Rogue of Gor

by John Norman

  The auctioneer stepped back from the girl, the whip in his hand.

  "I have ninety tarsks," he called.

  "She is not so cold," said the man next to me.

  "No," I said, "no."

  "Ninety-two tarsks!" called a man.

  "Ninety-four!" called another.

  "I have ninety-four tarsks," called the auctioneer. "Do I have more? Do I have more?"

  There was silence.

  "I prepare to close my hand," called the auctioneer.

  "Ninety-eight!" I cried out, suddenly. I was startled to hear my own voice.

  The girl lifted her head, dully.

  "Ninety-eight, I have ninety-eight," called the auctioneer. "Do I hear more? Do I hear more?"

  There was silence.

  "I prepare to close my hand," said the auctioneer. "I close my hand!"

  I owned Miss Henderson.

  10

  We Leave the Sales Barn of Lysander;

  Miss Henderson will Share my Lodgings

  Miss Henderson was thrust from the block. I made my way toward the foot of the block. My head seemed to swim. I was scarcely conscious of my movements. I moved as though in a dream.

  "Jason?" she asked, from within the bars of the holding cage at the right of the sales block. Already her left ankle had been shackled. "Jason?"

  I handed the receipt to the cage attendant. At the table I had paid ninety-eight tarsks.

  I saw the sales disk removed from her collar and put in a small, wooden box. I saw the shackle removed from her ankle. I saw the door to the cage open and saw her pushed forth, before me.

  "Do you not know enough to kneel before your master?" asked the attendant.

  Swiftly she knelt.

  I lifted her to her feet and held her in my arms. "Is it you, Jason?" she whispered. "Is it truly you?"

  "Yes," I said. "It is I."

  She began to weep, and I held her close to me. She shuddered in my arms. She sobbed. I felt her tears through my tunic. "Jason," she sobbed, "Jason, Jason."

  I held her to me, and caressed her head. "I am so happy," she said. "I am so happy!"

  "Yes," I said, "yes." I continued to caress her head, and hold her to me.

  "You purchased me. You own me, Jason," she said. "I am your slave." I scarcely understood what she was saying. "I know that you will be strong with me, but I will try to serve you well," she said.

  "What are you saying?" I asked.

  "I will try to be pleasing to you," she said. "I do not want to be whipped."

  "What are you saying?" I asked.

  She drew back a bit in my arms and lifted her head. There were tears in her eyes. Her lips trembled. She seemed incredibly happy. "I remember the girl at the shop of Philebus, in Ar," she said, "she who, wrists bound, was neck-leashed to the ring. Doubtless I now, too, as the mood seizes you, now that you own me, will be subjected to such ruthless and peremptory considerations. Doubtless you will respect my will no more than hers and rape me, too, when it pleases you."

  I looked at her, puzzled.

  She again put her head against me, pressing her cheek against my shoulder. "All the things that you may have wanted to do with me," she said, "you may now do. Everything that you may have wanted from a woman I must now give. You may do with me as you please. I must obey you in all things." She lifted her head again. There were tears in her eyes. "Show me no mercy," she said. "See that I serve you well."

  "Key!" I cried. "Key!"

  "What will you name me?" she asked.

  "Key!" I cried.

  "Key?" she asked. "Master?"

  The key to the sales collar was placed into my hand by one of the cage attendants. I saw the snug fit of the steel on her throat. It was incredibly exciting. She could not remove it. Then, sweating, getting a grip on myself, hurriedly, fumbling, I thrust the tiny key into the lock.

  "Master?" she asked, frightened.

  "Do not call me 'Master'!" I said, almost shouting. My voice choked.

  Men looked at us.

  I turned the key and opened the tiny, heavy, single-action, seven-bolt lock on the collar. Each of the bolts is said to stand for one of the letters in the spelling of 'Kajira', the most common Gorean expression for a slave girl.

  "Where is your collar for me?" she asked.

  "I have no collar for you," I said.

  "Master?" she asked.

  "Do not call me 'Master'!" I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said. "I mean 'Yes, Jason!'"

