by John Norman
The second reason for the bliss of many slave girls, that sequent upon the appropriateness of bondage for the beautiful woman itself, her female joy in being made to be true to herself, slave, was that, given the flesh transactions in a given city, sooner or later, masters tended to find girls who were, from their point of view, superb slaves, apd girls tended to find men who were, from their point of view, marvels as masters. It is a beautiful moment when the woman realizes that the man who owns her is her love master, and the man realizes that the girl he bought, looking up at him, tears in her eyes, is his love slave.
Then the only danger is that he will weaken. One must be strong with a love slave. If one truly loves her, he will be that strong. The slavery in which a love slave is kept is an unusually deep slavery. She must serve him with a perfection which would stun and startle other girls; if she should fail in any way, even in so small a way that the lapse would be overlooked in the case of another wench, or bring perhaps a mild word of reprimand, she is likely to be tied at the slave ring and whipped; there is a good reason for this; she is, you see, a love slave; no woman can be more in a man’s power; and with no woman must he be stronger.
Too, of course, if a relationship should weaken, or not prove enduringly satisfactory, the girl is simply put in cuffs and taken to a market.
The relationship which does not prove satisfactory is soon terminated. This termination is completely in the power of the master.
“Enough discussion,” I said. “Let us have you.”
“Yes, have me, Master,” she whispered. Her lips met mine, eagerly.
“You are a highly intelligent slave,” I said, “Audrey.”
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“You have been instructive to me,” I said. “I am pleased by this.”
“Men of Earth,” she said, “will not listen to a woman.
“Some men will,” I said. “But what you intimate is true. Generally men of Earth will not listen to women. Their minds are closed on the matter. Being men they think all human beings are the same as themselves. It is a natural fallacy. Masculine women, those unfortunate creatures, in their frustration, exploit this weakness in the men of Earth. They tell them what they want to hear. This they then take as evidence confirming their preconceptions. It is sad that the true needs of women must then be sacrificed to the ignorance of men and the political and economic ambitions of hirsute frustrates.”
“You speak cruelly,” she said.
“I am sorry,” I said. “Doubtless the matter is more complex than these simplicities suggest.”
“I pity women who are not women,” she said.
“On Earth,” I said, “they proclaim themselves the true women.”
“That is natural,” she said. “What do you expect them to say?”
“I suppose you are right,” I said.
“I think so,” she said.
“What counts on Earth as the liberation of women.” I said, “is cunformance to a certain stereotype, an aggressive, man-like, Lesbian image, one alien to, and offensive to, most normal women. Most women do not truly wish to be men. They find it difficult to believe that they cannot be true women until they are like men. A true liberation of women might be desirable, one which would permit them to be themselves, whatever they might be, a liberation that would free a woman to be feminine rather than constrict her to the imitation of manhood, a liberation without preset images and goals, which would permit her to find herself, wherever and however she might be, honestly, a liberation that would not be a gibberish of political prescriptions, a facsimile of the most sordid side of alien. malelike egoisms, a liberation that would free women in all their latent richness, their diversities and glories, that would be open enough to accept gratefully and, yes, celebrate such currently denigrated properties as softness, tenderness and love. A liberation of a woman. too, which does not permit her to be wild and free and sensuous, and true to her true needs, is not a liberation but a new imprisonment.”
“I do not want to be liberated,” she whispered to me.
“Do not fear,” I told her. “You will not be.”
She looked up at me, and kissed me.
“A woman as beautiful as you will be kept as a slave.” I said. “You are too beautiful to be free.”
“I will be kept as a slave?” she asked.
“Yes, because men want you as a slave,” I said.
“My will means nothing?’ she asked.
“Nothing,” I told her.
She looked up at me. “I am content, Master,” she said.
“You are a slave,” I said.
“I am a woman,” she said.
“And a slave,” I said.
“Yes, a slave,” she said. Her eyes were moist. “Do you know why I am content?” she asked.
“No, Slave,” I said.
“Because I am a slave,” she said. “It is strange,” she said, “we have talked of freedom, of liberation. And yet I feel that somehow, though I am slave, I am the most liberated, the most free of women. For the first time in my life I am free to obey, to love and be pleasing.”
“You are not simply free to do such things,” I said, “you must do them.”
“Yes,” she said, “and I have found myself, with bondage strings on my throat, in a barbarian’s tent, on a strange world.”
“It is here,” I said, “that you are forced to be true to your own nature. Nothing else is permitted.”
