Prize of Gor (87 page)

“Walk about, pose,” she was told.

She did so.

“Barbarian,” she heard.

“They do not have to beat me, to have me show myself to the crowd,” she thought.

There was a cry of pleasure from some of the men.

“Red silk,” she heard.

“That is obvious,” called a man.

There was laughter.

It was Mirus who had first opened her, for the uses of men.

“A slave not without interest!” called a man.

“Yes,” said another.

“Am I brazen?” she thought. “Very well, should that be the case. I do not mind. And are not such expressions merely disparaging expressions, from a distant Puritanical world, fearing life and beauty? Have they not been invented by the homely and inhibited, the ugly and inert, as weapons against the proud, the beautiful, the soft and vulnerable, the eager and passionate, to conceal their own grayness, their own flatness and uninteresting mediocrity? Am I a narcissistic little bitch, as Mirus, once my master, might claim? Perhaps. If so, I do not mind. No, I do not mind being beautiful, and delicious, and provocative. That pleases me. I like it. It makes me happy. What is wrong with that? Put aside the mediocrity’s armament of vengeful semantics. See life as it is, directly, in its beauty, if only for a sudden, startling moment, perhaps as men might have seen it before language, before the subtle, altering, translucent barriers of words, the invisible wall that so liberates, but yet confines and shapes, was interposed between the mind and existence, not through the distortive prisms of the sluggish, fearful and defective. Would that there could be a new language, or new words, a lexicon of light that would allow us to see the world as it might be seen, in its innocence, profundity and glory.”

How humiliating this is, she thought. How shamed you should be, Ellen! But you tramp, you slut, you tart, you are not! How terrible you are!

There was no mistaking the interest of the buyers. Suddenly it seemed she could almost feel the heat of their interest, like waves of heat emanating from the door of a furnace she had inadvertently opened.

She felt suddenly she might run from the block, but she could not, of course, do so.

“Apparently, she has some skill in slave dance,” called the auctioneer’s assistant.

Ellen hoped the buyers did not take that too seriously. To be sure, she would not have objected to being taught something of slave dance. It had suddenly seemed, last night, as though a world had been opened up before her, a wondrously exciting, sensuous, vital world. She had felt very female, very feminine, in the dance, pleasing men, performing, a slave before masters.

“Fluent in Gorean,” was called to the crowd. “Small scar on the upper left arm.” That would be her vaccination mark, from childhood, on Earth.

I wonder if Mirus and Selius Arconious are among the men, she thought. I suspect so. Or have they even bothered to attend?

“Brand, the kef,” called the attendant.

That was the most common kajira brand, the “kef” being the first letter in the expression ‘kajira’. Mirus, of course, had seen to it that she would wear the common kef, which he regarded as fitting for her; he had seen to it that she should be marked as it pleased him, as a common slave.

Perform, she thought. I wonder if dear Mirus and dear Selius Arconious, the arrogant, imperious pigs, are here. Perhaps! Then show dear Mirus what he gave up, what a fool he was to let something like me slip away! If he would have me now he will pay and pay! He will pay dearly! I do not care if he would empty his purse! But he will not bid upon me because he would look like a fool to do so, after letting me go! So be it. I care not a whit. That means nothing to me now! And let me show dear Selius Arconious what he shall not own! I hate him, the arrogant Gorean tarsk! Hurt him! Hurt Selius Arconious! Let him see what he cannot afford! I hate you, Selius Arconious! Grind your teeth, clench your fists, sweat, moan, tear your clothing, burn in needful misery, dear Selius Arconious, as I perform, delectably, exquisitely, as I do now, but know that you shall not have this slave! No! You cannot afford her!

Then tears sprang to her eyes.

I hate you, Selius Arconious, she said, to herself. I hate you, I hate you!

But neither, she supposed, neither Mirus or Selius Arconious, were here. Or, if they were, what was it to her? Both despised her, surely, as she despised them! And Mirus would be too proud, or would be too ashamed, to bid upon her, and so confess his foolishness in letting her out of his collar. Too, he might be outbid. There were many rich men in the crowd, dealers and others. And she need not concern herself at all with Selius Arconious, a lowly tarnster. He would be fortunate to be able to put together a handful of copper tarsk-bits. He was as impecunious as a field urt. She need not fear falling into his hands. And, too, she hated him. So she was safe from them both! How suddenly secure, and free, this made her feel, a strange attitude perhaps for a woman on a sales block. But Ellen laughed to herself. How pleased she was!

