Explorers of Gor (26 page)

She looked up at me, terrified. I looked down at her. “Do you now begin to understand,” I said, “what it might be to be chained as a slave?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Look now to your right, high on the wall,” I said. “What do you see?”

“A slave whip,” she said.

“Do you now begin to understand what it might be to be a slave?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“This is an alcove,” I said. “But you may think of it as a very special sort of place.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“As a chamber of submission,” I said.

“Yes, yes, Master,” she said.

“Think of it now,” I said, “think of it deeply and keenly, with every fiber and particle of your lovely body, as a chamber of submission, a chamber in which you, a slave girl, must bend in all respects, a chamber in which you, only a female slave, must submit, in every bit of you, totally, completely, to the will of men.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I will now touch you,” I said.

“I am frigid,” she wept. “Do not kill me, I beg of you.”

“Think deeply now, fully,” I said. “You are in the chamber of submission.”

“Yes, Master,” she wept.

I then touched her, with exquisite gentleness.

Her haunches leaped, the chains shook. She looked at me, startled.

“Do you submit, fully?” I asked her,

“Yes, Master,” she said. Then she lifted her body, piteously. “Please touch me again,” she said.

I let her wait for a time. Then, again. I touched her, very gently.

“Aiii!” she cried out, squirming. I continued to touch her for a bit. “Oh, oh,” she began to moan.

Then I stopped touching her.

She looked up at me. “What are these sensations?’ she asked.

“Apparently you should be whipped,” I said.

“Why?” she asked. “Why, Master?”

“Because you have lied,” I said. “You told me that you were frigid.”

She looked up at me, frightened.

“But you are not,” I said. “You are only another hot slave.”

“No, no,” she said. “Not a hot slave, not I!”

“Let us see,” said I.

“Oh, oh,” she moaned, softly.

She looked up at me. “How can you respect me?’ she asked.

“You are not to be respected,” I told her. “You are only a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You no longer have any pride to guard,” I said. “A slave is not permitted pride.”

“Yes, Master,” she wept. “Oh, oh.” Then she threw her head to the side, on the furs. “I want to respect myself!” she cried.

“Your obligation is not to respect yourself,” I told her, “but to be yourself.”

She looked at me, tears in her eyes. “I dare not be myself,” she whispered.

“Is it wrong for a woman to be a woman?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “yes! It is wrong, and demeaning!”

“Interesting,” I said. “What should a woman be?” I asked her.

“She should be a man!” she said.

“But, quite simply, you are not a man,” I told her.

“I dare not be a woman,” she wept.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” she said, “I sense, in my heart, that a woman is a slave.”

“Is it not permissible for a slave to be a slave?” I asked.

“No!” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“I do not know!” she wept. “I do not know!”

“Can it be wrong to be what one truly is?” I asked.

“Yes, yes!” she said.

“It is wrong for the tree to be a tree, the rock a rock, the bird a bird?” I asked.

“No, no,” she said.

“Why, then,” I asked, “is it wrong for a slave to be a slave?”

“I do not know,” she said.

“Perhaps it is not wrong for a slave to be a slave,” I said.

“I dare not even think that,” she said. Then she said, “Please do not stop touching me, Master.”

“Does a slave beg?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Evelyn begs Master not to stop touching her.”

I kissed her, softly, about the breasts, but did not stop touching her.

“Thank you, Master,” she breathed.

Then, suddenly, she tore at the chains, trying to free herself, but could not, of course, do so.

“What is wrong?” I asked her.

“I must resist you!” she cried. “I must not yield! I must not yield!”

“Why not?” I asked.

“I sense the thing in me,” she said. “I have never felt it before, but this must be it. It is like waves, from so deep in me. It is beginning to overwhelm me. It is fantastic. It is unbelievable. No! No! You must stop touching me!”

I stopped touching her. “Why?” I asked.

“I was beginning to come to you,” she said.

“So?” I asked.

