Hooding may also figure in certain games, as when a hooded slave, or one fully concealed in a slave sack, is gambled for. What is the value? Is the stone in the box a pebble or a diamond, is the slave in the hood or sack a beauty or a she-tarsk?
Hooded slaves may also compete in various games, as in locating objects scattered about a room, arranging objects by size or weight, threading beads, fitting puzzle pieces together, a candy for the winner, a switch stroke for the losers, placing and tying sandals, plaiting binding fiber, braiding a whip, and such. Free women occasionally use hooded serving slaves on all fours, in crawling races, in which, walking behind them, they incite them to greater speed by the frequent monitions of a switch. Free women often delight in this game, as it gives them an opportunity to show what they think of female slaves. Free women hate female slaves; men, on the other hand, prize them, and seek to own them.
What man does not desire a slave?
Hooding has many uses; one might be, I thought, to conceal an identity. For example, a woman is sometimes hooded, and gagged, to be more easily transported from a city. Sometimes a woman is sold, hooded and gagged, but this is rare, as a buyer usually wishes to see all of a slave, before risking coin.
I heard a galley being placed in the water. Pani would be the first to board. I saw men moving about, now armed. Soon, a flotilla of small boats would be launched.
“Please, Masters!” wept kneeling slaves. And then others, from the rail, knelt about us, as well. “Please, Masters!”
“You have been long at sea, beauties,” said Tyrtaios. “Perhaps you would like to go ashore.”
“Yes, oh, yes, Master!” they wept.
There must have been some twenty before us, and I could see other such groups about the deck, imploring others.
Regarding them, kneeling before us, pleading, in their tiny, form-clinging tunics, and close-fitting collars, I was again impressed with the quality of the ship’s kajirae. The Pani had made many excellent purchases. It occurred to me that perhaps they had not been bought to be sold, actually, but, rather, to be distributed, as gifts. Certainly there was not one but what would make a lovely gift.
I thought of Alcinoë, too, then, given as a gift.
She could be given to anyone, anytime, anywhere.
For a moment I was troubled.
Then I recalled she meant nothing to me.
Excellent, I thought.
She meant nothing to me.
Still, I thought, it might be pleasant to own her, such a slave, to own her completely, as one owns a slave.
“Perhaps you can beg prettily,” said Tyrtaios.
“Master?” said more than one.
“Interest us,” said Tyrtaios. “Show that you are worth owning.”
“Do not be cruel to us,” said a slave. “Have mercy on us. Do not make us show ourselves as what we are, slaves! Do not make us move so, as slaves! Do you not know what that does to us? To so perform before men! It arouses us, like slave dance, and teaches us we belong to men! It reminds us of what we are. Be merciful! Do not ask us to do that, unless you will subsequently fulfill us, according to us the caresses of the master. Please! Please! Else we will suffer the torments of the neglected slave! Please be merciful! We are already starved for the touch of masters!”
“You are slaves,” said a man. “Move as slaves!”
“Please, no!” wept a slave.
“Move,” said Tyrtaios.
The men began to laugh, and clap.
They moved well. How beautiful are women! I saw their eyes, their expressions, the needfulness in their movements, the subtleties. What fires men have set to burn in the bellies of slaves! Is it cruel, I wondered, to have done this to them, to make them the helpless victims of such powerful, frequently recurrent needs? I supposed not, as it makes them the richest and fullest of women, the most helpless and authentic of women, the most irreparably female of women, more a woman than a free woman, afflicted by her inhibitions, locked within her conventions, the prescriptions of her society, can dream. One cannot, of course, ignite needs which are not there, cannot set fires where there is nothing to burn, where there is nothing ready to burn, nothing eager to burn, nothing hoping to burn. One can free such needs, of course, order them forth, refuse to allow them to remain feared and denied, and their freeing is, essentially, what the woman, in her deepest heart, wants. On the other hand, as they are slaves, it does not matter. They are slaves. One does what one wishes with them.
The slaves now subsided, many on all fours, looking anxiously to the men.
“Now coffle us,” said one of the slaves, “by metal, by wrist, neck, or ankle! Take us ashore, chained! We will not escape! We cannot escape! We are ready! You have made us so! We beg only haste! You need not take us to the grass, or the high, dry beach! Cast us to the wet, drenched sand, use us, if you wish, in the raging surf, but use us, Masters, use us!”
“That is enough whining and whimpering of the sluts,” said Tyrtaios, addressing me, and several, who stood about. “Get them to their mats, and put them on their chains.”
There were cries of lamentation from the slaves. Some, in frustration, and futility, struck the planks of the deck with their small fists.
I wondered if Tyrtaios cared for women.
He was, as I recalled, quite possibly of the Assassins.
Such men usually have more on their mind than slaves, such things as their kills, as wealth, as power.
One of the greatest had been Pa-Kur, whose horde had almost mastered Ar.
