Authors: John Norman
“Why have I been given this garment to wear?” I asked. It was scarcely modest. It did cover the brand. I thought I was due some explanation for this affront to my dignity. After all, even one being held for ransom must have some rights.
“That you not be naked,” he said.
That was not the sort of answer I had anticipated receiving.
“Your body,” he said, “is not without interest. If you were stripped, you would be more likely to be stolen.”
“Stolen?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
He had spoken of me as though I were property.
We then returned to the house.
Why haven't you written, why have you not responded to my letters! Have I been too familiar? Have I presumed too much? Have I shown you too little respect?
Desperately,
Linda
Dear Mr. Barofsky:
Forgive me for having referred to you as “I. B.,” as “Irving,” and so on. I was not entitled to be so forward, given our institutional relationships at the magazine. You were my superior. Forgive me, please, for not having accorded you the respect, the deference, you were due. It was wrong that I should have arrogated to myself, without permission, the right to such informality. Perhaps that is why you have not responded to my letters. Perhaps you were offended? I was merely a stupid, presumptuous employee. When you arrange my release, paying whatever ransom is required, you will find me much changed upon my return, deferent, attentive, productive, hard-working, and subservient.
Too, Mr. Barofsky, sir, please forgive me for having spoken boldly in meetings, often essentially in vanity, merely that I might hear myself speak, and often without having received permission, without having been recognized. Perhaps I took this as required, that I might, a modern woman, a liberated woman, impress male colleagues with my malelike decisiveness, my masculinelike strength, my manlike forcefulness, and acumen. How aimless, irrelevant and silly now seem so many of those comments! Some I hope, though, were helpful. The point of the meetings was business, but I tried too often to make them political, to assert myself, rather than deal with the issues before us. I was a child playing a role, and one alien to my nature, as I now understand it. The point of this boorish assertiveness, it seems, was no more than assertiveness itself, that taken as its own justification. How insecure I was! But, perhaps, too, I wanted to call myself to the attention of the men, and to you, sir. I do think that I am highly intelligent, sir, else you would not have hired me. I do not think you were merely interested in my face, and the lineaments of my figure. But I think you suspected their nature, even through the mannish disguises I affected. I sometimes thought you looked at me as though I were naked, and were not wholly displeased with what you saw. Within the severities of that garmenture you suspected, I am sure, that there was a woman, a troubled, unhappy, lonely woman perhaps, but a woman. But you are the sort of a man, I suspected, who would want more than the body of a woman. That would never be enough for you. You would want the totality of her, her body, her emotions, her nature, her mind, the wholeness of her. Perhaps that was why I feared you, and found you attractive, sir. In my dreams I sometimes seemed to think you were the sort of man who would want to literally possess a woman, and that you were strong enough, and powerful enough, to do that, to possess her, and that nothing less than the possession of her, the possession of the whole of her, would content you. When I thought of you I sometimes sensed that my “career,” to which I was supposedly completely devoted, was a vapid, prescribed triviality, a marking of time, a distraction from the call of my true nature. I hated my “career,” save as a glamorous exercise to convince myself of my own worth, as a means to seek status, a sorry compensation for the vacancies in my life. How I longed for a culture, a simpler, deeper, more natural, more wonderful culture, in which I might fulfill myself as a female in the deepest biological sense, something that would not be a socially constructed artifact, but would bring me to terms with my own deepest reality.
