Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 5

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

  brief, whitish, summery, floral-print tunic, almost diaphanous, with a plunging

  neckline. The print was a tasteful scattering of delicate yellow flowers,

  perhaps silk-screened in place. The garment was belted, and rather snugly, with

  two turns of a narrow, silken, yellow cord, knotted at her left hip. She was

  barefoot. I noted that she did not wear an anklet, such as I wore. There was

  something on her neck, however, something fastened closely about it, encased in

  a silken yellow sheath or sleeve. I did not know what it was. It could not be

  metal, of course. That would be terrifying. I noted that the door, which now

  closed behind her, wag some six inches thick.

  “Oh,” said the girl, softly, startled, seeing me, and knelt.

  She put her head down, and then lifted it. “Forgive me, Mistress,” she said. “I

  did not know whether or not you were yet awake. I did not knock, for fear of

  disturbing you.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I have come to serve Mistress,” she said. “I have come to see if Mistress

  desires aught.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Susan,” she said.

  “Susan who?” I asked.

  “Only Susan,” she said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “That is what I have been named,” she said.

  “Named?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said.

  “I am Tiffany,” I said. “Tiffany Collins.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said.

  “Where am P” I asked.

  “In the city of Corcyrus,” she said.

  I had never heard of this city. I did not even know what country it was in. I

  did not even know in what continent it might be.

  “In what country is this?” I asked.

  “In the country of Corcyrus,” she said.

  “That is the city,” I said.

  You are then in the dominions of Corcyrus, Mistress,” she said.

  “Where is Corcyrus?” I asked.

  “Mistress?” asked the girl, puzzled.

  “Where is Corcyrus?” I asked.

  “It is here,” she said, puzzled. “We are in Corcyrus.”

  “I see that I am to be kept in ignorance,” I said, angrily, clutching the

  coverlet about my neck.

  “Corcyrus,” said the girl, “is south of the Vosk. It is. south-west of the city

  of Ar. It lies to the east and somewhat north of Argenturn.”

  “Where is New York City?” I asked. “Where are the United States?”

  “They are not here, Mistress,” smiled the girl.

  “Where is the ocean?” I asked.

  “It is more than a thousand pasangs to the west, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “Is it the Atlantic Ocean or the Pacific Ocean?” I asked.

  “No, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “It is the Indian Ocean?” I asked.

  “No, Mistress,” said the girl.

  I looked at her, puzzled.

  “It is Thassa, the Sea, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “What sea is it?” I asked.

  “That is how we think of her,” said the girl, “as the sea, Thassa.”

  “Oh” I said, bitterly.

  “Has Mistress noted certain feelings or sensations in her body, perhaps of a

  sort with which she is unfamiliar?” asked the girl. “Has Mistress noted any

  unusual qualities in the air she is breathing?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. These things I had construed as the lingering effects of the

  substance which had been injected into me, rendering me unconscious.

  “Would Mistress like for me to have her bath prepared?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I am clean.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said. I realized, uneasily, that I must have been cleaned.

  “I have been perfumed, have I not?” I asked. I did no know if the room had been

  perfumed, or if it were I.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.

  I pulled the coverlet up, even more closely, about my neck.

  I felt its soft silk on my naked, perfumed body. The perfume was exquisitely

  feminine.

  “Am I still a virgin?” I asked.

  “I suppose so,” said the girl. “I do not know.”

  I looked uneasily at the heavy door, behind her. I did not know who might enter

  that door, to claim me.

  “In whose bed am I” I asked.

  “In your own, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “Mine?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said.

  “Whose room is this?” I demanded.

  “Yours, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “There are bars at the window,” I said.

  “They are for your protection, Mistress,” said the girl. “Such bars are not

  unusual in the rooms of women in Corcyrus.

  I looked at the girl in the light, floral-print tunic, kneeling a few feet from

  the bed. It was almost diaphanous. It was not difficult to detect the lineaments

  of her beauty beneath it. seemed a garment which was, in its way, demure and

  yet, the same time, extremely provocative. To see a woman such a garment, I

  suspected, might drive a man half mad with passion. I wondered what was

  concealed in the silken sheath about her neck.

  “Why have I been brought here?” I asked. “What am I doing here?”

  “I do not know, Mistress,” said the girl. “I am not one such as would be

  informed.”

  “Oh,” I said. I did not fully understand her response.

