Guardsman of Gor

by John Norman

"Could you do that?" she asked.

  "Certainly," I said.

  "Truly?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "But you would not!" she said.

  "I will, if it pleases me," I said.

  "You could!" she said. "You could!"

  "Yes," I said.

  I decided I would do that sometime. It would help the former Miss Henderson to better understand her bondage.

  "And you will, will you not?" she said. "I see it in your eyes!"

  "Yes," I said.

  "And my desires in this matter are nothing?"

  "Nothing," I said.

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing."

  So let the well-curved beauty, formerly of Earth, now sense even more profoundly than before what it was to be under masculine domination, to be subject to a man's will, fully.

  I regarded her.

  "You do not seem discontent," I observed.

  "I am not," she said.

  "Interesting," I said.

  "I am Master's slave," she said. She smiled. She looked down, shyly. "He may do with me what he wills."

  "You seem pleased to be a slave," I said.

  "I am not only pleased to be a slave," she said, "but, too, I am proud to be a slave."

  "Proud?"

  "Certainly," she said. She indicated her left thigh, with its small, discreet, lovely mark, high, under the left hip. "Is this not a certification of my quality?" she asked. She touched the collar on her neck. "Is this not a testimony to my value, to my attractiveness, to my desirability to men?"

  "I must answer such questions in the affirmative," I said. It was true. Slavers seek out the best of women, those who are, at least potentially, the most appetitious, the most feminine, the most desirable, the most beautiful. They are, of course, the most fun to catch, and the easiest to sell. And who would want another sort in his collar?

  "Many in Victoria," I said, "are richer than I."

  "It is the women of Earth," she said, "who bargain with their bodies. On Gor, it is the slave who is bargained for."

  "But surely the slave would prefer a well-fixed master," I said.

  "Perhaps if she knows nothing about him," she said, "but I think not, for it is terrible to be one woman lost in the slave pens of a palace, perhaps never even seeing her master. Better to be the single slave of a single master, and to know him, and serve him, intimately."

  "Much doubtless depends on the particular master and slave," I said.

  "Of course, Master," she said.

  Whereas there are wealth discrepancies on Gor which would dwarf most of those on Earth, for example, merchants who own ten thousand slaves and a hundred villas, and whose resources can raise armies and intimidate cities, most Goreans are economically pretty much of a muchness. Accordingly, most girls are owned by men whose incomes are likely to be substantially equivalent, and the differences which exist are not likely to excite much notice or comment. For example, as Goreans go, given the recent events on the river, I would count as being very well fixed, and yet I did not think that my position or resources were such as to seem outrageously out of the ordinary. Caste tends to be more important to most Goreans than riches. The slave of a high-caste Builder, for example, is likely to look down on the slave of a wealthy merchant, who may have a hundred times the riches. Gold is important on Gor, but it does not have anything like the importance that would be assigned to it on Earth. Choosing between illicit gain and a besmirchment of honor most Goreans would forgo the illicit gain. Their honor is more important to them. Perhaps that sounds strange to many of Earth, but it is the Gorean way. The man of Earth, I suppose, might regard the typical Gorean as naive or stupid in this particular. The Gorean, on the other hand, would regard the man of Earth who might disagree with him in this matter as being strange or incomprehensible, and worse, perhaps even unworthy of his manhood, and certainly unworthy of a Home Stone. Even Gorean merchants, whom no one in his right mind could accuse of being immune to the allurements of wealth, will, almost invariably, choose honor over profit. His ideal, of course, is to manage things in such a way as to obtain the one and keep the other. In any event, wealth seldom enters into the master/slave relationship, except that richer fellows, obviously, are able to bid more, if they wish, for the lovely nude animals—often exhibited writhing in the torchlit markets—who might best please them. But any well-mastered female, of course, kisses her master's whip, even though he be a peasant, with a fervor not inferior to that of a high slave on her knees before a Ubar. Both are women; both are slaves; both are mastered.

