by John Norman
“I am inert, cold, frigid, I have no such feelings!”
“Do not believe all you have been taught. The veils of politics, woven by the self-seeking fearers and haters, the ugly moral amputees, the spiritual cripples, those who strive to force the dismal grayness and chilling cold of their lives on others, are rent by the truths of biology. Dare to feel. The furies of blood refute the casuistries of conditioning. The caress of a master can shatter convention’s fragile, carefully constructed house of cards. A kiss can open a window, a door, to a new world. Love is not so dangerous and terrible.”
“You speak of love?”
“Of dominance and submission, of rightfulness, of propriety, of nature, of complementarity, of dimorphism, of biology. Women are property. Thus, they learn love best on a chain.”
“Have I a choice?”
“None whatsoever, absolutely none, little slave girl.”
“Please do not so demean me, do not so refer to me!”
“So you think you hate men?”
“Yes, yes!”
“That may amuse them.”
“But I must serve them nonetheless?”
“With sensuous perfection.”
“I am not sure I hate men,” she whispered.
“I know.
“And you will soon live to give them pleasure, and I predict, little slave girl, that you will soon know the highest happiness a woman can know, for we are their properties, by nature, you must understand, the happiness of being the yielding, joyful slave of an uncompromising, overwhelming, and mighty master.”
“I am afraid.”
“And well you might be, for you will be subject to strict discipline. He will have what he wants of you, have no fear.”
“I am ignorant.”
“That is a problem, for it puts you at greater peril. It would doubtless be better if you had received extensive training in the many arts of the female slave, but the market is unfortunately overburdened with beauty at the moment, and the merchants wish to move stock, particularly the lesser stock, such as you, quickly, to save time, to clear space and such.”
“When am I to be sold?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for your kindness, in speaking to me.”
“I wished to do so.”
“You asked for permission to speak to me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.
“It is nothing,” she said.
“I am afraid to be sold.”
“Of course.”
“Were you once of my world?”
“Of course.”
“You spoke of your master.”
“I met him on Earth.”
“Were you his slave there?”
“Of course, as I am his slave here.”
“He was of Earth?”
“Yes, but he was a master, and thus he made me his slave there. I love him. He is everything to me. I would die for him.”
“How did he come here?”
“He is such a man as those of this world respect. He was detected, and offered an invitation to come to this world. He accepted.”
“And you?”
“He brought me with him.”
“—as his slave?”
“Of course, that is what I was.”
“And you serve him here?”
“As lovingly and perfectly as I can.”
“Are you—branded?”
“Yes, it was done shortly after I arrived on this world. It is required by Merchant Law. Now anyone on this world, seeing I am branded, would know that I am a slave, am purchasable, and such.”
“You are very beautiful.”
“Thank you, and so, too, are you.”
“Thank you, and I do not think, really, that I am stupid.”
“No, you are not stupid.”
“Is this a beautiful world?”
“Yes, much as Earth must once have been.”
“I think I am not displeased to have been brought here.”
“You begin to suspect what might be your life here?”
“I think so.”
“A life that you only dreamed you might live.”
“Yes.”
“Though only as a rightless, abject slave?”
“Yes.”
“Such, my dear, you are, and will be.”
“It is so beautiful! If only one would not grow old, and it could last forever!”
“There are serums here, called stabilization serums. A secret of the caste of physicians. You may fear desperately on this world, but you need not fear the diminution of your beauty. Men will enjoy keeping it in its collar, indefinitely, at the pinnacle of its health, youth, and loveliness.”
“Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“They will come for you soon.”
“How shall I behave? What shall I do?”
“Present yourself as well as you can on the block. Know that you are beautiful, and desirable, and exciting. Understand that. Know in the bottom of your belly that you are for sale, and will be sold, and are excellent goods. Be erotic, brazen, and beautiful. Be what you will then be, wares, a commodity, a lovely property in the process of being vended—a beautiful slave, an exhibited, proffered slave.
“I see that you try to fold those miserable shreds of garments about you Do you think they conceal you? Rather they will intrigue the men.”
“I am frightened!”
“And even those bits of rags will be removed from you on the block. Men insist on seeing—completely— what they are buying. They are not fools.”
“Surely I will not be shown to men—not to men!—even as I am!”
“Were you a trained slave you would not ask such a question.”
“But I am not such a slave!”
“I am to you at this time, though slave myself, as Mistress. That may not have been clear to you. But I now make it clear. Accordingly you should address me as “Mistress.” It would be well for you to accustom yourself to such things. Oh, do not look upon me with such dismay, such bewilderment and horror.”
“But I am not such a slave—Mistress.”
“True. But now, were you such a slave, you would know that you would be so exhibited. You would expect it, and, further, if given a choice, would insist upon it, that you might, in the competitions of beauty, be able to strive fairly, and without detriment, to obtain the most excited, covetous master, he who most hungers and thirsts for you, and cries out and roars to possess you.”
