Magicians of Gor (5 page)

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Phoebe, because of the nature of her acquisition and holding, and our movements,

and such, had had very little chance to associate with, or meet, other slaves.

On the other hand this deprivation might soon be remedied. I supposed, if Marcus

should take up a settled domicile. Indeed, even if we remained n the camp for a

few days, it was likely that Phoebe would soon find herself in one group or

another of female slaves, conversing, working together. Perhaps laundering, or

such. From her sisters in bondage a girl, particularly a new girl, can learn

much. In such groups there are normally numerous subtle relationships,

hierarchies of dominance, and such, but when a male appears they are all

instantly reduced, before him, to the commonality of their beauty and bondage.

“Also,” said Marcus, sizing up the slim beauty before him, “we can always, if we

wish, extend our repertoire of ties by experiment.”

“Yes, Master,” said Phoebe, eagerly. It seemed she had forgotten her cuffing.

Yet I had little doubt that its admonitory sting lingered within her, not only

as a useful memorandum of her bondage but recalling her to the prudence of

caution.

Marcus looped the cord and put it over her, so that the loop hung behind her

back and two loosed ends before her.

(pg. 30) Already, it seemed, Phoebe had returned to her normal mode of relating

to him, as a mere, docile slave, not daring to confess her love openly. Yet I

think there was not something subtly different in their relationship. Phoebe

now, given his recent intensity, his denunciation of her mendacity, his fury,

his excessive reaction to them, had more than ample evidence of the depth of his

feelings toward her. She was more than satisfied with what had occurred. Such

things, to the softness and intelligence of her woman’s heart, spoke clearly to

her. She was not in the position of the helplessly loving female slave at the

feet of a beloved master who regarded her with indifference as merely another of

his women, or was even cold to her, perhaps disdaining her as a trivial,

meaningless possession.

Marcus now, roughly, took the forward ends of the cord, where they dangled

before her, and put them back, beneath her arms, through the back loop, and drew

them forward where he tied them, snugly, beneath her breasts.

“Oh!” she said.

“You are pretty, slut of Cos,” he said, standing back, admiring his handiwork.

“I wish I had a mirror,” she said.

“You may see yourself, in a sense,” I said, “in the mirror of his desire.”

“Yes,” she whispered, shyly.

“And this,” said Marcus, loosening the cord, “is perhaps the most common way of

wearing the slave girdle.” He then took the forward ends of the cord, again

free, and this time crossed them, over the bosom, before placing them again

through the loop at the back, drawing them forward and, once more, fastening

them, perhaps more snugly than was necessary, before her.

“Ohh,” he said. “Yes.”

“Aii,” I whispered. I then needed a woman. I must leave the tent and search for

one, perhaps a girl in one of the open-air brothels, forbidden without

permission to leave her mat or even to rise to her knees.

“Is it pretty?” asked Phoebe.

“It is a perhaps not unpleasing effect,” said Marcus.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“There are, of course, numerous ways in which to tie slave girls,” said Marcus.

“True,” I said. To be sure they tended to have certain things in common, such as

the accentuation and enhancement of the slave’s figure.

(pg. 31) Phoebe moved about in the tent, delighted. She could perhaps suspect

what she might look like.

“You see,” I said, “there is some point in permitting a female clothing.”

“Yes,” said he, “providing it may be swiftly, and at one’s will, removed.”

“Of course,” I said.

Phoebe then, beside herself with passion, knelt swiftly before Marcus. “Please,

Master!” she said.

I saw that Marcus was in agony to have her. He could scarcely control himself.

“Please!” wept the slave.

I expected him to leap upon her and fling her to her back to the dirt, ravishing

her with the power of the master.

Please, please, Master!” wept the slave, squirming in piteous need before him.

“What do you want?” asked Marcus then, drawing himself up, coldly, looking down

at her. It amazed me that he was capable of this.

“Master?” she asked.

He regarded her, coldly.

“I beg use,” she whispered.

“Do you protest your love?” he inquired. His hand was open, where she could see

it. It was poised. She saw it. He was ready, if necessary, again to cuff her.

“No, Master,” she said, hastily.

“Not even the love of a slave girl?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“And in any event,” he said, “the love a slave girl is worthless, is it not?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. This was absurd, of course, as

the love of a slave girl is the deepest and most profound love that any woman

can give a man. Love makes a woman a man’s slave, and the wholeness of that love

requires that she be, in truth, his slave. With nothing less can she be fully,

and institutionally, content.

“You do not then protest your love,” he said, “not even the love of a slave

girl.”

“No, Master,” she whispered.

“What then?” asked he, casually.

“I beg simple use,” she said.

“I see,” he said.

“I am a slave in desperate need,” she said. “I am at your mercy. You are my

master. In piteous need I beg use!”

(pg. 32) “So,” said he, scornfully, “the slut of Cos, on her knees, begs use of

her Master, one of Ar’s Station.”

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“You will wait,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she moaned.

“I hear music, outside, the instruments of peasants, I believe,” said Marcus,

turning to me. “Perhaps they are holding fair or festival, such as they may, in

such times.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Let us investigate,” suggested Marcus.

“Very well,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” said he, looking down, “what of this slave?” She squirmed. It seemed

she had slipped his mind.

“Bring her along,” I suggested.

“You are an ignorant and unworthy slave, are you not?” asked Marcus.

“Yes, Master,” she said. She was flushed and helplessly needful, even

trembling.’

“Better surely,” said Marcus, “that she be stripped and left here, behind,

alone, bound hand and foot.”

“Perhaps if you have a slave ring to chain her to,” I said.