  I put my hands on the collar, to tear it from her throat. But she clutched at the collar, holding it on her throat.

  "Master?" she asked. "Jason?"

  "You are a woman of Earth," I said. "You know how to behave and act."

  "I do not understand," she said.

  "Do not speak to me of pleasing me," I said. "Do not speak to me of obeying me or serving me."

  "But I am a slave," she said, "and you own me!"

  "No," I said.

  "I am branded," she said.

  "It is nothing," I said.

  "Be a girl, and wear a brand," she said, "and you will see if it is nothing!"

  "It is not your fault that you are branded," I said.

  "But it is the fault of men," she said, "and I am nonetheless branded!"

  I went to pull the collar from her throat and, again, her small hands tightened on it.

  "You own me," she said. "What are you going to do with me?"

  "Free you," I said. "I will give you what your heart most desires, your total liberation and freedom!"

  She looked at me, aghast.

  I pulled away the collar and flung it, the key in the lock, to the side.

  "You do not want me," she whispered.

  "Have no fear," I said. "I will not take advantage of you, nor abuse you, nor exploit you. You will be accorded all dignity and respect. In all things you will be my full and lovely equal." Then I realized I had made an error. "Excuse me," I said, "I did not mean to demean you. I did not mean to say 'lovely'. You will be in all things, simply, and straightforwardly, my equal."

  "How can a slave be the equal of her master?" she asked.

  "You are free," I told her.

  "I might have been bought by a Gorean man," she said, "one who might have treasured me, and cherished me, and made me serve him well, and used me richly."

  "I have freed you," I said. "Are you not happy?" I asked, puzzled.

  "I am naked," she said.

  "Forgive me," I cried. Quickly I hurried to one of the cage attendants. For a tarsk bit I purchased one of the discarded sheets torn from the slave beauties who were still being sold from the block.

  I hurried back to the girl and stood before her, the sheet in my hand. For the briefest instant I felt sick. She was so beautiful. Should I not have marched her through the streets of Victoria naked, an exhibited slave, for my own joy, that of her master, and that men might rejoice in her beauty and call out to me their congratulations, commending me on the splendid fortune that was mine, that of having such a woman in my total power?

  "Please," she said.

  I stepped more closely to her and, standing before her, held the sheet behind her, preparing to draw it about her.

  "Do not look at me, you lustful beast," she said. "Cover me, quickly!"

  Swiftly I drew the sheet about her and she, from within it, clutched it even more closely about herself. I could see, as she had gathered the sheet, the outline of her small fists beneath it.

  "Do not look at my calves and ankles," she said, "please."

  "Forgive me," I said. "Let us hurry from this place."

  "Yes," she said, "it is offensive. I smell here the stinking of slaves."

  Quickly we left the sales barn of Lysander.

  "Where do you live?" she asked.

  "I have taken a small room, near the wharves," I said.

  "I, too, will need a room," she said.

  "I cannot afford much," I said.

  "Then we shall manage to divide the
room," she said, "somehow, with a screen, or partition, of some sort."

  "Of course," I said.

  "You must, too, go out and purchase me clothing," she said. "I cannot wear a sheet."

  "What about a slave tunic?" I asked.

  "Do not jest, Jason," she said.

  "It is in this direction," I said, indicating a street leading toward the river front.

  "I have no money," she said. "And I have no Home Stone. What is that?" she asked.

  We heard the sound of a bell, and then, a moment later, that of coins in a metal box. A girl in a brown rag, slave, emerged from the shadows. About her neck, chained, there was a bronze bell, hollow, flattish, with sloping sides, with a flat top and ring, and a slotted, metal coin box, locked. Swiftly she knelt before me. She bit at my tunic, and licked at the side of my leg. She lifted her head. "Have me for a tarsk bit, Master," she begged. Her hands were braceleted behind her back.

  "No," I told her.

  "Get away, you filthy thing," said Miss Henderson.

  "If I do not return with the equivalent of a copper tarsk," said the girl kneeling before me, "I will be whipped."

