Magicians of Gor Read online

  I continued to watch the female, the sign about her neck, dance. No, I said to myself, it would not do to bring her into peril. Then I chastised myself for weakness. One would not wish to purchase her, of course, because she might constitute an encumbrance. Still, she was attractive. Even as I considered the matter she received a sign from a fellow, her master, I suppose, and she tore open her silk, and danced even more plaintively before one fellow and then another. She seemed frightened. I suspected she had been warned as to what might befall her if she should prove unsuccessful in securing a buyer. I saw her glance at her master. His gaze was stern, unpitying. She danced in terror.

  "Ahh," said Marcus. "Look!"

  He was indicating the slim blonde, she with the chained wrists, whose dance before her master seemed clearly placatory in nature. She had perhaps begged to be permitted to appear before him in the dancing circle, that she might attempt to please him. He had perhaps acquiesced. I recalled he had thrust her into the circle, perhaps in this generously according her, though perhaps with some impatience, and misgivings, this chance to make amends for some perhaps unintentional, miniscule transgression. Perhaps his paga had not been heated to the right temperature. Women look well in collars.

  "See?" asked Marcus.

  I wondered how long he could hold out.

  "I can do that, Master," sobbed Phoebe, trying to stand very still.

  The blonde was now on her knees, extending her hands to her master, piteously, all this with the music in her arms, her shoulders, her head and hair, her belly.

  "Aii!" said Marcus.

  Her master seized her from the circle then and hurried her from the light, her head down, held by the hair, at his left hip. This is a common leading position for female slaves being conducted short distances. As the master holds her hair in the left hand, it leaves his right hand, commonly the sword hand, free.

  Another woman was thrust into the circle.

  I thought the blonde had very successfully managed to divert the master's wrath, assuming that was what she was up to. The only whip she need fear now, muchly, at any rate, would seem to be the "whip of the furs." To be sure, she might be given a stroke or two, if only to remind her that she was a slave.

  "Look," said Marcus, interested.

  I saw that the girl with the sign about her neck had taken a leaf from the book of the blonde, and cunningly, too. She, too, was now on her knees, advertising her charms, attesting mutely to the joys and delicacies that would be attendant upon her ownership. I saw her owner look at her, startled. She, of course, did not now see him. I gathered he had never seen her in just this fashion or way before, her silk parted, writhing on her knees, kissing, lifting her hands, her head moving, her hair flung about. "I will buy her!" called a fellow. "How much do you want?" inquired another, eagerly. Her master rushed into the circle. "Close your silk, lascivious slut!" he ordered her. Swiftly she clutched the silk about her, startled, confused, kneeling small before him. He looked about, angrily. He jerked her by one arm to her feet. She struggled to keep her silk closed with the other hand. "She is not for sale!" he said. He then drew her rapidly from the light, into the darkness outside the circle. We heard a tearing of silk. There was much laughter.

  "He did not know what he owned!" laughed a man.

  "No!" agreed another.

  I guessed that the possession of such a wench might not, after all, even in my situation, have been too burdensome. After all, one could always have gotten a great deal of good out of her, and a great deal of work. On the other hand, she was no longer for sale.

  "I can do that," said Phoebe.

  "Nonsense," said Marcus.

  "I can!" she said.

  Marcus and I watched the women in the circle. I think perhaps about two Ihn passed. Perhaps one might have wiped one's nose, quickly, in the interval.

  "Well," said Marcus, wearily, "it is getting late."

  "It is still early, Master," said Phoebe.

  "I think that I shall return to the tent," said Marcus.

  "A good idea," I said. "But I think I shall dally a bit outside."

  "Oh?" said Marcus, concerned, but, I think, not excessively disappointed.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Perhaps we will return to the tent now," said Marcus to Phoebe.

  "As Master wishes," she said, lightly. I thought she had carried that off rather well.

  "I thought you wished to return to the tent," said Marcus.

  "I am a slave," she said. "I must obey my master."

  "Do you not want my touch?" asked Marcus.

