John Norman - Tribesmen of Gor

I replaced the bit of silk in my sash. I stepped back.

“I am a woman of Earth!” she cried. Her small hands, wrists warrior-tied to the bars, clenched the bars in terror. She turned her head again, desperately, trying to look at me. She could not see me. “Tarl!” she cried. “Tarl?”

I swung back the whip.

“You will not punish me as a Gorean slave girl!” she cried.

“You have not been pleasing,” I said.

After the fourth stroke she screamed out, weeping, “I have been punished! Stop!

Stop! A girl has been punished! Stop!” After the sixth stroke she cried out, “Please stop, I beg of you, Master!”

Twenty strokes did I give the slave girl. Then I untied her from the bars. She fell to the tiles before me, reaching for my ankles, pressing her lips, hot and wet, to my boots, her tears hot on the leather. “What are you?” I asked. “A Gorean slave girl at the feet of her master,” she said.

“I have not begun to punish you,’’ I told her. She looked at me with fear, and wonder. I tied her small garment, which I picked up from the floor, about her neck, and her hands behind her back. I strode through the halls, she, stumbling, running, following me. Outside, I untied her, and then retied her, belly up, head down, over the saddle of a kaiila, and took her to the nearby kasbah, which had once been that of Tarna. There I took her down to the fourth level, the lowest level, and, throwing the tiny garment into a cell, whence it would be retrieved later, I took her to the branding chamber, threw her into the device, and locked it on her thigh. Hassan was there and the iron was already hot. It was the same iron with which he had, the night before, marked the proud Tarna.

It had been cleaned, with a solvent. One iron, properly cared for, can mark thousands of women. “No, Master,” she said, “please!” “Do you wish to mark her?” asked Hassan. “Yes,” I said. I would place the mark on her left thigh, above that of the four bosk horns. It would be the common Gorean female slave mark, fitting for a low girl, such as she, one who had not been fully pleasing.

I held up the iron, white hot, for the girl’s inspection.

“You will soon be branded, Girl.” I told her.

“Don’t brand me!” she cried. “Please don’t brand me!” She wept.

Hassan regarded her with interest.

“We are now ready,” I told her.

She looked at me, then at the glowing, white-hot marking surface of the iron.

She watched it with horror, as it approached her.

I held it poised at her thigh.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t!”

“You are now to be branded, Slave Girl,” I told her. “No,” she screamed. Then I branded her. For five long Ihn I held the iron, pressing it in. I watched it sink in her thigh, smoking and crackling and hissing. It was a larger brand than that of the four bosk horns; I made sure it marked her more deeply. We three, Hassan, I and the girl, smelled the marked, burned slave flesh of her. Then, swiftly, cleanly, I withdrew it. Her head was back. She was screaming and weeping. “A perfect brand,” said Hassan, looking on. “Perfect!” I was pleased.

Such a brand would be envied by other girls. It would improve the sleek little animal’s value.

I removed the locking device, and spun loose the twist handles, releasing her thigh. I freed her of the snap bracelets. I carried her, naked, branded, weeping, to the small cell where I had thrown her tiny garment, to be retrieved later. I put her down on the straw. Her throat was bare, for I had had, the preceding night, the collar of Ibn Saran removed from her throat.

“Assume the posture of female submission,” I told her. She did so, kneeling back on her heels, her arms extended, wrists crossed, her head between them, down.

She was weeping.

“Repeat after me,” I told her, “‘I, once Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of the planet Earth-’ “ “I, once Miss Elizabeth Cardwell of the planet Earth-” she said.

“ ‘-herewith submit myself, completely and totally, in all things-’“ “-herewith submit myself, completely and totally, in all things-” she said.

“-to he who is now known here as Hakim of Tor-”‘

“-to he who is now known here as Hakim of Tor-” she said.

“ ‘-his girl, his slave, an article of his property, his to do with as he pleases-’ “ “-his girl, his slave, an article of his property, his to do with as he pleases,” she said.

Hassan handed me the collar. It was inscribed ‘I am the property of Hakim of Tor’. I showed it to the girl. She could not read Taharic script. I read it to her. I put it about her neck. I snapped it shut.

“ ‘I am yours, Master,’ “ I said to the girl.

She ‘looked up at me, tears in her eyes, her neck in my locked collar. “I am yours, Master,” she said.

“Congratulations on your slave!” said Hassan. `She is lovely meat. Now I must attend to my own slave.” He laughed, and left.

The girl sank to the straw, and looked up at me. Her eyes were soft with tears.

She whispered. “I am yours now, Tarl,” she said.

“You own me. You truly own me.”

“What is your name?” I asked.

“What ever master wishes,” she whispered.

“I will call you ‘Vella’,” I said.

“I am Vella,” she said, her head down. After a time she lifted her head. “May I call you Tarl?” she asked.

“Only if given permission,” I told her. This was normal Gorean slave custom.

Generally, of course, such permission is not even asked, and, if asked, would be denied. Sometimes a girl is whipped for even daring to ask this permission.

“A girl asks permission to call her Master by his name,” she said.

“It is denied,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. I would not permit the slave girl to speak my name. It is not fitting that the name of the master be soiled by being touched by the lips of a slave girl.

I looked at her in the straw. “You were displeasing,” I told her.

“A girl has been punished by her master,” she said.

I took the chain and collar in the cell, and locked it on her throat, over her close-fitting steel collar, that identifying her as mine. She was, thus, chained to the wall.

“I have not begun to punish you,” I told her, looking down at her.

“I hate you,” she said, sullenly. “I hate you!” She looked up at me. “You caused me much pain,” she said. “You whipped me. You branded me.” She turned her head to one side. “I am confused,” she said. “I do not know what to think.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“It hurt terribly to be whipped, and branded,” she said.

“Yes?” I said.

“And yet, because of these things, I stand wonderfully and vulnerably in awe of you, and of men in general,” she said.

“What thrills you,” I said, “is not the whip, not the iron, not pain, but masculine domination. It is that to which you, unknown to yourself, are responding. What is not important is whether the master whips you or not, but that you know he is fully capable of whipping you, and will, if you are not pleasing.”

“Yes,” she said, “that is it-not the pain-but my weakness, and the strength of men, and that I am under their will, and that, if I am not pleasing, I know that be is man enough and powerful enough to put me under harsh discipline, and, should I not be pleasing, will, without a thought, do so.”

“Your body is now hot, Slave Girl,” I said.

“No!” she said.

I touched her and she writhed in the straw, turning away from me, pulling her legs up. I touched her on the shoulder, and she shuddered. Every inch of her was alive. “Slave Girl” I sneered.

“Yes, Slave Girl!” she cried, turning on her back, throwing her” body brazenly open to me.