl is commonly proud of her beauty, and delights in its display. After all, she has been found “collar worthy.” Indeed, many free women think they flaunt their beauty. Certainly she does not apologize for it, nor regret being found attractive to men. And, too, she commonly loves the exposure of her tunic, and the glorious freedom of movement it gives her. But it still affords her a veil, a last veil, so to speak. She is not nude. This is important to her. Thus, she is likely to be as jealous of, and as concerned about, her tiny garment as the free woman of the layers of her more cumbersome raiment. Indeed, one of the powers the master holds over her is his decision as to whether or not she will be permitted clothing. Withdrawing this permission can be a punishment; permitting clothing may express his satisfaction with the slave. Needless to say, many slaves are very attentive to their service, and strive zealously to please, that they may be found worthy of raiment, even so little as a knotted rag. Some masters like to keep their girls nude in their own compartments, save for their collars. They may do as they please, for they own them. I think I have suggested that at gatherings of men, at which free women are not present, it is not uncommon for slaves to serve similarly. Men enjoy being served by naked, collared women. This form of nudity is also the case in some low paga taverns. There the girls are likely to serve in collars and bells, and sometimes in chains. Normally, in public, a slave is clothed, however minimally. And that bit of clothing, you see, is likely to be very precious to her. The slave girl then, whether entitled to them or not, is likely to have her modesties, as do most women, about which she cares deeply. It is generally understood, of course, save for ruffians, discourteous pranksters, and such, that the right to remove her last veil, so to speak, belongs to the master.

  On the other hand, nudity is not as shocking or surprising on Gor as it seems to be, generally, on Earth. Girls may be sent on errands nude, usually as a punishment, they are often nude in coffles, when chained in sales pavilions, and so on. Similarly, Gorean workmen, on hot days, sometimes work nude, and nudity is common in the segregated baths and men’s gymnasiums. Nudity is also common in races and athletic games. Some warriors enter battle with no more than their battle straps, and their shield, helmet, and weapons.

  She was half crouched, and holding her arms about herself.

  “Are you cold?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Put your arms down, and stand straight,” I said.

  She complied.

  I regarded her. She was very nice. She had the makings, clearly, of what Goreans might refer to, rather vulgarly, I suppose, as a “juicy pudding.”

  Surely she belonged in a collar.

  Surely she would make a nice jewel on a “slaver’s necklace.”

  Surely she would go for a good price.

  I resisted the impulse to order her to her knees. She was not a slave. She was free.

  But she would have looked nice on her knees.

  Such women do, particularly in the position of the pleasure slave, and particularly, of course, if they are a slave.

  What man, in his deepest heart, in the very deepest part of him, does not wish to own a woman?

  What woman in her deepest heart, in the very deepest part of her, does not long for her master?

  I was pleased to have come to the world of Gor, a world where men may be whole, and honest, a world where they need not lie and pretend to be other than they are.

  “I feel revealed,” she said, “—exposed, displayed.”

  “You are,” I assured her.

  “I suppose men enjoy seeing women so clad.”

  “It is possible,” I said. “Consider the garmenture imposed on slaves.”

  One of the delights of Gor, at least from the point of view of men, was its female slaves.

  Masters, you see, know well how to garb their sluts. As the slave is a property she may be garbed and adorned, if at all, as the master pleases.

  The contrast between the cumbersome, voluminous robes of concealment and slave garb is, of course, markedly dramatic. The Gorean woman, on the other hand, is familiar with these contrasts. And however distraught she may be to find herself placed in the shameful, degrading, exhibitory garb of a slave, she is in any event knowledgeable about such things, and is in no way a stranger to such possibilities. The Earth girl, on the other hand, finding herself enslaved on Gor is likely to be unfamiliar with the sort of attire in which she would be placed and in which, in her collar, she must go about publicly. The nearest comparison, I suppose, would be with some types of lingerie, or with certain forms of beach or sun wear. Sometimes, too, they may be sent nude about their errands. A disadvantage of this is that it may encourage the predations of lustful young men out for a lark with a property girl, or even increase the likelihood of the girl’s being stolen. An interesting difference between the Gorean woman enslaved and the Earth girl enslaved is that the loss of the veil may strike the Gorean woman as calamitous in a way that the Earth girl may find incomprehensible. But then, you see, one may see the woman’s face, with all its delicacy of features, and its revelatory expressions, indicative of the subtlest nuances of thought and emotion, and men may as they please gaze openly upon her sweet lips, no longer private to her, but now publicly bared, those soft lips which now belong to, and must obey the commands of, men. The Earth girl usually finds this sort of thing, the shelter and mystique of the veil, and such, hard to understand, accustomed as she is to going about with her own face bared publicly, a behavior which a Gorean woman, particularly of high caste, would be likely to find scandalous, and which would be taken as indisputable evidence not only of the readiness of Earth girls for the collar, but of the appropriateness of imposing upon them its snug encirclement.

  To be sure, the Gorean woman soon learns to do without her veil,
and to delight in this new-found freedom, for example, in the freshness of the air upon her face, and the excitements that she now stirs in the hearts of masters. And both the Gorean woman and the Earth girl, embonded, learning there is no escape for them and that they are irrevocably slaves, unless masters choose to free them, an act which is not only rare and foolish, but almost nonexistent, soon adjust to their new life and, sometimes to their surprise, and sometimes not, discover that for the first time in their lives they seem to have come home, that they are fulfilled, and have found a happiness more profound and radiant than they knew could exist.

  This is paradoxical, doubtless, but only to those unfamiliar with such matters, that a woman could find her joy in surrender and submission, in deference and obedience, in subjection to categorical, uncompromising male domination, in being owned, in literally belonging to a man, in prolonged, rapturous sexuality, in service and love. She hurries to meet the master, she kneels, she kisses his feet. She hopes to please him, as the most profound of women the most profound of men, as the slave her master.

  In this matter nature manifests her subtle equations.

  “But I suppose,” she said, “if I were a slave, I might be given things much less than this to wear, and things far more revealing.”

  “Quite possibly,” I said. I saw no point in telling her that that was almost a certainty.

  “But I am a free woman,” she smiled. She looked down at the garment, ruefully. “Are you really going to take me through the streets in this?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I certainly have no intention of buying you a new outfit.”

  She laughed. “No,” she said. “I suppose not.” She looked at me. “Clad like this,” she said, “I suppose I should heel you.”

  “No,” I said.

  “You will permit me to walk beside you, as a free woman, though I am clad so shamelessly?” she asked.