| We then returned our attention to the dancing circle. New women entered it upon occasion, as others were withdrawn. There were now some ten to fifteen slaves in the circle. How beautiful are women!
“How disgusting,” said a free woman, nearby. I had not noticed her standing there until now. “Be gone, slut!” said a peasant. The free woman gasped, and hurried away. Peasants are not always tolerant of gentlewomen. . . . I noted that the free female had gone a bit about the outside of the circle, and now stood there, back a bit from the circle, where there was a space between some men. From that position of vantage she continued to watch the dancers. This puzzled me. If she found such beauty, such sensuous liberation, such fulfilling joy, such reality, such honesty, the marvelousness of owned women before their masters, offensive or deplorable, why did she watch? What did she see there in the circle, I wondered. What so drew her there, what so fascinated her there? Like most free women she was perhaps inhibited, frustrated and unhappy. She continued to gaze into the circle. Perhaps she saw herself there, clad in a rag and collar, if that, moving, turning with the others, like them so beautiful, so much alive, so vulnerable, so helpless, so owned. Does her master lift his whip? She must then redouble her efforts to please, lest she be lashed. I supposed that she, even there, standing so seemingly still, pretending to be a mere observer, could feel the dance in her body, in its myriad incipient movements, tiny movements in her legs, in her belly, in her body, in herself, in the wholeness of her womanhood. Perhaps she wished for her robes to be torn off and to be collared, and to be thrust, in her turn, into the circle. I did not doubt but what she would be zealous to please. Indeed, she had best be! But how strange that she, a free woman, would even linger in this place. Perhaps free women are incomprehensible. A Gorean saying came to mind, that the free woman is a riddle, the answer to which is the collar. “Away!” called a fellow, who had turned about and seen the free woman. He waved his arm, angrily. “Away!” he said. The free woman then turned about and left the vicinity of the circle, hurriedly. I felt rather sorry for her, but then, I thought, surely the fellow was right, that the circle, or its vicinity, was no place for a free female. It was a place, rather, for the joy of masters and their slaves. Similarly, the vicinity of such places, though I did not think it would be so in this camp, at this particular time, can be dangerous for free women. For example, sometimes free women attempt, sometimes even disguising themselves, to spy on the doings of masters and slaves. For example, they might attempt, perhaps disguised as lads, to gain entrance to paga taverns. And often such entrance is granted them but later, to their horror, they may find themselves thrown naked to the dancing sand and forced to perform under whips. Similarly if they attempt to enter such establishments as pretended slaves they may find themselves leaving them by the back entrance, soon to become true slaves. In many cities, such actions, attempting to spy on masters and slaves, disguising oneself as a slave, garbing oneself as a slave, even in the supposed secrecy of one’s own compartments, lingering about slave shelves and markets, even exhibiting an interest in, or fascination with, bondage, can result in a reduction to bondage. The theory is apparently that such actions and interests are those of a slave, and that the female who exhibits them should, accordingly, be imbonded. . . . I have, more than once, I believe, alluded to the hatred of free women for their imbonded sisters, and to how they profess to despise them and hold them in contempt. Indeed, they commonly treat such slaves with what seems to be irrational and unwonted cruelty. This is particularly the case if the slave is beautiful, and of great interest to men. I have also suggested that this attitude of the free female toward the slave seems to be motivated, paradoxically enough, by envy and jealousy. In any event, slave girls fear free women greatly, as they, being mere slaves, are much at their mercy. Once in Ar, several years ago, several free women, in their anger at slaves, and perhaps jealous of the pleasures of masters and slaves, entered a paga tavern with clubs and axes, seeking to destroy it. This is, I believe, and example, though a rather extreme one, of a not unprecedented sort of psychological reaction, the attempt, by disparagement or action, motivated by envy, jealousy, resentment, or such, to keep from others pleasures which one oneself is unable, or unwilling, to enjoy. In any event, as a historical note, the men in the tavern, being Gorean, and thus not being inhibited or confused by negativistic, antibiological traditions, quickly disarmed the women. They then stripped them, bound their hands behind their back, put them of a neck rope, and, by means of switches, conducted them swiftly outside the tavern. The women were then, outside the tavern, on the bridge of twenty lanterns, forced to