To be sure, the frustration of a slave is sometimes useful in the control of a slave.
And, I thought, Tyrtaios did little without purpose.
What in one man might seem pointless or gratuitous, in another, such as Tyrtaios, might be the result of sober calculation, a move on the kaissa board of advantage. On such a board slaves may be moved, as well as men.
And do they not make lovely pieces?
“Must whips be brought?” asked Tyrtaios.
“No, no, Master!” cried the miserable slaves, and they rose to their feet, many sobbing, to return to their keeping areas.
“Attend them,” said Tyrtaios to me, and some of the others, who stood about.
I heard several of the small boats being put in the water. I supposed that some two thirds, or so, of the armsmen and mariners might make their landing, and others later, as they returned.
It was toward evening now.
Why, I asked myself, would Tyrtaios have us, several of us, attend the return of the slaves to the Venna and Kasra keeping areas?
It was only later that I understood, or thought I might understand.
Tyrtaios, I suspect, wished to appear to the men as one who might have much to give, to be perceived as a likely bestower of privilege, and power.
Nearby, standing near the rail, I saw a dark figure, that of Seremides, braced against the rail, the crude, narrow crutch beside him.
When Tyrtaios glanced at him, for Tyrtaios often apprised himself of his surroundings, Seremides looked away, as though concerned to watch the small boats, now about the galley, approach the shore.
I heard a soft, feminine voice at my side, one I would have recognized in the darkness, the pitch blackness, of a dungeon of chained slaves.
“Perhaps Master would like to put me to my mat,” said the voice.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“And see that I am well fastened there, on my chain?” said the voice.
“That would give me great pleasure,” I said.
“I belong in the Kasra keeping area,” she said.
“That for lesser slaves,” I said.
“I am informed so,” she said.
“Precede me, slut,” I said.
“May I speak?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I suppose,” she said, “that not all sluts are slaves.”
“Probably not,” I said, “though doubtless they should be made slaves.”
“But all
slaves are sluts,” she said.
“They had better be,” I said.
“Good,” she said, “Master.”
Men were about us, hurrying slaves below. Some were conducted by the wrist, or arm. Others were put in painful leading position, one in each hand, their heads held at the hip of their keeper of the moment. Others were hurried on their way with a shove, or a stinging slap below the small of the back. Some cried out, hastened with the bow of a belt across the backs of their thighs. Most tried to hurry ahead, down the companionways, and through the corridors.
“Move,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I followed her. I wished I had her on a leash, if only that she might know herself leashed, and on my leash.
We were down three decks in a bit, and rather separated from the others.
“May I speak?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I gather,” she said, “that the men are to chain us.”
“It seems so,” I said.
“That is unusual,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am a slave,” she said. “I prefer being chained by a man.”
“I understand,” I said.
This made sense as females know in their heart that they are by nature the property of males. This natural relationship, refined within, and expressed within, the enhancements of civilization, may be expressed in many ways, for example, by the brand, the collar, distinctive clothing, bracelets, a chain, and such. The chain, of course, is not purely symbolic. That is clear to any woman who finds herself on a chain.
“But why, now?” she asked.
“I am not sure,” I said. Actually, it seemed very likely to me that, now that our voyage was much at its end, Tyrtaios, and doubtless others, would be anxious to enlist associates, for some end or other, to which end the prospect of a distribution of slaves might prove conducive.
Accordingly, in such a case, it might be useful to force, as he had, beautiful, half-naked slaves to prove their heat, and need, before virile males.
Who would not enjoy having one or more of them?
Similarly, it seemed that each might chain his choice.
I found that of interest.
Disputes in such matters are commonly adjudicated with the sword. The slave, in such a case, is usually stripped, bound, hand and foot, hooded or blindfolded, and thrown to the side. She must wait, to see to whom she will belong.
We had now approached the lower decks.
“May I speak, Master?” she inquired.
“Yes,” I said.
“On our way,” she said, “we will pass the Venna area.”
“True,” I said, “where the better slaves are housed.”
“I am not sure of that,” she said.
“You little she-sleen,” I said. “How vain you are!”
“Have you ever been in the Venna keeping area?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “nor the Kasra keeping area either, for that matter.”
“I am curious to gaze upon these special slaves,” she said, “particularly those who are always hooded when taken through the corridors, up the companionways, to the open deck.”
“I doubt that you would be objective, in assessing your betters,” I said.
“My betters?”
“Certainly.”
“I am not sure of that,” she said.
I did not respond.
“Are you not curious?” she asked.
“It is none of our business,” I said. To be sure, I was curious.
“We may have few such opportunities,” she said.
“We are near the Venna keeping area,” I noted. The Kasra keeping area was on the deck below.
“The portal,” she said, “is ajar.”
The lock dangled.
It had been broken away, probably by a hammer.
