Fighting Slave of Gor Page 8

  "Speak, Slave!" commanded the Lady Gina.

  "No, Mistress. No, Mistress," I said. "I would not want to take her in my arms."

  She suddenly cuffed me, angrily, and kicked me. "You can be slain for a lie, Slave," she said.

  "Forgive me, Mistress," I begged.

  "Did you lie?" she asked.

  "Yes, Mistress," I said. "I lied! I lied! Forgive me, Mistress. Please, forgive me!"

  "You would, then," she asked, "like to take her in your arms?"

  I looked at the supine girl before me, holding her body as though chained. What a desirable female she was, exciting far beyond anything I could have believed existed.

  "Yes, Mistress," I said.

  The Lady Gina then spoke to the two girls. Lola rose to her feet. She tied the brief rag again about her hips. Both took their quirts well in hand. They were long quirts, some two feet in length. They held them now, each of them, with two hands.

  "You will now be beaten twice," said the Lady Gina, "once for having, as a frightened, ignorant slave, dared to lie to your mistress, and once for having desired to take a beautiful girl in your arms."

  I was then twice beaten, each time with twenty strokes. The Lady Gina, then, placed the chain leash which was snapped on my collar in the hand of Lola. As I lifted my head, miserable, cringing, my back and legs lacerated and bloody, I saw, truly noticing it for the first time, a deep mark, a lovely mark, about an inch and a half high and a half of an inch wide, incised in Lola's left thigh. I was startled. It was a brand. Lola had been branded. The mark was exquisite in her flesh. The design was rather floral. It consisted of what seemed to be a straight line, rather severe, with what appeared to be, adjacent to it, to its right, two fronds, curled and graceful. I would later learn that this was, in cursive script, the initial letter of the Gorean expression 'Kajira', which is the most common Gorean expression for a female slave. The design also, according to some, is supposed to have symbolic significance. The straight line is supposed to represent the staff of discipline and the two fronds the beauty of a woman. The significance of the whole, then, would be beauty subject to the staff of discipline. Interestingly, the design also bears a remote resemblance, if one thinks about it, to the English letter 'K'. Since the first sound in the expression 'Kajira' would be represented in English by the letter 'K' it is quite possible that this resemblance is more than a coincidence. Certain letters of the Gorean alphabet, not all of them, bear a very clear resemblance to certain letters in certain of the alphabets of Earth. This, I suppose, was to have been expected, given the doubtless Earth origin of all, or most, of the human Goreans. The Gorean name for the letter in question, if it is of interest, is 'Kef'.

  I was gasping from the beating. My body stung. But I could not, for the moment, take my eyes from the exquisite mark, the brand, in the girl's thigh. It was clear upon her, and beautiful. She wore it in her very flesh. Lola was clearly, decisively and beautifully marked. Anyone who looked upon that mark would know what she was, a female slave. I looked to the thigh of Tela. That same mark, lovely and identical, was burned into her thigh. She, too, was well marked as a female slave.

  Suddenly Lola struck me in the belly with her quirt, a vicious, lashing blow. Tela, too, then, hit me with her quirt, though on the left shoulder. I cried out with misery. I looked up, puzzled, at my mistress.

  "You looked upon their brands," said the Lady Gina to me. "Do not forget you are only a slave, Jason."

  Lola jerked on the chain leash and thrust her quirt under my chin, pressing upwards. I stood. She tapped me on the belly and at the small of the back. I stood straight, frightened.

  "Look upon the slaves," commanded the Lady Gina. "See their ankles, their legs, the sweetness of their bellies, the loveliness of their breasts, the beauty of their shoulders, their throats and faces, their hair."

  "Yes, Mistress," I said. The hair of slave girls is commonly worn long and loose, unbound. The hair of both Lola and Tela was long, falling well to the small of their backs.

  "They are desirable, aren't they?" asked the Lady Gina.

  "Yes, Mistress," I said, tensing myself.

  "You would like to own them, wouldn't you?" asked the Lady Gina.

  "Yes, Mistress," I said, clenching my body against the blow or blows to come.

