Explorers of Gor (30 page)

“Is that the world called ‘Earth’?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I have heard,” I said, “that on that world women are piteous slaves, only they lack masters.”

“That lack,” she said, “in my case, on this world, will surely be made up.”

“Yes,” I said.

I released her head and held her, then, by the upper arms.

“I will obey you,” she said, softly. “I will do anything, and everything, that you might want.”

“That is known to me,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, tossing her head, a bit irritably.

“Would you like to be made more beautiful?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said, lightly, “if it is my master’s wish.”

I then released her, and she stood there.

I went to the side of the room and picked up my sea bag. I threw it to the center of the room. She looked down at it, puzzled. It was of heavy blue material, canvas, and tied with a white rope.

“Lie down upon it,” I told her, “on your back, your head to the floor.”

She did so.

“No, please,” she said, “not like this.” It is a common position for a disciplinary slave rape. In it the woman feels very vulnerable, very helpless.

I then took her.

“No,” she wept, in English, “have you no respect for my feelings? Am I nothing to you?”

I stood up. I had, by intent, given her no time to respond, other than as a brutalized slave, no time to feel, other than as a girl unilaterally subjected to her master’s pleasure. She looked up at me, miserably.

“Crawl now to the mirror,” I told her, “on your hands and knees, and regard yourself.”

Miserable, she did so, her hair falling before her face, trembling, her sweet breasts pendant. She lifted her head, and gasped, looking in the mirror,

“Do you see?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, and then wept, her head down.

“Lift your head again,” I said, “and again look.”

She did so.

“Do you see?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, weeping, “the slave is more beautiful than before.” She then put down her head again, crying.

“Crawl now to the straw, by the slave ring,” I told her. “Lie down there, drawing your legs up.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I then went to her, with a blanket, and threw it over her, but not yet covering her head.

She looked up at me, so vulnerable and delicate, so helpless and frightened. “I am more beautiful now,” she said. “But how? How could it be?”

“It is the result of an inward change in you,” I said, “outwardly manifested in expression and bodily mien.”

“But what?” she asked.

“Speak your feelings,” I told her.

“Never before,” she said, “did I feel so helplessly owned.”

“That has something to do with it,” I told her.

“You subjected me so casually, so forcibly, to your will,” she said.

“That, too, has something to do with it,” I told her.

“You are my Master, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You can do with me whatever you want, can’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you will, won’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I love being owned,” she said, suddenly.

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

“If a woman loves being owned,” she said, “must she not be a natural slave?”

“Answer your own question,” I told her. “You are the woman.”

“I dare not answer it,” she whispered.

“Do so,” I told her.

“Yes,” she whispered, frightened, “she must be a natural slave.”

“And you are a woman,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Draw your conclusion,” I told her, “out loud.”

“I am a natural slave, Master,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She looked up at me. “Never, never did I think I would admit that in my life,” she said.

“It takes great courage,” I told her.

There were tears in her eyes.

“But, as yet,” I said, “it is largely only an intellectual recognition on your part. It is not yet internalized, not yet a part of the totality of your being and responses.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Nonetheless, the intellectual recognition, abstract and superficial as it is, is a useful first step in the transformation of your consciousness, and the freeing of your deepest self, with her profundities of emotions and needs.”

“My deepest self is feminine,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “it is only your present consciousness which has been to some extent masculinized and, to a larger extent, neuterized. Beneath the patterns, the trainings, the roles, lies the woman. It is she whom we must seek. It is she whom we must free.”

“I am afraid to be feminine,” she said.

“You will be punished for femininity on this world,” I told her, “only by free women.”

“Free!” she laughed, miserably.

“They think themselves free,” I said

“Could I dare to be a woman on this world?” she asked.

“Yes,” I told her.

“But what if I wish to crawl to a handsome man, and beg to obey him?” she asked.

“On this world,” I told her, “you may do so.”

“But would he not then, as a gentleman, scandalized, lift me hastily to my feet, embarrassed, implicitly belittling me, and encouraging me to the pursuit of masculine virtues?”

“Would you fear that?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Is that why you would hesitate to crawl to a man?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“On this world, as a slave,” I said, “you need have no fear.”

“What would he do on this world?” she asked.

“Perhaps instruct you in the proper way to crawl to his feet,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.

“If you did not do so beautifully enough,” I said, “he might whip you.”

“Whip me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Gorean men are not easy to please, Slave,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Masculinity and femininity are complementary properties,” I told her. “If a man wishes a woman to be more feminine, he must be more masculine. If a woman wishes a man to be more masculine, she must be more feminine.”

“I am thinking of the far world from which I came, Master,” she said. “I think there may be a fearful corollary to what you have said. Perhaps if a man fears a woman he will want her to be more like a man, and if a woman fears a man she will want him to be more like a woman.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “It may depend on the individuals. I would not know.”

“I am more beautiful now,” she said. “I saw it in the mirror.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I still do not understand, clearly,” she said, “how it could be.”

“You were taught,” I said, “that you were owned, and that you were subject, totally, to the male will.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You had begun to learn just a little then, you see,” I said, “that you, a lovely woman, were truly under male domination.”

“And that made me more beautiful?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“How?” she asked.

“By releasing, in response, more of your femininity,” I said.

She looked up at me, frightened.

“It is a natural thing,” I said. “As a woman becomes more feminine, she becomes more beautiful.”

“I am afraid to be feminine, and beautiful,” she said.

“As well you might be, on this world, as a slave,” I said, “knowing what it will mean for you, how it will excite the lust of masters and make men mad to own you.”

