John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“I am very happy for you,” I said.

“I had never dreamed, when I was free, that he could be such a man. Had I even suspected it I would have torn away my clothes and thrown myself to his feet, begging his collar.”

“Had you been free,” I said, “he could not have been such a man.”

“That is true,” she said. “Had I been free he could not have handled me and treated me as he wished, and as I wished, as his lovely beast, to be ravished, and trained and taught her duties.”

I nodded. Enmeshed in legalities, negativities and socialized expectations it was difficult to relate as biological human beings. But the slave girl, standing outside the protections of such devices, stands before her master as an exposed, raw human female, without rights, his to do with as he pleases.

Similarly the master, owing the slave nothing, and knowing that she is completely his, his very property, may relate to her freely in the order of nature. In his treatment of her he is untrammeled by either conscience or law, and this she knows, and loves, and, accordingly, hastens to obey and be pleasing. She knows that she is owned, and that he is her unqualified master. The order of nature, and the obdurate and thematic equations of dominance and submission, denied though they might be, and even if hysterically repudiated, will continue to lurk in the microstructures of every cell in the human body.

The master/slave relationship is the institutionalization of dominance and submission. It is, under the enhancements of civilization, the institutionalization of the primitive biological relationship of the human male and female; he the master, she the slave. How lonely is the man who has not yet found his slave; how forlorn is the woman who has not yet found her master.

“I am pleased that you are so happy,” I said.

“But he is strict with me,” she said. “I must obey him in all things.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I fear only that he will tire of me, or sell me,” she said. “I try so hard to please him.”

“You do not wish to be whipped,” I said.

“I love him,” she said. “I love Miles of Vonda!”

“With the love of a free companion?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “with the helpless and total love of an owned slave girl for her master.”

“He is a fortunate man,” I said.

“I am his, fully,” she said. She smiled, shyly. The auburn-haired beauty was radiant. I looked at her. How marvelous is the transformation which slavery works in a woman.

“What are you called now?” I asked.

“‘Florence’,” she said.

“He put your old name on you, as a slave name,” I said.

“Was it not appropriate?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” she laughed, delightedly, “it was fully appropriate. I was a slave before, when I was free. I knew it in any heart, even then, that I was a slave. It is thus fully appropriate that I now wear my old name openly, and with full explicitness, as a slave name.”

“That pleases you, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, happily. “It pleases me very much.

“Florence, the slave,” I said.

“Yes, Florence, the slave,” she said.

“How is Miles of Vonda?” I asked.

Her eyes clouded. “He has fallen on hard times,” she said. “Warriors of Ar made hostel in his holdings, in their withdrawal to the south. He, in anger, spoke ill of Ar in their presence. Accordingly they burned his holdings and scattered his hurt and tharlarion.”

“What is he doing in Victoria?” I asked.

“He is on his way west on the river,” she said, “to Turmus, where he has friends, that he may negotiate a loan to rebuild and replenish his holdings.”

“It is now dangerous to travel on the river,” I said. “River pirates are now bold and active.”

“We must take our chances,” she said.

“How large is his retinue?” I asked. This could make a difference with respect to the security of his venture.

“Only myself,” she said, “and Krondar, a fighting slave.”

“Only two?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “He sold his other slaves, to obtain moneys for the journey.”

“But he did not sell you,” I said.

“He kept me,” she smiled, moving in the chains.

“And Krondar,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “He is fond of Krondar, and a fighting slave may be useful upon the river.”

That is true,” I said.

I remembered Krondar. Indeed, I had once fought him in the pit of leather and blood, when I, too, had been a fighting slave. Krondar was a veteran of the fighting pits of Ar. He had fought even with the spiked cestae and the knife gauntlets. He was a short, stout, thick-bodied, powerful man. His face and upper body were disfigured with masses of scar tissue, lingering records of a bloody history in the pits.

“You should not leave Victoria,” I said, “until several ships, in convoy, are prepared to move westward.”

“My master is impatient,” she said.

“It has been wonderful to see you,” I said, adding, “Female Slave.” I stood up.

“It has been wonderful for me to see you, too, Master,” she said.

I turned away.

“Master,” she said.

I turned back to regard her.

“Thank you,” she said, “for, long ago, having captured and sold me. It was you who first taught me my womanhood. It was you who first taught me, incontrovertibly, that I belonged to men.”

I shrugged.

“If it were not for you,” she said, “I might never have come into the possession of my master, Miles of Vonda.”

“I wish you well, Slave Girl,” I smiled.

“And I, too, wish you well, Master,” she said.

I then left the tavern. Outside, looking about, I saw a burly, crouched figure, one crouching near some bundles by the tavern wall. I grinned. I approached the figure, and it lifted its head. It growled, and opened its hands, warning me not to approach more closely.

“Krondar!” I said.

The heavy head, scarred, whitishly streaked in the moonlight by the wall, looked at me, puzzled. On its throat was a heavy metal collar. “Master?” it asked.

“Do not call me ‘Master’,” I said. “I am Jason, now free. Once near Vonda we fought.”

“Free?” asked the brute. Then it knelt.

I drew him to his feet “I am Jason,” I said. “Can you remember Jason?” I asked.

It looked at me, in the moonlight. Then there was a heavy chuckle in its throat. “It was a good fight,” he said.

In the moonlight, then, we embraced. We had shared the fellowship of the pit of leather and blood.

“It is good to see you, Krondar,” I said.

“It is good to see you Jason,” said he.

I turned suddenly for I heard steel slipping from a sheath behind me.

Miles of Vonda, angry, stood there, his sword drawn. Behind him, frightened, in her brief gray slave tunic, stood his lovely slave, Florence.

I stepped away from Krondar, and backed up a step. Miles of Vonda, sword ready, advanced a step.

“In the tavern,” said Miles of Vonda, “was it not you who accosted my slave?”

“I spoke with her,” I said.

“Draw your weapon,” said he.

“Do you not know me?” I asked.

“You are Jason,” said he, “who was once a fighting slave.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Draw your weapon,” said he.

“Please, Master,” begged the slave. “He meant no harm! Please!”

“Be silent, Slave,” he snapped.

“Yes, Master,” she said, miserably.

Two or three other men had now gathered about.

“Will it be necessary to slay you with your sword in your sheath?” inquired Miles of Vonda.

“Please, no, Master!” wept Florence, falling to her knees beside him, clutching at him. He spurned her to the side with his foot. She lay there, then, on the stones, weeping. She had spoken without permission. She had sought to interfere in the affairs of men. Tonight she would doubtless be whipped.