Prize of Gor (43 page)

But, lying on the shelf, looking out on the crowd, she became apprehensive. I am a slave, she thought. I am chained. I am naked. I am at their mercy. They can do with me what they want. And she suddenly felt very vulnerable. She no longer wore the iron belt. She drew her legs up, close to her body. The cruel security, the protection, the safety of the iron belt was gone. All her softness now, with its sweet, delicious curves, with its delicate intimacies, was exhibited openly. She, the whole of her, was chained on a public shelf. She was vulnerably displayed, well displayed, completely displayed.

“A warrior,” whispered Emris. Then she called out, “Buy me, Master!”

Ellen looked up, and gasped. A tall, broad-shouldered man in scarlet, massively handsome, had approached the shelf. His sword belt, scabbard and helmet crest were black.

“He is of Ar,” whispered Cotina to Ellen. Then she knelt, knees wide, and called out, “Buy me, Master!”

Zara scrambled forward, as she could.

Emris, Cichek, Jasmine and Lydia, too, almost instantly knelt, and drew as close to the man as their chains would permit. Only Ellen, frightened, remained lying down, her knees drawn up. She had not seen her sister slaves like this. “Buy me, Master!” called out Zara. “I am Zara, if it pleases Master! I beg to be purchased! I am skilled! I can serve you well! Oh, buy me, Master! I beg to be permitted to serve you!”

“Do not concern yourself with her, Master!” called out Lydia. “I am better!”

“No!” cried Zara.

“I saw him first,” said Emris.

“Be silent,” said Cotina.

“I beg your collar, handsome Master!” cried Cichek.

“See my blond hair and blue eyes,” called Lydia, lifting her hair and displaying it. “I alone am fair of these on the shelf.”

“She is cold,” said Jasmine.

“My belly is hot,” said Lydia. “I juice at a touch!”

“I am from the valley of the Vosk,” said Jasmine. “My belly flames!”

“I would juice at the sound of your footfall,” cried Zara. “I would tear at my chains to reach you!”

“I beg to writhe in need before you!” said Emris.

“See my shapely limbs,” said Cotina, presenting her right side and leg for his consideration.

How different were the slaves before such a man, thought Ellen. Look at Zara, thought Ellen. She is as much a slave as the others. A moment ago she was protesting her bondage and now she is half beside herself, beseechingly, with the desire to be this man’s slave. Clearly what she wanted was not freedom but a slavery of her choice.

“Put me through slave paces, Master,” called Emris. “Let me exhibit a slave before you!”

“Buy me, Master!” begged Cichek.

“No, me!” said Cotina, lifting her hands, pleadingly.

“No, me!” said Lydia.

“I!” called Jasmine.

“I am a natural slave, a slave in my heart,” said Zara. “I have wanted to be a slave since childhood, Master! Buy me! Make me your slave!”

“She is no different from us,” said Cotina. “We are all natural slaves. Choose then the best and most beautiful of us all, Cotina, me!”

Ellen was startled at the eagerness, the zeal, the openness, the competitiveness, of the slaves. The man was not of the Merchants. He would not be rich. Would they not want to be purchased by rich men, that they would have a softer, easier, more pleasant life? Would a rich man not have many slaves, so that there would be less work for any given girl? Would such then not be the ideal master for any slave, a rich man? What then was it about this man? He would not be rich. And yet they wanted to throw themselves to his feet.

Ellen looked into his eyes, and then, quickly, looked down, frightened. In his eyes, she had seen that he was one before whom a woman could be only a slave, one who would know well how to master a woman.

Is that why they are so eager, so zealous, she asked herself. Had they had such a master, or dreamed of such a one?

He was one, she did not doubt, who would own the fullness of a female, one who would exact the fullness of her slavery from her.

She felt a sudden tremor in her loins. She had not meant to do that. It was nothing over which she had any control. It was reflexive. She repudiated it, embarrassed. It shocked her.

“Look up,” he said.

Ellen lifted her eyes, unwillingly, to his.

The other girls were then instantly silent.

She held her eyes to his for a brief moment, and then could do so no longer, and quickly, frightened, overcome, looked down, and away.

“Please do not make me look into your eyes, Master,” she said.

She hoped she would not be cuffed.

“You are very pretty,” he said.

She shrank back, frightened. “Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Who thanks me?” he asked, gently.