So perform, slave girl, she thought. Show these rugged, virile brutes that your slightness and softness, on sale before them, are worth at least a silver tarsk!

Earn yourself a rich master, Ellen!

Perform, thought Ellen. Perform!

Ellen dared not call out to the crowd, of course, as she had not been given permission to speak, but her eyes spoke to the men, and her body.

Some men shouted with pleasure.

Suddenly Ellen was startled. You enjoy doing what you are doing, don’t you, she asked herself. Yes, she thought. Why, you brazen hussy, she thought. You shameless slut! You narcissistic little bitch! You have truly become a slave girl, haven’t you? Yes! Yes, she thought. It is what you are! You have become a slave girl. You are truly a slave girl! Yes, she thought, on this world I have been put in my place, precisely where I belong, at the feet of powerful men. And my will means nothing here! These things have been done to me whether I wish them to be done to me or not, and would have been done to me whether I willed them or not! They have been done unilaterally, by the will of masters. And, lo! Here, on this world, where there are true men, on this world of masters, I have found out, for the first time in my life, what it is to be a woman, a true woman. And I am pleased, and proud, and gloriously happy to be what I am, a woman!

“Stand as you were before,” she was told.

She did so.

“Hot and needful,” she heard.

She tossed her head, a bit angrily, a bit insolently. Did they have to know that? Could that not be left as her secret, to be revealed only, whether she willed it or not, in the arms of a dominant male? She wondered at the knowledge of the slavers. How could they know such things? It seemed they could see in a woman what she could scarcely admit to herself, even in her most secret dreams. Doubtless there were subtle cues in a woman’s body, in her movements, in her discourse, her carriage, her expressions and such. She had been told that slavers on Earth occasionally passed by beautiful women, to take as prey women perhaps less beautiful, but more intelligent, more latently passionate, those who, in their view, would make better slaves. Passion, of course, is required in a slave. Too, if she does not have it to begin with, she will soon acquire it. The master, the whip, will see to it. All women, at least latently, are passionate slaves. To be sure, much depends on the master. Some women know their master at a glance, others learn it at his feet. Bondage, in itself, is devastatingly arousing in the female. She recognizes it as her fitting condition. To the slaver’s practiced eye there must be ways of telling. But, indeed, even a man of Earth can occasionally sense, incontrovertibly, suppressed needs, latent passion, in a woman. And they are not even slavers, whose professional concerns require a considerable degree of accuracy in such judgments. But, to be sure, Ellen had doubtless squirmed at night, on her chain, cried out in her sleep, wept with need, and such, publicly enough. Too, she recalled, in the Cosian camp, days ago, before being coffled, having been bent over and tied at a trestle. Unwilling though she might have been to reveal her arousal under such conditions, it had doubtless been clear enough from the state of her body. She wondered if her new master would bind her so, occasionally, over a trestle. It is difficult for a girl to retain her dignity in such a position, but then Ellen recalled that a slave is not permitted dignity. Rather, expected of her is unquestioning obedience, delicious service and helpless passion.

“What is your name?” inquired the auctioneer of Ellen.

“‘Ellen’, Master,” she said, “if it pleases Master.”

“It is acceptable,” said the auctioneer. Then he turned to the crowd. Ellen looked uneasily at the whip, in his right hand. “We have here, Ellen, a young barbarian, small, curvaceous, brunet, gray-eyed, semi-trained, common mark, red-silk, responsive. There is interest in this slut, for there were several bids on her before she was removed from the exhibition cage.” He then turned to his assistant. “How many?” he asked.

“Twenty-one,” said the assistant, consulting papers. These were sometimes carried, but there was a small stand at the back of the platform where they might be deposited. Actual sales were recorded, and payments arranged, or made, at a table on the ground level, to the left of the block, as one would face the crowd.

