Chapter 24
We Hold Converse In The Hut Of Imnak; A Decision Is Reached; I Permit Arlene To Share My Furs

“It is fortunate for me, perhaps,” said Ram, to Karjuk, in Imnak’s hut, “that you were trailing the ice beast and managed to kill it.” He looked at the severed head in the corner of the hut. “I would hate to meet it again.”

Karjuk nodded, but did not speak.

He had cut the rings from the ears of the beast, and had given them, with Imnak’s permission, to Poalu, who now wore them on her left wrist, as bracelets.

Before she had put them on her wrist I had held them, looking at them closely, and weighing them in my hand.

“Are you sure,” I asked Ram, “that this is the head of the beast who attacked you?”

“Could there be more than one such beast,” he asked, “with rings in its ears?”

“It does not seem likely,” I admitted. I had examined the head with great care, the ears and the mouth in particular.

“I had followed the beast for days,” said Karjuk. “I trailed it to where I encountered sled tracks, and blood in the snow, and the trampling of the snow by many feet.”

“That would be where it had attacked my sleen and sled,” said Ram, “and where the men from the village came to rescue me.”

“I then trailed the beast further, some pasangs across the snow. It had been wounded twice, and was found feeding on the carcass of a snow sleen with harness marks in its fur.”

“That then is the same beast,” said Ram, “assuredly.”

“I then slew it,” said Karjuk.

I sipped my Bazi tea, and looked at him, over the rim of the bowl. He, too, looked at me, and sipped his tea.

The girls, Poalu, too, remained in the background, in case the men should need aught. The white-skinned girls did not go close to the severed head. Poalu, a woman of red hunters, had no fear or repulsion concerning the object. Bones, and blood and hide, and such things, were a part of her world.

“Have you heard aught, Karjuk,” I asked, “of a mountain of ice, an ice mountain in the sea, which does not move?”

“In the winter,” said Karjuk, “the mountains in the water do not move, for then the sea is frozen.”

“Have you heard of such a mountain which does not move, even when the sea flows?” I asked.

“I have not heard of such a mountain,” he said.

“I told him there could be no such thing,” said Imnak.

“But I have seen it,” said Karjuk. He had spoken with the literalness of the red hunter.

We were all silent.

“There is such a thing?” said Imnak.

“Yes,” said Karjuk. “It is far out to sea, but once, in sleen fishing, I paddled my kayak about it.”

“Is it large?” I asked.

“Very large,” he said.

“How can there be such a thing?” asked Imnak.

“I do not know,” said Karjuk, “but I know it exists, for I have seen it.”

“Have others, too, seen it?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” said Karjuk, “I do not know.”

“Could you take me to it?” I asked.

“It is far out on the ice now,” he said.

“Could you take me to it?” I asked.

“Yes, if you wish,” he said.

I put aside my tea. “Fetch my pouch,” I said to Arlene. She hurried and brought the pouch to me.

I drew forth from the interior of the pouch the carved head of a Kur, wrought in bluish stone, that savage head with one ear half torn away.

“Is this your work?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Karjuk, “I made that.”

“Did you ever see such a beast?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Near the mountain that did not move,” he said.

“Is it the head of an ice beast?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “It was too darkly pelted to be an ice beast.”

“Could you lead me soon to the mountain that does not move?” I asked.

“It is the night now,” said Karjuk, “and the time of darkness. The ice is dangerous. It is at this time that the ice beasts sometimes come inland.”

“Yet you will lead me there, will you not?” I asked. I smiled.

“Yes,” said Karjuk, “if you wish.”

“That is my wish,” I said.

“Very well,” said Karjuk.

“There will be little danger if Karjuk is with us,” said Poalu. “He is the guard.”

“I will come with you,” said Imnak.

“You need not do that,” I said.

Imnak looked at the severed head of the white-pelted Kur. It was difficult to read his face. “No,” he said, “I will come with you.”

Karjuk sipped his tea.

“I, too, of course, will accompany you,” said Ram.

