Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Thirteen



The Pani seldom touch us, for we are inferior. I am not even sure that they respect their mercenaries, and laborers.

On the fourth day, after the shore of Thassa, we reached the large, sprawling, extensive set of buildings and shops called Tarncamp. I now wore a Tarncamp collar. To my joy I was cast a tunic which I eagerly donned. It was the first I had worn since the house. I suppose it scarcely rates the appellation of a garment, but it is precious to us. As animals we need not be permitted clothing, but, I am informed, many cities recommend the clothing of slaves in public, assuming that the clothing makes it clear that we are slaves, which injunction the masters see to, to their satisfaction. Presumably that we are attired, after a fashion, is to spare the sensibilities of free women and, perhaps, to reduce, to some extent, the accostings, encounters, provocations, and such, which might be attendant on the public exhibition of wholly bared, collared properties. To be sure, slaves, particularly formerly free Gorean women, are sometimes publicly paraded naked, saving for their locked neck bands, that they may the better understand that they are now slaves. Too, this is sometimes done for a slave who has in some way failed to be fully pleasing. We try to be fully pleasing. And one, after a time, desires to be found fully pleasing. One hopes to be a pleasing, desired slave. It is a warm, precious, beautiful thing to be. I, and the others of my rope, had been given brief, common tunics. As most such tunics, these were sleeveless and, of course, lacked a nether closure. The slave is to understand herself as always available to the master. The tunics were brown, of cheap rep-cloth. They were not wrap-around tunics, nor the sort with a disrobing loop at the left shoulder, for the convenience of a right-handed master. These slipped over the head. This did not really afford an impediment to our use, as they might be easily thrust up to our waist. I think there is little doubt that the slave tunic, in its variations, is an attractive, provocative garment. How can a woman be displayed more attractively, or be made more aware of her womanhood, than being placed in the garment of a slave? It is sometimes thought that in such a garment a woman is more naked than naked, at least in the sense that it leaves few of her charms to the imagination, invites attention, and suggests the pleasures that might await its removal. Still we were pleased, extremely pleased, that the masters had seen fit to clothe us, though, of course, fittingly, as slaves.

Shortly after having arrived at Tarncamp, after our collaring, and before we were given tunics, we were put in examination position, standing, feet spread, head back, hands clasped behind the back of our head. Aligned so, we were examined, measured, and, I fear, assessed, and also, I gather, registered in some way, as records were kept.

I, and some of the others, sometimes gasped, or whimpered, even moaned, in the course of our examination.

“Oh,” I had said, suddenly. “Oh!” I had cried.

My hips had jerked. This was inadvertent. I could not help the response of my body. I had half bent over at the waist. I had almost freed my hands from the clasping behind the back of my head. Fortunately I had not done so. Otherwise I might have been lashed.

“Straighten your body,” I was told. “Hold position.”

“Yes, Master,” I had said.

Then again my head was up, and back. Tears formed in my eyes. Again I could see little but clouds, and the blue sky. I was aware of the men about.

“How is she?” asked the fellow who stood back a bit, he who held the board, who was taking notes.

“Are you a new slave?” asked he who was my examiner, who had handled me as a slave may be handled.

“Yes, Master,” I had said.

I had lost track of time, and did not understand the calendar of my masters. In my reckoning, it had been something like five or six weeks since I had been brought to this strange, fresh, unusual, beautiful world, brought as a slave.

“For a new slave, then, excellent,” said my examiner.

“Good,” said the fellow with the board, the marking stick.

I wanted to beg him, he closest to me, he who had touched me, as an owner of women touches women, to be again touched, but I dared not do so. I had not been given permission to speak.

“She has been well selected,” said a fellow.

“They all are,” commented another.

