Hunters of Gor coc-8

by John Norman

  Verna had been shattered. Her pride, her obstinacy were gone.

  She looked up at Marlenus, as a slave girl looks to the eyes of a master. She knew then she was his.

  Without being told, she went to the collar, lying in the dirt, which Marlenus had cast aside. Trembling, she picked it up and knelt before Marlenus. She handed him the collar. There were tears in her eyes.

  Marlenus wiped the collar on his sleeve. A length of binding cord was brought. Verna knelt back on her heels. She lifted her arms to Marlenus, wrists crossed. She lowered her head between her arms.

  “I submit myself,” she said.

  The collar was locked on her throat. Her hands were tied.

  She lowered her bound wrists and lifted her head to Marlenus. “I am your girl,” she said, “Master.” Marlenus turned to a subordinate. “Have her cleaned and combed,” he said. “And perfume her.” She put down her head.

  “Then put her in yellow pleasure silk,” he said, “fresh silk, and place bells on her left ankle.” “Yes, Ubar,” said the man.

  Marlenus was regarding the slave who knelt before him, her head down. “And have her ears pierced,” said Marlenus, “and fix in them earrings of gold, large ones.” “Yes, Ubar,” said the man.

  The slave, conquered, did not so much as lift her head. It would be done to her, what her master wished.

  “And tonight,” said Marlenus, “when she is sent to my tent, see that she wears lipstick.” “It will be done as you say, Ubar,” said the man. He looked down at Verna. “Come with me, Girl,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, and was led away.

  I recalled the flaminium, in the grip of Marlenus.

  “These other slaves,” said Marlenus, indicating Verna’s former girls, “take them away.” Frightened, on their chain, they were herded away. There was not one of them but what knew that what had happened to Verna might have happened to any one of them. I suspected that each of them would be very conscious that night of the ring locked on their right ankle, and the chain that fastened them to the two stakes.

  “May we leave, Ubar?” asked Hura.

  Marlenus looked upon Hura and Mira. They were very conscious that they were women that stood among men.

  “Yes,” said Marlenus.

  The two women, in their brief skins, hurried to the gate, which was opened to let them pass. Outside, the panther girls were waiting for them. Hura, Mira, and Hura’s band swiftly disappeared in the forest.

  They did not remain long in the vicinity of the camp of Marlenus, Ubar of Ar. ”Think, Ubar,” I said, “that I choose to return to my ship soon, at the banks of the Laurius.” “You are welcome to leave when you wish,” said Marlenus, “but enjoy my hospitality another day.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Do we not have a game on the board?” “Yes,” I smiled. “We do.” I had almost forgotten the game we had scarcely begun, before we had heard the cry at the gate, heralding Hura’s return of an escaped slave girl.

  At the entrance to Marlenus’ tent, I stopped.

  Marlenus looked at me.

  “Ubar,” said I, “if the girl Verna had not cried out for mercy, if she had not wept and yielded herself, completely and utterly, to you as slave, would you have truly done what you threatened?” “I do not understand,” said Marlenus.

  “Would you truly have hamstrung her?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Marlenus. “I am a Ubar.”

  “When you leave,” said Marlenus, regarding the board, “it is my wish that you go to your ship.” It was his move.

  “That is my intention,” I said.

  “It is not my wish,” said Marlenus, “that you fare forth to an exchange point to set free a former citizen of Ar.” “I understand,” I said.

  “I, as her former Ubar, will treat of that business,” said Marlenus. She had much shamed him. I did not envy the girl, Talena.

  “What is your intention with regard to her?” I asked.

  “She will be kept in Ar,” he said.

  “I see,” I said.

  Marlenus looked up. “Put her from your mind,” he said. “She is unworthy of a free man.” I nodded. It was true what he had said. Talena, once the beautiful daughter of a great Ubar, shamed and disowned, was now nothing. No longer did she have family. No longer did she have position, wealth and power. She was now nothing. She now had only her beauty, and that wore a brand. Even if she were freed, she would not, in virtue of the disownment, have a caste. The lowest peasant wench on Gor, secure in her caste rights, would be far above her. Talena, once the marvelous and beautiful Talena, was now nothing. She was nothing, nothing.

