Flashing Eyes

Peony D Beckside

With acknowledgement and thanks to John Norman for creating the world of Gor, in which this story is set.

I’m in love!  Or is it lust.  The woman has just moved off, accompanied by her retinue of guards and slaves.  Professionally, I can price to the tarsk-bit[1], the value of the four female slaves chained, kneeling at the corner of her litter and the eight chained slaves supporting it.  I am a slaver, by trade.  The woman is wealthy, and by extension influential.  Either that or she is the wife or daughter of someone who is.

I shouldn’t admit to having such uncontrolled feelings of desire.  In my profession I see and assess many beautiful and skilful women.  Naturally they excite me, I am a man.  I have the use of any one of those beauties that pass through my hands.  This however is different!  More intense than anything I can recall for a long time.

The woman, from her lofty position sat on a curule chair atop the litter, and from her clearly important rank in society had insulted me.  She had called me a ‘filthy sleen[2]’!

“Get out of the way, filthy sleen!”

I had stepped out of the way; from politeness, not because she had ordered so.  It seems that I did not do so quickly enough.  She flicked her fingers and one of her retainers came round the side of the litter and with a scourge lashed my shoulder.

“Do not do that again!”

The retainer clearly saw the look of determination in my expression.  I may not be a warrior, but I carry a sword and know how to use it.  One never knows when one may have to fight off bandits that would steal one’s delectable merchandise.  The retainer did not again raise his lash.  By the time that he had backed off, the woman had been carried those few paces that make further communication moot.

She it was, who had the temper of a sleen!  I barely heard her insult, so entranced had I been by the flashing emerald of her eyes.  I know not why they showed such intense annoyance, it could hardly have been caused by me.  I was simply walking down the street on my way to the tarsk[3] market on Beast Street.  Sometimes to shame them, slaves can be sold in such low markets. One can be lucky and find a real bargain. 

Most times the slaves in such places are mere drabs, barely kettle and mat girls.  It is however, usually worth the effort to check.

The woman on the litter was richly garbed in robes of concealment.  The veils of modesty covering her mouth and nose, suitably opaque.  A thin wisp of red hair escaped from the side of her cowl.  I found the combination of the red hair and her sparkling green eyes, highly erotic!  I must have her!  I conjure up fantasies of a red-hot pleasure slave hidden behind the robes of a free woman, a pleasure slave just waiting to be awakened and ignited.  I’m sufficient of a realist to note that she could have the face of a tharlarion and the body of a tarsk.  That’s always the risk when enslaving a free woman.  What will she look like when you strip the clothes from her.  I am experienced though in judging the beauty of women, even free ones.  This woman, has the subtle carriage that indicates nubility hidden by the cloth layers of her robes.  Also the drape of her face-veils, perhaps deceptively, may hide a pleasing countenance.  I will have her!  I will have her crawl to my feet, begging for my touch!  She is a woman.  In my trade, one learns quickly that all women are slaves at heart.  Free ones are simply those that have not yet been brought to their collar and brand.  I have no need for the posturing of a free woman.  I will have her as slave!  I will teach her her collar,  She will be MY slave.  MY property!  She will wear MY collar!  No!  This one is not for the sale chain.  I want her for myself, not for profit.  Of course, if she should prove disappointing, then I will take whatever coinage that I can get for her.

I enquire of the proprietor of the wine-shop to my right.

“Who is she, good fellow?”

“I believe that she is Arlinga, the daughter of the merchant Polarius Major.”

“Is she always such an imperious sleen?”

“Seems to be.  Every time that I see her, she acts like an enraged bosk.  It’s long past time someone captured her and collared her!”

I say nothing!

No, it must be lust.  One does not love a slave-girl!  Or at least one does not admit to such.  She is a beast, a lithe lascivious toy who satisfies one’s physical needs perfectly, or suffers the consequences of not doing so,  One can love and express one’s love for a free-companion[4], that being socially acceptable, but to admit to love for a slave-girl is anathema.  The thought of Lady Arlinga as a free-companion, fills me with horror!  It would be like taking a larl[5] or an ost[6] into one’s love-furs!  Hence why I would have her humbled before me as the lowest of low slaves.  In truth though, many a master does love their slave intensely.  They are usually wise to the wiles of their delicious plaything.  They refuse to let their slave change them, weaken them, demean them.  Any slaves that try, usually find the slave-whip to be an effective discouragement.  Failure to learn from such would likely find them sold or even killed.

