A Talendar for Shirley (5) by Peony D Beckside

 

Chapter Five: A New World!

 

I unchain my slut, pulling her gently by her arm.  We descend some steps from my rooms.  There’s a pool in the courtyard.  Not quite a swimming pool, but more a plunge pool.  It’s kept warm by the hypocaust^[1] system.  I hand Shirley a pan-like container and some soap.  I sit on a stone bench

“Wash me, girl.  All of me.”

She fills the pan, and pours water over my head.  She rubs soap into my scalp, and working downwards bathes my body, paying particular attention to my armpits, groin and feet; the smelly bits.  At least she’s thinking, using her brain.  I have to make it clear to her that she’s washing my ‘tackle’, not seeking to arouse it.  I hand her a short but sharp shaving knife.

“Shave me, Shirley.  Don’t be tempted to cut my throat.  Death by slow torture is not an end you want to court.”

Is that for real?  Would they actually execute me in that excruciating manner if I killed someone?  He’d said as much before.  I have to rethink my concepts.  Yes, I think they would.  If I’m a slave, killing a free person could easily be seen as a form of slave revolt.  As a society, they’d have to stop it at source before it became a contagion.  Would it be the same if I killed another slave?  What about if such a killing were accidental?  Essentially it would be best not to risk having to find out.

I take great care to ‘plane off’ his facial hair.  I rinse Master fully.  He leaps into the pool.  This then is more like the Japanese form of bathing, though I suspect the pool is nothing like as hot as the Japanese like it.  Master rises out of the water.  I take a towel and dry him thoroughly before offering him his robes back. He looks quite odd but smart, to my Earth-conditioned eyes, in yellow and blue.  I wonder if the colouring has any significance.

“Shirley.  Clean yourself up and return to my rooms.  Don’t even think about fleeing.  For a slave there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.  The consequences for you would be most unfortunate. Hurry girl.  I’m hungry and there’s nothing to eat in the house.”

I’m not quite sure how to read that comment.  I get on with bathing myself.  As soon as I am clean, I mount the stairs that we had descended.  Master looks me over, and appears to be satisfied that I am presentable, at least as a naked slave.  I giggle to myself at that apparent contradiction.

Taking the slave bracelets, I fasten Shirley’s wrists behind her back.

“Nadu”

I remember that one.  I kneel in that essentially obscene position.  I must be slouching, mentally trying to shield what I physically can’t.

“Back straight, Shirley.  Head up.  That’s better.”

He expands.

“Looking into the eyes of a free person can be seen as disrespectful unless given permission, or given no choice by the person observing you.  When in the presence of a free person you kneel.  With a free-woman particularly you kneel with your knees together.  That position is called ‘Tower’, it is advisable also to bow your head.  Otherwise keep it up.  You do not speak to a free person unless spoken to, or ordered to.  You will learn Gorean quickly.  However there are two words that you absolutely must know, to acknowledge and to show respect.  The Gorean for Master is ‘Dominus’, and the word for Mistress is ‘Domina’.

I giggle.

“What’s so funny, kajira?”

“The word Domina.  It conjures up images of a big powerful woman in black skimpy but stereotypical underwear, wielding a big whip.  Among those who get sexual thrills from BDSM, that word and it’s expanded form ‘Dominatrix’. It has special significance as a cruel and dominating woman.”

“Yes, Disgusting isn’t it?  Better not let a free-woman hear you expound such a concept, or laugh at her, if you wish to live.  She’d soon show you just how cruel and overpowering she can be!”

“Yes, Dominus.”

I acknowledge with alacrity.

“Dominus, those words sound rather like Latin to me…?”

“Highly likely, kajira.  There are thousands of words that hark back to Latin, Ancient Greek, Mesopotamian, Old Norse, etc.  To those with the second knowledge…”

He doesn’t explain ‘second knowledge’.

“It’s clear that there’s been people brought here in the past from those places on Earth, or perhaps the ancient Greek heroes were taken from here to Earth.  The matter is uncertain.”

My stomach rumbles.  Is he going to feed me?  I’m starving!  He fastens a chain to my collar, attaching the other end to his belt.

“We are going out, Shirley.”

Like this!?  Naked?  On what’s effectively a leash?  I’ve a horrible feeling that’s exactly what he has in mind.

