by John Norman
She was very beautiful in the light of the small, tharlarion-oil lamp.
“Position of the Tower Slave,” I said, which position she immediately assumed, back straight, knees together, wrists before her, crossed, as though bound.
A new tear appeared in her eyes. “Do I mean so little to my Master?” she asked.
“Lift your head,” I said. In the Tower Position the head may be either bowed or raised. When in doubt the slave bows her head. She is a slave.
“Master?” she asked.
“I would talk with you,” I said.
She reached down to the floor beside her, took up the remnants of the tunic which had been cut from her and lifted it before her body.
“Do you dare?” I inquired.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said, putting the rent garment to the side, “I thought—”
“You are a barbarian,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“From the world called Earth,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“There is then such a place,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do those of Earth know that Gor exists?” I asked.
“Some, I suppose,” she said.
“But others, perhaps,” I said, “have at least heard of Gor.”
“Many,” she said, “but they do not think that it exists.”
“And you?” I asked. “Had you heard of Gor?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Did you think that it existed?”
“No, Master,” she said.
“I gather then,” I said, “that you did not anticipate that you would one day find yourself in a collar on Gor.”
“No, Master,” she said.
“Are many women of Earth as beautiful as you?” I asked.
“I am sure, a great many,” she said.
“Tell me of the women of Earth,” I said.
“They do not know they are women,” she said.
“And you?” I asked.
“I now know I am a woman,” she said. “I have learned it on Gor. Men have taught me. I am grateful.”
“What was your name on Earth?” I asked.
“Whitney,” she said, “Whitney Price-Loudon.”
“What is your name now?” I asked.
“Lais,” she said, “if it pleases Master.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said. “Just ‘Lais’. Only ‘Lais’. I am a slave.”
“On Earth,” I said, “were you well-fixed, say, affluent?”
“Yes, Master,” she said, “so much so that I was indifferent to wealth.”
“When one has wealth,” I said, “it is easy to be indifferent to it.”
“I fear so,” she said.
“What have you now?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I do not even own my collar. It is now I who am owned.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What do you think,” I asked, “of the men of your former world?”
“As the women did not know they were women,” she said, “so, too, I fear, the men did not know they were men.”
“Some?” I said.
“Many,” she said.
“But you must have met many men on your former world,” I said.
“Males perhaps,” she said, “not men. On Earth I did not know there were men such as those of Gor. What can a woman be to such men but a slave, hoping to be found acceptable, hoping desperately to please them, and as the slave she is?”
“I suspect that there is very little difference, if any,” I said, “biologically, between the men of Earth and those of Gor. I suspect that the differences are cultural, perhaps entirely so.”
“I suspect,” she said, “that Master knows more of Earth than he originally led me to believe.”
“Perhaps there are some Masters on Earth,” I said.
“Perhaps, Master,” she said. “I do not know.”
“You are not terrified that you are in a collar?” I asked.
“Sometimes I am in terror, for I know what can be done with me. I am not my own. I belong to others. I can be bought and sold, given away, traded, and beaten, but still I would not trade my collar for anything. I belong in it. I want to be in it. In my collar I have come home to myself and am fulfilled. I no longer fight nature. I yield to what I am by nature. Let the free be free; let the slave be slave. Let each find her own joy.”
“Do you wish to be whipped,” I asked.
“No, Master!” she said quickly.
I saw that she knew the whip, indeed, and what it could do to her.
“You are in the position of the Tower Slave,” I said.
“Yes Master,” she said. “With my head raised.”
“Nadu!” I snapped.
Instantly she spread her knees, widely, knelt back on her heels, back straight, palms of her hands down on her thighs.
“Get your head up,” I said.
Commonly in nadu, the head is lifted. In this way the least expression or movement of the eyes, lips, or face is visible to the Master.
In this position the slave is well-displayed, both with respect to her beauty and her vulnerability.
In this position the slave is in little doubt that she is a slave and what she, being a slave, is for.
The nadu position is that of the Pleasure Slave.
Tears of gratitude coursed down the cheeks of the slave.
I noted that she had dared to turn her hands, putting the backs of her hands on her thighs, this exposing the beautiful open softness of her palms, the sensitivity of which tender, concave, living tissue is such that a mere touch can make her cry out in need. It, like the soft bondage knot in the hair, is a way in which the slave may appeal to be noticed, may beg for attention, may mutely make known to her Master the desperation of her need.
“Palms down on your thighs,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, obeying, her voice breaking a little.
I regarded her.
“Does Master not find me pleasing?” she asked.