“You do not understand,” she said. “I was beginning to come to you—as a slave to her master!”

“But you are a slave,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And you are in the chamber of submission,” I said.

“You give me no choice,” she said.

I smiled at her. “This time, and this time alone,” I said, “I will give you a choice.”

“A choice?” she said.

“A slave’s choice,” I told her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You may yield—or die,” I told her.

She looked at me with terror. “I choose to yield, Master,” she said.

“Of course,” I said, “you are a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Next time,” I said, “you will not even be given that choice. It will not be necessary. Your slavery has now been confirmed. You will thenceforth be accorded no choice whatsoever, no alternative, however dire, to the enforcement of your submission upon you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Then I began again to touch her, lifting her to the heights she had chosen, the degrading joys of bondage, the humiliating ecstasy of the chained slave girl.

“Aiii!” she cried, throwing her head back. “I yield me yours, my Master!” she cried.

I had not even, this early in the evening, elected to enter her.

“Please touch me, hold me,” she wept, helplessly. I did so. How piteous were her small hands, opening and closing, In the wrist rings.

“I did not know it could be anything like that,” she said.

“It was nothing,” I told her.

“Nothing!” she wept. “It was the most incredible experience of my life.”

“It was only a minor slave orgasm,” I said.

“When I came to you,” she said, “I was submitting, and owned. It is the most beautiful and glorious feeling I have ever had.”

Then, after a time, I began to touch her again.

“What is Master going to do now to his girl?” she asked.

“I am going to teach her a little more of her slavery,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

This time, in less than ten Ehn, she began to squirm and cry. Then, suddenly, she looked at me, frightened. “It is coming,” she said. “It is greater than the first. I will not be able to stand it. It will kill me. I will die!”

“No, you will not,” I told her.

“Aiii!” she cried out, head back. Then she wept, “I’m chained. I’m chained. Hold me, please. Do not let me go. Stay warm, and near to me. Please, Master. Please, Master.”

I held her, and kissed her. Again I had not even elected to enter her.

She looked up, tears in her eyes. “Please come in me,” she begged. “I want to be fully yours, had without mercy by my master. Take me, I beg you. Have me!”

“Later,” I told her. “I have not yet begun to warm you.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened.

Later, toward morning, near dawn, I awakened, Evelyn’s lips so intimate upon me.

During the night I had unchained her, save for the steel and chain on her left ankle.

She awakened me as I had instructed her. It is pleasant to be awakened in that fashion. I put my hands down to her hair, as she pleasured me.

During the night I had taught her some small things, some techniques, little, simple things, for her mouth and hands, and breasts, her hair, her lips, and feet, and tongue. They might help her, I thought, to survive in Pembe’s tavern. Most importantly I had tried to impress upon her the fundamental importance of submission, and that she was a slave girl. All else, for most practical purposes, follows from that.

I cried out, softly, and she looked up, pleased that she had made me do that.

“Finish your work, Slave,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

My hands knotted in her hair, tightly, holding her helplessly to me. Then I released her.

I pulled her up to me, and, in the dim light of the alcove, filtering through the red curtain from the slatted grilles in the roof of the main room, wiped her mouth with her hair.

“It is morning, Master,” she whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

I held her arms, as she looked down at me.

“Speak,” I told her.

She then, whispering, said the following. I had taught it to her last night.

He is Master, and I am Slave.

He is owner, and I am owned.

He commands, and I obey.

He is to be pleased, and I am to please.

Why is this?

Because he is Master, and I am Slave.

I took her and put her to her back, beside me. I looked down into her eyes.

“Good morning, Slave,” I said.

“Good morning, Master,” she said.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked.

“In the little time you permitted me to sleep,” she said, “I never slept better before in my life.”

“Did you dream?” I asked.

“I dreamed I was a slave,” she said. “And then I awakened, and found that it was true.”

I smiled at her.

