Winyela opened her knees, spreading them widely, kneeling back on her heels.
"You may retain the position of the tower slave," I said, sweating.
"Please, Master," she said. "I am a pleasure slave. It will be better for my discipline to be forced to remain kneeling in this, the more revealing and degrading position. Too, this position, so open and exposed, can be of service in reminding me, lest I be tempted to become arrogant or proud, of my lowliness, my purposes and condition."
"You would choose," I asked, "to kneel in the position of the pleasure slave, that position of female degradation and debasement, imposed on certain females by men, of utter female vulnerability, helplessness and beauty?"
"Yes, Master," she said. "Considering the nature of my bondage it is suitable for me. It is, considering the sort of slave I am, fitting and proper for me."
"You like it," I said.
"I am comfortable in it," she said, evasively.
"You like it," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said. "I find it deeply exciting and thrilling. I love kneeling in it."
"You are proud to kneel in it," I said, startled.
"Yes," she said.
"Brazen hussy," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I looked at her. She straightened her body even more. "It seems to suit you well," I said.
"It suits me perfectly," she said.
"Why?" I asked.
"I am a pleasure slave," she said.
I rose to my feet. I prepared to snap my fingers.
"I love being owned by men," she said. "I do not find it degrading or debasing. I find it exalting and fulfilling. Do not despise me for what I am."
"And what are you?" I asked.
"A woman," she said.
"And a slave," I said.
"Yes," she said, "a woman, and a slave."
I extended my hand. I would snap my fingers. When I snapped my fingers she would rise to her feet and follow me, heeling me, like the sleek domestic beast she was, to her master's lodge. One of the first things a girl is taught to do is to heel.
"Have I not convinced you, Master," she asked, "that a slave has certain powers?"
"Perhaps some piteously limited powers," I said, "such as might characterize any owned beast."
"Of course," she laughed.
"You are truly a pleasure slave, aren't you?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"You seem much different now from Miss Millicent Aubrey-Welles, the upper-class girl, the debutante, from Pennsylvania," I said.
"That little chit," she laughed. "She, too, was a pleasure slave, and in her heart she knew it. The best thing that ever happened to her was to be brought to Gor and put in chains."
"Perhaps," I said.
"There is no doubt about it," she said.
"Do you remember her?" I asked.
"Of course," she said. "But I am no longer she. I am now Winyela, only a slave."
"That is true," I said. Only a slave, I thought to myself, ruefully, only a slave! She was exciting and beautiful, and owned. It was all I could do not to seize her and put her mercilessly to my purposes. How natural it seemed that the men of Gor should keep such women in cages and chains, and force them, under whips, to please them.
"To be sure," I said, "I see that you have powers which mere Millicent did not."
"Yes," she said. "I now have the powers of a slave." That was true. It could not be gainsaid.
"We must go to the lodge of Canka," I said.
"But you have not punished me," she said.
"No," I said.
"Canka wanted me punished, you know," she said.
"I do not know if he really wanted you punished or not," I said.
"Of course he did," she said. "He is a red master."
"I suppose you are right," I said. I recalled that Cuwignaka and Grunt had also, both, been of this opinion.
"But you did not do so," she said.
"No," I said.
"I am unpunished," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Punish me," she said.
"No," I said.
"My master wanted me to be punished," she said. "I am ready to be punished. I want to be punished."
"It is all right," I said.
"Punish me," she said.
"No," I said.
"You have no intention, then, of punishing me?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Canka wanted you to have me," she said. "Do you not find me attractive? Do I not have at least the negligible charms of a slave?"
"You are attractive, and beautiful," I said. "And, if you do not mind my saying so, you have been somewhat blatant about your charms."
"In a collar, a girl may flaunt herself," she said.
I nodded. It was true. The collar has an interesting effect on female sexuality. It liberates the girl to be herself.
"Will you not give me but one kiss?" she asked.
"No," I said. "It is well known to what the kiss of a slave girl must lead."
"What?" she asked, innocently.
"Her ownership, domination and rape," I said.
"Oh," she said.
I snapped my fingers.
The girl, immediately, stood.
"You see, pretty Winyela," I said, "you are ultimately powerless. I snap my fingers and you must stand, prepared then to follow me, unquestioning, your will nothing, to your master's lodge. Your clever tricks now avail you naught."
She put down her head.
I laughed with triumph, seeing her standing there, her head down. "You see," I said, "you are ultimately powerless."
She lifted her head, and smiled. "I am not completely powerless," she said.
"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
"I will show you," she said, "how a slave can seduce a man."
