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?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Look up,” he said, “into my eyes.”
She did so, fearfully.
“And,” said he, “the slave is subject to discipline, and is totally at the mercy of the master.”
Her eyes widened.
“Do you understand, girl?” he said.
For the slave is, of course, a “girl,” with all the charm, beauty, and vulnerability that that lovely expression connotes.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened.
“And you must accustom yourself to chains, and such things, for example, to be chained to the foot of a man’s bed, thongs, cords, gags, blindfolds, such things.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“That you are a slave, of course, is something which, on the whole, unfortunately, must be concealed on this world, lest it generate envy, or concern.”
She bowed her head, his slave.
“Bondage, as you doubtless know,” he said, “was sanctioned for centuries in all parts of the world, in all civilizations.”
“Yes Master.”
“Knees,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.”
She lifted her body, and straightened it. She spread her knees.
She kept her head down, her knees spread.
She would doubtless soon accustom herself to slave position, the postures and attitudes of docility, vulnerability, and subservience. Soon, doubtless, without self-consciousness, she would naturally, and easily, thoughtlessly and appropriately, so place herself before free persons.
“I wonder,” said he, “if there is somewhere a natural world, somewhere, where these natural relationships, in all their beauty and power, are accepted, celebrated and institutionalized.” He looked down upon her. “What do you think, my little thong slut, my little chain bitch?” he asked.
She looked up at him, for a moment uncertain, for a moment troubled, that he had spoken so to her. To be sure, a master may speak as he wishes to a slave. Then she saw something in his eyes, could it have been a smile, a hint of such, which was not unkind, and she, at his feet, rejoiced. Yes, she thought, I am his thong slut! I am his chain bitch! That is what I am! And it is what I want to be, and I want to serve him with my whole heart and soul, and in that moment she grasped something of what it might be to be the helpless, ardent slave of a mighty master. How complete, how fulfilling, how nurturing, how glorious, how joyous, how magnificent to a woman, or should one now say “girl,” was such a relationship! Perhaps, if I am sufficiently pleasing, she thought, I can win from him a smile, perhaps, in time, though I am only a lowly slave, his love! She had a sense then, trembling nude before him, of what it might be to be a love slave!
Could she hope for so much?
“Well?” he asked.
“I do not know,” she whispered. “Perhaps, Master.”
She looked again to his eyes, but now they were different. She saw that she was now again only a slave at his feet. He was now looking upon her with a free man’s contempt for a piece of meaningless slave meat. She saw that he would be strict with her. Had he been embarrassed by, she wondered, angered by, what he sensed in himself might have been a moment of weakness? To be sure, she wanted him to be strict with her. She needed that. She wanted no choice, but to be made to serve. This was important to her. She wondered if he might, someday, care for her. She sensed she might love him, that she already did love him. Too, she supposed that it would be hard for a girl not to fall in love with a man at the foot of whose bed she is chained. She would surely, unquestioningly, undeniably, know herself his. Perhaps it has to do with dominance and submission, pervasive in animal life, she supposed. Perhaps, she thought, it has to do with the complementarities of nature.
But mostly, she supposed, it might have to do with him, the particular him, and with her, the particular her of her, and the mysterious chemistries of men and women. Away, she thought, with the commands of a stunting, pathological culture, the frenetic, hate-filled competitions for power, which brought in their wake only disappointment, emptiness, and misery.
In the supermarket she sensed he had looked upon her and seen her as a stripped slave.
She had never forgotten that look.
How could any woman?
He had seen her as what she was—a vulnerable woman, an unclaimed, needful slave.
How stunned she had been!
How her body had suddenly burned within her garments.
She had followed him as, as he had said, a slave girl follows her master.
There are many slaves, she thought. Are there many masters? My culture has not taken the slave out of me. She has cried out within me, for years, for her chains, and the caress of a master.
She wondered if, in men, or in some men, there might be a secret master, restless within the male breast, snarling within, raging, hungry for its prey, its capture, its slave.
