John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“And the other,” I asked, “he who was standing by the table, speaking to the man who saved me?”

“His captain,” said Tasdron, “Policrates himself.”

I swallowed, hard.

“You are fortunate to be alive,” said Tasdron. “I think perhaps you should leave Victoria.”

“At what time do the sales begin in the sales barn of Lysander?” I asked.

“They have already begun,” said Tasdron.

Hurriedly I ran to the table where I had left my things. I drew on my clothes and hastily slung my sword over my left shoulder. I picked up my winnings from the fighting. I saw the blond girl, she who had the pearls wrapped about her collar, looking at me. It seemed to me that I had seen her somewhere. I placed my winnings in my pouch, and tied it at my belt. I could not recall if, or where, or when, I might have seen her. She was a not unattractive slave. Then I hurried out the door. I made my way rapidly toward the sales barn of Lysander.

“This red-haired beauty,” called the auctioneer, “is catch of Captain Thrasymedes. She can play the lute.”

There was raucous laughter. “How good is she in the furs?” called a voice.

The girl went for four copper tarsks.

“Have the girls of Kliomenes been sold?” I asked a fellow.

“Yes,” said a fellow. I cried out with anguish. “Most,” said another.

“Most?” I pressed him.

“Yes,” he said, “I think there are others, taken near Lara.”

“What am I offered for this blonde?” called the auctioneer.

“Weren’t they sold before?” asked the first fellow.

“Not all, I think,” said the second man.

I left their sides and pushed through the crowd, making my way nearer the high, round, sawdust-strewn block.

“Watch where you are going, Fellow,” snarled a man.

I stopped by the ready cage. Inside, sitting on a wooden bench, behind stout, closely-set bars, miserable, clutching sheets about themselves, some with glazed eyes, sat some ten girls. I clutched the bars, from the outside, looking within. She whom I sought was not there. One girl rose from the bench, her left ankle pulling against the chain and shackle that held her with the others, and dropped the sheet to her waist. “Buy me,” she begged, putting her hand toward me. I stepped back. “This is not an exhibition cage,” said an attendant, putting his hand on my arm. “You may not loiter here.”

“Buy me,” begged the girl, reaching toward me. I gathered that she, unlike several of the others, apparently, had had masters. “Are these all the items that remain for sale?” I asked the attendant. “No,” he said. “Are there girls of Kliomenes who remain to be sold?” I asked, desperately. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not have the manifests.”

Miserably I turned about and went back to stand with the others, in the vicinity of the block.

The blonde went for six tarsks.

“And here,” said the auctioneer, “we have another blonde. This one, like many of the girls now in the ready cage, was free.”

There was laughter. “Make her kiss the whip!” called a man.

“Down, Wench, and kiss the whip!” ordered the auctioneer. The girl knelt and kissed the whip. There was more laughter. He then began to put her through slave paces.

There were some two hundred men at the sale. Such sales occur frequently in the various sales barns of Victoria, sometimes running for several nights in a row. The spring and summer are the busiest seasons, for these are the seasons of heaviest river, traffic and, accordingly, the seasons when pirates, after their raids, are most likely to bring in their loot. Many of the men at the sales barn were professional slavers, from other towns and cities, looking for bargains.

“Sold to Targo, of Ar!” announced the auctioneer. Manacles were then clapped on the blonde and she was dragged from the block.

I was angry, for I did not even know if Miss Henderson was to be sold, or if she had already been sold. If she had been sold she might even now, while I stood about, helplessly, be being transported from Victoria, a slave, anywhere. My fists were clenched. My palms were sweating.

The next two girls, brunettes, were sold to Lucilius, of Tyros. The next four slaves were purchased by a fellow named Publius, who was an agent for a Mintar, of Ar.

I waited, as the bidding grew more heated, and as more men entered the building. Five times the ready cage was emptied and filled, and emptied, as girls, freed of their shackles, were ordered to the block’s surface for their vending.

“Do none of these women interest you?” asked a man nearby.

“Many are lovely,” I said. Indeed, had I not been waiting desperately, miserably, for she whom I sought I might have been tempted to bid hotly on several of them. To own any one of them would have been a joy and a triumph. The man who has owned a woman or women, knows of what I speak. Perhaps even those who have never owned a woman can sense, dimly, what it might be like.

I know of no pleasure comparable to the pleasure of owning a woman fully. It is indescribably delicious; it is glorious; it fills one with joy and power; it exalts and fulfills the blood. It teaches a male, in the thunderous currency of intellect and emotion, what is the true meaning of manhood. Compared to it the gratifications of pretense and denial, the insistence on subverting one’s blood and virility in the name of a false manhood conditioned by a demented, antibiological society, are pallid indeed. Let those who can climb mountains climb them; let those who cannot climb them console themselves denying their existence.

“The brunette four sales ago,” said the man next to me, “was she not superb?”

“Yes,” I said. She had indeed been stunning. In this market, to her indignation, she had gone for only fourteen copper tarsks. She had been sold to an agent of Clark, of Thentis. The next brunette, in my opinion, had been even more stunning. She had gone for a mere fifteen copper tarsks. She had been sold to a Cleanthes of Teletus.

“Sold to Vart, of Port Kar!” called the auctioneer, and a redhead was taken from the platform.

“And here,” called the auctioneer, “we have one of the catches of Kliomenes, taken near Lara.”

He tore the sheet away from the girl on the block, throwing it to the side.

She wore only her sales collar with her sales disk, on which was written her lot number, wired to the steel.

“A cold, prissy little Earth slut,” called the auctioneer, “and yet one not without interest, as you can see.” He bent her back, his hand in her hair, exposing the bow of her beauty to the men.

There was a sound of pleasure from the crowd.

“She is already branded,” said the auctioneer, “but has served primarily as a display slave, and not a use slave.” He then turned her, still keeping his hand in her hair, so that those on his left might better see her. “Accordingly,” he said, “she is not yet fully broken to the collar.” There was laughter from the crowd. He then turned her so that those on his right might better see her. “In my opinion,” said he, “it is now time for this girl to learn the various uses to which a slave can be put.”

“Yes!” shouted more than one fellow. He then, as she gasped, bent her back a bit more, turning her again toward her left, so that she was presented exquisitely to the men. “Does she not appear ready for taming and heating?” inquired the auctioneer.

“Yes,” shouted several men, “yes!” The girl trembled. She knew she might belong to any one of them.

“What am I bid?” called the auctioneer.

“Two copper tarsks,” called a man.

“Four!” cried another.