John Norman - Fighting Slave of Gor

I finished the meat, her small fingers delicately placing it in my mouth.

"You have risked much, bringing me this meat," I said, "for one who is only a slave."

"It is nothing," she said. "You are a man of my world."

"You are a fine and brave girl," I said.

"I am only a miserable slave," she said.

"I must see you," I said. "Is these no way some light can be brought into this place?"

"There is a small lamp," she said. "But I would fear to light it."

"Why?" I asked.

"You are a man of Earth," she said. "I would be so ashamed to have you see me, a girl of Earth, as I am now."

"Why?" I asked.

"I am clad only in the rag and collar of a slave," she said.

"Light the lamp," I said, kindly. "Please, Darlene."

"If I do so," she said, "please try to look upon me with the gentility of a man of Earth."

"Of course," I said. "Please, Darlene."

"I will light the lamp," she said. She rose to her feet and went to the side of the room.

I heard the striking together of stones, probably iron pyrites, and saw sparks. Inwardly I gasped as I, in a flash of sparks, followed by darkness, caught a brief glimpse of the luscious, kneeling girl at the side of the room. She wore the scandalously brief shreds of a tattered slave rag, sewn of brown rep-cloth, torn open at her thighs, I assume deliberately, held but by a single, narrow strap over her left shoulder. Her breasts hung lovely, sweet and full, scarcely concealed, within the thin brown cloth. In the spark of light I had seen the glint of the collar, of close-fitting steel, about her throat. She was barefoot.

The stones struck together again, and again I saw her, kneeling oven a bit of moss, tinder, which she was intent upon igniting. She had dark hair, short but full, which fell about her face. Again I glimpsed the lusciousness of her curves, her collar, her bare feet. Had I been a slaver I thought surely I would have marked her down for inclusion on a cargo manifest.

Then she had the bit of moss lit and, into it, she placed a straw. This straw, burning then at one end, served to light the wick of a small, clay oil lamp. She then shook the straw, extinguishing it and, with her fingers, moved the bit of moss about, spreading it, and the tiny flame there dissipated into scattered glowing points which then, rapidly, disappeared. She took the lamp then in her hands and approached me, then crouched down and set it to one side, then knelt back, on her heels. I looked at her then in the tiny light of the lamp, kneeling back on her heels, small, luscious, her beauty so full and sweetly curved, so poorly concealed in the tattered rag, the knees of her bared legs placed closely together.

She looked at me, in piteous protest.

How could any male, any with even a single drop of blood in his veins, any who still drew breath, look upon such a woman with gentility?

She shook her head. "Please," she said.

I wanted to thrust apart her knees and, taking her by the hair and an ankle, throw her to her back, on the stones. I wanted to have her, ruthlessly, with cries of joy. I clenched my fists. I was chained. How I envied then the rude beasts of Gor, who have such women for their pleasure.

"Forgive me," I begged her.

"You looked upon me," she said, shrinking back, shuddering, "as might have a man of Gor, one whom a woman knows is her master, one whom she knows she must obey."

"No, no," I protested. "That is not true. No."

"It is perhaps fortunate for me," she smiled, relaxing, "that you are closely chained."

"Perhaps," I smiled.

She laughed. She looked at me. She touched the rag she wore. "I suppose it is difficult," she said, "to respect a girl who wears the slave rag, the Ta-Teera."

"No," I said. "Of course not."

"Even one," she smiled, indicating her collar, "who wear the collar of a slave?"

"Of course not," I said.

To be sure, it was not easy to respect a woman who wore only the scandalous and sensuous Ta-Teera, and whose throat was locked in the lovely, exciting collar of a slave. How could one see such a woman, truly, except as a slave? And how could one treat such a woman, truly, except as a slave? And the slaves of Goreans were true slaves. How natural then that they should treat them as what they were, their owned slaves.

"Of course not," I said. "I respect you deeply and fully."

To be sure, the sight of such a woman, so clad and collared, tended to provoke not emotions of respect but deeper and more primitive emotions, emotions such as love, desire and lust, and dominance and uncompromising ownership. Such a woman was, under the enhancements of a civilization, the primitive woman, who must hope to please the brute who owns her.

"I accord you full and total respect." I said.

"A moment ago," she chided me, smiling. "you looked upon me as though I might have been a slave girl."

"Forgive me," I smiled.

"You do respect me, don't you, Jason?" she asked.

"I do," I said. "totally."

"Then I forgive you," she smiled.

"Thank you." I said. I was grateful and relieved that she had forgiven me for my lapse, for my having looked upon her, for an instant, as a man upon a woman. I had looked upon her for that shameful instant not as a person, but as a luscious, desirable female, one fitted by nature to kneel at the feet of a strong man.

She smiled at me. "I care deeply for you, Jason," she said. "You are the first man I have met, in years, who has been kind to me, who has regarded me with gentleness and respect."

I smiled, and shrugged.

"Too," she said, "you are the first man of my world I have seen in years. What lovely memories of their sweetness, their pleasantries and courtesies, you recall in me."

"Your life as a slave must have been hard," I said.

She smiled. "We serve, and obey," she said.

"Doubtless some of your masters must have been harsh," I said.

"Please do not ask a girl to speak of her bondage," she said. She put her head down.

"I'm sorry," I said, softly.

"You cannot even begin to suspect," she said, "what it is to be a slave girl on a world with such men as those of Gor."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"They are overwhelming," she said. "On occasion I have even been forced to yield to them."

I looked at her.

"As a slave," she said, bitterly.

"I'm very sorry," I said. I almost wanted to scream with pleasure at the thought of the lovely Darlene being forced to yield as a slave. How I envied the brute who would have held her in his arms!

"Jason," she said, softly.

"Yes," I said.

"No," she said. "It is nothing."

"What is wrong?" I asked. "You seem troubled, fearful."

"You know what room this is, do you not?" she asked.

"It is a room of slave preparation, you have told me," I said.

"Yes," she said. "Do you know what your presence in this room indicates?"

"That I am to be soon sold," I said, bitterly.

"I fear so," she said.

"How soon am I to be sold?" I asked.

"I do not know," she said. "I am not privy to the secrets of masters."

"But doubtless it will be soon," I said.

"I fear so," she said.

She was silent.

"Jason," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Do you wish to be sold?" she asked.

"No," I said. "Of course not."

"I can help you to escape." she whispered.

I shook in the chains. "How?" I said. "No," I said. "It is too dangerous."

"I have stolen the key to your chains," she said, "and to your collar. I have stolen clothing for you. I can show you a secret exit from this place."

"It is madness," I said. "What escape can there be for a slave on Gor?"

"Do you wish to try, Jason?" she asked.

Suddenly we were silent and regarded one another, alarmed. We heard two men talking, approaching.

Then two guards, gigantic fellows, brawny, stripped to the waist, their heads shaven save for a knot of hair behind the crown, stood behind the barred gate to the cell. The gate was ajar, doubtless that the girl could come and go, attending me.