Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen, struggling to her knees in the mud.

  The storm, meanwhile, was somewhat abating, and though a steady rain fell, there was a lessening of, and then a desistance of, the earlier atmospheric chaos of thunder, wind, and electricity.

  “Next,” called the officer, and then, again, “Next!”

  If ever, Ellen would have wished to resist, but her body betrayed her, with its secretions and spasms, and then, moments later, despite herself, every last pathetic psychological possibility of defense was gone; every last brittle barrier of reserve and dignity was shattered; and the last thin veil-like wall was rent, and taken from her, with the ease with which a slave strip might be torn from the body of an auctioned girl, and the entire needful psychosexual fabric of her femininity, yielded, was revealed to masters. She cried out, a ravished slave.

  “Squirm,” said a man.

  “Yes, Master!”

  “Aiii,” he cried.

  Not before my master, not before my master, she wept to herself, and then, again, yielded.

  “Next,” said the officer.

  “Kneel, head down, facing away from me!” said a man.

  “Yes, Master!”

  Her head and hair went into the wet grass. She felt herself seized. How powerful are the hands of men, she thought. How weak we are, how small we are! Nature has decreed who is master!

  “Next,” said the officer.

  “On your belly, split your legs.”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “Next.”

  “To your back, slave!”

  “Yes, Master!”

  The last to use her, when he had regained his feet, kicked her with the side of his bootlike sandal, more a gesture of contempt than anything else. “Slut of Ar,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.” It is common for a slave to thank the master for disciplines, and beatings. She understands that such things are appropriate for her. Too, of course, they remind her that she is a slave.

  Not before my master, she thought, not before my master!

  Then Ellen lay on her back in the mud and rain, her eyes closed. She was a humbled, ravaged slave. She dared not look at Selius Arconious. Surely he had seen her buck and squirm, and spasm, and writhe, and moan and gasp, and lick and kiss, and grovel, and beg, and wrap her small legs about the large bodies of masters, as though she might thusly hold them the more securely to her.

  How horrified might have been her former feminist sisters of Earth, but they were not collared on another planet, brazenly tunicked, and the tunic now and again thrust up almost to their breasts, grasped in the mud and put to the service of masters! Or would they have been thrilled, and envy her the profound, uncompromising domination to which she had been subjected, a domination which it was quite unlikely they themselves would receive at the hands of men of Earth, a domination without which they could not realize the depths of their womanhood.

  There had been fifteen soldiers in all. She did not even remember which one had been he who had put her to his masterly purposes at the wheel earlier. Tersius Major had not been permitted to so much as touch her. The officer, too, had refrained from her use. Once she had looked to the bound prisoners. Portus Canio, and his fellows, Fel Doron and Loquatus, had seemed to take little interest, little more than if someone had put someone else’s small, silken she-sleen through her paces. The wounded man who was with the company of Mirus lay bound, weak, miserable, unnoticed, on the grass. The sleenmaster, he of the party of Mirus, eyes glistening, had eagerly, keenly, excitedly, scarcely capable of controlling himself, witnessed the successive ravishings of the slave. Ellen wondered if he were new to Gor. She wondered if he, doubtless of Earth, aware perhaps only of the frigid, defensive, inert, confused, unhappy, unawakened women of Earth, had seen anything like this before, the responses of a collared slave. Had he been aware before, she wondered, of the latent passion in women, waiting to be called forth by the summons of masters? Had he even, until then, begun to comprehend the joy of living on a natural world, one too wise to take false steps, one unspoiled by millennia of madness, a world on which men were men and women, if collared, must be themselves, the slaves of masters. She wondered if he had ever had a slave. It is said that once one has tasted a slave, one finds it difficult to think again in terms of free women. Perhaps it is little wonder that free women so hate slaves. She wondered if, on Earth, such men, in their enclaves on her old world, kept slaves, either women of Earth, enslaved, or women brought to Earth from Gor. She hoped they did not bring Gorean women to Earth, particularly slave girls, for that would be much like bringing lovely, warm-blooded, delicate creatures, vulnerable, natural and loving, to a wasteland, an arctic locale inimical to passion, a desert hostile to love. What a terrible sentence, too, it would be, what a terrible condemnation, even to bring a Gorean free woman to Earth. She might not understand, for a time, what a terrible thing had been done to her. But sooner or later she would doubtless learn, and try to find those who had done this terrible thing to her and, if successful, tear away her clothes before them and beg them, on her belly, lips to their boots, to return her to Gor, and as no more than a naked, collared slave, to be disposed of in the lowest of markets.

