by John Norman
“May I approach Master?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She came and stood quite close to me, within the circle of my space, close, as a slave may stand to her master. Her nearness was almost overwhelming. I thrust her back. She regarded me, amused, observing me scrutinizing her bared beauty. She knew I owned it.
“Doubtless I am now to be unchained,” she said, “that I may attend to my domestic labors, clearing the table, and such, but then, perhaps, it was not for that reason that Master chained me so helplessly. Perhaps he has other plans in mind for me. I know that he need not reveal to me his intentions with respect to me, but, naturally, I am curious.”
“Curiosity is not becoming in a Kajira,” I said.
“Granted, Master,” she said, “but, as you must understand, in certain situations, as when a woman finds herself naked and chained before a man, a certain amount of curiosity on her part regarding her fate is almost unavoidable.”
“I think it is time to throw you in your kennel,” I said. “There you may ponder your cleverness.” I seized her angrily by the arm and pulled her, stumbling, toward her kennel. “No, Master!” she cried. “Please, no!”
In moments I had thrust her into the low, cement, steel barred kennel. She scrambled about, on her knees, on the blanket on the cement floor, her hands chained behind her, to face outward, just as the steel-barred gate clanged down, locking, in front of her. I saw the shadows of the bars on her face and body. She thrust her face, and beauty, against the bars. “Please, Master,” she begged, “don’t kennel me!”
“Why not?” I asked.
She regarded me, through the bars, her face pressed close against them. She was on her knees. A girl cannot stand in the kennel. Its low ceiling, about four feet in height, does not permit it. She drew back, slightly, from the bars. “The kennel is cold, and hard,” she said.
I turned away.
“Master,” she cried, “please don’t go!”
I turned again, to face her.
“I will try to be a good slave,” she said, “humble, docile, loving and obedient.”
Again I turned from her.
“Master,” she cried, “let me beg for what I want!”
I turned to face her.
“Let me beg on my belly for what I want!” she said, her face pressed against the bars, tears in her eyes.
I went to the gate of the kennel and unlocked it, and flung it upwards, and stepped back.
The slave then, on her belly, squirmed forth from the kennel. I stepped back five paces, that she must follow me. Then she lay before me, submitting and prone, on the tiles.
“Did you wish to speak?” I asked her.
She lifted her head. “I beg your touch, Master,” she said.
I looked down upon her. The depth, extent and distribution of sexually active areas on the female body is, of course, considerable. Indeed, in sexual arousal, her entire body can become sensitized, and, so to speak, sexually vulnerable and flammable. Her sexual response can become one of the entire squirming, yielding, overwhelmed organism. When a woman yields it is all of her that yields.
Her response, of course, is far more than crudely physical. It constitutes a psychophysiological ecstasy, a rhapsody of being owned and had. Her sexual response, thus, is far more than a simplistic response to physical stimuli. It is a function of an entire situation and condition. It is thus, perhaps, that the female slave, knowing herself slave and owned, attains sexual heights and depths, orgasms and totalities of response, forever denied, in the nature of things, to her ignorant sisters, cool and inhibited, smug in their prides and freedoms.
The slave girl, in effect, is the woman in her place in nature. It is there, in her own place and world, and there only, that she can attain her biological destiny, that she can find her total female fulfillment. Free, she is enslaved, the prisoner of inhibitions, artifices and conventions; enslaved, she is free, liberated to the self-fulfillment of her deepest nature. Free, she is enslaved; enslaved, she is free. That is the paradox of the collar.
“I am the only woman in the house, Master,” said the slave.
I did not speak.
“Do not lock my softness away from you tonight, in the kennel,” she begged. “Let it be near to you.”
“Do you have sexual needs?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you want them satisfied?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you confess yourself to be a lowly and passionate slave?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “I am a lowly and passionate slave.”
“One who is eager to please her Master?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I looked down at her, on her belly, her small hands chained behind her. The passions of the female slave are a mystery to many free women who, unaroused and sexually inert, never collared and owned, cannot even understand them; to most free women, of course, the passions of the female slave are not so much a mystery as a source of envy and fury; she senses that they, deep and precious, making the slave so helpless and vulnerable, are far beyond anything which she herself possesses. Sometimes, perhaps, twisting on her couch at night in frustration, the free woman may dimly sense what it is to be an aroused slave, a woman so much at the mercy of men, and so precious and beautiful to them; the free woman clenches her fists and moans; the slave may throw herself to the feet of men and beg to please them, as she cannot.
“Master, Master,” whimpered the small slave, lying before me.
I looked down at her. Her passions had been well ignited. This had been done, doubtless, by her condition, and by masters. She was a slave.
“Do not kennel me, Master,” she begged. “Sleep me at your slave ring.”
I smiled. The girl whom I had known on Earth, now my nameless slave on Gor, had begged to be slept at my slave ring.
