Prize of Gor (17 page)

Ellen was in misery, but she had no alternative but to serve with all the perfection of which she was capable. She was in the presence of her master. Too, later she knew, she might have to face the switch of Tutina. She feared that even a drop might be spilled upon the tablecloth. The subtleties between Ellen and Tutina doubtless escaped the attention of the guests, though, one supposes, from his amused expression, not that of their master.

Masters are often amused by such things, the small rivalries, altercations, frictions and tensenesses among their properties.

As the meal continued Ellen continued to serve the various courses, bringing them to the table.

At one point her master indicated the coffee table, and said, “You may clear, Ellen.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, and went to clear the glasses, the plates and such, left earlier from the
hors d’oeuvres
and the sherry, from the coffee table. She referred to him as ‘Sir’, as she had been told.

She supposed that the room might have been arranged, as it was, in order that the new woman would be pleased, and feel more comfortable, more at home. It was certainly not Gorean in style, appointments, furnishings, and such. Gorean decor varies from latitude to latitude, from city to city, and home to home, but, in general, it tends to simplicity and openness, this presumably a heritage deriving from some remote tradition.

Ellen, quietly, deferentially, soon returned to the larger table, with its sparkling linen and elegant appointments, and, as appropriate, resumed her duties there, continuing to attend unobtrusively to the various courses. It was a lovely supper, surely, in its stateliness, gentility and sophistication, and might have been pleasantly, congenially served in almost any affluent, elegant home on her former world.

When spoken to she would quietly and respectfully respond with titles she had been told were to be used, ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’. She used ‘Ma’am’ also to Tutina.

She had now come to the fourth meat course.

It might be mentioned that the diners’ clothing was elegantly congruent with their surroundings. The two men wore tuxedos. The two women wore evening gowns. It was apparently a celebration of some sort, perhaps one at the conclusion of some piece of business brought to a successful conclusion, or some piece of work that was now finished, and with which they might be well satisfied.

In all the appointments and furnishings, in all the garmentures of the diners, and such, in all that seemed so elegant, so nicely arranged, so well fitted together, there was only one oddity, or anomaly, in the room.

“You men are monsters,” laughed the new woman, she unknown to Ellen.

“How is that” smiled her benign companion.

“Come now!” she laughed. “I have been silent long enough!”

Ellen’s master indicated that she should continue serving.

“No, no,” said the woman. “Your name is ‘Ellen’?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Stop what you are doing,” said the woman, “and come here, and stand beside me.”

Ellen looked to her master, who indicated she should comply, and so, in a moment she had come about the table, and was standing beside the chair of the new woman, she unknown to her.

The one oddity, or anomaly, in the room was Ellen, for she was naked. She wore only a narrow band on her neck, a slave collar.

“You’re very pretty, Ellen,” said the woman.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Why have you not been given clothing?” she asked.

“I am to serve as I am, Ma’am,” said Ellen, head down. She fought to hold back tears. Why, indeed, wondered Ellen, had her master had her serve in this fashion, naked, before strangers, before his guests, one of them a woman? Surely this could not be a common thing. Then she feared that it might be a common thing, or that it would be a common thing, at least
for her
. Can he hate me so much, she asked herself. Does it please him, she wondered, to treat me so ignominiously, to so unmitigatedly subjugate me, to so completely and absolutely humiliate me in this fashion, forcing me to serve as a naked slave? Then the thought came to her that of course it pleased him, and richly pleased him. He would derive from it much pleasure. She remembered their past. Yes, he would indeed enjoy having her serve guests as his naked slave! And then she had a sense of the powers and pleasures of the master.

But then she wondered, and this frightened her even more. Perhaps her master had had her serve so for no particular reason that had to do with her personally. At least in the one case, she would have some importance to him. At least in that case, she would have his attention, and interest. But perhaps he had merely had her serve naked in order to show her off, to display her, much as any lovely object one owns might be displayed. And if that were the case there was nothing particularly personal in his decision. Perhaps she was in no way special to him, but was now only another of perhaps several properties.

But then she thought, no, he wanted me here, me, exactly. He is doing this to me, personally. He wants me to feel the power and might of his will, and what he can have of me, what he can, if he wishes, make me do.

How he must hate me, she thought.

But I would rather have him hate me than ignore me, she thought. I love him. I love him!

“At least you have been given a piece of jewelry,” said the woman. “It sets you off nicely. It is extremely attractive. It is a collar of some sort, is it not?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Bend down, here, near me,” said the woman, “so that I may have a closer look.”

Ellen complied, and the woman, then turned about in her chair, began to examine the flat, close-fitting, narrow band on her neck.