  "I am a slave," she said. "I must submit to the will of my master."

  "I see," said Marcus.

  Phoebe moved her lovely little head in the leash and collar, and looked off into the distance. "I am at your disposal," she said.

  "I am well aware of that," said Marcus.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  Phoebe's mistake, of course, was to look away. In this fashion she did not anticipate Marcus' touch. Too, it was firm, uncompromising, and not soon released. "Ohh!" she cried.

  Marcus regarded her.

  She, eyes wide, looked at him, startled, reproachfully, unbelievingly. She was half bent over. The leash dangled down from her collar.

  She then began to tremble. Her small wrists pulled at the binding fiber, pinioning her hands behind her. Then, not even daring to move, she stood, partly bent from the waist, before him.

  "Please," she whispered. "Please, my Master!"

  "Perhaps you can move interestingly on your knees?" he said.

  "Yes!" she said. "Anything! Anything!"

  "And on your back and stomach?" he asked.

  "Yes!" she said.

  "And your sides?" he asked.

  "Yes!" she said.

  "Perhaps you desire to do these things," he said.

  "Yes," she said. "Yes!"

  "Perhaps you will be bound," he said.

  "Yes, Master!" she said. "Bind me!"

  It is common to bind slave girls.

  "Do you have any petitions, any supplications?" inquired Marcus.

  "Take me to the tent!" she begged. "Take me to the tent!"

  He regarded her.

  "I beg your touch, my Master!" she gasped.

  "Oh?" he said.

  "I beg it! I beg it! I beg it, my Master," she wept.

  "Slut of Cos!" snarled Marcus suddenly.

  "Your slave, only your slave, Master!" she wept.

  He then, angrily, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, her head to the rear. It is in this fashion that slaves are commonly carried. I saw her eyes for a moment, wild, but frightened, and grateful. Then he had sped with her from the place.

  "A hot little vulo," said a man.

  "Quite so," said a man.

  "She could light a fire," said another.

  "I wonder what he wants for her," said another.

  "I do not think she is for sale," I said.

  We then returned our attention to the dancing circle. New women entered it upon occasion, as others were withdrawn. There were now some ten to fifteen slaves in the circle. How beautiful are women!

  "How disgusting," said a free woman, nearby. I had not noticed her standing there until now.

  "Begone, slut!" said a peasant.

  The free woman gasped, and hurried away. Peasants are not always tolerant of gentlewomen. To be sure, they do not always object to them when they come into their possession, as, say, they might after the fall of a city, or if one, say, has been captured and deliberately sold to them, perhaps by some male acquaintance, for one reason or another. Indeed, I suspect the hardy fellows upon occasion rather enjoy owning such elegant women, women who are likely in their loftiness to have hitherto disparaged or despised their caste. It is pleasant to have them in ropes, naked at their feet. Sometimes they are asked if they rejoice to now be owned by peasants. If they respond negatively they are beaten. If they respond affirmatively they are also beaten, for lying. Quickly then will the
women be taught the varied labors and services of the farm. Interestingly these women, under the domination of their powerful masters, often become excellent farm slaves. Sometimes they are even permitted to sleep in the hut, at their masters' feet.

  "That is an excellent dancer there," said a fellow.

  "Yes," I said.

  "I think she has auburn hair," said another fellow. It was difficult to tell in the light.

  "Yes," said another.

  Auburn hair is highly prized in the slave markets. I recalled the slave, Temione, now, as I understood it, a property of Borton, a courier for Artemidorus of Cos. Her hair was a marvelous auburn. Too, by now, it would have muchly grown out, after having been shaved off some months ago, for catapult cordage.

