Beasts of Gor coc-12

by John Norman

  “Love is found more often among slave girls than free women,” I said. “If you would learn love, learn slavery.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said. She kissed me.

  “Please me,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  The lamp went out softly in the darkness. This frightened her. “Must you go out on the ice?’ she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Are you going to take me with you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I am afraid,” she said.

  “Do not be afraid,” I said to her.

  “I cannot help it,” she said.

  “Please me in the darkness, in the furs, Slave,” I said.

  “Yes, my master,” she said.

  In a few minutes I took her in my arms and threw her to her back. She gasped. “I thought I was to please you,” she said.

  “You are pleasing me,” I said.

  “You are making me yield,” she said, intensely.

  “That pleases me,” I said.

  Then she began to buck and writhe and was soon lost in the throes of the slave orgasm, helplessly yielded to her master. She came silently, intensely, clutching me, this not known to the others asleep in the hut. That a slave girl had been conquered in the darkness need not be known to them.

  Afterwards I held her, naked, closely, warmly.

  After a time she whispered, “I want to be touched again.”

  “Do you beg it?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Your will means nothing,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “But I will touch you,” I said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said. Soon again she squirmed in silence, taken, in the furs in the hut of Imnak.

  “Thank you, Master,” she whispered, afterwards. “You give a girl much pleasure.”

  “Sleep now, Slave,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I do not know how long we slept, but it was perhaps no more than two or three Ahn. I awakened, conscious of her holding me. Her head lay on my belly. She was not asleep. “Master,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She knelt beside me. “Please. Master,” she said.

  “Is your need to serve a man hot upon you?” I asked. I could tell that it was from her breathing.

  “Yes Master,” she said.

  “You are a slave,” I said.

  “Yes, I am a slave, Master.” she said.

  “Very well. Slave.” I said. “You may serve me.”

  “Thank you. Master.” she said.

  Soon I marveled at her skill Tt was all I could do to keep from crying out with pleasure and delight, and my pride in the skill of the slave I owned. How proud I was of her! She was for most practical purposes untrained apd new to the collar and yet many girls whom I had had, even in paga taverns, I suspect, could not have equaled her performance.

  “What is going on with you?” I asked.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “What has happened?” I asked. “What has gone on in your head, pretty slave?”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “I went to sleep with a pot wench,” I said, “and I awaken with a pleasure slave.”

  She laughed. Then she said, soberly, “I love being a slave, Master.”

  “That is well,” I said, “for on this world you are a slave, and you are going to continue to be a slave.”

  “Yes. Master.” she said, trembling. Then she said, “I am content, Master.”

  “Continue your work, Slave Girl,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I then let her pleasure me, fully, not so much as touching her, that she might learn to please completely, without being so much as granted the least kiss or caress of the male beast. Slave girls are forced thus, sometimes, to serve, totally, unilaterally: it helps to impress their slavery on them.

  She then lay beside me.

  “Do you still love being a slave girl?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “But I did not so much as touch you,” I said.

  “Oh, sex is terribly important,” she said. “and you may use it as you do, you beasts, to conquer and discipline us, and make us your sex slaves, but, too, there are other things in slavery which are perhaps harder for you to understand, for you are not the woman.”

  “What can there be,” I asked, “other than chains and the whip, the kiss and the collar?”

  “You men are so simple, so naive,” she laughed. “You do not even understand the fullness of the power you hold over us. Slavery is not a mere condition; it is a kind of life. The woman is not simply a slave when you seize her and throw her to your feet. She is a slave, too, before this, and after this, subject to your will, and knowing it. There is a wholeness, a fullness, a beauty in a woman’s being a slave, of which I fear you may be unaware.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Do you think women would make you such marvelous slaves if there was not something in them which wanted to be enslaved?”

  “Perhaps not,” I said.

  “A slave girl is not a slave only, you see, when she is commanded or taken in the arms of the master. She is a slave wholly, fully, all the time. It is what she is. I think it is this wholeness, this fullness, this beauty, this totality of bondage which you men do not understand. It is hard to speak of it. When a girl is a slave all of her is a slave. It is what she is. Oh, I could speak to you of a woman’s need for emotional fulfillment, security, excitement, romance, discipline; her need to relate, to be happy, to a strong male figure, one before whom she knows herself, truly, in the intimacy of herself to be a female, and his; the bankruptcy of egoism, ambition and greed for many women; their need to love, their desire to please and be of service; their intrinsic yearning to submit to an uncompromising, dominant organism; their deep-seated desire to be found so beautiful and attractive that men will want them, and want them so much that they will own them and make them give them everything, but are not all these things only futile words peripheral to the speechless emotional reality felt by the girl when she kneels before the master, and he then touches her as his own?”

