by John Norman
I wonder if you would like to have me at your feet, your property, your slave, yours to do with as you wished, naked, collared, beseeching, begging.
How different from Earth! Yet have we not, even on gray, polluted Earth, wept with loneliness, turned in our beds, and stained many a pillow with the tears of unfulfilled needs?
Where were our masters?
I am afraid of these thoughts, and am intrigued by them. I must admit that, for I am not permitted to lie.
So I am a slave, and, it seems, a “pleasure slave.”
I am being taught to be beautiful, and to serve and please men, and in all ways, domestically, sensuously, intimately, fully. It is what I am for, to be owned, and be at the feet of men.
Does that horrify you? Or, I wonder, does it please you? Sometimes I think that in the heart of every man lurks a master. What man, truly, honestly, does not want to own a beautiful woman? He must be an unimaginative, boorish, simple, piteous sort of fellow.
Perhaps you would have wanted me at your feet. I wonder.
How different from Earth, how different!
Tomorrow they are taking me to a tavern, to dance! I hope to do well. If I do not do well, I will presumably be punished. I might be given the “releaser” and sent to the breeding stalls. I will do my best.
How strange to think of dancing before men, and as a slave!
There will be many girls dancing. I will be only one, and will presumably dance early in the evening. The best are saved for last.
After a virgin has danced she is often hooded and chained in an alcove, for the use of the tavernkeeper’s patrons. When next I write to you, if I am permitted to write, I may have been “opened for the uses of men.”
Can you imagine the Linda you knew, petty, nasty, manipulative Linda, that superior-acting, smug, haughty, insolently saucy, pretty, nicely curved little bitch hooded, chained in an alcove, and treated, perhaps for the first time, as she so richly deserves?
You may recall, in my last letter, I feared I might be whipped, for my attempt to manipulate you. But I was not whipped. Indeed, the keepers seemed to find that part of my letter amusing. Why I do not know.
They keep us much in ignorance.
Curiosity, I am told, is not becoming in a slave.
A slave,
Linda
Thirteenth Letter,
En’Kara, Fifth Day
Master:
Yesterday I was danced.
I was terrified, but I think I did well, at least considering it was the first time I did such a thing.
I was to dance not only in the square of sand, the musicians to my left, but also in and about the aisles, amongst the low tables, amongst the patrons, who were all strong, sexual men. I was seized several times, by a wrist or ankle, and feared that I might be thrown across one of the small tables, on my back, or stomach, my legs thrust apart, and find myself, in a whirl of silks and a jangle of necklaces, “opened” then and there, instantly. But the tavern men pulled me free, laughing, and, to obscene noises, and raucous shouts, I gathered myself together, and continued. as I could, flustered, frightened, trembling, to dance, to please. At the conclusion of the dance I performed the common obeisance, kneeling in the sand, my head down, the palms of my hands down, on either side of my head, a fitting obeisance for a female slave before masters. I was then taken by an arm, drawn to my feet, and pulled, stumbling, to a tiny, lamp-lit alcove. There I was stripped absolutely naked, save for the collar on my throat. I was then flung down on the deep furs, on my back, and my wrists were chained on either side of my head, and my ankles were chained, apart, to rings. I looked up at the tavernkeeper’s man. A heavy leather hood was drawn over my head and buckled shut beneath my chin. I heard the musicians outside, and more shouts. Another girl would dance now. I had danced third. There were to be some twenty dancers. We had been in a side room, waiting to be called to the sand. I tried the chains. I was fastened perfectly, as I knew I would be. These men do not make mistakes about such things. I could see nothing. I supposed that I must now await patrons of the tavern. I believed that I would be “opened” in moments, doubtlessly expertly, casually, callously. In such a situation one does not look for, nor expect, gentleness, sensitivity, compassion or regard from a man. A slave may be used as men please. Soon I heard the leather curtains parted, and, within the hood, foolish as it may seem, I closed my eyes, and gritted my teeth. I was ready. Indeed, in a strange way, I looked forward to my “opening.” I