“Forget her, Master,” whispered Peggy. She lifted her head from the furs, and kissed me. There was a tiny rustle of chain and collar. She was fastened by the neck to a ring at the back of the alcove. It had pleased me to so secure her this evening.
“I have,” I said.
Peggy laughed. “I am a slave,” she said, “but I am not stupid.”
“It is hard to forget the little slut,” I said.
“It is well known in Victoria, how she betrayed you,” said Peggy.
“Where did you hear that?” I asked. “And am I, only a dock worker, known in Victoria?” I looked at her.
“Tasdron spoke of it in the tavern to free men,” she said, “and I, and other slaves, overheard him speak.”
I supposed there was little in Victoria that was not known to its nude or half-clad tavern slaves. Such girls, in spite of their collars, often know more of what transpires in a town or city than many free folk.
“Doubtless I am a laughing stock in Victoria,” I said, bitterly.
“No, Master,” she said. “But it is true that many are puzzled as to why you did not, at that time, make her your total slave.”
I said nothing.
“You are known and respected in Victoria,” she said. “You are known for your ability with your fists, a thing which Gorean men can understand, and for your work on the docks, and for your strength.”
“Is it also known how I withdrew from the tavern of Hibron, the Pirate’s Chain, when I sought there the Lady Beverly?” I asked.
“You call the little slut a Lady?” she asked.
I looked at her, sternly.
“Forgive me, Master,” she smiled, “but I saw her in the restaurant, on Earth. I assure you that she is as much, or more, a slut than I, and as fully worthy, or more worthy, than I for the degrading circlet of bondage.”
I looked up, lying on my back, at the low ceiling of the alcove.
“Yes,” she smiled, “it is well-known in Victoria what occurred in the tavern of Hibron, but none blame you. You are not the master of the sword and even had you been, you were grievously outnumbered. None blame you, I assure you. Indeed, many feel you were courageous to have even entered the tavern under the circumstances, to attempt to extract the unwitting little fool from the situation in which she had placed herself.”
“I did not fight,” I said.
“You had no choice,” she said.
“I withdrew,” I said.
“You had no choice,” she said.
“I am a coward,” I said.
“That is not true,” she said. “In such a situation only a master swordsman, or a fool or a madman, would have fought.”
“I see,” I said.
“A wise man would have withdrawn, as you did,” she said.
“Or a coward,” I said.
“You are not a coward,” she said. “Glyco, the merchant of Port Cos, has spoken freely of your bravery on the wharves, in your recovery of his purse.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And the thief, Grat, the Swift, who has long been a nuisance in Victoria, has fled the town, obedient to your command.”
“That is interesting,” I said. I had not even known his name.
“There are even those who say there should be guardsmen in Victoria, and that you should be chief among them,” she said.
I laughed. The thought of a guardsman who did not even know the sword was an amusing one.
We were silent for a time.
“The stronghold of Policrates is impregnable,” she said.
“You are an intelligent woman,” I said.
“Do not attempt it,” she said.
I was silent. I had, I knew, the means whereby I might, if I wished, gain admission to that dark, rearing fortress, the walled river cove at its base.
“Forget her, Master,” advised Peggy.
“I have seen Glyco, of Port Cos, in the tavern,” I said. “He had wished to see Callimachus, once of Port Cos. I have seen them more than once, on various nights, engaged in converse, Glyco earnest, and Callimachus sullen and noncommittal.”
“It is true,” said Peggy.
“Of what do they speak?” I asked.
“I do not know, Master,” said Peggy. “We girls are warned away from their table, save when we are called forth to serve, and then they remain silent, except to give us our commands.”
“How long is Glyco to remain in Victoria?” I asked.
“I do not know, Master,” she said. “Perhaps he is gone now, for he has not been tonight, to my knowledge, in the tavern.” Peggy fingered the chain dangling from her collar. “Master seems curious,” she said.
“I would like to know the business of Glyco with Callimachus,” I said.
“I will tell you one thing I know,” she said. “Glyco stays with the guardsmen of Port Cos, near the wharves.”
