Witness of Gor Read online

  Then I felt unutterably stupid. I put down my hands, and my head. I sank back to my heels, my hands, in their metal wristlets, on my thighs.

  I looked up at him, and then put down my head again.

  "I am not to be shown mercy, am I?" I whispered.

  "Not in the sense I suspect you have in mind," he said. "On the other hand, if you prove superb, truly superb, you might eventually be shown a certain mercy, at least in the sense of being permitted to live."

  I shuddered.

  "Position," he said, gently.

  I struggled back to the position which I had originally held.

  How stupid I felt. How stupid I had been!

  I was merely one on a chain. I had not been brought here, doubtless at some trouble and expense, to be shown mercy.

  How could I have acted as I did?

  I was stupid.

  I hoped I was not stupid.

  I hoped that he did not think I was stupid.

  Once again I felt his eyes upon me. Once again, I was being subjected to that calm, appraising scrutiny which had, but a moment before, so unnerved me.

  "Please," I begged him.

  He seemed to be regarding me as might one who is practiced in such appraisals, one who, in effect, might be noting points. But surely I should not be looked at in such a way. Surely only an animal might be looked at in such a way. But surely I was not an animal!

  My hands crept up from my sides, that I might, however inadequately, cover myself.

  "No," he said, gently.

  His tone, in its kindliness, its patience, suggested that he did not think me stupid, in spite of my earlier outburst. This, for some reason, gladdened me.

  Then I knelt as I had before, tears coursing down my cheeks, open, exposed, to his scrutiny.

  It was thus that he would have me before him, and thus it was that I would be before him.

  Before men such as these I understood that I would be choiceless in such matters.

  "You are supposedly quite vital," he said. "Is it true?"

  "I do not know," I said. I did not even understand the question. Or, perhaps, rather, I somehow, in some part of me, understood it only too well.

  Would he now think me stupid? I hoped not. I did not think I was stupid.

  He then continued his scrutiny.

  Somehow I wanted, desperately, doubtless dreadfully, for him to be pleased, genuinely pleased, with what he saw.

  Was I "vital"?

  What could that possibly mean?

  How would I know if I were vital or not?

  Had he touched me, I think I would have cried out, in helplessness.

  I could not help it if I was vital! It was not my fault! I could not help it!

  And at that time, of course, I did not understand how such things could be brought about, even in those initially inert or anesthetic, how such things could be, and would be, suspected, discovered, revealed, and released, and then nurtured, and enhanced, and developed and trained, until they, beginning as perhaps no more than almost unfocused restlessnesses, could, and would, become fervent, soft, insistent claims, and then, in time, implacably, inexorably, desperate, irresistible, pitiless needs, needs overriding and overwhelming, needs over which one had no control, needs in whose chains one is utterly helpless.

  I knelt there, then, as they would have me kneel. No longer did I dare to look at him. I kept my head down. Then, in a moment, he had apparently finished his examination, or, I feared, assessment. I did not know what might have been the results of his examination. He said something to another fellow. I did not know whether or not I was the subject of their discourse. Their tones, on the other hand, seemed approving. Both seemed pleased. To be sure, I did not know for certain whether or not I was the subject of their discourse. But it seemed to me likely that I was.

  I suspected then, if I was not mistaken, to my unspeakable relief, that I might have been found at least initially acceptable.

  I hoped that he who was nearest to me did not think I was stupid.

  I did not want him to think that.

  I was supposedly intelligent. I was, or had been, a good student. To be sure, the learning for which I might be held accountable here, if such learning there was to be, would doubtless be somewhat different from that to which I had been accustomed. The collar on my neck suggested that, and the chains on my limbs.

  I heard voices, ahead of me, and, too, some behind me.

  "You may lift your head," he said. His fellow had went further back, behind me.

  I lifted my head.

  The metal shackle on my neck had been put on from behind. There is variation in such things. Most often, particularly with items such as we, new to such things, and naive, it is done in that fashion, I suppose, to minimize the tendency to bolt. At other times, however, it is done from the beginning, particularly with individuals who realize clearly and fully what is going on, so that they may, in full specificity and anticipation, with full intellectual and emotional understanding, see it approach, one by one, and then find themselves, in turn, no different from others, secured within its obdurate clasp. The first, you see, might be frightened at its sight and, in their naiveté, be tempted to bolt; the second, on the other hand, might be terrified at its sight, but realizes that there is no escape.

  I heard the voices before and behind me.

  It was not for no reason that I had been permitted to lift my head.

  Here and there before me, and, I suppose, behind me, one or another of the men were thrusting whips to the lips of the items in the line. He who was nearest to me had such a device hooked on his belt. I looked on, disbelievingly. Then the fellow nearest me removed that effective, supple tool from his belt. I began to tremble. "Do not be afraid," he said, soothingly.

  I watched the device, as he loosened the coils a little, arranging them, in almost hypnotic fascination.

  "It will take but a moment," he said. "Do not be frightened."

  The coils were then but an inch from my lips. I looked up at him.

  "It was foolish of me to beg for mercy," I whispered. "I am sorry."

