Dunes of Gor Chapter Forty Two (the final chapter)

Chapter Forty Two: The Verr Herders

The slave girl, Sarissa, watched her master’s verr as they ambled and grazed on the tufts of coarse grass that sprang up in patches along the stony desert floor. Like her, they were clearly marked as property, though in their case the verr did not wear steel collars and ankle bells, but rather leather tags clipped into their ears, and single bells worn around their necks. The verr mingled with the verr belonging to other men of the small village and here and there other slave girls moved about, making sure their verr didn’t stray too far. This area was communal ground, fertile enough to provide grass and shrubs for the animals to feed on. Later in the year it might be necessary to graze the verr further away, and during that time a couple of men would watch over the slaves to ensure their safety. 

Like the other slaves, Sarissa was barefoot. Free women of the village would whip a slave harshly if they caught sight of her wearing sandals, not that a master would care to provide sandals anyway. The soles of Sarissa’s feet were now used to walking on the rough stones scattered about the packed earth. Soon she would be able to walk as quickly as the native girls who had been slaves for many years. As an outsider she wasn’t particularly liked by the other girls, and Sarissa had learned to fight to protect herself from the many taunts and teasing that eventually went further towards threats and scuffles. Her first fight she had lost, her second fight, too. Her third fight had been a draw as the two girls had eventually been separated by a young boy, no more than twelve years of age. He hadn’t objected to slave girls fighting, but the hissing and screaming had annoyed him after a while. He had beaten both girls with a stick for disturbing his mid-afternoon slumber.

The fourth fight, Sarissa had won. And the fifth. After that the fighting ceased. 

Like the other girls she wore a long skirt that hung to just above her ankles. Displayed on the left ankle was a set of slave bells that she couldn’t remove. They jingled with each step she took, making it clear to free men and women that she was kajira. She also wore a long sleeved blouse to protect herself from the hot sun, and a scarf for her hair. A badly sunburned slave girl was not something a man wanted to enjoy in his bed, after all.

Sarissa’s feet were dusty and the soles were toughened by the constant walking barefoot. Her once beautiful nails were ground down by constant toil during the day, and her hair, so often carefully arranged in exquisite layers, now hung loose, blowing about in the desert breeze. Despite her simpler life, she was perhaps even more beautiful than when she had been free. There was vitality to her that her life in Tor had lacked. She moved sensuously, she laughed at times, and she felt fulfilled. Although the work started at dawn and ended when the sun went down, it was not particularly gruelling. The verr mostly looked after themselves, and the chores in and around her master’s small mud brick house only took a few ahn. When there are only two rooms in a building, and few possessions, it doesn’t take long to keep things neat and tidy. 

In the evenings of course her other duties would be called upon. Each night since being brought to this remote place in the desert (and she truly did not know where this place was. She could be ten pasangs from Tor or perhaps a thousand. She had no idea) she would serve her master, and then when he retired for the night she would join him in his bed where he would use her in a fashion that she too enjoyed. The sex was often rough, demanding, with the thrill of bondage and domination to fulfil her needs. She had never known sex like it, and she now understood why slaves belonging to individual masters had often looked so content on the streets of Tor.

How right this seemed now, to Sarissa. How happy she was in the dark hours before midnight when her master sent her crawling to his cot, where he would chain her by her ankle and then put her to use. The bondage excited her, as did the total and uncompromising domination that she had to submit to. 

Occasionally she paused in whatever she was doing, and reached with her fingers to touch the steel collar locked about her throat. The touch of the steel had been horrifying to begin with, but now it seemed comforting, familiar, and a source of strange feelings she didn’t know were hers to feel. She was owned. She was a possession. And sometimes now, just sometimes, that made her feel a sense of exquisite calm. 

Was it possible she was happy and content with this life? She didn’t truly know for she still felt the strange sense of loss. There had been stories of what had happened at Al-Quada-a-Dhum since her abduction, but only vague whispers that she couldn’t confirm. Javad had refused to answer her questions and would beat her if she persisted with them. Soon she learned to stop asking. Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. She would be beaten for it.

