Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “What force could seize the gold of Cos?” asked a man, incredulously.

  “What force would dare?” asked another.

  “The garrison at Ar is large,” said a man. “Much gold would it take to weight their purses!”

  “Thousands of gold pieces,” said a man. “Many fresh from the mints of Jad!”

  “When did this occur?” asked another.

  “Some days ago,” said a man. “But only now the news reaches us.”

  “In the sales last night,” said a man suddenly, “a fellow, a drayman or tarnster I think, gave five gold pieces for a slave!”

  “Where would such a fellow obtain such wealth?” asked a man.

  “Who knows?” said another.

  “Doubtless he is even now being sought,” said a man.

  “Doubtless,” said another. And then the voices left the vicinity. Ellen also heard the creak of wagon wheels, and various sounds about her, as of the breaking of a camp, or parts of it.

  Far off it seemed she did hear alarm bars sounding, which must have had their source in Brundisium.

  Ellen lay quietly, in consternation, not daring to move. In the hood she did not know what time it was. She did not know how long she had slept. The grass on which she lay had been pressed down by her body. It had not been damp with dew when she had first knelt upon it. She moved her small, bound wrists pathetically, helplessly. “Oh!” she said, inadvertently, for she had moved. Why has he tied me like this, she asked herself, but dared not move, lest the answer be made even more clear to her.

  It was a simple arousal tie, the sort of tie which well reminds a woman she is a slave. To be sure, it was perhaps a bit more severe, or cruel, than was necessary, and scarcely one in which one would be likely to place a beloved slave. But we must remember that the feelings of Selius Arconious toward his recent purchase were rather ambivalent. It is a tie, incidentally, not unfamiliar to slavers, particularly with captured free women, whom they are endeavoring to begin to acquaint with what is to be the nature of their new life, that of a sexual creature, that of a man’s plaything and chattel.

  But bonds, in general, are sexually arousing to a woman, as they speak to her of her vulnerability and helplessness, and of her subjection to the power of men. Simply leaving a woman alone, bound, perhaps for the time put out of one’s mind, say, neglected or forgotten, is sexually charging for her. And there are hundreds of passion ties. The numerous psychological dimensions of sexuality, well understood by, and well exploited by, Gorean masters, enhance a thousand times the sexual experiences of their chattels. The human female is an incredibly rich, lovely complexus of mind, body and emotions, and her sexual life is a rich one, limited not to a handful of Ahn, now and then, but one which can enrich and inform her entire existence. Indeed, the very condition of bondage itself, and what it means to a female, enflames her in a thousand ways.

  She belongs, as she wishes, to a master.

  He has accepted her.

  She is grateful.

  She will serve him with devotion and zeal.

  She will hope he will attend to her needs, of various sorts, as to the needs of any animal he might own.

  ****

  Perhaps a word might be said pertaining to the collar.

  The slave girl is an animal.

  And are not animals suitably collared?

  And so then, might not the slave girl, who is an animal, be suitably collared?

  Certainly.

  Then it is done.

  Behold, the collar is on her neck!

  The value of the collar extends far beyond the mere marking of its occupant as slave, and, usually, the identifying of her master. Such features are obvious, and require little attention.

  It is locked, of course, and that, as you might well suppose, is meaningful.

  She cannot remove her collar.

  Would you not find that meaningful?

  I do.

