by John Norman
From whence, to one of my intelligence, education, refinement, class, and breeding, could come such thoughts?
I thought of the history of a race.
Somewhere within me could there be a weeping slave, yearning for her master?
In any event, in my early weeks on Gor I was startled at the openness of my instructresses, eagerly discussing the attractions of the guards, the pleasures derived from their attentions, their joyful helplessness in the arms of one or another, their hopes, sometimes pathetic, of being summoned to this slave ring or that, their misery at being ignored, their plaintive agony if denied, for more than a day or two, a man’s touch.
Indeed, I saw one crawl on her belly to a guard, place his foot on her head, and beg to be caressed.
I understood little of this, at least on a fully conscious level, though I do not doubt but what I understood it well enough on a deeper level, but I did not think it wise to question the instructresses.
But at the same time I began to feel, in my own belly, ever more insistent sensations.
This was internal to me, not merely a pretence or calculation, designed to avoid the whip’s fiery, encircling coils.
It was also very troubling to me.
It is hard, of course, to pretend to indifference in certain matters when one is barefoot, collared, and clad in the brief rag of a slave.
The slave’s very condition is imbued with sensuality.
To merely look upon her is to see her as sensuous.
What is the very meaning of her collar, her condition, and tunic? Does it not say, “Here Masters, behold, here is a female slave. She exists for your pleasure. She is a property. She is yours. Do with her as you will.”
She is the most needful, the most helpless, the most sexual of women.
“You will learn to obey, will you not, Allison?” inquired one of my instructresses, early in my training.
“I have already learned, Mistress,” I said. I had felt the slave whip of Gor.
“Intelligent women,” said another, “learn swiftly to obey.”
“It takes stupid women a little longer,” said another.
“But only a little longer,” laughed another.
“And why do you obey, Allison?” asked the first instructress.
“Because I am a slave, Mistress,” I said.
“You are terrified not to obey?” asked one.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“You do not wish to be punished?”
“No, Mistress,” I said. Surely that was an excellent reason. I was not a free woman. If I were not pleasing, I must expect to be punished, properly and appropriately, and often immediately.
“You think of punishment,” said one of the instructresses, “in terms of the switch, the whip, close chains, the denial of clothing, the affixing of a collar with points, a reduction in rations, being sent naked into the streets, being denied speech, being put in the modality of the she-tarsk, such things?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, shuddering. To be sure, I had only heard about some of these things.
“I will tell you of another punishment,” she said, “one you will not even understand now.”
“Mistress?” I said.
“You have sexual needs, do you not?” she said.
“Must I speak?” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“—I suppose so,” I said.
One of the instructresses laughed.
I was annoyed that she had laughed.
“Later,” said the instructress who had laughed, “you will not be in any doubt about the matter.”
“Yes,” I said. “I have sexual needs.” I was oddly relieved to have said this. Indeed, it was the first time I had explicitly acknowledged this, aloud, before others. I felt an unusual sense of liberation, of freedom, having said this. To be sure, there was no doubt, on Gor, about this matter. My condition, my treatment, my training, my collar, my tunic, my brand, doubtless played some role in an awakening within my body that I sensed, day by day, was becoming ever more obvious and irresistible. I knew, too, of course, that I was not permitted to lie, as I was a slave.
“Your slave fires,” said one of the instructresses, “have not yet been lit.”
“If you think you are helpless now,” said another, “wait until that occurs.”
“You do not yet suspect the power that men will have over you,” said another.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It will occur sooner or later,” said another.
“And from the look of your flanks,” said another, “I think it will occur sooner.”
“The time will come, Allison,” said the first instructress, “when you will want to obey.”
“You will be the prisoner and victim of your needs,” said another. “You will do anything to have them satisfied, if only for the time, before they again rage within your belly.”
“You will beg, grovel, and plead to be caressed,” said another.
“As the slave you are,” said another.
I found this hard to believe.
Could a woman be so reduced, rendered so needful, so helpless, transformed into so vulnerable and despicable an object, little more than an animal in heat?
Perhaps, I thought to myself, in fear, if she is a slave.
“Some slaves, many slaves,” said another of the instructresses, wistfully, “fall in love with their masters.”
“It is hard to be at the feet of a man, and be mastered, and not do so,” said another of the instructresses, “particularly if he should show you some kindness.”
“To be sure,” said another of the instructresses, “the slave is not to be loved, as she is worthless, no more than an animal.”
“Love is for free persons, companions,” said another, “not for animals and their masters.”
“Men fear to care for a slave,” said another. “Consider how their friends will laugh and make sport of them.”
“The girl will soon again be on the block,” said another.
“If you should love your master, Allison,” said another, “it would be wise for you to conceal your feelings.”
