Outcast of Gor Chapter Twenty Five

 

Kulai was a brave girl, but she screamed helplessly as men stripped her of her knee length, long sleeved, high collared tunic. They used knives to cut it away from her body. There might have been poison pins lurking near the fastenings for a man to find the hard way, after all. 

 

She screamed again, held by her wrists, as she was thrown to her belly on the grass. Her soft brown leather ankle boots were removed, and then, again with the knife, her woollen leggings were cut from her and pulled away from her legs.

 

Entangled in the net, as I was, with men forcing me to the ground, there was nothing I could do to help Kulai. Nothing at all. I could only watch, helpless myself, as the Turian girl I loved – yes, loved – I recognise that now - was dragged before Kelsee.

 

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“Dress yourself,” Darian had earlier snarled to Kelsee. He thrust into her hands the relatively modest slave tunic that Kelsee had stitched for the girl to wear many days ago. Despite generally acknowledging that Kelsee was free, Darian seemed to show little compassion towards her. I recalled he had said, back in Kelsee’s apartment, that he had little tolerance for the petty ways of Free Women.

 

“Can you not give me the gowns of a Free Woman?” she asked as she held her old slave tunic. She no longer called him ‘master’. There was no longer any need, or so she thought. “And veils. I need veils.”

 

“We do not keep such garments in our camp. Dress yourself with what you have. You are a Free Woman, and should not display yourself before men, naked.”

 

Kelsee quickly dragged the slave tunic over her body and smoothed the hem down to just above her knees. As far as slave garments went, it was loose fitting, with a comparatively long hem that hovered one hort above her knees, and a neckline that did not plunge dramatically between the valley of her breasts. But it was still a slave garment. It still screamed slave to anyone who looked upon her. 

 

“I want this collar removed,” she said as she stood there, still feeling uneasy. She sensed, I think, that her freedom remained a precarious thing, fluttering in the breeze. It depended on the whims of this slaver: Darian Athuk. 

 

“Where is the key?” he asked me. “The key to her collar?”

 

“I don’t have it. The collar lock is broken, so I discarded the key.” Not quite true, of course, but it is what Kelsee believed. In truth, it was the keys themselves that I had rendered useless with a metal file, to trap her in that collar so many weeks ago. 

 

“You have metal workers?” Kelsee said, touching the steel that remained about her throat. She seemed anxious. There were so many men in this tent now, and they were all slavers. And she wore a collar!

 

“That I do,” remarked Darian.

 

“Send for one. Have him remove this collar!”

 

“All in good time,” said Darian. “We have other matters to address.”

 

“No, now!”

 

“Be careful how you speak to me, girl,” said Darian. He placed his open hand on the coiled whip at his belt.

 

“Oh.” Kelsee seemed agitated. She would have to wear her collar for a while longer, it seemed. But it was a slave collar! She gazed about at the men who looked at her as if feasting their eyes on a barbarian slave girl. “Oh!” she cried again, shrinking back from their gaze, turning her body slightly, to avoid facing them. A foolish thing to do. All that pose did was to then present the curves of her breasts more amply to them in the light tunic. Whichever way she turned before these men, her appearance would be delightful. 

 

“Bare arms,” said one man. “She has bare arms.” Kelsee’s face flushed red. It is one thing to stand before a man dressed the way she was, when she was judged to be a slave girl, and quite another thing to stand the same way dressed like that when you were now acknowledged to be free. There are higher standards expected of a Free Woman. 

 

“Her tunic sits above her knees,” said another. 

 

“I need robes,” she cried. 

 

“Be quiet,” said Darian. He had turned his attention now to Kulai who remained forced to her knees in the grass. “Let us see the lips of this Turian slave girl.” He placed his hand on her veils and, without removing the pins, for they too might be guarded with poison edges, simply pulled the veils away, tearing the fastenings. Kulai cried out as she was face stripped before the slavers. Yes, in the camp of Stannis Assante she routinely bared her face, but that was to men she had known, possibly for decades. They had, in a sense, fought together. Before strangers, however – strangers who were of the caste of slavers – Kulai would be as horrified as any woman of the cities to have her features exposed. When all is said and done, Kulai was a Gorean woman, and the culture of Gor ran strong in her veins. 

