by John Norman
“A slave wants to please her master,” she wept.
“Are your slave needs much upon you?” he inquired.
“Yes, Master!” she whispered, intensely.
“I find that amusing,” he said.
She jerked futilely, in fierce frustration, at the constraints on her wrists. The tiny sound of the links further excited her. The sides of her wrists hurt.
How helpless, and how needful, she was!
“Master!” she begged.
“It is pleasant to have a woman so beside one,” he remarked, dryly.
A wave of hatred for the brute, Selius Arconious, swept over her.
“We are far from the tarnloft, are we not, pretty slut?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said, angrily.
“How you tormented me there,” he recalled.
She bit her lip, under the blanket, in frustration.
“Doubtless it was your worst nightmare,” he said, “that you might one day belong to me.”
“Yes, Master!” she said, angrily.
“And now you do,” he said, with obvious satisfaction.
“Yes, Master!” she wept. “Please, Master! Content a slave! She begs it!”
“Very well,” said he. “Beg, slut. It will please me to hear it.”
“Please, Master!” she protested.
“You are a needful slave?”
“Yes, Master!”
“You may then beg, if you wish,” he said.
Ellen thrashed in misery, but then turned again, to his thigh.
“Master’s girl begs to be taught her collar. Master’s girl petitions for her ravishing. Master’s girl begs for her subjugation. Master’s girl begs use. She wishes to be conquered. She begs to be mastered. She is Master’s property. She would learn, then, what this entails. She is Master’s possession. Apprise her then of the treatment to which she is subject. She is Master’s animal, his beast. Let her be trained then, leash-and whip-trained if he wishes, to his pleasure. She is Master’s collar slut, his shackle girl, his chain bitch. Teach her then what it is to be such. She begs to be put to his use, uncompromisingly, ruthlessly, that she may know herself no more than what she is, a worthless, meaningless slave.”
“You beg the use appropriate for you, as a slave?” he asked.
“Yes, Master.”
“You beg slave rape?” he asked.
“Fervently, humbly, Master.”
“No,” he said, quietly.
“Master?” she whispered.
“Others,” said he, “are not experiencing pleasure. The paga does not flow. Meat is not roasted. There are no hot, collared slaves, naked and aroused, seized in their arms, writhing, moaning, yielding. Danger is imminent.”
“Yes, Master,” whispered Ellen. “Forgive me, Master.”
A little later a thought came to Ellen. “Would Master like to send me to others, to give them pleasure,” she asked, as though innocently. He could do such, she knew, as he had done before.
“No,” he said, angrily.
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, smiling to herself.
“She-sleen,” he growled.
“Perhaps Master is unduly possessive,” she speculated. “Perhaps he is jealous. Perhaps Master now regrets having sent his slave to please Cosians. Perhaps she did well. Perhaps she did very well. She is, after all, a slave. Perhaps Master now thinks that he may have made a mistake in that matter. Perhaps Master now wishes that it had been he himself who had received such pleasures. Perhaps Master now wishes to keep his slave to himself.”
“Beware,” said he, “lest I send you to give pleasure to the entire camp.”
“There are thousands of men in the camp, Master,” she said.
“Are you being troublesome?” he inquired.
“No, Master,” said Ellen. “Forgive me, Master.”
“You should be beaten, and beaten,” he said.
“As Master wishes,” said Ellen, and pressed her lips closely, again, to his thigh, beneath the blanket.
Later Ellen whispered, “Perhaps Master cares for his slave, a little.”
“No,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You may speak,” he said, after a time.
“Master’s slave loves him,” she whispered.
“Master’s slave,” he said, “is a liar.”
“No, Master,” she whispered.
“Do you contradict me?” he asked.
“A slave must speak the truth to her master,” she said.
“You cannot love,” he said. “You are an Earth woman.”
“What do you know of Earth women, or of the feelings of Earth women?” she asked.
“They are nasty and small, petty and vain,” he said.
“But we do make excellent slaves, do we not?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “You obtain some value, some small value, once you are in collars.”
“Then an Earth woman might have some value to you?”
“Perhaps as an abject slave,” he said.
“I do not think we are so different from your women, Master,” she said.
“Beware, slave,” said he. “Do not become presumptuous.”
“We are all women,” she said.
“The collar levels all sluts,” he said. “It makes them all the same.”
“Even before the collar we are the same,” she said.
“I suppose so,” he said.
“We are all women.”
“Yes.”
“And then you enslave us.”
“Some,” he said.
“Slaves have feelings,” she said.
“They are unimportant,” he said.
“Do you know how she feels, being a slave?”
“Her feelings are not important,” he said.
“Are you not curious, as to why we make such excellent slaves?”
“Such things are not important,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
She then again pressed her lips softly to his thigh.
“I wonder if any man understands the meaning to a woman of her brand and collar, the particular meaning to her, not to him, of being owned, how exciting and glorious it is, how it debases and dignifies us, how it reduces and exalts us, how it makes us meaningless and gives us meaning, how in denying us all it bestows upon us everything, how it enflames us. What, indeed, Master, do you, or any man, know of slaves, truly, and the feelings of slaves?”
