Prize of Gor (38 page)

They seemed to be born masters of women.

“Are you red silk?” he asked.

She looked down at her bared body, in consternation, startled, caught off guard, suddenly distraught, suddenly seeming to understand almost nothing. Obviously she was unclothed, completely, utterly, let alone clothed in silk, of any color. She was naked, slave naked, in her chains, uncomfortable on the hot shelf. What could he have been asking?

“Are you red silk?” he repeated.

“I do not know,” she said.

Or was it that, on some level, she refused to understand his question, or, more likely, feared to respond to it.

There was laughter from the slaves about.

“You must indeed be a little sleepyhead,” he said.

There was more laughter.

She reddened. “Forgive me, Master,” she said. “I was confused. For the moment I did not understand the words in the sense you meant. In my native language, we do not speak of such things in that way. We have other words.”

“We speak of them that way in Gorean,” he said, “and particularly in the case of female slaves.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are a slave,” he said. “You must learn the language of your masters.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Quickly, and well!”

“Yes, Master!”

“Perfectly!”

“Yes, Master!”

To be sure, she doubted that she would ever speak this language perfectly. Who, even among native speakers, speaks any language perfectly? And she supposed that she might forever carry an accent in Gorean, at least a subtle accent, and that this, like fillings in her teeth, and a tiny vaccination mark, would continue, for better or for worse, to betray her barbarian origin. Fortunately few Gorean masters objected to such accents in their slaves. Perhaps they relish this tincture or soupçon of foreign flavor in the speech of their chattels, finding it charming. Too, it tended to mark them out and set them apart from native Gorean speakers. But she was certain she would soon achieve a considerable fluency in the language. This was important. It was the language of her masters, and she must learn it quickly and well. Already she often dreamed and thought in Gorean. There are, of course, a large variety of diverse accents on Gor, even among native speakers of the language. For example, the Gorean of Ar is not that of Cos, and both are clearly distinguishable from that of Turia, far to the south, and so on. One might note, in passing, however, an alleged oddity in the teaching of Gorean to barbarians in certain cities. Several words, and many of these not all that common among native speakers, are supposedly taught to the barbarians with pronunciations which are subtly different from the usual pronunciations of these words. This is sometimes spoken of as “Slave Gorean.” The girls, of course, are unaware of these differences, and, usually, that there even are any differences. Most suppose themselves to be being taught normal Gorean. Now let us suppose a girl, attempting to escape, has dared to disguise herself as a free woman, a most unwise thing to do, and is questioned. It is likely that, judiciously questioned, she would almost instantly, unwittingly, identify herself as bond, with immediate consequences as to her fate. And even if a girl knows, or suspects, that she is not being taught normal Gorean, she is unlikely to know precisely in what subtle and numerous ways her speech will betray her as slave. Similarly, a girl is sometimes taught “slave names” for objects, without being informed that these are slave names. Thus, in the most innocent and natural discourse, speaking of this or that, she is likely to show herself a slave, because that is a slave’s word, or name, for such and such an object. Ellen has asked her master if her Gorean, that taught to her in Ar, might evince such peculiarities, but he only smiled and informed her that curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. Thus she does not know. Needless to say these possible linguistic precautions and subtleties would not be effective with native Gorean women, should they find themselves put to the collar. On the other hand, once they have been embonded, slavery will inevitably work its subtle effects on them, as it does on all women, and, after a time, they, too, in glances, mannerisms, phrasings, tones of voice, tiny movements, and such, will reveal themselves slave. It is not hard to find a word in English for the difference between the free woman and the slave; the slave is extremely feminine. Sometimes a slave attempts to imitate the assertive stridencies, the masculine movements, the attitudes and gestures, the haughtiness, the mien, of a free woman, but the results are commonly, as on Earth, no more than a farcical caricature of a male. On Earth, of course, no deleterious consequences of such charades and antics are likely to occur; indeed, they may earn their practitioners commendations from pathological quarters in which it is not permitted to so much as whisper of nature and the biotruths of a species; indeed, further, such expostulations and pretenses may have actual value, as in earning their thespic practitioners a number of political and economic rewards. On Gor, of course, the situation is quite different. A woman behaving in this fashion and accordingly being suspected of the collar, of trying desperately to conceal her femininity by this ruse, may be remanded to free women for an examination. If a brand is found the woman will be stripped and bound by the free women, switched liberally, for there is little love lost between free women and slaves, and then turned over to magistrates, to be returned to the mercies of her master.

