Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Seventeen



I saw him, on the dock! It was he! I was stunned, I was shaken, my knees were weak, I nearly fell. In that instant I could hardly breathe. My hand went to the collar on my neck. I touched the hem of my tunic. I am sure it was he. It was he! He turned about, and I instantly knelt, head down, trembling.

I heard the snap of his fingers, and I knew I must lift my head, that I might be regarded.

I looked up.

I was trembling.

Surely he remembered me. Surely he had not forgotten! He must remember me! He could not have forgotten me!

I was on my knees before him, tunicked and collared.

It was he who had brought me to this, to this strange, different, natural, beautiful, fresh world, much as Earth might once have been, a world of blue skies and white clouds, of wind and rain, of storms and sunlight, of green fields and dark forests, of bracing, uncontaminated air and clean, clear, bright, flowing water, a simple, primitive, rude, unspoiled world, a world on which such as I could be only a slave.

I looked up at him. Tears were in my eyes. My lips were parted. I was at his feet, where I belonged. Surely he must know I loved him, that I was his, his even from another world, his by all the fierce, uncompromising rights of nature. Does a slave not know her master?

Four days before I had been freed of my chain in the slave house, a new slave put in my stead. I was furious with what had been done to me, but my belly had been well heated there. It would be hard to be again as I had been. I must now fight my body, that body to which I now seemed a stranger. How it betrayed me with its health and need, with its eagerness, its responsiveness, its helplessness, and vitality! I must be at war with it! How could I be myself in a collar? And how could I be myself other than in a collar! In my heart I knew I belonged in the collar, but I was determined to deny this reality, determined to fight it desperately, attempting to cling to the last, tattered shreds of my pride! Was I not of Earth? Did I not know, from my world, what a “true woman” was to be? And did I not know how the betrayals of the body and the forswearings of, the treacheries and disloyalties to, our deepest and most real self, these denials and depredations, were to be commended as accomplishments and adornments! To our blood, and to our hearts, we must do treason. But I feared that Gorean men would not permit this, at least if one were a slave. In the hands of a Gorean male what could a woman be but a slave? I must escape! Surely they aroused me well. How helpless I had been in their grasp! How angry I was with myself that I could not but respond as the least and most worthless of slaves! How I had leaped, and moaned, and whimpered, and begged for the least continuance of their touch! But how could this be? Was I not of Earth? And how lonely I was, to my distress, and shame, when, restless, twisting, on my mat, lying in the darkness on my chain, I had been neglected or overlooked. Why had I not rejoiced? I had tried to rejoice, and failed. Offers had been made for me I had learned, six offers. Six! How startled I was to learn this. I, of Earth, was desired, and as a Gorean slave! Naturally I had striven to find this indication of interest, this form of evaluation, distressing and humiliating. I had struggled to be dismayed. Men had wanted to buy me, and as the slave and animal I was. How deplorable, how terrible! But only one girl, I had learned, had received more offers! I did not know who had made the offers, and thus, had one been accepted, I did not know to whose feet, hooded, I would be put. Then, after a time, I had been removed from the slave house. I had been conducted to an assignment shed, from which I would be put to various tasks. As I could not read, the roster was read to me. I laundered, I worked in the kitchens, I carried water, I ran errands, I cleaned huts. I was waiting, each day, hoping to be sent to the edge of the camp, toward the wands, that I might search for roots, pick berries, or gather firewood. I, like the others given such tasks, would not be supervised. I did not understand why this was. They seem to think we will all return to our chains. Are we all so docile, so eager, so enamored of our collars? They did not know me. I was different! I was of Earth! On the day of such an assignment, which would surely be soon, I would seize my opportunity. I would escape. I would never be caught! Why, I wondered, is it said that there is no escape for the Gorean slave girl? Except at night, when we are often chained, it seems escape would be quite easy. If escape is so easy, why do so few girls attempt it? Is it because we know ourselves slaves, and rightfully so?

