by John Norman
The two guards who had been stationed at the head of the stairway, leading upward from the shore, withdrew, presumably returning to their post. The third guard, the interior guard, then lowered the two closing beams into their brackets. As the beams were heavy their lifting and lowering was managed by a system of counterweights. I also noted that there was an arrangement for chaining them in place, which chaining might be secured by a massive padlock. Now, however, the loops of heavy chain, and the padlock, now open, reposed on a large hook, to the right of the gate, as one would look outward.
I looked about the interior of the stockade, at the slaves I could see. I supposed there might be others in the kennel. Perhaps only so many were allowed into the sunlight and fresh air at a time.
My captor began removing the ropes from my body, and then, even, my hands were unbound. I felt the welcome air on my body. I rubbed my wrists. So, I thought, I had been bound as a she-tarsk. I might thank my captor for that. I still wore the leash collar and leash.
“Genuinely acceptable,” said the guard.
I was standing well, as I had been taught, as a slave. I had not thought much about it. After a time one does not. After a time the kajira stands, walks, sits, moves, kneels, reclines, and such, with grace. As kajira, she is to be beautiful. She is given no option in this matter. There is always the whip. She is not permitted the awkwardness, the clumsiness, the crudity of movement, the carelessness of movement, the slovenly posture of the free woman. I suppose it is rather like a dancer. I had erred earlier, by the post at the head of the stairway, but it had been difficult to rise to my feet, bound as I was. Happily I had not been punished, but given the opportunity to rise again, more properly.
“Usually we remove their tunics when they enter,” said the guard.
“She is a fled slave,” said my captor.
“I see,” said the guard.
Fled slaves are, as suggested earlier, commonly returned naked to their masters. Nudity, in its way, as earlier noted, makes escape less likely. Shortly after my capture my clothing had been removed. I now suspected that a similar consideration explained the absence of clothing on the kajirae incarcerated within the stockade. Are they truly so special, I thought, that this precaution seemed advisable, or is it a part of a plan, designed to enhance the aura of specialness and mystery with which it seemed this place was perhaps deliberately imbued?
“What is her name?” asked the guard.
“‘Laura’,” said my captor.
The guard then removed a marking stick from his wallet and I felt its soft point pressing into my left breast. I looked down at the markings, which, to me, were unintelligible. “There,” he said, “‘Laura’.”
“The others are not inscribed, as nearly as I can tell,” said my captor.
“The others are prize slaves,” said the guard. “This will distinguish this one from the others.”
“It is interesting,” said my captor, “that it would require a marking to make that clear.”
“I grant you,” said the guard, “you have a beauty here.”
How pleased I was to hear this unsolicited, casual appraisal. What woman, slave or free, does not wish to be beautiful?
If only my captor might see me so, I thought. How I had hoped he might find me of interest, the sort of interest a man feels for a woman he might buy. He had, of course, well pleasured himself with me, and frequently, on the return to Shipcamp, as a master may well pleasure himself with a slave. But, too, he had well taught me, with his perfunctory use of me, and his indifference, though I was crying with need, surrender, and helpless passion, that I was a meaningless pleasure object. What was he to do? In the forest I was the only slave available to him. I was no more than a local convenience for his lust, a convenience no farther from him than the length of my leash. How could I interest him, as a slave desires to interest a master? Had I been a free woman, perhaps I might have tortured him, and made him long for me, flirting, approaching and then backing away, demanding attentions and bargains, teasing, and taunting, implicitly bespeaking my favors, and then, perhaps with feigned surprise or scorn, withholding them. Might I not make my companioning, if I were interested in such, a prize in a game many might play, and from which, at my whim, I might withdraw? Might I not sell myself, on my own terms, as I saw fit, to the highest bidder, for station, and wealth? But there is no hurry in such matters. Lure, seem to promise, and then deny. What powers are at the disposition of the free woman! Is it not a pastime most pleasant, one of the more diverting of sports, and one which, with its anecdotes, stories, and amusements, is twice delightful, once in its enactment, and then, again, in its recounting? Accounts of such exploits surely afford the gist of many a meeting amongst oneself and one’s free sisters. Who is the most skillful player, she with the most victories, the most discomfited, shattered swains, she who is to be most admired, the most emulated, and perhaps the most envied? But I was not such a woman. I was a slave. No such tactics, pleasantries, and stratagems could be mine. We are at the disposal of the free. We must obey, instantly, and unquestioningly. A simple word, a gesture, a snapping of fingers may command us. Did I not learn that in the forest? We hasten to do the biddings of our masters. It is our hope that we will be found pleasing, fully pleasing, and, if not, we must expect to be punished. So the games of the free woman are far from the slave. Nor would I have cared for them. But, too, such games can be dangerous. Gorean men do not enjoy being trifled with. The same free woman who may have taunted with her veil, and the glimpse of a slippered foot, may later find herself stripped and collared, at the feet of some fellow who was wearied of her nonsense. Why do they behave so, I wondered? Do they want the collar?
