John Norman - Guardsman of Gor

“I know,” I said.

She dropped her tunic behind her, on the stones. “It is my hope,” she said, “that I may please my Master.”

I grinned. “Who are you?” I asked.

“Your Linda,” she said.

“If I choose to have you by that name,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “You may have me by any name you care to fix upon me, or nameless, if it pleases you.”

“I know,” I said.

“In all this time,” she said, “you have never had me.”

“No,” I said.

“You wanted to, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“And now I am only a leashed slut before you,” she said, “one for whom you have paid your tarsk bit.”

“Yes,” I said.

She leaned forward, and kissed me, softly. “I will endeavor to be worthy of my tarsk bit, my Master,” she whispered.

“Have no fear,” I told her. “I shall see that you are.”

“Master?” she asked, drawing back.

I then put my hands on her arms.

She winced, in pain. She looked at me, disbelievingly. “That is not the grip of a man of Earth,” she said, “that of one who treats women with respect.” She squirmed.

“You are a slave,” I told her.

“It is the grip of a Gorean male,” she said, “of one who is the master of a woman.”

“Is it?” I asked.

“Yes!” she said. “Release me! I mean, ‘Please release me, my Master!’”

“No,” I told her.

“No?” she asked. “But you are a man of Earth! You must do whatever a woman asks!”

“Why?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she cried. “I do not know!”

“Do you wish me to release you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes!”

“Lying slave,” I sneered.

“Please do not punish me, Master,” she whimpered.

“The brutes of Gor have their way with you, as it pleases them,” I said, “and you serve them well. Do you think the men of Earth should be content with less?”

“No, Master,” she whimpered.

“If the men of Earth choose to surrender the birthright of their dominance, to exchange it for the garbage of a political perversion; if they should choose to deny their genes; if they should choose to subvert and violate the order of nature; if they should choose self-castration to manhood, that is, I suppose, their business.”

“I do not know, Master,” she said.

“Provided, of course, that they are willing to accept such penalties as anxiety, guilt, misery, frustration, sickness and shortened life spans.”

“I do not know, Master,” she said.

“A subverted nature cannot be expected not to retaliate,” I said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Does a man have a right to be a man?” I asked.

“I suppose so,” she said. “I do not know.”

“And are there not hierarchies among rights, and some which take priority over others?”

“Be kind to me, Master,” she begged.

“And is not the right of a man to be a man the highest right of such a sort that man possesses?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What right takes precedence over that?” I asked.

“None, Master,” she said.

“Has man,” I asked, “the right to bring about his own downfall, to destroy himself?”

“He has the capacity, Master,” she whispered, “but I do not think he has that right.”

“He does not have that right,” I told her, “for it conflicts with the higher right.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Rather,” said I, “he has, beyond rights, duties; and high among his duties is his duty to be true to himself, his duty to be a man.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“The denial of his manhood, then, by a man, is not only irrational, but morally pernicious. Men have not only a right to preserve their manhood, but a duty to do so.”

“Perhaps there is no such thing as manhood,” she whispered, “or womanhood.”

“Tell that,” I said, “to strong men and yielding women, and history.”

“Perhaps there are no such things as duties, and rights,” she said, “perhaps there are only the words, used as the instruments of manipulative rhetorics, devices of conditioning, cheaper and more subtle than guns and whips.”

“That is an interesting and profound possibility,” I said, “but then there would still remain needs and powers, forces and desires, and the facts of the world, that certain courses of action lead to certain results, and that other courses of action lead to other results. And in such a world who will argue with the larl as to whether or not it should feed, or with a man as to whether or not he should be a man? In such a world the larl hunts, and the man is a man.”

“Gor, I fear,” she said, “is such a world.”

“It is,” I told her, “Slave Girl.”

“I’m frightened,” she said.

“As well you might be, rightless slave,” I told her.

“Rightless slave?” she asked.

“Of course,” I told her, “you are a rightless Gorean slave girl, leashed and ready for having.”

“Is that all I am?” she asked.

“Yes,” I told her.

“To you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I told her.

She shuddered.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“I dare not speak,” she whispered.

“Speak,” I said.

“I am aroused,” she said.

I continued to hold her right arm with my left hand, and placed my right hand on her body. She squirmed. “It is true,” I told her.

She tried to pull back. “You do not handle me like a man of Earth,” she whispered.

“I am not a man of Earth,” I told her. “I am Gorean.”

I then pressed her back to the stones.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“I have been patient,” I told her. “I have waited a long time for you.”

She squirmed. Her strength was as nothing, compared to mine. I brushed the flattish bell and the coin box over her left shoulder, and to the side of her neck. I heard the bell, and the coin, my coin, in the small, narrow metal box on her neck chain.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I am now tired of waiting,” I told her.

“Then, you will truly have me?” she asked.

“Of course,” I told her.

“But with dignity, and respect!” she begged.

“I have waited too long for that,” I told her.

She struggled, unavailingly.

“Be gentle, solicitous and tender!” she begged.

“No,” I told her.

“No?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Oh!” she cried.

“When I finish with you,” I said, “you will not have any doubts, as you might with a man of Earth, as to whether or not you have been had.”

“Oh!” she cried.

“You will know,” I assured her.

“This cannot be you,” she wept. “It cannot be you!”

“It is,” I told her.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“Treating you as the slave you are,” I told her.

“But I am a woman of Earth!” she cried.

“No,” I told her, “you are only a leashed slut, a rightless Gorean slave girl, who is soon to learn something of the meaning of her collar.”

“Yes, Master!” she cried, suddenly, helplessly.

“Do you admit that you are a slave?” I asked.

“Do not ask me, a woman of Earth, to admit to a man of Earth that I am a slave!” she begged. “It would be too shameful!”

“You would admit it swiftly enough to the brutes of Gor, would you not?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she wept. “Yes, Master!”

“Admit it then to me,” I said, “for now you are no longer a woman of Earth, nor am I now any longer a man of Earth.

“I am a slave, Master,” she said. “I admit it.” I recalled then the time that we had dined in the small restaurant on Earth, so long ago. Her hair had been bound back in a severe bun. She had worn an off-the-shoulder, svelte, white satin sheath dress. She had carried a small, silver-beaded purse. She was now in my arms, sweating, naked and leashed. “I am a slave, Master,” she said. “I have always known it.”