by John Norman
I wonder if you ever thought of me stripped, and in chains. Really naked, really chained.
Presumably not, for you are doubtless a gentleman.
Forgive my small jest. What man does not want to own a beautiful woman, to possess her, literally? What man has not dreamed of a female, doubtless one of his acquaintance, stripped, bound hand and foot, tightly, gagged, perhaps blindfolded, lying, waiting, on the floor, at the foot of his bed? How inert, how spineless, how boring, how weak, how pathetic, would be the male to whom such pleasantries never occurred.
And how strange would be the female who has never dreamed of writhing in the chains of a master, knowing that he owns her, and that she has no choice but to yield to him completely, succumbing to an ascendant succession of multiple orgasms she is not permitted to resist, lest she be cruelly punished.
There are many slaves in the house. In the last weeks I have met many. And we have trained together.
They are being readied for sale, as might be cattle, or horses. Most seem to look forward, eagerly, to their sale, and tease one another about the comparative prices they will bring. All are eager to escape the gloom and discipline of the house! Surely better to sleep chained to a master’s slave ring, than retire to the confines of the small cages in which we are kept. I am, incidentally, no longer kept in an isolated cage. The cages can be tiered. My “apartment” is now on the third level, the second from the left, as one looks toward the cage wall.
I am fed with, and trained with, my group.
I suppose I am to be sold, as well.
I wonder what the men at the office, and other men I knew, would think of me now, and what has become of me. Would they be horrified, really, or would they be rather pleased? I suspect they would think it served me right, and might wish the same fate on various others of their acquaintance.
I think, incidentally, Holly would look well in a collar. I wonder if she realizes that she should be a slave. So she uses her little body to advance herself? On this world she would strive to please a master.
Interestingly I have come to understand that I do deserve to be a slave, that that is what I am, and that that is right for me. I do not know about other women, but I now understand that I am a natural slave, that that is my destiny, and one I welcome. I no longer desire to be free. Or, should I say that the collar has made me freer than ever I could have been as a putatively free woman? In submission I have found joy, in serving fulfillment. I feel I have now begun to fulfill my heritage in a species which is clearly dimorphic, one in which men and women are quite different, radically different, yet beautifully complementary. And this complementarity, at least where slaves are concerned, is recognized in this world and incorporated into its cultural and legal institutions. Here civilization does not contradict nature, but accepts her, and enhances her.
For the first time in my life I have been truly liberated, biologically, psychologically, emotionally.
I think there are many slaves on Earth, waiting for their masters.
A fitting and joyful slave,
Linda
Sixteenth Letter,
En’Kara, Twelfth Day
Master:
Please forgive the forward nature of my last two salutations. I am informed that such expressions as “Dear Master” and “Dearest Master” are presumptuous on the part of a slave, perhaps suggesting some subtle hint of a presumed equality, or intimacy. So, as a slave, I now hasten to address you simply, straightforwardly, as “Master.” Even the preferred slave, even the high slave, even the love slave, it seems, would think carefully before daring to address her master as anything other than “Master.” Whatever their status, let them remember their place. We are all the same in a very important respect. We are all slaves.
I have discovered, Master, having been permitted the inquiry, while lying on my belly before a trainer, clasping his foot in my hands and pressing my lips to it, that I am not to be sent to one of the emporia for the vending of female slaves, nor even to one of the sales barns in the countryside, beyond the city walls, which might seem more appropriate for me.
It seems I am not to be sold.
I do not understand this.
“Why am I not to be sold, Master?” I asked the trainer.
“Read your collar,” said he.
“Alas, Master,” I said, “I cannot read.”
“Stupid, illiterate slave,” said he, and left.
“Yes, Master,” I wept.
And so, Master, even if I am not stupid, I am illiterate, here. Gorean women, captured, and enslaved, if of high caste, will be literate, of course. And some lower-caste women can read. Some slaves are doubtless taught to read, that they may be of greater service to their masters. But most, it seems, are not taught to read. I gather that I am not to be taught to read. That will doubtless help to keep me in my place, as a low slave, even a pierced-ear girl! You will remember how literate, how articulate I was! Here I cannot read. Here, commonly, I must ask permission to speak, which permission, of course, may not be granted. Then I must remain silent. You would not find me “assertive” here, Master. No! I have no wish to be punished.
I think of you often, Master. As you are a man, I sometimes wonder if you, in the offices, in the corridors, in the meeting rooms, in the conferences, ever thought of me, perhaps when I was nasty, petulant, petty or troublesome, as your slave, stripped, collared, at your feet. There, at your shoes. That would have changed things, wouldn’t it? Then I would have been much different, wouldn’t I?
Then I would have been in my place.
And I would have known myself in my place.
As I do now!
Too, I would not want to have been whipped.
I sometimes thought of you as my master, who would see to it that I would be subjected to the delicious domination, even to the threat of, or actuality of, the whip, which would bring my femaleness home to me, without which I could not experience the fullness of my womanhood.
Are we not born to love masters, and to obey and please them, and to serve them, and with our whole hearts and souls?