 

“Such lips,” said one man.

 

“Slave lips,” said a second man. “Those are slave lips, or I’m a Cosian.”

 

“She will make a lovely slave,” said a third. “I will teach her, her slavery, in the grass outside, she with her head down in the dirt, kneeling before me, hands clasped behind her head as I enter her from behind.”

 

Darian smiled. He seemed to like what he now saw of Kulai. “You are lovely, number 79. Quite the Turian beauty.”

 

“Please, no, I thought he was free!” she begged. “He told me he was free!”

 

“The couching law makes no consideration of what you might have thought when you gave yourself to Lady Savanna’s silk slave.” 

 

“I wouldn’t have lain with him if I’d known! I wouldn’t!”

 

“You have disgraced yourself, number 79. You gave yourself to a silk slave for his use. Even a slave girl would refuse to do that. The laws of Marlenus are observed throughout the lands of Argentum. From the very moment you offered yourself, you became the property of the silk slave’s true owner. You belong now to a woman. You are a slave girl.” He motioned towards the Turian girl and then said to his men, “strip her, completely.” 

 

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I didn’t know at the time, but the couching law of Ar, and by association, Argentum, is a progressive law enacted by Ar’s Ubar, Marlenus, setting and establishing a new standard for Free Women that had not been seen before in the cities of central Gor. It must be understood that few Free Women own silk slaves. This is a factor of their cost and of course also has something to do with the fact that a Free Woman who has entered into Free Companionship with a man, will rarely, if ever, be permitted by the man to own and retain the services of a silk slave. Men tend to be disgusted by the presence of silk slaves, and certainly will not permit one to live in his house. No, a Free Woman should content herself instead with her companion’s advances, if and when he chooses to make any; presumably when he tires of his slave, or feels he has neglected his Free Woman for an inconsiderate period of time. Even then the Free Woman is expected to show little in the way of excitement as she is ordered to lie on her back on their couch and open her legs for her man. Sex with a Free Woman might be brisk, efficient and dutiful, and often the man may in fact be thinking about the next slave he will enjoy, rather than the bland responses of the sexually ignorant Free Woman who tries not to move in a manner that might be considered lewd, beneath her man. 

 

One thing a Free Woman companion must never do is attempt to initiate sex. That suggests she has slave like needs. Rather she should simply wait and acquiesce to an approach from her man. She is permitted of course to prompt tenderness from her man, and no one will think less of her if she longs for soft, demure, chaste kisses and the gentle touch of his hands on her arm or waist, but the initiation of sex must come, first, from the man. There are subtle ways a Free Woman companion might signal to her man that she misses his company on the couch, but they are outside the scope of my experiences to date. I hadn’t been companioned long enough with Kulai for such things to be required on her part, but I suspect, if they had, they might have included such things as the wearing of certain ribbons in her hair – a signal I would be expected to pick up on.  

 

Yes, Turian women do have a specific ribbon that they can bind their hair with that suggests to their companion that they desire his touch.

 

With so few Free Women actually owning a silk slave, cities such as Ar soon developed a common custom of Free Women meeting at the home of a Free Woman who did own such a slave. Under the guise of a women only social evening, the host would often allow her Lady guests to make use of her silk slave during the evening, the guests taking him discretely aside into a closed room where they might be assured of some privacy. It was quite scandalous, of course, but also quite legal. Sometimes the ladies at the evening event might gamble or draw lots to see who would get to couch with the slave that night, for obviously even the most virile of silk slaves have their limits and might not stay the course if there were several ladies in attendance. 

