Beasts of Gor - selected highlights

"Please me," I said. My voice waas hard.

"Yes, Master," she whispered. She began to lick and kiss at my body.

In time I ordered her to desist and put her again to her back. I lifted aside the chain which ran to her collar.

"Oh," she said, softly, as I claimed her.

I felt her fingernails in my arms.

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. How helpless she was in my arms.

Then she began to cry out, softly. "Please, please," she begged, "let me speak your name."

"No," I told her.

"Please," she begged.

"What am I to you?" I said.

"My master," she said, frightened.

"Only that," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

It is common to let the girl who is to spend the night at your feet tend your chamber the preceding day. She scrubs and cleans it, and tidies it. It is not a full day's work and she has hours in it in which she has little to do but wait for the master. She readies herself. She plans. She anticipates. When the master arrives, and she kneels before him, she is eager and anxious, vulnerable and stimulated, well ready both physically and psychologically for the mastery to which she will have no choice but to be joyfully subjected. Even the performance of small servile tasks, such as the polishing of his tarn boots, which she must perform, plays it's role in her preparation for the night. The performance of such small tasks teaches her, incontrovertibly, in the depths of her beauty, that she truly belongs to him, and that he is truly her master. She is then well ready when he gestures her to the furs to perform to him exquisitely the most delicious and intimate of her assigned tasks, those of the helpless love slave.

"What place is this?" she asked.

"It is called Gor," I told her.

"No!" she said. "That is only in stories!"

I smiled.

"Have you ever seen such men?" she asked. "I had never dreamed such men could exist."

"No," whispered the blond girl.

"Do you not find them disturbing?" asked the dark-haired girl.

"Wicked girl!" cried the girl on the end.

"I will tell you something," said the dark-haired girl. "They make me feel warm inside, and hot and wet."

"Wicked girl! Wicked girl!" cried the girl on the end.

"He didn't buy you," sneered the third girl, who had worn the plaid flannel shirt, "you rich tart!"

"He didn't buy you either," retorted the dark-haired girl, "you low-class idiot."

"I am a virgin," she said.

"You are white-silk," I said.

"Please do not use that vulgar expression of me," she begged.

"Do not fear," I said. "It will soon be inappropriate."

"Show me mercy," she begged.

"Spread the furs," I said.

"Are you still crying?" I asked Constance.

She sat in the straw beside an anvil. A chain ran from the ankle and was padlocked about her neck.

"My brand hurts, Master," she said.

"Very well," I said, "cry."

"The furs obscure my vision," I said. "Why do you not remove them?"

She strode toward me, angrily, and struck me across the mouth with her small hand.

She could not hit me hard, for she was too weak.

Arlene drew on the high boots. They reached her crotch. It was a hot crotch, as I had determined, a superb crotch for a slave girl.

"You do not seem in a good mood," he said. "Was Arlene not pleasent in the sleeping bag?"

"She was very nice," I said. "How was Thimble?"

"She squeaks a lot," he said.

"Some girls are noisier than others," I said.

"It is true," he said.

"I am afraid to be branded," she said.

"It does not hurt afterwards," I said. "It is only a mark to help keep track of you."

"Really, Master?" she asked.

"Well," I said, "if truth must be told, it does, considerably, enhance your beauty. Also it is sometimes not without its psychological effect."

"I can well imagine its psychological effect," she said. She shuddered.

"It can help to impress upon a girl that she is a slave," I admitted.

I touched her on the thigh.

"There?" she asked.

"Quite possibly," I said.

Suddenly she clutched me. "Oh, oh," she cried. "It is the thought of being branded," she whispered, intensely. "Please, Master, hold me, hold me!"

Her thighs were clenched, fiercely. "I am going into orgasm," she cried out, frightened. I hld her, as she gasped and wept in my arms. I had not even entered her, or touched her intimately. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. Angrily I thrust apart her legs. "Forgive me, Master," she wept. "It was the thought of being branded."

"Is there no cure for a free woman's frigidity?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"Total enslavement?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Is a slave not expected to tell the truth?"

"Yes," I said, irritably.

"Surely then you have no objection to a girl's recognising the objective truth that all men are scoundrels."

"I suppose not," I granted.

"How outrageous that such lovely creatures as I must come into the power of such scoundrels," she said.

"I do not regard it as outrageous," I said.

"But that is because you are a scoundrel," she pointed out.

"Perhaps," I admitted.

"But you are sometimes a nice scoundrel," she said.

"We all have our weaker moments," I admitted.

"But regardless of the truth in such matters," I said, "you are objectively my slave. Thus, whether you are or are not of interest is not really much to the point. Whether you are of more or less interest than your duller sisters in their intellectual cages congratulating themselves on how free they are is not important. What is important is that I own you. From my point of view I find you, and girls like you, far more interesting than your smug sisters. They seem generally much alike, even in their mode of dress, and tend in their thinking and conversation, because of their conditioning, to be repetitiously similar. Free women, though they need not be, are often boring. Who does not know, for example, what a female 'intellectual' will think on a given topic, provided it is a topic on which agreement is expected?"

"The kayak moved," I said.

"You should keep it steady," said Imnak.

"Thank you, Imnak," I said. "That would not have occurred to me."

"What are friends for?" asked Imnak.

The girl approaching me down the corridor was very beautiful. She was, of course, slave. She was barefoot. She wore a brief bit of transparent brown silk, gathered before her and loosely knotted at her navel. She was steel-collared. She carried a bronze vessel on her right shoulder. She was brown-haired, with long brown hair, and brown-eyed.

"I love being a woman, Master," she said. She held the chain against her bared beauty.

"Now lick and kiss the chain, Slave," I said.

"Yes, Master," she whispered.

She bent her head to the chain and, delicately, sobbing with emotion, licked and kissed at the metal. Her tears fell amoung the links.

I locked the sirik on Audrey. She looked at me, desperately.

"Later," I said.

"Would you like to be returned to Earth?" I asked.

"Master jests, I trust," she said.

"Of course," I said, "for you are a luscious slave, fit for chains and markets."

"No," she said, "I would not like to be returned to Earth. I have never been so sensuously alive as here, at the mercy of men. I pity even the free women of this world, who cannot know the joys and loves of the female slave. I do not wish to return to Earth, to adopt again the role of pretending to be a man. What has Earth to offer that is worth more than joy and happiness?"

"Brand me," she said.

"I will," I said.

"I dare not ask your collar," she said. "After I am branded discard me or sell me, if you will. I shall always remember with joy the moment of pain in which I knew that I, though only a lowly slave, had been found worthy of your iron."