Quarry of gor, p.4
Quarry of Gor, page 4
There was silence in the tiers.
“But do not the pathetic sluts of that sorry world have something, after all, to commend them, their exquisite features, their smooth, cascading, glossy hair, their pretty necks, waiting for the collar, their soft shoulders, their bellies and breasts, their thighs and ankles, their luscious bodies so fit for ropes and straps, their limbs for manacles and shackles? See the miserable creature at my feet. Despise her, if you will, and appropriately, but note that she has the curves of a slave. She is obviously a natural-born slave. On her sorry world such natural-born slaves are often permitted to run free, even to their misery, and the misery of men, for there are few masters to take them in hand. But, on this world, we repair such an oversight. We do with them what should be done with them. We mark them, fit them with collars, and sell them!”
“Good!” called several men from the tiers.
“Put her up for auction!” called a man.
I shuddered, my head down, my neck in its collar, on all fours, in the sawdust.
“In a moment,” called the auctioneer. “But first let me call to your attention a hitherto unnoted fact, one perhaps implicit, to be sure, but not yet made explicit. For millions of women on the sorry world from which this stripped slave was extracted, their world is a sexual wasteland, a sexual desert. They are miserable with unsatisfied need. Where men may not be men, how can women be women? They would kneel and offer food and drink to a master, and there is no master. They would kneel and clasp the knees of a master, and there is no master. They would kneel and lick the thigh of a master, and there is no master. They would kneel and press their lips to the feet of a master, and there is no master. And then some, like this shapely beast at my feet, are brought to Gor, for your interest and pleasure. No longer are they in a sexual wasteland or desert. They are now helpless, rightless slaves, vendible beasts who must now serve and please their masters, immediately, unquestioningly, and wholly, in the thousand delicious ways of the abject slave. So, noble masters, consider buying a barbarian. They are cheap. I do not think you will be disappointed!” The auctioneer then turned to me and touched my left shoulder with his whip. “Get up,” he whispered, “and be a slave.”
“I cannot get up, Master,” I said. “My legs will not hold me.”
“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said. The repetition of a command can be a cause for discipline.
I struggled to my feet, and stood unsteadily. I looked out, and up, into the darkened tiers. I could see some faces clearly, in the lower rows. And I knew there were others here and there in the tiers, some even with their own slave, kneeling beside them.
“Stand straight, softly, be graceful,” said the auctioneer.
“What am I bid?” he called to the crowd.
I was being sold!
My head began to swim, and the chamber seemed to turn about me, and I had the brief sense that I was losing consciousness, and then I must have fallen.
I do not know how long I was unconscious, but I suspect that it was only a short time.
I cried out in misery, shocked, chilled, rudely jarred awake by a drenching of chilled water. I gasped, and raised my head a little. I was in a puddle of water, lying in the concavity of the block, and much damp sawdust clung to my body.
Looking up, I saw that he had hooked the whip on his belt.
His right hand was then free.
“Get up,” I was told.
Then I screamed with pain as I was jerked by the hair, up to a kneeling position. The kneeling position is very stable.
I cried out, again.
“Please do not hurt a poor slave, Master,” I begged.
“This is your first sale, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I whimpered, wincing.
“Do you think that that is an acceptable excuse for doing poorly on the block?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Do you wish to be whipped,” he asked.
“Please do not whip me,” I begged.
He was clearly annoyed, but I did not think he would whip me. Such men are alert to a variety of cues, verbal and behavioral, and I am sure he realized I had no intent to be recalcitrant or uncooperative. Few Gorean masters will gratuitously strike a slave, or punish one who honestly cannot help herself, and would, if she could, obey and be pleasing. Had I attempted to deceive him, however, or if I had tried to present a response which was not genuine, I am sure I would have felt the leather, and well. Body language, or something subtle, a tone of voice, or such, I am sure, would have given me away. Still I knew he was not pleased, and this frightened me. Too, my scalp burned, and his hand was still fixed tightly in my hair.
“Noble masters,” called the auctioneer, turning to the crowd. “This is, I gather, this item’s first sale. Perhaps she is reluctant to be sold. Perhaps she does not truly understand that she is being sold. Surely we shall think little of her fainting before you. It is unlikely she would do so again. Have we not seen even more deplorable behavior, upon occasion, in the first, or even the second, sale of a former Gorean free woman, taken, say, in a slave raid, or acquired as a part of the loot of a fallen city? If a first sale can be surprising, or trying, even for a mere barbarian, one clearly born for, and destined for, the collar, what must it be for a former Gorean free woman, deprived of her Home Stone, deprived of her robes, deprived of her privileges, honors, and dignities, finding herself stripped, branded, and collared, exhibited as the slave she would be, before strangers, and enemies? Might they not faint, lose their water, disgorge their gruel, and such? I fear so. Have we not seen it happen, amusing to the tiers but, I assure you, unpleasant on the block.” He then, to my relief, removed his hand from my hair. I went to all fours, my head down. How small I felt, at his feet.
