John Norman - Slave Girl Of Gor

I closed my eyes. I had been Judy Thornton, of Earth. I had been a co-ed at a small but prestigious college. I had been an English major. I had written poetry. I had been popular on campus. Now I was only a branded slave girl, Dina, helpless in the arms of her master. I thought of Elicia Nevins, who had been my beauty rival at the college. She now, too, wore a collar. I wondered if she were as happy in the arms of her master as I in the arms of mine. She had been an anthropologist. I wondered if now she truly understood, perhaps for the first time, the nature of the institution of slavery. Her master had perhaps taught her. I lay blissfully in the arms of Clitus Vitellius, owned.

I opened my eyes.

"Is a girl not to be permitted sometimes to speak her mind?" I asked.

"Perhaps upon occasion," said Clitus Vitellius, "provided she does so upon her knees and at my feet."

"You are a monster, Master," I said.

Then again I felt his body at mine, and I cried out as my legs were thrust apart.

"You are rough, Master!" I chided. Then, frightened, I said, "Forgive me, Master."

He did not beat me.

I began to respond to him, shuddering under the blows of his manhood, and surrendered myself then, content, to the delicious brutality of my ravishment.

He had many ways of taking me, and I must submit to them all, unquestioningly.

We heard men later upon the bridges outside. It was early morning.

I held Clitus Vitellius. "You are very lustful, Master," I told him.

"I am shamed neither by my health nor vitality," he said. He said this as a Gorean, explaining something to an ignorant Earth-girl slave. "And you," he said, "you must know, are an exquisitely responsive she-sleen. Does that shame you?"

"Not any more, Master," I said.

"It is an indication of your vitality and health, and emotional freedom," he said. "It is a sign that you are vigorous and sound, neither psychologically crippled nor diseased."

I had grown free on Gor, though I wore a collar. Strange, collared, I was free. Uncollared I had been a true slave, a prisoner of a pathological culture, ascetic, mechanistic and twisted.

"Perhaps I am emotionally free," I laughed. "But I scarcely am physically free."

"True," he said. He pulled me by the chain at the back of the collar back to my back on the furs at the foot of his couch.

"You keep me a slave?" I asked.

"Of course," he said.

"I never knew I would meet a man who could lust for me and desire me so much," I said, "that he would keep me as a slave."

"You never knew you would meet a man who would satisfy your deepest needs," he said, "the hidden, profound, scarcely understood, secret needs which you yourself scarcely recognized."

"You are a secret dream, which I scarcely dared dream, come true to me, Master," I said.

"And you to me, Slave," said he.

"Will you truly be hard with me, Master?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Will you truly, though you care for me, keep me as full slave?"

"Yes, Slave," he said.

"Subject even to discipline, if I displease you?" I asked.

"Subject to discipline, at my pleasure, whether you displease me or not," he said.

"My bondage then will be absolute," I said.

"Of course, Slave," he said.

I reached out timidly, to touch him. I kissed him, tenderly, on the shoulder.

"I love you, Master," I said.

"Be silent, Slave," he said, irritably.

"Yes, Master," I said.

He then touched me with sweetness, and tenderness, and I held him closely, but did not speak, lost in his touch, for I, a slave, had been forbidden to speak. He made gentle love to me then, which, I knew, might become abrupt or brutal as he chose. There were a thousand ways to have a slave girl and I did not doubt but what Clitus Vitellius was master of them all. How joyful I was. He was dominant over me. I was subject to him. I was his, completely without qualification. It is impossible for me to express my feelings. Perhaps this is why he had warned me to silence, that I might not try to speak, but would be content to feel what could not, in any language, be spoken. So I did not then try to speak, but, rather, contented myself with turning to the tasks of love.