Plunder of Gor (35 page)

More than once I had seized the slave whip, kissed it, and licked it, and, kneeling, proffered it to Kurik of Victoria. “Whip me,” I had begged. “Whip me! I want to be whipped!” “Do not be absurd,” he had laughed, and pulled me to him. It seemed strange to me that I, who muchly feared the whip, would implore this man to use it on me. Interestingly, the Gorean master seldom uses a whip on a slave, even when supplicated to do so. The power of the whip is primarily in its presence, and in its readiness to be used, not in its actual employment. If a slave must be frequently whipped, she must be a very poor slave. She is then less likely to be whipped than sold. Why then had I begged this man to beat me? I suspect, upon reflection, puzzling on this anomaly, that this act convinces the slave that she is truly owned, is truly under the whip, that she is truly a slave, and of this man. This reassures her, heartens her, and pleases her. To be sure, one does not wish too much of this. The slave is not stupid. Convinced of her slavery, she is then likely to go contentedly about her business, that of loving and serving her master. To be sure, sometimes a slave is whipped to remind her that she is a slave. After a lashing, she is no longer in any doubt about that.

I fear that I many times cried out my love for Kurik of Victoria. I wept in his arms, his. At last he cuffed me to silence. “The love of a slave is worthless,” he said. “She is merely to be dominated, owned, ravished, mastered, and put to one's pleasure as the worthless, meaningless beast she is. She is bought, and collared, an article of property. Do not dare speak of love!” “Yes, my Master!” I cried. “Own me, as the worthless, meaningless beast I am!” He then struck me, again. “Do not use the words ‘my Master' to me,” he said, angrily. “Forgive me, Master,” I begged. The slave addresses all free men as ‘Master', and all free women as ‘Mistress', but she uses the words ‘my Master' only to her actual master, her owner. “Perhaps,” I thought, “the love of a slave is worthless, but what love can begin to compare with the love of a slave for her master? What greater, deeper, more profound love can a woman have than that of a humble, abased, collared slave for her master?”

He looked away.

I had seen anger in his eyes, but, too, so briefly, for a moment, I thought I had seen apprehension. He could not fear me, as I was a mere slave. Who then could he fear, but himself? I recalled how, long ago, in Victoria, when I was new to my collar, I had cried out my love for him, and had been soon, I thought abruptly, inexplicably, sold. One is not to care for a slave. Did not all know that? Might one not be mocked for such a weakness? Would that not call forth laughter in the taverns and exercise yards? How that would lessen a man in his own eyes! How then could he respect himself? Did he fear some concession or compromise that might diminish or tarnish his cherished, mighty self-esteem? But could a master not care a little for a slave? Why not? Might he not feel as much for a kaiila or pet sleen? I was afraid, for I wanted to belong to him. I must try to conceal my love for him, but it is not easy for a slave to conceal her love. She is the most open and helpless of all women. How is she to control her expressions, her lips, her tiny movements, her eyes? It is as difficult for her to conceal her feelings as it is her body. Her emotions are as public to view as her lineaments.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said, again, and then, again, he reached for me, and I was drawn again into his arms.

I did not wish to be discarded, as might easily be done with me. How easy it is to sell a slave, or give her away! I must obey. I must be pleasing. Too, I did not wish to be again cuffed. Next time the slave whip might be used on me!

“Oh!” I cried, softly.

“You need a man's hands on your body, slave,” he said, “possessive and commanding.”

“I have been made so,” I said.

“Good,” he said.

“I want to be so,” I said.

“You are so,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Slave,” he sneered.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Then I cried out, helpless in the throes of an ecstasy, that to which he had seen fit to subject me.

Toward noon of the next day, the day on which he was to venture to the House of Flavius Minor, a tool was brought, and my collar was changed. I was told it read, “I am the property of Tenrik of Siba.” I dared not ask him if it were his intention to keep me. I did know that the name on the collar was not his real name. After our evening meal, in which he permitted me some meat, he said, “We must have a new tunic for you.” I nodded. It would not do to keep the bright yellow tunic I had worn at the slave ring, that which I had worn when posing as a guide slave for Tyrtaios, of the Black Court. It was too conspicuous, and guardsmen might well have been instructed to watch for a slave so clad.

“Wear this,” he said, tossing me a handful of cloth.

“It is so tiny,” I said, “and it is damp, and warm.”

“We took it off the body of one of the paga girls,” he said. “Put it on.”

