Prize of Gor (125 page)

It was there in the tarsk pen that she spent the night.

Before dawn, the next day, Portus Canio came to her, sponged her back, and her body, with a damp rag, cooling her and cleaning her, and freed her.

Unbidden, she set about her duties.

She tidied the camp, built the fire, set up the cooking rods, boiled water, and prepared breakfast for the men. While they ate, she knelt down beside their blankets, kissed them, shook them out and folded them, and placed them in the wagon.

When she was finished she returned to the vicinity of the fire. There were now two shallow pans there, one filled with water, the other with a handful of moist gruel. “Thank you, Masters,” she whispered. Then she went to all fours before the pans, and, putting her head down, ate and drank from the pans.

She cast many an anxious look at her master, but he did not so much as look at her. This disturbed her, terribly.

When the tharlarion had been hitched, and the men were clearly ready to depart, she could stand it no more, and ran to the feet of her master, and put her head down, and wept, and covered his feet with tears and kisses. “Please, forgive me, Master!” she wept. “Please forgive me!”

Then, as she dared to lift her eyes, clutching his calves, and looking fearfully up at him, she suddenly felt an almost uncontrollable cry of need in her belly, one suffusing upward and downward throughout her small body. She made a small noise of astonishment, and of fear. It was so sudden. She pressed her thighs together, frightened. Surely she was in need. She hoped he could not smell her need, her raw, naked slave’s need. She remembered his hands upon her, and how she had been handled and used, how she had been put to his pleasure.

“You will be used, slut,” said he, “if and when I please.”

She put down her head, in consternation.

“Stand,” said he, “and put your hands behind you, wrists crossed.”

She did so and her wrists, in a moment, were tightly thonged behind her. A rope was then tied on her neck and attached to the back of the wagon.

“You will be a naked slave,” he said, “publicly exposed on a common road.”

She put her head down, remembering her own former words.

She wondered if, and when, she would again be given a tunic. A slave, she knew, cannot count upon a tunic. Sometimes she must earn a tunic, or a slave strip.

The wagon then left the camp and, shortly thereafter, trundled onto the heavy, broad, fitted stones of the Viktel Aria.

Ellen, on the rope leash, followed. In the vicinity of Venna there were several caravansaries outside the walls. Ellen heard a delighted female voice cry out, “Greetings, slave girl!”

Looking about, Ellen saw that it was the blonde she had tormented yesterday afternoon, but now the blonde was tunicked, although, to be sure, briefly.

“Respond,” called Selius Arconious, from behind her.

“Greetings, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“Now,” said Selius Arconious, “eyes front, slave!”

And then Ellen continued on her way, not looking to the side, or back. She kept her gaze fixed squarely ahead. Tears streamed down her face, and under the coarse rope knotted about her neck.

The men, having finished their repast, retired to a larger, open area, smoothly floored, looking out over Ar. The night was beautiful, and there were many lights. The slave cleared. Later, rising from her knees within, at a gesture from her master, the slave brought forth and served small glasses of Turian liqueurs.

Toward the Twentieth Ahn, the Gorean midnight, the guests took their leave. The door closed and the slave was alone with her master.

Selius Arconious, standing, regarded his property, kneeling.

“May I speak, Master?” she asked.

“Yes,” said he.

“It is my hope,” she said, “that the evening went well.”

“I think it went very well,” said he.

“A slave is pleased, if master is pleased,” she said.

“Though perhaps,” he said, “it lasted too long.”

“Master?” asked the slave.

She knew that she was exquisitely beautiful, and would bring a high price in the market. She could tell, too, that her master was now regarding her with that look which slaves know only too well. No woman in a collar can mistake such a look. She put her head down, shyly.

“You did well this evening,” he said.

“Thank you, Master.”

“You are a good slave, Ellen,” he said.

“Master has taught me how to be a good slave,” said Ellen. “He has given me no choice.”

“Do you wish a choice?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she smiled.

The slave whip hung on its peg not far from the great couch, with its slave ring. On the other hand, it was seldom used. A supple switch served sufficiently for occasional admonitions.