“You think there is danger of theft?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You think she might be of interest to others?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“On your feet,” he said to the girl.

Groaning, scarcely able to stand straight, so wrought with need she was, she

stood.

“There will be darkness and crowds,” mused Marcus. “Do you think you will try to

escape?” he asked the girl.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Straighten up,” he said, “put your shoulders back, pull in your belly, thrust

forth your breasts.”

“She is a delicacy,” I said, “worth at least two silver tarsks, in any market.”

“I will try not to escape, Master,” said the girl.

“I wonder,” mused Marcus.

“I am collared,” she said. “I am branded.”

“True,” said Marcus.

In this way she had suggested that even if she might desire to escape such a

hope would be forlorn for her. She was reminding him of the categoricality of

her condition, of its absoluteness, of the hopelessness of escape for such as

she, a female held in Gorean bondage. For example, there are not only such

obvious things as the brand and collar, and the distinctive (pg. 33) garbing of

the slave, or the lack of garbing, but, far more significantly, the extreme

closeness of the society, with its scrutiny of strangers, and the general nature

of an uncompromising and inflexible enforcement of, her condition. There is,

accordingly, for all practical purposes, no escape for the Gorean slave girl. At

best she might, at great risk to her own life, succeed in obtaining a new

chaining, a new master, and one who, in view of her flight, will undoubtedly see

to it that she is incarcerated in a harsher bondage that from which she fled, to

which now, under her new strictures, she is likely to look back upon longingly.

Similarly the penalties for attempted escape, particularly for a second attempt,

are severe, usually involving hamstringing. Only the most stupid of women dares

to even think of escape, and then seldom more than once.

“Will it be necessary to bind you?” asked Marcus.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Turn about, and put your hands, wrists crossed, behind you,” he said.

He then, whipping a short length of binding fiber from his pouch, with two

single loops, and a double knot, a warrior’s capture knot, tied her hands

together.

“Will it be necessary to leash you?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

He then turned her about and put a leather leash collar, with its attached lead,

now dangling before her, on her neck.

Although I did not think that Phoebe, who was a highly intelligent girl, would

be likely to attempt an escape, even if she were not bound to Marcus by chains a

thousand times stronger than those of iron, the chains of love, she might be

stolen. Slave girls are lovely properties, and slave theft, the stealing of

beautiful female slaves, is not unknown on Gor.

She tried to press against him, but he pressed her back, with one hand.

“Yes, Master,” she sobbed. She was not now, without his permission, to so much

as touch him.

“Let us be on our way,” said Marcus.

The girl moaned with need.

“Very well,” I said.

“Outside,” said Marcus to the girl, “stand and walk well.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She was flushed, and needful, but I did not know if this would be readily

apparent outside, among the moving bodies, in the darkness, in the wayward

shadows, in the uncertain light of campfires.

“You are sure you do not wish to remain in the tent for a bit?” I asked.

“Please, Master!” begged Phoebe.

“No,” said Marcus.

Phoebe was quite beautiful in the tunic. It was adjusted on her by a slave

girdle, in one of its common ties.

The girl looked at her master, piteously.

“Let us be on our way,” said Marcus.

We left the tent, the girl following, bound, on the leash. She whimpered once,

softly, piteously, beggingly, to which sound, however, her master, if he heard

it, paid no heed.

3
 
    
The Camp

“Stones! Guess stones!” called a fellow. “Who will play stones?”

This is a guessing game, in which a certain number of a given number of

“stones,” usually from two to five, is held in the hand and the opponent is to

guess the number. There are many variations of “Stones,” but usually one

receives one point for a correct guess. If one guesses successfully, one may

guess again. If one does not guess successfully, one holds the “stones” and the

opponent takes his turn. The game is usually set at a given number of points,

usually fifty. Whereas the “stones” are often tiny pebbles, they may be any

small object. Sometimes beads are used, sometimes even gems. Intricately carved

and painted game boxes containing carefully wrought “stones” are available for

the affluent enthusiast. The game, as it is played on Gor, is not an idle

pastime. Psychological subtleties, and strategies, are involved. Estates have

sometimes changed hands as a result of “stones.” Similarly, certain individuals

are recognized as champions of the game. In certain cites, tournaments are held.

I wiped my mouth with my forearm and rose to my feet. I was now much refreshed.

“Do not leave me, I beg you,” said the girl at my feet, on the mat. Her hands

were about my ankle. “I would kneel to you,” she said.

“You do not have permission even to rise to your knees,” I reminded her. She

groaned.

“Paga! Paga!” called a fellow, with a large bota of paga slung over his

shoulder.

“I belly for you!” said the girl, her head down, over my foot.

She held still to my ankle, her small hands about it. Her hair was about my

foot. I felt her hot lips press again and again to my foot. She looked up. “Buy

me,” she begged. “Buy me!” the marks of the rush mat were on her back. She was a

blonde, and short, voluptuously curvaceous. She drew her legs up then, and lay

curled on her side, looking up at me, her hands still on my ankle. “Buy me,” she

begged.

“Lie on your back,” I told her, “your arms at your sides, the palms of your

hands up, your left knee raised.”

She did so.

“Buy me!” she begged.

I could not walk away from her.

“Please,” she begged.

Her words puzzled me. Why would she want me to buy her? Certainly I had not

accorded her dignity or respect, or such things. Indeed, it had not even

occurred to me to do so, nor would it have been appropriate, as she was a mere

slave. Similarly I had not handled her gently. Indeed, at least in my second

usage of her, purchased with a second tarsk bit placed in the shallow copper