by John Norman
I wonder if my master, Rask of Harfax, whom I have never met, will one day let me share the surface of his couch. Could I be so esteemed? We are often, I understand, slept at the foot of the couch, chained by the neck or ankle to a slave ring.
It is fitting for us.
Men are dominant, and know how to treat us.
It is for such things that we love them.
I wonder, Master, if you could even recognize me now.
I wonder, if I were with a group of stripped, or tunicked, chained slaves, if you could pick me out. Could you walk amongst us, with a whip, and know which one was I? I think you could recognize me, that you could pick me out. I suspect I might be in some sense special to you. Too, I think that even on Earth, you, not unoften, in your thoughts, saw me as a slave. I suspect you thought of me, at least now and then, perhaps frequently, as stripped and chained, at your feet, yours.
Forgive me, Master. I should not have suggested that such thoughts might have been yours!
Surely not yours!
I have new information for you about Rask of Harfax. Although the keepers are enforcing my virginity, and denying me much, I have striven so hard to learn my lessons well, and to serve them in so many ways, that they are now more willing to speak to me. In sneaking specialties for them from the kitchen, and thereby risking a switching, in pouring their wine rather generously, in well serving their tables, in assiduously washing, ironing, and setting out their clothing, in sedulously sweeping, scrubbing, mopping, and dusting their quarters, in meticulously arranging their furs and setting forth the chains in which, alas, other girls will be clasped, in carefully cleaning their leather and accouterments, in diligently polishing their boots, even when I am not instructed to do so, I have become something of a favorite. I have learned that when a woman genuinely desires to please men, and strives to please them, and does please them, the response of men is likely to be rewarding, one of acceptance, of warmth, fondness, and regard, in my case, of course, regard only insofar as a slave can be held in regard. I think my keepers like me though, of course, I am sometimes treated with great harshness, and am humiliated and struck, perhaps that I be reminded that I am a slave. As though one were ever in any doubt about that!
Some men seem to like me.
I wonder if my master, Rask of Harfax, will like me. I hope that he will like me. If he does not he may sell me, or give me away, or do with me whatever he pleases, as I belong to him. He might throw me bound to fang plants, or leech plants, as they are called here. My left forearm was held near to one, and the flower turned slowly toward me as I watched, fascinated, and then it suddenly struck at me, with its two hollow thorns. The pods began to pump and suck and I screamed as the blood was being drawn into them, darkening the pods. Then the plant was slashed apart with a knife and I was allowed to pull my arm away, and, weeping and screaming, tear the thorns from my flesh. I fear the plants. I will try to be a good slave! He may even give me as feed to hunting animals, six-legged, aggressive, sinuous beasts, called sleen. I do not wish to be torn to pieces, alive, beneath their fangs. They are sometimes used to hunt slaves. Some in the house have been given my scent. So, even if it were not for the chains and bars, the great doors, the keepers with their thongs and whips, I would not try to escape. But, Master, and this is fearful to understand, and will perhaps horrify you, even apart from the security of the house, and the keepers, and the animals, there is no escape for the Gorean slave girl. Even outside the house, this house and others like it, even outside, in the cities, or in the fields, on the long roads, on the winding rivers, even when amongst desert tents or mountain huts, wherever, anywhere, even when she is muchly free, when she can come and go muchly as she pleases, for many are permitted such things, there is no escape for her. Branded, collared, distinctively clad, universally recognized as property, there is no place for her to go, no place to run. She is slave, that and nothing else, and not only in a house, or city, or such, but in a culture, in a society, in a world. The best she might hope for is to fall into the hands of a new master, perhaps far away, who, aware of her indiscretion, will be likely to hold her in a servitude a thousand times more grievous than that from which she fled. So you see, Master, there is no escape from our bondage. It is on us. We are truly in our collars.
Does this horrify you, that there is no escape for us?
Or does it please you, for you are a man?