I later, in my turn, was told I might kneel, which I gratefully did. How natural it now seemed to me to kneel before a free male! It now seemed to me right that I should be so positioned. Before such men I, a slave, belonged so. I would have been considerably uneasy, even frightened, to be standing in his presence. How presumptuous, how insolent, how perilous that would have been! On my world, I had occasionally, though very, very seldom, felt an inclination to kneel before a man, one man or another, to assume before him this appropriate posture of respect and submission, appropriate for a female before a male, but, of course, I had not done so. I doubted if the men of my former world would even have understood this. Perhaps, confused, stammering, embarrassed, they would have chidingly hastened me to my feet, rather than commanding me, one submitted, to minister to theirs. Surely I remembered one man, one man encountered on my former world, though a man not of that world, one encountered in the aisle of a large emporium, before whom, startled, I could barely stand, and before whom I had felt I should kneel, head down, submitting myself to his survey and power, his authority, his manhood, but I had not done so. I had turned about, terrified, and fled. Later I had looked up at him, naked, on my back, bound hand and foot. It seems, after all, that I had been found of interest, if only as a slave, a property, a possession, a toy. In any event, there seemed few men of my former world before whom one would have been tempted to kneel, before whom it would have seemed appropriate to kneel. But then I had not realized at that time that such men as Goreans could exist. Perhaps they were such as men might once have been, on my old world, but no longer were. In any event I knew that I, at least as a slave, belonged at their feet. It was my place. They understood this, and I did, as well. It was reassuring to be so before them. I was then where I belonged.

I looked up at him, the free male.

“You have not been long in the collar,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said.

“You are a barbarian,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You do not have a name,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said.

I was as yet an unnamed animal. My name would be decided upon, and placed on me, by the free.

“How have you been known?” he asked.

“My lot number, from a market in Brundisium,” I said, “was 119.”

“A slave should have a name,” he said.

“It will be as masters wish,” I said.

“Numbers are not sensual,” he said. “A female slave should have a female name, and one which makes clear that she is a slave.”

“As masters wish,” I said.

“Were you a slave on your former world?” he asked.

When you are a female kneeling before a male, the dominance hierarchy is quite clear, even, I suppose, if you are a free woman. It is certainly clear when you are a slave. I understand that a free woman is forced to kneel naked before a man, before she is collared.

“No,” I said.

“‘No’?” he said.

“I was not marked and collared,” I said.

“An oversight,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“‘Perhaps’?” he said.

“Yes, Master, an oversight, Master,” I said.

“But the matter is remedied here,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Surely I had known, often enough, on my former world, despite its commands and injunctions, from my casual, unguarded thoughts, from my fantasies, and my dreams, from my longings, from my dispositions, hopes, and needs, from my yearnings, from what I had wanted from men, their force and ownership, from how I had wanted to submit myself, wholly, from my desire to be ruled by a master, to belong to him, and serve him, a vulnerable, helpless, unquestioning chattel, that I was, at least in my heart, a slave.

Now I was kneeling, my thigh marked, my throat enclasped in the collar.

“You had a name, did you not, on your barbarian world?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Margaret Alyssa Cameron,” I said.

“‘Mar-gar-ret-a-liss-a-cam-er-ron’,” he said, slowly.

I thought it well to remain silent. Actually I did not think he had done badly. I was not sure I could repeat, or easily repeat, for example, a series of nine meaningless noises.

“Barbarian names are often complex,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Did you know that such names are commonly found in primitive groups, innocent of civilization?”

“No, Master,” I said.

“Surely you recognized them as barbarisms,” he said.

“I had not thought of it,” I said.

“Of course not,” he said. “You are a barbarian.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Such a name will not do,” he said.

