John Norman - Gor 24 - Vagabonds of Gor

Vagabonds Of Gor

Chapter 1 - Part 1 - A Female SLave

“You were once the Lady Temione, were you not?” I inquired.

“Yes, Master,” she said, lifting her head a little from the dirt, where, before me, in the camp of

Cos, on the south bank of the Vosk, north of Holmesk, she knelt, head down, the palms of her

hands on the ground.

“Lie on your right side before me,” I said, “extending your left leg.”

She did so. In this way, the bit of silk she wore fell to the right, displaying the line of her hip,

thigh and calf. I saw the brand, tiny and tasteful, yet unmistakable, fixed in her thigh, high, under

the hip. It was the common kajira brand, the staff and fronds, beauty subject to discipline, worn

by most female slaves on Gor. She had the toes of the left leg pointed, lusciously curving the calf.

I saw that she had had some training.

“You may resume your original position,” I said.

She returned to it, a common position of slave obeisance.

I noted that her hair had grown out somewhat, in the weeks since I had last seen her, a free

woman on the chain of Ephialtes, a sutler whom I had met at the inn of the Crooked Tarn, on the

Vosk Road. He had been kind enough to act as my agent in certain matters.

“Tell me of matters since last we met,” I suggested.

“It was at the Crooked Tarn, was it not?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Or was it in the camp of Cos, near Ar´s Station?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“I with others was once there blindfolded, and displayed,” she said.

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Speak,” I said.

“As master recalls,” she said. “I was detained at the Crooked Tarn, as a debtor slut.”

“Yes,” I said.

“And forced to earn my keep.” she said.

“Yes,” I said. Her use had cost me a tarsk bit. Had I had a slave sent to my “space” it would have

cost me three full copper tarsks, for only a quarter of an Ahn. I had had her for a full Ahn, for the

tarsk bit. That was, because, at that time, she had been free. She would be worth much more now,

clearly. I noted the collar on her neck, metal, close-fitting and locked. It was easy to see, even

with her head down, because of the shortness of her hair. It had been shaved off some weeks ago

by the keeper of the Crooked Tarn, to be sold as raw materials for catapult cordage. Women´s

hair, soft, glossy, silky and resilient, stronger than vegetable fibers and more weather resistant,

well woven, is ideal for such a purpose. The concept of “earning one´s keep,” in one sense, a

strict legal sense, is more appropriate to a free woman than a slave. The slave, for example,

cannot earn anything in her own name, or for herself, but only, like other domestic animals, for

her master. To be sure, in another sense, a very practical sense, no one “earns her keep” like the

female slave. She earns it, and with a vengeance. The master sees to it. The sense of “earning her

keep” of which the former Lady Temione spoke was a rather special one. It was rather analogous

to that of the slave, for, as I recalled, the keeper of the inn appropriated her earnings, ostensibly

to defray the expenses of her keeping. A result of this, of course, was to make it impossible for

her, by herself, to subtract as much as a tarsk bit from her redemption fee.

“In the morning, early, after the evening in which I had been carried, bound, to your space, to

serve you, I, with other debtors-”

“ ‘Debtor sluts´,” I said.

“Yes, master,” she said. “-were redeemed. We were overjoyed, thinking to be freed, but found to

our dismay that we were put in coffle, to be taken northward on the Vosk Road to the vicinity of

Ar´s Station.”

‘‘I see,´´ I said.

“But before our redemption our heads were shaved by the keeper, for catapult cordage.”

“I saw the pelts on a rack, outside the inn,” I said. Her hair had been a beautiful auburn. That hair

color is popular on Gor. It brings a high price in slave markets.

“A man named Ephialtes, a sutler of Cos, paid our re-demption fees.”

“It was he, then, who redeemed you?” I asked.

“I do not think so, Master,” she said.

“He was acting as an agent then?” I said.

“I think so, Master,” she said. “Though apparently one with powers to buy and sell as he

pleased.”

“On behalf on his principal?” I asked.

“Doubtless, Master,” she said.

“You may kneel back,” I said.

She straightened up, and then knelt back on her heels, her knees wide, her hands on her thighs. I

had not specified this position, one of the most common for a female pleasure slave but she had

assumed it unquestioningly, appropriately. It had been a test. She had passed. It would not be

necessary to cuff her.

I listened to the sounds of the Vosk River in the background. “Though we were free women, six

of us, as you recall, including myself, we were apparently to be marched naked, chained by the

neck, in coffle behind a sutler´s wagon.”

