Kajira of Gor (36 page)

different from others.

I felt the blanket lightly with my finger tips.

It excited me, somehow, that I lay where slaves had lain. I touched my neck. I

wondered what it would feel like to feel a collar there, and know that I

belonged to someone.

I remembered serving Speusippus and then, quickly, I tried to force from my mind

the memory of that incipient sensation which, in his third having of me, I had

started to feel. I twisted in the trunk. I was restless. I moaned.

I was the Tatrix of Corcyrusl

And yet I had been worked like a slave, and used like a slave, and had served as

a slave!

I had been degraded and humiliated. I was a free woman. I was not a slave! I was

not a slavel

I remembered the sensation I had begun to feel. I moaned, from somewhere deep

within me.

I touched the inside of the front side of the trunk with my finger tips.

I had done this on a thought. Sure enough, as I had thought might be the case, I

felt there the furrowing of fingernails. I then lay back in the trunk, on my

back, my knees up. I had heard of such things. The marks did not seem to be

connected with any desperate effort at escape.

They seemed more like the helpless scratchings of a woman in frustration. One or

more women, I suspected, at one or more times in the past, had crouched inside

this trunk scratching at its interior wall, perhaps whining to be released, [hat

they might serve the pleasure of Speusippus of Turia. How horrifying to be so

much at the mercy of men, I thought.

I then, in terror, tried to force the memory of that rudimentary sensation, that

merest hint of a sensation, from my mind.

I am not a slave!” I told myself. “I am not a slavel”

I lay then again on my side on the blanket. I hoped that Speusippus was not

displeased with me. I must try to please him better, I thought.

20
   
The Stream; The Stone

I knelt on a flat rock near the side of a small stream, pounding and rinsing a

tunic. This one belonged to Speusippus. There were other girls, too, along the

banks of the stream. It was a campsite about twenty pasangs west of the Viktel

Aria. There were several wagons back from the stream, including that of

Speusippus. Two slave girls, naked, stood downstream, splashing and pouring

water on themselves, washing. I rinsed the tunic of Speusippus and took up

another, one of several which were thrown there, beside me. He had, as at the

previous campsite, volunteered my services as a laundress generally to men who

did not have slaves with them. For my services he received small gratuities,

such as tarsk bits and swigs of paga. It amused him putting me, the Tatrix of

Corcyrus, to work in this fashion. He did not, interestingly enough, similarly

make me available for more general services. Had he done so, I would have been

obedient and dutiful.

“Your master is a beast, Lita,” called a girl down the way, picking up her

laundry. “You will never be finished.”

“I will finish,” I laughed, dipping and rinsing another tunic.

She then went her way.

I was pleased that we were no longer traveling south on the Viktel Aria. Last

night I had begged Speusippus on my knees not to take me to Ar. He had seen how

terrified I was to go to Ar. “I will not take you to Ar,” he said. He had then

permitted me to lick and kiss his feet in gratitude.

This morning we had turned west off the Viktel Aria.

Five days now I had been in the charge of Speusippus of Turia.

Interestingly enough, he had not made intimate use of me since the first night

in the shack. I had stayed rather close to him, when possible, particularly

after my first full day in his power. I sometimes brushed against him, or

touched him, seemingly inadvertently. Yesterday I had knelt behind him and

licked at the back of his knee, then looked up at him. But he had only walked

angrily away. “Remember that you are the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and not a slave,”

he had later said to me, when I was humbly serving him his supper. “Yes,

Master,” I had said, lowering my head, as a slave. But surely, except in the

modalities of intimacy, except in the forcings from me of helpless yieldings,

and such, he had dealt with me as a slave. He had even made me do slave

exercises, that my body might be as shapely, firmed and vital as that of a

slave. I bad been treated as a slave, worked as a slave and even abused as a

slave. He cuffed me when it pleased him. Once I had even seen him toying with a

whip. I then redoubled my efforts to be pleasing to him. It must have amused him

to see the-Tatrix of Corcyrus so zealous to please him, so much in his power.

But, except for the first night, he had not put me to his intimate pleasures.

How fortunate that was for me, I thought. How lucky I am! Then, at night, I

would sometimes moan and whimper, locked in the trunk, kept now in his wagon.

“Greetings, Lita,” said a girl, coming with some laundry, to kneel down near me.

“Greetings, Tina,” I said. She was a curvaceous little brute, owned by

Lactantius, a teamster from Ar’s Station. Recently they had been coming north

from Ar; then they, too, had turned west. I had met her earlier, around supper

time, back among the wagons. She, like some of the other slaves, initially, had

been frightened of me. I was not branded and collared. Might I be free? I had

assured them, however, lying well, I thought, that I, too, was only a slave. It

was only that my Master had not yet seen fit to collar and brand me. Somewhat to

my surprise they, looking at me, and once assured of my bond status, seemed to

find no difficulty whatsoever in accepting the premise that I was indeed a

slave. To them, slaves themselves, I looked like a slave. Looking at me, I

realized, and somewhat to my consternation, they saw me easily, unquestioningly,

naturally, and obviously, as a slave. “I knew even before I was told,” had said

one of the girls. “You could see it.” How amusing I had later thought,

irritatedly, that they could not tell the difference between me and them. Surely

to a discerning eye it must be clear that I was free, and they bond. How stupid

they were. But then, of course they were only slaves.

“Your master is surely one of the ugliest men I have ever seen,” said Tina.

“He is not so bad,” I said, lifting a tunic, dripping, from the water.

“How your skin must crawl when he forces you to his intimate service,” she said,

dipping a tunic in the water.

“I do not think his whip would permit that,” I said, wringing out the tunic.