“Will you trade Bazi tea to the ice beasts?” I asked.

“I am coming,” said Ram.

“Very well, my friend,” I said. I looked at Karjuk. “When shall we leave?” I asked Karjuk.

“I must finish my tea,” he said, “and then sleep. We may then leave.”

“Would you like the use of any of my women?” asked Imnak of Karjuk. indicating Poalu, and Thimble and Thistle.

“Or the use of my pretty slave?” I asked, indicating Arlene.

Arlene drew back. She was frightened of the thin, dour Karjuk. Yet she knew that at my slightest word, should I speak it, she would have to serve him, fully, for she was slave.

Karjuk looked at Poalu, in the two golden bracelets, which had been rings in the ears of the slain Kur. The rings, as bracelets, were pretty on her small red wrist. She was a lovely red slave.

She drew back a bit.

“No,” said Karjuk.

He finished his tea and then crawled into furs on the sleeping platform. The others, too, prepared to retire.

“Let us not bring the girls with us,” I suggested to Imnak.

“No,” said Imnak. “We will bring them. Who else will chew the ice from our boots, and sew for us, and boil meat and tend the lamps, and keep us warm in the furs?” He rolled over in the furs. “We will take snow sleen and women,” he said.

“Very well,” I said. I did not think, objectively, there would be great danger for the women. If what I suspected was true, uses would be found for them. They were all beautiful.

“Master,” whispered Arlene.

“Yes,” I said.

“May I crawl into your furs?” she asked.

“Are you cold?” I asked. She had her own furs. Sometimes she had to sleep alone, as when I was sleeping with Audrey or Barbara.

“No, Master,” she whispered.

“Your need to serve a man is hot on you, Slave?” I asked.

“I am frightened,” she said.

I held open the furs and let her creep into them, beside me. I held her, under the furs, in my arms. She trembled, small, against me.

“I’m frightened,” she whispered, her face, so soft, against my chest.

“Of what are you frightened?” I asked.

“Of Karjuk,” she said, “and of going out on the ice.” She held me, closely. “What will you find there?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I said.

“You search for the headquarters of those who were my superiors, do you not?’ she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “Slave.”

“They must assuredly be dangerous,” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Avoid them then at all costs,” she said. “Flee to the south,” she whispered.

“Do you beg it?’ I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Your will means nothing.”

She sobbed.

“Do you know the nature of those who were your superiors,” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Look,” I said to her, taking her head and turning it, so that she might see, in the dim light of the lamp, the head of the Kur. “They are much like that,” I said.

She half choked with horror. “No,” she said.

“It was such as they whom you, when free, served, my lovely slave beauty,” I said.

“No, no,” she whispered.

“But, yes,” I smiled. “It is true.”

“What will be done with you, if you fall into their hands?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I said. “I suspect it would not be pleasant.”

“What would they do with me, if I fell into their hands?” she asked.

“Perhaps you would be restored to all your rights and privileges,” I said, “and would again become an operative for them.”

“I failed them,” she whispered.

“That is true,” I said. “Perhaps they would find some other tasks for you to perform.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“You would look well,” I said, “in a wisp of slave silk and a steel collar.”

“They would keep me as a slave?’ she asked.

“I am sure you were brought to Gor, ultimately, to be a slave,” I said. “You are too beautiful to be indefinitely left free.”

She held me.

“Your beauty, you see,” I said, “has a cost on this world. Its price is your freedom. Beauty, and exquisite femininity, such as yours, buys for itself on this world chains and a master.”

“I am going to say something to you,” she said, “which I had never thought I would say to a man.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“I would love to wear your chains, Master,” she whispered. Then she sobbed, shaken with the horror of this confession.

“Do not weep,” I said. “It is only that you are a slave.” I kissed her. “Would you lick and kiss your chains?” I asked.

“Do not make me do that,” she begged, turning her head aside, weeping.

“It is not my intention to make you do that,” I said.

“I do not know what I would do if you were to throw your chains to my feet,” she said.

“I know what Audrey would do,” I said.

