Magicians of Gor (58 page)

Similarly the hemlines had been considerably lowered, just above the knee. These

alterations had been introduced to assist in the subjugation of the men of Ar,

by seeking to depress their sexual vitality. Similarly, of course, no longer

were the left ankles of the slaves belled. the sound of slave bells on a woman’s

ankle tends to be sexually stimulating to a male. To be sure, of late, with the

rise of the Delta Brigade, and the undercurrent of unrest in Ar, there seethed

in the city, doubtless to the dismay of Cos, a surgency of male energies. As I

have mentioned earlier, many masters, not, no longer sent their slaves

unescorted about the city, until they had fastened them in the iron belt. The

slave tunic of the state slave was still sleeveless, however. That is common

with slave garments.

I looked down at the new slave, who was lying on the (pg. 341) blanket, on the

floor. I gestured that she should stand. When she had done so, I handed her the

tunic. “Hold this against you,” I said.

She did so, with both hands, closely, one above her breasts and one below.

I regarded her.

“Master?” she asked.

“You could make a rock sizzle,” I said.

She flushed. “Thank you, Master,” she said.

I continued to regard her.

She would be fetching, indeed, in that tunic. The Cosians, I thought, had to

some extent miscalculated. Did they really think that the excitingness of a

slave could be reduced by such a triviality as the addition of a few horts of

material to a tunic? Did they not realize it would still be the single garment

she wore, the one piece of cloth she was permitted, and that it would have no

nether closure? And even more significantly did they not understand that her

true excitingness did not depend on such things as a collar and a particularly

sort of livery, as telling, and revealing and lovely, as these things were, but

on her condition itself, that she was slave? That she was slave, the essence and

perfection of the female, was what made her such an extraordinary, special,

incomparable object of desire, and that would be so whether she were kneeling in

a ta-teera, clad in an evening gown or concealed from head to toe in the dark

haik of the Tahira, peeping out through a tiny screen of black lace. I then, in

a moment, took back the garment, and dropped it to the side, where Phoebe had

been working, near the small sewing basket there. I indicated that the slave

might kneel and she did, her hands on her thighs, her knees in the appropriate

position.

Phoebe was now gasping at one side of the room.

“Master?” said the new slave.

“Yes?” I said.

“Was I pleasing?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you think another man might find me pleasing, as well?” she asked.

“It is possible,” I said.

“I am not now as stupid, or ignorant, as I was, am I?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“I am a much better slave now, am I not?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I am grateful for my training,” she said.

(pg. 342) “It is nothing,” I said.

“It is my hope that I have profited from it,” she said.

“You have,” I said, “considerably.”

“Then you think I might not, under certain circumstances, at least, be found

displeasing by another man?”

“No,” I said.

She put down her head, shyly.

“I would not get my hopes up,” I said. “It is your business to obey me, and your

primary objective, in the first phase of our operations, is merely to deliver

the message.”

“I understand, Master,” she said.

“In the course of this delivery,” I said, “you may behave as you wish. That I

leave to you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, shyly.

There was a sudden noise at the side of the room and I looked there, quickly.

Marcus, turning, rolling. Phoebe locked in his arms, had struck into the wall

there.

“Approach me, on all fours,” I said to the new slave. She did so, dragging the

ankle chain behind her.

I indicated a flat leather box to one side. “Knee crawl,” I said. “Fetch it

here.”

She went to the box on her knees and picked it up, and returned to a place

before me. It had been a simple knee crawl. I was briefly reminded, however, of

the Turian knee walk, sometimes used by slave dancers. I considered the slave. I

did not doubt but what she might be taught to dance.

“Master?” she asked.

“Give it to me,” I said.

But I did not take it.

She looked at me, puzzled.

“Forgive me, Master!” she said.

She then, kneeling before me, her knees widely spread, lifted and extended her

arms, proffering me the box. Her head was down, between her lifted, extended

arms.

“It seem you still have much to learn,” I said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

I took the box.

She then knelt back, her hands on her thighs, her head still bowed.

“Your training will continue,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“But it seems that perhaps it should be sharpened with the whip,” I said.

“As master wishes,” she said, trembling.

(pg. 343) The whip is an excellent mnemonic device. The girl who receives a

lash, or lashes, for an error, seldom repeats it.

“To all fours,” I said. “And stay here close, where I can reach you.”

I then put out my hand and touched the collar on her neck. It was one of three

collars I had for her. The other two, with their keys, were in the flat box. The

collar on her neck bore the legend, “RETURN ME TO TARL AT THE INSULA OF TORBON.”

I then removed the first of the other two collars from the box and, reaching

out, put it on her neck, next to the other collar, but ahead of it, closer to

the chin. I snapped it shut. It fit well. It was now on her, locked. Its legend

read, “RETURN ME TO THE WHIP MASTER OF THE CENTRAL CYLINDER.” I then turned it

and, inserting the key, opened it, and removed it from her neck. I then lifted

the second collar form the box, putting the first, with the key, back in it.

This second collar I then put on her neck, next to the original collar, and

ahead of it, closer to the chin, as I had the one a moment before. Then I

snapped it shut. It, too, fit well, and was now on her, locked. Its legend read,

“RETURN ME TO APPANIUS OF AR.” I then let her remain that way for a little

while, on all fours, in the two collars.

Phoebe was moaning on one side. She turned her head from one side to the other,

her eyes closed. She was delirious with pleasure, slave to her master.