I wonder if my master will make some allowances for me, at least at first, as I am only an Earthwoman. He will surely know that. If not, I will certainly tell him, if I am given permission to speak. I trust he will not hold me in the bondage of the “silent slave,” or, more frighteningly, in that of the abject “she-tarsk.” And so I hope he will make some allowances for me. As an Earth female. But I do not think he will. Gorean men tend to be impatient, and demanding, with enslaved women.
But when one’s service is diligent, conscientious, humble, and as marvelously pleasing as one can make it, in the kitchen, in the household, in the furs, they tend to be contented. And why not? After all, what more can the master want?
Earthwomen, my keepers inform me, as I kneel branded, naked, and collared before them, make excellent slaves.
That is interesting, is it not?
Perhaps I will not always be “worthless.”
Too, it seems we have a reputation for love, and helpless passion. That seems so strange to me, for the women on Earth are praised for their modesty, aloofness, and inhibitions. This Puritanical conditioning, of course, is utilized by, and capitalized upon by, ideologues seeking power. How anxious become the ideologues when a woman finds a man attractive; let her not dare fall in love; let her not dare listen to the whisperings of the natural woman, kneeling outside the “pale of enlightenment.” Poor men! Smiling becomes leering; flirting becomes harassment; caressing becomes groping; following a woman around a corner to see more of her, because she is so beautiful, is “stalking,” and so on. Earth has become so loveless and sick. All is greed, all is power. How blind I was then, how superficial, how shallow, how narrow!
Must we compete in our frigidity? Is each to be colder, and harder to bring to heat, than the next? Must we be inert? What is the value of resisting our sex, of using it as a weapon, a dangling tease, to lure unwary males into positions in which we may frustrate, humiliate, threaten, and exploit them? We thrust torches into straw and scold the straw for burning.
But I think there is not really anything wrong with the women of Earth. I think it is only necessary for them to tread beyond that “pale of enlightenment,” and find the natural world, which is beautiful.
It is still there.
There is nothing really wrong with the women of Earth. They have just not yet found their collars.
Forgive this disquisition, Master. Such thoughts must, of course, sound strange to you, alien and foreign, you of my old world, Earth.
Perhaps, however, they explain to some extent why Goreans believe Earthwomen make excellent slaves. And why they do make excellent slaves. They have languished too long in a sexless desert. Here they find the rains of Gor, and the verdant fields of a natural world. Let them feel the life-giving rain and run naked through the soaked grass. Here, Master, if they are clasped in the chains of masters, they are at least freed from those of politics. Here they are given no choice but to reveal, under threat of punishment, the sexuality they were forced to deny on Earth; on Earth they hoped to meet men before whom they could be only submissive; here, on Gor, they find men before whom a woman can only be submissive; on Earth they scarcely dared dream of their conquest; here, on Gor, they are conquered; on Earth they toyed with the thought of meeting strong men, so few on Earth, so denounced, so forbidden, perhaps even, in bold, shameless fancy, of granting them favors; here, yielded, capitulated, subjugated, and vanquished, prostrate in capture thongs, they beg for the privilege of being spared, to be accepted as abject slaves.
; I told you, Master, that I have learned something of my master, Rask of Harfax. He is a slaver, and the house in Harfax, with which he is affiliated, has arrangements with this house, in Besnit. They exchange slaves, want lists, and such. Apparently, as one would suppose, there are slave routes plied between this world, Gor, and Earth, and perhaps others, but I do not know. Too, there are apparently intrigues amongst these two, or however many, worlds. Agents are exchanged from time to time. Rask of Harfax, my master, utilizing a different name, and cover, is, or was, working on Earth, in some capacity that I do not even think is clear to my informants. To be sure, he apparently chooses women, as it pleases him, for acquisition and shipment to this world. I say “shipment” for these women are not passengers, but cargo. They are brought here as objects, to be vended in the slave markets. It is a business; they might as well be vegetables or cattle. The slaves I saw on Earth, in my assignment for the magazine, were to be bid upon by various wholesalers, who would then have them delivered to their respective houses. Presumably they are brought to a port here, somewhere, and then distributed as arranged, presumably by wagons and such, in which they would doubtless be chained. Much seems clandestine about these operations, at least with respect to aspects which are subtler than the acquisition of slaves.
