by John Norman
No, no! You, as a true man, would not want me crawling naked to your feet, helpless, vulnerable, cruelly aroused, in fear of the whip, trembling with need, supplicatory, begging your touch. as piteously as might the most worthless of women, a stripped, needful slave.
Do you know that I found you attractive, my dearest Irving, that I sometimes brought matters to your attention with no other object than to see you, that I sometimes passed your office unnecessarily, to catch a glimpse of you? Did you think it strange that we often encountered one another in the parking lot?
Save me, dearest Irving!
I fear that I am becoming a woman.
Changing,
Linda
Seventh Letter
My dearest Irving, my beloved Irving, my hope:
I have been branded!
They have branded me!
It was done with a small, delicate white-hot iron, pressed into, and held in, for some terrible moments, my flesh. It crackled, and sizzled, and burned, and I could smell my flesh burning, my own flesh, and I screamed and, when it was withdrawn, cleanly, and smoking, I was marked!
This is a different world. I have suspected this for a long time, from the sense of the world, from its air, from certain foods, what I have seen of its culture, but dared not mention this in my letters, lest you think me mad. This is a wild, strange, beautiful world. Where it is I do not know, but there seems a single sun. It seems much like ours, only so different. I have seen no moons. I have surprising energy here, and vitality. My body thrives on the purity, the exhilarating freshness, of the air. I have never felt so alive on Earth. Perhaps this is the way the earth once was.
The foods I have been given are simple, but apparently nutritious. I am sometimes to force my face into a bowl of cereal, or gruel, and finish it, even to the licking of the pan, lest any be wasted. The water, though I must lap it from a pan on the floor, my head down, is wonderfully clear, and refreshing. The vegetables, and fruits, are fresh, and unbelievably tasty. I think they may come fresh from gardens, or farms, to markets in the city, for we are in a city.
As I said, I have been branded. It is a small, tasteful, delicate, but quite unmistakable, mark, high on my left thigh, just under the hip. It is a little hard to describe, but it reminds one of a cursive “k” without the closure of the loop. It is not large. It is about two inches in height and a half of an inch in width. It is clearly placed in my body. I do not know what it means, but it is there, and evident to any who might care to look.
It marks me well, but I do not understand the meaning of the mark.
After my branding, even while I was screaming, overcome with horror and pain, I was taken from the rack in which I had been helplessly bound, and thrown to my belly on the floor. Then a new collar was placed on my neck, and the older one removed. I must then needs kiss the feet of the men who had attended to my branding, and collaring.
There is printing on the new collar, which is much like the old collar, save for the printing. The printing is engraved there. I cannot read the script. I do not know what it says. It is not a matter of having difficulty reading it in a mirror. It is rather that it is in a different script. It must be in their own language. Others can read it, doubtless. But I cannot. It occurs to me that here, on this world, I am illiterate. How strange that seems to me. I do not think they are going to teach me to read. I do not understand.
And so I am in a new collar, and I do not know what the printing on it says. It is a very attractive collar, close-fitting, and such, much like the other, and, as you would suppose, it, too, is locked on me. I cannot remove it. It is not uncomfortable. But it is there. It is a strange feeling, when you think about it, being locked in a collar.
I understand so little!
What sort of woman would be branded?
What sort of woman would be put in a collar, a locked collar?
Are you negotiating with my captors for my release?
Why haven’t you written?
Have I offended you? Are you angry with me? At one time I would have laughed at such things, but, now, I am afraid.
This morning, after my branding, and collaring, I was given my first bit of clothing, if one may call it that, a sleeveless, scandalously brief tunic, with a tie at my left shoulder, which, if tugged, would drop the garment about my ankles. It does cover the brand, though, of course, not the collar. My hands were then cuffed behind me, in light metal restraints, and I was put on a leash, yes, a leash, and led from the house.
Oh, what a marvelous place this is, dearest Irving, how beautiful, dazzling, wonderful, incredible! And there are women here, some tunicked, as I was, and others veiled, and clad in cumbrous robes. There are children here, too, and they are as wild, as unrestrained, as playful, as mischievous, as children anywhere. We went through various streets, and saw more than one market. There are animals here, too, which are unfamiliar to me, some large, lofty, and silken, some massive and hairy, some sinuous and leopardlike. I saw one animal with six legs, in a jeweled collar. I saw no police, as we would know them, to whose attention I might call my predicament. There were some helmeted, armed men, but they seemed so stern, so fierce, and mighty, that a girl, perhaps I should have said a woman, would hesitate to approach them, lest she simply be taken in their arms and utilized for their pleasure. The men here, even peasants, as I suppose them to be, and merchants, and craftsmen, seem sexual and alive. From Earth, I found such virility terrifying. This world is unbelievably primitive, colorful, and sensuous.
Were they just exercising me, as one might walk a dog, or did they wish me to see this world, perhaps that I might better understand my situation? Perhaps both.
I was thrilled!
I did not miss the dense, impatient traffic, the pervasive noise, the gray, choking, sickening air, the rushing about, the crowding, the screaming, of our city.