“So,” said he, “are you red silk?”

“Yes, Master!” sobbed Ellen.

“You understand what I am asking?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You have been opened for the uses of men?”

“Yes, Master!” she said.

There was laughter from the other girls on the shelf.

Ellen recalled that her master had indeed opened her for the uses of men, rudely, and with authority. She remembered her helplessness, she kneeling, facing away, head to the rug, hands clasped behind the back of her neck, astonished, affrighted, outraged, shocked, disbelieving, miserable, yet somehow simultaneously elated, willing, accepting, submitting, and the power of his hands on her body. To be sure, he had been uncaring, quick, contemptuous with her. Surely she had been given little, or no, opportunity to experience pleasure. He had not permitted that. He had seen to it. That was by his intent. The pleasure was to be his, and she was simply to be had, and to know herself had.

It was a far cry from the classroom.

She had been utilized abruptly and with contempt. She, kneeling, facing away from him, head down, hands clasped behind her neck, had learned what she was, and would be, to him, nothing, lest it be an object of derision and scorn.

How complete his triumph!

He had risen to his feet.

She had remained as she was, of course, not yet permitted to move, an unimportant, meaningless, despised, ravaged slave.

How faraway the classroom, and their former relationship! No longer was she teacher and he student. She was now slave, and he master.

And well had he taught her, in those moments, her slavery!

She recalled that afterwards he had looped a red ribbon about her collar, and, it seemed with some satisfaction, jerked it tight, meaningfully tight. She no longer wore it, of course. It was not on her heavy, uncomfortable, present collar. She wondered what had happened to it. Perhaps after she had fallen unconscious, it had been removed, and kept in the house, perhaps to be used again, later, when another virgin, another white-silk girl, might be introduced to a new aspect of her bondage.

She supposed that most slaves would be red silk, and thus that there would be little point in having such a ribbon on their collars. Perhaps if she had still been “white silk,” a white ribbon might have been put on her collar. That might, she supposed, have some effect on bids, pricings, and such.

She recalled that her master had been amused and pleased that what he had done to her, red-silking her, opening her for the uses of men, would be likely to lower her value. And she gathered that she was not of great value to begin with, a barbarian girl, ignorant, youthful, and scarcely trained. I am largely worthless as a slave, she thought. She did not doubt, however, that her master had derived much pleasure from her body. She might have wished to share that pleasure, or share it more, but had not been permitted to do so. It had clearly been with great pleasure, even with triumph, that he had taken her.

He had me, and how he
had
me, she thought. As a slave, a meaningless
slave
! What a triumph for him! And yet I cannot deny that a part of me rejoiced to be so used, to be put to his unshared, unilateral pleasure!

“Do you juice quickly?” asked Targo.

“Master?” she asked.

“Are you a tasty pudding?” asked Targo.

“I do not understand, Master,” she said.

“Do you squirm well?” he asked.

“Master?”

“Do you squirm well?” he asked. “Surely you understand me. You are a slave, are you not? You are branded, are you not? Look at your thigh. Do you whimper, and cry out, and moan, and scream, and gasp, and clutch, and beg, and shudder and kick, and spasm helplessly and repeatedly? Have you never been driven mercilessly and helplessly, as if by whips, to slave orgasm? And then to another, and another, and to as many as your master chooses to force upon you, perhaps ceasing even while you are begging for more?”

