John Norman - Prize of Gor

It is not strange that a woman loves best in a collar. In a collar she is most a woman.

Love and serve your masters.

It is what you are for, sweet slut.

Do not forget to wear your tunic well, and keep the collar lock at the back of your neck.

After all, you do not wish to be whipped.

I wish you well.

I now close this narrative.

I kiss my finger tips and touch my collar. It has been put on me by my master, whom I love. I am his slave. I desire to serve him. I would die for him.

I wonder if any of you can understand this, or if it merely seems puzzling, alien, incomprehensible. But I think you understand it; these things may be deep, but they are not that strange, or unfamiliar. They are very close to us, to all of us.

And so I have come a long way. I am no longer on Earth. I have returned to the biological heritage of my sex. I have learned to call men “Master,” for, as I am a woman, and they are true men, they are master to me. I pity my sisters who do not know the collar. How incomplete they are. I have been the most free of the free, or thought myself such, and am now amongst the most enslaved of the enslaved, and am yet, because of that, the most free of the free, the truly free, for I am no longer at war with myself. I am now one with my nature. I have at last come home, come home to myself, to the deepest truths of my being. I am at my master’s feet. It is where I belong. May I prove pleasing to him, my master!

Behold, I hear him approach!

I must hasten to the door, to meet him there, to kneel before him!