by John Norman
“No,” he said, and my blood almost froze in my veins.
“You see?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said, angrily.
“I am a thousand times more than a free woman,” I said “both to a man and, in my heart and emotions, to myself.”
“How is that?” he asked.
“I am a slave,” he said, simply.
He looked down, sullenly.
“You take free women into companionship,” I said, “but you dream of slaves. You even dream of the free woman as a slave. I doubt that any glandularly sufficient male does not want us as slaves. If he doesn’t, then I think he must be very short on imagination. What do you think is the meaning of your size and strength, your energy and agility, your dominance? Do you think it is all some alarming, inexplicable, statistical eccentricity? Can you not see the order of nature? Is it so difficult to disclose? Why do you think men make us slaves, and put us in collars? It is because they want us as slaves. And why do you think we make such superb slaves? Because we are born slaves.”
“If I take my place in the order of nature,” he said, “then obviously, you will be put in yours.”
I pulled at the ropes. “I think I am already there, Master,” I said.
He looked up at me.
“I am on my step,” I said. “It is now only necessary that you ascend to yours.”
“You do not even have a name,” he said.
“Perhaps Master will, if it pleases him, give me a name.”
“Perhaps I should name you,” he said. “Doubtless you might be conveniently ordered about and referred to, if you were named.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. The name would be a slave name, of course. Such names, like collars, are worn whether the slave wishes them or not. Some masters think of such names being along the lines of verbal leashes, the utterance of the name, like the sudden tug of a leash, immediately calling the slave’s attention to the master and his wishes. In any event, the slave name, and the knowledge that it is a slave name deeply, and appropriately, informs the consciousness of the slave. Too, of course, it is the only name she has.
He turned away from me.
“You still hesitate to accept me as, what I am, a total slave don’t you?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he growled.
“If you wish,” I said, “relate to me as to a despised slut in bondage. You will discover that I will respond well to you in that role.”
He spun about. “Do you think that you are not despised? he asked.
“Master?” I asked.
“I do despise you,” he said, angrily, “for Corcyrus, for your meaninglessness, for your pettiness and cruelty, for what you are, and for what you have done to me!”
I shrank back in the bonds.
“And you are maddeningly beautiful,” he said. “You are excruciatingly desirable!”
I was silent.
“I am a free man!” he cried. “I am of the warriors!
“Do you want me to pretend to be a free woman?” I asked. “I can do that. I did it for years. At times I even believed it. I can do it again! Command me, if you wish, to the pretense!”
“You are a slave,” he said. “It is all you are. Do not mock me.”
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“Day in and day out, night in and night out, I fought my feelings for you,” he said. “I immersed myself in duties. I adopted strenuous activities. I sought solace even in the taverns, and in the arms of others. I chided myself for my foolishness. I berated myself for my stupidity! I castigated myself for my madness! But I could not drive you from my mind! Ever more hotly burned the flames of my passion! And you are not even free!”
“No,” I said, suddenly, angrily. “I am not even free!”
“A slave!” he said.
“Yes!” I said. “A slave!”
“Gloat, Slave,” said he, “for you, with your wiles, and your insidious beauty, have brought a soldier, and a free man, low.”
“Punish me,” I said. “You own me.”
“Do not fear,” he said. “You will be punished, for Corcyrus, and for your insolence.”
I shrank down in the ropes, trying to make myself appear smaller. I feared now that perhaps Drucius Rencius had bought me primarily for the purposes of vengence.
“Even now,” he said, “still, when you are helpless, in my ropes, I find you exquisitely desirable, exquisitely beautiful.”
“Thank you, Master,” I whispered.
“You ruin me,” he said. “You tear me apart!” I put down my head, frightened.
“You make me a slave!” he cried.
“It is I who am the slave,” I said.
“I hate you!” he cried.
“I do not think so,” I said.
“As Sheila, who was the true Tatrix of Corcyrus, was to Ligurious, so, too, are you to me!” he said.
“No!” I said. “There is a great difference!”
“What?” he demanded.
“I love you!” I said.
“Sly, clever slave!” he sneered.
“I do love you!” I cried.
“Cunning, insidious slut,” he said. “You fear for your own hide! You know that you are now, at least, within my power. You fear that it will be done to you as you deserve, that you will be thrown to sleen!”
“No!” I wept.
“Sweat and squirm now, luscious slut,” he said. “Cry out your love for me. Perhaps I will be moved to be merciful, and keep you as the lowest and most worthless slave on Gor!”
“I do love you!” I wept.
“Lying slave!” he cried. He leapt across the room, and, with the flat of his hand, savagely, struck me from my knees. My right shoulder struck the tiles. I tasted blood in my mouth. I lay there, bound, frightened. It had been only a slap, but I felt as though my head might have been almost taken from me. I was awe-stricken. I had not realized how strong he was. What if he had truly struck me? I knew I must obey him with perfection.