  Her eyes met those of Mirus, and in his eyes she read only contempt. She looked away from him. Poor Mirus, she thought. How much of Earth is still left in him! How unwilling he is to let a woman be herself. How he wishes to have her conform to some arid, politically prescribed, popularly conditioned stereotype. It seems he wants a slave and he does not want a slave. There is too much of Earth in you yet, dear Mirus. I am sorry, Mirus. I am a slave. That is what I am. I have learned it on this world. It is the truth. I cannot be half a slave. I must belong to a man who recognizes what I am, and will have all of me as what I am, all that I have to give, and more, or I will know the whip.

  She dared not look at Selius Arconious.

  He had seen her yield to others, publicly. She hoped that, if she survived, he would not kill her, that he would do no more than beat and sell her. Surely he, Gorean, knew the helpless nature of the female slave, and what men, despite her most fervent desires, could do to her, and would. How helpless we are, she thought, slave girls.

  The rain now had ceased, and two of the three moons were visible. There were breaks in the dark clouds.

  The watches had been disrupted with the righting of the wagon and the quelling of what might have otherwise proved a melee, one perhaps antecedent to the scattering and escape of prisoners.

  Some confusion, too, might have ensued during the utilization of the slave, though some of the men, before or after, must have returned to their watch. Ellen realized that the officer had, in effect, not only foiled a possible escape of prisoners, but had, by his quickness of thought, and his utilization of her, an at-hand slave, narrowly avoided a possible insurrection among his own uneasy troops. Ellen realized, lying in the mud and grass, that a slave in camp, who may not be assigned, or used, may exert a strain on discipline, particularly among strong, virile men. She knew that on many ships it was regarded as dangerous to carry a free woman, for such may tantalize by their very existence, exciting speculation as to the possible treasures concealed by her bulky garmenture, but not regarded as dangerous to carry a scantily clad ship slave, who, on board, serves many of the same purposes as a similarly garmented camp slave on long marches.

  Ellen then realized that she might be extremely desirable, perhaps even, as it is said, “slave desirable.” She recalled that the officer had ordered that she was to remain tunicked.

  She looked up and saw the officer standing over her.

  “Hobble her,” he said.

  In a moment Ellen’s ankles were clasped by slave hobbles. These were not common ankle chains. This particular device consisted of two hinged plates of metal, matching in their way, each of the two plates containing two hemispheric curvatures. There were front curvatures on the front plate, and back curvatures on the rear plat
e, such that, matched, each set of curvatures, in a circular fashion, encloses an ankle. The device is swung shut about the ankles; it is held shut on the left by the hinge; on the right, there are projecting perforations, one on each plate, with matching apertures; the tongue of a padlock is passed through these two apertures; the padlock is then snapped shut, and this closes the device on the right, fastening it on the slave. The ankles are separated by something like six inches. The slave can stand in such a device, though often with difficulty, and can walk, though, too, with difficulty, taking slow tiny steps. Since the device is of rude iron and the plates are closely joined, hinged at one side and locked at the other, movement can abrade the ankle. A slave or prisoner so hobbled is for most practical purposes immobilized. Commonly one does not move in such a device. Another form of hobble fastens one ankle some inches above the other. Thus both feet cannot be placed on the ground at the same time. Such a device then immobilizes a slave even more effectively than the straight-plated variety in which Ellen was placed. The point of Ellen’s hobbles, she supposed, was to permit a slave enough movement to serve about a camp, perhaps to prepare food and such. If one wants to keep a slave in place, of course, it is easy to chain her somewhere, by an ankle or the neck. In cities, in public places, slave rings are provided, to which slaves may be attached while masters attend to their business, their purchasings, their visitings, or such. Sometimes boys go to the markets and plazas in groups, to inspect the slaves at the rings.