  I noted that the free female had gone a bit about the outside of the circle, and now stood there, back a bit from the circle, where there was a space between some men. From that position of vantage she continued to watch the dancers. This puzzled me. If she found such beauty, such sensuous liberation, such fulfilling joy, such reality, such honesty, the marvelousness of owned women before their masters, offensive or deplorable, why did she watch? What did she see there in the circle, I wondered. What so drew her there, what so fascinated her there? Like most free women she was perhaps inhibited, frustrated and unhappy. She continued to gaze into the circle. Perhaps she saw herself there, clad in a rag and collar, if that, moving, turning with the others, like them so beautiful, so much alive, so vulnerable, so helpless, so owned. Does her master lift his whip? She must then redouble her efforts to please, lest she be lashed. I supposed that she, even there, standing so seemingly still, pretending to be a mere observer, could feel the dance in her body, in its myriad incipient movements, tiny movements in her legs, in her belly, in her body, in herself, in the wholeness of her womanhood. Perhaps she wished for her robes to be torn off and to be collared, and to be thrust, in her turn, into the circle. I did not doubt but what she would be zealous to please. Indeed, she had best be! But how strange that she, a free woman, would even linger in this place. Perhaps free women are incomprehensible. A Gorean saying came to mind, that the free woman is a riddle, the answer to which is the collar.

  "Away!" called a fellow, who had turned about and seen the free woman. He waved his arm, angrily. "Away!" he said. The free woman then turned about and left the vicinity of the circle, hurriedly. I felt rather sorry for her, but then, I thought, surely the fellow was right, that the circle, or its vicinity, was no place for a free female. It was a place, rather, for the joy of masters and their slaves. Similarly, the vicinity of such places, though I did not think it would be so in this camp, at this particular time, can be dangerous for free women. For example, sometimes free women attempt, sometimes even disguising themselves, to spy on the doings of masters and slaves. For example, they might attempt, perhaps disguised as lads, to gain entrance to paga taverns. And often such entrance is granted them but later, to their horror, they may find themselves thrown naked to the dancing sand and forced to perform under whips. Similarly if they attempt to enter such establishments as pretended slaves they may find themselves leaving them by the back entrance, soon to become true slaves. In many cities, such actions, attempting to spy on masters and slaves, disguising oneself as a slave, garbing oneself as a slave, even in the supposed secrecy of one's own compartments, lingering about slave shelves and markets, even exhibiting an interest in, or fascination with, bondage, can result in a reduction to bondage. The theory is apparently that such actions and interests are those of a slave, and that the female who exhibits them should, accordingly, be embonded.

  I noted a fellow approaching the circle, who had behind him, heeling him, an unusually lovely slave.

  "Teibar!" called more than one man. "Teibar!"

  I have, more than once, I believe, alluded to the hatred of free women for their embonded sisters, and to how they profess to despise them and hold them in contempt. Indeed, they commonly treat such slaves with what seems to be irrational and unwonted cruelty. This is particularly the case if the slave is beautiful, and of great interest to men. I have also suggested that this attitude of the free female toward the slave seems to be motivated, paradoxically enough, by envy and jealousy. In any event, slave girls fear free women greatly, as they, being mere slaves, are much at their mercy. Once in Ar, several years ago, several free women, in their anger at slaves, and perhaps jealous of the pleasures of masters and slaves, entered a paga tavern with clubs and axes, seeking to destroy it. This is, I believe, and example, though a rather extreme one, of a not unprecedented sort of psychological reaction, the attempt, by disparagement or action, motivated by envy, jealousy, resentment, or such, to keep from others pleasures which one oneself is unable, or unwilling, to enjoy. In any event, as a historical note, the men in the tavern, being Gorean, and thus not being inhibited or confused by negativistic, antibiological traditions, quickly disarmed the women. They then stripped them, bound their hands behind their back, put them of a neck rope, and, by means of switches, conducted them swiftly outside the tavern. The women were then, outside the tavern, on the bridge of twenty lanterns, forced to witness the burning of their garments. They were then permitted to leave, though still bound and in coffle. Gorean men do not surrender their birthright as males, their rightful dominance, their appropriate mastery. They do not choose to be dictated to by females. The most interesting portion of this story is its epilogue. In two or three days the women returned, mostly now barefoot, and many clad now humbly in low-caste garments. Some had even wrapped necklaces or beads about their left ankle. They begged permission to serve in the tavern in servile capacities, such as sweeping and cleaning. This was granted to them. At first the slaves were terrified of them but then, when it became clear that the women were not only truly serving humbly, as serving females, but that they now looked timidly up to the slaves, and desired to learn from them how to be women, and scarcely dared to aspire to their status, the fears of the slaves subsided, at least to a degree. Indeed, it was almost as though each of them, though perhaps a low girl in the tavern rosters, and much subject to the whip, had become "first girl" to some free woman or other, a rare turnabout in the lives of such collared wenches. Needless to say, in time, the free women, learning the suitable roles and lessons of womanhood, for which they had genetic predispositions, and aided by their lovely tutors, were permitted to petition for the collar. It was granted to them. It seems that this was what they had wanted all the time, though on a level not fully comprehensible to them at the beginning. One does not know what has become of them for, in time, as one might expect, they being of Ar, they were shipped out of the city, to be disposed of in various remote markets.