  Then Lola, at a sign from the Lady Gina, struck me with the quirt.

  "I am confused, Mistress," I cried. "I do not know what to do! Why are you doing this to me?"

  "It is not different from what is done on Earth," she said. "Only there, except for children who can be, and often are, physically abused, the whips are social and verbal."

  I looked at her with horror.

  "It is the type of conditioning to which a male of Earth is almost certain to have been exposed," she said. "Would you like me now to remove your manacles and give you one of the girls for an hour or so, for your pleasure?" she asked.

  "No," I said, honestly, shrinking back.

  "Lola?" she asked. "Or Tela?"

  "No," I said. "No, Mistress!"

  "Suppose that I ordered you to perform with one of them, for my interest?" she asked.

  I looked at her, terrified. "I could not do so, Mistress," I said.

  "A few minutes ago," she said, "you could have used them well."

  "Yes, Mistress," I said.

  "And now?" she asked.

  "Not now," I said. "Not now."

  "I am teaching you, as men of Earth are taught," she said, "to fear and suppress your sexuality. The process is simple. Tantalize and punish. Tantalize and punish. Soon, by natural psychological linkages, an association will be formed between sexuality and punishment. You will come to fear your sexual feelings, as being precursors to pain, physical or mental. This will induce anxiety in sexual situations and impair sexual effectiveness. In children, of course, the punishments are commonly forgotten, at least on conscious levels. Inexplicable anxieties, however, often remain. These anxieties, and the rules that seem associated with them, pertaining to the suppression and inhibition of sexuality, must, of course, by thinking organisms, be rationalized. An entire structure of myths is then raised to protect the individual from the insight that he was, long ago, when defenseless, mutilated and crippled. You are familiar with the nature of such myths, such superstructures and defense mechanisms. They are many and varied. These range from the praising of an idiotic celibacy in the interests of a presumably nonexistent spirit to the genres of dirty jokes and stories, in which a vengeance is taken on the thwarted sexuality by trying to make it appear small and dirty. Between these two madnesses is a variety of more dangerous antisexisms, more pernicious because subtler, recrudescent Puritanisms masking themselves under the garbage of trigger rhetorics, the usage of such expressions as 'persons' and such, designed to suppress thought and enforce social conformity."

  "But what would be the point of all this madness and cruelty?" I asked.

  "Why do the ugly disparage beauty?" she asked. "Why do the weak belittle strength?"

  "I do not understand," I said.

  "Masculinity in the male," she said, "is closely allied with sexuality. Masculinity may be best attacked by an attack on male sexuality, and the more pervasive and pernicious it is the better. Men are the natural masters. This is obvious in the study of primate biology. Thus the male must be hobbled, broken and crippled. He must be, as a male, destroyed. Women can then assume their place as his equal, or superior."

  "Why do you hate men so?" I asked.

  "I am not one of them," she said.

  "Why do you not carry your cause outside the pens?" I asked.

  She laughed. "I am not a fool," she said. "Do you think I want to be branded with a hot iron? Do you think I want to be put in a steel collar and thrown naked to the feet of men beneath their whips? No, my dear Jason, I do not wish that. Those are not men of Earth up there, who will consider the arguments for their own castration with reflective care. Those are Gorean men up there."

  "You are afraid of
them," I said.

  "Yes," she said. "I am afraid of them."

  I wished that I was such a man.

  "You are then," I said, "trying to make me fear my sexual feelings that I will suppress them, and with them my manhood."

  "It is the best way we know," she said, "to reduce a male's effectiveness in all socially competitive situations. He is then crippled, of course, not only sexually, but, often, in many other ways, too. When his sexuality does not give him spine he becomes timid and manipulable. He is then useful to ambitious women who, at another time, might scarcely have dared to speak to him."

  "What is the true point of depriving men of their sexuality?" I asked.

  "Is it not obvious?" she asked. "It is to make them slaves."

  "Can biology be so perfectly eradicated?" I asked.