knew there might be a bit of pain, though not necessarily. I knew there might be a victorious penetration, an invasive, conquering impalement informing me that I was a woman, and belonged to men, and was “had,” and then perhaps a pounding, a thrusting, violent, or persuasive, perhaps brief, perhaps prolonged, perhaps subtle, perhaps crude, a working at, and within, my body, patiently or impatiently, perhaps a working as cruel as a slapping of my face, from side to side, or a working so insidiously seductive that my haunches might suddenly, inadvertently, betray my need, which I wished then to conceal, and would lift themselves piteously, begging, begging for more, and then, one supposed, eventually, sooner or later, helplessly chained, I would feel within myself the sudden claimant flooding of his pleasure. But, rather, to my astonishment, I felt myself turned to my side, and felt two, curved, joined, hinged, heavy metal bands, each perhaps a half inch thick and two inches wide, the left first, and then the right, placed about my waist. The hinge was behind me, at the small of my back. When the bands met at my waist they were close fitting, perhaps too closely, too snugly, fitting. Another such band, fastened to the others, behind me, I think by a chain link, was brought between my legs, and up. The three bands then met at my waist, the second two of them seeming to fit over a staple on the first, the band which had first been put about me, which was at my left. I then heard the snap of a heavy lock, presumably a padlock. I was then put again to my back. The device was fastened on me. One could not think of slipping it, not with a woman’s body, not with the narrowness of the waist, the swelling of the bosom, and the width of the hips. No woman could.
Incidentally, Master, my waist is narrower now. I know that because the keepers measure it, I usually standing with my legs widely separated, and my hands clasped behind my neck, which, I am told, is a common inspection position. They also tell me that my bosom is lovely, and that the width of my hips is inviting. I wonder what they mean by that. I think you found me attractive at the office, Doubtless you would find me much more so now, for the contours of my femininity are much more obvious and pronounced now. I wonder if you would object to that. The keepers, the diet, the exercise, and such, have seen to it. Do you know that slaves may be whipped if they do not keep their bodies healthy and attractive? I wonder if that horrifies you, or if you just take it as a matter of course, as might a Gorean.
Please forgive the digression.
I wonder why I should be telling you these things. Have I become so much a slave that I hope that a master might find me “of interest”? Forgive me, you are not a master. You are a man of Earth. How fearful it would have been for me on Earth, being near you, had I realized that you were a master, that you might have looked upon me, and considered me, as a master looks upon, and considers, a woman. How fearful it might have been for a natural slave, to have known herself to have been so close to a master. So close they might almost touch! Yet how amorously overpowering for her would have been even that timid suspicion!
Forgive me.
To continue, Master.
I could feel the sides of a curved metal plate between my thighs, it held in place by the bands, it attached to the middle band, perhaps welded to it, that between my legs.
When the fellow was finished, he who had fastened the whole tight, heavy, cumbersome device upon me, he slapped it once or twice, familiarly, to show me, I suppose, its nature, and how it was placed. Or perhaps to show me, too, that it was on me, and that I could do nothing about it.
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br /> He then left, drawing the curtains closed behind him.
From time to time, as the music continued outside, and other girls danced, one or another man would thrust apart the curtains, look at me, I suppose, and leave. I wonder how I looked to them. I think some of them were angry, to find me so defended, so protected, if only by the narrow, locked, well-placed humiliation of the iron. Sometimes they would mutter to themselves, or exit growling.
So, Master, some men, it seems, desired me.
Yet I am still a virgin.
I wonder if you ever desired me. Here, on this world, girls such as I, in the taverns, in the booths, in the house, in brothels, are rented for as little as a tarsk-bit, the smallest coin, as far as I know, in their currency.
