Kur of Gor (95 page)

Lastly it might be mentioned that free women, at suppers, banquets, and such, also enjoy being served by Earth-girl slaves. Many would like them, as well, it seems, as serving, or sandal, slaves, to demean and abuse, as they seem to hate them almost as much, or perhaps even more, than their Gorean collar sisters, but most Earth-girl slaves, given their reputation as terrified, but hot, trainable sluts, starved for sex on their old world, are purchased by males. In Gorean collars they soon learn what it is to be a man's slave.

Corinna was now dancing.

Rhythmic clapping accompanied her dance.

She had been granted a veil and used it superbly, even tormentingly, until it was torn away by her master, Peisistratus, who had had enough, and he dragged her from the fire, into the darkness.

Cabot hoped she would soon return to the feast, as he did not think that she had, as yet, informed another slave that he was to be served wine.

Another girl, and another girl, was summoned to dance.

Cabot summoned the brunette to him. Naturally, she knelt, instantly. But he indicated she should stand. She then, frightened, for she did not know why she had been summoned, and she had felt his whip, stood before him, stood as she had been taught in the pleasure cylinder, as a slave before a master, soft, graceful, and submissive, sweetly lissome, supple, and lithe, displaying for his appraisal a property, the lovely property which was she, her back straight, her shoulders back, her small hands at her sides, her head up, turned slightly to the left, that she not meet the master's eyes directly.

Cabot then walked behind her, and after considering the delights of her form, gave his attention more carefully to her back.

It was facing the fire, and the fire light danced upon it.

He then held her from behind, by the arms, that she would not move, and would know herself held.

His grip was stern.

He could feel her begin to tremble in his grasp.

"Master?” she said.

She had no understanding of his intent.

"Please do not whip me,” she begged.

"You are not marked,” he informed her, and then let her go.

With a cry of fear, she fled from him, away, to the other side of the fire, whence she turned to look at him, her eyes wide, her hand, palm out, before her mouth.

She now feared her master.

She had not been pleasing.

She had then, of course, been whipped.

She would be muchly concerned to better please him in the future.

She had now learned, you see, what it was to be under a man's whip. That simple, supple, tool is an excellent device for encouraging attention, care, and dutifulness in a girl.

That a slave is subject to the whip is commonly all that is required to obtain the marvels which are at her disposal to dispense. She will go to great lengths to see to it that it remains quietly on its peg.

Too, she soon desires to serve her master not from fear, but from emotions into which she dares not inquire, and which, surely, she dares not reveal to her master.

After she had been whipped she had lain in the dirt, at the post, “I have been whipped,” she had whispered to herself. “I am a whipped slave. He is my master. He is my master."

Too, her name, ‘Cecily', had now, with the whipping, been well associated with her bondage.

It was she, Cecily, who had been whipped.

"Cecily has been whipped by her master,” she then whispered to herself. “Cecily now well knows who is her master. Cecily now well knows whose slave she is."

She had learned, too, of course, that if a girl is not pleasing to her master, she may expect to be punished.

"Cecily,” she had then whispered to herself, “now knows herself a slave, and she is well content."

"Cecily,” she whispered to herself, “I will tell you a little secret, which, I trust, does not alarm or disconcert you. You wanted to be whipped, Cecily. You wanted him to whip you. Now you know that even if he is not yours, that you are his. There is no doubt now that you are his slave. His whip is over you. It is he who is your master."

Well had the whip, you see, taught her to whom she belonged.

And that is why, it seems, she had wanted to feel his whip, that it would confirm upon her his unique and indisputable ownership.

