John Norman - Marauders of Gor

"Yes," said Ivar Forkbeard. He regarded Hilda. "You will beg Gunnhild to set you about the duties of a bond-maid."

"Yes," said she, "Ivar Forkbeard."

"Hurry now," laughed he.

Weeping, clutching her clothing, she ran to the hall. The men and bond-maids laughed muchly. I, too, roared with laughter. Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, had been taught to obey.

The shrieking of Pouting Lips, as she yielded to Gorm, supine, kicking in the furs, rang through the low, smoking hall.

I thrust Thyri from my lap, and seized Olga by the wrist, as she hurried past, throwing her across my knees. She, laughing, was fleeing Ottar who, drunkenly, was stumbling after her. I pulled Olga's face to mine and our lips met, I forcing my kiss to her teeth. Her naked body, collared, suddenly responded to mine, and she reached for me with her hands. "My Jarl!" she whispered. But I thrust her up, holding her by the arms, into the hands of Ottar, who, laughing, threw her lightly over his shoulder and turned about. I saw her head and shoulders, and her body, to the waist, over his shoulder, her small fists pounding meaninglessly on his back. He carried her into the darkness and threw her to the furs. "My Jarl," whimpered Thyri, crouching beside me, touching me. With a laugh, she crying out with pleasure, I took again the young lady of Kassau, the bond-maid, Thyri, in my arms.

Pretty Ankles hurried past, carrying a great trencher of roast meat on her small shoulder.

"Mead!" called Ivar Forkbeard, from across from me. "Mead!" He held out the great, curved horn, with its rim filigreed gold.

Pudding and Gunnhild knelt on the bench, snuggling against him, one on either side. But they did not run to fetch his mead. That duty, this night, befell another.

Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, stripped as any bond-maid, from a large bronze vessel poured mead for the Forkbeard.

The men laughed.

She, though free, poured mead as a bond-maid. They roared with pleasure. Mighty insult had thus been wrought upon Thorgard of Scagnar, enemy of Ivar Forkbeard. His daughter, stripped, poured mead in the hall of his enemies.

Too, they had taught her to heel and obey. Rich was the pleasure of Ivar Forkbeard.

He reached out his hand, to touch the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar.

She shrank back, terrified.

The Forkbeard looked upon her, amused. "Would you care to play in the furs?" he asked her.

"No," she said, shuddering.

"Let me play," whimpered Pudding. "Let me play," whispered Gunnhild.

"Do not misunderstand me, Ivar Forkbeard," whispered Hilda. If you order me to the furs I shall obey you, an swiftly. I will comply with your slightest wish, exactly an promptly. I will do whatever I am told."

Pudding and Gunnhild laughed.

Ottar stumbled up, putting his hand on one of the posts. By a length of ship's rope, he had tied Olga to his belt. She looked at me; her eyes shone; her lips were parted; she put out her hand; I paid her no attention; she looked down, fist clenched, and whimpered. I smiled. I would use her before the night was done.

"It is said," intoned Ottar, "that Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, is the coldest of women."

"Do you find men of interest?" asked the Forkbeard.

"No," she said. "I do not."

Ottar laughed.

"Are you not curious," asked Ivar of the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, "what it would be to feel on your body their hands, their mouths?"

"Men are beasts!" she cried.

"Their teeth?" he asked.

"Men are hateful," she wept. "They are terrible beasts, using girls as their prey!" She looked about at the bond-maids. "Resist them!" she cried. "Resist them!"

Pudding threw back her head and laughed. "Resistance is not permitted," she laughed.

"Throw her in the furs," cried Pretty Ankles. "Then she will learn whether she knows what she is talking about or not."

"Throw her in the furs," cried another bond-maid. "Throw her in the furs," called yet another.

"Throw her in the furs," cried the bond-maids.

Hilda shuddered, terrified.

"Silence!" called out Ivar Forkbeard.

There was silence.

"What," asked Ivar Forkbeard of Hilda, "if I should order you to the furs?"

"I would obey you immediately," she said. "I have felt the whip," she explained.

"But of your own free will you would be unlikely to enter upon the furs?" asked Ivar.

"Of course not," she said.

Gorm, who had now disentangled himself from Pouting Lips, joined the circle about the table, where we sat, others standing. She was behind him, combing her hair with a comb of horn.

"She is Hilda the Haughty," laughed Ottar. "She is the coldest of women!"

Hilda stood straight, her head high.

"Ottar, Gorm," said the Forkbeard. "Take her to the ice shed. Leave her there, bound hand and foot."

The bond-maids shrieked with pleasure. Men pounded their left shoulders with the palms of their right hand. Some pounded their plates on the heavy boards of the wooden table.

Ottar delayed only long enough to untie Olga from his belt. He had tied her there by ship's rope, knotted about her stomach. He left the rope about her stomach, but, with a free end, pulling her arms about one of the roof posts, tied her hands together.

He then left, following Gorm, who had dragged Hilda from the hall.

She tried futilely to free herself. She looked at me, agonized. "Untie me," she begged.

I looked at her.

"My body wants you, Tarl Red Hair," she wept. "My body needs you!"

I looked away from her, paying her no more attention. I heard her moan, and rub her body on the post. "I need you Tarl Red Hair," she whimpered.

I would let her smolder for another Ahn or two. By that time her body would be ready. To my slightest touch it would leap, helpless, squirming, in my arms. I would use her twice, the second time in the lengthy use of the Gorean master, that use in which, over an Ahn, the female slave or bond-maid is shown no mercy.

"Mead!" I called. Pretty Ankles rushed to serve me. I again bent to kiss the lips of Thyri.

Late and fully were we feasting when the thrall-boy, tugging on the sleeve of Ivar Forkbeard, said to him, "My Jarl, the wench in the ice shed begs to be freed."

"How long has she begged?" asked the Forkbeard.

"For more than two Ahn," said the boy, grinning. He was male.

"Good boy," said the Forkbeard, and tore him a piece of neat.

"Thank you, my Jarl," said the boy. The boy, unlike the adult male thralls, was not chained at night in the bosk shed. Ivar was fond of him. He slept, chained, in the kitchen.

"Red Hair, Gorm," said the Forkbeard. "Fetch the little Ubara of Scagnar."

We smiled.

"Gorm," said the Forkbeard. "Before she is freed, see that her thirst is assuaged."

"Yes, Captain," said Gorm.

We carried a torch to the ice shed. We opened the heavy door, lined with leather, and lifted the torch, closing the door behind us.

In the light of the torch we saw Hilda. We approached more closely.

She lay on her side, in misery, across great blocks of ice; she could lift her head and shoulders no more than six inches from the ice; she could draw her ankles toward her body no more than six inches; small chips of wood, in which the ice is packed, clung about her body; she was bound, hand and foot, her wrists behind her, her ankles crossed and tied. Two ropes prohibited her from struggling to either a sitting or kneeling position, one running from her right ankle across the ice to a ring in the side of the shed, the other running from her throat across the ice to a similar ring on the other side of the shed.

"Please," she wept.

Her teeth chattered; her lips were blue.

She lay before us, on her back.

"Please," she wept, piteously, "I beg to be permitted to run to the furs of Ivar Forkbeard."