preparing me for men. Much of this, in the beginning, was little more than an unfocused restlessness. I felt stirrings within me into which I was not to inquire. It was not appropriate for a woman to do so. If they existed, they were to be, at best, sources of dismay and regret. Did not I, and my acquaintances, laud our superiority to such things, in effect competing with one another in our alleged frigidities? To be sure, at least from high school on, I was alarmed at intrusive thoughts, thoughts so unlike me, so improper for me, which I tried to dismiss, and, too, by incomprehensible dreams for which there could be no possible explanation, dreams in which I found myself in chains, dreams in which I found myself in the arms of masters. Certainly I was taught to suspect and fear certain embarrassing suspicions and promptings. Such were not suitable for one of my sex and class. These suspicions and promptings, such thoughts, were not only incompatible with my dignity and self-respect, but incompatible with the conventions and proprieties in terms of which my life was to be managed. Indeed, for years I had been taught to ignore my needs, to minimize them, to conceal them, to suppress them, even deny them. I must pretend to others that I was untroubled by such things, which were only to be found, if at all, in the lowest and most despicable of women. I feared I, in my discomforts and afflictions, might be unique amongst other young women of my acquaintance. Surely they were superior to such embarrassing weaknesses. Or were they lying to me, as I was lying to them?
From whence, to one of my intelligence, education, refinement, class, and breeding, could come such thoughts?
I thought of the history of a race.
Somewhere within me could there be a weeping slave, yearning for her master?
In any event, in my early weeks on Gor I was startled at the openness of my instructresses, eagerly discussing the attractions of the guards, the pleasures derived from their attentions, their joyful helplessness in the arms of one or another, their hopes, sometimes pathetic, of being summoned to this slave ring or that, their misery at being ignored, their plaintive agony if denied, for more than a day or two, a man’s touch.
Indeed, I saw one crawl on her belly to a guard, place his foot on her head, and beg to be caressed.
I understood little of this, at least on a fully conscious level, though I do not doubt but what I understood it well enough on a deeper level, but I did not think it wise to question the instructresses.
But at the same time I began to feel, in my own belly, ever more insistent sensations.
This was internal to me, not merely a pretence or calculation, designed to avoid the whip’s fiery, encircling coils.
It was also very troubling to me.
It is hard, of course, to pretend to indifference in certain matters when one is barefoot, collared, and clad in the brief rag of a 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 some kindness.”
“To be sure,” said another of the instructresses, “the slave is not to be loved, as she is worthless, no more than an animal.”
“Love is for free persons, companions,” said another, “not for animals and their masters.”
“Men fear to care for a slave,” said another. “Consider how their friends will laugh and make sport of them.”
“The girl will soon again be on the block,” said another.
“If you should love your master, Allison,” said another, “it would be wise for you to conceal your feelings.”
“I will never love a master,” I said. I was derived from a class of women who did not think in terms of love, but in terms of advancement, in terms of practicality, in terms of position, station, prospects, power, and wealth. What was a woman’s beauty for, if not to obtain advantages in a competitive marriage market? This was why Eve, Jane, and I were so terrified that we might be expelled from our sorority. That would have been socially calamitous.
