John Norman - Kajira of Gor

As far as I knew I had done little to provoke these feelings, at least until he had refused my advances. I had given him reason, to be sure, in Corcyrus, to believe me contemptible and petty. I had made certain Earth values, to his irritation, clear to him, such as an amoral expediency and a mockery of honor. My smallness, my contemptibility, I had unwittingly flaunted before him, regarding such things, at that time as signs of my depth and cleverness. Too, he seemed to find me, in some way, and I did not fully understand it, maddeningly desirable. This had to do, it seemed, with some unusual and subtle relationship between us.

These things, doubtless in part because of his pride and self-image, his reluctance to accept tenderness, his fear of feeling and sentiment, his lofty conceptions of the attitudes and behaviors proper to his caste, had driven him half mad with frustration. Yet, too, he had, with Menicius, risked his life in the camp of Miles to free me, and he had sought desperately to protect and defend me in the inquiry with Claudius and the high council.

It was clear, I think, he cared for me deeply. In all this, of course, he regarded me as little more than a curvaceous, scheming slave, one who did not care for him, but one who, to protect herself, would do anything, even pretend falsely to love. He did not know I truly loved him.

I resolved upon a bold plan. I would attempt to get him to cure himself of the false Sheila, that the way might then be open for a poor, nameless slave who so much loved him.

“Free me,” I said, angrily, pulling at the ropes.

He looked at me.

“Free yourself,” he said.

“I cannot!” I said.

“Why do you wish to be freed?” he asked.

“I do not love you!” I said.

“Now, at last, you speak the truth,” he said.

“Not only do I not love you,” I cried, “but I hate you! I despise you! I hold you in contempt as a piteous weakling! I always have!”

He smiled.

“I am tired of trying to fool you,” I said. “Now, free me!”

“Why should I free you?” he asked.

“Because I am a free woman!” I said.

“That is not true,” he said. “I saw you jerk in the hands of the soldier.”

“I could not help myself,” I said.

“Only a natural slave could not have helped herself,” he said.

“I do not want to belong to you,” I said.

“I have an alternative in mind,” he said. “I think I shall give you to the department of the mines. There, naked and yoked, you shall carry water.”

“No!” I cried.

“Do you beg to be kept in my collar?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

“Then we shall let it stand at that, shan’t we?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I had not counted on the possibility of being sent to the mines.

I knelt back in the ropes. I looked at Drusus Rencius. He was quite capable, I realized, suddenly, of sending me to the mines. I did not want that to happen.

Too, looking at him then, I saw him suddenly not only as a man I loved but, also, independently, as a strong and powerful master. I found, then, that I had squirmed in the ropes, inadvertently, reflexively, my thighs moving. I hoped that he had not noticed.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing!” I said. I felt the heat of the slave in me. I hoped he could not detect the signs in my body. I hoped he could not smell me.

He was silent.

“May I speak?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I gather,” I said, “that, you intend to keep me.”

“At least for a time,” he said.

“I presume,” I said, “that at least one of the purposes for which you purchased me was to make use of me.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I am ready,” I said. “Begin my slavery.”

He regarded me, not speaking.

“You see me in a collar,” I said, angrily. “You know what a collar does to a woman!”

He smiled.

“I have been owned,” I said. “I have had masters. They have made me this way!”

“So men do have their vengeance,” he said. “The scheming beauty is needful.”

“Yes!” I said.

“Speak clearly,” he said.

“I am needful,” I said.

“You are more than needful,” he said.

“You may or may not believe I love you,” I said, “but about my arousal, my need, there is no disputing.”

“That is true,” he said. “You are obviously, now, a needful slave.”

“Please,” I begged.

He left the chair and, crouching beside me, not hurrying, freed me of the ropes.

“Touch neither me nor yourself,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I moaned. My body was flaming with desire.

He regarded me for a few moments. I moaned.

Then, for a brief moment, he took me in his arms. His hand was upon me, intimately. “I love you! I love you! I love you!” I cried, jerking in his hands, pressing against him, trying to cover him with kisses.

“Stop,” he said. “To your belly.”

Then I was on my belly, on the tiles, my hands at the sides of my head, prone, before his curule chair. He resumed his seat.

I lifted my head and upper body, wildly, agonized, to regard him.

“You are a hot slave,” he said.

I regarded him wildly, pathetically, unbelievingly, speechlessly.

“Do you beg a man’s touch?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “yes!”

“Then beg,” he said.

“I beg your touch,” I wept. “I beg your touch! Please touch me, Master! I beg it!”

“Truly?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I beg your touch, truly, Master! I beg it, truly! Please, touch me, Master! Please! Please!”

“No,” he said.

I collapsed then to the tiles, sobbing, helpless, quivering with need.

“And thus,” said he, “may a hated slave be denied.”

I then became aware that he had left his chair, that he was standing near me. I lay at his feet, aroused, almost unbelievably impassioned, denied.

I understood then better than ever before how it was that some women could tear at the walls of their kennels with their fingernails, how they could reach out through the bars, begging piteously for the least touch of a rude guard, how they could, under the deft touches of an auctioneer’s whip, scream their passion on a slave block, begging to be bought.

“You deserve this,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you know now what it is to be in a collar?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Hereafter,” he said, “do not try to play stupid games with me.”

“Master?” I asked.

I felt myself jerked to a sitting position, his hands on my upper arms. “How stupid do you think I am?” he asked. “Do you think I could not tell you were playing some sort of game?”

“My arousal was real!” I said, startled.

“I am well aware of that,” he said.

“Oh!” I cried, as he touched me. Then he thrust me back from him.

“You are a slave,” he said. “We will do things my way, not yours.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“I considered this,” he said, “even before I bought you. I now see, as I thought, that it is necessary.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“We shall begin again,” he said. “I shall make my determination with care.”

“I do not understand,” I wept.

“You are fortunate,” he said, “that I am less stupid than you thought. Had I not seen through your subterfuges you might have been flinging yourself to the jaws of sleen, or guaranteeing the signing of your papers for the mines.”

I shuddered.

He then put my wrists together, crossing them, and held them in one hand, and drew me across the tiles to the slave ring at the foot of his couch. There, cunningly, looping the chain about my throat, he fastened me, by the neck, on my knees, closely to the slave ring. He then, too, braceleted my hands to the slave ring. I could, thus, even if I were tempted to do so, do little to assuage the almost intolerable passions he had aroused in me. I looked at him, piteously. He laughed, and left. Then I was kneeling there, bewildered, alone, chained. I was a slave I must await his return. He did not, of course, tell me where he was going or when he would be back.