Kur of Gor

Chapter, the Third: THE STALL

"Why am I on a chain?” she asked.

Cabot shook his head, and tried to bundle his thoughts together, trying to piece a number of diverse shreds and particles into a coherent picture of reality.

He sat up in the straw.

The gravity, he sensed, was much like that of Gor, and much the same as on the Prison Moon. But he did not think he was on Gor, or on the Prison Moon.

He found himself in an open, but low, some four feet in height were the walls, three-sided, boxlike enclosure. It had a wooden floor, which was covered with a heavy layer of straw. It was an enclosure such as might have been used for the bedding of animals, and perhaps, in its way, it was. Following one of the selections of our translator, we shall refer to it as a stall.

A dim light was provided by lamps. They are akin to the energy lamps of Gor, he thought.

Cabot looked across the stall at the brunette, who was kneeling, her knees and thighs obscured by the straw, to his right.

On her neck, closed, was a sturdy metal collar. On this collar there was a heavy collar ring, and to this collar ring there was attached a heavy, black chain, which presumably was fastened to a ring or mount under the straw.

She held the chain near the collar ring and jerked it twice, angrily, against the collar ring. “Explain this!” she demanded. “What is the meaning of this?"

"It is a collar, and chain,” said Cabot.

"I am well aware of that,” she said. “What is its purpose?"

"To keep you where you are,” said Cabot.

She pulled at the chain, angrily. “I am well aware of that!” she snapped.

"Why then did you ask?” said Cabot.

She made an angry noise.

"Perhaps to keep you safe,” he suggested.

"From what?"

"I do not know,” he said.

"You attempted to rescue me,” she said.

"But failed to do so,” said Cabot.

"Obviously,” she said.

"At least you have not been eaten, at least as yet,” said Cabot.

She turned white.

"Do you think—?” she asked.

"Possibly,” he said.

"But not yet?"

"No,” he said. “I think they have other purposes in mind for us, at least as of now.

"What purposes?"

"I do not know."

"Why are you clothed?” she asked.

"I do not know,” he said. He wore a brief, gray tunic, a Gorean man's tunic. He had no weapons.

He regarded her.

Women look well on a chain.

She reddened. She covered her breasts. “Do not look at me!” she said.

"I will do as I please,” he said.

"You are not a gentleman!” she said.

He looked away.

"Thank you,” she said, coldly.

He looked back at her. It was pleasant to look upon her, particularly as she was on a chain.

"Please!” she protested.

Cabot shrugged. He supposed he might not be a gentleman. It was not of great concern to him. Too, what had gentlemanliness to do with this? She was a slave. She was a domestic animal; she might be chained in a public market, for the inspection of all and sundry.

She had bespoke herself slave.

She was slave.

"What do you suppose your beauty is for?” he asked.

Angrily, she tightened her arms and hands against her body. She does not know she is a slave, he thought. That is all right. She can always learn later. A slave may not conceal her body from a master, of course, without his permission. Her beauty is not hers; it is owned by the master.

Cabot went to the foot of the chain, as she drew back, and ascertained that it was fastened to a heavy ring bolt, anchored in the floor.

"Yes,” she said, irritably, “it is fastened quite securely."

Did she not know she could be lashed for speaking in that tone of voice to a free man? Did she think she was a free woman. Yes, thought Cabot, of course, she thinks she is a free woman.

"I am not clothed, and you are,” she said.

"Yes?” he said.

Did she not know that she was beautiful, and he was not? And she was, of course, a slave, a chained slave.

"I will see,” he said, “if I can arrange some clothing for you."

"Thank you,” she said, acidly. “I would be extremely grateful."

He smiled. Did she not know the clothing he would arrange? He thought she would look quite well in a brief slave tunic. Certainly the fellows she had known on Earth would think so.

