by John Norman
I wish you well.
—John Norman.
Conversation1
“You seem uneasy, distraught,” he observed.
She shrugged.
“You have now come to grips with some insight?” he suggested.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I shall tell you,” he said. “The insight is that you know, in your heart, that you belong to me, that you are mine.”
“I do not know what you are saying,” she said.
“Obviously you do,” he said.
“No!” she said.
“Surely you understand what you are, and what you want.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Is it all that unclear—really?”
“And what am I?”
One whose identity and nature are clear, one whose very reality is obvious, one who should belong, and who rightfully belongs, totally, to another.”
“Belong?”
“Yes.”
“I do not understand.”
“You do not know what you are?”
“No.”
“You are, my dear, what you have in your heart feared to acknowledge, and what you know in your inmost heart you desire to be, and what in your inmost heart you know yourself to truly be—a slave.”
“No!”
“And that is what you want, and want with all your heart, to be precisely what you are, a slave.”
“No, no!”
“But in our world your slave instincts, your slave needs, are unfulfilled. They languish.”
“How absurd!”
“Beware, girl, that remark may cost you.”
“Girl!”
“Yes, Girl.”
“Cost me?”
“Certainly.”
“I am not afraid of you!”
“I hope that you are not stupid.”
“I am not stupid!”
“Perhaps then you should be afraid.”
“How insulting you are! I shall leave immediately!”
“The door is open. I see you hesitate. “Surely you understand that that is what you want—to be a slave—and that that is what you are—a slave.”
“Surely not!” she cried, aghast.
“Oh?” he asked.
“Surely not,” she stammered.
“You are blushing,” he said.
She looked down, flustered.
“Why did you come to see me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I shall tell you,” he said. “You saw in my eyes, in the supermarket, that I was one who knew how to handle women, how to treat them—as they wish to be treated, and need to be treated.”
“No!” she said.
“And that is why you followed me, as a slave girl her master.”
“No!” she said. “It was the way I was going!”
“Do you think lying is acceptable in a slave?”
Fear came into her eyes.
“And I turned and confronted you, and you were frightened. I gave you my card, and told you when to present yourself—three days later, and not before, that you might have time to think about things, to consider, carefully, what you are doing, and what you want, and need.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And here you are,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Look deeply into your heart,” he said. “Are you a man’s slave?”
“No!” she said. “Of course not!”
“You have now lied twice to me,” he said. “You will be whipped for that.”
She looked at him, in anguish.
“You do not speak. At least you do not lie. Look into your heart, your inmost heart, into your dreams, into your loveliest and most exciting dreams, into your sweet, hidden secrets, your deepest and loveliest secrets, nurtured so long in loneliness and silence. Surely you have longed to be bared before a master, completely, to know that you belong to him, fully, uncompromisingly, to feel every vulnerable, exposed inch of your soft, beautiful body enflamed with vulnerability and desire, to feel your lovely body burning with its meaning? Have you never been curious to know what it might be to be a submitted female, one truly submitted? Have you never in your dreams, in vulnerable passion, found yourself helplessly, and choicelessly, absolutely, before a master? Surely you have wondered what it would be to kneel at the feet of a man, one who owns you, and put your head down humbly, and press your soft lips to his boots? Does he so desire you that he has had you branded? Do you wear his collar? Have you never desired, truly, fearfully, to be at last handled and treated as you know is right for you, handled and treated as you know you deserve to be handled and treated, and need to be handled and treated, and desire to be handled and treated?”
“Please, mercy!”
“Look deeply into your heart,” he commanded. “Are you a slave?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Were you given the permission of a free man this morning, to clothe yourself?” he inquired.
“No,” she said.
“Disrobe then, immediately, and kneel before me,” he said.
She looked at him, in consternation.
“Do not dally,” he said. “Obedience is to be instantaneous.”
Hurriedly she removed her clothing, and knelt before him.
She was then utterly exposed, utterly, helplessly, before this lithe, powerful, dominating, fully clothed stranger. She felt terribly vulnerable.
