by John Norman
“But you did feel things?”
“One cannot help that,” she said.
“And, afterwards,” he asked, “did you, sincerely and gratefully, and from the bottom of your hot little belly, from the depths of your rejoicing heart, thank them for their attentions to you, thank them for your usage?”
“Certainly not!” she exclaimed, angrily.
“Do you like your brand?” he asked.
She regarded him, startled.
“I see you do,” he said. “That is good.”
“I do not understand,” she said,
“It is pretty, is it not?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” she said.
“I wonder if you realize that you welcomed it,” he said.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“Consider it simply as a mark,” he said. “It does enhance your beauty, does it not?”
“Yes,” she said, uncertainly. “I suppose it does.”
“And you have no objection to that?”
“No,” she said.
He found this response encouraging.
“But you understand its meaning, the fullness of its significance?” he asked.
“I fear so,” she said.
“And do you further understand that this meaning enhances your beauty in subtle and profound ways a thousandfold?”
She was silent.
“I see that you do,” he said.
“I cannot help how I am,” she said.
He was certain that she was not inert, not frigid. Not truly, not ultimately. No woman, ultimately, unless anatomically, is frigid. It is almost universally a psychological matter, the result of a crime committed against them, by a mechanistic culture concerned to propagate the ideological sterilities without which it might collapse. The morbidities of culture have their own laws of growth, their own excrescences and foliations, often tended and fructified by strange gardeners who draw their sustenance from the narcotics of its poisonous leaves. Tragic that the dragons of terror must feed upon the souls of the innocent. Such beasts are best crushed in the shell. How deal with them once well fed and aflight?
Few women wish to be frigid. Often little more is required than their understanding that frigidity is not acceptable. That it is not permitted, that it is genuinely not permitted. Sometimes no more than slave bracelets and a chain are required for a woman to understand this. Certainly frigidity is unlikely to survive the impressing of the brand, the affixing of the collar. They then understand themselves to be such that frigidity is no longer an option for them. It is no longer permitted to them. It is a luxury of the free woman.
“Are you frigid?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she said.
He saw that she was not frigid, but that she wished to be thought so. It had to do, seemingly, with how she felt she should be seen, or understood. To what tragic abuses had her world subjected her! In the beginning he had perceived her supposed frigidity to be like an armor within which she was naked. Then, as he spoke to her, he thought it more like a brocade beset with hooks, inviting their unlacing. Now, he felt, it was more like a flimsy towel clutched about her, clinging and form-fitting, within which, vulnerable and beautiful, she wished to conceal herself, within which she wished to hide.
He did not think it would be hard to pull that towel away.
“The ice of frigidity,” he said, “can be lashed away, at the slave post.”
“I do not want to be beaten,” she said.
“Perhaps you think you could pretend to be hot,” he said.
“Hot?” she said.
“Profoundly aroused, piteously needful, beggingly vital, sexually vulnerable, defenseless, ready, petitioning, reactive, reflexive, helplessly responsive, submissive, and obediently and gratefully to the master’s least touch ecstatically orgasmic—hot not as a free woman is hot, that is, warm, or tepid, but hot as a slave is hot, the heat for which men will buy them and have them—slave hot.”
She regarded him, fearfully.
“Perhaps you think you might pretend to such?”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I could pretend!”
The mind is interesting, he thought, one can pretend many things, and in the pretense, they can become real.
For such reasons Gorean men were sometimes patient with such as she, permitting them to pretend for a time, until, preferably sooner rather than later, she suddenly discovers, to her fear and astonishment, that unusual transformations have now been wrought in her fair body, and that she has now become the helpless prisoner, to her dismay or delight, of induced, irrepressible raptures, raptures such as she never dreamed could exist, grasping, overwhelming, enthralling, raptures in which she is beside herself with ecstasy, raptures which glorify the collar, raptures which make a mockery of a free woman, raptures which put her forever at a man’s mercy, raptures she will seek to regain again and again, raptures for which she will do anything. As it is said, on Gor, the slave fires have been lit in her belly, and they can never be extinguished. Once a slave always a slave. To be sure, the patience of Gorean men is not inexhaustible.
“Gorean men are not fools,” he said. “There are infallible signs of true arousal, and yielding. They cannot be faked.”
She moaned.
“I would be concerned, if I were you,” he said, “that the taverner is not pleased.”
“I am concerned,” she said.
“He is thinking of making an example of you,” he said, “to encourage the other girls to greater efforts.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“You have not been much used, as I understand it,” he said.
“I think I have been used enough, as you so quaintly put it,” she said.
“The word is that you are not much good.”
“Oh?”
“That is acceptable for a free woman, perhaps even expected of one, but not for one such as you.”