  "Not with mere conditioning techniques," she said. "There is more to be hoped for, eventually, on your world, with punishing implants, chemical alterations, the castration of unsuitable male infants, hormone injections, sex control, genetic engineering, and such. It should not be difficult, with power in the hands of women, presumably an inevitable eventuality in your type of democracy, to bring about the success of these programs."

  "Why, then," I asked, "do you not wish to go to Earth and take up your abode there?"

  "I am not insane," she said.

  "Do you not, truly, wish for the success of such hideous programs?" I asked.

  "No," she said, "for, for all practical purposes, it would be the end of the human race."

  "You look then," I asked, "beyond your own selfish interests?"

  "I cannot help myself," she said. "There is in me left a little bit of the human being."

  "I do not think Earth will succumb to such a nightmare as you have outlined," I said.

  "It is already on its way to doing so," she said. "Can you not see the signs?"

  "Men, and women, will prevent it," I said.

  "Earthlings," she said, "are manipulated organisms, helpless in the flow of social forces, slobbering to slogans and rhetoric. They will be the first to celebrate their own downfall. They will not discover what has been done to them until it is too late."

  "I hope that you are wrong," I said.

  She shrugged. "Perhaps I am wrong," she said. "Let us hope so."

  "More likely than your scenario for the future," I said, "would be times of great conflict and tumult, the precipitation of horrifying and vast wars."

  "Perhaps," she said. "I suppose there will always be recalcitrant brutes who will not willingly surrender their manhood."

  "Does the future not portend barbarism?" I inquired.

  "Barbarism or the lawn party," she smiled. "You may have your choice."

  "Any rational person must surely choose the lawn party," I said.

  "Is that true?" she asked.

  "I do not know," I said.

  "I would choose barbarism," she said. "Lawn parties are boring."

  "Your sex," I said, "might not fare well under barbarism."

  "We might fare better than you think," she said.

  "But you might then be little better than slaves," I said, "if you were not fully slaves."

  "That might suit us quite well," she said.

  I was silent.

  Then she looked at me, angrily. "How foolishly I have spoken to you," she said, "a mere slave!"

  She then turned to the two girls. They had understood nothing of what we had been saying, of course, for they did not speak English.

  "Why, Mistress," I asked, "have you spoken to me as you have? Surely your techniques would be more effective if I were imperfectly aware of them? It is as though you were warning me of your intentions."

  She did not look at me, but she spoke to me. "On Gor," she said, "we would not even break our male slaves as the men of Earth are broken."

  She then spoke to the two girls and they conducted me swiftly from the presence of the mistress, Lola pulling me, stumbling on the chain, and Tela, behind, prodding me with her quirt.

  My lessons in Gorean were soon to begin.

  I tried not to look at the beauty of the girl who led me. I knew that if I looked upon either of them as a man I would be punished. I must not permit myself to have sexual feelings. I must control myself ruthlessly. I must keep fully in mind that I was a slave.

  Then it occurred to me that it would not be right for me to look upon their beauty. They could not help that they were slaves, no more than I could help it. They were, despite their beauty and rags, the brand and steel collar, true persons, like myself. I must respect them. I must not look upon them as beautiful women are biologically looked upon by strong, aggressive males. I must look upon them as persons. This was not, then, weakness on my part, but evidence of my respect for them, my nobility, my understanding, my sweetness and tenderness. That I suppressed my feelings toward them, thus, was not now evidence of my cowardice but rather of my strength and courage. I was now strong enough and courageous enough to control and conquer myself. How wonderful I was, really. I was not to be despised. No, rather I was to be congratulated and commended. Perhaps Goreans might not understand the sacrifice I had made, and how noble I was, but I was certain these things, my sacrifice, and my nobility, would have been well understood, and appreciated, by a woman of my own world.

  Content then I went with the two women who were to me now, in the time of my lessons, as mistresses.

  Never must I permit Goreans to rob me of my true self. I knew what was my true self, for I had been taught what it was on Earth. Years of careful conditioning and training, and a pervasive social and cultural milieu, had taught me what my true self was.

  I did not think it would interfere with my slavery.

