Magicians of Gor (9 page)

Gorean men do not surrender their birthright as males, their rightful dominance,

their appropriate mastery. They do not choose to be dictated to by females. The

most interesting portion of this story is its epilogue. In two or three steps

the women returned, mostly now barefoot, and many clad now humbly in low-caste

garments. Some had even wrapped necklaces or beads about their left ankle. They

begged permission to serve in the tavern in servile capacities, such as sweeping

and cleaning. This was granted to them. At first the slaves were terrified of

them but then, when it became clear that the women were not only truly serving

humbly, as serving females, but that they now looked timidly up to the slaves,

and desired to learn from them how to be women, and scarcely dared to aspire to

their status, the fears of the slaves subsided, at least to a degree. Indeed, it

was almost as though each of them, though perhaps a low girl in the tavern

rosters, and much subject to the whip, had become “first girl” to some free

woman or other, a rare turnabout in the lives of such collared wenches. Needless

(pg. 52) to say, in time, the free women, learning the suitable roles and

lessons of womanhood, for which they had genetic predispositions, and aided by

their lovely tutors, were permitted to petition for the collar. It was granted

to them. It seems that his was what they had wanted all the time, though on a

level not fully comprehensible to them at the beginning. One does not know what

has become of them for, in time, as one might expect, they being of Ar, they

were shipped out of the city, to be disposed of in various remote markets.

“Greetings, Teibar!” called a fellow.

“Hail, Teibar!” called another.

From the latter manner of greeting, I gathered this Teibar might be excellent

with the staff, or sword. Such greetings are usually reserved for recognized

experts, or champions, at one thing or another. For example, a skilled Kaissa

player is sometimes greeted in such a manner. I studied Teibar. I would have

suspected his expertise to be with the sword.

“His Tuka is with him,” said a fellow.

“Tuka, Tuka!” called another, rhythmically.

‘Tuka’ is common slave name on Gor. I have known several slaves with that name.

The girl who had come with Teibar, Tuka, I supposed, now knelt at his side, her

back straight, her head down. Her collar, like most female slave collars,

particularly in the northern hemisphere, was close fitting. There would be no

slipping it. I had no doubt that this Teibar was the sort of fellow who would

hold his slave, or slaves, in perfect discipline.

“Tuka, Tuka!” called another fellow.

“She is extremely pretty,” I said.

“She knows something of slave dance,” said a fellow, licking his lips.

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Tuka, Tuka, Tuka!” called more men.

The fellow, Teibar, looked down at his slave, who looked up at him, and quickly,

timidly, kisses at his thigh. How much she was his, I thought.

“Tuka, to the circle!” called a fellow.

“She is a dancer,” said a man.

“She is extraordinary,” said another.

“Put Tuka in the circle!” called a fellow.

“Tuka, Tuka!” called another.

Teibar snapped his fingers once, sharply, and the slave leaped to her feet,

standing erect, her head down, turned to the right, her hands at her sides, the

palms facing backward. She might (pg. 53) have been in a paga tavern, preparing

to enter upon the sand or floor. I considered Teibar’s Tuka. She had an

excellent figure for slave dance.

“Clear the circle!” called a fellow.

The other dancers hurried to the side, to sit and kneel, and watch.

I considered the slave. She was beautiful and well curved.

Teibar gestured to the circle.

“Ahh!” said men.

“She moves like a dancer,” I said.

“She is a dancer,” said the fellow.

I considered the girl. She now stood in the circle, relaxed, yet supple and

vital, her wrists, back to back, over her head, her knees flexed.

“She is a bred passion slave,” I said, “with papers and a lineage going back a

thousand years.”

“No,” said a man.

“Where did he pick her up,” I asked, “at the Curulean?”

“I do not know,” said a fellow.

I supposed she was perhaps a capture. I did not know if a fellow such as this

Teibar, who did not seem of the merchants, or rich, could have afforded a slave

of such obvious value. A fellow, for example, who cannot afford a certain kaiila

might be able to capture it, and then, once he had his rope on its neck, and

manages to make away with it, it is his mount.

“Aii!” cried a fellow.

“Aii!” said I, too.

Dancing was the slave!

“She is surely a bred passion slave,” I said. “Surely the blood lines of such an

animal go back a thousand years!”

“No! No!” said a man, rapt, not taking his eyes from the slave.

I regarded her, in awe.

“She is trained, of course,” said a man.

Only too obviously was this a trained dancer, and yet, too, there was far more

than training involved. Too, I speak not of such relatively insignificant

matters as the mere excellence of her figure for slave dance, as suitable and

fitting as it might be for such an art form, for women with many figures can be

superb in slave dance, or that she must possess a great natural talent for such

a mode of expression, but something much deeper. In the nature of her dance I

saw more than training, her figure, and her talent. Within this woman, revealing

itself in the dance, in its rhythm, its joy, its spontaneity, its wonders, were

untold depths of femaleness, a deep and radical femininity, (pg. 54) unabashed

and unapologetic, a rejoicing in her sex, a respect of it, a love of it, an

acceptance of it and a celebration of it, a wanting of it, and of what she was,

a woman, a slave, in all of its marvelousness.

“Tuka, Tuka!” called men.

Men clapped their hands.

The slave danced.

Much it seemed to me, though there might be two hundred men about the circle,

she danced for her master.

Once he even indicated that she should move more about which, instantly,

commanded, she did.

“Tuka, Tuka!” even more called some of the other slaves about the edges of the

circle, sitting and kneeling there, unable to take their eyes from her,

clapping, too. Teibar’s Tuka, it seemed, was popular even with the other slaves,

of which she was such a superb specimen.

