Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  The two men stood, approaching us more closely. I felt responsiveness, and heat. I supposed Paula was similarly afflicted, though what a joy to be so afflicted.

  We stood before our masters.

  Neither Paula nor I had been granted permission to break position.

  “May I speak, Master?” whispered Paula. There was a need, and tenseness, in her voice. I recognized that tone. I had heard it often enough in my own voice. It is a tone easily recognized by masters.

  “Certainly,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  The examination position, like bara, nadu, sula, and such, tends to arouse a slave. In a sense, the slave is helpless in such positions. Significance is woven into the fiber of such things. Meaning and symbolism reign. When one behaves like a slave, moves like a slave, and speaks like a slave, one begins to think like a slave and feel like a slave. And one learns one is a slave. In some women the slave begins on the inside, in her recognition of her true nature as slave, and manifests itself on the outside. In others, external forms are imposed from the outside, and the slave becomes real on the inside, as the latent inner slave is discovered and released, and then, now naturally, manifests itself on the outside. In any event, slaves are to be slaves, and there is an entire culture and deportment required by the collar, which culture and deportment deepens and intensifies, whether the girl wishes it or not, her sexuality. She becomes the victim of her needs. Men have seen to it, and will have it so. And yet, are we not grateful, to be so alive, so real, so needful, so slave?

  “I beg use,” said Paula, tensely.

  Her petition was ignored.

  Whereas the needs of a slave are commonly noted by a master, they are not always satisfied. Such things are up to the master. It is he who decides whether or not these torments will be assuaged.

  “The slaves stand well,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “Yes,” said Kurik, of Victoria.

  Drusus Andronicus glanced to Kurik, who nodded.

  “You may break position,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  Instantly we both knelt.

  We looked up at our masters.

  “I beg use,” said Paula.

  “Heads to the floor,” said Kurik.

  We both went to first obeisance position, kneeling, the palms of our hands down on the floor, beside our head, our heads to the floor.

  “I beg use!” wept Paula.

  “Nadu!” snapped Kurik.

  Immediately we went to nadu, kneeling, back on our heels, our knees well spread, our backs straight, our heads up, the palms of our hands down, on our thighs.

  “Master!” begged Paula, of Drusus Andronicus.

  “Keep your palms down, on your thighs, not the backs of your hands,” warned Drusus Andronicus.

  “Yes, Master,” said Paula. “Forgive me, Master.”

  Paula had turned her hands in such a way that the small, soft palms, so open, so sensitive, and tender, were exposed to her master. I did not know if this had occurred inadvertently, or intentionally. It is a begging gesture of an aroused slave. Sometimes the tracing of a master’s fingernail, so gently, delicately, in the soft palm of slave’s hand, she forced to keep the back of her hand down on her thigh, fixed in place, can cause her to cry out in piteous need. There are many begging signals, from things as simple as tying the loose bondage knot in one’s hair to kneeling and kissing and licking the master’s feet, whimpering in need. I was pleased that Drusus Andronicus had not cuffed Paula for her indiscretion, whether it was intentional or not. Masters are not always patient in such matters. The pattern traced in the palm of a slave’s hand may be as random as the movement of a leaf in the wind, sometimes as clear as the Kef, the most common slave brand. ‘Kef’ is the first letter of the word ‘kajira’.

  The men looked down upon us, we both in nadu.

  “Excellent,” said Kurik, appraisingly.

  “I wonder,” said Drusus Andronicus, “why the men of Earth do not have their females so before them.”

  “Doubtless, some do,” said Kurik.

  This startled me. Could there be something of Gor on Earth? Could there be women there who knew the chain, who knelt, who kissed the whip, who had met men? Surely not! But could it be? I did not know.

  “We want our females so,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “Of course,” said Kurik.

  “Women belong on their knees, naked, and collared,” said Drusus Andronicus. “It helps them to understand what they are, and what they are for.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Paula.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You may dress,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “Master!” wept Paula.

  We drew the tiny tunics on, over our heads, as may easily be done while one is kneeling. It seemed ironic, indeed, to think of donning such a garment as “dressing.” Yet, even so slight a garmenture, little more than a wisp of clinging, woven fog, can be precious, particularly in the streets. Do we not beg, fervently enough, to be granted even a rag? The tunicked slave, eyes downcast, hurrying, is less likely to be abused by free women than the slave sent naked into the streets, perhaps even with her wrists bound behind her. Slave garments almost always lack a nether closure. The most notable exception to this is the Turian camisk. The common tunic, for example, has no nether closure, and may easily be thrust up, or pulled off. The point of this is not only to remind the girl that she is a slave and increase her sense of vulnerability, but to make certain that she is always conveniently accessible to the master.