Whereas an advanced technology would obviously be required to bring me, and others, to this world, the technology of this world, as a whole, paradoxically, seems primitive, or, perhaps better, classical.
I must, on Earth, have been seen by this Rask of Harfax, or an agent. I do not know where this took place, perhaps in a restaurant, in leaving a cab, on the street, somewhere. Someone must have decided that I was, even then, dare one say, “of interest.” Perhaps he thought I had “promise.” Perhaps he speculated that I would “do.” I suppose I should be flattered that I was assessed worthy to be a Gorean slave girl. Without wishing to sound vain, I suspect few are. Interestingly, many of the girls brought here have natural female bodies, cuddly, juicy, and exciting, short, perhaps a little plump. To be sure, we have our “model” types, as well. Some women, perhaps at the time a little less beautiful, are apparently selected because of a powerful, latent sexuality. But I think that even they soon become as beautiful as the others, for a woman’s beauty blossoms in bondage, as she becomes less inhibited, and more natural, more radiant, freer, happier, more emotionally liberated. Too, interestingly, the men seem keenly interested in the minds of their captives, strange as that may seem to a woman who finds herself stripped and chained. Whereas a master may castigate a slave as “stupid,” when she may be merely ignorant, or has made a mistake, or simply because it pleases him, it is clear that we are far from stupid, and the brutes know it. Who wants a stupid slave? Intelligent slaves bring higher prices. They make better slaves. I have met two slaves here who have Ph.D.’s, one in the social sciences, and one in the humanities. But neither, I think it fair to say, seems really more intelligent than her peers in the collar. This may dismay them, but it is true. This is not surprising, of course, as it seems that high intelligence is one of the criteria for selection. And it did not take long, I assure you, for our two young, lovely Ph.D.’s, the first a brunet, from a university, the second a blonde, from a college, to learn that such distinctions, degrees, honors, and such, mean nothing here. They needed look no farther than the shackles on their wrists and ankles, than the bars of their cage, viewed from within, to discern that. Indeed, here, if anything, such distinctions would be a handicap. Here, it only matters how good a slave you are. They learned that quickly. You see, they are intelligent.
Yet it seems to me that, on the whole, the intellect of the masters is greater than that of the slaves, including, of course, mine. The psyches of men here have not been divided, reduced, confused and crippled, riddled with inhibitions and contradictions. Their intellects are whole and free, and allies, not enemies, of their blood.
That is the way we want it.
How wonderful is the mind of the natural man!
Sometimes it infuriates a new slave to learn that her master relishes owning the whole of her, but, soon, she understands that it is, indeed, the whole of her, every corpuscle of her, and the least and most secret of her feelings and thoughts, that is relished, prized, and owned.
But sometimes, too, the brutes put us to our knees and treat us as though we were nothing, no more than the dust beneath their feet, and we, then, kneeling, heads bowed, knowing ourselves no more than the dust beneath their feet, better know our collars, and better understand what we are, to our joy, slaves.
So, Rask of Harfax, or someone, it seems, saw me, and arranged, perhaps for his amusement, that I should be introduced into a slaving area, under the pretext of investigative reporting, an area in which, of course, I soon found myself taken in hand, back-cuffed, and rendered unconscious.
But I am not sorry to be here, though here I am only a meaningless slave.
I know little more than this of my master, Rask of Harfax.
It gives me comfort to be allowed to write to you. I wonder if you have ever received any of these letters.
I wonder if I am really a worthless slave.
Doubtless it is true, but that really means, I suspect, merely that the keepers are not yet fully satisfied with me. Surely I have seen their eyes glint, as they have looked upon me, as I, fearing the whip, was forced to move lasciviously, provocatively before them in my training.