“A common, mediocre slut, average collar-meat,” said my captor.
“But there are other matters involved,” said the guard.
“Political matters?” said my captor.
“Perhaps,” said the guard. “Is the banner still flying?”
“Yes,” said my captor.
“Water her,” said the guard, gesturing to the tank at the side. “Then secure her as you will within. I will send a slave to feed her shortly.”
I was then led to the tank.
“On all fours,” said my captor. “Drink.”
I went to all fours at the edge of the tank and put down my head, and drank. The leash went up, from the ring on my leash collar, to my captor’s hand. I was well aware of how I had been positioned, and was drinking. Might not a leashed sleen or verr be watered similarly? In such small ways may a slave be reminded that she is a beast, to be sure one of a sort likely to be of interest to men.
I was then taken to a ditch near the wall where I relieved myself.
“Now,” said he, “again, on all fours, and into the kennel.”
He then walked beside me as I made my way, on all fours, into the darkness of the kennel.
I recalled that my “keeping” was in his charge.
It took a little time for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the kennel, which was of stout planking, and logs.
There were empty blanket spaces but, too, there were several slaves within. As nearly as I could tell none were secured.
My attention, when my eyes became better accustomed to the light, was arrested by one slave who sat to the side, her head down, her long black hair over her knees, about which she had forlornly clasped both arms. She seemed an image of hopelessness, and misery. What struck me most about her was that she, of all the slaves in the stockade, was gowned. The gown was sleeveless, of course, for she was a slave, but its length, if she were to stand, must have fallen almost to her ankles. It was a slave garment, but it was not a tunic, not the common, brief garment in which masters place their girls to remind them that they are slaves and which, to the pleasure of men, leaves little doubt as to their purchasable charms, or the far more scandalous common camisk, outlawed in public in certain cities, both garments for which a slave will be grateful, and beg piteously to be permitted. Rather it was
the sort of slave garment in which a matron might insist her slaves be clothed if she was entertaining her sons. I was sure it was the only garment the slave wore. Too, it would doubtless lack a nether closure. The only slave garment I knew which was permitted a nether closure was the Turian camisk. I did not understand why this slave, and not the others, was permitted a garment so tasteful and modest. A slave walked past her and said something to her, which caused her to raise her head, angrily. Two of the other girls laughed. The gowned slave, obviously, did not stand high in the kennel order. Surely, I thought, her gowning would be likely to produce contempt and amusement amongst her kennel sisters, if not actual envy and hostility. Perhaps, I thought, it is a joke that she is so garbed, a mockery of sorts. I wondered about the gowned slave, apparently so alone, and despised. What of nudity to mark out prize slaves, and diminish the possibility of their flight, I asked myself. Why is she not stripped, as the others? Then I realized she was more marked out, or as marked out, as the others. In such a gown she stood out prominently amongst them, and even amongst tunicked or camisked slaves. And, if she should slip it away, she would have no other, and would then be as easily noticed as any other stripped kajira.
“Oh!” I said, thrust back, sitting, against the back wall of the kennel. My captor tossed a bundle of chain on the boards beside me. The leash collar was unbuckled from my throat and put to the side, with the coiled leash. To my dismay a heavy metal collar was placed about my throat and snapped shut. There was a ring in the back of the collar and, in a moment, by a chain and two snap locks I was fastened to a heavy ring behind me, set deeply in the logs of the kennel. Then manacles were snapped about both my right wrist and left wrist, separately, and by these, and chains and rings, my hands were chained, one on each side, to wall rings. I could not even feed myself. Then my ankles were grasped and each, in turn, was encircled with iron, independently shackled, and, by chains run to floor rings, one on the left, and one on the right, I was fastened in place.
My captor then retrieved the leash and leash collar, stood up, and looked down at me. I could not well see his expression, as he was outlined against the light from the opened door of the kennel behind him.
I shook the chains in misery, looking up at him, unbelievingly. I tried to lean forward but was held by the wall collar.
“Now, slut,” he snarled, “escape!”
“I did a foolish thing,” I said. “It was terribly foolish. I am sorry.”
“What did you think to accomplish?” he asked. “You were tunicked, half naked in a scrap of rep cloth, and collared. You were marked. Where would you go, what would you do?”
“I was upset,” I said. “I was not thinking clearly.”
“There is no escape for such as you,” he said.
“Need I be chained so heavily?” I asked.
“Be pleased,” he said, “that you are not placed in close chains.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“In your chains,” he said, “which please me, as in them you are eminently locatable, be instructed, barbarian slut. Learn from them. In them ponder the futility of escape.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. I had indeed been the fool. I had learned there was no escape for the Gorean slave girl.
