Kajira of Gor (44 page)

upswept fashion. It appears sophisticated. It is a hair-do favored by some free

women, but it is not outlawed for slaves.

Its pretentiousness, suggesting superciliousness and arrogance, contrasts nicely

with the actual reality of the slave. The girl who wears this must watch her

step, lest the master grow impatient with her. If you are permitted, to wear

this hair-do, make certain that you, after an initial resistance, if he permits

it’ yield to him as a particularly low and helpless girl. This hair-do here, on

Crystal, with the bun in the back, is favored by many free women of the scribes.

It, too, however, like the upswept hair-do has not been outlawed for slaves. Its

apparent severity contrasts nicely with sexiness required of the slave.

She may be freed of its severity, and brought into the natural modality of her

yielding and submissive femininity, with as little as a single tug, thusly. In

contrast, regard Tiffany, who has the shorn look. Some men like this in a woman.

To be sure, her hair is now growing out a bit. This is to be contrasted again,

of course, with the shaven head, commonly inflicted only on a girl as a

punishment or to protect her from lice in close confinements, such as on a slave

ship. Again, in the matter of hair-dos as in all my instructions’ to you,

whether having to do with perfumes, silks, cosmetics, ornamentation, or

whatever, you are to consider the total effect, the entire ensemble.”

“Well done, Tiffany,” he said. “You bring the whip well.”

He took it from between my teeth.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“Next,” he said.

I knelt before him, my head down, the palms of my hands On the tiles, in the

fashion which Ligurious had required of his girls. “I beg for love, Master,” I

whimpered. “I beg for love!” I licked at his feet. “I beg for love, Master!” I

said.

“You do it very well,” he said.

I lifted my head, tears in my eyes. “But I do beg for love!” I said. ‘I have not

been contented in weeks!”

“How many of you other girls,” asked the whip master, regarding the class, “beg

for love?”

“I, Master!” cried a girl. “I, Master!” cried others.

“How many?” he asked.

And there was not one girl, naked and in her collar, in the entire class who did

not raise her hand.

“Good,” said the whip master. “Then you are hungry.”

Our training then continued.

“No two masters are the same,” said the whip master, “except in so far as each

is the total master, just as no two slaves Eire the same, except that each is a

total slave.”

We all sat facing him, our backs against the wall of the Training room. The

palms of our hands were flat on the floor at our sides and our legs were

extended ‘before us, the ankles crossed, as though bound.

“You must, accordingly, strive to understand, relate to, serve and please the

unique master in each man. You must bring your own individual personalities and

talents to bear on his challenge. Try in your uniqueness to be perfect and

special for him in his uniqueness. Read him. Learn him. Be one acutely aware of

him. Be sensitive to his moods, and their changes. Find out what he wants from

you, and then see that he gets it, and more. Find out what he wants you to be

and then be it, beyond his wildest dreams. Remember that you are the slave. You

exist for his service and pleasure.”

“That is it, Tiffany,” he said. “Stretch your limbs. Examine their fairness. Now

look at the master. That is how you take bath before a man. Will he drag you

forth and have you on lie slippery tiles or will he take you in the bath

itself?”

“Do not forget to kiss the sandal, humbly, before eyeing it on his foot,” said

the whip master, “just as, when you remove them, you kiss them, before putting

them away.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Gently, Tiffany,” said the whip master. “You are not rubbing down a

tharlarion.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Use the sponge well,” he said. “Remember that it must not only clean but

caress, and do not forget, in this service, to fondle and kiss the master,

humbly and lovingly.”

I kissed the wet shoulder of the man in the bath, and then kissed his cheek,

through the wet canvas hood drawn over his face. He moaned. He was a male slave.

“Similarly,” said the whip master, “do not forget to press your body sometimes

against that of the master, sometimes seemingly inadvertently. Along these

lines, for example, it is easy, seemingly accidentally, to brush his lips with a

pendant breast. if his lips should part you might then press it more closely

against him, begging. You might then be cuffed back in the water, but later you

will doubtless ‘be well used.”

I knelt before the whip master, anxiously lifting the tray to him. He picked up

one of the biscuits. He turned it over.

“This biscuit is burned on the bottom,” he said. “If this happens again, you

will be whipped.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

“Good, Ruby,” said the whip master. “That is how to remove a man’s tunic. Make

it a sensuous experience for him, in which you show him your slavery and your

eagerness to serve. You may replace your tunic, Abdar.”

“Yes, Master,” said the hooded slave.

“You next, Tiffany,” said the whip master.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“These biscuits are acceptable,” he said. “In fact, they are good.”

‘Thank you, Master!” I said.

“Good, Tiffany,” said the whip master. “That is how you belly to a man. Put your

head down, now. Let me feel your lips and tongue.” “Yes, Master,” I whimpered.

“Good,” he said.

“Later, too, when your hair reaches a suitable length, make certain that it

falls about the master’s sandals.” “Yes, Master,” I said.

I sensed that our training was coming to an end. We were returning to various

basics, almost as elementary as scales to the musician, such things as basic

kisses, caresses, position, attitudes and movement.

“Good,” he said.

I had once been Miss Tiffany Collins, of Earth. I now lay on my belly on the

tiles, naked and in a collar, licking and kissing at the feet of a Gorean male.

It was my hope that he would find me pleasing, totally.

“Attention, Class,” said the whip master.

We all straightened up, sitting, facing him, our backs against the wall of the

training room. The palms of our hands, were flat on the floor at our sides and

our legs were extended before us, the ankles crossed, as though bound.’

