Vagabonds of Gor (39 page)

I discarded my tunic and accouterments.

"Oh!" she cried, seized, held helplessly. "I am a free woman!" she cried, protestingly.

I cried out, exultantly.

"You cannot do this to a free woman!" she informed me. "Oh!"

Again I cried out. There were tears in my eyes. I tried not to make so much noise. I did not want rencers, or animals, to be attracted to the island.

She squirmed, and struggled. She reared up, on her elbows, in the sand.

Again I uttered the intensity of my relief, my pleasure, my satisfaction.

How long it had been since I had had a woman!

"I am a free woman," she sobbed. But she was held helplessly on her belly in the sand, as in a vise.

"Aiii," I said, softly.

"Let me go!" she screamed.

"Do not make so much noise," I said.

"I?" she said, in fury.

"Hold still," I said.

"I have little choice," she said, angrily.

"Do not forget you are a captive," I said.

"No," she said.

"No, what?" I asked.

"No, captor!" she said, in fury.

I suppose she had little pleasure in this, at least at the time, and perhaps I should have been a bit more concerned for her than I was, as she was a free woman, and not a mere slave, but, frankly, I was not much in a mood to concern myself with her feelings. Does a thirsting man in the Tahari concern himself with the feelings of the water with which he at last slakes his thirst? Does a starving man in Torvaldsland concern himself with the feelings of the viands on which he at last feasts?

I continued to hold her, tightly. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath.

It is interesting, I thought, how if one is starved for sex, and nothing better is about, one may have recourse even to a free woman. Perhaps, I thought, that is why many free women wish to keep men starved for sex, that they will then continue to be of interest to him. This is very different from the slave girl, incidentally, whose sexuality has been so liberated, triggered and honed, that she is now the helpless victim of her needs, so much so that she often begs her master for his attentions.

"Oh!" she said.

"Ah!" I said, softly.

Again I received pleasure from her.

Then I was again quiet, she helpless in my grasp. She sobbed.

"Can you stand it?" I inquired.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" she asked. "No," I said.

"Sleen!" she said. "Sleen!"

"It is not necessary to talk now," I said. "Release me," she said.

"No," I said.

"Please," she said, a strange note in her voice.

"Why?" I asked. "Are you afraid you may begin to feel?"

"No," she said. "Of course not!"

"But you are already beginning to feel," I said.

"No," she said. "No!"

I felt her body move a little, helplessly. This gave me pleasure.

I wished she were a slave.

Free women are so inferior to slaves.

One of the great pleasures of making love to a slave is the uncompromising exploitation of her marvelous sexual sensitivities, her helplessnesses, they putting her so much in your power, enabling you to do with her as you please and obtain from her what you want. She may be brought up and down, as you please, at your will, at your mercy, and played like an instrument. She may, if you wish, be held short of her ecstasy, cruelly, if you desire, or, in a moment, with a touch, granted it. There are few sights so exciting and beautiful as a helplessly orgasmic slave crying out her submission and love.

"You are moving," I said.

"It is hard to help it," she said.

"I do not object," I said.

"Monster!" she said.

"You are doing it again," I said.

"It is my body that is doing it!" she said. "Perhaps it is curious," I said, "hungry for sensation." She made an angry sound. Her head was down, and turned, her cheek in the sand. Her fists were at the sides of her head, clenched.

"Oh!" she said. I laughed.

Now her head was up. Her shoulders were lifted. Much of her weight was on her forearms, in the sand. Her fists were still clenched. Her body was tense. It was beautifully vital, and alive.

"I have not known men such as you," she said, "who do as they please with women."

"Were you a slave," I said, "you would have known many."

"Oh!" she said.

"Perhaps you should try not to move," I said.

"I will try not to move," she said, angrily. "You may rest assured of that!"

"You are doing it again," I said. She cried out, angrily.

"You must be careful," I said, "or you might arouse me."

"No, no!" she said. "Excellent," I said. "No!" she said. "Very good!" I said.