“I am frigid,” she said. “I cannot help it! It is the way I am!”
“You are proud of your frigidity, are you not?” he asked.
“I am not a whore!” she said.
“You are far less than that,” he said. “You are a slave.”
She moved back, trembling.
“Slaves are purchased for many things and purposes,” he said, “but surely amongst them, commonly, are the poignancy of their sexual needs, the acuteness of their desires, their ignitabilities, their vulnerability, their readiness, their appetites and heat, their helplessness in the arms of a master, their capacity for sexual ecstasy.”
“I cannot help how I am,” she said. He thought there were tears in her eyes.
“You are not frigid,” he said. “You are only afraid.”
“I am afraid,” she said.
“That you will discover that you are a slave?”
“I know that I am a slave,” she said. “I am branded.”
“You are not a slave because you were branded,” he said, “but you were branded—because you are a slave.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“I think you do,” he said. “I do not dispute, of course, that the brand has its performatory aspects, together with its identificatory, social, and commercial purposes, and that it effectively fulfills them, or that its placement makes you a legal slave, a true slave in the fullest sense of the law, literally an animal and totally rightless, subject to sale, to exchange, and such, but I am talking, rather, of something deeper and much more profound, namely, the natural slave, the rightful slave, she who is a slave in the depth of her heart, one who longs to selflessly love and serve, who yearns to submit, to surrender to another, to belong to another, to be owned by another, one whom she will live to serve and please, her master.”
In the light of the small lamp, he saw that a tear had coursed
down her cheek. She put down her head and wiped it away with a bit of the fur clutched about her neck, and then lifted her head, once again to regard him.
“And, too,” said he, “what woman does not want to know herself to be so desired, so lusted for, that nothing but her total possession, her full ownership, yes, ownership, will satisfy a man. Is this not what she in her heart longs for, her owner, her master? How could she respect a man who does not so want her, so lust for her, that he will own her? How could she respect a man who is not strong enough to put her naked to his feet, and claim her as his own? Does she not want to be so claimed, so owned?”
Slowly she lowered the furs.
How beautiful she was in the light of the lamp, in the confines of the small alcove!
“Chain me,” she whispered.
Slowly, beginning with her wrists, he fastened her hands apart, at the sides of her head. He then fastened her ankles apart.
She pulled a little at the chains. She looked up at him. “I am absolutely helpless, Master,” she whispered.
He looked down upon her.
“I beg use, Master,” she whispered.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she said.
He touched her, gently.
She half reared up. “Ohh!” she breathed, softly, breathlessly.
It was true. She was ready.
At such times one must be patient.
She lifted her body, slightly, piteously, timidly, beggingly, to him.
He bent to her, touching her with his lips.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
Later she again cried out with helpless pleasure.
Doubtless her cry was heard beyond the curtain. Doubtless the taverner would be pleased. There was no mistaking the nature of the cry. It was that of a yielded slave. Other men, too, about the tables, would doubtless have lifted their heads, and glanced toward the tightly closed, tethered leather curtains of the alcove. Perhaps the slaves, too, those on the floor, heard the cry, and smiled, knowing that a new sister, one now not other than they, was amongst them.
“Clearly you are beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“It was doubtless that which first attracted the attention of slavers.”
“I am grateful,” she said. “How tragic had they not seen me! How fortunate I am to have been selected!”
“Few are,” he said.
“What will my life be?” she whispered.
“That of a slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“How will you serve paga?” he asked.
“I will endeavor to serve it beautifully, humbly, deferentially,” she said, “hoping that masters will look kindly, approvingly, upon me.”
“Or, at least,” he said, “that they will not be moved to beat you.”
“Yes, Master,” she smiled.
“And in the alcoves?”
“Piteously I would beg to be put to their pleasure.”
He felt her, as she gasped, and he made his casual assessments. “You need this now,” he observed.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I need this now!”
“You may not explicitly beg on the floor,” he said.
“A girl has a thousand ways to beg without speaking,” she said, “her expressions, the trembling of a lip, slight movements, of the hand, of turning the palm upward, of the bosom, the pelvis, how she proffers the goblet, how she places her lips upon it, observing the master above its rim—”
“Enough,” he said, softly, placing his hand gently over her lovely mouth.
She was thus silenced, and he then again addressed himself to her body, as she gasped and sighed, and pressed against him.
“You will presumably be sold from time to time,” he said, “and will know various masters.”
“I will do my best to please them,” she said.
“I am going to unchain you now,” he said.
“Master?” she asked.
In a moment she was freed of all the chains, save that which was on her neck, and fastened her within the alcove.
“Please me,” he said.
“I do not know how!” she said, frightened, kneeling beside him. “Teach me, teach me, Master!”