How then do I bring the Lady Arlinga, branded and collared to my feet.  I ponder the options, the advantages of each, the disadvantages.  I am a tarnsman.  I ride the fierce saddle-birds.  It’s unusual for one of my caste to be so.  Most tarnsmen are warriors.  I grew up close to a tarn-cot[7].  I came to love these giant birds.  I could easily have become a tarn-keeper, but instead family duties to our small but exclusive slave-trading business drew me back.  Being able to use a tarn to transport my merchandise, is safer than running the risk of attack by ground-based bandits, but it does limit the quantities that I can transport.  Which is why I specialise in the highest-quality, top end of the market.  As a tarnsman, watching for my chance, I could try ‘chain-luck’, ensnaring the Lady Arlinga with a capture rope as she walks the high bridges between the cylinders of the city.  It’s easily done, especially when least expected.  The danger is, of being apprehended by the city guardsmen that patrol the skies above the city.  Similarly, should I succeed in leaving the city, I could be followed, and when my tarn tires, be taken down.  Whilst many in the city may agree that enslaving Lady Arlinga would be a good thing for everybody, even her, there is pride here.  Civic pride.  Lady Arlinga is still a free woman, and it is concomitant on the city to protect its citizens.  As soon however, as the kiss of the branding iron is placed on Lady Arlinga’s thigh, as soon as the collar is locked around her throat, she becomes worthless, no longer being a citizen, merely an animal.  That wouldn’t stop guardsmen if they caught me, from killing me out of wounded pride at their failure to protect a citizen.  Additionally, even if I were not caught, but identified, it would make it impossible to carry out my business in the city in future.  I do a lot of business in mighty Ar, Arlinga’s home city!

No.  I have to find a legal way.  A way to incite Lady Arlinga into committing some breach of city ordinances that is serious enough for the city to declare her slave.  The problem there, is that as a new slave, she would be put up for auction.  As ‘newly-collared slave meat’ theoretically she should be cheap.  Given her demeanour when out and about in the city, though, there might be several people who, like me, wish to enmesh  this she-bosk in their own slave chins.  Especially so, if she is as beautiful as the subtle drape of her robes of concealment and veils of modesty suggest.  I don’t want to get into a bidding war.

Research is the key.  One thing that a slave trader, or for that matter any merchant needs is patience; the ability to watch for and seize an opportunity when it presents.  Except when necessary, I exchange my blue and gold robes of the slavers, for the white and gold ones of a merchant.  This is not actually wrong, i.e. against caste rules.  The slavers are technically a subset of the the Merchants.  The slavers however like to think of themselves as a caste apart.  I learn enough about the buying and selling of cloth to pass myself off as a merchant in that field, and adopt a new name.  I ask around about the house of Polarius Major, it’s key employees and family members.  I learn that there is only Polarius Major and Arlinga in the family; Arlinga’s mother having died several years ago.  Polarius Major spends most of his time attending to his business.  Arlinga therefore has little leavening influence from an older woman, in her life.  At eighteen years old, she is at the perfect age to feel the slave bracelets and collar of a slaver.

In the course of my enquiries, I hear of two separate Praetors[8], whose suits, Arlinga has spurned; and rather cruelly at that.  I approach each, privately, outlining in general terms, my plans for this flighty she-bosk.  Both after brief sardonic laughter agree that what I have in mind for the woman is just and appropriate.  They agree to be there and to help me when the moment is at hand, for a small fee of course.

I begin to woo the Lady Arlinga, sending her a box of sweetmeats, with a card attached, ‘From a secret admirer’.  While visiting the house of Polarius Major, purporting to be a much more important merchant from a far-away city, I am introduced to Lady Arlinga.  Being indoors, her veils of modesty whilst functional, are not as opaque as the ones worn by her when outside.  The hint of a pleasing countenance is strengthened.  I act besotted by her.  Not a difficult act, as I truly am, but I am not under her spell.  I would put her under mine!  Being sufficiently vague about future business deals, but hinting at great benefits from closer ties between our houses, Polarius Major, does not seem to mind my interest in his daughter.  Perhaps, at some level, he would be glad to have such a high spirited she-sleen off his hands.

