Explorers of Gor (24 page)

“Paga, Master?” she asked, kneeling before me, the metal cup held before her, in her two hands.

“Yes,” I said.

She proffered the cup to me. She knelt back on her heels, her knees wide, and extended her arms to me, the cup in her hands.

“Did you not neglect to kiss it?’ I asked her.

She drew back the cup and, pressing her lips to it, kissed it.

“Is that how a slave kisses the cup of a master?” I asked.

She again turned her head to the side and pressed her lips softly, lingeringly, against it. Then she kissed it. I saw a tremor course through her body. I think, then, for the first time, she had begun to understand what it might be truly, to kiss the cup of a master. Then again, kneeling back on her heels, her knees wide, extending her arms to me, the cup in her hands, she proffered me the drink.

“Your head should be down, between your arms,” I said. She put her head down. Again I saw a small movement in her body, a tremor, subtle. She had put her head down before a man. Another consequence of this position is that the girl’s eyes, in the specific act of her serving, do not meet those of the master. They are lowered before his, as one who submits.

This is also reminiscent, in an experienced girl, of her training. Often, in training, a girl is not permitted to look into the eyes of the trainer, unless he should specifically extend this permission. Indeed, in some cities, the girl in training may not raise her eyes above the trainer’s belt, unless, again, specifically accorded this permission.

“Speak,” I said to her.

“Your paga, Master,” she said.

But I did not take the paga. “Do you know other phrases?” I asked. There were many, actually, and they tended to vary from tavern to tavern, and from city to city. There was, really, no standardization in such matters.

She trembled, head down, proffering me the paga.

“Your girl brings you drink, Master,” she said.

“Any others?” I asked.

“Here is your drink, Master,” she said. “I beg to serve you further in any way I may.”

“Another,” I said.

“Do not forget I come with the price of the cup,” she said. “Use me as you will, Master.”

“Another,” I said sharply.

“For your pleasure,” she said, “I bring you paga and a slave.”

“Personalized phrase,” I said.

“E.,” she said.

“Evelyn,” I corrected her.

“Evelyn tenders drink humbly to Master,” she said. “Evelyn hopes Master will later find her suitable to give him pleasure.”

“Another,” I said.

“I am Evelyn,” she said. “I serve you, naked and collared. Take me later to the alcove. I beg to be taught my slavery.”

I then took the paga. “You may now serve others,” I said to her.

“You made her serve well,” said Shaba.

“Thank you,” I said.

The girl trembled, and then regained her composure. Then, in turn, as a naked paga slave, she served Msaliti and Shaba. I observed her technique. I thought she could probably survive in a paga tavern, under real conditions, not those artificial conditions under which she had served in the tavern of Pembe, the Golden Kailiauk, though doubtless she would be often beaten in the beginning.

When the girl had finished serving Shaba she straightenedup and came about the table, to where her cup rested on the low wood.

She reached for it, but Msaliti moved it out of her reach. She looked at him, puzzled.

“Does a paga slave drink at the table of masters?” he asked.

She laughed. “Of course not,” she said.

“You could be whipped for that,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “that is true.” She smiled. She then went to where her clothing had been discarded, on the floor. She bent to pick it up, to reclothe herself.

“Do not dress,” said Msaliti.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Kneel there,” said Msaliti, indicating a place about a yard from the table.

“Why?” she asked.

“There,” he said.

She knelt there, puzzled. It was about where a paga slave might kneel, close enough to be ready to serve at the merest signal, far enough away to be unobtrusive.

“You see,” she said to me, “I have been well trained.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You were not given permission to speak,” said Msaliti to the girl.

She looked at him, puzzled.

“You could be whipped also for that,” he said.

“Of course,” she laughed. Then she looked over to the blond-haired barbarian. The blond-haired girl, miserable, still blindfolded, knelt by the wall. Her slender ankles were shackled. Her hands were tied behind her back. A rope, looped through her collar, tied her to a slave ring behind her, about a yard off the floor. “Do you want her whipped again?” asked the dark-haired girl.

