Beasts of Gor (43 page)

“Surely then you have no objection to a girl’s recognizing the objective truth that all men are scoundrels.”

“I suppose not,” I granted.

“How outrageous that such lovely creatures as I must come into the power of such scoundrels,” she said.

“I do not regard it as all that outrageous,” I said.

“But that is because you are a scoundrel,” she pointed out.

“Perhaps,” I admitted.

“But you are sometimes a nice scoundrel,” she said.

“We all have our weaker moments,” I admitted.

“I am not the first slave girl you have owned, am I?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Doubtless you have forced many girls to submit to your lust,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

“Bold scoundrel,” she said, “how I admire you doing what you want with us.”

‘That is a bold admission for an Earth girl,” I said.

“I am no longer an Earth girl,” she said. “I am a Gorean slave.”

“That is true,” I said. It was true.

I put my hand in her hair and turned her head to the side, to see the beauty of her profile.

“Strength in men, not weakness,” she said, “excites me. You are the strongest man I have ever known.”

“I am sure there are many men stronger than I,” I said.

“Physical strength,” she said, “is only a small part of what I mean, though it is not unimportant. I mean strength of will. Many men who are strong physically are spineless weaklings, tortured and dominated by women, and ideas. Women, despite what they may feel obligated to proclaim publicly, detest such men, for they betray their dominance, their genetic heritage as male primates, thus cheating not only themselves of the fulfillment of their nature but precluding the woman from also fulfilling hers. It is no wonder that women, in their helplessness and frustration, their own confusions, turn upon such men, hurting them and making them miserable. This, of course, causes such men, who do not understand the problem, to redouble their efforts to be accommodating and pleasing to the females, to give them whatever they want, and to reassure them of anything and everything they wish to hear. A vicious cycle is thus generated.”

“There is an escape from this cycle, of course,” I pointed out. “Not all human beings are idiots.”

“Yes,” she said.

“It is called manhood, and womanhood, and nature.”

“It is a long time since those of Earth recollected the many names of nature.”

“It is time again, perhaps,” I said, “to seek for her forgotten faces.”

“It will never be done on Earth,” she said.

“I do not know,” I said. “I think, perhaps, that some human beings, here and there, even in the midst of the suffering, even m the very countries of confusion and pathology, will create for themselves small islands of reality and truth.”

I turned her head again to face me.

“Perhaps,” she smiled. Her eyes were moist.

I removed my hand from her hair.

She looked up at me, and shook her head, and laughed. She touched the leather strap on her throat with her small fingers.

“Do you find me of interest, Master?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“How can a girl who is only a slave be of interest?” she asked.

“Your question is foolish,” I said. “All men desire a slave, or slaves. It is their nature. Thus, that a woman is a slave, even m itself, makes her extraordinarily interesting. Her slavery in itself, apart from her intelligence or beauty, is found extremely provocative and exciting to the male, because of his nature.”

“But aren’t free women more interesting?” she asked.

“All women are interesting,” I said. “But consider the matter objectively. Anything that was interesting about you when you were free remains interesting about you now. But now you are additionally interesting because you are in helpless bondage. Too, slavery, because of its relation to a female’s genetic predispositions, tends to free her to be herself, rather than an imitator of male-type values. It frees her individuality by liberating her from the necessities of pretense. Too, slavery, by removing certain inhibitions and demands alien to a female’s deepest nature generally results in an increase in her beauty and energy; she is no longer as constricted and miserable, and needs no longer spend energy fighting to suppress herself and her natural desires, surely a grotesque and pathological misapplication of effort, a tragic waste of time and energy. That the girl, thus, becomes more beautiful and energetic does not, of course, diminish her interest. Indeed, similarity, routine, identity, boredom, those things which tend to make a woman less interesting, tend often to be functions of widespread conformances to externally imposed demands and images. It is thus that the free woman, though interesting, being female, is usually, sadly, a bound prisoner of her own prejudices, a rigid, constricted, ideologically restrained organism, an imitator of images and stereotypes alien to her own nature, a puppet obedient to principles foreign to herself. How can a woman be free until she obeys the laws of her own nature?”

“I do not know,” said Arlene.

“Interest, of course, is somewhat subjective,” I admitted. “Some men may prefer neurotic frustrated, rigid, imitative, conforming free women, mouthing the correct slogans and adopting the correct views on all matters, and eager to slander all who disagree with her, but other men, perhaps naive types, would just as soon own an intelligent, beautiful, reflective, loving slave, a girl who thinks for herself, but must nonetheless obey him, regardless of her will, in all things. The matter seems a simple one. Let men choose between such women. Let men choose between them, between the stereotype and the truth, between the pain and the pleasure, between the unhappy and the happy, between the tasteless and the delicious, between sickness and health, between suffering and joy.”

She looked up at me.

“But regardless of the truth in these matters,” I said, “you are objectively my slave. Thus, whether you are or are not of interest is not really much to the point. Whether you are of more or less interest than your duller sisters in their intellectual cages congratulating themselves on how free they are is not important What is important is that I own you. From my point of view I find you, and girls like you, far more interesting than your smug sisters. They seem generally much alike, even in their mode of dress, and tend in their thinking and conversation, because of their conditioning, to be repetitiously similar. Free women, though they need not be, are often boring. Who does not know, for example, what a female ‘intellectual’ will think on a given topic, provided it is a topic on which agreement is expected?”

“I am, then, of interest?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“A girl is pleased,” she said.

“I found you of interest when you were free,” I said, “and I find you of much greater interest now.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Part of this,” I said, “is doubtless that I now can, and will, do with you exactly as I please.”

“Oh, Master?” she asked.

“There is a sense, of course,” I said, “in which you are supposedly of less interest than a free woman.”

“What is that,” she asked, “Master.”