“It must be horrifying to have to serve him,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

“He is not bad?” she asked.

“No,” I said. Surely he had been strong with me, and had made me obey him well.

“I suppose there could be some pleasure in being for serve, and totally, such a

twisted, despicable little brute,” she said, “the domination of you, the

disregard of your will and preferences, the reminding of your femaleness that it

is enslaved, that it must do what it is told, that it must, no matter what be

pleasing, and perfectly so, to the master.”

“He is not really that bad,” I said, “really.” I did not see any reason to tell

her that I had, yesterday, knelt behind him and licked at the back of his knees,

begging his touch. Similarly I did not see any reason to tell her that it had

been denied to me.

“Mat is interesting,” said Tina. “It is sometimes so hard to tell about a

master.”

“Yes,” I said.

We then continued our work.

I wore the brief gray tunic which Speusippus had let me put on, and had then

ordered me to remove, the first night in the shack. My ankles were chained; some

ten inches of chain separated them; the chain was fastened on them by means of

two padlocks. I was the only girt in camp, as far as I knew, who was shackled.

During the day, when the wagon was moving, my ankles were not shackled. Then,

however, he would chain my wrists, a chain running from them then to the back of

the wagon. I would walk then, generally, behind the wagon, chained to it. the

road was fairly well traveled. Today, lifting my chained wrists, I had waved to

the girls in an open slave wagon. Individual neck chains went to a common chain

in the wagon. Interestingly enough, they, too, were sheared. Sometimes I would

sneak a ride in the back of the wagon.

Then I no longer did this. he caught me once there and informed me that if I did

this again I would be punished. Thereafter I rode in the back of the wagon only

when I had received his permission, generally after begging for it. This

permission, however, he was usually lenient in granting. It was almost as though

he did not wish me to be exhausted.

It was almost as though he wanted to keep me fresh, almost as though he intended

to deliver me somewhere.

I wrting out another tunic and placed it behind me, on the rocks.

It was hot and I rubbed my hand back over my head, ~j feeling there. the short,

bristly stubble of hair. As be had promised, he had, on the first morning of my

captivity, sheared me.

“Thactantius,” said Tina, “is merciless with me. In his chains he makes me kick

and scream with pleasure.”

“That is nice,” I said.

“Does your master force slave yieldings from you?” she asked.

“He does with me what be pleases,” I said. “He is the master. I am the slave.” I

was -not even sure what slave yieldings were. I gathered they might be some

peculiarly helpless form of orgasm.

I looked to, the side, to a small pool of water, wherein I could see my face

reflected. I again touched my head, feeling the short stubble of hair there. He

had sheared me very closely, to within perhaps a quarter inch of my skin. In the

days since the shearing the hair had not appreciably lengthened. I wondered if

he would permit my hair to grow out, perhaps to cut it again in a few months, to

add more of it to his stock, or if he would, perhaps for his amusement, or to

keep my identity a better secret, keep me closely sheared. The decision, of

course, was his. I was to him, in effect, as his slave.

I wondered if the shortness of my hair, the result of the shearing, made me less

attractive to Speusippus. I wondered ff that were why he had not snapped his

fingers and commanded me to his pleasure.

“Am I ugly, Tina?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“My hair?” I asked.

“It will grow back,” she said.

“Do you think any man could want me, as I am?” I asked.

“Surely you have seen the teamsters looking at your ass?” she said.

“No!” I said.

“You have a pretty ass,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are very pretty as a whole,” she said. “You have a curvaceous figure,

though a little short, and a lovely face. Have no fear. You would make a nice

armful for a man. You arc a piece of well-curved slave meat. You are a tasty’

pudding.”

“Thank you,” I said. How scandalized I was to hear these thingsl I was not used

to hearing myself spoken about in terms of the graphic simplicities often

applied to slaves. To be sure, she did not know that I was not a slave. Tasty

pudding, indeedl I wondered if I were a tasty pudding. Perhaps, I thought. I did

know I was small and curvaceous, and could easily be picked up by men, and

carried about, and, if they wished, overpowered and put to their purposes.

Perhaps to them, small and helpless, and desirable, I did look like a tasty V,

pudding. Thinking of myself in those terms made me feel weak, vulnerable and

excited.

“Your master is not contenting you, is he?” asked Tina.

“No,” I said.

“Have you displeased him?” she asked.

“I have tried not to,” I said.

“Have you begged?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. Surely, in licking at him, as I had, I had begged for his touch.

“But he has scorned me.”

“Interesting,” said Tina. “Are you so unskilled, so inert, so like a free woman

that you are not even worth having?”

“I do not think so,” I said.

“I do not understand it,” she said. “Surely he wants you to become more of a

slave and not less of a slave.”

“That is perhaps it,” I said, frightened. I recalled his words to me at supper

yesterday evening. “Remember that you are the Tatrix of Corcyrus, and not a

slave,” he had said.

“What?” she asked.

“He may want to keep me more like a free woman,” I said.

“Why would he want to do that?” she asked. “That would be stupid, since you are

a slave.”

“He has not branded me, or collared me,” I pointed out.

That he had not done these things I had hitherto supposed was merely in accord

with his avowed purposes of shaming and humiliating me, making me serve as a

slave in spite of the fact that I was free. But now, I feared, these omissions

might have a more complex motivation.

“If he does not want you,” she said, “why does he not simply sell you?”

“He may want me,” I whispered, “at least for a time.”

“He does not seem eager to part with you,” she said. “He even has your ankles

chained.”

“Yes,” I said. I was being kept, I now realized, under an unusual security.

During the day my wrists were usually chained, often even to the wagon. In the