Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 51

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

  to the hem, shortening it still further.”

  I knew that I must learn to go forth in such garments, the garments of slaves.

  I stole a furtive glance at a mirror. The garment, I saw, to my pleasure, set me

  off beautifully, though, to be sure, as what I was, a slave.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Yes!” I said.

  “You may now remove it,” he said, “and kneel again, as you were before, before

  me.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, He returned to the curule chair.

  I was then again before him as I had been, naked and kneeling.

  “You are aware, doubtless,” he said, “that my feelings toward you are, or were,

  extremely complex.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. “And if I may speak of such matters, in my opinion, you

  have understood me very well in some things, and very little in others. Also, it

  seems you have sometimes wanted me to be, or expected me to be, things which I

  was not.”

  “Do you understand what we are doing here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. It was now clear to me. He had seen me as a Tatrix, he had seen

  me stripped, he had seen me again in the garment, subsequently shortened to

  slave length, which I bad worn in the house of Kijomenes and in the room in the

  inn of Lysias.

  “When we have completed this symbolic re-enactment,” he said, “you, regardless

  of what you may or m~ not have been, will be, in my mind and in yours, my slave,

  in a modality which I find acceptable.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I was, of course, already his slave, legally, totally,

  and in my heart. I suspected that he might now have come to sense this, but that

  he was not sure of it.

  Accordingly, he would take no chances with me. I would be put through processes

  of enslavement, and rites of submission, the, outcome of which, no matter what

  might be my nature, motivations or dispositions, would be to make clear to me my

  condition, that I was, whatever I was, scheming woman or loving female, his

  slave, and totally.

  “Three things will now be done to you, matter-of-factly, and in order,” he said.

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  “Down on all fours,” he said, “and crawl here, head down, to the foot of the

  chair.”

  I did so and there, unceremoniously, he crouching down, behind me and to my

  left, I was collared. He was not gentle with me.

  “Kneel back on your heels,” he said, “and extend your arms, wrists crossed.”

  I looked at him, startled, protestingly, as my wrists, with one end of a long

  leather strap, were lashed together.

  “Stand up,” he said. I was pulled to a position at the side of the room. The

  long end of the strap was tossed up, through a ring fixed in a beam, and then

  put through another ring. Drusus Rencius then drew on the strap and my bound

  wrists were drawn up, above my head. He then looped and knotted the long end of

  the strap about a hook, on the side. I then stood there, at the side of the

  room, naked, in the collar, my hands bound together, held over my head.

  “Master,” I said, “this is not like you! Where is your concern for me?”

  “Were you given permission to speak?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master!” I looked up at my bound hands. The

  strap was dark on them. I jerked at it. I could not free myself. I was tied in

  place. My entire body, suddenly, felt very bare, very exposed, very vulnerable.

  I looked over my shoulder. I was frightened. This was clearly a whipping

  position.

  “Please, Master!” I whimpered.

  “Kiss the whip,” he said.

  I did so, fearfully.

  I recalled that only an Ahn before I had begged his lash, in my joy at learning

  myself his. I had pleaded for the stroke of the whip that I might, in my joy and

  pain, in tears, reveling, experience his dominance over me, and know myself his.

  Now, however, this seemed very different’ I had been put in place as though I

  might have been anyone, any slave! Did I mean so little to him? Was I so

  unimportant?

  Then behind me, before I was fully set for it, I heard the hiss of the five

  supple blades. I screamed, struck, sobbing! I knew he had not struck me with his

  full strength. I could tell that from the sound. Still my back seemed to burst

  into flame. The blades had seemed, too, to encircle me, scalding and tearing at

  me. “No more!” I begged. Then I was again struck.

  Had I stolen a pastry? Had I not cleaned my kennel well enough? Had I not

  pleased some master well enough in the furs?

  I was struck again.

  “Oh,” I sobbed, in misery.

  Then twice more was I struck~ Drusus Renc~s did no~ much vary the locus of the

  impact nor the timing. He did not

  When he freed my hands of the strap I sank to my knees on the tiles under the

  ring.’ I was half in shock. I knew he had not struck me with his full strength

  and, indeed, I had been struck only five times. It had been little or nothing as

  beatings go. Had I truly stolen a pastry, or done something displeasing, I would

  doubtless have been much more seriously beaten. The beating had been little more

  than informative in nature, not even really admonitory. Still I had felt it

  keenly. I had now felt the Gorean slave whip. No woman who has felt it ever

  forgets it. If I had had any doubts about the wisdom of being pleasing to

  masters these blows, few and light though they might have been, would have

  dispelled them. The beating had been little or nothing. Still, and I knew it, I

  had been under the whip.

