Conspirators of Gor by John Norman Page A

heritage demands. But, if this were so, I asked myself, it seems unlikely such a thing could exist in isolation, as some sort of biological anomaly. What then of the female, what then of the woman? Might there not be then, as well, something which is demanded there, or longed for there, by the woman, a consequence of her own biological heritage? If the male’s heritage demands the slave, might not the heritage of the woman demand, or long for, the master?
    Are there not genetic insistencies which whisper about our hearts?
    At this point in my training I thought mostly of the male, learning how to be appealing to him, learning how to please him, and such.
    This is surely comprehensible.
    I had felt the Gorean slave whip.
    I did not, at the time, understandably enough, sense what might be done to the slave, what might be done with me.
    I had needs, of course, but little more was involved, at first, than curiosity and uneasiness. When I was a girl I did not even comprehend, nor was I informed, as to the nature of the changes in my body, changes which were preparing me for men. Much of this, in the beginning, was little more than an unfocused restlessness. I felt stirrings within me into which I was not to inquire. It was not appropriate for a woman to do so. If they existed, they were to be, at best, sources of dismay and regret. Did not I, and my acquaintances, laud our superiority to such things, in effect competing with one another in our alleged frigidities? To be sure, at least from high school on, I was alarmed at intrusive thoughts, thoughts so unlike me, so improper for me, which I tried to dismiss, and, too, by incomprehensible dreams for which there could be no possible explanation, dreams in which I found myself in chains, dreams in which I found myself in the arms of masters. Certainly I was taught to suspect and fear certain embarrassing suspicions and promptings. Such were not suitable for one of my sex and class. These suspicions and promptings, such thoughts, were not only incompatible with my dignity and self-respect, but incompatible with the conventions and proprieties in terms of which my life was to be managed. Indeed, for years I had been taught to ignore my needs, to minimize them, to conceal them, to suppress them, even deny them. I must pretend to others that I was untroubled by such things, which were only to be found, if at all, in the lowest and most despicable of women. I feared I, in my discomforts and afflictions, might be unique amongst other young women of my acquaintance. Surely they were superior to such embarrassing weaknesses. Or were they lying to me, as I was lying to them?
    From whence, to one of my intelligence, education, refinement, class, and breeding, could come such thoughts?
    I thought of the history of a race.
    Somewhere within me could there be a weeping slave, yearning for her master?
    In any event, in my early weeks on Gor I was startled at the openness of my instructresses, eagerly discussing the attractions of the guards, the pleasures derived from their attentions, their joyful helplessness in the arms of one or another, their hopes, sometimes pathetic, of being summoned to this slave ring or that, their misery at being ignored, their plaintive agony if denied, for more than a day or two, a man’s touch.
    Indeed, I saw one crawl on her belly to a guard, place his foot on her head, and beg to be caressed.
    I understood little of this, at least on a fully conscious level, though I do not doubt but what I understood it well enough on a deeper level, but I did not think it wise to question the instructresses.
    But at the same time I began to feel, in my own belly, ever more insistent sensations.
    This was internal to me, not merely a pretence or calculation, designed to avoid the whip’s fiery, encircling coils.
    It was also very troubling to me.
    It is hard, of course, to pretend to indifference in certain matters when one is barefoot, collared, and clad in the brief rag of a