John Norman - Guardsman of Gor

“I am now at such a ring, before you,” she said.

“And well tethered there,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“That girl,” I said, “was not, truly, raped at the ring. She was only paying for a drink of water.” I looked down at her. “It is you, rather,” I said, “who will be raped at the ring.”

“Yes, my Master!” she said.

I crouched down before her. I heard the bell from nearby, that of the vendor of bosk milk. “The vendor of bosk milk approaches,” I said to her.

“Take me, take me!” she begged.

“Are you shameless?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I am a slave. Take me!”

I looked at her. She regarded me wildly. Then I placed the tiny coin, a tarsk bit, into the coin box on her neck chain. Then, straining against the leash and collar, she tried to press herself forward, against me. I took her by the ankles, her right ankle in my left hand, and her left ankle in my right hand, and pulled her to a sitting position. I then drew her toward me, and then thrust her bound hands up and over her head. I then threw apart her ankles.

“Yes, Master!” she cried.

I heard the bell, and the creak of the narrow, wooden wheels of the cart of the vendor of bosk milk, nearby. Then, rather behind us, and to my right, it stopped.

“Yes, Master, yes, Master,” the girl was sobbing.

When I had finished with her I stood up. She lay there at my feet, on the stones, on her side, breathing deeply. She turned to look at the vendor of bosk milk, and then again lay on her side, the right side of her head on the stones, her eyes, half glazed, regarding the surface of the street.

“She is a hot one,” said the vendor of bosk milk.

“Yes,” I said.

He then, ringing his bell, leaning into the traces, attached to two wooden handles, drawing his two-wheeled cart behind him, proceeded up the street.

“How you had me!” said the girl. “Surely there is nothing left in you of the weakling of Earth.”

I untied her hands, and untied the leash from the ring. “Do not disparage the men of Earth,” I said. “Some, perhaps one day, wearied of their suppression, may assume their manhood.”

“It is against the law,” she said.

I shrugged. “Antibiological legislation may be repealed,” I said. “Political forms may be replaced.”

“The men of Earth are lost to manhood,” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”

“It would require a revolution,” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.” Then I said, sharply, “Kneel.”

Swiftly she knelt.

“In the position of the pleasure slave,” I said.

She then knelt before me in the position of the pleasure slave, back on her heels, her knees widely spread, her back straight, her hands on her thighs, her head up. A woman is very beautiful in this position, proud, exciting, submitted, displayed.

“No such revolution is required on Gor, Master,” she said.

“No,” I said.

I then turned the collar, slowly, carefully, on her neck, for it was high, thick and close-fitting. The stout collar ring was then in front of her throat, with its long, dependent leash. I looped the leash. She eyed the loops warily. Such loops serve quite well as a set of lashing surfaces.

“Have you ever kissed the whip?” I asked her.

“Other than in training and in the hands of an auctioneer, when I was being sold?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She looked down.

“Well?” I asked.

“I was once given for the night in the holding of Policrates to he whom we, at that time, thought to be the courier of Ragnar Voskjard,” she whispered. “He forced me to kiss his whip.”

“Look up, Slave,” I ordered her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“This fellow in the holding of Policrates,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Did you yield to him?”

“Do not make me answer such a question, not to you, please,” she pleaded.

“Look into my eyes,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said, in misery.

“Speak,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “I yielded to him.”

“Fully,” I asked, “and as the degraded slave you are?”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “I yielded to him fully, and as the degraded slave I am.”

“Did you yield to him more fully, or as more of a slave, than you did to me?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said, tears in her eyes. “You two are the mightiest of the masters who have used me.”

“I see,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“I do not know, Master,” she said. “In the feasting hall of Policrates he wore a mask. Later, in the chambers, when he used me, I was blindfolded.”

“I see,” I said.

“It was he who first taught me, fully, what it was to be a female slave,” she said.

“Are you grateful to him?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Kiss the whip,” I said.

She took the coils of the leash in her small hands and, putting down her head, covered them with kisses. She then lifted her eyes to me, in which there were tears. “Now, too, my Master,” she said, “I have kissed your whip.”

“Perhaps someday you may come again into his possession,” I said.

“No, Master,” she said, “doubtless he has high and beautiful Gorean girls to serve him. I am only a miserable Earth girl slave. Doubtless he has already forgotten about me. I was only a novelty, and a pleasure, for a night to him.”

“I see,” I said.

“He made me a spasmodic and submitted slave, and then abandoned me.”

“You have not yet seen your master, you have told me,” I said. “Perhaps, unbeknownst to you, it is that very fellow who owns you.”

“No, Master,” she smiled, ruefully. “I know such a man. By now he would have used me, richly and fully. Muchly, by now, would I have had to crawl to him and serve him.”

“Do you love him?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she sobbed, “but I am the most miserable of slaves!”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“For I love two men!” she wept.

“Who is the other?” I asked.

She looked at me, suddenly terrified. There were tears in her eyes. “Please do not make me speak,” she begged.

I shrugged. “Very well,” I said.

A householder emerged from a nearby door. He paid us little attention. The woman was obviously only a branded, stripped slave, and a mere Coin Girl at that. He had doubtless seen many such girls, and many who, doubtless, in his opinion, were of much greater interest. He carried a small ladder and, on it, climbed to the tiny tharlarion-oil lamp, and pinched it out. In a moment, carrying the short ladder, he had returned inside. To him, doubtless, the former Miss Henderson was only another little, meaningless, exquisite enslaved wench.

I dropped the leash. It fell between her breasts, and then to the stones of the street. “Get up,” I told her, “and put on your tunic.”

She looked up at me, agonized.

“Must a command be repeated?” I inquired.

“No, Master,” she said. She then got to her feet, the long leash falling before her. She picked up her tunic and drew it on, but did not tie it shut.

She looked at me. “You are sending me away?” she asked.

“It is time for you to be returned to your master,” I said.

“So simply as that?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

She fell on her knees before me, and put her head down. She clasped me about the right leg, and began, sobbing, to kiss at my knee. I took her by the hair and pulled her head up, to where she must look at me. “Master,” she sobbed.

Casually I inserted another coin in the coin box. She looked at me, with horror.