He made as though he would turn away.
“Master!” I cried.
“Yes?” he said.
“I know I cannot escape,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
“But I do not wish to escape,” I said.
“Oh?” he said.
“No!” I said.
“Why?” he said.
“Because I want the collar!” I said. “It belongs on me! I fought this for years, but it is true. Some women desire more than anything to be a slave, and I am one! Call me shamed and degraded, if you wish, but it is true, as true as my sex and the color of my eyes. And what is wrong with being what you are, and want to be? What have females been to males, and women to men, for thousands of generations? Have we not been fought for and led away, on ropes, haremed and herded, bargained for and exchanged, bought and sold, for millennia? Have not the attractive been chosen and the masters the choosers? Have we not been bred together, male and female, man and woman, for countless millennia as master and slave? Is this not in the hereditary coils of our very being, that we should be at our masters’ feet? Surely I am a slave! I have known this from childhood. In how many dreams and irresistible thoughts did I kneel before a master! I am a slave! It is what I am in my heart, and desire to be. I ache for the ruthless domination of a master. I belong in a man’s collar, his to do with as he wishes! Despise me, hate me, denounce me, if you wish, but I want to kneel, and be collared, and be owned! I want a master!”
“Worthless slut,” he said.
“Buy me!” I begged. “Own me! Be my master!”
“I?” he asked.
“I want you as my master!” I said.
“A slave’s wants are meaningless,” he said. “She is a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” I wept. How true that was!
“She goes where she is sold. She does not choose the chains which will weight her fair limbs.”
“No, Master,” I said.
“Any man will do for you,” he said.
“I must serve any man who owns me to the best of my ability,” I said, “I go with the coins that will buy me, but I desire you as my master, and have, from the first moment I saw you, long ago, on Earth, in the great emporium.”
“You turned about, and fled,” he said.
“I was terrified,” I said. “I did not know what to do! Never before had I been so looked upon, looked upon as a slave!”
“You looked well in the warehouse,” he said, “on the floor, naked, bound hand and foot, at my feet.”
“We are slaves,” I said. “We want masters.”
“Do you think you will escape now?” he asked.
“Do you think I can escape the iron on my neck and limbs?” I asked.
“Why did you run from Shipcamp?” he said.
“Please do not make me speak,” I said.
“Do you wish to be shoulder-and-belly lashed?” he asked, loosening the leash strap.
“No, Master!” I said.
“Speak,” he said.
“Please,” I begged.
“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I wept. “I longed for you, so longed for you, and then you observed me in the exposition cage in Brundisium and turned away, and then, to my hope and joy, I encountered you on the dock at Shipcamp, but you scorned me. Walked away! I was nothing! I was scorned! I was miserable, distraught, devastated, furious, helpless, my hopes vanished, my world collapsed! All the seething obstinacy my world had conditioned into me erupted; all the lies and falsities of my former world reasserted themselves, proclaiming nature a mistake and her repudiation a necessity and virtue, reasserted themselves hissing and shrieking, in all the pervasive, manufactured din contrived to drown out the songs of nature, the messages of the hereditary coils, the voice of reality. So I decided to show the masters! I would run, I would escape! They would never catch me! And I would hate you, hate you with all my heart, for you had scorned me! And I knew I must flee at the first opportunity, as who knew when the great ship might depart? Who could escape if chained in one of its holds, abroad on deep, fierce Thassa? So it was with great anxiety that I awaited my opportunity. Then, when it came, I seized it.”
“Why did you return to Shipcamp?” he asked.
“I was lost, confused,” I said. “Surely it was not intentional.”
“You were hurrying back to your chain,” he said.
“No!” I wept.
“It was the same with the Panther Girls who prematurely relaxed their vigilance in the forest.”
“Surely not!” I said.
“So,” he said, “you would like me as your master?”
“Yes,” I said. “Buy me! Buy me!”
“No,” he said.
“But did the trek to Shipcamp mean nothing, what you did to me, what you made me feel?”
“No,” he said.
“I see,” I said, and then, apprehensive, added, “— Master.”
“There was no other at hand,” he said. “I told you that before.”
“You well sported with a capture,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
It was as I had feared. I meant nothing to him. But what more, I asked myself, could a slave expect of a free man?
Even in my training we had been taught that we were nothing, only slaves.
“Master!” I said.
“Do not escape, slut,” he said. Then he turned away.
“Master!” I sobbed.
He did not look back.
I saw the gate of the stockade open and close, the two beams lowered into place.
I leaned back, in misery, against the wall of the kennel.
“You are well chained,” said the gowned slave. “One might think you were important.”
“I am not important,” I said.
“That is true,” she said.
