John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“An excellent idea,” said Tasdron. “Now she will attract only the attention natural to a coin girl in the streets.”

“Some may recognize her, of course,” I said.

“I do not think many will,” said Tasdron, “and if some do, they will simply assume that she has been put into the streets for discipline.”

“That, too, was my conjecture,” I said. Though the Gorean coin girl is commonly one of several girls, one of a stable thereof, so to speak, sent daily into the streets to earn money as the chattels they are for their master, under the penalty of whippings or tortures, or death, if their day’s work does not prove sufficiently lucrative, it is not unknown for this sensual charge to be also placed upon a private girl, usually as a punishment for having failed in some way, often trivial or negligible, to be fully pleasing. After having been sent into the humiliations and dangers of the streets it is a rare girl who does not hurry back, eager and chastened, to the intimate joys of a private slavery.

“Do you know what you are to do?” I asked the girl.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “You have explained the matter fully to me.”

“Do not fail, Slave Girl,” I said to her, menacingly.

“I shall do my best, Master,” she whispered.

“It may work,” said Tasdron, regarding the slave. He looked to Callimachus. “What do you think?”

“It may quite possibly work,” said Callimachus. “We shall hope so.”

“She is pretty, isn’t she?” said Tasdron. “What do you think of her?”

Peggy straightened her body, scarcely daring to breathe. She was beautiful.

“She is not totally displeasing,” said Callimachus.

Tasdron then took the girl by an arm and thrust her toward a rear door, before which he stopped, the girl then standing beside him, to unlock it.

The girl turned to face us. “But am I not to be given even a Ta-Teera to wear?” she asked.

“You will be more alluring, more fetching, without it,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said, half choking.

Tasdron then had the door open, and he took her again by the arm.

“But in the streets,” she said, “seen as I am, what if others should wish to use me?”

“You are in the guise of a coin girl,” I told her.

“But what should I do?” she asked.

“See that you serve them well,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, and then Tasdron, by her arm, half dragging her, pulled her through the door and down the corridor toward the alley door. The sound of the bell on her neck was exciting. Then, the door unbolted and opened, she was thrust into the darkness of the alley. She looked at us, once, and then turned about and sped away, the bell on her neck, on our business. Tasdron closed the door and resecured it.

“Do you think she will be successful?” asked Callimachus of Tasdron, when he had returned to the room.

“She is a slave,” said Tasdron. “It will be in her best interest to be so.”

“Let us eat,” I said.

“I am hungry.”

“I, too,” said Callimachus.

“I, too,” said Tasdron.

“Florence!” I said.

“Master!” she said, pleased.

“Is it you!” I laughed.

“Yes,” she said.

“How wonderful to see you,” I said.

“Doubtless it is wonderful for a man to see me, as I am now,” she laughed.

It was the eighteenth Ahn, two Ahn before the twentieth Ahn, the Gorean midnight, when we would hold our secret meeting in the back room of Tasdron’s tavern. I had finished my supper in the room and had, leaving Callimachus and Tasdron in conversation, emerged through the now-opened door into the main room of the tavern. I intended to walk until the twentieth Ahn.

“I see that you are well secured,” I said.

“My master has seen to it,” she said, proudly.

In Tasdron’s paga tavern, as in many, along one wall, there is a set of slave rings, to which one may chain or tie one’s slaves while drinking or dining in the tavern. This is a convenience for the customers.

“How beautiful you are,” I said. I crouched down beside her.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“I see that slavery agrees with you,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, softly.

I turned her face toward me, gently, with my hand.

“What an incredible transformation has come over you,” I said.

“It is only that you are not used to seeing me in the tunic and collar of a slave,” she said.

“No,” I said, “it is far beyond such things.” I lowered my hand.

“Yes, Master,” she smiled.

I examined her, with attention, as a man does an enslaved woman, as she put her head down, shyly. She wore a brief slave tunic, of gray rep-cloth. It was demure, as such garments go, but it left little doubt as to her charms. I saw that her master was proud of his slave’s beauty.

She knelt with her back to the wall and slave ring, her knees wide. Her hands were braceleted above and behind her head, the linking chain on the bracelets passing behind the slave ring. She also wore an ankle ring with a chain which looped up to the same slave ring, and was locked about it. The soft, rounded flesh of her forearms, below the steel, and the sweet, swelling flesh of her palms, above the steel, were lovely. I examined the lineaments of her body, the beauty of her breasts held high, as she was braceleted, the latitudes of her belly, the flare of her hips, the sweetness of her knees and thighs, the lovely curve of her calves, her ankles, the left clasped in steel, and her small feet. She was barefoot, of course, as slaves are commonly kept.

“You are astonishingly beautiful, Florence,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“You are doubly chained,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

This type of chaining, a double chaining, is usually done only by a man who is in a strange city, and does not know, fully, what to expect. If one is familiar with the city a single chaining is usually regarded as sufficient. Indeed, sometimes the girl is merely told to grasp the ring and to remain there until the master returns. She may not release the ring until given permission by a free person. Some girls have been raped at such rings, as helplessly as though they might have been chained to them, so great is the fear of their master, and so strict is the Gorean discipline to which they know them selves subject.

“Are you always, in a tavern, chained in this fashion?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It would be hard to steal you,” I smiled.

“Yes, Master,” she smiled.

“Your master must find you very precious,” I said.

“I am only a slave,” she said, putting her head down, smiling.

“You have become very beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Who is your master?” I asked.

“Miles of Vonda,” she said.

“I thought he might be,” I said.

“He purchased me at a secret auction,” she said, “held in the camp of Tenalion, the Slaver.”

“What did he bid?” I asked.

“A hundred pieces of gold,” she said, smiling, not lifting her head.

“Vain little she-sleen,” I laughed.

“It is true,” she smiled.

“Marvelous,” I said. “I myself received only ten silver tarsks for you when I sold you to Tenalion.”

“The gold was doubtless much more than I was worth,” she said.

“Not to Miles of Vonda,” I smiled.

“No,” she said, smiling.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

She lifted her head, happily. “Oh, yes,” she said, “yes, yes! I am so happy! I am so happy, Master!”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“He stripped me, and put me under his whip, and taught me instantly that I was his slave, his total slave.”