  "Master's collar is one of the most prized on the river," she said.

  "Perhaps you should be beaten," I said.

  "Please, no!" she said. "Just keep me on your chain!"

  I lifted the chain, a little, near the collar.

  I drew her to me, and kissed her, and then pushed her back, to the furs.

  Tears were in her eyes. "Master," she said, "could have many girls. And Beverly knows that many are far more beautiful than she. Why, then, is it I who am in your collar?"

  "You, you stupid little slut," said I, "are my choice."

  "But why, my Master?"

  "Do you dare to question the will of the Master?" I asked.

  "No, Master! No, Master!"

  "Every man," I said, "desires to have absolute power over a woman." She looked down, shyly.

  "Every man desires a slave."

  She looked up, softly. "And every woman," she whispered, "desires her master."

  "And it is you," I said, "over whom I desire to have absolute power."

  "You do, my Master," she whispered, softly. "I am your slave."

  I regarded her. How beautiful she was, naked, on the chain, mine, nestled by me in the soft, deep furs of love!

  "And I want to be your slave," she said. "I want to love and serve you, to be in your absolute power, as your slave."

  "You are," I said.

  "Yes, Master, but why have you chosen me?"

  "I wonder if you are stupid."

  "I trust not, Master."

  "Perhaps I shall tire of you," I said, "and sell you, or give you away."

  "Please do not do so, Master," she said.

  "Surely you must be stupid," I said.

  "I do not think so, Master," she said.

  "You are the most exciting, attractive, and desirable woman I have ever seen in my life," I said.

  "Master!" she cried out in protest, in joy.

  "Position!" I snapped.

  Instantly she went to position, frightened.

  "May I speak?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "I think Master is angry, is embarrassed, to have so spoken his feelings before a slave," she said.

  I looked at her, angrily.

  "Surely Master knows that I am his love slave," she whispered.

  "No!" I cried. I seized the whip. She winced, inadvertently, seeing it in my hand.

  "It is true, of course, Master," she said. "A slave may not lie. But she dares not hope, of course, that he will be her love master."

  "Do not speak of love," I said. "You are a slave. Speak of obedience, and service. Tremble, girl! You are owned, slut!"

  "Hopefully," she said, "a slave will not be beaten for speaking the truth."

  I flung aside the whip.

  "We have spoken too much, slut," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said. "Forgive me, Master."

  I thought it time to restore a better sense in her of our relationship. One must remind a slave from time to time of that.

  "To your back, slut," I said. "Throw your legs apart!"

  "Yes, Master!"

  "More widely!"

  "Yes, Master! Forgive me, Master!"

  "What is your name, slut?" I snapped.

  "Beverly, if it pleases Master!" she exclaimed.

  "It is a suitable response," I said.

  "Thank you, Master."

  "And you may be put out naked into the streets."

 
"Of course, Master!"

  "And sometimes I shall do so," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "I have decided it," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  I looked down upon her, her legs thrown open by my command, well apart, slave apart.

  Let her think of being sent into the streets naked.

  But she did not seem distraught.

  She would doubtless not be the only slave thusly in the streets.

  Such things may be done to Gorean slave girls.

  It is not that unusual.

  They are, after all, slaves.

  "You are a Beverly," I said.

  "A Beverly?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Yes," she said. "I am a Beverly—if it pleases Master."

  "It pleases me," I said.

  "I am a Beverly," she said.

  "Do not forget that you wear that name now as a mere slave name."

  "No, Master," she said. "I shall not forget." She knew that, as a slave, she had no more right to a name than a tarsk or sleen, or any other form of domestic animal.

  I looked down upon her.

  "You may break position," I said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  She then rolled to her stomach, and began to kiss my feet. Then, tenderly, she rose to her knees, still kissing my feet, and then began to kiss my ankles, and calves. "I love you, Master," she whispered. When she lifted her head, tears in her eyes, she seemed suddenly startled, troubled. She put up her hand to my left arm. "Master," she said, "forgive me! I have hurt Master!" There was blood on my arms, from the gouging of her nails, and blood at my left shoulder, from the cut of her teeth.

