Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “This tunic is certainly very short,” said the first instructrix. She tugged a bit at the cut sides of the tunic, to draw it further down the thighs. Ellen stood very still. The first instructrix had little success.

  “You must be careful how you move, Ellen,” said the first instructrix.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

  Ellen was barefoot, as female slaves are often kept.

  “Is it not past the eighteenth Ahn?” asked the first instructrix, timidly.

  “I do not think so,” said the guard. “I have not heard the bar sound.”

  “You may kneel, Ellen.” said the first instructrix, “but do not disarrange yourself.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” said Ellen.

  She then knelt on the hall side of the door to the audience chamber, near the wall, and back a little, that she might not block the entrance. Several times she had been presented to her master in that chamber. But that had been before she had been made a work-slave, before she had been sent to the laundry.

  She knelt there in the shadowed half darkness, in the light of a pair of flickering wall lamps. She pulled against the bracelets that held her hands behind her back. She did not want to go back to the laundry.

  Surely anything would be better than going back to the laundry.

  Or that is what she thought at the time.

  I have informed the work-master, she thought, that I am ready to beg. How kind was the work-master! How grateful I am that this information has been brought to the attention of my master. Am I ready to beg? Surely I must beg, no matter how shameful, how demeaning, how revealing, this may prove to be! I pretended not to be willing to beg, and I was sent to the laundry. My master is so strong! He has conquered! I am now ready to beg!

  He must love me.

  He remembered me, he brought me to this world, he restored me to youth and beauty, for I know that I am beautiful, though perhaps not so beautiful as countless others; and he gave me a beautiful name; surely that means something; and he made me property, and he owns me, now literally owns me; surely then he must desire me, and want me, for his very own! He must then want me in the strongest, fiercest, most commanding, most complete, most possessive sense in which a man can want a woman, want me as his uncompromised property, his slave.

  And that is what I am, his slave.

  I love my master. I want to serve him, and please him, with my whole being, with my whole body, with my whole heart and soul. The master is the meaning of the slave’s life, and she rejoices in her collar, that she belongs to him. What an incredible privilege, what an incredible honor, to be the slave of such a man! What an incredible joy to be fulfilled by him, to be owned and mastered by him! How pallid by comparison are boring and meaningless lives; how tepid the quotidian familiarities of contractual partners, each taking the other for granted; how fragile the regimens of arguable legalities; how delicate the cobwebs of convention, sunderable upon a whim; how wearying the tiny testings and battles of implicit competitors, the specified, adjudicable relationships of explicit contractees, each suspicious of, and concerned to outdo, the other. I can understand, she thought, how the same woman might be one man’s wife and another’s conquered, mastered, loving slave. Let such husbands, such weaklings, cry out in misery, she thought, learning that their pampered, bored, spoiled, troublesome, nagging wife is another man’s kneeling licking, begging slave. Another, at the mere snapping of fingers or an imperious gesture, receives from she whom he has never taken the time or interest to truly know, she whom he has never questioned as to her depths and needs, she to whom he has never intimately and truly spoken, she whom he has never attempted to understand, but has insisted upon seeing only from a distance, through the distorting prisms of convention, frequent, delicious, loving, abject services, services of which he has feared even to dream.

  Let him, if he will, in defense of his failures and futility, denounce and castigate her, she whom he has never had the strength to own. Or, alternatively, let him buy a whip, put her to her knees and claim her.

  But here, on this world, thought Ellen, unlike such a woman, I am a slave not only by nature, and appropriately, but under explicit, recognized law. I can be legally bought and sold, and given away, and such. Here I am simple, categorical, uncontested property not merely in the secrecy of a chamber, hidden away from an ignorant, uncaring, complacent, insensitive world, but in the full daylight of the cultures of a planet. Here, on this world, my brand, my collar, my mode of being, are everywhere accepted, acknowledged, recognized and understood. On this world I am, in the full sense of the law, explicitly and perfectly, slave.

  It must be near the eighteenth Ahn, she thought. How can I conduct myself within?

  It seems that I must beg, and shamefully beg. It seems he must have that of me. For some reason it seems he must have me so humiliated, so reduced, so baring myself before him, as no more than a piteous, worthless begging slave. But he must know, aside from that, aside from the idle repetition of a formula, that I am fully, and only, a slave. Surely that cannot make me more a slave than I am. Surely no woman could be more a slave than I. But surely no slave wants to serve just any man. Surely I am not unique in that. Surely we are entitled to find some masters preferable to others. And even if, in some sense, we are not entitled to find some masters preferable to others, it is surely a fact, which we cannot help, that we would prefer some masters to others. One cannot help that. Surely the slave who must, to her misery, in fear of her very life, proffer perfectly the most delicious and intimate of services to the most hated of masters knows that. Why then must we beg thusly? But, perhaps, she thought, it is not that we would not choose our masters, were it in our power, but, alas, it is the masters who choose us. It is rather that they would have us beg contrary to our deepest wishes, thereby acknowledging their power over us. Or perhaps it is merely a way of them having us acknowledge our reality as sexual beings, that we, as women, want, desire and need sexual experience, in a pervasive, general, organic, biological manner. Or perhaps it is a test which, once passed, is done with, and we may then enter the arms of our beloved master as no more than a surrendered slave, nothing held back, a slave now confessed as needful in general but, in the specific case, blissful within the arms of a beloved master.