“I know that they are to be owned, and mastered, totally,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, again kissing his thigh. “That is true, Master. It is that which makes us women. It is that which fulfills us.”
“And I wonder,” said he, “if any woman, or any slave, understands the glory of the mastery, truly, the rapture, the splendor, the joy of owning and commanding a woman.”
“Sometimes I think I have some sense of it, Master,” she said. “And it is you who own me, and is it I who am subject to your commands. It excites me, and exalts me. Doubtless it has similar effects on the man. Do we not fit together? Are we not two parts to a single whole? Are we not meaningless alone, but whole together? Are we not the lock to your key, and you the key to our lock? Only you can open us to ourselves, and only we can reveal to you the full meaning of your key.”
“It is not long until dawn,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Let us rest,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She did not think that Selius Arconious slept then. She surely did not. Perhaps an Ahn later, shortly before the first rays of Tor-tu-Gor, Light-Upon-the-Home-Stone, the common star of Earth and Gor, began to glimmer in the east, rising there as it does on Earth, they rose together, he suddenly to his feet, casting the blanket aside, she quickly to her knees, at his thigh, not daring to rise, as they heard the alarms, these sounding from within the camp.
“It has begun,” he said.
; Chapter 27
WHAT OCCURRED IN THE FIELDS
This was now the second day, following the morning departure from the camp outside Brundisium. Portus Canio, Fel Doron, and their small company, including he known as Bosk of Port Kar, and Marcus of Ar’s Station, were moving eastward, away from the camp which had been outside Brundisium, not southeastward, toward Ar. Presumably, on the likely Cosian assumption that their enemies might be of Ar, then those enemies might naturally be expected to move toward that city, and, consequently, one supposed that Cosian searches, and attempts to apprehend fugitives, might be largely directed to the southeastern routes, say, eventually to the Viktel Aria and such. Altogether, matters had proceeded rather as the conspirators had planned. Initially there had been a tarn pursuit of the trussed, gagged Tersius Major, he tied upright in a tarn saddle, clad as had been Selius Arconious. Accordingly the Cosian search for Selius Arconious had been at least temporarily abandoned. Some Ahn later, somewhat before morning, several tarns had been released from holding cots and sped from the camp, this being taken in the darkness as the unexpected departure of enemies of Cos and Tyros. A large pursuit had been soon mounted. Whereas the fate of Tersius Major was at this time unknown, one supposed that, in an Ahn or so, the pursuit of the riderless tarns would be resolved, the tarns taken in hand, or, at least, that it would have been determined that most of them, for they would have scattered, had been riderless. By the time, several pasangs away, the nature of the diversion was understood, the flighted tarns being regained, or it being understood that most, if not all, had been riderless, it had become morning and the vast camp, bit by bit, shortly after dawn, had been broken, the thousands of men, their goods, their wagons, and animals, including slaves, then wending their many ways toward their countless destinations. With them, of course, as unhurried, as unnoticed, as others, had gone Portus Canio, Fel Doron and those accompanying them.
So they had left the camp the preceding morning, and it was now in the late morning of the second day.
Ellen was now in a brief, sleeveless slave tunic of brown rep-cloth. No longer was she back-braceleted. Her wrists were now crossed and thonged before her, and she was following Fel Doron’s tharlarion-drawn wagon, a tether running from the wagon to her thonged wrists.
When she sensed Selius Arconious’s eyes upon her she walked especially well.
“She-sleen,” he said.
“Master?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I wish you were free, for I would muchly enjoy enslaving you.”
“Alas, Master,” said Ellen, “I am already a slave.”
“And mine,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” smiled Ellen.
“How do you like your garment?” he asked.
“It is not my garment, but the property of my master,” said Ellen. “As master knows, a slave may own nothing.”
“But perhaps you are pleased to be permitted to wear a garment?”
“Yes, Master. A slave is grateful that her master permits her a garment.”
“It may be removed at my whim,” he said.
“Of course, Master,” she said.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It is rather short, is it not, Master?” she asked.
“Beware,” said he, “lest it be further shortened, or removed entirely.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Master made me beg prettily enough for it last night,” said Ellen.
She had been unbraceleted shortly after leaving the camp yesterday morning, and had, of course, prepared the midday meal, and, later, the evening meal for the men. After that, and the cleaning up, and the kissing of, and turning down, and preparation of, the sleeping blankets of the men, he had thrown a bit of cloth to the ground near her. “Master!” she had cried, delightedly. But when she had crawled toward it, not having been permitted to rise, he had kicked it farther away from her. He had played with her for a time in this manner, and had then had her go to her belly before him and lick and kiss his feet. He then permitted her to crawl to the garment, pick it up in her teeth and crawl back to him, and then be before him on all fours, lifting her head to him, beggingly, the garment between her teeth. Would he permit it to her? There had been beseeching tears in her eyes. He had then said, “Very well,” and she had bellied again, tearfully, gratefully, the bit of cloth, now damp, still clutched between her teeth, pressing the side of her face against his bootlike sandals. She had then been permitted to draw it on.
