Mariners of Gor

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Have you finished your work?” I asked my slave.

“Yes, Master,” she said, kneeling beside me, placing her right cheek softly, lovingly, on my knee. I brushed aside her hair, and touched her collar, fingering it idly.

What pleasure can compare with having a slave at one’s feet?

To be sure, the mastery of her, and the enjoyment of her.

“Your slave begs to be caressed,” she whispered. “Would master be pleased to caress his slave?”

How much she was a slave!

And how perfect she was in her collar!

“Please, Master,” she whispered.

At one time I supposed she had never dreamed that she would one day be a slave, and on a world far from her own.

How far she was today from the noise, the pollutions, the lies, the corruptions, the hypocrisies, and falsifications of her world!

“Please, Master,” she said. “Your slave begs your caress. She would be touched.”

“I take it your need is on you well,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You will go to the market,” I said, “and buy tur-pah, tospits, suls, and a bottle of ka-la-na.”

“Yes, Master,” she moaned.

I watched her rise, and go to the chest at the side of the room, kneel there, and count some coins into her hand.

She turned, on her knees, to face me, the coins clutched in her hand.

“May I wear a tunic?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The blue tunic, the short one, with the ragged hem, of rep-cloth.”

“Thank you, Master,” she smiled.

I thought that would turn some heads in the market. It is pleasant to witness the admiring glances which might fondle one’s slave, as she busied herself on my business in the market. Sometimes I took her out, leashed, on the promenade, her hands braceleted behind her. Occasionally on such outings I permitted her a tunic. The tunic I had prescribed for her today was the tiny one, of blue rep-cloth. It would not hurt for idlers and passers-by to guess, from the color of her scrap of clothing, that she was a Scribe’s girl.

“Hold,” I said, she at the door, and I rose to walk about her, and inspect her. “Stand taller,” I said, “lift your head, and put your shoulders back. Be proud. You are not a free woman. You are a slave. A female found worth being collared by men.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And remember,” I said, “you are a reflection on me.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She stood nicely, lissome, and appealing.

Her feet were small, and bare.

I unhooked the switch from its peg, and, returning to her, standing behind her, slapped it twice in the palm of my hand.

She winced each time, but the useful, supple implement had not touched her.

“Bargain well,” I told her.

“I will try, Master,” she said.

“If you do not, in my view,” I said, “you will be well stung upon your return.”

“I do not know your world,” she said. “And the market is different, day to day. Perhaps suls will be in short supply. And some in the stalls will attempt to cheat a slave, who would dare no such thing with a free woman!”

“And particularly,” I conjectured, “one whose accent might betray her as a barbarian.”

“I fear so, Master,” she said.

“Linger about,” I said, “sense the prices, the market, see what goods go for, question other slaves, ones who might speak to you, perhaps another barbarian, if you can find one, do not be afraid to thank the Merchant, respectfully, and prepare to leave. If your offer is reasonable, you will be hailed to return, however begrudgingly. Do not then pretend to victory, but be deferent, and grateful, that mercy has been taken on you.”

“I have done well with smiles, too, Master,” she said.

“That is one of the few advantages you have over free women,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

The face of the slave, by law, must be naked. Free women insist on that. They are not to be confused with animals, with collared beasts. The features of free women, presumably so exquisite, precious, and marvelous, are not to be exhibited to common view. Accordingly, given the depth of their veiling, and the opacity of the common street veil, they cannot well prevail upon, or influence, the peddler or merchant, the fellow sitting behind his goods, spread upon a rug or cloth, or the stallsman, behind his counter, with the loveliness of a woman’s smile. To be sure, they do their best to smile with their voices, banter pleasantly, and hint with a deft word or two how astute is the tradesman, and how attractive he is, and how grateful they would be, mere weak, defenseless women, and possible beauties, should he unbend a bit and relax his adamancy by a tarsk-bit or so. And sometimes, it must be mentioned, a veil might slip a little, or require some hasty, furtive, readjustment. They, too, as the kajirae, are women, and, accordingly, not above wheedling a favor, pleading a cause, or improving an occasion, by means of their sex. It is such considerations which influence many a tradesman, in his imagination, to pierce the robes of so cunning a creature and imagine her before them as what she should be, a stripped, collared slave. One wonders if the free women sense that. One supposes not. Else they might hurry from the market to their domicile, remove their robes, stand before a mirror, touch their throat, and wonder what it might be, to belong to a man. One is reminded of the saying that a free woman is but a slave without a collar.

