Prize of Gor

by John Norman

Slaves are slaves, only slaves.

  And Ellen, kneeling naked, back-braceleted, concealed under the blanket, knew herself, too, such, and only such.

  She was a slave.

  She could be left behind.

  Would she be left behind?

  They must take me with them, she thought. They must, they must!

  You are a burden, she said to herself. You are a slight slave, more fit for the furs, there squirming and moaning, than trekking beside masters for long days and nights. You will be left behind, or abandoned.

  No, no, she cried to herself, within the blanket.

  I can keep up with them, she said to herself. I must keep up with them!

  She did not want to be left behind.

  They must not leave her behind!

  But she did not think they would leave her.

  Too, there were wagons, and she might be permitted to ride. Too, Selius Arconious had been willing to pay twenty-one silver tarsks for her. Twenty-one! Do not forget that, she told herself. Despite his arrogance and disclaimers, I am sure you are important to him, she thought. No tarnster casts aside twenty-one silver tarsks. Perhaps I am pretty. Perhaps I am even a desirable slave. Can that be? I think it is possible. There were twenty silver tarsks bid on me in open auction. For most Goreans that is a considerable amount of money. To be sure, she thought, a kaiila would bring more, and a tarn a great deal more.

  “Is it time to flight tarns?” asked Portus Canio.

  “They must not be flighted too early,” said a man, whom Ellen, from the voice, knew to be the red-haired man. “We must not give the Cosians time to collect their wits before the camp breaks up, lest they close the camp. We must count on their confusion, until the camp is broken, and thousands are scattered in a hundred directions.”

  “But soon,” said Fel Doron, uneasily.

  “Yes, soon,” said the other.

  “Well,” said Selius Arconious, “I think that I shall seek some rest.” Ellen heard someone rise, and make a noise, as of contentment, as in languorous stretching. She had little doubt it was her master.

  “How can you rest?” asked a man.

  “At such a time?” asked another.

  “It is an excellent suggestion,” said the red-haired man.

  “We might pretend to rest, as it is late,” said Portus Canio.

  “We might pretend to awaken in consternation, given an alarm,” said Fel Doron.

  “I am not going to sleep,” said a man.

  “Tend the fire then,” suggested another.

  “On your feet,” said Selius Arconious, and, from the tone of his voice, Ellen, even though beneath the blanket, had no doubt he was addressing her. It was the voice of one who anticipated no hesitation whatsoever, and would accept no hesitation whatsoever, in the addressee’s compliance. It was the voice of a master addressing a slave. Her response was instantaneous. She struggled to her feet as quickly as she could, given the impediments of the blanket and bracelets. The celerity of her response, despite the handicap of the blanket and bracelets, apparently occasioned neither stir nor interest on the part of the men, its promptitude being taken for granted by them, presumably not even being noticed by them. Such things were simply expected of her. She was a slave. Within the blanket Ellen bit her lip, in embarrassment at how quickly, and fearfully, she had obeyed. Yet, had the same command been given again, under the same circumstances, she would have responded in the same fashion, or perhaps even with greater alacrity. It was as if a dog had been commanded. Ellen realized that she, as other women brought to Gor for the diverse purposes of the collar, had learned to obey, and to obey immediately, and perfectly. How different this was from when she had been on Earth! She was now standing, still completely covered by the blanket, its lower folds now fallen about her ankles.

  She felt a strong hand gathering together the portion of the blanket which was about her head, pulling it forward about her neck, and wadding it beneath her chin, where it was firmly grasped. In this way an arrangement was produced not unlike a hood with a throat-ring, a ring by means of pressure on which, by a leash or such, an occupant might be conducted about. She was drawn a few yards to one side. She stumbled once, but the hand at her throat, grasping the blanket, did not permit her to fall. There was now grass beneath her feet.

  “Kneel,” said her master.

  She was then kneeling beneath the blanket.

  The blanket was then rearranged, put about her shoulders, and drawn about her, in such a way that she knelt within it, it open a bit before her, her throat and head exposed. He held it about her neck for a moment, and then released it. It remained rather as it had been. With his two hands he brushed her hair back, once more behind her shoulders. The gesture was almost tender. He looked into her eyes. She looked at him, frightened, pleadingly. She was his, and did not, truly, know him. She told herself that she hated him, that she despised him, but she knew herself his, and, for some reason, her eyes were moist with tears. He touched the side of her collar with the fingertips of his right hand, a gesture which, to her surprise, seemed almost loving. But then it seemed he caught himself, as though in a moment of indiscretion. He then laughed softly, harshly, even cruelly, mercilessly, in proprietorship, his eyes glistening and hard, and grasped the collar, possessively. There was a look of satisfaction on his face then, and she suddenly understood, trembling, that he was a true owner of women, not the sort of man who freed slaves. And certainly he would not free her, not this young, lovely barbarian which was she. Indeed, given the genuine opportunity to own her, what rational man would consider freeing her? She realized then, it startling her, that on this world she was too valuable, too precious, too desirable, to be free. Perhaps if she had been enveloped within, bundled within, the cumbersome Robes of Concealment? But surely not if they had once glimpsed her in the brief tunic of a slave, or seen her chained, in rags, in a market or exhibited nude on a block. Her face, her slave curves, betrayed her. Only too obviously such as she was the natural property of strong men. Too, she suspected that this man, her master, aside from social and institutional imperatives, literally, deeply, personally, for whatever reason, relished the owning of her. He would not let her go, she was sure. This frightened her, but thrilled her, as well. Few women on Earth, she suspected, other than slaves, had any inkling as to what it was to be so wanted, to be the object of such fierce desire, that of a master for a slave. He found her, she suspected, “slave desirable.” He desired her with such passion, with such lust, with such wanting, that she would be kept exactly as he wanted her, as his complete slave, until, of course, he might tire of her, and then she could be sold to another.

