Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “He is strong, and handsome, my master,” she said. “I am so happy! I have always wanted to be so beautiful, so desirable, that men would find me beautiful enough and desirable enough to take me and enslave me! And now it has been done! I have always wanted to be owned, to belong to a man, to be completely subject to him. I have always wanted to belong to a man strong enough to dominate and master me. I have always wanted to belong to a man who will require of me, casually and without a second thought, the fullness of my womanhood. I have always wanted to serve and love — fully, will-lessly, selflessly. And now I belong to a man whom I shall so serve and love, one who will have everything from me, which is what I long to give. I am happy, happy!”

  “I am happy for you,” said Ellen.

  Melanie threw Ellen a kiss in the Gorean fashion, brushing it to her with her hand.

  Ellen returned the kiss, similarly.

  The slaves could not reach one another, for their chaining.

  “Hold still,” Ellen heard.

  Ellen stiffened. She was kneeling. She could not see behind her, and dared not turn.

  “Hood the slut,” she heard.

  A leather slave hood was thrust over her head and pulled downward. In moments it was buckled tightly about her neck. She then heard a lock snap behind her neck, through the buckle rings. It was then on her. She could not remove it. The hood was opaque. It is an efficient control device. In it she would be disoriented and helpless. She lifted her right hand and touched the ring on the front of the device, to which a leash might be attached.

  The manacle on her left wrist was unlocked. It dropped to one side. She had remained on her knees, of course. She had neither been given permission to rise, nor had she been ordered to do so. Someone crouched down behind her. She spread her knees, thinking it best to do so, without having been ordered to do so. Too, it was appropriate. Men had left her in no doubt as to the sort of slave she was. Too, she did not know if Selius Arconious was in the vicinity. He was her master, and she knew that he would be strict with her. He was not the sort of man who would permit a slave even the smallest of laxities. Too, though she tried to brush away the thought, she had a sudden sense that she wanted to spread her knees before him, perhaps even supplicatingly. She excused herself on this count, with the recognition that Selius Arconious was the sort of man before whom women naturally felt an impulse to kneel, and spread-kneed. She felt her wrists drawn together. Then they were tied behind her back, it seemed with some loops of a leather string. It was more than sufficient to hold a female slave. Whoever it was was then before her, standing one supposes. She felt something snap about the ring on the front of the hood. Briefly a leather strap brushed her right breast.

  “On your feet, slave girl,” said a voice.

  She rose. It was not the voice of Selius Arconious.

  Then, guided by a pressure at the ring on the front of the hood’s neck strap, she followed, as she must, as helpless as a tethered verr.

  She must have followed for several hundred yards, stripped, bound, hooded, leashed. She conjectured she was then in the outer reaches of the camp, or perhaps beyond them, for she felt grass beneath her feet.

  Then she was told to kneel, head down, and she did so.

  “Are you obedient and docile?” she was asked. The voice was the same as that of the man who had ordered her to her feet, presumably he who had also led her to this place.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. And it was true. The battles, the wars, were done. And she was pleased that it was so. The superficialities of the conventions were at an end. The pretenses were over. On this world men ruled, or at least ruled such as she. They would tolerate no affronts to nature. Here they had refused to relinquish their rightful, natural sovereignty. Here they were hardy, virile masters. It was so, it was incontestable. Ellen, head down, was content.

  “May I speak?” asked Ellen.

  There was no answer, so she remained silent. She did not know if she were alone or not.

  It was hot in the hood, stifling. Her small hands twisted behind her, in their bonds. She could feel the leash dangling between her breasts.

  After a time she heard a man approach. She looked up in the hood, struggling a little.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “It is pleasant to hear that suitable, appropriate word on your tongue, kajira, particularly as addressed to me,” said a man’s voice.

  Ellen sobbed with relief, then fear.

  It was the voice of Selius Arconious.

  “May I speak, Master?” she asked.

