by John Norman
The usual devices to take a running woman are nets and ropes. Sometimes, however, the slaver, when the woman's legs are bared, will use a bola, the cords and weights then snapping about her calves and ankles, throwing her to the ground. A bit of binding fiber then, fastening her hands behind her back, and perhaps a painful nose ring and cord, will suffice to bring her instantly to slave heel.
The Gorean free woman has very ambivalent feelings toward bondage. She abhors it in one way, but in another she is curious about it, and is attracted by it. Surely she is well aware of the typical radiance, health, fulfillment and happiness of the female slave. Yet, she is only too well aware of the fact, as well, that the slave is only a slave, a property, an animal, to be despised and held in contempt. But what would it be, she wonders, to wear a collar, and be owned by a master, preferably of course one that is strict, for that is the sort the slave wants, the sort she needs, the sort she respects, the sort she must fear, for she knows that she must be fully pleasing to such a man, and he will have all, as she wishes, from the vulnerable slaveness of her.
How humiliating to be the slave of a weak master! How reassuring and thrilling to be the slave of a strong master, whom she must serve with perfection, or be unhesitantly lashed.
One interesting difference between the Gorean free woman and the Earth woman is that the Gorean free woman is well aware of slavery and knows that it exists. She also knows that given the almost constant warfare amongst the small Gorean states, and the frequencies of raids, even of lone tarnsmen out to try "chain luck," and such, that slavery, with all its helplessnesses and vulnerabilities, its degradations and miseries, is a fate which might actually befall her. The Earth girl on the other hand usually gives no thought whatsoever to slavery, until, say, she finds herself on a chain.
There was gentle applause for the girl, and murmurs of appreciation. The footwear had been well removed.
She then rose to her feet and stood again before us, but now barefoot upon the tiles.
She then reached again to her left side, and undid a fastening there, below her left arm, and then another below it, and then one at her hip. She then unwrapped the brief sliplike garment from her body, and dropped it to one side.
"Ah," said more than one man. "Interesting," said Glyco.
"The garments in which you now see her," I said, "are supposed to represent typical undergarments of an Earth female."
"I see," said Glyco.
The brassiere had been simulated cleverly with soft white silk. Her beauty, soft, and almost as though protesting its confinement, strained against this silk. Too, between her breasts, this silk had been twisted and knotted, this making even more evident the sweet contours of her beauty, and the sturdy, silken restraint placed upon it. The panties, too, were simulated with white silk, which, in a narrow rectangle, had been wrapped twice about her hips and tucked in at her waist. There was no nether closure to this silk, of course. The Gorean slave girl is not permitted to shield her intimacies without the explicit permission of her master.
Too, commonly, it might be mentioned, in passing, that the Gorean slave girl may not clothe herself to any extent whatsoever without first having obtained permission to do so from the master, or his agent. This has to do with the total control of the girl by the master, a control which extends, of course, to whether or not she is to be permitted clothing. "Master, may your slave clothe herself?" is a familiar question in a Gorean dwelling. The permission, of course, may be granted, or withheld, as the master pleases. A standing permission, of course, may be in effect, particularly if the master is absent, but many masters are pleased to exact this lovely request each day. It is thought to have a salutary effect on the slave. It is made, of course, by the slave on her knees. It is common, in general, of course, for the slave to kneel in the presence of free persons, male or female. For example, she will normally kneel if a free person enters a room, if one addresses her, and so on.
Besides these two garments, intended, respectively, to suggest the brassiere and panties of an Earth girl, she still wore, of course, the light, narrow white scarf, this twisted and wound twice about her throat, the ends thrown over her left shoulder.
The girl then, to the music, put back her head and put her hands behind her back, and, reaching high behind her back, this lifting her breasts beautifully, strained for a moment, and then, one by one, twisting slightly, undid the hooks on the confining, tight silk.
Our eyes met.
The silk was then dropped to one side.
"Superb," said Glyco.
She then reached to the white scarf on her throat and, beautifully, to the music, undid it one turn. She then, to the music, drew it beautifully, slowly, from her throat, and, gracefully, dropped it to one side. She wore, of course, now revealed, a close-fitting, gleaming slave collar.
