Witness of Gor (50 page)

"However many Master wishes," I said. It was a response I had learned in the pens. One is a slave. One does not play games with the master. All depends on him. All depends on his will.

One is a slave.

I saw the shadow of the whip lift, and I closed my eyes.

I received ten lashes.

I lay there by the ring for several minutes afterward. I was on my belly. My cheeks were wet with tears, even the stone by the ring. I hurt. I sobbed. Yet he had not been cruel with me. The blows had been sharp, but clean. They had been mercifully arranged on my body, even predictably so. Too, they had been timed. It is particularly frightening when, as a part of the punishment, one does not know where the blow will fall, or when. Too, mercifully, though he saw to it that I was well punished, he had not used his man's strength on me. Only on the tenth stroke, which, before its delivery, he informed me was the last, did he let me glimpse even a particle of the strength with which a stroke, if he so chose, might be delivered. I had screamed, so struck. Then I had not even been able to scream. I had knelt there, wide-eyed, in disbelief.

Then, an instant later, I had sunk to my belly. "Mercy, Master!" I wept. "Mercy, Master, please, mercy!" But the beating, of course, was done, for the tenth blow was the last. But still, hysterical, I wept. "Please, do not strike me again, Master! Please, Master, do not strike me again!" I realized then what, even with so small a portion of his strength, might be done to me. I had been well punished by the first nine strokes, I assure you, but that tenth stroke told me more than the first nine. It said, in effect, "Beware, let this be the tiniest hint of what might be done to you." And so now, minutes later, I lay at the ring. I choked back tears. I had now well learned my lesson. I was only a punished slave. But the lesson I had learned extended, of course, as doubtless it was intended it should, far beyond the occasion of the moment. It had to do with more than the mere triviality of my having failed, in my confusion and fear, to make my condition clear to a free woman in the darkness. It had also informed me that I was not only subject to punishment, but, when appropriate, would be punished. This reinforced, too, my understanding of my condition, which was bond, and its obvious concomitant, that of being subject to masters, fully, in all things. Lastly, I had been taught something more of the whip. I now understood, better than I had before, what it might do to me. I now feared it, terribly. I was afraid, now, even to look upon it.

"Kneel, barbarian," said the brunette, not unkindly. I struggled to my knees, my hands bound before me, my neck still tied to the ring.

"Feed, barbarian," she said, placing a shallow bowl of gruel before me.

I put down my head, and, not using my hands, fed.

I ate, hungrily, obediently.

But, too, from time to time, head down, pausing in my feeding, from licking at the sides of the bowl, the gruel about my mouth, I trembled. Beyond the leather, I knew, even to the tiny extent that I now understood it, there were other things, things far more frightening and effective, to which I might be subjected, if it were the will of men. I moaned, and returned to my feeding. I ate eagerly, gratefully. Tears fell into the gruel. My punishment, I realized, however informative and momentous from my point of view, had doubtless been, from the point of view of the pit master, relatively light and perfunctory. My offense, it seemed, happily, had not been regarded as particularly heinous, particularly in a new slave. Indeed, I was even being permitted to feed.

"Oh!" I said, suddenly, startled. I stiffened. "Master?" I said.

My fingers twisted, startled, my hands bound before me.

"Master?" I asked.

"You may continue to feed, if you wish," he said.

"Oh!" I said. But I could not feed, of course! The rope on my collar pulled against the ring.

He moved my hair about, away from my ears. "Pierced-ear girl," he murmured.

"Oh!" I said.

His grip on me then was like iron.

"Master!" I said.

How absurd then suddenly seemed my earlier fear, when he had put me to my back! By what right might I have expected such a dignity! But how absurd even was this thought, for a slave!

Is it likely that we would be thrown on our backs for our dignity? No Slaves are not permitted dignity. That is for free women. Rather, on our backs, if our masters desire, our subtlest nuances of expression, our helplessness, our fear, our joy, our yielding, our vulnerability, what we hope for, what we beg for, may be read! They may with their triumphant gaze ravish our helplessly bared features, surveying the myriad subtleties of our flushed countenances, taking account of our tremblings, our raptures and terrors, scrutinizing us in our misery, our ecstasy and helplessness, delighting in our tumult, we face-stripped, unveiled, before them, imprisoned in their arms, their slaves.

He made a low, growling, bestial noise.

Should I fight him, as I could? What would it matter, in the end? And might I not be beaten for the slightest show of resistance, unless, in its futility, he found it amusing.

I whimpered.

Could he read in me my signs of growing helplessness? I was refined, I was delicate, I was sensitive! How could this be being done to me? But then I recalled that I was a slave.

I uttered a small, helpless cry, one of weakness, but one, too, in its way, of petition.

Please do not desist, Master!

But, of course, he would not desist.

I rejoiced that in his heart, as in the hearts of such men, there was no mercy.

"See the slave!" cried one of the women at the wall.

And so progressed my subjugation.

"Master!" I wept.

And thusly was I humiliated, and thusly was I disgraced, and debased and degraded.

Soon I began to lose control!

"Oh!" I said. "Oh!”

His victory was at hand.

Soon I knew I would be naught but a yielded slave.

"Master!" I cried.

"Ah," said he. He was then like a lion in feeding, blood running from its jaws.

I then yielded to him my utter submission, my total surrender.

I could not help myself.

I was slave.

And thusly was I, a mere slave, again conquered.

I lay for a time at the ring.

