Mariners of Gor by John Norman Page B

the middle of the night, then bound, and carried off.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Such things may be done with women,’ he said. ‘Free me, now,’ I said. ‘Certainly,’ he said, and shortly thereafter the gross impediment was gone.”
    “How did you feel, being on a chain, being so subject to male domination?” I asked. “Did you have any surprising feelings?”
    “Feelings?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said, “any sense of weakness, of openness, of readiness, of hope, of desire, of a yearning to surrender, any inexplicable sense of warmth in your body, any heating or liquidity between your thighs?”
    “That is impossible,” she said. “I am a free woman.”
    “I see,” I said. “Please, continue.”
    “They had remained several hours in the camp,” she said. “I think, now, that was to allow one of their fellows to reach the Brundisium road, and make inquiries at a road village, in the vicinity of an abandoned inn, the Inn of Ragnar.”
    “Inquiries?” I said.
    “I think so,” she said.
    “That is a northern name,” I said.
    “Perhaps,” she said.
    “When it became clear they were preparing to leave the camp, rather toward the fall of darkness, as though they did not wish to be on the road in daylight, I opportuned the leader for a conference, which petition, it seems, he had anticipated. We withdrew a way from the camp, amongst the trees. When we had gone a little way, he pointed to the ground, and said, ‘Kneel there.’ ‘I do not wish to kneel,’ I said. I read his eyes. I knelt. As a man, you probably do not know what it is for a woman to kneel before a man, to be at his feet, to lift your head, to look up at him, or to keep your head down before him, if commanded. It is symbolic of your utter otherness, of your softness before his hardness, your weakness before his strength, your slightness before his might, your beauty and helplessness before his virility and power, your readiness before his command. It is, one fears, as though one were in one’s place, before one’s master. How, I ask, can a woman so situated, one on her knees, speak to a man?”
    “As a woman,” I suggested.
    “It is a position of petition, or submission, is it not?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “I was furious,” she said.
    “Much depends on the woman,” I said. “If one is speaking of slaves, it is appropriate, and prescribed, of course.”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “But many women,” I said, “long for their masters, beseech the world for the man before whom they might kneel, naked and collared, whose feet they might gratefully kiss. Many women, longing to be subdued, longing to submit, longing to be unqualifiedly possessed, longing to be owned, wholly and absolutely, find their social, biological, and cultural fulfillment in this, in thusly daring to reveal their deepest needs and desires to men. In such things we find not only a loving confession of femininity, but its unapologetic petition and expression. It is not wrong for a woman to reveal her deepest heart and needs. Who but an unhappy, ill-constituted madman or tyrant could find gratification in attempting to legislate the values, loves, lives, and hearts of others?”
    “‘You may speak,’ he said, as though I, a free woman, required such permission. ‘I wish passage to Brundisium,’ I said, ‘and I am prepared to pay for it, as might a Ubara herself. I have riches.’ ‘You speak as a free woman,’ he said. ‘I am a free woman,’ I said. ‘That is fortunate,’ he said, ‘for were you a slave, and spoke as you do, you would be muchly lashed. The lesson of suitable speech, of deference, and such, for a slave is quickly learned.’ ‘I lied to you,’ I said, ‘for such may a free woman do. I am not a slave, and, of course, I have no master, a Flavius or anyone else. I am Publia, a free woman of Ar, not proscribed, but fearful, and thus in flight from the city. I pretended to be a slave, until I might speak privately with you. The