“What man is not pleased to have a woman before him in nadu?” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered. “At one time, I would have blushed scarlet, totally, to be so exhibited before a man. Now it is my hope, a slave’s hope, merely to be found pleasing.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “you would be interested to learn why you were purchased.”
“A slave is seldom in little doubt as to that, Master,” she said.
“Break position,” I said.
“Master?” she asked, startled, puzzled.
I thought it wise to get her out of nadu, before I might seize her by the hair or by a wrist or ankle, and put her to swift, vigorous slave use.
“Lie here before me,” I said, “on the floor, on your side, facing me.”
She, puzzled, assumed the position. I was not sure this was much of an improvement, if any. Her legs were drawn up, curled, and her left hip was high. Surely the terrain between the flared, high hip and the love cradle is one of the most exciting curves in a woman’s body, a body in which many such curves vie for a man’s attention. It is no wonder that women are hunted, caught, branded, collared, and put in chains. Are they not amongst the most desirable of a man’s possessions? I forced myself to look to the side. It is hard for a naked slave not to be beautiful.
“I will speak with you,” I said.
“‘Speak’?’ she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“As Master pleases,” she said, a small break, again, in her voice.
I waited a bit, hoping that her slave fires might soon burn lower, if
not subside, at least for a time. Masters, without regard to the slave, kindle her slave fires, whether she will or no, and, shortly, she becomes the prisoner of her needs. This is usually done before she is brought to the block. Are not her needs the strongest of the bonds that hold her, even more so than the ropes which tie her arms or wrists, than the bands and links of metal which confine her wrists and ankles? Periodically then, she becomes desperately needful, which situation progressively deepens her slavery and increases her market value. This is done for her, for she is a slave. I suspect that free women cannot even begin to understand the slave’s sexual experiences, the depth and ferocity of her released needs or the cataclysmic nature of her succession of uncontrollable yieldings. But then, again, perhaps they do suspect, and that is one of the reasons they so hate their helpless, half-naked sisters in their collars.
“Perhaps you have heard,” I said, keeping my eyes to the side, “of the notorious pirate, Bosk of Port Kar.”
“Much is said of him,” she said, “in the tavern, The Living Island, and I am told elsewhere, in taverns and brothels, in bazaars and markets, at the wharves and in the streets, everywhere. I fear one hears much of him in beautiful, colorful, crowded, bustling Sybaris.”
“You understand him to be ruthless and unconscionable,” I said.
“Who is safe at sea?” she asked. “He even attacks and loots small villages, commonly coastal villages or villages near the coast.”
“You understand,” I said, “that the local authorities have searched for him in vain.”
“As of yet, surprisingly, unsuccessfully,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said, “I represent an interest which seeks to somehow locate, or at least contact, this Bosk of Port Kar.”
“I would think it would fear to do so,” she said.
“Risk is sometimes the name of life,” I said.
“It wishes to locate him so that it can alert the authorities,” she said.
“That is a possibility,” I said.
“But,” she said, “as I understand it, this Bosk of Port Kar has several hundred men under his command. Thus, local authorities might do well to avoid him. Troops could be brought in from Cos.”
“That, too, is a possibility,” I said.
“Yet,” she said, “in the long months of his predations, they have not been summoned.”
“Perhaps they cannot be spared,” I said.
“I see now,” she said, “why you wish to find, or somehow contact, this dreaded Bosk of Port Kar.”
“Speak,” I said.
“You represent a party,” she said, “doubtless of merchants, or predominantly of merchants.”
“That is an interesting speculation,” I said.
“You wish then to purchase protection for your party,” she said. “You will pay, staters and tarn disks, to have certain ships, your ships, those of your party, exempt from attack, kept immune to predation. You wish your ships and goods to be safe on the seas, while the ships of others remain at hazard or fear to leave port.”
“That, too, is a possibility,” I said.
“And then trade, and shipping, the wealth of the seas, would accrue to your party.”
“It would seem so, would it not?” I said.
“What is to prevent Bosk of Port Kar from accepting your gold, and then attacking your ships, too?”
“The prospect of more gold,” I said.
“I do not care for your party,” she said.
“These speculations,” I said, “are yours, not mine.”
“What then,” she asked, “is your business with Bosk of Port Kar?”
“Perhaps it is personal,” I said.
“The business of blades?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Do not seek him,” she said.
“Have you heard of Nicosia?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “it is one of several villages sacked and burned by Bosk of Port Kar.”
“There are those who remember Nicosia and other villages,” I said.
“Your business then,” she said, “is one of great danger, one of vengeance.”
“If the state will not act, men must,” I said.