She lifted her head, and, with her fingers, delicately indicated and displayed the collar.
She then stood before us as a barefoot, half-naked, collared slave.
Gorean applause, and murmurs of appreciation, greeted this aspect of her performance.
Our eyes met again.
She then reached with her right hand to her waist and undid the tuck in the silk which was wrapped about her hips. Slowly and beautifully then, to the music, with both hands, she unwound the silk, and then dropped it to the tiles.
"Superb!" said Glyco.
She then crawled to me, on her hands and knees, her head humbly down. Then, when she reached me, she lowered herself to her belly and, extending her right hand, touched me on the knee. She lifted her head. "You are my master," she said, "and I am your slave, and I love you!"
"Superb!" said Glyco. "Superb!" Those at the table, even including the slaves, Florence and Peggy, unable to restrain themselves, applauded. She who had been Shirley, too, now the slave of Aemilianus, applauded.
I took the small slave by the upper arms, and held her, half turned, on her side, near me. I looked down into her eyes. She was breathing heavily. She was shaken with emotion. Her eyes looked up at me, pleadingly.
The voluptuous slave of Aemilianus was now attending again to the lamps, this time restoring the room to its original illumination.
I then drew the slave more closely into my arms, and again regarded her, looking deeply into her eyes. I had never suspected that she would have performed as she had. I had, of course, specified to Lola that she was to be included in the entertainment, but never had I expected anything of the nature or beauty of what I had seen. That the girl had helped to serve the dessert course in display chains would, in itself, have fully contented me. Informed by Lola that she was to be a component of our entertainment doubtless the girl herself had suggested and devised this performance, abetted, of course, by Lola. Of many things in the performance, such as the restaurant, Lola could have known nothing. The idea of the performance, then, as well as most of the details involved in its presentation, must have been that of my little dark-haired slave. It was a most beautiful gift which she had given me.
The room had now been restored to its normal illumination. The candle, blown out, and the white cloth, too, had been removed. I saw that Florence, flushed, kneeling behind Miles of Vonda, was biting at the back of his tunic, and putting her hands on his hips. "Get back, Slave," he said to her. "Yes, Master," she sobbed, and knelt back. She had been aroused by the performance of the dark-haired slave. I saw that Peggy, too, in her white tunic, was flushed. She was breathing deeply. It seemed she could not take her eyes from Callimachus.
I looked down into the eyes of the little slave. She looked up at me, pleadingly. "Master," she whispered.
"It is time to serve the liqueurs, Slave," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she whispered. She then rose to her feet and hurried toward the kitchen.
"Slave," I called.
"Yes, Master," she said, stopping, turning, and falling to her knees.
"You will serve as you are," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she said, and then, ris
ing up, turned and hurried to the kitchen, there to render aid to Lola and the slave of Aemilianus.
A small whimper escaped Florence.
"Be silent, Slave," said Miles of Vonda.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"She is not the only one," said Tasdron, jerking a thumb at Peggy, who, blushing crimson, put down her head, looking away from Callimachus.
"Ah," said Glyco. "The liqueurs!"
First from the kitchen, bearing her tray, came the voluptuous slave of Aemilianus. Behind her, too with her tray, came the little dark-haired slave. In a moment both were deferentially serving. The collared softness of the dark-haired girl well set off the metal of the tray, and the small, multicolored glasses and bottles upon it. It is not unusual, at a Gorean meal, where free women are not present, for one or more of the slaves to serve naked. At ruder meals, this makes it easier for one of the guests, should the urge strike him, to use them.
"A free woman!" suddenly exclaimed Glyco, startled.
I smiled.
From the kitchen there had emerged, in the robes of concealment, the figure of a woman.
The men, save I, rose as one to their feet, for Gorean men commonly stand when a free woman enters a room.
The voluptuous slave of Aemilianus swiftly knelt, making herself as small as possible, putting her head to the floor. The little dark-haired slave, too, swiftly knelt, also putting her head to the floor. Too, she shuddered, trying to cover her nakedness with her hands. Peggy and Florence, too, now had their heads to the floor. Slave girls, as I may have mentioned, fear free women, terribly.
