Smugglers of Gor (5 page)

One night, I returned home, a Wednesday evening in November, a cool night, late from the store, for we had been open later than usual, for a sale, prepared a small supper, and then, weary from the day, retired. I am not clear what occurred then. It was perhaps the following morning that I awakened, but I am not sure. It may have been days later. It no longer seemed fall, or the same clime. I do not know. In some cases it is apparently days later. Similarly, transportation must be involved, of one extent or another. In any event I was awakening. I was half conscious. I stirred uneasily. Something, it seemed, was quite different. “This one is awakening,” said a voice, in English. I was startled for it was a man’s voice. I supposed myself still dreaming. Then I was not sure. Then I realized I was not dreaming. I was naked, and on my stomach, lying on a hard, wooden floor. I half cried out, a tiny, frightened noise, and went to rise, but a foot on my back pressed down, pinning me to the floor. “Be silent,” said a voice. I was held in place, the boot on my back. Then, after a moment, it was removed. I did not move. I remained still, terrified. I sensed that I was not alone on the floor. There were other bodies about, some supine, some prone. All were female, and all were unclothed, as I, wholly. Some were clearly bound. “Cross your ankles,” said the voice, “and cross your wrists, behind your back, and look to your left.” I did so. I heard one girl scream, and begin to cry out, and then I heard an unmistakable sound, though one I had not heard before, the snapping of a lash on flesh, twice. There was then silence. I understood nothing of what was occurring. I remained in the position in which I had been placed. I must have remained in that position for several minutes, and then I sensed a man crouching near me. Loops of a light, silken cord, like lightning, were whipped about my wrists, and they were tethered together, and, a moment later, my ankles were similarly served. It had all been done with a swiftness, security, and assurance which must have betokened an almost thoughtless familiarity with such matters. Then the fellow was away, attending to another. I tested my bonds. I was helpless, absolutely helpless. Later, I was turned to my back by a man’s foot, shod in one of those thong-wound, sandal-like boots. He looked down upon me, naked, supine, and bound, at his feet. “A half tarsk,” he said, absently, in English. I did not understand him. Then he looked away. It was he, he from the store, from weeks earlier. I recognized him, of course. Had I not seen him a thousand times, in recollections, in casual reveries, in dreams? But I had not before lain at his feet, naked and bound. A bit later, a small ceremony, or what I took to be a small ceremony, was enacted. A coiled whip was placed to my lips. I was told to kiss the whip, and say, ‘
La kajira
’, with which instructions I readily complied. Had I not earlier heard the snapping of a whip? I feared it, and did not wish to feel it. Yet, too, and more importantly, and interestingly, though I hardly dared admit it to myself at the time, I was thrilled to place my lips, tenderly, submissively, on that imperious, stern leather. I was frightened, but, too, I felt somehow privileged to do so. I suspected the whip was held to the lips of few. The whip, clearly, was an image of, a symbol of, the mastery. Might a slave then not appropriately express and acknowledge her submission, her deference, her gratitude, her acceptance of, her celebration of, the unqualified, uncompromised might of the mastery, for which she had for so long yearned? Had I not waited years, surely since puberty, for such an opportunity? So I kissed the whip for the first time, lying on my back, naked and bound, lifting my head, kissed it tenderly, gratefully, submissively. Commonly the whip is kissed while one kneels. I did not know the meaning of the words ‘
La kajira
’, but it was not difficult, under the circumstances, to speculate on their nature. They would be, incidentally, the first words I would learn in my new language, Gorean, the language of my masters. Both ‘
Lo kajirus
’ and ‘
La kajira
’ may be translated “I am a slave.” ‘
Lo kajirus
’ is masculine; ‘
La kajira
’ is feminine. Accordingly, the first would be understood as “I am a male slave,” and the second as “I am a female slave.” Perhaps the best translation into English of ‘
La kajira
’, considering the contempt in which we are held, as we are vendible work and pleasure animals, might be “I am a slave girl.”

When I awakened on the wooden floor, in the high-ceilinged, spacious room, naked amongst others, and was positioned so that I might be conveniently bound, I realized that I, and these others, had been selected. Thus, having been selected, I supposed, as well, that we had been assessed, and, assessed, had been found acceptable.