He went to one of the small slave cages to the left and pulled it somewhat forward and to the right, until it was a bit to the left of the unoccupied kennels. He then went to the table and busied himself there, with some papers, perhaps mine The brunet slave came and crouched down beside me. She carried a wet cloth and wiped the gruel from my face and, I fear some from my hair, as well, as I had sometimes, gasping, squirming, twisting, writhing, thrust my head too low, too near the dish. "You have a good belly," she said. "It is a hot belly. It is an excellent belly for a slave." "Thank you, Mistress," I whispered. I had known, of course, that I could be easily aroused, and that I was unusually responsive, and, in moments, could become even helplessly so. To be sure, such reflexes, and such, are expected in a slave. She may be beaten if she is inadequate. They are even trained into her. We are not free women. Also, interestingly, as earlier suggested, sexual responsiveness in the slave is openly regarded as a desirable property, like intelligence and beauty. These three things all considerably improve her price. In a slave sexual vitality, uncontrollable responsiveness, then, is not regarded as a source of embarrassment, scandal, or shame. Nor are sexual inertness and frigidity regarded as virtues, or as concomitants thereof. We are not free women. Similarly, and naturally enough, our vitality is not something to be hidden, except, of course, from free women. Indeed, we must accustom ourselves to hearing it candidly discussed, particularly in situations in which our sale may be in question. Too, naturally, it is one of the properties which, if we are on the auction block, we must expect to hear proclaimed to the buyers.

As earlier suggested, it is the whole slave, all of her, every bit of her, that is for sale.

It is the whole slave, all of her, every bit of her, the whole she of her, that men want, and buy.

I lay at the ring.

He had permitted me to retain no particle of dignity. To be sure, I seas not entitled to any, as I was a slave. No choice had been mine. He had had all from me. To be sure, I must yield it at so little as the snapping of fingers. I was a slave.

Would the brunette regard me with reproach? I did not meet her eyes.

She rose to her feet and went to one side.

I heard, from one side, the gentle sound of some links of chain.

Surely I must reproach myself, but I could not bring myself to do so.

It was not merely that I was a slave, and thus will-less in such matters, and that I must obey, and with perfection, and such, but rather that I felt a fulfillment, a calmness, a contentment.

I felt metal anklets, linked, being snapped about my ankles.

"The knots, Master," said the brunette.

The pit master rose from the table and undid the ropes tying my hands before my body.

Metal wristlets, linked, were snapped about my wrists. These wristlets, by a length of chain, were attached to the anklets.

The rope tying my collar to the ring was undone.

I felt a metal collar clasped about my neck, over the kajira collar.

This collar was attached to the same chain that ran from the linkage of the anklets to the linkage of the wristlets. My ankles, wrists, and neck, then, were on a common chain. I was in sink.

I knelt as the pit master checked the locks. Then he returned to his work at the table.

I looked up at the brunette.

How I had yielded to the beast!

But I saw no reproach in her eyes.

How grateful I was!

She must understand how helpless I was! Not only that I was a legal slave, but that I was, undeniably, in my body, my mind, my needs, a rightful slave, a full and natural slave.

It is what I am, I thought. I cannot help myself! Be kind to me!

But in her eyes there was not the least reproach. I was grateful for this, for resentment, pettiness, jealousy, and competition are common among slaves. In a sense, are we not all rivals for the favor of masters? "May I speak, Mistress?" I whispered.

"Of course," she said.

"Do you know my name?" I whispered.

"Yes," she said. "It is on your collar." She might have just seen it.

She might have noted it, earlier even when the pit master, seemingly idly curious, before beating me, he not having concerned himself with the matter before, examined the collar. She could read then. I could not read. How low I was!

"It is a state collar, is it not?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Do not tell me my name," I said.

"No one then, truly, has told it to you yet?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Have no fear," she said. "I have no wish to be thrown to sleen.”

A girl's name, you see, if one is permitted to her, is given to her by men. It is, thus, from men that she must first hear it spoken. If there should be some inadvertence or error in these matters, she will be given a new name, one she will hear first from masters. A girl, such as the brunette, who knew my name would be careful not to be the first to speak it to me. Afterwards, of course, it does not matter. The name is then as familiar and common as that of any animal.

"Cage her," said the pit master.

"On all fours," said the brunette.

I went to all fours, in my chains.

The brunette went to the small cage and opened the gate. She indicated the entrance. "Enter the cage," she said.

I crawled to the cage and entered it.

The gate was shut behind me.

I turned about, on my knees, inside. I put my head down, in the collar, when the pit master came to check the closure of the cage. Then he went back to the table.

I then lifted my head. I knelt there, behind the bars. The cage had a floor and ceiling of solid iron. The four sides, on the other hand, were open, save for the bars. The bars were stout and closely set They must have been an inch in diameter and some three inches apart. I put my face against them. I grasped two of them. There was a tiny clink of chain from the linkage on my wristlets, they touching the bars. I looked up at the brunette. One cannot begin to stand upright in such a cage, nor can one extend one's body fully within it. Within it one must kneel, or sit, or lie, one's body curled up.

"Mistress," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"Why am I here?”

"For the same reason as the rest of us," she said. "It is the will of men.”

"But what am I to do?" I asked.

"What you are told," she said.

"Are there others here?" I asked.

"Others?”

"Men," I said.

"Yes," she said.

I regarded her, plaintatively.

"Guards," she said.