Beasts of Gor by John Norman Page A

third and fourth girl began to sob.
    “Accept it, my dear,” said the dark-haired girl, “our reality is now transformed.”
    They looked at her.
    “We are now slave girls on a strange world.”
    “No,” whispered the girl on the end.
    “I am for sale,” said the dark-haired girl, “and so, too, are you, and the rest of us.”
    “Yes,” whispered the blond, suddenly shuddering, “I—I am for sale.”
    “As are the rest of us,” said the dark-haired girl.
    The girls then subsided, and were quiet.
    After a time the dark-haired girl spoke. “I wonder,” she said, “what it will be like, being a slave girl.”
    “I cannot even think of it,” said the blond-haired girl.
    “I wonder what it will be like, being owned by a man,” mused the dark-haired girl.
    “Perhaps a woman will buy us,” said the girl on the end.
    The blond girl, and the dark-haired girl, looked at her, apprehensively.
    “We would have less to fear from a woman,” said the girl on the end.
    “Do you want to be owned by a woman?” asked the dark-haired girl.
    “No,” said the girl on the end.
    “Nor would I,” said the third girl.
    “Nor would I,” said the dark-haired girl.
    “—Nor would I,” said the blond.
    “That is interesting, is it not?” asked the dark-haired girl, thoughtfully. She looked out at the crowd. “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.
    “I have never felt feelings like this before,” said the dark-haired girl. “I do not know what I would do if one of them touched me.”
    “Feminine! Feminine!” scolded the girl on the end, who had worn the beige flannel shirt.
    The dark-haired girl in the brief platform tunic, who had worn the red pull-over, knelt back. “Yes,” she said, “feminine.”
    “If they so much as touch me, I’ll scream,” said the blond.
    But there seemed little chance of this for there appeared to be much more choice merchandise for sale upon those long, darkly varnished, slatted platforms. I had stood back in the crowd, interested to hear them speak. But now I would move on. It was nearly time to go to the pavillion. I did see in the crowd, some platforms away, the fellow from the polar basin. He was looking at women. The rawhide rope was looped about his shoulder.
    “Look,” I heard a fellow say, “it is Tabron of Ar.”
    I turned about. A tarnsman, in the scarlet leather of his war rights, tall, was moving through the crowd. He casually stopped before the four girls.
    The blond shrank back as his eyes examined her in the collar, chains and platform tunic.
    He looked upon the dark-haired girl. To my surprise and pleasure I saw her kneel very straight and lift her body before him. Then he looked past her to the other two, girls and continued on his way. She knelt back in her chains.
    “I saw you!” said the girl on the end, who had worn the beige flannel shirt.
    “He was very handsome,” said the dark-haired girl. “—And I am a slave.”
    “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 smiled. They were both only slaves.
    “I am more beautiful than you,” said the third girl.
    I was pleased to see that the third girl seemed now much more sensitive to her femaleness than earlier. Perhaps she would not take as long as I had thought to discover her womanhood. Gorean males, I conjectured, might teach it to her quickly. She would look lovely, I thought, crawling to her master, his sandals in her teeth.
    “If we must discuss that sordid sort of