by John Norman
One would not say to a free woman, for example, when one had a moment to spare, "Strip, and run to the furs," but one, of course, would not even think twice before ordering a slave to do so. Furthermore, the slave knows that when the master arrives at the furs, she is to be waiting there for him, vulnerable and soft, eager, luscious and loving, his. To most women the very thought of being a female slave is fearfully fraught with sexual significance. They know very well the sorts of things that would be required of them. And, of course, they are not mistaken. If they had any doubts about it, these doubts will be swiftly dispelled, once they find themselves in the collar. They are not long left in doubt as to what it is to be a man's slave, totally.
It must be understood, of course, that the slave's sexuality is imbedded in an entire matrix of obedience, love and service. In her heart and mind these things are inextricably, and delicately and beautifully, intertwined. Her sexuality, commanded of her by her master, by the whip, if necessary, is, in one sense, but one aspect and expression of her total bondage; she serves fully, and in all things; yet, in another sense, her entire condition is, in its way, an expression of the depth, complexity and beauty of her sexuality. She ties her master's sandals; she looks up at him; she loves; she serves; she is the female. The slave girl, it might be mentioned, in connection with the "releasing effects" of the collar, is relieved of many social pressures to which the free woman, because of her freedom, must remain subject. The free woman, for example, may fear that men will learn of her sexual vitality. It would not do for her for them to know that she, that lofty creature—mysterious in her robes and veils, perhaps known to them only as a proud slut being regally borne in a curtained palanquin, or as a shy, gentle creature absorbed in perusing scrolls in a library, or as a mere figure attending song dramas, or as one enacting at public festivals subtle ceremonies of arranging flowers, or such—on the couch, is a helpless, panting, licking she-sleen. The slave girl, on the other hand, does not have this problem. She knows that she belongs to a category of women toward which respect need not be shown, and will not be shown. She, a slave, she knows, is expected to be an obedient, lascivious animal in her master's furs or, if permitted, on her master's couch. Indeed, she will be punished severely, if she is not. She is thus free, irreservedly, joyfully, gloriously, to revel in her sensuality. Furthermore, she knows that her most intimate performances and qualities are likely to be discussed openly and with candor by her master with others, perhaps even in her presence. Accordingly, rather than becoming ashamed of her sexual nature, she becomes quite proud of it, and often becomes competitive with her embonded sisters, vying with them to become the most desirable slave in the house, or in the circle of her friends.
The slave girl, of course, will usually have many friends. These are, of course, almost always wenches collared like herself. Friends of her master will often bring their own girls with them, in visiting, and with these, after the men have been served, she may make friends, perhaps chatting in the kitchen. These girls may be exchanged among the men, but commonly they are not. Most masters are rather possessive about their slaves, particularly if they are fond of them. She may also, of course, meet girls in the streets, encountered in the neighborhood, or on her errands. The slave girl, almost always, has no dearth of friends. To be sure, they are likely only to be mere slaves like herself. Women desire, in their hearts, to be beautiful, helpless, conquered animals, owned and dominated by masters. The collar makes it clear to them that their dream has been enacted upon them; that, indeed, their dream, to their joy, has become their reality. They know that they are now in their place, and will be kept there. They are happy.
The "intensification effect" of the collar, incidentally, might also be briefly mentioned. Not only does the collar serve often to release the female's sexuality, and deeper nature, but it tends to deepen and intensify them. Knowing herself as an owned animal, rightless, one forced to submit, one who must obey in all things, who must yield wholly to the master, holding nothing back, she can be driven to almost excruciatingly ecstatic orgasmic heights, experiencing sensations and raptures, perhaps enforced cruelly upon her, of which the free woman, in her freedom, cannot even begin to dream.
A third reason why girls tend to wear their collars with pleasure and pride, aside from the attractiveness of the collar and its seductiveness, is seldom mentioned. That is, that the collar, in its way, functions as a symbol of interesting differences among women. It, like a wired seal of quality, attests to the value of the merchandise upon which it is fastened. "Beautiful enough to be collared" is a Gorean compliment, though perhaps a rather rude one, and one that one would not be likely to hear addressed openly and to the face of a free woman. "She has legs pretty enough to be those of a slave girl" is another such compliment. If the free woman should hear such compliments she will be scandalized. But she may also wonder if, indeed, she is beautiful enough to be collared, and if, indeed, her legs are as pretty as those of a slave girl. If, at some later time, she is collared, she will then, for all practical purposes, have the answers to her questions. Normally it is only the finest, and the most feminine and desirable of women who are enslaved. This makes sense. This is, after all, the sort of women men want, the finest, the very best—the softest, the most feminine, the most desirable. What man would want another sort? This is the sort of women men want to buy, and own, and have in their house. Is that so hard to understand? Who, honestly, would not want to own such a woman? Who, honestly, would not want such a beauty, such a wench, in his collar? And so, naturally, these are the sorts of women slavers seek. They are, after all, in business to make money. If they cannot sell what they get their chains on they would go out of business. The pressures of the market itself brings the softest, the most feminine, the most desirable, the most beautiful of women to the slave block. Too, there can be many dangers involved for the slaver in the capture of women for slave markets. Accordingly, generally, at any rate, he wishes to take no risks which are not justified. Too, of course, he has his reputation to consider. When he leads his chain to market he wants it to be a chain of beauties. Too, of course, obviously, as noted, he is out to make money on these women. It is thus in his best interest to put up for sale the highest quality merchandise he can obtain. The collar, thus, particularly statistically, is a symbol of excellence and quality, of value, among women. It says, in effect, "Here is a woman whom men have wanted. Here is a woman whom men have found beautiful enough, and desirable enough, to enslave." The slave girl, in her tunic and collar, trembling, kneels in the street before the ornately robed, arrogant, imperious free woman. Perhaps she is even struck or kicked by her. But who, truly, is the superior woman? Many Goreans believe that it is the girl who kneels on the stones.
