John Norman - Rogue of Gor

I then sat on the edge of the couch, at its bottom, the palms of my hands resting on its furs, and looked upon her.

I wanted to howl with pleasure.

Beverly Henderson, naked and bound, knelt before me, in the position of the pleasure slave.

“Master?” she asked.

I noted that she had assumed the position spontaneously. That interested me.

“Master?” she inquired.

I knew that come what may I must have her, and have her well. If she were not sent forth in the morning, perhaps bruised and sobbing, as a well-ravished slave, the men of the holding of Policrates, and its master himself, would grow thoughtful. My failure to subject her uncompromisingly to the predations of my mastery would be certain to generate suspicion. The true courier of Ragnar Voskjard, I knew, would be expected to handle women well.

She pulled at the loops of braided yellow cord which held her well.

“Master has not deigned to speak to me,” she said. “Am I to be whipped? Am I not pleasing?”

I did not, of course, as was my intent, respond to her.

“Is Master not going to rape me?” she asked. “Did Master not select me out from the other girls for his pleasure?”

She squirmed, miserably, before me.

“Perhaps I am not pretty enough now for Master,” she said, “now that he has seen me closely. I know that I am not as beautiful as many of the girls. I know that they say that I am not a good slave, and that I am not well broken as yet to my collar, but I will try to please you well.”

It interested me to hear her speak. She spoke as might have a slave. Did she not know she was from Earth?

“I cannot dance,” she said. “And I do not know the love songs of slaves.”

I said nothing.

“They have not taught me to dance,” she whimpered, “nor have I been permitted to learn the desire songs of heated slaves.”

I said nothing.

“What does Master want of me?” she asked, piteously.

I did not respond to her.

“I acknowledge you as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard,” she said. “I acknowledge you as a great and important man. And I acknowledge myself as only a miserable slave. It is a great honor for me that you have selected me out, from the others, to be sent to your chambers this night, to serve you.” She looked toward me, piteously, though she could see nothing in the dark confines of the blindfold. “I will try to be worthy of your choice,” she said. “I will try to please you.”

Again I did not respond to her.

“I am frightened!” she said. “Obviously I must not be pleasing to you. Then whip me, and call for another girl.”

I did not move.

“But you are not at this, moment whipping me,” she said, “nor calling for another girl. Now I am truly frightened, for I know that, somehow, now, you must find me pleasing, or of interest. But I am terrified that a man such as you might find me pleasing, or of interest. What will he do to me? Oh, please, Master, speak to me! Let me tell, if only by the tone of your voice, what are your intentions with respect to me! Oh, I am so helpless! I am so helpless!”

I regarded her, and the steel collar on her throat, placed there by my own hand.

“I am so helpless,” she wept.

Then she tossed her head, and smiled. “You have me at something of a disadvantage, Master,” she laughed, “for whereas you may see. I am blindfolded, and whereas you are free, I am kneeling collared, nude and bound.” Her lower lip suddenly trembled. “Please, speak to me, Master,” she begged.

She was very beautiful.

She squirmed in the loops of yellow cord holding her wrists behind her back.

“I understand,” she said, “why I must be blindfolded, that you have doubtless here, in the privacy of your own chambers, removed your mask. I am not to be permitted to see the face of the courier or Ragnar Voskjard, no more than others, even though I am only a lowly slave. Who knows through what sales or changings of hands a girl who is mere property such as I might pass? You cannot risk that I might, someday, somewhere, if only by inadvertence, perhaps by a startled cry or gesture, or a too-eager licking at your feet, compromise your secret.”

I was interested that she had spoken, and naturally, of the licking of feet. That sort of thing is common in a slave girl. Did she not know she was from Earth?

“But you cannot even speak to me, Master?” she begged. “Ah!” she said. “That you do not speak to me must also be intended to conceal your identity! You would not wish me to be able to recognize even your voice!” She trembled. “Or is it, rather,” she asked, “that I am so low a slave that you do not concern yourself even to speak to me?”

I smiled. Whereas the frightened, deferential slave had not recognized me sitting regally with Policrates and Kliomenes in the feasting hall, in the robes and mask of the courier of Ragnar Voskjard, I did not doubt but what she might quickly recognize my voice.

“I have it, Master,” she said, happily. “If you do not speak to help protect your identity, touch me once upon the left shoulder. If you do not speak because you regard me as only a contemptible slave, unworthy to be spoken to, touch me once upon the left arm.”

She lifted her body, tensing to see where she might be touched.

“Please, Master!” she begged.

But I did not move.

She then knelt back; on her heels. “I see, Master,” she said, miserably. “Not even that is to be made known to me.” She shuddered. “Do you not know how terrifying it is to be in a room, blindfolded, with one who does not speak to you? Ah, perhaps you do!” She smiled. “You well know how to treat a slave, Master,” she said.

I was interested to note that she spoke of herself, naturally, as a slave.

“But yet,” she said, “you are permitting me to speak. You have not struck me to silence, nor put a block of wood in my mouth, or gagged me. I may gather, then, that at least until I feel your blow, or the lash of your whip, that you wish to hear me speak. But why would this be? What could I, a mere slave, have to say that might interest you?”

She pulled at the cord loops. She seemed genuinely puzzled.

“How am I different from the other girls?” she asked herself, aloud, thinking.

“Of course!” she said, suddenly, delightedly. “Now I have it! I am the only Earth girl in the holding! They old you I was from Earth, didn’t they! You are not familiar, with Earth girls. That intrigued you! They must have told you. You did not take me in your hands and force open my mouth to look for bits of metal in my teeth. I do not think my accent betrayed me, for there are many barbarian accents on Gor, and I speak Gorean excellently.”

I smiled, the vain little thing, but it was true that she did speak a liquid, fluent Gorean. Her linguistic skills in this respect, and I have unusual aptitude in such matters, approached my own.

“That my masters call me ‘Beverly’,” she said, “would not in itself tell you that I was from Earth. Not unoften Gorean girls, particularly if they are to be consigned to a low slavery, are given such names. Perhaps, then, you might have seen the tiny scarring high on my left arm. It is called a ‘vaccination mark.’ “

I smiled. Such marks, and fillings in the teeth, are used by slavers as almost infallible signs of Earth origin. And woe to the girl who has them, for she is almost certainly then to be marked out for heavier chains and more ruthless treatment.

“But, on the whole,” she said, “I think it most likely that you were merely told that I was from Earth. This, then, you found of interest. You decided, then, that it was to be I who would come to your chambers this evening. Did you wish merely to see if we, being lower, were juicier puddings than our Gorean sisters, or, beyond this, as a matter of curiosity, did you wish to learn something of our nature?”