Explorers of Gor coc-13

by John Norman

“Of course,” I said.

  “I may not be beautiful,” she said, “but I am delicate and lovely, am I not?”

  “Yes,” I said, “you are.”

  “Could you truly bring yourself to put me beneath your heavy and uncompromising will?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “You could, and you will, won’t you?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Could you whip me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It is a strange feeling, being a slave,” she said.

  “You will grow used to it, Slave Girl,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I went to her, behind her, standing there, before the mirror.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “A slave girl,” she said, “at the feet of her master.”

  I put my hand in her hair, and turned her head, from side to side. Then I stopped.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “A slave girl, at the feet of her master,” she said, “his hand in her hair, commanding her, making her do what he wishes.”

  I then, with my hand in her hair, turned her to the side and bent back her body, exposing, as she knelt there, helpless, the lovely slave bow of her beauty.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “A displayed slave,” she said. I did not release her. Suddenly she said, “No! Oh, no!”

  I waited for a full moment, holding her helplessly there, letting her see well whatever it might be that she saw. And then I released her. She knelt there, terrified, shuddering, before the mirror.

  “What did you see?” I asked.

  “It is hard to explain,” she said, shuddering. “Suddenly, for a fearful moment, I saw myself as incredibly beautiful, as beautiful as I might someday be, but the beauty was not the cool and formal beauty of a free woman, something I can understand, but the hot, sensuous, helpless beauty of an owned slave, and I was the slave! And, too, for a moment I thought I understood how such a woman might look to a man. It was so frightening! How we must fear that they might simply seize us and tear us to pieces in their lust! Then suddenly I understood the brand and collar, the whip, the chain! Of course they would brand us, marking us as their own. Of course they would put us in steel collars, which we could not remove! Of course they could chain us to their walls and slave rings! Of course they would use the whip unhesitantly upon us if we were in the least displeasing!”

  She knelt before the mirror, shuddering. “Perhaps now,” I said, “you understand, in some small particular, what it is for a woman to be attractive to a man.”

  “They want us,” she whispered, frightened, “literally.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They want to own us,” she said, “own us!”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I did not know such desire, such lust, could exist,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And I could be owned by such a man,” she said. Then she looked up at me, and then, suddenly, put down her head. “And I am owned by such a man,” she said, trembling.

  “And what do you feel of this?” I asked.

  “Nothing on my own world has prepared me for this, Master,” she said.

  “There is a stain of blood on your thigh,” I said.

  “My Master took my virginity,” she said.

  “You are now a red-silk girl,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, “I am now a red-silk girl.”

  “Whose red-silk girl?” I asked.

  “Your red-silk girl, Master,” she said.

  I walked back to the center of the room and turned, facing her. She knelt before the mirror.

  “Stand up,” I told her. She did so.

  “Turn and approach me,” I said. “But I am naked,” she said.

  “Do you wish for me to repeat a command?” I asked.

  She turned white. “No, Master,” she said. She then approached me, and stood quite closely before me. She had not been taught to stand this closely before me. She knew, instinctively, in the circumstances, where she would stand. This pleased me for it indicated, whether she knew it or not, that she was a natural slave. This distance, of course, was not cultural for her. She came from a culture which requires a significant distance, usually a yard or more, between male speakers and as much, or more, between speakers of the opposite sex. Yet she knew readily, or instinctively, or intuitively, or naturally, or somehow, that she should be, in these circumstances, standing as she was before me, at a distance where I might, if I wished, without inconvenience, simply take her in my arms.

  She looked up at me. “Master?” she asked.

  The Gorean slave girl, incidentally, will space herself from her master quite differently in different situations. For example, if she is somewhat farther away, it is easier for her to display herself in all her beauty; if she wishes to wheedle for his caress she may approach quite closely; if she is receiving instructions she may kneel a few feet away; if she is begging to serve his pleasure she may kneel at his feet, perhaps kissing them, and holding his ankles; obviously, too, a girl who fears she is to be disciplined will commonly hang back; sometimes, too, a girl will fear to approach too closely until the master, by an expression or small sign, indicates that she is not in obvious disfavor and may do so.

  I took the head of the blond-haired barbarian in my hands and looked at her. She lowered her eyes. How magnificent it is to own a woman! What can compare with it?

