John Norman - Beasts of Gor

Her ankles were tied.

“No!” she said.

“I do not wish the inconvenience in the north,” I said, “of bothering with a free woman.”

I knotted her hands behind her back.

“I do not ask to come with you as a free woman!” she cried.

“Oh?” I asked.

“No!” she said.

“Do you know the meaning of your words, foolish girl?” I asked.

“Yes,” she wept.

“You would dare to be a slave?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. I wondered at her words. Did she not know the hopelessness, the completeness, of being a slave girl on Gor? If she did not, she would learn.

I rose to my feet.

She struggled to her knees, her ankles crossed and bound, her hands tied behind her. “I beg to be a slave,” she wept.

I looked down upon her.

“I know,” she said, “that with a man of your strength I could never be anything but a slave.”

“To any Gorean male,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” she said.

I freed her ankles of the bonds and freed her hands, but then retied her hands before her body. I knelt her before me, knees wide, back on her heels, arms lifted and raised, her head down, between her bound arms.

“Are you familiar with any of the rituals of enslavement?” I asked.

“I, Sidney Anderson, of Earth,” she said, “submit myself to Tarl Cabot, of Gor, as a slave, completely, his to do with as he pleases.”

I saw that she had been curious as to what it would be like to be a slave. She had inquired into this matter. It was an excellent sign.

She was then a beautiful, little exquisite brute at my feet, a slave animal.

I took a length of binding fiber and knotted it, with capture knots, about her throat. It was her collar. Too, the capture knots, those of a warrior, would serve to identify her as mine in the north.

She looked up at me, frightened, a slave.

“Kiss my feet,” I told her.

She bent her head to my feet and, through the fur of my boots, I felt her lips press against them. She then, timidly, tears in her eyes, lifted her head.

I put my hands in her hair. She must regard me. “You are Arlene,” I told her.

She shook with emotion.

“Lift your wrists,” I said.

She did so.

I freed her of the binding fiber on her wrists, and returned it to my pack.

“I have never had a girl’s name before,” she said.

“You are now only a girl,” I told her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes, what?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, “—Master.”

I then threw her to her back in the snow, that I might begin to teach her the meaning of her collar.

“Put them on, Slave Girl,” said Thimble, not pleasantly.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Arlene. In the hide tent she slipped into the brief fur panties worn by the women of the north. She had been forced to sew them herself, under the direction of Thimble and Thistle. At the left hip they bore the sign of the looped binding fiber, sewn in them with red-dyed sinew, which identified them as the garment of one who was an owned beast.

Imnak and I sat across from one another, both cross-legged. He dropped a tiny bone to the fur mat between us.

Each player, in turn, drops a bone, one of several in his supply. The bone Imnak had dropped was carved in the shape of a small tabuk. Each of the bones is carved to resemble an animal, such as an arctic gant, a northern bosk, a lart, a tabuk or sleen, and so on. The bone which remains upright is the winner. If both bones do not remain upright there is no winner on that throw. Similarly, if both bones should remain upright, they are dropped again. A bone which does not remain upright, if its opposing bone does remain upright, is placed in the stock of him whose bone remained upright. The game is finished when one of the two players is cleaned out of bones.

“Pull on the stockings,” said Thimble to Arlene. Arlene did so. The stockings were of lart fur. Each, in its side, wore the sign of the looped binding fiber. “Now,” said Thimble, “the boots.” In cold weather a layer of grass, for warmth, for insulation, changed daily, is placed in the bottom of the boots, between the inside sole of the boot and the foot of the stocking. Arlene now, of course, did not bother with this. The best harvests of grass for use in this way occur, naturally at the foot of the bird cliffs. Arlene drew on the high boots. They reached to her crotch. It was a hot crotch, as I had determined, a superb crotch for a slave girl. The fur trim at their top touched the panties. She was stripped from the waist up. Many of the women of the red hunters, too, went about so, inside and outside the tents, in the warmer weather. They of course, being free, did not have leather, like Arlene, or bondage strings, like Thimble and Thistle, at their throats. Similarly, their garments did not bear the slave marks of the looped binding fiber. Such marks, of course, were not necessary, in the north, for determining what Thimble, and Thistle and Arlene were. Even the leather or bondage strings at their throats were not necessary for that purpose. Their white skins alone, as they were females, identified them as slave beasts.

The tiny tabuk which Imnak had dropped remained standing upright.

I took my eyes from Arlene. What a lovely catch she had been!

I had not yet bothered to teach her complete slavery. I was in no hurry. Let her retain for a time a shred of her pride and dignity. I could always rip it from her when I wished, or when she herself should beg me to take it from her.

“Try on the shirt, Slave Girl,” said Thimble.

Arlene drew on the hide shirt. At the left shoulder, prominently, it bore the sign of the looped binding fiber. I glanced at her and she straightened her body, but then tossed her head and looked away, as though disdaining to take cognizance of my appraisal. The shirt fell nicely from her breasts, standing as she was. She was exquisitely figured. She stood as few Earth girls would have dared to, displaying her beauty, though she appeared to be completely disinterested in any such objective. I smiled to myself. She was discovering her sexuality. She looked at me, and then, quickly, looked away. I wondered if she knew she was being brought along slowly as a slave. Sometimes I read in her eyes a look that said, “I can resist you,” and, at other times, a look that said, “I begin to sense and fear what you might do to me. Please be kind, Master.” Once she had said to me, angrily, “You are dallying with me, aren’t you, Master?” “Perhaps,” I had told her. “Perhaps, Slave Girl.”

I dropped the tiny carved tabuk I held. It, too, remained upright.

Imnak picked up his tiny carved tabuk and held it over the fur mat.

Arlene made a small noise. I sensed that she was angry that I no longer looked upon her.

Was she not sufficiently beautiful? She had a girl’s vanity. Did she not yet know she was a slave, and that she might account herself fortunate should a free man so much as glance in her direction?

“Try on the first parka,” said Thimble.

Arlene slipped it on, over the head, as such garments, like northern garments generally, are donned.

“Hood,” said Thimble.

Arlene lifted the hood and placed it properly.

“Do I please you, Master?” asked Arlene. She wished attention.

I looked up. Her face was very beautiful, rimmed in the lart fur trimming the hood.

“It is very nice,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said, acidly.

“Put on the second parka and its hood,” said Thimble. Arlene complied. Both the parkas bore, at their left shoulder, the design of looped binding fiber, identifying them as the garments of slaves.