by John Norman
“It does not hurt,” she said.
“Oh,” I said.
“I have never been had before,” she said. “I did not know what it was like, to lie like this.”
“Do you like it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, Master.” She then held my arms. “Master,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
“I begin to feel like I want to respond to you,” she whispered. “May I move, Master?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh,” she. said, softly, moving, “I did not know it could be like this. Never before have I been locked in a man’s arms in this fashion. How sweet it is. How helpless I feel. I am beginning to become excited, Master. I am beginning to become terribly excited, Master!”
She lifted her lips, suddenly, to me, and kissed me, and then she put her head back, and turned it from side to side, lost in her pleasure and in the darkness of the blindfold.
Suddenly she clutched my arms. “Master!” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“We are completely alone, are we not?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Oh!” she cried out in misery. “Oh, no!” Then she asked, “who else is present?”
“Another woman,” I told her;
“Oh, no, no, no, no!” she wept “No, not”
“Do not fear,” I said. “It is only another slave.”
“Behold how the brute abuses me!” she called out “What we women suffer at the hands of such beasts!”
I was startled. Sasi looked at me, puzzled.
“Rape me as a slave,” she called out “You will get no pleasure from me!”
That seemed to me highly unlikely.
Then the chained girl lay back, pressing her hands against me, her head turned to the side.
“Have your will with me,” she said. “I am inert. I can endure. It means nothing to me.”
“Are you being troublesome?” I asked her.
“No, Master,” she said.
“Have you felt the whip?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you wish to feel it again?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said.
“You, then,” I said, “have my permission to again respond.”
“Surely,” she said, “you did not think I was earlier responsive to you?”
“You now have my permission to again respond,” I said.
“I cannot possibly respond with another woman in the room,” she whispered to me. “Surely you must understand that, Master.”
“Respond,” I told her.
“I am commanded?” she asked, disbelievingly.
“Yes,” I said.
“How can you command such a thing?” she asked.
“As I have done,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And, further,” I said, “you will respond as a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said, miserably. She began to move, timidly, slightly, about me.
“I will try to forget that there is another woman in the room,” she said.
“No,” I said, “keep it clearly in mind.”
“Master?” she said.
“Show her your slave heat,” I said.
“But should one not be ashamed of one’s passion?” she asked.
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said.
“Is there any rational reason?” I asked. “I do not doubt there may be many irrational reasons, or causes.”
“Perhaps because, in a man’s arms, it makes a woman a slave,” she said.
‘That,” I said, “is doubtless true, but it is a reservation which, if pertinent at all, is pertinent only, surely, to free women.”
“Yes,” she said, uncertainly.
“You are already a slave,” I said.
“Yes,” she said..
“It is permissible, I suppose,” she said, “for a slave to be passionate.”
“It is not only permissible for a slave to be passionate,” I said.
“Master?” she asked.
I held her very tightly.
“Yes Master,” she whispered.
“A slave,” I said, “must be passionate.”
“Master?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, ‘the slave girl has no choice. She must be passionate.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Moreover,” I said, “she is to be proud of her passion. It is one of the most splendid, and beautiful and joyful things about her.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Begin,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She began to move, and try to kiss me.
“Oh, no,”’ she said. “I am too miserable. It is too embarrassing.”
“Continue,” I told her.
“But if I continue I may become excited,” she said.
“You will become excited,” I told her.
“But there is another woman present,” she said.
“Move,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.
“Be proud of your slave heat,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Show her your slave heat,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she sobbed. Then, in a few moments, despite her intent, I heard a moan of pleasure escape her. “Oh, no,” she added.
“It is not wrong to experience sexual pleasure,” I told her.
“But there is another woman present,” she said.
“Show her your slave heat,” I said.
“Forgive me,” she cried out, calling to whoever might be in the room, “I cannot help myself. The Master is exciting me!”
“Master,” said Sasi, unable to restrain herself. “Withdraw from her! Let me serve your pleasure!”
“No, no!” said the blond-haired barbarian, clutching me. “He is with me now!” Her lip trembled. “Do not withdraw from me,” she begged.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I want to serve your pleasure,” she whispered.
“What do you know of serving a man’s pleasure,” said Sasi. “Beg his forgiveness for disappointing him, and let him seize me in his arms.”
“No!” said the blond-haired barbarian. Then she said to me, “I am sorry if I disappoint you, Master.”
“You have not yet disappointed me,” I said.
“I will try not to disappoint you, Master,” she said.
“Let me serve your pleasure, Master,” begged Sasi.