"No, please no!" she said. "Oh!" she said. "Oh!"

"Aii!" I said, suddenly, and, in the grip of my reflexes, in my spasmodic tumult, spun about, twisting, rolling in the sand, carrying her lightly, helplessly, with me, as though she might be a doll, and sand scattered about, and she, too, gasped, and then again we lay in the sand as we had before, she as helplessly as ever in my grasp, near, too, where we had before.

She was covered with sweat, and sand, as I. Her hair was about. Her hands were out, over her head, in the sand.

"You treat me as though I were a slave," she said. I did not respond to her.

She had, actually, very little idea as to how a slave might be treated.

"I am not a plaything," she said, sullenly.

"Women are many things," I said, "among them is a plaything."

"I am your plaything," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"When I was bound on the pole and you had touched me, as you put it, in the manner of the master, you apologized to me, and asked my forgiveness, do you recall?"

"Yes," I said.

"You were mocking me, weren't you?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"You are very strong," she said. I did not answer.

"I did not know such power, such lust, could exist," she said.

"But twice before," I said, "you have been known by men."

"I am not even sure, now," she said, "that they were men."

"I would suppose they were men," I said. "Perhaps, on the other hand, it was you who were not the woman."

"I do not understand," she said.

"Were you submissive to them, in the order of nature?" I asked.

"Of course not," she said. "I am a free woman!"

"Perhaps your experiences might have been rather different," I said, "if you had stood to them in a somewhat different relationship, in a relationship more natural to the female."

"I do not understand," she said.

"Consider what your experiences might have been," I said, "had you been their captive, or, ideally, their slave."

"I see," she said, shuddering.

"Submission is appropriate for the female," I said.

"No!" she said. "Yes," she said, softly sobbing.

"Yes," I said.

"But you do not know these men," she said. "How could one submit to them? They were weaklings!"

"Perhaps they were weaklings, perhaps they were not," I said.

"They were!" she said.

"Then why did you admit them to your couch?" I asked.

She was silent.

"Perhaps you wanted males you could dominate, or did not need to fear?"

"I don't know," she said.

"But even to the weakling," I said, "it is appropriate to submit yourself, and fully."

She sobbed.

"In submitting yourself to him you submit yourself to the principle of masculinity, embodied in him. In this submission you recognize the rights of masculinity and fulfill yourself by submitting your femininity to it."

She shuddered in the sand, sobbing.

"To be sure," I said, "it is doubtless easier to do this, and to understand it much more quickly, if the master is strong, if he throws you to his feet, and stands over you with a whip, and you know that your least recalcitrance will not be tolerated."

"It is only to a true master that I could submit," she said, "not to a weakling."

"If you submit yourself, clearly and explicitly," I said, "you may discover that he whom you thought to be a weakling may not in actuality be such at all. Few men, once they have caught the scent of the mastery, and surely once they have tasted of its deliciousness, will even consider its surrender."

"I spoke too quickly," she said. "I myself could never submit to any man. I am a free woman! I could never make a slave!"

"But then," I said, "you have never felt the brand, the whip, the collar."

She was silent. But I felt her tremble, even contemplating such things.

"Slaves are institutionally submitted," I said.

"But they deserve to be such," said she, quickly. "They are only slaves."

"But yet you are in my grip, much as might be a slave," I said.

"I cannot help that," she said.

I tightened my grip a little on her.

"Are slaves often whipped?" she asked, as though nonchalantly.

"Why do you ask?" I asked.

"I was only curious," she said.

"They are whipped when the master pleases," I said.

"Of course," she said.

"Perhaps the answer does not satisfy you?" I said.

"I am a free woman," she said.

"Slaves are often whipped," I said, "--when they are not pleasing."

"But are they often whipped?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Because they are pleasing?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"I would never make a slave," she said. "But if I were to be a slave, I think I would try very hard to be pleasing."

"I am sure you would," I said.

"Beast," she said. I tightened my grip on her.

She squirmed a little, in the sand.