  "You will learn to beg, in rational contexts, even more piteously," he said. "Indeed, it will be important for you, to learn how to beg well. I do not mean merely that you will be taught to beg prettily, on your knees, and such things. I mean rather that upon certain occasions the only thing which might stand between you and the loss of your nose and ears, or life, may be the sincerity and excellence with which you can perform certain placatory behaviors."

  "I do not want you to think I am stupid," I said.

  He looked down at me. I could not read his expression.

  "I am not stupid," I said.

  "We shall see," he said.

  I heard words. I saw a whip thrust to the lips of the item before me in the line.

  A whip, too, was within an inch of my own lips.

  I drew back my head a little, and looked up at him.

  He did nothing.

  I did not know what to do. What was I supposed to do? I knew what I should do, what would be appropriate, what I wanted to do.

  "I do not know what to do," I said.

  "What a shy, timid thing you are," he said.

  "The others are speaking to us," I said. "You are not speaking to me. You are not telling me what to do."

  "What do you think you should do?" he asked.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "What do you want to do?" he asked.

  "No, no!" I said.

  "You will kiss, and lick, the whip," he said, "lovingly, lingeringly."

  I looked up at him, in terror.

  "Do you understand?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "First," he said, "the whip will come to you, and then, second, you will come to the whip."

  "I understand," I said.

  Surely I must resist this! I could feel the chain at my belly. I squirmed a little on my knees.

  He held the whip gently to my lips. He could, I rea
lized, have done this in a very different manner. He might have done it with brutality. He might, in effect, have struck me, perhaps bruising my lips, perhaps bloodying my mouth, forcing the soft inner surfaces of the lips back against the teeth. I might have tasted leather and my own blood. But he was very gentle. With incredible feelings, which I could scarcely comprehend, I kissed the whip, and then, slowly, licked it.

  He then removed the whip from my lips and held it a few inches before me.

  I was now, I gathered, to come to the whip!

  It is one thing, of course, to have such an implement forced upon you, giving you, in effect, no choice in the matter. It is quite another to expect you, of your own will, to approach it, and subject it to such intimate, tender ministrations. What did he think I was? I would do no such thing!

  I fought with myself. Part of me decried the very thought of coming to the whip. And part of me, some deep, fearful part, longed to do so.

  The deeper part of me was stronger.

  I leaned forward a little, and reached out with my lips for the whip. In ecstasy, I kissed it. I kissed it lovingly and lingeringly. I think that I had never been so happy, or so fulfilled, as in those moments. Then, with my tongue, again and again, softly, tenderly, lovingly, I licked it. I could taste the leather. I feared only the moment when it would be taken from me.

  Then the implement was drawn back.

  I looked up into the eyes of he who held the whip. I now knew what, in my heart, I was.

  He who had been nearest to me now stepped away. I, and, I gather, the others, were now, again, left kneeling, but now our heads might be up.

  We knelt there.

  We were now being given time to ourselves, I suppose, kneeling there, the chain at our belly, that we might understand, and appreciate, the momentousness, at least from our point of view, of what had occurred. Let us now, kneeling there, the chain at our belly, realize what we had done; let us now understand, and appreciate, how we might now be utterly different from what we had been before.

  I had kissed his whip, in giddy ecstasy!

  I was prepared to give myself to him, to love him!

  Had he so much as snapped his fingers I would have done anything!

  I heard, again, voices behind me. One or another of the men were coming down the line, approaching from behind. I did not look back. It is not so easy to do, held in the collar, both from before and behind. Too, I did not know if it were permitted. This seemed a place in which it might be well to be very clear on what was permitted, and what was not.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, coming from behind, I saw the coils of another whip. Then two men were rather before me, to the left of the chain. I looked up. Joy transfigured my countenance for one, with his whip, was he who had earlier been nearest to me, he to whose whip I had pressed timidly, then fervently, my moist lips, which whip, too, I had subjected to the tender, eager servile caresses of my tongue. But it was the other fellow's whip which was now held before me! It was not that of he who had hitherto been nearest to me! I looked up, dismayed, startled, at he who had been nearest to me. Surely it was his whip, and his whip alone, which I must kiss! He looked down at me. There seemed, for a moment, a sternness in his gaze. This terrified me. Quickly I put my head forward a little, as I could, in the chain and collar, and kissed, and licked, obediently, tears welling in my eyes, the other's whip. The two men then, paying me no more attention, went forward on the chain and, in turn, each of those before me kissed what, too, for them, must have been a second whip. I knelt there. I looked after he who had been nearest to me. I choked back a sob.

  In a few moments we again received instructions.

  "To all fours," I heard.

  I, and the others, went forward to all fours.

  We then waited there, on all fours, in the line. My tears fell to the stone flagging. My knees felt how hard it was, and my hands and toes. It had a rough texture. The corridor, it now seemed, was damp and cold. Too, it seemed dim now. The light from the lanterns flickered about. I became even more aware of my chains.

  I sobbed.