We could hear the sounds of men, and slaves, and chains, within. There was much stirring. We could also see that lamps had been lit within. I heard nothing of the large women, so coarse, and gross, and their switches. How different they were from the slaves of desirability, the soft, beautiful, delicious, feminine slaves, the gems on a slaver’s necklace, those for whom discerning men patiently wait to be put upon the block. Men, it seemed, on the word of Tyrtaios, had invaded this normally sequestered precinct. I suppose it was much the same below, in the Kasra area.
“Please!” begged the slave, Alcinoë.
In the light of the lamp in the corridor the collar, closely fitting, was lovely on her neck. She had not been given much to wear. It was a “Kasra tunic,” so to speak, appropriate to the lower keeping area. She was lightly complexioned and her dark hair was soft about her head and shoulders. I myself wondered if the slaves who had been hooded could be much her superior. Certainly I did not think that those of the Venna keeping area who had been brought unhooded to the deck had been much her superior, if at all. Indeed, I suspected that she had been consigned to the lower area with aforethought, perhaps to suggest her unimportance. Seremides might have arranged that, I supposed. To be sure, there were some slaves from each keeping area whom I recognized would be likely to bring more off the block than Alcinoë, if sold as common meat, and not as an item of special interest, on which, say, a bounty might be collected. But, in spite of that, even considered as common meat, I thought one could do far worse than the slave, Alcinoë. Too, I thought her much improved from Ar. Always beautiful, always a female who disturbed dreams, who would be likely to occur in them naked, in a man’s chains, she now seemed to me much more beautiful. And this was not, in my view, a simple matter of the carefully supervised regimen of diet and exercise routinely imposed on domestic animals of her sort, shaping, trimming, and vitalizing her figure, that it might be brought to the block as a superb stimulus to buyers. It was, rather, the fuller beauty of a woman, which is brought out by bondage, a tonicity, a softness, a femininity, an aliveness, a sensitivity, a vulnerability, an awareness, in which her wars are done, her conflicts resolved, her self-torments ended, her inhibitions vanished, her identity secure, the relief and welcome joy of a woman who accepts herself as what she is, and is content to be, and desires to be, a slave who hopes to be found pleasing by her master.
I recalled her from Ar, in her ornate, sumptuous robes, one of which might have cost a laborer a year’s wages, sometimes so casual about the hem, lifting it up a bit, as to examine the heel of a slipper, but exhibiting an ankle, or drawing back, against her, or smoothing, about her, a garment, in such a way that one might speculate about the line of a figure, or the turn of a hip, but, much more often, the carelessness with which a veil might have been disarranged, adjusted, or loosened. Doubtless she had thought to torment a common soldier, one farther beneath her than the very dust beneath her slippers. But now, under the lamp light in the corridor, she stood before me, a slave, far less now the dust beneath the poor laborer’s sandals, whose annual wages once might not have purchased one of her robes. I regarded her, collared, before me. There was no doubt now about her features, or her limbs, her rounded arms, her small hands, her thighs and calves, her ankles.
“Master views a slave,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Does Master think of Ar?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am different now,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“It sounds as though there are pleasantries within the Venna keeping area,” she smiled.
“I think I will look upon these slaves,” I said.
“May I accompany Master?”
“Yes,” I said. “But stay close to me.”
“I shall, Master,” she said.
The great door, so often secured and locked, was now, the lock broken, swung back. I entered, followed by Alcinoë, close behind me, interestingly, on my left, but that is where a slave commonly follows a master.
I did not mind her behind me, on my left.
That was pleasant
.
To be sure, sometimes a master has a slave precede him, that he may better observe her.
The area was low ceilinged, but not so low that a man could not stand upright. It was lit by several lamps. There were several fellows about, and several slaves. Some of the slaves had been put to their mats, and chained in place, but many were not yet secured. It seemed many fellows were reluctant to leave the area. Several dallied, even in the vicinity of the slaves who were already on their chains. “You are to secure them, no more,” said a minor officer. “They are not to be used. Not yet. Difficulties with the Pani would ensue. Lords Nishida and Okimoto would disapprove. They are ship slaves. You do not own them. Pose them, examine them, feel them, delight yourself with their beauty, put them through chain paces, if you wish, but know that their bodies will be examined. These are not tavern sluts. Beware the wrath of Lords Nishida and Okimoto. Do not dally overlong. It is best to be quick. Secure them, and go.”
“It seems,” I said to Alcinoë, “the fellows are not eager to return to the deck.”
Several of the slaves were standing, in examination position, legs widely spread, hands behind the back of their neck, or head. Others had been placed in the slave bow. Others, on their chains, were to react, as though struck, given a clap of hands. Some did so in terror. I gathered they had actually felt the whip. Others, to the rhythmic motion of a hand, writhed in their chains. Others endeavored to please the men, being put though slave paces.
Mariners of Gor Page 37
