Quarry of gor, p.2
Quarry of Gor, page 2
“Some of you,” said the man, continuing in English, “may not understand what has been done to you, what you now are. That is interesting. Does the fact that you have been stripped, as the animals you are, mean nothing to you? You have been branded and your necks are collared. Can you not suspect the meaning of that? You are fastened in place, at the pleasure of others, helplessly. Is that so hard to understand? We have, hitherto, refrained from making explicit what you now are. To be sure, in the language, you have already, each of you, pronounced what you are, but, of course, you may not speak the language, and thus did not know what you openly and publicly proclaimed yourself to be. Perhaps some of you are still in doubt. Perhaps some of you, the more stupid, do not know what you are. I shall then allow you to draw an inference.”
We looked at one other, apprehensively.
“In this world,” he said, “the only women who may be whipped are slave girls—”
And here, at the bare mention of the word ‘slave girls’, there were cries of dismay and protest, and whimpers of fear.
The chain shook with much agitation.
“In this world,” he said, continuing, “the only women, the only women, who may be whipped are slave girls, who may be whipped if and when, and as, the masters and mistresses may please.”
We looked wildly at one another.
We were then whipped.
If any of us had been in doubt, we now well knew what we were.
We were then released from the chain, our wrists were unbound, and we were put to all fours.
“It has happened to me,” I thought. “I am a slave.”
We were herded into another room where there was a long, trough-like opening in the floor. We were aligned, on all fours, facing this opening. Swills of gruel, from a bucket, were splashed into this opening. “Feed,” we were told. “Do not use your hands.” We put down our heads, and fed.
Our training had begun.
On the first night, clutching a thin, ragged blanket about me, lying on the stone floor of a cell, my left ankle chained to a ring, I tried to marshal the tumult in my mind, sort through a thousand perceptions, try to comprehend what had occurred, what had been done to me, what I now was. I thought, as earlier on my former world, that I should fight the collar, but I knew that it was a fight I could never win. I had not even been able to win that fight on my former world. The thoughts, the dreams and reveries, returned to me, persistently, irresistibly, again and again. I tried to be horrified, but failed. I tried to denounce myself, but was instead content. If I was so terrible a person, I did not care. It was what I was. On the other hand, it did not seem terrible to me. It seemed lovely to me, as it was what I was. Had I not yearned to belong, completely and absolutely, wholly and perfectly? Had I not longed to be owned; had I not longed for a master, one before whom I could kneel, his belonging, his naked collared slave? I wanted to serve selflessly. For one who is fittingly a slave, surely slavery is fitting. To me, bondage seemed reassuring, rewarding, appropriate, precious. I wanted to submit to a man, I wanted to have no choice but to do so. How fortunate then that I had been taken in hand, and now, helplessly, unable to alter my condition in any way, was a slave. I would be sold, as the goods I was. I hoped I would have a kind master. Does not every animal hope that? But, too, I wanted a master who would own me uncompromisingly, a master to whom I could never be other than his slave. I did not wish to be whipped, but I wanted to be subject to his whip, and know that if I were not pleasing it would be used on me.
I lay there, on the stones, clutching the tiny blanket about me, in pain, miserable, my body aching, the chain heavy on my ankle, but I was not discontent. I was at last marked and collared. The searing brand had muchly stung, burning as it was applied and lifted, so routinely, so unmistakably and efficiently, but, in my weeping, there were mixed tears of joy. Any on this world, male or female, could now recognize me as what I was. I was no longer nothing. I was now something. I had an identity. No longer was I worthless. I now had value, as goods, as a property, however minimal that value might be. The collar, too, reassured me. How appropriate it was that it should be on me, not only displaying my bondage so clearly, and indisputably, but, as I had been given to understand, given the number and legend, proclaiming, or making public, to whom or what I belonged! How right a collar seemed on my neck! How pleased I was! I loved the collar! How I would strive to be a pleasing slave!
I shall not enter into the details of my training. Understand, of course, that it was the training of a female slave, having to do with the serving and pleasing of masters. We learned the kisses, and caresses, the kneelings, the rollings, and beggings, the obeisances, the floor movements of a property girl, and so much more. We learned to bathe and clothe men, to fetch on all fours, objects held in our teeth, sandals, a switch, a whip, a leash, or such. We were taught, even, something of slave dance, dances by means of which a slave hopes to please her master. For Ahn a day we were drilled in Gorean, taught by switch-bearing female slaves who cared little for barbarians. Mistakes were punished promptly by strokes and humiliations. We strove zealously to learn the language. We must. It was the language of our masters. We were highly intelligent, and did well. I was surprised to learn that the acquirers value intelligence in a woman highly, more so, I fear, than the men of Earth. Indeed, they would often sacrifice beauty for intelligence. An intelligent woman of course, makes a better slave. She is, for example, more aware of her own feelings and needs, and more alert to, and aware of, others, and so on, than a simpler woman. Also, having a far more sensitive body, she is much more responsive to punishment, which she will feel much more keenly than a more phlegmatic, duller woman, and will, accordingly, strive zealously, with all her intelligence, wit, beauty, and charm, to avoid it, by striving, to the best of her ability, to be fully pleasing to her master.