One time, however, several days ago, he did strip her, tie her wrists together before her body and conduct her down the stairs to the hall of the building, where it opened at the street level. Two children, and, later, a free woman, were passed on the stairs. None paid her attention. Her master then tied her wrists over her head to a dangling ceiling ring in the hall, a ring for the use of the tenants, one not far from the door, and drew her up in such a way that she was stretched upward by the wrists, and standing on the tips of her toes.

“What have I done, Master?” she had asked in genuine puzzlement.

A free woman then entered the building, who had been shopping. “Slut!” she said to Ellen. “Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen. “Beat her well,” she said. “Have no fear, dear lady,” said Selius Arconious, politely.

“I do not know what I have done, Master!” said Ellen.

“Surely you recall,” said he, “the festival camp, where you were to be punished on two counts, first, for not having revealed skill in slave dance, and, second, for having spoken without permission.”

“Master?” asked Ellen.

“You were to receive ten strokes for the first offense, and five for the second,” said Selius Arconious. “That is, accordingly, a total of fifteen strokes.”

“But Master kindly purchased the strokes!” said Ellen. “He paid fifteen tarsk-bits! One for each blow! Thus, he spared me the blows!”

“Yes,” he said, “I purchased the strokes, but only, you see, in order that I might deliver them myself.”

“No, Master!” she cried.

“I bought them that they might be mine to give, my little charmer,” he said. “I had waited a long time to give you some much-needed whip strokes.”

“Be kind, Master!”

“Did you think that you would escape your due?” he asked.

“I had hoped Master had forgotten!” she said.

“Had you forgotten?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she wept.

“Nor did I.” She heard the strands of the whip shaken out.

“Please, Master,” she said.

“If you had not forgotten, why did you not remind me?” he asked.

She was silent.

“That will be an additional five strokes,” he said.

“Please, Master, no, Master!” she said.

He then put the first stroke to her, and she spun in the ropes, to look at him, protestingly, in misery. And then, at his gesture, she turned away again, groaning, her back to him. The second stroke was then put to her. He did not make her count the strokes, but he counted them. This was merciful. The blows were nicely predictable, and well measured. This, too, was merciful. This did not diminish the fact, however, that they were effectively severe. She was being beaten. “Fourteen!” he said. She now hung sobbing in the ropes. Two fellows of the caste of metal workers entered the hall. “Tal,” said they to Selius Arconious. “Tal,” said he to them. “Aii!” wept Ellen. “Fifteen,” said Selius Arconious. “Have mercy, Master!” begged Ellen. “That is fifteen!” But he gave her five more strokes. “Twenty,” he said. He then released her from the ring, and she collapsed to the dark, polished, narrow wooden boards beneath it. “It is nearly time to prepare supper,” he said. “Yes, Master,” she said. “But I do not know if I can stand!” “You are not to stand,” he said. “You are to crawl up the stairs.” “Yes, Master,” she wept. “Have you not forgotten something?” he asked. “Master?” she asked. “You have been beaten,” he said. “Forgive me, Master,” she said. “Thank you for whipping me.” “More properly,” he said. “Ellen, his slave, thanks master for whipping her,” she sobbed. “You are welcome,” he said. “Now, up the stairs.” “Yes, Master,” she said and crawled to the stairs, across the dark boards of the hall, and then, on all fours, her back doubtless rich with stripes, ascended the steps, landing by landing.

But, as stated, Ellen was almost never beaten, save for an occasional stroke of the switch. The reason for this, of course, was not that her master was weak, but that she had become an excellent slave, and thus there was little, if any, reason to beat her. This is common on Gor. Gratuitous cruelty is far more common on Earth, I fear, than on Gor. The value of the whip, you see, is not so much in its being used, as in the slave’s knowledge that it can be used and, under certain circumstances, will be used. Occasionally, of course, the slave may be tied and whipped that she may the better know herself, that she may be reminded of what she is, that she is a slave.

The dinner had gone well.

Selius Arconious, a tarnster of Ar, had been pleased.