 

Soon there were mutterings of disapproval in the paga taverns, as men began to claim this was indecent behaviour for a Free Woman. Some men went as far as to suggest that women should not be permitted to own silk slaves, but the caste of Scribes pointed out that women would simply get round this by purchasing exactly the same slaves, only for nominal purposes such as cleaning their homes and bearing them around the city on a palanquin. It was then suggested that women could own male slaves, but should not make use of them sexually. Again, the legally minded caste of Scribes explained that trying to limit, in law, what a free person might do with her own property, would open a can of worms with knock on effects on the entire Gorean legal system that might then come crashing down, causing untold problems in the courts. Even the magistrates grumbled that this might be a step too far. 

 

Eventually the policy suggested by the Scribes became the basis of the infamous Couching Law. Yes, a woman could own a male slave, and yes, that woman might do anything she wished with her property. But if you were a woman who didn’t own the slave in question, the new law had a way of controlling your lewd behaviour.

 

One of the central principles of sexual relations on Gor is that the man takes and the woman gives. In other words, the woman gives herself to a man for the purpose of sexual congress. She opens herself, as some might say, to his advances and desires. Within the confines of Free Companionship, this is all well and good, for Free Companionship is contractually watertight. But if a woman gave herself to a man’s slave (or indeed, a woman’s slave) then she is in effect submitting herself to that slave without the protection of Free Companionship contract law on her side. And as a slave cannot own property, under any circumstances, she is effectively, through the slave, giving herself then to the slaves owner.

 

By default, she is rendering herself into bondage.

 

Within days of the Ubar’s proclamation, the silk slave evenings abruptly ceased, with a few exceptions. Some continued in private, if the women were very bold, for any Free Woman now couching with a silk slave that she didn’t own, might well render herself the slave of her generous host. But that hostess is your friend! Surely you can trust her?

 

Well.

 

Imagine you are a Free Woman of Ar. Perhaps your name is Persephone. Yes, the gentle Lady Persephone of Ar. That is who you are. It is a lovely name, isn’t it?

 

You, that is Persephone, of course wear the most beautiful gowns and robes and the most fashionable of veils. Your sparkling, sequinned slippers are simply fabulous. You are part of the vibrant and ever so competitive social scenes of the upper echelons of gentle ladies within Ar. You attend delightful social functions and delight in expressing your strident opinions in open conversation.

 

Incredibly, despite your natural beauty, your dignity, your bearing and your good name, men seem reluctant to ask you to enter into Free Companionship with them. They think, perhaps – what fools they are to think so – they think you are vain, haughty, arrogant, disdainful, petty, vindictive, spoilt, demanding, argumentative. Who are they to judge you? You are the gracious Lady Persephone! And yet, they seem to prefer the arms of filthy paga slaves instead of courting you with soft words, gentle caresses, beautiful flowers, and sweet promises. They cannot of course know your beauty – the sweet curves of your body, your luscious pouting lips, your soft love cradle, for you are always veiled and robed in their presence and cannot use these assets to your advantage, the way filthy slave sluts can. If only they knew and understood what a ripe treasure the Lady Persephone might be on their couch! Why, they would crawl over broken glass to receive but a condescending smile and a dismissive wiggle of your white gloved fingers. How delightful it might be to tease them constantly and know they will always come back desperately for more.

 

How frustrating it must be for you, then, to be the most beautiful woman in all of Ar, but no man can ever know that. 

 

And so your days are boring and your nights restless. You are frigid. Of course you are frigid, and yet… sometimes you yearn to be touched, to be caressed, to be kissed. You feel so lonely. The nights are warm in Ar, and you toss and turn on your soft couch, unable to sleep, haunted by shameful thoughts. Sometimes you yearn to give yourself completely to a man. But how can you? It is clearly impossible. You are a Free Woman! A Free Woman of noble Ar!