  5

  I am Taught to Pour Wine;

  I am Punished;

  I Hear of the Market of Tima

  "Pour, Jason," said the Lady Gina.

  "Yes, Mistress," I said. I left the line of kneeling male slaves and approached the table, carrying the vessel of wine Tela had given me. Behind the table, kneeling with her knees together, as a free woman, was Lola. She had a bit of white rep-cloth thrown about her shoulders, serving to represent the robes and veil of a free woman. Near the table, in her leather, with her whip, was the Lady Gina.

  I approached the table deferentially. I knelt before Lola.

  "Wine, Mistress?" I asked.

  "Yes, Slave," she said.

  "You look nice this evening, Jason," said the Lady Gina.

  "Thank you, Mistress," I said.

  I now wore a short, silk tunic, white, trimmed with red. My hair, longer now, though I had worn it long before, was combed back and tied behind my head with a white ribbon. I had been in the pens, I estimated, some five or six weeks. The heavy iron collar I had worn was now replaced with a lighter collar, enameled white. It had writing on it, in yellow, but incised, too, into the steel. I could not read the writing, for I was illiterate. I had been told the writing read 'Return me for punishment to the House of Andronicus'. I did not think I would care to be caught wearing it outside the pens. I did not know the location of the House of Andronicus. I had once been beaten for asking. I had been told that curiosity was not becoming in a slave. This collar, too, though much lighter than the former collar, had, too, a ring upon it, for the snap of a leash.

  Lola regarded me with contempt.

  I heard a stirring behind me, of the other male slaves, in their silks and ribbons. They had not been pleased that the mistress had commended me. They were jealous of such things, and of their handsomeness.

  "Again, Jason," said the Lady Gina, "more softly, more deferentially."

  "Wine, Mistress?" I again asked.

  "Yes, Slave," said Lola.

  "Good," said the Lady Gina. "Now, pour."

  Carefully I poured the wine into the cup before Lola.

  "You are pouring it too swiftly, Slave," said Lola.

  I looked to the Lady Gina. Surely I was not pouring it too swiftly.

 
"The whim of the Mistress is everything," said the Lady Gina.

  "Forgive me, Mistress," I said to Lola. Lola looked at me, smugly. "Slip your tunic down to the waist," she said.

  I did so.

  "A blow for the clumsy slave," Lola called to Tela. Tela took a slave whip from its ring on the wall and, coming up behind me, struck me across the back. The tunic had been slipped down to the waist that it not be bloodied.

  "Forgive me, Mistress," I said.

  I looked at Lola. How imperious she seemed, pretending to be a free woman. She knelt there behind the table, almost naked save for the rag at her hips, the bit of cloth about her shoulders and, locked on her lovely neck, a steel collar. Her breasts were very exciting. What a slut she had been to me. How vicious she had been in my training, far beyond anything required of her. My nights had often been filled with pain from the blows of her quirt. In comparison Tela had been very businesslike and efficient with me, treating me with no more than the same severity and contempt than would have been accorded to any other miserable slave who might have been in her power. I did not know why Lola so hated me. She seemed to hold me in an incredible contempt. She lost no opportunity to belittle or strike me. I had tried not to look upon her. I had tried, constantly, to respect her, and I had reminded myself, a thousand times a day, that she was, as I, a person. Yet, to be honest, I was not the only slave to whom she was petty and vicious. She was not popular in the pens, either with the slaves or keepers. I knew she was a person. Yet it was hard not to see her as a girl, and a slave. At times I suspected even the Lady Gina might be growing impatient with her.

  "He looked at me!" cried Lola, triumphantly, pointing to me, turning to Lady Gina.

  That was true. I had looked at her. Interestingly, given the weeks in the pen, the simple food, the constant training and exercising, perhaps the Gorean milieu, I was beginning to feel a return of my sexuality. I had fought this, of course. But, sometimes, it seemed to me that perhaps it was pointless to keep fighting and torturing myself. What, truly, was the point of it? What was so wrong, really, with being a man?

  "Twenty strokes!" cried Lola to Tela.