  The eighteenth bar then began to sound, ringing out its strokes.

  “On your feet, little kajira,” said the first instructrix.

  What does he want of me, wondered Ellen, wildly, struggling to her feet. Whatever he wants, I want to give him, but I do not know what he wants! Does he want me to again refuse to beg, and will he then, proud of me, I having then proven my worth before him, that I am still much like a free woman, keep me for himself, or does he want me to beg? If I do not beg, will I then be returned to the laundry, perhaps for ever, perhaps to be never again given a chance to please him? Or does he want me to beg, that he will then have evidence of his power over me, and that I explicitly acknowledge myself a worthless slave, or that in begging I will have acknowledged that I have sexual needs or is it that my begging is merely a test for my suitability to wear a neck-chain at his slave ring?

  The bar continued to ring.

  Ellen felt the comb, and then the brush, at her hair, and her hair was again, hurriedly, arranged about her shoulders. The cut hems of her tiny tunic were drawn down a little, but sprang back when the second instructrix released them. She felt her wrists drawn back, and together, in the bracelets. This, she suddenly realized, much as in placing the hands behind the back of the head or the back of the neck, accentuated her figure; and so, too, of course, might other things as well; she recalled the manner in which she had been instructed to carry the basket of laundry, particularly if two hands are used. The erect, graceful posture of the slave, too, as she commonly carries herself, as a dancer, has a similar effect.

  The bar continued to ring, the notes carrying throughout the house.

  “Are you a virgin?” asked the first instructrix.

 
“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

  The instructrix laughed.

  The expression the instructrix had used, if it were to be translated literally into English, was ‘white-silk’. The complementary expression is ‘red-silk’. These are expressions used, incidentally, only of slaves, not of free women. It would be a great insult to refer to a free woman as either “white-silk” or “red-silk.” That would be terribly vulgar. Duels might be fought about such things. Expressions more suitable to free women, in Gorean, are ‘glana’ and ‘metaglana’, or ‘profalarina’ and ‘falarina’. But even these latter expressions have Gorean connotations, reflecting the views of a natural world. In the first case, the condition of virginity is regarded as one to be superseded; and, in the second case, it is regarded merely as something which comes before something else, something of greater importance, as an antecedent phase or prologue, so to speak.

  “And your master has summoned you before him this night!” she laughed.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

  “And you are out of the iron belt!”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen, apprehensively.

  “Do not be surprised, little virgin,” she laughed, “if you are red-silked this night!”

  The other instructrix laughed, as well.

  Ellen regarded them, despite herself, reproachfully, offended, shocked, scandalized.

  Her expression much amused them.

  “See the little barbarian!” laughed the first instructrix.

  “Do you think you are a free woman?” laughed the second. “You are not! You are a little she-urt, a little she-tarsk!”

  “Yes!” said the first.

  Ellen looked down, angrily.

  Ellen’s virginity was important to her. She had thought to award it, if ever, only in some lovely and romantic context of her own choosing. But now she realized that it, as she, belonged to a master. She was now an animal, a domestic animal. Her virginity, accordingly, was of no more interest or importance to society, or an owner, than would be that of a pig.

  She struggled futilely in the bracelets.

  The last stroke of the bar rang out, and the eighteenth Ahn had been announced in the house.

  The guard took her by the left, upper arm, and, opening the door to the audience chamber with his left hand, drew her within.

  Chapter 15

  SHE BEGS;

  What Occurred After She Begged

  Ellen was drawn forward a bit, into the room.

  Then the guard released her arm, and stepped back.

  The room seemed much as before, except that now there was a long, narrow red carpet leading toward the curule chair.

  Ellen gasped, and trembled, seeing her master. She stood still, and fought to keep her breath, and to control herself. Her legs felt weak. She feared she might fall. It was he who held all power over her. It was he who owned her.

  “The slave, Ellen,” said the guard, from behind her. The instructrices had not entered the room. She did not know if they were waiting outside or not. She supposed they had returned to their cells.

  Ellen’s master, Mirus, had apparently been reading a scroll. One portion of the roll was in his left hand, and the other in his right. There were two lamps behind the curule chair, one on each side. To the left of the curule chair was a small table, on which there was a decanter of colored glass. Beside it there was a small glass, also colored, matching the decanter. On the table there was also a whip. The whip, like the chain, is a symbol of the mastery.

  Mirus indicated that the slave might approach.

  Ellen walked down the long rug, approaching the chair. She walked as a slave. She bit her lip. She saw a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth. But she did not change her walk. She was a slave.

  “Stop,” he said.

  She was a few feet before the dais.

  “Remain standing,” he said. Commonly, when a girl is told to stop, she kneels. That is common when the slave is before a free person.

  “Turn, slowly, before me,” he said.

