Norman Invasions (32 page)

“I would not permit myself to be exhibited, not well!” she said. “I would never present myself—as a slave!”

“You will do your best to be attractive, to exhibit yourself well, to strive to prove you are desirable goods—
on the block
.”

“No,” she said, “no.”

“But, yes,” he said, “The auctioneer's whip, if nothing else, will see to that.”

“Whip!”

“If you are a pleasing slave, a truly pleasing slave, you will doubtless seldom feel its stroke, though you may find that your master will occasionally bind and whip you, if only to remind you that you are a slave. It is not well, you understand, for a girl to forget that.”

“How dare you speak to me as you have!” she cried. “Worthless!” she cried. “Sluts? For sale! How dare you! How dare you!”

“To be sure, I perhaps misspoke myself. You must have some value. After all, have I not put capture straps upon your wrists? It seems you cannot remove them. You will doubtless be worth at least a pittance,
as merchandise
. Yes, I assure you, and doubtless for the first time in your life, you will be good for something. You will no longer be merely an embarrassing, meaningless encumbrance on society. You will have an exact role and position in society, a very precise identity, then as much a part of you and as inalterable as the very corpuscles of your body. You will learn fear and be humbled. You will be grateful to be permitted to live. You will be well worked, quite well worked, I assure you, and you will exist for the service and pleasure of a master. You will learn to kneel, and belly, and to lick, and kiss, and beg.”

“Never!” she cried.

He smiled.

“As other worthless Earth sluts,” he said.

“‘Sluts'!”

“Yes.” he said. “Sluts, like yourself, exciting, delicious females, curvaceous wenches, fascinating, cuddly beasts, women of the sort who should be collared, women who belong in the collar, women for whom slavery is their liberation and redemption, women for whom the gift and honor of slavery is far better than they deserve.”

“—Sale?”

“Such is common with slaves,” said he.

“I, to be sold—
sold
?”

“Yes,” he said, “to the highest bidder, as what you will be, as livestock.”

She shook her head, wildly. Tears were in her eyes. “Let me go!” she wept. “Please! Please!” she wept.

“Perhaps you would consider begging,” he speculated.

“Yes, yes!” she cried.

“Should you not then be on your knees, or belly?” he asked. “Do not fear. I will give you sufficient slack on the leash.”

She flung herself to her belly before him, in the cool air, and in the fall, crackling leaves, and began to press her lips, again and again, fervently, to his boots. “Please!” she wept. “Please!”

He drew her up to her knees by the leash. And her face, tear-stained, the leash taut, was uplifted to him.

“No,” he said.

“But I have begged!” she whispered.

“And rather nicely,” he said, for an untrained slut.”

He then jerked her up to her feet, before him.

“Tears, pleadings, and such,” said he, “will avail you naught. You are not now dealing with the common run of the men of Earth, broken and subdued, acculturated weaklings, conditioned to pliability, trained to respond solicitously to the least of a female's absurd vagaries, but with men of another world, to whom no guerdon was sufficient to recompense them for the surrender of their sovereignty.”

“Let me go,” she said. “I—I will let you kiss me!”

He laughed, dryly.

She turned white.

“Really?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “yes!”

“You bargain?”

“Yes!”

He drew her by the coiled leash to him, closely, and she pursed her lips, but he thrust her back, rudely, suddenly, some six inches, to the end of the tether, as he held it.

“No bargain,” said he, smiling. “Men do not bargain with slaves. On Gor you would doubtless be beaten, whipped well, and then fastened in a punishment tie, perhaps for hours, for the very suggestion.”

She regarded him, frightened, her eyes wide.

“You may be kissed if and when men please,” he said. “And you will learn to kiss, and to kiss properly, and to kiss as commanded, and to beg to kiss a man, intimately, and variously, as befits a slave.”

“Please,” she murmured.

“And in time,” he said, “you will not only desire to please a man, but, unbidden and uncoerced, you will need to do so.”

She lifted her bound wrists before her mouth, shaking her head, weakly.

“There is no escape for you, no rescue for you,” he said. “The matter has been decided. You were selected six months ago.”

She regarded him, startled, frightened, beginning to understand.

“Did you suspect nothing?”

“No,” she said.

“Amusing,” he said.

“But I wondered sometimes,” she said. “I wondered—.”

“Of course,” he said. “You see, you did suspect.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“Women are sensitive,” he said. “That is one reason they make such excellent slaves. You will learn to well read the subtlest moods of a master. Your life might depend upon it.”