Suddenly she reached out and, putting her lovely, bared arms about my neck, pressed her lips to mine. "Ai!" I cried, in anger, in fury. But I could not, then, for a moment, release her. She was a female slave. It is not easy to surrender a female slave from one's arms. Then, angrily, I pulled away from her. Her kiss, that of a female slave, burned on my lips. I shook with emotion. I was furious. The kiss, too brief, delicious, startling, warm, soft, raged in my body. It was like a chemical agent, a catalyst, introduced unexpectedly into my system. Reactions and transformations, eruptive, excruciating and compelling, irresistible and violent, seemed to explode in every compound and tissue in my body. Then she lifted her lips again to me. "Taste again of the lips of a slave, Master," she said. Then she was in my arms, crushed to me, and it seemed that there was only she, and the thunder and light in my blood. Then she was lifted in my arms. "See my collar!" she laughed. "I see it," I said, angrily. "I am a slave!" she said. "Yes," I said. "Do you like the taste of a slave, Master?" she asked. Then she reached out again to me, her arms about my neck, and, again, our lips met. I was then furious. I hurled her to my feet.
"Slut! Animal! Slave!" I cried.
"Yes, Master," she said, laughing.
She rose to her hands and knees and looked up at me, delighted. "I do not think you will resist me now," she laughed.
"Slave!" I cried, angrily.
"Yes, Master," she laughed.
I then, to her horror, strode to the side of the lodge and picked up the kaiila quirt which lay there.
"Please, no!" she said, frightened. "Do not whip me!"
But I laid the quirt to her well, five times, first striking her from her hands and knees to the robes, and then, as she twisted and rolled, helpless to avoid the blows, lashed her upon them.
"You wanted to be punished," I said.
"I did not want the punishment of the whip!" she wept.
"You will take what punishment your master decides to give you," I said.
"Yes, Master," she wept, her body marked, at my feet.
"On your back," I snapped. "Make slave lips. Throw apart your legs!"
Swiftly the girl complied, tear
s in her eyes. She then lay there, her lips pursed to kiss, her ankles widely spread.
I looked down at her. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes.
A girl who is commanded to make slave lips, or who receives the command, "Slave lips," must form her mouth for kissing. She then, commonly, is not permitted to break this lip position until either she kisses or is kissed. Needless to say, a girl cannot speak when her lips are in the unbroken, fully-pursed slave-lips position. The command which commonly follows the "Slave-lips" command is, "Please me."
I threw the quirt down beside the girl. She looked at it, there, gratefully. No longer was it in my hand. To be sure, it was where I might easily seize it up.
I then crouched beside her and lifted her to a half-sitting position. She closed her legs somewhat. I then kissed her, and this permitted her to break the slave-lips position.
"I do not think you will now hesitate to have me," she said.
"I do not think so," I said.
"It will be a great indignity for me, a great punishment, to be had by you," she said, "for you, too, are only a slave."
"Doubtless," I said.
"Following the instructions of my master, Canka," she said, "I am to yield to you, fully, irreservedly, as a slave girl to her master."
"Yes," I said.
"I am to hold nothing back."
"No," I said.
"But even were I not under such commands," she said, "I know I could not help but yield to you. I have felt your hands before. I know that you can, if it pleases you, make me cry myself your slave."
"Perhaps," I said. I had handled this slave before. We both knew what I could do to her.
"I am ready," she said. "Please begin my punishment."
"Very well," I said.
* * * *
She lay back, softly, in my arms. "That was a splendid punishment," she said, "Master."
I said nothing. To be sure, I had enjoyed administering it to her. It is pleasant to take a woman and reduce her to a cringing, cuffed, orgasmic slave.
"I am yours for the afternoon," she said.
"That is true," I said.
"It is still early," she said.
I doubted that it was that early. Still the cooking fires had not yet been lit for the evening meal.
"Master," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Punish me again," she wheedled, putting a finger on my shoulder, and then kissing me, "—please."
"Do you beg it?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I beg to be punished again."
"Very well," I said. I took her and threw her again beneath me. She cried out with delight.
* * * *
"Before," she said, reproachfully, poutingly, "you struck me. You put me to the quirt."
"Yes?" I said.
"You quirted me!"
"Yes?" I said.
"—as a slave!"
"You are a slave," I said.
"Surely you understand that I was once Millicent Aubrey-Welles," she said.
"Of course," I said.
"Do you think it appropriate that she should have been quirted?"
"It would probably have done her some good," I said, "but that consideration is irrelevant, as Millicent Aubrey-Welles no longer exists. In her place is now Winyela, the slave."
"Who may be quirted as one pleases," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I see," she said.
"You are now a slave," I said. "Only that, nothing more."
"And I may be quirted with impunity!"
"Yes," I said.
"And I was quirted!"
"Yes," I said.
"You quirted me!"
"Yes," I said. "Do you object?"
"It hurt," she said.
"Of course," I said.
"I may not object, of course," she said, "for I am a slave. You need not doubt that I am quite clear on that. I am perfectly clear on that. But it still hurt."
"It is supposed to," I said.
"It is a sharp, stinging kind of thing," she said.
"I suppose so," I said.
