Prize of Gor (45 page)

“Forgive me, Mistress,” had said Ellen, wincing.

The new slave, Jill, who had been a paga slave at the Iron Collar, had not been burned, but she, too, was treated, to protect her during the day.

“I do not wish to be touched by a barbarian,” had said Jill.

“You are no better than a barbarian,” had said Cichek. “You have a barbarian name! ‘Jill’! ‘Jill’! ‘Jill’! And it makes you hot, doesn’t it? ‘Jill’! ‘Jill’!”

“Yes, yes,” wept the new slave. “I am no better than a barbarian. I can tell it from my yieldings.”

Cichek and Emris then laughed merrily, and the new slave, kneeling, head down, submitted to Ellen’s ministrations.

Goreans, of course, are of human stock. Their presence on Gor was originally due to the Voyages of Acquisition, apparently undertaken for scientific or aesthetic reasons by the mysterious Priest-Kings, whoever they might be. This is in accord with the Second Knowledge, parts of which had been conveyed to Ellen in her training, that she might be a more comprehending slave. The point of this brief digression is merely to inform the reader that there is no reason to believe that there would be any difference whatsoever in the capacity of Gorean women and Earth women for sexual arousal and responsiveness. Physiology has dictated capacity; beyond this the differences will be those of culture and environment. There is little doubt that the average Gorean woman is raised in a culture which is much more open, much freer and much more acceptive of sexuality. If an Earth male were to encounter a Gorean woman he would undoubtedly be extraordinarily delighted by her great interest in, and desire for, frequent and profound sexual experience. Similarly, if a Gorean male were to encounter an Earth woman, free, in her own environment, he would probably be exceedingly puzzled by her inertnesses and frigidities, her culturally conditioned inhibitions, reservations, negativities and such. Indeed, he would probably regard her as defective or insane.

Putting her to her belly at his feet, of course, in her proper place, perhaps as an experiment, he might find that she, fearfully and gratefully licking and kissing, was actually a woman, a true woman, with a true woman’s needs, desires, and responses, something quite different from what he had originally conjectured. Hopefully he would then bring her to Gor, mercifully, that she might not thereafter be left behind to languish and suffer on Earth, unfulfilled, tortured by memories, afflicted by loneliness, poignantly recalling what was no longer hers, denied a master.

It is true, however, that Earth women, brought to Gor as slaves, eagerly and joyfully blossom sexually. On Gor they are free to be the women they have hitherto been commanded to deny and conceal, the women they have always wanted to be, the women they have always been in their hearts. On Gor they find that they are far freer and happier as branded chattels than they were as putatively free women on Earth. In their collars, kneeling before men, they find their liberation and freedom as females. No longer do they starve in a sexual desert. They are so eager to serve true men, which many of them had not even realized existed until they were brought to Gor, men so different from the general run of culturally intimidated, negatively conditioned, sexually crippled males they have met on Earth, that they generate an image in the markets, and the general Gorean milieu, of helpless, ready appetition, of docile, servile, eager, begging sluts, of low women hot in their collars, who give an almost new meaning to bondage. Indeed, some Gorean slave girls regard the barbarians as dangerous and hated rivals. They are furious with the interest shown in them by some Gorean males. The Gorean males, on the other hand, the monsters, tend to remain complacent, content to let these slaves compete with one another, each trying to outdo the other, each trying to see if it cannot be she who most pleases the master.

Ellen pulled a little, weakly, at her chained wrists.

Targo had come to the shelf, to assist a buyer who was examining Emris.

Please, Master,” begged Ellen. “Do not keep me chained like this.”

“Be silent,” he said, “else I will chain you facing the wall. Perhaps men would like you better then.”

Ellen put down her head.

Not a great deal had gone on, on her second day on the shelf. To be sure, Zara had been sold, though Ellen did not know the final agreed-upon price. So, she thought, perhaps Zara had been indeed the most beautiful of them all. The new girl, Jill, had been chained to her left, where Cotina had been.