Ellen, of course, had never experienced slave orgasm, but she thought that she had some dim sense as to what it might be. Alas, how little she then knew! Little did she then realize how helpless and needful might a slave become.

One of the utilities of chaining or binding a slave, incidentally, is to multiply and intensify her orgasms. Several psychological and physical factors enter into these matters.

Perhaps the helplessness of the slave is too obvious to mention. She cannot free herself and thus must await the attentions of the master, which may be delayed, which may be intermittent, which may be prolonged, for hours, and so on.

In such ways she soon understands herself slave.

“Do you squirm well? It is a simple question. Answer it. Do you squirm well?”

“I do not think so, Master,” she said. Was she not to be permitted pride? But then it occurred to her that she was a slave girl and that slave girls were not permitted pride. Inertness and frigidity were not permitted to them. Those luxuries were reserved for free women, who might make the most of them, if they wished. Responsiveness was required of the slave. The switch dissipates inertness, and the ice of frigidity melts swiftly beneath the heat of the whip. To be sure the simple condition of bondage itself militates devastatingly against inertness and frigidity. How can one be inert and frigid when one is mastered, dominated and owned? The slave loves and yields all. She is hot, devoted and dutiful. She is at his feet, heated and moist, begging to serve and please.

“You do not think so?” he said, incredulously.

“No, Master,” said Ellen.

“Oh, wonderful!” he exclaimed, in distaste.

“She is a little ice ball!” laughed one of the slaves.

She recalled, suddenly, bitterly, that Mirus had characterized her as a tight, cold little thing.

Doubtless he had not been pleased with her.

She decided she could not help the way she was.

Then she decided, petulantly, angrily, that she would not help the way she was. She would show them! She would pride herself on her superiority to feeling and vitality. She would be one of those women who scorn feeling and vitality in others, and would try to shame them for their resources of sensibility, for their emotional richness, and their treasures of health. No man would ever make her yield!

In this way one might account an inadequacy or impoverishment, natural or willed, a mark of virtue or merit.

Particularly if one suspected that men would not be much interested in one anyway.

But she did sense that if things had been a little different, if Mirus had treated her even a little bit differently, she would have cried out and wept herself his. Her body had ached to yield itself to him.

Even now, how uneasily she recalled the sensation of her peremptory usage. Its memory lingered with her. She could not dispel it. Though she strove to feel distressed, even outraged, she failed. The sensation, curious and fascinating, provocative and insistent, continued to whisper within her tissues. She could not have asked, his hands upon her, for a better demonstration of her vulnerability and femaleness. And, too, interestingly, though she scarcely dared accept this, it seemed in its way a fascinating augury, as might be the brief sight of a bird, the finding of a branch in the water, evidence of new worlds. She had been, as the saying was, opened for the uses of men. She would never again be the same. I want such sensations now, she said to herself. I must have them!

No, no, she said to herself. I am not that sort of woman!

Yes, you are, she said to herself. You are no more than a slave!

I must resist feeling, she told herself.

Then she looked out from the shelf, at the market, so bustling, colorful and crowded, the stalls, the beasts, the carts.

In such a world the resistance of feeling would not be permitted to such as she.

She was not a free woman.

She was a beast who might be purchased for a variety of purposes, amongst them the provision of inordinate pleasure to a master.

She saw the eyes of a young fellow on her, and she looked away, terrified.

I must be strong, she thought.

What would it be to be in his arms, she asked herself.

Would I yield to him?

If this were not a cruel sport of Mirus, my master, pretending to abandon me, pretending to put me up for sale, such as he might buy me!

I will not permit myself to yield to men, she thought.

Then she recalled the lash.

She did not wish to be beaten.

Perhaps I could hold something back, she thought.

Foolish slave, she thought, do you not know that you will not be permitted to hold anything back, but that you must yield wholly, and that there are infallible signs of such yieldings?