“On your back,” he said, “knees raised, heels on the floor.” I then lay before him, in a standard, supine capture position.
“You look well at my feet, Slut,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” I said.
“Have you reconsidered the telling of truth?” he asked.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“Lying slut!” he hissed. He then, with the side of his foot, kicked me. I recoiled, crying out. I would doubtless, for several days, bear a fine bruise there, evidence of his displeasure.
I turned to my side. I put down my head. I kissed the foot that had kicked me. Then I returned to my former position.
He turned away from me and went to the other chair in the room, a curule chair, with ornate, curved arms. I, my head turned to the side, watched him. He sat down in the chair, his hands on the arms, and regarded me.
“Should you not be on your knees, Slut?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said. I struggled to my knees and knelt, facing him.
He regarded me. He seemed weary.
“And thus it is,” he said, “that slaves conquer warriors.”
“It is I who am conquered, Master,” I told him, “not you.”
“You make me weak,” he said, wearily.
“Unbind me,” I suggested, smiling, “and I will make you strong.”
“She-sleen,” he smiled.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He looked to one side of the room, moodily, lost in thought. “How strange has been the course of events,” he said. “I took you for a Tatrix, and my enemy. Then, as it pleased you, in the fullness of feminine cruelty, when I could not have you, when you thought me a mere guard, you amused yourself with me, taunting me with your beauty, torturing me with desire. Now, months later, you have come into my power, as my naked slave.”
He turned his head slowly towards me. Then he regarded me, slowly, fully, every bit of me.
“Are you well roped?” he asked.
“I a
m roped perfectly, and am absolutely helpless,” I said. “It was done to me by Drusus Rencius, of Ar, my master.”
“It is a suitable answer,” he said.
I was silent.
“Perhaps I will keep you,” he said.
“Do, please,” I said. I loved him.
“If I keep you,” he said, “you will be kept as a slave. Do you understand what that means, my dear?”
“Yes, Master,” I said. I would be kept in the absolute perfections of Gorean slave discipline. I would have to be perfect for him, in all ways. I shuddered.
“Do you believe it?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“That is well,” he said, “for it is true.”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
“You seem to be afraid,” he said.
“I am,” I said.
“But you were not before,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“But you are now?”
“Yes,” I said. “Now I sense, as I did not before, that you are strong enough to control me, and to punish me, terribly, if I do wrong, or am not fully pleasing.”
“Believe it,” he said, quietly.
“I do!” I said.
“I wonder if you will make a good slave,” he said.
“I will try my best, Master,” I said.
Then he continued to look at me, appraising me. I straightened my body.
How marvelous it must be for a man, I thought, to have such absolute power over a woman, to have her so subjected to him, even to having her in the perfection of his bonds. And how marvelous it was for me, too, to know myself so much his, to know myself, willlessly, eagerly, at his pleasure. And what woman does not want a man a thousand times more than she, one to whom she must submit, one whom she must fear, one whom she must love?
I looked at him.
“It is different from Corcyrus, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He looked away, again, again seemingly lost in thought.
“May I speak?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Is it truly so tragic, to care for a slave, just a little?” I asked.
“You have done enough,” he said. “Do not seek further to make a fool of me.”
I was silent.
He put his head down, in his hands.
How painful, complex and subtle can be the relationships between human beings. I tried to understand how he must view me. He saw me, it seemed, as one who, if she were free, and immune from punishment, and held power, would torment and scorn him, exploiting him, despising him, amusing herself with him.
As far as I knew I had done little to provoke these feelings, at least until he had refused my advances. I had given him reason, to be sure, in Corcyrus, to believe me contemptible and petty. I had made certain Earth values, to his irritation, clear to him, such as an amoral expediency and a mockery of honor. My smallness, my contemptibility, I had unwittingly flaunted before him, regarding such things, at that time as signs of my depth and cleverness. Too, he seemed to find me, in some way, and I did not fully understand it, maddeningly desirable. This had to do, it seemed, with some unusual and subtle relationship between us.
These things, doubtless in part because of his pride and self-image, his reluctance to accept tenderness, his fear of feeling and sentiment, his lofty conceptions of the attitudes and behaviors proper to his caste, had driven him half mad with frustration. Yet, too, he had, with Menicius, risked his life in the camp of Miles to free me, and he had sought desperately to protect and defend me in the inquiry with Claudius and the high council.
It was clear, I think, he cared for me deeply. In all this, of course, he regarded me as little more than a curvaceous, scheming slave, one who did not care for him, but one who, to protect herself, would do anything, even pretend falsely to love. He did not know I truly loved him.
I resolved upon a bold plan. I would attempt to get him to cure himself of the false Sheila, that the way might then be open for a poor, nameless slave who so much loved him.