“I am a slave,” she said, “you know.”

“Yes,” I said.

“When I awakened this morning,” she said, “I knew that it was true. You taught it to me last night.”

“Do you think free women could have felt what you felt?” I asked.

“Never,” she said, “for they are not slaves.” She looked up at me. “What I felt were the feelings of a slave in the arms of her master. Those are feelings no free woman will ever know.”

“Unless she is put in bondage,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she smiled. Then she said, “How I pity them, those poor free woman, such as I was. How ignorant they are. No wonder they are so hostile to men. Would not any woman hate a man who did not have the strength to put her in a collar?”

“Perhaps,” I said. I thought of a girl once known, one who once had been my free companion. I thought of her cruelty to me once, in the house of Samos, when she had thought me helpless and crippled. She had once been the daughter of Marlenus of Ar, but he had disowned her, for once, when she had been the helpless slave of the forest girl, Verna, she had begged to be purchased, a slave’s act. Rather than submit to this stain upon his honor he, the Ubar of glorious Ar itself, had sworn against her, upon his sword and upon the medallion of his office as well, the fierce oath of disownment. She lived now, free, but deprived of citizenship, sequestered in Ar. Her left thigh would still bear the brand of Treve, for once, long ago, she bad fallen slave to Rask of Treve, a captain and tarnsman. I wondered if he had made her yield well as a slave, when he had owned her. I did not doubt it. I thought the brand of Port Kar might look well upon her body, placed above that of Treve. I wondered how she might look in scarlet silk, dancing as a slave before any men.

“We belong in collars,” said Evelyn.

I heard, outside the curtain, the sounds of the early morning. Tables were being moved aside, that the floor might be cleaned. This work is usually done by paga attendants. The girls, at this time, are usually asleep, chained in their kennels.

“It is morning,” I said.

“You are going to go in a moment, aren’t you,” she asked, “leaving me behind, a chained slave?”

“Of course,” I told her, “paga girl.”

“Don’t go yet,” she said. “I beg you, Master.”

“Very well,” I said.

“I wear Pembe’s collar,” she said, touching the encircling steel on her neck. “I would wear yours.”

I looked at her.

“Surely what you did to me last night,” she said, “means something to you?”

“It was only a night’s pleasure with a paga girl,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.

“Any Gorean male could do it to you,” I said.

“Make me yield like that,” she asked, “as such a slave?”

“Of course,” I told her, “Slave Girl.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“What do you think now of your collar?” I asked.

“I hate it,” she said. “And I love it!”

“You love your collar?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I love it” She looked up at me. “I love being a slave,” she said. “I love being enslaved. I love being forced to yield, and to obey men.”

“I see that it is appropriate that you wear a collar,” I said.

“Yes.” she said, defiantly. “It is fully appropriate.”

“You know why it is fully appropriate?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said, “because I am a true slave.”

“Yes,” I said, “Slave.”

“And yet,” she said. “I am an Earth girl.” She put her bands at the collar. “How cruel that I should be put in a collar!” She looked up at me. “Will it never be taken off?” she asked.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“Ah,” she said.

“To be replaced with another,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. She looked up at the wall, to her right, at the slave whip hanging there, on its peg. “You did not whip me,” she said.

“Do you wish to be whipped?” I said.

“No,” she said, “no!” She had felt the whip. She then looked again at me. “I suppose,” said she, “that I will be bought and sold many times.”

“Doubtless,” I told her.

“Do you think men will ever free me?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Why?” she asked.

“The collar is right on you,” I said.

She touched it. “Yes,” she said, “it is right on me. And you knew it immediately, didn’t you, you beast? That is why you made me, when I thought I was free, serve you as a naked paga slave.”

“It seemed fitting,” I said, “that your slavery be made manifest.”

“Of course,” she said. “You are a Gorean master.”

“Any Gorean male looking upon you,” I said, “whether you wore a collar or not, would see that you should be a slave.”