by John Norman
In that sense, at least, it seemed he had found me a suitable morsel for the collar.
Should that not count for something?
I recalled that he had sought me, for thousands of pasangs, not resting until he had brought me within his sovereignty.
Should that not, as well, count for something?
"May I speak?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Does master find his girl of interest?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Certainly."
"You would have bought me?" I asked.
"—if I could afford you," he said.
"Good," I said.
"That is enough?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "—Master."
"Good," he said.
"You are smiling," he observed, irritatedly.
"Yes, Master," I said. "Forgive me, Master."
How mighty are these Gorean men, I thought, and yet it seems they might fear to reveal their feelings. Is tenderness so terrible? Is it truly a weakness to admit a fondness, even for one who may be nothing, only a slave?
One would not dare to hope for love.
And yet one might suspect that it is there.
It might be there.
One did not know.
I thought it might be.
I did not know.
Surely, I thought, it is not so hard to love a slave. It seemed to me that it would be very easy to love a slave.
Is it so hard to love one who loves you, one who is beautiful, and needful, and passionate, and literally yours, one who wants more than anything to please you and make you happy, one who would be willing to die for you?
Let them be as they are, I thought. Let them be they would, and let the slave be as she is. Let each be as they are.
There are many ways of speaking, and only a few require words.
That a man would so seek a slave, and place his very life in peril for her may seem to mean nothing to him, as he will choose to view it, as he will dismiss it with scorn, but it means much to the slave.
There are many ways of speaking, and not all require words. And the speech of deeds, the vocabulary of action, I thought, is redolent with its own eloquence.
It is possible to live by truths one hesitates to acknowledge.
And, of course, what was a slave worth? A few copper tarsks, or silver tarsks, in a market?
Or everything to someone, perhaps everything in the world to someone?
I looked at my master.
He looked away, quickly, angrily.
I was not frightened then, but muchly pleased. My heart leapt within my breast.
I suspected then it was true!
I suspected then I was loved!
I suspected then that my master loved me!
I smiled to myself, for I knew in that there might be danger.
I hoped not to be beaten.
But one need not speak of these things.
It is not pleasant to be lashed.
"You are a slave," he said, without turning about to look at me.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"And you will be kept as a slave," he said.
"Of course, Master," I said.
I knew that, of course, that I would be kept as a slave, for that was what I was, a slave. I knew, too, that in any event, even if I were muchly loved, I would be kept in strictness, and severity, in Gorean strictness and severity, and would be well subject to his whip. Gorean masters do not relax their vigilance nor domination with slaves, even with those they love. They will keep her in the strictest bondage, and will not cheat her of what she needs, what will fulfill her and make her happy. She must continue to be all that a slave is to a man, and be subject, too, unhesitantly, to his whip, should she prove to be in the least displeasing. She may be loved, but she is a slave, and will be kept as a slave—perfectly, and in all ways.
I would not have had it otherwise.
Nor with one such as he, my master, could it be otherwise.
I was content.
"Master," I said.
"Yes," he said.
"Am I to be permitted to tell what has happened to me?" I asked. "Am I to write my story?"
"I do not know," he said. "I do not know if it is good for the women of Earth to know of these things or not."
I was silent. I did not know either.
"What would you like to do?" he asked.
"I?" I asked, startled.
"Yes," he said.
"I think I would like to tell my sisters on Earth," I said.
"Do you think they will believe you?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Would you, before you learned what you now know, have believed it?"
"No," I said.
"They will not believe you, certainly not most of them," he said.
"That is all right," I said. "I do not care. I do not even think that is really important. Perhaps that is best. I do not know. But what is important, I think, is to say these things."
"Perhaps," he said.
"And so, Master," I asked, "am I to be permitted to write my story?"
"Perhaps," he said. "I am not sure. I have, as yet, no firm thoughts on the matter."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"I have not yet decided," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
He then turned about and walked a few paces from the camp. I stood there, naked, a brand on my thigh, a collar on my neck, bearing his pack. I wondered if the women of Earth would believe my story. I supposed not. But then, too, what did it matter? Perhaps it was better that they not believe it. Their life, then, would surely be easier, knowing that there was no world such as Gor, no collars for them, no masters such that they must be uncompromisingly served. But in any event, dear sisters, whether you long for the collar, or fear it, it is real.
He turned about. "Follow me," he said, in Gorean. It took me a moment to make the transition from English to Gorean. Then I said, "Yes, my master," in Gorean, and, at a suitable distance, naked, bearing his pack, followed him from the woods. We would go to the Viktel Aria and travel south. He had a villa, northeast of Ar, in the hills.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985 by John Norman
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0021-8
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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