“So,” I said, “you use your smiles?”

“Certainly, Master,” she said.

Many men would do much to win a smile from a beautiful slave. How cunning are the delicious brutes.

“That is less easy for a free woman,” I said.

“It is not I who veil them,” she said.

“Surely you, or such as you, historically, have had something to do with the matter, however indirectly,” I said. “They are muchly concerned that they not be confused with such as you.”

“-a mere beast,” she said.

“In the view of some,” I said, “you are less than a beast.”

“Master?”

“-a slave.”

“I see,” she said.

“But have no fear,” I said. “In my view, and in that of most, and certainly in the eyes of the law, your status is clear.”

“Master?”

“You are an animal, a beast.”

“But no more?” she said.

“Certainly not,” I said. “You are collared, you may be bought and sold.”

“I see,” she said.

“You would sell for far less than a tarn, and much less than a sleen or kaiila, but more, usually, than a tarsk or verr.”

“I see,” she said.

“To be sure,” I said, “much depends on the market.”

“Doubtless,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

“So I am a beast,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “and only that.”

“On Earth,” she said, “I did not think of myself as a beast.”

“On Earth,” I said, “you were not a beast.”

“But here I am such,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“And only such,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“But I am a pretty beast, am I not?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

There was no gainsaying that. There were few men who would not want one or more, such as she. Who would want an empty slave ring at the foot or one’s couch? And there are many in the market, assuredly, and affordable, whose trim ankle would fit well within the ring.

“On your world,” I said, “you were free, were you not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Interesting,” I said.

“‘Interesting’?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “as you obviously belong at a man’s feet, as a slave.”

“I assure you,” she said, “I was free.”

“What is wrong with the men of Earth?” I asked. “Why would they not take their most desirable women and collar them? Do they not want them?”

“It seems,” she said, “they do not want them that much.”

“Perhaps some women are slaves, even there,” I said, “and wholly, but the matter is kept from public view.”

“As the relationship seems quite natural,” she said, “and seems embedded in the human psyche, I suppose that is possible.”

“But let us leave that unusual world to its own devices, its own prevarications, inhibitions, and deceits,” I said.

“You think I am a natural slave, do you not?” she said.

“You are a female, of course,” I said.

“I feel I am a natural slave,” she said.

“And in your feeling,” I said, “is found the truth.”

“My world,” she said, “does not even permit me to entertain such thoughts.”

“But you did entertain them, and do entertain them, do you not?” I asked.

She lifted her head, boldly. “Yes, Master!” she said.

“Put your head down,” I said.

She lowered her head.

“Your body is rich with the curves of a natural slave,” I said. “Consider what you are, your softness, your thoughts, your hopes, the most secret of your secret dreams, your desire to be owned, your desire to belong to a master, your desire to kneel and serve, your desire to be found pleasing, your desire to be uncompromisingly possessed, yes, possessed, and to be treated as, and ravished as, a slave, your femininity.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Think carefully,” I said. “Are you a natural slave?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Then,” said I, “you should be a slave, and it is right that you should be a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And on this world,” I said, “what is fitting and right for you has been imposed on you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“So here on this world,” I said, “you are a slave, and choicelessly, a well-collared slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You have pretty legs, slave girl,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

“Were you, and such as you, veiled on Earth?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Really?” I said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“That must make things quite easy for slavers,” I said.

“Doubtless,” she said.

“You must have been scouted, reviewed, considered, entered on a slave list,” I said.