“No,” said Msaliti.

“I thought you said the whip was to be used again tonight,” she said.

“I did,” said Msaliti.

“Are you going to beat her?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

Msaliti looked at her. “It is nearly time, my dear,” he said, “for you to be returned to the tavern of Pembe.”

“No!” she said. “You said that tonight was my last night of feigned service there.”

“It was,” said he. “But this is also the first night of your true service there.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

She got up, angrily, and went toward the small anteroom. But the two askaris blocked her way. She turned about, facing us. “I would like to get the key,” she said, angrily, “to remove this—this collar!” she indicated the collar.

“I have the key here,” said Msaliti, lifting it, he having taken it a moment ago from his pouch.

“Oh,” she said. Then she walked toward us.

“Do not approach more closely without permission,” said Msaliti.

She stopped, about five feet from the table.

“Kneel,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Kneel,” he said. I noted that he had repeated a command. Masters do not care to repeat commands.

She knelt. “I do not understand,” she said.

I did not think she was unintelligent. It was only that her Earth mind was not quick to grasp that she might, almost unbelievably, almost incomprehensibly to her, be placed in certain categories.

“Give me the key,” she said.

“Whose collar do you wear?” he asked.

“That of Pembe, of course,” she said.

“What do you wish to do with it?” he asked.

“Remove it, of course,” she said.

“But it is Pembe’s collar,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Thus,” said he, “if or when it is removed is surely a determination to be made not by you but by Pembe.”

“What are you saying!” she cried.

“Are all women on your former world as dull as you?” he asked.

“‘What do you mean my ‘former world’?” she asked.

“Precisely what I said,” said he, “that world which was formerly yours. Surely you must now know that your world is Gor, that it is the Gorean world, and only the Gorean world, which is now yours.”

“No!” she cried.

“You are a Gorean slave girl,” he said.

“No! No!” she cried. She leaped to her feet .and ran toward the door, but the two askaris seized her and flung her again to her knees, before us.

“You’re joking!” she begged.

“No,” said Msaliti.

“Take it off!” she cried, yanking at the collar, suddenly. “Take it off! Take it off!”

“No,” said Msaliti.

She looked at him. The steel collar remained inflexibly fastened on her throat.

Msaliti, in the speech known to the askaris, spoke briefly. They seized the girl by the arms and dragged her to the side of the room. They put her on her knees, facing the wall. They braceleted her wrists about one of the four slave rings in the wall, the one farthest from the blond-haired barbarian and closest to the door. It was, like the others, about a yard from the floor. Msaliti, standing, leaving the table, shook loose the blades of the slave whip.

“I am not a slave!” she cried, looking at him over her right shoulder.

“You were a slave,” said Msaliti, “the instant you were branded, only you did not know it.”

“No! No!” she cried. Then she cried, “I served you well!”

“Yes,” said Msaliti, “but you are now no longer needed.”

“I served you well,” she wept.

“It is fitting that a slave well serves her masters,” said Msaliti.

“I am your colleague!” she said.

“Never were you anything but our slave, you little white fool,” said Msaliti.

“What if our superiors find out!” she cried.

Msaliti laughed. “I act in accord with their instructions,” he said. “Surely you do not think women such as yourself were brought to Gor with any object in mind other than to ultimately wear the collar.”

“No,” she cried. “No!”

He then stepped behind and to one side of her, with the whip.

“Shaba!” she cried. “Shaba!”

“Your services are no longer required, my dear,” said he.

“No!” she cried.

“Hear me, Slave,” said Msaliti. “I have long been patient with you. But the time of masters being patient with you is now at an end. We shall ignore thousands of infractions and insubordinations in the past, presumptions, and speakings and actions, and consider only the past few moments. But a few Elm earlier you dared to touch a cup on the table of masters, as though it were your own, and would have, if not stopped, drunk from it. Also, you have spoken without permission. Also, once you did not respond to the first issuance of a command, but required its repetition. Also, but a moment ago, you addressed a free man not as Master, but by his name.”

