Authors: John Norman
"Please!” she protested.
Cabot shrugged. He supposed he might not be a gentleman. It was not of great concern to him. Too, what had gentlemanliness to do with this? She was a slave. She was a domestic animal; she might be chained in a public market, for the inspection of all and sundry.
She had bespoke herself slave.
She was slave.
"What do you suppose your beauty is for?” he asked.
Angrily, she tightened her arms and hands against her body. She does not know she is a slave, he thought. That is all right. She can always learn later. A slave may not conceal her body from a master, of course, without his permission. Her beauty is not hers; it is owned by the master.
Cabot went to the foot of the chain, as she drew back, and ascertained that it was fastened to a heavy ring bolt, anchored in the floor.
"Yes,” she said, irritably, “it is fastened quite securely."
Did she not know she could be lashed for speaking in that tone of voice to a free man? Did she think she was a free woman. Yes, thought Cabot, of course, she thinks she is a free woman.
"I am not clothed, and you are,” she said.
"Yes?” he said.
Did she not know that she was beautiful, and he was not? And she was, of course, a slave, a chained slave.
"I will see,” he said, “if I can arrange some clothing for you."
"Thank you,” she said, acidly. “I would be extremely grateful."
He smiled. Did she not know the clothing he would arrange? He thought she would look quite well in a brief slave tunic. Certainly the fellows she had known on Earth would think so.
A slave tunic can be quite fetching on a woman. To be sure, they are designed for that purpose. They display the legs, usually generously, and often the thighs, and do little to conceal the bosom, and her soft, fair shoulders. They leave little to the imagination, and what little they leave calls attention to what is concealed in so delightful and provocative a fashion that the tunic is almost an invitation to its own removal. Some feel that a slave tunic can make a woman look even more naked and vulnerable than when she is stripped. Such tunics, too, despite their brevity, lack a nether closure. In this way, the slave is reminded in yet another little way that she is to be always at the convenience of the master.
"You are not chained,” she said.
"No,” he said.
"Why?"
"I do not know."
"Please stop looking at me!” she said.
"Why?"
"'Why'!” she exclaimed.
"Yes."
"Beast!"
"Yes,” he said.
She gasped, and drew back, clenching her arms yet more tightly about her. After a time, she said, petulantly, sullenly, “You are no gentleman."
"No,” he said.
"What are you?” she asked, angrily.
"Gorean,” he said.
"What is that?"
"If you live long enough,” he said, “you will be taught."
She looked at him, for a moment, quizzically, but did not pursue her question. She knelt back, on her heels.
Excellent, thought Cabot, excellent.
She did not remove her arms and hands from her body, but she straightened her body, and lifted her head, and shook her head a little, to throw her hair behind her.
Good, thought Cabot, good.
She smiled a little smile, at him. He supposed it was to be taken as a shy, rueful, resigned smile. Surely it was artful.
He found her tormentingly attractive to him, but had she not been selected to be so?
She is playing her little game, he thought. She is sensing her power. Doubtless such things in her past well served her purposes. They are less likely to be effective now.
He considered how she would look in a collar, and was pleased. In it her beauty would be much improved. But does not the collar enhance the beauty of any woman, the contrast with her softness, its irremovability, and its meaning?
It is little wonder, he thought, that Merchant Law prescribes that the fair throats of female slaves will know the collar, that their fair throats be clasped within such lovely, indicatory, uncompromising, irremovable, possessive encirclements.
"I suppose,” she said, lightly, “you are looking at me because I am beautiful."
"You will do,” he said.
"'Do'!” she cried.
"Yes,” he said.
"Am I not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?” she demanded.
"No,” he said.
"I have been told by many men,” she said, angrily, “that I was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen!"