 

Now, if you owned a silk slave…

 

You cannot afford a silk slave of your own, of course. It is out of the question. Who can? Oh, but they are so expensive! Though, come to think of it, that irritating Lady Francesca can afford one. Oh, the pretentious hussy! She recently bought that handsome Marcus, and has him fastened to her slave ring in the evenings to wait on her hand and foot. Oh, Marcus – how handsome he is! And how obedient! Francesca of course is beneath you, but still part of your social circle. You talk behind her back, mocking her airs and graces. The little fool has no way of knowing how you laugh at her, in the company of other ladies. You befriended her as a joke, but soon you have real reason to seek her out on the street, in market places and at parties, if only because you desperately want to run into the handsome silk slave, Marcus, and see that warm smile when he sets eyes on your robed and veiled figure.

 

Francesca is a fool. She invites you sometimes to her home and there is Marcus. Oh, Marcus! So strong, with such powerful arms. You are her friend, she says. One night she even offers you the use of Marcus in a private room. It is the least she can do for such a dear friend. What a fool is Francesca. If Marcus were your slave you would not let Francesca touch him. Or any other woman. You have no love for the silly Francesca, but oh, her slave! If only…

 

“The Couching Law,” you say, agonised, and you see Francesca laugh softly in surprise. 

 

“You silly little vulo, Persephone. That law doesn’t apply to women such as us! Who would know, other than you and I? What the law can’t see, the law can’t disapprove of. And you are such a dear friend…”

 

And there he is – Marcus – and he smiles at you and calls you mistress. And so, giddy with needs you can barely admit to yourself, you enter the couching room with Francesca’s slave, oblivious to the stern and officious magistrate standing in a secret adjoining room who has been invited to observe what might happen next. Perhaps you merely have time to  undress to your silken underslip – so daring an under garment - trembling slightly with such fevered need, and then climb onto the soft couch beside the prone slave and gaze down with longing, as you kneel beside him, being bold enough to tease the slave by lowering one spaghetti strap of your silk slip, tormenting him with a small glimpse of your upper breast, before the door is suddenly swung rudely open! How dare they! A magistrate enters, accompanied by a city guardsman, and proclaims you now a slave, and not just any slave, but the slave of the elated Lady Francesca, who follows close behind. 

 

“How I’ve always hated you,” The Lady Francesca might say, as you are thrown to your belly, stripped of your pretty, and oh so daring, silk underslip, your wrists bound in tight thongs behind your back by a guardsman. “You, with your haughty arrogance, Persephone, thinking yourself so much better than me! Now you will be my slave, pretty little Pipita,” she will say, with delight, giving you your new name. 

 

The Couching Law in Ar has turned many a careless woman into a legal slave. It is not even necessary for the woman to couple with the slave in question. Simply preparing to do so is enough for the sentence of slavery to be passed. 

 

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Kulai lay now on her belly, completely naked. Her bottom was raised slightly as she leaned down on her forearms. She had been completely stripped. 

 

“Crawl to your mistress,” commanded Darian as he removed a slave whip from his belt.

 

“Please,” cried Kulai. “I am a Free Woman.”

 

She suddenly screamed. It was a horrible drawn out scream as Darian lashed her twice with the whip.

 

“Crawl!” he snarled.

 

Kulai crawled quickly towards the standing figure of Kelsee.

 

“First Obeisance!” ordered Darian as he cracked the whip a third time, but this time in the air.

 

In the position of first obeisance, a girl begins in the kneeling position and then lowers her head to the floor and places the palms of the hands on the floor at the sides of her head. She can then, if permitted, raise her head slightly and move a forward a bit, maintaining the position in order to lick and kiss the feet of her master or mistress, doing it softly, lingeringly and lovingly. Kulai adopted this position before her mistress. 

 

“Slave,” said Kelsee as she gazed down at Kulai, at last. “Kiss and lick my feet.” It is what Kulai had said to Kelsee that first time they had met. Kulai began to do so. She had no choice. I knew then only too well what Kelsee would say to the girl next. “Are you a slut, girl?”

 

Kulai looked up, horrified by the question, for she had asked it, once, of Kelsee. There is only one answer a girl can give, if she wishes to avoid the whip. 