  I had kissed his whip. I had thought that it had meant everything, but it had meant nothing. But, of course, in meaning nothing, it had, in its way, in a sense more grievous and fearful than I had understood at the time, meant everything. The kissing of the whip had been impersonal. I was, apparently, in this place, one for whom it was appropriate to kiss the whip. That was the kind of which I was, whatever kind, in this place, that might be. The kissing of the whip had been impersonal. It made no difference whose whip it was. It could have been any whip. That was the lesson of the "second whip."

  After a time the men returned and, here and there, took positions along the line.

  He who had been nearest to me was now near to me again. This was doubtless because he could speak my language. He was a bit before me, and to my left. I looked up at him. What emotions I felt! I had kissed his whip! He put his finger over his lips, cautioning me to silence. The whip was now partly uncoiled, in his right hand.

  I put my head down.

  The chain attached to the ring on the front of my collar looped forward, and up, to the side of the item before me. The chain attached to the ring on the back of my collar, as the link turned, and given my position, lay diagonally over my back, behind my left shoulder, whence it descended, to loop up, to the front ring of the collar behind me.

  We waited.

  I felt the coils of his whip touch my back lightly. It seemed an idle movement, prompted perhaps by no impulse more profound than might tempt one, in passing time, to doodle on a sheet of paper with some writing implement, but, of course, any such touch shook me profoundly.

  I looked up at him.

  Again, with a gesture, I was cautioned to silence.

  Did he not know what that touch did to me?

  I put my head down again. There was a tiny sound of chain. I assumed that we, those of us in the line, would be soon removed from this place.

  I did not know what awaited me.

  Then, again, I felt the touch of the whip. This time, however, I did not sense that its movement was a completely idle one, little more, if anything, than doodling. Rather, it seemed somewhat more curious, more directed, as though it might have some object of inquiry in mind. It moved, gently, inquisitively, along the side of my body. I gasped. There was a sound of chain. I almost fell. I recovered my position. I shuddered. I moaned, a tiny, helpless sound. I looked up at him, wildly.

  "You do not have permission to speak," he said.

  I put my head down, again.

  Then I felt the leather again, in its gentle, exploratory fashion, here and there, touch my body.

  I did not dare to protest, of course. I was one, I gathered, to whom such things might be done.

  "Ohh!" I said, suddenly.

  "You may prove satisfactory," he mused. "You may survive."

  At that moment words were again spoken, farther ahead in the line. But there need not be exact translations for us all, for the import of these words was clear enough, from the actions of those first in the line, who understood, and from the movements of the whips in the hands of the men, gesturing forward.

  I heard the slack in the chains being taken up. I saw those before me, farther down the line, begin to move.

  "Keep your head down," he said.

  I could not forget the feel of the whip, its touch, upon my body.

  He who had been nearest to me was now back somewhere, back beside the line, behind me.

  I heard chains moving ahead of me. Neck chains, and those on small wrists and ankles.

  I had felt the gentle touch of the whip.

  It seemed my body was on fire.

  Then I felt the chain grow taut before me, and draw on the ring on the front of my collar, and I, too, on all fours, joined that procession moving down the corridor, and, in turn, so, too, did those behind me.

  I crawled in chains, at the feet of men.

  The corridor was long.r />
  I could not forget the touch of the leather. I had succumbed, physiologically, emotionally, to its touch.

  What could that mean?

  What had become of me?

  What lay ahead of me?

  "Harta!" called a man. "Harta!"

  Did he expect us to understand him? That must be a word in his language. Certainly it was not one in mine.

  "Harta!" he called.

  How could we possibly know what that meant?

  There was suddenly, from well behind me, yards back, back down the line, a sharp, cruel crack, almost as clear and terrible, in the narrow corridor, as the report of a rifle. I, and several of the others, cried out, with misery and terror. But I do not think that anyone had been struck. I do not think that I had ever heard that sound before, or certainly not in such a way, or place, but there was no mistaking it. Something in me, immediately, without reconnoitering, without complex reflection, recognized it. To such as I that sound was very meaningful. We recognized it, and understood it, instantaneously. We did not have to be told what it was.

  We hurried forward, sobbing.

  From time to time, as we moved down the corridor, we heard that sound again, from here and there along the line. Once it came from behind me, and to my left, only a few feet away. I screamed in terror and fell. My neck chain dragged forward on the collar. It cut at the back of my neck. What was behind me moved half beside me, sobbing. Instantly as there was again that terrible sound I struggled to my hands and knees, hurrying forward.

  "Harta!" I heard. "Harta!"

  But we were hurrying! How could we go more swiftly?

  Again came the terrible crack of that snapping coil!

  Gasping, crying out, sobbing, we moved even more swiftly!

  We were terrified by the very sound of those supple implements.

  Surely they could not be used upon us!

  Surely these men, these leonine males, like gods and beasts, did not regard us as being subject to such attentions!

  But somehow I suspected that these men, these unusual males, these incredible males, our striking, magnificent captors, were not likely to be patient with us. We were a kind, I gathered, on which such men were not likely to lavish patience.

  But what kind could that be?