I looked up at him, as a meaningless slave to her adored master.

No longer did I think of escape. All such thoughts fled from me. I loved him! I wanted only to be his! I wanted to love and serve him! I wanted to be only his helpless, loving slave!

He was here!

He must want me. Was I not his?

It was he who had brought me to this, to the bondage which I had feared, and for which I had longed, a bondage in which I must serve, a bondage in which I would know myself owned, a bondage in which I would be a mere property of my master, a bondage in which I would find my fulfillment as a woman, and a slave.

I was at his feet, the feet of my master!

He had followed me, even from Brundisium, so far, to this strange, remote, and wild place, to seek me for his collar!

I was his!

I looked up at him. My lips trembled. I wanted to speak, but dared not do so.

Surely he could see the hope, the surrender, the love, in my eyes. I forced myself to hold my hands down on my thighs, that I not lift them piteously to him. I did not wish to be cuffed. But I found them turned, inadvertently, so that their palms were uppermost, their small, soft, sensitive, vulnerable expanses of tissue exposed to him.

I am yours, I thought. Buy me, own me, I thought.

He smiled, but it was a smile of contempt. He then turned away. I remained as I was, kneeling on the rough boards of the dock.

I do not even think he recognized me. My small frame was shaken with fury. I looked after him, moving away, as though nothing had happened. Indeed, from his point of view, nothing had happened. He had merely had a brief encounter with a meaningless slave.

He had not recalled me. I was nothing to him!

Tears ran down my cheeks. On my thighs I clenched my fists. I wanted to scream with helplessness, futility, and rage.

Well then did I understand that I was marked, tunicked, and collared.

How I hated him, and all men, the masterful beasts who would take us in hand, own us, and do with us as they pleased!

I stared after him, angrily, the callous brute, so tall and strong, with that easy, unhurried walk, the proud, high gaze before which men might take pause, the broad back, the narrow waist, the sturdy legs, that indifferent, cruel, magnificent larl of a man, to whom my feelings were nothing.

I did not even know his name.

Buy me, buy me, Master, I thought.

No, no, no, I thought.

I hate him, I hate him!

All my pride of Earth welled up within me. How horrifying that I should be here, on a remote world, a marked, half-naked, collared slave!

How incomprehensible and lamentable was my fate!

I looked after him, enraged, and hated him!

It was he who had brought me to this, to the indelible marking of my body, to the shame and degradation of a collar, to the revelatory scandal of a tunic, he who had brought it about that I was now an animal, that I was now goods and merchandise, that I might now be given away, or bought and sold. How miserable I was, there, kneeling alone on the boards! How I hated him! And all men! Why could they not be like the men of Earth, sweet, understanding, sensitive, weak, confused, timid, eager to please, easily guided, suitably conditioned, manipulable, repudiators of nature, betrayers of their blood, traitors to their manhood? Why were Goreans so different, so unassuming, so thoughtless, so unpretentiously confident, so unconsciously and innocently proud, so self-satisfied, so unquestioning, so virile, so powerful, so strong, so unaware, so triumphant? Why did they look upon us, and see us as theirs, and make us theirs? I did not think the men of Earth and Gor were so different, if at all, biologically. Surely they were of the same species. The differences, I was sure, were those of enculturation. Why had those of Gor never abandoned nature; why had they never strayed from her, why had they never betrayed her, and themselves? Doubtless there were complex historical explanations for such things.

I then looked about, wildly, at the long dock on which I knelt, the heavy boards stretching before me, diminishing in the distance, the great ship ahead, uneasy at its moorings, at the broad river to the left, the sheds, shops, and forest on the right.

I must escape. I would escape.