How much illness, how much violence, how much cruelty, she thought, might be averted if only men were free, statistically, to be themselves, and how much cruelty, petulance, neurosis, and unhappiness might be done away with if only the natural needs of women were recognized, rather than denounced and subverted.
“You may now rise, and dress yourself,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Thank you, Master.”
“I am not an animal!” she cried.
“Surely you are,” she said. “Are you so unacquainted with biology as to doubt that? Have you not lungs, organs, and such? Have you not a belly appropriate to your kind? A nervous system, a digestive system, and, obviously, something that will be of interest to men, a reproductive system? Thus, if it is wished, you may be crossed with suitable stock, and bred. Clearly you are an animal. Do not presume to deny it. You are an animal, and an animal of a certain sort, a mammal, a human mammal, and, obviously, a human female mammal. Consider the delicacy of your features, their obvious sensitivity and even, obviously, their beauty. You have lovely eyes, and lashes, and sweet lips. And you have abundant and lovely hair, deeply rich and brown. Unfortunately it is not auburn.”
“What is wrong with that?”
“I see you are already interested in your objective value.”
“My objective value?”
“Do you shiver? Or do you tremble? Interesting how you try to draw those tiny shreds of garments about you. Do you think they much conceal you, or protect you? They haven’t left you with much, have they?”
“My objective value?”
“Are the chains heavy?”
“Objective value?”
“Doubtless, as you assess yourself, you are priceless. But that is a subjective estimation, as you will discover. It is not your objective value. Your self-appraisal on the score of your own worth, you see, is not likely to withstand the scrutiny of the market. You will discover, you pretty, arrogant little thing, that your self-assessments of your value are not only unreliable, but simply illusory. Do not look so petulant. And do not pull so at your chains. Do you think you can free yourself? Do you think you can remove them? On the other hand there are girls who have low self-esteem, and think poorly of themselves, who, to their surprise, and doubtless delight, discover they are prized, and avidly sought. But you need not fear that sort of awakening. I fear yours, though you are quite beautiful, it must be admitted, will be less welcome.”
“So I am beautiful?”
“Of course, were you not, it is unlikely you would find yourself where you are.”
“What is wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing, you are nicely pelted.”
“‘Pelted’!”
“Auburn hair, you see, tends to be prized. It is rare. And blond hair sells well, too, presumably as it is less common.”
“Then let them dye my hair,” she snapped.
“And have them risk torture and impalement?” she laughed. “I think not!”
“I do not understand.”
“On this world, honesty is not frowned upon. Rather, deceit is disapproved, and often savagely. It has to do with honor, I am told, something apparently of interest to the men of this world. This world, you see, is very different, in many ways, from that with which you are more familiar.”
“Why have I been brought here?”
“I wonder if you are stupid.”
“I am not stupid!” she said. “Why do you smile?”
“Once, long ago, I recall I, too, said that, though the circumstances were different. It was shortly before I found myself kneeling naked, for the first time, before my master.”
“‘Master’?”
“Certainly.”
“You mean as in ‘one who to whom you belong,’ as in ‘one who owns you’?”
“Of course.”
“You cannot be owned!”
“How naive you are!”
“I do not think you are stupid.”
“I do not think so, either. Indeed, I am supposedly quite intelligent, and surely so, if the IQ scores of your world have any significance.”
“I assure you I am not stupid, either!”
“Perhaps not, but it seems that at present you have little but your beauty to commend you.”
“My beauty?”
“Rejoice. Be grateful. That is your hope. Men like such things.”
“Please do not speak to me as though I were stupid!”
“Naive, then?”
“No!”
“I think so, that, at least.”
“Do not humiliate me.”
“That is not my intention. That will be done by the masters, and well, if they choose.”
“Masters?”
“Of course.”
“I do not wish to be humiliated.”
“But you do. And do not fear. They can make us weep, and beg and grovel, as it pleases them.”
“Why have I been brought here?”
