Norman, John - Gor 20 - Players of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 20 - Players of Gor.txt Page 13

by Players of Gor [lit]

  were so, I wondered why she was having recourse to this elaborate pretense of

  being merely the mistress of a common work chain. I decided not to seize her, at

  least not yet.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “I have been called various things,” I said, “at different times, in different

  places.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, “I know you fellows of Port Kar. You are all rogues, all

  pirates, thieves and slavers. I think I shall call you—Brinlar.”

  “And how shall I address you?” I asked.

  “As ‘Mistress,’” she said.

  “How is it that you made your strike in Port Kar?” I asked.

  “I was in Port Kar on business,” she said, “and, with the carnival, matters were

  convenient.”

  “I had thought you might be of Tyros or Cos,” I said. Those two island ubarates

  were at war with Port Kar.

  “No,” she said.

  I was now more sure than ever that she was of the party of Priest-Kings.

  “To be sure,” she said, “my sympathies lie with Cos and Tyros, Thassa’s foremost

  citadels of enlightenment and civilization. A certain amusing fittingness was

  thus manifested in my choice of a location for my predations, a choice fully

  vindicated, incidentally, by the catch of lovely males I acquired there.” She

  looked at me. “Would you like a rag for your loins?” she asked.

  “Whatever you wish,” I said.

  She laughed.

  “Am I, and my fellows, to be enslaved?” I asked.

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  “That would certainly seem to be in order, would it not?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Somewhere, sometime, I would suppose,” she said, “at my convenience, at a site

  of my choosing.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  She smiled.

  “What, then, afterwards, is to be our fate?” I asked.

  “Perhaps I will sell you then, somewhere,” she said, “perhaps even at the Fair

  of En’Kara.”

  “I see,” I said. This confirmed my conjecture that we were not truly intended to

  be kept as members of a work chain. She presumably had a rendezvous to keep at

  the fair. Her rendezvous kept, and her cover still intact, but then no longer

  needed, she could dispose of us in the En’Kara markets.

  “You and your fellows remain legally free, of course,” she said, “though totally

  in my power, as complete captives, until a sign of bondage is burned into your

  pretty hides, or you are appropriately collared, or otherwise legally enslaved.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Do you recall the two major criteria I used in selecting my captures in the

  piazza?” she asked.

  “You wanted strong, large fellows, as I recall,” I said, “suitable for inclusion

  in a work chain.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Do you recall the other criterion?”

  I was silent.

  “It was,” she said, “that I must, personally, find them of some sexual

  interest.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Spread your knees,” she said.

  I did so.

  “Excellent, Brinlar,” she said, “indeed, excellent.”

  I did not speak.

  “How does it feel to be a free man, but one who is in the total power of a

  woman?” she asked.

  I shrugged. I did not really regard myself as being totally in her power.

  “Am I beautiful?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “But surely you men conjecture about such matters,” she said.

  “I would suppose you might be beautiful,” I said. “There seem the suggestions of

  the lineaments of a beautiful woman,

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  particularly as you have belted and arranged them, beneath your garments.”

  “I like pretty clothes,” she said, “and I wear them well.”

  “Doubtless you would be even more beautiful in the rag of a slave, or naked in a

  collar,” I said.

  “Bold fellow,” she said. But I could see she was pleased. All women are curious

  to know how beautiful they might be as slaves. This is because all of them, in

  their heart, are slaves.

  She regarded me for a time, not speaking. I knelt there, knees spread. She

  seemed in no hurry to disclose her will with respect to me. Her eyes roved me,

  glistening.

  “Are you not curious to know why you were brought to my tent?” she asked.

  “Mistress has not yet explained it to me,” I said. My heart began to race. I

  feared she would now announce to me that she knew my true identity, that she was

  going to put me to her pleasure, and rape me, and then turn me over, a woman’s

  catch, to the Sardar. It did not seem appropriate to me to attack her and

  perhaps kill her. She might be an agent of Priest-Kings. So, too, for all I

  knew, might be her men. I recalled the fellow in the booth, he in whom I had

  left his own knife, in the piazza at Port Kar.

  “But surely you can guess,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Spread your knees more widely,” she said, coldly.

  I did so.

  “No perhaps you can guess,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You seem relieved,” she said, puzzled.