“What am to wear Dominus?”

“You haven’t earned a garment yet.  You are going out as you are.”

“But it’s obscene.  People will be looking at me, if I’m naked.”

“Yes, but not as many as you might think.  A naked slave-girl is not that rare a sight.  They will be looking at you because you are worth looking at.”

That’s a powerful compliment to a woman.  It suffuses me, even if the prospect of being displayed naked is daunting.

We descend to street level and exit.  I check back to make sure that Shirley’s posture is acceptable.  It is not.

“No slouching, girl.  Back straight, head up.  If you can’t actually smile, wipe the frown off your face.  You are a beautiful kajira.  Be proud of that.  It’s the only pride permitted you.  Move like you are a beautiful feline, a leopard, a cheetah, revel in your loveliness.”

She straightens up, and her frown eases.  I set off at an easy pace.  Shirley, of necessity follows, attempting a suitable slink.  She’ll get there…, eventually.

A wagon rumbles past slowly.  A slaver’s wagon.  Out of curiosity I look to see what the merchandise is like.  I can see little as there is a cover over hoops.  I do hear low conversation.  Conversation in English. Barbarians!  Perhaps new arrivals on Gor, as Shirley is.

“Driver!  Hold, Driver.”

“Whoa”.

The tharlarion drawing the wagon stops.  I converse with the driver in Gorean.  To Shirley it will be gobbledegook for now.

“How can I help you, friend?”

“Did I hear your cargo talking in one of the languages of barbarians?”

“Likely, as they are all barbarians.  I’ve told them to be silent, but since being wounded in the ‘War Of The Silver Masks’, my hearing isn’t so good.”

“New captures, new arrivals?”

“Indeed, yes.  Some interesting ones, but they are going to need a lot of training.”

“Is that where you are taking them, to be trained?”

“Yes, House of Thromberg on the Street of Brands^[2].  You looking to buy?”

“No.  But I have a new barbarian.  Might it be possible to have her trained along with your lot?”

“One could ask, I suppose.  Ask for Stephanis.”

“I thank you, good sir.  Safe journeys to you.”

Whilst it would be more delicious training Shirley myself, the time factor before she’s any good is a factor.  In a ‘hothouse regime’ being trained along with other slaves, she will learn much quicker.  As they say on Earth ‘What you gain on the swings, you lose on the roundabouts’  Something for me to think about.

Shirley has remembered her instructions.  She’s kneeling in nadu and keeping her mouth shut.  She knows not what we have been discussing.  I turn, and gently tugging on the slave’s leash encourage her to rise and follow once more.

I find a pastry vendor’s booth.  He’s put out a couple of low tables and some cushions for the benefit of his customers.  I order up two meat pies and a cup of Kal-da^[3]; and find a seat.  I indicate that Shirley is to kneel next to me on the opposite side to a cushion.  Cushions are for free persons.  I begin eating one of the pies.  I see Shirley eyeing it hungrily.  I tease.

“Is Shirley hungry perchance…?”

“Ravenous, Mas...Dominus”

I continue eating.

“Please, Dominus.”

“Please what, kajira?”

I sense her exasperation.  It’s a learned reaction, something she’s going to have to lose.  She realises that only with submission will she be fed.

“Please feed me, Dominus.”

To have to demean herself to beg a man for food must be difficult for her, but she must learn that she is absolutely reliant on her owner even for the very means of survival.

I break a piece off the pie I’m eating and offer it forward to her.  Braceletted as she is, she has to take it from my fingers with her teeth.  From time to time I offer her another morsel.  All in all she has about half of one of the pies.

“It is considered an honour to be fed from the plate of one’s Master.  Most of the time your food will be simpler fare, and you will eat it from a bowl on the floor.”

I can see that she sees such to be demeaning.  Tough!  She’ll get used to it.

Whilst kneeling here, I’ve been watching the street-scene, particularly the women in their brief revealing dresses.  They also all seem to be barefoot.  They all seem beautiful.  How can I match up to them?

“Dominus?  The women here are very beautiful…”

“The slaves?  Yes they are.  The ones in the skimpy outfits, that is.”

“They’re all slaves, Dominus?”