  No longer was she a desirable match. No longer was she acceptable, no longer was she suitable.

  She was nothing.

  Marlenus and I, Goreans, sat across the board from one another.

  “A slave, said a man, standing outside the tent.

  “Send her in,” said Marlenus, studying the board. I looked up.

  Verna was stunningly beautiful. Her hair, long and blond, was loosed and combed back. she wore a bit of yellow pleasure silk, very short and diaphanous. It clung to her, sweet with her breathing. On her left ankle, locked, were slave bells. I caught the scent of her perfume, a delicate Torian scent, feminine. She wore lipstick. She carried wine.

  She was one of the most beautiful female slaves I had ever seen.

  Marlenus lifted his head and regarded her. Her breathing quickened. “Put down the wine,” said Marlenus, “and step before us.” The girl did so.

  “Lift your hair away from your ears,” said Marlenus, “and turn your head from side to side.” Verna displayed the earrings, large and gold, which had been fastened in her ears.

  They were beautiful.

  “Remove the silk,” said Marlenus, ”and face us.”

  The slave did so.

  She stood beautifully. She did not stand as might have Cara, or another girl, who had well known the touch of a man, but she did stand as though owned. The resistance was gone from her shoulders and diaphragm. Even the palms of her hands, naturally now fell at her thighs, her left palm over her brand. She had not been taught to stand in this fashion. The difference, subtle and interesting, had been accomplished in the enslavement of the afternoon… Now, naturally, unaware of it, she stood as a slave girl. She knew now she stood before the man who was her complete master, open to him, his slave. She stood as a slave, because she now knew herself as a slave, and this knowledge was reflected, inevitably, in her stance. It was natural that she now stand as a slave. She was a slave.

  “Turn,” said Marlenus.

  Verna did so, gracefully, obediently. She stood, facing away from us. “You see?” asked Marlenus.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Verna knew that she was beautiful. Moreover, she knew that her beauty was now being surveyed, candidly, by two free men. I could sense, in her breathing, and her carriage, that this excited her. It may well have excited her, for she was a mere slave, and belonged to one of the men present. A girl in a collar, as it is said, is not permitted inhibitions.

  We observed her.

  She stood on the ball of her left foot. The left leg was slightly, subtly, flexed, and her right leg was flexed, too, and much more than the left. Her head was turned slightly to the right, as though she might wish, did she dare, to look over her right shoulder. I noted the hamstrings. They were not tight. They were lovely, beautifully resilient. Marlenus played a savage game. I was pleased that they had not bee severed.

  “You see?” asked Marlenus.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “There is now a readiness,” said Marlenus. “She is still a raw girl, an ignorant girl, but now there is a readiness.” I nodded. “Face us,” said Marlenus.

  “Yes, Master,” said Verna. I marveled. Her lips were parted. She faced Marlenus. I saw her breathing. She was excited. A girl in a collar is not permitted inhibitions. Simply standing before her master, in his collar, she was visibly excited. I could scarcely conject
ure the helplessness and violence of her responses to Marlenus, should he deign to touch her.

  “Do you sense in yourself a readiness,” Marlenus asked her, “to serve as a slave girl?” “Yes,” she said, “yes, Master!” “Clothe yourself,” said Marlenus.

  Unsteadily, tears in her eyes, she did so.

  Marlenus’ attention was again upon the board of the game.

  “Ubara’s Builder to Ubara’s Builder Nine,” said Marlenus. He moved the piece. I responded to this with Scribe to Ubara’s Builder Two.

  Marlenus looked up. He glanced at the girl, absently.

  “Serve us wine,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I observed the board.