A slave tunic can be quite fetching on a woman. To be sure, they are designed for that purpose. They display the legs, usually generously, and often the thighs, and do little to conceal the bosom, and her soft, fair shoulders. They leave little to the imagination, and what little they leave calls attention to what is concealed in so delightful and provocative a fashion that the tunic is almost an invitation to its own removal. Some feel that a slave tunic can make a woman look even more naked and vulnerable than when she is stripped. Such tunics, too, despite their brevity, lack a nether closure. In this way, the slave is reminded in yet another little way that she is to be always at the convenience of the master.

"You are not chained,” she said.

"No,” he said.

"Why?"

"I do not know."

"Please stop looking at me!” she said.

"Why?"

"'Why'!” she exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Beast!"

"Yes,” he said.

She gasped, and drew back, clenching her arms yet more tightly about her. After a time, she said, petulantly, sullenly, “You are no gentleman."

"No,” he said.

"What are you?” she asked, angrily.

"Gorean,” he said.

"What is that?"

"If you live long enough,” he said, “you will be taught."

She looked at him, for a moment, quizzically, but did not pursue her question. She knelt back, on her heels.

Excellent, thought Cabot, excellent.

She did not remove her arms and hands from her body, but she straightened her body, and lifted her head, and shook her head a little, to throw her hair behind her.

Good, thought Cabot, good.

She smiled a little smile, at him. He supposed it was to be taken as a shy, rueful, resigned smile. Surely it was artful.

He found her tormentingly attractive to him, but had she not been selected to be so?

She is playing her little game, he thought. She is sensing her power. Doubtless such things in her past well served her purposes. They are less likely to be effective now.

He considered how she would look in a collar, and was pleased. In it her beauty would be much improved. But does not the collar enhance the beauty of any woman, the contrast with her softness, its irremovability, and its meaning?

It is little wonder, he thought, that Merchant Law prescribes that the fair throats of female slaves will know the collar, that their fair throats be clasped within such lovely, indicatory, uncompromising, irremovable, possessive encirclements.

"I suppose,” she said, lightly, “you are looking at me because I am beautiful."

"You will do,” he said.

"'Do'!” she cried.

"Yes,” he said.

"Am I not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?” she demanded.

"No,” he said.

"I have been told by many men,” she said, angrily, “that I was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen!"

"They had not seen the women of Gor,” he said. To be sure, beauty is more than a mere combination of external relationships, the eyes to the hair, the thigh to the forearm, and such. Beyond such things, of course, it is difficult to define but then, so, too, is almost anything of importance. It is perhaps more analogous to an illumination, or a whisper, or a kiss, than a measurement. Slavery, incidentally, often brings a woman to beauty, for a variety of reasons. Most trivially, within it she is seldom permitted the straining, disfiguring uglinesses common to the free woman, nastiness, arrogance, brassiness, and so on. Such unpleasantries can be lashed out of her, for they are not pleasing to the master. More importantly, more profoundly, in slavery she finds herself in her place in nature, at her master's feet; in slavery she finds herself returned to her womanhood, to her mastered femininity. Perhaps such things explain the common contentment of the slave, so incomprehensible to many free women, her devotion to the master, her instant obedience, her zealous service, her happiness, her love, and so on, and, doubtless, too, her helpless, spasmodic yieldings to his peremptory possession of his property. The slave, perhaps even roped or chained down, may be used in many ways, as the master might please, perhaps tantalized for writhing hours, until she begs for release, or perhaps, if he wishes, merely put to his purposes briefly, perhaps, her tunic torn away, simply flung to the floor, there to be subordinated as the property she is to his authority. Free women sense, perhaps to their rage, but cannot fully comprehend, the pervasive and profound sexuality of the slave, which irradiates and suffuses her entire existence, even in such small things as the touching of a collar, the feel of a tunic, the touch of tiles on her knees or belly, the leathery taste on her tongue as she slowly, humbly, softly, gratefully licks the whip, the sense of fulfillment in kneeling, and bowing her head before her master. It is beyond their ken, unless they should one day find themselves in the collar.

"Gor?” she asked.

"Yes,” he said, “a world, one quite different from that with which you have hitherto been familiar."

"This is not Earth,” she said.

"No,” said Cabot.