  “It is suitable that you should ask permission to speak,” he said. “It is good that you have learned at least that much. And, as I recall, you remembered to ask permission to speak on the block. But apparently you did not remember to wait until you had received that permission before you dared to speak. Had you also remembered that you might have saved yourself a cuffing.”

  Ellen was silent.

  “You are a stupid slave,” he said.

  Ellen was silent.

  “Yes, you may speak,” he said.

  “Portus Canio and Fel Doron are in this camp, in chains,” said Ellen, hastily, fearing to be interrupted, the words spilling out. “They were on some obscure mission northward. They were betrayed by Tersius Major. It seems he is in the service of Cos. Beware of Tersius Major! Portus Canio and Fel Doron are even now awaiting transportation to Cos or Tyros, perhaps to the quarries!”

  “Do not concern yourself about such things, slave girl,” said Selius Arconious.

  “Portus Canio and Fel Doron are your friends!” said Ellen.

  “I attempted to dissuade them,” said Selius Arconious. “But, nonetheless, they have inadvertently played their role in such things.”

  “I do not understand,” said Ellen.

  “Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” said Selius Arconious.

  “What brought you to this camp?” asked Ellen.

  “An impulse to travel,” said Selius Arconious.

  “Please untie me, Master,” Ellen begged. She pulled a little against the loops of narrow leather which held her wrists behind her.

  “No,” he said.

  “Please, then,” she said. “Remove, at least, my hood!”

  “No,” he said.

  “I beg it, Master,” said Ellen.

  “No,” he said.

  “Did you come to seek me out? To buy a slave?”

  “Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” he said.

  Her heart leapt. Could he care for her? She was in torment, confused as to her feelings for him, who now owned her.

  “It is a long way from Ar,” she said. “We are far from Ar!”

  “Do you wish to have your bonds and hood removed?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “Remain in them,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Master.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You bought me.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Surely for some purpose.”

  “Or purposes,” he said.

  “Why did you buy me?”

  “Are you so stupid as not to know?” he asked.

  “Please, Master!”

  “Perhaps I thought you would look well under my whip.”

  “Do you not hold me in contempt, do you not hate me?”

  “No,” he said. “You are beneath contempt.”

  “Oh,” said Ellen.

  “And why,” he asked, “should one hate a pretty, curvaceous little piece of slave meat one owns? There would be no point in it.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “And what are your feelings, slave girl?” he asked.

  “My feelings do not matter, Master,” said Ellen.

  “True,” he said, quietly.

  “I will do my best to serve my master well,” said Ellen.

  “I am sure of it,” he said. And he laughed, and the laugh made Ellen’s blood run cold.

/>   “How could you afford me?” asked Ellen.

  “I think you will soon know,” said Selius Arconious. “Indeed, I suspect, within hours, the entire camp will know.”

  “I do not understand,” said Ellen.

  “It will not be wise to remain long in the camp,” said Selius Arconious, “but, unfortunately, there is no help for it. If all goes well, we should be able to leave in a few Ahn, hopefully in the early morning.”

  “Yes Master,” said Ellen. She understood nothing of what was going on. But then it is not uncommon for masters to keep their slaves in ignorance.

  “Master,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Thank you for buying my whip strokes from the scribe, at the dancing circle,” said Ellen. “Otherwise I fear I would have been whipped.”

  “You should be whipped,” he said.

  Ellen was silent.

  “Before a woman is sold, it is common to starve her of sex,” said Selius Arconious.

  “Perhaps, Master,” said Ellen.

  “Was that done with you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” whispered Ellen.

  “I thought so,” he said.

  Ellen put her head down, in the hood.

  “Then your sexual needs have been long left unsatisfied,” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” said Ellen. She lifted her head to her master, pathetically, blindly in the hood.