"I am not a kaiila," she said.
"No," I said. "You are less. You are a female slave."
"It is a strange thing," she said, "being quirted, or lashed."
"How so?" I asked.
"I mean in my understanding of it," she said
"I do not understand," I said
"We are smaller, and weaker than you, and softer," she said.
"You are women," I said.
"That must mean something," she said, "that we are smaller, and weaker, and softer."
"I do not understand," I said.
"You are not a woman," she said.
"So?" I said.
"We want to relate to what is larger, stronger, harder, different."
"That is natural," I said.
"I do not think you understand," she said. "We want to belong to, to be owned by, to submit to, that which is different, that which is larger, stronger, harder."
"That is natural," I said.
"Something in us feels that that is appropriate for us," she said, "that that is right for us, that that is our appropriate destiny."
"I see," I said.
"It is right for us, you see," she said, "to be dominated. That is what we want, as women, to be dominated, to submit. How else can we be fulfilled? How else can we be women? How else can we find ourselves?"
I was silent.
"Is it not part of our dreams?" she asked. "The perfect master? He who will embond us mercilessly, who will conquer and overwhelm us, and whom we must serve with helpless perfection?"
I was silent.
"But, of course," she said, "we wish to reassure ourselves that the master is a master, that he is a true master, that he is strong."
"Continue," I said.
"That, I think," she said, "is where the whip, the quirt, the switch, the strap, the ropes, the collar, the blindfold, the gag, the chains, come in. They put us obviously at the mercy, and helplessly so, of he at whose mercy we desire to be, and helplessly so."
"Interesting," I said.
"It is that sort of thing I meant, I think," she said, "when I spoke of the strangeness of the quirt, or lash."
"Continue," I said.
"Such things hurt," she said, "and certainly one does not like that, at all, but yet, afterward, and even in a sense before, we are reassured, and pleased, and grateful, for them. By them it is shown to us that we are truly the slaves of our masters, that we truly belong to our masters. What better than the whip to prove to us that we are owned, as we wish to be?"
"The lash speaks clearly to you of your bondage," I said.
"That is why we sometimes want it," she whispered. "That is why we can sometimes hope for it, and love it. It convinces us that we are slaves. It teaches us, each of us, that we are slaves."
"I quirted you," I said.
"And it well taught me that you were a master," she said. "And I found it appropriate, and fulfilling, and reassuring, and rewarding in a way you presumably could not begin to conjecture."
"Perhaps I should quirt you again," I smiled.
"Oh, no, no, Master," she laughed. "Please do not do so!"
"Slaves are seldom whipped," I said, "unless they have been in some way less than fully pleasing."
"You may rest assured," she smiled, "I shall attempt to be fully pleasing."
The slave, Winyela, was very beautiful. I considered the colorful beading on her collar, well worked into the leather. How closely it fitted about her lovely throat! There was a small shadow on her neck at its top edge. The two strings from its knotting dangled a bit below the collar, and to the side, to one side, as she lay beside me, on one elbow.
"It is strange," she said. "I love Canka so much, and yet I know that if I do not please him I will be whipped like an animal."
"You are an animal," I reminded her.
"In my love," she said, "it makes me feel so profoundly, so deeply, and wonderfu
lly his slave."
"You are his slave," I reminded her.
"Yes, Master," she laughed.
"Why do you laugh?" I asked.
"I think you do not know how much I am his slave," she smiled.
"I do not understand," I said.
"I wanted his collar," she said. "From the first moment I saw him, I wanted his collar!"
"Oh?" I said.
"Yes, " she said, "from the first moment I saw him, I wanted to be his slave!"
"And he," I said, "from the first moment he saw you he wanted you for his own."
"Do you think so?" she said, eagerly.
"Clearly," I said.
"Like a kaiila!" she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Oh," she said. "How I hope it is so! How I hope it is so!"
"It is so," I said.
Sometimes it is this way, and sometimes it is not. Sometimes the eyes meet, and she sees that he is her perfect master, for whom she has always longed, and he that she is his perfect slave, for whom he has long sought in his heart. Perhaps she is chained on a shelf, perhaps she is simply standing before him, naked, thigh-deep in the grass of the Barrens, the filth of his kaiila's paws still about her lips and face. Legally, of course, there are simple transactions. Too, of course, raidings, abductions, brandings and collarings, and such, suffice. The buying and selling, and trading, and bestowing, and such, of women tends to increase, course, the possibilities of a fellow's chances of obtaining a slave whom he really wants, whom he would die for, as indeed they tend to improve the probabilities of the girl, as well, falling into the hands of a master who may prove better than even those of her wildest and most secret dreams. Oh, how she strives to please him, and serve him, that she may be kept!
Yes, she wishes to love and serve, wholly, unstintingly, selflessly.
But, even so, he must not forget his whip.
Nor does she wish for him to do so.
Blood Brothers of Gor Page 14