“Not in an inn?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Interesting,” I said.
“And it is said, too,” she whispered, coming close to me, the chain on her neck touching my chest, as she put her head over me, “that Glyco is not only a merchant but stands high in the merchant council of Port Cos.”
“I wonder what such a man is doing in Victoria, speaking with Callimachus,” I said.
“I do not know, Master,” she said. Then, suddenly, she pressed her softness against me, in a slave girl’s piteous need. “I am only a slave, permitted to live on the sufferance of men, that she may please them,” she said.
I then took her in my arms.
Later we lay quietly, softly, together. Her head was at my waist.
I again looked at the ceiling of the alcove, at the roughened texture, and the tiny cracks, of its plaster and wood, reddish in the flickering light of the tiny lamp.
“Is Master distracted?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“You still remember her, do you not?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I said. I put my hand, with rough gentleness, in her hair, holding it.
“You have well ravished me, Master,” she whispered.
“You are a responsive wench,” I said.
“I cannot help but be responsive in your arms,” she said.
“You merely fear the whip,” I smiled.
“I do fear the whip,” she said, “and I know that it will be well laid upon me at the merest suspicion on the part of Tasdron, my Master, that a customer may not have been fully pleased, but even if it were not for the whip, I know I could not help but respond to you as a vulnerable and spasmodic slave.”
I released her hair and took her again in my arms, throwing the chain back over her shoulder.
“What woman would not be a slave in your arms?” she asked. “I beg to be had again.”
“Very well,” I said, and then, lengthily, contented her.
It is pleasing to have a female slave.
“The stronghold of Policrates is impregnable,” she said. “Forget her.”
“How, is it that you know what I am thinking?” I asked, smiling.
“Slave girls must pay close attention to men,” she smiled, “for they are her masters.”
I smiled. It was true. Slave girls are extremely sensitive to the moods, the feelings and thoughts of men. They must be, for they are their masters.
“By now she doubtless wears the steel loops of a pirate’s pleasure girl,” she said.
I thought this not unlikely.
“You have money,” said Peggy. “Buy another girl, one to lick your feet and content you.”
Slave girls tend to speak openly and honestly. They are under few delusions as to the desires of men. Hypocrisies are not encouraged in them, as they often are in their free sisters. Similarly Gorean men tend on the whole, unabashedly, to be perfectly frank about such matters. What true man, in his vitality, does not want a beautiful woman as a slave? Two major differences between the men of Earth and the men of Gor are, first, that the men of Gor are perfectly straightforward and open about this and, secondly, that such women may normally be purchased at a modest price in a convenient market. On Gor the order of nature, as old as the switch, the rope, the cave and the raid, has never been denied.
She put her lips close to my ear. I heard the tiny, heavy sound of the links of the chain, moving against one another, depending from her collar. “Buy Peggy, if you wish,” she whispered.
“Do you wish me to buy you?” I asked.
“I would rather be purchased by only one other man on all Gor,” she said, “and he has never even had me. He scarcely notices me and seems not even to know I exist. Yet I almost faint with joy at the very thought of serving him.”
I looked at her. She was very beautiful.
“I am unworthy even to think of him,” she said. “I am only an Earth woman, and a branded slave.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Please do not make me speak his name, Master,” she said.
“Very well,” I said.
We lay together quietly, for a time, not speaking. We could hear conversation outside from the floor of the tavern.
“Have you heard more of the topaz?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said. “But it is thought to be in Victoria.”
“The men of Victoria,” I said, “seem adamant in refusing to pay the tribute to Policrates. “
“Yes, Master,” she smiled.
I thought this was courageous on their part, but I did not know if it were wise. It had been the first time in five years that this had happened. The last time the pirates of the dark stronghold had carried fire and sword to a dozen wharfed ships. The tribute, then, had been rapidly forthcoming. To be sure, in the past years the pirates had become more and more dependent on the markets of Victoria to dispose of their loot and captures. In the light of this many in Victoria regarded themselves as having at last attained a position in which they might succeed in evading the humiliating burdens of tribute.
