"You cannot whip me!” she cried. “You did not punish me before! You will not punish me now!"
"It is true,” he said, “that I did not punish you before."
"Just touch my back, if you must,” she said, “as you did before. That is enough! It is more than enough!"
He did not respond.
"I need not be punished,” she said. “It is not necessary to punish me. Punishment is not necessary. I will mend my ways!"
Again he did not see fit to respond to the anxious declarations and protestations of the lovely, distraught, braceleted beast.
"I will strive to be pleasing!” she said.
"I trust so,” he said.
"I am sorry I was displeasing!” she said.
"But you were displeasing,” he said. “You are a slave. Did you expect to be displeasing, and not be punished?"
"You cannot punish me!” she said. “I am from Earth!"
"You may find this quite unpleasant,” he said. “Accordingly, it is my hope that in the future you will go to great lengths to avoid incurring repetitions of this experience, at least too frequently, and will be muchly concerned to monitor and improve your behavior, that in such a way as to better serve and please your master, in all ways, to the best of your ability."
"Let me go!” she said, jerking the linkage of the bracelets against the ring.
"To be sure,” he said, “it is often difficult for the slave to avoid displeasing her master, even inadvertently. And occasionally a slave slips somewhat, and becomes lax, and such things are inappropriate, and are not to be tolerated."
"Let me go! Let me go!"
"She is always subject to the whip, you see. Too, as you may not realize, the slave, as she is a slave, may be whipped at any time, for any reason, or for no reason. That helps her to understand she is a slave. Also, occasionally, she may be whipped for no other reason than to remind her that she is a slave."
"You cannot whip me,” she cried. “I am from Earth!"
"From Earth,” he said, “you should be clearly aware, here, as would you be on Gor, that you are only a slave."
"Surely you are not going to whip me, truly, not as a slave!"
"You are a slave,” he said, “and it is as the slave you are that you will be whipped."
"Master!” she cried.
"You are kajira,” he said.
"Please, no, Master!” she wept.
He then put the whip to her.
* * * *
"Viands, Master,” she said, kneeling and lifting the plate to him, her head down.
He took what pleased him, and dismissed her, and she stood, near him, for a moment, uncertain, and then another called to her, from across the great fire, about which the men sat, being served, and she, casting a forlorn glance at him, hurried to serve the other, to whom she had been summoned.
She served identically, as all the others.
There was the music of flutes, and a tabor, and one kalika, and a slave, she of one of Peisistratus’ men, stamped her feet, and turned, and danced in the firelight. Bangles clashed upon her bared ankles. It is beautiful to see a slave dancing in the firelight. Or in the light of torches, or candles, in some such natural light. How beautiful are women, thought Cabot. It is a rare Gorean camp, incidentally, which does not have its slaves, for, as noted, Gorean men are fond of them, and reluctant to forgo their services and pleasures.
"Wine, Master?” inquired Corinna, kneeling before him, lifting the goblet in two hands, her head down, between her extended arms.
In the goblet, of course, was actually paga.
"Peisistratus sent you to me?” said Cabot.
"Yes, Master,” she said.
"Thank him for me,” said Cabot, “but I think I will have wine later."
"Yes, Master,” said Corinna, smiling. “Later in the feast I will send her to you."
Cabot nodded, dismissing the beauteous Corinna. He hoped to see her dance, later.
"Paga!” called men. “Viands!” demanded others. “Bread, meat!” cried others.
It was a small feast, with no more than twenty men, and some five or six slaves, but it was a ready, merry one, with the usual raucous gusto of strong, healthy, uninhibited men. Cabot thought that many of Earth might have regarded such as barbarians, but they, Goreans, had much the same views of those of Earth. Who but barbarians would poison their foods, pollute the air they breathed and the water they drank, would live lives of unhealthy deprivation and misery, would wrap their bodies in clumsy, malformed, constricting garments, would congratulate themselves on denying themselves the natural gratifications of their species, would feel unworthy, belittled, and ashamed for having the most natural impulses and feelings of their kind, would allow free women to go about unveiled, as though they might be slaves, and would unthinkingly sacrifice themselves for foolish, preposterous, and contradictory ideologies and creeds? Too, they did not speak Gorean, an infallible sign in many Gorean minds of barbarism. Still, despite the many faults of that barbarian world there was something to be said for it. It was a source world for superb slaves. Certainly its women sold well in the Gorean markets. But that was not to be wondered at, for it is common knowledge that from barbarian shores are not unoften harvested the finest of slaves.
Lord Grendel was not at the feast, for he had returned to the habitats, doubtless on business, say, with Lords Arcesilaus and Zarendargar, or perhaps to participate further in the festivals, or, perhaps, more simply, to be near the Lady Bina.
Near the gate the great sleen, Ramar, had been given a huge haunch of roast tarsk.
Muchly about the fire were conversations, shoutings, songs, recitations, games, proposals, projections, and plans.
Some discussion concerned the respective merits of weapons, particularly the crossbow and the peasant bow. There was discussion, as well, of poets. I trust this is not surprising, that hardy men, skilled with weapons, who often lived with peril, might have such concerns. On Gor and in the world poetry is not the labored, esoteric possession of a delicate, pretentious minority, as it might prove to be in less civilized or more decadent climes, but is a matter of life, robust pride, and zestful living. In any event, in the world, and on Gor, as well, poetry, like music, and song, is familiar, public, and popular. It has not yet fled into eccentric byways. It has not yet been taken away from the people. To be sure, much of the conversation was far more prosaic, involving matters of trade, commensurabilities of currencies, tharlarion versus kaiila races, pen procedures for acclimating new girls to their collars, the best seasons and cities for the marketing of women, whether or not the slave girls of Ar were superior to those of Turia, and what not.
Cabot observed the slaves, serving, the firelight reflected from their bared skins, and glinting and flashing at times, suddenly, from their collars.
How beautiful they were, and how well they served.
And she of most interest to him moved amongst them, no more or less than any other.
Cabot mused, that she had been put with him in the container, on the Prison Moon. She had been selected with care by Priest-Kings, doubtless from many thousands, with him in mind. She would doubtless constitute for any male an almost irresistible temptation, but for him, Tarl Cabot, she had been actually picked out, chosen with all the insidious wisdom and callous astuteness of an advanced science, the science of Priest-Kings. If she was an almost irresistible temptation for any male, what must she be then to him, he for whom she, unbeknownst to herself, had been selected, readied, and prepared? Cabot wondered if in a sense she had not, unbeknownst to herself, been bred for him. Too, clearly she was a slave, to those who could remark such things, the sort of woman to be seized by the hair, thrown to a fellow's feet, stripped, and collared. And, too, of course, the matching, to be most successful, would presumably be one of designed reciprocation, not only she to him, but he to her. She was to have been, as a free woman, a challenge to his honor, the means by which, sooner or later, it must be inevitably lost, but now there was no longer a need to concern oneself with such things, for now, as a slave, she was as open to him or to any other who might own her, as any other slave.