  She was his.

  He sat near her, before her, cross-legged, and reached his hands to her hair, and, by means of her hair, as she knelt, back-braceleted, drew her head downward a few inches, toward himself. Her head down, she lifted her eyes, looking into his eyes, questioningly. A tear coursed down her left cheek. She tried to draw back, a little, but he drew her head, by the hair, a few inches closer to his body.

  “You pleased the guardsmen, I take it,” he said.

  “A slave did her best to please them, Master,” said Ellen.

  He then lay back on the grass. His hands were still in her hair, and her face, held, was now but inches from his body.

  She bent to his body, her lips pursed.

  His hands now held her from him. “Master?” she asked.

  “It seems you intend to give pleasure, uncommanded, and of your own free will,” he said.

  “Master?” asked Ellen, confused.

  “Were you, a meaningless, wretched slave, given permission to touch the body of one whose Home Stone is that of Ar?” he asked.

  “Master is clearly ready for pleasure,” whispered Ellen.

  He was silent.

  “Did not Master draw me to him?” she asked.

  “It is one thing for me to send you to give pleasure to Cosian sleen,” he said, angrily. “It is another to permit you to tou
ch a citizen of Ar.”

  “I do not understand what I am to do,” said Ellen.

  “Did you not lower your head to me, uncommanded, uncoerced?”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen. “I thought —”

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I thought you might be pleased,” she whispered.

  “Did you want to please me?” he asked.

  “I think so, Master,” said Ellen, in tears.

  “Why?” he asked. “To save your worthless hide? To ingratiate yourself with me? To practice your wiles, to ensnare me with pleasure, to purchase an easier life, to avoid beatings and chainings?”

  “I do not know,” wept Ellen. “Master confuses me.”

  “How well the word ‘Master’ sounds on your lips,” he said. “How fitting!”

  “It is fitting,” said Ellen. “I am a slave. I have learned it on this world.”

  “She-tarsk,” said he. “Conniving, hypocritical she-tarsk!”

  “I am not conniving, Master,” she said. “And I do not think that I am hypocritical.”

  “We hate one another, do we not?” he asked, angrily.

  “Why did Master buy me then?” she asked.

  “Doubtless for the pleasure of owning and mastering you, for the pleasure of exacting from your hide compensations a thousandfold for frustrations you dealt me in Ar. Oh, yes, it will be pleasant to own you, Earth slut, to impose upon you a leisurely, prolonged vengeance, to subject you to a slavery so thorough and abject that you will creep to your kennel at night, and weep there for the smallest of your former indiscretions. Have no fear, slave girl! You will well know that you are owned!”

  “I do not know what my feelings are, Master,” said Ellen. “I suppose I must hate you. I suppose I should hate you. I do not know! I have told myself that I hate you.”

  “There!” said Selius Arconious.

  “But I do not know if it is true or not!”

  “What a silly, stupid little tasta, you are,” he snarled.

  “Sometimes we tell ourselves what we think we should feel, but what we do not feel. Sometimes we tell lies to ourselves.”

  “How can one tell lies to oneself?” he asked. “Do you not think you know what you feel? Who knows, if you do not?”

  “Sometimes others know,” said Ellen. “Portus Canio might know.”

  “More of you than you know?”

  “And perhaps more of you than you know.”

  “Absurd.”

  “As Master will have it.”

  “He knows nothing of us,” said Selius Arconious.

  “Is Master so sure of his own feelings?” asked Ellen. “Forgive me, Master,” she added, hastily.

  “Know that you are hated!” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “Why did you bend to me earlier?” he asked.

  “It seemed to be what I should do!” she wept. “I do not know! I wanted to please my master! I wanted to give him pleasure! I do not know!”

  “Did you want to do it?” he asked, rising to one elbow. “Truly?”

  “I do not know! I think ‘Yes,’ Master!”

  “Liar!” said he. “Slut and liar!”

  “You own me now, Master,” wept Ellen. “I am yours and totally helpless. Please be kind to your slave!”

  He then reached to her hair and drew her painfully, forcibly, to his body, until her lips were but an inch from the heat of him. He held her in such a way that she could neither approach him more closely nor withdraw.

  “Put out your tongue, your moist, lying little tongue, and lick your upper lip, slowly,” he said. “Now, purse your lips and kiss, again and again, at me, but do not touch my body. Now, lick again your upper lip, and now, again, more slowly, yes, that is it, slave girl.”

