Dancer of Gor

by John Norman

  He rose to his feet and held both of my hands together in one hand, and, a moment later, thonged my wrists together and tied them over my head, to the branch of a small tree.

  "You will wait here," he said.

  I tried to press against him, but he had stepped away. I pulled at the thongs, and stamped my feet in the dirt, in frustration.

  "Later," he said, "perhaps later," and returned to his work.

  He left me there, helpless, tied in torment.

  Later, some time later, too much time later, the beast, when he had finished his concerns about the camp, and had even ventured away and back, to replenish the water bags, he returned to me.

  The slave fires in my belly had now burned low, but I knew they could be stirred into flame at a touch.

  I pulled a little at the thongs that held my wrists.

  I thrust my belly a little toward him, pleading.

  He grinned. I was a slave. It was acceptable.

  Then he put his hands on my hips.

  "Master?" I asked.

  I felt myself lifted and, thonged as I was, drawn to him, and I cried out, lowered, and, twisting in the thongs, I was used for his pleasure. Then I was again at the branch, still thonged, helpless, gasping, scarcely able to stand.

  "Sometimes," he said, "that is done with the slave in chains.

  We are so helpless!

  "Are you content?" he asked.

  "Forgive me, Master," I wept, "but your slave has only begun to be aroused."

  "Slaves may be so tormented," he said. "It helps them to understand that they are slaves."

  "Yes, Master," I wept.

  He then laughed and untied me.

  "Spread the blankets," he said.

  This was much like the injunction to a slave to spread the furs of love, usually put at the foot of the master's couch. It is a not unusual place to use slaves, there, at the slave ring at the foot of the couch, often chained there by the neck or left ankle.

  "Yes, Master!" I cried, delightedly.

  * * * *

  "You squirm and juice well, slave," he said.

  "Thank you, Master," I said.

  We had dallied for some Ahn, loving, and eating, and chatting, for Goreans tend to be patient in their pleasures.

  "We must soon be on our way?" I said.

  "Tomorrow morning," said he, "will be time enough."

  "I thought," I said, "we were to leave today."

  "I have changed my mind," he said.

  "Oh?"

  "Yes," he said.

  It was now afternoon.

  "But why have we delayed?" I asked.

  "Beware," he said.

  I squirmed on the blankets.

  "You do that well," he said.

  Of course I did it well. Had I not had some training?

  "You are so fond of a slave?" I asked.

  "Perhaps you should be whipped," he mused.

  "Please, no, Master!" I entreated him, and was again enfolded in the ecstasy of his arms.

  * * * *

  "You hunted women on Earth, did you not, Master?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "What sort of women do you pick for slaves?" I asked.

  "Obviously women such as yourself," he smiled, "my meaningless little beast, my delicious, helplessly responsive slut."

  "Master!" I protested.

  "There are want lists, and such," he said.

  "But in general, Master," I said, "in general!"

  "Well," said he, "obviously it is the most female of women, the most feminine women, in which we are interested. The gross, the shallow, the masculine, we reject. Too, we tend to favor on the whole the natural woman, rather like yourself, in height and figure. They sell best in the markets. Too, which might surprise the men of your world, we tend to favor intelligence in women. They tend to be more in touch with their feelings, needs, and such than less intelligent women. Sexual latency, too, of course, is important."

  "And beauty," I said, "surely beauty!"

  "Naturally," he said.

  "Am I beautiful?" I asked.

  "Surely," he said, "you are extremely beautiful."

  "Thank you, Master," I said.

  "You would be likely to bring a very nice price, stripped, sold off a slave block," he said, "especially now, that you are more accustomed to the collar."

  "Thank you, Master," I said.

  "Women grow more beautiful in bondage," he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said. That was doubtless because of diet and exercise, and such, but more importantly, I think, it had to do with internal changes, manifested outwardly, changes which on the whole had to do with matters of psychology and emotionality.

  "And you are a vain slut," he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "But there are many different sorts of beauties," he said. "That must be clearly understood. They are not all the same."

  "Yes, Master," I said. I supposed that was true.

  "And I suppose the tastes of individual men are important, too," I said.

  "Certainly," he said. "One would not wish to deny that. But I will tell you something further, that might surprise you."

  "What is that?" I asked.

  "The best slaves," he said, "are often those who on Earth are the quiet, soft, gentle, shy women, sometimes even those who fear they are unattractive, having imbibed absurd criteria from a mechanistic, pathological society, and do not know how exciting and desirable they are, the natural woman, selected over thousands of generations by healthy, appetitious men, and sometimes those who are timid and withdrawn, and who might fear men, but long for sexuality. One tends to favor women with a rich, inner life, who read, who think and feel. Commonly they long for a man's collar. They long for their mastering. Without these things they are incomplete. On Earth they despair of finding the longed-for dominant male. This difficulty they do not encounter on Gor. On Gor, they would be hard put to find one who will not see them as women, and relate to them as such. On Gor they find themselves subject to uncompromising male dominance. Here, on Gor, they are legally enslaved, and suitably branded and collared. That is what they are on Gor, slaves, only that. Here they will serve. Here they will be whipped if they are not pleasing. This fulfills the most precious of their secret dreams. Collared, mastered, put to one's feet, such sluts, perhaps after some initial adjustments, find their dreams have come true. Conquered and mastered, they make excellent slaves, devoted, heated, diligent, grateful, superb slaves. It is a great pleasure to own them."