Perhaps you remember when you, at one meeting, in your impatience, suggested I might make a more useful contribution to the meeting by fetching coffee! How angry I was! You may recall that the chairman forced a public apology from you, before us all. How that must have stung, and humiliated, you. The chairman doubtless feared that I would carry the matter into legal precincts, and damage the public image of the company, this perhaps resulting in corporate embarrassment, and perhaps even in financial losses. I now realize, of course, as I realized then, that your remark, however ill-considered it might have been, was, given my behavior, justified. I trust that you are not, sir, allowing me to languish here as a result of that matter, a contretemps, at best. Do not hold it against me, sir. Please, save me! What I never expressed to you was that when you said that my first reaction was a flush of warmth, a sudden sensation of profound pleasure. It was as though I had been told to go into the kitchen, and cook. That is how I really wanted to be treated by men. To be told to go into the kitchen, and cook, so to speak. In that instant I felt deliciously female, and dominated. We long to be put in our place, by men. How can we respect a male who does not understand, and exercise, his dominance? I assure you, sir, the men here understand it, and exercise it. Had I gone to fetch coffee then, I feel I would have done so happily. I would have been pleased to serve, as a woman. I have discovered that there are rewards in service, that there is enormous pleasure and profound happiness in submission. One dominates, one submits. It is not hard to guess what the healthy relationship is, the structure of the ideal complementarity, sanctioned by nature. But, of course, an instant later, flushed, feigning rage, so easy to do, I demanded that the chairman have you apologize to me, to us all, which you, albeit bitterly, and ungraciously, did.
There was another incident, Mr. Barofsky, which may have troubled you. In approved feminist fashion, though these things are not publicized, obviously, we are permitted to use hints, threats, and such, to advance our careers. You may recall that I entered your office, closing the door behind me, and asked for a promotion. This request, at the time, puzzled you, as it seemed to have emerged, unanticipated, out of nowhere. Unbeknownst to you I had informed the receptionist, your secretary, and two colleagues with nearby offices, that I was planning on making such a request. Then, before your desk, I cried out, as though in dismay, tore open the top button of my blouse, smeared my lipstick, and hurried, as though outraged, from the office, certain to be seen, and remarked, as planned, by several others. I fled, seemingly weeping, to my office. The implication would have been clear, in the political environment in which we existed, that you had assaulted, or molested, me, obviously demanding sexual favors in exchange for the promotion. I received the promotion, as you recall, by direct order of the director, to hush up the matter, and avoid a drawn-out inquiry with a hostile sexual-harassment officer. I regret this now, of course. It was not fair of me. It was cruel, I suppose. Nonetheless you must understand that such behavior and threats of that sort are approved, though not publicized, political weapons. After all, I cannot threaten to foment riots, or such. Our blackmail is more personal, and perhaps more ladylike, than that of others capitalizing on invented, or imagined, grievances. As you may recall, “anything is accounted acceptable which furthers the ends of our power, except violence.” And I suppose violence would be acceptable to us, as well, if we thought it practical.
Things are so different here, Mr. Barofsky!
I apologize, profoundly, for any unpleasantness I might have caused you in the past, for the incident in the boardroom, for the incident in your office, for all the things, large and small, I might have done to irritate you. I never believed, incidentally, and do not now believe, that you were ever personally intimidated by these things. Weaker men might have been, but you were not.
If only you could see me now, though I would not desire you to do so, as I am unclothed, as I kneel and write this.
Now, collared, and branded, when a man enters the room, I face him, kneel, and do obeisance, with my head to the floor.
And it is so that I would greet you, if you were here.
I would have no choice.
Please note that I am addressing you as “Mr. Barofsky,” and “sir,” and such. So if my incivility has caused you to hesitate in responding to my letters, or in effecting my release, please hesitate no longer!
Save me from these imperious, uncompromising, magnificent brutes! They treat me as though I might be no more than an animal!
I am learning more words now. I am unfamiliar with the language. I do not recognize it. Sometimes I hear a word which sounds like an Earth word, perhaps from Latin, or English, or German. Interestingly the accents of these men in subtle ways remind me of your accent, at the office. I never did inquire as to your native language.
When you have my ransom paid and I return to work at the magazine you will discover that I have learned my place.
Please hurry with my rescue!
Tomorrow I am to learn the meaning of “La kajira,” the first words I was taught to speak on this world.
Once I spoke of myself being prostrate before you, figuratively. I am now going to draw back from the low, writing table and lie before it on my belly, naked, my hands at the sides of my head. Thus when I write the next sentence in this letter, my eighth letter, I will have been prostrate before you, literally, naked.