I suppose it must be pleasant for a man to own a beautiful woman, to have her in his collar and have absolute power over her, to be her absolute master, to have her at his feet, perhaps naked, perhaps in chains, desperate to please him, in all ways. In any event, Gorean men, the uncompromising, masterful brutes, acculturated so differently from the men of Earth, do not seem to object to this arrangement. I wonder if they understand, or care, for the feelings of their properties, their goods, if they are aware of, or care about, the interior life of the merchandise they have purchased, the joy a woman can find in bondage.
When the mistresses were satisfied, however grudgingly, we would be thrown food. We were taught personal hygiene, and cleanliness, perfumes and cosmetics, the stringing of jewelries, the affixing of bangles, bracelets, and beads, the draping of tunics, the binding on of a camisk, the subtleties of the ta-teera, or slave rag, seemingly so artless, and yet so cunning. We learned how to move attractively, how to walk, kneel, lie, and rise attractively, how to clothe ourselves attractively, even given the tiny garments we might be permitted, and how to strip ourselves attractively. The free woman may be stiff and clumsy; the slave, in movement, posture, and attitude, must be beautiful.
We must, too, become more aware of our surroundings, and their ambiences, of sunlight and shadow, of warmth and coolness, of air and moisture, of textures and surfaces, the feel of tiles or rugs to our knees, the feel of cloth on our bodies, however light or diaphanous, the sense of our body where it was bare, vulnerable, waiting to be touched or felt, the pinioning of shackles, the weight of chains, the different sense of encircling ropes or straps on our bodies, each rendering us helpless. Our senses, our skin, our bodies became alive, open to the richness and diversity of impinging sensation, so frequently unnoticed and neglected on our former world. The life of the female slave is a life of vitality and awareness, an awakened life, a sentient life, a sensuous life, a so-much-alive life! To be sure, clad as we were, when clad, it is easier to be aware of such things. In more than one way, one is more exposed to the world, to nature, and the reality in which one exists. Imagine the contrast between us, in the streets, clad as we might be, in our brief tunics and collars, and the scorning free women, resplendent in their robes and veils. How we, slaves, dread and fear them! How they hate us, how cruel they are to us! Who is to protect us from them, save our masters?
Please, Masters, protect us! Oh, Masters, please protect us!
We learned, too, personal deportment, deference, and suitable diction. All free men are addressed as “Master,” of course, and all free women as “Mistress.”
The slave is to be lovely, graceful, unobtrusive, and obedient.
Perhaps surprisingly we were also taught domestic tasks. Most masters have at most one slave, and she must keep the domicile for him. Accordingly we were taught a number of homely tasks, shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundering, ironing, sewing, the care of leather, and such, tasks fit for us, slaves, the least of women. Yet these tasks can be precious for us, as they are necessary and give us ways of pleasing our masters. We take great pride in giving our masters a clean, well-kept, attractive home. Indeed, if we do not, we will hear from his switch or whip!
There are many things which keep us as we are, slaves. We are branded and collared, and suitably clad, if clad. Such things keep us as we are. There is no mistaking us. Many other things, of course, keep us as we are, for example, markets and economics, law and custom. The slave is subject to many bonds, legal and personal, bonds both internal and external. Certainly she is no stranger to the obduracies of rope, chain, and leather. She is well held in her place, as a master may wish, say, at the foot of his couch, to a public chaining ring, and so on. What comfort and reassurance she finds on a chain! On the other hand, the bond which holds her most securely is her own need, aroused and enflamed. Nothing puts her more at a man’s feet than her own need. Men, in their cruelty, in their lack of concern for a slave, do things to her which make her ever more helplessly a slave. Ignoring her own feelings, even pleas, they do what they wish with her. They make her the victim of her own needs. They do not consult her or spare her. They do this to her, because they wish her so. In her vulnerable, helpless belly they enkindle incandescences, heats, and flames, which will then periodically, irresistibly, torment her, and make her ever more dependent on men.
When a woman is owned and collared she is no longer permitted to deny her emotions, her body, her blood, her appetites, her needs, her sex. She comes to realize that she is not really a social artifact, but something real, a woman, and, as a woman, a profoundly sexual creature.
And the most sexual of all women is the female slave. What other choice has she? What other choice does she want?
How helpless we are in a world in which we can be only what we are!
How this frees us to be what we are, needful slaves.
I am such, a needful slave.
I know I am in a collar.
I have learned my collar.
I love my collar.
But what fears and terrors it may hold!
Let me now begin my story.
It begins some months ago, in the coastal city of Brundisium.