His slave, Ellen, a female of Earth origin, whom he had purchased at a festival camp outside Brundisium, knelt before him, made-up, in a brief yellow tunic, collared.

“One of your endearing features,” he said, “is that you do not know how exciting, how attractive, you are.”

“Do not be too sure of that, Master,” said the slave.

“Oh?” he said.

“I think I would bring a high price,” she said.

“Vain slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“To be sure,” he said, “there are thousands, thousands upon thousands, who are much more exciting, and attractive.”

“To you, Master,” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“So do not become arrogant,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“You are smiling,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

He cast aside his tunic.

Then he rushed upon the slave and half lifted her from her knees and looked fiercely into her eyes, and she gasped, so regarded by a man, and one a master, with such ferocity and passion. “Master!” she cried. And he threw her to his feet and, crouching beside her, she first, startled, on all fours, and then thrust to her belly, tore away her tunic, shred by silken shred, flinging these narrow, delicate, yellow, rent scraps behind him, they fluttering away to alight, scattered, like startled flowers, on the narrow boards of the dark, hardwood floor. Then it was gone! He turned her violently to her back then, and knelt across her body, pinning her wrists to the floor, at the sides of her head, with his large hands. She squirmed a little, and looked up at him. He grinned down upon her. The irresistible, overwhelming, powerful, handsome beast, the virile, desiring, lustful, arrogant monster! How obviously he was regarding his property with inordinate pleasure! Muchly then was she aware of the collar on her neck, and that she was owned, and that she was in the grasp of her master, helplessly and deliciously in the grasp of her master.

“I love you, Master,” she said.

“Are you so presumptuous, so arrogant, that you dare to speak such words to your master?”

Slaves are often helplessly, hopelessly, in love with their masters, often pathetically so. After all, his collar is on their necks. But they are only slaves, lovely properties, shapely beasts, purchasable goods, degraded articles of commerce, immeasurably beneath a free person, beneath the notice of a free person, save as they may prove to be of some service, convenience, pleasure or profit, such things, to him. Thus the slave may kneel before the master, tears in her eyes, her heart offered up to him as can only be the heart of a slave, and this obvious to him, but she knows his love is to be reserved, if it be given, at all, to a free woman, not to a slave, an animal he might obtain in any market. Thus she repines and dares not hope for his love. Thus she, conscious of the chasms between them, and of her lowliness, and unworthiness, fears to speak her heart. Commonly he is well aware of her feelings, but how insulted, how furious, he might be, should she be so unwise or bold as to profess them!

“Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.

“How dare you love a free man?”

“May not even a she-sleen love her master?”

“The she-sleen is a splendid animal,” he said. “You are a mere slave.”

“Forgive me, Master.”

But she did not think he was displeased at her declaration.

“Perhaps I should whip you and sell you,” he said.

“Please do not, Master,” she said.

“You do not seem to fear that I will sell you,” he said.

“I am, of course, a slave, and am at Master’s disposal.”

“But you do not seem to fear I will sell you.”

“Master may do with me as he wishes,” she said, “but it is my hope that I will not be sold.”

“It could be done to you.”

“That is well known to your slave, Master.”

“Why should you not be sold?”

“I think Master would have difficulty recouping his losses,” she smiled. “Did he not pay something in the neighborhood of twenty-one tarsks, and of silver, for me?”

“Doubtless I muchly, and foolishly, overpaid,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she agreed.

Many girls such as she, she knew, and excellent girls, quality shackle sluts, went for as little as one and a half to three silver tarsks. She recalled there had been a bid of fifteen silver tarsks on her even before Mirus and Selius Arconious had entered upon their competition for a slave, the shapely, gray-eyed brunette being displayed and auctioned. Fifteen silver tarsks, though, she thought, was surely excessive. Much, of course, had to do with the place, the wealth at hand, the number of bidders, the fever of the bidding, and such.

“Perhaps your master is a fool,” he said.

“A girl dare not comment on such things,” she said.

“Would you like to be whipped?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“But actually I am not, as it seems, such a fool,” he said.