It has now been done, Mr. Barofsky.
I have been prostrate before you, as a naked supplicant.
Please, sir, expedite my release, please!
Linda
Twelfth Passage Hand, Second Day
Master:
I have now learned the meaning of “La kajira.”
It means “I am a slave girl.”
You will note that I have addressed you as “Master.” That is because slaves, as I have been informed, must address all free men as “Master” and all free women as “Mistress.”
How can it be, that I am a slave?
I can't be a slave!
But I discover that I am a slave, truly a slave, literally, actually and legally!
I do not know when, exactly, I became a slave. It may have been when I first uttered the words “La kajira.” It may have been when I was put in my first collar. It may have been when I was branded. It may have been when someone signed an order for my acquisition, or perhaps merely put an approval check by my name, I becoming a slave with the affixing of that signature, or that little check mark, on some document, a slave at that time merely not yet collected. Some here on this world, which is called Gor, seem to think that some women are “natural slaves.” Some others seem to think that all women are slaves, only that not all of them are in collars. In any event, in my particular case, my nature, condition, and legal status on this world is quite clear. I am property. That is what the keeper meant, it seems, out on the street several days ago, when he informed me that I might be stolen. I gather, for what it is worth, that I might be regarded as worth stealing.
I am owned. I can be bought and sold.
My lessons continue.
I now kneel in the presence of men, when I am addressed by them, when I approach them, and so on. I do this naturally, unquestioningly. It seems the right thing to do. It is not just the conditioning, though we may be beaten if we fail to do what is expected of us, and is proper for us. It is rather that it seems, somehow, fitting, emotionally right, morally appropriate. I would have to fight against the impulse, if I were returned to Earth. Oddly, sometimes, on Earth, I felt an impulse to kneel before certain men, but, of course, one would not do that there. I often felt the impulse to kneel before you, Master. I suppose you did not know that.
Learning that I am a slave has brought a new view of myself into my mind. I am not sure now that I am to be ransomed. That seems to me strange, for I would suppose that my ransom might be considerably more than I could hope to bring displayed on an auction block. Yes, women are often displayed on auction blocks. It is a common way of selling them. Not unusual in this culture. Not all are vended from public cages, cement shelves, or such. And few have the luxury of being exhibited in purple booths. Do I have an enemy? Or is there someone to whom my bondage means more than money? Would someone rather have me in a collar than free? Does someone so lust for me that he will be satisfied with nothing less than owning me? Could anyone desire a woman so much? So much that he will have her as his slave? That he will choose to own her, to make her his, literally
his
? Does money, which is so important on Earth, mean less here? Do they have so much money that they prefer to deal in precious metals, in produce, in animals, in women?
Surely you might buy me, and free me!
I beg to be bought! I beg to be purchased!
I neglected to mention certain aspects of my training. I did not mention them because I thought myself free, and it would have been embarrassing to refer to them, or to acknowledge them, in any way.
Although I remain a virgin, I am being taught how to please men, intimately, profoundly, totally. There is so much to learn, and yet I am sure that I am being shown little more than basic things, expected, as a matter of course, of a woman such I, one in a collar. We exist to please and serve, unquestioningly, immediately, fully; it is what we are for.
Sometimes I think that these things would give me great power over men, and perhaps they do. But then I am again locked in my cage.
I mention these things now because I am informed that one such as I, dare I say, “a slave,” is denied privacy. She is to be open to masters. She does not belong to herself, as does a free person, but to others, to masters. For example, she is not permitted to lie. How privileged is the free woman! She is permitted to lie. And, if caught, she need not fear being whipped. How often I lied as a free woman! Now I would fear to be lashed. Do you remember when you asked me, in amusement, if I found you attractive, and I said, “Not at all.”? I was lying then, Master. I must now acknowledge it. I did find you attractive, very attractive, more attractive than any man I had ever known. In your intellect, power, and assurance, you seemed so different from all other men. I often wondered how you could be such, so different. Perhaps some men are born that way.