by John Norman
We then heard, from somewhere outside, the cry of a tarn, welcoming the sun, rising over the walls of the city.
“It is dawn,” he said.
“Hold me,” she wept. “Stay. Tarry. Do not release me yet!”
“I must be on my way,” he said.
“Let me please you again!” she said.
“How?” he smiled. The oil in the tiny lamp was almost exhausted.
“As what I am,” she said, “as a slave, a slave!”
“Very well,” he said.
He drew away from her. She reached out for him.
“Position, slut,” he snapped.
Instantly she went to position.
“You will leave me here, as I am, chained?’ she said.
“An attendant will be here shortly,” he said. “And you will be freed, and conducted to your cage.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Master!”
“Yes?”
“May I confess something to you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I have known for a long time,” she said, “even from years ago, on Earth, though I have never admitted it to anyone, until now—that men were my masters.”
He regarded her.
“All women, in their hearts,” she said, “know that men are, and should be, their masters.” She looked up at him. “And on Gor,” she said, “they are our masters.”
“There are free women on Gor,” he said.
“Only uncollared slaves,” she whispered, “women who have not yet met their masters.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
He drew on his tunic, and belted it.
“May I inquire your name, Master?” she said, tears in her eyes.
“No,” he said.
“I do not even have a name,” she said. “They have not given me one.”
When one becomes a slave, of course, one’s name as a free person is gone. One is then an animal, and animals have no names, not in their own right. They may, of course, be named, and usually are, as is not unusual with animals, particularly pretty animals. The name then, of course, is a slave name, and may be altered, or replaced, or taken away, as the owner wishes.
“You were not given a name,” he said, “because it was not clear that you would be kept.”
“You know my master?”
“Yes, I have had dealings with him.”
“He asked you to see me,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Will I—will I be permitted to live?”
“Your master will decide,” he said. “But I think so, now.”
“I think you have saved my life,” she said.
“Rather,” said he, “if anything, I have helped you to save your own life.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“It was done when you decided you wanted to live,” he said.
“I do want to live!” she said. “Never have I so keenly, so much, wanted to live! And I want to live as what I am, and only am, a slave! It is what I am, and what I want to be! How terrible to be a slave and not be permitted to fulfill one’s deepest desires, one’s nature, one’s bondage! I want to love and serve a man, abjectly and selflessly, with my whole heart and soul, and with the fullness of my being. I want to be owned, and be loved. I want to be obedient and pleasing! I want to be collared and subject to my master’s whip! These things were denied to me on Earth, but here I have been rightfully embonded, and here, given no choice whatsoever in the matter, I have found myself become the slave I always was.”
He considered her.
She was quite beautiful.
“But now,” she said, “for all to see and know!”
This was true. She was now legally, explicitly, and publicly a slave. Nothing could be hidden any longer. All would now see her as such. She was branded. She would be put in a collar. She would have distinctive garments, unthinkable for a free woman. There would be no mistaking such things now. She was now totally different from what she had been; she could now be bought and sold, bargained for, and traded for. She was now no more than a lovely domestic animal. One could make offers to her master for her.
“I feel so free,” she said.
“Free?” he smiled.
“In a sense,” she laughed. “I feel now I am whole. I am no longer divided. I am no longer in conflict with myself. I have found myself, and where I most feared to search. I knew I was there, but I had been told not to look there, that I must never look there, not there, for there I might find myself! But now I have found myself! No longer now do I need to live a lie. I am no longer a hypocrite. I can now be myself, as I want to be, as I should be, in a man’s collar!”
“An abject and shameful slave?” he smiled.
“Yes,” she said, “and defiantly so, and gloriously so! I will kiss my fingers and press them to my collar! It is a form of life I desire! It is to be treasured, and sought! I want to kneel, and obey, and please! I want to love and serve. I want a master, a master! Can a free woman even understand that?”
“I think so,” he smiled.
“I hope their collars are waiting for them!” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
He began to untie the straps on the curtains.
“Will I see you again?” she asked.
“I do not think so,” he said.
