by John Norman
“You kicked me,” she said.
I cuffed her, backhanded, striking her from her position to her side on the love furs. She looked up at me from the furs, her eyes wide, blood at her mouth. Then she resumed the position of the pleasure slave.
“Last night,” she said. “Did it mean nothing? Surely you love me!”
“Be silent, Slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I picked up the whip.
“Am I to be whipped?” she asked.
“If it pleases me,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I held the whip to her mouth, its blades folded back.
She kissed it, and shuddered, and I placed it on the couch.
I slid the bronze pot toward her, across the tiles, to where, going to the end of her chain, she might reach it. “Relieve yourself,” I told her, “facing me.”
“Yes, Master,” she said and, backing toward the pot, and squatting over it, she did so.
I enjoyed making her perform this simple, homely act in my presence.
“I am a slave, aren’t I?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
I then slid the pot to the side of the room, and gave her a pan of water and a rag, with which she might freshen herself. When she had done this I put the pan and the rag to one side. She then knelt again in the position of the pleasure slave, on the furs, the heavy chain dangling between her breasts, and then lying over her left thigh, thence descending to the furs and lifting to the slave ring.
“Good morning,” I said to her.
“Good morning, Master,” she said.
I fed her some dates, by hand, putting them in her mouth, from a tray of food I had brought up from the kitchen.
“You struck me,” she said.
“Do you object, in the slightest?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said. “You may do with me as you wish.”
I held a date before her, and she leaned forward, stretching her chained neck to reach it, and I drew it back. She then knelt back again, on her heels. Whether she were to receive the date or not was my decision. I then gave it to her, putting it in her mouth.
“My Master feeds me,” she whispered. “The slave is grateful.”
I then put a shallow porcelain bowl of water on the floor, and pointed to it.
She drank from it on her hands and knees, lapping from it, as a she-sleen. “My Master waters me,” she said, looking at me, from her hands and knees, the chain hanging from the collar on her neck. “A slave is grateful.”
In so simple a fashion, by hand feeding, and floor watering, not permitting the slave to use her hands, I had demonstrated to her, in the Gorean fashion, that her food and water, even such simple things as whether she was to eat or drink, or not, were in my control.
“You may now sit back against the foot of the couch,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I joined her there.
We then, from the tray, feeding ourselves, taking dates, and slices of larma and pastries, breakfasted and chatted.
It is pleasant to have breakfast in bed, so to speak, with a naked young lady, especially when she is chained by the neck to your slave ring.
We chatted of many things, including our former lives, on Earth, and our experiences in the university. She was loquacious and animate.
“I have a surprise,” I told her.
I brought up from the kitchen, where I had been keeping it hot, a vessel of black wine, with sugars, and cups and spoons. Too, I had brought up a small bowl of powdered bosk milk. We had finished the creams last night and, in any event, it was unlikely they would have lasted the night. If I had wanted creams I would have had to have gone to the market. My house, incidentally, like most Gorean houses, had no ice chest. There is little cold storage on Gor. Generally food is preserved by being dried or salted. Some cold storage, of course, does exist. Ice is cut from ponds in the winter, and then stored in ice houses, under sawdust. One may go to the ice houses for it, or have it delivered in ice wagons. Most Goreans, of course, cannot afford the luxury of ice in the summer.
Immediately the girl, kneeling, prepared to serve me. “I believe Master prefers his black wine ‘second slave,’ ” she said. “Yes,” I said.
I watched her pouring the beverage. She did so carefully, deferentially, being careful not to spill a drop. I noticed how her breasts depended from her body. How marvelous it is to be served by a beautiful woman.
“There are two cups,” she whispered.
“One is for you,” I said.
“Black wine is expensive,” she said.
“Pour one for yourself,” I said.
“Even though I am a slave?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Am I a high slave?” she asked.
“Do you wish me to hold your head back, my hand in your hair, your back almost breaking, and force the spout of the vessel between your teeth, pouring the wine as it is, black and scalding, down your throat?” I asked.
“No, Master!” she said.
“Your brand is pretty,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“You are not a high slave,” I said. “You are a low slave. You are the lowest of low slaves.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And do not forget it,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“Now pour yourself a cup of wine,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“May I mollify my beverage?”
“Yes,” I said. I watched her as she mixed in a plentiful helping of powdered bosk milk, and two of the assorted sugars. She then left the small, rounded metal cup on the tray.
“Why do you not drink?” I asked her.
“A girl does not drink before her master,” she said.
“I see that you are not totally stupid,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
I then sipped the black wine. She, too, then, after it was clear that I had drunk, lifted her own cup to her lips. “Yes,” I said, “you may drink, Slave.” She then, head down, holding the small cup by its two tiny handles, sipped the beverage.