“Msaliti!” she begged.

“Ah,” said he, “what a dull slave. You have repeated the offense. ”

“You would not dare to strike me!” she said.

“Earlier I told you,” said he, “that the whip would be later used. You said, as I recall, that you would look forward to it.”

“Do not strike me,” she begged.

“Prepare to be beaten as what you are, a slave,” he said.

“I do not fear the whip,” she said.

“Have you ever felt it?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“You will find the experience instructive,” he said.

“I am not one of those girls,” she said, “who at a touch of the leather will crawl to you and kiss your feet.”

“Speak bravely,” said he, “after you have felt the whip.”

She tensed at the ring, preparing for the stroke. Her eyes were open. She held the ring with her small. braceleted hands.

Then it fell upon her, once, the slash of the five-bladed Gorean slave whip.

I saw disbelief, startled, wild, enter her eyes. Then she shut her eyes, tightly, tears squeezed from between their lids, wetting the lashes and her cheeks. Her knuckles were now white on the ring they clutched. “No,” she whispered, “it cannot be.”

Msaliti did not immediately again strike her. He knew the whip. He gave her several Ihn, that she might begin to feel the pain of the first stroke.

“I will obey you,” she whispered. “Do not strike me again.

Then the second stroke fell upon her and she screamed with misery, her grip lost on the ring, half thrown against the wall, scratching at it with her braceleted hands, the side of her face against the heavy boards. There were now two layers of pain in her body, overlapping, each reinforcing and intensifying the other. Her body, sensitized by the first stroke, helpless, raw, aware, expectant, exposed, felt the second, as was intended, mingling with the burning echoes, the searing, throbbing wounds of the first, a thousand times more cruelly. “It is enough!” she wept, gasping, sobbing. “It is enough! I will do whatever you want!”

Msaliti then began her beating.

“No, Master!” she screamed at the ring, twisting and writhing. But Msaliti administered to her an efficient, though brief, discipline. As beatings go it was not particularly severe. On the other hand, it was genuine. Evelyn had been truly beaten. She had felt the whip.

“Have mercy, Master, on your slave!” she wept.

Msaliti then, after some ten or twelve strokes, lowered the whip. He spoke to the askaris. They unlocked the left slave bracelet of the girl, freeing her from the ring. She fell to her stomach, weeping.

“To my feet,” said he.

She crawled to his feet and kissed them. “Yes, Master,” she said.

Msaliti again spoke to the askaris and they pulled the girl’s wrists behind her back and, refastening her left wrist in the left slave bracelet, the right still locked on her right wrist, secured them there.

Msaliti looked down at her, on her stomach at his feet.

“What a miserable, worthless thing you are,” he said.

I recalled that these had been the words the dark-haired girl had used to the blond-haired barbarian, still kneeling blindfolded, but now terribly frightened, to one side. She knew little of what was going on. She did understand, of course, that some sister in bondage, near to her, had just been disciplined.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Behold,” said Msaliti, smiling, to Shaba and myself. Then, to the dark-haired girl, he said, sharply, “Nadu!”

She struggled to her knees and, as she could, her wrists braceleted behind her, assumed before him the lovely, elegant position of the pleasure slave.

“Despicable slave,” smiled Msaliti to the girl.

“Yes, Master,” she said, sobbing.

These words, too, I recalled, had been used by the dark-haired girl earlier to the blond-haired barbarian.

The dark-haired girl now knelt, collared, before Msaliti, herself, too, now only a girl, and slave, at the mercy of men.

Msaliti spoke again to the askaris. He gave one of them the key to the girl’s collar.

“Several days ago,” said he to the kneeling girl before him, “your sale to Pembe was arranged. Tonight you will be delivered to him.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It seems he has taken a fancy to you,” said Msaliti. “He thinks that you may have in you the makings of a paga girl. I do not know if it is true or not. I would, however, if I were you, attempt to do my best to justify Pembe’s confidence in you. Pembe is not a patient man. He has taken the hands and feet from more than one girl.”