But, "officially," of course, the functions of the collar are simple. It serves to mark the girl as a slave, and identify her master. The true momentousness here, of course, is not the collar, but what it signifies, the condition of bondage. This condition, also, of course, could be signified in many other ways, for example, by such devices as a bracelet or anklet, or even a ring. But I think that there is no real competitor to the collar. It is the bondage device, particularly on a girl, par excellence. It is beautiful, and the throat seems the perfect place for mounting the bondage symbol. On the throat it is prominently displayed, for all to easily see. One may see at a glance that she is slave. Too, the throat is beautiful, and soft and vulnerable. How appropriate then that it should be here, in this delicate, prominent and defenseless place that the steel, or the leather or chain, should be placed. Too, where else on the body, that the impossibility of escaping it could be more obvious, could it be placed? Surely the physics of widths dictates such a mounting. But, too, psychologically, where could it be more advantageously placed? Where else on the body might it be placed that its security, its effectiveness and its meaning could be more clearly brought home to its lovely captive?
The collar also, of course, has other utilities. For example, it can be useful i
n leading her about, either because of its ring, if it has one, to which a leash may be attached, or in connection with a leash with a snap lock, which can be placed about the collar itself; similarly it is useful, in connection with various forms of hardware, in fastening her to such things as trees and slave rings; her hands, too, can be tied at her collar, making it impossible for her to defend her beauties from the master's assault. Lastly, many animals wear collars; that is not a matter of simple happenstance; the throat is the natural place, for a variety of reasons, on which to place an animal's identificatory control and guidance device; all owners and trainers agree on that; and the slave girl, too, of course, is an animal. Thus it seems appropriate that she, too, wear her device in the same place.
I looked down on the slave before me. She lifted her head to me. It was almost entirely covered by the tightened slave hood. "I thank you for my collar, my Master," she whispered. "I am yours, and I love you." I took her hands in mine and I crouched down, and, lifting them, touched their small fingers to my face. "My Master has removed his mask!" she said, surprised. "But then it does not matter," she laughed, wryly, "for I am well and effectively hooded."
I then released her hands and stood before her. Immediately she assumed the position of the pleasure slave.
How innocently, unthinkingly, and naturally, did the former Beverly Henderson of Earth, of New York City, of the university, of that restaurant, assume that position!
She well knew herself on Gor.
I looked upon her, at length. She was quite beautiful, the former Miss Henderson, now only a rightless, nameless slave at my feet.
She was now on Gor.
She was now mine.
With my hand under her chin I then indicated to her that she should draw herself up from her heels. She did so, this action bringing her body upward and forward, and bringing her knees more closely together. "Master?" she inquired. I then untied the straps of the slave hood. "Am I to be unhooded?" she cried. "But Master is not masked!" I loosened the hood. I might then remove it from her. "Am I to be permitted to see the face of my Master?" she whispered. She put her hands on mine. Her lips trembled. "Truly?" she asked. "Truly?" She felt my hands at the edges of the slave hood. "But wait a moment, Master," she begged. "Let me first kiss your feet!" I permitted this. She put her head down, the slave hood loose on her head. I felt her lips kissing my feet. "I love you, my Gorean master," she said. "I love you, and I am yours." She then lifted her head, the slave hood loose upon it. "Now unhood me, or not, as you will, my Master," she whispered.
I took the hood with my two hands, and, keeping the edges under, getting a good grip on the sides, rolled it an inch or so upward on her face. I could now lift it from her with one motion. Still, of course, as it was placed, she could not see. I looked down upon her. "I love you, and I am your slave, my Gorean master," she whispered.
I flung aside the slave hood and, quickly, holding my left hand behind the back of her neck, covered her mouth, pressing it tightly shut, with my right hand. I feared that she might cry out my name, and that it might then be necessary to put her again under the whip, for such an insolence. Her eyes, over my hand, were wild, and incredulous. I held her mouth pressed shut for some time, that she might collect herself and make her adjustments. Then, when her breathing was calmer, though still deep and swift, I released her mouth. I stepped back from her. I saw consternation in her eyes, and confusion and uncertainty. She did not speak. She did not know what to do. She did not know how to relate to me.
