"No," she said. "Of course not!"
"But you are already beginning to feel," I said.
"No," she said. "No!"
I felt her body move a little, helplessly. This gave me pleasure.
I wished she were a slave.
Free women are so inferior to slaves.
One of the great pleasures of making love to a slave is the uncompromising exploitation of her marvelous sexual sensitivities, her helplessnesses, they putting her so much in your power, enabling you to do with her as you please and obtain from her what you want. She may be brought up and down, as you please, at your will, at your mercy, and played like an instrument. She may, if you wish, be held short of her ecstasy, cruelly, if you desire, or, in a moment, with a touch, granted it. There are few sights so exciting and beautiful as a helplessly orgasmic slave crying out her submission and love.
"You are moving," I said.
"It is hard to help it," she said.
"I do not object," I said.
"Monster!" she said.
"You are doing it again," I said.
"It is my body that is doing it!" she said.
"Perhaps it is curious," I said, "hungry for sensation."
She made an angry sound. Her head was down, and turned, her cheek in the sand. Her fists were at the sides of her head, clenched.
"Oh!" she said.
I laughed.
Now her head was up. Her shoulders were lifted. Much of her weight was on her forearms, in the sand. Her fists were still clenched. Her body was tense. It was beautifully vital, and alive.
"I have not known men such as you," she said, "who do as they please with women."
"Were you a slave," I said, "you would have known many."
"Oh!" she said.
"Perhaps you should try not to move," I said.
"I will try not to move," she said, angrily. "You may rest assured of that!"
"You are doing it again," I said.
She cried out, angrily.
"You must be careful," I said, "or you might arouse me."
"No, no!" she said.
"Excellent," I said.
"No!" she said.
"Very good!" I said.
"No, please no!" she said. "Oh!" she said. "Oh!"
"Aii!" I said, suddenly, and, in the grip of my reflexes, in my spasmodic tumult, spun about, twisting, rolling in the sand, carrying her lightly, helplessly, with me, as though she might be a doll, and sand scattered about, and she, too, gasped, and then again we lay in the sand as we had before, she as helplessly as ever in my grasp, near, too, where we had before.
She was covered with sweat, and sand, as I. Her hair was about. Her hands were out, over her head, in the sand.
"You treat me as though I were a slave," she said.
I did not respond to her.
She had, actually, very little idea as to how a slave might be treated.
"I am not a plaything," she said, sullenly.
"Women are many things," I said, "among them is a plaything."
"I am your plaything," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"When I was bound on the pole and you had touched me, as you put it, in the manner of the master, you apologized to me, and asked my forgiveness, do you recall?"
"Yes," I said.
"You were mocking me, were you not?" she asked.
"Of course," I said.
"You are very strong," she said.
I did not answer.
"I did not know such power, such lust, could exist," she said.
"But twice before," I said, "you have been known by men."
"I am not even sure, now," she said, "that they were men."
"I would suppose they were men," I said. "Perhaps, on the other hand, it was you who were not the woman."
"I do not understand," she said.
"Were you submissive to them, in the order of nature?" I asked.
"Of course not," she said. "I am a free woman!"
"Perhaps your experiences might have been rather different," I said, "if you had stood to them in a somewhat different relationship, in a relationship more natural to the female."
"I do not understand," she said.
"Consider what your experiences might have been," I said, "had you been their captive, or, ideally, their slave."
"I see," she said, shuddering.
"Submission is appropriate for the female," I said.
"No!" she said. "Yes," she said, softly sobbing.
"Yes," I said.
"But you do not know these men," she said. "How could one submit to them? They were weaklings!"
"Perhaps they were weaklings, perhaps they were not," I said.
"They were!" she said.
"Then why did you admit them to your couch?" I asked.
She was silent.
"Perhaps you wanted males you could dominate, or did not need to fear?"
"I do not know," she said.
"But even to the weakling," I said, "it is appropriate to submit yourself, and fully."
She sobbed.
"In submitting yourself to him you submit yourself to the principle of masculinity, embodied in him. In this submission you recognize the rights of masculinity and fulfill yourself by submitting your femininity to it."
She shuddered in the sand, sobbing.
"To be sure," I said, "it is doubtless easier to do this, and to understand it much more quickly, if the master is strong, if he throws you to his feet, and stands over you with a whip, and you know that your least recalcitrance will not be tolerated."
"It is only to a true master that I could submit," she said, "not to a weakling."
"If you submit yourself, clearly and explicitly," I said, "you may discover that he whom you thought to be a weakling may not in actuality be such at all. Few men, once they have caught the scent of the mastery, and surely once they have tasted of its deliciousness, will even consider its surrender."
"I spoke too quickly," she said. "I myself could never submit to any man. I am a free woman! I could never make a slave!"
"But then," I said, "you have never felt the brand, the whip, the collar."
She was silent. But I felt her tremble, even contemplating such things.