“Chain me by the neck at the foot of your couch, my Master,” she begged, “as you might a slut or a she-sleen. You need not even touch me. It will be enough for me, if I am merely allowed to lie near you.”
“On your feet,” I told her.
Swiftly she scrambled to her feet and stood before me. I looked at her, and she, swiftly, deferentially, put down her head. “Now you are beginning to be pleasing,” I told her.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
I touched the side of her face, gently. She lifted her head. “Perhaps I will deign to touch you,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
“Strip me,” I said.
“But I am chained!” she cried, trying, futilely, to pull her wrists apart.
I smiled.
“Forgive me, Master,” she laughed. “I am such a stupid slave!”
Then she fell to her knees before me and, with her teeth, untied the sandals and removed them from my feet. She then stood, and, bending over, her hands helplessly chained behind her, bit and pulled at the knot in the cord that belted my tunic. When she had freed this knot she went behind me, first to my left shoulder, and then to my right shoulder, and, with her small, fine teeth, drew the tunic from my body.
“Ohh,” she said, softly, “Master is beautiful.”
“I cannot be beautiful,” I said, rather irritatedly. “I am a man. I might be good-looking, or handsome, perhaps, but I cannot be beautiful. And even such things, I suspect, would be rather controversial.”
“To me,” she said, “you are lean, and strong and beautiful.”
I looked at her, angrily.
“And you own me,” she smiled.
“That, at least, is uncontroversial,” I said.
“Shall I heel my Master to his bedroom,” she asked, “or does he desire that I precede him?”
“I shall carry you,” I said.
“As Master wishes,” she said, breathlessly.
I put my hands on her.
“Oh!” she said.
I then rubbed my fingers and smelled my hand.
“Slaves, too, it seems,” I said, “sometimes find it difficult to conceal their desire.”
“Yes, Master,” she laughed.
“Oh!” she said. “You are going to carry me like this,” she asked, “upside down and in front of you?”
“Yes,” I said, “and as I ascend the stairs slowly, you will please me.”
“Yes, Master,” she laughed.
At the top of the stairs I stopped, and shuddered, and cried out.
“Perhaps I should have gagged Master,” she said.
I then carried her, over my shoulder, into the bedroom, to throw her to the foot of my couch, beneath the slave ring.
Chapter 21 - THE SLAVE RING; THE WHIP IS KISSED; BLACK WINE; A SLAVE IS NAMED; ECSTASY
How small and soft she was, and how beautiful, lying in my arms, on the furs of love, at the foot of my couch, in the soft light of the ravishment lamp.
About her throat, over the slender, identificatory collar, a heavy, thick iron collar had been locked, with a heavy chain, leading to the stout loop of the slave ring, some eight inches in width, fixed in the foot of the couch.
“I am so happy, my Master,” she said. “I am so happy:”
Her first taking had been on the floor of the bedroom, she still locked in the body chain. I had then relieved her of its restraint, that the evening might properly begin.
With her own hands I had forced her to spread the furs of love and light the ravishment lamp. I had then had her kneel at the foot of the couch, and had chained her by the neck to the slave ring. I had then had her kiss the whip. I had then again taken her.
Before this last having of her she had lain on her back on the furs crying out with joy, feeling the heavy collar on her throat, and the weight of the chain that fastened her by the collar to the slave ring. “I cannot slip it,” she had said, trying to force the collar from her. “No,” I had said. “The chain is so heavy!” she had purred. “It will hold you well,” I had told her. Then she had risen to her hands and knees. She had reached out and touched the slave ring with her right hand, and then she had crawled to it, and kissed it. She had then turned to face me, on all fours, the chain dangling down from her collar. “I love being chained to your slave ring,” she had said. I had then drawn her towards me and thrown her on her back. “Yes, Master,” she had whimpered, eagerly throwing her legs apart.
“I am so happy,” she whispered, lying in my arms. “I had never dreamed I could be so happy.”
I thrust the whip again to her mouth and, tenderly, softly, holding it to her lips, she covered it with kisses.
“You enjoy kissing the whip, don’t you?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You know well what its lash can do to your softness, do you not?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she smiled.
“And yet you kiss it lovingly,” I said.
“Yes, my Master,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said. “Perhaps it is a symbol, plain to my vulnerable womanhood, of your manhood, which makes me such a yielding slave. Perhaps it is a symbol of your dominance over me.”
“Does it seem to you that you are kissing a symbol?” I said.
“Perhaps on some level it seems so,” she said, “but I experience it rather differently. It is, you see, a real whip, and one that can be used on me. Thus it seems to me that what I am really doing is kissing a whip; your whip. The whip, in itself, is not a symbol. It is a real whip. It may, of course, have symbolic significance.”
“Kissing the whip is for you,” I said, “apparently a rich sexual, and emotional, experience.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “And even if you were a hated master, it would still, for us slaves, be such an experience.”