I knew that slave names were commonly simple, as one would expect, as they are the names for animals. Common slave names, at least on the continent, were such as Tula, Bina, Lana, Leila, Lita, and such. Commonly, too, the slave has but a single name, but she may be more clearly specified as, say, Tula, the slave of Flavius, of such and such a street or district. Barbarian slaves are commonly given barbarian names, for example, Amanda, Amber, April, Beryl, Ethel, Tracy, Heather, Rose, Vivian, Victoria, Jocelyn, Stephanie, and such. Such names will mark her as barbarian, and suggest that she is born for the collar, as opposed to a Gorean woman of caste and Home Stone, and may be treated accordingly. Such names are apparently stimulatory to many Gorean males. Many Goreans delight in the mastery of barbarians. Certainly they well teach us our collars. Sometimes a barbarian name is placed on a Gorean female slave as a punishment name, to humiliate and humble her, to inform her that she is, in the master’s view, no more than a barbarian, and may expect to be treated accordingly. I find it difficult, sometimes, to understand the Gorean view in these matters. How is it that there is such a difference between the free woman and the slave, and then, again, that there is no difference? A radical distinction is drawn between the Gorean free woman, with caste and Home Stone, and the slave. The free woman is lofty and noble; she is esteemed, exalted, and honored; she is respected and shown great deference. On the other hand if she, usually a capture from a foreign city, falls slave all that is behind her, and she finds herself no more than another piece of vendible collar meat, auctioned off a block as one might auction a tarsk from the pens. Moreover, many Gorean men divide women into those who are slaves with collars and those who are slaves but not yet collared. Perhaps the distinction is that between culture and biology. In any event, I dare speak only for myself. I had little doubt that I was a slave, that I wanted to be a slave, and that I could be happy only as a slave, that I could be fulfilled only as my master’s slave. Some women wish to serve and love, to submit themselves selflessly, wholly, and helplessly. We are the slaves of our masters. And culturally, in my case, I encountered no problems in this respect. I was something ingredient in the culture, expected in the culture, approved in the culture, and desired in the culture. Accordingly, culturally, I was free to be what I was and wanted to be. I had no dilemma, for I was collared. As far as I can determine the men and women of Earth, my former world, and those of Gor are clearly of the same species. Indeed, legend has it that humans, some humans, were brought here long ago from my former world by unusual beings. They are often spoken of, in whispers, as Priest-Kings. I suppose this is a myth of some sort, but, myth or not, an explanation of some sort would seem to be required. Perhaps ancient humans once possessed an advanced technology, which was somehow lost. One has heard of Mu, Atlantis, and such places. In any event, it seems clear that the human female, whether Gorean or not, tends to be regarded by many Gorean men as the natural property of males. To be sure, this surmise, or conviction, is seldom expressed openly to Gorean women, particularly to those of station, high caste, and such. In any event, once collared, there would seem little to choose between us. We both learn our collars quickly. The Gorean woman may have an advantage in some ways, for she is familiar with the culture; indeed, she may have owned her own slaves, male or female. She is likely to better realize, then, as a woman of my world might not, the nature of female bondage, and what is expected of the female slave. It would seldom occur to a Gorean woman, once enslaved, to dare to be less than fully pleasing to her master. Barbarians, of course, may be less aware of this, at least at first. It is, however, quickly taught to us.

“We will need a barbarian name for you,” he said, “as you are a barbarian. It would not do to waste a fine Gorean name on you.”

I was silent.

“The name must be short, and simple, an obvious slave name, and one that makes clear that you are without significance or importance, that you are a mere, negligible, chattel. Yet, we want the name to be sexually stimulatory, one which will elicit masculine interest, and aggression. We want it, in effect, to say, ‘Here is a helpless, vulnerable slave, is she not lovely, is she not exciting, do with her as you will.’ We want it to suggest that you will be helpless and pleasant at the end of chain, or attractive, bound helplessly, a nicely tethered love bundle, in the furs. Sometimes barbarians are placed in unusually revealing tunics. Their masters often like to show them off, and help them to keep in mind that they are slaves. They do nicely on leashes.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I hoped I might stand, walk, kneel, lie, or writhe well on my leash. How natural that animals be leashed!

“Position!” he snapped.

Instantly, reflexively, I went to position, kneeling back on my heels, back straight, head up, hands palm down on thighs, looking forward, not meeting his eyes, knees spread.

My body must have reacted, somehow, when I had thought of myself on a leash.

I was now, again, in position.

How could a woman be more presented as a slave? Seeing a woman so positioned, what else could she be?

Strangely, the thought crossed my mind of myself, naked, on my former world, in the aisle of the great store, on a master’s leash, and then, as he paused, kneeling at his thigh, head down, docilely. Others, moving about, fully clothed, if they noticed me, would have recognized me as a slave. I wondered if such might one day occur on my former world, that sort of thing. Clearly cultural adjustments would have taken place. Such scenes are not unprecedented on Gor, though commonly the slave would have been tunicked, revealingly, and scantily, of course, as would be appropriate for her condition and status.

The fellow backed away from me, and surveyed me, and spoke, over his shoulder, to his fellows, of which there were two, one of whom was keeping the notes, or records.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Nice,” said the fellow who was not keeping the notes, or records.

I held position, gracefully, but determinedly. It is not pleasant to be cuffed, or switched. And it is less pleasant to be put under the lash.

“What is she?” asked he who had been addressing me, of the fellow with the board, the marking stick, the papers, the notes, and such. To that fellow he seemed to defer.

“A Laura,” said the fellow with the papers, and such.

“You are Laura,” said the fellow who had been addressing me. “What is your name?”

“Laura,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”

He then went to the next girl in line. I remained in position. I had been named. I was Laura.