"Slaves are institutionally submitted," I said.
"But they deserve to be such," said she, quickly. "They are only slaves."
"But yet you are in my grip, much as might be a slave," I said.
"I cannot help that," she said.
I tightened my grip a little on her.
"Are slaves often whipped?" she asked, as though nonchalantly.
"Why do you ask?" I asked.
"I was only curious," she said.
"They are whipped when the master pleases," I said.
"Of course," she said.
"Perhaps the answer does not satisfy you?" I said.
"I am a free woman," she said.
"Slaves are often whipped," I said, "—when they are not pleasing."
"But are they often whipped?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Because they are pleasing?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"I would never make a slave," she said. "But if I were to be a slave, I think I would try very hard to be pleasing."
"I am sure you would," I said.
"Beast," she said.
I tightened my grip on her.
She squirmed a little, in the sand.
"Do you think to escape?" I asked.
"No," she said. She was muchly helpless as I held her.
I relaxed my grip.
"No!" she said, suddenly. "Do not let me go!"
"A strange request from a free woman," I said.
"I am having strange feelings," she said. "I do not understand them. I am frightened of them. I have never felt anything like them before, not like this."
"What sort of feelings?" I asked.
"Never mind," she said. "Just hold me. Do not let me go!"
"Do you
beg it?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Yes!"
I was curious as to what might be going on within her. It was apparently of some significance.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked.
"Though I am a free woman," she said, "I was thinking about what it might be to be a slave."
"And that is the occasion," I asked, "of these unusual feelings?"
"In part, I suppose," she said. "I do not know!"
"You are moving," I said.
"Oh!" she said, in frustration.
"And what was it, in particular, about being a slave?" I asked.
"I do not know," she said. "The wholeness of it, I think, its meaning, its categoricality, its helplessness, the being owned, the being subject to discipline, the having to obey! I do not know! I do not know!"
"Your whole body is becoming excited and vital," I said.
"Hold me," she said. "Hold me."
I tightened my grip on her.
"I am to you much as would be a slave, am I not?" she gasped.
"Yes," I said.
"Am I subject to discipline, as would be a slave?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"But you have no whip!" she said.
"I could tie your hands and feet together and lash you with my belt," I said.
"I have never felt feelings like these!" she said. "They are overwhelming. They are all through me!"
"Do not fear them," I said.
"I feel so feminine," she said. "I have never felt so feminine!"
"Do not be afraid," I said.
"I want to please you!" she said, startled.
"Do not be afraid of your feelings," I said.
"I wish that I were a slave!" she cried out, in horror. "I wish I was free to be sexual, that it was commanded of me, that I would have no choice! That I would be forced to be what I am! That I would be truly in my place, where I belong, helplessly, even institutionally, under absolute male dominance!"
"But you are a free woman," I reminded her.
"I want to be subject to sale, to exchange, to commands!" she said. "I want to stand before men, beautiful and exciting, collared, an object of desire, a commodity, to hear their bids, to be subject to their claims, to be such that I may be led away in their chains. I want to love, and serve, wholly, selflessly, helplessly, irreservedly!"
"But you are a free woman," I said.
"Forget," she said, "that I am your enemy, that you hate me, that you hold me in contempt, that you despise me, that I have betrayed my Home Stone, that I am a spy of Cos! Think of me now only as a woman who has for the first time begun to feel her womanhood, and hold me! Hold me!"
"I do not hate you, or hold you in contempt, or despise you, such things," I said. "And, too, I have little concern personally with the wars of Ar and Cos. To be sure, I do have some reservations pertaining to your character, but I think most people would, apparently including the rencers, who chose not even to keep you as a slave. I think of you primarily as an arrogant and insolent free woman whom I have made my captive."
"I am not now arrogant and insolent!" she said.
"True," I said.
"Hold me!" she begged.
"And you have only begun to feel your womanhood," I said.
"Make me a slave!" she said.
"The rencers did not enslave you," I said.
"No!" she said.
"I suspect they did not regard you as being worthy of being a slave."
"Not even that," she said, "so little?"
"Still," I said, "they may have made a mistake in not enslaving you," I said, "particularly if their hesitancy in this matter had to do with reservations concerning your character."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because," I said, "it is easy to reform a woman's character once she is in a collar."
"Do not let me go!" she said. "I beg it!"
"Ah!" I said.
"Please!" she said.
"Do you think I would let you go, now?" I asked.
"Thank you," she whispered, "—my captor!"
"And what are you feeling now?" I asked.
"I do not know!" she said.
"Female need, perhaps?" I asked.
She cried out, with misery. "Please do not use such words to me. I am a free woman."
"Free women have no needs?" I asked.
"Surely not like this!" she wept.
"Do not be ashamed of what is natural, and grand," I said.
"What have you done to me!" she wept. "What are you turning me into?"
"Shall I release you?" I asked.
"No!" she cried.