“I was ‘selected,'” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“But when, how?”

“Perhaps from time to time,” he said, “doubtless from place to place.”

She looked at him.

“Perhaps you recall a certain boutique, a particular clerk?”

“He?”

“Perhaps.” he said, “or perhaps a cab driver, a security guard, a workman, a mechanic, a waiter, a delivery man, perhaps a fellow on a subway, or one at a bus stop, or that fellow on the platform of a commuter railroad, or that one seemingly waiting for the cab from which you emerged, that fellow with an attaché case, or perhaps another, that one standing a bit too close to you, in an elevator?”

“It could have been anyone,” she said.

“Yes, and perhaps more than one. You were selected. You have been, in effect, a slave for several months, without realizing it.”

“Sometimes I feared this, in my dreams.”

“I am doing no more now than picking you up.”

“I haven't seen you before, have I?”

“No,” he said. “Nor I you. There is no connection between us, other than our present relationship. He, or those, who selected you may see you on Gor, and perhaps even, if they wish, keep you as a gift, or buy you privately, or bid on you at your first sale. I understand that you were rather unpleasant with a particular fellow, perhaps it was the clerk at the boutique. If he was your selector, or one of them, perhaps you will soon find yourself his slave, and under his whip. Or perhaps he merely thought you obviously suitable for a slave, but not one worthy of his own collar.”

“I thought him weak,” she whispered.

“Perhaps he was not as weak as you surmised, when you tried to bully and intimidate him, taking advantage of his supposed vulnerable and lowly position. Men of Gor on Earth sometimes feign weakness, in order to abet a disguise, in order to the better blend in with the common Earth male. And sometimes they pretend to weakness in order to draw out vain, despicable behaviors in a female, behaviors which on Gor will be not only radically and perfectly corrected, but literally extirpated.”

“You have not seen me before?”

“No, but I approve the selection.”

“What have you there?” she said.

“It is a small vessel, vial-like. I shall hold it beneath your nose, and you will shortly lose consciousness. You will awaken, some days from now, in a Gorean slave pen.”

She tried to pull away, but his left arm held her close to him. She struggled a little, helplessly. “Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, “—
Master
.”

She then felt herself being taken gently into his arms, and lifted, and was aware, through the trees, of a white van, to which she was being carried.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered, “—
Master
,
Master
,
Master
,” and then lost consciousness.

Note: The following two conversations may be of interest. The first is apparently reconstructed in part from surveillance, and, in part, it seems, from stenographic notes. It is not easy to tell. I have, at any rate, seen no film, nor recording, connected with it. Beyond this, at certain points, it seems, rather clearly, to have been supplemented, presumably later, by the personal memories of the participants, particularly one of them, that with respect to internal attitudes, emotional responses, and such. The second conversation is reconstructed from a stenographic transcription of a recording, one which, to my interest, I was permitted to hear. The first conversation seems to have taken place, I would conjecture, on our own world. The mention of a supermarket, and such, seems to make that clear. The second conversation seems interestingly related to the first, particularly with respect to its theme, and the supposition, or speculation, that somewhere a natural world might exist, one in which both men and women, in their diverse ways, find their freedom, and meaning. In short, the second conversation seems to have taken place, at least allegedly, on a world quite different from, and one yet not unrelated to, our own. Happily both conversations are in English. The participants in neither of the conversations have been identified, nor have I asked that they be identified.. The privacy of the first two, in any case, is to be respected, given the fanaticism, tyranny, and intolerance of contemporary puritanical ideologies. And the privacy of the second two, it seems, for obvious reasons, cannot but be respected, regardless of one's wishes, or views, on the matter. They are beyond the reach, it seems, at least if the recording is what it seems to be, of the small, stained, filed teeth, and poisoned claws of the bigots, the moral cretins and sexual retardates, the would-be Torquemadas, Cromwells, and Robespierres, of our time. It would be nice to think that somewhere, somehow, beyond the watch towers and prison gates, there are fields of untrodden grass, and an enlivened place where uncontaminated, fresh winds still blow. Perhaps one day the Earth will be reborn. It would be nice to see it again green, and alive. I would probably, of course, if I were to hear them again, recognize the voices in the second conversation, but then it does not seem likely that I, considering the circumstances, and the possibility that the conversation is what it seems to be, am likely to have that pleasure. I present the two conversations without further comment, and encourage the reader to consider them, and form his own judgment, as he sees fit.

