Explorers of Gor (52 page)

“You do not respond properly,” she smiled.

“Is your criterion for being treated as an object that men do not agree with you?” I asked. “If so, that is somewhat obtuse.”

“I suppose perhaps it is,” she said. “If men do not do what we want, then they, so to speak, have not listened to us or paid attention to our feelings.”

“That is a very interesting way of thinking,” I admitted. “By the same token, if women did not pay close attention to the wishes of men and comply with their desires, then men might be entitled to regard themselves as being treated as objects.”

“How silly,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“It is hard to talk with you about these things,” she said.

“I think so,” I said.

“You are not familiar with the slogans,” she said.

“That is perhaps it,” I admitted.

“I shall try again,” she said.

“Do so,” I encouraged her.

“Men,” she said, “are only interested in women’s bodies.”

“I have never known a man who was only interested in a woman’s body,” I said. “This is not to deny that some such unusual person might somewhere exist.”

She looked at me.

“If what you say is true,” I said, “it would be the case that it would make no difference to a’ man whether the woman with whom he was relating was conscious or not. Indeed, if what you say is true, it should not even make a difference to him whether he held a sentient woman in his arms or an unconscious mechanism designed to resemble such a woman. I submit, with all due respect, that that is not only libelous, but preposterous. Surely no rational person, male or female, if they took a moment to reflect, could entertain so peculiar a hypothesis. No man with whom I am familiar would be content with a woman who lacked consciousness. That sort of thing is simply stupid. It seems to me it would even have limited propaganda value.”

“The men of Earth can be confused and terrorized by such assertions,” she said.

“Some, perhaps,” I said, “idiots.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But such assertions can be politically effective.”

“Yes,” I agreed. ‘The trick is to make a charge so obviously false or hopelessly vague that your interlocutor, who is usually concerned to be polite and congenial, makes a fool of himself trying to treat it seriously. It is a little like the fellow who tries to respond to the charge that he is a mad sleen by discussing the results of his blood tests.”

“Perhaps what is meant,” she said, “is that men do not pay sufficient attention to the thinking and feelings of women.”

“That is a totally different charge,” I said, “and one that may well be true.”

She looked at me.

“It is a common property of human beings,” I said, “that they, for better or for worse, do not pay much attention to the thoughts and feelings of others. Thus, it would not be surprising if most men did not pay much attention to the thoughts and feelings of women. If it is any consolation, they do not pay much attention to the thoughts and feelings of other men either. Similar remarks, of course, hold for women. Many women, for example, are excellent in not listening to others. No one sex has a monopoly on dogmatism.” I looked at her. “If you are interested in this sort of thing from the Gorean viewpoint,” I said, “free men and women are usually attentive to the thoughts and feelings of one another. Not only are they free, but they may even share a Home Stone. Free women, in being free, command attention when they speak. It is their due. The case with slaves, such as you, my dear, is of course much different. The difference, however, is that respect and attention is not due to you, that it need not be accorded to you. You are slave. In actual practice, of course, masters tend to pay a great deal of attention to the thoughts and feelings of their lovely slaves. It is rewarding and delicious to do so. How wonderful it is to know another human being so intimately, especially one one owns. There are no secrets between masters and slaves. Her deepest thoughts and desires, as well as her most trivial fancies and observations, are open to him and, because he owns her, of great interest to him. A man is much more likely to be in-tensely fond of a girl he owns than of a free individual toward whom he stands in a mere contractual relationship. The latter he does not own; the former he does. The owned girl is a valuable; she is precious; this makes her much different from a business partner. For what it is worth, the most intimate and deepest loves I have know have been between masters and their slaves, that between the love master and his love slave.”

“But the woman is still a slave,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “totally and categorically. She may even be sold, if he wills.”

‘The attention and love such a girl obtains,” she said, “need not be accorded to her.”

“No,” I said. “It is a gift of the master.”

“He could, at any point,” she said, “simply order her to silence and put her to his feet.”

“Of course,” I said, “and sometimes he will, if only to remind her that she is a slave.”

“She is, then, for all her freedom, yet absolutely under his will.”

“Yes,” I said. “She is his slave.”

“I love you, Master,” she whispered.

I listened to the crackling of the fire, and the sounds of the jungle night.

“As an Earth woman,” I said, “you are doubtless not accustomed to thinking of yourself as an article of property.”

“No, Master,” she smiled.

“But I think, now,” I said, “that you. may be ready to understand the sense in which you are a slave object.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, tears in her eyes.

“You are a beautiful woman, who. is owned,” I said. “You may be bought and sold.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Too,” I said, “not the least attention need be paid to your desires, your thoughts or feelings.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“That is mainly what it is to be a slave object,” I said.

“I understand, my master,” she said.

“You see,” I said, “it has nothing to do with consciousness or feelings.”

“I acknowledge the justice of the expression,” she said, “but somehow it seems quite inapt.”

“Perhaps you will not think so,” I said, “when you are put in chains and sold to a master who terrifies you.”

“No, Master,” she smiled.

“Why do you feel the expression is inapt?” I asked.

“Because I do not feel like an ‘Object’,” she said. “Never have I been so alive, so excited, and so vital, or have I felt so significant and real, as when I have been a slave. Never in the constrictions of my freedom could I have understood such experiences to exist as I have felt on this world as a lowly slave. I had not dreamed such happiness could exist. I did not know I could experience such joy.”

“Perhaps I should whip you,” I said.

“Please, no, Master,” she said. “Be merciful to your girl.”

I shrugged. I determined that I would not whip her, at least at the moment.