She leaned forward, and tears streamed down her face. He was pleased to see that she did not break position. He would have had to apply the switch to her, had she done so.
He parted the curtains.
One could see the interior of the tavern beyond them, the tables, the hanging lamps, now extinguished, the dancing place.
He looked down upon her.
“I think you will be given a name,” he said.
“Have I seen you before?” she begged.
“I do not think so,” he said.
“But you have seen me before?”
“Yes.”
“On Earth?”
“Yes,” he said. “I saw you several times, on the streets, in restaurants, in your apartment while you slept, I even turning down the covers to better examine your figure, then carefully replacing the covers. I saw you even in the advertising agency, to note how you related to your fellow workers.”
“You were thorough,” she smiled.
“We are,” he said. “It is our business.”
“And you decided that I was to be brought here?”
“Yes,” he said, “unbeknownst to yourself, you, with others, were entered into the manifests and schedules, your cargoing dates arranged, and so on.”
She shuddered. “I knew nothing of this,” she said. “I suspected nothing.”
“Few do,” he said. “I think that is best. Most do not understand what has happened to them until they awaken on Gor, stripped and chained.”
“That is how it was with me,” she smiled. “I wonder if you arrogant, dominant male beasts can understand what it is to so awaken.”
“If we could not,” he said, “we would not have you so awaken.”
“I see,” she said.
“It is good for you,” he said, “to find yourself stripped and helpless. It is an excellent introduction to your new reality.”
“And then,” she said, “a stroke or two of the whip!”
“Such can be helpful, as well,” he said. “Do you recall kissing the whip then?”
“Of course,” she said, “several times, as I was commanded, and I must, too, thank it plenteously for its stroke, and speak of it repeatedly as ‘dear, sweet, beautiful whip’! Then I must lick and kiss the feet of my keeper and thank him for his attentions to one so unworthy as I, for his deigning to attempt to inform, instruct, and improve me.”
“Some, of course,” he said, “suspect, from some cue or other, per
haps from a careless expression on a man’s face, perhaps the glimpse of an ill-concealed master’s regard, terrifying to a prey female, but most of these dismiss their fears, however extreme or unsettling, as irrational, as absurd, even preposterous. Later, chained, being vended nude, they realize they were perhaps somewhat hasty in dismissing their apprehensions, that their fears were not as outré as they believed. Some others, but very few, act on their fears and try to flee, stupid little beasts, but our surveillance is thorough, and there is no escape for them. They, as the others, will eventually wear the identificatory anklet. It has been decided for them. The pursuits are sometimes amusing, particularly when some of the scurrying, curvaceous little beasts think there may actually be an escape for them.”
“I wore such an anklet?”
“Yes,” he said. “Numbers on them correlate with our records. Indications are pertinent to different dealers, markets, buyers, and such. They are removed shortly after landing, usually while the merchandise is still unconscious, basic distributions having then been made.”
“I was totally unaware.” she said.
“That is the usual thing,” he said. “Very few suspect, only one, I suppose, in, say, two or three hundred.”
“When did you decide on me?” she asked.
“It was one afternoon at the advertising agency,” he said. “I observed you haughtily dismissing a young man’s invitation, for a luncheon date, as I recall, and there was something about your expression, and the way you turned your body that left him quite abashed. I decided then it might be pleasant to take you to Gor.”
“I see,” she smiled.
“I thought you might look well in a slave collar, stripped, cringing beneath a man’s whip, pleading to serve well, and not be struck.”
“I see,” she said.
“You had lessons to be learned, at the feet of men.”
“I see,” she said.
“Was it you who first saw me?” she asked.
“Yes, as it happened,” he said.
“And I gather that you found me of some interest?”
“You are a vain little thing, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she smiled.
“Good,” he said. “A girl should be vain, and think well of herself, and take genuine pleasure in realizing she is special, and precious and desirable, and worth coins, and that she is of interest to men, and of the greatest interest possible to men, of slave interest. What girl does not want to know that men find her so desirable that they contemplate her in terms of collars, slave bracelets, and ropes?”