“You objected?” I inquired.

“I and another, Klio, perhaps you remember her, did.”

“And what happened?” I asked.

“We were lashed,” she said. “It was done by a terrible person, one named Liadne, put over us as

first girl, though we were free and she a mere slave!”

I remembered Liadne. She was lovely. I had first met her under her master´s wagon, shivering in

a tarpaulin, in an icy storm. I had used her but had paid her master for her use, leaving a coin in

her mouth. I had had Ephialtes, the sutler, purchase her in the morning. I had thought she would

make an excellent first girl, to introduce her free sisters into some understanding of their

womanhood.

“We were then obedient,” said the girl.

I did not doubt but what Liadne would have kept them, arrogant, spoiled free women, under

superb discipline. That had certainly been my impression, at any rate, when I had seen them lined

up, kneeling, naked, coffled, and blind-folded, in the camp of Cos near Ar´s Station.

“We were taken to the Cosian camp, near Ar´s Station,” she said. “There we were kept naked, in

coffle, and under discipline. One morning we were displayed in blindfolds.”

I had not wanted them to know, or at least to know for certain, that it was I who had redeemed

them, not simply for the pleasure of it, but for my own purposes, as well. This was not that

unusual. Captors do not always reveal their identities immediately to their captives. It is

sometimes amusing to keep women in ignorance as to whose power it is, within which they lie.

Let them consider the matter with anxiety. Let them speculate wildly, frenziedly, tearfully. It is

then time enough to reveal oneself to them, perhaps confirming their worst fears.

“The next morning,” she said, “when I awakened, two of our girls were gone, Elene and Klio,

and there was a new girl, a slender, very beautiful girl, also free, like the rest of us, on the coffle.”

“What was her name?” I asked.

“ ‘Phoebe´,” she said.

“Tell me of her,” I said.

“She wore her collar and chain lovingly and well, most beautifully,” she said. “She obeyed

Liadne from the first, immediately, spontaneously, intuitively, naturally, with ti-midity, and

perfection. It was as though she intuitively under-stood authority and her own rightful subjection

to it. Though this new girl, like the rest of us, save Liadne, was free, I think I had seldom seen a

woman, so early in captivity, so ready, so ripe, for the truths of the collar.”

“She had perhaps fought out those matters in the sweaty sheets of her own bed, for years,” I said.

“As had certain others, too,” smiled the girl, looking down.

“You are beautiful,” I commented, regarding her face, and lineaments, in the light of the nearby

fire.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

“Was this new girl proud?” I asked.

“I think only of such things as her capacity for love, and her bondage,” she said.

“But you said she was free,” I reminded her.

“Of her natural bondage,” she smiled.”

“She was not then, in a normal sense, proud?”

“Not in ways typical of a vain free woman, at any rate.”

“But yet,” I said, “this new girl, unlike the rest of you, was wearing a slave strip.”

“Ah, Master,” said the girl, “it is as I suspected. It is you who redeemed us.”

“Of course,” I said.

“The new girl would not speak the identity of her captor, but, I take it, it was you who brought

her to the coffle of Ephialtes.”

I nodded. I had, of course, warned Phoebe to silence, with respect to whose captive she was, as

my business in the north, at least at that time, had been secret.

“Her docility on the chain, its beauty on her, her eagerness to obey, and such, suggested that it

might have been you, or someone like you,” she said.

I shrugged.

“And I thought it might have been you,” she said, “from little things she would say, or knowing

looks, or responses to our questions, or shy droppings of her gaze. In such ways can a woman

speak, even when she is pretending not to. I think she was shyly eager to tell us all about you.”

I nodded again. I was not unfamiliar with the small talk, the tiny riddles, the hints, the delights of

conversing slaves. I had little doubt that Phoebe, and without too much provoca-tion, might have

revealed more of me, and of our relation-ship, and past, and such, than I would have approved of.

She was marvelously feminine. It would not really do, of course, to whip her for such things, as

she was free, and, even in the case of slaves, masters tend to be tolerant of such things. They

make the girl so much more human.

“Was it you, too, who took Elene and Klio from the coffle?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What did you do with them?” she asked.

“Did a slave ask permission to speak?” I asked.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“ ‘Temione´,” she said. She wore that name now, of course, as a mere slave name, put on her by

the will of a master. Slaves, as they are animals, may be named anything.