  I shrugged. I was indeed relieved. She had again only been toying with me. It

  seemed clear to me now, as it had before, that she did not know who I was. The

  man in the booth, I recalled, had tried to kill me. Thus, if she had truly known

  my identity, she might, by now, have had me killed. That would have been easy

  enough to have done while I was drugged. Too, the nature of my capture did not

  suggest anything special about me. I had merely been one of fifteen brought into

  her chains.

  “There is something else,” she said.

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “I am interested in being assessed,” she said.

  “Assessed?” I asked.

  “Yes, objectively,” she said. “I have been curious about it for a long time.

  The richness of your garments in the piazza, the weight of your purse, suggests

  to me that you might have

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  experience in such matters, that you had the means to be intimately familiar

  with the doing in markets, and so on.”

  I was silent.

  “Let me remind you,” she said, “that it is you who kneel before me, with your

  knees spread like an imbonded girl!”

  “I understand,” I said.

  Her hand went to the pins at the left side of her veil.

  “I think you will find me extraordinarily beautiful,” she said, “perhaps even

  slave beautiful.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  She unpinned her veil at the left side, and let it fall, and brushed back the

  silken hood of her tent robe, shaking her head, freeing
a cascade of long, dark

  hair. She looked at me, amused. “I see that you find me beautiful,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She stood. “Are you familiar with the duties of a silk slave?” she asked. As she

  spoke, she began to casually disrobe.

  “I am a free man,” I said.

  “But you have some conception of their duties, do you not?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Such duties, and others,” she said, “will be yours.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  I caught my breath. She stepped from her robes, softly dropped, as though from a

  pool of silk at her feet.

  “Well?” she asked.

  She was stunningly beautiful. She would bring a high price. She then reclined,

  on cushions, and strewn silks. These were near the back of the small inner

  sanctum, near the white hangings forming its rear wall. She regarded me,

  amusement in her eyes. She leaned on one elbow.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “You are quite beautiful,” I said.

  “Do you think I would sell easily?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh?” she asked.

  “Your price would be much too high,” I said. “Most men would not be able to

  afford you.”

  “But if I were at a reasonable price,” she said.

  “Then, doubtless,” I said, “you would be snapped up immediately.”

  “You do regard me then,” she said, “objectively, as being quite beautiful?”

  “Yes,” I said.

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  “Even slave beautiful?” she asked.

  “Your beauty,” said I, “at least in its external lineaments might well be the

  envy of many slaves, and if it were to become itself a slave’s beauty, with the

  inward transformations bondage effects in a woman, it might, in time, in my

  opinion, attain at least the minimum standards of being slave beautiful.”

  “Then only a slave can be slave beautiful?” she asked.

  “I would not wish to make it a matter of meanings,” I said, “but, empirically,

  it does seem to be pretty much a matter of the condition, a function of its

  fulfillments, and such.”

  “Free women are more beautiful than slaves,” she said.

  “That is false,” I said. “Furthermore, every woman, in her heart, knows it is

  false. Any beauty a free woman has, for example, is enhanced a thousandfold when

  she becomes a slave.”

  “I hate slaves!” she said.

  “That is because you are not one of them,” I said. “You envy them.”

  “Beware,” she said. “I am a free woman!”

  “I know,” I said.

  “And you are totally in my power,” she said.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Approach me, on all fours,” she said. “Perhaps I will forgive you, if you are

  skillful.”

  I approached her.

  “You see me more closely now,” she said. “Have you assessed free women before?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Assess me,” she said.

  “As a free woman?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “That is what I am.”

  “You are an incredibly beautiful free woman,” I said.

  “Your body obviously agrees with you,” she said.

  “Indeed,” I admitted.

  “And free women,” she said, “are a thousand times more, above a mere slave.”

  “Yes,” I said. “There is no comparison. A free woman is inordinately precious.

  She is a thousand times, and more, above a mere slave.”

  “Your status here,” she said, “is that of a servant, a total servant, until I

  have you enslaved.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “I think it will be amusing to apply a free man to the duties of a silk slave.”

  “Doubtless,” I said.

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  “Indeed, I may dally somewhat, as it pleases me, or not, in the matter of your

  enslavement.”

  I said nothing.

  “And perhaps, if I find you quite good, after you are enslaved, with your

  fellows, I might not even sell you at the Fair of En-Kara. I might keep you—as a

  silk slave.”