“True freedom,” she said, “is to follow one’s own nature.”
“All else,” I said, “is rhetoric, and the dictates of others.”
“Then I am free!” she cried.
“Be quiet,” I said, “or I will take you outside, tie you to the pole and whip you.”
She looked at me, frightened. “Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Do you think you are free now?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said.
“You are not free,” I said. “You are a slave. You are in total bondage.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do not forget it,” I said.
“No, Master,” she whispered, frightened.
“Perhaps I should whip you,” I said.
“Rather let me try to please you,” she begged. She was frightened.
“Very well,” I said. The slave girl then fell to kissing me, eager to placate the master.
It is well not to let a girl grow too enamoured of her bondage. It is well not to let her forget that she is only a slave.
Later Audrey lay in my arms. “I am happy, Master,” she whispered.
“Let us sleep now,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.- “Master,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am pleased that you won my use in the gambling. I have been pleased to serve you.”
“Let us sleep now,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Master,” she said. She spoke very softly, that she not awaken me, should I be asleep.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you think Imnak will keep me a slave forever,” she asked.
“No” I said, “I do not think so.”
“Will he free me?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
“Will I be killed?” she asked.
“I do not think it likely,” I said, “if you are sufficiently pleasing.”
“I will be sufficiently pleasing,” she said, earnestly. “What do you think will be done with me?” she asked.
“Imnak now has Poalu,” I said.
“He does not need me any longer,” she said.
“No,” I said, “nor Thimble, though you are both pretty things to have in the tent.”
“What will he do with us?” she asked.
“It is my guess,” I said, “that both Thimble and yourself will be traded south next spring for tea and sugar.”
“Traded! For tea and sugar!” she said.
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��Yes,” I said.
“Audrey Brewster sold for tea and sugar!” she said.
“Thistle, the slave,” I said.
“But I am she,” she said.
“Be pleased that panther girls are not selling you for arrow points and a handful of candy,” I said.
“Who are panther girls?” she asked.
“Strong women, huntresses who frequent the northern forests,” I said. “They enjoy selling feminine women like yourself.”
“Oh,” she said.
“You are a slave,” I said. “Do you think you would like to be a woman’s slave?”
“No,” she said, shuddering. She kissed me. “I am a man’s slave,” she said.
“It is true,” I said.
“Are panther girls truly so strong?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said. “Once captured and conquered, collared and silked, their thigh burned by the iron, thrown to a man’s feet. they are as quick to kiss and lick as any woman. Indeed, they make superb slaves. They bring high prices in the markets. They are only girls desperate to fight their femininity. When they are no longer permitted to do this they have no choice but to become marvelous women and slaves. A conquered panther girl is one of the most abject and delicious, and joyful, of slaves.”
“I see, Master” she said.
“How would I be taken south?” she asked.
“Afoot, your neck tied to a sled,” I said.
“I do not want to remain a slave of red hunters indefinitely,” she said. “I think I would like to be taken south.”
“What you like is of no interest.” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“If I were to be taken south,” she said, “would I be sold there?”
“Doubtless,” I said.
“Publicly?” she asked.
“Presumably,” I said.
“Naked?” she asked.
“You might wear chains,” I said. “I do not know.”
“Only a fool buys a woman clothed,” she said.
“That is a Gorean saying,” I said.
“Imnak taught it to me,” she laughed.
“Surely you see the sense of it?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said, “if I were a man I would buy a woman only if she were naked. I would want to see what I was getting, completely.”
“Precisely,” I said.
“I would even want to try her out,” she said, boldly.
“That is done in certain sorts of sales,” I said, “such as purple booth sales in the courtyard of a slaver’s house.”
“If there were a handsome buyer, I would try hard to please him,” she said.
“You would try hard to please any potential buyer,” I said, “or your owner, the slaver, would express his dissatisfaction to you.”
“I see,” she said.
A slaver normally expresses his dissatisfaction to his girls with a whip.
“But what of large sales, public sales?” she asked.
“Even in most private sales,” I said, “the prospective buyer is not permitted to use the girl, fully.”
“Fully?”