“I sold them,” I said.

She looked at me.

“You may speak,” I said.

“Both of them?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. I had sold them one morning, in the siege trenches. They had given me the cover I

had needed to get to the walls of Ar´s Station.

“Tell me of Ephialtes, Liadne, the coffle, and such,” I said. I remembered the six debtor sluts I

had redeemed at the Inn of the Crooked Tarn, the Lady Amina, of Venna; the Lady Elene, of

Tyros; and the Ladies Klio, Rimice, Liomache and Temione, all of Cos.

“Ephialtes is well,” she said, “and seems much taken with Liadne, as she with him. Two days

after the fall of Ar´s Station a mercenary, who had apparently seen much action, passed near the

wagon of Ephialtes. Liomache, seeing him, startled, terrified, tried to hide amongst us but he,

quick, and observant, had seen her! He rushed over to us. She could not escape, of course, as she

was nude and helpless on the chain. Such niceties constrained us well, no differently than if we

had been slaves. She cried out in misery. He pulled her up and shook her like a doll!

“Liomache!” he cried. “It is you!”

“No!” she wept.

“I know you,” he said. “I would know you anywhere. You are one of those sluts who lives off

men, who runs up bills and then inveigles fools into satisfying them. I remember however that

when I first met you you had been somewhat less successful than usual, and were being held for

redemp-tion at the inn. How piteously you misrepresented your case, and begged me, a lady so in

distress and a compatriot of Cos, to rescue you from your predicament!”

“No! No!” she said. “It is not I!”

“You well made me your fool and dupe!” he snarled. “I paid your bill for three silver tarns, a

fortune to me at the time, and put in travel money, too, that you might return to Cos!”

“It is not I!” she said.

“And for this I received not so much as a kiss, you claiming this would demean our relationship,

by putting it on a “physical” basis.”

“It was not I!” she wept.

“Well do I remember you in the fee cart moving rapidly away, laughing, carrying my purse with

you, waving the redemption papers, signed for freedom!”

“It was not I!” she cried.

“Then he cuffed her. We gasped, for he had done so as if she might have been a slave. This took

the fight out of her. He then thrust her back, and looked at her. ‘But,´ said he, ‘it seems that

someone was not such a fool as I, for here you are, on a chain, in a warriors´ camp.´ She could

only look at him then, tears in her eyes. She knew that she had lost. ‘Oh,´ cried he, ‘how many

times I have dreamed of having you in my power, of having you naked, in a collar!´ He turned

her brutally about, from side to side, examining her. ‘Excellent!´ he cried, ‘You are not yet

branded!´ She sank to her knees before him, her head in her hands, weeping. ‘Keeper!´ cried he.

‘Keeper!´ Ephialtes, who had been called forth by the commotion, was present. ‘She is for sale,

or my sword will have it so!´ cried the mercenary. In short, she was soon sold, for an enormous

price, two gold pieces. She was startled that he wanted her so much. To be sure, the gold was

doubtless that of Ar´s Station.”

“So that was the fate of Liomache?” I said.

“I saw her the next day. She was naked, in his collar, and branded. Indeed, she told me, proudly,

that he had branded her with his own hand, it was a beautiful brand, and had been well done. She

was also in a yoke. She seemed not discontent.”

“Did you see her again?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “though she is perhaps somewhere in this very camp.”

“What of you?” I asked.

“The keeper of a paga enclosure, a man called Philebus, saw me the next day. It was not possible,

of course, for us to conceal ourselves. Only too obviously we would come easily to the attention

of even idle passers-by. He expressed interest. I was displayed, and said the “Buy me, Master.”

So simply was it done.”

“You seem more beautiful than I remembered you,” I said.

“My master tells me that I have grown much in beauty,” she said. “I do not know if it is true or

not.”

“It is,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“When you left the coffle, then,” I said, “it contained only Amina, Rimice and Phoebe.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I wonder if the coffle is still in the camp,” I said.

“I would suppose so,” she said. “But I do not know.”

“Do you know anything more of them?” I asked.

She laughed. “Phoebe wants explicitly to be a slave,” she said. “She scorns to hide her feelings

and longs for the legalities which would publicly proclaim her natural condition. I do not think

Amina has ever forgotten your kiss, that of a master, when she was helpless at the Crooked Tarn,

chained to the outside wall the storm raging. Rimice, the curvaceous little slut, is already more

than half a slave, as you know. All, I think it is fair to say, are itching for the touch of masters.”

