Conspirators of Gor by John Norman Page B

slave.
    The slave’s very condition is imbued with sensuality.
    To merely look upon her is to see her as sensuous.
    What is the very meaning of her collar, her condition, and tunic? Does it not say, “Here Masters, behold, here is a female slave. She exists for your pleasure. She is a property. She is yours. Do with her as you will.”
    She is the most needful, the most helpless, the most sexual of women.
    “You will learn to obey, will you not, Allison?” inquired one of my instructresses, early in my training.
    “I have already learned, Mistress,” I said. I had felt the slave whip of Gor.
    “Intelligent women,” said another, “learn swiftly to obey.”
    “It takes stupid women a little longer,” said another.
    “But only a little longer,” laughed another.
    “And why do you obey, Allison?” asked the first instructress.
    “Because I am a slave, Mistress,” I said.
    “You are terrified not to obey?” asked one.
    “Yes, Mistress,” I said.
    “You do not wish to be punished?”
    “No, Mistress,” I said. Surely that was an excellent reason. I was not a free woman. If I were not pleasing, I must expect to be punished, properly and appropriately, and often immediately.
    “You think of punishment,” said one of the instructresses, “in terms of the switch, the whip, close chains, the denial of clothing, the affixing of a collar with points, a reduction in rations, being sent naked into the streets, being denied speech, being put in the modality of the she-tarsk, such things?”
    “Yes, Mistress,” I said, shuddering. To be sure, I had only heard about some of these things.
    “I will tell you of another punishment,” she said, “one you will not even understand now.”
    “Mistress?” I said.
    “You have sexual needs, do you not?” she said.
    “Must I speak?” I said.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “—I suppose so,” I said.
    One of the instructresses laughed.
    I was annoyed that she had laughed.
    “Later,” said the instructress who had laughed, “you will not be in any doubt about the matter.”
    “Yes,” I said. “I have sexual needs.” I was oddly relieved to have said this. Indeed, it was the first time I had explicitly acknowledged this, aloud, before others. I felt an unusual sense of liberation, of freedom, having said this. To be sure, there was no doubt, on Gor, about this matter. My condition, my treatment, my training, my collar, my tunic, my brand, doubtless played some role in an awakening within my body that I sensed, day by day, was becoming ever more obvious and irresistible. I knew, too, of course, that I was not permitted to lie, as I was a slave.
    “Your slave fires,” said one of the instructresses, “have not yet been lit.”
    “If you think you are helpless now,” said another, “wait until that occurs.”
    “You do not yet suspect the power that men will have over you,” said another.
    “I do not understand,” I said.
    “It will occur sooner or later,” said another.
    “And from the look of your flanks,” said another, “I think it will occur sooner.”
    “The time will come, Allison,” said the first instructress, “when you will want to obey.”
    “You will be the prisoner and victim of your needs,” said another. “You will do anything to have them satisfied, if only for the time, before they again rage within your belly.”
    “You will beg, grovel, and plead to be caressed,” said another.
    “As the slave you are,” said another.
    I found this hard to believe.
    Could a woman be so reduced, rendered so needful, so helpless, transformed into so vulnerable and despicable an object, little more than an animal in heat?
    Perhaps, I thought to myself, in fear, if she is a slave.
    “Some slaves, many slaves,” said another of the instructresses, wistfully, “fall in love with their masters.”
    “It is hard to be at the feet of a man, and be mastered, and not do so,” said another of the instructresses, “particularly if he should show you