To make it easier for her I went to the side, to the wall, and removed the slave whip from its hook.
"You?" she said. "You are my Gorean master? It was you who did those things to me?"
"Yes," I said. I shook out the blades of the Gorean slave whip.
"The strength, it was yours?" she said.
"Yes," I said.
"And it was you who forced slave yieldings from me?"
"Yes," I said.
"I am unclothed," she said.
"Of course," I said. I saw that she thought of turning from me, and covering with her hands, as best she could, her nakedness. But she did not do so. She still did not know how she must behave with me.
"I was whipped," she said. "Did you do that?"
"Yes," I said.
"I was well whipped," she said.
"Of course," I said.
"This collar?" she said, touching it.
"It is mine," I said.
"Yours?" she said.
"Yes," I said.
I saw that she had not yet called me "Master," but, too, I noted that she had, as well, carefully refrained from using my name. She was a highly intelligent girl.
"Surely you will now take the collar off me," she said.
"No," I said.
"Surely you know the meaning of such a collar on Gor," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I cannot take it off myself," she said.
"I suppose not," I said.
"Then how am I to get it off?" she asked.
"You are not," I told her.
"It designates bondage!" she cried.
"Yes," I said.
She drew back, and looked at me. Then she laughed, with rather an uneasy, forced merriment I thought. "What a joke!" she laughed. "What a little fool I was! I thought for a moment that you were serious, that you might have an actual intention of keeping me as a slave!"
I did not bother responding to her.
"It is a joke!" she cried.
"You have been stripped, and collared and whipped," I said. "Does that seem to be a joke to you?"
"No," she said, suddenly, angrily, "it does not!"
"Do you object, in the least?" I inquired.
"No, no," she said, quickly. "Of course not!" I smiled inwardly. How uncertain she was as to her position, and condition. Slaves, of course, are not permitted to object to what is done to them.
She looked at me. "Now you have made me speak to you as though I might be a slave," she chided.
I did not speak.
"Your joke has gone far enough," she said, uncertainly, "now, please, please, let me rise, and take off my collar and bring me clothes."
I did not move. She remained on her knees.
"You cannot be serious about keeping me as a slave," she said.
I did not speak.
"You did not keep me as a slave before," she said.
"No," I said.
"See!" she laughed.
"I have no intention of repeating that mistake," I said.
"You cannot keep me as a slave!" she cried.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because I am a woman of Earth, and you are a man of Earth!" she said.
"Men of Earth have often held women of Earth as slaves," I said. "Surely you are aware of this. Historically, slavery has been one of the most widespread and successful of human institutions. Most of the admired civilizations of the past have, in effect, been founded on slavery. Even today, on Earth, slavery is openly practiced in many parts of the world, and, in other parts of the world, it is known that there are men who keep their women secretly as slaves. Seeing a woman on the street it is often difficult to know whether, in the secrecy of her house, she is a slave or not. Too, who knows what will be the future course of civilizations on Earth. It is not impossible that slavery may again become a widespread and significant component in social fabrics, even in those of technological societies. The future is hard to read."
"Then the fact that I am a woman of Earth and you are a man of Earth need not protect me," she said.
"Of course not," I said, "no more than it has protected other women of Earth who, over the long ages, have found themselves placed in bondage."
"I see," she said.
"Incidentally," I said, "I reject not only your contention as being false, and obviously false, but its supposition, as well."
"Its supposition?" she asked.
"That I am a man of Earth, and you a woman of Earth," I said.
&
nbsp; "Surely we are of Earth!" she said.
"It is true that our planet of origin is Earth," I said. "Is that all you have in mind?"
"No," she said.
"What else?" I asked.
"I do not know," she said. "It is hard to speak to you when I am stripped and kneeling!"
"Our realities have now changed," I said. "We are now of Gor."
"No!" she said.
"You lost the entitlements and prerogatives of the woman of Earth when, in a Gorean slave pen, your lovely thigh was branded."
"No!" she cried.
"You are not branded?" I said. "Let me see."
The palm of her pretty left hand went to cover the mark on her thigh.
"Of course I am branded!" she exclaimed.
"Let me see," I said.
She regarded me, trying to read me.
"Now, girl!" I snapped.
She turned her thigh to me.
"Yes," I said. "You are branded."
"Of course I am branded," she said.
"Assume position!" I said.
She did so.
Again, then, she faced me, kneeling before me, back on her heels, back straight, head up, knees spread, palms down on thighs.
It was interesting to read her eyes. How desperate she seemed to be, trying to understand me, the man before whom she knelt.
"That mark was put there with a hot iron, was it not?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"It is a nice mark," I said. "It enhances your beauty, as you probably know."