  She turned, slowly, before him.

  She was in a slave tunic, and her wrists were braceleted behind her. She had been scrubbed, brushed, and combed. She had been perfumed, a slave perfume, of course, one appropriate for her.

  “Again,” he said.

  Again the slave turned, slowly.

  Men, she did not doubt, enjoyed seeing a woman display herself before them, particularly when commanded to do so, and in a particular fashion. Masters are lustful, appraising brutes, and slaves must hope to be found pleasing. Too, she did not doubt but what men enjoyed seeing a woman’s hands braceleted behind her. This bespoke the woman’s helplessness, and how at their mercy she was. Such things appeal well to natural glories, their sense of power and pleasure. And it would be superficial, of course, to overlook the effect of such impediments upon the woman herself, how they, like lipstick or eye shadow, accentuate the dichotomies of nature, call attention to the disparities of a radical sexual dimorphism, and deliciously enforce upon her an almost overwhelmingly welcome sense of her own sex, its desirability, beauty and weakness. It is little wonder that women welcome bonds on their body, collars, tunics, camisks, and such. In them they feel most man’s, and thus most woman. Such things heat their thighs and ready them for the embrace of masters.

  This is what they want, to be so desired that they will be made a man’s slave.

  Ellen knew she had a sweet figure, and lovely legs. And the tunic, in its brevity, did little to conceal her charms. Too, she knew, she had a lovely, sensitive, expressive face.

  Too, she supposed she was intelligent.

  Certainly she hoped so.

  Gorean men, she had learned, prized intelligence in women. Such women they valued most on their knees before them. There is nothing hard to understand in that. Such women tend to be reflective and introspective, and tend thus to be in closer touch with their needs, desires and emotions than simpler women. They are commonly much aware of their slave, and long for her liberation. Thus, much of the master’s work has already been done, even before they are ankleted and brought to Gor. No wonder they learn the collar quickly. In their dreams they have often worn it. In such women refractoriness is short-lived, particularly as they learn it is not permitted, which is, of course, what they desire. Too, such women are usually lovely and, given the complexity and sophistication of their nervous systems, are easily ignitable, and can shortly be made the prisoners of their passions. It is little wonder then that intelligent women are sought for the collar, and bring good prices in the market. Too, they on their tethers and such, one can talk with them.

  I am acceptable as a slave, surely, she thought.

  In some respects, at least.

  Certainly that had seemed the assessment of the guards.

  She hoped Mirus was pleased with her.

  “Approach,” he said.

  Before the dais, before the chair, she knelt and put her head down to the rug, in obeisance. This lifted her braceleted hands high behind her.

  She did not doubt but what this sight, her obeisance, and that of her wrists braceleted high behind her as she knelt, had its effect upon her master, Mirus. Indeed, she did not doubt but what the sight of a woman’s braceleted wrists, either behind her or before her, had its effect on men. She wondered, however, if men realized the effect of her braceleting on the woman herself, its feel and look, how it made her feel helpless, and female, and slave, and desired and beautiful, and ready, and needful. Sometimes the mere thonging or braceleting of a woman, even one hitherto reluctant or inert, is all that is required to release and ignite her slave.

  But perhaps men know this, she thought, at least the men of this world, of Gor.

  “You are perfumed,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  Surely he had specified that.

  She kept her head down to the carpet.

  “An excellent scent,” he said, “for a slut.”

  “Yes
, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

  He had doubtless specified the scent, as well. She thought it was a beautiful perfume, but here, on Gor, she had no doubt but what it was common and cheap. It was a slave perfume, as she had been informed, and it was doubtless not an expensive one, but one which might be accorded to low slaves.

  Still she had the sense that on her old world it might have been costly.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said, keeping her head down.

  The guard had followed her, staying a step or two behind her.

  “Whip,” said Mirus, taking the implement from the small table to his right.

  The slave then rose gracefully to her feet, ascended the dais, and knelt before the chair. There, her hands pinioned behind her, she licked and kissed the whip for several seconds.

  Her master then put the whip to the side again, on the small table, and indicated that she might withdraw. She backed down the stairs and then knelt again before the dais, as she had before, in obeisance.

  “You are pretty in slave bracelets, Ellen,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “You wear them well,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “You wear them as though you might have been a born slave.”

  She was silent.

  “But you are a born slave, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “I am a born slave.”

  “Now properly embonded?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Remove her bracelets,” he said to the guard.

  “Kneel up,” said the guard.

  Ellen went to first position, as nearly as she could, braceleted, the cloth of the cut tunic falling between her widely spread thighs. The guard freed the key from her collar and, crouching behind her, removed the bracelets. As soon as the bracelets were removed Ellen, unbidden, went to first obeisance position, head down to the rug, the palms of her hands now on the rug, on either side of her head. She heard the guard replace the bracelets, and, presumably, the key, in his pouch. She supposed that he must have received some signal from her master to do this. The guard then withdrew, apparently having received some signal to do this from her master. She knelt in first obeisance position, excited, apprehensive, thrilled, alone with her master.