Gor - Witness Of Gor Part 116

FORTY FIVE

I thought that I would attempt to charm or placate my master. I would dare to lift my eyes, timidly, to his. I would smile, a timid smile, hoping to please him.

I lifted my head.

"s.l.u.t!" cried he in rage.

I understood nothing of his fury. It made no sense to me. Why should he be angry with me? Why should he be cruel to me? I thrust my head down, instantly, terrified.

I had only smiled at him, How had I done wrong? How was it that this should have so offended him, have so enraged him? "You worthless slave and s.l.u.t," he whispered. In his voice there, was almost unbelievable hatred.

No longer dared I hope that he might be kind. I hoped rather now only that I would be permitted to live.

"You smile at me," he snarled, "not even knowing who I am!"

I kept my head down. I trembled.

"Lift your head!" he snapped. I obeyed.

"Back, back, further!" he said.

My neck then hurt. I saw, above me, the wretched, peeling ceiling of that dank place.

He approached me and handled the collar.

"Fitting," he said, contemptuously.

It was a ring collar, hammered about my neck, suitable for the lowest, the most miserable, the most worthless of slaves.

"So," said he, contemptuously, angrily, "you begged use?"

Of course I had begged use! Was I to be blamed for what I was, for what I had become, that which I had earlier been only secretly, only in my dreams? And were not the masters, too, to blame? Had they not released the slave? Did he now think I could simply return her to her dungeon, where she had languished, neglected and denied, after I had met her, and, in her, my true self? Once one has found oneself can one forget oneself? It is a bit late for such things then.

It is one thing never to acknowledge oneself; it is one thing to pretend and hide; it is one thing to avoid meeting oneself but it is quite another to forget oneself once one has met oneself; one cannot, so to speak, then unmeet oneself; one may hide from the truth; one may attempt to avoid it; one may even arrange one's life in such a way as to minimize the possibilities of learning it, at least explicitly, face to face, in its full glory; but once one has seen it, one cannot simply unsee it; one cannot unlearn it; it can no longer be repudiated; incantations can restore neither virginity nor ignorance. And, too, I loved my s.e.x, my truth. I would cling to it forever.

No one could force it out of me. I was not discontent to be a woman.

With his left hand he grasped the cloak at my throat, holding me by it.

With his right hand, he struck me thrice, first with the palm of his hand, then with the back of the hand, then, again, with the palm of his hand, lashing my head back and forth.

I looked up at him, my face stinging. I tasted blood in my mouth.

"Yes," said he, angrily, "you would crawl to any man as a slave."

He then, in fury, tore open the cloak and exposed me, before him.

He regarded me.

"Yes, yes," said he. "You are a slave, a slave! That is what you are, a slave! It is no wonder that you worthless little things bring a good price on a market block!"

He then thrust me to the floor.

I lay there, afraid to move.

I heard him rummaging about the room. Then I heard the snap of a slave whip. I moaned. I tensed. He came and stood near me.

"Please be kind to me, my master," I said.

"Barbarian s.l.u.t," he said, "Earth-girl slave, Earth-girl thrall."

He knew then that I was not native to this world. He had understood this, perhaps, from my accent.

Yet I was not sure of this.

Could he have known this independently? As he had spoken to me I had been at first startled. Then I had grown troubled.

Now that I had been several months on this world I was much more aware of the subtleties of diverse accents within the language of the masters, that language which I must learn, that I might the better obey, that I might the better understand what was required of me. This accent was not that of the local guards, those I had encountered in the house, nor that of the captors, nor that of those of Treve. Indeed, it reminded me in ways of my own early accent in this language, not with respect to my native tongue, which still influenced how I spoke the language, of course, but with respect to that which I had originally absorbed in learning the language, now so long ago. My speech had, however, over the months, been heavily influenced by my time in Treve, and, in the past weeks, doubtless, by that of this city itself.

The whip snapped again, a strict, sharp, loud sound, like the report of a firearm, a sound that seemed to ring explosively from wall to wall.

I was terrified.

I did not want to feel it on me.

But the blow did not fall on me.

"You crawl to the feet of any man," he snarled. "Crawl then, s.l.u.t, to my feet, as well."

"I am bound, hand and foot!" I wept.

"Crawl!" he commanded.

I could move only a bit at a time, laboriously, painfully, over the stones, toward him.

"You are slow!" he said.

The whip snapped again.

"Forgive me, Master!" I said.

At last I lay at his feet, on my side. I turned my head, that my lips might touch his sandals.

But he stepped away from me, angrily.

"You are not yet at my feet, are you?" he asked.

"Forgive me, Master!" I said.

Again I tried, inch by inch, to reach him. But this time he seized my ankles and turned me to my stomach.

My ankles were then up, behind me, fastened to my wrists. I saw the coils of the whip lying beside my head, to the left. I heard a knife slip from a sheath, a soft sound. I lay very still. The masters may do as they please. I did not wish to move unexpectedly, suddenly, and risk being cut, by accident Mv ankles were held still, my left ankle in the grip of his left hand. A blade of apparently incredible sharpness moved through the bonds, quickly, deftly, on my ankles. They seemed to spring away. I then lay on my belly, facing away from him, my legs freed. The blade was returned to its sheath. I saw his hand pick up, again, the whip.

He stood up, he turned about, he moved back.

He was silent.

I was not unmindful, I a.s.sure you, of the command which had been imposed upon me, and had not been rescinded. Too, men such as these, who relate to women in the modality of the master, are not patient.

I was then on my knees before him.

"You crawl quickly to the feet of a man," he sneered.

I had crawled to him on my knees. My hands were still bound behind my back. I knelt before him, and put my head down, to his feet.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"You may beg use," he said.

"I beg use," I said.

I was very much aware that my ankles were freed.

"Why do you beg use?" he asked.

"I fear to be whipped," I said.

"And if you were not afraid of being whipped?" he asked.

"I would still beg use," I said.

"Without even knowing who I am?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"s.l.u.t and slave!" said he, in fury.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"You are worthless," he said. "You are unutterably contemptible!"

"Yes, Master," I said.

"I always knew it," he said.

"Master?" I said.

"From the first!" he said, angrily.

"Master?"

"Earth-s.l.u.t!" he said.

"Yes, Master!" I said.

I was startled. Had I not heard this voice before? "Look up!" he commanded.

His eyes, within the mask, were fierce.

The whip, coiled, was thrust roughly before me. Instantly I licked and kissed it.

How long it had been since I had knelt before him! How long it had been since I had kissed that whip!

"I love you, I love you, my master!" I cried.

"You know me, do you not?" he said.

"Yes, Master!" I cried. I dared not lie to my master. I knew him now as well as if his features had been bared from the beginning. To be sure, I had never known his name, or his city. I had known little more of him than, in my heart, he was my master. It was he to whose whip my lips had been first pressed on this world!

He tore the mask away from his features, casting it aside, looking down at me.

How fierce were his eyes!

That he had worn the mask suggested to me that perhaps it had not been intended that I recognize him. I hoped I had not placed my life in jeopardy by my admission that I was cognizant of his ident.i.ty. But he must know that. Too, I dared not lie to him. He was my master.

How terrible seemed his anger!

"I love you!" I said.

"Liar!" said he, in rage.

"No, Master!" I protested.

He glared at me.

"You are my master!" I cried. "You have always been my master!"

"Liar! Liar!"

"No, Master!" I wept.

"But one thing you say is true," he said.

"Master?" I asked.

"That I am now your master."