“Yes, Shirley.  There hasn’t been a free woman along this street while we’ve been here.”

“But there’s so many of them, so many slaves…!”

“Yes, there are.  Due to complex historical reasons, the percentage of free women here in Tharna is less than ten percent.  In most cities that ratio is inverted.  You can often tell a man of Tharna by the two yellow cords fastened at his shoulder.”

So that’s the name of this place, Tharna.

“Perhaps one day I’ll tell you how this delightful…

Delightful to men, no doubt.

“… situation came about.  It was written about in a book on Earth, but of course everyone thought it pulp-fiction it being too fantastic for most people to believe.  But I forget, you never did read the Gor books of John Norman.”

Master takes his time to drink the strange smelling stuff in his beaker.  A woman, at least I have to assume it’s a woman walks up the street.  She’s wearing what looks like a burqa, albeit a marvellously decorated one, but still effectively a burqa.  A skimpily clad woman follows her.  I see a flash of metal at the throat of this follower.  A collar, like mine?  A slave?  Is then this burqa-clad woman a free-woman?

“Knees together, head bowed, Shirley.”

I obey, but surreptitiously I watch the passage of this woman.  She processes, stately, like a barge on a river. I take in the fine cloth of her gown, and the opaque face-veils.  After she’s gone, I enquire.

“That was a free-woman, Dominus?”

“Yes, Shirley.  That was a free-woman.”

“But she was wearing a burqa, Dominus…”

“Not called that here, girl.  ‘Robes of Concealment’.  She’ll wear several garments under it.  Ditto with the face veils.

“But it looks so uncomfortable!  Surely on a hot day like today it must be stifling in an outfit like that?”

“Probably so, girl, but by the same token, wearing something lighter is considered too much for them,  too dangerous  They fear that to step out of that role, they could be seen as ‘courting the collar’; risking being enslaved.”

Overhanging the tables and cushions is a vine-like plant with the most beautiful of yellow flowers.  I’m familiar with many blooms, but these are new to me.  They are exquisite.

“Master, what are these flowers?  They are delightful…”

I can’t help but laugh with gusto.  Her puzzlement is beautiful.

“They are called Talendars.  Don’t ever put one in your hair, unless you mean it.  To do that would be seen as lying to your Master.”

So, there is a language of flowers here, just as on Earth.

Her confusion is still delightful.

“They are associated with love.  A woman wears them to show that she loves a man.  For a slave to put one in her hair is an acknowledgement that her Master has truly mastered her, that she is chained to him by love.”

I appreciate the ‘heads-up’.  Not going to happen!  Despite his dreamy loving, I’ll never wear a Talendar in my hair for him.  I do file that piece of data in my mind.  It’s something that I do without thinking.  Everyone’s mind has a slant, a way of thinking, something that interests them so much that its appreciation is automatic.  Mine had been flowers.  I did so enjoy my job previously, for the joy of learning and understanding that unwritten tongue.

“Thank you, Dominus.  At least that’s one mistake I’ll not make out of ignorance.

“Perhaps…  One day maybe…”

“In your dreams, Dominus!”

Once again he uses that sardonic laugh.  Such should really annoy me.  Why doesn’t it?  Perhaps it’s the infectiousness of it...

“Come, time for us to go.”

 

I hear the sound of banging coming from a shack-like structure, metal on metal I think.  A forge, or something akin, I assume.  Master heads for the opening that represents a doorway.  What on earth does Master want a forge for?  I giggle inwardly.  Given the culture shock I’m experiencing at everything I’ve seen, I’m almost convinced that this place isn’t Earth.  I can’t think of anywhere in the world, that world, that would dovetail with what I’m seeing and feeling here.

A heavy-set man stops hammering metal on an anvil and comes forward.  Master and this man start jabbering away in what I take to be this weird mishmash language of this place.  Why do I have a distinct feeling that in some way I am the subject of this conversation.

“Tal, sir!  How can I help you?”

“Tal, Smith.  Do you have a branding iron handy?”

“Not hot, sorry.  Whilst there’s demand it’s intermittent.  Not like the Great Branding when the ‘Silver Masks’ were overthrown.  There were queues right down the street!  Your accent seems local.  I thought that I knew all the slavers in Tharna.  Were you here when the Tatrix ordered the effective enslaving of most of the women?”