"They had not seen the women of Gor,” he said. To be sure, beauty is more than a mere combination of external relationships, the eyes to the hair, the thigh to the forearm, and such. Beyond such things, of course, it is difficult to define but then, so, too, is almost anything of importance. It is perhaps more analogous to an illumination, or a whisper, or a kiss, than a measurement. Slavery, incidentally, often brings a woman to beauty, for a variety of reasons. Most trivially, within it she is seldom permitted the straining, disfiguring uglinesses common to the free woman, nastiness, arrogance, brassiness, and so on. Such unpleasantries can be lashed out of her, for they are not pleasing to the master. More importantly, more profoundly, in slavery she finds herself in her place in nature, at her master's feet; in slavery she finds herself returned to her womanhood, to her mastered femininity. Perhaps such things explain the common contentment of the slave, so incomprehensible to many free women, her devotion to the master, her instant obedience, her zealous service, her happiness, her love, and so on, and, doubtless, too, her helpless, spasmodic yieldings to his peremptory possession of his property. The slave, perhaps even roped or chained down, may be used in many ways, as the master might please, perhaps tantalized for writhing hours, until she begs for release, or perhaps, if he wishes, merely put to his purposes briefly, perhaps, her tunic torn away, simply flung to the floor, there to be subordinated as the property she is to his authority. Free women sense, perhaps to their rage, but cannot fully comprehend, the pervasive and profound sexuality of the slave, which irradiates and suffuses her entire existence, even in such small things as the touching of a collar, the feel of a tunic, the touch of tiles on her knees or belly, the leathery taste on her tongue as she slowly, humbly, softly, gratefully licks the whip, the sense of fulfillment in kneeling, and bowing her head before her master. It is beyond their ken, unless they should one day find themselves in the collar.
"Gor?” she asked.
"Yes,” he said, “a world, one quite different from that with which you have hitherto been familiar."
"This is not Earth,” she said.
"No,” said Cabot.
"Is this—Gor?” she asked.
"I do not know,” he said.
"I demand to be returned to Earth!” she said.
"If they wanted you on Earth,” he said, “they would have left you there."
"Perhaps I am being held for ransom?” she said.
"They could have kept you on Earth for that, were it their purpose,” he said.
"I want to go back to Earth,” she said.
"Earth is behind you,” he said.
"Behind me?"
"Yes."
"—Forever?"
"Yes."
"Then I am now—of Gor?” she said.
"Yes,” he said, and then added, thoughtfully, “or elsewhere."
"But what is to become of me—on Gor?” she asked. “What could I do on Gor? What could I be on Gor?"
Cabot smiled.
"I do not care for that smile,” she said.
How easy it would be, thought Cabot, to simply cuff her, and position her, and begin her training!
He thought it might be pleasant to train her, the haughty little bitch, the supercilious, smug slut.
"Do they speak English on Gor?” she asked.
"No,” he said.
"But you speak English."
"I am from England,” he said, “Bristol."
"I am from Mayfair,” she said.
"Do you wish to live?” he asked.
"Certainly,” she said, uneasily.
"Gorean,” he said, “from the name of the world, is the most commonly spoken language on Gor. At least that is so in those areas with which I am most familiar, and certainly it is so in the high cities."
"High cities?"
"Ar,” said he, “Turia, Ko-ro-ba, Thentis, Treve, Venna, and such."
"Those are cities?"
"Yes,” he said. “Most are tower cities, but less so Turia and Venna."
"What are tower cities?"
"The name is presumably because of the architecture of the primary defensive structures, keeps, usually reached by means of unrailed, narrow bridges."
"Why did you ask if I wished to live?” she asked,
"Because,” said he, “if you do wish to live, it will be in your interest to learn to speak Gorean, as quickly and as fluently as you can."
"I see,” she said.
"Even if this is not Gor,” he said, “and I am not sure it is, if there are humans here, humans who have speech, it is probably the language they would speak. Too, if there are translators here, translation devices, many would presumably be devised to deal with Gorean."
"And if I do not care to learn some unusual, strange, and barbarous language?” she asked.
"Gorean,” he said, “is a complex, subtle, beautiful language, with a large and sophisticated lexicon."
"Even so,” she said, irritably.
"Then, I suppose,” said Cabot, “you will be destroyed."
She moved, and the chain dangling from the heavy collar made a tiny sound, against the collar ring.
"You speak Gorean?"
"Yes,” he said.
"Teach me,” she said, “teach me Gorean."
"You must learn,” he said, “five hundred words a day."
"So many?"
"I do not know how much time we have."