"Is this—Gor?” she asked.

"I do not know,” he said.

"I demand to be returned to Earth!” she said.

"If they wanted you on Earth,” he said, “they would have left you there."

"Perhaps I am being held for ransom?” she said.

"They could have kept you on Earth for that, were it their purpose,” he said.

"I want to go back to Earth,” she said.

"Earth is behind you,” he said.

"Behind me?"

"Yes."

"—Forever?"

"Yes."

"Then I am now—of Gor?” she said.

"Yes,” he said, and then added, thoughtfully, “or elsewhere."

"But what is to become of me—on Gor?” she asked. “What could I do on Gor? What could I be on Gor?"

Cabot smiled.

"I do not care for that smile,” she said.

How easy it would be, thought Cabot, to simply cuff her, and position her, and begin her training!

He thought it might be pleasant to train her, the haughty little bitch, the supercilious, smug slut.

"Do they speak English on Gor?” she asked.

"No,” he said.

"But you speak English."

"I am from England,” he said, “Bristol."

"I am from Mayfair,” she said.

"Do you wish to live?” he asked.

"Certainly,” she said, uneasily.

"Gorean,” he said, “from the name of the world, is the most commonly spoken language on Gor. At least that is so in those areas with which I am most familiar, and certainly it is so in the high cities."

"High cities?"

"Ar,” said he, “Turia, Ko-ro-ba, Thentis, Treve, Venna, and such."

"Those are cities?"

"Yes,” he said. “Most are tower cities, but less so Turia and Venna."

"What are tower cities?"

"The name is presumably because of the architecture of the primary defensive structures, keeps, usually reached by means of unrailed, narrow bridges."

"Why did you ask if I wished to live?” she asked,

"Because,” said he, “if you do wish to live, it will be in your interest to learn to speak Gorean, as quickly and as fluently as you can."

"I see,” she said.

"Even if this is not Gor,” he said, “and I am not sure it is, if there are humans here, humans who have speech, it is probably the language they would speak. Too, if there are translators here, translation devices, many would presumably be devised to deal with Gorean."

"And if I do not care to learn some unusual, strange, and barbarous language?” she asked.

"Gorean,” he said, “is a complex, subtle, beautiful language, with a large and sophisticated lexicon."

"Even so,” she said, irritably.

"Then, I suppose,” said Cabot, “you will be destroyed."

She moved, and the chain dangling from the heavy collar made a tiny sound, against the collar ring.

"You speak Gorean?"

"Yes,” he said.

"Teach me,” she said, “teach me Gorean."

"You must learn,” he said, “five hundred words a day."

"So many?"

"I do not know how much time we have."

"Very well,” she said. “Begin."

"You are prepared to say your first words in Gorean?"

"Yes."

"Very well,” he said. “Say ‘La kajira'."

"La kajira,” she repeated.

"Excellent,” he said.

"I am good at languages,” she said.

"Excellent,” he said.

"La kajira,” she said. “What a lovely sound."

"Yes,” he said, “the word ‘kajira’ is a lovely word, with a beautiful sound."

"I like it,” she said.

"You are, incidentally,” he said, “kajira."

She laughed. “I'm happy,” she said, “that such a lovely word applies to me."

"It does,” he assured her. “It applies to you in fact, and with great aptness."

"Does it mean ‘beautiful'?” she asked.

"Not exactly,” he said, “but it often suggests female beauty."

"Good,” she said.

See her straighten that beautiful body, thought Cabot. Men have bred such as she for generations, for their collars.

"It means ‘a beauty’ then,” she smiled.

"Not exactly,” he said, “but many kajirae, that is the plural, are beautiful."

"And I am beautiful,” she said.

"You will do,” he said.

"So, I am kajira,” she said. “Lovely! What does it mean?"

"You will learn later,” he said.

"I suppose,” she said, “that we may have to spend some time together."

"Perhaps,” he said. “I do not know."

"We have not been properly introduced,” she said.

"Did we not do that in the container?” he asked.

"There was no third party,” she said, “at least no appropriate third party."

