Conspirators of Gor (37 page)

I was within fifty paces of one of the lower entryways, a back entryway, to Six Bridges when, to my dismay, I saw my two nemeses, one emerging from a doorway to the left, the other from a doorway to my right. I had little doubt they had been waiting there, watching, for me to come close enough to surprise. Carrying the laundry, a rectangular bulk of it, steadying it on my head with two hands, I could not well have turned about and fled.

They were too close.

Both were smiling.

Both were carrying a peeled, supple branch.

I did not know how long I could hold the laundry, if those branches were laid against the back of my thighs, or across my arms and shoulders. They would avoid my face, I was sure, lest I be permanently marked or damaged.

I was, after all, goods, perhaps goods of some value.

The first of the two laundering slaves whipped her branch viciously through the air, twice. I heard its swift rush through the air. The other slapped her branch in her palm.

“Why are you not on the bridge?” laughed the first.

“You looked well, paralyzed, unable to move, cowering on your belly,” said the second.

“She is a barbarian,” said the first.

“I will enjoy this,” said the second.

“I mean you no harm,” I said. “Please! Please let me pass. I must do as I am told.”

“So, too, must we,” laughed the first.

“You were warned,” said the second.

They then, improvised switches at the ready, stepped forward. They lifted their arms, eager, grinning, but then, to my amazement, they stopped, and turned white.

“First obeisance position,” said a voice behind me, sharply, a male voice, “switches in your teeth.”

The two laundry slaves swiftly went to first obeisance position, kneeling, head to the ground, palms of their hands on the ground, the switches crosswise in their teeth.

Both were discomfited, frightened, in the presence of a man, presumably a free man.

“You, you with the laundry,” said the voice. “Remain standing, where you are, and do not turn around.”

I think the man then withdrew a few feet behind me.

Then he said to the two laundry slaves, “Get on all fours, and approach me, the switch in your teeth, both of you.”

I watched them, frightened, crawl past me. The first one cast me a look of terror, of misery.

In the house I had been trained to crawl thusly to a man, humbly, the switch held crosswise between my teeth. It is one way in which a slave may bear the whip or switch to her master.

She does not know how, or if, it will be used.

She will soon learn.

I did not turn around.

“Now turn about, and belly,” said the voice.

Then I sensed that the slaves had been put to their bellies, their heads toward me.

I then heard some small, frightened sounds, as though limbs had been jerked about, behind backs, and then tiny noises, as though wrists had been thonged together, and not gently.

I then heard two small cries, accompanying a ripping of cloth.

“Now,” said the voice, “let us see about these switches.”

“Mercy, Master!” said the first of the two laundry slaves.

“Were you given permission to speak?” he asked.

“No, Master, forgive me, Master!” said the girl.

A moment later I heard the switch being applied to the two slaves, a blow for one, and then a blow for the other, and so on.

There was much sobbing.

“Knees,” said the voice.

“Henceforth,” said the voice, “you are not to bother this slave, or any other, as they are about their work. If you do, you will be placed on a slave ship for Torvaldsland or Schendi. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” they said.

Then they cried out with pain, as though they might be being dragged at a man’s hip, in leading position.

“Move,” he said, and I saw the two slaves pass me, on the right, tied together, closely, head to head, by the hair, their tunics torn to the waist, their hands thonged tightly behind them, their backs and the back of their thighs richly striped from the blows of a switch.

“Stop!” he called.

Instantly they stopped.

“Tell your Mistress,” said the voice, “that this district is open, and will not be defended, or contested. It, and its pricings, are not to be managed, or controlled. If the Lady Daphne does not find these arrangements acceptable, her house will be burned to the ground.”

“Yes, Master!” they said.

“Now, go,” said the voice.

The two bound, chastised slaves then, awkwardly, as they could, uncomfortably, half stumbling, fled down the street.

“Do not turn around,” said the voice behind me.

I remained still, looking ahead, frightened, balancing the laundry, holding it in place with my two hands.

“A slave thanks Master,” I said. “A slave is grateful.”

I trusted he would not now, himself, take the laundry and cast it to the gutter. Would that not be a rich Gorean joke, at the expense of a helpless slave, a joke worth recounting in the taverns?

“You are Allison, the barbarian slut of the Lady Bina, are you not?” asked the voice.

“I am Allison,” I said, “girl of the Lady Bina, who resides in the house of the pottery merchant, Epicrates.”

“The barbarian slut,” he said.

“I am barbarian,” I said, “Master.”

“A barbarian slut,” he said.

“If Master pleases,” I said.

I sensed I was being regarded, from behind, as a slave may be regarded.

“How is it that Master knows a girl’s name, and that of her Mistress?” I asked.

“Hold still,” he said.

I stiffened, angrily.

I felt his hands at the side of my body, and then at the sides of my waist, and then at my hips, and then a bit down, at the sides of my thighs.

Had I been on Earth, and free, I would doubtless have spun about, and struck him. But I was on Gor, and a slave.

“Not bad, for a barbarian,” he said.

“I assure Master,” I said, “that many of us are quite as good as his native Gorean girls.”