The woman in the robes of concealment seemed timid, frightened. She approached the table hesitantly, diffidently. She did not understand, fully, what she was to do.
"A free woman is present," whispered Glyco to me.
But I did not get up.
"You!" she suddenly said, from behind her veils, seeing Calliodorus, of Port Cos, captain of the Tais. "You?"
He seemed startled. He leaned forward, as though he might peer through the veils themselves.
"You are Calliodorus," she said, "of Port Cos!" I had not told her, of course, that Calliodorus was to be a guest at our supper.
"You!" he cried, suddenly. "Can it be you? No! It cannot be you! It cannot! Not after all these years!"
"It is I," she said, trembling.
"Gentlemen," said Calliodorus, huskily, "this is the free woman, Lola, of Port Cos!"
Suddenly the girl, sobbing, wildly tore away her veils and the robes of concealment, revealing that she wore a slave tunic and collar. "I am not a free woman," she cried, throwing herself to the feet of Calliodorus, "I am a slave girl!"
"And she is yours!" I cried.
Calliodorus, stunned, looked down at the beauty at his feet.
I rose to my feet.
She looked around at me, wildly. "Master!" she cried.
"You are now his," I said, indicating Calliodorus.
"Thank you, Master!" she cried. "Thank you, Master!" She rose to her feet, and ran to me, falling to her knees before me and putting her head down to my feet. She kissed my feet in gratitude. "Thank you, Master," she sobbed. I was pleased with her pleasure. She was a superb slave, properly handled, and I was quite fond of her. She had served me well. I thought it not unfit that she be rewarded. Accordingly I had given her to Calliodorus.
She rose to her feet and ran to kneel before Calliodorus. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, her hands on his legs. "Will you accept me, Master?" she asked.
"In Port Cos," said he, "long ago, I wooed you with all the honors and dignities to be accorded to the free woman. Well did we grow acquainted, and many were the long and intimate conversations in which we shared." His eyes then grew hard. "And in one of these," he said, "you uttered an unspeakable confession, acknowledging your slave needs."
"I was so ashamed," she said, turning her face away.
"How could I take to my bed in honor one who had dared to confess her slave needs? Such girls I could buy at the market. We parted, naturally. But our families, desiring the companionship, pressed us for explanations. That our honors might be protected, of course, yours that you had dared to confess your slave needs, and mine, that I had been the scandalized auditor of so shameful an admission, we remained silent."
"But," said she, moist-eyed, "that our courtship not appear to have failed, and that our families not be disgraced, you agreed to proceed with the companionship. You acted, too, doubtless, in accordance with your conception of your duty as an officer and your sense of the obligations of citizenship, that the honor of the Home Stone of Port Cos not be compromised."
He looked down at her, not speaking.
"I did not wish to languish, scorned and neglected, in a cold bed, while you contented yourself with market girls. I fled the city."
"You are mistaken in at least one thing," he said. "I had not determined to proceed with the companionship because of family pressures. I am not so weak. Similarly, my duties as an officer and a citizen, the sharer of a Home Stone, were not implicated in the matter."
"But, why then?" she asked.
"I wanted you," he said.
"But I have slave needs," she said.
"I thought long after our conversation," he said. "You had dared to confess your slave needs, and this had shamed you, and it had scandalized me. But, why, I asked myself. Should not, rather, one be more ashamed by deceit than the truth? Can there truly be a greater honor in hypocrisy than in honesty? It does not seem so. I then realized how bravely you had trusted me and revealed this to me. My outrage gave way to gratitude and admiration. Similarly, I asked myself, why was I scandalized. Was this not connected with hidden fears of my own, that I might discover complementary needs within myself, the needs to own and be a master? Your confession, so expressive and poignant, tended to undermine a deceit of free persons. You had dared, it seemed, to break the code of hypocrisy. Had the gate to barbarism been left ajar? I regretted, for a time, the loss of the lie. We grow fond of our myths. Yet our myths are like walls of straw. Ultimately they cannot protect us. Ultimately they must perish in the flames of truth."