“Andar,” he said, and his man, the one who had been at the right side of the block, to my left, as I had climbed the stairs, ascended to the surface of the block, and hooked his own whip to his belt. The auctioneer, to my apprehension, now removed the whip from his own belt. The whip, coiled, of course, may be used to call attention to one feature or another of the displayed merchandise.
The fellow called Andar lifted me to my feet, and, standing behind me, holding me by the upper arms, held me before the crowd.
“Master,” I said to the auctioneer, “I am stronger now. I can stand.”
“Can you follow my verbal commands?” asked the auctioneer.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Stand straight, softly, gracefully, as a slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
There was a murmur of interest from the tiers.
I suddenly realized that I was desirable. It was not as on Earth, when I knew I was pretty, or when I caught a young man furtively looking at me. This was different. I now realized that I was truly desirable, as an object, a commodity, as a slave. How real that was! I suddenly realized that I had worth, as a domestic beast, and that men might pay for me, as one might, for a dog or horse.
“You are Zia, are you not?” asked the auctioneer. My name had been mentioned by the slaver’s scribe before the sale, with my measurements, my collar size, my ankle-ring size, and such.
“If it pleases Master,” I said.
Slaves, as other animals, may be named, if named, as the masters might wish.
“You are a slave, are you not?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said, “I am a slave.”
“Are you ready to be sold?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Do you beg to be sold?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered, “I beg to be sold.”
“What am I offered for this lithe, sleek, nicely curved, lovely barbarian beast, new to her collar, fresh from the barbarian world?” called the auctioneer. “Is she not a splendid catch? Consider her! Regard the beauty of her face, the fineness of her features, her sweet throat, encircled closely with locked metal, the dark, brown hair, too short now, but it will grow, the loveliness of her shoulders, the softness of her bosom, the narrowness of her waist, the width of her love cradle!”
“Twenty tarsk-bits, tarsk-bits of Brundisium!” called a voice from the tiers.
I had been bid upon, or at least I supposed so.
I did not understand the nature of the bid. Our instructresses had not informed us of such things.
There was laughter.
“A pleasant joke, Master,” said the auctioneer.
“She is only a barbarian!” called another fellow from the tiers.
“Even so, Master,” responded the auctioneer, “one would offer more for a she-tarsk.”
“She is a she-tarsk!” called a voice from the tiers.
“Scarcely,” said the auctioneer.
“All barbarians are she-tarsks,” called a woman’s voice from the tiers.
“Yes!” called more than one woman from the tiers.
I did not know what a tarsk was.
“Twenty-one tarsk-bits of Brundisium!” called another voice.
“Let us be realistic, noble masters,” said the auctioneer.
“Twenty-two Brundisium tarsk-bits,” called a fellow, laughing.
Some of the women in the tiers laughed. These were free women, thoroughly robed, most veiled. There were few women in the tiers, perhaps fifteen or sixteen free women, and perhaps four or five slaves, who were silent, who knelt at the knees of their masters. I wondered if it were safe for free women to attend a night auction in the vicinity of the wharves. Presumably they were accompanied, even perhaps, waiting outside, by armed men.
“The House of Anesidemus,” said the auctioneer, “as you are doubtless aware, places no reserves on its merchandise, but, if it is not satisfied with any bid, it reserves the right to bid in its own name.”
This announcement was met with hisses and the angry stamping of feet.
“So,” said the auctioneer, “let us return to the sale.”
“Ninety copper tarsk-bits, coinage of Brundisium,” called a man.
“I have a bid of ninety tarsk-bits, of Brundisium,” said the auctioneer. “Do I hear a copper tarsk, a copper tarsk?”
“A copper tarsk!” called a man.
“A copper tarsk, fifty,” called another fellow.