“Master!” I protested.

“Do not be concerned,” he said, “the girl has been given a new, clean tunic, freshly pressed.”

“I am not a paga girl,” I said.

“I need only give you to the proprietor,” he said, “and you will be a paga girl.”

“I do not wish to wear my chain in a tavern,” I said.

“You will wear your chain wherever men wish,” he said.

I slipped into the tunic, for I did not wish to risk a command being repeated.

“Now,” he said, looking at me, as one might look at a paga slave, “you are indistinguishable from a paga girl.”

“Certainly not,” I said.

“Prettier than some, not so pretty as others,” he said.

“We are to leave,” I said, “in the neighborhood of the nineteenth Ahn?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think that will do, well enough.”

“The delivery, the package, the object, or such,” I said, “is to be received at the twentieth Ahn, and is to be claimed at the first Ahn.”

“Exactly at the first Ahn,” he said.

“I am to accompany you,” I said.

“I think that is safest,” he said. “Torture easily loosens a slave's tongue.”

“I wish to accompany you,” I said.

“The decision is mine,” he said.

“Of course,” I said. “Is the House of Flavius Minor far?”

“Not too far,” he said. “It is amongst the houses on the southern piers.”

“How is it,” I asked, “that we depart the Slave Whip at the nineteenth Ahn and claim the object at the first Ahn? That is two Ahn, and surely more than is required to reach the house of Flavius Minor, be it at the southern piers.”

“We will bide a suitable interval,” he said, “at the House of Anesidemus.”

“May I ask,” I asked, “what manner of house is the House of Anesidemus?”

“Certainly,” he said. “It is a slave market.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“She is so beautiful!” I exclaimed.

“She will do,” said Kurik of Victoria.

I knelt beside him, at his knee, as he sat in the tiers, savoring the sales of women, below.

“See this one,” called the auctioneer, turning the beauty before the buyers, with deft touches of his whip, “see this olive skinned, green eyed beauty, with long, glossy, night-black hair, recently imported, with many others, from the World's End. Think of her at your slave ring, leaping helplessly in your arms! Train her in slave dance. Chain her outside your place of business. Would she not bring in customers? Buy her to rent her out. Buy her on speculation! If she is proud, humble her. If she is displeasing, whip her.”

I heard bids called from the floor.

“Sixty copper tarsks!” I heard.

“Eighty!”

“Eighty-five!”

“Surely she is worth more, Master,” I said. I had seldom seen a more beautiful woman.

“This is a cheap market,” said Kurik of Victoria. “Men do not have much to spend here.”

“Surely that is not a cheap-market girl,” I said.

“I think not,” he said. “I have seen worse marketed from the central block of the Curulean.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Nor do I,” said Kurik. “It is an anomaly. Perhaps she muchly displeased someone, and he wished her sold beneath her value, to humiliate or punish her, assuring himself that she would find herself the property of a rude, lowly, impatient master, that she would be worked hard, and wear her chain in a hovel. Perhaps someone wanted her sold inconspicuously and cheaply, for some reason. Perhaps the matter was sensitive, in some way. Perhaps she was of high caste, and had enemies, and her seller chose to dispose of her, to lessen the risk of having her fall into the hands of enemies.”

“A merciful vendor,” I said.

“If so,” he said, “she should strive to be a humble, inconspicuous, and perfect slave.”

“We all hope to be pleasing,” I said. “We are all collared.”

“But perhaps she was of high caste, and known, and her seller did not want her to be purchased by a friend, and freed,” said Kurik.

“I think there is little danger of that,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Once the collar is on them they are slaves.”

“Who would free a slave girl?” I laughed.

“I see you now know something of Gor,” he said.

“I have learned much in the collar,” I said.

“Only a fool would free a slave girl,” he said. “They are better as slaves. One wants them as slaves.”

“Yes,” I said, delighted, at his knee.

“The slave bow,” said the auctioneer, seizing the slave by the hair and bending her backward so that the joy of her figure was displayed for the buyers.

“Ninety copper tarsks!” I heard.

“Ninety-two!” called another, not far from where we were in the tiers, about two-thirds of the distance between the raised, torch-lit block, and the last row, against the back wall.

“Straighten up,” ordered the auctioneer. “Hands behind the back of your neck, turn. Good. Enough. You may now lower your hands. The buyers have seen what you look like, so posed. Is she not lovely, Masters? Now, kneel, address the masters. Beg to be purchased!”