But a master might improve me, I am told, training me to his tastes. I wonder if you would like to train me to your tastes, Master, teaching me your tastes in drinks and food, how you wish your shirts ironed, how you would like your bed turned down, and such, and how, of course, I should perform in the bedroom, or elsewhere, perhaps in the living room, or on a porch, or in a garden. I wonder if you would keep me chained at the foot of your bed, in the Gorean fashion. I wonder, if you kept me as your slave, on Earth, say, in your penthouse, in Manhattan, or on that estate on Long Island to which it seems you have access, if you would let others know, that I might be shamed, revealed there, though on Earth, as no more than a degraded slave. Or if you would keep my bondage secret, choosing to conceal my abject servitude from the world, keeping it a secret known only to two, the slave and her master.
But even a worthless slave, I take it, would bring a few coppers in the market. Some might buy her, for example, on speculation, whip-training her, and then putting her up for a profit.
I wonder if you would bid on me, and, if your bid was successful, what you would do with me. You would promptly free me, doubtless. But I wonder. Seeing what I have become, I think you might not free me. You might like the way I am now. You might keep me. At least, if you found me pleasing. I wonder if you would find me pleasing. I do not wish to shock you, Master, but I would try to be pleasing.
I would try desperately to be pleasing to you. If I were not pleasing to you, fully, and in all ways, I trust that you would see to it that I became so.
To the master belongs the whip. There is no slave who does not fear its stroke. If she is not pleasing, she knows it will be used on her.
I sensed you were the sort of man who could whip a slave, and would whip her, if she were not pleasing.
I sensed that you were the sort of man who could whip me, and would whip me, if I were not pleasing.
I wonder if this is true.
Please do not be offended.
It is just a thought.
Were you to come for me in the house tonight, carrying a lamp, you would find me in Room Twenty-Seven. There are many such rooms, it seems. I did not know that before. Climb the steel steps and stand on the narrow, steel walkway. I will be on tier three, in cage two. You need not worry about not finding me there. I will be locked within. In the light of your lamp, I would awaken, and perform obeisance before you. If I do not immediately awaken, strike the bars, or prod me. That is what the guards would do.
Am I a worthless slave?
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I suppose it is true.
But how could I, from my world and background, my warpings and distortions, my terrible Puritanical conditionings, my negativities, compete with exuberant, sexually liberated, sexually free, collared beauties native to this world?
But I must try, Master.
I am told that Earthwomen make good slaves. I shall strive desperately to be such.
A worthless slave,
Linda
Twenty-First Letter,
En’Kara, Twenty-Fifth Day
Master:
I am longing for a master, I am longing for my master, who is Rask of Harfax. I hope he will be kind to me, but firm, as well. I know I need discipline. And Gorean men, I am certain, will supply it. Some masters are doubtless harsh, and some perhaps excessively severe. That makes me afraid. That is a frightening thought. We, as slaves, are so vulnerable!
I wonder what my master will be like.
One wonders, one is afraid.
It is my hope that he will not be too harsh, or too severe. But I would prefer him to be terribly harsh, or even terribly severe, to being weak. I want him to be firm, categorical, uncompromising, absolutely uncompromising, and strong. I want to be in no doubt that I am truly his slave. We want to fear our masters, as well as love them. How else can we be their slaves? We wish to know that we have no alternative other than to obey instantly and unquestioningly, and with perfection.
How else could we so fully serve them, and so fully love them, and so helplessly and joyfully yield to them—with the unmitigated rapture of the totally conquered, totally owned, helplessly ravished slave?
I am the sort of girl who needs someone to keep her in line. I must toe the mark, if necessary, fearfully.
And, I am informed by the men of this house, my keepers and trainers, that I need have no fear on this count, that no Gorean master will leave that matter to chance!
I entertain that intelligence with apprehension, but anticipation.