“Can men so desire a woman?”
“Yes.”
“How fearful to belong to one who so wants one!”
“Who would desire to belong to one who wants one less?”
“I am afraid to be exhibited, to be shown to men, naked—to be put up for sale, to be sold. I do not know what to do, how to act.”
“—Perhaps, I wonder, while it is still possible, before you are unable any longer to conceal your appetition, your aroused slave needs, your piteous need of a master, if you should present yourself as fearful and shy, timid, troubled, modest, and frightened, almost unable to move so horrified, so dismayed and terrified you are.”
“Mistress?”
“Some men enjoy taking a new slave, a fragile, lovely thing, and introducing her to the nature and requirements of her new condition, in getting her to her knees and teaching her to kiss and caress.
“Do not weep.
“Too, there are those who enjoy taking a woman who thinks she can resist, and teaching her differently, breaking her to the whip and collar, until she, to her ecstasy, knows herself his, and crawls of her own free will to his slave ring, her effusive, conquered hear
t begging to be accepted, to be permitted to please him, to be acknowledged, as his.”
“I know nothing of these things, Mistress.”
“How easily the word ‘Mistress’ now comes to your lips. You see, you are intelligent. You learn quickly.
“Perhaps the important thing is to be yourself. Perhaps later, when you have become appetitious and needful, and erotic, brazen, and beautiful, for I see such things in you, as a natural and exciting transformation of yourself, things will be easier, and different. Until then perhaps it will be best to attempt to divine the will of the auctioneer, and do your best to please him. To be sure, we all do that. After all, he has a whip, and we are women. I know whereof I speak, for I myself was once put through that. A sale, or seeming sale. It was, unbeknownst to me, intended as a learning experience for me, that I might, newly brought to his world, be better apprised of my condition, of my status here, as a slave. Of what could be done to me. I found myself without so much as an explanation, without so much as even a word of farewell, remanded to an auction house. In my bonds, in tears and helplessness, I racked my heart and brain in misery. Had I in some way, even one unbeknownst to me, been less than completely pleasing to my master in some way? I did not know! I learned the lesson well. I was apparently purchased through an agent. How jubilant I was when I, unhooded, found myself on my knees before my own master, my own, true, beloved master! I assure you that I spent much of that night in tearful gratitude, at his feet. I had learned what might be done with me.”
“I will try to please the auctioneer.”
“You had better, or your prettiness will feel the lash.”
“I would be whipped?”
“Of course.”
“I am frightened.”
“I do not think you will have too much to fear, for the auctioneer is talented. He will see to it that you are well displayed. You may depend upon it. And do not be surprised when you find yourself handled as a slave. You will be exhibited, and controlled, almost ritualistically. You will move, and obey, in ways you never thought possible. On the selling surface you will reveal hitherto never understood, or dreadfully feared, but desired, aspects of your personality. Perhaps your female subconscious will be liberated for the first time. You will discover, my dear, perhaps to your surprise, that you have one. There is something about the snap of a whip which we all understand, and its lash across our calves is an admonition we cannot overlook. Do the best you can.”
“I will try.”
“And it is not uncommon, at a certain point in your sale, to have your vitality demonstrated.”
“What does that mean?”
“Men are interested in that.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will learn.
“I am afraid, so afraid.”
“Do not fear. Or fear no more than is appropriate, and that will hone your slave reflexes to perfection.
“Do not weep.
“It is not so terrible to be sold. Indeed, as you are merchandise it is fitting. And yours is not a unique fate. Countless women in countless times on countless worlds have preceded you to the block, which is a mere selling platform, a convenience for display. In time, you will doubtless grow accustomed to such things. And do not fear for, as I have indicated, the auctioneer will assist you, and turn, and display you, and such. He does not wish you ill, and desires little more than to make a good coin on you. Now it is possible, as I suggested, that in this sale, your first sale, you will be confused and terrified. Certainly it will all seem strange to you. But that is not unusual. You may even seem inhibited, wooden, almost unable to move. That is possible. You may appear frightened and confused, disconcerted, and bewildered, and you might appear, and might well be, utterly helpless and vulnerable. But the auctioneer, and the men, will understand that, and not hold it against you, not in a first sale. Later, surprising as this may now seem, you will learn to present yourself well on the block, extremely well, for a well-presented girl tends to bring a better price, and such prices are most easily afforded by an affluent master, and many girls, wisely or not, prefer to wear their collars in a rich house, in a mansion or palace, rather than a hut or hovel. We are often mercenary little things, aren’t we? It is no wonder the men look upon us as what we are, as lovely, cunning little beasts, tolerable only, so to speak, on our leashes. But it sometimes happens that your eyes will meet those of a man in the tiers, and you will know, suddenly, that he is the man for whom you have always longed, and dreamed, he to whom you would be the perfect slave. You have suddenly realized that he is your love master. Oh, then you will present yourself well—I assure you, and to him! It will be as though there were no others in that great room, only you and he. You will then be erotic, brazen, and, beggingly beautiful, a needful slave desperately pleading with her rightful master to buy her. Will he buy you, or not? The decision, of course, is his.”