  “May I speak, Master?” asked Paula.

  “Yes,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “What are we to do?” she asked. “What will you do? What will become of us? Master Decius Albus did not die. He is recovering. Surely his power is mighty, and his memory long. His position in the administration of the Ubar is secure. Many men wear his livery. He will not look kindly on the loss of slaves. He did not stint on the slaves he intended to sacrifice to the fangs of Kurii. He has doubtless learned much from the field off the Viktel Aria. He is unlikely to again risk insurrection amongst his cohorts over kajirae. If anything, he will now use them as gifts and prizes, to enhance his image as a generous leader, to consolidate loyalty and assure devotion. He will be stronger, and more feared, than ever. Where, within the walls of Ar, will you be safe? Has Master Tyrtaios, he of the Black Caste, fled the city, with the slave Alexina, or has a pouch of gold changed hands, and he is about, waiting to strike? What of the free woman, the Lady Bina? She has no Home Stone. How is she safe? What of the noble Lord Grendel and his friend, Eve? What is to become of them? What of Surtak, and minions loyal to him? Will they remain in the vicinity of Ar, or depart? What of dreadful Lucilius, who fled the box of honor, on the field? What has become of him? Has he joined forces with Master Decius Albus?”

  “Go into the kitchen, and cook,” said Kurik.

  “Yes, Master,” we said.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The day was hot. We were stripped. We were weary, both of us. Sweat ran down our bodies. The masters had been kind and wrapped our feet in wool, the wool of the bounding hurt, that our feet not be burned by the large, heavy, sun-heated stones of the Viktel Aria. Even so, we could feel the heat through the wool. The wool was held in place by thongs wound several times, tightly, about our ankles. Our wrists were fastened behind us, in slave bracelets, light, but secure restraints. We were helpless in them. That is their purpose, to render their occupant helpless. A chain was fastened about each of our necks, each chain fastened to its ring, anchored in the back of the wagon. The wheels of the wagon were iron-rimmed, and very large. It was a large, closed wagon, with bright, yellow canvas stretched over the high, rectangular frame rising from its sides. The wagon was laden with little in the way of freight, but it did contain a closed bale of some sort of cloth, a box or two, and a cylindrical container. One of the bo
xes was long, narrow, and rectangular. I had not been informed of the nature of these objects. It is not unusual for slaves to be chained to the back of a wagon or cart. At least we were not harnessed, perhaps with others, to draw the wagon. It is doubtless unpleasant to be switched or whipped when straining in a harness, doing one’s best, under the tyranny of a merciless keeper, one of several, soft, slight, two-legged draft animals. How much is to be preferred the pillows and cushions of a tavern alcove, or even a straw mat beneath a slave ring! Looking back, in the far distance, I could see the tops of the high walls of Ar.

  I trudged on. The chain was warm on my neck. I could hear the small sound of the links. From somewhere ahead, I heard the sound of caravan bells, coming from the opposite direction.

  There was much traffic on the Viktel Aria, moving toward Ar, departing from Ar.

  Paula, secured as I was, was beside me.

  We were slaves and would be treated as such. There are many ways in which a girl may be reminded that her thigh bears a delicate, distinctive mark, and that her neck is locked in a metal collar.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Shall we have lunch in the cafeteria, with the others?” she asked. Several of us who worked in the same building had often lunched together. The cafeteria was in the same building, and it was convenient. To be sure, the food was not all that scintillating. I had regarded myself the commanding presence at those small gatherings. Paula had been so shy, and quiet, seemingly dazzled by my vivacity and intelligence, seemingly admiring my verve, wit, and charm. “Poor Paula,” I had thought. And now I suspected that it had been she who had looked gently on me, making allowances for me, accepting my faults patiently, tolerating my vanity. And she had sold for a golden tarsk, and it was speculated that I might bring in the neighborhood of a pair of silver tarsks, if all went well, on a good day!

