“Yes,” he said, “I purchased the strokes, but only, you see, in order that I might deliver them myself.”
“No, Master!” she cried.
“I bought them that they might be mine to give, my little charmer,” he said. “I had waited a long time to give you some much-needed whip strokes.”
“Be kind, Master!”
“Did you think that you would escape your due?” he asked.
“I had hoped Master had forgotten!” she said.
“Had you forgotten?” he asked.
“No, Master,” she wept.
“Nor did I.” She heard the strands of the whip shaken out.
“Please, Master,” she said.
“If you had not forgotten, why did you not remind me?” he asked.
She was silent.
“That will be an additional five strokes,” he said.
“Please, Master, no, Master!” she said.
He then put the first stroke to her, and she spun in the ropes, to look at him, protestingly, in misery. And then, at his gesture, she turned away again, groaning, her back to him. The second stroke was then put to her. He did not make her count the strokes, but he counted them. This was merciful. The blows were nicely predictable, and well measured. This, too, was merciful. This did not diminish the fact, however, that they were effectively severe. She was being beaten. “Fourteen!” he said. She now hung sobbing in the ropes. Two fellows of the caste of metal workers entered the hall. “Tal,” said they to Selius Arconious. “Tal,” said he to them. “Aii!” wept Ellen. “Fifteen,” said Selius Arconious. “Have mercy, Master!” begged Ellen. “That is fifteen!” But he gave her five more strokes. “Twenty,” he said. He then released her from the ring, and she collapsed to the dark, polished, narrow wooden boards beneath it. “It is nearly time to prepare supper,” he said. “Yes, Master,” she said. “But I do not know if I can stand!” “You are not to stand,” he said. “You are to crawl up the stairs.” “Yes, Master,” she wept. “Have you not forgotten something?” he asked. “Master?” she asked. “You have been beaten,” he said. “Forgive me, Master,” she said. “Thank you for whipping me.” “More properly,” he said. “Ellen, his slave, thanks master for whipping her,” she sobbed. “You are welcome,” he said. “Now, up the stairs.” “Yes, Master,” she said and crawled to the stairs, across the dark boards of the hall, and then, on all fours, her back doubtless rich with stripes, ascended the steps, landing by landing.
But, as stated, Ellen was almost never beaten, save for an occasional stroke of the switch. The reason for this, of course, was not that her master was weak, but that she had become an excellent slave, and thus there was little, if any, reason to beat her. This is common on Gor. Gratuitous cruelty is far more common on Earth, I fear, than on Gor. The value of the whip, you see, is not so much in its being used, as in the slave’s knowledge that it can be used and, under certain circumstances, will be used. Occasionally, of course, the slave may be tied and whipped that she may the better know herself, that she may be reminded of what she is, that she is a slave.
The dinner had gone well.
Selius Arconious, a tarnster of Ar, had been pleased.
His slave, Ellen, a female of Earth origin, whom he had purchased at a festival camp outside Brundisium, knelt before him, made-up, in a brief yellow tunic, collared.
“One of your endearing features,” he said, “is that you do not know how exciting, how attractive, you are.”
“Do not be too sure of that, Master,” said the slave.
“Oh?” he said.
“I think I would bring a high price,” she said.
“Vain slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“To be sure,” he said, “there are thousands, thousands upon thousands, who are much more exciting, and attractive.”
“To you, Master,” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“So do not become arrogant,” he said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“You are smiling,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
He cast aside his tunic.
Then he rushed upon the slave and half lifted her from her knees and looked fiercely into her eyes, and she gasped, so regarded by a man, and one a master, with such ferocity and passion. “Master!” she cried. And he threw her to his feet and, crouching beside her, she first, startled, on all fours, and then thrust to her belly, tore away her tunic, shred by silken shred, flinging these narrow, delicate, yellow, rent scraps behind him, they fluttering away to alight, scattered, like startled flowers, on the narrow boards of the dark, hardwood floor. Then it was gone! He turned her violently to her back then, and knelt across her body, pinning her wrists to the floor, at the sides of her head, with his large hands. She squirmed a little, and looked up at him. He grinned down upon her. The irresistible, overwhelming, powerful, handsome beast, the virile, desiring, lustful, arrogant monster! How obviously he was regarding his property with inordinate pleasure! Muchly then was she aware of the collar on her neck, and that she was owned, and that she was in the grasp of her master, helplessly and deliciously in the grasp of her master.
“I love you, Master,” she said.
“Are you so presumptuous, so arrogant, that you dare to speak such words to your master?”
Slaves are often helplessly, hopelessly, in love with their masters, often pathetically so. After all, his collar is on their necks. But they are only slaves, lovely properties, shapely beasts, purchasable goods, degraded articles of commerce, immeasurably beneath a free person, beneath the notice of a free person, save as they may prove to be of some service, convenience, pleasure or profit, such things, to him. Thus the slave may kneel before the master, tears in her eyes, her heart offered up to him as can only be the heart of a slave, and this obvious to him, but she knows his love is to be reserved, if it be given, at all, to a free woman, not to a slave, an animal he might obtain in any market. Thus she repines and dares not hope for his love. Thus she, conscious of the chasms between them, and of her lowliness, and unworthiness, fears to speak her heart. Commonly he is well aware of her feelings, but how insulted, how furious, he might be, should she be so unwise or bold as to profess them!
“Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.
“How dare you love a free man?”
“May not even a she-sleen love her master?”
“The she-sleen is a splendid animal,” he said. “You are a mere slave.”
“Forgive me, Master.”
But she did not think he was displeased at her declaration.
“Perhaps I should whip you and sell you,” he said.
“Please do not, Master,” she said.
“You do not seem to fear that I will sell you,” he said.
“I am, of course, a slave, and am at Master’s disposal.”
“But you do not seem to fear I will sell you.”
“Master may do with me as he wishes,” she said, “but it is my hope that I will not be sold.”
“It could be done to you.”
“That is well known to your slave, Master.”
“Why should you not be sold?”
“I think Master would have difficulty recouping his losses,” she smiled. “Did he not pay something in the neighborhood of twenty-one tarsks, and of silver, for me?”
“Doubtless I muchly, and foolishly, overpaid,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she agreed.
Many girls such as she, she knew, and excellent girls, quality shackle sluts, went for as little as one and a half to three silver tarsks. She recalled there had been a bid of fifteen silver tarsks on her even before Mirus and Selius Arconious had entered upon their competition for a slave, the shapely, gray-eyed brunette being displayed and auctioned. Fifteen silver tarsks, though, she thought, was surely excessive. Much, of course, had to do with the place, the wealth at hand, the number of bidders, the fever of the bidding, and such.