The whip snapped.

The slave fell to her knees, and extended her hands, piteously, to the buyers. “Buy me, please, buy me, Masters!” she begged.

There was laughter.

In the alcove, earlier, when I had learned that the house of Anesidemus was a slave market, I had, distraught, in misery, cast myself to my belly before Kurik of Victoria, who was sitting, cross-legged, his back to the leather curtain. I lifted my head, tears in my eyes. “Keep me!” I begged. “Do not sell me!”

“I have no intention of selling you,” he said.

“But, the slave market!” I said.

“I enjoy seeing women sold,” he said.

“You do not intend to sell me?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Master!” I wept, gratefully.

“At least not immediately,” he said. “You are privy to matters concerning which discretion is imperative.”

I was silent, on my belly.

“Too,” he said, “you juice well.”

“Own me,” I said. “Your collar, I beg your collar, your real collar, your true collar, not that on me now, not some false collar, not some dissembling collar, not one of duplicity and subterfuge! I want to wear the true collar of my master! Put slave claim on me!”

“You would be mine?” he said.

“Yes!” I said.

“You would follow me?”

“I would follow you!” I said.

“Heeling me, appropriately?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

This expression, in this context, of course, was symbolic. To “heel appropriately” signified that one's submission would be utter and uncompromised.

“If you follow me, you will follow in my chains,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” I said, “Master!”

This expression, too, of course, was used metaphorically. To “follow in a man's chains” is a way of alluding to the categorical and absolute nature of the bondage to which the slave would be subjected. The stoutest chains of her servitude would be legal, social, psychological, and cultural. To be sure, it is not unknown for a girl to follow her master in chains, literally. She is, after all, a slave.

I was begging Kurik of Victoria to own me.

To be sure, when a master decides to own a girl what she wishes is no longer of interest or importance. He will then see to it that she will be a helpless, total slave. It is the way of Gor.

He looked at me.

“I put slave claim on you,” he said.

I then lay before him, in the furs. I remember feeling the shackle, and chain, on my left ankle. And I think I then, overcome, lost consciousness in the furs.

Sometime later I regained consciousness.

My master was putting his across-the-body satchel in order.

“It must be nearly the nineteenth Ahn,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“We will soon leave,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “in a bit.”

“Surely I am not to wear this tiny thing, this partly torn rag,” I said, “this soiled paga tunic, outside the tavern, openly, publicly, in the streets?”

“You will do so,” he said. “And you will find yourself well regarded.”

“Masters, it seems,” I said, “enjoy displaying their properties.”

“Yes,” he said, “it is one of the many pleasures of the mastery.”

“I have one silver tarsk ten!” called the auctioneer. “That is too little, far too little, for such a beauty. Who will bid more? See her in your chains, kneeling at your slave ring! Who will bid more?”

“A silver tarsk ten is too much for a slave!” called a fellow from the darkness of the tiers.

“He would think,” said Kurik of Victoria, “sixty or seventy copper tarsks would be too much.”

“Many,” said a fellow, near us, “go for no more than thirty or forty in this market.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Kurik of Victoria, my master.

I was now his property, I belonged to him, as might a sandal or a pet sleen. I was overjoyed to belong to such a man. What woman would not wish to be owned by such a man? I must strive to be such a good slave to him! I must please him so! And his touch! How could a woman not in a collar experience such ecstasy? He must not sell me! He must not sell me! I must strive to please him so! “Do not sell me, Master,” I thought. “Do not sell me!”

“Well, Adraste, mediocre slave,” said the auctioneer to his charge, the merchandise being vended at the moment, “it seems we can get no more for you than a silver tarsk ten.”

He loosened the blades of the slave whip.

“Forgive me, Master!” she pleaded.

“Is the slave vital?” called a man from the tiers.

“Is she alive?” called another.

“Stand upright, Adraste,” said the auctioneer. “Clasp your hands together, behind your neck. Part your feet a little.”

“Master?” she said.

“Now,” he said. “Good.”

“What manner of name is ‘Adraste', Master?” I asked.

“Cosian,” he said. “But she could be from anywhere. We name them as we wish.”

“She was imported from the World's End, it was said,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But she is not native to the World's End. The slaves native to the World's End have their special sort of beauty.”

“Doubtless many of them are now entering the markets,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “and doubtless, similarly, many slaves native to the continent and the islands are now being shipped west, to the World's End.”

