John Norman - Guardsman of Gor

“Please, no, Master!” she cried.

I then put my hand on her. She squirmed. “You seem well informed as to the desires of Masters,” I said. “I trust you are similarly well informed as to the desires of slaves.”

She whimpered.

“I can think of another name for you,” I said.

“Please, no, Master,” she said.

“But then why should I publicize so blatantly the heat of my little slave?” I asked.

She sobbed.

“I can name you anything, you know,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Now on all fours, arms straight, head up!” I said.

Immediately she assumed this position.

“Please do not put me in the slavery of the she-quadruped, Master,” she begged.

“I will put you there, and keep you there, if it pleases me,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Perhaps I should call you ‘Princess’ or ‘Trixie’,” I said. I used the English expressions for these names, as there are no precisely equivalent Gorean expressions for them.

“Master may do as he wishes,” she said.

“But such names are perhaps better reserved for our occasional private sport,” I mused. “Too, they would make little sense to our Gorean friends.”

I walked about her. “You would make a pretty poodle,” I told her. I used the English expression ‘poodle,’ of course, as the animal is unknown on Gor.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“You might be interesting as a poodle,” I told her.

“Doubtless I shall perform for Master in many ways,” she said.

“You will,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I then took her by the hair, and twisted her about, so that she lay on her side, I crouching beside her. “But, generally,” I said, “I think I shall keep you as an enslaved human female, for that is what you are.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, wincing.

“I could give you the name of a Gorean girl,” I said, “but since you are of Earth origin, and are a low slave, it seems more appropriate that you be given the name of an Earth girl.”

I then flung her to her back, threw apart her legs and entered her.

“Ohhh,” she sobbed, softly.

“You are a hot slave,” I observed.

“You are going to name me, in the having of me, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“And you will give me the name of as Earth girl, won’t you?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Even knowing what such a name will do to my slavery,” she asked, “making it the slavery of an Earth girl on Gor?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Cruel Master,” she said.

“I am rather fond of Earth-girl names for slaves,” I said.

“And so, too, are Goreans, the brutes,” she said.

“Earth girls are commonly regarded as being among the most desirable of slaves on Gor,” I said.

“At least among the lowest and most helpless,” she said.

“True,” I said.

“I shall tell you a secret, Master,” she said. “So much a slave am I that I desire to wear no other sort of name.”

“I know,” I said.

Then she clutched me. I saw that she was on the brink of orgasm.

“Do not move, in the slightest, Slave,” I told her.

“Please, Master,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“There are many fine Earth-girl names,” I said.

“Please, Master,” she said.

“‘Phyllis’ is a lovely name,” I said.

“Name me,” she begged. “Name me!”

“‘Tracy’ and ‘Stephanie’, too,” I said, “are lovely names.”

“Anything,” she said, hoarsely. “Anything! Name me, I beg you. I cannot stand it! I must move! I beg to be named!” I felt her fingernails digging into my flesh. Her eyes were wild. “Name me, my Master,” she whispered, begging, “name me, name me, please, name me!”

“Very well,” I said, and began to move within her. Immediately she was clutching me and shuddering. She looked at me, wildly. Then she threw back her head, helplessly. “I name you ‘Beverly’,” I said.

“I am Beverly!” she cried. “I am Beverly!”

Then, in a few moments, she was sobbing, and clutching me. “I am Beverly,” she sobbed. “I am Beverly!” Then, after a time, still holding to me, she lay trembling in my arms. “I am Beverly,” she whispered. Then, in a few minutes, she lay softly on her side on the furs, facing away from me, her knees drawn up. “My Master has named me,” she said. “I am Beverly.”

I stood up and looked down at her. She rolled to her back, and looked up at me.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Beverly,” she said.

“I do not think you will forget your name,” I said.

“No, Master,” she smiled.

“Do not forget, either,” I said, “that you wear it now as a mere slave name.”

“No, Master,” she said. “I shall not forget.”

She knew that, as a slave, she had no more right to a name than a tarsk or sleen, or any other form of domestic animal. She then rolled to her stomach, and began to kiss my feet. Then, tenderly, she rose to her knees, still kissing my feet, and then began to kiss my ankles, and calves.

“I love you, Master,” she whispered. When she lifted her head, tears in her eyes, she seemed suddenly startled, troubled. She put up her hand to my left arm.

“Master,” she said, “forgive me!” I have hurt Master!” There was blood on my arms, from the gouging of her nails, and blood at my left shoulder, from the cut of her teeth.

“It is nothing,” I told her.

She rose to her feet, and kissed the wounds. “Am I to be punished, Master?” she asked.

“No,” I said. Masters are commonly indulgent of the uncontrollable spasms of their female slaves.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

I then held her by the upper arms. She was so beautiful!

“Doubtless I must soon be released from the slave ring,” she said, “that I may attend to my work.”

“Oh!” she cried, thrown brutally to the furs at the foot of the couch. She looked up at me, frightened, the chain on her neck.

“That decision is mine,” I said, “not yours.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you hear?” I asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Who hears?” I asked.

“Beverly!” she said.

“Who does Beverly hear?” I asked.

“Beverly hears her Master!” she said.

I then crouched down, and took her in my arms.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

It was pleasant to hold her, as a yielding slave.

“It is evening, Master,” she said, lying beside me.

“Yes,” I said.

I had refilled the ravishment lamp and then had had her relight it. She was beautiful in its soft light, lying on the furs, the heavy stone of the couch and the iron of the slave ring, to which she was still attached, behind her.

“All last night, and all today,” she said, “you have kept me at your ring.”

“I have waited long to own you,” I told her.

“Yes, Master,” she said. She rolled onto her back, looking up at the beams in the ceiling. “Callimachus has selected you to be his second in command, in the forces of the Vosk League,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am the slave, then, of an important man, am I not?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” I said, “but remember that you are only his slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, “that is well understood by this enslaved female.”

“You may serve me wine,” I said.

She reached to the wine, a sweet Ka-la-na of Ar, and filled the goblet to the third ring. Then, as I sat back against the couch, she knelt before me. She, head down, pressed the heavy metal goblet deep into her lower abdomen, and then she lifted it to her lips and, holding it with both hands, kissed it lingeringly and lovingly. Then, kneeling back on her heels she put down her head and, humbly, her arms extended, her head down between them, proffered me the goblet. “Wine, Master?” she asked.