“Master is kind to spare my feelings,” said Peggy.
I smiled. I had not pressed her on the matter of he whose collar she longed to wear.
“Put her from your mind,” whispered Peggy. “There are many lovely women in the markets. Buy one. Put her in your collar. Teach her with the whip who it is to whom she belongs. Make her yours.”
I looked up at the low ceiling.
“Is she so special to you because she is from Earth, or because you knew her from Earth?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“Is that why you cannot forget her?” she asked. “Is that why you are so concerned about her?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“There must be hundreds of girls from Earth, perhaps some thousands, who wear their collars on Gor,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “That is doubtless true.”
“What, then, is so special about her?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“Imagine a wall,” she said, “of eight feet in height, of heavy stone, a hundred yards in length. Imagine, too, a hundred women, beautiful, and stripped, chained helplessly to this wall. It is, of course, a market wall. In the company of a slaver, their owner, you examine these women. Each, in her chains, kneels before you, and begs you to buy her. One of these women is the girl we shall call Beverly. But you have never seen her before. Which of all of these women would you buy?”
I looked at her.
“Which, of all these women,” she asked, “would you have released from the wall? On the throat of which, of all of them, would you lock your inflexible collar? On the wrists of which, of all of them, would you lock your unyielding slave bracelets? Which, of all of them, would you lead home, as your slave?”
“She,” I said, “the one whom we might call Beverly.”
“Ah,” said Peggy, drawing back, “I fear she is your love slave.”
“She is too fine to be a slave,” I said, “let alone the most complete of slaves, the total and abject love slave.”
“Even if it should be what she wants most deeply, in her deepest heart?” asked Peggy.
“Of course,” I said, angrily.
“But what if she is a slave,” asked Peggy, “in reality a true slave?”
“It does not matter,” I said.
“Surely you have recognized Gorean women can be slaves, and have treated them accordingly,” said Peggy.
“Yes,” I said.
“And surely you have recognized some Earth women can be slaves, and have treated them accordingly,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. I looked at Peggy. She blushed deeply, and smiled. I had often treated her, thoroughly and completely, as the mere slave she was.
“How then,” asked Peggy, softly, smiling, “is this other woman different?”
“She is different,” I said; angrily.
“Can you admit the possibility that she might not be different?” asked Peggy.
“No,” I said. “No!”
“Why not?” asked Peggy.
“Then she would be only a slave,” I said, angrily.
“But if this is what she is, and what fulfills her, and makes her joyful?” she asked.
“It does not matter,” I said, angrily.
“The nature of the woman, and her fulfillment and joy, does not matter to you?” she asked.
I was silent. I was furious.
“Do you not, honestly, want her in your chains?” asked Peggy.
“The first instant I saw her,” I said, “I wanted her in my chains.”
Peggy kissed me.
“But I must put such thoughts from my head,” I said, bitterly.
“Why?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“Nature is harsh, but it is not so terrible, truly,” she said.
“I must go,” I said.
“It is not yet even the Twentieth Ahn, Master,” she said. Swiftly she knelt beside me, head down. “Have I displeased Master?” she asked.
“No,” I said, smiling, looking up at her.
“Dare to become Gorean, Master,” she said, “please.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
Swiftly she nestled down beside me, holding me. She did not want me to leave the alcove.
“Thank you for talking with a mere slave,” she whispered.
“Why do you not simply place yourself on your belly before he whose collar you wish to wear,” I asked, “and with tears, kissing his feet, implore him to buy you?”
“I dare not,” she said. “I am only a low slave, and an Earth woman.”
“I see,” I said.
“He might be offended, and slay me, or Tasdron, my master, discovering my crime, might slay me, for my insolence.”
“I see,” I said.
“And so I must see him daily,” she said, “and cannot reveal in the least my feelings for him, beyond those of the silken slave who must serve any man who can afford the price of a cup of her master’s paga.”
I put my arm about the girl.
“You see, Master,” she said, “we are not so different. You have lost your slave, and I cannot even permit myself to be found by my master.”