“Dear Masters,” called the auctioneer, “I had originally thought this slave an unusual buy, an excellent buy, but your bids have convinced me of my error. Clearly, as determined by the hesitancy and reluctance, the indifference, of your bids, she is, as I now recognize,
ela
, merely another mediocre slave.”

There was laughter from the tiers.

In this market, I had gathered, a bid of a silver tarsk, or more, was an excellent bid.

The slave stood on the block, stripped, as women are sold, her feet in the sawdust, her body illuminated in the torchlight, her hands clasped behind the back of her neck, her feet slightly parted.

The auctioneer had drifted behind her.

“Should the auctioneer not close the sale?” I asked.

“Shortly,” said Kurik, of Victoria.

A shriek rang out in the auditorium.

“Master!” I cried.

“You have never been sold from a block, have you?” asked Kurik.

“No,” I said.

“It is the Slaver's Caress,” he said.

The woman had cried out, wildly, startled, disbelievingly, protestingly, dismayed at what had been done to her, how she had been unexpectedly, callously forced to betray herself.

Raucous male laughter, in gales, greeted her response.

“No, no!” she cried.

“Get your hands together, behind the back of your neck!” warned the auctioneer.

“Please do not show me so before the men!” she begged.

“Apparently she is not used to being sold,” said Kurik.

The whip flashed twice and the woman cried out with pain, and threw herself to the auctioneer's feet, pressing her lips upon them.

How I feared then what must be the kiss of the Gorean slave whip!

“On your feet,” said the auctioneer, “stand, hands clasped behind your neck, feet spread, as before, no, more widely!”

The woman, sobbing, obeyed.

Then she cried out, again, helplessly.

“Do we not have a juicy pudding here?” inquired the auctioneer.

There was more laughter.

“She was, I wager,” said a fellow, “once of high caste, so lofty and regal she was, but now she is revealed as only another tasta!”

“They are all tastas,” said another.

“Yes,” agreed another.

Little love was lost between the higher castes and the lower castes. Indeed, it is one of the occasional pleasures of a lower-caste male to obtain a slave who was once of a high caste, usually one who has been captured from another city, a prize in one of the many skirmishes, wars, and raids that characterize the municipalities of Gor. One can then well imagine how the woman is treated by one she would have, perhaps only days or weeks ago, regarded as a social inferior, one beneath her attention, once she is a slave. She is then made well aware of her bondage. How then, a slave, once such a high woman, she must strive to please her lowly master!

How ready the whip is to instruct such!

“A hot little vulo!” called a fellow in the second tier.

“Please, not again, Master!” sobbed the woman.

“Remain standing, as you are,” said the auctioneer.

“Aii!” she cried.

“She objects,” said Kurik, “the little fool. Does she think she is free? Does she not know there is a collar on her neck?”

“How she is shamed before the men!” I said. “Perhaps she was once of significant station, of high caste!”

“Why should one be shamed, to have been demonstrated to be alive, healthy, vital, and well?” asked Kurik.

“Still!” I protested.

“She is in a collar,” he said. “Do you think you would respond otherwise?”

“I fear not,” I whispered.

Well did I remember that I, long ago, on a wharf in Victoria, had been subjected to the Slaver's Caress. How I had leaped, startled! How I had, unexpectedly, unmistakably, revealed myself as appropriately collared!

“Surely, Masters,” called the auctioneer to the crowd, “you have seen enough!”

Bids stormed forth from the tiers.

The woman sold for a silver tarsk fifty, which, I gather, was a splendid price for such a market.

“The slut is yours,” said the auctioneer, thrusting the woman down the steps of the block to his left where an attendant seized her and threw her to the feet of her new master, counting out his coins at the pay table. The block is commonly ascended by means of the stairs on the auctioneer's right, and descended, as in this case, by means of the stairs to his left, as he would face the auditorium.

“Poor woman,” I said.

“Not at all,” said Kurik. “Do not concern yourself with her. She is a slave, a beast, as are you.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, kneeling beside him.

“What do you think you would bring?” he asked.

“Very little, I fear,” I said. Indeed, if such a woman did not bring a full two silver tarsks, what might I expect, a partially trained barbarian?

“It is a low market, of course,” he said.

“I hope Master is not contemplating selling me,” I said.

“After tonight,” he said, “it would not matter, one way or another.”

Tonight his imminent business was to be concluded at the house of Flavius Minor, perhaps within the Ahn.