I wish you well.

—John Norman.

“You seem uneasy, distraught,” he observed.

She shrugged.

“You have now come to grips with some insight?” he suggested.

“I don't know,” she said.

“I shall tell you,” he said. “The insight is that you know, in your heart, that you belong to me, that you are mine.”

“I do not know what you are saying,” she said.

“Obviously you do,” he said.

“No!” she said.

“Surely you understand what you are, and what you want.”

“I don't understand.”

“Is it all that unclear—really?”

“And what am I?”

One whose identity and nature are clear, one whose very reality is obvious, one who should belong, and who rightfully belongs, totally, to another.”

“Belong?”

“Yes.”

“I do not understand.”

“You do not know what you are?”

“No.”

“You are, my dear, what you have in your heart feared to acknowledge, and what you know in your inmost heart you desire to be, and what in your inmost heart you know yourself to truly be—a slave.”

“No!”

“And that is what you want, and want with all your heart, to be precisely what you are, a slave.”

“No, no!”

“But in our world your slave instincts, your slave needs, are unfulfilled. They languish.”

“How absurd!”

“Beware, girl, that remark may cost you.”

“
Girl
!”

“Yes,
Girl
.”

“Cost me?”

“Certainly.”

“I am not afraid of you!”

“I hope that you are not stupid.”

“I am not stupid!”

“Perhaps then you should be afraid.”

“How insulting you are! I shall leave immediately!”

“The door is open. I see you hesitate. “Surely you understand that that is what you want—to be a slave—and that that is what you are—a slave.”

“Surely not!” she cried, aghast.

“Oh?” he asked.

“Surely not,” she stammered.

“You are blushing,” he said.

She looked down, flustered.

“Why did you come to see me?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said.

“I shall tell you,” he said. “You saw in my eyes, in the supermarket, that I was one who knew how to handle women, how to treat them—as they wish to be treated, and need to be treated.”

“No!” she said.

“And that is why you followed me, as a slave girl her master.”

“No!” she said. “It was the way I was going!”

“Do you think lying is acceptable in a slave?”

Fear came into her eyes.

“And I turned and confronted you, and you were frightened. I gave you my card, and told you when to present yourself—three days later, and not before, that you might have time to think about things, to consider, carefully, what you are doing, and what you want, and need.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And here you are,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Look deeply into your heart,” he said. “Are you a man's slave?”

“No!” she said. “Of course not!”

“You have now lied twice to me,” he said. “You will be whipped for that.”

She looked at him, in anguish.

“You do not speak. At least you do not lie. Look into your heart, your inmost heart, into your dreams, into your loveliest and most exciting dreams, into your sweet, hidden secrets, your deepest and loveliest secrets, nurtured so long in loneliness and silence. Surely you have longed to be bared before a master, completely, to know that you belong to him, fully, uncompromisingly, to feel every vulnerable, exposed inch of your soft, beautiful body enflamed with vulnerability and desire, to feel your lovely body burning with its meaning? Have you never been curious to know what it might be to be a submitted female, one truly submitted? Have you never in your dreams, in vulnerable passion, found yourself helplessly, and choicelessly, absolutely, before a master? Surely you have wondered what it would be to kneel at the feet of a man, one who owns you, and put your head down humbly, and press your soft lips to his boots? Does he so desire you that he has had you branded? Do you wear his collar? Have you never desired, truly, fearfully, to be at last handled and treated as you know is right for you, handled and treated as you know you deserve to be handled and treated, and need to be handled and treated, and desire to be handled and treated?”

“Please, mercy!”

“Look deeply into your heart,” he commanded. “Are you a slave?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Were you given the permission of a free man this morning, to clothe yourself?” he inquired.

“No,” she said.

“Disrobe then, immediately, and kneel before me,” he said.

She looked at him, in consternation.

“Do not dally,” he said. “Obedience is to be instantaneous.”

Hurriedly she removed her clothing, and knelt before him.

She was then utterly exposed, utterly, helplessly, before this lithe, powerful, dominating, fully clothed stranger. She felt terribly vulnerable.

He was the most attractive man she had ever seen, handsome, powerful, virile, masterful.

She had not realized such men could exist.

And she was on her knees, utterly stripped, utterly exposed, completely and vulnerably naked, before him

What, she wondered, could a woman be, but a slave before such a man. Indeed, in what other modality would a man such as he accept a woman, but as something he owned, a vulnerable, curvaceous, delicious property, over which he held absolute power?