“So you see, Master,” she said, “though in some respects I am a slave object, an article of property that may be bought and sold, a thing whose desires, whose thoughts and feelings, need not be in the least respected, in another sense, that of feeling and emotion, I am so far removed from the notion of an object that the use of such an expression is totally inadequate to convey the least understanding of my felt realities. I was far more of an “object,” a thing manipulated by the internalized demands of others, a thing not daring to feel, a thing not daring to be true to itself, when I was free than I am now, a slave girl in the uncompromising shackles of your bondage.”

“I concede,” I smiled. “For most practical purposes the expression ‘slave object’ is not well chosen to express the realities involved. Indeed, for most practical purposes, the expression is not only misleading and infelicitous but, as you have pointed out, inapt.”

“You see,” she said, “in some respects I am an object, and in other respects I am not an object.”

“Yes,” I said, “and in the deepest respects you are not an object.”

“Yes, Master,” she smiled.

I looked at her, kneeling there before me, the bit of bark cloth at her hips, the two necklaces, one red and black, one blue and yellow, about her throat, my tether knotted on her throat, fastening her to the slave stake. “But you are a slave animal,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she smiled. “I am a slave animal.”

“It is time to tie you for the night, my pretty slave animal,” I said.

‘The animal begs that you not tie her just now,” she said.

“Very well,” I said. I looked at her. I reclined on my elbow. She knelt

“Most slave girls, you have told me,” she said, “do not desire to escape.”

“That is apparently true,” I said. ‘That is strange, isn’t it?” I asked.

“I do not find it strange,” she said.

“Oh?” I asked.

“I do not want to escape,” she said.

“You will be tied anyway,” I told her.

“Of course, Master,” she smiled.

“Master,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Animals have needs,” she said.

“What sorts of needs?” I asked.

“Many sorts,” she said.

“Sexual?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. She put her head down. Her lip trembled.

“Look at me, Slave,” I told her.

She looked at me. There were tears in her eyes. “Do you admit that you have sexual needs?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.

“Is your admission merely intellectual?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said. “It is deeper than that.” The intellectual admission that one possesses sexual needs is cheap. It is well within the range of even the clever bigot. That sort of admission, automatic, expected and innocuous, serves often not only in lieu of an authentic emotional admission but serves often, too, as a psychological device whereby just such an honest concession to the needs of one’s deeper nature may be avoided.

“Do you have sexual needs, truly?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And do you wish them satisfied?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Say then, aloud,” I said, “‘I have sexual needs, truly.’”

“I am a woman of Earth!” she protested. “Please do not make me say that.”

“Say it,” I said.

“I have sexual needs,” she said, “—truly.”

“Say now,” I said, “‘I want them satisfied.’”

“I want them satisfied,” she said.

“Say,” I said, “‘I will never again deny my sexual needs.’”

“I will never again deny my sexual needs,” she said.

“Say,” I said, “‘I will be such and behave in such a way as to attempt to secure the satisfaction of my deepest and most honest sexual needs.’”

“I will be such and behave in such a way,” she said, “as to attempt to secure the satisfaction of my deepest and most honest sexual needs.” She looked at me. “Even though they might be those of a slave?” she asked.

“Even though they might be those of a slave,” I said.

“Even though they might be those of a slave,” she said.

“Even though they are those of a slave,” I said.

“Even though they are those of a slave,” she repeated.

“Say now,” I said, “‘I am a slave. I am your slave, Master.’”

“I am a slave. I am your slave, Master,” she said. She looked at me. “I cannot believe how I feel,” she said. “I am so incredibly happy, Master.”

I nodded. I sensed then that the locks on the dungeon door had been opened, that the bolts had been slid back.

Then she put down her head. “I am a girl in need,” she said, “I beg the touch of my master.”

“Look at me,” I said. “And speak clearly.”

She lifted her head. “I am a girl in need,” she said, boldly. “I beg the touch of my master.”

I smiled, and she reddened. She had now, at last, explicitly begged for my touch.

The hands of the small, naked slave girl hidden in the dungeon, crouching on the damp, narrow, stone stairs, pressed upward against the iron door which had been bolted shut above her. It moved a quarter of an inch upward, and did not strike against its familiar bolts. The bolts had been withdrawn. She trembled and sobbed, fearing to be the victim of some cruel trick. She thrust harder against the iron door above her. An inch of light, narrow and straight, almost blinded her. She put down her head. Then again she thrust upward against the weight. She sobbed in misery. Her small strength might not be sufficient to lift the door, to thrust it back. She struggled. Then, slowly, inch by inch, she pressing upward, the door began to open; she could feel the stone of the stairs hard under her bare feet; her muscles ached; there was a heavy sound from the protesting, thick hinges; she cried out, thrusting upward; the door then, suddenly, opened, suddenly swinging back, falling away from her; there was a clang of iron on stone. Fearing to move, blinded by the sunlight, she knelt trembling on the stairs. She did not lift her head above the level of the opened door. Perhaps she feared that her mistress, Janice Prentiss, would come and whip her and put her back in the dungeon. But did not her mistress know that it was she herself who was the lovely, frightened slave? Did she not know that it would be only she herself who would feel the blows of such a whip, or she herself who would see again the iron door of the dungeon close above her head?

The blond-haired barbarian, my tethered slave, looked at me, and smiled. “I am ready to please you, in any way that you might see fit, Master,” she said.

I reclined on one elbow, watching her.

“Command me,” she said.

“I do not,” I said.

“Master?” she asked.

“If you desire to please me,” I said, “you may do so. I accord you my permission.”

“But I am an Earth woman,” she said. “Are you not going to order me?”

“No,” I said.

“Surely you do not expect me, an Earth woman, to please a man, I mean really please him, of my own free will?” she asked.

I smiled. “It is a startling thought,” I admitted.

She smiled.

“Do you want to please me?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You may then do so, if you wish,” I said.

“But I am a slave,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“But are slaves not commanded?” she asked.

“Not always,” I said.