  “We shall be fortunate,” I said, “if they permit us to nibble some cheese from the palm of their hand, while we kneel head down before them, fortunate if they cast us a crust of bread!”

  “Of course,” she laughed. “We are nothing. We are slaves.”

  We did not speak for another Ahn.

  A kaiila, with a post rider, raced by. News, I supposed, was being brought to Ar. Occasionally we saw a tarn in flight, it, too, with its post rider. Cities maintain their post riders. Too, there are some private companies that supply what might be regarded as a limited postal service, between certain cities. Few, however, can afford their fees. The skies of Gor, particularly in certain areas, can be dangerous, sometimes due to bandit tarnsmen, but more frequently due to municipal patrols intent on protecting a city’s territorial claims, which claims are often exaggerated, pretentious and unclear. Borders, in the usual sense of borders, do not exist on Gor. The territory under the aegis of a particular city waxes and wanes with the power of the city. It might be mentioned that some of the great merchant houses maintain their own lines of communication. Interestingly, commerce may be in effect between these houses even when their respective cities are at war. All in all, however, there is, for most practical purposes, no postal service on Gor. Letters, and such, may be entrusted to peddlers, travelers, caravan guards, drovers, and such.

  “How are you faring, dear Phyllis?” inquired Paula.

  “I feel like a verr,” I said. Verr are often tied behind farm wagons.

  “There is much similarity,” she said. “They, and we, are both domestic animals.”

  “I was not always a domestic animal,” I said.

  “But you were,” she said. “It is only that you were not then collared.”

  I was silent. I knew that she was right. On Gor I had learned that I was of the slave sex, that I was a slave, and belonged at a man’s feet.

  How joyful it had been to acknowledge that, and be at peace with myself!

  “Dear Phyllis,” said Paula, smiling, trudging beside me, “do you doubt you are a slave?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I love my collar,” she said. “I love being a slave.”

  “That is fortunate,” I said, “for the collar is on your neck.”

  “Would you trade your collar for freedom?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “But at times I can lament bondage, and try to tear the collar from my neck.”

  “But you cannot do so,” she said.

  “No,” I said, “mine is locked on my neck, as is yours.”

  “Even on Earth,” she said, “I thought of us as sister slaves.”

  “You never told me,” I said.

  “You would not have understood,” she said.

  “At times,” I said, “I am terrified.”

  “I, too,” she said.

  “We are so helpless,” I said. “We cannot choose our master. It is we who are chosen.”

  “We are owned,” said Paula. “We are slaves.”

  “I fear the whip, terribly,” I said. “But I love being subject to it.”

  “We are women,” she said.

  “Slaves,” I said.

  “You would not then trade your collar for freedom,” said Paula.

  “No,” I said. “On Gor I have learned myself. I have learned myself at the feet of men. I have learned what I am, and what I want to be, a man’s slave. Freedom is precious, but the collar is a thousand times more precious.”

  We had left Ar well before dawn, by the Viktel Gate. As we were departing, produce wagons, in their lines, were entering the city. This is to bring fresh produce to the morning markets. The larger wagons would leave before light. Heavy wagon traffic, as noted earlier, is not permitted during daylight hours. This is in order to avoid congestion. Where the streets are wholly closed to traffic, even small wagons, there are often stations where, if one wishes, and can afford it, sedan chairs and palanquins, with bearers and attendants, may be rented. Richer individuals, naturally enough, usually supply their own resources in such matters. Similarly, individuals with some official status, or official guests of the city, or such, may be furnished such conveniences at the expense of the state. Most Goreans, as one would expect, move about on foot.

  “Where are we being taken?” I asked.

  “We have not been told,” said Paula, ruefully.

  “Of course not,” I thought. Would a herdsman of verr, or a drover of bosk or kaiila, bother informing their beasts of their destination? A slave must request permission to speak. She is often kept in ignorance. Often she does not know where she is to be taken or what is to be done with her. She is a thing, an object, a beast, a property, a slave. In a thousand ways she is well reminded of her bondage.

  “I hear bells,” I said.

  “It is another caravan,” said Paula.

  It would pass us on our right, as Goreans keep to the left side of the roads, streets, paths, and such. This apparently has to do with the fact that most Goreans are right-handed, which allows one’s weapons, in case of need, to be most conveniently brought into play. As far as I know, there is only one word in Gorean for “stranger” and “enemy.” The context usually governs how the word is to be best understood.