“Indeed, I was!  That’s when I took up Slaving as a career and entered the caste.  I saw a market where I could make some money.  It was a glorious time, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, it was.  What mark had you in mind?”

“Standard kajira mark, I think.  She’s only an ordinary slut.”

I see the blacksmith push something into the coals, something with a handle.  I can’t see what the object is.

“It’ll take about ten minutes to get hot enough.  That fine?”

“Sure.  I’m not in a hurry.  The girl isn’t.”

Both of them laugh at a joke that I don’t and can’t ‘get’.

“Bring the girl in, then sir.  The rack is at the back.”

I am impelled inside the forge.  At the back there’s a wooden frame.  It’s got wrist and ankle restraints.  Master unfastens me and refastens me to the frame.  I don’t know why he’s doing it, but I don’t see that there’s anything I can do to stop him, or the point of such.  There’s a wheel at the side of the frame.  He turns it.  Two clamps seize my left thigh, holding it immobile.  What is he going to do to me?

“It’s not surprising you don’t know me, sir.  I’ve been working in barbarian lands for the last ten years.  Tell me, what’s been happening in Tharna in the last few years?”

“You heard that the Tatrix is no more?”

“No!  What happened to her?”

“Did you know that during the uprising, Lara was briefly owned by the great Tarl Cabot?”

“No.”

“Apparently he freed her so that as a figurehead ruler she could stop the various factions sinking into civil war.”

“The figurehead bit I did know.  The slavery and freeing, I didn’t”

“Well, there was talk that the Tatrix had outlived her usefulness.  She pre-empted the situation by having herself re-enslaved, branded, and sent with a warrior by tarn to Port Kar, where apparently Tarl Cabot is now residing.”

“No!”

“Yes, it’s true.  All free women were ordered to watch.  All Masters were asked to allow their slaves to attend the ceremony.  I saw it myself, having my own slave on a leash at the event.  Give the Tatrix her due, she had great presence.  She screamed of course as all women do, when Kron put the iron to her thigh.  The thing was done well.  One has to applaud the Tatrix as was.”

The smith partly pulls the object with the handle out of the fire.  He’s not satisfied.  He pushes it back.

“So what’s the story on your slave then?  If I’m not too presumptuous to ask?”

“She’s a barbarian, totally new to her collar.  Can’t even speak Gorean yet.  She’s sort of a ‘thank you’ gift from the people I worked with in Barbarian lands.  I’m looking forward to moulding her to the perfection I think she’s capable of.  I doubt that she even knows why she’s here.  After the branding, I want her ears pierced.  That won’t terrify her as it would a Gorean slut.  Pierced ears are common among the women where she comes from; even free women.”

“Disgusting!”

“Yes, in a way.  Piercing of ears is viewed differently, culturally, there.  But then, almost everyone in those lands is a slave, males and females, they just don’t know it.  It’s very subtly done.  They think themselves free, but they are so controlled as to effectively be slaves.”

“Crazy!”

“Agreed!”

“Here, if you’d like to select ear adornments for her.  I have a selection.”

Out of Shirley’s sight, I select a pair of earrings that I feel will compliment her features.  The smith checks the item in the fire.

“It’s ready.  You’ve branded women before?  Do you want to do this, or shall I?”

“Yes, I have experience of this operation, and yes, if you don’t mind, I’d like to apply the ‘kiss of the iron’”.

Taking a leather mitt, I pull the iron from the fire.  The inverted ‘kef’ is a perfect red.  I turn to Shirley.

What the fuck!  No!  The bastard is going to brand me.  Brand me, like an animal would be!

She shrieks, babbling away in English.  I know what she’s saying of course, but the smith doesn’t, or at least not specifically.  He gets the gist.

“Let me guess...’No, Master!  Please!  Don’t brand me!  You don’t need to!  I’ll be a perfect slave. The brand is unnecessary.  Please don’t!’

“Pretty much!  In fact almost word for word.  They are so predictable, aren’t they?”

“Sorry Shirley, The caste of Slavers, of which I’m a member is a sub-caste of the Merchants. Merchant Law specifies that all slaves be branded, so I have to have you marked in this way.”