I invite the Lady Arlinga to dine with me at an eating-place attached to one of the better lodging houses in the city.  I flatter her unmercifully.  Though the female serving slaves of the establishment are very demurely attired and extremely deferential, it is clear from the Lady Arlinga’s demeanour to them, that she sees them as little more than lascivious little sluts. Her attitude puts me in mind of an old saying that ‘One who protests too loudly, shows too much of a preference for what they protest against’.

“They are such shameless little tarts!”

“Yes, aren’t they?  Perhaps they have no choice to be so?”

“What do you mean?”

“They are slaves.  Their owner, this establishment and its proprietor insists that they do all they can to keep the customers, particularly the men, happy  Should a man be interested in any one of them, they would likely be ordered to serve his lusts in a private chamber elsewhere in the establishment; serve fully, completely and abjectly to the man’s perfection.  They would expect to be punished if they fail.  Their are worse slaveries for them than this.”

“Really?”

“The use of those slaves in the paga[9] taverns, rarely costs more than the price of the cup of paga they are drinking.  Receiving much usage, lasciviousness becomes a way of life for them.  They come to enjoy the attention that they get, and as a result they become ever more desirable.  It’s hardly surprising then, that many free women are infuriated by them, when a man they desire prefers the charms of such low sluts.”

“How horrific!  How disgusting!”

Her words say one thing, but I can see that she’s fascinated.  Perhaps she has been abandoned by someone, in favour of visiting paga taverns; resenting such and by extension resenting the delightful sluts of those taverns.  I steer the conversation away from this subject for now.

We dine similarly, several times in the months following.  In response to Arlinga’s mock horror, I expand out on the the subject of female slavery, and particularly the joy that they seem to receive from their sexual subjugation.  When I feel that the Lady Arlinga is ready, I set everything in place.

We are dining again at the same lodging house.  I make sure that the Lady Arlinga has had enough ka-la-na wine[10] to relax her, but not enough that she doesn’t know what she is doing.  Her unacknowledged fascination with the subject of female slavery prompts her to open the subject to conversation.  If she hadn’t, I would have.  We talk on the subject briefly until I feel that the time is ripe.

“Of course, there is a way for you to gain an insight, a hint as to what it is like for a female slave…”

“Oh?”

“We could take a room, here.  You could pretend to be a slave.  Play at it. I would pretend to be your Master.  The game would have to be played with some seriousness, or it would give you nothing.  It would not give you the insight that you seek.”

I pause briefly.  I take her hand and pull her up from the couch upon which she reclines.

“Come, girl.”

She does not resist.  She is entering into the spirit of the ‘game’, recognising that she must obey all commands given her.  I get her to the room chosen and close the door after her.  I stand in front of her and give her her next order.

“Strip, slave.”

“Wha…!”

“Must a command be repeated, slave?”

She remembers that she must enter into the spirit of the ‘game’.  She begins to undress. She has crossed the line!  She has acknowledged her slavery, by obeying an order so framed!  I can see that she’s excited.  As she removes her face-veils, I see that her face is flushed.  She is a beauty!  Perhaps not a gold-piece girl, but worth at least several silver tarsks[11].  As she disrobes, it’s clear from the erectness of her nipples and the increasing odour of her arousal; she is ready for me to take her.  I for my own part am almost dizzy with excitement.  My ‘meat’ is constrained almost painfully by my loincloth.  I manage to control myself.  This ‘game’ must be played out to its conclusion if it is not to fail.

“Kneel.  Kneel back on your heels.  Back straight, head up,   Hands resting on your thighs.  Now widen your knees.”

She does so reluctantly.

“It’s so indecent…”

“Yes.  That’s why it excites you.  Isn’t that so?  Remember, a slave-girl must not lie."

“Yes, Keith…”

She thinks of me as Keith of Corcyrus.

“The correct form of acknowledgement is ‘Master’.”

She’s deep in the ‘game’ now.

“Yes, Master.”

I have her now!  She has acknowledged herself slave and me as Master.  There’s no going back for her now.  However the two Praetors observing through the spy-holes of this capture-chamber, must see and hear everything.  Many a criminal has been caught in this room, and more than a few females have been enslaved here.

