Dancer of Gor

"Yes, Master," I said. I was grateful that he should speak in so kindly a fashion to me.

"And you are naked, and collared, and owned," he said.

"Yes, Master," I whispered.

"What are you?" he asked.

"I am a slave, Master," I said, puzzled.

"And do you surrender wholly to your masters, and yield totally to them?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I whispered. I knew that I could not lie in things of this sort. Gorean masters, or many of them, were skilled in reading women. My Master, Hendow, was frightening adept at this. Too, I did not think that I could fool Mirus either in such matters. When a girl" s more secret thoughts can be read as easily as slave numbers written on her breast her only viable option is total honesty, and as complete submission was required of Gorean slave girls her only practical recourse under such stringent circumstances is either to choose death or become in true reality a full slave, in her heart, in her mind and in her behavior. In short, as deception is impossible, the girl must either choose death or the reality of true bondage.

"You will now prepare to yield," he said.

"Yes, Master," I said, suddenly, startled, then beginning to understand the orgasm in the natural matrix of male dominance, and intensified by the fixing, enhancement and intensification of this within the institution of total female slavery. When I yielded it would not only as a female to a male, but as slave to a master!

No longer then could I even hear the noises of the tavern beyond the curtain. There was now only myself and Mirus.

"Let me yield!" I begged.

"Wait!" he said.

I was collared!

"Please!" I wept.

I was naked, and in the arms of a man whose sandals I was not fit to lick. "Master!" I begged.

Must not what might remain in me of the proud Earth woman attempt to resist this?

"Master!" I cried.

"No," he said, sternly.

But what might remain in me of the Earth woman was utterly powerless!

"Please, please!" I whispered.

"No," he said.

Then what might have remained in me of the Earth woman was gone and in her place there was now only a terrified Gorean slave on the brink of she knew not what.

I was not simply going to be fondled or kissed, with attentions appropriate to the bland etiquettes of Earth. I was to be conquered!

"Please!" I wept.

"No," he said.

I would not be permitted to retain a shred of dignity or pride. My yielding would not be of the sort of yieldings approved of on Earth, those mild, meaningless ripples of sensation, indicative of acceptable congenialities, the most that many of Earth, it seems, could manage, but would be rather the result of his will and power, of his enforcements and determination, the exercise over me of his strength, making me helpless, having me as he wanted me, owning me. It would not be a compromised act. It would be a complete act, a fulfillment, for him and also for me. It would manifest his power, and my weakness, his triumph and my shattering, and overwhelming. It would be an act of his uncompromising power, imposed upon me, which I, the female could not resist.

"Let me yield!" I begged.

"Wait," he said.

I moaned. I did not want polite love. I wanted to know that I was in the hands of a man who was capable of being excited, and whom I excited, who found me truly marvelous, to whose fury of power I appeared whose fierce and voracious appetites I triggered. I wanted to be in the arms of a true man. I did not want to be possibly mistaken about whether I had been had or not. I did not want to be touched as though I might break. I did not wish to be in danger of drowsing off during the making of love. I wanted his to own and master me, and whip me if I was not pleasing.

"I am ready!" I said. "I beg to submit, and as slave!"

"Not yet," he said.

I began to weep with wanting to yield.

He was not simply going to enjoy me, or pleasure himself with me. He was asserting the mastery upon me. I was not merely to be used even used as a mere slave, as it sometimes amuses Gorean masters to do with us. I was going to yield, and fully. I was not simply having love made to me. The experience was far more meaningful and devastating than simply that. I was being dominated, and mastered. I was to yield, and I had to, as a slave, totally!

"Please!" I wept.

"No," he said.

I was to be vanquished, utterly.

"Please!" I said.

"Will it be necessary to gag you?" he asked.

"No, Master," I said.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, Master!" I wept.

"You may then yield," he said, "a€”as a slave."

I then yielded to him, and wholly, and without compromises, as slave girl to a master.

I then looked up at him, wildly, disbelievingly.

"Master," I whispered, acknowledging that it was right that I belonged to men. I then lay in his arms, an incredulous, frightened slave girl. The experience had been a whole, the context conditioned by my abject surrender, by our relationship, that of master and slave.

Gently he kissed me.