“It is questions like that which suggest that you are stupid.”
“I—I am not stupid!”
“No, I would suppose not, or you would not be here. If you were truly stupid, you would have been less desirable, less of an acquisition, less of a prize. If you were truly stupid you would not have been found of interest. They are interested in only the most desirable, la crème de la crème. These men have little interest in stupid women.”
“You have not told me why I have been brought here.”
“If you do not know, perhaps you are indeed stupid.”
“No!”
“There are trade-offs, of course. Perhaps in your case they compromised on intelligence, in order to obtain other things of interest.”
“Do not speak as though I might be merely beautiful!”
“As I look upon you now, lifting the lamp, perhaps ‘pretty’ would be better.”
“Beautiful!”
“Perhaps. You are, at least, a well-curved bit of meat.”
“Do not speak so of me!”
“Perhaps it is something else. Are you vital?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It is not important—now. You will grow in such ways. They will see to it. Until you are helpless, and uncontrollable.”
“I don’t understand!”
“You will be totally at their mercy, begging.”
“I don’t understand you! You speak in riddles! You torture me! I don’t understand you! I understand nothing! Why have I been brought here?”
“Conjecture.”
“No!”
“Your horizons of possibility seem rather limited.”
“I am not stupid! I am not stupid!”
“Then ignorant, perhaps?”
“Why have I been brought here?”
“You know.”
“No, no!”
“Pretending not to recognize the obvious does not mean that it does not exist.”
“No!”
“Yes, weep, weep, weep in your chains, curvaceous little thing, in helplessness and futility, if you wish. It will doubtless do you good.”
“What do they want with me? Why have I been brought here?”
“You dare to play these games with me? Do you see this switch at my wrist? It can be used upon you. Good. You are afraid. You crawl back in the shadows, on the straw. You do not wish to feel pain. Excellent. You will be tractable. You will train well.”
“Please be kind to me.”
“You wish, I gather, for me to tell you what you fear, and what you suspect, and what you wish to hear?”
“No, no!”
“Do not fear. I have no intention of doing so. Why should I insult whatever bit of intelligence you might have? Let me say only that the moment of which you have long and frequently dreamed is nearly at hand.”
“I do not understand.”
“A good switching would much improve you.”
“Please, no.”
“I am patient with you, little fool. The men will not be.”
“Why have I been brought here?”
“Consider the loveliness of your face, how exquisite it is, the vulnerability, delicacy, and sensitivity of its features, and the prettiness of your legs, the sweetness of your thighs, the width of your hips, the narrowness of your waist, the loveliness of your bosom. The delicacy of your wrists and ankles, the subtleties of your shoulders and throat, the curvatures of your body. Can you then ask such a question?”
“I do not understand.”
“Such things will make you attractive to men.”
“I hate men!”
“How unfortunate, for you will belong to them.”
“No!”
“Totally, completely, absolutely—in all ways.”
“You speak as though I might be owned!”
“You are owned.”
“I cannot be owned!”
“You are mistaken.”
“I cannot be owned! I am not a dog, or pig!”
“You are less than they, but you do not yet realize it.”
“No, no!”
“You have a lovely throat, slender and sweet, and aristocratic. It will look well encircled with a collar.”
“A collar?”
“Certainly.”
“What sort of collar?”
“One like mine, one signifying the same.”
“What sort of collar?”
“The collar of a slave—a slave collar.”
“No, no!”
“Do not struggle so, so wildly, so futilely. Please, desist. You may injure yourself. And the masters might be displeased.”
“Masters! Masters! —Masters?”
“Yes, the men.”
“Release me from the wall!”
“Have no fear, you will soon be released.”
“Good!”
“Even now the iron is heating which will mark you.”
“Mark me?”
“Yes, the iron that will mark you slave.”
“No, no!”