I kissed her, softly.
She began to sob in my arms, and I held her gently, closely. She looked up at me, with tears in her eyes.
“It is hard being a slave girl,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Master,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Please have me, with gentleness, Master,” she begged, “though I am a slave.”
“Very well, Slave,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, softly.
She lay beside me. She fingered the chain depending from her collar. “I love being chained,” she said.
“Chains are useful in impressing her slavery on a woman,” I said.
“They leave little doubt in her mind so as to who is master,” she smiled.
I did not respond. What she said, however, was doubtless true. The effect of a chain, or a rope, on a woman’s sexuality is sometimes incredible. This is particularly true with the new slave girl. With the older slave girl, one who has already learned something of the meaning of her collar, a mere snapping of the fingers or a small, imperious gesture can have a similarly, devastating, triggering effect on her sexuality.
The readiness and excitability, indeed, the almost helpless sexual vulnerability of the slave girl, is something for which the men of Earth, whose experience has been limited to the free females of Earth, are totally unprepared. It commonly takes fifteen to twenty minutes to bring a free Earth female to orgasm. A slave girl, on the other hand, whether Gorean or an imbonded Earth girl, finding herself on Gor, once trained and understanding, fully, her condition, will often find herself on the brink of orgasm, simply finding her master’s eyes casually upon her. The differences, of course, are almost entirely psychological. Sexuality, as is well known, is almost entirely a function of the imagination and brain.
The slave girl knows that she is a slave, truly, and that passion is not only permitted to her but required of her. Indeed, she may be whipped or slain if she is insufficiently passionate. Her sexual needs are thus liberated. Frightened, she often begins by acting, and this is known to the master, but soon, perhaps to her horror, she discovers that she, obedient to the master’s touch, and no longer acting, and this, too, is known to the master, has become, truly, suddenly, a yielding, spasmodic slave.
Too, of course, her slavery and her sexuality is impressed upon her in a thousand, subtle ways. Certain modes of speech are expected of her and certain gestures and postures. She must, for example, address free persons deferentially and, commonly, will kneel in their presence. Her garb, too, is commonly distinctive; it is usually inexpensive and brief; sometimes it is only a rag; it is designed to remind her of lowliness; it is designed, too, of course, generally, to leave little doubt as to her charms. Needless to say, too, her throat is encircled by a collar, which will identify her master; sometimes, too, the collar will bear the name by which he has decided to call her; and her thigh, or some other part of her body, will be branded. She is an animal, sensuous and beautiful, marked as property, and has a name only on the sufferance of her master; he need not even give her a name, if he does not wish to do so.
Beyond this, of course, she finds herself in the Gorean civilization. It is a complex, vital, bright, colorful, deeply sensuous civilization; it is a harsh, gorgeous world in which the slave girl has a special role and place; her condition is unquestioned and categorical; it is supported by history, by custom and law; there is absolutely no escape for her; she is slave. Accordingly, an animal and property, without even a name in her own right, she kneels before her master; she waits to be commanded.
“I love it when you are strong with me,” said Peggy. She lay bide me, on her elbow, the chain dangling from her collar.
“You are a woman,” I said.
“I despise weak men,” she said. “I respect only men who will treat me as a woman, and do with me what they please. I know I am a woman. I want to be treated as one. How can I take my place in the order of nature if men will not treat me as they wish? That is what I want, to be treated, even with insolence, as men wish. Only then can I know them as my master, and yield to them in my fullness.”
“Before,” I said, “you wished to be taken with gentleness.”
“And you did so,” she said. “That was then my mood, and I am grateful that you deigned to respect it.”
“Sometimes I might not,” I said.
“I know, Master,” she said. “And then later,” she said, “when your appetites grew again upon you, you took me as a mere slave, with brutality.”
“You yielded well,” I said.
“I could not help myself, Master,” she said.
She then lay beside me, and began to kiss at my arm. She took my arm in her two hands, kissing it. “You are strong,” she whispered.
I did not respond.
“Master,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
“Have Peggy again. Peggy begs it.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Perhaps not.”