  We are chained there, of course, and so we must endure the inspection of the young masters.

  We find ourselves regarded, discussed, and commented on, at our rings, much as might be, on another world, in another time, dogs or horses, or on another world, in a later time, automobiles and motorcycles, except that human females, obviously, have a special interest for human males, even young human males. It is one thing to hear oneself, and one’s lineaments, discussed by grown men, of course, as a consequence of which our bodies moisten and become uneasy, and become welcoming and receptive, whether we wish it or not, and quite another by boys.

  If the sun is fierce the masters will often chain us to a ring in the shade. They may also, before chaining us, allow us to drink from the lower level of a public fountain. Sometimes a pan of water is put out for us. In public we are expected to refrain from touching such a pan with our hands, and are expected to drink from it on all fours. This is, I think, a sop to the pride of free women. They wish us to appear despicable to free men, and unworthy of their attention. But men prefer us.

  Sometimes we sleep, or sit, or kneel, and watch the passers-by. We are not to stand at the ring, for some of us might be taller than a free woman. Sometimes we are chained in proximity to our sisters, and then, if we are not enjoined to silence, we may enjoy the pleasantries of confabulation. We take great delight in it. It is a great pleasure for us. I suppose it is part of our nature. We muchly enjoy gossip, and commenting on free women. Most slaves, incidentally, have a great deal of freedom, in moving about the city, shopping, running errands, inspecting goods at the markets, wandering in the bazaars, laundering at the public troughs, strolling about in the parks and on the avenues, such things. And, of course, we will have our friends and arrange our meetings and rendezvouses, and so on, keeping track, as you may be sure, of the time bars, for it would not do to be late in reporting back to our masters. Some slaves, too, it should be admitted, usually city slaves or those from large households in which there are many slaves, enjoy flirting. But woe to the girl who is caught by a free woman engaged in this pleasant activity. Most slaves, of course, hope to have a private master, and be his only chattel. And is that handsome fellow there not of interest? Might one not, in simple civility, smile at him, looking back over the left shoulder? Perhaps he will accost one, and read one’s collar. Perhaps he will embrace one and test one’s lips? Do you feel good in his arms? Does he like the soft press of your lips? Perhaps you will be priced. Slaves, incidentally, are usually not allowed in public buildings, and certainly not in temples. Outside temples we are commonly penned, or chained to posts, as might be kaiila. If a slave were to enter a temple she might be slain. The temple, certainly, would have to be purified.

  Whereas most slaves have a great deal of freedom, as hitherto mentioned, most will be expected to ask permission to leave the domicile of the master, and will be expected to return by a designated Ahn. The ambulatory freedom of the slave girl ends, however, at the city gate. No woman in a collar is allowed out of the city except in the keeping of a free person, usually the master or his agent.

  Amongst the boys in their little clouds or gangs, roaming about, looking for some “good ones” amongst the “ring girls,” those chained to the public rings, there will occasionally be one or two older ones, who will carry switches. This is in case they find a slave who has been a free woman taken from an enemy city, particularly recently. They may then switch her, and she will kneel, and cover her head, and cry. She cannot escape, of course, as she is chained in place. Soon, hopefully, her master will return and good-naturedly shoo the boys away. She must expect such things, I suppose, given her antecedents. They still think of her as a woman of the enemy. This is, however, a mistake. She is not free. Thus, she can no longer be a woman of the enemy. Now she is only another slave. She would remain a slave, incidentally, even if she were to be returned to her original city. Indeed, there, she would be treated with great cruelty, perhaps even slain. In becoming a slave, you see, she has dishonored its Home Stone. She would beg piteously not to be returned to that city. There she could expect nothing better than a paga tavern or brothel. You can imagine her misery, in such a situation, finding herself at the mercy of spurned suitors, and such. And perhaps she would be purchased by a free woman who was once her rival and enemy, to be her serving slave. Better to wear her collar at the feet of foreign masters, scions of the city whose warriors or raiders first acquired and stripped her. Women understand such things.