"There was little help for that,” he said. “There still isn't."

"No matter,” she said. “We must make do, somehow. I am Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym, of Mayfair, London."

He smiled.

She no longer had a name. Masters had not yet given her one.

"And you are,” she said, “Mr. Tarl Cabot, of Bristol."

"Once so,” he said.

"Once so?"

"Yes,” he said. “But, too, I have been known as Tarl of Bristol, and Bosk, captain, of Port Kar."

"Considering how we have been so inexplicably and lamentably thrown together,” she said, “I think we may as well dispense with certain formalities. I shall refer to you, if I may, as Mr. Cabot."

"And how would you have me refer to you?” he asked.

"Miss Pym will do,” she said.

Cabot thought she might make a better Tula, or Tuka, or Lita. Those are common slave names on Gor.

"Miss Pym,” he said, “seems somewhat inappropriate, perhaps a bit prim, perhaps even pompous, does it not, for someone in your current circumstances, one who is kneeling in straw, one whose entire ensemble consists of a collar and chain?"

"Very well,” she said. “I shall call you Tarl, as though we were better acquainted, and even of the same social class. I shall concede such things. And you may call me ‘Virginia.’”

"I will call you ‘Cecily,'” he said.

"I prefer ‘Virginia,'” she said, coldly.

"I will call you ‘Cecily,'” he said.

"Why?” she asked.

"Because I wish to do so,” he said.

"I do not care for ‘Cecily,'” she said. “I never have. In my view, it is too ordinary a name, too common a name. It is a name less fitting for me than for a shopgirl. It is insufficiently refined."

Whether a name is ordinary or not seems to depend on time and place. For example, ‘Cecily’ might have been an ordinary name in one of the Englands, hers, at the time, at least in her opinion, but it might have been far less common in, say, another of the Englands. Too, in her own England, at one time, it might have counted as indisputably aristocratic, enough so even for her to have found it acceptable. And once again, who knows, it may again, if it is not already there, ascend the stairs of specialness and regard. Fashion seems to exercise its whimsical rule in such matters. Too, a name which is regarded by one person as ordinary may, by another person, be regarded as quite unordinary. Consider a name such as ‘Jane'. That name, as I understand it, surely a beautiful name, is commonly regarded on Earth as an ordinary name. On Gor, on the other hand, it is an unordinary name. It is not unknown, for example, for that name to be given to Gorean slave girls, and not simply because of its convenient brevity and beauty, properties suitable for a slave name, but also because, on Gor, it has an attractive exotic flavor, suggesting foreign places and goods. Earth feminine names, in general, are commonly regarded on Gor as slave names. This is not surprising as Earth females are regarded as slave stock, suitable for the collars of Gorean masters.

"I will call you ‘Cecily,'” he said.

Cabot had seen more than one girl from England chained in a Gorean market whose name had been Cecily. It was a not unprecedented name for Gorean slave girls from that part of the Earth. So, too, I am told, are names such as Jane, as suggested, and others, Jean, Joan, Margaret, Helen, Elizabeth, Marjorie, Allison, Corinne, Constance, and such. Those may not have been their original names, of course. Masters name their girls as they please. To be sure, such names are also not unknown, as I am informed, in the colonies, or former colonies, of that place, too, one of the Englands. Perhaps in her present predicament, naked and chained, she reminded Cabot of one or more of the girls he had seen in the markets. Or perhaps he just thought it would be a name acceptable for her, at least temporarily.

"What if I do not choose to respond to that name,” she said.

"Then I will beat you,” he said.

"Beat me?"

"Yes."

"I am Virginia Cecily Jean Pym!” she said. “—Beat me?"

"Yes."

"You would not dare!"

"You are mistaken."

"You are, of course, larger and stronger than I."

"Yes."

"You would beat me?"

"Certainly."

"You may call me ‘Cecily,'” she said.

"It is what I will call you,” he said.

"Very well,” she said. She drew back, abashed, uncertain of her feelings.