“Free me,” I said, angrily, pulling at the ropes.
He looked at me.
“Free yourself,” he said.
“I cannot!” I said.
“Why do you wish to be freed?” he asked.
“I do not love you!” I said.
“Now, at last, you speak the truth,” he said.
“Not only do I not love you,” I cried, “but I hate you! I despise you! I hold you in contempt as a piteous weakling! I always have!”
He smiled.
“I am tired of trying to fool you,” I said. “Now, free me!”
“Why should I free you?” he asked.
“Because I am a free woman!” I said.
“That is not true,” he said. “I saw you jerk in the hands of the soldier.”
“I could not help myself,” I said.
“Only a natural slave could not have helped herself,” he said.
“I do not want to belong to you,” I said.
“I have an alternative in mind,” he said. “I think I shall give you to the department of the mines. There, naked and yoked, you shall carry water.”
“No!” I cried.
“Do you beg to be kept in my collar?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
“Then we shall let it stand at that, shan’t we?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said. I had not counted on the possibility of being sent to the mines.
I knelt back in the ropes. I looked at Drusus Rencius. He was quite capable, I realized, suddenly, of sending me to the mines. I did not want that to happen.
Too, looking at him then, I saw him suddenly not only as a man I loved but, also, independently, as a strong and powerful master. I found, then, that I had squirmed in the ropes, inadvertently, reflexively, my thighs moving. I hoped that he had not noticed.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing!” I said. I felt the heat of the slave in me. I hoped he could not detect the signs in my body. I hoped he could not smell me.
He was silent.
“May I speak?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“I gather,” I said, “that, you intend to keep me.”
“At least for a time,” he said.
“I presume,” I said, “that at least one of the purposes for which you purchased me was to make use of me.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“I am ready,” I said. “Begin my slavery.”
He regarded me, not speaking.
“You see me in a collar,” I said, angrily. “You know what a collar does to a woman!”
He smiled.
“I have been owned,” I said. “I have had masters. They have made me this way!”
“So men do have their vengeance,” he said. “The scheming beauty is needful.”
“Yes!” I said.
“Speak clearly,” he said.
“I am needful,” I said.
“You are more than needful,” he said.
“You may or may not believe I love you,” I said, “but about my arousal, my need, there is no disputing.”
“That is true,” he said. “You are obviously, now, a needful slave.”
“Please,” I begged.
He left the chair and, crouching beside me, not hurrying, freed me of the ropes.
“Touch neither me nor yourself,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I moaned. My body was flaming with desire.
He regarded me for a few moments. I moaned.
Then, for a brief moment, he took me in his arms. His hand was upon me, intimately. “I love you! I love you! I love you!” I cried, jerking in his hands, pressing against him, trying to cover him with kisses.
“Stop,” he said. “To your belly.”
Then I was on my belly, on the tiles, my hands at the sides of my head, prone, before his curule chair. He resumed his seat.
I lifted my head and upper body, wildly, agonized, to regard him.
“You are a hot slave,” he said.
I regarded him wildly, pathetically, unbelievingly, speechlessly.
“Do you beg a man’s touch?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “yes!”
“Then beg,” he said.
“I beg your touch,” I wept. “I beg your touch! Please touch me, Master! I beg it!”
“Truly?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I beg your touch, truly, Master! I beg it, truly! Please, touch me, Master! Please! Please!”
“No,” he said.
I collapsed then to the tiles, sobbing, helpless, quivering with need.
“And thus,” said he, “may a hated slave be denied.”
I then became aware that he had left his chair, that he was standing near me. I lay at his feet, aroused, almost unbelievably impassioned, denied.
I understood then better than ever before how it was that some women could tear at the walls of their kennels with their fingernails, how they could reach out through the bars, begging piteously for the least touch of a rude guard, how they could, under the deft touches of an auctioneer’s whip, scream their passion on a slave block, begging to be bought.
“You deserve this,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Do you know now what it is to be in a collar?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Hereafter,” he said, “do not try to play stupid games with me.”
“Master?” I asked.
I felt myself jerked to a sitting position, his hands on my upper arms. “How stupid do you think I am?” he asked. “Do you think I could not tell you were playing some sort of game?”
“My arousal was real!” I said, startled.
“I am well aware of that,” he said.
“Oh!” I cried, as he touched me. Then he thrust me back from him.
“You are a slave,” he said. “We will do things my way, not yours.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“I considered this,” he said, “even before I bought you. I now see, as I thought, that it is necessary.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“We shall begin again,” he said. “I shall make my determination with care.”
“I do not understand,” I wept.
“You are fortunate,” he said, “that I am less stupid than you thought. Had I not seen through your subterfuges you might have been flinging yourself to the jaws of sleen, or guaranteeing the signing of your papers for the mines.”