“It is now I who am serving his pleasure!” said the blond girl.
“If you call that serving his pleasure,” said Sasi.
“Help me,” begged the blond girl.
“Lift your body against his,” said Sasi, “squirm, kiss!”
The blond moaned with misery. “That is like a slave,” she whispered.
“Obey!” said Sasi.
“Is she first girl?” asked the blond.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” said the blond, miserably. Then she obeyed, for she was a slave. From time to time Sasi and I made simple suggestions to the blond who, for the first time, was being ravished. We forced her to cooperate in her rape. I began to grit my teeth.
“Stop moving,” I told her.
She stopped moving. But she did not want to stop moving. She clutched my arms.
“My passion is making me a slave,” she whispered.
“You are already a slave,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Passion, technically,” I said, “has nothing to do with the imposition of the yoke of slavery. It is, of course, afterwards required of the enslaved woman. Passion is commanded of her.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“The sense in which passion makes you a slave,” I said, “is that it puts you in what is in effect a slave’s position, helpless, yielding, submitting to the
master.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“But you will not even begin to know what true passion is, ignorant girl,” I said, “until you have been longer a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“You may begin again to respond now, Slave,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said. Then she began again to move and, soon, was crying out, softly.
“I think she will be a hot slave,” I said to Sasi.
“Yes,” said Sasi, “I think so, Master.”
“Please do not use those words of me,” she begged.
“Say,” I told her, “ ‘I am proud to be a hot slave.’”
“I am proud to be a hot slave,” she cried out, miserably.
“And you are proud of it, you know,” I told her.
She clutched me, startled. Her lip trembled. “Yes,” she said, suddenly, “it is true. How incredible! I am proud! I am proud to be a hot slave!”
“Of course,” I told her, “Slave.”
“No, no!” she said. “I am ashamed to be a hot slave!”
“Whether you are proud or ashamed,” I told her, “in any event, you are a hot slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. That could not be denied.
“I come from a far world,” she said. “The girl from that world is ashamed. The girl on this world, the slave, is not ashamed. She is proud.” She put her head to the side. “How shamelessly proud she is,” she said.
“The girl from the far world,” I told her, “no longer exists. What exists now, in her place, is herself transformed, herself become a beautiful slave at the mercy of a master.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What is the name of your former world?” I asked.
“It is called Earth,” she said. “Have you heard of it, Master?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Her women are not unknown in our markets.”
“Oh,” she said.
“They make excellent slaves,” I said.
She said nothing.
“Do you find that hard to believe?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said. Then she lifted her lips, and kissed me. “Master,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You took my virginity,” she said. “Now, I beg you, consummate your will upon me.”
“Do you beg as a slave?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “I beg as a slave.”
“Beg,” I told her.
“Take me,” she begged. “Make me yours. Have me, as your slave.”
“Do you yield,” I asked her, “fully and completely, and as a slave?”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “I yield, fully and completely, and as a slave.”
I then took her.
“I thought it might be you, Master,” she said, lifting her lips from my feet.
I had removed her blindfold.
It was now the sixteenth Ahn, several Ahn after I had taken the slave’s virginity.
“From the first instant I saw you,” she said, “I dreamed of being your slave. Now it is true.”
“Help Sasi clean the dishes,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She put her fingers to her ears, and turned her head, from side to side, looking at the rings in her ears.
“They are very beautiful,” she said, regarding herself in the mirror.
They were of gold, about an inch in diameter. I had pierced her ears, and put her in them.
“How glorious it is to again see,” she said. The blindfold lay discarded, to one side. She was no longer shackled to the slave ring.
Seeing my eyes upon her, she knelt. “Am I beautiful, Master?” she asked.
“Almost,” I told her.
She looked, kneeling, in the mirror. “I do not wish to sound vain,” she said, “but I think that I must be as beautiful as almost any woman upon Earth.”
“You doubtless are,” I said. “But are you as beautiful as a Gorean slave girl?”
“Surely, Master,” she said, “that would depend on the Gorean slave girl.”
“Do you think you are as beautiful as the general run of Gorean slave girls?” I asked.
She put down her head. “No, Master,” she said, “I do not. I did not know such women could exist, until I saw several in Cos, when I was free, and some on the wharves of Port Kar and Schendi, after I myself, sold in a market, became a slave.” She looked at me. “Sometimes,” she said, “it seems almost wrong that a woman should be so beautiful and desirable.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she smiled. “Perhaps it is because I am not so beautiful and desirable. Perhaps it is because men are so fond of them. Perhaps I am jealous of their beauty and desirability, and am envious because they, and not I, are found so attractive by men.”
