Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  After a time, he released my hair, and sat back, watching me, while I continued to drink.

  When I had drunk my fill, I lifted my head from the bowl.

  “Position,” he said.

  He then, as I knelt, reached to a cloth to the side, of the sort that might serve diversely, as a bond, as a gag, as a blindfold, and dampened the cloth in the bit of water remaining in the bowl, and then, as I kept the palms of my hands down, on my thighs, in position, he gently dabbed my face dry and clean, removing the water and the residue of gruel.

  Despite the rudeness, and the commanding brutality, of Kurik, of Victoria, in the manner in which it had occurred, I had been fed and watered. I was grateful that this had been done. I felt stronger, and refreshed.

  Then the realities of my situation once again became evident, acutely so. I knelt before this brute, alone with him, in a Gorean alcove, wholly in his power, stark naked, a collar on my neck, his to do with as he wished, a slave.

  “What are you going to do with me?” I asked.

  “What I wish,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  How alive my body was! How I wanted him to touch me!

  “I am considering the matter,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

  “It is for Master to decide,” I said.

  I realized, suddenly, that I had turned my hands on my thighs, so that the palms were no longer down on my thighs, but up, displaying the small expanse of the nerve-ready, sensitive, vulnerable tissue of the palms to the master. It is a slave’s begging gesture. Quickly, reddening, shamed, I turned the palms of my hands down, again, quickly, on my thighs. I trusted he had not noticed this inadvertent self-betrayal of my needs. He smiled. He had seen! I hated him! Before him, before this master, I had betrayed my slave needs!

  “What do you think I will do with you?” he asked.

  “I am a slave,” I said.

  “I am aware of that,” he said.

  I regarded him.

  I wanted to loop the bondage knot in my hair, but I did not dare remove my hands from my thighs. As I was right handed, I would commonly put the knot at my right shoulder.

  “Do you beg for attention,” he asked.

  “Do not make me beg,” I said.

  “You seem ready,” he said.

  “Do not make me beg,” I said.

  There, before him, kneeling on the furs, in the half-lit alcove, in the soft, warm light of the small tharlarion-oil lamp, a collar on my neck, which I could not remove, I knew the ecstasy of being wholly dominated by a male. I rejoiced in my sex. Can men, I wondered, understand such desire? I had never felt so ready, so intensely female.

  At that moment there was, from beyond the leather curtain, the sudden skirl of a flute, the swift strumming of a kalika, and the pounding of the tabor.

  “A dancer!” he said, pleased. “The Slave Whip is a proper, fine tavern. It can buy the best!”

  “Master!” I said.

  But he seized my wrists and forced me back, against the wall, at the back of the alcove. A moment later manacles were snapped on my wrists, and my wrists were fastened back, to the wall, on either side of my body. Then my ankles were seized, and I was pulled forward, and was supine, and then my ankles, in his grip, were parted, widely, and shackled to rings on the floor. I reared half up, in protest. I jerked futilely at the chains. I could not bring my hands before my body, nor could I close my legs.

  “Now,” he said, turning about, reaching for the curtain straps, “I will see what a real woman is like.”

  “Master,” I begged. “Please, Master!”

  But he had unbuckled the curtain, departed, and yanked it shut behind him. I caught the briefest glimpse of tanned legs in the sand, each ankle ringed with slave bells, and a swirling skirt of scarlet dancing silk. I heard the jangle of jewelry, and the sudden, bright flash of finger cymbals. I heard men crying out, and pounding paga goblets on the tables.

  I wept in misery, pulling against the chains, twisting and turning, and then, my desperate efforts mocked by obdurate, clasping steel, I lay back in the furs, in helpless frustration, a slave, chained in place.

  It seemed forever that the slave danced, but it was doubtless no more at a time than a handful of Ehn, perhaps no more than three or four. Four times the music stopped, and I waited for the return of Kurik, of Victoria, but it would begin again, perhaps with another slave, certainly with another tempo, another mood, another exhibition of how marvelously beautiful and desirable a human female can be, another exhibition of why they should be possessed, owned, collared, and mastered.

  I rehearsed a hundred greetings, criticisms, comments, witty remarks, and clever observations, for when I should be rejoined by Kurik, of Victoria, that he might realize how little his absence concerned me, that his neglect of me was scarcely noticed, if at all, and perhaps had even been welcomed, surely that I had not been perturbed, that his callous abandonment of me had caused me no distress, that to it, and to such things, and to him, I was completely indifferent.

  Eventually he reentered the alcove, and, turning about, rebuckled shut the leather curtain. Then again he sat opposite me, cross-legged.

  He looked at me.

  I pulled a little at the chains. I could not bring my hands before my body. I could not close my legs, for they were widely separated.

  He regarded the helpless expanse of slave spread before him.

  “I beg attention,” I said. “I beg attention, Master.”

  Many times then, that evening, the next morning, and the next afternoon, did Kurik of Victoria pleasure himself with me.

  The first time, when my limbs were still chained apart, and I could not bring my arms before my body nor close my legs, he drove me wild, bit by bit, touch by touch, with expectation, with passion, and need. Then, as I writhed in the chains, and lifted my body piteously to him, that he would allow me the succession of explosions the foundations for which, and the readiness for which, he had so patiently and skillfully prepared, to whose brink he had brought me, he desisted in his work.