  The thought crossed her mind that the sexual needs of her sisters on Earth, in their countless thousands, in their millions, in the loneliness of their empty, sterile freedoms, were similarly, commonly left unsatisfied. How much tragedy there was on that barren world! Did the women there not understand the meaning of their anxieties, their depressions, their displacements, their projections, their confusions, their sense of futility, their anomie, their emotional starvation, their sense of loss, of estrangement, of lack of connection, of unreality? The arms of ideology are cold and ultimately unsatisfying. There were women on that world who did not even understand the meaning of their misery and who found themselves forbidden to search for it in the most obvious place, in the denial of nature, in the frustration and starvation of their most basic personal needs. The natural human female, Ellen supposed, is not a social artifact, despite what she had been taught to mindlessly repeat, not a construct of social engineers who neither understand her nor care for her, creatures interested ultimately only in their own power and influence; she is not, ideally, a twisted, inadequate, unnatural, pathetic, neurotic replica of a different sex; she is rather herself, a creature of nature, needful and beautiful, in her way unique, precious and glorious; are the codes of nature so hard to read? Are these things truly such perilous secrets? Why should they be so dangerous to recognize and enunciate? Why should it be so dangerous to even speak of them? Why should conformity be enforced with such relentless hysteria? Why should careers be destroyed, appointments be denied, positions lost, for lack of orthodoxy? Who could these truths frighten, only those who can profit from their concealment. Not since the insane asylum of the Middle Ages has sexuality been so feared and deplored. There were women on Earth, Ellen understood, who, literally, had never experienced an orgasm. And there were countless millions, as the statistics would have it, who lived in a veritable sexual wasteland, in a parched, lonely erotic wilderness.

  But Ellen was not on Earth any longer.

  She was a slave on Gor, and her sexual needs, as those of other slaves, had been, whether she willed it or not, uncovered, displayed and ignited. In her belly the slave fires had been lit and now, irremediably, with an insistent, frequent periodicity, powerfully, irresistibly, they emerged, squirmed, and cried out piteously for their satisfaction.

  It is hard to be a female slave on Gor. One is so much at the mercy of men. They will have it so.

  Ellen moaned.

  “Would you care to receive sexual relief?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” said Ellen.

  “Are you prepared to beg to be caressed?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” whispered Ellen, softly.

  “Then do so,” he said.

  “I beg to be caressed, Master,” whispered Ellen.

  “Speak up, so I can hear you,” he said.

  “I beg to be caressed, Master,” said Ellen, clearly, her voice breaking, tears forming in her eyes, running down her cheeks, inside the hood.

  “Surely you can do better than that,” he said.

  “Ellen, the slave, your slave, Master, begs to be caressed by her master, Selius Arconious, of Ar,” said Ellen.

  “Do women of your world often beg to be caressed?” asked Selius Arconious.

  “Doubtless, if they are slaves, Master,” said Ellen.

  “I have other matters to attend to,” he said.

  “Master?” moaned Ellen.

  “In the meantime,” he said, “I will see to it that you are well-warmed.”

  “Master?” asked Ellen.

  She felt his hand take the leash at her neck, and she felt it tossed back, between her legs.

  “No,” she said, suddenly frightened. “Please, no!”

  The leash was then pulled down, tightly, from the leash ring.

  “Please, no!” she wept.

  “Ai!” she cried.

  The leash had been pulled up behind her, forcibly, fiercely, tightly, snugly. One hand had kept her on her knees.

  “Please, no!” she sobbed.

  And it was then tied closely, securely, to her bound wrists.

  “No, Master, please, no, Master! Please have mercy, Master!”

  But he had none, as she knew he would not.

  This is sometimes used as a leading tie.