“Yes,” said Arlene, bitterly, “so do I, the little slut. She would kneel, and lift them, and lick and kiss them.”

“I think so,” I said.

“What a slave she is,” said Arlene.

“Her intelligence,” I said, “is fully comparable to yours, and may be superior,” I said.

“That is what I cannot understand,” said Arlene. “How can a woman of her intelligence be such a slave?”

“Perhaps her intelligence frees her to be more quickly and honestly responsive to her deepest needs,” I said. “Perhaps she is quicker to recognize her deepest feelings, and more willing to accept them, than a duller woman, or perhaps only a more constricted woman. Often the superior woman searches, lonely and frustrated, for a man superior to herself, who can be a full man to the hidden woman in her. Unfortunately many who could be a man to the woman in such a female do not, because of their training and conditioning, become so. When the superior woman does meet a man superior to herself, who will also, simply because he is a true man, put her in the authentic biological male/female relationship where she belongs, at his feet, she will generally, unless there are mitigating psychological reservations, functions of her own conditionings, submit herself joyfully to him as what is, for all practical purposes, his slave. On Gor, of course, men have not been conditioned against the authentic biological male/female relationship, at least where female slaves are concerned. Similarly, on Gor, a woman, collared, is not permitted psychological reservations or that sort of thing. Her will is nothing. Also, the society hecks the master. The girl has absolutely no one to call. She has absolutely nowhere to run. She has no recourse. She is an owned slave.”

“It is very frightening,” she said.

“And for many women,” I said, “very thrilling.”

“Yes,” she whispered, softly, “it is very thrilling. I do not know why it should be, but it is very thrilling.”

“In your heart,” I said, “You know you are a woman. Thus, when you find you simply will be given no alternative other than being a true woman, in the full sense of the word, designed by nature as a love slave for males strong enough to master you, you cannot help but be thrilled. You are forced to be yourself, your true self. There is a joy in this, and a liberating honesty, and openness; it is natural that this be felt as exciting, as genuine, as authentic, as real, as significant, as true, indeed, as profoundly and thrillingly true. Gone are the politically and economically motivated lies; gone is the cant and hypocrisy Present then is the sweet thrilling truth, at last freed, no longer suppressed and hidden, and love.”

“Please kiss me, Master,” she said.

I kissed her.

“Are you going to keep me, Master?’ she asked.

“I do not know,” I said. “But do not fear, lovely slave. On this world there are hundreds of thousands of men fully capable of mastering you. You will someday, doubtless, given the sellings and exchanges, and your growth in skills and beauty, find love.”

“A woman desires love,” she whispered.

“Love is found more often among slave girls than free women,” I said. “If you would learn love, learn slavery.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. She kissed me.

“Please me,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

The lamp went out softly in the darkness. This frightened her. “Must you go out on the ice?’ she whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you going to take me with you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am afraid,” she said.

“Do not be afraid,” I said to her.

“I cannot help it,” she said.

“Please me in the darkness, in the furs, Slave,” I said.

“Yes, my master,” she said.

In a few minutes I took her in my arms and threw her to her back. She gasped. “I thought I was to please you,” she said.

“You are pleasing me,” I said.

“You are making me yield,” she said, intensely.

“That pleases me,” I said.

Then she began to buck and writhe and was soon lost in the throes of the slave orgasm, helplessly yielded to her master. She came silently, intensely, clutching me, this not known to the others asleep in the hut. That a slave girl had been conquered in the darkness need not be known to them.

Afterwards I held her, naked, closely, warmly.

After a time she whispered, “I want to be touched again.”

“Do you beg it?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Your will means nothing,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

“But I will touch you,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said. Soon again she squirmed in silence, taken, in the furs in the hut of Imnak.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered, afterwards. “You give a girl much pleasure.”

“Sleep now, Slave,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I do not know how long we slept, but it was perhaps no more than two or three Ahn. I awakened, conscious of her holding me. Her head lay on my belly. She was not asleep. “Master,” she whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

She knelt beside me. “Please. Master,” she said.