She whimpered, and put her head against my arm.
I supposed that it was not surprising that women reduced to bondage, collared and branded, denied by the strictures of their condition the mockeries of male imitation, and finding the impediments to the manifestation of their deepest and most secret nature removed, should gradually find themselves more and more at the mercy of their needs.
I found this amusing, perhaps because I had come from Earth. How humiliating for an Earth girl, in particular, I thought, to discover that she now had, ignited within her, deep, feminine needs, for the satisfaction of which she found herself dependent on masters. This aspect of the sexuality of the female slave, her need as well as her responsiveness, would also be found astonishing by the men of Earth, accustomed only to the suppressed dispositions and conditioned inertnesses of the women with which he is familiar.
It is not unusual for a slave girl to kneel, head down, before even a hated master, and beg his touch. Slavers, not unoften, deprive a female slave of a man’s touch for two or three days before her sale. She then, almost invariably, brings a higher price. Her need, manifested in her piteous display of herself, in her physical attitudes, her gestures and expressions, is evident and often arousing, to the buyers. How many women of Earth, I wondered, strip themselves slowly before a man and then kneel before him, and kiss his feet, and then, looking up, beg him for his touch. Perhaps only those who are slave girls.
“You are chained,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I took Peggy’s chain in my hand and jerked it, lightly but firmly. She felt the chain, then, pull at the snug collar and jerk it against the back of her neck.
“You are truly chained,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Why are you chained?” I asked.
“It pleased Master to chain me,” she said. She kissed me. “Please, Master,” she said, “have your chained slave.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Perhaps not.”
She sobbed in frustration, and continued to kiss me.
Even with girls used to slavery, who have well learned their collars, of course, the chain never loses its meaning. Masters commonly use it, even with experienced girls. It never loses its effect.
“Please, Master,” she sobbed.
“Be silent,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, sobbing.
Sometimes a slave girl must be struck away from one’s feet. Sometimes she must be chained to one side, to a wall or in a corner.
I laughed.
“Master?” she asked.
I then took her in my arms and threw her, roughly, beneath me.
She cried out with pleasure.
“What is that sound?” I asked.
“You make a slave very happy, Master,” she said, snuggled beside me.
“Do you not hear it?” I asked.
“I hear conversation, the clink of goblets from the floor of the tavern,” she said.
“Sandals!” I suddenly snapped.
A Gorean command need not be repeated. Peggy, startled, wild-eyed, rose to her knees and seized my sandals. I stood up, bending over in the low alcove. I pulled on my tunic. She thrust the sandals to her lips, kissing them. “Master?” she asked. She placed the sandals on my feet, thonging them tightly. I buckled my belt, with its dependent pouch. I slung the sword belt, with its attached scabbard, with its sheathed steel, over my left shoulder. “Master?” asked Peggy.
“Can you not hear it?” I asked.
She finished tying the sandals. As she knotted each she kissed the knot, and then, when finished with both, put her head to my feet in a graceful gesture of submission. Tying his sandals, and often thusly, is a small, homely service often performed by the slave girl for her master. Then she looked up at me, puzzled.
“Now,” I said, “cannot you hear it?”
“The conversation has stopped on the floor of the tavern,” she said, frightened. “It is quiet there.”
“Listen,” I said.
“I hear it!” she said. “What is it?”
“It is an alarm bar,” I said. “It is coming from the wharves.”
“What does it mean?” she asked.
I began to unbuckle the leather curtains of the alcove, swiftly. “I do not know,” I said.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the wharves,” I said.
“Do not go!” she said.
I threw back the curtains. I looked back at her. She knelt frightened, on the furs, the chain on her neck. “Do not go!” she begged.
I turned about and made my way rapidly through the tables. I heard her sob and jerk at the chain in frustration but it, of course, held her, perfectly. The men among whom I strode had not risen to their feet. None met my eyes. None volunteered to accompany me.
“Do not go,” advised Tasdron.
I did not answer him, but left the tavern and then, running, made my way toward the wharves.