John Norman: Conspirators of Gor

Again the lash fell.

“Yes, Master,” I wept, “I know I am a slave! I am whipped! I am whipped! I am whipped as the slave I am! I am a slave, a slave!”

“And who whips you?” he asked.

“He who owns me!” I cried. “Desmond of Harfax!”

He then gave me another stroke.

“Yes, Master!” I wept. How deeply, and well, I then understood the word ‘Master’!

I was a slave, and he was my master.

He then left me with my thoughts, and the pain.

“Please whip me, Master,” I had said.

“Why?” he had asked.

“That I may know myself a slave,” I said, “and yours.”

“The whip hurts,” he said.

“No one is more aware of that than I,” I said.

“Why then would you be whipped?” he asked.

“That I may know myself a slave,” I had said, “and yours.”

“You will have no doubt about that,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I had said.

* * * *

After some Ehn he returned.

“Please do not whip me any more!” I said.

“You are content?” he said.

“Yes, yes!” I said.

“You do not wish to be whipped further?” he said.

“No, no, Master!” I wept.

“I see,” he said.

“Please do not whip me any more!” I begged.

“It hurts does it not?” he said.

“Yes, Master!” I said.

“But you are now,” he said, “well aware that you are a slave, and my slave.”

“Yes, Master!” I said. “It is done. No more, please! Do not whip me further! I beg it!”

“This is the whip,” he said, holding it before me.

I shuddered in the bonds. “I fear it,” I said, “the very sight of it.”

“You may kiss it,” he said.

I kissed the whip, fervently.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you will try to be a good slave.”

“I will strive to be a good slave,” I said.

“You have been whipped,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I wept.

“You must expect such things if you are not fully pleasing,” he said.

“I will strive to be fully pleasing!”

“Who will strive to be fully pleasing?” he asked.

“Allison will strive to be fully pleasing,” I said.

“Do you think you have been fully pleasing?” he asked.

“I fear not,” I said.

“As I recall,” he said, “you were long aware of my transparent machinations, my childish programs, and such?”

“Please forgive the foolish words of a foolish slave,” I said.

“And you secretly despised me all the while?” he said.

He then again put the whip to my lips, again I kissed it, fervently. “No, Master!” I said.

“More lingeringly,” he said. “And lick it, devotedly, as the pretty little slut and slave beast you are.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And if you came into my power,” he said, “you would strive to be the worst possible slave to me?”

“No, Master,” I said. “I would strive to be the best possible slave to you, a slave of slaves to you!”

“And there was much else,” he said. “Was I not to be petty, sly, crass, duplicitous, dishonorable, ignoble, a hypocrite, a fraud, a monster, and such?”

“I did not speak, Master,” I said. “It was my rage, my disappointment, my loneliness, my sense of loss, my thought of being unwanted, of being ignored and abandoned, such things which spoke.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “you should be again whipped, and richly whipped.”

“Please no, Master,” I said.

“You are afraid, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I am a slave,” I said. “I have felt the whip. I know what it is like. I shall do my best to be pleasing to my master.”

He then undid the flat, narrow leather straps which had bound my wrists to the ring.

I then turned about, gratefully, to kneel before him. It was my hope he might later permit me clothing. I would do my best to be worthy of a garment, be it only a slave strip.

He was looking upon me.

“Master?” I said.

“I find you of slave interest,” he said.

“A slave is pleased,” I said.

There were trees, and grass, in the small courtyard, and flowers, mostly talenders, and dinas, some veminium. A tiled walk wound its way through the vegetation. Flowering shrubbery was about. Here and there, there were small, concealed nooks in the garden. In one corner, there was a small reservoir, with a slatted wooden lid. The day was warm. A light wind rustled through the leaves overhead. The courtyard, like most Gorean courtyards, was rather small. It backed the domicile, which had four floors. At the rear of the courtyard was a small, opaque, wooden gate. Two of its walls were common walls with adjoining domiciles. The back wall was adjacent to an alley, access to which was provided by the rear gate.

I sensed I was being looked upon as one looks upon what I was, a slave. I did not object. We are not free women.

How warm, and pleasurable, it is to be looked upon as an object, one which is owned by a master.

We are not free women.

“May I speak?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Where has Master been, for so many weeks?” I asked.

“About,” he said, “even to Port Kar.”

“But Master did not forget a slave,” I said.

“Some slaves,” he said, “are hard to forget.”

“A slave is pleased,” I said.

“I should get rid of her,” he said. “I should sell her.”

“Please do not do so,” I said.

“There is something about you,” he said, “which is of interest to me.”

“Of slave interest,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“Doubtless a slave’s body,” I said. On Gor my body had been freshened, trimmed, toned, vitalized, and turned into an instrument for a man’s pleasure.

“It is more than that,” he said. “Such things may be purchased off any block.”

“What then?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “it is now in Master’s collar.” I was well aware that it is the whole slave which is owned, every strand of hair, every drop of blood, every fear, every hope, every tremor, every feeling, every thought.

“You are, of course, a barbarian,” he said.

“And I cannot even read,” I said.

“And you will be kept that way,” he said.

“As Master pleases,” I said.

I kept my knees closely together. It was in this fashion that I had been accustomed, over the past months, to kneel.

“Master did not forget me,” I said.

“No,” he said.

I was pleased to see that he was folding the five blades of the slave whip about the staff, which might easily accommodate a two-handed grip.

“I think Master cares for me,” I said.

“Do not be foolish,” he said.

“I understand that Master finds me of interest,” I said.

“Of slave interest,” he said.

“Perhaps a slave might be freed,” I suggested.

“I am not a fool,” he said.

There is a saying, of course, that only a fool frees a slave girl. I wonder if it is not true. What man truly, honestly, does not want a slave?

“Perhaps Master finds me of companion interest,” I said.

“You are a barbarian,” he said.

“Even so,” I said.

He walked about me, a bit, and then, again, stood before me. “You are nicely marked, and collared,” he said.

“Will you not free me?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I uneasily noted that he was slowly, thoughtfully, unwrapping the blades of the slave whip.

“Master?” I said.

I saw him shake loose the blades of the whip, and they dangled. I could see the shadow of the blades on the ground.

“But I may sell you,” he said.

“Please do not,” I said.