“Lower,” said the woman.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

Ellen felt her hair, at the back of her neck, brushed aside.

“There is a lock here,” said the woman, surprised.

“Yes,” said Mirus.

“Can you remove the collar, Ellen?” asked the woman.

“She cannot remove it,” said Mirus. “To be sure, it may be removed by means of the key, or by means of appropriate tools.”

The woman indicated that Ellen might straighten up, but did not dismiss her. Accordingly, Ellen must remain where she was, beside her.

“Shame on you, Mirus,” smiled the woman, “for not giving this pretty little thing clothing, for making her serve us naked.”

“Do not concern yourself,” said Mirus.

“And for putting her in a locked collar!”

“It is a slave collar,” said Mirus.

“A slave collar?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” said Mirus. “She is a slave girl.”

“You have female slavery on Gor?” said the woman.

“And male slavery,” said her companion, lifting his wine glass to her, as though toasting her.

“At least you are consistent!” she laughed.

“Male slaves,” said Mirus, “are less in evidence. It is not unusual for them to be kept chained, and put to heavy labors, in the fields, the quarries, the galleys, such places.”

“Female slaves, on the other hand, like our pretty little Ellen here,” said her companion, “are usually set to less arduous labors, though perhaps to tasks commonly more repetitive and servile. They are useful for domestic labors. Too, of course, they can be used with great frequency for purposes which comport with their beauty.”

“You can’t be serious,” said the woman.

“They are slave girls,” said her companion.

“They must do as they are told?” she asked.

“Yes,” said her companion, “absolutely, and instantly.”

“Are you a female slave, Ellen?” asked the woman.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“Then you must obey in all things, absolutely and instantly?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ellen.

“I thought that slaves were branded,” said the woman to Mirus.

“Not all,” said Mirus, “though it is recommended by Merchant Law. Turn your left thigh to our guest, Ellen. Look high, just under the hip.

“She is branded!” said the woman.

“Yes,” said Mirus.

“What a beautiful mark!” said the woman.

“It is the most common brand for a female slave on Gor,” said Mirus. “It is the cursive kef. ‘Kef’ is the first letter in the Gorean expression ‘kajira’, which means ‘slave girl’.”

“How beautifully it sets her off,” said the woman.

“It is recognized throughout Gor,” said Mirus. “It instantly, anywhere on this world, identifies its wearer as a female slave.”

So, thought Ellen, I have been given a common brand, that appropriate for any low girl! So that is how he thinks of me! That is how he rates me! But it is beautiful! And it is doubtless, if it is indeed the most common brand, worn by thousands, at least, of girls on this world. A common brand! But, of course, she thought, that is exactly the brand he would see to it that I would have!

He is that sort of master!

Ellen recalled that the first words she had been taught on Gor were ‘La kajira’ —’I am a slave girl.’ She had not understood at the time what they meant. How she had cried out with terror and misery when she had learned! It had occurred in the lesson where she was learning to bring a switch to a man in her teeth. She had had, of course, little doubt as to her nature and condition before that, but it had never been made so simply, so explicitly, clear to her. Perhaps it had been best left unsaid? Perhaps she was only being trained to be some sort of intimate servant? But surely that seemed unlikely, that the young man would have accorded her so exalted a status as “servant.” Not as his eyes had feasted upon her! Perhaps it was all a joke, or a dream? But then she heard the word, explicitly, and realized that
slave
was what she was, that that was now her absolute and incontrovertible identity, and that this identity, mercilessly imposed upon her, had behind it the full force of law.

It was interesting, she thought, that these words had been required of her so early, so soon after her arrival on Gor. Even then, it seemed, despite her reputation, her professionalism, her credentials, her achievements, her years, even then, it seemed, they had thought of her as no more than a slave girl.

So, thought Ellen, not all slaves are branded. But she supposed that most were, doubtless the overwhelming majority of them. Certainly in her case, it was easy to note, indeed, one had but to look in the mirror, that her master had not seen fit to exempt her from that apparently optional mercantile and social convenience, from bearing, it burned nicely into her thigh, that lovely, small, simple token of her condition. To be sure, it has its effects on the slave, as well. It impresses upon her that she
is a slave
, no more than a marked property, and this understanding profoundly affects her concept of herself, that she is only,
but exactly
, slave, giving it, perhaps to her terror and misery, structure, identity, depth, substance and meaning. She is no longer something vague, uncertain, confused, free-floating, unanchored, intangible, a nothing, a troubled, unhappy cipher, humanly meaningless, something without purpose, without definition, without direction. She is now something, and very precisely so. It informs her sense of her own body, its richness, vulnerability and beauty; it affects her thoughts, her feelings, her needs, her emotions, her entire existence. She now knows herself, in the very depths of her heart, something 
—
slave
.