In Brundisium, a great mercantile port, there were a hundred tarsk-bits to the copper tarsk. This allowed a subtlety, a delicacy and precision, of bidding, particularly for smaller articles. The values of Gorean currency, particularly to the annoyance of the caste of merchants, varies considerably from city to city, with respect to weight, to purity of metal, and even denomination. In many cities for example, there were only four or eight tarsk-bits to a copper tarsk. This is apparently indexed to the ease of dividing a round coin into equal parts. The tarsk-bits of Brundisium, however, were individual tiny copper coins, either small disks or tiny droplets of copper. Given such vagaries, and the shaving of coins, particularly those of more precious metals, scales are often used in transactions, certainly in a polity’s “Streets of Coins.” Fortunes, I have been told, have been made in speculating on the shifting, comparable values of these diverse coinages. The double tarn, of gold, minted in the city of Ar, is usually accepted as the single, most valuable coin on Gor. Many cities in the northern hemisphere, even cities hostile to Ar, supposedly, privately, use Ar’s “Gold Tarn,” the single Tarn, to rank, standardize, and value their own currency. Unfortunately this coin, bearing only, by proud tradition, the simple sign of Ar, is easy to imitate. So one understands the importance of scales, and, as one might expect, the occasional charges and countercharges having to do with the accuracy of the weights used to balance the scales. Weights are standardized against official weights, so to speak, housed in a merchant fortress in the vicinity of the Sardar Mountains. Merchants may have access to this fortress four times a year, during the great Sardar fairs. Similar provisions are made for standardizing liquid and linear measures. Another important, well-known coin, is the golden stater of Brundisium. In the southern hemisphere, the coinage of Turia plays a similar role to that of Ar in the north.
“I have a copper tarsk, fifty,” called the auctioneer.
“Is that not enough, in Brundisium, for a red-silk barbarian?” asked a fellow.
That I was “red-silk” had been made clear when my hair and eye color, my measurements, my lineaments, and such, prior to my exhibition, had been made clear to the crowd by the slaver’s scribe at his desk below the block. On my former world, Earth, my sexual experiences, few as they had been, and they had been very few, had been disappointing. I had searched for a master, and I had found none. No one would see my slave and command it. I dared not reveal it, lest I be ridiculed and scorned. How miserable it is to be a slave in a world without masters. Once I even refused to remove my gown to see if one fellow, such a weakling, would not slap me for my insolence and tear it from me. But he did not. Once I pretended to slip before a fellow of Earth, and, for a moment, I was on my knees before him, looking up, into his eyes, but he did not hold me in place, but hastened, red-faced and embarrassed, to lift me to my feet, as though I had actually fallen. He did not hold my hair and press my lips to his feet; he did not put me to my belly and place his foot on my back, so that I could not rise. Another fellow I had intrigued with the prospect of sex and then, when we were alone, I demurred, seemingly unaccountably, in amusement, and told him to leave. I was standing imperiously before the bed, on which, unmistakably, lay a white, silk scarf and some coils of light rope. He did not strip and gag me, and fasten me across the bed for his pleasure. Sometimes, in the gentle, diffident arms of one man or another, I would pretend, secretly, to be a slave, but I knew they were not the arms of a master. When we had concluded our little encounter, so empty and meaningless, we would go our separate ways. I would not be chained to the foot of his bed, a bowl to the side. If I were not satisfactory, I would not be whipped. I tried to chastise myself for my needs, and tried to deny my heart. What more could I have done to try to conform to the rules others would, against my will, attempt to impose on me? There is little joy in denying and belittling oneself, in trying to lie to oneself. I do not think one garment, one pair of shoes, one thought, one life, fits all. Lonely, and then angry, frustrated, arrant, and contemptuous, I had come to despise the males of Earth as weaklings, as little more than docile, pliant sources of gifts, books, flowers, candy, jewelry, free dinners, free entertainment, and such. I knew I was attractive, and that pleased me. Surely a woman is not without power, unless, perhaps, there is a collar on her neck. And then, soon, in my continuing contempt for the men of Earth, their softness and timidity, their fear of being men, their treason to their very nature, I began to enjoy arousing hopes I had no intention of satisfying, taunting the weaklings and fools with prospects of gratification which would inevitably fail to materialize. I enjoyed making them miserable. But then, of course, there was no collar on my neck. Now I was a slave on Gor! These brutes, the masters, whether I willed it or not, had put the beginnings of slave fires in my belly, and I sensed they would rage, and grow, inevitably, continuously. We, as slaves, become the pathetic, helpless prisoners of our needs. They make us so. They would have us so. Already I was ready to crawl on my belly to a master, begging for his touch. I recalled the other slaves, thrashing and weeping in their cells and kennels. No longer did I have dignity, prestige, respect, or independence. I was now only a needful, collared slave.
“Behold the object now for sale,” called the auctioneer, “a comely red-silk barbarian! Note the sweetness of her thighs, the curvature of her calves, and the slimness of her ankles, ready for the clasping of your shackles. Imagine her heeling you in the street, hurrying behind you, barefoot, in her tiny tunic, your collar on her neck, kneeling at your side, on her leash, lying beside you when you read!”
“A copper tarsk, seventy!” called a fellow.
“Why not a tiny yellow tunic?” said the auctioneer. “Yellow would go nicely with her dark hair.”
“A copper tarsk, eighty!” called a man.
“This little beast,” said the auctioneer, “has not yet had a private master. Which of you would you like to be her first master? Which of you would like to be the first to teach this barbarian what it is to be a slave?”
