| The slave, “Lady Telitsia,” had in her, I suspected, superb slave potential. Up to now, of course, as a free woman, given her conditioning and what was expected of her in her culture, she had undoubtedly, possibly even agonizingly, resisted her sexuality, fighting to control and suppress her slave drives. Now, of course, now that she had been freed of the psychological chains, the confining restrictions, the imprisoning inhibitions of the free woman, I had little doubt that she, and perhaps even soon, would prove to be a helplessly arousable, helplessly yielding slave, a joy both to herself and her masters.
Players of Gor Book 20 Page 211 “And so what is your complaint?” I inquired. As she was a free woman, it seemed I should be concerned, at least to some extent, with any complaints which she might have. A slave, of course, in distinction from a free woman, is not permitted complaints. She must try to obtain things in other ways, for example, by humble requests while kneeling or lying on her belly before her master. Players of Gor Book 20 Page 215 “Do you know the slave in camp, she called Lady Telitsia?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. “She has not yet eaten,” I said. “So?” asked the lady Yanina. “She is probably quite hungry by now,” I said. “So?” she asked. “I do not think her master would permit her to beg food until a certain free woman, a prisoner in the camp, was fed.” “Probably not,” said the Lady Yanina. “Why are you bringing the matter up?” “I thought it might be of interest to you,” I said. “It is not,” she said. “You were common captives of the brigands,” I said. “I thought you might have some concern for her.” “No,” she said. “I see,” I said. The Lady Yanina looked at me, and smiled. She put the piece of crust in her mouth and nibbled on it, slowly. “Let her wait,” she said. “She is a slave. Slaves are nothing.” I did not gainsay the Lady Yanina, of course. What she had said was true. I had only brought up the matter as a form of test for her, to satisfy my own curiosity. I wished to more exactly ascertain her self-image. It was, as I had expected, that of the lofty free woman, separating herself, at least publicly, by dimensions and worlds from mere slaves. This was particularly interesting to me in view of the fact that she was herself, obviously, a highly appropriate candidate for the collar. Did she think, truly, she was that different from the slave who, but Ehn ago, had been tied and lashed? Players of Gor Book 20 Page 220 Bina’s hands were thonged tightly together before her body. A ring, on a rope, one of several, was lowered from the ceiling. These rings, when lowered, hung a few feet above the floor, some six or seven feet above it, in the open space between the tables. These rings may serve various purposes, such as the display of disgraced females destined for slavery, most likely debtors, or the public punishment of errant slaves, but their number is largely dictated by the occasional use of displaying captured, stripped free women of enemy cities. These women, during the course of a victory feast, are caressed by whips, or beaten by them, until they beg, though free, to serve the tables as slaves. After they have so served, Ahn later, they are taken below. There they will be properly branded and collared, and will begin to be taught the lessons, intimate and otherwise, appropriate to their new condition in life. Players of Gor Book 20 Page 325 “I do not know about other women,” she said, “but I am one who wishes to belong to a man, wholly.” “Beware your words,” I cautioned her. “I am a free woman,” she said. “I can speak as I please.” I could not gainsay her in this. She was free. She could, accordingly, say what she wished, and without requiring permission. She stood before me. She had dared to brush back her hood. She had unpinned her shimmering veils, permitting them to fall about her throat and shoulders. A soft movement of her hands and a shake of her head had thrown her long, dark hair behind her back. She had dark eyes. Her face was softly rounded. It was delicate and beautiful. You have unpinned your veil,” I observed. “Yes,” she said. “You are brazen,” I said. “Yes,” she said, insolently. I mused, considering this. It is not difficult, of course, to take insolence from a woman. “Why have you unpinned your veil before me?” I asked. “Perhaps you will like what you see,” she said. “Bold female,” I observed. She tossed her head, impatiently. “Do you have the least inkling as to what it might be, to belong to a man, wholly?” I asked. “Do you find me pleasing?” she asked. “Answer my question,” I said. “Yes,” she said. I wondered if this were true. It might be. She was Gorean. “Now,” she said. “Answer mine!” “Do not court an alteration in your condition, unless you are prepared to accept it, in its full consequences,” I said. She shuddered. She lowered her eyes. “It is said that there is in every woman that which I sense so fearfully, yet so longingly, in myself.” “I wonder if that is true,” I said. “I do not know,” she said, “but I know that it is in me, passionately, strongly, irresistibly.” “You are bold,” I said. “A free woman may be bold,” she said. “True,” I granted her. “I need this for my fulfillment, to be one with myself,” she said. “Speak clearly,” I said. She was free. I saw no point in making it easy for her. “I want to be a total woman, in the order of nature,” she said. I shrugged. “My heart cries out,” she wept, “with the need to be accepted, to be acquired, to be owned, to be mastered, to be forced to submit, to be forced to willlessly and selflessly serve and love!” I did not respond to her. “I beg this of you, for you are a man,” she said. “Speak with greater precision,” I said. “What sort of man are you?” she wept. “Speak with greater precision,” I said. She shook her head. “Please, no,” she said. I shrugged. “Mine is the slave sex!” she said, angrily, defiantly. “The slave sex?” I asked. “Yes!” she said. “And you are a member of that sex?” I asked. “Yes!” she said, angrily. “I see,” I said. “I am tired of trying to be like a man!” she said. “It is a lie which robs me of myself!” I said nothing. “I want to be true to myself,” she said. “I want to be fulfilled!” “Such a thing is not reversible by your will,” I said. “I am well aware of that,” she said. “There are many sorts of masters,” I said, “and you would be at the disposal of any of them, and totally.” “I know,” she whispered. I said