Nomads of Gor (78 page)

 
gave it a little pull.

 
"Oh!" she cried, eyes smarting. Then she looked up. "That

 
is no way to treat a lady," she remarked.

 
"You are only a slave girl," I reminded her.

 
"True," she said forlornly, turning her head to one side.

 
I was a bit irritated.

 
She looked up at me and laughed with amusement.

 
I began to kiss her throat and body and my hands were

 
behind her back, lifting her and arching her, so that her head

 
was back and down.

 
"I know what you're trying to do," she said.

 
"What is that?" I mumbled.

 
"You are trying to make me feel owned," she said.

 
"Oh," I said.

 
"You will not succeed," she informed me.

 
I myself was beginning to grow skeptical.

 
She wiggled about on her side, looking at me. My hands

 
were still clasped behind the small of her back.

 
"It is said by Goreans," remarked the girl, very seriously,

 
"that every woman, whether she knows it or not, longs to be

 
a slave the utter slave of a man if but for an hour."

 
"Please be quiet," I said.

 
"Every woman," she said emphatically. "Every woman."

 
I looked at her. "You are a woman," I observed.

 
She laughed. "I find myself naked in the arms of a man

 
and wearing the collar of a slave. I think there is little doubt

 
at I am a woman!"

 
"And at the moment." I suggested, "little more."

She looked at me irritably for a moment. Then she smiled.

'fit is said by Goreans," she remarked, with very great

r seriousness, with mock bitterness, "that in a collar a woman

can be only a woman."

 
"The theory you mention," I said, grumbling, "about wom-

 
en longing to be slaves, if only for an hour, is doubtless

 
false."

       
She shrugged in her collar and put her head to one side,

       
her hair falling to the rug. "Perhaps," she said, much as she

       
had before, "Vella does not know."

        
"Perhaps Vella will find out," I said.

        
"Perhaps," she said, laughing.

       
Then, perhaps not pleasantly, my hand closed on her

       
ankle.

        
"Oh!" she said.

        
She tried to move her leg, but could not.

       
I then bent her leg, that I might, as I wished, display for my

       
pleasure, she willing or not, the marvelous curves of her calf.

       
She tried to pull her leg away, but she could not. It would

       
move only as I pleased.

        
"Please, Tarl," she said.

        
"You are going to be mine," I said.

       
"Please," she said, "let me go." My grip on her ankle was

     
  
not cruel but in all her womanness she knew herself held.

        
"Please," she said again, "let me go."

        
I smiled to myself. "Be silent, Slave," said I.

        
Elizabeth Cardwell gasped.

        
I smiled.

       
"So you are stronger than me she scoffed. "It means

       
nothing!"

       
I then began to kiss her foot' and the inside of her Achilles,

       
beneath the bone, and she trembled momentarily.

        
"Let me go!" she cried.

       
But I only kissed her, holding her, my lips moving to the

       
back of her leg, low where it joins the foot, where an ankle

       
ring would be locked.

       
"A true man," she cried out suddenly, "would not behave

       
so! No! A true man is gentle, kind, tender, respectful, at all

       
times, sweet and solicitous! That is a true man!"

       
I smiled at her defenses, so classical, so typical of the

       
modern, unhappy, civilized female, desperately frightened of

       
being truly a woman in a man's arms, trying to decide and

       
determine manhood not by the nature of man and his desire,

       
and her nature as the object of that desire, but by her own

       
fears, trying to make man what she could find acceptable,

       
trying to remake him in her own image.

       
"You are a female," I said casually. "I do not accept your

       
definition of man."

         
She made an angry noise.

         
"Argue," I suggested, "explain speak names."

         
She moaned.

"It is I said, "that when the full blood of a man
 
is upon him, and he sees his female, and will have her, that it should be then that he is not a true man."

 
She cried out in misery.