  I did not speak.

  “There is something about being owned, and belonging to another, which is very meaningful to a woman,” she said. “It is also, in a way that is hard to make clear to a man, profoundly satisfying.”

  “It has to do with nature,” I suggested.

  “I suppose, in some way,” she said.

  It seemed likely to me that there would be a genetic base for feelings so deep, and widely spread.

  “Are you going to free me?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “That pleases me,” she said.

  She lay beside me. I did not touch her.

  “It is hard to make clear toaman,” she said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The ecstasy of being a slave girl,” she said. “You see, Master,” she said, “the joy of being a slave girl is a very deep and continuous thing. Its emotional fulfillments extend far beyond the masterly depredations and disciplines you inflict, as you please, upon me.”

  “Surely they are not unimportant,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “they are important. Indeed, it was your touch which first made me a slave.”

  I sensed her turn toward me in the darkness. “But, you see,” she said, “I must serve you whether I am touched or not. And that, too, in a way you may have difficulty understanding, I find very meaningful, very thrilling.”

  “You respond then, not only to my touch but also to the very condition of slavery itself?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “but I would prefer to think of it as responding not so much to the condition of being a slave as to the clear and incontrovertible fact that I am a slave. I think that is it, that that is my reality, that I am a slave.”
/>   “That you find thrilling in itself?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “to be will-lessly at the mercy of another, his helpless slave.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Too, sometimes,” she said, “being a slave I feel very free and happy.”

  “Perhaps that has something to do with the repudiation and abandonment of egoism, the enemy of love,” I speculated.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “I do not know. I suspect it involves many things and is very deep.”

  “Only fools have simple explanations for complex phenomena,” I said. “Nothing human is simple.”

  “I lie vulnerably beside you,” she said, “yours to do with as you please. I am a slave.”

  I took her in my arms, and began her slow, patient rape.

  “Release me,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  She squirmed, futilely, impaled.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “I demand to be released,” she said.

  I laughed, softly, holding her. She tried to free herself, and could not.

  She stopped struggling. “Ai, Ai!” she said, clutching me.

  I holding her right arm with my left hand, thrust my right hand over her mouth, tightly, that she not disturb the others in the hut. My right hand felt wet and hot, from the heat and moisture of her breath. I felt her teeth under her lips. She tried to twist her head, and then yielded.

  It was pleasant having her in that way.

  “Why did you resist?” I asked.

  “To see if my resistance would be acceptable to you,” she said.

  “It was not,” I said.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I am a slave.” There was a pause. “Are you going to whip me,” she asked, “for being troublesome?”

  “I did not find you troublesome,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. We lay together, quietly, for a time. “You took me against my will,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I wondered if you would do that,” she said.

  “I take you when and as I please,” I said.

  “Of course.” she said. “I am a slave” In time she put her lips to me, tenderly. “Oh,” she said. She drew back. “You are strong, Master,” she laughed.

  “You are a sweet-lipped and beautiful slave,” I said. It was true. With a girl like Arlene what man would not be driven half mad with lust? How marvelous she was. How easy it was to desire her.

  “I did not know a man could be so strong,” she said, wonderingly.

  “Do you think you. have nothing to do with it, you pretty idiot?” I asked.

  “Oh?” she asked.

  “You have a great deal to do with it,” I said.

  “You cannot even see me in the dark,” she said.

  “I know what you look like.” I said, “and I can feel you, your closeness, your body, your touch. It has an interesting modality in the darkness, in the furs.” I reached to her, and, by the strap on her throat, pulled her down beside me. “Also,” I said, “you are a naked slave. No woman can be more interesting than a naked slave.”

  “Oh,” she said. I held her by the strap.

  “That you arc a slave makes you additionally stimulating to the male,” I said, “aside from your mere beauty and intelligence.”

  “Yes,” Master,” she said.

  “So do not be surprised, in your servitude,” I said, “that you find men strong. Simply to look upon you, a beautiful slave, will commonly be enough to stimulate their lust. You are no longer a free woman, filled with her rigidities and negativities, for whom it is permissible to be irritating and boring. No. You are a lovely slave. Looking upon you men will want you. They will want to buy you. They will want to own you.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Men even kill to possess women such as you,” I told her. “You are that desirable.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “So do not prate in awe of male power,” I said. “It is you, and your beauty, and your slavery, and your intelligence, which provides so powerful an incentive to their strengths and aggressions. Whether this pleases you or not, you are such that men, looking upon you, will want you, and will want you so much that they will be willing to pay for you, or even fight for you. Do you begin to understand the meaning now of being a beautiful slave?”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened.

  “You are property,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “A treasure,” I said.

