John Norman: Mariners of Gor

Callias scowled at her, at the gift he had made me. I gathered he wished to make sure that it was a good one.

“Your knees,” he said. “Widen them. What sort of slave do you think you are?”

Obediently she spread her knees more widely.

I supposed she had no doubt now, but what she had been purchased for a pleasure slave. To be sure, this should have been anticipated by any paga girl. I forced myself to remember that she was a barbarian, and, as I recalled, had not been long in bondage. Indeed, on her own world, I supposed she had been free, as free, at any rate, as such women could be, in such a world, where, I gathered, their values, views, attitudes, dress, behavior, and such were dictated, as nearly as I could tell, by lunatics who, in fear of themselves, lived in hiding, walled away from nature, and her fulfillments. One gathered they somehow supposed that nature was a mistake, the foe of happiness, rather than its foundation and truth. How such an aberration might come about seemed inexplicable. Doubtless there had been cultural turnings, misdirections, roads wrongly taken. Doubtless there were historical reasons underlying this phenomenon, reasons by means of which a suitably informed scholar might intelligently speculate on the matter.

She was before me, in position, kneeling back on her heels, her back straight, her head up, looking ahead, the palms of her hands down on her thighs, her knees spread, this making clear the nature of her bondage. Alcinoe, too, to the side, was in position.

Both were lovely slaves.

I regarded my slave, rapt.

I wondered if women could begin to understand how they appeared to men, and what they meant to men.

I supposed not.

How could they?

They were not men.

They could know, of course, that they were desired, sought, hunted, captured, bound, chained, bought and sold, owned, and mastered.

Perhaps that would give them a sense of things. Free, of course, distracted, confused, uneasy, restless, discontented, suspicious, and unhappy, and not knowing why, their beauty was extremely dangerous, and could easily be misused to torment and divide men, to influence and manipulate them, to discomfort and afflict them, for not all wounds and bruises, blows and goadings, are the results of steel or leather. The question then is a simple one, which is “Who shall be master?” The man is mightier, and, in his heart, wishes to own the female. The female, is weaker, smaller, softer, and, in her heart, longs to be owned, and mastered. She is content only at the feet of a strong male. Accordingly, the relationship of the male master and the female slave is appropriate, a relationship in which nature is fulfilled, to the benefit of both. The female responds to the master, as his slave, and the master revels in the possession and mastery of the female, his slave. The war is done. She kneels before him, wearing his collar.

I looked upon my slave, and my slave knew herself looked upon, and as a slave.

She trembled, but retained position.

“Slave,” I said.

She looked at me, frightened. Her lips trembled a little, but formed no sound. She looked wildly, frightened, to Callias. I recalled she had been forbidden to speak. Clearly she did not wish to feel the lash.

“It is I who now own you,” I said. “Do you understand, female?” So addressed, as “female,” the woman, whether free or slave, is forcibly reminded of what she is, radically and basically, and that it is quite different from something else, that of being a male. And this recollection, on the part of a slave, who is vulnerable, helpless, and owned, is even more devastating, for she is not only a female, but a female who is a slave.

The slave swiftly nodded, frightened. Her hair moved about her shoulders as she did this. I wanted to seize her in my arms, fling her to the floor, and cover her with kisses.

“You have, as of now,” I said, “a standing permission to speak.”

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

“Revocable at any time,” I added.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You may speak,” I said. “Speak.”

“I am afraid,” she said.

“We will have to improve your Gorean,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It is reasonably fluent at present,” I said.

“That is my hope,” she said, “Master.”

“I am going to be about for bit,” said Callias. “In that time, Alcinoe will work with her.”

“She is a barbarian, Master!” said Alcinoe.

“No matter,” said Callias, touching his belt.

“Yes, Master,” said Alcinoe, quickly.

Callias then seized up one of the heaped comforters, spread it a bit, and then slung it to the side, on the floor.

“Lie there,” said Callias to his slave, Alcinoe, pointing to the comforter.

Quickly she hurried to the comforter, and lay upon it, I thought rather seductively, considering that she has recently been white silk.

“It is late,” announced Callias.

“It is my hope,” she said, “that I may be permitted to give pleasure to my master.”

Callias drew off his belt and tunic, and took his position on the comforter, and Alcinoe crawled eagerly to his side, but his hand, in her hair, held her for a time at his thigh, which she licked and kissed hopefully, and then, after a bit, he put her to his pleasure, with patience, until, at last, wild-eyed, looking toward the ceiling, gasping, she begged to be permitted to yield, as his slave. She then cried out with the sobbing joy of the well-ravished slave. I did not think he was so quickly through with her, but, as Callias had noted, it was late.

“Master?” said my slave.

I took another comforter, and then another, and arranged them on the floor, rather off from where Callias and Alcinoe were still tangled together.

No, I thought to myself, he is not yet finished with her.

I removed the Scribe’s satchel, my purse, the Scribe’s robes, and lay upon the comforter and, on one elbow, regarded the slave.

“Am I to be whipped?” she asked.

“Do you wish to be whipped?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “no, Master.”

“I do not have a whip,” I said.

“A slave is pleased,” she said.

“I shall obtain one shortly,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I am of the Scribes,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

“Do you know much of Scribes?” I asked.

“Only that they make me serve well in the alcove,” she said.

“But that is not unusual, is it?” I asked. “With fellows of any caste?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“You,” I said, “have an affinity with the Scribes.”

“Master?” she said.

“I think you are the sort of female who would appeal to a Scribe,” I said.

“I will try to please my master,” she said.

“You were a student, of sorts?” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “one spoken of as a graduate student. I was in what is called a university. I was in what is called a department, for in my old world knowledge is often put in departments, its wholeness, doubtless of necessity, being ignored or neglected. My department, in which I studied, was one devoted to classical studies. One attended classes, one heard lectures, one participated in what are called seminars, smaller courses, more informal courses, where students might participate in discussions, commonly held about tables.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“It is a way of doing things,” she said.

“One gathers then, that many might be in such places.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Would there be more than one, or, say, two students, with a teacher?”

“Often several,” she said.

“They do not live together?”

“No,” she said. “They meet at appropriate times and places, according to schedules, beginning when clocks strike or bells ring, and ending when they strike or ring again.”