She put her hands on the chain, and pulled it a little against the collar ring. She was well fastened in place.

She would be addressed as men pleased. This, thought Cabot, is a good lesson for her. She is not having her own way. She is unaccustomed to being under male discipline. To be sure, she had been positioned in the container, when he had been examining her for slave marks. And later, for a time. She is trying to understand her feelings, he thought. She is sexually aroused, and she does not clearly understand how it has come about. Women respond well to male domination. They are, after all, females. She would make an excellent slave, thought Cabot. And Cabot, of course, at that time, did not well understand that the female had not only the profound sexual needs and drives of a lovely, helpless, vulnerable slave, and remarkably so, but that she had been chosen for him, and for him in particular, with exactly such things in mind.

How helplessly she would find herself his!

Are the Priest-Kings not cruel?

"May I call you ‘Tarl'?” she inquired.

"For now,” he said.

It would be time enough later, to let her know what she had done on the Prison Moon, that she had bespoken herself slave, and in so doing had renounced her freedom, irrecoverably, that it had been an act which it was now wholly beyond her power to revoke, amend or qualify in any way. It would be time enough later to let her know that she was now property, merely unclaimed property.

He did not think the fellows she had known on Earth would have objected to this.

Would they not have liked to have her kneeling naked at their feet, collared, fearing the lash, if she were found in the least displeasing?

Tarl Cabot rose to his feet, and looked about himself.

"What do you see?” she asked.

Curiosity, he thought, is not becoming in a kajira. Yet they tend to be persistently, delightfully, sometimes annoyingly, incorrigibly, curious.

"More stalls,” he said. “A passageway, wooden, between them. This is, I think, a stable."

"A stable!"

"Surely, does it not seem so?"

"I, in a stable!"

"It would seem so,” he said.

He then turned about.

"Where are you going!” she called. She stood up, frantically, clumsily, and found herself partly bent over, for the length of the chain did not permit her to stand erect. She must have felt she looked absurd, for she quickly knelt, again.

She clutched her arms about herself.

So might a lovely tabuk doe be tethered in the straw, thought Cabot, though for such, lacking hands, a light strand on the neck might do.

To be sure, a much lighter chain would have held her. She was a female.

How lovely they are, he thought. They are so different from us. They are made by nature to be our slaves.

To be sure, they can be nuisances, until they are collared.

"Do not leave me!” she cried.

"Are you afraid?” he asked.

"Of course not!” she said.

"Then you are stupid,” he said.

"Are you afraid?” she asked.

"Yes,” he said.

"I am afraid,” she said.

"Good,” he said.

He turned about, again.

"Do not leave me alone!” she cried.

He moved toward the opening of the stall.

"Don't go!” she cried. “If you leave me I shall scream!” she said.

He turned back, toward her.

He had at his disposal no convenient means with which to bind her, hand and foot, and gag her.

He read her body.

Binding and gagging a woman, and leaving her alone, for an Ahn or so, can be instructive to her.

He had little doubt but what the former Miss Pym would find it so. She was clearly highly intelligent.

But he had no convenient means for such at his disposal.

He regarded her, closely.

She knelt before him, looking up at him.

Again he read her body, her slave body.

She does not know it, he thought, but she is ready, nearly ready, for the mastering.

"I would not scream,” he said. “You do not know who or what might hear."

"I am prepared to accept that risk,” she said.

"I am not,” he said.

"Do not leave me!” she said. “What are you going to do!” she cried, drawing back, alarmed, as he approached her.

He took a large handful of dry, bristling straw and placed it, crosswise, in her mouth. He then stood up, and looked down at her, she looking up at him, disbelievingly, her eyes wide, her mouth filled with the stallage. “Do not expel that,” he said, “until given permission. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

He then left the stall and began to make his way down the passageway between stalls, for there were several in the structure.

After a time he returned.

He knelt beside the brunette and drew the damp, partly crushed straw from her mouth. Then she put her head to the side, and, fingering within her mouth, and spitting, she ridded herself of the residue of the straw.

