“Do not move,” commanded the leather worker.
I felt the back of the claws of the punch enter my nostrils, distending them. There was a tiny, sharp click. Tears burst into my eyes. I felt acute pain for an instant, and then a prolonged, burning, stinging sensation.
Everything went black, but I did not faint, held in position by the guards.
When I opened my eyes, blinded with tears, I saw the leather worker approaching my face with a tiny, steel ring, partly opened, and a pair of pliers.
As I was held he inserted the ring in my nose. It was painful. Then, with the pliers, he closed the ring, and turned it, so that its opening, where the closed edges met, was concealed within, at the side of the septum.
I began sobbing with pain, with misery and degradation.
John Norman, Captive of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
““Yes,” said Ginger. “And you will be choiceless, absolutely choiceless, little tart, at the end of a chain, at his feet, under a whip, in the furs of love, sweating in the grass, whenever and however he wants you. You will learn to love the ropes and straps with which you are bound, for they confirm your bondage upon you. You will neither speak nor clothe yourself without his permission. You will beg to tie his sandals, to wash and clean for him, to cook for him, to serve him in all ways in which a woman can serve a man, to petition humbly to be permitted to press your lips lovingly upon his feet, to supplicate him for the opportunity to lick and kiss the leather of his whip! In short, tart, he will be your master, and you will be his slave.”
John Norman – Savages of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
She looked up at me, frightened. Then I fastened her in position, spreading her legs uncomfortably apart. Then, looking down upon her, I spread her legs by another four inches.
Then I had her.
John Norman – Rogue of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
“The slave girl, normally, stays simply as men put her, for example, in such a case, presumably naked and bound.”
“Doubtless stark naked,” she said.
“Of course,” I said, “save for her collar.”
“And helplessly bound?”
“One supposes so,” I said.
“Hand and foot?”
“Presumably,” I said. “You must remember, they are slaves.”
John Norman – Renegades of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
“Speak when you are spoken to, slut,” said the girl.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Forgive me, Mistress.”
“Let us give her a switching,” said the other girl.
“No, Mistress!” I begged. “Please, no, Mistress!”
“You will be a good little slave, won’t you, Earth slut?” asked the first girl.
“Yes, Mistress!” I assured her.
“What do the masters see in such curvaceous little sluts?” asked the second girl.
“They are pretty little bundles of slave curves,” said the first.
“That is doubtless it,” said the second.
Witness of Gor – John Norman
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
“Surely, Pertinax,” said Lord Nishida, “you know her neck is in a collar.”
Pertinax nodded.
“Even so,” I said, “the beauty of a woman, a tear in her eye, the trembling of a lip, such things, are formidable weapons.”
“Until she is suitably mastered,” said Lord Nishida. “True,” I said.
“Perhaps she should be whipped,” said Lord Nishida. “The whip is useful in convincing a woman she is a slave. Perhaps if she were weeping, and squirming, and begging for mercy, under a whip, she would no longer be in doubt as to what she was.”
John Norman – Swordsmen of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
“I took the liberty of caressing our lovely bound captive a bit before you arrived,” he said.
“And?” she inquired.
“She cannot help herself,” he said. “She is helpless under the touch of a man.”
“I see,” she said.
“Even terrified, she cannot control her responses,” he said. “Even in her fear, she juices helplessly, superbly.”
“Of course,” said the woman, irritably.
“She is quite hot,” he said.
“I hate that sort of woman,” said the girl. “She is weak. She is a slave, and I am not.”
I saw the man smile.
John Norman, Explorers of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
It is not a foregone conclusion, you see, that the female slave on Gor will be clothed. If she is fully pleasing, serving with absolute perfection, in her numerous domestic duties and in her squirmings in the furs, of course, the average master will doubtless be inclined to grant her clothing, say, a tunic, or such. One might think of this as her “earning her clothing” but that would be incorrect, as she can earn nothing. Rather, what she can do is be so marvelous a slave that her master will grant her clothing, if it be his pleasure. If she is displeasing, of course, the privilege of being permitted clothing may be revoked. In this sense, clothing, as several other things, such as food, and bonds, may be used in her discipline. Few girls desire to be sent into the streets naked, save for their collars. Much derision would there greet them.
Savages of Gor – John Norman
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
“Master?” she asked.
“Crawl to the grass, there,” I said. “Hurry!”
She crawled to the point, trembling, where I had indicated.
“Kneel to the whip,” I ordered her.
She knelt there, trembling, her head down to the grass, her wrists crossed beneath her, as though bound.
I struck her thrice.
“Are you a whipped slave?” I asked.
“Yes,” she wept, “I am a whipped slave.”
“You belong to men,” I told her. I gave her another stroke.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“Are you going to be pleasing?” I asked. Another stroke.
“I will try to be pleasing!” she wept.
“I am sure you will, my dear,” I said. “But the interesting question is whether or not you will succeed.” I then gave her two more strokes.
— John Norman, Blood Brothers of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
“When we dismantle,” said a man, “you could always drift back in the march and see Lady Sheila. She is a pretty little vulo in her cage.”
“They are all pretty in chains and behind bars,” said another man.
“I hate to think of them shoving an impaling spear up her ass,” said a man.
“I know an impaling spear I’d like to shove up her ass,” said another man.
There was laughter.
– John Norman, Kajira of Gor
© 2013, Andrew Conway. All rights reserved.