“You cannot expect not to be marked, for you might be mistaken for a free woman, and that would be terrible. How insulting to free women! To be sure, it is highly unlikely that a woman such as you, so sweetly bodied, so beautiful, so small, so soft, so feminine, yes, feminine, truly feminine, do you object, would be mistaken for a free woman. That would seem unthinkable. Just looking upon you a free person would know you for a slave. Yet, the brand is required by Merchant Law. One cannot be too careful about such things. Too, the brand will help you to remember that you are a slave, simply that, a slave, that, and nothing else.”
“How is my objective value to be determined?”
“Simply, by what men will pay to own you.”
“Pay?”
“Of course.”
“I am a free person!”
“Do not be naive.”
“I cannot be owned!”
“You are mistaken.”
“I can’t be owned—”
“I do not understand. Why can you not be owned?”
“I—I am not an African!”
“You refer to a race, or group, I take it, of your world. I know something of your world, which is why I am here, speaking to you in a language you can understand. On this world races, as you seem to think of them, do not exist. Here, free men stand to one another as individuals, not as representatives of groups, not, in effect, as members of gangs, as of brigands. But even on your world, slavery was never restricted to those whom you ignorantly put together so naively as “Africans.” All races, as you think of them, were subject to bondage. For centuries, whites, as you might think of them, enslaved whites. Too, blacks, as you might think of them, enslaved blacks, and Asians, as you might think of them, enslaved Asians, and those you might think of as the indigenous peoples of what was known as “the new world” enslaved one another.”
“Not now!”
“My dear, slavery still exists on your former world, in several areas. And it would exist more broadly except that a relatively small, but technologically advanced and powerful, portion of your population, perhaps in a jealousy concerning the pleasures of the mastery, being enjoyed by others, not by themselves, or fearing that they themselves might one day succumb to bondage, took the liberty of imposing their military and economic will on other peoples. But that could change. Indeed, as bondage has its values and rationale, and its obvious appeal to thinking men under certain conditions, it may come about that the darker peoples, so to speak, may reinstitute the condition, when sufficiently powerful or so motivated, and then that the vaunted superiors will find themselves, in their turn, in their chains, in the holds of slave ships, and on the auction blocks. Who then, I wonder, will “rescue” them? The appeal of bondage is obviously universal, and a turning of the world might bring it about again.
“I see you do not care to speak. Perhaps you do not like these thoughts. Yet I thought I saw you tremble in your chains.”
“No!”
“Surely you understand that slavery represents an advance in civilization over obvious alternatives.”
“What?”
“Being slain, being exterminated, being tortured to death, being burned alive, and such.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Surely you understand the attractions of ease, of pleasure and power to human beings?”
“—Yes.”
“And you can understand then how a strong human being might prefer a life of greater ease, one in which he is served less by himself and more by another, a life in which he may extract what pleasures he wishes from another, one over whom he holds absolute power.”
“One must deny oneself such pleasures and powers!”
“Why?”
“I—I do not know.”
“Nor do I. Why should the strong not avail themselves of such delights? Why should they not choose to be pleasured, to be powerful? Is that not the sane, sound, and healthy fulfillment of their natural right? Why should not those who can seize the delicious fruits of life do so? Why should the rewards and perquisites of nature, her gifts and bounties, not be taken advantage of by the strongest and fittest, the most powerful, the most intelligent, the aristocrats of nature?”
“Let it not be so!”
“What an amusing little tart you are! But put aside these questions of your former world, and its conflicts, confusions, and vicissitudes. It is here that you are now. And be assured, curvaceous little mammal, that on this world, an honest. open, beautiful world, slavery is an institution with universal incidence. Its value is accepted and understood. It is historically sanctioned and practiced. It is a matter of custom, law, and tradition. It is unquestioned and universally accepted.
“Why should those who are natural slaves not be slaves, and those who are natural masters not be masters?
“Do not hide your face in your hands. Look up at me. Wipe the tears from your eyes. Have you never dreamed of being a slave, really, of meeting a man like no other, one before whom you could not help but kneel, and lick and kiss his feet, and would melt in need and submission, one to whom you could at best be an abject object, a mere property, a domestic animal, an item of livestock, purchasable from a pen, a lovely beast, one from which is to be derived service, and ecstatic pleasure?