  I regarded him, eyes wide, aghast, disbelievingly. “Master!” I cried, in misery. “Please, Master!”

  He sat back, regarding me in the chains.

  I shook them, helplessly, pulling against them. “Please!” I wept. “Please!”

  He reviewed me, amused, satisfied.

  “Relief!” I begged. “It needs but a touch, a touch! Please! Relief, relief, Master!”

  “Perhaps you remember the office,” he said, “on the dismal, polluted, spoiled world of Earth, when you were short with me.”

  “Mercy, have mercy, Master!” I cried. “Have mercy on a poor, miserable, meaningless slave!”

  “Perhaps you beg?” he inquired.

  “I beg!” I cried. “I beg! I beg!”

  He then bestowed upon me a single, deft touch.

  “Yes, oh, yes, yes!” I wept, gratefully, yielding as the slave I had been made, as the slave I was.

  On Gor, Ahn may be spent in making love, mornings, nights, evenings, and afternoons. Many are the arts of love, harsh and gentle, fierce and tender, commanding and solicitous, and love’s artists are patient and talented. Kurik of Victoria knew well the handling of helpless slaves, their caressing and owning, their grasping and stroking, their conquest and fulfillment. There was his breath, his tongue, his touch. He could play the body of a slave, producing a rapture of sensations, much as the master of the czehar or kalika can play his lovely instrument, drawing forth its laughter and tears, its moans and cries, its pensive contemplations, its incitements and ardors, its valleys and mountains, its depths and its ecstasies.

  Never was I off a chain, though commonly it was only a shackle on my left ankle. Did he fear I would attempt to escape him? It would have required chains to draw me from his side. I strove to please him, and in many ways,
many of which were conventionally forbidden to the free woman, for they were regarded as incompatible with her status and dignity, for I had been much instructed in the house of my training. Even those who are not expected to be pleasure slaves, even pot girls, and kettle-and-mat girls, must know how to please a master, and as the slave they are. Domestic tasks, too, I had been instructed in, to some extent, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and such, tasks that I would once, as a free woman, have regarded as beneath me, for a slave is many things to a master, tasks that I now loved as they would help me, in their humble way, to better serve a master, but there is no doubt that the central point of my training, its predominant emphasis, had been oriented to the central purpose of the slave, which is to please the master, and as the slave she is.

  More than once I had seized the slave whip, kissed it, and licked it, and, kneeling, proffered it to Kurik of Victoria. “Whip me,” I had begged. “Whip me! I want to be whipped!” “Do not be absurd,” he had laughed, and pulled me to him. It seemed strange to me that I, who muchly feared the whip, would implore this man to use it on me. Interestingly, the Gorean master seldom uses a whip on a slave, even when supplicated to do so. The power of the whip is primarily in its presence, and in its readiness to be used, not in its actual employment. If a slave must be frequently whipped, she must be a very poor slave. She is then less likely to be whipped than sold. Why then had I begged this man to beat me? I suspect, upon reflection, puzzling on this anomaly, that this act convinces the slave that she is truly owned, is truly under the whip, that she is truly a slave, and of this man. This reassures her, heartens her, and pleases her. To be sure, one does not wish too much of this. The slave is not stupid. Convinced of her slavery, she is then likely to go contentedly about her business, that of loving and serving her master. To be sure, sometimes a slave is whipped to remind her that she is a slave. After a lashing, she is no longer in any doubt about that.

  I fear that I many times cried out my love for Kurik of Victoria. I wept in his arms, his. At last he cuffed me to silence. “The love of a slave is worthless,” he said. “She is merely to be dominated, owned, ravished, mastered, and put to one’s pleasure as the worthless, meaningless beast she is. She is bought, and collared, an article of property. Do not dare speak of love!” “Yes, my Master!” I cried. “Own me, as the worthless, meaningless beast I am!” He then struck me, again. “Do not use the words ‘my Master’ to me,” he said, angrily. “Forgive me, Master,” I begged. The slave addresses all free men as ‘Master’, and all free women as ‘Mistress’, but she uses the words ‘my Master’ only to her actual master, her owner. “Perhaps,” I thought, “the love of a slave is worthless, but what love can begin to compare with the love of a slave for her master? What greater, deeper, more profound love can a woman have than that of a humble, abased, collared slave for her master?”

  He looked away.

  I had seen anger in his eyes, but, too, so briefly, for a moment, I thought I had seen apprehension. He could not fear me, as I was a mere slave. Who then could he fear, but himself? I recalled how, long ago, in Victoria, when I was new to my collar, I had cried out my love for him, and had been soon, I thought abruptly, inexplicably, sold. One is not to care for a slave. Did not all know that? Might one not be mocked for such a weakness? Would that not call forth laughter in the taverns and exercise yards? How that would lessen a man in his own eyes! How then could he respect himself? Did he fear some concession or compromise that might diminish or tarnish his cherished, mighty self-esteem? But could a master not care a little for a slave? Why not? Might he not feel as much for a kaiila or pet sleen? I was afraid, for I wanted to belong to him. I must try to conceal my love for him, but it is not easy for a slave to conceal her love. She is the most open and helpless of all women. How is she to control her expressions, her lips, her tiny movements, her eyes? It is as difficult for her to conceal her feelings as it is her body. Her emotions are as public to view as her lineaments.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said, again, and then, again, he reached for me, and I was drawn again into his arms.