Yesterday, on the shelf, however, she had had some unpleasant experiences, which had perhaps contributed to her present predicament, that of being chained upright, standing, at the back of the shelf.

In the morning, shortly after they had been brought in coffle to the surface of the shelf, thence to be chained as before to various rings, a boy, surely no more than ten or eleven years old, had come to stand before the shelf.

She was in first position, or in something rather like it, rather near the front edge of the shelf, the chain attached to her shackle ring trailing behind her to its ring.

The boy continued to stare at her.

“Go away, little boy,” she said, irritatedly. “This place is not for you.”

“Split your knees, slave girl,” said he to her.

“What?” she said, in disbelief.

He repeated his instruction, granting that she might not have heard him properly.

“Never,” she said, “you little urt.” She drew her legs together and covered her breasts with her hands.

“What is going on here?” asked Barzak, approaching. His whip, on its staff ring, blades folded back, and clipped, against the staff, which is long enough to be held with both hands, was at his belt.

“Nothing,” said the boy.

“‘Nothing’!” said Ellen. “This little urt was looking at me. He told me to split my knees!”

“And you did not do so?”

“Certainly not!” cried Ellen.

Barzak looked at her, sternly.

“He is only a little boy!” she said.

“He is a free person,” said Barzak.

“Master?” asked Ellen.

“Are you a slave girl?”

“Yes, Master!”

“And you have failed to obey a free person?”

“He is a little boy!” she cried.

“So you have failed to obey a free person,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Don’t whip me, please!” she cried, seeing Barzak loosen the whip, removing the staff ring from the hook at his belt, and unclipping the blades.

“It’s nothing,” said the boy. “Do not whip her. I do not want her whipped. She is probably just stupid.”

“First obeisance position,” snapped Barzak. “Beg his forgiveness!”

Instantly Ellen went to the first obeisance position, head down, palms of her hands on the cement. “Please forgive me, Master,” she begged, frightened.

“Kneel up, first position,” said Barzak.

Ellen went to first position, with all its revelatory delights.

“Split your knees, slave girl,” said the boy.

“They are split, Master,” said Ellen.

“Split them much more widely, slave girl,” said the boy.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“Turn to the side, as you are, kneeling, put your hands on the cement behind you,” said the boy, “lean back, arch your back, have your head back, farther.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“She has a nice line,” said the boy.

“Yes,” said Barzak. “She is a pretty she-urt.”

“You may break position,” said the boy.

Quickly Ellen knelt up, and turned to face him, closing her knees, covering her breasts with her hands.

Barzak wandered off.

“I am only eleven,” said the boy. “You are too old for me. I would prefer a slave who is nine or ten.”

He then turned about and disappeared into the crowd.

Later a small girl had drifted to the front of the shelf. She was clad in a child’s version of the Robes of Concealment. The tips of purple slippers could be seen beneath the hem of the robes. She was veiled. Her head, forehead and hair were covered, too, as is common. Ellen could see her dark brown eyes, wide, looking at her, over the white veil. Ellen and the others were in first position. A woman, similarly attired, with robes and veil, presumably her mother, hurried up to her and seized her by the hand, pulling her forcibly away. “Don’t look at those terrible, nasty, dirty things in their collars and chains!” she scolded.

Targo came about the front of the shelf. “Appeal, appeal!” he said to Ellen.

Immediately then she began to utter the allure-call to the crowd, “Buy me, Master!”

“You are very inept,” said Targo. “Have I not given you better instruction than that? Here are further considerations. Intermingle with, and enrich, your appeal, with additional phrases of enticement. For example, ‘Buy me, Master! I am needful! I want a master! I need a master! I beg a collar! Please, oh, please, Masters, buy me!’ and so on. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, shuddering.

“Too,” he said, “do not neglect to shift position, and pose provocatively, and call attention to your body, and its charms, extremely explicitly, by both word and gesture. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” moaned Ellen.

How could anyone expect her to do such things?

But surely she did not wish to be again whipped!

