John Norman - Guardsman of Gor

Suffice it to say, in one way or another, the Gorean male finds his sexual satisfaction. Now let us suppose, again, that he has now bought his first girl. This girl will generally mean much more to him, of course, than one who might be bought for him by, say, his parents. Every young man wishes to buy a girl who will appeal, personally, to him. Mothers, in particular, can be nuisances in such respects. The young man will wish to buy a helplessly passionate, hot-eyed slut whom he can whip-train, on her belly, kissing at his feet, to his every disposition and pleasure, and the mother will wish to buy him a “sensible girl.” It is sometimes difficult for the Gorean mother, as for the Earth mother, to realize that their little boys have at last become men.

The young Gorean male, we shall suppose, now brings his girl home. This is now his own domicile, of course. There he is totally alone with her. There he puts his collar on her. She will wear it. It marks her as his. She looks up at him. She is at his feet. Let us suppose he gives her a few initial rapings, if only to get the feel of her body. He then orders her about, to cook for him and to serve him. Now, having had her, and having had her serve him, and owning her, fully, he can begin to get to know her. The same girl whom he bought as a mere piece of slave meat from a sales block, for his pleasure, we shall suppose, when brought home, and put in a collar at his feet, turns out to be a highly intelligent, sophisticated vulnerable and delicate organism.

In short we shall suppose that he discovers that he has purchased, as is often the case, not a mere slave, but a treasure. And she belongs to him! What a fortune, and joy, to own such a woman! He will want to watch her, to observe her least movements, to know her smallest thoughts. He will want to talk with her, and listen to her, and know her with a depth and fullness far beyond anything that might be accorded to a mere contractual partner. She is not merely a person who is living with him. She belongs to him, literally, and he prizes her. But he will take care to be strict with her. He will keep her in his collar; at night he may chain her at the foot of his couch. Her least insolence she knows may be rewarded with exact, swift punishment, such as the whip or close chains, nudity in the streets or public rental, or the deprivation of food. She understands clearly, and unmistakably, who is the master and who is the slave. She is happy.

How different are the relationships of the men of Earth with women. On Gor I see, on the whole, contentment and love; on the Earth I see, on the whole, discontentment and misery. Who shall say which is best? Perhaps discontentment and misery are superior to contentment and love. Who knows? Goreans, however, we might note, whatever be the truth in these matters, have chosen contentment, and love. Let each choose, perhaps, that which is best for him.

“I shall, therefore, unless warned to silence, continue to speak,” she said. She smiled wryly, and lifted her belled wrists from her thighs. “But I did not think, in the room of cosmetics, that I would be summoned before you, merely that you might hear me speak.” She returned her hands, palms down, to her thighs. She lowered her head. “I thought that you might have other interests in me.” She lifted her head. “I am ready for love, and with the abject helplessness of a slave,” she said. “Will you not touch me, or caress me?”

I said nothing. But it pleased me mightily to know that the slave, the former Miss Henderson, was aroused before me. I remembered her from the restaurant, so long ago, in the candlelight, in the svelte, off-the-shoulder, white-sheath dress, so chic and lovely, carrying the tiny, silver-beaded purse. She now knelt before me, a slave girl on Gor.

“Alas!” said the girl. “What a poor slave I must be! I have been made-up for love, and I have been scented and belled, and my master does not deign to so much as touch me. I trust that I am not fully displeasing to him.”

I regarded the girl. In the restaurant her wrists and ankles had not been adorned. Here they wore heavy circlets of sensuous bells. In the restaurant she had worn golden pumps, with a golden wisp of straps. Here she was barefoot, as if befitting for a female slave.

“What does it mean, my Master,” she suddenly cried, “that you have not used me? Does it mean that I am not pleasing to you? Does it mean that you are only playing with me, and are saving me for another? Please do not let that be, my Master!” Then she put her head down, fearfully. “Forgive my outburst, my Master,” she begged. “I am only a girl, and a slave.” Then, again, she looked up. “You are not angry with me,” she said. “Thank you, my Master.” She tossed her head, the gesture, almost, of a free woman. “Doubtless you have had other women beg to grovel before you,” she said. “Doubtless I am not the first. I wonder if you Masters scorn us for our needs. Scorn us if you must. We cannot help ourselves. We are slaves!”

I continued, of course, to remain silent.

“Not once have I seen your face, my Master,” she said. “Either, as at the feast of Policrates, or now, you have been masked, or, in your chambers, in the holding of Policrates, when you forced me to so thoroughly and intimately serve you, I must do so in the darkness of the blindfold. You know me well, for you have stripped me not only of my clothing, but of my inmost thoughts. And yet, of you, I know nothing. I do not know your name. I do not know your face. I have never even heard your voice. Not once have you even spoken to your slave. But I know that curiosity is not becoming in a Kajira. Forgive me, my Master.”

I did not speak.

“If you wish,” she said, “put me under your whip. You may then see if I writhe well.”

I said nothing.

“It is my hope,” she said, “that you will not have me chained in the basement again tonight. That you have let me appear before you indicates that perhaps I may now be permitted a kennel on an upper floor. It is cold in the basement, and dark there. And it is hard to find the bits of food on the floor. Too, there are urts there. And I scream in the darkness, frightened, hearing them. They take the food, often before I can find it. I am afraid to sleep there, so cold and chained. Sometimes, too, the urts run across my legs, or nibble at them. I scream then, and I am frightened. Please, my Master, if it pleases you, may I have a blanket and a kennel. As I am the most miserable and lowest of your slaves, let it be, if it pleases you, the smallest and meanest of your kennels. I do not care. Only I beg a kennel. Forgive me, Master, if I am presumptuous. I want only to be pleasing to you.”

I gave her no response, by voice, or expression or gesture. She would, thus, not know where it was that I would choose for her to spend the night.

“I shall wait to see, of course,” she said, “what will be my Master’s pleasure.”

I fingered the slave whip, thoughtfully, hung by its handle loop on the arm of the curule chair.

“Forgive me, if I have displeased you, Master,” she said, nervously. She eyed the whip. At my least whim she knew it could be used upon her. No woman who has felt the whip, even so much as a single lash, scorns it. It is a most useful disciplinary device for women.

She put her head down, swiftly, to the deep piling of the carpet, her hands beside her head. “Yesterday,” she said, “sent forth from the house as a Coin Girl, I made six tarsk bits for you, my Master. I hope that you are pleased.” She lifted her head. “Perhaps that is why you have let me be admitted to your presence this evening,” she said. I snapped my fingers, and indicated to her that she should resume the position of the pleasure slave which she did, immediately and beautifully. “Perhaps you may like to hear me speak of the matter,” she said.