Prize of Gor (30 page)

“I do not think I could do that,” said Ellen.

“Some girls use a folded cloth, folded in a circle, between the basket and the head. That provides a cushion, and seats the burden with greater security.”

“Even so,” said Ellen, dubiously.

“Lift it up. Use two hands. No, stand straighter. Good. Hands up. Put your hands up. Higher. Higher. Oh, yes, the men will like that! You are indeed pretty, Ellen. Now walk. Away. Down the line. No, no, not that way. Not as a free Earth woman. That is behind you. You are now a female slave. Here, stop. Let me show you.”

Ellen stood back.

“Like this,” said Ina.

“Oh, Mistress!” exclaimed Ellen.

“Walking away, turning, approaching. Like this. See?”

“You are so beautiful!” said Ellen.

“And they, the silly beasts,” laughed Ina, “may not even know what you are doing to them. They may not even understand why they are ready to kill for you.”

“I do not know if I could do that,” said Ellen.

“Walking away, turning, approaching,” said Ina, “you seem perhaps no more than a burdened slave, but you can drive them mad with passion, and the wanting of you.”

“Oh, Mistress,” breathed Ellen.

“We are slaves,” said Ina. “If we are to please, and thrive, we must make do with the little that is permitted us.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“What weapons have we, we, in our collars? Our weapons are our intelligence, our beauty, our body. If you would have a good life as a female slave, you must learn to use them well.”

“What of passion, Mistress?”

“Strange that an Earth female would even think of that,” said Ina. “Passion we will have little control over. They will enforce it. They will imperiously enrapture us, and, as it pleases them, take us outside of ourselves with ecstasy. They will make us begging, needful, at their feet.”

“I have never experienced such ecstasies,” said Ellen.

“You will be taught,” said Ina.

“Is it wrong to long for such ecstasies?” asked Ellen.

“No, of course not,” she said. “You are a female slave.”

“I fear I long for them, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“That is understandable,” said Ina, “but remember that for such as you, slave girl, they are also obligatory.”

“Yes, Mistress,” whispered Ellen, scarcely hearing herself speak.

Ina smiled at her. Ellen must have seemed to her so young, so ignorant, so naive. And yet both their necks were encircled with slave collars.

Ellen looked at her, plaintively.

“Yes?” said Ina.

“I have heard,” said Ellen, cautiously, whispering, “of the
slave orgasm
.”

Ina suddenly closed her eyes, gritting them shut, forcibly, and her teeth seemed clenched. Then she opened her eyes, and smiled. “Yes,” she said, “there is that. And once you have felt that, little Ellen, you will never want to be anything other than what you are, a female slave.”

Ina then gently placed the basket on Ellen’s head, and Ellen held it there, with two hands.

“Walk away,” said Ina. “That is far enough. Turn. Hands high, remember. Surely you know what that does for your figure. How naturally then, how helplessly do you seem to display it. What choice have you? Suppose, too, you were in a brief side-slit tunic. Can you imagine what it would be then for a man to see you,
in that fashion
? And knowing you
slave
! Approach. Good! Now go back, and turn again, and look at me, suddenly, as though you first noticed me. Good. Now approach. Your expression! Are you humble? Does your expression say that you know that you are owned and must obey? Are you timid? Are you fearful? Are you apprehensive that you may be insufficiently pleasing? Are you joyful to see the Master? Are you hoping he will take you in his arms? Do you wish to be ordered to disrobe in his presence? Remember you are a female slave! Approach. Did they not teach you how to walk? What of your love cradle! Turn, go back, then return, again, down the aisle. Good. Remember you are a female slave. You are owned. You must be beautiful. So little as the movement of a hand, or the sight of a bared forearm in the pouring of wine, can be beautiful, provocative, stimulatory to the master’s desire.”

I am a slave, thought Ellen. Why should I fear to move as one? It is what I am. And might I not be beaten if I am not pleasing?

To be sure, she knew that already her bondage had irremediably infused her entire being. Even now she was sure that a slaver, without regard to her brand or collar, could pick her out from free women.

“Good, good, little she-urt,” said Ina. “Now get to work!”

Ellen put down the basket and knelt before Ina. She put her head down to Ina’s feet. “A slave expresses her gratitude to Mistress,” she said.