  "Greetings, Teibar!" called a fellow.

  "Hail, Teibar!" called another.

  From the latter manner of greeting, I gathered this Teibar might be excellent with the staff, or sword. Such greetings are usually reserved for recognized experts, or champions, at one thing or another. For example, a skilled Kaissa player is sometimes greeted in such a manner. I studied Teibar. I would have suspected his expertise to be with the sword.

  "His Tuka is with him," said a fellow.

  "Tuka, Tuka!" called another, rhythmically.

  'Tuka' is common slave name on Gor. I have known several slaves with that name.

  The girl who had come with Teibar, Tuka, I supposed, now knelt at his side, her back straight, her head down. Her collar, like most female slave collars, particularly in the northern hemisphere, was close fitting. There would be no slipping it. I had no doubt that this Teibar was the sort of fellow who would hold his slave, or slaves, in perfect discipline.

  "Tuka, Tuka!" called another fellow.

  "She is extremely pretty," I said.

  "She knows something of slave dance," said a fellow, licking his lips.

  "Oh?" I said.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Tuka, Tuka, Tuka!" called more men.

  The fellow, Teibar, looked down at his
slave, who looked up at him, and quickly, timidly, kissed at his thigh. How much she was his, I thought.

  "Tuka, to the circle!" called a fellow.

  "She is a dancer," said a man.

  "She is extraordinary," said another.

  "Put Tuka in the circle!" called a fellow.

  "Tuka, Tuka!" called another.

  Teibar snapped his fingers once, sharply, and the slave leaped to her feet, standing erect, her head down, turned to the right, her hands at her sides, the palms facing backward. She might have been in a paga tavern, preparing to enter upon the sand or floor. I considered Teibar's Tuka. She had an excellent figure for slave dance.

  "Clear the circle!" called a fellow.

  The other dancers hurried to the side, to sit and kneel, and watch.

  I considered the slave. She was beautiful, and well curved.

  Teibar gestured to the circle.

  "Ahh!" said men.

  "She moves like a dancer," I said.

  "She is a dancer," said a fellow.

  I considered the girl. She now stood in the circle, relaxed, yet supple and vital, her wrists, back to back, over her head, her knees flexed.

  "She is a bred passion slave," I said, "with papers and a lineage going back a thousand years."

  "No," said a man.

  "Where did he pick her up," I asked, "at the Curulean?"

  "I do not know," said a fellow.

  I supposed she was perhaps a capture. I did not know if a fellow such as this Teibar, who did not seem of the merchants, or rich, could have afforded a slave of such obvious value. A fellow, for example, who cannot afford a certain kaiila might be able to capture it, and then, once he has his rope on its neck, and manages to make away with it, it is his mount.

  "Aii!" cried a fellow.

  "Aii!" said I, too.

  Dancing was the slave!

  "She is surely a bred passion slave," I said. "Surely the blood lines of such an animal go back a thousand years!"

  "No! No!" said a man, rapt, not taking his eyes from the slave.

  I regarded her, in awe.

  "She is trained, of course," said a man.