  Similarly certain other aspects of the collar would seem so obvious as to require no lengthy explication, such as its various aesthetic and psychological features, which have an impact on both the wearer and he beneath whose scrutiny she falls. The collar is a beautiful ornament, of course, and muchly enhances the loveliness of she who must wear it. Consider the zest and attention devoted by the women of Earth to lovely throat-encircling enhancements, beads, bands, chains, and such, with which to bedeck themselves. I have often thought, incidentally, that a Gorean slave collar might be prized as an ornament on Earth. One supposes it would be expensive there, which seems amusing, given its commonness on Gor. Too, doubtless it would have to be called something else. I wonder if a woman of Earth would understand its meaning. I suspect that she might experience strange sensations when she put it about her neck, and heard it close. Surely, fearfully, she would wish to keep the key close at hand. But what if the giver chose to put it on her and retain the key? But I suspect that any woman, even a free woman, of Earth, who wore such a thing would be suddenly aware, this perhaps frightening her, of the slave within her. Too, at home, after, say, her attendance at a dinner or cocktail party, or such, she might remove the device in fear, recalling how men had, perhaps for the first time in her life, at least in that particular way, in so unsettling and predatory a way, looked upon her, and approached her, and had circled about her, as might have ravening wolves about a young and vulnerable hind. She might then dare to wear it only naked, before her mirror, or stripped, in bed, weeping. But perhaps she would one day see her master and put on the device and approach him, and kneel before him, handing him the key. “I give you the key to my collar, Master. I would be your slave. It is my hope that you might find me acceptable.” Gorean free women, incidentally, will seldom encircle their throats with jewelry of any sort, even in the privacy of their quarters, I suspect, as such things in their culture, speak to them of bondage. Slavers have often commented on the fondness of the women of Earth for throat encirclements, necklaces, and such, particularly for those which require a fastening and cannot be lifted away, over the head. They seem to take this as significant. Perhaps it is. I do not know. Certainly there is beauty there and an analogy to the collar of a slave. The throat is, of course, the ideal mounting point for an insignia of bondage, as it is both secure and prominent. The psychological aspects involved in these matters have been hinted at. I think we need not elaborate on them, as they seem reasonably clear.

  Let us now turn, as we originally intended, to matters which are interesting, at least in my view, but, I fear, which may be less obvious than those with which we have hitherto dealt.

  It is my hope that some attention to these cultural matters may be found illuminating, and add, in their way, to your deeper understanding of this narrative, and, certainly, of the Gorean culture.

  It may be a culture quite different from that with which you are likely to be familiar. Yet, I am sure it has affinities with your culture, and, in an obscure way, perhaps biologically, it may lie ingredient within your own. It is, in any event, a human culture, and thus it cannot be utterly alien to you.

  In a collar, and I hope this will not be surprising, a woman may find clarity and comfort, and her meaning and redemption. I wonder if that is hard to understand. I hope not.

  As these matters are complex and subtle I will mention no more than a tiny corner of the concealed fabric, of the vast hidden tapestry into which are woven so many persistent, whispering truths.

  In the collar she has a precisely defined cultural reality. Perhaps for the first time in her life she is something perfectly comprehensible and actual, something specific and unambiguous. It gives her an exact identity, and an articulated, and clearly understood, position in society, a society in which she finds herself, whether she wishes it or not, a familiar, prized and beautiful ingredient. Men follow her about, in her errands and peregrinations, and look upon her, and admire and value her, and speculate upon her lineaments and the coins that might bring them to their slave ring. She is scorned and celebrated, the victi
m of ropes and the subject of songs, the lowliest of beasts and the most desiderated of possessions. She is a slave. For her, now, at last, all ambiguities, uncertainties, confusions, pretensions, hypocrisies, vyings, and such, the banes of a free woman’s existence, are at an end. She is slave.

  In it she knows she has been found attractive, and is desired. She is wanted. A man has seen fit to put her in his collar.

  In this she is reassured indisputably of her femininity.

  She knows now what she is, and what she must do, and what she must be.

  And at the feet of a man, as his slave, she is fulfilled in her womanhood.

  She receives the guidance, domination, nurturance, discipline and mastering for which she yearns, which she needs, and for which she has been bred.

  She is now where she belongs, at a master’s feet, and is obedient, and humbly content.