So you see, here, Master, I would be cheap, or I suppose so, if my master, the house, I gather, put me out for rent, say, staked outside, spread for exhibition and pleasure, a copper bowl at my side for the coins. Or perhaps they might send me into the streets as a “coin girl,” a bell and a small, locked coin box chained about my neck, over my collar. And woe to the girl who does not bring a jangling coin box back to her master! I am sure you could afford my rent price. But I wonder if you would want me. Perhaps I might do to serve you wine, and fruit, and sweets, while you pleasured yourself with a more beautiful slave.
But let it not be Holly, Master!
I am still a virgin. That must be unusual among slaves. I am, as it is said, “white silk.” I am not yet “red silk.” I wonder who will “red silk” me. Too, I am, as it is said here, a “pierced-ear girl.” For some reason, this seems of interest to these men. Only slaves here, it seems, have their ears pierced, and not all of them. Supposedly the “pierced-ear girl” is the lowest, and most meaningless, of slaves. Yet, they seem to intrigue Gorean men. Reputedly, they bring high prices.
I had had it done to me, the piercing of my ears, some months ago, on Earth, indeed, interestingly, as I think about it now, not long after meeting you. I do not really know why I had it done. It seems so unlike me. Why would I have had it done? Was I aware, I wonder, on some level, of its declarative, amorous portent? Surely, had I realized how revealing and momentous this was to the men of this world, and how clearly, how unmistakably, this would have marked me a certain sort of girl to them, and had I suspected I might sometime find myself amongst them, helplessly so, I assuredly would have never dared to have it done. Or would I have dared, proclaiming myself before them thusly to be what they least respect and most desire? I do not know. With what amusement, and aggression, did they turn my head from side to side, considering these tiny, distinguishing apertures! They mean so little to us, but they seem to mean so much to them! Who is to say what the truths of these things are?
In any event, it is apparently unusual for a pierced-ear girl to be a virgin. I am then, it seems, something of an anomaly. Perhaps I was, too, on Earth, for a “modern woman.” I do not know. It is unusual, of course, for any slave girl, or “kajira,” to be a virgin. From what I have told you of this world, you will understand that.
Branded,
Linda
Fourteenth Letter,
En’Kara, Seventh Day
Dear Master:
You will note that I have addressed you as “Dear Master.”
I know that is not a very Gorean thing to do so, but I wanted to do that.
I must address you as “Master,” of course. That is understood. You are a free man and I am a slave, no more than a lowly kajira. But I wanted to use “Dear” in my salutation. At least this once. It reminds me, in a way, of Earth. In a way, it is like writing a letter to a friend. I think I need these letters, and the thought of you. You are, it seems, my only connection with my former world. And, alas, I do not even know if you have received any of them.
Despite my treatment of you, my feelings were actually acutely ambivalent, certainly confused. I resented you, of course, your manhood, and power. Oh, yes, and I hated you, or thought I hated you. And now I find myself writing to you as though you were a friend, my only friend, the only one capable of understanding me. What do these masterful Gorean brutes know of, or care for, an Earthwoman’s upbringing and background, the vicious, destructive, denaturalized values leached into her over the years, the conditioned negativities, how her conflicts bound her like wire, how her culture tore her from one side to another, pretending to celebrate her reality while dragging her as far from it as it could? What can they know of, or what do they care for, her torment and pain, her fears, her confusions? Of what interest to them is her astonishment at what has been done to her? Of what interest to them are her feelings, those of a young, haughty, arrogant, affluent, pampered free woman, perhaps even beautiful, who suddenly finds herself no more than a fearful, helpless, rightless, degraded slave on an alien world?
These are things which you can understand.
I am sure of that.