“Is your need to serve a man hot upon you?” I asked. I could tell that it was from her breathing.

“Yes Master,” she said.

“You are a slave,” I said.

“Yes, I am a slave, Master.” she said.

“Very well. Slave.” I said. “You may serve me.”

“Thank you. Master.” she said.

Soon I marveled at her skill Tt was all I could do to keep from crying out with pleasure and delight, and my pride in the skill of the slave I owned. How proud I was of her! She was for most practical purposes untrained apd new to the collar and yet many girls whom I had had, even in paga taverns, I suspect, could not have equaled her performance.

“What is going on with you?” I asked.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“What has happened?” I asked. “What has gone on in your head, pretty slave?”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“I went to sleep with a pot wench,” I said, “and I awaken with a pleasure slave.”

She laughed. Then she said, soberly, “I love being a slave, Master.”

“That is well,” I said, “for on this world you are a slave, and you are going to continue to be a slave.”

“Yes. Master.” she said, trembling. Then she said, “I am content, Master.”

“Continue your work, Slave Girl,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I then let her pleasure me, fully, not so much as touching her, that she might learn to please completely, without being so much as granted the least kiss or caress of the male beast. Slave girls are forced thus, sometimes, to serve, totally, unilaterally: it helps to impress their slavery on them.

She then lay beside me.

“Do you still love being a slave girl?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“But I did not so much as touch you,” I said.

“Oh, sex is terribly important,” she said. “and you may use it as you do, you beasts, to conquer and discipline us, and make us your sex slaves, but, too, there are other things in slavery which are perhaps harder for you to understand, for you are not the woman.”

“What can there be,” I asked, “other than chains and the whip, the kiss and the collar?”

“You men are so simple, so naive,” she laughed. “You do not even understand the fullness of the power you hold over us. Slavery is not a mere condition; it is a kind of life. The woman is not simply a slave when you seize her and throw her to your feet. She is a slave, too, before this, and after this, subject to your will, and knowing it. There is a wholeness, a fullness, a beauty in a woman’s being a slave, of which I fear you may be unaware.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Do you think women would make you such marvelous slaves if there was not something in them which wanted to be enslaved?”

“Perhaps not,” I said.

“A slave girl is not a slave only, you see, when she is commanded or taken in the arms of the master. She is a slave wholly, fully, all the time. It is what she is. I think it is this wholeness, this fullness, this beauty, this totality of bondage which you men do not understand. It is hard to speak of it. When a girl is a slave all of her is a slave. It is what she is. Oh, I could speak to you of a woman’s need for emotional fulfillment, security, excitement, romance, discipline; her need to relate, to be happy, to a strong male figure, one before whom she knows herself, truly, in the intimacy of herself to be a female, and his; the bankruptcy of egoism, ambition and greed for many women; their need to love, their desire to please and be of service; their intrinsic yearning to submit to an uncompromising, dominant organism; their deep-seated desire to be found so beautiful and attractive that men will want them, and want them so much that they will own them and make them give them everything, but are not all these things only futile words peripheral to the speechless emotional reality felt by the girl when she kneels before the master, and he then touches her as his own?”

I did not speak.

“There is something about being owned, and belonging to another, which is very meaningful to a woman,” she said. “It is also, in a way that is hard to make clear to a man, profoundly satisfying.”

“It has to do with nature,” I suggested.

“I suppose, in some way,” she said.

It seemed likely to me that there would be a genetic base for feelings so deep, and widely spread.

“Are you going to free me?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“That pleases me,” she said.

She lay beside me. I did not touch her.

“It is hard to make clear toaman,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“The ecstasy of being a slave girl,” she said. “You see, Master,” she said, “the joy of being a slave girl is a very deep and continuous thing. Its emotional fulfillments extend far beyond the masterly depredations and disciplines you inflict, as you please, upon me.”

“Surely they are not unimportant,” I said.

“No,” she said, “they are important. Indeed, it was your touch which first made me a slave.”