witness the burning of their garments. They were then permitted to leave, though still bound and in coffle. Gorean men do not surrender their birthright as males, their rightful dominance, their appropriate mastery. They do not choose to be dictated to by females. The most interesting portion of this story is its epilogue. In two or three days the women returned, mostly now barefoot, and many clad now humbly in low-caste garments. Some had even wrapped necklaces or beads about their left ankle. They begged permission to serve in the tavern in servile capacities, such as sweeping and cleaning. This was granted to them. At first the slaves were terrified of them but then, when it became clear that the women were not only truly serving humbly, as serving females, but that they now looked timidly up to the slaves, and desired to learn from them how to be women, and scarcely dared to aspire to their status, the fears of the slaves subsided, at least to a degree. Indeed, it was almost as though each of them, though perhaps a low girl in the tavern rosters, and much subject to the whip, had become “first girl” to some free woman or other, a rare turnabout in the lives of such collared wenches. Needless to say, in time, the free women, learning the suitable roles and lessons of womanhood, for which they had genetic predispositions, and aided by their lovely tutors, were permitted to petition for the collar. It was granted to them. It seems that this was what they had wanted all the time, though on a level not fully comprehensible to them at the beginning. One does not know what has become of them for, in time, as one might expect, they being of Ar, they were shipped out of the city, to be disposed of in various remote markets. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Magicians of Gor Book 25 Pages 49 - 52 “No, Master,” said Phoebe. Although Marcus had spoken in irony, Phoebe’s response was quite serious, and appropriately so. She did not even begin to put herself in the category of a free woman. An unbridgeable and, to the slave, terrifying chasm separates any free woman on Gor from a slave, such as Phoebe. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Page 100 - 101 One may usually hire a lad from the district to direct one to particular points. Similarly, of course, one may make inquiries of fellows in the area. In such inquiries, the male will normally speak to a male, and the female to a female. This has to do not only with matters of propriety, enshrined in Gorean custom, but also with common sense security measures. For example, a woman would not wish to seem forward, nor, in effect, to be calling herself to the attention of a strange male, which can be dangerous on Gor, and a woman, a free woman, might be well advised not to respond to the accostings of a strange male. He might even be a slaver or a slaver’s man, interested in seeing if she has a pleasing voice, one suitable for a slave. Similarly if she responds to a strange male this may be taken as evidence that she is eager to please a man and obey, two attributes which suggest her readiness, even immediately, for his collar. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Page 108 The woman cried out with anguish as the single garment was removed from her. She put down her head. She blushed, totally, from the roots of her hair to her toes. I did not think the woman would be chosen. Like many free women, she had not taken care of her figure. Perhaps that was why she had not wished to be bared before men. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Page 152 The leader brought forward the pouch, and put it down on the stones. He then signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward, too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released the hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away, holding his wrist. “Give me my veil!” demanded the woman, coming forward. I handed it to her. She turned about, adjusting it. “Pick up my pouch,” she said, her back to us. “Give it to me.” I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away. They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain. “Give me my pouch!” she demanded. I looked at the group of youths. The fellow’s wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that. One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that. His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in causing the lady further inconvenience. I felt the woman’s hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively, closed on the pouch. Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted. “Give it to me!” she said. “It was our mistake to interfere,” said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade. “Give it to me!” said the woman. “You are rude,” I said. She tugged at the pouch. “Are you not grateful?” I asked. “It demeans a free woman to express gratitude,” she said. “I do not think so,” I said. “Are you not paid for your work?” she asked. “Are you not grateful?” I asked. “I am not a slave!” she asked. “Are you not grateful?” I asked, again. “Yes,” she said. “I am grateful! Now, give it to me!” “Ah,” I said, “Perhaps you are a slave.” “No!” she said. “What do you think of this free woman?” I asked Marcus. “It is difficult to tell, clothed as she is,” he said. She reacted angrily, but did not release the pouch. “Do you think she might be more civil,” I asked, “if she were stripped?” “Yes,” he said, “particularly if she were also branded and collared.” “She would then learn softness, as opposed to hardness,” I said. “It would be in her best interest to do so,” said Marcus. “Yes,” I said. She released the pouch and stepped back a little. Her eyes were now wide, over the veil. “Perhaps she is the sort of woman who is best kept in a kennel,” I said, “to be brought forth when one wishes, for various labors.” “Such women are all haughty wenches,” he said. “But they quickly lose their haughtiness in bondage.” “Please,” she said. “Give me the coins.” I did not release them. “Give them to me!” she said, angrily. “Would you not like to learn softness, as opposed to hardness?” I asked. She looked at me, angrily. “Women learn it quickly in bondage,” I said. “It is in their best interest to do so,” said Marcus. “Yes,” I said. “Surely you have wondered what it would be, to be a slave?” inquired Marcus. She gasped. Only too obviously had she considered such matters. “But then,” I said, “you may not be attractive enough to be a slave.” She did not speak. I put the pouch inside my tunic. “Oh!” she said, for I had then reached up and taken her hood in my hands. “We shall see,” I said. “Oh!” she said, startled. Marcus held her from behind, by the arms. I pushed back her hood and thrust it down. I then jerked away the veil, and surveyed her features. “I think you, like most women, would make an adequate slave,” I said. She squirmed. “Hold her wrists together,” I said. I then tied them together, behind her back, with her veil. She moaned. She could not now readjust the veil. “Please,” she begged. “Let me veil myself. Slavers might see me!” “You were not pleasing,” I said. I then took the pouch of coins in my hand and lofted it to the group of lads some forty yards away. Their leader caught it. They then turned about, and ran. The woman looked at me, astonished, aghast. “Your lips are pretty,” I said. “They could probably be trained to kiss well.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “And lest you return home too quickly,” I said, “we shall do this.” I then crouched down and tore off a bit of the hem of her robes, but not enough to offend her modesty, for example, revealing her ankles, and, using the cloth as a bond; fastened her ankles together, leaving her some four or five inches of slack, rather like a slave girl’s hobble chains. “Return home now,” I said. We watched her withdraw, sobbing. She had not been pleasing. “She is not unattractive,” said Marcus. “No,” I said. “To be sure, her face now is a bit cold, and tight, and strained, as seems her body, as well, common in free women, but I do not doubt but what, in time, relaxed, brought into touch with herself, and her fundamental realities, no longer permitted to deny them, obliged then rather to express and fulfill them, she will blossom in softness and beauty.” “She might even bring a good price in a market,” said Marcus. “I am sure of it,” I said. “Sleen!” said a free woman, bundled in the robes of concealment, heavily veiled, hurrying by. Doubtless she had witnessed, from a distance, the fate of her compatriot. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Page 69 - 172 For some reason free women hate female slaves. They are often quite cruel even to those whom they themselves own. I am not certain of the explanation of this seemingly unreasoning, inexplicable hatred. Perhaps they hate the slave for her beauty, for her joy, her truth, her perfections, her desirability, her happiness. At the root of their hatred, perhaps, lies their own unhappiness and lack of fulfillment, their envy of the slave, joyful in her rightful place in nature. In any event, this attack on the part of the free woman, which happily had been only verbal, as they often are not, and the abused slave in any event dare not protest or object, as they are at the mercy of free persons, was in its way a profound compliment. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Page 197 “You are not kneeling,” I said to the girl in the center. “I am a woman,” she said, “why should I kneel?” This seemed to me a strange response. I would have supposed it in excellent reason to kneel, being in the presence of men, if one were a woman. If she were a free woman, of course, fitting or not, there would be no legal proprieties involved. A free woman, as long as she remains free, can stand to the fullness of her short, graceful height before men. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Page 216 “Forgive me, Masters!” she wept. “You are men! You are men! A slave begs forgiveness!” Her concern was certainly not out of place. The demeaning of men, whereas it is permitted to, and not unknown among, free women, is not permitted to female slaves. Magicians of Gor Book 25 Page 226 Page43 |