We drank the black wine in silence, sipping it, looking at one another.
How beautiful she was, and I owned her!
“I love belonging to you, Master,” she whispered.
“Finish the wine,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said. I put my own cup on the tray.
I looked at her, from her small feet, to her ankles and calves, her sweet thighs, the sweet belly of her, her waist, and marvelous breasts, her shoulders, and arms and hands, her fair throat, chained, her lovely lips, her sensitive, I delicate features, her deep, vulnerable eyes, and the marvelous wealth of her dark, cascading hair, perhaps never cut, except for shaping, since she had been brought to Gor.
Timidly she put her own small cup on the tray. “Master desires me,” she said.
I moved the tray to the side, well away from the furs.
She was half kneeling, half crouching, near the far corner of the large couch. I saw that she was frightened.
“Do you sometimes fear the desire of your Master?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Your eyes.”
“What is it that you see in my eyes?” I asked.
“A Gorean lust,” she said, “and I, a chained slave, know myself the helpless vessel upon which it will be vented.”
I snapped my fingers. She, even though frightened, must come to my arms.
I threw the chain back over her shoulder, and held her. She half tried to pull away, frightened.
“How can you feel such desire for one who is only a slave?” she asked.
“How could one feel such desire,” I laughed, “for one who was not a slave?”
She shuddered. It was pleasant to feel her enslaved beauty trembling in my arms.
“To be sure,” I said, “you are o
nly a nameless slave.”
“Has Master considered a name for me?” she asked.
“Down!” I said. “On your hands and knees on the furs, head touching the furs!”
Swiftly, fearfully, she complied.
I slapped her. “Oh!” she cried.
“I can think of a name for you,” I told her.
“Please, no, Master!” she cried.
I then put my hand on her. She squirmed. “You seem well informed as to the desires of Masters,” I said. “I trust you are similarly well informed as to the desires of slaves.”
She whimpered.
“I can think of another name for you,” I said.
“Please, no, Master,” she said.
“But then why should I publicize so blatantly the heat of my little slave?” I asked.
She sobbed.
“I can name you anything, you know,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Now on all fours, arms straight, head up!” I said.
Immediately she assumed this position.
“Please do not put me in the slavery of the she-quadruped, Master,” she begged.
“I will put you there, and keep you there, if it pleases me,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Perhaps I should call you ‘Princess’ or ‘Trixie’,” I said. I used the English expressions for these names, as there are no precisely equivalent Gorean expressions for them.
“Master may do as he wishes,” she said.
“But such names are perhaps better reserved for our occasional private sport,” I mused. “Too, they would make little sense to our Gorean friends.”
I walked about her. “You would make a pretty poodle,” I told her. I used the English expression ‘poodle,’ of course, as the animal is unknown on Gor.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“You might be interesting as a poodle,” I told her.
“Doubtless I shall perform for Master in many ways,” she said.
“You will,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I then took her by the hair, and twisted her about, so that she lay on her side, I crouching beside her. “But, generally,” I said, “I think I shall keep you as an enslaved human female, for that is what you are.”
“Yes, Master,” she said, wincing.
“I could give you the name of a Gorean girl,” I said, “but since you are of Earth origin, and are a low slave, it seems more appropriate that you be given the name of an Earth girl.”
I then flung her to her back, threw apart her legs and entered her.
“Ohhh,” she sobbed, softly.
“You are a hot slave,” I observed.
“You are going to name me, in the having of me, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“And you will give me the name of as Earth girl, won’t you?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Even knowing what such a name will do to my slavery,” she asked, “making it the slavery of an Earth girl on Gor?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Cruel Master,” she said.
“I am rather fond of Earth-girl names for slaves,” I said.
“And so, too, are Goreans, the brutes,” she said.
“Earth girls are commonly regarded as being among the most desirable of slaves on Gor,” I said.
“At least among the lowest and most helpless,” she said.
“True,” I said.
“I shall tell you a secret, Master,” she said. “So much a slave am I that I desire to wear no other sort of name.”
“I know,” I said.
Then she clutched me. I saw that she was on the brink of orgasm.
“Do not move, in the slightest, Slave,” I told her.
“Please, Master,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“There are many fine Earth-girl names,” I said.
“Please, Master,” she said.
“‘Phyllis’ is a lovely name,” I said.
“Name me,” she begged. “Name me!”
“‘Tracy’ and ‘Stephanie’, too,” I said, “are lovely names.”
