John Norman - Dancer of Gor

"No," I said, as I had responded before, when he had asked the question long ago, in our first encounter.

"Yet in your personal library, that in your quarters, there are such books as Rosovtzeff" s History of the Ancient World and Mommsen" s History of Rome," he said. "Have you read them?"

"Yes," I said.

"They are now both out of print," he said.

"I brought them in a secondhand bookstore," I said. He had spoken of my "quarters," and not, say, of my "Rooms," or my "apartment." To me that seemed odd. Too, as he spoke now, at greater length, his accent, as it had once been before, was detectable. Still, however, I could not place it. I was sure his native tongue was not English. I did not know what his background might be. I had never encountered a man like him. I had not known they existed.

"Women such as you," he said, "use such books as cosmetics and ornaments, as mere intellectual adornments. They mean no more to you than your lipstick and eye shadow, than the baubles in your jewelry boxes. I despise women such as you."

I regarded him, frightened. I did not understand his hostility. He seemed to bear me some hatred, or some kind of woman he though I was, some hatred. I was afraid he did not wish to understand me. He seemed unwilling to recognize that there might be some delicacy and authenticity in my interest in these things, for their own value and beauty. To be sure, perhaps a bit of my motivation in their acquisition had been from vanity, but, yet, I was sure that there had been something genuine there, too. There must have been!

"Did you lean anything from the books?" he asked.

"I think so," I said.

"Did you learn the worlds of which they speak?" he asked.

"A little about them," I said.

"Perhaps it will do you some good," he mused.

"I do not understand," I said.

"But such books," he said, "are now behind you."

"I do not understand," I said.

"You will no longer need them where you are going," he said.

"I do not understand," I said.

"Such things will no longer be a part of your life," he said. "Your life is not going to be quite different."

"I do not understand," I said, frightened. "What are you talking about?" "You are doubtless the sort of female who has intellectual pretensions," he said.

I was silent.

"Do you think you are intelligent?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"You are not," he said.

I was silent.

"But you do, doubtless, have some form of intelligence," he said, "in your small, nasty way."

I looked up at him, angrily.

"And you will need every bit of it, I assure you," he said, "just to stay alive."

I looked at him, frightened.

"Hateful slut," he said.

I squirmed under his epithet. I was conscious of the light silk on my body. The bells on my ankle, jangled.

"Yes," he said, regarding me, "you are a modern woman, one with intellectual pretensions. I see it now, certainly, one of those modern women who desire to destroy men."

"I don" t know what you" re talking about," I said.

"But there are ways of treating, and handling, women such as you," he said, "ways of rendering them not only absolutely harmless, but, better still, exquisitely useful and delicious."

"I don" t know what you" re talking about!" I protested.

"Do not lie to me," he snarled.

I put down my head, miserable. The bells on my ankle moved.

"Your garment is an interesting one," he said. "It well reveals you." I looked up at him, frightened.

"To be sure," he said, "it is a bit more ample than is necessary, not as snug as it might be, not cut as high at the thighs as it might be, not cut as deeply at the neck as it might be, and, surely, as I determined earlier, it is insufficiently diaphanous."

I looked up at him.

"Take it off," he said.

Numbly I pulled the tiny garment over my head and put it beside me on the carpet.

"It may be a long time," he said, "before you are again permitted a garment." I trembled, naked.

The third man went to the table, that on which rested the attachA© case. He removed an object from the case. I gasped in terror. He handed it to the man in front of me. It was a whip. It had a single, stout, coiled lash.

"What do you think your name was?" he asked.

"Doreen," I said. "Doreen Williamson!" That had seemed a strange way to inquire my name, surely. Too, they knew so much about me. They must have known my name. What did he mean then, "What did I think my name was?"

"Well, Doreen," he said, "do you still remember Harper" s Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities?"

"Yes," I said. The way he had said my name somehow alarmed me. It was almost as though that name might not be mine, really. It was almost as though he had simply, perhaps, primarily as a convenience for himself, decided to call me that, if only for the time.

"Fetch it," he said.

I looked at the whip. I leap to my feet, in a jangle of bells, and hurried to the place where the book was. In a moment I had it and had returned, and, holding the book, knelt again before him.

"Kiss it," he said.

I did so.

"Put it down," he said, "to the side."

I did so.

He then held the whip before me. "Kiss the whip," he said.

I did so.

"Kiss my feet," he said. I put my head down, frightened, the palms of my hands on the carpet, and kissed his feet. I then straightened up, and knelt back on my heels.

"Put your hands, palms down, on your thighs," he said.

I obeyed.

"Apparently you do have some intelligence," he said. "Now put your knees apart." "Please, no!" I said.

"Perhaps I was wrong," he mused.

Swiftly I put my knees apart.

"Perhaps you will survive," he mused.

He then nodded to the fellow on his left. To my horror the fellow went again to the attachA© case and this time brought out coils of chain. I could not see well in the half darkness what it was. Then he was behind me. To my horror I felt a metal collar locked about my neck. It was a very sturdy metal collar. It had, apparently, an attachment, or ring, of some sort, I supposed, in the back, and to this attachment, or ring, the long chain was attached. The fellow behind me must have held it mostly coiled in his hand. The collar encircled my neck closely. I touched it, frightened. I put my finger inside the rim of the implacable encirclement. There was only a half inch or so between its metal and my throat. I felt its weight on the attachment, or ring. I was leashed. I wore a chain leash. I was terrified. Perhaps no one can conjecture my feelings, truly, who has not been, too, the helpless prisoner of such a device.

"Slut," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Are you a virgin?" he asked.

"I see," I said. "I am to be raped."

"Perhaps," he said.

"Your question is personal," I said. Then I felt the metal chain at the back of the collar jerk upward, savagely. The collar cut at the back of my neck, and was tight under my chin. I held my head as far down against the collar as I could, in spite of the additional tightening this effected under my chin, that I might relieve the pressure of its lower rim against my throat. This also forced me to lower my head, submissively. I was half choked. I was unable to speak. I was terrified. I no longer knelt on my heels. I had not been jerked up, off them. Then the collar was suddenly, angrily, turned on my throat, relieving the pressure on my carotid artery, and jerked downward. My head and neck followed it. The long chain was then thrown back between my legs and I felt my ankles crossed and a proximate part of the chain wrapped about them. I was thus held, bent over, my head low, my neck in the collar, kneeling. I strained to look up, lifting my eyes. To my terror I saw the man before me uncoil the whip. "I am a virgin," I whispered. "I am a virgin!" He made a sign and the chain was unwrapped from my ankles and the collar turned again on my neck. I was then jerked backward, half choked, but with the pressure substantially high on my neck, under the chin, doubtless by intent, and then lay before them on the low-piled coarse carpet, so muchly trodden by our library patrons.