Authors: John Norman
I told you, Master, that I have learned something of my master, Rask of Harfax. He is a slaver, and the house in Harfax, with which he is affiliated, has arrangements with this house, in Besnit. They exchange slaves, want lists, and such. Apparently, as one would suppose, there are slave routes plied between this world, Gor, and Earth, and perhaps others, but I do not know. Too, there are apparently intrigues amongst these two, or however many, worlds. Agents are exchanged from time to time. Rask of Harfax, my master, utilizing a different name, and cover, is, or was, working on Earth, in some capacity that I do not even think is clear to my informants. To be sure, he apparently chooses women, as it pleases him, for acquisition and shipment to this world. I say “shipment” for these women are not passengers, but cargo. They are brought here as objects, to be vended in the slave markets. It is a business; they might as well be vegetables or cattle. The slaves I saw on Earth, in my assignment for the magazine, were to be bid upon by various wholesalers, who would then have them delivered to their respective houses. Presumably they are brought to a port here, somewhere, and then distributed as arranged, presumably by wagons and such, in which they would doubtless be chained. Much seems clandestine about these operations, at least with respect to aspects which are subtler than the acquisition of slaves.
Whereas an advanced technology would obviously be required to bring me, and others, to this world, the technology of this world, as a whole, paradoxically, seems primitive, or, perhaps better, classical.
I must, on Earth, have been seen by this Rask of Harfax, or an agent. I do not know where this took place, perhaps in a restaurant, in leaving a cab, on the street, somewhere. Someone must have decided that I was, even then, dare one say, “of interest.” Perhaps he thought I had “promise.” Perhaps he speculated that I would “do.” I suppose I should be flattered that I was assessed worthy to be a Gorean slave girl. Without wishing to sound vain, I suspect few are. Interestingly, many of the girls brought here have natural female bodies, cuddly, juicy, and exciting, short, perhaps a little plump. To be sure, we have our “model” types, as well. Some women, perhaps at the time a little less beautiful, are apparently selected because of a powerful, latent sexuality. But I think that even they soon become as beautiful as the others, for a woman's beauty blossoms in bondage, as she becomes less inhibited, and more natural, more radiant, freer, happier, more emotionally liberated. Too, interestingly, the men seem keenly interested in the minds of their captives, strange as that may seem to a woman who finds herself stripped and chained. Whereas a master may castigate a slave as “stupid,” when she may be merely ignorant, or has made a mistake, or simply because it pleases him, it is clear that we are far from stupid, and the brutes know it. Who wants a stupid slave? Intelligent slaves bring higher prices. They make better slaves. I have met two slaves here who have Ph.D.'s, one in the social sciences, and one in the humanities. But neither, I think it fair to say, seems really more intelligent than her peers in the collar. This may dismay them, but it is true. This is not surprising, of course, as it seems that high intelligence is one of the criteria for selection. And it did not take long, I assure you, for our two young, lovely Ph.D.'s, the first a brunet, from a university, the second a blonde, from a college, to learn that such distinctions, degrees, honors, and such, mean nothing here. They needed look no farther than the shackles on their wrists and ankles, than the bars of their cage, viewed from within, to discern that. Indeed, here, if anything, such distinctions would be a handicap. Here, it only matters how good a slave you are. They learned that quickly. You see, they are intelligent.
Yet it seems to me that, on the whole, the intellect of the masters is greater than that of the slaves, including, of course, mine. The psyches of men here have not been divided, reduced, confused and crippled, riddled with inhibitions and contradictions. Their intellects are whole and free, and allies, not enemies, of their blood.
That is the way we want it.
How wonderful is the mind of the natural man!
Sometimes it infuriates a new slave to learn that her master relishes owning the whole of her, but, soon, she understands that it is, indeed, the whole of her, every corpuscle of her, and the least and most secret of her feelings and thoughts, that is relished, prized, and owned.
But sometimes, too, the brutes put us to our knees and treat us as though we were nothing, no more than the dust beneath their feet, and we, then, kneeling, heads bowed, knowing ourselves no more than the dust beneath their feet, better know our collars, and better understand what we are, to our joy, slaves.