"I would not blame me too grievously," I said. "The nature, you must realize, is yours, and the feelings."
"Oh," she said. "Oh!" I forced her hips lower, in the sand. "Ohhh," she said.
"Can you stand it?" I asked.
"I do not know!" she cried. "I do not know!"
She clawed at the sand, gasping.
"You are squirming like a stuck tarsk," I said.
She cried out, angrily.
"Ahh," I said.
"Oh!" she cried. Her small fingers tore at the sand. Her head moved from side to side. Her hair was about.
"Now," I said, "you are wriggling like an aroused slave."
She pounded her small fists into the sand.
"Perhaps it is a matter of needs," I said.
"'Needs'!" she cried. "That is so pale a word! It is like screaming in my body. It is like writhing, piteous, helpless beggings!"
"Interesting," I said.
"'Interesting'!" she cried.
"Yes, interesting," I said.
"Are these the feelings of a slave?" she asked.
"In a sense, yes," I said. "All females are slaves, and you are a female."
"I am a free woman!" she insisted.
"Certainly in a technical, legal sense," I said.
"Oh!" she cried.
"Steady," I said.
"Stop!" she said.
"Very well," I said.
"No!" she cried. "Do not stop! Do not stop!"
"Can you stand it?" I asked.
"I do not care if I can stand it or not!" she wept. "Do it! Do it! Do it to me!"
But I eased her a little.
"What were you doing to me?" she asked. "Where were you taking me?"
I was silent.
"Take me there," she wept. "Take me there, as though in your arms, higher and higher, to dizzying heights of terror, to the clouds, the winds, the sun and beyond, I dependent on you!"
I was silent.
"Force me upward," she said. "Drive me there, as though by wings and whips. Show me no mercy!"
"No mercy?" I said.
"I want none!" she wept.
"You will then receive none," I said.
I then, as she wished, began again to carry her upward.
"Captor!" she wept.
"There is no going back," I told her.
"This must be what it is to be a slave!" she cried.
I was silent.
She was beautiful, sweating, alive, clawing, squirming, in the sand.
"Chains, flowers, fire, helplessness, love!" she wept. "Love! Love!"
Then she was sobbing, gratefully, and then was lying astonished, sober, in the sand.
"Surely that is what is to be a slave," she whispered.
"You are still only a free woman," I said to her. "Your experience was not conditioned by the categoricality of bondage, by the reality of it, and the slave's knowledge of that reality, by the full belonging of the slave to her master, so to speak, and her understanding, legal, and personal, and such, of that full belonging. Also, it takes time to develop, improve and hone slave reflexes, both specific and totalistic. Slaves grow and improve in such matters."
"Ohh," she said, softly.
"But perhaps you understand now," I said, "in virtue of this experience which you have had, as rudimentary, or merely indicative, as it may have been, that it may not be only the whip, and such, that
explains the slave girl's desire to please."
"Yes!" she breathed.
"And what is the whip to it?" I asked.
"Very little," she whispered.
"Yet the whip is real," I said.
"Yes," she said.
"Do you doubt it?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"Nonetheless," I said, "your responses, even as a free woman, suggest to me that if you were to become a slave, you would, in time, become a hot slave."
"A hot slave!" she said, in horror.
"That is the indication," I said.
"A hot slave!" she said, in fury.
"Yes," I said.
"But such a slave," she said, "is helpless in the arms of men, her responsiveness uncontrollable!"
"It would improve your price," I said.
She moaned.
"Perhaps you can imagine yourself naked on the slave block, in chains," I said, "this excellent feature of yours, considerably enhancing your value, being called to the attention of buyers, and you standing there, naked, in your chains, knowing it was true."
She shuddered and moaned, in the sand.
"I see you can well imagine it," I said.
We then lay together, quietly.
"If I were a slave," she said, softly, after a time, "I could be purchased by anyone—by anyone."
"Yes," I said, "who could afford your price, and it would not be likely to be high at first, early in your slavery."
"And I would have to submit to whoever purchased me," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Even if he were hideous," she said, "or a despicable weakling."
"The slave must submit, and with perfection, to any man."
"Yes," she said, shuddering, "she must."
"And how do you feel now?" I asked.
"Feminine," she said. "Very, very feminine."
"I think it is now time that we rested," I said. I then knelt across her thighs and pulled her hands together behind her back.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Tying you," I said.
The thongs were still about her wrists, with their dangling ends. I tied these dangling ends together, fastening her wrists, thusly, behind her back.
"What you did to me!" she said, suddenly, bitterly.
"Perhaps you learned something about yourself," I said.
"Do it to me again!" she begged.
"We must rest now," I said.
I crossed her ankles and encircled them tightly, fastening them together, with some binding fiber, taken from my nearby wallet, that on my belt.
"Oh!" she said, her ankles jerked upwards, and fastened to the thongs holding her wrists together.
Vagabonds of Gor Page 25
