Mariners of Gor (82 page)

“I knew a barbarian once,” said Callias, “who not only lacked a Home Stone, but did not know what a Home Stone was.”

“That is more serious,” I granted him. “I am sure she knows now!”

“But a slave is not permitted one,” he said, “no more than a verr, a tarsk or kaiila.”

“True,” I said.

“There are places, I am told, on the world, Earth, where free women do not veil themselves.”

“Shameless,” I said.

“You know why that is, do you not?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Because they are slaves,” he said. “They bare their features that men may look upon them, and scrutinize them, and ponder them, and assess them, and consider them as what they are, as slaves.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“And do you not think their men do not strip them in their minds, imagine them naked in collars, and consider what they might pay for them?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”

“Do you not do the same with free women,” he asked. “Do not we all, perhaps glimpsing an ankle, a bared wrist, a fluttering veil, the turn of a hip within the robes of concealment?”

“Master!” protested Alcinoë.

“Be quiet, girl,” said Callias.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are attractive in your tunic,” said Callias, “but I think we may shorten it, considerably.”

“As Master wishes,” she said.

“Also,” he said, “there are many of these slaves brought to Gor who do not even know how to please a man, are ignorant even of the dances of slaves.”

“They may be taught,” I said.

“I would conjecture that your little barbarian,” he said, “knows nothing of the dances of slaves.”

“She could be taught,” I said.

“Do you think she might look well, writhing before you, hoping to please her master, fearing your whip did she not do so?”

“I would think she would look quite well,” I said.

“Has she not in her imagination, many times, naked and in a collar, so danced, danced as a slave before men, fearing their whips?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“She has,” said Callias. “That was clear in her expressions, in her movements, in the tavern. She is a slave.”

“You think so?” I said.

“She is a slave to the core, awaiting her master.”

“And she is gone, sold!” I said.

“Poor, dear Master,” breathed Alcinoë.

“There will never be another,” I said.

“And there need not be another,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Alcinoë,” he said, “are your thighs hot?”

“That is not all that is hot, my Master!” she whispered.

“I take it you are well lubricated,” he said, “and are oiling nicely?”

“Yes, Master!”

“Are you ready to squirm as the slut you are?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Do you beg to do so?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Yes, Master!”

“My dear friend,” said Callias to me, “as I recall, you mentioned you might arrange some bedding.”

“It is at the side of the room,” I said.

“Perhaps you might spread it for us,” said Callias.

“What?” I said.

“We are your guests,” he said.

“It is right there,” I said, pointing.

“And you are our host,” he said.

“You have spent several nights here,” I said. “Is it suddenly so inaccessible?”

“Please,” said Callias.

“Very well,” I said.

I moved toward the bedding.

“Wait!” I said.

“What?” he said.

“We shall learn her fate,” I said. “In the morning, we will venture to
The Sea Sleen
, find out to whom she was sold, contact him, and buy her back!”

“She had no papers,” said Callias. “The transaction was informal. She is nameless. It would be difficult to trace her. Moreover, it seems she was not purchased by one of Brundisium, but by an itinerant, one bound abroad.”

“Surely there is a name,” I said.

“Apparently,” said he, “no name was given.”

“We must watch the gates,” I said, “the piers!”

“All of them?” he asked.

“What shall we do?” I asked.

“I would think about retiring,” he said. “Is there not the matter of the bedding?”

“I trust that you will enjoy Alcinoë,” I said.

“I intend to,” he said.

“Please, hurry, Master,” said Alcinoë.

“Do not be bitter,” he said. “Remember that your paga girl is only a slave.”

“So, too, then,” I said, “is your Alcinoë.”

“Yes, yes,” said Alcinoë. “Please, Master.”

“You are quite right,” he said. “Alcinoë is, of course, only a slave, but one must note, as well, that she is different, perfect, wonderful, unique, special, and incomparable, unparalleled, and the most desirable woman on all Gor.”

“Please,” said Alcinoë, “please, Master!”

“To you,” I said.

“Surely you acknowledge she is quite nice,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “she is quite nice.”

“The bedding, the bedding,” he said.

I reached down, angrily, seizing the first covering to hand, one of the down-filled comforters, for I could not afford furs, and lifted it back.

“Aii!” I cried.

“I expect to be leaving in a few days,” he said. “I do want to see the
River Dragon
sail.”

“You are an itinerant,” I said, “one bound abroad!”

“Yes,” he said, “one soon bound abroad.”

“You gave no name,” I said.

“No,” he said, “but I suppose some might have recollected it, from before.”

The large, soft eyes of the girl were frightened, looking up at me. She squirmed a little, but was helpless. She was naked, of course, and bound, hand and foot. I turned her quickly, exposing the left thigh, high, just under the hip. She was kefed, the letter nicely entered into her thigh. How beautiful is the
kef
! And how meaningful, recognized on all Gor. I then put her to her back. She pulled at her bound wrists; her small ankles were crossed, and thonged closely together, as had been her wrists. She was not collared, but such an oversight may be remedied quickly, at the shop of any Metal Worker. I already had one in mind, he closest to my dwelling, scarcely yards away. I would have to have a slave ring put in, and buy some chains, rope, binding fiber, slave bracelets, perhaps ankle rings, and, surely, an attractive leash. In time, if she proved satisfactory, I might even consider a tunic, or two, the sort of tunic men choose for owned women. I doubted if, when on her own world, her old world, that no longer her world, as she was now of Gor, she had anticipated her present helplessness, and the absoluteness of her new condition, that of a Gorean
kajira
.