Then she looked at him reproachfully. “What you did to me!” she said.

"We had little but straw to work with,” he said. “I regret that."

"I am not prepared to accept your apology,” she said.

"I do not apologize, nor should I,” said he. “It is only that I regret that proper materials were not at hand. I think you would have looked quite nice, bound, hand and foot, and gagged, lying in the straw on your chain."

"What manner of man are you?” she asked, angrily.

"Gorean,” he said. “And you are a female."

"What did you learn?” she asked.

"I looked about,” he said. “There is no escape. There are bars. The stable is of wood, but it is within what seems to be a housing of iron or steel. I could see very little outside the stable."

"Are we—on Gor?” she asked.

"I do not think so,” he said.

"Are we to starve here?” she asked.

"I would not think so,” he said.

"What is to be done with us?"

"I do not know."

"Must you look at me so?"

"You have nice curves,” he said.

She looked away, angrily.

"Do you know what such curves are called, on Gor?"

"No,” she said.

"Slave curves,” he said.

"How vulgar, how horrid!” she exclaimed.

"Not at all,” he said. “You have a lovely body, lovely enough to be that of a slave.” He continued to scrutinize her. “Yes,” he said, “you have an excellent body, a slave body."

"Beast!” she exclaimed.

"You would probably bring a good price in a market."

"A market!"

"A slave market, of course."

"Never!” she cried. “Never!"

He saw that she was sexually stimulated, muchly aroused. Clearly, and not only in her dreams, she had often thought herself a slave, and had perhaps foolishly suffered and struggled against her body and its needs, her heart and its needs, against the primitive depth and helpless wholeness of her slave needs.

Doubtless often, in her dreams and otherwise, she had stood upon the slave block, in sawdust, in the light of torches and lamps, exhibited, and had been auctioned to the highest bidder. Doubtless, often, she had been led from the market, back-braceleted, and leashed, perhaps hooded, led as might be any other newly purchased animal, to her new home. Doubtless, too, she had often knelt before masters, or kissed their feet, in gratitude and love, in reverence or supplication. Perhaps she had sometimes been bound to an overhead whipping ring and had been switched, or lashed, for some miniscule fault or shortcoming. Perhaps, often, she had striven in chains, desperately, fearfully, to give her master inordinate pleasures.

"I wonder if you have had your slave wine, or some similar substance, something with the same consequences or effects,” he said.

"What is slave wine?” she asked.

"Never mind,” said he.

Slaves, as domestic animals, are normally bred only as the masters please.

"Are you a virgin?” he asked.

"That is my business!” she snapped.

"A determination might be made,” he said.

"Yes,” she said, angrily. “I am a virgin!"

Strange that she, a virgin, he thought, should be so soon on the verge of begging for sex. Already thought Cabot she feels the warmth of slave fires in her belly. He did not think it would take long before she became their piteous, begging prisoner.

Perhaps it is the chain, he thought, the chain, binding fiber, such things, which hasten such things, which bring a female so rapidly, so pathetically, so needfully, so openly and honestly, to her knees.

"What are we to do now?” she asked, uneasily.

"We shall continue with your lessons in Gorean,” he said.

She put down her head, her small hands on the chain dangling from her collar. “Very well,” she said.

"But,” said he, “we will try to do a thousand words a day."

"I think I cannot do so much,” she said.

"We will do the best we can,” he said.

"Why so many?"

"I do not know how much time we have,” he said.

"No,” she said. “This has to do with something you saw, something you saw outside the stable."

"Perhaps,” he said.

"What was it?” she asked.

"Doubtless in time you will learn,” he said.

"I want to live,” she said.

"We will do the best we can,” he said.

"La kajira!” she said.

"Excellent,” he said.

"You see,” she said. “I remembered!"

"Excellent,” he said.

"Those are my first words in Gorean!” she said.

"And appropriately so,” he said.

"Why?"

"It does not matter now,” he said.

"They mean I am a beautiful female!” she said.

"Something like that,” he said, “or usually."

"I did not forget them,” she said.

"Good,” he said.