John Norman - Rogue of Gor

I said nothing.

“The women of Earth are also women,” she said. “Do not despise them for it. Accept them for what they are. There is nothing wrong with being a woman. It is the complementary sex to that of the male. It is not our fault if, when placed in a proper context, a biological context, in a biologically congenial civilization, we behave as we desire, and must. Is your anger or dismay actually an envy of the Gorean brutes who throw us to their feet and put collars on our necks? Consider that. It may be true. Would you not like some delicious Earth woman as your total slave? If so, how are you so different from the brutes of Gor, who do with us as they wish? It is not our fault if, for whatever reasons, the men of Earth seem determined to turn us into men, and deny to us our precious and ancient natures. It is hard to be a woman on Earth.” She then pulled again at the thongs. “But it is not hard, Master, on Gor,” she smiled. “Gorean men see to it.”

“You are a slave,” I said. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” she said, “radiantly happy.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I am now in the power of uncompromising and dominant males. I must serve them and please them, and as a woman, fully. I am owned by them. They bring the fullness of my womanhood out of me, and are content with nothing less. On Gor, for the first time in my life, I am a total woman. I am completely fulfilled. I am incredibly happy.”

“You are fond of your slavery?” I asked.

“I love my slavery, Master,” she said.

“Would you like to go back to Earth?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

I regarded her.

“See my brand,” she said.

I did so. It was the common Kajira mark. It was the same brand worn by Miss Henderson. Both girls were left-thigh branded.

“My collar,” she said.

I regarded it. It was simple, narrow, close-fitting, of gleaming steel.

“The thongs on my wrists,” she said.

I looked at her bound wrists.

“And my naked body,” she said, “tied for a master’s, pleasure.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Am I not an exquisite slave girl?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“And yet,” she said, “I am from the planet Earth. Can you doubt, truly, then, that the women of Earth can be slaves?”

“No,” I said.

“I do not doubt it.”

“Perhaps you do doubt it,” she said.

“No,” I said. “No.”

“Untie me,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“I will prove to you that I am a slave,” she said.

I looked at her, not speaking.

“Have you held slaves in your arms?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “many times.”

“See, then,” she said, “If I am different.”

I regarded her.

“Touch me,” she begged.

I smiled, ignoring her plea.

She leaned back, her wrists, bound, at the rings. “You are clearly Gorean,” she said. “I see that I must wait upon your will.”

I sat, cross-legged, for some time, watching her. Then her eyes looked pleadingly at me. I could smell the heat of her.

“Do you beg to be had, and as a slave?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “I beg to be had, and as a slave.”

I then slowly untied her.

“So,” she asked later, smiling, lying on her stomach beside me, “am I so different?”

“No,” I said.

“You put me well to the test,” she laughed.

I touched the collar, lightly, at her throat.

“Do you doubt that I am a slave?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“You see,” she said, “that I am a superb slave.”

“It is true,” I said.

“Have I not been appropriately and fittingly imbonded?” she asked.

“You have been,” I said.

“Do I not belong in a slave collar?” she asked.

“There is no doubt about it,” I said. “You do.”

“Tasdron had me for a silver tarsk,” she said.

“A cheap price,” I said. “You are worth more.”

“I am better now,” she said, “than when Tasdron bought me. I have learned much.”

“I would say you are worth now at least two silver tarsks.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said, warmly, kissing me.

“It is hard to believe that you are from Earth,” I said.

She laughed. “But I am, Master,” she said. “You saw me there yourself, in the restaurant.”

“Yes,” I said.

“When you saw me there,” she asked, “did you want to have me?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And now,” she laughed, “you have done so, and may again, and again, as it should please you.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Master,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“When I saw you, too, at the restaurant,” she said, “I wondered what it would be like to lie in your arms.”

“A bold admission,” I said.

“For an Earth girl, who thinks she is free, perhaps,” she laughed, “but not for a slave. Slaves may speak such truths.”

“That is true,” I said.

“But never for a moment did I dream,” she said, “that I would lie naked in your arms as an obedient, collared slave on an alien world.”

I then took her by the arm and threw her again beneath me. She looked up, happily. “Is Master going to have me again?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Peggy is pleased to have been found worthy of the attentions of Master,” she said. “Oh,” she said, “Master is strong.” Then she said, “You are Gorean. I know you are Gorean!” Then she said, “I yield me to my Gorean Master!”

It is pleasant to have a woman yield to you as a slave. I know of nothing which so exalts the power and manhood of the human male. Too there is apparently nothing which so deeply releases the emotions and yielding sensuality of the human female. In these matters something is touched which obviously bears deeply on the fundamental nature of the sexes. Here, in human relations, is yet another exemplification of one of the major and incessantly recurrent themes of nature, that of dominance and submission. The realities of nature must be denied, I suspect, only at one’s own peril. And certainly human beings cannot be fulfilled, nor can they know themselves, until they have become themselves. The nature of human beings precedes the fleeting parades of mottoes and slogans. It lies latent and obdurate, in ambush, if you like, in the genetic codes.

“Permit me to kiss you,” she said.

“You may do so,” I told her.

Is there a human animal beneath the conditioned ideologies? It seems not improbable. We may torture and mutilate the human animal; we may deny that it exists; but it lies within us, in the chemistry of every living cell in our bodies. In denying it we, truly, deny only ourselves. In hating it, we hate our own hearts, and our own blood. We are not so terrible, really. It is only that we are men and women, and not something else. Perhaps it is wrong to be men and women. Perhaps we should be something else. Perhaps we should consider ourselves images and inventions. Perhaps we should participate in the mythologies convenient to the manipulative purposes of self-serving elites.

Doubtless the question is difficult. It is always hard to know the truth and pretend not to believe it. Perhaps we should not be men and women. Perhaps we should not be true to ourselves. But even if we should deny ourselves, and starve, and torture and frustrate ourselves, we would still, in the end, be ourselves. We would remain men and women, only then, perhaps, mutilated and sickened men and women, useful tools in the schemes of others, of cunning and pathological frustrates, themselves often as confused and miserable as the uncritical creatures they would systematically delude.

We are what we are, and will remain so, regardless of what we may be taught to believe. Fearing ourselves does not make us not ourselves. Can the human reality, in the fullness of its truth, be truly so fearful a thing? I do not think so. Human nature may be despised; it may be thwarted; it may be distorted and denied. This may be accomplished by conditioning programs, obedient to their own antecedents and developing in accord with their own histories and social dynamics. It is clearly possible to educate the young to distrust and fear themselves, and to injure and torture themselves. And, in turn, as a function of their own conditioning programs, they may dutifully bequeath their own tortures to their own young in turn.