“I see you have.”
“No, no, no!”
“Are you even worthy to be the slave of such a man?”
“Please do not so speak to me!”
“Well, here you will meet men such as you never knew could exist, men beyond your wildest and most erotic dreams, men before whom you can be naught but such a slave, an utterly abject slave. Oh, you will learn to serve well, and you will experience pleasures, and provide pleasures, the nature and intensity of which, and the extent of which, you cannot now even conceive. Oh, you will make a delicious little slave.”
“No, no!”
“I see it in you.”
“No!”
“But are you even worthy of being such a slave?”
“I do not know!”
“Men have brought you here. They know their business. They think you have promise, or you would not find yourself in this place. They have seen fit to give you a trial.”
“A trial?”
“An opportunity to prove yourself worthy of a brand and collar. I hope that you will do well, pretty little slave.”
“And if I do not?”
“I would try desperately, if I were you. These men are not patient.”
“And if I fail?”
“There are animals to be fed, to whom you would be a lovely dessert, a most tasty morsel.”
“No!”
“Do not fail.”
“I do not want to be a slave!”
“There you are mistaken.”
“No!”
“You have always dreamed of meeting your master, a man so magnificent, so powerful, that you know instantly in your heart that you are rightfully his, a man so overwhelming and attractive that before him you can be naught but a dutiful, submitted, passionate, enraptured slave.”
“I am inert, cold, frigid, I have no such feelings!”
“Do not believe all you have been taught. The veils of politics, woven by the self-seeking fearers and haters, the ugly moral amputees, the spiritual cripples, those who strive to force the dismal grayness and chilling cold of their lives on others, are rent by the truths of biology. Dare to feel. The furies of blood refute the casuistries of conditioning. The caress of a master can shatter convention’s fragile, carefully constructed house of cards. A kiss can open a window, a door, to a new world. Love is not so dangerous and terrible.”
“You speak of love?”
“Of dominance and submission, of rightfulness, of propriety, of nature, of complementarity, of dimorphism, of biology. Women are property. Thus, they learn love best on a chain.”
“Have I a choice?”
“None whatsoever, absolutely none, little slave girl.”
“Please do not so demean me, do not so refer to me!”
“So you think you hate men?”
“Yes, yes!”
“That may amuse them.”
“But I must serve them nonetheless?”
“With sensuous perfection.”
“I am not sure I hate men,” she whispered.
“I know.
“And you will soon live to give them pleasure, and I predict, little slave girl, that you will soon know the highest happiness a woman can know, for we are their properties, by nature, you must understand, the happiness of being the yielding, joyful slave of an uncompromising, overwhelming, and mighty master.”
“I am afraid.”
“And well you might be, for you will be subject to strict discipline. He will have what he wants of you, have no fear.”
“I am ignorant.”
“That is a problem, for it puts you at greater peril. It would doubtless be better if you had received extensive training in the many arts of the female slave, but the market is unfortunately overburdened with beauty at the moment, and the merchants wish to move stock, particularly the lesser stock, such as you, quickly, to save time, to clear space and such.”
“When am I to be sold?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for your kindness, in speaking to me.”
“I wished to do so.”
“You asked for permission to speak to me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.
“It is nothing,” she said.
“I am afraid to be sold.”
“Of course.”
“Were you once of my world?”
“Of course.”
“You spoke of your master.”
“I met him on Earth.”
“Were you his slave there?”
“Of course, as I am his slave here.”
“He was of Earth?”
“Yes, but he was a master, and thus he made me his slave there. I love him. He is everything to me. I would die for him.”
“How did he come here?”
“He is such a man as those of this world respect. He was detected, and offered an invitation to come to this world. He accepted.”
“And you?”
“He brought me with him.”
“—as his slave?”
“Of course, that is what I was.”
“And you serve him here?”
