John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“Six!”

“Seven!”

“Nine!”

“Eleven!”

“This is an exquisite little slut!” called the auctioneer. He then released her hair. “Stand straight,” he ordered the girl. She did so. He walked about the platform, with the whip.

“Twelve!”

“Thirteen!”

“She was beautiful enough to be a display slave,” said the auctioneer.

“Fourteen!” was called out.

“Now you can have her for your own work and use slave!” pointed out the auctioneer.

“Fifteen!” I heard.

“Consider her, surrendered, squirming in your furs!” he said.

“Sixteen!” I heard.

“Do I hear only sixteen tarsks for this exquisite little bargain?” inquired the auctioneer, incredulously.

“Sixteen,” repeated the man.

The auctioneer spun to face the girl. “Kneel, and kiss the whip,” he ordered her.

Swiftly the girl, frightened, knelt before him. She took the coils of the whip in her small hands and, lowering her head, kissed them.

“On your feet,” barked the auctioneer. “I will have a fit price for you.”

The girl, terrified, sprang to her feet.

“Put her through her paces!” called a man. “Let us see what she can do!” called another.

The auctioneer shook out the coils of the whip. He then, rapidly, loudly, clearly, in a series of orders, sometimes cracking the whip, commanded the girl, one by one, swiftly, to assume an intricately patterned series of postures and attitudes. Seldom, I think, in so brief a compass, could a woman be displayed so fully as a female. He then cracked his whip and, ordered her to stand straight upon the platform sucking in her gut. She was breathing heavily; there were tears in her eyes; she was trembling; she was covered with sweat and sawdust. He had permitted her no respite or quarter. The buyers now well understood the nature of the goods on which they were bidding.

“Twenty-two tarsks!” called a man.

“Twenty-three!” called another.

So stunned I was that I had not even entered the bidding. I had never dreamed she could be so beautiful. What fools are the men of Earth, I thought, for the woman on the block was an Earth woman, to let their women off so lightly. What fools they are not to own their women and force them to manifest the true fullness and desirability of their beauty. The woman on the block was an Earth woman. Did she not show, in her own person, how beautiful women of Earth could be. And yet I knew that on Earth such women commonly languished, their beauty denied its meaning and fulfillment, their beauty not summoned forth, not commanded forth, for the pleasure, the sport and service of strong men.

“Twenty-five tarsks!”

“Twenty-six!”

“Twenty-seven!”

“Twenty-eight!”

“Thirty!”

“Buy her,” a voice seemed to say to me. “Buy the slave! Make her yours!”

“No, no!” I said, half aloud. “I cannot!”

“What did you say?” asked the man next to me. “Nothing, nothing!” I said.

“Thirty-five!” I heard.

“Forty!” I heard.

“Forty two!”

I could not even enter the bidding. I could scarcely breathe. My heart was pounding. I had never dreamed she could be so beautiful. It seemed I could not even speak. I could not take my eyes off the girl under the torches, the collar and sales disk at her throat. I was trembling.

“Forty-four!” I heard.

“Forty-six!”

I trembled. I had seen Miss Beverly Henderson kiss the whip. I had seen her put through slave paces.

“Forty-seven!” I heard.

“Forty-eight!”

“Fifty!”

Suddenly the girl cried out, startled. Her reflex had been spasmodic, uncontrollable. Then she put her head in her hands, weeping. Her entire body, under the torches, turned a creamy crimson in color.

“Ninety tarsks!” called a man.

The auctioneer stepped back from the girl, the whip in his hand.

“I have ninety tarsks,” he called.

“She is not so cold,” said the man next to me.

“No,” I said, “no.”

“Ninety-two tarsks!” called a man.

“Ninety-four!” called another.

“I have ninety-four tarsks,” called the auctioneer. “Do I have more? Do I have more?”

There was silence.

“I prepare to close my hand,” called the auctioneer.

“Ninety-eight!” I cried out, suddenly. I was startled to hear my own voice.

The girl lifted her head, dully.

“Ninety-eight, I have ninety-eight,” called the auctioneer. “Do I hear more? Do I hear more?”

There was silence.

“I prepare to close my hand,” said the auctioneer. “I close my hand!”

I owned Miss Henderson.

Miss Henderson was thrust from the block. I made my way toward the foot of the block. My head seemed to swim. I was scarcely conscious of my movements. I moved as though in a dream.

“Jason?” she asked, from within the bars of the holding cage at the right of the sales block. Already her left ankle had been shackled. “Jason?”

I handed the receipt to the cage attendant. At the table I had paid ninety-eight tarsks.

I saw the sales disk removed from her collar and put in a small, wooden box. I saw the shackle removed from her ankle. I saw the door to the cage open and saw her pushed forth, before me.

“Do you not know enough to kneel before your master?” asked the attendant.

Swiftly she knelt.

I lifted her to her feet and held her in my arms. “Is it you, Jason?” she whispered. “Is it truly you?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is I.”

She began to weep, and I held her close to me. She shuddered in my arms. She sobbed. I felt her tears through my tunic. “Jason,” she sobbed, “Jason, Jason.”

I held her to me, and caressed her head. “I am so happy,” she said. “I am so happy!”

“Yes,” I said, “Yes.” I continued to caress her head, and hold her to me.

“You purchased me. You own me, Jason,” she said. “I am your slave.” I scarcely understood what she was saying. “I know that you will be strong with me, but I will try to serve you well,” she said.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I will try to be pleasing to you,” she said. “I do not want to be whipped.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

She drew back a bit in my arms and lifted her head. There were tears in her eyes. Her lips trembled. She seemed incredibly happy. “I remember the girl at the shop of Philebus, in Ar,” she said, “she who, wrists bound, was neck-leashed to the ring. Doubtless I now, too, as the mood seizes you, now that you own me, will be subjected to such ruthless and peremptory considerations. Doubtless you will respect my will no more than hers and rape me, too, when it pleases you.”

I looked at her, puzzled.

She again put her head against me, pressing her cheek against my shoulder. “All the things that you may have wanted to do with me,” she said, “you may now do. Everything that you may have wanted from a woman I must now give. You may do with me as you please. I must obey you in all things.” She lifted her head again. There were tears in her eyes. “Show me no mercy,” she said. “See that I serve you well.”

“Key!” I cried. “Key!”

“What will you name me?” she asked.

“Key!” I cried.

“Key?” she asked. “Master?”

The key to the sales collar was placed into my hand by one of the cage attendants. I saw the snug fit of the steel on her throat. It was incredibly exciting. She could not remove it. Then, sweating, getting a grip on myself, hurriedly, fumbling, I thrust the tiny key into the lock.

“Master?” she asked, frightened.