He was the most attractive man she had ever seen, handsome, powerful, virile, masterful.
She had not realized such men could exist.
And she was on her knees, utterly stripped, utterly exposed, completely and vulnerably naked, before him
What, she wondered, could a woman be, but a slave before such a man. Indeed, in what other modality would a man such as he accept a woman, but as something he owned, a vulnerable, curvaceous, delicious property, over which he held absolute power?
And better to be, a thousand times, she thought, the abject slave of such a man than the honored, pampered, petulant, irritable, whining, dissatisfied darling of another.
“Spread your knees,” he said.
She did so. She supposed that it was thus that slaves, or slaves of a certain sort, knelt before free men, masters.
“You are a slave?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Who is your master?” he asked.
“I have no master,” she whispered.
“Then you are at present an unclaimed slave?”
“Yes,” she said.
“In Merchant Law,” said he, “an unclaimed slave may be claimed by any free person.”
She looked up at him from her knees, looked up into the eyes of a free person.
Never had she in this fashion looked into the eyes of another Never had she so looked into the eyes of another, not in this fashion, not as a slave. And, too, never before, she was sure, had she been so looked upon, looked upon as what she now was, as a slave.
Then, suddenly, she began to tremble, to shake. She feared she might faint. His look was such upon her that she was terrified to meet his gaze. She feared, even kneeling, that she might lose her balance, and fall to the rug before him. Had any man, ever, she wondered, so looked upon a woman, so clearly, so fixedly, so severely, so uncompromisingly? How he saw her! How she was seen by him! It seemed to her then that she could not possibly sustain that gaze. It was too terrible, too fixed, too burning, too powerful! Then, suddenly, whimpering, overcome, shuddering, frightened, she thrust her head down, daring no longer to meet those eyes. No longer could she bear the intensity, the ferocity, of that fearsome connection, eye to eye, mind to mind, body to body.
“Look at me, now!” he snap
ped.
Moaning, she lifted her head. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, even though her head was lifted to him, and then she fearfully opened her eyes, knowing that she must do so. She winced, and gasped.
“Do not look away,” he said.
She struggled to hold her position, and not to cry out and throw herself miserably, helplessly, to the floor before him.
“Do not look away,” he told her. “You are going to be claimed.”
It was as though she was gazing into the eyes of a predatory beast, whose vulnerable prey she might instantly prove to be, as into the eyes of human tiger lusting for the meat of her flesh, which she understood by his power he would make his, possessing it totally as he pleased, looking into his eyes as might a paralyzed, roped beautiful captive, one hoping to be spared, on any terms, into the eyes of a conquering master.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. How hard it was for her to even articulate sound at such a time.
“Look at me!”
“Yes.”
“You are going to be claimed. Do you understand?”
“—Yes.”
“I claim you,” he said, clearly, utterly matter-of-factly, decisively.
It was done, she knew. She had been claimed!
She could not move before him. Her entire being seemed irradiated by, and transformed, as it was, by those simple words. She gasped, and made tiny, helpless sounds, and trembled.
He was then merciful, and said, “You may lower your eyes.”
She sobbed, an exhalation of relief so sudden, so explosive, so hitherto pent up, so profound that it shook her entire small, lovely body, and then, overcome, unable to help herself, she fell from her knees to the carpet, humbled, trembling, helpless, before him, so grateful to have been permitted to look away from that pitiless gaze, so piteously thankful that the steel cord of his will had released her.
“You are now a claimed slave,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Kneel,” he said.
She struggled to kneel again before him.
She dared not raise her gaze higher than his knees.
“Whose slave are you?” he asked.
“I am your slave,” she said.
“‘I am your slave’, what?” he asked.
“I am your slave,” she said, “—Master.”
“Put down your head and kiss my feet,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
He let her minister thusly for some time, softly kissing his feet, until she well understood the nature of her condition.