“I know nothing,” she said. “I was returning one evening from a library, sensed something behind me, was held, so tightly, found it difficult to breathe for a moment, and lost consciousness. When I awakened, I found myself nude and chained, in a slave pen.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you did not veil yourself in your world. Did you not know you were attractive?”

“I had hoped I might be,” she said, “but I struggled to put such thoughts from me, as unworthy of a woman. We are not supposed to think of such things in my world.”

“Doubtless,” I said, “that is a prescription of those who are unattractive.”

“Many of my fellow female students,” she said, “made clear to me the unimportance of beauty.”

“It is quite important on the block,” I said.

“And they lost no opportunity to scorn and disparage it.”

“And so,” I said, “the lame might denounce the swift, and the weak the strong.”

“I do not know,” she said.

“Were you popular?” I asked.

“Certainly not with my fellow female students,” she said.

“That is because you are beautiful,” I said.

She was silent.

“On this world,” I said, “we do not object to beauty. Too, on this world, beauty is abundant, and well exhibited, and well owned. That makes things pleasant for men.”

“I am pleased to be on a world,” she said, “where one is not expected to neglect or ignore beauty, nor pretend that it is meaningless, nor apologize for it, nor belittle it, nor treat it as some flaw, or defect.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “they hated you not simply for your beauty, but because they sensed in you the ancient, natural woman, the yearning, needful woman, who cannot help but respond to men as a slave to her master, something they much feared in themselves, something that terrified them, something they would struggle to resist with informative, betraying ferocity.”

“You think they sensed in me,” she said, “that I should most appropriately be a belonging of men, a female slave?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I think what they sensed in you was what they most feared in themselves.”

“I wonder,” she said, “how they might fare in the collar.”

“Most, I conjecture,” I said, “would not be adjudged worthy of a collar. Forget them. And I suspect that those on whom it was found fit to be placed would soon learn the vacuity of their former views, the artificiality and poverty of their previous ideology, and hasten to press their lips fearfully upon the feet of masters.”

“It is my hope,” she said, “that they would find happiness.”

“It matters not,” I said, “as they would then be slaves.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“So you did not veil yourself?” I said.

“No, Master,” she said, “and, in my part of the world, in my civilization, it is not customary to do so.”

“Truly?” I said.

“Truly,” she said.

“What slaves!” I said.

“But few have masters,” she said.

“That is remedied on Gor,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “-my Master.”

“You had best be on your way,” I said.

“Yes, Master.”

“Bargain well,” I said.

“I trust,” she said, “that I will not be switched, if I have done my best.”

“You will be,” I said, “if your best is not good enough.”

“I see,” she said, uneasily.

I had scarcely ever used the switch on her. Like the whip, it is commonly most effective on its peg. When she realizes that she is subject to the whip, truly, and that it will be used on her, if she is not pleasing, it is seldom, if ever, necessary to use it. Knowing it is there, she will commonly do her best to avoid its stroke, will commonly do her best to be pleasing, fully pleasing. Usually, of course, the girl, after a bit of time at the slave ring, does her best to be pleasing not to avoid the whip or switch, which is a rather prudential, mercenary motivation, after all, but, rather, because she wants to be pleasing to her master. She is, after all, a slave, and he is her master.

I did switch her well, once.

The little she-sleen had wished to reassure herself that she was truly a slave, and had dared to be lax in her duties, and, when questioned, had unwisely been curt, even insolent. I think she was surprised at the force with which she was seized and bound.

“Forgive me, Master!” she wept, at my feet, alarmed. “It is not necessary to strike me! I will mend my ways! I will be good!”

It had doubtless been a test on her part, to ascertain permissions, latitudes, limitations, and such, but I thought it well for her to comprehend what might be the consequences of such a test.

She had, after all, been lax in her duties and, when questioned, had been curt, even insolent, and so, whatever might have been the motivation for these unwise hazards or indulgences, they would have their predictable outcome. In moments, startled, disbelieving, she had rolled, twisting, and miserable, sobbing, crying out for mercy, under the blows of the switch.