“You beg it?”
“Of course, Master!”
He then, in a preliminary way, taught her something of the use of the lips and tongue, of her fingers and hands, of her hair, of her bared thighs and breasts. It was the beginning of a lovely journey which is never really completed, for the ways of pleasing a master are infinite in number, in touch, in service, in food and drink, in attitude, in speech, in posture, in dress, in cosmetics, in jewelry, in perfume.
Then she was terrified as he cried out.
“Master!” she wept.
“You did well,” he gasped, laughing. “You have much to learn, but in you, somewhere, I am sure, is a competent little paga slut.”
“Tell me,” she begged, “of this world!”
They lay on the furs, side by side. He spoke to her of moons, and fields, and mountains, of the great Vosk, of gleaming Thassa, of long roads, of unusual beasts, of high cities, of the song dramas and the kaissa matches, of fleets at sea and caravans by land, and of customs and practices, and even of Home Stones. And, too, he warned her of free women, and of the terrible dangers they posed to such as she, who wore the collar and bore in their beauty clear evidence of their desirability to men, the trace of the iron’s kiss, the slave mark.
“Are there many such as I?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, “and they have much freedom within the city, in their collars and tunics. They are much about, and shop, and do their errands, and meet their friends, and chat and gossip, and such.”
“Are they pretty?” she asked, apprehensively.
“Certainly,” he said.
“They are not closely confined?”
“All chained in alcoves?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Not at all,” he said. “And even paga girls are often permitted the freedom of the city when not in service, though sometimes they must carry advertising on their tunics.”
“I thought you did not like advertising,” she laughed.
“I dislike false advertising,” he said. “I see no objection to putting the name of an establishment on a girl’s tunic, particularly if the girl is pretty and nicely figured. One of the tavern’s delights is right there then, honestly presented, for the perusal of the potential patron. There are, of course, differences in status amongst slaves. For example, girls with private masters, even state slaves, commonly hold themselves superior to paga girls. And some slaves are high slaves, richly gowned, and jeweled, and so on. Sometimes it seems they hold themselves above even free men, though not, of course, free women. They are not so stupid. But, in the end, they are still slaves.”
“I see,” she said.
“Of course,” he said, “I should mention that the paga slaves, if they are not back by the ringing of the appointed bar, will be whipped.”
“I understand,” she whispered.
“Slave girls are lovely,” he said. “They make their aesthetic contributions to our world. Their existence much improves the decor of a city, the attractions of the street, of the parks and fountains, the appeal of a market, such things. On Earth one misses them, at least in public, but then on Earth one misses many things.”
“Doubtless it is like beautiful dogs, or beautiful horses,” she said.
“But better,” he said. “What virile man would choose to live in a world without female slaves?”
“And what slave,” she whispered, “would choose to live in a world without masters?”
“It is nearly dawn,” he said.
The paga tavern had been quiet beyond the curtain for more than an Ahn.
“Am I to be slain?” she asked.
“It will be decided by the taverner,” he said. “He will allow you to rest until evening, and then he will permit you to serve him.”
“I do not find him attractive,” she said.
“How will you serve him?” he asked.
I will kneel to him. I will press my lips to his feet, and cover them with tears and kisses. I will plead that I may serve his pleasure as the most eager and abject of slaves!”
“Then you will no longer think of yourself as free?” he said.
“No,” she said, “only as the slave I am, and now know myself well to be.”
“And are you more than a slave?” he asked.
“No, Master,’ she said. “I am a slave, and only a slave.”
“And will you be responsive to his touch?”
“As I now am, Master,” she said, “as you have made me, I cannot resist the touch of a man, any man, nor do I wish to do so. I need these things, these feelings, even if the master despised me, and was cruel to me.”
“The taverner,” he said, “is a good man, neither contemptuous of his girls, though he recognizes them as mere slaves, nor more cruel or harsh, or perhaps better, firm, than is necessary to maintain the parameters of a perfect discipline.”
“He is strict then?”
“Certainly,” he said. “You will be kept under absolute and categorical discipline.”
“I want that,” she said. “I need it. I now hunger for it.”
“If you are in the least bit displeasing, you must expect to be lashed.”
“I do not want to be lashed,” she said. “But I love knowing that I will be lashed if I am not pleasing.”
“And perhaps sometime,” he said, “you will relish a stroke, if only to remind you, and keenly, that you are a slave.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes!”
“And when he is done with you?”
“I shall tell him how much I hoped to please him, my master, and, kneeling, head down, thank him, abjectly and piteously, with heartfelt gratitude, for the honor he has shown me, deigning to take one who is only a slave in his arms.”
“Good,” he said.