How routinely she had been branded and collared!

To be sure, he had waited until he had had his fill of amusement, or vengeance, exploiting her, humiliating her, commanding her, exhibiting her before his guests, having her perform before them.

Then she had been routinely branded and collared.

Is it so obvious, she had asked herself, that I am a slave, that I should be a slave?

But on a world such as this what could a woman such as I be but a slave?

Is that not the purpose for which women such as I are brought to this world, to be the helpless, rightless slaves of absolute and sovereign masters?

But had he not, apart from such things, aside from all such considerations, such general things, simply looked upon me long ago, personally, individually, uniquely, and seen that I was a slave, and should be a slave?

Had he conjectured me then, I wonder, stripped, perhaps bound helplessly, hand and foot, lying before him, at his feet, his?

Certainly there had been little ceremony about it. It was rather as though it were to be expected, as though it were something to be taken for granted, something obvious, something to be accomplished in the normal course of things, at least with one such as she. She had been taken to a room, where she had been stripped and had had her hands braceleted behind her; she had then been placed in the rack, in which her left leg had been held immobile. The marking itself took only a few moments. While she was gasping, and sobbing, and crying, shuddering, trying to comprehend the enormity of what had been done to her, the collar had been put on her neck, and locked. The anklet was then removed. It was apparently no longer needed. Her tunic had then been put in her mouth and she had been returned, bent over, in leading position, a guard’s hand in her hair, to her cage. In the hall a girl laughed and said, “You are now no different from us!” Another said, “See the one who was the pretentious little Ubara, now only another marked slut!” “Are you humbled now, Collar Meat?” inquired another. “Put the little Ubara up for sale!” said another. “She is well ready!” “Beat her and throw her to a master,” called another. “Mind them not,” called another. “You are exquisite!” “The sleek little beast has been well marked,” said another. “It is high time,” laughed another.” “Why did they wait?” asked another. “Who knows?” “Do not question masters,” said another. “They do as they wish!” “You have a lovely brand!” called another. “Do I, Master?” begged Ellen. “Yes,” he said. “You are now no different from us,” cried another. “See the collar! See the collar!” laughed another. “More collar meat!” cried another. “For the masters!” added another. “See the collar!” “How nicely it fits!” “Slip it, slut!” “Oh, you cannot, can you?” moaned another in mock sympathy. “Poor kajira!” “It looks well on you, little Ubara!” “It looks nice on you!” “Get used to collars, Earth slut! You will doubtless wear dozens!” “Your collar is pretty,” said another, “but not so pretty as mine!” “Master?” asked Ellen. “No,” said the guard. “Yours is quite as pretty, perhaps more so.” Ellen could not even feel the collar on her neck, but she turned her head, and moved it, as she could, the hand so tight in her hair, to feel it. It was there. Her thigh still stung, but that would pass in a day or two. “How beautiful she is,” said a girl, from within a cell. “She should bring a high price,” commented another. “No,” said a third, “she is too young!” “And she is too stupid and ignorant,” said another. “She is from Earth, no more than a little barbarian!” “But she is pretty!” said another. “A very pretty girl!” “Men will prefer a woman,” said another. “She is a woman,” said another, “and men will find her delicious.” “She will writhe well beneath their whips,” said another. “See yourself, see yourself!” called another. “See yourself as you are now, pretentious little Earth slut!” “Kajira! Kajira!” called another. “May I see, Master? May I see, Master?” she had begged. “No,” he had said. So she must wait. The bracelets would not be removed until the next morning. At her first opportunity, the next day, she hurried to her training room, to take advantage of the mirrors there. And she beheld in one of the great mirrors — as she gasped, as she stood there, stunned, even disbelievingly — a startlingly beautiful young female slave. The Gorean culture, with its penchant for naturalness and beauty, and with skills doubtless honed in slave houses over generations, had learned well how to dress and adorn its lovely chattels, so natural, and essential, and beautiful a part of its rich and complex world. There would be no mistake about such things. She regarded herself in the mirror, taken aback, almost in awe. Could it be she? It was she, she realized, it was! It could be no other! It was she! How the collar enhanced her beauty, in a thousand ways, aesthetically and psychologically, and how delicately, unmistakably, and beautifully, too, was her status, condition, and nature made clear, fixedly and absolutely, by the tiny, tasteful mark placed in her body, in her thigh, just beneath the hip, a site recommended by Merchant Law, a mark proclaiming her the most exciting and beautiful of women,
kajira
.