“Suppose,” I said, “that I was, in my compartments, entertaining a free woman. In such a situation you would be expected to efface yourself, and humbly serve. You would not speak unless you were spoken to, and then presumably only to respond deferentially to commands. You would remain in the background, a mere imtrument to serve us. In no way would you in the slightest be permitted to detract from the impression or effect the free woman desires to create or compete with her in any way. You would be nothing in the room but an almost invisible convenience.”

“I see,” she said.

“And yet this is all on the surface,” I said, “and largely a matter of theory.”

“Oh, Master?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “for in the depth of the situation your presence is felt profoundly by the free woman. Indeed, she will hate you with a ferocity which is difficult for you to understand. For you are a reproach, in the depths of your womanhood, to her superficiality. There is more excitement she knows in your slightest movement, the turning of your head, the tiny movement of a wrist or finger, that of a girl in bondage, than in her entire, tight, proud, righteous body. She can never touch you in the profundity of your existence and reality unless sometime she, too, should loam what it is to be only a collared slave. She knows that you have found your womanhood and she has not Thus she hates you. She knows the free man is anxious for her to leave that he may hurry you, his slave, to the furs. Thus she hates you. It is you whom he has put in his collar, not her. It is you he rapes in his arms, not her. It is thus that she despises and hates you. She must rise and leave. You wili remain, and serve. She hates you, and, with a depth and intensity which is diffictilt for you to understand, envies you.”

“But why?” she asked.

“Because you are a slave,” I said.

“I see,” she said.

“Thus,” I said, “that is a situation in which a free woman is theoretically of more interest than a slave, but, upon closer analysis, the center of interest, even in such a situation, because of her latency, her womanhood, her helplessness, what can be done with her, is the slave.”

“I see,” she said.

“Beware of free women,” I smiled.

“Yes,” she said, “I think I would be very afraid of them.”

“And you should be,” I said. ‘They can often be terribly cruel to slave girls.”

“I do fear them,” she said.

“Speaking of who is of interest and who is not,” I said, “what of you, lovely slave, and men?”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Do you find men now that you are a slave more or less interesting than when you were free?” I asked.

She looked at me, startled. “I find them now a thousand times more interesting,” she said, surpilsed.

“Of course,” I said.

“I look at them,” she said, “and I wonder what it would be like to be owned by them, or touched by them. I never looked at men so deeply or closely, or fearfully, before. I am now so sensitive to my slavery, and my vulnerability to men. Now, for the first time in my life, they seem to me of profound importance and interest. You see, they can own me, and I might have to serve them.”

“Does your slavery make men more sexually interesting to you?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said, “a million times more so than when I was free. I know I might have to serve their pleasure. Too, now, with many men, I find myself wanting to serve their pleasure. When I was free I could never kneel to a man and beg him for his touch. Now that I am a slave I could do so. I would need fear only whether or not you would permit it, for you are my master.”

I looked down at her. She was very beautiful.

“My sexuality has been liberated by my slavery,” she said. “It is now a force within me.” She looked at me, chidingly, reproachfully. “You freed it,” she said. “What am I now to do? It is a joy and a torment” She clutched my arms. “It makes me helpless,” she said. She looked up at me, angrily. “You have made me so I now need the touch of men,” she said. “I hate you!” Then, her nails digging into my arms, she said, “Touch me!”

I looked down at her.

“You did this to me,” she said. “You made me a slave girl. You made me a slave girl!”

“Of course,” I said.

“Touch me, Master,” she whimpered.

“Do you beg it?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “Arlene, your girl, Arlene, your slave, begs your touch!”

“Oh,” she sobbed. “Thank you, Master.”

“It is probably time for you to get up and serve me boiled meat,” I said.

“No, no, no, no,” she whimpered.

“But it can wait, I suppose,” I said.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are a hot slave,” I said.

“Please do not so speak of me,” she begged. Then she said, “Oh, no, please do not stop touching me. Please do not stop touching me.” Then she said, “Yes, yes, Master.”

“Are you a hot slave?” I asked.

She opened her eyes, writhing under my touch. She looked at me, angrily, defiantly. “Yes,” she gasped, “I am a hot slave!”

“I thought so,” I said.

“How you shame me!” she wept.

“A slave should be proud of her heat,” I said. “You are not a free woman, permitted to be smug in the icy conceit of her frigidity.”

She looked up at me.

“Writhe freely, Slave,” I said. “Yield to the sensations, or be whipped.”

“Would you truly whip me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I do not want to be whipped,” she said.

“Yield then to the sensations, as a slave girl,” I said.

“I dare not,” she cried.

“Yield, or die,” I said to her.

“Oh, oh!” she cried.

“Yield, as a slave girl, or die,” I said to her.

“Aiii,” she cried, throwing her head back in the dirt, her finger nails tearing at my arm. “Aiii!” she screamed wildly to the poles and the leather and the grass and dirt of the roof of that feasting house in the polar basin of Gor’s far north.

She began to sob uncontrollably. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears.

“You are a monster, a beast,” she said. I said nothing to her.

“You made me yield,” she said, “—as a slave girl.”

“Yes,” I said, “you have yielded as a slave girl.”

“Make me yield again as a slave girl, Master,” she begged.

“There are yieldings beyond those which you have as yet experienced,” I said.

“Can there be more?” she asked.

“You have not yet begun to learn your slavery,” I said.

She looked up at me. “Your girl awaits your pleasure, Master,” she said.

“Do you desire to serve me?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “very much.”

I lay beside her and she bent over me, her lips and mouth to my body. I felt her small, warm tongue.

She stopped, and looked up at me. “Surely I am now a complete slave,” she said.

“You have not yet begun to learn your slavery,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, bending her head down again. I felt her tongue, and that lovely auburn hair, on my body.