I then took the key to the second of the two collars which had been in the box,

that which I had put most recently on her, the Appanius collar, and removed it

from her neck. I put it back in the box, under the first collar. I dropped the

key in the box. I closed the box.

“Claim me!” wept Phoebe. “I beg it! I am your slave! Use me as the helpless

vessel of your pleasure!”

“Do not move,” I said to the new slave.

She remained as she was, on all fours.

“I yield me your slave!” wept Phoebe. “I yield me your slave!”

Then she was trembling, and gasping for breath, clinging to Marcus. He, too,

gasped, and then suddenly he laughed, a might laugh, almost a roar, a laugh of

triumph, like an exultant larl, joyful in his mastery of the beauty.

“Such may be done to slaves,” I said to the new slave,.

“Yes, Master,” she said, on all fours.

“The other garment, I take it,” I said to the new slave,” is finished.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Mistress finished it yesterday.”

(pg. 344) “Put it on for me,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. She rose to her feet and went to the side of the room

where she knelt by a chest and took from it a white garment, of the wool of the

bounding hurt.

I looked away, as she stood up, to slip it over her head and arms, and smooth it

down on her body. I did not wish to look until it was on her.

“Master,” she announced.

“Excellent!” I said.

It came to a bit above the knees, and had a high, modest neckline. It some

respects it was rather in the style set for the tunic of state slaves. That I

thought might fit in well with my plans.

“Turn,” I said.

“Yes,” I mused. “Excellent.” Perhaps even more importantly it was the sort of

garment in which a slave might dare to appear before a free woman. It was not

the sort of garment that would be likely to excite the envy or anger of free

women. It was not the sort of garment which sometimes provokes free women to

rush at slaves in the street, crying out and lashing at them with switches. It

was decorous, and yet clearly the garment of a mere slave.

“Mistress has sewed it,” she said.

“You have done well, Phoebe,” I said. “It is perfect.”

“Thank you, Master,” gasped Phoebe. She was lying next to Marcus. She was

covered with a sheen of sweat. Her body was covered with red blotches, from the

recent racing of her blood, the excited distention of thousands of capillaries.

Her lovely nipples were not yet subsident.

“Your skin is blotchy,” I said to Phoebe.

She laughed, ruefully. “Yes, Master,” she said.

The new slave, her head down, smiled.

“Remove the garment,” I said to her. “Replace it in the chest. Then resume your

position here, beside me, on all fours.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I then again, in a bit, regarded her. No longer was she in the dignity of the

garment. Her breasts, in her present position, that which I had indicated, were

beautifully, pendant.

“Can you write?” I asked her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I reached to her.

“Oh,” she said, softly. “Oh!” I had taken her nipples gently, first one, and

then the other, between my thumb and forefinger. They, too, it seemed, had not

forgotten their state of but a few (pg. 345) moments ago. Or, perhaps it was but

the fact that the meaning of her present condition was intrusive in her

consciousness.

“Surely you are interested in the nature of the messages you will carry,” I

said.

“Yes, Master!” she said. I had touched her, lightly, at the side of the waist.

“One need not concern you,” I said, “as you will be the mere instrument of its

delivery. On the other hand, I think you will have a little doubt as to its

general import.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You will deliver it to the female I designate,” I said, “and to her

personally.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“To make it more likely you will be admitted into her presence, the message will

be carried about your neck, in a message tube, and your hands will be

back-braceleted.”

“As Master wishes,” she said.

“But even so,” I said, “before being admitted to her presence, you may be double

leashed, one on each side, that you cannot touch, or approach, the woman, except

as permitted.”

“I understand, Master,” she said.

“Do you think she will be admitted to her presence?” asked Marcus.

“Given her story, and her collar,” I said. “I think so.”

“The note she carries is to be written in a man’s hand,” said Marcus.

“Of course,” I smiled.

“Doubtless in your deft script,” he said, lying on his back, looking at the low,

peeling ceiling above him.

“I was hoping someone might be prevailed upon to provide a more convincing

communication,” I said.

“Oh!” said the new slave. She moved uneasily, tensely, but did not break

position.

“The handwriting must suggest a correspondent who is educated, charming, witty,

elegant and suave,” I said.

“That sounds like a job for your own block script,” he said. “It has many

virtues. I have known peasants who could not do as well. Or, if you prefer, you

could use your inimitable cursive script, with its unusual alternate lines. Its

humorous suggestion of complete illiteracy adds to it’s a piquant charm all of

its own.”

“My master has an excellent hand!” volunteered Phoebe.

“Were you asked to speak?” inquired Marcus.

“No, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.” She then lay small and quiet

beside him. She did not wish to be cuffed or whipped.

(pg. 346) “It was my hope, Phoebe,” said I, “that your master, exactly, might be

prevailed upon to lend his expertise to this endeavor.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“I write a simple hand,” said Marcus.

“Perhaps you could add a few flourishes, or something,” I suggested.

“No,” said Marcus.

“Do you want me to write it?” I asked.

“That would be disastrous,” he said.

“Also,” I said, “my handwriting might be recognized.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Marcus.

“You will do it then?” I asked.

“I will write only my own hand,” he said.

“That will be perfect,” I said.

“What if she has seen the handwriting of the putative correspondent?” asked

Marcus.

“That is highly unlikely,” I said. It was unthinkable that the putative

correspondent would initiate such a correspondence. In such a relationship the

first note, if there were to be notes, given the risks involved, would surely

issue from the free person.

I touched the slave near me, on all fours, on the side of the leg.

“You,” I said to her, “will be under no doubt, however, as to the contents of