  I did not speak.

  “You will touch me if, and only as, and exactly as, I direct,” she said. “I am

  total Mistress. I shall obtain considerable gratification from you, and you will

  obtain gratification, if any, only as it pleases me.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “To the silks, my brawny, helpless servant,” she said. She then put her small

  hands in my hair. She drew me to her. “Please me,” she said.

  I then began to address myself to her pleasures.

  I immersed myself in the exciting, intimate, marvelous, powerful odors of the

  aroused female.

  “Oh, Brinlar,” she gasped, suddenly, “you are an excellent servant!”

  I took her wrists in my hands and pulled them from my hair, and held them to her

  sides, meanwhile alternately forcibly and aggressively, and delicately and

  tenderly, continuing my service.

  Her wrists were helpless in my grip. She pressed herself piteously against me.

  She began to moan and squirm.

  Suddenly she said, “I am helpless! I am being held, helplessly!”

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” I said, unhanding her, as though my grip upon her might

  have been an inadvertence.

  She seized me again by the hair, drawing me closely to her.

  “Oh, Brinlar,” she whispered. “Yes, Brinlar! It is marvelous, Brinlar! Do not

  stop! Yes, Brinlar! Yes!”

  In such a; manner can one subdue a female, turning her into an object, totally

  helpless with pleasure.

  “Yes, Brinlar,” she whispered. “Yes! Yes!”

  I did not think it was necessary to remind her that I was not really according

  to her the polite courtesies and gentle dignities appropriate to the pleasures

  of the free woman, but was, in effect, of my own will, by my own decision,

  subjecting her to attentions more commonly reserved for the imbonded female, the

  woman who has no choice but to submit to a lengthy and authoritative ravishing,

  one which well teaches her the meaning of her collar, and what it is to be in

  the hands of a men, and as he wants her.

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  “Oh, Brinlar!” she whispered.

  Her responses were such that it was difficult to conjecture what her experiences

  might have been had she truly been a slave, and had she known herself helplessly

  in my power, and had she know that she must yield totally and without

  reservation in the last fiber of her very being.

  “Brinlar!” she cried, surging against me. “Yes, Brinlar!”

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Yanina!” she cried. “Lady Yanina!”

  “Of what city?”
I asked.

  “Brundisium!” she cried. “Brundisium!”

  page 95

  4 Flaminius

  “Drink, Mistress?” I asked.

  “yes, Brinlar,” she said. She lifted the veil delicately, almost flirtatiously,

  drinking behind it. She looked at the man across from her.

  “Drink, Master?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. I then withdrew a yard or two and knelt in the grass, holding the

  vessel of light Ka-la-na. I wore a tunic of white silk.

  She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, under the veil, and then let the veil fall

  again into place.

  “This is a pleasant spot,” she had said earlier. “Spread the cloth here,

  Brinlar, and lay out the things from the basket.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I had said.

  We could see the Sardar Mountains in the distance. I had been her servant for

  some three days. After the first night she had not commanded me to her intimate

  service. I think that first night had terribly unsettled her. She had apparently

  not understood that she could have such feelings. At times she had seemed almost

  taken out of herself. At times, clearly, she had responded uncontrollably,

  reflexively, at my mercy, almost as might have a slave. This sort of behavior

  was inappropriate in her, inexcusably so, she doubtless deemed, as she was a

  free woman. Roundly had I been scolded for my part in matters. Yet with mixed

  feelings, it was, I think, that she chastised me. I pretended, of course, to

  ignorance and innocence, and a perhaps overzealous desire to please. In any

  event she clearly now feared her feelings.

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  She had not dared to again order me to her pleasure. I think she was now afraid

  of herself in a man’s arms, and what she might become. Too, I think she clearly

  understood that what I had done to her might, as a matter of fact, have been

  done to her by almost any man.

  “He is coming now, Brinlar,” she had said earlier.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I had said, shading my eyes.

  A rider, mounted on a high tharlarion, flanked by two footmen, had been

  approaching.

  I had little doubt this had to do with her business in the vicinity of the

  Sardar.

  “I must make my identification,” said the fellow to her. “Lower your veil.”

  She unpinned the veil.

  “Lady Yanina,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. I gathered they knew one another.

 

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