by John Norman
“You see now,” I said, “how beautiful can be a woman of Earth.”
“We know that from our slave markets,” laughed Glyco.
She then, reaching to the left side, beneath her arm, of what seemed to be a white sheath gown, undid a fastening, and then others, at the side of her body, her waist, her thigh, and knee, and then, gracefully, the Gorean music unobtrusive but melodious in the background, removed the garment. I saw then that a rectangle of white cloth, cleverly tucked and sewn, had been used to simulate the off-the-shoulder, white sheath gown on Earth. Such an actual gown, of course, had not been available to her on Gor.
There was gentle, appreciative applause.
She now stood before us in what seemed to be a brief, silken, off-the-shoulder slip.
“Now that is a slave’s garment, obviously,” said Glyco.
“True,” I admitted. But I smiled to myself, for I knew that such garments, on Earth, might be worn by free women. To be sure, on Earth, they were usually worn as undergarments, whereas, on Gor, such a garment, silken and smooth, with nothing beneath it, would be regarded as quite acceptable for a slave’s street wear, particularly in warm weather. To be sure, of course, the color of the garment, on Gor, would not be likely to be white, but, commonly, red or yellow. White, on Gor, is a color commonly associated with virginity. It is, accordingly, worn by few slaves.
The girl then sat on the tiles before us, but back a bit, where we, sitting cross-legged at the low table, could well see her. She extended her right leg, gracefully. It was flexed and, as her foot was placed fully upon the floor, her toes were pointed. These two things, respectively, curved her calf deliciously and extended the line of her beauty. Her left leg was back, its ankle beneath her right thigh. She looked at me, and then, bending forward, removed the golden straps wound about and under her right foot.
In the restaurant she had worn golden pumps, with wisps of golden straps. She looked at me. Well did she, and the others, know the significance of removing footwear before a free man. She cast aside the straps she had taken from her right foot. Then, putting her hands back, swiftly and smoothly, beautifully, to the music, without rising, she changed her position on the tiles. Her left thigh now faced me. Her left leg was now gracefully extended, flexed and toes pointed. Her left thigh, and calf, and ankle and foot were marvelous. Her right foot, as her left previously had been, was back, the right ankle now beneath her right thigh. She then removed the golden straps from her left foot, and cast them aside.
She looked at me. She had bared her feet before a free man. The golden straps she had used to simulate the footwear which she had worn on Earth were golden binding straps. They were the nearest thing she could find, within her limited resources, I gathered, to what she had worn in the restaurant. I did not object. They resembled somewhat, and well suggested, that footwear. Such straps, incidentally, are commonly used to bind the hands and feet of women. Sometimes, if it amused me, I could tie her in them.
There was gentle applause for the girl, and murmurs of appreciation. The footwear had been well removed.
She then rose to her feet and stood again before us, but now barefoot upon the tiles.
She then reached again to her left side, and undid a fastening there, below her left arm, and then another below it, and then one at her hip. She then unwrapped the brief slip-like garment from her body, and dropped it to one side.
“Ah,” said more than one man. “Interesting,” said Glyco.
“The garments in which you now see her,” I said, “are supposed to represent typical undergarments of an Earth female.”
“I see,” said Glyco.
The brassiere had been simulated cleverly with soft white silk. Her beauty, soft, and almost as though protesting its confinement, strained against this silk. Too, between her breasts, this silk had been twisted and knotted, this making even more evident the sweet contours of her beauty, and the sturdy, silken restraint placed upon it. The panties, too, were simulated with white silk, which, in a narrow rectangle, had been wrapped twice about her hips and tucked in at her waist. There was no nether closure to this silk, of course. The Gorean slave girl is not permitted to shield her intimacies without the explicit permission of her master.
Besides these two garments, intended, respectively, to suggest the brassiere and panties of an Earth girl, she still wore, of course, the light, narrow white scarf, this twisted and wound twice about her throat, the ends thrown over her left shoulder.
The girl then, to the music, put back her head and put her hands behind her back, and, reaching high behind her back, this lifting her breasts beautifully, strained for a moment, and then, one by one, twisting slightly, undid the hooks on the confining, tight silk.
Our eyes met.
The silk was then dropped to one side.
“Superb,” said Glyco.
She then reached to the white scarf on her throat and, beautifully, to the music, undid it one turn. She then, to the music, drew it beautifully, slowly, from her throat, and, gracefully, dropped it to one side. She wore, of course, now revealed, a close-fitting, gleaming slave collar.
She lifted her head, and, with her fingers, delicately indicated and displayed the collar.
She then stood before us as a barefoot, half-naked, collared slave.
Gorean applause, and murmurs of appreciation, greeted this aspect of her performance.
Our eyes met again.
She then reached with her right hand to her waist and undid the tuck in the silk which was wrapped about her hips. Slowly and beautifully then, to the music, with both hands, she unwound the silk, and then dropped it to the tiles.
“Superb!” said Glyco.
She then crawled to me, on her hands and knees, her head humbly down. Then, when she reached me, she lowered herself to her belly and, extending her right hand, touched me on the knee. She lifted her head. “You are my master,” she said, “and I am your slave, and I love you!”