Is it not what we want to do?
Is it not that which brings us our ultimate fulfillment?
Forgive me, Master. How strange must be these thoughts to you, a man of Earth!
Please do not be offended, or distraught, if a woman should speak to you the truths of her heart. Doubtless I would never have had the courage to kneel before you and confess such things to you on Earth. And beg of you the collar, yes, the collar, and the discipline, without which I could not be whole. But you are not here. You are far away, on a far world, and I am here, wherever this may be. And I am just writing this, and I do not even know if you have ever received, or read, any of my letters. Or if you will receive this one. Perhaps I am only speaking to myself, and not to another. Perhaps these letters are little more than a diary of sorts, the dialogue of a woman, or of a girl, a lonely, frightened owned girl, with her own heart, her considering of hitherto unexplored depths, and new rooms and paths, and surprising perspectives, and, yes, bright, beckoning horizons.
But let us dismiss such thoughts.
Consider them little more than the liabilities and hazards of a slave, one who has now no choice but to speak the truth.
I do not understand why I am not to be put up for sale. Surely these men, businessmen, merchants, are interested in making a profit on me. I cost them nothing. I would try to perform well on the block, stripped, of course, for I am told Gorean men like to see what they are buying, to obey, to pose, to smile, perhaps to writhe, to dance, to petition. I would not want to be publicly lashed. Too, I am curious to know what I might bring. I would surely try to bring a good price. How dreadful to say that, I suppose, but it is true. Perhaps it is not really dreadful at all. Perhaps it is very nice. In any event, you see, Master, how she who was once your colleague at the magazine now understands her true rea
lity, which she, on this world, has been brought to face, accept, and love. Yes, Master—do you find it strange?—love.
A low slave,
Linda
Seventeenth Letter,
En’Kara, Eighteenth Day
Master:
I am owned!
It is on my collar! It has been read for me! It says: “I am Linda. I am the property of Rask of Harfax.”
I do not know him.
Where is Harfax? This city is called Besnit. Is he of high caste? Is he of low caste? Is he rich? Is he poor? Is he kind, is he cruel? Is he gentle or hard, lax, or severe? Is he handsome and virile? Is he fat or weak? Does he have many women? For some reason, is he fond of Earthwomen?
I know nothing of him.
But that is why I am not being sent out in the deliveries to the markets, chained in the wagons with other girls. I am already owned!
Who is Rask of Harfax?
Has he ever seen me? Why would he want me in his collar? There are many slaves more beautiful, even in the house.
I am owned. Now I am truly afraid. He will hold all power over me! It is to him that I must crawl naked, bringing him the whip in my teeth. Hopefully he will not use it on me! I do not know who he is, but I must try to please him. If only we could choose our own masters! But it is we who are chosen, captured, embonded, trained, displayed, purchased, distributed!
Am I a reward for him, for some service he has rendered? Am I part of his pay, or a bonus, or given to him as a favor, perhaps the consequence of a mere request, made in passing? Or has he the power to simply designate me, and have me put me to one side, reserving me for himself?
I am a chattel, owned, but I do not even know my master! All I know is his name. Before, I did not know even that. Who is this Rask of Harfax, to whom I belong, as much as a dog, a pig, a sandal?
Who is he?
Who is this Rask of Harfax?
He is my master!
But I do not even know him!
She whom you knew as Linda, once your co-worker, once your fellow employee, is owned by him! She is his slave! He is her master, literally.
She must obey him, instantly, and unquestioningly, in all things!
She is a slave, his slave!
Can you even conceive of this?
But it is true; Master, it is true!
And please, Masters, my keepers, my trainers, do not strike me, for the tears which have fallen on this page. Forgive me, I beg you. I am sorry, I am sorry, Masters! Please forgive me, Masters!
In consternation,
Linda
Eighteenth Letter,
En’Kara, Twentieth Day
Master:
How cruel they are to me!
No, it is not what you think. No, I was not beaten for the tears which fell upon the pages of my last letter. Indeed, they seemed amused by that hapless indiscretion. It is in another sense that they are cruel to me, which shall shortly become clear.
As you may have discerned, the pleasure slave, branded, collared, trained, dominated, has no doubt as to her raison d’être; she is owned for purposes of service and love; that is what she is for, to be a man’s loving servant and slave, to be his, humbly, gladly, in all ways.
What may have been more subtle, and perhaps less noted, is that the imperious master understands her as a slave, and treats her accordingly. And she loves him the more for this, as it effectuates the domination, and means that she must strive ever the more fervently, desperately, ingeniously, to please him. She must understand herself as nothing, and the master as all. Without him how could she even be fed?
Does he truly feel the contempt he displays toward her? Does he fear he might grow fond of the vulnerable, cringing, frightened, loving she at his feet? How fearful that would be, to love a slave! And yet I think few “free companions” are as coveted, as desired, as jealously guarded, as uncompromisingly possessed, as the female slave.
They are special to the master. You know how fond men are of what they own, of their properties, their possessions, their toys!
Female slaves. Slave girls.