  I did not wish to be discarded, as might easily be done with me. How easy it is to sell a slave, or give her away! I must obey. I must be pleasing. Too, I did not wish to be again cuffed. Next time the slave whip might be used on me!

  “Oh!” I cried, softly.

  “You need a man’s hands on your body, slave,” he said, “possessive and commanding.”

  “I have been made so,” I said.

  “Good,” he said.

  “I want to be so,” I said.

  “You are so,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Slave,” he sneered.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  Then I cried out, helpless in the throes of an ecstasy, that to which he had seen fit to subject me.

  Toward noon of the next day, the day on which he was to venture to the House of Flavius Minor, a tool was brought, and my collar was changed. I was told it read, “I am the property of Tenrik of Siba.” I dared not ask him if it were his intention to keep me. I did know that the name on the collar was not his real name. After our evening meal, in which he permitted me some meat, he said, “We must have a new tunic for you.” I nodded. It would not do to keep the bright yellow tunic I had worn at the slave ring, that which I had worn when posing as a guide slave for Tyrtaios, of the Black Court. It was too conspicuous, and guardsmen might well have been instructed to watch for a slave so clad.

  “Wear this,” he said, tossing me a handful of cloth.

  “It is so tiny,” I said, “and it is damp, and warm.”

  “We took it off the body of one of the paga girls,” he said. “Put it on.”

  “Master!” I protested.

  “Do not be concerned,” he said, “the girl has been given a new, clean tunic, freshly pressed.”

  “I am not a paga girl,” I said.

  “I need only give you to the proprietor,” he said, “and you will be a paga girl.”

  “I do not wish to wear my chain in a tavern,” I said.

  “You will wear your chain wherever men wish,” he said.

  I slipped into the tunic, for I did not wish to risk a command being repeated.

  “Now,” he said, looking at me, as one might look at a paga slave, “you are indistinguishable from a paga girl.”

  “Certainly not,” I said.

  “Prettier than some, not so pretty as others,” he said.

  “We are to leave,” I said, “in the neighborhood of the nineteenth Ahn?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think that will do, well enough.”

  “The delivery, the package, the object, or such,” I said, “is to be received at the twentieth Ahn, and is to be claimed at the first Ahn.”

  “Exactly at the first Ahn,” he said.

  “I am to accompany you,” I said.

  “I think that is safest,” he said. “Torture easily loosens a slave’s tongue.”

  “I wish to accompany you,” I said.

  “The decision is mine,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said. “Is the House of Flavius Minor far?”

  “Not too far,” he said. “It is amongst the houses on the southern piers.”

  “How is it,” I asked, “that we depart the Slave Whip at the nineteenth Ahn and claim the object at the first Ahn? That is two Ahn, and surely more than is required to reach the house of Flavius Minor, be it at the southern piers.”

  “We will bide a suitable interval,” he said, “at the House of Anesidemus.”

  “May I ask,” I asked, “what manner of house is the House of Anesidemus?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “It is a slave market.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “She is so beautiful!” I exclaimed.

  “She will do,” said Kurik of Victoria.

 
I knelt beside him, at his knee, as he sat in the tiers, savoring the sales of women, below.

  “See this one,” called the auctioneer, turning the beauty before the buyers, with deft touches of his whip, “see this olive skinned, green eyed beauty, with long, glossy, night-black hair, recently imported, with many others, from the World’s End. Think of her at your slave ring, leaping helplessly in your arms! Train her in slave dance. Chain her outside your place of business. Would she not bring in customers? Buy her to rent her out. Buy her on speculation! If she is proud, humble her. If she is displeasing, whip her.”

  I heard bids called from the floor.

  “Sixty copper tarsks!” I heard.

  “Eighty!”

  “Eighty-five!”

  “Surely she is worth more, Master,” I said. I had seldom seen a more beautiful woman.

  “This is a cheap market,” said Kurik of Victoria. “Men do not have much to spend here.”

  “Surely that is not a cheap-market girl,” I said.

  “I think not,” he said. “I have seen worse marketed from the central block of the Curulean.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Nor do I,” said Kurik. “It is an anomaly. Perhaps she muchly displeased someone, and he wished her sold beneath her value, to humiliate or punish her, assuring himself that she would find herself the property of a rude, lowly, impatient master, that she would be worked hard, and wear her chain in a hovel. Perhaps someone wanted her sold inconspicuously and cheaply, for some reason. Perhaps the matter was sensitive, in some way. Perhaps she was of high caste, and had enemies, and her seller chose to dispose of her, to lessen the risk of having her fall into the hands of enemies.”

  “A merciful vendor,” I said.

  “If so,” he said, “she should strive to be a humble, inconspicuous, and perfect slave.”