Yet, too, as noted, she mightily feared the whip, and would surely do much to escape the renewed kiss of the slashing leather blades. How small and soft she was, and how terribly they hurt her! She had wept, a punished slave, and had yet been reassured by the pain of his interest and attention. That he was concerned to punish her, and thereby improve her, bespoke a possible intent to keep her on his chain. She might not then, she hoped, be sold, or gambled away, perhaps this very night. She now well understood that could be done. But it seemed he cared enough for her to punish her, to see to her discipline. But how the whip hurt! If he cared to admonish her in the future, she hoped he would be content, at least for the most part, to use a stroke or two of the switch, as had the girls in the pleasure cylinder, charged with improving her Gorean. Surely the instruction of the switch's swift, stinging admonitions would be more than sufficient for her control, management, and improvement. Assiduously would she attend to its lessons and strive to correct her behavior, that she might become more pleasing to her master. In short, the slave, as most slaves, had very ambivalent feelings toward the whip, that unmistakable symbol of the mastery, that he was master and they were slave. They loved and revered it as a symbol of their treasured bondage, of the preciousness of their collars, put on them, and kept on them, by masters, but would do much to evade its stroke. Yet, too, oddly, through their whimpering and tears, they might sometimes rejoice as it might be applied to them, as it left in them no doubt that they were truly in their collars, truly the slaves of their master. Their status, their condition, their reality was then well confirmed upon them. So Cecily feared the whip, but was pleased that she was subject to it, and that it would be used upon her if she were not pleasing. She now well understood, given the events of the afternoon, that she, though an Earth girl, was the abject slave of a Gorean master. The slave fears the whip, but is thrilled to be subject to it.

She sees the simple device, always present in her milieu, suspended on its peg. She sees it with apprehension, and yet, too, with reassurance and ecstasy. She is profoundly reassured of her specialness, her worth, her importance, her identity, slave, her desirability, her womanhood. She is now, perhaps for the first time in her life, overjoyed to be a female, now acknowledging herself, openly and honestly, as a member of the suitably submitted sex, the slave sex. She finds her natural fulfilment in bondage. She is grateful to be wanted, grateful to be a property, grateful to be goods, grateful to be a slave, grateful to belong to a man, his, like a sleen or kaiila, her master, at whose feet she will kneel, whose collar she wears.

From time to time, commanded, she will kneel, and lick and kiss the whip, it held to her lips by her master, licking and kissing it as his slave, in which simple, familiar ceremony, that of kissing the whip, in lingeringly, attentively, obediently, and humbly caressing it with her soft lips and delicate tongue, she acknowledges that she is subject to its rule.

So the slave notes it, the whip, suspended quietly on its peg. She smiles. She knows the best way to keep it on its peg. She is to be diligent in her duties and strive, to the best of her ability, to please her master.

Is that not what a slave is for?

And what slave, eventually, does not wish to please her master as a slave, for the inexpressible joy of serving him as what she is, his slave.

This transcends the whip, but, to her joy, this reassuring her, she knows the whip is always there, in the background, ready should it be needed, there like the world, her world, for she is a slave.

Be strict with me, my master, thought Cecily. It is to such a man that I, a slave, wish to belong. It is such a man's collar I wish to wear. It is such a man whose chains I wish to weight my limbs. It is before such a man I desire, naked, collared, and chained, hand and foot, to kneel. It is such a man whose feet I beg to kiss.

A girl who had been writhing before her master, in the firelight, was seized by him, and pulled to the side, away from the fire.

Other fellows then looked around, drunkenly, for another dancer. There must surely be one, somewhere. “You!” cried more than one, pointing to the brunette. “No, no!” she screamed, and fled into the darkness.

Cabot rose from his place, and followed her, and found her crouched in the darkness, shuddering, against the wall of the palisade.

"The slave! The slave!” he heard, from the group about the fire. Too, he heard the flute skirl an invitation.

"They wish to see you dance, Cecily,” he said, kindly.

"I cannot dance, Master!” she wept.

"It is true you are far from Oxford,” he said. “But many maidens of Oxford might envy you the opportunity to dance before such men."

"I am naked, Master,” she whimpered.

"So, too, are the others,” he said. “Think of the many fellows you knew on Earth. They are not here, but do you not think they would like to see you dance naked before them, in a collar? You might imagine them here. Do you not think it would be a nice restitution to them, for how you treated them?"

She put down her head and moaned.

"The slave! The slave!” they heard.

