Conspirators of Gor (6 page)

I saw Mrs. Rawlinson, in the background. She was smiling. I recalled that I was being punished, well punished.

I suspected that the sight of a woman in a collar was stimulating to men. I wondered if they knew that being in a collar had a similar effect on its occupant.

I had little doubt that orgasms were easily obtained from an obedient, yielding, helpless slave.

What choice had she?

None!

But did the men know how eagerly the slave sought the embrace of her master’s arms? One supposes so. Surely they must know the need, the passion, of the slave. How helpless is a woman once her slave fires have been ignited. Do the masters truly not understand the slave’s uneasiness, her whimpering, her sidelong glances, the bondage knot in her hair, her kneeling before him, the pathetic way she presses her lips to his feet, hoping to call herself to his attention?

Surely the strongest chain on a slave is her nature and her needs.

And I wondered, suddenly, what it would be to encounter a man so virile and strong, so powerful and lustful, that he would be satisfied with nothing less than my absolute possession, with nothing less than owning me, with nothing less than having me as his slave.

And what would it be, to be at the feet of such a man?

Could there be such man? Could there be such a place, such a world?

Nora’s questions were greeted with obvious agreement.

The switch drew my attention, and that of the guests, to the pan which had been placed near me.

It was a pan of water.

“Drink,” said Nora.

“Please, no,” I protested.

“Please no, what?” inquired Nora.

“Please, no, Mistress,” I said.

“Drink,” said Nora, sternly.

I put down my head, and, on all fours, not using my hands, drank.

I was drinking as a slave. How strange to be in such a posture, I, a free woman, performing such an act. What feelings coursed through my body, strange feelings, unaccountable feelings. I could not understand them. But of course I was being punished. I must remember that. That must be all it was, all it could be. But such feelings, so broadcast, weakening, and suffusive! Could it be, I wondered, that I was a slave.

I had had only a swallow or two when Nora’s slipper swept across the floor and upset the pan.

“Clumsy slave!” she said.

Then, suddenly, I felt a stinging rain of leather cracking on my back, and then I was rolling on the floor, crying, turning about, trying to fend the blows which fell upon me, and then I struggled to my knees, and put my head down to the floor, covering it with my hands. She struck some more blows, lashing blows, on my arms, and calves, and back, and then, perhaps weary, returned to her place.

“What a careless, clumsy slave,” she remarked.

I shook with sobs, and pain. I was not brave. Nora had conquered. She had defeated me, I was shattered, and subdued. She had won. I did not even think of myself as a free person. I felt myself to be something different, something helpless, meaningless, and unworthy. I was camisked, collared, and belled. I was only a punished slave. I knew then that I would strive to please her.

The leather had taught me my place.

She was mistress. I was slave.

I wondered if Eve and Jane, in their exposure, their humiliation, and degradation, in their punishment, had suffered as I had. I did not doubt it. How could it be otherwise? Neither had been switched as I had, but each, more than once, when deemed less than fully pleasing, had felt a sharp stroke, sometimes a merry stroke, across the back of her legs. Certainly, though excruciatingly sensitive to our exposure and shame, we all strove to play our roles well, for we were all constantly under the exacting scrutiny of Mrs. Rawlinson. She retained our confiscated books, and might, we knew, at any time, initiate the proceedings which we were desperate to avoid. But I wondered, too, if Eve and Jane, now and again, in their serving, in their awareness of how they were looked upon, doubtless as never before, in their sense of exposure, of vulnerability and helplessness, in their hope to be found pleasing, and their fear of failing to be found so, had had feelings analogous to mine, those unaccountable feelings which a woman might feel, if she sensed her legs within no more than a scrap of cloth, if she lightly touched her finger tips to her throat, and found a collar there, if she were to understand, in its full moment, that she did not belong to herself but to another, that she was a property, and no more, that she was owned, that she was slave. I wondered if Mrs. Rawlinson knew what she had done to us, what she had forced us to feel, what she had forced us to suspect about ourselves.