And better to be, a thousand times, she thought, the abject slave of such a man than the honored, pampered, petulant, irritable, whining, dissatisfied darling of another.

“Spread your knees,” he said.

She did so. She supposed that it was thus that slaves, or slaves of a certain sort, knelt before free men, masters.

“You are a slave?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Who is your master?” he asked.

“I have no master,” she whispered.

“Then you are at present an unclaimed slave?”

“Yes,” she said.

“In Merchant Law,” said he, “an unclaimed slave may be claimed by any free person.”

She looked up at him from her knees, looked up into the eyes of a free person.

Never had she in this fashion looked into the eyes of another Never had she so looked into the eyes of another, not in this fashion, not as a slave. And, too, never before, she was sure, had she been so looked upon, looked upon as what she now was, as a slave.

Then, suddenly, she began to tremble, to shake. She feared she might faint. His look was such upon her that she was terrified to meet his gaze. She feared, even kneeling, that she might lose her balance, and fall to the rug before him. Had any man, ever, she wondered, so looked upon a woman, so clearly, so fixedly, so severely, so uncompromisingly? How he saw her! How she was seen by him! It seemed to her then that she could not possibly sustain that gaze. It was too terrible, too fixed, too burning, too powerful! Then, suddenly, whimpering, overcome, shuddering, frightened, she thrust her head down, daring no longer to meet those eyes. No longer could she bear the intensity, the ferocity, of that fearsome connection, eye to eye, mind to mind, body to body.

“Look at me, now!” he snapped.

Moaning, she lifted her head. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, even though her head was lifted to him, and then she fearfully opened her eyes, knowing that she must do so. She winced, and gasped.

“Do not look away,” he said.

She struggled to hold her position, and not to cry out and throw herself miserably, helplessly, to the floor before him.

“Do not look away,” he told her. “You are going to be claimed.”

It was as though she was gazing into the eyes of a predatory beast, whose vulnerable prey she might instantly prove to be, as into the eyes of human tiger lusting for the meat of her flesh, which she understood by his power he would make his, possessing it totally as he pleased, looking into his eyes as might a paralyzed, roped beautiful captive, one hoping to be spared, on any terms, into the eyes of a conquering master.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. How hard it was for her to even articulate sound at such a time.

“Look at me!”

“Yes.”

“You are going to be claimed. Do you understand?”

“—Yes.”

“I claim you,” he said, clearly, utterly matter-of-factly, decisively.

It was done, she knew. She had been claimed!

She could not move before him. Her entire being seemed irradiated by, and transformed, as it was, by those simple words. She gasped, and made tiny, helpless sounds, and trembled.

He was then merciful, and said, “You may lower your eyes.”

She sobbed, an exhalation of relief so sudden, so explosive, so hitherto pent up, so profound that it shook her entire small, lovely body, and then, overcome, unable to help herself, she fell from her knees to the carpet, humbled, trembling, helpless, before him, so grateful to have been permitted to look away from that pitiless gaze, so piteously thankful that the steel cord of his will had released her.

“You are now a claimed slave,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Kneel,” he said.

She struggled to kneel again before him.

She dared not raise her gaze higher than his knees.

“Whose slave are you?” he asked.

“I am your slave,” she said.

“‘I am your slave', what?” he asked.

“I am your slave,” she said, “—
Master
.”

“Put down your head and kiss my feet,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He let her minister thusly for some time, softly kissing his feet, until she well understood the nature of her condition.

“Hereafter,” he said, “you may not clothe yourself without the permission of the master. Further, if you wish to speak, other than acknowledging your understanding of your instructions, and such, you must request permission to do so. That permission may or may not be granted. It is within the discretion of the master. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Your body must be kept clean, and attractive,” he said. “A slave may not be slovenly. She must strive to please the master, in all ways.
In all ways
. She is to be docile, subservient, and compliant. Her obedience, of course, must be complete, perfect, and instantaneous. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“She may upon occasion,” said he, “be granted some respite, a bit of lenience, should it amuse the master, to cry out, to complain, to challenge, to plead, to beg, but this latitude, at a word, may be withdrawn, and she will be returned instantly to the state of abject servitude, that of unquestioning, unconditional subservience. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“She is still, of course, even at such times, his total slave.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Too, you must understand,” he said, “that it is the whole of you that is owned, your body, your emotions, your mind, all of you. You are owned—
totally
. Do you understand this?”