So, Rask of Harfax, or someone, it seems, saw me, and arranged, perhaps for his amusement, that I should be introduced into a slaving area, under the pretext of investigative reporting, an area in which, of course, I soon found myself taken in hand, back-cuffed, and rendered unconscious.
But I am not sorry to be here, though here I am only a meaningless slave.
I know little more than this of my master, Rask of Harfax.
It gives me comfort to be allowed to write to you. I wonder if you have ever received any of these letters.
I wonder if I am really a worthless slave.
Doubtless it is true, but that really means, I suspect, merely that the keepers are not yet fully satisfied with me. Surely I have seen their eyes glint, as they have looked upon me, as I, fearing the whip, was forced to move lasciviously, provocatively before them in my training.
But a master might improve me, I am told, training me to his tastes. I wonder if you would like to train me to your tastes, Master, teaching me your tastes in drinks and food, how you wish your shirts ironed, how you would like your bed turned down, and such, and how, of course, I should perform in the bedroom, or elsewhere, perhaps in the living room, or on a porch, or in a garden. I wonder if you would keep me chained at the foot of your bed, in the Gorean fashion. I wonder, if you kept me as your slave, on Earth, say, in your penthouse, in Manhattan, or on that estate on Long Island to which it seems you have access, if you would let others know, that I might be shamed, revealed there, though on Earth, as no more than a degraded slave. Or if you would keep my bondage secret, choosing to conceal my abject servitude from the world, keeping it a secret known only to two, the slave and her master.
But even a worthless slave, I take it, would bring a few coppers in the market. Some might buy her, for example, on speculation, whip-training her, and then putting her up for a profit.
I wonder if you would bid on me, and, if your bid was successful, what you would do with me. You would promptly free me, doubtless. But I wonder. Seeing what I have become, I think you might not free me. You might like the way I am now. You might keep me. At least, if you found me pleasing. I wonder if you would find me pleasing. I do not wish to shock you, Master, but I would try to be pleasing.
I would try desperately to be pleasing to you. If I were not pleasing to you, fully, and in all ways, I trust that you would see to it that I became so.
To the master belongs the whip. There is no slave who does not fear its stroke. If she is not pleasing, she knows it will be used on her.
I sensed you were the sort of man who could whip a slave, and would whip her, if she were not pleasing.
I sensed that you were the sort of man who could whip me, and would whip me, if I were not pleasing.
I wonder if this is true.
Please do not be offended.
It is just a thought.
Were you to come for me in the house tonight, carrying a lamp, you would find me in Room Twenty-Seven. There are many such rooms, it seems. I did not know that before. Climb the steel steps and stand on the narrow, steel walkway. I will be on tier three, in cage two. You need not worry about not finding me there. I will be locked within. In the light of your lamp, I would awaken, and perform obeisance before you. If I do not immediately awaken, strike the bars, or prod me. That is what the guards would do.
Am I a worthless slave?
I suppose it is true.
But how could I, from my world and background, my warpings and distortions, my terrible Puritanical conditionings, my negativities, compete with exuberant, sexually liberated, sexually free, collared beauties native to this world?
But I must try, Master.
I am told that Earthwomen make good slaves. I shall strive desperately to be such.
A worthless slave,
Linda
En'Kara, Twenty-Fifth Day
Master:
I am longing for a master, I am longing for my master, who is Rask of Harfax. I hope he will be kind to me, but firm, as well. I know I need discipline. And Gorean men, I am certain, will supply it. Some masters are doubtless harsh, and some perhaps excessively severe. That makes me afraid. That is a frightening thought. We, as slaves, are so vulnerable!
I wonder what my master will be like.
One wonders, one is afraid.
It is my hope that he will not be too harsh, or too severe. But I would prefer him to be terribly harsh, or even terribly severe, to being weak. I want him to be firm, categorical, uncompromising,
absolutely uncompromising
, and strong. I want to be in no doubt that I am truly his slave. We want to fear our masters, as well as love them. How else can we be their slaves? We wish to know that we have no alternative other than to obey instantly and unquestioningly, and with perfection.
