"What has gone on here?" she asked, under her breath, not really speaking to anyone. I gathered she was alone. Her surprise seemed genuine. She made no attempt to call back to anyone. She was now close to the alcove entrance.
"Are you all right in there, little slut?" she cooed. "Are your chains too tight? Would you like to be let loose from the nasty old slave ring? Have you learned now what it is to serve men? Have you squirmed well? Is your pretty little body tired of being chained? Is it sore? Does it ache? It is getting late, my beauty. Would you like some clothing? Of course you would! I have some pretty binding fiber in there for you to wear and, if you have given pleasure to a man, as seems likely by now, a pretty coin to tie on your belly. It is cold out in the alley this morning, and gray. The binding fiber will help keep your wrists nice and warm." She lifted the lamp outside the alcove. "There you are," she said.
The girl, whom I now saw was blond, slender and lovely, with sweet breasts and beautiful thighs and calves, shrank back against the alcove wall. I told myself I could have had her in the darkness, but had not done so! Had I realized how attractive she was I might have done so. She did have the look of a wench that belonged in a collar. She had nice slave curves. I thought that she, objectively considered, would make a very nice slab of slave meat. I would not have minded, for example, seeing her naked on a block, in chains, being put through her paces, under slave discipline, dancing, writhing, squirming lasciviously for the interest of men, being auctioned to the highest bidder. I myself might have made a bid. I forced myself to remember that she was free.
The woman outside held the lamp inside the alcove entrance. I then seized her wrist and drew her forcibly, swiftly, she crying out, on her belly, through the narrow opening. The lamp, spilling oil, briefly flaming in a rivulet on the alcove floor, went to the side of the alcove, and went out. I knelt across her body. She was carrying only her whip and some keys. I removed these from her. She struggled fiercely, silently. She was strong for a woman. She would have been much stronger than the chained girl. Still, when all was said and done, her strength was only that of a female. It amused me. I let her struggle for a time, until she realized the futility of her efforts. With a sob she ceased struggling. I then removed her leather from her. I thought perhaps the free woman might be able to use it. "Be silent," I warned my captive. She was silent. I then felt on the floor for the binding fiber. I had it in a moment and tied my captive's hands behind her, and then took her ankles and, crossing them and pulling them up tightly behind her, bound them to her wrists. She would not be going anywhere.
"Who are you?" she hissed, on her side in the darkness, pulling at her bonds. "Tarl," I said, "of Port Kar."
"They were looking for you," she said.
"They found one another, I said. I then thrust my captive to the side. I then felt about for the lamp. I located it almost immediately, and swirled it a bit. There was a tiny bit of oil left in it. I relit the lamp with the lighter, or as the Goreans say "fire-maker," from my pouch. It is a standard flint-and-wheel device, with its tiny wick and reservoir. Goreans do not smoke, of course, but, as they commonly use natural flame for cooking and light, they find such a device, and others like it, utilizing springs and pyrites, with cartridges of oil-saturated tinder moss, and such, of great utility. The common sulfur match, on the other hand, so common on Earth, I have never met with on Gor. The chemistry involved in such a device, interestingly enough, is forbidden on Gor. It is regarded as constituting a violation of the Weapons Laws imposed on Goreans by Priest-Kings. This is not as farfetched as it might sound at first. Sulfur, for example, is one of the primary ingredients in the composition of gunpowder.
"You!" exclaimed the captive. "You told me you were called Bosk!" "I am called Bosk," I said. "You appear to be well bound." She struggled briefly.
"Yes," I said, "quite well bound."
"Release me," she said.
"One of these keys," I said, "has a 27 on it. That, I take it, is the key to the chains in this alcove."
"Yes," said the captive, sullenly.
I took this key and assured myself that it opened the manacles of the blond prisoner.
She threw me a grateful look.
Then I reclosed the manacles, leaving her chained precisely as she had been before. She regarded me wildly, puzzled, in consternation. She jerked at her hands. They were still manacled to the ring behind her. The captive on the floor laughed.
I crouched in the alcove, looking at the blond girl. "She is a pretty thing, isn't she?" I said. She drew her knees up, and shrank back against the alcove wall.
"Yes," said my captive. "Look at her. She is that kind of woman."
"She looks like the kind of woman whom you manage, then slaves, of course, in the brothel."
"Yes," said my captive. "She is exactly that sort of woman. She belongs in a collar. Doubtless one day she will find her neck in one. Who knows? Perhaps one day she will even be here, subject to me, as one of our girls."
"Would you like that?" I asked.
"Of course," said my captive.
"You would make her serve men well?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"You enjoy making women such as she serve men?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, with relish, "I do. And I would see to it that she served men superbly."
"Why?" I asked.
"I despise such women," she said. "Why?" I asked.
"They belong to men," she said.
I picked up her whip. "Doubtless she would look well kissing the whip," I said. "Yes," laughed my captive."
"Kiss it," I said to my captive, holding it before her.
"What?" she cried.
"All women belong to men," I said.
She tried to pull back from the whip, frenziedly. She struggled.
"Be careful," I said. "You may cause your bonds to cut into your limbs." She looked at me in helpless fury.
I loosened the blades of the whip. "You will kiss it now," I said, "or after you have felt it. To me it is a matter of indifference. The choice is yours." "Do not whip me," she said.
"You are a free woman," I said. "You have doubtless never even felt a slave whip."
"I will kiss it," she said.
I held it before her. Many free women, before they have felt it, are skeptical of the efficacy of the slave lash. Their skepticism vanishes, of course, as soon as they feel it. On the other hand, I did not think this one would be. She was quite familiar with it. She doubtless used it regularly in her work. It was one of her tools, a useful device for the instruction, correction, discipline and punishment of slaves. She would be quite aware of its power, from its effect on her helpless charges.
"You can do better than that," I said. "Better. Very good. Now, with your tongue. Come now. That's better, much better. Excellent. Now, again, kiss it. More lingeringly, more lovingly. Splendid." I then drew the whip back.
She looked up at me. "I have kissed your whip," she said.
I then turned her to her belly and freed her ankles.
"No!" she cried.
In a few Ehn I turned to the blond captive and ungagged her, carefully removing the gag binding and drawing the wet packing from her mouth. "I am not looking forward to hearing a great deal of noise from you in the immediate future," I said. "Is that clear?"
She nodded, not speaking.