  He gave me scarcely a moment to recover. Then, crawling, swiftly, crying out,

  half dragged, I was pulled by the hair to the center of the room.

  He knelt me there.

  “Put your head down, to the floor,” he said. “Clasp your hands, firmly, behind

  the back of your neck.”

  “Yes, Master,” I moaned. He was then behind me. He put his hands, under my arms,

  on my breasts, sweetly and firmly. Then he moved his bands back, caressing my

  flanks. My head was down. My fingers were together, behind the back of my neck.

  I was in his collar. It was steel, I could not remove it. I belonged to him. My

  body hurt, from his whip, that of my master. My head hurt, from my hair, where I

  had been conducted, unceremoniously, to this location. “Please, Master,” I

  sobbed. “Not like this! Not you, please!”

  “The slave is pretty,” he remarked.

  “Oh!” I cried. “Oh!”

  “You have a lovely ass,” he said.

  “Ohhh!” I said.

  “You may thank me,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master!” I said. I tried not to move. It was difficult. “Please do

  not treat me like this. Please do not handle me like this!”

  “I will do with you as I please,” he said:

  “Please do not make me yield like this, please! I love you!”

  “Yield or not, as it plea
ses you,” he said, unconcernedly.

  Then I began to whimper and moan.

  “Do not move,” he said.

  “Please,” I begged.

  “You are a slave, aren’t you?” he asked. ‘And a natural one?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. “Yes, Master!”

  “Very well,” he said, “you may move.”

  “I beg to yield!” I sobbed.

  “Very well,” he said.

  I then, a few moments later, lay on my belly on the tiles. I tried to feel

  resentment toward Drusus Rencius. I failed.

  I turned to my side and, the palms of my hands on the floor, regarded him. He

  was again sitting in the curule chair.

  “You are now ready to begin your slavery,” he said. “Your name is ‘Lita’.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I was now no longer “Tatrix.” I was “Lita.” would respond

  well to this name. It had many memories for me. It almost turned me inside out

  with love for Drusus Reneius.

  “You may serve me wine, Lita,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  A few moments later I knelt, lovingly, at the side of the curule chair. Reucius

  held the goblet of wine. I had even been permitted to drink from it, from the

  side opposite to that which had touched his lips.

  “I know that you may not believe this,” I said, “and I do not wish to be struck

  for saying it, but I love you.”

  “Now that you are my slave, and are in my collar,” he said, “it doesn’t matter,

  one way or the other, does it?”

  “I suppose not,” I smiled. “But I do love you.”

  “I thought you might,” he said.

  “Why did you resist my advances in Corcyrus?” I asked.

  “You were not toying with me?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “There were many reasons,” he said. “There was a discrepancy in our stations. I

  thought you a Tatrix. I was only a soldier. Too, deception was involved in my

  post. I was truly serving Argentum, and Ar, not Corcyrus. Too, though in a part

  of me I recognized the slave in you the first time I laid eyes on you, in

  another part of me, I supposed you actually, in spite of the evidence of my

  senses, to be a free woman.

  Thus, it was important, though it tortured me to do so under the circumstances,

  to accord you respect and dignity.”

  “Rather would you have accorded me force and mastery,” I smiled.

  “Yes,” he said. “Too, do not forget that on a certain level, or in a certain

  part of me, I recognized that you were, rather clearly, a slave. How then could

  I admit to myself that I, a warrior of Ar, might have certain feelings toward

  one such as you, only a slave? Too, that I discerned your pettiness, your

  cruelty and shallowness, dissuaded me from honestly admitting my feelings to

  myself. I did not wish to regard myself as a fooL Further, of course, you,

  seemingly so haughty and mighty a Tatrix, treated me with injustice and scorn.

  It is little wonder I dreamed of you in my collar, in my chains, wider my whip~”

  “Does it still distress you that I am a slave?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Even a natural slave?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “You lost a silver tarsk to Publius on the matter,” I reminded him.

  “It was a bet which, in my heart, I hoped to lose,” he said.

  I licked at his knee, slowly, lovingly. Then I looked up at him.

  He put down the goblet on the tiles, to the right of the chair.

  He took my head between his hands, those large, strong hands.

  “You are a superb natural slave,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

  “I do not object,” he said.