  "It is nothing," I told her.

  It was from before.

  I had not noticed it, nor, apparently, until that moment, had she.

  She rose to her feet, and kissed the wounds.

  "Surely I am to be punished for this," she said.

  "No," I said. Masters are commonly indulgent of the uncontrollable spasms of their female slaves. One wishes to do nothing to in any way qualify, modify, or inhibit their services, and passion.

  The female slave is quite lovely in one's arms, head back, hair wild, squirming, pleading for mercy and wanting none, hot, sweating, vital, responsive, helpless in her collar, or chains, moaning, gasping, her body moving uncontrollably, in your grasp, owned, yours, locked in the merciless throes of the most profound succession of orgasms a human female can experience, those of the mastered, ravished slave.

  "Thank you, Master," she said.

  I then held her by the upper arms. She was so beautiful!

  "Doubtless I must soon be released from the slave ring," she said, "that I may attend to my work."

  "Oh!" she cried, thrown brutally to the furs at the foot of the couch. She looked up at me, frightened, the chain on her neck.

  "That decision is mine," I said, "not yours."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Do you hear?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master!" she said.

  "Who hears?" I asked.

  "Beverly!" she said.

  "Who does Beverly hear?" I asked.

  "Beverly hears her Master!" she said.

  I then crouched down, and took her in my arms.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  It was pleasant to hold her, again as a yielding slave.

  * * * *

  "It is evening, Master," she said, lying beside me.

  "Yes," I said.

  I had refilled the ravishment lamp and then had had her relight it. She was beautiful in its soft light, lying on the furs, the heavy stone of the couch and the iron of the slave ring, to which she was still attached, behind her.

  "All last night, and all today," she said, "you have kept me at your ring."

  "I have waited long to own you," I told her.

  "Yes, Master," she said. She rolled onto her back, looking up at the beams in the ceiling. "Callimachus has selected you to be his second in command, in the forces of the Vosk League," she said.

  "Yes," I said.

  "I am the slave, then, of an important man, am I not?" she asked.

  "Are you vain?"

  "I suppose so. Are not all slave girls vain?"

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "Are we not permitted to be proud of our masters?"

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "Then I think I will be proud of you," she said, "at least a little bit, if I may."

  "Your concern here," I said, "is not to be proud, but to be fully pleasing."

  "Yes, Master."

  "You are a slave."

  "Yes, Master."

  "Do not forget it."

  "No, Master," she said. "I will not forget it." She smiled. "I assure Master that her bondage is well understood by this female."

  "By whom?" I asked.

  "By Beverly," she said, "the slave of Jason, of Victoria."

  "The response is suitable," I said.

  "Thank you, Master," she said. I had never made much of this sort of thing, but some masters enjoy having the slave refer to herself by name, rather than having recourse to pronouns, for example, "Beverly begs to be caressed," "Does Master desire aught of Beverly," "how may Beverly please Master," and so on. This is useful upon occasion, of course. It helps the slave distance herself from herself when one wants her to distance herself from herself, and thus see herself rather from the outside as her Master's object. A similar practice, favored by some masters, is to have the slave refer to herself as his slave, for example, "Your slave begs to be caressed," "Does Master desire aught of his slave," "how may his slave please Master," and so on. On the other hand, I usually prefer for her to speak more directly, utilizing delicious personal pronouns, because it is then clearer to her, and to the master, that it is she herself, intimately, his, who speaks, for example, "I beg to be caressed," "does Master desire aught of me," "how may I please Master," and so on. A judicious mixture of modalities may be best. For example, suppose the slave has been somehow at fault, however inadvertently, and, kneeling before the master, nude, must beg punishment. Consider then the difference between "Beverly begs to be whipped," "Your slave begs to be whipped," and "I beg to be whipped." At one time, one might seem best, and, at another time, another.