  "You make good money on them?" I said.

  "Of course," he said

  "Please kiss me, Master," I said.

  "Of course," he said.

  * * * *

  In the morning the birds sang us awake.

  We made a small fire, and shared a tiny breakfast.

  I took it we were then ready to depart our small camp.

  "Behold," he said.

  "Master?" I asked.

  He then walked over to his pack, where he crouched down. He opened his pack and reached within it. He took out a tiny handful of scarlet silk, and opened it.

  "Master!" I cried.

  It was the tiny garment, fit for a muchly displayed slave, which I had made for myself on Earth, long before I had known there was a Gor, or a Teibar, or the possibility of a collar.

  "It is perhaps a bit too lengthy," he said, looking at it, "and it could be slit at the sides, and the neckline could be cut more deeply, and it is not diaphanous, or is insufficiently diaphanous, but still it is a not unattractive garment. Perhaps, sometime, if I decide to permit you clothing, at least for an Ahn or so, I will see again how it looks on you." He had seen me in it once before, of course, at the library, when I had knelt before captors. The existence of that tiny garment among my things, in my apartment, of course, had shown them that I was a slave, though at that time one not yet fittingly embonded.

  "You brought it from Earth!" I said. "You did not destroy it there!"

  "Perhaps fro
m time to time in the villa," he said, "I will let you wear it, or less, when you serve me."

  "I love you," I said. "I love you!"

  He put the silk away.

  "I love you!" I said.

  "There is something else, too," he said.

  "Master?" I asked.

  He reached again into the pack. "Do you recognize these?" he asked.

  "Oh, Master!" I said, softly, delightedly.

  "They are the thong and bells which you wore at the library, when you danced," he said.

  "Yes, Master!" I said.

  "Perhaps you remember, too," he said, "that we kept them on you when you were naked there, in the darkness, to help us keep track of you."

  "Yes, Master!" I said.

  "Such things make useful adornments to a female slave," he said, "and help to mark her movements."

  "Yes, Master!" I said. I remembered that when I had been placed on the library table, long ago, prior to having the rubberized mask placed over my face, through which the chemicals had been put which had forced me to unconsciousness, the silk, which had been being used as a gag, a mnemonic device reminding me I must be silent, had been drawn from my mouth and put to the side. The bells, too, I recalled, had been placed upon it. He had kept them both, both the silk and the bells!

  "Perhaps, from time to time, you shall wear them, too, at the villa," he said.

  "Yes, Master!" I said, delightedly. How rightful it seemed that I should serve him in such things, here on Gor, even from Earth.

  He put the bells away.

  He then removed the whip from his pack, and held it to my lips, and I kissed it.

  He then put the whip away, inserting it into the pack. He then rose to his feet and walked a few feet away, to the edge of the camp, and then turned and regarded me.

  I stood up, and shouldered his pack. It was not heavy. In it I could feel some chains. Some of them I had worn. In it, too, was the whip, his, to which I was subject. I heard, too, within the pack, the tiny sound of the bells, here, on Gor, slave bells.

  "I love you, Master!" I said. "I love you, my master!"

  He shrugged.

  "May I speak?" I asked.

  "Yes," he said.

  "I would speak to you, if I may," I said, "the sort of slave I am to you!"

  He regarded me.

  I hoped he would not silence me, as he had before.

  "Beware," he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  "You may speak," he said.

  I put the pack to the side, and knelt before him, and put my head to his thigh. "You know me for your slave," I said. "I am yours in the sight of law, yours, owned, in fullest legality, and doubtless you are well aware, as well, that I am helpless in your arms, and writhe helplessly there, and hasten to obey in all things, fearful of my master's wrath, and that I am your slave conquest, and property, and am desperately concerned to please you, as must a female slave her master."

  He regarded me.

  "All things that a slave must be to her master, I am," I said. "But know, too, beyond these things, that she who kneels at your feet is bound by the strongest of all chains—"

  "Beware," he said.

  "—that of love, love, that of a girl for her master!"

  "Beware," he said.

  "I love you my master," I cried, suddenly, trembling, sobbing, "and I am your love slave! I confess myself your love slave! It is true! Now beat me or slay me, if you must."

  He scowled down upon me.

  "Please do not hurt me," I said. "It is true. I must speak the truth." This was true, I was a slave. I might be slain for a lie, and must at the least expect to be punished severely.

  "So the little slut confesses herself a love slave?" he said.

  "Yes, Master, she is a love slave, and she is your love slave!"

  How faraway was the library!

  I think I had sensed he was my master from the first moment he had looked upon me, on Earth. And perhaps I had sensed I was his love slave from the first time, in the aisle of a library, on Earth, amongst books, I had found myself kneeling at his feet. Now, on a different world, in a primitive camp, I knelt again at his feet, but this time as a legal slave, stripped before her master.

  "What a audacious, impudent, bold slut you are," he said.