“ ‘Itching´ “ I asked, amused.

“A slave´s expression,” she smiled.

“And you?” I asked. “Are you “itching” for the touch of a master?”

She leaned forward, her eyes moist, beggingly. “I am already a slave,” she whispered. “I do not

itch for the touch of a master. Rather I scream and beg for it!”

“They may have all been sold by now.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“They were all choice items,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You know nothing more of them?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said. “But I suppose that they, in one way or another, are still with the camp.”

This seemed to me possible, but it need not be so. When women are sold they may be taken here

and there, transported hither and yon, carried about, anywhere, as the articles of property they

are.

“Lean back,” I said.

She leaned back, shuddering with need, tears in her eyes, commanded.

I glanced about the paga enclosure of Philebus. The area, circular, of leveled, beaten earth, was

about forty yards in diameter. Its fencing was little more than symbolic, a matter of light railings

no more than waist high set on tripods. This barrier, such as it is, is dismantled and re-erected,

over and over, as the camp moves. There are some tiny, alcovelike tents within the enclosure,

mostly just within the perimeter. There were several tiny fires, here and there, within the

enclosure. Small fires are usually used in such enclosures, as in camps generally, as they may be

quickly extinguished. The girls, slaves, within the enclosure, were not belled. Thus, in the case of

an alarm, the entire camp could, at a command, be plunged into darkness and silence, vanishing,

so to speak, in the night. Such precautions serve primarily to defend against attacks of tarnsmen.

There are often explicit camp rules pertaining to the sizes of fires, as there are for many other

things, such as the general ordering of the camp, its defenses, its streets and layout, the location

of its facilities, such as infirmaries, commissaries and smithies, the mainte-nance of security and

watches within units, the types of tents permitted, their acceptable occupancy, their spacing and

drain-age, and provisions for sanitation. The observance of these rules, or ordinances, is usually

supervised by, and enforced by, camp marshals. To be sure, this camp was largely one of

mercenaries, and, as such, was lax in many of these particu-lars. It is difficult to impose order and

discipline on merce-naries. Too, these men were flushed with victory, after the fall of Ar´s

Station, to the east. I noted a fellow relieving himself a few yards away, near the railing of the

enclosure. In a camp of Ar an infraction of that sort might have earned a fine, or a scourging.

Overhead, briefly, against one of the moons, I saw a tarnsman descending toward the camp. As

he was alone, he was probably a courier. The patrols are usually composed of two or more

tarnsmen. In this way, they will usually prove superior to isolated interlopers and, if need be, one

may be dispatched to report or summon aid, while the other, or others, may attend to other duties,

perhaps those of a pursuit or search, or maintaining a distant contact with the enemy.

“Paga!” called a fellow, sitting cross-legged, a few yards away. A girl hurried to him, with her

vessel of drink.

Survivors of Ar´s Station, which had been Ar´s major bastion on the Vosk, including many

women and children, had been rescued from the piers of the burning port by a fleet of

unidentified ships, ships with which the Cosians in the north had not had the forces to deal.

Although the identities of these ships were putatively unknown it was an open secret on the river

that they were those of Port Cos, supplemented with several apparently furnished by the Vosk

League itself. The matter had something to do with a topaz, and a pledge, something going back

apparently to affairs which had taken place earlier on the river. At any rate, as it had turned out,

the Ubarate of Cos had decided, wisely, in my opinion, to take no official notice of this action.

This was presumably out of a respect for the power of Port Cos, and her desire to influence, if not

control, through Port Cos, the politics of the Vosk league, and, through it, the river, and the Vosk

basin, as a whole. I had been among these survivors. We had been carried to the safety of Port

Cos.

There were perhaps a hundred men, here and there, within the enclosure, and some fifteen or

twenty girls. The girls filled their vessels, which, like the hydria, or water vessel, are high-

handled, for dipping, in a large kettle hung simmer-ing over a fire near the entrance to the

enclosure. Warm paga makes one drunk quicker, it is thought. I usually do not like my paga

heated, except sometimes on cold nights. This night was not cold, but warm. It was now late

spring. Some Cosians tend to be fond of hot paga. So, too, are some of the folks in the more

northern islands, interestingly, such as Hunjer and Skjern, west of Torvaldsland. This probably

rep-resents an influence from Cos, transmitted through merchants and seamen. In the north

generally, mead, a drink made with fermented honey, and water, and often spices and such, tends

to be favored over paga.