“Back to work, slave girl,” said Ina, who seemed in a fine mood.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

Ellen reached into the basket and removed another damp garment from it, and took up a handful of clothespins. She looked about herself. It is so beautiful, she thought, this lovely, perilous, fearful world on which I am a slave. She attached the garment to the line and then stepped back a little, and looked out over the city. It was as though she would embrace it all, all of this fresh, clean, rushing, windswept, sunlit reality.

“Do not forget, after supper, the sixteenth Ahn,” called Ina.

“No, Mistress,” said Ellen.

Chapter 14

SHE WAITS, BEFORE BEING PRESENTED BEFORE HER MASTER

“Stand still,” said one of the instructrices.

“Oh!” said Ellen, as the comb was pulled through her hair yet again, and again. The other instructrix then began to brush the hair, yet again.

“Hold still,” said the second instructrix.

“She is fine,” said a guard.

“What do men know of such things?” asked the first instructrix.

Ellen felt her hair smoothed and arranged carefully about her shoulders. “There,” said the first instructrix. “Now hold still, little she-urt.”

“She is a pretty one,” said the second instructrix.

“I think so,” said the first.

“You were not to paint her lips, her eyelids, you were not to enhance her with cosmetics?” said the guard.

“No,” said the first instructrix.

“She is pretty,” said the guard.

Ellen was brief-tunicked.

This garment was cut at the sides, to the waist. In this way the brand can be occasionally glimpsed and, when the slave kneels, if she is a pleasure slave, a bit of cloth may fall between her spread thighs.

She had been cleaned thoroughly in the Chamber of Preparation, her body scrubbed and her hair washed.

She was sparkling.

“Do you like the perfume?” asked the first instructrix.

“It is a slave perfume,” said the guard.

“Of course,” said the first instructrix. “She is a slave.”

“Do you like it?” asked the second instructrix.

“Yes,” said the guard. “It must be a good one. It is hard for me to keep my hands from her.”

“Do not disarrange her, please,” said the first instructrix.

Ellen edged away from the guard a little.

She pulled a little, futilely, against the bracelets, which held her hands confined behind her back.

“How does it feel, little tasta, to be out of the iron belt?” asked the first instructrix.

“Good, very good, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“Such things are so weighty, so bulky, and unpleasant,” said the first instructrix. Ellen gathered that the instructrix must once have had first-hand knowledge of what it was to be locked within such a thing, to be fastened in such an apparatus.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“But you now feel very vulnerable, don’t you?” asked the first instructrix.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen. She inched a little further from the guard. It was he who, in the Chamber of Preparation, had removed her long gown, and had then removed the iron belt. She wondered if it had been necessary for him to feel her waist, and her hips, and thighs, as he had, when he had done so. The apparatus had been discarded, dropped to the stones of the floor of the Chamber of Preparation, with a clatter. She had then, after a moment, after having been examined by him, as a Gorean master considers a slave girl, been drawn by the hair across the room and plunged bodily into a tub.

“Bracelets,” said the first instructrix.

Ellen turned her back to the first instructrix, and lifted her wrists a little, so that her bracelets might be checked.

She felt her wrists lifted a bit, and the steel checked. There was a tiny sound of metal links.

The steel was tight on her small wrists.

That was not necessary, but it left her in no doubt that she was helpless.

She also did not doubt but what the tightness was intentional, and responsive to some instruction.

Slave bracelets were usually snug, but seldom tight.

Sometimes they were even rather loose, suggesting to a foolish girl the possibility of slipping them. But shortly, to her frustration, she learns she is held perfectly. The master, for his amusement, has been playing with her, and, in his way, instructing her.

Such small things help the new girl, in particular, to realize she is a female slave.

A girl who has better learned her collar is never in any doubt about such things.

Bracelets, chains, and such, incidentally, induce a sense of helplessness and vulnerability in the female, which sensations, whether she wishes it or not, increase her receptivity.

To be sure, they also hold her with perfection.

Her master had apparently decided that the bracelets would be tight, that it would please him to have her brought before him extremely conscious of her utter helplessness.

How faraway was the classroom!

There were six tiny links joining the bracelets, one for each letter in the Gorean spelling of ‘kajira’.

The key to the bracelets was on a tiny string looped about her collar, not that this did Ellen any good.

“They are pretty bracelets,” said the guard.

“We think so,” said the first instructrix.