  "Forgive me, Master," I said.

  "Perhaps you are even insolent," he said.

  "I hope not, Master," I said.

  "I wonder," said he, "if you lie."

  "No, no!" I said. "I do not lie!"

  "There is a special brand for liars," he said, "that men may be warned against them."

  "I do not lie," I said, my head down.

  "Raise your head," said he, "girl."

  I lifted my head, and looked into his eyes, fearfully. It is sometimes hard to do that with one's master. There were tears in my eyes.

  "Do you think such things are to be spoken to a master?" he asked.

  "Forgive me, Master," I said.

  "Such things," he said, "are not to be spoken to a master."

  "Forgive me, Master!" I wept.

  "Do not forget you are only a slave," he said.

  "No, Master," I wept. "Forgive me, Master!"

  "You are not a free woman," he said.

  "No, Master," I said. "Forgive me, Master." That was one of the few times that I had envied free women, who might, with impunity, declare their love, risking only that they might be scorned. I, a slave, might be slain, or beaten.

  We were both women, but what a world of difference separated us. The free woman was noble and glorious, was the lofty equal of the free man, and might even share a Home Stone with him. I, on the other hand, was a purchasable animal, a slave.

  What a fool I was, to so proclaim my love. Had I forgotten that I was only a slave? The slave, it seems, must conceal her love from the master, lest he find it embarrassing, or even offensive. The slave is to be a slave. That is all!

  She may love, with all that is in her, but do not let her dare to speak of such grievous torments! Might not the master find them distasteful? Might not the master be annoyed by such presumptuous effrontery? Let her kiss tenderly the slave ring in his absence; let her claw at her blankets when he is gone; let her thrash in her chains when she is alone; let her seize helplessly the bars of her kennel and thrust her tear-stained face against them, hoping for a last glimpse of his retreating figure; but let her, too, strive to conceal such disconsolate longings and deprivations. During the day, and in her services, let her scarcely be seen, let alone heard. Let her be deferent, and unobtrusive. Sometimes he is unaware she is in the room. But she is there, kneeling to the side, waiting, ready, unable to take her eyes from him, swiftly summonable at a word or a snapping of fingers. She loves him; does he know she exists, truly? There are many beautiful women; they can be bought and sold.

  Who cares for her feelings?

  How worthless is the love of a slave! How insulting to the master that that she should so declare it to him! What is he to make of that? How is he to respond to such a thing? Would this not make him uneasy. Would this not be displeasing to him? Would he not think then of ridding himself of her, of selling her?

  How worthless is such a love!

  She is only a slave!

  Let her struggle to conceal the secrets of her heart. Let her not dare to speak to the master of her love, no matter how deep, how profound, how tormenting, or how helpless it is!

  She is only a slave.

  "Such things are not to be spoken of," he said.

  "Forgive me, Master," I said.

  Yet surely the masters knew the effect of bondage, and a collar, on a woman! Surely the masters well knew that thousands of their girls were love slaves, ready to die for their masters. Why could they not recognize this? Why could they not explicitly acknowledge this truth, so patent a truth? Because the slave was merely a slave, nothing, only a silken beast and a shapely property!

  And how foolish a slave to hope that a master might care for one so w
orthless and despicable as she!

  And that a master might fall so low as to care for a slave! Would he not be mad? How incomprehensible would be such a descent and failing! The slave is merely goods to be bought and sold, an object to be mastered, a beast to be strictly controlled, something by which to be pleased and served, something from which inordinate pleasure is to be derived. How amused would be his fellows! Would he not become an object of their raillery, the butt of their rude humor? How outraged would be free women! To care for a slave! Absurd! Unthinkable!

  I timidly looked up at my master.

  Suddenly I did not think he was that displeased that I had so bespoken myself before him.

  I must have been mistaken in this.

  He scowled again upon me.

  Then he turned away, and looked in that direction in which lay the Viktel Aria.

  "Does master not wish to look upon his slave?" I asked.

  "We must soon be on our way," he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  He turned back, and looked down upon me.

  "Master is not angry?" I said.

  "No," he said.

  "A girl is pleased," I said. "You gave me permission to speak," I reminded him.

  "It seems that was my error," he said.

  "I do not think master thinks so," I said.

  "The Viktel Aria awaits," he said.

  "Master," I said.

  "Yes?"

  "Can you not care for me, just a little?"

  "Do you wish to be whipped?" he asked.

  "No, Master," I said.

  I put down my head. I was a slave. I did not wish to feel the lash.

  "We are ready to leave, are we not?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master," I said. "I think so, Master."

  "Shoulder my pack," he said.

  "Yes, Master," I said.

  It was such that a girl could carry it.

  Did he care for me?

  Why was he so stern with me? Was there that within him which he felt he must resist?

  Might he care for me?

  Could it be possible?

  I recalled the blanket he had tenderly put about me yesterday morning, against the cold of the night. I had discovered it only upon awakening.

  I recalled that he had picked me out on Earth, even saving me for his last catch, that he had apparently found in me the makings of an exquisite slave, one quite possibly chosen with his own interests, lusts, tastes, and standards in view.