"Very well,” she said. “Begin."
"You are prepared to say your first words in Gorean?"
"Yes."
"Very well,” he said. “Say ‘
La kajira'
."
"
La kajira
,” she repeated.
"Excellent,” he said.
"I am good at languages,” she said.
"Excellent,” he said.
"
La kajira
,” she said. “What a lovely sound."
"Yes,” he said, “the word ‘
kajira
’ is a lovely word, with a beautiful sound."
"I like it,” she said.
"You are, incidentally,” he said, “
kajira
."
She laughed. “I'm happy,” she said, “that such a lovely word applies to me."
"It does,” he assured her. “It applies to you in fact, and with great aptness."
"Does it mean ‘beautiful'?” she asked.
"Not exactly,” he said, “but it often suggests female beauty."
"Good,” she said.
See her straighten that beautiful body, thought Cabot. Men have bred such as she for generations, for their collars.
"It means ‘a beauty’ then,” she smiled.
"Not exactly,” he said, “but many
kajirae
, that is the plural, are beautiful."
"And I am beautiful,” she said.
"You will do,” he said.
"So, I am
kajira
,” she said. “Lovely! What does it mean?"
"You will learn later,” he said.
"I suppose,” she said, “that we may have to spend some time together."
"Perhaps,” he said. “I do not know."
"We have not been properly introduced,” she said.
"Did we not do that in the container?” he asked.
"There was no third party,” she said, “at least no appropriate third party."
"There was little help for that,” he said. “There still isn't."
"No matter,” she said. “We must make do, somehow. I am Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym, of Mayfair, London."
He smiled.
She no longer had a name. Masters had not yet given her one.
"And you are,” she said, “Mr. Tarl Cabot, of Bristol."
"Once so,” he said.
"Once so?"
"Yes,” he said. “But, too, I have been known as Tarl of Bristol, and Bosk, captain, of Port Kar."
"Considering how we have been so inexplicably and lamentably thrown together,” she said, “I think we may as well dispense with certain formalities. I shall refer to you, if I may, as Mr. Cabot."
"And how would you have me refer to you?” he asked.
"Miss Pym will do,” she said.
Cabot thought she might make a better Tula, or Tuka, or Lita. Those are common slave names on Gor.
"Miss Pym,” he said, “seems somewhat inappropriate, perhaps a bit prim, perhaps even pompous, does it not, for someone in your current circumstances, one who is kneeling in straw, one whose entire ensemble consists of a collar and chain?"
"Very well,” she said. “I shall call you Tarl, as though we were better acquainted, and even of the same social class. I shall concede such things. And you may call me ‘Virginia.’”
"I will call you ‘Cecily,'” he said.
"I prefer ‘Virginia,'” she said, coldly.
"I will call you ‘Cecily,'” he said.
"Why?” she asked.
"Because I wish to do so,” he said.
"I do not care for ‘Cecily,'” she said. “I never have. In my view, it is too ordinary a name, too common a name. It is a name less fitting for me than for a shopgirl. It is insufficiently refined."
Whether a name is ordinary or not seems to depend on time and place. For example, ‘Cecily’ might have been an ordinary name in one of the Englands, hers, at the time, at least in her opinion, but it might have been far less common in, say, another of the Englands. Too, in her own England, at one time, it might have counted as indisputably aristocratic, enough so even for her to have found it acceptable. And once again, who knows, it may again, if it is not already there, ascend the stairs of specialness and regard. Fashion seems to exercise its whimsical rule in such matters. Too, a name which is regarded by one person as ordinary may, by another person, be regarded as quite unordinary. Consider a name such as ‘Jane'. That name, as I understand it, surely a beautiful name, is commonly regarded on Earth as an ordinary name. On Gor, on the other hand, it is an unordinary name. It is not unknown, for example, for that name to be given to Gorean slave girls, and not simply because of its convenient brevity and beauty, properties suitable for a slave name, but also because, on Gor, it has an attractive exotic flavor, suggesting foreign places and goods. Earth feminine names, in general, are commonly regarded on Gor as slave names. This is not surprising as Earth females are regarded as slave stock, suitable for the collars of Gorean masters.