“So do you like it?” he asked.
“Very much,” she said.
“You look well in it,” he said.
“If I look well in it, then I particularly like it,” she said.
“It conceals your defects,” he said.
“Oh?” she said.
“Not that it conceals much of anything.”
“My defects, Master?” she asked, warily.
“Yes,” he said. “Your figure is too exciting, and too lusciously beautiful, and, thus, when one looks upon you it is hard to keep one’s mind on serious matters.”
“I would think,” she said, “that a slave would long for such defects.”
“Well, in any event, they certainly improve her price,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“But you are not worth twenty silver tarsks,” he said angrily.
“Master paid twenty-one,” she said.
“Your master is an idiot,” he said.
“A slave dare not contradict her master,” said Ellen.
“You would actually be of interest,” he said, “if you were not stupid.”
“It is hard to have everything, Master,” said Ellen.
“You should be whipped,” he said.
Ellen was silent then. She wondered if some slaves were whipped because the master was angry at them, resentful of the mesmerizing fascination which such a lovely creature might exercise over them, that they might be furious at a suspected weakness they thought they might detect within themselves, a fear that they might melt, that they might succumb to the power and beauty of such a vulnerable, delicious, beautiful, owned creature. Was the slave to be punished for her own attractiveness, and beauty, for which men were muchly responsible, for that attractiveness and beauty which, despite whether she approved of it or not, her bondage had surely bestowed upon her?
****
Perhaps a word might be here inserted, briefly, as a “beauty bestowed by bondage” might seem to some an unfamiliar concept. First, as I think has been clearly indicated from time to time men, slavers, for example, have criteria. Not every woman is regarded as “collar worthy.” Not every woman is “slave desirable.” Have you not wondered, sometime, for example, if you are attractive enough, desirable enough, to be a slave? The acquisition of slaves is seldom a random matter. Selections are usually involved, often severe and rigorous selections. Some obvious criteria, among several others, are beauty, intelligence, and a latency, at least, for arousable, helpless passion. The captor may, of course, upon occasion, balance out a multitude of features, aspects, qualities or attributes. Women are, of course, complex and various. For example, to take a very simple case, a woman who is less beautiful but more intelligent is more likely to find herself in the chains of a master, subject to his whip, than one who is more beautiful but less intelligent. To be sure, the ideal of the slaver is to find all his desiderata conjoined, as they, fortunately for him, so often are. Commonly the beautiful woman is intelligent, at least latently passionate, and so on. One might note, in passing, that the usual Gorean taste in women tends to favor the statistically natural or normal woman, the lovely, nicely figured woman of average height and weight, who as a slave fits nicely in a man’s arms, as opposed to the more unusual “model types,” who tend to be awkward, scrawny and breastless. Sometimes Earth girls in the pens ask where are the beautiful women, and only later come to understand that it is they who are the truly beautiful women, the ones ru
thless men have selected for collars. To be sure, some “model types” are also brought to Gor, and they, too, in turn, will learn to well serve masters, in the kitchens and in the furs.
But to return to the “beauty bestowed by bondage,” understand that that the free woman scouted for bondage is almost always beautiful to begin with. Thus, it is not surprising that she will make a beautiful slave. But how is it that she will become even more beautiful in bondage? A number of things are involved, and only three will be mentioned, and but briefly. First, collared and “slave clad,” women are beautiful. The collar enhances their beauty not simply as a lovely ornament, attractive on any woman, but even more by its meaning, that its wearer is a slave, that she is merchandise. It thus adds dimensions of meaningfulness and stimulation to her appearance, both aesthetically and psychologically. Too, being “slave clad” enhances a woman’s beauty. Imagine, for example, seeing a woman in a severe, sober business suit and then seeing her revealed in a slave tunic. She is suddenly a hundred times more attractive. Second, the slave is commonly trained, at least to some extent. She learns to walk as a slave, move as a slave, kneel as a slave, speak as a slave, behave as a slave, and so on. She becomes obedient and deferent. She is graceful and feminine. All these things enhance her beauty. Lastly, and most important, as she learns her collar and is mastered, she comes to understand that she is a woman, deeply and truly, and in a sense far more profound than that of merely the attractions of her delicious lineaments, which have called her so to the attention of men, and have had their indisputable role in bringing her to the slaver’s platform, to the chains of a market. Gone then are the false starts and distractions, the conflicts and confusions, the dissonances consequent upon the imposition of false images, of political contrivances engineered by manipulators and haters. She has come home to herself. She has at last fulfilled the ancient template of her needs. She is now herself, at one with her nature. In bondage she finds her meaning and fulfillment. She has found happiness where she had never thought to look for it, in a collar. And happy, radiant, at one with herself, she has become more beautiful. In such ways then one might speak of the “beauty bestowed by bondage.” If a woman would be beautiful let her seek her master, and his collar.