  Ellen struggled to a sitting position, and looked down at the hobbles. They were of heavy iron. She did not try to rise. She was not sure she could do so.

  I have caused dissension, Ellen thought to herself. Perhaps I am beautiful. Of course, I am the only slave in the camp. But I think that I may be beautiful, or, at any rate, desirable. She felt warm, and thrilled. I am an object of desire, she thought. Men, or at least some men, want me. Literally want me, in the fullest sense of that word. But perhaps that is not so strange, as I am a slave.

  She still did not turn to look at Selius Arconious.

  She did look at Mirus, but then, smiling, looked away, tossing her head. “Insolent slave!” he hissed. She did not respond, of course. She had not been given permission to speak. There was no point in inviting a beating. I am in part your handiwork, she thought. How do you like it? It was in your house that I was first put in a collar. But now I am not yours. You let me go. You were even outbid in open auction. Too bad, dear Mirus.

  “Sir!” cried one of the soldiers.

  The officer went immediately to where the man had called out.

  “Behold!” cried another soldier.

  “Be vigilant!” ordered the officer.

  “What is it?” asked Selius Arconious, struggling at the wheel. The roped, kneeling prisoners, had turned about, trying to see. Ellen, turning, peering under the righted wagon, saw one of the three beasts shamble, bent over, on all fours, to where a soldier was standing.

  “Kajira!” snapped Selius Arconious.

  “Master?” cried the startled Ellen.

  “What is it? Look!”

  “I cannot see, Master!”

  “Get up!” he said.

  “I cannot!” she wept.

  “Try!” he demanded.

  Ellen struggled. She fought the hobbles. She could not even get to her knees. Had she been front-braceleted, or in normal ankle chains, or had someone lifted her to her feet, she might have been successful. Too, of course, if she had worn only hobbles, she could have used her h
ands to gain her feet.

  “I see the hobbles are excellently effective,” he said, acidly.

  Ellen went to her side, looking up at her master. Her feet were separated by the six inches of plating, the left ankle held off the ground. She lay in the mud and grass. The brief tunic had been thrust up, about her waist. Her right thigh was bruised, and she could feel it now, from the turning of the wagon. The bootlike sandal of the final soldier to make use of her, in its spurning blow, at her left, had not marked her. It had been little more than a reminder that she was a slave.

  “You look well, hobbled, slave,” he said, irritably.

  Tears sprang into the eyes of the well-restrained slave.

  His eyes examined the curves of her, her bosom beneath the tunic, the narrow waist, the flare of the hips, the thighs, the calves, all of which he owned.

  He had seen her yield to others, those not her master, and with the yieldings of a slave.

  She could not reach him easily, for he was some seven or eight feet from her, but she went to her belly, and, as nearly as she could manage, to the common second position of obeisance, and lifted her head, and looked up at him, piteously, her small wrists braceleted behind her. Her eyes were wild, and begging. Seldom had she felt more owned. Then, as she could not, as she lay, reach his sandals, she put her head down before him, and pressed her lips to the grass, kissing it, pathetically.

  She hoped that this placatory behavior might avert his wrath, perhaps even save her life. In the house of Mirus, long ago, she had been taught to crawl to a man on her belly and cover his feet with fervent, supplicatory kisses.

  She lifted her head, frightened, then lowered it, to kiss again at the grass. She felt the moist, narrow blades upon her lips.

  “You grovel well,” he said. “Like all women you belong in a collar.”

  She sucked in her breath, in relief. She was sure then that she would be spared, if only for the time.

  “I yielded, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master!”