“You did find me of interest!” she laughed.
“Certainly, I found you of interest,” he said. “It was easy to imagine you stripped, and bound hand and foot, on a deep, scarlet rug, at a master’s feet.”
“Of course!” she said.
How flattering it is to a woman, to know that a man so envisions her, that he sees her in terms of such desire, that he regards her as worthy of binding and having, and perhaps collaring and keeping.
“But understand,” said he, “that you were merely one of dozens, by several agents, to be considered, to be appraised, and assessed.”
“Only one?” she said,
“Yes,” he said.
“I do not like that,” she said.
“It does not matter what you like,” he said.
“Appraised and assessed!” she said. “It is as though we were dogs, or horses!”
“You were less,” said he. “You were slaves.”
“Animals!” she protested.
“Of course,” he said.
“Gorean men!” she said. “How they see us!”
“They see you as you are,” he said.
“As animals, as slave stock?” she said.
“Certainly,” he said.
“You think poorly of the women of Earth,” she said.
“Not at all,” he said. “I think extremely highly of them. Some I would put at even a tarn disk.”
“You see us as slaves!” she exclaimed.
“Improperly?” he inquired.
“No, Master,” she whispered, lowering her eyes, “—properly.”
“But in this,” said he, “you are no different from Gorean women.”
“We are all women,” she said.
“You may break position,” he said.
“Master!” she called out.
But he had left the alcove, and drawn the curtains shut behind him. The tharlarion-oil lamp wavered, and went out, leaving her in the darkness. She lay on her side, her legs drawn up.
In a few Ehn the taverner’s man, she saw him approaching, visible through the parted curtains, bending down, entered the alcove, at which time she went to first obeisance position, kneeling with her head to the furs, her hands down, beside her head. Shortly thereafter she was freed of her tether and, bent over in common leading position, held tightly, but not cruelly, by the hair, was conducted to her cage.
Perhaps a last remark or two might be in order.
He did not return to the tavern, for she was a mere slave, and, as such, of little interest to a free man, but one hears things. As he had supposed, the taverner found his slave much improved, and was satisfied the next evening with his use of her, though she still had much to learn. She was now piteously solicitous to be pleasing to her master. It would not now be necessary to sell her for sleen feed, nor to make an example of her, before the other girls, casting her alive, bound hand and foot, amongst thirsting, ravenous leech plants. She became eager to be used, and to please, and even began to provoke the jealously, and the antipathy, of her sisters on the floor. They wondered what had been done to her, in so short a time, to turn her into such a slave. Within days men, even some who had been disappointed earlier, were summoning their paga from her. She had learned to move well in silk, and bells, gracefully and seductively, and her eyes, over the rim of the paga goblet, as she knelt and pressed her lips to it, bespoke the deference of a slave, and her needs, and her hope to be found worthy of a master’s caress, before she humbly lowered her head between her extended arms, and proffered the goblet. And many was the fellow who fastened her small wrists behind her back with a lace, and sent her hurrying to an alcove, to wait there, however long, upon his pleasure. Rumor has it that she soon became one of her master’s most popular girls. “She is an Earth slut!” men laughed, explaining to their satisfaction her helplessness, and her needs. “They are all the same,” would say another. “That is why they sell so well,” said another. In any event, the small slave survived. One supposes the fellow who had spoken to her at such length had had some role in bringing her to Gor. Perhaps he wished to vindicate his judgment of her worthiness for a Gorean slave block, despite the dismal, unnatural world of her origin. Or perhaps he was merely doing the taverner, his friend, it seems, a favor.
Surely it could not have been a simple act of kindness, merely taking pity on a beautiful, imperiled, frightened slave.
The girl was given a name, and later, another name, a better name. But we do not report the masters’ choices in these particulars, in conformity with the intention to obscure the name of the owner, the tavern, the city, the girl.
It could be almost anywhere, couldn’t it?
Let the enemy ponder that.