“It is natural for the ugly to find an error in beauty,” I said.
“I am not ugly, am I?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “you are not. Indeed, you are almost beautiful.”
“I wonder if Gorean men, such as yourself,” she said, “understand how fortunate they are, that there should be such women on their world.”
“Are their not plenitudes of such women on your world,” I asked, “beautiful and desirable who, loving and helpless, beg to serve and please?”
“How you Gorean beasts,” she said, “take naively for granted the glorious riches at your disposal.”
I shrugged.
She looked at me. “How ir it,” she asked, “that on your world things are not as on my world?”
“Gorean men are not weaklings and fools,” I said.
She looked at me.
“They have not chosen to surrender the dominance which is the blood and backbone of their nature.”
She swallowed hard.
“They keep it,” I told her.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, what?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What of me?” asked Sasi. “Am I not beautiful? Are not my earrings lovely?”
“Yes,” I said, “you are beautiful, and your earrings, you little she-sleen, are marvelous upon you.” Sasi’s earrings, too, of gold, were the same as those of the blond-haired barbarian.
“Thank you, Master,” she said. Sasi was in a good mood. After I had had the blond this morning, early, upon returning from the tavern of Pembe, I had slept for several hours. But when I had awakened I had contented her slave appetites. We had then eaten, from foods which she had, during my rest, I having given her a few coins, purchased in Schendi. Some of this food I gave to the blond who, at that time, was still blindfolded. I thrust it, some bread and fruit, in her mouth, while she had knelt in the position of the pleasure slave. This is something done with a girl in her first feeding, or feedings, and may, upon occasion, be repeated. She is fed as an animal, and from the hand of the master, and while in the position of the pleasure slave. This helps to reinforce the centrality of her condition upon her. This helps her to understand what she is.
“At least,” smiled the blond, “I am almost beautiful.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “You will someday become beautiful.”
She looked at me.
“Women grow in beauty, and slavery,” I told her.
She looked in the mirror. “Beautiful even for a Gorean slave girl?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I think that someday you may find that you have become beautiful even for a Gorean slave girl.”
Her eyes were startled.
“Yes,” I said, “I think that possibly one day you will find that you have become exquisitely beautiful and desirable, and that your least movement, that of even a wrist or hand, or smallest expression, will be tormentingly attractive to a man. You may then tremble in terror, for you will have become a beautiful Gorean slave girl.”
“I am afraid,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
“I am afraid to be beautiful,” she said.
“Naturally,” I said. “But I am afraid you will not be able to help yourself.”
“But as I become more beautiful, and desirable,” she said, “I would become more helpless, more a slave, more than ever at the mercy of these mighty men of Gor.”
“Yes,’ I said, “of course. You would be then only their helpless, beautiful slave.”
“How fearful,” she said.
I said nothing.
“Do you truly think I might become beautiful?” she asked. She lifted her hair over her head, straightening her body, and regarded herself in the mirror.
“Yes,” I said.
She then removed her hands from her hair. Behind her, her hair came, falling, to the sweetness of her shoulder blades. This was a bit short for the hair of a Gorean slave girl. Their hair, as is required by most masters, is usually somewhat long. There is more that can be done with long hair, both with respect to adding variety to the girl’s appearance and in the furs, than with short hair. Sometimes the girl is even tied in her own hair. Most importantly, perhaps, long hair is beautiful on a girl, or surely, at least, on many girls. Too, many masters enjoy unbinding it, before ordering a girl to the furs. Unbinding a girl’s hair, on Gor, incidentally, is culturally understood as being the act of one who owns her. A free woman, captured, whose hair her captor unbinds, usually the first time by the stroke of a knife, a precaution against poison pins and other devices, knows full well by this act that she will soon be made his slave. Many Gorean masters, incidentally, shape and trim the hair of their own girls. This is less expensive than having it done in a pen. Too, it is pleasant to cut the hair of a girl one owns. She generally kneels, a wrap of rep-cloth about her shoulders, while this is done. Beneath the wrap of rep-cloth, of course, she is naked and in the position of the pleasure slave. When one is through with the cutting it is then convenient to have her.
She looked at herself, kneeling, in the mirror.
“The earrings are beautiful,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. She brushed her hair back with her two hands and, turning her head from side to side, her finger tips at her ears, again regarded herself.
She had the vanity of a lovely slave.
“What do you see in the mirror?” I asked.
“A slave girl,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“A girl to be bought and sold, and abused for a master’s pleasure.