  On Earth I supposed that a girl might be proud of a man for the simple reason that he was strong enough to be her master. Is that not a source of pride for a girl, at least one of Earth, that a man is strong enough to make her his slave, and see to it that she is an excellent slave?

  On Gor, of course, one does not need strength for the mastery, for that is cultural, and expected of a man. What would require great strength on Earth is simply a matter of maleness on Gor. The Gorean, thinking little of it, keeps his slave, or slaves, in perfect order. To be sure, I suppose some men of Earth, for most practical purposes, are Gorean.

  "Speak no more of position and status, and how one might be viewed by others, and esteemed or disesteemed, such unimportant things," I said. "Such things do not matter. Attend rather to things which matter. I am a man, you are a woman, I am master, you are slave."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "You may serve me wine," I said.

  She reached to the wine, a sweet Ka-la-na of Ar, and filled the goblet to the third ring. Then, as I sat back against the couch, she knelt before me. She, head down, pressed the heavy metal goblet deep into her lower abdomen, and then she lifted it to her lips and, holding it with both hands, kissed it lingeringly and lovingly. Then, kneeling back on her heels she put down her head and, humbly, her arms extended, her head down between them, proffered me the goblet. "Wine, Master?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said. I then took the goblet from her, and drank.

  She lifted her head, and watched me.

  "I think you know how to serve wine well," I said.

  "Master should know," she laughed.

  I indicated that she should approach me. "Keep your hands on your thighs," I told her.
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br />   "Yes, Master," she said.

  "As I recall," I said, "from an account you gave me, long ago, in the restaurant, you once, in an apartment in Manhattan, served wine, rather in this fashion, in a Gorean fashion."

  "Yes," she said, "but I did not really understand what I was doing."

  "But you were sexually stimulated?"

  "Terribly so," she said. "And I was frightened. I had suddenly felt dominated, and so female, and alive."

  "It was perhaps, in its small way," I said, "a transformative experience."

  "I was shaken to the core," she said. "It threatened the fragile structure of lies and rationalizations on which I had built my life."

  "And in your concern you wished to speak to me?"

  "Because of all the men I knew," she said, "you were the only one whom I felt might understand me."

  "But even so you feared to speak to me."

  "Of course."

  "You wore delicious garmenture at the restaurant," I recalled.

  "I purchased it the very morning before we met at the restaurant," she said.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "I wanted to be attractive to you. I wanted for you to see me as a woman," she said.

  "I see," I said.

  "I even wore cosmetics."

  "I recall," I said.

  "Perhaps, given the ideology and attitudes expected of me, as a graduate student at a major university, you can suspect how daring that was for me."

  "I think so," I said. The lipstick and eye shadow had been lovely. To be sure, a woman did not need such things to be beautiful.

  "And," she said, "I think I now understand, which I did not at the time, that there was another reason, a deeper reason, scarcely realized, if at all, for making myself up and dressing as I did for our meeting."

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "On some level," she said, "I wanted to present myself as a slave before you."

  "Excellent," I said.

  "It is natural for a slave to wish to adorn herself before the male," she said, "to wish to be found pleasing before the master."

  "But this was on Earth," I said.

  "From my dreams, my secret thoughts, my fantasies," she said, "I knew myself even then a slave."

  "But you would have denied it, vehemently," I said.

  "Certainly," she said. "How could you expect an Earth girl, one literate, well-read, informed, educated, a student in a sophisticated discipline, and so on, to admit even to herself, let alone to another, that she is miserable and frustrated, and lonely, and sexually and emotionally starved, and fearfully unhappy—and that she requires for her fulfillment a man, a master. How could you expect her to admit to herself, let alone to another, that she desires to be owned, fully, that she longs to be a slave, that she wants to kneel naked before a man, and wear his collar—and know even the cut of his whip."