“Superb!” said Glyco. “Superb!” Those at the table, even including the slaves, Florence and Peggy, unable to restrain themselves, applauded. She who had been Shirley, too, now the slave of Aemilianus, applauded.
I took the small slave by the upper arms, and held her, half turned, on her side, near me. I looked down into her eyes. She was breathing heavily. She was shaken with emotion. Her eyes looked up at me, pleadingly.
The voluptuous slave of Aemilianus was now attending again to the lamps, this time restoring the room to its original illumination.
I then drew the slave more closely into my arms, and again regarded her, looking deeply into her eyes. I had never suspected that she would have performed as she had. I had, of course, specified to Lola that she was to be included in the entertainment, but never had I expected anything of the nature or beauty of what I had seen. That the girl had helped to serve the dessert course in display chains would, in itself, have fully contented me. Informed by Lola that she was to be a component of our entertainment doubtless the girl herself had suggested and devised this performance, abetted, of course, by Lola. Of many things in the performance, such as the restaurant, Lola could have known nothing. The idea of the performance, then, as well as most of the details involved in its presentation, must have been that of my little dark haired slave. It was a most beautiful gift which she had given me.
The room had now been restored to its normal illumination. The candle, blown out, and the white cloth, too, had been removed. I saw that Florence, flushed, kneeling behind Miles of Vonda, was biting at the back of his tunic, and putting her hands on his hips. “Get back, Slave,” he said to her. “Yes, Master,” she sobbed, and knelt back. She had been aroused by the performance of the dark-haired slave. I saw that Peggy, too, in her white tunic, was flushed. She was breathing deeply. It seemed she could not take her eyes from Callimachus.
I looked down into the eyes of the little slave. She looked up at me, pleadingly. “Master,” she whispered.
“It is time to serve the liqueurs,
Slave,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. She then rose to her feet and hurried toward the kitchen.
“Slave,” I called.
“Yes, Master,” she said, stopping, turning, and falling to her knees.
“You will serve as you are,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said, and then, rising up, turned and hurried to the kitchen, there to render aid to Lola and the slave of Aemilianus.
A small whimper escaped Florence.
“Be silent, Slave,” said Miles of Vonda.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“She is not the only one,” said Tasdron, jerking a thumb at Peggy, who, blushing crimson, put down her head, looking away from Callimachus.
“Ah,” said Glyco. “The liqueurs!”
First from the kitchen, bearing her tray, came the voluptuous slave of Aemilianus. Behind her, too with her tray, came the little dark-haired slave. In a moment both were deferentially serving. The collared softness of the dark-haired girl well set off the metal of the tray, and the small, multicolored glasses and bottles upon it. It is not unusual, at a Gorean meal, where free women are not present, for one or more of the slaves to serve naked. At ruder meals, this makes it easier for one of the guests, should the urge strike him, to use them.
“A free woman!” suddenly exclaimed Glyco, startled.
I smiled.
From the kitchen there had emerged, in the robes of concealment, the figure of a woman.
The men, save I, rose as one to their feet, for Gorean men commonly stand when a free woman enters a room.
The voluptuous slave of Aemilianus swiftly knelt, making herself as small as possible, putting her head to the floor. The little dark-haired slave, too, swiftly knelt, also putting her head to the floor. Too, she shuddered, trying to cover her nakedness with her hands. Peggy and Florence, too, now had their heads to the floor. Slave girls, as I may have mentioned, fear free women, terribly.
The woman in the robes of concealment seemed timid, frightened. She approached the table hesitantly, diffidently. She did not understand, fully, what she was to do.
“A free woman is present,” whispered Glyco to me.
But I did not get up.
“You!” she suddenly said, from behind her veils, seeing Calliodorus, of Port Cos, captain of the Tais. “You?”
He seemed startled. He leaned forward, as though he might peer through the veils themselves.
“You are Calliodorus,” she said, “of Port Cos!” I had not told her, of course, that Calliodorus was to be a guest at our supper.
“You!” he cried, suddenly. “Can it be you? No! It cannot be you! It cannot! Not after all these years!”
“It is I,” she said, trembling.
“Gentlemen,” said Calliodorus, huskily, “this is the free woman, Lola, of Port Cos!”
Suddenly the girl, sobbing, wildly tore away her veils and the robes of concealment, revealing that she wore a slave tunic and collar. “I am not a free woman,” she cried, throwing herself to the feet of Calliodorus, “I am a slave girl!”
“And she is yours!” I cried.
Calliodorus, stunned, looked down at the beauty at his feet.
I rose to my feet.
She looked around at me, wildly. “Master!” she cried.
“You are now his,” I said, indicating Calliodorus.
“Thank you, Master!” she cried. “Thank you, Master!” She rose to her feet, and ran to me, falling to her knees before me and putting her head down to my feet. She kissed my feet in gratitude. “Thank you, Master,” she sobbed. I was pleased with her pleasure. She was a superb slave, properly handled, and I was quite fond of her. She had served me well. I thought it not unfit that she be rewarded. Accordingly I had given her to Calliodorus.