“He might be permitted to feel her a bit.” I said. “A great deal can be told by simply getting your hands on a girl,” I said. “What does her arm feel like above the elbow? How does she turn when you take her by the shoulders and face her away from you? What of the delights of her thigh, the sweetness behind her knees, the turn of her calves? You lift a foot. Does she have a high instep. A girl with a high instep is often a fine dancer. You turn her again to face you. The eyes are very important. Much can be learned there of her intelligence. You kiss her breasts softly, you brush her lips with yours. You study her eyes, her expressions. Then, unexpectedly perhaps, or perhaps first warning her, you touch her. Again attend to the eyes. You continue to touch her. You watch the eyes. Then she screams for mercy, writhing in her chains or in the grasp of the slaver, his hand in her hair. You then know about all you can, without putting her through slave paces or forcing her to perform on the furs.”
“Then slavers seldom permit their girls to be fully used?” she asked.
“Not for free,” I said. “A common arrangement, however, is to charge a prospective buyer, if he wishes it. a rent fee, which fee may then be, should he want the girl, applied to her purchase price.”
“That seems sound business” she said.
“I think so,” I said. “Why should a slaver give away the use of his properties?” I asked. “After all that is how he makes his living, buying and selling, and leasing and renting women.”
“Of course,” she said. “But there are the purple booth sales,” she said.
‘Those are usually for a well-fixed clientele, known to the slaver,” I said. “They are known to him as serious, bonafide buyers. If they do not buy one girl, they will probably buy another.”
“Oh,” she said.
“But what of large, public sales?” she pressed.
“In which, say, an auction block would be used?” I asked.
She shuddered. “Yes,” she said.
“Such sales are common on Gor,” I said.
“Common?” she gasped.
“Certainly,” I said. “Many women are auctioned from the block in a given year in a given city,” I said. “Do you remember the large blue and yellow pavilion near the platforms where Imnak bought you?”
“Yes” she said.
“Women were being auctioned there,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “I was not,” she said.
“You were not regarded as being sufficiently interesting at that time to be put on the block,” I said. “The platforms were good enough for your sort.”
“But I am beautiful,” she said.
“On Gor,” I said, “beautiful women are plentiful, and cheap.”
“Am I more interesting now, Master?” she wheedled.
“Yes,” I said, “You are perhaps worthy now to grace the block—”
‘Thank you, Master,” she said.
“—in a minor sale in a small city,” I added.
“Oh, Master!” she laughed.
“I jest,” I said, “but, too, I am serious. You will grow in slavery and beauty. Who knows what a woman’s potential is for love?”
She looked at me.
“You have far to go, my lovely little tart.” I said. “But in the end I think you might be worthy of the central block, at the Curulean in Ar.”
She kissed me, frightened. “What a fearful thing it is to be a slave girl, and what a wonderful thing,” she said.
I said nothing.
“How does one know, on the block,” she asked, suddenly, “if a girl is any good?”
“A certification of a girl’s heat, in certain cities,” I said, “is sometimes furnished, with the slaver’s guarantee, among the documents of sale. Her degree of heat, in such a situation would also be listed of course, among her other properties, on her sales sheet, posted in the vicinity of the exhibition cages, available twenty Ahn before her sale. It would also be proclaimed, of course, in such a situation, along with her weight and collar size, and such things, from the block, during her sale.”
“Is that sort of thing done in many cities?” she asked.
“In very few,” I said, “and for a very good reason.”
“Out of respect for the girls?” she asked.
“Of course not.” I said. “It is rather done in few cities because of the possibility of fraud on the part of the buyer. He might use the girl for a month and then claim a refund in virtue of the guarantee. Slavers prefer for their sales to be final. Too, other problems exist For example, a free woman who, before her sale, is cold may become, after her sale, knowing herself then as a vended slave, helpless and torrid in the arms of a master. Similarly a girl who is only average, generally, so to speak, may, at the very glance of a given master, one who is special to her for no reason that is clear, become so weak and paga hot that she can scarcely stand.”
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nbsp; “Generally, then,” she said, “the buyer would not know, from the block information, whether the girl would be any good or not?”
“He will certainly know if he, personally, finds her attractive. Too, even a frigid woman, in the arms of a Gorean master, can be made to sweat and cry.”
“Frigidity is not permitted to the slave girl?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “The master will not accept it”
“Poor girl,” she laughed.
“Frigidity is a neurotic luxury,” I told her. “It is allowed only to free women, probably because no one cares that much about them. Indeed, frigidity is one of the titles and permissions implicated in the lofty status of a free woman. For many it is, in effect, their proudest possession. It distinguishes them from the lowly slave girl. It proves to themselves and others that they are free. Should they be enslaved, of course, it is, for better or for worse, taken from them, like their property and their clothing.”