I reach into a chest at the side of the chamber.  I pull out a piece of yellow cloth.  It’s very light.  I throw it to the girl.

“Put it on.”

She unfolds the slave-silk tunic with a look of awed enthralment.  She knows what it is.  She’s seen many slave-girls on the streets wearing such a garment.

“Master…  Please…”

I gently chide.

“Obey, Slave-girl.  You are here to learn, to understand something of what it is to be a slave.  To do so, you must feel and obey all sensations and experiences.”

She reaches her arms and head into the bottom of the garment and lets it fall over her body.  She utters a strange kind of sigh,  A moan perhaps.

“It’s so soft, so light.  So sensuous.  It makes me feel more naked than naked...Master.”

“Most slaves try to earn the privilege of being granted such a garment made of slave-silk.  To take it away from her, is seen as a disciplinary measure.”

She looks at me almost in disbelief.

“They are kept naked?”

“Sometimes.  Other times, they may be granted something similar made of cheap rep-cloth.”

I reach into the chest again.  I bring out a hinged metal item.  It resembles a slave collar, but is not engraved.  Arlinga starts.

“Worry not, Lady Arlinga…”

She doesn’t realise yet, that she’s already a slave, and that calling her ‘Lady Arlinga’ is merely my name for her.  I can and will change her name in due course.

“See!  It clicks shut and open with a simple push or pull.”

I demonstrate.  I give the collar to her so that she can try herself, so she can see that it cannot be permanently locked on her neck.  So she realises that she can take it off whenever she wishes.  I take it from her and address it to her throat.  I swing it shut behind her neck.  As I do so, I press a hidden button.  The collar clicks shut.  Arlinga shivers at the sound, and the feel of the cold metal surrounding her neck.  What she doesn’t know yet, is that she cannot now get the collar off her neck.

I spread love-furs on the floor next to the raised dais.  I pull her to the furs.

“Why on the floor, Master, why not on the dais?”

“Only free persons may sleep on the dais.  Only free-companions, or invited free guests may make love on such.  Now lie down on your back.  Arms above your head.”

She may think that she is still free, and hence should be allowed on the dais, but she believes that she is playing the role of a slave-girl, and hence accepts that she will be taken on the floor.  I reach for slave-bracelets[12] and with a short chain fasten her wrists to the heavy ring set into the base of the dais.  I pull from the chest, a pole, some 20 horts[13] long.  At each end of the pole there are ankle shackles  I apply these to her respective ankles.  I will not have her trying to deny me entry to her private ‘haven’.  I do not sense that she wants to do so, but the spreading of her legs with the spreader bar will be instructive for her.  I caress her for a brief period.  She is soon moaning and grinding her hips.

“That’s it, Lady Arlinga.  Don’t hold back your feelings.  Embrace every one.  A slave is not permitted to hold herself back. She would expect to be whipped if she did…”

A strangled response.

“No, Master!”

“Are you beginning to understand what it is to be a slave?”

“Yes, Master!”

I enter her and ride her hard.  She cries gently under each thrust.  She wriggles appreciatively to the beat that I am setting her.  At a certain point her cries become a shriek of pleasure, ‘Maassstterr!’, I am carried over my own hurdle, spending myself plentifully into her.  This is not the best taking that I have ever had, by any means, but for a completely new slave, impressive.  With practise and experience, she has the potential to be a wonder.

As she awakens from her exhaustion, she sleepily asks.

“That was wonderful, Keith.  Can one feel any more than I did?”

She thinks the ‘game’ is over..

“There is much more for you to experience, to feel yet.  That was merely a warm-up.  You show potential slave-fires.  Can you imagine a need so burning that you would crawl across broken shards of pottery to beg the touch of your Master?”

“She looks at me startled, not at the implication of continuance as a slave, but that a woman could have her needs heightened that she would gladly suffer such pain in the hope of receiving a man’s touch.”

I release her ankles from the spreader bar and unfasten her wrists from the dais ring.  Using the slave-bracelets I fasten her wrists behind her back.

“Kneel.”

She tries now to kneel with her knees closed.

“You know better than that, slave.  Knees wide.”

She complies, but remonstrates.