“You have been displeasing,” I informed her.

“Forgive me, Master!” she wept, her fair skin flaming with pain.

I then put the switch again to her, and, after a time, as she shrieked for mercy, I desisted, and left her, blubbering on the tiles, bound, behind me.

“Master,” she wept. “Master!”

I left her there, bound, for better than an Ahn.

Before I untied her, I put the switch to her lips, and she kissed it, fervently.

Thereafter I had revoked her general permission to speak, for several days. She must then ask permission to speak, before daring to do so. Too, instead of the normal protocol of her kneeling when entering my presence, or being addressed, I forced her to do such things on her belly, to crawl on her belly into my presence, and remain on her belly before me, unless given permission to assume a different attitude. Too, for some days, I kept her in the bondage of the she-quadruped, or she-tarsk, not permitting her to rise to her feet, but she must go about on all fours. Too, her food and water must be taken from pans on the floor, without the use of her hands. More than once, afterwards, I had caught her pressing her lips to her fingertips, and then pressing her fingertips against her collar. More than once, as well, I had seen her lift her slave-ring chain to her lips, and kiss it.

Her little test was then over and done.

She now realized that she was truly a slave, would be treated as one, and, if appropriate, would be punished as one.

If she had entertained any doubts as to the matter, I gathered they were now dispelled.

She had, some days ago, been returned to the normal parameters of her bondage, had been given a general permission to speak, was permitted to walk about, was permitted to use her hands to feed herself, though I sometimes hand fed her, and was permitted a slave’s normal modalities with respect to entering a room, being addressed, and such, being allowed to kneel, rather than belly.

She became ever more affectionate, ever more eager to please.

Sometimes, as though for good measure, I gave her a stroke of the switch below the small of the back.

I wagered that those who had known her on a far world, when she had been free, might have enjoyed doing so, as well.

I wondered what those who had known her on her own world would think of her now.

I thought the females she had known might envy her, and I thought the males she had known, if they were men, would not be displeased to own her.

I found her, all in all, despite her limitations, and what I had paid for her, an excellent property. Certainly she was a pleasant little beast to have in one’s collar. She would require more training, of course, but I would give her that. One of the pleasures of the mastery is seeing to the improvement of the slave, training her, and such.

“Do the best you can, in the market,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She had wanted to be caressed, but I had thought it best to send her to the market first. Her slave fires, which had begun periodically to roar apace, made her now more a slave than she had ever been.

Those flames would bring her periodically to a man’s feet.

Do they not put her in bondage more than her brand, her collar, and chains?

I opened the door, and watched her go down the balcony, and descend the stairs, leading to the street.

I thought of her, in her way, as being also of the Scribes, though, in her world, I gather that that caste is unknown, despite the fact that it is one of the five high castes. I had spoken to her for many Ahn, telling her of Gor, for what is a paga girl likely to learn of Gor, serving paga, serving pleasure, in an alcove? And she, in her turn, often nude at the slave ring, or before me, stripped, kneeling, hands braceleted behind her, had told me much of her world. It seemed to me a complex, but sorry world, one crowded and polluted, one of noise, fumes, and smoke, of pushing and shoving, one of haste with few places to go, or worth going, one without much love, and one, clearly, without Home Stones, if one can conceive of such a world. Too, it seems those of her world, incredibly, do not much care for their own world. Are they not like animals who would soil their own nest, like madmen who would poison their own air and water? Given a garden of loveliness, would they not burn it, and turn it to ash?

She had now disappeared down the stairwell, on the way to the market.

How beautiful she was!

And how fetching she was, barefoot, in the brief, ragged tunic of blue rep-cloth.

She had clutched the coins in her hand.

Had she been natively Gorean she would probably have carried them in her mouth.

When the fellows in the market saw the color of the tunic they would guess, I supposed, and correctly, that she was the property of a Scribe.