“Ellen, if pleases Master,” she said, “Ellen, the slave of Targo, dealer in slaves.”

“You are new to the collar, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, Master.”

“What is your brand?”

“The common kef, Master,” she said.

“Show me,” said he.

Ellen turned so that he might read her brand.

“Well, Ellen,” said he, “who is the best and most beautiful slave on the shelf?”

“Masters will decide that,” she said, “not I, Master.”

“You are a clever little beauty,” he said. “You know you must share the same straw with them tonight.”

“It is true, surely, nonetheless, Master,” she said.

“True,” he said. “Do you know slave dance?” he asked.

“No, Master.”

“Are you trained?”

“Very little, Master.” That was another thing her master had seen to, that she would not be well trained. In this way, too, she would be of less worth as a slave.

“You are a barbarian,” he said.

“Yes, Master.” Presumably that had been clear from her accent.

“I once had a barbarian,” he said. “She thought she was going to be free, but she quickly learned to kiss the whip.”

“Master?”

“I lost her at dice, but won her back. I was going to breed her, but a subordinate wanted her, and so I gave her to him. I think she was afraid of me. As far as I know she is happy in her collar. He is now stationed near Venna, and she cooks and serves in his quarters.”

“Have you been sold much?” he asked.

“Only once, to my current master, Targo, dealer in slaves.”

“When were you first collared?” he asked.

“I was enslaved some weeks ago, but I was only collared some days ago.”

“You are going to be a good slave, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I will try to be a good slave, Master,” she said.

“Belly,” he said, gently, and held out his hand, palm downward.

Instantly Ellen bellied, and, hands to the sides, lowering her head, frightened, began to lick and kiss the back of his hand.

“You have clearly had some training,” he said.

“Very little, Master,” she said.

“On your world,” he said, “is there slavery?”

“Very little, Master, at least on the surface.”

“On the surface?”

“Yes, Master.”

“There are perhaps secret slaveries?”

“Yes, Master, I have little doubt that many women are held in bondage, though this is concealed from the world.”

“Were you free on your world?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Did you anticipate that you would one day be a slave on another world, publicly and legally, stripped on a public shelf, chained, affording small ministrations to the back of a man’s hand?”

“No, Master,” said Ellen, pressing her lips to the back of his hand, softly.

“Let me lick the palm of your hand, Master,” whispered Cotina.

“No, let me!” begged Zara, quickly.

“No, me!” cried Emris.

Ellen then realized that it was presumably no accident that he had extended the back of his hand to her, and not the open hand. That was doubtless deliberate, a way of keeping her at a distance, of precluding involvement with a pretty little slave, perhaps because of her youthfulness, or her collar immaturity.

She recalled how she had been taught in training to kiss the palm of a man’s hand, sometimes darting her tongue softly in and out of it, suggesting subtly, and begging for, her own penetration. More than once a guard then, in fury, had flung her from him and stormed away, to seize another slave. She had been in the iron belt. She had been left vaguely uneasy, vaguely unsatisfied, but, at that time, slave fires had not been lit in her belly. Another technique is to kneel before the man and take the palm of his right hand, if he is right handed, and press it to your face, firmly, as though you had been cuffed with it, and then to hold the hand, humbly, as in gratitude, similarly licking and kissing the palm.

As has been suggested it is expected, at least by some masters, that the slave is to be grateful for her beatings. She has, after all, received the master’s attention. Similarly, she should rejoice that she has been improved.

But Ellen did not doubt but what the warrior was pleased to have her before him, as she was, even though she was licking and kissing merely the back of his hand. After all, she was prostrate before him, a slave, naked, in a posture of abject submission.

“I have seen the shelf of Targo last week,” he said. “The lot today is better than the lot then.”

“Thank you, Master!” said several of the girls on the shelf, elated.

What occurred to Ellen, instantly, of course, and this frightened her, was that there must have been a considerable turnover in the interim. To be sure, Targo would have to make sales or go out of business.

“Do you want to be sold?” he asked.

“No, Master!” said Ellen, who feared her sale.

“Then you want to remain here, in a weight collar, on the shelf?” he said.

“No, Master!” said Ellen.

He laughed, and drew back his hand, turned about, and disappeared into the crowd.

“You let him go,” said Cotina, angrily.

“You are stupid, Ellen,” said Emris.