Chapter Two
I am to be Sold
I was kneeling, naked, before him, the slaver’s man, outside the cage, my wrists thonged behind my back.
I could hear, as though from far off, the calls of the auctioneer, bids called down from the tiers, responses from the crowd.
“Kiss the whip,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, lifting my lips to the whip, kissing it.
As he did not remove the whip from before me, I moved my head to the side of the coil, and, eyes closed, pressed my check against it, lovingly. Then it was again at my lips, and I, again and again, tenderly, gratefully, kissed it. Then, looking up at him, into his eyes, I licked the coil, softly, again and again, beseechingly. Then he removed the implement, and looked to the side, to the ramp.
I was naked at his feet, bound.
He paid me no attention.
“May I speak, Master?” I said.
He was not looking at me.
“Yes,” he said.
“May I not be soon used?”
I had been denied the touch of a master for five days.
Some of the other slaves, none of them barbarians, for I was the only barbarian in this lot, who had been longer in their collars, had writhed in their cages, thrashing, whimpering, and begging. “They know well how to prepare us for our sale,” I thought. Had I been longer in the collar, I supposed I might have been as helpless as they.
“Perform well on the block,” he said.
“I shall try, Master,” I said.
How pleased I was to address men as “Master.” It seemed so right. I was so slight, and soft, compared to them. I was so much at their mercy! Too, of course, as a slave, I must address them as “Master,” and to me, in all legality, as well as in the order of nature, they were “Master.”
It was my first sale.
I hoped I would do well. Certainly I did not want to be whipped.
“Take your place in the line, on the ramp,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, rising, head down. The lowered head betokens submission.
Some girls, I knew, do not do well on the block, particularly in a first sale.
I hoped I would do well.
Perhaps they had not been sufficiently trained. Perhaps they had been brought to the market too soon, before they were ready. Sometimes a girl is brought to the block before she has fully learned her collar. Sometimes they are stiff, and wooden. Perhaps they think they are still free women. Sometimes they are half paralyzed, and cannot move, and can hardly stand. I hoped I would not be too terrified. There is deep sawdust on the block. It can come to one’s ankles. It is sometimes damp, and yellow. Bits of it can cling to one’s ankles and calves. Those who faint are dashed with cold water and prodded to their feet. Those who would fight, or struggle, or cry out, are hurled to the surface of the block and whipped. They are then, trembling, weeping, eager to obey, the auctioneer’s hand in their hair, yanked to their feet and exhibited.
A slaver’s man on the ramp unbound my hands.
“Thank you, Master,” I said.
I was unsteady. I was frightened. I hoped I would not fall.
I put my hand to my neck. The collar was there.
I knew the market was not a fine one, and it was night, and late in the season. At such a time, I did not think the crowd would be large. There are many such small markets, held at various times, almost casually, in Brundisium, a great sea port. Some women sold here were imported from what was called The World’s End, which was lands, or islands, across green, turbulent, mighty Thassa, the Sea. Others would doubtless be purchased for export to the Farther Islands, or, even beyond them, to the World’s End itself. I knew little of Gor. I knew only it would be done with me as masters might please.
I began to feel even more frightened.
I felt an impulse to turn about and run.
But to where might one run? I was naked, and collared, and branded. The society accepted, and wanted, slaves. I did not think I could have made it to the foot of the ramp without being seized by a slaver’s man. On the street, if I could reach it, I would be conspicuous, not even tunicked. My collar proclaimed the house which owned me. I would be noted, and apprehended, almost immediately. There is no escape for what I was, a Gorean slave girl.
“To the ramp, Adraste,” I heard, from behind me.
“Now there is a beauty,” said the slaver’s man on the ramp, he who had unbound my wrists.
I looked back, and gasped. Behind me, standing proudly, insolently, her hands still fastened behind her back, was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, dark-haired, green-eyed, olive-skinned, of medium height, excitingly figured. Her carriage bespoke not so much the supple, lithe beauty of the slave, so deliciously submissive, so aware of her collar, so hoping to please, as the arrogance of a free woman.
Why do not men make all women slaves, I wondered.
A slaver’s man, a bit lower on the ramp, freed her hands, and she rubbed her wrists, disdainfully.
“You may thank me for freeing you,” he said.
She tossed her head, looking away, and then she cried out, sharply, in pain. The massive hand of the slaver’s man was twisted in her hair, cruelly. Her head was pulled far back, her body bent backwards, almost in the “slave bow,” which so dramatically accentuates the excitements of a woman’s figure. “Thank you, Master!” she gasped. His hand tightened even more in her hair. She winced. “Thank you, Master,” she said, again. “Who thanks Master?” he asked. “What mere, worthless slave thanks Master?” “Adraste, the mere, worthless slave, thanks Master!” she whispered, tears bursting from her eyes, running down her cheeks. He then released her hair, and she straightened her body. “Keep your head down,” said the man, “and cross your wrists behind your body, and hold them there. You are bound by the master’s will.”