They are the truest, the most feminine, the most desirable of all women.
But, too, I wonder, Master, if you, a man, could possibly understand the warmth, the radiance, the emotional gratifications the slave derives from her condition. I wonder if you can understand the sensuous, redemptive, meaningful psychological milieu of her existence. Can you imagine the sensuousness of her life, even as she performs small, homely tasks? Can you comprehend the pervasive, profound, irresistible sexual stimulations of her reality, that she is branded, thusly marked as property; collared, thusly demonstrated as slave, the collar commonly bearing identificatory data, the name of the slave, the name of her master, and such; the mode of garmenture accorded to her, when she is permitted clothing, which tends to be brief, and sometimes exotically revealing; certainly she must be clearly, unmistakably distinguished from lofty, superior, exalted free women, whose sandals she is unworthy to tie; too, she must speak, move, kneel, lie, and such, with feminine grace, and so on. She must even wear chains in an aesthetic, graceful, attractive, stimulatory manner.
Did you know that we can be whipped for not being graceful, appealing, and beautiful in our chains?
And how exciting is the clink of the chains when she feels their weight, their obdurate, linked sturdiness, and knows herself perfectly secured, helpless within them, and comprehends their meaning, that she is slave, and at the mercy of the master!
And how exciting, too, is the glimpse of a simple slave tunic, or a swirling drape of diaphanous silk. How exciting the belled wrist or ankle! How exciting a metal anklet, a golden armlet, a silver bracelet, a cheap necklace of slave beads! How exciting a short length of soft cord, a bit of binding fiber, slave wristlets, slave cuffs, a leash, a coil of rope, lying nearby, which one knows may be wrapped again and again about one.
And how frightening the mere sight of the master’s whip!
She knows its meaning, and obeys well.
The slave’s sexual heat is commonly upon her, and seems to lurk always just below the surface. I have felt receptivity at almost the same instant that I am ordered to my knees.
They light in our bellies “slave fires.”
Your critical, nasty, petulant, troublesome Linda, once so arrogant, so haughty, so cold, so superior, is now changed, Master. She is now a fearful, obedient, docile, amorous slave!
Yet I remain a virgin, and, it seems, in a way a tortured virgin, for they, of late, have brought me to the very edge of release, and have then denied me the relief I cried out to obtain. Yes, I begged for the relief they denied me! Needfully, shamelessly! How cruel they are! How subtle, how skilled! Then I am often returned to the cage, my wrists tied apart to the bars, and my ankles, too, so that I must writhe there in need, on the steel, unfulfilled. How horrifying must this treatment be then to the “red silk” girl, when I, only a “white silk” girl, am brought by it to a such a pitch of excruciating discomfort. Often the girls are denied to the guards and staff for some days before their sale, that they will appear the more piteous and needful, and will beg on the block all the more pathetically, all the more desperately, for a master!
Master, I want a master! How strange that the Linda you knew, now a slave on a far world, a slave on whom the name “Linda” has been placed by masters, should crave a master, should weep and beg for one.
Yes, Master, I admit it, freely, openly, shamelessly. I want a master!
Who is Rask of Harfax?
A miserable, begging, heated slave,
Linda
Nineteenth Letter,
En’Kara, Twenty-Second Day
Master:
Why do I despise and hate Holly? I do not know. I suppose I was jealous, as she was your mistress. I have wondered, sometimes, how she would look, as a slav
e. She is certainly a pretty little thing, with those blue eyes and blond hair. Perhaps you thought she was a natural blonde. What would she look like, collared, in a short, simple rep-cloth tunic, kneeling before a master? I think I am younger now than I was, or, at least, seem so. Perhaps it is the diet, the exercise, the serums. I think, now, I would be about the same age as Holly. Perhaps we are both now no more than meaningless “chits.” I wonder which of us you would prefer? I would compete with her, for your favor. Yes, she you knew as Linda would compete with her for your favor. And perhaps I could lick your whip more piteously, more lasciviously, more beggingly, than she. You could shift from one of us to the other, of course, as you pleased, as, say, you might tire of one of us or the other, or as you might merely, now and then, desire a change. The other you could send to the kitchen, or put weeping in her cage, or kennel.
A jealous slave,
Linda
Twentieth Letter,
En’Kara, Twenty-third Day
Master:
I have been informed by the keepers that I am “a worthless slave.”
It is undoubtedly true.
Certainly I was worthless, as I now understand, on Earth, when I thought myself so special, so estimable, so valuable, so precious, so superior. How well I fulfilled the stereotypes of my ideology, how far I was from my true, deeper self and my heart! Did you know I sometimes slept on the floor, at the foot of, or at the side of, my bed, pretending that a master had put me there, where I might be conveniently at hand, should he want me during the night?
But that was one of the least worthless things about me.
That was one of my few actions which might have been appropriate, and acceptable.
During the day I flourished my politics, my rage, so easy to feign, so useful in garnering attention, my grievances, my power, the law, hints, and threats. But at night I sometimes slept on the floor, at the foot of the bed, or beside it, where something told me I should be, where I belonged.