Earth need not be as it is!
Some of the tunicked girls, let us call them that, for they are girls, given their tunics and collars, yes, they, too, wore collars, lovely, graceful bands upon their necks, closely fitting, collars much like mine, and I do not doubt but what theirs were locked on them as securely as mine on me, looked upon me as though comparing me with themselves, the meaningless sluts! But I straightened my body and returned their haughty gazes. I did not regard myself as inferior to them. I am perhaps trimmer now, and more interestingly curved, than you remember me. It is perhaps the diet, the training, the forced exercises in the house. Perhaps it has to do, too, with the injections, the serums. I do not know. Perhaps these changes are merely in my mind, in my imagination. I do not know.
Three days ago I was permitted to launder for some of the men in the house. I enjoyed this, the tubs, the water, the garments which had been next to their bodies.
We passed more than one girl, sitting, lying, or kneeling, chained by her neck to a ring, placed in the side of the building. There are a number of such rings about, particularly in the business areas, placed there, it seems, as a convenience. Doubtless animals may be fastened to them, too, of course.
The fellow who was my guide in this unusual peregrination spoke some English. When we were in a less frequented district, I addressed him. “May I speak?” I asked, using the formula I had been given early in my stay in the house. It is generally a good idea, I had discovered, sometimes at the end of a strap, before speaking, to learn if speech will be permitted. To be sure, much depends on the fellow, and the context, but, here, on the street, it seemed appropriate to inquire. The leash was a long one, coiled in his hand, and I had no wish, if I could avoid it, of being knelt down, my head to the pavement, and having my calves lashed with the free end of the leash. He seemed a bit taken aback, but said, “Yes.” I knew enough, by then, of course, having been several days in the house, to kneel before him, and look up at him. That is commonly how I have been instructed to place myself before men. My hands were fastened b
ehind my back. The leash looped up to his hand.
“Why have I been given this garment to wear?” I asked. It was scarcely modest. It did cover the brand. I thought I was due some explanation for this affront to my dignity. After all, even one being held for ransom must have some rights.
“That you not be naked,” he said.
That was not the sort of answer I had anticipated receiving.
“Your body,” he said, “is not without interest. If you were stripped, you would be more likely to be stolen.”
“Stolen?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
He had spoken of me as though I were property.
We then returned to the house.
Why haven’t you written, why have you not responded to my letters! Have I been too familiar? Have I presumed too much? Have I shown you too little respect?
Desperately,
Linda
Eighth Letter
Dear Mr. Barofsky:
Forgive me for having referred to you as “I. B.,” as “Irving,” and so on. I was not entitled to be so forward, given our institutional relationships at the magazine. You were my superior. Forgive me, please, for not having accorded you the respect, the deference, you were due. It was wrong that I should have arrogated to myself, without permission, the right to such informality. Perhaps that is why you have not responded to my letters. Perhaps you were offended? I was merely a stupid, presumptuous employee. When you arrange my release, paying whatever ransom is required, you will find me much changed upon my return, deferent, attentive, productive, hard-working, and subservient.
Too, Mr. Barofsky, sir, please forgive me for having spoken boldly in meetings, often essentially in vanity, merely that I might hear myself speak, and often without having received permission, without having been recognized. Perhaps I took this as required, that I might, a modern woman, a liberated woman, impress male colleagues with my malelike decisiveness, my masculinelike strength, my manlike forcefulness, and acumen. How aimless, irrelevant and silly now seem so many of those comments! Some I hope, though, were helpful. The point of the meetings was business, but I tried too often to make them political, to assert myself, rather than deal with the issues before us. I was a child playing a role, and one alien to my nature, as I now understand it. The point of this boorish assertiveness, it seems, was no more than assertiveness itself, that taken as its own justification. How insecure I was! But, perhaps, too, I wanted to call myself to the attention of the men, and to you, sir. I do think that I am highly intelligent, sir, else you would not have hired me. I do not think you were merely interested in my face, and the lineaments of my figure. But I think you suspected their nature, even through the mannish disguises I affected. I sometimes thought you looked at me as though I were naked, and were not wholly displeased with what you saw. Within the severities of that garmenture you suspected, I am sure, that there was a woman, a troubled, unhappy, lonely woman perhaps, but a woman. But you are the sort of a man, I suspected, who would want more than the body of a woman. That would never be enough for you. You would want the totality of her, her body, her emotions, her nature, her mind, the wholeness of her. Perhaps that was why I feared you, and found you attractive, sir. In my dreams I sometimes seemed to think you were the sort of man who would want to literally possess a woman, and that you were strong enough, and powerful enough, to do that, to possess her, and that nothing less than the possession of her, the possession of the whole of her, would content you. When I thought of you I sometimes sensed that my “career,” to which I was supposedly completely devoted, was a vapid, prescribed triviality, a marking of time, a distraction from the call of my true nature. I hated my “career,” save as a glamorous exercise to convince myself of my own worth, as a means to seek status, a sorry compensation for the vacancies in my life. How I longed for a culture, a simpler, deeper, more natural, more wonderful culture, in which I might fulfill myself as a female in the deepest biological sense, something that would not be a socially constructed artifact, but would bring me to terms with my own deepest reality.