“Master,” whispered the girl before me.

I looked at her. She had not asked permission to speak. She quickly put down her head. “Forgive

me, Master,” she said. She opened her knees more, frightened, placatingly.

Most of the girls within the enclosure were here and there, serving, or kneeling, waiting to be

summoned. Two, naked, were in tiny cages, cramped, hardly able to move. I gathered they were

new to their slavery. I did not know how long they bad been kept so. It had perhaps been a day or

so. Both, putting their fingers through the close-set bars, which made it hard even to see them,

would beg a fellow, I suppose, Philebus, their master, and the owner of the enclosure, as he

passed by, to be released, that they might now serve men. It was difficult to tell if he had heard

them or not, but once, at least, he must have for he, with his staff, struck the bars of a cage,

strictly ordering its fair occupant to silence. “Yes, Master!” she wept, drawing back, as she could,

within it. There were some other girls, too, who were not serving, some five or six, or so. They,

in their snatches of slave silk, sat, knelt or lay about a stout post which had been driven deeply

into the ground to one side, to which post they were chained by the neck. As more men entered

the enclosure women were released from the post to assist in the serving. Also, if one appealed to

a fellow, she might be released at his request, to serve him particularly and, if he wished,

privately. Temione had been free of the post when I had arrived. I had, however, thinking I had

recognized her, and as it proved, I had, summoned her to my place.

I regarded the former proud free woman. She did not dare to raise her eyes. She did, however,

trembling before me, make a tiny, piteous, begging sound of need.

“Did you say something?” I asked.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Did you want something?” I asked.

She lifted her eyes, frightened, pleadingly. “I desire to serve you,” she whispered.

Interesting, I thought, the transformations which a collar can make in a woman.

“Please, Master,” she begged.

“Very well,” I said, “you may serve me.”

“Thank you, Master!” she breathed, joyously.

“Bring me paga,” I said.

“Oh!” she wept, in misery. “Oh, oh.”

I looked at her.

“Yes, Master,” she wept, and rose quickly to her feet, hurrying toward the paga vat.

I watched her withdraw. How lovely she was! How well she moved! What a slave she had

become!

The enclosure of Philebus was, in effect, a transportable paga tavern, one so arranged that it

might accompany a moving camp.

I watched her waiting, to dip her paga vessel. How attrac-tive, how desirable, how exciting she

was! Women look well, in the service of men.

Another paga slave hurried by, summoned, a blond.

I have mentioned that the girls were not belled, and that this had to do with, presumably, the

possible need for dark-ness and silence, in the event of an attack on the camp. The evening was

warm. The moons were out. It would be a good night, I thought, idly, for an attack on a camp.

Yet I did not expect one would occur. One should occur, but, I was confi-dent, it would not. If it

were to happen, surely it should have taken place long before now. There was even poor security

in the camp. I and the fellow I had agreed to accompany, a young man, of the warriors, formerly

of Ar´s Station, a young man named Marcus, or, more fully, Marcus Marcel-lus, of the

Marcelliani, had had no difficulty, in the guise of minor merchants, in entering the camp. In

effect, I suppose, we were spies. Young Marcus, with the consent of his commander, Aemilianus,

formerly of Ar´s Station, now among the refugees at Port Cos, had been given permission to track

the movements of the Cosians in the north, and to convey this information to the major land

forces of Ar, which were currently located at Holmesk, to the south. So deeply ran former

loyalties, in spite of the failure of Ar, seemingly inexplicably, to relieve Ar´s Station. Young

Marcus was, in my opinion, a fine though moody, soldier. It had been he who had managed to

convey Ar´s Station´s half of the topaz to Port Cos, which action had resulted in the redemption

of the pledge of the topaz, bringing the forces of Port Cos, and apparently, in the process, ships of

the Vosk League, as well, to Ar´s Station, to evacuate the piers, to rescue survivors, primarily the

remnants of her citizenry. If young Marcus, of whom I have grown fond, has a weakness, I would

think it would be his moodiness, and his incredible hatred for Cosians, and all things Cosian. This

hatred, which seems almost patho-logical, is doubtless the consequence of his experiences in war,

and particularly during the siege of Ar´s Station. It is hard to see all, or much, of what one has

loved, destroyed, and not feel illy disposed toward the perpetrators of this de-struction. To be

sure, had the forces of Ar landed in Telnus, I do not think the results would have been much

different. I myself, like many warriors, terribly enough, I suppose, tend to see war more as the

most perilous and exhilarating of sports, a game of warriors and Ubars. Too, I am not unfond of

loot, particularly when it is beautiful and well curved.