  “Is Mistress hungry?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” I said. I was ravenous.

  Smiling the girl rose lightly to her feet and left the room.

  I left the bed and stood then on the tiles, near the bed, the coverlet still

  held about me, almost like a great cloak. The tiles felt cool to the bottoms of

  my feet. The weather seemed warm and sultry. I wondered if I might be in Africa

  or Asia.

  I looked at the rings on the couch, at the ring in the floor, and the two rings

  in the wall, one about a yard from the floor and one about six feet from the

  floor.

  I looked at the door. There was a handle on my side of the door, but no way to

  lock or bar it, at least from my side.

  I heard a noise, and stepped back.

  The door opened and the girl, carrying a tray, smiling, entered.

  “Mistress is up,” she said. She then set the tray down on the small table. She

  arranged the articles on the tray, and then brought a cushion from the side of

  the room and placed it by the table. There was, on the tray, a plate of fruit,

  some yellow, wedge-shaped bread, and a bowl of hot, rich-looking, dark-brown,

  almost-black fluid.

  “Let me relieve Mistress of the coverlet,” she said, approaching me.

  I shrank back.

  “It is too warm for it,” she smiled, reaching for it.

  I again stepped back.

  “I have washed Mistress many times,” she sa
id. “And Mistress is very beautiful.

  Please.”

  I let the coverlet slip to my hips. There was no mistaking the admiration in the

  eyes of the girl. This pleased me. I let her remove it from me. “Yes,” she said,

  “Mistress is quite beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She folded the coverlet and placed it on the great couch.

  “Susan,” I said. “That is your name?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” smiled the girl.

  “What are these rings?” I asked, indicating the heavy ring in the floor, and the

  two rings in the wall.

  “They are slave rings, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “What is their purpose?” I asked, frightened.

  “Slaves may be tied or chained to them,” said the girl.

  “There are slaves, then, in this place?” I asked. This thought, somehow, alarmed

  me, terribly. Yet, too, at the same time, I found it inordinately moving and

  exciting. The thought of myself as a slave and what this might mean suddenly

  Hashed through my mind. For an instant I was so thrilled, so shaken with the

  significance of this, that I could scarcely stand.

  “There are true men in this place,” explained the girl.

  “Oh,” I said. I did not understand her remark. Did she not know that true men

  repudiated their natural sovereignty, forsook their manhood and conformed to

  prescribed stereotypes? Was she not familiar with the political definitions? I

  wondered then if there might not be another sort of true men, true men, like

  true lions, who, innocent of negativistic conditionings, simply fulfilled

  themselves in the way of nature. Such men. I supposed, of course, could not

  exist. They, presumably, in the way of nature, would be less likely to pretend

  that women were the same as themselves than to simply relish them, to keep them,

  to dominate, own and treasure them, perhaps like horses or dogs, or, I thought,

  with a shudder, women.

  “Would Mistress care to partake now of her breakfast?” asked the girl.

  I was looking, fascinated, at the heavy ring set in the tiles.

  “If Mistress wishes,” said the girl, “she may tie me to it and whip me.”

  I looked at her, startled. “No,” I said. “No!”

  “I shall tidy the room,” said the girl, “and prepare it for the convenience of

  Mistress.”

  She turned about and went to the side of the room. She began to take articles

  from the vanity, such as, combs and brushes, and vials, and place them on its

  surface, before the mirror. She moved with incredible grace.

  Glancing in the mirror she saw me behind her, watching her. “Mistress?” she

  asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She continued her work. She straightened pillows at the side of the room. She

  then went to one of the sliding doors at the side of the room and moved one back

  a few inches. She reached inside and, from the interior of the door, where it

  had doubtless been hanging, from a loop on its handle, removed an object.

  I gasped.

  “Mistress?” she asked.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “A whip,” she said, puzzled. Seeing my interest she brought it towards me. I

  stepped back. She held it across her body. Its handle was about eighteen inches

  long. It was white, and trimmed with yellow beads. Depending from this handle,

  at one end, were five, pliant yellow straps, or lashes. Each was about two and a

  half feet long, and one and a half inches, wide.

  I trembled.

  I could scarcely conjecture what that might feel laid to my body.

  “Am I to be whipped?” I asked. I was terribly conscious of my nudity, my

  vulnerability.