But happily Barzak was now not about, and Targo, too, was no longer in evidence.

She was glad for the soothing lotion.

The day, however, was milder than the preceding day, and there was, now and then, a good deal of cloud cover.

She thought of her former master, Mirus.

She thought of her former life, and her teaching, the classrooms, and such. She thought of many of the men and women she had known on Earth, in particular colleagues and individuals met at various conferences and conventions having to do with gender issues, conventions which were not so scholarly, as she now understood, as political, organized to propagandize an ideology, supposedly scholarly meetings but ones in which political deviancy was not permitted, the participants each striving to outdo the others in proclaiming the prescribed orthodoxy. She wondered what some of the female participants might look like in slave silk and a collar, their small wrists confined tightly in slave bracelets, perhaps behind their back. She thought about the male feminists, the allegedly male participants in such travesties of conformist scholarship, wondering what might be their motivations. Did they really believe the absurdities of the antimenites? Were they interested, rather, in their own political futures, willing to be male camp followers, hoping to be permitted to share eventually in the loot of grants, appointments, and prestige? They had seemed so spineless, so ingratiating. Did they not know how they, such hypocrites, or pliant weaklings, were privately mocked and despised by the others? She did not think that that could be unknown to them. Would any of them, she wondered, know what to do with a woman at their slave ring? Or did they not want such power? If not, how could they be truly men? All men desired absolute power over women. Did they fear it? Would any of them, she wondered, know what to do with a whip and a woman? The thought crossed her mind of the superintendent in her apartment building. He, she thought, would have known what to do with me. And so she thought of the men and women that she had previously known, particularly those she had known professionally. How nicely and naturally she, with her affected severity of manner and her carefully chosen, mannish, businesslike tailored suits, had seemed to fit in with them! She was now chained on a shelf, a naked slave, for sale.

Targo returned after a time, perhaps having had his tea. The slaves would be fed, usually, before being brought to the shelf and after being taken from it.

Shortly after Targo had returned, a man, with a teen-aged boy with him, presumably his son, made his way through the crowd, toward the shelf.

“Do you have any barbarians?” he asked.

“I specialize in barbarians,” said Targo, “but, alas, I have only one on hand at the moment, lovely Ellen. Position, Ellen.”

“I do not wish to purchase one,” said the man. “I was just telling my son about them, and how to recognize them. Do you mind if we look at this one?”

“Certainly not,” said Targo.

The man and his son ascended to the surface of the shelf.

“This one is young,” said Targo. “Yet I think that it is not impossible that one might find her of interest. Certainly she is well curved and pretty. Might she not make a lovely gift for your strapping lad?”

Ellen shrank back, but this did not seem to be much noticed by the father and his son, whose minds were on other things.

“We are not interested in buying her,” said the father.

“Oh,” said Targo. He turned away.

Ellen was pleased at this confirmation that they were not interested in buying her. To be sure, they could. Targo, she was sure, was ready to let her go at the drop of a copper tarsk. Then she would belong, literally belong, to the father, or to the boy, however it was decided, presumably to the boy.

She shuddered.

She certainly did not want to belong to a teen-aged boy. Her practical age now, in terms of biology, physiology and such, was, say, eighteen, and that might have been the actual chronological age of the lad. Yet what an incredible difference there is in maturity and sexual readiness between an eighteen-year-old girl, already beautifully developed and perfectly suitable for the collar and slave bracelets, and an eighteen-year-old boy!

“Speak, in Gorean,” said the father to Ellen. “Say anything, just talk.”

So Ellen began to speak, for a little time. “I do not know what I am supposed to say,” she said. “You wish me to speak, and so I will do so. It is my conjecture you wish to ascertain something in my speech. It is doubtless different from yours. Is it acceptable, Masters, that I speak as I am speaking?” And thus, in this way, she continued, until the father indicated, by putting his finger up, in a cautionary manner, that she should desist.

“Do you hear the accent?” the father asked his son. “You see it is different?”

“There are many different accents, father,” said the boy, “even in Gorean.”