  “Good,” I said.

  “In fact, it pleases me,” he said.

  “Good,” I whispered.

  He held my head between his hands, like it was that of a dog.

  “Do some men care for their slaves,” I asked, “just a little?”

  “Some men care for them much more than a little,” he said.

  “Even natural slaves?” I asked.

  “Those are the best sort,” he said.

  “I am glad to hear it,” I said.

  “In every woman,” he said, “if one can but find it, I believe there is a natural

  slave.”

  “I believe it is true, Master,” I said.

  Then I felt myself drawn to his lips, and I was drawn half into the chair, and

  then he, holding my head, not releasing it, turned, and I felt myself moved

  backwards and to the side, to f my knees, before the chair, and then he was

  crouching before me, and then I felt myself being lowered backwards to the

  floor. “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you, my masteri”

  “Do I make you weak?” I asked. I lay now on love furs, at the foot of his couch.

  He had put a chain on my neck.

  “No,” he said.

  I leaned over, and kissed him, delicately, intimately.

  “Aiii!” he said.

  “I see that my master speaks the truth,” I said.

  “She-sleen!” he said, and then, with a rattle of chain, threw me again beneath

  him.

  “I would be a hundred slaves to you,” I whispered, “a thousand!”

  “You are,” he whispered. “You are.”

  “Doubtless master is tired now,” I said, “and should rest. I will stop.”

  “Not yet! Not yet!” he said.

  “Very well,” I said.

  “Insatiable slut!” he growled. “Do you think I am made of iron?”

  “It seemed so,” I said.

  “Desist,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I laughed. It was hard for me to keep my hands off Dnisus

  Rencius. He was so beautiful. I snuggled down beside him, my head at his hip. I

  kissed his hip. Then I lay there, quietly, beside him. “I am not disturbing you

  now, am I?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Would you like to rest now?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. His hand was in my hair.

  “Would you like me to relax you?” I asked.

  “Very well,” he said.

  I crawled to my knees.

  In a few moments, he said, “Is that your idea, as how to relax a man?”

  I laughed, and continued my work, lovingly.

  “Obviously you have been trained,” he said.

  “I am not one of those women who thinks her part in making love is finished when

  she lies, down,” I said.

  “That is clear,” he said. The slave, of course, is not permitted the ignorance,

  inertness and mediocrity of the free woman. She must serve marvelously and

  totally. Nothing less is permitted her.

  “I am a woman of many talents,” I assured him.

  “Doubtless,” he said, half moaning.

  “I have attended school,” I informed him. “
And I am a skilled feast slave. I am

  also skilled at weaving on a mill loom.”

  “Marvelous,” he gasped.

  “Shall I stop now?” I asked.

  “Continue,” he said.

  “But I thought you wished to rest?” I said.

  He looked at me, menacingly.

  “I shall continue,” I said. “I would certainly not wish for a command to have to

  be repeated. That would be a reflection on my discipline. Too, I have no wish to

  be beaten twice in one day.”

  “I wonder who is the master and who is the slave,” he said.

  “You are the master, and I am the slave,” I said. “I am clear on that.”

  “Would you care to mount me?” he asked.

  Eagerly I did so.

  “Are you now Mistress?” he asked.

  “Whatever Master wishes,” I laughed. I sensed, suddenly, what might be the

  sensations of power and pleasure a woman might experience, putting a male to her

  use, before she was restored to the order of nature, and her servitude. “Would

  you truly permit me this?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said, “but, later, we will do it somewhat differently.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, puzzled.

  Then, to my amazement and delight, grinding and tensing, I watching him closely,

  I transformed him into a squirming slave beneath me, and then, when it pleased

  me, took his yielding from him.

  Later in the afternoon, when we had rested, and he had had food brought in, and

  we had eaten, he put me again in such a place, but this time I must face his

  feet and my hands were held behind me. In such a way, sometimes, a captured free

  woman, stripped, is placed backwards on a kaijia, her hands bound behind her.

  This is usually done only when she is being led to slavery. In such a way, then,

  he used me. My slavery was again well impressed upon me. This type of position,

  it might be mentioned, is also used by Gorean masters with the woman facing

  forward, when he can see her face, but with her hands tied, say, before her or

  behind her, or at her collar, bound either with actual thongs or, most cruelly,

  “by his will,” that form of “tie” in which a woman must keep her hands in a

  given position, for example, holding them as if bound, or, say, keeping them on

 

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