  “Your treasure,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How strange it is to be helplessly owned,” she marveled, “to be subject to sale or exchange.”

  “Do you find it thrilling?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Who owns you?” I asked.

  “You do, Master,” she said.

  “Whose are you?” I asked.

  “I am yours,” she said, “literally.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Take your girl, Master,” she said. “She begs you.

  “Very well,” I said.

  “This is what it is to be a slave,” she whispered. “Slavery is more than your touch, but without your touch it would be nothing.”

  I kissed her, softly.

  “It is your touch,” she said, intensely, “which makes a girl a slave!”

  “The touch of any master,” I said, “can turn a girl into a slave.”

  “Do you leave me no pride?” she wept.

  “None,” I said, “for you are a slave.”

  Her breathing became more intense.

  “Do not disturb the others in the hut,” I cautioned her.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered. Then she again yielded, intensely, helplessly.

  Afterwards she lay against me, soft and warm, and small and lovely. “Do you know what I would do now,” she asked, “if you were to throw your chains before me?”

  “No,” I said, kissing her.

  “I would kneel,” she said, “and I would lift them in my hands, and—”

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “And then I would kiss and lick them,” she whispered.

  “Of course,” I said, “you are a slave.”

  “Yes, I am a slave, Master,” she said.

  “Sleep now,” I said.

  “Master,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I am not afraid now,” she said, “to go out on the ice.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “You will be with me,” she said.

  “It will be dangerous,” I said.

  “I am not afraid. You will be with me,” she said. Then she said, “Thank you for letting a frightened girl enter your furs tonight.”

  “That is all right,” I said. I rolled over.

  “You are kind,” she said.

  “Beware,” I said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said, suddenly frightened. “I meant no harm. It was a small slip. I did not mean to insult you. Please do not whip me for it.”

  “Very well,” I said. I was tired. Too, it did not seem to me that her remark, inadvertent and perilous as it may have been, impaired the discipline in which I held her. Kindness is not always a weakness you must understand. Indeed, it, and its withdrawal, may be used to better control the girl. To be sure, the master who is harder to please gets more from his girl than the master who is easy to please, but, nonetheless, I think kindness is not out of place upon occasion toward a bond girl. Indeed, in a certain context a kind word can almost cause such a wench, collared and at your mercy, to faint with love. I do not think I am a particularly kind or unkind master. I think I am in the normal range where such matters are concerned. Kindness is acceptable, in my opinion, provided the girl knows that she is kept within the strictest of disciplines. I want no more from a girl than everything. If I own her, then, like any other Gorean master
, I will simply see that I get it. Beyond that, I may be kind to her or not, as I see fit. Sometimes, of course, kindness is cruelty, and a certain harshness may be kind. One must know the girl. The truly kind master, I think, is he who treats the girl in such a way that she is forced to fulfill her needs in their radical depth and diversity; he gives her no choice but to be a woman, in the full meaning of this word, which is the only thing that can truly, ultimately, make her happy, If a woman were a man perhaps the way to make her happy would be to treat her like a man. If she is not a man perhaps treating her like a man is not the way to make her happy. It may seem hard to understand but the man who truly cares for his slave is often rather strict with her; he cares for her enough to be strong; sometimes she may resent or hate him but, too, she is inordinately proud of him, for what he makes her do, and be, and she loves him for his strength and his will; in her heart she knows she is the slave of such a man; how can she not love the man who proves himself to be her master? But the natures of men and women are doubtlessly complex and mysterious. Perhaps women, after all, are not women, but only small, incomplete men, as many women and men, espousing the current political and economic orthodoxies on the matter, the required, expected views on the matter, would insist. I do not know. And yet how peculiar and surprising would such a perversion appear against the expanse of history.

  “Sleep now, sweet slave,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I lay awake for a time, wondering on the natures of women and men, and then I was pleased that I was on Gor, and not on Earth. I kissed the lovely slave beside me, but she did not know I kissed her, for she was asleep. I thought of Karjuk, and the ice. The word ‘Karjuk’, incidentally, in the language of the Innuit, means ‘Arrow’. The wind began to rise outside. I did not care to hear the wind, I hoped it did not presage a storm. Then I fell asleep.

  25. We Go Out Upon The Ice; We Follow Karjuk

  It was bitterly cold. I did not know how far out on the ice we were.

  “Shove!” called Imnak. Imnak and I, and the girls, tipped the sled over a slope of pack ice, it tilting and then sliding downward.

  “Wait!” called Imnak to Karjuk.

  Karjuk stepped off the runners of his sled and called to his snow sleen, dragging back on the tabuk-horn uprights at the rear of the sled, by means of which he guided the snow vessel.