“None, Master,” I said.
“May I speak?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“I think,” I said, “Master cares for his slave.”
“Remain in position,” he said.
I did so.
“You think I might care for you?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “Do not sell me.”
“Freedom is precious, is it not?” he asked.
“Doubtless,” I said. But how could freedom compare with the collar, with being owned, with being a belonging, with the helpless love of a slave for her master?
“Surely you desire freedom,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I am a woman. I want bondage.”
“Perhaps, before,” he said, “when I said I was thinking of freeing you, you thought me jesting.”
“I feared you were not,” I said, uneasily. “I hoped you were.”
“I was serious,” he said.
“Only a fool frees a slave girl,” I smiled. It was a Gorean saying. What rational man, fortunate enough to own a desirable woman, would let her out of his collar?
“I am serious,” he said.
“I am not a man,” I said. “I am a woman!”
“I can have you manumitted,” he said. “We can see a praetor tomorrow. I can buy you slippers, veils, robes, suitable raiment.”
“No!” I said. “No! Do not deny me my collar!”
He regarded me, angrily.
“Do not despise me for what I am,” I begged. “Or, if you will, despise me for what I am, a slave!”
“Slave!” he said.
“Yes, slave!” I said.
“How can I respect you, as a slave?” he said.
“I do not want to be respected,” I said. “I want to be owned, subdued, put to work, mastered, used as a vessel for your lust, a meaningless toy for your pleasures.”
He rose to his feet. His fists were clenched.
“Do not try to make me be like you!” I said. “Do not try to impose your values on me. I have my own values, my own nature and needs! Surely you do not want me to be what you are. I do not want to be what you are. I want to be what I am, and want to be, a woman, a slave!”
I could not see his face for he had turned away.
“Be kind,” I said.
He did not respond.
“Phyllis is a slave,” I said, “and she would be your slave!”
He continued to face away from me. Then he spoke. His voice was cold. “Do you wish to be freed, or sold?” he said.
“I do not want to be sold,” I said.
“Then,” he said, “you want to be freed.”
“No,” I said. “If you must either free me or sell me, sell me.”
He turned about, abruptly, startling me, his fists clenched, strode toward me, and stopped before me, looming over me, looking down at me. I averted my eyes, instantly. I did not think I had ever seen an expression so wild, so possessive, so claimant, so fierce, so exultant. “You Earth bitch!” he cried. And it took me a moment to realize he had spoken in English. “Yes, Master,” I responded, unthinkingly in English. “You are a slave,” he said in Gorean. “Yes, Master,” I said, in Gorean. “Free you?” he said in Gorean. “Free you, never! Who would be fool enough to free a slave? You are in a collar, and you belong in a collar, you Earth slut, and you will stay in a collar!”
“You want me as a slave, do you not?” I said.
He then went to the side, to the wall, and ripped the whip from its peg, and, returning to me, he took my hair in his left hand, and, by the hair, hurled me from nadu to my stomach on the floor, and then I was lashed.
He then returned the whip to its peg.
“The matter is now closed,” he said. “It is to be heard of no more.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And,” he said, “if, when you are worn and neglected, when you are scorned and humiliated, when you are chided and berated, when you are derided and mocked, when you are tired of sleeping on a rug or mat with only a sheet to cover you, when you are tired of slave gruel, lapped from a pan, in the shadow of a whip, when you smart from the switch, improving you in your lessons, when your chains are heavy and you cannot go where you wish to go, and you cannot move more than a yard from your slave ring, if I even suspect you are even thinking of freedom, you will be lashed again, and well lashed again, and as the slave you are.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Now,” he said, “please me, and as the slave you are.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I was once Phyllis Rodgers, a free woman of Earth. I am now simply ‘Phyllis,’ and the name has been put on me, as a slave name, for the convenience of masters. Slaves have no names in their own right. Indeed, we have no rights. We belong to our masters. I was captured, and brought to the planet Gor. Here I am a branded, collared kajira, or slave girl.
Here, on this world, I have found my master.
Here, on this world, I have found my identity.
I am a slave, and it is what I want to be.
Scorn me if you wish.
I am complete.
I am happy.
I wish you well,
Phyllis
About the Author
John Norman is the creator of the Gorean Saga, the longest-running series of adventure novels in science fiction history. He has also produced a separate science fiction series, the Telnarian Histories, plus two other fiction works, Ghost Dance and Time Slave; a nonfiction paperback, Imaginative Sex; and a collection of thirty short stories, Norman Invasions. The Totems of Abydos was published in 2012. Norman is married and has three children.
For more information, visit Norman’s website, gorchronicles.com, which has been specially created for his tremendous fan following and where one may read everything there is to know about his work.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by John Norman
978-1-5040-3407-4
Published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
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