  Perhaps one might also note something further, but hope, as well, that this further observation will not be found disturbing, or disconcerting, to free women, might these recollections and reflections, however unlikely, come somehow someday within their ken, that of creatures so noble and refined, so lofty, so exalted and esteemed, so beyond one such as I, a slave, creatures who have never stood naked upon a slave block, hearing bids being taken on them, who have never worn a chain at a man’s feet.

  The collar has this cast or aura, too, one always recognized, but seldom expressed, perhaps because it is too obvious.

  The collar states that its wearer is, and must be, a sexual creature.

  The frigidities and inertnesses, the prides and loftinesses, of the free woman are not permitted to her.

  The woman in a collar cannot deny her sexuality. It is proclaimed of her as obviously, as visibly, as the prominence of the band encircling her throat.

  Why do you think women are enslaved?

  The collar cries aloud of female sexuality.

  Any woman in a collar understands that she is viewed as a sexual creature.

  Pretenses, games, are at an end.

  Surely women understand for what they are captured, or purchased.

  Please do not be offended.

  I must speak the truth.

  Why do you think men enslave women? One supposes there are many reasons but it seems clear that not the least amongst them is the desire to keep them for the pleasure they can provide.

  The collar states clearly that its occupant is sexual, that she is a sexual creature, and of sexual interest. Women without sexual interest are seldom collared. Of sexuality the collar cries aloud. “This woman has been found desirable; men want her; men will have her.”

  The female slave is openly acknowledged as a sexual creature. She must be such. She is given no other choice.

  So do not forget this meaning of the collar.

  The female slave is not permitted to forget it, nor does she wish to forget it. She loves it. She can be, at last, freely, openly, honestly, the sexual creature she has always desired to be.

  “Caress me, Master, I beg it.”

  ****

  Surely, she thought, Selius Arconious knows something of these things! And he paid five pieces of gold, of gold, for me! Perhaps he had a hundred, and they were no more than tarsk-bits to him! What then does that make me worth? Must I not now reassess myself? Am I not again no more than a cheap, meaningless slave! How he has insulted me, buying me with what to him is no more than trash or sand! So that is what he thinks of me! But perhaps he knows nothing of the Cosian gold? Perhaps he stole the gold elsewhere, perhaps he gambled with unusual success, perhaps he found loot discarded by alarmed, fleeing brigands? In any event she knew she was his, as a dog, a pig, a tarsk, or a verr, or a slave belongs to a man.

  It was a little later when she smelled the smoke of cooking fires, so she was sure it must be the fifteenth or sixteenth Ahn.

  She was suddenly aware she was terribly thirsty, and hungry.

  She heard someone approaching, and lay very still. Then someone crouched beside her. She felt strong, masculine hands thrust up the straps of the hood, exposing an inch or so of her throat. She tried to press her bound ankles up, tightly, against her derrière, as she lay. She felt a metal collar put roughly about her neck. It fitted snugly. It was locked shut. She was collared.

  “Master?” she asked.

  A small noise warned her to silence. She was drawn, whimpering, to a kneeling position.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, as her wrists were pulled up behind her, and she squirmed unwillingly as a slave before him. But he then, with this bit of slack, merely untied the leash from her bound wrists and, at last, the creasing, agitating pressure was gone. “Thank you, Master. Thank you, Master,” she murmured, then to that extent again her own woman, as much as any slave can be her own woman. But then she knew, in an instant, that she wanted to be taken into his arms, dominated as a slave and penetrated. She whimpered. She hoped he could not smell her need. The strap had done its work well. Then she felt the lock at the back of the hood opened, and the hood was pulled up, but only enough to expose her mouth. She could still not see. “Master?” she asked. She pursed her lips, humbly. Would her lips be now raped with the kiss of the master, he imperiously claiming his property? There was a small, soft laugh, a man’s laugh. “Slave,” he whispered. Then the spigot of a bota was thrust between her teeth, and, head back, she drank gratefully. Too soon it seemed the spigot was withdrawn. “Open your mouth, slave,” she heard, and she, head back, obeyed. A handful of slave pellets was thrust into her mouth. He then pulled the hood back down, and, as she, within the hood, dealt with this simple, nutritious form of slave feed, that which had been permitted her, had it again in place. She felt it locked again, behind the back of her neck.

