Swordsmen of Gor by John Norman Page A

Pertinax.
    Again, she extended the goblet to Pertinax.
    “No,” I said to her.
    “I am on my knees,” she snapped. “What more do you want?”
    “Have you never served wine or paga to a man?” I inquired.
    “What do you want?” she asked.
    “Cecily,” I said, “it seems we have here an ignorant slave. Instruct her.”
    “I, too, Master,” she said, “am ignorant. I am little trained.”
    “That is true,” I said, “but do what you can.”
    “I will not be instructed by a slave,” said Constantina, adding, quickly, “such a slave.”
    “Then you will be stripped and instructed by my belt,” I said.
    “I protest,” said Pertinax.
    “You have no Home Stone here,” I said.
    “It is my hut,” he said.
    “I am not sure of that,” I said.
    “You are not my master,” she said. “You cannot whip me!”
    “Are you sure of that?” I asked.
    “No,” she said. She then looked at me uncertainly. Perhaps for the first time she sensed she was looking into the eyes of a man who could bring the whip to her back and legs. I saw she was trying to deal with this thought. Too, I saw a flicker in her eyes, perhaps of fear, but, too, perhaps of something else, as well.
    She had never before been, I suspected, subject to a male.
    Certainly one does not go about punishing the slaves of others, though free women tend to be rather free in this regard, and most Goreans are not above reprimanding errant slaves, whether their own or those of others. An errant slave girl is not above being, say, knelt and cuffed by a free person. Do not all slaves call free men “Master,” and free women “Mistress”?
    Too, Constantina was clearly in need of discipline, and I suspected I might be willing to make an exception to my general reservations in her case.
    To be sure, if she were a free woman, the whip would not do at all. Free women on Gor, as on Earth, are free to do much what they wish, with little or no fear of consequences. They are free to do almost anything, without fear of punishment. This indulgence and latitude are not extended, of course, to the slave.
    “Master?” asked Cecily.
    “Begin,” I said to her.
    “You are before your master,” said Cecily. “Split your knees.”
    I sensed Cecily would enjoy this.
    “Never!” said Constantina.
    “Now, slave!” snapped Cecily.
    Constantina threw me a pleading glance, but I fear she found little comfort in my gaze.
    “Ai!” said Pertinax, softly.
    Constantina knelt before him, her knees spread, in the position of a Gorean pleasure slave. I gathered he had never had this woman so before him.
    Obviously he, if not Constantina, was muchly pleased.
    “Press the metal of the goblet to your belly,” said Cecily. “Press it in there, so that you can feel it. Really feel it, the metal against your belly. Surely you understand this, the metal against your belly. More. Better. More. Good. Now, to your breasts, softly but firmly. Feel the metal.”
    There was a change in the breath of Constantina. She cast me a glance, almost piteously. I think she did not understand her sensations.
    “Look at your master, not mine,” said Cecily, unpleasantly.
    Constantina turned to Pertinax, unwillingly, it seemed, the goblet at her breasts.
    “Now,” said Cecily, “lift the goblet to your lips, and, gazing over the rim at your master, kiss the goblet, tenderly, and lick it, lovingly, lingeringly, for he is your master, and he is permitting you, a mere slave, to serve him. Keep your eyes on your own master, slave!”
    Constantina turned back to Pertinax.
    Then she put down her head, frightened, for perhaps it was the first time she had seen him regard her as what she was, or supposedly was, a slave.
    “Now,” said Cecily, “extend your arms, holding the cup, to your master, and put your head down, humbly, between your extended arms.”
    This is, of course, a beautiful sight.
    Pertinax, it seemed, would almost forget to accept the cup. Perhaps he was unwilling to let the