  I turned her head, from side to side. How exciting were the earrings, penetrating the soft flesh of her ear lobes. I looked at the tiny wires vanishing in the minute punctures and then emerging, looping her ears, as though in a slave bond, making them the mounting places from which, thus fastened upon her, by my will, dangled two golden rings, barbaric ornaments enhancing the beauty of a slave. I smiled to myself. On Earth I had thought little of earrings. Yet now, in the Gorean setting, how exquisite and exciting they suddenly seemed. Perhaps then, for the first time, I truly began to sense how the Gorean views such things. Surely these things are symbolic as well as beautiful. The girl’s lovely ears have been literally pierced; the penetrability of her sweet flesh is thus brazenly advertised upon her very body, a proclamation of her ready vulnerability, in incitement to male rapine. And when she wears the earrings, he can see the metal disappearing in the softness of her ear, literally fixed within it. Her flesh is doubly penetrated, her softness about the intruding metal, before his very eyes. The wire loop, too, or rod, when it emerges from the ear and, by one device or another, fastens the ring upon her, may suggest her bondage. Too, if the ring itself is closed, perhaps it suggests her susceptibility to the locked shackle, say, a wrist ring or slave bracelet; would there not, in the two rings, be one, so to speak, for each wrist? It is little wonder that Gorean free women never pierce their ears; it is little wonder that, in the beginning, it was only the lowest and most exciting of pleasure slaves who had their ears pierced; now, however, it is not uncommon on Gor for almost any pleasure slave to have her ears pierced; the custom of piercing the ears of a slave has now become relatively widespread: it has been done in Turia, of course, for generations. Too, of course, the ring is an obvious ornament. The girl placed in it has thus been ornamented. Ornamentation is not inappropriate in a slave. Lastly, the ring is beautiful. Thus it makes the slave more beautiful.

  I held her head still, and lifted it, that it might face me. She opened her eyes, looking up at me. “Master?” she asked.

  I looked down at her.

  “You are a legal slave,” I told her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “But what you do not yet know,” I said, “is that you are also a true slave, a natural slave.”

  “I come from a world,” she said, “where women are not slaves.”

  “Is that the world called ‘Earth’?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I have heard,” I said, “that o
n that world women are piteous slaves, only they lack masters.”

  “That lack,” she said, “in my case, on this world, will surely be made up.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I released her head and held her, then, by the upper arms.

  “I will obey you,” she said, softly. “I will do anything, and everything, that you might want.”

  “That is known to me,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, tossing her head, a bit irritably.

  “Would you like to be made more beautiful?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, lightly, “if it is my master’s wish.”

  I then released her, and she stood there.

  I went to the side of the room and picked up my sea bag. I threw it to the center of the room. She looked down at it, puzzled. It was of heavy blue material, canvas, and tied with a white rope.

  “Lie down upon it,” I told her, “on your back, your head to the floor.”

  She did so.

  “No, please,” she said, “not like this.” It is a common position for a disciplinary slave rape. In it the woman feels very vulnerable, very helpless.

  I then took her.

  “No,” she wept, in English, “have you no respect for my feelings? Am I nothing to you?”

  I stood up. I had, by intent, given her no time to respond, other than as a brutalized slave, no time to feel, other than as a girl unilaterally subjected to her master’s pleasure. She looked up at me, miserably.

  “Crawl now to the mirror,” I told her, “on your hands and knees, and regard yourself.”

  Miserable, she did so, her hair falling before her face, trembling, her sweet breasts pendant. She lifted her head, and gasped, looking in the mirror,

  “Do you see?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and then wept, her head down.

  “Lift your head again,” I said, “and again look.”

  She did so.

  “Do you see?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, weeping, “the slave is more beautiful than before.” She then put down her head again, crying.

  “Crawl now to the straw, by the slave ring,” I told her. “Lie down there, drawing your legs up.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I then went to her, with a blanket, and threw it over her, but not yet covering her head.

  She looked up at me, so vulnerable and delicate, so helpless and frightened. “I am more beautiful now,” she said. “But how? How could it be?”

  “It is the result of an inward change in you,” I said, “outwardly manifested in expression and bodily mien.”

  “But what?” she asked.

  “Speak your feelings,” I told her.

  “Never before,” she said, “did I feel so helplessly owned.”

  “That has something to do with it,” I told her.

  “You subjected me so casually, so forcibly, to your will,” she said.

  “That, too, has something to do with it,” I told her.

  “You are my Master, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You can do with me whatever you want, can’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And you will, won’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I love being owned,” she said, suddenly.

  “Of course,” I said, “you are a woman.”

  “If a woman loves being owned,” she said, “must she not be a natural slave?”

  “Answer your own question,” I told her. “You are the woman.”

  “I dare not answer it,” she whispered.

  “Do so,” I told her.

  “Yes,” she whispered, frightened, “she must be a natural slave.”

  “And you are a woman,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Draw your conclusion,” I told her, “out loud.”

  “I am a natural slave, Master,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She looked up at me. “Never, never did I think I would admit that in my life,” she said.

