Prize of Gor (122 page)

Normally a slave girl’s hair is behind her shoulders, that there be less impedance to the vision of masters. If she is naked the hair is sometimes placed before her shoulders, that it may be brushed back by the master, or put behind her by the slave, upon the command to do so. The beauty of the slave is, of course, a source of great pleasure to the master.

“It is a joke, surely a joke, Master!” she said. “You have frightened me! I will be good!”

“Prepare to be whipped,” said he, angrily, “slave.”

“You cannot whip me, Master!” she cried. “I am an Earth woman! You cannot whip an Earth woman! Earth women are never whipped! We are never punished, no matter what we do! Even if we ruin lives, and destroy men, we are never punished!”

“Embonded women do not ruin lives and destroy men,” he said. She heard the strands of the leather shaken out.

“I am an Earth woman!” she cried. “We are never punished! Such things are not done to Earth women!”

“You are not now on Earth,” he said.

She began to sob.

“Surely you have been whipped before,” he said, “if not on Earth, where you should have been, and perhaps frequently, then on Gor.”

“Yes, Master,” she wept.

“Is it true,” he asked, “that Earth women, on Earth, are never whipped?”

“I do not know,” she wept.

“If they are free, of course,” he said, “it would be inappropriate to whip them.”

“Yes, Master,” she cried.

“But doubtless a whipping would do some of them a great deal of good,” said Portus Canio.

“Doubtless,” said Fel Doron.

“But what of the women of Earth who are not free?” asked Selius Arconious.

“All the women of Earth are free!”

“That is surely false.”

“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.

“So what of those who are not free?”

“If they are not free, then they are subject to the whip,” said Ellen.

“Do you feel that they should not be whipped?”

“It is up to their masters!” she said.

“But what of a woman of Earth who is brought to Gor and enslaved?” he asked. “What do you feel about such a one? Should she be whipped?”

“It is up to her master,” said Ellen.

“Precisely,” he said.

“What have I done to displease you, Master?” she cried.

This inquiry was met with silence, which was more terrifying to her than a response. A thousand subtleties, and fears, rushed in upon her. There seemed so much, great and small, that she might have done differently.

“For what reason would you whip me?”

“You are a slave,” he said. “I do not need a reason.”

She moaned with misery, and fought the bonds, but dared not rise from her knees. It was true. As a slave she could be beaten at the master’s pleasure, for any reason, or for no reason.

She cast about, wildly, in her mind, for some way to allay his anger, to put him from his purpose, to avoid the punishment which, in her heart, she knew she deserved, and only too well.

Then a desperate thought came to her.

She looked over her shoulder, and smiled, as prettily, as innocently, as, under the circumstances, she could. “Have I been inadvertently troublesome in some way, Master?” she asked. She asked this, lightly, dismissively, even flippantly. Too, she asked this as though quizzically, as though she might be genuinely puzzled to find herself on her knees, bound at the pole, or rail, as she was. “If so, it is my hope that Master will forgive me.” In this way she sought to reduce, or trivialize, any possible imperfections in her service. In this way she hoped to put Selius Arconious off his guard, and divert his wrath.

“She is a clever slave,” said Fel Doron.

“Yes,” said Portus Canio. “But I do not think that her cleverness will do her much good.”

She was not much pleased to hear the comments of her master’s fellows. She had thought herself subtle. But they spoke as if her subtlety, on which she was congratulating herself, was naught but the patent trick of an ignorant, foolish slave, indeed, a trick, in its obviousness, transparency and shallowness, insulting to the master. Did she think he was so simple, a fool?

But theirs were not the hands on the butt of a stern, corrective device.

“Have I been troublesome, Master?” she pressed, again.

“Occasionally,” said Selius Arconious.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Have no fear,” said he. “I will take it out of you.”

“Master?” she asked.

It was as though he was prepared to let her believe that he might have been so naive as to have accepted her own self-regarding, trivializing assessment of her infractions, which was, of course, absurd, as she now grasped, but was yet at the same time making quite clear to her something that she should have known, that no omissions, evasions, laxities, imperfections, or infractions whatsoever, even the tiniest and most trivial, were acceptable in one such as she, a slave girl.