Perhaps you remember when you, at one meeting, in your impatience, suggested I might make a more useful contribution to the meeting by fetching coffee! How angry I was! You may recall that the chairman forced a public apology from you, before us all. How that must have stung, and humiliated, you. The chairman doubtless feared that I would carry the matter into legal precincts, and damage the public image of the company, this perhaps resulting in corporate embarrassment, and perhaps even in financial losses. I now realize, of course, as I realized then, that your remark, however ill-considered it might have been, was, given my behavior, justified. I trust that you are not, sir, allowing me to languish here as a result of that matter, a contretemps, at best. Do not hold it against me, sir. Please, save me! What I never expressed to you was that when you said that my first reaction was a flush of warmth, a sudden sensation of profound pleasure. It was as though I had been told to go into the kitchen, and cook. That is how I really wanted to be treated by men. To be told to go into the kitchen, and cook, so to speak. In that instant I felt deliciously female, and dominated. We long to be put in our place, by men. How can we respect a male who does not understand, and exercise, his dominance? I assure you, sir, the men here understand it, and exercise it. Had I gone to fetch coffee then, I feel I would have done so happily. I would have been pleased to serve, as a woman. I have discovered that there are rewards in service, that there is enormous pleasure and profound happiness in submission. One dominates, one submits. It is not hard to guess what the healthy relationship is, the structure of the ideal complementarity, sanctioned by nature. But, of course, an instant later, flushed, feigning rage, so easy to do, I demanded that the chairman have you apologize to me, to us all, which you, albeit bitterly, and ungraciously, did.
There was another incident, Mr. Barofsky, which may have troubled you. In approved feminist fashion, though these things are not publicized, obviously, we are permitted to use hints, threats, and such, to advance our careers. You may recall that I entered your office, closing the door behind me, and asked for a promotion. This request, at the time, puzzled you, as it seemed to have emerged, unanticipated, out of nowhere. Unbeknownst to you I had informed the receptionist, your secretary, and two colleagues with nearby offices, that I was planning on making such a request. Then, before your desk, I cried out, as though in dismay, tore open the top button of my blouse, smeared my lipstick, and hurried, as though outraged, from the office, certain to be seen, and remarked, as planned, by several others. I fled, seemingly weeping, to my office. The implication would have been clear, in the political environment in which we existed, that you had assaulted, or molested, me, obviously demanding sexual favors in exchange for the promotion. I received the promotion, as you recall, by direct order of the director, to hush up the matter, and avoid a drawn-out inquiry with a hostile sexual-harassment officer. I regret this now, of course. It was not fair of me. It was cruel, I suppose. Nonetheless you must understand that such behavior and threats of that sort are approved, though not publicized, political weapons. After all, I cannot threaten to foment riots, or such. Our blackmail is more personal, and perhaps more ladylike, than that of others capitalizing on invented, or imagined, grievances. As you may recall, “anything is accounted acceptable which furthers the ends of our power, except violence.” And I suppose violence would be acceptable to us, as well, if we thought it practical.
Things are so different here, Mr. Barofsky!
I apologize, profoundly, for any unpleasantness I might have caused you in the past, for the incident in the boardroom, for the incident in your office, for all the things, large and small, I might have done to irritate you. I never believed, incidentally, and do not now believe, that you were ever personally intimidated by these things. Weaker men might have been, but you were not.
If only you could see me now, though I would not desire you to do so,
as I am unclothed, as I kneel and write this.
Now, collared, and branded, when a man enters the room, I face him, kneel, and do obeisance, with my head to the floor.
And it is so that I would greet you, if you were here.
I would have no choice.
Please note that I am addressing you as “Mr. Barofsky,” and “sir,” and such. So if my incivility has caused you to hesitate in responding to my letters, or in effecting my release, please hesitate no longer!
Save me from these imperious, uncompromising, magnificent brutes! They treat me as though I might be no more than an animal!
I am learning more words now. I am unfamiliar with the language. I do not recognize it. Sometimes I hear a word which sounds like an Earth word, perhaps from Latin, or English, or German. Interestingly the accents of these men in subtle ways remind me of your accent, at the office. I never did inquire as to your native language.
When you have my ransom paid and I return to work at the magazine you will discover that I have learned my place.
Please hurry with my rescue!
Tomorrow I am to learn the meaning of “La kajira,” the first words I was taught to speak on this world.
Once I spoke of myself being prostrate before you, figuratively. I am now going to draw back from the low, writing table and lie before it on my belly, naked, my hands at the sides of my head. Thus when I write the next sentence in this letter, my eighth letter, I will have been prostrate before you, literally, naked.
It has now been done, Mr. Barofsky.
I have been prostrate before you, as a naked supplicant.
Please, sir, expedite my release, please!
Linda