I sensed her turn toward me in the darkness. “But, you see,” she said, “I must serve you whether I am touched or not. And that, too, in a way you may have difficulty understanding, I find very meaningful, very thrilling.”

“You respond then, not only to my touch but also to the very condition of slavery itself?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but I would prefer to think of it as responding not so much to the condition of being a slave as to the clear and incontrovertible fact that I am a slave. I think that is it, that that is my reality, that I am a slave.”

“That you find thrilling in itself?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “to be will-lessly at the mercy of another, his helpless slave.”

“I see,” I said.

“Too, sometimes,” she said, “being a slave I feel very free and happy.”

“Perhaps that has something to do with the repudiation and abandonment of egoism, the enemy of love,” I speculated.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I do not know. I suspect it involves many things and is very deep.”

“Only fools have simple explanations for complex phenomena,” I said. “Nothing human is simple.”

“I lie vulnerably beside you,” she said, “yours to do with as you please. I am a slave.”

I took her in my arms, and began her slow, patient rape.

“Release me,” she said.

“No,” I said.

She squirmed, futilely, impaled.

“Let me go,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“I demand to be released,” she said.

I laughed, softly, holding her. She tried to free herself, and could not.

She stopped struggling. “Ai, Ai!” she said, clutching me.

I holding her right arm with my left hand, thrust my right hand over her mouth, tightly, that she not disturb the others in the hut. My right hand felt wet and hot, from the heat and moisture of her breath. I felt her teeth under her lips. She tried to twist her head, and then yielded.

It was pleasant having her in that way.

“Why did you resist?” I asked.

“To see if my resistance would be acceptable to you,” she said.

“It was not,” I said.

“Of course not,” she said. “I am a slave.” There was a pause. “Are you going to whip me,” she asked, “for being troublesome?”

“I did not find you troublesome,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. We lay together, quietly, for a time. “You took me against my will,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I wondered if you would do that,” she said.

“I take you when and as I please,” I said.

“Of course.” she said. “I am a slave” In time she put her lips to me, tenderly. “Oh,” she said. She drew back. “You are strong, Master,” she laughed.

“You are a sweet-lipped and beautiful slave,” I said. It was true. With a girl like Arlene what man would not be driven half mad with lust? How marvelous she was. How easy it was to desire her.

“I did not know a man could be so strong,” she said, wonderingly.

“Do you think you. have nothing to do with it, you pretty idiot?” I asked.

“Oh?” she asked.

“You have a great deal to do with it,” I said.

“You cannot even see me in the dark,” she said.

“I know what you look like.” I said, “and I can feel you, your closeness, your body, your touch. It has an interesting modality in the darkness, in the furs.” I reached to her, and, by the strap on her throat, pulled her down beside me. “Also,” I said, “you are a naked slave. No woman can be more interesting than a naked slave.”

“Oh,” she said. I held her by the strap.

“That you arc a slave makes you additionally stimulating to the male,” I said, “aside from your mere beauty and intelligence.”

“Yes,” Master,” she said.

“So do not be surprised, in your servitude,” I said, “that you find men strong. Simply to look upon you, a beautiful slave, will commonly be enough to stimulate their lust. You are no longer a free woman, filled with her rigidities and negativities, for whom it is permissible to be irritating and boring. No. You are a lovely slave. Looking upon you men will want you. They will want to buy you. They will want to own you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Men even kill to possess women such as you,” I told her. “You are that desirable.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“So do not prate in awe of male power,” I said. “It is you, and your beauty, and your slavery, and your intelligence, which provides so powerful an incentive to their strengths and aggressions. Whether this pleases you or not, you are such that men, looking upon you, will want you, and will want you so much that they will be willing to pay for you, or even fight for you. Do you begin to understand the meaning now of being a beautiful slave?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened.

“You are property,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“A treasure,” I said.

“Your treasure,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“How strange it is to be helplessly owned,” she marveled, “to be subject to sale or exchange.”

“Do you find it thrilling?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Who owns you?” I asked.