Her master showed little inclination to return to his life as a Sardaukar Captain. Perhaps the loss of his men had felt to him like a stain on his honour. He had been responsible for them, and yet they had died, whereas he still lived. That might break any man in time. How could he truly return to the Sardaukar as a man who had outlived his command? 

Sarissa straightened up and wiped some sweat from her brow. It was so hot out here. In Tor she would have enjoyed the shade in one of her pleasure gardens, conversing with friends while being served cool drinks by kajirae. Now her day was split between tending the verr and keeping the house clean and tidy for her master. There was water to be drawn from the village well; food to be bought, pots to be cleaned, a fire for cooking to be tended and nurtured, and all under the watchful eye of the first girl.

Later that afternoon, Sarissa returned to the mud brick house with its fenced off land. She carried the weight of two heavy sacks of water over her shoulders, stooping under the burden as the verr bleated and scrambled around her feet. The animals knew the way back home, and needed just a little encouragement with a long stick. The water burden was something she hated, but water had to be hand drawn and carried each day, and the first girl had assigned that as one of Sarissa’s chores. 

The first girl had little to do in the afternoon. She moved restlessly around the village, stopping to talk to some other first girls of other households, where multiple slaves were owned, and she handled most of the purchases from the small market place, but by and large she had little to do besides oversee Sarissa’s work. 

Sarissa had the feeling though that the first girl wasn’t truly happy.

“You took your time at the well,” said Tupa as she waited for Sarissa to return. Tupa had her hands on her hips as she regarded the lesser slave. “I could see you. You rested for a while, talking to some other girl.”

“Forgive me, mistress, “said Sarissa as she dropped the water bags with relief onto the ground and straightened up. Her back ached from the burden. “It was only a few ehn…”

“I have decided you are not to talk to other slaves at the water well while you wait in future,” said Tupa. She was bitter about something. “There is no need for you to do so. You are here to work, not gossip.”

“Yes, mistress,” said Sarissa.

“Have you cleaned the house?”

“I will do that this afternoon, mistress,” said Sarissa.

“See! You gossiped when you still have chores to do! You lazy girl!” Tupa walked up to Sarissa and tapped her switch on the girls’ thigh, through her thin rep cloth skirt. “I could beat you, you know!”

“Yes, mistress,” said Sarissa. She knelt before the first girl and lowered her head.

Tupa did not beat Sarissa. Instead she put the switch aside and paced about the front of the house, growing ever more angry and frustrated. “When my master returns tonight, I want him to choose me for use!”

“That is up to our master, I suppose,” said Sarissa without looking up. “He is master to us both.”

“I am telling you to be meek and demure!” cried Tupa. She thrust her small fists at the side of her hips. “If you know what is good for you. Do not crawl to him, begging for use, like the collared slut you are! I will whip you the next day if you do!”

“Our master will choose who he wishes,” said Sarissa, meekly.

“I hate you!” There were tears in Tupa’s eyes. “I am still white silk because of you! Not once has he put me to use, and it is because of you! Your sluttish ways! Every night I hear your cries of shameful need as I lie chained to the slave ring! Why doesn’t he choose me! It has been more than three weeks now!”

“You would have to ask our master, mistress,” said Sarissa.

“You will eat scraps and gruel tonight,” hissed Tupa. “And you will do so until you stop what you are doing!”

“What I am doing, mistress?”

“You know I can’t compete with your skill! No one in this village can do what you can do. It isn’t fair! Every night he chooses you because of it! Every night!” Tupa rushed over to her mother and pulled her hair, pulling her face up so that she could snarl into it. “I have not felt the touch of a man! And yet I am a slave! And I have to listen to you every night!”

“I will save you from that for as long as I can,” said Sarissa. “You can hate me for it, but I will spare you the shame and I will protect your white silk status while it is in my power to do so. I am your mother. It is what mothers do.”

“I don’t want to be white silk! I hate this! I have needs! Slave needs! I know that now!”

