Hunters of Gor

"Bind them hand and foot," I told my men.

They leaped to secure the now-unresisting panther women.

Cara slipped past me to plunge herself, in her sweetness, weeping, into the arms of Rim, who crushed her to him.

"I love you, Rim!" she cried.

"I, too, love you," he cried.

Goreans believe it is the nature of a man to own, that of a woman to be owned.

I observed Verna's women, no longer hers, but now the slaves of their masters, in the longboats.

Verna had given them their choice, had indeed forced the choice upon them.

I wondered if, in the forest, she had expected any of them to return to her. She had had them clad in slave silk. She had had earrings put in their ears.

Perhaps she had already gone her own way. Her women, now slaves, waited in longboats to be carried to the Rhoda, the Tesephone.

They had made their choice, to surrender to a man. They had yielded to their womanhood.

Verna would hunt alone in the forests. She would have her freedom. About her neck she wore the signet ring of Ar. She would be swift and free in the dark green glades. She would be alone. I wondered if, at times, she would lie in the darkness, clutching the ring of Marlenus, and twist, and weep. Her pride stood between herself and her womanhood. Yet in the darkness, as she lay on the leaves in her lair, in her ears would glint the gold of earrings. She had not removed them. They had been fastened in her ears upon the order of Marlenus, when he had been her master. She would never forget, in her freedom, nor would she wish to do so, that she had once been his utter slave. Perhaps from time to time she would long for his collar and touch. She had made her choice, for her independance. She had not exchanged that even for the throne of Ar. Her women had, too, made their choice. Verna was free. They were shamed as slaves. I did not know which was happiest. They sat silently in the longboats, obediently. The hands of each were now being fastened behind her back. I saw Rena's wrists secured. They, new slaves, were shy. But they did not seem unhappy. I wondered if any, as her wrists were drawn together behind her back and fastened together, regretted her decision. If she did, it was too late. The binding fiber was upon her. But they did not seem unhappy. They had yielded to their womanhood. They had surrendered themselves to bondage, and love. This gift, this choice, which she had refused for herself, Verna had given them.

Doubtless now, alone, somewhere in the forest, in the freedom and solitude, there was a panther girl. She hunted. Her name was Verna. I wished her well.