Slave bracelets, designed for women, are often light and pretty, and are sometimes matched to outfits and such. Some, for high slaves, are bejeweled. Some might be worth the ransom of a Ubar. They can be matched to collars, as well, and shackles, and such. Some bracelets are fitted with lock rings, which can be snapped into one another, if and when desired. This resembles the leather slave cuffs worn by some girls in paga taverns. Similarly, some collars, leather or otherwise, have rings to which such snap rings may be conveniently fastened. To be sure, something as simple as leather binding fiber, such as commonly belts the common camisk, well serves for the general purposes of ready tethering. Common, too, are leashes. The style, grace, attractiveness, and lightness of slave bracelets does not detract from their utility. They are more than adequate to hold a female, and with perfection. Not all slave bracelets are pretty, and such, of course. Some are quite plain, and these might be preferred by some men for their slaves, perhaps for reasons of instruction, or economy, or to avoid an appearance of ostentation, or such. Too, warriors, tarnsmen, slavers, and such, might prefer plainer custodial devices for early captures, transportation, simple holding, and so on. Sometimes no more than a string, nose-ring and thumb cuffs are used. Men, on the other hand, as one would suppose, are commonly held in heavier gear, for example, in heavy manacles.

“This tunic is certainly very short,” said the first instructrix. She tugged a bit at the cut sides of the tunic, to draw it further down the thighs. Ellen stood very still. The first instructrix had little success.

“You must be careful how you move, Ellen,” said the first instructrix.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

Ellen was barefoot, as female slaves are often kept.

“Is it not past the eighteenth Ahn?” asked the first instructrix, timidly.

“I do not think so,” said the guard. “I have not heard the bar sound.”

“You may kneel, Ellen.” said the first instructrix, “but do not disarrange yourself.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” said Ellen.

She then knelt on the hall side of the door to the audience chamber, near the wall, and back a little, that she might not block the entrance. Several times she had been presented to her master in that chamber. But that had been before she had been made a work-slave, before she had been sent to the laundry.

She knelt there in the shadowed half darkness, in the light of a pair of flickering wall lamps. She pulled against the bracelets that held her hands behind her back. She did not want to go back to the laundry.

Surely anything would be better than going back to the laundry.

Or that is what she thought at the time.

I have informed the work-master, she thought, that I am ready to beg. How kind was the work-master! How grateful I am that this information has been brought to the attention of my master. Am I ready to beg? Surely I must beg, no matter how shameful, how demeaning, how revealing, this may prove to be! I pretended not to be willing to beg, and I was sent to the laundry. My master is so strong! He has conquered! I am now ready to beg!

He must love me.

He remembered me, he brought me to this world, he restored me to youth and beauty, for I know that I am beautiful, though perhaps not so beautiful as countless others; and he gave me a beautiful name; surely that means something; and he made me property, and he owns me, now literally owns me; surely then he must desire me, and want me, for his very own! He must then want me in the strongest, fiercest, most commanding, most complete, most possessive sense in which a man can want a woman, want me as his uncompromised property, his slave.

And that is what I am, his slave.

I love my master. I want to serve him, and please him, with my whole being, with my whole body, with my whole heart and soul. The master is the meaning of the slave’s life, and she rejoices in her collar, that she belongs to him. What an incredible privilege, what an incredible honor, to be the slave of such a man! What an incredible joy to be fulfilled by him, to be owned and mastered by him! How pallid by comparison are boring and meaningless lives; how tepid the quotidian familiarities of contractual partners, each taking the other for granted; how fragile the regimens of arguable legalities; how delicate the cobwebs of convention, sunderable upon a whim; how wearying the tiny testings and battles of implicit competitors, the specified, adjudicable relationships of explicit contractees, each suspicious of, and concerned to outdo, the other. I can understand, she thought, how the same woman might be one man’s wife and another’s conquered, mastered, loving slave. Let such husbands, such weaklings, cry out in misery, she thought, learning that their pampered, bored, spoiled, troublesome, nagging wife is another man’s kneeling licking, begging slave. Another, at the mere snapping of fingers or an imperious gesture, receives from she whom he has never taken the time or interest to truly know, she whom he has never questioned as to her depths and needs, she to whom he has never intimately and truly spoken, she whom he has never attempted to understand, but has insisted upon seeing only from a distance, through the distorting prisms of convention, frequent, delicious, loving, abject services, services of which he has feared even to dream.