“And I will protect you from those too,” said Sarissa. “Even though you hate me for it.”

“I hate you! I do hate you! I hope my master sells you!”

“That is not likely, mistress, since he chooses me for his bed each night.”

“It is not fair! You know I can’t do what you do! I don’t have the way! I should whip you!”

“Am I commanded to whipping position, mistress?” said Sarissa.

“No. But you should be.”

“I love you,” said Sarissa, simply. “I will never stop loving you. It is what mothers do.” 

“And I hate you! I despise you! One day he will eventually tire of you; of the way you have bewitched him! One day he will grow tired of your honeyed words. And then he will turn to me. And then you will take my place at the slave ring, on the thread bare mat each night.”

“But until that day, you will not be shamed by the touch of a man. It is what I do for you, mistress.”

Tupa put Sarissa back to work, denying her a break. In fact, she told Sarissa that they would need more water. She sent her back to the well, half a pasang away, and told her to carry back a second set of leather sacks full of the precious liquid. And to ensure that Sarissa would feel the weight of that water, she tied binding fibre to the girl’s ankles with a span of maybe nine inches. Sarissa would have to walk slowly, bearing that weight for longer than before. And then Tupa would send her back for more water, perhaps. 

Sarissa collapsed twice on her way back, but eventually reached the small mud brick dwelling again, her face red from the effort, and her hair wet with sweat under the simple shawl she wore.

“Will you be demure and meek tonight when my master chooses a slave for his cot?” asked Tupa.

“Our master will choose who he wishes,” she replied.

“I hate you!” sobbed Tupa. She picked up the switch again but couldn’t bring herself to whip her mother. “We need more water. Go, slave! Bring more water!” She watched as Sarissa hobbled away in her ankle thongs with another two empty leather sacks. 

Later that afternoon, Tupa tied Sarissa to a slave ring fixed to the outside wall of their dwelling. She took the girls wrists and tied them with a length of binding fibre to her bound ankles and then tied those restraints to the iron ring. “Now you can’t run to my master and beg his use when he returns,” she said. “You can simply lie there in the sand like the low slave you are.”

“I love you,” said Sarissa. “I will always love you, for you are my child.”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t take my master from me!” sobbed Tupa. “I don’t know how to compete with what you do! I will whip you in the morning if you steal my master again tonight!”  

“You say that each night, daughter, and yet you never do whip me.”

“Call me mistress! I am first girl! You will obey me! I WILL whip you tomorrow! I will!”

“And I shall submit to your whip, mistress. And I will still love you forever.”

It was early in the evening when Javad Mohsen rode back to his home, mounted on his kaiila. He no longer looked like a man of war, but rather wore the simple clothes of a Bedouin who owned a small holding of verr. Tupa, his white silk slave girl ran out to greet him, dropping to the sand in front of him as he dismounted, kissing and licking his feet and welcoming him back. 

“Such an eager kajira,” said Javad with a laugh as he loosened his face scarf. “Have you been oiling for use during my absence?”

“Take me tonight, Master! Please!” She pressed her cheek to the side of his leg. “I beg slave rape! Please! Take Tupa! Please!”

“Maybe it is time,” said Javad with a lingering glance towards the shapely bundle of tied limbs that lay in the stones and sand close beside his home. There was some squirming there as the other slave struggled in her bonds. “I have neglected you longer than I had intended. You beg slave rape?”

“Yes! Please, Master, please!”

“Very well, then it shall be tonight you become red silk.”

For a moment Javad was unable to walk to his house, so frantic were the kisses and emotional pleas from Tupa as she knelt before him in the sand. When the girl seemed to grow ever more hysterical with gratitude, Javad was forced to cuff her away. “Control yourself, kajira. Untie Sarissa, prepare my meal and see that it is served in an ahn. Then we shall see what we shall see.”