But for what had we been found acceptable?

When the cords were knotted about my wrists and ankles there could be little doubt about the matter.

Then I had been turned to my back, and looked up at him. I lay before him, supine at his feet, naked, tethered.

It was he from the store!

I had never forgotten him.

How different was this interview, from that of the store!

“A half tarsk,” he had said, and turned away.

I wondered if he remembered me. Perhaps, perhaps not. I did not know. There were several on the floor, in their lines.

He must remember me, I have often thought. Sometimes I am extremely angry. How dare he not remember me! How could he forget? Was it not he who did this to me? Was it not he who brought me to my chains? Was it not he who is responsible for this radical transformation in my fortunes, my condition, and status, for my reduction and degradation? Should I not hate him! Should I not deplore my state, one so helpless, so without recourse, even on another world! I clutch my chains and shake them. But probably he has brought others, as well, perhaps hundreds, routinely, to similar straits, and plights. I am not special. I have now learned that. He may not remember me. Am I not only another meaningless “collar slut,” as I have been informed? But, yes, it is true. I am that, only that. Why should I be remembered?

Is the expression ‘collar slut’ not informative? I think so. Well does it tell me what I am, and what I am for.

How different are the men of this world from my former male acquaintances, co-workers, and such! I suppose there must be true men on Earth, many perhaps. But where were they? Why did I never meet them? I suppose the answers to such questions are obvious. On Earth the acculturation is arranged to humble, cripple, reduce, subdue, and diminish manhood. Manhood is to be repudiated and overcome, as it constitutes an impediment to the success of militant pathologies. Why should a man be ashamed of his feelings, and desires, and why should a woman be ashamed of her feelings and desires? Did it truly take ten thousand generations to discover that nature was a mistake? Is it not surprising to be taught the subversion of one’s nature, to be ashamed of, deny, and fight manhood, or womanhood? What is so attractive about a crippled lion, or a poisoned rose?

The men of Gor are, in many ways, much like those of Earth, for they are clearly of the same species, if not variety. Statistically, they may be larger, stronger, quicker, more supple, more intelligent, and such, this having to do, I suppose, with those brought to this world, but there are many men of Earth, I am sure, as large, as strong, as quick, as supple, as intelligent as those of Gor. The great difference then, I think, lies in other matters, presumably cultural. Gorean civilization is not at war with nature, but allied with her. The Gorean male tends to be confident, imaginative, self-reliant, ambitious, aggressive, possessive, and dominating. No one tells him it is wrong to be himself. On Gor, for example, as opposed to the social technologies of Earth, no point is served by blurring, identifying, diminishing, or repudiating sexualities. Culture does not prescribe, in the interests of unusual minorities, alienated from their own bodies, the falsification of nature.

The room is large. Straw is strewn about. Several stairs lead up to a barred door. There are rings, iron rings, set here and there in the wall. Some of us are fastened to them.

I am stripped. So, too, are the others. Why should animals be given clothing?

The chains are heavy. They would hold men. Lighter chains are quite sufficient for such as we.

I have been branded. It is a lovely mark. It is in me, high on my left thigh, below the hip. There will be no mistaking me on this world. I have been clearly marked. No, there will be no mistaking me on this world, or perhaps on any other.

They will soon serve the gruel.

I am hungry.

I have long known myself a woman who longed to submit, to belong, to be owned, to be mastered, to serve, to strive to please, to be subject to discipline. I have long known myself a natural, and rightful, slave.

Is this so terrible?

Is it wrong to be oneself?

Perhaps, perhaps not.

I do not claim to speak for others. Why then should they speak for me?

I have never wanted to relate to a man to whom I am an equal. Or more, what woman would? How pathetic that would be, how one would despise such a man, such a betrayer of his nature, or one lacking the nature of man, but rather to one who is incomparably superior to myself, naturally powerful, commanding, and virile, one who would see me as I am, and do with me as he wished, one to whom I could be only a slave.