I suppose I hated you. I am not sure. Even as I kneel here, stripped, writing this letter, branded, in a collar, my memories, my feelings, are unclear. Certainly I treated you badly. Certainly I was cruel to you. Certainly I tried to publicly demean you, and to undermine your position at the magazine. I wanted to usurp your position, and authority. I wonder if you knew that. I think perhaps you did. Yes, I am sure you did. In trying to diminish you, and ruin you, perhaps I was using you as a means to compensate for my own loneliness, and unhappiness. I felt great dissatisfaction with the men of Earth, whom I felt were somehow wasting themselves, living like shadows, not men. If they were not men, how could I be a woman? Perhaps I wanted you to stand as hapless proxy for the men of Earth. Perhaps I wanted to ventilate on you my frustration with them, my fury at their feckless incompetence, with their surrender of themselves. Doubtless I wanted to take out this anger, this spite, on you. And yet you frustrated me, muchly. You did not recoil, and cringe, and apologize. You did not accept the antics of the political game. Were the rules strange to you? Did you not understand how it was played? Did you not understand what we could do to you? Were you not aware of the sanctions, the penalties, imposable for intractability, for standing your ground, for defending reality and nature, for refusing to mouth our bromides, for refusing to capitulate to narrow, self-serving, politicized demands? Did you not understand that we can vote, that we can terminate, as it pleases us, the tenure in office of legislators who do not do as we tell them? A wall of stone might have been more easily moved than you by my stratagems and endeavors. You paid little attention to such things. I could not understand it. You were so different from the others. All my fury, it seems, feigned or genuine, could rise no higher than the soles of your shoes, being barely noted, and when you looked down at me, I felt, to my horror, that before your insolent, measured gaze I was reduced to my essentials, essentials I did not even care to acknowledge. Doubtless you were ignoring my outpourings, my insults, my clever remarks, my ideologically motivated diatribes, and were bemusedly conjecturing my lineaments, and, I suspected, expertly. Do you think a woman does not know when a man’s look undresses her? How furious I was, seeing your smile. But I felt, I confess, as vulnerable then as a primitive woman kneeling before huntsmen, as vulnerable as a Spanish lady in a sea-coast town, backed against the far wall of her boudoir, the door broken in by pirates. At such times one learns quickly what one is. Here they teach us to loosen a man’s sandals with our teeth. I wonder if I would have been given the privilege of so untying the laces of your shoes?
Yes, I hated you, or thought I did. But, too, I was intrigued by you. You were not like the others. How had you kept the manhood the others had been tricked into relinquishing? Were you more intelligent, or your blood hotter, I wonder?
Then I wondered if my hatred, if that is what it was, was motivated by a subtle fear, a fear of you, a fear of myself.
How attractive, I fear, you were to me!
On some level, I certainly knew that I was a worthless slut. Yes, I chose the
words carefully, for a slave may not lie. Perhaps my culture had made me that. I do not know. Could there be no redemption for me? Would I never find myself? In what place lay the secrets of my heart ? Would I never discover them?
I sometimes wanted to remove my clothing before you, and kneel before you, on the rug before your desk. I would have said nothing, but kept my head down. Once you wore boots to the office. I felt an impulse to lie before you, and kiss them.
I was frequently cruel to you, unpleasant, critical, nasty.
I had dreams of you owning me, and uncompromisingly mastering me, treating me with all the authority and contempt I deserved.
The small insults, the petty remarks, the frequent, calculated miseries I inflicted on you, publicly and privately, you bore with patience, with bemused equanimity. It was almost as though you were biding your time, almost as though you were waiting for something, almost as though you knew something I did not.
All that seems long ago.
I wonder if I loved you, Master.
I wonder if you liked me, a little.
The slave is the most vulnerable, helpless, loving, and feminine of all women. It is not surprising then that she commonly lives in love, and for love. How tragic then that she dare not, in her lowly condition, aspire to, or hope for, even the master’s liking. It is hers to love; it is his to impose the mastery.
She kneels before him, his.
Collared,
Linda
Fifteenth Letter,
En’Kara, Tenth Day
Dearest Master:
Please forgive me the personal nature of my last missive.
It has little to do with this place, or my current existence. It was doubtless not in order, nor appropriate, for me to refer to our earlier relationship, which had been one often tense, frequently difficult, and, on my part, at least, troublesomely, disturbingly ambivalent.