"It would be nice,” he said, “had you a scarlet halter, earrings, bangles and bracelets, necklaces, a belt of coins, a scarlet skirt, one of Turian drape, such things, but you do not, and so you must do without, and do the best you can."

"The slave!” they heard.

"They want to see you,” said Cabot.

"The Earth slut!” they heard. “Let us see barbarian collar-meat! Let us see the shapely she-tarsk! Five tarsk-bits for the slut! Six, if she is pleasing! Put her on her back! Kneel her, give her to us!"

"You will dance,” Cabot informed her.

Cecily then sprang up, and, in tears, ran to the fire, and stood before the men. “I cannot dance, Masters!” she wept.

Cabot followed her to the fire, and sat down, cross-legged, in his place.

He was pleased to see that Corinna and Peisistratus had rejoined the group. Peisistratus had not kept her long. Perhaps Corinna had only herself to blame, as her veil work had driven her master mad with instant need. Doubtless, after the feast, as he had regained his composure, she would serve him again, for perhaps one or two Ahn, or more, perhaps until the forest, in its softness, and dampness, was ready to awaken.

The tabor joined the flute, and then, suddenly, too, the kalika.

"Dance!” cried men.

And then, in tears, terrified, as she could, Cecily, a naked Earth-girl slave, danced before masters, Gorean men, men who knew what to do with women, and would have uncompromisingly what they wished from them.

It was true the Earth girl was not skilled in slave dance, but it takes years to master its subtleties.

But she was young, and beautiful, and stripped, and collared, and in the firelight.

The darkness doubtless covered many flaws, but then she was not really dancing, in any event, as dancers might think of dance.

She was naked in the firelight, and moving, in such a way she hoped might be found acceptable.

"Whip her!” called a fellow.

"Please, no, Masters!” she cried.

"She has felt it!” laughed a fellow.

"Only this afternoon,” said another.

"Whip her, again,” laughed a man.

"No, Masters!” wept the slave. “Please, no! I am trying to please you!"

"You are not a bad-looking piece of collar meat, you shapely slut,” said a man. “Make us want you!"

"'Want me'?” she said, aghast.

"She is stupid,” said a man.

"She is from Earth,” said another.

"What do you think slave dance is about?” asked another.

"Show them you are worth owning!” called Cabot, laughing.

"Here, before me!” laughed a fellow. “Here! Show me your belly! Beg with it!"

"Let it jerk in need!” said a fellow.

"Surely you have experienced slave spasms!” said another.

"Rotate your belly, slowly!” called another.

"You are a slave,” called Cabot. “Writhe! Let your body beg to be caressed!"

"Here!” called a fellow.

"Here!” called another.

She moved, as bidden, terrified, trying to please, about the circle.

She was then before Cabot.

She tried then to obey the others, but before her master.

Suddenly, reflexively, beyond her control, unexpectedly, her hips jerked, and she cried out with misery.

She then fled about the circle, frightened, trying to writhe before others.

There was much laughter.

"Let me dance!” cried out another girl, leaping to her feet, and Cecily fled to Cabot's side, and lay down, small, and frightened, trembling, beside him.

"Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.

"You are not a dancer,” said Cabot. “You gave us what we wanted, to see you in the firelight, naked, a slave, in the music. Do not mind the men. They were pleased. All were pleased."

"Was my master pleased?” she asked.

"He was pleased,” said Cabot.

"I am not to be whipped?” she asked.

"No,” said Cabot, “but if, in six months, you do not do better, I will put the lash to you."

"Do not whip me,” she said. “Please do not whip me."

"Slaves are not free women,” said Cabot. “They are subject to the whip. To be sure, much of this is in your control. The more pleasing you are, the less likely you will be whipped. If you are displeasing in some way, you must, as a slave, expect to be whipped. Too, a slave may be occasionally whipped, if only to remind her that she is a slave."

"My hips, once, when I was before you, moved suddenly, strangely, Master,” she said. “I could not help it. I did not do that on purpose, as with my other movements, my deliberate, intended movements of hips and belly. It just happened. I could not control it."

"Do not concern yourself,” said Cabot.