Prize of Gor (89 page)

“Do not sell me to him, Master!” she begged. “Sell me to anyone but him, Master!”

“Ah,” said the auctioneer. “Now I think I understand. It is a vengeance buy. Once you betrayed him, and now he will have you at his mercy, and will revenge himself upon you lengthily, and exquisitely, and at his leisure.”

“No!” cried Ellen. “That is not it! It is different! It is different!”

No matter how she might have annoyed, or scorned, or tormented, or taunted, from time to time, this handsome competitor of her former master, Mirus, she had surely never dealt him treachery, had never betrayed him to enemies, or such. Thus his interest in her, if interest it was, could not be of the nature of a “vengeance buy,” at least in any normal sense of that term, with its commonly dreadful implications.

Indeed, let the woman beware who is the object of a true vengeance buy! A man will pay much to obtain her! And then, sold to him, she is his to do with as he pleases. Let the woman beware, whether slave or free, who has betrayed a Gorean male, lest she come later into his power. Gorean males will pursue such a woman relentlessly, intent on bringing her into their collar. How terrifying to find oneself in chains, owned, stripped, at the feet of one whom one has betrayed! But such cases are rare, and extreme. The usual “vengeance buy” might more appropriately be regarded as little more than a “satisfaction buy.” Perhaps, say, a woman, doubtless a free woman, as a slave would be very unlikely to risk this, has irritated or annoyed a man. Has this been done deliberately? Doubtless. But, why? Perhaps she is merely nasty, or unhappy, and feels secure in her freedom. Perhaps, on the other hand, she is, subconsciously presumably, as the saying is, “courting the collar.” Who knows? Is her unpleasantness merely something to be reprimanded by the collar, that she is to be taught, stripped at a man’s feet, that such a thing is impolite, and unacceptable? Or is it rather an unwitting, scarcely understood, cry from her heart, a cry for the secret, yearning slave to be released from the dungeon of denial in which she has for so long languished, neglected and ignored, a plea for her to be permitted to emerge at last into the liberation of total bondage, and helpless, absolute love? But would it not be pleasant, in either case, to have her in one’s collar? A moment of explanation might not be here amiss. Gorean free women, particularly of high caste, have a status which is far higher than that of the average free woman on Earth. Indeed, the average free woman of Earth would have very little understanding, at least initially, culturally, of the social station of a Gorean free woman. Her culture would not have prepared her for it. She will, of course, become aware of this almost immediately on Gor, when she will be so unfortunate to find herself, a slave, before such a woman. In any event, aware of her status and station the Gorean free woman, particularly if of high caste, commonly regards herself, and is culturally justified in doing so, as a very special and superior creature, one generally aloof and unapproachable, one commonly lofty and exalted. She has, after all, a Home Stone. Accordingly, as might be expected, she is often vain, petty, selfish, supercilious, and arrogant. One might then have some understanding of the radical and traumatic transformation, with all its attendant mental and psychological anguish, which such a woman might undergo should she become a slave. She, at least, from her culture, has some understanding of what it is to be a slave. She has a clear idea of what has been done to her. The Earth woman, on the other hand, on her native world, is commonly not even veiled. She lets anyone look upon her face, not even aware of how much more exquisitely expressive it is, how much more sensitive and revealing it is, than her bared body. Too, her transition from free to slave, given her background, is not as radical and dramatic a transition as would be that of a Gorean free woman to the same status, that of bondage. To be sure, it should in all honesty be admitted that Gorean women, at least after some initial adjustments, do quite well in slavery. Given no choice they, as their Earth sisters, thrive in their collars. This is not surprising for we are both women and can come home to ourselves only at the feet of a man. Too, the Gorean free woman is subject to many constraints, physical, psychological and cultural, of which the slave is free. It is nice to think that within those cumbersome, ponderous robes a naked slave is waiting. How wonderful it is to be tunicked and safely, securely collared, to be able to move freely about, to walk and run, to be open to the sun, to feel the air and wind on one’s body, to see and feel the glory of this world, to revel in its vitalities and sensations, and, too, to know that one is excruciatingly desirable, to say nothing of knowing oneself owned, and taken in the arms of one’s master.