But I never, on Earth, expected to meet such a man, a man strong enough to see me for what I was, and do with me what he should. Once I did not know such men could exist. Here, fearfully, I have found men who will take such as I in hand, and brand, collar, and train us as thoroughly and thoughtlessly as any other animal, which we are. I now kneel before such men and know myself a slave, and fittingly and rightfully so. They give me no choice. I want none. They bring me to my true self. I am fulfilled.

Why then do they so despise me, I in their collar, so weak and helpless?

Can I help it, if I am not one of their glorious free women?

Am I so different from them, I wonder? Or beneath those robes is another slave hidden?

I was sold last night.

I suppose many women, at least on my former world, do not understand that they can be sold. That is interesting, considering the fact that we have been sold, bartered, and exchanged for millennia, and doubtless for millennia before the records of such transactions were scratched on bark, or incised into tablets of moist clay. Is it so unusual to be exchanged for barley, or cattle, or sheep, or pigs, or bars of iron, or a jingling handful of metal disks? Have not women served often enough as loot, to be allotted amongst victors, to be auctioned in foreign capitals? In kingdoms have not princesses been bartered for land, for alliances and power? Have not the daughters of the rich often served as seals upon bargains? And have we ourselves not unoften sought to sell ourselves, for our own gain? Have we not sought avidly for the golden bed, and the highest bidder?

It is one thing, of course, to sell ourselves as goods for our own profit, while denying this, and quite another to find ourselves explicitly recognized as goods, undeniably so, openly and objectively so, and being sold for the profit of another.

It is a strange feeling, at first, to realize that one has been sold, that one now belongs to another, as much as a pig or shoe.

I am told, however, that one grows used to such things. Would it not be a rare girl who has been sold but once? One is then concerned less with the fact that one is sold, for one knows one is a slave, than the quality of the market, the category in which one is sold, say, a pot girl or a pleasure slave, the price one may bring, particularly in comparison with that of others, and, of course, the nature of the buyer, say, a private individual, for which one hopes, or a farm, a business, a municipality, or such. Sometimes one is bought to be kept, sometimes to be resold. A girl cheaply purchased in one market may be sold in another for a handsome profit. Markets are apparently scouted and information conveyed and exchanged. I am told the great merchant houses have sources of information which might be the envy of warring Ubars.

I sold for forty-eight copper tarsks. I gather that this is not a great deal of money but I also know that some sold for less, although many sold for more. I am not familiar with what forty-eight copper tarsks might buy, other than it might buy one such as I. The face value of a coin is meaningless. The coin is worth only what it will buy. This is obvious, but many on my former world, oddly enough, seem unaware of this. They demand a hundred coins and think themselves ten times advanced for they formerly had but ten, and refuse to notice that their hundred today buys only what five bought once.

I remember little about my sale, until near the last, the straw, the block, the torches to the left and right, the darkness in the house, the sense of faces and bodies, the calls of the auctioneer, the occasional responses from the house, the touches of the whip, helping me, guiding me, turning me, lifting my chin, and such. I was too frightened, too tense, I fear, to smile, to display myself well. But he did not whip me. How understanding he was, how kind! Then he grasped me by the hair, and held my head back. I did not understand. Then he touched me! It was quick, and smooth, and then firm, implacable! The coils of the whip! I was helpless! I cried out, and twisted about, held, unable to escape. I fought the touch, the feeling, but it owned me! I squirmed, and sobbed, and begged. My body was wild, and spasmodic. He must desist, but he did not! I could not control myself. I heard laughter. Then he released me, a thousand times more naked than I had been before, a revealed slave! I went to my knees in the sawdust, and wept, and, bent over, my body shaking, covered my face with my hands.

How shamed I was. I heard laughter.

How faraway then was the store, the men I had known!

I was ordered away from the block, and was carried down the stairs, for my legs would not support me.

I had been sold.

I have wondered, sometime, if the glorious free women of these men, so arrogant and remote, so lofty and proud, so secure, so serene, so abundantly and beautifully robed and veiled, so regal, so majestic, so concealed from head to toe, if stripped and sold, if so caressed, would not also have cried out, squirmed, and leapt as obediently, as helplessly, as revealingly, as spasmodically, as I? How we are nothing in a rag before them! But are they, when all is said and done, any different? Might we not all be slaves?