John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“Permit me to placate you, Master,” she begged.

I permitted her to perform intimate services for me. I then buckled the thick leather slave cuffs on her wrists. “Master?” she asked. I then thrust her right wrist through the slave ring and, with the heavy metal snaps, sewn into the cuffs, secured her there.

She heard the strands of the whip shaken out. “Please do not whip me, Master,” she begged. Then she put down her head. Then I lashed her, for she had been displeasing.

I cast aside the whip and drew on my tunic, and gathered together my things.

At the door I turned, to look back at the sobbing girl. She turned her head toward me, it still secured in the blindfold. She knelt naked at the ring, fastened to it by the cuffs, and, too, by the ankle ring, still locked upon her left ankle. She wore her collar.

“I love you, Master,” she said. “It is to such a man as you that I wish to belong.”

I put down my things at the door. I went back to her. I pulled her out from the ring, half on her back, her hands above and behind her, twisted and helpless in the slave cuffs, held at the ring.

“Forgive me, if I was displeasing to you, Master,” she begged.

I looked at her.

“I love you, my Gorean master,” she said.

I then, again, took her. Spasmodically she shook and yielded, as I would not have thought it possible for a woman to do. She sobbed and shuddered in ecstasy, a had slave.

“I submit to you, Master,” she wept, “totally and completely. You are my Master. I am your slave.”

I withdrew from her, and stood, and looked down upon her.

“Do not leave me, Master,” she begged. “Take me with you. You have made me yours, my Gorean master. I am yours. Take me with you. Policrates, my master, would give me to you, if you should but ask!”

I picked up my things at the door. I slung them about me. I donned my mask. There was a knock on the door, and I opened it. A pirate stood there, he who had brought Beverly to me last night, who had now come to fetch me to breakfast. I must soon leave the holding of Policrates, theoretically to journey downriver to the holding of Ragnar Voskjard, that his fleet might be soon launched, that the two fleets, in fierce force, might overwhelm the garrisons of Ar’s Station, and then of Port Cos, that the river, for hundreds of pasangs, would then become theirs, subject to their predations or levied tributes as they saw fit.

I nodded to the pirate, indicating my readiness to accompany him.

He looked beyond me, to the slave ring. The girl now knelt there, cuffed to the ring. He seemed startled. “Is it Beverly?” he asked. The girl, suddenly, shrank back against the stone of the couch, a slave’s movement. Curious, the pirate brushed past me, going to the girl. He crouched down beside her. “It is Beverly,” he said. She trembled. He put forth his hand, touching her at the shoulder. She shuddered beneath his touch, putting down her head. “What have you done to her?” he asked, grinning. “Last night she was an enslaved female. This morning she is a female slave.” He put forth his hand and held her, with one hand, his fingers about her chin and throat. She shuddered. “I would say,” he grinned, “that she is now more truly aware of her condition, that you have much improved her.” He did not remove his hand from her throat and chin. “Were you much improved last night, Beverly?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Policrates,” he said, “told me that if you were troublesome you were to be fed to sleen.”

She shuddered.

“But I see that you were not troublesome,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

He removed his hand from her throat and chin, and continued to regard her. She knelt, soft and helpless, trembling, held in the leather cuffs at the slave ring.

“I see that you are much different this morning, from last night,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He then, with his hand, touched her left calf, running his fingers lightly over it. She whimpered, and drew back. “Interesting,” he said.

Her response had been that of a helpless, superb slave.

“What was done to you last night?” he asked.

“I was mastered,” she said.

“It is obvious,” he said, and rose to his feet. He turned to face me, and grinned. He jerked his thumb back toward the kneeling slave. “Policrates will be pleased,” he said.

I shrugged.

When a girl has been mastered, of course, she is more fit for any man.

Miss Henderson, in the blindfold, on her knees at the ring, turned to face us, as she could.

We looked back upon her. It was a superb slave who knelt there. Miss Henderson, in the night, I saw, now clearly, remembering her from the evening before, had been brought to a new dimension in her slavery.

The pirate laughed.

The girl shrank back against the stone of the couch. The snaps on the cuffs rubbed against the slave ring.

The pirate then walked slowly towards her. She cowered back, fearing to be struck.

He stopped, standing before her.

She lifted her head to him but was, of course, unable to see him, prevented with perfection from doing so by the efficiency of the Gorean blindfold. She squirmed in the cuffs, unable to see, in a slave’s fear.

The pirate stood looking at her, his hands on his hips.

Every inch of her was beautiful, and enslaved. She would now be a dream of pleasure for any man.

“Who owns you?” he asked.

“Policrates,” she said.

“And more generally,” he said, “who owns you?”

“Men,” she said.

The pirate then turned about and rejoined me, by the door. He then went through the door, and I was to follow him. I did turn about, once, to look again upon the girl. “Master!” she cried out to me, piteously, in the darkness of the blindfold, stretching her small cuffed hands, as she could, entreatingly, toward me. “Master! Master!”

Then I went through the door and closed it behind me. “Master!” I heard her cry. “Master!”

Then I had left her behind me, merely a girl fastened at the foot of a couch, only a slave who had served one of her master’s guests.

“Withdraw, Slave,” said Tasdron, proprietor of the tavern of Tasdron, in Victoria, off the avenue of Lycurgus.

“Yes, Master,” said Peggy, bowing her head, deferentially, and backing gracefully from the table, as a slave. She was barefoot, and wore a brief snatch of diaphanous, yellow pleasure silk. Her long blond hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon. The close-fitting steel collar was lovely on her throat. The rustle of the slave bells locked on her left ankle was subtle and sensual. She withdrew to the far side of the room and knelt there, back on her heels, knees wide, as befitted the sort of slave she was, a mere pleasure slave.

Callimachus, sitting across from me, regarded her. She put her head down, unable to meet the eyes of such a man. I saw that she trembled under his gaze. I smiled to myself. I had seen how she had looked upon him, in her serving, and when she had knelt near the table. Her eyes had been soft and moist, and tender, and vulnerable and helpless. I had sensed how she had restrained herself from lowering herself softly to her belly on the floor before him and extending her hand to him, begging his touch, and that he would make her his. But she did not wish to be slain for such insolence, she only a lowly Earth-girl slave. I had seen the look in her eyes. In her eyes had been the light of a helpless slave girl’s love.

I recalled that once she had told me that there was only one man on all Gor to whom she would rather belong than myself, and that he did not even know, or scarcely knew, of her existence. I had not pressed her to reveal his name. But now I had no doubt I had penetrated her secret. In her heart the imbonded Earth girl was the secret love slave of Callimachus, a warrior once of Port Cos. But she dared not make her feelings known to him. She did not wish to be slain. Accordingly she could be to him little more than any other slave, only another girl, self-effacing, deferential; scarcely noticed, who served him in the establishment of her master, Tasdron of Victoria.