“Even if the master were a hated one?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “On one level we might hate to kneel before him and kiss his whip, but on another level we would be thrilled that he had made us do so. He would be showing us that we are women. Master, perhaps, being a man, cannot fully understand, or understand in its total fullness, what it is for a woman to kneel naked before a man and be forced to kiss his whip. It is, I assure you, a very meaningful experience, and one which she understands in every bit of her body. Indeed, after having kissed a man’s whip it is very difficult to continue to hate him, even if he wishes us to do so, enjoying perhaps the humiliation and taming of a woman who hates him. Rather, as slaves, now taught by our master, we find ourselves, almost against our wills, considering how we might perhaps better serve and please him.”
“I see,” I said.
“All women want to be owned by a man strong enough to make her kiss his whip,” she said “What woman would want to be owned by a man of any other sort?”
I said nothing.
“You will be strong with me, will you not?” she asked. “You will make me do, and be, uncompromisingly, and as a slave, what you want, will you not?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then I kiss your whip,” she said, “and love it.”
“You enjoy being a slave?” I asked.
“I am a slave,” she said, “and I love it.”
“You know that you cannot change your mind on this matter,” I said, “and that there is no escape for you on Gor.”
“I know it well, Master,” she said. “On this world; the law even, as I am a slave, in all its force, puts me in your total power.”
“In the total power of any Master,” I said, “to whom you might legally belong.”
“Yes, Master,” she shuddered. “But it is my hope that you will be kind to me.”
“I shall see if you serve well,” I said.
“I shall serve well,” she said. “I think that yon will find that the girl you knew on Earth, now collared on Gor, will supply you with wonders of service.”
“Serve me now,” I said.
“Immediately, and in any way Master wishes,” she said.
She lay on her stomach, on her elbows beside me. I lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling.
“Several collars were removed tonight,” she said, “those of Shirley, of Lola and Peggy.”
“To be replaced with other collars shortly,” I said.
“My collar was not removed,” she said. “You kept me.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I think you like me,” she said. “You could have taken me to the market and sold me. You could do that easily. You are a Gorean master. But you did not do so. I think that perhaps you like me.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“That will not endanger our relationship, do you think?” she asked.
“I do not think so,” I smiled.
“You are rich, aren’t you?” she asked.
“As Goreans go,” I said. “I think, Yes.”
“You could buy many girls?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“But I am the only girl in the house,” she said, pointedly.
“At the moment,” I said.
“Oh,” she said.
I regarded her, smiling.
“I will try to be such that you will feel neither the need nor the desire for others,” she said.
“Do you think that you can do the work, and supply the love and service of several, Nameless Slave?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said, fervently, “yes, a thousand times yes!”
“I shall give you an opportunity to prove yourself,” I said.
“I ask nothing more,” she said.
“You need training,” I said.
“Train me!” she cried. “Train me, piteously, mercilessly, to your standards and pleasure!”
“I shall do so,” I said, quietly.
“Yes, Master,” she said, trembling.
I held her in my arms, looking down into her eyes. She looked up at me, lovingly.
“I do not need to report for five days,” I told her. “I think that will give us time to become be
tter acquainted.”
“I thought we were already rather well acquainted, Master,” she smiled, “and intimately.”
“I do not even know your name,” I said.
“You have not yet given me one!” she laughed.
“I want to know millions of things about you,” I said.
“I am your chained slave,” she said. “What else do you need to know?”
“Everything,” I said.
“The talents of my tongue and fingers?” she asked.
“Everything,” I said, “even your smallest movements and most trivial thoughts.”
“You want to own all of me, don’t you?” she asked.
“I do own all of you,” I said. “It is only, now, that I am growing curious about what I own.”
“You wish to make inquiries into the nature of your property?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am a girl, and a slave, and I love you,” she said.
I kissed her.
“I can tell you my measurements,” she said, “and my collar size, and the sizes of the wrist and ankle rings that will fit me. I was forced to memorize these things before my first sale.”
“I am tempted to grow fond of you,” I said.
“Of a slave?” she asked.
“To be sure,” I said, “the thought is surely foolish.”
She suddenly lifted her lips to mine and kissed me, deeply and softly, rather helplessly, almost in desperation. “I am almost melting with love for you, my Master,” she said. “I know my will means nothing, but I beg to be had.”
I then again, this time gently and at length, with tenderness, took her.
***
I looked down at her, curled on the love furs, so small and curvaceous, in the heavy collar, chained by the neck to the slave ring, asleep.
The light of morning was in the room, filtering through the shutters. It was warm and bright outside. We had slept late. I had been downstairs to get some food. I could hear birds in the garden.
I kicked her in the side. “Awaken,” I said.
“Oh!” she said, moving with the chain on her neck.
“Position,” I said.
Swiftly she assumed the position of the pleasure slave, on the love furs, head up, back straight, kneeling back on her heels, her hands on her thighs.