“I beg you, Master,” she said, “dissuade your party. Do not seek Bosk of Port Kar. Instead, if you wish, send gentle verr to seek the fanged, voracious larl.”
“Perhaps you are curious as to why you were purchased,” I said.
“Surely for slave use,” she said.
“Nadu!” I snapped.
Instantly, startled, frightened, she scrambled to nadu.
“You are a beautiful slave,” I said.
“A slave is pleased if Master is pleased,” she said.
“And you are well exhibited in nadu,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“On your former world,” I said, “did you ever expect to be as you are now?”
“No, Master,” she said, “but I was not then a slave.”
“Men often speak freely before a slave, as before other domestic animals,” I said, “pet sleen, saddle tharlarion, and such. Slaves are meaningless and, as such, are often taken for granted. Often they come and go, scarcely being noticed. One thinks little of their presence. They may hear things and see things which others might not, without arousing suspicion.”
“Master?” she said.
“A slave may frequent locales denied to the free. A slave, putatively on an errand, may tread where a free person would be barred, or perhaps, if admitted, not even permitted to emerge alive. Even if a city falls and the free are put to the sword, the slave, like the kaiila and tharlarion, is spared. Who abandons won booty? Who loots and then discards his loot? Who steals silver, and then casts it into the sea?”
“I fear I begin to understand Master,” she said.
“I am recalling men,” I said. “I think they have done all they can. I now want them back on the benches. Who knows when a harbor must be cleared, when a foe should be met at sea?”
“Master persists in his madness,” she said. “Forgo your dream of revenge. The verr is no match for the larl.”
“I want a sense of where the raiders might strike next,” I said.
“The raiders have been quiescent,” she said.
“They await ships,” I said.
“Master needs a spy,” she said.
“One subtle, unsuspected, and unnoticed,” I said.
“I am Master’s slave,” she said.
“Though you are a slave,” I said, “danger abounds. The foe is clever, guards himself well, and thinks little of killing.”
“I understand,” she said.
“You will be in great danger,” I said. “I would discard this stratagem if I did not deem it necessary. Information is critical. Lives are at stake, on sea and land.”
“I am protected by my collar,” she said.
“You cannot count on that,” I said. “That is why I do not command this of you. I will not do so. Thus, you are fully free to decline this charge. Do so, if you wish. Indeed, I encourage you to do so. This is not your business, not your affair or war. You are a mere slave. You need not concern yourself. And do not be afraid for your future, no more so than any other slave. It would be easy to arrange a small, private sale for you, one in which you could be disposed of safely, with convenient discreetness.”
“May I speak?” she asked.
“Assuredly,” I said.
“I accept,” she said.
“As you are a barbarian,” I said, “you may not understand the ways of Gor. Let me give you an illustration. If a free woman should pronounce herself a slave, she is, then, instantly, no longer a free woman but a slave. Pretending, thinking she is lying, mental reservation, and such things, do not enter into the matter. Once the words are s
poken she is a slave. Even if she lacks a Master, she is a slave. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“So, too, it is with the matter in hand,” I said. “If you accept, the matter is done. The particle of choice which I gave you is gone. You cannot unchoose. You are then, in respect to this matter, as in all matters in which you are a slave, absolutely helpless, and must obey in all things, instantly and unquestioningly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You may speak,” I said.
“I accept,” she said.
“It is done,” I said.
I stood up and, with my left hand, took her by the hair and pulled her half to her feet, her knees bent. I then with the palm and back of my right hand cuffed her, four times, and then flung her to the floor.
“Master?” she asked, stung and cringing at my feet.
“Now,” I said, “you may regret your decision.”
“I do not regret my decision,” she said.
“And it would not matter in the least,” I said, “if you did.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I seized her left ankle and pulled her across the floor to the side, where I deposited her on her belly on the sleeping furs. She looked at me, back, over her right shoulder. Then, seized, she cried, softly, “Ohh!”
“It seems,” she said, “I was purchased, at least in part, for slave use.”
“I needed a slave for espionage, politics, and war,” I said. “That was why the purchase was made. But many girls might suffice for such purposes.”
“Then,” she said, contentedly, “I was chosen for slave use?”
“Particularly, primarily,” I said.
“But might you not, independently, were the world different, have purchased me?” she asked.
“Quite possibly,” I said. “You look good on a chain.”
“Put me on a chain,” she said.
“I do not even know the name of my Master,” she said.
“It is on your collar,” I said.
“But I do not know what name is on my collar,” she said.
“Then,” I said, “you do not know the name of your Master.”
“I cannot read my collar,” she said.
“Others can,” I said.
“I am highly intelligent and well educated on my former world,” she said. “But here I am an illiterate slave!”