 

“I am, Mistress,” she said, tears in her eyes. A slave must never dare contradict her mistress. 

 

“You look like a slave slut,” Kelsee said. “You have the body of a slave, and no doubt you have the slut reflexes of a slave.”

 

“Yes, Mistress,” said Kulai. This was abject humiliation to her.

 

“Continue kissing and licking my feet with your slut tongue. You are an insult to my sex. Furthermore, you have masqueraded as a Free Woman all the time you have been my legal slave. That is a serious offence. You shall be whipped for it.”

 

“It is,” agreed Darian. “You may borrow my whip, if you wish.”

 

Kelsee took the leather handle of the whip and kicked Kelsee aside with her foot. “Whipping position, slut,” she said. “NOW!” 

 

Kulai was crying. Even in her most vivid nightmares she had never imagined anything like this. She knelt in whipping position, her wrists crossed beneath her, as though bound, her head to the floor, with the sweet bow of her back exposed and her ripe breasts hanging beneath her.

 

It took me a while to understand that most Free Women on Gor commonly understand the basic slave positions and know how to adopt them. If this seems strange, considering the vast gulf between Free Women and slaves, it can be explained by the fact that they are taught such things soon after they first bleed, usually by their mother or an older sister. The lessons are done in secret and are meant only to provide the young girl with the means by which she might submit to a man, if, and only if, the alternative is death. Men may have their throats cut when taken captive, but women can always beg the collar.  

 

Kelsee shook out the strands of the whip and, measuring the distance carefully, began to whip Kulai. 

 

She screamed again. I do not think Kulai had ever been whipped in her life before today. She had no idea until now how excruciatingly painful it might be for a girl. It was something of a brutal education for her. By the sixth blow she began begging Kelsee to stop. By the eighth blow she swore she would do anything to stop the whipping. By the tenth blow she collapsed to her belly, only to be kicked up again by Darian, back into the whipping position

 

“Fall to your belly a second time, and it will be a man who whips you, instead of a woman, and that man will begin again from the first blow.”

 

Tears were streaming down Kulai’s face. Blood and snot dripped from her nose. She was in agony but she desperately held position.

 

“What are you?” asked Kelsee.

 

“Your slave, Mistress,” sobbed Kulai. I think she was in shock now. 

 

“And?” snapped Kelsee.

 

“A slut, Mistress. A slut slave. A filthy little slut slave, not worthy to kiss the toes of your feet.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Just a slut slave, Mistress.”

 

I closed my eyes tightly. I couldn’t watch this. But I could do nothing to block out the sound. 

 

Women cannot withstand the lash for very long. They will scream, beg, and do or say anything to end the suffering. Do not believe a woman who claims otherwise. It simply means she has never felt the whip before.

 

“Slave,” sneered Kelsee as she paced around Kulai’s shaking body. Her back, rump and flanks were covered with red stripes. She was in agony. But of course, she herself had often whipped Kelsee for failing to please her. Women, it seems, are often at war with one another on Gor. 

 

“Collar her,” said Kelsee. “And brand her. She was always at pains to remind me that slaves should be swiftly branded. Free Women expect nothing less of the sluts.”

 

Both things were done to Kulai. She was ordered to collaring position, and a steel collar was locked about her neck. The ankle ring – number 79 – was then locked around her left ankle. She was dragged, screaming again, to the branding rack where she was secured by her wrist and ankles. Her left thigh was then locked securely in the vice like apparatus to the side of the rack, immobilising it. She screamed herself hoarse as a metal worker carried a red hot branding iron in an insulted glove worn on his righthand.

 

I couldn’t watch, but I could do nothing to block out the screams. 

 

When I opened my eyes, Kulai writhed in pain on the rack, crying. A kef mark was now branded deep into her left thigh. If there was any doubt that she was a slave, the kef brand had removed that doubt absolutely.

 

A collar can be removed, but a brand is forever.