  "Get away!" said Miss Henderson.

  "Your slave requires discipline," said the girl kneeling before me.

  "She is not my slave," I said.

  "Whose slave is she?" asked the girl. "I know various masters."

  "She is not a slave," I said.

  "She is obviously a slave," said the girl, "thus someone's slave. Who has her?"

  "No one has her," I said. "She is free."

  The thought passed my mind that it might be nice to have Miss Henderson, not in some simple sense, merely, say, that of a transitory physical conjunction, but in a full proprietary sense, that of an uncompromised and absolute ownership, thus one in which not only all physicalities, and possessings, of whatever nature, and however frequent or lengthy, might be enjoined upon her at one's least whim, that would go without saying, but one in which would be involved as well many other things, for example, strippings, kneelings, bellyings, lickings and kissings, posings and writhings, crawlings and dancings, and such, at as little as the snapping of one's fingers, and surely, too, having at one's disposal, deliciously, all her conceivable labors and services. Does one truly own a slave until she is at your feet diligently polishing your leather, looking up occasionally, hoping you will be satisfied; she does not wish to be beaten; until she is in your kitchen, preparing your food; until she is serving it, humbly, perhaps nude, as you might wish her then, and then kneeling to one side, waiting to see if she will be fed; until she, hair bound in a scarf, perhaps nude otherwise, attends to your quarters, perhaps while you watch, she sedulously tidying up for you, dusting and cleaning, mopping and scrubbing; and be sure she will clean, too, beneath the sparse furniture; that is important, too; and should she not air out the furs of love, adjust the wick on the rape lamp, and buff and kiss the slave ring at the foot of your couch, to which at night she is chained; until she, at the public troughs, with other girls, laughing and chatting, launders for you, until she, the coin bag tied to her collar, shrewdly markets for you, such things. That is to truly have a woman, to have her wholly yours, to have her totally at your beck and call. That is, of course, as one has a slave. Indeed, a good slave, like many domestic animals, should anticipate the interests and desires of the master.

  The thought of Miss Henderson as a domestic animal, and mine, was not unpleasant.

  "She should be a slave," said the girl.

  Miss Henderson cried out in anger.

  "She is free," I averred.

  "It seems she would make a good slave," said the girl.

  "She is free," I repeated.

  "She needs the lash," said the girl.

  Miss Henderson drew back, not looking at me. She drew the sheet more closely about her ill-concealed nakedness.

  I wondered if, indeed, the rather haughty, troublesome Miss Henderson might not profit from a bout with the lash. I thought it might improve her, considerably.

  The lash is useful in removing objectionable faults, both major and minor, in a woman.

  Once a woman has felt the whip, one often requires no more than a casual glance in its direction.

  Her behavior is likely to be ameliorated instantly.

  But I suppose it is not surprising that a woman who realizes that she will be punished if she is not fully pleasing, and in all particulars, should then be seriously concerned to be pleasing, fully pleasing—and in all particulars.

  As a little Gorean saying has it—whip in hand, girl at feet.

  I drew out a copper tarsk, and prepared to place it in the girl's coin box.

  Swiftly the girl, before I could put the coin in the box, lay on her back, on the stones of the street, before me. "You must use me first," she said, "and then put the coin in only if I please you."

  "No!" said Miss Henderson.

  "No?" I asked.

  "She is a terrible person!" said Miss Henderson.

  "She is a lovely slave," I said.

  "That is it," she said. "She is a slave, a slave!"

  "But a lovely slave," I said.

  "She is nothing, a slave!" scolded Miss Henderson.

  "She is not nothing," I said. "She is a lovely slave, and, indeed, pretty enough to be put out as a coin girl."

  "A coin girl?"

  "That is the expression," I said.

  "How despicable!" said Miss Henderson. "How shameful! How I hold such a one in contempt! What a pathetic creature, with a bell on her neck, and a coin box! It is clear that coin girls, as you call them, are amongst the most degraded, the lowest and most worthless of slaves!"

  "Perhaps you, lofty lady," said the coin girl, "are insufficiently desirable to be put out as a coin girl."