Certainly we were all of the same species, and all in our collars.

“I am told we sell well,” I said, angrily.

“For copper tarsks,” he said.

My fingers dug into the laundry, angrily.

Did he know of the Metellan district, or the house of Menon?

“Do not turn around,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said.

“Straighten your body, girl,” he said.

“Is Master pleased with what he sees?” I asked.

“I have seen worse,” he said.

“A slave is pleased, if Master is pleased,” I said, acidly.

I was sure now whose was the voice whose face I could not see.

It was he from the Sul Market, he whom I loathed.

I had seen him about, from time to time.

“It seems Master follows a slave,” I said. “Perhaps Master will make an offer for her.”

“You are a vain slut,” he said. “What makes you think anyone would want you?”

“I am lovely,” I said.

“That is all you are,” he said.

“At least that is something,” I said.

“Certainly,” he said.

“How did you know my name, and that of my Mistress?” I asked.

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“Are you any good in the furs?” he asked.

“Perhaps Master would care to try me, and see,” I said.

“You are boldly spoken,” he said.

I shrugged.

“Perhaps I will try you,” he said, “and see.”

“I am owned by another,” I said, quickly.

“But a woman,” he said.

“She might hire men,” I said.

“If she could hire men,” he said, “you would not be doing laundry.”

“Surely a barbarian slut could be of no interest to Master,” I said.

“Barbarians look well,” he said, “naked, collared, chained, licking and kissing at one’s feet, bringing the whip to a fellow in their teeth, and such.”

“I have laundry to deliver,” I said.

“Remain where you are,” he said.

“There is another, of course,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“Oh?” I said.

“What do you know of it?” he asked.

“Very little,” I said. “It is the pet of Lady Bina.”

“Do not be naive,” he said.

“Master?” I asked.

“Do you know what form of life it is?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“It is Kur,” he said.

So he knew that word.

“I know little of such things,” I said.

“What,” he asked, “is it doing on Gor, and what, too, is the Lady Bina doing on Gor?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“You are stupid,” he said.

“I find Master hateful,” I said.

“You would look well at my feet,” he said.

“I have laundry to deliver,” I said.

“Do not move,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You would find out what it is to be owned by a man,” he said.

“A slave thanks Master,” I said, “for his intervention in her behalf, in the matter of the laundry. With his permission, she now begs to be dismissed, that she may be about her work.”

“Are you red-silk?” he asked.

“Of what business is that of Master?” I asked. Then I said, quickly, “Yes, I am red-silk.”

One must be careful how one responds to a Gorean male, if one is a slave.

“But perhaps not yet,” he said, “in frequent, desperate need.”

“It seems not,” I said.

“You look well,” he said, “your arms up, bearing your burden.”

I was silent. I did not dare release the laundry and yet, holding it, my arms were lifted and, in effect, held in place, as much as though they were at the sides of my head, held in shackles, chained to a ceiling ring.

“Do women of your world bear burdens thusly?” he asked.

“Some do,” I said, “but not in the part of my world from which I derive.”

“You do it attractively,” he said.

This was partly an effect, I supposed, of the position of the arms, and its effect on the girl’s body. A common examination position, as noted earlier, requires the hands to be placed behind the neck, or at the back of the head. Too, there are chaining arrangements which fasten a girl’s wrists together, at the back of her neck.

“On my world,” I said, “I did not bear burdens.”

“You were of high caste?” he asked.

“I was well placed,” I said, “and of high social station.”

“And now you are a mere slave,” he said. “Excellent.”

“‘Excellent’?” I said, angrily.

“Certainly.” he said. “That makes you more interesting, once of superior station, now a reduced, meaningless chain slut.”

“Please release me, Master,” I said, angrily.

To this plea, there was no response.

I dared not turn my head.

“Master?” I said. “Master?”

He then came about, and was facing me.

It was indeed he of the Sul Market!

He was close to me, very close.

“Steady,” he said.

I turned my head away. There was a faded, stained, half-torn poster, advertising a carnival, on the wall opposite.

He then gently took my head in his hands, turned it to him, and held it, and I tried to pull away, but could not do so.

“No!” I begged.

He drew me to him.

“No,” I said, “no!”

Then I felt his lips on mine.

I tried to pull back, but could not do so.

“Part your lips, more,” he said. “Get your mouth open, more.”

I tried to shake my head, negatively, but could scarcely manage it.

“I want to feel your teeth,” he said. “Do not bite, of course, or your teeth must be torn from your head.”

I tried to protest, but could not well form words.

“You have good lips,” he said, “sweetly soft, bred for a master’s kiss.”

I struggled, futilely.

“Touch teeth, gently,” he whispered. “Now,” said he, “tongue, tongue. Surely you have been trained.”

“Please, no, Master, please, no, Master,” I murmured.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, tears ran from my eyes, forcing their way between the clenched lids.

“You are in a collar,” he whispered.

“Yes, yes,” I said. “I am in a collar!”

My body then shook, and I felt weak, and I pressed my lips to his, piteously. But almost at the same time, suddenly, unexpectedly, spasmodically, I thrust myself against him, needfully, beggingly.