“You do, Master,” she said.

“Whose are you?” I asked.

“I am yours,” she said, “literally.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Take your girl, Master,” she said. “She begs you.

“Very well,” I said.

“This is what it is to be a slave,” she whispered. “Slavery is more than your touch, but without your touch it would be nothing.”

I kissed her, softly.

“It is your touch,” she said, intensely, “which makes a girl a slave!”

“The touch of any master,” I said, “can turn a girl into a slave.”

“Do you leave me no pride?” she wept.

“None,” I said, “for you are a slave.”

Her breathing became more intense.

“Do not disturb the others in the hut,” I cautioned her.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. Then she again yielded, intensely, helplessly.

Afterwards she lay against me, soft and warm, and small and lovely. “Do you know what I would do now,” she asked, “if you were to throw your chains before me?”

“No,” I said, kissing her.

“I would kneel,” she said, “and I would lift them in my hands, and-“

“Yes?” I asked.

“And then I would kiss and lick them,” she whispered.

“Of course,” I said, “you are a slave.”

“Yes, I am a slave, Master,” she said.

“Sleep now,” I said.

“Master,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am not afraid now,” she said, “to go out on the ice.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“You will be with me,” she said.

“It will be dangerous,” I said.

“I am not afraid. You will be with me,” she said. Then she said, “Thank you for letting a frightened girl enter your furs tonight.”

“That is all right,” I said. I rolled over.

“You are kind,” she said.

“Beware,” I said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said, suddenly frightened. “I meant no harm. It was a small slip. I did not mean to insult you. Please do not whip me for it.”

“Very well,” I said. I was tired. Too, it did not seem to me that her remark, inadvertent and perilous as it may have been, impaired the discipline in which I held her. Kindness is not always a weakness you must understand. Indeed, it, and its withdrawal, may be used to better control the girl. To be sure, the master who is harder to please gets more from his girl than the master who is easy to please, but, nonetheless, I think kindness is not out of place upon occasion toward a bond girl. Indeed, in a certain context a kind word can almost cause such a wench, collared and at your mercy, to faint with love. I do not think I am a particularly kind or unkind master. I think I am in the normal range where such matters are concerned. Kindness is acceptable, in my opinion, provided the girl knows that she is kept within the strictest of disciplines. I want no more from a girl than everything. If I own her, then, like any other Gorean master, I will simply see that I get it. Beyond that, I may be kind to her or not, as I see fit. Sometimes, of course, kindness is cruelty, and a certain harshness may be kind. One must know the girl. The truly kind master, I think, is he who treats the girl in such a way that she is forced to fulfill her needs in their radical depth and diversity; he gives her no choice but to be a woman, in the full meaning of this word, which is the only thing that can truly, ultimately, make her happy, If a woman were a man perhaps the way to make her happy would be to treat her like a man. If she is not a man perhaps treating her like a man is not the way to make her happy. It may seem hard to understand but the man who truly cares for his slave is often rather strict with her; he cares for her enough to be strong; sometimes she may resent or hate him but, too, she is inordinately proud of him, for what he makes her do, and be, and she loves him for his strength and his will; in her heart she knows she is the slave of such a man; how can she not love the man who proves himself to be her master? But the natures of men and women are doubtlessly complex and mysterious. Perhaps women, after all, are not women, but only small, incomplete men, as many women and men, espousing the current political and economic orthodoxies on the matter, the required, expected views on the matter, would insist. I do not know. And yet how peculiar and surprising would such a perversion appear against the expanse of history.

“Sleep now, sweet slave,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I lay awake for a time, wondering on the natures of women and men, and then I was pleased that I was on Gor, and not on Earth. I kissed the lovely slave beside me, but she did not know I kissed her, for she was asleep. I thought of Karjuk, and the ice. The word ‘Karjuk’, incidentally, in the language of the Innuit, means ‘Arrow’. The wind began to rise outside. I did not care to hear the wind, I hoped it did not presage a storm. Then I fell asleep.