  “I do not think so, Mistress,” laughed the girl.

  I regarded the whip. I wished that she had been more affirmative in her

  response.

  “Whos whip is it?” I asked.

  “Yours, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “But for what purpose is it to be used?” I asked.

  “It is for whipping me,” she said. “It is my hope, however, that I will be so

  pleasing to Mistress that she will not wish to use it, or not often, on me.”

  “Take it away,” I said. It frightened me.

  The girl went to a wall and, near the large door, by a loop on its butt end,

  hung it from a hook. I had not noticed the hook before.

  “There,” said the girl, smiling. “It is prominently displayed, where we both,

  many times a day, may see it.”

  I nodded. I regarded the object. There was little mistaking its meaning.

  “Susan,” I said.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said.

  “Are there truly slaves here, in this place, in this city, or country?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said, “and generally.”

  I did not understand what she meant by “generally.”

  I felt the warm air on my body. I smelled the perfume, so delicately feminine,

  which had been put on me.

  “You said you had been ‘named’ Susan,” I said.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said.

  “The way you said that,” I said, “it sounded as though you might have been named

  anything.”

  The girl shrugged, and smiled. “Of course, Mistress,” she said.

  “You are very pretty, Susan,” I said.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” she said.

  “These other rings,” I said, indicating the rings about the couch, “are they

  also slave rings?”

  “Yes,” she said, approaching lightly, gracefully, “in their way, but most of

  them are only anchor rings, to which, say, chains or cords might be attached.”

  She then crouched by the heavy ring, that with.coiled chain beneath it, that

  fastened at what might, perhaps, count as the bottom of the couch. “But this,”

  she said, “more appropriately, is the more typical type of ring which one thinks

  of as a slave ring. Do you see its resemblance to the others, that in the floor,

  those at the wall?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She lifted the ring. I could see that it was heavy. She then lowered it back

  into place, so that it again, in its retaining ring, fastened in a metal plate,

  bolted into the couch, hung parallel to t * he side of the couch. “By means of

  such a ring,” she said, “a male silk slave might be chained at the foot of your

  couch.”

  The girl rose to her feet. “Surely Mistress is hungry,” she said.

  The light from the barred window was behind her. I also saw the shadows of the

  bars and crosspieces lying across the couch.

  I turned and went to the low table where the tray had been placed.

  “There are no chairs,” I said.

  “There are few chairs in Corcyrus,” said the girl.

  I turned to face her, almost in anguish. Something in this place terrified me.

  “I have been unable to keep from noticing your garments,” I said.

  “Mistress?” asked the
girl.

  “Forgive me,” I said, “but they leave little doubt as to your loveliness.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “You are aware of how revealing they are, are you not?” I asked.

  “I think so, Mistress,” said the girl.

  “By them the lineaments of your beauty are made publicly clear,” I said.

  “That is doubtless one of their intentions, Mistress,” said the girl.

  I suddenly felt faint.

  “Mistress?” asked the girl, alarmed.

  “I am all right,” I said.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said, relieved.

  I then, slowly, walked about her, frightened. She stood still, very straight,

  her head up. She was incredibly lovely, and exquisitely figured.

  “There is something on your left leg,” I said, “high, on the thigh, just under

  the hip.” I saw this through the almost diaphanous, white, floral-print tunic

  she wore.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said. “It is common for. girls such as I to be marked.”

  “Marked?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said. “Would Mistress care to see?”

  Seeing my curiosity, my fascination, she drew up the skirt of the brief tunic,

  with both bands, and looked down to her left thigh.

  “What is it?” I asked. It was a delicate mark, almost floral, about an inch and

  a half high and a half inch, or so, wide.

  “It is my brand,” she said.

  I gasped.

  “It was put on me in Cos,” she said, “with a white-hot iron, two years ago.”

  “Terrible,” I whispered.

  “Girls such as I must expect to be marked,”’ she said. “It is In accord with the

  recommendations of merchant law.”

  “Merchant law?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said the girl. “May I lower my tunic?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She smoothed down the light tunic.

  “It is a beautiful mark,” I said.

  “I think so, too,” she said. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  “Did it hurt?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mistress,” she said.

  “It doesn’t hurt now though, does it?” I asked.

  “No, Mistress,” she said.

  I reached out, timidly, toward her throat. I touched the object there.

 

‹ Prev Next ›