Temione had now reached the vat, and was carefully dip-ping her narrow, high-handled serving

vessel in the simmer-ing paga. She had seemed to be crying, but perhaps it was merely the heat

from the paga which she had, with the back of her hand, wiped from her eyes. Yet, I thought, too,

I had seen her clench her fist, driving the nails into the palm of her hand, and her hips move,

inadvertently, helplessly, in frustra-tion. It is hard for a woman to help such things when she is

scantily clad and in a collar, when she is a slave.

To be sure, the Cosians had moved in an open, leisurely way, and even along the southern bank

of the Vosk, rather than to the north. This seemed madness, for surely the Cosians could be

pinned against the river and slaughtered. They would now be, as they had not been at Ar´s

Station, heavily outnumbered. Perhaps Policrates, the camp commander, was unwise in the ways

of war. But rather it seemed he might know he had little or nothing to fear. From what I had

heard of him I was reasonably confident he knew what he was doing. Indeed, perhaps he was

flaunting an immunity of some sort, political or treasonous. To be sure, the southern bank of the

Vosk, because of the former extent of Ar´s Margin of Desolation, long ago abandoned, is much

less populous than the northern bank. Also, of course, the Cosians were presum-ably moving

toward either Brundisium, which had been the port of entry of their invasion fleet, or south to

join Myron in the vicinity of Torcadino, where Dietrich of Tarnburg, the mercenary, lay at bay,

like a larl in his den. There had been no attempt, at least as yet, for the fine forces of Ar, in all

their power, to cut them off, to pin them against the Vosk, or meet them in battle. There were

several thousand Cosians, and mercenaries, in our camp, but the forces of Ar, by repute, were in

the neighborhood of some fifty thousand men, an incredible force for a Gorean community to

maintain in the field. The common Gorean army is usually no more than four or five thousand

men. Indeed, mercenary bands often number no more than one or two hundred. Dietrich of

Tarnburg, in commanding something like five thousand men, is unusual. He is one of the most

feared and redoubtable of the mercenary commanders on Gor. Surely his contracts are among the

most expensive. But in spite of the invitation seemingly flagrantly offered by Policrates, the

camp commander, general of the Cosian forces in the north, said once to have been a pirate,

rescued from the galleys by Myron, Polemarkos of Temos, a cousin to Lurius of Jad, Ubar of

Cos, the forces of Ar had not struck, even to restrict or harass foragers. Militarily it seemed Ar´s

behavior was inexplicable. Perhaps, incredibly enough, they simply did not know the disposition,

strength and loca-tion of the Cosian forces.

Temione had now filled her paga vessel. She picked up a goblet from a rack near the vat. The

shelving on the rack was of narrow wooden rods. The goblets are kept upside down on the rods.

In this way, washed, they can drain, and dry. This also affords them some protection from dust. I

watched her carefully wipe the goblet. Woe to the slave who would dare to serve paga or wine in

a dirty goblet!

I listened to the Vosk in the background, the murmur of conversation within the enclosure, the

sounds of the camp.

The slave turned toward me.

Seeing my eyes on her, she put down her head. She approached, humbly, frightened, seemingly

terribly conscious of my eyes on her.

How beautiful she was.

“Master,” she said, kneeling before me. She poured me paga, filling the goblet she had taken

from the rack, from the vessel she carried.

“Paga!” called a fellow nearby, to a redhead, who swiftly hurried to kneel before him, her head to

the dirt.

I smiled.

She had not dallied.

Any slave in such a place, of course, may be subjected to the discipline of a customer. It is little

wonder that the girls, so subject to penalties, which may be promptly and severely administered,

are concerned to be pleasing, and fully.

“Master?” asked Temione. I took the paga.

“Will there be anything else?” she asked, timidly. I sipped the paga. It was hot.

“Your ankle is not belled,” I said.

“None of us are belled here,” she said.

Her response suggested to me that she was probably un-aware of the rationale for this.

“Your ankle would look well, belled,” I said.

“I have never been belled,” she said, shyly.

“Belling a girl makes it easier to find her in the dark,” I said.