Later that night, Tupa kept Sarissa away from her master. “Remember the whip, girl?” she hissed, ordering Sarissa to tend to the cooking pot and not look at her master. “If I catch you looking at him… just one gaze… I will do such things to you tomorrow when he is gone. You will be carrying sacks of water all day! Do not test me in this!” she hissed. Javad smiled as he saw his kajirae hissing like that. He knew what they were fighting about, and it amused him, as it did most men. Such slaves, he thought to himself, but Tupa had a point. He had not used her yet, and it had been many weeks. He gazed with discrete longing at Sarissa once more, but acknowledged that he had spent perhaps too much time with that girl. And yet, she could do what no other slave he had ever met could do…

The night wore on, and Javad spoke with his slaves, as men do, for they find their beasts of intellectual interest as well as sexual. The small room was illuminated by just a couple of cheap wax candles as the girls lay on mats beside his feet. He touched each one in turn and marvelled at how good his simple life now was. In time he might grow tired of this peasant life, and return to the ways of the sword and lance, but for now he had the open plains of the desert and the pleasures of his women, both of whom wore his collar. I am very lucky, he thought to himself.

But then the hour grew late and Javad rose to his feet. Both slaves looked up at him from the floor, their fingers clutching their mats in need, knowing that he would choose one of them to share his cot, while the other would be chained on the reed and mat floor. 

“Master, Tupa is ready to serve you tonight,” she said quickly, glancing at her mother and warning her away with an angry glare. “Let Tupa please you! Tupa begs use, Master!”

“It is time, I think,” said Javad, but he couldn’t help but glance at Sarissa again. And as he did, the girl rose slightly on the weight of the palms of her hands and she spoke softly in the glow of the candle light. “Master wishes to hear the end of my story from last night, does he not? The Ubara who found herself trapped in the pleasure harem of her most hated courtier, when she masqueraded as a bathing slave to spy on his meetings? Locked in the chamber of the pleasure baths, when the key she had carried had been lost in the unsightly scuffle? What shameful things could happen to her now, Master? What indeed? It is a shame that I will not be able to tell and act out that story in your arms tonight, and that maybe tomorrow night it will be forgotten… but it is just a story, I suppose, and you have heard so many stories these past weeks…”

“You will share my cot tonight, Sarissa,” said Javad, already excited and aroused by the possibilities of what Sarissa might do to act out the intimate moments of the next part of her story. She had done this every night since being abducted, telling an erotic story that never quite seemed to end, and so Javad had to summon her to his bed again the following night, to hear the end, only for that story to flow seamlessly it seemed into another erotic tale that never quite seemed to end, and had to be continued the following night.

“No!” hissed Tupa as she glared at her mother. “No!”

“Be quiet slave!” snapped Javad. “Or I shall send you to bring me my whip. I decide who I use tonight.” 

Later, with the candle extinguished, Tupa lay miserably chained to an iron ring, lying on a threadbare mat, on some dry reeds, while her mother narrated and acted out her latest story with her hands and mouth. In the darkness she heard deep sighs of pleasure from Javad, mingled with the sensuous descriptions that framed Sarissa’s every motion. 

“How long do these stories go on?” gasped Javad as he was close to coming.

“Who knows,” said Sarissa, softly, in the darkness. “Another night? Ten nights? A thousand and one nights? Think only of tonight and the things I can do for your pleasure, Master, and of the innocent, naive Ubara, now so helpless in the pleasure silks she is forced to wear…”

“My kajira…” gasped Javad as he came hard, for the second time that night. A few ehn went by before he was capable of speaking again. He held Sarissa tightly and felt her kiss him some more. 

“I was in the market today,” he said after a while. “I heard the name of a slave girl in passing, that I thought sounded lovely, but more so, it reminded me a little of the name of your great House when you were a free woman. It has a similar intonation.”

“Oh?” said Sarissa softly as she moved her mouth down to lick and kiss his now flaccid member.  

“I liked the name, the way it sounded. I have decided to give it to you. It will remind me of the fall of the House of Shahzad each time I call you by it.”

“And what is my new name now, Master, if I may be permitted curiosity for once?”

“Scheherazade. Your name is now Scheherazade.”