“Quite willingly,” laughed another.
“Of course,” I said.
Those unfamiliar with the ways of Gor might suppose that a foregone consequence of the liberation of a city would be the freeing of certain slaves, say, those of the city who had been impressed into bondage. That is not, however, how the Gorean sees such things. Many Goreans are fatalists and believe that any woman who falls into bondage belongs in bondage, even that it is the will of Priest-Kings that her throat should be enclosed in the lovely circlet of servitude. Most, however, understand that when a woman has worn the collar, it is quite likely that she, in her heart, even if freed, will always wear the collar. She will need a master, and long for one. She understands herself as something which, ideally, belongs wholly to a man. In her heart, and her belly, she will always treasure the collar. The vanities and inanities of the free woman, with her hypocrisies and pretensions, will no longer satisfy her. She will always remember what it was, to kneel, to be bound, and to love. She will always remember the wholeness and beauty of her life as a slave, and the raptures of the collar. She has been, as it is said, “spoiled for freedom.” Too, Gorean honor enters into these things. That, say, a daughter should fall slave, is taken not so much as a lamentable tragedy, as it might be in some cultures, as an intolerable affront to a family’s honor. Goreans, after all, are well aware of the many remarkable and fulfilling aspects of female bondage, for they may own slaves of their own. They have little doubt that the embonded daughter will well serve her master. Indeed, she had better do so. But she is then an animal and regarded as lost, and well lost, to her family and Home Stone. Tarsks, verr, kaiila, and such, of course, do not have Home Stones. Thus, the family puts the thought of her aside, for she is now a slave. And, of course, to assuage the family’s honor she will be left a slave. To be sure, a woman of a city found enslaved within the city is commonly sold out of the city. Slavers, for example, will seldom sell a woman in what was once her own city. I was not surprised then that the three paga slaves, former free women of Ar, would accompany the mercenaries willingly, even eagerly. It would be far preferable to being pilloried naked, subjected to the blows and abuse of irate citizens, being publicly, ceremoniously, whipped, and then being transported out of the city, naked, standing, wrists lashed to an overhead bar, on a flat-bedded, public slave wagon, to the jeers of free citizens. In such a way, it is supposed, might be wiped away the dishonor which her bondage had inflicted on the city, at least to some extent.
“You knew these women?” I asked.
“They frequently brought us paga,” said a man.
“I see,” I said.
“We can rent them on leashes,” said a fellow. “They will bring good coin in the furs.”
“They are hot?” I said.
“A touch will make them beg,” said another fellow.
“Excellent,” I said.
I looked then to the other women.
“These others, too,” I said, “were then designated for the collar by Talena, then Ubara?”
“Not at all,” said a fellow. “These were confidantes, even cohorts, of the Ubara, women of high caste, rich, well-placed, favorers of the policies of the occupation, not only condoners but abettors of the predations of Tyros and Cos. Several became rich.”
“Collaborators?” I said.
“Precisely,” said a man.
“Several, in the fighting, learned they were on the proscription lists, copies of which were posted on the public boards,” said another.
“They knew themselves in frightful danger,” said another.
“They came to us and flung themselves to our feet, begging to be protected, to be permitted to accompany us in our flight.”
“We were in haste,” said a fellow, “as you may well suppose. Enemies were at hand, ransacking houses, scouring bridges, searching towers, closing in upon us. Our heads were at stake. We must seize what loot we could and flee for our lives.”
“‘Take us with you!’ they begged!”
“‘Remain behind, as befits your crimes,’ we told them.”
“‘No! Mercy!’ they cried.”
“‘Loathsome she-urts, detestable profiteers and traitresses,’ we cried, ‘remain behind, be hurled to eels, be cast amongst leech plants, be weighted and thrown into
“‘No, please!’ they wept. ‘Show us mercy!’”
“‘What interest have we in free women?’ we asked.”
“‘In free women?’ they said, bewildered.”
“‘None,’ we informed them. We could hear the shouts of foes, nearing our hiding place.”
“We gathered what we could, which was little enough.”
“‘Take us with you!’ they wept. They were on their knees, their hands extended to us in piteous, frantic supplication.”
“Time was short.”
“We turned to face them.”
“‘Take us with you!’ they cried.”
“‘Why?’ we inquired.”
“They did not understand this question,” laughed a fellow.
“Free women are so stupid,” said another.
“‘Please, please!’ they cried.”
“‘Remove your veils,’ ordered Torgus,” said one of the men, indicating a large fellow nearby.
“‘Never,’ they cried,” recalled another fellow, grinning.
“We turned then to leave,” said another fellow, “but we heard ‘Wait! Please, wait!’ When we looked back they begged that we remove their veils, even to the ripping of them from them, as might be done with the insolence, amusement, and scorn of a slaver. But this, in our anger and contempt, we refused to do. ‘Remove your own veils,’ we told them.”
“‘Do not so shame us!’ they wept.”
“But in moments, by their own small, desperate hands, their faces were bared to men, men neither of their families nor companionship.”
“By their own hand they had face-stripped themselves,” said one of the fellows.
At this moment three or four of the girls on the chain burst into tears.
This is perhaps difficult for those unfamiliar with Gor to understand, one supposes, but the matter is cultural, certainly in the high cities. The face of a free woman, particularly one of high caste, of station, and such, is secret to herself, and to those to whom she might choose to bare it. It is not like the face of a slave, exposed to any herdsman or peddler, any passer-by, who might choose, however casually, to look upon it.
Some of the girls, careful to retain the posture in which they had been placed, lest they be struck, wept. They had not forgotten the moment, it seemed. Later, the sting of that humiliation would fade, and they would rejoice to be freed of the encumbrances of veiling, and revel in the feel of the air on their face, a face whose soft, luscious, inviting, vulnerable lips were now exposed to the sight, and kisses, of men.
Perhaps the closest analogy to this would be a woman of Earth complying with an order to remove her clothing before imperious strangers.
From the Gorean point of view, the face of a woman, you see, is the key to her self, the face, with its beauty, its softness, its special uniqueness, its myriad expressions, proclamatory of her feelings, her thoughts, and moods. How beautiful is a woman’s face, and how its subtlest expressions, even inadvertently, even unbeknownst to herself, may be fraught with the delicious treasures of betraying disclosures! The master reads the face of a slave; he may ponder the thoughts, the motivations, and intentions of the veiled free woman.
How precious is the veil to the free woman; she is not a slave.
The free woman is mysterious; the slave is not; she is at a man’s feet.
“‘Hurry, hurry!’ we were urged,” recollected one of the fellows.
“We could hear the men of Ar on the street, doors away,” said another.
“‘Submit, strip, pronounce yourself slave, hurry to the rope,’ barked Torgus to the dismayed, frightened