So let us all, slaves, whatever might be our origins, strive to please our masters!

“No, Master, no, Master!” cried Ellen, and turned about, on her knees, clasping the knees of the auctioneer in piteous supplication, looking up at him, her eyes bursting with tears. “Do not sell me to him, not to him! To anyone but him! Not to him, please, Master!”

The auctioneer thrust her back.

“I hate him!” she cried. “I hate him!”

“And he you?” inquired the auctioneer.

“Yes!” she cried. “He holds me in contempt, and hates me!”

“It is not inappropriate to hold barbarians in contempt,” said the auctioneer. “Your lowly origin alone justifies that form of regard. Surely you have learned that by now on Gor. But in what manner, other than by your origin, did you earn his contempt?”

Ellen looked down, into the sawdust.

“Were you poor in the furs?” he asked.

“I trust not, Master,” she said.

“Speak,” said the auctioneer.

“I scorned him,” she wept.

“Ah,” said the auctioneer. “I see that you will have a pleasant time of it.”

“He hates me!” she wept.

“Doubtless that will add an interesting flavor to your relationship,” said the auctioneer.

“Sell me to anyone but him, Master!” Ellen begged. “Do not have me put in that collar! I do not want to wear his collar!”

“Be silent,” said the auctioneer.

Ellen looked up at him, agonized, not permitted then to speak.

He then with the back of his hand struck her across the mouth. She sobbed, looking up at him, regarding him, aghast.

“That is for having spoken without permission,” he said.

He then with a thrust of his bootlike sandal spurned her to the sawdust, and she lay sobbing before him, at his feet.

“Belly,” said he then, “head to the left.”

Ellen then lay on her belly in the sawdust, her head toward the exit steps from the great block. She tasted blood at her lip. How foolish she had been, to have spoken without permission. Had she learned nothing as to what she was on this world? She felt the bootlike sandal of the auctioneer resting on her back. It held her in place. She could not rise. She turned her head toward the crowd, to see he who had bid so high on the miserable, pathetic piece of helpless flesh merchandise which was she.

“Five tarn disks!” called the auctioneer. “I close my hand!”

She saw the eyes of her buyer upon her. His expression was unreadable. Her lower lip trembled; again she tasted blood.

The gong rang out. She knew its signification. Surely she had heard it ring out many times before. The auctioneer removed his bootlike sandal from her back.

The vibrations of the gong seemed to linger in the atmosphere, and in her flesh. She knew what it meant, that another girl had been sold.

And suddenly she realized that she was the girl.

She had been sold!

She now belonged, in the full meaningfulness of Gorean servitude, to her new master, Selius Arconious!

The auctioneer’s assistant half dragged her to the stairs, and there handed her down, into the arms of another assistant. In a moment she was at the left of the block, as one would look toward the tiers, among other girls. She felt her left wrist clasped in a holding manacle, much as had been the case earlier, at the right side of the block, before her ascent to the sawdust-covered, concave surface from which she had been but a moment earlier vended.

No, no, she thought. Not to him! To anyone but him! He hates me! I hate him! I hate him! Oh, Ellen, miserable slave! He has bought you! He owns you! You belong to him! You belong to Selius Arconious! It is his collar that you must wear!

She put her face in her hands, weeping.

The chain dangled down, from the close-fitting metal on her wrist.

Chapter 26

WE MUST DEPART THE CAMP

“My master is going to call me ‘Melanie’,” she said.

“That is now a slave name,” said Ellen.

To be sure, Ellen was half numb with fatigue and misery. And she was afraid, for she knew who it was who had bought her.

“Yes, of course,” she said, happily. “I wear it now only upon my master’s sufferance.”

“You understand that?” asked Ellen.

“Yes, fully, completely!” she said, happily.

“Excellent,” said Ellen, weakly.

Ellen, with other slaves, sold women, wrist-chained, was in a holding area. They were awaiting their pick-ups. Several had already been removed from the chain. A receipt is tendered, and the slave is delivered. This was the morning after their sale, something like an Ahn before noon. Slaves are not always promptly claimed. There may be collars to prepare, chains to be measured, whips to be purchased, arrangements to be made.

