John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“Did you bring the suls from the market?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I did not.”

“How much money did you earn today?” she asked.

The amount of money earned varied from day to day, depending on the galleys in port and the need for men from the hiring yard.

“It is none of your business,” I told her.

Her shoulders stiffened under the robes of concealment and her eyes flashed angrily over the silk of the house veil. I could see her lips and mouth, vaguely, beneath the veil.

“You brought nothing from the market,” she said. “Accordingly there is very little for you here to eat.”

“Were you not to shop?” I asked. “I gave you money.”

“I did not feel like it,” she said.

“I will eat out,” I said.

“That is expensive,” she said. “There is some bread and dried meat left.”

“I will eat out,” I said.

“The girls are pretty at the paga taverns, aren’t they?” she asked, pointedly.

“They had better be,” I said, “or they would bring in little money for their masters.”

“I have heard such girls are ‘hot’,” she said.

“It is one of the features for which they are purchased,” I said.

“I see,” she said, in cold fury. “And what if they are not ‘in the mood’?” she asked.

“They know enough to be in the mood,” I assured her.

“And what if the customer is not pleased?” she asked.

“The girl, then, would be well whipped,” I said.

“Would you,” she asked, “if not pleased, have such a girl whipped?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And if I were such a girl,” she said, “and you were not pleased, would you have me whipped?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I see,” she said, in cold fury. She then rose to her feet. She drew her robes haughtily about her. “I am weary,” she said. “I shall now retire.”

“Do not throw the bolt on your door,” I said. She had been doing this, and it irritated me.

“It is my bedroom,” she said.

“Of these lodgings,” I said, “I am the rental master. It is your bedroom only upon my sufferance.”

“Of course,” she said, coldly. “I am your kept woman.”

“You may leave when you wish,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “I need only walk out upon the Gorean streets and see what will happen to me.”

“You could sell yourself to an impotent master,” I said.

Her eyes flashed angrily over the white silk of the house veil.

“I invite you to leave,” I said.

“I do not want to leave,” she said.

“You prefer to be kept,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, coldly, “I prefer to be kept.”

She then turned about and left the kitchen, where we had been talking. She went through the living room and, going through the hall, passing the kennels, began to ascend the stairs.

“Do not bolt the door,” I called after her.

“Why not?” she asked, angrily.

“There will be no iron between a keeper and his kept woman,” I said, “unless it be by his will, such as a collar for her, or shackles or the bars of a cell.”

“I will do as I please,” she said.

“A keeper must always have access to his kept woman,” I said.

“I will do, as I please!” she said.

I listened to her door shut. I listened, carefully. Then I heard the iron bolt slid shut.

I sat, cross-legged, behind the small table in the kitchen. Then I rose up and went to the storage box and took out some bread and dried meat. I chewed on it for a time. Then, finishing it, I wiped my mouth. I then walked through the house to the stairs, and climbed them.

She screamed, suddenly, clutching clothing about her.

I stood in the threshold, the door awry, hanging off its hinges. The bolt with its brackets was splintered from the heavy wood.

She backed away, holding the clothing about her. “Don’t hurt me,” she said. “I would have opened the door!”

I strode to her, and stood before her.

“I would have opened the door,” she said.

“A slave might be slain for such a lie,” I said.

She did not meet my eyes. “You should knock,” she said, “before entering a lady’s bedroom.”

I tore away the clothing she held before her, casting it aside. She wore then only a light Gorean slip, white, which came high on her thighs.

“I am not fully dressed!” she said.

I took her and threw her on her belly on the couch. “What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

“Strip you,” I told her.

From the back I ripped apart the white slip until she lay upon it.

“Get out of my bedroom!” she sobbed.

“Be pleased that I do not this night make you earn your keep,” I said.

“Get out of my bedroom!” she cried.

“For the night,” I told her, “this is not your bedroom.” I seized her by the hair and pulled her, naked beside me, down the stairs. Before the first slave kennel, that farthest to the left, as you face them, I stopped. With my left hand I flung up the sturdy, barred gate. I put the startled Miss Henderson on her hands and knees before the small opening. Then, my left hand in her hair, and my right hand on her left thigh, I thrust her bodily into the kennel. “This is your bedroom for the night,” I told her. I then threw down the iron gate.

She turned about, clutching the bars. I turned the key, in the lock, fastening her within. “There will be no iron between a keeper and his kept woman,” I said, “unless it be by his will, such as a collar, or shackles for her, or the bars of a cell.” I then walked over to the wall. I held the key up, where she could see it. “A keeper must always have access to his kept woman,” I said. I then hung the key on a peg, where she might, from time to time, look upon it, as it might please her.

“Jason,” she said.

“I am going out,” I told her.

“Let me out,” she begged. “I am uncomfortable. The kennel is of cement, the bars of steel.”

“Have a pleasant night,” I said.

“I am uncomfortable,” she said. “I am cold!”

“I wager,” I said, “you will be far more uncomfortable and cold in the morning.”

“Jason!” she cried. “Jason!”

But I had gone out.

“You beast!” I heard her cry. “I hate you! I hate you!”

I locked the door from the outside, and left.

I returned to the house near the fifth Ahn. I had slept some at the tavern of Cleanthes. I frequented various taverns in Victoria. There were several in the city. There were attractions, so to speak, in each. My favorite, on the whole, I believe, remained the tavern of Tasdron. It was in that tavern that the former Peggy Baxter, now a branded, encollared Gorean slave girl, served her master’s customers.

I had lit a small tharlarion-oil lamp in the hall. I had fetched down from the bedroom near the top of the stairs a robe. I looked down on the girl who knelt in the small kennel, holding the bars. Her flesh looked lovely behind the bars. “Take your hands from the bars,” I said. She knelt back in the kennel, and I unlocked the gate and thrust it up. I put the key to the side. She crawled out, on her hands and knees, and I threw her the robe. She stood up, belting it about her. “It is my short robe,” she said, “not my long robe.”

“Yes,” I said. It came high on her thighs.

“It is suitable, doubtless,” she said, “for a kept woman.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I am cold, and hungry,” she said.

“There is some food in the kitchen,” I said. “I left some of the bread and dried meat. There is some money there, too, You could go to the market. Did you sleep?”

“No,” she said.

“I must go to the hiring yard,” I said.