  I wondered at women. It seems that they, in reality, care for tender, loving men, who treat them with great consideration and solicitude. Yes, in their dreams, it seems they find themselves forced to surrender, totally, to fierce, dominating masters, who insolently and cruelly, though often with ironic courtesy and tenderness, exact from their bodies, over a period of hours, every last minute sensation of response of which their bodies are capable, strong men, warriors, who, patiently, permit them no shield, who permit them to withhold nothing, who permit them to save not a particle of their honor, who will force them to yield themselves totally, helplessly, in complete and utter surrender. Gorean culture, of course, differs greatly from Earth culture. On Gor, for better or for worse, the reality in which a woman, terrified, might find herself is not altogether unlike that of her feared dreams on Earth, but on Gor it is not a dream; it is as real as the steel of slave bracelets and the commanding touch of a master.

  I looked at Marlenus of Ar.

  He was lost in the game, his attention on the board. I had not thought much of it before, but I now realized that he must be attractive, enormously attractive, to women. He was broad and strong. He was fierce and highly intelligent. He was as insolent, and rugged and handsome as the crags of the mighty Voltai. He was uncompromising; he was powerful; he was wealthy’ he controlled cities and men’ he was a tarnsman, master of the great, predatory saddlebirds of Gor. He had taken, and owned many women. He seemed a natural master of female flesh. Many women, just seeing him, had a spontaneous desire to yield to him. Some high-born beauties of Ar, I knew, had begged for his collar.

  “Ubara to Ubara Four,” said Marlenus.

  I moved my Ubar’s Physician to my Ubara Six, interposing it between the Ubara and the Home Stone.

  Marlenus and I watched her pour the wine. She poured it differently than she had before. She knelt, her head down, the hair forward. I could see it in her shoulders. She, a slave girl, poured wine for masters. That she was owned was revealed, beautifully, in her serving.

  I saw his collar gleaming at her throat.

  Marlenus looked at me and smiled. I nodded. Verna was a slave.

  She lifted her eyes to him, helplessly.

  “Later,” said Marlenus. “I must finish this game.”

  “Yes, Master!” she whispered.

  She withdrew, kneeling, and watched. Her eyes were on the board, but I could see that she did not understand the game. It was only pieces to her. Yet she sensed the struggle.

  Sometimes she looked away from the board. She was breathing deeply. Her fists would clench and unclench. There was a light sheen of sweat on her body. The slave silk clung to her the more closely. She put her head back. Her thighs moved. She was in the torment of her need, often visible in a female slave. “Tarnsman to Ubara Six,” said Marlenus. He moved his tarnsman to his Ubara Six, my Ubara Four.

  “Capture of the Home Stone,” said Marlenus.

  I had been crushed.

  I shrugged. I stood up.

  Verna’s eyes shone. I had been defeated, and devastatingly, by her master. She did not play the game, but this much she knew. She could read it in the tone of Marlenus, the swiftness with which he had moved, his insolent handling of the pieces, the vigor and arrogance of his carriage. I had been driven before his attack, stumbling and reeling before him. I could not defend myself. I had been helpless. He had crushed me.

  This Verna knew. She could not take her eyes from him.

  Marlenus set aside the board, and looked upon her. He had now set aside the things of men, and was ready for her, a woman.

  I walked to one side of the tent.

  “Remove the silk,” said Marlenus, “and come to my arms.”

  Verna parted the slave silk, and dropped it to the side. He was sitting cross-legged, and she crept to him, trembling. He took her and held her across his knees, cradling her in his left arm. She looked up at him, vulnerable, helpless. His right hand was at her thigh, over her brand. There was the slight sound of slave bells, locked on her left ankle.

  “You seem a woman,” said Marlenus.

  “I am a woman,” said Verna.

  “Are you free?” asked Marlenus.

  “No,” she whispered. “I am a slave. I am your slave.”

  With his hand Marlenus turned her head from side to side. Her hair was back. “These are lovely earrings,” he said.

  I could see, from across the tent, the tiny shadows, where the small golden wires were thrust through the softness of her ear lobes.

  They were indeed beautiful.

  “Yes,” whispered Verna, a lowly pierced-ear girl in the arms of her master. “Do you like them?” asked Marlenus.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “They excite me. They excite me as a woman.”

  “That is one of their purposes,” said Marlenus.

  She attempted to lift her lips, delicately, to his, but his hand prevented them from touching his.