I must be wary. No sooner would a man lay his eyes upon me than he would see me as goods, as a slave. The tunic, the collar! How different to be a slave on Gor, I had gathered, as opposed to a free woman! They were everything, we nothing. I had never even seen a Gorean free woman, though there must have been some about, say, when I was on the dock in Brundisium, coffled, blindfolded, my hands tied behind me. Perhaps some were outside the market wall, but yards away, when I was in the exposition cage. Within the wall there were only men, regarding us, considering their choices. I had heard there were male silk slaves. Perhaps there were other markets where they were exhibited and sold, markets frequented by women rich enough to buy them. Such slaves were apparently scorned by Gorean males. It was said Earth was a good source of such slaves, as its males had already learned to fear, please, and obey women. Many were silk slaves and did not know that they were silk slaves. Some were natural silk slaves and others had been raised, taught, and trained to be such. These were told they were “true men.” Even their mistresses despised them. What, on Earth, did they lack but a distinctive garb, and the collar? I had not seen a Gorean free woman but I had heard much of them, particularly from my instructresses in my house of training. They spoke of them with loathing, but also fear. One of the sorriest fates of a kajira would be to find herself the serving slave of such a self-centered, regal, haughty monster. It is supposedly harrowing even to encounter one on the streets. For some reason, they hate us. I had gathered that the Gorean free woman, in the might of her liberty, possesses a standing, prestige, status, and force far beyond that of the allegedly free woman of Earth. Even Gorean males who may have a dozen servitors and own a hundred women, and be followed by a score of clients, will step from her path, and defer to her. They will listen attentively to her, even though she might speak the most arrant of nonsense. She is, after all, free. She need not kneel and humbly, as a slave, request permission to speak, a permission which may not be granted. She is said to well and shamelessly exploit the eminence and authority which the culture bestows upon her. Where all are free, at least after a fashion, there is nothing special or important about freedom. It is taken for granted, and one thinks little of it. The Gorean free woman, on the other hand, understands that she is free in a manner which might dismay, and would surely far exceed, that of the allegedly free woman of Earth. Certainly she may contrast herself with the meaningless animal, the female slave. Why then do free men court the free woman and buy the slave? Why do they yield their place in the theaters and concert halls to the free woman, and drag the slave by the hair to a tavern’s alcove? When the free woman is courted, she may be uncertain if it is she, or her wealth, her influence, her familial and caste connections, or such, which are sought; when the slave is purchased, as she has nothing, she is well aware that is she herself which is desired, and for the purposes of a slave, service and pleasure, inordinate pleasure. How horrifying it must be for one of these lofty free women, hitherto so exalted, privileged, and superior, hitherto so smug, petulant, arrogant, and demanding, hitherto so incomparably, so insufferably proud, if she should, to her horror, undergo a catastrophic reversal of fortune, if she should find herself reduced to bondage, to be stripped, collared, and sold! Yet how strange, too, that these women, so many of them, seem restless, impatient, short-tempered, and miserable. Surely this is incomprehensible. Do they not have everything for which a woman might long, cultural elevation, standing, status, prestige, power, dignity, and respect, even awe? Why then are they so unhappy? And why are they so cruel to us, and hate us so? We are not interfering with their precious freedom. We could not do so if we wished. We are only helpless beasts, in our collars and tunics. Can we help it if men want us more? And why do they so often insult and taunt men? Are they angry with men, and, if so, why? What do they want from men? Do they not understand that this might annoy, or anger, the men? A slave might die of fear before risking such a thing. And why do some of them join small caravans, and risk dangerous journeys to far places, or wander dark, unguarded streets, or stroll the high bridges alone, in the bright moonlight? Are they so smug, so sure of themselves, that they do not understand the perils of such things? Do they court the collar? Do they long to be owned, and thrown naked, with a jangle of chain, to the furs of love?

I looked about myself, at the men about, the workers, several of them, a mercenary or two, a mariner in his brimless cap. These were Gorean men. Such men wanted women as slaves, and so they had them so. Such men were scions of a culture founded on nature and its fulfillment, not its denial. I wondered if such men knew we yearned for their collars.

I thrust such thoughts from my mind!

I was of Earth!

Goreans were fools! I would escape!