“No,” she said. “That is not it. It is rather that I fear that self. I fear it might be truly me.”

“Have you never wondered,” I asked, “what it might be like, men with whips standing near you, to dance naked in the firelight, your feet striking in the sand, before warriors?”

“Yes,” she said. “I have wondered about that.”

“You see,” I said, “that self you fear is truly you.”

“Give me a choice,” she begged.

“You will be given no choice,” I told her. “Your femininity will be forced to grow, nurtured, if necessary, by the whip.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes, what?” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Master!” she protested, but I lifted the dark blanket and threw it over her head, so that she was completely covered. She could not then speak, or rise up, for the blanket was over her.

I got to my feet. From the sea bag I drew forth the notes for fortunes, made out to Shaba, to be drawn on various of the banks of Schendi, and the false ring, that which he was supposed to carry to the Sardar in place of the true ring. For the notes I, as a putative agent of Kurii, was to receive the true ring, the Tahari ring, which I would then return to Port Kar, that Samos might arrange for its delivery to the Sardar. I did not think I would kill Shaba. If he should actually dare to deliver the false ring to the Sardar he would doubtless there fall into the power of the Priest-Kings. They would then deal with him as they saw fit. If he did not choose to deliver the false ring to the Sardar I might then, at a later date, hunt him down, to kill him. My first priority was surely to return the Tahari ring4o Samos as swiftly and safely as possible.

It was now near the eighteenth Ahn.

“Master,” said Sasi. “I fear your eyes.”

“I must leave now,” I told her.

“I fear your eyes,” she said, “how you look at me. Will you return to us?”

“I will try,” I told her.

“I see by your eyes,” she said, “that you fear you will not return to us.”

“It is a hard business on which I embark,” I told her. “In the sea bag,” I said, “are various things. The key to your collar is there, for example. Too, there are coins. They should, in the event that I do not return, or do not soon return, keep you and the barbarian alive for a long time.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. Then she looked at me, wonderingly. “You would let me put my hand on the key to my own collar?” she asked.

“Schendi may not be an easy place in which to survive,” I told her. “You may find it convenient, in some circumstances, to remove your collar.”

“Are you freeing me?’ she asked. It did not even occur to Sasi that anyone might consider freeing the blond-haired barbarian. She, so luscious, and becoming so beautiful, could obviously, on a world such as Gor, be only slave meat.

I looked at Sasi. Swiftly she knelt. “Forgive me, my Master,” she said. “Please do not slay me.”

“No,” I said. “But Schendi may not be an easy place in which to survive. You may find it convenient, in some circumstances, to remove your collar.”

“I am branded,” she said. “I would fear to masquerade as a free woman.”

“I would not advise that,” I said. “You might be fed to tharlarion. But, still, it might be better for you not to be recognized as the girl of Tarl of Teletus.”

“Who are you, truly, Master?” she asked.

“Look to the beam above your head, and behind you,” I said. “What dangles there, which might be conveniently lowered?”

“A whipping ring,” she said.

“What hangs on the wall behind you, to your left?” I asked.

“A slave whip,” she said.

“Do you again request to know my true identity?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“You are an agile, clever slave, Sasi,” I said, “as quick-witted as you are curvacious. You have lived as a she-urt on the wharves of Port Kar. I have little fear for you.” I glanced at the barbarian, beneath the blanket.

“Do not fear, Master,” said Sasi. “I will teach her to hide, and eat garbage and be pleasing to paga attendants.”

“I must go now,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“In time,” I said, “if I do not return, you will both presumably be caught and put up for public auction.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. I turned to leave.

“Must you leave this moment?” she asked. I turned about, and looked at her.

“I may never see you again,” she said.

I shrugged.

“I do not want to be free,” she said.

“Do not fear,” I told her, “you will not be.”

“Please, my Master,” she said. “Make now to me a gentle love.”

I went to Sasi, and crouched down, and took her in my arms.

15

Msaliti And I Are Tricked By Shaba; What Occurred Outside The Headquarters Of Msaliti And Shaba

“You are late,” said Msaliti.

“I have brought the notes,” I told him.

“It is past the nineteenth Ahn,” he said.

“I was detained,” I said.

“Have you brought the notes,” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I have brought them.” He was clearly nervous.

He admitted me, from the street to the small, dingy anteroom, that leading to the larger room in which we had, the preceding day, discussed our business.

“Is Shaba here?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Then what is so important about me being late?” I asked.

“Give me the notes,” he said. “Give me the ring.”

“No,” I said. I entered the larger room, that in which we had conferred on matters of importance yesterday.

“Where are the askaris?” I asked. They were not in the room.

“They are elsewhere,” said he.

“The room was more attractive yesterday,” I said, “when it contained the two female slaves.”

Msaliti and I sat down, cross-legged, near the low table.

“Yesterday evening,” I said, “after we parted, I paid a visit to the tavern of Pembe. I made use there of the slave who had once been Evelyn Ellis. She is not bad in a collar.”

“She is frigid,” said Msaliti.

“Nonsense,” I said. “The poor girl is paga hot.”

“I find that surprising,” said he.

“She cannot now help herself,” I said.

“Pathetic thing,” he said.

“It required only a bit of chaining and teaching her, so to speak, to kiss the whip.”

“Excellent,” said Msaliti.

“You seem distracted,” I said.

“It is nothing,” he said.

My thoughts strayed to the blond-haired barbarian and Sasi.

“Keep her under the blanket for an Ahn after I have left,” I had told Sasi. “You may then release her, if you wish. If you do not wish to do so, of course, then leave her there as long as you please.”