 
Then, as I had expected, she suddenly wept, and doubtless

 
with great sincerity. I supposed at this time many men of

 
Earth, properly conditioned, would have been shaken, and

 
would have fallen promptly to this keen weapon, shamed,

 
retreating stricken with guilt, with misgivings, as the female

 
wished. But, smiling to myself, I knew that on this night her

 
weeping, the little vixen, would gain her no respite.

 
I smiled at her.

 
She looked at me, horrified, frightened, tears ire her eyes.

 
"You are a pretty little slave," I said.

She struggled furiously, but could not escape.

When her struggles had subsided I began, half biting, half
   
;t

kissing, to move up her calf to the delights of the sensitive areas behind her knees.

"Please" she wept.

"Be quiet, pretty little Slave Girl," I mumbled.
 
  
,

Then, kissing, but letting her feel the teeth which could, if

I chose, tear at her flesh, I moved to the interior of her
   

thigh. Slowly, with my mouth, by inches, I began to claim her.

"Please," she said.

"What is wrong?" I asked.

"I find I want to yield to you," she whispered.

 
"Do not be frightened," I told her.

 
"No," she said. "You do not understand."

I was puzzled.

"I want to yield to you," she whispered, "as a slave
                                            
girl!"

"You will so yield to me," I told her.

"No!" she cried. "No!"

"You will yield to me," I told her, "as a slave girl to her master."

 
"No!" she cried. "No! No!"

I continued to kiss her, to touch her.

"Please stop," she wept.

"Why?" I asked.

"You are making me a slave," she whispered.
      

"I will not stop," I told her.

"Please," she wept. "Please!"
       

 
"Perhaps," I said to her, "the Goreans were right?"

        
"No!" she cried. "No!"

      
"Perhaps that is what you desire," I said, "to yield with the

      
utterness of a female slave."

       
"Never!" she cried, weeping in fury. "Leave me!"

       
"Not until you have become a slave," I told her.

        
She cried out in misery. "I do not want to be a slave!"

      
But when I had touched the most intimate beauties of her

      
she became uncontrollable, writhing, and in my arms I knew

      
the feeling of a slave girl and such, for the moment, was the

      
beautiful Elizabeth Cardwell, helpless and mine, female and

      
slave.

      
Now her lips and arms and body, now those only of an

      
enamoured wench in bondage, sought mine, acknowledging

      
utterly and unreservedly, shamelessly and hopelessly, with

      
helpless abandon, their master.

      
I was astonished at her for even the touch of the whip, her

      
involuntary response to the Slaver's Caress, had not seemed

      
to promise so much.

       
She cried out suddenly as she found herself fully mine.

       
Then she scarcely dared to move.

       
"You are claimed, Slave Girl," I whispered to her.

      
"I am not a slave girl," she whispered intensely. "I am not

      
a slave girl."

      
I could feel her nails in my arm. In her kiss I tasted blood,

      
suddenly realizing that she had bitten me. Her head was

      
back, her eyes closed, her lips open.

       
"I am not a slave girl," she said.

       
I whispered in her ear, "Pretty little slave girl."

       
"I am not a slave girl!" she cried.

 
      
"You will be soon," I told her.

       
"Please, Tarl," she said, "do not make me a slave."

        
"You sense that it can be done?" I asked.

       
"Please," she said, "do not make me a slave."

        
"Do we not have a wager?" I asked.

      
She tried to laugh. "Let us forget the wager," said she.

      
"Please, Tart, it was foolishness. Let us forget the wager?"

       
"Do you acknowledge yourself my slave?" I inquired.

       
"Never!" she hissed.

        
"Then," said I, "lovely wench, the wager is not yet done."

      
She struggled to escape me, but could not. Then, suddenly,

      
as though startled, she would not move.

       
She looked at me.

       
"It soon begins," I told her.

        
"I sense it," she said, "I sense it."

 
She did not move but I felt the cut of her nails in my
    

 
arms.
                                          
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"Can there be more?" she wept.
               

 
"It soon begins," I told her.
                 

 
"I'm frightened," she wept.