“Keith!  The game’s over.  It’s been most entertaining.  I understand much better now.  Release me, at once!”

I laugh sardonically.  At that point the door opens and in walk the two Praetors.  She recognizes them; perhaps remembering how she had mistreated them.  She moans.  I think that she knows what is coming, realises her predicament.

“Woman!”

One of the Praetor’s begins.

“We have seen and heard enough to know that you are not a fit person to be a Citizen of Ar.  You are not a fit person to be a free woman.  Do you agree Callimachus?”

“I do, Fredonius, absolutely”

“Woman, We have heard you acknowledge yourself slave, by obeying orders addressed to you as such.  We have heard you call this man Master, thus admitting your slavery.  We have seen how slave silk and chains excite you.  We have seen how readily you gave yourself up for slave-use without any attempt to fight back or even verbally deny this man the right to do so.  It is clear that at heart you are a slave.  By right of breaking the ordinances of Ar, as outlined, you are hereby declared slave.  You are no longer a free woman; you are property.”

Callimachus adds;

“Since this man has been instrumental in showing up your unworthiness, it is to him that you are given.  You now belong to him.”

Arlinga yet has some spirit!  She turns to me.

“You filthy Urt[14]!  You betrayed me!”

She should know better. She'd have killed one of her slaves who had spoken thus to her. The former Lady Arlinga is in tears now.. Tears of Chagrein? Tears for the loss of her freedom? Tears for her own gullibility ? Using a marking[stick he hadds her mark to one scroll, then the other. Passing the stick to Fedonius, the other Praetor does likewise, as do I when it is my turn.

“She is yours.  This is your copy of her papers.  I will see that the other is lodged in the chamber of records.”

I pass over a purse with the agreed fee.

“I thank you citizens, and bid you good day.”

“You should give the slut a good whipping.  She twice sullied your name with her lips, and called you an urt.”

“I shall do so presently, and with your compliments.”

The new slave looks up in horror.  Her voice barely audible.

“For so little!…”

Fredonius comments.

“I, for one, thank you for such wonderful entertainment.  It was most pleasing watching the Lady Arlinga get what’s been coming to her for some time!”

The slave bites her lip.  She so wants to remonstrate, but now knows that such will only add to her punishment.  The two praetors leave, laughing.  I turn to the kneeling slave.

“Your name now is Arlinga.  It is a slave-name.  It is not your name by right.  It is merely what I wish to call you.  I will change it if I ever choose to do so.  Do you understand?”

Tearfully she replies

“Yes, Master.”

“Tomorrow you will be branded.  Common Kajira[15] mark, I think.”

She bursts into tears again.  From the chest I take out another slave-collar.  This is her definitive one.  Once locked, I’ve no intention of ever removing it.  I present the collar to the girl.

“Read it!”

“You are not even Keith of Corcyrus?!  You are Gregorian, the slaver of Port Kar?!”

She is shocked.  She wails in terror.  It is said that the chains of a slave are heaviest in Port Kar.  I think it a true saying.  I lock the new collar on the girl’s neck and remove the so-called ‘play’ collar.

“You should have been more careful about who you taunted with your flashing-eyes, girl!”

---

[1]     In Ar, the smallest coin in general circulation.

[2]     Six legged lizard like predator.  An indefatigable hunter.  Often captured and trained for the hunting of runaway slaves.

[3]     A kind of semi-domesticated boar.

[4]     Akin to being a wife, but more so.

[5]     Large sabre-toothed predator, akin to a lion or a tiger.

[6]     A small orange highly poisonous snake, whose bite gives an extremely painful but mercifully short death.

[7]     A place to house tarns when not being ridden.

[8]     A magistrate.  One of lower standing than a consul.

[9]     A fiery alcoholic beverage made from the sa-tarna grain.  Sometimes drunk warm.

[10]   Made from the fruit of the Ka-la-na tree.  Has reference too to romantic love.

[11]   A coin of significant value, but one not beyond a skilled artisan or lower official.

[12]   Light decorated handcuffs, strong enough to hold a woman, but perhaps not a man.

[13]   Slightly more than 24 inches.

[14]   A horned rat-like rodent.  To call someone an urt, carries the same kind of connotation as on Earth, calling someone a rat.

[15]   Common term for a female slave.