She moans in terror.  Despite knowing that she can’t escape the branding rack she still tries.  Her unhappiness doesn’t affect me.  I’ve seen it all so many times before.  I press the hot iron to her thigh and hold it there.  She screams of course, before descending into tears and sobs as I remove the branding iron from her flesh.

I pour a quantity of pure alcohol into the wound to sterilise it.  She screams again.  I take the needle from the smith.  He holds the girl’s head still, and presses a semi solid block behind her ear.  I stab the ear, pushing the needle through the lobe.  Shirley winces and hisses, but says nothing.  Before the hole closes, I push the loop of wire on the earring through the hole.  I repeat the operation on her other ear.  She looks lovely in the dangling ornaments; but then she doesn’t yet know just how pierced ears inflame Gorean men. She doesn’t yet know that a pierced-ear girl is considered the most desirable, and yet lowest of low slaves.

I pour alcohol onto the ear piercings.  I wipe Shirley’s tears away, not out of kindness, but because wet and red eyes are not pleasing.

“Shirley, listen up.  You will be given a bottle of alcohol.  Three times a day, you are to bathe the ear lobes with it.  Whenever you are able, you will move the earring wires.  Move them, not remove them.  You are to ensure that the skin doesn’t bind to the wires.  You will do this for a passage-hand or more, that’s a month to you.  As for the brand on your thigh, you will not touch it until it’s properly healed.  No matter how much it itches, you will leave it alone.  If you disfigure it, you will be whipped, and far more severely than you were yesterday.  Got that?”

“Yes, Dominus.”

I release Shirley from the branding rack, and secure her wrists behind her back again.  I re-affix her leash. Stopping only to pay the smith, I depart, my slave in tow.

 

I note the sign.  Ermelo Gratchis, Physician.  There’s a bell, like a Swiss cow-bell by the door.  I ring it.  In under an ehn a young green-clad man appears.  He may not be as young as he seems.  What with the Stabilisation Serums, there’s no real way to know how long ago he had his.  Shirley, of course, has no idea about why we are here.  Nor has she enough Gorean to understand what is being said.

“Good day, Sir.  How can I help you?”

“You are Ermelo Gratchis?  I have brought this slave for her to receive the stabilisation serums.”

“No sir.  I am Paolus Vonci.  I am Ermelo Gratchis’ apprentice.  Physician Gratchis does not sully himself by treating animals.  I however have been well trained in the skill of administering the serums.  I would be glad to help you in this matter if you wish?”

“Very good.  I will put my slave’s treatment in your hands.”

“Come on through to the treatment room.”

No sooner than we have arrived at this chamber, Paolus Vonci requests permission to examine my slave.  I grant it of course.  This trainee reaches for Shirley.  He prods and touches the girl all over  her body. I see his eyes as he views a small scar on the girl’s shoulder.  An inoculation mark, probably from a childhood immunisation programme.  Having such a mark does affect the girl’s price when being sold.  It’s a blemish that most slaves don’t have.  Gorean physicians view Earth vaccinations as barbaric, uncaring of the woman’s beauty, and medical incompetence.

“She’s a barbarian?”

“Yes, straight off the ship…”

I don’t tell him just what kind of ship.

“… Totally untrained of course.  Doesn’t even know the language.^[4]”

“Yes, I did notice the newness of her brand mark.  You cleaned it?”

“Yes, with pure medicinal alcohol.”

“Good.  That should help to avoid infections.  Use the alcohol at least once a day for a week at least.”

He pauses.

“May I look at her teeth?”

“Of course.”

“Shirley, open your mouth so this man can check your teeth.”

I’ve not really understood who this man is, and what his function is.  Master seems to have given him permission to touch and prod me.  With this command to open my mouth, I tentatively conclude that he’s some kind of doctor.  If that’s the case, why has Master brought me here?  I’ve never felt in better health than I do right now.  I comply.  After all, I’ve never had problems with dentists working in my mouth.

“Yes, I suspected as much ever since I realised she was a barbarian.  The metal implants in her teeth seem to be common among barbarian sluts.  Are there no Physicians in barbarian lands?”