“As lovingly and perfectly as I can.”
“Are you—branded?”
“Yes, it was done shortly after I arrived on this world. It is required by Merchant Law. Now anyone on this world, seeing I am branded, would know that I am a slave, am purchasable, and such.”
“You are very beautiful.”
“Thank you, and so, too, are you.”
“Thank you, and I do not think, really, that I am stupid.”
“No, you are not stupid.”
“Is this a beautiful world?”
“Yes, much as Earth must once have been.”
“I think I am not displeased to have been brought here.”
“You begin to suspect what might be your life here?”
“I think so.”
“A life that you only dreamed you might live.”
“Yes.”
“Though only as a rightless, abject slave?”
“Yes.”
“Such, my dear, you are, and will be.”
“It is so beautiful! If only one would not grow old, and it could last forever!”
“There are serums here, called stabilization serums. A secret of the caste of physicians. You may fear desperately on this world, but you need not fear the diminution of your beauty. Men will enjoy keeping it in its collar, indefinitely, at the pinnacle of its health, youth, and loveliness.”
“Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“They will come for you soon.”
“How shall I behave? What shall I do?”
“Present yourself as well as you can on the block. Know that you are beautiful, and desirable, and exciting. Understand that. Know in the bottom of your belly that you are for sale, and will be sold, and are excellent goods. Be erotic, brazen, and beautiful. Be what you will then be, wares, a commodity, a lovely property in the process of being vended—a beautiful slave, an exhibited, proffered slave.
“I see that you try to fold those miserable shreds of garments about you Do you think they conceal you? Rather they will intrigue the men.”
“I am frightened!”
“And even those bits of rags will be removed from you on the block. Men insist on seeing—completely— what they are buying. They are not fools.”
“Surely I will not be shown to men—not to men!—even as I am!”
“Were you a trained slave you would not ask such a question.”
“But I am not such a slave!”
“I am to you at this time, though slave myself, as Mistress. That may not have been clear to you. But I now make it clear. Accordingly you should address me as “Mistress.” It would be well for you to accustom yourself to such things. Oh, do not look upon me with such dismay, such bewilderment and horror.”
“But I am not such a slave—Mistress.”
“True. But now, were you such a slave, you would know that you would be so exhibited. You would expect it, and, further, if given a choice, would insist upon it, that you might, in the competitions of beauty, be able to strive fairly, and without detriment, to obtain the most excited, covetous master, he who most hungers and thirsts for you, and cries out and roars to possess you.”
“Can men so desire a woman?”
“Yes.”
“How fearful to belong to one who so wants one!”
“Who would desire to belong to one who wants one less?”
“I am afraid to be exhibited, to be shown to men, naked—to be put up for sale, to be sold. I do not know what to do, how to act.”
“—Perhaps, I wonder, while it is still possible, before you are unable any longer to conceal your appetition, your aroused slave needs, your piteous need of a master, if you should present yourself as fearful and shy, timid, troubled, modest, and frightened, almost unable to move so horrified, so dismayed and terrified you are.”
“Mistress?”
“Some men enjoy taking a new slave, a fragile, lovely thing, and introducing her to the nature and requirements of her new condition, in getting her to her knees and teaching her to kiss and caress.
“Do not weep.
“Too, there are those who enjoy taking a woman who thinks she can resist, and teaching her differently, breaking her to the whip and collar, until she, to her ecstasy, knows herself his, and crawls of her own free will to his slave ring, her effusive, conquered heart begging to be accepted, to be permitted to please him, to be acknowledged, as his.”
“I know nothing of these things, Mistress.”
“How easily the word ‘Mistress’ now comes to your lips. You see, you are intelligent. You learn quickly.