“I will never love a master,” I said. I was derived from a class of women who did not think in terms of love, but in terms of advancement, in terms of practicality, in terms of position, station, prospects, power, and wealth. What was a woman’s beauty for, if not to obtain advantages in a competitive marriage market? This was why Eve, Jane, and I were so terrified that we might be expelled from our sorority. That would have been socially calamitous. The sorority stood as one important step, among several, to a splendid future.
But how could I hope for such a future now, as I was on another world, a collared slave?
Tears sprang into my eyes.
And yet I suspected that a life lay before me, with all its unknowns and perils, which was a thousand times more real than the structured banalities and tediums to which I had been taught to aspire.
“What do you think of this room, Allison?” asked one of the instructresses, one morning, midway in my training. We had paused before an opened door on our way to our usual training room. “What is it for?” I asked. “It is called the Room of White-Silk,” said an instructress. “What is it for?” I asked. One of the instructresses laughed. There was not much in the room. A ring, or two, some chains, a trestle or two, and a number of deep, heaped, rich furs. It was certainly not as alarming as certain of the discipline rooms I had seen, with their devices and cages.
It was toward the end of my training, the few days of my training, that I was summoned by my instructresses to one of the training rooms. “Stand,” said one of them. “As a slave,” said another. “Please no,” I said. “Now,” said another. So I stood as a slave. “She still must learn to stand appropriately,” said another. “Do not fear, Allison,” said another. “It will soon be natural for you.” “Already,” said another, “perhaps unknown to yourself, you are beginning to stand, and move, and kn
eel, and carry yourself, with the loveliness and grace of a slave, with her subtlety, her lack of pretense, her softness, her deference, her awareness of what she is, her profound and vulnerable, and helpless, femininity.”
How terrible, I thought, to be feminine!
“Yes,” said another. “She is becoming feminine.”
“A slave,” said another.
“Yes,” said the first.
What was being done to me?
I suspected I was being released, to be myself, not an awkward, clumsy neuter, or a prescribed, facsimile male, but a natural woman in a natural world.
Surely I must resist!
But why, I asked myself. Why should I not be what I truly am?
Because it was frowned upon, or forbidden?
But here, on this world, such things were not frowned upon or forbidden. Here on this world, was I not free, though collared, to be myself?
“First obeisance position!” snapped one of the instructresses.
Swiftly I knelt, my head to the floor, the palms of my hands on the floor, at the sides of my head.
“You are changing, pretty Allison,” said an instructress.
“A transformation is being wrought in you, shapely barbarian,” said another.
“Are you aware of this, Allison?” asked another.
“No, Mistress,” I said. Then, by means of a shadow, I saw a switch lifted. “Perhaps, Mistress!” I sobbed. “Perhaps, Mistress!”
To my relief, the switch was lowered.
“She perhaps does not understand how she is changing,” said one of the instructresses.
I feared I was beginning to understand, only too well. The instructresses, of course, could be aware only of attitudes, postures, behaviors, speech, and such. On the other hand, it was becoming clear to me that these externalities, as profound as they might be, were no longer the simple result of intent and design, but were now beginning to emerge as the inevitable consequence of internal realities. My behavior, I sensed, was now becoming less the imitation of a slave’s behavior; and more the behavior of a slave.
“Do not be concerned, Allison,” said the first instructress. “There is nothing wrong with being graceful, beautiful, vulnerable, soft, passionate, and wholly, wholly female.”
“In short,” said another, “in being a slave.”
“Her transition is well underway,” said another.
“Men like women as women,” said one of the instructresses.
“And do we not like men as men?” asked another.
“True,” laughed another.
“Much of this you do not understand now,” said one of the instructresses, “but in time it will become clear.”
“Changes are being wrought in you,” said another, “that will become part of you, and improve your price on the block, how you move, smile, turn your head, and such.”
“You will not even be aware of these things,” said another.
“But one can tell a slave by such things,” said another.
“Sometimes guardsmen do so,” said another, uneasily. “Sometimes they simply command a woman to walk before them, back and forth, and thus detect the slave, even within the robes of a free woman.”
“Barbarians, such as you,” said another, “are even easier to detect, apart from the marks often placed on your upper arm, or the tiny bits of metal often found in your teeth. You do not know the drapings, the foldings, the layerings, and fastenings of the robes of concealment, the arrangement of the veils, and such.”
“There is much more to such things than the donning of a tunic or a camisk,” said one of the instructresses.
“Does Mistress know of such things?” I asked.
“Once,” she smiled. “But I would not now trade my tunic for the robes of a Ubara.”
I could not understand this.
Was not a Ubara a free woman, and one of consequence?
“There are a thousand things a native Gorean would know, of which a barbarian would be ignorant,” said an instructress.