She was thus summarily defeated by her master, casually, and on her own grounds of contest.

Her heart sank for she realized then she was not at the feet of an Earth man. She was at the feet of a Gorean.

Such tend not to be tolerant of even trivial, and inadvertent, imperfections of service. Once this sort of thing is understood, interestingly, it is remarkable how scrupulous a slave can be concerning even the smallest details of her service, her glances, her kneelings, her serving of dishes, her kissings of sandals, and such.

And she well understood, to her misery, that her own imperfections of service, extending even to actual infractions, far exceeded matters inadvertent and trivial.

She must try again!

“Master is kind!” she suddenly cried, lightly. “After the dance in the festival camp, when I was to be given fifteen lashes, ten for not having declared, however honestly, a proficiency in slave dance, and five for having spoken without permission, Master purchased the strokes, each for a tarsk-bit, and saved me the beating! How grateful I am to Master for his generosity, his thoughtfulness, his kindness! He would not have me beaten. And surely I have nothing to fear from him now!”

“Ah, yes,” said Selius Arconious. “The festival camp, outside Brundisium.”

“Yes, Master!” cried the slave, hopefully.

“It amused me,” said Selius Arconious, recollectively, “to see you dance as a slave, the slave you are. And well did you writhe, bond-slut.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Ellen, uncertainly.

“You do not know the effect you can have on men, petty, tormenting creature!” said he, suddenly, angrily. “To see your ankle, the turn of a calf, the sweetness of an arm, the softness of a small shoulder, the turning of a wrist, the delicacy of a hand, the provocative call of your love cradle, the joy of your waist, made for a slave chain, your swelling bosom, its delights, the whiteness of your encircled throat, the beauty of your face, the bright glance of your eyes, the trembling softness of your embonded lips! You could drive a man mad with passion and desire! It is for women like you that collars are made! What man, seeing you, would not want to own you!”

“Oh, Master!” cried Ellen. “And I am your slave!”

“And I will not be yours!” he said, angrily.

“Master?” she asked.

“Do you not know, truly, why I purchased those strokes?” he asked. “Do you think I would let another whip you? No! I will have you under my whip! Under
my
whip! You are
mine
to whip!”

She cast about again, frantically, for a new tactic, a new strategy, a new avenue of escape.

“You do not even care for me, Master!” cried Ellen. She must challenge his affections, appeal to his pity, confuse him, take him off balance, force him to acknowledge his undoubted feelings for her. Surely that would stay his hand! She was certain he had such feelings, for he had permitted her, certainly, in the past few days, to get away with much slackness of service and deference, to behave in ways that are simply not permitted to slaves, and certainly not to those with strong masters. This, it seemed, would be her last effort to turn him from what she feared might be, but yet trusted would not be, his purpose. This stratagem, she was sure, would succeed.

“You are correct,” he said.

“Master!” she cried.

“Who cares for a slave?” snarled Selius Arconious.

“Master!” protested Ellen.

“One lusts for slaves, one wants them, madly,” said he. “One chains and collars them, one uses them, one puts them as one wishes, in whatever postures or attitudes, one ropes and thongs them, one leads them about on leashes, one forces them to serve, fearfully, abjectly, licking and kissing, kneeling, crawling, begging to please! Such inspire in men the mightiest of conquering passions! There is no triumph which compares with the ownership of a woman! With a slave at one’s feet, one’s head brushes the stars!”

“It is so, too, for a woman, Master!” wept Ellen. “That is our place! That is our place in nature! We long to be in our place in nature! We belong at your feet! We beg our collars! We lift and kiss our chains in gratitude! We ask only to kneel, to be used, and to serve!”

“But do not speak of caring!” cried Selius Arconious.

“I speak of it, Master!” cried Ellen.

“No!” he cried, angrily.

“I think you care for me, Master!” wept Ellen. “You care! You care for me! I am sure you care for me, Master! You must care! You must care, Master!”

“No!” he cried, in fury.

“Yes, yes, Master!” she wept.

“Whether I care for you or not,” said he, “I own you!”