  “Do you like your lipstick?” asked Marlenus.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “yes, Master!”

  “It, too, excites you, does it not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “How is that?” he asked.

  “It, like the earrings,” she whispered, “males me feel more female, more slave.” “You are female, and slave,” said Marlenus.

  “Yes, Master, she whispered. “I know. I have been taught.”

  He then, with his right hand, this first kiss that he placed upon the lips of his slave girl, a kiss in which she was, by intent, permitted no part, save to feel the bruising of it in her body. When he thrust her back there was blood at her mouth, and fear in her eyes. She was now frightened of him, terribly frightened. But he put her to her back, swiftly, casually, and his hand was at her body. Then, though there was fear in her eyes, her body, as though of its own will, began to leap to his touch, that of her master. Her body, as though of its own will, obeyed the touch of Marlenus. Then she cried out, “Oh yes, Master, yes!” Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. She twisted. “I love you, Master!” she wept, “I love you!” “Tomorrow,” said Marlenus, “you will put a talender in your hair.” “Yes, Master,” she cried. “I will. I will!” I slipped from the tent. I looked back once. I saw, to one side, a bowl of scarlet, five-petaled flaminiums.

  As I walked into the darkness I heard Verna’s helpless cries of joy. I heard, too, the sound of slave bells. They had been locked on her left ankle. They could not be removed, save by a key in the keeping of Marlenus.

  “I love you, Master,” I heard her cry. “I love you. I cannot help myself. I love you, Master! I love you, my Master!” I envied Marlenus his girl, Verna. She was a beauty, and, in time, would be a prize slave. I thought of Sheera. Many times the thought of her had crossed my mind. I had told her I was going to sell her in Lydius. Perhaps I would not. I found myself lonely for Sheera. I called myself a fool. She was only a slave. But she was a slave not without promise. I recalled her in my shelter beside the Tesephone, in the darkness, and in the following day. She was not displeasing. Perhaps, with training, something could be made of her. I reminded myself that it was said that panther girls, once conquered, made excellent slaves. Lying in the darkness, wrapped in my blankets, I heard, in the distance, Verna’s cries of pl
easure.

  I threw away the blankets. I walked through the camp, until I came to the chain of Verna’s girls, they in their skins, each chained by the right ankle, the long chain fastened between the two stakes.

  They were asleep, on the ground. Marlenus had told me that any of the women in the camp, save Verna, were free to me.

  I looked along the chain, until I found one that pleased me.

  She was sweet-bodied, wide-shouldered, dark-haired, like Sheera.

  I knelt beside her and place my hand over her mouth. She squirmed helplessly. I held her. She eyes, over my hand, were wild.

  “Be silent,” I told her.

  Then I removed my hand from her mouth. She looked up at me.

  I took her skins by the shoulders, and drew them from her body, leaving them about her right ankle, where it was fastened to the chain.

  She lifted her arms to me, and her lips. I held her, gently, and them began to touch her. I felt her lips on mine. “Be silent,” I whispered to her. “Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Yes, Master.” It was nearly dawn when I left her side. At times I had to keep her mouth covered with my hand.

  “What is your name?” I asked her.

  “Rena,” she whispered.

  “It is a lovely name,” I said, “and you, Rena, are a lovely slave.” “Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

  I returned to my blankets, to get an Ahn’s sleep, if I could, before the camp became too much astir.

  I looked up at the moons. I recalled Sheera. Yes, I did not think I would sell her in Lydius.

  I recalled her, as I had seen her chained at the bar in Lydius. Even then I had wanted her. And I recalled her in the hold of the Tesephone, and later, in the camp, in my shelter beside the Tesephone, that hot night, and the sweet day that had followed.

  No, when I returned, I would be in no hurry to sell her. She was a juicy slave, and one of high intelligence. She was not without interest. I rather liked the look of my collar on her throat.

  I reminded myself that it was said that panther girls, once conquered, make excellent slaves.

  I think it is a true saying.

  I rolled over in my blankets, and fell asleep. In the morning I must make my way back to the Tesephone.