“Anything,” she said, hoarsely. “Anything! Name me, I beg you. I cannot stand it! I must move! I beg to be named!” I felt her fingernails digging into my flesh. Her eyes were wild. “Name me, my Master,” she whispered, begging, “name me, name me, please, name me!”
“Very well,” I said, and began to move within her. Immediately she was clutching me and shuddering. She looked at me, wildly. Then she threw back her head, helplessly. “I name you ‘Beverly’,” I said.
“I am Beverly!” she cried. “I am Beverly!”
Then, in a few moments, she was sobbing, and clutching me. “I am Beverly,” she sobbed. “I am Beverly!” Then, after a time, still holding to me, she lay trembling in my arms. “I am Beverly,” she whispered. Then, in a few minutes, she lay softly on her side on the furs, facing away from me, her knees drawn up. “My Master has named me,” she said. “I am Beverly.”
I stood up and looked down at her. She rolled to her back, and looked up at me.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Beverly,” she said.
“I do not think you will forget your name,” I said.
“No, Master,” she smiled.
“Do not forget, either,” I said, “that you wear it now as a mere slave name.”
“No, Master,” she said. “I shall not forget.”
She knew that, as a slave, she had no more right to a name than a tarsk or sleen, or any other form of domestic animal. She then rolled to her stomach, and began to kiss my feet. Then, tenderly, she rose to her knees, still kissing my feet, and then began to kiss my ankles, and calves.
“I love you, Master,” she whispered. When she lifted her head, tears in her eyes, she seemed suddenly startled, troubled. She put up her hand to my left arm.
“Master,” she said, “forgive me!” I have hurt Master!” There was blood on my arms, from the gouging of her nails, and blood at my left shoulder, from the cut of her teeth.
“It is nothing,” I told her.
She rose to her feet, and kissed the wounds. “Am I to be punished, Master?” she asked.
“No,” I said. Masters are commonly indulgent of the uncontrollable spasms of their female slaves.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
I then held her by the upper arms. She was so beautiful!
“Doubtless I must soon be released from the slave ring,” she said, “that I may attend to my work.”
“Oh!” she cried, thrown brutally to the furs at the foot of the couch. She looked up at me, frightened, the chain on her neck.
“That decision is mine,” I said, “not yours.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you hear?” I asked.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“Who hears?” I asked.
“Beverly!” she said.
“Who does Beverly hear?” I asked.
“Beverly hears her Master!” she said.
I then crouched down, and took her in my arms.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
It was pleasant to hold her, as a yielding slave.
***
“It is evening, Master,” she said, lying beside me.
“Yes,” I said.
I had refilled the ravishment lamp and then had had her relight it. She was beautiful in its soft light, lying on the furs, the heavy stone of the couch and the iron of the slave ring, to which she was still attached, behind her.
“All last night, and all today,” she said, “you have kept me at your ring.”
“I have waited long to own you,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said. She rolled onto her back, looking up at the beams in the ceiling. “Callimachus has selected you to be his second in comm
and, in the forces of the Vosk League,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am the slave, then, of an important man, am I not?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I said, “but remember that you are only his slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said, “that is well understood by this enslaved female.”
“You may serve me wine,” I said.
She reached to the wine, a sweet Ka-la-na of Ar, and filled the goblet to the third ring. Then, as I sat back against the couch, she knelt before me. She, head down, pressed the heavy metal goblet deep into her lower abdomen, and then she lifted it to her lips and, holding it with both hands, kissed it lingeringly and lovingly. Then, kneeling back on her heels she put down her head and, humbly, her arms extended, her head down between them, proffered me the goblet. “Wine, Master?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. I then took the goblet from her, and drank.
She lifted her head, and watched me.
“I think you know how to serve wine well,” I said.
“Master should know,” she laughed.
I indicated that she should approach me. “Keep your hands on your thighs,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I then, crouching beside her, my hand in her hair, controlling her, gave her to drink from the goblet, letting her finish the last ring. I then gave her the goblet, and she put it to the side, with the wine vessel.
I then sat back again, against the foot of the couch.
She, kneeling to the side, in the lovely position of the pleasure slave, watched me.
“Lie down here,” I said, “beside me.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She lay beside me, in her chained softness, and beauty. She kissed me on the hip and then, with a rustle of chain, put her head down to the furs. “Do I please Master?” she asked.
“You are not entirely displeasing,” I told her.
“That pleases me,” she said. She laughed.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It is only that I thought it amusing. On Earth many boys, I think, would have liked to get me to their bed. But here, on Gor, you have not yet even permitted me to ascend to the surface of your couch.”
I smiled. She had served only at its foot, at the slave ring.
“Will Master permit me sometime to ascend his couch?” she asked.
“We shall see what progress you make in your slavery,” I said.