Since this man is of one of the High Castes, he surely knows that Gor is not flat, it’s a planet.  Even at a low level in his caste, he probably suspects that barbarians don’t come from elsewhere on Gor, but from another planet.  He doesn’t mention Earth, so until he does, I shall continue using the word barbarian.  Since the physician has moved away, Shirley has closed her mouth.  I am not annoyed at her doing this.  Gorean Masters don’t want stupid slaves.  They want obedience, but not pointless obedience.  Unless the Master has a reason for a slave holding a given posture, he expects the slave to realise when to hold such, and when she can return to a previous position.  She must of course be ready to resume a given posture instantly.  This is a matter of training and intelligence.

“It’s the physicians, or at least a branch of them that put the metal in the mouths of the slaves.”

“Are they so totally incompetent?”

“Not as simple as that,  I think it’s something to do with the diet in barbarian lands.  A lot of the food they eat is high in sugars.  Over time that rots the teeth.  Patching the teeth then is the best that they can do.  They are certainly not as advanced as our Physicians.  They don’t even know about the stabilisation serums.  Hence everyone there dies so very early.”

Bring him back to the purpose of this visit.

“Yes, truly barbaric.  I was wondering why a newly collared woman of this one’s age hadn’t already received their serum shots.”

He pauses.

“She seems healthy enough generally.  Can’t see a reason why the serums should fail.”

I watch as the young man takes powder from a container, mixes it with a liquid and fills a glass tube, not dissimilar to an Earth syringe with it.  Instead of a metal needle though, the physician attaches a kind of long thorn.  Shirley isn’t aware that Gorean physicians inoculate through the gums, as an Earth dentist might anaesthetise before carrying out work; so as to avoid skin blemishes.

“Mouth open again, Shirley.  The physician is going to inject you in your gums.”.

“Yes, Dominus.  But what’s he going to do with my teeth?”

“Curiosity is not becoming in a slave, Shirley.  You might be beaten for it.  Comply.”

She does so, accepting the minuscule pain of the thorns prick.

“It’s been a long time since I had my shots, will the girl feel any discomfort.  Will there be any effect that will make it impossible for her carry out her tasks?”

“None at all, sir.  The serums are very refined these days.  There’re rarely any side-effects.”

“Thank you.”

“She’ll need a booster in about a week, and then the effects will be effectively permanent.”

“Perfect.  Now, about your fee…”

The amount that he asks for is not outrageous, even knowing that the booster will be as much again.  I gladly pay him.  I give him my adieus, and taking my property leave.

“Master…?  What did the doctor do, please?”

He laughs.

“Kajirae…”

So the plural of kajira is kajirae.  Mmmm.

“...truly are as curious as cats.”

He takes pity on me.

“You are to have a booster jab in a week’s time.  You are being given a gift that is priceless, at least for those on Earth.  The stabilisation serums, the first of which you’ve just had will extend your life and your beauty almost indefinitely!”

Immortality?!  Effectively immortality?  Is that what he’s talking about.  I’m stunned!  To live beyond the ninety or so years that one can expect in the 21^st century, and still retain one’s youth and vigour?!  A gift indeed!  A little niggle in the back of my mind makes me wonder.  To be a slave for hundreds of years?  Sure last night’s lovemaking was dreamy.  Can it get better or will extended time make such ‘samey’ to the point of boredom.  It’s like the person that gets a job in the chocolate factory.  They are encouraged to eat as many chocolates as they like.  Very soon, chocolate loses its appeal.  Is this a gift or a curse.  Only time will tell.

What’s with this man?  First he hurts me, whips me, brands me like an animal, then he gives me effective immortality.  I can’t understand him.  He says that he wants me, yet does everything he can to make me hate him; then he goes and gives me something that even the wealthiest person on Earth simply can’t obtain at any price.  Does that show caring?  How then does that fit in with the hurt he applied to me.  Surely applying pain to a woman can’t imply any care for her at all, at least no care for her feelings.

---

[1]              Underfloor heating

[2]              More a district than a street as such.  A place where slave trading houses conglomerate.

[3]              A drink peculiar to Tharna: “Kal-da is a hot drink, almost scalding, made of diluted Ka-la-na wine, mixed with citrus juices and stinging spices” Outlaw Of Gor P76.

[4]              To the Goreans there is only one language.  Others exist but are used only locally.  Gorean is the lingua franca of all known Gor.