John Norman - Nomads of Gor

She leaped up to fetch the collar and handed it to me, again kneeling before me.

I encircled her lovely throat with the steel and she looked up at me, angrily.

I snapped it shut.

She began to rise to her feet.

But my hand on her shoulder prevented her from rising. “I did not give you permission to rise, slave,” I said.

Her shoulders shook with anger. Then she said, “Of course, I am sorry, master,” and dropped her head.

I removed the two pins from the yellow silken sheet, and it fell from her, revealing her clad Kajir.

She stiffened in anger.

“I would see my slave girl,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said, acidly, “you wish your girl to remove her remaining garments?”

“No,” I said.

She tossed her head.

“I shall do it,” I told her.

She gasped.

As she knelt on the rug, head down, in the position of the Pleasure Slave, I took from her the Koora, loosening her hair, and then the leather Kalmak, and then I drew from her the Curia and Chatka.

“If you would be a slave,” I said, “be a slave.”

She did not raise her head but glared savagely down at the rug, her small fists clenched.

I went across the rug and sat down cross-legged near the fire bowl, and looked at the girl.

“Approach me, slave girl,” I said, “and kneel.”

She lifted her head and looked at me, angrily, proudly, for a moment, but then she said, “Yes, master,” and did as she was commanded.

I looked at Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, kneeling before me, head down, clad only in the collar of a slave.

“What are you?” I asked.

“A slave,” she said bitterly, not raising her head.

“Serve me wine,” I said.

She did so, kneeling before me, head down, handing me the black, red-trimmed wine crater, that of the master, as had Aphris to Kamchak. I drank.

When I had finished I set the wine crater aside and looked on the girl.

“Why have you done this, Elizabeth?” I asked.

She looked down sullenly. “I am Vella,” she said, “a Gorean slave.”

“Elizabeth” I said.

“Vella,” she said angrily.

“Vella,” I agreed, and she looked up. Our eyes met and we looked at one another for a long time. Then, she smiled, and I looked down.

I laughed. “It seems,” I said, “that I will not make it to the public slave wagon tonight.”

Elizabeth looked up, shyly. “It seems not, master.”

“You are a vixen, Vella,” said I.

She shrugged. Then, kneeling before me in the position of the Pleasure Slave, she stretched indolently, with feline grace, lifting her hands behind the back of her neck and throwing her dark hair forward. She knelt so for a languorous moment, her hands over her head holding her hair, looking at me.

“Do you think,” she asked, “that the girls in the public slave wagon are as beautiful as Vella?”

“No,” I said, “they are not.”

“Or as desirable?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “none is as desirable as Vella.”

Then, her back still arched, with a half-smile, she stretched even more, and, as though weary, she slowly turned her head to one side, with her eyes closed, and then opened them and with a small, lazy motion of her hands threw her hair back over her head, and with a tiny motion of her head shook it into place.

“It seems Vella wishes to please her master,” I said.

“No,” said the girl, “Vella hates her master.” She looked at me with feigned hatred. “He has humiliated Vella. He has stripped her and put her in the collar of a slaver”

“Of course,” I said.

“But,” said the girl, “perhaps she might be forced to please him. After all she is only a slave.”

I laughed.

“It is said,” remarked the girl, “that Vella, whether she knows it or not, longs to be a slave the utter slave of a man if but for an hour.”

I slapped my knee with amusement. “That sounds to me,” I said, “like a silly theory.”

The girl shrugged in her collar. “Perhaps,” she said, “Vella does not know.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “Vella will find out.”

“Perhaps,” said the girl, smiling.

“Are you ready, Slave Girl,” I asked, “to give pleasure to a master?”

“Have I any choice?” she asked.

“None,” I said.

“Then,” she said, with resignation, “I suppose I am ready.”

I laughed.

Elizabeth was looking at me, smiling. Then, suddenly, playfully, she put her head to the rug before me. I heard her whisper, “Vella asks only to tremble and obey.”

I stood up and, laughing, lifted her to her feet.

She, too, laughed, standing close to me, her eyes bright. I could feel her breath on my face.

“I think now I will do something with you,” I said.

She looked resigned, dropping her head. “What is to be the fate of your beautiful, civilized slave?” she asked.

“The dung sack,” I replied.

“No!” she cried, suddenly frightened. “No!”

I laughed.

“I will do anything rather than that,” she said. “Anything.”

“Anything?” I asked.

She looked up at me and smiled. “Yes,” she said, “anything.”

“Very well, Vella,” said I, “I will give you but one chance if you well please me the aforementioned miserable fate will not be yours at least for tonight.”

“Vella will well please you,” she said earnestly.

“Very well,” I said, “please me.”

I recalled keenly how she had sported with me earlier and I thought there might be some point in giving the young American a taste of her own medicine.

She looked at me startled.

Then she smiled. “I will teach you that I well know the meaning of my collar, master,” she said.

Suddenly she kissed me, a deep kiss, moist, rich, too soon ended.

“There” she laughed. “The kiss of a Tuchuk slave girl!”

Then she laughed and turned away, looking over her shoulder. “You see,” she said, “I can do it quite well.”

I did not speak.

She was facing the other way. “But,” she said, teasingly, “I think one will be enough for master.”

I was a bit angry, and not a little aroused. “The girls in the public slave wagon,” I said, “know how to kiss.”

“Oh?” she said, turning about.

“They are not little secretaries,” I said, “pretending to be slave girls.”

Her eyes flashed. “Try this!” she said, approaching me, and this time, my head in her small hands, she lingered with her lips upon my mouth, warm, wet, breaths meeting and mingling in the savouring touch. My hands held her slender waist. When she had finished, I remarked, “Not bad.”

“Not bad!” she cried. Then fully and for much time, she kissed me, with increasing determination, yet attempted subtlety, thennoxlety, then woodenly, and then she dropped her head. lifted her chin with my finger. She looked at me angrily.

“I should have told you, I suppose,” I remarked, “that a woman kisses well only when fully aroused, after at least half an Ahn, after she is helpless and yielding.”

She looked at me angrily and turned away.

Then she spun about laughing. “You are a beast, Tarl,” she cried.

“And you, too,” I laughed, “are a beast a beautiful little collared beast.”

“I love you,” she said, “Tarl Cabot.”

“Array yourself in Pleasure Silk, Little Beast,” I said, “and enter my arms.”

The blaze of a challenge flared suddenly in her eyes. She transfused with excitement. “Though I am of Earth,” she said, “try to use me as slave.”

I smiled. “If you wish,” I said.

“I will prove to you,” she said, “that your theories are false.” I shrugged.

“I will prove to you,” she said, “that a woman cannot be conquered.”