“Too,” said another, “the Gorean taught to barbarians is often subtly different from that spoken by native Goreans, for example, in the pronunciation of certain words.”
“Have you taught me such a subtly different Gorean?” I asked.
“Curiosity,” she said, “is not becoming in a kajira.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“I wish we had more time to train her,” said one of the instructresses.
“Mistress?” I said.
“Market conditions change, orders vary, what is wanted at one time is not wanted at another time, what sold yesterday may not sell today, what sells today may not sell tomorrow.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“You are a virgin, are you not?” asked one of the instructresses.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“You do not look like a virgin,” said one.
“Most do not,” said an instructress.
“True,” said another.
“Unbeknownst to you,” said an instructress, “you have been observed by masters.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said. I had not known this, but, surely, I had suspected as much. Would they not observe me, with certain ends in view?
“You have much to gain in attractiveness,” said one of the instructresses.
“I do not understand, Mistress,” I said. “Am I not beautiful?”
“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses.
“Being beautiful and being attractive are not the same thing,” said an instructress. “Some extremely beautiful women are not attractive, and some extremely attractive women are not beautiful.”
“But I am attractive, am I not?” I asked.
“Do you wish to be attractive?” asked an instructress.
“Do not all women?” I asked. I knew that even cold women, and women who professed to hate men, wanted to be found attractive, if only to torment men, or further their own ends.
“Of course,” said an instructress.
“Am I not attractive?” I asked.
“You are attractive,” said an instructress. “Otherwise you would not be in your collar. But the masters feel that your current attractiveness does not measure up to your beauty.”
My head was at the floor. I had not received permission to lift it.
“Doubtless, in time, it will do so,” said an instructress. “We have great hopes for you. You are clearly a born slave. And, eventually, you should be an exquisitely desirable slave.”
“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses, again.
“Kneel up,” said an instructress.
Gratefully I knelt up.
“Belly in, shoulders back, head up,” said an instructress.
I complied.
My knees were clenched closely together.
I kept my eyes straight ahead.
“What are you doing, Mistress?” I asked.
“I am removing the white ribbon,” she said.
“Mistress?” I asked.
The instructresses were about, looking at me.
“What do you think?” asked one of the instructresses.
“She is pretty,” said one.
“Better than a kettle girl, or a pot-and-mat girl,” said another.
“A Tarnster, or Drover,” speculated another.
“If the price were right,” said another.
“Spread your knees, Allison,” said an instructress.
“Surely not, Mistress!” I exclaimed.
“Now,” she said.
I felt enormously vulnerable, and, oddly, subtly enflamed.
How could I, the former Allison Ashton-Baker be placed in such a position?
What sort of slave would kneel in such a position?
I feared I knew.
She who had removed the white ribbon now approached.
“Do not move, Allison,” she said.
I saw that in her
hand she had a different ribbon, a red ribbon.
“I am not red-silk!” I said. “I am not red-silk!”
“Do not move,” she said, again.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, a slave, commanded.
I was very much aware of the position and attitude in which I had been placed.
To be sure, it could not be appropriate for me.
It must be some mistake.
I was from Earth.
It is strange, how, when one is a slave, small things are noticed, the nap of a rug, the feel of tiles beneath one’s knees, one’s body then so alive.
I regarded the instructress, apprehensively.
The red ribbon, of dyed rep-cloth, not silk, was doubled, and then threaded under and over my collar. Its loose ends were then threaded through the loop, and I felt it jerked tight, against the collar.
“There,” said the instructress, and stood up. She and the others then stood back, a bit, looking at me. “What do you think?” she asked. “Is she satisfactory, will men like her?”
“She may do,” said another.
“Sooner or later,” said another.
I did not understand. Had I not been one of the most beautiful girls in my sorority, a sorority noted on campus for its beauties? Certainly I had not lacked for the attentions of young men. A week would not pass without my declining several offers for outings, afternoons or evenings, with such, while I would select from amongst such offers those few which I deemed suitable, those which might prove eventually to be to my advantage, those from suitably positioned young men, young men worth interesting and cultivating, young men whose background and assets exceeded my own. Oddly, though I had pretended to be interested in them, laughed at their jokes, and such, I had seldom received a second invitation from them. I did not understand this. Did they not realize my quality, the honor I paid to them, how fortunate they were, that I would permit them to share my company, however briefly? Surely there were many who would have rejoiced to be granted such an opportunity. How ungrateful, how foolish, how stupid they were!
“Keep those knees split, slave,” said one of the instructresses.
“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered.
“Wider,” snapped another.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
At least no man was present, to see me so. What would he think, should he see me so? Did I not know? Would it not be clear what I was, and what I was for?