  Her hands twisted helplessly behind her in the bracelets. Her body became alive with need. Her thighs flamed. She was muchly aroused.

  He then, with an angry sound, flung Ellen, painfully, by the hair, to his left side, and she lay there, her head at his left thigh.

  “I am ready to please my Master,” she said. “Please let me do so.”

  “No,” he said.

  She dared to press her lips softly to his thigh. She hoped she would not be beaten.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked.

  “I think,” she said, “that a slave loves her master.”

  “Liar,” he said softly. But he did not seem angry, nor did he strike her.

  He then pulled the blanket away from her and spread it on the grass, in such way that it might be laid upon, and, when it was folded, it would cover them, as well. At his gesture, pointing, she took her place on the blanket, so that when he lay upon it, her head would be at his thigh. She was, of course, on the blanket to his left, as he was right-handed. In this way, by simply turning, he could easily handle, dominate and possess her. The closed side of the blanket was to his left, as well. In this way, the slave is confined between the closure of the blanket and the body of the master. Too, in this arrangement, the open side of the blanket being to his right, he could leave the blanket instantly, his sword hand free.

  He then lay under the blanket, supine, it folded over the two of them. She lay on her side, at his side, back-braceleted, covered completely by the blanket, her head at his thigh. In this way, her head covered, she could not see what might transpire in the camp. She would be kept, suitably, in “slave ignorance.”

  “Master,” she said.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “May I speak?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am collared, Master,” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “I am an animal, Master,” she whispered.

  “I am well aware of that,” he said.

  “I am a collared animal, who cannot remove her collar,” she said.

  “Certainly,” he said. “You are a slave.”

  “Are not masters concerned for their animals? Are not masters kind to their animals?”

  “To some, perhaps,” he said, “but you are a special sort of animal, a human female animal, a slave. One need not be concerned for such animals, nor need one be kind to them.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Perhaps you remember the tarsk pen, the railing, and the whip?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, frightened.

  “You are a transparent, manipulative little slut,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master!”

  Again she pressed her lips, softly, to his thigh.

  “Master.”

  “Yes?”

  “Might the blanket not be turned a little, put aside a bit, so that I might the more easily speak to my master?”

  “I can hear you,” he said.

  “Master!”

  “No,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  She lay at his thigh, covered. Sometimes she could hear the small noises of the nearby fire. A breeze ruffled the leaves of a nearby tree. Occasional insect noises might be heard.

  “Master.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am back-braceleted,” she said, “and am beside you, at your thigh, utterly helpless, a woman, and a slave.”

  He was silent.

  “Perhaps Master might make use of me,” she said.

  “Why?” he said.

  “I am pretty,” she said. “How is it that I do not please Master?”

  “You are worthless,” he said.

  “Master paid much for me,” she said.

  “I cannot deny that it is pleasant to own you,” he said.

  “I do not know what to do,” she wept. She pulled a bit at the bracelets, in frustration. How well aware she was of her helplessness, of her wrists’ captivity, they fastened so effectively, so closely, behind her, imprisoned so securely within their light, close-linked circlets.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “I am Master’s,” she said. “If I am not now pleasing, I beg to be informed as to
how I may become pleasing.”

  “You wish to be pleasing?”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “Liar,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said. “I do want to please you!”

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “I want you to want me,” she whispered. “I want to be attractive to Master. What can I do? I do not know what to do! Perhaps I might be adorned? Perhaps Master might bedeck me, according to his fancy or wont? Would that help? I do not know. I want to be attractive to him.”

  “Perhaps some cheap bangles,” he said.

  She recalled, from Earth, the two, small, golden loops she had once worn on her left wrist, in class.

  “As Master pleases,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” said he, “bells on an ankle.”

  “Whatever pleases Master,” she said.

  “Locked, in place,” he said.

  “Certainly, Master.”

  On Gor it is not unusual to bell a slave, and the erotic clash of such bells, slave bells, on an ankle, in the markets and parks, in the plazas and bazaars, is a frequently heard sound. And the same bells which serve so well to draw attention to a lovely, demurely tunicked slave in the sul market, her shopping basket balanced with one hand on her head, serve as well, doubtless, to record in their jangling her leapings and squirmings in the arms of her master.

  “Perhaps I will buy you earrings,” he said.

  “As Master wishes,” she said.

  “You would be a pierced-ear girl?” he asked, surprised.

  “I have no fear of such things,” she said.

  “You are indeed a worthless slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  Earrings, on Gor, interestingly, are placed on only the lowest of slaves. Nose rings, incidentally, for whatever reason, do not carry the same connotation of degradation, and such. Indeed, Ellen has been informed that in the southern hemisphere such rings are worn by even free women amongst certain nomadic tribes. Complex veiling and the Robes of Concealment are most common, of course, in urban areas, and particularly so amongst women of the higher castes. To be sure, even peasant women may veil themselves before strangers, and, one supposes, wisely.

  Many Gorean slave girls live in terror of having their ears pierced. To be sure, this not unoften improves their price. Woe to the Earth girl brought to Gor whose ears are pierced. She will be sold publicly, as a “pierced-ear girl.”