“Perhaps the important thing is to be yourself. Perhaps later, when you have become appetitious and needful, and erotic, brazen, and beautiful, for I see such things in you, as a natural and exciting transformation of yourself, things will be easier, and different. Until then perhaps it will be best to attempt to divine the will of the auctioneer, and do your best to please him. To be sure, we all do that. After all, he has a whip, and we are women. I know whereof I speak, for I myself was once put through that. A sale, or seeming sale. It was, unbeknownst to me, intended as a learning experience for me, that I might, newly brought to his world, be better apprised of my condition, of my status here, as a slave. Of what could be done to me. I found myself without so much as an explanation, without so much as even a word of farewell, remanded to an auction house. In my bonds, in tears and helplessness, I racked my heart and brain in misery. Had I in some way, even one unbeknownst to me, been less than completely pleasing to my master in some way? I did not know! I learned the lesson well. I was apparently purchased through an agent. How jubilant I was when I, unhooded, found myself on my knees before my own master, my own, true, beloved master! I assure you that I spent much of that night in tearful gratitude, at his feet. I had learned what might be done with me.”
“I will try to please the auctioneer.”
“You had better, or your prettiness will feel the lash.”
“I would be whipped?”
“Of course.”
“I am frightened.”
“I do not think you will have too much to fear, for the auctioneer is talented. He will see to it that you are well displayed. You may depend upon it. And do not be surprised when you find yourself handled as a slave. You will be exhibited, and controlled, almost ritualistically. You will move, and obey, in ways you never thought possible. On the selling surface you will reveal hitherto never understood, or dreadfully feared, but desired, aspects of your personality. Perhaps your female subconscious will be liberated for the first time. You will discover, my dear, perhaps to your surprise, that you have one. There is something about the snap of a whip which we all understand, and its lash across our calves is an admonition we cannot overlook. Do the best you can.”
“I will try.”
“And it is not uncommon, at a certain point in your sale, to have your vitality demonstrated.”
“What does that mean?”
“Men are interested in that.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will learn.
“I am afraid, so afraid.”
“Do not fear. Or fear no more than is appropriate, and that will hone your slave reflexes to perfection.
“Do not weep.
“It is not so terrible to be sold. Indeed, as you are merchandise it is fitting. And yours is not a unique fate. Countless women in countless times on countless worlds have preceded you to the block, which is a mere selling platform, a convenience for display. In time, you will doubtless grow accustomed to such things. And do not fear for, as I have indicated, the auctioneer will assist you, and turn, and display you, and such. He does not wish you ill, and desires little more than to make a good coin on you. Now it is possible, as I suggested, that in this sale, your first sale, you will be confused and terrified. Certainly it will all seem strange to you. But that is not unusual. You may even seem inhibited, wooden, almost unable to move. That is possible. You may appear frightened and confused, disconcerted, and bewildered, and you might appear, and might well be, utterly helpless and vulnerable. But the auctioneer, and the men, will understand that, and not hold it against you, not in a first sale. Later, surprising as this may now seem, you will learn to present yourself well on the block, extremely well, for a well-presented girl tends to bring a better price, and such prices are most easily afforded by an affluent master, and many girls, wisely or not, prefer to wear their collars in a rich house, in a mansion or palace, rather than a hut or hovel. We are often mercenary little things, aren’t we? It is no wonder the men look upon us as what we are, as lovely, cunning little beasts, tolerable only, so to speak, on our leashes. But it sometimes happens that your eyes will meet those of a man in the tiers, and you will know, suddenly, that he is the man for whom you have always longed, and dreamed, he to whom you would be the perfect slave. You have suddenly realized that he is your love master. Oh, then you will present yourself well—I assure you, and to him! It will be as though there were no others in that great room, only you and he. You will then be erotic, brazen, and, beggingly beautiful, a needful slave desperately pleading with her rightful master to buy her. Will he buy you, or not? The decision, of course, is his.”
“We are so helpless, so vulnerable!”
“Yes, for we are slaves.”
“Thank you, thank you!”
“I wish you well, little slave girl. Wear your collar happily. In it, I assure you, you will find yourself more free than ever you were on your former world, and you will learn, and experience, a joy alien to your world, and greater than any you might have believed possible, or for which you might have hoped.”