Lastly one might mention that, not unpredictably, the taverner soon received many offers for his luscious Earth-girl slave. Some may think it is cruel to kindle the slave fires in the belly of a woman, thusly so enslaving her and making her so much the victim of her own needs. I do not think so. Too, we must keep in mind that she is only a slave.
It seems but a matter of time until the taverner will part with her, for an excellent offer, and that she will become the slave of a private master.
I think that is best for her.
She is a lovely piece of collar
meat.
I wonder if she is unusual amongst the women of Earth. Presumably, as it is a dismal, unnatural world.
But perhaps not.
Perhaps there are many women there, who long for their collars.
But, enough, I turn aside now, to attend to the petitions, and needs, of my charming amanuensis.
She crawls to my feet.
She is pretty on her leash.
She, too, incidentally, was once from Earth.
Confessions of a Polar Bear Impostor
I thought little of it at first.
It was a coincidence, surely.
Let me introduce myself. However, in order to diminish the likelihood of personal jeopardy, and to minimize the possibility of retaliations on the part of a powerful, arrogant, and unaccountable industry, let me tell you that my name is not really Bill Smith, and that I do not work for a major metropolitan newspaper whose unabashed liberal views and links to vast advertising revenues are unquestioned. Furthermore, I was not born in Peoria, Illinois, in 1981, the fourth son of immigrant parents from Norway. I am, however, an investigative reporter of unusual probity, tenacity, and vigor. I say this not in vanity, but in all candidness, a virtue which in my view might be more assiduously cultivated by others in my profession, for it has a bearing on this article. More than once I received journalism’s coveted, though informally conferred, Nuisance of the Year Award, and was thrice voted a certain industry’s annually, if secretly, bestowed Annoyance Prize. I dare not supply more detail lest my identity be suspected.
My name is Bill Smith, and I work for a major metropolitan newspaper whose unabashed liberal views and links to vast advertising revenues are unquestioned, save perhaps by benighted conservatives. I was born in Peoria, Illinois, in 1981, the fourth son of immigrant parents, a man and a woman, from Norway. I first committed myself to a career in investigative journalism at the age of nine when I discovered the rewards which might accrue from such inquiries as ascertaining the simultaneous and surprising whereabouts of my missing grade-school principal and our local guidance counselor, Miss, we shall say, X. I soon sensed in ovo the promise of a fascinating and lucrative career. My sobriquets are numerous, but I prefer Tiger Mouse, a flattering diminutive first ascribed to me by the disgruntled Mr. Wu Chang of San Francisco, supposedly the notorious blood-thirsty mastermind of a callous, lethal, many-tentacled Tong organization in the area, with at least one tentacle in Berkeley. My investigative work revealed conclusively that he was actually an honest, mild-mannered typewriter salesman near Fisherman’s Wharf, not far from the submarine there, with no connections whatsoever to crime, organized, or disorganized. Many Han names, you see, are similar, and the Wu Chang of Tong fame was actually another fellow, seemingly residing at the time in Cleveland, a lead I granted to another reporter, not heard from since. My Mr. Wu Chang, capitalizing on the similar name, had been selling typewriters, an obsolete instrument for printing letters and such on paper, to tourists and locals eager to do business with a supposed criminal mastermind. His business folded shortly after my exposé, and he was forced to found a large chain of retail outlets specializing in more technologically current devices, palmcorders, digital cameras, computers, and such. In deference to Mr. Wu Chang’s request I withhold the name of the chain, but it is one which is well known and would be instantly recognized by aficionados of gadgetry, in particular, that of an expensive and technologically advanced nature. He declined to accept the publicity which I was prepared to offer at little or no charge. We remain friends, and exchange gifts on our birthdays. I most recently received a hatchet, with several notches carved on the handle. Tiger Mouse, as he called me, clearly calls attention to my aggressive investigatory prowess, and, I suppose, to my fondness for cheese. But enough of me. What of Olaf? His name, of course, is not really Olaf. I refer to him by that name in order to supply him with all the protection morally compatible with honest reporting, whose chips may fall where they may, and sometimes sink.