At last the party was over, and the guests departed, and our sisters, laughing and chatting, weary but excited, retired to their rooms. Eve, Jane, and I were permitted to remove our bells and were placed in maid’s gingham uniforms, and set to clear the tables, tidy the room, and attend to the dishes. It was only when the work was complete that we were aligned, and Mrs. Rawlinson, behind us, one by one, removed our collars.

“You may thank me,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rawlinson,” we said, and then fled, sobbing, to our rooms.

It was some days after the party that I had had the troubling dream to which I earlier alluded, that in which it seemed that men were in my room, that in which I had sensed myself meticulously examined, and then, as I struggled to awaken, to escape the dream, bound helplessly, my wrists and ankles widely separated, while the men conferred. When I awakened, whimpering and frightened, I had screamed. Then I had realized, to my relief, that I was safe in my own room. Strangely I was naked, having apparently somehow slipped from my nightgown in the night. For some time, I remained in the bed, frightened and troubled, even though it was now clear to me that I was in my own room. After a bit, however, my alarm seemed foolish to me, and I regarded the dream, for all its seeming reality, with amusement. It was then, a moment later, that I had cried out with horror, this the outburst which had brought Eve and Jane, and Mrs. Rawlinson, to the room. I had drawn the covers up about me. “A dream,” I said, “a dream!” Mrs. Rawlinson had been the last to leave the room, and she had smiled before leaving, smiled knowingly, as it seemed to me at a later time. The reason for my outburst was simple. There were cord marks on my wrists and ankles.

Chapter Five

“Slave,” she had said. “Kneel!”

“You are not a free woman!” I had said. “Are you so different from me? That bit of cloth you wear is as much a mockery of a garment as that which clings about me! Do I not see a metal circlet clasped close about your neck, which, I trust, is locked in place? If it is not, remove it, and I will kneel before you.”

“Barbarian!” she said.

“We are no different,” I said. “We are now the same, whether barbarian or Gorean!”

“No!” she said.

“I might sell for as much, or more than you!” I said.