“Hereafter,” he said, “you may not clothe yourself without the permission of the master. Further, if you wish to speak, other than acknowledging your understanding of your instructions, and such, you must request permission to do so. That permission may or may not be granted. It is within the discretion of the master. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Your body must be kept clean, and attractive,” he said. “A slave may not be slovenly. She must strive to please the master, in all ways. In all ways. She is to be docile, subservient, and compliant. Her obedience, of course, must be complete, perfect, and instantaneous. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“She may upon occasion,” said he, “be granted some respite, a bit of lenience, should it amuse the master, to cry out, to complain, to challenge, to plead, to beg, but this latitude, at a word, may be withdrawn, and she will be returned instantly to the state of abject servitude, that of unquestioning, unconditional subservience. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“She is still, of course, even at such times, his total slave.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Too, you must understand,” he said, “that it is the whole of you that is owned, your body, your emotions, your mind, all of you. You are owned—totally. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Look up,” he said, “into my eyes.”
She did so, fearfully.
“And,” said he, “the slave is subject to discipline, and is totally at the mercy of the master.”
Her eyes widened.
“Do you understand, girl?” he said.
For the slave is, of course, a “girl,” with all the charm, beauty, and vulnerability that that lovely expression connotes.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened.
“And you must accustom yourself to chains, and such things, for example, to be chained to the foot of a man’s bed, thongs, cords, gags, blindfolds, such things.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“That you are a slave, of course, is something which, on the whole, unfortunately, must be concealed on this world, lest it generate envy, or concern.”
She bowed her head, his slave.
“Bondage, as you doubtless know,” he said, “was sanctioned for centuries in all parts of the world, in all civilizations.”
“Yes Master.”
“Knees,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.”
She lifted her body, and straightened it. She spread her knees.
She kept her head down, her knees spread.
She would doubtless soon accustom herself to slave position, the postures and attitudes of docility, vulnerability, and subservience. Soon, doubtless, without self-consciousness, she would naturally, and easily, thoughtlessly and appropriately, so place herself before free persons.
“I wonder,” said he, “if there is somewhere a natural world, somewhere, where these natural relationships, in all their beauty and power, are accepted, celebrated and institutionalized.” He looked down upon her. “What do you think, my little thong slut, my little chain bitch?” he asked.
She looked up at him, for a moment uncertain, for a moment troubled, that he had spoken so to her. To be sure, a master may speak as he wishes to a slave. Then she saw something in his eyes, could it have been a smile, a hint of such, which was not unkind, and she, at his feet, rejoiced. Yes, she thought, I am his thong slut! I am his chain bitch! That is what I am! And it is what I want to be, and I want to serve him with my whole heart and soul, and in that moment she grasped something of what it might be to be the helpless, ardent slave of a mighty master. How complete, how fulfilling, how nurturing, how glorious, how joyous, how magnificent to a woman, or should one now say “girl,” was such a relationship! Perhaps, if I am sufficiently pleasing, she thought, I can win from him a smile, perhaps, in time, though I am only a lowly slave, his love! She had a sense then, trembling nude before him, of what it might be to be a love slave!
Could she hope for so much?
“Well?” he asked.
“I do not know,” she whispered. “Perhaps, Master.”
She looked again to his eyes, but now they were different. She saw that she was now again only a slave at his feet. He was now looking upon her with a free man’s contempt for a piece of meaningless slave meat. She saw that he would be strict with her. Had he been embarrassed by, she wondered, angered by, what he sensed in himself might have been a moment of weakness? To be sure, she wanted him to be strict with her. She needed that. She wanted no choice, but to be made to serve. This was important to her. She wondered if he might, someday, care for her. She sensed she might love him, that she already did love him. Too, she supposed that it would be hard for a girl not to fall in love with a man at the foot of whose bed she is chained. She would surely, unquestioningly, undeniably, know herself his. Perhaps it has to do with dominance and submission, pervasive in animal life, she supposed. Perhaps, she thought, it has to do with the complementarities of nature.
But mostly, she supposed, it might have to do with him, the particular h
im, and with her, the particular her of her, and the mysterious chemistries of men and women. Away, she thought, with the commands of a stunting, pathological culture, the frenetic, hate-filled competitions for power, which brought in their wake only disappointment, emptiness, and misery.