Some of the men reacted to this, and leaned forward. It is, of course, easier to see a girl in the exhibition cage, where, if she is not restrained, one may even call her to the bars, than from most of the positions in the tiers, at night, as she is shown illuminated in the torchlight of the sales block. That, of course, is the purpose of the exhibition cage,
to exhibit
. One may then take note, under favorable conditions, of merchandise in which one might be interested. Ellen, of course, could not have been called to the bars in the exhibition cage, as she had been braceleted about one of the stanchions. She had, of course, had to caress the stanchion, kiss it, writhe about it, and such, responding to the commands of the fellows peering in, in their robes, from outside the bars. Had she been uncooperative an attendant would have entered the cage and put the whip to her. She had not been uncooperative. She, like the other women in the cage, had been stripped. Goreans do not buy clothed women. They wish to see what they are getting.

“Mostly from dealers,” said the assistant.

That pleased Ellen, as dealers might generally be expected to be relatively objective in their assessments. Such bids should be a good index to at least her wholesale value. To be sure, she did not know the nature of the bids.

“What was highest bid?” asked the auctioneer. That would be the bid at which the open bidding would begin.

“Two silver tarsks, fifty copper tarsks,” said the assistant.

Ellen nearly fainted. She trembled. Her knees buckled for a moment. She tried to regain her balance.

“Two and a half!” called the auctioneer. “Two and three-quarters?”

It is a mistake, thought Ellen. It must be a mistake. I do not want to be sold for so much! Masters will expect too much of me! I am not trained. I am only a common girl, and a barbarian!

Although these matters differ considerably from city to city, and silver and gold is often weighed by merchants, common ratios in the vicinity of Brundisium at the time of this writing, given the inflation of the unsettled times, are a hundred tarsk-bits to a copper tarsk, and a hundred copper tarsks to a silver tarsk. Depending on the nature of the silver tarsk, there will usually be ten to a hundred for a golden tarn disk. For the common silver tarsk, the smaller tarsk, the coin pertinent to the bidding in question, the ratio was one hundred such tarsks to the golden tarn disk, at least that of Ar or Jad, on Cos, and certain other major cities, including Brundisium.

In a moment, it seemed the auctioneer had his invited bid of two and three-quarters, and, a moment later, three.

Ellen, frightened, backed toward the auctioneer’s assistant. “May I speak?” she whispered.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I think there is some mistake, Master,” said Ellen.

“No,” he said.

The auctioneer’s assistant then raised his hand, and called out, “Four!”

“Four, from my colleague!” called the auctioneer.

“He is not permitted to bid!” cried a man.

“Five,” came from the crowd, somewhere.

“I rule my colleague may bid, subject to review by the camp
polemarkos
,” said the auctioneer. “But the point is moot, as we have a bid of five.” He looked about, at his assistant. The assistant shook his head. The auctioneer lifted his hand for a moment’s respite, and turned to his assistant. They conferred in low tones, and Ellen looked away, indeed, moved away from the small table. “Do you want her for yourself?” asked the auctioneer. “I could claim a defect, an error in the records.”

“You would have a riot on your hands,” said his assistant.

“Did you want her for yourself?” asked the auctioneer.

“No,” said the assistant. “I like blondes. I thought only to turn a profit on her.”

“Then we shall let the matter stand,” said the auctioneer.

“Yes,” said his assistant.

“Buy something as good, for less, when the crowd is smaller,” said the auctioneer.

The assistant nodded.

“And there may be leftovers, to be distributed,” said the auctioneer. “Possibly one or more blondes.”

“True,” said the assistant.

The auctioneer then turned to Ellen. “Go to the front of the block, where buyers can get a better look at you,” he said.

Ellen obeyed.

“We have a bid of five!” called the auctioneer, “a mere five tarsks for this exquisite little barbarian bauble. Would you not like to have her crawling to you, bringing you your sandals in her teeth! Imagine her before you, on her belly, licking and kissing your feet, begging to serve your pleasure!”

“Oh!” cried Ellen, for one of the men near the front of the block had grasped her ankle. She dared not, of course, protest. If she had tried to kick at the man her foot might have been removed.

But the eye of the auctioneer was quick. “Do not handle the merchandise,” said he, laughing, “until you own it.”