“We are so helpless, so vulnerable!”
“Yes, for we are slaves.”
“Thank you, thank you!”
“I wish you well, little slave girl. Wear your collar happily. In it, I assure you, you will find yourself more free than ever you were on your former world, and you will learn, and experience, a joy alien to your world, and greater than any you might have believed possible, or for which you might have hoped.”
In Defense of the Russett Hypothesis
Sometime ago, in what used to be referred to as the 20th Century, in certain antique inscriptions, or something like one hundred and two ziks before the modern era, there was a British philosopher, as it is said, there will always be an England, whose name may have been Bartelby Russett. And although contemporary pundits have an unwonted tendency to ignore or dispraise the Middle Ages, it must be understood that there were in such benighted, ignorant, and barbarous times occasional men of outstanding intellectual stature, of which small number Bartelby Russett was undeniably one. Had he not stood on the shoulders of pigmies he might have seen less far than he did. Russett once opined that the world might have been created but five minutes ago, bearing within it all the signs of age, memories, beliefs, records, contracts, plans, crumbling parchments, obsolete musical instruments, families, geological strata, weathered rocks, fossils, old books, old shoes, partially decayed radioactive substances, and such. The remarkable thing about Russett’s hypothesis, which was, predictably, ignored or derided in his own time, was how very close to the mark he had actually come, given the imprecise, primitive technology of his time. As it has turned out, and as every schoolboy now knows, it actually came into existence not five but four minutes ago, bearing within it all the signs of age, including Russett’s hypothesis itself.
To be sure, one of the fascinating aspects of Russett’s hypothesis involves an intriguing philosophical anomaly. Namely, how do we know, really, that the world did not come into existence billions of years ago, and slowly, gradually, develop into its present state? It is a possibility, one supposes, at least logically. Skeptics enjoy playing with such ideas, the flippant idlers. According to science, and common sense, the world is something like four minutes old, give or take a few seconds, but will the skeptic subdue his irresponsible playfulness and have the common decency to acquiesce in this point, to desist in his reckless amusements, and accept the cognitively accredited, indisputably established results of contemporary science? No. He will relentlessly tantalize us with his shallow, silly, reckless, meretricious possibilities. Who could answer him? Who would want to? If he will not accept the results of scientific inquiry, what will he accept? What has he to offer in its place? Has he a plausible challenge to science? Has he, say, a different, or better, science? No, there is no practical, relevant alternative which he offers us. Why should the burden of proof in such a rash, giddy matter be on us, and not upon him? Fie upon him! Fie upon all scatterbrains!
Let him offer his considerations.
We shall refute him at every turn.<
br />
He suggests that the scientific hypothesis is implausible, but this is absurd, because it is itself the scientific hypothesis, and thus defines plausibility. Perhaps he wonders what point there would be to the scientific hypothesis, but, better, what point would there be to his gradualistic hypothesis; too, scientific hypotheses do not have to have points; they need only truth.
Perhaps he thinks the scientific hypothesis is arbitrary, but are not all beginnings arbitrary? If there is no problem with beginning billions of years ago, as he sees it, then, too, there is no problem with beginning four minutes, or so, ago. Perhaps the world might have started, say, five minutes ago, as in the Russett hypothesis, but, in fact, it didn’t. Who are we to tell the world when, or how, to get underway?
Perhaps he thinks the scientific view is “disruptive”? But it would be so only if one accepted his own view. Are not such things relative? Why is it more disruptive to begin recently than billions of years ago? Too, why should a beginning be “disruptive”? Why should it not just be a beginning? Too, a beginning cannot be disruptive because before it there is nothing to disrupt.
The skeptic might suggest that his own vapid view is to be preferred to the scientific point of view on the grounds of allowing for the laws of nature, the principle of the conservation of matter/energy, and such, but this is to misunderstand the scientific view. The laws of nature, the principle of the conservation of matter/energy, and such, are part and parcel of the scientific view. It could not get along without them. It is merely that they haven’t been around as long as the skeptic would like. They had to start sometime, so why when they say, and not when science says?
Perhaps the skeptic bemoans the scientific view because it seems to presuppose a transempirical causative factor? Well, it does not presuppose such within its world. And outside of its world, so to speak, is it not in the same boat with the skeptic’s suggestions? Surely the mystery is there, on both views. Indeed, as the world is of recent origin the skeptic’s view of an operative, effecting mystery more than five minutes ago is simply a mistake. It could not have occurred in the past because the past does not exist, or at least not much it. To be sure, it is growing.
