John Norman: Conspirators of Gor

“You listened to Astrinax,” I said.

“He made clear to me what you were, in that pretty collar,” he said.

“I am different now,” I said.

“How I wanted to take you in my arms,” he said, “and teach you what it was to be a slave!”

“But you did not do so!” I said.

“Can you imagine the torture,” he said, “what it was to be with you, each day, day in and day out, Ahn by Ahn, so close, wanting to get my hands on you, wanting to seize you, and ravish you, again and again, to take your meaningless pettiness in hand, and make it cry out, and moan, and leap spasmodically, helplessly, in my arms, gasping, and begging for more, fearing only that I might, for my amusement, too soon desist in the depredations to which your body was subjected.”

“It was not only you who were tortured,” I said. “You speak of torment! What do you know of torment? What do you know of a woman’s slave fires, once men have kindled them, and forced them to burn? Can you imagine what it is to feel such things, not just in one’s belly, but throughout one’s helpless slave’s body? We cannot seize and command a master! We cannot exceed the length of our chains! We can only beg! And will men be kind to us, or not? It is up to them and not us, for we are slaves! Can you imagine what it was to be naked in a slave wagon, shackled within reach of you? Can you understand what it is to serve a master, to cook for him, to serve him food, to fetch and carry for him, and not be touched? Can you understand what it is for a woman to wear a man’s bonds, and not be exploited at his whim? Can you imagine what it is to be half stripped, and collared, only a slave, readied by an entire society for service and sex, and be ignored? Can you imagine what it is to be clad only in a tunic, or a camisk, as in the Cave, near one to whom you would beg to belong, and not be so much as touched?”

“It seems,” said he, “that we have tortured one another.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“If you are telling the truth,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“You do not think I trust you, do you?” he asked.

“It would be my hope that a Master might trust his slave,” I said. “Surely she would be punished, if found untrustworthy.”

“And severely,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He looked away, angrily. I could not see his face.

“Slaves are not free women,” he said. “Slaves are meaningless. Why should one care for them?”

“Men are sometimes fond of their possessions,” I said.

I knew that some men, while professing to despise their slaves, scoffing at the very thought that they might find them of interest, would risk their lives for them, even die for them. How precious then must be a mere collar slut, marketable goods, to some men! Who then is slave and who is master? It becomes clear, of course, when the whip is removed from its peg.

One might risk one’s life or die for a free woman because she is free, or because a Home Stone is shared, or because it is expected, or because it is thought to be a duty, or a matter of honor, but why might one risk one’s life for, or die for, a slave?

What could be the reason?

She is no more than her master’s beast. She strives selflessly to serve her master. She is submitted. She is worked. She is owned. She is under discipline. She is dominated, and as a slave is dominated. She strives to be found pleasing. She is needful. Well she knows the restlessness and agony of slave fires, imposed on her by men. She is ready on her chain. She knows herself no more than his meaningless, begging pleasure object. She is an eager and subservient passion beast.

How utterly different is the exalted, noble, proud free woman, suspicious and demanding, bargaining and calculating, insisting on her hundred rights, jealous of a thousand prerogatives!

How strange then that men would be willing to risk their lives, even die, for the slave, no more than a collared chattel.

“Why should a man care for you, not that one does?” he asked.

“I do not know,” I said.

He turned about, and I lowered my head, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Perhaps as an investment,” he said. “One might improve you, with chain training, whip training, slave dance, and such, and then sell you for a profit.”

“Perhaps, Master,” I said.

“You are poor stuff,” he said.

I looked up.

“Might I not now bring a good price on the block?” I asked.

“That would be easy enough to see,” he said.

“Please do not do so,” I said.

“Poor meaningless stuff,” he said, looking down upon me.

“You bought me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “I bought you.”

“I know you had the means to buy others, Master,” I said. “Why then did you not buy them?”

“Do you wish to be beaten?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“I do not know why,” he said. “The pens are filled with slaves, well worth collaring, and training to one’s taste.”

“Yet Master did not forget me,” I said.

“You are shoddy, inferior, meaningless merchandise.”

“Perhaps less so now than before,” I said.

“Speak,” he said.

“I remain unimportant, and meaningless, of course, as I am a slave, Master,” I said, “but I think I am different now from what I was, perhaps a little better, perhaps a bit more worth owning. Perhaps I am not now so shallow, so sly, so cunning, so petty, so selfish, so trivial, so worthless, as I once was. I have learned much in the collar. In the collar a slave is well taught. I want now to be worthy of my collar. It is a gift bestowed upon me by a man. I want now to be pleasing to my Master. I would hope to be worthy of wearing his collar, not only in service, devotion, and helpless passion, but in character. I desperately want him to approve of me. I will try to be a slave who is worthy of his ownership!”

“How clever you are,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Do you think I do not know you?” he asked. “From Ar, from the wagons, from the Voltai, from the small feast in the domicile of Epicrates?”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You are a lying little slut,” he said.

“No, Master!” I said.

I wondered how much this had to do with me, and how much it had to do with him. Was he fighting his own feelings? Might that be? Was he afraid of himself, and his feelings, standing before one who was no more than a kneeling, helpless, collared, branded animal? Did he now fear that he might care for a mere slave?

How absurd!

What had he to fear? The collar was on my neck, and his was the whip.

“I have waited a long time to own you,” he said.

“And have I not waited a long time to be owned?” I said.

I looked up at him, and was suddenly afraid.

How bright his eyes were, how tense his body!

Might not a starving larl so gaze upon a tethered tabuk doe, a hungry sleen upon a penned verr?

In the streets of Ar I had once seen a leashed slave being dragged running and stumbling, weeping, toward a domicile, but the master found himself unable to wait, and she was thrown to the paving stones of the street, there to be publicly and rudely ravished. I had turned aside, and hurried away, but had been stirred. I had heard, too, of purchases made off the block which were unable even to reach the holding rings or slave cages, but were enjoyed in the very aisles of the market.

I was afraid but stirred, too, as only a slave can be stirred, for she knows herself helpless and choiceless, that it will be done with her as masters will. She is without recourse.

Gorean men, I knew, had not been culturally reduced, societally diminished, confused, crippled, taught to mistrust themselves, to doubt themselves, to castigate themselves for the simplest and most natural feelings and desires, to misinterpret and fear them, not taught to betray themselves and their manhood. As well, for the purposes of the deficient, insane, or eccentric, might one be taught the wrongness of breathing, of eyesight, of the circulating of blood, the pumping of a living heart?