“You are clever in your virgin ways,” said Zara.

“I am not a virgin,” said Ellen.

“Pretending not to want to be bought, pretending to be so naive!” said Zara.

“Wily little she-urt!” said Jasmine.

“When will such a man come to the shelf again?” asked Cichek.

“You let him get away,” said Lydia.

“I did nothing!” said Ellen. “He did not want me!”

“Did you not see him caressing your pretty little flanks with his eyes?” said Zara.

“I do not want to be chained with her,” said Jasmine.

“He looked upon all of you, beautiful Mistresses!” said Ellen.

“Do you think you are better than we?” demanded Emris.

“No, Mistresses!” said Ellen.

“Hereafter,” said Cotina, “if you do not want a buyer, give him, as you can, to us.”

“Selfish she-urt!” snapped Lydia.

“We will tear you apart in the straw,” said Cichek.

Ellen moaned.

“Targo!” whispered Cotina.

And through the crowd, from the right, came Targo, followed by Barzak, who had a figure with him, closely behind him, which he was pulling through the crowd by means of a tightly coiled, muchly shortened leash, his hand gripping it not six inches from the lock at its captive’s neck, the figure of a naked, hooded, back-braceleted woman.

That must be, Ellen supposed, Barzak’s “Jill.”

“Targo does not seem pleased,” warned Zara.

“Perhaps the new she-urt cost him too much,” said Jasmine.

“Remember,” said Cotina to Ellen. “You will be less than she, barbarian.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“Buy me, Master!” called out Cotina, as though to anyone.

The other girls, too, Targo approaching, began to appeal to the crowd, uttering the attraction call of the common girl for sale.

Such a change, thought Ellen, wrought by the imminence of the masters, formerly inert female merchandise, suddenly, in fear of the whip, become luscious, active flesh goods, attempting to allure buyers, attempting to entice customers for their master.

How I despise them, the slaves, thought Ellen. How lowly, how meaningless they are!

But quickly, she, too, went to her knees and spread them widely. Ellen lifted her hands to the crowd, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes, and hoping no one noticed her. “Buy me, Master!” she called. “Buy me, Master!”

Barzak conducted his new charge into the building.

Is she not to be for sale, wondered Ellen. Why is she not to be for sale? I am for sale. Then she almost fainted with shock, for she understood what she had said, that she was
for sale
.

Oh, Mirus of Ar, she thought, bitterly. What you have done to me!

Targo she saw, to her dismay, was standing before her. She did not meet his eyes but continued to appeal to the crowd.

“Smile,” said he, not pleasantly. “Catch their eye. Tongue movements! Helpless movements of your knees and thighs! Pretend you are a hot little urt. Wriggle! Squirm!”

Ellen shrieked with misery and collapsed, sobbing, to the shelf.

“Ten copper tarsks were too much for you,” said Targo. “Ten copper tarsk-bits would be too much for you!”

Ellen’s body, lying on the shelf, was wracked with sobs.

“You are begging for the leather, slave girl,” said Targo.

“No, Master,” she sobbed. “Please do not have me whipped, please, no, Master!” She was terrified. She had felt the whip. She did not wish to feel it again. “Please, no, Master!” she begged. “I will do anything, Master!”

“My patience is not inexhaustible,” said Targo. “You will do better tomorrow, flesh-trash.”

“Forgive me, Master,” wept Ellen. “Yes, Master.”

“Behold, kind sir,” said Targo, turning to a fellow nearby, “the loveliness of Cotina, the sweetness of her thighs, her well-turned ankles, and note Lydia, a beauty who might have been from the north, the only one so fair, with blond hair and blue eyes, on the shelf, and see delicious, cuddly Jasmine. She is from the valley of the Vosk, and you know what they are like, particularly the ones from Victoria, only a stone’s throw from Jasmine’s native village. That is Emris and Cichek who beg you to buy them. Zara, so slim and shapely, pleads for your collar. These are prize slaves, sought by the Curulean, but withheld, due to my popular propensities, for the district of Metellus, and our beloved Kettle Market. Any one of these is worth a Ubar’s medallion, a thousand golden tarn disks, but I am a destitute man, who, due to personal exigencies am in sudden dire need of ready cash. I am prepared to let any of these unparalleled beauties go for as little as a dozen silver tarsks!”