by John Norman
"Perhaps," said Tenalion.
I nodded. Miss Henderson was a slave. She could have been put on the block and sold, like any other girl, like the girls inside the pen. She might be anywhere.
"We will be returning to Ar in a month or two," said Tenalion.
"I do not understand," I said.
"Leave the slave for the time in whatever collar she wears," said Tenalion. He smiled. "She will doubtless, on one chain or another, be kept quite safe."
"I do not understand," I said.
"You are a strong fellow, Jason," said Tenalion. "I have heard of you. You once defeated the fighting slave, Krondar. I could use a man like you in my service. Remain with me in the camp. I pay well, and the use of most of these women would be yours for the asking."
"Tenalion is generous," I said. "I am truly grateful. But I wish to depart as soon as possible for the city of Ar."
"Are you truly so anxious to have this woman naked and chained at the foot of your couch?" asked Tenalion.
I smiled. It seemed to me absurd to think of Miss Henderson in such terms. Yet she was attractive. I did not think she would look bad chained at the foot of a man's couch.
I tried to dismiss such dreadful, unworthy thoughts.
She was not of Gor, but of Earth!
Too, she was just too noble, too fine, to be a slave.
She was not as other women!
How lamentable and inappropriate it would be, how shocking it would be, even to contemplate her young, lovely, beautiful throat enclosed, clasped snugly, in the obdurate circlet of bondage!
It would not be right for her.
She was not as other women.
Never!
It was women such as she whom I might count on to restore my faith, shaken so on Gor, in the purity and virtue of womanhood.
Yet there was little doubt in my mind that the prissy, inhibited, somewhat pretentious Miss Henderson, who was, all things considered, a very lovely female, might prove to be quite attractive as conjectured, say, kneeling naked at the foot of a man's couch, chained there to a slave ring, perhaps by the left ankle, or neck.
Yes, I thought, yes, she might look very nice there.
Had I not, often enough, idly placed her there, in my thoughts, in my dreams?
And perhaps she would glance apprehensively at the whip.
To be sure, it would be inappropriate to have her perform as a slave. She was from Earth.
But I wondered how she might, trembling and fearing the leather, perform.
I could have her trained, of course.
No, no, I thought. I must not think such thoughts.
Then I thought, fiercely, I would have her perform as well for me as for any other, nay, the excruciatingly fascinating, tormenting, beautiful little bitch and slut, even better for me, even better for me!
With absolute perfection for me!
No, no, I thought.
She should not be a slave, not Miss Henderson. She was too noble and fine for that. She was not of Gor, but of Earth.
And she was not as other women.
Though I wished she was.
What a slave she might make, I thought!
No, no, I thought!
"I must be on my way," I said.
"There is a tarnsman in camp, Andar," he said, "who is leaving for Ar shortly. He is a greedy fellow. Doubtless he could be convinced, for a silver tarsk, to grant you passage."
"My thanks, Tenalion," I said.
"In three days," he said, "you will be in Ar."
"I am grateful," I said.
We heard then the scream of a woman being branded.
"Is it the Lady Florence?" I asked.
"Not yet," said he. "There are several before her. Here she must wait her turn. Here she is only another girl." He looked at me. "Do you wish to wait," he asked, "to see her branded and collared?"
"No," I said, "she is only another girl."
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1980 by John Norman
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0027-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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