John Norman: Conspirators of Gor

“Yes, Mrs. Rawlinson,” we said.

Several days later, the party took place, and Eve, Jane, and I, half-naked, belled, and collared, served as kajirae. Our punishment, as Mrs. Rawlinson had suggested, was exquisite. As she had anticipated, we were well shamed, excruciatingly so. We knew we were being punished; the guests did not. I supposed I should have been grateful.

I learned, for the first time in my life, at that party, something of what it might be to be looked upon as a slave. I could not remove the collar, of course, unless I had recourse to tools. Accordingly, it was well on me. It was the first time, of course, that I had ever been in a locked collar. Interestingly, though I would have told no one at the time, I was erotically charged, even in my shame. Could I be, I wondered, a slut, or less? The bells, too, with their subtle rustle, marked the least of my movements. It was a strange feeling, to be belled. In some strange way that, too, aroused me. Did they not say, so to speak, ‘You are a slave, a belled slave’?

Eve, Jane, and I were, I suppose, quite popular at the party, at least with the young men. Many times, unnecessarily I was sure, we were summoned to serve one or another of them. I think this did not much please several of our sisters, also at the tables.

“Slave,” called Nora, in her sumptuous robes, as our Ubara, “to me!”

I hurried to her, and knelt before her, head down.

How pleased, I thought, must she, my enemy, be to have me so before her!

“My hands are greasy from the meat,” she said. “Come closer.”

Then, while she chatted with the young man beside her, she pulled me by the hair closer, and held me, painfully, my face down, at the table, and wiped her hands, carefully and firmly, in my hair.

Then, turning to me, as though she had just then noticed me, she said, “Get out!”

I withdrew to the side, kneeling.

My eyes were hot with tears. I kept my head down.

“To me,” she called again, later. “Stop!” she then said, when I was a few feet from her. I knew enough, from Mrs. Rawlinson, to kneel, immediately.

“You must be hungry,” she laughed.

We were hungry, for we were not permitted to participate in the feast. Too, on Mrs. Rawlinson’s instructions, we had been denied lunch, and, later, kept locked in a room behind the kitchen, until we had been brought forth, covered by a large sheet, and introduced into the common room, now arranged as a banquet hall. We had been knelt, and the sheet, swirling, lifted away, revealing us, camisked, collared, and belled. “Slaves!” had said Mrs. Rawlinson, in her own robes, with an expansive gesture, and there had been much laughter, and some gasps, for even our sisters had not been apprised of how we would appear, and, too, there was some hooting from the young men, and vulgar noises, and an appreciative, even enthusiastic, clapping of hands.

Then, at a sharp clapping of Mrs. Rawlinson’s hands, we leapt up and hurried to the kitchen, to bring forth the fare, the sweets, the candies, the nuts, the bowls of fruit, the herbs, the bread, flat, circular loaves of bread, which would be divided into eight wedges, the many covered dishes of boiled vegetables and hot meat, the vessels of wine, and such, and placed these on the serving table, from which place we began to serve the guests.

“Are you hungry?” inquired Nora.

I did not know what to do.

“You may speak, slave,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “-Mistress.” I had been informed by Mrs. Rawlinson that those in collars must tell the truth. How vulnerable this makes them. They are not free women.

She then took some scraps from her plate and cast them about, on the floor.

“Feed,” she said.

Burning with shame, but yet, too, eager for food, I crawled to the scraps and, head down, without my hands, fed. That was the first time I had fed thusly. Oddly, I was glad to feed, even grateful.

Could I be, I wondered, a slave?

And how significant this would have been, I thought, had the scraps been cast to the floor not by Nora, but by a man!

I was suddenly overcome, almost unable to move.

I was overwhelmed by a sudden, momentous sense of meaningfulness.

How meaningful suddenly seemed my posture, my garmenture, the bells on my ankle, the collar on my neck.

How small I seemed, how degraded and mocked, and how worthless, how helpless!

And my sense was not just one of meaningfulness, as profound as that sense might be, and as comprehensible as such a sense would be, given the circumstances, but, rather, startling me, and frightening me, one of fittingness, of propriety, of rightfulness!

Could it be that I, despite my antecedents and background, my upbringing, education, and indoctrination, was a slave?

Since puberty I had suspected that some women were slaves. Were not the blossoming subtleties of my body, and those of others, such that they had been carved out over countless generations by the lusts of men? Were we not delightful prizes, goods, like fruit and animals, to be seized and exploited? Had we not been selected to be delights to possessors? Had we not been selected to be roped and snared? Had we not been, in our way, bred for the auction block?

Yes, I thought, there must be rightful slaves, women who cannot be whole, cannot be fulfilled, who will never know true happiness except at the feet of men, owned, and mastered.

Could I be one such?

Never, never!

Surely not, surely not!

It went against everything I had been told, everything I had been taught.

Could it be that what I had been told was false, that what I had been taught was untrue?

Who was I?

What was I?

I sensed Nora walking about me, and was confident she had in her possession her switch.

In a moment I heard a pan placed on the floor near me.

I looked up, from all fours.

I felt the tip of her switch beneath my chin, and, responsive to its pressure, I lifted my head, and then, on all fours, my head up, guided by the switch, by its gentle pressure, first on one side of my face and then the other, I was moved about, faced to the left, and then to the right, and then, again, ahead, being exhibited to those at the low tables, the men cross-legged, the women kneeling, some guests lounging, bemused, on an elbow.

“She is a pretty thing, is she not?” said Nora.

There was a generous assent to this, particularly from the young men.

Our sorority was quite particular about such things. No one was accepted as a pledge, let alone initiated, who did not meet certain standards.

Our house was envied on campus, and, by some, held in contempt. Sometimes it was referred to as “the house of meaningless beauty,” sometimes as “the harem,” sometimes as “the slave market,” which, I supposed, was a reference to a girl’s judiciously selling herself, so to speak, to the highest bidder. One fellow had referred to it, jokingly, as “the pleasure garden.” I had gathered, then, that I might not be the only one about who might be familiar with certain forms of forbidden literature. But the expression, of course, is familiar, and well-known. I did not inquire into the matter, for I would have been frightened to meet a male who might be familiar with such things. I wondered, though, what it might be like to be within the walls of such a place, waiting for the bell, sounding my particular notes, that I must hasten to the room of preparation, to be prepared for the slave ring of my master.

“I think she looks nice in a collar, don’t you?” asked Nora. “I think she belongs in one, don’t you?”

I could not remove it. It was locked on me.

I saw Mrs. Rawlinson, in the background. She was smiling. I recalled that I was being punished, well punished.

I suspected that the sight of a woman in a collar was stimulating to men. I wondered if they knew that being in a collar had a similar effect on its occupant.