These remarks, and those which had followed, recounted earlier, were not unprecedented in exchanges between native Gorean slaves and imports, such as I, merchandise brought from Earth, particularly when they are unfamiliar to one another. I had, at this time, been better than three months and four passage hands on your world. You might note that I was not without my collar vanity. I had literally suggested that I might bring as much off the block as she, though she was Gorean. To be sure, this would depend on the bidders. It had not taken me long to realize that I, and others like me, were commonly despised by Gorean women, both free and slave. The men, on the other hand, I soon discovered, though commonly regarding us as inferior and worthless, were not immune to our charms. Certainly they bid nicely for us, and were not reluctant to put us in their collars. We needed the men and hoped to be purchased by them, for they would protect us from the women. We needed only serve them with eager and abject perfection, in all the diverse ways of the female slave. Something more was involved here, of course, than the simple animosity of women, particular and generalized, for rivals, or the usual suspicion of that which is other than oneself, or different. We imports brought high prices. This was doubtless, in part, a result of a different and exotic cast of merchandise, but, too, I think there was little doubt that the prices paid for us were not unrelated to the quality of the goods sold. When a city falls, or a caravan is taken, one will usually add to one’s chain what is at hand. On the other hand, sometimes a woman is stripped and dismissed, whipped from a camp, or the smoking wagons. To her humiliation and rage, she has been rejected. She is insufficiently attractive to be a slave. She would not sell, or might sell for no more than a pot girl. Contrariwise, the girls taken from Earth are apparently selected with great care, for beauty, intelligence, and, I suspect, somehow, though I am unclear how it is assessed, for latent, and eventually uncontrollable, passion. I frankly see no reason to believe that the women of Earth, in general, are either better looking or not, when compared with their Gorean sisters, nor, of course, that they are better or worse than we. I would think them much the same. Clearly we are all female, and human. On the other hand, the Goreans have an expression, “slave beautiful,” and that clearly means beautiful enough to be a slave. Accordingly, the women in collars, Goreans or not, tend to be females of a sort which is of interest to men. And, as you might recall, if you would forgive me, the imports from Earth are not acquired randomly, say, in virtue of the fortunes of war or raiding. They are selected with great care, apparently by men, or women, who are professionals in such matters. I have often wondered about Mrs. Rawlinson, whom I suspect is not unacquainted with my fate, and perhaps that of others. I wonder if she is amused, to think of us as we might now be. At different times it had seemed her voice was different, younger, and, at times, it seemed her posture and carriage was more that of a younger woman. I had come to suspect that she had been disguised, and somehow placed in the sorority for some purpose. I recalled she had once identified herself as “a free woman.” I had been puzzled by that at the time, but now it seemed somehow meaningful. She had said this shortly before she had had us kneel before her. If Mrs. Rawlinson was Gorean, or in league with Goreans, she had certainly been well placed to examine and assess a number of supercilious, vain, intelligent, highly cultured, beautiful young women, women conveniently gathered together, women nicely located and accessible, self-selected women, beauties all, of a sort which, once collared, might be of interest to men. I wondered about Eve, and Jane, and the others. Too, I wondered about beautiful, arrogant Nora, who might now find herself on the other end of a switch. I have spoken of collar pride. I soon learned collar pride. I learned that I was “slave beautiful,” and that the female slave is the most desirable and exciting of human females. What woman would be immune to such flattery, the flattery of chains, the tunic, the collar, the whip? What woman, in her vanity, would be insensible of the compliment paid to her, the compliment of thongs and bracelets? How could she be unaware of the tribute and honor paid to her, that she should be cast amongst the least and most worthless of animals, the most desirable of women, the female slave? So I came to be proud of my beauty, and its meaning. The collar may be viewed as a simple contrivance, a device prescribed by Merchant Law, identifying a slave and, if the collar is engraved, often her master. Free women may view it as a badge of inferiority and degradation, and perhaps appropriately, from the social point of view. But the collar, too, as I have suggested, may be seen as a badge of quality, a token that the woman has been found desirable enough, and beautiful enough, of sufficient interest to men, to be put in a collar. It is no wonder the free women, encumbered in their robes, uneasy within them, perhaps, for all I know, seething with need, suspecting the joys of the collar, hate us so.

We are as natural and real a part of your world as the unpolluted air you breathe. You think nothing of our presence. It is there, as that of your other domestic animals. You find us on your streets, and in your markets, shopping; you note us waiting for our masters, our necks or ankles chained to street rings; surely you have seen us on holidays, promenaded on our leashes? Are we not everywhere, hurrying about, intent on our errands? We are in your homes, and kitchens, and fields. Do we not serve in the paga taverns, sometimes nude and belled? Do we not, sedately tunicked, as serving slaves, assist free women with their complex ornaments, their perfumes, robes, and veils? Do we not gather gossip for them, and carry messages for them in their petty intrigues and assignations; do we not accompany their palanquins? Will you not find us in military camps, and stables? Do we not serve well in the baths? Is it not a great pleasure of your visitors, foreign ambassadors, and such, to see us in your towns and cities, doubtless comparing us to those in theirs? Do we not fit in well with your colorful architecture, your broad boulevards, the lovely statues and fountains, and, surely, with your extensive, shaded public gardens, with their secluded, winding paths? Surely your slaves are one of the delights, one of the pleasures and joys, of your world. It is easy to see why you would not give the least thought to letting us out of our collars. You want us in them, and we will be kept in them. Indeed, who but a fool would free a slave girl?

Deny this, if you wish, but I have discovered, on your world, that such as I are not only accepted, as your other animals, but are, in a way, prized. Surely you are aware of the jokes, the songs. Certainly we are muchly sought for? Is it not for us that citadels are stormed and caravans raided, that we may be coffled and led naked to your markets? Surely you cannot deny our importance, negligible though we may be? Are we not somehow special amongst your animals, though we commonly sell for less than a sleen, and dozens of times less than a tarn? I think so. And I do not think you would wish to do without us. No. Are we not well worked, and are we not beautiful? And you find many uses for us, to which we are put.