  "I am beautiful!" said Miss Henderson.

  I was pleased that she had said this. It was true, of course, but I would scarcely have expected Miss Henderson to have said so. Gor, it seems, had improved her sense of self-awareness or, at least, had freed her to be somewhat less circumspect about such matters.

  Too, she had been a display slave, and that spoke well for her appeal to the eye, and ear, and hand.

  All women are vain.

  This is one of the endearing features of the sex. Certainly it is one which appeals greatly to me. But this vanity has a peculiar charm in the case of the slave girl. It is, you see, not merely free women who have this delicious fault, if fault it be, but, too, radically, the half-naked, ragged, collared slave, competing for a cosmetic or a comb. It is interesting how a girl in a simple rag with steel on her neck will clean and brush herself, and pose and display herself, with the same zest and pleasure with which a free woman arranges ornate robes and a multitude of colorful veils. To be sure, the slave knows she is desirable. She has been put in a collar.

  "Perhaps then, one day, you, too, will wear a bell and coin box," said the girl.

  "Never!" snapped Miss Henderson, in rage.

  To be sure, I thought, if she were a slave, and put in such devices, and sent forth, she had best return with a jingling coin box. She and her desirability would be all that would stand between her and a displeased master, and his whip.

  I looked down at the kneeling slave. She was indeed lovely.

  It was of interest to me that she did not show Miss Henderson the respect that a female slave commonly accords a free woman. In general, the Gorean female slave lives in mortal fear of the Gorean free woman and usually endeavors, as much as possible, to avoid them. Obviously the slave did not see Miss Henderson in any way as a free woman. To be sure, the Gorean free woman is not accustomed to frequent the streets barefoot and unveiled, and clad in no more than a tiny sheet. Clearly the slave saw Miss Henderson as no more than another slave, rather as herself, except, perhaps, for being a bit more or less beautiful. I was not interested in taking action in the matter. If Miss Henderson had been suitably robed and veiled I might have felt more as though I should require the slave to exhibit a
proper deference in her presence. But then, had she been suitably robed and veiled, one supposes the whole matter would not have arisen, and the slave would have been on her knees, not daring to speak, eyes cast down, if not on her belly, trembling, utterly silent, hoping not to be beaten, before Miss Henderson.

  "Do not give away our money," said Miss Henderson.

  "It is my money," I said.

  "Do not squander our meager resources," she said.

  "They are my resources, not yours," I pointed out. "I will do what I please with them."

  "Of course, Jason," she said, irritatedly.

  "I will not use you," I told the girl, "but I will give you the coin." I made as though to place the coin in the box, which now, as she lay, back on her elbows, hung beside her left breast, swelling against the thin slave cloth.

  Quickly she scrambled back, and rose to her feet. "I am worth the tarsk bit," she said. "And my master is a proud man. He does not send us into the streets to beg."

  "But you may be whipped," I said.

  "I will get the money elsewhere," she said. "And if I were you I would whip the slave beside you."

  "Get out of here!" cried Miss Henderson.

  The girl then fled with a sound of her bell and the jangling of the coins in the box.

  "Disgusting! Disgusting!" said Miss Henderson. "Terrible! Disgusting!"

  "Some men," I said, "buy such girls and send them out into the streets. They keep them in kennels and send them out in the afternoon. It is how they earn their living."

  "Terrible! Disgusting!" said Miss Henderson.

  "You were saying?" I asked.

  "I was saying," she said, "that I have no money, and that I have no Home Stone. Too, there is no practical trade of which I am the Mistress."

  "There is one trade, which is available to all women," I said.

  "Do not jest, Jason," she said. "It is not amusing."

  "That of cook," I said.

  "Very funny," she said.

  "How do you expect to earn your keep?" I asked.

  "I do not expect to earn my keep," she said. "I expect you to earn my keep."

  "And what do you expect to do in return?" I asked.

  "Nothing, absolutely nothing," she said. "I did not ask to be purchased."

  "I see that you are scarcely likely to prove to be an economic asset," I said.