She looked small, half concealed in the bedding, that within which she had been placed.

I held up the lamp, and, in its light, examined her, from the smallness of her thonged feet, to the curves of her calves, and thighs, the sweetness of her love cradle, the narrowness of her waist, the delights of a small but ample, well-proportioned, exciting bosom, which would be so vulnerable to the caresses, the lips, and kisses of a master, to her rounded forearms, half pulled behind her, her soft shoulders, the white throat, yet to be closely clasped in a signet of bondage, her exquisite features, her lips, and eyes, her wide, frightened eyes, and her dark hair, which I supposed had not been cut since her arrival in some slave pen, as Gorean masters commonly like long hair in a slave. She presumably did not even know the pen, or its location, in which she had first learned that she was now a property, goods, to be disposed of as men might see fit.

“I trust,” said Callias, “she is the right one.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!”

“Good,” he said.

“You bought her!” I said.

“For you,” he said. “The barbarian is yours.”

“I can never pay you back,” I said.

“You could,” he said, “as the tarn disk in your wallet, which you were so careless with a moment ago, would buy several such as she.”

“Allow me to recompense you,” I said.

“No,” he said. “She is a gift. And one of not much importance.”

“She is the world to me,” I exclaimed.

“Continue her examination,” he said.

“‘Continue’?” I said.

“Turn her,” he said, “put her on her belly.”

I did so.

“A bit slender,” he said, “but lovely lines.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Sit up, girl,” said Callias, and the slave turned about and struggled to a sitting position before us. Her hair was partly before her face. She drew back a little, from my hand, frightened. I brushed the hair to the side.

“I did not allow her to speak,” said Callias.

I nodded. She had been then, as it is said, gagged by the master’s will.

“Perhaps she has heard more than we might like, words which might frighten her, or go to her head,” he said, “but I did not wish to leave her lying about, just anywhere.”

“Certainly, Master,” said Alcinoë, “it will not hurt her to know that she has been found of interest by free men, and is desired.”

“No,” said Callias, “so much is known by any woman who is bought off the block or pulled by the hair from her cage.”

“Even muchly desired?” smiled Alcinoë.

“You will need a whip, of course,” said Callias.

“Of course,” I said.

Fear showed in the slave’s eyes. I gathered she had been whipped, perhaps in the slave pen, long ago, to help her understand she was a slave, and perhaps in the paga tavern, to assist in her training. She impressed me as a frightened, timid, bashful slave, who well knew herself a slave, and would be muchly concerned to be found pleasing by her masters. Such slaves scarcely ever feel the lash. There would be no point to it. The slave is to be worked, mastered, and enjoyed. If one is not interested in relishing and cherishing a slave, why own one?

“To be sure,” said Callias, “she may have heard too much, but if she is wise she will not attempt to grow bold, or presume on a master’s indulgence. It is a simple thing, when she is in your collar, to correct such mistakes. Let her be in no doubt that when she is in your presence, she is, so to speak, to be on her knees. Too, perhaps, we overspoke ourselves, or your mind may change, and the whim of one day be unknown to the whim of another day. Keep her as the slave she is, and all should go well.”

“I see,” I said.

“Besides,” he said, “you have not owned her before. Perhaps you have overestimated her. Perhaps she will not prove to be satisfactory.”

“She is so beautiful,” I said.

“Then you could sell her,” he said.

“Master!” said Alcinoë.

“So let her rejoice, hope that all will go well, and tread softly,” he said. Then he turned to the seated, bound slave, who shrank back. Callias, when he wished, could be intimidating. “You are no longer a paga girl,” he told her. “You have been purchased. I bought you. You are a gift.” He then indicated me. “I bought you for him. You are now his. You belong to him,” he said. “Do you understand?”

The slave nodded.

“I have not given her permission to speak,” said Callias.

“I see,” I said.

“You are in the presence of your master,” said Callias. “Get on your knees, and put your head down, to the floor.”

The slave struggled to comply.

How beautiful she was, so before me.

“Step back,” said Callias to me.

I moved back, a few feet, across the floor.

“Now,” said Callias to the kneeling girl, bent over, her head down to the floor, “to your belly, and wriggle across the floor, to your master, and then put your head down, and lick and kiss his feet, until you are permitted to stop.”

I stood back, and watched this dream of pleasure, bit by bit, struggling, approach me, as a bound slave, and then that beautiful dark hair was about my feet, and I felt her lips and tongue, those of this beautiful animal, a slave, my beautiful belonging, caress my feet.

There are many gestures of submission.

The common submission of a free woman, usually rendered in terror of her life, as amidst the flames of a burning city, is to kneel before the male, and lift her crossed wrists to him, her head bowed between her arms. In this way her submission is clear, and she is hoping to buy her life with her beauty, the crossed wrists, ready for binding, indicating that she is pleading to be accepted as a slave. If she is accepted, the wrists are usually bound, and she is expected to follow her captor docilely. Sometimes, of course, after this gesture, she is put to her belly, her wrists are bound indeed, but behind her, and a rope is put on her neck, or, sometimes, a nose ring, on a cord, is affixed, such things functioning as a leash or tether.