Ellen was confused, dismayed, frightened.

Selius Arconious, it seemed, for whatever reason, as was the case, it seemed, with a number of other masters, as well, was in no hurry to claim his slave.

She wondered if he would come to the area in person, to claim her.

She wanted to be claimed, and was frightened that she would be claimed.

“I was sold to one from Venna!” Melanie said.

“That is far from Brundisium,” said Ellen.

“Yes,” she cried, delightedly. “And there I can be only a slave!”

“I assure you,” said Ellen, “even if you were sold to someone in Brundisium, you would be there, in your former city, no more than a slave, as well. No more, even there, would the briefly tunicked, collared slave Melanie be confused with the former free woman, the proud, heavily robed Lady Melanie of Brundisium. If anything, you would be treated even more harshly, more cruelly, in Brundisium.”

“He is strong, and handsome, my master,” she said. “I am so happy! I have always wanted to be so beautiful, so desirable, that men would find me beautiful enough and desirable enough to take me and enslave me! And now it has been done! I have always wanted to be owned, to belong to a man, to be completely subject to him. I have always wanted to belong to a man strong enough to dominate and master me. I have always wanted to belong to a man who will require of me, casually and without a second thought, the fullness of my womanhood. I have always wanted to serve and love — fully, will-lessly, selflessly. And now I belong to a man whom I shall so serve and love, one who will have everything from me, which is what I long to give. I am happy, happy!”

“I am happy for you,” said Ellen.

Melanie threw Ellen a kiss in the Gorean fashion, brushing it to her with her hand.

Ellen returned the kiss, similarly.

The slaves could not reach one another, for their chaining.

“Hold still,” Ellen heard.

Ellen stiffened. She was kneeling. She could not see behind her, and dared not turn.

“Hood the slut,” she heard.

A leather slave hood was thrust over her head and pulled downward. In moments it was buckled tightly about her neck. She then heard a lock snap behind her neck, through the buckle rings. It was then on her. She could not remove it. The hood was opaque. It is an efficient control device. In it she would be disoriented and helpless. She lifted her right hand and touched the ring on the front of the device, to which a leash might be attached.

The manacle on her left wrist was unlocked. It dropped to one side. She had remained on her knees, of course. She had neither been given permission to rise, nor had she been ordered to do so. Someone crouched down behind her. She spread her knees, thinking it best to do so, without having been ordered to do so. Too, it was appropriate. Men had left her in no doubt as to the sort of slave she was. Too, she did not know if Selius Arconious was in the vicinity. He was her master, and she knew that he would be strict with her. He was not the sort of man who would permit a slave even the smallest of laxities. Too, though she tried to brush away the thought, she had a sudden sense that she wanted to spread her knees before him, perhaps even supplicatingly. She excused herself on this count, with the recognition that Selius Arconious was the sort of man before whom women naturally felt an impulse to kneel, and spread-kneed. She felt her wrists drawn together. Then they were tied behind her back, it seemed with some loops of a leather string. It was more than sufficient to hold a female slave. Whoever it was was then before her, standing one supposes. She felt something snap about the ring on the front of the hood. Briefly a leather strap brushed her right breast.

“On your feet, slave girl,” said a voice.

She rose. It was not the voice of Selius Arconious.

Then, guided by a pressure at the ring on the front of the hood’s neck strap, she followed, as she must, as helpless as a tethered verr.

She must have followed for several hundred yards, stripped, bound, hooded, leashed. She conjectured she was then in the outer reaches of the camp, or perhaps beyond them, for she felt grass beneath her feet.

Then she was told to kneel, head down, and she did so.

“Are you obedient and docile?” she was asked. The voice was the same as that of the man who had ordered her to her feet, presumably he who had also led her to this place.

“Yes, Master,” she said. And it was true. The battles, the wars, were done. And she was pleased that it was so. The superficialities of the conventions were at an end. The pretenses were over. On this world men ruled, or at least ruled such as she. They would tolerate no affronts to nature. Here they had refused to relinquish their rightful, natural sovereignty. Here they were hardy, virile masters. It was so, it was incontestable. Ellen, head down, was content.