nothing. “You have still not answered my question,” she said. “Do you find me pleasing?” “It is difficult to say,” I said, “bundled and covered as you are.” She looked at me, frightened. “Strip,” I said. She would be assessed. She reached to the veils about her throat and shoulders and, taking them, dropped them softly to the grass. She stood not more than a hundred yards from the gate of Tesius, in the city of Samnium, some two hundred pasangs east and a bit south of Brundisium, both cities continental allies of the island ubarate of Cos. She slipped softly from her slippers. She must then have felt the touch of the grass blades on her ankles. She looked at me. Her hands went to the stiff, high brocaded collar of her robes, the robes of concealment, to the numerous eyes and hooks there, holding it tightly, protectively, about her throat, up high under her chin. “Do not dally,” I told her. In a few moments she had parted her robes, and slipped them, first the street robe, that stiff, ornate fabric, and then the house robe, scarcely less inflexible and forbidding, from her small, soft shoulders. Clad now only in a silken sliplike undergarment, she then looked at me. “Completely,” I said, “absolutely.” She then stood before me, even more naked than many a girl up for vending, waiting to be thrust to the surface of the block, for she wore no collar, no chains, no brand. A merchant on his way to the gate of Tesius paused, to gaze upon her. So, too, did two soldiers, guardsmen of Samnium. She stood very straight, inspected. None of these wrinkled their noses nor spat upon the ground. “What is your name?” I asked. “Charlotte, Lady of Samnium,” she said. “Turn slowly before me, Lady Charlotte,” I said. “Now, place your hands, clasped, behind the back of your head, and arch your back. Good. You may now kneel. Do you know the position of the pleasure slave? Good.” “How does it feel to be kneeling before a man?” I asked. “I have never been like this before a man,” she said. “How does it feel?” I asked. “I do not know,” she said. “I am so confused. It is so overwhelming. I am uncertain. I do not know what I feel like. I am almost giddy.” “Lift your chin,” I said. She complied immediately, unhesitantly. “Spread your knees more widely,” I said. Again, unhesitantly, immediately, she complied. I regarded Lady Charlotte. I saw that she might be suitable. She was beautiful, and extremely feminine. I saw one of the soldiers licking his lips. “These are difficult and dark times,” I told her. “I tell you nothing you do not know when I tell you that. Too, I now inform you that where I go, it will be dangerous.” She looked up at me. “Remain in the city,” I said. “There you will be safe, there you will be secure.” “No,” she said. “No?” I asked. “No,” she said, firmly. “I am not yours. I do not need to obey you.” “Assume a position on your hands and knees,” I told her. “Yes,” I said. I removed a slave whip from my pack. “I am free!” she said. “I think it will do you good to feel this,” I said, shaking out the five, soft, broad blades. I then went behind her. “Ai!” she cried, struck. “It hurts, so!” she wept, now, a moment later, beginning to feel the pain in its fullness, now on her stomach, disbelief in her eyes. “I did not know it was like that.” “I struck you but once, and not hard,” I told her. “That was not hard?” she gasped, striped, stung, sobbing, terrified. “No,” I told her. “Go back now to the city, and be safe.” “No,” she sobbed. “No!” I crouched near her, looking at her, closely. “No,” she said. “No, no!” I regarded her. “Please,” she said. “Very well,” I said. She looked at me, wildly, elated. I thrust her face down to the grass. She sobbed with relief, with pleasure. I drew forth a slave collar from my pack. Roughly, unceremoniously, I placed it on her neck, snapping it shut, locking it. “Good,” said the merchant, turning away. “Good,” said the two soldiers, too, turning away. I regarded her. She was now collared. She was now a slave. She was now mine. She looked up at me, frightened. “I am yours,” she whispered. “Yes,” I said. “Please strike me once more,” she said, “that I may this time feel the blow as a slave.” I said nothing. “I want to feel your whip, as your slave,” she said. “Very well,” I said. I then, by the hair and an arm, drew her again to her hands and knees. I again then stood behind her but this time I did not strike her immediately, but let her wait, as a slave, that she might anticipate the blow, and grow apprehensive of it, and not know precisely when it would fall. Then the blades hissed suddenly down upon her and again she cried out, sobbing, flung to the grass, which she clutched with her fingers. “You punish me,” she said. “You can do with me as you please. I am your slave! I am yours!” I looked down upon her. She was not unattractive. I had not planned to take a slave with me from Samnium, but I did not truly object to doing so. She could cook for me, and serve me, and keep me warm in the furs. It was late in Se’Kara. I would find her a useful convenience, a lovely one. Every man needs such a convenience. Then, when I wished, I could give her away, or dispose of her in some market. “Do you think you were struck hard?” I asked. “I do not know, Master,” she said. “You were not,” I informed her. “Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened, sensing what might have been done to her but had not been. To be sure, I had struck her harder than the first time, for she was now a slave, and slaves, of course, are whipped differently from free women, but I had not, truly, struck her with great force. “Can men strike harder than that?” she asked. “Do not be absurd,” I said. “I struck you with only a tiny fraction of the force that an average fellow, if he wished, might bring to such a task. Too, I struck you only once, and in only one area, one less sensitive to pain than many others.” “I see, Master,” she said, shuddering. She had then sensed what it might be to be a whipped slave girl. And whipping, of course, is only one of the punishments to which such a girl might be subjected. “I will try to be a good slave, Master,” she whispered, frightened, understanding now perhaps somewhat better than before something of the categorical and absolute nature of her new condition. “Who were you?” I asked. “Lady Charlotte, of Samnium,” she said. “Who are you?” I asked. “A slave, only a slave, yours,” she said. Mercenaries of Gor Book 21 Page 7 - 12 Page30 |