“The results of your tests, your examinations, are now in. It is my pleasure to

inform you that you have all passed.”

We dared not break position, so well trained we were, but we cried out with

pleasure. We had worked hard. We did not wish to be fed to sleen, or, perhaps,

if our internal slavery was adequate, but our external performances

insufficient, being sent to a laundry or returned to a mill, where we might have

to remain perhaps indefinitely.

“It is an excellent class, one of the best I have had,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” said several of the girls.

“Too,” he said, “there is not one of you, as the tests have shown, who is not an

authentic slave; there is not one of you who, from the bottom of her pretty

belly, does not belong in a collar.”

I knew this was true of me. I did not know, of course, if it were true of the

other girl or not. And the last doubts on the rightness of the collar on my neck

had been dispelled in my training. I now knew it belonged there. I was pleased

to have been brought to Gor where I, whether I wished it or not, with absolutely

no compromise, would be put in it.

“I am proud of all of you,” said the whip master. “You are all luscious and

exciting sluts. Indeed, I think there is not one of you would not bring a silver

tarsk on the open market.”

We cried out, elated, to hear this. We looked at one another, joy in our faces.

I almost lifted the palms of my hands from the floor and uncrossed my ankles,

but, of course I did not do so. How pleased we were. What high praise this was.

We had not understood how valuable we might have become as women.

“But, remember,” said the whip master, “you have, really, learned only a little.

You have been familiarized with only a small selection of basic skills, apprised

of only a handful of fundamentals. Your education, when you leave here, is not

complete, but only begun. You may learn more in your first few days out of

school, in the practical contexts of bondage, under the control and whips of

masters, than you have here in five weeks. But even then, remember that you, in

your collars, are still amateurs at slavery. You could not begin to compete with

an experienced girl. Continue to apply yourself, to learn, to work, to love and

serve. Some years from now you may begin to grasp an inkling of what can be the

skills, the sensitivities and talents, the emotions, the depths of feeling, of

the slave The other side of the coin of freedom is bondage. One cannot exist

without the other. The master is free and you are slave.”

We looked at one another. There was much in what he said. We must strive

desperately to please. We were, for most practical purposes, new girls,

untutored in our collars. Most of us, even, were from the mills. We would be

zealous to please. Most masters are sensitive to this. They are likely to be

kinder to an unskilled girl zealous to please than a skilled one who permits her

performances to lapse from standards of perfection. She may, of course, at the

master’s whim, by various correctional devices, be swiftly restored to

zealousness.

Sometimes, too, of course, she is merely sold into a lower slavery, that she may

earnestly endeavor, perhaps through years of effort, to work her way up again

to, say, a single-master-single-slave relationship. The ‘mistake of even

minutely relaxing or reducing the quality of her service is not one a girl is

likely to make twice.

“All that remains now,” said the whip master, “is to give you some experience in

the types of situations in which you are likely, at least in your initial

bondage applications, to find yourself.”

28
   
School; I Have Graduated

29
   
Hassan, The Slave Hunter

30
   
Sheila, The Tatrix of Corcyrus

31
   
Argentum

“Remove your silk,” he said.

I did so.

“Kneel,” he said.

I did so.

Straighten your body,” he said.

I did so. I knelt naked before Miles of Argentum, before his thronelike chair,

on the tiles in his quarters, in Argentum.

“Your knees,” he said.

I spread my knees even more widely before him.

“You are now known as Tiffany, I believe,” he said, “of Feast Slaves, of the

Enterprises of Aemilianus.”

“I am Tiffany,” I said, “of Feast Slaves, of the Enterprises of Aemilianus.”

I never forget a face,” he said. I was silent.

My entire group had been brought from Ar to Argentum, I thought to entertain.

This had been done at the expense of Miles of Argentum.

Furthermore, much to the surprise and displeasure of the girls, who were perhaps

by now somewhat spoiled, we had been brought under heavy security. We had never,

from the time we had left the agency in Ar to the time we entered the grounds of

the palace in Argentum, been out of chains of one sort or another. I supposed

that it was only I, of all the girls, and perhaps of all those on the staff of

the agency itself, who suspected the reasons for this trip to Argentum and the

rationale of the security. I did not think Miles of Argentum was particularly

interested in feast slaves, per se. Surely such might be rented in Argentum

itself. I think rather he was interested particularly in one feast slave.

Tonight I had been brought to him, leashed and braceleted. My keeper, a fellow

from the agency, had then, in his quarters, freed me of these bonds and turned

me over to him. He had rented me for the night.

“Thrust out Your breasts, Tiffany,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I lifted and straightened my back even more, sucking in

my gut and putting back my shoulders, this lifting the softness of my bosom

brazenly to him, that of a slave girl, for his consideration or attentions.

“You are pretty, Tiffany,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“I enjoy commanding you,” he said. “Yes, Master,” I said.

“Are you a good lay, Tiffany?” he asked.

“Sonic men have found me acceptable, Master,” I said.

“We are going to play a little game, Tiffany,” he said.

“We are going to pretend that you are Sheila, the Tatrix of Corcyrus,” he

smiled.

“But I am Tiffany,” I said, frightened, “of Feast Slaves, of the Enterprises of

Aemilianus!”

“But we are going to pretend, aren’t we?” he asked.

“As Master wishes,” I said, frightened.

“Stand,” he said.

I did so.

“Straighter,” he said.

I straightened up, even more.

He then, from a chest at the side of the room, fetched forth a lovely, yellow,

silken sheet. This he draped, regally about my shoulders.