  After a time she had finished the pellets.

  “Are you warmed?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, Master,” she said.

  “Well warmed?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, yes, Master,” she said.

  “We must be on our way,” he said. She gave a small cry as she felt the leash snapped forward, between her thighs. It was then before her, dangling from the strap ring at the front of her throat. She then felt him free her ankles from her wrists. How wonderful that felt! He then unbound her ankles. She was muchly pleased. With a sob of relief she moved her feet, and then, whimpering, suddenly, inadvertently, pressed her thighs together. He must not know her condition, what he, her master, had done to her.

  “Position,” said he, and she, whimpering, went as much to position as her bound wrists permitted her. Would he not allow her even that much modesty, that much relief?

  “Would you like to be braceleted?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, pulling at the tight loops of leather string that bound her wrists, hot and sweating, the one to the other.

  “Would you like to be front-braceleted or back-braceleted?” he asked.

  “Assuredly, Master,” she said, “front-braceleted!”

  She felt his fingers forcibly widen a space between the loops of leather string that held her wrists behind her. Then, against the exposed flesh, between the loops, she felt metal, pressing closely, the opened curves of slave bracelets. Then the devices snapped shut about her wrists, closely, snugly, and she was braceleted, back-braceleted. And only then were the loops of leather string removed from her sweating wrists, only after her wrists had been securely enclosed in slave bracelets. This is not that unusual in Gorean custody, the slave being kept in one bond until another is in place. A similar custom is generally observed with respect to identificatory hardware, for example, with respect to collars, bracelets, anklets, and such. For example, if one is going to anklet a slave, one would normally keep the bracelet or collar on her until the anklet is in place, and so on. In this way there is always at least one token of bondage on her, other than the brand. Doubtless this is what had been done with Tutina, on Earth, or before bringing her to Earth. Ellen remembered that Tutina had been ankleted. Bandages had covered it, outside
the house. Ellen recalled that she, too, in the house of Mirus on Earth, had found herself ankleted, but she had not, of course, at that time, understood the significance of the device. Perhaps a collar would have been clearer to her.

  So Ellen knelt, wide-kneed, back-braceleted, somewhere, she supposed on the outskirts of the festival camp. Although he had not seen fit, in the master’s prerogative, to accede to her request for front-braceleting, she was nonetheless grateful for her braceleting, for the encircling metal wristlets were far more comfortable than the tight loops of leather string had been. To be sure, she was now more his than before. Anyone might cut leather bonds, a brigand, or such, but she now wore slave bracelets. These could not be removed without a key, or a tool.

  She pulled a bit, against the bracelets.

  I am braceleted, she thought.

  Even in the house of Mirus, long ago, she could not help but respond to her braceleting. Even then, however reluctantly, she had found the bracelets stimulatory. How delicious it was, how exciting it was, that feeling of being braceleted, of being helpless, utterly helpless, of having her small wrists fastened together, locked together, particularly behind her back, her beauty then so exposed, so unguarded and defenseless, in those linked, obdurate, sturdy, uncompromising bracelets — slave bracelets. It spoke to her of her vulnerability, her helplessness, of her subjection to men, of her condition, slave, of her nature, female.

  I love being braceleted, she thought.

  Ellen sensed that her master was then standing before her, the leash presumably in his hand, she gathering that from the tiny draw on the hood’s strap ring. Too, she did not feel the leash against her body.

  “Master, may I speak?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “There is confusion in the camp,” she said. “I heard men speak. The gold for the troops in Ar has been stolen!”

  “You look well,” he said, “kneeling before me in suitable position, naked, hooded, leashed, back-braceleted.”

  “Master!” she protested.

  “Do not concern yourself with such matters,” he said. “They are not the concern of slaves.”