How else could we so fully serve them, and so fully love them, and so helplessly and joyfully yield to themâwith the unmitigated rapture of the totally conquered, totally owned, helplessly ravished slave?
I am the sort of girl who needs someone to keep her in line. I must toe the mark, if necessary, fearfully.
And, I am informed by the men of this house, my keepers and trainers, that I need have no fear on this count, that no Gorean master will leave that matter to chance!
I entertain that intelligence with apprehension, but anticipation.
I long to cry out, to moan, to gasp, to scream, to weep my submission to my master!
Who is this Rask of Harfax?
Some of the keepers know this Rask of Harfax. Perhaps they have worked with him. They assure me that he will make me “crawl well.” His discipline is apparently strict, and uncompromising. I hope I will not be punished frequently. I will surely try to please him, with the all of me, with my body, my hands, my fingers, my lips, my tongue, my hairâand with my mind, my imagination, my emotions, and my heart, and my soul, all of me! After all, I am his. He owns me.
As a female slave, I would be less than his dog.
I will try to serve him well.
Surely he does not know me personally, and will have no reason to “pay me back” for anything, no reason to exact any revenge upon me, now that I am a vulnerable, helpless, defenseless slave.
I will be a stranger to him, and he will know nothing of me other than my appearance. Presumably he will have passed on that, somewhere, personally or from photographs, perhaps from video film. He may not even remember approving my acquisition, perhaps by no more than putting a check by my name on a collection order.
How fearful it would be, if he had known me! How much I would have to pay for! If a great deal were known about me, the things I did and said, and tried to do, at the magazine, and elsewhere, I fear that I would be in considerable jeopardy, and would be due for, as well as would richly deserve, much punishment. Hopefully he will know nothing of such things. Hopefully he will seldom beat me. Perhaps I must be beaten at times, if only to remind me that I am a slave, but I hope, on the whole, as I shall serve him to the best of my ability, doing all I can to please him, that he will be an understanding and tolerant master, and will not hurt me.
I do not want to be hurt.
I want to be owned, and to love. I want to love him with the helpless, vulnerable, glorious wonders of a slave's love.
I long to meet my master, my beloved master, he who owns me, wholly, he whose I am. It is my hope he will soon come for me, or that I will be hooded, and taken to him. I long for his chains. I want to kiss his whip. I would beg to do so. I want him to use it on me, if he wishes. I am totally his. I want him to strip me, to lock my hands behind my back in slave bracelets. I want to kneel before him, and serve him.
I see that a tear has fallen on the page. I hope that I will not be punished for that. I do not think I shall be. If I am, I must accept the punishment unquestioningly, making no objection, for I am a female slave.
That is appropriate for a female slave. To go fearfully, weepingly, tremblingly, unquestioningly, to the cuffs. Does that shock you?
Let me shock you further.
Linda embraces her bondage. Looking upon her branded thigh she rejoices. She treasures her brand. She loves her collar. She now respects men, and knows them as the master sex. She desires that they be so, for without that she cannot fulfill her womanhood. She takes pleasure in submission, in kneeling and serving.
She has been made a slave. It is right for her. Her bondage is precious to her. She wants it. She loves it!
How you, of Earth, must scorn her for that!
But what can you know of these things, you, a man, and one of Earth?
Ah, yes, you are a man of Earth!
You have been informed as to what a woman must be, as I was, as well. Who decided that, I wonder, and with what purpose in mind.
How disappointed then you must be in me. What has become of that proud, privileged, independent, free female, I do not say “woman,” you were supposed to esteem, respect, and, too, hurriedly advance? She has surely fallen far short of the political criteria of your culture.
No longer does she conform to external criteria, imposed from without, but rather, now, to the internal songs of her awakened heart.
You are a man of Earth!
So despise me, hold me in contempt, scorn me as you might “the dust beneath your feet”! All these things, if you wish. I do not object. And it would not matter if I did. Too, I accept it. It is fitting. I am a slave.