Tribesmen of Gor

"Foolish female of Earth," I laughed, "do you still understand so little of your incredible desirability? Do you not yet know that it drives men mad with desire to look upon you? Have you no sense, foolish woman, of the madness of passion the very sight of you inspires in men?

She turned away. "I know that I am attractive," she said. Her voice was uncertain, frightened.

"You are an ignorant female," I said. "You do not know what the very sight of you does to men."

She spun to face me, eyes flashing. "What does it do?" she demanded.

"To see you is to want you," I told her, "and to want you is to want to own you."

"Own!" she cried, in horror.

"Yes," I said. "Every man wants to own his woman, completely. He wants to have her in his absolute power. He wants to have absolute control over her, in every respect, however minute. Dominance is genetically dispositional in his nature. Males are divided into those who satisfy their nature and those who do not. Males who satisfy their nature are vital and joyful, and, statistically, live long; those who deny their nature are miserable, and, statistically, shorter lived, their tortured body chemistry falling prey frequently to hideous diseases."

"Men want women to be free!" said Vella.

"Men, sometimes," I said, "will accord small freedoms to women, thinking that these will make them more pleasing. Surely you are familiar with the master who, at certain moments, permits a girl to speak her mind. And at these moments she does so, well and boldly. But she knows that these permissions may, at his whim, be withdrawn. This torments her with joy, and she revels in his strength. He gives her what she most deeply desires, in the female genetic depth of her, the delicious feeling of her own domination, the subjection of her beauty and weakness to the will of a strong male."

"Men on Earth," she cried, "will be dethroned by law!"

I held up the iron, white hot, for the girl's inspection.

"You will soon be branded, Girl," I told her.

"Don't brand me!" she cried. "Please don't brand me!" she wept.

Hassan regarded her with interest.

"We are now ready," I told her.

She looked at me, then at the glowing, white-hot marking surface of the iron. She watched it with horror, as it approached her.

I held it, poised at her thigh.

"Don't!" she cried. "Don't!"

"You are now to be branded, Slave Girl," I told her. "No," she screamed. Then I branded her. For five long Ihn I held the iron, pressing it in. I watched it sink into her thigh, smoking and crackling and hissing. It was a larger brand than that of the four bosk horns; I made sure it marked her more deeply. We three, Hassan, I and the girl, smelled the marked, burned slave flesh of her. Then, swiftly, cleanly, I withdrew it. Her head was back. She was screaming and weeping. "A perfect brand," said Hassan, looking on. "Perfect!" I was pleased. Such a brand would be envied by other girls. It would improve the sleek little animal's value.