I watched her moving about the circle.

“Aii!” cried men, as she would pause a moment to dance before them. I had little

doubt she might once have been a tavern dancer. Such dancers must present

themselves in such a fashion before customers. This gives the customer an

opportunity to assess them, and to keep them in mind, if he wishes, for later

use in an alcove.

“Aii,” cried another fellow.

I speculated that she would not have languished for attention in the alcoves.

“She is superb,” said the fellow next to me.

“Yes,” I said.

She was working her way about the circle.

It was interesting to me that a master would dare to display such a slave

publicly. I gathered that he was quite confident of his capacity to keep her. He

must then, I suspected, be excellent with the sword.

“Ah,” said the fellow next to me.

The dancer approached.

How marvelous are the Gorean women, I thought. And I thought then, too, sadly,

of the women of Earth, so many of them so confused, so miserable, so unhappy,

women not knowing what they were, or what they might be, women trapped in a maze

of ultimately barren artifices, women subjected to inconsistent directives and

standards, women subjected to social coercions, women subjected to

antibiological constraints, women forced to deny themselves and their depth

natures in the name of freedom, women trying to be men, not knowing how to be

women, women torturing themselves and others with their confusions, (pg. 55)

their inhibitions, their pain, their frustrations. But I did not blame them for

they were the victims of pathological conditioning programs. Any beautiful

natural creature can be clipped and then instructed to rejoice in it mutilations

and mishapeness. It was little wonder that so many of the women of Earth were so

inhibited, so frigid, so inert, so anesthetic. That so many of them could even

feel their pain was, I supposed, a hopeful sign. If their culture was correct,

or judicious, why did it contain so much unhappiness and pain? In a body, pain

is an indication that something is wrong. So, too, it is in a culture.

Then the dancer was before me, and I was awed with beauty.

I kept her there before me for a moment, not letting her move away, my gaze

holding her.

I wept then for the men of Earth, that they could not know such beauties. How

utterly marvelous are the Gorean females! How utterly different they are from

the women of Earth! How impossible it would be for a female of Earth to match

them!

I watched the dancer then move to the next fellow, and turn about.

Suddenly I was stunned. High on her left arm there was a small, circular scar.

It was not, surely, in that place, and given its nature, the result of a marking

iron. Indeed, it is by means of such tiny indications, fillings in the teeth,

and such, that a certain sort of girl, for which there is a market on Gor, is

often recognized.

She is not from Gor!” I said.

“She is from far away,” said the fellow next to me.

“From a distant land,” said another.

“Called “earth,”” said another.

“Yes,” I said.

“They make excellent slaves,” said another. I wondered if this might not be

true. The Earth female, starved for sexual fulfillment, suddenly plunged into

the gorgeous world of Gor, subject to masculine pleasure, taught obedience, and

such, might well, I supposed, after a period of adjustment and accommodation,

rejoice in self-discovery, in her true liberation, in her finding herself at

last in her place in nature, the beautiful and desirable slave of strong and

uncompromising masters.

“I think we should send an army there and bring them all back in chains,” said

another.

“That is where they belong,” said another.

“Yes,” said another.

The mark on the girl’s arm had not been the result of the imprint of a master’s

iron. It had been a vaccination mark. I (pg. 56) had noted, too, interestingly,

just before she had whirled away, that she was shy. I assessed her as being

quite intelligent, extremely sensitive, and an excellent slave.

She had now, as the music swirled to its finish, returned to move before her

master. Then, the dance ended, men striking their left shoulders in Gorean

applause, shouting their vociferous approval, some armed warriors striking their

shields with spear blades, she sank to the ground, on her back, breathless,

breasts heaving, covered with a sheen of sweat, before her master, her left knee

raised, her head turned toward him, the palms of her hands, at her sides,

vulnerably exposed.

She had been superb. My shoulder was sore where I had much struck it.

Then with a sensuous, fluid movement she rose to her knees before her master.

She spread her knees, widely. She regarded him, beggingly. The dance had much

aroused her, and she was totally his, completely at his will, his pleasure and

mercy.

“Our gratitude, Teibar!” called a fellow.

“Hail, Teibar!” called another.

He called Teibar then waved to the men about, and turning about, took his way

from the area of the circle. The slave rose to her feet and hurried after him,

to heel him. more than one man touched her, and as a slave may be touched, as

she moved through them, hurrying to catch up with her master. To even these

touches I could see her respond, even in her flight. I saw that she was a hot

slave, and one, who would be, whether she wished it or not, uncontrollable,

helplessly responsive, in a man’s arms. Then she was with her master, seeming to

heel him, but yet so close to him that she touched him, brushing against him. I

had little doubt that she would soon be lengthily used, ravished with all the

attention, detail and patience with which Gorean masters are wont to exploit

their helpless chattels.

After the dance of Tuka, men and slaves departed from the circle, many doubtless

to hurry to their blankets and tents. I, too, thought I had taken comfort

earlier with the blond mat girl, was uncomfortable.

“Use me, Master?” said a coin girl.

I looked down at her, a small brunet, half naked in a ta-teera, a slave rag.

About her neck, over her collar, close about it, was a chain collar, padlocked

shut, with its coin box, and slot.

“Master?” she smiled.

I was angry. She had doubtless come to a circle, knowing that fellows in need,

ones without slaves, such as I, might be found there. Her attitude seemed to me

insufficiently respectful. She was not even kneeling.

(pg. 57) “Oh!” she cried, spinning to the side, cuffed.

I snapped my fingers. “There,” I said, pointing, indicating a place before me,

“kneel there, facing away from me.” Swiftly she crawled to the place, obeying.