“Doubtless, Master,” she smiled.

It is common, though not universal, to bell paga slaves. The jangle of slave bells on them, as they

move, is quite stimulat-ing. In the oasis towns of the Tahari, and in the vicinity of the great

desert, sometimes even free women are belled, and wear ankle chains, as well, that the length of

their stride may be measured and made beautiful, and perhaps, too, to remind them, even though

they be free, that they are but women. Who knows when the slaver´s noose or net may fall upon

one of them? Almost all female slaves, at one time or another, or at certain times, are belled. This

is probably because bells are so beautiful on them, and so brilliantly and insightfully sym-bolic of

their status as domestic animals, that they are proper-ties, that they are in bondage. Most girls

walk proudly in their bells, their shoulders back and their heads up, gloriously proud of their

fulfilled femininity. Sometimes they fear, though, to wear bells out-of-doors, for they may then

be subjected to the attacks of outraged, frustrated free women, attacks which they, as slaves, must

endure. Indoors, however, they are pleased to wear their bells, and often beg to do so. And the

little she-sleen, I assure you, know well how to utilize those pleasant, remarkable little devices,

so subtly and apparently innocently, to drive masters half mad with passion. When a girl fears

she may be out of favor with her master, she sometimes kneels before him and begs, “Bell me.”

In this simple request, asking to be belled, the slave puts herself in her place, at the feet of her

master, reconfirms to him her humble and loving acceptance of her bondage, reassures him of her

desire to please, and gives promise of slave delights so exciting and intimate that they can be

known only among masters and their women. Sometimes, too, when a slave feels she may not

have been sufficiently pleasing she will strip herself and approach the master on all fours, her

head down, a whip in her teeth. It is her way of making clear to him her desire to please. It is

usually much better, incidentally, for the slave to do this of her own accord than to be ordered to

so approach the master. If it is he who has issued the order she may well be being summoned for

punishment, or at least a severe upbraiding. If she approaches on her own accord she may well

find forgiveness or, perhaps, a disciplining that is little more than symbolic. If she so approaches,

however, on his order, as I have suggested, she may well fear. He will do what he wants with her.

She is his, totally. The whip on Gor, incidentally, though it is much in evidence, is seldom used.

That it will be used, and promptly, if the occasion arises, is perhaps, paradoxically perhaps, why

it seldom needs to be used. Most girls avoid feeling it, at least generally, by striv-ing to be

excellent slaves. To be sure, every female slave will have felt it, upon occasion. It is then

common that they try to make certain that these occasions are quite infrequent. To be sure, some

women do not fully understand they are owned, until they are whipped.

The gate to the paga enclosure suddenly flew open and cracked back against the railing.

“It is Borton!” cried a fellow, delightedly.

“Let the festivities begin!” called the newcomer, a large, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded

fellow, flinging a heavy purse on its strings into the stomach of he whom I took to be Philebus,

the taverner, who clutched at it, but failed to secure it, as it was jerked back on the strings.

Philebus cried out in good-humored dismay. And then the fellow took the purse and thrust it

down, firmly, into his hands.

“I have been long aflight and have now reported to my captain,” said he. “I am weary of the

saddle, and would have drink, and something softer to ride!”

There was laughter, and cheering. Men crowded about him. The chained girls shrank down,

frightened, making themselves as small and inconspicuous as they could, close to the post.

This fellow, I gathered, was well known. Unfortunately I, too, had once made his acquaintance.

Temione gasped. She, too, had recognized him.

He wore the uniform and insignia of the tarnsmen of Artemidorus, the well-known Cosian

mercenary.

“Let feasting begin!” he called, expansively. There was more cheering. “It is Borton!” called a

man. “Borton has returned!” cried another. “Borton!” said another. Others, taking note of the

commotion, outside the railings, hastened now to enter. Philebus, as I took him to be, the

taverner, and Temione´s master, was calling out orders to a couple of fellows, his lieutenants, or

assistants, I gathered, having to do with food and drink. One of them closed the gate of the

enclosure. Some other fellows were climbing over the railing.

“Are you not in my spot?” inquired the newcomer heartily, of a poor fellow sitting rather near the

center of the enclosure, usually regarded as a preferred position for prompt service, for observing

the dancing of slaves, and such. Swiftly, on all fours, the fellow beat a hasty retreat.

There was again much laughter.

John Norman - Gor 24 - Vagabonds of Gor

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: