Quarry of Gor, page 5
“One, ninety,” called a man.
“Own her, train her to your personal tastes!” called the auctioneer. “What foods do you prefer, what drinks? How will your kal-da be spiced? At what Ahn will you be awakened? What temperature shall be your bath? What oils will you use? How will your robes be laid out? Let her on all fours bring your sandals to you, in her teeth. Let her bring the whip to you similarly, and drop it at your feet and beg to be lashed, if she is not fully pleasing!”
“Two copper tarsks!” called a fellow.
“Of Brundisium?” inquired the auctioneer.
“Of Brundisium,” said the man.
“I have two copper tarsks, of Brundisium,” said the auctioneer. “Who will bid more?”
There was silence in the tiers.
“Turn, face away from the noble masters,” he said.
“Please, no, Master!” I wept.
“Now,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Two copper tarsks, twenty!” called a fellow.
“Two copper tarsks, forty!” called another.
“Noble masters,” called the auctioneer, “this female was brought to Gor for your pleasure! Think on that!”
“They all are,” called a fellow from the high tiers.
There was laughter.
“Turn, again,” said the auctioneer. “Face the noble masters.”
I complied.
It can be frightening to face bidders, as the livestock one is, waiting to be owned. It is hard not to be aware, as a purchasable object, of the desire and lust in the tiers, against which one will be helpless to defend oneself. But facing away is no particular refuge or remedy. The desire and lust is still there. Too, facing away, in a first, or even a second sale, can be humiliating, as one is then exhibited as little more than a form of possible interest. How better can one reduce and degrade a woman? Later, however, one does not object, per se, to this display of merchandise, oneself. Indeed, a slave soon takes pleasure in her richness and wholeness, in its manifest aspects. She hopes to be found pleasing, in all ways. In an early sale, however, aside from humiliation, as a new slave may be more sensitive to such things, it can be frightening to be facing away, unable to see the tiers. Is there not an uneasiness, knowing that something, perhaps dangerous or predatory, might be behind you, and you may not look about? Does one not feel more at risk, more vulnerable, when one may not look about?
“Zia,” said the auctioneer.
“Master?” I said, startled.
“Are you trained?” he asked.
“A little,” I said. Certainly I did not want much to be expected of me. I would much rather a master be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. Too, why should he ask me this? Had not the slaver’s scribe, below the block, earlier, in his description, alluded to my level of training? It was rudimentary at best, but, in it, I had learned I was where I should be, in a collar.
“Speak up,” he said.
“A little,” I said, more loudly. I now realized I was supposed to be heard in the tiers.
“Petition to be bought,” he said.
I had been instructed as to how to respond to this command.
“Buy me, Masters!” I called. “I beg to be bought!”
It is said that only slaves beg to be bought. If a captured free woman should beg to be purchased, for example, to be freed, she has thereby pronounced herself a slave.
And then, desperately, suddenly, I added something on my own. “And be kind to me, Masters!” I begged.
There was laughter from the tiers. I reddened. I had not realized that this request would be taken to be as naive or ridiculous as it had been. Was such a request truly so preposterous? I suddenly realized, even more deeply than before, what it might be to be a slave girl.
“You spoke without permission,” said the auctioneer.
I had not thought. I paled. “Please do not whip me, Master,” I begged.
“Do you now beg to please a man, any man?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said, hastily.
“Louder,” he said.
“I beg to please a man, any man!” I said.
“Nothing is owed to a slave girl,” he said.
“I understand,” I said.
“Do you deserve to be treated with kindness?” he asked.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Noble masters,” called the auctioneer to the crowd, “let me tell you something of the males, I do not say “men,” of the slave world. They are taught to rejoice in their reduction, weakening, stunting, and crippling. They are instructed to collaborate in their own oppression and subjection. The true male is he who is least a man. A pallid, mechanistic, unnatural, and artificial society fears manhood and what it might mean. The larl must pretend to be a verr, lest it be devoured by swarms of urts. He who does the greatest treason to his own blood is accounted most a hero, or should one say, “heroine”? In a machine constructed of interchangeable parts there is no place for men or women. Biology is an embarrassment, an obstacle to be overcome. Men are thus to become less like men, and more like women, and women are to become less like women, and more like men. The machine, with its own needs, and its own best interests in mind, will have it so. But the transformation of men and women into pliable, pitiable, sexless neuters proceeds imperfectly. The pursuit of perfection, which by definition is unobtainable, leads to pathology. Theory succumbs to fact. Reality is recalcitrant. It is repudiated only at one’s risk. Poison does not nourish, but sickens or kills. Consider then a world in which politics is given priority over nature. That is the slave world! Values and conventions become not roads, mountains, horizons, and wings, but fences and shackles. And so one has a world of men at war with themselves and women at war with themselves, a war in which victory is identified with one’s own loss and defeat. And much of this is sensed by its victims, even when denied. And how do males and females in this world, meeting in its crevices, at permitted times, relate to one another? The hapless, pathetic males sue for smiles, and offer gifts, which they can often ill afford and the women, scorning such males, accept those gifts and solicit more. The supposed free women of the slave world, such as this now-stripped barbarian before you, are exploitative, mercenary creatures bartering their beauty for gain!”
There were cries of anger from the tiers.
I was frightened.
“Is it not so, slut?” he snarled.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And were you not such a woman?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said. I knew it was true. How often I had played such games with men!
“You did such things deliberately, and were petty, cruel, and worthless,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Doubtless you well used the promise of your body to arouse, taunt, provoke, tease, and lure males, to win gain from them, to obtain largesse, to turn their frustrated desire to your own profit.”
“Yes, Master,” I wept.
“And you were doubtless fully clothed, for the most part,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And see her now,” he said, turning to the tiers, “owned, a property, exhibited as we wish, on sale!”
“Good!” called more than one fellow.
“She is now as she deserved to be, even then!” said the auctioneer.
“Yes, yes,” called men.
“And will she now reap gain from her beauty?” said the auctioneer.
“No!” cried men.
“Others will now reap gain from her beauty,” said the auctioneer, “those who sell it!”
“Yes!” cried men. “Yes!”
“From the feckless men of Earth,” said the auctioneer, “we take which of their women we please and bring them to Gor.”
“Good,” called a fellow.
“As meaningless and worthless as they are,” said the auctioneer.
There was laughter.
“Now, for the first time in their lives,” he said, “they will be worth something, as abject slaves.”
“Excellent,” said a fellow.
“You see,” said the auctioneer, turning to me. “You do not deserve kindness.”
I was silent.
“Do you deserve kindness?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Shall we not see that she, this petty, greedy, exploitative, spoiled woman of the slave world, the gray, polluted world, is punished, for what she was on the polluted world?” asked the auctioneer.
“Yes, yes!” called men.
The auctioneer then replaced his whip on his belt. I was pleased at this. He apparently had no intention then, despite his remark, of punishing me, at least immediately. The typical punishment of a slave is to be switched or whipped. That is, mercifully, quickly over. We do understand the switch and whip. What slave does not? That action, replacing the whip on his belt, did free his right hand.
“Oh!” I cried, for the auctioneer had seized me by the hair, turned my right side to the tiers, and bent me backward, holding me cruelly in the “slave bow.” I dared not speak, so held, so displayed.
“I have, I recall,” said the auctioneer, “a bid in hand of two copper tarsks, forty.”
“Three copper tarsks!” cried a man.
“Three, twenty!” called another.
The auctioneer pulled me upright by the hair and lifted his hand, tangled in my hair, and I was on my tip toes, my hands futilely on the auctioneer’s wrist. I am sure now that he had realized that I would try to reach up, to ease the pain on my hair, and, in attempting this, would lift my breasts, further displaying the merchandise which I was.
“I have three twenty, three twenty,” called the auctioneer. “Who will make it three, fifty?”
“Three, twenty-five!” called a fellow.
“I want three fifty, three fifty, at least!” said the auctioneer.
“Too much!” called a man.
The auctioneer released my hair and I stood, bent over. I feared I might fall.
“Examination position,” he said.
I straightened my body, spread my legs, I could feel the sawdust about my ankles, put my hands, clasped, behind the back of my neck, and looked upwards. I could see the roof of the hall. Sometimes the hands are clasped behind the head.
“Spread your legs more,” said the auctioneer.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
The spreading of the legs makes it more difficult to move. In a sense, it holds one in place. The hands behind the neck or head removes the hands from a position where they might obstruct an assessor’s view. Also, clasped, they are held in place. This posture also, besides rendering the slave helpless and vulnerable, lifts her breasts nicely. The lifting of the head, looking upward, makes it difficult to anticipate the touch of an assessor. What I did not understand was why I had been commanded to such a position on the block. The block is high, and I was several feet from the tiers. And surely it was seldom that a bidder would be permitted to ascend the block. There might be several interested men in the tiers, making this impractical, and the merchants are eager to keep the sales moving, one item after another. The examination position is more commonly required on a slave shelf or in a sales camp, where a given buyer, perhaps shopping, may be interested in a particular slave, one which he may wish to inspect more closely. My puzzlement was short lived. I could not see behind me. I did not realize, for example, that the auctioneer had now, again, removed the whip from his belt.
“I have a bid of three, twenty-five,” said the auctioneer. “Surely that is not enough for this comely dark-haired slave. Is her hair too short? It will grow. Is she too spare and lithe? You can fatten her up. She may not have the sturdy limbs, and strength of some slaves, but not all slaves need carry weighty sacks of suls or pit their strength against the straps of plows. Surely you can think of other things to do with such a slave. Imagine her naked and perfumed, chained by the neck at the foot of your couch. And when you wish to work her, the whip will see to her efficiency and zeal. Who will bid three fifty, and higher?”
But the tiers were silent.
“Aii!” I cried, startled, reacting involuntarily, violently, spasmodically, and fell to my knees, shaken and miserable. How I had been exposed, displayed, and revealed! I wept. My body, I fear, was a scarlet sheet of flame.
I had been administered the “slaver’s caress.”
“Do not dare to cover your breasts with your hands,” snapped the auctioneer. “You are a slave.”
“Master!” I protested, beggingly.
“Nadu, slave!” he snapped.
I then knelt at the auctioneer’s feet, facing the tiers. I knelt back on my heels, my back straight, my belly sucked in, my shoulders back, the palms of my hands down on my thighs, my head lifted.
“Widen your knees more,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You see, noble masters,” said the auctioneer, “our suppliers select not only for comeliness and high intelligence, as is well known, but for uncontrollable slave reflexes.”
There was laughter.
“And this pretty slut,” said the auctioneer, “has been on Gor for only several days, and already she will leap, writhe, squeak, moan, and whimper like a tarsk in heat.”
“They all do!” called a man.
There was more laughter.
I, kneeling in nadu, felt devastated, humiliated.
My feelings had not been respected. I was nothing. I did not count. No one had consulted me, or warned me. It had been done to me without my consent, without my permission. I had been revealed as a helplessly sexual creature, one for sale, a slave!
Tears sprang from my eyes, and ran down my cheeks.
I could not wipe them away, held in nadu.
Was I, as a slave, I thought, permitted to retain no shred of dignity? No, I thought, I was not. I was a slave. Everything about me, even my needs and responses, were public. How exposed and displayed I felt! More about me had been exhibited than unveiled features and a bared form. I had had no choice but to betray myself as a slave, a woman who would be helpless in the hands of a master. On Gor I had hoped to find a master who would love me and whom I might love. Now I realized I would be the helplessly responsive, writhing, begging toy of any man who might own me. I was a slave, only a slave!
“Three copper tarsks, forty tarsk-bits, of Brundisium!” called a fellow from the tiers. I did not even see who uttered the bid.
“I want three, fifty,” called the auctioneer, “at least three fifty. Who will bid more? Who will bid more?”
The tiers were silent.
“Three, fifty!” said the auctioneer.
The auctioneer was standing a bit to my left, a little before me. I could see the whip in his right hand.
There was no response from the tiers.
“You may break position,” said the auctioneer.
I broke position. I remained kneeling, at his feet, but I closed my knees, and put my head down.
“Surely more!” called the auctioneer.
But the tiers were still silent.
“Very well,” said the auctioneer. “Three copper tarsks, forty. Done!”
He replaced the whip on his belt.
I heard the sound of a gong.
I had been sold!
“Forgive me, Master,” I begged, putting my cheek, head down, to his leg, “for not having been sufficiently pleasing.”
But he paid me no attention.
Why should he pay attention to a slave?
He seemed to be examining the tiers. I did not know why he was doing this. Then, apparently satisfied, perhaps he had seen something, or someone, he looked down at me. I was kneeling beside him. I then lifted my head, and looked up at him, and then, tears in my eyes, I began, softly, to lick and kiss the coils of the whip he carried in his hand. It seemed appropriate to me to do so. Some women can understand this. If they found themselves at the feet of a Gorean male, I suspect all women could understand it.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
He put his hand in my hair, and shook my head, good-naturedly. The caress was much as one might have bestowed on a dog on my former world. Gratefully, I realized I was not likely to be beaten.
“You may have difficulty standing,” he said. “Crawl from the block on all fours. We do want you to stumble on the stairs. You will be caged and picked up in the morning. Off with you.”
“The next slave is Adraste,” said the slaver’s scribe, calling up from his position before and below the center of the block, “one of those brought in from the World’s End.”
“I know,” said the auctioneer, looking out again, toward the tiers.
I then left the block as the auctioneer had specified, on all fours, and descended the stairs similarly. In this way I was less likely to fall, possibly being injured or bruised. I, as goods, was to be delivered to a purchaser undamaged. At the foot of the block, on its right side, as one would face it from the tiers, a slaver’s man pulled me to my feet. I stood unsteadily. “Leading position,” he said. I then bent down, and put my head to his left hip. He then took my hair in his hand, and conducted me through certain passages, and then, arresting his journey, he put me to all fours before a small cage, one of several, some already occupied, and opened the gate. I crawled within, and then turned to look up at him. He locked the gate. I grasped the bars. My cage, and each of the others, as well, had a sign, each the same sign. “Master,” I said, “may I speak?” “Surely,” he said. “What do the signs say?” I asked. I could not read Gorean. “‘Sold’,” he said. “I am sorry I did not sell for more,” I said. “There is a glut of slaves on the market,” he said. “I have never seen so many. One can scarcely give them away. It is impossible to keep track of them all. We process them like herds of tarsks. It has to do with the season, the influx from the World’s End, and the fall campaigns. If I had my way, we would hold them off the market until spring, but they eat. To be sure, what one loses on single sale, one may, with luck, make up in volume.”
“Own her, train her to your personal tastes!” called the auctioneer. “What foods do you prefer, what drinks? How will your kal-da be spiced? At what Ahn will you be awakened? What temperature shall be your bath? What oils will you use? How will your robes be laid out? Let her on all fours bring your sandals to you, in her teeth. Let her bring the whip to you similarly, and drop it at your feet and beg to be lashed, if she is not fully pleasing!”
“Two copper tarsks!” called a fellow.
“Of Brundisium?” inquired the auctioneer.
“Of Brundisium,” said the man.
“I have two copper tarsks, of Brundisium,” said the auctioneer. “Who will bid more?”
There was silence in the tiers.
“Turn, face away from the noble masters,” he said.
“Please, no, Master!” I wept.
“Now,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Two copper tarsks, twenty!” called a fellow.
“Two copper tarsks, forty!” called another.
“Noble masters,” called the auctioneer, “this female was brought to Gor for your pleasure! Think on that!”
“They all are,” called a fellow from the high tiers.
There was laughter.
“Turn, again,” said the auctioneer. “Face the noble masters.”
I complied.
It can be frightening to face bidders, as the livestock one is, waiting to be owned. It is hard not to be aware, as a purchasable object, of the desire and lust in the tiers, against which one will be helpless to defend oneself. But facing away is no particular refuge or remedy. The desire and lust is still there. Too, facing away, in a first, or even a second sale, can be humiliating, as one is then exhibited as little more than a form of possible interest. How better can one reduce and degrade a woman? Later, however, one does not object, per se, to this display of merchandise, oneself. Indeed, a slave soon takes pleasure in her richness and wholeness, in its manifest aspects. She hopes to be found pleasing, in all ways. In an early sale, however, aside from humiliation, as a new slave may be more sensitive to such things, it can be frightening to be facing away, unable to see the tiers. Is there not an uneasiness, knowing that something, perhaps dangerous or predatory, might be behind you, and you may not look about? Does one not feel more at risk, more vulnerable, when one may not look about?
“Zia,” said the auctioneer.
“Master?” I said, startled.
“Are you trained?” he asked.
“A little,” I said. Certainly I did not want much to be expected of me. I would much rather a master be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. Too, why should he ask me this? Had not the slaver’s scribe, below the block, earlier, in his description, alluded to my level of training? It was rudimentary at best, but, in it, I had learned I was where I should be, in a collar.
“Speak up,” he said.
“A little,” I said, more loudly. I now realized I was supposed to be heard in the tiers.
“Petition to be bought,” he said.
I had been instructed as to how to respond to this command.
“Buy me, Masters!” I called. “I beg to be bought!”
It is said that only slaves beg to be bought. If a captured free woman should beg to be purchased, for example, to be freed, she has thereby pronounced herself a slave.
And then, desperately, suddenly, I added something on my own. “And be kind to me, Masters!” I begged.
There was laughter from the tiers. I reddened. I had not realized that this request would be taken to be as naive or ridiculous as it had been. Was such a request truly so preposterous? I suddenly realized, even more deeply than before, what it might be to be a slave girl.
“You spoke without permission,” said the auctioneer.
I had not thought. I paled. “Please do not whip me, Master,” I begged.
“Do you now beg to please a man, any man?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said, hastily.
“Louder,” he said.
“I beg to please a man, any man!” I said.
“Nothing is owed to a slave girl,” he said.
“I understand,” I said.
“Do you deserve to be treated with kindness?” he asked.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Noble masters,” called the auctioneer to the crowd, “let me tell you something of the males, I do not say “men,” of the slave world. They are taught to rejoice in their reduction, weakening, stunting, and crippling. They are instructed to collaborate in their own oppression and subjection. The true male is he who is least a man. A pallid, mechanistic, unnatural, and artificial society fears manhood and what it might mean. The larl must pretend to be a verr, lest it be devoured by swarms of urts. He who does the greatest treason to his own blood is accounted most a hero, or should one say, “heroine”? In a machine constructed of interchangeable parts there is no place for men or women. Biology is an embarrassment, an obstacle to be overcome. Men are thus to become less like men, and more like women, and women are to become less like women, and more like men. The machine, with its own needs, and its own best interests in mind, will have it so. But the transformation of men and women into pliable, pitiable, sexless neuters proceeds imperfectly. The pursuit of perfection, which by definition is unobtainable, leads to pathology. Theory succumbs to fact. Reality is recalcitrant. It is repudiated only at one’s risk. Poison does not nourish, but sickens or kills. Consider then a world in which politics is given priority over nature. That is the slave world! Values and conventions become not roads, mountains, horizons, and wings, but fences and shackles. And so one has a world of men at war with themselves and women at war with themselves, a war in which victory is identified with one’s own loss and defeat. And much of this is sensed by its victims, even when denied. And how do males and females in this world, meeting in its crevices, at permitted times, relate to one another? The hapless, pathetic males sue for smiles, and offer gifts, which they can often ill afford and the women, scorning such males, accept those gifts and solicit more. The supposed free women of the slave world, such as this now-stripped barbarian before you, are exploitative, mercenary creatures bartering their beauty for gain!”
There were cries of anger from the tiers.
I was frightened.
“Is it not so, slut?” he snarled.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And were you not such a woman?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said. I knew it was true. How often I had played such games with men!
“You did such things deliberately, and were petty, cruel, and worthless,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Doubtless you well used the promise of your body to arouse, taunt, provoke, tease, and lure males, to win gain from them, to obtain largesse, to turn their frustrated desire to your own profit.”
“Yes, Master,” I wept.
“And you were doubtless fully clothed, for the most part,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And see her now,” he said, turning to the tiers, “owned, a property, exhibited as we wish, on sale!”
“Good!” called more than one fellow.
“She is now as she deserved to be, even then!” said the auctioneer.
“Yes, yes,” called men.
“And will she now reap gain from her beauty?” said the auctioneer.
“No!” cried men.
“Others will now reap gain from her beauty,” said the auctioneer, “those who sell it!”
“Yes!” cried men. “Yes!”
“From the feckless men of Earth,” said the auctioneer, “we take which of their women we please and bring them to Gor.”
“Good,” called a fellow.
“As meaningless and worthless as they are,” said the auctioneer.
There was laughter.
“Now, for the first time in their lives,” he said, “they will be worth something, as abject slaves.”
“Excellent,” said a fellow.
“You see,” said the auctioneer, turning to me. “You do not deserve kindness.”
I was silent.
“Do you deserve kindness?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Shall we not see that she, this petty, greedy, exploitative, spoiled woman of the slave world, the gray, polluted world, is punished, for what she was on the polluted world?” asked the auctioneer.
“Yes, yes!” called men.
The auctioneer then replaced his whip on his belt. I was pleased at this. He apparently had no intention then, despite his remark, of punishing me, at least immediately. The typical punishment of a slave is to be switched or whipped. That is, mercifully, quickly over. We do understand the switch and whip. What slave does not? That action, replacing the whip on his belt, did free his right hand.
“Oh!” I cried, for the auctioneer had seized me by the hair, turned my right side to the tiers, and bent me backward, holding me cruelly in the “slave bow.” I dared not speak, so held, so displayed.
“I have, I recall,” said the auctioneer, “a bid in hand of two copper tarsks, forty.”
“Three copper tarsks!” cried a man.
“Three, twenty!” called another.
The auctioneer pulled me upright by the hair and lifted his hand, tangled in my hair, and I was on my tip toes, my hands futilely on the auctioneer’s wrist. I am sure now that he had realized that I would try to reach up, to ease the pain on my hair, and, in attempting this, would lift my breasts, further displaying the merchandise which I was.
“I have three twenty, three twenty,” called the auctioneer. “Who will make it three, fifty?”
“Three, twenty-five!” called a fellow.
“I want three fifty, three fifty, at least!” said the auctioneer.
“Too much!” called a man.
The auctioneer released my hair and I stood, bent over. I feared I might fall.
“Examination position,” he said.
I straightened my body, spread my legs, I could feel the sawdust about my ankles, put my hands, clasped, behind the back of my neck, and looked upwards. I could see the roof of the hall. Sometimes the hands are clasped behind the head.
“Spread your legs more,” said the auctioneer.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
The spreading of the legs makes it more difficult to move. In a sense, it holds one in place. The hands behind the neck or head removes the hands from a position where they might obstruct an assessor’s view. Also, clasped, they are held in place. This posture also, besides rendering the slave helpless and vulnerable, lifts her breasts nicely. The lifting of the head, looking upward, makes it difficult to anticipate the touch of an assessor. What I did not understand was why I had been commanded to such a position on the block. The block is high, and I was several feet from the tiers. And surely it was seldom that a bidder would be permitted to ascend the block. There might be several interested men in the tiers, making this impractical, and the merchants are eager to keep the sales moving, one item after another. The examination position is more commonly required on a slave shelf or in a sales camp, where a given buyer, perhaps shopping, may be interested in a particular slave, one which he may wish to inspect more closely. My puzzlement was short lived. I could not see behind me. I did not realize, for example, that the auctioneer had now, again, removed the whip from his belt.
“I have a bid of three, twenty-five,” said the auctioneer. “Surely that is not enough for this comely dark-haired slave. Is her hair too short? It will grow. Is she too spare and lithe? You can fatten her up. She may not have the sturdy limbs, and strength of some slaves, but not all slaves need carry weighty sacks of suls or pit their strength against the straps of plows. Surely you can think of other things to do with such a slave. Imagine her naked and perfumed, chained by the neck at the foot of your couch. And when you wish to work her, the whip will see to her efficiency and zeal. Who will bid three fifty, and higher?”
But the tiers were silent.
“Aii!” I cried, startled, reacting involuntarily, violently, spasmodically, and fell to my knees, shaken and miserable. How I had been exposed, displayed, and revealed! I wept. My body, I fear, was a scarlet sheet of flame.
I had been administered the “slaver’s caress.”
“Do not dare to cover your breasts with your hands,” snapped the auctioneer. “You are a slave.”
“Master!” I protested, beggingly.
“Nadu, slave!” he snapped.
I then knelt at the auctioneer’s feet, facing the tiers. I knelt back on my heels, my back straight, my belly sucked in, my shoulders back, the palms of my hands down on my thighs, my head lifted.
“Widen your knees more,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You see, noble masters,” said the auctioneer, “our suppliers select not only for comeliness and high intelligence, as is well known, but for uncontrollable slave reflexes.”
There was laughter.
“And this pretty slut,” said the auctioneer, “has been on Gor for only several days, and already she will leap, writhe, squeak, moan, and whimper like a tarsk in heat.”
“They all do!” called a man.
There was more laughter.
I, kneeling in nadu, felt devastated, humiliated.
My feelings had not been respected. I was nothing. I did not count. No one had consulted me, or warned me. It had been done to me without my consent, without my permission. I had been revealed as a helplessly sexual creature, one for sale, a slave!
Tears sprang from my eyes, and ran down my cheeks.
I could not wipe them away, held in nadu.
Was I, as a slave, I thought, permitted to retain no shred of dignity? No, I thought, I was not. I was a slave. Everything about me, even my needs and responses, were public. How exposed and displayed I felt! More about me had been exhibited than unveiled features and a bared form. I had had no choice but to betray myself as a slave, a woman who would be helpless in the hands of a master. On Gor I had hoped to find a master who would love me and whom I might love. Now I realized I would be the helplessly responsive, writhing, begging toy of any man who might own me. I was a slave, only a slave!
“Three copper tarsks, forty tarsk-bits, of Brundisium!” called a fellow from the tiers. I did not even see who uttered the bid.
“I want three, fifty,” called the auctioneer, “at least three fifty. Who will bid more? Who will bid more?”
The tiers were silent.
“Three, fifty!” said the auctioneer.
The auctioneer was standing a bit to my left, a little before me. I could see the whip in his right hand.
There was no response from the tiers.
“You may break position,” said the auctioneer.
I broke position. I remained kneeling, at his feet, but I closed my knees, and put my head down.
“Surely more!” called the auctioneer.
But the tiers were still silent.
“Very well,” said the auctioneer. “Three copper tarsks, forty. Done!”
He replaced the whip on his belt.
I heard the sound of a gong.
I had been sold!
“Forgive me, Master,” I begged, putting my cheek, head down, to his leg, “for not having been sufficiently pleasing.”
But he paid me no attention.
Why should he pay attention to a slave?
He seemed to be examining the tiers. I did not know why he was doing this. Then, apparently satisfied, perhaps he had seen something, or someone, he looked down at me. I was kneeling beside him. I then lifted my head, and looked up at him, and then, tears in my eyes, I began, softly, to lick and kiss the coils of the whip he carried in his hand. It seemed appropriate to me to do so. Some women can understand this. If they found themselves at the feet of a Gorean male, I suspect all women could understand it.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
He put his hand in my hair, and shook my head, good-naturedly. The caress was much as one might have bestowed on a dog on my former world. Gratefully, I realized I was not likely to be beaten.
“You may have difficulty standing,” he said. “Crawl from the block on all fours. We do want you to stumble on the stairs. You will be caged and picked up in the morning. Off with you.”
“The next slave is Adraste,” said the slaver’s scribe, calling up from his position before and below the center of the block, “one of those brought in from the World’s End.”
“I know,” said the auctioneer, looking out again, toward the tiers.
I then left the block as the auctioneer had specified, on all fours, and descended the stairs similarly. In this way I was less likely to fall, possibly being injured or bruised. I, as goods, was to be delivered to a purchaser undamaged. At the foot of the block, on its right side, as one would face it from the tiers, a slaver’s man pulled me to my feet. I stood unsteadily. “Leading position,” he said. I then bent down, and put my head to his left hip. He then took my hair in his hand, and conducted me through certain passages, and then, arresting his journey, he put me to all fours before a small cage, one of several, some already occupied, and opened the gate. I crawled within, and then turned to look up at him. He locked the gate. I grasped the bars. My cage, and each of the others, as well, had a sign, each the same sign. “Master,” I said, “may I speak?” “Surely,” he said. “What do the signs say?” I asked. I could not read Gorean. “‘Sold’,” he said. “I am sorry I did not sell for more,” I said. “There is a glut of slaves on the market,” he said. “I have never seen so many. One can scarcely give them away. It is impossible to keep track of them all. We process them like herds of tarsks. It has to do with the season, the influx from the World’s End, and the fall campaigns. If I had my way, we would hold them off the market until spring, but they eat. To be sure, what one loses on single sale, one may, with luck, make up in volume.”