  “It takes great courage,” I told her.

  There were tears in her eyes.

  “But, as yet,” I said, “it is largely only an intellectual recognition on your part. It is not yet internalized, not yet a part of the totality of your being and responses.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Nonetheless, the intellectual recognition, abstract and superficial as it is, is a useful first step in the transformation of your consciousness, and the freeing of your deepest self, with her profundities of emotions and needs.”

  “My deepest self is feminine,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, “it is only your present consciousness which has been to some extent masculinized and, to a larger extent, neuterized. Beneath the patterns, the trainings, the roles, lies the woman. It is she whom we must seek. It is she whom we must free.”

  “I am afraid to be feminine,” she said.

  “You will be punished for femininity on this world,” I told her, “only by free women.”

  “Free!” she laughed, miserably.

  “They think themselves free,” I said

  “Could I dare to be a woman on this world?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I told her.

  “But what if I wish to crawl to a handsome man, and beg to obey him?” she asked.

  “On this world,” I told her, “you may do so.”

  “But would he not then, as a gentleman, scandalized, lift me hastily to my feet, embarrassed, implicitly belittling me, and encouraging me to the pursuit of masculine virtues?”

  “Would you fear that?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Is that why you would hesitate to crawl to a man?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “On this world, as a slave,” I said, “you need have no fear.”

  “What would he do on this world?” she asked.

  “Perhaps instruct you in the proper way to crawl to his feet,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “If you did not do so beautifully enough,” I said, “he might whip you.”

  “Whip me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  “Gorean men are not easy to please, Slave,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Masculinity and femininity are complementary properties,” I told her. “If a man wishes a woman to be more feminine, he must be more masculine. If a woman wishes a man to be more masculine, she must be more feminine.”

  “I am thinking of the far world from which I came, Master,” she said. “I think there may be a fearful corollary to what you have said. Perhaps if a man fears a woman he will want her to be more like a man, and if a woman fears a man she will want him to be more like a woman.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “It may depend on the individuals. I would not know.”

  “I am more beautiful now,” she said. “I saw it in the mirror.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I still do not understand, clearly,” she said, “how it could be.”

  “You were taught,” I said, “that you were owned, and that you were subject, totally, to the male will.”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “You had begun to learn just a little then, you see,” I said, “that you, a lovely woman, were truly under male domination.”

  “And that made me more beautiful?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How?” she asked.

  “By releasing, in response, more of your femininity,” I said.

  She looked up at me, frightened.

  “It is a natural thing,” I said. “As a woman becomes more feminine, she becomes more beautiful.”

  “I am afraid to be feminine, and beautiful,” she said.

  “As well you might be, on this world, as a sla
ve,” I said, “knowing what it will mean for you, how it will excite the lust of masters and make men mad to own you.”

  “No,” she said. “That is not it. It is rather that I fear that self. I fear it might be truly me.”

  “Have you never wondered,” I asked, “what it might be like, men with whips standing near you, to dance naked in the firelight, your feet striking in the sand, before warriors?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I have wondered about that.”

  “You see,” I said, “that self you fear is truly you.”

  “Give me a choice,” she begged.

  “You will be given no choice,” I told her. “Your femininity will be forced to grow, nurtured, if necessary, by the whip.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Yes, what?” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Master!” she protested, but I lifted the dark blanket and threw it over her head, so that she was completely covered. She could not then speak, or rise up, for the blanket was over her.

  I got to my feet. From the sea bag I drew forth the notes for fortunes, made out to Shaba, to be drawn on various of the banks of Schendi, and the false ring, that which he was supposed to carry to the Sardar in place of the true ring. For the notes I, as a putative agent of Kurii, was to receive the true ring, the Tahari ring, which I would then return to Port Kar, that Samos might arrange for its delivery to the Sardar. I did not think I would kill Shaba. If he should actually dare to deliver the false ring to the Sardar he would doubtless there fall into the power of the Priest-Kings. They would then deal with him as they saw fit. If he did not choose to deliver the false ring to the Sardar I might then, at a later date, hunt him down, to kill him. My first priority was surely to return the Tahari ring to Samos as swiftly and safely as possible.

  It was now near the eighteenth Ahn.

  “Master,” said Sasi. “I fear your eyes.”

  “I must leave now,” I told her.

  “I fear your eyes,” she said, “how you look at me. Will you return to us?”

  “I will try,” I told her.

  “I see by your eyes,” she said, “that you fear you will not return to us.”

  “It is a hard business on which I embark,” I told her. “In the sea bag,” I said, “are various things. The key to your collar is there, for example. Too, there are coins. They should, in the event that I do not return, or do not soon return, keep you and the barbarian alive for a long time.”