She rose to her feet and ran to kneel before Calliodorus. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, her hands on his legs. “Will you accept me, Master?” she asked.
“In Port Cos,” said he, “long ago, I wooed you with all the honors and dignities to be accorded to the free woman. Well did we grow acquainted, and many were the long and intimate conversations in which we shared.” His eyes then grew hard. “And in one of these,” he said, “you uttered an unspeakable confession, acknowledging your slave needs.”
“I was so ashamed,” she said, turning her face away.
“How could I take to my bed in honor one who had dared to confess her slave needs? Such girls I could buy at the market. We parted, naturally. But our families, desiring the companionship, pressed us for explanations. That our honors might be protected, of course, yours that you had dared to confess your slave needs, and mine, that I had been the scandalized auditor of so shameful an admission, we remained silent.”
“But,” said she, moist-eyed, “that our courtship not appear to have failed, and that our families not be disgraced, you agreed to proceed with the companionship, this in accordance with your conception of your duty as an officer and a gentleman.”
He looked down at her, not speaking.
“I did not wish to languish, scorned and neglected, in a cold bed, while you contented yourself with market girls. I fled the city.”
“You are mistaken in at least one thing,” he said. “I had not determined to proceed with the companionship because of family pressures. I am not so weak. Similarly, my duties as an officer and a gentleman were not implicated in the matter.”
“But, why then?” she asked.
“I wanted you,” he said.
“But I have slave needs,” she said.
“I thought long after our conversation,” he said. “You had dared to confess your slave needs, and this had shamed you, and it had scandalized me. But, why, I asked myself. Should not, rather, one be more ashamed by deceit than the truth? Can there truly be a greater honor in hypocrisy than in honesty? It does not seem so. I then realized how bravely you had trusted me and revealed this to me. My outrage gave way to gratitude and admiration. Similarly, I asked myself, why was I scandalized. Was this not connected with hidden fears of my own, that I might discover complementary needs within myself, the needs to own and be a master? Your confession, so expressive and poignant, tended to undermine a deceit of free persons. You had dared, it seemed, to break the code of hypocrisy. Had the gate to barbarism been left ajar? I regretted, for a time, the loss of the lie. We grow fond of our myths. Yet our myths are like walls of straw. Ultimately they cannot protect us. Ultimately they must perish in the flames of truth.”
“You would have taken me,” she asked, “knowing that I had slave needs?”
“Your slave needs,” he said, “made you a thousand times more desirable. What man does not want a slave?”
She looked at him, startled.
“It was thus my intention to take you into honorable companionship,” he said, “but, in the privacy of our quarters, away from the sight of the world, to put you in a collar, and keep you as a slave, even to the whip.”
She looked up at him, disbelievingly.
“But,” he said, “such a farce will not now be necessary.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“Strip,” he said.
“There are others present,” she protested.
His right hand, in a backhand blow, lashed forth, fierce and powerful, striking her from her knees to her side on the tiles. She rose to her hands and knees and, blood at her mouth, regarded him, disbelievingly.
“Must a command be repeated?” he inquired.
Swiftly she tore away the slave tunic, stripping herself. He snapped his fingers and pointed to his feet. She crawled to his feet on her belly. She looked up at him.
“I gather that you accept the gift,” I said.
“I do accept it,” he said, “and I thank you.”
“I have called her Lola,” I said, “but you may, of course, call her what you wish.”
“You are Lola,” he said to the slave.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, named. S
he put down her head and, gently, kissed his feet.
“Lola,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“From the first instant, long ago, when I saw you in Port Cos, I wanted to own you.”
“And from the first instant in Port Cos, so long ago,” she said, “I wanted to be your slave.”
“You now are,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Here,” I said. I threw Calliodorus an eighteen-inch black binding strap. It was identical to the one I had earlier given to Aemilianus.
“Thank you,” grinned Calliodorus.
“Bind her well,” I said.
“Have no fear,” laughed Calliodorus, “she will know herself bound.”
There was then laughter, and Gorean applause, congratulating Calliodorus on his good fortune, and me on the loveliness and generosity of my gift. Then again we sat down. The gift, nude and collared, curled lovingly on its side near him, its hand touching his knee.
“It is time now,” laughed Tasdron, “for me to add something to the evening.” Peggy looked at him, puzzled. “On your feet, Slave,” said he to her, “and go to the tiles at the foot of the table.”
Startled, Peggy did as she was told. She then stood there, frightened, in the brief white tunic. She had no idea as to what was to be required of her. She had thought that she had been brought to the supper merely to attend Tasdron, her master.
“Strip,” said Tasdron.
Swiftly, unquestioningly, knowing herself a Gorean slave girl, Peggy unbelted the tunic, parted it, and slipped it from her shoulders. She then blushed crimson. She had been forced to make herself nude, in the presence of others, before the man she loved.
“Slave,” said Tasdron.
“Yes, Master,” said Peggy.
“In the tavern,” he said, “you have seen various dances, have you not?”
“Yes, my Master,” she said.
“You have seen among them, have you not,” he asked, “the Sa-eela?”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, turning white.
“Dance it,” he said.