  She was then thrust down on the grass, on her stomach, and her legs were pulled up behind her, the ankles crossed. In a moment, her legs bent up closely behind her, her ankles were lashed together. He then bound her ankles to her wrists. In this way she was not only helpless even to try to rise, but any movements of her bound ankles would exert pressure on her bound wrists, which would, in turn, exert pressure on the leash strap, which was attached to her wrists. Thus, in short, the leash ran from the ring at the front of her neck, the ring on the hood straps, down, tightly between her breasts, tightly between her legs, and tightly up to her crossed, bound wrists. But her wrists were also attached to her crossed, bound ankles, and thus, with respect to her ankles, she was limited to two options, first, to try to keep her ankles close to her body, which was uncomfortable, and did nothing to relieve the warm, creasing, implacable stress of the leash between her legs, or, second, to try to move her ankles a bit away from her body, to relieve the pressure on her bent, aching legs, which, in turn, in virtue of the ankles’ attachment to the wrists, would produce a further warm, stirring, arousing, sawing, excitatory motion of the leash. So, as she moved, or squirmed, or sought some comfort, or respite, for her bent, bound legs, held so closely to her body, the leash would move as well, tautly, effectively, doing more of its work.

  “Master!” called Ellen. “Master!” But there was no response. He had doubtless left the area. She turned to her side, and tried not to move.

  Then suddenly she began to writhe, and thrash about, weeping. What a helpless, pathetic slave she was! I hate him, she thought. I hate Selius Arconious! I hate him! I hate him! Then she cried aloud, in the hood, “Oh, please, Master, have mercy on me! Come back! Hold me! Touch me! Help me! I will obey well! I will be a good slave! Fulfill me! Give me my slave’s release! I beg it! I am your slave! Be kind to your slave! Be ruthless if you will! I care not! Put me to slave service! Use me! I beg use! I beg use! Master! I beg use, Master!”

  She heard a man laugh, passing by, amused at the discomfiture of the squirming slave.

  I hate Selius Arconious, she thought. He has made me a spectacle! He has made me a laughing stock! How sweet his vengeance must be! Why cannot I be as I was on Earth, frigid and cold! But men have done this to me! They have made me a slave! Now I am naught but an aroused, pas
sionate slave!

  I hate men, she thought. I hate them! I hate them!

  But then she thought of the house of Mirus, long ago. Clearly she was now ready to beg to serve a man, any man!

  You monsters, she thought. You monsters! You magnificent monsters! You know well, do you not, you monsters, that this slave girl is yours!

  And thus she thrashed about, weeping and bound.

  Ellen for a time could do little but squirm in misery, tethered helplessly, hand and foot. Then, mercifully, she slept, but dreamed of herself as a bound slave girl. Then, after a time, she was not sure how long, she awakened, finding herself a bound slave girl, to the sounds of excited voices. “Oh!” she cried, softly, squirming tearfully, finding the leash still persistently, mercilessly, active upon her. Then, pressing her heels as closely as she could to her body, to try to relieve a bit of the stress of the leash, she listened to the voices.

  “The pay for the garrison at Ar has been purloined!” she heard.

  “It cannot be,” cried a man. “No alarms have been sounded! There has been no attack on us!”

  All of this made little sense to Ellen, for she had supposed that the confiscated, gathered wealth of a dozen cities, and hundreds of smaller communities, destined for the troops of Cos and Tyros, and the regiments of mercenaries in Ar abetting their occupation, was in this very camp, that because of the numerous guards, the tharlarion, the war tarns. She suspected that Portus Canio and Fel Doron had been under this impression as well. Indeed, she suspected, though it was scarcely a matter of which slaves might speak, that Portus Canio and Fel Doron, and, supposedly, Tersius Major, had planned to strike at this treasure, in order to weaken and worsen the occupation in Ar, to outrage the garrison posted there, to outrage both the mercenaries and regulars, and perhaps even sow discord amongst them.

  “It was not here,” she heard. “That was a ruse, it seems, a hoax, to draw bandits fruitlessly to our tents, where they might be discovered and snared, while in the subtlety of Cos the gold made its way safely, elsewise, to the coffers of Myron, polemarkos at Ar.”

  “It seems the plan was penetrated, said a man, excitedly.

  “Perhaps all routes were watched, the skies scrutinized,” speculated a man.