“Yes, Master!” breathed Ellen.

“And I am going to make you a slave amongst slaves,” he said. “I am going to master you as few slaves are mastered. I am going to master you, wholly, Earth slut, every hair of your head, every inch of you!”

“Be kind!” she begged.

“You will know yourself owned,” he said.

“Do not whip me, Master!” begged Ellen.

“Do you realize the will power that has been required for me, day and night, not to seize you, again and again, and put you to slave service? Do you understand what it is to lie in the darkness, with you at my thigh, and not grasp you by the hair as a master a slave, to warn you that your taking is upon you, not force you, in all your embonded loveliness and helplessness, to serve my fiercest pleasures, not seize you in my arms and possess you, yes, possess you,
have you
, you beautiful, tormenting collared slut, with all the authority, the violence and passion which it is your lot to endure as slave and my right to inflict as master?”

“I love you, Master!” cried the slave. “But you never touched me, Master! Take me! Take me now! Take your slave! But you did not touch me, Master, why? Why?”

“It was a test, slave girl,” said he, “and you failed it miserably!”

“How a test, Master?”

“I thought I would give you some laxity, to see if you could handle it, to see what you were really like. And I found out! You are nasty, small, petty and vain!”

“No, Master!” cried the slave.

“You tried to manipulate me, with sorry feminine tricks,” he said.

“No, Master!” she wept. But well did she recall, to her misery, a thousand omissions, slights and provocations. She recalled how she had challenged him to prove himself her master, to sell or give her to another, who might provide the master to her slave, to place her into the possession of one who was a
man
.

“Even today,” he said, angrily, “you did not ask permission to remain at the road, but announced that you would do so. Do you know the penalty for such insolence? You dallied in returning to the camp, until the work was largely done. Do you know the penalty for such truancy? You did not kneel when entering our presence! Do you know the penalty for such disrespect? You deserve to be left in the forest for sleen! On the road, itself, earlier, you ran beside a slave and discomfited her, and risked calling the attention of armed men to yourself. You are fortunate that the discipline of the guards was such that you were not thonged, tethered to a pommel, and taken along for an evening’s raping.”

“She tossed her head at me, insolently,” said Ellen. “She was haughty!”

“Surely that is a small thing,” said Portus Canio, “a squabble amongst slave girls, nothing with which masters need concern themselves.”

“So, too, it seems to me,” said Fel Doron.

“Yes, Masters! Thank you, Masters!” said Ellen.

“That leaves, of course, many other shortcomings,” said Portus Canio.

“True,” said Fel Doron.

Tears burst from the eyes of the slave. She was helplessly tethered, tied for whipping.

“Surely you care for me, Master!” she cried.

“You are petty, small and nasty!” he said. “You deserve only the whip and chain.”

“I want the whip and chain,” she cried out, suddenly, startling herself. She wept. “Without it how can I know that I am female and yours?” she whispered.

A bit of wind moved through the leaves, overhead. She felt it on her back, too, where her hair had been thrown forward, before her body.

Suddenly, in terror, she realized the meaning of that.

Nothing, no matter how trivial, would be interposed between her back and the whip.

“But I want love, as well!” she cried.

He laughed, sardonically, skeptically.

“It is true!” she cried. “And I love you! Yes, I do! I love you, Master! I love you, Master! Surely you love me, too, if only a little?”

“No,” said he, angrily, “but I lust for you, and you will be well taught what that means at the foot of my couch!”

“Surely you care for me, if only a little, Master!” she said.

“No,” said he, angrily.

“Oh, no, no, Master!” wept Ellen.

“Strive to be worthy of being cared for,” said Portus Canio. “Many men will feel a fondness for a kaiila or a pet sleen, so why not for a slave? Let yourself strive with all your might, with all your intelligence, with all your zeal and diligence, with all your helplessness and vulnerability, with all your service and beauty, for the least touch, for a gentle word, a kind glance.”

“Prepare to be whipped, slave girl,” said Selius Arconious.

“Do not whip me, Master!” begged Ellen.

“Are you in a collar?” asked Selius Arconious.